r2i
FULFILMENT.
Desires that human minds retain
Are not in vain ;
The flowers that droop in Winters cold
Will bloom again.
The forms we loved so gladly here
Will reappear;
The ray of hope, by darkness won,
But shine more clear.
Though all the powers of life give way,
Love holds its sway,
And brings the darkened, prison soul .
The light of day.
The sequence of all good in store
We've known before
Love regal through eternity.
Foreveimore!
Frank Rose Starr.
MARK,
Happy Rhoda Townsend was so in
terested in her school, her music-les
sons, and her play, that for a Ions:
while she did not notice what a cloud
was gathering over her home.
But one morning she overheard her
father and mother talking in low voices
in their room, which was next to hers.
"I don't sec any way out of it," said
her father. "If he insists upon it, we
are ruined."
"Will it take everything?" her mother
asked.
"Everything!" said her father. '"We
shan't have a roof to our heads. God
knows what will become of us all 1"
"I wouldn't mind, for myself," said
Mrs. Townsend, weeping; 'but the
children! Oh, I am sure Mr. Ringdon
cannot be so cruel!"
"You don't know Ringdon!" her hus
band rep.ied, bitterly. "I took the con
tract to build the block six months ago,
and should have made a moderate profit.
But the pnce of labor and the cost of
everything have gone up at least twenty
per cent, lie isn't to blame for that, he
says: and though others can't keep their
agreement with me, he sees no reason
why I shouldn't keep mine with him. He
doesn't mean to be cruel ; but business is
business."
Poor little Rhoda listened with grief
and terror. Then she remembered how
careworn her father had looked of late,
and how often she had seen her mother
sad and tearful.
She waited till he was gone, then ran !
and threw herself on her mother's neck
"I didn't mean to,'' she said, "but 1
couldn't help hearing something! Oh,
mother, is it true? Must we lose this
house and everything? Shall we be
very poor?"
"My daughter!" said Mrs. Townsend,
folding the dear child in her arni3. 'I
am afraid so."
"Why didn't you tell me mother?"
"Because you were happy, and I wanted
you to remain so as long as you could.
And I hoped till now that Mr. Ringdon
would not insist upon your father's ful
filling the contract. He can well afford
not to insist upon it. He is very rich. his paper. Mark was not satisfied, but
The loss would not be much to him, but 1 there seemed to be nothing more for him
it will ruin us." to say.
"Docs he know it?" cried Rhoda, He hoped that his father would re
agerly. "Oh, I am sure he doesn't! lease Mr. Townsend from tne ruinous
Why, mother, it is Mark Ringdon's , contract, and when the final crash
lather ; and Mark is just the nicest, I came, and it was known that the Town-
kindest, best-hearled boy you ever saw."
"But his father is a hard man, for all
that," sighed Mrs. Townsend. "I fear
there is no hope of him. And, now that
you know all, my child, 1 want to say to
you that we must be prepared for the
"worst. You are the oldest of the chil-
tlren. Your father will have to becrin
life again, and we must do all we can to j when his parents made him a costly pres
help him. We must give up many ! ent, he would say to himself :
things, perhaps have to work very hard". "I wonder if this was bought with
I am sure you will do all you can to help some of the money wrung out of poor
lane care oi your dear little brothers and
sisters.
The mother and daughter wept in each
other's arms; but with her bigi opinion
of Mark, Rhoda did not believe that .Mr.
Ringdon could deal so harshly with her
father.
"I'm sure he doesn't know!" she re
peated to herself. And she formed a
bold resolution. . She would speak to
Mark about the affair.
They went to the same school, and it
wa3 easy enough for her to find an op
portunity to speak to him. But it was
not 0 easy to think just what she should
say.
Mark, who was a bright, quick-sighted
boy, noticed that she keptfier eyes on
him with a troubled look. As she walked
slowly away lrom the school-house that
afternoon, he followed and overtook her.
"What's the matter, Rhoda?" he said.
"You act as if you had something against
me."
"Oh, no; I've nothing against you."
"But there's some trouble!" he in
sisted. "Have I anything to do with it?"
"No, but you may have. O, Mark!"
said Rhoda, beginning to cry. "It is so
hard! and I am sure you don't know
anything about it; for it wouldn't be so,
if you did."
"What is it?" said Mark, growing
anxious.
"Your father and mine something
about their business." And Rhoda told
him her story as well as she could.
Mark was surprised and distressed.
"No, I didn't know!" he exclaimed.
"And I don't ' believe my father
understands about it. He is the
kindest man ! there's nothing he won't
do forme; and that makes me sure he
will do what is right when I tell him."
- "Oli, if you will toll him!" cried
Rhoda, with tears of hope. That even
ing Mark walked into his father's library
after tea, and stood there, patiently wait
ing for him to lay down the newspaper
he was reading.
Mr. Ringdon was, as the boy had said,
a fond and indulgent father; and, feel
ing that his son had something to say to
him, he presently put aside his paper,
end glanced up smilingly over his glasses.
"What is it, Mark?" he asked.
The boy looked red and embarrassed.
But there was a respectful earnestness in
his tine face, as he replied
"I heard something to-day, father,
which I want to ask you about."
"Ask," "said Mr. Ringdon, "and I
will answer as well as I can."
"It is something about your business
with Mr; Townsend," said the boy.
Mr. Ringdon's face changed slightly.
"What have you heard?" he asked, in a
colder tcne of voice.
" It is said that if Mr. Townsend car
ries out his contract with you he will be
ruined. Do you suppose it can be
true?"
"I don't know," replied his father;
" I hope not. Who said he wouid be?"
" Rhoda, his daughter. She and her
mother are feeling very anxious about it.
They think they will be very poor," said
Mark, watching his father.
Mr. Ringdon did not smile any more,
but his face was calm and kind, "lam
sorry for them," he said. " The truth is,
Townsend has a very bad contract. He
will meet with a heavy loss. But I don't
see how I can help it."
" Can't you release him from it?" Mark j
tremblingly suggested
"That wouldn't be business," said his
father. "Then the loss would fall on
me."
" Excuse me, father but are not you
better able to bear it than he is? '
"Perhaps. A good many of my
friends have met with losses which no
doubt I might bear better than they ; but ,
it doesn't follow that I should say to
Smith, Jones or Brown, 'Here's my
check to make up that loss to you I've
more money than you!' Would that be
business-like? There are a great many
men," said Mr. Ringdon, and now he
smiled again, "who would like to do
business with me in just that way."
" But isn't this different?" said Mark.
"You've had nothiug to do with their
speculations; you've gained nothing by
them."
"And you're mistaken," replied his
father, " if you think I drove a hard bar-
gain with Townsond. I agreed to give
him for buildeng the block all I believed
it would be worth to me. He took all
risks. If the time had been favorable,
he would have made something. As it
is. he loses. That's all there is about
it."
Mark was staggered for a moment, j
Then he exclaimed earnestly :
"Oh, no. father; that isn't all. If
there had been any ordinary gain or loss,
what you say might be'ust. Uut he is
building a block of houses for you; and
I'm sure you wont insist on his doing it
for w at he agreed, if it will ruin him
make his family poor! I could never
bear the thought of that!"
Mr. Ringdon answered, after a pause,
in a quiet but firm voice:
"You've a kind heart, my son I'm
glad of that but you don't know any
thing about business. And it isn't for
you to tell me what I ought to do. You
may be sure that I shall do only what
seems- to me to be right."
He adjusted his glasses and took up
sends had actually lost everything, Mark
felt even worse about it, I am bound to
say, than Rhoda did.
The Townsend family were obliged to
move into a smaller house, where living
was less expensive; and Mark lost sight
of them. But the great wrong they had
! suffered rankled in his heart. Often
Townsend?"
Mr. Townsend began business again,
and worked hard to support and educate
his family. But circumstances seemed
always to be against him. He couldn't
get ahead. He continued the struggle
manfully for a few years, then lost health
and hope and died a poor man.
He had had his life insurtd for a mod
erate sum; and that was all that was left
to his family. A widow with six chil
dren, and only the interest on three
thousand dollars to provide for their
wants ! That was Mrs. Townsend's situ
tion. But since the change in their fortunes,
Rhoda had proved herself "a glorious
girl," as everybody said who knew them.
She had given up the luxuries of life,
and the pleasures of society, to devote
herself to the family. House-work,
needle-work, teaching her sisters the
piano bonnet-trimming or dress-making
whatever the task, she brought to it a
willing heart and skillful hands.
"I don't know what I should have
done," Mrs. Townsend used to say, "if
it hadn't been for Rhoda; her tact for
keeping us all looking respectable on
nothing, is just wonderful! And she
makes us all happy by her good spirits."
. But now, after her father's death,
something beside even Rhoda's helpful
hands was needed to keep the family
along. The interest on his life insurance
was only about two hundred dollars a
year. That would not pay house-rent,
where they were.
One evening Mrs. Townsend and
Rhoda sat talking over their prospects.
I thought we were poor before,"
said the widow, with a thoroughly dis
couraged air. "But our poverty then
was nothing to this. What shall we
do?"
Rhoda was now in her twentieth year,
and a wise little head she had for a girl
of her age. She had thought the matter
all over.
"lean answer for myself first," she
said. "I shall take in dressmaking. I
will order a little. sin painted to-morrow.
I can certainly bring some money
into the family that way."
"But it will be a long time before you
can earn much!" said the discouraged
widow.
... "In the meanwhile," Rhoda .went on,
"others must help. Maria is good at
figures; she must find a place in a store.
Lucy must give up her music for the
present, and assist you. Thomas will
have to leave school that's the hardest
thing to decide upon for he ought to go
to college; we always meant that he
should. But he must be earning some
money, if we are to keep the family
together. James and Julia must con
tinue in school, at any rate; they are not
old enough for anything else."
' "But, can we get along if we do all
thi3?" poor Mrs. Townsend inquired.
"Yes, but there is still another thing.
We must pinch pinch pinch," said
Rhoda.
"Oh! haven't we pinched all we could
for years?"
"Oh, dear, no, mother I We can pinch
a great deal more."
' And Rhoda gave a little laugh.
"Why do you think we can?" asked
her mother.
"For the best reason in the world
because we shall have to! No family
lives on so little that it might not live on
less."
Again Rhoda laughed lightly. But
all the while her brave heart was full of
regrets and forebodings.
"rrible gloomy days followed. No
dread making came into the house
though Rhoda managed to get a little
by going out to do it. After a long and
discouraging search, a place in a small
fancy store was found for Maria, where
she had to stand on her feet all day, and
bear a great deal of abuse from her em
ployer for a mere pittance. Thomas
could not find a much as that.
The family was in debt. Their rent
was unpaid. They had been warned to
leave the house. Mrs. Townsend was
worn out, and even Rhoda was losing
her spirit, with her youth and bloom.
One evening as the girl was going
home fnm her day's work, a young man
stepped to her side.
"Rhoda Townsend!" he exclaimed.
"You don't know me?"
But she did know him, she was greatly
surprised and agitated to oee him ; for it
was years s!nce they had met.
' "Mr. Ringdon!" she said, tremb
i lingly.
"Not Mr. Ringdon " he replied, "but
Mark call me Mark, if you please. How
long it is since I have seen you
"It is hardly my fault." Rhoda coldly
replied; for she thought he had pur
posely avoided her family since they be
came poor.
"Perhaps it is mine," he said;
"though, indeed, Rhoda. I have thought
of you a great deal, and inquired for you
lately. Are you walking home now?
May I go along with you? "
"If you wish to see how poorly we are
obliged to live," she answered, in the
same cold tone of voice.
They walked on together, but with
few words, j They came to Mrs. Town
send's door) Rhoda . stopped, as if to
bid him good-by.
"MayIgo in and see your mother?"
he asked, as'if he had been humbly beg
ging a favor.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so,"said Rhoda;
and, after hesitating a moment, she
showed him in.
Perhaps, on reflection, she was quite
willing that he should see the poverty to
which they had been reduced.
Mrs. Townsend received him kindly,
and he sat down in the little sitting
room where the long struggle between
neatness and want had left its sad trace.
"I shoiild not have known you," she
remarked! "Indeed, I never saw you
many times. Y'ou came to Rhoda's birth
dav party once, I remember."
Tears rushed into the mother's eyes, as
she thought of the changes in her family
since that happy time.
Mark's heart was full. It was some
time before he could command himself
to speak.
"Rhoda thinks I haven't wished to
keep up the acquaintance," he said at
length.
"There was no reason why you should
wish to," Rhoda said, demurely. "I
wasn't blaming you."
Then suddenly Mark's words came in
a burst of emotion. .
"There has never been a day since I
last saw you, Rhoda," he said, "when I
haven't had you and your folks on my
mind. I promised once, you remember,
to do something for you. But I wasn't
able to. That is the true reason why I
haven't tried to see you since."
It evidently gave him so much pain to
say what he did that Rhoda interrupted
him.
" Y'ou needn't explain ! I always had
faith in you. Please don't almde to
what's past any more !"
"But I "mint!" Mark exclaimed.
"There was a business transaction be
tween your father and mine, which I
could never feel right about. Mr.
Townsend was a Ler by its bargain.
My father was in the end a gainer,
though he didn't think so at first; he
didn't mean to be unjust. He is dead
now; and I want you to think better of
him than you did at one time."
"Deadl" said Mrs. Townsend. "I
hadn't heard of it."
" He has been dead six months," said
Mark, in a low, tender voice. " He left
everything to my mother and me a large
property."
lie hesitated, then turned his eyes
earnestly on Mrs. Townsend. She was
studying him with strange, sad, tearful
looks.
"My mother thinks as I do of that
contract." he went on. "There is some
twenty-three thousand dollars, including
interest, now due justly due from our
estate to yours, and we have made all
arrangements to have it paid."
"To have it paid twi nty-three thous
and? I don't understand you!" said
Mrs. Townsend, in great agitation.
"I understand!" said Rhoda, wild with
........... "IT
to know, and had such faith in !"
The poor widow looked, bewildered.
"Do you really mean" she began.
"I mean every word I said," replied
Mark, radiant with happiness, "Our
lawyer will pay over to you to morrow,
twenty -three thousand and some odd
dollars the sum which we owe you."
"And Marie can leave that horrid
store! And Thomas can still go to
college!" exclaimed Rhodat throwing
herself on her mother's neck, and kiss
ing her wildly, while Mark shed tears of
joy and sympathy. "And you, dear,
dear mother! you shan't work so, as you
do. any more !"
"You don't think of yourself, Rhoda,"
said her mother.
Indeed, that was always Rhoda's way.
J. T. Trowbridge, in YoutSt Companion.
Some Streaks of Moonshine.
The Rev. Dr. Willits, of Louisville,
Ky., has been lecturing on the illusions
of moonshine, in which he tells some
truths and gets off some anecdotes :
The true mission of wit and humor
is to be the spice of sensible talk. An
old preacher delivered a number of ser
mons on Jonah, and even made that a
dry subject. Said a parishioner: "If
the whale was as sick as I am, I don't
wonder it threw him up." Motnshine
is used to express illusiveness. Illusions
attach themselves to every passion, to
every faculty of the mind, to the senses
of the body, and to all periods of our
lives. An old gentleman was with great
difficulty persuaded by his nephew to
ride for the first time on the steam
cars. In the car the old man and the
young one were separated. Presently
they came to a tunnel, about which the
nephew had forgotten to tell his uncle.
AVhen they emerged from the darkness
the old gentleman was grouping his way
through the aisle, with his eyes tightly
closed and crying out: "John, John, I
am struck blind, struck blind.!'' Once,
when the doctor himself had a bird
stuffing craze, he looked into a window
where he saw a stuffed owl. He said to
himself: "The wings are much too low,
the pose is not life-like, and the eyes are
at least a third too large." Just then the
owl turned its head and winked at the
speaker as if to assent to all that was
said.
Another class of illusionists consists of
the dear old croakers who are always
complaining of the degeneracy of the
times. In that go "d old-fashioned time
they continually talk about people spent
half an hour trying to light the fire on a
cold winter morning, and often did not
succeed. In that good old time the ex
press train came into town and an
nounced its arrival by blowing a horn,
and it came on horseback. Then men
were blistered and bled and cupped, and
when they had fever could not have
even a drink of wvter, unless they got it
by tilting up the bucket when the nurse
was asleep. Now they can even have
ice. Oh, what a glorious luxury to have
a mouthful of ice while in a fever. The
fever is not a luxury, but the ice.
The Dying Tramp.
"I'll tell you what I'd like to see," re
marked a Chicago, Burlington and Quin
cy conductor, "and that is all the pro
fessional tramps in this country tied
down to the rails right in front of the
fast mail."
"What's the matter with you and the
tramps, now?"
"Matter enough. The other day, down
near Galesburg, a passenger pulled the
bell-rope and stopped the train. He said
he had seen the body of a man by the
side of the track. We pulled back
aways, and, sure enough, in the di ch lay
a tramp. He seemed to be dead. We
examined him. Then he showed signs
iov. "It is JuarK! tne same juarK i usea.
of life. Then we carried Tiim into the i gr0cer, promptly; "don't credit nothin'
baggage car and fixed him up a bed for ' trma .nai,. aUn..,Tfi-.;n'. '
mm. Pretty soon he opened his eves and
gasped: 'Fell off train. Badly hurt.'
There was a doctor on the train, and he
said the fellow was injured internally,
probably fatally. He prescribed stimu
lants. So we skirmished around and got
a bottle or two of whisky. He drank it
like water, all the time rolling his eyes
and groaning. He emptied that bottle
and asked for more. The kind-hearted
baggageman brought a quart flask out of
his chest and told us to give him some of
that. When we pulled into Galesburg
he was sleeping, and I was afraid dying.
The baggageman went to lunch and I to
telephone for the police. When we came
back our patient had recovered and dis
appeared. The quart bottle of whisky, a
good suit of clothes and a nickel-plated
seven-shooter had gone with him." Chi
cago Herald.
Kamschatka.
Kamschatka seems to be losing its na
tive population even more rapidly than
are the Sandwich islands losing theirs.
According to a very pathetic report sent
by Lieutenant Frederick to the Moscow
Gazette, there will soon be no Kamschat
kans left in Kamschatka. The popula
tion, in a district larger than the whole
of France, which was once above 50,000,
had in 1880 fallen off to 6,200.
The only occupations of the inhabi
tants are shooting and fishing; their food
consists almost exclusively of fish,forthe
annual income of apy one rarely exceeds
sixteen shillings, for which not even
forty pounds of flour can be bought. On
the western coast things are even worse.
The mortality in these parts is even
greater than in the east. On the Com
modore islands, however, which are
separated by a distance of hardly 300
kilometres from Kamschatka, the popula
tion is flourishing amain under the be
nevolent supervision of an American
firm. ,
The annual consumption of imported
and domestic cigars is sixty to every
man, woman and child in the United
States.
''WHEN THE CORN'S A-TALK I NT '
Gentle owtum, gentle owtum
Ter a hummer, hain.t ye now I
With yer paint on like the nation,
Lookin' sprue 3 as all creation,
With yer dabs of red an' yeller,
Like the punkins ripe an' metier,
Stickin' fast tar bush an' bough.
Y'er a daisy, hain't ye, owtum!
With yer posies 'long the brook.
. Like live coals of fire a-glowin1
Smack down in the green, late mowing.
An' yer gentians torn and tattered,
An' yer golding-rod thick scattered.
Like rum picters in a book.
YYe a stunner there's nodoabtin'!
With yer woods an' swamps a-drip
With the black birds jest so busy
That my head gits light an' dizzy
With a-listenin' ter their chatter,
An' the wiery, fightin' clatter
Uv the blue-jay's raspin' lip.
Eut I tell 3re, owtum, squarely,
What I like the best uv all
Is ter hear the com a-talkin1
When the wind is through it walking
An' ter catch the punkins list'nin
An' jest layin' low an' glist'nin'
As if 'spectin' for a call.
An' another thing I'm set on,
I'm a-achin' fer ter tell,
Is ter see the apples droppin', I
An' the chesnut burrs a-poppiu' '
An' a-shellin' out their plunder,
While the pigs are chankin' under ;
Now, I like this mighty welL.
An1 1 like a han' at seodu
Long about this present time,
When the foller smells like posies,
Only sweeter than the roses,
An' the grain is quick a sprinm',
An' the m;ller groun' is singin'
Jest tha sweetest harvest rhyme.
An' now come ter think, I reckin',
As I'm t ayin' now my say,
I must mention but I'mthinkin'
It's the heart that's alius drinkin'- )
' In the good that God has given : i
As makes a life a livin',
And fills even ev'ry day,.
& D. McManusin the Current.
PUNGENT PARAGRAPHS.
Patch-work Hoeing.
Right-about face the hair.
The song of the mosquito , is "Humv
Sweet Hum!" Life.
Robbing the males The girls who steal
men's hearts. New York Journal.
"How shall I sleep?" asks a corre
spondent. Try to stay awake to catch",
some train. Milton Ntus,
"Horses run fastest in hot weather,1'
says Mr. Bonner. That is nothing re
markable. So does butter. Call.
At what age does a farm usually be
come worthless? inquires a correspond
ent. At about mortgage. Burlington.
Free Press. '
I watch for your coming each evening,
When the Sunset Gaies are ajar.
Lilla N. Custunan.
Look out for the dog at the portal,
And I'll keep an eye on papa.
Gorham Mountaineer.
"Y'ou look distressed, Mr. Slowpay;.
what's the matter" "Matter enough;
I've lost mv nockctbook." "That is burl
much in it?" "No; that's what worries. Y i
me. I'm afraid some poor man will find
it, ana n ne aoes itu rum mm." liur
dette.
Mr. Muchtalk dropped in at the corner
grocery with the morning paper in hia -hand
and excitement in his eye. lie said :
"Look here; do you credit this outra
geous rumor t" "ixo, sir, said the
too. '' llavokeye.
A young Wall-street busines man has
written a four-act melodrama, founded
on incidents in the recent financial panic,
We have not seen it, but it probably runs
about this way: First scene, Wall street;
second scene, detective's office; third
scene, railway depot; subsequent scenes,
palatial mansion in Canada. Philadel
phia Dispatch.
SORRY HE STATED.
"I will stay," he sang, "and sing my lay,
While slumber seals your eyes;
And the deep still nighc will chase the day
Away from the sUir-hght siiies
'I will wake and sing till the morning stai
Shall glow in the Eastern sky"
But he didn't ; the dog woke up just then
And smote him hip and thigh.
Louisville Courier Journal.
Ifouey-Dcn Kay In Nevada.
Some time since we published an item ;
to the effect that a Reno farmer had a
pecular kind of grass which was so full
of honey that it clogged the knives
when being cut, and that cattle was very
fond of it. At the time we thought it
was very peculiar, but a well informed
granger of Grass valley informs us that
it is very common. He saw it at Walker
lake in 1860, and he has had it every
year on his ranch, and the ranchers in
his vicinity think nothing of it. He
brought us a bunch of grass, willow
branches and weeds, which had so much
of the sugary honey that they had matted
together, and after handling them the
hand became sticky. It tastes sweet in
its natural taste, and is much prized by
the Indians, who industriously gather it.
It is evidently a dew. because it is found
on every kind of shrub, and is not con
fined to any particular locality. Wr
have no theory to advance for it, but con
tent ourselves by stating a simple fact.
Austin (Nee.) Ileteille.
The Sutlej, a large river in British In
dia, with a descent of 12,000 feet in 180
miles, or about sixty-seven feet per mile,
is the fastest flowing river in the world,
r
O
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