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*^5 Mitt -V ^ »,-r, OLI> ItKN'S TKITST. D« ymi think I'm afraid of dyin' Secos I would ruther live, A « dliang on to ray mia'abie chances, 4tui what they are likely to give . v IB flio way of [joofi eatin' sni arlnklfc , "*rf? (Pith the 'pepsy a houndin* tne m, ,, »:i • - Aad Iwvin' to up in winter, '*•' Like a boar, with the airlieht anowf 4 » -* .r JfTa, «tr, t toll you that dyin' ; ^ (i| f» k-aviri' the things that we know,,. , *•»' ft,yatin' out into strange waters, ^ • #£tf ^ Ail dark, above an' below! *rr/ I kw* nothin' for New Jerus'lum: ff®"' I kuow 'iwouldnt feein like huia, jjjf.: Us* where they Mv» things so «t>l*n0fl, They don't expect poo? folks to ooiM. oil, if fbe singin' in heaven *V»ii the hum of the wind in the piBM, Or the noise of the brook and the river, «Vl»ere the brook and the river jlnetj " >1t the birds was to sing halleluyar, thov do in the bushes all day. And the little brown c!r.ppi< s would CBMM, And the locusses chirrnp away; *f them streets was kivercd with moms, Aad shaded with trees overhead, ith leaves droppin' down in a ShowWi ' Fetutcd pT:rp'-". -n" y«11"wy«lde®d; ® over that wonderful river • t could go all alone to float, >. • fit ud out, among the lilies. With only just Maje in my boat; ' TF I could hear Maje before KM, A barkin' along the trail, I should kn«\v there was soirethin' to foD«r, Xliat wouldn't be likely to fail; A nd I'd !ay down mv head, contented To let the moss over me grow, As ft does on the trees in the forest, And say I wiiiin'to go. ' tf the Lord has alters been with me, And he held me fast by the hand, When the fog kivered up the valleys, And I I lost the lay of th? land, Aud twiiR safe to trust Him so fur, I'll trust Him the very l».ft mile; He knows >vli> re to look when He wants me, Without hailiu' Him all of the while. Galaxy. Bt A LEAP. CHAPTER I. "TRT7E OF HEART." A. mall, old-fashioned cottage where « woman sits working in the porch. A tiny cottage, in a garden stocked only with fruit and vegetables, save for tbe iurd; creepers clinging to the porch. But then their blossoms gleam as white 4Uid pure as any rare exotics, and the ^ark leaves move softly in the fairy light, the breeze nestles there, after its flight across the heath from that far line of brilliancy which, though but a rib- width, is the broad sea flashing in the sun. A slight, pale woman, wear- ng a widow's cap upon her smooth brown hair, but with such a look of love and longing on her face that she too has •%. beauty which it is good to look upon. 33mall and isolated as the cottage may tie, it is a home of love and peace, and plain and quiet as the countrywoman looks, she has a wealth of warm affec­ tion in her heart. As she sits there alone, Mary Sullivan is dreaming the old dreams which have •cheered her ten years ot widowhood-- bright but never impossible dreams of the future of her only son--and she is glancing backward, too, over her own life, wondering a little, just a little, if many women of her age have seen no more of the world than she, who has not spent one night of all her life --nor ever wished to do so--beyond this Tillage where her husband has been schoolmaster. Is it to be always so ? A *teadfast light oomes into her eyes, and lies- quiet lips break into a smile, made beautiful by proud and loving trust-- ** That shall be left to Davy," she says, ottering softly the one name which now means all the world to her. "His -choice will be my choice." From the porch were Mary sits she •<aui catch a glimpse, through the trees, ->of the road along which the stage-coach •daily passes. This spot she is watching eagerly, and when the four horses come within sight at last, she drops her knit­ ting and rises. Nervously drawing her feemd across her strained, glad eyes, she 'tarns and enters the cottage, as if she dace not wait those few minutes which will bring the coach into sighiagain close io the garden gate. Tea is laid for two in the pleasant lit- *«4le kitchen, and the table--though it *<be«xs upon its snowy cloth no luxuries "beyoe.d home-made cakes and fresh-laid * -ag-gfe-- has quite a festive look. The mother stands and gazes round her with a asaMe. Is there nothing more she can : bring for Davy ? Her hands arts clasped '• together, and her breath is quickening, Cor she knows that any moment now her > boy may rush in, past that line of sun- f flhine at the open door. But she does Yttot koow how intently she is listening loc his footsteps upon the gravel, nor it-"' her face j^ight^as when he wines In at last. " ' ^ "(Mother!" ~ Th>i greeting bursts from the hearts of 'both, in that first moment; then the boy's lips are clinging to his mother's, «sxd her arms hold hi™ in that entire love which a widowed mother so oftea lavishes upon an only son. The meal, which she has prepared with /loving hands, is over ; and the mother '«o.d bar boy sit together in their favor­ ite corner of the porch, while the sun far away across the sea. " .Foiir whole weeks of idleness, and ̂"home and you, mother," David says. " It seems too good to be true." "But you like school, Davy?" Mrs. Sullivan asks wistfully. " Yon are hao- jpy there ?" °k» J®* 5 W'd getting on «*f*4*Uy. Of course I try to do that, mooter, as grandfather urged it so when be condescended to put me in this 'SCIKIOL Perhaps he will help me a little i . f&fQxi when the five years are over I vmH aoon rise, if he gives me a start, I •«*<r this promised school term." „ 4 " he does not, this education m « help, Davy. You will We WZ when you leave the college, and "devi^r, and able to do anything." ' * Anything--everytliin g, mother," as­ serts the boy, softly drawing her arm .about his neck. " I fhall be a man, and ;yo« shall never want anything again. Yoa alall have a large house and gar- • d&m., and I shall come home to you exreey evening from my office--where I iiiali «arn the money, you know. It be near London, because men don't sjet rich except in London, I expect. Should you like it, mother ?" " You have made up your min^ to be iXich, J)avy "Only," the boy answers, his eyes ofMMi hiis mother's face, " only just rich eooijgh to make you comfortable and b#|3py, mother ; that you may never hwre, t;» work--as you work now, or deny •yourself--as you deny yourself now. You have so httle, mother, to make your ea«y and bright." Little!" she cries through tr hap- Ey tears. "Little! when I have you, •avy?" ( " We both have all we need, dear mother," the boy says, laying his curly head upon her shoulder. " I would not change homes with the richest boy in all our college (though he would laugh at the notion) ; but still, I mean to give you more. I am making the most of anytime." v" What do £h« masters saj at you, t)avy ?" . "*Fhat 1 am the best arithmetician in the school," the boy says, laughing; "and best (for my age) in one or two other things. Btjt, mother, I beat eveary fellow -- older or younger--hollow at gymnastics." "What are they?" asks Mary, wonder­ ing. But though David explains at length, her idea of the science is only • little less vague when he finishes than it had been, when he began. " We Ii»T£ a splendid gymnasium at school, and you should see me. There's not a fellow who can oome anywhere near me. And I have a prize to show you, mother--not for that," he adds, with a lauffh at her surprise; "but for accounts. I won it to please grand- lather, because, after all, he was very good to put me to school, though he will not personally notice either of ««. It is almost like giving me a fortune, isn't it? aud therefore better than if he asked me to his house, although that would show he had forgiven my lather for--settling here." Almost a fortune--yes," she an­ swers, gravely stroking hia brown curls. " But try to think less of being rich than 'of being good and teie-hea=rted, mv own child." " I do, mother," he says earnestly, only I talk more of the one. And when I think things over, mother, I feel sure that a man's occupation need make difference. My father had nothing harder to battle with than the ignorance of a lot of boys who, after all, loved him, and tried to pletwe him ; but I may be just as good a man battling with the world--which seems so far from us, and so unreal to us yet--as he was in this dear little quiet nook. Don't you feel this, mother?" Yes, she feels it. Small as her know­ ledge is, she knows of One who walked unspotted through the world; and poor as she may be, she is rich in her great trust in Him. The sunset light is dying now, and the mother and son sit watching it, in a silence which is sweet with lore and sympathy--and when those, fair, pink clouds fade and vanish from above the sea, they rise and go into the cottage to­ gether. * fr - CHAPTER II. "FOB HKB >BAB SAKE." The first vacation of David's has passed like a dream to his mother, and now that* the last day has arrived, she feels as if only a week had sped, though she had so regretfully and hungrily counted (each morning and each night) both the days that have been spent and spent and those that are to come. Another long absence follows; anoth­ er bright home-coming (in the frosty Christmas darkness now); another ab­ sence; and so on, and on, and on, until David comes home from school for the last time of all. He meets his mother just within the porch, where the flowers bloom that summer as they have bloomed through every summer of his life, and he has no cloud upon his face. But, later on, his mother's anxious question is an­ swered a little sadly. "Yes, mother; I heard from the law­ yer yesterday. Grandfather's will does not mention either of us. He has given hie all the help he meant to give. Well, he has been very good, and now I am ready to make my own start in the world. But I must go at once. One delicious day with you here, then for London! Don't look so sad, my mother; this shall not be a long separation; not evecp so long as the old school terms, for t will soon come back to fetch you." So after this one day he goes, laugh­ ing over his scanty purse, because his hands are strong, he says, and his for­ tune, hope and courage. But when he looks back, it is only through a mist of tears that he can see the litt?« cottage where he leaves bis mother in her loneli­ ness. After David's departure the days pass for Mrs. Sullivan just as the old school- davti Lave done, e::;ept that now she has a daily tincitement in his letters. Never can she settle to anything until the post­ man has come up the garden path, and given into her trembling hand the letter David never fails to send; the letter (full of love and bravely a ad hope) which does his mother's heart such go^d. At last one letter comes in which he tells her he has found employment, in an accountant's office; employment which is very easy to him, and which he likes, though the salary he is to receive is smaller than he had anticipated when he so hopefully began his search. " But I will work so well," he writes, " that the firm will raise my salary soon, and then I will come for you. Ah! mother, I can indeed work hard and long and steadily for that good end." S«, in the cottage, Mary works hard too, confident in the realization of his plan, ani living with him, through her long day-dreams, in a London which exists in her imagination only--a wide, i calm city where all the young men have David's face and David's nature, and I guide skillfully th^naohinerj of the i n yrld. J But thn time goes or». David only earns what h has earned at lix.it. " And so," he writes, a little sadly now, " the home with vou is still out of my reach, for poverty here, mother, would be to you a hundred times worse than poverty at home." When he has been absent for a year he oomes home to spend his birthday with his mother: a summer day which they have spent together for all the eighteen years of David's life. Then he goes back to his work, still hopeful of the rise which his earnest and untir­ ing servitude is to win. Six mouths pass, and then, one Bun day night, David walks unexpectedly into 'die cottage kitchen, where his mother sits beside the fire, softly sii«g- uig to herself a hymn which she has heard in church that day. When she starts up--her face, in that moment of surprise, white as death--David sees how little able she is to bear any nhock where he i« concern- d. But her dt li lit, , one minute afterward, makew up for ali, and that Sunday night is one which both will love to remember. "Can you not stay one day?" the mother pleads. " Must you really go back to-morrow, Davy ?" " To-day you mean, mother. Look, we have chatted till after midnight, already. Never mind, we have four whole hours more, thanks to the new railway. Don't go to bed, mother; I cannot spare you for that time." Bhe has never thought of leaving him; so beside the cheerful fire they sit and talk I Srst of th© lives winch they have separately led, and then of that life which they are presently to lead to­ gether--for David has come home on purpose to bring joyful tidings. The long-talked of home will be ready soon, for lie is earning a high salary now, and all the old bright plans are to be carried out. "Bat, Davy," Mrs. Sullivan says, w]io« shfi ri«e« tn at lonf to prepare the early breakfast, " how very hard you must be working only to be spared for one day, after a whole twelve months of service I" " I could have had one holiday be­ tween," he answers, " bat I would not take it. It was wiser not, mother, as this is an expensive journey, even no# that we have the railway." " Lnd yc'h hzrrc bees, soadisg me yoxur money, David." " But I am earning so much now,* the young man says, with a blight excite­ ment in his eyes. " And are you happy, David?" ' " Very happy, mother--thinking how soon everything will be as I planned it long ago/' " But for yourself alone, are you hap­ py, dear ?" she asks wistfully. 4* 11" Oh yes, mother, qtdte happy.*' Another goodby--"But the last, David says, as again and again he Msses his mother's shaking lips. CHAPTER M. "AH, *OOB HUMANITY!" David had said that he woold spend his birthday at home--that June day which has always been the one holiday of the year to the widowed mother--but on the morning before arrives a letter which tells her that he is obliged to de­ lay his coming. London is very full, he says, and he is very busy ; so he cannot get that day's holiday. In every line of this letter the mother can read his disappointment, as well as the sorrow it gives him to disappoint her ; and tears come and blot out the loving words, as well as the proud de­ scriptions of the home which is all ready for her now, out in one of the pleasant northern suburbs. They blot out even that simple request at the end--" Think of me more than ever to-morrow, mother, and pray for me just at night­ fall ; at that very hour when we have been used to sit together in the porch on other happy birthday nights." There is the present of money which most letters bring her now, and it is while she holds this money in her hand that she forms a sudden resolution, whish comes to he* at that moment as so natural a one that she wonders where it has been hidden before. She is on her way from the village postoffice when the plan suggests itself, and when she reaches home (her steps quicken in the new excitement) she sits down in her old seat on the porch and makes it all dear to herself. David is working very hard, and is to be lonely on his birthday. How can she better use Ms gift to her than by giving him a pleasure he cannot expect, and so pre­ vent his being solitary on that day which they have never yet spent apart ? As he cannot oome to her, she will go to him. Ah! how his face will brighten when he sees his mother come in ! How he will start up with outstretched arms to clasp her! That moment will repay her lor any trouble she may have in reach­ ing him. When once the resolution is formed it holds her tenaciously, and she begins her preparations at once, glad and ex­ cited as a child. She packs her basket, -putting in a chicken and butter and eggs and cream, because David has said that he never enjoys these things in London as he does at home; and she smiles as she ties a dainty white cloth over them all; for she is picturing her boy's de­ light when he snail unpack these luxu­ ries which she has brought him from his own village. All that night she lies awake, yet rises brisk and active, almost vvoiidenng if she can be the Maay Sulli­ van who has never entered a railway carriage in her life-- he, a traveler, stalling alone to a far-off city of which which she knows nothing. Taking her basket on her arm, she walks to the Bectory to leave the key of her cottage with her clergymanr and to obtain from him instructions for her journey. He gives them clearly and circumstantially; and, walking with her to the station, sees her off, with the prccious basket in her carc and that look of steadfast happiness in her eyes. • It is a long journey, but the anticipa­ tion of David's delight at seeing her shortens and beautifies the way, so that she starts with surprise when a fellow- passenger tells her she is at Padding- ton. Timidly she stands back from the crowd, holding her basket tight upon her arm, and watching the passers-by with wistful, patient eyes, What a great place this station is! and every one so busy and engrossed! " If you please, I want to reach Far- ringdun street. Would you kindly tell me what to do?"--she has at lastac- 'Jt'^d a porter, as he passes with a hauler on his shoulder. " Cross to Metropolitan." Cross to Metropolitan! The words are foreign words to her. What can they mean ? Is there a river then be­ tween her and David? Another porter, coming slowly up as the crowd disperses, sees the puzzled look upon the woman's face, and how stie shrinks apart in her neat country dress, and holds her basket with sucn care and pride. " Where do you want to go t" he en­ quires kindly. " To Furingdon street. I am to cross something, but I could not under b'and. I'm sorry to be so trouble­ some." " You'd far better have a cab," the mau says, in a tone of involuntary kindliness. " Do yon mind the ex pense?" ". I have six shillings in change," she answers, looking gratefully inta his faoe. "Will that do?" "Half of it." He takesjCher Jto one of the waiting cabs and makes a bargain with the man in her presence; then he closes the door upon her and smiles as she drives aVAnd this is London--this line of steeets, and crowd of people, and deaf­ ening sound of wheels! Poor Davy! How he must long for the quiet, shady lanes and the fresh breeze ooming in­ land from the seal The cab stops, and Mary Sullivan stands with beating heart at the door of a tall, narrow house in Fairiugdon street and rings the bell faintly. She waits what she thinks a long, long time before a young woman appears in answer to her modest summons. " Will you tell me, if you please, in which room I shall find my son ?" " What's your son's name i" the girl asks, with a long stare. " David Sullivan." " Oh Mr. Sullivan," she S»yn; a HHIa more pleasantly. "He's out. Would vou like to step into the passage and rest!" "Thankyon," David's mother says, gently, as she meets this unlookecrcor blow, " I would -much rather go to him." " I don't know where he is, though. He's nearly always out. He's at an office all day. Then he's forever going out into the country somewhere north, where he's got a house he's been fur­ nishing. I don't know where else he goes, but he's always away at night." " He will be atr--that house you speak of, I suppose?" questions Mary, her voice trembling in in its eagerness as her thoughts dwell on this home which David has been preparing for her. " I wish you could tell me where it is." " But I don't know," the girl answers, more shortly, ' • and I should think you'd better stay here till he comes back." " I would rather go to him. Do you think any one in the house could kindly tell me where he is?" A young foreigner is coming down the stairs as Mary speaks, and she looks shyly and wistfully at hini. So the girl asks the question: Does he happen to know where Mr. Sullivan is? " Monsieur Sulli -- Sullivan ?" -the young msm questions, laughing a little as he glances into the face of the country- bred, yet delicate-looking woman who stands holding her basket so closely to her side. " Yes, I know; why ?" "I am his mother," Mary says, her voice bright with pride. " Had you better not wait here until he comes ?" " I would far rather go to him, if you would help me." "You are quite sure}" he asks again, with the laughing glance. " Quite sure, sir." " Then I will direct you, for I am go­ ing that way myself. You had better, at any rate, leave your basket here." So she gives it to the young woman, with a shy request that it may be taken care of, then follows her guide out into the street. It seems to Mary that they have walked for miles down noisy and bewildering streets, when they turn and enter a wide and open doorway. With- a sign to his compaiuon to follow, the stranger walks on along a carpeted pas­ sage, only pausing a moment to speak to a man who is standing there, just as if he' might be waiting for them. Mary followed her guide on and on, wondering how this lighted way could lead to any home which David had chosen for her. Yet all the while her heart is flutter­ ing joyfully, because the meeting must be now so near. Once more the stran­ ger stops to speak to some one who stands at an inner door, then he leads her through it, on amid a crowd of seated figures. "If you sit here," he says, with a smile, pointing down to a vacant seat which they have reached, " you will soon see your son. Watch the wide entrance opposite you there, and yow will see him in a few minutes." Mary thanks him with a simple earn­ estness, and takes the seat and waits; her eyes fixed, with a smile of expecta­ tion in them, upon the opening op­ posite. What a gay, grand place this is, with lights like suns and stars upon the ceil­ ing, so far up, so very, very far up I Why, the church at homt is not nearly eo high as this room. But why is it lighted yet? The June sunshine is lying brightly now upon the sea at home, and it must be light as day in the cottage rooms. What thousands of faces are gathered here--all looking one way, too, ali looking at that door which she has been bidden-to watch. Are they wait- for David,, too. Suddenly a band begins to play; and --puzzled more and more--Mary turns her eyes from the spot she is watching so intently. David has never told her about this music, and these lights, and this great lofty room, and the watching crowd. What does it mean ? And why i« Davy coming here ? A prompt, tumultuous sound of clap­ ping in the crowd; and Mary turns her puzzled eyes back again to tne doorway she had been bidden to watch. No one is there, save the few idle figures which have stood there all the time. But in the cleared space in the center country. So ridioulous, in the very zenith of his fame. On this farewell night he is to perform (for the last time) his greatest feat--a feat which no one but himself has ever attempted. From the flying trapeze where he now stands, swinging himself carelessly to and fro, he will spring to a stationary one forty feet distant; and, passing through this, will catch it by one foot only, and hang suspended so, one hundred feet above the arena. A dangerous exploit, of course ; bat performed with wondrous nerve and skill. Surely it will be a pity if, hav­ ing made his reputation, Monsieur Sulli shall still persist in his determination to retire from the ring. A grand success? The shout of ap­ plause, which shakes the great buildinjg from floor to ceiling, testifies to this beyond » question. Decidedly a grand success! Though in one seat among the crowd a solitary woman, who is a stranger there, sits, white, and still, and dead. --Bel,grama. The for Fall Tratfk ' The New York Commercial Bulletin gathers from the beet informed sources some views upon the character and ex­ tent of the prospective trade during the fall months. In the dry goods business the outlook is more encouraging than at any time sihee the panic of 1873, and there is every appearance of an entrance into an era of prosperity. While certain industrial interests are still de­ pressed, the general condition of the country warrants the belief that a slow, gradual, but certain improvement in business may be confidently looked for. The demand for domestic toward the close of August produced an upward tendency in the market, and there is no doubt that the pecking trade in autumn goods is tlrss far considerably in excess of that of the two previous years in quantity, as well as in money value. Cotton being subject to a direct specu­ lative manipulation, the cotton trade is in a somewhat uncertain condition. The growing crop is now passing through its most precarious season, the market is quick to respond to reports for good or evil, and few operators are able to ex­ press any positive convictions. Yet, from all that can be learned, the volume of business compares favorably with that of last year. Petroleum has made a .sharper ad­ vance since midsummer than the most sanguine operator could have hoped for, and the entire trade looks to the future with much cheerfulness. Most refiners refuse to accept orders, in view of hav­ ing about all they can do to meet their contracts for twoor three weeks to come. In hardware there is little doing, but the prospect is better than it was a month ago, a noticeable feature being the neglect of what may be called fancy stock, and a close selection of standard articles of all classes. The grocery trade, especially in teas and sugars, is very hopefal, and within the last month there has been a marked improvement, and a reaction from the depression of values before existing. The dairy product and country pro­ duce generally shows an era of low prices, but opinions differ among dealers as to what may come. The other branches of trade have also a fair outlook, and the business situation, as it stands to-day, is a slow and steady growth in most departments, and a marked improvement on farmer seasons. umm now, of the building, a man (who must have passed through while she was gazing at the band, trnd whose faoe is turned from her) is climbing a single rope suspended from the roof. Wonderingly, Mary watches the light and active figure--tightly clad in white and crimson--springing upward with the speed and the agility of a squirrel. Why should he do this daring, foolish thing ? Is a man's life so valueless that he should risk it thus to provoke a mo­ ment's passing wonder? Is death so trivial a thing that he should brave it recklessly thus, to win a moment's ap plause ? Ah! to think of this man's life and then of Davy's! Another minute, and the man she watches springs to a double rope which hangs from the lofty ceiling, and, sitting there at ease, looks down upon the crowd. Then Mary's eyes look full into his face. • * • • * * * It is a special performance at the circus on tnis June night, being the farewell of the famous gymnast Mon sieur Sulli, who, after his brief and brilliant career, is retiring from the profession in which he shines without a rival, intending to settle down--so it is rumored, ironically and discontentedly --to office work with an accountant, and to live in a small house out in a north suburb, with an old mother from the The Wheat Harvest. According to the advices oompiled by the New York Produce Exchange Weekly, there will prove to be an aver­ age yield of wheat in the British Isles and France, while the Prussian crop is estimated at four-fifths of an average, and the German crop is generally dis­ appointing. The British crop will ex­ ceed that of last year, while those of France and Germany, especially the lat­ ter, will fall below it. In those coun­ tries the yield of other cereals seems to correspond proportionately closely with wheat. In the United States the winter wheat crop appearo to be about an average in quantity and quality, exceeding in both respects that of last year. The spring wheat crop is estimatd at about two- thirds that of 1875. In the latter there is less waste, however, but in all quarters a higher inspection will doubt­ less prevail, which may tend to support prices. The crop of last year in the whole country was about 270,009,000 bushels, probably, and the acreage of the crop of 1875-76 was placed by the Department of Agriculture at a higher figure than that of its immediate prede­ cessor. Hay Fever. The second annual report of the United States Hay Fever Association shows that no remedy for hay fever lias yet been dissovored, and that substantial relief from the disease can be obtained only by residence in an exempt district dur­ ing the period of its continuance. This is usually from the middle of August un­ til tit© first frost. A list of more than ty places or regions in North Amer­ ica which are more or less exempt is ap­ pended to the report. Among the meas- i for relief recommended to those who from various causes are unable to leave home in order to seek exempt dis­ tricts, is the use of quinine, to rais® the tone of the system. It should be taken, (Mae or two grains with each meal, for a week or ten days before the recurrence of the attack. Hig Mistake* After two men had shaken hands ye*»- terday, one of them remarked : " Well; I heard that your case of As­ sault and battery fell through." "So it did," was the reply. "The jury brought in a verdict of ^not guilty, and the scoundrel got dear. ** I thought you had a sure thing on him." " So I would have had but for my own foolishness. Do you believe that I was just fool enough to own up that I struck first? But for that little technical error the jury would have convicted him, and he'd been fined at least $20. THE South has really more furnaces in blast in proportion to her number of in­ habitants tnan the Sorth has, and very few are losing money. It is asserted that the only mill in the United States running exclusively on railroad iron which declared a legitimate dividend for 1875 was the one in Chattanooga. FLEKTINO JOTS. Time goes in for funuy freaks, w??,an'r a Ptey with Kotioe bow he lines our cheeks, Mark what glee he makes us gray wtttu Pleamire cornea to soothe our hearts* Often, like the roee, tte prickly; ' Soon its radiance departs-- d»ppy moments vaniah qolckly p Supposing yon, by fate's decree, • IdWre a girl and long to greet Don't the minutes seem to be "J' Leaden-winged until you meet bevf WBen the hour arrives at last, " And all care away you banish. Then the tyrant travels fast-- "' *5, , Happy moments quickly vanish T " Here upon this earthly ball , , , TOY awhile will nuake UP GAYW , But when sorrow gives a call ' Oftentimes she proves FT " STAVEAL^STF - Hope, thou swiftly glidest on- Fragrant are the flowers thou piekest Soon, alas, their bloom is gone-- Happy moments fly the quickest! Iffver mind, we needn't groan; .j. Tear-drops, showerlike, refresh an ' After all, we're bound to own " , ' Joy is like • swct/ilu ai l--precioilfi Cast away regrets and sighs, * - { Though our cares beset us thickly, Happy moments let us prize, Even though they vanish quick"* I --London Fun. nth and Point. FASHIONABLE ears--Panniers. THE "learned pig" has a salary. A. more sty-penned. NoxmN& pleases a conscientious bache­ lor so much as to dine with a married friend and see the baby put his foot in the gravy. IT is now supposed that Abraham was the original base ball player, as the Scriptures say that he pitched in the wilderness. DRYDEN says : " None but the i»rave deserve the fair." Snooks says, "That's true ; none but the brave could live with some of them." " WHERE is the east?" inquired a tutor one day of a very little pupil. " Where the morning comes £rom," was the prompt and pleasant answer. MB. STARLET has discovered a new tribe of pale-faced people who live on the cold uplands." With such a dial they are not likely to have any color. WHEN a cannibal gormand goes to a native restaurant for a dish of missionary, he uses the words of an old hymn and calls for " Servant of God--well done." HAMID the cares of state, the new Sul­ tan of Turkey should not forget that it is to scissors and rum he owes Ms ex­ altation ; he must Abdul perceptions if he doesn't.--Chicago Times. " DOES our constant chatter disturb you ?" asked one of three talkative la­ dies of a sober-looking fellow-passenger. 41 No, ma'am ; I've been married nigh on to thirty years," was the reply. A soiENTrpio writer says every infant can say "no " several months before it can say " yes." An old bachelor who has been rejected seventeen times says this habit of saying "no" before she can say " yes " clings to the female in­ fant until after she becomes 27 years old* A YOUNG gentleman, after having for some time paid his addresses to a lady, popped the question. The lady, in a frightened manner, said: " You scare me, sir." The gentleman did not wish to frighten the lady, and consequently remained silent for some time, when she exclaimed, " Scare me again." THE following was copied literally from an old tombstone in Scotland: " Here lies the body of Alexander M'Pherson, Who was a very extraordinary person, Who was two yards in his stocking feel, And kept his accoutrements clean and MSt He was slew At the battle of Waterloo, Plump through The gullet; it went in at his throat. And came ont at the back of his coat." A COUNTY treasurer in Ohio named Krustt is "short" in his accounts, and his friends doughn't know where he is. He was always considered a pie-ous man, too.--Norristown Herald. He's prob­ ably just taking a loaf round, and will be back when he is kneaded. Possibly he's taken a yeasterly direction.--Phila­ delphia Bulletin. A TAILOR and his son were in the olden days doing a day's work at a farm­ house. The prudent housewife, to se­ cure a good day 's work, lighted candles when daylight began to fade. The tailor looked to his son and said, "Jock, confound them that invented workin' by candle-licht." "Ay," replied Tonng snip, "or daylicht, either, father." AT a brilliant church wedding some of the ushers showed some very worthy but socially obscure people into good seats 111 the middle aisle. As -soon as he discovered it tho sexton hastened to the usher ami exclaimed: "Did you give the 's that seat?" "Yes." «i What on earth did you do that for i Did you not know that they were only ride-aisle trash?"--Boston Journal. THE other morning a hungry-looking man was bothering the melon dealers at the City Hall Market to find him a five- cent melon. One of the dealers became annoyed at the etranger'e persistency and called out: " Why don t you in­ vest fifteen or twenty cents in a nioe melon an(| take it home ?" " I will at once tell you why I don't," was the soft reply. " I should kinder hate to take a melon home and sit down and eat up all before my wife and chil­ dren. Seems to me it would be kinder hoggish not to give them all a piece around, and so I will buy one and eat it here." "And I hope the seeds will choke you!" shouted the dealer. "But they won't. I am always very careful to spit 'em out!"--Free Press. Something Hew in Mosquitoes* Close observers will remark that this . presents two separate and distinct races of mosquitoes--the regular old breed tLat sing and buzz in yom ears and scare you almost into spasms, and the new one, speckled and spotted in appearance. This new tribe possesses even more deviltry than the old, for they are of the regular sneaking order, and never tell you when they intend to strike. They will step up, steal a bite, and quietly leave. It is no use for you to slap at them. If you do, you will in all probability slap yourself, while the ring- streaked and striped little cuss will wink and point his hind legs at you in such a scornful manner that you are almost ag­ gravated beyond endurance. The ap­ pearance of this last pest, however, is indicative of the end of summer. He is known as the fall mosquito, and can easily be detected by his crawling pro­ pensities. Summer mosquitoes never crawl; thev just light and go to business on the spot.