u.
tIISC'JUT THE SIZE OF IT
W.- do not want to fight ye. J "ND.
12.11, mind ye? if we do.
"I' "rill be about the sickest job
.I '2 liar ever fell to you;
. We're tired o’ bluff an' banter, J ohn.
An’ insults not a few.
An’ so we'd like to tak’ ye down
A peg, or maybe two.
We do not want to fight ye. John.
list if yo gev' us cause
We‘ll quickly dock the lion’s tail,
_A:!' manicure his claws;
bar will we rest contented. John.
’ Till cv’ry cockney knows
' As glibly as “God save the Queen"
.. I‘he Doctrin’ called Monroe‘s.
“‘0 do not WWII! to fight ye. John. a
3‘. she Anglo-Saxons: Bosh? r
The t flimsy can’t o’ cousinship
“’on’t any longer wash; _
\Ve are not Anglo-Saxons. J ohn;
Nor any sof’-brained mush, 3
But double distilled Americans--
That’s what we are. b’gosh F
f""’!'
We a. re; want to fight ye, John.
Srol Why put- out o’ sight
K The Candid truth? for truth it is,
We‘re spillin’ for a fight!
In reach an‘ weight we’re even John
r An’ pretty much in height.
Say will ye pick'the gauntlet up.
Or show the feather white?
~Will Stokes, First U. S. Artillery.
THE—\vANDfiiER.
There was presage of a storm. "Mas
'88 of blue black clouds hung over the
sunset. The wind wailed and died, and
died and walled. In the roadway rusty
leaves leaped suddenly to the air, eddied
and swirled, strove -to unite with the
tree that had cast them, shivered in the
dyke. At the fringe of the cloud there
was a star.
A stile had been fixed at the turning
of the road. It had three bars anda
step to cross by. On either side the
hedge grew thickly; and also two trees,
like guardians gaunt in the horrid light.
80 the stile was picturesque; but it had
its uses. On the further side there
stretched a path across the meadow; it
led to the old house that had stood
among the beach trees through genera-
tions. From the stile you could see the
turrets above the tree tops. The inher-
itor of the name of Dalrymple, the
Squire lived there. If you followed the
road you would also come to the Hall,
and enter by the great gate. But the
pathway was nearer by far.
A man was seated on the stile. His
back was to the road and his eyes were
fixed upon the turret tops above the
trees. He had come upon a journey;
you could tell it from his boots. He-was
hungry; you could tell it from his eyes.
Such a man, indeed, as one would pass
upon the further side of the road, and
beglad to get rid of before darkness 'set
in. .
The wind wailed in the branches, and
the clouds massed in the West, but the
man sat still upon the stile. But when
those who were hurrying from the
storm came by, he moved to let them
was; yet over he dropped upon the side
that was furthest from the Hall. Such
as were women eyed him askance, and
such as were men with wonder. But
nota soul passed him a salutation. So
the man remained, and the birds cried
out for the storm. Then two maids re-
turning to the Hall came to the stile.
and tossed their heads, resenting that he
should soil with his clothes the rail
which their skirts would surely have to
touch.
Yet the stile was his own. Nor the
stile alone; but the grass at his feet,
and the great house at the end of the
pathway, and the broad acres that
pressed it round. There was warmth
and good cheer at the house. Still the
man moved not. Had the journey'been
long, and did he linger at the stile to
rest? Or did he wait there for some one
who tarried?
Then there came the prattle of chil-
dren’s voices in the road. They babbled
merrilly as their nurse pressed them on
from the storm. And they passed the
manby. Then their voices ceased and
their feet sped faster still and many a
frightened glance they cast behind them
as they walked and hurried again. So
they heeded not the pond. But the man
watched them wonderingly. And he
saw a laborer approach along the path-
way, returning fram his work. The
pipe he smoked glowed warmly. and
the man shivered. But at ta: stile he
spoke to the laborer; and his voice was
hoarse, as one that was not used re-
cently.
“Whose chilren are those?” he
quired.
The workman stopped abruptly and
looked at the man in surprise. He won-
dered at the question, I doubt not, and
may be, he wondered at the ques-
tioner. ,
“Them?” he said, at last, in a strong.
broad accent. “Them's the Squire’s
bairns.”
“But I thought that the Squire was
an old man?” .
“T’owd Squire? Why, bless your
life, ’e‘s been d6 ad this ten years.”
There was a pause. And then the
man said:
"So these are the children of his eld.
est son?”
“Noa,” said the workman, “it winna
be the eldest, ‘E wanted ’3 brother’s
gal and cos’ she would a now’t to say to
’im. ’6 went away i’ sulks. An’ ’6 never
come back no more. Aye, that was 20
ears ago.”
“And what became of him?”
“Aye, bless your life, ’ow should I
know. ’E’s dead, they say.”
And the brother married the lady?”
“Aye, that ’e did.” . .
There was silence; for the man was
gazing at the turrets. The laborer was
about to move away. But the man
stopped him with another question.
“And are they happy, these two?”
"’Appy?” Again the workman seem-
edamazedat the question. “Why, it’s
beautiful to see. them. Aye, oft'enand
often when they passes i’ the road wi’
the bairns, ageing to church mebbe, or
mebbe not, the missis she says to me,
‘Jim, it’s a pictu‘r’,’ she says, and I says
to’er, ‘It is,’ says I. ’Appy?” And the
'workman smiled. 0
But the man at the stile was silent.
From the heavens there shot a jagged
in-
h
l
WE
on
streak of light. For a momeiit it lit up
the faces of the two men; then the dark-
ness had fallen like a pall. And the
workman laid his hand upon the shoul-
der of the traveller. - *
“Look ’ere, stranger,” he said, “I
don’t know ’00 you *‘ be, or where you
come from, or what yer doing ’ere; but
‘ you seem a civil sort, and I’ll tell you
this: we're going to ’ave such a night
as not many i’ these parts ’11 remember
the likes on, and if you're got a place to
go to. don’t wait no longer. but make
tracks: and if you ’aven’t why come ye?
ways along 0’ me.”
The stranger seemed moved; but he
replied:
“I thank you. You are very kind. I
have shelter from the storm." As he
make his eyes were trained across the
stile. So the laborer passed on his way.
And the storm gathered. Thunderc us
’ clouds loomed overhead. The air was
thick. and pressed upon the brow. A
great bird rose from the rushes at'the
pond’s verge and shriekcd to a eurer
refuge. The wind dropped.
But the man lingered. And over in
the meadow, in the pathway, there ap-
peared a Iig'a . It drew nearer, and
swung gently to and fro. The traveler
saw it was carried in the hand of a man
walking. He was clad in a coat that
was lined with fur, and his face was
soft and white. At the stile he saw the
man. He frowned, and would have
passed. But the stranger stqpped
him.
“Mr. Dalrymple,” he said.
The other raised his lantern till it
shone in the face of the man, He shud-
dered slightly, and again would have
passed on his way. But the traveler
stood before him so that the path was
closed. .
“Mr. Dalrymple,” be repeated.
“By what right do you bar my way?”
The tones were quiet but imperative, as
of a man accustomed to receive defer-
ence. “And why do you call me by
name?”
“I have news of your brother,” said
the man.
"He is alive?”
gladly, but there was a gulp at his
throat when he spoke. The man saw
the gulp.
“He will never return,” the man re- '
plied.
“By what means,” said the Squire,
“can I tell that you speak with author-
ity?”
The man put his hand beneath his
rags and drew forth the faded photo-
graph of a woman. On the back there
was a name written. He passed it to
the Squire.
The Squire looked at it. And he
turned it over and read what was writ-
ten on the back. Then he raised his
hand and uncovered his head. And he
said to the man:
“May I keep this memento?”
the man nodded.
“What you tell me,” he said quietly,
“is only that which, necessarily, I have
always understood. Nevertheless, this
confirmation grieves me deeply.” There
was real sorrow in his voice. And that
too, the man noticed. “Did my brother
have no message?”
"He spoke much of a woman," said
the man.
“Can you tell me her name?”
“It is Marianne.”
The Squire was silent. Then softly,
“Poor fellow !” and again, “Poor fel-
low!” to himself. “It is my wife of
whom he spoke,” he said to the man.
“I trust she is well," said the man.
“She is very well. I left her but now
with the children.”
As he spoke the first heavy raindrops
fell from the clouds. They were omin-
ous of the storm to come. On the water
in the pool they pattered softly.
’ “I fear,” said the Squire, “you have
travelled far and are weary. It is pos-
sible that you are at a distance from
your home and there is a terrible night
before us. The rain has already begun.
You may hear it on the pond. Will you
not go to the Hall for some rest and re-
freshments?”
“Ithank you,” said the man, replying
in almost the words he had used to the
laborer. “I have all I need.” And
again his eyes seemed to gaze into the
darkness beyond the stile.
There was the sound of a rumble of
wheels on the road, and two lights
shone out of the dimness. The lights
brightened; the sound cleared; a broug-
ham and pair drew up at the turning.
a My carriage meets me here,” said the
Squire, “and I am somewhat pressed
for time. But you have laid me under
a. deep obligation; is there no way that
I can serve you?”
“There is one,” said the man. “I
should like to shake you by the hand!”
The Squire hesitated. It was only
momentary. But a flush rose to the
cheek of the stranger. “It is my hands,”
he said. “I will wash them in the
pond.”
But the Squire had pulléd ofi his
sealskin glove, and he held out his soft,
white palm. The other clutched it in
his bony hand, and for a moment the
eyes of the two met in the light of the
lamp. The Squire started, and released
his grasp. There was a look in his face
that held something of fear. When he
entered his carriage the look remained
still on his face.
And the man sat again on the stile.
In the darkness the lights from the Hall
shone brilliantly, and he gazed at the
lights. Then he turned his eyes to the
trees that were dim around the pond,
and again from the pond to the lights.
Was their happiness at the lights? Was
And
there peace in the pond? So the man
crossed the stile. In the quietness be-
fore the storm there was a great cry. It
was a cry of despair; yet a cry of hope,
. of joy.
The Squire heard it, and stopped his
carriage. The laborer heard it as he en-
tered his cottage and- lingered at the
door till his wife called 4 out for the
drnght. The children at the Hall heard
it as they sat at tea, and drapped their,
spoons askance, listening to hear it
But the trees it the pond bent
again. .
closely; the circles melted away. And
mes-term burst—I 5-10.; 4.2.2.. White.
E K i. Y- NOR W’
The words were .said .
DON’T LET THE WORLD KNOW.
The world is wide, remember this,
Nor shrink from fate's deep furrowed
frown;
Woo fortune with your brightest smiles,
Don’t let the world know when you‘re down.
It spoils your chance for future deeds
To frame your face with dull care’s crown;
Brace up, and higher hold your head,
Don‘t let the world know when you’re down
The world will bow in servile zest
To one who sways it with a frown:
Toss up your head, and flash your eye.
Don’t let the world know when you‘re down.
If scandal‘s lip should seek to stain
The name you hold as honor‘s crown,
By your own life refute the lie,
Don‘t let the world know when you’re down.
Ifbare your purse. your heart most sad,
Your life near crushed by sorrow’s crown,
Then mask them well with jest and song,
Don’t let the world know when you’re down,
—Detroit Free Press.
DEA’I H’S SOLILOQUY.
And it appears, I am to be buried to
marrow. The end has come. My life
is over.
Suddenly I seemed to be sinking-
sinking through almost tangible dark-
ness, and then—all was a blank.
Presently, with every faculty strange
ly sharpened, I was myself again, yet
not myself; I, the Ego, simply contem-
plating my former self.
Soon my only child, my son, stood be-
side me. ' 4
Oh, the mockery of love!
I detect at once a new ring in his
voice. In spite of himself, he realizes
that at three and twenty he is left abso-
lutely master of a princely heritage.
What may he not accomplish?
Le roi est mort. Vive le roi.
The attendants bade him tell my wife
that I had passed away, but said she
must not see me until I had been made
ready for the grave.
Ah! my wife. Fifteen years ago no
power on earth could have kept her
from me. She would have thrown her
arms around my lifeless body and pil-
lowed her head on my dead breast in the
agony of grief.
But now—she listened to reason. She
did not come to see me till this morning
as I lay in my coffin. She is deeply and
genuinely distressed, but not as we
would once have been, for, alas! we
have outlived the enthusiasm of youth,
and not yet reached the despondency of
age.
Our lives have been full and we have
gone our ways. We have grown to care
for each other only in the hum-drum
commonplace fashion. The bloom of
love has passed out, but we have lived
on, age would have ripened its fruits to
a mellow tenderness sweeter even than
its flower.
And so I leave her—cultured. hand-
some, wealthy —- to make, perhaps, a
second marriage. For this I do not
chide her even in thought. Our boy’s
life is all before him. She will need a
companion suitable to her years.
Farewell, my wife. The curtain is
rung down between us.
The mystery of life!
death!
What’ motes we are, what atoms! We
slip quietly out of existence and the
great business world goes on as of yore.
We become but a name spoken at first
at rare intervals, then not at all.
I have spent my life amassing a splen-
did fortune, and to what end?
Last night the watchers by my side,
my friends and comrades, mentioned
my successors in the various positions I
have held. I am not yet buried, and
my place is filled.
Oh, the hollowness of human ambio
tion! I have existed to no purpose. I
have, accomplished nothing. I have
had no noble aims. I have only lived
my life from day to day, and have been
content with average happiness, and an
honorable name.
The rector has just leant over me.
“I believe our deceased friend was
not connected with any church,” he
said. “That is a great pity.”
“Nevertheless,” answered my wife’s
mother, with evident but subdued as-
perity, “he was a good son, a good fath-
er, a. good husband, and a good citizen.
What more would you have?”
My mother-in-law is broad in her
views, but I am mildly surprised at her
vigorous resentment of the good rector’s
implied slight.
Now he is beginning toxread the ser-
vice and I shall soon be laid away in my
last resting-place, and then—ah? then I
shall know.‘
Oh, the mystery of Life—the mystery
of death! .
Oh, the stillness of the tomb! the pro-
found apprehensive silence!
Oh, the solitude! the thick enfolding
darkness!
The mystery of
I saw a vista in this werld of nebula
that was fair beyond description. A soft '
radiance as of diffused moonlight envel-
oped the scene, and the silver haze en-
thralled my senses.
I knew nor cared not where I was nor
whither I would go, but I wandered
dreamily and aimlessly along in deep
content.
After the turmoil of love’s action, oh!
the bliss of perfect rest, of peace, of
sweet oblivion.
Soon my mind grew clearer and the
light became less dim. ' Then I per-
ceived a. being near me, whbse counten-
ance shone with manly dignity and com-
prehension. . .
“Come with me,” he said; “I will
conduct you to your future home.”
Looking, I beheld a hill of wondrous
size, and upit ran a footway, crossed at
intervals by smaller paths.
When we reached a point where two
ways met, I asked: “Don’t we turn
here?”
“No,” answered my guide; “the road
lies straight before us. That road leads
you to the abode of the earth’s de—
mved.” '
" .l‘his, then,” I faltered, “is the place
of punishmenr- wherein we suffer for
our earthly sine.” ‘
"Not :0,” he replied? ”there is no
.uide of everlasting torture. God is
...v- He does not bring- His children
mto being and then condemnthem to
An K 4-1:;
eternal gloom. . All who die come here,
the good and bad alike. ' Some dwell on _
one plane,vsome on others, according to
the lives that they have led. But all
are given more understanding, and
freed from the pains and passions of the
body, all progress toward a nobler exis-
tence. Some souls expand slowly, some
more rapidly, but God is good. He
hurls no being into endless woe.”
Then we reached another place where
two ways met. -. ‘ '
“Do I go here?” I questioned.
“No, friend ;” again my guide replied,
“your home is far above. We must go
up and up before we reach it. You
have lived a better life than most man-
kind and earned a higher plane”:
“Alas!” I said, “you have mistaken
me. I have performed no deeds of
greatness. My place is here, not
there.”
“Look,” he said; and taking from his
breast a book of vellum,‘he showed me
pages of my life, with no blot of sin
or shame upon it. '
“Seldom do the sons of men lead lives
so pure as yours. Others there are
who ride above you. But yours has
been a life beyond reproach.”
And so we reached the plane of my
new existence; and amazed and glad, I
entered it in peace and joy.
There I dwelt in sweet companion-
ship, gathering strength and wisdom,
gaining knowledge and discernment,
and perceiving clearly much which had
before been clothed in darkness.
And I knew that my earth-life had
been what men call good becauseIhad
no Lincentive to do wrong. I had not
triumphed in the face of trials and
temptations, as those had done who,
soared above me in this after life. I
had waged no warfare. Trouble I had
had, but not such trouble as comes to
most poor mortals. I' had had great
riches, honestly and easily acquired.
Ah! virtue comes readily to him whose
coffers overflow with rightly gotten
gold. Wealth is indeed the greatest
earthly power for good or evil. It
often makes or mass, for he who has it
not makes the shift to gain it, or right.
or wrong, and sinks his soul beneath a
weight of guilt. '
What poor creature struggling for his
daily bread can live so unsullied a. life
as one whom wealth has lifted far
above the carking cares of fleshly needs.
If the love of money be the root of
evil, the want of it brings sin and
shame to those who do not rise above
material desires, and rise above fate.
But God is merciful. He takes us in
the hollow of His hand, and deals with
us according to our opportunities.
From time to time some of my com-
panions left me to ascend to loftier
heights; and at length, the spirit who
had guided me hither bade me go,
with others, to the realm of perfect
love and complete understanding.
As we reached the portal of this
beauteous place, each one was joined by
some radiant shape and led inside the
gateway.
“Who,” I asked the guide, “are those
that greet my comrades?”
“The beings who on earth loved them
above all others. Those who come first
tarry till the coming of their heart’s
affinity, and they pass together to a
higher life.”
“Then I must wait.
to welcome me.”
But a voice said:
"Come, my son.”
AndI saw my fair young mother,
who had died ere I could lisp her
name.
Oh, my mother! All my earth-life I
yearned for you. Always, always, I
had missed your love, and felt that
others were blessed in having that
which I had lost before I knew—the
ever-watchful, never-failing mother
love. '
Yet I hesitated.
“But my wife—my son.
greet them if I leave?”
Then the spirit rent the cloud-land
with his staff and gave me vision of the
earth.
There I saw my son with gay com~
panions in a gilded hall. The marks of
vice were on his face, and he spoke
lightly of my memory.
And again, it was given ‘me to see my
youthful love, but to see her in an-
other’s home, and know that I was
naught to her.
“Come, my son.”
And I turned and joined my sweet
young mother, who had waited here for
me through all the years; and hand in
hand, we passed within the portal of
the abiding place of those who have at-
tained to perfect love and sympathy, to
wisdom and to calm delight. ——The New
Bohemian. - .
Sashes Will Be Worn.
All the Summer girls this year will
wear sashes. And such beautiful sashes
No one is here
Who will
they are! They are made of wide Dres-
den tafieta ribbons and may be bought
in large floral designs, Persian effects,
stripes and checks. - The fashionable
sash'bow has short loops and long ends.
A deep cream color ribbon, scattered-
with large tulips in shades of violet and
mauve is one of the exceptionally pretty
patterns.
Prime Havana.
' Watts—Been reading anything about
these Cuban atrocities?
Potts—No. I’ve got a box of them a!
home yet that my wife bought three
months ago from an alleged smuggler.
Cincinnati Enquiry};
.__._—.—_———-—l-—
tar, pitch, grease i' .
and stains from f 5 POTI " E
clothing‘and car-
pets quickly and A) C L E A H .5
completely and
Never_Leaves_ a Ring _
—N0 ACId.—_— 10c" 256., It Drug
and Dry Goods Stores
Noun leasant odor. .
1) Samples mailed, Sc.
Not inflammable.
I. B. SUTTON,INew Canaan, Ct. .
So‘d by Fraser‘s: BENEDICT.
She had large estates in Yorkshire, 0x-
“ like that.”
3%ch . r. . =
5 Whats. f
rv—r
yorine
...1.!,A. . . .,
.: . :1. ye:- .
V. . ,
. . . . m. o . o o o . g
'3. o ,. ..‘...,..“.‘.,‘.‘ ....o.. . .z- .‘ .
QUEEN VICTORIA’S REAL ESTATE .-
She Owns 600 nouns ln Various Parts 0!
England.
The announcement that Queen Vic-
toria is to leave, .by will, Osborne House
to one daughter, the lease of Aber'geldie
House to another. and Balmoral, the
royal residence in the Highlands, to the
Duke of Connaught, recalls the fact
that the man who would devour this
particular widow’s houses -must make
an uncommonly full meal. g
It was discovered a few years since
that the Queen owned 600 houses in var-
ious parts of England, not royal resi-
dences, but rent-yielding property, and
that about six thousand houses had been
built by crown lessees on building lease-
holds held of the queen.
She then had also rents from markets
and tolls from ferries, beside the pro-
ceeds of mines and other works upon
her-property or the crown property.
fordshire and Berks, valuable lands in
the Isle of Man and in Alderney, Scot-
land, Ireland and Wales. Of the New
Forest there are’two thousand acres of
absolute and 63 acres of contingent
crown property. Her Majesty enjoys
income from the forest of Dean, from
several other forests and from rich
properties in London. - ,
Osborne, on the Isle of Wight, and
Balmoral, in the Highlands are the pri-
vate property of the :Queen. and are
maintained out of her own income. But
she has the, use of a few royal palaces
beside, and these are maintained by the
nation at an annual expenditure rang-
ing from $2,500 to $50,000. The Queen
is in the occupancy of Buckingham Pal-
ace, Windsor Castle, the White Lodge
at Richmond Park and’ part of St.
J aines’s Palace. The remainder of the
last named palace is occupied by other
members of the royal family.——Boston
Transcript.
A QUESTION OF LOVERS.
They Are Not as They were and Use too
Many Daggers.
In one of the old time burlesques a
terrible lover appears upon the stage.
He is all bespangled with daggers and
pistols. Coming into the presence of
the beautiful object of his affection, he
advances toward her with measured
strides, :folded arms and a. frowning
countenance. Then he suddenly comes
to a halt, and in a voice of thunder he
roars out:
“I love you!
throat!”
The audience used to laugh heartily,
because in the innocence of the good old
days nobody ever imagined that a time
would come when any lover would be
like that fellow. But, alas! we have
plenty of them to-day. The newspapers
are full of them. It is getting to be a
rather common thing for a young gen-
tleman to ask a young lady to be good
enough to commit suicide with him.
And as for shooting a girl in the street
or parlor, that is becoming almost an
every day occurrence.
What can be the matter? In old times
lovers used to visit their ladies armed
with bouquets and bonbons. Now when .
they go to see them they carry razors
and revolvers. This is certainly a re-
form movement that can hardly be com-
mended. ‘But what do the girls think of
it?
They are deeply interested in the
thing, naturally enough, and some of
them might be able to give us light up.
on the subject. If the paraphrase could
be pardoned, one might ask: “Is it true
that whom the ladies love they first
make mad?”—N. Y. Sun.
23 Was Appre'henslve.
“’Scuse me, stir,” he said, as he ap
proached one of the attaches of the
Smithsonian Institution. “but I wants
,ter ax ,yoh sumfin’.”
“What’s the ,matter?” was the in-
quiry.
“Are you looking for something to
eat?”
“No, indeed, I ain’t hungry. I wants
scientigc infohmation. I wants ter
know ’bout dese- hyah x rays dat dey’s
takin’ do pbortygrafs wif. Dey done
tellsme day can take picters right froo
yer; when dey goes after ye wif one er
dam, yer skin an’ clo’s ain’t no ’tection
It ill.”
“That’s what they claim. ”
“An’ ef I’dun bed chicken foh dinner,
1 s’pose dey' could jes’ frow me down an’
take a picter ob de chicken.”
“I believe the theory is Something
Just let we cut your
“Da’s whut I thought. Da’s what I
thought. “ But yere’s whut I- dun cum
ter ax yer. Does yer believe dat dey
could git er good enuf likeness Ob dat
chicken ter inable de owner to recolnize
him?”—Washington Star.
Determined to Win.
“Weyler will win in Cuba yet. He is
a most persistent and determined
man.”
“‘What has. he done now?”
“He has sent to Spain for more tele-
graph operators in order that he may
. Laund-reSs Said.
I: Laundress, Marine Hospital, Portland,'Me.
:4 “I like IVORINE very much, and consider the cake of
toilet soap in every package worth more than the price of
the whole package.”—Mrs. F. A.,SPRINGER, Sanford, Me.
THE J. B. WILLIAMS 00.. Glastonbury,~Conn..
_ _ Makers of Williams’ 'Famous Shaving Soaps.
g. @‘Llst of Choice Premiums sent-Free upon Request.
‘3“.9‘. . . .;
increase the number of his victories.”--
I Chicago Post.
Q. - g
\ a. . .
“ IVORINE gives the greatest 3‘
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e
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satisfaction. I have been using it .} .
for years. I find it requires only
about one-half the time for my wash- - '1' ' ‘
ing which it takes with other wash- {I 1 .
ing powders.”—ANNXE WALKER, f
_L I...
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found In each pack-
agent IVORINE
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,it '."..-'»—«-:
SAVED 3v HIS Doc. «in a
It Kept the Bignuflalo Bull from Killing
. Henry Hohlt. ‘ '
The next time that He nry HohIt-goei
out to interview his herd of buffaloes at
Lincoln Park he will probably gaze at '
it through the cracks of the fence and
not run the‘risk of having his epider- ,
mis perforated by a pair cf bovine horns.
The other afternoon he donned a suit 6!
cowboy clothes cut by a pattern ‘ ap- '
proved by Texas Jack Crawford when ,
he was here. W 'K d
Then he mounted a fiery mustang an
entered the enclosure where his buf- .
faloes are kept to drive them into a .
corral. ,They objected vigorously, but -
Henry was not to be. bluffed. One old
bull was particularly pugnacious, and
insisted upon making life a burden for
the mustang. Several vigorous lunges
at the mustang were avoided by the
sensible animal with dispatch.
Abull dog belonging to Mr. Hohlt
had been viewing the trouble from afar.
Finally he seemed to have decided to
take a hand. so, with a run only par-
alleled by that celebrated spurt made
by Salisbury last fall at the same park,
he caught the bull by the nose and per-
formed a few revolutions around his
head as the old fellow gave it a twirl or
two for luck. .
Having shaken the dog loose. the ani-
mal made a wild dive for him. He
missed his prey, and then started for
the horse. The latter stumbled and
fell, precipitating his rider to theground
and rendering him unconscious. The
bull then attacked the horse and killed
him.
The dog appeared to realize the posi-
tion occupied by its unconscious mas-
ter. He attacked the bull in front and
rear so persistently that the animal
turned his attention from the horse to
the dog. A wild chase followed, in
which the dog gave one of the prettiest
exhibitions of racing ever witnessed. ‘
While the hull was engaged in follow-
ing his little tormentor some assistants
of Mr. Hohlt saw his predicament and
hastened to his rescue. He was still un-
conscious, and they were compelled to
pick him up and carry him to the park
house. After restoratives had been ap-
plied he was brought to the city. He
is at his home on South Eleventh street
under the care of a physician. Fortu-
nately, no bones were broken, but he
has some large and painful bruises
upon his person which will keep him in
bed for several days. He was so sore
last night that he was unable to lift a
cup of coffee to his lips. . .
Mr. Hohlt attributes his escape to the
fidelity of his dog, which made it so in-
teresting for the buffalo that he was
unable to dispatch the master when he
had him down.--Nebraska State Jour-
nal. '
Cannibalism in Ari-lea.
Cannibalism has been surprisingly lit-
tle discussed in books of travel. We
are told that in such and such a. district
cannibals are to be found, but we hear
no details, neither how the flesh is pre-
pared, what joints are preferred, nor to
what extent the practice is prevalent.-
Capt. Hinde asserts that nearly all the
tribes in the Congo basin are or. have
been cannibals, and that the practice is
on the increase, not merely for supersti-
tious reasons, but also for the provision
of food. There is a certain sturdy, fat
race in Africa, which has never been‘
famous for its prowess, but which is
made a regular staple article of diet.
Whole cargoes are constantly carried”
up the river and sold to the natives for
food. Inquiries for a fresh supply of
natives are Often accompanied by, the
complaint that “meat is scarce just
now.”
About the rather of \t’aters.
De Soto. after discovering the Missis-
sippi River, died on its banks May .21,
1542. The mighty river has been flow-
ing. ever since, but it .was not until
about twelve years ago that Capt. Gla-
zier discovered .its source. Its length is
now stated to be 2,960 miles, although
for all practical purposes it may be said
to be awe.
Searching.
Sprocket—Did you see that ivy down
, ' .
at Gardener s? '
Wheeler—No; what’s peculiar about
it?
a “I never saw anything grow so fast." '
“It is ore: ping ivy."
“No; lshou.d say it was scorching "
ivy.”—Yonkers statesman.
Eggs ESTQL§dEa
GRAND AND UPRIGHT." .-
,Nearly 100,000 Manufactured. 1
EASY refir‘ Excnaucso. .
REASONABLE Pulses. ,0
FISCHER PIANO wsusaoomsf“ .. -.
Ilo Fifth iAve.. cor. lath an, I. Y.
Writefor Catalogue. «.4 _
H‘. ._ ...........
Norwalk Chronicler