The Algona Republican from Algona, Iowa on December 17, 1890 · Page 7
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The Algona Republican from Algona, Iowa · Page 7

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Wednesday, December 17, 1890
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THE REPUBLICAN. JITARR AWJONA. IOWA BED-TIME, When I klvor up the flre o* nights nfoi'e 1 go to bod, .Ao.' watch tho chunks a-crumftlln* Into ashes glovdn' fed, ,Avf bear tho bm-k-log stghin' fer thd trees it growed among, 'Where tho nolay blackbird whistled an 1 the cheery robin sung, An.' It's so still 'at you ktn hear tho purrln' of the cat An' the crlnklln' of tho coolln' coals tho dog's n-bHnkin' at; •Then I git so awful lonesome I 'most wish 'at I was dead, •^KTliett I klver up the flre o' nights afore I go to bed. "The clock ticks louder 'n' faster 'an I ever ttnowod It to "When I ust tor wlshtl was a man an' ever' thing was new; :Z"er then tho wheels went all too slow that now go round so fast, '•When I rlkolloot my blossln's an' how many of 'em's past, An' the long, thin hands a plntln' at the flggcrs round an' round >Kcop a goln', never stoppln', that most lono- somest ot sound, /•E'er the comin' of tho livln' or tho goln' of the dead, •When I klvor tip the flre o' nights afore I go to bed. 'Then I hear tho back-log slghln' fer the tree at' It growcd on, An' fall to thtnkln' back about the days 'at's dead an' gone, •Till I ketch myself a-slghin' like a tree 'at's old and gray ,A-rock1n' In the wind with half its branches lopped away; ;Fer no ono knows, excoptin' mo, how much I miss tho boys •With their eternal rompin' an' their overlastin' noise '•At ust to drowned out gran'pap's clock a-strtk- in' overhead, 'When I kiver up tho fire o' nights afore I go to bed. •Then I allurs fool much lonesomer a-thlnkln' of 'em all, With my hair an' whiskers whitened by the frosts of early fall, A-rocl»'in' aud a-dozin' in the same old fambly . chair 'Where father sat'with mother by him fondly strokin 1 his gray hair; jJTer at my time o' lite the hopes o' boyhood all at last .Are lyin' dead an' buried In the ashes o' the past, .An' the old clock's solemn warnin' clangs out sudrtint overhead: "Come, kiver up the fire, old man; its time to go to bed." —Edwin S. Hopkins, in Judge. MAERIED A SOLICITOR. The Way Hannah's Husband oame Rich and a Lawyer- Be- r/A N N A H was young: Hannah was decidedly pretty—a b o v e all, H a n n ah was bright, handy, civil and obliging. When at last, after nine years of service in the capacity of ladies' maid to M r s. Phillips rand her two daughters, who reside, as ,all the world, of course, knows, at 23 Lansdovvne place, in the great city of 'JJoiidon, Hannah announced her intension of getting married, her mistress, •who had been rather backward during her tei-m of servitude in recognizing her many virtues, was compelled to admit them and immediately declared that she wouldn't know what to do when Hannah had gone—in fact that Hannah had become indispensable. Mrs. Phillips' chagrin at the loss of Hannah, the paragon, was not lessened when she discovered that henceforth her ci devant servant was to be ner «qual socially; that is, if the unwritten law which raises the wife to the dignity •of the husband's status held good, for Hannah had met hor King Cophetua. A member of one of the learned profes- «ions had stooped to unite his fortunes with hers. Hannah, with Jjust a spice ••of triumph in her voice, had informed her mistress that she was to be married to a solicitor. Now even though it took an act of Parliament in England to enroll this autnerous body of gentlemen upon the scroll of the "socially accepted," and though Mrs. Phillips was well aware of that fact, and while for her own daughter ahe would have scorned an alliance— unless he was very, very well to do, I'M GOIH' TO SET ABOUT IX BIGHT AWAY." which makes it quite another thing you •know—with a man who required an aol of Parliament to make him a gentleman, yet she was fully alive to tbe fact that Hannah bud done something wonderful. And after all, Hannah bad been her maid, and had so profited by the example of herself and daughters, doubtless, that aa a duck will almost become a ben when raised with chickens, Han »ah, from constant intimaey with sucb polished people, ba4 almost accumulated enough of the gol<i of to so gild herself that the brass beneath «ras not discernible. When Hannah, therefore, left 93 •JUansdowae place, she departed not only with the -blessing of kie stress a»d present, but with the assurance of that great l&dy's friendship and esteem. Hannah's social success had, after all, been raainly due to Mrs. Phillips'ad- mirable example, and why, oh, why, •bould she not bo proud of hor? The young ladies, who not being perched upon pedestals of dignity quite ao lofty as their august mamma, bad during these nine years frequently descended therefrom—sometimes indeed fallen oft—in fact, to abandon metaphor and come down to plain English, they had taken Hannah to their hearts long ago, and as far as their mamma's rigid ideas would permit, had treated hor as so excellent a young person deserved to be treated. The three girls had bo- come fast friends. But then Emily Phillips was only fifteen and Francos but eighteen months her senior. Many an evening when mamma was "plunging" at some swell affair in tho West End, the three girls had sat warming their toes at tho fire in the big drawing-room, whilst Hannah had told them weird stories of tho great East End, which the Philips girls had never been allowed to see, and which to them was only a land of poor people, dirt, toil and general misery. ' "There's many a warm ueart as beats beneath tho rags of a beggar, young ladies," had been one of Hannah's favorite remarks, and though in time she came to express herself somewhat more in accordance with the rules of Mr. Lindley Murray, yet tho sentiment remained tho same with her to tho end. Truly, notwithstanding all the late advantages, Hannah was yet.a child of the people. How she had missed the glitter ana glare of the Whitechapel Koad, the Saturday night at tho Music Hall, the delicious supper of coppery-tasting British oysters, taken standing in the rain after midnight, whilst the ail sounded with the myriad cries of the street venders, none but she could tell Had she boon made of less pliable material she must have been broken in the process of becoming a "lady." Dick Fortescuo, the costermonger, whose attentions had at first been confined to invitations to the pit of the "Vic" and trips to the Surrey Gardens, the place according to the advertisements, "to spend a happy day," had missed her more than any ono. It was known in the select circles of Petticoat Lane .that he had written several frantic epistles to Hannah since her transmutation to higher spheres; that receiving but little encouragement, he had ono evening sworn over a pot of porter in the presence of some of his pals that he would have Hannah yet. "Ef she has set 'er mind on bein' a lady, the only wa> to get 'er is to be a gentleman," he had remarked, "aa' I'm goin' to set about it right away." "How's you goin' ter do it, Dick?" inquired skeptical Mr. Barney Fisher. "I'm going to give up my barrer, an' sell the moke," replied Dick, steadfastly. "No, thank yer. I don't wan' no more porter." "Well, it ain't a goin' to waste, you can bet on that," remarked Mr. Fisher, and he put it where it would do the most good. Dick kept his word. He sold his costermonger's barrow and his donkey, shedding, a few tears, it is true, over parting with tho latter. And then tho Whitechapel Road and Petticoat Lane knew him no more. Some said he had gone to America; others that he had jumped off South- wark bridge; still others that he had skipped as a sailor ai,d gone to Melbourne to seek his fortune. Dick had done nothing of the kind. In the,daytime he was at work in the city—of which more hereafter. In the evenings he went to night-school. Three months had elapsed since Hannah's departure from Lansdowne place, vhen a little pink note found its way to Irs. Phillips' breakfast-plate, contain- ng a nicely-worded invitation from her ormer maid to dine with herself and msband. It bore the address: "The Oaks, Clapham Common." There was a '. S. saying: "It would be delightful E you could all come early. We can ave a cup of tea and a chat before din- ler." Four o'clock, two days later, found all three ladles seated in Hannah's drawing-room. The honest little woman's face was aglow with pleasure as she entertained her former mis- ress and hor "dear young ladies," as still persisted in calling them, How cozy the flre was, bow excellent the tea, and Hannah, how improved. Quite at her ease, she led them through her house and showed them every thing. No, not every thing. The door of one room alone she did not open. "That ia my husband's don," she said. 'Nobody ever enters it except himself." They were back'again in the drawing- room. It was close on seven o'clock. Frances was flattening her nose against the window-pane and looking out upon the neatly-kept garden in front of the bouse. Mrs. Phillips, Emily and Hannah were engaged with a portfolio of drawings—Hannah's own. One in particular attracted their attention. It was a portrait of an old beggar on crutches. A roguish smile was on bis face as bo stood, despite his rags, a sturdy, inde-, pendent figure, admirably outlined in black and white. He was apparently about fifty yeai-s of age. Underneath, strangely enough, as if in fanciful recollection of her favorite saying, Hannah had written: "There's many a warm heart that beats beneath the rags of a beggar." Hannah's eyes wero filled with unbidden tears as she gazed upon her own handiwork. "That Is my favorite drawing," s^e said. "Prof. Dubarry says it's my masterpiece." 'It's very well done," assented Mrs. Phillips, "Though it is the portrait of a beggar, you have succeeded in making it attractive. There is absolutely nothing repulsive about it Art bag idealized it" •* "Eepulsive!" ejaculated Hannah, as tbougb tbe very thought w&« shocking tofapy. She checked herself Francos, whose prrttty little no«« wag itiil flattened meditatively against tba window-pane, cried out: "O, Hannah, here's a dreadful old )eggar coming up the Walk, on crutcheSt What on earth shall we do? Why, he's coming up tho front steps, and Ideclattl le's lotting himself in with a latch-key. Come hero, dear, do, pray." But Hannah had already started 'ot ;he front door. Through the portiere they could hoar the murmur of voices, one, the man's, in joyous and hearty greeting, as ho flung his crutches into corner. Tho other, the woman's, sayng: "0, Dick, how could you. Didn't I tell you wo had company this evening?" Mrs. Phillips, a vague alarm on her face, had already risen from hor chair, when Emily pulled her down. You stop and see this out, mamma. If you don't you'll miss tho greatest romance in your life. I know all about it. It's simply splendid." 'You know all about itl Child! what do you moan?" "Hush, mother, don't be absurd. It will all bo explained presently. Hush, she is coming back." Hannah entered the room smiling. "You had hotter toll them, Emily," she said. "I'm afraid Dick has let the cat out of the bag. He should have come in by the back way." "Then I think Dick should tell his own story," replied Emily Phillips, laughing immoderately at the look of profound astonishment on her mother's face. "Ah, here be is. How do you do, Mr. Eichard Fortoscue?" The look of astonishment on the countenance of Mrs. Phillips strengthened to one of absolute bewilderment, as a young man, in the refinement of whose dress and manners no trace of his early surroundings was apparent, advanced and welcomed her. "You shall have my story, with pleasure," said ho, "when we have had dinner. Bromley, my partner, couldn't come, as we had an important case on I hand, but you'll take my word for it." And as they ate he told them, in lieu of conversation, the strangest story they had ever listened to: "Eight years ago as a poor coster* monger in the East End, I became suddenly imbued with an ambition to riue I HE WAS IN BAGS. would haw aaig in the world—the cause of it the lady who sits at the other end of this table. All my worldly goods at that time consisted of a costermonger's cart and a donkey, and notwithstanding my ambition I didn't see my way clear, and probably should never have got beyond mere thinking, when chance threw a strange opportunity in my way. Walking over London bridge one night, I was appealed to for aid by a poor old beg» gar. It was bitter weather, and I stopped and looked at him. He was in rags; his flesh was blue and pinched with cold. He was very feeble and wretched. I gave him a shilling, saying: 'It's half of all I've got in the world, but you're welcome to it' I had passed on when I heard some one running after me and felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the old man. Tm tired of this business,' he said, as be looked earnestly at me. 'Do you want to be rich? I'm goin' to give up my stand, and you shall have it if you want it.' I thought he was crazy at first, but he was not. He took me to his home where wealth apparently abounded. 'Forty thousand people,' he said, 'pass over London bridge every hour of the day. A largo percentage of them give. My income has averaged thirteen pounds per day for the last ten years. I am rich. But I am also very old, I am willing to retire. Take my rags and my crutches; take my wig; my stock of wounds, scars and withered limbs—they are the best in the market' "I accepted the old man's offer, and for weeks in the guise of the old beggar 1 took my stand on London bridge, to find that a perfect harvest was regularly poured into my lap. The old man, whom 1 so closely imitated that none could detect the difference, had many regular patrons. Clerks struggling for a bare living would yet pinch a sixpence from their scanty pay; rich merchants tossed me half crowns, and even the pooresc of the poor gave their half-pence. People who thought that I was dead or had emigrated little dreamed that I had become a professional 'solicitor' and was growing rich. "But I was using my money to what I believed was a wise end. At night time I engaged in the work of educating myself. I hired competent teachers and made surprising progress. Four years ago I entered the office of a solicitor who has the largest criminal practice in London and who knew my secret Two weeks ago I was admitted into partnership. To-day 1 attended the Beggars' Exchange and sold my stand on London bridge for £18,000. I am a fortune to any legal practitioner, for I know every criminal in town—not every one can get a partner like me." "And not every one can get such a husband," whispered Hannah to Emily at the bottom of the table, "One tbing J beg of you all to do." said Fortesoue aa he continued bis story, "never go over London bridge without giving something to my successor, or if you shauid be broke in the city and want to borrow a little, Jus? mention toy name and he'll be perfectly willing to oblige ypu.w->A,ujty», PITH AND POINT. —No, Indeed, no Pi, •'-Editor's Wife— w Do you like pie, dear?" Editor— "Heavens! No."—Yankee Blade. —Teacher (to class)—"What is Velocity?" Bright Youth — "Velocity 1* What a man puts a hot plate down with." —Sunday-School Teacher. — "Now, scholars, what do you understand by a 'movable feast?'" Pupil—"A picnic."— America. —Indignant Young Man—"Waiter, your coatsloeve dipped into this lady's soup." Obliging Waiter—"Don't mention it, sir; it will wash out. What kind of fish, please?" —A Boston clergyman, in an evidently hastily-written advertisement, asks for "A young man to take charge of a span of horses of a religious turn of mind."—Christian Reporter. —Rider—"I would like to sell this horse; he's just eating his head oil." Walker—"Well, I think that will improve him."—Brooklyn Life. —The Absent Friend.—Jack—"Isn't Adele an enthusiastic dancer?" Maud— "Yes, poor girl; she is getting to an ago when she must be."—Puck. — "Whore's the proprietor?" asked a man as ho entered a down-town restaurant. "He's gone home to dinner, sir," replied a waiter.—Harper's Bazar. —A Good Word-Belle (in a pout)— "Haven't you one good word to say of my lover?" Bess—"Yes, indeed, Belle, dear, ho has a very pretty name."— Yankee Blade. —A Suggestion. —"What did the editor say about that last story of yours, Fred?" "Said it wasn't worth the paper it was written upon." "Why don't you try poorer paper next time?"—Yankee Blade. —"What part do I take?" said Chappie. "You are to bo tho heroine's father," replied the stage manager. "What does ho do?" "He dies ten years before the curtain rises on the first act." —New York Herald. —Mamma (to Little Nellie)—"Would my little girl like to go out with mamma and look at tho stars?" Little Nellie— "Oh, yes; and I want you to show me the dog-star, mamma—that is if its muzzled, so it can't bite."—Epoch. —Mr, Ticks—"Adam was certainly in great luck." Miss Wickles—"How Was that?" Mr. Ticks—"Why, when he got a wife he had only to give up a rib; and now it takes all the backbone a has just to think of getting married."— Boston Courier. —"Blobson," said the millionaire, "hero are twenty begging letters. Give them all a refusal." "Yes, sir." "You will note that a two-cent stamp is inclosed in each for an answer." "Yes, sir." "Well, answer them 'all on pos- tals."—American Stationer. —Justification. — "What, my child! You danced last night with the Colonel? And he goes to balls while he yot wears mourning! What a light man he must be!" "Obut, mamma, really you should have seen how beautifully sadly he danced!"—Fliegende Blatter. —Amateur Theatricals.—"And what's ray part to be?" asked Chollie. "I've written the part for you and I know you'll do it well. You are to be the Idiot Uoy who witnesses the murder, and doesn't tell until the last act," replied Scribulor.—N. Y. Sun. —Miss Flighty—"Here is an account of a woman of great intelligence who is deaf, dumb and blind." Miss Giddy— "Does it mention her address ?" Miss Flighty—"No; why ?" Miss Giddy—"I was thinking what a lovely chaperon she would make."—America. WAR REMINISCENCES, PRETTY MRS. MASON. Row She Made Herself Useful to the Con* federate Government. Some of tho most valuable as well as courageous secret agents of tho South during the war were ladies. Possessing, aa many of them did, beauty, finesse, tho instinctive kndwledgo of human nature that enables the sex to penetrate the weakest point of man's armor, and a patriotism that made them proud to assume any risk that would benefit thotr cause, many undertook missions so desperate that only their womanhood saved them from a short shift when discovered. A case in point occurs to me. "We had fallen back from Fairfax Court House and gone into campatCentervillo. Wintor was at hand and smoke curled lazily upward from 10,000 clay-built chimneys. Every tree had been leveled by the soldier's axe; the old turnpikes were lost A WONDERFUL PEOPLE. A. Colored Wharf Rand Talks Philosophy to Ills BOHS. A gentleman who has the management of a business that requires a large number of negroes, said to one of his employes recently: "Sara, the colored people are a wonderful people, are they not?" It was dinner time, and Sam looked up from his tin dinner kettle and replied: "Yea, sah. They can get 'long with less money, and havo more loafing time than any people I know of. They are heap better oft than white folks. They don't have any thing to worry thorn. You know, boss, colored people get their eating for almost nothing, and, if they don't drink whisky, a little money goes a long way with them. If a colored man has friends around town he can always get a good dinner, a regular white man's dinner, for nothing. White folks don't object to their cooks giving a colored man dinner occasionally, and if he has a few acquaintances who cook he gets on very well in the eating line. Of course, some colored men have to 'keep house,' but that don't always prevent them from going around and don't make living cost much, because his old woman, if he has one, takes in washing or does other things help along. And, boss, you know colored men get along just as well single or married or married as single. "Yes, sah, the colored folks are t, wonderful people. Any body's clothes fits them. Your clothes will fit me. A colored man with your old clothes on and with his shoes blacked looks just as well as a white man with a new $75 suit. He don't mind wearing any white man's clothes, never mind what his size is; they will fit or he will make them do so. "Then, boss, you know a colored man caa sleep anywhere. He don't want a bed. He can lie right down here and sleep. This plank is. good enough for me. And you know the colored man, if he ia civil and handy, can get lots of good things from white people for nothing. I wean from people down this way. I don't know how it ia in the north or up in the country. I ain't got a thing on me uow that cost me a cent. "Yes, boss, colored people la the Lord's people. He takes care of them. If a colored man don't get along in the world better than a white man it is hU own fault The colored man, sab, is what you say of him, •» wonderful If he works a little ha can sleep *1 Sfee sunshine and almost wait for to come to in a labyrinth of foot-worn paths, and fields where only a little while before tho wind played hido and seek among tho growing corn were now as havd as tho bed of a billiard-table. Tho headquarters of Boauregard were in a farmhouse, unpainted and unpretentious, that once had been the homo of famous Virginia hospitality, but "the boys had gone to the war," the old folks had retired to more congenial scenes in tho interior of the State andallaround were signs of ruin. The plans of McClellan, whose army was encamped in our front, his fighting strength and tho disposition of his forces, together with the new phase of public sentiment in the North that was then beginning to take shape, were at this time subjects of grave concern to our commander, and it was important to obtain more definite information than had been furnished by the regular spies. How to get it, however, and through whom was tho question. The problem was solved at breakfast one morning by a member of Beauregard's staff. "I know a lady," he said, 'in the neighboring county of London, who possesses every qualification of a successful secret agent. Her name is Mrs. Virginia Mason. She is a young, fascinating, highly educated, a welcome guest in many Washington families and acquainted with a large number of Southern people who spent their winters in the capital before the war. Withal, she is a widow, her husband having been killed at the battle of Manassas, and brave enough to undertake any thing that will serve the land she loves." Beauregard instructed the officer to ride over to London and invite the lady to visit headquarters, and in a day or two she appeared. In the interview that followed be told her what ho required—a repoctfrom McClellan's army, its condition, the disposition of his forces and the plans discussed by the military authorities in Washington. For this purpose she was to ingratiate herself with prominent officers, visit New York, Baltimore, the various departments, or any other points where information could be procured. She was also to communicate with the representatives of the Confederate government in different cities of the North. The young lady eagerly accepted the proposition, and supplied with an abundance of money, started at once on the perilous^rrand, which meant glory if she waS^Tsuccossful, and prison if she failed. She returned after an absence of several weeks, crossing the Potomac opposite Dumfries, and arrived at the camp of Colonel, now Senator, Wade Hampton. Thence, escorted by one of his officers, she was driven to headquarters at Centerville. I can see her now as she alighted from the ambulance on the piazza of the little brown farm house; a young but matronly looking lady, handsome, too, with glowing, dark eyes, that looked as if they had fireworks in them. She was dressed in black, and her only, baggage was a small hand sachel. She was also accompanied by a shaggy Skyo terrier, a mere armful, that made a soldier who hadn't seen a pretty woman for a month of Sundays envious. What occurred within the doors that closed upon her was related to me afterward by General Jordan, then and subsequently Beauregard's Adjutant-General. Beauregard was, of course, do- lighted to see her, and with a woman's volubility she told him more in two hours than he could remember in two months. The verbal part of the interview being ended, he inquired for her papers, the record of her trip and the dispatches he expected from Confederates in the North. "Why, General, I didn't dare bring them on my person^" she replied, with a peculiar smile. "It was unsafe, you know. I might have been captured, and therefore I have told, you ail I know by word of mouth." Beauregard could not conceal his vexation, and the more he showed it the more the little woman seemed to enjoy it. Finally, after teasing him to her heart's content she. said with affected domureness: "General, have you a pair of scissors or a knife? I'd like to use it for a minute." Beauregard handed her an' ink eraser. "Come here, Dot," she called to the dog, and taking him in her lap continued: "I told you, General, it was not safe to carry important papers on my person and I have-not done so; in fact, have been suspected and searphed, but a woman's wit is something superior to a man's judgment. Bee!" she. said with coquet" ish nonchalance, as she tupped tho little animal on its back and deliberately proceed to rip him open. "Here are the dispatches!" As she spoke she held in one hand the hide of lieu- Skye terrier, and with the other smilingly extended a package of closely written tissue paper, while dancing about tbe floor was a pretty "black and tan." happy at his deliverance from another dog's clothes, The deception was perfect, the mission a success. Beauregard was enabled to anticipate McClellan'a movements, and the charming- spy n,ot .only received a handsome reward, but was led to the aH f tar after the war as. the bride of the, young officer who sang her praises %( Boauregard'a breakfast table. Bomber of perilous enterprises, the North several times, and oncfe ping the blockade from Charleston with , the late Captain "Bob" Lockwoodi 8* long identified with the New Yofk BftdL Charleston line of stoamefs. Whetbe* she is still alivo I do not know,—Fell* • G. fttj Fontaine, in Chicago Globe. ONE MORE WAFTstORY. A Confederate's Life Saved Through Kindness to a Union Doctor. A number of good stories were told at tho late meeting here of tho survivor* ot the battle and siege of Lexington. One of them was as follows: Dr. Bluthardt, then a young doctor fresh from college, was in charge of thd hospital here—a large, fashionabl* mansion, owned by one Anderson. On* day he was pulled unceremoniously through a hole in the basement by & hard-looking rebel, who marched the doctor to a largo tree, tied him to it and skipped off to use his victim as a target. This piqued the brave'surgeon, and he exclaimed: You coward, you I Give me a revolver, let us walk five paces, turn and fire." At this juncture a manly young Confederate walked up, and taking in the situation, at once exclaimed-! "lou scoundrel! I did not come all tho way from Kentucky to fight with, such ho devils as you! Eolease the. man or I'll blow your black heart out!" The doctor thanked his defender, and walked off as his prisoner. He was taken up town, feasted with General Price, and next morning 1 got an escort and marched back to his hospital. That afternoon a charge Was made upon the hospital. The Union men were quick to resent the unmilitary action, closed in upon tho Confederate forces, and a melee ensued inside the hospital, where the rebels were either bayoneted or taken prisoners. Dr. Bluthardt hastened up stairs to see about the sick and dying men. The room was full of smoke, and he could scarce see his own hands before his face. Two men rushed toward him and cried, "For God's sake, save us!" The Doctor placed them both beneath a blanket which partially covered a Union man whose leg had been shot through, and they lay there until dark. In the meanwhile the Union forces had searched the house for stray rebels with strict orders to show them no quarter. When, the smoke of the battle had cleared off Dr. Bluthardt went up-stairs to release his prisoners, and in one of them he recognized his defender of the day before, who had saved his life. He escorted them through the lines, and bade them good-bye. At the meeting of the survivors of the battle and siege of Lexington, he, for the first time, learned that that man, was "Tip" Mansur, the banker of Chillicothe, Mo., a brother of the Congressman.—Lexington (Mo.) Letter. What Killed General Meade. Captain Meade, U. S. N., is said to resemble the late General George G. Meade, his uncle, as the latter appeared' when a young man. Captain Meade says it is a mistake to suppose, as many people do, that the Union commander at Gettysburg died of nervous prostration. Pneumonia was the cause of death.. "When a post mortem was made of General Meade's remains, it was discovered that a small portion of one of his lungs had been slightly wounded by a minie ball. At Fair Oaks, on the peninsula, a ball struck the General in the right side, passed around his sword belt and came out in the neighborhood of the shoulder blades. No one suspected that the lungs had been touched when he re-r ceivedhis wound, and the surgeons at the post mortem expressed the opinion, that the wound contributed to the General's death by weakening the lungs and thereby making him susceptible to> disease.—Detroit Free Press. War Time Counterfeits. Our rations while in Richmond we estimated at two to four ounces of beef and six to eight ounces of good wheat bread, says a writer in the Century. To? '"1 supplement this we made counterfeit greenbacks, which we were sometimes able to pass on unsuspecting guards. Once by cutting out the figures from a ten-cent scrip, and with a little blood glueing this over the figure one in a. one-dollar greenback, myself and three comrades bought with this bogus ten- dollar bill ninety loaves of good bread, and it was the only time while I was in tho Confederacy that 1 made a full meal* STRAY SHOT. ALL soldiers who lost limbs during* the war can have artificial ones supplied, . by the Government if they will ask fop ' them. They can get a new one every five years, or, if they prefer, they ar$ paid its cash value instead. Legs cost $75 and arms $50 each* AN old soldier in Chicago, who had worn a wooden leg since the war, had, the artificial limb cru»hed in a cable- car accident a few months ago, and he is now suing the company to recover damages to the amount of $30,000. He/ insists that it was his good fortune that the crushed leg was not a flesh and, f blood one, and that the street railway company can not claim any credit QB. that account HOBATIOHABBISON HUGHES, of Frank- < lin. Mo., is a hero of six wars. first was the Iowa war against BigJ chief, the second was tbe Black war, tbe third tbe Mormon war, fourth, the Florida war, in which be rankedl Majpr-General, fifth the Mexican war* and Mxtb the war of the rebellion, fa, whiob he served four years in the Co»*r > federate army. He was in more tbftn, forty battles in which bis comrades fttg^ right and left, but escaped without wound. THE last of thisteen men, forme* 6$ federate, soldiers, who, during in blasphemous mockery, imj Christ and bis twelve Apostle Last Supper during a drunkep 4el in Alabama, was a few days a|p 4^4 *». » gwjster- D thirteen met *itb a not one of them burial. An old man bodv of tbe last of ttifl

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