LAUCH IT AWAY.
Don't put on your fnr-off glasses hunting
lions in the way,
Don't go probing 'round for troubles—just
ignore them, day by day.
Don't go sighing: "\es, 'tis pleasant just
at present, but—ah me!
There's the sorrow of to-morrow—where
will all our sunshine be?"
If the worst is in the future and has been
there all the while.
iWe can keeD it there by laughing till we
make the others smile.
If the worst is in the future, let it stay
there; for we know
That to-morrow's always threatening to
bring us so-and-so;
But to-morrow with its sorrow never
comes within our gaze,
For all time is just a pageant of these
busy old to-days.
Let the worst stay in the future where it
has been, all the while!
We can keep it there by laughing till the
others start to smile.
A TRAGEDY IN A TUNNEL
THE night express was making
its customary pause at Gran
tham station while the en
(j gines were changed for the
next long run, 100 miles, to York.
It was not a crowded train, as I
easily perceived when I alighted with
the rest to stretch my legs. Most of
the passengers had turned out, too, and
we lounged about, staring at each
other without keen interest until time
.was up and the sharp cries of "Take
your seats," "Now for the North," sent
us back to our carriages.
I had a compartment to myself, and
I regained it without paying particular
attention to those nearest mo, save In
the vague, unconscious fashion that
would hardly serve for later recogni
tion. One man I noticed in the next
carriage—he and I alone were travel
ing "first," at any rate, in that part of
the train—but do not think I should
have known him again but for his
traveling cap with the lappets tied
under his chin and his loose ulster
with a cape—distinct facts In his ap
pearance, although they made little
impression on me at the time.
Then another matter claimed my
notice. There were sudden cries,
"Now, sir, now! If you're going on,
look sharp, sir, please." I sow a man,
ti laggard, hurrying down the plat
form, puffing breathlessly in evident
distress, as though the pace was too
great for him.
He made straight for where I sat,
k b)jt stopped one compartment short of
mine, aud as the train was already
movjng tliCjr hustled him lii neck and
cT'uff; the signal Was gK'cfl, -"Right,"
the whistle souuded, the engine driver
blgw o vesponiie, and we steamed,
nuead full speed.
I felt rather (Concerned about this
neighbor and late arrival. His white
face, bis slaving eyeballs and hanging
Tongue tola of great physical exhaus
tion, and I fancied that I heard a
groan as he tumbled into bis carriage.
Evidently lie bad run it very close—
had come upon the platform nt the
very last moment, and bad all but
missed bis train, rie had only just
joined it, of that I felt sure, for I had
not observed him on our departure
from King's Cross nor here at Gran
tham. Why had he been so anxious
to save his passage and such peril to
himself? For he was ill—l made sure
he was ill—so sure that I threw down
my window and, leaning out, shouted
to the next compartment, asking if
anything was wrong.
No answer came, or it was lost in the
rattle and turmoil of the express.
jOnee again I called out, having no
certainty that I could be heard, but
certain nt last that I heard no reply.
Why should I worry further? TlTe
next compartment was not empty, thai
I jiinejf. Jf tiip newcqmer wag really
til and wanted help lie could get it
from his traveling companion, the man
in the loose ulster and cap tied under
his chin, whom I believed to be in the
carriage with him. So I dismissed the
matter from my mind and sank back
jinjpng tlie fashions of my seat to rest
and be satisfied.
„ I must have dozed off, but ouly for
n minute or two as I though, and I
seemed to be still asleep and dreaming
when again I heard a groan in tlie
next carriage. It was a perfectly vivid
and distinct impression, as half wak
ing dreams so often are. I could not
at the moment say whether what fol
lowed was reality or a figment also
of my drowsy brain. What I heard
I have said was a groan fraught with
keen anguish; what I saw was quite
ns clear, but still more extraordinary
arid unaccountable.
The train bad slowed down and was
almost at a standstill. We were in a
tunnel; the lamps in the carriages
threw a strong light upon tlie brick
Walls and reflected all that was going
On in the compartmtnt next mine
(none of the others near had any occu
pant).
But in this the adjoining compart
ment two figures stood out plainly—
men's figures, and one held tlie other
closely in his arms. More than this
I rould not make out. I saw it clearly,
although hut a brief space only, a few
seconds of time, for now the train
moved on rapidly with increasing
speed, and we ran out of the tunnel.
The reflected scene of course disap
peared at once as completely as though
Wiped off a slate.
There was trouble next door, of what
nature it was Impossible to guess, but
I felt that it must be ascertained forth
with. If It was a ease of serious ill
ness then tlie one hale man would
surely ring tlie alarm bell and seek
assistance for the other; If it was foul
play he would make no sign, and it
then became my bounden duty to in
terpose without delay.
These thoughts flashed quickly
When we look toward the sunset in the
gorgeous afterglow.
Let us thank the blessed Father for the
things we do not know;
Let us thank llim with all fervency that
lie has never sent
Any burden quite unbearable; that while
our backs have bent
Underneath the load, we've had His arms
about us all the while—
Let us laugh away the trouble though our
eyes are dimmed with tears;
Let us laugh away our troublos though our
eyes are dimmed with tears;
Let us laugh away the heartaches and the
worries and the fears;
Just "be good and you'll be happy"—if
you're happy, you'll be good;
For the rule's so double-acting that it's
seldom understood.
O, there is no future coming with a lot of
trouble in—
We can fight it off by laughing till the
others start to grin!
—S. W. Gillilan, in Los Angeles Herald.
through my mind, aud it seemed an
age while I waited to resolve my
doubts. I'robably no more than a few
seconds elapsed before I put my hand
to the sigual and stopped the train.
I was first to get out, and hardly wait
ing the stoppage I clambered along the
footboard und stood upon it, looking
into the carriage.
No cue was to be seen within.
"Quick, quick!" I cried to the guard
when he came up. "In here. Some
thing has happened. There is a man
sick; I fear he has fainted. He wasn't
alone, but I cannot see the other man."
Now the carriage door was opened
and disclosed a body lying recumbent,
inert, in a strangely stiff, haphazard
fashion on the floor. The guard
stooped down, waving his lantern over
the white, drawn face and moving the
body gently on one side.
"All up with him, I expect. Run,
somebody, along the train and see if
there's a doctor aboard. And you, sir,
what do you kuow of this?"
I described what I had heard or
though I had heard and seen, including
the glimpse reflected in the tunnel.
"You must have beeu dreamiug or
you're inventing," was the guard's
rather abrupt comment. "Couldn't
have seen anything like that—'tain't
possible. And how comes it you know
such a lot about it? You tell us, too,
there was another man in the carriage
—what's become of him? A fine
story!"
"Would I have given the alarm if
I was implicated in any way?" I an
swered hotly. "Don't he a fool,
gupi."
T!?? guard would have answered me
rudely, 110 doubt, but nt that moment
a doctor appeared upon tlif scene.
"The man is dead—beyond all ques
tion ilead," he said at the very first
giajj.ee. _
"And the cause of death?" I asked
eagerly, while the guard frowned at
mo as though I were making myself
Too busy. "Are there auy marks of
foul play?"
"None visible,' replied the doctor
after a brief examination. "I should
say it was heart, but I cannot be
certain till I have looked further."
"Which you can do somewhere else
and better than here," interposed the
guard. "We've lost too much time
already. I must push on to York and
report there. This is too big a job for
me."
"You had better go back to Grant
ham," I protested. "It's quite close
not half a dozen miles."
"I dou't want you to teach me my
duty, and I'm not going. I've got first
of all Jo keep time. Why should I go
b'aelti"
"To identify the dead man—he got
in at Grantham—and to give informa
tion as to tljg mail who got out."
lioaii!" crie3 tlie gttflrd. *%here
was ito man—no one Hut yourself, and
you've got to come along.with nie, and
—that"—lie pointed to the corpse—"on
to York."
"I certainly shall not go on with the
train. I shall go back to Grantham
alone. There is no time to be lost.
The other mail—"
I thought the guard would have
struck me. lie was obviously ready
lo lay violent hands 011 me, and he re
peated 'lhat he meant to take me on
to York, if necessary by force.
"You've no authority. Y'ou're not a
police officer, and 1 am, or as good, for
I am a government official. Here is
my card. Let there he an end of this.
I think you arc wrong in going on, but
at any rate 1 shall walk back to Grant
ham by the line. Be so good as to
look alter my things in the next com
partment," and with thut I alighted
and left the guard rather crestfallen.
Within a few minutes, walking rap
idly, I re-entered the tunnel which had
been the scone of the strange incident,
and in less than half an hour I reached
the station. It was dimly lighted, for
the next express train, the 12.00 "up,"
was nearly due, and there were several
officials upou the platform.
I went up to one, an inspector, and
briefly told him what had happened.
"Dear, dear! Of course. I remem
ber. That was Mr. Erasmus Batoman.
He belongs here—a rich man, greatly
respected; Ims tlie big stores In High
street. He was in a hurry to catch
that train, for he was going down to
night for the great timber auction nt
Hull to-morrow. He buys a lot for his
furniture factory—that Is, he did, I
suppose I ought to say. Poor Mr.
Bateman! He was heavy, overfat for
his age, and he ought not to have run
so fast."
"Would lie be likely to have much
money on him?" I asked.
"Why, yes; likely enough. He was
hiR own buyer, and he always bought
for cash."
I Here was a motive for foul play. I
saw the disappearance of this second
passenger explained. Bateman had
died suddenly almost In the other
man's arms.
If evilly disposed It would he hut the
matter of a moment for the latter to
get possession of purse and pocket
book and all valuables—everything, in
fact—and make off, leaving the car
riage at once, even at the risk of his
life.
It was a pretty, a plausible theory
enough, and I put it before the inspect
or with the whole of the facts.
"I'm Inclined to agree with you, sir,
always supposing there was any such
man," he replied. "Your tunnel story
Is a big mouthful to swallow."
"There he goes," I whispered, clutch
ing at the arm and point
ing to the tails of a check ulster dis
appearing into the booking office. "He
must not see me; he might recognize
me as having been in the north ex
press. But go—sharp's the word. Find
out where he's booking to and take a
ticket for me to the same place. Hero
are a couple of sovereigns. You'll And
me in the waiting room."
He came to me there, bringing a
ticket for King's Cross, the other
man's destination.
"Traveling up, no doubt, by the 12.00
midnight express, due in London at
2.40. Mark you now, Inspector, I want
you to telegraph to Scotland Yard and
nsk them to hnve a detective on the
arrival platform to watch for our
gentleman in check ulster and llap
cape and stop him.
"Mention my name; tell the office to
look out for me, and we'll arrange fur
ther together."
An electric bell sounded in the sig
nal box and the inspector cried; "Here
she comes! You wait, sir, till the last.
I'll mark the ulster down to his car
riage and I'll put you the next door.
You must be on the lookout at Peter
borough and Finsbury Park. He might
get off at one of those stations."
"No fear," I said, as I got into the
carriage with a parting injunction to
the inspector that he had better tele
graph also to York, giving the de
ceased's nnme, and Inform his rela
tions in Grantham.
My man In the ulster did not move
on the way to town. I was continu
ally on the lookout, alert and wakeful,
(Watching in every tunnel we passed
through for some corroboration of my
former experience. In the flying train
probably at this time of night every
one hut myself was sound asleep. Tho
lights were certainly reflected onto the
brick walls, but no action or incident.
Nevertheless, I was now quite con
vinced that I had made no mistake as
to what I had seen.
I was close behind the check ulster
directly its wearer alighted. So was
my friend Mountstuart, the detective,
to whqm i as he ranged alongside, I
whispered:
"2'ako him straight to the nearest
I will charge him there with
robbery from the person. Mind lie
does not sling (throw away) any stuff."
Except for my caution I believe he
would have got rid of a fat, bulky
pocketbook, but Mountstuart caught
him in the act and took it from hi 3
hand. He began to bluster, shouting
"What does this mean? How dare you
interefer with me? Who are you?"
"You will hear soon enough," said
Mountstuart, quietly. "In with you.
We are going to Portland road."
I never saw a man so dumbfounded.
He was a dark-eyed, lantern jawed,
cadaverous looking, and ho was shiver
ing, no doubt with the sudden shock of
his unexpected arrest. He gave his
name at the station as Gregory Car.-
stairs, a commercial traveler, and It
came out that 119 had had business
dealings with Mr. Bateffian. tGo
temptation bad been irresistible when
lie held the dead mnn in liis arms to
search and despoil bim. He thought
it was quite safe; no once could knorv
of bis presence in the carriage, and
tlie sudden death would be attributed
to natural causes.
IBs possession of tlie stolen property
was enough to secure liis conviction for
theft, the only charge pressed, for
death ha.d veglly been frojn heart
failure. My evidence as to what I had
seen was heard in court, and heard
with mixed feeling in which incredul
ity predominated. The judge and some
others were sufficiently interested,
however, to put my statement to tho
test by actual experiment on the Un
derground Railway, and the fact of
the telltale reflection was triumphantly
proved.
The next time I met the guard of
that night express lie was very crest
fallen nnd admitted that he had made
an ass of himself.—Tho Tatler.
Family Troubles.
The stories of strangely mixed pro
nouns are many. A new one is told by
a young woman who heard It from the
lips of a New Hampshire veteran dur
ing the past summer.
"Tlie trouble betwixt Martin Hobbs
and bis bride wa'n't really betwixt the
two of 'em," said this aueient gossip.
"Tlie trouble all come because she
couldn't get along with his old father,
and he couldn't get along with his new
mother; and then her sister put in a
finger, and said she wa'n't going to
have anything to do with a nephew
that acted as he did, and ills brother,
he said he'd got nieces enough without
another one added, and he never spoke
to her from the day she held out
against bis father. So they two moved
away, and left the old folks to settle it
betwixt 'cm; and now it's all settled,
for lie died and she's married again,
and the young folks are bnek at his
home with nobody to bother 'cm."
"That's very fortunate," said the be
wildered listener.
"Yes, 'tis so," said the old man.
"when you consider that they wa'n't
really to blame, but just she couldn't
get along with him, nor he with her."—
Youth's Companiou.
No fewer than 30.000 English women
live on canal boats.
j AGRICDLTDRAL.•S
Accumulation or Fertility In Soils.
When docs the farmer make a profit?
There are hundreds of farmers who
have become wealthy, yet they have
handled very little money and have
had difficulty in meeting their obliga
tions. There is one bank account
which they do not draw upon, and the
deposits accumulate for years, which
is the soil. A farmer takes a poor
farm, works it, adds manure and re
ceives l/jt little over expenses, but
every year his farm has become more
fertile and also increased in value. In
ten or more years the farm may be
worth five times the original cost, and
it represents just as much profit as
though the farmer had received money.
All farms are, to a certain extent,
banks of deposit, where the profits of
the farm slowly accumulate.
An Excellent Farm Crop.
Alfalfa is one of the best crops for
forage, hay or clover. Its successful
establishment requires that the surface
soil shall be well supplied with the
mineral elements, lime, phosphoric
acid and potash. During the early
growth of the crop weeds should be
frequently cut. The crops should be
harvested, preferably before the plants
are in bloom. The average yield of
green forage per acre at tlie New Jer
sey experiment station for three years,
including the first year, was 18.27 tons,
equivalent to 4.57 tons of hay. The
j-ield tlie third year from live cuttings
was 2G.G tons of green forage, equiva
lent to G.CS tons of hay, costing $3.09
per ton.
A feeding experiment showed that
the protein in alfalfa hay could be suc
cessfully and profitably substituted In
a ration for dairy cows for that con
tained in wheat bran and dried brew
ers' grain, and for this purpose is
worth sll.lO per ton, when compared
with wheat bran and dried brewers'
grains at sl7 per ton.—C. B. Lane, of
the New Jersey Agricultural College.
A Winter Poultry House Window.
Hen houses are cold at night in win
ter because of loose windows, and he
cause glass quickly radiates heat. The
curtain shown in the cut obviates both
difficulties. It stops drafts and pre
vents radiation. It is made to slide be
neath side pieces, since this keeps air
Tgr
A WINEOW CURTAIN.
from leaking in at the edges of the
curtain. It hangs down below the win
dow during the day, and at night Is
raised up to the hook above tlie win
dow. Use closely woven burlap and
nail a lath at the top to hold the ring,
nnd to keep the upper edge close to the
window casing.—New England Home-
Stead.
jv-Mi'"'"
Fresh Air For the Cows.
Our forefathers used to believe In and
practice the "toughening process" in
connection with tho management of
their milch cows—that is, they kept
cows in loosely boarded stables, where
cracks and seams yawned and knot
holes opened, admitting cold, wintry
winds, rains and snows. Then they
turned out the cows a large part of tlie
day even in chilly fall and winter
Weather. Exposure was tho order of
the day. Happily, now we realize the
mistakes of such methods; wo know
that cows require reasonable warmth
and comfort in order to do their best
at milk production. Warm, tight cow
barns are now the order of the day,
but the trouble is some of us have in
clined too far in the opposite direc
tion. Some of our intelligent dairy
men advocate and practice close
stabling of cows all winter, going to
such extremes as never turning their
cows out of the bnrn once from fall
to summer.
I cannot refrain from condemning
such an unwarranted procedure as
radically and diametrically opposed to
every dictate of reason and common
sense, as well as hostile to all physio
logical law. The cow, in common with
oil domestic animals, is dependent upon
sun and air for life and health. Vigor
and constitution in dairy herds cannot
be maintained save by an abundance
of pure oxygen laden air being always
maintained for breathing. Inside air,
even under tho most perfect ventilat
ing systems yet attained, is never like
outside air. It lacks the tonic, bracing,
invigorating qualities of heaven's pure
ozone. There is nothing like the great
outdoors. I want to Impress upon cow
owners tlie vital importance of tlie
open barnyard or the field, where for
an hour or more, nccording to tlie
weather, even in tlie dead of winter,
the cows may obtain their daily con
stitutional.
This barnyard should bo built in a
protected, sheltered place, where cold
north and west winds can be ex
cluded, either by buildings, hedges or
high, tight board fences. The exposure
of the barnyard shoukl bo such as to
admit a maximum of tlie rays of the
sun from the south and a minimum of
cold nnd wind. Few days there are
when the cows cannot take at least a
short stroll in such a yard, especially
If it be provided with a roof over It. A
little outdoor exercise will always rc
suit in a quickened blood circulation,
great activity in the digestive and milk
secretory organs and increased nervous
energy, so essential to a prime dairy
cow.—M. Sumner I'erkins, in New York
Tribune Farmer.
Skillful Device For Hydraulic Rani.
The ingenious apparatus shown in
the illustration is the work of a iiftecn
year-old boy, Michael E. Pue, of Mary
land. It is made of materials found
f£|
CISTERN AND FLOAT.
about the farm workshop, and took the
enterprising lad about one day to put
it up. He says he hopes it will be of
use to somebody else and sends his
plans for publication. As the drawings
show, it is a stopper and starter for
hydraulic ram.
When the cistern, a, fills, the float, b,
raises and the weight, f, is lowered un
til it touches the piston, h, starting the
ram. The water flows out of the cistern
and the float, b, is lowered, raising the
weight, f, which is lighter than b.
When the water in cistern gets low, f
catches on d, lifting the rod, g, stop
ping the piston, h. The operation is
repeated until the cistern is refilled.
The construction consists of an ordi
—IIZDCZD [czicijd i
RAM ATTACHMENT,
nary ram, two two-inch pulley wheels
and two supports for same; a twelve
pound lead weight, f, with half-inch
hole through centre, working on a four
foot quarter-inch rod, g, with loop at
end; a float, b, consisting of a box or
keg containing six two-quart empty
corked bottles. A chain or rope is at
tached to the weight, f, and the float,
b, passes over the pulleys and is con
nected by a copper wire.—American
Agriculturist.
Tho Surplus on the Farm*
Tile surplus on the farm represents
the produce of various kinds that has
been set aside for sale, after the usual
or normal requirements demanded for
tlie successful operation of the farm
are provided. This surplus may be a
part of almost every crop grown on the
farm, a portion of the live stock, fruits,
etc. The farm, in order to be made a
profitable investment, must produce a
surplus, and this surplus be of suffi
cient commercial importance to return
a revenue above the operating cost,
when all features of expense are reck
oned in tlie account. It is not sufficient
that the farm pay the living expenses
of the fnrmer and his family and keep
up the operating expenses of the farm.
Tills may, under adverse crop condi
tions, be accepted as a good compro
mise, but the average annual settle
ment with the farm must show a good
balance in the sale of the farm surplus.
The farm should be regarded as an
investment of so much capital in busi
ness, and the operation of the farm
placed upon a basis of profit that will
yield a certain per cent, upon the capi
tal employed, when all expenses of op
crating are paid. More system should
be introduced into tlie management
of the farm. The slipshod, hit or miss,
unmethodical way of conducting the
farm that is In practice among many
farmers is responsible for the mort
gages and lack of profit in farming,
where prosperity docs not exist. Hard
work alone will not mnke farming
profitable. Hard work is an important
factor in successful farming, as almost
every prosperous farmer will testify to,
but good business management is just
as important, and possibly more so.
Hard work and good business manage
ment combined have never been known
to make a failure in farming. The
greatest surplus comes from the well
managed farms.
The season for closing tlie general
accounts witli the farm is approaching;
the autumn season brings with it the
maturing of all crops, the culling of
the flocks and herds, and the sale of
the surplus from these various sources
of revenue. In live stock, it is particu
larly important that no unnecessary
loss be permitted through neglect or
exposure to the changing conditions of
weather, that the fall season is soon to
introduce. The surplus farm stock
should go into tho feed lot, or to the
local or general market, in order to
make room for the producing animals
that are to be the means of production
In keeping up the animal produce of the
farm.
A systematic marketing of all the
surplus products of the farm is just
as important and essential as the pro
duction of them. This surplus may be
said to represent tlie year's business in
farm management. By economy, in
dustry and a close observance of busi
ness methods on the farm, tlie surplus
Is made to increase in amount and
value, and the farm become a greater
uieaDs of income.—Nebraska Farmer.
A LITTLE HINT FROM NATURE.
Oh, de rain it come a-fallin'
An' de clouds is mighty black.
An' de lightnin' staht a-shootin
An' you hyuh de thunder crack:
An' you hyuh de stohm a-braggin'
As it comes a-sweepin' pas':
"I reckons, Mistuh Sunshine,
■ We has done you up at las'." i
But de sunshine come a-laughin',
Jus' as cheerful as befo';
De chillun clap deir han's to see
Him shinin' at de do'.
So keep yoh temper, honey, . .
Yob manners try to mend,
'Case sunshine alius gwine ta win I
De victory in de end.
—Washington Star.
Richley—"l ant the architect of my
own fortune." Hichley—"Aren't yoti
afraid of a visit from the building in
spector?"— Town and Country.
To err is human, wise men say;
You surely cannot doubt it;
And e'en more human is the way
We err, and lie about it.
—Philadelphia Record. *'
"Greatman habitually wears a pained
expression." "Yes; he always looks
as if lie had accidentally sat down on
the pinnacle of fame."—Harper's Ba- ,
zar. A
Bit tie Willie—"Say, pa, what's abil- -
ity?" Pa—"Ability, ray son, is the art
of knowing how you know without
letting others know it."—Chicago
News.
Caspar—"Among the ancient doctors
bleeding the patient was the lirst op
eration in treating a case." Charlie—
"And now it's the last,"—Harvard
Lampoon.
Mnrmaduke—"Did your physician
give you a diagnosis of your disease?"
Mallory—"Yes; he said I had a bad
case of high living and no thinking."—
Detroit Free Press.
Tom—"Do you think your cousin
Julia would marry me if 1 asked her?"
Jack—"Well, I have always considered
her a sensible sort of girl—still, she
might."—Chicago News.
"Why did you laugh at his joke? It v.
was not funny." "I know it. But if ™
I did not laugh he would think I did
not see the point and would tell it
again."—Brooklyn Life.
First Fusser —"What do you see at
tractive in that girl, anyhow?" Sec
oud Ditto—"Why, man; her hair."
First Ditto—"Oh: I see. Just capil
lary attraction."— Yale Record.
The automohilist serene,
Some caution won't despise;
He takes along some gasoline
And arnica likewise.
—Washington Star.
"Is this, then, to be the end of our
romance?" he asked. "No," she an
swered. "My lawyer will call on you
In the morning. I have a bushel and a
half of your letters."—Chicago Record-
Herald.
"Yes, he takes a great interest in
prison work. He has been familiar
with the inside of so many of
"Indeed! As a criminal?" "Not e& f
actly. As an automobillst."—Cleveland
Plain Dealer.
Cobwiggcr—"l would prefer a liter
ary life, but as I have business ability
I owe it to myself to go into trade."
Merritt—"lf you have the business in
stinct you can make more money at lit
erature than at anything else."—Judge.
Wederly—"What makes you think
the widow who has Just moved in next
door is childless?" Mrs. Wederly—"l
was talking to her across the back
fence to-day, and she told me how I
ought to raise my little girl."—Chicago
News.
"Mr. Gotrox," began the nervous
young man, "I—er—that is,your daugh
ter is the—er—apple of- my eye,
and " "That will do, young man,"
interrupted the granite-hearted pareut.
"Here's $5 for you; go consult an
oculist."— Chicago News. \
Clarence "I wish I had lots of
money." Uncle Ilenry—"lf one could
get what he wished for, I think I
should wish for common sense; not
for money." Clarence "Naturally
everybody wishes for what he hasn't
goL"—Boston Transcript.
Letters Mark Twain Gets.
Mark Twuin Is long suffering in the
matter of a correspondence loaded with
requests for favors from unknown peo
ple. He has consequently received the
impression that when people find time
hanging heavily on their hands they
sit down and write a letter to him ask
ing for something. These requests are
always preceded by profuse compli
ments. "In my judgment," said Mark
Twain recently, "no compliment has
the slightest value when It is charged
for, yet I never get one unaccompanied
by tile bill." The latest letter he has
received is somewhat in the nature of
a climax to those that have gone be
fore. A schoolteacher asks for his por
trait in oil. "There is nothing we
would appreciate so much," wrote this
admirer, with true naivete. "It could
be used for years and years in the
school." But the fact that it would
cost the author SIOOO or so entered no
where into the enthusiastic brain of
the correspondent.
The Ace of Admirals.
lord Charles Berosford has raised
another little breeze in England by
protesting that officers In the British
Navy are promoted to be admirals
when too old to hold that rank. Of
the twelve officers holding the rank of
admiral or vice-admiral only three of
them are below the ago of sixty, one
admiral being fifty-nine and two vice
admirals being fifty-seven and fifty
five, respectively. Nelson was only
forty-seven when he won at Trafalgar.
Lord Beresford points out that Ger
many has much younger men in these
exalted places, and he asserts with Na
poleon that at "sixty years, one is good
for nothing."