THE II E S P E R I A N .
With his death what a beautiful life has closed 1 During
its course what sweetness, what chastity, what happy humor
brightened it! What influences accompanied it! Influences
that reached up to heaven and spread out over humanity.
Other men have been great, other men have been fortunate,
but no one was ever more beloved. Though dead, he yet
livethl Disenthralled of flesh, and risen to the unobstructed
sphere where passion never ennes, he begins his illimitable
work. His life is grafted upon the Infiinile, and will be fruit
ful as no earthly life can be. Pass on, thou hast overcome!
Your sorrows are his peace! Your bells and bands and muf
fled diuins sound triumph in his car. Wail and weep here;
God makes it echo joy and triumph there." His work will
remain a treasure to the multitudes. It will kindle anew
their faith and fidelity.
Tho aligning Key.
A few miles from the little village of C , there
stood at sonic distance from the road a small brown cottage.
There were no other houses in sight, and it is not surprising
that the good people of the village oftcned wondered why
Miss Martin had chosen such a lonesome place for her house.
It would not seem so strange, perhaps, to one who knew Miss
Martin. She was a sharp-featured old maid who had never
known what it was to be timid; and the thought that she was
alone, so far from all her neighbors, did not trouble her in the
least. So she lived by herself, with Lena her round-faced
German maid and Peter her maltesc cat. Peter thought him
self the most important member of the family, and Miss Mar
tin, I think, secretly agreed with him. Certainly there never
was a cat more petted and more indulged than he. No place
in the house was too good for him. He slept with impunity
upon Miss Martin's snow-white bed, and even dared to jump
up upon the high-backed sofa in that sacred room, the front
parlor. But Peter, sad to say, had one serious failing. He
never could see why the food put away on the pantry shelves
was not common property. No amount of disciplining could
convince him of the contrary. Miss Martin thought it was
clearly a case of kleptomania; but whatever it was, it was
quite likely to get Peter into serious trouble.
One Saturday afternoon, Miss Martin brought into the
kitchen a chicken which she had just bought from the butch
er's boy. "Lena," she called; but lena had evidently gone
out, for no one answered. Peter, aroused from his nap, came
out from under the stove to coax for the chicken. "No,
Peter," she said, "there is nothing here for you;" and she
turned to carry the chicken into the pantry. Peter followed
her unnoticed. As she was returning to the kitchen she hesi
tated a moment, and then turned the key in the pantry door,
saying to herself as she did so, "I believe it will be better to
lock the door; Lena is so careless about leaving everything
open, and the last time we had a chicken Peter managed to
get the most of it."
Just then there was a knock at the outside door, and she
dropped the key hastily into her pocket and stepped to the
door. On the porch stood a ragged and villainous looking
tramp. He asked in a whining voice for a bite of something
to eat- Miss Martin, though she was very kind to the poor
people in the village, had a great horror of tramps, and her
reply to the request was a very emphatic, "No." Afterwards,
when she had gone back to her sewing, she remembered the
ugly look that came into the man's face, and almost wished
she had not spoken so curtly.
That evening, as Mis Martin was making her preparations
for bed, Lena came hurrying into the room with her face pale
and frightened. "Oh! Miss Martin," she cried, "there is
some one in the pantry and they've lockec the door." "Non
sense," said Miss Martin, "I locked the door myself. I'll
come down and see what's the trouble." She felt in her
jacket for the key, but it was not there. She turned the jack
et inside out and shook her handerchicf, but all in vain. The
key was evidently gone. She took the lamp in her hand and
went to the kitchen thinking that she had better see what the
noises were which had so disturbed Lena. She stopped at
the pantry door and listened. At first she heard nothing.
Then there was a sudden noise as if some one had moved a
dish. At this she was very much startled, but recovering her
self-possession, she called sternly, "Who's there?" She felt
quite secure since the door was locked between herself and
the intruder. There was no answer. Everything was quiet
as before. In a moment the noise began again. This time it
sounded more as if something was being dragged over the
floor.
The longer Miss Mai tin listened, the more she was con
vinced by the sounds that there must be some animal in the
room. She decided to break open the door and solve the
mystery. "Lena," she called, "go to the wood-shed and
bring me the axe." Hut Lena was far too frightened to be
of any assistance, and Miss Martin had to go for it herself.
The lock was weak, and it needed but one or two blows to
break it. As the door opened there was a loud crash in the
pantry, and something white rushed by Miss Martin and dis
appeared into the hall. The apparition was so sudden and so
unexpected that Miss Martin started back with aery. As soon
as she could recover from her fright, she took the lamp, and
gathering her skirts closely about her, she stepped cautiously
into the pantry. A large jar of buttermilk, which stood on
one of the lower shelves, had been upset, and little rivers of
milk were running in every direction. On the floor were the
remains of the chicken gnawed almost beyond recognition.
Miss Martin sat down on the window sill and laughed until
she cried. "Oh! it was Peter," she exclaimed, "the wicked
rogue. How frightened we were."
Lena stood in the doorway and looked in upon the scene
with round-eyed amazement, scarcely understanding how the
robber could have escaped so quickly.
When Miss Martin had arranged the house again for the
night, she went upstairs to her room, and there in the middle
of her pillow-shams she found Peter drenched with milk. He
spit furiously as she took him up to carry him down stairs to
the cellar, where she left him to spend the rest of the night.
' H. M.
Literary 'otes.
Mr. Gladstone earns $15,000 a year by his pen.
This year Christmas literature will appear in October.
England is reading just now "An Englishman in Paris;
Notes and Recollections."
A new book illustrated by the author George u Maurier,
entitled "Peter Ibbetson" is worth reading.
The new edition of Professor Bryce's "American Common
wealth" contains several chapters of new material.
George W. Cable is reported to be at work upon another
novel. The scene is in the South and the characters of
Anglo-Saxon stock.
One of the most prominent books lately written against
religion is "Homilies of Science" by Dr. Paul Cams. It is
an attack upon orthodox Christianity.
Nebraskans aie interested in a novel written by Ed. C.
Wright of Council Bluffs. It is called "The Lightning's
Flash; an Unveiling of Mysteries; a Stenographer's Episode."
Monsieur Zola has abandoned his old tactics in writing and
has produced a masterpiece called "La Debacle." It is a
description of the Franco-Prussian war and of the Commune.
