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About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (March 30, 1894)
OLD FRIENDS THE BEST. tirandpa looked at his fine, new chair On the twenty-sixth of December, Raying: “Santa Claus is bo good to me! He never fails to remember. Kut my own armchair Ih tb% one for me,” And he settled himself In nicely. **I hope he won’t mind if I cling to it. For it fits my back precisely.” Papa came home that very night— He had plowed his way through the snow— And the Christmas twinkle had left his eye. And his step was tired and slow. Warming for him his slippers lay. The lovely, embroidered in gold ones That hung on the Christmas tree last night. But he slipped his feet in the old ones. And when dear little Marjory’s bedtime came On the parlor rug they found her. The long, dark lashes adroop on her cheeks And her Christmas toys around her. Weglected Angeliqtie’s waxen nose The fire had incited completely. But her precious rag doll, Hannah Jane, On her breast was resting sweetly. — independent. A COLONEL’S PERIL. . “One day/ said Mr. Myvart, “a card was brought in to me bearing the name of General Woodhall. He follow'd it, and I found myself in the presence of a white whiskered old fire eater, who at once attacked me as though i were an enemy’s position. “ ‘Know my friend Hardyment? Colo nel of the Haramzadi Horse—most dis tinguished officer.’ “I confessed that I had not the honor. “ ‘He’s in trouble. They accuse him of theft. It has been put about that he stole a handsome decoration, a star set in brilliants, at the levee yesterday. By George, it’s monstrous! Don’t you think so? “ T should like to know the facts,’ 1 suggested mildly. “The long and the short of it was that Colonel Hardyment, in the full uniform of his corps, had been the day previous to make his bow to royalty on his return after a long exile in the east. “He had entered the palace and was mixed up with the throng of dignitaries —pillars of the state, foreign diploma tists, officers of both services. “There he made the most of his time, and with all the dexterity of an old and practiced thief had collared everything valuable that came within his reach. “He was not cangbt in the act. But wherever he went havoc and depreda tion followed in his track. “‘And what might the colonel say himself? O’ course he lias heard about it from some kind friend.’ “ ‘Not a word. The fact is—Hardy ment—is not to be found.’ “ ‘That of itself looks’— I did not dare finish the sentence. “ Til shoot the man who accuses him! Everybody’s wrong, or else some one has personated him.’ “ ‘But that would have been very diffi cult. First of all, the possession of his uniform, the knowledge how to put it on, and it would have been so easy to recog nize him, to detect an impostor. Such a man as Colonel Hardyment would be well known.’ “ ‘Not in this country. He has not been home for years, and there were very few Indian officers at the levees.’ “ ‘Were you? “ ‘Of course not. Do you suppose that this would have happened if I had been there? , “I shook my head gravely. The whole thing looked fishy in its most favorable light—kleptomania at least. “ ‘You must not overrate my powers. Let us go at once to Colonel Hardyment’s quarters. Where does he live, or, rath er, where did he live? “It was a modest residence—only one room, in a house all chambers, in the neighborhood of Pall Mall. The porter, who knew the general, accompanied us up stairs and let us into his room with Ids pass key. “The room was all in disorder, cloth ing lying about, uniform just as it had keen taken off thrown onto the bed, which I observed had not been slept in. “ ‘When did you see the colonel last? I asked the porter. ‘To speak to, 1 mean.’ “ ‘The day before yesterday, sir.’ “ ‘He has no servant of his own? “ ‘Not now,’ interposed the general. *He had a man—engaged him directly he came home—hnt turned him off a week at two ago. That was why he came to live here, where he could get attendance and be valeted.’ “I now made a more searching exami nation of the room. It had evidently been ransacked, rummaged, rifled from end to end. Everything valuable had disappeared; there was not a trace of a trinket; the jewel tray of the dressing case was empty; the tops (presumably silver) of the bottles had been removed and some of the best of the clothes. “I saw no reason to exonerate the colo nel until I caught sight of a bunch of keys on the floor, and stooping to pick them np found also an unmistakable picklock or burglar’s skeleton key. “It was the first suspicion of foul play. Colonel Hardyment, under the circum stances, would scarcely have left his keys behind him. He might certainly have forgotten them, bnt even that would not account for the skeleton key. “ 'Tell me more about the colonel’s late servant, will yon. General Wood hall? Where did he get him? “ ‘Through an agency, I believe. Ras kelf was his name—a smart, soldierlike chap—about Hardyment’s own size, had nther a look of him, indeed’ “Buteven as I spoke there was asonnd «f hurried footsteps on the stairs, and some one broke suddenly into the room— a wild, disheveled figure—dirty, unshorn, kt ragged clothes—who threw himself all of a heap in an armchair. “It was Colonel Hardyment himself. Concern, surprise, indignation, were the feelings expressed on both sides,and I con fess I shared them and was deeply af fected when I heard the colonel’s story, which, after a good dose of brandy, lie was strong enough to tell. “He had returned to his chambers late me night from his clnbwhen he found a message waiting for him. An old sol dier friend of his. who had just come home and was staying at the Koval ho tel, Blackfriars. had been taken suddenly dangerously ill. Would Colonel Hardy ment come at once in the cab sent? “Ho jumped in, was driven off rapidly along the embankment, the long line of lights on which were the last things he distinctly remembered. Somewhere there he lost consciousness—a vague recollec tion of the odor of chloroform clung to him—and only came to himself long afterward, as it seemed, and then lie wa; awakened by a sharp sense of discom fort and pain. “He found that he was bound hand and foot to the bench on which he lay. Then the pale dawn broke and gave a dim light into the den in which he was imprisoned. It was a back scullery of probably a long empty and deserted house. “He made frantic, fruitless efforts to free himself and shouted at intervals till he was voiceless and faint from ex haustion. At last in one of his wildest struggles the bench to which he was fastened toppled over, and he came heavi ly to the ground. • • He must have lain senseless for hours. When he regained consciousness, he heard voices. Two men were in the kitchen too busily engaged to take any notice of him. “ ‘Where’ll ye stow it? “ ‘Here in the chimley, higli up above the damper. It’ll lie there safe nntil to morrow; then we’ll fetch in Ikey to trade.’ “ ‘And this cove:’ said the first speak er, giving Hardyment a savage kick. “ ‘Let him rot. Leave him where he is. Maybe tomorrow we’ll do for him. It’ll be safest, eh':’ “Then the two ruffians—one of whom the colonel recognized as his discharged servant, Raskelf—departed without an other tnougkt of their captive. “There was no hope for him. Present torture prolonged past endurance per haps, then a violent death. He rolled to and fro, now above and now under the bench, continually injuring himself and yelling often with the pain of some sud den collision or blow. “Then he struck against something. The fingers of his right hand touched it, and with the exaggerated sense of touch due to his position he realized that it was a matchbox! “Although bis wrist was bound, his fingers were free, and at last, after end less attempts, he opened the box, and then ensued a long struggle before lie could strike a match. But he succeeded, finally succeeded also in applying the light to one of ki3 bonds. “A second and a third match were necessary, but at last the cord caught fire and was burned—oh, so slowly!— smoldering, smoldering, all the night through. The dawn had broken before his right hand was free. “To escape from the house was an easy matter. But it took three hours to drag himself to Pall Mall from Seacole street, Stratford, and he was well nigh done when he reached his home. “In less than an hour a watch was set upon the house in which the colonel had been imprisoned. The two scoundrels who had been first his captors, then #hi8 jailers, and one at least of them his per sonator, were taken red handed as they returned in search of their “swag.”— English Exchange. Beginnings of the Income Tax. In 1377 a "tax unheard of before” was imposed by parliament, which took the form of a poll tax, graduated chiefly ac cording to rank, though partly according to property. Dukes had to pay £6 13s. 4d.; earls, £4; barons, £2; knights, £1; squires, Cs. 8d., or, if they had no land, 3s. 4d. Beggars were exempt. Yet the whole amount collected was under £25, 000. The poll tax having failed, the country reverted to the previous system of granting fifteenths and tenths. The first indication of an income tax occurs in 1435, when an act was passed imposing a tax on every person “seized of manors, lands, tenements, rents, an nuities, offices or any other possessions.” But, although we have here the idea of income tax, yet this mode of raising a revenue is generally considered to have been introduced by Pitt in 1799. The rate was 10 per cent, and it produced about £6,000,000. After the peace of Amiens, Addington repealed it on the ground that it ought to be exclusively reserved for times of war, but reimposed it, for the same reason, when the war broke out again in the following year. It was very unpopular and was repealed in 1806, as soon as possible after the close of the great war. The tax was reimposed by Peel in 1842 for four years, his object being “to re lieve trade and commerce from the tram mels by which they were bound” by re pealing other taxes in his opinion more injurious. We were, however, over and over again promised that it should be only temporary, and it is still only im posed from year to year.—Sir John Lub bock in North American Review. Wild Plunge of Horse and Man. Mr. Richard Sutherland of Anderson county had an experience Sunday after noon that he will not soon forget. He was approaching the bridge at Bond’s mill, in that county, when the horse which he was riding took fright and leaped over an embankment 80 feet high into the river. As the horse went over he turned a complete somersault, throw ing the rider headlong into the river, i The wonder is that both man and horse were not instantly killed. Mr. Suther I land received some severe bruises, es pecially about the lower limbs, bat bis injuries are not of a serious nature. The horse came out without a scratch.—Lou isville Courier-Journal. A Presuming Creature. Gus de Smith—At the ball the other night you only danced once with Miss Esmeralda Longcoffin. Johnnie Masher—I can’t afford to en courage that girl. What do you think I smell whenever she is around? “Onions?’ “Worse than that. 1 smell orange blossoms. She means business; hence 1 must discourage her. She is not able to support a husband. How presuming the girls are getting to be nowadays!”— Texas Siftings. YOUNG WINDEBANK. They shot young Windcbnuk Just here, By Merton, where the eon Strikes on the wall. 'Twas in a year Of blood the deed was done. At morni/jg from the meadows dim He w^uhed them dig his grave. Was this in truth the end for him. The well beloved and brave? He marched with soldier scarf and sword, feet free to die that day And free to speak once more the word That marshaled men obey. But silent on the silent band That faced him, stern as death He looked, and ou the summer land And on the grave beneath. Then, with a sudden smile and proud. He waved his plume and cried: “The kingl The kingl” and laughed aloud, “The kingl The king!” and died. Let none affirm he vainly fell And pa*d the barren cost Of having loved and served too well A poor cause and a lost. He in the soul's eternal cause Went forth as martyrs must— The kings who make the spirit laws And rule us from the dust. Whose wills unshaken by the breath Of adverse fate, endure To give us honor strong as death And loyal love as sure. —Margaret S. Woods. HER NOM DE PLUME. I stand here alone—as much alone this clear, cold winter morning as though the wastes of Sahara stretch out around me. Yet I am in a pretty room—a luxurious room—with a glorious fire glowing in the silver barred grate and the curtains of frosty lace half obscuring the outside world. A room with a warm crimson carpet, a jardiniere of blooming plants, a redbird swinging idly to and fro in its gilded cage, a piano in the corner and pictures on the walls, and books—books everywhere. This is my especial sanctum, my own den, whither I retreat from the storms of the world, the cold, pitiless blasts of adversity—and find peace. Yet I am a woman—a sensitive, imaginative wom an—and if sometimes a tiny touch of discontent starts into my heart—a feel ing of loneliness—it surely need not con cern any one but myself. “Man was not made to live alone,” and, for the matter of that, neither was woman. Yet better a lonely, single life than an un happy double existence. So I say as I go over to my desk and seat myself for the daily “grind.” First I will introduce myself. My name is Vere St. Albans Hale, and I am a newspaper correspondent, writer of magazine articles and everything else in the imagination line for which I can find sale. The reader must not object to the implied inference that the newspaper correspondent is to be classed with writ ers of fiction. Yet whence do they glean all their scraps of wonderful informa tion? For a long time I have been writing articles for a leading magazine under a masculine nom de plume—Vere St. Al bans—which is an abbreviation of my own given name attached to my second. To my surprise, the articles have been received with far more appreciation than I had dared to hope for, and that fact, accompanied by liberal checks, has proved a very pleasant episode in my hardworking existence. This morning as I seat myself at my desk preparatory to coming down on the day’s work like the traditional wolf on the fold I am in terrupted by the appearance of my own servant—a girl with a fair, open counte nance and general vacuity. “Well, Abby,” I observe, a little tes tily, for she is transgressing a well known rule regarding the interrupting of my work, “what is it?” “Please, miss” (in a solemn voice, which somehow provokes me to smile), “there’s a lady—that is to say, a girl—in the deception room.” A small antechamber where my stray visitors are first received before being welcomed into the sanctum. I smile a little more. “Reception room, Abby,” I correct se verely, but feeling an irresistible desire to expand the smile into a laugh. “What is her business?” “Oh, she wants to see Mr. Vere St. Al bans—that’s the very name, miss” (proudly). ‘Tve said it over and over till I know it’s right." “Mr. Vere St. Albans!” I repeat the name—the unlucky name —in a bewildered way. “What does she wish of him?” Abby courtesies. • ‘Please, miss, I don’t know. But she’s a-carryin a little book in her hand. No, miss, she's not a cook agent, ’cause 1 asked her. She’s a college girl, she says, and—and—I believe it’s some writing she waDts done.” I arise in mock resignation. I did have an idea—a bright and brilliant idea—in my brain when I seated myself at my desk this morning. It has flown now. Will it ever return? 1 take myself into the reception room and find my visitor, a pretty little school girl, overdressed and laden with school books. Conspicuous on the very top lies a velvet bound volume. Yes, I have seen such volumes before, “many a time and oft,” and it does not require the word "Autographs” in hnge, gilt letters to explain its mission. She arises at once. “Pardon me for intruding,” she be gins, “but I have ventured to call to re quest the autograph of the great writer. Vere St. Albans. Will yon kindly inter cede in my behalf, madam, and beg him to write in my album?” There is the situation in a nutshell. She believes Vere St Albans to be a man, and she wants his illnstrions auto graph. Well, the very easiest way in the world to get it over with and to be at liberty to return to my day’s work at the desk is to grant her request. “I will csk him,” I return, feeling like a small conspirator. “Oh, will you, please?” her face light* ing up wonderfully. “How good of youi You see, there’s a wagfer on it Brother Tom has bet me a dozen pain of kid gloves—six buttons and assorted shades j —that I’ll not be able to get St. Albans’ l autograph. He says there is a mystery I about hint. I think yon are very kind to promise to help me!” she adds gush ingly I (Id my best to repress a smile, and so taking the book from her hand I retire to the privacy of iny sanctum, where I proceed to inscribe my name in my lar gest, manliestchirography. I dry it care fully and return to the reception room. ‘‘Ob, how very kind in you!” my vis itor gushes again. "1 shall prize it as long as I live! Are you his sister?” I shake my head. “Ob, not his—wife?” I fancy consternation in the sweet, shrill, girlish voice. Evidently the fact of a “better half” would forever obscure the fame of the popular writer. Again I shake my head. “Vere St. Albans is not married,” 1 return, and the violet eyes dance with delight. She is pleased and does not at tempt to conceal it. “I am his nearest friend,” 1 added ex planatorily. “nearer to him than anyone else.” And then I bow her out and go back to my work. But all day long I am vis ited by thoughts of the pretty college girl, and I fall to wondering if Brother Tom paid his wager like a man of honor. The next day “Vere St. Albans” re ceives cards of invitation to several af fairs. The envelopes are all addressed to Mr. Vere St. Albans, and gradually it dawns upon me that I am universally believed to be of the masculine gender. It is amusing and provoking, but the situation has its compensations. I de cline every invitation in Vere St. Albans’ name and feel almost like an impostor as I do so. Day after day I am besieged by callers who demand to look upon the face of the mysterious St. Albans. Of course I re fuse everybody. I double Abby’s wages and station her in the small entrance hall, with orders to admit no one. I re ceive letters from my publishers re proaching me with my seclusion. “Don’t be a hermit, my dear fellow,” says one of the letters from the august head of the house; “a little society will freshen you up, and besides you have really made a hit in that last article, and people are desirous of meeting you. My son, whom we have just admitted to the firm, is very anxious to meet you.” And so on until I feel the blood grow cold within my veins at thought of pos sible complications. Can I always preserve my incognita? Will they not besiege my den and ferret the truth and me—out of it together? It comes at last. One bright winter morn ing Abby ushers into my presence a port ly looking old gentleman, and with him a man of some 30 years, tall, dark, hand some—just Buch a face as I love to por tray as the faces of my heroes. “I beg vour pardon!” Mr. Atherton falls back, overcome with surprise. “The servant showed us in here. We are desirous of meeting Mr. Vere St. Albans. We are of the publishing firm of Atherton & Sons. I wish to see Mr. St. Albans in regard to some especial work. Will you kindly request him to give us audience? I feel my face growing red—redder reddest. I rise from my chair and mo tion them to be seated near. I open my mouth to blurt forth the whole truth, but some perverse imp seizes my tongue, and instead 1 falter: “You cannot see Vere St. Albans to day, gentlemen. He—is indisposed." So he is, indeed, indisposed to receive visitors. “You are Mrs. Vere St. Albans, I pre sume,” he observes. And I—oh, depths of infamy! 1 am so embarrassed, so overwhelmed with embarrassment un der the cool, steady gaze of the younger man that 1 bow and mutter something which sounds strangely like “Yes.” At that moment there is a curious bus tle within the flat where my little home is situated. An uproar all at once, and in rushes Abby, wild and disheveled, and clings to my arm like a mad crea ture. “Oh, Miss Vere! Miss Vere?’ she shrieks, “the house is on fire! Come, let us get away, or we shall be burned alive!” It is all true. The fire has been burn ing so long unsuspected that now it breaks out with irresistible force, and soon the whole building is in flames, But long before then we are quite safe. My two visitors bear my desk down stairs between them, and while the elder man keeps watch and ward over it out side upon the street the younger returns tome. “We must get your husband out,” he says eagerly. “Show me his room, and I will do my best to save him!” “My husband!” I falter feebly. “Why, 1 have no husband!” “Then who is Vere St. Albans?” “I ami’ So the truth is told, and somehow I feel better. When we are all safe on terra firms, my new friend turns to me and says in a low tone: “My name is Tom Atherton. My young sister called to obtain Vere St. Albans’ autograph. She is more than half in love with the unknown and mys terious Vere. I shall take pleasure in undeceiving her.” Then after a long pause, during which he studies my shamed face attentively, he adds: “And I am quite in love with Vere St. Albans. I have known that writer for months through her manuscripts. Tell me, is there any hope for me?’ What can I say but murmur some thing about short acquaintance and all the rest of the conventional excuses that flock through my brain. But time does away with the first excuse, since he pro ceeds . henceforth to devote himself to cultivating my acquaintance, and the others he puts aside as he would a shad ow. So one day Tom takes me to his home, and I am duly presented as his betrothed wife in propria persona. — New York Weekly, Hired to Think. Cholles (in the Softy clnb)—Ah you a Wepublican or a Democwat? Fwedewick—Ash me man Jeamee. He attends to all that aort of thing fob me. —Chicago Record. THE W0NDE1S OF ATOMS. Even the SrmlU'Kt Speck VUlblo Contains ttillionv of l'urtl<le». There are but few persons outside of the ranks ot the biological students that have any idea of what is meant by the expression “an atomol matter.” When the microscope is applied to tlio exami nation of living tissue, whether that tissue bo of animal or vegetable life, it is soot) observed that all living tliinf!* are rnado up of minute bodies called “organisms.” Experts in the varion brauehesofhiological research will ah tell you that no essential differ 'nee can be distinguished betweeu those cell* which go to make up the sum total of animal life and those which givo the vegetable its existence. These life cells, although wonders within themedv< ■<. are made np of minute particles called “atoms,” which are so small that they must ever remain invisible to the hu man eye. Somecritical reader will say. “If this last remark be true, bow can it be proved that such infinitesimal par ticles as your so called ‘atoms'exist:" To this query the reply would bo that it is only when an untold number of these atoms unite themselves so as to form a siugle body, like the grains in a pop corn ball, that they become at all visi ble and then only by the best appliano- s that optical science has been able to fnrnisb. This being the case, it is not an exag geration to say that every little piece ti matter which we are able to see is built np of millions upon millions of these atoms which are so small that no mind can comprehend their minuteness, even when taken in aggregations of thou sands. There are, of course, many dif ferent kinds of atoms, such us atoms of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, etc., each of which is believed to have its own par ticular size and weight. Then. too. they probably diffei in shape as well us size. According to tbe specialists in this line, they combine together by mu tual attraction, which is in some cast's called cohesion and in others* chemical affinity, according as the atoms are of the different elements. This being the case it is easy to understand wby myr iads of these atoms of all sizes and shapes, fitted snugly one against the other, combine together in varying de grees of intensity to bu’ld up structures possessing all tbe various degrees oi stability and solidity. Soineof the most wonderful theories evei advanced on the atomic theory are by Sir William Thomson, tbe English scientist. In one of these articles lie proves by three <1:1 ferent trains of arguments that an atom cannot be greater than the one one hue dred and fifty millionth of an inch nor less than one-five billionth of an inch —St. Louis Republic. A Climbing: Bollock. At the great slaughter houses in the Parisian suburb of La Vilhtte there is a granary from which the beasts await ing execution are fed. The way to it is up a substantial ladder staircase. One of the bullocks, having escaped from the pens, climbed up this staircase before he could be stopped. When his escape was first discovered, be was seen on the stairs, slowly and laboriously making his way upward. As soon as he reached the granary two or three attendants fol lowed him and endeavored to get him down, but all their efforts were nna vail ing. There was nothing to be done, therefore, but to leave the beast there to eat his fill and then see whether he wonld be clever enough to returD by tbe way he went. Possibly some thought of exhibiting him in public may have crossed the minds of his guardians, bnt ; if so they were doomed to disappoint ' ment. The stupid animal, instead of trusting to the staircase, got out of a . window on the opposite side of the building and put one foot on a little thin ladder standing against it. There 1 was a crash, the ladder broke in half and the too adventurous bullock fell, breaking all his legs, so that he bad to be killed on the spot.—Paris Letter. Oratory. “The most eloquent speakers are Dot the most powerful,” says Hon. John Fithian of Illinois. “There are men who could hold an audience spellbound with a speech about a cockroach and at the close of it the people would not know whether the cockroach was an animal, a bird or a piece of machinery. I saw an illustration of this one time in % political meeting. One of the most eloquent speakers in the country is £m l erson Etheridge, and I heard him deliver a speech that swayed tbe hearers like ' music at the hands of a master. There : was nothing that he could not do with I the crowd while they were under his | control. His opponent had a voice like l big bass viol, baited and stammered, bnt confined himself to homely lan guage and rather coarse ridicule. 1 watched the vote in that precinct, and the measure advocated by the eloquent speaker scarcely received a vote, while the other man had carried everything before him as if by storm.” I_ Oscar Wilde’s Memory. i Oscar Wilde has enough Irish blood In his veins to occasionally make a bull. In London an American, who had met Wilde previously, rushed up to him and grasped his hand. Oscar drew back a , little. j “ Why, don't you remember me?” ex claimed tbe American, rather taken iback. I "Well, to tell yon the tTuth,’’ re marked Oscar placidly, “1 remember pour name perfectly, but for the life if me 1 can t recollect your face.”— : Exchange. How to Buy Collars. Note for bachelors: When yon buy xrflars, you will save yourself much mepeakuble anguish by asking for a ape and measuring the collars from mttonhole to buttonhole. They will fre luently be found to vary half an inch or e from the size with which they are tamped, but that little half inch is one if the things that are making ne prema nrelv bald.—Boston Herald. THE BALLOON IN BATTLE. ilow Zt ItMinagi'd ami Information Tr;aiA uiltted ami Received. Balloon and wagon have formed a junc tion und are ready to start with the troops. Away goes tho wagon, with the balloon hanging on to its tail, while the attendant sappers on .each side keep it steady. Tho train uim/< along at a good round pace, easily keeping np with or even passing tho infantry, and makes for the particular spot'at which it has been determined to commence balloon opera tions, which is usually on tho top of a good high hill. An ascent is an easy enough matter and is soon accomplished. The balloon is securely fixed to the end of the wire rope, and the two men who are to ascend take their places. At tho word of com mand tho men who have been holding down the car let go, and np shoots the balloon, unwinding tho rope as it rises and allowed sometimes to ascend to a height of 1,000 feet. And suppose the officer receives instructions to move the position of the balloon, is it necessary to haul it down? Not a bit of it. A man is placed at the end of the wagon who carefully guides the connecting rope so that it cannot get entangled or run risk of being cut, and away goes the wagon, sometimes at a trot across fields ami up and down hill, until the balloon itself is a long distance away from its original station. Next, suppose that it is neces sary to lower the balloon. Is it needful to wind in all the wire rope that has been paid out from the reels? No such thing. The balloon is brought to earth in a much more expeditious manner. A long, stout pole, in the middle of which is a pulley wheel, is laid across the rope. Half a dozen men seize the pole and run it along the rope, and their weight soon brings tho balloon down to tho ground. Passengers can then bo ex changed, or any other operation can be carried on, and then the men run the pole back, and up shoots the balloon again manj hundreds of feet into the air, without having been away from its exalted position more than a few minutes. But it is not necessary to lower the bal loon in this or any other way whenever it is required that messages should bo exchanged between those below and those above. There are various contrivances for doing tins. Sometimes, for instance, a wire is attached, through which mes sages can be sent to a telephone. Another plan is to send messages down the wire cable. A little wire hook is fastened around the cable, and the letter or pa per, weighted with a small sandbag, is sent fluttering down. The human voice, it may also be added, can be heard both from a considerable height and depth, so that verbal communication is not difficult if there is no wind.—Good Words. Sensitive Hornes. Harsh treatment, though it stop short of inflicting physical pain, keeps a nerv ous horse in a state of misery. On the other hand, it is perfectly true, as a be sotted but intelligent stable keeper once observed to me, “A kind word for a hos* is as good sometimes as a feed of oats.” A single blow may be enough to spoil a racer. Daniel Lambert, founder of the Lambert branch of the Morgan fam ily. was thought as a 3-year-old to be the fastest trotting stallion of his day. He was a very handsome, stylish, intel ligent horse, and also extremely sensi tive. His driver, Dan Mace, though one of Hie be3t reinsmen in America, once made the mistake, through ill temper or bad judgment, of giving Daniel Lambeita severe cut with the whip, and that sin gle blow put an end to his useful ness as a trotter. He became wild and ungovern able in harness and remained so for the rest of his life. In dealing with a horse more than with most animals one ought to exercise j>a tience, care and above all the power of sympathy, so as to know if possible the real motive of his doing or refusing to do this or that. To acquire such knowl edge and to act upon it when required is a large part of the ethics of horse keeping.—Youth’s Companion. Abrogating the Fees. Mrs. Pigg, a very charming and viva cious widow, called recently on a legal friend of hers to consult him on a matter of interest to her. “You know, sir,” she Baid to him, “that when the late Mr. Pigg died he left me all his fortune, much to mj- satisfaction, of course, but he handicapped me with the name of Pigg, which I mur. cay I don't like.” “Well," ventured the attorney, “I pre sume a handsome woman isn't especially complimented by being left a Pigg.” “I should say not,” 6he laughed. “Now, what I came to see yon about was whether or not I must apply to the legis lature to get it changed.” “Dm—er,” he hesitated as if wrestling with a great legal problem, “um—er— yes, but an easier way is to apply to a parson, and I’ll pay all the expenses my self.” It was sudden, but a widow is never caught napping, and she appointed that evening for another consultation.—De troit Free Press. j Royal German Dinners. A characteristic of all dinners given to the court and military officials by the em peror and empress of Germany is that there is always provided a dish of sweet meats, which holds as well pictures of the royal pair and their children, each | bonbon having a likeness painted upo i ; it. And when the hosts retire there is something apprc>aching a scramble among the dignified officers and functionaries for one of these much valued souvenirs j to take home to equally eager wives and ! daughters.—New York Times. In the Fashion. I Mrs. Jackson Parke—What in th» ! world is keeping you up so late? Mr. Jackson Parke—I am writing an I article for the papers on "How I Killed My First Hog.” These literary chaps, j with their stories of how they wrote ! their first books, are not going to have the ; field all to thenx=elve.8, not by a jugful.— 1 Indianapolis Journal.
