Plattsmouth weekly journal. (Plattsmouth, Neb.) 1881-1901, May 03, 1894, Image 3

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C W. KIIEKtt A. ru r.
Our kitten hath a winning way
To our pood graces.
And summons smiles by graceful play
On saddened faces.
But loudest rings the prompt applauM
When Cre-llt evenings fall.
And puss essars with reive i pawa
The shadows on the wall.
The tress that floats beside your head
In semblance waving.
And flarures quaint by fingers made.
Her fancy craving.
Prompt the wild spring, the futile grasp
And then the backward fall,
'While still unbailed, puss would clasp
The shadows on the wall.
Repeated balks, but what desire
For dear possession:
More fiercely burns her eye of fire
At each recession,
TCI weariness unnerves the clutch.
And yields to kind recall.
Though still her longing glances watch
The shadows on the walL
At her mistake let humans smile
But not despise her;
Those whom intangibles beguile
Say are they wiser
Who life-long grasp at fame or power,
O wealth or honors tall.
To find them, when their tolls are o'er.
But shadows on the wall?
-H W. B. Canning, in Good Housekeeping.
How Mrs. Lloyd Found Happiness
by Following Them.
A pretty woman, who looked Bad,
at in front of a bright fire in a parlor
In the Waldorf hotel in New York. She
was in black, and the morning' paper
lay in her lap; she was not reading, but
thinking. "Here I am rich and all
alone, and so much suffering- this hard
year the paper's all full of it; and yet
I don't know one single soul that I can
help my own self this sad day. I'd
like to make a bright day for some
"body that I can see enjoy it; I am tired
of giving' checks that only give me just
the trouble of writing them, and no
pleasure." Just then, as she thought
sadly of the past, when she had so
many to love her, she seemed to hear
the voice of the kind old nurse at home,
who often said: "Jest toiler yer lead
in's, honey "jest keep follerin', and
God'll lead you somewharall de time."
Til do it," she said; "I'll go out and
f oiler my leadin's to-day, and see where
they bring me."
In a little while she was walking
quickly down Broadway with the
throng. "I think I will cross over,"
she thought, at a corner, and then sev
eral wagons of various sorts came by,
and she turned back into the crowd go
ing down town. Her heart was full of
sadness; but it was her nature to look
tut for the bright things, and she
topped in front of two windows that
Joined, although each belonged to a
different store. One was full of flow
ers, and the other of fruits and some
rare early vegetables. The tomatoes
and mandarin oranges looked fresh and
tempting as they lay close to the pane
which had streaks of frost on it, for it
was a very cold day for the last of
March. The flowers that filled the
other window were exquisite Easter
lilies, holding up great 6pikes of bloom,
orchids harging with their queer
shapes all across the front of the glass,
pinks and roses, delicate m aider, hair
lerns, forget-me-nots and bright daffo
dils, and many others all made a pic
ture of delight; and she stood looking
at them a long time, sadly and yet
with pleasure. "While she stood there
a little girl, about eleven years old,
holding a box in her hands and with a
basket or. her arm, stopped also, and
gazed in with such a look of rapture
that Mrs. Lloyd felt that she must say
to her: "You love them, don't you?"
The child looked up with a pair of
oft, trustful eyes and Baid: "Oh yes,
ma'am; don't you? And I love those,
too," and she moved a little toward the
other window; "mother loves those lit
tle oranges."
'They look nice," Mrs. Lloyd said.
"1 think I love the lilies best," the
child said; "we used to have so many
flowers when we lived in Florence; but
they cost too much in this country."
"Did you live in Florence loDg?" said
Mrs- Lloyd.
"I was born there," said the child.
"We only came to this country a year
ago to my grandma's, in Savannah;
and then she died, and we came here.
My father paints pictures. Do you like
pictures?" she said, looking up.
"Very much," said the lady, who was
looking at her with such friendly eyes
that the child felt more and more like
talking to her.
"My father paints beautiful pictures;
but it's too hard times to sell them
now, he says; and so my mother makes
things, aud I take them to the ex
change." "What exchange?" said Mrs. Lloyd.
Why, the Woman's exchange, on
Fifth avenue, you know; and then I go
to market with the money 'cause
mother can't, the baby's so fretty now;
she's getting teeth."
"Dear me," thought Mrs. Lloyd, "I
think that Aunt .Sally was right; this
must be a leading, first thing. But
now how shall 1 go to work to help
But the child did that herself, for she
aid: "My father has got a picture in a
tore over on Fifth avenue. If you'd
come over there. I'd show it to you; it's
in the window."
"Yes, I'd be glad to; I'm just taking
a walk," said Mrs. Lloyd.
"I have to cross here anyway," the
child said. "I come this way to look
into this window; it's really shorter
the other way, but I do love the flow
ers so, and then I tell mother about
them. We get to the exchange first, if
you don't mind waiting there a ninute
for me. The picture is on the way
Soon they reached the door of the
exchange, and the child went into the
basement door to deliver her bundles.
She took out a delicious looking mold
of jeliy, aiid freoa the basket some del-
icate little cakes. Mra Lloyd was
looking on, and said: "Why, those
cakes look exactly like some that I
used to have when I was a child in the
"Yes," said the woman who was
taking the things: "some ladies said
the other day that they were real south
ern cakes."
"I will lake them," said Mra Lloyd,
and she paid for them, and had them
put in a box.
As they stood there a lady came in
and said: "Can you tell me whom 1
can see here about some old lace 1 want
to sell?"
"Upstairs,1 said, the clerk; and the
lady went out.
"Why, do they buy lace too?" said
the child. "I've got some I'd like to
sell it; it's my grandma's wedding veiL
mother says.
"Ah!" thought Mrs. Lloyd, "here is
another leading. I want some lace."
But two minutes before she had
wanted nothing so little.
They walked about two blocks, and
then the child stopped in front of a
window, and said: "That is my
father's picture, isn't it pretty?"
Mrs. Lloyd looked at it first curi
ously, and then eagerly, and then bent
forward to see the painter's name.
"Rhett," she said; "is that the name?"
"Philip Rhett," the child said; "and
my name is Sylvia for my grandma."
"How very, very strange, said Mrs.
Lloyd, half to herself. "I wonder how
he happened to paint that house?" But
she thought again: "It is such a pic
turesque old place that I don't wonder
that he wanted to paint it; and it's
well painted, too. I wouldn't have him
sell it to anybody else for anything."
"Do you think it's pretty?" said
I think that it's beautiful," said the
lady "beautiful; and I used to live
there once long ago, she said, with a
little sigh.
"Why, my mother did too, said Syl
via; "and she loved that picture, and
she didn't want father to put it in the
window; but he said that perhaps the
roses in it would make somebody
buy it."
It was the picture of a long, low, and
evidently old house, an inn. for there
was the sign on one side and over the
front grew roses that hung every
where, and so exquisitely painted that
one seemed almost to smell the per
fume and to feel the soft summer
breere, that seemed to move them, now
and then. Mrs. Lloyd stood fascina
ted, and the longer she looked the
more beautiful it looked to her.
"How long has it been here?" she
said to Sylvia
"Only two days," she answered.
"I will go in, a moment," she said;
"I want to sneak to the proprietor."
She went in, and told the child to wait
outside for her, and after a few mo
ments came out again. "The man
gave me your father's address," she
said; "and if you are going home I will
go with you."
"If you will go to market with me
first," said Sylvia, "I always have to go
to market before I go home, and we
are going to have a stew to-day.
Mother Baid we could if I got any
money, 'cause we couldn't have one
"Why not?" said Mrs. Lloyd.
"Why," said the child, "I didn't have
any money; and mother says she won't
ask the man to trust us, 'cause he don't
know us. I don't suppose he would
anyway," she added, with a grown-up
air that showed how much care the lit
tle thing had carried. "I do the mar
keting over on Third avenue when 1
have time," she said. "It's cheaper
there; but mother told me to do it on
Sixth avenue to-day, and then it isn't
very far to the house. We live in fa
ther's studio, 'cause he had to have a
studio, and we couldn't afford a house,
too; but the studios here aren't as nice
as his was in Florence. Did you ever
go there?"
"I have lived in Rome for several
years," said Mrs. Floyd, "and I have
often been to Florence. I know that
you were sorry to leave it, for every
body is."
"Oh yes, we were sorry; but we had
to when grandma was sick, 'cause &he
wanted mother so much."
By that time they were at the
butcher's, and Mrs- Lloyd watched the
little woman make her purchases with
some amusement, and a great deal of
sadness as well; for it was such a very
little bit of meat that 6he bought after
she had carefully explained what she
wanted it for, and such a very small
bundle of vegetables with it Presently
she said:
"Xow I'm all ready. Are you going
to buy my father's picture?"
"Perhaps so, if he will sell it," said
Mrs. Lloyd.
"Oh. he'll be glad to sell it," Sylvia
said. "He says that if he sold one per
haps he could sell more after he sold
"Very likely," said Mrs. Lloyd; and
they walked on up the avenue to a
large building, where Sylvia stopped
and said: "We live way up tiptop; but
1 won't run to-day."
So they went slowly up the five long
flights. At the door Mrs. Lloyd stopped
Sylvia and said: "You go in first and
tell your father and mother that a lady
is here who came about the picture."
"Oh, come right in!" said the child,
and opened the door; but Mrs. Lloyd
stood on the threshold until a gentle
man who was painting at an easel got
up and went toward her.
Mrs. Lloyd said: "I saw your picture
in the window at Blank's, .and I think
it is a house I once lived in, an inn
near Clovelly, in England, and I want
to see you about it, please. They gave
me your address at the shop. I met
your little daughter at a flower win
dow, and we made each other's ac
quaintance there,"
A lady got up and came forward,
saying: "Why, yes, that is the place;
then we all once lived there, for I spent
a month there, and later I was there
again with my husband." And she
smiled a little.
"Sit down, madam," said Mr. Rhett,
i placing a chair. "I shall be glad to
sell you my picture if it has any mean
ing for you, for it has so much for ua
, that we are very reluctant to part with
it; but now we can't indulge in senti
ment;" and he gave a glance about the
"It has a very great deal in it for
me," said Mrs. Lloyd. "My father and
I he is dead now were there for a
long time, and he was especially fond
of that rosebush, as everyone is who
knows it, 1 am sure. How odd that
you should have painted just the one
house that I should like to have always
hanging before me."
"Odd that you happened to see it,
but not odd that 1 painted it; for my
wife was fond of it, and then we Epent
our honeymoon there. My wife was
there for a long time with a gentleman
who was taken suddenly ill there."
"Suddenly ill?" said Mrs. Lloyd; "ex
cuse me, but what was his name?"
"Mr. Carter Mr. John Carter, of
Virginia; and we -"
Mrs. Lloyd interrupted again.
"Were you I mean are you Clare
King the Miss King who was so good
to my father?"
"Were you Miss Carter, who couldn't
come because she had sprained her
ankle in London?"
"I am, indeed." And Mrs. Lloyd
juped up and took both Mrs. Rhett's
hands; "and 1 have tried so hard to
find you for all the long years. What
does it mean?"
They sat down and looked at each
other these people whom a chance and
a picture had thrown together.
"I don't know." "I can't imagine,"
said first one and then the other. Mra
Lloyd collected her wits first.
"You left my father after my aunt
came the next day, I think, and bo
we never met; and then you wrote
twice and then I wrote to you, and
then we never heard again; and we
even wrote here to America and tried
to find your address in Charleston.
What can it mean? And you have been
living in Florence and I in Rome. All
but neighbors, and never knowing it."
"I had one letter from you," said
Mrs. Rhett, "and then I never heard
again; and I wrote again, and still no
answer. And my mother moved away
to Savannah, and she married again
and changed her name, and 1 was mar
ried and changed mine, and so, per
haps, that explains why you couldn't
find us."
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Lloyd; "and
yet it does seem a mystery. And now
to find you from the picture of the inn;
how glad I am! I am so lonely, and I
have no friends here," and she glanced
at her dress; "my husband is dead."
"And we are lonely too," said the
other woman.
Then came a long string of questions
and answers, and, as it has nothing to
do with the story, it need not be told;
but Mrs. Lloyd said:
"I can never be grateful enough to
you for all you did for my dear father,
when he was so alone."
But she proved that she could; for
that day she paid for the picture, and
twice the price that Mr. Rhett had
thought that he could dare to ask for
it. And she knew that the comforts
that they needed would follow, and
she attended to the other things. A
great basket of flowers and most
delicious fruit came to them the next
day. And Mr. Rhett had such warm
words of praise from the man who
kept the picture shop; for as "bad
luck never comes singly," so it is with
good; and just after Mrs. Lloyd had
seen the picture and ordered it kept
for her, another person had tried to
buy it.
And Mrs. Lloyd felt that she had
been wise to follow "her leadin's" as
she looked at the picture in her room
that had been so lonely, and felt that
the day had brought her not only the
promise of spring and of life, but the
very best thing that the world can
ever give the love of friends. And it
all came from a pleasant word at a
shop window to a strange little girl
who had seen the kindness and been
kind in return. And she thought also:
"If I had crossed the street at first I
should have missed it alL How
strange!" Katherine B. Foot, in N. Y.
Carlyle and the Picture of Himself Tainted
by a Friend.
Carlyle suffered from dyspepsia and
disappointments. He was, therefore,
neither oversympathetic in intercourse
with his friends, nor fair in his esti
mates of other writers.
Though he personally liked Tenny
son, he spoke with impatience of his
"cobbling his odes;" dismissed Jane
Austen's novels as "dish-washings;"
Hall am, the historian, as "dry as dust,"
and Goldsmith as an "Irish blackguard."
Even the writers of editorials in
the press were saluted with this hard
saying: "What are these fellows doing?
They only serve to cancel one another."
A characteristic anecdote illustrates
his cruel disposition, which provoked
him to inflict pain even on a friend.
An artist, who frequented Carlyle's
house, painted a picture of him in his
dressing gown smoking a pipe by the
fireside, and Mrs. Carlyle in an arm
chair sitting opposite him. The pic
ture was hung at one of the Royal
academy exhibitions, and, though not
a striking work of art, was purchased
by Lord Ashburton Carlyle's friend
for five hundred pounds.
The delighted artist hurried off to
the Carlyles, expecting congratulations
on the sale, and some manifestation of
pleasure on their part at having such a
value set on a picture of themselves
and their domestic interior. He deliv
ered his glad tidings, but all the re
sponse he received from Carlyle was:
"Well, in my opinion, five hundred
pounds was just four hundred and
ninety-five pounds too much!" Youth's
The British museum has a book
published by an anonymous author in
1760. It has the odd title, "Did You
Ever See Such Stuff, or. So Much the
Better, Being a Story Without Head o
Tail, Wit or Humor."
He who sedulously attends, point
edly asks, coolly answers, calmly
speaks and ceases when he has noth
ing to say, is in possession of the best
requisites of a good converter.
I enn sei", ,
Macaulay took his Sunday dinner
alone at a coffee house. After dinner
lie would build a pyramid of wine
glasses, which usually toppled over,
lie would pay for the broken glass and
After "Paradise Lost" was printed
it was translated into French, and
this version falling into the hands of
an innocent Englishman, he made a
prose translation back into English
and sent it to a publisher. The manu
script is in the British museum.
The titles of Jewish rabbinical
writings are often very fanciful. One
commentary is called "The Heart of
Aaron," the introduction to the Tal
mud is the "Bones of Joseph," and
other treaties are termed "Garden of
Nuts" and "Golden Apples."
Mrs. Caroline II. Dall tells the
Springfield Republican that when she
first went to Washington, over forty
years ago, Daniel Webster said to her:
Remember, you may have what po
litical opinions, you please, but the
woman who expresses them is damn
George Augusta Sala was recently
asked yy a very corpulent lady how
she should dress in attending a fancy
balL "Well," replied Mr. Sala, as he
sized up the ample proportions of the
lady, "if I were you I would put a frill
around my neck, don a light red dress
and go as a ham."
The new British knight. Sir Thom
as Salter Pyne, who is only thirty-two
years of age, began life as a mechanic
in the great Birmingham engineering
firm of Tangye. Then he went to India
as the foreman of a factory, and soon
became superintendent of the arsenal
and public works of the ameer of Af
ghanistan. He held this place for near
ly ten years, until a short time ago he
was attached to the mission of Sir
Thomas Durand.
Miss Olive Schreiner, the author of
that strange book, "The Story of an
African Farm," is engaged to be mar
ried. Her betrothed, who is four or
five years younger than the bride to
be, is Mr. Cron Wright, the son of a
well-known South African farmer and
member of the Cape parliament. He
is himself a successful farmer and a
clever speaker, and it is supposed that
he will enter parliamentary life. It is
6a:d, by the way, that more than 70,000
copies of "The African Farm" have
been sold.
A few days before Gounod's death
he told a Paris reporter how his family
first became convinced of his musical
genius. He was twelve years old and
was getting a general education at a
preparatory school. His mother con
sented one evening to take him to hear
Mozart's "Don Juan." Gounod sat
with eyes and mouth open and did not
utter a word until the overture was
half over. Then as the musicians
struck a few mighty notes, the little
fellow screamed, trembled, threw him
self into his mother's arms and sobbed:
"Oh mamma! mamma! That, that is
music." He became so excited that his
mother dared not keep him in the thea
ter. She led him out before the begin
ning of the first act,convinced that she
must cease opposing his desire to make
music his profession.
Doctor "You cough more easily
this morning?" Patient "I ought to
I practiced all night." Hallo.
"I should like to see any man try
to kiss me." "No doubt; but you
shouldn't admit it." Pick-Me-Up.
The toy who fain would learn to swim
Can studiously promote his wishes
I guarantee the fa ct to him
If he but join a school of fishes.
Mrs. Coffee "Where did you learn
that new piece?" Daughter "It isn't
a new piece. The piano has been
tuned." Town Topics.
Mr. Gusher (a self-satisfied bore)
"I can tell just what people are think
ing of me." Miss Pert ""Indeed! How
very unpleasant it must be for you !"
Brooklyn Life.
Mrs. Winks "Dame Fortune has
been smiling on Neighbor Hicks, I
hear." Mrs. Jinks "Oh, the horrid
old wretch, and his poor, dear wife not
?ead a month." Inter-Ocean.
Why? Frank "Beets are full of
eugar. aren't thev, mamma?" Mam-r
ma "Yes, Frank." Frank "Then,
mamma, why does the cook go and put
vinegar on them?" Harper's Bazar.
"Blykin is a very well-inforn.ed
man." "I used to think so." "What
has happened to shake your faith?"
"Well, you see, he has qualified as a
juror in a cap'tal case." Washington
Mrs. Figg "What is the reason I
never see you playing with Jimmy
Briggs any more?" Tommy "He ain't
got no respect for the fashions. He
wants to be playin marbles in top
spinnin' time." Indianapolis Journal.
Pegg "Sometimes the absolute
faith my boy has in my wisdom makes
me almost ashamed of myself." Potts
"You need not worry. It will aver
age up all right- By the time he is
twenty he will think you know noth
ing at all." Tit-Bits.
-"My husband is dreadfully tror ble
with insomnia," said Mrs. Bloobun.pei.
"He wakes up about two o'clock every
morning, and then he can't go to sleep
again. He tosses about until daylight,
and growls and fusses so that J can't
get any sleep myself." "My husband
used to be troubled that way," replied
Mrs. Cawker; "but I discovered a
remedy which nover fails." "Oh, do
tell me about it!" "Well, I noticed that
my husband alway slept the soundest
when it was time to get up. No nat
ter how wakeful he had been all nii")'t,
just as soon as rising-time came he
went to sleep and slept like a l:-g "
-'That's just the way with Mr. B'oo
bumper, exactly. But tell me wut
you did." "Well, when Mr. Cawki-r
woke up in the night and began to Vjfs
about and say he couldn't get a wink of
sleep, I simply went across the rocra,
pretended to look at the clock, and
Kaul: 'Oh, that's all right. You dou't
Deed to go to sleep again. It's time for
you to get up.' That alwavs put hira
to sleep in a niinuts." Harper's Bazar
Tou have read the famous story
Of the lamp Aladdin ovneU:
Eow it brousrhl him wealth and Glory
Won him wife oer realms enthroned:
And have wished, no doubt, wten reeling.
You like tnatric rower poaaessel
That desiring auqrlit or needins.
It might come at your behest.
But methinks a deeper moaning.
One may iu the fiction find;
Truth a moment's thoughtful gleaming.
Will reveal unto the mind.
For I deem the lamp Is waiting
Still the touch of heedful hand:
Tis not fancy's idle stating,
Man to-day may fate command.
Would you then the elf t be granted,
like Aladdin, now to do?
(Beoollect his lamp enchanted.
Seemed mere copper to the view.)
Well, the charm in which such wonders.
Little guessed, yet latent lurk.
Is, unless my Judgment blunders,
just old-fashioned, common work!
Pbulp B. Strong, in Golden Daya
This Tale Bli Friends Call
the True.
Story of the Flood.
Jack Gray's father and mother lived
In New York eleven months in the
year, but the whole family almost in
variably spent August at the sea shore
or in the country.
Mr. and Mrs. Gray had purshased a
lot on Fifth avenue long before so
much wealth and fashion congregated
in that particular section of the city,
and, although there were manj- more
pretentious homes than theirs on every
side, still their house was handsome
without, and the books, pictures,
furniture and carpets were what might
be expected in that locality, notwith
etanding the fact that they regarded
themselves as plain people, who had
not pursued, but been overtaken by,
A sultry morning, the last day of
July, found the furniture covered up
and packed away for a month's nap,
and a carriage at the door ready to
take the Grays to the station.
As Mrs. Gray passed through the hall
she notieed that one piece of baggage
was unmarked. "Jacky, dear," she
said, "please run upstais and write
father's name on a card for the leather
trunk; it has all our bathing suits in
it, and we must not risk losing it."
Jacky flew to the third story, his
especial property, and he wrote
"Jonathan Gray"' with such a flourish
he splashed ink all over his fingers.
He went to an upstairs bathroom to
wash his hands: but the water would
not come, so he rushed down to the
second story bathroom, made himself
presentable, and was in the carriage
by the driver bef ors his mother thought
it possible.
Mr. Gray locked the front door, and
sending the key to his brother's by a
servant, started on his summer holiday
with the comfortable feeling that he
was taking a needed rest and leaving
everything safe in his absence.
About ten days later two policemen
were lounging by a lamp post near the
house. It had been raining for twenty
four hours preceding, and, although
the sun was now shining brilliantly,
the eaves were still dripping, and from
the marble steps ran a steady little
stream to the street.
"I say. Bill," remarked one of the
men to his comrade, "it's a monstrous
quare thing, but 1 b'lieve it rained
more on this one house yesterday than
any three in the city; every time I
passed there was a reg'lar pond on the
pavement, and it's still a-comin' down
them steps."
"You everlasting igiot!" returned
Bill, "it's a-running out tof the house!
Where's your eyes don't you see it
coming right under the door?"
And so it was!
Fortunately, the first speaker knew
where Mr. Gray's brother lived, and
hastening to the place, he told Mr.
William Gray that there appeared to
be something the matter. Within an
hour the front door was unlocked and
a deplorable sight was revealed. The
beholders might have said with the
Ancient Mariner, that there was
"water, water everywhere;" for it was
flowing gently down the front stair
way, dripping from the ceilings, and
each floor was full of little pools. All
the carpets had been left on the lower
story, and they had been saturated to
such an extent that the sensation was
that of walking on sponges; from the
parlor walls hung long festoons of rich
velvet ppor.
Uncle William, almost raising an
umbrella in his excitement, rushed up
to the third-story bathroom, and there
was a tub overflowing on every side,
and u full head on in the spigot Jacky
bad forgotten to turn back. Well,
they stopped it, you mny be sure, and
"the long tongue," as the Indians call
the telegraph, said to Mr. Gray, down
at Caps May: "Come at onoe. House
damaged by water." He came by the
first train and he sent for women with
cloths and buckets, and for plumbers
and carpenters and painters and paper
hangers end upholsterers, and he spent
more than three thousand dollars
"cleaning house" that autumn.
Now, how old do you suppose Jacky,
must have been to lave done all that
mischief? "Ten, did you aay? No,
' t 11 V. J . 'W in m, r
.. 5 o r lite. eatesT consequentt f" there
' ' iB
he was more than that. TwlTe?
No, wrong again. "Thirteen?" I see
I shaU have to help you guess he waa
twenty-six years old, and weighed one
hundred and f.ixty pounds; and it waa
a good .hinrr he was so old and big, for
if he had been a small boy it would
have seemed a very careless trick in
deed; but as it was, people only said:
"Dear, dear, dear! Well, accident
will happen!" Mary Bentley Thomas,
in St. Nicholas.
He Went Into Xtabys Koobi and Looked
Wise as an Owl.
A great many seals are killed every
year for their soft, fine fur. Among1
the Shetland islands the people used
to think that harm would come to any
one who killed a seal.
A number of these animals were
caught and trained. One was a wry
large fellow. Two men could hardly
manage him. He was soon tamed, and
had a shed for his home. Every day
he would go to the sea for food, and re-
turn to the land when his master called
At the house of his owner lived a
dear little baby boy. One day baby's
mother rocked him to sleep and
laid him in his little bed. Then she
went out, leaving the door open, so
that she might hear him If he awoke.
He did not awake; but after awhile
mamma came into the room again.
There was the great seal close to
baby's cot, looking into his face just
as if he would like to kiss him.
Mamma was frightened and
screamed. Then the seal's master
came and ordered him out. He
floundered away to his shed. The
seal would not have hurt the baby.
Seals are very loving creatures. Julia
A. Tirrell, in Our Little Men and
Sach m Pleasant Period
Would Have Vm Relieve.
A Etory is told in Sunshine of a fami
ly living in colonial times, whose ex
travagant habits excited the alarm of
the village. The oldest son bought a
pair of boots, the second son invested
in an overcoat, the third brother
bought a watch, and the fifth a pair of
shoe bucklers. The neighbors all
shook their heads and whispered to
each other:
"That family is on the high road to
Legislation in New England tried to
restrain extravagance in dress, and
laws were passed against wearing
laces, embroidery, needlework caps and
"immoderate great sleeves."
By way of silently reproving the van
ity of their wives and daughters, the
sterner sex appeared in immense pow
dered wigs, stiffly-starched ruffles,
glittering knee and shoe buckles, em
broidered silk vests, white silk stock
ings, and coats of every hue but black,
trimmed with great gilt or silver buc
kles; with these elaborate wardrobes
to keep in order, the women had very
little time to cultivate their "squir
rel's brains," to quote one of the gal
lant (?) .croakers of the time. Mrs.
Adams, however, had a will of her
own. She wrote to her husband and
asked him to send her from Philadel
phia, in 1773. two yards of black cala
manco for shoes, saying she "would
not wear leather if she went bare
footed." The shoes were of the same material
as the dress, often skillfully embroid
ered. Country girls sometimes carried
the broadcloth shoes with peaked toes
in their hands until they reached the
church, but the pink satin and yeUow
brocade shoes of city maidens were
supported on clogs and pattens.
After all, we fancy the most ardent
lovers of the past would not be in favor
of reviving the time-honored customs
of the early days of the republic. With
the mahogany sideboard rescued from
oblivion, the spinning wheel set up in
the parlor, and the quaint china teaset
upon the closet shelves, we can all cry:
'Ohl those pleasant times of old, with their
chivalry and state,
I love to read their chronicles which such bravw
deeds relate.
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to bea
their legends told
But we've reason to be thankful that we i'.v
not in these blessed times of old."
The Lawyer Uldn't Tangle II lor.
The satisfaction that everyone must
feel at the triumph of the boy, aboua
whom the Massachusetts Ploughman
tells this anecdote, is due to the same
feeling that prompts a big-hearted man
to take the part of the "undermost
dog." Walter was the important wit
ness, and one of the lawyers, after
cross-questioning him severely, said:
"Your father has been talking to
you, and telling you how to testify,
hasn't her
"Yes," said the boy.
"Now," said the lawyer, "just teU ua
how your father told you to testify."
"Well," said the boy, modestly,
"father told roe that the lawyers
would try to tangle me, but if I would
just be careful and tell the truth, I
could tell the same thing every time.
The lawyer didn't try to tangle up
that bey any more.
A Great Snrrew.
Young Mr. Fitts That pie you gave
to the Commercial club for the poor
has been one of the most successful
contributions of the year.
Young Mrs. Fitts Indeed!
Yes, indeed. It has been presented
to no less than seven poor families K
far." Indianapolis JouraaL
V-!Icat odor in terf ii r-e Lilac 1 and wda
I Louisville