THE POPPIES IN THE CORN. When the mist in pearly columns Rises ’ar the hilltops gray, And the dews of early dawuing In the grasses melt away, Then the siin in softened splen Sheds his first rays thro’ the morn, Lo, they kiss tho sleapy faces Of th : poppies in the corn. O'or the scene there falls a silence, All the twittering song-birds still; As the lark, his far flight taking, Circles toward the distant hill, Up and upward, flies trinmphant, Earth-trod warbler, heaven-born, Till a rong steals down from cloudland O'er tb3 poppies in the corn. Slowly enmes the hush of noontid Not a loaf sways on the trees, Not a dew-drop on the grasses, Not the whisper of a b eeze, Glows the sun in scorching fury, One wee butterfly forlorn, FPauntiog falls in dying struggles On the poppies in the corn. oft a breeze comes rustling over, Sighing thro’ the cedars tall, Stirs the grapes in hanging clusters On the mold'ring vine-clad wall, Sinks the san in amber glory, Dies the day as night is born, Une wee star peeps through the twilight At the poppies in the corn, ~{Masud E. Kendrick, in Boston Globe. JEN DE THONTERAY It was in the country, near the forest not far from the Seine, in the modest villa where 1 hoped to spend my old age, that I saw Jean de Thommeray for the first time. He was scarcely twenty- two. Some pages signed with my name had won his heart to me, and he pre- sented himself with no other recom mendation than his good appearan- e and | his desire to know me. The sympathy of the young has an irresistible attrac tion. It is very sweet to be able to draw them when one is spproaching the autumn of life. 1 was the more willing to give him a welcome that I could do so | without any effort, for he was really | charming. I see him now as he stood at | my gate, a slender, noble-lookiug fellow, his face shadowed with the down of | youth; straight nose, blue eves, fair] forehead ; his hair, fine and of an ashy blonde, waved above the temples, His | ease of manper and language, the ele- | gant simplicity that showed in his dress, | everything, reflected credit on side by which he had grown up It was a clear April day: we walked | together in the woods of Meudon. | Though many years divided us, we con versed like two friends. He had gene rous impulses, holy illusions, all the! happy and ardent feelings of his age. He believed in the good, he admired the beautiful, he dreamed of love and glory. | ‘Where did he come from? In what lati tulle was he boru? What star had shone over his cradle! Who and what was this Jean de Thomameray, who at the end of an hour's ¢alk had spoken neither of wo men, nor horses, nor yet of his friends’ incomes? the fire Thanks to the confidences he gave me without my asking, I soon found out all about him. His father, who came of a good old Breton family, had studied in Paris in the days when patriotism and liberty ranked as high as letters and arts among the young men of modern ideas The Breton gentleman felt the influences of this awakening in the flood thought, and, without giving up traditions of honor in sai! with the current. pure, delicate, his fam he set He loved, with a romantic Poor, young giri of good family, of Irish de- | stent, and married her, When his studies ended, he went back to Brittany. The hereditary domain that sheltered their tenderness was in one of the wild and quiet valleys of Old Amories. It con- sisted of a farm and manor, of a castle, which was protected by an old grove from the winds that swept across the valley from the mountains. Here Mon. | sieur de Thommeray lived, like his fore. fathers, the life of a country gentle man, hunting, riding horseback, visiting neighbors, improving his land: while bis wife “‘la belle Irlandaise,” us they 3 ove, a in called her, gave hereself up to domestic affairs and governed her household with grace and authority. Though he had taken root in this primitive life, he was faithful to the tastes and inclinations of his youthful days. He never went beyond | the circle of his remembrances, and for him nothing beyond them seemed to exist. Time, which never stops, seemed | to have forgotten him on the way. It was & happy family--he, his wife, and three sons. The elder and the second! son showed no taste for study or litera- | ture, but Jean, the little one, more deli- | cate than his brothers, grew up under | his mother's gentle wing with a strong | sense of the beauties and harmonies of creation and a love of books, While his brothers walked and rode over the farm and led a hardy and rustic life, Jean, read, dreamed, or composed little Broton poems that his mother proudly compared to * Moore's Irish Melodies,” and that excited the admiration of his father, His brothers, too, were proud of his gifts and his charming ways, and even of his weank- ness when a little fellow, for that seemed to claim their protection. But one morn- ing, not long before the time I first met him, Jean embraced then: all and set out for Paris, filled with the same illusions | that his father had had before him. Two or three years passed. 1 did not know what bad become of Jean. 1 sup- posed that he must have left Paris, and that he was living peacefully in his father's home. He had evidently for. gotten me. I was not surprised at that. As forme, I thought of him from time to time, A journey | made inte Brittany revived in my heart the memory of my young friend, when I learned one day that I was only a few leagues from the Manor of Thommermy., 1 arrived at nightfall at the house I loved to think of as the asylum of happiness. I found the family assembled, and, not seeing Jean, naturally I asked for him. M. de Thommerny answered me briefly, “‘Mon- sieur,” he said, “we have only two sons now--these whom you see, We never speak of the one we have lost." Was Jean dead! No; the attitude of M. de Thommeray, his voice, his | language and his gesture were not those of a father who has buried hisson. Dur- ing my visit his mother found an oppor tunity of speaking to me alone. She told of her son and of the sorrow he had brought upon them-—how he had com. } promised himself, falling lower and lower from day to day, in the wicked world of Paris, and how his family no longer looked upon him as their own. She made me promise to go to see him, to write to her and to let her know how he lived, to hide nothing from her. Could this be the same Jean de Thom. meray whom I had known? How could he have fallen so low from the heights where I had left him? I went back to Paris. I found him living in richly furnished aparfments, and held out his hand to me with an easy grace, as if he had not a pang in the world—as if the luxury, in the midst of which I had surprised him, had been bought by the efforts of a glorious and honest labor, instead of the {ruits of the gaming table, He began to excuse himself for having so long neglected me, “All that isexcused,” I said, “I have come from Brittany where | saw vour parents, and as you have always spoken of them with respect, 1am only fultilling a duty when I come to tell you of the sad state in which 1 found them" —- “Thanks, Monsieur, you need not go on." He interrupted me calmly and with a tone of great urkanity., “It is nothing new vou tell me. My way of living is a subject of scandal and trouble to my family, My brothers disown me, my mother weeps in secret, my father no | longer kmows me Well, sir, be my judge. I am not a saint, Not being | able to reforin the age as [ once th of doing, you remember, | have ended by adopting its ways and its | livery. t seems to me that, in a society where money is a god, not to rich | would be an impiety. 1 have played, 1} do not deny it, and | have al-|} WAYS By my skillful playing 1} keep up the state of the house and longings I won by my luck. My parents lived according to the manners time. I live according to the ways of | my own.” It was sad to hear this young man | exult in his fall and glory in his ruin All about betrayed the habits of iife he led. ounce 30 sweet and clear, had a cold ex- | steel. He told me his story—how he had been | basely deovived and robbed of his last | centime by a woman whom he thought | i ought wearing be won, Le. of their | him now His very smile, sounded the depths of unworthiness in f beauty and artiess ms noer; he he came an to , his new senses, his youth | snd & worse man had © live within He be . ne to women “There are he said “You are mistaken,” | replied have mothers, who every day and lish mira tion and charity. as you think it, much i return to grieving for you? no “Wel sisters, friends, wives, every hour quietly JOR of good ne we, CO vO So as bad but you gir, are I feared your family Your _RCCON you, worse than who are youth is not not is waiting for vou there” I must confess to 3 itn at Haden “It is that gambling fever lias n live and enjoy ourselves too late ! ms since a0) 5 Hs after ow my hour for bourse, aud to my regret | am obli leave you the deluge! is 1 reo “Une “Until but re." } said, ining have been successful; be on your word now fortune will no side. What trays youl come,” “Let it come “You will kill y« I said. did not answer, “And God--and mother?” After a moment's hesitation | he held out his hand. | took it. “You have fallen low indeed, my boy. v mn £ Always Tou that d will do when she be For ay will surely I am ready.” He Tour surself,” This explains the sorrow of your famil I understand it, and I share it. But, even now, | do not give you up He smiled sadly and I left him, A few days after this | wrote to Ma- I did not | Other thoughts | War was declared. The | enemy was already marching om Paris; | the world was filled with the noises our disasters. Whoever did not see Piris during the | of my interview with Jean, try to see him again, of last days of the siege cannot form am | idea of the physiognomy of the city at | that time. The confusion and flight | feat gave way to manly thoughts and noble resolves, Every one was ready for great sacrifices. A current of heroism ran through all hearts. Men watched on the ramparts; citizens, transformed into soldiers, drilled in the squares and gar- dens with their muskets and rifles; all classes miogled and fused together, forming only one soul-—the soul of their country. | lived in the streets during those feverish days, attracted by every noise, mingling in the crowd, gathering all the pews. One morning on the Quai Voltaire, between the Poot-Royal and the Bridge des Saints Peres, | met Jean, face to face. “At last!” I said, greeting him. **And you have staid? 1 am glad.” “Yes, | have staid here,” he replied. “I was obliged to look after my fortune. Now it isall arranged. | have drawn out ull my money, and [ leave this even- ing to go and live in a foreign land.” “You are going away i exclaimed. “When youreountry is insgony you think of leaving her?” “My country, Monsieur! The wise man carries his country wherever he goes. You, yourself, what are you do- ing here?” “I have not returned only to in. Iam pot worth much; but here 1 have known good and bad days. Paris has given me whatever good I have in me. | wish to share her dangers, if only by my pesence. | will live in her emotions, | will help to bear her anguish, and if we must suffer hunger, 1 shall have the honor of suffering with ber! But you, Jean de Thommeray! But you! 1 knew you were changed for the worse, but 1 did not think you were fallen so low, The land is invaded, and you, a young man, instead of seizing a musket, cateh hold of your pocketbook! away The fortunes of France are on the verge of ruin, and you have no other care than to realize your futurs., To morrow the enemy will be at our gates, and you strap up your valise and fly like a coward! [It was not enough to have plunged your family into mourning and despair. You A quick blush rose to his forehead. A light shone in his eyes. “Pardon, monsieur, pardon, are very grand words, it seems to me, You are too young and [am too old for us to understand each other, 1 am not running away. 1 am geing away, is nothing here to keep me. Paris does not interest me. It is only just that she should be punished. As for my family, they are safe cnough from the dangers of war, and I do not see why [ should be forbidden to seek for myself, in Brus- or in London or Florence, the peace and security they enjoy in Brit tany."” My heart was sick and disgusted, 1 turned away, when suddenly Jean started with surprise, “Listen,” he said, I listened, and hesrd a strange musie, the tones of which, vague at first and indistinet, grew louder and seemed to he coming toward us. I looked, too, as | listened. I saw beyond the bridge of BSolferino an immense crowd, who came on singing. It was a slow, grave chant, almost religious, and had nothing in common with the bursts of son which we accustomed leaned against the parapet, | ne was very pale In time, the confused nes nearer and nearer, and and less confused, Now, I reco sels, a io Jean saw that were the mean approached Decame ' and then sound of the binio the cardes files of Finisterre were entering Paris, The mine in their military cups, the ii tat] resi 4 : gray CiOtn uniforms ENapsacyk i about them as they advance orrect and fi filling thelr and the whole width At head on horseback rides the chief of the n: behind utenants, { hapl $15 AAG he head of the col from it n “My father! Bays umn is now only & few steps us is muy turn to be startled. 1 look at Je HOn mine. My two brothers!” he in a low And he sees passing bef: him, he sow ned under their most striking forms, ¢ e1er or forgotten God, duty and family! The long pageant of his honest and noble davs defiles before him singing us the troops go by I gave him the blow. On of the q+ iI have just seen his mother, You unfortunate feliow!” | exe “You said there were no longer any wo men. Look, there is one; do you recog nize her!” Madame handkerchief, ‘ country, inst one imiconies of the ie de in fervor, and the chi with the courtesy of in his saddle a Mate nd drs . 1 with sad eves eve turned to stone mercy of G The next WRYEe ! i$ your name; “My name is Jenn,’ nteer, lowering his « “Who are youit™ ““A man who | “WN hat do **To die “Are you ricl “Yesterday | | have now knapsack.” “That is he ordered the the ranks. There was a long silence Commandant had again taken his piace in front the imttalion de Thommeray!" he called out. A manly ¥ ** Present!" = From the sriune : musket And with man 1071 well ™ coun young of tilean Came Home in a Shipwreck, Among the shipwrecked milors who were saved by the life-saving crews «long the New Jersey coast in the reoent storm was one grizzled old salt who was picked up near South Amboy in an exhausted When able to speak he said his ter of a century ago he was well known in that section of the countiy. He had sailed away as captain of the bark Emma ily at Morristown, N. J. For twenty- world, and what had become of his fam- ily he did not know. Captain Wood had become injured by the Joating wreckage, so he was cared for in a house in the neighborhood. Mra. Frances Briggs, a resident of Brooklyn, South Amboy, by saying he must be her who was supposed to have been lost at sea over twenty years ago. Then she hurried to the wouse and found her hopes realized, The eaptain’s son has taken Lim to his home. — [Chicago Herald, gra nd father, scavengers of the Body. Floating about the body with the viood are numerous cells which seem to go around on their own hook. Inthe lungs they are found in great numbers. When they come across any disense germ or other foreign particle, they eat it up or carry it away to some place where it can not do any harm. Thus they serve the purpose of scavengers. Unfortu. nately, so many wicked germs are float ing about in the dust that occasionally they make their way into the system of a healthy n and cause trouble, Most dreadful of all such micro-organisms is the bacillus of consumption, which breeds in the human lunge and destroys them Cholera has been exciting much dismay of ate, but it is a complaint of trifling importance compared with consumption. in Europe 8,000 penton die every day of sonsumption, while in the United States the same disease kills 100,000 people a year. Washington Star, THE JOKERS’ BUDGET. YARNS BY FUNNY THE PRESS, JESTS AND MEN OF Reason A Long No Use-Buaying Things Mamma, Ete, Ete, Experi. ence for A DOUBLE REASON, Miss Parade and Miss Beach Go so much with each other, Not for friendship, but each Has an namarried brother, [Judge. NO USE, Reggv Smalifellow (bursting with in- dignation at having been rudely-jostied by = muscular pedestrian)-~I will you hit that man for a dollar? Micky Tuffwon—Wot's de jus’ struck him for 10 cents an’ get a red. —{ Troy Press. say, use? 1 didn’t BUYING THINGS POR MAMMA Jessie—] am going to buy my mother | BOme oranges i Friend -—She likes oranges, Jessie-—No, ma'am, me, —| Yankee Blade. does she? she gives them to A LONG EXIFERIENCE, Head of Firm ad experience as a traveling man Applicant—I wld sa I Bb have just walked home from the ¥ Fair,—| Detroit Free Press, Have you bh much i ud | Yorld's 8110 SOCIETY NOTH Did + ike ening ‘ ning You n Have A sigh of Detroit Free i LO hopelessness Press, My dear Sir, ni 3 4 tui father, a 3 wWara $i i Hier sre re aragging my m a walery grave? 15 mary Detroit expect me Cree hero Ho fon, How do you Misa Barrow! Miss Barrow-—Not at all. He can’t pronounce his 1's, and | do detest being wldrensed as Miss B | Tidbits, Lord Fopping IRWOW AN IMPOSSIBILITY Customer These collars don’t suit me They don’t sit well on my neck. Clerk—How do you expect them to when they are standing collars? —- sit COULDN'T EXPLAIN, “Why don’t you get married, dear “I must refer you to Miss Jones, who jilting me for reasons of her NON-COMMITTAL. “1 say, Charley, been a fishing, ch? Charley (ambiguousiy)—1 have got a A HINT, Just thought I'd drop * “How are youl in a while to kill time, “Well, we don’t want any of our time ki'led."~{ Boston Globe, SAVED BY A NARROW MaRaiN, “Been to lodge have you, Absalom?” | said Mrs, Rambo, in a metallic tone of | voice, “Yes, m’ dear,” replied Absalom. i “What time does the lodge usually let | out?” **About--um —about 11 o'clock.” “And what time do you think it is now?" “Er-it's about 11, fsn't it!" “It is 2:80. Does it take three hours and a half to come home “Yes, m' dear. Lodge bodies move slowly.” And Mre. Rambo went gaspingly up- stairs to bed. Chicago Record, HIS SUAPICIONS WERE AROUSED, “Can you tell countefeit money when you see it!” asked a clerk in the war de- paztinent of a treasury employe. wi os, " . “1 wish you would look at this $10 iL’ “Do In think there's anything wrong with it?” ust borrowed it “f don't know; 1 from Brickelton, and let me have it A LEESON IN POLITENESS. Little Ethel It's awfully impolite to ask for things, Little Johuny—Course itis, What of it? Little Ethel—Nothing, only I'm get. tin’ hungry for some candy I've got in my pocket, and there isn't enough for two. — {Good News, MODESTY, ‘‘He's a very modest young he?” “Modest as a burglar: he doesn’t even want the credit of his own work." { Philadelphia Record. AT THE YACHT RACE. “1 love the ses,” the maiden said, “And like to wateh the flying foam.” But suddenly she hung her head And gasped, “I wish that I were dead, Or gife on land—oh. take me home!” ~| New York Journal, AN IGNORANT Old Lady What's the matter now? Steamboat Captain-—~We've run on a CAPTAIN. Old Lady - Well, itt What's I'd like to walking-beam [New York Your for, know! AN FAVORITE, Friend—Well you've started best? Tommy, now 8 hool, like Tommy Recess, — Wa. COMPANION IN MI RERY. she sald to bh ‘‘that th i atl shouiq oo bad,” hey left the theatre, n with a 1 h rmance for you.” I had wiled the perfe other day. woman | aver ng #1 eak to you she—["ll nev i 0 was she? Wh 100 4 Ho [Indianapol 8 AR ODD CHARAC Atlanta Constitut 100, ARD ENDS the f« ather cannot {ralveston get rece greatest scentery why the % rdressing queue from Jourier tobbins Jones Bro wn “‘Has she given you any encourage “ih, " Khe says she will nf her father’s money when he [Life \ gave me this cigs [ don't blame him "i Tes, little work,” said the policeman, “that my biceps are retting a How I would like to meeta clubable fellow.” {Washington a abhvy, good, Star said the stranger in the city, “is one of vour clubhouses?” “Well. you might it one. It's a police station, "—! Washington Star, Father And I'll give you a nice box of candy if you'll have those teeth pulled Tommy (with a wail)—And then I can’t eat the candy!—[ Chicago Record. “This, | suppose,” call and salary’ 17 “Well, generally, one means a great deal of work and and some work.’ — Chicago Record She reader. He r+ add mine! Do you think you could She—1'd rather not, Mam- ter of my reading. ~-{ Boston Globe. Tropical Roofs, The natives of the interior of Ceylon finish walls and roofs with a paste of glnzes and is so durable that specimens three centuries old are now to be seen, On the Malabar coast the flat bamboo and clay, This is a poor conductor of heat, and not only withstands the heavy the huts cool in hot weather, In So. matra the native women braid a coarse cloth of palm leaves for the edge and top of the roofs, Many of the old Buddhist temples in India and Ceylon had roofs made out of cut stone blooks, hewed timber and split bamboo poles. Uneven planks cut from old and dead palm trees ~-geldom from living young trees—are much used in the Celebes and Philip sines, Shark's skins form the reofs o shermen in the Andaman Islands. The Malays of Malacca, Sumatia and Java have a roofing of attaps, pieces of palm leaf wicker-work, about three feet by two in size and an inch thick, which are laid like shingles and are practically waterproof, The Arabs of the East In. dies make a durable roof paint of slaked lime, blood and cement. Europeans sometimes use old sails, made proof against water, mold and insects f- - and corrosive sublimate, a he first time I asked him, "(Washington porary roofs, «| Scientific American, IS RARELY PAINFUL. As DEAT " But Sensations of Approaching Dig. solution Are Little Kuown to Physiciaos, Descriptions of the sensations of those who thought they were about to die, but who passed into a more or less pro- recovered, though intense and realistio, cannot be accepted as authentic portraysis of the sensations of the dying, since these persons did not die. The temporary suspension of all the physical signs of life, as in 8 trance or lethargy, may so exactly simulate death that ail may sgree that the person is dead, while yet that indefinable something and is capable of reinstating the common We have no reason sensations experi to assume that the the sensations of ally felt the earthly ie dissolved. ('n death It only Physicians at while holding those who have ac house of this taberna consciousness is not objectively resembles it, the bedside of the dying, finger, wats Or si ecageriy un tions of approaching dissolution ing, however, of \ Indeed many a hind clear indications that Ome : i i h Aor { BETIHY - word expressive of the Noth value omes 10 us, leaving be here 18 no appreciation whatever of ithe great o1 shadowing change that 18 upon it, even thougl " to the A mother, hearing me whisper : bedside, “She is dying “i better when the i the mind remain i achive inst, and replied, be though had given Lier ast throb A little father's han “Paps her paid Jr 84 to ming, tii or less profo vital hout mined : tar he . instant OY « rning jess Quratior park goes out painiessy wit lence of the mind beir A sin Tie any avi Con sciousness RT (FRA i Desthbeds are rarely l= Kate Fields W ashington, How to Make a Scrap Book. com posed it cont ned Let the coi- Crap book shoul it be miscellaneous material i special lector decide rightly whether pictures or nted texts siected In clures the coliecto toa definite some are o be « whether h and apes, por- some A book of 1s- pub- most Or lected from In Hi volume The « ’ Hers £4 ur ¢ eal every city Of 00a : ollector 10 save whal 18 ok in which ost any bound if pages ihe print can iths of or- mar cluding FMorands or a week sCe BEry may ns he | a few explans ngs should be- them dF COLICCLOrS aniess it bids fair igible a year after it with a p in the ome 100 wit two or three leaves after each page filled with the clippings. When there slightest possibility that the scrap-book may be used for § hing purposes, or that any of its entries be cut out for other But on the page used the clippings should be packed closely together. If possible, each clip- ping should retain the “*rule” which marks the end of a printed paragraph or poem not be retained. In fact, it is best to cut newspapers al- ways along these lines. Ragged edges, of course, should be avoided, and the mucilage with which the clippings are pasted down should be used sparingly, wn, @e ace the § K for the ¢ eo wer, ia the is the isl may uses, cover one page only under the edge. Flour paste is better photographer's paste is excellent. Cheap Disposition of Garbage. The Chicago street cleaning depart. ent seems to have successfully solved the problem of economical disposition of garbage, with their peripatetic garbage crematory. A careful test of the ma- paper it was triumphantly sacoessful. The crematory looks at a little distance like one of the tar-boilers seen upon the streets, with a short smoke stack on top, and a firebox beneath. A dooratt rear allows the paper, wood and other easily combustible material to be thrown upon the fire and immediately burned. On top near the rear is = funnel shaped receptacle into which the garbage proper is thrown, This sifts down upon a grate, where it is dried. It is then pushed into the fire. This machine kept six men shoveling garbage into it as fas as they could work. Two men went ahead of it and tipped over the garbage boxes, then sorted out the combustible material proper. Four others ran the machine and dumped the garbage into the fire, So rapid was the combustion that the horses attached to this perambulating crematory seldom stopped. Saperinten- det Welles watched it ten minutes, and in that time it consumed the material which had collected in filieen boxes, It in caloulated the machine will, with fect ease, consume all the garbage og single ward each day. A Large Day's Sawing. At the cawmillof M. T. Jones & of Lake Charles, La, recently, 191, feet of lamber were cut in eleven hours, This is said to bo the | amount of lumber ever turned out of circus Ek, § 4
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers