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/' -^'^'s^T^.-jr \ 3 The Humui Auotlon, Ho 1 hrru lirv Uvtm by thit Hcoru toKoU ; Up tu Ilia i>latfi>riii. Kuuti. »u<l lild ! Alakti niM an olfur, thtiy'll pay vt>ti wullâ€" All of 'oiQ ripu (or tli« cottiu lid. Hurt* is & woman, piiichiKl and pale, PlyiUK li*»r nutfdltt for daily bread ; <iivu mu a shirt fur hur - inorti on Hale, Dying I K«ntluueu â€" dying Iâ€" duad ! A family, aix in nilmtwr, bore, Froah froui a cullar in Somum Town ; Molbur bur sixth continenient near. Father and brata with fev«r down. *Twaa FuHtiltiuce Hpokt* tbon, waH it not ? " An optin H««er," 1 think hu Haid ; \Vell, bis olTvr aball buy thv lot. Dyiuij • g«nUuuieuâ€" uyinK !â€" dead I Kow, good cuatomera, lutrv'a a chanoo : A thousand mnii in tlie priniu of life, Witildera of niii»k«t. aword and lauce. Armod and drillad for the duadly atrifa. Ooueral Warfare lift* Ilia hand •A bullot for each, â-  crioa the gent in rod, >i'o otfor but bla (aat tlowa the aand, Oyinii : gentlemenâ€" dyinglâ€"deadi A l>ody of toilura, worn and weak, Clerk and curatua and writing men- Look at the tluah on each sunken cheek, Mark the Dugers that gra«|i the pen '. Come, good gontlemen, can't we deal ? Has Drudgiry a eye for bargaina Hed ? Heolfers. at laat, the price of a meal- l)yiug 1 gontlomon â€"dying I dead I â€" Ukoiiue K. Simh. SIR HUGH'S LOVES. The letter wiis as follows : " MaI'asi, â€" I am dirooteil by Mr Hant- inifjdon to inforiii you that from this day he will holil no comumtiicdtion with you or your husband. " He wishes me to add that he has gent all clotheH, jewels, and (lerHUhal effects beloni:ini> tu his dau^fhter Nea Hunii:-odon, now stylmij herself Nea TralTord, to ihu enclosed address, and he has directed his nianat;er, Mr. Dobsoii, to strike Mr. Maurice Traflord's name off the list of clerlts. Any attempts to open any further correspondence with Mr. Huntinijdoii will be useless, as all such letters will he returned or destroyed. â€" I remain, madam, your humble servant, Bistk'iTkiiksa." Knclosed was a cheijue for two hundrad pounds and a little slip of paper with a few pencilled lines in Sister Teresa's hand- writint;. " l''or the love of heaven do not send or comeâ€" it would be worse than useless, he is nearly beside himself with aut;er : your maid interceded for you with tears, and has been sent away with her wages. No one dares to say a word." Oh fathers ! provoke not your children to wrath. It was that hard, cruel letter that chanijed Nea's reiwntance to unrelenting bitterness. Instinctively she felt the iron of her /ather's will enter into her soul. In a moment she understood, as she had never done before, the hardness and ojldiiess of hisnatnre, theintlexibilityof hispur|>ose . as well niit{ht she dash herself against a rock as ex|M-ct forgiveness. Well, she was his own child, her will was stron|{ too, and in the anguish of her despair she calle<l ti|>on her pride to 8Up|)ort her, she leant her fainting woman's heart upon that most rotten of reeds. lie had tlisinherited her, hJH nnl^ child, he had flung her away from him. Well, she would defy him : and then she re- •M"mbered his ill-health, their projected Ir to I'aii, their bappy schemes for the future, till her heartfelt almost broken, but for all that she stood like a statue, crushing down the pain in the very stubbornness of her pride. Ah, Nea, unhappy Neal poor motherless, wilful xirl , well may she look round her with that scared, hunted look. Was this her future home, these p<H>r rooms, this shabby furniture ? lielgrave House closed to her for ever, liut as she looked round with that fixed miserable glance, why did the tears suddenly dim her «ye8 .' Her glance had fallen on Maurice, still •itting motionless with his hands bofore his eyes â€" Maurice, her husband ; yes, there he sat, the man whom her own wilfulness had dragged to the brink of ruin, whose faith anil honor she had tempted, whose honest |iur|j<is« she had shaken and destroyed, who was so crushed with remorse for his own weakness that he dare not look her in the face ; and as' she ga/.e<l at him, Nea's whole heart yearneu with generous pity over the man who had brought her to poverty, but whom she had to '*m1 and would love to her life's end. Vn<l Maurice, sitting crushed with that awful remorse, felt his hands drawn down iroin his face, and saw Neii's bi^autifnl face smiling at him through her tears, felt the smooth brown head ixstle to his breast, and heard the low sobbing wonlsâ€" " For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, till death us do part, have I not promised, Maurii'.o ? take me to your heart and comfort mo with your love, for in all the world I have no one but youâ€" no one but you !" CHAPTEU X. IN liKKP WATKBB. Ijet our uncHaaiitg. eHrnest prayer fi*), too. for light, for strength to bear i)\\x iiortiiinof tbe woigbt to care, Ttint croshea into dumli despair One half the human race. sufTttriiig, Had hoinanity t () ye attlirted ones, who lie Kie«i»'d to the lips in niiaery, Longing and vet afraid to die, I'ntient though surely triad I 1 nieilge voii In this cup of grief. Where tloalH the fennel's bitter leaf I Tbe battle of your lif<' Is brief, i'hu alarin. the struggle, the riilief ; Then aleup we siile by side. LoM(;/sflotu. Nea had to learn by bitter experience that the fruits of disobedience nnil deceit are like the apples of Hodnin, fair to the sight, but mere ashes to the taste, and in her hitter mix>d she owned that her punishment was just. Hlowly and lahiiriiinHly, with iiiHnite care and pains, she set herself to unliarn tliii lessons of her life. I'or wealth she hsd poverty ; for ease and luxury, privation and toil : but ^n all her troubles her strong will •nd pride siistainnd her ; and though she •uffereilt and heaven only knew how she BUtTered! she never complained ormunnureil until the and came. For her pridi^ sustained her, and when that failed, her love came to her aid. How she loved him, how she clung to him in those days, no one hut Maurice knew ; in her bitterest hours his words had power to comfort her and take the sting from her pain. When it was possible, she hid her troubles from him, and never Added to his by vain repining and regrets. Dut in spite of Nea's uouratfe and Maurice's patience, they had a terrible hard life of it. At first Maurice's efforts to And another clerkship were in vain, and they were uompelled to live on the proceeds of the che.jue ; then Nea sold her jewels, that they might have something to (all baok upon. Bui presently Mr. Dobson came to their aid. He had a large family, and could not do much, as he told them, sorrowfully ; but hs found Maurice, with some trouble, a small clerkship at eighty pounds a year, advising him at the same time to eke out their scanty income by taking in copying work of an evening. Indeed, as Maurice disocered many a time in his need, he did not want a friend as long as the good manager lived. And so those two young creatures took up the heavy burden of their lives, and carried it with tolerable patience and courage ; and as in the case of our first parents, exiled by a woman's weakness from the fair gardens of Paradise, so, though they reaped thorns and thistles, and earned their bread by the sweat of their brow, yet the bitter-sweet memories of their lost Kden abode with them, and in their poverty they tasted many an hour of pure unsullied love. For they were young, and youth's courage is high, and the burden of those days was not yet too hard to be borne. Nea longed to help Maurice, but her pride, always her chief fault, came as a stumbling block in her way ; she could not iHia' to go into the world and face strangers. And Maurice on his side could not emlure the thought that his beautiful young wife should be e.xposed to slights and humilia- tions ; so Nea's fine talents wasted by misuse. Still, even these scruples would have faded under the pressure of severer needs, iiad not children come to weaken Nea's strength and keep her drudging at home, Nea had never seen her fiitlier or hoard anything from him all this time. Maurice, it was true, had humbled himself again and again, but his letters had all been returned unoixjiied. Hut when her boy was born, Nea's heart 8oftene<i by the joys of maternity, yearned passionately for a reconciliation, and by her husband's advice, she stilled all feelings of resentment, and wrote as she had never written before, as she never could write again, but all in vain ; the letter was returned, and in her weakened state Nea would have fretted herself to death over that unopened letter if it had not been for her husband's tenderness and her baby's innocent face. How the young mother dotwi on her chilli ! To her ho was a miracle revelation. Nature had oi)«ne<i a fount of consolation in her troubles. Kho would lie, patiently for hours on her coui.'h, watching her baby in his sleep. Maurice coming in jaded and weary from his work would pause on the threshold to admire the picture. He thought his wife never looked su beautiful as when she had the boy in her arms. And so the years passe<l on. Maurice worked, and struggled, and pinched, till his face grew old and careworn, and the hard racking cough began to make itself heard, and Nea's tine color faded, for the children were coming fast now, and the days were growing darker and darker. liy and by there was a baby girl, with her father's eyes, and Ix-autiful as a little angel ; then twin boys whom Nea kissed and fondled for a few weeks, and then laid in their little coDins ; then another boy who oidy lived two years : and lastly, after a long lapse of time, another girl. Hut when this one was born the end was fast approaching. Mr. Huntingdon had been abroad for a year or two, and had just returned to Helgrave House â€" so Mr. Dobson informed Nea when he dropped in one evening on one of his brief visits - and he had brought with hitn a young widowed niece and her boy. Nea remembered ner cousin Krlo Hunt- ingdon and the dark-eyed girl whom he had married and taken with him to Naples ; but she had never heard of his death. Iionbtless her father meant to put Beatrice in her placti, and make the younger Krie his heir ; and Nea sighed bitterly as she looked at her boy playing about the she noticed her baby's hoo<l was crooked room. Mr. Dobson interpreted the sigh and stopiMid at the next lamppost to put it whispered entreaty that Nea shuddered to hear. " Dearest," he had said, when she had implored him to say what she could do to comfort him, " there is one thing : go to your father. Yes, my darling," as she shivered at his words, " go to him your- self ; let him see your dear face that has grown so thin and pale ; perhaps he will see for himself, and have pity. Tell him I am dying, and that I cannot die in peace until he has promised to forgive you, and take care of yoa and the children. You will do this for me, Nea, will yoa not ? you know how I have suffered, and will not refuse me." Had she ever refused him anything ? Nea kissed the drawn pallid face without a word, tied on her shabby bonnet, and took her baby in her arms â€" it was a puny, sickly creature, aiid wailed incessantly, and she oonld not leave itâ€" then with the tears blinding her poor eyes, she walked rapidly through the dark streets, hardly feeling the cutting wind, and quite unoon- soious of the driving sleet that pelted her (ace with icy particles. For her heart felt like a stone ; Maurice was dying ; bat no 1 he should not die : with her own hands she would hold back her beloved from the entrance to the dark valley ; she would minister to his fainting soul the cordial of a tardy forgiveness, though she should be forced to grovel for it at her father's feet. And then all at once she suddenly stopped, and found she was clinging, panting for breath, to some area railings, that the baby was crying miser- ably on her bosom, and that she was looking through the open door into her father's hall. There wiis a carriage standing there, and a footman was shivering as lie walked â- p and down the pavement. No one took notice of the heggar-woman as they thought her, and Nea, moved by a strange impulse and desire fur warmth and cnmfort, crept a few steps nearer and looked in. There was a boy in a velvet tunic sliding up and down the gilded balustrades : and a tall woman with dark hair, and a diamond cross on her white neck, swept through the hall in her velvet dres.4 and rebuked him. The boy laughed merrily and went a few- steps higher. Ueatrice and the young Krle Hunting- don," said Nea to herself. And then a tall thin shadow fell across the doorway, and, uttering a half-stilled cry, Nea saw her father, saw his changed face, his gray hair and bowed figure, before shj threw herself in his way. And so, under the gas-light, with servants watching them curiously, Mr. Huntingdon and his daughter met again. One who stood near him says an awful pallor, like the pallor of death, came over his face for an instant when he saw her standing before him with her baby in her arms, but in the next he would have moved on had she not caught him by the arm. " Father," she sobbed ; " father, come with me. Maurice is dying. My husband is dying ; but ho says he cannot die until he has your forgiveness. Come home with me ; come home with your own Nea, father," but he shook otT her grasp, and began to descend the steps. Here, Stephen ;" he said, taking some gold from his tiocket ; " give this to the woman and send heraway. Come, Beatrice, I am ready." Merciful Heaven! had this man a human heart, that he should disown his fiosh and hloo<l ? Would it have been wonderful if she had spoken bitter scathing words to the unnatural parent who was driving her from his door? But Nea never spoke, she only turned away with a shudder from the sight of the proffered gold, and then draw- ing her thin cloak still closer rouud her child, turned wearily away. True, she had sinned ; but her punish- ment was a hundred times greater than her sin, she said to herself, and that was all. What a strange stunned i|uietness was over her ; the pain and the fever seemed all burnt out. She did not suffer now. If something that felt like an irou claw would leave otT gripping her heart, she could almost have felt comfortable. Maurice inustdie, she knew that, but something else had die<l before him. Shu wondered if it were this same heart of hers; and then the neighborhood, and here sbe gave daily lessons. And so, as the years went on, things became a little brighter, Nea found her work interesting, her little daughter Fern aooompanied her to the school, and she taught her with her other pupils. Presently the day's labor became light to her, and she could look forward to the evening when her son, (etching her on his way from school, would escort her homeâ€" a humble home it was true ; but when she looked at bar boy's handsome face, and Fern's innocent beauty, and (elt her little one's caresses, as she climbed up into her lap, the widow owned that her lot bad its compensations. But tbe crowning trial was yet to come ; the last drop of concentrated bitterness. Not long a(ter Maurice's death, Mr. Huntingdon made his first overture o( reconciliation through his lawyer. His niece, Beatrice, had died suddenly, and her boy was (retting sadly (or his mother. Some one had pointed out to Mr. Hunt- ingdon one day a dark-eyed handsome boy in deep mourning, looking at the riders in Rotten Row, and had told him that it was his grandson, Percy Trafford. Mr. Huntingdon had said nothing at the time, but the boy's face and noble bearing haunted him, he was so like his mother, when as a child she had played about the rooms at Belgrave House. Perhaps, stifle it as he might, the sobbing voice of his daughter rang in his ears, " Come home with your own Nea, father ;" and in spite of his pride his conscience was beginning to torment him. Nea smiled scornfully when she listened to the lawyer's overtures. Mr. Huntingdon was willing to condone the past with regard to her son I'ercy. He would take the boy, educate him, and provide for him most liberally, though she must understand that his nephew, Krle, would be his heir, still on every other point tbe boys should have uijual advantages. " And Belgrave House, the home where my boy is to live, will be closed to his mother,'' asked Nea, still with that delicate scorn on her face. The lawyer looked uncomfortable. " I have no instructions on that point, Mrs. Traftord ; I was simply to guarantee that he should be allowed to see you from time to time, as yon and he might wish it." " I cannot entertain the proposal for a moment," she returned, decidedly : but at bis strong remonstraucesheat last consented that when her boy was a little older, the matter should be laid before him ; but no doubt as to his choice crossed her mind. I'ercy had always been an affectionate child ; nothing would induce him to give up his mother. But she became less confident as the days went on ; I'ercy grow a little selfish them. When he took her bia boyish giita they were quietly bat firmly returned to him. Even poor little Florence, or Fluff as they called her, was obliged to give back the'blue-eyed doll that he had brought for her. Fluff had fretted so about the loss ot the doll that her mother had bought her another, Percy carried away his gifts, and did not come for a long time. His mother's white wistful (ace seemed to put him ia the wrong. " Any other (ellow would have done the same under the circumstances," thought Percy, sullenly ; " I think my mother is too hard on me ;" but even his conscience misgave him, when he would sae her turn away sometimes with the tears in her eyes, a(ter one of his boast- ing speeches. He was too young to be hardened. He knew, yes, sorely he must have known ? that he was grieving the tenderest heart in the world, and oae day he would own that not all his grandfather's wealth could compensate him for being • traitor to his mother. (To baeontiaDsd.) Cara of Preserved Fruit. Keeping fruit or any provision depends on three things. It must be sonnd to begin- A speck of decay or acid change will de- velop ferment in a kettle of fruit. Second, the jars or cans mast be air-tight. The object of steaming the fruit is to expel the air and arrest the change in the juice, which would naturally proceed to ferment. Air penetrates in finer ways than we can dis- cern, and needs much less than the crevice of a hair or pin's point to enter and spoil the contents. Glass that is free from cracks or air bubbles, well-glazed stone- ware, free from fiaws, yellow ware, or strong, dark earthen jars, will keep the fruit from the air, provided it is sealed with wax, putty, or bladder, soaked and left to shrink on the mouth of the jars. Cans with screw tops and rubber rings are apt to have slight defects, which prevent perfect sealing, and cannot be depended on without wax. Third, the jars must be kept in a dry. dark, cold place, very little above freezing. A shelf in a furnace-warmed cellar or store- room opening from a kitchen is not the place to preserve fruit. It may be put up in the best manner, and yet Bi>oil through keeping in the light or where it is not cool. Glass cans should be wrapped in paper, buried in sand or sawdust or kept in a dark closet. Packed with plenty of chaff, oats, dry sand or sawdust, or dry sifted ashes, most preserves will stand freezing weather without injury, but each can needs at least six inches of nonconducting material about it on all sides, fur protection. A pit on one side of the cellar, dug below the reach ef frost, and lined with boards, with straw or ashes between them and its walls, will keep preserves from heat or freezing. A pit dug in the cellar, four feet below the level of its floor, well drained and lined as above, will prove the best place for keeping and headstrong, he wanted a man's will to small quantities of preserves, enough for a aright. Try again, Mrs. Trafford," he said, holding out his hand as be rose ; " humble yourself in the dust, for the sake of your children." And Nea took his advice, but she never had any answer to her letter, and soon nfutr that their kind old friend, Mr. 1 iobsun, died, and then every tiling wont wrong. Maurice's employer gave up business, and his successor, a hard grasping man, found fault with Maurice's failing hualth. straight, and felt a vague sort of pity for it, when she saw its face was pinched and blue with cold, and pressed it closer to her, though she rather hoped to flud it dead when she reached home. " One less to suffer and to starve," thought Nea. Maurice's wistful eyas greeted her when she opened the door, but she only sluxik her head and said nothing ; what had she to say '.' .She gave her half-frozen infant into a neighbor's care, and then sat down and dismissoil him as an incomputrtit clerk ; and drew Maurice's face to her bosom, still and this time Maurice found himself without siweohless In that awful apathy friends. For a little time longer ho struggled on, though broken in heart and health. 1'hey left their comfortable lodgings and took cheaper ones, and sold every article of furniture that was not absolutely necessary ; and the day before the baby was born, Nea, weeping bitterly, took her last reliu, her mother's jmrtrait, from the locket set with pearls from her neck, and asked Maurice to sell the little ornament. All through that long illness, though Heaven only knows how, Maurice struggled oil. Ill himself, he nursed his sick wife with patient care and tenderness. Nea and her littleoneshad always plenty of nourishing food, though he himself often wont without the comforts he needed ; he kept the children quiet, he did all and more than all a woman would have done, bifore, worn nut at Inst in body and mind, he laid hinisolf down, never to rise agiiiii. And Nea, going to hini with her sickly baby in her nriiiH, saw a look on his fane that terriUcd her, and knelt down by his side, while he told her between his paroxysms of coughing what little there was to tell. She knew it all now ; she knew the poor. And there she sat hour after hour, till he died [leacefully in her arms, and his last words were, " 1 believe in the forgiveness of sins," • • • • • • When she had ceassd to wish for them, friends came around her in her trouble and ministered to her wants. Kind (aces (oUuwed Maurice to his last resting place, and saved him from a pauper's grave. The widow and her children were clothed in decent mourning, and placed in comfor- table lodgings. Nea never ronsed from lior silent apathy, never looked at them or thanked thorn. Their kindness had come too late for her, she said toherself. and it was not until long afterwards that she know that she owed all this consideration to the family of their kind old friend Mr. Dobson, siicrotly aided by the purse of her cousin Bentriie Iluutingiloii, who dare not come in ptusoii to see her. But by and by they spoke very firmly and kindly to her. They pointed to her children â€" they had placed her boy at an e.xwilent schoolâ€" anil told her that for their sakes she must live and work. If she brooded longer in that sullen despair she would die or go mad ; and they . bnuiglit her baby to her, and watched its brave heart had b<ien slowly breaking for feeble arms trying to clasp her neck ; saw voars, and had given way at last ; she the widow's passionate tears rain on its knew what he had suffered to sea tho innocent faceâ€" the tears that saved the woman ho loved dragged down to the level poor hot brainâ€" and knew she was saved ; of his poverty, and made to endure such and by and by, when they thought she had bitterness of humiliation ; she knew, when regained her strength, they asked her gently it was too late, that the man was crushed what she could do, Alas! she had suffered under the consoijnences of his weakness, her fine talents to rust. They had nothing that his remorse was killing him ; and that but impoverished material to use ; but at ho would seal his ropentanoe with his last they found her a situation with two life. And then came from his pale lips a maiden ladies just setting up a school in single family. Chlraco Firty-tliree %' ears Ago. Capt. F. McCumber, of Burlington. Wis., who IS said to be tbe oldest lake captain now living (he is Wl), says in a recent letter to the Hon. John Wentworth, of Chicago : " I came to Chicago in July, 1834, in com- mand of the schooner Thomas Hart, of Carthage, on the Uenessee River ; there was no harbor then, and we lay one mile from tho mouth of the river and discharged our cargo with a scow at the forks of the river â€" mostly Indian goods. There were many Indians at C'hicago at that time. We went from Chicago to St. Joseph ; got into the river, and discharged the rest of our cargo there â€" Indian supplies â€" shovelled in sand for ballast, and U.''< for Buffalo. I think the first shipment of wheat from Lake Michi- gan was made in that year. The wheat was stored at St Joseph. I trieil to get it; went up the river to Cassopolis on the steamer David Crockett, to find the owner, but he had oontraoted with one of Oliver Nowbeery's vessels, the Marengo, Capt Dingley, master, who died the same year of cholera at Detroit. This is about all the information I can give you. I am ))'2 years old and my tnemery is failing. I am here on a little (arm quietly waiting tbe end." dominate him ; his narrow, confined life and the restraints that their poverty enforced on them made him discontented. One day he encountered tbe lawyer who had spoken to his mother â€" he was going to her again, with a letter that Mr. Hunt- ingdon bad written to his daughter â€" and as he looked at I'ercy, who was standing idly on the doorstep, he put his hand on his shoulder, and bade him show him the way. Nea icrned very pale as she read the letter. It was very curt and business like ; it repeated the offer he had before made with regard to her son Percy, only adding that for the boy's future prospects it would be well not to refuse his terms. This was the letter that, after a moment's hesitation, Nea placed in her boy's hands. " Well, mother," he exclaime<l, and his eyes sparkleil with eagerness and excite- ment, " 1 call that splendid ; I shall be a rich men one of these days, and then you will see what I shall do (or you, and Fern, and Fluff." " Do you mean that you wish to leave us, Percy, and to live in your grandfather's house?" she returned, trying to speak calmly. " You know what 1 told you â€" you were old enough to understand what your father suffereil, andâ€" and," with a curious faiiitness creeping over her, " you see for yourself there is no mention of uie in that letter. Belgrave House is cluseil to your mother." " Ves, I know, and it is an awful shame, but never mind, mother, 1 shall come and see you very eften ;" and then when the lawyer had left them to talk it over, he dilated with boyish eagerness on the advantage to thciu all if he accepted his grandfather's offer. His mother would be saved the e.\pense of his education, she would not have to work bo liard ; he woulil be rich himself, and would be able to help them. But at this point she stopped hitn, " I'nderstand o\\v» for all, Percy," she said Willi a sternness that he had never seen in her, " that the advantage will tw solely for yourself ; neither I nor your sisters will ever accept help that comes from Belgrave House ; your riches will be nothing to me, my son. Think again before you give up your mother." He would never give her up, he said, with a rough boyish caress ; he should see her often â€" often, and it was wicked, wrong to talk about refusing his help ; he would talk to his grandfather and make him ashamed of himself â€" indotHl there was no end to the glowing plans he made. Nea's heart sickened as she heard him, she know his boyish seltlshness and restlessness were leading him astray, and some of tho bitterest t'lars she ever shed were shed that night. Hut from that day she iteased to plead with him, and before many weeks were over I'ercy had left his inolher's humble limne, and, after a short stay at Belgrave House, was on his way to Klon with his cousin Hrle Huntingdon. I'ercy never owned in his secret heart that he had done a mean thing in giving up his mother for the splendors of Belgrave House, that the thought that her son was living in tho home that was closed to her was adding gall and bitterness to tho widow's lifo ; he thought he was proving himself a dutiful son when he came to see the yard tho family heard piercing cries, never reproached him ' »"<• o" running to investigate found the and always welcotne<l him kindly, but h«r '^'"'^ '-^'"•< °" '''" «''"'"'>'l. «hile on her lips were closed on all that related to his '""e»8*"""''» •â- oo»'e"""f""''"R''"iun)phantly. home life. She could speak of his school- *^"® °' "'^ ''"'" tf''' ««>â- Â«â€¢â-  ''»'! been looked follows and studies, but of his grandfather, °°'' and of his new pony and fine gun she I" Edinburgh a disused railroad tunnel would not s(>eak, or even care to hear about is to be utilized for raising mushrooms. A Very Cool Iluriflar, A young woman of Portland, Me., awoke the other night to find a man ransacking her bureau. She screamed, but tho bur- glar, with great coolness, said : " Keep cool, sis ; I won't hurt you. .\11 I want is the trinkets." Her scream, however, had alarmed the house, and the burglar ffed. He left his hat behind in his fiight, and the gentleman of the house, in hopes that it might serve as a clue to his detection, hung it on the hat rack in the hall. The family then retired again to rest. In the morning it was found that thu hat was gone. 'The burglar had returned later in search of his head-gear, found it, and once more made off unmolested. Nothlus New I'nder tlie Sun. Shaks|i«are seems to have been very well up in most of the 8]an;{ phrases of the present day. In "Henry VIII." we have "too thin ;" in "King John," " come off I" and " you are too green and fresh ;" in " A Winter's Tale," "What, never?" and although he does not exactly use the ex- clamation rats I we have in " Hamlet," " A rat ! a rat !" which is pretty near it. John Buiiyan used the phrase, " it is a cold day" in connection with adversity, so it would seem that Solomon was not far from the truth when he said, " there is nothing new under the sun," or words to that effect. â€" liotton Courier. The Syracuse Staiulanl tells a pretty story of a little |.'iil, who was recently re- Srimanded for conduct which her mother id not think became her. The little one, who took refuge in the nursery to shed her tears, was shortly afterward overheard in- dulging in a soliloquy. " Mamma is real niean," she said, " and I don't like her any more. No, I don't. If she didn't live here 1" â€" with emphasis on the first person, singular number â€""shouldn't invite her to come to my house." .,„ ,„ „„„ In St. John County, Fla., a few days ago, thmigh thoVisits wTreMrro^lv ^'"''' * ''V* '2 year-old girl was playing in all he wis^ them to bo. .i,.. ..^.J .i- r.„„l., l,„«,..t „;.....;....._:. True, his mother uevei