The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on January 26, 1898 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Wednesday, January 26, 1898
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JD3S8JJDINEB: AL^ONA IOWA, WEDNESDAY JAKtfAftY 26, INTERNATIONAU PRESS ASSOCIATION*, •CHAPTER XXIU.—(CONTINUED. 1 ) "You will oblige me by leaving the house," he said, "if you cannot speak ICivllly, I have made this lady my wife. |She belongs now to me and my coun- 'try, and she accompanies me to Paris 'tonight." "No, not tonight," said Mafjorie iquickly. "You will not take me away (tonight, Leon!" | "And why not tonight, Marjorie?" . "Because I have promised Mr. Sutherland to go back with him to Annandale to see my—to see dear Miss Hetherington. She is ill, and she wants me, (monsieur." "I regret it, but we do not get every- ithihg we wish in this world. I must leave for Paris wlthoiu delay!" Marjorie hesitated and looked confused. Then Sutherland spoke, unconsciously uttering the thoughts which had been in the girl's mind. "You can go to Paris," he said, "if you allow Marjorie to return with me." The Frenchman gave a smile which •was half a sneer. "You are consideration itself, monsieur," he said. Then, turning to Marjorie, he added: "What does my wife say to that?" "I—I don't know," she stammered. "I am so sorry for Miss Hetherington. It would be only for a few days, perhaps, and—I could follow you." Caussidiere smiled again, this time less agreeably. "You seem to be tender-hearted, Marjorie," he said, "to every one but myself. Truly, an admirable speech to make to your husband in the first flush of the honeymoon. I am too fond of yo3, however, to lose you quite so soon." "Then you will not let me return?" "Most assuredly I shall not let you go; what is Miss Hetherington to you •or to me? She is your mother, perhaps, as you say; but in her case, what •does that sacred word 'mother' mean? Merely this: A woman so hardened that she could abandon her helpless offspring to the mercy of strangers; and afterward, when she saw her alone and utterly friendless, had not tenderness enough to come forward and say: 'Marjorie, you are not alone in the world; come to me—your mother!" " "Ah, Leon, do not talk so!" exclaimed Marjorie; then, seeing Sutherland about to speak, she went toward him with outstretched hands. "Do not speak," she whispered, "for my sake. Since my husband wishes it, I must remain. Good-by." She held forth her hand, and he took it in both of his, and, answering her prayer, he remained silent. He "iad sense enough to see that in the present instance the Frenchman had the power entirely in his own hands, and that he intended to use it. He had noted the sneers and cruel smiles which had flitted over Caussidiere's face, and he saw that further interference of his might result in evil for the future of her he loved. So, instead of turning to the Frenchman, he kept Marjorie's hand, and said: "You are sure, Marjorie, that you wish to remain?" "Yes," sobbed Marjorie, "quite sure. Give my love to my dear mother, and Bay that very soon my husband will bring me home again." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it again and again; then, without another word, he was about to leave the room, when Caussidiere stopped him. "Monsieur," he said, "you will also, if you please, bear a leetle message to our much esteemed Miss Hetherington from me. Tell her that, though in the first days of our married life she has tried to separate my wife from me, I bear her no ill will; on the contrary, I shall be glad to hear of her prosperity. Tell her, also, monsieur," added the Frenchman blandly, "that since Marjorie Annan and I are one, we share .the same good or evil fortune; that she cannot now gratify her malignity by persecuting Leon Caussidiere without persecuting her own child!" CHAPTER XXIV. N one of the uar- r o w Paris! a n streets in the near neighborhood o f the Seine, close to quays and old bookstalls, f r e - quented by the litterateur out at elbows and the bibliomaniac, there is an obscure caba- yat or house of entertainment, bearing the name of Mouche d'Or. Besides the sanded salon, with its marble tables and its buffet, presided over by a giddy damsel of forty, there is a dining- chainber up stairs, so low that a tull man standing upright can almost touch the celling with his head, and so badly lit by a narrow window that a light of Borne sort is necessary even by broad day, In this upper chamber, one foggy afternoon in autumn, three years after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter, a man was seated alone and busily writing at one of the wqoden tables. The man was about forty years of age, corpulent, with jet-black hair and mustache, but otherwise clean shaven. Up wrote rapidly, alraef*. furiously, now and then pausing to read, half aloud, the matter on the paper, obviously his own composition. As he did so, he smiled, well pleased, or frowned savagely. Presently he paused and stamped with his foot on the floor. In answer to his summons, a young woman of about twenty, gaudily attired, with a liberal display of cheap jewelry, came up the narrow stairs. "Ah, Adele!" cried the man, "is the boy below?" The woman answered with a curious nod. "Give him these papers—let him fly with them to the printer. Stay! Is any one below?" "No one, Monsieur Fernand." "Death of my life, Caussidiere is late," muttered the man. "Bring me some absinthe and a packet of cigarettes." The woman disappeared with the parcel of manuscript, and returned almost immediately, bearing the things ordered. She had scarcely set them down, when a foot was heard upon the stairs, and our old acquaintance, Caus- sidiere, elegantly attired, with faultless gloves and boots, entered the room. "Here you are!" cried the man. "You come a little late, mon camarade. I should have liked you to hear the article I have just dispatched to the Bon Citoyen." "It will keep till tomorrow, Huet," returned the other, dryly, "when I shall behold it in all the glory of large type." Huet, as the man was named, ripped out a round oath. "It is a firebrand, a bombshell, by •!" he cried. "The dagger-thrust of Marat, with the epigram of Victor Hugo. I have signed it at full length, mon camarade—'Fernand Huet, Workman, Friend of the People.' " Caussidiere laughed and sat down. "No man can match you, my dear Huet, in the great war of—words." "Just so, and in the war of swords, too, when the time comes. Nature has given me the soul of a poet, the heart of a lion, the strength of Hercules, the tongue of Apollo. Behold me! When heroes are wanted, I shall be there." The two men talked for some time on general subjects; then Huet, after regarding his 'companion with a prolonged stare, observed with a coarse laugh: "You are a swell as usual, my Caus- sidiere. Parbleu, it is easily seen that you earn not your living, like a good patriot, by the sweat of your brow! Who is the victim, mon camarade! Who bleeds?" "I do not waste what I have," returned Caussidiere, "and I love clean linen, that is all." Huet snapped his fingers and laughed. "Do you think I am a fool to swallow that canard? No, my Caussidiere. You have money, you have a little nest-egg at home. You have a wife, brave boy; she is English, and she is rich." "On the contrary, she is very poor," answered Caussidiere. "She has not a sou " "uiable!" "Nevertheless, I will not disguise from you that she has wealthy connections, who sometimes assist us in our struggle for subsistence. But it is not much that comes to me from that quarter, I assure you. My correspondence and my translations are our chief reliance." "Then they pay you like a prince, mon camarade!" cried Huet. "But there, that is your affair, not mine. You are with us, at any rate, heart and soul?" "Assuredly." Sinking their voices, they continued to converse for some time. At last Caussidiere rose to go. After a rough handshake from Huet, and a gruflly murmured "A bientot," he made his way down the narrow stairs, and found himself in the sanded entresol of the cabaret. Several men in blouses sat at the table drinking, waited upon by Adele. As Caussidiere crossed the room the girl followed him to the door and touched him on the shoulder. "How is madame?" she asked, in a low voice. "I trust much better." Caussidiere gazed at the questioner with no very amiable expression. "Do you say Madame Caussidiere? How do you know that there is such a person?" The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Your wife or your mistress, it is all the same. You know whom I mean, monsieur." "She is better, then." "And the little garcon?" "Quite well," answered Caussidiere, passing out into the street. Leaving Mouche d'Or behind him, and passing along the banks of the Seine, Caussidiere crossed the river and reached the neighborhood of the Palais Royal. From time to time he exchanged a nod or a greeting with somo passer-by, generally a person much more shabbily attired than himself. Lingering among the arches, he purchased one or two journals from f .he itinerant venders,and then passed slowly on till he reached a narrow back street, before one of the doors of which he paused and rang a bell. The door being opened by a man in his shirt sleees, who greeted him with a "ban soir," he passed up a clingy flight of wooden stairs till he gained the second floor, which consisted of three rooms en suite, a small salon, a bedchamber, and a smaller bedchamber adjoining. In the salon which was gaudily but shabbily furnished In. red velvet, with mirrors on the walls, a young woman was seated sewing, and playing near to her was a child about a year and a half old. Both mother and child were very pale and delicate, but both had the same soft features, gentle blue eyes and golden hair. The woman was Marjorie Annan— Marjorie with p£ the lightness and happiness gone out of her face, which had grown sad and very pale. As Caussidiere entered, she looked up eagerly and greeted him by his Christian name. The child paused timidly in his play. "You are late, Leon," said Marjorie, in French. "I have waited in all day, expecting you to return." "I was busy and couldn't come," was the reply. "Any letters?" "No, Leon." Caussidiere uttered an angry exclamation, and threw himself into an armchair. "The old woman had better take care," he cried. "Nearly a week has now passed and she has not replied to my note—that is, to yours. And we want money infernally, as you know." Marjorie sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. "Why are you crying?" demanded her husband, sharply. "Because you have an unnatural mother, who would rather see you starve than share her wealth with you, or with the child?" "No, no, it is not that," answered Marjorie. "Miss Hetherington has been very good. She has given us a great deal already; but we require so much, and I am sure she is not so rich as you suppose." "She is a miser, I tell you," returned Caussidiere. "What she has sent you is not sufficient for an ordinary semp- stress' wage. She had better take care! If she offends me, look you, 1 could bring her to shame before all the world." At this moment there was a knock at the room door, and the man who had admitted Caussidiere entered with a letter. "A letter for madame," he said. Marjorie took the letter, and, while the man retired, opened it with trembling hands. Her husband watched her gloomily, but his eye glistened as he saw her draw forth a bank order. "Well?" he said. "It is from Miss Hetherington—from my—mother! Oh, is she not good! Look, Leon! An order upon the bank for thirty pounds." "Let me look at it," said Caussidiore, rising and taking it from his wife's hand. "Thirty pounds! It is not much. Well, what does the old woman say?" "I—I have not read the letter." "Let me read it," he said, taking it from her and suiting the action to the words. It was a longish communication. Caussidiere read it slowly, and his face darkened, especially when he came to the following words: "If you are unhappy, come back to me. Remember your home is always here. Oh, Marjorie! my bairn! never forget that! It is a mother's heart that yearns and waits for you! Come back, Marjorie, before it is broken altogether." Caussidiere tossed the letter on the table. "So you have been telling her that you are unhappy," he said with a sneer. "In the future I must see all your letters, even to the postscripts. And she begs you to go back to Scotland! Well, who knows?—it may come to that yet!" (TO BE CONTINUED.) TALMAGJS'S SBBMON, ONLY A LITTLE HONEY LAST SUNDAY'S SUBJECT. SALADS AS A DIET. Most Wholesome Food mid Should liv Kuten Every Day. "The beauty and wholesomeuess of the salad should commend it to every American housekeeper," writes Mrs. S. T. Rorer in the Ladies' Home Journal. "I do not refer to those highly seasoned combinations of hard-boiled eggs and mustard, but to dainty dinner or luncheon salads made with a dressing of olive oil, a few drops of lemon juice and a light seasoning of salt, garlic and pepper. "The salts necessary for the well being of our blood are bountifully given in these green vegetables. Then, too, it is a pleasant way of taking fatty food. All machinery must be well oiled to prevent friction, and the wonderful human engine is not an exception to the rule. Look carefully to it that you take sufficient fatty food. "The Americans do not use enough oil to keep them in perfect health, While butter is served in some families three times a day, and is better than no fat, its composition is rather against it as compared to a sweet vegetable oil. Fats well digested are the salvation of consumptives, or those suffering from any form of tuberculosis. For these reasons a simple salad composed of any green vegetable and a French dressing should be seen on every well-regulated table 365 times a year. Those who live out of town can obtain from the fields sorrel, long docks, dandelions and lamb's quarters for the cost of picking. Where desserts are not used, and I wish for health's sake, they might be abolished, a salad with a bit of cheese and bread or wafer or cracker, with a small cup of coffee, may close the meal. Where a dessert 'is used the salad, cheese and wafer are served just before it, to prick up the appetite that it may enjoy more fully the sweet. At a large dinner the salad is usually served with the game course." "l Did hot Taut* it Little Hone.r with the End of the ttort that Won In My Hnnd, ftnd, to. t Must JtJIe."—t. Samuel 14 : 43. Courting done on a tandem ought to result in a double safety match. HE honey-bee is a most ingenious architect, a Christopher Wrenn among i n s ects; geometer drawing hexagons and pentagons, a freebooter robbing the fields of pol- leu and aro ma, wondrous creature of God whose biography, written by Huber and Swam- merdam, is an enchantment for any lover of nature. Virgil celebrated the bee in ffls fable of Aristaeus; and Moses, and Samuel, and David, and Solomon, and Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, and St. John used the delicacies of bee manufacture as a Bible symbol. A miracle of formation is the bee: five eyes, two tongues, the outer having a sheath of protection, hairs on all sides of its tiny body to brush up the particles of flowers, its flight so straight that all the world knows of the beeline. The honey-comb is a palace such as no one but God could plan and the honey-bee construct; its cells, sometimes a dormitory and sometimes a storehouse, and sometimes a cemetery. These winged toilers first make eight strips of wax, and by their antennae, which are to them hammer, and chisel, and square, and plumb- line, fashion them for use. Two and two these workers shape the wall. If an accident happens, they put up buttresses of extra beams to remedy the damage. When about the year 1776 an insect before unknown, in the night time attacked the bee-hives all over Europe, and the men who owned them were in vain trying to plan something to keep out the invader that was the terror of the bee-hives of the continent, it was found that everywhere the bees arranged for their own protection, and built before the honeycombs an especial wall of wax with portholes through which the bees might go to and fro, but not large enough to admit the winged combatant, called the Sphinx Atropos. Corrupt literature, fascinating but deathful, comes in this category. Where one good, honest, healthful book is read now, there is a hundred made up of rhetorical trash consumed with avidity. When the boys on the cars come through with a pile of publications, look over the titles and notice that nine out nf ten of the books are injurious. All the way from here to Chicago or New Orleans notice that objectionable books dominate. Taste for pure literature is poisoned by this scum of the publishing house. Every book in which sin triumphs over virtue, or in which a glamour is thrown over dissipation, or which leaves you at its last line with less respect for the marriage institution and less abhorrence' for the paramour, is a depression of your own moral character. The bookbindery may be attractive, and the plot dramatic and startling, and the style of writing sweet as the' honey that Jonathan too-k up with his rod, but your best interests forbid it, your moral safety forbids, it, your God forbids it, and one taste of it may lead to such bad results that you may have to say at the close of the experiment, or at the close of a misimproved lifetime: "I did but taste a little honey with the rod that was in my hand, and, lo, I must die." One would suppose that men would take warning from some of the ominous names given to the intoxicants, and stand off from the devastating Influence. You have noticed, for instance, that some of the restaurants are called "The Shades," typical of the fact that it puts a man's reputation in the shade, and his morals in the shade, and his prosperity in the shade, and his wife and children in the shade, and his immortal destiny in the shade. Now, I find on some of the liquor signs in all our cities the words "Old Crow," mightily suggestive of the carcass and the filthy raven that swoops upon it. "Old Crow!" Men and women without numbers slain of rum, but unburied, and this evil is pecking at their glazed eyes, and pecking at their bloated cheek, and pecking at their destroyed manhood and womanhood, thrusting beak and claw into the mortal remains of what was once gloriously alive, but now morally dead. "Old Crow!" But alas! how many take no warning! They make me think of Caesar on his way to assassination fearing nothing; though his statue in the hall crashed into fragments at his feet, and a scroll containing the names of the conspirators was thrust into his hands, yet walking right on to meet the dagger that was to take his life. This infatuation of strong drink is so might in many a man that, though his fortunes are crashing, and his health is crashing and his domestic interests are crashing, and we hand him a long scroll containing the names of perils that await him, he goes straight on to physical, and mental, and moral assassination. In proportion as any style of alcoholism is pleasant to your taste and stimulating to your nerves, and for a, time delightful to all your physical and mental constitution, is the peril awful. Remember Jonathan and the forbidden honey in the woods at Beth-aven. There is a complete fascination In games of hazard or the risking of money on possibilities. It seems as natural for them to bet as to eat. Ind«ed the hunger for food is often overpowered by the hunger for wagers, It is absurd for those of us who have never felt the fascination of the wage? tQ speak slightly of the It has slain a multitude of intellectual and moral giants, men and women stronger than you or I. Down under its power went glorious Oliver Goldsmith, and Gibbon, the famous historian, and Charles Fox, the renowned statesman,and in olden times, senators of the United States, who used to be as regularly at the gambling house all night as they were in the halls of legislation by day. Oh, the tragedies of the faro table! I know persons who began with a slight stake in a ladies' parlor, and ended with the suicide's pistol at Monte Carlo. They played with the square pieces of bone with black marks on them, not knowing that Satan was playing for their bones at the same time, and was sure to sweep all the stakes off on his side of the table. State legislatures have again and again sanctioned the mighty evil by passing laws in defense of race tracks, and many young men have lost all their wages at such so-called "meetings." Every man who voted for such infamous bills has on his hands and forehead the blood of these souls. But in this connection some young converts say to me: "Is it right to play cards? Is there any harm in a game of whist or euchre? Well, I know good men who play whist and euchre, and other styles of games without any wagers. I had a friend who played cards with his wife and children and then at the close, said, "Come, now, let us have prayers." I will not judge other men's consciences, but I tell you that cards are to my mind so associated with the temporal and spiritual ruin of splendid young men, that I would as soon say to my family, "Come, let us have a game of cards," as I would go into a menagerie and say, "Come, let us have a game of rattlesnake," or into a cemetery, and sitting down by a marble slab, say to the gravediggers, "Come, let us have a game at skulls." Conscientious young ladies are silently saying, "Do you think card playing will do us any harm?" Perhaps not, but how will you feel if in the great day of eternity, when we are asked to give an account of our influence, some man should say, "I was introduced to games of chance In the year 1898 at your house, and I went on from that sport to something more exciting, and went on down until I lost my bu'slness, and lost my morals, and lost my soul, and these chains that you see on my wrists and feet are the chains of a gamester's doom, and I am on the way to a gambler's hell." Honey at the start, eternal catastrophe at the last. Stock gambling comes into the same catalogue. It must be very exhilarating to go into the stock market, and, depositing a small sum of money, run the chance of taking out a fortune. Many men are doing an honest and safe business in the stock market, and you are an ignoramus if you do not know that it is just as legitimate to deal in stocks as it is to deal in coffee, or sugar, or flour. But nearly all the outsiders who go there on a financial excursion lose all. The old spiders eat up the unsuspecting flies. I had a friend who put his hand on his hip pocket and said in substance, "I have there the value of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars." His home Is today penniless. What was the matter? Stock gambling. Of the vast majority who are victimized you hear not one word. One great stock firm goes down, and while columns of newspapers discuss their fraud or their disaster, and we are presented with their features and their biography. But where one such famous firm sinks, five hundred unknown men sink with them. The great steamer goes down, and all the little boats are swallowed in the same engulfment. Gambling is gambling, whether in stocks or breadstuffs, or dice, or race horse betting. Exhilaration at the start, but a raving brain, and a shattered nervous system, and a sacrificed property, and a destroyed soul at the last. Young men, buy no lottery tickets, purchase no prize packages, bet on no base ball game or yacht racing, have no faith in luck, answer no mysterious circulars proposing great income for small investment, drive away the buzzards that hover around our hotels trying to entrap strangers. Go out and make an honest living. Have God on your side, and be a candidate for heaven. Remember all the paths of sin are banked with flowers at the start, and there are plenty of helpful hands to fetch the gay charger to your door and hold the stirrup while you mount. But further on the horse plunges to the bit in a slough inextricable. The best honey is not like that which Jonathan took on the end of the rod and brought to his lips, but that which God puts on the banqueting table of mercy, at which we are all invited f to sit. I was reading of a boy among the mountains of Switzerland ascending a dangerous place with his father and the guides. The boy stopped on the edge of the cliff and said, "There is a flower I mean to get." "Come away from there." said the father, "you will fall off." "No," said he, "I must get that beautiful flower," and the guides rushed toward him to pull him back when, just as they heard him say, "I almost have it," he fell two thousand feet. Birds of prey were seen a few days after circling through the air and lowering gradually to the place where the corpse lay. Why seek flowers off the edge of a precipice when you can walk knee-deep amid the full blooms of the very Paradise of God? When a man may sit at the King's banquet, why will he go down the steps and coutemj for the refi\sp and bones of a er than honey flBsl&B •• says David, .fo honey out eatisne; the dross I dip It up tot all yoft* soul. 1 ?. The poet Heslod tells of an ambrosl* and a nectar, the drinking of which would make men live forever, and one sip of honey from the Eternal Rock will give you eternal life with God. Come off the malarial levels of ft f»ltt- ful life. Come and live on the Uplands of grace, where the vineyards slin themselves. "Oh, taste and sep that the lord Is gracious!" Be happy now and happy forever. For those who take a different Course the honey •Will turn to gall. For many things I have admired Percy Shelley, the great English poet, but I deplore the fact that It seemed a great sweetnss to him to dla- 1 honor God. The poem "Queen Mao" has in it the maligning of the Deity, Shelley was impious enough to ask for Rowland Hill's Survey Chapel that he might renounce the Christian religion. He was in great glee against God and the truth. But he visited Italy, and one day on the Mediterranean with two friends in a boat which was twenty-four feet long he was coming toward shore when an hour's squall struck the water. A gentleman standing on shore through a glass saw many boats tossed in this squall, but all outrode the storm except one, In which Shelley and his two friends were sailing. That never came ashore, but the bodies of two of the occupants were washed up on the beach, one of them the poet. A funeral pyre was built on the sea shore by some classic friends, and the two bodies were consumed. Poor Shelley t He would have no God while he lived, and I fear had no God when he died. "The Lord knoweth the way of the righteous, but the way of the ungodly shall perish." Beware of the forbidden honey! FRENCH A CURIOUS PEOPLE. They Have Vanity, but Not Pride; Religion, hat Not Morality. "The French must be the most curious people on earth," writes Lilian Bell in a letter from Paris to the Ladles' Home Journal. "How could even Heavenly ingenuity create a more uncommon or bewildering contradiction and combination? Make up'your mind that they are as simple as children when you see their innocent picnicking along the boulevards and in the parks with their whole families, yet you dare not trust yourself to hear what they are saying. Believe that they are cynical, and fin de siecle, and skeptical of all women when you hear two men talk, and the next day you hear that one of them has shot himself on the grave of his sweetheart. Believe that politeness is the ruling characteristic of the country because a man kisses your hand when he takes leave of you. But marry him, and no insult is too low for him to heap upon, you. Believe that the French men are sympathetic because they laugh and cry openly at the theatre. But appeal to their chivalry, and they will rescue you from one discomfort only to offer you a worse. The French have sentimentality, but not sentiment. They have gallantry, but not chivalry. They have vanity, but not pride. They have religion, but not morality. They are a combination of the wildest extravagance and the strictest parsimony. They cultivate the ground so close to the railroad tracks that the trains almost run over their roses, and yet they leave a Place de la Concorde in the heart of the city." The Family and the Home. This is the time to provide the means for instruction and amusement for the long and quiet evenings to come. Farmers, mechanics, tradesmen, merchants, men of all classes and ages— now is the time to ask yourselves, how shall we spend the winter evenings most pleasantly and profitably? Ladies —it Is your pleasure to make home the happiest spot on earth—prepare now to make the fireside attractive and happy, Parents, have you thought of the best means of promoting the welfare and happiness of your children during the winter? Every one knows something of the charms of a winter evening at home, and of those charms, reading is the chief, the most lasting-, and the best. A thoroughly good and entertaining paper is specially adapted to meet the desire for winter evening amusement. Every one who has enjoyed the society of the Ledger by the fireside must have felt happier and better for its perusal. To instruct, to amuse, to advocate a high standard of morality, and to cherish all the better feeling of the heart, is its mission. Nothing is admitted to its pages that can wound the feelings of the most sensitive, or call a blush to the cheek of the most modest. Children may read it with pleasure and profit, and' we wish to make the oldest, wisest and, best in the community confess their obligations to us for many pleasant,^ well-spent hours. Why It Pleased Him. Parson Saintly (excitedly)—"Ha! — the great philanthropist Giveaway 1-$ dead—and has left his entire fortune to local charities and foreign missions." Stranger—"Ah! God bless him! God bless him! I like to see money left like that." Parson Saintly—"Pardon me, sir; but are you one of the cloth?" Stranger—"Oh, no! I'm a lawyer."— Puck. Que "Can you tell wio why old wldowera nearly always. vf s an| child wives?" ''I upon the theory

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