BABYHOOD.
Heigh ho, Babyhood! Tell ine where you
linger? ', ; V-'. i:r , '
Let b toddle home again, for we nave gone
astray '"
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by
the finger
Back to the lotus land of the far-away.
Turn back the leaves of life don't read the
. 6tory . . :: .
Let's find the pictures and fancy all the
rest;
We can fill the pages with a brighter glory ,
Than old Time, fhe story-teller, at his very
best. '
Turn to the brook where the honeysuckle, tip
ping O'er its vase of perfume, spills it, on the
breeze,
And the bees and humming-birds in ecstasy
are sipping "
Prom the fairy flagons of the blooming locust
trees.
Turn to the lane where we used to teeter
toter," Printing little foot-palms in the mellow
mold
Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the
water.
Where the ripples dimple ronnd the butter- :
cups of gold.
"Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the j
gravel
Of the sunny sandbar in the middle tide,
And the ghostly dragon-fly pauses in his travel
To rest like a blpsom where the water-lily
died. " -
Heigh, ho, Babyhood! Tell mo where you
linger:
Let's toddle home again, for ,we have gone
astray
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by
the finger .
Back to the lotus land of the far-away!
James Whttcomb Eelkt.
A SPELL IN MUSIC,
W'i "' r7lt' T nad been threaten-
Xt'du1' PWk i ingrain all day, and
drew to a close it
fulfilled the promise
and began to sprin
kle. It was a cold,
dreary afternoon
that made one long
to be within doors.
The wind was rising
and clouds of dust
rolled up the avenues. It was in the
city of New York and the month was
March. Winter had really never taken
his cold hands off the weather, and it
was still bleak and raw.
A young man was rapidly walking
through a side street that lay in the di
rection of Broadway. Although it had
begun to rain he had not put up his
umbrella. His eyes were gazing blank
ly before him, and the muscles of his
mouth had a hard, drawn look. He was
slightly under the medium height, but
well made and graceful. He wore no
hair on. his face, and his eyes were dark
brown. He had on a soft felt hat that
rested lightly on a mass of black curls.
He was what he .looked to be a musi
cian. His name was PaulBianchy, and
he was recognized already by the few as
one of the rising artists. He had only
been a year in the metropolis, but mora
than once his art had been exhibited in
the prominent music halls.
"Yes," said his critics, "his future is
assured if he goes on as he has begun."
What, then, was the cause of that look
of despair on his face? Ah, .it was the
old story. The idol whom he had been
worshiping was broken, and he was left
with the scattered pieces. His dream
had ended. He had loved with all that
intensity which only - those with keen
sensibilities can, and he had found that
friendship only could be given him in
exchange for the love ho nroffered.
o x
His history was not an uncommon one.
descent. His father was a teacher of
French and Italian, and his early life had
been spent in one of the cities of cen
tral New York. While in Rochester
that was his birthplace he had met Ma
bel Normington. A boy and girl friend
ship had resulted. With her it was no
thing more; with him it was the begin
ning of a passion that was to dominate
him completely. By a change of fortune
ine iNormmgtons movea to JNew xorK.
Bianchy followed them. Miss Mabel
became a great fayorite with society, and
soon plunged into its mad whirl. In
deed it would have been strange if she
had not. To a graceful figure, a pretty
face and a graciotisness of manner that
charmed every one, she added a voice of
singular sweetness. As for Bianchy he
toiled on at his art, and slowly but sure
ly began to climb the base of Parnassus.
His success had been above the average;
but only lately "had lie felt himself in a
position to .honorably propose marriage.
He walked on in gloomy silence.
ington Park. Pausing before an old
fashioned house facing the square he.
ascended the steps and let himself in by
a private latch-key. The house had
been once in the fashionable part of the
city, but now it had changed its in
mates, and its zooms were let out to
artists, musicians and literary men, some
of them successful, but the majority
VATV waII r.KIa ir fsfn n il mnw nf frirnn'o
- J ' m vwaw r mm . . AWAVtAUW O
favors.
Entering his room on the third story,
faced the fire; but he did not stay long
. in that position. Getting up he went to
At- - j -l-l i i nr .
me wmuuwanu looKea out. n.e saw tne
lamplighter going his usual round. The
faint glow from the street fell on his
face, and it seemed to have grown old
. and gray. ;
"And so it is all ended! What a fool
I was not to have guessed it. Why
a a I rt cn. rtz tAf rf haaiaIw T l
me a struggling musician? And yet
and yet I- can't- give ! her up X can't
bear ittH And he began to traverse the
toom with, hasty strides. : A y I
"Why give her. up?"-ie seemed to
hear a' voice whisper in his ear. ' 'You
have as much-right to -wed Mabel -Normington
as has the man to whom she is
engaged." -
He laughed aloud at the last thought:
"Aye, a. thousand times more right, if
love weighed in the balance."
Throwing some coal on the fire he
pulled forward an easy chair, and sank
wearily into it. Lighting a cigar he
gazed into the glowing coals.
Night slowly settled on the city. " The
shadows grew in Bianchy's room; but
he stirred not. Save for the occasional
gleam of the cigar as he inhaled its fra
grant smoke he might have been asleep.
The roar in the streets grew less, and
presently a distant clock tower chimed
12. The noise seemed to startle Bianchy
out of his reverie. Ho was stiff and
cold, but his brain was on fire with a
new thought.
"Whithin a week she will be his. Ha!
ha! we shall 6ee." and his laugh sounded
weirdly.
Jumping to his feet, he searched ner
vously for a match. Finding one, he
lighted two candles, and hurrying with
them to the other end of the room where
stood a piano, he placed them on it, one
on each end. His face was agitated with
the spirit that raged within him. At
first his fingers ran trembling over the
keys, but gradually they obeyed their
master's will. There was no particular
tune in the wild music. But almost
imperceptibly, if one had not carefully
listened, there would come again and
again a peculiar air now leaving the
melody as if shy to be found there, and
then coming boldly forward and danc
ing through all its throbbing variations.
Through the night he played, and when
the first flush of morning appeared he
started from his seat exclaiming:
"I have found it She will not marry
him. I will prevent it!" And he seized
an empty music score and dashed, down
some notes. Then putting on his coat
he went out into the chill morning air
and took an early breakfast.
What had Bianchy found in his pro
longed playing ? Aye, a charm, a spell,
that she to whom he played it would
forget for a time where she was and
would remember only her old playmate.
The present would be blotted out, and
the past would take its place.
Bianchy, after having partaken of his
breakfast, made his way to the East Side
and took the elevated railway to Forty
seventh street. Walking westward, he
he came to a row of three-story houses.
Stopping at one, he rang the bell and
inquired for a Mr. Jones. He was ush
ered into a cosy parlor, and presently a
cheery voice exclaimed:
"Ah, Bianchy, old fellow, how are
you ? You are just in time for break
fast!" And his friend came forward with
outstretched hand.
"Thanks, but I have had mine."
"What, already?'
"Well, you know I'm a thorough-going
Bohemian and I eat when I can."
"Why, Bianchy, what is the matter
with you ?" and his friend came close to
him. "You don't look well. . What is
it"
"I did not have a good night, that is
all, Jones. I came," he continued, "o
ask you a favor. You are "going to play
the organ at the marriage of Miss Nor
mington, are you not ?"
"Yes, I have been asked to."
"I want you to let me take
place. "
your
"Why, do you know them ?"
"I how the bride very well,"
re-
turned Bianchy.
"Certainly, I have no objection. And
to tell the truth, I am very glad some
one has volunteered to take my place, be
causa I have an engagement on that
day and I would have to break it. I will
let the Normingtons know you will oc
cupy my place."
"I would rather you did not. " Just let
things go on as they are. I will simply,"
continued Bianchy, "take your place,
that is all."
"Very well, and if I can help you out
the same way any time, don't hesitate to
call on me," replied Jones.
Shortly afterward Bianchy withdrew.
The day of the weddiDg opened bright
and beautiful. There was a breath of
spring in the air that made one wish to
be out of doors. The wedding was fixed
for 4 o'clock, but long before that
hour the church was comfortably filled.
No woman especially if she be young
can resist the fascination of a wedding.
It would be hopeless to describe who
was there the many sorts and con
ditions of women, the upper ten, and
those who though they ought to be in
cluded in that number. There they all
were, eager, expectant, and shall we say
it? critical.
No one noticed a slight figure steal up
tothe organ loft; but shortly the musio
burst forth, and the buzz of conversa
tion stopped. There was, however,
something peculiar about the music, and
more than one eye was turned toward
the loft The groom and his best man
were see.n to come out and stand to tne
right of the altar. The main doors were
swung open and a betyi of bridesmaids
appeared, followed by,the bride leaning
on the ana, of her father The glad
wedding march sounded. The proces
sion moved up the aisle. But what had
come over the music ? -And what was the
matter with the beautiful' bride? .With
drawing hef arm from that of her father,
she glanced for a, moment at the organ
loft and then, putting one hand to her
forehead, she would have fallen had not
her father caught her. "My darling,
what is it 7' he exclaimed.?Look np 1"
But she looked as if she was in a sound
sleep. '
They carried her into the vestry, where
after a time she seemed to awake as if
from slumber. She wished to have the
service continued, but . the doctors for
bade it, and she was taken home. The
marriage was indefinitely postponed,
and the crowd of curiosity-seekers dis
persed with their tongues wagging about
the sights they had just witnessed.
No one saw 'the look of demoniac
triumph on Bianchy's face as he hastily
closed the organ and hurried down the
winding stair and out into the street
"Ha, ha! So my charm did work," he
cried when he found himself alone in a
deserted side street "I have found a
means to stop that accursed marriage.
Ha, ha, nd one will ever think that I was
the means of stopping that sacrifice."
Hurrying home, tired and worn out
with the strain, he threw himself on the
bed and slept soundly.
In the meantime a 'thousand . and one
inquiries were pouring in at the house
of the bride to know how she was.
Strange to say, she said she was per
fectly well and that there was absolute
ly nothing the matter with her. Her
physicians were puzzled and knew not
what to say. She said that the last
thing she remembered was walking up
the aisle on her father's arm. Then
but she knew no one would believe her
everybody and everything seemed to
vanish, and instead, she was on a lake in
a boat with an oldplaymate of hers
Paul Bianclry.'JIe was telling but
then it did not matter what he said, and
then she awoke.
It occasioned a nino days wonder in
society, which received a fresh impetus
when the wedding for the second time
was announced to take .place that day
two weeks. .
Meanwhile Bianchy was a prey to the
violent passions of revenge and love.
He sought to drown his despair in a
round of gayeties; with his Bohemian
friends he tried to drink the cup of
pleasure to the lees, but it was no use;
the iron had entered too deeply into his
soul.
It was a stormy night two days before
the wedding. Driving rain was delug
ing the streets. The wind screamed
around the house, banging to any shut
ters that had not been securely fastened.
It was the last struggle of old Winter.
In his room with haggard and blood
shot eyes Bianchy sat staring at an
empty grate. He was thinking, think
ing of all that had happened in the last
few weeks. And then came the thought
just as the idea of a spell in the music
had come to him confused and indis
tinct, at first, but gradually gaining de
finifceness: "If you love Mabel Normington, have
you shown it by keeping her from the
man she wishes to marry?"
He tried to force the question away,
to twist it so that it would agree with
his bitter feelings; but it always came
back, and, in desperation, he was com-
Eelled to answer it, and answer it he did
efore sleeping that night.
The next day he called upon Mabel
-Normington. It was late in the after
noon. She lived in a spacious house on
Madison avenue. Bianchy was shown
into a small reception room, and almost
immediately afterward Miss Norming
ton appeared. She was a trifle pale and
there was a certain restraint in her man
ner. After a few commonplaces, Bian
chy got up and shut the door. Then he
said m a voice that shook with emotion:
"Miss Normington Mabel I am
going to tell you something."
"What is it?" and her face grew white
as his.
"I played the organ on the day
you were to have been married. I dis
covered a secret in the music by which
I have a power over you which you are
not aware of I caused you to "
"Paul!"
"Aye, spurn me as I deserve. I've
played the coward. I used that power.
Forgive me, but I oh, my God I
loved you," and his voice ended in a dry
sob that went to her heart quicker than
any words.
"Paul," she said and laid one hand
on his shoulder, "I am so very sorry for
you. Can I help you."
"No but but say that you forgive
me." : -
"Why, of course I do, and Paul, won't
you play my wedding march to-morrow?"
r
Her womanly instinct had touched the
right chord. She still trusted him. His
face quivered with emotion as he stam
mered: t"- fV;-', ' ' I
" You are too good. I wish you every
success in your - new life. J May it be as
happy-TT&s.love can make'it Uood-by."
And he was gone.
To-morrow soon came, and, as before,
the church was crowded. The news of
the former attempt was still on the lips
of everyone. There was an undercur
rent of deep excitement that was only
allayed when the.organ" burst forth in a
.meny.peaLj; . V:- .Jv - v. .
"They must have got a new organist
said one lady to herfriendV" "Why it is
Bianchy who is playing. Did not you
know it?" 3
At length the main doors were opened
and the bridal procession began its march
up the aisle. Then did the organ seem
to go mad with joy and the air to pulse
with life..
Society papers the next day spoke of
the wedding as one of the greatest suc
cesses of the year, and after enumerat
ing the notabilities who were there,
closed their remarks by a special tribute
to the marvellous playing of Bianchy on
the organ.
And so the world went by. Soon for
getting about the incident of the post
poned . marriage, it became engrossed
with new schemes and plans. The
Epoch, '
Too Near the Stage.
If ever a young man has a need of all
his fibbing resources it is when he is try
ing to make a cold, cruel and inconsider
ate girl believe that the rear row of seats
in the balcony are just as good, if not
really a little more desirable, than the
$1.50 orchestra seats. As they take
their seats he says, cheerily:
"I never like to sit too near the stage,
do you?"
"Well, I don't know," she says in a
discouraging way. "Of course I don't
like to be too near."
"No; I don't either," says the young
man a trifle gloomily, "One is more apt
to see all the sham and pretense of the
thing; don't you think so?"
"Well, I I suppose so," she says in
a tone that no girl of any feeling would
ever use after she has had 75 cents
squandered on her.
"I rather prefer the balcony to any
part of the house," says the young man
cheerily and falsely.
"The front seats are very-desirable,"
she says.
"Yes, I like them; and yet, do you
know, it always makes me feel a little
dizzy to sit and look over the balcony
railing?"
"Does it?" she asks in a kind of I
know - you - are - fibbing tone. ' 'How
strange! I like the front row best of
all." '
"I tried to get seats there," he says,
'and I had a messenger boy stand in
line three hours" this is a big one
"but there wasn't an orchestra or front
balcony seat to be had when he got to
the window. All sold four days ago."
f How strange!" she says, "they must
have told the boy a story, for brother
Fred got three splendid orchestra seats
this afternoon."
"Got them from speculators, didn't
he?" says the desperate young man.
"No; he got them right at the box
office, and he said there were lots left;
so if I were vou I'd complain about it."
"I certainly will," he says earnestly,
while he makes a solemn vow that he
certainly will not take that girl, to the
theatre again as long as he lives.
The Country Editor.
"Generally speaking, the country
editor is a man of some consequence in
his community. His position, it mat
ters not how precarious it may be from a
financial point of view, is such as to
command a certain social recognition.
He finds himself invited to all the parties
and balls and picnics and weddings. He
is a mourner at every funeral, a guest at
every feast; he is the secretary at every
public meeting, the receptacle of the
confidence of aU who aspire; his advice
is sought by the young, and he is the
esteemed protege of all- the old. His
trousers may be baggy at the knees, but
the big man of the village, mindful of
the jjower of the press, stops to talk with
him in front of the post office and shows
him about town in his carriage.
"The Hon. John Quincy Adams
Sniithers, M. C, comes down from the
city to look after his fences around Po
dunk, and he makes a bee-line for the
editor's sanctum, where he cracks a
chestnut and passes around fat-looking
cigars that exhale the odor of luxury.
The presiding elder also honors the
editor's dingy den with his pious pres
ence; the president of the local railway
company sends him a pass that is, he
used to; all the farmers fetch him the
biggest ear of corn, the first watermelon,
the prize pumkin, or the banner sheaf
of wheat; and, more than all and better,
the village beauties call in bevies to
view the mysteries of the art preservative
and flirt with the editors assistant
That is the treat above all treats, and
what wonder if the editor gets to dream
ing dreams and weaving fancies with a
woof of golden hair ?" Birmingham
Age.
Robert Mansfield, the actor, who
plays the double part of "Dr. Jekyll"
and "Mr. Hyde " so effectively, showed
a Chicago reporter recently that he used
no mechanical aids whatever in making
the transformation. He said: ; I have
no mask, no pigments, no-tricks of any
kind. I stand erect, brush back my
hair, fold my arms, wear a placid ex
pression on my face. Jam 'Jekyll I
crouch, pull my hair over my forehead,
twist my mouth awry, crook my arms
and less, what am I now!" "You are
Hyde,' " said the reporter. The trans
formation was made in an instant, the
actor being in plain clothes and using
neither paint nor powder.
. . . . ; . SnelinewHi
- "CSTou know the defend
do you!" asked a kSS?
female native of the toil I
.;,lKnow which?" she ast
"The defendant, JakeT t .
"lou want to know if t v
Lynch-well, if that ain't .TT J
.Why, mister, the Lynch fa.
step-dad's father was once fhxt I
an'- " -- cor
"Then you know him?"
"mo, Jake Lynch ? Jfrfa..
Lynch. You're a strancer in tv"
ain't you?". .afteiep
If you know Jake Lynch, sav an
"If I know him ! Ii
Uxat Jake Xynch's bxrthdav
brother Hiram's is on the saiie day
"You know him, of course, then r
"Who-Jake Lynch ? AskSS
know him ! Ask him if he was 1
terdooced to Betty Skelton "
m "I don't care to ask him anrthi t
simply want to ask you if Jake
known to you personally " 1
"Pussonly ? Well, I don't knov rhi
you mean by pussonly,' but if Z
want to know if J know Jake aa" if?
knows me, I can tell you in mightr fJ!
words. Jake Lynch's father
"Now, I want you to say a
"Thought you wanted me to Bar if t
knew Jake Lynch." yai
"That's just what I do vanf
"Well, then, lemme alone an rUteB
you all about it. Jake Lynch wag bora
in Injeeany an' I was born in the
county an' "
"And of course you know him P
"Who Jake Lynch? Do he?
Jake Lynch, when the very horse he hi
here on was one he traded my can i
pair of young steers for? Why, eta,
Jake's wife was Ann Elizy Skiff, aa'bq
an' me is the same age to a day, tr
"That will do, I see that you dohai
him." .
"Know him? Know Jake? Whr
man " - .
"That will do."
"Why, I was married on a Chev&hj
an' Jake was married the next day, arf
his oldest boy an' my oldest girl is nod
the same age, an' "
"That will do."
Speed on English Railways.
"You don't know what fast trateli
means in this country."
An Englishman who had recen
made a trip throughout the Xev
land states and the West "was discossisg
our railroad system with a friend in a
cafe. .
"Don't, eh? What do yon say about
our limited express to Chicago f
"How fast do you claim thatitnnsl"
"Forty miles an hour."
"Now'listen and I'll give yon eons
gers ride from 40 to 45 miles an hour,
and nobody pays extra prices on account
of the speed. From New lork to
Albany it is 142 miles by a splendid
track. There are ten express traini
daily between these cities, and their
average speed is 20 mi!e3 an hoar. Be
tween London and Sheffield, 162 miles,
the Great Northern runs nine tniu
daily, with an average speed of 45 mflei
an hour. One train makes 50 miles u
hour! Between New York and Boston,
the average speed is 30 miles an hour,
and the fastest, a train composed exclu
sively of sleeping cars, makes 30 Jnfie
an hour. Between London and Man
chester, 203 miles, there are 20 traiti
daily, with an average speed of 41 m
an hour, and some trains making w
Between London and Glasgow,. 4W
miles, there Are 13 daily expresses, ana
their average speed is almost 40 miles 0
hour, one train being much faster U3
this" j
m "Yes, but that is only on favorei
D"Notat all. All over England vA
Scotland express trains composed
first, second and third class c&maga
make from 35 to 50 miles an hWJT!
in America a 35 mile train is cauea .
stroke of lightning. The fastest reg
train in America, so I am told, is one
the Baltimore & Ohio, which mat es
50 miles between Washington anl
more in 50 minutes. There are tnre
four fast trains between e irI 1
Philadelphia covering 46 miles sn fl
Between .Liverpool and f
there are 12 trains daily, none 01
slower than 45 miles an hour,
of them making 51 i miles an
Mail and Express.
Carrying a Ladj's Xaff.
a r; tells a storj
she had several
witTi a Kflw Orleans cousin
h a New Orleans cousiu
iting her, and who, with all h
.-rtn
visi
ness as to Northern ways - &
was exceedingly polite
winter, when large Ictftf
rr, nffs -were
for a walk the young T
fnr a trolV flP VOnnCT eW KJlT
tleman, noticing his iair
porting the large muff, mistoo
burden, and said: h
"Cousin Lucy let me tote :
skin f o you?" , , 90lcoaa &
"No, Cousin Thomas, Tee9
companion, "all the VJZr$&
Cincinnati carry them; Ja
fashion." . .1 of ?
young lady was not totin g , e
was in front of a brass ?cir
head of
the drum
Timet.
"Well, I never saw du estt5f
before," replied thejoung 1
"and that was in ew Vr7;W J