: .4-:.
N THE LITTLE CASE.
.Mis‘ter'Chicot, innkeeper of Eperville, ,
stopped his tilbury in front of Mother ’
Magloire’s farm._ He was a big fellow
of forty, red-faced, highstomached, .
and passed for being mischievous.
He tied his horse to the way post at .'
the gate, then took his way into the w
court. He possessed an estate adjoin-
ing the old woman’s land, which for a
long. time he kept watch upon. Twen— ‘
'ty timeshe had tried tobuy it, but
Mother Magloire obstinately refused.
“Here I was born; here will I die,"
she said. '
He found her peeling potatoes in
front of her door. Being seventy- two
years old, she was dried up, wrinkled
and bent, but as indefatigable as a
young girl. Chicot tapped her in a
friendly way on the back, then seated
himself on a stool beside her.
“Well, mother, and is ygur health al-
ways good ‘2” ..
“Not so bad; and yours, Mr. Prosper?”
“Eh! eh! A few pains, otherwise it
is satisfactory.”
“Well, so much the better.” .
And she did not say anything more.
Chicot watched her accomplish what
she wanted. Her crooked fingers,
knotted hard like crab’s claws, seizing,
pincher fashion, the grayish tubercles
with one hand, and quickly she moved
it, taking off long strips of the skin
with the blade of an old knife which she
held in the other hand. And when.
the potato had become quite yellow she
threw it into a pail of water. Three
fearless fowls came, one after the other,
close to her skirts to pick up the peel-
ings, then ran off as fast as their legs
would carry them, bearing their booty,
in their beaks.
Chilcot seemed ill at ease, hesitating.
anxious, with something on the tip of
his tongue which would not come out.
At last he_begins: "
' “Tell me, Mother Magloire———”
“What can I do to oblige you ‘3”
“This farm, you still will not sell it
to me ‘1’”
“As to that, no. Do not count on it.
I have said it. Do not talk about it
again.” '
“The fact is, I have found an arrange-
ment which will suit us both.”
“What is that?”
“Here it is. You will sell it to me,
and still you will keep it. Don’t you
see? Follow my meaning?”
The old woman left off peeling her
vegetables and fixed her quick eyes
with their crumpled eyelids on the inn-
keeper,
He resumed:
Every month I~will give you one hun-
dred and fifty francs. You hear me
well—~every month I will bring to you
here, in my tilbury, thirty crowns of
_ one hundred sous. And so there is not-h-
ing changed—nothing at all. You re-
main here at home; you need not
trouble yourself about me, you owe me
nothing. You only take my money.
Does this suit you?” ,,
He looked at her with a joyous air,
with a good-humored air.’
' " The old woman, looking fer the snare,’
considers it She
asks: ' '
“That is for me. But for you—that
does not give you this farm at all.”
He continued: “Don’t worry your-
self about that. You will remain as
long as the good Lord lets you live. You
are at home. ' Only you give me a little
note from your lawyer to say that after
you it comes to me. You have no chil—
with misgivings.
dren, only nephews, for whom you care f‘
Does this suit you? You keep.
your land during your life‘nnd I give
little. ‘
you thirty crowns of one hundred sous
every month. It is all gain for you.” "
The old._woman remained. surprised,
but tempted. She replied:
“I do not say no, only I want to think
it over. Come again and talk about it
the middle of next week. I will tell you
what I think of it.” .
And Mister Chicot went away as con-
tented as a king who had just (30n—
quered an empire. Mother Magloirc
remained thoughtful. The next night
she did not sleep. During four days
she had a fever of hesitation. She
smelt something bad for her in it, but
the thought of thirty crowns a month.
of this ,lovely, clinking money which.
would come rolling into her apron,
which, without , her doing anything,
would fall to her as if from heaven,
consumed her with desire. She went,
therefore, to see the lawyer and told
him her case. He advised her to accept
Chicot’s proposition, but instead of
thirty to ask fifty crowns of a hundred
sous, her farm being worth at least
sixty thousand francs, .
“Should you live fifteen years,” the?
lawyer said, “in this way he only pays
forty-five thousand francs.”
The old woman qnivered at the pros
pect of fifty crowns of one hundred sous
per month; but still she had her doubts,
fearing a thousand things unforeseen
——tricks hidden—and she remained
until evening asking questions and un-
- able to decide or to go away. At last
she orders the act to be prepared and
she goes home,‘ dazed as if she had
drunk‘ four pots of new cider.
a When Chicot. came to know the an-
swer. she allowed herself to be entreat-
ed, declaring that She Would not. But,
' gnawed by the fear that he would not
consent to give the fifty crowns of one
hundred sous, as he insists, she at last
announces her pretensions, '
He had a shock of disappointment
and refused. .. Therefore. to convince
him, she began to reason with himupon
the probable duration of her life.
“I have little more than five or six
years for certain. Here I am nearly
seventy-three, and at that not vigorous.
The pther night I thought I was pass-
ing :awgy, It seemed to me that they,
were obliged to carry me to my bed.”
But ' Chicot was 'not to be caught.
“Cemc, come, old experienced one, you
are as solid as the church bell. You will
live at least one hundred and ten years-L
F9; (pertain it will be you who will bury
. me)» ~ ,
The whole day wasfioSt in discussion."
"-1
l
“I will explain myself. '
. ~45‘-\:‘ «
1
‘But as; the old woman would noted»,
cede the innkeeper at last cbn'séntedto
l give the fifty crowns.
The following day they signed the
agreement, and Mother- Magloire, de-
= manded ten crowns for some measures
of wine. -
Three years passed. The old woman
was miraculously well.. *She did not
seem to have aged at all, and Chicot de-
spaired. It seemed to him that he had
been paying this income for half a
century; that he' had been deceived,
cheated, ruined. Sometimes he went
to pay a visit to the farm, just as one
goes in the fields in J uly’to see if the
wheat is ripe for the flail. She received
him with a mischievous look. One would
have said ofher that she congratulated
herself on the good joke she had played
on him, and he remounted his tilbury,
muttering: “You old carcass; you
won’t die!”
He did not know what to do. On
seeing her he Would like to have choked
her. He hated her with a sulky, fero~
eious hatred--with the hatred of a peas-
ant who had been robbed.
Well then he would find the means.
Accordingly, he came one day to see
her, rubbing his hands as he had done
the first time when he came to propose
the arrangement. Then, after chatting
a few minutes:
“Say, mother, why do you never dine
at my house when you go through
Eperville? People tattle; they say
that we no longer are friends, and that
makes me mourn. You know that at-
my house you do not need to pay. I do
not grudge a dinner. Any time you
feel inclined to come, comenvithout cer-
emony; that will please me.”
Mother Magloire did not wait for a
second invitation. Two days after, on
her way to market in her jaunting car,
conducted by Celestin, her groom,
without formality, she put her horse in
Mister Chicot’s stable and claimed her
promised dinner.
The innkeeper, radiant, treats her
like a lady, serves her with chicken,
meat pudding, leg of mutton, and cab-
bage with bacon. But, being from her
infancy temperate, having always lived
on a little soup and a buttered crust,
she ate scarcely anything. Chicot,
disappointed, insisted. Neither did
she drink. She refused to take coffee.
He asked: “You will accept, of
course, a small glass of brandy?" '
“Ah! as to that, yes. I do not say
no.3,
And he called across the inn with both
of his lungs: “Rosalie, bring the
brandy, the superfine, the Eau-de-vie.”
The servant appeared, holding a long
bottle, decorated with a paper vine
leaf.
He filled two small glaSses.
"Taste that, mother,- it is famous.”
A nd the good woman began to~ drink.
I cry slowly, taking small sips, thereby
making the pleasure last longer. After
emptying her glass she drained it, de-
clearing:
“That, yes—that
pagne brandy.”
She hadn’t finished speaking when
Chicot poured her out a second dose.
She would have refused, but it was too
late, and she slowly tasted it, as‘she
had done the first. -
He thenwanted to make her accept
a third allowance, but she resisted. He
insisted; “This, this is milk, do you.
is the fine cham~
It goes down like sugar. Not-hing in
the stomach, nothing in the head; one.
might say it evaporated on the tongue.
There is nothing better for the health! ’.’
As she had‘a desire for more she ae-
quiesced, but she took only half a glass.
'l‘hereupon Chicot, with a breath of
generosity, cried out to her:
“See, since it pleases you, I will give
you a small cask;.this will let you see
that we are always a pair of good
friends.”
The good woman does not say no, and
she goes away a little tipsy.
The next day the innkeeper entered.
Mother Magloire’s court, and from
the bottom of his carriage pulled out a
little barrel encircled with iron. Then
he wished her to taste its contents to
prove that it was the same brandy; and
when. both drank three glasses on going
away he declared: ‘
“And besides. you know, when this is
finished there is still more. Do not feel
embarrassed. I am not grudging. The
sooner that is finished the more pleased
I will be." '
And he remouuts his t-ilbury.
Four days later he returns. The old
woman was in front of her door cutting
bread for her soup. He approached
her, wished her good day, talked close
to her face in order to inhale her breath.
He noticed a whiff of alcohol. Nowhis
face brightened.
“You surely will offer me a glassrof
brandy?” said he,
They touch' glasses two or three
times.
But soon the news spreads through
the country that Mother Magloire got
intoxicated when alone. One picked
her up‘sometimes in her kitchen, some-
times in her court, sometimes in the
neighboring roads where they were
obliged to carry her home as inani-
mate as a corpse. Chicot did not go to
see her any longer. When one spoke
to him about the peasant he murmured.
with a sad face:
“Is it not sad, at her age, to have
taken such a habit as that? Don’t you
see, when one is old there is no help for
it. Some day it will likely end badly for
en»? ‘
It did, indeed, end badly for her, The
winter following, near Christmas, she
fell drunk in the snow.
And Mister Chicot inherited the farm.
while, he declared: f‘That peasant, if
only she hadn’t become a drunkard,
surely. might have lived ten years
longer.”--From the French, for Chicago
Tribune.
~There’s no music "in a.“rest.".but
there’s the making of music in it. And
people are always missing that part of
the life melOdy, always talking of per-
severance and courage and fortitude;
but patience is the finest and worthiest
pertof fortitude, and, the rarest, too.
‘—Biekin. ,
‘ -“' unr—
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Alexander Salim, lllll Goal l
, ‘ ' 111‘.» Greens ; llama; l} ,—
sce ? I drink ten, twelve without harm. ’ '
:lnr, Says
‘
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What he Says Means Health to You if You~ .Use .This
Grandest and Surest of all Medicines, Dr.
Grene’s N ervm'a.
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ALEXANDER SALVINI.
The word of an illustrious actor, like.
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an
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was runs or. run near
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PRESIDENT onlliféiiiss
I WILL BE AB‘NOUNCED IN
. . THE . .
NEW YORK
OF NOVEMBER 4. I896.
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THE HAIR CUTTER
No. 1 Gazette Building, Norwslk
1101‘ AND com) BATES
’ ,BEE
“Why don’t you raise chickens,er
the market?” suggested Hiram Bassgtt,
the village storekeepcr,to Ben Singer.
Ben was. fourteen years old. His moth-
er had died a short time before. His
father Was a carpenter by trade, but
hadbeen crippled by rheumatism so
that he could not work. , Ben, who al-
ways looked. on Mr. Bassett as a friend
of undoubted fidelity and great re-
sources, had been telling the store-
keeper how much he wished he could
get some steady work. Mr. Singer's
little stock of money was exhausted;
he had already sold Some of his tools
to get the food he" and his son needed.
Ben realized that the day was rapidly
coming when there would be no way
of getting more, unless he managed to
do something of greater profit than
the odd jobs he picked up now and
then from the surrounding farmers.
. “I’ll do it," said Ben, in response to
Mr. Bassctt’s suggestion, and, turning
about. trudged home. and entire way
was planning how he might begin.
A week later the “chicken farm,” as
Ben called it, was a fact; at least he
had made a start. In his spare time he
had constructed some. coops from old
barrels and a box or two. The pay for
two days? work he invested in three
dozen eggs, and with the money ob-
tained by sorting some vegetables for
the storekeeper bought two hens which
were just about to ”set.” He and his
father already had five pullets, and
within a couple of weeks more there
were five “clutches” of eggs under as
many of his hens.
He fed his chickens from the screen-
ings he got at a small price from sev-
eral 0f the farmers. The hens man~
aged, too, to pick up a good deal of
food among the bushes and in the tiny
garden back of the house. Ben worked
hard at the small jobs he was given
round about, and waited with confi-
dence for tnetime when he should be
able to make something from his ven-
ture. '
He would have felt much happier if
it hadn’t been for his father’s condi-
tion. Mr. Singer did not complain of
the rheumatism, though it still kept
him confined to his big chair. But
something worried him very much; the
boy could see that. He asked what it
was several times, but Mr. Singer’s
only reply was that he suficred, he
felt downhearted on account of being
so crippled. He tried to make Ben
think that that was all that distressed
him, but the boy could not believe it.
Slowly the flock of chickens grew.
The eggs hatched remarkably well.
Fifty downy little balls were soon
running in and out of the coops where
their mothers were confined. Four
more "clutches” of eggs were under
that number 'of new hens, which he
had bought and paid for in install-
ments of work. The first days of sum-
mer saw him with seventy-five young
chickens, some of them able to scratch
for themselves. It took all he could
now make to keep his father and him-
self in' food and to provide for his farm,
but he was always on- the alert for a
job, and was as cheerful as he ,could
be, so that the neighbors all liked to
employ him , when they could. Ben
had told his father of his plan, and ex-
plained that as few of the farmers
raised chickens, except for their own
use, he thought there ought to be a
chance to make something by shipping
them to Waynesboro, the bigger town,
five miles away. Mr. Singer was not
altogether confident of the success of
such an experiment, but he said noth-
ing to discourage the boy. and used to
sit near the windows and ., watch the
broods and, talk. to, Ben about them.
July. and August went by, and the
young chickens thrived. Only~ a few
of them were' lost; ' A prowling ?pos~
sum got several before Ben trapped
the maraud'er. Cold and rain killed 01!
a few more. . But the first of Septem-
ber came and more than sixtychickens
were the_boy’s.
Ben planned to sell thirty or forty
lathe early autumn and to keep the
remainder till the next summer to
stock his farm with afresh. He in-
tended to go into it then on a bigger
scale, and he hoped to realize enough
from his sales to keep him through the
winter with the part of his flock he re-
taincd.
Then, one day in September, as he
and his father sat in the doorway of
the cottage, Ben noticed a couple of
tears. trickle down his. father’s face.
He jumped up and threw his arms
around his father’s neck, He. was
frightened and he did not understand
just what was the matter.
Presently Mr. Singer nnclasped the
boy’s hands and looked him in the face.
“Ben,” he said, “I’m afraidwe are in‘
for hard times yet."_
“What do you mean,
Ben. _
“The house is only rented," said-Mr.
Singer slowly; “they can't take that,
but they can take all our furniture
and everything else.”
“Why, they belong tons,” exclaimed
Ben. ' .
.‘ “So they do, Ben, but the law gives
Dad?” asked
another man the right to sell them and
take the money they bring if we owe
him money'and can’t pay. it.”
“And we owe somebody money? I .
thought Dr. James was "paid?"
"So he was. But there is some one
else to whom I owe money—a man I
borrowed from when your mother was
‘ sick. I 0va him one hundred dollars.
He has what they call my note. I
haven’t been able to pay him, and now
he says he must have it. ‘He is entitled
to it right of. and will getas much of
it. as possible by selling what we have.
He was here to see me about it the
other day. and I tried to get him to
wait. But he says he’s tired of wait-
ing. and the she'riff'll come and sell us
out." ‘
Ben'.had a fairly good idea nowof
the situation. He. tried to comfort his
father; but. it was of little avail. 'Mr.
Singer felt-his helplessness and the
disgrace keenly, and did not know
what would become of them. Ben
worried. over what he had heard all
night loambut he could find no my
out of their‘difiiwltn ' '
rt...
’8 BID. '
-’ , . 7"” .". .:.E._ ‘ ff" f ’ -
The next day he tool; ten of his
biggest chickens to the vdlag' . e store. '
lie had already arranged with Mr.
353.89%; id have; . them sent ton com-
mission merchant. at .Waynesboro and
sold. After, he; had delivered. «the
chickens and . Mr. Basset't had your
ised to get him- the money for them as
quickly; as-possible, the idea struck the
boy of asking the storekeeper about a
sherifl’s sale. The thing puzzled him
a. bit yet, and he indulged a faint hope
that, if he knew just how it was done, '
he might be able to hit on a. way out
of it. . . “Mr. Bassett,” he said, “how
does a sherifi sell you out?”
Perhapsthe storekeeper had an idea
of the trouble. But if he did, he gave
no sign of it, and tried to explain to
Ben how such a sale was conducted.
“And the people at the sale,” he con-
cluded.,,”ofler to buy what isolfered,
and the sherifl, sells to the one who
makes the. highest bid.” .
' Ben asked several. questionsbefore
he left. Then he walked slowly home,
and all the while, in his mind. he was
turning over a dimly. defined project
which had been suggested to him by
what he had heard.
A week later Ben received the money
for his chickens—three dollars and
eighty cents. He was a proud boy. and
he would have shown his satisfaction
more if it had not been for the impend
ing trouble, which made. his father so
miserable that he could not leave his
bed. Ben bought some fruit for twen-
ty-five cents, and took it home to him,
but Mr. Singer was feeling so bad that
he ate of it only sparingly. '
On a Monday in the early part of the
next month the sheriff. in pursuance
‘of formal notice, arrived at the house
to make a sale to satisfy Mr. Singer’s
creditor. Quite a crowd had gathered
about the cottage, and there was not
one present who did not sympathize
with the carpenter and his son. Ben’s
father was very ill that morning and
could not leave the bed. The sherifi
mounted a box in the yard and began
a description of the goods to be sold.
It was a pitiful array, after all. A
few tools, a miscellaneous assortment
of cheap furniture, a kitchen stove
with some cooking utensils and china,
and some linen and blankets. But one
item in the lot—the chickens—the
sheriff counted on as his drawing card.
Half a hundred of fine hens and mar-
ketable chickens were cooped in a near-’
by pen, and upon the value of these
the county officer dwelt at length.
Then, when he thought he had the
crowd sufficiently around, he named a
starting figure in default of an actual
bid.
“Sixty dollars for this choice lot of
chickens and household goods,” h?
cried.
There was no response. He repeated
the announcement. then dropped the
figures to fifty dollars. Still no one '
spoke.
The sheriff made some further re-
marks about the articles for sale and
tried again at forty dollars. But the
crowd was dumb. No one felt inclined .
to buy out the crippled carpenter and
his son.
The sheriff tried again and again,
dropping the figures lower and lower,
and all the time growing more vocif—
erous in the explanation of the bar-
gain 'which was offered. He did not
specially like the job, for he had been
told about the case by some of the v11-
lage people, but he had a duty to per- .
form, and he knew he must‘get as
much out of the sale as he could.
The figures had dropped to ten dol-
lars, but silence reigned, except for a
'defiant crow from one of the roosters
in the pen. Mr. Singer’s creditor, evi-
dently, had no- representative on 'the
ground, and even the low price named
was not taken up with.
The sheriff dropped his, offer now, a
dollar at a time, but, apparently, in
vain. It looked as if the sale would
come to not-hing.
Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five!
Four! Not a response came from those
about. -
“Three dollars!” The sheriff was
smiling at the ridiculous offer, and was
just about to name two dollars and
one dollar in quick succession, hoping
for no reply, when a boyish voice, close
at hand, answered: -
“1 bid three dollars!" .
The officer looked down on the
speaker and saw Ben. The boy Eld
up three one-dollar notes in his h. d.
The sheriff smiled. More than one
man in the crowd felt like cheering the
bidder. But the officer knew he could
not accept the ofier at once.
“Three dollars I am bid!” he an.
swered. “Who bids four?”
No one spoke.
‘lThree dollars and a-half, then?” he
said.
Every one was silent; and the sug-
gestion of three dollars and a-quarter,
likewise, went unanswered. Three
dollars was the one bid offered, and.
after one expostulation, the sheriff
took the offer.
Ben handed the money to the sheriff,
who congratulated him on his pur-
chase.with an earnestness he had sel-
dom felt on occasions-of this kind, and
there was not one of the farmers who
did not come forward and speak a
kindly Word of praise and encourage-
ment to the boy.
But Ben was listening to little of all
of this; he slipped away to his father,
who could only strain the boy to him
while the tears streamed down his
face. '
The chicken farm was saved, and the
chicken farm proved a. success. A year
later, when Mr. Singer was once more
working steadily, and his rheumatism
was gone, his creditor was paid in full
the amount borrowed from him, and
the proceeds from Ben’s chicken farm
did not a little to make up the sum re-
quired—Chicago Inter Ocean.
. «om Glory." .
The new star that is’ to be added to
the national flag to represent Utah will
be placed to the right of the fourth row
from the top. At the same time the
regulation size of the flag will be
changed from 6 feet by 5 to- 5 feet 6
by 4 feet 4 inches. All of the new flags
are to be made of the finest American
Silk, and will be very handsome.
Norwalk Chronicler