4
5
ROBERT
of VEN
A DREAM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
BY REV. CHARLES M. SHELDON,
Author of “In His Steps,” **The Crucifizion of Philip Strong.” “Malcom Kirk,” Etc.
ET + CEES ©
{Copyrighs, 1900, by Advance Publishing Co.)
HARDY'5
DAYo.
Tues. | Wed.
Mon.
Thurs.
Fri. Sat.
1 2 3 4
0 92808882830833838ss
CONTINUED FROM LAST WEdK.
“Ax nearly as I could find out,” con-
tinued Mrs. Hardy. without replying tao |
ber husband’s remarks, “cook’s sister
is married to one of the men who were
hurt this afternoon. She talks so bro
kenly in our language that 1 could not
make out exactlyg how it is, and she
was much excited. Suppose it was Sco-
ville, couldn’t you do something fo:
them then, Robert?”
“I might,” replied Mr. Hardy briefly.
“But I can tell you 1 have more calls |
for my money now than I can meet. ;
Take the church expenses, for example. |
Why, we are called upon to give tc
some cause or other every week, be-
sides our regular pledges for current
expenses. It’s a constant drain. I
shall have to cut down on my pledge.
We can’t be giving to everything all
the time and have anything ourselves.”
Mr. Hardy spoke with a touch of in-
dignation, and his wife glanced around
the almost palatial room and smiled.
Then her face grew a little stern and
almost forbidding as she remembered
that only last week her husband had
spent $150 for a new electrical appa- |
ratus to experiment with in his labora- |
tory. And now he was talking hard |
times and grudging the small sums he
gave to religious objects in connection
with his church and thinking he could
not afford to help the family of a man
who had once saved his life!
Again she turned to the piano and
played awhile, but she could not be
rested by the music as sometimes she
had been. When she finally rose and
walked over by the table near the end
of the lounge, Mr. Hardy was asleep.
and she sat down by the table, gazing
into the open fire drearily, a look of
sorrow and unrest on the face still
beautiful. but worn by years of disap-
pointment and the loss of that respect
and admiration she once held for the
man who had vowed at the altar to
make her happy. She had not lost her
love for him wholly, but she was fast
losing the best part of it, the love
which has its daily source in an inborn
respect. When respect is gone, love is
not long in following after.
She sat thus for half an hour and
was at last aroused by the two girls,
Clara and Bess, coming in. They were
laughing and talking together and had
evidently parted with some one at the
door. Mrs. Hardy went out into the
hallway.
“Hush, girls, your father is asleep!
You know how he feels to be awakenea
suddenly by noise. But he has been
waiting up for you.”
“Then 1 guess we'll go up staiis
without bidding him good night,” said
Clara abruptly. *1 don’t want to be
lectured about going over to the Cax-
tons’.”
**No; I want to see you both and have
a little talk with you. Come in here.”
Mrs. Hardy drew the two girls into the
front room and pulled the curtains to-
gether over the arch opening into the
room where Mr. Hardy lay. “Now tell
me, girls, why did your father forbid
your going over to the Caxtons’? 1 did
not know until tonight. Has it some-
thing to do with James?”
Neither of the girls said anything fcr
a minute. Then Bess, who was the
younger of the two and famous for
startling the family with very sensa
tional remarks. replied, “James and
Clara are engaged, and they are going
to be married tomorrow.”
Mrs. Hardy looked at Clara, and the
girl grew very red in the face, and
then, to the surprise of her mother and
Bess. she burst out into a violent fit of
crying. Mrs. Hardy gathered her into
her arms as in the olden times when
she was a little child and soothed her
into quietness.
“Tell me all about it, dear.
know you cared for James in
way.”
“But I do,” sobbe
ther guessed someth
1 did not
that
“And {a
12 and forbade us |
Clara.
going there any 1 But | didn’t
think he would mind it if Bess and !
went just this one ni I couldu’t |
help it anyway
for people to love eac
yroper
.isp’t It rigk
at
n Sunda
could bet
burst out w
ren
“RT,
Ve
think Jan
0 mont ior
And, then, he isn’t particu
handsome.”
cried Clara.
‘He is, too “And he’s |
good and biave and eplendid, and I'd
rather have him than a thousand such
|
|
men as Lancey Cummings. Mother, 1
don’t want money. It hasn't made you
happy.”
“Hush, dear!”
a blow had smitten
She was silent then.
4
Mrs. Hardy felt as if
her in the face.
i day nights!”
i under her hea
ra | pillow
y | tence for you.
Clara put her arms around her moth
er and whispered: “Forgive me, moth-
er! 1 didn’t mean to hurt you. But 1
am so uchappy!”
Unhappy! And yet the girl was just
beginning to blossom out toward the
face of God under the influence of that
most divine and tender and true feel-
ing that ever comes to a girl who
knows a true. brave man loves her
with all his soul. And some people
would have us leave this subject to the
flippant novelist instead of treating it
as Christ did when he said. “For this
cause” —that is. for love—*‘shall a man
leave his father and mother and cleave
unto his wife.”
Mrs. Hardy was on the point of say
ing something when the sound of pe.
ruliar steps on the stairs was heard,
und shortly after Alice pushed the cur
tains aside and came in. Alice was
the oldest girl in the family. She was
a cripple. the result of an accident
when a child. and she carried a crutch.
using it with much skill and even
grace. The minute she entered the
room she saw something was happen:
ing. but she simply said:
“Mother, isn't it a little strange fa
ther sweens go soundly? T went n= wo
hin: and spoke to him just now, think-
ing he was just lying there, and he
didn't answer, and then I saw he was
asleep. But I never knew him to sleep
so Sunday night. He usually reads up
in the study.”
“Perhaps he is sick.
see.”
Mrs. Hardy rose and went into the
other room, and just then the younger
boy, Will, came down stairs. He said
something to his mother as he passed
through the room and then came in
where the girls were carryving one «ff
his books in his hard.
“Say, Alice, ‘raanslate this passage
for me, will you? Confcund the old Ro-
mans anyway! What do I care about
the way they fought their old battles
and built their old one horse bridges:
What makes me angry is the way
Cesar has of telling a thing. Why
can’t he drive right straight ahead in-
stead of beating about the bush so?
If I couldn’t get up a better language
than those old duffers used to write
their books in I'd lie down and die. 1
I will go and
“Say, Bess, I want some money again.”
can’t find the old verb to that sentence
anyway. Maybe it’s around on the oth
er page somewhere, or maybe Cesar
left it out just on purpose to plague us
boys.”
And Will shied the tock over to Al
ice, who good naturediy beguu to read.
while that much suffering youth sat
down by Bess and began to tease ber
and Clara.
“What are you and Clara dsing at
this time of day? Time you youngsters
were going up stairs. Play us a little
tune, Bessie, will you? What you been
g foi ra Vere de Vere?”
7
“7
1 should think you would be asham
ed of yourself, Will, studying on Sun-
id little Bess reproving-
| ly and with dignity.
“No worse than g Sunday
al * retorted the incorrigible Will.
“I baven’t been,” replied Bess, indig
nt “I've been with Clara”
't need any help.
inquired Will innocently.
3 Over
face hid in the
Will tried to p
with
11 the piliow gut from
“Let me
well,”
ne, Will...
I feel
muflied voice
the
don’t
said a from
“Pshaw! you're fooling!”
“No. I'm not. Let me alone.
“Come here, or 1 won't read your sen-
” called Alice. And Wil}
reluctantly withdrew, for he Knew
from experience that Alice would keep
Ler word.
“All right. Now, go ahead; not too
fast. Here! Wait a minute! Let me
write her down. 1 don’t intend to miss
tomorrow if 1 can help it. And old
Romulus will call me up on this very
passage, 1 know. Be just like him,
though, to strike me on the review.”
At that minute the door opened, and
i
does |
And, |
in came George, the elder boy and the
oldest of the group of children. He
hung up bat and coat and strolled into
the room.
‘“Where’s mother?”
*She’s in the other room,” answered
Bess. “Father’s been asleep. and moth-
er was afraid ke was going to have a
fever.”
“That's ome of your stories.” said
George, who seemed in a good natured
mood. He sat down and drew his little
sister toward him and whispered to
her:
“Say,
again.”
“Awfully ?” whispered Bess.
“Yes; for a special reason. Do you
think you could let me have a little?"
“Why. of course. You can have all
my month’s allowance. But why don't
you ask father?”
“No; | have asked him too much late-
ly. He refused point blank last time.
I didn’t like it the way he spoke.”
“Well. you can have all mine.” said
Bess. whispering.
George and she were great friends,
and there was not a thing that Bessie
would not have done for her big broth-
er, who was her hero. What he want-
ed with so much money she néver
asked.
They were still whispering together,
and Clara had just risen to go up
stairs, and Alice and Will had finished
the translation, and Will was just on
the point of seeing how near he could
come to throwing the “Commentaries of
Caesar” into an ornamental Japanese
jar across the room, when Mrs. Hardy
parted the curtains at the arch and
beckoned her children to come into the
next room. Her face was exceedingly
pale, and she was trembling as if with
some great terror.
Bess, 1 want some money
CHAPTER II.
The children all cried out in surprise
and hurried into the next room. But
before relating what happened there
we will follow Mr. Hardy into the ex-
perience he had just after falling
asleep upon the lounge by the open fire.
It seemed to him that he stepped at
once from the room where he lay into
a place such as he had never seen be-
fore, where the one great idea that
filled his entire thought was the ides
of the present moment. Spread out
before him, as if reproduced by a pho
nograph and a magic lantern com
bined, was the moving panorama of
the entire world. He thought he saw
into every home, every public place of
business, every saloon and place of
amusement, every shop and every
farm, every place of industry, amuse-
ment and vice upon the face of the
globe. And he thought he could hear
the world’s conversation, catch its sobs
of suffering—nay, even catch the mean
ing of unspoken thoughts of the heart.
With that absurd rapidity peculiar to
certain dreams he fancied that over
every city on the globe was placed a
glass cover through which he could
look and through which the sounds of
the city’s industry came to him. But
he thought that he ascertained that by
lifting off one of these covers he could
hear with greater distinctness the
thoughts of the inhabitants and see all
they were doing and suffering with the
most minute exactness. He looked for
the place of his own town. Barton.
There it lay in its geographical spot on
the globe, and he thought that. moved
by an impulse he could not resist, he
lifted off the cover and bent down to
see and hear.
The first thing he saw was his min:
ister’s home. It was just after the
Sunday evening service, the one which
Mr. Hardy had thought so dull. Mr.
Jones was talking over the evening
with his wife.
“My dear,” he said, “I feel about dis-
couraged. Of what use is all our pray-
ing and longing for the Holy Spirit
when our own church members are so
cold and unspiritual that all his influ-
ence is destroyed? And. you know, |
made a special plea to all the members
to come out tonight. and only a hand
ful there! 1 feel like giving up the
struggle. You know 1 could make a
better living in literary work. and the
children could be better cared for
then.”
“But. John, it was a bad night to get
out. You must remember that.”
“But only 50 out of a church mem
bership of 400, most of them livipg
near by! It doesn’t seem just right to
me.”
“Mr. Hardy was there!
him?”
“Yes: after service 1 went and spoke
to him. and he treated me very coldly
And yet he is the most wealthy and in
some ways the most gifted church
member we have. [He could do great
things for t': : this community
Did you see
if —
Suddenly Mr. Hardy thought the
minister changed into the Sunday
school superintendent, and be was
walking down the street thinking abou
his classes in the school, and Mr. 1}
dy thought he could hear the superin
tendent’s th as if his ear
at a phonograph
“It’s too
ns,
bad! That class ot
Hardy to take
il because no one could
to teach And now Bob Wilson
has got into trouble and been arresied
for petty thieving.
blow to his poor mother.
left the
+1
1001
wem
that men like Mr Hardy cannot be |
made to see the importance of work in
the Sunday school? With his knowl
edge of cin
have reached that class of boys and in
vited them to his home, up into his lab
oratory and exercised an influence over | *[t is the hest medicine I ever used for a cold |
them they would never outgrow. on! | 31 bad case of lung trouble. I always
it's a st ¢ thing to me that men of | keep a bottle on hand.” Don’t suffer with
such possibilities do not realize their | Coughs, Colds, or any Throat, Chest ox
power!” Lung trouble when you can be cured So
The superintendent passed along | £2811. Only 50c. and $1.00. Trial hoteles |
shaking his head sorrowfully, and Mr
Hardy, who seemed guided by some
power he could not resist and com
pelled to listen whether he liked it or
not. next found himself looking into
one of the railroad shop tenements,
where the man Scoville was lying.
wore |
boys |!
be fouud |
it will be a terrible |
Oh, why is it |
vistry and geology he could |
awaiting amputation of both feet after
the terrible accident. Scoville’s wife
lay upon a ragged lounge, while Mrs
Hardy’s cook kneeled by her side and
in her native Swedish tongue tried to
comfort the poor woman. No it was
true that these two were sisters. The
man was still conscious and suffering
unspeakably. The railroad surgeon had
been sent for. but had not arrived.
Three or four men and their wives had
come in to do what they could. Mr
Burns, the foreman, was among them
One of the men spoke in a whisper to
him:
“Have you been to see Mr. Hardy?"
“Yes, but f 2 was at church. | left
word about the accident.”
“At church! So even the devil sowe-
times goes to church. What for, | won
der? Will he be here, think?”
“Don’t know.” replied Mr.
curtly.
“Do you mind when he” —pointing to
Scoville—*saved Mr. Hardy's life?”
“Remember it well enough:
standing close by.”
“What'll be done with the children
when Scoville goes, eh ?”’
“Don’t know.”
Just then the surgeon came in. and
preparations were rapidly made for the
operation. The last that Mr. Hardy
heard was the shriek of the poor wife
as she struggled to her feet and fell in
a fit across the floor where two of the
youngest children clung terrified to her
dress. and the father cried out. tears of
agony and despair running down his
face, “My God. what a hell this world
is!”
The next scene was a room where
everything appeared confused at first,
but finally grew more distinct and ter-
rible in its significance, and the first
person Mr. Hardy recognized was his
oldest boy, George, in company with a
group of young men engaged in—what!
He rubbed his eyes and stared painful-
ly. Yes: they were gambling. So here
was where George spent all his money
and Bessie’s too! Nothing that the
miserable father had seen so far cut
him to the quick quite so sharply as
this. ' He had prided himself on his
own freedom from vices and had an
honest horror of them, for Mr. Hardy
Burns
was
was not a monster of iniquity, only an
intensely selfish man. Gambling, drink-
ing. impurity—all the physical vices—
were to Mr. Hardy the lowest degrada-
1.on.
The thought that his own son had
fallen into this pit was terrible to him.
But he was compelled to look and lis-
ten. All the young men were smoking,
and beer and wine stood on a buffet at
one side of the room and were plenti-
fully partaken of.
“1 say, George,” said a very flashily
dressed youth who was smoking that
invention of the devil, a cigarette,
“your old man would rub his eyes to
see you here, eh 7°
“Well, 1 should remark he would,”
replied George as he shufifled the cards
and then helped himself to a drink.
“I say, George,” said the first speak-
er, ‘your sister Bess is getting to be a
beauty. Introduce me, will you?”
“No, 1 won't,” said George shortly.
He had been losing all the evening, and
he felt nervous and irritable.
“Ah! We are too bad, eh?”
George made some fierce reply, and
the other fellow struck him. Instantly
George sprang to his feet, and a fight
took place. Mr. Hardy could not bear
it any longer. He thought he broke
away from the scene by the exercise
of a great determination and next
found himself looking into his own
home. It seemed to him it was an even-
ing when he and all the children had
gone out, and Mrs. Hardy sat alone,
looking into the fire as she had been
looking before he fell asleep. She was
thinking, and her thoughts were like
burning coals as they fell into Mr.
Hardy’s heart and scorched him as not
any scene, not even the last, had done.
“My husband!” Mrs. Hardy was say-
ing to herself. “How long it is since
he gave me a caress, kissed me when
he went to his work or laid his hand
lovingly on my cheek as he used to do!
How brave and handsome and good 1
used to think him in the old Vermont
days when we were struggling for our
little home and his best thought was of
the home and of the wife! But the
vears have changed him! Oh, yes;
they have changed him bitterly! I
wonder if he realizes my hunger for
his affection! Of what value to me are
all these baubles wealth brings com-
pared with a loving look, a tender
smile, an affectionate caress?
CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.
’
The Deacon’s Dream.
‘May vou take this lesson home with
i you to-night, dear friends,” concluded the
| preacher at the end of a very long and
wearisome sermon. ‘And may its spiritual
truths sink deep into your hearts and lives
to the end that your souls may experience
salvation. We will now how onr heads in
prayer. Deacon White, will you. lead 2’
There was no response.
{Deacon White,”’ this time in a loud
{| vOl1ge
Deacon White, will vou lead 2?
Still no response. It was evident that
( heiing, The preacher |
trd abpe
nd raised his voice to
that succeeded vak the
mn w
The deacon rubbed his eyes and
them wonderingly.
it my lead? No—I just dealt.”
BANKER R
son, cashier of the be horny
i had been robbed of health by a serious lu
trouble until he tried Dr. Kings New Dis
| covery for Consumption.
| free at Green's drug store.
Pumnectual at Last,
| when she lay prepared in her coffin for her
| funeral, it was the first time in her career
that she was ready on time.—Afchinson
| Globe.
| the shoulde
ville, O., |
Then he wrote : |
It is said of an up-town woman that |
MY FIRE.
It starts;
A sinuous eyelash from the sun,
A golden, leaf shaped, dancing thing,
Bending fernlike in a magic breeze,
And grows
And saps the virgin forest’s strength
With writhing, biting arms,
And with its red jaws through the gloom
Casts elfin shadows round the room,
And, waxing still,
It lashes round the knotted wood
With soft but cruel sting,
Till, gorged with strength, it fades away
Beneath a coverlet of gray,
And now,
Like molten sunset from the west,
Pulsates as with living breath
Till, dying midst the bones its greed has made,
Its heart is still and ashes mark the grave.
—A. R. Allan in Morningside.
Ink as a Witness.
In a case in the supreme court it was
alleged that interlineations had been
made in the papers after they were filed,
and the papers were submitted to expert
chemists to decide whether the interlinea-
tions had been made after the papers
were filed or at the time the paper was
drawn. The process followed by the
chemists was simple, though tedious.
Hypochloride of soda was the only
chemical used by the expert, but the re-
sult was the same as that arrived at by
the other experts. Tests were made on
each line of the document. The soda
bleached the ink, and, as the writing in
some parts was done many years ago, the
first drop of soda was placed on a line
which was not in controversy. The writ-
ing slowly faded, and it was 51 seconds
before it was bleached.
A drop on another interlineation faded
the writing in 49 seconds, on another in
51 seconds, and the interlineations made
when the paper was first written faded
in about 50 seconds on an average. Sud-
denly the ink of one of the interlineations
faded in 15 seconds, and the conclusion
was at once reached that it was fresher
ink than the others, as the ink had not
had time to thoroughly permeate the fiber
of the paper.
Several interlineations were found to
fade in from 13 to 16 seconds. and these
were marked as having been made at a
more recent date.
After all interlineations had been so
marked, the next step was to ascertain
as nearly as possible at what date the in-
terlineations were made, and for this pur-
pose many manuscripts in which similar
ink was used on the same kind of paper
were taken. The exact date of the writ-
ing of each manuscript was known, and
soda was dropped on each, beginning
with the date of writing of the manu-
seript in controversy. The time necessary
to fade the ink gradually decreased from
52 and 50 seconds as the soda was drop-
ped on the manuscripts of more recent
years.
When the fading took place in 20 sec-
onds, manuscripts but a month apart in
writing were used, and the fading in 14
and 15 seconds was thus fixed in a cer-
tain month. The examining chemists
knew nothing of the points in the contro-
versy, and the report was made that cer-
tain interlineations were probably made
in the specified month. The attorneys in
the case were amazed, as the month
named was that in which they believed
the more recent writing had been done.—
Indianapolis Press.
Uses For Bicycles.
There are many uses to which @n old
cycle can be put. It is said that a thea-
ter manager has made rather an excellent
chandelier out of his old wheel. He also
uses an old tricycle for producing the ef-
fect of wind, hail and railway trains. A
navvy is said to have made a clock al-
most all out of parts of an old machine.
The bell strikes the hours. and a length
of solid rubber tire holds the pendulum,
which is a bicycle fork. At one small
place a man has turned a discarded wheel
into a kind of pump. and the tires do duty
for the pipe hose. Another has made a
treadle sewing machine out of his wheel.
A grocer has turned part of a cycle into
a coffee grinding machine, and a’ bell
ringer, being rather feeble in the arm,
has an old eycle which he has raised and
fixed in one position, and so by a pulley
arrangement he can when gently pedaling
ring the bell vigorously. Many folks use
their old wheels for flower stands, and
there is a man who is making quite a de-
cent living by turning old bicycles into
conveyances on which washerwomen can
take home the weekly load.—London
Globe.
The Crusades and Embroidery,
The crusades had a marked effect on
the demand for embroidery, as besides
the decoration of their cloaks and pouch-
es the kings and their followers wanted
gorgeously worked hangings for their
tents and heraldie blazons for their ban-
ners. The last were ditlicult of execu-
tion, and new stitches were invented, and
applique work was introduced about this
time. The Spaniards are said to have
learned the use of spangles and other
metal and head ornaments as applied to
stuffs from the Saracens. Later precious
stones and pearls were used, and in 1414
Charles of Orleans spent about £40 for
960 pearls which were to be used in orna-
menting a great coat on the sleeves of
which were embroidered the verses of a
song beginning with “Madam, I am all
joyous.” The musical accompaniment of
the words was also embroidered. —Specta-
tor.
Worth Se«ing.
to treat h
and, enter
x the pit by the back of the
» happened to see
die stand.
The Deacon’s Mistake.
The Annapolis valley, or the famous
“Land of Evangeline,” gives more oppor-
tunity for the study of human nature,
perhaps, than any other locality along
the entire Atlantic seaboard. The scen-
ery of this region is beautiful beyond de-
scription, and tourists soon become well
enough acquainted with its people “to go
altogether to the kirk and altogether
pray.”
One Sunday the parson in a village
church delivered with special emphasis
an able sermon on putting off the “old
man’ and getting on the “new.” This
signal feat, he stated, was accomplished
by simply going down into the waters of
baptism and burying the “old man” and
coming out of the waters a new creature.
After the service a wealthy deacon in-
quired of a certain wayward individual
who occasionally presented himself to the
gracious influence of the church how the
sermon impressed him. He said it was
the only sermon that ever touched his
heart. The deacon, putting on a smile of
gratification, gave him a hearty hand-
shake. For quite awhile he had been try-
ing to persuade him to submit to baptism.
In this he had an ax to grind.
Almost a year previous the prospective
convert stole a maul out of the deacon’s
sawmill and more than once flatly re-
fused to return it. The deacon finally de-
cided that an ecclesiastical course of bam-
boozle would have more influence over
him than harsh words. If he could make
him a Christian, he felt sure the maul
would be forthcoming. So that Sunday
morning he solemnly entreated this way-
ward individual, whose heart was already
softened, and won his consent to submit
to baptism.
When he arose out of the water, the
deacon greeted him as “brother” and cor-
dially congratulated him in that he had
buried the “old man” and put on the
“new.” The deacon, now feeling that the
long lost maul was as good as returned,
went on his way rejoicing. Next day the
“new man” sallied into the deacon’s gro-
cery store. As usual the place was crowd-
ed with brethren, discussing the merits
of Sunday’s sermon. When they had all
congratulated him upon his baptismal
regeneration, the deacon, believing the
golden opportunity had come, addressed
him with the utmost confidence:
“Well, my brother, now I am sure you
will return the maul you took cut of the
mill last summer.”
The reclaimed wanderer hesitated and
then meekly replied: “I am sorry, deacon.
but you’ve got the wrong man. The ‘old
man’ who stole the maul went down into
the water yesterday and was buried.”—
Pittsburg Press.
His Idea of Humor.
A janitress living on Washington
square had an adventure one day which
she will not soon forget. It seems that
the building which she has under her
care was at one time used by a trust
company, and afterward it was turned
into an apartment house. When this was
done, the vaults were left intact, and
they were very seldom opened. The jan-
itress was showing a party of gentlemen
through the building and pointed out the
desirability of the vaults as refrigerators.
When she opened the vault and stepped
in, one of the party, who has a rare idea
of humor, shut the door suddenly and im-
prisoned the janitress. That was all
right so far as it went, but the lock was
a spring affair, and the janitress had the
keys on the inside. The room hunters
were throroughly frightened, and one of
them ran for a locksmith in haste. Luck-
ily a neighbor, who is an expert lock-
smith, came into the place and in a few
minutes succeeded in releasing the wo-
man, who was in anything but a pleasant
frame of mind. The room hunters made
themselves very scarce before the en-
raged janitress came forth.—Philadelphia
Record.
In the Same Pen.
“One of the boys at the hotel put me
on to a little poker game,” said the dry
goods drummer, “and I went around to
see what it was like. There were about
30 respectable looking people in the room,
and one of them was trying to teach me
the value of the cards, when the police
broke in and made a clean sweep of ev-
erybody. Next morning, when arraigned
at the police court, I wanted a lawyer,
and there was a general laugh in court as
his honor replied:
“‘l don’t know where you'll get one.
There are nine in town, but all are in the
pen with you!
“It was so,” continued the drummer.
“and things might have gone hard with
us had it not been for the fact that the
judge was there, too, but had just step-
ped out as the raid was made. Nothing
was said about it, of course, but he let
us off with a fine of $2 each and a lot of
fatherly advice.””—New York Sun.
He Was Very Thoughtful,
A north country miller noted for his
keenness in financial matters was once in
a boat trying his best to get across the
stream which drove his mill.
The stream was flooded, and he was
| taken past the point at which he wanted
to land,
while farther on misfortune
again overtook him to the extent that the
boat was upset.
His wife, realizing the danger he was
| that flour's
» laborer recently resolved |
ht at the theater, |
the double |
{asked
! of the |
on the |
| orchest ed with
| amaze:
and an
i they would soon b
{ “YW Y. wes hi
| eitedly. “neo
a k
| that fic
Fun.
iad Knough
Patient h a thing to
i die of consi
Doctor—Perhaps von would like to
| have me call in other physicians in con-
| sultation?
| Patient—No, 1 don’t know that a com-
|
|
would be any better
Journal.
plication of disens
to die of.—Doet
{A b-year-old boy fell out of a third
| story window in Paris, and his life was
ved by his falling on 2 man wearing a
30
ilk hat.
|
HE RR
——Subseribe for the WATCHMAN.
in, ran frantically along the side of the
stream, crying for help in a pitiful voice,
when, to her sheer amazement, she was
suddenly brot t to a standstill by her
husband yelli
*1f.1’'m dro
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up 2 =hillin a sa
get
London Tel
Not All Tafly,
e,
Can you tell me who Ananias
man of the propri
ving nme al
n calls me
yuse fell on him!
streets in large.
top of men's he
as long as a |
pones, no of Ww
for the morning
ven.
Congratulations,
“Y am proud to say that 1 did not
spend a dollar to secure my election.”
“l congrotulate you,” answered Sena-
But
— Washington
tor Sorghum.
you took a
Star.
“You got off cheap.
terrible risk.”
I'ISK.
~—=—8uheribe for the WATCHMAN