ALAS! Alas, alas, ehen! That the sky is only blue To gather from the ginss The rain and dow! Alas! that eyos ave fair: That tears may gather there Mist and the breath of sighs From the marsh of care! Alas, alas, ehen! That wé meet to bid adieu: That the sands in Time's anciont glass Are so swift and few! Alas, alas, ahon! That the heart is only true To gather, whore false foet pase The thorn and rua! {Ronald C. Macfie in Granite Dust. Razillon Pinknsy Fairfax: AGED ONE DAY. BY JOHX J. A'BECKET. At the simmering close of an August | afternoon two young gentlemen might | have been seen climbing out of a dog cart drawn up in front of a whitewashed Negro shanty, on the ragged edge of a Maryland | wood-—very tidy young fellows, of the | class whose chief claim upon the grat tude of the lies in their lending a | holiday aspect to a worn-out world. They | were well-groomed, acceptably featured, and suggested a pleasant consciousness of their own worth. The misty Blue Ridge Mountains were casting long shadows, quite in the manner | of a Virgilian eclog, athwart the luxuri. | ance of the Frederick Valley, while the broad cornfields had lapsed from a riotous | gold into ru lassitude, now that the | potent alchemist of the sky had majestic- ally retired behind the line of undulating hills. The grass, too, had intensified into a bluer green, which the walls, fences and | outhouses ith effective race sset diversified with the white of a wash, severely economical, but of decided artistic value, “Tom,” said the younger of the two men, as he horse to the tumble-dow : fence skirting a kitchen garden, ‘‘you potter around in the gravevard there while [ go in and see Aunt Sarsh. I won't be but a minute: and vou know you hate the smell of ba con in a Negro's quarters. There are some very nice people buried there,” he added, encouragingly. “All right,” said Barnard, and, ing, he leisurely toward ris turn- | the of the strolled cemetery which lay just this side church, unkempt sid neglected, The little church was attended once a month from Frederick. The small, whitewashed box, a thin blue smoke floating indole. ly from its brick chimney, and its wood en porch smothered with Virginia creepers. was the abode where Aunt Sarah ate, breathed and slept, with in- | termittent attention her brood, and bustling ministrations to the priest on his monthly visits She stood in the doorw ay her cast now, her head swathed in a faded dana, her arms akimbo, Her white teeth flashed a warm welcome on Paul Theron as he picked his w ny toward the door. ‘Lord a-massy, ef dat ain Theron!” to 14 ’ i © ban + t you, Mis'r cried, with a colored wo- | man's emotionless vivacity, *‘I jes done thought you'd gone back to New York | it's so long sence | seen ¥ i She flirted her checked pron ACTOSS the bottom of a wooden chair, and made him sit down for a moment in the en. The smell of the bac there, with its warm grip on the nostrils: but Theron mind it. It only gave him an appetite, He und out Ritchie was Mi aid not Aunt Sarah that ne to the chapel | found from Father Heber would « the o£ Sunday. His sister had | asked him to see when the priest would be there, as it would spare her a trip to Frederick if she could speck to him when he came to the mission, Theron could not get away without partaking of the Negress's hospitality to | the extent of a glass of milk, which she! brought, c« and creamy, from the dairy, where WAtEr-CTessSCs grew so thickly aro: the He pro- pounced it delicious as he dried his lips | with a silk handkerchief. Then he shook hands with Aunt Sarah, pinched the | black cheek of a pickaninny who was dragging at her skirts, and went toward the cemetery where he saw Bar nard standing up to his knees in the long grass. Barnard looked ap at his approach, a | broad smile parting his lips “Pail, just see what I have discov. ered.” he said, as Thereon tore his way | gingerly through the vines and blackberry | bushes, He pointed to a small, conical | shaft of marble, stained yellow.white by the weather, and half a yard high. There was something amusing in the dignified stand it seemed to take among | the impressive tombs whose brick walls | supported thick slabs. Some of them had sunk into the earth on one side, and he letters cut into the marble were so blackened with lichens as to be almost uadacipherable. “Shades of Gulliver!” said Theron, as he caught sight of the perky shaft, “Who is the dead giant?” “Rend!” exclaimed Barnard, with his hands thrust into his pockets. “The in- scription gives his whole history.” eron got down on one knee, brushed aside the slender grasses, which rose to the full height of the monument, and cast a delicate tracery of shadow over the name : “Hamrirox Praxsey Famnrax: AGED ONE DAY." followin spring. h v He rose with a smile. “Poor little beggar! What a short inning he had, didn’t he! Some of these crumbly old tombs are the abodes of t Fairfaxes. There are others aroun) n the neighborhood still, I believe, wait- ing for interment. They are not quite dead enough to justify their burial yet.” “I never saw a jollier tombstone than that,” said Barnard, as they made their way out of the g ard. “It's fine to sec the little man taking his place in the family line and claiming all the honors of 3 Nort et duct after his one day of e, ell,” he went on musingly, * escaped teething and the y and that sort of thing, and has nice Iitlo monu- mont now, too!” Barnard was a young lawyer {ism New York who had run down tr Prey. erick County to put in a few devs with Theron, who had just started a stock farm there. He was a ‘‘society man," with a good position in an old law firm and a moderate, Barnard thought alto. gether too moderate, income. During the past winter he had conducted two or three important cases with success, and had been very epris with an extremely elegant woman who had an enormous “pull” in socioty, Barnard bad really cared more for his success with the lady than his success with the law. She was Laden with so much name, the most charming tact, sionable order, and the men who danced attendance on her were wont to more than they received. Barnard's comparative success had been matter of envy, “I can't help thinking of that little he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it, while Theron gathered up the reins of Aunt Sarah's “How unnecessarily he slip- admiration branches.” ped into and out of life. a dav! Most of us do little enough with a much longer span, but he did abso lutely nothing ! If he been born had twenty-one vears old, and in New York, in were short. Poor little Jack-in-the-box! met Mrs, rnoon tea, Europe a Wee before, and the new spaper accounts of her doings ther n the most grateful reading for him. Her greeting friend] But Bamiud had the sense that it would have been quite the they had chanced upon one an. Eskimo hut at the extreme It was so independent of condi have said: ‘How do do?” and would have made remark about the icebergs as onversational topic As he br Had he gr! bn Two months later Barnard e had not bee Was same 1% tions. She would you n me : 3 timale Mmely « A was, it it looked WI. been vachtin He had never seen her appear She was to him the ideal Her exquisite figure could have warmed an antique statue to an en vious thrill. It woke her man dress y extravagant admiration. Aad her face was so softly, coolly beautiful. Yet her charm of ! one ignore the graces of face, Mri. Amidon the close of the him. He fell into his rather favored po. sition in the li defined pur. pose of playing himself with such success that he could secure an enduring post at her side, He knew that she had taken him up; he meant to assume her By November, he felt that he a distinct advance. Toward the end of that month some fashionable woman gave an entertainment at which Mrs, Amidon and himself were present, The rooms were not stuffily full. Barnard was very much at iis evening, snd there were twoor three nuances in her treatment of him which he a gratified his devotion, something so i 8H charming grande dame manner her form season had interrupted ne with a well large ed $0 ancy of much better than if she ha a consciousness of being ab it, Several e 20 « of leemsosvnarily Somebody had played on the violin, a young woman with a brazen : ing from Andre | had the people present had +1 ¢ On Li ir pOwWers o entertaining. accent had recited someth Chenier, and a Creole falls ” OIK 8 sung two i Louisians iting chant t 3 2 enct i little his hand. “In my travels of last summer in wilds of Maryland,” he begain, in his full tones and stightly dmwling manner, “I chanced upon a warrior’s grave. For n moved more gently, The allegory Mra until it Amidon’s fa came to repose, threw slender This me morial shaft chronicled nought beyond the name of him who had fought the for the summer grasses warrior, and, if you will of your patience suffer it, I will read what of better title, IT have called “Verses on Hamilton Pinkney Fairfax: aged one day.” Mrs, Amidon had sunk back in the “ Life's fitful day is o'er, aud here Be lies, Tucked fast asleep beneath his native skies, Earth's warm, brown blanket folded on his breast, His wisdom monumentally confessed, For when he came, he did not like the lace, And had the wit to wander into space. The crow of chanticleer hailed him be. Hn, Noen _— his prime, and twilight found him done. Hamilton Fairfax, at the crack of doom, Will flicker forth to judgment from his tomb, ’ To find how little of the Book of Life Was needed to recount his earthly strife, This to the world his modest shaft must say, When it records his span of but a day: White was his soul at dawn, as white at noon, White when it passed, at curfew, not too ' soon ! Had he but known life's way he would have chuckled . k Hamilton Fairfax, lucky wight were ou, To goto Hoven for what you did not 0!’ i laughter close, and There Tw ——— woft the protests met Mm. One volatile weumy woman tapped him with her fen, and cried in a high voice: “You hard- hearted thing, to make fun of that dar- ling little creature! 1 dida't know whether to weep or to laugh over this abbreviated Fairfax. I watched you, and if you had shown any regret for him, I should have cried. But you didn’t—not a bit 1” “‘Ah, Miss Worden, I spent my emotion at his grave,” retorted Barnard, quickly, “You should have wept.” He was making his way, laughingly, to Mrs. Amidon, Almost as soon as the verses were done she had risen. and with willowly dignity of movement passed throuzh the crowd to the hostess and | bade her good night. There wa. in hor a faint suggestion of what the flowess must find in the breath of the autumn. She was standing in the hall wrspped in her furs and talking volubly to three or {four men as she waited for her onrrisge, | when Barnard found her, “Are you going Mert, Ami dont” he exclaimed. “I hope Hamilton Pinkney Fairfux has not acted the exor- cist, and driven you forth.” “How ungallant!” said Mrs. Arsidon, with a brilliant smile at the ether men, {| “Don’t you what are directed You BO KOON, remember agninst? must verse betaken vourself to How amusing you found that little boy. very | day, is it not! Good night.” h ened the door, and wit MAT d, ] | until the man 0} | a nod she disaj softly in a coils of her hair a sort of the ligl mrting gleam on the Barnard noted | i He had wished her when he could « the { but she had offered speed bh. min, '1 ni him no chance for canker y muke There was just enouch of the of doubt in 1} next day t | him irritably impatient to see her ag He the large | k Washington Square mther early for a call, Her « the door as he edd th descending the v the stoon i i 0 f i iim the sin. on went to rie hous afternoon standing at and when he rea Amidon was bowed, smiled, paused fora moment when she reached the sidewalk and made remark on the lovely day as she arranged the last button of her lov This | all she could have been expected to do; { yet Barnard felt he had been rele; the rear of h thought he had Was ached, Mrs Nhe oupe ae ippr steps, Some WARS some rods the which he 14 id. posi Won s4¢ “I am unfort | hoped for sone i “I have got to n 1 calls, she returned airily, as if this were the nearest approach to a sympathetic re mark which she could volunteer when he Car you asked, as the footman | riage door “Iam always at home Sunday noons,” she said, suavely. “Yea; but you have a then,” he retorted “They are all nice § Amidon arched hor brows “Oh, of course’ But I won much if ald all Some time when 3 he urged, with a He urged, mob of callers and Mrs id like a0 to come we you w moe alone,” in his eye She hesitated a momo “Come Monday afters | said, and stepped into the coupe He repair of to Washington Square des i { ignated time, Joe Fig ing might not, a fraught such intense interest for him. It should depend on how he found her He would | not attempt to sottle the point independ. { ently that. His determination speech should be the oute cumstances, As he entered the room where 2 sitting, a warming tisfaction made him think he he jeft her. The whole made charming picture Mrs. Amidon was sitting in a low, broad chair of pale blae veivet, The exquisite lines of her figure { had never more perfect, dress wae of heavy silk of a lusterless black with which some white fabric was com | bined, the severity of the gown softened by % profusion of la ie, She gave him her hand and motioned him to a seat. What a perfec tly pos. sessed woman she was, he thought: every turn, movement, suggesting a queenly serenity. Ah, if he this glorious creature his! “Do you know what a picture you make, you and your sur roundings?’ he exclaimed, with the pas sion of an artist, | “Comfortable! That is a very moderate compliment. [I am a poor rival to the cat | there as a picture of comfort.” | She smiled slightly, as with a move i ment of her foot she indicated a yellow plush basket in which was coiled an An- put the quest] of wane of the Cir Sen en a S| med every ! i blissful content, | “1 should have said soothing,” he hase { tened to amend. “That is what [ meant. You breathe such a sense of repose apd completeness, 1 cannot help thinking what a home would be with such sur. roundings and such a mistress, Could man ask for more?” “One would have to consider the man, of course,” she made reply, slightly arch- ing her brows, His gaze was bent upon her burningly, his features set to seriousness. He bent slightly toward her as he said, earnestly : “I would ask no more and would feel that I had won a heaven more blessed than I could ever deserve, Mrs, Amidon, have you not seen what I have eit so long! { am not worthy of you, Mat! “Do you know,” Mrs. Amidon, inter. upted, quietly, raising her hand a little, “I should like to tell you a little story, Do Jou think you care to hear it?” I shall be charmed,” said Barnard, assuming an attitede of attention, “Ten years ago,” Mrs. Amidon began, after a moment's pause, in softly modu- lated but ectly distinct tones, and with her eyes fixed on the t log burn. ing in the fireplace, ‘a married a boy of twenty, They loved each other in the most simply ardent y ect Berra folored thos samo the gra saw ee win ai One month also. When his will was read fouad that he had bequeathed his ty to the issue of his grandson, leaving to him only a modest income, of the grandson had spared him this ex- pression of il-will, Mrs. Amidon paused again, soon after the “Very young widow. IHe inherited the large mother saw for one dim moment the little boy's violet eyes before she relapsed into a state of weakness in which her life was despaired of, But she rallied, and when she recswered sense of her surroundings asked sor her child that she might look for comfort in his father’s They told her as gently as they could that he was lying by his father’s side in the graveyard of the little church. “Through the death of this short-lived child the mother came into full sion of the large fortune which he seemed to have come only to inherit and transmit to her. It enabled her to gratify every reasonable taste and to assume a position in society which, without it, been impossible, “Later,” continued Mrs ing her eyes to Barnard's face, ried again, It was a marriage unhappy in its for there developed thy | greatest disaffection, Two years ago thy woman was again left fro She has had n brief, but rarely perfect, wedded life, She has had one not so brief and wre edly imperfect Not ls Mrs. Amidon’s eye returned or low Hy o eves, POISEs- would have Amidon, ris. Yshe mars results, mg sir “this woman, a had not yet marriage.” she remained wi fixed the glowing with its soft, silvery ashes, as if sine, nuninst on heart coating of : . : 1 in reverie, her Lands lap end of the passively in her { *‘Is that the | Barnard, softly, “Yes, it is theend of the ston Amidon answered story of a perfect love tute for love st ry” i slowly ined of the which came woman's desires in the we of her life, little boy who Barnard drew said : “And his name?” “Hamilton } Mrs Amidon a slow breath oy UK! ey r face the 4 might be his grand fathe vii il nothing urther from my thought.” I quite feel it. Mr. “You did Yorses to Barnard Fou Our ‘aged one what that * she added, risi manner consigning wd him, so sido ; past, “1 must ask you to excuse . have to dress for dinser. Goodby’ As Barmard took her hand and bowed he felt that it was a farewell over the grave of Hamilton Pinkoey Fairfax. — | {1adependent ts un, irrevo AROUND THE HOUSE, | To polish kitchen knives nicely, mix F ; | little bicarbonate of soda with the brick | dust and rub them thoroughly Slate floors should be polished, rub bing first with smooth, flat pie pumice stone, and finally polish with re { ten stone, i a Ce Oo "t Coffee is used for mixing blacking fo the stove, in order to make it stick close and last longer. Most housekeepers prefe | the old-fashioned blacking to any of th cements, because of its lasting qualities { The cement is casier to apply as it ro quires no labor in polishing. No stow i should be blacked more than once { month, but it should be kept clean by | wipiag off any clots of grease which ma; | be spilled upon it. The flues of a stows | should certainly be cleaned as often a once a month. | The proper washing of silk stocking is a matter of moment, now that they an | commonly worn. White silk stocking should be washed in a strong lather mad of castile soap or any good white son and warm water. Lay the stockings is the lather and rub the soiled spots gen tly with the hands. Then rinse then very thoroughly to free them from al soap. Wring them dryin a cloth, turn ing them wrong side out. When the are almost dry stretch and rab them ie the hands to make them smooth an bring them in shape, but do not iron them Bisek stockings may be washed in the same way, but should be kept separate from white stockings in the washing | Some people go so far as to rub then stockings when they are dry with a cole | iron, always making the passes one way | to make them smooth and glossy. It & | a great mistake, however, to iron any | stockings, It ‘always makes an wu ls crease down the center and does not add | to the appearance. It is far better to rut | them into shape, fold them » and allow | them to fit themselves to the limb, i Conx axp Tomaro Sovr.-—To mak: a soup of corn and tomatoes, scald one quart of tomatoes. Add a quart of stock, | a slice of earrot, a small onion, a bay | leaf, a sprig of thyme, one clove, six pep if convenient a tea spoonful of minced bam. Let this cook Slowly for half an hour, then add « tablespoon with two ul of butter melted and mix fuls THE JOKER'S BUDGET. JESTS ANI) YARNS BY FUNNY MEN OF THE PRESS, The Sorrow of it—Saw the Sun Not by the Ear Good Cause, —————— THE BORROW Miss Highton-—Allow late you, Mrs. Newbride, OF IT. of the season, Mrs. Newbride-—80 they say, and now it's all over, there seems nothing in life to live for, Miss Highton Why, how you Isn't your husband kind to you? Mrs. Newbride—Oh, ves! It isn’ but he's so awfully healthy. you Know I don't believe I'll v officiate as a bride again ier, t that ver nave chan —{ Besston Con BAW THE BUN RISIL y The old gone to bed nature man and his d wif Th nt from the to ay air was still was wile Jut vuld not 3. Yoices | enough Finally the old “Maria, who is that t “It's Dora she “And what But she d clock wl nich had they « Darior were in disturb their pea i man sada ; slog SO Tit it kine? and Jim, 1 time is know, sat on the id not mantes, stopp i “ He si went downstairs ints ele resembling the falling Then the slow fools could be heard When he went in ipped on his Pp ~~ ise house, old man stairs, said “Why, strange Maria to sav, 1 assisted ia bringis ance,” “Maria, ™ Well? , “Did it ig at a ever hurt y son rise!” and 1 out loud b sekens roosting i (St [x but I am AR BOXESRT HORSE TRADE. arrested ns have you representatic i Bsc a record “Very true, but You didn't ask record h i hal ‘ A EXTUG FIT. How strange, Edith. 1 just fits you Dear old Herbert had i a month ago Chi 3 ow 1 ow 1h I kr &ittiniey ig 90 , mamma, dear, ye if hie did it rain i , and after that I « op without breakis ARSWERED Her Father —Are Her Adorer—We ‘ou ambitious? if my desire like to know what is, A LONG EXOAGEMRNT. Penelope— You look tatic. Has she promised to marry you?! Cholly—Yaas, Penelope When? Cholly~-When 1 become great, positively HAD GROWX TIRED OF YEOETARLE 8, ” said Mrs to the Buffalo Enquirer, to her only un- married daughter, “wasn’t young Mr. Pease here last evening “Yes, mother.” “Didn't he propose to you?” “Yes, mother,” “Didn't you refuse him “Yes, mother.” “Why did you do it? Mr. Pease is rich, handsome and of good family.” “I had good reasons” : “What were they. 1 am your mother, and wish to know.” “It is because you are my mother that I hate to tell you" “1 must know". “Well, when I get a hushand I must have a man whose name is to be found out of the vegetable kingdom.» i YOOPrIe . HE WAITED, OF COURSE, HeIf I wereto try and kiss you what would you do? She—Scream., He—Do you mean it? She (impressively)—Indeed I do, so you had better wait until we are out of caring of the hotel {Harlem Life, AT A MENAGERIE, The spectators stand in a group round the wife of the tamer, asking questions, Said one, ** Is it true, Madame, that a lion costs as much as 5000 francs 1 “That depends; there are lions and Hons." for in- “I mean your lions: Brutus, stance, how much is he worth “Oh! I would not part with Brutus for 10,000 francs, He devoured my first husband, "={ Il Popolo Romano, A PREVENTIVE, Tom did sit on the ws iano stool at Charm's, when > of comfortable there aro in THE GAME OF DIHESS, At the Tennis Tournament : She—0Oh, I do Bopu Mr. Watkins will win! He—Why, Watkins can’t play a little bit She] don't care; his suit is perfectly ly. Elmira Gazette, { lovely, THEY ARE ALL ALIKE. Bmart Errand Boy-—Is Mr. Soughtfor tin 7 Clerk-—No, but I expect him in every | minute, B. —That awful numerous, minute? Smart BE 0? Well, he'll won't hie, to Cours have to be come in every {Boston WOULD DO PER PART. r {about to we I suppose it is i i{e have her own way cL one's w bothering 1haL Hing it, Har ‘My lips ar scaling at ITE WAITER. my house that has Never gave me , hasn't asked fora ATS In CORY Iowa says that he 3 fr in Yoo & an at the foot of ” pala wn?” asked th "answered the farmer: to see a little death vi HD fed to back ™ cornstalk’s f than he can climb agRtieor youmg man took a dia- time for it and he refused oit Free Press, LAST." Have you beard me sing my ring, and I guess I'l] wait.” ‘o be tempted —! Detr YO “Later BUT NOT 3¢--No, but 1 wish I had. — [ Ledger, American Newspapers, In the the American news. paper there have been so far six epochs, { each marking well defined eras in the ad- { vance of the country and of the press; these may be indicated in this way: First—The first American newspapers, 1600.1707 Second--The | 1955. Third ~The part { press, the agriculits ing press, the 1783-1838, Fifth—The cheap press, 1833-1833. Sixth.—The telegraph and independ. ent press, 1835-1890, There are published to-day in the United Stated some 17.000 newspapers, j trade papers, literary weeklies and monthlies and other periodicals, devoted to every interest i order of any ime portance. Every county in every State and terri tory has now two weeklies, at least, which represent the two prominent pare ties, Nearly every village of 1,000 inhabit. ants has its own local publication, It is estimated that 22,000 people find employment in the production of these periodicals, and that £200,000,000 is in. vested in those enterprises, history of colonial press, 1704. ¥ press, the religious ral press, the sports commercial press, etc. “Learn” and “Teach.” The difference between the use of the words Jearn and teach often insisted upon, and yet, strangely enough, it ia often disregarded even by persons who should know how to speak correctly, The following conversation, which actu. ally took place in one of the lead clubs of Boston, illustrates the way which the error is committed : One member said to another, who was his friend, and whom he had met driving during the dav; TN J doy yo i r me to wi was HER sr rt ct * ret «i : just didn’t want to. You ph me manners,” : “No,” was the ;
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers