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Njy[e||eapy l̂ain3e»lw. J. TAX 8LIKR, Editor ft Publisher. i rr Illinois SEE TURKEYS LAST BEgUEST. Now, HAM ye, merry GENTTEMEN.^ ( AM hash you foolish squabUqpf And listen to the Turkey , when i Hin last request he gobbles. The aoanty time I have to live la spent in observation; Sonmy you, gentlemen, fecgive Tbe I'urkey a dissertation. I do observe among yon all ' A aelfishneaB 8urpii.»mg; Yon re satisfied when others foil, A»»7i envious when they're rising. * This wicked world a barn-yard is. And, when a corn shower rattlea, Kaoh craves a simre that is not hia, And with bis neighbor battles. The jaunty fowl with head in air. He crown in exultation; The rest a look of meekness wear. And fawn in adulation. But let misfortune clip bis winjju. Ye meet him with suspicion. And every friend the whisper fliai That waftB him to perdition. 0 petty race of greedy men 'Iliat kill me at ThankugMm^, Does oonsoienee never prick you whim Yousee the way yon te living? How many of you spend your daft In honest, cheery labor? , Whose head upon his pillow lays At peace with every neighbor? • . You're merry when tte skies.are fair, : Yovr Bellislmesei pursuing; _ Your charity is eoM and spare, • . •' ' . Amdlelt tor others' aomg. What care you for the poor man's lot. Or for the widow's sighing? The mournful sound ye hear it not' Of orphan children crying. To-day my coat is old and brown. My gait an awkward hobble; 'Mong barn-yard fowls 1 seem a down, „My voice is but« gobble. But when upon your board I lie In golden yellow glory, With fragrant incense steaming high. Then don't forget my story. 0 petty race of greedy men, •When 1 have died for othera. Pray think upon your duty then To all your suffering brothers! Above your head the skies are fair, O'er yonder roof they're murky: 1 beg you'll send my drumsticks there, - And please the martyred Turkey. . „ --Harper s Weekly. AUNT HARR'ET'S 8AMP PUDDINtt. A (9ood Yankee Thankaclvlnc Story. "I DECLAR' for't," sighed Aunt Har­ riet--sinking wearily into the splint- bottomed rocking-chair, setting her felt-slippered feet upon the stove- hearth and clasping her hands in front of her knees--" I declar' for't, if I don't think this makin' Thanksgivin' Day a matter of cookin' and eatin' is the most foolish of all our New England notions. Every year since I can remember the program has been the same. The ^hole month of November spent in preparin' for this 4 grand gastronomic- al exhibition/ as Parson Pendl'ton used to call it. I have never in my life been away from this house on a Thanksgivin' Day; andev'ry year we've been overrun with comp'nv. Father wouldn't think 'twas Thanksgivin', I s'pose, if the house wasn't full. For my part I should like a change; either to go som'ers, Thanksgivin' Day, and he waited on, or stay at home by my­ self." - " "O, Harr'et, I wouldn't talk so," remonstrated grandmother, who \vas taking off her false front and pitting on her white muslin night-cap. " You know the work of preparin' for dear Ones is pleasant work. Our social fam­ ily gatherings make us all better and happier. Your father would feel dread­ fully cut up to hear you run on in this complainin' way about makin' Thanks­ givin'. Of course you are tired to­ night, but don't think about that; count over your marcies, and think how much you have to be thankful for." "Hum," went on the wearied spin­ ster in her peculiar nasal tone, " I could make Thanksgivin' in my heart so that, it would sing for joy without makin' such an ado about my stomach." Reaching down and opening the oven- door, a suggestive and delicious odor as of baking fowls and browning pastry burst forth, filling the roomy kitchen. Qhe peered inside the oven for a mo­ ment, turned around one of the pans, nsing a corner of her long, straight, blue print apron for a holder, and then, shutting in the culinary wonders which were to grace to-morrow's dinner, she continued: " I have spent three weeks in house- cleaning, only to get everything in ap­ ple-pie order "just in time to be turned topsy-turvy. Every room is full to­ night, and I must stretch my tired frame on a lounge. It never makes any dif­ ference where Harriet sleeps; she can bp tucked anywhere. Last night I was up until eleven o'clock to get the pound-cake all baked. Night before last it was the mince and pumpkin pies. To-night it will be eleven before these chicken-pies are browned lit to be seen, and flat midnight before I can get to bed. I am tired and sick of the great National stuffing day, and for my own part sha'n't want a mouthful of the nice food that the pantry shelves are groaning under. I would far rath­ er have a bowl of samp and milk, and a day Of leisure along with it." The bed-room door just behind the ' speaker was unlatched, and John and his wife, who had, late in the evening, driven in from the west part of the town, so as to be at home to breakfast on Thanksgiving morning, and who had been put into Harriet's room, heard every word of this tirade. "We'll have them all next year if we get the house tixed over," whispered Jane under the blue and white coverlid, and John nodded assent, whispering in his turn: " It is hard on Harr'et, to be sure." The subject was broached next-day, was agreed to by all hands, and throughout the year it was talked of as a settled thing that their next Thanks­ giving reunion should be held at John's. "Father and mother are to come over on Monday," said John's wife, as the festal season drew near, " and on Wednesday, when the preparations are nearly or quite complete, we will send the team for Harr'et." " I' 11 not make that amount of trouble for anybody," replied the maiden sis­ ter, who was in fact the mainstay at the homestead. "If I conclude to join in your dinner, I will, on Thursday mornin', walk over through the woods in time to go to meetin' with you." Grandpa Buxton's farm consisted of a long strip laying between two rivers, with a wooded hill about midway of its length. Grandpa lived in the old f arnfc- house in the eastern meadow; aud John had fitted up an elegant new residence, on the bank of the west river. So the old couple were not to leave the ances­ tral acres, although it was four miles from one house to the other around the point of the hill, and two miles by the foot and bridle path across the woods. On the sunny, smoky Monday morn­ ing preceding Thanksgiving, grandpa and grandma started with ola Dobbin find, the chaise to jog around the mountain road to John's. And on that same Monday morning in the far West a pretty, plump little woman, with her husband and live children, started in an ox-cart to go the fifteen or twenty miles to the nearest railway station, where six of them were to take the cars for the East to spend Thanksgiving, while the father retraced his wearisome way to the lonely log cabin on the forest prairie. It was a rather dowdy and old-fash­ ioned company, as might have been expected, so far as clothes were con­ cerned, but attractive in their rosy, healthy, buoyant good nature. They were all as happy as happy could b«-- from twelve-years-old Johnny to Baby Hat--for were they not journeying to the wonderful homestead where mam­ ma lived when she was a little girl? and where the scenes of all mamma's stories were laid--" mamma's splendid Stories, which were better than* any fairy stories, or any aiurics pilutcu iu books or papers." On, on they whirled. It wms Wednes­ day afternoon; yet these children, who had never in the r lives been five miles from their own clearing, were not cross, or sour, or out of patience, although they were dreadfully tired,"and oh, so hungry, for the sizable lunch basket, well filled when they started from home, had quite given out, and the reinforce­ ments bought in haste at wayside res­ taurants not so filling. (3 "Only fifty miles from"grandpa's now," and the plump little woman marshalled her brood about her as they made the last change of cars. " Only two hours of precious time." But, alas for human calculations, there was a connection to be made at an out-of- the way junction on the line. The east­ ern train was lata. Trains always arc late the night before Thanksgiving, there are so many happy souls going home. " These trains are mail trains, they must meet, and our train must wait." " 'Twill make a pretty late supper- time," said Charlie. " 1 should think it was supper-time now," cried Mary, poking around in the bottom of the empty hamper. " I suppose there is some place near by where I can get a lunch for the chil­ dren," said the pleasant mamma to af­ fable Conductor Carroll, who came through the car just then. " I'm sorry to tell you, madam, that the restaurant has been discontinued, and the hotel burned down a week ago or so. You can see the ruins just over the brook there." A glance at the ashes and embers of what was once a hotel was not very satisfying to five hungry juveniles, and mamma, for the first time since she bade her husband good-by, with almost a cloud on her brow, said: " We will play we have got to grand­ pa's, and see how nearly our real get­ ting there will be like our play. I will begin--now--'What would 1 like for supper, Sister Harr'et? Oh, a cup of tea for me, and plenty of milk and bread for the children.' * Wall, I de­ clar' for't, Sister Susan. I guess these children won't eat bread and milk at grandpa's, Thanksgivin', aftertravelin' three mortal days and nights.' " And the plump little mamma changed her voice in the last clause in a droll nasal imitation of her sister, which made the children laugh. " What would you like, my dears?" " I can smell all sorts of goodies," said Mary, sniffing until her little pert nose grew red, "and I should like pumpkin pie, if its agreeable." " Chicken for me, put in Johnny, ce pie," said quiet Jane. "Pudding cake, cookies, apples, nuts, pop-corn balls, roast beef, roast pork, spare ribs, quail, ham, ducks; most anything you have in the house," cried Charlie uproariously--while they all laughed, and little Hat shouted, "Goo, goo," and made her little fat hands fly in a " patty-cake, pattv-cake, baker's man." The three or four passengers in the far end of the car looked up from their books and papers and smiled at the merry little group. Meanwhile Aunt Harr'et, in the great old ark of a farm-house by herself, talked to the dog and the cat. She had loaded the hired man off home to his father's with a big basket packed full of Thanksgivin' fixin's. "I'll see," she said as she put in the last mince- pie and loaf of cake, " if I can't have just as thankful a heart as I could if the house was full of goodies. I mean to try it for once, and eat pudden' and milk, as I have so often wished I could, and see if I don't enjoy it just as well." So she sifted a great quantity of corn- meal of the kind that southern people call hominy and New England folks call samp, and putting on the big din- ner-pot, proceeded to make a puading. It required a good deal of stirring and skimming, and kept her pretty busy for two or three hours. The meal swelled and swelled until the kettle was nearly full. " I declar for't," said she to the cat, "I don't know what possessed me to make such a lot of pudden'. But if I don't want it all myself the hogs will; 'twon't be wasted, --and, fetching a bowl of milk from the pantry, she sat down in the splint-bottomed rocking- chair, set her felt-slippered feet on the fore-piece of the stove and proceeded to eat her supper. "I declar for't," said she to the dog, who lay on the rug at her feet, " 1 feel exactly as if sumbudy Was dead, or as if ev'rybudy was dead, and I was left on airth alone to keep tarvern. I should like a little bite of sunthin' to top off with, but I wouldn't own it to anybudy that could talk; but you won't tell no tales. I'm as ashamed as a whipped dog, and feel as cheap as dirt every time I think what day it is, and how we've been prospered in every way through the year, and yet here! be, no eorop'ny in the house and none likely to come, and nuthin' cooked up, and no Thanksgivin' smell about the house, and, worst of all, father1 n moth er sent off out from under their own ruff. Harr'et, you're a sour, selfish, crabbed old maid, 'nd I'm ashamed on ye. Take the Bible and see if ye can't find sunthin' to git ye inter a better state o' mind." So she strode into "mother's room" after the family Bible, and, behold! it was gone. " They've taken it with 'em to John's, and all the Thansgivin' feel- in' alon<r with it." She took a look at the maae-up bed, with its pieced up quilt, and said again, " It seems as if ev'rybudy was dead," and went out and shut the door softly behind her. " Wha*. if sumbudy should come," she soliloquized next, taking up the cat, " but there won't. There ain't nobody to come, only what's invited to John's, excepting Sister Susan, poor dear, precious child, away off there in the wilds; she'll never come home agin, I presume," and Harr'et laid her head on her knees and thought of the day Susan was born, and of the day when she was married, and cried a lit­ tle, and then dropped off into a nap, from which she was aroused by a sub­ dued bustle near the back door. Getting up and lifting a corner of the curtain she peeped out, and saw„ by the light of the full moon, & wagon driving out of the yard, a trunk--or basket--a tallish boy, a shortish girl, two more -- 1- 2 1 J . AnaMK * w jfim w*. •T*./V A 1 T*» A V;iiuui0u ay iiii« «T utuu «* plump, little woman, with a baby in her arms, just stepping upoh the door- stone. "Susan," gasped Harr'et, quickly unbuttoning and opening the door, ana catching tne surprisea, rosy little woman in her arms. They both cried a little, but Harr'et meanwhile put Susan into the splint-bottomed chair, took off her bonnet, ahd smoothed her hair. Then she wiped her eyes, asked after the absent husband, kissed the children, took off their things, making a mental calculation of how she shoula mange to get them all dressed before Sunday. 0 , " I knew we should find you up," said Susan, looking around the familiar kitchen. * • I remember how the baking used to drag the night before," ana oLo g&vo a little cniff. Smelling noth­ ing suggestive of fancy cookery, she said she believed she had managed to take a IRtle cold in some way. At this the children, each in turn, sniffed and looked curiously at each other. "We won't let anyone know that you have come until morning," said Harr'et, in her decided way, "and then we will have a general surprise at break­ fast." "They are all well--father and mother P" asked Susan, anxiously. " Never better! Now what will you have for supper?" That was just what had been said in their play, in the car, and the children pricked up their ears. " Oh, a cup of tea for me, and, plenty of milk and bread for the children," said the plump and rosy mamma, car­ rying on her part of the play acoording to programme. But Aunt Harr'et, in­ stead of asking them what they would like, seized upon the idea of milk, and exclaimed: ' " Yes, yes, milk for the children, to be sure; of course it will be the very best thing for them after their journey. You used to be fond of samp, Susan." " I should think so, and 1 nave never seen any since I went away." The children looked disappointed, but they enjoyed their supper, and thought and said they had never tasted anything so delicious as that first meal at grandpa's. " You see," said Aunt Harriet, as she was preceding them up to bed just as the clock struck eleven, " it is a good appetite and a thankful heart that makes a Thanksgivin' supper, after all." "Yes," agreed Johnnie, "that's so; but, after all, I'm glad we're going to have the turkey, goose, ducks and chicken fixin's to-morrow." • " Beginning with stewed chicken and pumpkin pie for breakfast," said Mary. " You see I have told them all about it," said Susan, apologetically, as she carried the baby up the stairs she had last come down as a bride. " If you're crowded, Harriet, you can make up a bed on the floor for the boys." " There are two beds in this room; can you manage here?" replied Har­ riet, opening the door of one of the spick and span front chambers. "Oh, certainly." "Then go to bed and to sleep, and don't hurry up until I call you in the morning;" and bidding the little group a loving good-night, she hurried down­ stairs, quickly donned walking-shoes, shawl and hood, slipped out the back door, locked it securely after her, put the key under the door-sill, and started across lots for John's. "It's lucky I haven't been baking for a fortnight," she said, and then she continued, "If I had, the folks would all be at home, where they'd orter be, and I shouldn't have ter go prowling off after 'em. I don't see's I've made much." Jane was taking her last chicken pie out of the oven, and the clock was striking twelve as Harriet stalked into the kitchen. John heard her voice and got out of bed and c^me out in his night-gown to hear the good news, for Susan was the youngest sister and the pet. "Til go over and bring them all around here to breakfast," said John, eagerly. " It don't seem as if I could wait until morning." " I will tell you what shall be done," said John's wife. "We won't say a word about it, but will carry our fix­ ings all over home. Do you suppose I'm going to have that dear child and them children come half across the continent to Thanksgiving at-grand- pa's, only to be sent away from the old homestead to one of the neighbors? By no means." Then, indeed, Harriet broke down and cried in good earnest. And, what was a wonderful thing for her to do, put her arms around her sister-in-law's neck and kissed her heartily. Thanksgiving morning opened bright and fair. When Aunt Harr'et, in a pretty flowered wrapper, looked in to awake the travelers, she found them up and dressed. Grandpa and grandma, John and his wife and all the rest were waiting to meet them at breakfast, and everything went on just as it was set down in the " play-" "There are Thanksgiving smells enough this morning," said Maty; "I guess we did all have colds last night." Butall kept their own counsel, and the plump little mother hits not yet ceased wondering how it. happened that Harr'et should have been making that immense samp pudding on Thanksgiv­ ing Eve.--Mrs. Annie A. Preston, in ^rit^/idd (Mass.) I -'-"New Dresses, Etc*1-- AT the modistes' openings basques and overskirts prevail in the new dresses, but not to the exclusion of polonaises, though it is remarked that the latter are usually accompanied by demi-trains instead of short skirts. A stylish effect is given to these by hav­ ing the fronts turned back in revers, or by putting in a plastron vest the length of the whole garment, and by making the black drapery higher, or else hav­ ing the back very short, and filling out the skirt with flounces in the demi- traia; still others have a wide scarf draped like an apron, and stopping ab­ ruptly in the side seams. The arrange­ ments of two materials in polonaises are very original. Thus a black cash­ mere polonaise has the vest and the entire back of brocaded silk in a quaint pattern of cherries and leaves; the silk vest extends quite low down, and its end is concealed by an apron of cash­ mere that is edged with the new che­ nille fringe, which has no heading, and is of finer strands than that in general use. Down the sides, where the apron stops, are straight pieces, fringed, tied in a knot and left to hang down from the waist. The brocaded back is straight and short, like a long basque, and the demi-trained skirt is covered with flounces. Still another fashion is that of using Scotch plaid satin bands for trimming black cashmere polo­ naise?. These pass straight down the front, and two bands are put around the skirt, quite far apart, and sepa­ rated by bands or rouleaux of plush, either moss green or else deep garnet. Worth drapes the bosoiy of basques and the sides of the dress skirt to match. A straight piece of siiOringej on each end is passed around the back of tho nock iu easy folds, tipd in a knot on each side of the front, and the ends left to hang down nearly to the belt. A' similar piece, also knotted and fringed, is put down the second side seams of the skirt; in some instances the apron is turned back at the second seams to give the effect of this knotted piece. Other basques fall open from the waist line down, and are trimmed from the top of the darts to the lower edge with bias brocaded silk: at, th« top this gives the neek the effect of a square, which is also finished out with a knotted piece like that just described, and the standing collar of brocade has a wire to hold it in place. Black dress­ es will be as much worn as they have ever been, but, for the first time, they are successfully trimmed with colors. Pale blue and green brocade, and plaid blue and green velvet, are very popu­ lar trimmings for black silk suits. Black silk skirts are still the founda­ tion of many oostumes, but if the dress is meant to be very handsome, the plaiting in this lower skirt is of black satin, or else the silk is covered as far as is visible with black velvet put on plain, without plaitings or frills. For midwinter this velvet skirt will be trimmed with a single band of fur. The striped silks tnat the leading modistes brought last season are now seen in the plainer establishments, especially in black, for combining with plain silk. There are many small ac­ cessories, .such as fans, vests, bags, purses, etc., made of striped satin, to wear with striped silk costumes. The shopping bags hung at the side are so popular that they are now made up of the dress material in checks, plaids and other woolen goods, and are finished with nickel clasps and chains like those seen on black velvet bags. Embroidery is shown in profusion on many French garments. On dresses it is usually applied, but on parasols and muffs the design is wrought on the fabric. Black satin cloaks elaborately trimmed with iridescent beads have muffs of the satin beaded in a pattern. Handsome black satin parasols have lining of old-gold satin, and on one of the panels is embroidered a monogram, or a bee, butterfly or lizard, or else there is a wreath of embroidery around the parasol near the edge. Ap­ plique embroidery covers the side pan­ els of satin dresses, or else the front breadth is wrought from the neck to the feet. The square Roman apron is a new shape for the overskirt of dresses that have flounces covering the back breadths from the waist to the foot. This apron consists of a front gore with a narrow gore on each side. It is cut very long and straight-looking to fall with few wrinkles, it is simply bordered with bias velvet at the foot and up the sides to the belt. It is very pretty in the light drab cloth short suits that are being made up for church dresses or for a bride's travel­ ing dress. The apron of drab cloth has a garnet velvet border about six inches wide. The back breadths have three or else five flounces of drab silk piped with garnet velvet. The basque nas a velvet belt in front with a postilion back. To wear with such a dress is a plain drab felt bonnet with garnet Sanache and Alsacian bow and strings. ther drab cloth suits have no flounces; the overskirt is very deep, and is fully draped behind. Sometimes a very lit­ tle gilt braid is introduced in these light dresses, but it must be very care­ fully done, or it becomes as showy as a footman's livery. Garnet is the color most used for trimmings that contrast with the color of the dress.--Harpers Bazar. * _ --After calling the boys in the morn­ ing, it is always best to visit their apartment to see if they properly ap­ prehend that which is required of them. By following out this suggestion many a case of hoarseness may be obviated. Youths' Department# A TALE OF TWO BUCKETS. Two BUCKXTS in an ancient well got fatifcfag once together, And after «undry wise remarks--no doubt about the we.ither-- "Look here," quoth one, "thia life we lead I don t exactly like; Upon my word, I'm half inclined to venture on a strike; For--do you mind ?--however full %re both come up the well, We go t̂iowne t̂y--alway* thai!, for aught that "That's true," the other said; "but then-the way it looks to me-- However empty we go down, we oome up full, you see. Wiae little bucket! If we eaeh would look at life that way, Would dwarf it* ills and magnify ita blessings, day by day. The world would be a happier plaoe, slnoe we should all decide Only the buckets J'ult to count, and let the empty slide. --Carolina A. Mason, ir St. NichoUu. --Fully two-thirds of a man's labor is done gratis, and he can consider himself fortunate to receive pay for one- third. There is, however, one consola­ tion that some man's work is not worth much -Breakjast- Table. MAMIE'S THANKSemae. SOMETHING was going to happen. You couldn't have been in the nursery two minutes without seeing that Mrs, Maria was all dressed up in her best real silk; and that the rubber dolly had been having a splendid bath, and looked just as good as new. Mrs. Maria was Mamie's best doll. It seems to me that she ought to have had some name after the Maria part; but I really don't believe she ever had. But the dolls didn't begin to be all. There was Mamie's table out in the middle of the floor; and there, too, was the little tea-set with the gold band round the edges, and when that set was out of the saw-dust box, you could be very sure something was going to hap­ pen. And that something was Thanks­ giving! There was the little white cloth, and the party caster (with all the stoppers gone) and the real cranberry sauce, and the--the--Oh, everything you could almost think of. Mrs. Ma­ ria and the other dolly--the rubber one, you know--were already seated at the table with their bibs on, and Ma­ mie was just going to help them to the cranberry sauce when she jumped up suddenly and said, " Why, where's the babyP" The baby was the little china doll in the long, long dress with real tucks at the bottom. 44 Oh! There she is in the window. I put her there to be out of the way when I was sweeping the baby-house.'1 Mamie ran to the window to get the baby and was just going back to the real cranberry sauce, when she s&W a little girl standing on the sidewalk'way down in the street below. How cold it looked out there, and how cold the little girl looked, too, with a shawl not half big enough. "She doesn't look much like Thanks­ giving," said Mamie, to herself. "I thought Thanksgiving was for every­ body in the world." She nodded, "How do you do P" to the little girl, and the little girl nodded back again. The wind cam© through a crack by the side of the window, and, Oh how cold it was! "Dear me," said Mamie, "1 really don't believe she's going to have the least bit of Thanksgiving. I tell you what; rU give her H Thanksgiving, all myself!" She put down the baby, and after tell­ ing Mrs. Maria and the rubber dolly not to eat a single thing till sh ^ came back, away she ran to the sitting-room. "O mamma, mamma, there's a little girl out doors all alone without any Thanksgiving. Can't I give her oneP" Mamie drew mamma to the window. "She does look real cold, doesn't she," said mamma. "O mamma, con' flgive her a Thanks­ giving P Doesn't everyone ought to have oneP'° The very next minute mamma and Mamie were at the front door. "Come in, little girl," said mamma; " are you very coldr' "Yes'm, but it's Thanksgiving and I've been watching the big turkey hanging by his legs at the butcher's, and it was so big that it's nose 'most came to the ground." "But I'm going to have some real cranberry sauce in the nursery, and a real table, too. Don't ydti want to comeP" asked Mamie. " May IP" and the cold little girl looked up into mamma's face. "Yes," said mamma, "we'll all have Thanksgiving together." So they took off thelittlegirl's shawl and went up-stairs to the nursery. Thfen mamma went down to the kitch­ en and staid a long, long time, and when she came up such a lot of things as she had for that Thanksgiving din­ ner! A real little chicken all roasted brown, and some real gravy, and cel­ ery, and a round mince pie! What do you think of that! And the other little girl had Mamie's best rocking-chair, too, and ate her dinner with Mamie's red mittens on because her hands were so cold! What a splendid Thanksgiving that was! For when the little girl went home she had a new, warm sacque and a basket with lots of things to carry with her, and when Mamie went to bed,, because the blue eyesi wouldn't keep open any longer, she said to mamma: "Mamma, I should know this is Thanksgiving, even if we didn't have turkey and cranberry sauce." " How do you Jcnow, puss?" said mamma. "Oh, because--because I'm just as happy as I can be," said Mamie.-- Christian Union. The Brave Little Flower-Girl. AT the entrance of one of the large hotels in Boston, you will frequently see, at noon, and early in the evening, a little flaxen-haired girl, with button­ hole bouquets to sell. She is rather tall for her age, and has a sweet, gen­ tle face, and looks as if she might have a story, and so she has. Well, here it is, just as little, blue-eyed Mary told it to me herself; and, though it does read " like a book," I find it all true: "I was nine years old, ma'am, when I first began to" sell dowers, but that was four years afeo. You see we were very poor. Father was dead and moth­ er was sick in bed. I was the oldest, and there were lots of little ones young­ er than me. One day mother was sicker than usual, and we hadn't a bit of coal in the house, or anything to eat. Mother had just twenty-five cents left in her pocket-book--that was all--but happened to remember how an aunt of ^ mine used to make a good deal of money by selling flowers. So I askedpj g mother to let me have the quarter, tor" see what I could do with it. Well, sh«*" let me have it and 1 went right to a llor* i ist and got some flowers--it don't takei, / many, you know, for a button-hole^ . just a little bit of green and a few budr ' are enough--and then I went around to» the St. James and some other hotels td^l > sell them. Folks were real kind* ! ma'am, and I made fifty cents on they $ first quarter. " Ever since then, I've kept on ing flowers. I never go near the loons, ma'am, but I have found gooc sales for my bouquets at the large ho­ tels. Now, 1 always come here, for th## ladies and gentleman all know me, and' ' do a great deal to help me. Somef* times they give me great, beautifujt^ bouquets, that I can make up into lotah, of little oaes. Here are some of them,'*1** and the little girl showed me two off*1 three dainty little bunches--a pansjjl <• and white pink with a bit of smilax be* tween-^sebud and heliotrope bos* quets--that she sold at fifteen cent" apiece. "They used to give me nice thii to carry home to mother--pieces chicken, you know, and auoh like?*^ Why, there's one particular place iifcf* ' the dining-room now, where they puft#l my brown paper bag; and I'm always* j sure to find it full when I go home at . night! Mother disd last winter abou^ Christmas time, so I live with grand- mother now. Usually, learn about six dollars a week that I carry home to her! but sometimes I can make ten." x Brave little Mary! She tells her story in the simplest, most unaffected'I way; but I know that for nearly four ,t years she was the sole support anl comfort of that poor sick mother and those little helpless children.--Widt Awake. « m The Toad Market of Parlfc Br the Jardin des Plantes, in the old and quaint Quarter of St. Marcel, you will find, every Wednesday mornin# (if you are an early riser), from sprinS to autumn, a very curious market ' place. It is as simple as a tobacc<|ff», •i brake" and more enlivening tha4^ % your coffee-market, at the same homy f at least. Passing dowa Sue Geoffrojv 1 St. Hilaire. at this early hour (seven to nine a. m.j your attention is called t# an open space of ground, separated bjr > a bearding from tne street by a nois* < t like unto^Siat which greetp the ears o|, - tired Senators when the sun of day i* meeting the twilight hour, and all frog* " dom on the banks of the Washington 1 Canal is chorusly ioyous and loudt 4 We approach this market-place <«o of simplicity and sound. Young men , in blue Mouses, black silk cape (liki|;.if those our tourists are wont to put ii 1 their pockets in America), pert faced* iaunty airs, big finger-rings, dandj^ ! boots, greasy hair--parted down th» middle--and prim mustaches, are th* venders. In one hand they hold a little stick, and when the sounds alluded to grow heathenish, whack! goes the stick on the top of a barrel whence these diabolical noises emanate and silence reigns. The toads are momentarily dumb. We know there is a great deal of unlovable sentiment-arrayed against toads, yet toads are full of lovft, sentiment. A toad carries all young m a most loving and senti­ ments'-! manner, and why should not like beget like, if there be any truth ia . the doctrine of Aristotle P Much bad (1 blood and malignity is got up agaiuat . ,f toads. This one of the voung men ill blouse tells me, in a foppish, hal£pj'? philosophical way. Barrels of toadit * Think of it! Barrels packed like barrelj^i. of potatoes! "Selling at two francSi forty to six francs a dozen, prime toacL|| nice toads!" Who buys themP Vegef* ' able gardeners. Why? For the reasoA®' '* that toads devour the insects that othep •• wise would devour the vegetables. Will* * • devours the toads P Contrary to somgfc^ , ideas--not the French people. B»^, toads are being sold now, not devourecL and it is with the selling we are inte£ / ested. How do they vend themr^ 1 Young man in blouse bares his arm and thrusts his open h&nd into the slimy swim and brings up two, thref> or four gymnastic toads, wrig§» gling and writhing. He points out their merits and delivers them in a bo$, by the dozen to the eager market-ga*»' dener, who takes his choice and pa# ' his price. The buying and selling it done expeditiously and quietly, the only noise b^ing toady-like, and that i* subdued much more readily by the vender's baton than larger and more noisy creatures in Congress comply with the Speaker's mallet. The license revenue to the Government is greats • while the profit to the venders is greats er, arising from this other peculiar Par risian baseness, the'selling of toads. I address myself to one of the chants: "Permit me to ask if you have • been long in this business?" Merchant looks at me and laconically replies* " Born in it!" Then I resume and saj| encouragingly: "You know a good deal about itP" He looks at me again and replies: " All!" I am uneasy as to hie feelings, therefore change the attack bjf: asking: " Does it pay well?" He deign# not to look at me, but replies: "It does!" I begin to think he is as mo% . osyllabic as a toad, and wonder if hf V T has caught their habits, as some people do certain peculiarities that mark them in their trades, such as tailors, shoe? makers, carpenters and printers. " Do you suffer much loss by death in pack­ ing the toads all of a mass in a bar­ rel?" " I do not!" " Is it expensive to cultivate them?" "It is!" 'JI vow the fellow is a toad," I.mentally say to mvself.) "How do you care for them?" " We don't care much!" (Now 1 know he is a toad.) " Where do they flour­ ish P" "Marshes and rockeries!" "Da . you never feed them?" " Never!" " How do they live?" " Pretty well!**^ • (Vile toad!) " Have you a large sup- plyP" " Too large!" I now look upon him as the concentrated assemblage of, many toads and I leave him, as lie sings and looks as simple as a Rafaelle in a blouse, selling toads! Inner Paris, indeed thou art full of paradoxes and peculiarities seldom seen outside!--• Cor. Baltimore Sun. IT cost $75,000 to set up Needle in London.