IF ONLY THOU ART TRUE.
If only a single rose Is loft
Why should the summer pine"
A blade of grass in a rocky cleft.
A single star to shine.
— Why should I sorrow if all be lost.
If only thou art mine?
If only a single bluebell gleams
Bright on the barren heath
Still of that flower the summer dream*.
Not of his August wealth.
Why should I sorrow if thou art mine.
Love, beyond change and death?
If only once on a wintry day
The sun shines forth In the blue.
He gladdens the graves till they laugh
as in May.
And dream of the touch of .the dew.
—Why should I sorrow tf all be false.
If only thou art true?
—George Bartow.
Caruthers’ Ideal
Notwithstanding that relatives, mu
tual friends, society, and the world
in general had selected Muriel Wynd
ham as the future Mrs. Jack Cam
thera, no intimation of such a possi
bility had ever come to notice on the
part of the two persons most con
cerned.
Of n truth there was a certain physi
cal resemblance, which may have held
its own occult explanation. Brown
hair, with glints of red; hazel eyes,
heavily lashed, except that the one
• pair that looked Into the other pair
had a deeper, darker light, the differ
ence of its own tenderer sex, or, per
haps, a rarer nature.
But Muriel Wyndham—well, Harry
did not like her for one thing. Be
sides there had been some one else.
Muriel had been widowed at 19.
When the sound of that terrific ex
plosion In Havana harbor had rever
berated through the hearts of men,
young Tom Wyndham was one of the
first to enroll with the volunteers.
There had been a romantic flight to
the Gretna Greeu across the state
border.
They had “run away and got mar
led," had promptly confessed, and
were as promptly forgiven by dver
indulgent, parents, as well as the
equally indulgent uncle with whom
Muriel and her younger brother had
always made their home. So when
Tom Wyndham steamed away on the
special with his regiment, he left be
hind a wife instead of a sweetheart
to wait and watch for his return.
But that was long ago, as youth
counts the years, and had it not been
for that extremely small person. “The
Pocket Edition of Tom Wyndham." as
Muriel’s uncle called him. Jack might
have been able to forget that other.
But forever that soldierly figure,
which his mortal eyes had never bq
held, loomed up before his mental
vision whenever he thought of Muriel
and the gold mine of content that her
compaionshlp might mean to him—to
some other fellow.
Jack had never been able to ex
plain this peculiar dislike for one so
utterly charming and universally well
liked as was Muriel Wyndham. In
deed, Harry himself had never ex
pressed it in so many words. Only
when Muriel was the subject, a flit
ting. disagreeable expression of coun
tenance, a bit of skillful innuendo,
and a quick change of subject left the
Intangible impression. And Muriel,
too, seemed to prefer to avoid Harry.
Once during the earlier days of his
business career, when one of the steps
from the foot of the ladder where ho
' bed begun to “learn the business,"
which had led to a junior partnership
In the Arm of which his father was
president, Jack had to serve a certain
OB’,
The “Pocket Edition Tom Wyndham.”
length of time “on the road." And it
was on the road that Jack had met
Annabel Riley.
She lived with her blind father, the
old colonel, in a picturesque vineclad
cottage on the outskirts of a small
town where Caruthers had one or two
“customers.” and to “keep the pot
boiling” for herself, her aged parent.
ami Jane, the housekeeper, she taught
the village school.
Jack had sought and easily obtained
an Introduction; had called and made
himself as agreeable as he could.
Shortly afterward, having served
his apprenticeship on that particular
round of the ladder, he left "the na-.d”
*o become one of the company.
■ Of course they "corresponded”—a
desultory exchange of remarks about
the weather; had she read such and
such a novel? and papa's health. Un
til one day a letter came—the old
colonel had responded to “taps."
Jane was going back to her people. "I
am all aloue In the world.” she wrote.
It had been a particularly trying
day with Caruthers. hi the first
place he had met. Muriel In the morn
ing, on his way to business, out walk
ing with that “pocket edition.” the
Read it by the waning light.
sight of which always irritated him,
carrying as it did in its sturdy little
body the infinite presence of that
other one.
Caruthers could not understand for
the life of him what Muriel saw in that
boy to be so fond of him.
He received Annabel’s letter just
before noon, and all the rest of the
day he kept the picture of her in his
mind as he had first seen her on the
shaded streets, with her tender, be
loved charges.
“Far from the maddening crowd's
ignoble strife,” he quoted softly, as he
boarded the first train, and some
hours later found himself in the little
Kentucky hamlet where dwelt his
ideal. He brought her back with him.
his bride. Her picture face and in
genue manners won for her immediate
popularity among certain effete ones
of bis set. Sorry little ideal. Unable
to gauge cr properly weigh the unac
customed attentions.
Coming home from his office one
evening Caruthers found a note on his
dressing table, addressed to himself
in the wavering, childish handwriting
ho knew as hs wife’s. It read:
“Forgive me. Jack! I never loved
you. You took me from the life I
hated. I bated everything: I believe
I even hated my father, but most of
all 1 hated those children! Hurry and
i expect, to be happy together. Good
by. Annabel.”
“Harry!” he whispered; “Harry
Williams!”
Line a nash it canie to mm. l ne
import of William's dislike for Muriel
Wyndham. Her avoidance of him.
“It is all my fault.” he said, crush
ing the paper in his hand. “I have be
trayed my trust and my trust has
been betrayed. I insisted on Muriel's
receiving him. 1 brought him—here!"
Suddenly a queer, ecstatic little
crow— a sort of gurgle of joy came
from the room beyond. He rushed
toward the sound and a moment later
emerged with a bundle of something
in long, white skirts and topped by a
bait* little head. It clutched tightly a
bottle half filled with ir'lk.
He stopped mechanically and picked
up the crumpled note that had fallen
on the floor, and spread it out so
he could read it again. At the bot
tom there was scrawled a line he had
failed to see the first time:
“I have taken Sarah, the maid with
me."
Numbed, dazed, his mind refused to
grasp the situation. He raised his
eyes dully. The small figure, still
hugging Its source of sustenance,
dropped against his shoulder asleep.
His half conscious vision halted at
a photograph which for some reason
Annabel had always kept standing on
her desk—*Muriel Wyndham.
In the old days Caruthers had al
ways taken his hopes, his ambitions,
his griefs, and laid them at the feet
of Muriel Wyndham. So. now, as by
mere force of habit—certainly thero
was no illumination in that stricken
face—he carefully wrapped the lim^
itiuc uuuj in a urv' j t uur uun
hood which he found on a hook be
hind the door, and, still with the air
of one without will, he turned off the
light and went. out.
Jack Caruther’s walked steadily
along In the dusk of the summer's
evening, holding closely his precious
bundle, until he reached the residence
of Muriel's uncle. Muriel herself stood
at the gate.
"I—I was expecting Ted." she said
by way of explanation. "Do you know
he thinks the world of little torn and
T(jpimy just worships him.”
^“Muriel! Muriel!" said Caruthers,
thickly.
He thrust the crmpled note Into her
rand and she read it by the waning
light.
She stood for a moment, with
averted face, irresolute, the evening
breeze tossing the lace scarf at her
throat, her white gown drifting about
her.
"Jack,” she said, jerkily, using the
parlance of her college boy brother,
“you—you—you got what was coming
to you!"
She turned swiftly, making to go In
to the house, but stopped as suddenly.
The floating ends of her scarf had
caught on something and cheeked her
flight. She put up her hand to loosen
the obstruction and touched some
thing warm and soft—a tiny baby fist,
clutching tightly the filmy meshes of
lace. A pair of blue eyes—Annabel's
eyes, a little rounder, scarcely more
infantile in expression—gazed un
wtnkingly into her own. The tiny flu
gers clung persistenly to her scarf.
She stretched out her arms sud
denly. peremptorily.
"Give her to me," she cried In a
voice that was still a sob.—Chicago
Tribune.
HE REVIEWED THE SERMON.
Sporting Reporter Takes the Place of
the Theological Expert.
The theological reporter being out
of the city, the sporting editor was
sent to church, with instructions to
carefully review the sermon that was
to be preached by an eminent visit
ing divine. The sporting editor was
up against a hard proposition, but he
proceeded to make good as follows:
“The weather was perfect, and the
grandstand and bleachers were
packed. The Rev. Dr. Blanketyblank
was in the box for the Unitarians,
and he certainly had everything in
the book. When ho tackled the New
Jerusalem he used the slow ball artis
tically, but when he warmed up on
hades he had speed to burn and
whipped them over like a shot. He
had swell control, and never lost sight
of the plate for a minute, especially
after it had been passed around.
“The choir did a good deal of root
ing from the players' bench, and oc
caslonally a voice from the bleachers
yelled ‘Amen!’ Although it was an
extra inning game, he never let up
for a minute, and had the visitors
properly hooked up throughout, put
ting some of them to sleep. If he
can only keep up the pace the big
league for him next season!''—Mil
waukee Sentinel.
How We Learn.
Great truths are dearly bought. The com.
man truth.
Such as men give and take from da)
to day.
Comes In the common walk of easy life
Blown by the careless wind, across out
way.
Great truths arc groRtly won, not founc
by chance.
Nor wafted on the breath of summei
dream;
But grasped In the great struggle of th«
soul.
Hard buffeting with adverse wind anc
stream.
But In the day of conflict, fear and grief
When the strong hand of God. put fortf
In might.
Ploughs up the subsoil of the stagnant
heart.
And brings the Imprisoned truth-seec
to the light.
Wrung from the troubled spirit. In hare
hours.
Of weakness, solitude, perchance ol
pain.
Truth springs like harvest from the well
ploughed held.
And the soul feels it has not wept ir
vain.
— Bonar.
Young Old People of To-day.
People quit growing old at 40 hall
a century ago. They quit it when
they ceased thinking themselves ole
at 40, ceased dressing old at 40, not
to speak of drinking themselves old
at 40. The young man of 50 or Of
now wears the natty sack tweeds ot
serges that his son or grandson wears
topped off with a jaunty hat. He goes
to baseball, the races; he keeps up
with the procession and Is all in for a
good time in moderation, healthfully
The young woman with him in whits
or colors, with tho gay hat, who has
the manners ol a youthful, but self
respecting girl of 20 in the last cen
tury. is his wife, perhaps a grand
mother, but none the less young ant
happy yet. They feel young, the)
dress young, they believe themselves
young—by the Great Horned Spoon
they are young’.—Louisville Herald.
As Compared.
Ethel—Wbat do you think of young
Softhead?
Mae—Oh. he reminds me of a blot
ting pad.
Ethel—Indeed! What's the answer?
Mae—He hears the Impression o.
some good things, but lacks the ability
to make use of them.
. The Largest Tree.
No tree lias ever been found large,
than the Sicilian •‘chestnut of a H><
horses.” It is not less than 304 fee
In circumference.
Degree for Women.
In future women will be allowed t<
take degrees In the University «f Dub
lin.
«
FIERCE FIGHT WITH SWORDFISH
Rach Fisherman Wounded Almost to Death in Wild Duel with
Wounded Monster of the Sea—He Is Now Recuper
ating in Hospital.
The next time Christopher Nor
waugh goes out after a swordfish be
will take rare to have the bottom of
his dory covered with sheet iron. He
has learned his lesson, as with a
smile, he says himself; and he is glad
to be living. At present he is lying
cn a cot in one of the surgical wards
of St. Joseph’s hospital, with his left
leg as rigid as a capstan bar.
Norwaugh is a Danlsh-American,
stocky, blue-eyed and fair-haired. Tie
spent bis boyhood on the sea, and
naturally enough, when he came to
this country seventy years ago, he still
looked to the sea for a living. With
his family he settled on Block Island.
Block Island is noted for its o/.onous
air and for its fishing. The Block isl
and amateur is proud to show his
brown arms and his string of blueflsb.
but the Block Island professor shows
some pride and pleasure only when he
tows in a swordfish.
The swordfish season begins early
his tail he started for the bottom of
the sea.
He moved just a second too late. He
was not more than three feet below
the surface when the Lindsey scudded
by, and Capt. Dodge hurled his har
poon with the unerring aim of an old
hand.
Splurge! — down went the fish.
Whizz!—off reeled the fifty fathoms of
line in the boat occupied by Norwaugh.
So the fight began. Ordinarily the
blow of the harpoon takes all the pug
nacity out of the swordfish, and after a
couple of plunges he has no resistance
left in him. Then the man in the boat
slowly hauls in the line, draws near
tne fish, and when he is near
enough gives the finishing strokes with
a long lance. That had always been
Norwaugh’s experience; and he was
rated as one of the best men in the
business.
“Now tell me how it happened your
self, if you feel strong enough to," said
Joseph, he came up through the bd>
tom of the boat. Ges!"
And just here the fisherman shook
his head as he smiled.
“The sword entered my left leg just
above the knee, in the back of the leg,
and went obliquely up through the
fleshy part of my thigh. In a second it
was drawn out again, and the fish dis
appeared.
"Well, it was very lucky—very
lucky, indeed. I had strength enough
to make signals of distress and to
stuff my cap into the hole in the boat.
The blood was just pouring out of the
wound. They tell me that the sword
of the fish was over three feet long,
and that it tore the flesh all off the
thigh bone of my left leg. I suppose
tt ey know. I know that by the time
the catboat came alongside I was fit to
faint; and l know that my leg is pretty
stiff to-day.
“I was very lucky. The sword tore
about all the veins and muscles in my
In June anil lasts a little more than
two months. It is short but full of ex
citement. In eight or ten weeks even
the most reckless fisherman has
enough of wondering whether the at
tacked animal will rise through the dis
tant rollers or through the flimsy bot
tom of the boat. It’s only the green
fisherman who laughs when you speak
of the dangerous swordfish. Mr. Nor
waugh was rather sceptical himself un
til a few days ago. Now he firmly be
lieves that a little imprudence is a
dangerous thing.
Strong. Trusty, Fearless.
,At the first of the season Norwaugh
Joined the crew of the swordfish cat
boat Lindsey, Capt. Edwin Dodge.
Capt. Dodge was mighty pleased to
have so strong and trusty a helpmate.
The season opened discouragingly.
In fact, the Lindsey didn't make her
first catch until the Fourth of July.
After the Fourth the fish came around
regularly ; and on the morning of the
flth, some six miles south of Block Isl
and, the Lindsey sighted her sixth fish.
Swordfishing is much like whaling,
except that the scale is smaller. There
Is a lookout in the masthead, ready to
shout the moment his sharp eyes spot
any fish; and there is a man who
stands ready to get into the pulpit on
the bowsprit and hurl the harpoon;
and another member of the crew is
prepared to go off in a boat after the
harpooned fish.
"its a whopper: saui tne man at
the masthead. ‘Keep her headed sou’
sou’-east."
Off hounded the eatboat on the star
hoard taek. The captain took up his
Karpooa and climbed into the pulpit.
"Where is he?”
“Straight ahead, cap," the lookout
replied. 'You'll see bin; iu a minute.”
Within the minute he saw the sword
fish—a rare monster, at least ten feet
long from tip of tail to point of sword.
TJut the swordfish also saw the cat
. boat, and throwing up a geyser with
the reporter, sitting by the cot in St.
Joseph’s hospital.
"Of course I feel strong enough,”
said Norwaugh, with a smile. “I'd get
up if they'd let me. Yes, I’ll tell you
how it happened.”
He stretched himself by taking hold
of the iron bars back of his head.
Without doubt, if he had exerted him
self he could have bent the bars. His
exceptional hairiness betokened his ex
ceptional strength. Which partly ac
counts for his recovery.
"It was a good fair shot that the
captain made,” he related, “and I went
after the fish in a small boat. There
were about, fifty fathorus of line tied
to the harpoon, but not all of the fifty
fathoms was reeled out. I should say
that when the fish came to the surface
for the first time he wasn’t much more
than two fathoms away.
“I began to haul in the line and to
draw up on the fish. As a visual thing,
the swordfish is easy enough to take
care of, I had taken in hundreds of
them, and I had never had any serious
trouble before. When you draw up on
him you cut him in the fins and gills
vith your long lance, and visually he
gives up the fight just then. He may
squirm around a bit, and make you
look out for his tall, but that's all.
“Well, before I could haul up very
close to this fellow he began to go
round the boat. Round and round he
went, just as fast as he could swim.
1 had hard work to keep myself from
being tangled up in the line, and, be
sides, once he came so near the stern
of the beat, where 1 was standing, that
his tail flashed by my head. After that
I had an Idea that he would give me
some trouble.”
Norwaugh paused to smile. Though
powerful, he has a gentle manner and
a kind, disarming smile. You’d think
that his life was one long, sw’eet, soft,
smooth song.
“After going round about a dozen
times he plunged down for the second
time. Then, before j"ou could say St.
thigh, but the arteries escaped. How
that happened is the miracle. If an
artery had been torn. I would probably
have bled to death before they could
get me back to Block Island. You see,
the wicked fish had two chances to kill
me, once going in and once coming
out. I don’t know how I escaped. But
you won't find me taking any more
chances with a swordfish.”—Bostou
Journal.
WISDOM OP SWISS STATESMEN.
Proved by the Remarkable History of
the Country.
Some of the ancient agreements be
tween the little Swiss states were
very noteworthy. In 1243 Bern and
Fribourg made a covenant which last
ed for more than 260 years, by which
they agreed that even a war between
them should r.ot destroy their agree
meat, that no war between them
should be entered on without a pre
vious attempt at conciliation, and that
within fourteen days of the end of
any feud all territory conquered and
spoils of war must be returned to
their owners. Cities which 650 years
ago could agree to such terms deserve
to live in history! Basle, Scnaffhausen
and Appenzell a few years later were
wise and far-sighted enough to agree
“to sit still and seek conciliation” In
case of difference between them. Just
over-fJOO years ago the Swiss confed
eration was founded by the three tiny
mountain states, Uri, Schwys and Nid
walden, which, remaining small and
unimportant themselves, have, by the
force of the idea of union, drawn to
themselves from time to time larger
states and powerful cities, till to-day
the Swiss nation can, in proportion to
its size and population, boast of a
prouder history and greater benefits
to mankind than any other nation in
Europe.
Why He Bought the Image.
A clergyman who was staying at
the house of an English workingman
happened to see an image of the Vir
gin Mary standing over the mantle
piece, which struck him as incongru
ous. By way of mating talk he asked
how it got there. “Well, you see, sir.
it cam about this way," replied his
host. “I was courtin’ o’ two sisters—
Sally and Maria—an’ I wusn’t just
sartin which I was to 'ave. One day,
as I wor starin’ Into a shop winder, I
saw that 'ere statoot, with ‘Ave Ma
ria’ underneath it. That came right
’ome to me, so I med up my mind
right off to ’ave Maria; an’ we was
spliced. She bin a reel glide wife to
me, an’ so I bought the image to keep
it In mind.”
Force of Habit.
Editor—This is a very singular nov
el of your friend, Ortggshy. He has
simply lauded everything in the book
from the characters to the breakfast
food to the very skies.
Griggsby’s Friend—Griggsby cannot
help writing like that. He does it un
consciously. You see he used to be «
theatrical press agent.