FROM THE HEIGHTS.
LAST POEM WTITTE* BT THE LATE JOHN BOYLE
O'BEILLT.
• C* ty Comptroller Onahan. the Chicago Poet.
Sfki P poßseasor of an internal"* bit of manuoi rlpt
which is doubly prised by him on account of cer
tain association* connected it. It consists of
P-fndwrlUnt 1? that of the late John Boyle O'Reilly.
rat riot an 1 poet. It is the last poein ever
7 an< * on ® that has never been
T! ,e po f?L w !3 written for the occasion
©I the dedication of the Washington University. It
was read at these ceremonies Nov. 7, IMP. but was
not pubjished In the daily press. ;, I was beside
OReillywhcn he wrote that poem." said A. W.
%? 4 an ' *5 w i* e P he got through with it I turned
to him and asked him for the manuscript. He
cheerfully promised it.and he kept his word." The
poem is as follows:
"Come to me for wisdom," said the moun
tain;
"In the valley and the plain
There is knowledge dimmed with sorrow in
the gain;
There is effort, with its hope like a fountain;
There the chained rebel, passion,
Laboring strength nnd fleeting fashion;
There ambition's leaping flame,
And the iris crown of frame;
But those gains are dear forever
Won from loss and pain nnd fever.
Nature's gospel never changes;
Every sudden force deranges;
Blind endeavor is not wise
Wisdom enters through the eyes,
And the seer is the knowcr.
Is the doer and the sower."
"Come to me for riches, '' said the peak;
"1 am leafless, cold and calm;
But the treasures of the Illy and the palm—
They are mine to bestow on those who seek.
I am gift and I am giver
to the verdured fields below.
As the motherhood of snow
Bally gives the new-born river.
As a watcher on a tower
Listening to the evening hour:
Ssss the roads diverge and blend
36ft the wandering currents end
the moveless waters shine
Qji the far horizon line,—
All the storied past is mine;
its strange beliefs still clinging;
iQi its singers nnd their singing;
AJJ paths that lead astray;
AH the meteors once called day;
All the stars that rose to shine-
Come to me—for all are minel"
"Come to me for safety," said the height;
"In the future as the past,
flosd and river end at last
Like n raindrop in the ever circling sea.
shall know by lessened eight
Where the gain und the loss
Ip the desert they must cross?
Guides who lead their charge from ills,
Passing soon from town to town,
Through the forest and the down,
Take direction from the hills;
Those who range a wider land
iligher climb until they stand
Where the past and future swing
Like a far blue ocean-ring;
Those who sail from land afar
Leap from mountain-top to starl
Higher still from star to God,
Have the spirit-pilots trod,
Setting lights for mind and soul
That the ships may reach the goal,
"They shall safely steer who see,
Sight is wisdom—come to me! "
MISS ANSTRUTHER'S TRIAL.
BY ANNA SHIELDS.
In speaking of her niece, Miss Letitia
Anstruther was accustomed to plain
tively call her "the trial of my life," and,
for once, the expression was a simple
truth, entirely devoid of exaggeration.
Mattie Anstruther certainly was a trial.
"You know, my dear," Miss An
struther would say to one intimate friend
or another, "my brother John went to
Texas twenty years ago. Don't ask me
who his wife was! I don't know. I never
saw her. I never heard her name until
John died, and somebody sent his
child to me, with her baptismal rec
ord, John's marriage certificate aud the
lawyer's letters, telling me she will have
about a hundred and fifty thousand dol
lars when she is twenty-one. John made
his money upon a stock-farm, and after j
his wife died, appears to have lived alone
with Matilda, on the place—'ranch,' she I
calls it. She was sixteen when she came
here, and she was a perfect savage; a
savage , my dear, and is very little better
now."
And ii savage the girl appeared to her
neat, prim aunt, who nearly went into
convulsions over a crooked table cloth,
and looked upon a knowledge of house
keeping and needle-work as the climax
of womanly education.
MiBS Anstruther's house was small, a
cottage set in an exact square of prim
garden, but every room was the perfec
tion of order and cleanliness, and a small
income was economized and nursed to
give a margin for Berlin wools and tidy
cotton, wherewith in the leisuro hours
left by household care, the old maid
manufactured wonderful articles for the
ornamentation (or otherwise) of her par-1
lor and guest-room.
Into this domain there had been thrust!
a lank, tall girl of sixteen, in shabby 1
mourning, grieving violently for the loss :
of her only friend, her father. A girl
who wore thick-soled boots which she !
never wiped upon the door-mat, whose I
profusion of hair was gathered into a net j
loosely, "anyhow," as her nuntreinnrkcd, .'
who had never owned a collar or a pair
of cuffs, nor had ever seen a carpet.
And yet, a girl who could read Homer 1
and Virgil in the original, was acquaint-!
Ed with Shakespeare, Milton and Chau-1
cer as familiar friends, could solve geo
metrical problems and make the church '
organ speak, but never had fashioned a
garment or knotted Berlin wool.
And she seemed utterly untamable. In !
vain Miss Anstruther scolded and i
groaned, in vain grew pathetic and tear-1
tub Mattie would "litter up" her neat j
rooms with growing ferns, birds' nests,
leaves, flowers, stones, would have I
"John's horrid books" piled in her owu
bedroom on shelves, taldcs or even the
floor; would not learn to stir puddings
oi' hem towels, and darted about like an
elf, regardless of furniture or decorum.
Now she was singing in a glorious con
tralto the wildest of glees, now sobbing
convulsively over some scrap of paper
folded away by her father's hand, and
newly discovered by the girl in her de
sultory reading. She would sit on the
best sofas with her feet tucked under her,
and wear the ample handsome wardrobe
Miss Anstruther ordered out of her lib
eral allowance, with utter disregard of
the proprieties—wrappers in the evening
and evening dresses at breakfast, "just
as it happened."
In the first two years of her life at
Doncester, it would have been hard to
say which was more miserable in the little
cottage, the prim maiden lady or the
wayward niece.
yihe was seated under the shade of a
willow, one June afternoon, looking
tnotjdily into the water of a little brook
' her feet, while the Reverend Albert
•hew finished a little lecture Miss
'littler had asked him to deliver,
was a tall, near-sighted, bashful
man of over thirty, appearing still older
from a habitual stoop aud a quiet reserve
of manner. It had not been a pleasant
task to him to obey Miss Anstruther's
request; but, meeting Mattic in an after
noon stroll, he had conscientiously done
his duty.
"But," she answered him, "I can't. I
can't stay in the house day after day,
stitching and cooking. Aunt Lettv has
a servant, and works harder than Jane
docs. But it kills me; it suffocates inc.
She can't talk of anything but scrap
bags and tidies. Oh, you do not under
stand 1"
"Understand what, my child?"^
1 'Tho difference between this life and
my real life. We were alone, papa and I,
though there were servants indoors and
out, but no other house for fourteen
miles. Sometimes Mr. Parker, my
guurdian. came over from Brownsville,
but not often. Only papa and I, year in,
year out. In the morning we rode over
the country to see about the stock, visit
ed the cabins where the graziers lived,
and were out till it grew hot, and then
we went home to rest till it grew cool.
And we read and studied and talked, or
we played upon the organ papa had built
in tno house. We wanted no one else.
Sometimes we read Greek or Lutin;
sometimes we recited whole plays. We
did not care what we ate or what we
wore, so we were fed and comfortable.
Oh, papa! papa!" and sobs shook the
slender frame as Mattie rocked to and fro,
convulsed with grief.
"But now, Mattie!" said Mr. Mayhcw,
very gently, "you are a woman with a
woman's duties before you! Can you
not try to understand that the wild, free
life is unsuitcd to your present position?"
She listened, that was one gain, while
he talked gravely but tenderly, pointing
out to her the pain it would have caused
her father to know her discontented,
rebellious and wayward. Something in
the quiet voice seemed to soothe the
girl's heart, and after the sunset clouds
were tinged with the last rays of the dy
ing day, she rose up, saying very slowly:
"I w'ill try to be more womanly, I will
try!"
Miss Letitia was grimly astonished,
but not very hopeful, when Mattie ap
peared at breakfast with her hair shining
like satin in glossy braids, her collar
pinned evenly, ner feet neatly dressed in
kid slippers, and sat erect but silent, act
ually eating like a lady, not dashing
through her breakfast as a necessary evil.
Her wonder increased when after the
meal was over, Mattie demurely followed
her from room to room, awkwardly, but
willingly assisting in the dusting and
cooking, with a nervous little apology
for faults, to the effect that she would
try and improve if her aunt would in
struct her.
It was like chaining a chamois goat to
a plow, and Mattie's cheeks grew thin,
her eyes dull, as she plodded on, day
after day, conscientiously doing her duty
as directed.
Only one pleasure remained. Every
afternoon she went across the rye fields
to the little country church, and spent
two or three hours at the organ, reveling
in music, working off some oi the crushed
vitality of heart aud brain in the finder- i
work that carried out her improvisation.
It became the substitute for home, fa
ther, friends and—no, not for love; for I
often into the church would steal the fig
ure of Albert Mayhew, and Mattie would
| hear the few words of commendation
j that were her rewards for this suppressed,
I cramped life that was killing her.
| She loved him after a blind, unreason
ing fashion she comprehended as little as
ho did. Ifc talked of her books as her
father had often talked; he loved music
and would praise her wondrous genius
understandingly.
Summer sped away, and in the early
fall a friend with great news came to see
Miss Anstruther.
"Have you heard of Mr. Mayhew's
fortune?" she asked, and Mattie's tan
gled wools dropped in her lap as she lis
tened.
"No; what is it?" Miss Anstruther
asked.
"He's come into money—a lot, they
say—and he's going to be married.
There's men to the parsonage now
measuring for carpets aud new furni
ture."
" You don't say so?"
And they talked and talked, while
Mattie stole away, unheeding the destruc
tion of an elaborate piece of canvas work
she dragged after licr over the grass and
gravel. Mechanically she went to the
j church, but not into the organ loft, for
in the cemetery she met Albert Mayhcw.
His head was more erect, his eyes
brighter than she had ever seen them,
but he came to meet her swiftly.
"Is it true?" she asked, piteously,
knowing no maidenly wile to hide her
j stricken heart.
"That I am richer to-day than I was
I yesterday? " he asked. "That is true."
I "Yes, I heard that—and—you are hav
ing the house—" but her lips were
parched and she stopped.
"I am making the house more comfort
nb"e, or rather Margaret, my house
keeper, is. She has been so long lament
ing over faded curtains and ragged car
pets, that I could not resist giving her
the intense happiness of renewing them."
"You look nappy, tool" Mattie said.
"Shall I tell you why?" ho asked,
drawing her hand upon his arm, and so,
leading her out of the city of the dead,
down the path to the willow and brook,
her favorite resting-place.
"I have tried to hide my secret from
you," he said, "but now I am free to
speak. I love, and I was bound in honor
to be silent, because the woman I love
will be rich, and I was very, very poor."
Poor Muttie bent her head away from
the tender eyes seeking to scan her face.
She pictured a stately, beautiful woman,
accomplished and graceful, some queen
of society Albert Had met and loved be
fore he came to Donccstcr.
"I never thought to have this money,"
continued Mr. Mahew, "for my uncle
was angry because I would not leave the
pulpit and learn his business. But he
has left it to me, and I can do good with
it; only I want a tender, faithful wo
man's help in my life-work. I want—
ah, Mattie, I want a home; some one to
love me, to welcome me there ; some one
who will let me biing her happiness,
will let me shield her from all harm will
make my life perfect."
"Yes, Mattie said," wondering where
l her voice had gone, "you will make her
i very happy."
'•Do you think so, Mattie?
I "Why," she said, simply as a child,
! "she must be happy with your love."
| "Then will she come now into my
| heart, into my life. Mattie, do you love
j ine? Can you give me love for love, be
!my wife, my other self ? Will not the
(pilot parsonage be a prison to you, little
wild bird?"
To me? You love mo?" She gasped. |
"With all mv heart."
"Hut you sail she—" and just then,
not before, Mattie remembered that she
would he rich. In her humility, the
money had never crossed her mind, and
she shuddered as she thought it might
> have been a bar to this perfect cloudless
happiness.
I She scarcely knew what she said, but
it satisfied her grave lover, and they went
home in the gloaming to astonish Miss
Anstruther.
It was a nine day wonder at Doneester
how Mr. Mahcw ever caine to perfect
that "harum-scaruin girl" to the steady,
gentle misses of his congregation, but in
the parsonage there is no regret, and tho
Minister does not find his wife or married
life a burden, though Miss Lettie still
talks of Mattie as a dreadful trial.—[The
Ledger.
DEEIt IN SNOW PITS.
Imprisoned in Corrals of Their Own
Making —Easily Tamed.
From a gentleman recently down from
the mountains the Appeal learns of the
strange experiences of various sorts of
wild animals last winter: "Deer, when
caught iu a blinding snow-storm, huddle
together and tramp round and round iu
a circle, beating down the soft 9now, so
that when a very heavy full occurs during
say twelve hours, thoy find them
selves in a snow pen, with walls above
them, and if they commence to tramp
on top of several feet of snow during a
storm, they often find themselves in a
corral of snow, with a wall surrounding
them to a height of ten or twelve feet
when the storm clears off, being virtually
imprisoned iu a snowy prison pen, from
which escape is impossible until the
spring thaw of the season.
"Tnere lives an old miner on Canon
Creek, in Sierra County, several iniles
above Brandy City, who wa9 taking a
stroll near his cabin last winter after one
of the heavy snows, when he came across
one of these deer pens in the snow, and
there imprisoned were seventeen deer of
vnrious sizes. They were In a circular
pen of snow; with walls fifteen feet high.
Upon the man's appearance the deer be
came quite excited, and huddled together
aud dodged frcm one side ef the pen to
the other. However, as hunger came
upon them they became more docile, and
the frequent visits of the miner, with
boughs and buds from adjoining trees,
which he threw into the pen as food,
caused the deer to become regular pets,
and to watch for the visits of their pro
tector. After awhile the man placed a
I ladder in the pit, and spent a great deal
lof time in handling his pets. Occasion- |
ally he would take one out for food, as
meat became scarce, and in this way
used up several of the deer, but he lias
most of the deer yet in a state of domes
tication. It is said he has a deer ranch
in his mountain home, much after the
fashion of a cattle ranch on a small
scale."
The Appeal i 9 also informed that a
similar band of deer was found in one of
those deadly snow pits near Washington,
Nevada County, and was likewise res
cued. The streets of Downicville were
enlivened last winter by the appearance
of deer which were driven from the
mountains down to the river towns by
starvation, and domesticated by kindness
and food. As the snow has been disap
pearing many carcasses of deer have been
found where they have perished in the
deadly snow corral. The heavy and
sudden snows of the past winter have
caused fearful mortality among the deer
which did not escape to the lower
altitude.—Marysville (Cat.) Appeal.
A Struggle with a Sturgeon.
Faithful Jim is the name of an old Si wash
in the employ of Mr. W. 11. Vianen. Jim
looks after the fish-house, cleans salmon,
runs the delivery barrow, breaks ice, and
performs numerous other little duties of
an easy and pleasant nature. Faithfvd
Jim, as his name would indicate, is a
very trustworthy and honest Indian, and
he takes really a wonderful delight in
performing every one of his little duties
with an exactness aud care that would
make the eyes of the strictest disciplin
arian glitter with pride and pleasure. The
other morning a number of fat and hand
some sturgeon were landed on the slip,
apparently dead, and without the power
of motion, and Mr. Vianen ordered Jim
to curry them inside and clean tlicm. Jim
carried the first two inside and laid them
down carefully beside the water hole,
and he was just about to deposit the
third, a fifty-pounder, when the fish,
coming suddenly to life, gave a tremen
dous wriggle and almost slipped through
Jim's hands into the water hole. Faithful
Jim took a strong hold and was about to
drag it from the water, when the fish
gave another jump, causing the Biwash
to slip, and like a flash the flsh and the
man shot through tho hole into the river.
Then there was a commotion in the
depths that betokened that a gigantic
struggle was in full swing, and the loit
erers who had seen the accident felt very
anxious for Jim's safety, for they knew j
he would never let go while life remained
in his body. The terrible struggle lasted
fully a minute, aud Jim's long shaggy
hair came to the surface, swirling and
I twisting and lashing the water into
foam. Mr. Vianen seized the hair and
I drew Jim's head above water, and as he
did so the Siwash gave vent to a Squam
ish war-whoop, which startled the whole
neighborhood. "Me Faithful Jim," he
said, and sure enough when they drag
ged him out the fish was found locked in
the strong embrace of his arms, and as
peaceful as a snail, after the long strug
gle. Then Faithful Jim seized a heavy
club, and, after dancing a spocies of Si
wash war dauee over the tired sturgeon,
belabored it until life was extinct.—[New
Westminster (B. C.) Columbian.
Iceland's Hot Springs.
As to the hot springs, those in Reyk
jadal, though not the most magnificent,
arc perhups the most curious among the
numerous phenomena of this sort in Ice
land. On entering the valley you see
columns of vapor ascending from dif
ferent parts of it. There is a number of
apertures in a sort of platform of rock.
The water is at 213 degrees Fahrenheit,
and it rises two or throe feet into the air.
A river flows through the valley in the
the midst of which a jet of boiling water
issues with violence from a rock raised
but a few feet above the icy-cold water
of the river. Not far from this place is
the grotto, or cave of Surt, which is so
large that no one has penetrated to its
inner end. In forming these scenes na
ture seems to have deserted all her ordi
nary operations and to have worked only
in combining the most terrific extremes
which her powers can command. Nor is
she yet silent. After the lapse of ages
the fire of the volcano still bursts out
among regions of eternal snow, and the
impetuous thundering of the geysers con
tinues to disturb the stillncs of the sur
rounding solitude. [Murray's Mag
azine.
Georgia's Sinking Mountain,
The famous "sinking mountain" on
the Chnltonooga River makes a first-class
earthquake barometer. Although grad
ually sinking all the time, its periods of
greatest disquiets are when earthquakes
i arernekingsomeromoto part of the globe.
| When the great earthquake occurred in
: .lava a few years ago Sinking Mountain
j instantly lowered ten feet. —[St. Louis
| Republic.
THE JOKER'S BUDGET.
JESTS AND YARNS BY FUNNY
MEN OF THE PRESS.
Astonishing Development Fitzy
Tries to be Funny, — A Fair
Average Cost, Etc., Etc.
HER MOTIVE WAS ARCHITECTURAL.
Mrs. DcFash—Amy, why are you all
the time looking out of the window?
Don't you know it's not good form?
Amy—Yes, ma, but you said yourself
the other day that the front of the house
is too plain and needs some decoration
badly.—[Munsey's Weekly.
LOOKS LIKE THEM ALL.
Selby—They say that husbands and
wives grow to look like each other as
they grow older.
Ponsonby—ls that so? What a splen
did composite photograph old Plenty pop
would take, then! He's been married
nine times.—[Burlington Free Press.
TOMMY WAS RIOHT.
"I is—" began Tommy, when the
teacher interrupted him.
"That is wrong; you should say 4 1
am.'"
"All right," said Tommy. "I am the
ninth letter of the alphabet."
PAPA'S JOKE.
Youngest Son—Papa, did you throw
stones at apples when you was a boy?
Father—No; I threw a stone into a
peach tree once, and what do you think?
Sou—You broke a window!
Father—No. I knocked off a peach
and on opening it found the stone.—
[Wasp.
ASTONISHING DEVELOPMENT.
Visitor—l've not seen any of you for
ever so long. How is your little brother
comiug on, Tommy?
Tommy—First rate. He can whistle
for himself and wear my pants.—[Texas
Siftings.
AN OFF YEAR.
"Well, Uncle Israel, how did you get
on with your farming this year?"
Uncle Israel--! didn't made nothin',
marster. You see, me an' de boss was
workin' orn sheers. 1 'greed to do de
farmin' for harf de crap, an' I didn t t
make but barf a crap dis year, an' so, in |
course, I didn't git nothin'.—[Harper's
Weekly.
EASILY REMEDIED.
"Look here, Davis," exclaimed the
manager of the dime museum, aghast,
"you have made a mistake. It wasn't an
Eskimo girl I wanted for this department.
It was a Circassian girl."
"That's all right, colonel," replied the
traveling agent. 44 Ulga," he said, turn
ing to tne dusky beauty, 4 'go wash your
face and frizz your hair."—[Chicago
Times.
FITZY TRIES TO BE FUNNY.
"Ilello, Fitzy, where did you get that
black eye?"
"Oh, it was only a lovers' quarrel."
44 Lovers' quarrel! Why, your girl did
not give you that, did she?"
"No, it was her other lover."—[New
York Herald.
CORRECTED.
"Will you love me when I'm old?"
sang the maiden of uncertain age.
44 Will I?" murmured a crusty old
bachelor. "DoI?" you mean."—[Wash
ton Star.
A DESIRABLE NEIGHBORHOOD.
Cliickcring—Some of the new houses
up-town are so narrow that a piano can
not be put in.
Baus (excitedly)— You don't know the
rent of the houses next door to them, do
you?"—[Puck.
A FAIR AVERAGE COST.
Mrs. Cumso— 44 You've seen these dol
lar-dinner-bills-of-farc in the household
magazines?
Mrs. Fangle—Yes, I got one up the
other day.
"How much did it cost you?"
"Three dollars and a half."
THE BILL WENT WITH THE BIRD.
44 llow much is that canary?"
44 Ten dollars."
44 Very well. I'll take it. Send the
bill."
44 We cannot send the bill without the
rest of the bird." —[Bazar.
WEALTHY AFTER ALL.
44 Mr. Bondheavy," said the young
man, with much assurance, 44 1 have come
again to ask you for the baud of your
daughter."
4 'Didn't I tell you only last night that
my daughter should never marry the
son of a poor penchgrower?"
44 Yes," said the lover, 44 but my father
is no longer poor, lie found two baskets
of peaches in his orchard this morning,
ana "
44 Take her, my boy, and may you be
happy."—[Norristown Herald.
LEAVES.
In spring-time, when an unseen sprite,
A rose wreath in the garden weaves,
And all the skies are blue and white,
The maple leaves.
Before the winter's angry blast
In bleak December moans and grieves,
Freezing the ducks in the lakelet fast,
Then autumn leaves.
Through all the year, though dark or
clear,
From crocus-time to time of sheaves,
Though snows make drear or flowers
cheer.
The servant leaves.
—Harper's Bazar.
A REJECTED PUNBTEIt's REVENGE.
44 Clara—Miss Simpkins," he raur-j
mured, as he reached for his hat after
her declination, 44 when you think of a
little road where we used to wander be
neath the branches of the green trees, I
pray you think of me. For I am like
that little road—a lover slain; and so
he passed out of her sight.
And then she was glad she had an
swered No.—[Bazar.
WHY TOMMY WAS STARING.
Clarence (courting Miss Alice, observes
that her little toddler of a brother has
been staring at him from the drawing
room doorway quite five minutes) —Why
arc you looking at me so, Tommy?
Tommy—Waitin' for you to propose to
Alice.
Alice—Oh, Tommy, how came you to
say such a thing?
Tommy—'Cause ma said if he'd pro
pose you'd fling yourself right at him,
| an' I want to see you.
OF NO ACCOUNT.
I Miss Boanlcy— 44 Who is that Mr. St.
Paul you were with last night?"
Miss Bunkeville (contemptuously)
I Oh, he's nobody, much, he told me he
| had never been in Boston,
WITY THE ENGAGEMENT WAS BROKEN.
This was what surprised his washer
woman:
"MY DEAR GIRL: I will call for you
at 8 Sunday evening for a drive over to
the lake. Don't disappoint me.
"JIM."
And this was what surprised his "dear
girl":
"MADAME: What in thunder do you
do to my shirts that makes the bosom 9
wrinkle up so? If you can't do better
work I must go somewhere else.
"JAMES E. BLAKE."
EXCLUDING THE UNNECESSARY PART.
"You remember, Maud," began the
youth, in tremulous tones, "that you
granted my entreaty last night and"
"One moment, Harry," interposed the
young woman, sweetly; "let us go nud
sfc by the window; it is cooler." And
she led him away from the concealed
phonograph.
" That you granted my entreaty]
last night," he resumed, "and permitted j
me to kiss you. A kiss, Muud, is the
hardest thing in the world to forget. |
That kiss has been burning on my lips
ever since, and now, dearest, I have come
to ask you the old, old question. Will
you"
"It doesn't seem to be any cooler
here, Harry," again interposed the lovely
but business-like muiden, and she led the
infatuated young man back to the corner
where the hidden phonograph was work
ing away. "What were you saying,
Harry?"—[Chicago Tribune.
THE REASON.
Store is vacant,
Sign "To Let!"
Former tennant
Had to get.
He in sorrow
Sits and sighs
'Cause he didn't
Advertise.
—[New York Journal.
HIS LATEST TITLE.
Wee Wife.—Lovo you? Of course 1
do, You dear, blessed old peach crop."
Big Husband (lyving but luckless;—
Great Scott! Why this new title?
W. W.—Because you arc such a per
petual failure.—[Ycnownie's News.
PROOF OF AFFECTION.
"I wonder if McC'orkle loves his wife
much."
"He adores her! Why, he wears neck
ties that she selects for him!"— New
York Sun.
NERVOUS.
"Jane, what is the baby playing with?"
"With the Hatiron, mum."
"Goodness gracious! Take it away
from her at once. She might get it in
her mouth and swallow it!"—Norristown
Herald.
A DISOBEDIENT PATIENT.
Irute Patron—You advertise to cure
consumption, don t you?
I)r. Quack—Yes, sir. I never fail
when my instructions arc followed.
Irate Patron—My son took your medi
cine for a year, and died an hour after
the last dose.
Dr. Quack —My instructions were not
followed. I told him to take it for two
years.—[New York Weekly.
A COMFORTING ASSURANCE.
Ilnyslitt (despondently)—l don't be
lieve I have much of a wit, after all, my
friends never laugh at my jokes.
Grimmage (assuringly)—Oh, yes, they
do. They always laugh at them aftci
I you have gone out.—Burlington Free
I'rcss.
RATHER MEAN.
I She—"What a bright fellow that Jon
kins is."
I Johnson (jealous)—" He's a getting
j brighter and brighter every year. He's
letting his red beard grow."—Once a
i Week.
I
j How Dan'l Drew Did It.
I About the time that Daniel Drew be
| gan his Wall street career he was up in
I the country one time to visit some
[ friends, and two farmers called upon
him to decide a ease. One had sold the
other five bushels of wheat and proposed
to measure it in a half bushel and sweep
the top of the measure with a stick. The
other objected, and Uncle Daniel was
asked to decide.
"Well, legally speaking, a bushel is
only a bushel," he answered.
"And can the measure be swept off?"
"I think it can."
"What with?"
"Well, if I was selling wheat I should
I probably use half the head of a flour
barrel."
"Which edge of it?"
"Gentlemen, that is a point I cannot
now decide on,"sighed the old man. "If
I was selling to a widow or a preacher I
am certain that I should sweep the
measure with the straight edge, but if I
was selling to a man who pastures his
cows on the road and his pigs in his
neighbor's corn I'm afraid I should use
the circular side, and scoop a little to
boot."
Order of the Longest Rivers.
The Amazon, in South America, falls
from the Andes through a course of 2,800
miles; the Mississippi, from the Stony
Mountain, runs 2,090 miles; La Plata,
from the Andes, 2,21.1 miles: the Iloang
lio, in China, from the Tartarean chain
of mountains, is 8,260 miles ; theYangtse-
Kiang runs from the same mountains and
is 4,000 miles long; the Nile, from the
Jihel Kumri Mountains, courses 2,090
miles; the Euphrates, from Ararat, is
2,020 miles long; the Volga, from the
Valdais, is 2,100 miles; the Danube, from
the Alps, is 1,790 miles in length; the
Indus, from the Himalayas, 1,770 miles;
the Gunges runs from the same source and
is 1,0. r >o miles long; the Orinoco, from
the Andes, 1,500 miles in length; the
Niger, or Wharra, is 1,900 miles long;
the Don, the Ilneiper and the Senegal
are each over 1,000 miles in length; the
the Hhine and the Gambia are 888 miles
in extent.
Inflammable Hud,
The surroundings of Blaine are not
only superficially productive, but several
parties of experienced prospectors have
been examining the mineral indications,
which give promise of undreamed-of
richness. Coal is found on both sides
of the boundary line, from the coast bnek
to a distance of twenty-five or forty
miles, and comprised in an area of 20,000
acres or more, nnd the country is so easy
of access by a railway line that there is
but one way in which the coal will be
brought out, and that is through Blaine.
It is only necessary to be in this coal
district with one's eyes open to sec it,
nnd competent judges nfnrm it is coal
of the finest quality. Vast deposits of,
iron ore abound; in fact there is n moun
tain some miles back which is nothing
but iron ore, and oil is so much in evi
dence that a stick plunged into the
marshy land can be immediately lighted
by the application of a match.—Blaine,
| Washington, Journal.
VON MOLTKE.
THE GREAT GERMAN SOLDIER
AT HIS HOME.
An American Representative of In
ventor Edison visits the Field
Marshal with a Phonograph—Von
MoltkeatHis Wires TomU
A gentleman named Wangeman has
been traveling through Europe as Mr. Ed
ison's representative, exhibiting the great
inventor's phonograph to the crowned
heads and other important personages.
Among others Mr. Wangeman, says the
New York Sun, visited Von Moltkc, the
venerable soldier whom Germany idol
izes, and who. since he entertained Mr.
Edison's representative, has laid down
his sword and surrendered the title of
Field Marshal of the German armies.
The weight of 90 years now burdens
him, but his mind is still clear and vig
orous and his heart warm and sympa
thetic. Mr. Wangeman was unable to
accept his first invitation to visit him at
his old chateau at Greisan, and in answer
to his written apology the old soldier
telegraphed him:
"Always welcome; come when you
can."
80 late in October Mr. nnd Mrs.
Wangeman were the guests of the Count
011 his beautiful estate. The place is a
furm or park of about 2,000 acres which
Von Moltke bought in 1866, and ever
since he lias devotod much attention to
Its development and improvement. The
house is a grand old mansion, furnished
richly, but in the severe old style, and all
the surroundings seem peculiarly adapted
to the lonely old man for whom they
exist. It is a strange spot. The visitor
to the chateau encounters one of the
oldest but most beautiful bits of land
scape imaginable. The mansion is upon
a thickly-wooded hill, high and impos
ing. All of the trees arc of artificial
planting. Many of them were set out by
Count Von Moltke's own hands. By ar
ranging the trees according to the color
of their foliage he has produced a strik
ing effect. At the base the lenves of all
the trees are of the lightest green. As
the ascent rises the shade darkens grad
ually and the foliage becomes more
dense, until at the top, surrounding the
site of the chateau and other buildings,
the leaves are of the most sombre hue.
The drive through the shaded avenue to
the house, with the shadows becoming
blacker and more dense until the sudden
burst of sunlight at the end produces al
most an uncanny impression.
Von Moltke came into the hall to givo
bis guests a courtly pcrsonul welcome.
Although of greater years than Bismarck,
he seems to possess groater strength and
vitality. He is a sad old man. He has
never ceased to mourn the loss of his
wife, who died twenty years ago, and
the fact that he is childless adds to his
loneliness. But he is not the taciturn,
silent man he has sometimes been repre
lented. lle is an easy entertainer and a
fluent linguist. Much of the time he
chatted with his visitors in English.
There were at the chateau at the time
three of the Count's nephew's, one of
whom is to be his heir, and their wives,
and four or five of the high officers of the
army.
After luncheon there was a pleasant
social hour, during which Von Moltke
displayed some of his most prized
mementos. Prominent among these was
the sword presented to him by the ladies
of Baltimore, which hangs in a conspicu
ous place in his library. Presently,
stepping to one of the long open windows
in the drawing-room, VOll Moltke rang u
large bell. At the signal, there quickly
flew from all directions a great flock of
pheasants, tame as chickens, and waiting
to be fed. The Count threw them some
grain nnd spoke fondly of his pets as lie
watched thein gather it up. When the
phonograph was set up there was the
same unbounded interest in its wonders
that all others had shown. The old
soldier's tribute to it was thus expressed
011 one of its waxen cylinders to be sent
to Mr. Edison:
"This invention of yours is indeed
marvelous. It enables a man who is
buried to appear once more out of his
grave and greet with his voice the
present,"
To tins he added a few lines from Faust
and supplemented them with other words
of his own. The entertainment lasted
some hours, and was abaudoned with
much regret. Finally, all the members of
the company repeated together into the
phonograph the first lines of the national
iiyran, to note the faithful reproduction
of the difference in the voices. As five
o'clock approached, Von Moltkc asked
his guests if they would walk iu the park
on the cre-t of the hill. The others knew
what the invitation meant, but Mr. und
Mrs. Wangeman supposed it signified
nothing more than the words implied.
The party strolled out and for a few
moments admired the magnificent view
of the rich country roundabout. Their
steps took them finally toward a little
stone chapel set in the midst of a close
bank of trees of darkest foliage, which
surround It on all but one side. The
entrance faced the unobscurcd setting
sun. The little chapel is the tomb of
Von Moltke's wife, and there he expects
soon to be laid by her side. To this
sepulchre the old man goes faithfully
every afternoon, and stands for a few
minutes at the entrance in silent medita
tion.
As the party approached the spot they
stopped reverently some little distance
away, and Von Moltke went 011 lone.
He was wrapped in a long military cloak
and his slouch hat was pulled down so
that it half concealed his face. lie strode
slowly to the entrance of the mortuary
chapel, and stood there with bowed
head and folded arms. The silent, soli
tary figure of the grim old soldier seemed
to await with resignation the coming of
the only enemy he must fail to vanquish.
There was a pathetic grandeur in the at
titude of the great commander, standing
there in silent communion with death,
which his martial figure as victor upon
the world's greatest battlefields had never
possessed. The campaigns of earth were
behind him and forgotten, and as he
stood striving to pierce the veil soon to
be torn aside which separated him from
her whose companionship had been to
him the sweetest thing in life, the sight
was one almost too sacred for mortal
eyes.
For some minutes 110 one moved.
Then Mr. Wangeman turned and plucked
a twig as a memento of the spot and
scene aud put in his purse. Von Moltke's
reverie had ended and lie noticed the act.
The implied sympathy touched him, fur
with tears in his eyes he went to Mr.
Wangeman's side and silently pressed his
hand. Then he led the way down the
other side of the hill by a path so heavily
arched with trees that the gloom of deep
twilight is perpetual. But half way down
the incline there was a sudden hurst of
splendor. The path by a sharp turn
brought them in quick contrast from the
darkness of the pines into full view of a
broad and fertile valley bathed in the
soft light of the setting suu. The
transformation, both physical and mental,
was almost startling. " The experience
nwmed designed to typify Bunyan's de
scription of the passage through the Val
ley of the Shadow of Death, and certain
ly the glories of the sudden emerging on
that October afternoon were as grand as
any terrestrial type could afford.
Von Moltke said afterward about the
striking situation of the mortuary chapel
and its surroundings: "When people
come to visit my grave, I want them to
have something beautiful to look at."
The evening at the chateau was passed
in a variety of amusements. Von Moltke
and three "of the Prussian Generals in
dulged in a rubber at whist. Some of
the younger members of the party for a
joke got the phonograph to record all
the frequent remarks of the players with
out their knowledge. When the game
was over they were called to the phono
graph, and very much to their astonish
ment it repeated all the conversation ac
companying the play. The phonograph,
in the role of an eavesdropper, seemed to
impress them as a dangerous thing to
have around.
Another day was pleasantly passed at
the home of the great warrior, and then
Mr. Wangeman and his wife paid a brief
visit to Von Kulinitz, a nephew of Von
Moltke, at Breslau. From there the
phonograph was taken to Vienna, where
it made as great a furor as at the German
capital and at Paris.
His First Thousand Dollars.
While Luther Laflin Mills was going
through some old papers the other day
he found a very interesting document
from the pen of the lamented Emory A.
Storrs, which is reproduced below:
"I do not know exactly what called
for'h these utterances from Mr. Storrs,"
said Mr. Mills, "but I apprehend that
they were in reply to some young man
who wrote the brilliant lawyer for ad
vice as to the best way of investing a
sum of money which he had in his pos
session."
The manuscript is as follows:
"There are several answers to your
question:
"One boy takes his SI,OOO, spends it
cither in foreign travel or in the cultiva
tion and improvement of his mind and
manners at home. At the age of 81, if
he is consistent in this course, he has
laid the foundation for u long career of
usefulness and honor, and, whatever at
his death his bank account may be, he
has achieved something for the good of
mankind for which the world will al
ways gratefully remember him. The
high spirit, the clear head, the sharp
intellectual discrimination between right
and wrong which his travel, culture and
education have given him is a capital as
much better than bank stock as gold is
better than brass. No reverses of for
tune can take it. from him. No financial
Ennics can rob him of it. It is his and
is children's forever.
' 'The other boy lays up his $ 1,000; he
doubles it; he trebles it. What of it!
What kind of a man is he at the age of
31? The mere money-getter is the sor
riest spectacle on God's green earth.
Leisure is dreadful to him. He leaves
nothing behind him but money, and that
his children waste. The glory of this
world is not in corner lots nor bank
stocks. No great man whom the world
to-day reverences is remembered because
he was rich. The saddest spectacle on
this earth is that of a man dying on his
pile of greenbacks, which he cannot
carry with him, while his legatees are
counting his coin even as the breath es
capes from his body.
"But suppose that your saving boy
loses his stock; suppose, as often hap
pens, tluougk no fault of his, values are
melted away. Where is he then? A
' bankrupt, hopelessly and irretrievably
| ruined.
| "Which shall the rich man's daughter
marry? I answer that the man of cul
' tured mind and that broad aud liberal
spirit which travel nnd education give
I cares but little übout it. If the father
| desires to sell his daughter, that is his
| business - und his daughter's. She may
! start by marrying the compound interest
I chap in a palace, but statistics show that
in ninety-nine enses out of one hundred
j she will wind up in a hovel. The father
j of this daughter can take his choice,
i "Finally, 110 men recognize the worth,
value and splendor of strong native busi
ness genius half so much as educated
men. Don't despise nor under rate it.
It will always help you. It will never
hurt you. Stocks and cash aud corner
lots are well, but they are not all that
there is of this world, nor nearly all. Our
great men have lived without thorn and
died without them, but the world loves
them still. Croesus was very rich, but
the generations of 3,000 years have de
spised him. Socrates was wretchedly
p >or, but for 2,000 years the world has
loved hiin. You buy and sell cattle and
are at liberty to do so because of what
he taught 2,000 years ago."—Chicago
News.
Hereditary Tufts of White Hair.
Every one who knows Mr. Whistlei
knows Mr. Whistler's white tuft, which
is as much part of the man as his butter
fly is part of his writings. "Attention
may be drawn," snys the British Medical
Journal, "to a remarkable example of n
similar peculiarity which was published
last year by M. E. Pascal in the Univers
I Illustre. In an old Limousin family
I with which that gentlemen is acquainted
! nearly all the members, both male nnd
female, have from thoir earliest youth a
i tuft of perfectly white hair, such as
i adorns the head of a well known London
' artist. This tuft is generally situated
j over the brow, but sometimes it is on the
! temple and more rarely at the hack of
j the head. The family has been famous
! fur this distinctive mark in its own part
of the country for 800 years, and they
are said to be as proud of it as Hedgaunt
let was of the hereditary horseshoe vein
on his forehead. The white lock, which
can be seen in the family portraits for
; many generations bnck, is said to be
i rather becoming, even to the young
! women of the line."
A Curious Aneesthetio.
A curious anaesthetic used by the Chi
nese has recently been made known. It
1 's obtained by placing a frog in a jar of
i flour aud irritating it by prodding it.
j Under these circumstances it excludes a
[ liquid which forms a paste with the flour.
i This paste, dissolved in water, has well
marked anesthetic properties. After tlio
i finger has been immersed in the liqnid it
| can be cut to the bone without any pain
| being felt. —| Times-Democrat.
To Remove the Smell of Paint.
j The best way to remove the suicll of
! paint is to first render the room as nearly
I as possible air-tight by closing the iviu
| dows, doors and other openings. Place
1 a vessel of lighted charcoal in the room,
: and throw on it two or three handfuls of
; juniper berries. After twenty-four hours
; the smell will have entirely disappeared.
; Another method of doing the same thing
j is to plunge a handful of new hay into a
pail of water and let it stand in the newly
painted room.— [Boston Cultivator,