Birds of Passage. nb —— i — The [litle birds trust God. for they go singing From Northern woods where autumn winds have Blown, With joyous faith their winging To summerdands of song, afar, unknown. trackless pathway And if He eares for them through wintry weather, Ana will not disappoint one little bird, Will He not be as true a Heavenly Father To every soul who trusts His holy Word? Let us go singing then, and not go sighing. Rinee we are sure our times are in His hand, Why should we weep, and fear, and callit dying? "Tis only fitting to a sununerdand! AN INNOCENT BURGLAR. “Now do lie still, Aunt Martha, and don't fret and worry all day and all night, Aunt it is bad enough to be all aches and pains, but you must add fretting to them¥”’ The speaker was a tall, bony woman of some 45 or 50 years, with a hard face, that expressed far more annoy- ance than sympathy as she shook up the pillows and arranged the covers of the bed where an older woman lay. Not a very old woman, but one whose gray hair and wrinkled cheeks told of many years’ sojourn in the world. **Bertha!’’ she said, in a low, plain- tive voice. *‘‘I want Berthal” “How many times have I told you that Bertha can’t be found?” “*She’s down stairs.” **Well, if it wouldn't try the patience of a saint to hear you! Can’t you re member Aunt Martha? Bertha ran away two years ago with that painting chap that said his name was Thornton, Goodness knows whether it was or not, But he made love to Bertha while he was painting her picture. I told you no good would come of letting her rig herself out like a. play-actress, and stand up for hours, a smirking and smiling, while he took her picture and alked soft nonsence to her. He ran away with her and that was the end of it, Can't you remember?’ “Yes, I remember! He wrote to me, and sent me a copy of the marriage lines, s0 I'd know he loved her true and faithful, I remember it all, Han- t nah! And I was mad because they'd deceived me, and wrote back an angry letter, But I did not know I should miss her pretty face and sweet voice, She was so young, too, Hannah, Only sixteen! Not more than a child! I was too hard, too hard. But she is here, now. Let her come to mel”? All this was uttered in tbe faint, gasping voice of one whose journey of life was fast drawing to a close. But there was no pity in the hard face, no tenderness in the barsh voice of her niece. “I tell you she is not herel’’ she said, | roughly, **and I'm tired of your eternal whining for ber. Go to sleep!” “I can’t sleep! 1 never sleep now! And I heard her. 1 beard Bertha down stairs,” “1 wonder, now, if she did hear | ber,”” Hannah muttered uneasily, *‘It’s bad luck to cross the dying. If she would only tell me where she’s put her ' money. Six thousand dollars in United States bonds, Lawyer Brown says Le’s bought for her, and never sold one; and they're in the house, too, I've ran. sacked as much as I dare, but she | sleeps so little that I can’t do maueh in the room. And there's the doctor coming every day, so I daren’t make her mad, or she’ll send and change her will. Partly muttering, partly thinking ail this, the woman tidled the room for the night, and set the lamp on the hearth, before she went to her own room. Sit- ting up to watch was hard work, and Hannah Graves kept a little stimulant where she could drink unobserved. To do her justice, she seldom took much, and nodded in the arm chair beside the sick-bed pretty faithfully. But on this night she was troubled with an uneasy conscience, and exceeded her usual al lowance, falling into a deep sleep in | her own room, where she had only in- tended to change her dress for a loose wrapper. ‘Earlier in the evening, before the early darkness of a December night had closed in, there had been a suppli- aut at the door, whose low, sweet voice had vainly pleaded for admission, The granddaughter who had run away with the artist had heard from a farmer, who went weekly to the city, of her grandmother’siliness, and had hoped for one word of forgiveness, The farmer was a kindly man, who had before carried tidings from the cottage to the city *‘flat,”’ where Mar- cus Thornton and his young wife lived, a8 poor people in great cities so often live struggling bravely for dally bread, but sweetening the toll by strong mu- tual love. Some time in the future the little ‘ wife was sure the paintings, that were to her like dreams of fairy land, would bring to her husband wealth and fame, Bhe trusted him utterly, believing his genius unequalled in the wide world’s array of artists. And while she waited for that genus to be recognized, she was well content to take in sewing to save and economize what he earned by the occasional sale of a small picture, or the filling of an order to decorate some rich man’s panels or walls, They were often compelled to dine on por. ridge, but they ate it cheerfully, and furnished the ssuce by building grand castles in the air, as they handled their There was no thought of her grand. mother’s six thousand dollars in Der- tha Thornton's mind, as she thankfully accepted the farmer's offer to take her home and see the old lady before she died, Just one word of forgiveness she had been undutiful and ungrateful when she left her home in secret to follow her lover's fortunes, She was not aware that Hannah Graves had quietly burned, unopened, the many letters she had written begging for- giveness, but that they were all un- answered convinced her that her grandmother was still angry. She was a timid httle woman, easily led, easily frightened, and Hannah Graves had kept her outside the door without difficulty, where the farmer left her to drive to his own home, She begged in vain to see her grand- mother, her sweet voice raised in her earnestness till it must have penetrated to the sick-room, from which she was so resolutely shut out. As the door closed upon her and she heard the heavy bolt drawn it flashed upon her for the first time that she had made no provision for her night's shel. ter. It was winter weather, but not intensely cold, and her dress was warm, but it was not a pleasant pros- pect to think of wandering about all night till she could take the city train early in the morning. She shivered as she drew her shawl closer aud listened to the sounds in- doors that told her how carefully every door and window was being barred against her. The porch was deep and sheltered from the wind, and when she wearied of walking up and down she crouched into a corner to rest, Just over her head was the window of her grandmother’s room, and Han- nab, setting this window a crack open for the night, let out the sound of her own harsh voice, Just a murmur of her own grandmother's faint utterances reached Bertha as she listened intently, but what Hannah said came to her clearly and distinctly, It convinced her that the story she had told of the old lady’s continued anger was untrue, and the threat that the sight of her would have fatal results another fic- tion, ‘She wants me! I am sure she will forgive me!’’ Bertha thought, as the faint accents reached her, conveying no words, but pleading in every tone. *J will see her!” Again she listened intently, until she was sure by the silence that the Invalid was alone, She was young, and light, and country bred. It was no great the window. Very cautiously the sash was raised, the muslin curtain pushed aside, and by the dim light Bertha room was the old woman oh the bed, who murmured incessantly: “Oh, Bertha! I was too hard dear she dies!” Softly still, for Hannah might be near. Bertha crept over the window- sill Into the room, and to the door, This she locked, whispering to herself: “I will speak to grannie, and if any. body tries to put me out, she must first break the door in.” But there was no sound in any other part of the house as she drew near the invalid, whose large, eager eyes had by that time discovered her. “Bertha! You have come [Berthal!"’ “Yes, grannie, dear, dear grannie,” i said Bertha, caressing her tenderly, *I am here,” “But you must not say, will kill you. the money.” “Oh, grannle, never mind money now, Only say you forgive me for leaving you,” “With all my heart, dear child, God bless yoif ever, and bless the man you love if he is good to you.” ‘He is, grannie, the kindest, best husband in the world, He shall come to you to-morrow,” “Yes, dear! yes] But now listen, Go to the clothes press and pull out the lower drawer. Quick! Now,” as Bertha obeyed, ‘‘do you see on the floor, underneath where the drawer was, a package, sewed up mn strong musiin? Bring that to me, and put the drawer back.” Bertha obeyed, and stood again be- side the bed. “Put it in your bosom. Button your dress over it. So!’ said her grand- mother, eagerly watching her follow her instructions. *‘Don’t tell Hannah, Don’t tell anybody but your husband, Promise mel” “I promise, grannle.” “It is my savings for years; saved for you before I made that cruel will, It is yours, yours, darling. Haonah will have the cottage and everything else, because I have not taken the will away from Mr, Brown. Bertha, go away, dear, now, Go, But come to-mor- row with your husband, to protect you. Go, dear, Hannah may come, Good night. God bless you, Bertha.’’ Out again in the night alr, reluctant as she was to go, Bertha sped away to the rallroad station, two miles away. She had unlocked the door and drew the window down before she left the house, and hurried on, only auxious to gain her | and bring her husband to receive the blessing already bestowed on hersel : a train at daybreak and Hannah ow | the station was and light, but on her way to the city. The day-dawn wakened Hannah from her heavy sleep, and, conscience stricken, she hurried to her aunt, Nothing, to her eyes, had been dis. ASTORY OF TWO ORPHANS. 3y Gertrude Garrison. York will Every day brings The romances of New never be all written, “The short and answered her frightened call, stood with his wife beside the cold form, but Bertha kpew that she was pardoned, and she kept her prom- ise made to the dead. Hannah Graves lives in the cottage she has inherited, and has periodical attacks searching for the six thousand dollars In bonds, but she has never found them, although she truthfully declares ‘‘there is not one inch of the cottage that has not been ransacked.” Doas That Showed Good Sense. [ From the New York Tribune.) A little crowd of seedy men were gathered the other night about one of the ugly furnaces that defaced City Hall Park, while the contractors were cover- ing the plaza with asphaltum. They smoke that streamed out of it, and had they had slept most of the summer, “I saw a queer thing happen here yesterday,” sald one of them. ‘A big Newfoundland dog, with 4 muzzle on him, was following a boy along Mail one of the big fellow's long ears. It was all done so quick that the New- foundland was being well chewed before he knew what had struck him. He gave a howl and a snap st the little brute, but his muzzle would not allow him to open his jaws, and the bull ter. rier chewed away like mad. All he could do was to turn tail and rag, but the terrier did not loosen his grip and went along too. They dashed through the crowd, past the fountain, and ont on the plaza here, where the big fellow tar that was standing for a moment by the side of a workman, who had stopped to hight his pipe. “Quick as a flash the big dog stopped and threw his head as high in the air as he could. This dragged the little ter- rier well off his feet, and nearly tore the ear from the head of the Newfound- land, but when the little brute came down again he lit plump in the pail of burning tar. He let go of the ear quick enough then, you bet, and as the big fellow trotted off, shaking his head, I felt like giving him a cheer for his “Oh, give us a rest,” sad another thing but an accident, do you? Dogs ain't got half the sense they get credit js. “Well, I ain't so sure of that” said “I ain't got no love mor no has certainly got more than others. I was tramping in Pennsylva- nia last July and was crossing a fleld full of green corn when suddenly two big dogs take after me that I hadn't seen before and wasn't prepared for, They were ugly looking brutes, and I thought the best thing for me to do was te make for a tree, about a dozen rods away across a little gully. I'm a good sprinter and soon reached the gully, but in crossing it I slipped, twisted my ankle badly and fell flat, howling with pense “In balf a» minute the two brutes like mad and ready to tear me to pieces. ed sure, but I did not seem to care, for 1 could only hag my aukle and fairly ery with the pain. The smallest dog of the two, a big collie, reached me ahead of the other, but, to my great surprise, instead of sinking his long, sharp teeth in my flesh, stopped and looked me all over for a second, and when the other dog, a huge mongrel brute, came and made a dive for me the collie shoved himself between us and pushed him off, The mongrel could not understand this and evidently resented it. He gave as snap at his companion and made anoth- er dive for me, but the collie got him by the ear and dragged him off. Then the mongrel turned on the collie, but he had no show thers at all, and soon withdrew a little way and looked at us in growing amazement, “The collie sniffed at me a little, evidently seeing that I had hurt myself badly, and then went over and appar- ently consulted with the mongrel, for they both disappeared over the edge of the gully, and presently came back at the heels of a man, the farmer who owned them. He was not much better than the mongrel, however, though he let me lis there in peace for an hour or two, and by-and-bye I was able to limb away with a whole skin and no more rage than I brought, thanks to the a I Snes. Consumption ‘of Oleomargarine. LS . There has been quite an increase in the oleomargannoe trade since the en- forcement of the law requiring it to be sold by its proper name. People find it more palatable than 20 cent dairy but. ter, and it can be kept much longer without the offensive sme'l. It is rap. idly taking the place of lower grades of butter in private tamilies, as well as in short strangely sad, Mrs, 1. told one the other day was both short and simple, and had in not always to and simple, but often “You know,” she sald, *‘that I ad- vertised for a seamstress to go out toe mother’s in the country, and stay sev- eral weeks, perhaps all the time, if mother liked her. I engaged the first one who applied, partly because she seemed willing to go to the country --which is rare--and partly because she looked like the re- duced gentlewoman in books and had a manner that corresponded with her appearance, If she had been gotten up for this character in a play she could not have fitted it better, 1 have a weakness for that kind of thing, and I warmed toward her at once, “She was mtelligent and refined, and delay, Mother liked her, too, and she proved as eflicient as she was pleas. ing. Igo out quite often, you know, and so I grew used to seeing her about the house, where she adapted herself to *‘I was pleased to see that her air of as that Kind of thing always is pretenders, because it does not fit them properly, And then, you know, and in thelr chatter they reveal true characters, able experience with seamstresses posed as having seen better days,’ “They are very proverbially weak amusing, and are in grammar, 1 sides, she never opened her mouth talk about herself—npever said ever been anything more than a sewing girl; yet she made us feel that she had been something more—in that ahe was a lady, she wore the conventional plain, soft gray gown so much affected by the stage governess, and which tells the she rt, and the scrupulous neatness of her at- tire was very effective, I assure you. tained the good impression she had made, our interest in her increased, and, without being rudely inquisitive, we contrived to make her understand that we would like her to talk about self, It required many Lints and even break her reserve. At last she told her story, and this was the substance of it: “Her father, whom she did not even remember, had died when she was {our years old. He had been a physician, but being young, had scarcely made a fair Gnancial start when he died, and so left his widow and two little children in poverty. Grace's sister was three years younger than herself. She says she remembers her mother asa deli. cate, woe-worn woman, struggling to keep berself and her children from starvation by doing fine needlework. Those were days of such gloom that sadness cast upon her spirit by her mother’s lonely struggle. “When Grace was 6 years old, mother, always delicate, fell ill and died, and Grace and her sister, Milly, found themselves in an orphan asylum, They remained there until Grace was © and Milly 6, when Milly was adopted by somebody and from that day Grace had neither seen nor heard of ber, though she had never ceased to look for her wherever she went on the street, in church, in the cars, everywhere —~hop- ing aga'nst odds that some day she would again see the child’s bonny face, which Grace was sure she would in. stantly recognize. “A short time after Milly left the asylum, Grace was taken by a lady and gentleman who had lost thelr own child, She was adopted by them, and was happy with them; but when she was sixteen they were Killed in a rail. road accident, and their kindred man- aged to get hold of all their property, leaving Grace penniless, She learned to make dresses and do other sewing ber supported herself ever since, and is now 29 years old. “Throughout all these years Grace held to a belief that some day she would find Milly, though she could do nothing in the way of searching but look and look at the face of every young girl she saw. Wasn't it pitiful? And wasn’t it remarkable, too, tbat she never lost hope? “When Grace had finished her story mother suddenly said, ‘Why, Miss of & teend of mine who has a bi similar to yours, and now that I think of it, she resembles you very much.’ Grace clasped her hands tight and breathed bard. More than ever did she look like tha seduged gentlewoman of the Hew4, play hearing unexpected Oh, it was all intensely esting, 1 can assure you, tuother asked, ‘+ should know her without my claim to others. While we ned that two letters on the stove were distinctly printed on her left arm afte; the burn healed, A, {).? “Mother and Grace went that veiy day ta see the supposed Milly, ana she proved to be the real Milly, with the letters on her arm and every part of her history corresponding to Grace's story. “Her name isn’t Milly now, of course, She remembered something about her life in the asylum, and knew that she was the adopted daughter of the family whose name she bears, She has always longed for a sister, and now that fate has sent her one—particularly 80 lovely a one as Grace—she is almost overpowered with happiness, Yes, and Milly is to be married next month, and will have a home of her own, to which Grace has already been invited and to which she has promised to go. Now isn’t it delightful that Grace's faith in finding her sister has been sweetly rewarded? You remember one of our noble poets says: 50 ““There is nothing sweet in the city jut the patient lives of the poor,” ———, S— Coinage. The weighs 4124 grains, These weights are are pound of gold. The smaller silver coins are equal In value to one of value, two half dollars, four quarters or ten dimes weighing but 384 grains, It is desirable to prevent They are really only counters, and are legal tender for small amounts The silver dollars and the gold col amount, probalnlity that the gold coins will be The statute, in- deed, has fixed the weights of the gold on the theory that 1a Suz won : 4 i the ratio of their iv tive values as , but the in respes is sixieen 10 one facts present about Firs l lings Rui are quite otherwise, markets twenty-three pounds of the takes silver to one pound of gold. Silver “dollars” are therefore much cheaper than gold be charged in the cheapest lawful cur The law has made the silver tender for nominal transactions belween the States, or be- and the United Dut no law can rency. ita value in all tween such citizens States Government, due to foreign residents to any further value in the coin. debt of one hundred pounds sterling, charged by the payment of about 4863 gold dollars, to pay such a debt. The merchant who imports from Brazil must pay for it in goid or its equivalent. cost him and his proper profit. Ie sumer must pay a gold price, though he may not know it, If the importer pays for it by exported merchandise, it brings the same result, for such mer- chandise is sold at gold prices, In spite of the Bland act orany other statue, a “dollar has come to have a definite meaning in the commerce of the world, and that meaning is the value of 25.8 grains of standard American geld, that is, gold nine-teaths pure. No jess, no greater value is recognized as the value of a dollar. If we should auath- orize the coimage of a piece of gold weighing 20 grains, and by statute aflix to such a coin the name *‘doliar,” mno- body would receive it as of equal value with the present gold dollar, The quantity of other commodities pur- chasable with it would be in the same proportion less than the quantity pur- chasable with the present gold dollar as its welght of gold is less, Likewise the value of the silver coin authorized by the Bland act and called a “dollar’ can by no possible legerde- main be made to stand. as a dollar in the markets of the world, nor to buy a real dollar's worth of other commodities in the United States until the ratio of the commercial values of gold and silver become 16 to 1. Riches have made more men covet. Oli $445 COVetousREE hath made maa It is to live twice when you can en- oy the recollection of your former fe, 1f men will have no care for the fu- ture they will soon have sorrow for the past, Wo vunerinise hose of the pecter FOOD FOR THOUGHT. Forbearance is attended with profit, The loftiest bulldipg arises from Suffering is the surest means of mak- Everything, even piety, i8 dangerous He who wisely uses lis weallh need not ieave it for his tombslone, a snake A dircontented man is like We always take credit for the good, and attribute the bad to fortune, He lives long who lives wel ; time misspent is not lived, butlosd, No man can afford to set his chro- nometer by anything except the sun, Flattery is a false coin which only derives its currency from our vanity. A man is not necessarily of heavy calibre because he has a large mouth, Whatever you or your friends do is never wholly right, Ever notiee that? After all, the joy of success does not equal that which attends the patient working. You cannot do good or evil to others without doing good or evil lo yourself, To persecute the unfortpnate is like throwing stones on one fallen in. to a well, Two things a man should never be angry at: what he can help, and what he cannot, aud Years cannot be weighed on scales, but the weight of them bends the backs Kind feeling may be paid with kind be paid with Hear both sides and all will be clear; you will still be What we death, and life 8 a we journey to death Is a call what call Why Is it easy to get in an old man’s house? Because his gait is broken and The heart is like the tree that gives balm for the wounds of man only when There are many dogs that have never killed their own mutton, but very few that having begun have stopped. It is astonishing how soon the whole Power and liberty are like beat and moisture; where they are well mixed everything prospers, where they are single they are destructive. sit the improve walk- who and wall a ‘blasted Life’ might Many ashes of wer ing five miles a day, The ambition of youth looks ward to the triumphs of age, for- while the rosy path of youth. Too much reading, and too little has the same effect on a man’s mind that too much eating and too little exercise has on his body. Life is made up of greetings and nights, What we call ‘‘experience’’ is only the vale between sunrise and sun- set, If a man wants ks wife to believe plan is to easier ried. He will generally find it then, In this life a heap depends on know- ing the truth when you find it. The brown jeans, It is impossible to incorporate the soundest business principles into love. Affection always has to be taken on How can we ever expect to find a When a man laughs immoderately trouble on his mind, and is trying todo Nothing 18 more wearing on 8 sensi- t ve nature than to be made a sort of safe deposit where people can leave their secrets, The highest rate of interest we pay is on borrowed trouble. Things that are always go'ng to happen never de happen, If a man bas a right to be proud of anything, it is of a good action done as it ought to be, without any base inter- est lurking at the bottom of it, Nature is upheld by antagonisms, Passions, resistance, danger, are edu- cators,. We acquire the strength we have overcome. Each man is a walking coal m and itis for him to decide whether will send forth heat and light, or only soot and smoke. When a man ventures an opinion he
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