The *
In path* of ponce anil virtue
Alwar* the guod remain ;
Ami aorrow aliall not atay with thorn,
Nor long acees* of paiu;
At mooting or at parting,
Joy* to their Ixtaom atriko,
For g<Kxl to gool ia friendly,
And Virtue love* her like.
The great Hun goon hia Journey
Ity their atrong truth impelled,:
Ily their pure liven and penance*
Inearth lUelf uphold ;
Of all which live or xhall live
Upon ita hill* and ilelda.
Pure heart* aro the protoctora,
For Virtue aavee and ahielda.
Hover are notde apirita
I'oor while their like aurvive ;
Without request theao render,
Without return they give.
Never iM loat or waated
The goodness of the good;
Never agaiunt a mercy,
Againat a right, it atood ;
And aeeing thia, that Virtue
Ia alwaya friend of all,
The Virtuoua and Pure-hearted
Men their " Protectors" call.
Adirt* lmoM, in Harptr.
JOSEPHINES DREAM.
Josephine March lived in an old red
brick honse, which stood at the corner
where the Canon's Close intercepts the
Cathedral square. It looked on neither
of them, except as it wero by the side
glance of two big windows which lit its
staircase. All its casements opened on
its own groon garden, large enongh to
allow of bright flower beds, open snnny
lawns and bower like leafy dells.
The Misses Knightley, to whom the
honso belonged, took a pride and an in
terest in their gardon. They wore proud,
too, of the delicate nee 1ew,... wu.ch
decorated their apartments, and days
had been when they had added to its
treasures; bnt they were old ladies now.
and their eyos wero failing, and they
did no more. Bnt spring and summer,
antnron and winter, made room for per
petual changes in that garden, and their
gentle exercise in its genial snnshine
did them good. And Miss Margaret
often said to Miss Elizabeth: " What
shonld wo do without J the garden and
Josephine ?"
Josephine was not of their blood.
She conld remember the day when first
she wondered who she was. She re
membered asking that question of Miss
Elizabeth. And she remembered the
kind lady's answer, " that when she
• was old enough she should know all
they could tell her." The promise was
kept when she was seventeen.
That was three years ago, and Jose
phine wonld have started to be told
how many hours she had spent in re
volving the few meager particulars sho
then heard. She was a foundling dis
covered in an encampment of gypsies,
whoso thievishness had brought dawn
the police upon them. The pretty
baby's fair hair and blue eyes had pro
voked inquiry, aai some of tho old
women of the gang had eagerly con
fessed that she was none of their people;
she had belonged to a strange young
woman who had joined them some
months i.ofore and had since died.
Thoy could not be quite sura whether
sho was the mother. She had always
said she was not. One harridan went
so far as to narrate the dead girl's con
fession that she bad a baby of her own,
which had died, and that she had stolen
this one to personate it, for the sake of
some money.
The Misses Knightlcv had heard all
this at the time, and, like most of the
neighboring innocent ladios, they had
. gone to see the poor little babe crowing
in the honeet arms of tho constable's
wife, who had it in temporary charge.
The Misses Knightley walked home in
silence till Mis* Margaret said: "Lis
sic, the little thing took to you."
Then she saw her sister was crying.
But Miss Elizabeth put aside her
tears, with a strong effort, and said:
"Bbe curled her little fingers round
mine just as Joseph did when be was a
baby."
Joseph was a brother years younger
than themselves, who hod died in boy
hood.
" Her eyas are the color of his," ob
served Miss Margaret "Ah, if he had
grown np and married, we might have
had bis ehildien abont ns now."
"Why shouldn't we taie this one?"
asked Miss Elizabeth, impulsively. "We
have a right to do aa we like, I sup
pose," she added, with a dash of defi
ance at the storm of criticism and ridi
cule which she felt wonld rise abont
them.
And in the end the two ladiee drove
back in the twilight and bora home the
baby in triumph.
• "I never in my life felt so mnoh as if
I was oommitting a crime," Miss Mar
garet had afterward confided.
This was little enongh for poor
Josephine to hew, though it was dressed
np with loving little details of how they
gave her the feminine form of thoir
dead boy-brother's name, and added for
patronymic that of the "roaring moon
of daffodils," daring which she was
carried into their quiet retreat.
What dwelt moat in Josephine's mind
was the vague unknown which lay be
*ll tlio information she could get.
heart 8110 entirely refnsetlto
heliovo that 8110 conld he the child of
tho ontcast woman who had died in the
gypsies' camp. The police might have
refused to believe about her dying con
fession—tho Missos Knightley might
Bccm to have forgotten all ahont it.
What did they care to whom 8110 be
longed, now that they saw her a fair and
graceful maiden, full of gentle ways
and learned in gentle lore, turning over
their old volumes of the poets with her
fresh yonng finger , and looking and
speaking and acting just as they conld
hare wished in that dream-child who
might have been Joseph's "if Joseph
had lived f"
They had her portrait painted by tho
rising young artist of the town, and it
was exhibited in the county art acad
emy.
It was not called " Miss Josephine
March." "Nobody but our Josephine's
friends need know who it is," they said
to each other, and the pict uro was called
" An F.nglish Girl."
It showed hor standing at the
door of Miss Elizabeth's favorite arbor,
just as she really stood nearly every
morning during tho mild months, for
she always ran down thoro to await
that lady's return f om her daily tour
round the garden.
The yonng artist, Philip Harvey, felt
he had never had a sweeter subject, and
perhaps there was something in his eyes
which said so, for certainly them was
something which set Josephine think
ing what would happen if they fell in
iovo with each other, and she was sud
denly discoverel to bo some great man's
daughter—the child perhaps of some
secret marriago. That dream dominated
the poor girl's mind terribly. Hho grow
to believe in it.
It was only natural that sho should
yearn after the unknown kindred who
must be somewhere in the world. It
was only unfortunate sho bogan to feel
that tho twj maiden ladies were not
roally hor aunts, and that this, and this
alone, accounted for any rebellious feel
ings which would ariso when tho wise
restrictions and oonnsels of age occa
sionally crossed the whims and impulses
of youth.
It came to pass that one morning,
whea she was standing by the arbor,
' just as sho stool in the pictare, acar
| riage drove npto the gate. At least, it
was not a carriage, but a cab; an l out
o.' this cab stepped an elderly lady, with
a lean dark face, muffled in rich hut
rather rusty black lace.
She paid the cabman, and lingered
for a moment at the gate, looking to
the right and to the left. Then she ad
vanced np tho straight center walk to
ward tho arbor.
Hho was nobody whom Josephine had
ever seen bofore—a soar, commonplace
looking person, who eyo 1 hor with great
cariosity.
"This is Miss Kuightley's house?"
sho asked, abruptly, when sho was
within speaking distance.
" Yes, raadame.it is," answerod Jose
phine.
The lady came a stop nearer and
looked at her shrewdly.
" And yon aro a Miss March," she
said; "and your portrait is in the
Gallery. Have they been good to you
j —these people hero ?"
Josephine flushed hotly.
" They have been my truest, kindest
friends," she said, warmly. " But for
them—"
"There, there ohild!" interrupted
the stranger, " don't go into heroics. I
want to see them. Take me to
them."
Josephine obeyed. Hho led the
stranger to the prim little drawing
room and bade a mtii to send the
Misses Knightley to her immedi
ately.
Then she returned to the arbor. Her
heart beat fast with uneasy fears. No,
no; it oould not bs; she was foolish to
imagine it. This was somebody from
the oonnty town, probably begging on
behalf of some institution.
Presently there WAS A light step on
the gravel walk beside her. It was only
Miaa Elizabeth; bat her face waa pale
and her eyes tearfal.
Josephine's heart stood still. .
"Child," said the old lady, tenderly,
"itis a comfort to think yon will not
•offer to leaving ns as we shall saffer in
losing yon. We often felt that yon
mast long for yoar owe people. We
think they are fonnd now.
"That is not—not my motherT'
gasped Josephine.
"No," said Miss Elizabeth; "yoar
mother died when yon were born, sweet
one; and that poor outcast of the gyp
sies* camp stole yon from the woman
with whom were placed at nnrae. It
was that pretty portrait which did it
all I'' cried the old lady, bursting into
ears. "Yonr relations saw it, and
honght that nobody bat her own lost
daughter con hi be so like your dead
mother. And so they fonnd ont who
yon were and all yonr story. This lady
ia yonr aunt—yonr father's sister."
M And my father f gasped Josephine
again.
" Is a learned and distinguished old
gentleman with whom she lives ia pro
found retirement, about a hundred miles
from here," returned Miss Elizabeth,
with heroic truthfulness. " Gome into
tho house, child, and see your mother's
miniature and hear all your aunt has to
say."
How different it was from Josephine's
dream ! Yet hor courage somewhat ro
vived at the thought of tho learned old
gentleman and his scholarly seclusion.
Only her nqw aunt her "real
aunt"—damped it again. Hhe was so
ugly and so business like. Bho did not
want to lay any surreptitious claim to
Josephine's affections. Bho did not
want to carry her off. A lawyer would
wait on tho Misses Knightley and go
into every detail of the mattor before
they would bo expected to resign their
charge. Then she would return for her.
Her name was Payne Miss Helina
Payne; and her niece had boon chris
tened after her.
"So you're Hclina Payne, too," she
said, looking at Josephine March; "and
I expect you will bo very thankful to
have a namo that really belongs to
you."
Josephine bad just one more week in
the old Corner House, and a sad and
trying week it was. As for the Misses
Knightley they wept much in secret,
and though they said little about Miss
Helina Payne they often wondered
over Mr. Payne, and remarked to each
other that brothers and sisters were
frequently very unlike, as if that of
fered the most hopeful view of that
unknown savant.
Then Josephine left them. Miss He
lina cut their farewells short.
"You're not parting forever," she
said. " 1 come very near hero every
i half year about some money business,
' ami sometimes I'll bring her with mo
and leave her for half an hoar."
And before the Misses Knightley
could protest against such curtailed
visits the cab had driven away.
Their railroad journey brought them
I to a dismal little black village called
i Carrow. It stood up anyhow round a
great factory, which was pouring forth
fierce light from a hundred square
windows.
"That's tho works, said her
aunt—"the chemical works for which
your father experiments and analyze*."
"Oh, how ugly!" cried the girl
which was perhaps ungracious.
" It brings us bread, Helina," said the
aunt; "and your father will expect yon
to take an interes* in his work and
to help him, I can tell you," she
added; "though he'll claim more from
| yon for his hobbies and his pet* and
such useless tra*h."
"And *o you're Helina," cried a thin,
cracked voice in the hall of tho low,
dark honae into which they were ush
; "rod "Ah, you've got Maggie'* eye*.
1 Poor Maggie! TUore, there, don't
| smother me! Wo shall have plenty of
| time to get to know each other."
And a* that life began so it continued
through tbat awful winter. The old
I lady and gentleman received co visitor*;
j they had dropped most of tin- amenities
of life, and they were waited on by faith
ful servant* after tbeir own heart. *
Mr. Payne'sdntieslay among dangerous
gases and acids; his recreation consisted
of the study and domestication of liv
ing snakes and newts and frogs, and the
dissection of dead *]>ecimens—delights
which ho cordially invited his daughter
to share.
A* for Mis# Helina, she always gave
a grunt when letters came from the
i Misses Knightley, and when Josephine
: threw out hints that she would like
them to roctivo some substantial yet
graceful recognition of their goodness
to her, Miss Helina curtly replied that
she had no doubt they bad paid them
selves in one way and another.
And this was the fulfillment of the
dream for which Josephine had often
tnrned away from the sweet reslitiea of
her old life at the Corner House!
There was nothing shameful in it; on
the oontrary, it had credit and honor,
for the poor girl saw from t newspaper
and certificate how high her father
stood in the estimate of hia brethren.
And she would inherit n considerable
fortune, too. She was assured of that.
Yet Josephine's head was sick and her
whole heart was faint.
The crisis came one day, when, rising
from a dutiful but nauseating endeavor
to mount a specimen for her father, ahe
fancied she heard a familiar voioe in
the hail.
What could have brought Philip Har
vey here, and what sort of reception
would he get from Annt Helina?
Hastening from the atndy she met that
lady returning from the front door with
a satisfied smile on her lips.
"Who has been heref' asked tho
nieoe, with a sinking heart.
" Home ynuug whipper-snapper want
ing to aee yon," returned Annt Helina.
" A Mr. Hafvey. We don't want any of
that sort hare. Thoee fellows who live
by their wits are always very sharp after
fortnnes."
As her annt apoke Josephine felt the
low ditmsl bsll reel round her, until it
seemed ss if the frayed brown oilcloth
rose up and smote her on the faoe—and
•he had fainted I
a a a a •
It was summer once more, and %H
(dd green garden of the Corner House
was again rich in color and sweetness.
A carriage ntands at the gate. Half an
hour ago it brought up three people; in
a few minutes it will carry away only
two.
A group of five advance from the
little arbor. There are the two Misse*
Knightley and Josephine. How pale
and thin she looks, and bow like a con
valescent breathing fresh air and sun
shine after months of fevered confine
ment! undyet Josephine has never leen.
as her Annt Hclina says, " really ill."
And there is Aunt Helina herself and
Mr. I'ayne.
" Yes, ladies," says the old gentle
man, " I know it's all right • What can
the girl want,' says my sister, ' more
than to have na always and to see the
Misses Knightley every now and then?*
Bay I, 'Helina, maybe the right chemi
cal combination would be for her to
have the Misses Knightley always, and
see ns now and then, just byway of
renewed experiment to prove it would
not do.' You needn't defend yourself,
child, I know you did your best. Helina,
are you ready? Well, child, if ever
you hear of any curious specimens—you
remember that rare toad I was always
looking out for—lot mo know. Good
bye."
"Josephine,'' whispered Miss Eliza
beth, as the throe turned back to the
old house, " I have asked Mr. Ilarvey
to come up and sjtend this evening with
ns—l did not think yon would object
Why, Margaret, the roses on her
cheeks aro beginning to bloom again
already!"
And Josephine dreamed no more of
grandenr and broken hearts.
Cutting the Key Log of a Lumber Jam.
The first thing to be done is to find
out where the jam occurred, and then
to discover what is called the "key
log," that is to say, tho log which
holds the baso of tho "jam." An old
experienced "steam driver" is soon on
tho spot, for the news is soon carried np
stream that there is a "jam" below.
Every minute is of consequence, as
logs are coming down and tho "jam"
increasing in strength. The "key log|'
being foiind, there is a cry for volun
teers to cut it. Now, when von consider
that there are some hundred big logs of
timber forming a dam,*an>l tho instant
the key log ia cut the whole fabric
comes rushing down with a crash, yon
will see that unless the axman gets in
stantly away he i crushed to death.
There aro usually in camp plenty of
men ready to Tolunteer, for a man who
cuts a key log is looked npon by the
rest of the loggers just as a solditr is
by his regiment when ho has done any
act of bravery.
The man I saw cut away a log which
brought down the whole jam of logs
was a qniet young fellow, some twenty
years of age. He stripped everything
save hi* drawers; a strong rope was
placed under his arms, and a gang of
smart yonng fellows held tho eml. The
man shook hands with bis comrades and
quietly walked out on the logs, ax in
hand. Ido not know how the loggy
road one felt, bnt I shall never forget
my feelings. The man was quietly walk
ing to what very likely might be his
death. At any moment the jam might
break of its own accord; and also if he
cut the key log, unless ho instantly got
out of the way, he would be crushed
by the falling timber.
There was a dead silence while the
keen ax was dropped with force and
skill on the pine log. Now the notch
was near half through the log, cue or
two more blown, and a crack was beard.
The men got in all the slack of the
rope that held the axman; one more
blow and there was a crash like thun
der, and down came the wall to all ap
pearances on he axman.
Like many others 1 rnshed to help
hint away the poor fellow, bnt to my
great joy I saw him safe on the bank,
certainly sadly braised and bleeding
sundry wounds, but safe.— Field.
The Tramp'* Reward.
A Western newspaper drawa on its
imagination for the following story :
An ingenious tramp, thinking to
wring tears and money assistance from
the stoniest hearts with a new science,
gave it an experimental trial in the
North End. lie has decided not to
patent the invention. He told a North
End lady of his nnfortnnate condition,
and asked if he might eat some of the
grass in the yard. The lady, not leas
amnaed than surprised, said :
" Certainly."
He went oat, and getting down on all
fours commenced on the grass after the
neglected and never popular fashion of
Nabnchadnexr.sr, and apparently not
enjoying the diet any more than that
ancient sinner of olden time. Presently
the tramp's anxioos eye oanght sight of
the servant girl beckoning to him from
the back yard. He thought a rich re
srard for his humility ires in store, and
instantly responded.
" Did yon motion to me T*
"Yes."
"What did yon srantr He now
wore e look of most hopeful expect
ancy.
" Yon may go in the back yard if yon
want to. The grata is taller there."
LA 111 EH' HKI'A Itl MKM .
Klnnnrl llrcMfa,
White, cadet blue, olive and black are
the desirable color* for sheer flannel
dresses that will bo worn all snmmer at
the seaside and monntaina. The white
flannel dresses are only anitable for
morning wear, but those of color* will
be rosed for traveling. The i>rince**e
effect, with panier *a*h and plaited
ekirt, prevail* for young 1 adieu' creamy
white flannel dre*Me*, and to these are
sometime* added Byron collars, square
cuff* and pocket*, of velvet, but a*
these dresses must bo cleansed often,
the llorculo* braid in many row* on the
skirt, with frog* on the cuirass waist
will bo a better trimming. A snugly
fitted hunting jacket well belted in,
braid to match in color, and a ekirt like
that ju*t described, i* the design for
black and colored dresse* of flannel.—
Bazar.
The Hind ol n .Wan la Warr>.
A young man, receiving a small sal
ary, determines to put aside each week
a certain *nm a* a foundation for the
pleasant home he some time hojies to
have. It foroes him to make many sac
rifices; he eschew* jewelry and canes,
soda water and cigars, and carries an
nnperfumed handkerchief. When in
this semi-rustic plight, and wearing a
suit (perfectly preserved) two season*
old, ho call* on a maiden whose com
pany he desire*, she look* with scorn at
the dowdy drew, and i suddenly other
wise engaged. Discouraging as this
may be, he plod* on in the chosen path,
and finally lays hi* heart before a quiet
maiden who ha* read:
"I wo a man:
1 <lo not n* hi* stubby (Irons,
I see htm In bis manliness;
I one hi* ai. I • bis spade,
I MMI a man tliat O x! IIM made.
If siirli a man before you stand
Give him your heart, give him your hand.
And thank your Maker for such men
They make this old earth young again.''
The beginning of their wedded life ia
devoid of much of the splendor tbat at
tended the other jiair, but to them there
is no rude awakening to misery and woe.
Their aflection having never been trifled
awav, but reserved, each for the other,
proves a constant joy and ever-present
delight
\ VVofnßn'a U arilni,
The Lowell Courier reports a roc-ent
lecture of Mrs. Mary A Livortnore, in
which the speaker said:
" A prominent cause of the degener
acy of woman is the compressing of their
chests by the use o. corsets. They are
not necessary to a good figure; what
artist would choose a corseted female
for a model ? Thay are not necessary
for support. Indeed, they are destruct
ive of those very means upon which a
woman should depend to uphold her
body. The female form is provided
with muscles exactly simi ar to those
of the male, but in the former those
muscles are not developed, they are
weakened, com pros sol, until in a
woman forty yearn of age, who has al
ways worn corsets, the waist muscles
have entirely disappeared, and the
woman is alwolutj-ly oblige 1 to depend
upon the artificial means to support her
body. This practice also interferes
with digestion, and with the operation
of the lungs."
Mrs. Livermore also discountenanced
the support of clothing upon the hips,
and the use of smsll peg-heeled shoes.
The latter occasion permanent injury to
the muscles and incurable lameness in
many cases.
In. Ml. Voir.
Worth xifK'B jet profusely.
Satin straws are popular.
Tournnres are very large.
Cloth jacket* are severely plain.
Koso* border evening drees skirt*.
Some of the new mantles have pan
iers.
Polka-knotted handkerchiefs are again
carried.
I.ace is worn with everything and on
everything.
White camels' hair is mnoh worn for
tea gowns.
Historical and picturesque oostnme*
grow in favor.
Brocaded China crape appears among
late novelties
Some of the new nlslers show box
plaits in the back.
Hip draperies and tnnics are mnoh
tacked and ganged.
Ostrich feathers droop over the front
edge of large straw hats.
Soldier-bine is the popular shade for
doth jackets and anils.
Patent leather low shoes will be worn
in the summer by ladies.
Worth usas striped and changeable
silks in his riches* dresses.
White flannel dresses will be popular
in the country with young ladies.
Jersey jackets are preferred to the
masculine English walking jackets.
Pertain cloth mantles trimmed with
chenille fringe Me very fashionable.
Ficelle or Medici laoe is the coming
novelty for trimming dresses tad boa*
nets.
The heir, to be fashionably droned,
mnit (ell low on the neek end if" o*>
the brow.
In spite of effort* to make nil arm
ing dresses short, train* are worn ex
tensively.
Pink i* a favorite color for young
ladies' dresses, i>oth for morning *
evening wear. •
Hideon* enrtain panicra <li*flgnre a
large proportion of Paris-made dreams
of this m ason.
Pale gray and cotta, pale bine
and canary yellow, are favorite com
binations for tea gowns.
Bride-maids wear white straw Item
brandt hats with white plnmea failing
over the front of the brim.
A loose, puffed drapery just below
the hij all aronnd the skirt appears on
handsome dresses for children.
The colors for neck ribbons are terra
cotta, aurora pink, porcelain bine, ma
hogany, ruby and cardinal red.
Parisian hsir-drenaers are making an
effort to revive the Itoman coiffure of
the first directory period in the style
worn by the Kmpress Josephine and
Madame just before the days
of the empire.
Information About the Aged.
After Mrs. Mary McElroy, ofGreena
burg, lad., had lived 100 years, she was
burned to death.
Mrs. Lally died recently in Chicago,
aged 108 years. Her health had not
been good for three years.
Mrs. Catherine Mannion died lately
in Baltimore at 10C. Her sister, ninety
two years old, had died ju*t_ before.
Colonel Camp, of Bhippensville, Pa.,
was ninety-four years old when he was
married recently, and his bride, Mrs.
Itich, was seventy-two.
Christopher C. Graham, of l.onisville,
Ky., is ninety-eight years of age. Ha
; recollects that he was a guest at the
wedding of Abraham Linoolu's parents.
After ninety-six years of active lifa,
Polly Herr, of Phenix, N. Y., passed
into eternal rest Bhe was never aick
, in her life, and died in her sleep.
At a birthday surprise supper giran
to Mrs. Hannah Roberta,of South Bend,
| Ind., the united ages of the sixteen
l>ersots at table made 1,083 years.
Archie McTaviah has just made a
long journey by rail to spend his old
age with s favorite son. He is at Ux
bridge, in Canada, and 106 years of age.
Mr. Sarah Fifield, who di>d recently
at Deer Isle, Va, at the age of ninety
i eight, had l>een a strictly pious woman
for eighty-three years, and of descend
ants had 252.
The united ages of a family of New
burg, consisting of eleven brothers and
sisters, is 700 years, an average of nearly
seventy years. Their fstber lived 100
jf ars.
With good physical health and all his
mental faculties unimpaired, Andrew
Bisconnior still lives at 108 in the city
of Syracuse, N. Y. He is now cutting
teeth and recovering his sight.
The father of Robert A. Wright, of
Santa Boss county, Florida, is 11G
years of age, more or less, and be has
three sons fifty-two years old. Healthy
triplets, that is to say, were vonchaafed
to him in his sixty-fonrth veer.
" run" With a Male.
A little Southern boy, when asked if
his father had a good mule, mournfully
replied: "One end of him in good."
Personal attempts to play with the heela
of a mole are generally failures. A
correspondent of the Chicago Time*,
writing from Fort Buford, gives an ex
ample of that kind of an experiment:
A gallant captain of the Fifth In
fantry, on a notable occasion, attempted
I to coerce a mule which had backed up
against his teat on a wild and stirmy
night to secure some slight protection
from the whirling blasts. The mule
was an old offender, and was continually
wandering about the oamp after night.
Upon this occasion he backed up against
the tent, and the light inside permitted
an accurate view of the animil aa his
shadow fell on the canvas. The captain
was entertaining a party of friends, and
when he caught sight of the mule be
picked up a pine board, and remarking
to his visitors, "Now we will bare
some fun, boys," leveled a full and fair
blow at the animal.
The aim had evidently been true, as
the shadow was seen to move on the
canvas, and then followed an awful
tearing sound, and a pair of mule's
heels made themselves distinctly visi
ble to the assembled crowd. The mole
oontin ned the kicking process until he
had torn in ah reds the objective side ef
the tent selected for his attack, and bin
heels reached far enough to enable kin
to encounter the stove. The boy* ad
journed for the vening, concluding
they had bad " fun" enough.
The officer who assaulted the male
was given other quarters that night,
and on the following day purchased
tarpaulin with ahfoh to repair his dom
icile.
A reason given way a piano was not
saved at a Are was bee was none of the
fireman oould play on it.