ERE CENTURY DAWN.
A KmarU: flay Sc h»►.»: Keritatioa for
ttm.
la twi* the waning ligal c f rounde l
»e*m.
•V »«:bi the porta!-, of the century
»e*r
Is e. *.’*ty of hope—through blur of j
team—
We wait the ward prophetic, he of
cheer
The Holy of the HoHos enter we
The dream rf a*— *ad of *••• ' -
foretold.
A day of kinder motive bundles*. free.
The .eatury-tide where tr.ee! the
New and OW.
In c **k of hungry stc-el ant dm of
hate
We hear t he e« ho of a d> ias t •
We pray it Jangle p ta** new-born
state,
X tt<at i'- r’iB^ pisinant
year o«tl»*:.
For dispe&aafton ae* the world hath
weed
Of pes«e on earth an* Gods good
will to men
Wher»* Gore shall make u*-w war—on
lust of greed ,
And old war steel shall thirst for
blood la vaia.
And what hare ye to gi a of arms ye
Te aatW-n * army-mad. in fevered
at rife.
What measure shall we m«-:e fur blood
>e spa'**
For waste of treasure and for sunk
ea life-*
The Sites! have jre drained, to mar and
si ay.
Survive the weakling to beget your
young.
I*et a :en*e dogs your dead march all
the way.
Ft-am hall to hat the haunting wail
is wrung
Ye pile the burden* higher, year by
I ear.
y^r every' ship ye build, are btillded
two;
la a ltd alarm ye counsel take of—
Fenr
Xur see the end whereof—the ill ye
brew*
11/ Armistice? ye lenders, be ye
wise.
Krr yet the century sand.- hare all
be*i spilled.
A truce to let of blood! ye nation*
rise.
hs
A: <*.i ih*- mei“urr <>t > - ir hale
otfilN.
| .r bait *1**11 t »m*: mrr may the
question ******
TV tarn, br It of tboltt. «r led by
f*tnT~
T !. I for t:*.az j; > **t unarmed
Fence;
Or War. to broadcast wild the seeds
of hate'
Com*- tv v an.I l-t reason, saith the
Lori.
If there te* n>: fur men an holier
• ay;
I'or v • shall lay no line of less re
marl
Than sorb hace fallen ere this
Epoch Jay.
We mai* a newer school in things of
State.
Of joy In brotherhood, an.l weal of
men.
To lift th** human life put Love for
hate.
Look ye—the writing on the wall
again!
If e’er an hour outrolled within our
ken.
When it were due to pause, one
comet h now—
And on apaee- w hen o'er this world of
men
There broodeth thought of Peace
o'er aching brow.
£.1 lie ye swift to take your fill of
blood.
Then haste to wipe your blades e'er
set of sun;
For men implore that in more human
mood.
The wide world o'er, the century be
begun.
Mark not with stain of blood that sa
ered hour—
At turn of century tide. This
threshold cross
With lowered lance. Show ya e
mightier power *
That eoiinteth war. and spoils of
war. ail loss.
O ye. who are the nope of this our day.
Who dominate world-thought—ye of
our tongue.
I»ef. not. but ally that ye may say
On Century Morn no battle hymn he
sung.
William Henry Lynch.
GRANT'S CHARGES.
From his earliest boyhood General
Grant was an expert rider, and like
Washington, he possessed a mysteri
ous (lower over horses. He ridiculed
the idea that he could be thrown, so
lung as the horse kept on his feet. He
asked but one thing of a steed, and
that wa- that he should go. No Mexi
< an vaquero. Bedouin sheik or Amerl
« an cow boy bad a firmer seat, or more
ic>en;bled a centaur. Early in the
Mexican war Grant purchased a su
oerb stallion that had just been cap
tured from a herd of wild Texas
horse.- He was blindfolded and
then saddled for the first time.
Tii«* young lieutenant, springing
lightly into the saddle, ordered
the blindfold removed, when the
untamed steed iMitinded like a bull,
reared, leaped, threw his head almost
to the ground, sprang first to the right
and then to the left in his efforts to
unseat his rider; but finding all Ilia
efforts futile, he dashed away at a fer
rite rate of speed, soon disappearing
in the distant chaparral. General
Longstreet. who after more than half
a century recalls the Incident, in a let
ter to the present writer, states that
no anxiety was felt concerning Grant’s
safety, who was then, as well as pre
viously while a cadet at the Military
Academy, universally recognized as
:r. accomplished and fearless horse
man. Of Cortez, as Lieutenant Grant
named his wild charger, he wrote in
his Personal Memoirs:
‘ I had. however, but little difficulty
i in breaking him. although the first
day there were frequent disagreements
between us as to which way we should
go. and sometimes as to whether we
should go at all. At no time during
the day could I choose exactly the part
of the column I would march with, but
after that I had as tractable a horse
as any in the army.”
During the occupation of the capital
by General Scott’s forces, a Mexican
gentleman, with whom Grant was on
terms of intimacy, requested the loan
of Cortez for an afternoon. His own
er said afterward: ”1 waa afraid he
could not ride the horse, and yet I
knew if 1 said a word to that effect the
suspicious Spanish nature would think
I was unwilling to lend him.” The
result was the Mexican mounted the
spirited stallion, was thrown before he
had gone three blocks and instantly
killed!
A few days before the American
army evacuated the city of Mexico.
Grant mounted Cortez and rode out to
make a morning call on the colonel in
command of the Castle of Chapultepec.
The officers’ quarters were inside of
the fortress, which was surrounded
with a high, broad earthwork. Riding
up the outside slope and around the
castle without observing any hitching
post. Grant spurred his steed down the
broad but long, steep, stone stairs that
led into the fort. When the colonel
appeared and saw Cortez tied at the
door, where no horse had ever been
seen before, he exclaimed in astonish
ment:
“Lieutenant, how in heaven’s name
did you get your horse down here?”
“Rode him down, sir." calmly an
swered Grant.
“And how do you expect to get him
out?”
“Ride him up, instead of down.” re
plied the lieutenant, which he accord
ingly tlid on his departure, the intelli
gent Cortez climbing like a cat to the
top. when Grant, waving his chapeau
in adieu to the colonel far below, dis
appeared over the breastworks. With
the single exception of Captain
Charles May’s Black Tom, a magnifi
cent and powerful coal black gelding,
such a steed as Theodore Winthrop
Introduces In his best story under the
name of Don Fulano. or the Forest
REBESSO’S STATUE OF GRANT.
King in Ouida’s novel of “Under Two
Flags,’’ Cortez was the grandest war
horse in General Scott's army with
which he conquered Mexico.
Five years later, when Captain
Grant was stationed with the Fourth
Infantry at Columbia Barracks, now
Fort Vancouver, on the' Columbia
River in what was then Washington
Territory, he purchased the most valu
* able horse in that part of the country,
calling him Garland, in honor of his
brigade commander during the Mexi
can war. In April. 1853. Lieutenant
George B. McClellan, of the Engineer
Corps, reached Columbia Barracks,
and for three months, while on duty
there, was Grant’s guest. The day of
his arrival, while seated with several
comrades in front of th«> officers’
quarters, they saw the captain return
ing from a ride on his superb charger
and approaching a six-gun battery
which was parked some 300 yards dis
tant. As he drew near the guns and
they were observing the graceful
movements of Garland anil his perfect
rider, the group of officers saw Grant
pull down his hat more firmly and
seat himself squarely and securely in
the saddle. ‘ He is going to leap the
battery!” they exclaimed, when Mc
Clellan and the others—including Gen
eral Rufus Ingalls. Grant’s West Point
classmate, who told the story—all
stood up to see the Interesting per
formance. Running his horse at good
speed toward the pieces. Grant put
Garland over the six guns, one after
another, as easily and gracefully as
Charles Lever's world-famous Charlie i
O'Malley could have executed the dev
er act ot horsemanship.
Early in June, 1S61, Governor Rich
aid Yates appointed Grant colonel ol
an Illinois regiment, and borrowing
$400 from his father's Galeaia partner,
with which to equip himself for the
position, he paid about one-half of the
amount for his famous Claybank. or
Old Jack. This showy war horse Grant
used for several years, and he was
well known to the Army of the Ten
nessee as "Old Yellow." At the bat
tle of Belmont, a horse having been
killed under him. Grant mounted his
cream-colored steed. When at the
close of the fighting our forces retreat
ed to the boats on the Mississippi, the
general on reaching the landing place
found that he was the only represen
tative of his army between the the
Confederates and the i'nion transports
and war vessels. From one of the for
mer a plank was run out and from a
high bank the intelligent horse took
in the situation, sliding down the
difficult slope on his haunches to the
gang-plank, and with his rider was
soon safely aboard the steamer. Grant’s
groom was captured. Belmont, and a
colored cook belonging to a Confeder
ate colonel escaped with the Northern
troops. An exchange was proposed by
Bishop Polk, the Confederate com
mander at Columbus. Grant replying
that he had no authority to exchange
a black man. but the cook could return
to the colonel if he so desired. The
slave did not. but Grant's groom was
nevertheless courteously sent back by
the Confederate prelate-general.
Monk«v« Invade Girl's Boudoir.
In the grounds of the big hotel at
Coronado Beach there are a score of
monkeys whose antics afford much
amusement for the guests. Recently,
however, the monkeys took it upon
themselves to amuse themselves at the
expense of one of the young women
staying at the hotel. She was an un
usually good-looking young woman,
and the monkeys from the trees ob
served her day after day arraying lier
; self in pretty clothes and going forth
! in all her glory for the promenade
; and drive. One day when they had
seen her leave the room and had taken
note of the open window they climbed
the fire escape and took possession
of the fair lady's property. Their ob
servation had not taught them the
precious details of donning feminine
attire, but they managed to enwrap
themselves in swirls of silk and lace
to their greatest satisfaction and to
hold flower and feather-adorned hats
atop their heads, grinning and chat
tering meanwhile. They had a happy
quarter of an hour, and when discov
ered got away with pieces of finery
in all stages of dilapidation clinging
to them. The girl's distress at the
wreck of her wardrobe was assuaged
by the offer of the hotel proprietor
to make good her losses, and after the
first shock had passed she was ready
to laugh with the others over the
prank.
A rollte Stranger.
A big. fine-looking man sat in the
corner of a Brooklyn car reading his
newspaper. Next to him sat a little
woman in an up-to-date frock. She
had a box of candy in one hand and
an opera libretto in the other, says the
New York Telegraph. She tried to
get a newspaper front a newsboy who
came through the car, but the con
ductor broke up the transaction, and.
seizing the small newsdealer, put him
down on the pavement. Then the
pretty woman in the up-to-date frock
paid her fare in pennies and smiled.
The big man's newspaper was spread
out before her eyes, and she glanced at
the headlines. Then she read half a
column about a thrilling rescue of a
typewriter girl by a gallant fireman.
She glanced sideways at the big man.
Apparently he was taking no notice.
She began on a story of burglars in
a south side flat, how they bound and
gagged a woman, stole her sealskin
sacque and- “Oh. the horrid
things!” she exclaimed excitedly. The
big man looked around inquiringly,
and then, quite as a matter of course,
he said: “Have you finished this page,
madam? If so. let us turn to the stock
reports and the society news."
Kored by Andrew I.ang:.
Even the shrewdest persons may at
times be deceived. No matter how
much people may differ upon the ge
nius of Andrew Lang, they are unani
mous in regard to his quick intelli
gence and his talent for playing golf.
Not long ago he was a guest at a very
distinguished dinner, which he is said
to have described as an extraordinary
survival of savage mysteries, but Mr.
Lang’s enjoyment was utterly ruined
by having, as he put it. “a budding
funny man on the one hand and a dia
bolically deaf socialist on the other.”
“I could not.” added the famous critic,
“tell which of the two was the more
mournful companion.” Two weeks aft
erward it got out that the socialist
was not deaf; that he had come to the
banquet prepared to he bored by less
learned guests; that he had been seat
ed alongside “an idiotic middle-aged
gentleman, who did nothing but talk
golf.” and that to protect himself he
had simulated deafness which kept his
neighbor bawling.—Philadelphia Press.
.GUILTY??
"INNOCENT? 1
By AMY BRAZIER. S
* %
CHAPTER III.—(Continued.)
Only George does not tell Barbara
of a grim shadow that haunts him
night and day—a shadow so grim and
black even bis love for Barbara cannot
make him forget it. a trouble so dark
he dare not face his mother’s gentle ■
eyes—a trouble be locks In his own
heart, while day by day the end comes
nearer. Even if he told Barbara she
would not understand. Racing debts
and promissory notes would be Greek
and Latin to her. But by degrees
George becomes graver and quieter;
his sunny smile is forced sometimes,
and his light-hearted gaiety seems to
have deserted him. And then Mrs.
Bouverie falls ill—so ill that any
shock or worry might he fatal—an i
George sits and looks at her with a
lump in his throat and wet eyes. And
now his heart is breaking with his
own troubles, a sea of debt is engulf
ing him. In a month a hill for one
hundred pounds falls due. and he has
nothing to meet it with, his own al
lowance anticipated long ago, and the
mother who might have helped him
lying too ill to care now.
"No excitement.” the doctors say.
"The least shock would prove fatal.”
N'o wonder George Bouverie looks
miserable, and his face has a drawn,
gray look. Dishonor is an ugly word,
and that is what It will mean. The
man who had helped him into the
mess will not help him out of it. He
has left the country, and George has
to bear it all alone.
How to get a hundred pounds? That
is the problem that haunts George
Bouverie with a sick agony of uneasi
ness that will not be quieted. It is
always there—the certainty of ruin—
and the shame of it is horrible.
Money, borrowed to pay his racing
debts. It seemed so easy at the time,
and three months seemed such a long
way off. He would be sure to have a
run of luck and be able to pay. But
the man who had lent him his name
has gone, and George has no means of
procuring a hundred pounds. With a
sinking heart, he remembers with a
blush that scorc hes his c heek that his
mother’s income is very slender. She
had given nearly all to him, saying,
in her sweet, lovable way:
“What can an oid woman like me
want? A young man must have pocket
money.”
“If she had only been harder on me
when I was a little chap." groans
George now. realizing too late that his
own way has not been a good way
Even Barbara cannot comfort him
now.
'•he winter has worn itself away and
March has come—March that has more
of the shy witching of April than the
usual boisterous month that proverbi
ally enters as a lion.
Still no answer from Tasmania.
Does Mr. Saville also mean to ignore
the engagement? It were hard to say,
but it looks like it.
Mrs. Bonverie slowly creeps back
from the borders of the shadow land,
and G orge keeps his misery to him
self. while the day of reckoning draws
nearer and nearer.
Today the lovers have met. Bar
bara has ridden over on her bicycle to
ask for Mrs. Bonverie, and George
walks with her down the avenue. Bar
bara cannot fail to notice his dejected
manner, the look of trouble that
blots the sunshine from his face.
They stand together in the sunshine
and the light falls on their young
faces, and out across the lawn the
sunbeams touch the daffodils.
Barbara looks at them with a smile.
“I always think of Wordsworth’s
lines.” she says, and quotes them
softly:
“The waves beside them danced: but
they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not but be gay
ln such a jocund company.
1 gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had
brought.”
George only sighs.
She slips her hand into h:3 as he
wheels her Wcycle beside her.
“Poor George, it must have been
such an anxious time for you; but
your mother is better, really better,
now.”
“Yes,” he says, moodily.looking with
unseeing eyes at the nodding, dancing
daffodils, and drawing another long
sigh. Then his eyes rest on her face,
with a sudden agony of regret she can
not fathom.
"Barbara, my darling. I am not
worthy of you!” he exclaims,in a voice
that speaks of desperation.
She lifts sweet, smiling eyes.
“You must not say that. George;
but. dear, why do you look so un
happy?"
“I can’t help it!" he bursts cut.
"Barbara. I am a most unlucky fel
low. Dear, it would be better for you
if you never saw me again."
She looks half frightened, but her
hand creeps closer into his palm.
“There isn’t any fresh trouble, is
there?” she asks, noting all at once the
haggard look in his face.
Then he tells her suddenly and
abruptly, almost roughly, making the
worst of it almost in his self-reproach
and misery, sparing himself nothing,
pouring it all out in a whirlwind of de
spair.
“Now you know the sort of man you
'have promised to marry!” he says,
with sudden fierceness. “A gambler,
and a gambler who cannot meet his
engagements! No Bouverie ever dis
graced himself like that before. You
had better say good-by to me. Bar
bara. Your aunt was right—I am not
fit match for you!"
Barbara's cheeks are pale enough
now.
George leans the bicycle against a
tree, and leads her across the grass to
a wood, where the green moss grows
in feathery tufts like sofa pillows, and
where here and there the celandine is
lifting its sparkling, spring-like face.
the birds tilling the air with song. All
the world appears full of hope and
promise: hope seems everywhere but
in the heart of George Bouverle.
Barbara's eyes are slowly filling
with tears, but what is that in wom
an's love that makes her then more
tender to the erring and more lenient
to the failures, fo ready to forgive?
She and George nave seated them
se’ves on a fallen tree, and she is the
comforter. His hand is held to her
bosom, her face, full of love and pity,
is upturned, with the tears quivering
on her lashes.
• I feel as if 1 could shoot myself!”
George cries passionately. "Sweet
heart. 1 have only brought sorrow on
you.”
Barbara looks at him bravely.
"George, when I promised to marry
you. it was to be for better, for worse.
It is the same as if we were married
now'. I am glad you have told me
your trouble. It is very dreadful; I
hardly understand what it means; but.
rnv dearest, 1 will help you to bear
it."
How sweet are her words, how earn
est the pure and loveiy face:
George only groans.
Barbara does not know of the mire
of difficulties that so nearly submerge
him.
He turns his haggard gaze on her.
"Nothing can help me, unless I get a
hundred pounds; and what I feel most
is whai this will mean to my poor
mother."
He might have thought of this be
fore. but Barbara does uot say so; on
ly leans her cheek against his shoul
der. and looks away at the golden sea
of daffodils that flutter so gaily in the
March sunshine.
"I would rather release you." George
says huskily. "I shall have to go
abroad or somewhere.”
"I will go with you," Barbara says,
in a sweet, unsteady voice. "You
cannot give me up. George, for l won t
be given up unless you do not care for
me any longer."
‘‘I must love you till T die!" cries
poor George, love and remorse making
him well-nigh desperate.
But even Barbara cannot raise his
spirits. Nothing can lift the gloom
from his fate. A trouble like this takes
the life out of a man. The girl puts
her aim about his neck and draws
his grave, unhappy face down to hers.
"George, after this you will never
bet on those horrid horses again?
Once ihis trouble passes away—and it
will pass, dear—you will be brave. I
think. George-Oh, I don't know
how to say it! But do you remember
the preacner in the square? He said
God will help people to resist tempta
tion even in the little things of every
day life."
"That is rubbish!" George returns,
answering her caress. "My old mother
talks that sort of nonsense. I don't
believe she buys a new bonnet with
out asking for guidance as to the
color of the ribbon." He laughs a
mirthless laugh. "It stands to reason,
darling. I don't look on a mess like
mine as what motner calls a chasten
i ing of the Lord. I have brought it all
on myself, worse luck! and I don't
expect a miracle to get me out of the
hold. My Barbara, my own love,
you've lost your heart to a worthless
sort of chap. Even Sebastian Saville—
but. no! I would bang myself if you
were his wife!"
The misery seems darkening every
moment. That awful promissory note,
given to pay that wretched racing
debt, is ever In his mind. Not even
Barbara's love can help him now!
He stands up. a tall, splendid figure,
in tweed knickerbockers; so goodly to
look upon, so wretched and unhappy,
as his haggard face shows.
"I have only about a fortnight." he
says, as together they walk back to
where Barbara left her bicycle. "After
that, oh, my darling, what am I to
do?"
Barbara's heart echoes the cry. Her
face is as sad as his as she wheels
aw-av in the sunlight; and George,
thrusting his hands in his pockets and
sinking his head on his chest, walks
slowly back to the house.
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Saville's answer has come. It
is not in the least what Barbara ex
pected. It. is a very short letter, and
out of it falls a cheque for two hun
dred pounds. And there is nothing
about her engagement at all. except a
casual allusion to the danger of flirta
tions that can end in nothing. And
Barbara is to come out to Tasmania at
once, by the next steamer that sails
after she receives the letter. The two
hundred pounds Is to purchase an out
fit and defray the expenses of the voy
age.
Mrs. Saville also receives a letter,
which is possibly more lengthy, and
may contain more information than
the communication to Barbara, in
which her father only says he is lonely
and wants her to manage his house
hold for him.
Mrs. Saville looks keenly at her
niece as she sees her reading the let
ter, while the color forsakes her face.
And Sebastian watches Barbara, too.
“Father wants me to go out to him,”
Barbara says, lifting her great, trou
bled eyes. In her heart she knows
that this command is only to separate
her from George.
Mrs. Saville folds up her own letter.
“Yes. so your father says. He thinks
you are old enough now to be at the
head of his house; but we will miss
you. dear. And I see he expects you
to start at once. He mentions the
steamer that some friends of his are
going out by. Every thing will be
dreadfully hurried. We must go to
London in a day or so and get your
things.”
Barbara sits white and miserable.
To leave George, that is her one
thought—to put thousands of milee be
tween them! The thought is intoler
able; but not till breakfast is over,
and Sebastian, with another incompre
hensible look, has lounged out of the
room, does Barbara speak. Then she
looks at her aunt.
“Aunt Julia, does father say nothing
about George? You know we are en
gaged."
Mrs. Saville smiles rather prjvok
ingly.
“I do not think your father has any
objection to your considering yourself
engaged. lie hardly mentions the sub
ject.
Barbara’s color rises. She is to be
treated as a child, then, who has set
its heart on possessing the moon, and
every one knows it is nonsense!
“I will go out to father as ho
wishes.” she says, proudly, “but when
I am of age I will marry George Bau
verie; so there will only be a year * >
wait, and then nobody can make any
objection.
“I was not aware that any one had
objected." Mrs. Saville returns. "I
have not tried to prevent your engag
ing yourself to any one.
Barbara’s lip quivers. This tacit
ignoring of hnr engagement is hard to
bear.
Mrs. Saville. who has no sympathy
with her. proceeds to discuss Bar
bara’s clothes.
“You will want some gowns.” she
says. “I am sure I do not know what
kind of tilings you will want. I be
lieve it is a nice climate; but I fancy
some one told me there is always east
wind, and that is so trying.
But Barbara can take no interest ia a
her clothes.
"I have plenty of things. T shall
only get a deck chair." she says, al
most crossly, for this banishment to
the other side of the world is very
hard to endure. Besides, her nervaa
are on the rack on account of Georga
Bouverie's troubles.
“Your father has sent you a check
for your expenses." Mrs. Saville says
presently. And Barbara says "Yes.”
and no more.
Mrs. Saville gathers up her letters
and rises from the table.
“I must go and tell Mason to com
mence packing. Really, it is hardly
fair to make you start at a minute's
notice; but the steamer your father
names sails in a few days, and ws
have to meet these people who are to
take care of you.”
Barbara bursts into tears. Sha is
stung to a pitch of excitement, and can
only realize the one awful fact—she
must say good-by to George and leava
bin in his trouble.
“My dear, there is nothing to cry
for.” Mrs. Saville says, crossing the
room in her trailing garments, and
leaving it as Sebastian enters.
(To be Continued.)
Origin of Visiting Cards.
“The use of visiting cards dates back
to quite an antiquity,” explains Mrs. .
Van Koert Schuyler, in the Ladies'
Horae Journal. “Formerly the porter
at the lodge or door of great houses
kept a visitors' book, in which he
scrawled his idea of the names of those
who called upon the master and his
family, and to whose inspection it was
submitted from time to time. One fine
gentleman, a scion of the nobility from
the Faubourg St. Germain, was
shocked to find that his porter kept
so poor a register of the names of
those who had called upon him. The
names, badly written with spluttering
pen and pale or muddy ink. suggested
to him the idea of writing his own
name upon slips of paper or bits of
cardboard in advance of calling upon
his neighbors, lest his name should
fare as badly at the hands of their
porters. This custom soon became
generally established.”
Fine Sarcium.
Four or five drummers, after their
day's work was over and their din
ners stored away, were talking about
the various cities of the United States
which they had visited in the course
of their business experience. New
York, Chicago. Philadelphia and Bos
ton were left in the list of the unde
cided when a New York man appealed
to a veteran who had been reading a
newspaper during the discussion. “You
know the country pretty well, r guess,
major?’* said the New Yorker. “Fairly,
I should say." was the reply. “I’ve
been traveling over it for thirty
years." “Well, what would you say
was the best town tn the United
States?" “Chicago." responded the
major, promptly. “Aw," expostulated
the New Yorker, "we don’t mean mor
ally,” whereupon the major hastened
to apologize.—Washington Star.
A Frank Advertiser.
The advertising man was telling
about queer breaks made by his fel
low men. and he remarked: “Phila
delphia merchants are mighty candid
advertisers. I’ve always known that
fact, hut l never saw it so strikingly
illustrated as I did in the Philadelphia
papers Tuesday. I picked up one of
the leading papers there and read ovpr
the bargains the big stores had to
offer, and in the middle of one ai
vertlsement, under the head of hats.
I found this: “ ’What do you get
when you buy a $1 hat at other stores?
—Stuck. Same here. $3.50.* Of course,
I thought it was a break, but I got th«
other papers and I found the same
thing in every one of them. Just sup
pose a New Yorker was as frank as
that in his advertising announcements,
wouldn’t he do a trade, though? ’ •
New York Sun.
Jack Hiui F.icaped.
A gaunt, muscular woman of fierce
mein entered a city hall in a l.tah
county seat and asked the county clerk
to find out if one Jack Peters was mar
ried. Search developed the name of
John Peters, for whose marriage a li
cense had been issued two years be
fore. “I thought so.” said the wom
an. “Married ’Lize Waters, didn’t he?” ^
“The marriage license is issued for a
marriage with Miss Eliza Waters."
“Yep. Well, I'm ’I.ize. I thought I’d
ought to come in and tell you that
Jack Peters has escaped.”—San Fran
cisco Wave.
A woman who is too near sighted to
see when the buttons are off her hus
band’s macintosh can often read migh
ty fine print bargain advertisements.
