6
LITTLE SLED IN THE ATTIC.
Winter again; and I turn once more
To my childhood's home for a holiday,
And lift the latch of the attic door
And climb Its rickety, worn stairway.
Ancient umbrellas, rent and torn,
Lanterns, saddles, and horseshoes old.
Trenchers and cradles, and samplers worn,
Trinkets of silver, and bits of gold;
Garments so quaintly out of style,
Hooks and parchments, yellow and dim,
Tools that r.o workman's art beguile.
And dishes no house-mother conjures In;
Through all the rubbish I find my way
To my dear little brother's cherished sled;
It hat made us happy for many a day,
And its sight wakes memories long since
dead.
Handsome carriages, built for ease.
Hallway palace-cars, rich and grand,
Steamships plowing the mighty seas,
Jeweled treasures from every land—
All from my vision pass away!
llarest melodies cease to flow!
And the iweetest chimes that I hear to-day-
Are fie bells of a little sled over the snow.
TCrver a song of the vanished years,
FV'l of the rhythmic notes of Joy,
Can thrill my spirit or free my tears
Like the musical laugh of a happy boy.
Do you not hear It—so silvery and clear?
Have you heard any other ring out like
his?
lie u laughing aloud In glory now.
Through a thorny pathway he trod to
bliss.
Call me weakly, ye women white,
Laugh as ye will, stout-hearted men!
I'd give for one hour of the old delight,
All I have sought or known since then.
O, the years! O, my brother! I miss him
sore,
Who rides over pavements the angels
tread,
In (he City where nobody sorrows more,
And they laugh and shine who were sad
and dead.
And I vow once more to be pure as snow.
To lighten the burdens that others feel.
To smile when the selfish tears would flow.
And when proud and bitter to humbly
kneel.
"With my face to the morning T'll travel on;
With my brow to the stars, If 1 fall I'll
lie;
1 w ill goto him who will not return.
In the Land of the Holy, some by and by.
And through the grace of the One Divine,
Who bade us live as a little child,
I will keep my trust, I will bide my time.
Till I laugh with my brother—the unse
ttled
•-Rev. Frances E. Townsley, In Union Sig
nal.
My Strangest Case
BY GUY BOOTHBY.
Author of "Dr. Kikola," "The Beautiful
White Devii," "Pharos, The
Egyptian," Etc.
[Copyrighted, 1901, by Ward, i.oek & Co.J
CHAPTER IX.—CONTINUED.
"In point of fact," he said, "I may
•say that I have traveled from Dan
to Beersheba, and, until I struck
this present vein of good fortune,
had found all barren. Some day, if
I can summon up sufficient courage,
I shall fit out an expedition and re
turn to the place whence the stones
came, and get some more, but not
just at present. Events have been
«. little too exciting there of late to
let us consider it a healthy country,
By the way, have you heard from
•our friend, Kitwater, yet?"
"I have," I answered, "and his re
ply is by no means satisfactory."
"1 understand you to mean that he
will not entertain my offer?"
I nodded my head.
"He must have 'all or nothing,' he
declares. That is the wording of the
telegram I received."
"Well, he knetws his own affairs
best. The difference is a large one
and will materially affect his in
come. Will you take creme de minthe
kummel or cognac?"
"Cognac, thank you," I replied, anc
that was the end of the matter.
During the remainder of the even
ing not another word was said upon
the subject. We chatted upon a vari
ety of topics, but neither the mat
ter of the precious stones nor even
Kitwater's name was once men-
tioned. I could not help fancying 1 ,
however, that the man was consider
ably disappointed at the non-ac
ceptance of his preposterous offer,
lie had made a move on the board,
and had lost it. I knew him well
enough, however, by this time to feel
sure that he had by no means de
spaired yet of winning the game.
Men of Gideon Hayle's stamji are
hard to beat.
"Now," he said, when we had
smoked our cigarettes, and after he
had consulted his watch, "the
night is still young. What do you say
if we pay a visit to a theater—the
Hippodrome, for instance. We might
while away an hour there very pleas
antly, if you feel so disposed."
I willingly consented, and we ac
cordingly left the restaurant. Once
we were in the street Hayle called a
cab, gave the man his instructions,
and we entered it. Chatting pleas
antly, and still smoking, we passed
along the brilliantly illuminated
boulevards. I bestowed little, if any,
attention on the direction in which
••we were proceeding. Indeed, it would
have been difficult to h&ve done so,
for never during the evening had
Ilayle been so agreeable. A more
charming companion no man could
have desired. It was only on chanc
ing to look out the window that I
discovered we were no longer in the
thoroughfares, but
were entering another and dingier
jiart of the town.
"What is the matter with the
driver?" I asked. "Doesn't he know
what he is about? This is not the
*ay to the Hippodrome! lie must
have misunderstood what you said to
him. Shall 1 hail him and point out
his mistake?"
"No, 1 don't think it is necessary
for you (o do that," he replied.
•"Doubtless he will be on the right
iriuok iu a Jew iuiuiUeti. He i>rob
ably thinks if he gives us a longer
ride he will be able to charge a pro
portionately larger fee at the end.
The Parisian cabby is very like his
London brother."
lie then proceeded to describe to
me an exceedingly funny adventure
that had befallen him once in Chi
cago. The recital lasted some min
utes, and all the time we were still
pursuing our way in a direction ex
actly opposite to that which 1 knew
we should be following. At last 1
could stand it no longer.
"The man's obviously an idiot," I
said, "and I am going to tell him so."
"1 shouldn't do that, Mr. Fairfax,"
said Ilayle, in a different voice to that
which he had previously addressed
me. "1 bad my own reasons for not
telling you before, but the matter has
already been arranged. The man is
only carrying out my instructions."
"What do you mean by already ar
ranged?" 1 asked, not without some
alarm.
"I mean that you are my prisoner,
Mr. Fairfax," ho said. "You see, you
are rather a difficult person to deal
with, if 1 may pay you such a com
pliment, and one has to adopt heroic
measures in order to cope with you."
"Then you have been humbugging
me nil this time," 1 cried; "but you've
let the cat out of the bag a little too
soon. I think I'll bid you good-by."
I was about to rise from my seat
and open the door, but he stopped me.
In his hand he held a revolver, tlie muz
zle of which was in unpleasant proxim
ity to my head.
"I must ask you to be good enough
to sit down," he said. "You had bet
ter do so, for you cannot help your
self. If you attempt to make a fuss
I pledge you my word 1 shall shoot
you, let the consequences to myself
be what they may. You know me,
and you can see that I am desperate.
My offer to those men was only a bluff,
I wanted to quiet 3113- suspicions you
might have in order that I might get
you into my hands. As you can set
for yourself, I could not have suc
ceeded better than I have done. I give
you my word that you shall not be
hurt, provided that you do not attempt
to escape or earll for help. If you do
then you know exactly what to ex
pect, and you will have only yoursell
to blame, lie a sensible man, and give
into the inevitable."
He held too many cards for me. 1
could see at a glance that I was out
maneuvered, and that there was noth
ing to be gained by a struggle.
Ten minutes later the cab came to a
standstill,there was the sound of open
inggates.and a moment later we drove
iuto a stone-paved courtyard.
CHAPTER X.
If you could have traveled the world
at that moment, from north to south,
and from east to west, I believe you
would have found it difficult to dis
cover a man who felt as foolish as I
did when I entered the gloomy dwell
ing-place as Hayle's prisoner. To say
that I was mortified by the advantage
he had obtained over me would not ex
press my feelings in the least. Tc
think that I, George Fairfax, who had
Uie reputation of being so diflioult a
man to trick, should have allowed my
self to fall into so palpable a trap
seemed sufficiently incredible as to be
almost a matter for laughter rathei
than rage. There was worse, how
ever, behind. Miss Kitwater had beer
so trustful of my capability for bring
ing the matter to a successful conclu
sion, that I dared not imagine what
she would think of me now. Which
ever way I looked at it, it was ob
vious that Hayle must score. On the
one side, he kept me locked up while
he not only made his escape fron
Paris, but by so doing cut off everj
chance of my pursuing him after
wards; on the otlwr, he might console
himself with the almost certair
knowledge that 1 should be elisereditee
by those who had put their trust ii
me. How could it very well be other
wise? I had committed the crimina
folly of accepting hospitality from the
enemy, and from that moment I shouli
not be seen. The natural suppositior
would be that I had been bought, ane
that I was not only taking no furtliei
interest in the case, but that I was
keeping out of the way of those wh<
did. To add to my misery, I could eas
ily imagine the laugh that would g<
up on tke other side of the channe
when the trick that had been playee
upon me became known. But having
so much else to think of, that fact
you may be sure, elid not trouble me
very much. There were two things
j however, about which I was particu
larly anxious; one was to set mysel
right with Miss Kitwater, and tin
other was to get even, at any cost
with Hayle. The first seemed the mos
difficult.
]t must not 1)o supposed that when
I had alighted from the carriage 1 had
given tip all hope of escape. On the
contrary, had it not been for the pres
ence of three burly fellows, who imme
diately took up their places beside me,
I fancy I should have made a dash for
liberty. Under the circumstances,
however, to have attempted such a
thing would have been the height of
folly. Five to one, that is to say, if
I include the coachman in the num
ber, with the gates closed behind me,
were too long odds, and however hard
I might have fought, I could not pos
sibly have been successful.
"Perhaps you will b; kind enough to
step into the house," said Ilayle.
"The air is cold out here, and 1 am
afraid lest you might take a chill."
Before complying with his order I
looked around me once more, to see
if there was any chance of escape, liut
so far as I couid see there was not
one. I accordingly followed one of my
captors into Ihe building, the re
mainder bringing up the rear.
From what 1 could see of the house
with the help of the light from a soli
tary candle hanging in a sconce upon
the wall, it had once been a hiindsome
building. Now, however, it had fallen
sadly td decay. The ceiling of the hall
iiud at one time bticn rislily i-uiutud,
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, JULY 24, 1902.
but now only blurred traces of the de
sign remained. Crossing the hall, my
guide opened a door at the further end.
In obedience to a request from Ilayle,
I entered this room, to find myself
standing in a fine apartment, so far as
size went, but sadly lacking in com
fort where its furniture was con
cerned. There was a bed, a table,
three rough chairs, and an entirely in
adequate square of carpet upon tl.e
floor. I have already said that it was
a large room, and when 1 add that it
was lighted only by two candles, which
stood upon the table in the center, some
idea will be formed of its general
dreariness.
"Now, look here, Mr. Ilayle," I said,
"the time has come for us to have a
serious talk together. You know as
well as 1 do that in kidnaping me you
are laying yourself open t <> very serious
consequences. If you think that by so
doing you are going to prevent me
from eventually running you to earth,
you are very much mistaken. You
have obtained a temporary advantage
over me, 1 will admit; but that ad
vantage will not last. Do not flatter
yourself that it will."
"I am not so sure upon that point,"
said Ilayle, lighting a cigarette as he
spoke. "If I did not think so I should
not have gone to all this trouble and
expense. But why make such a fuss
about it? You must surely under
stand. Mr. Fairfax, that your profes
sion necessarily entails risks. This is
one of them. You have been paid to
become my enemy. 1 had no personal
quarrel with you. You can scarcely
blame me, therefore, if I retaliate
when I have an opportunity. I don't
know what you may think of it, but
the mere fact of your dining with me
to-night is very likely togo hard with
you, so far as your clients are con
cerned. Would it be a good adver
tisement for the famous George Fair
fax to have it known that, while he
was taking his clients' money, he was
dining pleasantly in Paris with the
man they were paying him to find?
I laid niy trap for you, but I must
confess that I had not very much faith
in its success. Your experience should
have made you more wary. A stu
dent of human character, such as you
are, should have known that the
leopard cannot change his spots, or
the tiger his—"
"If you continue in this strain mueli
longer," I said, "I'll endeavor to stop
your tongue, whatever it may cost me.
Now, either let me out, or get out
of the room yourself. I want to see I
no more of you while I am in this
house."
lie blew a cloud of smoke, and then
answered nonchalantly:
"You had better occupy yourself
thanking your stars that you are let
off so easily. At one time 1 was tempt
ed to have you put out of the way al
together. I am ifot quite certain it
wouldn't be safer, even now. It could
be done so easily, and no one would
be any the wiser. 1 know two men
now in Paris who would gladly run
the risk for the sake of the ill-will
they bear you. I must think it over."
"Then think it over on the other
side of that door," I said, angrily.
"Play the same traitorous trick on
me as you did on Kitwater and Codd
if you like, but you shall not stay in
the same room with me now."
My reference to Kitwater and Codd
must have touched him on a raw spot,
for he winced, and then tried to bluff
it off.
"I rather fancy Messrs. Kitwater and
Codd will have just such kindly things
to say concerning you in the future
as they do about me now," he said, as
he moved toward the door. "And now
I wish you good-by. As I leave Paris
almost immediately, I don't suppose I
shall have the pleasure of seeing you
again. For your own sake 1 should ad
I WAS ABOUT TO ARISE FROM MY
SEAT AND OPJ%N THE DOOR,
BUT 11E STOPPED MB.
vise you to be quiet. I might tell you
once for all that you can't get out.
The door is a stout one, and the win
dows are exceptionally well barred.
The men to whom I have assigned the
duty of looking* after you are in their
way honest, though a little rough.
Moreover, they are aware that their
own safety depends to a very great
extent upon your not getting out. 15e
lieve me, if you do not know already,
there is nothing like fear for making
a good watch-dog. Farewell, friend
Fairfax! You have been instrumental
in sending a good many men into dur
ance vile; you can tell me later how
you like being there yourself."
With that lie went out, shutting the
door behind him. I heard the key
turn in the lock, and a bolt shot at
top and bottom. 1 thereupon went to
the window and examined it, only to
discover that it was made secure on
the outside by large iron bars. So far
as I could see, there was no other way
of escape from the room.
Though 1 laid down on the bed T did
not sleep; my thoughts would not
permit of that. The face of the wom
an who had trusted inc so lu'ofouudij
was before me continually, gnzing at
me with sweet, reproachful eyes. Oh!
what a fool 1 had been to accept that
rascal's invitation! The more I
thought of it, the angrier I became
witlimyself. Now.goodnes- "->ly knew
how long I should be confined in this
wretched place, and what would hap
pen during my absence from the
world!
At last the dawn broke, and with it
a weird, sickly light penetrated the
room. I sprang from my bed and ap
proached t lie window, only to find that
it overlooked a small courtyard, the
latter being stone-flagged, and sur
rounded by high walls. I could see
that, even if 1 were able to squeeze
my way out between the bars, 1
should be powerless to scale the walls.
At a rough guess these were at least
12 feet high, and wifhout a foot
hold of any sort or description. This
being so, I was completely at the
mercy of the men in the house. In
deed, a rat caught in a trap was never
more firmly laid by the heels than I.
At about half-past seven o'clock a
small trap-door, which I had not no
ticed near the ground and the main
door, was opened, and a griiny hand
made its way in and placed upon the
floor a cup of coffee and a roll. Then
it was closed once more and made se
cure. I drank the coffee and munched
the roll, and, if the truth must be
confessed, poor as they were, felt the
better for both.
At midday a bowl of miserable soup
was handed in; darkness, however,
had fallen some considerable time be
fore I could detect any sound in the
hall outside that might be taken to
mean the coining of my evening meal.
At last there was a clatter of feet, the
bolts shot back, the key turned in the
lock, and the door opened. A man
carrying a lantern entered, followed
by two others, and as the light fell
upon his face 1 uttered a cry of aston
ishment, for he was none other than
my old friend Leglosse, while btnind
him was the infallible Lepallard.
"Well, thank goodness we have
found you at last," cried Leglosse.
"We have had such a hunt for you as
man never dreamed of.l called at
your apartments late last night, hop
ing to see you, 011 important business,
but you had not returned from a din
ner to which you had been invited. I
called again this morning, and was in
formed by the concierge that they had,
up to that moment, seen nothing of
you. When the good Lepallard in
formed me that you had left the res
taurant in a cab with M. Hayle, and
that I the latter had returned to his
apartments this morning in a great
hurry, only to leave them a short time
after with his luggage for the rail
way station, 1 began to grow uneasy.
You have no idea what a day I have had
looking for you, but it has been well
spent, since we have the pleasure of
seeing you again."
[To Be Continued.]
HAVOC OF THE REMINISCENT.
An Invitation That Carried with It
• Serious Reflection I'pun a
I'atuily Trait.
It is only tactful people who should
be allowed to give personal reminis
cences, but unfortunately they are not
the only ones, who do give them, says
London Tit-Bits.
"How well 1 remember your father
when I was a little girl!" lately said an
elderly woman to a Newcastle clergy
man. "He used to come to our house
to dinner. We were always delighted
to see him, children-and all."
"That is very pleasant to hear," said
the clergyman, with a smile; but the
narrator remained gravely uncon
scious of his interruption.
"I remember what.a hearty appetite
he had," she continued, blandly. "It
was a real pleasure to see him eat.
Why, when mother would see him com
ing along the road she's send me run
ning out to the cook and Bay: "Tell
Mary to put on just twice as much of
everything as she had planned, for
here is Mr. Brown coming to dine with
us!' "
The eminent son endeavored t« pre
serve a proper expression of counte
nance at this interesting reminiscence,
but his composure was sorely tried
when, with great cordiality, the lady
said:
"You are so much like your father!
Won't you come home and dine with
us after the service?"
lie Uiil Hi* llext.
The late Sir John Stainer, one of
England's most celebrated musicians
and composers, was once staying in a
small Swiss village, and the English
clergyman was on the lookout for a
musician to assist at the service.
Stainer was in the office of the hotel
when the clergyman found him, an.d
started the conversation with: "Do you
play the harmonium?"
"A little," was tly; reply of the ex
organist of St. Paul's cathedral.
"Will you, then, be good enough to
help us out of our difficulty on Sunday?
We will read the Psalms, and the hymns
shall be the simplest lean select,"add
ed the delighted parson.
"I will do my best," said Stainer,with
a smile.
The service proceeded satisfactorily,
but the congregation at the close lis
tened to a brilliant recital. When the
parson heard the name of his assist
ant he asked him to dinner. "l)o you
smoke?" he asked at the close.
"I will do my best,"responded S*ain*
er. and the ensuing laughter was the
prologue of an entertaining exchange
of Oxford reminiscences. Youth's
Companion.
A Sidewalk Prescriptlon.
The busy doctor was hurrying down
the street when he was stopped by a
man noted for his ability to get "side
walk" advice.
"1 am thoroughly worn out, and sick
and tired. What ought I to take?"
asked the man.
"Take a cab," replied the unfeeling
doctor. —X Y. Time*
PUZZLE PICTURE.
• "W HO IS TH VT I'Etl LI All OI.I) (il V J"
OF WHOM IS HE SPIISAKINCif
ARITHMETIC GOES WRONG.
}liirk< v il KiTciilriclty in tlu % Weights
of \ H.riou* riu'kiiKCN of >le rt'lian
dUe ItuiMlleri l»> Me re* lia.nl*.
The merchant orders a virkin of but
ter, or a firkin of soap, or a tirkin of
raisins, as though firkin meant one and
the same thing in weight.
As a matter of fact, while a firkin of
butter weighs 50 pounds, and a firkin
of soap 04, a firkin of raisins weighs no
les* than 112 pounds, though the tables
tell you that a firkin is one measure of
a certain weight, says the 15trston
Cilobe.
That is a marked eccentricity, but it
pales into insignificance beside the
weight which governs straw and hay.
You cannot weigh straw as you would
hay, or you would be cheating your
customer. When the latter orders a
load of straw lie wants 2,190 pounds,
but a load of old hay means 2,010
pounds, and new hay 2,300 pounds.
Cheese, glass, iron, hemp and flax
■ —all these products are sold by the
"stone;' Mint if you were to weigh them,
allowing 14 pounds for each stone, you
would revolutionize the whole system
of reckoning as recognized by the va
rious trades whose species we have
just referred to. A stone of any of the
latter means a different-weight-entire
ly. A stone of cheese, for instance, is
10 pounds, of glass 5 pounds, of beef
8 pounds, of iron 14 pounds, of hemp
32 pounds, of flax 10% pounds in Bel
fast. and 24 pounds in Downpatrick.
Wool growers and wool staplers sell
their products at 14 pounds to the
stone; but in dealing with one an
other the weight is increased to 15
pounds.
Licensed victuallers buy their wines,
among other measures, by the pipe,
and pipes in the wine trade are as varied,
as firkins or stones in others.
A pipe of port is 103 gallons. of mar
sala 93 gallons, of Madeira 02. of bu
eellas 117, of teneriffe 100, and so on,
throughout a long list of wines, so
that it is important for "mine host" to
be well up in the various pipe meas
ures, so as to get in the right quanti
ties.
Fven pork is weighed out by means
quite different from the ordinary meth
ods of reading a weight according to
the rules of simple arithmetic. If you
were in the pork business in lielfast,
and you received an order for one hun
dred -weight of pork, and you sent only
112 pounds which, according to
weights and measures tables, is 1 cwt.
• —you would get. an indignant letter
from your customer for cheating him
of eight pounds. You must send 120
pounds—that's a hundredweight of
pork.
If, on the other hand, you were in
Cork, and sent your customer 120
pounds of pork for one hundredweight,
In our day there is a strong temptation to self-indulgence. T
think of the stern, hard days before there was a cooking stove, a heat-
Cjv«, r»? ' n,c ' stove » a telegraph, a mile of
1 ne iDin OT railroad, a kerosene lamp, or a
Self-Indulge nee cylinder press. Look at your sii-
By preme court and Marshall was on
Rev. Frederick E. Hopkins, the bench; at your treasury, and
pastor Pilgrim congregational Hamilton established y our ci edit;
Church, Chicago. at your senate, and John Ouincv
'Adams was there; at your colleges, and they graduated Jeffersons and
Websters; at your pulpit, ami Lyman Beecher was there.
Look at your homes; big families of which Franklin was one and
Wendell Phillips another, and both the Shermans and Henry Ward
Beecher, one of eight, and every one a genius.
WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE AMERICAN HOME AND
FAMILY? Why is it that so largely already the children of strangers
possess your gates? They have large families. They are doing the
hard work. The biggest farms out on these prairies are owned by
them. The man who draws the largest salary in this country is
named Schwab. Not distinctively American in sound, is it? We
speak of these things not from any prejudice to the foreign born or
their children. Not because we believe the former days were better
than our times. But the doctrine of our Saviour is the soul that saith
to itself: "Thou hast much goods laid up for many days, take thine
case" is in danger of dca»\.
INSTEAD OF SITTING DOWN IN OUR FURNACE
;T E A T E D, G A S-L I G 11 T F. I), TELEPHONE-CONNECTED
HOMES AND BEING THEREWITH CONTENT, IT 1< FOR US
T< > SHE TO IT THAT SPIRITUAL STRENGTH KEEPS PACE
WITII MATERIAL PROGRESS.
your friend would call you daft foi
sending him eight pounds more than
you need have sent.
The weight of a "barrel" of anything
has more meanings than the Chinese
chow. If you ordered a barrel of gun
powder. and expected to get the same
weight as a barrel of beef.iyou would
be sorely disappointed, for between
the two species there is just a differ
ence of 100 pounds—a barrel of gun
pounds weighs 100 pounds, and one of
beef 200 pounds.
The variat ions of this weight are in»
deed perplexing. Here are a few: A
barrel of soft soap weighs 256 pounds,
pork 224. flour 196 to 220, raisins 112,
coffee from 112 to 16S, anchovies only
30, and American flour 196 pounds.
Fish —like fish skin—has a group of
sliding scales, which, to the ordinary
layman, sems hopelessly confused. A
last of codfish is 12 barrels, but a last
of herring is 20. If you ordered a bar
rel of trawled cod your merchant would
tap his forehead with his finger and
say: "Poor fellow!" Vou can order
a barrel of pickled cod, but not trawled.
Order a bag of cocoa and' you pet a
hundredweight; but a bag of coffee is
168 pounds, pepper 316 rice 168, sagi>
112, hops 280 and sugar from 112 to 168.
Bushels are just as varied. There
are 10 kinds of bushels, but you cannot
measure one of them by a given unit.
Whilst a bushel of barley is 47 pounds,
a bushel of wheat is 60 and of oats 40,
and so the irregularity goes on.
Walnnt €*at*np.
This is a nice addition to your rel
ishes. Gather the nuts while tender
enough to pierce with a large needle,
chop them up and pound in a mor
tar; then putin a porcelain-lined ket
tle, cover with water and cook slow
ly for two or three hours. Strain
and return to kettle and add a tea
spoonful each of ground cloves and
mace and boil down to one-third the
quantity. Fill bottles with equal
parts of the walnut mixture and
strong vinegar and seal at once. Add
a clove of garlic with the spices and
you have a delicious sauce for meats.
—Washington Star.
Oratory A'er»u« Sll-n i>nrn i>li y.
"Will you please explain this pas
sage?" asked the stenographer of the
great orator. "It does nut seem to
mean anything, but 1 am sure 1 gut
your words right."
"That means, young man," said the
great orator, "that you do not know
oratory when you hear it."—lndian
apolis News.
Kit con riiKiiiK.
"My heart," he said, "is in this
work."
"Good," she replied. "Xovv if some
body would put some brains in it we
might look for results."—Chicago Kec
ord-Herald.