SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR

Not a Bit Jealous.

Handsome Syd Allaire threw down M 3 morn ing paper with a gesture of disgust. •Bah II am ashamed of my sex. It is astonishing to me that men can show so little senep,.' TSis pretty little wife, bitting opposite, be ftind the handsome breakfast service, opened her bright blue eyes in sudden surprise. ' Why, what's the matter, dear ? What hare you read in the paper to vex you ?' •Why, Ethel, you must remember Folie Simmons —what a charming wife he liad. They were married only last season. Well, it seems he has grown terribly jealous of her fancies she's in lore with her drawing-master, and ha 3 left her, and she has gone home to her father's, while he has gone to a hotel to board.' ' Well, nil that is certaiuly very sad ; but, dear, you must not judge hastily. One can never entirely depend on newspaper accounts, especially in family^ quarrels. Remember, there are always two sides to a question ; wait till you hear them both before you judge.' 'Oh, I don't need to wait. I am well enough satisfied in my own mind now. I have do patience with a man who is jealous —it is a weakness no true man will ever allow himself to feel, much leas manifest. Can you imagine such a thing as my being jealous of you, Ethel ?' 11 cannot imagine my giving you any rea son to be, Syd, dear.' * Eeason! Why, Babie, you could't make me jealous, whatever you did.' 'Couldn't I? I shouldti'b like to try, for fear of the result.' 1 Well, I give you leave to try as scon as you please. When I married you, you be came a part of myself, and I should as soon think of being jealous of myself as of you.' 1 But, Syd, I do think there is an incipient ' germ of jealousy in every man's nature that 3 needs very little coaxing to Bprout and grow ' luxuriantly ; a single breath will blow the spark into a flame.' ' Not if a man be truly generous and noble ; f but kiss me, Babie, I must hurry down to town 1 —1 am late now. Take good care of yourself. • I shall be home at four.' The above conversation took place in the ' ooay little breakfast-room of the prettiest ' little cottage in Ivy terrace ; and Syd Allaire and Ms charming wife were surely us happy a f couple as one could find. Although they had f, been married more than a year, a visitor to ' their home-nest would scarcely imagine the ( honeymoon to be over, so thoughful and at- k tentive still was he—go loving and devoted * still was she. It had been eminently a love- E match, at which muny of their friends had 5 wondered, many more had sneered —for the husband, while remarkably handsome and a ' finely educated man, aad in every respect a ' noble fellow, was only a bank clerk on a ' moderate salary, while Ethel Lynde, the belle ' and beauty of the season, was the happy pos- ' sessor of a hundred thousand in her own right. But, as she very truly said, so long as she loved ' Syd better than anybody else, she couldn't for 3 the life of her understand what difference it made which one of them had the money. So she married him in spite of them all '. and thus far had no reason to repent her ; choice. She was indeed a pretty picture as, after her husband's departnre, she went leisurely from room to room of her charm ing house, striking a few chords on th piano as she passed; taking up and leading : a few lines in the uncut magazine that lay on the table ; feeding and petting her birds^ and watering some pots of exquisite flower that stood in the window of her favourite sitting room. Her low brow, "light hair—which waved naturally and was carelessly tied -with a blue ribbon to match the colour of her eyes —her rosy mouth and petite figure gave her an almost infantile appearance ; and yet, if one would stop to study the face, hewonld find a very earneßt expression in the soft ' eyes, and that the roßy lips were very ' firmly set together, indicative of resolution i and .perseverance. Etbel Allaire was no baby, though the gentlest and sweetest of little women.

On the morning in question, as she paese from room to room, one might have notice an unusual expression on her face, wbi ever and anon smiles would dimple her cheeks and wreath, her rosy lips. Once, ■while her maid was braiding her beautiful hair, Bhe fairly laughed aloud, and, clap ping her hands together, exclaimed, fOh it would be a good joke. I have a mind to do it.' •What did you Baj, madam? said her maid, gazing at her in-astonishment. ' Nothing, Annette,' answered her mis treßß; 'I believe I was thinking aloud. I am going out, and shall not be home to lunch but will be in time for dinner. If Mr. Allaire comes in, tell him I am spend ing the morning with Mrs. Bascom.' ' Evidently she had some very amusing thoughts in her mind as she went out to visit her fiiend. When at last she was seated in Mollie Bascom's cozy morning room, judging from the peals of laughter which at intervals interrupted their con versation with 'You see,' and ' Ton know, and 'Won't it be fun?' many times re peated, one mighb have thought a new opera bouffe was under discussion, or at least a fresh comedy for private theatricals. Quite a« mysterious were the parting worda as Mrs. Allaire rose to go, saying, 'Syd will be home waiting for dinner. I can depend upon ; ypu, then ?' . y<.A Is mori,' replied her friend ; /shall we begin to-merrow ?' ' Yes; and remember not a word to Tom. He * ould be sure to tell Sydney.' ' I'll remember. Good-bye '—and the two friends parted in high glee. When Ethel came down to dinner that night, ready dressed for the opera, her hus band thought she had never looked more beautiful. The diamond solitaires pendant from her delicate ears did not sparkle more brightly than- her laughing eyes; and the beautiful tint of her dress, with its cloudy trimmings of lace, was fairly rivalled by the exquisite tints of her complexion. She was in the beet of spirits, and laughed and chatted with all the gay abandon, of a child. 'I am co glad it is Trovatore to-night; it is my favourite opera. Mollie and Tom will meet us there.' «Does Wachtel sing?' said her husband. • Yes ; won't it be a treat ?' and Madame de Murka. She is just splendid. Do you know, Syd, I have half a mind to take singing les sons again ? I have so much time, and you always, thought my voice was good.' 'Yonr voice to me, baby, is sweeter than any other I ever heard, and I think your idea of taking lessons again is a good one. It will give you something to do to keep you from getting lonely while I am away.' 'That is uetit. Ido get so tired, having nothing to do but count the hours until 4 o'clock. But, about a teacher ?' • 'Well, as to that, I would rather you should have a teacher come to tho house, Ethel, I don't .like the idea of your going out for your lessons.' 'Of course not—l wouldn't think of it. And I believe Molly knows a good teacher - some one who taught her sister. I'll ask her to-night.' When the two ladiea met in the opera box a Tery significant glance passed between them. An inquiry flashed from Mrs. Baßcom'a blaok

ffil'^r™ 11 bj a quiefc reßP°nee from SlhS,% T s; which Beemed P erfe°tiy satisfactory on both sides. In answer to her ■ inquiries about a teacher: 'Yes; Mrs. Baa conx knew an excellent teaeher-Si-nor 3 Paoelh. She would send him to Ethefto -3 B. A"d th<3 BUbJeCt ™™? **** ! andhVM cXi fc r""' 118 Came Sign6r Pacelli > I and Ethel, having made satisfactory ar rangements, commenced her lessons at f once. When her husband came home to •dinner, she was loud in her praises of her 1 new .teacher. 'He is so gentlemanly, Syd, Q.GS . » . 'I should hope so, certainly, Ethel.' Yes : but I mean so stylish, so genteel and really very good looking; and his broken English so charming. He speaks brench with me, though—l know so little Italian. 'Well, dear, so you are satisfied, I am. I suppose you will be prepared to be a Pnma Donna before long.' Mrs. Allaire was intensely interested in her singing lessons. She practised scales and solfeggios from morning till night, and talked about Signor Parcelli and his perfec tions until her .husband was tired of hearing of them. " 'Really, Baby,' said he, 'this Signor must be a paragon. Now, ordinarily, I can't say I fancy these singing teachers.' ' Oh.' but Syd, I am sure you would like Pacelli—and you know I am improving so rapidly. You must come home some time when I take my lessons and meet him. He would like to get acquainted with you.' ' Excuse me, please. I don't think I care to. Go on with your ah's and sea's, but don't ask me to cultivate any singing masters.' Meeting his friend Tom Bascorn, one day, he said to him : ' By the way, Tom, do yoa know this Pacelli thut Ethel", and Mollie go raving about? Is he anything |ao very wonderful ?' ' Pacelli ?' answered Tom, musingly. ' Oh, Mollie did tell me your wife was taking singing lessons. He is a.good teacher, I believe ; n, quiet;, ge-it e-naniy sort of fel low ; sings well they tell ma.' ' Well, Ethel considers him a paragon, and really she is improving. Come 'round and hear her sing.' Ethel was improving, certainly. She sang selections from the operas in quite mi artistic manner, and pathetic little ball.ids in a style that almost brought tear's to one's eyjs. One day, having a severe headache, Sydney left the bank early, and going home found his wife w:is taking her singing les son. Nob caring to interrupt her, he threw himself on a -ofa in the back parlour and listened as the lesson progressed. They were singing a duet, "and the voices rang out clear and sweet, first answering each other and then blending in complete and exquisite harmony, Tell me thou lovest me.' ' That's Pacelli.' thought he ; ' what silly sentimental stuff they sing !' ' I love thee,' responded Ethel, with the most gone-forever expression ; and again, ' Tell me thou lovest me,' ' I love thee ;' and then together, 'Oh yes, thou lovest me.' Then a peal of laughter, and the door closed, and Ethel came running in, and laid her little soft hands on his aching brow. ' Oh, Syd, are you ill ? I heard you come in ; but we were just in the midst of a duet, and I couldn't Btop. Did you hear it ? Was it not pretty ?' ' Yes, it sounded very well; but what silly nonsense it was. I should think you would dislike singing it' ' Why, you know, those translations from the Italian always are. lam going to learn ;to sing them in the original, and then very few will know what it means.' 'Well, I don't see that will better it much.' 'lam so sorry you are not well, dear. We were going to the opera to-night, you know, and I invited Pacelli to meet us there and come in our box. Don't you think you can go ?' ' No, dear. I am sorry to disappoint you, but my head aohes too badly.' ' Couldn't I go, then ? You know, Signor Pacelli can take me down to the carriage when ib is over.' Her husband looked up in surprise. It was the first time she had ever expressed a desire to go out without him ; indeed, she had always said she could not in the least enjoy the most charming entertainment unless he were with her ; but he only said, ' Certainly, you can go if you wish. There is not the ieaßt impropriety.' She hesitated a moment, but finally went to dress and order the carriage for the evening. All the long tedious hours, as he lay alone, he wondered what change had come over Ethel that she should be willing to leave him, and, in spite of himself, the thought would arise that there might be some attraction in fche fact that Signor Pacelli was to be there. He dismissed it as unworthy, and indeed when she came home early, saying it was stupid and she was tired and worried about him, hs for got it altogether. But he scarcely liked her going out as mucn as ,she did now, without him, to morning concerts at which Pacelli was to sing—to orchestral recitals at which he was to play. Was he jealous ? Oh, no! Only, as he told her, people would talk, and were he in her place he would be very careful. ' Let them talk, then,' she indignantly re plied ; ' What do I care for their idle gossip ? I will treat it with the contempt it deserves.' So he said no more, but was far from being satisfied with the result. One day, coming home as usual, and not finding his wife down stairs he ran up to her dressing room, looking for her. She was not there, but lying on her dressing table he found a little note, which he snatched up eagerly and commenced reading. It ran thua : Madame. —Que vous avez etc tres char mante cc matin. I send you a ticket. I shall have the happiness of seeing you at two. I Yours devotedly, PACELLI.

He torned very pale as he read, and was just thinking wha,t to say to Ethel, when he heard her come in and come running up stairs. She started when she saw the note in his hand, but only said, 'Am I late? The rehearsal was so long.' «What is this, Ethel ?' replied her hash tfn sternly. •That? why, only poor Pacelli's note- I thought I had destroyed it. He sent me a ticket for the rehearsal.' ' And are you in the habit of receiving such notes as this from your singing teacher ? 'Now, Syd, don't be foolish. He doesn't mean anything—foreigners are so queer, you

know.' ' Yeg; if you call this queer, I think, they are. But, Beriously, Ethel, thsre must be an end put to this. You must stop your lessons. 'Now, Syd, you are certainly unreasonable. How ridiculous you would make me appear ! and I am improving so rapidly, too!' 'Yes, I should judge so—improving iv other things besides music.' 'Sydney, you shall not spea so fc o me T _J " , 'Remember, Ethel, I insist on your giving up your lessons. If you do not choose to in form Signor raoellt to that effect, I shall do

so.' Indeed, you will do no such thing. He would only think you were jealous—not an enviable reputation, surely, especially when it iB not merited.' ' Very well; you know the alternative.'

1 ; There had never been the slightest coolness' ■ I between them before, and Sydpey found him self very miserable. Ethel, however, seemed J much as usual, although very little was said 1 by either during dinner, and the evening, for j once, was almost dull. He read- the last magazine,.and she lounged and sang. It was no better at breakfast—the cloud was lower ing and rested on both their faces. Just as he was going away Ethel said very firmly and quietly : 'This is Pacelli's morning. I shall tell him he need not oome again. lam going to send for Tom and Mollie to come to dinner —it se«ms we are no longer good company for each other.' He made her no answer, but went away with a heavy heart. It seemed to him that was the longest, dreariest day ho had ever known. Oh, how he longed for a sight of his wife's face, bright with happy love as it used to be. And to think she should treat ' him so, and for^whom ? A singing teacher! He grew angry as he thought of it, and walked more quickly toward homo. There was a hat standing upon the rack, and opening the parlour door he saw his wife sitting upon the sofa with a strange gentle man— oue hand clasped in his, her head leaning confidingly upon his shoulder. He took ong s t e p toward them and thundered, 'Ethel!' ' Oh, Syd, is that you ?' said she, rising with the most naive simplicity. ' Allow me ™ make you acquainted with Signor Pacolli 1 Signor, my husband.' . '-Highly delighted,' said the gentleman, rising and extending his hand. ' Have long desired an introduction.' Then, while Sydney stood looking from one to the other as if spell-bound, le continued. ' You don't Rpetn to wart to know mo ; perhaps you would like my other name better ?' and rapidly throwing off wifr, eye-glass and false mustache, 1 Mollie Bascom, at your service, and so glad to become ftquainted with a gentleman who never gots jealous.' ' Such a weakness, you knnw.' moaned Ethnl, almost r»onvnlsG(l with laughter. 'Sold, by Jove!' shouted Tot Ba°oom. silking in fmm the back parlour. 'Dnn't blame me, cldfpllow. I did n't know anything about, it until to-dny,' pon honor.' " You know you fold me you would Rive mo loave to try,' paid Ethel ' How did you er)joy your evening dear, when I went to the opera ?' ' Never went near the opera, roared Tom. 'Played casino in my library all the evening.' ' And then,' put in Mollie, ' all the morn ing concerts n.nrl rehearsals. Never was such a thing. There we si\t crocheting in my si'Kinff-room, tha whole tim" I.' * A.nrJ the note, do.ar.' MgVd Ethel. ' I wrote it,' said Mollie. ' And the duet, we sung. Come, confess, now —you were fairly outwitted.' Sydney bad been standing, turning pale and red by turns; till, as the whole plot burst upon him, he sprung towards Ethel, caught her in his arms and kissed her, exclaiming, I see it all now. lam a fool! And you have taught me a good lesson. I'll profit by it ; see if I don't, You, Signora Pacelli Baßcoro, go up stairs, assume your proper attire, and join us at the dinner table. We will" drink in Veuve Cliquot to the perfect success of your plot, and the utter discom fiture of the mnn who was ' Not a bitjealoi^.

Industry and Economy will Tell.

Sib "John Croasley, during a political can vass in Halifnx, publicly referrred to the fact that his mother was a servant girl on small wages. The story, a9 told to me, is that this giri was receiving £6 a year, but that, being very thrifty, bhe had managod to save ap a little fortune, amounting in all to £4iO. Mr. (Jroisley, who married her, had nothing at nl\ On the £40 they set up a shop in which various useful things were sold, the business being entirely conducted by the wife. Have ing gained more money by this means, the business was gradually enlarged, until finally they resolved to restrict it to a special artical —carpets. Next followed the project of a single loom; the one loom multiplied itself to a small roo"a full. Then they bought the patent of the American Bigelow loom, and this seems to have caused thair business to enlarge very rapidly, The first poor little build ing with which they began- 1-a pioture of it is kept in a frame —expanded like a magical tree, and now thuir establishments have spread into a town of their own, the buildings being con nected by high bridges, passing above the streets. They employ 5,000 bands,* and their machinery is turned by seven steam-engines, representing an aggregate power of three thousand horseß.

The True Belles.

ABeookltn writer goes so far as to say: ' The belles you read of are the belles to avoid ; the belles of whom you hear not are the belles to make your home with, if you, can possess them. There are hundreds of these in quiet and elegant residences. "Whether mothers or grandmothers, they have some of the spiritual bloom of their younger days left. Their loveliness does not disappear in the bath, and is not put on again before breakfast. Their beauty is not of the surface, simply. They do not go out of fashion, for their fashion is that of nature. Plea sant remembrances have they of. their girlish time. They do not recall, as other belles may, the maddening waltz in the flushes of the dawn, the late supper, and the glass too much of champagne, the stolen kiss, and the burning blushes hours after. Perhaps they have been overstrained; perhaps the latter half of the nineteenth century has not entered into, *them enough; perhaps they are prudes; perhaps they have not exercised to the fullest their glorious privilege of liberty. They are, nevertheless, good, pure, genuine women, whether they be girls or mothers or grandmothers.'

The Ladies.

According to a London doctor, black eyes and deceit go together in women.

The Cincinnati Gazette Bays that recently, in. thia city, five women spent two long hours in making a selection «of one simple little straw hat. ' Why call him the ' groom' as eight out of ten people do ? A groom's business is to look after horses. • A bridegroom's business is to look after his wife's mother.

Nothing makes a man feel more desolate than to return home from a fashionable wed ding and have his wife yell at him as soon as he gets inside the door : ' Come, now; jerk off them fine duds as quick as you can, and fetch me a Ncatfcle of coal.'

Poetry.

WE PART FOREVER.

BY QKORGE P MOBIMB. Fare the well—we part forever ! All regrets are now in vain ! • Fate decrees that wa must sever, t'i e'er to meet on earth again. Other skies will bend above thee, Other hearts may seek thy shrine. But no other e'er will love thee "With the constancy of mine. Yet farewell—we part forever! All regrets are now in vain ! Pate decrees that we must sever, Ne'er to meet on earth again. Fare the well! Like the shadow on the dial Lingers still our parting kiss! Life h*s no severer trial. Death no pang to equal this. All the world is now before thee, Jttvery clime to roam at will, But within the land that bore thee, One fond heart will love thee still, Yet farewell—we part forever ! All regrets are now in vain ! Fate decrees th*t we must sever, JSfe'er to meet on earth again, fare thee well!

It was late at night when Master Coville reached his home, but when he went to bed, there were thirteen snow-balls, soaked with water, freezing slowly but surely on a board in the back yard.— Danlury News.

SILENCE IN HEAVEN.

[There was silence in heaven for the space of half an-hour ] Intentest calm of silence fell Once, for one little half-hour space, Where blended songs forever swell In gladness through the holy place. Then ceased from every golden iyre The finger-touch ttut woke its chord, And every voice in ail the choir Was hushed in presence of tho Lord.

What heart in all that listening peace Grew overfull for silent praise. And dared be first to bid it cease ! Some soul led home through thorny ways ! Or some who out of fire and flood Had reached a shelter safe and sw«ot? What one of all who, bought with blood. Were kneeling at tho desr Lord's feet?

It may have been a little one, Whosj spirit could not understand The wonder of the silence thrown In. mystic awe'on voica and hand, Who sudden broke it with a cry Of love's amaze and love's delight, And woke the chorus of the sky Anew to sorrow's matchless might.

Oh, for such a pause when we shall bow, Drar Christ beforo thy blessed face ! A silent moment, sweet and low, To praise, unworded all thy grace, To fei-l the beating of thy heart. That once our woe was nigh to crush, And worship thee with tender art Amid the hallelujah's hush.

Bits of Fun.

A patient waiter—A young doctor. '"'l;' Heab generates motion.' Illustration—A small boy sitting down on a hot coal.

Wby is Ireland the richest country in the world ? Because its capital is always Dublin.

Why ia a stationer a very wicked man ? Because he makes people steel pens and then says they do write.

Little Johnny—'l heard somebody crying there, and it wasn't ma nor the doctor. Sissy—'May be it was the kitten.'

When an old barn and a pig-stye burned at Ashtabula, Ohio, the other day, 'the star lit heavena were made to quiver above the leaping, roaring flames.'

The woman who put the kerosene can on the stove-hearth while she went out to trade with a pedlar, is now keeping house in a barn, kindly loaned for the occasion.

A Connecticut girl patiently listened to a long declaration of love, pathetic and propos ing from a young man, and then knocked the poetry all out of him by saying: ' Now let us talk about your business affairs.'

A prominent citizen who is the proud pos sessor of a handsome daughter, went home to tea the other evening aud said to his wife, ' Mother, I . have finally succeeded in my petition for a street lamp on our street, and it is going to be set directly in front of our gate.' A sudden scream and a heavy fall sounded from the next room. The affrighted parents rushed in there. The''daughter lay prostrate on the floor. She had fainted.— Danbury News.

An Indianian, describing a favourite pian iste, said that she ' yanked a handful out of the centre and slanted 'em at the end, then wiggled around with two fingers, grabbed up another fistful,'punched right and left, went a rippin' down hand over fist, and 1 tell yer that ere pianner howled.'

Robert Collyer says the children must have less study and more fun. He is right. There is the boy in the family across the way. Last Thursday afternoon, he put a dead mouse in his mother's work-basket, attached a split stick to the tail of the next door cat, set the vinegar faucet up in business, palmed himself off as a ghost on the hired girl when she went down to the cellar after the butter, besmeared his father's choice bantam rooster witb. blue ink, and finally wound up the entertainment by tying the boiler to a strange dog's tail, and slipping down in the slush and hurting his back. Hia exasperated father hardly knows w,hich to hunt up first—the strange dog with the boiler, or Robert Collyer. — Danbury News.

An old maid don't know what it is to bend over the children's little white bed, softly pat their curly heads, and hear one of them growl out : ' Now, then, Sam, keep your paws off me, or I'll bat you in the eye.'

Misttndebstandino-. — Old Lady —' Can you tell me, my good man, where I can find Mr. Jones ?' Pat —' Sure, ma'am, I expect it would be afc his house ye would find hini.' Lady—' Does he live anywhere in the street here ?' Pat —' Sure, no, indade ; it's not for the likes of him to be living ia tbe street at all.' Lady—' You stupid fellow, I mean what number does his family stop at ?' Pat —' Now, ma'am, you have me ; he has Bix boys and four girls already, but whether he manes to stop at that number ' Lady— • Oh, you blockhead ?' Exit old lady in. a tremor of. indignation.

The Girls of Egypt.

A CiLiao correspondent says : ' Girls become marriageable here at eleven, net seldom younger. If they do not marry by the time they are fifteen their chances are excellent for the life of an old maid. Marrying so young, entirely ignorant, even of house keeping, tbey cannot be very good mothers ; bearing children before the/ cease to be children' themselves, they are old at twenty and withered when they ought to be in their prime. When the first school for girls was begun here the parents • would not send their children any more than |the farmers will use the Khedive's steam ploughs and his improved instruments and ways of agriculture, and children were caught up in the streets and forced into it. Ndw a change has taken place, and the schools for girls, at least one of them, are so popular that the daughters of Pashas attend them. The Khedive's mother; who is not,a person of education, though of a strong mind, has greatly interested i herself in the education of girls.'

As Good as He Gave.

j ' Speaking of shooting ducks,' says Dr. F., ' puts me in mind of the great storm that oc curred when I lived on the Island. As you are well aware, our island was near Cisco Bay ; an awful storm arose, and was so fierce that it drove all the ducks in the bay into a pond, covering about an acre, near my house. In fact, so many ducks crowded into that pond that I could nob see a drop of watei.' 'Sho/says Smith, ' didn't ye shoot any of 'em?' ' That's what I was coming at. I went into the house and got my double-barrelled shotgun and discharged both barrels right into the midst of them, but, to my astonish ment, fhey all arose in the air, leaving not a solitary duck on the pond.' 'Good gracious!' ou don't say so,' says Smith. 'Didn't you have any shot in yer gun, or what in thunder was the matter?' ' Well, I was coming to that,' said Dr. P. ' It astonished me at first, but bb soon as the ducks aros.e a few hundred yards in the air, and commenced to separate a little, ducks began to drop, and whether you believe it or not, I picked up twenty-nine barrels of ducks, and it was a poor season for ducks, too. You see the ducks were wedged in solid on the pond, and when they arose they carried the dead ones in the air with them', and when . they separated, down came the twenty-nine barrels of dead ducks.' • 'Oh,' says Smith, 'I am not surprised at that at all, or at the big lot of ducks you bagged, for it was an awful storm. I remem- ' ber it well, doctor ; I had at tha*; time a corn barn full of corn ; on the outside was a knot- ] hole ; and during the storm the wind blew so fierce that it blew every ear of that corn right through the knot-hole ; and the hole being just the siye of a cob the imp was that it < shelled every ear, leaving the corn in the barn, and the next merning I found my corn- ; barn half full of shelled corn, and not a single cob. I had a curiosity to know where the * cobs had gone to. I went to the rear of the • barn and followed the line of these cobs over ' eleven miles, and at a distance of five miles a • large first-growth pine tree stood in the track, and darn me if the wind didn't drive cobs into the tree from top to bottom. Oh, doctor, that was an awful storm.' i

' Yes,' sighed the doctor,' awful.'

The Sultan and Satan.

Thehm is an Eastern story of a Sultan who overslept himself bo as not to awakes at the hour of prayer. So the devil came and ■waked him and told him to pray. ' Who aieyou?' said the Sultan. ' Oh, no matter,' replied the other; 'my act is good, is it not ? No matter who does the good action, so long as it is good.' 'Yes,' replied the Sultan, * but I think you are Satan. I know your face; you have some bad motive.' ' But,' says the other, 'I am not so bad as I am painted. You see I have left off my horns and tail. I am a pretty good fellow, after all. I was an angel once, and I still keep some of my original goodness.' ' That's all very well,' replied the sagacious and prudent Caliph, but you are the tempter; that's your business, and I wish to know why you want me to pet up and pray.' ' Well,' said the devil, with a flirfe of impatience,' if you must know, I will tell you. If you had slept and forgotten your prayers you would have been sorry for it afterwards and peni tent, but if you go on as now and do not neglect a single prayer for ten years, you will be so satisfied with yourself that it will be worse for yoa than if you had missed one sometimes and repented of it. God loves your faults mixed with penitence, more than your virtues seasoned with pride.'

Getting a Ride.

The Abcadian Boy withaßeoad White

FoEEHEAD AND A SOFT BSOWN EYE. YotrifG Coville was out looking for a ride on Friday afternoon. He had his sled with him, and he wanted to fasten it to a horse sleigh. An opportunity finally presented itself. It was a farmer who was driving, and he had two good horses. His son sat in the back of the sleigh, watching the various village boys. He was a pale boy, with a broad forehead and a soft brown eye. No one can read character as well as children, and when Master Coville looked into the open countenance of the farmer lad, he put after the sleigh with all his might, and catching up to-it, threw himself on the tail-board, keeping his eye firmly fixed on the farmer boy. Then the farmer boy suggested that young Coville get on his own sled and he would hold the rope for a little way. The offer was ac cepted at once, and Master Coville mounted hij own sled, where he rode in triumph, to the envy of every boy he passed. Getting toward the suburbs, the farmer, who was quite deaf, harried for ward his horses, and Master Corille tried to look ahead without smiling ; but it was impossible, the speed was so exhilarating. When the party got to Grannille avenue young Coville told the farmer boy that he guessed he'd be going back, and if he'd kindly drop the rope he'd confer a favor. The farmer boy smiled a rural smile, but didn't relax his hold on the rope. Young <4pville smiled too, but rather feebly, and again repeated the request. But the, soft brown eye was musing, and the rope still remained in the owner's grasp. Young Coville began to look scared. It was after five o'clock, and would be dark in an hour, and here he was sailing out into the country at the rate of five miles an hour. 1 Let go of there, why don't you ?' he asked.

The farmer boy smiled—one of those blossoming smiles which told of green dells and moss-fringed brooks. ' If you don't let go of that rope I'll just get into that sleigh and mash yer darned old snoot!' suggested young Co ville,Ivrhich wasaveryimprudent statement in view of the fact that every muscle was engaged in keeping his seat. But the farmer lad did"not let go.' He kept his hold of the rope, and kept up the smiles, the waving grain and blooming daisy smiles. , Oh, I'll make you laugh on the other side of your mouth if you don't let go of that rope/ shouted young Coville, as he saw the paved sidewalks give way to foot paths, and gardens dissolve into broad, snow-clad fields.

On they went, the farmer lad smiling so beautifully, and young Coville grating his teeth, and shouting the awful things he would do in the future.

About four miles out' of town, and as they were passing through a heavy wood, the farmer boy smiled a broad smile, and let go of the rope, and as the sleigh darted away, the rope passed under the sled, bringing it up so suddenly as to throw young Coville heels over head into the snow. When he got up, the sleigh was going over a hill, and his tormentor was throwing Agricultural kisses at him.

How Mr. Coffin Spelled it.

t ■ [From the Detroit Free Press] ' The other evening, old Mr. and Mrs. Coffin who live on Brush street, sat in t their cosy hack parlor, he reading hi i paper and she knitting, while the ; family cat, stretched out under the stove, sighed and felt sorry for cats not so well fixed. It was a happy, contented household, and there was love in his heart as Mr. Coffin put down the newspaper and remarked: ' i see' that the whole country is becoming excited about spelling schools.' 'Well, it's good to know how to spell,' replied the wife. 'I didn't have the chance some girls had, but I pride myself that I can spell almost any word that comes along.' Til see about that,' he laughed j ' come, now, spell buggy.' ' Humph! that's nothing-b-u-g-g-y, buggy,' she replied. 'Missed the first time —ha! ha!' he roared, slapping his leg. ' Not much —that was right.' llt was, eh? Well, I'd like to see anybody get two g's in buggy, I would.' ' But it is spelled with two g's, and any school-boy will tell you so,' she persisted. ' Well, I know a durn sight better than that!' he exclaimed, striking the table with his fist. ' I don't care what you know!' she squeaked ; I know that there are two g's in buggy!' 'Do you mean to tell me that I have forgotten how to spell ?' he asked. ' It looks that way.' . 'It does, eh? Well, I want you and all your relations to understand that 1 know more about spelling than the whole caboodle of you strung on a •wire!' ' And I want you to understand, Jonathan Coffin,* that you are an ignorant old blockhead when yot don't put two g's in the word buggy —yes you are!' ' Don't talk that way to me!' he warned. ' And don't shake your fist at me!' she replied. ' Who's a shaking his fist ?' ' You were!' 'That's a lie!' - ' Don't call me a liar,you old bazaar! I've put up with your meanness for forty years past; "but don't call me a liar, and don't lay a hand on me !' ' Do you want a divorce ?' he shouted, springing up; ' you can go now, this minute!' 'Don't spit in my face —don't you dare to, or I'll make a dead man of you ?' she warned. , ' I haven't spit in your freckled old visage yet, but 1 may if you provoke me farther!' ' Who's got a freckled face, you old turkey-buzzard!' Ihat was a little too much. He made a motion as if he would strike, and she seized him by the necktie. Then he reached out and grabbed her right ear and tried to lift her off her feet, but she twisted up on the neck tie until his tongue ran out. ' Let go of me, you old fiend!' she screamed. ' Git down on yer knees and beg my pardon, you old wild cat!' he replied. They surged and swayed and struggled, and the peaceful cat was struck by the overturning table and had her back broken, while the clock fell down and the pictures danced around.. The woman finally shut her husband's supply of air off and flopped him, and as she bumped his head up and down on the floor and scattered his grey hairs, she shouted: ' You want to get up another spell ing-school with me, don't you?' He was seen limping around' the yard yesterday, a. stocking around his throat, and she had court-plaster on her nose and one finger tied up. He wore the look of a martyr, while she had the bearing of a victor, and from this time out, ' buggy' will be spelled with two g's in that house.

Mend the Toys, Mother.

BY MBS. B. C. EUDE,

' Mamma, mamma, fix my moosick-box, won't you?' And little four-year-old Een trotted up and laid a dilapidated mouth-organ on my lap. It was just before Christmas, and I was so busy, and I didn't know how to stop sewing; but I did. 1 couldn't refuse —how could I ?—Ben looked at me so. Well, I worked at the thing twenty minutes, riveting on the sides and straightening them out, until at last it went as well- as ever, and little Ben trotted off tooting —or blowing, if that's any better—happy as a whole band.

Wow I took the shortest way to dis pose of Ben If I had grumbled out after this fashion: You know I'm busy, and can't be bothered!' he would have pulled my apron, and fretted for at least twenty minutes; and at the end of which time 1 might have punished him, for aught I • know. And, just think of it, I should have lost the sweet satisfaction of having him look up into my eyes with those pretty blue orbs of his and say: ' I'm so glad, mamma—> so glad you fixed my moosick —so glad ! Toot, toot! X loves my mamma; and 11 sees little Bennie in mamma's eyes ?'

O mothers-! it.isn't loßg that q{ have them withl us, they grow ' soon. They'll find life a hard r best. Some of them will find it ti and briars on either side. ,And time 3 they will sit down—oh, so w —and then they'll think back, fa and farther, until, perhaps, a, vis \ dear mamma mending a music-bo: float before them, and in that mo: j they will thrill with a joy they not known for years. It will all < j back—the gladness and it will them so. . . Dear mothers, we are singing labies to our darlings to-day that s echo and re-echo, and lull and soc as long as life lasts; and even in c nity they may sing because we sing ; them to-day; or they may wail beca we rave at them to-day. Oh, can we remember this, I w der ? Yes, you say, but it sounds har this last. You wish I hadn't said Why didn't I leave off with the lullab Why did I take up the wail ? ''Why?'l ask. j; ' Oh, because it grates.' i 'It is the truth, is it not ? You \ X lieveit?' ' Yes, it is the truth, but it stan ! out so bold and naked.' ; ' You see it, then ?' ' Yes.' 'Well, my dear woman, that,s ji , j i what I wanted.'

A Fight with a Rocking-Chai

Old M'Stinger was going to bedi little wavy the other night, and Eg ■ wishing to disturb Mrs. M'Stinger, wi has a tongue like a rattail file, | thought it just as well not to turnii the gas. He got on very well until | reached the door of the chamber wl j his patient wife lay sleeping. HereJ paused a moment, balancing on his he j like a pole on a juggler's nose. Th ] j he made a dash for it, in order to ma j j a bee line across the floor,, M I M'Stinger, with her usual exempla | forethought, had placed the rockii! I I chair with such gifted skill that no m i could come into the room without rufe ning over it ; so the first thing he kn J M'Stinger stubbedhis toe-nail off againl the rocker, which knocked the sq against the crazy bone of his knee, a|| made one of the long arms prod him 1 the stomach. Simultaneously he ft j over the chair crosswise,' and it kick! him behind his beak before he coui get up from the floor, as he stood on i fours. The engagement was now ful opened. Before M'Stinger could get i i straight his knee came down on one the long rockers behind, and the ba of the chair came down on his he I with a whack that laid him out flat« the floor; and, before he could mow the chair kicked him three times in tl j tenderest part of his ribs with the shaj J end of the rocker. This made him pa fectly furious, and he scrambled up anj made a blind rush at the chair, detef mined to blow up the enemy's worJal He ran square against the back, and|i rocked forward with him turning I complete somersault over the handlefi throwing M'Stinger half-way across til room, and landing on top of him, digjl ing into his abdomen like a bull's hornj ;as he lay spread out on the under sidj It would nave been a good thing fd! M'Stinger if he had lain still then, an let the chair have its own way. It M flat on his back, with the long poinj of the rockers embracing his abdomel and did'nt seem to want to do anythiil active just then. But M'Stingo could'nt make up his mind to give i up yet. He rolled over side-ways an] upset the chair. It fell with a eras! on his side, giving him a furious dig d the liver, which made Mm straightei his legs spasmodically, breakingohe shii from the instep to the knee on tke rockej which hung in the air; the chair getting on its feet again stood rocking backward and forward at him, like a wary old ram making feints of butting its adver sary, in order to throw him off hi guard. The blow in the- side nearlj finished M'Stinger, and while lying there rubbing his wind back again, he was just beginning to reflect whether his honour required him to proceed in the affair, when Mrs. M'Stinger suddenly began screaming all the Crimes' Act. Up to this time she had been §peechlessj| with terror, and had lain trembling j shedding perspiration, and accumula-l ting shrieking power until she gained! the screaming capacity of a camel-back] engine. She had just reached her third! sforzando fortissimo accelerando, whenjl old M'Stinger succeeded in getting on] his feet once more, and. became dimly] visible to Mrs. M'Stinger. With onefj last wild shriek, she sprank from the] bed, and made a dash for the door,! near which the rocking-chair still stood,! menacing the whole universe with a butting motion. Mrs. M'Stinger had no time for investigation just then, and she pitched into and over the rocking chair, and clear on down-stairs, the chair after her, turning over and over, and kicking Mrs. M'Stinger every bump until they both' landed in the hall below, where the chair broke all tc atoms. This ended the fight.—Colum bus Jov/rnal.

A Nevada paper says that owing to the in cursions of the chinch bug last year the two i great staples of the. State at present; are red*1 haired girls and cordwooJ. S A Long Island man ha gone to sea w.' hia soul stirred by the story of Enoch A» He wants to be wrecked and come horn' find his wife married to another man. j - A Chicago preacher has'loe' \..i* in the fourth story and dra, with a bed-cord. He say§.{s - ■ any danders about him. ' £ y