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About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (May 18, 1894)
A KA3YLE MARRIAGE.
The Ceremony Ik « oinplieute.) an<l Wind*
Up With an Knitine I n.>dent.
The wedding ceremony .timing tlie
Kabyles is interesting bec*as6 of its
comparative resemblance to cho cnstoius
of the old Greeks and Romans and even
to those which still prevail in seques
tered parts of France. Hero it is the \
girl’s father who exacts a wedding por- j
tion, a sum of abont £8, for which the
bridegroom has generally to rely upon
the advances of his friends. Often, too,
the young man has not a house for his
bride, in which case his friends set to
work and bnild one, no very difficult
On the wedding day the bride is led
through tho villages in the neighbor
hood, mounted on a mule and escorted j
by friends and relations, who shont and
Are guns again and again. The various
householders hasten forth to offer her a
sieveful of beans, nuts or dried Ags. Of
these she takes a handful, which she
kisses and then replaces in tho sieve.
All the offerings are collected in sacks
by the old women of the procession as
contributions to the young people’s lar
At the bridegroom’s house the girl’s
hands are washed with liquid butter.
Then they give her some fresh eggs,
which she breaks on the mule’s head
and inRide the unhappy animal’s ears,
thereby, it is believed, counteracting
any evil designs agaiust her and her
husband’s happiness. Before entering
tho house she drinks milk, fresh and
sour, and also water, and scatters over
her shoulder a handful of barley, wheat
and salt for the good of tho family.
The husband then approaches her and
fires a pistol above her head to signify
that thenceforward ho has the power of
life and death over her. Not infrequent
ly ho makes the symbol even more em
phatic by firing into her headdress and
setting her aflame. This done, little re
mains except for the youth to lift the
lady in his arms and carry her bodily
into his house.—All the Year Round.
A Maid of All Work Adjective.
I inquired of the head mistress of a
gilds’ school why she 60 frequently made
use of the adjective ‘ ‘nice. ’ ’ She replied,
‘ ‘Because it is such a useful maid of all
work adjective and saves one the trou
ble of thinking!” ‘ ‘Then you teach vour
girls to be inaccurate?” “I don’t think
it is being inaccurate. The word in most
cases expresses my meaning better than
any other.” A relative of mine reproved
one of her nieces for her liberal nse of
“awfully jolly.” The young lady re
plied: “Oh aunt, do not deprive me of
that awfully jolly expression If I were
deprived of it, I shouldn’t know what
to say. ”
The frequent use of the expletive
“you know” was justified to me on the
ground that it keeps the listener’s at
The fashionable novel presses into its
service these flowers of speech. In Mr.
Norris’ “Countess Radna” a young gen
tleman thus addresses a young lady,
“I’m so awfully sorry that you are
going to desert us. ” “I’m awfully sor
ry to have to go, ” replied the girl com
posedly, “and my parents will be aw
fully sorry to see me. ”
Of this young lady’s two lovers the
anthor himself declares in. the same
chapter (24) that one was much “nicer”
than the other. In chapter 37 the nicer
one, in declining an invitation, says,
“Thanks awfully, but I’m afraid I
can’t, ”—Notes and Queries.
“There are two ways of killing croc
odiles,” writes an ex-resident of India.
“One is by shooting with a rifle, but the
most satisfactory way of dealing with
them, besides being far the most sport
ing, is to bait a good large hook with a
bird or small animal and fasten it by
a chain to a good long rope, the end of
which is firmly picketed, the rope being
coiled and the bait laid in shallow wa
ter. There must be lots of slack line, as
the crocodile does not swallow anything
at once, but seizes it and takes it into
deep water to gorge. A number of lines
may he laid and looked up in the morn
ing or cool of the evening. When hook
ed, it will take a good many men to
haul a crocodile out, and as he resents
the operation and can nse his tail as
well as his jaws one or two sportsmen
will find considerable entertainment in
dispatching him with spears. Some croc
odiles grow to an enormous size, and
their maws always contain round white
stones, and often trinkets, the relics of
inside passengers. The writer assisted
at the death of a not extraordinarily
large ‘snnbnoee’ which had six women’s
rings in her. ”—Badminton Library.
A Danger Signal.
“I found a queer specimen today, ”
said the policeman to the reporter.
The interrogation points popped into
toe reporter's eyes.
“Old fellow drunk in the alley, ” con
tinued the officer. ‘ ‘I noticed him go in
and watched him. He found a comfort
able place and laid down on it, then
took a placard out from under his coat
and hung it around his neck. ”
“What was on the placard?” asked
toe reporter as the officer stopped with
toe evident intention of having him ask
the question so he could spring the an
swer on him. “ ‘Handle this with care.
It is loaded. ’ ” And toe officer langhed
as if a policeman’s lot were sometimes
a happy one,—Detroit Free Press.
Many a man has risen to eminence
under the powerful reaction of his mind
against toe scorn of the unworthy, daily
evoked by his personal defects, who,
with a handsome person, would have
sank into the luxury of a careless life
under the tranquilizing smiles of con
tinual admiration.—De Quincey.
Lovell—Ah, I should be delighted,
dontcherknow, to—er—call upon you,
Miss Ethel, but—er—you must say
Ethel- -Oh, do make it April first I—
In sheltered corners and shady place*
The wasting snows of the winter lie.
But there is a token of coming roses
In the tender pink of the sunset sky.
Above the dusk of the windy forest
The young March moon is silvery cold.
Oome, love, and lean on the gate beside me.
And 1 will tell you a legend old.
A jealous wizard with whitened tresses
Beheld a maiden with yellow hair.
And seized her form in his frosty fingers.
And bore her fur to his icy lair.
Ho bound her fast in a sleep enchanted.
And hid her deep in a grave of gloom.
Till over the purple seas came sailing
A slender prince, with a pale green plume.
From the withered grass and earth abeve
He brushed the wreaths of the snow aside
And slew the wizard, whose name was Win
And she rose from the tomb to be his bride.
Look! There she stands by the broken trellis.
Where budding sprays of the ivy cling.
For the captive maid was the golden crocus:
Her gallant lover, the prince, is Springl
-Minna Irving in Worthington's Magazine.
The beauty and almost absolute per
fection characterizing the mirrors pro
duced in the manufactories of Venice
are mainly due, it is said, to the pecul
iar solution applied to the surface. Pre
liminary to this application the glass is
thoroughly cleaned with wet whiting,
then washed with distilled water and
prepared for tho silver with a sensitiz
ing solution of tin, which is well rinsed
off immediately before its removal to
tho silvering table, and the latter be
ing raised to tho proper temperature
the glass is laid and the silvering solu
tion at once poured over it before the
heat of the table has time to dry any
part of tho surface of the glass. The so
lution used is prepared as follows: In
one-half liter of distilled water 100
grains of nitrate of silver are dissolved,
to this being added 62 grains of liquid
ammonia of 0.88 specific gravity. The
mixture is filtered and made up to eight
liters with distilled water, and 7 5-10
grams of tartaric acid dissolved in 30
grams of water are mixed with the so
lution. About 2 5-10 liters are poured
over the glass meter to bo silvered, the
metal immediately commencing to de
posit on the glass, which is maintained
at about 104 degrees F., and in a little
more than a half hour a continuous coat
ing of silver is formed. After careful
wiping with chamois the surface is
treated a second time with a solution
like the first, but containing a double
quantity of tartaric acid.—New York
The Oldest Grapevine.
The oldest grapevine in the country
was indeed interesting. One growing
near this, which was known to be more
than 80 years old, died finally of good
old ago and was purchased and trans
ported in its entirety to the Chicago
fair. This one is 47 to 50 years of age
and hale and hearty yet. At the base it
is 52 inches in circumference. It grows
straight up for about 3 feet, then di
vides into six branches, and at this
point is 5 feet in circumference. At a
height of perhaps 7 feet it spreads itself
in all directions over an immense arbor
covering a space by actual measurement
of 75 by 66 feet. It bears in one season
6,500 pounds of the purple mission
grape, of which no use is made except
as it is eaten and given away by its
owner to any one who will take it.—
Santa Barbara Cor. Troy Times.
One of the Delights of life.
When old Kaiser Wilhelm was still
Prince of Prussia, he had one day at
Babelsberg, near Potsdam, his beautiful
and ever favorite residence, a visit from
that prince among landscape gardeners,
Furst Hermann von Puckler-Muskau,
who somewhat bluntly expressed his
disappointment at the slow rate of prog
ress in certain improvements in the
grounds—improvements which he had
himself suggested on the occasion of a
previous visit The future emperor plead
ed his limited means. “But does your
royal highness never borrow money?”
queried Prince Puckler, evidently much
amazed. “Never, my dear prince, ” was
the smiling reply. “Then your royal
highness has never tasted life’s greatest
delight—to wit, the pleasure of finding
yourself able to pay your debts, after
Dutoguurd has been informed that
cabs are going to be fitted with automat
ic distance counters, and that the fare
for the first kilometer is to be 75 cents,
and 25 cents for each succeeding kilo
“Capital!’' he said, tapping his fore
head, as if inspired with a happy
thought. “Next time I have to go any
distance I shall walk the first kilometer
and take a cab for the rest of the jour
ney. ”—Journal de Vienne.
A complaint comes from Russia of
the scarcity of physicians throughout
the empire. The number of medical
men is only one in 6,000 of the entire
population. These are mostly in the
large cities. The village population has
only one in 30,000, while the remote
provinces have only one doctor to 120,
Handel and Bach were contempora
ries. Bom about the same time, in
houses almost in sight of each other, de
voted to the same branch of the same
art, and each famous stud justly so, in
his profession, these two great men nev
Frederick the Great was ambitions to
be thought a composer of music. Over
120 of his pieces have been found and
are now in the Imperial library of Ber
lin. They are, if possible, worse than
During the most of the sixteenth cen
tury the English people called the Bible
the Bibliotheca, or the library, the ward
being limited in its application to the
There is a well at Scarpa, a village
near Tivoli, Italy, which is 1,700 feet
deep, all but 26 feet being cut in solid
SOWING AND REAPING.
For bloom we bow one sort of seed.
Another au«wer» hunger’s need.
Weeds only propagate their kind.
But leave abundant need behind.
Which, if you scatter heedless, know,
YouVe sure to reap just what you bow.
A youth, industrious and pure.
With noble aims, in promise sure
Of proud achievement’s heritage.
Of worth, manoood, honored age.
And, doth the harvest ripen slow.
You’re M’ :•*■ to reap just what you bow.
Alas! youth often i» too blind
To see the needs of heart or mind.
A wilderness of tares appears—
Sure fruitage of the wasted years.
From evil seed good will not grow.
You’re sure to reap just what you sow.
—Helen A. Woods in Good Housekeeping.
Yes, I have wished to die.
It was just after receiving the assur
ance that Amelia was false to me.
Was it indeed Amelie—this perfid
ious coquette? Only think of it. She
held my life in her little hand, and I am
not now even sure of her name. Young
:nen, this may astonish yon, but you
will learn better in time.
I was young then—quite young, and
I no sooner learned of my misfortune
than I determined to end my life. My
first intention was to shoot myself on
her stairway, but I bethought me of the
crowds that would see me there and of
how Henrietta—was not that her name?
—would ridicule me, so my amour pro
pro came to my rescue.
“No,” I said to myself, “there must
be no excitement, no noise. The wound
ed bird conceals himself behind a tuft
of grass. Thus I wish to dit—in some
corner—isolated, lost, forgotten. ’ ’
In this elegiac frame of mind I took
the 5:30 train for Melon. It deposited
me at dusk, about 100 steps from the
Golden Lion—a well kept hotel, with
airy rooms, good beds and an excellent
“What does monsieur wish?” asked a
little waitress, whom I have since found
to be very pretty.
I was not hungry. I went to bed My
sleep was fitful, and every instant I
thought I saw Victorina—I believe her
name was Victorine—pass by on the
arm of my rival.
Then I struck out with my fist against
the wall, the iron bedstead or the mar
ble top tala
I was much bruised next morning, but
what mattered it, since I was so soon to
l went in quest ox a rope. X had be
lieved formerly that, when one wished
to hang oneself, nothing could be easier
than to find a rope. A sad mistake. In
my search I traversed the entire hotel
to no purpose. The little waitress—
the one whom I have since found is so
pretty—demanded of me:
“But what does monsieur wish to do
with a rope?”
At last, with a length of hemp in my
pocket, I left the hotel and made my
way to a spot in the woods where I had
often been before. I found here, behind
an inextricable tangle of foliage, the
same inviting retreat where I had once
lingered to dream. There could certain
ly exist no more appropriate spot for
the deed I now contemplated.
While walking along I had thought
of Berthe — possibly her name was
Berthe—and I cursed her with all my
soul. Then I looked at my rope. I meas
ured it. I tested its strength. It was not
the sort of a rope I wished. It appeared
to be too short and too large around. I
was vexed. You can scarcely imagine
how an annoyance of this sort may in
fluence one’s ideas.
And here was another vexation. Upon
reaching the chosen spot I was disagreea
bly surprised to find it occupied by an
other. A person, with his back turned
to me, was engaged in fastening a rope
to a branch above his head—the very
branch which I had selected for my
“What are you doing there?” I de
manded of him.
He faced me suddenly.
“What concern of yours is it?” he
“You think perhaps that I do not di
vine your intention,” I cried.
“And if I wish to kill myself that is
altogether my affair. ”
I looked at him. He seemed to be an
amiable young fellow, with an open
countenance, sympathetic eyes and an
“So yon wish to kill yourself ” And
suspecting him to be the victim of an
unhappy love affair, I added, ‘ ‘A bout
some worthless woman?”
“Sir!” he cried.
* ‘Poor idiot!” I thought ‘ ‘Lovers are
all alike—he defends her even yet ”
The stranger was silent
“Will yon permit me to give you a
bit of advice?’ ’ I inquired. ‘ ‘Leave your
rope where it is”—I had noticed that
it was better than mine—“go home.
Yon will thank me for this after
He shook his head.
“I want to die,”
“Don’t prepare any poignant regrets
for the morrow,” I continued, with
sweet insistence. “I repeat what I have
said. After yon are buried yon will be
moan your precipitancy, and then it will
be too late. ”
“You say this because you do not
know what has happened to me. ”
“But I suspect ”
“No, you cannot have even a suspi
cion. Oh, sir, a woman whom I adored,
And he told me his story. Incredible
coincidence! It was absolutely my own!
This comparison set me thinking. “Your
silence shows me your approval, ” said
Charles. I had just learned his name to
“Not at all, ” I cried. I did not wish
to appear like a weathercock. ‘ ‘There
is nothing in your history which justi
fies you in having recourse to the end of
Charles had begun to interest ma
“Listen, my friend, you are out of your
reason Why should you wish to be
treated more kindly than other men
whose sweethearts play them false ev
“But they are not as grossly deceived
as I have been. ”
“I beg your pardon. ”
“No, no. ”
“I know whereof I speak. And now
you are free to make another choice—.1
much better one. There are plenty oi
them. ’ ’
“Better than she? That is not possi
“Her equal does not exist. ”
"Oh, no. ”
“Ah, well, in the first moments, one
may have such ideas, but wait a month1
and you will see. ”
My words sounded 60 replete with
wisdom that, little by little, I began to
find pleasure in listening to myself. I
“What good would it do you to die?
I would like you to tell me how it could
advance your interests? The woman
who deserted you has or has not a heart.
If she has one”
“Oh, but she has not.”
“Naturally she has not. Your death
then would only flatter her. She will
pose ever afterward as having been the
cause of a suicide. Do you wish her to
do so? And the world—what kind of
funeral oration will it deliver over you?
It will ask, ‘Was he such a fool as that?’
Yes, Charles, yon will be justly treated
as an imbecile. ”
I grew eloquent. It was because I
had begun to feel that I was defending
my own cause. All that I should have
said to myself I said now to Charles—
to my friend Charles, for I loved him
already, with the same affection that he
gave me in return. There was such con
viction in my voice that Charles, yield
ing, fell into my arms.
“Do with me what you will,” he
“Very well, ” I said to him, with a
sigh so profound as to reveal the empty
void in my stomach, “let us go to break
I conducted him to the hotel. Our
emotions increased, and our appetites
The table where we sat, with its
snowy linen, its sparkling candles, its
dainty viands, only added to our hun
w nen a truck steak witn potatoes nad
enveloped ns in its savory odors; when,
shared between us, its vermilion juice
stained our knives; when, after the first
mouthful, feverishly devoured, we had
swallowed a cup of coffee, we looked
silently at each other, while our eyes
said for us:
“Ah, life is sweet. ”
“But suppose I had not met you!”
sighed Charles, his heart filled with
And I thought on my own part, “The
deuce! If I had not met him!”
“Do you know, ” began the young
man after another mouthful, ‘ ‘it was an
unheard of piece of good luck that you
should have gone to the very spot in the
woods where I chanced to be. ”
I said nothing.
“Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly, “it
must have been some good genius who
led you there!”
My face flushed in spite of me.
“You will not believe me,” I told
him, “but I went there as you did—to
hang myself. ”
My companion burst out laughing.
“That is too good, ” he cried.
And we touched glasses. —Translated
From the French For Romance
Private Marks on Oar Silver Coin.
The “mint mark” on our silver coin
age is so well known that almost any
school child can tell you where a piece
was coined. The “s” means that it is
from the San Francisco mint, “c. c. ”
that it was made at Carson City, and
“o” that it is the work of the New Or
leans money makers. Besides the above
you will find some very small letters oc
casionally, especially on the standard
dollar, the Columbian coins and the
1893 design of the quarters and half
dollar pieces. On the standard dollar
the letter is a microscopic “m” on the
left loop of the ribbon which binds the
wreath surrounding the eagle. Another
“m” of larger dimensions may also be
found on the same coin at the lower edge
of the neck of “Liberty,” just in the
edge of the hair. These miniature let
ters are private marks of Mason, the
man who made the dies.
On the Columbian coin we find a clear
cut “B, ” the initial of Barber, the die
sinker.—St. Louis Republic.
The Thirteen Snperstition.
The inevitable 13 snperstition came
up in a company of which I was one the
other day. In my own experience that
foolish superstition has been knocked
out so often that I rather enjoy sitting
down to dinner with 13. Once I sat at
a table with Sir Arthur Sullivan, the
composer, as host. There were 13 cov
ers, it was the 13th of May, and the oc
casion was the thirteenth performance
of Sullivan and Gilbert’s “Iolanthe. ”
Of course nothing came of it. Another
time I dined with the Thursday club of
Philadelphia at a roadside inn on the
Wissahickon. It was discovered that
there were 13 at table, and one of the
party being superstitions the landlord
was asked to come in and make the
fourteenth. He did so, and the result
was that he and not one of the 13 died
before the year was out This is the
nearest I ever came to having a verifica
tion of the superstition within my ob
servation.—Major Handy in Chicago
Boots and Battles.
Marshal Saxe has left it on record
that there was no article of a soldier's
dress more important than boots, and
that, battles were won by legs. The
Duke of Wellington, on being asked
what was the best requisite for a soldier,
replied, ' ‘A good pair of shoes. ” “ What
next?” ‘‘A spare pair of good soles. ” •
•AND YOU'LL REMEMBER ME."
One evening as the *un went down
Among the golden hills.
And Mleut shadows. Bol t and brown.
Crept over vales and rills,
C watched the dusky bats a-wing
Dip down the dusky ica.
Hearkening, heard a maiden sing,
“And you’ll remember me.”
‘When other lips and other hearts”
Came drifting through the trees,
“In language whose excess imparLb”
Was borne upon the breeze.
Ah, love is sweet, and hope is strong.
And life’s a summer sea!
A woman’s soul is in her song,
“And you’ll remember me.”
Still rippling from the throbbing throat.
With joy akin to pain.
There seemed a tear in every note,
A sob in every strain.
Soft as the twilight shadows creep
Across the l.stless lea.
The singer sang her love to sleep
With, “You’ll remember me.”
—Cy War man in New York Sun.
Two young men, mounted ou valuable
steeds, burst, into laughter as they left
the Vichy road to take the one through
They certainly lacked geuerosity, but
CyTille, the maid of Mile, de Saiut
Juirs, made an odd figure, mounted ou
the stiff old mare Leda, riding behind
her mistresa Her silhouette was that of
a warlike woman.
The youug men rode past her into the
forest, laughiug and joking.
Mile, de Saiut-Juirs overheard their
silly banter. She turned her horse
around and waited. She was handsome.
The ride, the brisk air and also the in
dignation had beautified her complexion
and given brilliancy to her blue eyes.
Her nostrils palpitated like the heart of
a wounded bird. She bit her lip and
stood up in her stirrnp, all trembling
The young men approached her a lit
tle abasheiL One of them opened his
mouth, but had not time to speak before
a young man rode up behind them and
gave their horses two vigorous cuts with
a whip. Being fine animals, they tore
down the road ou a gallop, resisting the
efforts of their chagrined riders to stop
nuw, L’uuaui, k<uu mw yuuug mail,
saluting her, “let us return. ” And the
ride back to the chateau was a happy
one, for George de Semay and his cous
in Mile, de Saint-Juirs were engaged,
and neither doubted that the little inci
dent was ended, not knowing how much
sadness it would cause them.
The parents of the young cousin lived
in a veritable chateau, but like Cyrille
and Leda it had seen better days. The
gardens were dilapidated, but the in
terior of the castle was still very beau
tiful Mme. de Saint-Juirs had died
when her daughter Marcelle was 3 years
old. Her sister Herisson had cared for
the child as though she had been her
own Mile. Herisson had never cared to
marry. She was very pious. She was
continually in a discussion with M. de
Saint-Juirs because years before he
fought a duel in the garden behind the
chateau, and she looked upon him as a
When Marcelle was 20, her aunt tried
to induce her not to marry, bnt all in
fluence was useless. Marcelle, after
overcomingv^unt Herisson’s numerous
objections, was affianced to her cousin,
George de Semay, an amiable and brave
The day after the ride George was
seated at a table in the Casino of Vichy
when two young men approached him.
“Pardon, bnt were yon not yesterday
on horseback in the forest?”
“I was, monsieur.”
“We were also, my friend and I. ”
“That does not interest me. ”
“Bnt it interests ns. ”
“Well, yon two converse about it
and leave me in peace. ”
“If I am not mistaken, yon were the
protector of the stout servant”
“Whom you insulted. You were the
impertinent person who”
“I do not receive personal lessons,
“It is a pity, ” said George, “for you
need them. ”
“Yon are an insolent person. ’ ’
George raised his arm, but controlled
himself and said between his teeth:
“Consider yourself challenged, mon
Cards were exchanged, the seconds
conferred, swords were chosen and the
encounter to he the next day. George
demanded that it should not he made
public. He spent the night in writing
to his parents and his fiancee.
It was his first duel, and he was a
little afraid. The next morning at the
rendezvous he found the places marked
off and the referee holding the swords
by the points. He presented them to the
duelists, and drawing back quickly said,
“Proceed, gentlemen. ”
George heard a bird sing joyously
near him. He thought of Marcelle and
His adversary stood still, held his
sword out straight and simply warded
off each blow George gave without any
attempt at retaliation.
George nearly laughed.
“Halt,” said the referee They took
the first position again. Three times
they went through the little farce until
George lost patience and resolved to
He threw himself on his adversary,
whose sword’s point cut deep into his
hand. For a few minutes it was a fist
fight; then some one separated the com
batants. Although George was bleeding
badly, he wished to continue, but his
friends would not allow it The seconds
and his adversary were pale as death,
and all the rest except George gave a
sigh of relief.
In the evening two days later the
family were assembled in the salon of
the chateau. Aunt Herisson read the
newspaper. M. de Saint-Juirs and his
daughter were making out a list for the
invitations to the soiree following the
betrothal George was drinking a cup
of tea. To explain his wound and his
arm being in a sling—Aunt Herisson
had already eyed it suspiciously—he
j told that he had fallen from the top of
I a long flight of stone steps. His wound
; was mode tb« pretext for a thousand lit
i tie attentions from his gentle fiancee.
Mare’-lie pnt, the sugar in his tea.
! stirred it, and I believe had her aunt's
I back lieeu turned she would have tasted
it for him, the rogue!
Suddenly as Aunt Herisson road she
became very pale and trembled with
emotion. She held I he paper close to her
lamp and then dashed it on the floor.
■‘Wlwt is it?” asked M. do Sam?
‘‘It is, monsieur, that. I do not wish
an assassin in my house1. ” And turning
to George, “Go immediately, never to
M. do Saint-Jnirs took np the paper
and read aloud the paragraph of yester
day’s duel sind of George receiving a
Profound silence followed.
Aunt Herisson watched George and
said at last angrily:
“Do you deny it, monsieur?”
“Then I have told yon what to do. ’”
Mareelle commenced to sob.
“Mareelle, go to your room!”
“It is not possible,” said George in a
voice that was choked by tears.
Mareelle went to her lover’s side, and
with a tranquil courage said in a hollow
“George, we must sav goodby. 1 love
you and will never love any one lrat you
Embraee m:. ’
The aunt, was surprised at this audac
ity—fi " an assassin embrace her
niece 1 . Nr ey<:.
M: ‘ - • ew a la. r look at her lover
and . the door as her lather’s
' . . Hot” The runt turned
to k. broth -L:-i::w.
“I.‘W( i:r yen this man shall not
many my i. --. ’’
“I would lot you know this house is
mine, not yours. ’ ’
“Very well, ” said the aunt; “it is for
me to leave. ’ ’
aui ii m; ram tu ir-u a
fellow. Go now and return tomorrow,
and I will arrange everything.”
George was abont to leave when M.ir
oolle reopened the scene and raised her
voice to defend him.
"If he had killed the other man, I
could understand, bnt when he is the
wounded one and you call him an assas
sin it is very hard!”
“I have sworn,” repeated the aunt,
“and I will never consent to this mar
riage. ’ ’
M. de Saint-Juirs, knowing her ob
stinacy, then said: "Very well. You
will not stay here. ”
“So let it be. ”
But now Marcelle spoke: “If, my
aunt, yon will stay, I will not marry
without your consent. Yon replace my
mother and havo given me all the kind
attentions of a mother. Though I will
never cease to love George, I will not
disobey you. ”
“Bnt it is all wrong,’ said M. de
“No, papa, it is my duty. ” And the
young girl broke down and hastened to
her room, where she gave away to tears.
George went to Paris.
Marcelle little by little lost her color,
her animation, her life. She was failing
rapidly, and it worried Aunt Herisson.
She confided in the good old cure, and
the result was that Marcelle was sur
prised the next morning by a loving let
ter from George. They were now to be
allowed to correspond under cover of M.
Barbon, in Vichy.
The letters came with perfect regu
larity each month, bnt with no post
mark. Marcelle discussed this point
with Cyrille, who watched one night to
see how the letter reached Marcelle’s
table in the little blue salon. She saw
Mile. Herisson herself put it there. This
■was made known to M. de SaintfJuirs.
who arranged a little counterplot.
The next month when Mile. Herisson
opened the door of the little blue salon
to carry in the letter she saw M. de
Saint-Juirs, George de Semav and Mar
celle, who was half laughing, half cry
The young people dropped before her
on their knees, kissed her hands and
“Your heart has melted toward us.
Now do no more and take onr two heads
in your hands and bless ns. ’ ’
“Yet I had sworn, you rogues,” said
"Godwill not reproach you for break
ing your word. ”—Translated From the
French For Cincinnati Post
Ah Others See Ith.
The cablegrams announce that Colo
nel Cody, who will be remembered in
London, has been returned as mayor of
Nebraska. No better selection could
hare been made. Colonel Cody was the
friend of a man named Boone, who dis
covered Kentucky in 1869. After marry
ing the granddaughter of a distinguished
gentleman known as Sitting Bullfrog
Cody was twice governor of Chicago
and at one time was mayor of the Ar
kansas legislature. He also served in the
Confederate army under Ben Butler,
who so gallantly defended New Orleans
against General Longstreet. The prov
ince of Detroit rewarded him for his
military services by sending him to con
gress, where he introduced a bill for the
relief of the citizens of Buffalo. It was
in this that he got his name Buffalo Bilk
While Mr. Cody has a large ranch in
St Louis, he finds time for literature
and writes for The Atlantic Monthly, a
newspaper edited by Mark Twain and
Uncle Thomas Cabin, a gentleman who
made fame by his negro dialect sketches.
Mudge—I’m in a peck of trouble.
Yabsley—What’s the matter?
Mudge—Why—er—you know, I have
been paying some attention to old Stock
anland's eldest daughter. I’ve got an in
vitation to poker with him tonight, and
I don’t know whether he'll get mad if I
beat him or .think I have no business ca
pacity if I let him b*?a» me. —Indianapo
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