TO DHINE OWN SELF BE TRUE,
C—O
By thine own soul's law learn to live,
And if men thwart thee take no heed,
And if men hato thee have no care;
Sing thou thy song and do thy deed,
Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer,
And claim ao erown they will not give,
Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair,
Keep thom thy sonl-sworn steadfast oath,
Aud to thy heart be true thy heart;
What thy semi teachers learn to know,
And play out thine appointed part;
And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow,
Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth,
Fo thy full stature thou shalt grow.
Fix on the future's goal thy face,
And let thy feet be lured to stray
Nowhither, but be swift to run,
And nowhere tarry by the way,
Until at last the end is won,
And thon mav’'ss look back from thy place
And see thy long day's journey done.
ET SE
A WIFE'S REVENGE,
and a pretty basket phaeton stood before
bay pawing the ground restlessly, as
though impatient to be gone. Within,
Mrs. Ransford stood drawing on her
iriving gloves, a wistful expression on
musual to ik
”
go, Norman,” she was saving,
never in better spirits, as you oan see,
with a» glance through the window at
the impatient pony.
anjoy the drive alone.”
you,
tone
seem almost cold.
that imperative
street this afternoon
sourse. But business before pleasure,
you know,” and he bit off the end of a
engagement
you company in your drive, Louise?”
“I shall not try,” she answered,
of her hips,
wecompany me, I shall
where,”
and without waiting for his reply,
she hastily swept out to the waiting
phaeton,
Norman Ransford immediately fol-
reached the gate she had already seated
herself and gathered up the reins. The
next instant, with a
good-bye to her husband, she had driven
i
“She is angry,” he thought, watching
he airy little phaeton bowl smoothly
jown the pleasant street, ‘‘and hurt.
snd Loaise don't often shed them, By
Jove, it 18 a mean business to play the
sraitor to a wife like that!”
winally forgetting to resume
whose red spark was dying
held i# mm his hand, looking after the
rive,
Int it was too late now, Bhe was
already beyond hearing. Bo the half-
house, not ill-pleased to have it so, for
was one very dear to his heart, and a
fow minutes later saw him on his way
to keep it.
were never commg!”
This was the greeting that met him
1s he familiarly entered an elegant little
boudorr within a stone's throw of one of
the popuiar theatres. And the speaker,
a dark, foreigu-looking gurl, with rich
red lips and great black eyes of liquid
beauty, rose from her languid position
arms as though perfectly certain of his
love.
passionately, folding his arms closely
about the girl's lithe form and pressing
his lips again and again to those
ingly.
Where now was that indifference
which had chilled the heart of his lov-
ing and loyely wife only a short bali
hour ago?! Gone, as it always was at a
look or a touch from this enchantress.
And what was she? Merely a dancer
belonging to the theatre near by, whose
name was already smirched with dis-
honor,»
Yet, while Louise Ransford drove in
solitnde along the beautiful country
roads, her heart swelling with the lone-
liness thus forced upon her, her has-
this woman's society, smiling at her
often fond'y checked by cicsing the red
lips with » kiss,
“Ah, Norman, why should we wait at
all?”
The dark, bewitching face was hidden
on his shoulder, and his arms clasped
the lithe, yielding form, as those seduc-
tive lips put the sudden question,
“Will it be easier to leave a month
or & year hence than now? And if not,
why—to-day is ours. To -morrow—ah!
we knew not what may arise to separate
ns then"
“To-day is ours!”
Norman started. Yes, Louise was
out of the way until dark, he was sure.
In that time he could wake what few
arrangements he eared to, and they
could casily get away on the late after-
noon train.
He had not dreamed of taking this
deocistve step 80 soon, but since he had
dreamed of it at all, as well go now as
any other time. Yes, they would go.
The early dusk had fallen over Nor-
man Ransford’s home. A bright fire
glowed in the open grate, and the pretty
little parlor, lit by that alone, never
looked more heme like or inviting.
Mrs. Ransford entered it, looking
flashed from her driye in the cool, crisp
air, but with that wisttul, troubled ex-
preesion not yet gone from her charm
ing face.
Almost the first thing upon which ber
glanoo fell was a white envelope lying
upon the table. She took it up, care
lessly at first, walking cver to the grate
to rend it by the firelight, but a low,
smothered ory escaped her lips as she
read on to the end. lt was a note
from her husband, cruelly brief and
business-like, informing her that he
————————————"
had left home forever, and urging her
to forget him, as he was unworthy ot
her love.
Mrs. Ransford sank down in a large
utterly faint, and white as a snow drift,
| and there the servant found her whea
she came in to light the lamps.
“Don't, Mary!” she exclaimed, shud-
deringly, lifting her hand with a swift,
shrinking gesture, as though dreading
the light, *‘The firelight is all I care
for. Don’t disturb me again this even-
ng!”
The girl wonderingly obeyed, and for
hours Mrs, Ransford sat there, just as
i she had returned from the drive, her
| elbow resting on the cushioned arm of
| ed by her gloved hand, gazing straight
| before her into the glowing grate. Her
| fur-lined cloak had been loosened and
| thrown back, but the wide hat with its
| her face.
| by the firelight, brooding over her bitter
| wrongs; a beautiful face, with aharacter
| softness suggested by the rich olive of
the rounded cheeks, and the dark, deep
southern eyes which looked as though
bitterly, to the end.
«f will be revenged. I swear it! she
| sard, at last,
{| dark glowed dangerously in the
{ dusk,
ruined my life. As sure as there is a
God in heaven, she shall suffar for it!”
A few days later her servants were
| dismissed, her pretty cotiage closed and
eyes
errand of veugeance,
Of course tne town rang with
| news of Ransford’s flight with the
danseunse, for it was once at guessed that
they had gone together,
| who, in such proud silence, had quietly
| gone about making arrapgements for
| her departure and then nad suddenly
disappeared from their midst,
¥ LL
* . % » ®
| his glances of light down into the pil
seented canon, where a rough bat stir-
Jha
| and flourished.
The train from the east had just
passed through, and the attention of
many was curiously turned to the ele-
gant figure of a lady in a gray traveling
| suit and closely veiled,
| off the tran and making ber
| way daintily down the main thorough-
fare leading to the heart of the settle
| ment,
was
| men gathered around the open door
way of a cabin standing a few paces
| back from the street. They were talk-
air of earnest interes:, but the lady did
not at first notice any unusual excite-
| ment,
She hesitated an instant, then gently
touched the arm of the man who stood
| nearest to her with the points of her
| parasol,
“Pardon me, sir,” she began, in a
low, sweetly-modulated voice, “but can
you teil me—"
“Ste did not finish, for, as the man
turned toward her, the look of awe on
his r
| with wonder, and, involuntarily, she
stepped forward among them to learn
| the cause of it
lifeless figure of
| & conch within
a woman laid out upon
a plain but neatly tur-
pished room, and a lovely two year-old
| child sobbing piteously beside it, Two
or three rather coarse looking women
who were moving about the room
to attend to the grief of the lonely hit
tle creature,
“What's goin’ to become 0’ the young
| un?” said one of the men at the door, in
a stage whisper. ‘That's what I'd like
ter know.”
| first time, as if inspired with a sudden
i intereat in the scene.
**Hasband?” echoed the man, a per-
| ceptible saeer in his voice, “Weil,
| ma'am,
| husband much more'n I be; put if ye
| mean
over the range prospectin’, and ain't
| liable to be back for a month to come,”
| softly, her woman's heart—and it was a
jonely one—thrilling with pity for the
motherless babe, *I have no ochiid-
ren; I am almost tempted to take it
| myself.”
And she went over to the sobbing
| ghild, throwing back her thick veil, as
she aid so, and disclosing a clear, dark
face of such proud beauty that every
one of the little group thrilled with sur-
prise snd admiration,
“What is your name, dearie?’’ she
asked, with exquisite tenderness, put-
ting her arms about the little one and
drawing her close to her breast.
The child looked up in wonder,
“Normie,” she lisped, in her sweet
baby tongue, cheeking her sobs as the
beautiful lady kissed her and soothed
her grief.
At the sound of that name Louise
Ransford, for it was she, put the child
from her with a sudden agonized ges-
tare, and went and stood beside the
conch, looking down upon the face of
the dead,
“Who was she?”
The question came from her lips in a
sort of gasp. Yet she knew, even before
the answer came, for the dark, seduo-
tive beauty of that face, when in life,
had not been unfamiliar to her,
The female attendants, in their gar-
rulous fashion, told her all they know
of the dead woman's story. hen it
was ended the wronged wife knew, be-
Joud all doubt, that the woman whose
emesis sho had sworn to be was lying
dead before her.
She had ruptared a blood vessel
while waltzing the previous night at
ome of those *‘flash” parties which she
liked to frequent, and which she never
dared to attend when “Mr, Norman”
was at home.
As she listened to this stery hor hand
had unconsciously strayed to the hilt of
a sharp snd slend or Italian dagger, con-
cealed beneath her traveling swoque her
per ————————L PS ————
faithful companion during the three
years in which she had untiringly
tracked this guilty woman with her yow
| of vengeance,
A fierce anger thrilled her breast
| when she first saw how fate had robbed
| her of her victim. Bat, gazing down
| upon the still, white face of her dead
| mval, whose dangerous fascinations
were now forever powerless, softer feel.
| ings began to stir in her heart, and she
| thanked Grod for having saved her from
| her own wicked purpose.
| “Well, ma'am,” broke in the voice of
| the miner, who had seemed interested
| yer mind yit whether ye're goin’ to
| cotton to this "ere young kid?”
Louise started; her bosom was torn
| by a thousand conflicting emotions,
| For a moment. she was silent, battling
with her own heart, Then, as a long,
| shuddering sigh broke over her white
| ips, she answered quietly:
“Yes, 1 will take the child.”
She handed the man a plain white
card upon which she had pencilled her
| aldress,
“When the father returns,” she said,
“give him this, It will tell him where
he may find his child.”
We
Blenched tangs,
A reporter dropped into a “hair man-
ufasctory” a few days ago and had a
rather interesting little talk with the
indy in sharge. A show case occupied
This case was fall of things made of
hair, and at one end was a collection of
curious little struments, The con-
tents of the show case were described
to him in terms which fell meaningless
Wige and toupees, and
dozen other choice selections and styles
of hair were rattled off. Some of the
hair was coarse and some fine as silk,
with intermediate grades, Bome was
straignt as a poker, while some was
kinky and other was curly, Every color
from & raven black to flaxen was repre-
gented, not omitting some very flashy
red curls,
“Where do we get the hair?” said
the lady.
rough and make it up to suit orders,
| the care worn lines on his face, the
{ light of a great happiness rests upon it,
| while the beautiful dark eyes of his
wife are soft and brilliant as stars
all is at last forgiven,
“But one thing more, Louise,” says
fit it to customers, I don't know
it comes from originally, but
much of it is ‘mported, 1 am
that in some countries girls sell their
| toward dark-eyed littie Norma, who is
playing near them “[ am willing
| to do anything-—everythiog ~for her
hore,
“Why, surely you love your child,
{| Norman?’
proach,
“Yes, but—and the gesture which
finished the sentence eloquently tells
| the story of his remorse and shame.
“I understand,” says Louise, softly.
| “Bat I love the child for her own sake,
and I shall keep her with me.”
And, to herself, she adds:
| cent lovely little face
bering the great sin of his life.
if I still eared for it, that
indeed, be my surest and sweetest re-
| venge.”
without remeom-
-_—
A Lady Deteciive,
“What have you in that basket?”
8 8] y, miadle-aged
lady had just come off the ferry
steamer in Windsor. Tne spesker was
Miss Thomson, who is employed by the
Canada Castoms Department to watch
that no smuggling goes on among the
fair sex, She was a neat.
fitting suit of black material, and a
black straw hat, with an enormous
black feather, adorned her head. The
person whom addressed was a
rather large woman, or at least appeared
to be, and carried in her hand a basket
full of plums, on which she paid the
| duty, As was leaving the office
Miss Thomson thoaght that the woman's
figure did not appear to be exactly nat-
ural, and called her back, The two
women went into a room at the rear of
the office, and in a few minutes Miss
Thomson appeared lugging
sized ham and nearly a peck
ware confined in a
said
srightl woman (oa
who
dressed in
whe
ahe
a
of plums,
linen bag.
2 yOu f
witied
waic
fill the market, as in those countries
will sell her hair
by that that you will find
that everybody has dark
hatr, while in flaxen is the
ruling shade. The intermediate © lors
secured from other sources,
I suppose some of the shades are pro-
in some
others
be
hair.”
“(Jan red hair be produced from any
other color by dyeing or bleaching?”
asked the scribe.
“Oh, no,” replied the artist in capil-
lary treasures, ‘‘red hair 1s red hair
Once red-headed, alway red-
The scribe dJdiffidently asked: ‘Is
by the ladies in the city?”
“less your innocent heart, yes”
was Lhe riling res “Why,
where do you suppose all the blondes
from? Not that blondes are
fashionable ne you know, but a year
every who didn't
or two
have red hair and who wanted to put
IBA,
COT
YW,
REO WOmAan
were not confiscated, and the woman
was allowed to pay the regular daty
and take them away, As
| walked out of the door her form seemed
to be considerably diminished from
what it was a few mivutes befors when
she entered the office.
“Searcely a day passes but what
| sume person is brought into the office
| and searched,” said Miss Thomson,
“Js smuggling carried on more ex-
| tensively among the women than
among the opposite sex?” asked a re
| porter who happened to be present at
the me.
that are not very bulky the women do
the most of it, It is astonishing what
| an amount of goods can be concealed
game,”
“What articles are smuggled most?”
“Sagar tea and groceries in general.
| Candies are also smuggled extensively.
| In fact, nearly every thing which can
be handily concealed and which ean be
purchased cheaper in Detroit than in
Windsor is smuggled.”
Miss Thomson is stationed most of
the time at Windsor, but every few
| weoks pays a two or three days visit to
Amherstburg and Walkerville,
An Alpine Eoho.
The keeper of the chalet, writes a
tourist in Switzerland, had a small mor-
tar, which he fired off al our request,
Ten distinot echoes came back. rom
deep and awful silence these innnmer-
able peaks seemed aroused into sudden
and almost angry life. Raport after re-
port, like the rapid discharge of a whole
park of artillery, thundered through
the clear air, .
At length the echoes, one by one,
sank slowly away, snd Ithought all wa«
over. Fatuter and iainter hey grew,
till nothing but a low rambling sound
was heard in the distance, when sudden
ly withont warning or preparation,
there was a report like the blast of the
last trumpet, I instinctively clasped
my hande to my ears in affright. It
came from the distant Wetterhorn,
and rolled snd rattled and stormed
through the mountains until it seemed
as if the very peak was loosened from
its base, and all were falling and orush-
ing together,
1t was absolutely terrifie, Its fewrful
echo had scarcely died away before the
avalanches which the sudden jar
loosened began to fall, Eight fell in
almost] as many minutes, The thuoder
of one blended with the thander of an-
other, till ome continuous roar passed
along the mountains, The thunder
oonsed as suddenly as it had commenced,
and the deep, awful silence that fol
lowed was painful; and my inagioation
painted those Ialling masses of snow
and foe as half us mousters,
crashed to death in the deep ravines.
ing to a flaxen hue,
bloude, Nowadays semi-bruvette
is 1 order, and the blondes of last year
now have hair, bordering ob the red,
a rich suburn-brown tint, if I may so
call it,
by coloring aud from darker hair by
bleaching. The Process is very deli-
cate, and there is danger in getting a
sarti-colored top-knot instead of the
tint desired.”
“Do ladies bleach their eyebrows
and Ilsshes also?’ hazarded the repor-
ter,
The lady gazed st the soribe with
speechless contempt a moment and then
burst forth:
¢ Bleach them?
don't you know that hight eye
lashes are terror tO Women
how light the hair is the
fixings must be dark
better.”
Then the scribe remembered having
the
Of course not. Why
brows and
No
eye
n
noticed many blondes with dark brows
how the difference in color happened.
fe was informed that ladies have deli-
cate paints and brushes, with which
they Iny on the dark tints, even going
so far as to use
Of course all this injures the
the eyes,
woman don't eare about little things of
that sort.
1 have many customers who keep their
come regularly to have their hair done
u he
A A AI on
Literary Reputation.
Literary reputation after death is
It
is questionable whether Chanoer or
Shakespeare ever gave a thought to the
perpetuity of their names. Modern
commentators on these poets have
argued from their characters and writ-
things than these worthies
They were simply
solf-conscionsness which now seems to
be so closely allied with all intellectual
power, There ia no trace of effort in
the work of these early giants of Eog-
lish literature; none of their produc.
tious smell of the lamp and nove have
that undertone of unappreciation which
is the retrain of so many of our modern
bards, These men were head and
shoulders above even the brillant com-
pauy in which they moved, yet it took
more than two hundred years to bring
the world to fairly estimate their latel-
lectual stature. The Euzabethan age
was the golden age in the history of
literature, Genius was a common pos-
session, Even the language felt the
influence of the universal spirit and
gained a richness and foroe unknown
before and unparaliseld since. Yet
Shakespeare, by his own contemporaries,
was underrated, and the generation
which immediately followed looked
upon him as at best a barbarian, whose
genius ran beyond all bounds and
whose richest gems were buried beneath
a mass of base ore. Every age since
then has seen the same curious reversal
of literary judgments, The Queen
Anne poets and poetasters regarded
Pope as the great mau of his time and
predicted that he would osoupy a place
above Milton or any of the poets who
had gone before him. The world has
overthrown this claim by refusiug even
to perpetaats the messaro which the
author of the ‘Essay on Man” spent »
lifet mo in bringing to such admir.ot:
porfection, In tarn, his weaker imi
tators were landed to the skies, and it
was only after the middle of the eigh-
teenth century that nature once more
supplanted art in poetry and other liter-
ature, and that the gepins of the great
master of Kluzabethan verse was fully
recogmzed,
sited,
any farther—furnishes a long lst,
given many pages in Duayekinek’s im pos-
ing eyclopedia. Nine-tenths of them
are not even known by name to-day,
except by special students of oar litera
ture,
they are unreadable, They belong as
can ever rehabilitate them any more
than s mummy can be restored to life
outside of Cherbuliez's charming ro-
mance, Even the great
which inspired awe 18 our minds when
author of his time who has kept his
hold on the reading public, His charm
ing style and his keen s-nse of humor
will always make him a classic, despite
his many antiquated features, Ol
remainder it may be truly said that
literature has been benefitted by their
demise; but their speedy extinetion
suggests the painful query whether the
close of the twentieth century will not
see many of the present reigning liter
ary favorites relegated to the
of forgetfulness. Much
vogue of a large part of the best-known
foreign and American literary men of
to day depends upon their appeal to
moods and feelings which are as subject
to change as the cut of one’s garments,
The poetry of Clough and Rossetti will
ligibie to the twen-
gape
heroic age.
: ——— .
Dreams and Dreamers.
Dreams are in the main
thie savage to the entrax
outside spirit
referred by
him
Among
of
the
jeave the
folk-—or to
When the
hunting, or
believes that
body to
the real
Green-
fishing,
the
he Dvarks, of Borneo,
Bi
body or travels
trouble sleeping
doings of himself,
lander dreams of
or courting, he
quits the body ; t
that during sleep
times remains in the
far away, being en jowed, whether
present or absent, with conditions
which in waking moments are
Wherever we find
tal development the hke belief exists,
In Mr. Thurnim’s elaborate work on
the Indians of Gu we have corro-
borative evidence more valuable
hecause of He tells us
that the come to the
sO
4 vy * v & wr
HINs whe Mii some
fan
80
a low state of men
na
the
its freshness.
dreams which
the
events of his walking life. To him
in one respect, namely, thal the for-
mer are done only by the spint the
latter are done by the spirit in its body.
ng from them the things
they suppose themselves to have done
when asleep, the Indian has no df
enity in reconciling that which he hears
with fact that the of the
sleepers were in his sight and motion-
leas throughout
action, because he never questions that
the spirit, leaving the sleepers, played
their part in dream adventures,
in the Shandinavian Vatosdmla Saga
there is a curiops sccount ol three
Finns who were shut up in a haut for
three nights and ordered by lngimuni,
a Norwegian Chief, to visit Ioeland and
juform him of the line of the country
where Le has tosettle, Their
the bodies
on their errand, snd on their awakening,
at the end of three days, gave an aocu-
Ingimund ultimately dwelt, No won-
that in medimval
the theory of soul absence-—or that we
find among savages—as the Tejals of
be out of the body. As a corollary to
this belief in soul absence, fear arises
owner, and hence a rough-and-ready
tions,
and carrying attendant pain as its indi.
cation, could not enter the head of the
uncivilized ; and, indeed, among our-
solves a cold or fever is commonly
thought of as an entity in the body
which hss stolen in, and, having been
caught, must be somehow expelled.
With the universal primitive belief in
spiritusl agencies everywhere inhaled
with the breath or swallowed with the
food or drink, all diseases were rogar-
ded ss their work, whether, as remark
ed above, through undue absence of
the rightful spirit or subtle entrance of
some hostile one, If these be the causes
to which sickness are due, obviously
the only cure is to get rid of them, and
henoe the sorcerer and the medicine
man find their services in request in
casting ont the demon by foroe, or
enticing him by eajolery, or in bringing
baok the truant soul.
as AI AGIs HA sos
Vote for President,
————————————
estimated that the popular vote
for President thas year will be about
10,600,000, The vote in 1880, using
round figares, was 9 220,000, in a total
population of 49,871,000, and in a male
population of the voting age re
at roundly 12,671,000 for the 88 States,
The population of the States will be in
November next above 56,000,000, in the
eight Territories and the Distriet of
Uolnmbia very nearly 1,000,000, makmg
for the whole country a grand total of
57 000,000, Now, if a tion of
49,874,000 mn ithe States includes a vob.
ng lation of 12,571,000. a popula.
vn 57,000 000 contains a voting
population of nearly 14,280,000, or that
wath ser of men possessiug the logal age
of voting.
It is
Life in the Desert.
The limit of population in the arid
region is an interesting question. That
part of the United States west of the
line drawn north and south at a point
900 miles enst of Denver, and reaching
to the Sierra Nevada monntains, is so
destitute of rainfall that crops csunot
be raised, as a rule, without irrigation,
This fact makes the conditions of its
development very different from those
of the rest of the country, The laws
of growth that govern there cannot be
| applied here, In forecasting our future
we are, therefore, almost without the
aid of experience, 1t is true that the
arid countries mn the vicinity of the
Mediterranean have sustained dense
populations, it is also true that in the
portion of Mexico where irrigation in
| necessary, very large numbers of people
| manage to exist. But these experiences
| are not worth much as guides to nus in
| determining what will be the result eof
ce ———————————
| our Anglo-Saxon civilization upon the
| vast and dry terior of the eontisent.
Throughout our mountains and
| plains the nutritious grasses, which the
dry seasons mature into bay upon the
ik, furnish great grazing resources,
but the population that ean be thus
sustained must be comparatively small,
It takes so much range to maintain a
single animal, and when this limit is
reanchad the ineresse of the herds must
to halt. Agriculture will be
cirenmseribed by the scarcity of irriga-
tion water, 1f the iatter could be had
in unlimited quantities iv would be safe
to predict that all our tillable land will
| be eventually put under caitivation, and
| ghat our rural population will one Jay
| be as dense as that of France, But the
| water is not to be had after all sllow-
ances are made for possible improve
ments ; after entire flow of the
| streams has been saved in reservoirs ;
after experience has discovered the most
economical way to use water: after all
| there will only be a fraction the
available arid land ander tillage, Vast
areas must always be left untouched,
which will be good only for pastoral
Purposes,
While immense crops of potatoes can
be raised without irrigation, when all
the little patches of soil in the moun-
tains are filled, it is vet evident that
our home market will ultimately absorb
all that home agriculture can produce,
however much the latter may run ahes
porarily, As mines develop an
acturing looms uy, we will come
ame much more than our farmers
The arid region pend
for ite hope for a large population upon
| 1ts ability to manufacture for the agrn-
cnitu States to the east of It
st hold the same relation to them
| that New England has foug held to the
West and South. Of course the ebb and
flow of mining will always furnish a
large but transitory population. But
manufacturing is almost as permanent
and constant ss agriculture iteelf. It
can be carned very far and be made
to sustain millions of people engaged in
fabricating articles for all parts of the
| country. In this way it is quite pos.
sible for the and region to sustain 8
populaticn nearly as large as an equal
| area in humid portions of our land.
nA —
“Old Bam."
LE
come a
the
of
i}
ten wae
vriad (1
muss ae
CAL Talse,
ral us,
mn
A half drunken man while walking
along the street of Bill Boek several
nights ago saw that the opera house
was lighted, and asking a boy what was
going on learned minstrel show
was cutting capers on the boards.
| Religions worship of a newly-im ported
lenomination is occasionally conducted
in the opera house, and this particular
night quite an eminent divine was
“ holding his own” below the drop
curtain. The balf-drunken fellow went
| up, and, seeing no one at the door,
| slipped mm. Just then the mivister
| arose and began to preach. The amuse-
ment seeker went down into the pit and
waited for the jokes to begin. Lean-
| ing over, he whispered to an old gentle-
man
Pe
that a
sakes off the preacher firstrate,
| don't he ¥"
‘I'he old gentleman shook his head.
‘Well, he just does.’
‘Bh-e-e I’ hissed the old gentleman.
“What's the matter with you, old
pum? You're sick ; you'd better go
home.’
After awhile the preacher said a
| ‘pretty good thing.” and the fellow
| langhed, reached over and punched the
| old gentleman. He waited for snother
joke, wondering at the stupidity of the
| andienoce,
| “I want to say one thing before I for-
get if, I have preached in quite a
number of cities recently, but 1 don’t
know of a town whose streels are worse
than that of Little Rook’
“That's the worst local gag 1 ever
| heard I' exclmmed the fellow, arising.
| ‘Oome on, old bum, and let's get anoth-
er drink.’
An officer of the church hustled the
disturber out of the house, but during
the remainder of the discourse the con-
gregation looked ou the old gentlew.an
with saspicion and a lady leader of a
temperance organization turned up her
pose at him.
The Wasich.
At first the watch was about the wsizs
of a dessert plate, It had weights, and
was used as a ‘‘pocket clock.” The
earliest known use of the modern
name ooours in the record of 1552,
which mentions that Edward Vi had
“one larnm or watch of iron, the oase
being likewise of iron gilt, with two
plumments of lead.” The first watch
may readily be supposed to have been
of rade exeoution. The first great im.
rovement-—the substitution of springs
or weights—was in 1660. The carliest
springs were not ooiled, but only
straight pieces of steel, Early watches
had only one hand, and being wound
up twice a day they could not be expeo-
ted to keep the time nearer than fifteen
or twenty minutes in twelve hours,
The dls were of silver and brass, the
cases had no orystals, but opened at the
back and front, and were four or five
{nohes in diameter. A plain waloh cost
more than $1,500, and after one was
ordered it took a year to make it,
i io i