OUR YOUNG FOLKS
It had been an unusually severe winter, even for Northern Aroostook. Snow-fall had succeeded snow-fall, with no interval that could really be called "thaw," till the "loggers" had finished their work; and as they come plodding home on snow shoes, they all agreed that the snow lay from ten to twelve feet deep on a level in the woods.
No wonder, then, that the warm March sun came to shine upon it day after day, and the copious spring showers fell, there should have been a very unusual "flood," or freshet. Every one predicted that when the ice should break in the river, there would be a grand spectacle, and danger, too, as well; and all waited with some anxiety for the "break" to come.
One morning, we at the village were awakened by a deep, roaring, booming, crashing noise, and sprang from our beds, crying:
"The ice has broken up! The ice is running out!"
In hardly more time than it takes to tell it, we were dressed and at the back windows, which looked down upon the river!
It was indeed a grand sight!
Huge cakes of ice of every shape and size were driving, tumbling, crashing past, as if in a mad race with each other. The river, filled to overflowing, seemed in angry haste to hurl its icy burden down the falls below.
But after a few days the river ran clear, save for the occasional breaking of some "jam" above. Along the margin of the broad stream, however, there were here and there slight indentures, or notches, in the banks, where the ice had escaped the mad rush of waters and still clung in considerable patches.
It was upon one of these still undisturbed patches that "Jule" Fisher, a rough boy of fourteen, with several of his equally rough comrades, was playing on the lovely morning upon which my story opens.
These lads were not the sons of the steady, intelligent, church-going inhabitants of this quiet Northern hamlet, but were from the families of "lumbermen," "river-drivers" and "shingle-shavers." For some time they had been having boisterous sport, venturing out upon the extreme edges of the ice and with long poles pushing about the stray cakes which occasionally came within their reach.
At length they grew tired of this, and began to jump upon ticklish points of ice; and as these began to crack and show signs of breaking away, the boys would run, with wild whoops, back to shore, the very danger seeming to add to their enjoyment. Then, with poles and "prys," they would work upon the cracking mass until it floated clear and went whirling down the rapid current.
"Ahoy, boys!" called Jule, who was seemingly their leader. "Up yender's a big cake that only wants a shove! Come on! Let's set 'er a-going!"
No sooner said than done. Away went the noisy fellows to the projecting point of ice. A few smart jumps sent it creaking and groaning, as though still unwilling to quit its snug winter bed. One more jump, and the boys all ran with a shout beyond the place where the ice was cracking off—all save Jule.
It had not broken clear, and he was determined to set it going, when he would spring on the firm ice beyond, as he had done once or twice before.
But this time he was over-bold and not sufficiently watchful. A large cake of ice had come floating down the river unnoticed either by him or his friends, and striking the edge of the nearly loosened mass, shoved it out into the swift, black water.
Poor Jule! He ran quickly to the freshly-broken edge—but, alas! too late for the intended spring. The swiftly-rushing current had borne him many yards from the shore and from his companions.
There he stood—for an instant in dumb amaze—balancing himself upon his rocking raft with the pole he had been using. To attempt to swim ashore would have been useless. He was a clumsy swimmer at best; and the cold, rushing waters and floating ice cakes made swimming almost impossible.
He could not get off. To stay seemed sure death. Dumb with fright, for a moment he stood in speechless terror. Then there rang across the wild, black river and through the quiet streets of the village, such a yell of abject fear as only a lusty lad of that age can give. It was a cry that chilled the heart of every one who heard it.
A "four-days' meeting" was in session. The village church-goers were just issuing from their houses in answer to the church bell, when that pitiful cry and the shouts of "Help! Help! A boy in the stream!" reached them, and drew them all quickly to the river bank.
In a few minutes the shore was lined with excited men and women. Yet all stood helplessly staring, while poor Jule on his ice-raft was floating steadily down toward the falls.
Never shall I forget how he looked as he stood there in the middle of his floating white throne! There was something almost heroic in his calm helplessness. For after the first wild cry, he had not once opened his lips.
Downward he floated, drawn swiftly and surely on by the deep, mighty rush of waters setting into the throat of the cataract. The heavy roar from far below sounded like the luckless lad's knell. He stood but a single chance—and that was hardly a chance—of his ice-raft lodging against a tilted-up "jam" of cakes and logs which had piled against a jagged ledge that rose in mid-stream, just above the brink of the precipice.
This "jam" had hung there, wavering in the flood, for thirty-six hours. Every moment it seemed about to go off—yet still it clung, in tremor, as it seemed, at the fatal plunge which would dash it to pieces in the thundering maelstrom below.
Good fortune—Providence, perhaps—so guided Jule's ice-raft that it struck and lodged against the "jam," just as the horrified watchers on shore expected to lose sight of the lad forever in the falls. "If it will only hang there!" muttered scores, scarcely daring as yet to speak a loud word.
They could see the cake, with Jule on it, heaving up and down with the mighty rhythmic motion of the surging torrent; and all ran along down the banks, to come nearer. The boy stood in the very jaws of death. Beneath, the cataract roared and hurled up white gusts of spray.
Just at this moment, a short, thick-set man, with a round, good-natured face, joined the crowd. For a moment he stood looking out at the lad, then slapping another young man on the shoulder, said, hurriedly, "Isn't there an old bateau stowed away in your shed, Lanse?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"Quick, then!" exclaimed the first speaker. "There isn't a moment to lose."
"But, Mac," answered Lanse, as he hurried after him. "I'm afraid she's no good; she's old and she's been stowed away all winter. Ten to one the old thing leaks like a riddlin' sieve.
"But we mustn't lose a chance!" exclaimed Mac. "That jam will go out within half an hour, if it doesn't within ten minutes!"
By this time the two had reached the shed. They quickly drew the bateau from its wintering place, and taking the long, light boat upon their shoulders, ran rapidly through the village and down to the river.
Meantime, two or three other men had run to fetch "dog warps" and "towing-lines," a large number of which are always kept in these backwoods lumbering hamlets, for use on the rivers and lakes, when logs are rafted out in the spring.
Acting under Mac's prompt orders, a six-hundred foot warp was at once made fast to a ring in the stern of a bateau, and another line laid ready to bend to the first.
Jumping into the bateau, paddle in hand, and a boat-hook laid ready for instant use, the bold young fellow now ordered the men to shove off the skiff into the river and then pay out the line, as he should direct—thus lowering him, yard by yard, down toward the "jam" where Jule stood.
Rod by rod, they let him down toward the roaring abyss of furious waters, till the bateau—guided by the paddle, and held back now by the main strength of twenty men—touched the ice-cake.
But even as it touched, the cake began to slide off the jam; and Jule was thrown on his hands and knees.
Quick as thought, however, his courageous rescuer struck his boat-hook into the ice and held fast while Jule, stiff with fright, tumbled in at the bow of the bateau.
He was hardly in the boat when the whole mass of ice and logs went over the falls.
A shout arose, and when a few minutes later the bateau was drawn safely back up the stream, and Mac stepped ashore with a rather bashful smile on his round, fresh face, every one joined in long and prolonged cheers.
As for Jule, he had to be helped out of the boat and led home; for he was, as they said, "limp as a rag;" and it was noticed that after this perilous adventure he was a much more sober and thoughtful boy.
Pray do not imagine, reader, that I have been telling you a "made-up" story, for what I have related is true, the writer herself being an eye-witness to the incident while a teacher in a backwoods school-district on the banks of the Aroostook.
PUBLIC SALEOFShort-Horn CattleATSomers, Kenosha Co., Wis.ONWednesday, March 19, 1884.
I will sell at public sale, at my farm near Somers, Wis., at above time and place, my entire herd of Thoroughbred Short-horn cattle, numbering forty head. Among them are many of the choicest families. Included in the sale will be the grand young bull Orpheus 13th, bred at Bow Park, a beautiful red, and one of the finest bulls in the West. The cows are all Breeders, and will have calves by their sides, or be safe in calf. I offer this grand herd of cattle with reluctance, solely on account of my advanced age and failing health. Catalogues ready about Feb. 15. Lunch at 12. Sale to begin at 1. Free conveyances will meet the trains on morning of sale at Somers, on C. M. & St. Paul, and at Kenosha for C. & N. W. R. R.
WM. YULE,Somers, Kenosha Co., Wis.J. W. Judy, Auctioneer.
10 JERSEY BULLS FOR SALE,
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A. H. COOLEY, Little Britain, Orange Co., N. Y.
N. B.—If I make sales as formerly will send a car with man in charge to Cleveland, getting lowest rates.
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GREGORY'S SEED CATALOGUE.
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Literature
No use talking, missy—no use talking'Bout de daylight and dat kind ob ting'Tween the two lights—sunset and sunrising—Dis ole nigger happier dan a king.Dis ole nigger don got all he want to,All he want, and more 'an he can say;Gib him night, de darker and de better,White folks more 'an welcome to de day.In de day him ole and pore and wretched,Got to tote de load and swing de hoe,Got to do jest what de white folks tole him,Got to trabel when dey tole him go.Don't own nothing but an empty cabin;Got no wife, no chillen at him knee;Got no nothing but a little pallet,And a pot to bile him hominy.In de day him gits no 'spectful notice,Him is only "dat ole nigger Brown;"In de night him tells you, little missy,Things git mightily turned upside down.Den somehow him's young and rich and happy,Den him own more acres dan him see:Den him got a powerful lot ob hosses,Den de white folks stop an speak to he.Den him hab a big house like ole massa's,Dan Melinda is him lubly wife;Den de little chillen call him pappy,Den him see de bery best ob life.Den sometimes him talking in de meeting.An' him feel de biggest in de town,For at night him neber "dat ole nigger,"Him the Reberend Mister Isaac Brown."Dreaming," is him? Dreaming, do you call it?Then him s'pose it's living in de day.Well, him likes de night-time and de dreaming,For him griefs wid sunshine go away.No use talking, missy, no use talking'Bout de sunshine and dat kind ob ting;'Tween de two lights—sunset and sunrising—Dis ole nigger happier dan a king.
No use talking, missy—no use talking'Bout de daylight and dat kind ob ting'Tween the two lights—sunset and sunrising—Dis ole nigger happier dan a king.Dis ole nigger don got all he want to,All he want, and more 'an he can say;Gib him night, de darker and de better,White folks more 'an welcome to de day.
In de day him ole and pore and wretched,Got to tote de load and swing de hoe,Got to do jest what de white folks tole him,Got to trabel when dey tole him go.Don't own nothing but an empty cabin;Got no wife, no chillen at him knee;Got no nothing but a little pallet,And a pot to bile him hominy.
In de day him gits no 'spectful notice,Him is only "dat ole nigger Brown;"In de night him tells you, little missy,Things git mightily turned upside down.Den somehow him's young and rich and happy,Den him own more acres dan him see:Den him got a powerful lot ob hosses,Den de white folks stop an speak to he.
Den him hab a big house like ole massa's,Dan Melinda is him lubly wife;Den de little chillen call him pappy,Den him see de bery best ob life.Den sometimes him talking in de meeting.An' him feel de biggest in de town,For at night him neber "dat ole nigger,"Him the Reberend Mister Isaac Brown.
"Dreaming," is him? Dreaming, do you call it?Then him s'pose it's living in de day.Well, him likes de night-time and de dreaming,For him griefs wid sunshine go away.No use talking, missy, no use talking'Bout de sunshine and dat kind ob ting;'Tween de two lights—sunset and sunrising—Dis ole nigger happier dan a king.
When Amos Derby came out of Levi Rosenbaum's pawnshop, the richer by five dollars, but leaving his overcoat in the hands of the Jew, he made his way directly to Sillbrook's saloon, where, he felt sure, he should meet half a dozen at least of his boon companions.
He was not mistaken. The bar-room was crowded, and a general shout of welcome greeted him as he entered, for Amos was a generous fellow, and was always willing to treat.
The five dollar bill was quickly broken by the jovial bar-keeper, and two hours later when Amos waked rather unsteadily out of the saloon, he had not a cent in his pocket. But this did not trouble him in the least. He had spent too much money in Sillbrook's during the last two years to think anything of squandering in one evening such a paltry sum as five dollars.
As he left the saloon by the main entrance, he saw a man emerge from a side door of the building, and cross the street with rapid strides; a tall man, well dressed, and bearing about him a look of prosperity. He wore a very handsome overcoat with sealskin cuffs and collar, a sealskin cap, and well fitting gloves. Drunk as Amos was he recognized him at once; it was Sillbrook himself.
"Been in the back room countin' up his gains, most likely," he muttered thickly. "He's above standin' behind the bar nowadays."
Amos could well remember when Sillbrook had been only a mill-hand like himself, earning twelve dollars a week. But he had been a prudent, saving man always, and had early made up his mind to be rich, no matter at what cost of conscience and principle. With this end in view he had purchased a saloon, and cordially invited his former fellow workers at the mill to patronize him. This they were very willing to do, for Sillbrook knew how to make his saloon attractive; and he soon had as much custom as he could well attend to. At length he hired a bar-keeper, and after a couple of years was never seen behind the bar himself. He had grown rich very rapidly, and now owned one of the finest houses in the town, and was able to gratify every taste and whim, while those who had helped him to his wealth by drinking his liquors were as poor as ever—many of them poorer.
Amos Derby had been one of Sillbrook's best customers ever since the saloon had been opened, and as a natural consequence had had little to spend in comforts for his wife and children. He still lived in the small cottage he had bought on first moving to the town, and had seen it grow more and more dilapidated every year without making any attempt to repair it.
But though the outside was far from attractive, the inside was always neat and clean, for, whatever her faults of temper, Jane Derby was a woman who believed thoroughly in abiding by heaven's first law, and who labored early and late to make both ends meet, something she would not have been able to accomplish had she not possessed skill as a dressmaker, for Amos seldom gave her any of his earnings. She was sitting in the kitchen sewing when her husband came in, and a bitter expression crossed her face as she saw his condition.
"Drunk, as usual," she said, harshly, "when were you anything else?"
"When you was kinder spoken, perhaps," answered Amos, with spirit. "This is the sort of welcome I get every night in the week. 'Tain't much wonder I go to Sillbrook's." He dropped into a chair as he spoke, and began to pull off his boots.
"If you didn't have one excuse you'd make another," said Jane, flushing, and bending closer over her sewing. "Perhaps you think I ought to feel pleasant when you come home in this state. Well! it ain't human nature, that it ain't! I mind the time you brought home your wages reg'lar, every Sat'day night, and I was willin' enough then to speak kind to you. Now the children would starve if it wasn't for me. Where's your overcoat?" a sudden pallor creeping into her face as she asked the question. "Yes! where is that overcoat?—what have you done with it that you haven't it on—where is it?"
"Where d'ye s'pose?" said Amos, roughly.
"Down at the pawn-shop, of course," cried his wife, angrily, "where every decent coat you ever had has gone. But you promised me you'd never part with this one, Amos Derby, and you've broke your word. I might have known you would! And to think how I worked for it, and let the children do without shoes! It's too bad! I declare it is! I gave twelve dollars for it only a month ago, and I'll wager you let Levi have it for half o' that. It's a shame, a dreadful shame."
"Stop that. I won't have it," said Amos in a threatening tone. "There's no use whining over it now. If you say another word about it I'll go out again, right off."
"Go!" said Jane, fiercely, "and I wish it was forever! I wish I was never to look on your face again! You're naught but a trouble and a disgrace to us all!"
"All right," said Amos, as he pulled on his boots again, "I'm goin'. I'll take you at your word. You won't see me again in a hurry; now you just mark that. A trouble and a disgrace, am I?"
"Yes, you are!" said Jane, her anger increasing as her mind dwelt upon the loss of the coat she had worked so hard to earn. "I mean all I've said, and more, too! Go! go to Sillbrook's! Ask him to show you the overcoat he's wearin'. I saw it yesterday, and yours wasn't a circumstance to it! Go! Give him every penny you've got! He needs it!" with a bitter little laugh. "His children's feet are all out on the ground, and his wife hasn't a decent dress to her name," with a glance at her faded calico gown. "Help him all you can, Amos Derby, he's in need o' charity."
Amos made no answer. He was considerably more sober than when he had left the saloon, for the walk home through the fresh winter air had done him good, and he felt the force of his wife's words. They rung in his ears as he slammed the kitchen door behind him, and, taking the road which led by the mill, walked rapidly away.
He was soon in the heart of the town, but he did not think or care where he was going. His only idea was to get away from the sound of Jane's sharp voice, and he turned down first one street and then another, without pausing, until he came to Elm Avenue, on which were situated the handsomest houses in the town. There was a large, square brick house on the corner, with stables in the rear, a conservatory on one side, and a beautiful lawn in front, and this place seemed to possess some strange fascination for Amos, for he stopped suddenly at the gate and stood there for fully five minutes, admiring, perhaps, the mansion's air of solid comfort and wealth.
The iron gate was open, and presently, as if impelled by some impulse he could not resist, he entered, and walking softly up the graveled path, looked in at one of the long windows.
The room upon which he gazed was very handsomely furnished. The chairs were luxuriously cushioned, a large mirror hung over the mantel, the carpet was of velvet, a crystal chandelier depended from the ceiling, and a bright fire burned in the open grate, before which sat a lady richly dressed, reading aloud to three children, sitting on ottomans at her feet.
For a long, long time Amos Derby stood by the window, his eyes wandering from one article of luxury to another, a dark frown on his face, and his teeth set hard together.
"My money," he muttered, when at last he turned away. "I've given it to him, cent by cent, and dollar by dollar, and I've naught to show for it, while he! he's got his fine house, and his rich carpets, and his handsome clothes. It's the same money, only I've spent it in one way, and he in another."
As the last words left his lips a hand fell heavily upon his shoulder, and a voice—the voice of Sillbrook—asked him harshly what he wanted.
"A look into your fine parlor," answered Amos roughly. "Strange I wanted to see it, wasn't it? It ought not to matter to me, of course, what use you make o' my money."
"Your money!" said Sillbrook, with a loud laugh. "That's a crazy joke! Come, my man, you're drunk. Get out of here, or I'll have you put where you can make your jokes to yourself."
"You think you're rich enough now to speak to me as you choose," said Amos hotly. "Time was when you wouldn't have dared. But I tell you, Jason Sillbrook, I've come to my senses to-night. It's a poor bargain where the gain's all on one side. We started even, and you've got all and I nothin'. But I tell you now, that, heaven helpin' me, you'll never have another dollar o' mine to spend. You'll never buy another coat like this out o' my money," and he struck in sudden passion the seal-trimmed garment which covered Sillbrook's ample proportions.
"Be off with you," said the saloon-keeper. "You're too drunk to know what you're talking about."
"And who made me drunk? answer that question, Jason Sillbrook," screamed Amos.
"I'll answer nothing," said Sillbrook, and, tearing his coat from the grasp Amos had laid upon it, he strode up the path and disappeared within the house.
The next morning, when the superintendent made his round of the mill, he missed one of the machine hands.
"Where's Derby?" he asked, angrily.
No one could answer his question. No one had seen Derby that day. And no one at the mill saw him for many a day to come.
"I might have been kinder to him," thought Jane, when at last she became convinced that her husband had in truth left her. "Perhaps I did say more'n I should at times. Poor Amos! he was no more to blame than I was, after all. Perhaps he would have kept out o' that saloon if I'd only coaxed 'stead o' railing at him. He wasn't bad-hearted, an' he never meant more'n half he said."
And as the days went by, and she forgot her past sorrows, she had only kind thoughts of her absent husband, and blamed only herself for their mutual misery. She wished with all her heart that she could "begin all over again," and try the effect of kindness and forbearance on Amos.
But no such opportunity was given her, and she had little time for bitter thoughts or unavailing regret.
The superintendent of the mill gave her eldest child, a lad of fourteen, a situation where he could earn $4 a week, and a girl a year younger found work in a millinery store. Thus Jane was relieved of much anxiety, and she was so skilful with her needle that she soon found herself able to "lay by something for a rainy day," as she expressed it.
Gradually the children were provided with comfortable clothes and were sent to church and to Sunday-school, from which they had been debarred for several years, owing to a lack of decent apparel; the house was repaired, new furniture bought, a flower garden laid out in front of the cottage, and a new fence erected. People began to speak of Jane as a surprisingly smart woman, and to say that her husband's desertion had been a blessing in disguise. But in spite of her prosperity there was an ache ever at Jane's heart, and a regret which no good fortune could stifle.
"If I'd only been kinder!" she would say to herself, as she lay awake at night and thought of her absent husband. "It was my fault he drank; I see that now. He was always telling me that my temper'd ruin him in the end, and now his word's come true."
She felt as if she ought to make some atonement for her past sin, even though she was never to see her husband again, and with this end in view she determined to cure herself of the habit of scolding and fault-finding about which poor Amos had complained so bitterly.
After a few struggles at first, she found her new path very pleasant to her feet, and was encouraged to persevere by the artless comments made by her children on the improvement in her temper.
"You're so good, now, mother," they would say, when, instead of the sharp rebuke they had expected on the commission of some childish folly, came very kind words of regret and gentle reproof. "You are so different from what you used to be. If father could only come home and live with us now how happy we would all be."
But Amos did not come. Year after year passed, and he sent no word or sign; and at length both wife and children grew to think of him as dead.
Seven years! Seven years to a day had passed since Amos Derby had left his home, and up the street and past the mill came a tall man, with a cap of sealskin pulled low over his eyes, and handsome overcoat trimmed with the same costly fur over his arm. He whistled as he walked, and seemed in great good humor, for occasionally he would break out into a loud laugh.
But as he came near the cottage where Jane Derby lived, he became more quiet, and an anxious expression stole into his face.
"I wonder if she'll know me," he muttered.
Going up to the window of the kitchen, he shaded his eyes with one hand and looked in.
Jane was setting at supper, her five children about her. The room looked warm and comfortable. A bright fire burned in the stove, the kettle sang merrily, and a big maltese cat dozed among some plants on the broad window seat.
Fred, the eldest son, a muscular young man of twenty-one now, was speaking, and his words came distinctly to the ears of the watcher outside.
"Brooks goes to-morrow," he said, "and we are to have a new superintendent from ——. I hope he'll have a better temper than Brooks, and I wish——Who's that?" as a sudden knock came upon the door.
"The new superintendent," said the tall man, as he walked into the room and threw his overcoat on a chair.
"Jane, don't you know me?"
With a glad cry that was almost a sob, Jane sprang forward, and was folded in the stranger's arms.
"Children," she said, when she could speak, "this is your father, come back to us at last."
"And to stay, please God," said Amos Derby, fervently, as in turn he embraced his children affectionately. "Jane, you shall have no room to complain of me in the future. I mean to make up to you for all I made you suffer before I found out what a fool I was to think more of my appetite than of my wife and children. Do you know what taught me my lesson?—Sillbrook's overcoat; and I've got one just like it. It will be a reminder, you know. And I've something better still—the place of superintendent at the mills here. I've worked hard, Jane, but my reward has come at last. When I left here I resolved never to come back until I could make myself worthy of you and the children. I found a place in the mills at ——, and worked my way up to be superintendent. Where there's a will, there's always a way, you know. I learned that you didn't need my help, so I waited on year after year, and now——"
"We are together, never to part again this side the grave," finished Jane, "Amos, God rules us all for the best. Let us thank Him for the blessings He has bestowed upon us; and then—suppose you let us see how you look in the overcoat you've come by so justly."
The news that Amos Derby was the new superintendent soon flew about the town, and great was the surprise thereat. No one was more astonished, perhaps, at the turn affairs had taken than Jason Sillbrook, and he wondered greatly at the good fortune of the man he had once so despised; but he never knew that it was largely due to the lesson Amos had learned from the saloon-keeper's overcoat.—The Christian at Work.
CONSUMPTION CURED.
An old physician, retired from practice, having had placed in his hands by an East India missionary the formula of a simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and permanent cure of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh, Asthma and all throat and Lung Affections, also a positive and radical cure for Nervous Debility and all Nervous Complaints, after having tested its wonderful curative powers in thousands of cases, has felt it his duty to make it known to his suffering fellows. Actuated by this motive and a desire to relieve human suffering, I will send free of charge, to all who desire it, this recipe, in German, French, or English, with full directions for preparing and using. Sent by mail by addressing with stamp, naming this paper.
W.A. Noyes,149 Power's Block, Rochester, N.Y.
Honestyof purpose must not be held as evidence of ability.
HUMOROUS
This is the bait thefishermen take,the fishermentake, the fishermen take,when they start out thefish to wake soearly in themorning. Theytake a nip before they go—agood one, ah! and long and slow,for fear the chills will lay them lowso early in the morning. Another whenthey're on the street, which they repeat eachtime they meet for "luck"—for that's theway to greet a fisher in the morning. Andwhen they are on the river's brink againthey drink without a wink—to fight ma-laria they think it proper in the morn-ing. They tip a flask with true delightwhen there's a bite; if fishing's lightthey "smile" the more till jolly tight,all fishing they are scorning. An-other nip as they depart: one at themart and one to part, but nonewhen in the house they dart, ex-pecting there'll be mourning.This is the bait the fisher-men try who fishes buy atprices high and tell eachone a bigger lie of fish-ing in the morning.
"Are you troubled with cold feet on retiring?" asked Yeast of Crimsonbeak, Saturday night, as they were returning from market freighted with provender.
"I should say I was!" replied Crimsonbeak emphatically, while a regular chills-and-fever shudder was seen to distribute itself over his frame at the recollection which the question recalled.
"I suppose you would like to learn how to avoid them?" replied the philanthropist, smiling at the thought of an opportunity to fire off one of his pet theories.
"I would give almost anything to be fortunate enough to escape them," said the despairing Crimsonbeak, in all truthfulness.
"Well it is easy enough done," went on his companion; "soak your feet in cold water the first thing when you get up in the morning; towards night run about three-quarters of a mile, and then soak your feet again in cold water on retiring."
"Well, I can't see how that is going to keep her feet from troubling me."
"Her cold feet from troubling you!" repeated Yeast, a little confused. "What do you mean?"
"Mean? Why, I mean that my wife's cold feet are the ones that chill me with an Arctic region touch. Whose feet did you suppose I meant, my mother-in-law's?" shouted the excited Crimsonbeak, darting into his gate and leaving his neighbor to his own reflections.
"Now that we are engaged," said Miss Pottleworth, "come and let me introduce you to papa."
"I believe that I have met him," replied young Spickle.
"But in another capacity than that of son-in-law."
"Yes—er, but I'd rather not meet him to-night."
"Oh, you must," and despite the almost violent struggles of the young fellow, he was drawn into the library, where a large, red-faced man, with a squint in one eye, and an enlargement of the nose, sat looking over a lot of papers.
"Father," said the girl.
"Hum," he replied, without looking up.
"I wish to present to you—"
"What?" he exclaimed, looking up and catching sight of young Spickle. "Have you the impudence to follow me here? Didn't I tell you that I would see you to-morrow?"
"Why, father, you don't know Mr. Spickle, do you?"
"I don't know his name, but I know that he has been to my office three times a day for the past week with a bill. I know him well enough. I can't pay that bill to-night, young man. Come to my office to-morrow."
"I hope," said Spickle, "that you do not think so ill of me. I have not come to collect the bill you have referred to, but—"
"What? Got another one?"
"You persist in misunderstanding me. I did not come to collect a bill, I can come to-morrow and see you about that. To-night I proposed to your daughter, and have been accepted. Our mission is to acquaint you with the fact and gain your consent to our marriage."
"Well," said the old fellow, "is that all? Blamed if I didn't think you had a bill. Take the girl, if that's what you want, but say, didn't I tell you to bring the bill to-morrow?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you needn't. Our relations are different now. Wish I had a daughter for every bill collector in town."
"So you have been fighting again on your way home from school!"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Didn't I tell you this sort of business had got to stop?"
"Yes, pa, but—"
"No excuses, sir! You probably provoked the quarrel!"
"Oh, no! no! He called me names!"
"Names? What of it? When a boy calls you names walk along about your business. Take off that coat!"
"But he didn't call me names!"
"Oh, he didn't? Take off that vest!"
"When he called me names I never looked at him, but when he pitched into you, I—I had to fight!"
"What! Did he call me names?"
"Lots of 'em, father! He said you lied to your constituents, and went back on the caucus and had!"—
"William, put on your coat and vest, and here's a nickel to buy peanuts! I don't want you to come up a slugger, and I wish you to stand well with your teacher, but if you can lick the boy who says I ever bolted a regular nomination or went back on my end of the ward, don't be afraid to sail in!"—Free Press.
Oneof the Harvard students has fitted up his room at a cost of $4,000. We suspect that the young man's room is better than his company.
"Don'tbe afraid," said a snob to a German laborer: "sit down and make yourself my equal." "I would haff to blow my brains out," was the reply of the Teuton.
"Yes," said Mrs. Egomoi, "I used to think a great deal of Mrs. Goode, she was always so kind to me; but then, I've found out that she treats everybody just the same."
Jerroldsaid to an ardent young gentleman, who burned with a desire to see himself in print: "Be advised by me, young man: don't take down the shutters before there is something in the window."
Arthur—"I say, what do you mean by fighting my hog all the time?"
Bismarck—"I means nodding in de vorld; I vash not fighting dot pig. We vash choost playing mit one anudder."
"Yes," said a fashionable lady, "I think Mary has made a very good match. I heard her husband is one of the shrewdest and most unprincipled lawyers in the profession, and of course he can afford to gratify her every wish."