Evening Star Newspaper, August 13, 1892, Page 7

rr “ # ——e “WASHINGTON, D. C.. SATURDAY. AUGUST: 13, 1892—SI XTEEN PAGES. deep impression was made me by the return California of my mother's only brother. Jack Lane, who, early in het es, had gone out = handsome, light-hearted lad,to that golden land. Well, I remember how different he seemed from the idea I had formed of him, how amazed and saddened were my mother and all at the change in him. His face, deeply bronzed, with wrinkles on cheek and brow, his low, sad voice, absent- mindedness and lack of interest in all things, even his favorite bookaf seemed almost impos- sible in ove who had been accustomed to oc- cupy himself in the slightest matters, enjoying everything to the fall, In financial affairs he had been more than fairly succersfal, and should have been in the prime of healthy.happy manhood. When questioned about the change be gave no satisfactory answer, only saying that | life in California was hard and men grew old early i Shortly he married a neighboring country girl, who made him a busy, devoted wife. and after a few years he died quite suddenly of heart iacase, I hoped that among his papers would be some explanation of the change, over which I had brooded with all a young gir!’s romantic inter- est. and as Aunt Jenny went methodically through trunk, shelves and desk I hung around, rendering all assistance possible, watching everything with anxious eves. Not a word of the kind had she fouad and the search was al- most over when one afternoon she drew out a bundle of manuscript, yellow and worn, that caught my attention at once. “What is it?” aunty, I cried, as I edged up to her. eager to examine it with her. and wrapped with a black All Tcould make ont of the writing While I quivered with anticipation my aunt read slowly down the page, turned it over, elessiy inside, then without trou- bling to untie the cord flung it into the waste | ied reproachfully. ; . "she answered in surprise, is nothing of any value—only some western . aunty, give it to me,” I pleaded “Certainly, my dear, if you like,” she re- plied, with some astonishment. Seizing the treasure, I flew to my room and made fast the door, fearful lest some one might interfere with my reading the manuecrip With nervous fingers I undid the wrapping. and, as I flattened ont the papers, thére fell to and in tissue paper. atl of silky black Wy a reddish st I laid them r x The following is the story that dwelt in my mind for many a day, and then the pleas- hanges © fe drove it from my memory altogether: It had been an unusually lively day in Los Angeles, that 16th of September, 185—, the d sacred to the memory of Mexican independet The sons of Mexi ntdone all previ heir patriétism. ems against Spain, danghtet with bom- Jl ip the most musical makers were many Americ: toms of ti e costumes, toasting Mexico in unlimited bumpers of guardiente and mescal tempting to ride t the native Cali im which they were apt There rested a sullen expression on the girl's she took no notice.of the old crone, whose mamblings finally swelled into a torrent of denunciations. “‘Lazy one, et thee to thy work; make haste! Shame on thee, that I have had to run the pueblo over to find the Good for nothing! And my feet so Dad and the evil in my back, while thou wast dancing and pluming it with the bravest. Madre de Dios, ungrateful ane! Get thee to thy needle!” + ‘The girl shragged her shoulders, which rose, smooth and creamy, from the snowy camisa, below which the red bodice clasped closely the | shapely waist, and, deigning no other answer, took from astool a gay reboso. wrapping it gracefully abont her head and shoulders, half veiling the charming face. The old woman sprang from her seat and hobbled across the room. her eyes gleaming “Shameless one! Well wast thou named Florinds, like her of old! Heardst thou not my she cried, clutching the round shoulder with her talon-like fingers. senora,” answered the girl in a low voice, as she slipped from the detaining grasp. “Tbut go to vespers, as Padre Tomas desired all who would be confirmed next saint's day.” La Viega paused. bailed. shaking her head wud, i, siempre el Padre Tomas, Go then, but retarn promptly.” With a mocking smile ou her lips the girl opened the door and sped away. In the church the padre was intoning the service to » few shawl-draped devotees. Florinda did not push forward info the circle of light cast by the flickering candles, but quietly slipped into piace behind her fellow-worshipers, and kneeling, whispered the responses mechanically, | aa she watched with furtive eyes the entrance | door. Soon a masculine form appeared, the | sombrero held reverently at the side, as #ith cat-like tread the new comer, unnoticed by all save Florinda, took his place by her side, ‘Forinda, mi vida (my life)!” he whispered softly. “Why art thou not at the baile (ball)?” questioned the girl with a coquettish glance from under the reboso “What is the fiesta without thee, mi coraz (heart)?" he asked reproachfully. “I await the dance with thee to break the cascarones (ogg shells filled with bits of gay paper) on thy dear head. ‘La Vieja Manuela will not hear of my re- * whispered the girl peevishly; | “but. silence, the padra observes,” and she bent her head devoutly. The services were soon over and the moment | the benediction was given Florinda burried away, followed closely by her caballero. Out- | side in the friendly darkneea he drew nearer to her. Asall travel, evenof the late worshipers, | | took the direction of the house of feasting, the In making love to the beautiful senoritds they | F more successiul: ‘The Americans to a ete armed with pistols, or, in rate ease with the lately invented pepper-box revolver, While the Californians added to these exc weapons el ¢ > (the knife), for which they bed a fondness, not at all understood by the men from the states, who could not conquer their aversion to cold steel. The day had begun with habbeb: shouts ing of pistols and trampling of horses, as g: dressed caballeros came in’ from the neigh ing ranches, riding the «parisoned lit- tle animals, with gra ‘There bad fight came feats fenating and da: near the pla v was kept always go- as the pary ones retired would re- kind-hearte ern states, had that morning received inform: tion unfavorable to a certaim young California del Norte (of the north), who bad been in town some three months, sper making his way into t Sheriff Johns had liked this Martin nd was loath to admit that there was crooked about hi ‘sides. the rumor from a particularly rejjable source. though if true it was of gravest mo- Ment. being no less than a charge of murder. In the gav crowd that day Flores was promi- nent. A lithe, handsome man, with thin, cameo features. soft dark eres ‘and waving Diack hair. His hat was loaded with bullion and gems, and his dress, which was of richeat qmnlity. Sted bus fine figure ton nicety. Wit Young Americans he was a prime favorite, and shared with them the tenderest glances of the senoritas. The scene was the gayer for the costumes of the times. the we » with full embroidered skirts and gay bodice, the bead and shouklers wrapped in shawl or reboso (scarf) of brightest hue fair one boasted no meaner blood ti sangre azul” of old Spain, the graceful mantilln oceasionally took the place of the guudier wrap. The dress ef the men was even more fanciful. It consisted of the tall and waist coat, gay rash of silk dark breeches, close-fitting to the kgee, below which showed the snowy calzon- eillo (drawers completed the attire. lovers had their path to themselves, “Querida mia (my darling),” he whispered, tenderly slipping his arm about her dainty waist, “‘is it not better to be the wife of Martin Flores then the slave of Ia Vieja Manuela? Leave her and come with me, who loves thee truly. Speak but the word, Inz de mi alma (ligh? of my soul), and I will carry thee away to happiness and love.” Florinda listened in silence, with downbent head, so furiously was her heart beating she could @carcely hear his words, and she wondered if he did not feel its | heavy strokes against the hand that clasped her | wails When he paused for an answer she lifted her head and faltered, “But the Dona Maria and the Dona Isidora”—belles of the place with mn society gossip had connected his name. What care I for them? cried hotly. Thon art the orly one, nina mia. Give me thy promise to meet me under the sycamore | tree by the Aliso crossing tomorrow night and I ry thee away to happiness.” | What will el Padre Tomas say?” questioned | the girl doubtfally. | ‘There are other padres, querida; say naught to him or any one eise, and by noon next day shalt thou be my wife. Let thy heart choose, chiquita (little one). I go tomorrow. Wilt | | thou let me go alone. I have always been | alone. Must it be so all my life long?” he added sadly. “See, I let thee go.” He released her ad drew a little apert. “‘Come with thy whole heart, mi vida, or come not at all.” For a moment she stood with clasped hands and downbent eyes; then, with a soft cry, turned and cast herself into his arms, that | opened #0 wil to receive her. Ashe held her closely. whispering words of tenderest endearment, “Ta Vieja Manuela's shrill voice sounded from her doorway near by: | Florinda! Fiorinda!” lovers sprang apart. ‘Then remembering that the darkness effectually hid them again | drew near each othe I must go,” whispered Florinda, hast promised and wilt surely cuits.” breathed soft! | ‘orazon (one kiss, my heart),” | i of a kiss, then the patter, patter of the girl's little slippers, as she fled away to the irate dame. next day Sheriff Johns was closeted with het officer from the north, who had ar-| rived in Los Angeles in the early morning. | Xf course, Scott, you shall have every assiat- | ance inmy p Johns was saying, as be | is’ heavy ivea heap if it were some one else than Martin Flores.” companion impatiently. “Wh; is | down for murder, larceny and horse thieving,” | speaking as though the latter were the crime of | crimes, The day sped on in uproarious enjoyment | Until the san was slowly settling bebind the Cabuenga hills. Already the dull gray tints of early twilight rested on the little town as it low among the surrounding heights— ‘on the low. one-story, flat-topped adobe houses, eo alike in plan and color; on the unpaved streets, devoid of all vehicles, save an occasional Ox cart filled with senoras and senoritas of all gomplexions, from the rich, smooth skin the Spanish brunette to the duskier aud darker tints of the Indian serving maid. Alon the erest.of Fort Hill there was still « gleam yellow light and the sun lingered lovingly about the forlorn crosses and headstones in the old graveyard, as though loath to withdraw cheery rays from that dismal city of the dead. ‘As the Las: faded there came a peal of bells from the chugeh on the plaza, ringing the Angelus. Instantly all the sarious sounds of merrymaking ceased aa if by magic. Every caballero doffed his tall hat, every woman bent her head im silent adoration, at the call to larkened room of house near the , was here as dainty asin an abode of the higher clases. Its snowy counterpane and pillows were trimmed profusely with the deli- eae drawn Ince for which the women of Mexico are famous. beanty, and sad indeed would have been the fate of the unfortunate who had dared to make of la cama a seat. “Surely! surely!” assented Johna. to be my fate to like the hardest cases best, but | Flores is not a cruel fellow all round. ‘I've, ‘known of his doing more than one kind action. | All the children in the town run after him, from Don Ignacio’s pretty Lola to the blackest little | Indian in Sonoratown. Sure there were no ex- | tenuating circumstances?” “Perbapa you might call it #0,” said Scott thoughtfully. “He lived with his guardian, a | relation « long way off, who ewi him, until | he had all the property in his own before | the boy was of age. Flores was n, | tood a heay “Tt seems | forema! p from him, didn’t sabe it wae his own diggings until a few months ago. Ofcourse, | then he got his Spanish up. and when he tried to make the old man hand over was received with the heaviest cuss words of the Castilian tongue. Then Flores tried the law, but it was | no go. Meantime the old swindler had sold off | most everything, getting ready to go to Mexico— afraid of Flores, people thought. Well. one night hedisappeared. Everyone supposed he'd gone off on until a couple of weeks ago they found his body ina tuie pond. ‘The case fell tome. Of course I suspected Flores, and now I've ough to convict him. Sabe.”” Scott long breath, spat out of the window and leaned back in his chair with the air of one that bas bad his say. Johns slowly rolled a cigarette, handed it over to Scott,made another for himself, lighted it and took a couple of whiffs before he spoke. “Poor fellow!” he said gravely, “it's hard lines. but I reckon it’s got to be. Will four men be enough for you the men,” answered ‘That depends Scott promptly. Roarelf, amyeelf, Chato as he is ill-lool Lopez, as a E Then there is Jack for fourth. I don't t him, but he’s worried a-promise from he should join the next He's a good shot. but it won't do. to let him know that we fter Flores. All the boys are foud of the No wrinkle or’ spot marred its | thine. 1 ‘ E ! i fe beside his in the sandy road. agzrowivel hooted in ¢! Frogs croaked from the water side, An owl above them, while from the a chorus of wandering coyotes. ‘The horses’ feet passed from the soft @ the crisp watercressee. crushing them rathiessly: then came the splash, splash of the Water. a swish of willow b« chs in their faces, wd thi on the heights Here ‘they drew rein and turned with to lock down on the lights of the rtsaving adios to the old life, Florinda ‘Teil me, art thon et with me, dear questioned her lover, bis arm aboat her, ‘his face bent to hers. Before she could answer hi some sound from the other that startled him. the seddie, keen, alert, listenin; bad not relinquished his hold of, Florinda’s arm, and in intense anxiety unwittingly crushed the soft flesh until the girl could ba cried aloud with pain; but she felt that some- thing wad wrong and set her white teeth to- gether, determined to make no sound to add to er lover's cares, She, too, could hear the thud. thud, thud of the fect of horses tidden rapidly. Then there was a pause; they had ted. and above the ripple of the water over the boulders and drip of the fog beneath the nick ear caught ide of the stream intently. He musical champing of bits by restless, impatient steeds, the indistinct murmur of voices, and— it?—the click of a pistol. Florinda drow her breath hard and clenched her little hands. So Martin found them as his hers, and unbending them, Pressed them passionately to his li juerida mia,” he whispered, “‘thon seest is ilt thou be silent and she answered softly, her rosy lips touching bis ear. ‘Again he pressed her hand to hie lips, then wheeling about retraced their steps down the grade to the river, but instead of crossing the stream turned sharply aside into the soft sand, and, riding afew yards down stream, halted in the shelter of a willow thicket. No word was spoken, but Florinda felt her hand taken and held firmly in her lover's clasp as they awaited anxiously the approach of the other rty. POn they came, speaking in subdued tones, yet #0 quiet was the’ night, the listeners under the willows could bear i : . “Strange we don’t hear anything of Sure you have not made a mistake?” reckon there's no mistake,” answered Johns confidently. “That imp of Moreno’s said they were to meet under the sycamore by the Aliso crossing. With the girl and the dust he can’t travel as fast as we,” continued Johns, “and we're sure to overtake them.” “I say, Johns,” said # clear, young voice, which Flores started, exclaiming softly, “What, you, amigo mio; it's not fair thet you won't tell me whom we're trailing. I'll bet my horso I am the only one in the party that doesn’t know . Chato’ “No, sénor—yo no #6 (I don't know),” de- nied the Mexican promp Foxe it’ you Uks to go back “Come, come, * said Johns graffty. “I only wish You would. This isn’t fit work for you to take ‘a band in.” ‘0, siree,” returned the boyish voice. had hard enough work to get you to promise to take me. No going back for me.” ‘They had crossed the river and mounted the bank, where at Johus’ command they paused to listen. In a few minutes Johns spoke again. “There is no doubt they are making for San Diogo,” he said decidedly. “*V: men te on at a sharp galloy As their hoot beats di Ping the reins over the sa quieting his wel leaned over his sweetheart and drawing her to him laid his cheek against her own. For a moment he said nothing, softiy stroking the dark hair, then—“Life of my life! pobrecita mia (my poor little one)! T must take thee back to La Vieja Manuela, to the old life which Thoped was of the past; bat if thou wilt have patience, querida, and keep faith with me I will return.’ “Ah, senor, may I not go with thee now?” she pleaded earnestly. “Laz de mi ojgs (light of my eve: answered, his voice shaking with emotion, grieves me todeny thee, but there would be no safety thns, for thee or me. When these men of blood ‘are bafiled, then surely will I come for thee. Wilt wait for me, quot ‘“ she answered. clinging to him, the em. hot tears blinding her yas. * thee? Ah, Holy Mother.defend thee!” she cried suddenly in terror. “They will do thee harm, these evil men.” “No, no, chiqnita, they will not find me. They hiave gone to Sin Diogo and I will follow in safety until I reach the foothills, elude thom.” “Then go, go quickly before they return!” she cried, ‘pushing him from her. “Haste amigo, ere I die of fear for thee,” she urged, never dreaming of questioning him as to ths arge against him. Too used to the troubles d_ brawls of the times, little cared she | whether he were guilty or innocent, Love was | | above alt. Silently he obeyed her, nor uttered a word until they drew rein in the dark beside the old church, for there she begged him to sit her down, ‘As he lifted her from the saddle he held her closely and Inid bis face to hers. “How can 1 lot thee go, heart of my heart?” he moayed. Timidly the stroked back the hair from his forehead. “I will pray to our Lady of Guada- | lupe and make to her a vow that thou mayst return quickly and in safety, querido,” she whispered. At her words and caress he tightened his clasp till the hardy young flesh was bruised with the agony of his embr: “Fail me not, dear one, thou art my all,” he murmured. Again he pressed his lips to hers, then with n groan set her from him, leaped into the sad- dle and turned away with never another look or word. Sadly she watched bim out of sight, and lis- | tened to the hoof beats of the, two horses onthe hard road. Then she made her way to the eMMrch door, and kneeling on the stone step pered. a prayer for her lover's safety. ly, with downcast heart and lagginy returned to the abode of La Viejx Manucla, Which she had left wo hopefully a few hours be- fore. Half an hour later Flores stood again on the farther river bank. This time he was alone. Before he was the lover, tender, impassioned. Now he was the warrior--ste with rifle laid across the gaddle; a pistol in his holster banging close to his right hand, while el cuchillo held its place in his belt to the ‘left. After lis- tening a moment he dismounted, and carefully cinched his horse; then regaining the saddle, pushed on at a steady pace. He had traveled perhaps a dozen miles, meet- ing no one, listening on the rises, fording streams with caution, when all at once, from out the fog nhead of him, came the sound of galloping heres. ‘The hoof beats had been ened by @ strip of sand until they were al- | most upon him. ‘There were but two things to be done—either teturn and ride away at full speed, in which | cane they would certainly hear and, if they were his pursuers, give cl when the odds would be against him, or to trust to the shelter of the friendly fog, and, drawing to one side the road, moufite his horse and wait in silence for them to br. P*instuntly he chose the latter course, Riding off 100 yards or so, he dismounted, and taking off his serape quickly wre with it his horse's head, olding fightly the bridle rein in is right he carried his closely to his horse's the road, thus offer- johns and his party, for they it was, came on rapidly, were beside him, were almost past, when —O, cruel north wind! 0, treacherous moon! sourrent of wind swept down from the hills, ing the fog and revealing horse and man in Instantly he sat upright in | “q} Vhom have I but | when I may | steps, | paren otc | givitig an oceasional ery of encouragement to noble animal. Mile were covered in this manner, until the horses began to show signs of dirtrest, John bay was ponnding heavily. while Scott's hoze was so used up he was forced to draw rein, shouting ashe did eo: * let him escape, boss. One thousand dollars to the man who brings him in dead or alive!” * We'll get him alive if horses hold out. ansive . Awile farther Johny horse fell, and Lane and Lopez surged ahead. Almost at the same m the latter hissed a Spanish oath: “He ! Ride, ride, boys! Faster! The form Flores was, indeed, no longer visible on the white road; the: foothills had swallowed him up. The outline of the hiily wall wae broken justahead, showing an openings of some size, and here, at command of Lopez, they paused to listen. ‘The whip-poor-will gave the sed cry beside them, the ground-owl bobkgd. and chirped to them: and from the plain behind came the faint low of far away cattle, “Here are two canons—it is ill to tell whether he is in La Brea or El Rodeo.” raid the Mexican, and still waited until Lane could scarcely contro! his impatience. the hills opposite. “Ah, my man, thou art there,” cried Lopez, and ‘dashed ahead, closely followed by Lane. ‘When you sce him shoot at sight,” said Carajo, el diablo is in later, as his horse, slipping went down and iny still. ‘On, on, boy shouted. Don't lose him. All rests’ on thee!” | Lane, half crazy with excitement, dug spurs | deeper and whirled the leather thong faster. Side canons opened from, the main, in any one of which the fngitive might have taken refuge; but the lad rode blindly on, trusting to luck— fate—he knew not what. Ruddenly, from one of the pockets sounded the neigh of a horse. Wheeling his animal Lane rode straight in the direction of the sound. Afew paces and he saw through the bushes » horseman epprosching. | The sbadow reatod on the face of the rider, but Lane sould see the gleaming rifle held as though ready to fire, and bringite his own gun to pesition,ovlled londly in fair Spanish a demand for surrender. ‘The jingling of the spurs, the blowing of his breathless horse, kept him from hearing the | soft, musical, ‘Eres tu, migo mio (is it thou, my friend)?” and with the fatal moonlight in his own fare, the shadow on the stranger,he did not see the lowered rifle, the friendly gesture, but filled with a nervousness wilder than any | buck fever, hardly knowing what he did he ” he cried a moment on a rolling stone, Mingled with the report of the gun, there sounded in his ears his own name uttered in a ery of agony, “Lane! amigo!” Filled with’ horror unutterable he flang him- self from his horse and ran to the side of the fallen man, who was stretched at length on the smooth, yellow grass. One hand was flung with unconscious grace above his head, the other pressed closely a hole in his breast from which the red blood was oozing. His hat bad fallen off, and the moon now shone fall on the beauti fal face. As Lane bent over and met the gaze of the dark eyes he staggered back. ‘Not you, Flores? Not you?” he moaned. “Thou didst not know?” Flores eagerly. “No, no, Flores, my friend, to whom I owe my life! They said it was a murderer and questioned “Si? Said they all that, amigo? I took onl: | my own. What matters now? I would I hada | Priest. Mary, mother, intercede forme! Lane, amigo, do not grieve. Florinda! Luz de mi | slma! Lane, tell Fiorinda, la muchacha de la vieja Manuela, that all my love is hers and all | Town. ‘fell her 1" | _ His voice failed him; he strove with agony to speak. With a great effort he raised himself upon his elbow. “What is it, amigo?” asked Lane, with a sob, mupporting the swaying figure in his arms. he dying man pointed up the canon, turning | questioning, imploring eyes upon his compan- jion, made one more effort to speak—a vain one—there was a gurgle of blood in his throat, then with a gasp and a shudder he fell back- | When the rest of tho party came up they found Lene unconscious, his hend on the breast jof his degd friend. For weeks he lay very ill of brain fever, tenderly nursed by the kind-hearted Johns, but though health "came back, peace of mind had vanished forever. He lived, @ remorseful, wretched man, ever hannted ‘by that death scene in the wild Redeo canon. But one hope now rem: | deat to him. that ‘ soon, may wipe away the sin the grief, and he may meet again in ndship the man he go loved and uncon- sly wronged. For years this story lay among my papers, | utterly forgotten. Strange. too, I did not re- member, when fate finally led me to California, | where I married a nutive son of that golden | west, In truth the present was so full I had no thoughts uf the past. summer, as we were planning our vaca- tion, said my busband: “We will go this y | neither to the seashore nor the mountains, but to the foothills, for our hunting.”” T laughed jovously at the thought of life | in the wild woods. "A few days found us settled ina lovely camping place in El Rodeo canon, wooded pass in the foothills, some miles from Los Ange! ya as they saw we were fairly in order came the Mexican wood choppers from their work in the hills around us—O, woful work — to have cigarrito and chat with my husband. Soon T, too, joined the group, for I loved to lis- ten to their quaint tales, told in the musical An old man was speaking: edro, y Lugo vimos (saw) al o del Lanterno.” Both Pedro and Lugo nodded assent as their names were mentioned and the eyes of all were | wide with excitement. “Who is the Cavilier of the Lantern?” I asked | softly of my husband. They say,’* he replied, “that since they have beeneat work in this canon they have seen on three different nights a man on horseback carrying a lantern, his accoutrement of the early days. “Who was he? What did he want?” I asked, unwittingly shocking our visitors. ‘Hush!” said my husband, in a solemn voice, though his eyes belied hisgravity. “They # to it! It vanished! They say it was Flores hunting his gold, which is hidden in El Rodeo canon. E “Flores bunti hia gold in El Rodeo canon?” repeated stupic t strange upon me that I hed hea those words fone PS “Yes,” explained my husband. “He was an outlaw, who hid his plunder in this ganon and riding out was shot dead by the sheriff and no onghee been able aa his gold.” “No, no! “It was my uncle, Jack Lane, who shot him,” # “Are you crasy?” asked my husband in amazement. ‘ “No, senor,” cried the old man, who had risen and was watching me ingreat excitement, evidently under what I was saying, “La senore tiene razon! Juanito Lane mato « Flores (The lady is right, Jack Lane killed rea)! “What do you know about it, Chato?” asked my husband, in Spanish, as is his in- Variable oastamn ‘when addreeng’ a Speaish I, too, was there,” was the reply, also in erie Fou Lopes? “Are you oP he under- e you Lopez?” I asked, seeing He answered affirmatively. I looked at him keenly. “Evil. looking” he was called in the story and age had not improved his appear- : 7 ‘You knew my uncle?” I asked. “Si senore, eras mas joven (yes, lady, he was very young).” ‘And Florinda?” I "he doubtfally. ‘Y I replied, “the “Yen, “ Manuela.” | “Ah. si," he answered, tuvo (Lo not know her fate).”” questioning I learned that the very near our cant above us was an w rock some ten feet i i i ! | tii i | “Pacenia, hijo (patience, son),” whispered | willows came the sound of jingling spurs, the | his companion. Just then a’ coyote howled in | break loose in the bacl WOE FOR WOMEN. Young Ladies Who Wear Suspenders Have Sei) Much to Learn. From the New York World. J | ‘Suspenders are besoming more and more in | evidence on the shoxlde-sof women. Even the | ston’ wom are wearin; them. Leaving out of consideration the cost of material for a very fat woman's suspendorsit dy0®seem to the thought- ful tha! th»; oagh’ not to wear them. Suppose they showld becom: detached from their rear fastenings, what would happen? When follow- ing some great emotion or #om2 violent muscu- Jar effort a pair of suspenders, like a runaway [balloon, break loose from their moorings and rise to # point just below any woman's shoylder | Diades it is useless for her to try toseize them with her ofrahands. She can twist and wiggle and make faces and thrust her tongue in her cheek and distort herself into all the shapes of a marionette, but she cannot these suspen ers. Generations of men have tried to do iz. ver since the pair of trousers the stronger sex have purpled'their faces and disicated their | shoulders in the same mocking, useless, onth- forcing attempt. And shall Woman succeed So what's to be done if» woman's ders Will she fly to the seeks when an acci- dent, visible or in’ wears—will she £0 ? Tt will indeed | be a courageous woman who will walk into a shop with the explanation, “Excuse me a mo- ment, I want to button my suspenders.” But even if she be brave enough to do that, to en- dure the scornful smiles, to face the withering looks of the salesladies whose suspenders are never unbuttoned until they so wish, how, if she be alone, isshe going to button her sus- penders? ‘Men have been trying to solve that | foro! these “many generations, ive everything they own and © gréat man | fitn they don’t to women, women might as | | well have the benefit of their experience at once. The commonest thing for aman to do in such an emergency is to unbutton his vest, | throw his coat tails over the back of his head, { | haven that ever roblem Je the y | | “ow, BOTHER,” walk up to the first man he sees, turn to him and ask his help. If he knows the other | man he ea: Old fellow, I've busted my | | galluses. Yank “em down, will you?” If he does not know him he is, of’ course, more dis- tant—that is, in his speech. He may say some- | thing like this: “Oblige me, sir, by drawing jdown my suspenders. As you they're broken,” And the other fellow, who it's ten | thonsand to one wears suspenders himself, bas | 8 fellow-fecling and obliges. Now, there is, perhaps, the simplest method and the easiest to learn," Any woman ean say: | “Oblige me, sir, by drawing down my suspend: lers. As yousee, they're broken.” It may be that the man's’ hand may tremblea bit, but there will be that fellow-fecling still, and he will certainly oblige. If a man’s suspender buttons fly off when the rupture between his suspenders and his trous- ers comes he hase last resort that may be.stated first as being the most discomforting -to a man. He can take off his suspenders and wi heel of his trousers. But a woman would hate | todo that. That is, the would hate to take off her suspenders, for, strangely them for show, most osten ati delightedly, with an air that says p | Be kind enough to observe, [ have taken another step toward the cimancipation of the sex.” Some women, indeed, choose the gaudiest colors for their suspenders, If a man | Were to wear suspenders as loud as theirs he | would not be able to hear himself think. For example, all Pilladelphia was delighted jthe other day by the sight of a red- headed girl wearing red suspenders and a pair of red ‘shoes. Men, on the other hand, hide their suspenders. If they | don’t wear ‘vests, a good many of them wear | sashes to conceal the awkward ends of their uely straps. If man does not take off his broken sus- | nders he makes an effort to repair them. juman ingenuity has exhausted itself in this direction. ough she wears | | | | | “THE DEUCE TAKE THE HORRID THINGS.” Men have used twine since twine has been made, and tied their suspenders down. But, ponege onppanintenr the advant of the fact that their suspenders What roman would i al I Hit a | that no woman has yet been seen with ber was periders hanging from her waist. Walk into a news) et office, for example—if you can—on one of days when the mercury is roaring. ‘There sit the men, their shirt sleeves rolled up, their suspenders, kicking zoand their heels, iting: there are the women, cool snd im- | perspil Perturbable, their suspenders where they ought WHERE IGNORANCE 18 BLISS. ‘a 20 cents, | to be, that is, where ther onght to be on the | 0760's men. But there must be moments when a woman’s suspenders hang from her waist. Fancy the graceful sweep of her arms as she raises them; try to imagins tho lovely curves as she carefully puts,them in place. The firs; and ‘most natural result of the omen’s appropriation of this article of ap- parel is that some men are embroidering suspenders for their sweethearts, That is al- most too painful for contemplation. But, if they will do it, the yo careful in their choice of mottoes to embroider. weak-minded youth should em oiler “Elove you” in blue silk on his girl word “love.” That would double ng Woman's woes, for not only would ir of broken suspenders to the question, | Whom, does A could unite them—the in, alt bine is always the observe his lady ‘love's ‘coasplesion and het e iy. love habit of dress before ind the ol for his ‘Written for The Evening Star. A Volce From Heaven. ‘Men slept. Beneath thelr sheltering roofs ‘Had wearied heads laid down, and senses lapsed; ‘The night’s composing stillness now had soothed ‘The last reluctant eye to slumber deep; And all was hushed. Only the stealthy wind Walked yet abroad, and he was heeded not, For while his urgent breath whispered the call ‘To all his train of sable beckoners, ‘The light-winged clouds, no human eye was waked To see his doing, and no ear to near. With ready speed the clouds obeyed the call; Smothered the radiance of the gentle moon; Quick blackened all the sky; and then at length Began thelr thin darts to precipitate Upon the earth. But wind and clouds and rain Oft move with muMed tread; and men slept on, ‘Their rest unraied and their dreams unjarred. Until—abrapt, without warning threat, Across the dark, low-hanging clouds there flared One lightaing flash, one blinding sheet of flame, And then one great, tremendous, awful crash Lake the concussion of colliding spheres, Asif all Heaven had spent itself in thaz Concentrate peal of sound; 4 peal so dense As thade the very ground with tremor reel, And flung its vibrant clang from cloud to cloud, ‘Till its wild detonations, fearful, grand, Seemed to reverberate through all the heavens, And, outward rolling, throw thelr echoing roer ‘Through the deep hollows of infinity. Upstarting from their sheets, with shuddering limbs, Earth's terrored children harked the receding roar, And clasped their hands, and couched in voiceless dread; ‘Then peering out into the night they thoug’y ‘To view the rupture of the elements, And taste thelr doom. But night and silence still Enswathed the land, and ft was but the wind And but the quiet rain that murmured now. ‘Then from reviving lps the homage went; Earth’s sovereign is a God omnipotent; He lulls to sleep the world; but at I1is nod, All eyes are peeled, all lips confess their God. | Feared be the arm that hath the lightning grasped; Blest is the soul by that same arm enclasped. —CARLETON EMERSON SNELL. Against Wearing Mourning. In last month's North American a writer (a woman) contributes a paper against the wear- ing of mourning. ‘The custom is outworn,” she urges; “it is | an anachronism in the nineteenth century. It | Tothe fair pastares of debate and pleading, is unchristian; it clonds the spiritual signifi- cance of the resurrection with the ever-present expression of temporal loss. It is cruel; it forces helpless'and innocent people into action which entails privation and unnecessary suffer- ing. * * * And itis essentially vulgar, for it presses private affairs upon public notice; it thrusts claims of fashion and frivolity upon a time which most greatly moves the heights and depths of being and it forces its superficial worldliness into the fiercest throes which ean ever rend human nature. Why, then, do we still wear mourning?” It isa temptation to reply to this writer's 6 return one, “Why still wear mournin From time immemorial bereaved humanity has sought ex; of ite woe in its outward habilimenta, wears sackcloth and aches, and a si Tog. lost sight of or Suite pers verted. We do not wear mourning today to typify the despair of the heathen; we wear it fs shock but a falling in with. the strangeness of rest. And wearing “ea- sentially ‘valgar” seems harsh dnd fa, Besides, untrue at least f men should be very | ‘sa little solid nourishment COFFEE AND CAKES. | A Queer New York Eatine House Fre- | __ quented by Editors and Newsboys. (sori AND CAKES! TO EVERY NEWs- Paper msn and other worker in the neigh- borhood of Park Row, New York, that is = | familiar gastronomic shibboleth. It represents | the quickest possibie meal at the cheapest pos- sible price. Accordingly, it has a plossing sig- nificance to persons who are equally short of time and money. “‘Sinkers,” in the local slang current, is the name most cominonly | applied to the biscuit-tike “cakes,” which weig about three to the pound; but they are bot and | Butritious, and the coffee that comes with them |i of superior quality. Batter is supplied ad | libitum, and tho price charged is only 10 cents, | The most popular coffee-and-cake “dive,” in cellar beneath @ Park Row corner, is one of | the most profitable restaurants in the city. Ite jOwner and founder died a few months ago | ‘Worth €250,000 in real estate. | lated in the business, From 7,000 to | ple eat in the place every dar. Their checks ) average 18 cents. Receipts therefore average | about £1,350 per di ns to R100 | for every week of six days, or close upon half a | million of dollars per annum. The margin of profit is a small fortune yearly. , While coffee and cakes are the most popular order with people who frequent Hitcneock's many other things of a simple kind are served. the helps being always large enough for a rea | sonable meal. "A plate of beef and beans costs or for the same price one can get ham , pork and beans, cold oatmeal and | milk, cold’ rice and milk ‘or pickled lambs” tongues, Pies are Scents a quarter and ogee are a nickel apiece. With or most other kinds of provender bread and butter are pro- vided. Tea or milk is Scents, There are no napkins. Customers come there to eat and not to aie in refinements. Everything # ona thoroughly democratic basis,and the news- = eae with as much attention as the great editors who not infrequently drop in for a frogal meal. Every signa etter tas ete papers have gone to the restaurant is filled with reporters an: nters, partaking of Betore they go home. Y & great news acheme has been hatched at Hitchcock's over coffee and cakes by the men | who mold public opinion in the metropolis. - HEARING WITHOUT EAR DRUMS. | ‘0 Trouble About It, but on the Whole It | | pretty young woman to a Stan writer, | adding by way of exptanation, “I have no ear No; I Jost them several years ago.” “From a shock or concussion “Not at all. Iwas troubled with a catarrhal affection, a consequence of which was the for- mation of abscesses that destroyed the drums of my ears.” “But I did not know that a person could bear | without ear drums.” | “Ou the contrary Ican hear considerably bet- ter than other people because I hear with the exposéd auditory nerve instead of through the m dium of thedrum. For instance, it often occurs that I will heara band of music coming up the street several minutes before anybody else does.” “And yon can hear voices better also?” “Decidedly. If youwere to stand over at the | other end of this room and whisper articulately I could hear what you said without any difti- culty. It isnot an advantage, but rather dis- tressing on occasions, When a number of peo- ple are talking together in my pragence I can- not help hearing what every one of them sa: whereas you would be able to contine attention to the remarks of one individual. When & person speaks at all loudly it hurts me. As a rule, Lavoid riding on horse cars because the rumble makes the tears run down my cheeks. In one respect I think my misfortune is an ad- vantage, for I believe, that I enjoy music more than others do.”” “So the loss of the ear drums actuall; ders the sense of hearing more acute?” “Undoubtedly it does, so long as the other | | parts sre uni§ured, but theif destruction ex. poses the delicate mechanism of the ear, which it is their chief purpose to protect. Accord- ingly my auditory apparatus is constantly in danger of trouble. which. might at any time render me totally deaf. Besides, any in- ternal ulceration in the pascages would be very apt to pieree the delicate wall of | bone which separates them from the brain, and that would cause death. That is how Roscoe Conkling died, though very few people know it, the cold that brought on the trouble having | been caught in the great blizzard.” | > Written for The Evening Star. My Sheep on the Hill. (Respectfully Drdicated to the Members of the House Of Reprosentatives, Fifty-second Congress ) From distant fields iny sheep their way had wended To yonder btiil— As grand a flock as ever shepherd tended, Where at the Capitol in one they biended, The hail to gl. iy ren- | Two shepherds stood—one with his scepter leading | ‘The sheep who came The business of the state intent on reading, 1u frecdom’s name. ‘The other shepherd, I—to pastures dearer My sheep to call— To waters of the Jordan shining clearer, That all refreshed, when worldly cares drew nearer, ‘They might not fall. | | From the Great Shepherd on the hill of heaven T fain would go— To feed the sheep with heavenly manna given, ‘That all who taste might shum the deadly leaven Of mortal woe. ° . | My sheep would linger for me there to tend them, A little white— Impatient for the sigual that would send them Where worldly cares, like savage beasts, might Tend them, Or else begulle. Nor could I call to them, but only praying To Him above— | That the good Lord would keep my Mock from straying, ‘That they, the heavenly calling ne'er betraying, ‘Might dwell in love. At some Kind look, some friendly recognition, My heart would thrill— Regret if prayer were past—the intuition _ ‘Of some response, some pure and sweet volition, ‘There on the hill. ‘Im mind and grace, in all the land excelling, Brave flock they were— ‘When, in their far-off homes, the countavas telling | ‘What sheep to send to the great central dwelling, : ‘From year to year. ‘Iknew this gracé and fame would soon be broken, And 80, upon the hill, I prayed the Father Beneath wat | huge rubber bage with the HOW Tg MAKE LAUGHING Gas, Obtained by a Simple Process From Ondi. mary Nitrate of Ammonia. “Tinhale about twenty gallons of laughing ga" every doy." rid a dental surgeon #ho makes a basiness of pulling teeth toa STAR re porter. “No, I don’t do it for pleasure, butfor the purpose of showing patients how to take it, he important thing is to inflate the lungs with a few big breaths from the gus bag, then ogm- plete anconsciousness supervenes and no paia whatever is fe On the contrary, the dresme of persons under the influence of nitrous onde are usually most agreeable. An Irish girl who came to me the other day to havea tooth ¢x- tracted exclaimed on awaking ure, 1 thought the tail of a kite ormous bag like a balloon which fom We bay it in granulet necesmary in order tog: boil it in In the laboratory we put five f it into isa lighted Ty hot, because at main salt Rrarea in the flank and the it gives off by evapora- tion pastes over through a tube into a sealed jar partly filled with weter. Bubbling ep through the water it passes through another tubeinto # second water jar, * through four jars successively. Being thas passed through water # tas pe fied. When first generated it ec deal of impurity, cxpecial mes from 1 monia was boiled with nitrate acid. But all im purities are removed in the manner I have de- seribed, and the nitrous oxide finally goes through » pipe into a great metal tunk. “The tank is composed of two big cylinders, one partly filled with water and the other set 1 side down inside of the first. If you will ‘@ tall tumbler and invert it inside of another tall tumbler that is slightly bigger and which bas Some water in it, you will have the ides ex actly. “The expansive er of the gus is #0 great that it lifts the inside cylind out of the outside one, ping the nitrou escaping. Wi tor knows it the cylinder is elevated. To fill one of these s he simply dra: the bag uutid the inflated and can hold wo uur OWN ax in this way er be eure to have it perfectly pare and fresh, which isa very important thing, asmuch as gas which contains impuritics i necessarily unwhole and it must be fresda in order to be good. The great manufacturers of dental suppites put up nitrous oxide in cylin- ders for the use of dentists under a pressure of 250 pounds to the equare inch. so that « smell receptacle will hold quite a large supply: but kept in this shape for an indefinite time and for ‘oniy occasional use it is apt to deteriorate.” > The Cabbage Leaf. From the Detroit Tribune The cabbage leaf, though humble in origin, its piace in history. blazes in Athens and the weather burean wasn't offering anv odds om cooler weather. Socrates, than whom there was no wiser man in all Greece, was hoeing in his gerden. While so doing he was «truck with an idea. The frait of the idea was the custom of wearing a cabbage leaf under the hat in hot weather, It was not a particularly reasonable custom, and has lived, therefore, until the present time. The cabbage uted to have saved many from sunst Ana frustrator of faith the cabbage leaf has quite a reputation. age leaf ix better thai 0+ The Regalar Weight. From the Vantec Bind) Wife—“Did the dealer say be'd send that tom of coal you o g Hastand — doubt it, Hf 1,700 pounds. probably won't seud more tham 20s THE PNEUMATIC MOSQUITO. A New Jersey From Pack