Georgia Historic Newspapers

    THE MILKING HOUR.
Yon good old Boss, stand %nictly now,
And don’t be turning your head this way
You’re looking for Donald, it’s plain to see,
But he won’t be here to-day.
Nobody came with me, dear old Boss,
Not even to carry my pail; for, yon see,
Donald’s gone whistling down the lane,
And Donald is vexed with me.
And all because of a trifling thing;
He asked me a question, and I said “Nay.”
I never dreamed liat he would not guess
It was only a woman’s way,
I wonder if Donald ba« ever learned
The motto of “ fry and trv again.”
I think, if he had, it might have bee*
He had not learned in vain.
And there needn't have stretched between
ns two,
On this fair evening, the meadow wide,
And 1 needn’t have milked alone to-night,
With nobody at my side.
What was it he said to me yester eve,
Something about—about my eyes?
It’s strange how clever that Donald can be;
That is, whenever he tries.
Now, Bo«r, old cow, yon mustn't tell
That I’ve cried a little while milking yon;
For, don’t yon see? it is nothing to me
What Donald may choose to do.
If he chose to go whistling down the lane,
I chose to sing gayly coming here.
But it’s lonely without him, after all;
Now isn’t it. Bossy dear?
I—hark ! who’s (hat ? Oh, Donald it’s yon
Did you speak?—excuse me—what did you
say?
“May you carry my pail?” Well, yes; at
least,
I suppose, if you try, yon may.
But, Donald, if I had answered No,
Do you think it would have occurred to
yon
Not to be vexed at a woman’s way,
Bnt to try what coaxing would do?
— M.D. Brine, in Uarper's Weekly.
STORY OF A SHOE-MAKER.
I was bom in the Luxembourg just
alx>ut 50 years ago. Goodness ! How I
used to work at the beneli when I was a
lad, sewing and hammering, hammering
and sowing on boots and shoes. There
was that dear old father of mine, with
Ids big steel-rimmed spectacles perched
on his nose, who set me an example of
thrift and honesty.
“Above all,” he would say to ns, for a
brother then worked with me, “be a
irood shoe-maker. Never scamp any¬
thing. Do the best you can, and do it
mil the time.”
We would work from sunrise till far
into the night. The pay we got was
little enough, so small that we used to
watch the candle that fluttered in the
wind, and worry over its cost. If we
worked very, very hard, and custom was
good, we might counton a gain of 10
sons each, bnt sometimes we would all
■top pegging away because tho poor
people in our village had no money to
pay for shoes. Oh ! how difficult it was
to buy a sack of coarse flour or a little
■crap of meat. We lived from hand to
month. Poor old father, do what we
conld to help him, he got into debt, and
owed at one time as much os 30 francs.
What a huge sum that seemed to mo to
be! wbat a whole mountain of embar¬
rassment !
I starved aside. myself One in order I to put a little
money “This day work. said to father:
thing don’t I am going
to clear out. I can’t stand it.”
“You will leave me, my son? Your
poor old father is ian naumbrance to
you ?”
“No, not at all. But I must go away
to work for him."
“It is well,” replied my father, “You
are a good shoe-maker. Your stitches
are strong and even. You shape well.
Go see the world, and God’s blessing
accompany you." Paris and led miserable
I went to a
life there for a timo. I hardly gained
my bread at first. Tho babitE of the
Parisian shoe-maker horrified me, for I
had been good brought np by a pious father.
I was a workman, however, and
after a while found steady ompkiyment,
but I oonld help poor father but very
little. Oh ! it used to make my heart
sore to think of him cramped up in his
little, life, dingy with room, the working away for
dear meagre reward of a
crust of dried bread. The habits of
economy he had taught me helped me
then. I scraped together sou l>y son
and at last sent him lOt He wrote me
that the Bum had saved him from being
turned out of his poor old chamber.
“This will nover do," I said. “I must
go somewhere else. I am a good shoe¬
maker, and my experience in Paris has
given me the finishing touch. I must
go somewhere else, where the art of
Crispin will be appreciated." One tine
day in 18501 took a place as landsman
on an English lauded bark, from Havre to Bos¬
ton. I in the United States with
just 40 cents (2f.)m my pocket. I sought
work at once. I saw in a little shoe¬
maker's shop up a narrow street a sign
written on paper and stnok on the gln>
with wafers. I could not read it. I
not know a single word of English then,
but over the door there was a German
name. I made bold to enter and talked
German to the proprietor. that bench,
“Sit down,” he said, “on
and sow mo on that sole.”
“I am a fair shoe-maker, ns yon will
see," I replied.
It was a pleasure to take hold of tin
tools onoe more; they seemed to know
me. How I blessed my lather then.
My boss was satisfied, and I got a job
right off at $1 a day and my food. That
was h fortune to me theu. I worked foi
six months steadily and, save for a se
oond-hand pair of trousers, bought by
me at a bargain, I hoarded every penny.
I seat the dear old father $50, and back
name his blessi iTh He wrote he had
never seen so mu money at one time
in his life. But I was ambitions. Just
then the California fever was raging.
Somethingtold me to go to the Pacific
coast. I took ship and crossed the Isth¬
mus. Just before arriving nt San Fran
oisoo there was a heavy gale: we lost Cj|ine
new being shipwrecked, quite and I my I
hat. I remember that well.
landed in San Francisco with $1 exactly.
On board there was a carousing shoe¬
maker, who had been sent for from the
East by a man who had kept a shop in
San Fr.ir.eisoo. I heard him say that he
had come before his timo, and that, any
jhow, if he could do better he was not
going to work at cobbling. He men¬
tioned tbe name of tbe man who was to
hire him, and I had his consent to apply
for the place. and
I went to the shoeshop at once
asked for the position. who
“It is given to another man,
ought to bo here soon, and I can’t make
of you. Besides, yon have no hat.”
“That makes no difference,” I re
plied. “I see shoemakers’ wages are
$6 a day—was the flush'times of
California then)—give me $3 and feed
me. and odIv let me stay until the man
you hired turns up, for I am indeed a
shoemaker.” grudging
The boss gave * kind of con
sent. Then I set to work, and slept
that night in the shop. When the
master came to the place in the morn¬
ing he found everything in elegant break¬
ora?r and I had made So before
fast fiy mending a boot, I suited him
lived exfic tiy—for with that 1 am a good for shoe-maker. year, and I
man a
saved all mv money. I sent the deni
old fellow at home $100. If you could
have seen theietter that cameback!
The blessed old daddy wanted to know if
I thought he was a spendthrift? do for That the
$100 he was going to make
next three years ! There was a chance
I heard of m Sacramento. I went there,
my master giving me some of his shop¬
worn stock. I did a splendid business.
In six months I had made for my share
$3,000. My fortime was before me.
Poor old daddy was not forgotten. this I
got a cross letter from him time,
the poor simple soul wanted to know
whether I thought he was going to the
dogs. Did I want to make him a drunk¬
ard, a gourmand, his and put all Too kinds of
temptation in way? all evil. much
money was the source of I was
robbing myself to pamper him—but for
all that there was a lot of sweetness in
the letter.
Well, I thought that fortune was now
mine. But one night a bad fire broke
out and I was burned out. Fires oc
curred in Sacramento every night and
were the work ot thieves. I gathered
together the few pairs of boots I could
put my hands on, and placed them with
my money, it’out all in gold, in a trunk, and I
carried of the wooden shanty just
as the roof fell in. For better security
I sat on my trank, and gazed bewildered
like at the flames. “I have something
left,” I said, “after all, to begin the
world with.” Just then I was struck a
heavy blow over the head with a club,
and lost all consciousness. When 1
came to I found myself on the ground
and my trank gone. The thieves had
done the business for me. Ah! then 1
gave myself up, just for a moment, tc
despair. “I am ruined—ruined for ever.
Poor old daddy !” I thought. But I was
not ruined, for that crack on the head
was the means of my making my for
tune,
I didn’t cry over things much, for I
am a good shoe-maker, and that is al¬
ways a solid capital. I had a little money
in my pocket, and went to San Fran¬
cisco. I knew my old master would
take me back, and he did so. I resumed
my old place. There was an auctioneer
among his customers with the tenderest
feet I ever saw, and as I am a shoe-maker
that explains all my good look. This
auctioneer had been grumbling ever
since I left San Francisca. When he
saw me ho was delighted. “At least
now,” he said, “I am out of my great
misery. I shall limp no longer.” At
once I made him a pair of shoes, and he
was delighted. “Ihad
One day he said to me: an auc¬
tion yesterday, and I put np without
French getting a single They bidder, wjn’t a lot sell of very because fine
boots.
there is a glut of boots on the market.
They were imported a year ago, but
the shape is out of fashion now. It
was a square toe then, now it is a round
one. Do you buy them ?”
“How much?” I asked.
“Make your own price.”
“But I have no money.”
“That makes no difference; you may
have them on credit; pay me when you
can.”
I went to look at those cases of boots.
They were of tho finest quality, them and
excellent as to make. Some of
were cavalry boots, bnt such as officers only
dandy Remember, horsemen or General good shoe¬
wear. Inm a
maker and know my trade. I bought
these boots at one dollar per pair. The
leather alone was worth twice that. At
night I used to work on them. I made
the sqnare toes pointed—for I am a good
shoe-maker. Some of them I cut down
into bootees. Oh ! I worked night after
night on them after hours. Then I
hired a small shop and hung np a few
pairs in the window.
A Mexican came first. “How much?”
“Ten dollars.” He took the boots.
Then a miner passed. “How much ?”
“Fifteen dollars.” Then a gentleman
on a fine horse came by and looked Iron)
his horse at the lioots, and he tied up
his horse and asked “How much?”
“Twenty dollars.” Ho put a double
eagle down. I miiBt have made $2,560
clear on those boots. Then I found
more of them—a mini- of these boots,
and I put in my pocket six thousand
dollars in three weeks. I worked on for
a year and made money in my trade
steadily, for I am a good shoe-maker.
Then I got married in San Francisco
to a woman I loved, and my married
life has been a very happy one. It
was a pain when I "said to my wife: “I
must leave yon my love, for a short
time—only long enongh to pay my deal
old daddy a visit.” 1 left my business
in her charge. It was a voyage of busi¬
ness and pleasure, for I went to Paris to
buy goods. daddy There thesainc
Poor old ! was
magpie in the wicker-work basket, and
he saluted me, for he remembered me.
When I was a little boy I stuck a tail of
false feathers on his with some cobbler’s
wax. feathers He never forgot me, and raffled
his at me as soon as he saw me,
as if my insult to him had been of re¬
cent date. There was hardly a change
in the room. There hung father’s old
watch, as big as a saucer, ticking away,
with a spray of box-wood over it foi
Inek. Then there was on the shelf the
same old earthenware jug. The bandit
l broke leather one unfortunate bound romid day, and it, a piece
of was and it
hung on a nail by a thong. He had the
same awl m h\a hand at least it was the
*ame handle for once I came near getting
- - thrashing for having whittled it. Even
an old almanac of a year long gone past
was there, tacked to the w-Jl with shoe
brads. He had on the same apron, only
it was worn thinner.
The dear old father was bending over
his work, pounding slowly at some bit
of leather on a last. Yon could count
one, two, three, four between the ham¬
merings. In my time it was rat-tat-tat,
like a dram heating, with no interval be¬
tween the'strokes. 1 strode in and tbe
old gentleman first looked at my feet;
that was a way he had. At a glance, for
he was the king of shoe-makers, he
could take in all the differences between
your foot and the feet of the rest of the
world. He looked and looked again. He
must have recognized a family foot for I
saw his hand tremble, and then be
pushed up his great steel-rimmed spec¬
tacles, and the tears ran down his cheeks
as he rose and then tottered and then
fell into my arms. How we kissed one
another. “My succeeded son, my son, you never
would have had you not been
a good shoe-maker; did the you best never scamped
anything; you you could al)
the time,” was what he said when I told
him of my good luck. “Like my dear
old daddy did before me,” I added.
Then I kicked over his work bench and
said, “No more work for you, old pappy,
for I am rich. I have a wife, I have a
baby—a boy baby, named after you—
and yon are to take the cars—first class
—to-morrow or the day afterward and
come post-haste out of-the old country
to California, so that grandchild shall
sit on your knee, and you shall teach
him to be honest and pious, an' 1 to love
you.” “And may I not make inn. a
good shoe-maker?” he asked. “But it.
you go too fast. Let me think over
You ask me to leave this old Luxembourg
where I was born. I should never sec
again the grave where ydur mother, my
good wife, has slept for these last thirty
odd years. I don’t know. I am very
old. I should be in the way. I love
my old trade. Do they wear shoes in
California ? May I cobble there ? I as¬
sure just you, though the hog-bristies bother ham¬
mo a little at times, and my
mer moves just a trifle slower, still I can
turn out a decent job. I wonder if I
cannot beat you now. Come let us try.”
To please the old man, I took up a bit
of work and commenced on it. “It is
well done,” said father admiringly. “I
see you have not forgotten my lessons,
Perhaps that one stitch there is not
quite—quite as even as it should be.
My remarks don’t worry you? Still,”
and he held in his shaky hands the old
boot near his eye, “it will pass muster.”
At last the blessed old man consented
to go with me. Next day we had a feast
in the village. All the old cronies
were invited, the cooper, the watch¬
maker, the butcher, the drover, the
tailor and the tax-collector. The Curate
gave the party his blessing. old Oh, what
a good time we had ! The man was
radiant I was introduced to every one
as “M. -, the American shoe-maker,
who had learned his trade in the Luxem¬
bourg.” We kept it up all that afternoon
and late into the evening. It was a feast
such as that sleepy old town will remem¬
ber f8r many a day. Just occasionally
I noticed that the old man weakened
when some ancient chum took him by tin
hand to bid him good-bye. Then 1
would grand-child say: “ Dear Daddy, it’s you
that claims you. How d
you expect that he will ever bo a go
shoe-maker without your teaching him ?
That was an all-powerful argument
The blessed old man made the trip wit)
me across the ocean without much fa
tigue. How glad my wife was to set
her husband and father, and, m to tin
baby, he went at once into his grand¬
papa’s arms. old
Of course, father was too to work,
bnt still he insisted upon having his
bench. As he grew feebler the stitches
became more uneven, and we were often
alarmed about the awl, which might
have pricked him. He lived, though, He
happily with us for some years.
grew more unsteady little, day still by he day and
wandered a but -would
upend an hour or two every day at his
bench. He made a goat harness for the
little boy and qnite a number of pretty
things in leatner. heard him his
One day I in room tap¬
ping, tapping away on his lap-stone with
more than ordinary vigor. Then I list¬
ened to him. He said : “A good job ; a
very good job. Capital, though I ought
not to praise myself. There never was
but one man who could equal me, and
that is my dear, dear son, and his son,
my grandson, shall also be a first-class
shoe-maker, if the good God, whose
name be blessed, only lots mo live a
little, a very little longer,” and then I
had heard the rattle of a hammer as if it
had dropped on tho floor, and I went
into his room, and the dear old man
passed quietly away, with n lust prayer
on his lips. There are no shoe-makers
uowa days like in the old time.
Sober Second Thoughts.
True friends visit ns in prosperity only
when invited, but in adversity they come
without invitation.
Children are travelers newly arrived
in a strange country, we should there¬
fore make conscience not to mislead
them.
Great trees, as fig-trees, make shade
for others, and stand themselves in the
glowing heat of the sun. They bear
finite for others, not for themselves.
These solitude, truth-speaking women are
friends in arc fathers in matters
of duty, they are mothers to those who
are in distress, they are a repose to the
traveler in the wilderness.
The law of the harvest is to reap more
than yon sow. Sow an act and you reap
a habit; sow a habit and you reap a charac¬
ter; sow a character and you reap a des¬
tiny.
Tnis place is full of Osage orange
hedges. They surround most of the
peach orchards—probably to keep peo¬
ple ont. “Did yen ever try to get over
aud Osage orauge-hedge ?” an old man
asked me this morning. “No,” I re
plied; “did you?’* “Yes,” he said,
sadly; “I tried onee—a long time ago.”
“Did, eh?” “Yes.” “How long did it
take you to get over it ?” “How long
did it take me to get over it ?” said he.
sadlv . loD g * did it take me to get °
ovei : it r Alul th old man !ooked 0 eI
the continual landscape, and scratched him self,
aud : “How long did it take
me to f over it ? Whv j dou - t think
I am quite over it yet.”
About Telegraph Operators.
“I suppose,” have said a reporter, “you
operators must some funny exper¬
iences.”
“Yes, in there are some droll things every
once a while, but we get so used to
them that we don’t mind anything about
them. I suppose you have heard that
story about the countryman who saw an
operator working an old Morse paper in¬
strument and called his girl up to see
‘this fellow make paper collars. »>t
“How do you manage to keep your ear
on one instrument when there are twenty
or thirty going in the same room ?”
“There is no difficulty in that,” was
the reply. “It is as easy as it is for
you to keep the run of a friend’s conver¬
sation when there are other persons talk¬
ing in the room.”
“But no two voices are alike,” hinted
the reporter dubiously. sound
“No two instruments alike tc
an operator, and there is no more diffi¬
culty in distinguishing in the click of your
instrument a roomful, than/ in dis¬
tinguishing the familiar tones of a broth,
er’s voice.”
“Can you tell who is sending at the
other end ?”
“We can easily detect a friendly hand,
although I don’t know as I could make
you understand how. ”
“Do you hear anything that goes over
the wires ?”
“We could if we cared to, but that
gets to be a very old story. We only
listen for our call, which is repeated till
we answer, and then the message is
sent.”
“I suppose you have some sad experi¬
ences when you receive messages of death
or sickness. ”
“Well, hardly. If we were affected
ual by such things we should be in a perpet¬
state of grief. Yon don’t notice them
at all. Why, once I received a message
addressed to me saying that I had be
come a father, but I had become used to
to such things—I mean to receiving such
messages—that I never noticed to whom
it was addressed, and sent it down to the
counting room I with a bundle of other
dispatches had received at the same
time.”
“Speaking of curious experiences,”
chimed in another operator who had been
listening to the conversation—“speaking
of curious experiences, I remember
when I was working nights at a little
station on the Chicago, Burlington and
Quincy road. About one o’clock one
cold, sleety morning tho circuit was
broken off for a little while and then I
heard the word ‘H-e-l-p’ como over the
line several times. This was repeated
at intervals for some minutes. I was
decidedly done till frightened, daylight. but nothing could
be After the break
had been located, men were senj along
the line to repair the wire, and as soon
as the instrument began to work we re¬
ceived word that Charley Adams, the
day operator, had been found there
dead, with both his legs cut off. We
afterward learned that Charley had been
to a dance in a neighboring town, and
had fallen, unseen, from the freight
train as it crossed the bridge, and had
been run over. With his little remain¬
ing strength he had crawled to the edge
of the bridge, and broken the wire. He
had telegraphed the word ‘help’ by
touching the ends of the wire together-'”
Flying From Home.
The police detectives are searching for
one young girl who has fled from home,
and have just captured another in a
New York concert-ealoon. An old de¬
tective was asked if many complaints of
this kind reached headquarters. “Yes,”
he answered, “a great many, but not so
many as there might be.” This was
puzzling and an explanation girls of was and asked. dis¬
“Many young drift poor
sipated parents being away inquired from them
without ever after.
Where do they go? Usually from pov¬
erty, which they have long endured, to
the shame they have become familiar
with by contact with the dissolute wo¬
men they have grown to envy. The pa¬
rents know well enough what the girl’s
disappearance means, and either do not
search for her or do so only to demand
help from her. In such cases they do
not ask or desire police aid or interfer¬
ence.’' “And of those recaptured and
reclaimed?” “Well, we either never
lieai’ of them again or very soon the
same old story is repeated to us.” As
a rule detectives are inclined to take the
darkest views of life, and it is to be
hoped this one was no exceptional
character.—New York Tribune.
Fishing with Cormorants.
To be of ttse for fishing, cormorants
in China are taken when young from tho
breeding bring rocks and regularly trained to
all the finny prey they capture to
their owner’s boat. When young a thin
collar is put around their throats to pre¬
vent them from swallowing their prizes;
but in time the birds understand their
duty, which and, except for occasional small
fry, they probably think are hard¬
ly worth going back to the boat with,
carry all they catch to the common store.
As fishermen, they are among tho most
expert of birds, and their tactics, when
larger they find themselves engaged with a
fish than they can manage, are
very intelligent, for, if alone, the cor¬
morant strikes out the eyes of tho fish,
and then tries to guide the bewildered,
role floundering if thing to the boat. But as a
one cormorant sees another in
trouble with a larger fish th>m it can
tackle single-handed, it goes to its com¬
rade’s assistance, and the two, or several
together, put all their beaks into tho
job, and thus bring the captive within
teach of the boatman’s gaff or net
The Motor Business.
The opening of the Keeiy motor vin¬
dication is again postponed. Bnt in
place of the vindication a thrilling dia¬
logue is given between Mr. Keeiy and a
man who has worked for him as an as¬
sistant for the last fourteen years.
“How much do you know alwnt miming
this motor?” said Keeiy. “Nothing,”
replied the man with fourteen years’ ex¬
perience. It is that the Keeiy general opinion, fully says "as
much an exchange, running knows
about the motor as this
assistant of his.
Thb woman who paints her cheeks and
thinks the world won’t know it, must
imagine the rest of creation color blind.
HOW LABOR IS REWARDED.
John Roach explains Why Some Workmen
Fail.
, Mr. John Roach, the shipbuilder, took
the stand before the Senate Committee.
He commenced by saying that he wished
to confine himself to his own branch of
industry. He employed 3,000 men, rep¬
resenting twenty-five different branches
of industry. He then related his career
from his very humble start in life, and
while doing so he remarked incidentally
that there was one duty the government
owed him, and when that was once dis¬
charged he felt he had no reason to find
fault. Capital he regarded ns the sum
of all _ labor, and the government was ac¬
cordingly bound to legislate in the in¬
terest of the laboring classes. “I start¬
ed my apprenticeship, ” said the witness.
“in New- York, and worked for twelve
shillings a week, or twenty-five cents per
day.” Many a time, in order to be able
to pay his board, he watched his oppor¬
tunity to make overtime, determined to
succeed and resolved to be patient and
satisfied as he went along. From his
own experience, and from close observa¬
tion of the course pursued by his fellow
workmen, as well as workmen in all
branches of industry from that day to
the present, he came to the conclusion
that there was no man who struck out
with a fixed object in view could not in
the end own his own house. He never
knew such a man to fail. On the con
trary, he could poiut to the causes of
poverty and discontent on the part of
thousands who had it in their power to
acquire a comfortable living and become
independent.
But when a man indulged in more ex
cursions, more cigars, more hours of so
called recreation and enjoyment in the
larger beer saloon, and more gunning—
The Chairman—What was that last ?
The witness is deaf, did not hear the
question, hut was proceeding when his
attention was again directed to the qnes
tion. The witness repeated the word
“gunning.” He knew men in his em
ploy, who were earning only 'a small com
pensation, go gunning for week at a
time. Such men never started out to
succeed, and they would be very foolish
if they expected to do so under such
circumstances. Dealing with the main
question, he said that labor must co op
erate with capital. It would never do
for labor to combine by itself and be
come the deadly foe of capital. The
sooner the workingman was educated to
the standard from which he could real
ize the force of the maxim that “a man
who cannot make cannot own” the better
it would be both for the laborer and for
the nation. There might, of course bo
exceptions to that rule The payroll in
his (witness) shop last vear was $1,587,
000. Over fifty of the men working
there were employed with him in former
years in the same workshop. ‘‘Four of
us,” he continued, “walked out of Al
laire’s shop one day with just $400 each
to start with as capital.”
“It iscustomary,”saidMr. Roach, “to
cast reflections and look eontempntously
during these late years on a class of peo¬
ple known as the tramps. prairies At one Illinois time I was
a tramp on of with¬
out a dollar in my pocket, and yet I
never flinched in my determination.”
Ten years ago, he said, he bought the
shipyard at Chester, and at the present
time there were more than 1,500 men
averaged employed $2.19 in that day. yard, Gf whose these wages
per men
287 owned their own houses, the value
of which ranged from $1,200 to $5,000.
There were men employed saved there, ho
added, -would. who never They would a dollar and
never work one
day and stay at home the next on some
slight excuse or pretext. To improve
the condition of such men as these
was an idle dream. Sometimes they
would work half a week and spend what
they earned in gin-mills, and if they
didn’t spend it there they would get rid
of it on excursions. “It w'ould be an
idle dream,” he again remarked, “to
help such foiks, for they never would
save anything.” said Senator Call, “
“Suppose,” should the
United States Government say
to you: ‘We will give you any salary
you name, if, with your superior ability
and superior economy, you will take
charge of our ship building at your
yard,’ would you do it?”
“I would, I would,” responded the
witness, “but I would want a law
passed first that every Senator and
every Congressman and every officer of
the Government who interfered with me
should be subject to a penalty for a
penal offense for so doing.” [General
laughter.]
Too ma ny Book keepers.
“There are 23,000 bookkeepers era
ployed in the city and more than a qnar
ter as many more unemployed. the Yon
would be astomshed to learn num
ber of able-bodied men who could work
at a hundred different things if they
had a mmd to, bnt who will persist m
dth„ keeping books or keeping idle.
1 onng men with a lifetime ahead ot
them and the whole range of ordinary
vocations to choose from, will hang
around town for months, and run into
debt while waiting a chance to keep
books. The tune has gone necessarily by when
good penmanship will in
sure a man a living. There are too
many goon penmen now, and I know
for a fact that there are some business
houses where expert penmanship is dis¬
counted and where one who is able to
write too well is suspected of incapacity don’t
in other respects. Of course I
pretend to indorse this, but it is one of
the factors which prevent clever penmen
from at once securing employment. book¬
And what do you suppose a good
keeper gets a week, anyhow?” dollars,” said
the “Twenty or twenty-five
reporter, at a gness.
“Well, there are very few bookkeepers
ia New York who earn $25 a week—very
few. There are not many who make.
$20. The average pay of an ordinary
bookkeeper is from $12 to $18 a week.
I will undertake to furnish hundreds
of good bookkeepers at from $12 to $15
U- week **
“Why, that is only $2 a day. ” of
the “Precisely, $5,000 unemployed and there are not many who
bookkeepers three
would not take it. Yet it was the only public
months ago that I read in
prints that it was not possible to secure
competent policemen on the Brooklyn
uridge at$2a day .”—New York Herald.
A FeW Bar Stories.
-abu thirty had years of age, l bomlnl fif'V buSfr md
7 been to rise late Vrpi ?
aim eat breakfast
else was done. To get
tne sound of fife and drum up t n to
face wct towel, in a hurry and in forth a tin A , °? “J
g0 uncleaim^T^ with a raff a
vum ami a sense of
squad-drilled enough to be by a fat little <S Z J° be
Military Institute, my son that,* 0 f indeeTf^
He misery. was always How T hated wide that ml, , a * f
so awake
f° interested in the drill- ha Z '*3
sharp, behind, his coat tails were so £ T fat
and his hands looked m^' T
white gloves. He made me sick t?,*
the deuce did I pare m Wiiat
how times,” to “hold and all my that? piece,” I to “kadi!?® £, “T? 8
at. the time was
same I got up a bio- V
tite for breakfast, which was
g.<xl, for we lived pretty well It Camp
„ ,
f ,, a dude recruit whos»
r urged ^im to money on him ami
meal , of ; life was a hotel extravagance. in Hip
s ort of ^mg didn’t Paris and
tTx , suit him at all
«vi* J s ,?? se would duty was supreme.
, r 0JS ’ say, as he took Mg
8 lort meerschaum , from his month and
pew up ms r obust figure to its f u jj
Height, boys, I want you to distinctly
Understand—this t™, and is my last war! This
v, am £°’ u " to see it
Ulrough t0 t * e bltter end, but after this
v° Wa *r 110 m 2I e slee P in S m straw
V tv ^ °- s l - r
‘ •
TT aa g°°d as his , . word. He
n to went
011 *!° ^ of Gordon, ? mg o£ Georgia, a captaincy
y°j teacbes scbo °l the city and
in of Hew
°i ... ,, , battle ,,
1 °J e Je of Manassas
tlle ,, mi ..... Hha of all ,, the adjoining counties
wer f, ca e ^ an } m 1 utmost haste to
l mn’.mimbe.rs. ltl , .jugiments, A colonel of one of
10 ml f arrayed in old
tyl . cocked liat and big epaulettes,
f a ^f up a monuu S or two before the
1:d 1 as k ^ ,i t0 ^ tlie general
^,1 p 1 1 Bea ” e ? afd appeai'ed, he
sal V^ vl 1 « o utmost , sincerity:
, 1 General , Beauregard, my men are
mostly men of families. ’They left their
h “ 1U a lmn ' y w, tbout enough coffee
ots frying-pans - and blankets,
P , and they
r j ’- 11 a ‘ tl ? compose their
^ u! ‘1,1 , ! aboat fam [;
® i*L s n ® re
Do you see that f sun - 8lr ,„ ? l )011lta . . S
. ..
0 1 ’
“Yes, sir, ” said the colonel, ia
rvon
dering timidity.
“Well, sir, I might as well attempt to
pull down that sun from heaven as allow
your men to return home at a critical
moment like this. Go tell yonr men to
prepare for battle at any instant. There
is no telling when it may come.”
The colonel retreated in confusion.
A Scene in the West
a cowboy’s bace with a train
It was early in tho morning that the
pilgrims were favored with an exhibition
of horsemanship which is rarely seen.
At one of the stations at which the
train stopped there appeared among the
small knot of natives a veritable cowboy,
mounted and fully equipped. He wore
a broad-brimmed felt hat over an hon¬
est, pleasant face, deeply woolen tanned by and the
sun and atmosphere, a shirt
short gray jacket and gray pants. Over
his legs from his hips to his knees ex¬
tended a wide piece of leather, the ob¬
ject of which is supposed and brash. to be He to pro¬
tect him from rain was
asked if he owned the herd of sheep
grazing near, and indignantly responded
that he did not, that he was a cowboy.
“ Let us see yon lasso that cow.”
“Huh! That’s nothin’! The boys
aid skin my head.” „
catch the tom. .
‘ ‘ Then let us see you
“ Without a word the little pony was
urged to the other side of the tracK,
and, as the train started, horse and
rider made a dash, going ahead of the
train. Gradually, as the train got undeb
way, it gained upon its opponent until
it and the horse stood ‘ neck and neck.]
tkte'cjars wrftold to^fmfrom «3
Jtotjon^hJfittte'pony* ^ “£ted which^t 1 wM°headed reached by foj j
fl - 0 m the higher ground. Tbd
• A iDCrcasc a in flpee d, and the cowboyl offerej
. g iutel)t oulyU p 0rl the prizes and ^
hi avo lhe re in to the pony th
£2“” B t fliS?5U takin „ t h e th! cigars from
««. 0«
l tg and ane ven ground, throng
^ over eleva tions the amm
d _ e i oge to the tram tha
S*. , ri(1 ’ ^ >8 fee t ca me in contact with itecO i
Jh m wilH j 0 ft entirely to wool
or a stumble rider
. tbrown both horse and
H U »kU h ^ — wh ------- mile eels. the ^ ~ race was 1 Ull L‘ kep t U u
quarters of a daring nder
and at the end of it the acknow
greeted with shouts which he
thrembankment.--S4m as the hori
mmmtiM Mter in Chicago Inter-Ocean. /£*
cisco
IMantaliou Philosophy
true ’ligion in de hoe hA '
Dars more aberage p» *■
die den dar is in de
De wbat would abuse a
man trouble, would not hep
when he’s in
frien’ in distress. reads
mer she frowns; in de fall she sig
in It de ain’t winter de she brave slaps man F r dat - «n -n al’ej I
fight when yer stan’ calls bun dan a de > co J T
brave man can more