The American Volunteer
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING
•l olir B. Bratton,
OFFICE—SOUTH MARKET SQ UAJIB.
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Dollars wIU be .charged.,,These terms will be
rigidly adhered to In every instance. No snb-
Borlptlon discontinued until ’all arrearages are
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Jpwtial.
THE BLACKSMITH'S STOBY,
Well, no! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I’ve lost
. horallthoaamo; >
She left me voluntarily, and neither was to
blame.
It’s rather a queer story, and 1 think you will
agree—
When you hear the circumstances—’twas rath
er rough on mo.
She was a soldier’s widow. Ho was killed, at
Malvern Hill;
And when I married her she seemed to sorrow
for him still; ' . "
But I brought her here to Kansas. I never want
to see
A better wife than Mary was, for flve bright
years to me l
The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and
sopn a rosy glow
Of happiness warmed Mary’s cheeks and mel
- • ted all their snow.
I. think she loved mo some—l’m bound to think
that of her, sir,
And as for me—l can’t begin to tell how I loved
her. I. .
Three years agb the baby came, our humble
hortae to'bldsa • ' **'
And then I reckon 1 was nigh to perfect happi
ness
Twos hor’s—’twas mlno—but I’ve no language
. to explain to you
'How that little girl’s weak lingers our hearts
together drew I
Once we watched It through a fever, and with
'each-gasping breath,
Dumb with an awful, worldless woe, we waited*
tor Its death;
And though I’m not a pious man, our souls to
gether thoro
J?or Heaven to spare our darling went up ip
voiceless prayer..
And when the,doctor said ’twouldllve, our Joy
what words could tell?
Clasped in each other’s arms, our grateful tears
together fell.
Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our
little nest,.
Bat It only made- the sunshine seem a doubly
welcomo guest.' ’ ' -
work came to me a plenty, and 1 kept the an
vil ringing, :
Early and late you’d fliid mo there a hammer
— - Ing and singing; •
Love nerved my arm to labor, and tuned my
toneue to sonar.
And though, my singing wasn’t sweet, It was
almighty strong.
One day a one-armed soldier stopped to havo
me nail a shoo,
And while I was at work we passed a compli
ment or two,
1 asked him how he lost-his-arm. He said’twas
shot away - . ,
At Malvern Hill. “At Malvern Hill! Did you
know Robert May 7” • '
"That’s mo!” said he. “You, you!” I gasped,
choking with horrid doubt; .
“If you’re a man, Just follow mo; wo’Jl try this
. mystery out. ? . \
With dizzy steps I led him to Mary, Godl’twas
true! ■
•Then the bltteres t pangs of misery unspeakable
■ I knew. ,
Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes
of stone,
And from her quivering lips there broke one
wild, despairing moan,
’Twas he ! the husband of her youth, now risen
from the dead.
Bat ail too late—and with that bitter cry her
senses fled..
wTiatoouiu oo ui.u r ,.«« -, —
• J-’.,
He-atrove in, vain’aome tidings -of his ’absent’
wife to learn.
'Twos well lie was innocent! Else Fd have
killed him too, . v
So dead ho never would, have ilfc till Gabriel’s
* trumpet blew! . ..
It was agreed that Mary then between ns should
decide, ,
’And eacli by her decision would most sacredly
•abide... ;, <■ . -•
No sinner at the Judgment seat, waiting eter
naldoom,.
Gould sutler what I did while waiting sentence
in that room.
Rigid and breathless there we stood, with nerves
.'os tense as steel',
While Mary’s eyes: sought each white face, in
piteous appeal, .
God I Could not woman’s duty be less, hardly
reconciled
Between her lawful husbmd and thoyfather of
her child.
Ah, bow my heart was chilled to Ice when she
knelt down and said, *
“ Forgive mo. John I He; Is ray husband I Here!
/'• • Alive! not dead!”
I raised her tenderly and tried to tell her she
was right,
But somehow In my aching breast tho prisoned
words stuck tigh t l l , >
“ But, John, I can’t leave baby”—" What I wife
and child?” cried I;
“Must I yield all? Ah, .cruel! Better that I
■ should die.,
Think of the long, sad; lonely hours waiting In
gloom,for me- .
No wife to,cheer me with her love—no babe to
climb ray knee I
And yet you are her mothos and the sacred
mother love,
Is still the purest, tend erest tie that heaven ever
wove.
Take her, bat promise,- Mary—for that will
bring no shanie—' , -
My little glrl.Bhall bear, and learn to lisp her
father’s name!” ,
It may be. In tho life th come, I’ll meet my child
and wife,;
But yonder, by my cottage gate, wo parted lor
this life, .
Une long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream
of lovo i»as done!
One long embraco.frora baby, and my happiness
was gone (
glfeallamM.
The Irishman Went.— Once upon a
time a genuine son of the Emerald Isle
accosted the captain of a steamer running
between Portland and Boston, as fol
lows : , ■ i i'Vi '. .
‘Good morntnV captain, could ye be
after teliln’ me \yhat|a the fair to Bosh
ton ?’
•Three dollars;’ answered the captain.
‘But suppose I wint outside ?’
•In that case,’ said the captain,.‘you
can go for two dollars.’
This was undoubtedly beyond ,the. .ex
tend of Pat’s worldly possession, so he
scratched bis head ' for a few moments,
when a brilliant thought seemed to strike
him: " ,l ' ",
‘I say, captain, dear. What would ye be
after takin' a hundred and sixty pounds
of freight for?’ '
•Seventy-five" cents,* replied the cap
tain.
‘Be jaberai thin, ye may put mo down,
■t captain, for I’m' Jlat the boy that weighs
f that.’ /.
The captain, turned to the. clerk, say
ing, ‘Put on the freight list one hundred
and sixty pounds of live Irishman, and
stow him In tho hole.’'
An epitaph on a gravestone In u Mil
waukee cemetery reads:
Here lies tho body of Peter Grace,
Who died from eating sweltzer kase ;
He finished'tlx platters, commenced on
seven,
He exploded, and such Is til? Kingdom
of Heaven.’ •
mt Metical ~ lalairteet
BY JOHN B. BRATTON.
THE , KID GLOVES.
! I never understood why I was born
with elegant and refined tastes, when I
could not indulge them. It was a daily
perplexity to me that I should admire
so much that I might not have, and
not only admife, but aotually'feel the
need of much that X never dreamed of
possessing. Forms of beauty filled me
with .ecstatic happiness ; a glimpse of a
perfect line, whether in statue, vase or
moving cloud, lasted me for whole days;
and well it did, for since my father’s
death my opportunities had been few, -
even to watch those flitting forms of
beauty hung out upon the blue heavens
by an artist who paints for rich and
poor alike.
The days since dear father held my
hand so tenderly, and looked his silent
farewell into my terrified face, had all
been spent in Aunt Maria’s elegant
stone front, on the third floor, rear room,
overlooking tier upon tier of brick and
mortar, at the base of which were little
boxes of'yards and harrow alleys be
tween. I think X never but once tried
to. see the ribbon-like bit of sky . far
above; that attempt almost dislocated
my neck, and I satisfied myself with
the memory of what it used to be when
father was alive. AH the days were
passed In that room teaching the young
er children, or sewing for my eldest
cousin.
I loved the children. I suppose eve
rybody does; butit was strange I could
not learn to love.sewing; all I had
crowded upon me did not bring tb me
the love of It. The nursery maid rang
me up at six iu the morning, to finish
odd bits of work left the night before;
and when I secretly hoped to get a run.
with the children In the park.after din
ner, there was always a new job to be
gin, so that 10 o’clock found me more
ready for my pillow in the little upper
room than star gazing, But despite the
stern facts of life, X still worshipped
TlCHuty UX A)nu uua\.vlu. pii..
I snatched of my -cousin Edith as she
flashed into the sewing room to try on
the tasteful garments I had helped to
finish, were to me like.visions of an an
gel,so perfect was she in motion, form
and face,'and the scanty wofds of praise
she gave were repeated again in my
dreams, so little had'imy heart to feed
on.
I was. passing through the. hail one
day by the door of her dressing,-room.
She. stood within arrayed in the love
liest new suit, all ready, for a ride with
one whose name ! had heard whispered
through the house as talented, wealthy,
and every way desirable to cultivate. —
His voice,' deep and rich, had come up
through the rooms, mingling with hers
in song, night after night, and the
sounds rested me as 1 listened on the
stairs. Nor would X look in her face
thought' she must love hirii. Edithi
heard my steps as I passed, and said,.
“ Kitty, where are you going ?' Out for
a. walk, child ? Well, just hunt up. my
gloves for me first. Why, Kitty, when
did you get yours ? and where did you
find that color ?”
■“ I bought them cousin, with my own
money, that father gave me.’'
“ Well child,.don’t blush so; I didn’t
think you stole them, hut they are a
lovely match for my suit; just lend,
them to me to day, please?”
X hesitated. Was It selfish ? I did so
love to see my hand look well. My
father had called it beautiful, had been
proud to see it in a wolWltting glove,
and this was tho only luxury®! dared
allow myself now; now that I was only
able to pay for my board by the labor
of head and hands.
“ These’are all I have to wear, cous
in.” ■
“ Well, Kitty, take ■ah old pair of
.mine; just as'woli, you know, for a run
with the children; these lisle thread
•will do nicely ; and yburs are a lovely
color for me to ride in. When lam
married, dear, you shall have all the
gloves you want. Don’t be so-slow.—
Mr- Raymond hates to wait.” ‘. ' ,
I took them off lingeringly, the mod-,
est, pretty gloves, my father’s favorite
color, and wondering how she could
speak his name so carelessly, I drew the
loose, half-worn cotton ones on as I
wont down stairs, while Edith hummed
an opefn air before the mirror. I never
bad thought X was selfish; I don’tknow
why my eyes filled with tears, unless it
was the thought that no one cared now
to see me neatly clad.
In the lower hall I saw a gentleman
standing, hat in hand, waiting for my
cousin. There sf/aa a queer expression
in his eyes and round his mouth. He
must havo heard us. I thought he saw.
my tears and would judge meweak and
childish; but he only bowed and open
ed the door for me. I was hot accus
tomed to receive attention from any in
the house, and it embarrassed me; but
I thanked him, and before I had walk
ed !far they came out and drove away.
X walked slowly along, the children
running by my side, and tried to keep,
the tears from starting; but for once
I could not control them. X bit my lips,
lociked everywhere, tried 'to smile at
tho little ones’ pretty pranks, but all in
vain; that' dreadful- ‘ feeling in; my
throat would not be choked back; so I
pulled down my brown veil and let the
troublesome tears have their way.
I don’t think I : ever before got so hu
miliating a vjew of my own selfishness.
Gould all this unhappiness have come
from a single pair of kid gloves ? What
would the dear father say if It were
true, as some thought, he could note
my comings and goings, my spiritual
deterioration, and all my petty weak
nesses? It was a comfort to feel that
bo would know I was ashamed already;
so, as the clock warned me that my
time was up—and Aunt Marla was
very systematic in all her household ar
rangements—l turned toward home.
I had my dinner always with the
children, and supper also. We took
breakfast with the family, but Edith
was seldom up then. After dinner
they recited to mo until four, and then
I amused them in the play-room until
supper, unless tho sewing pressed, ns it
Often did, How X longed sometimes to
get down into the lofty drawing room
and play a little on Edith’s grand pi
ano. My fingers tingled to try some of
the old pieces father used to love so
much ; but I never dared. That after
noon, as X.sat on the upper stair by the
playroom dqqr, watching the children
and listening to Edith as she practised
something new, X heard the door-bell,
and some one call my name. Looking
over the banisters, - , the nursery girl
said : • “ A package for you, Miss Kit
ty.” ,
What could it mean ? X never had a
package before. I flew down, and
found it really and plainly marked to
mo, “ Miss Kitty Gray.” Just.then
iny Aunt Maria looked from her room
and asked, “ What is it ? Who could
send you anything ? Come in here,
child,'and open it.”
How I would have liked to be alone;
but there was no help for it, and with,
trembling fingers I pulled off the wrap
pings and found a whole box of gloves
—(the sweetest colors, and just’my size.
I laughed out loud, I was so happy,
and before I thought of Aunt Maria, I
said: “ Oh. some one knows what I
like best. Dear cousin Edith must
have dohe it.”
“ Nonsense! Edy would not do so
foolish a thing. I think very likely
they are misdirected. It’s Edith’s
number, I believe.”
My poor heart fell away below zero.
I answered, “Yes, I believe it is. But
Aunt Marla, perhaps there is no mis
take—perhaps they are mine.”
“ Not at all likely; and if they were
sent to you, I-hope you would not be so
selfish as to want them when Edith
goes out so much more than you do.”
I looked at them longingly, tenderly,
and then answered, “ X could share
them with her, Aunt Maria, if she
wished me to.”
“Weil, well, go see ‘the children;
leave them hero till Ecly aeea til cm j
Very likeLv it’s aU..a-minfaiko.’.’ .
- x uropped the box pn the toilet-table
and flew up stdira, but not so fast that
Aunt Maria’s last words were lost; they
sent a cXtlll all over me; . “ What a fear
ful temper that child’s got,”
Oh, why should she misunderstand
me? Why, why did my father'leave
me.? I dropped my head on the upper
stair and cried - silently a long, long
time, until sweet little Mary curled her
arms around my neck, saying, “ Kitty,
my Kitty cousin, wake up and be lov
ed.”
Yes, little Mary, love is better than
gloves, after all; love me all you can.
And thus I grew happy again.
That evening uncle took them all to
the opera, and after the children were
asleep, as there was ho sewing to be
done, I thought of the piano and slipp
ed down stairs. At first I enjoyed
looking .pictures, and books
then ! just touched thhkeys a ; Uttle', hi
first. I'could not resist the .impulse;
my fingers would slip from key to key,
and, at last; as no one seemed to notice,
I forgot aunt Marla entirely, and play
ed’and played all the sweet old piecesi
used to love because father praised
them. I almost thought I heard again
the clear notes of his flute joining me;
and ! closed my eyds and made believe
we were together again in the cottage
where we were so happy. Something
made.my eyes open, and by the door
stood the same gentleman I had seen in
the morning, he said he was passing
and heard th*e piano; thought perhaps
Miss Edith was there. I think he no
ticed my fear, for he smiled and asked
me to play on.
“ I don’t think I had better, sir.—
Edith is away. I didn’t' know it was
so late.”
...How the words seemed to stumble
over each other; I felt so awkward, I
thought he looked amused; and perhaps
was laughing at me; and before I knew
it, . I was making a baby of myself
again,with great tears rolling over my
blushing face. At that ho came close
to me, and said in the tenderest voice,
“ Don’t be troubled, Miss Kitty, I am
not a stranger in the house; but little
Majt has told me many a sweet story
about you; I’m glad to see you now;
but don’t play if you are tired; won’t
you stay and talk with me a few min
utes?”
“ Yes, if you are not laughing ntme.”
‘ 1 Why, I never dreamed of it.’h I
I knew In a moment he was honest
with me; and when he.asked why
played with my eyes shut, I told him
all about father, and our pretty home,
and how easy it was to see it whdn my
eyes were shut, and how I longed to go
to it sometimes; and that In my sleep
I often heard the brook near it, as It
used to gurgle over the stones and thro’
the rushes; and although this was very
grand and beautiful, it seemed like *a
strange life to me. I often wished I
might go back instead of forward, for
all my other life was so lovely and
bright ond cozy, and this was cold. I
tried to be happy, but one.can’t help
missing fathers, I said.
“I should think pot,” he answered,
and seemed so interested and kind I
could have told him anything. I was.so'
glad to think he would be my cousin.
Aunt .Maria said next morning the'
gloves were doubtless misdirected, bnt
Edith wanted me to accept a pair of
them. When I thanked her at night
she blushed. I remembered having
heard that very generous people dis
liked to receive thanks.
It was a long time before I saw Mr.
Raymond again, only as I went to the
sitting-room sometimes to get May to
put her to bed; once he asked me to
slay long enough to plky something,
but aunt Marla answered for me that I
was no musician, and I felt mortified
that he had ever heard me. Little May
used often to bring, papers of bonbons
and nice candles, saying that Mr. Ray
mond bade her share them with me
and once she brought a bunch of Eng
lish violets and said Mr. Raymond sent
them to me. How happy I was after
wards for days I After that we often
saw him In the park. One day he said
he must help me take care of the chil
dren, they were so frolicsome; ho filled
their pockets with sweets and we had a
right merry time, That day ho asked
CARLISLE, PA., THDRSDAY, JUNE 27, 1872.
me if I had used up the gloves yet, and,'
when 1 wondered at his meaning be
said. "Dldspu notgetthe box of gloves
I sent you, Kitty ?”
“ No, yes—they were for me, then ?”
How happy I, felt. .
“Of course they were; you failed to
get them ?”,
,“ Aunt Maria thought they were for
Edy, but no matter, I’m glad they
were mine.” I laughed with real pleas
ure. • .
“ And you had them taken from
you ?’ ’ He spoke so sternly It terrified
me. “ Edith gave me one pair, Mr.
Raymond ; this pair, see.”
■ Then he took my hand and held it
just as father used to, and his voice
sounded like father’s a.little, and he
said—but I could never tell‘what he
said. X seemed to walk home on air.—
The children floated around me os
though they were home along with
wings. Mr. Raymond went to the door
with us, and said he should see my un
cle that day, then he lifted his hat,, and
his eyes took in my whole soul and
bore it away from me.
When Edith met me In the hall look
ing so pale, and asked me what all this
meant, I could only say, “ I did. not
know, but it seemed like heaven.” I
•think it was in part heaven, for Edith’s
or aunt Maria’s anger failed to disturb
it; Little May and I nestled in the
glory of it all the afternoon, and' when
late my uncle sent for me to'go td him,
the library, I almost flew. I heard him.
say as he drew me to him, “ I trust you
Raymond to make her happy; she is
the orphan of my only brother.” Then
I knew' that "my undemonstrative un
cle loved me, for his brother’s suite. .
‘Arid now, I have no cause to regret
the lost gloves, for I am very happy,
and have as many as I want.
EDITORIAL "NERVE,"
A nOV’R DEPRNRR.
The scene was in Sacramento street, in
front of a well-known hotel. ■ It was 22
years ago, and San Francisco-was In her
infancy.
Quite a crowd had gathered on the
street, and the centre of attraction was a
big fellow, who stood with a newspaper
in bis hand, raving and cursing... „
, “ What’s the matter, Wolf ?” asked a
new comer, who was evidently familiar
with the irate man.. ;
.“ Matter?” returned Wolf,, for that was
his name, “ matter enough, an’ rough
enough it’ll be. for some folks. Them
young whelps that prints this paper has
gone an T published somethin’ ’bout
me. O, I'll fix ’em! They’d better
never ha’ been born! They'd bettor go
an’ kill themselves after ten minutes ;
it’ll be an easier death fur ’em."
Wolf was a noted., desperado, who it
was said, bad killed more than twenty
jfekf him'- ntTwsß.lU lulit Lunt
d gang of loafers and; gamblers that, were'
1 nearly always to be found lounging in
the vicinity alluded to, and disturbing
the peace of thfe whole neighborhood
daily with riotous conduct. If there'was
any law in those days it was seldom ex
ecuted against such characters, and in
the full consciousness that : they were
feared, they did pretty much as they
pleased.
The newspaper which had given dead
ly offense to Wolf was a little weekly
journal, and its' office was in the second
story of. a building on the same street
with the hotel T’bave mentioned, and
only a few rods distant. It was published
by two young men—or, I , might say,
boys, for they were only eighteen and
twenty years old, respectively—named
Darrell and Kaynes. The paper and its
youthful proprietors were already well
known in the city of San Francisco. “
The article which had excited the
wrath of the ruffian Wolf was a bold de
nunciation of himself and his crowd for
their lawless conduct, and it particularly*:
mentioned him by name, characterizing
him as a “ blustering bully.” It, was tire
work of young Darrell, a fearless boy
bailing from Ohio. Before leaving his
home he had acquired a fair education,so
that be could at least edit a newspaper in
those early days; anid he possessed, be
sides, that courage and daring which may
be natural in the first place, and which
are more thoroughly developed by expo
sure to dangers and hardships. ■ Young
Kaynes was quite a different kind of
person in point of courage, being of an
uiinsually timorous nature.
To return to the scene, on Sacramento
street. Working himself up into his very
worst mood—and hisbest was bad enough,
heaven knows—Wolf tore the paper to
atoms and started for the publication of
fice. Hb waa followed by a curious rab
ble, most of whom were elevated with
the prospect of a murder, though there
Were some present who would have re
monstrated with the evil hearted man,
had they dared.
"Jest you watch," said Wolf, ns he
reached the door', “If ye want to see the’r
bloody carcasses tumble out o’ the win
der! It won’t be long. I don’t spend
much time on sloh fellers.”
It was the Intention of the cruel hearted
man actually to cut the thpats of thb two
boyish Journalists and throw their bodies
out of the window, for the gratification
of the crowd and jhe further exaltation
of hla already fearful name. So, the mob
on the street awaited the issue with
feverish expectation, as Wolf, flourishing
his knife and revolver, entered the rude
frame.buildlng and rushed up stairs.
All unconscious of their danger, the
two. young editors were busily pursuing
tbeig usual work in their primitive office..
If they had beard the noise without they
had paid no attention to it, supposing it
was merely a street row such as they were
accustomed to bearing every day.' Darrell
was sitting at a rude table writing, aud
Kaynes was at the counter arranging
spmo papers for the mail.
They heard the clatter of heavy boots’
on the stairs, but supposed it was some
rough miner coming up to subscribe for
the paper, or, perhaps, to see a lawyer
who occupied a couple of roams on tbe
same floor; for the building was only a
two-story one, and the second floor was
occupied exclusively by them and an at
torney—their room being separated from
his by a narrow hallway that was reach
ed by the flight of stairs alluded to.
“ Ah-ba I I’ve got ye, my young
Impsl” exclaimed the desperado, burst
ing in,
kaynea recognized him and, turned
pale. Being at the counter, which faced
the door and extended across the room,
ho was naturally the'flrst mark for Wolf’s
vengeance.
“Ye young devils !” he hissed, scowl
ing like a madman, 1 ‘ Ye’ll never write
nor print nothin’ more ’bout mo!” Here
he flourished his knife and revolver
above hla head. " I’Ve got a sure thing
on both of ye!” Baying this he looked
about him with a careful scrutiny, to see
that there was no means of escape for the
quiet youth at the table, who, of course,
would not dare'to jump over the oonnter
and try to pass him, but would cower
down in a corner and take his. turn at
beingkilled ; then he reached across the
Counter and seized Kuynes by the hair,
which was unfortunately very long.
Coiling the terrified young man’s looks
around the great coarse fingers of tho
left hand, Wolf laid his revolver on the
counter without the slightest apprehen
sion that his youthful adversary would
snatch it up .and, UB9 it on him; as be
might have done had', be possessed the
nerve; then.flourishing bis big gleaming
knife, deliberately, with pure/deviliah
ness prolonging Kayne’s terror and pain.
“ Now say yor prayers, d d yer,” he
hissed, '“you’ve got a couple o’ seconds
or so left—jest while I’m ollppin'yerears
oil. I’ll take ’em first, clean and smooth ;
then I’ll out yer throat an’ throw yer out
the winder. D’ye hear that? 1 '
Such was Wolf’s reliance upon the ter
ror bis name everywhere inspired, that
he never dreamed of resistance. fie sim
ply intended to butcher the two young
men, and such a thing as an obstacle to
his will was not to be thought of. Had
Darrell possessed ho more nerve than
Kaynes there can be no doubt they
would have been murdered then and
there, in exact accordance with Wolf’s
programme.
“ Tlmel” he said, grinding his teeth in
an ecptacy of rage, and drawing Kayne’s
white face closer to his own repulsive
■ oounteuaueu. ■ —-rney’re a waitin’ fosse
your carcass drap down niu> u» ai'ieoi.”
Here he flourished his knife and selected
bis mark. " The right ear first. Watch
how clean and smooth I’ll take it off. I
won’t even touch a hair.”
Kaynes bawled for mercy. .“O—O
don’t 1” the poor fellow shrieked, trem
bling with terror. “Oh don’t Mr. Wolf,.
I didn’t write that, upon my soul!" and
be whined like a schoolboy.
“ None o’ yer lyln 1” said Wolf, fero
ciously. - Ye both wrote it, d dye ;
and ye’ll both pay for it." Here he exe
cuted decided circles with his flashing
knife, having apparently prolonged the
torture as much he desired. • “Here
goes;'look out when I count three!”
The knife was ready to' descend. “ One 1
—two—”
He stopped and; stared. He had not
observed the movements of Darrell du
ring the last few seoobds, and Just as he
was on the point of clipping off Kayno’s
pollshcd manner he.bad des
tine w-sinon v e , fduhd ’thV mUzZIe of a
It was a loaded nne~wnionv-racKtryra
friend of Darrell’s had left in bis keep
ing that very morning, while lie went
out to make some purchases. It bad
stood in a corner of the room near bis ta
ble, and Darrell bad seized It, cocked it
and ievelld it with such dexterity that
he had .Wolf covered before he had oh--
served his movements; and'he stood
motionless as a statue—his cool eye glan
cing over the sights, and a steady finger
on the trigger- ’ , ‘
“ You great bully,”he said, "dropthat
knife instantly. Mind, I come from a
country where they shoot.squirrels only
in the eye. I can hit any hair of your big
head that you can mention at a hundred
yards. Drop that knife I”
The ruffian was fairly paralyzed. He
released his grip on poor Kaynes, who
sank fainting upon the floor, and his
murderous knife fell on the counter. So
unexpected was this bold attitude of
Darrell that Wolf was more startled than
.he would have been If a dozen of the
roughest men in California had assailed
him. '
There stood the boyish editor, motion
less as the wail, and the muzzle of the
rifle did not move the breadth of a hair.
Darrell, held the desperado's life in his
bands.
“You cowardly bully!" he repeated
contemptuously. “ Don't you dare move;
I can send a bullet through your eye-ball
without touching , the white. Don’t
move an eighth of, an inch or I’ll do.lt,
and throw your filthy carcass out of the
window.” .
Wolf glanced at his revolver, lying
upon the counter'within two feet of his
eyes, but he did not venture to reach for
“Dare to: touch, that revolver, or so
much os look at it again,”, said Darrell,
"and I’ll make a red picture on the .wall
there behind you. ' You blustering, brag
ging knave I You are a coward at heart
—a despicable our 1 You came up hero
■to murder two boys, because you thought
it an easy task, and now you are pale and
trembling with fear. I would kill you
in your tracks, but that I don’t want
your dirty blood on my hands. Go now.
Turn instantly. Leave your knife and
revolver where they are. I’ll keepthem.
Go down to your friends on the street
and toll them that a boy whipped you—
disarmed you, and then kicked you down
stairs. Do as I toll you. If you hesitate
you will never see the sun set.”
Wolf, trembling from head to foot,
glanced once more at bis revolver, but
did not dare raise his hand- His face was
pale and hla Ups were dry.
“Do you hear me?” demanded Darrell,
sternly.
•i Yes, yea, don’t shoot,” said Wolf,
turning about, as commanded. He was
thoroughly cowed.
“Do not turn your ugly face this way
again," said Darrell, “or you will pay
'for'lt with your life. Move I”
Tamer than a whipped cur, the ruffian
walked toward the door, and Darrell,
springing .over the counter, was at his
liuelu in pn instant,
“ Don’t look back, or I’ll kill you.”
.Meekly obeying the Imperative orders
of the youth, Wolf moved slowly out of
the room Into the corridor.
“Bo careful; don’t—don’tletthatgun
go dll,” Wolf stammered, os he reached
the head- of the stairs:
At. this moment the clamors of the im
patient crowd below arose with terrible
distinctness, and one shrill voice was
hoard to say,
“Harry up Wolf, why don’t you
throw thorn fellers out?”
Exasperated beyond measure, be was
on the point of turning book, at the risk
of his life; for after all his braggadocio
how could he face those below, disarmed
and chased out of the building by one of
the puny boys ho had Intended so terribly
to chastise 7 But Darrell was after him,
and with one vigorous kick sent him
bounding down the wooden stairs; with
a thundering clatter, and rolling over the
doorsill, the defeated bully actually tum
bled out upon the street before be could
recover his equilibrium.
"Hello! how’s this? What’s up 7”
asked a dozen voices at once, as the
dreaded man re-appeared in this undig
nified shape, without having sent any
oorpses-down from the window.
" Why, I simply kicked him down
stairs—that’s what’s the* matter," . re
sponded the boyish voice of Darrell at
the top; “ and if he comes up here again
I won’t let him off so easy. Do not be
afraid of him; I took all his weapons
from him.”
Wolf struggled to his feet, rubbing his
bead, and presenting such a ludicrous
appearance that he wasgreeted with loud
jeers and bursts of laughter. So complete
ly had he tumbled from his lofty eminence
in the eyes of those who either admired
or feared a bald murderer, that th&r who
an hourago would have dreaded to offend
him by word or; look, now regarded him
only with contempt—laughed at and de
rided him.
Never before had the rough crowd seen
a man with an established reputation
like Mr. Wolf thus suddenly fall to such
a depth of degredatibn. AH his name,
fame, prestige, melted away like mist,
and he was no longer feared—no longer
respected by the low thieves and cut
throats arounfl him—only despise?. Yes.
despised by the meanest of creatures,
whom he had oftentimes bill lied as tho’
they were hounds.
. The'dread which had' surrounded his
iiifie seamen' [Q IIKO o-'mior.— *'
“iLiobcd by u boy “ Kiolsiid down
stairs!" “ Got bis barons took ■ from
himl” were the murmurs of the crowd.
At length a voice boldly taunted him
with ’ 1 Where’s your knife?” and anoth
er proposed “ Three cheers for the boy!
lljat licked him.” ’ rin
'Looking very little and pusillanimous,
he slunk away toward Montgomery
street.
jSuch was Wolfs mortification when
he came fully to realize what a pitiable
figure he bad cut, that he left San Fran
cisco and was seen in her streets no more.
The fatillty which had' apparently thus
far shielded aud assisted him in his mur
derous deeds suddenly deserted him.
He was destined never to commit an
other murder, but was himself shot dead
in Idaoramento within three weeks after
tlje events narrated.
1 do not know what becamoof Kaynes,
oi| whether he is still alive; but I know
that Darrell, the brave boy whose cool
ness and courage saved them bath, is to
iranMeman.df position, residing in
THE BROKEN) GOBLET,
'"Clara, we are short of goblets,”
(Harry Thurber asked the question of
bjs wife at the breakfast table. He was
.book-keeper in a down-town store, in re
ceipt of a fair salary, and had been mar
rlbd five years.
“ Goblets?” repeated his wife with a
start, and her delicate, handsome fea
tures were wrought upon by something
which resembled fear..
“ Yes,” added the husband with em
phasis; "lasted if wo were short of
goblSta.”
“ you remember, Harry, 1 told you
several days ago that we needed a few
more.”
“How many goblets, in mercy’s name,
am I to buy In a year?”
" Not many, Harry. You have bought
only two dozen since we were married;”
“And what has become of them?”
They got broken.”
:“ Broken I I should say so.”
Mr. Thurber had split a muffin on his
plate, and now looked for the syrup. J -
He was very ■ fond of maple syrup on
hot muffins—for his wife’s folks in the
country sent him the purest and' most
delicate syrup to be found anywhere;
and his wife could not be excelled in the
art-of cooking.
' “Ah! how.ls this?” be exclaimed as
bis wife, banded him thesyrupin a small
glass pitcher. " Where is our syrup
ppt ?”
“ I am sorry, Harry—”
“ How i is that broken too ?’’
i’Yes. Eva hit it with her elbow
while helping me to clear off the table
last evening. Poor little thing I She
has been sadly—"
“ Great help you expected from a child
like that I" ejaculated the husband,sneer-
Ingly.
Upon this little Eva, a bright eyed
child of almost four summers, cried that
“ she could help mamma lots.” ,
But Mr. Thurber was not to be turned
from hla bent.
“ Goodness, gracious I ” he exclaimed ;
“ if a man wore made of money he could
not run such an establishment. You
must remember, that times are not like
they were three years ago; things are
almost double what they used to be.—
That syrup pot I paid one dollar for I
My soul I I dig, and dig, and dig, and
I’ll never get a dollar ahead if we go on
this way. ' Yesterday it was a now plat
ter for meat—”
" Harry,” plead the wife beseechingly,
“ the platter was not to replace a broken
one.”
“ But I bought It, didn’t I ?”
“Yes."
And next goblets are wanted. Are
those to make broken ones good ?” %
“Of .course. But—remember that for
five years—’’
“O, yes—l remember very well that
during the five years it has been nothing
but break, break, break, something all
the time. And now It’s a new syrup
pot I Thunder 1 I’ll buy an iron one,
and see it that will stand the racket.”
“ Harry,” plead the wife, “ you mag
nify the evil. I think there are very
few families that break less crockery
than we do. I am as careful as I Can
be, and am sure that Eva Is not at all
destructive.”
“And yet,” reported Harry, with un
necessary vehemence, 11 1 find myself
called upon alarmingly often to make
VOL. 59,—N0- 3*
good your breakage?. I tell you I can
not stand it.”
- Like all men who assume untenable
positions; endeavoring to hold the same
against reason and good sense. Harry
Tburber became more and more Indig
nant and harsh as his wife interposed
the gentle remonstrance of truth and ne
cessity, until at length he arose from the
table with the exclamation npon -his
lips that “a man now a days needs to
have an Independent fortune if be thinks
to marry and keep bouse.”
, "Oh Harry!"
"It's so, Clara. Zounds, you don’t
have to earn money. If you did, you'd
be a little more careful,"
“ Careful of what 7",
"Careful of what “—My—of every'
thing—of goblets, and syrup pots, and
—O, bah ! Smash away—break ’em up—
tip over pots and kettle—rattle the glass
and china—it’s all right; I can pay for
it! O, yes ! ” ' ,
Clara could make no answer to this
speech, and gave way to the emotion
which for a long time bad been pulling
at her heart-string; ebe covered her face
with her hands and burst into tears.
“Oh, yes I” dried Harry, “that’s the
way. That’s a woman’s argument! O,
bother!” And with this he seized his
hat and hurried from the house.
Let it not be thought that Harry Thur
ber was willingly unjust, or inclined to
fault finding. On the contrary, he was
naturally frank and honorable, and en
tirely free-hearted; but like thousands of
other free-hearted men, bet waa swayed
greatly by bis- emotions, and bis emo
tions very often ran into wrong chan
nels. He wended bis way towards bis
place under a cloud. He loved bis wife
dearly and was never happy when be
left his home with the shadow of Ill
feeling upon the parting.
“ Plague take it,’’ he muttered to him
self, ‘ “ a ffelibw can’t stand this kind of a
thing all the time. It costs tod much to
buy crockery ware Just to break up.’’
-' <I So plead ilt oor It Bpfr tt f "’bufl 'tboapiriir
of coneideratiou l would have told him
tbiat but very little of his substance was'
wasted or destroyed by his wife, By and
by his better nature found room, for the
expression of a passing thought. It was
When be remembered how harshly he
had spoken to Clara—how- harshly and
foolishly I
!“ After all the prlde.ofa few goblets Is
ni)t worth the ill words I have spoken.
And yet she might be more careful.’’
The enemy was arguing now. “ Times
aija harder now than they used to be, It
costs me a good deal more to live. Every
broken goblet counts.’’
;By this time he was at the store, and
under the pressure of business of the
cquntlng-room, his troubles were forgot-,
ten. '
At eleven o’clock he and Ben Lawson
went out’ to get a glass of ale. Ben paid
the bill. Ben was the entry clerk, and
was a good Jolly fellow.
jAt three; o’clock the duties of the
counting-house Were closed, and Harry
and Ben went out for dinner. It Wfis
; It was a very nice dinner, and u they
washed it dawn with champagne, Harry
Was brushing, the crumbs from his lap
with a napkin, when he hit one of the
delicately out and tinted, glasses, and
knocked it off the table, ,
Put it ia the bill,” said be to the
waiter. The event seemed to trouble
him no more than might, have resulted
from the dropping of a pin.
The bill was. brought—six dollars and
seventy-live cents.
‘‘That’S’ seventy-five cents for the
champagne glass,” suggested Ben Law
son.
•‘ Yes,” said Harry.
“Egad,” said Ben with a laugh, “sup
pose a fellow’s wife was to break such a
thing at home, wouldn’t she got a lec
ture ou carelessness ?”
“ And," added Bart Sawyer, the friend
who, was a married man, “suppose one
of our wives was to ask lor six dollars to
be expended Just as this six dollars have
gone.” '
“I fancy I see her getting it,” return
ed Ben.
" And that ain’t the worsfof It,” pur
sued Bart, who was free enough In the
admission of his faults away from borne,
“ how we do snap the poor women when
they spend money anyway. Yesterday I
foundmy wife with a new bonnet on.—
Fifteen dollars thrown away I told her,
and she bad a good cry. And yet to come
right down to the honest truth, I sup
pose I spend more for wine and cigars In
the course of a year than my wife ever
thinks of spending for dress In the same
length of time.”
“ Zounds 1” exclaimed Ben, with, an
emphatic slap of bis hand on his knee,
•‘ ypu ate right, Bart. The fact Is, wa
spepd money for our amusement without
thinking, but when we come to pay our
wives’ bills, we count the cost.”
“ We pay them vary much os we pay
our taxes,’’ added Bart. “ What do you
think, Harry?”
Harry- Thurber bad been reflecting,
and when he looked up the usual smile
was gone from bis face.
“ You are right,” he said, “ this very
morning I made a brute of myself at
home over a broken goblet; and here I
have spent enough for tblo dinner to pay
for every glass that my wife ever broke
In her life.”
“ Butlt won’t do to toll her of it,” said
Ben.
“ No,” returned Hurry, “ but X think
It would not be a bad thing for us all to
shift the scene of fault-finding. Let us
keep our frowns and complaints to keep
company with our foolish expenditures,
and save the sunshine of our free hearts
for home occupation. Fo.rono, I’m bound
to try It.”
" Egad, and so will I,” responded Ben
Lawson.
“ Count me In,” added Bart.
“ Now mark,” said Harry, Impressive-
"we are not to find fault with bur
wives on account of expenditures, until
we have found occasion to reduce our
own expenses within the limit of our ab
solute needs for comfort and convenience.
If there Is need of retrenchment we will
set the example before^we preach. Are
you agreed?”
The other two answered In. the affir
mative.
“ We will bo cheeks upon each other/’
eald Bart. “He that breaks faith shall
onfess.”
Rates of Advertising.
|lS(MaHq.|3HfT,|4*i. \M Q I Ha |lco
112 00 $22 00
14 00 20 00
16 00 90 00
18 00 83 60
20 00 85 00
23 60 8750
25 00 43 50
80 00 60 00
>4O 00 75 00
7500 100 00
t w *lOO *2 00 «3 00 $4 00 f 7 00
fl« 160 600 900,
3« 200 400 600 600 UCO
4“ 360 475 675 0751960
5« 800,5 60 , 6.60 760 14 00
§•* 360 660 760 860 1660
2m 400 760 860 060 17 60
3“ 500 860 960 10 60 20 00
6‘* 760 1000 1960 1600 28 00
ly 10 00 1700 29 00 2500J4000
Tweivd linoa constitute a square, _
For Jsxecntora’ and Admire', .Notices, $4 00
For Auditor's Notices; [ 2W
- For 1 Assignees* and similar Notices, '8 00
For Yearly Car da, not exceeding six lines, 7 00
For Announcements five cents per lino, nnleas
contracted for by the year.
' For Business and Special Notices: 10 con taper
lino, ;
Double column advertisements extra .
They agreed to this also.
The result was a.most favorable one.—
Theta were no' thfeo happier families In
the city from that time. There were
three homes into which the spirit ol dis
cord seldom entered. And furthermore
when the wives discovered that their
husbands were really and manfully try
ing to lift their heads above the pressure
of unnecessary expenses,'they cheerful
ly seconded their efforts. The; did It of
their own accord, and they, did It right
willingly. And thus, Imperceptibly, the
very shoal and quicksand on 'which so
much of domestic peace had been wreck
ed; became the grounds on which the
hearts of husband and wife were united
in a common cause—a cause which had
in view a safer home, and better and
happier life.
A Slight Mistake.—The following
anecdote, which first appeared in the.,
newspapers many years , ago is said to
have been founded upon an actual oc
currence. Although it may not illus
trate the simplicity of the people of
Vermont to-day, it Is nevertheless a
good story and good also for many
.years longer life in the newspaper;
“Hallo, you man with a pail and
frock, can you inform me whether His
Honor the Governor of Vermont re
sides here?’’ said a British officer, os
ho brought his fiery horse to a stand
in front of Governor Chittenden’s
dwelling.
“ He does,” was the response of the
man still wending his way to the pig
sty.
‘‘ is His Honor ?” continued
the man of spurs.
“ Most certainly,” replied frock..
“ Take my horse by the bit, then,’’
said the officer, “I have business to
transact with your master.”
Without a second bidding, the man
did as reunootod, offloerailghb
od and'made his way to the door, and
gave the panel several hearty zaps
With the butt of. his whip—for be, it
known that in those days ol republican
simplicity knockers and bells like, ser
vants were but little used. The good
dame answered the summons in person,
and having seated the officer and ascer
tained his desire to see the Governor,
departed to inform liter husband of the
guest’s arrival ; but on ascertaining
that the officer had made a hitching
post of her husband, she immediately
returned and Informed him that the
Governor was engaged in the yard,
and could not very well wait upon him
and bis horse at the same time 1 The
predicament of the officer can better be
imagined than described. . ,
Wedding Celebrations. Three
days—Sugar.
Sixty days—Vinegar.
' Ist anniversary—lron.
sth anniversary—Wooden.
20th anniversary—China.
25th anniversary—Silver.
80th anniversary—Cotton.
35th anniversary—Linen.
40th anniversary—Woolen.
45th anniversary—Silk.
50th anniversary—Golden.
75th anniversary—Diamond.
A DUTCHMAN died lately In Hqllaud,
who had thoroughly tested the destruc
tive powers of tobacco and beer. Ho
had In bis time smoked about 10,000
pounds of the soothing weed and drank
500,000 quarts of the composing liquor,
■aud yet by reason of strength or some
other cause he reached the age of four
score years. Of course the experiment
is not altogether satisfactory, because If
be had not indulged In tobacco or beer,
he might Jmve lived to be 100, and on
the other hand he might never have
passed 00.
Thu Jewish .'Messenger bad a good
story of a group of three people, “a lady
and two gentlemen, dressed in fault-less
style and of Intelligent bearing, who
were looking at Church’s picture of the
"Parthenon,” the other day.' After a si
lent gaze for a few minutes, the spell
was broken with the Impressive ques
tion,“And Is this all that remains'of
Chicago?”
A jury in North Carolina, after being
"charged” in the usual way by his honor,
retired, when a white Jqror ventured to
ask his colored associate if he understood
the charge of the judge. “ Golly,” asked
the astonished juror, “ hedosen’t charge
us uuflln for dat, does he? Why, I
thought we were gwlne to git pay ?”
Mb. James McHinnook, of San Die
go, CaJ., recently experimented with nl
tro-glyoerine. It was remarked at bis
funeral that “as an experimentalist be
was not a success.”
•We see a patent • sparker 1 noticed. A
man -who can’t do tibia own sparklifg
Without the help of machinery ought to
be gobbled:up by a widow withnlne
small children.
A man in Michigan swapped his horse
for a wife. An old bachelor acquaintance
said he’d bet there was something wrong
vwlth the .horse, or its owner would never
have foaled it away in that reckless
manner,
A mah who gives bis children habits
of Industry, provides for them better
than by giving them a fortune.
k "My Dablinq’s Shoes” Is the last
soul-stirring ditty. The old man’s boots
will doubtless be next worked Into
rhyme and music.
A popular doctor In Oswego gives
prescriptions with directions to “take
one teaspoonful every three years.”
Ticket collector to’ child—'' What age
are you, Mademoiselle? Seven years
when in the train, and ten when at
home.”
Removals rre so frequent In Chicago
since the fire that it has been found nec
essary to Issue monthly directories.
Why Is a pig tfith a twisted tall like
the ghost in “Hamlet”? Because It
could a tale unfold,