Tell WAYOF THE WORLD, A vonth would marry a maiden, For fair and fond was she; But she was righ, and he was poor, And so it might not be. A lady never could wear — Her mother held it firm A gown that came of an Indian plant Instead o1 an Indian worm! And so the cruel word was spoken ; Aud so it was two hearts were broken A youih would marry a maiden, For fair and fond was she; But he was high, and she was low, And so it might not be A man who had worn a spur In ancient battle won, Had sent it down with great renown To goad his future son! And so the cruel word was spoken ; And so it was two hearts were broken. THE LITTLE MODEL. | It happened in the winter of 1870, | that IT was unavoidably compelled to leave college and spend a few months in | retirement, Loping in the meantime | that my uncle might be able to effect a | compromise with the facuity. The na- | ture of my offense has no bearing on | this story. If wassimply judged best tor | me to seek oul a secluded place where | there would be no temptation to the | detriment of cramming, 1 chose Bur- | lin, as being also Cousin Douglas’ place of refuge. Here was his oddly planned house, all studio, where he went when the fever of work was upon him, Half settled 1m my queer little hotel I stayed only to unpack a brush and comb before hastening over to Oak- vood, A bright light shone from the irregular, one-story edifice. The in- habitants of Burlin pronounced Doug- las’ house heathenish, but it was only characteristic. There were three rooms, a vestibule connegted by a heavily cur- | tained archway with the studio proper (an enormous ball), beyond which was a tiny sleeping room with toilet conve- niences, Floor and walls were of solid oak; there were great windows, through which sun shafts fell, giving the lion- | skin on the floor a tawny, Eastern glow, | In a corner, quile a day’s journey from | the studio half of the room where the easel stood, was a writing-desk; in another, the plano. To-night a great fire was roaring up i himney’s wide throat, Douglas beside it, stretching his thin, » hands to the blaze. 1opened the after a clang of the Knocker, and wd aside the portiere to find lum | ¥ bending forward, his face, | which had grewn strangely thin since 1 | saw it last, ablaze with some eager anti- cipation. It was not flattering to sce the licht die suddenly out, leaving a! friendly glow enough, but one quite different from the sunshine of welcome. “Yon, ‘Jack? bad boy!” he said, taking both my hands and looking with quizzical inddlgence into my erimsoning face. **They wrote me about it. fore I'd be ‘suspended!’ #80 i you were, before my | dav.” 1 retorted, plucking up courage. didn’t draw caricatures, Cousin Je. | “i Douglas. ’’ “No, lad, because you couldn’t. Ta- ents differ. But let by-gones go where hey deserve and come to the fire.” He iled on great birchen logs, and I fet- led myself ta crimson chair, in high glee, With Douglas I became younger than my years warrantied and far hap- per. Nay, if I had kept with him my young mannish airs, should I not have been shamefaced at loving him as 1 did? 1 you've come down here to back to his own seat, and ly the uncoiling of the artly swé you mostly. Dou. alas, don't talk about ‘grind.’ Every- body has been at me till I'm sick. Talk of your new picture’ He started, flashing his eyes on me suspiciously, “Who said 1 had one here?” “Nobody. Iknow it. You baven't been down here three months, working yourself to skin and bones for nothing, Douglas, you look hike a disembodied spirit.” “There are such things, I believe,” he said, slowly. “Yes, I have worked hard.” He clasped his hands lightly, and bent forward again over the fire, It was evident that he neither heard or saw me in my own proper person. Iwas merely a voice, calling out voices from his soul, some that had been long busy | there among themselves. I stood in| boundless awe of him, but I was never | afraid. His gentlensss of spirit seemed to go through to hus heart's core. “Show me the picture, Douglas,” 1 ventured. “No. no; it isn’t Snished.’” Still there was some latent yielding in his tone, “Oh, Douglas, show me the picture?” He still sat, reasoning with himself, as IL could see. Then he rose, and put aside the inner drapery. “1 believe I will. I eouldn’t show it to anybody | else, but you are strangely to be trust- ed.” Presently be retarned, but with- out the picture, “1 think I'l tell you about it, first, You must know my full idea, and then fudge my work, Itis *Starvation’—no, I’ii bring the hing out and let you in- terpret.”” At which I could but trem- ble, for fear my stupidity and slowness of understanding should vex hm, With that he drew the canvas forth | and adjusted the light, falling back into | shadow 10 watch me. But in a few | minutes I could not but note how his | eyes turned to feed upon the picture, | loving it and forgetting me. On the | i in by a mountain wall, and covered by a | low dun sky. A lichened rock, here | and there, gave some httle varlety of | form, to be counteracted by the added | monotony of color. A slight figure | occupied the foreground, every stream. | er of its garments borne back by what | you saw 10 bea keen north wind, I] could not forbear a shadder. I seemed | to feel thechill of those bare blue ‘imbs, | The boy's arma were folded, and he eonfronted the distance erect and pa- tient. The beauty of the child’s fuce was beyond description. The skin was colorless, but of the translucent purity of moonstone, the black locks fell in heavy splashes, and the eyes held all she mournfuiness and vastness of a waidnight without a star. Despite the | nobility of the face, placidly regnant, as it seemed, over physical pain, there wus no pinched look given by extreme hunger; blue cireles nnder the eyes, | and cruel dents of the destroyer on the nostrils, Douglas was watching me again, “There is more there than you see— 1 meant more than the death of the body. Look into the distance.” Far beyond the scene of the plcture—-you felt 1t to be beyond the boy's range of vision—the sky had rolled up, exposing a rosy vista into a region beyond. There were faintly to be distinguished the out- lines of faces—cherubic faces in joyful song, “I bave known many souls to be hun- gry,” said Douglas, *‘There are more gouls so than bodies. Some are starv- ed. Take this child; what is iu his face?” I struggled to express myself, and ended by Dblundering out, ‘‘Every- thing.” Douglas smiled. “Yes you see it ; poetry, music, love of art, and the ideal. But the moun- tains hem him in from He will never He sees that and submits to death like a god." He stood with folded armas worship- ping his work. [I marveled at the pow- er of love lying in artists for canvas reach it. sweetly confused sand though apparent- ly an Italian, broke Into very perfect tion, nativity. (He had heard 1 wanted a model. He might well have heard it, by the way, for I had told old Father Du Bois, hoping he might some avalla- ble French face in his flock.) And he had come to offer himself, You can guess how gladly I accepted him. “But there were conditions, I must promise to tell noone, ask him no ques- tions, as to home or name, never follow or trace him out, and show no one the picture during the sittings, [ wasanx- jous enough to make sure of him to The sittings began He came long be- He las? Zeus! what a head!” “I had a model,” he answered, has- Now go, Jack, Come to- And mind,” he called you don't teil Ilving next room. morrow night. after me, “mind soul about this,’ offended at my summary dismissal, I took it for granted that a genius might have moods that another man could pot share. But what had come Bright as a star, some- times an uncanny demon in mood, he had never before betrayed diseased mel- ancholy. Some hard blow must have shaken him out of himself, thoughts were interrupted when reached home by finding a stranger the hotel parior. I was sure 1 knew him; he was Detective Smirke. I had not hived ina cotlegy town for noth- ing, ties, and prided myself accordingl) was dressed in a suit of clerical cut and hue, and his face was smooth, both as to fact and metaphor. Perhaps t semablance might not have suggested itself, had I not seen Smirke in a dress almost identical. I in He he re- He invaria. bly brought his dinner with him, a tiny Then the Jack [ rather think I've grown a greal deal I fall in love with that I went so far as think of with me he would melt into to m I delayed men- ¢ picture should bx WwW. always, tioning it to hin be finished and 1 r ised from some of wy promises. One night, when the picture was completed as you see it now, I broke the charm. He had an over- powering curiosity about that little sandal-woeod picture-shrine on the desk yonder. You see it is in fragments. 1 told him it held a pleture, so pre But naturally y till th 1 1 gustus Miller, Being young and of the applauded myself for my intuit clared that I was right and that Smirke had come down here to ferret out so thing. But he lamp and withdrew ion, de- soon asked for I followed suit, as in a my which Smirke man’s cap was executing cousin tha The next morning I was not at my would have suggested. By no means, ume, 1 was sitting on one side of the fireplace, while Rev. Augustus Miller, also with a book, had stationed himself in the other. Mine was heavier and more imposing, ing a Greek lexicon; his seemed to be a volume of sermons, At length, when we had sat tl i and I my sell-imp spectacied eves, #*Y oung man, as the wood-box is with you, and there are no servants at hand, will you replenish the fire?” “By all means, Mr. hem Smirke,” I said, gladly throwing down my lexicon, and baving the grace to choke a little over my young presump- tion. I stole a look at hum, as I threw on the log. The eyes were regarding me very i $180 far ¥ eR Ot NOur, ax saying mildly: o » * : ged. Who was it? Curiosity gave him the one pice of earthiness he needed, and I tan- talized him to keep It growing On this night I told him it was the portrait of a beautiful and wonderful I It was-—the Mona Lisa, just then a fellow to sell chromos, he nearly force When I came to the door had to his way back, mode fioht MEHR in ¥ git in in Sie © of 1 breaking open ts fT + itn of Hin O65 f 116s i me, out carving splinters on the Door. rs hairy Hn slipped oat of my g door to, *You shall 1 shall ever see me again, self,’ Then he ran out and I have not see “But he sell.” 1 thought “ie SAY in YELL 8% probably i gested. tter of that. Soak as y su be done said Douglas, shaking his head, with a sad smil ] t. I should not feel in this im if he were n that was way about hb “Tisuo las tamer doug las famtwr, hoe Lidia People don't carry out once in a dozen times.” “Think cals his hot would I than one. Do you ses \ room?’ I heard the creaking of the « side door, and then, I fan in the vestibule: but § ss ¥ Yay 9 of Southern ve grown, sine al Memory draw von face Svver PK ‘Youn i240 E2LAN purdered mel’ what with your far either he had not equal to the finer fancies of genius Douglas smiled, with shame in his face, “So that I may work without turn ing my back on anything. I shudder to think of him belund me." I heard a rustle, “Douglas some one man,’’ be began, as I stood by the fire, watching the renewed sparkle, came down here to revise my commen- tary, in quiet, but”—, He stopped suggestively, © The tone invited conf- dence, but I did not respond. And be. ing very cooly impudent upon occasion, I returned, “1 have the proof sheets of ray treatise on Sophocles to correct, 1 Before I reached the portiere the out- might be with haste, A figure was the house, Now, 1 was not I broke into ' now, Good-by,”’ When I returned, after a tough ride He appeared at the supper-table, conversing with men and maid-servants with unctuous affa- bility. However, walch him, I was off to see Douglas, having known too well by old experi- by daylight, when he had a picture in process of birth. ing me, and, not taken by surprise, ina more companionable mood, I noticed ing. Piano, easel, writing-desk, were ment, the eccentricity of genius ae- Let a man paint a picture or write a poem, and he may thereafter, without comment of surprise from us. “I am going to entertain you, to- aight, Jack,” said my cousin, stretch- i i i | i | ! i apparent Nervousness, you a story, all true, too, my lad. science to get it partly off mine, you ready?’ I was, and open-mouthed with anticipation, “A year ago began Douglas, with the musing tone of one who talks to hime self rather than his auditor, I had the plan of my picture in my mind, all but the boy's face; that eluded me, | looked far and near tor a model, I went among the poor and peered into street faces, all in vain, Last fall I came here in despair and gave myself up to wait ing and smoking, Often when I have abandoned hope she seeks me out, ns she did now. Perhaps I had been here a month, when one night my door opened and a child came in breathless — this very boy in the picture. As soon as my eyes struck his face I knew he If he could be kept to the high road I should run him down He noted how directly he the highway, I in pursuit, bravely, but in four minutes I lind over- taken him. When I was within three feet he turned suddenly and faced me. It was Rev, Augustus Miller, “Young man, spare me!’’ came the unctuous voice in pileous appeal, the clerical hands raised. “1 have money. pocket Bible and let me go.’ “Robber yourself!” 1 retorted.* What do you mean by sneaking into people’s houses, and then sneaking out?” “I was going to ask the young man about his soul, but when you rose so suddenly I remembered what ungodly afraid,” “Now, 1s there anything more truly feminine than a minister?” 1 said, pausing to apostrophize him. But I had He had ex- pected to be frightened; he should not w disappointed. As I looked at him a fleecy cloud slipped from the moon. His resemblance to Smirke was start. “As sure as I'm-—hem!l-—not in college.” I cried, **you are Smirk, the detective.” “Young man, do not mock the ser- vant of God!” “But you arel” I insisted. now mere- “Yeu are, and to- night I shall hand you over into custo- dy for assuming a name and disguise.” I waited for further prayers, bus they did not come. The man looked at me steadily for two or three seconds; then he took off his glasses and lifted his wig with a flourish, It was my turn to be confounded, 1 had no more suspicion than an idiot that my flash of guess. work had truth at bo: tom. “I see you know a thing or two,” said the detective, in tones like chips, “Can you hold your tonguat’ “Like a erackel bell Take me on the force?" “1 can’; I'm off myself, That's what you're to keep still about, One .® foul means, and I knocked him dow n. They meant to arrest me, but I came Now, can you keep that?” “Bee if I can’t!” I returned big with importance, **What could they do to you?” “Oh, not much, only they shan’t have the fun of an arrest, that’s alll My dis- guise was rather thin; still, nobody but # man keen enough to be on the foree himself would have seen through it.” I was every minute growing in circum- ference, like the frog in the fable, and too much engrossed to mind the absence of my hat, We walked home together in the most chatty humor, He seemed vastly interested in Douglas, from the queer house, he said, and from my cou- sin’sevidently being a remarkable young man, We laughed together over Mr. Miller's errand at Oakwood, and { confessed that he had shipped in solely because he saw us through the window and thought we seemed like good fel- { lows. But forgetting his disguise until | he was well into the vestibule and then | remembering how I had peneirated it the night before, he dared not face me again. Would 1 take him to call on | Douglas? I sald my cousin was not | pasily dealt with by strangers, and I must first ask his permission, That was only putting him off. Douglas not my affinity for nettles and thei relatives, Much as he seemed interest- {ed in Douglas, I had heard encuigh ke ep my cousin’s secret to the letter; 1 | wonder at that, however, for between { the confidences I had received that night heughts stood promiscuously on I bade my detective good- ht, in a fraternal maoner, which seemed vastly to the amazement of | maid servant, who had grinned my ridicule of him in the morning. For he had again assumed the wig, and was Rev. Augustus Miller, The next day I had cause to applaud my own wisdom in the selection of a | retreat. Tongues buzzed louder and | faster here than in the world of men. | There was now an excitement worthy | their agility. upil had been decoved from the Convent of Our Lady, distant about thre she had, undoubtled- ly been murdered. There were ghastly tails of her h to be had wit { the asking. that the vil were r medieval wer hai Lo ive o ivs il thaw dd? ¥ free her rygel HG oh swinging by i LO ascertain, g. that ti a reward » } DOYS 1 am tired of bei a change of * 1 hear 1 and was about to con- the hangings 4 fp ¥ . setiing for the Prepared for a strain acry. Do pointed a stiff forells whisper thrown by ba ¢ room at a ran ar “Master, me sobs, i migutl ook and isd as | pleased. Nobody heard or saw me. Douglas caught the child to his breast, and rocked with him, take back and forth cooing some inarticulate endearment. Presently the two drew apart and look ed at each other with eves of shining i content, “Ind I spoil the picture?” asked the i child, dropping his hold in shame, | Douglas laughed. “I don’t know. Never mind, you : are all the the picture I want, Tell me, i how could you grieve me so? Where did | you go?"’ “Shall I tell it all?’’ He had a quick, birdlike motion of the head, a quick staccato of liquid utterance, His Eng- ish was mature, but charmingly ac- | cented by the persistent clinging of a | foreign tongne, “Yes, all,” said Douglas, “Then let me go.”” He resisted Dou- | glas’ detaining hand, got gravely down | from his knee, and perched on a stool. | Then folding his hands over his long ! gray cloak, the child with another bird. | glance, indicated me, “May he know, too?" “Yes, if you are willing.” “1 was in the convent being educa- | ted,’ he began, quietly. “Everyday I used to see you go past, Sometimes with flowers in your hand, Your hair was like Our Lady's glory.” Ha look- ed at Douglas devoutly, and Douglas laughed. “One day I heard a Sister say you wanted to paint a boy dying, starving. That night I ranaway. kitchen work. I went to her and beg- ged her to keep me. She hardly dared, convent and she pitied me, me alone in her little house every day and I used to throw away my dinner, i would not eat, but it was long before I could starve myself into looking star. ved, and I was so rmpatient!’’ Douglas was bending toward him, a great horror gathering in his race. “You starved yourself! why?” “Because I wanted to help you paint Jour picture, I made the little clothes wore, all myself. The Sisters always said 1 was good with my needle. Then a Sister was iil and Mrs,’ MacNeil had to be there early in the morning and late at night, That helped me, and I could come to you,” “Bat—who are you?" “Teresa.” A soft, rose flush crept into her cheeks, and the lashes fell. Douglas blashed, too. “Reckle hot-headed child!” he muttered. Teresa had risen and drawn her little cloak abont her, 1 suppose 1 am to go back to the convent,’ she said, defiantly. “I have been hiding at Mrs. MaoNeil's ever gince that night. Bul she overheard yesterday that the Sisters tought I had been killed, A man had come here to find out who «id it. He was at the was you, Bo I came to tell you.” and Smirke stepped in. *‘Everbedy ness, ‘I made mine, your door last night, when you said you were haunted, I've told this boy here woods ali day to see that you didn’t escape. I mean to have more evidence before I arrest you, It is well the Sisters | happens, though I could have strangled | 'em at the time, They'd kept it pretty i i HASAN A 5 IR AAP NAT ANH, A Long, Long Journey. When the doctor came down stairs the whole fanily sevmed to bave arran- him, “How soon will mamma dit asked Little Clyde, the baby, “Can mamma come down stairs next well?” “Do you find my wife much better?” asked Mr, Marshall eagerly. He was a tall, grave man, pale with anxiety and nights of watching, The doclor did not smile; he did not | and had to be forthcoming. Then they confessed, and I was sent down here.” “Why is she wanted?” asked I, who i alone retained some coolness, i “Long story. Years ago rich Amer- | ican fell in love with Teresa’s mother, | Italian countess, widow, poor. She wouldn't marry him then, but he offer- ed to educate the child, and she stipu- lated it should be among Catholics, He brought her here, waited as long as he could, went back, ged sagain, and married him, They're in New | York and Teresa's sent for.” “My mother!” breathed the tips of her fingers together, egg she hild, the « “lam in a great hurry,” he said as hie took his hat; **I must go to a patient who 1s dangerously ill. This evening I I have left instructions But the nurse's instructions were all concerning the comfort of the patient; she was professionally discreet and si- lent. The children playing on the stairs were tld to 13o 8, The on, apd the patient siept and was not disturbed But that night before the to bed they wera BH fm ther ake rie allowed to ¢ good-night. This privilege had denied i hearts resg IMa=1y little : Invi- tation. he answered Sm turned to Douglas fo see ma there, my coming to yon!’ And he did er need, jocosely. Ter “Then you will ge y master, instead of Sacred Cattle of Texas, John O'Neil, a cattie-raiser of long experience in Victoria county, Texas, called on the Siock-Growe and a conversation with him proved most interesting, Mr, O'Neal i8 one of the very few breeders i s county of if the East 1 farcical ¢ stock,’ be able to the West that as many good lked-of Here- were ad the NE NS © Which ¥ £3 «“ One observing friend that the Brahma lent condition, and concluded that {001 mendous, COWS after the as with secured upgnm be a good one Mr. O'Neil cows (thor giana herd at the nnmhe {f ¢ ¥ the numoer rein Hil. yf the cross was satisfactory, od ine beef : (2001 to supply “wv +} ¥ a MADCa In « Mexico pporiunii) cattle. Ti are describad as MK New ave all « ywners will Is 3 § g the sacs and the bulls mp on the should a . A Bad Speaker. ¥ } PUR IY Tosy TiC CTEAal COOL, very prominent hu . v Archbishops are not made for { eloquence, bul account of judgment and executive ability. One of the archbishops of Canterbury How- ley, who died in 1848, was distinguish- ed as a bad speaker, The following anecdotes illustrate what he could do in the way of spoiling a speech, With a most delicate and al- most fastidious taste as to style, he was always making corrections in his speak- | ing as some writers do on their manu- scrips, a fatal fault in a speaker. Thus presiding at an anniversary of the Clergy Orphan Girls’ school at St, John's Wood, he delivered thus: { “Noone cansee—{corrects himself) | —can look upon--these respectable looking girls — (corrects himself)— these nice looking girls—{corrects him- | golf) these good girls—{corrects him- | self j~~these female girls" Here there was a suppressed titter, uncer cover of which the speaker hur- | ried on to the conclusion of his sentence | —not recorded, ! He used to rub his hands anxiously on | washing them. I have seen him twice, Wis very pale, t words to them » FOL On il in irney.” South.” 8 ordered her the orange groves of Fle “1 am gol more south.’ beantid I not come “You are not g { asked Kat) BIW eet My i voice, *'l am hysician goes with wr ¢1 vy fu « IOV Qeal Of “How did she her??? 1] or Il tha wid ie +3 3 od about 7, ‘“She has gone nd every might and iin her guide book of 1 now lives, whose y moore say [ am si nself shall Sak Oh K, wipe all ——— Keep Your Dest for Home. : pel : : iness and good feelis law that restrains uz traits of hu Keep your be society, on everywhere, it is bute, i governs tl ing, ang aiso a ; 1 Kind and ignoble ure from expression, In siness, in Dus that word, temper for home, sLreets, easier 10 contra rd the hasty the peevish tone, the Irritating in the home circle, and study to wor none of its inmates, Keep your best spirits for bome. No- | where do gloomy and depressed spirits | tell so disastrously as at home, The parents may bave just cause for anxiety and care, but it is wrong and unjust to shadow the young life of children with anxieties they cannot appreciate, and cares they cannot understand. The ten- dency to brood over trouble or msfor- tune increases with its indulgence. So, | also, the disposition to be cheerful and | happy at all times increases with cult:- ation. This is by far the most admir- able trait. Those who are sunshiny ! and cheerful in character always have i the most friends, and where are friends so true and loyal and so desirable to | perpetuate as those of home and fami- ily? The old comparison of the best | talg is as true in this case as in any her, and children who grow up in an | atmosphere of foreboding of the future, | anxieties about the present and cynical { reflections on the motives and actions { of people about them, are training a tendency to be miserable and sad, and | in their turn cast shadows, instead of | sunshine, on the path of all about them, { ll AI Tokio Stroets, attn ot i The streets of Tokio. Japan are so the life. There is a story that he used to be- and that one of his chaplains recom mended him $o shut himself up in the { Addington dining room, and address the chairs, iznagining people in them. “How did your grace get on?’ he was asked after the first experiment, “Well, you see, I think 1 got on very nicely at first, but all at once I caught sight of that high-backed chair there in the corner, and he looked so formida- ble that he put me out, and then I broke down,”' Submarine Miners, A corps of submarine miners is in course of formation at the School of Engineering, Chatham, England, The special duty of this new body of men will be the laying of mines under water for purposes of coast defense, Recruits for this new branch of the service are drawn mainly from the fishing districts. Not less than three vessels are under. Rolng alterations to fit them for the work. Lacquer for Chandeliers. Take two gations of spirits of wine, one pound of ragon’s blood, three pounds of Spanish annatto, four and a hail pounds of gum. sandarao, two pints of turpentine, digest for a week, shake frequently, decant, and filter, | DOyanoce to ride through them. Every driver carries a horn in order to {such is the crush of stages, cars and | ginrekshas that the blockades are fre- quent and sometimes disastrous. A correspondent narrates his experience in a Tokio horse-car, as follows: The other day [ was riding in from Asakusa on one of the cars, when sud- denly we came to a halt. Looking out of the car, what should prove to be the cause of the interruption bul a monster pine tree, Af the dwarf species so com- mon in Japan, which was being trans. ported on a wagon, evidently construct- ed for that purpose, from one part of the city to another, At the base the trunk must have been six feet in circumference, but it was only about fifteen feet high, terminating in a fiat, broad canopy of branches. The blockade lasted several hour during which time street-cars running and everybody took the whole thing as a matter of course, The motive power in transporting the tree was a long string of oxen and seores of street coolies, who put their shoulders to the huge canvas-wrapped wheels and chorused the usual cus- tomary grunt of Japanese coolies, EH —— Never speak to deceive, nor histen to betray.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers