WILD ROSES, On long, serene midsummer days Of ripening fruit and yellowed grain, How sweetly, by dim woodland ways, In tangled hedge or leafy lane, Fair wild rose thickets, you unfold Those pale pink stars with hearts of gold! Your sleck patrician sisters dwell On lawns where gleams the shrab’s trim | bosk, In terraced gardens, tendered well, Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk, In costlier urns their colors rest; They beam on beauty's fragrant breast. But you in lowly calm abide, Bearce heeded saye by breeze or bee; You know what splendor, pomp and pride Full oft your brilliant sisters see; What sorrow, too, and bitter fears— What mad farewells and hopoless tears, How some are kept in old, dear books, That once in bridal wreaths were worn; How some are kissed, with tender looks, And later tossed asidé with scorn; How some their spotless petals lay On oy foreheads pale as they! So, while these truths you vaguely guess, Abloom in many a lonesome spot, Shy roadside roses, may you bless The fate that rules your modest lot, Like rustic maids that meekly stand Below the ladies of the laud! TIC DEVOTED FRIENDS. ever seen apart from each other, They were employed in the same department of the Arkansas State government; they oocupied the same room, read the same books, and, at the restaurant, as Archer once declared, always ate off the same | ble-cloth, Both Archer and Plover | were much given to reading, The war | having come on just n time to spoil the | chances of a professional course at col- lege, the two young men after the giant struggle had ceased, found themselves almost on a financial level with the demonstrative old Southern governor, who, when asked if he could not aid in the construction of a railray, replied: “You, gentlemen, may not believe it, | but I haven't a blamed cent,” Archer's | parents were dead; Plover's father, mother and sister lived a short distance | | | { i } | from town, in an old red brick house, | where the two friends often speat much of their leisure time. Young Plover was especially devoted to his sister, a tall young woman who wore short hair. She possessed a soft, winning voice, but her eyes were catlike; she was easy of manner, but her words of greet ing echoed with the hollowness of in- sincerity. Vain and envious, spiteful | and jealous, the keen perception of young Archer told him that nature had not granted to her that rich generosity with which her brother had been en- | dowed, : “Elia,” P over one day said to his | sister, “what do yon think of my friend?” “Mr. Archer?” *Yes, vou know I always speak o him a8 my friend.” “Ob, I like him because he is your friend,” “*And for no other reason, Elia?” i “Youn musn’t ask me that, Lo.” “Well, but I wan't to know, sis.” ‘‘Are you afraid that I will marry him?" “Afraid! Why, I would give any-’ thing if you should. He is a noble fel- low, and quite worthy of you. In fact, he is the only man I would like to see you marry, Teil me, now, don’t you love him?” “Lu, you must be ay Do Zoe | suppose that I am going to tell you $! I love a man before I find out that the | man loves me? Tell me, Lu, did he | @Yer say an about me?" “Oh. it 1s hardly time yet, for yon | have been home but a short time, Do | you know that I cannot bear the ides | of your being a governess any longer? [ | couldn't stand it, that’s all” : “You are getting off the subject, | Bud. Are you sure you never heard | him say anything about me?” “Quite sure. I have never asked him, | and he is not the man to tell me unless | I should,” “1 tell yon one thing I've noticed. Every time he comes home with you — no, 1 won't say it.” “Yes, you must, going to say?” “No, it is better to leave it unsaid. | It would sound selfish” “Remember, girl, that you are talk- ing fo your brother. to say?” “That while down here he always | over to Gladrow's,” “What of that?” | “He to see Eva Gladrow, | That's what there is of it.” . “] think not. I have never heard | him speak of her,” ““But have you asked him? You said just now that he was not a man to tell | you such things unless you should ask | him. I declare the friendship existing between you two men is peculiar, You never confide your secrets to each other,” “Hecause we have none, doubtless ” “No, it is becsuse you don’t know bow to be friends. You make a tense of thinking much of each other, but Ijost know it wonldn't take any- thing hardly to make you nght.” it he should insult me I'would fight him, of course; but understanding each other #0 well. there is no likelihood of a quarrel. Believe I'll take a stroll. Want to go, pat?” “No, Bay, Ln, sometime I wish youn would sek him,” “Ask him what?’ pre Re me.” : What were you | What were you | Ask him what he nas Sat wi i sng a sunny wing cheeks, and eyes expres- really love me? If you should ever discover that yon made a mistake, how awful it would be,” “Such a time will never come,” he replied, arising, leaning over and kiss- ing her, “1 could love no ono else, for 1 believe that we were created for I know that such words true, Eva, and old truths are the truest truths that exist.” “Are you going so som?” “Yes, the Plover's will keep dinner waiting, Good-bye, sweet girl," put- tiag his arm around her. “I shall see you again soon,” She accompanied him to the door sud kissed him, “Hello!” ericd Plover as Archer was passing throu bu the orchard, *‘Which wey?’ ‘Just going to the house,” stopping and joining his friend. ‘I didn’t want them to keep dinner waiting.” “Where have you been around?” “] am not much of a roamer, you know. With au easy place to sit and an entertaining book I can content my- self without ki ling time by musoular force.” ‘“‘Have you been reading a book, Archer?” asked Plover, looking slyly at his friend, “Yes, a book of beautiful poews. Shai! we return to town this evening?” “Just as you say, 1 am willing at any time. Father complained this morning because we do not come down oftener. He is growing old and I wust humor him. Ella shall not go out again as governess, It makes me mad every | time that 1 think she has been ocom- | pelled to work for a living. It shall not occur again. Tell me, Archer, what do | you think of hei?” “How could I think otherwise then roaming tonished that you shonid ask such a question, old boy.” “1 am rather astonished myself, but it was anxiety, Archer, for it wonld be | & grievous disappointment to know that | you did not like her, There's the din- ner bell now, We are just in time.” Mr. and Mrs, Plover were quite oid | They looked as though their broken. The empty row of cabins fall- | ing into decay; the onee rich land now flutedd with innumerable gullies; the | gin house--all may have had much to do with throwing the shadow of sadness on the faces of the old man and his’ wife, After dinner the family ascended to the parlor, One by one they went away until Archer found himself snd “We are much gratified with your | visits, Mr, Archer, said the young lady, | brother every time he comes home,” “I warmly appreciate the kindness you have all shown me, Miss Ella, 'L'his the frown of war, that I never tire of “1 hope the inmates, too, receive a “Oh, yes. To the inmates, I think, belong the especial charm.” “Thank you. I did not think yon “You are mistaking mere truth for “Do you know that I once thought that your conversation was surely as musty as the old books you read? Yes, and I could in imagination see you rak- ing the cobwebs from your voice.” “*An inconsistent conceit, Miss Ella, | books. Bome of them may be old— | which makes them all the better—but they are not musty. Mustiness does | not necessarily accompany age. If so, | old wine would be no longer sought, Where did Louis go? It was our inten- | tion to return this evening.” : “If you are not entertained I will call him?" He looked up quickly, snd studying “*Another inconsistent conceit, You | must think that I am beyond the range | of ~ntertainment.” i **Oh, no, Mr. Archer, I know that I I know there are persons Archer began to grow nervous and | 1 brazen, she gazed into lus eyes, ‘You i would rather talk to Eva Giadrow, and | Oh, I know I am | dal” i “You Piover.” “An adroit admission, Peculiar peo- | ple are always dull, Shall I call my brother?” i in wa lm Tu | and his father were standing in | the yard. She went to the window and | called. A moment later Louis entered | the room, “Your friend is very restless,” she said, You'd better take him back to | town.” “Ready any time, Arch. The horses are ut the Good-bye, sis. We'll be down again pretty soon,” “CGood-evening, Miss Plover,” ‘‘Good-evening, sir.” Louis looked in astonishment, “What makes you so silent?” ashed Plover to his friend, when thay had rid- den some distance toward town, * ‘Your own silence, Louis, must have suggested the remark. You have not spoke since we left the house,” “I was thinking of sister.” bapa L" Archer could not help are certainly peculiar, Miss | “You are not in a very good humor, Arch. I don't believe I ever before found you to be so gloomy.” Archer went down into the country the next day, but instead of stopping at Plover's, he went direet to Gladrow’s, A negro girl met him at the door, ““Oan 1 see Miss Eva?” “But for a moment, sir,” replied the young lady, appearing in the hall, Ar. cher advanced, not without perturba. tion, and extended his hand, The girl drew back, “What on earth is the mutter?” he asked, “I don't wish to see you again, sir, You are unworthy of any one's confi- dence, I do not eare to hear an expla- nation, Oh, yon are a villain,” burst. ing into a flood of tears, ‘Leave this house or I'll eall my father. Go, I tell youl” Archer was stunned. Mounting his horse he rode away. He could not un- derstand the cuuse of the treatment he he had received. He had not proceeded far when he met a young lady with whom he was acquainted-—a friend of Miss Gladrow. “Did you see Eva?” asked the young lady, ‘Yes, but she—" son with her, but her heart is almost broken,” all this?" “I will tell you, but you must not yesterday evening Ella Plover, in whom Eva had great confidence, came over, ‘I told him," she said, ‘that I thought he was in love with you, but he laughed derisively, and replied that you,” Louis made him shudder, When he entered the room, Louis was lying on “Hello, Arch; been down in the country, eh? Did you see sister?” “Bee the dickens!” Louis sprang up. “I beg your pardon, Louis. 1 did not Your sister has ruined me,” ‘Ruined you!” “Yes, She told Eva Gladrow that I | had proposed to her, that—oh, she made me out a wretch, snd" “I don't believe a word of 11?” “Well” “Yon have heard what I said.” “Yea, and you shall hear what I say. You have a fnend handy, I suppose?” “1 am pot altogether friendiess,” on his clothes, *“My friend will call on you, sir, Good night,” An hour afterward srrangemen's for a duel were completed. The young men were to meet in the conntry, nt from the Ployer residence. expressed this wish, so that one o: both of them, as the cass migh be, could be conveyed to the old house, The sun had just risen when the parties met in a little field surrounded by woods, “Louis,” said Archer, §* ‘even though we fight, let us remain friends. I can- not bear to think that the long time we have apent tether was wasted. The word friendship was not to be blotted “Archer,” replied Plover, ‘as a man my heart warms toward you, but as a brother I ean shoot you,” unfortunate affair so that blood will not be spilled?” “1 am afraid not,” Archer replied. “1% can be,” exclaimed Plover. ‘Tell me from whom you got your informa tion. Then we can investigate.” “1 cannot.” “Then, sir, I aw ready.” ‘1 don't see any harm in telling him,’ said Plover’s second. “Even though you were to violate a promise you could find consolation in the thought that you bad saved human life,” ing.” rejoined Archer, *‘1 believe that my informant told the truth.” “1 am ready,” remafked Piover, “Your father, Plover, Yes, and he's got a gun, The old man slowly spproached. Taking his gun from his shoulder and eoocking it, he said: Oh, 1 You are a fine lot ot fools, Going to shoot each other, eh? Louis, Archer is Hg. Louis dropped his pistol “Ella confessed it to me, She and Eva have made friends, and, Archer she 18 at my house, waiting for you,” Archer dropped his pistol, “Wouldn't this have been a fine come off?” continued the old man, *1 am a great mind to take a stick and beat all of you. Let us go to the house. Breakfast is about ready.” Louis snd Archer embraced each other, * © * * ™ “I never saw Eva look so Sa remarked old man Gladrow to his wife. “Well she may be, David, for she's got a good husband, and what more could a girl ask, 1'd tike to know?” Ha : 1 : ; i £ A Peunsylvania Ball- Fight. William Kelley is a large, powerful man, with considerable experience in the handling of horses and oattle, He was sent Ly the Poor Board to Beaver to briv: back the Jersey bull Duke of Maun :e, recently purchased, to be placed ou the Poor Farm, The animal cost considerable money, snd Mr. Kelley vas loaded down with cautions as to how he must care for him, and not iat his charge come te any injury. Mr, Kelley lassced the bovine, and, putting a “snapp /” in his nose, tied a rope to it, and led the bull to the train, The animal was placed in an ordin- ary freight car, and tied to a'ring in one end, Naturally very ugly and excitable, the bull got almost [rantioc with the nome and motion of the train, Keliey dared not leave him, { and remained in the car. Within ten { minutes of the start the bull the rope with which he was tied close up to the ring in the nose, The train was ranning along pretty fast and | Kelley was afraid that the animal | would jump from the ear, and so he | tnrned and droye the gentieman into | the opposite corner. Then the Jersey | Taurus seemed to be struck with the idea that if he lifted Mr. Kelley up through the roof it would be safer for all concerned. Mr, Kelley naturally objected, and some twenty minutes { was spent very much in the same po- { sition as a couple of marbles would { take in a rapidly revolving pan, Finally Mr. Kelley succeeded in getting hold of the ring in the nose of the gentleman trom Beaver, and to this he clung. When the bull would got restive and try to shake him loose, people along the line thought it was thunder. Kelley started out to save the bull, but inside of twenty minutes would have given 850 to save himself | He finally half-tired the animal out, so | that he would stand pretiy quiet ex- cept when the train would stop, Then | the bull would lead Mr. Kelley up and down the car a fey tunes for exercise, could only see the animal's eyes and a white spot on the end of his tail. The | two eyes, he says, looked like coach. | lamps, At Charters the train stopped. A tramp came along, and, seeing the car-door open, climbed in to steal a ride, “Here, you,” said Kelley. “Got a matoh?”’ “Yes,” said the tramp, as he pro- duced the lucifer, “For God's sake light it aud help me tie this bull,” said Kelley. The tramp, getting the location of the pair, soon helped Kelley tie him and the rampant bovine rode into Pitts. cent, _— MD —————— Stanley's Sketch of » Slave Fen in Congo. There are rows upon rows of dark nakedness, relieved here and there by the white dresses of the captors, There are lines or groups of naked forms, np- right, standing or moving about list. lesaly, naked bodies are stretched under the sheds in all positions; naked legs innumerable are scen in the perspective less naked children, many mere infants, forms of boyhood and girlhood, and occasionally a drove of absolutely naked old women, bending under a basket of fuel, or cassava tubers, or bananas, who by two or three musketeers, | more attention w details I Ou paying observed iron rings about their necks; through i which a chain, like one of our boat by twenties, The children over 10 are secured by three copper rings, each ringed leg brought together by the cen- tral ring, which accounts for the appar- { ent listiessueas of movement I observed ion first coming in presence of the { curious scene, The mothers are se- cured by shorter chains, around whom their respective progeny of infants are | grouped, hiding the cruel iron links | that fall in loops or festoons over thelr | mammas’ breasts, There Is not one ! adult man captive among them, * * * | Little perhaps as my face betrayed my | feelings, other pictures would crowd ! upon the imagination; and after real. | izing the extent and depth of the mus. | ery presented to me, 1 walked about as in a kind of dream, wherein [I saw stealthy forms of the murderers creeping {| toward the doomed town, its inmates | ail asleep, and no sound issuing from | the gloom but the drowsy hum of chirp- | ing cicada or distant froge-——when sud. | denly flashes the light of brandishing | torches; the sleeping town is involved | in flames, while volleys of musketry lay | low the frightened and astonished peo | ple, uv of agony to that soundiess sleep | from which there will be no waking. A Drifting Uharnel Moose, i | Yellow fever is the direct result of | the slave traffic, the dread scou | having been unknown in America till brought here by that trade. The African disease intensified by the fithy habits of human cargoes, came first to the of Vera Cruz with a slave ship in 1600, and in like manner was transferred to all the West Indies. In Vera Crus, whenever an old wall 18 taken down or a street dug into, the fever is sure to break out with redoubled force in that locality, thus showing that the germs are always present, though sometimes dormant until disturbed, Am the numerous yellow fever stories with which Vera Cruzans are wont to cheer visiting strangers, they tell that once & vessel drified into port, apparently at mandom, and without hoisting any of the usual Ru- mors ran through the town a pirate RE Es sions bat Anaily the on a m 3 y strange craft was boarded by the au- theres. whe found it fo be ’ charnel house CCOmMpOsing corpses, for every soul on board had perished of vomito, The Western Druggist there is a lasgely lnstetied demand the of Sueslyplus on its i snd 10 rust and *'y A with the THE FASHIONS. ors, and soft tints show progressive in. sight into artistic effects not confined For years out-door costumes have been too much limited to black and dull shades of brown or gray, a penitential sack-cloth - and - ashes era, with chance of a saving aispensation. | heliotrope, in the prevalénce of cream {| white, in the revival of soft pink and canary colors, and the introduction of | gold, silver or bronze threads or pow- i | tions, used in silks, wools and metal, the ef- { known as “‘esthetic,” and laughed at {| when associated with a peculiar kind of { dress, have crept into public estima- tion from their inherent beauty and | adaptability, and now we find the gray | and peacock blues, the terra-cottas, the bronze, the cresson and olive greens, the palest shades of gold, the soft wood browns, the stone grays, the tints Ir white, the flesh pinks, and others as lovely and suggestive, in possession of the field, and the bard greens and pur- ples and yellows of a few years ago voled out of date. Even to the high { colors there is a depth which holds light | and shade and subtle possibilities, while many of the more recent show iride- scent mixtures, or are woven in differ ent shades for graduated combinations. -~ Another and still more popular method of softening high color, or ren dering still more delicate the light col- ors, 1s by covering with lace or embroid- | ery, The modern method of making | these beautiful | All the prettiest patterns in hand-made {laces and needlework are now repro duced by machinery, and may be used her tuilet, be 4 3 fir } BA distinetion in women are beginning to of out-door life, and t ure in it. Ope of the renson that they join more freely than formerly f men: hunting ball American appreciative in the out-door sports « boating, driving, tennis, { even and cricket, All these requi ence of costume from the \ ventional standards, and help lo give variety and picturesqiene cial life. Every one, It is not dress according to the best sland ards of taste and propriety even | | ciety. but there are others who are g emed more by correct | onventional their own healt i i Gress almosg LO our vari wh Salty the to propriely played in wearing w for a coaching ir fish 1; but one can ro tions of tinted sali covered with open e1 ! like satin, or soft fanned with white, gray combine red, and cream white with goid, that | make a group of young women a charm. ing incident a summer landscape, and all the more 80 since thelr suitable and healthful, as well as pretty and becoming. ~The light and dark shades of rock | and stone gray, and also of smoke and | blue gray, violet and canary shades are eo Ps L that look trimmed with poppy- i } 4 in ikl Trane fs Iress is not too trying, and also rose pink, prem- ising that the considerate modiste will always soften where it is necessary with mixed embroidery upon the material or ince, commonly made that should be avoided, | no relation to the dress, It is pol in- | frequent to ses darned cotton lace, in | veiling and even Chuddah cloth. The | reason is that it is cheap and showy, | but it is wholly unsui’able for this pur- | pose, and it would be better to finish | with som: dainty tucking in the mate. | rial than to put on a lace only suited to | ordinary lawns and darned, or whal are { called Madras, muslins, | «—Formorning toilet an elegant desh- | abille silk crape Is much employed, | trimmed with white lace and flowing | bows of ribbon. | gathered, falls loose, is rounded off in | draperies, but is never tight-fitting. In | a simpler style we have plain or printed | foulard, trimmed with imitation Mech- | lin, Valenciennes or other lace. Woolen { Jace is in greater vogue than ever, | Traveling mantels when made the shape of a visite are long and with large | sleeves, redingotes and pelisses fit tight | and have many plaits or gathers at the back, a band or string put on the inside | draws in the waist, and they are but. | toned the whole length, Thin matenals | they are intended to set the cos. | tume from dust, rain and other acei- dents on the way. Very wide sashes are worn, both with washing and silk gowns, and also for evening, and the loops are so ar- ranged that they form a back drapery of themselves. A white lace dress, with a variety of these sashes, may be made to do a good deal of hard work for morning or evening wear. A vel. vet bodice in the evening with a lace skirt is always dressy, and the same skirt with a lace bodice will do for af. ternoon wear. Valenciennes is the best lace for this style of toilet. A few women, generally of mature , wear a terrace-like on at back of their dresses, but as a rule bustles are only seen in ‘‘fashion '" «The horrid, waggling crivolette bustle is no worn, best HORSE NOTES. ~The time of Epaulét’s exhibition | mile at Cleveland was 2,204, | ~Itis romored that Green Morris | nay winter his stable in California. I ~=Clingstone's wile in 2.14, last Fri- | day, shows that he has regained his form. ~Billy MeDonald no longer drives the pacer Billy 8. Jack Splan Is his SUCCessor, ~The Cleveland Driving Club claims September 15 to 18 for a fall trotting meeling | ~—Kenney the steeplechase jockey, | had his collar-bone broken by tne horse i Jim Casey’s fall, Albert France sold as favorite for i the 2.21 class race at Cleveland, but Adelaide won handily. —The grand ¥Frix ge vars wie run in 1887 obtained no less tran 390 Eng- lish and French entries, It is under. stood that Mr. A. J. Casselt has sever- al coils engaged. Billy Donohue, the Jockey, has almost made up his mind to stop riding at Brighton Beach as he finds a sort of diserimination exercised against him in getting good mounts. ~— Trinket has not been her fast heat at Homewood er thinks he will | gets well again, ~The C ti right since and Turn- lost their of oy er alifornia stables have hie prestige which characterized brilliant career through a period i two months, —~The stallion Rivoli died July 25, al the farm of his owner, BR, P, Gor. { man, of Craig, Atchison county, Mo. ~The profits of the Cleveland meet- ing were close on to $10,000, The av- erage of the forty-six beats trotted and paced was a little better than 2 20, ~The time by quarters of Maud B.’s three miles in better than 2.10 is as fol- lows: Quartier. Hall. Three quarters, Mile. Aagusl 2 1884. .58%s 104% La 20x Nov, 11, 1864, 30ye 1.04 00 July S90, 1885. B2ns, 1.0434 rosy ~85iX trotters and two pacers dropped into the 2.20 class last week in the cir- cuit meetings, They were Jerome Turner, record 2174; Glen Miller, 2.1%; Billy Button, 2.18}; Lena Swal- low, 2.19; Mambrino Sparkle, 2,19}; Amelia C,, 2,194; and the pacers New Hope, 2.16}, and Lottie P., 2.174. New Jersey will hold her twenty- seventh annual State Fair at Waverly »" ptember 14, 16, 17, and 18, thousand dollars in premiums # awarded for the various exhib. sum being set aside lation of the Cleveland as follows: leats trotted, time 1h, 49m. 231s. average 5; heats paced 11; total 154s.; average per heat, Jimmy Iastin says he shal h Maxey Cobb during the hot i tut that Ly fall he will | great ave may race COG IiLion and he another £2.500 a side, » Cleveland Jockey Club pre- r. Bouner with a cup, symbol- ‘ s» event, for Maud 8's great performance of July 50, It was made by Tiffany & and valued at $800. Archer's record up to the 24th ult. was 345 mounts, of which be had won 238. CC. Wood was second, with 277 | mounts and 77 wins, and George Bar- rett third, with 200 mounts and 57 wins, ~The withdrawal of Clingstone from the free-for-all trot at Cleveland caused no little hard feeling, as the purse was made for the benefit of Mr. | Gordon. Harry Wilkes started, and a race between him and Clingstons would have been a great drawing card, Mr. Gordon has decided to adbere (0 his resolution, made seme years ago, and { will not trot Clingstone against a feld of horses, —Phallas arrived at Belmont Park ! on the 6th from Cleveland. His driver, Edward Bither, reports that the famous stallion is in splendid condition. He | considers Wilkes the hardest horse on the turf to beat, and does not feel very sanguine of being able to accomplish { the feat. Wilkes has been beaten but | once, and at Homewood Park, Pitts | burg, July 16, he trotted the three | fastest heats made this season. Time | 2 164, 2.15} and 2.16. | «The trouble with Jerome Turner | has been found and treated. It was ! thought he had a corn, and was treated | for that, his hoof being cut away. | Now it has been {ound that some sand | has worked under the shoe into the cut and packed, and the result was that | the horse went lame, and it was hard | to detect the seat of the trouble. It | has now been remedied, and it is exe pected that he will go fast from now out, Several gyears ago when Phyllis was a trifle , her tramer, “Pop” Wagner, hired a boat, and every morn- ing used to slip the mare down to the lake and give her a good swim, and, as a result, he succeeded in curing the lameness, and at the same time kept tpt $ HIVB0 iid ¢ pan in her wonderful mile of 2.083, and, while I considered it a wonderful rmance, 1 am positive, If every- thing goes well with her, that she will go a full mile this season in 2.07 or bet- F5E3sELE ik il fa2ik
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