Two Travelers. The hour is midnight; hushed and still The starlight rests on mead and hill; The world lies bathed in restful sleep, asve only those who watch and weep, Save only those who vigil keep, Ad wait in woe and wait in cheer, The death knell of the passing year. Sweet music fills the renlius of space, When in Jehovah's dwelling place Two angels, clothed in glory blight, Fling open wide the gates ot light, From whonce a traveler,clothed in white A baby New Year, soft, and lair— Oomoe floating downward through tlie air. Alone he speeds toward earthly lands, When in his path a traveler stands; The weary body, bent with care, Its sinful burden scarce can tiear. With toil the old year mounts the air, When, struggling through the ether mild, His glance tails on the heaven-born child. The gray-lioard's tones are old and weak; fis wenrtness his tongue doth speak; " A twelvemonth since I loft the sky, Sent lorth by Him who reigns on higli. On earth to live, on earth to dio. Lot I return to whence I eaico, Bowed down with toil and sin and shame." In dread the New Year lifts his eyes To yon bright region of the skies: " Not so, oh, Father, oh, not so May bethetnte to which I go! In lov (I'll live with men below. Oh! 1 will bid their souls rejoice, And beg a welcome with my voice: ' Out ot the darkness, out of night, Springing to meet the morning light, Leaving (ho nebulous upper world, My tiny wings to the air unlurlod, Out ot the ether and out of spoco, Trusting myself to your tender giaco, Begging u welcome sweet and fair, Love and mercy and gentle care, I come, tho glad New Year. What did ye do to him who passed, Borne away on the wintry blast T I met a traveler old and worn, His brow was bent and his robe was torn. Not to me may the same late tie, Bright and joyous and pure and tree, Lo! trom the realms oflight above, Bearing to mortals a Father's love, I come, tho glad New Year," In joy he comes, the gentle child, A gift trom heaven, in mercy mild; He conies to greet the world alone, The glad sweet New Year, not our own, A spirit from Jehovah's throne. Not like tho old year tnay he go, Bowed down with weight ot mortal woe. Oh' many a victory may he win O'er doubt and pain, o'er grief and sin, That not in vain his tender voice Shall bid the soula ol men " ltejoice!" The babe that knows no grid nor fear, The Father's gift, the glad Now Year! WHAT SANTA CLAUS SENT. The week before Christmas was dreadful dreary. In the first place, father was away. He had been gone almost a month, in search of work, and we were expecting him home every day. In the next place, the wood was most gone, and we didn'tdare to keep a very good fire. And it always seems dreary in cold, snowy weather, unless you have a good roaring fire, I think; espe cially in a dug-out. It was all on account of tlie grass hoppers that we had to spend our second winter in the dug-out. We had been brave and patient—father said so—the first winter. But when the grasshop pers came and ate up all our crop, and we bad to give up the hope of a house for that whole year, we almost wished we were baek in Vermont. Then, in the third place, and lastly, as the min ister says, we had nothing left to cat but pumpkin. And pumpkin—though H's very nice for pies, when you hav milk and eggs, and pretty good (at least, better than nothing,) for sauce, you haven't got any lietter, and there is nothingleft bu* the Johnny-cake —isn't so very good for steady eating. And there wasn t so very much of it, wither; and if that should fail before tatb> t came— But mother wouldn't be gloomy. " Kat all you want of it. I dare say father will come before it's gone," she said. "It's lucky I dried so much." "-And lucky the 'hoppers didn't like pump kins," said my elder brother. Bob, try ing to imitate her cheerful tones. " Bake some for supper, mother. I be lieve I like it best baked." " Yes, I'll bake it for supper, and you and Lizzie shall have all the milk to eat with it. We who are well can do with out milk. Can't we, children P" and she fooked round so brave and cheerful at me and Tom and Johnny that we were past as wining as could be to give up mr share of the milk, now that poor Bens, who had nothing but coarse, dry hay and water, could only give a pint twice a day. 80 Bob and Lizzie had all the milk that night, and we had only a little salt wa our pumpkin; because Lizzie wasn't much more than a baby, and Bob was sick ever since he broke his leg at the taming. Boh tried to have mother take mmt. of his milk; hut she wouldn't. Nobody complained—not a word—we ' shmid have been ashamed to; only I ■rambled some to old Bess, the cow, n know, when I was pulling down ■ay for her. I suppose Fm not hardly as brave as the rest of'em. At any rate, I often grumble to Bess, when things ate hard; and I told her that time that thm was no fun at all in living on Mrmplfn is a miserable dug-out, and I wasn't going to stand it. At least I wouldn't, if I had any boots to get away in. And I tried hard to think what I eon Id do. But L didn't see as there was any thing The neighbors were ago id way ; off, and as poor as we were. All but old Mother Cripsey, and she was too cross sad too stingy to live. No use to go war her. when I went in. and was crouch lag Uown before the fire to get my fln frr* warni. mother said: "William, I think somebody ought fin over and see if Mother Crispey as* as anything this cold weather. I fcaow it isn't pleasant for you to go there, but it would ease my mind to now she wasn t freezing or starving." " How can I go, mother, with no boots but these?" and I held up my light foot. There was a strip of flannel lied round it to keep the solo from flnp back and forth every time I stepped. iind to cover a big hole that let theßnow in. "You might wear Bob's best one, perhaps. It in better than that. Can't lie, Bob P" "Certain," said Bob, without raising his head or looking at me. * Bob oouldn t help being gloomy, because lie was sick and pumpkin didn't agree witli hint; but lie didn't like to have us take any notice of it, bo we didn't. I said: " Well, I s'posed I eould go. The only thanks I should get would be to have my head snapped off and get called a beggar, and asked what I expected to by coming." But I was tired of eing cooped i p at home, and should lie glad of a wa.lc, if I eould only have something to walk in. So Bob let me have his lioot. and I started. It was about half a mile and off the road; so | had to make my own path, and the snow was pretty deep. But the sun shone bright and I rather liked the fun of breaking a track. I saw a smoke in Mother Cripsey's chimney as I came near, so I knew she was all right. You see it wasn't as if she had boon poor, for she was the richest one for miles around, only she was most too stingy to keep herself alive. She cut her own wood and carried her own grain to the mill, and there was nothing to be afraid of; only, as she would live there all alone, so far from neighbors, mother thought she might fall sick, or get hurt, or something, and nobody find it out till she suffered. So we had to go over once in a while. But all we got in return was hard words and sneers. Mother often went herself, in pleasant weather. I guess she was rather pleasanter to her. At any rate, mother didn't seem to think tier a bad sort of a woman. But, then, mother always thinks better of folks than they deserve. I broke a path up to the door, and there she was. An old black hood pulled down over her eyes, and a nightcap ruffle, and some kind of yellow-gray hair sticking out under the edge of it, round her red, bony face, redder and bonier than ever. Iler short striped petticoat came down just below the top of a pair of men's boots She looked like a Jezebel, or a witch of Kndor, more than like a woman. But I went up to her, and took off my hat, and said " Good-morning," as polite as you please. I like to be rather politer than common to her; it makes her so scorn ful. "Well! wlt dc you want o' me? S'pos'n you . a., out o' breadstuff! she began. " I didn't say we were allout ma'am!" I interrupted her, though that wasn't polite, I know. I had to speak pretty loud and fast, or she wouldn't have stopped to listen to me. " I came be cause mother was afraid you might need somebody to cut wood or something, now that the snow is so deep. She lookedsharp at me while I said so much; but'thonshe turned back to the wood pile and began to chop in away that made the chips fly, I tell you. I sup pose that was to show me how easy she eould cut her wood herself. After slie had worked that way awhile she turned round and put down her axe and said : "Come in, will ycP" So I went in and sat down by the tiro. "I s'pose ycr mar thought I had hands like hern, that's jest tit for knit tin' and darnin' socks, and wanted n man to do such dreadful hard work a euttin' wood enough to keep niy own fire agoin'. So she sent you along, hey?" " It's no use to remember and repeat all the hard words Mother Cripsey said to me that day. She was more insulting than ever, accusing me of every kind of | a mean motive in coming to inquire for I her. I had a great mind to tell her just what I thought of her; and I would hut for the thought of how mother would feel if I got downright angry and sauced a gray-lieaded old woman as, I do think, she deserved. But I held in my temper and just denied all her shameful charges. I swallowed all the hard words I eould well stand, and then took rather a hasty leave and started for home. On the way, as I climbed over a fence, I saw something like feathers sticking out of the snow. I went for it. and pulled out a quail, that had been buried and frozen stiff. "That's for Bob's dinner!" I said, with joy, and thrust my hand down into the snow to hunt for mc.ro. " Here's for Lizzie!" I said, as I pulled out another. And down I dived again. " Here's for mother! And here's for Tom and Johnny!" as three more came j to the surface in quick succession. "And here's for me!" I almost screamed, as a rather anxious search brought up another. I still dug about in tlie snow, and pretty soon I found one more. " For father, surely!" I said. Then I eould find no more, and sat down to rub my aching fingers. When f had got them warm, I pulled a hit of board from the fence and dug the snow bank all over thoroughly, and found lour more. "A dinner fit for a king! A dinner fit for a king!" I cried out loud, <.s I looked at the plump beauties lying be fore me. I found a bit of string in my pockets, and tied them all together and slung them over my shoudler. Didn't mother's eyes shine when I came into the house with those quails! That was " a dinner as was a dinner," as Bob said. Of course, we had to go back to pumpkin again next day. Nev ertheless, the change was deligutftil and made the week a good deal less trying. Christmas day wns Saturday, you know. Thursday morning mother said: "It looks like more snow. I hope father will get here before it storms again." She was a little pale that morning—poor mother!—though she spoke juat as cheer ful as ever. I knew and Bob knew the pumpkin wouldn't Inst till Christmas Kve. But nobody talked about that. It began to snow at nightfall. I bad cut up the last stick of wood, and it was piled up inside the fireplace. We had a stove in front of the fireplace and the pipe ran into the mde stone chimney. It snowed all night, I suppose. When we wak d in the morning no light came in at the little square of window. I knew it wns morning because the clock struck eight just after I waked. We had ; got in the way of sleeping very late mornings to save the fire. I could just see where the window waa. I called to mother. In the day time there was but one room in lite dug-out; but at night a curtain was diawn across one end that divided off a corner that was called mother's bedroom. She answered: "Yes, William. I'm awake." " We're snowed in, I guess, mother ." "It looks like it," she said. " Build the fire and I will come out directly." I got up and dressed myself. Hob waked while I was dressing and asked me what I wns getting up in tlie night for. I told him it was morning, butwc were snowed in. So he got up, too. I went to the door to see if I could open it. It opened easy enough; but a bauk of snow was all there was to be seen. I believe I turned white. I know I shook as people do with the ague. Ten sticks of wood for fuel, one-half a candle for ligtit and atsiut pumpkin enougli for two meals. These were our resources; and we were snowed in. Mother came out. She was paler than yesterday, but calm and brave as ever. " Let's have a tire, boys, quickly, and we will have breakfast soon. I feel sure father will eotuc to-day." She lighted our one piece of candle. I couldn t speak. There was a great lump in my throat. My shaking hands would hardly lay the sticks for the fire. Mother put the pumpkins on to warm. It was all cooked now. We had only to warm it up. Then she brought out a little handful of cloves, that she said she had found hidden away in one of her trunks. She put them on the table in a Silt-dish. " May lie somebody will like them for a relish," said she, smiling. I wished she wouldn't smile. After breakfast she read the Bible rather longer than usual. After prayers Tom and I washed the dishes, as we often did, while she put the room in order. When all was done, she put out the ! light. " I can knit as well in the dark," ' she said; "and I am going to tell you a ! story, so you will not care." She told | us a great many stories that day. | I didn't see why I couldn't lie as brave as Tom. He told jokes and rid dles, and helped ever so much to keep | the little ones amused. But my heart | was like a lump of lead, ami 1 couldn't I seem to do or say a thing to keep the ! rest brightened up or cheer poor mother. | Yet Tom knew how bod things were, iust as well as I did. Bob kept his face bidden a good deal of the time when there was light; but when he did show i it lie looked as if the last day was come. ; But then Bob was sii k, a: d I wasn't, j l'oor Bess lowed for her food anil ; water. We were sorry for her; but couldn't help her. We lighted the candle again at dinner. We didn't have very good appetites. There was enough j pumpkin left. o Lizzie had her supper. She went to sleep early, in my lap; it was so still. The stillness wns almost as bad as the darkness And now it was Christmas eve. But 1 nobody said anything about hanging up ! stockings. Tile little ones bad not been reminded that to-night was the time for that; an/, we older ones were thinking too much about tire and food and to morrow, even to speak of it. "Christmas will brintr father, I am sure," said mother, after Lizzie wns laid in her lied. " And now hadn't my little Johnny l>ettcr be undressed? Morning will seem to come sooner if lie huts bis eyes early." "Me wants my supper first," said Johnnie. "The pumpkin is all gone. But, if Johnnie is brave and patient, 1 think (Jod will send him some breakfast." " Does He know the pumpkin is all fjone?" said Johnnie, with a quivering ip- „ "\<-s. I told Him. He will take care that we have some breakfast. I asked Him to," said mother, cheerfully and confidently. I wondered if she n-ally felt so sure. I didn't. "But the snow is al: up over the door, so nolaaiy can't get in," Johnnie j said. "God can find a man who can shovel j away the snow. I gu<-*s He will send papa home to do it," mother said. "I'm awful hungry!" said Johnnie, mournfully. And then. in a quick, glad tone: "Oh! I shouldn't wonder if He sent some bread! Ma. did you ask for pumpkin or for bread?" " r'or bread, dear. I think it will be bread." "Oh! then I'll go to bed quick." He submitted to bo undressed, and when hi* head was on the pillow lie squeezed Ills eyelids closed together, de termined to sleep, that morning might conic sooner. He bad to speak once more. "ButtT on it! Hid you ask for butter on it. ma?" "I r.-ked for some meat. A piece ol mcnt woit'd bo good witli bread. Wouldn't it, Johnnie?" "Yes; but I'd ha' asked for buttor. too." said Johnnie, and suicided again. "We hnd better go to lied before the room gets cold," mother said, as we sat crouching around the few glow ing coals that the last stick of wood hnd ! left. ! " Mother, how can you bo so brave and quiet?" said Bob. bitterly, with a sound that was almost like a sob. "Ifuuli, dear! Be brave and quiet yourself a little longer. God hasn't for gotten us. Are you so very hungry?" "It isn't that. I've often iieen hun grier when I've been off in the woodson 1 a tramp. I don't seem to feel any ap petite; but to-morrow—" "' Take no thought for the morrow.'i Let us, at least, try to obey that precept for this one night. Go to your la d with . a qniet heart, as I shall go to mine. I There is a glad Christmas in store for i us yet." So we went to bed—if not ' ! with quiet hearts, at least with a glim mer of hope, awakened by mother's I strong faith. But we did not sleep. The eloek struck right. There was a sound on the roof. We started up to i listen. Yes, surely there was some one stepping above our heads. " It's j father!" was our glad cry. We were outol bed in an instant, and beside the old chimney, which was the only outlet for our voices. "Father! Father! Are you there?" we called. But do voice onswerrd. In stead there WM a , queer sound, aj of something rubbing and shuffling down the chimney. " Santa Claus, for certain!" said Tom. Well, it seemed as if it was. First there came a long, narrow hag, covered with Boot and sane*. It fell at our feet: but before we could pick it up a plump round package followed it and bounced into the middle of the floor. A sec ond, like it, rolled along after, undo ing Itaelf and showing a loaf of brown bread. Then came a shape leas package, with a bone sticking out, which Bob caught at, exclaiming, joytullv: " Dried lieef. Hurrah!" Wc kept calling, " Father! Why don't you speak, father'" at intervals; bill got no answer. But we were sure St wns he, and with joyous laughter wel comed the bundles a* they came down the chimney. A few potatoes, a lew Limine, a little aoft'oican package of tea, i and then the shower of good things was over. But there wna no voice yet. and the sound of retiring footitteps left us look- I Ing in each other's face with amazement. "It Isn't father after all!" tnid mother, with a great deal of disppolnt | m'-nl in her tones. "He would never i have gone off so, without spenking a : word." I We fell to eating. wßh a keer gflbb, Slices of brown broad and dried beef disappeared rapidly. Johllßit WIUI, awakened to have liin share; and we' would have waked Lizzie, too, but niotlier said " No." "Too bad. The last spark of fire is out, or you would have a cup of tea, Mara lie. I said. "Nevermind! This is an earnest of better thing:*. We shall have wood to morrow. Father will come. You will see. How thankful I am for this sun ply. And who could have brought it?" She said these last words over again and again, as did we all. I do think I, for one, wns really thankful to God that night. At last we got to bed again —sooner than we should, I suppose; but the cold drove us there. Hut sleep did not come to me soon. Wonder and joy kept me awake. Was there really a Santa Claus, then? I, a boy fourteen years old, could hardly help believing it. We bad not a neighbor, that I eould think of, who was rieli enough to give us such a bountiful Christmas present. Father came early next day, bringing money that lie had earned,%nl more—a letter from grandma, enclosing a cheek for a hundred dollars. She said it was her Christmas present, and another like it should come in the spring, to help build that house. She had luui a wind, fall, and we should enjoy our share of it at once. It was a joyful Christmas. Mother was right, as she generallv is. Our crops were good this year, and our Christmas of the following year did not find us in a dug-out. Mother found out afterward that it was really Mother Cropsoy herself, and nobody else, that put those things down our chimney Christmas eve. She never would have done such a thing for any body but mother, though, 1 am sure. She thinks there is nolw>dy like our mother. And I guess I think so, too. A Woman's Life Work. Miss Nancy N. Clough died in En field. N. 11., recently, aged eighty years and three? months. The story of the life of this woman, says a writer in the Boston Journal, seems more like ro | mance than reality. It may well be I called romance in real life. She was j the oldest of a family of ten children, five of whom are still living. While ; she was vet young her father's farm in !En field became heavily encumbered, and was likely to l>e sold under the | hammer; his health, too, was broken I down, and the future of that family np- I neared well-nigh hopeless. Nancy, I foreseeing the disastrous consequences j threatening the future, resolved to save i the dear home, and went to work with | heroic energy to carry the resolution I into eff> rt. She enlisted her brother ! Tlieopliilus, next younger than herself, | in the lnudabie enterprise, who cordi ; ally seconded her efforts and gave his efficient aid. learning of the factories that find j just started in Lowell, Mass., she left ';oin e, and went to that city to find r muneraliv work. S]ie entered one of the factories as an humble operative, but wrought with such energy and skill a* to accomplish more work than 1 two ordinary operatives, receiving more than double pay. Every leisure moment outside of the mills was also faithfully employed to the same end. As 1 her younger sisters and brothers came * to a suitable age she summoned their icady help, while she was the ruling: j directing genius and moviug power in | the undertaking. The result was, that, after some years I of persistent efforts, the mortgage was i iifted from the farm, and the old home was free from every claim that others | held upon it. Then she derided that 1 the house must be nbuilt and refur nished. and the grounds beautified, and when all was done, the brave girl went back to the borne of her childhood, with three sisters and one brother, to pass lic remainder of their days. The Indians ns Farmers. In bis annual report to the secretary of the interior. Commissioner Hoyt stab's that during the past year there has been among many trilies a marked nd vanee toward civilization. Tliesubstan tial result* of Indian form labor during the year IH79are given as follows: By Indians, exclusive of the five civi lized tribes of the Indian Territory: Nutnlier seres broken 27.131 Numlwtr n< res cnltivnled 157,0.56 Number bushels when! raised 328.637 Number bushels corn raiml 643 286 Nutnlier bushels oels ami Imrley nuse.l 189,064 .Nutnlier bushels vegetables raised.. . 390,698 Tons hay eut . 48,333 By the five civilized tribes: Number seres cultivated. 273,000 Itushels wheat raise.l 666,400 Bushels corn raised 2,016,000 Bushels oals snd barley raised 200 009 liushela vegetable* raise.! 336,700 , Tons hay cul 176 600 , The commissioner says that the only sure way to make Indians advance in civilization, under the best conditions to promote their welfare, is to give < ach head of a family one hundred and sixty i acres of land, and to each unmarried adult eighty acres, and to issue patents for the same, making the allotments inalienable snd free from taxation for twenty-five years; also that from all ex cept the five rivilized tribes there has lreen a call for such allotment of land, and a largely increased desire for houses, agricultural implements, wagons, civi lized dress, etc., etc. Trusting a Hoy. (hiring the session ol the late Episco pal convention in Boston, the bishop of f-ouisiana, in crossing the commons, met a boy whose face he fancied, and calling to liim, asked him if he had any thing to do just then, to which lie said no. " Are you a good hoy?" The little fellow scratched nis head and replied: "I am not a very good boy. I cuss a little sometimes." That candid answer inspired the bishop with confidence, and he then said, after giving his name and address: " I want you to go to a certain place and get a bundle for me and bring it to my liotel. There will be a charge of 98; here is the money to pay it, and half a dollar which you will keep tor doing the errand." On his return to the hotel, the bishop's friends laughed at him for his credulity, telling him that lie would never see the boy or the bundle or the money again; but in half an hour the young chap returned, bringing the bundle and a receipted bill for $8 60, the bishop having made a slight mistake as to the amount that was due. " How did you manage to pav the extra half dollar?" he inauired. " I took the money you gave me lor the job. I knew that you would make it all right." And 'all right" it was made, and I have n,, doubt that the con fidence that was reposed in that boy will do him good as long as he lircz. —Buhop Clark. Effects of Opium Smoking. The British consul at Chefoo. In re porting on the opium trade, give# the following account of nn experiment in opium-smoking tried by hiuiHeif. During my residence in China 1 have spent much time in visiting the opium shops of the large towns and small vil lages in many parts of the empire, and in conversation with the customers. J was surprised at the large numbers who told me that their first motive for smoking was *to check the spitting of blood, to which they had become subject. In the end of ladng attacked with a severe fever, which left me so weak that I gave up hopes of recovery, I felt justified in trying upon myself the experiment of immoderate opium-smoking. The fol lowing were the results: I. Tempta tion to excess greater than in the case of alcohol. 2. Excessive stimulation of the memory. 3. Utter indifference to cares and anxieties. 4. I only had one opium vision, and that was after ten hours'hard smoking without intermis sion. The vision was of a pleasurable kind; the curtains of my couch ex tended,and I fancied I saw "The Temp est," acted by real Ark Is and l'rosperos. j 5. A few months'exeessivesmoking pro ! duced the craving, or opiomania. 0. I ; suddenly gave up the habit, and Buffered I severe physical pain for three days, ami I discomfort recurring at irregular pcri : ods for over two years. The pain and discomfort were not accotnoanicd by | mental depression. Some of these effects , may have been due to individual idio jsyncrasies; but, from tlie study of my ; own and other cases I am inclined to believe: i. That the temptation to ex j cess is greater in the case of opium than in that of alcohol. Hut here it must lie i remarked that opium-smok ng is, neces sarily, a solitary enjoyment, and drink ing asocial one. The smoker, too, has to go deliberately to work ; lie lias to lie down, light Ins opium-lamp, frizzle the opium, place the lump of Opium | outside his pipe carefully so that the pipe may draw, fix the lamp in a position so j that he can keep his pipe just over the llame of the lauip all the time ho is smoking; in fact, go through long and tedious processes. A man cannot, therefore,- IK? surprised into an excess of opium as lie can into an excess of alco i hoi. Lastly, opium is not adulterated, and no artificial craving is created by poison, such as potato spirt, strychnine, and sulphuric acid, with which the | drink of our poor is drugged. 2. It is possible that the long-continued course , ol excessive opium-smoking might in pair the intellectual faculties and blunt the moral sensibilities. 3. It is proba ble that cxc< ssive smoking impairs fer tility, but the numerous cases I have known of immoderate smokers having large families doe# not conlirin this view. •I. It is undeniable that many families are reduced from comfort to penury by their bread-winners spending an undue portion of their earnings in opium: aiso, i that in a few isolated eases, poor smok ers resort to theft to enable them to in dulge in the pleasure. But the same may be said of any other habit of seif i indulgence. 5. 'I hat many individuals suffer in health from exc-ess is Incontro i vertible, but the number of these is not |so great as is imagined. The denouncers . of tiie drug are apt to tie under the influ ence of.a single idea or, to speak in vul | gar parlance, get "opium on the brain." and whenever they sec a person unwell who is an opium-smoker, at once at tribute hi# illness to his opimn-smoking, j post > tor, ergo premier hoc. On tlic other 1 hand, it is equally incontrovertible that ' thousands of hard-working people are ! indebted to opium-smoking for the con tinuance of lives agreeable to themselves j and useful to society. . That the physi cal difficulty in (m aking off the habit jis greater than in dipsomania. The ar gument that those who use n commodity as a medicine and harmless luxury j should not be deprived of it because weaker brethren abuse it is stronger in ; the ease of opium than in that of alcohol, i No one i# maddened by smoking oniuni j to crimes of violence, nor does the habit of smoking opium increase the criminal returns or swell the number of prison inmates. Do It Well. I Whatever you do, do it well. A job slighted, because it is apparently unim portant, leads to habituai negligence, that men degenerate insensibly in their workmen J " That is a good rough job, said an old I man in our hearing, recently, and he ! meant that it was a piece of work not elegant in itself, but strongly made and j well put together. Training the hand and eye to do work well leads individuals to form correct habits in other respects, and a good workman is, in most rnse#. a good citi zen. For one need hope to rise above i Ids present situation who suffers small things to pass by unimproved, or who neglects, speaking, to pick up a cent becnusc it is not a dollar. Rome of the wisest isw-makcrs, the best statesmen, the most gifted artists, the most merciful judges.tlie most ingen ious mechanics, rose from the great mass. A rival of a certain lawyer sought to humilate him puhiicly by saying: "You blacked my father's boots once. "Yes," replied the lawyer unabashed, " and I did it we!!." And because of his doing even mean tilings well, he row to greater. Take heart, all who toil! all youths in humble situations, a)] in adverse cir cumstance, and those who labor unap preciated. If it be put to drive the plow, strive to do it well; If it be but to wax threads, wax it well; if only to cut bolts, make good ones; or to blow the bellows, keep the iron hot. ft is attention to business that lifts the feet nigher up on the ladder. Rays the good book; " Reest thou a man diligent in his business, he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men." A Remedy that was not Adopted. " Can you cure my eyes?" said a man to I)r. Brown. "Yes," said the doctor, "if you follow my prescription." "Oh, certainly, doctor,''said the pa tient; "I wil do anything to have niy eyes cured. Wlmt is your remedy, doctor?" " You must steal a horse," said the doctor, verv solierly. "Rleal a horse, doctor!" said the pa tient in amaze ucnl. "Ilow will that cure my eyes?" " Y'ou will he sent toßtate prison for live years, where you could not get whiskey, and during your incarceration your eyes would get well," said the doctor. The patient looked somewhat incredn loua. hut lie did not adopt the doctor's remedy., A Carton* employment. The person who, alone in N< w v , makes a specialty of attending t/I ,T k linger nails, lives j n handsome -maro on Twenty-third street, near ," 7-* theatre, there a Hun repoV find her, in a large and richly furnishr-d p, r lor. but a small portion of which u{\L a green silken screen and near* wi dow, was set f „ r the p r;u . ti ,. lier profession. Behind that screen , 1 a small table were displayed gleaming scissors of odd shape* hriri.t ivory-handled knives and file*, hoxe*, cosmetics and polishing powders, l*./ th-s of perfume, and an infinity of'other tools and materials for the trcatrner upon correct principles of art, of th< " ger nails. The manicure herself, on a low stool in the window, W*A • large, fine-looking woman, v< ry tastr fuliy dressed, apt of tongue and d ft 't hand while plying her novel craft. J fore her stood a luxuri _>us arm-chair for the person to be operated upon. "Yes." laid she, looking up plea*, antly, "I was the first, and I h< !i< v < still the only, manicure in this country It is wonderful to rnc that there .ip not more here to practeie the art j n France manicures ar as common as bar hers in New York, and there should be enough demand for tli'-ir acrvi<7 bring them into equal request here. \, a mark of refinement, of good br< i careful keeping and beautifying of '•>*; ! finger nails is as essential as the can- 0 f ! the teeth. Perhaps it is even more ! for taking care or the t<-eth is in largi part a matter of selfish interest toth I owner ol the teeth, but in caring for i the finger nails we do so out of cowbd. ' era'.ion for decency, love of th<- Is-auti ful, and regard for the f. eling* <,f thou ; witii whom we ar< brought in contact ; Nails, you kow, will not ache, , v <-n i though they may IK? in permanent . mourning, bitten as ragged a* tL< h!gi ft fa saw, and fringed with fravd euti | cle and liang nails. I'crhap* tL:.t i- why so many people neglect th'in. itut I , cannot complain. When I started j tl business, two years ago, I waited gome ; flays IK* fore my first < ustomer e arm —a ! lady, wlio paid me a dollar for nutting her nails in order— and now I Lave hj much as I can attend to, as many a twelve, fourteen, and f\n sixtctn i day, and as each cm takes an av< r .-<• of I three-quarter# ftfan hour, mv hand?-an : kept prettv busy all day long A grea numlier of my customers are regular. That is, instead of coming in for an o ! caskmal fixing up of their nail*, a? & j man goes into a strange hsrlsr shop for a sliave, they take regular course* of j treatment, for three month-at atim<. i coming to mo once a wis k " Those wlio thus artistically beautify | tlieir digit* AN <>f the very IK it Ml #, bankers, broker-, .n . nur chants. I know of but on< po.itifian among tliem. " My principal customer* r.r< adi'-s cf wealth and refinement. All tie m ui punr ! an tee giving them, in a reasonable time, beauty of form nnd color. After they are once put in good condition it is not difficult to keep tlicm o Tic serve ■* of the manicure are not neeesaary ottener than on e a w•<* k. although some ladies come to me regularly twit* every week. Asa rule, those who arc most can ful of their nail* and visit m? off en o#t are the very ones wlio are most likely to unblusliingly rob nic of the credit of my work Vy claiming it for tliemselves. ' What lieautiful naiis you liave! Y'ou must have been to the manicure,' snys one lady to another, wlio lias just left my house. 'Oh, dear, not I have no occasion to go to UK manicure. My nails grow natura ly that way,' replies the dear. ard<* creature. But Iha*e my consolation in my aerviee of the beautiful—and my dollar and a half. It is not true, you know, that nails grow beautiful and per fect naturally. At least. I have never seen any that did. Nature is not to or trusted implicitly tor the fashioning of the human form divine as you may have suspected if you liave ever contem plated a lot of sea bathers." What Hi Mistook for a Dog. A voting man wlio had recently ar rived from the Flast was engagi-d at the United Rtates fish-hatching establish ment on McCloud river. One day lart week he took a row boat and pulled up the river a short distance, crossed to the opposite side, and prepared to go a*horr Just as he was stepping out of the bosU the young man looked up on the bank over his head, and saw what lie thought was a large mastiff do*. "Rome ol those Indians have stolen him. thought to himself, "and I wio take him home with me." Climbing the trail with difficulty, he was soon fsce to face with his mastiff. He whistled; ana snapped his thumb and fingers, ooax ingfy, but instead of taking his advance* kindly, the animal uttered a low growl, and oscillating his tail from side to snie. prepared to go for that young m*"- The latter, now terribly alarmed, started for his boat, tumbling headlong down the hill, and just managed to get into his craft and push it into the stream a# an immense speciment of the California lion landed upon the shore. Of course, trie lion would not nke tfl the wst.r. so ihe young man was safe; but he says ne shall oe car fill how he makes overtures to strange dogs in a strange country after this, lie was entirely unarnie-l at the time, and after he got Into his boat heard the growls of another in the busli, showing that evidently there was a po of the " creatures."— IbriMmi Orrpomoa- Courtship, says an exchange, is not run by the rule of three. But nffr courtship It la run by ten; the woman one, the man naught.— Omtgo Timet.