AN ACT OF CHARITY. ,
BY JESSIE M. ANDERSON.
Mrs. Tom Walton was in a very com-
fortable frame of mind and body.
“Tom” had come home for luncheon,
and had amiably started oif with their
guest, Grace Maynard, for'the public
reception at the white house. Grace
was to go by the afternoon train, and
this was her last chance to see the
“First Lady of the Land,” as the news-
papers call our democratic queen. Tom
would be coming home for dinner alone
after seeing Grace off, and there would
be a chance again for their dear cozy
evenings together. It was selfish, she
knew; but she was glad that they were
not to have any mge visitors. Nobody
would be coming to “lashington, now
that the season was so nearly over, and
she could have Tom all to herself. She
looked lazily out of the window and
saw her husband and Grace boarding a,
car at the corner.
There is scarcely anything more en-
tertaining to a student-of democratic
government than an afternoon recep-
tion at the white house. Mr. “’alton
and his charge had stood long and per-
severingly “in line,” first out in the
street, then gradually pushed along
within the grounds, till at last. they
found themselves standing in solemn
file, Grace in front, at the very thresh-
old of the blue room. Just ahead were
two tiny but hold figures—a small,
dark-eyed Jewess and her smaller
brother—“Miss Zimmerman and Mr.
Zimmerman,” they gave their names to
the inquiring usher; “Miss Cinnamon
and Mr. Cinnamon,” he shouted, in’
.stentorian tones, as they passed along
the magic circle within which stood the
receiving party.
.— Back of these was a curious-looking
'old woman with a huge green veil tied
over her head and ears and a tiny. faded
old black shawl gathered around her
shoulders. ~
“Wall, now, it’s good for sore eyes to
see ye,” she said, as she shook hands
lingeringly with one of the cabinet la:
dies. “Be ye Mrs. Cleveland? Wall,
now. I can’t see ez ye look much like
your picture that I’ve got at home. That
looks just like my Cynthy did before
she died.” Her tones were croaking,
but there was an upward curve of hap-
py pride in the wrinkles about the kind-
l y old eyes. '
“Move on, there!” came the rough
voice of the policeman. And Grace and
Mr. Walton found themselves taking
the woman's place; and then, all in a.
breath. they were out in the great room
beyond. amusing themselves by listen-
ing to the broken English of a group of
Coreans who stood in one corner, gay
in native costume, with their odd caps
on their heads.
“Four o‘clock already,” said Mr. VVal~
picked up her umbrella, and she leaned
gratefully on his arm as they crossed
the square.
He opened the door with the lptchkey,
and smuggled the old lady into the
library. There he settled her in‘ a big
armchair, and then ran hastily upstairs
to his wife.
for a convenient chair to put her skein
large spool, to keep it from tangling.
When Tom entered the room she jumped
up happily, and, giving him a kiss, said,
imperatively: “Now, Tom, you are just
in time; put out your hands, sir!” ‘
“You dear old fellow—did Grace get
'oif? What kind of a time did you have
at the reception? Tremendously
crowded? oh yes, that goes without say-
ing. Oh, Tom, it’s such a blessed relief
to have you here, all to myself. We
won’t be .‘at home’ to anybody for a
week, will we? but just have, some of
our pleasant little evenings together.
Have some tea? Here, I can reach the
bell. By the way, I’ve had a letter from
Florence Drayton. She’s.been up to a
new prank—been playing her cheer-up
act down at your aunt Martha’s. She
must be an odd old soul from what
Florence says. You’ve never told me
much about her. When did you see her
last ?” °
“Aunt Martha? Oh, not since I was a
boy. I really have rather neglected her,
I suppose. She was all right- so long as
her daughter lived—Jane. She taught
school down there, and they got on very
well; but, speaking of old ladies—”
“Oh, Tom,” broke in HarrietJ “you
seem to be excited on the subject of old
ladies. You’re twisting your hands up
frightfully, and the silk is a. mess. The
trees look bare yet over in the park,
don’t they ? I shall be glad when spring
really comes. If it hadn’t been for that
frost!”
“Apropos of the park,” said Tom.
humbly, beginning again rather abrupt-
ly, “when I was coming througih the
park this afternoon there was a poor
old woman sitting on a. bench. I really
felt sorry for her, she looked so help-
less and tired—”
“011, Tom!” cried his wife, in despair,
“do please be careful. You’re knotting
the silk worse than ever.‘ Be sorry for
me. You can’t waste your pity on every
loafer you see on the park benches.”
“But, H etty dear, this old lady wasn’t.
a ‘loafer; ’ she was just a respectable old.
country soul, I should judge, who had
lost her way in the city. I really felt
sorry for her."
“Why didn’t you bring her home for
dinner?” said Harriet, a little sarcastic-
ally. “Oh, Tom now you have done it.”
Tom dropped the silk entirely in his
dismay, and gasped, half laughing in
spite of his anxiety: “\Vell, Hetty dear
——I did—bring her—home with me!”
“Thomas Burr Walton! What. have
you done with her? Poor old thing!"
ton, looking at his watch. “We shall
have to hurry, if you want to see the
conservatory.”
Just as Mr. Walton was putting Grace
on her train, Mrs. lValton drawled a
lazy “Come! ” to the maid who brought
her the afternoon post. There were
two letters. One, a fat one, from a
young cousin of Mr. lValton’s, she
opened first:
“MY DEAR HETTY: I gather from Tom's
letters that you two are still mooning
along in your nuptial bliss, not settled
down enough to enjoy visitors. So I'm not
coming to see you. But you can't guess
where I have been!
“It seems a year or two, but it’s really
only a month, I've spent with a dear funny
old aunt of Tom's and mine. I thought I
knew what it would be like to live that
way, but Gooseberryville exceeded my most
fantastic visions.
”Aunt Martha lives in a little old place,
not picturesque enough to be called a cot-
tage, and not sizable enough to be a house.
I just pumped my brain to remember all
the ‘news’ for years back of anybody con-
nected with our enormous family. She
Would roll piecrust while I washed tea—
cups: or, to be less poetic, but more fre-
quently true, she filled the oil lamps while
I scoured the griddlepans—or polished up
the gilt frame of Mr. Cleveland’s picture in
the parlor. ,
“Poor old soul! I heard that the villagers
about there call her 'Ruts.’ I found that
she had had for breakfast ever since she
- was left alone, which is several months ago,
griddlecakes and molasses; for din'ncr,
bread without butter and half a pie; and
for supper, the rest of the pie and bread
and cheese, with a cup of tea. She said it
was cheaper and easier; she never had been
much of a hand at accounts; and in that
way she couli tell just how much she
spent, and ‘keep within her income.’
“While I was there, of course I paid
board, and I ‘instituted a change,’ as she
called it. At first she wouldn’t eat but one
or two'dificrent things at one meal; but I
soon coaxed her into looking up all her
famous old recipes, and I left her a new
creature. She got so much fatter and
brighter that you would hardly have known
her.
“There's no use of sending her money,
for she won’t like it. But if you and Tom
could send her a new shawl and a new dark-
green veil—she never goes out without, these
two things, part of her Tut—why“, she
would put in a better appearance, the dear
old soul!
“The visit has really done me good, too.
I -was getting into a rut, myself, if not
quite as narrow a one as Aunt Martha’s.
“Most affectionately, your cousin,
we, . ”FLORENCE."
Tom Walton was hurrying home,
across the little green “square” oppo-
site his stf'eet, when he heard someone
speak in a. quavering tone. “Sir, do
you know where Park place is ?”
He looked around, and saw a little old
woman sitting on a bench that stood at
the edge of the gravel walk. She was
apparently too tired even to stand up to
attract attention; and she spoke in a
discouraged way, as if she hardly ex-
pected him to turn around.
“Why, madam, this block up here is
Park place. . What number are you look-
ing for ?”x he said, kindly, sit-ting down
beside the old lady, and waiting patient-
1 y while she fumbled in her pocket.
“I can’t find the paper,” she said, at
last. “But I think it’s 47.”
“Very well, madam,” said Tom, still
more kindly; he knew there was no such
number in the place, but did not wish to
break her hope down until she could rest
a little and perhaps find the paper. “If
you will just step into my house—this
’first house here—I will have somebody
take you over. Youshould have acup '
- of tea, too; you look a bit tired.” lie
‘ here!” was the thought that had come
' then decided to open it.
and before Tom could grasp his wife’s
purpose or change his mode, she was
downstairs, flying thrOugh the draw—
ing-room into the library beyond with.
as she afterwards confessed, a mixture
of fears that the “poor old woman
might have fallen in a faint from weari-
ness, or that she might have made off
with the brie-a-brac.”
Poor old thing! She had not fainted,
but she was almost unconscious from
sheer exhaustion. Tenderly they lifted
her and carried her’over to the divan in
the bow-window recess. She asked
feebly for her‘ bag, and moaned out
something about. being “so many people
there,” and she was “so tired.”
“Why, 1 do believe it's the very same
old creature that walked ahead of us in
the procession at the white house,” said
Mr.‘ Walton; “yes, it’s the same green
veil!” .
They looked for the little bag in vain.
“I remember sheheld on to it whem 1
took her umbrella,” said Tom. “She
must have dropped itin the street with-
out. my noticing it.”
“Tom, dear,” said’Harriet, as they
went into the dining-room for dinner.
having the “poor old soul” fast asleep
in the library—“Tom, I think you’d
better send around to the other houses
in the place and inquire if they are
expect-ing an old lady. You see, it’s
only a block; and it- might save her
friends great anxiety.”
“But who is there on this block that
could possibl v be expecting her?” Tom
asked, doubt-fully.
However, he admitted that there could
be no harm done, and finally said he
would step arournd himself. But he came
back within half an hour without. hav—
ing learned anything about “an old
lady—looking for Some number on Park
place.” Nobody was “expecting her.”
“She must have meant Park avenue,”
they decided; “we will try to find out
to-morrow; don’t disturb her now.”
And so, with cushions carefullyar-
ranged to shut off all draft, they left
her on the wide window couch for the
night. The next day they had a doctor
call in and a trained nurse from the hos-
pital. 'The old lady .was very'ill, and
talked feverishly. _, fifsizw“
“Mrs. Cleveland was them-9;, but I
didn’t have ,a chance to shake hands.
They made us hurry by so fast. But she
looks like Cynthy. Yes, Cynthy could
have made a president’s wife—wouldn’t
have been a mite too good for her. I
think I dropped my bag—dropped it—
yes, there it is; and I’m too tired to
pick it up!”
Suddenly Harriet, listening, turned
and ran downstairs to the library, from
which they had carried the old woman
that morning up to the “guest room,”
which Grace Maynard had just left. “I
wonder if she could have dropped it
to her.
She looked
where she had found the old woman on
the previous afternoon; and there,
surely enough—there was the little
black bag! She hesitated for a moment,
~Then she flew upstairs, to the drem-
ing-room, where Tom was polishing his
boots.
. “Oh, Tom,” shecried, half laughing,
but with a “choke”'in her voice—"Tom.
W E F K Ew- -
Now Harriet was just looking about
of silk across, while she wound it on a -
, tellers.
about, near the chair -
MUSH RAT FRENCH.
They Live Near Detroit. and Represent a
- Past Century.
Out in the region of the St. Clair flats,
near Detroit, lives a peculiar tribe
known in general as the mushrat
French.“ Nowhere else in the United
States is there a community such as
. this in language and customs. Despite
the fact that their ancestors have lived
there for a century and a half, says the
New York Sun, they speak English that
is barely intelligible to the average citi-
zen, while their French, it is said, is to-
one respect they are parficularly nota-
ble—that is in their ability as story-
The Detroiters understand
them, and the mushrat French know
it, so that as raconteurs they are not at
their best before them, but let them get
hold of a guileless easterner and they
will fill him full of the most marvelous
tales of hunting and fishing adventures
As a means of earning money they
hunt and fish, selling their prey to the
markets. Their own staple food ar-
ticle is the muskrat, called “mushrat,”
which abound out there; hence their
name, mushrat French. Against all
ridicule they will maintain that no
beast, bird or fish is more delicate, sus-
taining and healthful than this animal.
“Takeeem fat,” said one of them to a
New Yorker, who spent part of his va-
cation on the flats, “take eem fat, stoff
eem up with airb (herbs) an specce
(spice), put eem on fire an’ roast eem,
an’ sh! what will you? He is pairfect.
You shall not tell eem from duck. Gen-
ti'lman of New York come ’ere to eat
duck. We give eem mushrat cook
comme il faitu He say: ‘Ah, heaven!
Ah, God! Nevaire have I eat such a
duck!’ He thought it was a duck, that
mushrat.”
. tally beyond the ken of a Parisian. In-
that ever came from the mouth of man. '
m DEADLY COMBAT.
Fight a Dual.
War was proclaimed in Central park.
The wapiti and the red deer bucks were
spoiling for a fight. ' It is a way they
have at this season of the year, says the
New York Recorder, and in the fergsts
many a duel to the death is fought, with
no seconds standing by, and with no
human or other appreciative eye to wit-
ness the valor displayed. ,
For the past few days the wapiti and
the biggest of the red deer bucks have
glared at each other across the barbed
wire fence which separates them. Then
they began charging at each other, and
their antlers came together with many
a resounding crash. After much ma.-
neuvering Keeper Snyder got a rope
over the horns of Mr. Wapiti, but the
buck did not mind it in the least. Then
a dozen keepers got hold of the lariat,
and with great difficulty forced the
. wapiti away from his panting rival, and
he was put into a paddock where there
were only young fellow bucks whose
antlers had scarcely begun to Sprout
and whom, of course, he would not con-
descend to attack.
The blood of the ‘red- stag, however,
seemed boiling, and having no longer‘a
foeman worthy of his horns he chased
and prodded the poor ladies of his
harem. The keepers, at the risk of
his martial spirit seems to be knocked
out of him forever. ‘
A Rabbit Country.
The name of Spain was bestowed by
the Phoenicians from the word “span,”
signifying a rabbit—an allusion to the
great numbers of this animal on the
Spanish plains.
merly called lberia, from the tribe of
1ber, who took their name from the
river Ibro or Ebro.
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THE NAME 0
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Wapitl and the Refuge:- in Central Park -
their lives, sawed off his antlers and-
The country was for- ‘
Weekly Tribune,
LOOKING UNDER THE» BED.
We were a large family of boys and
girls, now all married and scattered at
various distances from" the early home
and aged parents, with the exception of
two—a bachelor brother and a widowed
sister. I was the eldest girl and had
married and settled not 40 miles from
home. But as I was something of an
invalid, and the journey between my
place of residence and my old home
was broken by more than one‘change of
railroad and a disagreeable waitof over
two hours at a little wayside station, I
did not often take advantage of the
nearness of my people.
One night, in the fall of 1886, I awoke
from an unpleasant dream about my
father and next morning at breakfast
astonished my husband by declaring
that I was going home to see my pa-
rents. My husband made no objection
to this move on my part, except regret-
ting that he could not accompany me.
I was driven to the station and in due
time arrived in the town of Middleton,
the little place where I was born.
It was a typical New England town,
with its pretty, quaint, box-like houses
with their green-painted blinds, the nar-
row village streets well shaded wit-h
noble elms and maples, the latter now
looking like enormOus bouquets in their
gaudy autumnal coloring.
I found my father quite well and in
the best of spirits, but several other
members of the family had, like. myself,
been taken with a desire to visit the old
folks, for I found that nearly all my
brothers and sisters, with their respec-
tive families, were there before me, so
that the old place looked quite like
former days. . V
While mother and Sister Kate were
evidently very much pleased with the
idea of having a kind of an unexpected
family gathering, I could see that they
were not a little perplexed as to how
they were going to provide 5 eeping
quarters for so many. My advent did
not help in the least, as I was enough of
an invalid to be a very‘poor sleeper and
a bad night was the forerunner of a 48-
hours’ headache, a. headache that had
so far baffled medical skill. Where to
'put me, therefore, in order that I might
be quiet enough to obtain sufficient
sleep not to spoil my visit, was the ques-
tion which troubled my mother and
Kate. However, my bachelor brother
was the one who settled the matter by
saying that I could have his room, and
that he could “bunk,” as he termed it,
elsewhere.
Nat was the postmaster—had held
the position through several ad-
miniutrations—and was a person of
note in the place. His room was an ex-
tension built on to the side wing of the
house and as remote as possible, in or-
der that his comings and goings should
not disturb mother, who was a light
sleeper.
Mother and Kate were alike relieved
by this arrangement, and I rejoiced in
having a room where no household noise
could possibly disturb my slumbers.
\Ve were a jolly crowd when we got
together. I had forgotten my bad
dream and was, in my quiet way, as
merry as the rest. The fun and frolic
continued until quite late.
most midnight when Sister Kate es-l
corted me to my room, and, after seeing
that everything was provided for my
comfort, retired, leaving me to my own
devices to pass the time until I fell
asleep.
After Kate left me I looked about the
apartment. It was to me the only
strange room in the house where I was
born. I also felt lonely, ~as I was not
accustomed to room alone, and coming
from the brightly-lighted sitting-room
into the dimmer one may have brought-
about a strange feeling which oppressed
me, though I was not nervous at all.
The room itself was not attractive. It
was an oblong apartment, not very
" high, with a door leading into the
groundsyas well as the one connecting
with the house, and these doors were at
least 15 feet apart. The furniture was
not. remarkable. except that it was de-
cidedly old-fashioned. The bedstead
was a high four-poster. It stood with
its side close to the outer wall of the
room, and at the foot of it was an iron
safe. It was a comfortable bed, though.
however uninviting its position, and l
felt weary enough to sleep even in a
strange place, so retired after paying
due attention to the fastenings of the
outer door, which I found of massive
make and in good order, and, strange to
'say, I fell asleep as soon as my head
touched the pillow and slept soundly
for some time. .
How long the duration of that sleep
was I never knew. I awoke with a
start from the self-same dream which I
had the preceding night, and amid what
appeared to be a babel of voices, one of
which I heard say distinctly:
“Not. now until the 15th.”
There had been something strange
about the dream of the preceding night.
While it left the impression of undue
unpleasanthess and I knew that it con-
cerned my father, I could not recall a
single incident of it. But now I could
remember that there was in it some ref-
erence to the 5th, and'that was all,
although I had evidently dreamed it
the second time. When I had fully re-
covered my waking senses I sat up and
tried to pierce the intense darkness of
the room. The voices had undoubtedly
been dream voices, for no one was in
the room. Yet the words had made
such an impression on me that they
had apparently fastened themselves in
my brain, for “Not now until the 15th”
seemed to shine as if branded in fire on
the deep gloom of my chamber.
The day before had been the 5th of
the month; ten days off was the 15th!
“'hat was to occur upon that date?
There is no need for one to say that
that night was full of horrors. Every
form of trouble and disaster paraded
before my mental vision, until the
darkness through which my eager eyes
could not pierce began to grow up-
palling to me, and the silence which
had mmcwded to my disturbed dream
was so s*“"-"cssive that it F‘!‘Pl‘.2€(l i.) we
a
It. was al—H
at that moment I would have Welcomed
any sound, bewever disagreeable. .
I had sunk back upon my pillow,‘.
after my first uneasy start, and now
raised myself once more to asitting po-
sition, resolved to get out of bed and
procure a light to dissolve my fancies,
when ,a sound fell upon my strained
sense of hearing, at first astonishing me,
later filling me with alarm and finally,
entirely removing from me any desire
to. get out of bed, for the present, at
least. This sound was the rhythmical
breathing of a man, who was evidently
sunk in the profoundest slumber. 'To
listen to the sound of snoring is not
pleasant at any time, but to hear the
whole scale run up and .down the gamut
of sound from under one’s bed is ap-,
pulling. As soon as 'I had located the
sound it robbed me of the last remnant
of courage, while my late ghostly
fancies gave way at once to fears.
Could I have indeed heard voices out
side my dream? Was there a plot to
rob my brother, who, as postmaster,
had about this date considerable cash
on hand from the money order business.
Middleton being a factory town, and
numbers of non-residents Working
there in the busy season and sending
home their earnings to family and
friends ? What was I todo? How was I
to act under the circumstances?! ‘ I
can never describe the agony Of terror
which I endured as I lay there, listening,
hardly daring to breathe myself, to
those unmusical sounds.
then the first faint peep of daycame
creeping through the shutter slats I
began to form my plan of rcachingthe
door. As the bed was against the wallI
had, of course, only one side to choose
from in getting out. But I thought if I
could work my way towards the foot,
I should have at least a gain of a. few
feet nearer the inside door in my favor.
Slowly and painfully I worked my way
through the bulging feathers, rejoicing
that no modern bedstead upheld me, for
not the fainest creak did the frame
upon which I rested emit as I pursued
my plan of retreat. I had almost
reached the foot of the bed when the
sounds beneath m‘e suddenly stopped.
In mortal terror now of the conse-
quences I became desperate, and gave
one headlong plunge forwardtoward
the door, at the same time uttering a
piercing shriek. Then I fainted.
When I came to myself my head was
very wet and I was stiff all over. I
heard voices, two of which Irecognized
as those of Nat and' Kate. There was
also a third voice, which I soon made out
to be the doctor’s. I' was not very par- '
tial to medical men, perhaps, because I
had seen so many of them. I heard Nat
say:
“It. was a great wonder that he did
not attack llCX‘ before. I suppose he
must have stolen in when I went there
to get my things in the evening.”
“It. was a mercy that you came, Nat,”
said Kate.
‘ The doctor added:
“She is coming to. You must keep
her quiet and try gradually to find out
what led up to the attack. I will call
later.”
Soon I opened my eyes to find myself
upon a couch in the Sitting-room and
Nat’s serious face bending over mine.
“Did you catch him?” I asked. _
“Catch who, Fan, dear?” inquired
Not, with a puzzled expression. "
“Why, the burglar, to be sure.”
“There was no burglar to catch.”
“Well, that is calm, to say the least,”
I remarked, sarcastica-liy, rising to a
sitting position and: putting both hands
to my drenched head. “After the ter-
rible night that I have put in, why did
you let the wretch escape ‘3”
“It was. not a. burglar, Fan.”
“If he was not a burglar, pray what-
was- he, and why was he secreted under
the bed?- I only wonder that he did
not kill me outright, though I am sore
I could not have suffered more if he
had; First frightening the life nearly
out of me by his snoring and then
actually bouncing upon me at the last.
when I tried to call assistance. And
after all this you calmly tell me there
was no burglar! You will tell me next
that there was no man!” I exclaimed,
savagely.
“Neither was there any man, Fanny,
dear,” said my brother, with a dawn-
ing smile. “Your burglar was a bur~
glar~catcher~—my good mastiff, Watch."
“What!” I exclaimed, “have I endured
all the terror of the past dreadful night
because of an old dog?”
“Certainly, because. of a dog. my dear
Fan, though not by any marrer of
means an old one. Watch is possibly
two years old at the utmost. I am aw-
fully sorry, Pan, that you, with your
poor health, should have been disturbed.
Others have complained of his ability
in the snoring line. I, myself, never
hear him. But I am so thankful that
he did not injure you that I have no
room for grief over your discomfort,
for, remember, you were a stranger to
him. He was standing over you in a
very threatening attitude when Kate
found you. Fortunately, I came in just
then, as I was restless and could not
sleep. But I learned something, my
dear sister, of which I was before doubt-
ful, a'nd that is that there is one woman
who does not. examine under her bed
before retiring.” This last was said
with a laugh, in which Kate joined as
soon as she saw me sitting up.
“No, but you better believe that I
will after this,” I made answer, as I
fel back on the couch. ‘
I was not‘seriously hurt by my fall, .1
though I had cut my head a little. I
caught a bad cold from the drenching
the old doctor administered to bring
me around. I did not. hear the list-of
the burglarduring the remainder of my
visit, nor, indeed; for many a long day
afterward. Nothing happened to my
dear father on the 15th, nor up to this
day. But out of that night of terror
grew the habit in which so many of my
sex indulge of looking under the bed.“
My husband says that if I slept upon a ‘
single mattress on the floor I would
raise the edge to look under to see if a
burglar was flattened out beneath.—
Philadelphia Times. '
AH
Norwalk Chronicler