Evening Star Newspaper, December 3, 1881, Page 6

HOME MATTERS. SFASONABLE RECIPES—VARIOUS TIMELY SUGGES- TIONS—HAND-MADE CHRISTMAS GIPTS, &C., &C. Tack Crerarns that shrink when they are washed can be lengthened by letting out the hem and facing with thin muslin. ir Inoxtsa ANY ARTICLE has become reorched. lay it in the direct rays of the sun. It will be drawn entireiy out. H esore Rvesep Over With MOoLasses and put around places that roaches and water buzs frequent, is a very effectual poison for them. Score Pr y Zixc with kerosene oil and polish of with whiting, or, what is better, give int. They ean then be cleaned simply washing them. j ° CHILpRen’s WRAPPERS can | i by sewing on a wristlet made of | sted of red or blue is not only as it does not soil sv ve OvsTERS to tempt the inv 2 is to make a stew wherein m is substituted for milk; salt it well; then | ine a small able dish with thin slices of | 1 pour the stew in. is caused by grief it is | | | | very ¢ from neryo' nt, bro- | of pot i ient | { purely nerve ehloroform in small quantit of persons with de ould be treated with such tonies bitters and the like. SHirts Giossy. To secure take of raw starch | one drachm: white of | sen, half an onnce; soluble mince; water. q. s. Make | h inte fine cream, dissolve the gum in | yt wat ol and mix it with the albu- | agiess when ironing shirt one eunce: cam arabi ex er blood albu men, and beat up the mixture with starch Haquid; then edd the water-giass (solution) and Shake together. Moisten the starched linen with acloth dipped in this liquid, and use a| polishing iron to develop the gloss. | Airy Bepsooxs.—Lady Barker recommends ¥ bedrooms for children. She says: “The | ndest and fussiest parents do not always erstand that on the wost careful attention ie rules depend the straightness of . the strength of their limbs, | their freedom from coughs and colds, and. in fact. their general health. But few consider | that haif of a young child’s life should be spent , ih its bed. So that unless the atmospher of om they seep in, the quality of the bed on, and the texture of the clothes which | it is for.” How to Spor. Ovr Qvait.—The quail and what we call partridge are, although essentially | dry birds, suseeptible of conversion into admi- rable dishes. With us, hewever, when they are not served broiled on toast to the consistency | and flavor ¢ Yet abroad how many ent ways have cooks invented for giving wel- rn i it ouly half their existence which is being cared | By what strange freak of heredity the humble home of sturdy Deacon Gray and his wifeamong the Berkshire hills, should have held such a nestling as Margery, might have puzzled our modern philosophers to discover. “She don’t seem to favor the Grays, nor yet the Percivals,” one gossip had said to another over her cradle; “but a handsomer baby I haven't set my eyes on for these thirty years.” Margery’s growing maidenhood had fulfilled the fair promise of face and form. It was but faint praise to call her the prettiest girl of all the country side. The quick smiles that dim- pled in her dainty cheeks or broke the delicate curves of her mobile, scarlet lips, the swift glances of her dark eyes full of slumbering fire, made of her fresh young face a perpetual “song without melody.” Not the father, whose stern notions of fitial submission, voiceless and abso- lute, had received a hundred shocks from self- as: ed individual nor the mother, whose gentle soul was grieved by her distaste for the monotony of housewifely duties; nor the teacher, whose patient hand had closed so often the open Tennyson or Victor Hugo above the unlearned alzebra upon her desk; nor yet the country lads, who, though boasting of her beauty, John Butler, looking up at her in the singers’ | seats on the Sunday of her 17th birthday—as he had done ever since she was old enough to take } her place—saw, as in a dream, the beautiful world of romance and passion asleep in her heart. ‘Waiting for the kiss of the prince!” he thought, witn an unconscious sigh. Yes made rare friendship with the bright hoyden. It was he who had fashioned the kites and the balls and other boyish toys for which her doll-house was disdained and deserted; he who had beaten tor her the ehestnut boughs on the hillside, or initiated her into the stealthy arts of trout fishing in the mountain brook. She had grown away from him now; nay. rather, he confessed to himseif with a dull’ pain in his heart, he had grown away from her. He was 30 vears old, and the daily employment of instructing the half-dozen boys whom he was accustomed to receive for college preparation made him feel still older. A yery quiet and humble work, but he had chosen it both from a certain felt aptitude for teaching and because he | could not leave his widowed mother quite alone in the old home to which she clung so fondly. Once chosen, however, he was sure to put into it his best of heart as well as of brain. One may teasure the pressure of steam, or the Weight of failing water, but not the power of conscience of one noble human soul. Seeing in wheel of sinall and seemingly monoto- we scarcely guess at the im- foree which, if teed were, would martyrdom. impel t There was a stranger at church that day who, in turn, gazed at Mafgery. She had met him already at some ze metry-making, and knew him to be Allen Wilde, an attache of the survey- ing party which was then laying the route fur the new railway through the neighboring hill passes. As it chanced, he had been shown a seat in John Butler's own pew, and a striking | contrast was presented by the men standing side hy side and sharing the book of hymns, while Margery’s clear soprano rang through the little church. The one whose grave, thoughtful brow come to the partridze. As saluis based upon | and slightly stooping shoulders kept the old truffles and crowned with them, re-enforced by | habit of his student life; the other, with figure @ puree flayored with their own juices and | bold. erect and full of careless grace, with black livers, they may claim equality with any dish of te. brings them | out with a fresher green color in spring, and | sometimes with a few days’ earlier start. The | work requires care. Ifcovered too densely, it | May smother and ret them. Laose_ stiff straw, | thinly applied, will do, but evergreen branches | are better. Nearly every owner has some Nor- way spruces, or other evergreens which would be improved by shortening back into symmetry, | and the trimmings are just what is wanted for covering strawberries and other plants. A mod- erate protection of this kind will save many self-sown hardy flowers and vegetables, the | seeds of which were started by the rainafter the | late severe drouth. and such plantwmay come a | month earlier in spring than if sown by hand | after the ground is dry enough.—Country Gen- | an. | Dscorstive Patrrxe for furniture is more | popular than ever. te Among the materials used | he former is used for jugs for the backs of mas; the latter for dados, sand the panels of doors. No prepara- tion is required when oil paints are used, aad the desi are bold and eflective. and the work usually rough. mall piane tacks are used fol fitting in the panel that the effect is a: if the ir itseli uted. . and iris | jadioli and. white painted on colored ust now. There are and sometimes four base. with a small rom cach of the same flowers as adorn the | clus panel above.—Art Amateur. Haxp-aane FTs—In addition to the ; recently as suitable h: Christmas gifts are the | followine: e tidy is made of alter- nate strips of black and aida canvas. Have the strips of equ: h, and straight | across the top, but pointed at the bottom; the biaek velvet strips should be embroidered with bright eolored silk und the ed ‘sti i Thisis ail the » make a pretty effect. work a Scroll or a stripe with silk | i. Finish the tidy by | ides and blind- | @ tassel on each point. | made of crewel. Make | just as you would a common worsted towel, and when made take a needle and separate the | threads in as many parts as is possible without | On the canva: and worsted down at and putt Very pretty tas breaking em. They will look soft and / fleecy if rightly made. Brush broom cases | made of stiff canvass and ornamented | With applique work, or with a monogram | worked in or with a bunch of flowers, are gift requiring more time and | pane of glass or a | > with velvet. Then ape on a bristol board card, and the velvet. A small eard may be | efeetive in this way. If you use | ion, be sure that it Will not | cy. popular just now, is to paint a landscape on side of some pebble | you have brought from your summer wauder- ings. This makes a nice paper-weight. Cases for brushes and combs are not hard to make, aud are useful in protecting from dust. Cut a foundation of pasteboard, either in shape like | the brush or long and narrow; cover this with ial. from silesia to silk; la: the brush : »ub on it, and take another strip of pasteboard and bend to form a cover This is to be attached at the sides only: the énds are leit open so that the brush may sti | in and ont easily. Cover this also to other part, and ornament to suit your own taste. — Post. + TeRkey Stvrrixe.—Now, anybody who says Tam sausage-neat into a turkey’s bosom don’t | aything about it. I like my sausage on to make stuffing, and I will give several Take a loaf or stale bread and crumble it. I can't give pr e quantity, for turkeys’ bosoms | vary. In your stale crumbs put a lump of but- | ter—a spoonful—and a little salt an P and tix it thoroughly. Then grate the third of | @ nutmez in it, and just a dash of marjoram. don’t uever use thyine, for thyme means ducks and xeese. If you want your stuffing rich take | the yolks of two eggs and mix in it.’ This is a| dry stuffing and comes out crumbly, and so some people like it. If you want a softer fill | ing soak your crumbs just for a minute in luke- | warm water and then squeeze out all the water, but on the risk of writing bard English words, an | ever-soft and running kind of stuffing dves look like a poultice. Another stut- fing is made with suet instead of You do just the same thing, but | that suet ain't to my manner of thinking, as it's | oily. Just a little lemon peel grated in a stuf- ing helps out the flavor. But oh, my, all these here stuffings just wilts before achestnut filling. Itain'ta bit bard to do. Take, say fifty chest- Buts, and cut ‘em across with a knife, and put them in s pan on the fire until the she:ls open— don’ t burn or roast them. Now shell them and ‘em in @stew pan with a tablespoonful of lukewaria water and let em simmer. They will Gvon get soft. Mash them in the same pan, add @ little milk, a piece of butter, a teaspoonful; prpres and salt. and @ little chopped parsley. the chestnuts cook, stirring them until they are quite thick aud pasty—no run about them— and then put that in your turkey. A chestnut that this bird feeds on is just the thing to eat Bim with, for its following out nature's own dictation. Some dayI am going to give a Feceipt for a chestnut padding, for we are awful nessa this here Craps as to the guod- Bess chestaut.—Bob te Sea Cock in New Xork Tics. . , invested her lover with all hei and flashing eyes which seem to speak in turn all the languages but that of fear and reverence, and full lips whose easy curl was veiled by the silken moustache he wore. Twice or thrice Margery’s own eyes, encoun- tering those of the new comer, dropped sud- denly, and a heightened color crept into her cheeks. John Butler saw it, and hated himself for the sudden aversion he felt for the man at his side. What property had he in Margery that he should resent the tribute of admiration which none could choose but render to so fair a face ? Yet a vague presentment of evil, from which, strive as he might. he could not eliminate an unreasonable sense of personal loss, made him unquiet as he walked homeward when the ser- vice was o His heart was none the lighter ng Wilde, presuming on his pre- n to Margery. had overtaken nd was walking at her side, bending with vious introdu: hei chivalrous grace as he talked, while smiles and blushes ¢ ‘ed each other over her face. It was the beginning of a sad summer for John Butler. There were no truths so power- ful in their final self-assertion as those which we have persistently striven to hide even from ourselves. It was not long before he knew, past denial. that with all the strength of his mature manhood he loved Margery Gray, and shatever faint hope he had unhcon- vite the disparity of age yme day winning her to was fast fading into the ai Allan Wilde had so far disarmed Deacon Gray’s i welcome visitor at the farm- by evening he sat with Margery aipe arbor, and the light breeze wafted the sound of gay talk and happy laughter through the open window of John Butler's dy. Margery’s beauty blossomed in those slike that lovely cactus flower which opens ina single night. “Her untrained imagination ie attributes. The stories he told her of adventures met in the practice of his profession in remote, half-settled districts. of encounters with hostile land- owners, who disputed eveu by foree of arms the Tight of railway passage across their soil, sound- ed to her like the wildest dreams of romance. She could seareely believe that so brilliant and daring a representative of the great world out- side could bring the treasure of his love to a little country girl whose life was bounded by her native hills. John Butler watched the younz man narrowly. He had the narrow nobility of nature which would have made him able to rejoice in Margery's happiness even at the price of his own pain, could he have felt that he resigned her to a worthy rival. He had learned that Allen was well connected in his distant home, but nothing definite of his personal character beyond a cer- ain reputation of careless living. Yet all the more, as the weeks went by, he felt that Margery Was building her life hopes upon the treacherous sand of an untrue and yacillating nature. Pos- sibly he was neither wholly right nor wrong in hisjudgment. Wilde had the dual tempera- ment; magnetically responsive to external influences, he was good and bad by turns. When, with a just perceptible mist of tears dimming the brightness of his eyes, he would say to Margery. “Darling, you little know what my life as been! I am not worthy of you, but you shall make me what you will.” he was, perhaps, for that time, as thorouchly himself as when far away, amid a crowd of reckless companions. he ained the dangerous glass or sung the had d bacchanalian song. He left her in the first days of autumn, with the golden rod beaming in the valleys and the scarlet sumach flaming on all the hills. Mar- ger face was bright through her tears with hope and trust as she bade him good- bye. Was he not to come again at Christmas time? And then, if all was well, they would never be parted more. (Gay, tender letters came to her as the first week went by; their loving words singing them- selves over in herheart like the carol of spring birds. Almost imperceptibly a change crept over them—a tone of trouble, half-reckless dis- content, which grieved her sorely, though it could not shake her loyalty. At last, one night, she opened the envelope with familiar superscription to find only a hasty scrawled note within: Dearest Margery—I have been unfortunate, and am in sertous business trouble, Ifear I may not Donte forget ane, to YoU as soon ws We arranged. Yourown ALLAN. That was all. No word of comfort or ex- planation; and following an absolute silence for three long weeks. None but a nature proud and sensitive as Margery’s could comprehend the agony of sus- nse in which, each night, she looked vainly for a message from her lover. She shared her burden with no one. Coming in one evening from a long walk among the bleak hills, whither she had gone to ease the intolerable aching of her heart, she heard the noise of wheels as her father returned from his nightly journey to the willege post office, and sank down unnoticed in dim corner of the half-lighted room. He came up the long walk with a slow, heavy step, and throwing lea door, peg through ve passage-way. He did not see Margery ashe passed, and made no sound fn her bh less anxiety. g “Witel” he said, with a solemn of tone that made her heart leap; ‘‘an awful thing has happened! Alas! for the day when, in spite of my better judgment, I received a wolf in peo te clothing under my rooft All the village istalkiIng of the news which the tabla Song have brought to-night. It is Al. Wilde, ry. To meet debts he had made—gambling debts!— he forged a note. Detected and pursued, with arms in his hands he resisted the officers of the law and—pald the forfeit with his own life!” A scream ran through the room. Mrs. Gray fell back weakly in her chair, and even her hus- band’s strong limbs tottered under him. Mar- gery came forward from the shadow. Qolorless the fire-light fell upon her face. With an imper- ious pict tapos the newspaper in her father’s hand,and before he had gained strength to detain her by word orsign, she had gone through the long hall, up the stairs, and they heard the key turn in the lock of her own door. If Margery could have died that night she would have accounted it the sweetest boon that fate could hold in store; but life was too strong in her young veins. Rebel as she might against the cruel fortune which had befallen her, she had no choice but to arise the next morning to the first of the new days which seemed to stretch in endless procession befure her until her very brain reeled dizzily. One purpoee only was clear in the chaos of her mind—to let no one ik to her of her dead lover. There should be silence since there were po kind words tosay. Witha flerce tenderness she wrapped his memory in the garment of her love whieh he had so dishonored. She made for him a hun- dred excuses to her own heart, but none the less with the pitiless truthfulness which was a part of her nature, she knew that the mere fact of his death was to her less than nothing beside the wreck of her broken idol. As the long winter wore away and spring and summer covered the hills once more with bud and blossom, Deacon Gray grew impatient that the color did not return to Margery'scheeks and the old light to her eyes. His stern nature | might bear with the first shoek of grief and dis- may, but he felt it now high time she should for- get all vain regrets for an unworthy object. Un- consciously his manner betrayed his disapproval, and in proportion her own grew cold and re- served. From her mother’s weaker nature she had never looked for helpful and comprehend- ing sympathy. Only John Butler, with the keen insight of love, read the poor child’s heart. He had given her little more than an occasional smile of pleas— ant greeting in all these months, yet his whole soul yearned towards her in an agony ot pity- ing tenderness. Slowly and tremblingly the hope dawned in his heart that she might be won, to begin with him new life, in which his great love should atone to her for the cruel suffering she had endured. Allan Wilde had lain for eighteen months in his dishonored grave when Deacon Gray called Margery one day to speak with her alone. “Ch he said, “I have something to say to you which deeply concerns your welfare. John Butler has spoken to me of you to-day. He would searcely expect me to repeat to you what he said, but I have thought best to do so, that you may know beforehand my opinion in refer- ence to the subject. He has asked my permis- sion to seek you for his-Wife.” Margery started violently “His wife!” she cried with bitter emphasis. “Does John Butler think I can——” She stop- ped suddenly, and a wave of color swept across her cheeks. Her father had arisen. “Margery,” he said, in a voice tremulous with passion, “‘listen to me! On the hillside yonder are the graves of three of my children. Better for the only one left me that she were laid beside them than to waste her life in wicked repining fora scoundrel, who, if he was alive to-day, would be serving out’ the penalty of his crime in the penitentiary.” He paused, startled at the calm whiteness of her face. She put up her hand, and her lips moved for amoment without a sound. At last she said: “Father, itis enough! Send John Butler to me!” “TI cannot, Margery. He gave me no message for you.” “Then I will go to him,” she answered, turn- ing with swift, resistless motion to the open door. John Butler sat alone in his schoolroom. There was a quick tap on the door, and scarcely wait— ing for his answer, Margery entered. Startled at her pallor, he would have ted her to a seat, but she gently resisted. “Jom,” she said, still standing before him, “my father has told me what you said to him.” “He told you?” “He told me. Yes, it was better so,” she an- swered. “I have come to tell you that I will marry you if you wish; but there is one thing you should have known. I have never cared for any one in that way but—but—” The strain had been too great, She sunk into a chair and burst into a storm of passionate weeping. He bent overher in an agony of self-reproach, soothing her like a little child. “My child, I know, 1 know,” he said. Then when her sobs were still— “Did you come to me of your own will, Mar- gery?” Of my own will.” ‘And could you trust me then to cherish and comfort you some time, may be, teach you to love me as I—ob, my darling, Lhave loved you ‘ay! “Twill try,” she answered. He took the little, cold bands in his own, and kissed them reyerently, in seal of their strange betrothal. He had other dreams—this strong, self-con- tained nan—of the little bride that slowly but surely won might creep some time with smiles and blushes to his sheltering breast, but he put them by, and closed the book of memory upon the unmarked paze. His home had been very lonely since his moth- er’s death, and Margery herself seemed to wish for no delay; so in the early autumn they were married. With fond secrecy he had fitted all the belong- ings of her room to her special tastes and fancies. The colors she chose, the books and flowers she loved best, were there. He had pictured to him- self over and over how the old sunshine would lighten her face at the sight. You are very kind,” she said simply: only that. “Tam too impatient,” he thought, crushing his disappointment. “I must wait; she must have time.” How patiently he waited God only knows. Her smallest wishes were consulted; she was irked by no unaccustomed care; she dwelt in an atmosphere of watchful care and gentleness. Yet he looked vainly for anything beyond the quiet, grateful response which might have been made by an honored guest. At rare intervals an almost petulant manner replaced her usual calm, and he found her sometimes, after long walks by her herself, with traces of tears upon her cheeks. He ceased the small caresses which she received go passively. fearing to give her pain, His love never wavered—but slowly slowly, hope was dying from his heart. She ‘came to him one day and stood silently beside the desk where he was correcting a pile of Latin exercises. Suddenly, with her old im- pulsive motion, she swept her hand across the papers. “Are you never tired of it all?” she cried. “This ceaseless monotony—the boys with their creaking boots and blotted exercises and end- leas conjugations. Does this life satisfy you? Do you want nothing?” Long afterward she remembered the pain in his face. He felt for a moment that he must open his arms and cry. to her, “You—you—it is you I want! Come!” But’ he only wiped his pen carefully and laid it down. - “You are tired, my child,” he said—he always called her “my child” now—“I have been selfish in keeping you to my dull ways. We must have some change for you. Stay! I have the very plan. You remember my Aunt Olivia Rande, whom you met here with her daughter three years ago? I hada letter from her this morn- ing from her country home on the seashore. She asked us to come to her for a long visit. I cannot well leave, you know, but I will send you forboth of us. Would you like it, Mar- gery? ie had not seen so bright a look upon h face for months. . SS “Tam sure I should like it,” she answered. Then, with sudden compunction: “You won't be lonesome?” “I shall be busy, be know, and old Elsie will take famous care of me.” He lifted his eyes to her face. If she had said but one little word how joyfully would he have pushed aside all obstacles to follow her where she would. Tam writing a story ot to-day. It was in last July when Margery went away. Life in Mrs. ee sane wae a novel ee There was a throng o} guests, and Margery’s un- conscious Beautemans her the B isnt and ad- mired of all. Amid the airy flatterings which chivalrous men of the world poured into her un- accustomed ears she first began to take her hus- band’s measure. A strange, homesick longing stirred within her, growing asthe weeks went by. Why not go back at once? To-morrow, she thought one night. She need not wait to send him word. How glad he would be! A thrill of unusual delight made her cheeks flush. She fan lightly from the station after her long day's ride. She had never dreamed that the mere sight of the staid, brown house could make her so glad. As she .came near she fancied it wore an uninhabited aspect. The front doors Were shut and the blinds at her husband's aoay window were closely drawn. Her heart throb! in time to the he knocker under her hand. She heard the old housekeeper’s step in the passage, and the door slow! “Misa Margery!” cried the woman, asifshe had seen a ghost, falling back in her astonishment to her old-time form of address. “Yes, yes; itis I. Why do you look at me so? Where is your master?” ‘Then you don't know!” “Know what? Oh, Elsie, tell me Is hing wrong with my there Miss j—excuse me, Mrs. Butler. J- Margery fell on the threshold without a word. Old Elsie lifted her in her arms, and on @ couch within, dispatched neighbor for her father and mother. “Did he leave no word, no message for me?” said Margery, when she could 5 “Yes, honey, dear; this'letter he said I was to give into your own hands.” She sat up, and breaking the seal with trembling fingers, read: “When you read this, my beloved, you will know that I have gone where duty is me, in the hope of doing «ome little good to the suf- fering and dying. I have not written you of my decision because I would not have your pleasure marred by any anxious thought of me. I know the danger, and am not unpreparec. If God wills, I shall come back; if not, there is one thing I must ask you, dearest. Forgive the self- ish wrong I did in making you my wife. I was too old and dull to make you happy; but be- lieve me, darling, L would have done it if I could. My great loye has made me biind. You have been good and brave. [ bless you now and ever in my heart. If anything should hap- pen me, Margery, geto Mr. Latimer. He holds my Will and knows my wishes. All I have is yours. Think gently of me, darling, and may God hold you in his Keeping now and always. “JOH She read it slowly through to the last Then she returned: “Father, she said, with the old ring in her voice, ‘‘I start for the south to-morrow! Do not think to stay me; I am going to my husband. Shall I sit safely here while he gives away a life worth a thousand such as mine? Even now ke may be fighting death alone? Arguments, ertreaty, command, all were alike in vain. With the early morning light the long journey was begun. She knew no weariness, she felt no fear. The rushing, thundering train seemed to her to crawl along the sand. She would have ridden, ifshe could, upon the wings of the lightning. In the night she seems to hear her husband’s voice calling her—God would not let him die before he knew how she loyed him. Oh, fool and bli that she had been! Wherein all her dre discontent had there been love and courage like this? Here was a knight braver than Lancelot, more true and tender than Arthur of the Round Table, and she had retused his crown. Closer and more stifling grew the heat and dust as they neared the fever-infested district. Long trains laden with flying refugees met them at stations. Groups of Sisters of Charity, in the black gowns and quaint, snowy heai gear, occupied the car with her. Two phy cians from the far northwest sat just across the aisle. She heard tragments of their conve tion, calm they were bound on some long planned excuysion of business or pleasure. Common life had grown all at once heroic; it was worth while to live—nay, to die—in such a cause as this. The quarantine station was reached at last. through which Margery was to enterthe doomed city ef her destination: “My child,” pleaded an old officer, “I speak to youas a father. Go home! You are too young and beatiful to rush upon certain death.” “My husband is there!” pleaded Margery. The early morning papers were brought in. She took one mechanically in her hand and this is what she saw: John Butler, volunteer visitor for the How- ard’s, from ——, Mass., was stricken yesterday. It will be hard, indeed, to fill the place of this marvelously brave and efficient worker, who has seemed able to instil some of his own indomit- able courage and hope into every one with whom he came in contact. He lies violently sick at — hospital. Margery is in acarriage at last. The coach- man lashes his horses, but she cries to him to drive faster. Stores and shops are passed; here and there people, black and white, rush out from the by-streets and alleys, calling for help “tor the love of God.” About the great aid-centers hundreds of ne- groes with their baskets crowded on the curb- i to wi for the calling of their names. they met hearses, open wagons, great express carts piled with the dead, their horses at a trot, moving southward to the ceme- teries. They are stopped now. She springs from the carriage unaided. A little girl grasps her dress. “Oh, lady, my mother is dying!” cried the girl, through “a rain of tears. Margery loosened the child’s fingers gently, but she can- not linger. ‘Take me to John Butler!” attendant. Past long rows of cots, where men and women. ind little children groan and writhe in mortal agony, she follows him. They are taking out a laying her a ine. she cried to an Oh, God in heay st nt in delirium, with face diseolored and dis- ed, and bloodshot, staring eves—can this be he? One moment she shrank upon her knees be- side the bed; then she arose to battle with death. . The nurse could tell you how a giant's strength seemed to dwell in her young arms, a wisdom almost superhuman in’ her_ inexperi- enced brain. Day and night went by but she did not mark them. The dead around her were replaced by the dying, but she took no heed. The hour came when love had conquered. John Butler awoke, too weak for speech or motion, but with the old ray of reason in his eyes; and whether in the body or out of the body he knew not, but Margery’s face wasaboye him, and Margery’s kiss was on his almost life- less lips. : Slowly but surely his strength returned. Mar- gery could leave him at length to care forothers whose needs were greater. Hedic not keep her back. She seemed to wear a charmed life. and her face—bright as with a light reflected from the world ‘ond this—was the last comfort of many a dying eye, the fiest returning gleam of. earthly hope and love to souls who, throagh her gentle ministration, came slowly and painfully back from the gates of death. ‘They went home together when over the smit- ten land had descended the healing benison of the frost. It was their wedding journey. The far hills were blue with Indian ‘summer; sky and earth seemed bathed in the glory of a mystic transfiguration. They talked little by the way. There are some moods which words, even the tenderest, but profane. If they had never come back, what then? What does it matter—death or life—to souls who have tasted the supreme of existence, perfect loveand sacrifice. ‘Trailing. One of the most remarkable features of un- civilized life is the power savages show of track- ing men and beasts over immense distances. Many travelers have spoken of this as some- thing almost miraculous, yet it is only the re- suit of careful observation of certain well-known signs; and we have here before us a collection of very common sense hints on the subject. In countries like ours every trace of footprint or wheel-track on roads or paths is soon oblite- rated or hopelessly confusea; but it is otherwise in the wilderness, where neither man nor beast can conceal his track. In Caffreland, when cattle are stolen, if their foot-prints are traced to a village, the head man is responsible for them unless he can show the same track goipgout. A wagon track in a new country is practically indellible, “More especially,” say the authors of “Shifts and Ex- pedients of Camp Life,” “‘is this the case if a fire Sweeps over the plain immediately after, or if the wagon during or after a prairie fire. We have known a fellow-traveler recognize in this manner the tracks his wagon had made seven years before, the lines of charred stum crushed short down remaining to indicate the passage of the wheels, though all other impres- sions had been obliteratéd by the rank annual xe of grass fully 12 feet high. Sometimes z pies pene being ates, anew Medea it spring up along the thus mark out the ond for miles a Even on hard fro1 nd other indications of the time that has elapsed since a man passed by is furnished by the state of the crashed grass, Which will be more or less witl as the time ig longer or shorter. Other indications are draw which the grass lies: from the direction in blowing at the time ion leaden tor was D eo was s and by noting previous of the wind, one learns the time at which each part of the track was The salutatorian, says an exchange, at Yale the ear ra a Goria te Chinam: * Oat a an. when it comes to real élassical culture our na- tive land is there. The pitcher of the Yale base. bal! clab is ap American. - Ifthe reader will run over in his mind the names of the leading citizens of New York who are fairly entitled to be called “leading men,” he will find hardly one who was born in the city. The great majority were born and reared in the country. A large proportion of them havecome here from New England. Nor is it true alone of citizens who occupy a large place in public estimation that they were born elsewhere than in New York. The pro- portion of country-born and country-bred men in the solid but inconspicuous business circles Isvery large. It would be invidious to men- tien by name the men whom the well-in- formed reader will have in his mind while this suggestion is being considered But we are confident that a census of the most prosperous and successful business men of New York would .reveal the fact that very few of them, comparatively speaking, are of city birth. and there, to be sure, we find mighty millic aires who are proud tu claim New York city as | their birthplace. But in nearly all such’ in- stances it is true of them that th ited their vast wealth, with all its potentia’ s. it is an old maxim that “money makes money,” } it does not affect the general question to stance, as highly successful city-born men, the | millionaires who owe their fortunes to 1 sagacity, industry. and enterprise of their f ers, who br ‘© the city habits of frugality and thrift of which their children know notht; whateyer. The truth is still more vividly im- pressed on the mind by citing these inheritors of the fruits of other men’s labors. The founders of the colossal fortunes of New York were coun- try born: some of them even were of alien birth. Their heirs may have proved themselyes pradent and careful of that which has fallen to them. They have originated next to nothing. | Perhaps an apolozy should be made for thus dwelling on the possession of wealth as an i cation of greatness. But the average Yorker, when confronted with the proposition ading fellow-citizens are not city- . Will think of the very rich men as the first to be tried by this standard. Who are our lead- | ing men if they are not those whose names lead | in the list of millionaires? It is this mammon | worship which stunts mental growth, d-varfs the noblest ambition, and_ makes individuality impossible. In the city, fashion ghd the strug gle for the possession of wealth engross the thoughts of the young. These they drink in with the imported milk of infancy. “Fashion re- duces all young men and women to the same dull and uninteresting level. New York is now an old city. ithas produced generationsof men. How few of them have ever made their mark, here or elsewhere! It cannot be said that they | go into other parts of the country and there de- | velop the higher forms of mantiood. They are | never heard of except in the agsrevat | crete form of “our fellow-citizens.” Ho of a man is due to qualities born in hir ‘how much to his early environment, no | pher has been able to tell us. But ‘it sible to cone ye of a si cious intellect like that of Lincoln, or a glorious mind like Web: ster’s, emerging from the false glitter and noisy | commotion of the city. | ton, the patric ze, ww among the | stately oaks of Old Virginia, of Jefferson in his | country seat, and of John Adams tilling his farm in Massachusetts. These men, it is true, flourished in a time when there were no biz cities in the United States. But later on we see Lincoln, Grant and Garfield reaching the topmost round of fame’s ladder from ity of country homes. nt, from first to last, was bor rom the country that the ci lood. Into the’ silence, darkness, and and philoso- | best moral ignominy of the eruel city how much of the country’s promise has sunk. we can only | guess. The men and women whom the temp- tations of the city have wrecked, and the tierce conflicts of city competition have crushed, are a great multitude. But the men who have molded public opinion, the men who have led the peo- ple in great crises, and who have giyen the city its greatest honor have come into it from country homes. From country homes where mothers, not nursery-maids, rear the young; from country homes where there is opportunity for tranquil thought, reflection, high resolve, communion with the subtle iufluences and visible forms of nat Of the Americans who have exercised the widest influence upon modern thought, we may mention Emerson. A. city- born Emerson would be an anomalous impos: bility. Hawthorne was the subtlest of Ameri- can Novelists. Born and bred in a city, he would never have been heard of. For the condition of thi there is no apparent remed any city are not creati other than they are; nor ean th changed. The New York bo} be the example of bis whatever the counsels ti revered lips, i tion, Not to the emulation of the i ite the whole countr i endure when the merely rich forgotten, but to the emulation of those whe build palaces for themse equipages, and pomps in the wide spaces of the country, gestive solitudes of forests s of which we speak The infinences of mnot be made whatever may ‘y-born pa who with thinking, and slowly forming indi acter—there we must look for the coming men who will govern the polities, society, morality, and thought of the city. SSeS Is a Rabbit Bite Poison? Creek, Cal., was bitten by a rabbit in Septem- ber, from the effects of which he almost lost his life. He was trying to catch the rabbit for his little boy, when the animal bit him on the thumb, but he took little notice of it at the time. About an hour afterward his thumb began to ain him severely and swelled rapidly, so that he sent for a physician, who thought he must have been bitten by a rattlesnake. The doctor, at first, could not believe that it was the bite o! the rabbit that caused the trouble: satisfy himself, he had several rabbits caught, with which he experimented. He found that the upper jaw contained a hollow tooth, from which he extracted a very poisonous fluid. He ascertained that two drops of tiis fluid adunn- istered to a lamb would kill it in less than an hour.— Virginia City (Nev.) Enterprise. Jan coemugsnr ee Tue KrnGs of to-day are growing economical, not to say stingy, and save money, and seek “investments” after a fashion which would once have been denounced as most unroyal, but which probably has its root in a permanent sense of insecurity. The late king of the Bel- gians left a fortune worthy of a Jew financier; opr own queen has grown wealthy onthe throne; the sultan, according to W. Blunt, has a heavy secret purse in England; the king of Italy is an is, it is said, never in debt. Still, this genera- tion remembers the Emperor Nicholas, who spent two millions a year on the Imperial household; King Victor Emanuel, who, with eight or nine royal incomes and estates, never had a penny; the Emperor Napoleon III who frittered away a million a year, with little but rather vulgar festivals to show for it; and the king of the Netherlands, who scattered in his earlier youth a fortune ‘beyond the dreams of avarice,” popularly estimated at £12,000,000 sterling and probably exceeded half that amount. It is not 15 years since a week's visit to Compeigne cost each lady £500—21 dresses at least being de rigueur—since it was impossible for a French courtier’s wife to spend less than life. Out | A man by the name of Otis, living on Horse | exact economist; and the emperor of Austria, | B OOKS. Cc. BAUM has for the Holidays alarge and weil-selected Seker JUVENILE CLASSICAL AND STANDARD BOOKS, which will be offered to the publfe at PRICES NEVER SOLD HERE BEFORE. Call carly, as the selection is now complete at CHAS. BAUM'S, 416 SEVENTH STREET. ¥, 28 hard Cobien’s y Wife's Sister, N fewspaper, by Charles by Jobn W. Judd, Inter. Set . Invalideand Settlers, by by Cherbu- te and Sinn KARLLEM AND 1015 Peanay SvsooL BOOKS, : BOUGHT AND FXCHANGED z ANGLIWS ANTIQUARIAN BOOKSTORE, “ F Steerer. Pamphlets, & Cash paid 13-6 300TS AND SHOES. Witter many, 816 7th street, between Hand I, And 1922 Pennsylvania ave., between 19th and 20th sts., Has the lenzest ITERS, BAL Ii kinds of Book or EVENING WEAR, Nios : AT HATS Gent's, Boys’ and Youth's Patent Leather PUM? tos: Ladies’ and Misses’ White SLIPPERS, Ladies’ and Misses’ Low Opera Kid $1 to $1.50. Do., ie. aH. ROE STYLE, AT HAHN'S. are Vamp Kid ana Cloth-Top Ladies’ French He Button BOO I Ladies’ $1.50 Gen Bao $1.50 and $2 Ge Gent's $2 to $3 Calf and k Boys’ and Girls B0c. to 41. Free Rover Wean, Gent's Waterproof IT Boys’ Calf and Kip LOOT 4 hak GREAT CLOSING SALE STILL CONTINUES AT SINSHEIMER & BROS, 808 SEVENTH str ‘We will offer from Fri lay the following additional GREAT BARGAINS: Ladies’ Goat Button Shoes. Ladies’ Kid Button Shoes. : Ladies’ Kid Button, worke $1.45, worth $2. Ladies’ Pebble Button, worke +at $1.45, worth $2.00 An elegant line of Boys’ English Walking Bale., at the low price of noe About 40 paire Boys’ Gaiters, sizes 2 to 5. which are cheap at $1.50. About 75 pairs Men's Leautiful Toilet Slippers, the choice.. asere Men's Buckle Arctics, all sizes, thing we have at ACTUAL COST, 28 we close business by January Ist next, If you wish to save money call at once, as our stock ia still complete." This is an oppo seldou offered. Look for Name and Number. SINSHEIMER & BRO., _n10_ Bo ARE T TFACTURED. Burt's Hand M: row toes UTTO! | Bart's Han IN | Barts Fren Bart's Pertec: | Ladies Hand Aor Ge Boot f | Ladies’ Ki | Our Paris Shoes, eood and cheap. at low prices, be had at 3d. McCARTHY’S, SYLVANIA AVENUI en's Sprinic 1e above goods CAL 0 ce 605 PE LADIES’ GOODS. VW INTER OPENING 7 ia oi MRS. J. P. PALMES, IMPORTER OF FRENCH MILLINERY GOODS, REET, BETWEEN lira AND 1272, First Regular Winter Openii BONNETS AND ENGLISH HATS place THURSDAY NEXT, DECEMBER 8TH. No Cards. a Veuuitya’s LADIES’ BOOTS. BARGAL BARGAINS !1 Thavee large stock of LADIFS'’ WINTER that { will sell at GREAT BARGAINS. Many have been MADE TO ORDER, and all are F CLASS in every respect. JAS. H. VERMILYA, G10 Ninth street, n29-Int Opposite U. 8. Patent Office. [2 Vo BRanvrs, MODISTE, 913 Pennsylvania ave.,over Demnscy'’s Stationery ’Store, Formerly with Lord ’& Taylor, York, and Wm: Dron dttt Co. BE Le Evening Dresses; Bridal ‘Trousscans, Cloaks, Dolmans and Suits; all made at notice; perfect work, superior fi! guaranteed. ADIES’ CLOAKS, DOLMANS, PALETOTS, JACKETS AND SUITS. CHILDREN’S AND MISSES CLOAKS, ‘The largest and best assortment in the city, FUR TRIMMINGS in different widths, M. WILLIAN, 1 Cite Trevise, Paris. 907 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE. * CN nner Srazer Nontnwesr, NTH x iil open her selection of BONNETS and ROUND HATS.on TUESDAY, October 18. 015 4m Mx WASHINGTO! FASHIONABLE RESSMAKING AND TRIMMING is TAL PENSYLVANLA AVE., Costumes, Cloake, &e., Boreiyle at shirt notice ‘Ladies can have Dresses cut and basted, and a perfect fit guaranteed. aps BUILDERS’ SUPPLIES. ‘tattahonad ra STORE, £100 a year on her dress, and since a lady con- tested before the courts of Paris a bill for £15,000 for dressing her for three years. She had paid, says the Quarterly, £12,000 into court. The carefully guarded privacy of modern life, too, conceals enormous expenditures. We mak very much of Creesus’ bribes, but Lord Hare- wood spent £120,000 in one Yorkshire election; £50,000 have been given for a great borough, and the House of Commons expends two mil- lions time it is dissolved. We read aghast of Nero’s horses shod with gold, and of a Span- ish viceroy driving into Lima with eight mules all shod with silver; but first-class racing stable in this country costs £30,000 a year, a “liberal” stable fora great country house has been known to cost £4,000 annually, the late Lord eres wine billas viceroy of india ex- ceeded that sum, and any man familiar with Cowes will tout steam yachts which for every month they are afloat cost £1,500. There are many men in land who spend £100,000a Tz Bavelseac ves and their fami- and ieee to include purchases, as the iti we sus] Setdons. we W. KENNEDY & CO., (Established 1800,) Dealers in BAR IRON, STEEL, TIN PLATE, ENGINEERS, MACHINISTS, COACH SUPPLIES, BUILDER'S HARDWARE. 606 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUR AND 607 B STREET. RN. B.—Store closed at 6 p.m. MITATION STAINED GLASS. This, and beautiful given to every customer. Agency, $39 1 ewees . Refer to Church of the Incarnation. * Cine dG. CULVERWELL het for Be. Paws Ge WHNDOW AND HATE Lass, For Use, Best inthe world. Only bisck that wove: faden, J. H. JOHNSON & CO., Aczxts, ___ FINANCIAL. _ AILROAD AND MINING STOCKS Fractional oniers executed satisfactorily. Information Crean Orerations mated; also referonces a " HENRY L. RAYMOND & 00., 4 and 6 Pox Sraner, New York. Correspondents Matthews & J re R R. Shek & Co., aoe oe rpg | E MINING RECORD, 61 BROADWAY, SX. Tiss Bp STOCK Br PARTMENT. SING STOCKS MIN! | Bought and Soid at lowest rates of Oo on 1 York and San Prar oe min Advances made and divide tilt cashed, A. BK. CHISOLM & CO, dley | OPERATIONS IN We still continue to rell Consin's Cur Kid Botton at | Treasurer. £2.69, and Consin’s French Kid at $3.75, in fact every- | D.C. JO) BOOTS j ‘of thera | IRS: B satisfaction n26-6m. nade | sion in San F | York, Bost ee , 3S ni6-wits st JOHN. A.D Bankers and Brokers, No. 1 SATTY noche 0, Uatee to fv a w sent free. PevaTe STOCK TELDG: PH WIRES BETWEEN WASHINGTON AND NEW YORK. H. HB. DODGE: Bonds, Stocks and Tavestmont Securities Bough tind Sold on Commission, No. 539 iS STREET, Agency for (CORCORAN BUILDIN ince and Whitely, Stock Brokers, (4 Boapwax, New Yous. Every clase of Seenrities houtht and sold on commie nore, Philadelphia, New Onders executed on the taht of one per cont Private and direct telegraph wires to adelphia, New York and Boston, trough ~ are executed on the Stock Exchanges Washington. & Exchange at one New York St ‘¥, FIRE OR ACCIDENT. THE NATIONAL SAFE DEPOSIT COMPANY, . of Washington, In ite own Buil@ing, Cousen Ien Stree AND New Yorw Ave. mary 224, 1867, y rents Safes, Its, at prices varyin a to size and locatic Joining Vaults, provided for Safe Reuters. VAULT DOORS cretary, ‘Nytait, Asst. Secy. Benjamin P. Snyders Charles C., Gle ain P. Snyder, Charles C, Glover, Jonn Cassels, . X A, Willard, Albert L. Sturtevant, 7 - hn G. Parke, of ni CO-PARTNERSHIPS. IMITED CO-PARTNERSUIP. 4 The undersigned do hereby certify that they have | formed‘ co-rartnersti fi the sale of ee { WASHINGTON AND GEORGE DOW - No bills or accounts will be written order —, JOHN Leen. Unless upon Othe M4 Water street, Georgetown, NL BARKER, M. KINS: Low ot L U U MM MM RBR ORRE RRR L UU MMMM RoR EO RoR L UU MMMM ERE FE RRR v up MMM B RR { Tui. uv MMM ERB RE FINE GRADES. | CABINET OAR, very thickness. | INDIANA ASI, INDIANA WALNUT, %. Si Mth. | INDIANA WALNUT, Linch to 8x8 inch, INDIANA WALNUT, Counter Top, 20 inch to 36 ine wide. INDIANA CHERRY, Every thickness. INDIANA CHERRY, Counter Top, 15 inca w2i om wide. MAPLE, Every thickness. SOFT YELLOW POPLAR, Every mckacse, at off HARD WOOD YARD, SPEAGTE'S SQUARe.. 3 LARGE yanps. | ‘Sixtm STREET AND New Fora A Srnacve Sguane. Nourusus Linerir Manger Sovane WILLE? & LIGBEY. 3S Loumuna STATE LOTTERY. UNPRECEDENTED ATTRACTION! OVER HALF A MILLION DISTRIBUTED. LOUISIANA STATE LOTTERY COMPANY, Incorporated in 1868 for twenty-five years by the Levis. lature for Educational and Charitable purposes—with capital of $1,000,000—to which @ reserve fund os $550,000 has eihce been added. ¢ an overwhelming popular vote ite franchise was part of the proscut State Constitution adopted 2 December 2d, LE BER DRAWINGS WILL TAKE PLACE MONTHLY. IT NEVER SCALES OR POSTPONES Look at the fi distribution: GEAND PO ERT, during which 1397u GR: LAE A NOS, TUESDAY, DEC = ringeendl irn, 1881, eran et JUBAL A. EARLY, of Virvinia- TIAL PRIZE $100,000, ‘Tickets are ‘Ten Dollars only. Tenths, $1. 5B-Notice.. Halt $9. Furtln $2. ae SEEEE EE 2 is $33 £6253225:5 4 | 333 fs } The public Fe Gir teat ste ty hy tae