12 THE StQDAY OK.EGKXXIAls-. PQBTT'A1I; PEBBTJAKX 24, 1895. wmm& bJ CUPID'S ARROWS. Phoebe, wandering in the wood. Chanced to spy Dan Cupid sleeping; Xong the curious maMen stood Tiptoe through the branches peeping: For the youngster's lips she yearned, TIM, the branches parting slyly. She, ta slake her thirst that burned. Steeped and klsd the rogue's mouth shyly. Hew the boy's eyes open wide. And upon the maid he gazes. Grasps an arrow at his side. And bis silver bow upraises. Swift the maiden turns to flee. Swift the arrow follows after, "Wounding In Its flight a tree: Hark! how rings the maid's dear laughter. Cuptd, with his sleep-dazzled eyes. Stares a moment through the bushes "Where the laughing maid still flies; Then adown the wood he rushes. JCow the shaft overtakes the quarry, JJow it cleaves poor Phoebe's heart MaMens, are you wake Love, tarry First to flleh his every dart. James B. Kenyon in the Century. The jioDor of Boifs 'A Story of n. Terrible Temptation. By Herbert D. "Ward. "But mother. How ridiculous. I'm no longer a little boy." Sidney straighten ed himself up to his full height of 5 feet W mfr vSiS I ml im ilmm B M I 11 M VV- N 'l HOPE that tit: hay see more of EACH OTHER." B Inches, and looked at Tils mother "with an Insulted air. "Besides, I've never been in Boston in my life, and I want to go." The boy pursed his lips out petulantly. Mrs, Dorris looked at her only child with a conflicting expression. Was it an ger or embarrassment that made her sun burnt face flush? She cast a quick, ap pealing glance at her sister, which Sid nep did not police. He had moodily stoop led to pick up the little King Charles spaniel, and was twisting its silken ear on his finger. "I will not send you to boarding-school, Sidney." said his mother slowly and sternly, "unless you promise me not to go to Boston, except when I give you permis sion. Besides, I think the rules of the school do not allow you to .go." "Now Aunt Lou, don't you think It Is rough on a fellow who has never been out of his own town? I'll bet you I'm the only boy in the city who has never been to Boston, and only 40 miles away. I'm tired of it," Sidney turned pathetically to hiB middle-aged aunt, who stood look ing from one to the other. She alternate ly wiped her eyes and her spectacles with her brown gingham apron. "Perhaps your mother will let you go through Boston on your way to the Mshool. But it will be more expensive than changing at Lowell Junction." The last clause was added as a sort of apol ogy to the daring suggestion of the first. Aunt Lou loved her nephew devotedly. All the long week they lived together In a little brick house on a side street In the busy city ot Hills. For Mrs. Dorris and the beautiful white spaniel took the first train every Monday morning for Boston, and there they stayed until the last train on Saturday night. Mis. Dorris' husband had died when Sidney was a baby, and the 17-year-old lad could not remember the time when his mother had not spent the Blx days of the week in Boston, attending, as he "supposed, to his father's business. What that business was he never knew. It had been long accepted in the house as a subject which should never be men tioned. "Sidney will change at Lowell Junction, and be a good boy." said Mrs. Dorris af ter a long pause. "I will see him that far on the train myself, and then go on to the city. He will find his own way from there. He is old enough to look out for himself, but not old enough to be disobedi ent," she added t-lgnittcantly. Sidnoy gave Ermine's tall a pull. The dog's little yelp muffled his own sigh. "All right." lie said philosophically. "1MI be a man soon, and then I'll go where I please." "When you get through college," answered Mrs. Dorris, snapping her eyes, "and earn enough to support yourself, then yon an do as you please. My work will be done then." "At least, I can go into father's busi ness and help you." Sidney looked up at his mother lovingly. All opposition to lier wish had faded from his face. The little dog barked gleefully; but Aunt Lou heW her hand on the table to steady her self. Mrs. Dorris stared at her son as If she had not understood his words. Then the color abruptly left her sunburnt, parched kln. She looked 20 years older in that iitsiant. Sidney was frightened at the change, "You shall never" Mrs.Dorris did not finish. "Mother!" cried Sidney. "You are 111. Dear mother!" But she straightened herself up from her habitual stoop, pushed him aside, and left the room and shut the door behind her. Sidney stared after her aghast, but made no effort to follow. A cordon of new thoughts seemed to surround and confuse him. Sidney Dorris entered the senior class of the great fitting-school with- no con ditions. There were 70 more boys In the same olass, yet Sidney felt as If he had been cast upon a desert coast. Although he had been used to associating with boys nil his life, yet, as this was the first time that he had ever been away from home by as much as a single night, the feeling of homesickness overpowered him. and It seemed to him at that time impossible even to form acquaintances and friends. Because of his fearless expression Sid ney was a boy's boy, and so It was most natural that one of the richest fellows In the olass, a. member of the most ex clusive of the many secret societies in the Edited by MefraucGsHj Rurnoti ll epartofont! 2. .rnOi-.: school, should approach him on the third day. It Is a good thing- that in our Ameri can schools there is no rank In school but that of good-fellowship. So the recog nition of Tom Devenant was enough to give Sidney a social position for the rest of his course. "You've just come into cur class, and I'm Devenant Tom, for short. I hope that we may see much of each other." He held out his hand cordially. It was a fat hand, and exquisitely kept for a schoolboy's. A gold snake ring with two good-sized rubles for eyes glistened on his finger. He wore a fine tennis suit, and his very presence exhaled luxury. Sidney had never been acquainted with a boy of Tom's social position before, and he was fascinated by that graclousness and perfect form. "Have a cigarette?" Tom took from his pocket a silver cigarette-holder and handed It over to his new classmate. Sid ney hesitated, blushed, and then took, the proffered narcotic. He had never smoked in his life before; but It seemed to him as If he should lose caste before the eyes of his classmates if he refused. If a poor boy had asked him to do the same thing he would have said "Xo" quickly enough. "Where do you room?" asked Tom with a kindly yet indefinable tone of conde scention. "At the Millstone House,' 'answered Sidney, gaily; then, noticing a smile of superiority on his companion's face, he hurried to say apologetically: "It was the only room I could get, coming so late. Where do you room?" "At the Clubhouse, of course," point ing to a large brick building on the top of the hill the most aristocratic boarding- house in town. "Do you play tennis? I've got a private court up there, laid it out myself. I'll furnish racquet and balls and play you three sets, and bet you sodas I'll win. Is it a go?" "All right." Sidney's eyes sparkled. He loved tennis above all sports, and was a fine player, having taken the High school championship. "I'll run home and put on my things. I've got a raquet, thank you, I don't care if I do," he said, dropping into the easy, schoolboy's slang as he accepted another cigarette with a matter-of-course air. He played and won, and Tom and he became fast friends. I do not mean fast in the literal sense. Tom Devenant was too well brought up to be dissipated, and Sidney could not But "Tom was lax in regard to school rules, and felt himself superior to them. He introduced Sidney into his own set, and before Sidney knew It he was swag gering down the street to the postofflce, playing tennis and whist, and chumming with boys who could afford to spend in one month "what he could spend In a year. Nevertheless he did not allow his studious habits to wear off. He made a mark in the classroom. Besides, he took his rank as a possible tennis champion. This gave him quick prestige in his class; and, at last, he was elected into the Beetle So ciety, of which Tom Devenant was the patriarch, and whose badge of member ship consisted of an ivory beetle which was exhibited between members on vari ous occasions in mysterious ways. "Look here, Sid," said Tom one No vember morning after Greek composition, "all of us, you know," (In a guttural whis per, exhibiting his ivory beetle after cast ing oblique glances In ever direction), "are going to Boston on the 12:42. We're going to catch the train on the siding. The engineer always slows down for a good cigar. Crumpy " (referring to the principal) "won't be onto that. Hey? What's the matter? ' Sidney stammered and colored. His mother's strict command Inundated his mind. He had clean forgotten all about It. Then the vision of his rich, smiling, careless classmate drove his mother out. And then the foolishness of her request, and of the promise that he had made to her overcome him. But still the best in him asserted itself for a moment. "I don't think I ought to go; I can't get permission." "Now, Sid, look here: don't be a Gilly." That was the worst reproach a boy could fling at another in that day. No diction ary has been able to define the meaning of the term as used by the schoolboys in this satiric sense. "But I can't afford you know," stam mered the poor boy. "Bah! Nonsense! This is my treat. As a member you have got to come." And Sid went. A few hours later a group of seven boys emerged from an ice cream saloon upon Tremont street. They crossed over to the seemed to catch, and then jump ahead. The effect on the asthmatic music was ludicrous enough to draw pennies from a bootblack. The grinder's head and shoul ders were enveloped in two shawls; her eyes kept watch upon the little tlncup whose bottom was already hidden by the pennies that the thoughtless boys had dropped in. One hand purple at the knuckles, weatherbeaten and thin, ground out the hoarse tones, while the other fondled a beautiful, white, King Charles spaniel. "Can he bark? I'll give a cent to hear him bark," cried Tom with a jingle of his right hand. "Here Sid give your su perfluous cents to the poor not that he has any sense to give," he added with a vigorous attempt to be funny. The boys all laughed loudly. Before he knew it, Sidney found himself thrust almost at the beggar. He had to put his hands on the railing above her to keep from falling against her. He laughed joyously with the rest and said: "Oh, let up, fellows, can't you?" Then he looked down, and the color died from his race, as the cloud hides the sun. He beheld Ermine, his own little dog, to whom he had sent messages of love in every letter home, In the arm of that woman below him. His first Impulse was to snatch the dog away from the thief and comfort it at hi3 breast; for in that In stantaneous view, he had recognized his spaniel's delicately tinged ears, and tne collar that he had himself put around its neck. He had not looked at the woman as yet. But as he did so, a chill struck his heart. The parched hand that turned the worn crank had a ring upon It that he remembered too well. Oh, the familiar stoop to those shoulders! The outline of her head suffocated him. In that in stant's shock the command of his mother flashed before his mind, and now he knew too well what that order meant. "Shell out, Sid!" The inexorable Tom gave him another shove. "I c-can't," stammered the unhappy lad. He stood trembling in every limb, the picture of horror and confusion. "Can't? You've got to give to the poor. Haven't you read your Bible? We've all done our duty. Come Shell out! Why! What's the matter, Sid? Are you sick? By Jove, I believe he has recognized the Duchess of Yorlc" With another loud laugh the boys turned from the beggar upon Sidney, who stood before them trembling plteously. He was staring at his mother with jaw dropped, with ashen face as if he had seen the dead. Ermine had been looking on as small dogs are apt to do, with quick intel ligence. He had recognized his young master, and with one wiggle had leaped out of Mrs. Dorris's arms and was jump ing up Sidney's legs, barking at the top of his lungs. Sidney's classmates stared at him in amazement. What did this meeting mean? "Give it to us, Sid?" asked one of the fellows with a rough sneer, "Who Is she? Out with the mystery of the beggar dog." In that moment Sidney saw his position in the great school ruined beyond re trieve. No more cigarettes from Tom. No more Beetle society. No more tennis. No more anything. Who would speak to the beggar's son? His soul, which had undergone a gradual descent since he had left home, had not touched Its spiritual depth as yet. He gave Ermine a brutal kick and took from his pocket a few cop- "pers and threw them Into the cup with a defiant gesture. "How the Dickens do I know?" He said this with an oath. It was his first. "Come on, won't you?" Even now he might escape, although the boys were only half satisfied; but the spaniel fol lowed faithfully. He was confused and stunned by his rough reception. The beg gar woman made no effort to hold the dog back. She did not raise her eyes. She did not speak. She ground out "The Last Rose of Summer" as If her son had not de nied her. "Here, Sid, here's your dog following," cried his schoolmates mockingly, "He seems to know you." But to Sidney the whole world had been blotted out, and everything swam before his eyes. He dared not turn, but stag gered on a few steps like a drunken man. His mother a beggar-woman! His heart was shriveled up within him. Then he saw the dog beside him, and turned. "Go back!" he shouted with a mad dened, guttural voice. The beautiful dog stopped abashed and turned in piteous doubt toward Its mis tress. At that moment the stolid figure, which had not moved from Its granite po sition when the lad denied his mother, now lifted up Its head and looked at him for the first time when he repudiated the dog, and oh, what shame and disappoint ment and pride were in that glance. The perforated slip changed, and her right hand now mechanically ground out the latest popular melody, "Oh Promise Me Oh, Promise Me!" Sidney had often sung this In chorus with the boys at school. The sound of the tune and its meaning brought his heart back to his his lips were pale and quivering. He gasped as If a jjlass of cold water had been suddenly dashed in his face. To his narrow vision life and all Its possibilities seemed extinguished by this terrible dis covery. But he faced his fate like a hero. His classmates stood in a jeering crowd around him. A few others had gathered there too. And the organ droned the chorus: "How my heart grows weary, far from de old folks at home." "I must beg you to leave us alone." Sidney looked his classmates straight In the eyes, and spoke with his grandest air. "That lady is my mother." The tension was too great for the sensi tive lad. He swayed and swooned. Tom caught him, and the boys, so easily turned from sarcasm to pity by the in stinct of youth, now seemed to understand their classmate's anguish, and tried to minister to him. "He never knew I did this." said Mrs. Dorris In a low tone to Tom as they both tried to revive her son. "I told him not to come to Boston. I took to it when my husband died, IB years ago, because there's so much money in it, I've been an honest woman and worked hard God knows for my boy. I wanted to give him a good education" Here she sobbed. "Ah, young sir, he's the same boy that he was before he saw me. Don't blame Sidney. Don't give him up! I'll give it up!" Tom's mouth twitched as he list ened. Just as Sid opened his eyes his own soft hand stole around the knotted knuckles of the organ woman, and he gave them a warm pressure. "You may trust me," he said. Til be his friend." Then he looked seriously at the mother "and son with the experienced air of a man of the world. "I think you had better give it up "now, for his sake," he whispered as he helped Sidney to his feet The street-player nodded silently. When Sidney had struggled to his feet, and be gan to look for her in a dazed way, his mother had disappeared in- the crowd. That "night there was a meeting of the celebrated Beetle Society. The members present were as solemn4as an easterly fogf Sidney alone was not there. "It isn't his faulty said the Patriarchy "What's the use of belonging to a society unless you stick to veach other? It isn't to go back on one another. Gentlemen don't do that," He stopped and looked "Now, the funny thing about that hog kllllng business." continued Mr. Rabbit, leaning back in his chair and smacking- his lips together, as old people will do some times, "was that after the hogs were killed Mr. Man had to get their hair off. I don't know how people do now, but that was what Mr. Man did then. He had to get the hair off but how? Well, he piled up wood, and In between the logs he placed rocks and stones. Then he dug a hole in the ground and half buried a hogs head, the open end tilted up a little higher than the other end. This hogshead he filled with as much water as it would hold in that position. Then he set fire to the pile of wood. As it burned, of course the rocks would become heated. These Mr. Man would take in a shovel and throw in the hogshead of water. The hot rocks would heat the water and In this way the hogs were scalded so the hair on their hides could be scraped off, "Well, the day I'm telling you about, Mr. Man had been killing hogs and scald ing the hair off. When I got there the pile of wood had burned away, and Mr. Man had just taken his hogs home In his wagon. The weather was very cold, and as I stood there warming myself, I heard Brother Lion roaring a little way off. He had scented the fresh meat, and I knew he would head right for the place where the hogs had been killed. "Now Brother Lion had been worrying me a good deal. He had hired Brother Wolf to capture me, and Brother Wolf had failed. Then he hired Brother Bear, and Brother Bear got Into deep trouble. Finally he hired Brother Fox, and I knew the day wasn't far oft when Mrs. Fox would have to hang crape on her door and go in mourning. All this had happened some time before, and I bore Brother Lion no good will. "So "when I heard him in the ' woods singing out that he smelled fresh blood, I grabbed the shovel the man had left and threw a dozen or so hot rocks in the hogshead, and then threw some fresh dirt on the fire. Presently Brother Lion came trotting up, sniffing the air, and pursing like a spinning wheel a-runnlng, and dribbling at the mouth. "I passed the time of day with him as he came up, but I kept further away from htm than he could jump. He seemed very much surprised to see me, and said It was pretty bad weather for such little chaps to be out; but I told him I had on pretty thick underwear, and besides that STOBIESOFASHOWJLAN ARTESrS WARD, THE GREAT AMERICAN HUMORIST. Career of a Man "Who Made an. Inter actional Reputation and Died AVue Only 32. (Copyright. 1SSJ, by S. S. McClure, Limited) "Artenius Ward," the genial showman, was not a mere Yankee humorist. His genius was thoroughly cosmopolitan, and he himself a "rolling stone." But though everywhere a stranger, he was everywhere at home. In his native place, Waterford, Me., he received a common school educa tion, and, being early thrown upon his own resources, he at the age of 14 entered the Clarion printing office at Skowhegan to earn his livelihood. Having learned to set type fairly well BROTHER LIOX LV HOGSHEAD. ARTEMUS WARD. i wjr I 1 1 n- o(mutxix&- F B v - -r, T vV 4 - P saXDHaBnBmBvnBBonnEBnmBaHaKainam Jw ' . . r.. -nT ft r- Xf - J 3T - U0 ' . tehc. n6 w vr7 .: i. R- iH-;k 4 Ji ,i i 1 1 1L - 1 j' v r - - y " If iH1 I 1wSi I mMMA-M "THIS LADY IS JIY MOTHER." Common. They were In high spirits, and policemen and citizens smiled upon them indulgently. "Have you ever been on top of the state house?" asked Tom, pointing at the gilded dome. Being the most self-conscious one in the crowd, Sidney thought the question was meant for him. "I never thought much about it." he answered quickly. "Are you allowed?" "Of course," answered Tom, with a su perior smile. "Let's go," said another. And the seven boys, so easily wafted by a breath, turned to the right, and walked up the hill. Sidney was ahead with Tom. After they crossed Beacon street, Sidney lagged be hind In order to steal a glance down the famous highway that represented the cul ture and wealth of the great common wealth. In the meantime the boys had stopped at the iron gate that leads to the stone steps and the capltol. They were laughing and chaffing, iingllng pennies, surrounding an old weman. "Here, Sid; hurry up! You've got to chip In. Can't let you .off, old man." It was one of those hurdy-gurdy play ers, whom the boys had stopped to tease with generous and careless nonchalence. She was bent, and evidently old. She wss sitting on the sidewalk huddled up against the gate, droning her lugubrious Instru ment slowly and pathetically. The strains mother. Oh, her sorrowful face! Of what value to him was his position In school? What was the petty opinion of his new mates? Here was his mother. With a bound he was by her side, and he bent and put his strong arms around her as if to protect her from any further insult from his classmates. For five terrible minutes he had denied her. But now, he saw things in a new light. His mother, no matter what she did, was more than Tom. Home was more than school. In that Instant all that was noble in the lad leaped up like a spring when a weight is removed from It. And Mrs. Dorris? The habit of years, even in this supreme moment was strong with the street-player. Her hand kept turning the hurdy-gurdy. The roll had changed to "The Old Folks at Home" "All de world am sad and dreary, Eb'ry where I roam; Oh darkles, how my heart grows weary. Far from de old folks at home." droned out the grotesque instrument; but the tears were now streaming down the withered face of the head bowed In the shawls. "Well. Sid, who is your friend anyhow? She's a daisy." Tom Devenant spoke with his pertest air of sarcasm. Sidney raised himself to his height. His hand rested lovingly on his mother's shoulder. His poor chin trembled, and I KilUng-hogs. from one to another appealingly. "Do they?" "I move you," said a member address ing Tom, "that any man who gives Sid away in this school or even after, and who doesn't stand up for him like a broth er is a a gilly, and shall be eternally dis graced, and and " J "That's enough," .said Tom, with swim ming eyes. "All-in favor, hands up. Contrary minded-.'. It is a unanimous vote. The meetingis adjourned. Let's all go and, see Sid." 'r And to theTionoreJvthe boys and of the school, the vote waY scrupulously carried out. l f, LITTLE MR. TH1MBLEFINGER The Children' SA-ond Visit By Joel Chaniller HarrlM. fi (Copyright, 1SS3, by Joel Chandler Harris.) CHAPTER XIII-HOW BROTHER LION LOST HIS WOOL. Mr. Rabbit shaded his eyes with his hand and pretended to believe that there might be a wooden horse trying to catch Tlckle-My-Toes after all. But Mrs. Mead ows said that there was no danger of anything like that. She explained that Tlckle-My-Toes was running away be cause he didn't want to hear what was said about his story. "I think he's right," remarked Mr. Rab bit. "It was the queerest tale I ever heard in all my life. You might sit and listen to tales from now until well until the first Tuesday before the last Satur day In. the year 700,777, and you'd never hear another tale like it." "1 don't 6ee why," suggested Mrs. Meadows. , i "Well," replied Mr;1 Rabbit, chewing h!s tobacco very slowly,' "there are more rea sons than I have hairs In my head, but I will only give you three. In the first place, this Sparkle Spry doesn't marry the king's daughter. In the second place, he doesn't live happily forever after. And in the third' place" Mr. Rabbit paused and scratched his head "I declare, I've for gotten the third reason." "If it's no better than the other two, it doesn't amount to much," said Mrs. Mead ows. "There's no reason why he shouldn't have married the king's daughter If the king had a daughter, and If he didn't live happily It was his own fault. Stories are not expected to tell everything." "Now, I'm glad of that," exclaimed Mr. Rabbit. "Truly glad. I've had a story on my mind for many years, and I've kept it to myself because I had an idea that in telling a story you had to tell every thing." "Well, you were very much mistaken," said Mrs. Meadows, with emphasis. "So it seems so it seems," remarked Mr. Rabbit. "What was the story?" asked Buster John. "I called it a story," replied Mr. Rabbit, "but that Is too big a name for it. I reckon vou have heard of the time when Brother Lion had hair all over him as long and as thick as the mane he has now?" But the children shook their heads. They had never heard of that, and even Mrs. Meadows said It was news to her. "Now, that Is very queer," remarked Mr. Rabbit, filling his pipe slowly and de liberately. "Very queer indeed. Time and again I've had It on the tip of my tongue to mention that matter, but I al ways came to the conclusion that every body knew all about It. Of course, it doesn't seem reasonable that Brother Lion went about covered from head to foot, and to the tip of his tail with long, woolly hair, but, on the other hand, when he was first seen without his long woolly hair, he was the laughing stock of the whole district. I know mighty well he was the most mis-erable-lookimr creature I ever saw. "It was curious, too, how It happened," Mr. Rabbit continued. "We were all liv ing In a much colder climate than that in the country next door. Six months in the year there was ice in the rivers and snow on the ground, and them that didn't lay up something to eat when the weather was open had a pretty tough time of It the rest of the year. Brother Lion's long woolly hair belonged to that climate. But for that he would have frozen to aeatn, for he was a great hunter, and he had to be out in all sorts of weather. "One season we had a tremendous spell of cold weather, the coldest I had ever felt. I happened to be out one day. brows ing around, wnen I saw blue smoke rising a little distance off. so I says to myself, says I. I'll go within smelling distance of the fire and thaw myself out. So I went toward the smoke, and I soon saw that Mr. Man, who lived cot far off, had been I had just taken a hot bath In the hogs head. " 'I'm both cold and dirty, says he, smelling around the hogshead, 'and I need a bath. I've been asleep in the woods yonder, and I'm right stiff with cold. But that water is bubbling around in there mightily.' " 'I've just flung some rocks in," says J. " 'How do you get in?' says he. " 'Back in, says I. "Brother Lion walked .around the hogs- head once "or twice,.asjlfto satisfy him- self that there" was no trap, and then squatted and began to crawl into the hogshead "backward. By the time his hind leg touched the water he pulled it out with a howl, and tried to jump away, but .somehow his foot slipped off the rim of the hopshead and he souzed into the water kerchug! up to his shoul ders." Mr. Rabbit paused, shut his eyes, and chuckled to himself. "Well, you never heard such howling since you were born. Brother Lion scram bled out quicker than a cat can wink her left eye, and rolled on the ground, and scratched around, and tore up the earth considerably. I thought at first he was putting on and pretending, but the water must have been mighty hot, for while Brother Lion was scuffling about all the wool on his body came off up to his shoulders, and if you were to see him today you would find him just that way. "And more than that before he souzed himself in that hogshead of hot water, Brother Lion used to strut around con siderably. Being the king of all the ani mals, he felt very proud, and he used to go with his tail curled over his back. But since that time, he sneaks around as if he was afraid somebody would see him. "There's another thing. His hide hurt him so bad for a week that every time a fly lit on him he'd wiggle his tail. Some of the other animals, seeing him do this, thought it was a new fashion, and so they began to wiggle their tails. Watch your old house cat when you go home, and you'll see her wiggle her tail 40 time3 a day, without any reason or provocation. Why? Simply because the other animals, when they saw Brother Lion wiggling his, tail, thought it was the fashion, and so they all began It, and now It has become a habit with the most of them. It is curious how such things go. "But the queerest thing of all," con tinued Mr. Rabbit, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Mrs. Meadows and the children through half-closed eyes, "was this that the only wool left on Brother Lion's body, with the exception of his mane, was a little tuft right on the end of his tail." "How was that?" inquired Mrs. Mead ows. Mr. Rabbit laughed heartily, but made no reply. "I don't see anything to laugh at," said Mrs. Meadows, with some emphasis. "A civil question deserves a civil an swer, I've always heard." "Well, you know what you said awhile ago," remarked Mr. Rabbit. "I don't know as I remember," re plied Mrs. Meadows. "Why, you said pointedly that it was not necessary to tell everything in ' a story-" Mr. Rabbit made this remark with great dignity. "And I judged by the way you 3aid. it that it was bad taste to tell everything." "Oh, I remember now," safd Mrs. Mead ows, laughing. "It was only one of my jokes." "But this Is no joke," protested Mr. Rabbit, winking at the children, but keep ing the serious side of his face toward Mrs. Meadows. I took you at your sol emn word. Now, here is a tuft of wool on Brother Lion's tail, and you asked me how It happened to be there. I an swer you as you answered me 'You don't have to tell everything in a story." Am I right or am I wrong?" "I'll not dispute with you," remarked Mrs. Meadows, taking up her knitting. "I don't mind telling you," remarked Mr. Rabbit, turning to the children with a confidential air. "It was simple as falling off a log. When Brother Lion fell into the hogshead of hot water, the end of his tail slipped through the bung hole." This explanation was such an unexpect ed one that the children laughed, and so did Mrs. Meadows. But Mr. Thimble finger, who put in an appearance, shook his head and remarked that he was afraid that Mr. Rabbit got worse as he grew older, instead of better. .To be continued.) his restless spirit soon set him in motion, and he roamed from one country printing office to another till he was 16. when he found himself stranded in Boston. Hew ever, having already made himself a first class typesetter, he had no difficulty In se curing employment in the office of the Carpet Bag. a comic journal conducted by Shlllaber, the famous "Mrs. Partington," who was then very busy In keeping back the waters of the Atlantic ocean. Here "Artemus Ward," born Charles Farrar Browne, was in his element, and soon he began to try his wings in the congenial Carpet Bag, to the great delight of "Mrs. Partington" and the remarkable boy "Ike," who wondered much what rare bird had strayed Into their nest. But in vain they wondered, for Artemus carefully concealed himself, and hearing Horace Greeley's "Go West, young man," he before long took flight again, not alight ing until he had reached Toledo, Ohio. Here he remained but a short time, when he removed to Cleveland, where he took quarters in the composing-room of the Plain-Dealer, an able, widely circulated journal, and a great power in that portion of Ohio. Here "Artemus Ward" was born and grew to maturity under the fostering care of this influential newspaper. At first he was employed at type-setting, writing only short things to fill up some vacant column of the journal. But these short things attracting the attention of the editor-in-chief, he was promoted to the ed itorial staff, where he soon opened the menagerie of "Artemus Ward, Showman," Into which he introduced from time to time "three moral Bares, a Kangaroo (a amoosing little Raskal 'twould make you larf yerself to deth to see the little cuss jump up and squeal); wax figgers of G. Washington, General Taylor, John Bun yan. Captain Kidd and Dr. Webster In the act of killing Dr. Parkman; besides several miscellanyus wax statoos of cel ebrated 4 pirates pd murderers etc., 'ekalled tiy "few"' and excelled byTone:"'r The menagerie took Cleveland by storm, and scarcely a day passed without some country reader of the Plain Dealer apply ing to its counting-room for a sight of the Kangaroo, the moral "Bares" and the wonderful wax "figgers." Being in Cleveland in 1K51 1 made the ac quaintance of one of the editors of that journal, who had been the associate and friend of "A. Ward" at this period. He described to me his appearance when he first came to the Plain Dealer office. He was, he said, long and lank, with flowing hair, loosely fitting coat, and trousers too short in the legs and bagging at the knees. His humor was irrepressible, al ways bubbling over, and he kept all about him in a constant state of merriment. He could sea only the ludicrous side of a subject was a wag, and In that line a genius. He soon took on more becoming rai ment, and wherever he went he became a universal favorite. Soon after his pro motion to the editorial staff he was called upon at a "Ben" Franklin festival to re spond to a toast to the press. He rose to his feet, hung his head for a few mo ments in silence, and then sat down, hav ing said nothing. In his own account of the festival in the next day's Plaindealer his speech was reported by a blank space of nearly half a column. He made a fortnight's visit every year to his mother, in Maine, and when about to go off on one of these vacations he em ployed the gentleman to whom I have re ferred to perform his duties in his ab sence. After carefully instructing him as to his work, he drew from, his pocket a piece of tow string about a foot and a half long, saying that was the amount of copy he would be expected to furnish per day, and he left it on his desk as a re minder of the quantity. "A. Ward's" absurd descriptions of his imaginary menagerie, his keen witticisms, shrewd sayings and irresistible plays of humor, secured him a wide reputation, and after several years connection with the Plaindealer, he was invited to remove to New York city and become a regular contributor to Vanity Fair, a short-lived but exceeding brilliant comic journal, then edited by that accomplished scholar and thorough gentleman, Charles Godfrey Lc land (Hans Breitmann). This gave Artemus vard a more ex tended audience, and a national reputa tion. His sayings were soon in the mouths of every Northern man, and they did very much to sustain a sentiment of loyalty to the L'nion. His satire was keen, but very genial, and beneath it all was a stratum of shrewd American common sense that appealed alike to political friends and enimies. I know of nothing that so well depicts the troublous times of the early years of the civil war as his sketches in Vanity Fair. As mere pic tures of the war period they have a per manent historical value. Nowhere else are so clearly shown the confused and jarring notions of the average American on the great emancipation problem, or such a portrait as that of the gushing patriot who sent all his own and wife's rela tions to the front, but stayed at home himself. These sketches written at the darkest period of the the war, vividly express the nation's trials and perplexities, and no one can read them now without being struck with the strong hold they took upon the people, as It Is evidenced by the great number of hl3 witty sayings and happy turns of thought that have become a part of the language of the country. Some of his single words became at once a part of the national vocabulary. When Charles G. Leland, resigned to take the literary editorship of the Conti nental Monthly, "A. Ward" succeeded him as editor of Vanity Fair, and soon he be gan his remarkably successful career as a lecturer. In this capacity he visited Utah and California, and returning to New York in 1SG3 he produced a series of lectures on Mormonism, which took the public by storm, and even now are a de light to those who read his book on Brig ham Young and his people. In the spring I of 1505 be went to London, Intending to at once begin a lectur'n? tour of Great Britain, but falling health unfitted him for the work until June of that year. His lec tures were as great a success in England as they had been In this country, and his. contributions to the Lcndon Punch, whichi began at the same time took rank with those of the most famous humorists of our time, who have one and all written for that noted journal. Few things In hu morous literature ar better than his re flections "At the Tomb of Shakspere," which was his first cortrlbutlon to Punch. "I told my wife Betsey," he says, "when I left home I would go to the birthplace of the orther of 'Otheller' and other plays. She said that as long as I kept out of Newgate she aldn't care where I went. 'But,' I said, 'don't you know he was the greatest polt that ever lived? Not one of these common polts, l'ke that young ldylt who writes verses to our daughter abowt the roses as growses and the breezes a3 blowses but a Boss Poit. also a philoso pher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything. "She was packing my things at the time, and the only answer she made was to ask me If I was a-gcln to carry both ot my red flannel nightcaps. "Yes, I've besn to Stratford on the Avon, the birthplace of Shakspere. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three hundred (300) years. The people of his native town are justly proud of him. They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell pic tures of his birthplace, etc, make it proftlble cherlsbln it. Almost everybody puys a pictur to put in their Albiom. "As I stood gazing on the spot where Shakspere Is supposed to have fell down on the Ice and hurt hisself when a boy (this spot cannot be bought the town au thorities say It shall never be taken from Stratford). I wondered If 500 years hence picture of my birthplace will be in de mand? Will the people of my native town be proud of me in 300 years? I guess they won't short of that time, because they say the fat man weighing 1000 pounds which I exhibited there was stuffed out with pil lers and cushions, which he said one very hot day in July: 'Oh, bother; I can't stand this,' and commenced pullin the pillers out from under his weskit. and heavin 'em at the audience. I never saw a man lose flesh so fast in my life. The audience said I "was a pretty man to come chiselln my own townspeople. I said, Do not be angry, feller citizens. I exhibited him sim ply as the work, of art. I simply wished to show you that a man could grow fat without the aid of cod liver oil. But they wouldn't listen to nie. They are a low and grovelit set of people, who excite a feelln of loathing in every breast where lorfty emotions and original Idees have a bidin place." But Mr. Browne's sojourn In England was cut short by his continued ill health. It rapidly declined, and he set out to re turn to this country, but death overtook him before he could get upon shipboard, and he breathed his last at Southampton, England, on the 6th of March, 1867, at the early age of S2. By his will, after provid- insr for his mother and for a young mar he had undertaken to educate, he left all his property to found an orphan asylum for printers and their orphan children. His affection for his widowed mother was peculiarly beautiful. She survived him several years, and whenever she spoke of him after his death, it was his long and faithful love of her that she dwelt upon, and not upon the brilliant qualities that had made him world-famous. They now lie together, side by side, in the grass grown cemetery at South Waterford, Me., with a simple monument over their heads, on which is the single word "Browne." This is all that now marks the last resting-place of the greatest of American hu morists. In his short life he created one of the most original and amusing charac ters in all literature. Those who knew him well are of opinion that had he lived his fame would have rivaled that of Rabelais or Cervantes. JAMES GILMORE. ("Edmund Kirke"). . i-frs! j-J-Ssr5 Ffcvssr Sfe-j -mg-$??frV&$. -' i Decciia.111 s piub a.rc lur uu iousness, sick headache, diz ziness, dyspepsia, bad taste in the mouth, heartburn, tor pid liver, foul breath, sallow skin, coated tongue, pimples, loss of appetite, etc., when caused by constipation; and constipation is the most fre quent cause of all of them. 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