nt merrily jingling bells from behind a
piece of rising ground.
On they came, filling the air with the
music of scores of bells of different
tones, till I counted 12 great teams roll
ing down the descending ground.
As soon ns I had made known to the
teamsters the condition of the emigrant
Painilj tin re was a regular strife about
going » their relief. All were going
back to California with empty wagons,
and all declared they could as well as
not take the little emigrant craft in tow
—their teams would never know it had
been hooked on behind them.
Only a single team was needed. A
8ne, strapping young fellow, about 25
years of age, was driving the leading
team of the train. All the other team
sters were much older and had about
them the subjugated look of married
uien. Bo I said:
“Gentlemen, us there is a confound
edly good looking girl over there, and
■is most of you appear to be married
uien, Buppose wo say that this yonng
buck goes?” pointing to my young chap.
With shouts of laughter and many
sly jokes, this was agreed to at once,
and 1 mounted to a seat on the wagon
of my young fellow to act as guide.
My man had a team of 10 huge and
splendid mules, all carefully selected
and matched—a team worth a small
fortune. Each mule wore housings of
bearskin, and above the hames of each
rose a steel bow tilled with bells of va
rious sizes and tones. His vehicle was
a great “prairie schooner,” as the im
mense freight wagons used in crossing
the Sierras are called, and everything
about both team and wagon was in per
fect order.
On one side of the wagon—the huge
hull of the craft—was painted in red a
large wing, like tlio wing of some sea
bird. In explanation of this hieroglyph
my young fellow said, "You see, sir,
I call her the Red Wing. ”
I told him the folks out oil the desert
would most assuredly look upon him
as an angel, notwithstanding he had
but one wing.
When we reached the forlorn family
and our huge craft rolled up alongside
their diminutive vehicle, we looked
like a 74 gun ship bearing down upon
a canoe.
The family had evidently never dream
ed of such a wagon or such an array of
animals for a team. Thomas rose from
his seat on the rock, rubbed his eyes
and gazed upon the whole rig in utter
astonishment. The old grandmother
pushed back her immense sunbonnet
and giggled aloud, while the two boys
stood and stared in open mouthed and
speechless amazement.
Sticking his blacksnake whip under
the housings of his saddle mule, my
teamster, John Henderson by name,
jumped to the ground, and teamsterlike
first of all went to look at the old bald
faced horse.
As young Henderson walked around
the old horse and surveyed his many
unusual “points, ” liis face wore a cu
rious expression—half sneer, half pit}-.
Going to where the dead mare lay,
he gave her a careless kick, which in
stantly brought a beseeching “Don’t,
mister!” from the younger of the boys.
Smiling good humoredly, Henderson
turned away from the mare, and now
for the first time deigned to notice the
human beings present.
“Well,” said he, turning to Thomas,
“I s’pose you folks don’t care how soon
you get out of here. Ugh! with all these
dead cattle about, this is no good camp
ing place.”
Said Thomas: "I must tell you plain
ly, mister, that we hain’t got any mon
ey. We are”
“Oh, Mumford! Oh, Mumford!” cried
the old grandmother, and squatting
upon the ground she began rocking her
self to and fro.
Henderson wheeled about and sur
veyed thy rocking figure in amazement.
Then hy began to look about in wild
eyed fright. Seeing no one rush to the
old woman’s assistance, he stepped to
my side and asked: “Is she sick? Does
the old lady have fits?”
“Oh, no, ” whispered I. "A little pe
culiar, that is all. She enjoys these lit
tie tantrums.
“Enjoys them?"
"I suppose so. Mumford was her
husband. They buried the old man at
Green river.”
"Ah! Yes, yes, I see!” said Hender
son. “Poor old lady! It sets her about
crazy!”
Mary and her mother had both been
watching our movements from the wag
on front, the mother in her anxiety hav
ing left her couch and crawled forward
on her knees. Evidently mother and
daughter thought, on seeing Henderson
turn away from Thomas and seeing
the old lady again agitating herself upon
the ground, that some hitch had occur
red and that the teamster was, after
all, aDout to drive away and leave
them on the desert. I heard Mary say:
“I can stand it no longer, mother! 1
must speak to him! He must help us!”
Then, leaving the sick child beside her
mother, she came rushing to Henderson
with flying hair and streaming eyes.
“Oh, sir, do take us! Don’t, for
God’s sake, leave us here! If yon will
take us, I will do anything! I will
work for you—1 mean for your father
and mother, sir. Oh, don’t leave us
because we have no money!”
“I have neither father nor mother in
this country, miss. Why do you talk
about work and money? I am not go
ing to leave you—money would not hire
me to leave you! For $10,000 I would
not turn away and leave you here in
sickness and distress to die on the des
ert. I would want to blow my brains
out the next minute! Just tell me where
you want to go. ”
‘ ‘ Oh, sir, ’’said Mary. ‘ ‘ we want to go
to California!”
“But to what part of California?
California is a broad state.”
Mary hesitated, looked confused and
finally answered, “I don’t know, sir—
we only started to go to California. ”
Thomas was appealed to and said:
“Don’t know, mister, of any pertic’
ler part—we only jist started to go to
Caleforny. ’’
j *‘Oh, Mumford! Oli. Mumford!"
groaned the old lady.
Henderson started at tliia second out
break, gazed curiously at the Mumford
relict for a moment, then gave me a
1 look that said more plainly than any
! words, "Rom old gal, ain’t she?"
"Well,” said Henderson, gazing from
face to face and addressing the family
collectively, "as yon don't seem bonnd
for any particular port, by the beard
of Baalam! I’ll just bundle you all up,
take you in tow of the Red Wing and ,
land you all on my ranch in Sacraraen- 1
to valley. It's as good luck as any."
Nobody ottered any objection. The
short and emphatic speech made by
Henderson seemed to have settled the
whole matter.
The kind hearted teamster was now
all bustle. He stirred Thomas up, tell
ing him to do this and do that, and
even fonnd something for the small
boys to do. All the valuable contents
She name rushing to Henderson.
of the small craft were soon stowed
away in the capacious hold of the Red
Wing, as were the extra harness and
other traps. The water cask was un
slung under the small wagon, and giv
ing it a kick that sent it rolling Hen
derson said, “We shan’t need that!’’
At this the old lady, of whom nobody
was thinking, cried: "Yes, we shall.
Take it along. It’ll come mighty ha- .y
to keep soap in!”
“Never yon mind, granny," said
Henderson, smiling at the idea. “We
shall find soap barrels enough over the
mountains.”
Next he turned to Thomas, who was
poking away at some box be was mov
ing, ciying: “Come, hustle up, my
friend! We’ve got to get to Carson City
as quick as the Lord will let us! I tell
you, we’ve got to get some chickens,
some fresh butter aud milk, tea, fresh
vegetables and a whole lot of things
for these sick folks. It’s a wonder you
ain’t all down with scurvy, i nch salt
boss rations as you’ve lx-eu iivin on!”
At thisspeech I saw Mary’s face light
np.
“Oh, Kitty." 1 overheard her say,
“hear that! Chicken broth to make
Kitty and mamma well!"
Henderson spread his own mattress
and part of liis bedding in the small
wagon for the sick woman and child,
after it had been cleared of all the boxes
and baggage it contained, making both
quite comfortable. All bands of us
then hauled the small craft into posi
tion, and it was securely lashed be
hind the big prairie schooner aud taken :
in tow by the gallant Red Wing.
Thomas and the boys mounted into
the large wagon, while all the women i
and little ones were placed in the small
one.
As 1 assisted the tottering old lady j
into the vehicle, she paused when half i
way in, nodded her head toward Hen- ;
derson and said to me in a triumphant
whisper, "He’s jist like Muinford!"
“Goodby” was soon said all round, a
crack like the report of a rifle rang out
from Henderson’s blacksnake whip, a
shower of merry music was shaken out
of the hundred bells as the 10 huge an- j
imals threw their weight into their col- i
lars and set the tall steel bows arched
above to quivering. Then the two ve
hicles moved slowly away in the direc
tion of the main road to Carson City.
At the distance of a hundred yards the
old bald faced horse, as he went limping
l>ehind the smaller craft, seemed to sud
denly become aware of the fact that lie
was leaving behind the mare, the old
companion that for days, weeks and
months had faithfully toiled by bis side
over huge mountains and across broad
desert plains. Two or three times he
turned and looked back with eyes that
stared wildly from their sunken sockets.
He whinnied uneasily and strove to
wheel about, but bis strong rojie baiter
each time brought him up with a jerk
that must have made lus teeth rattle in
his skull and which nearly threw him
off his trembling legs. So he gave it
up, and they all moved on across the
desert in tho red light of the declining
sun.
‘'Poor ohl devil!” said 1 as 1 stood
there in the desert Golgotha. "He feels
as did the relict when she left Mum
ford behind under the trees on the banks
of the Green river.
‘‘Goodby. Red Wing and kind young
captain!” cried 1. wiping a tearaway
as I saw the two craft drop out of view
behind a distant desert billow. ‘ Good
by and farewell. Mary, Kitty and all
of you! May you find a home and hap
piness in the bright land of flowers on
the summer side of the Sierras!”
CHAPTER IV.
THE UNEXPECTED ALWAYS HAPPENS.
One night in the fall of 1867, cither
in September or October, I was at
Chamberlain’s Station in the Sierra Ne
vada mountains on the Donner Lake
wagon road waiting for a coach of
Roberts S. Company’s line to take me
northward the nest day to the then
newly discovered mines of Meadow
Lake.
Alas, poor Meadow Lake! Meadow
Lake, the glory of whose promise of
greatness once tinged in roseate hues
the high Si arras! Let there be raised a
“lamentation" for Meadow Lake, the
beautiful. Ux in the (lava of her youth.
even while the bow of promise stood
bright above ber, she withered as did
the gourd of Jonah. Alas, the gold in
her myriad of mines failed! She is
now the “deserted village” of the
mountains. Where once busy thousands
had their homes now dwells solitary
Hermit Hartley. His ear alone hears
the moan of the pines—a moan that
seems a wail raised over the dead and
buried hopes of the former dwellers.
At the station at which I was await
ing transportation to the then bright
and bustling town of Meadow Lake
many teamsters had gathered in. Cham
berlain’s was the most popular station
on the road. The men freighting over
the mountains always strove to reach
that halting place. Until long after
dark the sound of bells w’as heard on
the pine bordered road, and the huge
prairie schooners came rolling in. Aft
er supper I found the immense barroom
almost filled with the teamsters, and
more were still arriving, for a full moon
was lighting up all the mountains.
The men were all talking "horse" and
“mule,” and my head being filled with
thoughts of mines and gold, I paid but
a dreamy sort of attention to the con
versation. Presently, however, one ot
the teamsters said, with a good deal ot
emphasis, "I tell you what, Johnny, if
yon hadn’t ’a’ hitched onto me and
helped me np that air last hill, I’d ’a’
bin at the foot of it yit!”
‘‘That’s all right, Bill. You know I
never pass by and leave a man in trouble.
No, sir, by the beard of Balaam, the
son of Beor! I have my opinion of a
man that will do a trick like that.”
Instantly 1 was ail attention. Al
though it had been seven years since 1
had heard that strange, mild oath—
though 1 heard it then for the first time
and had never heard it since—I at once
recollected where and under what cir
cumstances I had before beard it. J
soon had the man who had sworn by
the beard of Balaam safely cornered at
some distance from the main throng of
guests. I then asked him if he remem
bered having assisted a poor, wrecked
emigrant family out of a desert over in
Nevada seven years before.
“Do 1 remember that? Well, sir, 1
rather guess I do! Yes, sir, and mighty
little chance now of my ever forgetting
it. But, stranger, how do you happen
to know about that? You ain’t the—
well, by the beard of Balaam! Yes,
you are! You are the very fellow that
came out on the road and got me to go
down into the desert after the family!
Give me your hand!”
Having recovered my hand from John
Henderson’s fearful grasp and straight
ened out my benumbed fingers, 1 said:
“I did not remember your face. Mr.
Henderson, for now you are bearded like
thepard, but I recollected your peculiar
style of oath. You used it once that
day down in the desert. The moment
I heard it here tonight there flashed be
W • i i — if
“Give me your hand!”
fore me a picture of the little wagon
and the forlorn family, of the dead ani
mals scattered about and of your huge
Red Wing. I saw everything.”
“Oh, yon mean my saying‘by the
beard of Balaam.' I don’t count that
swearin. If it is swearin, it must pass
as the family oath. My father—and he
was a pious sonl—always said, ‘By the
beard of Balaam, the son of Beor, ’ but
I don’t often find time for the whole.
Back in the States they are not so hur
ried in their swearin as we are out
here.”
“What became of that poor fami
ly?” I asked. "Where did they finally
bring up? Did you get them over the
mountains all light?”
“Did I get them over the mountains
all right? Well, I rayther think I did,
and I’ve got ’em all right till now.”
“Till now? Then you know where
they are at present and how they are
getting along?”
“Yes, sir. I may safely say I do. Did
yon notice that oldest girl Mary? Look
ed a bit tanned and dusty there and
used up like. Ob, yon did notice her?
Well, when she got rested and fixed up,
and when her mother and Kitty got
well, she was just a little the brightest,
liveliest and best lookin girl I ever saw
anywhere. Why, sir, it is a square
fact that I got dead in love wfth that
girl before we got half way over the
mountains. I first begun to feel it com
in on about Yank’s Station, at Straw
berry Valley I was quite oneasv, at
Brockliss Bridge I was sighing like a
sick child, and at Plaeerville I was clear
gone.”
“You seem to have made quite a care
ful diagnosis of your case.”
Hendersou laughed and said: “That
is just the way in which her kind words
and her patient, helpful ways to all
took hold of me. Then, when I after
ward saw her slicked up—well, bet yer
life I wasn’t going to lose her!
“Well,” he continued, “as I was
about to tell you, I took the whole lot
right down to my ranch in Sacramento
valley. Having on the ranch a great
barn of a house that had been built for
a wayside tavern, I put the family into
it, set ’em up and told ’em to go to.
livin.
“They did as I told 'em. Then I went
to courtin Molly in dead aimest—ac
tually neglected some of my teamin
business, I got so determined.
“To cat it short, in six months we
were married—bless the day! It wa.
the niakin of me. The ‘trip’ to church
with Molly was the best I ever made,
except that one you know of. Lord, it
seems like an old story now. Why, bless
you, we now have two bounciu lads and
a rornpin little girl.”
“And Thomas?” I asked.
“Thomas? Oh, yon mean Anderson,
my father-in-law. Well, he’ll never
set the world afire. He’s a good sort ot
an old man though. He’s got a little
ranch of his own that I gave him off
part of my big one. lie’s as contented
a3 a lamb, he is. He jist putters and
potters about and is happy.
“But Grandmother Mumford—the
old lady, you know. Well, it was per
fectly ustniiisliiii bow she come out
when she struck the California climate
—her and that old bald faced boss.
Why, the old critter—the old gal, 1
mean—she got jist as spry on ’er legs as
a quail. I often used to tell her, when
1 see her cha-sin the young turkeys,
“Grandmother Mumford, you will he
a-kickin up your heels pretty soon,
the same as your old Baldy out in the
pasture!’ That tickled her. She jist
swears by me!”
“Does she ever do the ’Oh, Mumford!'
act nowadaj-s?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Henderson.
“How do you know about that? Oh,
I recollect now. She gave ns a small
specimen of that dodge out on the des
ert. Yes, she brings Mnmford up oc
casionally when Father Anderson don’t
fly round to suit her—when she’s put
out with him, you know. Then she
sets down and humps herself like, or
comes over to rr.y house and stays a
month at a time. ’ ’
“That must be agreeable I”
“Yes, sir, I like to have her about.
I can tell you, sir, that she’s a mighty
bright, sharp old lady, and when she
sees business goin on right she’s jolly
and full of life and fun. Make you
laugh tears to hear her tell her old
Kentucky yarns, actin out the charac-;
ters.
Uh, 1 forgot to tell you, she s rich
now! Seme of her big, high toned rel
atives back in Kentucky—the Mum
fords and Sylvesters, and among ’em—
have died and left her, or it fell to her
in some way, $75,000 in clean coin!
We’ve named two of our children after
her—I mean the girl after her and the
boy after Mumford, the one out on
Green river. His name, it seems, was
Isaac—not a name I would have select
ed, but—well, she somehow got round
Molly in the fixin up of her will. But
this is too much like talkin business,
and I’m rich enough already—that is,
almost.”
‘‘Do you know, Henderson, that I’m
delighted to hear all this? I’ve a thou
sand times thought of yon and of all in
that family. When I saw your tall Red
Wing pass over the ridgo out of sight
with the little craft in tow, itsomehow
left a sort of void in my heart that has
never been filled till now. ”
“‘Ah, and we, too, have often and of
ten talked of you, sir. All came about
through you. I wish to God you’d let
your mining business go and comedown
and sjiend a month or two with ns. 1
can tell yon we’d have a loyal time.
What a surprise and delight it would
be to Molly! She often and often talks
about you, wonderin how you are got tin
along in the world and hopin all has
gone well with you. ’ ’
•'Bless her kind heart! Now, Hen
derson, yon may tell her that you’ve
seen me, and that I am happy and rich.
Tell her that I have a half a million
in one mine in Meadow Lake, with
from $100,000 to $250,000 in two or
three others. Also tell her that next
year I shall make the lour of Europe—
shall spend at least six months in Eu
rope. I’ve got my route all mapped
out. I wish to God, Henderson, that
things were so with you that you could
go along. ”
I may as well say right here that
things did not turn out with me as well
as I then anticipated. My mines ‘ * pe
tered, ” the‘'bottom” fell out of the
whole district and left some thousands
of us ‘flat broke.” But to this day 1
am glad to feel that Mary always think3
of me as rich, traveling in Europe, din
ing with Queen Victoria and hobnob
bing it with the czar of all the Rns
sias.
A stout, hanusome young man about
17 years of age then approached and
was introduced by Henderson as “Rob
ert Anderson, my brother-in-law. He’s
one of the boys you saw on the desert. ”
After some talk about the “great
trouble” out on the desert, Henderson
told me that Bob was driving one of
his big teams.
“I had only one wing when you first
met me, but now I have three—a Red
Wing, a White Wing, and a Blue Wing.
Whenever I get a new wagon 1 spread
another wing. I want just one more
wing, then I shall sail on evenly through
the world. ”
“Have you the same old RedWing
that I saw?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Henderson, “but like the
man’s jackknife so many new feathers
have been put in here and there at va
rious times that it is now hard to say
how much of the original is left. I feel
a great liking for the old craft, and i
shall always consider that one particu
lar trip to the Comstock with the old
Red Wing the lucky cruise of my life—
it brought me Molly. ”
THE END.
----
Tardy Lord Palmerston.
A political friend* who knew Lord (
Palmerston intimately, relates that he
was not always to be depended on in
keeping appointments. He once fixed
7 o’clock to dine with the officials of a
provincial town, but failed to turn up.
When 10 o’clock struck and he still was
absent, the company in 6heer despera
tion sat down and had reached only the
second course when the great man ap
peared. All expected an apology for
the delay that had spoiled their dinner,
but Palmerston, with the blandest of
smiles and an assumption of the mosr
cordial and forgiving aspect, quietly
said, “I am so glad you did not wait.”
—Exchange.
HOCUS POCUS IN ART.
HOW SOME PERSONS WHO THINK
THEY KNOW ARE SWINDLED.
Qawr Tricks Practiced by Men Who Make?
a Living With Pencil and Ktruch—Car
toonists With More Than One Name—Ono
Who Made His Ghost Famous.
Artists who sign their names to pic
tures that other men paint are quite
plentiful in this town. In a little store
on Fourth avenue, just around the cor
ner from the An erican Academy of De
sign, there are some very pretty exam
ples of water coloring for sale. The
signature in the corner of each canvas
is that of a woman. The dealer was in
a communicative mood the other day,
and as he was talking with a reporter
he picked up one of the paintings and
held it to the light for observation and
discussion.
‘‘That woman brings some very good
work in here for me to sell,” said he.
“There is one peculiarity about her,
though. She always writes her signa
ture in my shop. ” The dealer paused
as though to be questioned.
“Why does 6he do that?” was asked.
"Well, 1 suppose she doesn’t like to
put it on at the stadios where the pic
tures are painted. ”
“She doesn't paint her own picture*,
then?”
“Not all of them. It’s easier to pick
them np here and there and bring them
to me to sell I don’t know how much
she pays the artists who paint them, and
I don’t care. It’s none of my business.
All I know is that the work is very good
and that 1 can get good prices for it. 1
suppose she is building up a reputation
on the strength of these canvases. Well,
why shouldn’t she? She gives work
to a lot of people who would probably
starve otherwise. You see, scores of
persons can paint pictures and very few
have the knack of getting them sold.”
Sometimes an artist signs more than
one name to his own work. This hap
pens every day on some of the illustrat
ed weeklies published for Broadway
circulation. The publisher doesn't like
to see one man’s name signed to every
cartoon or full page picture. He does
not want it known that his staff of art
ists is so small. Not long ago one of
the cleverest of the illustrators used to
sign his own name to the big two page
picture in the middle of the periodical
and a nom de plume to the first page
drawing every week. In a little while
he began to receive letters addressed to
the assumed name, giving orders for
work and full of compliments. He had
built up a reputation for the mythical
artist which lie could not get for him
self. His pride was hurt, but he swal
lowed the humiliation and proceeded
to increase the fame and the revenue
of his ghost.
A New York artist who draws for the
pictorial weeklies tells a story of his
experience in England at a time when
all the publishers were demanding
French illustrators and had no use for
native talent. This particular artist
knew that he could cut corsages as lev?
and skirts as high as any Frenchman
that ever lived. He had spent several
vacations and lots of hard earned mon
ey in seeing the particular side of Pa
risian life that the publishers were howl
ing lor at that particular time.
He assumed a very Frenehy name,
wrote in that language altogether and
submitted his sketches, which already
out-Frenched the Frenchmen in their
naughtiness. He made a big hit, his
mail orders were numerous, and for
many months he enjoyed a lucrative in
come under his title of De Boulanger
or whatever it was, while all the other
English illustrators were drawing for
the religious weeklies, which cannot
afford to pay half as big prices to their
artists as their more wicked and per
haps more interesting contemporaries.
In the window of a pictura store in
Harlem there were exposed for sale not
long ago two small canvases with the
magic name of Corot in the corner. The
price of each was $230. Now, a genu
ine Corot is worth anywhere from $1,
000 up. Was it a mistake or an at
tempt at swindling? The pictures were
in Corot’s style, and only au expert
could tell whether they were genuine or
not.
The dealer would give no written
guarantee. He said he believed the two
canvases were genuine, and he explain
ed the low price by saying that he
bought tbe pictures from a man in hard
luck who was ignorant of their value.
The purchaser took all the risk. If the
pictures were not genuine Corots, their
real value was anywhere from $5 to
$50. That is one of the queer things iE
the art business.
There are pawnbrokers in this town
who have been known to go into a pic- i
ture swindling scheme, as more than
one credulous buyer lias learned to his
cost. It is not an infrequent occur
rence for an amateur in art to be ap
proached with a request to buy a pawn
ticket calling for a lot of pictures pledg
ed for, say, $100. The pictures, the
stranger says, are worth at least $350.
He will sell the ticket for $25. If the
amateur buys it, he pays not only the
$25 for the ticket, bat the $100 and in- ,
terest to the pawnbroker.
It is a perfectly safe and easy meth
od of swindling. Neither the pawn
broker nor the ticket seller is likely c j
be caught. The pictures may only he ;
worth $10. It cannot be proved that
the pawnbroker knew this or that the .
other man knew it, for that matter. The j
victim has scarcely any mode of rodres=. |
Swindles like this would not be possible ,
but for the fact that very many men ;
believe they know all there is to lie
known about art, when, as a matter of
fact, they know nothing at all. Or, >n
other words, “the crop of suckers never
fails,’’to quote the old maxim of the
green goods dealer.—New York World.
I Ikg Pardon.
Solemn Stranger—All flesh is grass, j
Deaf Man—Hey?
Solemn Stranger—N*>, grass.—New!
York Press.
GENIUS IS INDIFFERENT.
ll«rrroundtnj»N llnve Naught to Do Wit h thr
Thread of Thought.
If might be conjectured perhaps that
Scott's ami Byron’s gemns was favored
by the circnuistunces of their birth,
that tho wild scenes in which Srott't
infancy was passed, and the local leg
ends with which his head was tilled de
termined him to ballad writing, and
that the ballad writing led naturally in
its turn to romance, and that tin* high
station and undisciplined l^rty of
Byron's childhood fostered that passion
ate self will and brooding imagination
which showed themselves in his fierce,
scornful and moody verse. This, wo
say, might perhaps he conjectured with
some probability, and the like might bo
said of Wordsworth’s infancy.
But how shall we maintain that tho
conditions of Keats’ cockney birth in a
livery stable or his education in a dis
secting room favored the growth of that
most delicate and rich type or utmost
Hellenic clearness and beauty of imag
ination? And bow shall we maintain
that Dickens’ menial task in the cork
ing of blacking bottles fostered the
growth of that wonderful humor and
that microscopic accuracy of vision
which filled the world with laughter
and with inimitablo caricature such an
no comedy, not even Moliere’s. had an
ticipated ?
Again, who would have ventured to
predict that a wild, despotic. Irish evan
gelical spirit like Patrick Bronte, ban
ished to the bleakest of Yorkshire moors,
would have been the father of children
so eager, original and vivid in their rev
eries as those who eventually produced
the unique passion of Ellis and Currer
Bell’s genius? So far as we know any
thing of the origin of genius, that ori
gin is usually a surprise.,
It is the rare exception, and not the
rule, when we find Chatham succeeding
in producing such a hothouse flower as
William Pitt, or James Mill succeeding
in elaborating a specimen more perfect
than himself of a thinker of his own
type, in the studious, diligent, diffuse,
lucid and rather dreary logician and
economist who left his mark on the
English philosophy of the third quarter
of this century. Nor do we ever find in
rare instances of this sort the higher
kinds of original genius. Pitt and John
Stuart Mill were considerable triumphs
of training for a purpose, but that pur
pose was a very limited cue and bad
none of the largeness and freshness of
vitality which attaches to original gen
ius.—London Spectator.
Negro Superstitions.
Among the superstitions of southern
negroes are those which make it a mos/
unfavorable thing to see a black cat
crossing one’s path, or to turn back
without making a “cross” in the street,
road or path. The belief in witches
ia perhaps more general than any other,
and an ex-congressman tells of a case in
this section within the past 30 years in
which a witch was killed in a very
strange fashion. A negro called on a
witch doctor, a very old woman, and
was told that the cause of the trouble
was a witch and that she must be kill
ed; that the only way possible to thuH
put her out of the way was to go into
the woods and cut the figure of a per
son on the bark of a big pine tree, mark
a cross on the body and shoot this with
a silver bullet, the cross representing
the witch’s heart. The shooting was
duly done in the presence of quite a
number of persons. This occurred in
the northern part of this count}'. Ce
dar balls are carried in the pockets a;*
a protection against witches. The no
gro belief in these is certainly fully
matched by that of white men who car
ry in their pockets buckeyes and Irish
potatoes, or who wear thick iron rings
on their fingers as a preventive of rhev
matism.—Cor. Washington Star.
Ei-Empress Eugenie.
Tho ex-Empress Eugenie lias settled
down into the solitude which best ena
bles her to endure her memorable and
cumulative sorrows. Her tall, sad fig
ure goes in and out among us with only
the recognition of silent sympathy. The
empress likes to have communication
with as few people as possible. For
instance, when she shops—she does her
own shopping—she likes to be waited
on by the same salesman always. 1
was witness of an incident of this sort
the other day. The empress walked
into a well known west end shop and
asked for Mr. -, naming one of the
head men. She was told he was out.
whereupon she remarked that she would
call again and went away. I was told
that she certainly would come again;
that Mr -always waited on her,
and that she would not be served by
any one else—London Western Mail.
X Case of Contempt.
The prisoner was a bold faced va
grant, and the judge bad it in for him
from the start.
“How many times have y. u iwen
here?" he asked.
“Really, your ;..uor. 1 never Kepi
count after the twentieth time.'
“I’ll give you -is months." .-aid th •
judge sterniy.
' All right, your honor. “
■‘Butitisn'tallright. Itisail wrong,
and yon ought ' he ashamed of vour
self."
“Well, your honor, was the impu
dent response “you oughtu't to com
plain. The sta* ■ gets my services for
nothing, and you make it pay you for
yours,” and tho judge gave him 30 day;,
more for contempt. — Detroit Free Press
Sweet* uf Sol it ml**.
Sheep and geese become restless when
separated from the flock; the eagle and
lion seek isolation. From quiet and
solitude spring the greatest thoughts,
inventions and formation. Our most
valuable acquisition in the time cf cur
development through nature, art and
circumstance is the fruit of hours spent
in quietude, desirable for our growing
youth and absolutely essential for our
future philosopher, poet and artist.—
George Eliers in the Forum.