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.
