WEEKLY --1\0R1vAnk-GAZETTE , ‘ ALENDAR OF GOOD lNTENTi ms laid Father Tempus. l have a pl. 111 _ . "1n going to swear of! on the first 0‘. JAE-n Sut- his resolution began to ebb. Ele was two days shy by the end of l‘hen he lost his temper and went so f1r is to bawl and bluster all th1ourh WI AP. fife puffed and blew till be spoiled his shape 50 he took the 11 ater cure in Al’. He took a shower bath every day, and was most disagreeable all through M AY FEB. I‘hen summer came and he changed his tune-- Any tool can be good in J N E. But the strain was so great that by and by ’16 1v as taken with fever in JU L ' Sic only just escaped the morgue Eiis temperature was so high in AUG. fever were resolutions kept it) well as in convalescent ‘ SEPT. dl'hen he recovered the world was shocked for he painted the country red in OCT. . flien he howled and raged like a fiend in love. file was full as could be of remorse in NOV. it’s plain, said be, this thing must cease, i’ll swear off again—at the end of DEC. —Oli1 er Herfor (l ’ HE ASYLUM GIRL. BY HELEN FORREST GRAX ES. "This isPegg', is it?” said Elder Zioiibleday, beaming benignanlly ;hrough his huge silver spectacles. "This is Peggy,” said Mrs. Monta- cute . And "Peggy” herself, a tall, slight girl, of sixteen 01' seventeen, in a mad- der-red calico dress, and a drooping head all covered with jet-black rings of curling hair, stood before the pon- derous elder, as a Circassian slave might have stood before 1101' possible purcha ser, in olden time. ' “Seems like a nice girl enough," the elder. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Montacute. a little gray-haired lady, with a black silk dress and old-fashioned garnet earrings. “Peggy’s a good girl. She’s been a help and comfort to me ever since I took her out of the orphan asylum three years ago come Thanks- giving Day.” “Mrs. Doubleday wants a girl, to make herself useful about the house,” said the elder, dubiously. “Young woman, can you wash?” “Oh, yes, sir,’ said Peggy, in a low. soft voice, that made the elder think of the striking of the. little French clock on the squire’s mantel. “And iron, and bake, and make soft soap, and clean house ,and mind little children?” To all of these queries. Peggy in- clined her head assentingly, while Mrs. Montacute made haste to declare that "Pebby was a masterhand to turn oif work, for all she looks so slim.’ “I like slim gals," said the elder. “They aren’t apt to be such heavy eaters. and they don’t wear so hard on a stair carpet. I’ve a notion to take her.” “You won’t regret it," said Mrs. Montacute. “I should never think of parting with her if it wasn’t for my son—Clement, you" know, the college graduate,” with a little flush of ma- ternal pride on her cheek, “Clement can't bear the idea of an asylum girl about the house—he is so refined in his tastes and ideas; so we’re to have a regular cook and chambermaid from the city~an establishment. lement cals it—and I' must find a good home for Peggy.” “W'ell.” said. the elder, rising up hke a mountain (of black broadcloth and smooth shaven chin) in motion. "l‘ll try her, anyhow. And I’ve a notion she’ll suit Mrs. Doubleday, though M1s. Doubleday ain’t easy suited. neither." So the elder trundled himself ponder- ously away. and Peggy turned her dark eyes. like those of a startled fawn. on her mistress' -ace. “Must I go there?” she faltered. ,. “Now, Peggy, don’t be unreason- , able.’ said Mrs. Montacute, briskly. "It’ll be a good home for you.” “I’d rather stay here," faltered Peg- gy. with a quiver of the full red lower said “But you know that you can't, dear, on account of Clement,’ said Mrs. Montacute, putting the girl‘s shoul- ders. as one might soothe a fretful child. “I would be very quiet," said Pei-:- gy. “And I would never come in his way" “It’s quite out. of the question. my dear.” said the little widow, nodding her head. “College young men have their fancies, you know, and they‘ve got-to be humored." “But it isn't my fault that l‘111 an asylum girl,” argued Peggy. with a strong sense of injustice swelling at her heart. "1 know that. Peggy,” soothed the old lady: “but. folks often have to suf- fer for what. is'nt any fault of theirs, in this world. as you’ll find out by the time you've lived to be as old as I am. Now go up and cut out that new cal< ico dress of yours, for the elder will want you :11 the end of the month, and you '~ 211:1 get your wardrobe in as good . swim as you can.’ And i oggy went slowly upstairs to her 11 11 mo1n.a little sloping-meted den. ii‘u’H-l' 1l1c very eaves of the house, will: :1 window that looked down into thi' 11:;11'1'11i11 billows of the apple orch- ard :1111'. :1 shelf of rough, unpainted wood, upon which Peggy kept her small store of books and the worn pmtfolio of oapcrs whe1e she had hid- , den 1111- ay l1e1 own ambitious little of- fans to imii :1: her standaids of per: fection. le‘cr l’eggy, the asylum girl, had had her dreams of future rank and greatncss and sometimes, as she lbokcd into the little square of W11 rped [looting-glass that hung close 11. the Window. :1 face looked back :1: her 1111;; ~;i:ii'i‘“ii her—her own, aul yei up: ;- 1:111. And still Peggy never l‘l‘;’."“l‘.v -l :11» met that she was gmaviug' 1. 1....1 .1 :1y. hm 11.111. .n’tcrnoon she dressed her- slcf in the faded pink muslin which iii-s. Montacnte had Wul'n when :1 cit-i. 1nd had bestowed on it 'gy 11> 11101111 might bestow a CUi‘:-l'-. 21-1011 r:_.:.'. - in ,some favored subject, and tom. ‘Monroc's Melodies" down to 11121 Favorite seat on the door s :1 to road while Mrs. tMontacute was spinning,“ the afternoon at some: neighbor‘s noose. ‘I shall not have man; more reads :his nice old door Step." thought an new. with tears in her cjia's. ‘ But as she sat there. ‘11»? ing ex- quisitely lovely in the level afternoon Hillilgilt, with her pink 1: run: relieving :er tropical beauty in true artist fash- ion and the faintest possible shade of rose. glowing in her check. a shadow fell across her book. She started 11p to l-11'l-1old a tall, linen-suited young man, viii-1 a travel dig knapsack strapped on his shoulder, and a golden beard and mustache covering the lower part of his counte ounce. “I beg your pardon,” he said, lifting his ca “I fear that I have disturbed your studies. Is Mrs. Montacure at‘ home?" 1 c3: ,l1ad started up 11 ith dark eves :liiiciing be" cath their pet black lash- es and cheeks burning with embarrass- :nent. “She is not at home. to Miss Deborah Deal’s.” she said, .lropping “Moore’s Melodies“ in her consternation. “I will go for her at once.” “I cannot allow sucn a thing?” said Ithe college graduate co11rteouslv."i mow 11 here the place is—I 11 ill go 1-:1 «,Iu 9 But Peggy had flown like a. started bird across the. elm-shaded yard and illll. vanished before he could recall her. "By Jove!“ said Clement Montacute. “what a beauty!’ , He sat down on the seat she had just vacated .and took up the volume of poems. “And she has brains, too, and a cul- tivated sense of the beautiful,”he add~ ed, as he observed the penciled marks along the margins of the sweetest verses. “Visiting my mother. I sup- pose, I wonder where she picked up such a little gem?" Presently Mrs. Montacutc made her appearance. rosy with the combined influences of maternal gratification and her hurried walk. Clement welcomed her with true filial warmth, and, at the same time, he looked over her shoulder, as if he expected to see some one else. "Where is she?” he asked. "Where is who?” demanded Mrs. Monacutc, fanning herself 11 ith a fur key-feather fan and panting for breath. "The young lady." “What young lady.” "Why, your visitor, I suppose.” Mrs. Montacute stared. “My dear boy,” she said, “I have no visitor.” “The young lady with the dark eyes and curls.” said Clement, impatiently. “The. young lady that was reading this." holding up the volume of “Moore's Melodies." She has gone "Why.” cried Mrs. Montacute, "'it’s Peggy!" “It’s who?” “Peggy—the asylum girl." ".‘lonsenccP cried Clement very red. "Don't I know a lady when I see her?" “But it's our Peggy all the same," steutly insisted Mrs. Montacute. 1p '* It t t ’ I The moon. which had been only a slendm sii1 er thread when Elder Doubleday made his first visit to the . ioniacute iarmhouse, was a globe of . shining silver when his cumbrous one- horsc chaise rumbled up a second time to the door stone. “Well,” said the elder, “where's the young woman? I've come to fetch her to 0111' place.” Mrs. Montacute hurried to the door. “Indeed, elder,” faltered she, “I’m very sorry—that is, I’m very glad—or rather I really don't know whether to be glad or sorry on your account, though on my own I'm perfectly dc- lighted. But my son Clement is en- gaged." “Engaged, is he?” said the elder. “But 1 don't see as that need alter my pla us." “But it does," cried Mrs. Montacute, more confused than ever, “because he is engaged to our Peggy!" “Eh?" said the elder. “And they’re to be married in six weeks,” said Mrs. Montacute, radiant- ly; “and Clement is to settle down here on the old farm, and we’re all to be happy as the day is long.’ “Humphl” grunted the elderf “I thought he didn’t like asylum girls.” “You never saw a man so much in love in your life,” said Mrs. Monta- cute; “and he’s teaching Peggy Latin. and he says she is a genius, and he's going to have some of her poetry pub- lished.’ “Then on the whole,” said the elder, “I may as well get home again as fast as I can, and tell Mrs. Doubleday to look out for another girl." “Well,” perhaps on the whole you had better," said Mrs. Doubleday. 'So the beautiful girl was a slave no longer, but matters were reversed. Mr. Clement Montacute had gone into life- long bondage! Very Expensive. Burns (enthusiasticaily)-—“What a change a baby makes about a. hou3e!” Hadley—“Well, I don't know about that. There’s been little change around our house since the baby’s advent.”— Philadelphia North American. Sizing Up a Blby. 1 “That’s a fine, solid baby of yours. Middleton," said a friend who was ad- miring the first baby. ‘fDo you, think he's solid?" asked Middleton, rather dbcouolutely. “It seems to no a limb was all holler." ' volver. A TELESCOP'IC VIEW. The cub having gone off to Switz- erland to look for Mousie (and to pro- pose to her), I informed William that it was my intention to return to town Without delay. . '1 So \Villiam said,— “Then I shall come and stay with you.” I let him come. I knew why he wanted to come. He wanted to come because he wanted to pay calls at the Jungle and see Miss Ethel Mainwar- ing. William, therefore, accompanied me, and it soon became clear to me that his visit was to be one of some duration. However, as he spent most of his time 1101 ering between Lord’s and the Jungle—partaking of many meals at the latter address—his stay did not put me to much expense, which was gratifying, as my income, though quite sufi‘icient for one single gentleman, will not stand being di- vided between two single gentlemen. I have often remarked to the cashier of the London-German that it is strange how badly ofi most writers on finance are—the irony of fate, I presume--but his sole reply is, “I zubs boze it is beges they bragtiss vot they breach,” and pays little regard to my wistful glances in the direction of his strong box. The foregoing sentences are suppos- ed to represent a period of rather more than three weeks. I was making some humorous remarks about a com- pany which had been started to in- sure young married men against twins when there came two slow knocks at the door—two lifeless knocks, two abjectly miserable knocks. Mr. Charles Johnson, the clerk, knew who it was. He is in love himself with a young lady in 21 Fleet Street tea shop and sympathizes with the cub. As gently, therefore, as a trained nurse did Mr. Johnson open the door, and it was with and air of the deepest condo— lence that he ushered Master John Mainwaring into my presence. “Oh, ‘how are you?” I cried cheer- fully. “Ripping; thanks,” he replied, in a tone such as condemned murderers would use in reply to Mr. Billington’s greeting. Then he flung himself into a chair and laughed bitterly. “I wish I were dead-dead!” he then remarked. . This was getting serious. Here was a. young gentleman, aged twenty-three, possessed of independent means, splen- did health and all those other things which make life worth living, don’t you know, wishing he were no more—- wishing he were a cold corpse. I knew, of course. Getting up, I marched into Charles Johnson’s scul- lery office to find that blushing youth deep in a penny booklet, entitled “Wooed, Won and Wed; or, True Love Triumphs 0’ e1 All. ” I gave Mr. John— son some directions, and presently he came in with two steaks, a mountain of vegetables and a large bottle of Lord Bass. “Now, Mainwaring,” I said, “I’ll say grace to save time, and you set to.” He demurred at first, but. finally al- lowed himself to be persuaded. When the cub had finished, I said, as be lit his pipe,— “So she won’t have you?” To my surprise, he did not do or say anything violent, but went on lighting his pipe. I was inwardly con- gratulating myself on the success of the measures I had taken in order to disperse the cub’s funeral idea‘s, when he suddenly remarked,—- “This is my last pipe.” “Going to train for then?” “This is the last pipe I shall ever smoke.” ' “You’ll find it difficult to _give up tobacco so suddenly.” He puffed solemnly for a few mo- ments, and then, pointing with the stem of his brier to the cleared decks, he said,-- “I have eaten my last meal.” something, something more than mere training in the cub’s self-abnegation. There was that in his cold-blooded speeches, which chilled me, which produced a curious sensation in my scalp, which would doubtless have caused my hair to stand on end had the quantity there been sufiicient to undergo the process. I gazed at him with a pal- ing face. For quite three minutes he said nothing, but smoked steadily. Feel- ing thoroughly uncomfortable, I took up my pen and began to write. I had hardly covered a line, however, when the cub observed in an off-handed tone,— “In short, I am going to kill my- self”. “Nonsense!” I was determined not to take him seriously, you see. “Yes,” he continued. “Either with this”—drawing a little white bottle labelled poison from his waifitcoat pocket—“this”—producing a' razdr from the‘depths of the inside breast pocket of his coat—“or this”-— whip- ping, with a dexterity that would have done credit to 'Mr. Maskelyne, a. tiny revolver out of some other part of his apparel. “You are well provided,” I said chafiingly, although I felt nervous at being in such proximity to so 'deadly an outfit. “Yes," he said, toying with the re- “I am going to make sure oi it. I shall first swallow the poison, then cut my throat and then shoot myself through the brain.” myself through the brain." finger, and, uncorking the bottle, sniff- ed, at its contents with an evident rel- uh. . . r _ .- ~. r1 .. ’. . . ' _... It now struck me that there was .11 hether you’ve lust killed :1 111.111 or 1 I turned cold to my finger tips. Great i Heaven! Was it all a dream? I rub- ied my eyes and gazed at the cub. No, .1 was grim reality, every bit of it. i‘lze girl had refused him, and so he and concluded that the best way out if his misery was to commit suicide. The tobacco began to hiss and burn in the bottom of his pipe bowl. His last smoke was drawing to a close. And then—— I threw him my pouch. “More ’baccy?” He placed it politely on the edge of the desk. “No, thanks—finished now.” And he rose from his chair and walked to the window. “I should just like to take a last look at the sun shining on the trees.” I suppose I moved, for he wheeled around like lightning. “If you attempt to interfere with me,” he said, with the same unnatural calm in his voice and manner, “I’ll shoot you first, Worm, and myself af- terward. So pray be careful.” “Put it off for a. few minutes,” I begged him. “I want to talk to you. Just tell me what has happened.” “I’m not in any particular hurry,” he observed, reseating himself, “and I have no objection to telling you what has happened. But nothing you can say will alter my determination. This thing must be—I say must be.” And he patted the pocket which con- tained the poison. “Well, go ahead,” I urged him. “Just tell me what you did after you left us so suddenly in the Doone val- Icy." “No need to detail the journey,” he muttered; “just a sheep walk—every one goes the same way. I made tracks for Southampton, caught the night boat for Havre, went on to Rouen, thence to Paris, Paris to Geneva, and there I was.” “And then, of course, you took Mousie—I beg pardon, Miss Rathbone -——by surprise, proposed to her all in 'a heap, and got rejected, as was quite natural. You can’t rush a thing like that.” “I did not meet Miss Rathbone,” said the cub coldly, “and I did not propose to her. Getting to Geneva was one thing, but finding her was quite another. People go to Geneva and make excursions all round the shops. I found out the hotel at which she was stopping, and tried to get rooms there myself, but it. was full up. This was why I constantly miss- ed her—she was always going off somewhere, and whenever I followed her she always caught the train or boat that I just missed. So, although I dodged about for a fortnight, I didn’t meet. her once. The amount of money I spent chasing about and making in— quiries and tipping people was some- thing appalling, but of course I didn’t mind that.” “Well,” I said, “I don’t see Why you should kill yourself because you missg ed her in Switzerland.” “Let me go on,” said the cub, sternly, “and then you’ll understand why. Just as I was thinking of giv- ing it up and coming home I heard that she and her party had gone to Cha- mouni, with the intention of ascend- ing Mount Blane. Of course—just my luck—I was a. train and a coach be» hind, as you go to Cluses by train and then coach on to Chamouni. When I finally got there, I was told that the party I was in search of had started up some hours before. Iasked whether it wouldn’t be possible to catch them up, but the great fool of a. guide I was talk- ing to just laughed and made a face. Then he told me that I could watch them through a. telescope, but as fer catching them up that was impossible. “Well,” continued the cub. “I paid my money and the telescope chap put me on to them at once. He said they were nearly four thousand feet above the valley, but I could see them as plainly as if they were only fifty yards away. There were five or six people. Just as I had got my eyes on Mousie a great fat Johnnie who was walking a few yards behind her ac- tually went up, and—and—" The cub paused. “Go on,” I said. “What did he do?” “Why”~—with heaving chest and glaring eyes—“he put his arm inside hers and began talking and laughing as if he'd known her all her life!” “And what did she do?” “Talked and laughed back.” “Well?" “Well, isn’t that enough? She's eu- gaged to him—slap home and here I am. It’s all over. In five minutes I shall be dead!” I started from my chair. “There must be some mistake,” I ex- claimed. “The man you saw was evi- dently a. relative.” “I know all the members of her family," said the cub, “and there’s no man like that in it. No; she‘s e11- gaged. I don’t care to live any longer. " “Look here, Jack, ” I said desperate- ly “let me make some inquiries. I give you my solemn word of honor that I won’t say anything about your—er—intentions. Let me go to your place and ,try to find out the truth of the matter. Trust me not to give you away.” The sun shone out gayly just then. Perhaps the cub thought it a pity to leave it so suddenly. At any rate he said,— . “I won’t do anything until you come back—I swear it. Now go!” So of! I went past haste to the Jun- gle, and when I returned with the news that a relative the cub had never heard of had suddenly returned he was willing to line long enough to try his luck, and succeeded. Blinks—-“lnsanity is a teriiblc (111 so. is it not?" Winks—“Depends a good deal 11.-111 not. ” ' 11mdcls to tempt feminine fancy. REIGN OF ’I'HE FLOUNCE BEGINS. 'lame Rumor Says We ‘71“ Have Rnfllel Galore on Gowns. By special arrangement with the N. Y. Sun) If rumors may be taken as straws .1011 1n:r which way the wind blows, e may calmly contemplate rufiied kirts as one-of the assured revivals of .1shions worn more than a hundred ears ago. That the reign of the iounce is about to begin is one of the shire declarations from the hub of all things fashionable which need not be questioned. So our Summer gowns Lay be fiounced and rufiled from waist .11 hem or from the hem to any inter- 1:. ediate point that may suit the figure .‘1‘ fancy, with all necessary confidence 1n the result. 'Ihcre are pinked ruffles, ruffles trimmed with graduated rows of velvet ribbon, with lace and passementaries; ruifles edged with rows of baby ribbon and tiny ruches of chifiion, and ruffles with plain hen-1s, according to the ma- terial employed; but the flounce in some form is inevitable. Of course it is the ultra tall, slim women who can indulge in skirts covered with flounces with satisfactory results, and, as usual, most of the new fashions are designed for women with slender fig- ures; but there are always modifica- tions to make them becoming to every one. ,rf/" J \ I‘l‘ '1‘ '- _i i ‘1 i . 1\1 ’ 1 i O” \ 1 .‘ . 1 i <1“? i . ‘ y > 1 ’ ” ~flu" ‘ ’V \ G’ J 2" ‘."»?"1;;|‘:‘- If. . c ‘1 1" Ruffles are not confined to skirts chiefly, and waists and sleeves are both generously trimmed pith ruffles. Cording is another popular feature of dress trimming which bids fair to flour- ish to a much greater extent. later on when the thin Summer gowns appear. Vests of chiffon, mull, and thin silk are shirred crosswise in fine cords in groups of three, and bodiccs of thin material are corded hori7.0ntally to form a yoke, 01' up and down all around with an inch space between cords. Various skirt trimmings are made of cords run into two inches wide when finished. Two cords as large as the small end of a pipe stem from the centre of the band, and the edges of the silk are double frills. This is set on the skirt fat :1 blue and black baya- dere striped silk gown. The latest skirts are so close fitting aroung the hip that there is very little room for any petticoat underneath, which fact suggests the possibility of their being abolished altogether. But this is hardly probable, and the skirt makers are as busy as ever bringing out all sorts of novel and attractive One 1:1' the latest designs in, silk for petti- 1~11ts is in threeshades of one color, -..-11 in a bayadere stripe fully an inch .119; "he darkest medium, and light— ~1 shade fellow each other in succes- she bands. 1 .. a. HE CORN ERED WHEAT METHODS OF YOUNG JOSEPH LEITER OF CHICAGO. He Went Into the Wheat Deal to Help a . Friend and BecameInterested—Several Old Timers Done to the Tune of Hun- dreds of Thousands, P. D. Armour Was Among Them. If a story told in Chicago club cir- cles is correct, Joe Leiter’s entrance into speculation on the Board of Trade was with no thought of undertaking operations which have made him an in. ternational figure. George French came here broke and went to work for a railroad company. He exchanged his job for that of a solictor of buisness for a firm on the board, where there was a chance of doing a little better. In that capacity he met Leiter. Both - men are young and congenial, and Joe is generous and more to help French got his commissions. The deals won a little. money and Leiter got interested Now Joe Leiter is possibly a little pe- culiar for a young man who is so rich that he has no incentive to labor. He has a habit of studying things and de- ciding for himself. His father is heav- ily interested in the Edison Company JOSEPH LEITER. and the City Railway Companies and in gass and manufacturing companies, and for two 01' three years Joe has looked after his interests. He looked into them so deeply that he mastered the technical details of each company’s physical plant. He can tell anybody all about electric lighting or street railroading 01' gas making from the ground up. There is no detail which he has not examined and weighed to such good effect that probably Mr. Leiter could step right in and run any of the companies in which the Leiter family‘s money is invested. This habit of observation prevailed when he stepped into the whirlpool oi grain speculation :1 tenderfoot. It was not French who figured out that natural conditions of supply and de mand all pointed to higher prices for wheat, but Leiter himself. It was the. latter himself who saw no reason why wheat could not be bought, carried and disposed of like merchandise, despite the venerable belief on the board that the process was impossible. Having reached these conclusions he got in f01 keeps. ' D. ARMOUR. P. The story of the deal, with its turns and twists and collateral parts, such as the expedition for wheat P. D. Ar- mour sent out need not here be retold. There have been others on the board where the quantity of wheat involved was immense. Cudahy was long 28,1 000,000 bushels in 1893, but he did not take it. Armour in his deal of 1882 took in 6,000,000 bushels. The Harper deal, the Keane deal, all included pro- digious quantities. In every big deal that failed the causes were much alike. The manipulators conducted them with practically the same end in view, namely, to make their profits out of the shorts, calculating it would be heavy enough to easily to make good the loss they expected to sustain the ma1keting the cash “heat they were obliged tc. take. L. Z. Leiter has backed his son, by the latter’s own confession. L. Z. Leiter is one of the richest men in ‘ America. His real estate in Chicago is worth more than $10,000,000. He owns blocks of the‘choicest local stocks and bonds, besides railroad and indus- trial securities, land and mines. No matter how rich, no man keeps'an amount of cash on hand sufficient to carry 10,000,000 bushels of wheat, which Joe Leiter is supposed to own stored in Chicago, Buffalo, Duluth and Liverpool, besides 8,000,000 bushels of options. But it has been much easier than to ordinary mortals for these financial heavy weights to supply and borrow the round sum of $12,000,000 that has been used to take care-of the (leal. ‘The- figures a1e given on the strongest authority. The sum. i111 '1 mouse as it is, was got easily. and the entire deal has been financed, h It Was no strain wateve‘r. '
Norwalk Chronicler