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r , )
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All billH for yearly advertisements col.
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ments must bo paid for in advance.
Job work. Cash on Delivery.
IB Pt-BUHKI KVI IIY WKIIXMDAV, UY
t. 33. wnrjic
omen ry nojjur-iitf l bonneks buildho
FLM BTEEJTr, TI0SE3TA, PA,
i w
TERMS, ei.CD YEAR. . "
N Snli.si'i-ipiloiis received for shorter
'i led !i;m Uirco months.
'irrcNpoii(1fHi'p solicited Irom ail pnrln
y. the country. KVtnot.jm will be taken of
anonymous communications.
VOL. XIV. NO. 3. ' TIONESTA, PA., APRIL 13, 1881. $1.50 Per Annum.
1,
' . 1
'In
.-- t uiuiiu i - v iic num. wilii n mnvemenr. in
Over a Million
OF
ProI.GuIImcUe's
FRENCH
IKWney Pafls
;1 Hare already
.'i ben sold In this
f country and in
, r ramie; every
' oiimoI which ha-"
ft I v e n perfect
tatislacfion anil
has performed
Cures evorv time
when used ac
cording lodirec.
tlins.
We now aay to the afflicted and doubting; one
tbat we will pay the above reward
for a tingle cue oi
LAME BA.OIK
That the Tad fail to eure. This Groat Rem
edy will positively and permanently enro
Lumbago, Iiame Back, Relation, iGmvel, Din
botes, Iropsy, Brights' DineaHe ot Vbe Kid-
noyg, Inooniinnnoe and Hotntion ol tlio
Urine, intl'immation of the Kidneys, Cntarrb
ol the Bladder, lligh Colored Urine, Pain in
the Back, 8ide or Loin?, Nerrou Weakness,
and in fact atl dienrdots f the Bladder and
Uiinnry Organa, wbetlior contracted by pi).
Tate d venae or otherwise.
L 1)163, ityon aresuGTurinB from Femole
Weaui.ew, Leneorrbea, or any dita-eot the
Kidneys, Bladder or Urinary OrRans,
Y.OU CAN BE CURED I
Without swallowing naaseoos medicines, by
simply wcarins;
mor. GUILMETTE'S
FRENCH KIDNEY PAD.
WHICH OURH BT ABSOllPTIOJf.
Ask yonr droct for Prot. Guilraette's
French Kidney Pad, and take no other. II
he has not fot it, send 92 and you will receive
the Pad by Mtai mail.
mmoiuu rsoM ths rson.B.
Judge Boehaziaa. Lawyer, Toledo, O., days:
One oi Prol. Gnilinetle's French Kidney
Pads cured me of Lumbago In three weeks'
time. My ease bad been fciven np by the bet
doctors as Insurable. During all this time I
suffered untold actMny aad paid ont large sums
of money."
Gi-orge Tetter, t. T., Toledo, O., eayst " I
s offered lor thrso years with Boiatiea and Ki.
ney DfseaM, and Men had to go about on
orutohea. I was) entirely and permanently
onred alter wearing Prol. Guilmette'e French
Kidney Pad four weeks."
9riir N. C Soott, Sylvania, O., writes:
"I have bees a great offerer lor 1A years
with Bright' Disease ot the Kidneys. For
weeks at a time wae unable to eat ont ot SH
ft ok barrel 4 medioine, but they gave me
Zii'ui7 nii'elt I wore two of Prol.
'UuiliniHr vtnnv VhAm aix WMkL mil I
nnn know I am entirely enred." '
Mrs Helen Jarome, Toledo, O., eayst "For
years I have beea eonflned, a great part ot the
lime, to soy bed with Lenoorrhea and Female
Weakness. 1 wore one ot Guilmette'e Kidney
Pads and wae cured in one month.
IX B Green, Wholesale Grooer, Flndlay,
writes i " 1 safTered 26 years with lame
i-avk and in three weeks was permanently
mred by wearing one ot Prof.. Guiimettes
Kidney Pads."
II. F Keesling, M. D , Druggist, Logans,
port Ind., when sending in an order tor Kid
ney Pads, wri'eai 'I wore one of the first
ouoa we sad and I received m re benefit liora
il I baa anything I ever nsed; in fact the Padt
give better general satisfaction than any Kid
nm remedy we ever sold. '
Ituy A Shoemaker, Druggists, Hannibal,
Mo. t " We are working up a lively trade id
your Puds, and are hearing of good results
liotn them every day."
For sale by O W DOVARD. Tuv" a.
T
O&k CEiMTS,
flka POSTPAID
W -A" TREATISE
ox the housh
. .. . -.' (fV...At ! ' "
S DISEASES.
t'j.iktuliilncr an Indexof Dls
(;aos,whlohBlVes the ymp
loniM, Caue, and the lleat
Treatment of oaciH. A. Table
trl vlnuc ftll tlie prlnolpaldruKs
uHOd for tlo Horse, wltlx tlie
ordinary dose-, efl'eotie, and
untldote when a polnon, A.
Table with an ICnaravlnar t
tlt I roi'HC's rVeotli tit dlfler
I out n:;e wltU lules Tor tell
I lug the ue. A. valuable ool
I leotlon of lloelpte ttnd
j niiioh otlier valuable Infor
' niatloii.
sent poet'
paid to
any ad
dreijii In the I'nlted Htotea or
Cnnadafor 25CETJTS.
CLUB RATES:
i Five Copies
Ton Copi'-fc
Twenty Cop
OneHun.iuo Coplai
ii.oo
I.7S
s.oo
10.00
l'eia,e htuuipM n-ecivi d.
P. Y. EE'SSPAPER CHIOS,
I 43 & I 50 Worth St.. N. Y
i 100-FABE BOOK
Sauce.
i.
What is life without ite aatieu ?
Banco for gander, sauce for gooso ?
Little gain and much of losa
Chicken pio without ite price.
it.
Marriage is a royal dih,
Than which there is none above;
Yet to taate of it who'd wish
If 't has not the sauce of love ?
nr.
Hope is good to feed upon;
On life's menu it ranks high;
Yet ite flavor soon is gone
If ite sauco grows hard and dry.
IV.
Tid-bite in tho world's cuisine
Woman's wordH are pleannnt thiiigM
If the nance in the turreeu
Is not made of bittor stings. '
v.
Life a Htruggle is all through,
Yet we'll havo moro gain than Iobm,
If, no matter what we do,
We secure our ehnre of eauce.
- Caleb 1)huii.
A RACE FOR A WIFE.
A STORY t'KOM THE IJlENCK.
Mv father nscil to live at Bethel, in
tho high Btreet, in a house I can still
see before my eyes with its slate roof
and projecting beams, nhospitablehouse
if ever there was one. Poor folks knew
the way to it. They entered with their
wallet empty and Vent away with it
full. We were all seated one night at
the fireside; mv father was smoking his
pipe and watcliing the fire burn, my
mother was ironing, and I was reading,
when we heard a noise at the door, and
saw enter a boy with frightened looks.
" What is the matter ?"
"It is a soldier very tired who has
just fallen exhausted before the door."
My father loved soldiers. lie rose
brusquely, ran out, and there he was,
before I had taken a step, coming in
a-uin with a young soldier leaning upon
him, or rather my father had taken him
up and was carrying him like a sack of
com.
My mother hastened to draw the big
armchair up to the lire. Tho soldier
was made to sit, or rather to recline in
it, and my father said, looking at the
poor fellow :
"Is it possible! Walking in that
sttfo?"
The fact in that the soldier was very
thin and pale, his hair flattened on his
forehead, tho veins of his temples big as
your little finger, his face black with
dust. We were then in the month of
October and the weather was beginning
to grow fresh, but the poor fellow was
nevertheless sweating big drops, as if it
had been dog days. lie mu6t have had
a long tramp. Ilis shoes were in shreds;
you could see where the stones had
torn the leather; the loft foot was bleed
ing. The soldier did not move but re
mained in the armchair with his head
thrown back, his eyes half open and
white as a sheet. t
My mother had already put some soup .
on the fire.
"Bah!" said my father; "the first
thing -to be looked after is the feet."
And kneeling down he began to tear
and cut away the shreds of leather. The
soldier's feet, all swollen and full of blis
ters, looked like the feet of the martyrs,
swollen with pain and wealed by hard
cords, which we see in the pictures of
the Spanish painters.
My father dipped his handkerchief in
vinegar and washed the wounds.
"ion, he said tome, "make some
lint. '
And I began to tear up some old linen
that my mother had taken out of tho
big cupboard.
Meanwhile tho soldier hadcome to
himself. He looked at us at my father,
my mother and nivself and the two or
three neighbors wlio- had come in one
after the' other. His wandering eyes
seemed to interrogate everything. It
was no longer the road, the stones, the
great deserted woods that he saw before
him, but a gay room with a ceiling of
shining oak, a cloth on the table, a knife
and fork laid and a brown earthenware
soup-bowl emitting a savory 'smell of
cabbage soup.
Then he raised himself up, leaning on
the arms of the chuir, and said to my
father, with donfused emotion:
" Ah ! monsieur. Uut you do not
know me."
" Ah ! well that does not matter; we
will become acquainted at table."
We had already dined, but my father
wished to bear tho soldier company.
He sat down to table opposite liim, as it
were brooding over him, and looking at
tho regimental buttons that shone on
his cloak. The soldier ate, and ate
heartily; my mother served him.
"Well," said my father, suddenly,
pointing to the tin box tliat the soldier
carried slung on a cord, "you have fin
ished your time, for there is your conge.
Then why do you kill yourself by toiling
along tho highway ? I see how the mat
ter stands. You have no money to pay
for the diligence."
"I?" replied the soldier. "I have
received my pay and bounty, and my
mother has sent me enough to pay for a
place in the coupe, if I liked. But I
could not."
" I understand," oaid my father, who
did not understand at all.
When the meal was over the soldier
tried to walk. He tottered, uttered a
smothered cry, and fell back into the
chair. I then saw a tear into his eye.
Ho was a young man, rather thin, but
nervous, dark, and with an energetic
look. He was not a man to bhed a tear
for a little, and that tear puzzled me.
An, he said, with a movement in
which there was lit tle anger and a good
deal of grief; "I shall not be able to
walk until to-morrow morning."
"Walk?" cried my mother, terrified,
The soldier shook his head.
"Yo" on't know I must. It was
a vow
In ou. Ardennes those primitive souls
have respect and faith. I saw my father
look at the young man in the face with
out astonishment and with mute inter-
. rogation.
"Yes," said the soldier, " I will tell
you the whole story. You have, per
! haps, saved my life; I ought, at least,
' to tell you who I am. Mv name is Jean
Chevaucheux, and my father is a wood
splitter at Mezieres. " He is an honest
man, like you, monsieur. Seven years
ago, when I drew for the conscription, I
was madly in love with Marguerite Ser
van, a good hearty girl and a pretty one.
I had already asked her in marriage, and
I fier father had not said no; but, you see,
Pierre Puvioux bad asked her in mar-
riago at the same time that I did. Pierre
! Puvioux is a man of my nge, who car
j ries his heart in his hand, ns the saying
i gay and well-looking. I ought to
I have detested him, and he has remained
j my friend. Well, Father Servan said to
i me as he'held out his hand:
"'You are worthy to be my son-in-
law my lad, but first of all you must
please my daughter. I will ask her.'
' Marguerite, when asked, said that she
would gladly' consent to be my wife.
But she said the same when they talked
to her about Puvioux. She loved both
of us, one as much as the other; she
hesitated she did not dare to decide,
But still she could not marry both of
us.
" Time went on. When the time of
the, conscription came we drew lots,
Puvioux nnd I, on the same day. I had
number three and he had number seven,
and so we both of ns became soldiers.
For a moment I was in a state of great
fright I confess. People nt Mezieres said
that Puvioux had a rich aunt, and that
she would buy him oil". If Puvioux did
not join the nrmv, Puvioux would inarrv
Marguerite, and I, know ing that I should
bo obliged to go, for I was poor, I
thought I already heard the fiddler at
the wedding, rending my ears and my
heart.
"Luckily, Pierre Puvioux was not
ljonght ofi". His aunt died leaving debts
instead of a fortune. He had not d
son. We were obliged to shoulder our
guns, nnd we were expected on our w ay
bill evei-y moment. One night Father
Servau took us each by the arm and led
ns to an inn, nnd this is what he said to
us:
" 'My boys, you are good and honest
Ardennais, equal in merit. I love vou
with all my heart. One of you shall be
my Bon-in-law ; that is understood. Mar
guerite will wait seven j'ears. She has
no preforenco either for you, Puvioux,
or for you, Chevaucheux, but she loves
both of you, and she will make happy
the one whom fortune . shall choose.
Thee are the conditions on which one
wf you 6hall many my daughter ; you
start on the same day it is probable
that you will return the same day. Well,
the one who first comes and- shakes
hands with Father Servan, and Bays :
"Here I am, my time is out; he, I
swear, shall be the husband of Marguer
ite.' "
" I was astonished; I thought that I
had misunderstood; . I looked at Pierre
Puvioux and he looked at me, and al
though we were sad enough at heart,
wo were certainly ready to burst out
laughing.
" But Father Servan was not joking.
He had discovered this means of getting
ont of the difliculty, and he meant to
stick to it. I held out my hand and
swore to act neither by ruse nor vio
lence, and to let Pierre Puvioux marry
Marguerite if he returned to Mezieres
before I did. Pierre stood up and swore
the same, and then wo shook hands,
while Father Servan said:
"'Now, the rest is your aftair. The
only thing is to escape bullets nnd to
return safe and sound.'
"Before leaving I wished to see Mar
guerite. Just as I was arriving under
her window it was at dusk I saw some
one in the shade coming in tho same
direction. I stopped short. It was
Pierre Puvioux. He seemed vexed to
find me there. I was not particularly
pleased to meet him. We stood there
for a moment like two simpletons look
ing at the toes of our boots. Then,
with a movement of courage, I said to
Puvioux:
" 'Shall we go iu together?'
" We entered and took our farewell of
Marguerite. She listened to us with
out saying anything, but there were
tears at the tips of her blonde eyelashes.
Suddenly Pierre, who was talking, stop
ped and began to sob and I to do the
same. Alien Marguerite joined in, and
there we were all three shedding tears
and pressing each other's hands.
"When the diligence that took us
away from Mezieres began to rattle on
the pavement the next day I felt inclined
to throw myself down from the imperial
and get crushed under the wheels. The
more so as there was a Lorrainer at my
side who was Binging in a melancholy
voice a song of his country, and I said,
to myself: It is all over, Jean, you will
never see her again.'
" Well, you see. Time passes. The
seven years are over, and who knows ?
Perhaps I am not only going to Bee her
again, but to marry her.
"There are, indeed, strange chances
in life," continued Jean Chevaucheux.
"Pierre and I started on the same day
and the same hour, and we were placed
in the Fame regiment. At first I was
vexed. 1 should have liked to have
known that ho was far away. As you
may imagine, I could not love him
much. But I reflected afterward that
if Puvioux was with me I could at least
talk about her. That consoled me. Well,
I said to myself, I am in for seven years
of it. After all, one gets over it.
"In tho regiment I became a fast
friend of Pierre Puvioux. He proved to
be an excellent good fellow, and at
night, in order to kill time, we used
often to talk of Mezieres, of Father Ser
van and of Marguerite. Wo used to
write to Mezieres often, but each told
the other the contents of his letters. It
was a struggle, it is true, but it was
loyal. When Marguerite or old Servan
replied, the letter was for both of us.
An equal dose of hope was given to each
of us, and bo we went on hoping.
" One day the colonel took it into his
head to appoint me corporal. I was
vexed and proud at the same time. You
see, I wns no longer the equal of Pu
vioux. My stripes gave me the right to
command him, and in the eyes of our
Ardennais that was no small advantage.
But I did not glory in my rank; on the
contrary, it made me ill at ease. I did
not dare to talk to Puvioux any more.
Then I reflected that there were more
w ays than one of getting rid of my new
rank. I neglected my duty and was
forthwith degraded. But who should
be made corporal in my stead but Pu
vioux. But Puvioux was not to be out
done ; at the end of a week he resigned.
After that there was no danger of any
propositions being made to us to make
any change in our uniform. We were
condemned to remain common soldiers.
" ' So much the better,' said Puvioux.
What luck?' said I.
" When we had served seven yearn
I for I do not mean to tell you our history
I day by dav I said to Puvioux:
'"Well, now is the time to start,
eh?'
" ' Yes,' he replied, 'wo are expected.'
" Y'ou know,' I said, the ' game will
notbe finally won until both of us arrive
nt Mezieres, and until the loser has de
clared that the combat has been loyal.'
" 'Agreed,' said Puvioux.
" And so one morning, with good
shot a our feet, and stick in hand.
we i- i out for Mezieres from Angel's,
where w o wtv in garrison. At first we
walked aloug in company, not saying
much, thinking a good denl and walk
ing above everything. The weather
was terribly hot and dusty. Half way
on one of our marches I sat down on
tho roadside overwhelmed with fatigue.
'"Are you going to stay there ?' said
Puvioux to me.
"'Yes.'
" 'Adieu ?' he said, continuing his
march.
" ' Au revoir.'
" I watched him as he went on with
a firm step, as if he had only just started.
When Lsaw him disappear at the bend
of the road, and when I was once alone,
as it were abandoned, I felt a great
despair. I made an effort. I rose and
began to walk again. That little halt
had done me good. I walked,
walked and walked until I had caught
up to Puvioux and passed him.
" At night, too, I was well ahead, but
I w as worn out. I entered an inn to
sleep a little. I slept all night. In
the nioming 1 woke tip. I saw that tho
day was getting on; I was furious and
called some one.
" ' You have not seen a soldier pass on
foot?'
" Yes, monsieur la militaire, very late
last night. He asked for a glass of
water.'
"Ah ! I was outstripped in my turn ! I
started hurriedly. At 3 o'clock in
the afternoon I had not caught up to
Puvioux, nor at 6 o'clock either. At
night I took my rest while I ate, and
started to walk again. I walked a good
part of the night, but my strength hail
limits. Once more I stojped. I
knocked at an inn. The door opened,
and there, sitting in n chair, I saw Pu
vioux, pale as death. He made a move
ment of displeasure when he saw mo
that was natural. We did not talk
much. What could we say ? We were
both tired. The great thing was to
know who should get up first for the
next morning. It was I.
"Tho next morning was this morning.
Since this morning I have been walking,
taking a, rest now and then, but only a
short one. We are getting close. Bethel
is the last stage between Angiei's and
Mezieres. I know my map of France
now. The last stage! Good heavens,
if I arrived too late !"
"And Pierre Puvioux," asked my
father, "has he caught you up?"
"No," replied Chevaucheux, "lam
ahead. If I could, start now I should
be saved."
"Start? In this state? Impossible!"
" I know my feet are swollen and
cut provided that to-morrow "
" To-morrow you will be rested you
will be able to walk."
"Do you think so?" said the soldier,
with a look ardent as lightning.
" I promise you."
My father then advised the soldier to
go to bed. Chevaucheux did not refuse.
The bed was ready. He shook hands
with, us and went up to his room. It
was 10 o'clock.
"I will wuke you at 5 o'clock," 6aid
my father.
It was not yet daylight on the follow
ing morning when my father, already
up, looked out of the window to see
how the weather was. While he was at
the window he heard some heavy foot
steps on the road below, and in the ob
scure twilight that precedes daybreak
he perceived a soldier who was walking
in the direction of Mezieres.
"Up already?" said my father.
; 1 he Bolclier stopped.
i "Well?" continued my father, "are
i you ofi'V"
Tho soldier looked up and tried to '
make, out who was speaking to him.
"You are Jean Chevaucheux, are you i
not?" asked my father.
"No," said the soldier, "I am Tierre i
Puvioux."
And as if that name of Chevaucheux
had been the prick of a spur heresumod i
his walk more rapidly, and was soon ;
lost in the obscurity. When my father !
could no longer see him ho could hear !
tho noise of his shoes on the road lead
ing to Mezieres.
" Ah !" said my father to himself, !
" Chevaucheux most be sharp if he I
means to catch up that man." And he
went straight to the room where Jean
had slept. He w as already up and look
ing at his feet by the light of a candle.
"Victory 1" he cried when he saw mv
father; " I feel free and strong and I
suffer no more. En route !"
"And quickly," replied my father.
"Puvioux lias just passed through Be
thel." " Pierre Puvioux ?"
"I have just spoken to him. He
passed under our window, going along as
if the devil were after him."
" Ah, mon Dieu 1" exclaimed Chevau
cheux as if he had been struck down.
He repeated once more: "All, mon
Dieu !" Then he buckled on his knap
sack and cried: "After all, what you
have told me gives me courage. Let me
be off."
In the room below my mother, already
up, was filling a wallet with provisions
for Chevaucheux. But he refused. He
was not hungry. Putting on a pair of
my father's shoes he started, blessing
my mother nnd leaning on my father's
arm to take the first step.
Three or four years after this we hud
Iteard no news of Chevaucheux. We
m.ed ofteu to talk of that evening when
the soldier had come into our house
bleedincr and wcarv. What Jind lwpnrnf
of him ? What had been the end of that J
: romance oi love so strangely begun?
Ono day my father had to go to
j Mezieres on business. He took mo with
( him. At Mezieres ho wished to enter the
I first barber's shop that he saw to get
; shaved. On the doorstep a little child
i was sitting with its legs apart and smil
! ing nt the sun.
" Will you allow me to pass ?" asked
I my father, laughing.
"No, I won't," replied the child with
! a little lisp.
j At that moment the door opened and
i a niiin in his shirt sleeves appeared the
I father and took the child up in his I
j aims, saying: . !
" Pierre ! Pierre ! do you w ant to drive I
ftwnv tho customers?" . !
1 recognized the voice and so did my
father. Wo looked at the barber. The
barber looked ftt us, It was Jean Che
vaucheux. ,
He laid the child down at once and held
out his hand. His face was all red and
beaming with pleasure.
" What, is it you ? Ah ! and to think
that I have never written to you Ah!
you don't know. It is I who married
her; I arrived first."
And rushing into the back shop: "Mar
guerite ! Marguerite! " he cried. "Come,
come ! "
He was wild with joy. A young
woman appeared, blonde, pretty, blue
eyed, with a pensive and gentle air, a
little sad.
"Y'ou do not know?" said Chevau
cheux to her. "It was this gentleman
who took care of me so well at Bethel
the night before I arrived at your
father's house. I have often
and often talked to you about him;
this is the gentleman."
Marguerite fixed her large, calm eyes
upon us, saluted us and thanked us
softly; then, as her husband continued
to evoke the past, she looked at him
tenderly, with a look that supplicated
and was not without reproach. But
Jean saw nothing.
"Ah, it is to you that I owe all my
happiness, monsieur! My child, my
little boy, look at him, my little Iierre !
It was my wife who wished that he
should liave that name ! Isn't he a fine
boy, and strongly built? And my shop
is going on first-rate. My wife, I adore
lii-r ! And all this I owe to j'ou !"
. "And the other?" asked I, imptu-
dently. i
"The other?" said Chevaucheux. !
He curled his lower lip, did not see
that Marguerite turned her head away,
and answered:
" Pierre Puvioux ? Poor fellow. He
arrived second, and that very
evening it made me cry, I can tell you
that very evening he threw
himself into the river."
Hints to Tattlers.
The heights Jand recesses of Moun
Taurus are said to bo much infested with
eagles, who are never better pleased
than when they can pick tho bones of
a crane. Cranes are prone to cackle and
make a noise (lsa. UH: 11), and particu
larly so while they are flying. The
sound of their voices uroubes the eagles,
who spring up at a signal, and often
mako the talkative travelers pay dearly
for their imprudent chattering. The older
and more experienced cranes, sensible
of their besetting foible and the peril to
w hich it exposes them, take care before
venturing on tho w ing to arm themselves
each with a ntone large enough to fill
the cavity of their mouths, and conse
quently to impose unavoidable silence
on their tongues, and thus they escape
the danger, lteader, hast thou an un
ruly tongue? Learn a lesson from tho
elder cranes, and to bridlo thy tongue
by watchfulness and prayer, that thou
Harvest say with the Psalmist, " I said,
I will take heed to my way, that. I in
not with my tongue."
Don't Stay Laf To-SIghU
The hearth of home is beaming
With rays of rosy light;
And lovely eyes are gleaming,
A falls the shades of night;
And whilo thy steps are leaving
Tho circles pure and bright,
A tender voice half grieving
Says, "Don't stay late to-night."
The world in which thou movest
Is busy, brave and wide;
Tho world of her thou lovest
Is at the ingle side;
ISho waita for thy warm greeting;
Thy smile is her delight;
Her gentle voice entreating,
Says, "Don't stay late to-night."
The world, so cold, inhuman,
Will spurn thee if thou fall;
Hie love of one poor woman
Outlasts and shames them all;
Thy children will cling 'round thee,
Let fate bo dark or bright;
At home uo Bhaft will wound thee,
Then " Don't stay late to-night."
HUMOR OF THE DAY.
The average editor can sympathize
with England in her trouble with the
Boers. (Jrajtliic.
" What is fame ?" asks the Philadelphia
A Ttierican. Fame is the result of being
civil to newspaper men. liosion Post.
The New Orleans Picayune 6avs that
a man should be the boss of himself.
But suppose the poor fellow is married!
Philadelphia Bulletin.
Keep that world's fair as far away
from here as" possible. There are about
14,000,000 out-of-town relatives waiting
to sock it to us for the time we have
spent in the country for the past twenty
years. JW York "Dispatch.
A Chicago society offered last year ft
prize of one hundred dollurs for the best
treatise on the question: " How best to
destroy rats." The prize has just been
awarded to Doctor Burnett, of Philadel
phia, who answered: "Increase the
number of cats."
Frederick Marriott, a San Francisco
editor, has invented a flying machine.
It is only by some such scheme as this
that an editor can ever get away from
tho town where he lives as long as the
bloated monopolies tliat cqntrol rail
roads are permitted ;o charge fare.
Chicago Joinnal.
Montreal has a haunted hou;.-. a
which "the Btove lids are lifted off the
stoves and tent flying through the air."
If the owner of the haunted house takes
ore aavice he will buy his wife a new
dress. He may think he can always
dodge them, but some time one of those
lids will take him on top of the head
and scalp him. Peck's Sun.
"Doctor," said one of our best young
men in society " doctor there is some
thing the matter with my brain; I know
there is. What shall I do about it?"
And the doctor calmly but firmly said
he guessed it needed a little exercise as
much as anything else. And now the
best young man goes around saying the
doctor is a fool. Hawkey e.
A New York firm sends ns a double
column "ad." of a new stenographic
pen, for the insertion of which in the
daily for three weeks, the firm agrees to
send us a pen. No, thank you. We had
one autographic- pen. Just sold it to a
druggist for a soda fountain. Ii she
lets down soda as fast as she did the
ink, some man will be drowned at that
fountain before the middle of June, and
don't you forget it. Havkeye.
It was in the opera house. The two
gentlemen were from the country. After
the curtain fell on the first act, one of
them who had been reading the pro
gramme, said, in an excited manner :
' It's a blame swindle, just got up to
take in strangers." "What's a swin
dle ?" " Here it says the next act is two
years later. I wonder if they think we
are going to stay here, fat $2 a day, for
two years, just to see the thing out?"
They went out and saw the ticket man
about it. Austin Statesman.
' "Ah, dear," sighed MissFitzoy, as she
yawned wearily, "there isn't anything
to occupy one's mind now. I've made
toilet cushions and tidies and embroid
ered slippers and painted majolica jugs
until I'm weary of life. I believe I'll
go down into the kitchen and watch
Jano make bread. I suppose I ought to
know how many pints of yeast it takes
to a loaf." And she penetrated the
business part of the house only to find
out that bread was "raised" from the
baker's cart. New Harm JlegisU-r.
A "ucstiou of Time.
On tho way to his ajuirtmeuts ho
stopped under the window of a pawn
broker on Sixth avenue, aud with vio
lout knocking and shouts attracted the
attention of that estimable tradesman,
who, putting his head out of the win
dow, irefully asked the business of his
visitor. "I want to know the time,"
cried the man. " What do yon mean
by waking me up to ask such a stupid
question?" roared the pawnbroker.
" Stupid question ! " howled the man,
clinging to the lamp-post; " I like that.
Where else should I ask for the time
haven t you got my watch ?" New York
Hour,
Few persons are aware that tho fore
foot of the horse is the counterpart of
the hand, and the hind foot that of the
toe of the human foot, the heel compar
ing with the hock of the hind leg of the
horse. To get a proper idea of this try
to walk on the tips of your toes; you
will then see how clostlv Allied me I1
, extremities of the horse ud of man
5 '