EVERYDAY.
The dawn grows red in the Fast
With pomp of puiple and gold,
And cartains of trailing mist
Are in gauzy films uprolled.
“I'he sun like a painter comes
To illumine the background gray,
And he wields his magic brush,
Though few know it, Everyday.
The birds awake when the dawn
Draws faint pink streaks in the east
And the bobolink and thrush
Rehearse for a royal feast.
The robin, linnet and lark
Are songsters gladsome and gay,
‘The music they make is good
And they make it Everyday,
The brook begins with its soug
At earliest morning hour,
And the bee its soft drone starts
In the wet aod dewy flower,
The sound of all growing things
Is heard in the wind-harp's lay,
The song of peace and love,
And earth makes it Everyday.
There are children glad as dreams,
And they fill fair homes with light,
And their voices chime in chords
Of joy from morn till night,
Throughout the whole wide earth
The children dance and are gay,
“The throb of the rhythm is sweet,
And "tis measured Everyday.
There are battles for the right,
By men who are brave and true,
And the world will never know
Half the valiant deeds they do.
They make the sorry to smile
They make the wicked to pray,
‘They make the brave to dare,
And thly do it Everyday.
RITES,
THE WIFE'S SECRET.
“How on earth could we love her?
She had caused such bitter disappoint.
ment.’
“And how could Gerald care for a
pale, strange looking little witch, with
her queer name after her French moth-
er? For witch, of course, she must be to
have fascinated our fastidious brother
to the extent of marrying her.”
Gerald was our only brother, twenty-
six years of age, tall and handsome,
and the idol of his sisters—two of us— |
one widowed, and the other, myself, an
old maid.
Few sisters are perfetly satisfied, asa
rule, when their brother has found |
some one dearer to him than those
who have loved him and administered |
to his comfort all their lives. Yet I]
really think we should have been mod- |
erately content if his choice bad been |
to our own taste. i
Why it had not been so was justa |
mystery. Edith Falconer, whom we had |
set our hearts on seeing Mrs. Gerald |
Fane, was a “daughter of the gods— |
tall and divinely fair, and it puzzied us |
how his heart or his fancy could have |
traveled towards a daughter of a French |
Canadian, when our letters were con- |
stantly full of Edith's beauty and |
Edith’s goodness, and when we had |
made a point of dilating on her attrac- |
tions from morning till eve whenever |
he was at home, i
Edith was with us when the letter |
came bidding us welcome his wife, and |
I saw the surprise and disappointment |
legibly writien in her beautiful blue :
eves,
Not that Edith was really in love
with him, but she had always felt an
enormous interest in the brother of her |
dearest friends—an interest which we |
had fully thought would ripen into love.
And this is what Gerald wrote: i
*+] shall bring her to yon, my poor, |
stricken little Stephanie. She would |
be quite alone in the wide world now if |
it was not for me! We were married
peside the deathbed of her father, and |
she was scarcely a wife before she was |
wholly an orphan, with never a reiative |
yn earth, I have promised her so much |
love from you both that she wnil not, |
I know, feel the loss of mother and sis-
ter, whp were drowned on their way
out to America—while I shall fill the
place of all others—father, brother,
Aiusband.”
As we read this we felt convinced
how it was that Gerald had married her.
it was from their pity. We fully de-
wided this point and it did not make us
feel more pleasantly on the subject, for
we were sure that poor Gerald had been
victimized, sacrificed, etc,, etc.
We went about our preparations,
however, for their coming; furnished
the rooms newly and prettily and did
«our best to insure comfort to the bride,
but it must be confessed our hearts
were not in our work.
Or the evening they were expected
we bad no one in the house, thinking
Stephanie would prefer it so.
That is,” we had only Edith Falconer
—but then she was just one of our-
selves,
Gerald looked haisdsomer than ever
as hé Sprang out of the sarriage and
rushed up the steps, and with a radiant
face kissed us both, ;
Then he ran dowfi again and lifted
out.a tiny figure, which he bore in his
arms as if it had been a child, and, pla-
cing it before us, sad:
‘Here's my darling—the swestest
little darling that ever trod the earth.”
He went away then to attend to the
A she made a sort of move.
at as If to rush after him, but stop-
abruptly. ;
Cuen. with quivering lips she lifted
wa , po fle Tight
u 3 presently a softer
crept into her great, dark, wild-looki
eyes and she clasped our hands and You
and kissed them, gmt
After this we took her into the draw-
1ng-room and introduced her to Edith,
and I saw her queer,” dark little face
brighten up strangely as Edith greeted
her affectionately.
“Please call me Ste and not Mrs,
Fane,’ she red in a low, fright-
ened voice; “my heart yearns fo be
called by that name. Papa loved it sol”
and turning her face away she sobbed
wus in just then and shaking
i Baith went over to his wife
at once.
Come my.ird, Jou had better let
wh Ww Our YOOMm, 80 a8
You can trim yout feathers a little,” ho
’ lov stroking back the soft
«of course, Gerald followed.
eT to take his eyes off her for a
THOME.
“What a queer little fright she is—
“le looks like an elf! He must only have
min
married her from pity, I suppose,” I
could not help saying.
“Not a fright, surely!” Edith an-
sw.red quickly; *‘we see her in an un:
favorable moment. Her grief has told
on her tace, but she has glorious eyes,
and I can see what took Gerard. It is
her winning manner, just like a petted
child’s,”’
I glanced at Edith admiringly. think-
ing what an angel of forgiveness she
was, and when the bride came down
again I took a malicious pleasure in
comparing her with Edith.
Edith, so fair and so lovely, with
hair like spun gold and a wild-rose
bloom on her cheeks, and with a grace-
ful, willowy figure. And Ste—to call
her by the curious abbreviation she
whshed—so small and dusky, with a
colorless skin, and nothing to recom.
mend her but two immense black eyes,
which certainly were as lustrous as
twin stars and as soft as velvet
Later in the evening, when dinner
was over, and Edith had drawn her
away to look at Gerald's drawings, he
came up and sat doyn by me.
“¥Fllen, you must not form an opin-
jon of Stes attractions now,’’ he whis-
pered, earnestly; ‘'she is not herself;
naturally she is bright and happy as a
bird, and altogether charming.
must help me to chase away her trouble
and bring back her smiles. And then,
you don't know how pretty my little
one 1s when she smiles,’’ he went on, en-
thusiastically.
And wondering how she ever could
be pretty, I forgot to answer. So, after
a momentary pause, he said:
“Edith is more beautiful than ever, I
see."
“Ah,” I thought, ‘‘he could not help
comparing these two—the girl he had
needlessly thrown aside and the girl
he had linked himself to for life.”
It was not long before Ste ‘‘was
more like herself,” as Gerald said. Her
sorrow had been so wild and so passion-
out. The color soon came back to her
dark cheeks, an additional lustre to her
eyes, and I could often hear her carolling
snatches of songs.
They were mostly French ones—some
with a wonderful pathos ringing
through them; and her pronunciation
thing imaginable.
ing merry enough.
Gerald's love was so perfect, and he
filled the place of father, brother and
husband so entirely, as he had said,
that he left her nothing to wish for.
My sister was growing very fond of
her and declared her to be remarkably
pretty, but I could see no beauty in her,
peither could I love her, my devotion to
Edith utterly precluded it. ’
She grew to be popular with Gerald's
men friends too. They thought her
charming, and his especial friend, a
yonng fellow who was a doctor rapidly
rising in his profession, and who had
been an admirer of Edith’s, came more
frequently than the rest.
Before Gerald's marriage, Dr. Perci-
val had made small progress in his woo-
ing, but since, Edith, had seemed more
favorably inclined toward him.
He was passionately fond of singing
and had a superb voice. Edith could
not sing a note, but Ste’'s and Mark
Yes, she was grow-
gether,
hour, I thought, that he could spare
from his practice—in these duets,
listening to the two.
I was very wicked, I know,
believed Ste to be artful and designing;
her childlike, blithe manner I fancied
was assumed; I saw how happy she was
in the hours spent in Mark Percival's
society, and it made me dislike her ten
times more for finding pleasure any-
where but with her husband.
1 consoled myself with believing that
she was trying to bewitch poor Editu’s
and listened indignantly when she said,
in her pretty childish fashion:
“I wish Edith and Dr. Percival
would come; *tis getting quite late and
they are not here yet. And I miss them
so, Isn't Dr, Percival handsome and
acoomplished Gerald?”
I don’t think a doubt of her ever en-
tered into his mind until I put it there,
I began with a look, or a little word
opportunely dropped.
Then I rushed into the thing sudden-
ly, and shall never forget the express-
jon of pain on his face when I said"
much, Gerald, How well their voices
suit! I think if he had chanced to meet
her before her marriage you would have
had a very formidable rival.”
He did not answer but grew deathly
white and biting his lips, turned away.
But I had not done.
There was an excuse for me, for I
loved my brother with all my heart,
and I was jealous of him,
“Hasn't Ste a wonderfully powerful
voice for such a little creature?”
““That is a lovely thing she is singing
now, It is Beethoven's Adelaide,’ isn't
it?’" he answered quaintly.
“Yes; her favorite song, or rather
Maik Feroival’s, which is about the
He looked at me sternly for the first
time in his life, and then said:
one, Ellen. But be careful that you
don’t plant thorns that may prick you
more than any one else.”
His words were prophetic.
deeply 1 Tepenied my wickedness no one
knows. et at this time I hated Ste
for being the cause of the first rebuke
Gerald had given me, and in
Edith’s ear I put a word now and then
that soon built up a wall of ice between
her and my brother’s wife.
Gerald grew silent and even a little
morose,
Aud Ste-felt it and was Hurt that he
did not tell her the cause of his change.
She became reserved crushing back ber
loving impulses; and as Mark Percival's
visits suddenly grown less frequent
Gerale thought Ste was grieving over
Gerald who was not a rich man, and
an artist by profession, worked by t
as well as by day-—worked to keep him-
self from thinking.
And so some months went by. He
was looking miserable at last, and Ste,
declaring he was really ill, begged him
to take rest, Her : chasing
away her latter reserve, she insisted on
How
Ma A ————
his seeing a physician, but he steadily
refused,
She begged then that she might send
for Mark Percival,
When she said that, I looked at Ger-
ald—a look that spoke volumes,
She just wanted an excuse to have
lium again near her, I thought, and my
glance told that and more,
Then there came into Gerald's blue
eyes an expression that defied my un-
derstanding. I could not tell if it was
a defiance of me or a curious sort of
resignation to the will of a woman
whom he worshipped with all his soul.
“Yes,” she smd languidly, ‘‘send
for Percival, if it will relieve yonr
mind.”
The next day Mark Percival came,
and for a long while he and Gerald were
closeted together, while Ste and my sis-
ter and myself were told not to go near
the room, but when Mark Percival
came out into the hall Ste spied him
from the lawn, and in a moment she
was by his side, speaking intently—so
intently that she never saw my eyes
watching from a bay-window in the
morning room that jutted out, giving
a view of the rest of the building.
By and by they went down the steps,
side-by-side, into the garden, and 1
Mrs, Fane.
I do not like that,
shoulder,
unfavorable. Still, with our
| rather
bring him around.”
And Ste answered him with a smile,
ger.
How could I give her credit for this
| yal?
| Gerald was resolved to work on in
| spite of everything, We were not rich,
| he said. and work was necessary for
several weeks,
| remain in ber own room with her door
| locked—sulking, I told my sister,
At last, one day a blow fell on us
| since I believed 1 had helped to bring
it—that, perhaps, I was really the in-
| strument that had dealt it.
| made my brother unhappy, perhaps he
| in the vain hope of banishing thought.
She found him ope bright summer's
| day, apparently lifeless, beside his easel
| —and for weeks he lingered, hovering,
| as it were, between us and eternity.
And his wife, remorseful of
{ have no thougbt bat him.
if she slept it was by snatches only.
with her head against his pillow, when
her.
After what seemed an age of anxiety
| nevermore to work, for Gerald's right
| arm was paralyzed,
| I had been growing less bitter in my
| feelings toward Ste during my brother's
{liness—she seemed to be really devoted
to film, but when they said he was not
| to work any more with his brush, a
look eof triumph came into her eyes
which puzzled me, and again I began
to doubt her. and the doubt grew
| strongor when I saw her meel Mark
| Percival ‘in the porch and stand for
many a minute in earnest whispered
conversation,
Once—from behind a laurestinus bush
i —1I saw her place her hand on his arm
and look up into his face, her great
wild dark eyes full of glittering tears,
while she said, with quiveriug lips:
“ow much longer ?
| weeks have been centuries to me. And
if—oh, if you have not been deceiving
'
| me—1 may hope——
| ting her, and taking the mite of a
hand in his,
| not many more days to wait, and then
| we shall both be very happy.”
Upon this Ste smiled into his hand-
|some eyes with a strange, wistful,
| yearning look that drove me almost
| wild with the bitterest anger and sus-
i picion.
|" Now I dare not even look back to the
horrible feelings that filled my heart
with regard to the woman whom my
vrother had made his wife, and in
| whom he had placed his happiness, his
infinite faith, and, more than all, his
honor.
But Gerald was in a weak and eriti-
cal state, and I did not dare to warn
him of what I feared. He was very
loving and tender to her and I could
soe his eyes follow her slight figure
| wherever she moved, with an express-
jon of mingled affection and doubt that
was sad to look upon.
When one day she heard Mark Perci-
val’s voice at the door, she darted out
of the room to meet him, forgetful of a
i
!
i
she was making a bouquet, and, heed-
less of the lovely, fragile flowers, in her
haste and evident agitation, she trod
out their beauty with her feel.
Then I heard Gerald murmur to him.
if:
“Poor little one! She is so young?
I hoped to make her happy; but I am
so grave and quiet that she cannot love
me. God give me strength to bear it.”
1 told my sister of this, but she would
hardly listen. She had bewitched her
and she declared that my brother's wife
was a thoughtless child, nothing worse,
The d of the summer had come
and autumn brought its walling wind
and ithe leaves died in company with
the long bright days, wrapped in splen-
did cerements of rainbow hues, And
Gerald grew no better,
“ The truth was that he did not care to
ve.
Ste was in a state of feverish excite-
ment, which seemed to grow worse
each hour,
One I knew the crisis Was near,
Her ¢ burnt with two red spots;
her had a wilder look and I knew
that ear was strained to catch every
A
of Mark Percival’s
baen Heal ns fo hi
gardless we flew down
[to him,
I heard bim exclaim:
“Hurrah! it's all right.”
And her answer was:
“God bless you! how good you are!’
In another moment or two she ran up-
stairs again and J followed her, but if
she was aware of my supervision she
did not care,
Gerald was reclining in an easy-chair;
his face was ashy pale, and he looked a
shadow of his old self; but etill his face
was beautiful! in its classical features
and its large, deep blue eyes, over which
a fond look always crept when his wife
came near,
She threw berself on her knees before
him, and catching his thin white hand
she kissed it passionately.
‘At last I can tell you,” she gasped,
between tears and smiles; “you will
doubt me no longer, Gerald, and for-
give re for having had a secret from
you; I dared not tell, 1 was so fearful of
a failure. See, Gerald darling, there is
| no need for you to paint Any more.
| shall work for you, for us alll Oh, Ge-
| rald, won't it be a labor of love?”
| And she held before him a letter from
| one of the best firms of publishers in
| London.
i He looked at it, then at hey, as if just
| awakening from a strange wild, dream.
Before he could speak, however, she
his hand.
“This is yours, Gerald, all yours; I
am all yours, am I not?
have more—much more I hope,
i speak to me, Gerald,
| word please.”
Oh, do
little strength left to him, and kissed
her fondly. Ob, the radiant joy that
| murmured;
“Thank God—thank God, you areall
my own, my Ste!”
I stole away then.
| myself from their sight,
fully I had wronged her,
| ever forgive me?
Well, [ did the most sensible thing I
| could; I made a clean breast of every-
thing, and Ste forgave me fully and
Could she
| my neck, and in her great black eyes an
| own elfish fashion, as she said:
“So you thought I could look at any
| ono else in the world, when I had Ge-
| rald—my own, ewn Gerald to look at
and to love, with all my might and
{ man,”
Gerald is quite resigned to the will of
| heaven now. True, he cannot put his
| thoughts on canvas, but he tells them to
| Ste, and she in ber charming manner,
| weaves them into romances that win
| her fame, and gives us juxuries in our
home that we never had before.
How much she gives us, does little
| Ste, and the best gift of all is her love
—it is so true, so unselfish!
She has given us something else, Loo,
| to brighten the old house. Itisa tiny
boy, with golden curls, and large seri-
| ous blue eyes, like Gerald's, and the
| sweetest smile, like his mother.
They have christened Raymond, after
Stes father, but be is a snatch of sun-
shine to us all, so we call him “Ray.”
My life is devoted to him.
him with a Jove devoid of selishpess—
a love purified by experience, and suf-
fering, and remorse,
A Circus Dressing Room,
The dressing tent of a circus was by
chance made accessible te me Lhe other
day, and I was impressed by a phase of
costuming that was brand-new to me,
There were about a dozen women and
girls making ready for their perform.
ance In the ring, and what I saw was
pertinent to the subject which I am dis-
cussing —abnormities of toilet. Each
artist had space for her trnhk, from
which she took out the articles requi-
site for the nng toilet. The eques-
| trienne, after fitting bersell into the
ble to her anatomy, attached layer
after layer of brief, gauzy skirts, so that
. when arrayed she looked easy and airy,
| though all the while she was squeezed
| literally from head to foot. The tra.
| peze girl incased herself with similar
| closeness, and further tortured her
| head, knotting and pinning ber own
| hair down in a wad, so as to securely
{ fasten on the flowing wig which, when
| she hung wrong side down from the
| giddy bar, was to make an impression
| of hirsute freedom by waving in the
| air. A bicycle rider girted herself at
| her middie until she became two almost
| separate sections, but the blouse thus
| compressed at that point was otherwise
| delightfully loose in appearance. Still
| another, who was to personate a lady
of the Pompadour period, forced her-
self into a Jace with points, fore and
aft, reaching so low that she couldn’
sit down without prodding the chair
with them. Of course she was terribly
compressed, but some pufing on the
sleeves and shoulders gave her an as-
pect of delicious looseness.
Weissman tl AAI
Ancient Stationery.
Many were the expedients resorted to
by the early Greek and Roman scribes
to obtain writing materials. There was
no scribbling paper whereon to jot
down trivial memoranda or accounts,
but pieces of broken woks, crockery or
tiles were constantly for this pur-
pose. Fragments of ancient tiles thus
scribbled on have been found in many
laces, The island of Elephantine, on
he Nile, issald to bavefurnished more
than a hnndred specimens of these me-
moranda, which are now in various
museums. One of these is a soldier's
leave of absence, scribbled on a frag.
ment of an old vase, Still quainter
were the writing materials of ancient
Arabs, who, before the time of Mahom-
med, used to carve their annals on the
shoulder-blades of sheep; these “‘sheep-
bone chronicles’ were strung t her
and thus p After a ile,
sheep's bones were by 's
skin, and the man ure of parch-
ment was brough to such perfection as
to it among the refinement of art.
We hear of vellums that were tinted
yellow, others white: others were dyed
of arich le,and the writing thereon
atau. Thess
deco These
was in golden ink,
wad ify colorell des ue
with the oil of cedar to preserve them
from decay.
i avading Sanetuary.
The castle barracks at Enniskillen at
one time enjoyed the privilege, shared
by some other localities, of being a
sanctuary within the bounds of which
no one conld be arrested for debt, 1
do not know whether this still is the
case. but it probably arose from the site
having been formerly occupied asa
royal castle, as the name would imply.
At all events, the freedom from arrest
for debt was not only frequently a con-
siderable convenience to impecunious
officers, but was also at times of service
to several of the gentlemen of the
neighborhood, who, living ‘‘not wisely
but too well,” had outrun the constable
and for a time became the guests of
those who had enjoyed the hospitality
dispensed at their various houses with
so free a hand, I remember a very lu-
dicrous scene that was brought about
by an occurrence of the kind.
One very hot day in the height of sum.
mer a party, consisting of half a dozen
or 80 of us, were refreshing our heated
“corpuses,’’ after a longish parade and
and pipes, cigars, and various cooling
drinks were the order of the day, The
room was un the first floor, in the cor-
{ of the door of the house in which it
was situated, the barrack gate was at
some distance to the left, while close to
{ the right ran the deep and rapid western
| branch of the river, that flows on both
sides of the island upon which the tewn
| stands,
| palisade gave access to the water, from
which gate a flight of several stone
| steps, running down to the left along
lying there ; but, save a small platform
ing between the open gate and the river.
The gate was not locked during the day
as we constantly used it.
While we
| step was heard on the stair,
| was flung open and Mr. Dane, a gentle-
{man of the neighborhood rushed in,
‘Safe at last!
| squeak for it
Before he had time to explain, how-
| ever, after him dashed a bailiff, though
| considerably blown, at once put his
hand on Mr. Deane’s shoulder and bade
{him consider himself Lis pris-
oner.
{ been a stranger or very young at his
trade not to have known that he was
| acting illegally; but at this juncture the
But, by jove!
11
interposed, and sternly ordered him to
| moved by force if he did not.
This the bailiff, with much insolent
| Dane came with him interspersing his
| refusals with uncomplimentary remarks
{the present company
| Upon this, the officer went to the open
| in the barrack-yard, desired him to
| others with bim, and less than a minute
| several stout fellows entered the room.
! man out of {he barracks at once!” was
| the next order.
| “Yes, your honor,” replied the lea-
der of the party, a gigantic Irishman;
and in a second the bailiff found him-
escape; and as he would not be quiet,
but continued to struggle and resist, he
| was turned downward, and so carried
by his arms and legs down the stairs,
Anticipating some fun, from ac-
quaintance with the character of the
| glant leader of the party, we all went
to the windows, and presently the pro-
cession appearedfcoming outof thedoor,
the bailiff still objurgating and strug-
| gling as well as he could, which was
| not much, Just outside the door they
| came to a halt.
| ding his head toward the postern gate,
| “didn’t the captain tell us to put him
| out of the barracks at onest, and isn’t
| this the shortest way out?”
| **Right you are, and 1'm sure I1don’t
| want to be carrying this baste all across
| the yard, such a broiling day as this.”
| “Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!” scream-
| ed the bailiff, who only then realized
| their meaning, *‘for mercy’s sake don’t
| put me in the water | I'll get my death
| of cold!
put in a stern tone by the giant.
| catchpole, whose fears led him to anti.
| cipate nothing short of murder; “1 can
swim welll”
| “Thank your stars for that,” was the
| rejoinder; “you’d have been drowned
if you couldn't! Now you'll be wash
ed, and you want it badly. Together
now, boys! One-—two-—three!”
And away flew the bailiff like a
spread-eagle, and with a loud shriek
disappeared beneath the water. The
men jumped into a boat, ready to save
him if it had been necessary, but it was
not. The victim rose to the surface.
blowing like a gram and struck for
the shore below the racks with all
the ease of a practiced swimmer, and,
landing there, went his way a sadder
and a wiser bailiff than he was a few
minutes before,
of it. He
Nothing was éver hea
Was 80 conrpletels in the that his
employers would not have supported
him in any complaint.
——— A —————"
Amntmals in High Ladtades.
At is a fact that not only cats, but
dogs, donkeys and othet domestic ani
are unable to live in as high lati-
tude as man, yet there are few men
who can venture with safety to a height
that will kill a dog. This explains why
all mountain climbers take dogs with
them on their journeys, It is often
beneficial for persons of delicate consti-
tutions to locate at an point,
but they should be careful not to go too
high. Where the trouble is caused by
Vitro! and Broken Glass,
“11it me with a little vitriol mixed
with broken glass,’ said a man, who
might be taken for the worst man in
the west, to a bartender, and fire in a
few ratitle snake stings along with it.
I'm from Dead Man's Gulch, I am.”
“That's a western order, sir. 1 don’t
understand it,” was the reply.
“Don’t you know what vitirol is?”
“Yen
—y you know what glass is?”
+ 1"
“Don't you know what rattiesnaks
stings is?”
“No.”
“Well, throw in a little red pepper.
It will make a weak drink for me, but
I'll have to go you. Its a mean section
of the country this,
The ferocious style of the man ha
terrorized a half dozen listeners in the
barroom, and when he lit a rankapes
cigar with a whole box of matches the
lookers on were amazed, The Terrow
spit over the head of the nearest man
to him and shouted: “Come a running
| with that wash; you've been long
| enough to clean out a camp or break a
! bank.’’
| A boy, who had been dispatched by
the bar man to a drug store, came hur-
| rying just at that time, and the sound of
| crushing glass made the scowling west
| erner look up quickly, Suddenly the bar
| man was before hitn with a large tum-
| bler full of vitriol, broken glass and red
| pepper.
“Is the rattlesnake stings in thar?”
| asked the Terror, with less ferocious-
| ness than characterized his former
| speech.
| **It’s what you ordered,” firmly re-
| plied the saloonist.
“I don't wan't it without the bites,”
| replied the bad man, as he sided toward
{ the door. A club moved from iis po-
sition behind the bar, and the wicked
man stopped.
“Pay for that or go to the hospital,‘
said the bar man, with determination.
“How much is it 7” asked the dan-
gerous man.
“Three dollars.”
The money was paid and the Terror
sneaked out.
ET —_———
Making « Serap-nook.
A scrap-book should not be compos-
ed of miscellaneous materials, but con-
fined to some special purpose. Let the
| collector decide rigidly whether pictures
or printed texts are to be collected. In
pictures the collector should confine
himself to a defimite subject, whether
| portraits, historical landscapes or some
branch of natural history. A book of
famous authors may be collected from
publishers’ catalogues alone.
In almost every city or county a vol-
| ume of local scenery may be collected.
The collector should especially seek to
save what is likely to be lost. For a
book in which to paste the cuttings al-
| most any bound volume will do, espec-
| ially if its pages show a wide margin,
| and the print can be readily covered by
two widths of ordinary newspaper clip-
| pings, The margin may be used for
| notes, including dates and a few ex-
planatory memoranda. The clippings
should be kept for a week or{so before
they are pasted down, because a second
judgment may rule them out. It is
quite safe to advise collectors that no
cutting will do unless it bids fair to be
fresh and intelligible a year after it has
been honored with a place inthe scrap-
book. If the pages become too thick
for the cover, cut out two or three
leaves afer every page filled with clip-
pings.
When there is the slightest possibili
tv that a serap-book may be used fo
| publishing purposes, or that any of its
| entries may be cut out for other uses,
cover one page only. But on the page
used the clippings should be packed
closely together. If possible, each clip-
ping should retain the ‘*‘rule”’ which
marks the end of a printed J ph
| or poem. The column lines need not
{ be retained, In fact, itis best to cut
| newspapers always along these lines.
| Ragged edges, of course, should be
| avoided, and the mucilage with which
| the clippings are pasted down should
| be used sparingly, lest it ooze through
the paper or exude from under the
| edges, Flour paste is better than mu-
| cilage, and what is known as “photo-
| grapher’s” paste is excellent.
nmin IA
My Frolie.
| Among the galiants of Charies the Sec-
| ond’s day 1t was the custom when a gen-
| tleman drank a lady’s health as a toast,
| by way way of doing her great honor,
| to throw some part of his dress into the
| fire, an example which his companions
| were bound to follow by consuming the
same article of their wearing apparel,
whatever it might be.
One of his friends perceiving at a tav-
| ern dinner that Sir Charles Sedley had
| on a rich lace cravat, when he named
| bis toast committed his cravat to the
flames as a burnt-offering to the tem-
porary divinity,and Sir Charles and the
rest were obliged to do the same.
The poet bore his joss with great
cownposure, observing it was a good
joke, but that he would have as good a
one some other time. He watched
therefore his opportunity, when the
same party was assembled on a subse-
quent occasion, and drinking off a bum-
| per to the health of Nell Gwynne, or
| sorpe other beauty of the day, he called
the waiter, and ordering a tooth draw.
er ito the room, whom he had pre-
viously brought to the tavern for the
purpose made him draw a decayed
tooth which had long plagued him.
The rule of good tellowship, as then
in force, clearly required that every one
of the company should have a tooth
drawn also, bul they naturally TOSS.
ed & hope that ley would not 80
unmerciful as to enforce the law, Deaf,
the operator, and
whilst writhing with pain, added to
their torment by exclaiming:
my frolic too.