Evening Star Newspaper, July 4, 1896, Page 18

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY. JULY 4, 1896-TWENTY-FOUR PAGES. PUBLIC, RECEPTION GRAND on nnss ewan! A ai qe § ied i! 3 I Pa 250'¥ 280 q $ MENDOUARTERS sl 4 1g RY] (08 oeseonrions tho" 3 c 18 1 STATES no TL#RITORIES) a 7s fe CARRIAGE ENTRANCE ARESRESHMENT STANDS, RESTAURANT, pa yp ee INTERIOR OF COLISEUM— CHICAGO CONVENTION, BIG DEMOCRATS Gossip About Men Prominent in Chicago Just Now. > MILLIONAIRES AT COMING CoNVENTICN ++ Farmers Boies and Bland and Vice President Stevenson. sd SOUTHERN CONTINGENT ee ted, 1896, be ICAGO, July 2, 1996. T=: BIGGEST DEM- ocrats of the coun- try will be in Chi- cago next week. Who are they? they? How do they look, act and talk? ‘A score of them pass before my mind's eye as I write. There comes William C. Whitney, who coun- termand2d his pas- sage to England and stayed at home in order that he might induce this convention to declare for a gold standard. That well- dressed, rosy-cheeked man, with the black mstache, the straight nose and the gold eyeglasses is he. Every one knows him. He was one of the big men of the conven- tion of 1884, which nominated Cleveland the first time. He was Cleveland’s Secretary of the Navy and he could have had the presidency once or twice by the raising of Ris hard. He could get it now by working for it, but he don’t want It, and he would not accept it on a free silver platform. Mr. Whitney is a man of convictions. He does not believe in free trade, and he has always been for sound money. He was dis- gusted with Cleveland when he came out for fro trade, and he told him that his free trade message would lose him the presidency in 1885, as it did. I was a cor- responéent for the New York World when Cleveland delivered ‘hat message, and I called that night at Secretary Whitney's house to get his opinion. He hemmed and hawed and walked up and down the room, and at last begged me not to interview him, as he cculd not say anything on ‘he sub- ject which would help the administraticn. ecretary Whitney was at this time the most popular man in Washington. His briliant wife wAs then living, and she and Mr. Whitney were the leading social fig- ures of the Cleveland administration. It was Mrs. Whitney who ci ed Mrs. Cleve- land when she came to Washington as a bride. She was of great aid to her husband and when she died, I am told, she left him $3,000,000, Mrs. Whitney was the daughter of ex-Senator Henry B. Payne of Clev land, and it is said that if Whitney eve wants to be President he can command the support of his brother-in-law, Oliver H. Payne, of the Standard Oil Company. Oliver Payne is almost as rich as John Rockfelier, and he may be worth $100,000,000. Whitney, I understand, however, ¢ not like to be associated with the Standard Oil Company. He had begun to make money before he was married. and he is reported to have gotten a single fee of $150.00) from Jay Gould for some legal work. Of late years he has been making money in busl- ness, and I venture to say that he has him- self accumulated more than he ever re- ceived from his wife. He got his political training under Samuel J. Tilden, and he is today one of the shrewdest political man- agers and organizers of the United State: He will be a power in this fighting conven- tion, and 1s a striking figure even in the piping times of political peace. Cal. Brice and His Ambitions. With Whitney I see another distinguished character. The man looks for all the world as though he had just stepped out of the pages of the London Punch of days gone by and wes a walking cartoon made by Mr. Leach. His curly, bushy, red hair hangs down over his big forehead like a brush heap. His nose is almost as big as your fist, and his sharp, cold, blue eyes jook out from under heavy brows. He is dreased in busiress clothes, and he stoops a little as he walks. His stoop, however, is not that of humility, but rather that of the fighter who has a chip on his shoulder and is ready for a spring. That man is Senator Cal. Brice. He still lives in New York, but he has a mighty power in the state of Onio. During the years of his senatorship he has had a select Ist of ev- ery prominent democratic editor, lawyer and politician of the state, and has sent them week after week seeds and govern- ment documents, accompan:ed by letters stamped with a good imitation of his auto- graphic signature. Brice is for hard mon- ey. At any rate, he is not for free sil- ver. He has a big pile of gold laid up, and he wants his money to have the best spenc ing power. Still, he seems to care little for money, and to accomplish his ends he makes it flow like water. His life at Wash- ington has annually cost him ten times his salary. He gave one single dinner upen which he spent more than $12,000, and his wife is, perhaps, one of the most lavish entertainers of the United States. Sull, 1 was told in Lima, from whence Brice came, a year or two ago, that when he was married he had to pawn his watch to pay the expenses of his wedding trip. He was, you know, the son of a Presbyter- tan parson, and was so poor that when he went from his home to college he walked @ part of the distance to save the expenses of a stage. Now he is worth no one knows how many millions, and his nerve is such that it is said he can make or lose a fortune, to use the expression of one of his friends,“‘with- out batting an eye.” Cal. Brice is a man of much ability. He is more of a developer of properties than a wrecker of them, and though he euchered the Vanderbilts, they say, as to the Nickle Plate railroad, he has built up many good properties. He toid me not long ago that Campbell of Ohio would make a good presidential candidate, and said he (Brice) did not want the presi- dency himself, because he had too much business on hand, and he had noticed that when the White House bee got into a man’s hair his business brains usually flew out of his ears. Bookwalter of Ohio. Another Ohio millionaire who will strut across the Chicago stage is John W. Book- walter of Springfeld. Bookwalter has amassed @ big pile in manufacturing and Iventing. He makes farm implements, and he is, I am told, worth his millions. He came from Indiana, where he was brought up on @ farm. At twenty-three he struck out for himself, and now having made his fortune, i Ce ieeecre by piaying at farming on a large scale. Among other properties he has a sixty- thousand-acre tract of land in Nebraska. Of this forty thousand acres are under culti- vation, and in good years Bookwalter pro- What are | duces as much as 150,000 bushels of wheat at a single season. He farms his land throvgh lessees, each of whom has 160 acres, and it is his idea eventually to build a town in the center of this big farm and to manage it on the French plan, making a model country town out of it. Bookwal- ter is some? e and he is one of those men ‘hom it is not safe to provhe! ° in his fifties and {s still in the very prime of life. I don’t think he bas ever held any public office, but he has had more exper- jence than the average politician. He is a man of broad gauge ideas and is one of the most cultured and traveled men of the mocratic patty. He has been all over rope, has taken a trip around the world and knows the United States like a book. He is conservative on the money question and his strength in Ohlo is such that he would make an available candidat Two Confederate Generals. ‘There will be a big contingent here from the south. Some of the most striking fig- ures on the political stage are southern democrats. Let me show you one of them. Imagine a man of six feet dressea in black broadcloth. Let him have a face bearing all the classical lines of Edwin Booth and let his long hair be as black as was that of John Witkes Booth when he jumped out of the President's box in Ford’s Theater at Washington. Let the man’s face be florid, but let every line be full of culture. Put him on crutches and let him move about with dignity from one piace to an- other and you have Senator John W. L fel of Virginia, the silver-tongued orator of the south, the opponent of President Cleveland, and the great advocate of free silver. He is one of the brainiest and bravest, as well as one of the kindest of our public men, and did you know him well he might tell you, as he did me the other day, how he got the wounds which so crippled him. He went into the southern army as a boy and had risen, I think, to be adjutant general at the time he was so badly shot. He was riding his horse and a cannon ball took away a por- tion of his thigh. He fell and lay for some time in the midst of the battle until one of his own soldiers who was also wounded. dragged him behind a log. There the two lay together for more than half an hour with the bullets flying, the shells bursting and the battle going on all about them. When the fight was finished Dantel was carried to the hospital. The surgeon said he would die, but a section of his thigh bone was cut away and his youthful vital- ity was such that he recovered. He has today six inches of bone out of one of his legs and still he manages to do good work, though he is in constant pain. He told me that he thought his wound had been a good thing for him in that it was during his six months in the hospital that he ac- quired his taste for reading and there be- an the studies the continuation of which have developed him into the famous man that he is. Daniel made a reputation as a lawyer before he got into politics. He has written two good law books and one of these has already paid him more than $20,- 000 in royalties. General Gordon’s Nerve. Coolness on the battlefield is somewhat similar to coolness in a great convention. This fight of the democrats will be a bitter one, and it will require nerve for the men here to say what they think. Among the nerviest of the lot is Gen. John B. Gor- don of Georgia, and he may make one of the big speeches of the convention. Sena- tor Gorden is now realizing a fortune out of his lectures, and he has gotten much fame as an orator. He is tall, straight and gray-haired. Socially he is impulsive and full of feeling, but in action he is the cool- est of the cool, and whatever be the trou- bles here he will not lose his head. A r markable instance of his nerve gecurred at the battle of Sharpsburg, at which he was wounded. He was shot by a builet in the head, knocked from his horse and thrown in a half conscious state on the bat- tlefield. Ae he lay there he reasoned with himself, and not long ago he described his sensations at the time, as follows. He sal “I ean remember the operations of m mind. It seemed to me I was soliloquiz und that I said to myself: “Now my head feels as though a six- pound cannon ball had struck it. If that is so, it has carried away my head; there- fore I must be dead. And still I am think- ing, and how can a man think with his head shot off? And if I am thinking I cannot be dead! Still a man imight have consciousness after he is dead, but his body could not have action? Now, I will see! If I can lift my legs then I must be alive. Can I? Yes, I can. I see it ris- ing. I cannot ba dead after all.’ And with that,” concluded General Gordon, “I woke up and found my head still on, but also that [ had been reasoning as philosophical- ly and logically over the loss of it as though I had been in my office and not ly- ing wounded on the battlefield.” Farmer Boies. Bland will have a strong competitor along his own iines in this convention with Gov. Boies of Iowa. Boles can aiso appeal to the farming population by being one of them. He has 2,600 zcres at Waterloo, To} He has a thousand acres of grazing land in another county, and I am told that ke has 500 head of cattle in one place. Gov. Boies also pretends to be plain, but in appearance he looks more like an aris- tocrat. He is tall, broad-shouldered and fine looking. He has a big body, big limbs and a big round head, covered with hair cf siiver white. He dresses in a black diag- onal frock coat, loose trousers and white shirt, with a trun-oyer collar. He wears gold spectacles and buttoned shces, while Biand comes out with tron-rimmed glasses and top boots. Gov. Boies is a rich man. He was born in a log cabin In New York state, and went west to make his fortune. He earned his first money as a ditch dig- ger at $10 a month; did better after he settled in Iowa, and finally got so far ahead that he was able to study law. He was a republican until Cleveland first ran for President in 1884, when he voted the demo- cratic ticket and he has been a democrat ever since. He is now nearly seventy, but his physical condition is such that any life insurance company would give him a ten years’ policy at low rates. Adiat and the Mule. It is wonderful how many big men there are among these democrats. I mean men big in body as well as in brain. Boles of Towa weighs mcre than two hundred. Car- lisle must touch the two hundred mark. Bland is short, but heavy. Gen. John M. Paimer fs a six footer, and Adlai BE. Ste- venson, who is something of a candidate for the presidency, stands seventy-four inches tell in his stockings and weighs two hundred and nineteen and a half pounds. Carlisle is a big brunette. Ste- venson is a big blonde. You might almost call him a strawberry blonde, for there is a reddish Unge to what fs left of his hair, and there is a glint of gold among the sil- very threads of his heavy mustache. Ste- venson, like Carlisle, was born in Ken- tucky, and, like Carlisle, he was a poor boy. His first reading wss done during the intervals of work upon his father's farm. He had to fight for his time for reading, and I heard the other day a story of how he got in some of it unknown to his father. It was in corn plowing time, and the farmers of Kentucky worked from day- light until derk. Adlai Stevenson had got his first taste of Robinson Crusoe, and he carried the book with him to the fields, going out with his father’s one-eyed mule ostensibly to plow corn. His father was in another part of the plantation, and during the old man’s abserce Adlai rested read. Adilai’s father, however, knew some- thing of the boy’s tricks, and im order to be sure that he was at work he fastened a bell around the mule’s neck, and told Adlai he should know that when that bell stop- ped ringing he had stopped work. For some days, however, he noted that the bell rang continuously, but that there was little plowing dore. He could not understand it, dhe slipped quietly around to the corn field, the bell keeping up its ringing as he came. Whcn he reached the fence he look- ed in vain for Adlai or the mule. But the bell stil rarg. He followed its sound, and there in the thicket at the side of the field the bare-footed future Vice President ep in the mysterles of Robinson Crusoe, while his foot moved regularly to and fro pulling at a string, one end of which was attached to his big toe and the other to the bell, which he had hung up on a bush a few yards away. It Is needless to say that Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday were laid away for that day at least. Soon after this Adiai’s father moved to Illinols, but the boy came back to Centre College, Kentucky, to get his education. FRANK G. CARPENTER. Reforming the World. From Harper's Bazar. A woman whose goodness and tenderness make her loved by all who know her, once said to an impatient girl friend: “My dear, rn to allow others to be mistaken. It is @ diffleult lesson to acquire, but it Is one that will make you and all who come in contact with you happle' The wise advice often occurs to me while listening to discussions and heated argu- ments upon utterly unimportant matters. Suppose John says that he left home this morning for his office at $:30 and Mary knows that the hands of the clock pointed to 8:45 as he closed the front door behind him. Why should she tell him of his mis- take? Nobody Mkes to be told that he is wrong, and few of us will believe it of curselves when we are told of it. When there is no principle involved it is wiser, gentler and kinder to let a trifling error pass unnoticed. If a friend has bought the material for a portiere and has had the curtain made by a seamstress under tie fond conviction that she has saved money by so doing, why tell her that she could have bought a pair of ready-made portieres for what she has paid for the material and the making of one? It will only les- sen her enjoyment in her property, and do neither you nor her any good. When a mistake is made and past changing, let it alone. It is a great undertaking to try to right the world, and those whose temerity permits them to attempt the task should be careful that the so-called righting is not in itself a mistake. a — Robert Louis Stevenson's Wife. In the Midland Monthly for June there is an article by Mrs. C. F. McLean on “Robert Louis Stevenson at Gretz,” in France, where the novelist met his wife when she was Mrs. Osborne and not yet divorced frcm her husband, with whom, however, she did not live happily. The divorce was obtained afterward. Mrs. McLean thus writes of Mrs. Stevenson: She who is now th2 widow of the gr author fas at Gretz in the summer of At the age of sixteen she had married Indianapolis the private secretary of Go: «1nor Wright. She had, however, gone to Paris from the art school of San Francisco, where both she and her daughter, then in her first teens, had been among the most noticeable pupils. Mrs. Osborne was hardly seventeen years older than her daughter, and looked so little older that no amount of assertion in the most vigorous French ever did convince the peasants of Gretz that mother and daughter were really not sisters. There was also with Mrs. Osborne her little son, since then to some extent a coworker of Robert Louis Stevenson. It was small wonder that artists who worked in the ateliers with the two, mother and daughter, related that often the students, instead of drawing the posed model, pre- ferred to put on canvas the heads of the two American students. She who is now Mrs. Stevenson had a slight, willowy figure, Whose every outline was thoroughly girl- ish. Every one has now read of her won- derful dark eyes and abundant dark hair. Jullan Hawthorne has written of her as oriental in type. That may now be true if she has acquired more repose and languor than she possessed at Gretz. There every one watched her luminous eyes with the expectation of seeing a new expression light up their depths. Her head is shapely and her hair, in the wavy outlines it then made around her forehead, seemed to belong to an artistic scheme of dark curves of which her eyebrows and long eyelashes formed a part. She was an excellent listener, and, when she did talk, she always spoke in a quiet, epigrammatic way, which possessed a peculiar charm for a man of Robert Louis Stevenson's cast of thought. ANDREW. TUTTLE'S COFFIN on “There!” said Andrew Tuttle, “take ‘em and put ’em away! That’s six pairs of ’em; enough for, my own funeral.” Andrew Tuttle had taken off a pair of black allk, gloves and he smoothed them carefully before handing them to Mr-~, Tuttle. “Laws!” cried Mrs, Tuttle; “it ain't cheerful puttin’ away things Ike these; it *pears to me they ought to be burned. “Oh, yes, father; please let mother burn ’em,” whispered little Anastasia Tuttle. “Put 'em,away; put ‘em away,” ordered Mr. Tuttle.“ He was standing before the sitting room’ stove warming the hands that had come: put of the gloves. “Of all the fuss and flurry and the tarnal expense,” he muttered. : “It don’t seem half fair, nohow. Joshua Mudd was a sensible man; he wouldn't have had no such nonsense about him If he'd had his say.” “I s'pose it was a real stylish funeral,” said Mrs. Tuttle, in a tone of interest. “Stylish; yes,” roared Tuttle. “Flowers from her folks in town, crepe for to smoth- er the hats and the streamer on the door a sight to see. Stylish, I should say so; they even sent mv gray mare around to the stable and furnished me with some feller’s black colt that went kickin’ and a spreein’ to the funeral like ‘twas a weddin’.”” “How was the coffin?” inquired Mrs. Tut- tle. “Don't speak of the coffin,” said Tuttle, in an awed voice. ‘What do you think they give for it? Seventy-five dollars, as I'm a sinner. It was covered with cloth and had silver handles, and the widow’s in debt. She could no more afford seventy-five dollars for Joshua's coffin than she could afford to send that daughter of hers to boardin’ school. One thing is certain, when I’m dead and gone, mother, I don’t want any style in the manner of puttin’ me away. By Jiminy! I'll insure a plain funeral; I'm hanged if 1 won't buy my own coffin,’ Andrew Tuttle turned about from the stove; he was in a glow over the sudden in- spiration. “ill keep the expenses down there, toc,” he said. “I've never been cheat- ed yet. ‘Seventy-five dollars for a coffin; my! my! As Andrew Tuttle left the sitting room by the back door two Ittle boys entered it from the hall; wide-awaxe Uitle boys, who had ev.dently’ been listening. “ “What's the matter with father, mother?” asked Johnny Tuttle. “What is he tellin’ he’s gunno do?” de- manded little Andrew. “Laws; he was just flurried over Joshua Mudd's grand funeral,” explained Mrs. Tut- tle. “It’s father’s way to go on a bit.” The boys glanced nervously at the corner where Anastasia was weeping copiously, with her head swathed in her gingham apron, “What's the matter with Stasy?” asked little Andrew. “lather is going to buy his coffin,” wailed Stasy Tutt: “What asked John. “Oh, mother, don’t let him,” sobbed lit- tle Andrew. “Laws: cried Mrs. Tuttle, cheerfully, “"tain't no use eryin’ about it; mebbe he's only talkin’; but if he’s made up h.s mind ain't no use to argue with him no- ebbe tonight he'll forget about id little Andrew, sopefully, kept on crying. Indeed, the idea of buying his own coffin had instantly taken definite shape in the he going to do it for, mother?” it,” but Stasy brain of..Anjirew ‘Tuttle, pleasing him mightily. “Pjain pine, that is what the ma- terial’s lg be,’ he explained to Mrs. Tut- ue, “nong of your cloth covere? coffins for me.” “Plain;pine with no trimmin’s,” he said to tne undertaker the rext time he went to tawn, Andrew, Tutfle brought his coffin home in triumph one night, shouldered it and car- ried it into the sitting 100m. “It's a pretty Kood size,’ he sail to Mrs. Tuttle, “I dida’t know I was thit long a man; we'll have to save up jjwvo more pairs of gloves, I'm seared the children,” cried ttin’ the ugly thing here Wi got to die, boys and little airl,”” sail Mg. Tuttle, in a tone of quiet atisfaction, “and many a feller who's never begn cheated in bis life has been cheated in his coffin. John and Andrew, You're bath good at business; you don’t nt your, faiher to be cheated when he t defend himself, do you?” Xo,"” sobbed the boys. ‘They came close to him and hung about his knees. “But we don’t want you to buy your own coffin neither,” scbbed lttle Aajrew. Tuttle laid ac head of each of his s at his daughter. 9 don’t want your mother to be worried’ I the neighbors intc buyin’ a coffin for me that she can’t afford, and that ain't worth the money? Even a little girl oughtn’t to vant things that way.” Stasy wept very violently. “Laws, father,” cried Mrs. Tuttle, “‘meb- be I'll die first. ‘Not in the natural course,” said Mr. Tuitle. “Well, I'l hist it to the garret out of sight if the family ain't goin’ to look at it.” “Stasy ain’t seen It at all.” whispered lit- tle Andrew. Somehow, Andrew Tuttle felt pleased with his two little boys and his girl for not | taking an interest in the plain pine cofiin, ! which he cheerfully carried on up to the garret. The baby was the only person in the Tut- tle househoid who felt in no way concerned about the purchase of the coffin. True, Mrs. Tuttle sald very little on the subject, but she thought a great deal. Bury An- drew Tuttle in such a looking thing as that—catch her! To Stasy and John and little Andrew a ressing hard on the jiooked across he said, a gloom had fallen upon the house with the entrance of their father’s coffin; they never for a moment doubted that it would be used as their father intended. Mrs. Tuttle made her first complaint when the children said they were afraid to go to the garret. “Afraid to go to the tI” she re- peated. “What new foolishness is this? Why should you be afraid to go to the gar- ret all of a sudden?” Andrew Tuttle was in the room when Mrs. Tuttle put the question. He had said to each of his sons and to his young daugh- ter that he didn’t wish to hear any more talk about the ooffin. It was little Andrew who summoned up courage to answer: “**Cause there’s something up in the garret that didn’t use to be there,” he said. Mr. Tuttle burst into a loud guffaw. “You see, it’s a shame to have the thing in the house,” eaid Mrs. Tuttle; “children is such funny things. “They'll get used to it,” sald Mr. Tuttle. “Put -omething in it; I don’t object to the thing payih’ for itself by bein’ useful. Andrew Tuttle was taken at his word. Mrs. Tuttle put the last crop of onions into the pine coffin. She sent the children to the garret regularly for the onions, They went, all three together, stepping cau- tlously, running back every now and then because the floor creaked, but by and by they got partially used to it. It was the two colored men who made a fuss over the onion receptacie. As soon as they discovered where the onions were kept they refused to eat them, and yet, accord- ing to their own testimony, they were so “powerful” fond of onions that they wouldn’t work on a farm where they didn’t have them three or four times a week. “Well, father,” said Mrs. Tuttle, hands won't eat our onions. “Won't eat our onions? “Why's that?” “Because they’ve been kept in the coffin,” said Mrs, Tuttle. “Stuff and nonsense!” roared Tuttle. In order to keep his hands, however, Mr. Tuttle was obliged to purchase a fresh supply of onions, at a time, too, when onions were scarce. He groaned when he paid out $5 for three bushels. One day, Andrew Tuttle, coming into the sitting room, was startled to see his coftin occupying a place by the stove. The baby’s blanket was hanging over the side. “the cried Tuttle. “Well, what's the meaning of that, mother?” he demanded. “The baby’s cradle’s broke,” said Mrs. Tuttle, “and it was the only thing I could find. Besides, the children Is still a little scared at it; they might as well get real used to it, and it needs airin’ after holdin’ them onions.” Mr. Tuttle shut his mouth firmly; he had bidden Mrs. Tuttle make use of ‘it, but, he didn’t relish the idea of going ‘ave in the baby’s cradle. “It's gettin’ awful dirty, father,” said Anastasia one morning, with her eyes fixed seriously upon the baby’s cradle. “Yes, it is getting dirty,” said Mr. Tuttle, jumping at an ¢ “You must push it back in the gari gain, mother; usin’ a thing and abu it are two ‘different things.”” “It would have to be used a lot to pay for itself and them onions,” muttered Mrs. Tuttle, exasperated at giving up the baby’s commodious cradle. Upon the mantel in the Tuttle sitting room were three iron banks belonging re- spectively to Anastasia, John and Andrew Tuttle. Christmas was coming, and even Mr. Tuttle was anxious to know how the children were xoing to spend the money ntained in the three banks. ‘Mebbe we'll get a present, mother,” he aid, with a twinkle in his eyes, “there's a heap of money in them banks, I'm think- in’ But the little Tuttles did not like to be teased about the money in the banks. They emptied the banks one day about two weeks before Christmas, and went together to the village store, where they purchased a quart of ready-inixed white paint and a paint brush. After that for several days whenever Mrs. TutUe called one of the children the answer was pretty sure to come from the region of the cold garret. “Laws, children is such funny things,” she said. “Of all places in the world to choose the garret for a play house at this It's a heap warmer in Up in Anastasia Tuttle was taking her turn the garret, down on her knees, painting the pine coffin. we will buy white paint brush and paint father’s stimas moni and a paint tle discovered in due time what ret and she remembered one night ue. “Well!” he said, with a great pride in lis children showing itself in his honest face, “well, I declat and he insisted Upon the two of them instantly guing to the garret. ey 3 he cried agiin, when he stood - the coffin with the lamp held un- steacily in h’s hand, I declare "sa strange thing fer a feller to have water In his eyes cver his own coffin. It looks pret- ty good. Them children!” “Children is mighty f claimed the mother of four. “A body never kr ows what they'll be at next.” In each of the young Tuttle’s stockings that Christmas Santa Claus placed a let- ter, containing a dollar gold piece, and he c:mmended them hearti'y for buying the paint with the money from their banks and painting their father’s coffin. Not many little girls and boys would think of such a thing, si dsr old Santa Claus. Stasy read the letters aloud to her brothers and then the three of them put their heads down on their stockirgs and cried. Other little girls and boys did not have a father with a coffin. Santa Claus was very ny things!” ex- kind, but it seemed a very miserable Christmas. Tuttle also thanked his children for painting the coftin end they cried again. “It is beautiful,” said Tuttle, “such Paintin’ I never seen!” When they wapt he tried to cheer them by presenting each witn another dollar and saying cheerfully, “I ain't dead yet; no, sirree, I ain't dead yet.” “Don't you feel proud 1 your new trouser’. ma? I dia when I first put ’em on.”—Life. @idn’t have no coffin,” said Andrew: tle ttte had admired the painted cof- no suitable “He sald I was to make it useful,” she said, “It'll pay for itself and the onions quicker as a chicken coop than any other way.” cried little Ardrew, when 'w what she was about. ain’t goin’ to hurt it none,” said Mrs. Tuttle. “I'll put the strips on with small “The paint will be ruined,” expostulated John. ey can freshen it up again,” said Mrs. le. ‘The farm hand grinned as he drove up the lane with Mr. Tuttle’s coffin in the wagon, and Mrs. Tuttle's chickens sticking their heads through the slats. ‘De ole man ain’ gurno lack dis fo’ nuffin’,” he said. “I hope he don’t pass me on de road.’ Mr. Tuttle did not meet his coffin on the road; indeed, he waa altogether in ignor- ance of the desecration until one morning at the station he saw a long white box among the returned coops. He could scarce- ly believe his senses, and yet that box un- mistakably resembled the coffin that his children had painted. He went up to it and dcubted no longer. There was a card at- wagon and smartly touched the young horse with the whip. He was in a tremendous hurry to reach home, to carry the outraged coffin into the house and put it away, never to be used again for domestic purposes. It had been the baby’s cradle, and now it was a chicken coop—after the children had painted it, too. Had Mrs. Tuttle no sentiment at all? He and his coffin would be the laugh- ing stock of the neighborhood. “I would rather be cheated,” he roared, and again the whip descended upon the back of the colt. The colt sprang forward wildly, jerking the wagon to such an extent that Andrew Tuttle lost his balance and fell backward into the coffin and lay there kicking and sputtering as the colt went ahead at a breakneck speed. The man in the coffin gave up attempting to get out; strange thoughts came to him as he rode rapidly along, once or twice he smiled grimly and once he swore. The colt took the lower read down ai the end of the lane, through the creek, where the ice was thawing, and what Tuttle dreaded came to pass; the colt broke through the ice, shivered and fell. With some difficulty Mr. Tutt'e managed to rise out of his coffin. He called loudly tor help and he and one of bis men extri- cated the colt from the ice. tached bidding the commission merchant -oop'’ to Mrs. Andrew Tuttle. Well!” said Tuttle, “well! well!” He had the wagon with him and he backed it up to the pile of coops and loaded. He Was un angry man when he got into his wagon after the coffin. He was driving a colt, a fine slim-legged mare, a very valu- able plece of horseflesh, scarcely trained, and will at the touch of a whip. Yet Tut- tle, in his state of excitement, stood in the sah; yes, sah,” said the negro. “He neva gunno be de same hoss agai sah; he gunno be a plug hoss x fo’ sure. ‘Take him to the stable and you get on a hoss and ride back to the station,” ordered Mr. ‘Tuttle, in a strangely calm voice. ‘Tell ‘em at the station to telegraph for a hoss doctor; plug or not, that colt’s got to be ‘tended to.” Then Mr. Tuttle took hold of the shafts and drew the spring wagon along to the .”" cried Anastasia, “here comes fath- and he’s pulling his own coffin.” echoed little Andrew, “father’s his »wn coffin.” Andrew Tuttle came into the sitting room and searched for a pencil, and then he cailed imperatively to Mrs. Tuttle: “Fetch me a bit of paper quick; I want to do a 3um.” . Every one in the Tuttle household was quiet when its master did a sum. 1 plaia pine coffin delivered 1 paint brush. 1 quart paint (rv busuels onion’ From Santa Claus. From me.. A good horse injured for life. Total cost of coffin for a old fool. $116 05 When Mr. Tuttle finished this sum he went out to the wagon and shouldered his coffin. “He's not bringin’ {¢ in, Stasy,” whispered litue Andrew. “He's carryin’ it to the wood pile,” said John. Oh, Stasy, he’s cuttin’ it up at the wood pile.” ‘The three young Tuttles met their father at the door when he came to the house again. Mrs. Tuttle remained modestly in the background: she did not quite under- stand Tuttle’s latest move. “Well?” said Tuttle, sinking upon a chair. “We're so glad you ain't got no coffin, father,” said little Andrew. The three of them were upon him, Stasy enthusiastically kissing his rough’ hand, John embracing his knees, litue Andrew’ arms were around his neck. “Keepin’ up the expense of it was too hard on ne,” said Tuttle, “and bein’ you're all so giad I reckon I'll allow that I ain't sorry, neither.” “Children is such funny things,” said Mrs. Tutue. “Laws, father, they're ready to eat you up.” “They might as well, good-hunored laugh, coffin.” said Tuttle with a ince I ain't got no LOUISE R. BAKER. WHEN THE CENTURY ENDS. Controversies ai Twent From the New York Herald. Does the twentieth century begin on Jan- uary 1, 1900, or on January 1, 1901? This question agitated a great mary people some time ago, and It seems to be agitating some now. And, as Is the case with every question, it has advocates on each side. Those who hold that the twentieth century will dawn on January 1, 1900, reason that this ts so becaus2 the first year of our era began on January 1, 100. Another argument is that the first century began on January 1 of the year 0, and the second on January 1 of the year 100, just as a child is said to be in its first year before it has reached the anni- versary of its birth, when it enters its sec- ond ycar. This logic is applied to the twen- eth century question, and those who use it hold that that era opens on January 1, They argue further that December 31, 99, Was the last day in our first era, and com- pleted the first century, and that, there- fore, January 1, 100, marked the opening of the second century. Any child will tell you, they say, that a person's twentieth year begins when his nineteenth birthday is attained. So, they conclude, the twen- tleth century begins in the year 1900. This reasoning is worked out on various lines, but the conclusion is hardly correct. Much better arguments, quite conclusive in their nature, are advanced by those who hold that the twentieth century wiil begin on January 1, 1901. The weight of logic seems to be in their favor, and here are scme of the points they make: A favorite argument advanced by those who hold that the twentieth century will begin on January 1, 1901, is that a certain year will not begin until its predecessor is entirely completed; therefore, that the twentieth century will not be ushered in Lxtil the nineteenth has rounded off a full 100 years, and that will not be until mid- night of December 31, 1900. In this connec- ton these advocates point to the definition of the word “century,” as given in most dictionaries, where it 1s defined as a period of 100 years, reckoned from any given point or date. So, they argue that, as the cen- tury began with the year 1, it ended with the year 100, and the second century began with the year 101. Suppose, it has been ar- gued, a man starts to put 100 potatoes in @ barrel; if he adds another hundred to them, the first potato of that hundred will be the 101st potato. Following out this reasoning, it is held that the twentieth cen- tury will not begin till the year 1900 is fully completed. When you write December 31, 1896, says one on‘ the 1901 side, you mean the year 1896 will be completed on December 31, 1896, and that on the following day the year 1897 will begin. When you say De- cember 31, 1896, you do not mean 1896 years plus the days up to December 31 of the next year, but December 81 of the year 1896. Hence, they say, in rounding off their argument, December 31, 1900, will be the 1900th year of the Christian era, and the last day of the nineteenth century, so the twentieth century will begin January 1, As a way out of the difficulty, conserva- tive people suggest it would be well to as- certain how the ancients regarded the question, and to do as they did. If at the beginning, they say, the ancients wrote January 1, year 1, then we, when we write January 1, 1900, mean that the 100th year has just begun, and we must wait twelve months before we can write 1901. But it is not easy to ascertain what the ancients did in the chronological line in the year 1; so far as known they left no data as to their method of computing itme. 4 DOG AND MONKEY FIGHT. It Was a Lively One, in Which the Dog Did Not Win the Honors. From the Ciccinnat! Buguirer. A score and more of people at Muncie were the involuntary witnesses of one of the funniest fights to a finish imaginable. + A monkey belonging to an Italian es- caped from its confinement and was am- bling along the street when it was at- tacked by a large yellow dog of mongrel breed. For several seconds there was such a blinding rush of dust that the spec- tators could scarcely see which was ahead, but finally the monkey broke away and scaled up a pole close at hand, while the dog established himself at the foot and bayed loud and angrily. The monkey chattered in several dialects, running up and down, and all the time keeping a wary eye on its enemy. Finally it began to slowly slide down the pole, and, coming within range. it bounded plump on the dog’s back, and, with teeth and claw, made the hair fly. The dog jumped and howled and shook himseif, the crowd yell- ing Itself hoarse shouting “Go it, Tige,” “Hold to him, Monk.” The dog finally flopped over on its back, dislodging the monkey, which again bounded up the pole. Py this time the dog was crazed with rage and pain, and it made hercutean ef- fcrts to reach its chattering enemy, who again brought into play the same tactics as before. A second time it landed square- ly on the dog’s back, and there was a repe- tition in which teeth and claws played a leading role. This round resulted in a com- plete victory for the “monk,” the dog even- tuaily unhorsing his enemy by rolling over, and then bounding to bis feet and ranning away as fast as his legs could carry him. The monkey chased him for a few yards and then returned to the pole satisfied with results. WISE OLD SENTINEL CROW. A Bird That Could Count Twenty-Six. From the Chicago Record. A naturglist who 1s much Interested in birds says that the crow is the wisest of all fcathered animals. He has made a number of experiments recently and declares that an ordinarily well-educated crow can count tc twenty, and that he has found a sentinel crew, very old and very wise, that can count to twenty-six. He made these dis- coveries In a very interesting way Last summer he spent much time tp .ne mountains, where a cadet company of boys was camped. One day he found a flock of crows gathered around a dead animal that lay near a little old shanty in the woods. They flapped away when he approached. So he hid himself in the old shanty and waited, but they would not come back. Then he went out and walked on up the moun- tain, and they all settled down again to the feast. That afternoon he took four boys from the crdet camp with him, and the five marched into the little butiding and waited. No crows came back. Two of the boys went out. Sull no crows. Then the other two Went out and only the naturalist remained. But the old sentinel crow had evidently counted them as they went in, and he knew they had not all come out. So he sat on a dry pine stump and said “caw, caw,” quite derisively. At last the naturalist left the building, and straightway all the crows re- - turned. This experiment was repeated @ number of times with varying numbers of boys, but the crows kept count, and would not come down until the building was en- tirely empty. At last a whole platoon of the cadets, twenty-six boys in ali, and the naturalis marched into the old building. Then slow ly twenty of them went away. The crows did not stir. Two more, four more, five mcre went, but the old sentinel warned his companions that the men had not all gone. ~ Then the twenty-sixth cadet marched away, leaving only the naturalist. In a very few minutes there were a number of hopeful caws and a flopping of wings and the crows returned. The old sentinel could evidently count twenty-six, but numbers beyond this zzied him. The experiment was tried sev- 1 times more, and it was found that the crews could keep the count without diffi- culty up to twenty, but beyond that they Were uncertain. This shows that the crow is a very wise old bird. set ~-o— A Curious Little Plant That Eats Flies From the New York Bvening World. A young man who works at a desk in a Breadway office came from his home in . Rahway, N. J., with a curious-looking ~ plant embedded in some moist moss and earth. When his associates asked him what it was he said: “Just watch it.” They did. It was placed on his desk near a window. In less than two hours every petal was filled with a dead fly. Then he explained to the clerk that this plant was a fly-eater. It killed and absorbed the flies. “My sister belonged to a botany class,” he said, “and she dug this from a swanp near Perth Amboy. She loaned it to me to as- tcnish you fellows. It is very rare.” A fellow clerk from Savannah took a look at it and said: “When I come back from luncheon I will show you something. He Up tr brought in a small bottle of spirits of cam- pror and put one drop on each of the pet- als. Instantly the flies were released and the petals closed Ught as a clam. “Now,” he said, t plant will have a fit of indi- xeetion for about three days and then it vill survive for about as many weeks, ey Gre common enough in the south. oo A Fragrant Bath. Trom Tnvention. We always have known that Parisian ladies know a trick or two not generally - known by the world at large for preserving their youtfi and brightness. We have it on the authority of a contemporary that these ladies put starch into their bath water to soften it, as it is cheaper than borax or teilet vinegar and more trustworthy than ammonia, which is said to induce a growth of down on the skin. The Parisian ladies’ maids are adepts at preparing delicate tol- let waters, and always have material ready for use, meal baths, starch baths, flower baths, sea baths and medicated baths. One Vath ‘which is considered somewhat of a luxury must have a curious pudding effect. The bathtub is lined with a lincn sheet, gored properly to fit it. Then a bag, con- taining almond meal or oatmeal, with orris root and dozens of othcr ingredients, is put > in, giving it a deitcious fragrance. The bath being filled to the brim with water, the intending bather gets In and remains vntil she is saturated with the perfume. Would that such baths were common in England. 08 Slept in the Hen Coop. From Harper's Round Table. “Papa, is Mrs. Bigelow very poor?” “No, Cedric, Mrs. Bigelow is well off; don’t you know what a nice house she has “But she sleeps in the hen coop, papa.” “Why, Cedric “She said she did.” “What do you mean?” “Don't you remember when she was here to dinner night before iast she excused her- self, and said she must go home early be cause she went to bed with the chickens?” oe A Poser for the Professor. From the Fliegende Blatter. ony ML Excuse me professor, but will you please tell me the name of this rare plant?”