Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, December 26, 1896, Page 6

When my grandfather Davis, who was grandfather on my + 10ther’s side, mar- ried and set up for himself, he took a smali farm in what is now Bartholo- mew county, Indiana. In his time In- diana was a territory, and was consid- ered in the “Far West.” A state high- way, running from Indianapolis to Jeffersonville, passed his humble log cabin, and for many years the comuty had but few sett! and his neare neighbor was three miles away. Mr. } Davis had lived on the place about two years, and cleared up a good bit of iand, when, one Ne v Year's eve, as he } stood at his door, a man who was on foot and without a burden of any sort, turned in from the highv and said: i “Good evening, Mr. D2 I notice | 5 | ages since I passed your | Xx months ago.” grandfather «ould not remember that he had ever seen the man befo: He was a short man, being no more | than five feet high, and though mutiled up. as though to conceal his face, his | voice sounded like that of a very old | man. There w rely a night in | which some strangcr did not call at the | eabin for lodgings, and, though failing | to remember him as a guest, Mr. Davis decided that the little old man had at ; some time enjoyed his hospitality. He ! replied to his salutation, and, after some general talk, asked if he intend- | ed to stop for the night. | I cannot stop to-night,” replied zer. “I turned aside to give ing, and you will do well to words. To-morrew evening two men will come along from the south and ask for lodgings. They will tell you that they are land-lookers, but you must not trust them. They are robbers, and mean you evil. If you let them into house do not close your eyes in slee “But who are you, and how do you know what's to happen?’ asked my grandfather. “Never you mind who I am, or how T come by my information,” replied the stranger. “I have given you warning, and you must look out. That's all— goot-night.” With that he started off up the road in the direction of Indianapolis, and was soon out of sight in the darkness. My grandfather gazed after him and wondered if he was not an escaped lu- matic, and he was quiet for such a Tength of time that his wife came out to see what was the trouble. They talked the matter over again that even- ing. and the conclusion reached was that the little old man had sipped at his bottle too often and was in a mood for joking. His warning lingered, however, and the next day, half an hour before sunset, my grandfather was not greatly surprised when two men turned in from the road and asked to be accommodated for the wight. Before he had said a word in reply they explained that they were ¥and-lookers from Eastern Ohio. Each carried a rifle and a bundle of clothes, and there was nothing suspicious in their looks or talk. While the words of the little old man were rirging in his ears Mr. Davis made the strangers welcome, and his wife prepared sup- wer for them. The cabin was divided into two rooms, and the one bed stood in the front room. There was no door to the rude partition dividing this room from the kitchen, but a sheet was hung up as a substitute. There was,a fire-place in each room, ard at bed- time the strangers were given a “shake down” in front of one in the kitchen. As soon as husband and wife were alone th eed that the strangers, well apy ng as they were, had evil designs, and that my grandfather must remain awake to watch them. He took his place in the corner of the room, rifle in hand, while my grand- mother threw herself on the bed, and the time dragged slowly along until midnight, without a move on the part of the guests. Then they were heard stirring about, and fifteen minutes lat- er the shect at the door was carefully drawn aside and one of them peered into the front room. The fire was low, and my grandfather was in a dark, corner ‘The fellow could see the bed, and believing that both husband and wife were there and sound asleep, he entered the room and his companion followed at his heels. Both had their rifles in hand, and they started on tip- toe across the floor. handling their ‘Weapons in such a way as to leave no doubt of their murderous intentions. ‘Without a word of warning, my grand- father leveled his rifle at the nearest wean and fired. There was a scream, a shout and a fall, followed by the rush of Teet. The man fied on had been killed, and his companion dasbed into the kitchen and out of doors as fast as he could go. The identity of the dead man was never discovered. In the packs left in the kitchen were several articles, evidently stolen from the hous. es of settlers, with two silver watches, which had probably been taken from travelers en the highway. The rifle of the dead man was a fine weapon, and th t you wa heed iny arormting to ove father, therefo: thing out of it, in his pockets was retty,, goods yeh, « years later, having . J oved: mD- | S Lo coroner to bother about am im- | Grest. With the help $f Bis pio k cok 38 cried the dead man on | fous to run away tc the North. va | 1 lan was te kill aud rob my grandfa- 3 7 ° And The Sng Warnings Of The | (ttle Dla May ’ BY ° White river. During the three years nothing had been seen or heard of the little old man, All who heard the story came to the conclusion that he had overheard the two robbers making their plan, or that he was one of the gang and had quarreled with the pair fand betrayed them to secure revenge. On New Year's eve, after several days’ thaw and rain, and when the river was bank-full, my grandfather was caring for his horses in the stable when that same little old man, dressed exactly as before, suddenly appeared at the door and said: tood evening. Mr. Davis. I see you have traded Bartholomew county for Lawrence! I was glad to learn that you heeded my warning about the rob- bers. I stopped to tell you that you are in great danger here. Before mcrn- ing all this land will cave into the river and you'd best get away as soon as possible.” “I want to thank you for your warn- ing about the robbers,” said my grand- father as soon as he could find his vi “and to ask you—” an’t wait—can’t wait!” interrupted the little old man. “It’s all right— hurry up—see you again.” With that he was gone. My grand- father went out with his lantern ané looked carefully about him, but he could not even tind the trace of a foot in the soft soil. Even where the stranger had stood leaning against the door-post there wasn’t a sign to prove that he had feet. Grandfather was badly rattled over the affair, as also was bis wife, but it was decided to heed the warning. The horses were hitched to the wagon, the wagon load- ed with their household goods, and at 11 o'clock at night they arrived at a roadside inn three miles away. When they told their story they were laughed at, but the light of the morning told a different story. White river had cut a new channel for itself across a long bend, and cabin, stables and five acres of land had disappeared. The waters had come down so suddenly an with such a rush that had the family re- mained in their cabin there would have been no chance of escape. Whenever the story was told it was agreed that there was something queer in that little old man turning up to give a second warning ,and there were some people who believed with my grandfather that the stranger was not of flesh and blood. After a couple of years the in- cident was, however, forgotten by all save my relatives, and they recalled it only to wonder if there would ever come another warning. Soon after the disaster Mr. Davis sold his land and joined a party emigrating to Edmon- son county, Ky. There he purchased land and built a sawmill on Green river—the first in the county. While the mill was running steadily the help was changed frequently, as none of the white men about cared to work long and my grandfather owned no slaves. He at length hired a negro who had been set free by his master, and the two ran-the mill while a white man was hired on the farm. It was about five years from the sec- ond appearance -of the little old man, when my grandfather stood oa_ his doorstep one New Year’s eve looking about. His wife had started tne day before for a visit to relatives in Indi and a negro woman was in the hi to cook for the men. and the negro had gone to the sawmill, situated about a half mile away, to file the saw for the morrow’s work. There suddenly appeared before my grandfather, coming from he could not say where, the same little old man, and in a voice perfectly familiar he said: “Pleasant evening, Mr. Davis. So you have made another change. Things happened up on White river just as I told you they would, eh?” “They did, and we owe you our lives,” replied my grandfather. “Tut! tut! But that is nothing! You are in danger again, and I came to warn you.” Let me tell that my grandfather had firmly resolved that if the little old man ever appeared again he -vould find out more about him, He was some- what startled over his appearance, but his mind was made up that he would prove his caller a man of flesh and blood, or a spook. The little old man did not come nearer than six feet to the dvorstep, but as he stood there Mr. Davis planned to spring upon him should he turn away as abruptly as on former occasions. “Go over to the saw-mill,” continued the old man. “Made your approach very softly. You will find two men seated on a log and talking about you. Go at once—good night!” M ygrandfather made a spring ana a grasp at him, but, to his terror, the lit- tle old man vanished from sight, as if dissolved in air. Not the slightest aoise betrayed his going. One instant be was there—the next he was gone. To make sare that he had not been dreaming, my granfather called to the colored woman. She declared that she had heard the voice of an old man, but had not looked out to see who the caller was. Al- though greatly upset by the circum- stance, Mr, Davis secon started for the mill to see what the men were about. Sure enough, he found them sitting on a log on the carriage, and, after some areful maneyvering, he got clese gout to cverhear their conversation, ft appeared that the white man was ed of work, and the negro was anx- ‘Their her, and that very night. He made ood his retreat to the house, where he ound a neighbor named Saunders, and The white man , presently told him all. The white man slept in a loft over the kitchen, and the negro in the stable. ‘The plan was for the former to descend from the loft during the night and unfasten the kitchen door and admit the negro. ‘The colored woman would be asleep on a lounge, and as it was feared she would neither run away with them nor share their guilt, the white man was to kill her while the negro attacked Mr. Da- vis.’ When the story had been told, Saunders planned with my grandfa- ther to beat the villains at their game. ‘The colored woman was locked up in a store room off the kitchen, and a log of wood laid on the lounge and cov- ered up, to resemble a human figure. Another log was placed in my grand- father's bed, and then the two men, each armed with a rifle, took up their stations behind a cupboard standing across a corner of the kitchen. Half an hour before midnight the white man softly descended the ladder and opened the door for the negro, who ‘had a couple of sharp axes in his hands. The pair whispered together for a moment, and then the white man took one of the axes and moved over to the lounge, while the negro slipped into the sitting room and through it into the bed room. At a whistle from the white man both brought down their axes, and at the same instant the two men in hiding sprang out. The white man was killed by a bullet from Saunders’ rifle, and as the negro came rushing out my grandfather gave him a mortal wound. He lived until mid- afternoon of the next day, and before dying made a full confession. He laid the blame on the white man, and, probably, with just reasons; but it was clear that he had been a willing tool and was a bad man at heart. There was still another adventure in store for my grandfather. Six or sev- en years after the attempted double- murder, and when he had sold the saw mill and became a country merchant, he started for Muhlenburg on the last day of December, with a team, to dis- | pose of a lot of furs, beeswax, hides, feathers and other things, and bring back goods for his trade. He intended to drive until about 10 o’clock at night to reach a certain tavern; but just after dark that same little old :nan suddenly appeared beside the wagon and called out: “Ha! Mr. Davis—glad to see you again! I was right in my last warn- ing,eh? You must stop at the next tav- ern. If you drive over the long cause- way you will be shot down and robbed by men lying there in ambush.” My grandfather pulled up his horses and jumped down, but, as before, the man had vanished and left no trace behind. A mile ahead was a roadside tavern, and a mile beyond that, a long causeway across a swamp. Mr. Davis put up at the tavern for the night and said not a word to anybody. Next morning, as he was ready to go, a man on horseback brought the news that a traveler had been killed and robbed at the far end of the causeway by men who had doubtless been lying in am- bush. That was the fourth and last warning, and the little old man never appeared again. Was it a man or a wraith? You must answer that ques- tion yourself. I have given you a chapter from the family records, add- ing nothing and taking nothing away.. My granfather was a Christian man, and a man of honor in every sense. That which he wrote down in his jour- nal he believed to be true goes without dispute. He was no believer in the su- pernatural, and yet I do not think he ever reached the conclusion that his strange friend was a fellow man. He couldn’t believe that and furnish a reasonable explanation of his suaden disappearances. You may ask if the little old man warned others of dan- ger? I never heard that he did. In- deed, nearly every one who ever heard of the incidents as above related pooh- poohed them, and _ sarcastically ob- served that my grandfather must have taken a drop too much in honor of the near-by New Year. But it is my firm belief that things happened exactly as he said. and without the slightest ex- aggeration of details—Detroit Free Press. THE PROOFREADER'S ERRORS. Some Humorous Incidents That Are the Result of His Oversight. No newspaper writer has to contend sgainst greater obstacles chan does the proofreader, and when everything is ' Chang is visiting the United States be- fore going back to China.” Simultane- ously I found on my desk a note from’ the proofreader. It said: “You'll have to keep tally a little closer. ‘That Chi-i ranan has been in New York a week. Don't you read the papers?” Py W. W. Naughton, the San Franciscc} sporting writer, ohce included in bi sporting news fer the Examiner an! itefd saying that “the young salmon: are beginning to run.” It appeared in’ print: “The young salmon are begin- | ning to swim.” When Mr. Naughton asked for an ex- planation the proofreader cheerily re- ‘marked: “That's all right, Billy. You had that mixed up with your turf stuff, but I straightened it out for you.” “But why didn’t you let it go as I wrote it?’ persisted Naughton. “I couldn’t,” was the reply. “Who ever heard of a fish running?’—Chica- go Times-Herald. THE MALE SOCIETY BUD. He Has Arrived, and Great Things Are Expected of Him. If the Mossoming of the female “bud” into a flower of society is a proper topic for newspaper discussion, why should not the male “bud” be hon- ored with a detailed “write-up” in the public prints, so that his charms may be as widely advertised as those of the attractive creatures who depend upon him for seats at the opera and partners at the german? Evidently there is no reason for the discrimina- tion from the point of view of a Wash- ington paper, which presents, in sev- eral columns, the best qualities of a number of masculine “buds” which are now full-blown. ‘The prcud monopoly which the fairer sex has heretofore enjoyed is thus rudely assailed, and hereafter it would not be surprising if the enterprising social reporter has to give as much at- tention to these coy young things that c wear dress coats and belong to the club as he has heretofore devoted to - the ladies. Whether this sball prove to be an afiliction remains to be seen, but the novelty of tae innévation will no doubt lend some interest at first to the apotheosis of the male “bud.” Blonde or blondine, brunette or strawberry type, he will be pictured to us in all his stunning beauty. The part of his hair, the length of his collar and the brevity of his top-coat, the style of his boots and the color of his gloves, the diameter of his eye- glasses and the angle at which he wears his silk hat—all these details and many more not here set forth, will be dwelt upon with the nice analysis and painstaking industry of the socie- ty reporter. Eyelashes, teeth, trim of beard or mustache, nose of Grecian or 1 Roman type, perhaps retrousse or ex- pansive, will not be neglected, of course. Great things are promised for the ex- altation of the male “bud,” and if he bas heretofore blossomed in obscurity, ; the time of his apatheosis has come. No longer will he be a violet in modest \ seclusion, but a sunflower, brilliant, if not gaudy.—Baltimore Sun. PA An Aged Goldfish. The goldfish is not as tender an ani- mal as is imagined, for in handling and moving them from one place to another they are dipped up in nets and carried about in baskets much like corn or fotatces. Gometiiaes they are \ seldom js it that they are injured. How long they will live depends altogether upon their treatment. In the govern- ment aquarium at Washington is a goldfish that is known to be fifty years of age, and it is not perceptibly larger than when first placed there. There is ; Said to be in the royal aquarium at Rome, Italy, a fish that is more than a hundred years of age, but it has grown slightly in the last twenty-five years. Its color is the same except a slight change with the seasc-ns.—Indianapolis Journal. A Potato That Lifted a Ton. Charles W. Simmons, who lives on a farm near Pleasant Home, yesterday brought in from his farm a cw%osity. It consisted of a late Rose potato grown in the root of a tree. The pota- to vine seems to have crept into the root, and the new potato then started down in the depths. It flourished in Pleasant Eventi ng, Mr Davi: taken into consideration the average excellence of his work is little less than marvelous. His errors of omission may easily be pardoned. Whenever the type calls a lovely bride a “bird” the offense may lightly be overlooked, since the mean- ing is not entirely obscured. But the proofreader’s errors of commission be- long to a different category. Whenever he attempts to straighen out the tan- gled meaning of something he doesn’t understand, the result often is some- thing to make the judicious grieve. At the conclusion of the Li Huag Chang festivities in New York, and just before the distinguished Celestial left for China by. the Canadian route, I wrote a paragraph, saying: “Before Ti Hung Chang goes back to China he ought to see the United States.” It ! came out in cold type: “Li Hung its strange surroundings and developed into a large and well formed potato. The room in the root was too small for its expansion, and so the spud exerted not less than a ton pressure on the root until the side was split open. The root is about three inches in diameter and six inches in length. About an inch of the spud protrudes from one end. It is quite a curiosity, and all who have seen it say they have never seen any- thing like it before.—Morning Oregoni- an. Painful. “They tell me that Greggs and his wife are constantly on the verge of quarreling.” “Yes; they don’t dare to sit by an open window.” “Why not?” “Afraid of falling out.”—Answers. j out of the water thirty minutes, and | There had been a christening that afternoon ,and now it was toward evening. The parents of the child sat with their guests in a spacious hall— among them the grandmother of the child’s father. The others were all near relatives, young and old, but the grandmother was a generation older than the oldest. The babe had been christened Barbara after her. But she had also received a finer name, for Barbara alone sounded altogether too old-fashioned for the pretty little thing. Nevertheless, she was to be called by this name. So both parents decreed, in spite of all the objections which their friends brought against it. But the old grandmother neyer sus- pected that the utility of her long- cherished name had been brought into question. The clergyman, after discharging his office to the family circle, had gone his way a short time before, and now all the dearly loved and oft-repeated stories were brought forth and retold, though not by any means for the last time. First of all, the delightful and merry stories of childhood were told. When no one else knew them, the grandmother could repeat them. Her own childish days lay so many years in the past that any one who could have told them, save she herself, must indeed thave far exceeded the age of allotted to man. Amid such conversa- tion the twilight had come on. The hall fronted the west, and a red light streamed through the window upon the plaster roses of the stucco work which adorned the wall. Then it, too, faded. From the distance a dull, mo- notonous murmur made itself audible in the stillness. Some of the guests listened. R “That is the sea,” said the young wife. “Yes,” said the grandmother, “I have heard it often. It has been so these many years.” Then no one spoke again. In the stone court outside before the window stood a tall linden, and one could hear the sparrows settling in their nests among the branches. The host had taken the hand of his wife, who sat by his side, and his eyes were directed to- ward the intricate antique stucco ceil- ing. “What are you thinking of?" asked the grandmother. “The ceiling is cracked,” he said. “The cornice is settling, too. The hall is getting old. We must rebuild it.” “The hall is not so very old,” an- swered she. “I remember when it was built.” “Built? What was here formerly?’ “Formerly?” repeated the grand- mother. Then she was silent for a short time, and sat there like a lifeless statue. Her glance was turned toward the past, her thoughts were with the shadows of things whose substance was no more. Then she said: “It is eighty years ago. Your grandfather and I used often to talk about it. The hall door did not lead at that time into a wing of the house, but out of the house into a small flower garden. It is no longer the same door, however. The old one had glass panes, and one could look through them down into the garden as one came in at the front door. The garden lay three steps down. The 3teps were provided on both sides with gay Chinese balusters. Between the beds, with their low borders of box, tan a broad walk strewn with white shells, leading to @ linden arbor, in front of which from two cherry trees hung a swing. On both sides of the arbor were apricot trees carefully hung against the high garden walls. Here in summer at the noon hour your gret- grandfather could be seen regularly walking up and down trimming French cowslips and Dutch tulips in their beds or tying them with hemp to little white sticks. He was an exact and careful man, and his black eyebrows with his white powdered hair gave him a very distinguished appearance. “Well, it was an August afternoon when your grandfather came down the little garden steps. But at that time he was far from being your grand- father. I can see him now with my old eyes, as with light tread he went up to your great-grandfather. Then he took a letter out of a neat embroid- ered pocketbook and handed it with a graceful bow. He was a young man with gentle, kindly eyes, and the black bag wig set off well his glowing cheeks and pearl-gray cloth coat. When your great-grandfather had read the letter, he nodded and shook the young man by the hand. He must have been well disposed toward him, for he seldom did that. Then he was called into the house, and your grandfather walked down the garden. “In the swing in front of the arbor, | sat an eight-year-old girl. She had a picture book in her lap, in which she was reading industriously. The bright golden curls hung down over the hot little face on which the scorching sun was shining. hg ‘What is your name’ asked the young man. i “She shook the hair back and said ‘Barbara.’ “Take care, Barbara, your curls will melt in the sun.’ “The little one passed her hand over the hot hair. The young man smiled, and it was a very gentle smile. “There is no need,’ he said. ‘Come, let us have a swing.’ “She jumped out. ‘Wait. I must first put up my book.’ Then she laid it in the arbor. When she returned he wanted to lift her in. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I ean get in alone.’ Then she seated her- self on the narrow swingboard and eried, ‘Go on! and your grandfather pushed the swing until his cue danced now to the right, now to the left, across his shoulders. The swing with the little maid went up and down in the sunshine, the bright curls blew free from her temples, and yet it never went high enough for her. But when the swing flew among the rustling lin- den boughs, the birds flew out of the trellis on both sides so that the over- ripe apricots plumped down upon the ground. » “What was that? he said, stopping the swing. . “She laughed that he should have asked such a thing. ‘That was the thrush, she said. ‘He is not usually so much afraid.’ “He lifted her out of the swing, and she went to the trellis. There lay the dark-yellow fruit and the foliage. c “Your thrush has given you a tres ae said. “She shook her ‘ead and laid a beautiful apricot in his hand. ‘You’— she said, softly. “Now your great-grandfather came back to the garden gain. “Take care.’ said he. ‘You will uct easily get rid of her.’ Then he spoke of business mat- ters, and beth went into the Louse. “In the evening little Barbara was allowed to sit at the table with them. The kind young man had asked for her. Things were not quite as she could have wished. ‘The guest sat at the table beside her father; but she was only a little girl as yet. and Iida to sit down at the foot, next the young- est clerk, and that is why she finished her supper too soon. Then she rose and stole to her father’s chair, but he was: talking so earnestly with the young man over premiums and dis- counts that the latter had no eyes for the < little Barba it is years ago. grand- remembers well how impatient little Barbara grew at that, and was not to be propitiated by her good fath- er. The clock struck 10, and now she had to say good night. When she came to your grandfather he asked her, ‘Shall we swing again to-morrow? and Barbara was quite happy once more. ‘He makes a fool of himself over children,’ said your great-grand- father, but, in reality, he was himself unreasonably fond of his little gi “The next day, toward evening, the young man went aw: “Then eight yea passed. In the winter time little Barbara would often stand by her glass door and breathe on the frosted panes. Then she would look out through the peep-hole into the snowy garden and thin beautiful summer time, of the danc ing leaves and warm sunshine, and thrush which always made its nest in the trellis, and how once the ripe apri- eots were shaken down upon the ground, and then of one particular summer y of which she aly thought, when she thought of sua at all. So the years went by. Little Barbara was now twice as oic she was no longer little B: that one summer day w: bright spot in her memo: he came again.” “Who?” asked her grandson, smiling. “The summer day? i: +s id the grandmother. “Ie was a veritable summer day.” ‘And then?” “Then there was a betrothal, and lit- tle Barbara became your grandmoth- er, who now sits among u, telling old tales. But it had not yet gone quite so far as that. First there was a wed- ding, and then your- grandfather had his hall built. With the garden and the flowers all was now indeed ever. But he had no longer need of them. He soon had living flowers to enliven his noon hours. When the hall was finished the wedding came off there. It was a merry wedding, and the guests talked about it long afterward. You who sit here, you were not present then, it is true, but your fathers and grandfathers, your mothers and grand- mothers were, many of them, and they were people who could put in their word. Those were quiet, modest da We did not seek to know more than the kings and their minister: nd he who thrust his nose into politics was called by us a ‘state tinker, and if he were a shoemaker we gave his neigh- bors our boots to mend. The seryant maids were all named Trine and Stine, and every one wore a dress which suited his position. Now you even wear mustaches, like young squires or eavaliers. What would you kave, pray? Do you all want to rule, too? “Yes, grandmother,” said the host. “And the nobility and the high « en- try, who were born for that, what is to become of them?” “Oh, nobility!” said the young moth- er, looking up into her husband’s face, with proud, loving eyes. He smiled and said, “Abolished, grandmother, or we shall all be bar- ons, all Germany, man and ‘nouse. I see no other alternative.” The grandmother made no response to this. She only said: ‘At my wed- ding there was no talk about state his- tory. The conversation went on its even gait, and we were just as happy as you, in your new-fangled compa- nies. At table amusing riddles were propounded snd doggerels composed. At dessert we sang, ‘Your healta, my good neighbor, till empty the glass,’ and all the other pretty songs that are now forgotten. Your grandfather’s clear, tenor voice was always to be distinguished. Peeple were more po- lite to each other in those times. Dis- puting and clamor were regarded as very unseemly in a fine company. Now everything has come to b ediffer- ent; but your grandfather was a gen- tle, peaceable man. It is so long since he left this world. He went on hefore me. It is time that I fcllowed hii.” The grandmother was silent a mo- ment. No one spoke—only she felt her bards seized. Every one wanted to hold them. A peaceful smile flitted over the dear old face. Then she lovked up at her grandson and said: “Here in this hall stood also his coftin. You were at that time only six years old, and stood by the coffin weeping. Your father was an austere, undemon- strative man. ‘Don’t cry, little one,’ he suid, and lifted vou upon his arm. ‘See, this is the way an honest man looks when he is dead,’ and then he secretly brushed away the tears from his own face. He had always a great vereration for your grandfather. Now they are passed over, and to-day I have now stood as god-mother to my ¢ - r is nen at grandchild, and you have given he: e uame of your old grandmother. the good God suffer her to arrive a happily and peacefully at my age!” The young mother fell upon ‘ber knees before the grndmother and kiss- ed her soft hands. The grandson said: “Grandmother, we will tear down the old hall entirely | and lay out a flower garden again, Little Barbara is here, too, once more. The ladies say she is your exact im- age. She shall sit again in the swing, and the sun shall shine upon her gold- en, childish curls. Perhaps then, some summer afternoon. the grandfather, too, will come again down the little Chinese stair. Perhsps—” The grandmother smiled. “You area ane said she. “Your grandfa- er was one, too.”—From t man ! for Short Stories, neGer 5 s