AT MIDNIGHT,
I wanrtermt l mlilnlKlit 111 Ihn graveyard;
The mull (if iliuiifi Kmiw wus In my iiosirtkB
J linurd my liiuirt throb In thu awful allmuxi.
An a liNullmiit rtlvor. nhmirlmi In Mm iwmn.
Hoes dimly ulluiiimrliiK tlirotiuli the union
ii,iig wwa
The awlimliiK urm pulmtliu; above kilo:
8w the slimy keels of illlliiuit
With bubbling wake of (fhontly foam la ftuw
rows,
And dull nil i tie of Milk nvrollen by tempottU;
Been Uilfm oyed ti.nnM.nn. leorinir nut him.
And wrwikH and druwuuU uiim ooustautly
While Uio muffltl knoll of theaurf Is tolling;
Bout I beard tb sad UpMof tbemtlUtrewn,
vunu, uuwii, ijuiuKLjr my npint URMWWIUU
To thu rewldttiiue of Utuul mua and woman.
In an unearthly wuniluliral twtlfKut
The itTawty ilniuummt won vkiiila
FlookMl wltu tvblt aloudtt of motlonlaia
The oramy mot ,f tltti linulfOonw protruded
UDcumniriauiy irum Uie lowoulllngii of the
Tortuona obwntirt) damp eavurn.
Buddnnly from ton thnunand ovnlnw monVatm
A mild hutAwfiilKlaroof llKlilRlowodbluwly,
uikuuuk um mreem ta uim ixmuvouwi city.
A boapltahle city, wIiqm itatei wore always
open;
Wife low priced tanumanuj for God's poor
A ofaeap tenon for desolate ago In winter.
The netffhborhond wum nrdnrlv and auloL
An from eaob ooflln window a itkuU wuigrin-
In Idle uiookary at life' foollub satire.
There wan a wonderful lamunon In oostnme
Worn by rluh .adieu and tholr poor Hervoiitg,
Andnoljllla piwMmted to emltarraiuud hua
Side by tide lay the flpnudthrlft and the
minor,
The maid and her rojected lover,
The proiHtfttl and hut unrulontiug father,
NolftM there wore of feet In mid prnnoMlon,
And kIhhiuh of cyan with uurlotu Hadnuw,
Peeriuir Into the dark tbuy toon or late must
touaut.
My mul. movml by an Irrwlntlbte lmpulne,
Like the thbitleduwu before the uiwt wind,
Went throutfli many aiiQuyniouH avenues.
Z heard a sound of deep perpetual thunder,
Like life's flood tldo throbbing in nionotououa
pulRoa,
Upon the ahoro that bae uo road or harbor.
Wan It a reality, or wait It a vln!on merely
I ww underground an my spirit descended
into
The land of the mole and the ffopliurr
-John James lugalut In Alinuoapolui Journal.
ELEANOR IN LOVE.
She held in her hand the letter. Should
she lend it? That moment was one of
thoae wistfully critical epochs of exis
tence upon which inay swing, an upon a
hinge, the door of destiny.
Eleanor Armstrong stood in doubt.
Why? It was a little thing, just a friend
ly letter to Jack Renshaw ont in Texas.
What matter? Why should she heBitate?
Eleanor could not tell. Still she lin
gered, dimly prescient of that swinging
door of destiny.
She had written his name across the
envelope; should she complete the ad
dress and let it go? Hers was a quick,
positive nature, given to the obedience
of impulse. It was vexing to be so puss
fled over so slight a thing.
An acuident, if snch it was, decided
the question. A caller was announced.
She descended to the drawing room, and
the letter went to the box, gathered np
with tiie rest of her mail by the hand of
the maid.
"It was destiny," said Eleanor to her
self in an afterthought.
After all nothing could come of It.
She win under no obligation to Jack
Bcnshaw, nor to any other man, in fact.
Then she wondered idly if she ever
should care for any of them one more
than another for Eleanor Armstrong,
while no beauty, had grace and sparkle,
and a subtlo personal magnetism which
drew about her plenty of admirers.
She favored them all by turns. Last
summer it was Lew Hunter. She went
boating with him up in lovely Otoconia,
where they summered, played tennis and
climbed country roads and hills.
"He was so strong and good natnred,
and made such a good algien-stock," she
coolly explained to her mint, Miss Jane
Mears, who was her careful chaperon.
This year, lust past, it was Jack Ben
shaw, at the same pluce, Chocorua
"dear old dreamy town," Eleanor said,
"I could never tire of it." Jnck did not
dance, cared nothing for tennis, and had
no experience with oars: but he read
poetry benntifnlly, and could tell her
charming old idyls as they walked by
the river.
He interested her In a way that others
did not; and yot he had such a dreadfully
intense earnestness about him that he
positively frightened her sometimes, she
said.
Now the summer was gone, Jack was
in Texas, and Eleanor was in her city
home with only Annt Jane and memory.
Yes, there was always Fred Kernel. He
lived in a handsome house up in the
square, with a stylish mother and sisters.
He was the oldest friend of all, and was
always at hand, sometimes more than
Eleanor wished. For in the last year
their frank, unrestrained good fellow
ship had in some way taken on a color
too strong for ordinary friendship, and
Eleanor often found herself uncomforta
ble and ill at ease when Fred was near.
She wonld declare the air was close she
must have the window open and where
street she complained of his pace; why
did he lag so? Couldn't he walk up like
any other man? Poor Fred unwittingly
felt the smart of many thorns that
winter.
I Sat about Jack Renshaw; Eleanor
cared nothing for him-she knew she
didn't. He was pleasant summer
friend, nothing more. He had light
hair; she wouldn't marry a blonde, any
way. Then he was foo serious, too
"in-iuu-hv " Khunldh.n.
aguideboard. Besides he vms all of ten
ni.w .v.roii .oii
years older than she might as well be
her grandfather. No, Jack Kenshaw,
for anything bnt a friend, was out of the
question. Lew Hnnter was more to her
mind, and secretly to herself, she owned
that Mr. Jerome Arthur, the tenor at St.
Paul's, was nearer to her taste than
either. But Mr. Jerome Arthur was as
yet only a vague possibility. She hod
met him casually a dozen times or so.
Thus she reasoned.
So the days went by, and the letter
and Jack went almost out of mind. Oc
casionally a remark or tone of voice, or
a marked passage in some favorite book
they had read, would recall him. Then
memory wonld stir, and she would idly
wonder if he got her letter, and when
and how he wonld write. But the spec
ulation was one of indifference. It
troubled her not. The issue was all too
Tague as yet.
Lew Hnnter was around oecosionaljy;
lie began to meet and sing dnets with
Jerome Arthur at the houses of friends,
while Fred Kensel was in constant
attendance for lectures, concerts and
drives. Therefore, if Miss Eleanor's
time did noMly, it at least did not drag:
and she spent very few hours either in
ennui or in serious reflection.
Miss Jane Mears was sometimes anx
ious for the fntnre of her nieoe, and took
occasion to remind her of the ultimate
necessity of a choice and a judicious set
tlement in life Whereupon the spirited
girl, with laughing audacity, averred
that Aunt Jane herself was to be con
gratulated upon her own merciful preser
vation from such a climax! That good
lady received the lively sallies of her
niece with the good humored toleration
of a mother cat under the attack of a
frolicsome kitten,
"Bnt, Eleanor, my dear," Bhe wonld
purr, "you know you cannot always go
on in this way; yon really must make a
choice."
Make a choice how shall I do it,
auntie? Advertise for sealed proposals
and award the contract to the highest
bidder, or put the candidates in a bag
and ruflle for theni?"
"Don't be absurd, child," responded
Miss June; "yon know what I mean, of
course, I am afraid you will go through
the entire pasture and then take up with
a crooked stick."
Well, I haven't seen any quite
straight enough to suit me yet."
Well, well, my dear, I only talk to
you for your own good. I have been
afraid you misssed it when you didn't
take up with Josiah Hawkins."
'Josiah Hawkins and 'missed it,
indeed!" retorted Eleunor, "What did I
miss but au antiquated old pig with
dyspepsia and squeaky shoes. I trrot I
am not reduced to quite so low an ebb."
"No, no, child; don t fly m a passion
so; it isn't ladylike. I am only afraid
you will never do any better, that is all."
Do any better! I should think I
could hardly do worse than marry a
man for whom I hadn't a spark of
love!" and the girl's eyes flashed.
Well, there, there, soothed the se
rene maternal cut, "don't let's talk any
more about it."
No, but you mustn't begin it, and
please don't scold me any more, dear,"
succumbed Eleunor, with a kittenish
embrace. Aud so the dialogue would
end. And the autumn days went by.
November came on. and no letter from
Jack. Eleanor began to think about it.
Sometimes she watched, half uncon
sciously, for the postman, with a little
sting of disappointment when he weut
by. Yet her intimacy with Mr. Jerome
Arthur grew apace, and she was quite
fascinated by hie tender tones and dark,
passionate eyes.
December no letter. Eleanor's feel
ing of mere question of the cause passed
into the stage of positive pique. Her
pride was touched. Not even to write
to her, to leave any letter of hers unan
swered, when any other man would have
written two. Well, if Jack Renshaw
hud a remote idea of her wearing the wil
low for him he hod not read his p's and
q's correctly, that was all.
So she sang more and sweeter duets
with Jerome Arthur, smiled more gra
ciously on Lew Hunter, and completely
dazzled poor Fred Kensel with her affa
bility, On the whole she was rather
glud he ik not write so she solilo
quized for inasmuch as she oared noth
ing for Jack, and never could, a corre
spondence would be stupid and only lead
to trouble.
Of course he cored for her that is,
well, of conrse he did! Then, in proof
of that fact her uiind reverted to the
night lust summer when they parted at
the gate of the old furmhouse where she
stopped. They hud taken their last walk
by the river. They had then sought the
top of the "ledges" to watch (he sun set.
Finully, in the twilight they had wan
dered bock to suy goodby at the gate.
Jack was going tomorrow and she a
week later. Their conversation was
broken and intermittent as they came
down the grassy road.
"Perhaps this maybe our lost walk
forever," spoke his low, earnest voice.
"Should you care if it were, Eleanor?"
"Oh, don't be bo solemn," exclaimed
she. "Of course we shall have more
dozenirnext summer."
He detained her gently by the arm.
"But would you care if we never did,
I asked you?"
"Jack Reushaw." facing him audaci-
onsly, "did yon ever wi an owl? You
positively make me think of one some-
times."
I His face paled a little. Hi mouth had
1 . firmer look as he walked in silence by
k. t tt.. H,,H.t.i .
1 ment while she coquetted with her para-
i.
soland shifted some wild flowers un
easily from one hand into the other:
"Goodby, Eleanor," very gravely.
"Goodby, Jack," vivaciously.
"Is that all can vou say nothing else?'
"Why, what should I say?" she laugh
ed.
"Say that you care a little for our
summer ended if you do, taking her
hand.
"Bnt what if I don't?' withdrawing
that member,
He looked at her challenging face a
moment, seriously,
"Goodby," he said, and turned and
walked away. Eleanor tripped lightly
over the threshold up to her room, flung
off her hat, immediately sat down, and
yes, trne to the inexplicably contra
dictions of girlhood, cried.
She remembered it now with a smile,
half of incredulity, half of self con
tempt. Why did she cry? True again
to the inexplicabilities of girlhood she
Old not Know.
Three weeks after the parting scene
she had received a letter from Jack in
Texas, purely friendly, but the closing
paragraph of which was this, "May I ex
pect an answer, and may I hope that you
do regret, just a little, the ending of our
summer idyll" So Eleanor had written
her reply warily eschewing the subject
of "regret," however, and that was the
letter to which she had received no re
ply.
The winter days wore on. From in
difference to curiosity, from curiosity to
pique, and now from pique to anxiety
and fitful depression her feeling had
passed. From a careless dream of se
curity in his regard Bhe hod awakened
to doubt and uneasy question. Had he
never cared himself for their summer
idyl? Of conrse she didn't, she stoutly
maintained to herself, but someway the
growing conviction of his indifference
was extremely unwelcome to her.
If the truth must be told, her anxiety
wore on Miss Eleanor, and she even
moped a little, dismally sometimes, at
twilight in her room, and pretended she
had a headache when Fred called. She
dropped by degrees out of the dnets and
petulantly declared it bored her to sing.
Her friends and Mr. Jerome Arthur im
plored, but she was obdurate. Neither
passionate glances nor tender tones had
power to move her more. Then she
snubbed Lew Hunter and privately voted
mm stupid,
Miss Mears noticed capriciousness of
appetite, and was anxiously solicitous.
Did Eleanor sleep well nights? Had Bhe a
pain in her side? A dizzy head? Was her
tongue coated? And wouldn't she have
on a porous plaster or wouldn't she take
some tonic bitters? To all of which her
niece objected with laughing contempt.
"What do yon think about going to
Chocorua again this summery" inquired
Miss Mears of her niece one morning the
following June. . They were sitting at
breakfast, and Eleanor was dallying wit h
her coffee spoon.
"Oh, that stupid little town, no. Any
place but there, was the quick response.
"Why," Baid her aunt, in mild sur
prise, "I thought you liked it so much
lust yeur. I um sure the farm house was
cool, the vegetables fresh, and yon know
you thought the river scenery was de
lightful," At mention of the river scenery Elea
nor was conscious of a pang at her heart
like pain; but she answered carelessly:
"One tires of things sometimes. I should
like a change."
That evening as she took down her
long hair in her aunt's room, before re
tiring, she said suddenly, and with' a
little nervous flutter, "Yes, let's go to
Chocorua, auntie; you know you like it.
and the Kensels are going, and it's as
good as any place, after all."
Miss Jane Mears received the proposi
tion without surprise, having had twen
ty years' experience with the fluctuating
inclinations of her niece. So it was ar
ranged. A month later found them settled.
There were numerous gay young peo
ple, Fred Kensel, hie sister and Jerome
Arthur among the rest, and Eleanor
walked and drove and sought out her
old haunts by the river. But there was
a lock, a haunting memory, and a wist
ful pain which her heart Bought in vain
to ignore.
One night a merry half dozen of them
were playing tenuis in the field near the
farm house which was the temporary
home of their choice, when a carriage
passing, the driver raised his hat and
drew up.
"Jack Renshaw!" exclaimed two or
three, recognizing and running toward
him, nickels m hand.
Eleanor felt us if stunned, but, being
possessed of too much tact and pride to
allow herself to seem disconcerted, she
approached with the others and offered
her hand. He leaned from the carriage
in greeting them all, aud Eleanoi felt,
when he took her hand, that his eyes
were seeking her own. But she could
scarcely look up. Her old fearless con
fidence was gone, and she blushed half
angrily at her disadvantage.
Jock Renshaw recognized, too, the
difference, aud a something intuitive di
rected his reply to the general impor
tunity whether he would not be with
them before the season was over,
"Yes, certuinly, I think I shall," was
his reply as he drew his reins and drove
on.
He nad tol1 tho" t'at telegram
brought him from Texas a month ago to
f e bedrid, of his mother who was crit -
tcally ill, and whose only son he was.
Her home was m an adjoining town.
She was now convalescent, and he was
return south in September.
I . That niirht Eleanor nlimded wearineM
That night Eleanor pleaded weariness
and retired early to her room. Bnt she
conld not sleep. She did not try. With
out a light, and in her flowing wrapper,
she sat long, dreaming in the wide west
window; dreaming of all things, of last
summer and of the dull, gray future,
Knt tt.nm.li vi.i tha
one central figure. All else revolved wnlch had leen Proposed as an epitaph
about that. One face haunted her mem-, ,or the P0 PUlUps, was "ruled out" by
ory, one voice thrilled her heart. -' I Dean 8Prat who regarded the name of
She rose at lost and nervously paced mun M 400 detestable to appear in a
the floor. Why should she think of Jack building dedicated to religion.
Renshaw? Why could she not shut him Thlrty year later not on'y Milton's
out of mind? She Eleanor Armstrong name bnt the bust to his memory was
who always had sailed on the crest of dnied. although the accompanying
the wave, to find herself now chopping inscription was not of a felicitous char
dismally in the trough. It was too ex- tcttr- Byn w actually refused
asperating. burial in the abbey; Goldsmith lies in
Yet again and again the same vision th precincts of the temple; Gray was
hauntd her memory, and ever and ever, buried in the country churchyard, that
against her will, the same questions at 8toke W near Slough, in which
forced an answer. Why could she not he moU hi immortal "Elegy;" and of
forget him? How well he lookedl Why more modern bards Wordsworth, Ten
had she never noticed his fine expression? nyon' immediate predecessor in the
What ease and self possession were his! laureateship, is buried "by Rotha's
Why had she been so blind before? And tram" in Grasmere churchyard, while
so, and so she vexed herself as the night he neart of Shelley and the body of
hours wore away. Keats are interred in a Protestant ceme-
Within a week Jack was back at Cho- teI7 at Bme-
coma, a guest at The Elms, the village Posterity is the only sure judge of
inn. Eleanor saw him constantly, was poetical renown, and who can doubt
obliged to do so, since he was a general that were Keats and Shelley to die now
favorite, although not given to games, j they would as a matter of course be
His attitude toward her was perplex- accorded a place where Browning
ing. Politely indifferent, he neither n(l Tennyson lie. It is a safe predic-
Bhunned nor sought her. Eleanor was, ", however, that oar descendants will
as always, gay. But her gayety was fit- not bold us of the Nineteenth century to
ful; now bordering on extravagance, as blame for admitting into the poets' cor-
when she dashed after a hay cart with ner the remains of the author of "Morte
Fred; now relapsing almost to sobriety, d'Arthur" and "In Memoriam." Lon-
as when she songht the kitchen to assort donTelegraph- !
rags with old Annt Eunice. ) Belng Near a, HhmI
One afternoon following the arrival of .,i :j c.
thedoily stagesheandt I Kensel girjs lTLZTtZl
the way by Fred, and at The Elms by tlXC Shakespeare's
re-enforcements, including Mr. Jerome, nf ' , . ,
. n . , 7 11oj On, yes, was the answer; "we shall
Arthur and Jack. At the postomce de- ( o,.t,i i.
hveryKitt Kensel volunto to cail &".m,'"i
for letters for the company, i ,,v , , ,
"Mr. Jerome Arthurone; Miss Grace - LT ""I
E. Morris, two three! more than your Engbsh people go there, but it is a great
share. Grace Morris; Miss PersisG. A. TwTTp v u w,
Pratt, two and a card; Miss Catharine lift EnelBh people take
iri ,. ir:. r. 80 little interest, comparatively, in the
Armstrong, card and letter-oh, see!
and a dead letter, too!"
"A 'dead letter? Oh, let's seer cried
all the girls, huddling together.
Jack Renshaw stood at Eleanor'sright.
looking quietly on.
Behold her rosy cheek dotli pale.
Aud iialnled grow her Illy hands;
She daro not reud the mystu: veil
ran on the giddy girl who had delivered
the letter.
Eleanor flushed and wrenched the en-
velope in laughing contempt
"aee if 1 dare not!" she exclaimed.
The inclosed letter fell to the floor,
with the addressed side conspicuously
uppermost. Jack stooped and restored
it to her, inevitably reading the super-
scription as he did so. Eleanor at that
moment read it also. 1
"J. H. Renshaw" nothing less, noth-
ing more. In amazement and confusion'
she raised her eyes to his, which were
eagerly regarding her The lightning of
recognition flashed between them.
There it was, her own letter of a vear
ago sent to the dead letter office on ac- disease. Time was when even regular
count of an unfinished address. She re- practitioners in the art of healing in
membered it all. She had written his eluded in their professional armament,
name, nothing more, that day when she a'onS w'"1 many simple remedies of
was hesitating to send the letter. A call- real value, other matters, the verv men-
er had interrupted and made her forget.
inentne maid had mailed it as it was.
So Jack had never heard from her.
and Bhe had never heard from Jack
again.
Eleanor hastily thrust the letter in her
pocket and hurried from the office, fol-
lowed by the chattering company, whose
attention was already caught by another
matter.
Jack soon took his place bv her side
on the homeward way. Neither spoke neS8 ' t'Ie most remarkable kind,
until they came to where the old path Times of panic, by throwing a popula
ted out from the main road and through tion to someentent on its own resources
the meadow along the river. tor treatment, are apt to create a de
The shadows were long and cool, and m&ni for these survivals of a dark age.
the golden sunset light sweDt down the This happened lutely in Germany, where
depths of the quiet water like a reflected toad cooked with much care was swal
sky. 1 lowed as a cure for cholera. As to the
Eleanor," said Jack, pausing at the
turn, "I think I see how it all was; I
think I understand. Do I not?" ,
Her heart beat thick and fast. She
would not trust herself to speak; she I
only looked away to the sky.
"Shall we walk by the river tonight?" 1
he continued, "and would you care now,
as I would, not a little, but with all mv
soul and for all my life, if we never had ,
walked together agaiu?'
Eleanor lifted her eyes to his with a '
look which answered his fondest hone. I
as they turned and went down the river
puth.
'But really, Jack, you do make me
think of an owl sometimes-you look so :
very solemn aud wise!" she said, with a 1
flasb of her old audacity, as thev came
again in the twilight down to the farm
house gate. Elmira Telegram.
It Uldu't I'ajr.
Commander McCalla, of the navy,
who wus couvicted of tyrannical and
cruel conduct toward his men and sus
pended for three years, has seen two 1
other oommanders promoted over him in
the lust yeur, and it is said that he is
heart broken. His case may teach others
good lesson. Detroit f ree Press.
Eorii.h p.u am nn,UA
. . . wtniiot ,H"V'
1 .oSLtiomS taS?
" Xv l " T .t KteiZ?'
JIZ,
nPn. Avo".antt Hilton is nonorea only
I fa WrtS' to Ch rfT'oni
1 " mnai ln Wmrch of St. UUes,
Cripplegate, and there is no reason to
doubt that the dean and chapter of his
day would have refused him the right of
sepulture in the abbey when he died had
it been then asked for. Even so late as
the beginning of the Eighteenth century
the phrase, "second to Milton alone,"
wn which produced so great a genius?" :
1 "Well, 1 cannot account for it, except
T,"7 r
Bu "T wn" 18 alw,ay . "
:" T
strange country witn me special object
I , "'"p"B- ",, y very
steamer 1 have met an American who
told me that, although his home is close
to New York, he has never visited your
, Metropolitan Museum of Art in Central
park except once, while he has been a
, number of times to the British musenm.
and repeatedly to the Louvre. Now, I
fancy that if he lived a few hundred
miles from New York, and occasionally
went there to 'see the sights,' he would
have a much more intimate knowledge
' the museum than he has now, when
it is within his reach every day, or at
least every week." New York Tribune,
Son" Horroi of Quackery.
Tb' old proverb, "Any port in a
storm," has often found practical illus-
tration in the empirical treatment of
taa of which might almost suffice toen-
genoer uiness. we may feel thankful
that we have now entered upon a later
B"d more scientific era, and that such
extraordinary drugs as weasels' gizzards,
does hoofs, snails, and other even more
repulsive horrors, do not now find a place
anv pharmacopoeia.
There still exists, however, a species
01 uieuicai ioiKiore, anu some of its ore-
scribed wisdom available for use in ill-
result we are not informed. Most of us
would probably choose to suffer rather
than thus attempt our own relief ,Lon-
don Lancet.
. .
Taking it Ey.
M31 tuSeme. began George
to Delac. "I afd I have
S.0' bad. n6ws.?r J' "Indeed," said
uelaf 0IX s.w"uout. interrupting his
"v"'"m J uuo ui ms
tiM 6mlles s welcome,
Ye8',m?f dear fnd' 1 baye carefully
fou5,ulreu 7 own neart, ana the upshot
BIIC W jou taut 1 ieei 1
t'"mul ueyeriove you.- vei-
f u V pa'nung. "ts that a
(ac , he Eald . "X"8' and 1 ask J0 to
f""" "? "
candor my poor Delacroix."
Delacroix did not budge from his
easel. "You are angry with me, are yon
not? You will never forgive me?" "Cer
tainly I will. Only 1 want you to keep
quiet for ten minutes. I have got a bit
of sky here which has caused me a good
deal of trouble; it is just coming right.
Go and sit down, or else take a little
walk and be back in ten minutes." Of
course George Sand did not return. An
unglislunau in Pans,