'ings reached headquarters,
r' ,. ». ‘ ., ‘
’w EEK]; Y no RW ALK - GAZETTE
AN OUT-UF-DATE COUPLE.
-—.___.
“'0 are so out of date, they say—
Neal and 1.
We love in an old-fashioned way
Long since gone by.
He says I am his helpmate true.
In everything;
And [—well. I will own to you .\
He is my king. ..
We met in a romatic way
. ‘l‘wixt glow and gloom:
IIe wooed me on a winter‘s day,
And in a. room.
Yet through life‘s hours of storm and stress
’ \Vhen griefs befell.
Love kep: our small home-corner warm.
And all was well.
Ned thinks. no woman like his wife,
But let that pass.
Perhaps We view the dual life if.
'l‘hrough roseu-te glass. .,
E‘cfijif the piospccts be not bright.
We hold it true
The heaviest burdens may grow light 1':
When shared by two.
Upon the gilded scroll of fame,
Emblazoned fair,
Loan not hope to read the name
I proudly bear:
But happy in their even flow
The Years roll by,
We are behind the times, we know—
Ned and I.
BRAVE LITTLE KYUSE
When there were no railroads west
of, Missouri or east of California they
used- to carry mail and light freight or
horseback between St. Joe and Sacra-
mento... Thisservice was known as the
pony express- Horses swift and strong
and riders brave, and enduring were
employed and relay stations were set
fifty miles apart, across the Grea‘.
American desert.
Of; course. the West was wild at thai
time,.many riders were murdered, ant
the lettersand. other valuable article:
taken and destroyed. Indians WOIllt.
steal upon those little stations, kill the
keepers and carry the horses away with
them, so that when the weary. rider ar.
rived there was no one to take his
place, and after gazing on the black ru-
ins for a moment he would push his
tired horse on toward the next sta-
tion.
At first it was hard to find men who
were willing to face these dreadfu.
Indians for the pay offered by the
company, and equally difficult to gel
men to dwell alone in these solitary
stations to protect and care for the
horses.
Awayout in Wyoming there lived a
trapper, known only by the name Ol
Whipsaw—a name given to him by a
gambler in Deadwood.
- A Sioux, who had a hideous scar up-
on his face, had come to this trapper’:
camp one winter’s day with a Pawnee
baby, naked and nearly frozen. The
Sioux wanted to sell the boy and the
trapper gave him a knife and kept the
child. The young Pawnee was not
more than 3 years old when the trapper
took him from the savage, warmed hin
fed him, and put moccasins on his lit~
tie brown“ feet. '
Two years later Whipsaw went tr.
keep the station called White Horse
for the pony express, taking the Paw
nee with him. The little fellow grew
to. love his white father, and seemec
to, conceive a bitter hatred for all In-
dians. One day some friendly hunter:
called at the station. The little red
skin slipped out quietly, cut the ropes
and let their horses go. At andthei
time he attempted to shoot an India
who had stopped at the door, but
couldn’t raise the rifle. Like all In
dians he was ever alert. The scratcl.
of'a. prowling bear on the cabin door
or the cry of a lone wolf on a far-oil
bill- would bring him from a sount
sleep. He would hear the boots of tht
incoming horses beating the plains a
mile away, and long before his white
master could hear the faintest sound.
“Kyuse; Kyuse,” he would whisper
in the dead of night. He was an alarm
clock for the station, and at his warn
ing the rider who was resting there
would get up, throw a saddle acros:
the back of his broncho, and be read)
to snatch the pouch from the'man Whl
was then galloping down the trail.
The little Pawnee was never too colc
or, too sleepy to go out and welcome
the weary rider, and pat the nose 0.
the; spent steed, saying softly the
while, “Kyuse, “Kyuse.”
It was the boy’s great fondness f0i
horses that caused Whipsaw to cal
him. “Little KyuSe."
‘When they had kept the statiOn a
year Little Kyuse was known, by rep
utatlon, at least, to every rider on tln
entire route from St. Joe to Sacramen
to. Once he had warned the men Whl
were sleeping in the cabin, and the)
hadggone out just in time to save the
horses that were about to be stolen by
Indians. The story of the boy’s do
and the
President of the Pony Express Compa
ny sent a short, light rifle to th.
young watchman, and before he W21:
6 years old he had: killed a wolf that:
came to the station while he was alone
One night Whipsaw woke and fount
the boy sittings-p in his blankets lis
tening. '
“Kyuse?" asked Whipsaw.
“No Kyuse,” said, the boy, shaking
his head and looking serious.
“Sleep," said the man, but the Indian
shook his head, '
“Wake up here, Bob,” said Whipsaw
“suthin’s goin' wrong."
"What is it?” asked the rider, rub
hing his eyes. '
“I can’t make but clear,” said Whip
saw, “but suthin’s wrong. This kid’:,
cockin’ his ear, an' when I tell him' tt
lay down he shakes, his head.
Whipsaw lit a. match and looked a
his watch. -'
“Long time.” said thezbOy shaking"
his head. _ “Long time—.no kyuse.”
Then they -. knew what the chilc
meant. It was 1. o'clock; the pony ex
press was an hour late, and the hp)
kneWNthat it was So. '
-'For another hour the 'two men set:
and, waited for a sign from the boy.
' their trance in the grave.
who listened for the sound of the hors-
e's feet. Presently the Pawnee crawled
out, put his ear to the ground, came
back and shock his master. ‘
"Kyuse?” asked Whipsaw.--
“Heap Kyuse,” was the boy's reply,
and they understood. It was'not the
lone rider, but a. band of Sioux bent
u‘ion mischief.
Little Kyuse seized his rifle, slipped
out, arid the two men followed him.
To guard against surprisesof this sort
Whipsaw had dug short trenches, deep
enough to hide a man, all about the
cabin, and now, to his surprise, little
Kyuse planted himself in one of these
holes. Without a word the two men
took places, one to the right, the other
to the left of the boy, and waited.
When the robbers had reached a little
sag in the desert, some 500 yards frcm
the station, they dismounted, and new
came creeping upon the lonely cabin.
One came. crouching so close to Whip-
saw that he could almost have reached
him with his rifle barrel. The trapper
was sore afraid that the boy or Bob
might open fire, for how was this child
to know that he was waiting for the
band to assemble near the cabin door
before attacking them? But little Ky-
use was as wise in this his first fight as
a. white man would be at 21. The
clouds were breaking and in the star-
light they could see the Sioux, six of
them, near the cabin door. They lis-
tened—one of them pushed open the
door. Now an Indian went in, came
out a moment later, and they all filed
in at the very moment that Whipsaw
was about to open fire. Instantly he
changed his plan. They would charge
on the cabin door and fight the gang
which outnumbered them, even count-
ing the boy, two to one. Without a
word Whipsaw got to his feet and in-
stantly his companions We~ at his
side.
Bob held his rifle, the trapper laid
his upon the ground, and held a six
shot revolver in each hand. It was it
be close and rapid fighting; he would
empty his six—shooters first and after
that the knife. Little Kyuse grasped
his rifle with fourteen shots in the
magazine,‘and he knew how to work
it, too. There was no word of com—
mand, but as Whipsaw leaned forward
they all started double-quick for the
cabin. Ten paces from the door they
stopped, the boy still sandwiched be-
tween themen. The Sioux must have
heard them, for now they came pouring
out. Before they had gained the open
air the little party, opened fire. Two
of the Indians fell and the others re
turned the fire, but "with bad aim. An-
other round from the white men and
two more Sioux bit the dust. Bob was
pumping his rifle when a ball from the
cabin door shattered his right shoul-
der. Dropping his gun he pulled his
six—shooter and continued to fight. Hay
ing emptied'both of his revolvers,
Whipsaw slammed one of them into
the the face of a Sioux, who came at
him with a. knife. The two men began
ghting hand to band now, while Lit
tle Kyuse kept pumping small shot in-
to the other remaining Sioux. Seeing
Whipsaw hard pressed, the boy began
to watch for a. chance to.use his little
rifle. Bob succeeded at last in stop
ping his man, and then fell weak from
loss of blood. Whipsaw had been shot
and badly cut, when his antagonist
paused to get the advantage. Instant-
ly Little Kyuse shoved his rifle as near
the Sioux’s left side as he could get it
and pulled the trigger, and the big, bad
Indian sank in a heap.
Thus did Little Kyuse reward the
white trapper for his tender care and
avenge the death of his father and
mother, who had been killed by his
‘captor, the Sioux.
In the sag not far away they found
the horses that the robbers had ridden
and the express pony, \with the pouch
still on the saddle, standing in a bunch,
their bridles tied together.’
About a mile up the trail they found
.30 body of the rider, stiff and cold
with a bullet-hole in his head, and
carried him back and buried him, and
there wouldn‘t have been a soul at the
funeral, only for Little Kyuse.
The next day, when they were cache
ing the carcasses of the dead Indians
Little Kyuse shocked and surprised the
white men by constantly clubbing and
kicking the corpses. Of a sudden he
gave a yell, seized his rifle, and begar
emptying it into one of the dead in.
clans. Whipsaw took the gun away
from him.
"See! See!” cried the boy, pointing
zit/the Sioux, and the trapper recog-
nized in the object of the boy's wrath
the hideous features of the scar-faced
Sioux who had sold the child at whose
hands he had, in his own good time
been taken cit—New York Sun.
Help for Peoplo Buried Alive.
A Russian Inventor has constructed
an apparatus whichis to enable people
buried alive to communicate with the
outer world should they awake from
The inven-
tion consists in the main of a button
on the inside of the comm, situated im-
mediately over the breast of the ap-
parently dead person. If the unfortun-
ate person comes to life and. begins to
breathe, the first action of the body
is the expansion of the chest; this
presses the button upward, and an
alarm-bell is set going in the office
of the superintendent of the cemetery.
~—New York World. V
Hard to Define.
“How I dislike the word ‘economy; '-
"On what grounds?”
“It is such a queer thing—the world
condemns us if we don’t practise it.
-nd despises us if we do."—-Detroit
tree Press. ~
(molly—If you love me, why did you
{it answer me five minutes ago?‘
Maud—Because, dear, I was eating
l caramel.
AN INFORMAL PRAYER, '2.
“The proper way for a man to pray,"
Said Deacon Lemuel Keys.
"And the only proper attitude,
Is down upon His knees."
“bio: i should say the way to pray,"
Said Rev. Dr. Wise, .
“ls standing straight,with outstretched arms
And rapt and upturned eyes."
“Oh. no. no. no!" said Elder Slow;
“Such posture is too proud.
A man should pray with eyes fast closed
And head contritely bowed."
"It seems to me his hands should be
Ansterely clasped in front, .
With both thumbs pointed toward the
ground,”
Said Rev. Dr. Hunt.
|"Las' year I fell in Hodgkin‘s well ““1
Head first." said Cyrus Bro‘ivii,
"With both my heels a-stickin' up.
My head a-pintin’ down;
An’ I made a prayer right then and there-3‘
Best prayer I eVer said—
The prayinest prayer I ever prayed,
A-Stnndin’ on my host ."
--Lynn ()Iass.) Item.
A DINNER mam.
When I entered the drawing-room
Mrs. Tregtnter smiled on me quite
amiably.
“I want you to take down Molly,”
she said, graciouSly.
I crossed to Molly at once, but she
would not look at me.
remind her of my presence.
“on, it’s you, is it?" she remarked L laughter.
pensively.
“Yes, you've got to go down. to din--
ner with me.”
She heaved a sigh.
“Is that quite polite?” I asked re-'
proachfully.
She flashed a glance at me.
“Life is a continual pairing," she
observed, standing up and shaking her
draperies into becoming folds; “and
so seldom with the right man.”
“That is the comedy of life,” I re-
marked.
“And what is the tragedy?”
“Having no partner at all.”
I indicated Miss All-em'and, the gm— '
erness, who was following alone.
“Poor dear!” s‘aid Mollie. “I will
relinquish you to her.”
But ,I declined firmly.
“I am afraid of governesses,” I
said explanitorily. “It was a govern-
ess who wrecked my young life."
“What did she do?” asked Molly,
seriously.
“Sh-e declined to elope with me.”
Molly withdrew her arm.
“I fear you are a dreadful person.”
“I was only fourteen,” I put in, has-
tily. ,
We had taken our places at the
the table. I like a. white shoulder,but
white shoulder for two courses is too
much.
“Is it quite fair to devote yourself
solely to Thomas!” I ventured to
ask.
“He says such clever things.”
She flung the words beamingly. over
her sleeve.
“You mean‘to insinuate—” I be-
gan crossly. '
“Nothing at all.”
“I don’t think Miss Allemand. has
brought you up at all nicely.”
“What do you mean?” she said,
turning to me suddenly with a very
severe face.
- “Oh, nothing at all.”
“You are very stupid.”
“That isn’t the way to Speak to your
ma’s guests.”é
She scrutinized me.
“I don’t see what that girl could see
in you,” she murmured.
“What girl?” I queried eagerly.
She shook her head.
“I oughtn’t to have said that.”
“But you did say it! And I insist
on hearing to whom you referred.”
She pouted. ,
“Will you promise not to tell?” she
replied, after a little pause, her face
suddenly lighting up: with a roguish
smile.
“I promise.”
I watched the dimple growing ”on
her cheek. She gave a little burst of
laughter.
“Mary Vandyke was here. his after-
noon.”
“0h!"
“She is my dearest friend.”
“How nice for her.”
“We have no secrets from one an-
other,” said Molly, becoming very
serious.
“Haye'n’t you?”
My mind rushed helter-skelter
through the past. Molly kept be:
bright eyes on mine, and I
dimple come and go.
“She tells me everything.
Her smile deepened.
“Really?” I said, fidgeting.
“About the regatta, for instanm.”
I looked at her for a. moment. She
nodded gravely.
“It isn’t true—upon my honor it
isn’t.”
I felt I was reddening: ,
“And. what you said!"
“I assure you I didn’t.”
“And what you—did.”
“I deny it.” '
“It’s all right," said Molly, consol-
ingly. “She’s very fond of you."
I gasped.
“I don’t care two pins about her.”
“How can you say so?” asked Molly
reproachfully—“after all that has oc-
curred between you.”
“Nothing has occurred,” I cried, des-
spairingly.
“And the letters you have written."
“I never wrote any letters.”
“I have read them.” ,
“She had no right to show you those
letters.”
“0h, but——I assure you it was in
strict confidence.” '
“I don't remember in the least what
I said.”
“I do,” she struck in quickly. “You
said your heart was a boat moored it
the light of her eyes, and—" .
“Hush!”-
I looked around. apprehdnsively.
“I thought it so pretty,” went on
saw the
I ventured to .
She laughed again. It was strange}
that a weak woman should rejoice in
a strong man's agony.
“Of course I. don't care for her," I
said boldly, trying to make a stand.
Molly pursed her lips.
“Of course I don’t believe that.”
“But you must believe it,” I cried
desperately. “I only flirted a. little
with her because—” -
“Because?”
“Well, you weren’t there, you
{llOW."
“0h, indeed!” She looked at the
severely. You mean you would have
flirted with me instead if I had been
there?"
“Not flirted,” I said, weakly.
“What do you mean?”
“If you had been there, I wouldn’t
have looked at her." ~
“011, indeed," repeated Molly.
“It was only in fun. She knew it
was only in fun,"
The dimple began to dawn again.
“Oh, no, she doesn’t," she respond—
ed, gaily. “She thinks you are in
. earnest."
“Nonsense," I cried.
“She told me so. She told me you
had practically proposed.”
“You are teasing me,“ I said crossly.-
“Am I indeed? Wait and see.”
“It can't be true. Say it isn’t true?"
She gave another little burst of
“Of course you don't mind,” I said,-
bitterly; “though it was all your
fault." .
“My fault!” cried Molly. “Well, of
all the————" ,
“Why weren’t you at the regatta,
then?” I askedf
have done.”
“I take no responsibility,” said Mol-
lie hotly. “Good gracious; if I had to
be responsible for you!”
“I wish you. would,” I said, earnest-
“You see what you
ly.
“It’s no use talking,” said Molly.
“You must face the music.”
“Why didn’t you tell her I was en
gaged?”
“What, another of them!” cried
Molly, looking serious.
“You know what I mean: From the
way you speak, one might imagine I
was a. flirt.”
“Um—yes,” murmured Molly.
The truth is- there wasn’t a decent
looking girl there except—-”
“Except‘Mary,” echoed Molly- sar-
castically.
“Well, she isn’t bad looking in the
moonlight.”
Molly turned her head away a trifle
disdainrfully.
“You must save me from lter,” I
said aft-er a pause.
“How can I do that?"
“You must tell her I am already en-
gaged.”
“To whom?” asked Molly, her: color
rising slightly.
“To—the only girl I love.”
Molly’s: eyes were fixed on her plate.
“Her name?" she asked in a low
voice.
“Surely you can guess,” I whis-
pered. * -
Her color deepened.
“Please don't be absurd."
“It is the only way."
“Nonsense!"
“But I tell you it is.
her.”
“Perhaps she wouldn’t have you,"
she said with a. mischievous look in
her eyes.
“But you said—"
“I was-only teasing you."
“Really?” I cried with a. sudden:
sense of relief. .
Molly toyed with a grape.
“She came tone to say that some-
body else had proposed to her and to
ask my advice."
“Well." .
“I advised her to———”
(‘Yes?0l
“Accept the other man."
“Molly, you dear girli”,
“So it won’t be necessary for you to
get engaged to any one else,” she went
on, looking down.
“Molly, you know I love you.”
“Hush!" she whispered.
“Won’t you; Molly—0h, Molly, you
must.”
She turned and smiled.
“What a. silly boy it is!”
“I consider we are engaged.”
.By great luck I, caught one of her
hands beneath the tablecloth.
“There’s the'signal. I must go,”
said Molly, hastily.
“Say just one word,” I urged.
“Do you knew the little conserva-
tory?” she murmured, pushing back
her chair. .
I opened the door. As s-hewent out
I caught her eye; she blushed di-
vinely. ’.
Horse Thai; 'Wears Specs,
Among the wonders of Surrey, which
is a suburb of Londontown, is a horse!
that wears spectacles, says an ex‘
change. He wears them for a purpose.
too, for his eyesight is so dim that he
can't see a yard in front of his nose
unless he has on his “specs.” Queer
sight, 3. horse with nose glasses. But
Toby—that’s what they christened him
~—takes his aflliction and his specta-
cles as a very matter of fact thing, and
goes about his daily duties calmly. He
has suffered from myopia for two
years. Veterinary surgeons recom;
mended some kind of glazses. Toby
got them and wears them. He owns
the unique distinction of being the on-
I won’t marry
ly four-footed animal in the world
equipped with spectacles.
Appearance Against Him.
Gabby—Have a cab, sir? Take you
home, sir?
His Jags—Why, my dcar——hi:—-
friend, if I was to go llcme in a cab
m’ wife an’ all the—h'c—ne'ghbti's'
would think I was 'toxlc_;-:ed.—;lt.
Louis Globe Democrat. '
Mrs. Asking-ton—Does your husband
suffer much from his ,6: ' pepsia?
Mrs. Akinside—Yes, ut not half as
MQUY- “And then there W35 “131 i much as therest of us doc-New Yak
908m beginning T”
r...- “-1 -I-1- -' - ' ‘ ‘ —— -—~~- "
l Journal.
.. and again we find five- or
. dressmakers.
o
TAILOR-MADE GOWNS.
Severe English Styles Altered by Park
- Taste, .
[By special arrangements with the N.Y.Sun.l
Fashion declares itself from time to.
time, and the semi-annual revolution
in dress comes without any regard for
the expense it involves; but the tailor-
made gown bobs up on the top wave of
favor with every variation. To be
sure, it is affected by the changes in
fashion, but it has an established place
among street costumes which no other
kind of gown can fill. The severe Eng
lish style which distinguished it some
years ago has been wonderfully trans-
formed by the'artistic touch of the
Parisian dressmakers, and now the
., a“ ‘
'7‘
French tailor gown, braided and trim-
med without limit, rather has the lead,
except for morning and traveling wear."
It is certainly the decorating and
not so much the material that classi-
fies the gown this season and makes
it fashionable for every day wear or
perfectly suitable for dressy occasions;
Smooth-faced cloths are the favorite
materials for the elaborate tailor
gowns, as they are a good background
for any trimming, but there is a great
variety in the mixed fabrics, invisible
checks, bayadere striped wool checks,
which are made up into simple useful
gowns with rows of machine stitching
for the trimming.
Some trimming up the back of the
skirts is one of the fads of fashion,
seven
straight rows of braid down the mid-
dle of the front, on either side, which
turn and trim the skirt around the
bottom.
The most elegant,, as well as plain,
:floth gowns are made of one material,
except perhaps the sleeves, which are
made of velvet in. some lighter con-
trasting color or of silk embroidered
in tiny sprays. The tailor gown with
a street coat requires at waist of some
sort, and when the cloth bodice is not
«
’.
desired, plain satin, matching the
cloth in color, is used for a shirt waist
or made up a little more dressy in
blouse form with innumerable tucks
going around. Black satin blouse
waists are worn with any dark cloth
skirt, and, if prettily made, there is a
style about them far superior to the
flowered silks so fashionable last sea-
son. A velvet blouse is lovely if you
can afford the elegance; if not, there is
a. fine velveteen which answers every
purpose. -
A point in the new tailor coats is
the plain satin lining usually matching
the cloth in col-or. Figured and
striped silks are no longer in fashion
for this purpose. .
There 'are tight-fitting short coats
and blouse coats without end as .to
numbers,'for they are already consid-
ered very commonplace by the best
It is a style so easily
copied in cheap materials that it' nat-
urally will be ’ shortlived. Medium
length ceats and“ king coats to the
l: 19.? are shown among the models. '
l
THE THRIFTY‘CADDY’; ‘
lT IS POSSIBLE TO EARN AS MUCH AS
$10 A WEEK ON THE LINKS.
One Made Such Good Ilse of His Oppor-
tunities He Was Enabled to Earns
Comfortable Income from Teaching and-
Thereby Rising a Notch Higher. i
The rapid, spread of the game-of
golf in this country has opened a new
field for the enterprising American
boy. ' .
It is good, healthful work for a lad,‘
for it keeps him out in .the open air,-
and he often gets as much fun and
more work out of'a. ,game than the
player himself. His earnings are more
than those of most of his fellows i'n‘
stores and offices, too. The usual rate
of pay is from 10 to 15 cents an hour,
and with the tips he gets from p1ayers
the caddies’ earnings often amount to
$8 or $10 per week in the golf season?
In some places the caddies are paid
by the round, butthat is not so fair
as the time pay system, as the least
skillful players, who are apt to give the
caddies most work, take the longest
time to go over the course. In the
- neighborhood of the big cities where
most of the golf links are located,
many business men play the game, go.
lng over the links early in the morn-
ing, or on their return from. business
after 4 in the afternoon. In such
places most of the caddies are school-
'. boys who can do this work outside of
school hours as the links are prac-
tically deserted during the middle of
the day, except on Saturday, which is,
of course, a holiday for the‘sehooll boy
as well as for the business man. There
are any number of thrifty caddies who
are paying all their school expenses '
this winter with the money they earn-r
ed running after balls during the long
summer days.
Some funny experiences fall to the
lot)of the caddy. A story is told in
one of the golf clubsnear New York
of a member who fell into the un-
fortunate habit of using a great many
swear words over his bad shots while
learning the game. His wife remons
strated with him for it, and being.
asomewhat ashamed of himself he
. promised that he would pick
up a
stone every time he swore on the links,
and bring them all home to her. On ’
the first day of the new arrangement
the man toiled home at night,
emptying his pockets, made a good-
sized pile of stones on the porch, where-
his wife sat. “Oh, John!” she cried,
reproachfuliy, “all those?”
“0h,” said the player, wearily,
“those are only the ‘little slips.’ Here
—waving his hand toward two caddies
who were pushing wheelbarrows full
cf cobbles up the garden path—“here
are the others.” This, it need not be
said, is somewhat apart from the cad-
,dy's ordinary duties.
The new player. is a source of fun
and sometimes of profit to the caddy.
A New York editor, who considered
golf a very easy game, started out last
year on the Shinnecock links to play
a match game after a very little prac-
tice. His opponent was soon ahead of
him, and in his anxiety to catch up
the editor became nervous. Swinging
his stick with unusual force- in order to
make a long shot, he brought it down
not against the ball, but on his own
ankle.‘ Dancing about with the pain,
the usually dignified editor still re-
membered to look-about to see if any
one had noticed him, and then, slip-
ping a dollar into the caddy's hand,
he said: “You were looking the other
way just then, you know.”
Sometimes the caddies practice on
their own account, and some of them
become expert players. One way in
which they Occasionally add to their
incomes is by teaching the game to.
new members. I know of one ”young
fellow who has made such gobd use
of his opportunities for the past few
seasons that he has retired as a caddy,
and has made a good income this sea.-
son‘ by teaching the game. Opportun-
ities sometimes come to the boy on the
links in other ways, too. A few weeks
ago a Wall street broker called my at-
tention to an unusually bright and
spry boy in his allies.
“He’s a treasure." said .the broker.
“I wouldn’t trade him for two ordin-
ary city boys. And where do you sup-
pose I found him? On the golf links
out in Jersey. I found that he could
cover more ground in a. short time
than some professional sprinters, and
I made up my mind he’d be just the
fellow for a stock runner. He’s just as
quick with his brains as he is with
his heels, too, and though he’s so use-
ful to me in his present position, I’ll
have to make him a clerk before long
, or somebody will get him away from
me.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
The First Person Singular.
“That’s the most egostical ma,“ I
tre.
“Yes. He won’t even sit anywhere
except in Section I.”——Washington
Star.
ilore \Yisdom.
“What is your idea. of fame?”
“Fame? Well, in its finest phase, I
think it is the incredulous surprise
which a man’s home folks exhibit
when he does anything noteworthy.”
-Detroit Free Press.
The Quarrelsome Fellow. ,1
Mrs. Prye-~Tell me, dear, do you
ever quarrel with your husband
Mrs. Lamb-—Never! But he often
quarrels with me, the hateful thing!—
Boston Transcript.
‘He—My friend is opposed to every-
thing English. . ~ . ..
She—Yes, I noticed that in his coin-[r _‘I s’
vets mom—Yonkers _,Statesma
and, ,
ever saw,” said one usher at a thea-
.;
Norwalk Chronicler