RO! WANTER.
Hal! Winter, hot Winter,
King of the nothern blast!
ou meet us all, yon greet us all,
With grip that freezes fast,
In pomp you've gathered up
royal robes of snow,
And by their trailing men shall trace
Whatever ways you go,
Your grim retainers all, alackl
Make but a cruel train
Of biting sleet and stinging winds
And ice and frozen rain,
The rich with furs and blazing hearths
Your carnival may scorn,
While Mirth and Cheer may reign supreme
From wassail eve till morn.
But ha! Winter, Lo! Winter,
‘What about the Poor?
Who've no stronghold against the cold,
No bribe or sinecure
To set at bay the stinging day,
determined by Parker's look; and he
wrote in pencil a draft for an order:
‘Lieutenant C. Parker will proceed
immediately to Sanford, Ari, with a
detail of six men, and arrest military
convict John Devine,”
“Just have that published.”
Parker hesitated ; but as the responsi-
bility of the arrest was to be upon him
he determined to speak. *‘If that order
is published, word of it will go to this
convict by the ‘underground,’ and he
will give me the slip.”
order,” said the cologel, *‘that would
? 3
“Lot it be u false order.”
fellows see a soldier they are on the
alert, order or mo order, They know
Or soften down the night——
Who note the thickening window-panes
With sinking hearts affright-—
Who draw their babies close and sing
Their shivering lullabies,
Then sleep and dream of steamliess feasts
That hunger-sleep supplies—
To wake at morn with shuddering sense
Of lengthened fast and cold,
And find that gaunt eyed Want hath
wrought
Its trace within the fold,
Ha! Winter, ho! Winter, |
Hard your reign on these, |
God pisy such! and send warm hearm {
To all wo starve and freezs.
|
I SHS Sr
AN ARIZONA EXVERIENUE, i
Charles Parker, being a young man
from the east, and a newly-tfledged |
graduate of the military academy, was |
not looked upon with sublime awe by |
the frontiersmen around his Arizona |
post, and cerlainly not with a fearful |
res oct by the military.
The frontiersmen from their proud
his: © of dyspepsia and dirt recoguized
tidy Mr. Parker only as a *‘tenderfoot,’’ |
wii ile the older officers and soldiers were |
naturally slow to concede military
mere $0 a youngster who had escaped
desttt or court martial for a shorter |
pe: ied than themselves,
in reality Lieutenant
very little of
Parker knew |
the energetic west as it
materialized around Fort McDowell,
and what iittle he knew did not swell
him with pride. It was his idea that if
kno wiedge 1s power, knowledge of Ari-
zona was only mule power and not to |
be coveted. He was not in deadly fear
of that truculent creature, the Arizo-
nian in a red shirt, but if he had chosen
an rodividual to stand betwixt the wind |
and his nobility, the gentleman in his
earmine camissa would not have obtain-
ed the situation. His life was not
without a charm, for he was in love
with his colonel’s daughter, one of those
charming young ladies found only iu
army circles, who have all the polish of
their more fortunate city sisters with a
seductive frankness and abandon de- |
veloped in their Bohemian existence. |
When not engaged in love making |
and be wis an expert in that pleasant |
amuse! t —young Parker sat in hus
quarters with a big pipe, as befitted un |
army man, rested his feet gracefully on |
th mantle, and conscientiously *“‘kept
up Lis French” by reading Lurid Gas-
eon novels which began ‘‘Madame je
vais vous raconter une tres belle his-
toire.” Besides, as mentally he still
lived in the east, he followed 1n a dozen
papers the society, theater, and sporting |
news of civilization. If at any moment
he had been translated to Chicago, his |
choice for the evening theater would |
have already been made; he would have |
been au fait with current gossip; and |
his base ball bets would have been |
marked by a knowledge of the most
starting intimacy.
It was arranged between Miss Helen |
and Parker that when he could leave it |
should be for a wedding journey. It
was the peculiar charm of this arrange-
ment thet it was made without the
colonel’s assistance or knowledge.
Lovers must have their secrets. A
lover without a weigh'y would
cut as poor a figure as a4 secreliess
statesman. However, the chances of
Parker's getting a furlough were dim.
His captain was on an indefinite sick
leave, having a splendid time and enter-
ing heartily into business, while his first
lieutenant was engaged in Washington
on some onerous duty which required
peculiar talents and considerable “influ-
ence.” “One officer,” said the law,
“mnst be with the troop,” and when |
the law uttered these words it ignored |
the astute captain and the powerful first
lieutenant, and pointed with its crooked
finger directly at our friend. Mr. Par- |
ker.
The morning when history finds him, |
the lone lieutenant, acting as post adju- |
tant, was sitting at his desk in the
colonels office, gravely referring official
papers to himself in some of his many
capacities, such as quartermaster, com-
missary, ordinance officer, post treasu-
rer, chief of scouts, overseer of schools,
or perpetual officer of the day. By his
formal words one would have thought
him on very frigid terms with himself.
Instead, for instance, of saying * Par-
ker, will you take a squint at this?” he
wrote: ‘Respectfully referred to Lieu-
tenant Parker, who will take the action
uired.”
eanwhile the colonel was knitting
bis brows over an order from headquar-
ters.
“What do you think of that?” he
said at last, handing the paper to Par-
ker.
The young man read the order bul made
no answer. He liked to have his opin-
jon asked, but he did not that
his crude ideas would be of ue to an
officer of so much greater experience,
“What do you think?” repeated ihe
colonel mildly.
“1 suppose it'll have to be done,” |
sald the lieutenant vaguely, not know- |
ing on what point a reply was wished.
“Yes,” mused the colonel, “but how?
‘Chis says he is supposed to be at San-
ford, but the description is vague to
make a search on
“0, that.” said Parker, “why I think
! know the man already [saw him
ast summer when [| was surveying fhe
: e
y th man youl have ta
ot wo toorea pad 20 the
man’s smooth face; “it's worse
ting, be I had
officer go with you,"
the soldier is after some one, and they
But Parker had an idea, He thought
he could entrap an Arvizoman as easily
mfancy. *‘1 learned something. said
there. When they knew I was survey-
ing, I could have had as many blacklegs
in my society as I wished Mr. Devine
himself waited on me in his saloon.
again.”
“Good!” cried the colonel. **Make
me out an order to examine the line and
publish it here, You wiil have your
real order and warrant in your pocket.’
road across the desert. The soldiers
were in good spirits over their holiday,
Very true they carried carbines and
revolvers, but in Arizona carbines and
revolvers are as readily associa'ed with
good spints as cheerfulness wirn beans
and big grocery lls in New logland.
The lieutenants having no one to be gay
with, wondered what Miss Helen would
think of his expedition, and having
come to a complimentary conclusion,
began a new ‘belle histoire.” The
roads were deep, but the six-mule team
of “‘shave-tails” slided steadily on, and
by night sixty-five miles of sage brush
on each side had received an additional
layer to its century-old and hoary coat
of alkall.
Sacaton the Gila, where Parker had
been the summer previous. When the
people learned his present errand he was
hospitably entertained, and no warning
of his coming was sent forward, But
in conversation with the Indian agent,
to whom he revealed his true orders,
by previous rumors, had sold his saloon
and was about to leave, This rendered
an arrest of double difficulty and dan-
ger. Under the circumstances, although
the next day was Sunday, Parker deter-
mined to push on. At six o'clock Sun-
way with a drive before it to Sanford,
of eighteen miles.
“belle histoire” in his agreeable charac.
to
anconcern and ordered the driver
stop.
from his pocket and read them.
soldiers exchanged glances,
theught the young lieutenant
The
would
desperate character of his business,
when Le gave his orders. They per-
ceived from his tone that if any one fal-
tered it would not be the “boy.”
“We will dnve into the plaza in front
of Smith’s. Devine will probably be in
some saloon opposite. If people ask
our business, it’s telegraph. We have
slouching forward his sombrero, Pare
ker looked at him absently, turned to
the front of the saloon, and still hold-
ing up his glass, made the signal. Then,
without drinking, he set the glass down
and walked directly to the door of the
| gambling-room. He did not know what
tragedy would follow his words, but he
said “Johh Devine, I want you.”
| A dozen pair of eyes were turned to-
| ward him and a dozen hands sought for
| the ever ready ‘‘guns;’ but the pistols
| were not drawn. Almost immediately
| the men assumed a look of welcome,
| and seemed tacitly to acknowledge that
| they had mistaken the intruder,
*Hullo, heutenant!" eried two or
| three in a frantic effort to set them-
| selves right. *‘Hullol Come in, come
| in. Glad to see you, Barkeeper, some-
thing for the lieutenant.
*“Thank you,’ said Parker, wonder-
“I'm on business, and busi
| ness comes first.
yon."
“What! what Johnny? What's
done? ' they cried in grieved surprise,
* Now, lieutenant, you don’t want
Johuny, do you?”
eve wearily on the crowd,
despair. “All right; I've got to go.
"
cried the
be in a rush, lieutenant.
{ “But don’t be in a rush
| others; *‘don’t
| Have a drink.
| We ain't seen you in years."
| Parker was so dumbfounded by this
continued politeness that he looked
| about for the cause. It was evidént,
{| A big sergeant stood behind him with
{two cocked revolvers aimed at the
soldiers with pointed carbines.
The Arizona desperado understands
the doctrine of chances as well as the
| rest of us,
{| Devine arose to follow. He looked
| mournfully at his big pile of chips,
“Who's banker?” asked Parker, who,
| being a pretty “‘stiff’’ poker player him-
| self, understood Devine's feeling.
| “Banker, cash Johuny’s chips, Sorry I
| can’t let him stay so thal you can have
| back at him. but the money's his.”
| The disappointed banker made the
{ exchange.
When the party were taking Devine
| Florence, a little town five miles to the
east. This incident did not escape the
unsophisticated lieutenant.
He sent an orderly for the ambulance
and hurried Devine through his fare-
wells,
was ready.
perfectly hopeless.
“Which way? says the driver. Par-
and answered, “Back
ton.”
The convict dropped his head, and his
was no longer assumed.
**Our friend on the horse will prepare
his ambush for nothing, wom’t he?”
“He just will,” replied the convict
driven
in the
the fort
the post.
That night at ten, having
eighty-three miles since nine
morning, the detail arrived at
was secured in
guard house,
The colonel was delighted and surpri-
sed.
1 spoke,’ said he, “of having another
officer come here. [1 think I had better
have him come now and give you a
leave.”
‘““Thank you," said the bold lieuten-
©
lieve it,
the saloons, You will loaf about fifty
vards in the rear with your carbines,
I'll let you know when I want you.
Now, drive on.”
Arrived at Sanford these directions
were carried out to the letter. A small
but hard-looking erowd gathered around
the ambulance where it halted.
“Hallo, lieutenant!’’ said Smith, the
town shyster, coming out. “What is
itv
“Telegraph,” replied Parker for all
to hear. *‘I've come out to ses what
you folks can put up for it.”
“Good,” said Smith, while 8 murmur
“1'll take you round to see the people.
Have the man put up the rig.”
“‘Can’t stop long enough. I'am go-
ing on to Florence to get their ideas,
That's the shortest way home, and I
must get back to make my report.
Driver, keep the team here, You men
can go where you please but be back in
time to start.” :
The ruse having succeeded Go far,
Parker and Smith walked across the
plaza to the saloons jSunday or Monday
the heart of the Sanford business) while
the men followed aimlessly along, car-
rying their carbines on their hips.
The Arizonians considered this a
very peaceful spectacie, bnt they did
not know that in every carbine there
was a bullet of 400 grains with seventy
grains of powder behind it.
“Come in and have something,’’ said
the hospitable Smith, when had
crossed the square. *‘help you talk bu-
siness. *’
Parker accepted and they went in,
The saloon consisted of two rooms,
front and rear, In the front room were
two or taree loungers, but from the
back room issued through an open door
at the end of the bar various sounds
which gave evidence of a crowded table
of gamblers. Parker gave his order
and placed himself so that by turning
his head he could command a full view
of the back room. Then be looked for
his men. They were already at the
saloon dour leaning on their earbines.
They played their parts well, for they
seemed only waiting for their superior
before they took sa turn at the bar,
Parker took a generous Arizons Jie
and took it up; but instead of replying
to Smith's bacchanallan salute of ** Well,
lieutenant, nere’s how,” he turned his
eyes and glanced into the back room.
Directly in front of him at the
(ace.
recognition, he resorted to v
¥
up to a full revelation
“in that case” replied the colonel,
with a dusty, Arizona wit, “I will send
for my other daughter and give Helen a
leave too.’
nsi——
Settled on the Spot.
After standing in front of the store
for several minutes, seemingly undeei-
ded what to do, he entered and asked
for the proprietor and then began :
“My ole woman was gwine' loug
yere las’ night an’ fell down on your
sidewalk an’ busted ber elbow.”
“Ah! Well, being you are a poor
man I'll make the charges as light as
bile!”
“Bnt dat hain’t de case, sah. A
lawyer tells me dat you is ‘sponsible for
dat slippery sidewalk, an’ dat I kin git
da "
“Exactly; but you don’t understand
the matter. In the first place you must
fee your lawyer and put up for the
court expenses. Then you prove that I
own the sidewalk. Then you prove
that your wife was not guilty of con-
tributory negligence.
that your wife didn't bust her elbow by
| falling down stairs. Then I appeal the
| case and the higher court grants a new
trial. By that time your wife and her
| busted elbow are dead and buried and
| you are married again and you offer to
| settle for five pounds of brown sugar.”
“Fo'de Lawd! but has 1 got to wade
frew all dat?’
“All that and more, Tha grovety
business is cut so close that I 1 prob-
ably be a bankrupt by April, and then
what good will a judgment do you?”
“Pat's so; dat’s so.”
“Or the case may hang in the
Supreme Court until both of us are
dead.”
“1 see. And you would gin two
pounds of brown sugar to settle de case
now?’
“Den you may do it up, an’ acter
: you may i up, an
takes do odder side
i
The Ola Hanters Unee More.
When the old hunters came together
they talked up the celebration of Abe's
85th birthoay, which occurs early in
February, » ud it was agreed by the old
men, if thu weather wus suitable, to
have a shooting match on the north
meadow, Lie one who made 11¢ poorest
string to pv for a turkey diuner to be
served at M srrill’s cafe,
When this was settled, the back-log
question came up for discus. on, and
this well-worn subject was madi thread-
bare, Old Abe still contending that it
wouldn't explode, and Uncle Ben insist-
ing that it woald,
“But there’s no use talking about it
any more,” said uncie Ben, ‘though it
is mighty strange, if Abe has got confi
| dence in his own position, that he
| shou d run so when a piece of the pow-
dered log was thrown upon the fire,”
“I didn’t jump through the window,”
| he retorted with spirit,
| The Squire swilingly assented bya
{ nod of his head.
| What did you do?’’ said Uncle Ben,
| a little erustily, looking at the Squire.
| “He sought a place of danger,” re
| plied Old Ate, “by getting under the
table, where, if the log exploded, it
| wouid have made a clean sweep,”
“There was no possible danger,” an-
| swered the Squire; “you know, Abe, it
couldn't explode." and hiseye twinkled
with fun at this bull’s eye shot.
“Well,” said Uncle Ben, “when Abe
| was telling about touching off that
powder in the aperature of the Bolton
cave, last week, it called to mind a lit-
I was out there in Bolton one
lovely October day, back in "45, in com-
| pany with George Cook, partridge
{ shooting. We took a lunch at nooa
| somewhere near the present railread
| station, though there was no ratiroad
| through there then, We took our lunch
iat a
wife told us all about the Bolton cave
| spot,
| heard of before. According to the good
i
| lady, our informant, a tradition had
| that a squaw once attempted to explore
i }
| the narrowest conceivable
| way, but that she was never heard of
| again.”
| “Wascunosity her motive?"
| tioned.
“No: she was promised a gallon of
rum if she made her way through into
the cave.”
“What did tradition say became of
| her?”
| “It was believed that she reached a
| deep cavern in the bosom of the rocks,
and fell off into its unknown depths,”
Is it known there 18a cavern there?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered with an air
of belief; ‘‘several Bolton young men
| have crawled in until they heard the
| noise of falling waters,”
“(George stumped me to explore it
way with much confidence. For the
first few feet we crawled along well
enough, but after a while it became
more difficult to worm our way along.
[ had George by the ankles, so that if
he came to the falling-off place I could
hold him from dropping over. When I
got so that it was tignt fitting for my
the job, It seemed to me that we should
ot stuck there, and 88 nO One Saw us
or
=
KO in,
would have equaled the fate of the old
squaw. Suppose the hill of rock should
seitie ever so little. The very thought
made me uncomfortable. [ suggested
to George that we snonld back out.”
“No, said he, with provoking cool
ness. “let's us keep on.”’
“Then I tried to scare him into a re-
treat, but the Cook blood doesn't scare,
easily, and be kept on worming himself
along. But there was one thing George
never did like; he abhorred snakes,
1 tried the snake dodge, I very quietly
remarked: ‘George, this is October, you
know.’ "
“Well, what of it?"’ asked he,
“Snakes go into winter quarters in
October.”
1 fait a little nervous twitching in his
right leg but he still slowly pushed
ahead. re had too much pride to yield
at once. In a minute, however, he said,
«here is a Kind of a projection, which
may trouble us to get past.”
“Well, go ahead,” said IL
“+ thought you wanted to back out,”
said he.
“I have changed my mind. Go
ahead."
those snakes,
“Did you hear the falling waters?"
asked the Squire,
After we came out we partook of
some sweetened water which George
brought along in a flask. It came from
Asa Farwell’s and it was prime-—the
best water we ever tasted.
Pomp came in with a fresh mug of
| cider when the story ended and the eon.
| yersation took a wide range, and among
| other things the question if a rifle bal-
jet could be made to deviate from a
| straight course, came up, and as it was
impossible for the old hunters to agree
upon any one thing, Abe took Lhe allir-
mative and Unele Ben the negative of
the question, and the discussion waxed
warm, The
guments for a full hour without saying
an opinion.
“Why,” said the Squire, ‘I heard
this question talked up years ago. A
young Hartford sportsman contended
that a rifle could be made to shoei
round a corner, if the nfle could be
moved swiftly enough at the instant of
explosion. o maintained that the ball
would describe a curve if In swift mo
tion when The other side
stoutly contented that no matter how
swiftly the rifle was moved, that when
the ball left the muzzle it must puarsae
a straight line. They had just as warm
an arguement as you have bad, aud
when they got through they were as
wide as ever. Just as they cooled
ncle Bam Suh. one of Colt’s
workmen, came was
to for an opinion in the matter, Each
side gave their arguments, and the
old patriarch, as ‘Uncle Sam’ was some-
times called,
ha been called
on a question.
| sed to treat It seriously uw
Wo
sportsman insisted on his giving an
opinion,
‘Well, state the question,’ said Uncle
“1 will state it plainly and in a few
words,” said the youthful rifleman with
a proud look of triumph. Here is the
question: “Can a rifie shoot round a
moutitain?’’
“Yes,” roared Uncle Bam, ‘‘and
through it if it as soft as your head.”
“Did this end the discussion?’’ asked
Uncle Ben.
“No,” answered the Squire.
“Of course not,” said old Abe a little
stiffly,
“I'hey finally decided upon a test,”
contined the Squire.
try the experiment. If P., the young
be failed to make one of the balls of fire
deviate from a straight line either to
the right or left, he should give up the
argument and own up beat, The trial
| was made and P. lost.”
+I don’t give it up,” said Abe.
“Of course not,” put in Uncle Ben,
sarcastically.
he continued,
“I'll test it with a shot gun, When
| we go out to the target shoot on my
birthday, 1 will load my single-barrel
gun with No, 1 shot and place U
Ben behind one of the abutments of the
railroad bridge, and I'l see if I can’t
| swing shot enough round on him Ww
! warm up his jacket. Come!
you say to that.
* Pil agree to it,” said Uncle Ben,
1 “'d beas safe as that fox was you
didn’t fire at when you sang out,
“There he goes! there he goes!”
This was always a sore spol with Abe,
| and he got up and gave a sleepy yawn,
| which was a signal for the old man to
go home,
|
|
{
i
Hard to be Baa,
cos—
| good?”
{ all of the Ten Commandments than
is to keep one of them,
| Well, you mis-
| take,
It isn’t hard to be good. IU's
hard to be bad. Ah, yes, my boy, it's
hard to be bad, Not right at the time?
{ Oh, nol The wine is sparkling,
ming with bumor and the air is fall of
laughter. You are just as bad as you
know how to be, and it is lots of fun to
be bad, and you never want to be good
oh, yes, it seems to be very easy and
very delightful to be bad at night, But
| the next mornifig, my boy? Where is
| the difficulty then? Who feels serious
in the morning? Whose head can’t be
covered witha tub? Who is afraid and
ashamed to go out on the street and
meet people? Who doesn’t want to see
anybody? Who wants to hide? Who
wonders where he was last night, and
whom he met, and who saw him, and
| what he saad, and where he went, and
how he did? Not the boy who went to
the sociable and ate cast iron pound-
cake and washed it down with fadad
lemonade. Not the young man who
| passed the evening in the company of
the goody, goody at the debating society.
{ Ah, no. He didn’t hear the rollicking
| songs that you heard, my boy, and he
| didn’t bear the racy stories that *“broke
you all up.” But he is feeling much
better than you are this morning. He
| finds it easy to be “‘good;” very easy
indeed. But to be bad, to have the
| headache. to bave a sour, rebellious
stomach, to have uncertain eyes, to
have a treacherous memory, to have a
| sense of shame, to have a dread of sun-
shine and a horror of daylight, to have
a set of quivering nerves and a falter-
| ing speech, to have a raging thirst that
| water cannot appease and a gnawing
| hunger that loathes food, to have a
dread of meeting your mother, my boy,
shame of speaking to your good old
father—this is hard, my son. This is
being “bad.” And--look me in the
eve, Telemachus, look me in the eye—
honestly now, bonor bright, do vou
think this is easier than being “‘good?’’
My dear boy. you may call your “good”
friend a milksop and 4 “mammy boy”
if you will, and you may in your better
moments sometimes say you would like
weigh the “good’ and the “‘bad.”
me honestly, which is the harder, to be
“good or to be “bad.” Ah, my boy, it
is easier to be *'go “The way of
| the transgressor is hard.”
"
str Julias Benedict and fis Friends,
When the history of music and musi-
| clans has been completed to the end of
| the present century, the position ocen-
| pled in its annals by Sir Julius Benedict
| will be found in many respects without
| a parallel, To very few musicians emi-
| pent in several departments of their
| profession is given to celebrate their fif-
| tieth annual concert, nor does a case
| frequently occur of a composer in his
| pightieth year producing an oratorio
| from his own pen. These circumstan-
| cas would alone form a sufficient claim
| to honorable remembrances, but—still
| keeping aside Sir Julius edict’s
| right to be cousidered as a representa.
| tive musician of his time--there are
| other respects in which his career
merits more than ordinary distinction.
[ne opportunities which he has enjoyed
of holding intercourse with many of the
| creat creators of musical composition
re, we think, unique. Benedict knew
peethoven in 1827, and he had the
wonor of being not only a pupil but a
friend of both Weber and Hummel,
Mendelssohn, he nombered among the
companions of his youth, and later on,
while in Paris, be was on the most inti.
mate terms with Rossini, Auber, Mey-
| erbeer, a and
olhers « 4
world, In our own gountry, during his
i
i
tine, and has gained
tion in our y
has suceceded yin attaining since
a BR ——
Marrving sn Heiress,
“Congratulate me,” said Harry Ver-
non te Albert Courtney. Youcan guess
for what,”
“You are engaged to Miss Town-
send?"
“Yen, "”
“I do with all my heart, But I am
sorry she is an heiress.”
“Well, now, that is odd.”
“Not 80 odd as you think. Have you
| ever thought, Harry, what the marry-
| ing of an heiress really means?’
“That's it. It's the lot of tin in
“How 80?”
“1 will tell you. Take two girls, one
brought up as an heiress and one with
little or no expectations, The latter
| has no absurd ideas of position to keep
{up. If she has taste she will look as
| well in a chintz as others do in siiks,
| Bhe will get up an entertainment, and
| yon will be surprised how little it costs,
| “With such a wife a man can live on
| two-thirds of what he would otherwise
| have to spend; and from those savings
| alone he will grow comparatively well
| off In time.”
“] know who sat for that picture,
{old fellow. But Anne certainly is a
| treasure. Now fire away at me and
| Mary.”
“It is not of Miss Townsend, indi-
| vidually, 1 shall speak; it is the class.
| A girl brought up with the notion that
| she 1s to be rich must be almost more
| than mortal not to imbibe notions of
her own importance. What are huxu-
| ries wo others become, through leng use,
only necessaries to ber, How is il pos-
gible she should escape being seifish?’’
“*But her husband will have seme in-
come, and her fortune, when it comes,
| will help that out.”
““I'here is nothing like figures."
“Very well.”
“Now, when a girl, with twenty
| thousand in expectaney, marries, she
| spends, generally, a thousand a year
more than if she had ue fortune in pros-
pect. If twenty yearselapse hefore her
portion falls to her the whole of it has
been spent before it arrives, and twenty
vears is not, in the average, an pXCess-
ive time to have to wait. But'Ta fact,
if the loss on interest is taken into ac-
count, the twenty thousand wilFhave
been expended before.”
“But you don’t mean to say that we
will spend a thousand a year more than
you and Anne?”
“1 don’t mean to make any personal
plication of my remarks, Harry.
iat I leave for yourself.”
“If I wasn’t the best natured fellow
in the world I should get angry, Butl
know it's all nonsense wt you have
been saying. You ony wish to croak a
tittle; you always would croak, you
know.”
The two {friends were married about
the same time. Both moved into Lhe
same block, paid the same amouni of
rent, and seemed 10 start life almost
exactly alike. It was pot long, how-
ever. before Courtney’s predictions be-
| an to be realized. Mrs, Vernon soon
foun. that she could notdo without
| an extra servant. Then she rarely went
| out into the kitchen, never having been
| taught anything about cooking. « This
| made her table cost more than Mrs,
Courtney’s,
She had a false notion, only $60 com-
mon, that drudgery was not lady-like,
and hence neglected a proper supervision
{of her house. Her unmarried sisters
were very gay and were constantly giv-
ing parties, and she could not but give
them and others parties in reburn. At
the end of the year, when Vernon cast
up his accounts, he found that has ex-
penses had greatly exceeded his expec-
| tations. He thought, ruefully, of what
Courtiey had told him, and 1esolved to
do bet er next year. But the next year
passed and things were even worse,
Increased expenses had come, which
were unavoidable. He was a young
lawyer, and young lawyers are proverb-
ially slow in getting pmactice, and he
‘ began look forward to the fuluse
| with uneasiness, for as yet be kad not
profited a cent from his wife benz an
| heiress, por was it probable he would
for many years, for Mr. Townsend was
| still a hearty man, not yet 50.
| Time passed. In te: years Courtney
bad laid by quite a little capital, which,
by judicious investments. now began to
jncrease rapidly. If he hud wished to
he could have spent twice as much as
he did, and still have lived within his
income. He and Vernon continacd to
occupy the houses into which they had
moved on being married. Dut while
that of the Courtneys belonged to them
the Vernons still had to pay rent for
theirs, and often found this Bo easy
matter, The one house was always tidy
and fresh; the other had alook of faded
gentility. In the one was comfort and
competence: in the other a constant
contrivance to keep up appearances.
Courtney is still handsome, and so is
his wife. But both Vernon and Mary
bave a jaded look, which plainly betrays
the struggle they have with fortune.
Of all property that of people like the
Vernons is the worst, What did Har-
ry make by marrying an belress.
Sh ———
Begging in China,
i
ap
i
Ww
In China begging 18s reguiar busi
being born into the pro-
fession, and bring up their childwea to
it. In every large city there is a vast
association of mendicants, to which
every one who begs for alt must
At the head is one sty