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VOL. XIV.
THE TIMES.
an Independent Family Newspaper,
IS PUBLISHED ITBRT TUESDAY BT
F. MORTIMER & CO.
0
teimih'i
invariably in advance.
One yar (Postage Free) tl BO
Hlx Months " " 81)
To Subscribers in this County
Who pay In Advance. aPlscount of 25 Cents will
be made from the above terms, making
subscription within the County,
When Paid In AUTance, 91.25 Per Year.
Advertising rates furnished uponappll
catlon. $eledt "Poeti'y.
A POEM OF NAMES.
There's Isabel we Noah well
Woo'd by a bashful feller,
For Theodora of this belle
Adored bat dated not Ella.
At last one Eve upon the porch
In earnest tones he pleaded
He'd give up Paul to win her heart
Her love was Saul he needed.
" I wish that Ida heart to give,"
Unto herself she Seth
"IfPhebeLevl am a flirt
His Bl will close in death."
He'd Cirser Randal little while
As Titus he was Abel
From his big Gay a tender Lake
Beamed Dora tresses sable.
No sooner Adelaide his arm
About her waist so clever,
Then up she Rose Andrew away
8he wouldn't havo It never !
In vain did he for Mercy Sue
This foolish swain Elijah,
' Oh, nugo 'Ira Hall," she Jeered,
" I never could Abljah !"
He ne'er came Mary time again
Ann never after seen 'er
And he's grown Bolomon since that day
While she has grown Aurora.
The Battle for the Cedars.
BY rUESSLY W. 3IORIUS.
CONTINUED.
A GREAT and terrible dread filled her
bouI, but she could only He still and
await the end.
At length the carriage stopped. The
driver jumped down and fastened his
horse to a tree. Then he went to the side
of the carriage, and, raising the curtains,
lifted Barbara out. He hurried away
with her in his arms, while no Bound
save his tread broke the stlllnes of the
night.
Directly, Barbara saw, standing out
against the sky, a tall building, and she
comprehended that it was the stone
mansion which was justly her inherit
ance. The man continued on till he stood
directly beneath the shadow of the
building with his burden. It was at
the extreme end of the east wing, an
other unoccupied portion of the great
mansion, and there was no probability
that any person would trouble him.
He ascended some stone steps, and push
ed against a door that opened at his
touch. He entered and groped through
a hall and up a stairway. After that,
he proceeded some distance along anoth
er hall. He stopped before a door that
he could feel but not see, and laid his
burden down upon the floor. He reached
his hand in his pocket, and drew out a
heavy, rusty iron key. By his sense
of touch be inserted this in a lock and
turned it.
A door sprang open, and a lighted
apartment was displayed to view. Into
this Barbara Llndsley was carried. The
door was closed, and then she was
unbound and the gag taken from her
mouth.
"Oh, spare me!" she cried to the
man. " Release me from this prison 1"
But the cruel face of Varcor, the slave,
for it was he, showed no pity. Without
word be turned away from the plead
ing girl. He went out of the door, and
shutting it again, locked it. The shoot
ing of the bolt was like a knell of despair
to Barbara.
The room in which she was shut was
to all appearances very similar to the
one in which Lionel Cashel had been
thrown, in its strength and prison-like
NEW BLOOMFIELD, 3rA.., TUESDAY, FEBRUARY f24,
appearance. The loudest cries of a
human being would only echo back
from its walls, But it was comfortably
furnished. It was in the east and not
in the west wing of the building, and
Valasquez had had it prepared for
the use to which it was now being
put.
Barbara threw herself on a couch,
trembling and lu tears. Oh I for wbat
terrible fate was she reserved ?
She laid for a long time weeping, but
presently she sank into a restless, dis
turbed slumber. She was awakened by
the opening of the door of the apart
ment. " AVhere am I V" she murmured, not
remembering her situation at first.
Then she beheld the cruel face of
Henri Valasquez.
She sprang to her feet in a moment.
" It la morning," he said, "and I have
come to tell you why I brought you
hither."
Barbara clasped her hands across her
bosom and was silent.
" You have chosen to scorn my suit,"
Valasquez continued, "but I have taken
means to show you that I am not to be
trifled with."
He paused to note the effect of his
words. Barbara Llndsley was still
silent.
" You have scorned my love," Valas
quez repeated, "but you are in my pow
er, and shall be my wife yet. You shall
never leave this apartment till you
solemnly swear to wed me, and that you
will not betray me."
Barbara Llndsley found her speach at
last.
"Iwllldleerel.be your wife," she
cried, her eyes flashing in scorn. "Yes,
villain, I would rot in a cell before I
would wed you."
"Beware I" hissed Valasquez. "Be
ware, girl, or my love for you will turn
to hate. You will never escape from
here, I repeat, and you may live to
repent your utterances."
He colored a little, and added,
"Consider well, Barbara Llndsley,
wbat I have said. I mean in all honor
that when you are willing you shall be
my bride. For the present, the slave
who brought you here will attend to
your wants, bringing you food every
night to last you twenty-four hours. I
hope you will soon relent. I shall come
to you occasionally, and ask you for
your answer. But I assure you my
patience will not endure forever."
He went out, taking care to secure the
door.
" Yes, I would die a thousand times
over ere I would be his wife I" sobbed
Barbara.
She found food and drink that had
already been placed on a table for her.
After a while she partook, sparingly,
however. She was not hungry, but she
wished to reserve her strength, for she
could not yet utterly despair of escaping
from her prison, and her escaping
might depend upon her own efforts.
The hours dragged themselves slowly
away.
Late in the afternoon Valasquez came
once more into the prison-room. He
was seemingly in a softer mood than in
the morning.
" Dear Barbara I" he cried, " I would
not be so cruel, only I love you so."
The girl felt that she would prefer his
anger to his declaration of love.
" Remember how strong, how great
my passion for you is," ValaBquez con
tinued, " and be kind to me."
He had been drinking more wine even
than usual; so much that it had affected
his brain, and he was partially intoxi
cated. Barbara saw that he was under the
influence of wine, and her heart beat
rapidly in fear.
"Leave me, Mr. Cashel," she cried.
" Give me time to consider."
Her words had the effect that she so
much desired.
"Ah, ha! you are relenting," he
exclaimed. " I am glad to see it. Well,
I will leave you for the present, hoping
that by the time I come again, my dear
Barbara, my sweet love, you will have
made up your mind to be Mrs. Cashel."
And he departed from Barbara's pres
ence. She sank upon the couch, pale,
terrified, shuddering. , . , .
" Oh that I had died before I fell Into
bis power," she moaned.
At that moment her fute 'seemed utter
ly hopeless.
She was shut within walls from which
she could see no means of escape. Her
friends would never guess where she was.
The liiun who had abducted her, and
held her prisoner, was wealthy, respect
ed, and beyond suspicion.
What wonder that poor Barbaranltnost
despaired.
She had no means of estimating time,
save by Instinct, so she did not know
what time In the night it was, when
Varcor entered with a waiter bearing
food. Upon the waiter were bread and
butter, a ple.Jellles, part of a roast fowl,
and a bottle of wine.
Barbara was awake, aud mechanically
glanced at what Varcor had brought.
She beheld something there, besides the
food, that stirred her numbed faculties.
It was a knife, keen and sharp; how
keen and sharp, Varcor had not noticed,
else he would not have brought It.
Barbara advanced toward the man.
A wild thought had flashed through her
brain. A way of escape had suggested
itself, yet it was a dreadful resort. But
how could she endure to remain here ?
Suddenly she snatched the knife, and,
before Varcor dreamed of her purpose,
she, with strength and courage born of
the dread fears in her heart, struck him
with the blade full on the breast.
He staggered, and, with a groan of
pain, fell prostrate to the floor.
Varcor had locked the door behind
him ; but Barbara snatched the key
from his grasp, and with trembling
hand unlocked it. ,
" Heaven grant that I have not killed
him I" Barbara thought; "but I was
mad with despair, and could not keep
from striking."
She glided out into the dark hall.
" May the merciful father guide my
steps!" was the girl's prayer.
- Doubtless it was answered.
Barbara could only glide on, not
knowing in what direction she was
going.
All was quiet, and there was not a
sound to tell whither to direct her steps.
On she went from one hall to another.
She reached a stairway, and descend
ed it.
., And yet all was dark and still around
her.
She continued to proceed noiselessly.
At length she came to a place where
a ray of light shone through a key-hole.
Barbara crept past. She reached the
door that opened out to freedom. But
it was bolted and barred.
Cautiously Barbara turned the great
key that she found in the lock. Then
she began taking the heavy bars from
their fastenings.
Her heart beat wildly ; for she felt
that in another moment she would
breathe the air of freedom.'
But, at the last moment, a bar dropped
from her grasp, and fell to the floor with
a crash ; and, before the trembling girl
could open the door between her and
liberty, that of the library swung wide,
and a flood of light streamed out into
the hall. Henri Valasquez appeared,
holding a lamp In his hand. The light
fell upon the shrinking form of Barbara,
and he beheld her.
"Shades of the demons!" he cried,
" what does this mean ? "
Valasquez sprang toward Barbara, but
before he could reach her, the entrance
door burst open with a crash, and in
stantly three men entered. One was a
tall man, with a long red beard.
" O Mr. Victor!" exclaimed Barbara,
springing into his arms, " save me from
that man !"
"What means this?" cried Victor
hoarsely, with terrlblo anger in his
voice.
" He carried me away by force," sob
bed Barbara, "and has been holding me
prisoner. He wants me to marry
him."
The two men who had come with
Victor advanced toward the astonished
and frightened Valasquez.
" Henri Valasquez, you are our pris
oner," said one. " We arrest you for
the murder of Lionel Cashel."
Then ensued a wild struggle. It was
of short duration, however, and ended
In Valasquez being securely handcuffed.
"O Mr. Victor!" Barbara tearfully
entreated, when the struggle was finish,
ed, "take me away from this dreadful
place, to my friends, to Victoria 1"
Then her sobs became more violent.
" But you must search first for that
man I stabbed, and see whether or not
he is dead," she continued, between her
sobs.
"Search for whom!"' cried Victor.
Barbara explained.
" Indeed It is dreadful that I should
have been compelled to do such an
awful thing," she concluded, "but I
could not well avoid It. Oh, I hope he
is not dead."
Evidently all of Barbara's courage
aud fortitude had deserted her. The
thought that she had slain a human
being, wicked creature though he was,
was. terrible to her.
And she could only be satisfied by
Victor's going in search of Varcor, to
ascertain his condition, accompanied by
one of the detectives.
The other detective remained in the
library, guarding Valasquez. He kept
his baud on his revolver while the vil
lain sat cursing in vain, wild anger.
Victor and his companion had been
gone but a minute or two when the
great clock in the apartment adjoining
the library began to strike. It contin
ued till it slowly rang out twelve strokes.
It was midnight.
Scarcely had the last stroke of the
clock echoed out when there appeared at
the door of the library a woman. She
was a wild-looking creature, with long,
black hair, and dark, blazing eyes, and
had come from some where out of the
darkness. She stood still for a moment,
and then advanced to the side of Valas
quez, who, beholding her, grew even
paler than he had been before.
The detective thought she was mad,
and rising to his feet regarded her
closely.
"Henri Valasquez," she exclaimed,
" I have come to announce to you that
the hour of doom Is at hand. Concluded
next week.
The Five Silver Donkeys.
THE following was related to me by
the Minister of a foreign power, at
the Court of St. James.
A very wealthy man of the Hebrew
faith, finding himself near his end, call
ed his five sons to his bedside and pre
sented each with a silver donkey, equip
ped with panniers, and said : " There
was a merchant traveling from Basira
to Bagdad with a cargo of silk, but as
this, however, was not sufficient to fill
more than one of the panniers, be
balanced the burden by filling the other
with stones. As he was journeying he
was over taken by a wayfarer who fell
into conversation with him, and in the
course of it remarked, " What a fool you
must be."
" Very probably," was the reply, "but
In what particular ?"
" Why," said the other, " don't you
see that, if you were to distribute your
silk equally between the two panniers
and fhrow away your stones, you would
diminish your ass' burden by one
half?"
" Very true," rejoined the other, " I
thank'you for your wise counsel ;" and
forthwith the silk merchant threw his
stones out on the road, and distributed
the cargo in equal portions between the
two panniers. As, however, they con
tinued their journey, the merchant
remarked, " You are a very clever and
discerning person, but how Is it that
you are in such evil case ? Your clothes
are soiled and thread-bare, and you have
scarcely a shoe to your foot."
" The truth is," was the reply, " I am
an unfortunate man."
" Are you an unfortunate man V Then
I will go back and pick up my stones,"
which he accordingly did, and replaced
the silk, in statu quo. It happened that
when he arrived at Bagdad he found
that the Caliph was building a new
palace, but was brought to a standstill
for want of stones. So the merchant
sold his stones for more than he got for
hissilk,and returned rejoicing. Now, my
sons, in presenting you each with the
silver donkey, I wish to impress upon,
you this maxim, "Never take the advice
of an unfortunate man."
O" A preacher who had been preaching
on trial in a country church in north,
em Pennsylvania was tackled by an old
er preacher and told that it would please
the congregation greatly if he would
quote a little Latin, Greek and Hebrew
in his sermons, as if taking for granted
that his hearers understood it, when in
reality none of them knew anything
about those languages. The preacher
18BO.
NO. 9.
was puzzled. He dldn.t know anything
of either Hebrew, Greek or Latin him
self, but he was a native of Wales and
thought they wouldn't know the differ
ence if he gave them a little Welsh ev
ery time. So he made a Scripture quo
tation in his ilrst sermon to them, and
said: "This passage, brethern, has been
slightly altered in the translation. It Is
only in the original Hebrew that yon
can grasp its full meaning. I will read
it to you in Hebrew, so that you may
comprehend it more exactly." and he
cave them the passage in very good
Welsh. They liked it first rate, and
presently he gave them some Welsh as
Greek, and then some more as Latin.
Then he was going to give them the
Chaldaio version in Welsh, when he
saw a Welshman sitting by the door,
almost bursting with suppressed laugh
ter. The preacher didn't let on, but In
stead of the Welsh quotation he was go
ing to give, said in Welsh, "For good
ness" sake, my friend, don't say a word
about this till I have a chance to talk
with you." The Welshman never told
on him, and the congregation, com
pletely deceived, called him to be their
pastor.
A Puzzled Parson.
AN OLD gentleman from the East, of
a clerical aspect, took the stage
from Denver south in ante-railroad days.
The journey was not altogether a safe
one, and be was not re-assured by the
sight of a number of rifles deposited in
the coach, and nervously asked for what
they were.
" Perhaps you'll find out before you
git to the Divide," was the cheering
reply.
Among the passengers was a particu
larly (it seemed to him) fierce-looking
man, girded with a belt full of revolvers
and cartridges, and clearly a road agent
or assassin. Some miles out, this per
son, taking out a large flask, asked,
" Stranger, do you Irrigate?"
" If you mean drink, sir, I do not."
" Do you object, stranger, to our irri
gating ?"
"No, sir." And they drank accord
ingly. After a further distance had been
traversed, the supposed brigand again
asked, " Stranger, do you fumigate?"
" If you mean smoke, sir, I do not."
" Do you object, stranger, to our fumi
gating?" "No, sir." And they proceeded to
smoke.
At the dining-place, when our friend
came to tender his money, the proprie
tor said, " Your bill's paid."
" Who paid it?"
"That man," pointing to the sup
posed highway man, who, on being asked
if he had not made a mistake, replied,
" Not at all. You see, when we saw
that you didn't irrigate and didn't fumi
gate, we knew that you was a parson.
And your bills are all right as long as
you travel with this crowd. We've got
a respect for the Church you bet!" It
was no highwayman, but a respectable
resident of Denver.-XTarper' Magazine.
Barber's Signs.
In Europe the usual sign used by bar
bers is not the striped pole, but it is
one or more brass discs or dish
es, suspended over the street. The
origin of the use of these different signs
Is not perhaps generally known. Until
the time of Louis XIV., in France, and
of George II., in England, the offices
of barber and surgeon were united. The
sign then used was the streaked pole,
with the basin suspended from it. The
former was to represent a bandaged
wound and the latter a basin into which
the blood flowed. The barber after thei r
separation from the surgical profession,
appropriated the sign, apparently with
out appreciating the joke they were
playing upon themselves.
A Strange Freak.
Walter P. Worrall, gave himself up as
a vagrant in a New York police court,
on the 24th of last December, and was
committed to the House of Correction.
He was set to work there as a cook, and
he continued at this until last Sunday,
when he grew tired of his employment
and wrote to his attorney to have him
released. When his attorney called he
was astonished to find that Worrall had
been in the institution such a length of
time, and he could not give any excuse
for his strange freak. He is worth at
least $50,000, and his family are highly
respectable.