aE
rene
!
TY
TREES
ny
ET EG ANI SU JE
STEADFASTNESS.
| Waste riot the present hour in vain regret
For prizes forfeited in days gone by;
It naught avails for fair winds lost to sign
{Or mourn the glow of suns forever set;
{Entomb thy past, bid memory forget
ig fixed and changing years that rear-
ward lie;
Charge but thy constant soul with pur-
L. pose high, =
life shall cade thee of its treasures yet.
e Now is thine, a goodly battlefield
“(Whereon all past defeats redeemed may
be;
{Fight bravely on and vanquished foes will
yield
_ Thy valiant sword a path to vietory,
is cowards droop and moan, ‘It might
“.~¢ have been!”
«It yet shall be,” the steadfast cry, and
win,’
; —Donahoe's Magazine.
'A GENUINE SURPRISE.
Beri,
———
BY HARRY GANUNG.
; ° HE station at
Swampy Cor-
ners was never a
picturesque
spot, even in
toe blue glow
7 of the sunniest
June day; but
on this chill
October night,
with the first
snowflakes of
the season
Hi eddying in the
glow, undecided way that first snow-
flakes have, through the gray air, and
the tall hemlocks swaying this way and
that in the raw wind, it looked especially
dreary.
Emily Elkton shuddered as she stood
looking out of one of the panes of glass
clumsily inserted in the long frame-
work by way of window.
«No, Miriam,” she said, ‘you can't
”
«But I've got to go!” said Miriam
Mudge, sympathetically compressing her
lips as she tightened the straps of the
parcel she was fastening one notch at a
time.
Y, ‘*And leave me here alone?”
{ “Nobody won’t hurt you, I reckon,”
said Miriawn, a strong-featured woman
of forty, with a bristling upper lip like
a man’s.
. $4If you go,” said Emily, “I'l! go too!"
f «*Not much,” composedly spoke
Miriam, ‘‘thar ain't room in Pete Mul-
ler’s buckboard for so much as a sheet
o’ paper arter me and him’s in. Besides,
what'll your Uncle Absolom say when he
comes back and finds nobody here. If
the fire goes out, everything’ll ireezc
stiff, and— Yes, Pete, I'm a-comin’;
thar ain’t no need to stand there a-bel-
lerin’ like a Texas steer! Good-bye,
Emily! Ob, Iforgot!”—coming back,
and mechanically lowering her voice,
although there was no onc but the gray
cat by the stove to overbear the words.
«The ticket money and two rolls o’ gold
eagles as the paymaster’s call for to-
morrer in the noon train is in the red
chest * under your uncle's bed. 1
reckoned it ’ud be safer thar than in the
money-drawer. Don’t forget fo give it
to him fust thing he gets back.”
“Forget!” echoed Emily, wringing
her hands in frantic desperation. ¢‘But
I won’t be left in charge of itl I'll as-
gume no such responsibility. I insist
upon your taking it with you!”
I The remonstrance, however, came too
late. Miriam bawled out some indis-
tinct reply and the next sound Miss Elk-
ton heard was the creaking of the buck-
board wagon as it turned the sharp curve
below the gleaming line of the railway
switches.
i “She’s gone,” cried Emily, clasping
her hands like the tragic muse, ‘*and leit
me alone with all that money! And the
navy camp only three miles up the moua-
tains, full of Italians and Chinese and the
miners at Lake Lodi and the whole
neighborhood infested with desperadoes!
And Uncle Absalom not expected home
until two o'clock in the morning, and
the bolt broken off the duor, and the
key’s a misfit, and nothiog but a hook
and staple between me and destruction!
Oh, why didn’t I stay in Rhode Island? |
‘What evil spirit possessed me to come
out here to Dakota, where one might as
well be buried alive and done with it?”
Emily Elkton sat down and cried
heartily, rocking herself forward ard |
back and sobbing out aloud, like a child
whose slice of bread and treacle had been
taken away from it. And not until the
candle flared up, with an extra sized
s¢winding. sheet” wrapped around its
wick and the cat rubbed itself persist-
ently against her knee, did she arouse to
the quadruple fact that puss wanted her
eupper, the fire was low, the candie
needed snuffing and there was no sort of
use in tears.
Emily had come out West, partly be-
cause there seemed nothing to do at
home and partly because Uncle Absalom
had written that oue of his nine nieces
would come very handy for a house-
keeper at Swampy Corners, 1n the State
of Dakota, if she could be spared.
The latter sentence was intended on
his part for a sarcasm, but the Elkton
family had received it all in good faith
and held many a deliberation before they
consented to let one of the nine young
birds flutter out of the home nest.
And more especially she had come be-
cause she had incidentally learned that
Andrew Markham was one of the en-
jjineers in charge of the new line of rail-
way on the other slope of the mountain,
which undertaking involved the navvy
camp and the great derricks and steam
drills and the gangs of slit eyed Chinese
and dark browed Italians.
«Not that that signifies,” Emily had
plausibly told herself. ‘‘But, of course,
it's pleasant to ke somewhere within a
hundred miles of an old acquaintance.”
Andrew Markham had been to see her
twice, and both times she had made up
ber mind that the far West was the only
place to live in.
«He expects to se
thought, with a soft
lier face, ‘He
¢
i
tle here.”
u
flusing
she
he has already |
bought a sunny slope of land, where he
means to build a house and bring a wife
when he can afford it. He thinks that
life here means twice what it does in the
effete civilization of the East.”
But to-night, with the darkness wrap-
ping the little depot like a blaaket, and
the wind howling down the mountain
gorge, Miss Eikton would not at all have
objected to some of that same sseffcte
civilization.”
Alone in the house! During the whole
of her sojourn at Swampy Corners such
a thing had never happened to her be-
fore.
TUacle Absalom had occasionally been
absent, it was true, but Miriam Mudge
was always there to bear her company
until his return. Now that a sudden
summons from her father, hurt in an ac-
cident in the saw mill on Ragged River,
six miles below, had called Miriam away,
poor Emily was all in a flutter.
True, the one train a day which stopped
at the station was not due until seven in
the morning. The telegram office was
closed, and there was absolutely no care
for her to assume except to put another
log of wood on the air tight stove and
go quietly to bed.
But the very sense of solitude appalled
her. Sheshivered at the very click of
the snow flakes against the wiadow, the
crack of the boards in the floor. theslow
drip of the water into the kitchen sink,
where Uncle Absalom had receatly in-
troduced the modern improvement of a
water tap, conngcted by pipes with the
spring in the spruce glen above.
«Why couldn't Miriam have stopped
at one of the neighbors’ houses and sent,
some one to keep me company?” she re-
pined. ‘Andrew says there are some
nice girls at Almondsley, down the
mountain, and he said he'd like to intro-
duce me to Marietta Mix, who teaches
Sunday-school in the South Cleating,
and does type writing for the company
on week days. 1'm sorry, now that X
tossed my head, and put on airs, and
said I did not care to mingle in the so-
ciety hereabouts. I must have appeared
hateful enouzh. Gracious, what wes
that?” +
It was the clock striking nine, and
then Emily remembered that she had no
supper. Nervously glancing around her,
she tip-toed to the cupboard, and to ok a
olass of milk and a little bread-and-
cheese. ' As she replaced the tumbler on
the shelf she heard footsteps oa the
frozen ground outside.
«It’s my imagination,” she said, after
listening for a second. “But I won’t be
frightened so. I will be brave.” She
took a hatchet, and sallyinz fortn,
opened the cellar-door. “If anyons
comes he'll sail down there before he can
get to the door,” said she.
Aud with two prodigious slashes of
the hatchet she cut away the board path
which led across a series of rugged bould-
ers to the railway platform.
««There,” she cried, hurrying back to
the inside warmth and brightness, as if
a whole brigade of pursuers were at her
Leels, *‘that's done! I feel safer now.
But 1 must hang tae lantern out before
Uncle Absalom comes back. I don't
want him to fall down anl break his
dear old neck!”
She had just seated herself with a sigh
of relief when something like a big fire-
fly blazed on her vision—for a brief sec-
ond only; then jt was gone.
«+A dark lantern!” she said to herself.
«I am sure now that I hear the sound of
feet on the platform. There ars two or
three people there— perhaps more. They
have learned that I am ‘alone with all
that money!” She clasped her hands
over her eyes, and shivered as she heard
a crash, a smothered exclamation, a sup-
pressed buzz of voices, ‘‘Some one has
fallen down the cellar! Oh, how for-
tunate 1t was I thought of that!”
And now a low whisper came up
through the carelessly-joined boards of
the floor. She could distinguish the
words, *‘Hold on! Be careful! The
iront door is fastened, for I tried it.
You can all of you get down cellar, and
come up that way.”
Emily's heart gave an exultant jump.
The cellar door, a mass of timber in
which she had the fullest confidence, was
securely bolted. She pesred out into
the stormy darkness. By the occasion-
| ally displayed gleam of the lantern she
| could see a huddled mass of figures
creeping dowa the cellar steps.
Last of all disappeared the lantern it-
| self, one leisurely step at a time; and
then, consummating a plan which she
| bad long been concocting in ber mind.
Bmily made a dash out into the night,
olesed the two divisions of the celiar
door with a bang, barred them, and fled
| panting into the house.
By this time there was a brisk knock-
ing at the cellar door, a crying out of,
«Open the door! Let us in!”
But to these calls Emily Elkton pad
no heed, and it was only when a hand
was suddenly laid on her shoulder from
bebind that she uttered a piercing
scream and lost all her presence of mind.
«Why, Emmy!” exclaimed a familiar
voice. “Why, child, what's the matter?”
¢«:Oh, Uncle Absalom, how you fright-
ened me! Oh, dear, the cellar is full of
burglars and robbers! Reach down your
gun! Get the hot-water kettle!”
“Burglars, eh?” said Uncle Absalom.
«Robbers? Why, what on yarth did
they come from? Sure yeain’s mistook,
sissy? Anyhow, I'll be ready for em.”
He advanced toward the cellar door
with his loaded revolver in his hand.
«Whoever ye be,” he shouted; *‘tell
us what your business is or take this!
Don't hold my arm, sissy! There can’t
no more’n one at a time come up these
core cellar stairs, and I reckon I'm a
match for that much, if I be old an’
Stiff!”
To Emily's infinite alarm he unbolted
the cellar door and flung it wide open.
There, crowding on the narrow wood-
en steps, stood Andrew Markbam, the
Miss Almonnsleys, Leonidas Mix and
| Sister Marietta, and Dr. Cliffe's two chub-
by daughters.
«We came,” said Markham, rather
shamefacedly, ‘‘to give Miss Elkton a
| bi y surprise. We'ra sorry that—"’
| «Walk in—wslk in!” cried Uacle Ab-
} af
one full moon of broad
om. hi
smiles. “No ‘need of bein’ sofry for
nothin’. You're all welcome! How on
earth did ye know it was Emmy's twen.
tietkr birthday?”
«Marietta has baked a cake,” sad
Leonidas, ‘*and the Cliffe girls brought
a jug of lemonade, and it was brokea
when I tumbled down cellar, and—"
«Oh, that don’t matter none!” beamed
Uocle Absalom, ¢*We're awful pleased
to see you—ain't we, Emily%"” -
In this auspicious manner bezan Em-
ily Elkton’s first acquaintance with the
young people who were destined to bs
her lifelong neighbors.
«But really,” said she, half erying,
half laughing, ¢‘I thought you were all
banditti.”
«It's all my fault,” acknowledged
honest Marietta Mix. *[ was deter-
mined taat you should have a surprise,
Andrew wasn't half willing, but I io-
sisted. You see, I didn't think there
would ever be any other wav of getting
acquainted with you, Miss Elkton. And
we knew that Andrew was so interested
in you.”
«Nonsense!” cried Emily, blushing.
«Is it nonsense, though!” retorted
Marietta. ¢ Well, time will show.”
And time did show. Bix months af-
terward—but, after all, where is the use
of turning over the leaves of the book ol
fata? Let all true lovers guess for them-
selves how the matter ended.
“But,” Emily acknowledged in her
turn, ‘‘I never was so frightened in all
my life as at first and never so happy as
I was at last.”
And she never returned to town life.—
New York Mercury.
— eS —ereeet
Japanese Carpenters at the Fair.
On the wooden island in the lagoon
that separates the Horticultural Building
from the ugly structure that wiil hold
the official exhibits of the United States
Government there will be a cluster of
Japanese houses, erected by Japauese ar-
tisans for the commissioners of the land
of the chrysauthemum. Waoen these
very attractive looking houses are en-
tirely finished they will be viewed with
great interest and curiosity by the visi=
tors to the fair, for in many regards they
will be very different from anything that
the very great majority ever saw before.
But the process of building was even
more interesting than the finished houses
will be. When the snow was over a foot
deep this winter, and visitors to the
works were very scarce on zccount of the
cold, there was still always something of
a crowd about the wire rope that was
put up to keep visitors away from the
Japanese carpenters and joiners who were
erecting the houses in the island village.
The wire rope did not keep back the
more adventuresome of the sight seers,
nor were those who invaded the forbid-
den ground ordered out after they had
gone where they had no business to go.
Even a Japanese artisan, though clothed
with authority, is too gentle and kindly
und courteous 1n his nature to resent any
friendly encroachment upon his rights.
Those who went within the ropes saw
unmoiested all that was to be seen, and
every question that was asked was an—
swered as fully as the limited English
vocabulary of the workmen permitted.
And what bright and nimble fellows
these workmen were! It may be that
they wero picked men, selected for their
skill and intelligence. If they represent
the average of Japancse artisans, then
the average must be very high indeed.
It seems almost a pity that these carpen-
ters could not be kept at work all during
the fair; such an exhibit would be as
popular as anything within the grounds.
After noting the nimbleness of the
workmen and the intelligent expression
of their faces, together with the pic-
turesqueness of their dress, which seems
to western eyes something likx 2 uniform,
the visitor looks at the work itself, and
is at once struck by its neatness. Even
the temporary scaffolding is neatly and
strongly put up, and tne lumber of which
it is made is injured as little as possible.
Instead of being nailed together, this
scaffolding is lashed with cords. This
is done with a skill that would male
even a sailor man turn greed with envy.
But though the Japanese workmea do
many things in a way opposite to that
employed by Europeans, they do not go
so far as to build the roofs of their
houses before makinz the foundations.
At least such was not the method em-
ployed at Chicago in making the build-
ings there, for when the houses were very
nearly completed the roofs had not yet
been put on. —Harper's Weekiy. :
————— I ———————
The Cowboy's Accomplishments.
One of the chief sports of the cow-
boys is snatching a sombrero from the
ground on a horse running at full speed.
This is done by many. They have be-
come experts in the use of a six-shooter
(revolver), and a cowboy on the plains
is seldom seen without one or more, of-
ten two, buckled to his waist. It be-
comes a weapon on offensive and de-
fensive. Sometimes a roped bull be-
comes so furious that the cowboy is
compelled to shoot him. Usually the
cattle on the plains are not dangerous.
‘They will seldom attack a man on horse-
back unless they have been roped. Iia
man was on foot a herd would run over
him trying to find out what he was. A
cow or ball is dangerous when roped.
| It is not much of a trick to throw a lasso
and catch a cow, but the skill, courage
and strength comes after the cow has
been lassoed.—Richmond Dispatch,
O———— I —————
Aquaria For Hire.
| You may hire almost anything in New
York, even to an aquarium stocked with
sea vegetation and strange creatures of
the deep. The aquarium is an occasional
| table ornament at a feast, and is usually
| hired for the occasion. The trade in all
the things that go to make up the
| aquarium is a growing one in New York,
| and those who engage in this business
| have taken to themselves the title
| aquarist. You may have of these gentle-
| men almost any queer fish, at prices
| ranging from ten cents to $10 per speci-
men, together with any one of twenty
varieties of aquatic plants, —Chicago
| Times,
MIDNIGHT IN TOWN
THX DARK SIDE OF AGREATCITY
——ps
Drawn By Talmage. Horrors of the Night
and Awful Fate of the Gambler
and Drunkard.
rl
© Text: “And the darkness He called
night.”—Genesis i., 5.
Two grand divisions of time. The one of
sunlight, the other of shadow; the one for
work, the other for rest; the one a typaof
everything glad and beautiful, the other
used in all Janguages asa typ> of sadness
and affliction and smn. These two divisions
of time may have nomenclature of human
invention. but the darkness held up itsdusky
brow to. the Lord, and He baptiz:d it, the
dew drioping from His fingers as He gave it
name, ‘*And the darkness He called night.”
My subject is midnight in town, The
thunder of the city has rolled out of tae
air. The slightest sounds cut the night
with such distinctness as to attract your
attention. The tinkling of tha b2ll of the
street car in the distanee and the baying
of the dog. The stamp of a horse in the
next street. The slamming of a saloon
door. Thehiccouzh of the drunkard, The
chrieks of the steam whistles five miles
away. On, how suggestive, my friends—
midnight in town!
There ara honest men passing up and down
the street. Here is a city missionary who
bas been carrying a scuttle of coal to that
poor family iu that dari place. Here is an
undertaker going up the steps of a building
trom which thera comes a bitter cry which
indicates that the destroying angel has smit-
ten the first born. Here is a minister of re-
ligion who has been giving the sacrament
to a dying Christian. Here is a physician
passing along in great haste, ths messen-
a few steps ahead hurrying on to
the household. Nearly all the lights
have gone out in the dwelling, That light
in the window is the light of the watcher,
for the medicines must be administered, and
the feyer must be watched. and the restless
tossing off of the coverlid must be resisted,
and the ice must be kept on the hot tem-
ples, and the perpetual prayer must go np
from hearts soon to be broken. Oh, the
midnight in town! What a stupendous
thought—a whole city at rest!
Weary arm preparing for to-morrow’s
toil. Hot brain beinx cooled off. Rigid
muscles relaxed. Excited nerves soothed.
The white hair of the octogenarian in thin
drifts across the pillow, fresh fall of flakes
on snow already fallen. Childhood with its
dimpled hands thrown out on the pillow, and
with every breath taking in a new store of
fun and frolic. God’s slumberless eye will
look. Let one great wave of refreshing
slumber roil over the heart of the great
town, submerging care and anxiety and
worriment and pain.
Let the city sleep; but, my friends, benos
deceived. There will ba thousands to-night
who will not sleep at all. Go up that dark
alley and be cautious where you tread lest
you fall over the prostrate form of a drunk-
ard lying on his own doorstep. Look about
you lest you feel the garroter’s hug. Look
through the broken window pane and see
what you can _see. You say, ‘‘Nothing.”
Then listen. What is it? *God help us!”
No footlights, but tragedy ghastlier and
mightier than Ristori or Edwin Booth ever
enacted. No light, no fire, no bread, no
hope. Shivering in th? cold, they have had
no fool for 24 hours. You say, "Why don’t
they beg?’ They do, but they zet nothing.
You say, “Why don’t they deliver them-
selves over to the almshouse?” Ah, you
would not ask that it you ever heard the
bitter cry of a man or a child when told he
must go to the almshouse.
“Ob,” you say, *‘they are the vicious poor,
and therefora they do not demand our sym-
pathy.” Are they vicious? S> much more
need they your pity. The Cbristian poor,
God helps them. ‘Through their night there
twinkles the round, merry star of hope, and
throughrthe broken window pane toey sze
the crystals of heaven, but the vicious poor,
they are more to be pitied. Their last ligt
has gone out. You excuse yourself from
heiping them by saying they areso bad they
brought this trouble on themselves. I re-
ply, where I give 10 prayers for the inno-
cent who are suffering I will give 2) prayers
for the guilty who are suffering.
ing into the breakers, comes out from his
hut and wraps the warmest flannels around,
those who are most chilled and most bruised
and most battered in the wreck, And I
want you to know that these vicious poor
have had two shipwrecis—shipwreck of the
body, shipwreck of the soul—shipwreck for
time, shipwreck for eternity. Pity, by all
means, the innocent who are suffering, but
pity more the guilty.
Pass on through the alley. Open the door.
Oh,” you say, *it is locked.” No, it is not
locked; it has never beenlocked. No burglar
would be tempted to goin there to steal
anyUsing: The door is never locked. Only
a broken chair stands against the doer.
Shove it back. Go in. Strike a match.
Now look. Beastliness and rags. See thoss
glaring eyeballs. Be careful now whas you
say. o not utter any insult, do not nuter
any suspicion, if you valus your life,
What is that red mark on the wall? Itis
the mark of a murderer's hand! Look at
those two eyes rising up out of the darkness
and out from the straw in the corner com-
ing toward you, and as they come near you
ycur light goes out. Strike another match.
‘Ah! this is a babe, not like the beautiful
children of your household, or the beautiful
children smiling around these altars on bap-
tismal day. This little one never smiled; 16
never will smile, A flower flung on an
awlully barren beach. O ere iy Shep-
herd fold that little one in Thine arms!
Wrap around you your shawl or coat
tighter, for the cold night wind sweeps
“hrough.
Strike another match. Ah! is it possible
that that young woman's scarred and
bruised face was ever looked into by ma-
ternal tenderness? Utter no scorn. Utter
no harsh word. No ray of hope has dawned
on that brow for many a year. No ray of
hope ever will dawn onthat brow. But the
light has gone out. Do not strike another
light. 1t would ba mockery to kindle an-
other light in such a place as that, Pass out
and pass down the street. Our cities of
Brooklyn and New York and all our great
cities ave full of such homes, and the worst
time the midnight. Do you know it isin
the midnight, that criminals do their worst
work?
At half past 8 o'clock you will find them
in the drinking saloon, but toward 12
o'clock they go to their garrets, they get
out their tools, then they start on the street.
Watching on either side for the police, they
go to their work of darkness. This isa bur-
glar, and the false key will sson touch the
store lock. Thisis ‘an incendiary, and be-
fore morning there will bea light ou the
sky and ery of “Fire! Fire!” This is an as-
sassin, and to-morrow morning there will be
a dead body in onzof the vacant lots. Dur-
ing the daytime thes villains in our cities
lounge about, some asleep and some awake,
but when the third watch of the night ar-
rives, their eye keen, their brain cool, thair
arm strong, their foot fizeb to fly or pursue,
they are ready.
Many of these poor creatures were brought
up in that way. They werebornina thieves’
garret. Their childish toy wasa burglar’s
durk lantern. ‘Bhe first thing they remem -
ber was their mother bandaging the brow of
their father, struck by the police ciub, They
began by robbing boys’ pockets, and now
they have come to dig the underground pas-
sage to the cellar otf the bank and are pre-
paring to blast the gold vault.
Just so long as there are neglected chil-
dren of the street, just so long we will have
| these desperadoes. Some one, wishing to
make a goo Christian point and to quote a
passage of Feripture, expecting to get a
Neriptaral passage in answer, said to one of
thesa poor lads, cast ou: and wretched,
“When your father and mother forsake
| you, who then will take you up?’ and the
| boy said, *‘The perlice, the perlice.”
in the midnight gambling does its worst
work. What though the hours be slipping
The fisherman, when he sees a vessel dash- |
away and though the wife be walling in the
oheerless home? Stir uo the fire. Bringon
more drinks. Put up more stakes. That
commercial house that oulv a little while
azo put out a sign of coparinership
this season be wrecked on a gambler’s table.
Thera will be many a money till that will
spring a leak. A Member of Congress
gambled with a Moamber-elect and won
$120,000. The old way of getting a living is
so slow. The old way of getting a fortune is
gn stupid. Come, let us toss up and see wao
shall have it. And so the work goes on,
from the wheezing wretches pitching pen-
nies in 2a rum grocery up to the millionaire
gambler in the stock markat.
In the midnight hour pass down the streets
of our American cities, and you hear the
click of the dice and the sharp, keen tap of
the poolroom ticker. At thess places mer-
chant princes dismount, and legislators tired
of making laws, take a respie in breaking
them. All classes of people are robbed by
this crime, the importer of foreign silks and
the dealer 1n Chatham strest pocket hand-
kerchiefs. The clerks of the store take a
hand after the shutters are put up, and the
officers of the court waile away their time
while the jury is out.
In Baden-Baden, when that city was the
greatest of all gambling placas on earth, it
was no unusual thing ths next morning in
the woods around that city to find the sus-
pended bodies of suicides. Whatever be the
solendor of the surroundings, there is no ex-
cuse for this crime. Iae thunders of eter-
nal destruction roll in the deep rumble of
that gambling tenpin alley, and as men
come out t> join the long procession of sin
all the drums of woe bz2at tae dead marca
of a thousand souis. lan one vear in the
city of New York there were $7,000,000 sac-
rificad at the gaming table.
Perhaps some of your friends have been
smitten of thissin. Perhaps soms of you
have been smitten by it. Perhaps taere may
be a stranger in ths house this morning
coms from some of the hotals. Ldok out for
those agants of iniquity who tarry around
about the hotelsand asx vou, “Would you like
to see the city?’ Yes, “Hava you aver seen
that splendid building uptown?” No. Then
the villain will undercake to saow you whaat
he calls the ‘lions” and tae ‘‘alephants”
and after a young man, through morbid
curiosity or through badness ot sou!, has
seen the ‘“ions” ani the *‘elephants” hs will
be on enchanted ground. Look out for
these men who move around the hotels with
sleek hats—always sleek hats—and patron-
izing air and unaccountable interast about
your weltare and entertainment. You are
a fool if you cannot ses througu it. They
want your money
In Chestnut street, Phfladeiphia, while 1
was living in that city, an incident occurred
which wes familiar to us there. In Cnest-
yt strest, a young man went into a gam-
b.i-.o- saloon, Jost all his property, then blew
hv: brains out, and befors the blood was
washed from the floor by the maid the eom-
rades were shufling cards again. You s22
there is more mercy in the highwayman for
the belatel traveler on waoss 00 ly he heaps
the stones, there is mora mercy in the frost
for the flower that it kills; there is more
mercy in the hurricans that shivera the
steamer on the Long Island coast than there
1s mercy in the heart of a gambler for his
victim.
In the midnight hour also, drunkenness
does its worst. The drinking will be re-
spectable at 8 o'clock in tha evaning, a little
flushed at 9, talkative and garralous at 10,
at 11 blasphemous, at 12 the hat falls off and
the man falls to the floor asking for moro
drink, Strewn throuzh the drinking
saloons of the city—-fathers, brothers,
husbands, sons, as good as you are by nature,
perhaps Leiter.
In the high circles of socieby it is hushed
up. A merchant prince, if he gots noisy
anl uncontrollable, is taken by bis fellow
revelers, who try to get him to bad, or taka
him home, where he falls flat in the entry. Do
not wake up the children. “hey have had
disgrace enough. Do not let tham know it.
Husa it up. Bat sometimss it canuot be
hushed up—when ths rum goucass the brain
and the man becomes thorouzhly frenziel.
Oh, if the rum touches the brain, you can-
not hush itup. You do not ses tie worst.
In th» midnight meetinzs a grout multitule
have been saved. » want a few hundred
Christian men and women to coma down
from tha highest circles of socisty td toil
amid these wandering an 1destitute ones and
kindle up a light in tae dark alley, even a3
gladness of heaven.
Do not go from your wall fillal tables with
the idea that pou talk is going to stop tas
gnawing of anempty staynich or to. warm
stockingless feet. Take bread, take raiment,
take medicin2 as well as taka prayer. There
is a great deal of common sanse In what the
poor woman said to the city missionary
when he was telling her how she ought to
love God and serve Him. “Oa!” said she,
“if you were as poor and cali as Iam, anil
as hungry, you could think of nothing else.”
A great deal of what is called Caristian
work goes for nothing for the simple reason
it is not practical, as after the battle of
Antietam a man got out of an ambulance
with a bag of tracts, and he went dist-ibut-
ing the tracts, and George Stuart, one of
tho best Carisvian men in this country, said
to him: “What are you distribusing tracts
for now? There are 30)0 men bleeding to
death. Bind up their wounds, and then dis-
tribute the tracts.”
We want more common sense in Chris-
tian work, taking tae breai of this life in
one hand, and tne bread of the nexs life in
the other hand. No suca inapt work as
that done by the Christian man who, during
the war, went into a hospital wita tracts.
and coming to the bed of a man whose legs
had been amputatad, gave him a tracton
the sin of dancing! 1 rejoica bafora God
that never are sympathetic words uttered,
never a prayer offerad, never a Christian
almsgivingz indulged in but it is blessea.
Thereis a placa in Switz:rland, [ have
been told, where the utterance of onz worl
will bring back a score of echoss, andIhave
to tell you this morning that a sympathetic
word, a kind word, a generous word, a help-
ful word uttered in the dark place of the
town will bring back ten thousani echoes
from all the thrones of heaven.
Are there in this assemblage this moraing
those who know by experience the tragedies
of midnight in town? [ am pot hers to
thrust you back with one hard word, Take
the bandage trom your bruised soul and put
on it the soothing salve of Christ's gospel
and of God’s compassion. Many have come.
I see others coming to God this morning,
tired of sinful life. Cry up ths news to
heaven. Set all the bells ringing. Spread
the banquet under the arches. Lot ths
crowned heads come down and sit at the
jubilee.
I tell you thera is mors delight in heaven
over ons man that gets reformed by the
grace of God than over ninety and nine that
never got off the track. I could give you
the history in a minute of one of the best
friends I ever had. Oatside of my own
family I never had a better friend. He
welcomed me to my home at the west. He
was of splendid personal appearance, and
he had an ardor of soul and & warmth of af-
fection that made me love him like a
brother.
I saw men coming out of the saloons and
gambling hells, and they surrounded my
friend, and they took him at th2 weak point,
his social nature, and I saw him going down,
and I had a fair talk with him, for I never
yet saw a man you could not talk with on
the subject of his habits if you talked with
him in the right way. I said to hum, “Way
don’t you give up your bad habits anil be-
come a Christian?’ I ramember now just
how he looked, leaning over his counter, as
he replied: ‘I wish I could. Oh, sir, I
gone so far astray I can’t get back.”
So the time went on. After awhile the
day of sickness came. I was summoned to
his sickbed. I hastened. It took me buta
very few moments to get there. I was sur-
prised as I went in. I saw him in his
ordinary clotues, fully dressed, lying on the
top of the bed. Igave him my hand, and
he seized it convulsively and said: “On,
how glad I am to see you! Bit down there.”
I sat down, and he said: “Mr. Talmage,
just where you sit now my mothar sat last
niglat. She has been dead 20 years. Now, 1
don’t want you ts think I am out of my
should like to be a Christian, but 1 have |
mind, or that I am suoerstitious: but, sir,
she sat there last nicht just as certainly as
yon sit there now--the same eap, and apron
and spectacles, It was my od mother—shs
sat there.”
Then he turned to his wife ani said: “i
wish you would take these strings off the
bed. “Somebody is wrapping strings around
me all the time, I wish you would stop
annovance.” She said, *There is nothing
here’. Then I saw it was delirium. He said:
"Just where you sit now my mother sat,
and she said, ‘Roswell, I wish you would de
better —I wish you would do better.” 1 said,
Motner, 1 wish I could do better. I trv to
do better, but I can’t. Mother, you used to
help me. Why can’t you heip ms now?
And, sir, I got out of bed, for it was reality,
and I went to ber and threw my arms around
her neck, and I said: ‘Mother, I will do bet-
ter, but you must help. I can’t do this
a'one’” 1Iknelt down and prayed. That
night his soul went to the pt that made it.
Arrangements were made for the obse-
quies. The question was' raisel whether
toey sbould brinz him to church. Some-
body said, **You can’t brinz such a dissolute
man as that into the church.” I said: **You
will bring him ia the caurca? He stood by
me when he was alive, and I will stand by
him when he is dead. Bring him.” As I
stool in the pulpit and saw tham ecarrying
the body un the aisle, I felt as if I could
waep tears of bloyd.
On nue side of the pulpit sat his little ch'ld
of eight years, a sweet, baautiful little girl
that I had seen him hu: convuisively in his
better moments. Ha put on her all jewels,
all diamonds, and gave her all pictures and
toys, and then he would go away as if
hounded by an evil s~irit to his cupsaod
house of shame, a fool to the correction of,
the stocks. Shs loosed uv wonderingly.
She knew not what 1t all meant.” She was
not old enough to understani the sorrow of
an orphan cnild. :
On the other side the pulpit sat the men
who had ruined him. They were the men
who had pourei wormwood into the or=-
phan's cup; they were the men who had
bound him hand and foot. I koew them.
How did they seem to feel? Did they ween?
No. Did they say, **What a pity that such
a generous man should ba destroyed?’ No.
Did they sigh repentingly over what tney
had done? No; they sat tuere, looking as
vultures look av the carcass of the lamb
whose heart they have ripped out, So they
sat and looked at the coffin lid, and
I told them the judgment of God upon those
reform? I was told they were ia the placzs
of iniquity that night after my friend was
lait in Oakwosd cametery, and they blas-
hemed, and they drank. Ob, how merciless
men are, especially after they have de-
stroyed you! Do not look to men for com-
fort or help. Look to God. -
But there is a man wiao will not reform.
He says: “I won't reform.’ Well, then,
how many acts are thera to a tragedy?
believe five.
Act the _First of the Tragedy a youn
man starting off from home. Parents anc
sisters weeping to hava him go. Wa
rising over the hill. Farewell kiss flung
Pack. Ring the beil and let the curtain
all. ;
Act the Sacond—The marriage altar. Full
organ. Bright lights. Long white veil
trailing through the aisle. Prayer and con-
gratulation and exclamation of “How well
she looks!”
Act Third—A woman waiting for stag-
gering steps. Old garments stuck into the
broken window pane. Marks o! hardship
on the face. The biting of the nails of
bloodless fingers. Neglect and cruelty and
despair. Ring she bell aud let the cartain
a
rop.
Act the Fourth—Thres graves in a dark
place—grave of the caill toat died for lacz
of medicine, grave of ths wife that died of &
broken heart, grave of tae man that died of
dissipation. Ob, what a blasting heath of
three graves! Plenty of wees, but no
flowers. Ring the ball and le: the curtain
drop.
Act the Fifth—A destroyel sou’s eter-
nity. No lignt. No music. No h
Auguish coiling its serpents around the
heart. Blackness of daraness forever. But
I cannot look any lonzer. Woel Wo:l I
close my eyes to this last act of the tragedy.
Quick! “Quick! Ring the bell and let the
curtain drop. *‘Rejoice, O young man, in
days of thy youth, but know now that for
all” these things God will bring you into
judgment.” ‘Chere isa way that seemeth
right to a man, but the end thereof is death.”
Indian Self-Mnrder anid Selt-Torture.
«sCases of suicide, especially by hang-
ing, are rare amoag the Indians,” said
Major A. V. Leiben, of Pierre, South
Dakota, to the 3tar representative atthe
Oxford. ‘The only instance that I
know of where an Indian maiden com-
mitted suicide occurs to me. Indian
airls, like other maidens, tall in love,
and it is nbt always reguitted, In this
case she was jilted by a Sibux brave, and
she thereupon hanged herself. Indians
believe that if they die by hanging they
will not enter the happy bunting
grounds, which makes this case the more
remarkable. Her lover married another
squaw and the dramatic taking off of his
first flame did not apparently cause him
much remorse. Indians torture them-
selves to show their grief, and the
mother of this maiden hacked her body
and limbs with a knife in great gashes
until every step she took was marked
with blood.
‘Speaking about self-torture inflicted
by Indians reminds me cf the horrible
sight one witnesses when a brave wishes
to demonstrate his fitness to go upon the
warpath and become a full-fledged war-
rior. - Before this honor can be obtained
an Indian brave must prove his worthi-
ness. This is how they do it: They
cut two deep parallel gashes in the
muscles of the chest. A thong of raw-
hide is 1nserted in the flesh and tied ina
loop. This is then fastened to a bent
sapling sufficiently strong and elastic to
raise toe Indian off his feet. Here he
will hang suspended by tae thong several
feet above the ground, writhing and
twisting in his agony, until the thong
tears itself out of the bleeding flesh and
he falls to the ground, sometimes in-
sensible from pain. Frequently the
struggles of the tortured man are not
sufficient to tear asunder the quivering
flesh, and he bangs there until he be.
comes insensible and 1s cut down.
Squaws and braves are seated around
him in a circle, wailing and howling and
beating drums. This terrible ordeal
once passed signifies that the brave has
the necessary courage to be entitled to
promotion as a warrior, To see one or
more, and sometimes there are half a
dozen, Indians hanging suspended by
thongs through their flesh without
manifesting their suffering by cries of
pain, surrounded by the members of
their tribe, is a sight that indelibly im-
presses itself upon one’s memory.”—
Washington Star.
ta A ——.
| One of the smallest pieces of money at
| Venice is’ called gazette; and as the
literary newspapers, Which were pub-
lished in single sheets as early as the
Sixteenth Century, were sold for a ga-
| zette each, newspapers were called, from
| thence, gazette, or gazettes.
who jad destroyed their fellows. Did they
thy youth and let thy heart rejo.ce in the
flame
the rc
_inflar
tinue
the st
small
perm
itis a
more
cine |
affect
purif;
and i
in de
tion,
2, on
sent |
Drug
bus, |
least
8ay,
year
fore
pian
year
ly in
Aft