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f THE VOICK OF SILENCE. T WM. WINTER. , u poem read at the reunion of the UfKf O V«fcaaac, Philadelphia, June ®»18T*J BMt on the sparkling sward, this "Sic youthful summer gleams; TTh>. roses in the south wind play; The slumberous woodland dreams a golden light, 'ncath clouds of fleets Mid bird-songs wild and free, The blue Potomac flows, in peace, Down to the peaceful sea. from < Alarms me placid vale-- _ • »or can Hon roar, nor trumpet blast, Nor shattered soldier's wail. There's nothing left to mark th© llnft) The triumph, or the pain, Where nature to her general mm Takes back our lives again. r?f %. tet, in your vision, evermore. Beneath affrighted skies, With crat-h of sound, with reek 0( ROM, The martial pageants rise. Audacious banneiP rend the air, KSkrv btmhIr of battle neigh, Andi frantic through the eulphortKUfllKN Eaves on the crimson fray 1 *ot time nor chance nor change can dim Your memories proud and high, Hor pluck your star of greatnesB aomi From glory's deathless sky! . - Foreverwore your fame shade bloe-* Your valor tried and true ; ^•?'* ; And that which makes your country's pride MDYLREHFEEYIDATOJROU! <• j* - Forever through the soldier's thought SXfae soldier's life returns-- , r where the trampled fields ape fought Or where the camp-fire burns. For him the pomp of morning brings ' A thrill none else can know; For him night waves her sable wings O'er many a nameless woe. Bow often, face to face with death, In stern suspense he stood, While bird and bisect held their breath Within the ambushed wood I Again he sees the silent hills, With danger's meuace grim J And darkly ail tbe shuddering rills 1 Son red with blood, for him. For him the cruel sun oi noon ? Glares on a bristling plain; s For him the cold, disdainful moon J Lights meadows rough with slain/ There's death in every t-iehi he-seeS,., In every sound he hears;s w - And ennset hush and evening breeze Are sad with prisoned tears. Again, worn out with midnight march, He sinks beside the track; Again, beneath the lonely arch, His dreams of home come back; In morning wind the roses shake Around his cottage door, And little feet of children make Their music on the floor. ,fhe tones that nevermore on earth Can bid his pulses leap, Sing out again, in careless mirth, Across the vales of sleep; And where, in horrent splendor, roll The waves of vict'ry's tide, •The chosen comrades of his soul Are glorious at his side ! Forget! the arm may lose its might, The tired heart beat low, The sun from heaven blot out his light, The west wind cease to blow; But, while one spark of life is warm- , Within this mold of clay, ' ECis soul will revel in the storm - - Of that tremendous day. On mountain slope, in lonely glen, , By fate's divine command, The blood of those devoted men Has sanctified this land! The funeral moss--but not in grie^-- Wsrres o'er their hallowed rest; , And net in grief the laurel leaf Drops on the hero's breast! Tears for the living, when God's gift-- (The friend of man to be)-- Wastes, iikr (lie shattered spars that drift Upon the unknown sea! Tears for the wreck who sinks at last, No deed of valor done; But no tears for the soul that past When honor's fight was won I fie fakes the hand of heavenly fate Who lives and dies for truth! For him the holy angels wait, In realms of endless youth! The grass upon his grave is green With everlasting bloom; And love and blessings make tbe sheen Of glory round the tomb! i not for them, the loved and geae I The cause they died to save Plants an eternal corner-stone Upon the martyr's grave ; And, safe from all tbe ills \re pass, Their sleep is sweet and low, ^Neath requiems of the murmuring grass - v And dirges of the snow. <. That sunset wafte his holiest kiss Through evening's gathering shades, ^That beauty breaks the heart with bliss < , The hour before it fades, ' That music seems to merge with heaven Ju*t when its echo dies, Is nsfture'e sacred promise given Of life beyond the skies I I Mourn not! in life and death they teach This thought--this truth--sublime; " There's, no man free, except he reach Beyond the verge of time! • <iStij beckoning up the starry slope -'fihe^bid our souls to live; Ana, flooding all the world with hope, * Have taught us to forgive. " IfO soldier spurns a fallen foe! Mo hate of human-kind Oan darken down the generous glow f That fltea the patriot mind! • • • £.ii lo-vo aintllmake tl:•; , -•*•*•* strong, * And Justice lift their ban-- iWhereri(,L': cia'jand-to'wwfeb Nor man be slave to man. ' Jv from their quiet graves they speak, ffo speaks that quiet scene-- * "Where now the violet blossoma meek, * ' And all the fields are green. * 'Hiere wood and stream and flower and UsA A pure content declare; <And where the voice of war was heard ', IS heard the voice of prayer. Once more in perfect love, O Lord, Our aliened hearts unite; 1 clasp, across the broken sword, ke hands that used to smite! 1 atoce beside Potomac's Wave There's nothing left but peace, •Se filled at last the open grave, ! And let the sorrow cease. uur **»!« Bweet. from the pitying northern Their loving whisper flows; And sweetly, where the orange shines. The palm tree woos the rose; Ah, let that tender music run O'er ail the years to be ; And Thy great blessing make us 1 make Just before this Mrs. White had learned through a mutual friend of my illness, and the very day of the blunt physician's ultimatum brought a letter to my mother. " For the sake of my old love*" it read, " let all that may have come be­ tween you and mo be lost in the pleasure of better memories. The hills of Meadow B*"ook are clothed again with greenness, and now in this late May is the time fox Jennie to come to us. There is a prophecy of health for her in the soft wind that lifts the edge of my paper as I write. We know she is your all, and we will be very tender of your darling. Will you not trust her for a single sum­ mer ?" And before another week was passed my trunk was packed and marked, "Philander White, Meadow Brook." I looked out, as I have said, and there qat the pleasant white house, with its green window blinds, the shrubbery in front, and the cherry trees behind. My heart went out to it, and at once; and it did a moment later to the gentle-voiced woman and the fair, dark-haired girl who rushed out on the front steps and kissed my cheek, said, "Cousin Jennie, you are very welcome." But it is not all to tell you of that summer, though I look aoross the gray year to its picture in the Maryland of my memory that I have taken up my pen this morning. Suffice it that the mountain breezes of Meadow Brook did their work well; and when in early aratumn my mother came for her child, die could hardly identify the rosy- cheeked girl who rushed in with her curls dangling about her face and held tip her rosy lips for a kiss. i think it must have been nearly two months after my domestication at Aunt Mary's--for so I call my mother's cousin --when Uncle Charles Brace, her hus­ band's brother, visited her. He was a minister, and Cora and I had anticipated the gentleman's advent with anything but pleasant emotions. Our precon­ ceived notions of the clergyman's elongated visage and solemn, puritanical manner, which we regarded as necessary concomitants of the profession, soon vanished before the beautiful kindling of his smile and the winning gentleness of his manner.. He was Uncle Phil's youngest brother and not more than twenty-eight at that time; and his re­ ligion bad deepened and harmonized his fine poetic temperament without check­ ing the outflow of that under-current of humor which sparkled through his char­ acter. Uncle Charles was soon our com­ panion in our rides and rambles, and our confidant in our girlish plans. "Yoi> don't really mean so, Unclei Charlie," and Cora s bright face was lifted from the roses and geraniums we were weaving into the bouquet for the mantel. " You don't really think what you just said, that in every heart there is a * f otmtain ; some blossom in the human wilderness of every soul." He put down his paper and came toward us. " I have not a doubt of it, my little girl. The story I was just reading of the hardened old man who And i se us one with Thee! knew of, nor a decent suit of clothes, when he came to Farmer Reid's house. But for all that, Justin proved a smart, likely boy; and the farmer, who some­ how was never very beforehanded--I always thought his wife's sudden death hurt him--found that Justin was a real prize. "At first he was gloomy and silent, doing his work and taking little notice of anybody. But he couldn't stand it long before Lucy. I wouldn't like to have the heart that that girl's smile wouldn't have thawed out. She was just like'a bird around the old place, singing from morn till night, and her blue eyes, that were like her mother's, seemed to be sending out one laugh and her lips another. I never wondered her father doted on her as he did, and, of course, Justm/Swasn't long in the house before she tried to make friends with him. " Poor fellow! it must have seemed very strange to him at first, for I don't believe anybody had given him a kind word until he came to Meadow Brook. But he made ladders for her flowering vines to run on, and got shells for the borders, and propped up the dahlias, and did a thousand other things which took them out into the garden after sup­ per, and made them the best of friends. "Lucy had *a playful childish way about her that made her seem much younger than she was ; then she was small of her age, so that at fifteen she did not seem a bit older than you are, Cora. " Well, she rode on top of Justin's hay cart and helped him husk corn in the barn, and pretty soon the farmer, noticed a change in Justin. He got him a new suit of clothes, and his face lost its down look, and after harvesting Farmer Reid made him an offer to tarry all winter. So Justin staved, taking Lucy's advice, and went to tfie district school and, though he had no education before, he went ahead of many an older scholar that win­ ter. Justin stayed with the farmer fonr years ; then he had a good offer some­ where in New York State, and conclud­ ed to stop for the winter only. " Lucy Reid had grown into a young woman by this time ; and a handsomer one, children, these dim eyes never looked upon. I don't know how it hap­ pened, for Lucy might have had her pick among the boys for miles around* but somehow she took to Justin, and when he left, they were engaged to be married one year from that time." "Why, Grandma Deane! you ain't going to stop now?" cried Cora in alarm, for the old lady had laid down her knit­ ting. " No, my child," she said, moving her spectacles and wiping her eyes; " but the rest is a sad story, and I must hurry oyer it. I don't exactly know how it happened, but that winter Lucy's father got into a terrible lawsuit with Squire Wheeler. There was some flaw in the title, and the. people said it was plain the old man should let the homestead go. Th ey paid, too, he '11 never survive it; and better perhaps, he never had, than kept it as he did; but one day Squire Wheeler, to all the neighborhood's as- cried because a child gave him a bunoij itouishment, rode over to the farm, of marigolds, corroborates my remarKi* ¥' << \phat he did there was never exactly known: but in a little while it was A FLOWER IS THE WILDERNESS. Do you ever judge, reader, of the 'okaiaister of the inmates from the physi­ ognomy of then- houses? I do. And when the stages swept round the corner Llooked out eagerly, for as the driver d told me, about ten rods up the road ofcood the house of Philander White. Hi» wife was my mother's own cousin, rnad I was just thirteen years old when I -vent there to make my first visit. There bad been some quarrel between the two ^families two or three-score years anterior Co my visit; and though my mother and Mrs. White never participated in this, the fend of their ancestors had doubt­ less involved some coldness between £hem. But to cut a long story short--for the jpen and paper gossip may be more dig­ nified but not a whit better than tea Stable scandal--I had been an invalid all i£he previous winter. When soft April days (to which my mother looked forward so eagerly) came, they brought no bloom to my cheek, no vigor to my step. My constitution eee tried to have lost all its recuperative bower; and the doctor said : " Send her Into the country, Miss May. If that -don't help her she is lost to yon." The light that is in us cannot quite be­ come darkness; the hearts that might bring forth a hundred-fold for harvests of heaven, will never become such deserts but some good seed will take root therein." " I don't believe it Would, though, in Farmer Keep. You don't know him as well as I d©, Uncle Charlie. He's one of the richest men in all Meadow Brook ; he's worth thousands and thousands. He's a bachelor, you know, and lives in the great red house on the road to Woodbury, you remember. Well, he never goes to church ; he never loved a human being in his life. Now don't think Farmer Keep--why, Grandma Deane, how do you do?" The lady whose entrance put t,hi« sudden period to my cousin's peroration, came slowly toward the rocking chair. Cora drew it out for her. She was the oldest lady in the village. The hair under her cap, white as hillside snow, had imprisoned the sunshine of fourscore and ten summers; but she still retained muoh of the physical stamina which, with her active sentiment, had made her so vigorous a woman for many years. "What's tnat you're saying, child, about Farmer Keep ?" said the old lady ,vith a plcaaant -smile,-as jahe^gfem^ hear, knitting sheath to her waist. "Why, I vras telling Uncle Charlie what a cold, hard man he is. You've always known him, Grandma Deane, and now did he ever do a good thing or ever love anybody in his life ?" " Yes, he loved a girl once, I think I remember." "Farmer Keep loved a girl once?" irepeated Cora, with a half contemptous and wholly skeptical curl of her red lip*. "She's forgotten," she added in an undertone to Uncle Charlie and me, for Grandma Deane was slightly deaf. "No, I haven't forgotten, neither," she said, placing her hand on Cora's hair; " I have held Lucy Reid on my lap too often and rocked her cradle--poor, little motherless thing I--too many times to have forgotten. Cora's look of incredulity was giving way to one of curiosity. "Grandma Deane, won't you tell us all about it ? Jennie and I will sit down on the stool, and I know by that look in Uncle Charlie's eye, he wants to hear it, too. Come, let the flowers go, Jennie ;" and my vivacious cousin established her­ self at the old lady's feet. Grandma Deane slipped the yarn around her little finger and commenced : " Let me see. It cannot be more than forty-two or three years this summer since Justin Keep came up to Farmer Reid's to let himself out for the harvest boy, through harvesting. The Reid house stood a little this side of Stony Creek. There is nothing left of it now except the chimney, and it looks out gray and cold from the grass all about it; but forty years ago it was a fine old place, with lilacs, and the hop vines run- ping all around the back. Lucy was hardly three weeks old when she lost her mother. Her father never married again and the child grew up there in the old home as fair and sweet as the flowers about her. She was turning into fifteen when Justin came that summer. He was a shy, stronge sort of a lad, and the neighbors said Farmer Reid would never get the salt for his porridge out of him. He'd been bound out until he was eighteen to some man down in Maine, and he hadn't a relation in the world he rumored that the suit was withdrawn, and next spring Lucy Reid was to be married to his son, Stillman Wheeler. And so it was. One bright March day she went to the old church yonder and gave herself to him. He was a good- looking man, but never over-smart, the neighbors whispered; and J always thought that it was his father's money, more than anything else, that kept him up." "But Justin, Grandma Deane--what became of him?" "There is a dark look about the whole matter. Lucy was made the victim of some terrible falsehood. I never blamed her father, for the losing of the home­ stead seemed completely to shatter him. I only know that Squire Wheeler and his son were at the bottom of it, and that Lucy Reid went to the altar, be­ lieving that Justin had been false to her." "Dear me, how dreadful t Did he overcome back?" "Yes, the next May. Lucy had been a wife two months. Justin had net heard of her marriage. She was at home visiting her father. When she first saw him she fell down like one stricken a fit. But he carried her into the house and there learned alL Both had been deceived." "It was a terrible scene the old front room witnessed. Juhtin swore yen geance, and it was not fill, with clasped hands and streaming eyes the young wife knelt to the only man she ever loved and pleaded for the life of her hus band, that he promised for her sake to spare his life. But from the day of Justin's visit Lucy was a changed woman. All the light and gladness of her being seemed dead in her. She moved about her house pale and quiet, with a look of patient suffering in her once sunny eyes that made my heart ache to behold." "And her husband--did she ever tell him what she had learned ?" * • " I think not His father and Lupy's had died in less than two years after the marriage. The Squire was much less wealthy than was supposed. The next spring Lucy and her husband moved West, and somehow people lost sight of them." " And Justin ?" " You know the rest, my child. He became a moody, unhappy man, asking no sympathy and giving none. But he was always smart at a bargain and in a few years he laid up enough money to buy Deacon Piatt's farm when his son went South. Ever since, he has added acres to his lands and hundreds to the banks ; but for all that, he is a man soured toward all his race--a man who was never known to give a little child a smile or a beggar a crust of bread. I have sometimes thought his heart was like a desert, without a tree to shade or a stream to gladden it. And yet it bore a bright blossom once ; and believe me, children, for it is the word of an old wo­ man who has seen and knotfn much of the ways of man, it is always so. The heart may be a great wilderness, but in some of its by-ways there has grown a flower." Cora and I looked at each other and at Uncle Charlie. Just then Aunt Mary came in. She had been out and had not heard of Gradma Deane's visit. But Cora stole up to her uncle, and, winding her arms about his neck, whispered: " I shall believe it always, Uncle Charlie, now I have heard the story of Farmer Keep, that there is a blossom in the wilderness of every heart" It was a sultry August day in the sum­ mer I passed at Meadow Brook. The wind, low and slumberous as the hush of a mother's voice at nightfall, crept up among the corn and down among the rye and wlieatfields, that lay like broad green folds about the dwelling of Farm­ er Keep. There was no poem of flowers about the front yard ; no graceful, har­ monizing touches of creeping vine or waving curtains about the old red homo- stead ; and yet it had a quiet, substan­ tial, matter-of-fact physiognomy, that somehow made a home feeling about your heart. I think it must have been this uncon­ scious feeling which decided the course of the girl who stood at the point where the roads diverge, and gazed wistfully about her that afternoon. She seemed very tired, and'her coarse straw bonnet and calico dress were covered with dust. If you had looked in her face you would not have forgotten it. It could not have been more thsm fifteen summers. It was very pale, and its sweet, sad beauty made you think of nothing but summer flowers drenched with summer rains. Her eyes were of that deep, moist blue that rolls out from under the edge of April clouds, and h$r lips, ripe and full, had that touch of sorrowfulness about them, which t,«Us you always tbe heart beneath is full of tears. The girl's hand clasped tightly the little boy's by her side. The resem­ blance between them would have told you at once they were brother and sister, but his life could not have covered more than a third of hers. The little fellow's eyes were full of tears, and the bright curls that crept out from his hat were damp with moisture. A few minutes later she opened the broad back gate, and went to the kitchen door. Farmer Keep's housekeeper--an old woman with yellow nightcap, and check apron tied over her lmsey wool skirt--answered her knock. "Do you want any help, or do you know of any round here that does ?" tim­ idly asked the girl. The old lady peered at her with dim eyes. "No," said she. "There ain't but four on us--Farmer Keep and the two hired • men, and me. It's harvest time just now, though, and I reckon you'd find a place in the village." "Thank you. Bennie, here, my little brother, is tired, for we walked from the depot. Can you let us come in and rest awhile?" "Sartin you can." The sight of the child touched"A the heart of the woman, and they went into the large kitchen, and sat down in the flag-bottomed chairs, while, with a glow­ ing cheek, the girl cast about in her mind for the best manner in which to present her petition for food. Befoie she had decided the master of the house suddenly entered the kitchen, for it was nearly dinner time. He was a large, muscular, broad-chested, sun-burned man, with a hard, gloomy expression on his face, whore fifty years were now be­ ginning to write their history. He s*ood still with surprise, gazing on the new occupants of the kitchen ; and the boy drew close to his sister, and the girl threw up a timid, frightened glanoe into the gloomy, face. "You don't know of anybody here that wants a little help, do ye, farmer ?" asked the woman. "Here's a little girl that wants a place, and as she's walked from the depot, I told her she might come in and reai a bit before she went up into the village to try her luck !" "No," shortly answered the farmer-- "Dinner ready?" And the rich man turned away without one gentle or kind look for two homeless children whom God had brought to his door. "Lucy, Lucy, don't stay here. I'm afraid." And the little boy's lip curled and quivered as he-turned his faoe from the farmer's. " Lucy, Lucy," how those little, trembling tones went down, down, down, into the man's hard heart! How the dead days of bis youth burst out of their graves, and rushed through his memory at that low, broken, " Lucy, Lucy 1" He turn­ ed and looked at the girl; not sourly, as before, but with a kind and eager ques­ tioning interest. " What's your name ?" "Lucy Wheeler, sir." He staggered back and caught hold of the uuaicst chair. " And what was your mother's ?" " Lucy Reid. She used to live at Meadow Brook. So I came here to get work ; she tol4 me to before she died." At that moment the angels looked down and saw the seed that had lain for two-score years in the heart of Justin Keep, spring up, and the flower blossom in the wilderness. He strode across the kitchen to the bewildered girL He brushed back her bonnet and turned her face to the light. He could not be mis­ taken. It was the one framed and hung in the darkened room of his soul. The blue eyes of Lucy looked again in his own. At that moment the little boy pushed in between them, and gazed wist­ fully in the man's faoe. Farmer Keep sat down and took the child in his arms. He tried to speak, but, instead, great sobs came and heaved his strong chest The trio in the kitchen gazed at them in mute astonishment " Lucy's children, Lucy's children I" he murmured at last, in a voice whose tenderness was like that of a mother. " God has sent you to me. For her sake t.hifl shall be your home. For her sake I will be a father to you." Five years after, Cora wrote to me : " We are having fine times now, dear Cousin Jennie, and mamma wants to know if you do not need to renew your cheeks among the dews of Meadow Brook. Uncle Charlie is with us, and if you were also, our happiness would be complete. " Lucy Wheeler--you remember her-- his the place in my heart next to yours. Her disposition is as lovely as her faoe, and that is saying a great deal, for its sweet beauty does one good to behold it Farmer Keep seems to idolize her and Bennie. He is a charming man now. He goes to church regularly every Sab­ bath. He spares no pains or expense in Lucy's education, and she will be an ac­ complished woman. She is here very often, and I have suspicions that Uncle Charlie--but no matter, I will not trust t.hiw to you and paper. " But now, Jenuie-what a lesson has all this taught me. How has it deep­ ened mv faith in God and humanity. Now wlien my heart yearns over fee wretched, sinning outcast, I remember always that there is a flower in the wilderness. Useless Endurance. On Thursday afternoon, Parker, the mustang-rider, gave up for the second, and, it is to be hoped, the last time, his attempt to ride 300 miles in fifteen hours. As on the first occasion, he be­ came blind from the rapid exhaustion of vital force, the loss of which no stimu­ lants could replace. But, suppose a lit­ tle additional power of endurance and of will had carried him through ? It would simply prove that a man of Anglo-Saxon blood may accomplish as much as a South American Gaucho, or a Tartar of Mongolia. As a merely mechanical feat, it would by no means fix the limit of human endurance when upheld by some powerful purpose. When Charles XLL of Sweden, rode from Adnanople to Stralsund, in the early winter--a dis­ tance of not less than 1,200 miles--he performed a greater exploit, and it'meant sometning. When Fremont rede from Los Angelos to Monterey and back--800 miles in six days of travel--he had an important object to accomplish. Un­ doubtedly many men could be found capable of riding 300 miles in fifteen hours, under the spur of some over­ whelming necessity. Similar or equal feats hsve been performed, over and over again, in all ages of the world. Capt. Boyton, last summer, flo&ted across the channel in his buoyant India- rubber costume, and had much to say of his physical exhaustion, so long as he had no rival; but the Englishman, Webb, swam the same distance with no other float than the national pride. The strength which is developed by systematic training, and exercised under the most favorable circumstances, may excite curiosity ; but it is a very imper­ fect test of human endurance. So far from establishing a standard of physical development, it rather teaches us what to avoid. Dr. Winship may develop a pair of Herculean shoulders upon a small body, but he simply shows us the use- lessness of his special lifting capacity. Weston may walk his 120 miles in twen­ ty-four hours, by the aid of scientific feeding and grooming, but no sensible man would desire to do the same thing. One variety of force is always cultivated at the expense of other equally necessa­ ry forces, and is more or less a monstros­ ity. There is little in it to admire, and nothing to imitate. Such a performance as that at Fleet­ wood park lacks every picturesque and heroic element. One gallop around the hot and dusty ring is the picture of the whole 300 miles to the spectators, and their chief interest must be in waiting for the moment when the man, instead of the mustang, shall be attacked with the blind staggers. There is no law, we suppose, to prevent Parker from riding himself dead as well as blind; but the uselessness of the show has now reached that point where it becomes cruelty, and it should not be repeated. Cannot Mr. Bergh, for once, consider a man as good as an animal, and hold his protecting shield over the mustang-rider?--New York Tribune. A Romance of the Signal Service Bureau I heard a couple of days ago a hither­ to-unpublished romance connected with the life of one of the most prominent officials of the Signal Service bureau. He was, my informant states, once en­ gaged to be married to a lovely, charm­ ing and wealthy girl. The eve of the wedding had dawned--if an eve can dawn--and they were occupying the same rocking-chair and talking as inanely as only lovers can talk, when the fair ome said : "Albert, duckey, there is one thing I wish you to do when we are mar­ ried." "Name it, lovey," he replied,* making her feel that her corsets were a mile too large for he?. " That is, petty to Lave no rain on Mondays, because, you know, darling, that Monday is wash­ ing day, and if the. things are not washed and (Med then the week's work is so fearfully put back. You will, won't you, my owny ?" The young man's heart was torn, but he replied : "Maud, dearest, my,duty to my bleeding country demands imperatively that I shall whoop her up the precise sort of weather that heaven will probably send impartially during the next twenty-four houars upon the just and the unjust, without regard to age, sex or previous condition of servitude. If an area of barometric disturbance exists in the Middle States on Monday, how can I consistently with my duty declare that the probabilities favor clear weather with light winds from the southeast? No, angel; ask me anything but that I could not love thee, dear, so darn much, loved I not honor more." "Then you do not love me," she sobbed, bursting into tears. The reader will readily un­ derstand how they progressed to a quar­ rel and parted enemies. She returned his presents, and is now lecturing on woman's rights, and he is a confirmed misogynist and sits up all Sunday night P,t the Signal Service office, with fiendish glee making out bulletins for Monday an­ nouncing falling barometers, atmospheric disturbances, heavy rains, showery weather, and so on.-- Washington Cor. New York World. THESE arrived in ^ort'Byron, N. Y., a few days ago, a man who had just been released from a long imprisonment in the State prison in Auburn, N. Y., and whe during his confinement had been exercising his skill in carving. He had five ships all fully rigged, several castles with grounds laid out, and three bottles which contained bones finely carved and put together in a beautiful shape after being placed in the bottle, one at a time. THERE was a very pleasant donation party the other evening, and the company sang " We give up all for Heaven" with deep feeling, feut the next day the min­ ister expressed a desire to resign. He said that three quarts of beanie, a pillow case of dried apples, two pounds of head cheese, a pan of twisted doughnuts, and a calico dressing gown were undoubtedly very valuable in their way, but they seemed to him to form an unnatural basis to preach sound theology from. THERE is but little rye sown in this country for cattle food, and still it is well known that for fall and early spring pasture it cannot be excelled. Especial­ ly is rye valuable for sheep in spring that are suckling lambs. It forms rich, succulent food, and should be granted more attention. OUK MINISTER'S HERUON. ( minister paid la»t night. Bays he. * 4 Don1! be afrsUd of givin'; ! If your life ain't worth nothing to other folks Why. what's the «Be of livin'f ,at-£ what 1 "ay to my wife, says I, 1 her s Brown, the miserable sinner. * sooner a beggar would starve than site > A cent toward buyin' a dinner. S X tell you our minister is prime, he is. TO? 5 couldnt quite determine. When I heard him a givin' it right and left. Just who was hit by his sermon. Of course the. c couldn't be no mistake When he talked of long-winded pravln', For Peters and Johnson they sot an* -- At every word he was sayin'. And the minister he went on to aay, " There's various kinds of cheatln', Y " And religion's as good for every day 'V As it is to bring to meetin'. „ • I don't think much of the man that gjiMH The loud amens at my preachin', And spendB his time the follawin' weSfc- - In cheatln' and overreachlft'." I Sness that dose was bitter enough For a man like Jones to swallow; But I noticed he didn't open his mouth. Not once, after that, to holler: Hurrah, says I, for the minister!-- o, Of course I said it quiet-- J Give-us some more of this open talk- It's very refreshin' diet. Ihe minister hit 'em every time, And when he spoke of tashion, And riggin' out in bows and things. As woman's rulin' passion, And comin' to church to see the styles. I couldn't help a-winkln' And a-nudgin' my wife, and Bays I. " That's TOtt!** Ana I guess it sot her thlnkin'. 8ayB I to myself, that pennon's pat; But man is a queer creation: And I'm much afraid that most of the frffaf Won't tako the application. Now, if he had said a word about My personal mode of Biniain', I'd have gone to work to rig at myself And not set there a-griunip'. J ust then the minister says, says he " And now I've come to the fellers Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends As a sort o' moral umbrellas; Go home," says he, " and find your faults, Instead of huntin' your brothers'; Go home," says he, "and wear the coats You tried to fit for others," My wife Bhe nudged, and Brown he winked. And there was lots o' emilin', And lots o' lookin' at our pew; It sot my olood a-bilin'. Says I to myself our minister Is gettin' a little bitter; 111 tell him, when the meetin's out, I Ain't at all that kind of a critter. Pith and Point. WHEN parents yield up their daughters in marriage they do it with miss-givings. WHY are many people like eggs ? Be­ cause they are too full of themselves to hold anything else. THE two places to look for Philadel­ phia pickpockets--the cent-ennial and the penny-tentiary. " Two THINGS," said Mohammed, " I abhor: the learned in his infidelities,the fool in his devotions." WHY is "naming the day" for the wedding li^e a naval battle? Because it's a marry-time engagement. To AVOID suspicion, doctors, under­ takers, milkmen and pump-makers should be distant acquaintances. MANY a man who has not a cent in his pocket owns a corn which he would not allow you to step on for the world. " ELEGANTLY furnished rooms to rent in a family consisting of two floors " is part of an advertisement in a New York newspaper. A WOMAN in Macon, Ala., had twins twice, and then triplets; and after the last lot her husband ran away, and has not returned. A BOM) rascal on an Illinois railroad train pretended to be the conductor, coif lected all the cash fares in two cars, and jumped off with the money. " DIDN'T you guarantee, sir, that the horse wouldn't shy before the fire of an enemy?" "No more he won't. 'Tisn't till after the fire that he shies." THE Glaziers' union, of Montreal, an­ nounce a grand ball. " All sash ez !"-- New York Advertiser. Putty good. Wonder if they had any glass puddin'.-- Boston Globe. " SAH, did you take me for a sardine?" said a sable orator at an exciting politi­ cal meeting. "No," was the reply, "I's always 'garded you as a fresh­ water minnow, dat wasn't wuf picklin'." IF a pretty fairy Bhould come to me. And ask, " What thing would you like to be?" I'd say, " On the whole, I will be a mole." Oh, that would be just the thing for me! I'd go straight down and not care a fig What squirming things in the ground I'd meet, For if I were a mole I'd dig and dig Till my nose should tickle the Chinaman's feet! SCENE--Village inn, Hampshire. Lan guid Swell--'Sthawa Wifl' caw heaw? Barmaid--Beg pard'n, sir! Swell-- 'Btiiawa Wifl 'caw heaw? Barmaid-- Don't understand French, sir! Swell-- Haw! (Exit.) He is supposed to have meant, is there a rifle corps, here?-- Punch. A FASCINATING young widow having married annoyed her second hus­ band by frequent references to her first, whereat he finally remonstrated. "I dare say," replied the fond creature, pouting her pretty lips, " that you'll be glad to have me remember you when you are dead and gone and I'm married again." A GENTLEMAN conversing with a Brook­ lyn lady about the absurdity of female apparel and the frivolity of fashionable life, exclaimed: "Is were on earth a bigger fool than the mere woman of fashion?" Her questioner considered himself shut up and put down, like a disagreeable book, when the lady an­ swered: "Yes, the man who admires her." > LAST Sunday, says the Brooklyn Argus, there was quite a stir in one of our churches when a gorgeously-robed young stranger swept along the main aisle, preceded by an obsequious usher. All ©yes were attracted by her blazing diamonds, her costly laces, the splendor and profusion of fier toilet, and when she settled down in a pew, with a mighty rustle, hundreds of female voices seemed to have been - guided by a common in­ spiration as they whispered: "The daughter of a Philadelphia hackxhan!" THESE alphabet puns and quirks are very numerous, and a few of the old ones are very good. Here is one: "Majesty stripped of its externals is a jest." This is more than a joke;. it is a philosophical iruth. Why is the let­ ter s like a sewing machine ? Because it makes needles needless--more in­ genious than true, by the way. Here's another that we recall: Why is the ab­ sence of the letter m like the presence of a hand-organ ? Because--of course-- it makes u-sic of music 1 There is an­ o t h e r : " Y i s t h e F o u r t h o f J u f y f " When pronounced orally, it sonnds likf an unfinished connudrum, and the enan- ciator thereof like an idiot; whereas it is, in fact, a great orthographic truth.