••
lit 'gaunter gattlitgoar,
PIIBLIMIED BPEBY WE:WT=IIEOn BY
11, a, SMITII & CO.
A. J. STEINMAN
H. 0: SMITE{
TERILS-rraro Dollars .per salaam. payable
In all oases In advance.
THE LANCASTER Darvr INTELLIGENCERN
Dublitihed every evening, Sunday excepted, at
6 per Annum In advance.
iFFlClE—F3ornamser oonstra or Orrrras
trA.:E.
gliogcllantouo.
At the Bridge
BY FAIRFAX FERGUSON.
"They are late,May, are they not?
What can have etained them ?"
"I am ••ure I cannot tell. I fancied I
heard the ring of horses hoofs a mo•
ment since. 1-Lark! I hear it plainer
now."
The speakers stood on the veranda of
a large mansion in one of the Southern
States'. The first, Louise Lamont, was
a tall, handsome brunette, with dark,
languishing eyes, and raven tresses
Her cousin Mabel was the handsomer
of the two. Perfect symmetry of form
combined with regular, delicate fea
tures; her golden hair falling in ringlets
over her faultless shoulders, she pre
sented a picture of loveliness but rarely
met with.
Both the girls were in riding-habits,
and in one neatly•gloved hand. Louise
held a riding-whip, with which she im
patiently Lapped the toe of the dainty
blipperAhat peeped out from beneath
herAirt:
At 'One side, negligently leaning
against a pillar, his dark eyes fixed
upon May's fair face, was the figure of
a young man, apparently about twenty
years of age. In features, Clarence
Lamont, resembled his slater Louise;
but while one face was a type of pure
womanly beauty, there wad a hardness
about the mouth of the other that told
of a far dilli2rent nature.
"Ah ! here they come at last !" cried
Louise. "But Amy is alone, what eau
have detai tut! Erntst '."'
Ac the spoke, a youug lady mounted
upon a pretty li tile pony, rode at a rapid
pace up to the piazza, and before Oar
enca could much her side, she had
sprung from her saddle, and affection
ately greeted her two ft iends as they
ran down the steps.
•' Ernest was unexpectedly. obliged to
go to V this morn; lig," she said
in reply to May 's eager inquiry ; "but
will inert us at the little bridge."
" Come them brother, let ui mount
and away," cried L'ouse, gayly.
"John is bringing the horses," was
the reply. " thane, May," he added, as
May's pony wan brought up.
Sma all were mounted, and then
May and biotrenee all rude ill.
" Cousin May, let tti ride on and reach
lie bridge Milt. 'liouiiie and Miss Hal
ted are deep in ,0111111,illidential eon
reuse and will rem eoly miss us."
Mabel aveeded, and soon Louise coil
er friend were le;t. Ladd ud. A turu iu
the road soon hid them from their sight
And clacking his lior,e'm hilted, Clarence
said :
"Mtlrel, I have som , thirur to m:ty to
you; s,unutliiiiq that will influence Iffy
whole future Ive. C.tn you nut guess
what it i,?"
A lieilc eitme over the. fair
fite,, awl I,lle ,m,l:
"Indeed, (71:ircno.., I c.to think of
nothing you could s.iy to we of such
great lin 1/ ,rtance."
•' IL is Lb and his (Ace Iluahed, and
his voice wa, lOW WILLI tnnotion, "I love
you, May ; have loved coo deeply, pas
nionately, :M.,. fl C-C ea,/ ycii. Will
you be my wire
"U Clarence, 1 runnel ! I atil so eorry."
Anil the maiden her face with
her hands.
".0 Ms y, give We conic hope; do not
cast the tilt without a hope of winning
your love! " he pleaded.
"Clarence, I cannot! I have no
right' "
A strirbi*e eau into Clarence
Lonnont's hut in a moment it woe
gone, and he
"0 May, why do you thus repulse
my love? Why can you not, bid rile
110110? "
Never C w I be aught to you but a
friend, Clarence, and a flit:tot I will al
ways he."
Again that i-trair_:o look C.UIIO over
his face and an evil light shone in hie
eyes, as tu'tWerll hie set teeth :
"tiirl, you have t. with 111 H. YOU
!MVO WWI the heart or a (lilt' !Will, 1111,1
now you throw it froni you !"
" No, Clarence, I have not trilled with
you," the nialden', vole, Woo clear and
steady no al, I :/31 anwher:
have—"
The words died upon !Os lift+, for the
sharp riitiTY.&lhoollS caused him to look
up, and he saw coining toward them at
a terrific pace, a horse, riderless, at first
, he thought, but a‘f it cattle nearer, lie
saw the form of a man half thrown from
the saddle, yet elinglng to the almost
flying steed.
"0 heavens! the le idge—the bridge!"
and Mabel s voice rang out in a wild,
despairing cry. Om , glance. and Clar
ence saw thee.nn,....:‘lay's alarm ; the
bridge was gone, \radical away b ythe
angry waters, and iu i is place a yawning
uhysti far ton wide far a horse to leap,
and. toward [llk the frightened diced
Wll4 coming; at I, lit uI leap..
l)a, on, e.ntll'1:10 horse, nanLin4 with
terror awl vxortioa, till it mt.aal upna
the very brink a the chasm, an,l
with It no,iloot'r , lc,otation, the leap
was tart's. A. the hot . , ht,i rated tipon
the haul:, tile rider s:rove lu disengage
hiumelf rrozo th,ooool steed; 1 at it
was tun ht., atilt With a w 0.1 cry he was
hurled into the It, no,
I\litte with str:pense, the two ridera
sat stricken Wiwi, with terror until the
instant that the frighte;:ed steed In:si
t:awl Minn the titan:: a the ail3s,4, and
then ai hill ree ,grail tl tile downed
rider, shrieked:
•' Eirin4st, Ertirsi !"
o,le In.e at tit, in tiden'a agonized
face, mil Ciaret,co 11,1 rend her secret,
and au evil, nini,ter dlnw lit up his
countenance.
0 Clarence, .vivo hiln, Hflve him!"
and the niaidtql iufr hand tf.fif 111,4
arm, unfl ple ttlingly up jilt° his
th one iltring, Clarence bad reach•
ed the edge it the chasm, and gez,il
anxiously Lhisvit into the roaring maters •
and then he sa•w the, half submerged
body of Emt.-st Halstead desneraftly
clinging to a part lir the bridge that
remained iu the Millet or the angry
waters.
His wicked heart gave a triumphant
bound as he thus rocognized the deadly
peril of his rival, and turning to May,
who stood inuta with terror by the able
of her passive steed, lie hoarsely whis
pered :
"Mabel, I will savo hint on one
ion
dition, and that is—"
"What, what? 0 Clarence, speak
quickly !"
" Promise to be my wire."
"I can not! I can not! DJ not tor
ture me thus. S.tve him, I command
you!"
"Promise, and I will."
" I can not."
"'Plum he shalt die !" and he turned
fiercely away.
" 0 Clarence, do not leave him ! S ive
him, save him ! I promise anything,
only save him!"
Triumphant n:+'•v, Clarence caught
the bridle from his hare•, and with one
look at May, advanced until he stood
upon the brink of the chas!n, and then,
leaning far over, he !lung the reins
down to the drowning man. E agerly
he grasped them, and clung with all his
fast declining strength to the timely
succor.
" Remember y..ur promise !" cried
Clarence, as ho turned fur au instant
toward the mtiden, and then again bent
to his task. Bat suddenly, with a wild
cry, he cast the brid e far from him and
sprang back vard ; but it was too late,
the bank on which he stood, already
loosened trout its base by the foaming
torrent, slid forward into the seething
waters, burying beneath it the body of
Clarence Lamont.
Another shriek came front the maid
en's lips, but she did not WM. Nerved
by fear, she sprang, forward and gazed
eagerly down into the chasm, and there
she saw her lover manfully struggling
with the waves, but still clinging to
be bridle.
When Clarence tossed the bridle from
him, it cau4lit upon a low bush that
grew upon the bank , and toward thie
the maiden turned with a low cry ofj.q.
Grasping it, she exerted all her strength
to aid her lover, and not iu vain, for
soon the strain ceased, and in another
instant Ernest Halsted had clambered
to the solid earth and stood upon the
bank before her.
- -
"Saved! saved!' ehe murmured, and
then all her strength deserted her, and
She sank to the earth.
Pale and weak with his exertions, her
lover bent over her and gently raised
he'r prostrated form to his bosom. Then
as she slowly opened her eyes,. he
tvhispered:
• "Darling'May, to you I owe my Ire.
Look up, dearest."
A sweet smile was his answer, and
bending his head, he pressed a kiss up
on her pale cheek,
. . . _
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. .
VOLUME 71
"Clarence, May, where are you ?"
cried the vpice of Louise at this mo
ment; and in another instant the two
girls rode up.
"Why, May, what s the matter?
Where is brother?" was the startled in
quiry of Louise, as, with sudden alarm,
she sprang from her horse and hurried
forward.
Soon the story was told, and with
pale, grief stained faces, the little parry
proceeded homeward.
It was late in the day ere the body of
Clarence Lamont was recovered ; and
when he was laid in the tomb none
wept more deeply than hiagentle cousin.
Three months after, there was aquiet
wedding at the Halsted mansion, and
there is no need to tell who were the
two that we-e made one.
Never, not even to her husband, has
May told the story of her promise at the
bridge;
but burying it iu the past, she
remembers it only as the fault of her
unfortunate cousin.
IJousehold Ealnts
SAI••T
Eustace Ralston, though the son of a
rich merchant, spent much of his boy
hood in a simple country parsonage,
under the care and tuition of a pious
minister. He was still ayouth when he
was called home to receive the last fare
well of a good mother, whom he loved
with passionate fondness. As She lay
dying, she said to the weeang boy'
"Illy dear son, keep yourself good and
pure and modest in the love and fear of
Uod, and for the sake of the good, pure,
modest woman whom one day you may
wish to make your wife. Promise me."
Solemnly, with upraised, earnest face,
he promised her.
And he kept his word always.
) from his youth upward I count
him asaint.
St. Eustace made choice oft mercan
tile edueltion. Had he chosen a Uni
versity course, this pious chronicle
might never have been written.
At nineteen, St. Eustace was tall and
straight, of a ruddy c.intenance and
goodly to look upon, and he kept his
father's ledgers. in Cout am. Yet a ltttle
while, and be was called up higher and
wade a partner.
St. Eustace abode with his father, on
Brooklyn Heights. The first trial of
his goodness and prudence was a step,
mother—a woman of quite another-sort
front her who held his promise in
heaven. But his comeliness and frank
ways won even her heart, and cunquered
a peace.
The trials of his purity, fiery tea - iota-
Lions out of which he came with soul
unscathed and mien untroubled, I
forbear to record, lest uubelieverssinile.
Ile never boasted of thenq- - nor did he
seek them, being as a saint, rather pro
dent than zalous. Indeed, discretion
was his chief grace. Once upon a time,
a friend of the family, a learned and
eloquent divine, of liberal ideas, wish
log to bring the young man on, Litt
hint certain books. Among these were
Lieu as and Swinburoe. These, St.
liostael , 111 !life haste to return, saying
modestly ; "I am afraid, sir, I haven't
religion euougn to stand such books."
Even in going to and front business,
the good looks and modest demeanor of
St. Eustace attracted attention. Nice
old ladies smiled ou him, little children
leaned against his knee, and innocent
young school girls took delight in see•
log him blush uu her a steady, admiring
g C •
An incident on the ferry-boat brought
St. Eustace the great temptation of his
life. On the afternoon passage from
New York, an adventurous small boy,
getting beyond bounds, fell into the
river. St. Eustace leaped in after him,
and rescued and restored him to a fran•
tic parent. On the instant, a reporter
rushed forward and demanded the name
of the heroic preserver. St. Eustace,
blushing, gave "John Smith."
The father of the child thrust upon
him his gratitude, his card, and an in.
vitation to dinner. St. Eustace relue•
tautly accepted all thr,e. Then he
hurried horns for dry clothes and some•
thing hot—probably ginger-tea.
When St. Eustaca modestly told his
adventure and proved it by the card, his
genteel stepmother, a lady of aristreratic
sentiments she herself was a Van
Hrummagen,) lifted her eyebrows and
said :
, .
" All ! the Barton Ludlows—rich, but
plebeian. They saw Madame was a
milliner, and Ludlow himself has been
in the Legislature!"
Precisely at 7 P. M , St. Eustace
walked blushing into the magnificent
drawing room or a palatial mansion on
Fifth Avenue. There Mr. and Mrs.
Barton Ludlow received him with over
powering affability, and there a dazzling
vision of beauty and fashion iu the per
son of their daughter, Miss Blanche
Ludlow, almost linished
The form of this young lady was tall
and slender—" willowy," I think is the
word. She was ravishingly attired.
Her hair—it was her own—was of the
ardent gold that Titian loved to p.iint.
tier eyes were celestial blue, her cormma
plexion was of rose and snow, etc., etc.
This lovely creature was charmingly
gracious to St. Eustace, so were all the
Ludlows, and ere long he became a fre
quent and favorite visitor at that pala
tial IllansiOn. His modesty and inge
nuousness V. ere novelties there. He
was a new sensation.
• - _ _
Our dear young saint's great tempta
t iMI stole upon In tu softly and agreeably
in the turn of something very like love
fur pretty Blanche Ludlow, a woman
without heart, without delicacy, with
out religion, but whom his fancy en
dowed with all the pure graces of ideal
womanhood.
One after another his fair illusions
were dispelled. ()ace he chanced to
take up a volume she had just laid
down. He read a page or two, then
closed the book with a blush and a
sigh. It was a novel by Alexander
Dumas, tile.
Once he accompanied her to au sri
gallory. In making the rounds, the
lady paused beforr the Venus of a cele
brated painter, and passed a shrewd
anatomical criticism on the figure, fol
lowed by a graceful appeal to her com
panion's better judgment. Your saiut
Eustace, driven to equivocation, etam•
[tiered out:
" Ah, yes ! I dare say you're right ;
but excuse my near-sightedness—l
haven't my glasses with me."
St. Eustace, keeping his vow in mind,
patronized only the legitimate drama
and classical music. But one night he
was drawn by some guy companions to
the new Opera Boutre. He stood it
bravely:till there came an interlude of
bullet—till a famous dancer, looking
like a second appearance of the Venus i
that had so disconcerted him, bounded
ou to the stage. St. Eustace actually
cast down his eyes, and continued fur
seine moments to gaze into his hat. A
burst of applause caused him to look
again toward the stage, to see, gyrating
and caricaning there, other dancers out
Venusing Venue.
He could see no more. He rose and
walked straightway from the house, but
not before he. had beheld Miss Blanche
Ludlow sitting resplendent in tier box,
smiling and applauding.
St. Eustace went home under the
stars to ponder, to resolve. For all his
modesty, lie could scarcely doubt the
young lady's partiality for him. "Such
looks, such tones, such smiles, must
mean something," said the dear soul.
" Yee, she's fond of me, but she'll get
over it, I hope. And I'm fond of her,
but I never could acquire her cool way
of looking at things. I don't want to
have to do the blushing for myself and
her too. I don't believe she's a girl my
mother would have liked."
So St. Eustace got strength to break
from the toils of his charmer forever.
It may have been spite, but that
young lady is reported to have said to
her dearest friend, who rallied her
about her modest admirer: " What
nonsense you talk, Lillie. I couldn't
think of such a thing. Of course, he's
good, and moral, and all that; but bee
dreadfully old-fashioned and slow.
Give me a man who has seen the world
and knows women."
St. Eustace was rewarded at last by
the love of a dear girl, whom he found
among the Granite Hills, where she
dwelt in her sweet, fresh maidenhood,
pure as a crystal hid in a rock. She
was beautiful, she was amiable, she had
never seen a sensation play, she had
never even heard a sensation preacher.
Her St. Eustace married.
Adolescentem verecundum Case deed
Hon. Horatio Seymour had his shoul
der dislocated by being thrown from
his carriage, at Utica, N. Y., on Wed
nesday.
A New Year's Gift
BY AMY RANDOLPH
The old year was gliding over the
threshold of the world in the most gra
cious manner possible, this thirty.flrst
night of December, with close-packed
snow In the roads, and all the fields
shining white like a newly iced cake ;
while overhead the stars glittered with
frost bright radiance, and the chime of
myriad icicles made fairy music when
ever a breeze stirred the woods.
Perhaps it was not quite so romantic
in the city, but then it was much more
noisy. People were rushing to and fro
with paper parcels under their arms;
confectioners were sending home their
last orders; harassed tradespeople were
wondering whether or not it was best to
take leave of their senses at once, and
children were flattening their noses
against the gas lighted windows of
candy shops and toy stores, trying to
"make believe" what they woul i buy,
if only they had lots of money !
Mr. Leslie Trevor had just emerged
from this merry medley of the streets
into his own quiet room, where the fire
burned brightly and the easy-chair was
drawn up iu front of it, with a mute
sort of welcome. He was a bright look
ing young man of about eight-and.
twenty, with clear brown eyes and
brown cheeks, where the glow of health
gave a faint crimson tint, and a mouth
which displayed pearl white teeth every
time he spoke or smiled.
As he entered, he glanced round the
room with a look that was almost di:
contented.
"No matter though," he told himself
cheerily; '• it will not be for long.
Before this day twelvemonth I hope
that Lilian will be my - wife, and Lil
ian's smile would make a home out of
the dreariest wilderness. I wonder
where that elf of a Tom is, to carry this
box round, with my compliments.—
He's never in the way when he's want
ed. But the landlord will send him up
when heard ves from his latesteseapade
Arid in the mean time—"
Mr. Trevor finished his sentence by
lighting a cigar.
" Just what I wa .longing for myself,"
cried a minor voice back of him. "You
haven't got another of those articles
about you, I suppose?"
Trevor albeit not a nervous man,
started a little ; but his face brightened
up when he saw a stout, whiskered per.
°nage, a year or so older than himself,
with a seedy overcoat, a fur edged hat,
and a very chil led • looking in
" Why, Potts !" he cried, "is it
you ?"
" Yes, it's I," said Mr. Potts, deposit
ing on the table a 'Japer bus, the very
mate to that which had just been placed
there by Leslie Trevor, and laying his
hat beside it. "I just saw a light:in
your windows as I passed by, and I
thought I'd step in to give you a word
of warning!"
"Indeed:" said Nlr. Trevor good . bn
tnoredly. "Pray take a seat."
Mr. Pk/US LOJii. a s'..lat and a `gar a
the same time.
" A. very nice article this," he said,
sniffing in the flavor ecstatically.—
"13uy'em by the thousand, I suppose?
My wife objects to smokim.: ! And that
brings me to the subject iu hand, old
boy. I hear you're thinking of being
married!"
"I urn thinking of it; but as I have
not yet proposed tc the young lady in
question—"
"That makes no difference. It's a
down hill road. When you've once
started, nothing but au earthquake can
stop you. It's just this, Trevor; don't
marry rich !"
"But you did," fraukly asserted Mr
Trevor.
"I know I (lid, my dear fellow,"
groaned Potts, "and that's what gives
weight to my experience. I've been u
fool; all the more reason I should ad
vise my young geutlemeu friends not to
make fools of themselves."
"I'm much obliged to you, but—"
"Hallo!" cried Mr. Potts, jumping
up as if he had been electrified by the
sound of the little mantel-clock striking
nine; "is that clock right? Won't I
get a peeling for not being home at eight,
as I promised. She's a vixen—a shrew
—and /can't help myself. Trevor, take
my advice, and don't do it ! "
Leslie Trevor burst into a laugh as Mr.
Potts caught up one of the paper boxes
—the wrong one of course; if he had
takeu the right one, our tale would
never have had a moral to point—anti
rushed down stairs three steps at a time.
Nor had the gleam of the laughter died
out of his eyes when Torn, the errand
boy of the hotel, presented himself for
Mr. Trevor's orders.
"That paper box, Tom," said our
hero, searching in his pockets for a
quarter to reward the Cianyinede.—
'• rake it round to Mr. DAre's, No.
street with my compliments to Miss
Lilian, and this card."
"Yes, sir," said Tom looking rather
harder at the quarter than he dal at the
box, and vanishing swiftly.
Mr. Potts' apprehensions had not been
altogether without foundation. Mrs. P.
was waiting his coming with a clouded
brow.,
- ,
tike was a rich, ill.tempered old maid,
whom Philo Potts had somehow been
deluded into marry lug., with false hair,
false teeth, and in fact every thing about
her false except her temper, and that
was exceedingly genuine. . .
.
Why didn't you stay all night?"
tartly demanded this arniablespouse, as
Mr. Yeas sneaked in with a conciliatory
smile.
"My dear, it's only ten!"
"Only ten !"—Mrs. Potts jerked the
paper box out of tier husband's hand—
"and me waiting here; and Mary Ann
can't do my hair until that order is
broil lit home from Curlier's."
"Here it is, my dear!" soothed her
lord and master.
Mrs. Potts twitched oil' the paper
wrapping, and broke the pink twine,
whim her eyes snapped ow niously.
What's this?" she cried sharply.
"A—bouquet!"
Pen and ink cannot reproduce the
Contemptuous tone of her voice, as she
looked duwu upon the tuberoses and
heliotropes and camel's japonicas which
lay wrapped in silver paper within the
box. Mrs. Potts, quite devoid of senti
ment, and short iu the temper withal,
flung the bouquet at her husband's
head, and went into screaming hyster
ics.
"It's all the fault of that confounded
hair dresser!" cried Mr. Potts, '' and
I'm not to blame fora, one way or the
other. I'll be hanged if I bear this sort
of thing a Minute longer!'
So Mr. Potts, plunged his hands reck
lessly in his pockets, and went off to
spend the rest of his evening at the
" Blissful Bachelors' Club"
Lilian Dire had shaken her luxurious
tresses like a cloud of gold over her
white wrapper, preparatory to their
nightly brushmg when the maid
brought up a paper brix.
" With Mr. Trevor's card and compli
ments, P'
Lilian's color deepened, and a sly
smile dims led her rosy lips as she took
the box, while her lovely blue eyes grew
soft and limpid.
" I wonder what it is," she murmur.
2d to herself. " how thoughtful in him
to remember me on New Year's eve !"
She pressed her lips timidly to the
box ere she opened it—a girl's shy im
pulse—and then colored up as if some
one had seen her.
But the momentary rose was nothing
to the hot deluge of crimson which
flooded cheek and brow when she open
ed the box and beheld, nestled down in
its layers of paper—a false front, of
flaxen hair, with tiny curls dependent
on every side, and a stiffsesm down the
middle!
She flung the thing indignantly from
her; it lodged on a chintz draped sofa,
where it lay, looking like the head of
one of bluebeard's wives.
"How dare he?" she gasred almost
inarticulately. "How dare he insult
me by a coarse, practical joke like this?
Does he think my hair is false? Does
he mean to Intimate that I am indebted
Co the hair dresser's art, for what should
be womans chiefest glory? But he
shall never have the chance to insult
me again. I care not for his insolence
I rejoice rather, that I have discovered
his true character before it,is too late."
. _
And by way of proof of tier rejoicing,
Lilian sat down and cried heartily.
Yet notwithstanding this little epi
sode, Lilian Dare looked as beautiful as
a royal rose in full bloom on New Year's
day, as she stood in her parlors, dressed
in blue silk, with blue flowers in her
hair, and her golden tresses netted at
the back of her head. Leslie Trevor
thought he had never Been her so lovely
as he timidly advanced to give her the
compliments of the season.
" May I venture to wish you a life-
LANCASTER PA. WEDNESDAY MORNING JANUARY 5 1870
time of happy New Years ?" he said
gayly; but, tO WS urprise, Lilian coldly
inclined her head, and made no answer
in words.
" You are well, I hope ?" he went on
" Quite well."
Trevor looked pained and ember
rasavd.
"I had hoped to see you carrying the
gift I presumed to send you last night,"
he said, feeling the blood mouutiug to
his cheek as he spoke. Lilian drew
herself haughtily up, and turning to a
side table, took the luckless paper box,
and held it towards him.
"Allow me to return your gift, Mr.
Trevor," she said coldly. " The insult
was gratuitous ; but you shall have no
opportunity to repeat it."
Leslie looked bewildered.
"I don't understand you, Miss Dare."
But as Lilian turned to receive a fresh
caller, he mechanically opened the box,
and the false front fell out, one of its
curls catching in his watch chain!
"Lilian—Miss Dsre! " he cried, as
Mr. Dewitt Jonesbury was conducted
into the back room fur refreshments by
comfortable, plump Mrs Dare, " .you
cannot suppose that I ever sent this- , -
this monstrosity to you!"
"It came with your card ! " Lilian
responded mercilessly.
" Impossible! I sent you a boquet."
"Then," Lilian answered, not without
the gleam of a smile, " it must have
undergone some mysterious transfor
mation before it met my eyes!"
Trevor opened the window and toss
ed the hideous falsity out. It descended
on the hat of Mr. Potts.
"Halloo!" cried that gentleman, in •
dignantly dodging, "what the mischief
do folks mean by— Why—halloo—it's
Mrs. P.'s hair! It must have rained
down from the heavens!"
And Mr. Potts, pocketing the nasster
ions viai tan t, walked into Miss Dares to
tell, regardlt as of the afterwrath of MIS.
P., what a very excellent joke had just
befallen him .
Trevor looked at Lilian. Lilian's
eyes answered back a gleam or blue
sunshine; and when Mr. Potts finished
by sayi ng :
"And, by Jove, I haven't an idea
whom the bouquet belongs to!" they
both burst out laughing.
And Mr. Potts thought be had said a
very funny thing indeed, although he
wasn't quite certain what It was.
TM'II In Scene In a Diving Bed
I follow a very hazardous calling, or,
at all events, a calling in which, if you
choose to face dangers for the sake of
higher remuneration, perilous adven
tures are common enough. lam not
too presumptuous when I say I am as
brave as most men, naturally, and my
sense of fear has been further blunted
by a constant companionship with dan
ger. The adventure I sin about, to nar
rate was horrible enough to me when I
was a principal actor in it, and to this
day an involuntary shudder of horror
accompanies the recollection of it.
Some years .ago a large veasei laden
with a mixed cargo, was bound to New
York nom South America. Striking a
sunken reef off the dangerous shore of
Florida, she was wrecked, and very
few of the.passengers or seamen escaped.
The owner, who was also captain, was
drowned. His heirs lived in New York.
It appears the vesiel had settled down
in the ocean, having escaped the attack
of any storm, so, as might be supposed,
her cargo would be pretty well recover
able, but it was a useless and foolish at•
tempt to try to get anything from her
in a lonely sea, and on a dangerous
coast. However, one of those men
whom nature has formed for the out of
the-way modes of getting money in this
world, having obtained the consent of
the heirs in New York, fitted out a
large yacht, and promising money
only ou condition of success, I was
prompted to Laz.trd limo spec—it agreed
with my adveuturoos disposition,
and I signed articles, and shipped my
self. After a deal of trouble we picked
up another diver, a coarse, brutal,
drunken rascal, whose conduct, as here
limiter seen, will sufficiently justify
these remarks. From the beginning I
had a kind of antipathy against the fel•
low, and shrank from Lis society as
from some loathsome reptile. His pro
file was that of a baboon; his eyes,
peering from under his heavy brows,
twinkled with a satanic wickedness,
and scented to be looking all ways at
once; and when he laughed, his satanic
majesty himself might have envied his
ugly grin. My einployershunned him,
and would gladly have parted with
him, but no °al.'. could begot to engage
in such a foolhardy scheme.
Having got the diving bell and other
apparatus on board, we at last set sail on
this novel pursuit of lucre. The voyage
was tine, and having nothing to do I
enjoyed it very much, and was even
sottening bwards my fellow diver when
we reached that part of the coast of
Florida where the sunken wreck lay,
and where our fortunes were buried be
neath the waves.
We were a considerable time in dis
covering the wreck, but we found it at
last, far down in the depths of the still
blue sea, where troops of sharks were
pursuing each other about and through
it for want of better prey. No pleasant
sight, I can assure you. My fellow diver
gave them a fearful curse, and took an
extra long pull at his brandy flask. As
for myself the of seemed more dan
gerous than ever. The vessel would
have to be moored above a bed of reefs,
and if a storm were to arise, ill fate
would catch us, for there is little mercy
to be expected for a ship from the cruel
and jagged ;oral. However, I plucked
up the very bast heart, saying to myself,
" My dear fellow, the more danger time
more money." Jim Crow—that was the
diver's name—gave utterance to a no.
wise pleasant oath, about having been
swindled, muttering at the end, but
" I'll pay them off deuced sharp, or I'm
not—" concluding his sentence very
suspiciously, which did not tend to in
crease my confidence respecting his in
tentions.
We pulled back to the ship, after
placing a buoy to mark the spot: The
two next days Jim Crow and were
busy iu preparing our things for the
attack on the sunken wreck. The tide
of my thoughts were checked by my
work, but I still noticed that Crow was
in an evil mood. After about four days
was spent the ship was anchored. The
bell was swung for the plunge, and
Crow and I went below and dressed.
My suspicions seemed now on the in
crease, and my readers may think that
I was very fearful, but I provided my
self with a long and sharp knife, which
I stuck unobserved down my long
leathern b )ot. Crow stuck one in his
belt, saying with a rather diabolical
laugh, "I think it is better being pre
pared for water sharks," and I almost
think ho added, "lan sharks." This
opened my eyes a little, and some rather
curious speculations flitted through my
brain. He was a man to be feared, be
ing hugely big and strong, and wicked
withal.
. .
With many such reflections I took
my place in the bell, and amidst the
hurrahs of the stew and excitement of
the master we dipped into the sea.—
Common life had passed away, and to
a novice, a new world opens to his eyes
beneath the wave. and even to me the
scene was fresh. The coral reefs, like
grand architectural structures, covered
with" webs and shells of the deep, of
every possible variety of color ; the fish,
large and small, darting about the water,
and flying at the appr , -.^v , bell
as before the sweep of -a..aidiarkNs, and
even they grinned with their long jaws,
and fled upon our approach. Down,
down, down, till the light was dim,
and then we struck the wreck. Armed
with crowbars, sharp at one end to
repulse the sharks and other mon
sters of the deep, we planted our feet
on the bell. Instantly we separated ;
Crow burst open the cabin door, and
after a while I joined him. By this
time he was in the cabin searching
about. I watched him as well as I could
all the while. Thus we spent our first
journey, and after lading our bell, gave
the signal, and were hauled up on deck.
The sailors crowded round us, gloating
over the various things we had brought
up; they also hauled on deck several
things to which we had attached ropes.
Thus our first day passed. All were
exulting, and the sailors cracked over
the galley fire the possible prize of
money to each, and the master dreamt
of a princely independence.
Several days thus passed over we
had broken into the cargo, and what we
considered of value and the sea had not
damaged was hauled on deck, and the
schooner became pretty well laden. I
think it was about.the last day of work
ing, as we were down in the bell, that
Crow again wended his way towards
the cabin. By this time my suspicions
regarding his evil intentions were gni,
eted; yet there still lingered about him
tracts of obstinate sulkiness, so that I
took very liltle notice of his operations,
and I busied myself about different
things in the hold of the'veesel.
I think about half an hour must have
passed by when I returned M the bell,
and I was startled by the cunning wick •
ed cast of Crow's countenance ; he was
shuffling something beneath his diver's
clothes ; asthe last of it disappeared I
gifeseed it was a bag, and the thought
flushed across my mind—a bag of mo
ney. I quietly asked Crow what it
was.
"Humph! nothing. What have
to do with it?" he growled.
My curiosity was further aroused by
this answer.
. . . .
"Well, Old must tell me what it is,"
I said, keeping myself as quiet as pos
sible.
" The devil I will ! ' he shouted
savagely.
Then you shall be forced when we
get on deck," I replied, resolutely.
" Ha! ha! forced !" Here he quietly
drew a long knife.
Quick as thought mine was out, too,
for I always carried It in my boot
"I suspected something of this," I
said.
He scowled heavily at me at the
other side of the bell.
"Now you must tell me what that
is?" Isaid.
But, nothing daunted, the ruffian
cried, "I will see you dead first!"
I knew his mighty strength, but I
also knew my own agility and skill.
Crow said again, "'Tie a bag of gold
I found in the cabin, and if you hold
your jaw I shall ge ye a third "
"Never shall I be dishonest," I said,
after some deliberation, looking pale, I
daresay, but perfectly calm.
Let the reader imagine the scene In a
bell forty feet under water; it would
take at least twenty minutes to pull it
up. A fierce fight, perhaps a deadly
one, might be finished by then. Sus
picion might be hushed ; the body could
be flung to the ravenous sharks with
which we sometimes had tocombat with
our sharp-pointed crowbars; but our
frightful, gloomy appearance might
have been enough to terrify the inhab
itants of the deep.
We stood eying each other for some
time, he for attack, I for resistance. I
offered to pull the alarm bell, but he
clutched it from me. I attempted
nothing farther,
After a few minutes' pause he said,
"Will you take shares?"
'•No !" was the firm answer.
"Perhaps it N is not large enough ?"
"All 01 it is too small."
'You won't give in !" he eald.
I expected something and prepared
myself.
"Never !" I replied, at length.
"Then to death !" he yelled, spring
ing at me.
"Quick as thought I caught his ele
vated arm, posed in the alr, fur a stab.
I made a lunge at him, for my blood
was roused at this fiendish attempt on
my life. He parried it, but it caught
him on the shoulder; however, he
clutched my wrist, and there we were
scowling at each other; the foam burst
from his bloodless lips, and his passion
wrought face intimidated me more t han
his bloodthirsty strokes.
At last he made a forcible effort to
free his arm, but I held it with despera
Lion. Amid oaths and curses he strug
gled. Sometimes he was quiet, and the
onl2 a ound was the hurried panting of
our xcite d chests. At last 1 wrenched
my hand from his, and stabbed him in
the baud. His knife fell, but with a
curse that rings yet in my ears, he
threw himself at me and grasped my
body and arm in his gigantic clasp. 1
seized him by the throat. With the hug
of a bear he tried to break my back ; his
strength seemed almost superhuman,
but shifting off the bars of wood by a
wriggle we plunged into theses. beneath.
Down, down we sank No effort was
made to lose the hold of either. Tighter
and tighter we gripped till we fell on
the coral reef. Death itself seemed
. to
me a trdle. Passion and hate seemed
but the consummation of my heart. My
strength was that of Hercules, under
the influence of this demoniacalcou-
Ilict. But want of air stifled our efforts.
As the tires began to flash before my
eyes, and the disc of unconsciousness to
creep over me, I released my bold ; Crow
also loosened his. I know little about
this part, but being an excellent swim
mer I struck out with all my force. The
water whizzed by me I was stifling,
choking, dying. When I reached the
surface, with a gasp of air I recovered,
and was enabled to shriek, "Help,
help! " when I fainted away. As a
dream floated before me—men, ropes,
boat and rescue.
I awoke ; but the pain and dizziness
and confusion in my head defy all de
scription. After a few hours 1 could
rise, but still I was feeble. I inquired
for Crow ;he was in a delirium. They
told me, when the bell was brought up,
he lay on the bars as dead, grasping the
gold bag with both his hands. They
also told me'that they but rescued me
from a share hovering near the schoon
er.
Next day We set Tail-, and arrived not
long a:ter in New York A thousand
dollars was my fee, but the master gave
two hundred more for my honest re
sistance. Crow was still bad iu his
head They put nim into au hospital.
I called three months after, and he had
gone to the backlvoods of thi' Far West.
Gracefulness of Motion
It is doubtful whether beauty or grace
fulness excites the warmer admiration,
or confers the greater amount of pleas•
ure. It is certain that all the agreeable
sensations caused by beauty iu repose,
are heightened by the graceful motions
of the beautiful object; while, on the
other hand, they are dampened and dis
appointed by perceiving awkward, stiff,
or ungainly motions iu the object which
has given delight by its beauty of ap
pearance. In physical nature, most
objects that are beautiful in repose, are
also beautiful in their motions. The
tree which delights the eye by its sym
metry and pleasing tints, is ever grace
ful in its waving boughs and fluttering
leaves. The rich fields of grain are
never so attractive as when, gently
swayed by the wind, they bend and
rise in graceful waves. The ripples on
the lake, toe waves of the ocean, the
flight of the bird, the descent of the
snow, all suggest that nature is not more
bounteous in beauty than in grace.
Human beauty is not always so even
ly balanced in its repose and motion.
Sometimes when the features are fault
less and the figure symmetrical, the
pleasure we experience in viewing them
is dashed by the awkward gait, and the
stiff angularity and ungracefulness dis
played as soon as they are in motion.—
We can most of us recall disappoint.
ment created by witnessing the awk
ward motions of a person whose beauty
hadgained ouradmiration. On the other
hand,manypersons with plain audunat
tractive features are so easy and grace
ful in all their movements, that we for
get their plainness in thepleasure their
motions afford.
Few persons are aware of the causes
which underlie the quality of motion,
and render it graceful or awkward.
Were :these carefully studied and ap
plied, beautiful motion would not be so
rare among us as it now is. It will be
see. ••• .„examination, that the grace
Nat :"; much admire is the result
of 7', In degree of perfection in the
y f ';''n of motion - to its purposes.
W • -'ithe powers of locomo
imperfectly developed, as in the ele
phant and other heavy animals, grace
fulness is absent; whi`e in the grey
hound or the deer, fleetness, agility,
and grace are united. Where the ex
penditure of force is disproportionate to
the object to be effected, gracefulness is
also absent. This is why the long stride
and the heavy tread in walking are al
ways unpleasing. The pleasant sensa
tions caused by beautiful motion will
be found to follow most surely those
movements which accomplish their
object with the least possible effort.
If a waste of force is ungraceful, so
also is an inadequate supply. The shuf
fling gait is equally unpleasing with the
heavy and noisy tread. The arms held
stiffly to the sides, are as ungraceful as
when violently swinging. There is no
grace in the tottering step or the trem
bling hand that lacks the power to per
form what it undertakes. Stooping
shoulders displease the eye, because
conveying the idea of lack of energy.
Ease of motion—that is, the exercise of
just as much and no more effort than is
needed to produce the desired result—
h essential to gracefulness.
Graceful attitudes are based on the
same general principle as graceful mo
tion. They impress us wittithe idea of
self support without effort. Where the
muscles are strained into painful effort
to keep the erect posture, stiffness is
the result; but where they are relaxed
as much as is consistent with maintain
log the proper position, we call the at
titude graceful. In the best sculpture,
the attraction of which dependsso much
upon pleasing attitudes, W 3 find the
dictates of convenience and ease to be
the chief elements of grace.
Nature will generally be found to be
one of the best teachers of gracefulness.
Nu artificial rules coin teach us the ex.
act amount of force requisite fur the va•
rious motions and attitudes we assume.
The Infant in his innocenc glee, and the
child in his bounding sports, are seldom
ungraceful. It is when we contract an
excessive self consciousness, and think
more of the appearances we make than
of the objects we desire to accomplish,
that we became the most ungraceful.—
The shy and bashful man knows nut
DOW to manage his hands and feet, be
cause he is thinking so constantly of
them ; but if he would withdraw his
mind from his own appearance, and fix
it upon the best means of accomplish
ing his purposes, a more natural man
ner would pervade his actions, and he
would lose much of his awkwardness.
The principal reason why education
and culture confer grace of manner is,
that they teach the best way to use our
powers so as to economize their force;
and leading us out of ourselves, they
rivet our attention on what is before us,
thus working with nature, rather than
striving to supersede her. -
The pleasure afforded by gracefulness
is chiefly owing to our sympathy.
naturally partake in the sensations and
feelings expressed by others, and as
motions and attitudes suggest either
pleasurable or disagreeable sensations
as they are graceful or awkward, we
partake of them by sympathy, and en
joy or suffer in unison with them.—
Those who have already through any
means acquired ungraceful manners,
will beat be enabled to cure them by
studying out their cause, and applying
the remedy deeper down than the mere
surface. Grace can only come with ease,
and ease only comes with practice. To
accustom ourselves to perform the de
sired movements in the easiest and
most natural manner, with the least
possible effort, Is the best training we
can pursue to this end.
Gip Van Winkle
The legend upon which Washington
Irving founded his quaint story is as
follows: In the village of Sittendorf, at
the foot of a mountain, lived Peter
Klaus, a goatherd, who was the habit
of pasturing his flock upon the Kyff
hausen hills. Towards evening he
generally let them browse upon a green
plot not far off, surrounded with an old
ruined wall, from which he could take
a muster of his whole flock.
For some days past he had observed
that one of his prettiest goats,soon after
its arrival at this spot, usually disap
peared, nor joined the fold again till late
In the evening. He watched her again
and again,
and at last found that she
had slipped through a gap in the old
wall, whither he followed her. It led
into a passage which v. idenasi as he
went into a cavern, and here he saw the
goat employed in picking up the oats
that fell through some crevices in the
place above. He looked up, shook his
ears at this odd shower of corn, but
could discover nothing. Where in the
earth could it come from? At length
he heard over his head the neighing
and stamping of horses; he listened
and concluded that the oats must have
fallen through the manger when they
were fed. The poor goatherd was sadly
puzzled what to think of these horses in
this uninhabited part of the mountain,
but so it was, fur the groom making his
appearance, without saying a word,
betokened him to follow. Peter obey
ed, and followed him up some steps,
which , brought him to an open court
yard, surrounded by old walls. At the
_side of this was a still more spacious
cavern surrounded by rockr heights,
which only admitted a kind of twilight
through the overhanging trees and
shrubs. He went on, and came to a
smooth shaven green, - where he saw
twelve ancient knights engaged at
playing nine pins. His guide now
beckoned to Peter, in silence, to pick
up the nine pins, and went his way.—
Trembling in every joint Peter did not
venture to disobey; and at times cast a
stolen glance at the players, whose long
beards and slashed doublets were not at
all in the present fashion. By degrees
his looks grew bolder; he took particu
lar notice of everything around him;
among other things, observing a tank-•
and near him, filled with wine, whose
ordor was excellent, he took a good
draught. Itseemed to inspire him with
life, and whenever he began to feel tired
of running he applied with fresh ordor
to the tankard, which always renewed
his strength. But, finally, it quite over
powered him, and he fell asleep.
When he next opened hiseyeshefound
himself on the grass plot,again in theold
:pot where he was in the habit of feeding
his goats. He rubbed his eyes, he looked
round, but could see neither dog nor
flock. He was surprised at the long
rank grass that grew about him, and
the trees and bushes which he had
never before seen. He shook his head
and walked a little farther, looking for
the old sheep path and the hillocks and
roads where he used daily to drive his
flock ; but he could find no traces of
them left. Yet he saw the village just
before him ; it was the same Sittendorf,
and, scratching his head, he hastened
at a quick pace down the hill to inquire
after his flock.
All the people whom he met going
into the place were strangers to him,
were differently dressed, and even spoke
'in a different style to his old neighbors.
When he asked about his goats, they
only etared'at him, and fixed theireyes
upon his chin. Heputhia hand uncon
sciously to his mouth, and to his great
surprise found that he had a beard a
foot long. He now began to think that
he and all the world about him were in
a dream, and yet he knew the moun
tain for that of Ky if hausen (for he had
just come down to it) well enough. And
there were the cottages with their gar
dens and grass plots, much as he had
left them. Besides, the lads who had
all collected around him, answered to
the inquiry of a passenger, what place
it was, "Sittendorf, sir."
Still shaking his head, he went fur
ther into the village to look for his own
house. He found it, but greatly altered
for the worse; a strange goathered in
an old tattered frock lay before the door,
and near him his old dog, which growl
ed and showed its teeth at Peter, when
he called him. He went through the
entrance. which had once a door, but
all within was empty deserted—•and
Peter staggered out of the house and
called for his wife and children by their
names. But no one heard him and no
one gave him any answer.
Soon, however, a crowd of women and
children got around the inquisitive
stranger, with the long, hoary beard,
and asked him what it was he wanted?
Now Peter thought it was astrange kind
of thing to stand before his own house,
inquiring for his own wifeand children,
as well as about himself, that, without
answering their question, he pronounc
ed the first name that came into his
head : "Kurt Steffen, the blacksmith ?"
Most of the spectators were silent and
only looked at him wistfully, till an old
woman at last said : "Why, for these
twelve years he has been at Sachsen•
burg, whence, I suppose, you are not
come-to-day."
"Where is Valentine Meier, the tail
or?" "Ah, cried another old woman,
leaning upon her crutch, "he has been
lying more than these fifteen years in a
house he will never leave."
Peter recognized in the speakers two
of his young neighbors, who seemed to
have grown old very suddenly, but he
had no inclination to inquire any fur
ther. At this moment there appeared,
making her way through the crowd of
spectators, a sprightly young woman
with a year old baby in her arms, and
a girl about four taking hold of her
hand, all three as like his wife he was
seeking for as possible.
" What are your names?" he inquired,
in a tone of great surprise. " Mine is
Maria." " And your father's ?" con
tinued Peter. " Peter Klaus, to be sure.
It is now twenty years ago since we
were all looking for him day and night
upon the Kyfftiausen ; for his flock
came home without him, and I was
then," continued the woman, "only
seven years old."
The goatherd could no longer hear
this! "I am Peter Klaus," he said,
"Peter, and no other," and he took his
daughter's child and kissed it.
The spectators appeared struck dumb
with astonishment, until first one and
then another began to say, " Yes, in
deed, this is Peter Klaus. Welcome,
gotaLneterbor; after twenty years' al)
sence; we:come home."
Lois ]Sod's Hero
BY CAROLINE CONRAD
Lois Mott, with her dove eyes and
shy, bird-like way, was going to the
city to live with her mother's brother
and his wife, and be educated. After
ward she was to stay with them, or
come back and live on the farm with
another uncle, a brother of her father's,
just as 'she might choose, for Lois 'was
au orphan.
Her city aunt had come down for her,
bringing all sorts of finery with her,
and promising a great deal finer when
they got to town.
Mrs. Warburton did not attempt to
conceal her contempt fur her pretty
niece's pretty surroufadings, laughed
aloud at the little hair trunk which
contained all Lois' available posses
sions, and confidentially informed her,
as Boon as they were at a safe distance
from the farm house, that the Warbur
tone were quite a different set from the
Motts.
Lois stood not a little in awe of her
grand and decidedly handsome city
aunt; admirably iu awe, that is. She
was secretly iu ecstasy at the prospect
of the grandeur she was g oing to, but
she was very fond of Unce and Aunt
Mutt too, and her eyes filled with tears
as she remembered how sorrowful they
had felt at her going, and how pitifully
her aunt Mutt had said to her aunt
Varliu : ton :
" You'll teach her to feel above coun
try folks, I calculate, Salome ?"
Mrs. Warburton had laughed and re
sponded with a corteous negative, but
so indifferently spoken, that if she had
dared, Lois would have flung her arms
about her aunt Mott's neck, in addition
to exclaiming with suppressed indigna
tion, she "never, never eJuld feel above
any body she loved !"
The city was like fairy laud to Lois,
The education her aunt had talked so
much about proved scarcely what is
generally understood by the time Lila
bad a teacher in music and °nein danc
ing. For the rest, she had a hair
dresser, and mantua maker, who did
their best to disfigure that wild rose
prettiness of hers, and only partially
succeeded.
Simple Lois was romantic.
Very soon, upon her coming to the
city, she had met her hero, and duly
shrilled him in her waiting heart. It
was one day when she had been out
shopping with her aunt. The horses
had started just as she was entering the
carriage, and she would have fallen but
for the swift and strong arm of a gen
tleman who was passing. She was con
scious at the moment only of an over
powering confusion, and a pair of
beaming dark eyes. Her aunt thanked
him for her, and she, scarcely daring to
lift her eyes yet, became somehow aware
that he was tall and distinguished look
ing, and had a beautiful smile.
" It must be love at first sight," sigh •
ed Lois, as she dropped her bright head
upon the pillow that night, and fell
away into happy dreams before the sigh
had grown cold.
After that she saw him from afar of
ten, when she was out with her aunt
in the day-time and she knew by his
glance in her direction that he remem
bered her. That was food enough for
her romantic heart for a time.
But she never met him at any of the
gay festivities which she and her aunt
frequented night alter night, till even
Lois' young fresh eyes showed signs of
weariness, and she began to think that
balls and parties were not the height of
felicity, after all.
One day she had left her aunt at
Madame Fontaine's ordering a dress,
and gone at her desire, and upon an
Indispensable errand, to another street.
It was so near, she had not taken the
carriage, and returning, in a sort of
trance at having met her hero squarely,
and involuntarily given him a blushing
little nod of recognition, she took a
wrong direction, and before she knew
it, walking as' in a dream, she found
herself involved in one of those street
crowds which, in New York, swarm
like magic at theslightest excuse.
Then suddenly she discovered where
she was, but before she had time to be
frightened, scarcely to be bewildered
by the loud talking and rough jostling
about her, a voice ut her side said :
Please to take my arm. I think you
must have lost your way." And there
was her hero again.
He smiled at her surprise and confus
ion.
" I was not following you," he said,
"though it looks like it. I am glad I
came this way, however, for you might
have got into trouble. Phis is a bad
locality."
He left her with a courteous bow, as
soon as he had put her fairly in the
right way again, and silly Lois' little
feet were shod with clouds the rest of
that day, and for days to come.
" It is just like a story," she said to
herself, with ineffable sighs of rapture.
"How nice it was to meet him so, and
how handsome he is He must think
me an awkward simpleton though, for
I scarcely dared to look at him. I
wonder if lie did?"
Lois had not met her hero for some
weeks, when, in coming from Brooklyn
with a party of gay friends, ahesaw him
on the ferry boat.
He lifted his hat and smiled, and
Lois felt that her dimpled cheeks had
turned suddenly to lull-blown oarna.
tione.
" Where in the world did you get ac
quainted with Corydon Rupert'?" whis
pered one of her companions.
"Dear me, why ?" demanded Lois,
not daring to look that way again.
"Oh! you are such a quiet little thing,
and he never goes anywhere hardly.
He's so—soexclusive too, you know."
The young lady who spoke was very
fashionable, and very plain. Shecould
not deny Lois' prettiness, but she could
sneer at her country breeding, which
would cling to her like the scent to a
wild rose or bit of sweet-briar.
"My dear," said Louis' aunt in her
ear, "don't look round. There are your
Uncle and Aunt Mutt. We won't speak
to them here. They've come to make
a visit, of course, and it will be time
enough to recognize them when we get
home."
"But what will they think ?" asked
Lois, under cover of the rattling chat of
the others, very much startled, and
longing to look toward them, yet not
daring to so offend her aunt Warburton
"They will think we haven't seen
them, of course. They are on the right
side, sitting just inside the lady'ssaloon,
and looking as though they had come
out of the ark. Put on your vail, Lois."
"But what if they have seen us!"•
Lois exclaimed iu painful perplexity.
"They have, and are smiling at us
frantically. Don't you look, L)is."
" How can I help:it ? I must speak
to them aunt."
" Yes, and have Corydon Rupert see
what a beautiful set you belong to,"
sneered Mrs. Warburton slyly.
She had seen Lois' blushes, and knew
the gentleman, now his name was men
tioned, very well by reputation, as one
of the finest matches in the dty, and
notoriously indifferent to female attract.
tions. To have Lots secure him, she
would have done much more than ig
nore Mr. and Mrs. Mott.
Lois sat hesitating and distressed
As the steam boat touched the land
ing, Mrs. Warboxtoo bade the driver of
her carriage hurry off. But he had to
wait his turn; there were several car
riages before him. And meanwhile
Mr. and Mrs. Mott had come out, and
were trying to get to them through the
crowd. In the press Mrs. Mott stum
bled and feil, and Lois, stealing a look
that way, saw her.
With a low cry, she rose from her
seat.
"Aunt Warburton, I want to get
out," she said, and opening the carriage
door herself in spite of her aunt's furi
ous looks, she got down and hurried to
her Aunt Mott. Soniebody had helped
the old lady to her feet again and she
stood ready to fold Loua in an embrace
which the lovely girl would not hurt
her by shrinking from, hotly as her
cheek flushed under theamused glances
she imagined leveled at her.
"Dear heart she ha'n't gotproud a bit,
and she's handsomer than ever,' ex.
claimed Uncle and AnntMott, scarcely
under their breath; and then to com
plete matters, who should drift into
view with the moving throng but Mr.
Rupert.
Lots felt her heart sink. She was
only a foolish little girl after all; but
she stood her ground, resolved she
would not be ashamed of Uncle and
Aunt Mott for a hundred heroes. To
her amazement he stopped and eagerly
shook hands with Uncle and Aunt
NUMBER 1
Mott, who poured out their delight at
seeing him most volubly, and mingled
explanations concerning him, and ex
planations concerning Lois, till they
did not know themselves which they
were talking about.
However, he seemed nothing loath,
and Lois rather liked it too.
Corydon Rupert had boarded with
the Motts the whole of one summer, and
had been nursed through a somewhat
perilous Illness by Aunt Mott. He con
stituted himself their escort at once ;
took a carriage at the landing, and rode
up with them to Mrs. Warburton's
grand brown stone mansion. Mrs.
IVarhurton, thinking better of It, ex
changed greetings with them first, how
ever, and graciously assented to the
transfer of her niece from her own car
riage to a seat beside Mr. Rupert, where she sat mostly silent while the others
talked, but a blushing embodiment of
happiness.
Well, you can guess the end of it all,
perhaps. Lois had promised to marry
her hero before Uncle and Aunt Mott
went home; and though she was mar
ried from Mrs. Warburton's, she and
her husband went early in the honey
moon to the old farm, and faithfully
spend some happy months in each year
with Uncle and Aunt Mott.
The 4111,e1
" Whenever a good child dies, au
angel of God conies down to earth,
takes the dead child in his arms, and
spreading out his large white wings,
flies with him over alt the places that
were dear to him. And the angel
gathers a handful of flowers, and takes
them to the good God that they may
bloom yet more beautiful in heaven than
they did on earth. And the flower
which most pleases the Creator receives
a voice, and supremely happy, joins in
the chorus of the blessed A iige,s."
Thus epake an Angel of God while
carrying a dead child to heaven, and
the child listened as-though In a dream,
and together they tlsw over all the
places where the child had formerly
played, and they passed over gardens
full of lovely flowers. " Which flower
shall we take with us and plant In
heaven ? " asked the Angel. And Thera
stood n fair delicate rose tree, but an evil
hand had broken the stem.
So that all the branches, with large
half opened buds, hung faded down to
the ground. "Poor tree!" said the
child, "let us take it, that it may bloom
again with the good God In heaven."
And this Angel took it and kiss2d the
child, and the little one half opened his
eyes. They plucked many a splendid
garden flower, but they also took the
meek little daisy and the wild heart's
ease.
"Now we have flowers enough!"
said the child, and the angel seemed to
ascend, but he did not yet Ily up to
heaven.
It was night, it was very still, they
stayed near a town, they hovered over
one of its narrowest streets, where
straw, ashes, rubbish of all kinds, were
scattered. There had been a removal
that day ; lying on the ground were
broken plates, bits of plaster, rags, frag
ments of old hats ; in short, nothing but
things uoseeny.
Amidst this confusion the Angel
pointed to the broken pieces of an old
Mower pot, and a lump of earth fallen
out of it; they were only held together
by the roots of a large faded field flower,
which was no longer worth looking at,
and had, therefore, been thrown out
into the street.
" We will take this flower with us,"
said the Angel ; "I will tell them about
it as we are flying."
And they flew away, and the Angel
spuke as follows:
"There once lived in a low cellerdown
in that little narrow street a poor sick
boy ; sin had been confined to his bed
from earlier years; perhaps now and
then he was able to take a few turns up
and down his little room on his crutches,
but that was all he could do. Some
times during the summer the sunbeams
would stream tr rough this little win•
dow, and then, if the child sat up and
felt the warm sun shining upon him,
and could see the crimson blood in his
light transparent fingers, us he held
them up to the light, he would say,
"To day I have been out!" He only
knew the pleasant woods and the bright
vernal green by the neighbor's son
bringing him the first fresh boughs of
the beech trees, which he would hold
over his head, and then fancy he was
under the beech trees, with the birds
warbling, and the sun shining around
"One day in the spring, the neigh.
bore son brought hi rn some field flowers,
and among them was one with a root,
so it was put intoa flower pot and placed
at the window, close by the boy. And
being carefully planted, it flourished
and put forth shoots, and bare flowers
every year; it was like a beautiful gar
den to the boy—his little treasure upon
earth ; he watered it and tended it, tak
ing care that every sunbeam, from the
first to the last which penetrated his
little window, should fall upon the
plant. And its dowers, v, , i( it their soft
colors and fragrance, mingled with his
dreams, and towards them he turned
when he was dying, when our Lord
called him to Himself. The child
has now been a year with the blessed—
for a year the plant has stood in the
window failed and forgotten, and today
it was thrown out among the rubbien
into the street. Alid this is the dower
which we have just now taken, for
this poor, faded field flower has given
more pleasure than the most splendid
blossom In the garden of a queen."
"And how do you know this!" asked
the child whom the Angel was bearidg
to heaven.
"How do I know it?" said the Angel,
"I was myself that little sick boy who
went upon crutches. Ought I not to
know my own flowers?" And
the child opened wide its eyes, and
looked Into the Angel's fair, bright
countenance— and in the same moment
they were iu heaven.
The Maddening Met bantam of Thought.
Our brains are seventy-year clocks.
The Angel of Life winds them up once
for all, then closes the case, and gives
the key into the hand of the Angel of
the Resurrection. Tic tac ! tic-tac! go
the wheels of thought; our will cannot
stop them ; they eau not st9p themselves;
sleep cannot still them ; madness only
makes them go faster; death alone can
break into the case, and seizing the
ever-swinging pendulum, which we call
the heart, silence at last the clicking of
the terrible escapement we have carried
solong beneath our wrinkling foreheads.
If we could only get at them, as we lie
on our pillows and count the dead beats
of thought after thought and image after
image jarring through the over tired
organ! Will nobody block these wheels,
uncouple that pinion, cut the string that
holds these weights, blow up the Infer
nal machine with gun-powder? What
a passion comes over us sometimes for
silence and rest—that this dreadful me•
chanism, unwinding the endless tapes
try of time, embroidered with spectral
tigurys of life and death, could have hut
nalrEflef holiday ? Who can wonder
that men swing themselves_ off from
beams in hempen lassos ?.-.thifit4bly
jump off from parapets into,tiltreiiift
and gurgling waters beneatht—that
they Wk., council of the grim rhme who
has but to utter his own peremptory
monosyllable, and the restless machine
is shivered as a case that is dashed
upon a marble floor? Under that
building which we pass every day there
are strong dungeons, where neither
hook, nor bar, nor bed cord, nor drinking
vessel from which a chap fragment may
be shattered, shall by any chance be
seen. There is nothing for it, when the
brain is on fire with the whirling
of its wheels, but to spring against the
stone wall and silence them with one
crash. Ah, they remembered that—the
kind city fathers - and the walls are
nicely padded, so that one can takesuch
exercise as he likes without damaging
himself. If anybody would really con
trive some kind of a lever that onecould
thrustin among the works of this horrid
automaton and check them, or alter
their rate of going, what would the
world give for the discovery? Men
- are
very apt to try to get at the machine by
some indirect system or other. They
clap on the brakes by means of opium,
they change the maddening monotony
of the rythni by means of fermented
liquors. Itie because the brain is locked
up and we cannot touch its movements
directly, that we thrust these coarse
tools In through any crevice by which
they may reach the interior, alter its
rate of going for a while, and at last
spoil the machine.—Oliver IVendell
_Holmes.
BATE OF ADVERUMINO.
BEI9INGS9 ADVEXTZHEMENTS, 112 a year
guar° of ton lines; $0 per ytar for each aC-i.
dltlonal square.
Efai ' L ESTATE ADVERTISING, 10 cents a line for
the drat, and 6 cents for each sansequent In
sertion.
GENERAL ADVZICTISINCI 7 cents a line for the
first, and 4 cents for each Sal, equal t burr-.
tion„
SPECIAL Scerics3 Inserted In Local Colomn
15 cents per line.
SPECIAL Ncrricira. preceding marriages and
deaths, 10 cents per line for first. inserthm
and 6 cents for every subsequent insertion:l
LEGAL AND arn s a rt anima—
Executors' .......... 4.50
Administrators' 2.50
Assignees' notlees._____ 2. 4 41
Auditors' notices 200
Other "Notices," ten lines, or leas,
three ..... 1.50
homnaimbullsta
The subject of somnambulism has
been quite closely investigated by a
London physician lately, who has just
published a work embracing uescrip•
lions of several interesting casei of th
disease. The most remarkable Instance
of night-walking is that of a young
priest, and is thus spoken of by the
Archbishop of Breaux : " He was in
the habit of writing sermons when
asleep, and although a card was placed
between his eyes and the note book, he
continued to write vigorously. Did
the history stop here we should
have a well authenticated coca of
vision without the aid of the eves.
hut the collateral circumstances show
that this writing was accomplished
not by sight, but by a most accu
rate representation or the object to he
attained, as will be further illustrat
ed in our next case—for after he hail
written a page requiring correction, a
piece of blank paper of the exact size
was substituted for his own manuscript,
and ou that he made the corrections In
the precise situation which they would
have occupied on the original page.-
1 very astonishing part of this report
is that which relates to his writing
music in his sleeping state, a hick, it is
said, he did with perfect decision. He
asked for certain things and saw and
heard such things, but only such things
that bore direct upon the subject of Ills
thoughts. He detected the deceit when
water was given to him In the place of
brandy, which he had asked for. Fi
nally, he knew nothing of all that had
transpired when he awoke, but In his
next paroxysm he remembered all ac
curately, and so lived a sort of double
life, a phenomenon which we believed
to be universal In all the cases of ex
alted somnambulism.
6ct Leather Bits
One of the cruelest things to dumb
beasts is puttinc frczen Iron bits Into a
horse's mouth. It is not only painful
but a dangerous act. For every time
living flesh touches a metal much below
fretzing point, the latter extracts
the heat from the former and freezes it.
Thus a horse's mouth becomes frozen
by the cold iron several times a
day put into it; each time ceasing
these freezlngs to go deeper and deep•
er, to end at last in extensive ul
ceration. With such a sore mouth the
poor horse refuses to eat, and pines
away, which calls the horse-doctor In.
They call it hots, glanders, horse-ail,
Sc , and go to cramming down poison.
ous drugs in big doses; and the next
you know of the poor abused creature,
he is trundled off to be food for fish or
the crows. Many a valuable horse has
been " mysteriously " lost in just that
way.
Thinking and human people avoid
this by first warming the bits; but this
is much trouble, and sometimes impos-
sible as in night work like staging
and physician's work. Now all this
trouble and loss are entirely avoided, as
we have found on large trial, by getting
the harness-makers to get leather bits
for winter use, so made that no metal
substance can touch the flesh. They
are durable and cost only half a dollar.
We wouldn't exchange ours for a gold
one, if it couldn't be replaced. Don't
fail to try It.
Largo Chests in horses.
Horses that are round or "barrel
chested" are invariably more muscular
and enduring than thoseof the opposite
kind. Scientific sportsmen are, in a
great measure, guided In their opinion
of a horse's racing qualifications by his
girth just behind his shoulders. By
this test a well known Jacky told the
reputation and prowess of the celebrated
racer "Plenipotentiary," almost from
the period of his birth. Cattle dealers
and butchers, in like manner, judge by
the chests and shoulders of cows
and pigs what amount of fat they
are likely to gain in the process
of feeding. All animals that have
large lungs aro remarkable for the vigor
of their appetite, and for the facility
with which they appropriate their nu•
triment. Such animals will feed upon
the coarsest hay and stray, while their
less fortunately constructed companions
are fattened by no kind of food. An
amusing anecdote Is told of a simple•
ton, who, in trying to sell 1118 horse,
declared that "the animal's eating was
a mere nothing." The intelligence
would, contrary to intention, have
sufficed to ruin the prospects of sale,
but that the buyer, with a rare discrim
ination, Inferred from the horse's chest
that the capacity of his appetite had
been unwittingly mis stated. He bought
him on the huz , ard of an opinion, and
had no reason to repent his judgment.
—Ruralist.
lilnter Wheat Growing:
We have the testimony of several
parties that the sowing of oats with
winter wheat protects it from the effects
of hard freezing, etc. The oats growing
more rapidly than the wheat, and being
killed by the first heavy frosts, It falls
around the stalks of wheat and forms a
protection against freezing In the winter
and the alternate freezing and thawing
process which occurs In the spring.
It may be termed mulching the
wheat with oat stalks. Those who have
tried It, we are told, have never failed
to raise a crop of winter wheat while
adopting this mode. Our farmer read •
ors should try this plan, at least on an
acre or so, and until they have an op
portunity of doing so they would do
well to lay this item aside for further
reference. If any of our readers have
any knowledge of the plan mentioned
ever having been tried, we would be
pleased to hear from them as to the re
sults.—lowa Homestead.
Meares In Horses
Seeing spearment and other articles
recommended for horses prompts me to
mention my experience with another
valuable herb in the cure of this die
treseing and troublesome cmnplaint.—
reed no hay to the horse for 30 or 48
hours, apd give only a pailful of water
at a time. Then throw an armful of
well cured smartweed before him, and
let him eat all he will. In all cases
where the cells of the lungs aro not
broken down, great relief If not a per
fect cure will follow. I haveseen a horse,
with the heaves as bad as I ever saw,
cured by 000 dose. Smartweed is valu
able for many purposes, and should be
laid away fur use when needed.—Dr.
Ransom.
For years past an interesting will case
has been pending in the courts of Frank
lin county, Missouri, which is of a na•
lure at once novel and curious. Some
years ego, in the town of Washington,
there lived a bachelor possessed of con
siderable property. Being taken ill he
devised a will leaving his worldly pos
sessions to the C h ildren of a friend, mak
ing no mention of a needy relative.
Tuts fact being noised abroad, three
friends of the latter determined to visit
the sick man and endeavor to induce
him to make another will in favor of
this relative. He consented to do so ;
materials were procured, and one of the
party proceeded to write the document
as dictated by the man, but befotelt
was signed lie died. The three persons
who had no personal interest in .the
matter had been drinking, and . were
somewhat i n tox icated . "lie -- " f -44. lP•
took a hand or we dead man, placed a
pen between the fingers, and thus sign
ed the name to the will. Another asked
the dead to acknowledge the signature,
mid the third caused the head to nod
affirmatively. The three then signed
as witnesses. All parties to the occur
rence are now dead, and the suit is to
decide as to the proper construction of
this will, the writer of which, being in
liquor, having so blended sentences to- •
gether as to make its meaning very
obscure.
The Catholc almanac for 1870 gives
the following statistics of the Catholic
Church for the diocese of Philadelphia:
tit cuiar priests, 136; priests o' religious
orders, 33; priests engaged lu mission
ary duties, 146; priests engaged In ec•
ckeisstical institutions 15; churches
ouilt, 100; in course of erection, 7;
chapels, 37, students in colleges, 138;
seminarians ordained during the year,
16; t. celeslastical institutions, 4; colleges,
3; number ofrellgious orders of women,
convents, 13; number of religious
women, 560; brothers of the Christian
schools, 41; who have under their
charge 7 schools and 3000 scholars ;-
orphan asylums, 5; number of orphans,
783; hospitals, 3; widdws' asylums 1;
conferences of St. Vincent de. Paul, 18;
number of children attending parochial
schools, 27,000; Catholic population-.
about 220,000