FULFILMENT.
t)esires that human minds retain
Are not in vain;
The flowers that droop in Winters cold
Will bloom aga'n.
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.
Fore vei morel
Frank Rose Starr.
JUZA2&K.
Happy Khoda lownsend was so in
terested in her school, her music-les
sons, and her play, that for a long
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 see any way out of it," said
her father. "If he insists upon it, we
are ruined."
"Will at take everything?" her mother
asked.
"Eveirything!" said her father. "We
shan't have a roof to our heads. God
knows what will become of us all!"
"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 replied, bitterly. "I took the con
tract to build the block six months ago,
and should have made a moderate protit.
But the price 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
doesa'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 htr mother
sad and tearful.
She waited till he was gone, then ran j
and threw herself on her mother's neck, j
"I didn't mean to,'' she said, "but I I
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,
foldiug the dear child in her arms. "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.
The loss would not be much to him, but
it will ruin us."
"Does he know it?" cried Rhoda,
eagerly. "Uh, l am sure he doesn 1 1 j lease Jlr. lownsend lrom tne ruinous
Why, mother, it is Mark Ringdon's j contract, and when the final crash
lather; and Mark is just the nicest, came, and it was known that? the Town
kindest, best-hearled boy you ever saw." ' sends had actually lost everything, Mark
"But his father is a hard man, for all felt even worse a.out it, I am bound to
that," sighed Mrs. Townsend. "I fear ! say, than Rhoda did.
there is no hope of him. And, now that j The Townsend family were obliged to
you know all, my child, 1 want to say to j move into a smaller house, where living
you that we must be prepared for the w-as less expensive; and Mark lost sight
worst. You are the oldest of the chil- of them. But the great wrong they had
dren. Your father will have to begin suffered rankled in his heart. Often
life again, and we must do all we can to
iicij uiui. ue uiusi. give uu many
things, perhaps have to work very hard".
I am sure you will do all you can to help
take care of your dear little brothers and
sisters.
The mother and daughter wept in each
other's arms; but with her big a 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
was easy enough for her to find an op
portunity to speak to him. But it was
not f o 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 for me; and that makes me sure he
will do what is right when I tell him."
"Oh, if ou will tell 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, Mar!?" ho asked. ,
The boy looked red and embarrassed.
But there was a respectful earnestness in
his fine face, as he replied
"I heard 'something to-day, father,
which I want to ask you about."
"Ask,1 said Mr. Ringdon, "and I
will aaswer 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, iu 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,1" replied his father;
" I hope not. Who said he woii'd be?"
" Rhoda, his daughter. She and her
mother are feeliug very anxious about it.
They think they will be very poor," said
Mark, watching his father.
Mr. Ringdom did not smile any more,
but his face was calm and kind. " I am
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 yau release him from it?" Mark
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 i
it doesn't follow that I should say to i
Smith, Jones or Brown, 4 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 Townsohd. I agreed to give
hira 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
K
Mark was staggered for a ' moment.
Then he exclaimed earnestly:
"Oh. no. father; that isn't all. If
there had been any ordinary gain or loss,
what you say might beust. But ha 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 mm-
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 abuut 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
his paper. Mark was not satisfied, but
there seemed to be nothing more for him
to say.
He hoped that his father would re-
when his parents made him a costly pres-
i em, lie wuuiu say 10 mmseu:
I "I wonder if this was bought with
some of the money wring out of poor
; Townsend?"
3Ir. Townsend began business again.
and worked hard to support and educate
j his. family. But circumstances seemed
always to be against him. lie 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 insured 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.
iShe 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 d; ess-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 oniislife insurance
was only about two hundred dollars a
year. That would not pay house-rent,
where they were.
One evening Mrs. Towntend and
Rhoda 6at 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?" ' v
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 siyn painted to-morrow,
lean certainly bring some money
into the family that way."
"But it will be a long time before you
can earn much!" said tha 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
mouey, 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
this?" 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! 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.
rjLrrible gloomy days followed. No
dreos making came into the house;
though Rhoda managed to get a little
bv 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
plover for a mere pittance. Thomas
could not f nd as 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 from 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 bee him; for it
was years since they had met.
"Mr. Ringdon!" she said, tremb
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. They came to Mrs. Town
send's door. Rhoda stopped, as if to
bid him good-by.
"May I go in and see your mother?"
he asked, as if he had been humbly beg-
n sl favor,
j o yes, I
j an(jt after' h
suppose so, "said Rhoda;
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 should not have known you," she
remarked. "Indeed, I never saw vou
j many times. You came to Rhoda's birth-
j uav nartv once I remember."
Tears rushed into the mother's eye3, as
she thought of the changes in her family
since that happy Jime.
Mark's heart was full. It was some
time before he could commaud 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
hira.
"You needn't explain ! I alwavs had
faith in you. Please don't allude to
what's past any more 1"
"But I- must!" Mark exclaimed.
"There was a business transaction be
tween your father, and mine, which I
could never feel right about. Mr.
Townsend was a los-er by its bargain.
My father was in the end a gainer,
though h.e 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."
"Dead!" 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 naid."
"To have it paid twtuty:three thous-1
and? 1 don t understand j'ou!' said
Mrs. Townsend, in great agitation.
"I understand !" said Rhoda, wild with
ioy. "It is Mark! the same Marie lused
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 - threo 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 Rhoda, 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 !"
'Yon don't think of vonrsnlf. Rhoda."
ftaid her mother.
Indeed, that was always Rhoda's way.
. T. l'roicbridge, in Youth'' 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 hlni up." Mo mshine
is used to express illusivencss. 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 nephsw 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.
Wrhen 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-iike, 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 god 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. Wre 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
of life. Then we carried him into the
baggage car and fixed him up a bed for
him. Pretty soon he opened his eye.s and
gasped: 'Fell off train. Badly hurt.'
There was a doctor on the train, and he
said the fellow was injured internally,
lants. So we skirmished around and got
a bottle or two of whisky. He drank it
like water, all the time rollinsr his eyes
Unix liiuuiiiu". Ait; cluijlicu uiitii uuliic
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 t he police. WThen 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.
Kainschatka.
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 iu 1880 fallen off to 6,200.
The only occupations of the inhabi
tants are shooting and fishing; their food
consists almost exclusively of fish.for the
annual income of any one rarely exceeds
sixteen shillinsrs, for Avhich 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-TALKINT
Gentle owtum, gentle owtum
yer a hummer, hain,t ye now I
With yer paint on like the nation,
Lookin' spruca as all creation,
With yer dabs of red an' yeller,
Like the punkins ripe an' mellor,
Stickin' fast tar bush an' bough.
Ter a daisy, hain't ye, owtum I
With yer posies 'long the brook.
Like live coals of fire a-glowin
Smack down in the green, late mowinV
An' yer gentians torn and tattered,
An' yer golding-rod thick scattered,
Like rum picters in a book.
Tre a stunner there's no doubtin' 1
With yer woods an' swamps a-drip,.
With tb.3 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.
But I tell ye, owtum, squarely,
What I like the best uv alt
Is ter hear the corn a-talkin',
When the wind is through it walking.
An' ter catch the punkins list'nin'
An' jest layin' low an' glist'nin'
As if 'spectin' f er a call.
An' another thing I'm set on,
I'm a-achin' fer ter tell,
Is ter see the apples droppin',
An' the chesnut burrs a-poppin'
An' a-shellirf out their plunder,
While the pigs are chankin' under ;
Now, I like this mighty welL
An' I like a han' at seedin'
Long about this present time,
When the foller smells like posies
Only sweeter than the ros9s,
An' the grain is quick a spriugin',
An' the m?ller groun' is singin'
Jest tha sweetest harvest rhyma
An' now "come ter think, I reckinV
As I'm tayin' now my say,
I must mention but I'm thinkin'
It's the heart that's alius drinkin" I
In the good that God has given.
As makes a life a livin',
And fills even ev'ry day.
S. U. McManus, in the Current.
PUNGENT PARAGRAPHS
Patch-work Hoeing.
Right-about face the hair.
The song of the mosquito is "Hunt.
Sweet Hum!" Life.
Robbing the males The girls who steal
men's hearts. New York Journal.
"Iiow shall I sleep?" asks a corre
spondent. Try to stay awake to catch
some train. Milton New.
"Horses run fastest in hot weather, '
says Mr. Bonner. That is nothing ro
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 fcSunset Gates are ajar.
L.Ma A. C ashman.
Look out for the dog at the portal,
iiaiu x it Keep uu eye uu jmpu.
uumiHt jjuuniuiiftr.
"Ynn Ionic distrnsspd Mr RlnTO-naw
what's the matter?" "Matter enough;
I've lost my pocketbook." "That is bad ;
much in it?" "No; that's what worries
me. I'm afraid some poor man will find
it, and if he does it II ruin him." 2?r-
I dette.
jir. Muchtalk dropped in at the corner
. trrnrorv with the nwnW nnwr in hi
hand and excitement in his eye. He said : '
"Look here; do you credit this dutra
i geous rumor 2" "No, sir," said the
grocer, promptly; "don't credit nothin';
terms cash; everything s going up nowr
too." Ilawkeye.
A young Wall-street business man has
written a four-act melodrama, founded
on incidents in the recent financial panic,
, . . ' 1 -..r ,, J. 7
about this way: First scene, Wall street;
second scene, detectives office; third
scene, "railway depot; subsequent scenes,
; n . ,1 , ni ? j 7
; f ... n. .....
SORRY HE STAYED.
"I will stay," he sang, "and sing my lay,
While slumber seals your eyes;
And the deep still night will chase the day
Away lrom the star-light skies
'I will wake and sing till the morning star
Shall glow in the Eastern sky"
But be didn't; the dog woke up just then
And smote him hip and thigh.
Louisville Courier Journal.
Honey-Dew Hay 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 I860, 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 i
together, and after handling themtthe
ha d bccame 8ticky. It tastes sweet in
;ta notiir.al taar nH ij mnoh Tr7f,
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. We
have no theory to advance for it. but con
tent ourselves by stating a simple fact.
Austin (Nec.) Iieceille.
The futlej, a large river in British In
ula, wiiii ii ucsucuii ui ieci. iu iou
miles, or about sixty-seven feet per mile,,
is the fastest flowing river in the world