I
POETRY.
fe'
The Lesson of the Water-Mill-
J.'sten to the water-ii.ill
Tliroiigli the live-long clay ;
How tlie oUnkhig of its wlieel
Wears the hours away,
l/itiguklly the autumn winds
Stir the greeiicvood leaves;
IVom the fie'ds the reapers sing,
Binding up ttie slieaves;
And a proverb liaunts my mind,
As a spell is cast;
" The mill ctmnot grand
With the water tlmt is past."
-Viitumn winds revive no more
Leaves that once are dead ;
And tile sielcle cannot reap
Corn once gathered;
.\u(l tlie ruffled stream flows on
Trauo.uil, deep and still,
Ts'ever gliding bs-ck again
To the water-mill,
Truly sj eaks the proverb old,
With a meaning vast,
Tlie mill cannot grind
With tire water that is past."
^V(lrk while yet the clayUght shines,
Man of .et,re igth and will;
Never does tlie streamlet glide
Useless by flic mill,
■\Vait not till to-morrow’s sim
Beams upon thy way;
All that thou canst call thy own
T.ies in tliy to-d;iy;
Bower and intuHeet and health
May not alwavs la-t;
- Tlie mill cannot grind
With the w.ater that is pa-sk"
Take the lesson to thyself,
Loving heart and true ;
iGolden years arc passing by,
A'outh is passing too,
laiarn to make the most of life.
Lose no holy' day;
Time will never bring thee back
Chance swept away;
Sjcave no tender word unsaid,
I.OVC while love shall la.st;
‘•Themill cannot grind
With the water that is past,’’
Oh! the wasted years of life
That h'ave drifted by;
Oh! the good that might have been.
Lost without a sigh.
Love that we might once have saved
By a single word,
Thoiaghts conceived but never penned,
jPeri^ng unheard,
tfake the pi;ev.erb to thine heart,
'l'i(ke:a«d hold it fast,;
-“•p’lie mill cannot grind
tWitlpthe water that is past.”
Mr. Slusher, the largest man ever born
iin Tennessee,, died at Greenville in that
-.Slate last Friday. He was but nineteen
^years of age, and, had he liotcheen bent by
...an attack of-rheamatism, would have been
mine feet high. His boot was .18 inches
-long, and. one of his hands was about the
size of four ordinary ones. He could sit
o]' a chair and pick up anything three
■ feet from him. His head measured about
14 inches, a.iid his chest 72 feet in cir
cumference, His coffin was 8J feet long,
38 inches .wide, and 21 feet deep.—Ex-
yhangc.
The Regular Detective.
What He Owes to Society akb How
He Pays the Debt—Some Interest
ing Incidents.
A correspondent of the WorM, writing
of the detective system gives the following
interesting incidents:
It is very hard to make the detective
understand that he owes anything to so
ciety. His moral sense is never cultiva
ted. He quite as often prevents a crim
inal from reforming as he prevents jus
tice from overtaking him. Captain
Young once told, me of several cases
where the stupid indiscretion of the offi
cer had loaded society with outlaws. One
was that of the well known One-eyed
Thompson, who early in his career was
saved from the clutches of the law by
some friends who raised a sum of money
for him and sent him out West. He set
tled in a thriving town on the border,
and, changing his name made a most
praisworthy effort to become a useful
member of society. He opened a store,
won the respect of the townspeople, was
actually made selectman, and was in a
fair way to live long and die honored for
his many virtues when suddenly he turn
ed up on the streets here again.
“Halloo,” says Captain Young, “I
thought you had squared it and was out
West.’’
“Yes; I thought so, too,” says Thomp
son. “But it was no use ; one of your
men did my business for me !”
It seems that this detective sitting on
the new hotel, opposite to the store which
the reformed man had opened, “spotted
him.” “Well Pm blessed if there isn’t
'One-eyed Thompson !' ” Some of the
people guessed not. Oh, no! that was
Mr, Simpson, a respected and prominent
citizen.
“Oh ho! it was, eh? If that isn’t ‘One-
eyed Thompson,’ the burglar, then I’ll go
back and join the church !”
“All up,” says Thompson ; “I’m done
for. Here I am, captain. It was one of
your men that fixed me!”
And so well fixed was he that he be
came the mo.st noted law-breaker of his
day.
It is the easiest thing in the world to
hunt a man down when he is trying to be
honest with his own record against him.
There is a case on record of a young
man in a prominent dry goods house in
this city who, in a moment of temptation,
forged a check on bis employers. It was
a peculiarly painful affair. The lad was
wel'l connected, when the detectives made
the discovery it almost broke his parents’
heart. However, after some trouble the
matter was compromise. The father
paid the money, and some mitigation of
sentence was effected. With the stain
upon him he started out to redeem his
character, if he could. After wandering
about for some time he obtained a situa
tion in New Orleans as entry elerk, and
at the end of the y«ar saw a fair pros
pect of achievivjg-eaecess. His employ
ers had confidence in him, and he had
numerous reputable acquaintances.
One day, while on the sidewalk super
intending the shipment of some goods, one
of these New York men came along.
“Halloo! you here?”
“Yes,” said this young'man with his
heart in his mouth.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to earn an honest living I”
It seems incredible, but it is true.
The officer went straight into the store.
One week later the young man was in
New York.
“'God knows,” he said, “I cried as hard
as anybody could to be honest, but it’s no
use!”
Of course a detective who had the
slightest notion of his obligation as a man
to society, to say nothing of his duty as
an officer, would not have made this mis
take.
And that reminds me of another case
which ought to teach even police officers
that discretion and kindness are not with
out fruits even in this business.
Everybody in the force remembeis
Johnny Maas, He was a pickpocket, and
belonged to a mob that worked on the
west side. How he got into the compa
ny of these people it would be bard to
tell. But Le was an adroit and rather
amiable thief that scarcely ever caused
the force any trouble. It was customary
in the days of the metropolitan police to
look up all the pickpockets and “guns”
when there was to be a great celebration
or procession. They were merely order
ed to the Central office, and there kept
uutil the city was re.stored to its usual
quiet. Johnny Maas only needed to be
told to go to headquarters to report him
self there promptly. He was a young
man, rather slight in build, and some
what tacitui’n.
To the surprise of the superintendent,
he came to the office one afternoon and
inquired when all the special men would
be in. He was told he could see them in
the morning. When the morning came
ha was there. After the roll was called
the superintendent said: “Now, Johnny,
the men are all here if you want to speak
to them.”
He got up from the corner from which
he was sitting, and wringing out his cap
with his two hands, proceeded to address
them in a faltering and abashed manner :
“Well you see, I’ve concluded to square
it. You’ve been pretty rough on me for
some time, and I've got a sister that’s
got the heart disease, and she’s got it inter
her head that she’d live a bit longer if as
how I’d do the right thing, and I told
her I’d make a try of it; and if you men’ll
gimme a hand why I don’t mind makin’
it a go. I don’t want to git ‘the cholera’
no more, and if the gal ’ill live a bit
longer on my account I am willin’.”
All the men went up and shook hands
with him, and it was agreed that he
shouldn’t have “the cholera” unless he
broke through his resolution.
About a year after that, in the dead of
a severe winter, the superintendent W.as
coming through Crosby street into Bleeck-
er, and he met Johnny Maas. The fel
low was dressed in a thin bombazine coat.
He was oollarless, and his feet were ouC
and he looked hungry, pinched and
wretched.
“I’m glad you've kept your word,
Johnny. But its going pretty hard with
you, I suppose, to be honest?”
“Awful hard, sir,” said Johnny ; “but
I told her I would, and I did.”
“Th.at's right. Don’t you go back of
your word. Stick it out. You’ll have
better times by-and-bye.”
“Do you see that bank over there?”
said the young man, pointing to the mar
ble building in Bleecker street. “Well,
there s not money enough in that place to
make me go back. I’d rather go cold and
hungry and not be hunted—so I would.’’
The next summer one of the hotel pro
prietors at Long Branch sent up to the
superintendent for a man to keep an ete
on the thieves that hang around a water
ing-place. “I can get yon a man,” said
the sujierintendent, thinking of Johnny,
“but I’m bound to tell you he’s been a
thief.”
“Then I don’t want him.”
Then the superintendent told the story
I have told, only he told it better.
“Send him down,’’ said the landlofd.
“A chap that’ll do that ought to be help
ed.”
It was $25 a week to Johnny, and it
made a man of him.
During that season there wasn’t a rob
bery committed at the Branch. Johnny
stationed himself at the railroad depot,
and when he saw a former pal he warned
him off. “It's no use,” he would say,
“I don’t want to pipe none o’ you boy.s,
and I ain't goin’ to do it if j’ou stay away.
If you come here it’ll be awful hard for
both of us.”
And to their credit it ought to be said
that they always went back.
Dying Expressions.
“It is well.”—Washington.
“I must sleep now.”—Byron.
“Kiss me Hardy."'—Nelson.
“Head of the army.”—Napolean.
“Don’t give up the ship."’—Lawrence.
“Let the light enter.”—Goethe.
“Into thy hands, 0 Lord.”—Tasso.
“Independence forever.”—Adams.
“The artery has ceased to beat.”—
Haller.
“Is this your fidellity?’’—Nero.
“This is the last of earth.”—J.
Adams.
“Give Dayroles a chair.”—Lord Ches
terfield.
“A dying man does nothing well.’’ —
Franklin.
“Let not poor Nellie starve.”—Charles
III.
“What! is there no bribing death.?”—
Cardinal Reanfort.
“All my possessions for a moment of
time.”—Queen Elizabeth.
“It matters not how the head heth,”—
Sir Walter Raleigh.
“Clasp my hand, my dearest friend:
I die.”—Alfieri.
“I feel as if I were to be myself again.”
—Sir Walter Scott.
“Let me die to the sound of delicious
music.”—Mirabeau.
“I know that my Redeemer liveth,"—^
Horace Greeley.