Chapter I

POSTSCRIPTS

by

O. Henry

With an Introduction

_by_

Florence Stratton

Publishers

Harper & Brothers

New York and London

MCMXXIII

Postscripts

Copyright, 1923, by Houston Post

Copyright, 1923, by Harper & Brothers

Printed in the U.S.A.

To

Mr. Roy G. Watson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

The Sensitive Colonel Jay

A Matter of Loyalty

Taking No Chances

The Other Side of It

Journalistically Impossible

The Power of Reputation

The Distraction of Grief

A Sporting Interest

Had a Use for It

The Old Landmark

A Personal Insult

Toddlekins

Reconciliation

Buying a Piano

Too Late

Nothing to Say

"Goin Home Fur Christmas"

Just a Little Damp

Her Mysterious Charm

Convinced

His Dilemma

Something for Baby

Some Day

A Green Hand

A Righteous Outburst

Getting at the Facts

Just for a Change

Too Wise

A Fatal Error

Prompt

The Rake-Off

The Telegram

An Opportunity Declined

Correcting a Great Injustice

A Startling Demonstration

Leap Year Advice

After Supper

His Only Opportunity

Getting Acquainted

Answers to Inquiries

City Perils

Hush Money

Relieved

No Time to Lose

A Villainous Trick

A Forced March

Book Reviews

A Conditional Pardon

Inconsistency

Bill Nye

To a Portrait

A Guarded Secret

A Pastel

Jim

Board and Ancestors

An X-Ray Fable

A Universal Favorite

Spring

The Sporting Editor on Culture

A Question of Direction

The Old Farm

Willing to Compromise

Ridiculous

Guessed Everything Else

The Prisoner of Zembla

Lucky Either Way

The "Bad Man"

A Slight Mistake

Delayed

A Good Story Spoiled

Revenge

No Help for It

Rileys Luck

"Not So Much a Tam Fool"

A Guess-Proof Mystery Story

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Futility

The Wounded Veteran

Her Ruse

Why Conductors Are Morose

"Only to Lie--"

The Pewee

The Sunday Excursionist

Decoration Day

Charge of the White Brigade

An Inspiration

Coming to Him

His Pension

The Winner

Hungry Henry's Ruse

A Proof of Love

One Consolation

An Unsuccessful Experiment

Superlatives

By Easy Stages

Even Worse

The Shock

The Cynic

Speaking of Big Winds

Unknown Title

An Original Idea

Calculations

A Valedictory

Solemn Thoughts

Explaining It

Her Failing

A Disagreement

An E for a Knee

The Unconquerable

An Expensive Veracity

Grounds for Uneasiness

It Covers Errors

Recognition

His Doubt

A Cheering Thought

What It Was

Vanity

Identified

The Apple

How It Started

Red Conlin's Eloquence

Why He Hesitated

Turkish Questions

Somebody Lied

Marvelous

The Confession of a Murderer

"Get Off the Earth"

The Stranger's Appeal

The Good Boy

The Colonel's Romance

A Narrow Escape

A Years Supply

Eugene Field

Slightly Mixed

Knew What Was Needed

Some Ancient News Notes

A Sure Method

Endnotes

Foreword

It is probable that with the presentation of these, among the earliest

of the writings of William Sidney Porter (O. Henry), there is nothing

left to be added to the total of his work, and that they will close,

as they in a large measure opened the career of America's greatest

short story writer.

Aside from the intrinsic merit in the newspaper writings of O. Henry

which are here given, they have the additional fascination of

disclosing to all who have read and know O. Henry from his maturer

work the budding of his genius, the first outcroppings of that style,

that vivid drawing of character, that keen sense of humor, and that

wondrous understanding of human nature which afterward marked him as

one of the world's geniuses. It is as though one might go back and

watch with eyes that have seen its fullest development and matured

beauty, the forming and unfolding of a rose; as though one who has

listened to the plaudits of centuries might go back four hundred years

and see and study Raphael as he began to wield the brush which

subsequently wrought such wonderful magic.

Having a high appreciation of the genius of O. Henry, the compiler

took occasion while spending a year in Austin, Texas, where O. Henry

had lived, to ask his friends and neighbors about him. Among them was

Mr. Ed McLean, secretary to the railroad commission, a personal friend

of O. Henry's, who told her about the column O. Henry had conducted on

the Houston _Post_. He thought O. Henry must have worked for the

_Post_ some time in the latter part of 1896 to the fall of 1897.

A visit to the Houston _Post_ office and a search through the

files of that period were without results. But a call on Mr. A. E.

Clarkson, who was with the _Post_ then and who is now business

manager of the _Post_, was more successful. Mr. Clarkson looked

up the old records in the business office, showing when O. Henry

received pay checks, which served as a guide to pages of a year

earlier, where the altogether distinctive touch of O. Henry proved

that the goal was reached. Here was found the same discernment, the

same insight, the same humor, the same style which runs through all

his work like a marked thread interwoven into a rare fabric. In many

of the brief paragraphs and short stories were found the idioplasm

which in the rich soil of his fuller experience grew into some of the

masterpieces of his later life.

Thus in the files of the Houston _Post_ of the period between

October 18, 1895, and June 22, 1896, were found the writings which

make up this volume. It was characteristic of O. Henry's modesty that

these were unsigned. They are published as they originally appeared in

"Tales of the Town," "Postscripts and Pencillings," and "Some

Postscripts," under which titles O. Henry wrote at different times

during his association with the _Post_.

But the rediscovery of this work was not enough. To identify it as

beyond question of doubt as that of O. Henry was imperative. To have

offered these writings with less of precaution would have savored of

literary vandalism, if not sacrilege. This identification has been

made, and its sources are herewith given the reader as a part of the

introduction of this volume.

Here is an account by Mr. R. M. Johnston, who formerly controlled the

Houston _Post_, of how he gave O. Henry the job in which he was

first to demonstrate his remarkable story-telling gifts:

Houston, Texas, October 21, 1922.

Miss Florence Stratton,

Beaumont, Texas.

My dear Miss Stratton:

You asked me to write some incidents of O. Henry's

connection with the Houston _Post_ when I controlled

that newspaper and I am glad to comply with your request.

The first thing I ever heard of Mr. Porter, whose

writing name was O. Henry, was when some one sent me a copy

of the little publication, "The Rolling Stone," published in

Austin. This was sent me by Mr. Ed McLean, Secretary of the

Railroad Commission, a mutual friend of Mr. Porter and

myself. Mr. McLean made the suggestion that Porter would be

worth considering for a place as a writer on the

_Post_. After reading _The Rolling Stone_ I made

an appointment through Mr. McLean with Mr. Porter, who was

at that time an employe of one of the banks at Austin.

Subsequently I met him and made a contract with him to join

the _Post_ editorial staff which he did in a short

time. While on the paper his duties were somewhat of a

varied nature. He had, however, a column on the editorial

page daily filled with witticism, quaint little stories,

etc. He also did some special assignment work in a very

magnificent way.

One morning while sitting at my desk he came to my

office in his usual quiet, dignified way and laid a piece of

cardboard on my table with the remark, "I don't suppose you

will want this, but I thought I would let you look at it,"

and he walked out. After he had gone, I picked up the

cardboard and found it was an unusual cartoon. I was so

struck with it that I took it to his room and remarked,

"Porter, did you do this?" He looked up with a faint smile,

and said "Yes." I said to him that I did not know that he

was a cartoonist, and his reply was that he did that kind of

work for his own amusement at odd times.

To make a long story short, we were in the midst of a

very warm political campaign in Texas and during the

campaign he drew some of the most magnificent cartoons that

I have ever seen in print anywhere. They attracted

attention, not only in Texas, but were copied freely

throughout the United States.

Mr. Porter was a lovely character and one of the

brightest men that I have ever come in contact with. He was

modest, almost to the fault of self-effacement. His leaving

the Houston _Post_ was an irretrievable loss to the

paper, but the means possibly of developing the greatest

short story writer of this or any other age.

Very sincerely your friend,

(Signed) R. M. Johnston.

A letter from former Governor Hobby of Texas, who worked with O. Henry

on the _Post_ during the time that he was producing the column:

Office of

W. P. HOBBY

Houston,

Texas.

502 Carter Building, Houston, Texas. October 10, 1922.

Miss Florence Stratton,

Beaumont, Texas.

My dear Miss Stratton:

In the first years of my employment by the Houston

_Post_, O. Henry, whose name was Sidney Porter, was a

member of the _Post_ staff. As is well known, Mr.

Porter began his daily journalistic work as a special

feature writer for the Houston _Post_ and the human

interest and literary attractiveness of his writings were

a source of delight to Texas readers.

I enjoyed my acquaintance and association with Mr.

Porter while a youth in the business office of the Houston

_Post_ and not only the stories that he would write,

but those he would tell me, made a deep impression on my

mind.

Mr. Porter's work was that of publishing a special

feature column, "Some Postscripts and Pencillings" on the

editorial page of the _Post_ during 1895-96, and I

think a reproduction of his daily writings in that column,

which then were followed by the readers of the Texas

newspaper readers of the nation.

Yours very truly,

(Signed) W. P. Hobby.

Mr. A. E. Clarkson, secretary-treasurer of the Houston _Post_,

authenticates the O. Henry column from his personal knowledge.

Houston, Texas.

October 16, 1922.

Miss Florence Stratton,

2020 Harrison,

Beaumont, Texas.

My dear Miss Stratton:

In reply to your letter of October 15, I find that Mr.

Porter, afterward known as O. Henry, was on the payroll of

the Houston _Post_ from October 1895 to June 1896.

During that time Mr. Porter wrote, and there was

published from time to time in the columns of the

_Post_ various articles headed "Some Postscripts" and

"Postscripts and Pencillings."

The writer was also connected with the _Post_

during this period, being in the business office. He was

personally acquainted with Mr. Porter and knows of his own

knowledge that the articles headed as stated above were

written by him.

Yours truly,

THE HOUSTON POST

(Signed) A. E. Clarkson,

_Business Manager_.

Neither the compilation, verification, nor publication of these

newspaper writings of O. Henry would have been possible without the

co-operation of Mr. Roy G. Watson, present proprietor and publisher of

the Houston _Post_, whose consent for their publication has been

generously given; and of Governor William P. Hobby, Colonel R. M.

Johnston, and Mr. A. E. Clarkson, all associated with the _Post_

during O. Henry's employment, and to these, whose attestation of

authenticity of this work is herewith given, the compiler is grateful.

The doing of this work has been a labor of love, and if the result is

to add to the luster of O. Henry's name the writer shall have been

repaid.

No pen is so facile as to add to or detract from the fame of William

Sidney Porter. The flame of his genius has been extinguished, but what

he wrought in a vast understanding of humanity will ever illuminate

American literature.

Florence Stratton.

April, 1923.

O. HENRY ON THE HOUSTON _POST_

_With respect to O. Henry's services, the Houston Post states as

follows_:

Between musty covers of the _Post_ files from October, 1895, to

July, 1896, are cross-sections of life drawn by a master artist;

vignettes as perfect and as beautiful as the finest Amsterdam diamond.

Only they are comparatively unknown because they have been

overshadowed by larger and more brilliant creations of the same master

hand.

Verses beautiful and appealing; description, touched by wonderful

imagery; dialogue, the lines of which sparkle with wit and

understanding of human frailties!

They make up O. Henry's "Tales of the Town," his "Postscripts and

Pencillings," and his "Some Postscripts." Save for the publication for

a brief space of _The Rolling Stone_, a rollicking sheet that was

issued irregularly over the period of several months, they represent

the sum total of O. Henry's newspaper writings.

All too brief to suit lovers of O. Henry's work, they nevertheless

betray the writer's knack of getting at the heart and mind of his

fellow beings. They show him as well acquainted with the newsdealer on

the corner as with his favorite hotel clerk; as much at home in

talking with a puncher from the Panhandle as in conversing with a

drummer from St. Louis. Into them the master of the short story

managed to crowd uncanny description, insight into human nature, and

the highly dramatic.

O. Henry came to the _Post_ at the invitation of its editor and

his first column appeared in the _Post_ on October 18th entitled

"Tales of the Town." The caption soon changed to "Postscripts and

Pencillings" and later still to "Some Postscripts."

Some days a column of seven-point! Others only half a column. Still

others when "Some Postscripts" failed to appear at all.

But always, whatever the quantity, the quality of O. Henry's output

remained at high level.

As in the later days in New York, O. Henry was exceedingly modest and

shy. He "took a little getting acquainted with" according to tradition

handed down. A quiet, unassuming chap, with eyes which seemingly saw

little and yet took in everything, the new member of the staff soon

acquired a reputation of being the best listener in town. In addition,

he was a painstakingly accurate reporter and observer.

O. Henry came to the _Post_ under his real name of Sidney Porter,

but it was as "The Post Man" that he referred to himself in his

writings. The pronoun "I" seldom appeared.

According to friends, O. Henry, or Sidney Porter, possessed the most

valuable trick of the interviewer. When the telling of a story lagged

momentarily, he would insert just the right question in just the right

place. And this show of interest never failed to stimulate the teller

to a fresh spurt.

Favorite haunts in Houston were the lobby of the old Hutchins House,

the Grand Central Depot, and the street corners. He used to sit for

hours in the hotel, his eyes playing over the faces of guests. Mayhap

he was studying types, who knows? Certain, though, it is that hotel

attaches grew to love the author of "Some Postscripts," and they

frequently went out of their way to send him word of stories on the

old hotel's ancient register.

At the Grand Central Depot--Grand Central then as now--"The Post Man"

was loved by all who knew him. From station master to porter, from

superintendent to telegraph operator, the writer of "Some Postscripts"

got help and inspiration for many of his brilliant anecdotes and human

interest stories.

Then, as later in New York, it was the man in the street who claimed

his chief attention. Feted though he was by some who thought to

patronize him, "The Post Man" refused to allow his head to be turned

by admiration. He continued the even tenor of his way, writing the

things which most appealed to him.

Abundant and spontaneous as was O. Henry's literary output, his jokes

were never barbed. There is no record of anyone ever coming to the

_Post_ editorial room to "lick" the author of "Some Postscripts."

Rather there came to him many picturesque figures of the Southwest,

eager to make the acquaintance of the rising young "colyumist."

At a time when bicycles and bloomers were agitating the news writers

of the country, O. Henry took delight in caricaturing the customs. His

sketches of bloomered, career-seeking women and timid husbands are at

once a delight and a revelation.

O. Henry's brilliant style, together with his never-flagging wit and

his seemingly inexhaustible fund of anecdote quickly captured his

contemporaries among Texas newspaper men. "The man, woman, or child,"

wrote an exchange in 1896, "who pens 'Some Postscripts' in the Houston

_Post_, is a weird genius, and ought to be captured and put on

exhibition."

It was soon after this that O. Henry was advised to go to New York,

where his ability would command a higher remuneration. But after

making all preparations to try his wings in the great metropolis, Fate

intervened and O. Henry went instead to South America.

The last columns of O. Henry's brilliant paragraphs appeared in the

_Post_ of June 22, 1896.

The Sensitive Colonel Jay

The sun is shining brightly, and the birds are singing merrily in the

trees! All nature wears an aspect of peace and harmony. On the porch

of a little hotel in a neighboring county a stranger is sitting on a

bench waiting for the train, quietly smoking his pipe.

Presently a tall man wearing boots and a slouch hat, steps to the door

of the hotel from the inside with a six-shooter in his hand and fires.

The man on the bench rolls over with a loud yell as the bullet grazes

his ear. He springs to his feet in amazement and wrath and shouts:

"What are you shooting at me for?"

The tall man advances with his slouch hat in his hand, bows and says:

"Beg pardon, sah. I am Colonel Jay, sah, and I understood you to

insult me, sah, but I see I was mistaken. Am very glad I did not kill

you, sah."

"I insult you--how?" inquires the stranger. "I never said a word."

"You tapped on the bench, sah, as much as to say you was a woodpeckah,

sah, and I belong to the other faction. I see now that you was only

knockin' the ashes from you' pipe, sah. I ask yo' pahdon, and that you

will come in and have a drink with me, sah, to show that you do not

harbor any ill feeling after a gentleman apologizes to you, sah."

A Matter of Loyalty

Two men were talking at the Grand Central depot yesterday, and one of

them was telling about a difficulty he had recently been engaged in.

"He said I was the biggest liar ever heard in Texas," said the man,

"and I jumped on him and blacked both his eyes in about a minute."

"That's right," said the other man, "a man ought to resent an

imputation of that sort right away."

"It wasn't exactly that," said the first speaker, "but Tom Achiltree

is a second cousin of mine, and I won't stand by and hear any man

belittle him."

Taking No Chances

"Let's see," said the genial manager as he looked over the atlas.

"Here's a town one might strike on our way back. Antananarivo, the

capital of Madagascar, is a city of 100,000 inhabitants."

"That sounds promising," said Mark Twain, running his hands through

his busy curls, "read some more about it."

"The people of Madagascar," continued the genial manager, reading from

his book, "are not a savage race and few of the tribes could be

classed as barbarian people. There are many native orators among them,

and their language abounds in figures, metaphors, and parables, and

ample evidence is given of the mental ability of the inhabitants."

"Sounds like it might be all right," said the humorist, "read some

more."

"Madagascar is the home," read the manager, "of an enormous bird

called the epyornis, that lays an egg 15 1/2 by 9 1/2 in. in size,

weighing from ten to twelve pounds. These eggs--"

"Never mind reading any more," said Mark Twain. "We will not go to

Madagascar."

The Other Side of It

There is an item going the rounds of the press relative to the

well-known curiosity of woman. It states that if a man brings a

newspaper home out of which a piece has been clipped his wife will

never rest until she has procured another paper to see what it was

that had been cut out.

A Houston man was quite impressed with the idea, so he resolved to

make the experiment. One night last week he cut out of the day's paper

a little two-inch catarrh cure advertisement, and left the mutilated

paper on the table where his wife would be sure to read it.

He picked up a book and pretended to be interested, while he watched

her glance over the paper. When she struck the place where the piece

had been cut, she frowned and seemed to be thinking very seriously.

However, she did not say anything about it and the man was in doubt as

to whether her curiosity had been aroused or not.

The next day when he came home to dinner she met him at the door with

flashing eyes and an ominous look about her jaw.

"You miserable, deceitful wretch!" she cried. "After living all these

years with you to find that you have been basely deceiving me and

leading a double life, and bringing shame and sorrow upon your

innocent family! I always thought you were a villain and a reprobate,

and now I have positive proof of the fact."

"Wh--wha--what do you mean, Maria?" he gasped. "I haven't been doing

anything."

"Of course you are ready to add lying to your catalogue of vices.

Since you pretend not to understand me--look at this."

She held up to his gaze a complete paper of the issue of the day

before.

"You thought to hide your actions from me by cutting out part of the

paper, but I was too sharp for you."

"Why that was just a little joke, Maria. I didn't think you would take

it seriously. I--"

"Do you call that a joke, you shameless wretch?" she cried, spreading

the paper before him.

The man looked and read in dismay. In cutting out the catarrh

advertisement he had never thought to see what was on the other side

of it, and this was the item that appeared, to one reading the other

side of the page, to have been clipped:

A gentleman about town, who stands well in business

circles, had a high old time last night in a certain

restaurant where he entertained at supper a couple of

chorus ladies belonging to the comic opera company now in

the city. Loud talking and breaking of dishes attracted

some attention, but the matter was smoothed over, owing to

the prominence of the gentleman referred to.

"You call that a joke, do you, you old reptile," shrieked the excited

lady. "I'm going home to mamma this evening and I'm going to stay

there. Thought you'd fool me by cutting it out, did you? You sneaking,

dissipated old snake you! I've got my trunk nicely packed and I'm

going straight home--don't you come near me!"

"Maria," gasped the bewildered man. "I swear I--"

"Don't add perjury to your crimes, sir!"

The man tried unsuccessfully to speak three or four times, and then

grabbed his hat and ran downtown. Fifteen minutes later he came back

bringing two new silk dress patterns, four pounds of caramels, and his

bookkeeper and three clerks to prove that he was hard at work in the

store on the night in question.

The affair was finally settled satisfactorily, but there is one

Houston man who has no further curiosity about woman's curiosity.

Journalistically Impossible

"Did you report that suicide as I told you to do last night?" asked

the editor of the new reporter, a graduate of a school of journalism.

"I saw the corpse, sir, but found it impossible to write a description

of the affair."

"Why?"

"How in the world was I to state that the man's throat was cut from

ear to ear when he had only one ear?"

The Power of Reputation

One night last week in San Antonio a tall, solemn-looking man, wearing

a silk hat, walked into a hotel bar from the office, and stood by the

stove where a group of men were sitting smoking and talking. A fat

man, who noticed him go in, asked the hotel clerk who it was. The

clerk told his name and the fat man followed the stranger into the

barroom, casting at him glances of admiration and delight.

"Pretty cold night, gentlemen, for a warm country," said the man in

the silk hat.

"Oh--ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" yelled the fat man, bursting into a loud laugh.

"That's pretty good."

The solemn man looked surprised and went on warming himself at the

stove.

Presently one of the men sitting by the stove said:

"That old Turkey over in Europe doesn't seem to be making much noise

now."

"No," said the solemn man, "it seems like the other nations are doing

all the gobbling."

The fat man let out a yell and laid down and rolled over and over on

the floor. "Gosh ding it," he howled, "that's the best thing I ever

heard. Ah--ha--ha--ha--ha--ha! Come on, gentlemen, and have something on

that."

The invitation seemed to all hands to be a sufficient apology for all

his ill-timed merriment, and they ranged along the bar. While the

drinks were being prepared, the fat man slipped along the line and

whispered something in the ear of everyone, except the man with the

silk hat. When he got through a broad smile spread over the faces of

the crowd.

"Well, gentlemen, here's fun!" said the solemn man as he raised his

glass.

The whole party, with one accord, started off into a perfect roar of

laughter, spilling half their drinks on the bar and floor.

"Did you ever hear such a flow of wit?" said one.

"Chock full of fun, ain't he?"

"Same old fellow he used to be."

"Best thing that's been got off here in a year."

"Gentlemen," said the solemn man, "there seems to be a conspiracy

among you to guy me. I like a joke myself, but I like to know what I'm

being hurrahed about."

Three men lay down in the sawdust and screamed, and the rest fell in

chairs and leaned against the bar in paroxysms of laughter. Then three

or four of them almost fought for the honor of setting them up again.

The solemn man was suspicious and watchful, but he drank every time

anyone proposed to treat. Whenever he made a remark, the whole gang

would yell with laughter until the tears ran from their eyes.

"Well," said the solemn man, after about twenty rounds had been paid

for by the others, "the best of friends must part. I've got to get to

my downy couch."

"Good!" yelled the fat man. "Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha! 'Downy couch' is good.

Best thing I ever heard. You are as good, by Gad, as you ever were.

Never heard such impromptu wit. Texas is proud of you, old boy."

"Good night, gentlemen," said the solemn man. "I've got to get up

early in the morning and go to work."

"Hear that!" shouted the fat man. "Says he's got to work.

Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!"

The whole crowd gave a parting roar of laughter as the solemn man

walked to the door. He stopped for a moment and said: "Had a very

(hic) pleasant evening (hic) gents. Hope'll shee you (hic) 'n mornin'.

Here'sh my card. Goo' night."

The fat man seized the card and shook the solemn man's hand. When he

had gone, he glanced at the card, and his face took on a serious

frown.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you all know who our friend is that we have been

entertaining, don't you?"

"Of course; you said it was Alex Sweet, the 'Texas Siftings' man."

"So I understood," said the fat man. "The hotel clerk said it was Alex

Sweet."

He handed them the card and skipped out the side door. The card read:

L. X. Wheat

Representing Kansas City

Smith and Jones Mo.

Wholesale Undertakers' Supplies

The crowd was out $32 on treats, and they armed themselves and are

laying for the fat man. When a stranger attempts to be funny in San

Antonio now, he has to produce proper credentials in writing before he

can raise a smile.

The Distraction of Grief

The other day a Houston man died and left a young and charming widow

to mourn his loss. Just before the funeral, the pastor came around to

speak what words of comfort he could, and learn her wishes regarding

the obsequies. He found her dressed in a becoming mourning costume,

sitting with her chin in her hand, gazing with far-off eyes in an

unfathomable sea of retrospection.

The pastor approached her gently, and said: "Pardon me for intruding

upon your grief, but I wish to know whether you prefer to have a

funeral sermon preached, or simply to have the service read."

The heartbroken widow scarcely divined his meaning, so deeply was she

plunged in her sorrowful thoughts, but she caught some of his words,

and answered brokenly:

"Oh, red, of course. Red harmonizes so well with black."

A Sporting Interest

It is a busy scene in the rear of one of Houston's greatest

manufacturing establishments. A number of workmen are busy raising

some heavy object by means of blocks and tackles. Somehow, a rope is

worn in two by friction, and a derrick falls. There is a hurried

scrambling out of the way, a loud jarring crash, a cloud of dust, and

a man stretched out dead beneath the heavy timbers.

The others gather round and with herculean efforts drag the beams from

across his mangled form. There is a hoarse murmur of pity from rough

but kindly breasts, and the question runs around the group, "Who is to

tell her?"

In a neat little cottage near the railroad, within their sight as they

stand, a bright-eyed, brownhaired young woman is singing at her work,

not knowing that death has snatched away her husband in the twinkling

of an eye.

Singing happily at her work, while the hand that she had chosen to

protect and comfort her through life lies stilled and fast turning to

the coldness of the grave!

These rough men shrink like children from telling her. They dread to

bear the news that will change her smiles to awful sorrow and

lamentation.

"You go, Mike," three or four of them say at once. "'Tis more lamin'

ye have than any av us, whatever, and ye'll be afther brakin' the news

to her as aisy as ye can. Be off wid ye now, and shpake gently to

Tim's poor lassie while we thry to get the corpse in shape."

Mike is a pleasant-faced man, young and stalwart, and with a last look

at his unfortunate comrade he goes slowly down the street toward the

cottage where the fair young wife--alas, now a widow--lives.

When he arrives, he does not hesitate. He is tenderhearted, but

strong. He lifts the gate latch and walks firmly to the door. There is

something in his face, before he speaks, that tells her the truth.

"What was it?" she asks, "spontaneous combustion or snakes?"

"Derrick fell," says Mike.

"Then I've lost my bet," she says. "I thought sure it would be

whisky."

Life, messieurs, is full of disappointments.

Had a Use for It

A strong scent of onions and the kind of whisky advertised "for

mechanical purposes" came through the keyhole, closely followed by an

individual bearing a bulky manuscript under his arm about the size of

a roll of wall paper.

The individual was of the description referred to by our English

cousins as "one of the lower classes," and by Populist papers as "the

bone and sinew of the country," and the scene of his invasion was the

sanctum of a great Texas weekly newspaper.

The editor sat at his desk with his hands clenched in his scanty hair,

gazing despairingly at a typewritten letter from the house where he

bought his paper supply.

The individual drew a chair close to the editor and laid the heavy

manuscript upon the desk, which creaked beneath its weight.

"I've worked nineteen hours upon it," he said, "but it's done at

last."

"What is it?" asked the editor, "a lawn mower?"

"It is an answer, sir, to the President's message: a refutation of

each and every one of his damnable doctrines, a complete and scathing

review of every assertion and every false insidious theory that he has

advanced."

"About how many--er--how many pounds do you think it contains?" said the

editor thoughtfully.

"Five hundred and twenty-seven pages, sir, and--"

"Written in pencil on one side of the paper?" asked the editor, with a

strange light shining in his eye.

"Yes, and it treats of--"

"You can leave it," said the editor, rising from his chair. "I have no

doubt I can use it to advantage."

The individual, with a strong effort, collected his breath and

departed, feeling that a fatal blow had been struck at those in high

places.

Ten minutes later six india-rubber erasers had been purchased, and the

entire office force were at work upon the manuscript.

The great weekly came out on time, but the editor gazed pensively at

his last month's unreceipted paper bill and said:

"So far, so good; but I wonder what we will print on next week!"

The Old Landmark

He was old and feeble and his sands of life were nearly run out. He

walked with faltering steps along one of the most fashionable avenues

in the city of Houston. He had left the city twenty years ago, when it

was little more than a thriving village, and now, weary of wandering

through the world and filled with an unutterable longing to rest his

eyes once more upon the scenes of his youth, he had come back to find

a bustling modern city covering the site of his former home. He sought

in vain for some familiar object, some old time sight that would

recall memories of bygone days. All had changed. On the site where his

father's cottage had stood, a stately mansion reared its walls; the

vacant lot where he had played when a boy, was covered with modern

buildings. Magnificent lawns stretched on either hand, running back to

palatial dwellings. Not one of the sights of his boyhood days was

left.

Suddenly, with a glad cry, he rushed forward with renewed vigor. He

saw before him, untouched by the hand of man and unchanged by time, an

old familiar object around which he had played when a child. He

reached out his arms and ran toward it with a deep sigh of

satisfaction.

Later on they found him asleep, with a peaceful smile on his face,

lying on the old garbage pile in the middle of the street, the sole

relic of his boyhood's recollections.

A Personal Insult

Young lady in Houston became engaged last summer to one of the famous

shortstops of the Texas baseball league.

Last week he broke the engagement, and this is the reason why.

He had a birthday last Tuesday and she sent him a beautiful bound and

illustrated edition of Coleridge's famous poem, "The Ancient Mariner."

The hero of the diamond opened the book with a puzzled look.

"What's dis bloomin' stuff about, anyways?" he said, and read:

It is the Ancient Mariner

And he stoppeth one of three--

The famous shortstop threw the book out the window, stuck out his chin

and said:

"No Texas sis can gimme de umpire face like dat. I swipes nine daisy

cutters outer ten dat comes in my garden, I do."

Toddlekins

Toddlekins climbed up the long, long stair;

Chubby and fat and round was he;

With rosy cheeks and curling hair,

Jolly and fair and gay was he.

Toddlekins knocked on the office door;

Within at a desk a stern man sat;

Wrote with a pen while a frown he wore,

When he heard on the door a rat-tat-tat.

Toddlekins cried, "Oh please let me in!

I've come to see you, the door is fast!"

Oh, voice so soft, it will surely win

The heart of the stern, cold man at last!

But he heeded not the pleading cry

Of Toddlekins out on the lonely stair;

And Toddlekins left with a sorrowful sigh,

Toddlekins round, and chubby and fair,

Oh, man so stem, when you stand and plead

At the door of your Father's house on high;

What if he, merciless, pay no heed;

Pitiless, turns from your helpless cry!

But the man wrote on with a stony stare;

He was an editor, poor and ill;

And Toddlekins, chubby and round and fair,

Was a butcher that brought a big meat bill.

Reconciliation

A One-Act Drama

Dramatis Personae

A Houston married couple.

Scene--Her boudoir.

He

And now, Viola, since we understand each other, let us

never fall out again. Let us forget the bitter words that we

have spoken one to another, and resolve to dwell always in

love and affection. [Places his arm around her waist.]

She

Oh, Charles, you don't know how happy you make me! Of

course we will never quarrel again. Life is too short to

waste in petty bickerings and strife. Let us keep in the

primrose path of love, and never stray from it any more. Oh,

what bliss to think you love me and nothing can ever come

between us! Just like the old days when we used to meet by

the lilac hedge, isn't it? [Lays her head on his shoulder.]

He

Yes, and when I used to pull blossoms and twine them in

your hair and call you Queen Titania.

She

Oh, that was nice. I remember. Queen Titania? Oh, yes,

she was one of Shakespeare's characters, who fell in love

with a man with a donkey's head.

He

H'm!

She

Now don't. I didn't mean you. Oh, Charles, listen to the

Christmas chimes! What a merry day it will be for us. Are

you sure you love me as well as you used to?

He

More. _Smack._

She

Does 'em fink me sweet?

He

_Smack. Smack!_

She

Wuz 'em's toodleums?

He

Awful heap. Who do you wuv?

She

My ownest own old boy.

Both

_Smack!_

He

Listen, the bells are chiming again. We should be doubly

happy, love, for we have passed through stormy seas of doubt

and anger. But now, a light is breaking, and the rosy dawn

of love has returned.

She

And should abide with us forever. Oh, Charles, let us

never again by word or look cause pain to each other.

He

Never again. And you will not scold any more?

She

No, dearest. You know I never have unless you gave me

cause.

He

Sometimes you have become angry and said hard things

without any reason.

She

Maybe you think so, but I don't. [Lifts her head from

his shoulder.]

He

I know what I'm talking about. [Takes his arm from her

waist.]

She

You come home cross because you haven't got sense enough

to conduct your business properly, and take your spite out

on me.

He

You make me tired. You get on your ear because you are

naturally one of the cain-raising, blab-mouthed kind and

can't help it.

She

You old crosspatch of a liar from Liarsville, don't you

talk to me that way or I'll scratch your eyes out.

He

You blamed wildcat. I wish I had been struck by

lightning before I ever met you.

She

[Seizing the broom.] Biff! biff! biff.

He

[After reaching the sidewalk] I wonder if Colonel

Ingersoll is right when he says suicide is no sin!

[Curtain]

Buying a Piano

A Houston man decided a few days ago to buy his wife a piano for a

Christmas present. Now, there is more competition, rivalry, and push

among piano agents than any other class of men. The insurance and

fruit tree businesses are mild and retiring in comparison with the

piano industry. The Houston man, who is a prominent lawyer, knew this,

and he was careful not to tell too many people of his intentions, for

fear the agents would annoy him. He inquired in a music store only

once, regarding prices, etc., and intended after a week or so to make

his selection.

When he left the store he went around by the post-office before going

back to work.

When he reached his office he found three agents perched on his desk

and in his chair waiting for him.

One of them got his mouth open first, and said: "Hear you want to buy

a piano, sir. For sweetness, durability, finish, tone, workmanship,

style, and quality the Steingay is--"

"Nixy," said another agent, pushing in between them and seizing the

lawyer's collar. "You get a Chitterling. Only piano in the world. For

sweetness, durability, finish, tone, workmanship--"

"Excuse me," said the third agent. "I can't stand by and see a man

swindled. The Chronic and Bark piano, for sweetness, durability,

finish--"

"Get out, every one of you," shouted the lawyer. "When I want a piano

I'll buy the one I please. Get out of the room!"

The agents left, and the lawyer went to work on a brief. During the

afternoon, five of his personal friends called to recommend different

makes of pianos, and the lawyer began to get snappish.

He went out and got a drink and the bartender said: "Say, gent, me

brudder works in a piano factory and he gimme de tip dat you'se wants

to buy one of de tum-tums. Me brudder says dat for sweetness,

durability, finish--"

"Devil take your brother," said the lawyer.

He got on the street car to go home and four agents were already

aboard waiting for him. He dodged back before they saw him and stood

on the platform. Presently the brakeman leaned over and whispered in

his ear:

"Frien', the Epperson piano what me uncle handles in East Texas, fur

sweetness, durability--"

"Stop the car," said the lawyer. He got off and skulked in a dark

doorway until the four agents, who had also got off the car, rushed

past, and then he picked up a big stone from the gutter and put it in

his pocket. He went around a back way to his home and slipped up to

the gate feeling pretty safe.

The minister of his church had been calling at the house, and came out

the gate just as the lawyer reached it. The lawyer was the proud

father of a brand-new, two-weeks-old baby, and the minister had just

been admiring it, and wanted to congratulate him.

"My dear brother," said the minister. "Your house will soon be filled

with joy and music. I think it will be a great addition to your life.

Now, there is nothing in the world that for sweetness--"

"Confound you, you're drumming for a piano, too, are you?" yelled the

lawyer, drawing the stone from his pocket. He fired away and knocked

the minister's tall hat across the street, and kicked him in the shin.

The minister believed in the church militant, and he gave the lawyer a

one-two on the nose, and they clinched and rolled off the sidewalk on

a pile of loose bricks. The neighbors heard the row and came out with

shotguns and lanterns, and finally an understanding was arrived at.

The lawyer was considerably battered up, and the family doctor was

sent for to patch him. As the doctor bent over him with

sticking-plaster and a bottle of arnica, he said:

"You'll be out in a day or two, and then I want you to come around and

buy a piano from my brother. The one he is agent for is acknowledged

to be the best one for sweetness, durability, style, quality, and

action in the world."

Too Late

Young Lieutenant Baldwin burst excitedly into his general's room and

cried hoarsely: "For God's sake, General! Up! Up! and come. Spotted

Lightning has carried off your daughter, Inez!"

General Splasher sprang to his feet in dismay. "What," he cried, "not

Spotted Lightning, the chief of the Kiomas, the most peaceful tribe in

the reservation?"

"The same."

"Good heavens! You know what this tribe is when aroused?"

The lieutenant cast a swift look of intelligence at his commander.

"They are the most revengeful, murderous, and vindictive Indians in

the West when on the warpath, but for months they have been the most

peaceable," he answered.

"Come," said the general, "we have not a moment to lose. What has been

done?"

"There are fifty cavalrymen ready to start, with Bowie Knife Bill, the

famous scout, to track them."

Ten minutes later the general and the lieutenant, with Bowie Knife

Bill at their side, set out at a swinging gallop at the head of the

cavalry column.

Bowie Knife Bill, with the trained instincts of a border sleuthhound,

followed the trail of Spotted Lightning's horse with unerring

swiftness.

"Pray God we may not be too late," said the general as he spurred his

panting steed--"and Spotted Lightning, too, of all the chiefs! He has

always seemed to be our friend."

"On, on," cried Lieutenant Baldwin, "there may yet be time."

Mile after mile the pursuers covered, pausing not for food or water,

until nearly sunset.

Bowie Knife Bill pointed to a thin column of smoke in the distance and

said:

"Thar's the varmints' camp."

The hearts of all the men bounded with excitement as they neared the

spot.

"Are we in time?" was the silent question in the mind of each.

They dashed into an open space of prairie and drew rein near Spotted

Lightning's tent. The flap was closed. The troopers swung themselves

from their horses.

"If it is as I fear," muttered the general hoarsely to the lieutenant,

"it means war with the Kioma nation. Oh, why did he not take some

other instead of my daughter?"

At that instance the door of the tent opened and Inez Splasher, the

general's daughter, a maiden of about thirty-seven summers, emerged,

bearing in her hand the gory scalp of Spotted Lightning.

"Too late!" cried the general as he fell senseless from his horse.

"I knew it," said Bowie Knife Bill, folding his arms with a silent

smile, "but what surprises me is how he ever got this far alive."

Nothing to Say

"You can tell your paper," the great man said,

"I refused an interview.

I have nothing to say on the question, sir,

Nothing to say to you."

And then he talked till the sun went down

And the chickens went to roost:

And he seized the coat of the poor _Post_ man

And never his hold he loosed.

And the sun went down and the moon came up,

And he talked till the dawn of day;

Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by you,

I have nothing whatever to say."

And down the reporter dropped to sleep,

And flat on the floor he lay;

And the last he heard was the great man's words:

"I have nothing at all to say."

"Goin Home Fur Christmas"

Pa fussed at ma, and said By gun!

There wa'n't no use a talkin';

Times wuz too hard to travel round,

In any way 'cept walkin',

And said 'twas nonsense anyhow,

Folks didn't want no visitors;

And said ma needn't talk no more,

'Bout goin' home for Christmas.

"I'd like to see 'em all," says ma,

All pale and almost cryin';

A gazin' out the window, where

The snow wuz fairly flyin';

"I've been a thinkin', oh so long,

'Bout mother and my sisters;

And savin' every cent I could

To'ards goin' home for Christmas."

But pa he frowned and then ma sighed.

Just once, and kinder' smilin',

Says: "Well, les' go an' have some tea,

The water's all a-bilin'."

To-day pa called us children in

To ma's room--he wuz cryin'--

And ma wuz--oh so white and still,

And cold where she wuz lyin'.

She kinder roused up when we come,

And turned her face and kissed us,

And says: "Good-by--oh good-by, dears!

I'm goin' home fur Christmas!"

Just a Little Damp

As the steamer reached Aransas Pass a Galveston man fell overboard. A

life buoy was thrown him, but he thrust it aside contemptuously. A

boat was hurriedly lowered, and reached him just as he came to the

surface for the second time. Helping hands were stretched forth to

rescue him, but he spurned their aid. He spat out about a pint of sea

water and shouted:

"Go away and leave me alone. I'm walking on the bottom. You'll run

your boat aground in a minute. I'll wade out when I get ready and go

up to a barber shop and get dusted off. The ground's damp a little,

but I ain't afraid of catching cold."

He went under for the last time, and the boat pulled back for the

ship. The Galveston man had exhibited to the last his scorn and

contempt for any other port that claimed deep water.

Her Mysterious Charm

In the conservatory of a palatial Houston home Roland Pendergast stood

with folded arms and an inscrutable smile upon his face, gazing down

upon the upturned features of Gabrielle Smithers.

"Why is it," he said, "that I am attracted by you? You are not

beautiful, you lack aplomb, grace, and savoir faire. You are cold,

unsympathetic and bowlegged.

"I have striven to analyze the power you have over me, but in vain.

Some esoteric chain of mental telepathy binds us two together, but

what is its nature? I dislike being in love with one who has neither

chic, naivete nor front teeth, but fate has willed it so. You

personally repel me, but I can not tear you from my heart. You are in

my thoughts by day and nightmares by night.

"Your form reminds me of a hatrack, but when I press you to my heart I

feel strange thrills of joy. I can no more tell you why I love you

than I can tell why a barber can rub a man's head fifteen minutes

without touching the spot that itches. Speak, Gabrielle, and tell me

what is this spell you have woven around me!"

"I will tell you," said Gabrielle with a soft smile. "I have

fascinated many men in the same way. When I help you on with your

overcoat I never reach under and try to pull your other coat down from

the top of your collar."

Convinced

Houston is the dwelling place of a certain young lady who is

exceptionally blessed with the gifts of the goddess of fortune. She is

very fair to look upon, bright, witty, and possesses that gracious

charm so difficult to describe, but so potent to please, that is

commonly called personal magnetism. Although cast in such a lonely

world, and endowed with so many graces of mind and matter, she is no

idle butterfly of fashion, and the adulation she receives from a

numerous circle of admirers has not turned her head.

She has a close friend, a young lady of plain exterior, but a sensible

and practical mind, whom she habitually consults as a wise counselor

and advisor concerning the intricate problems of life.

One day she said to Marian--the wise friend: "How I wish there was some

way to find out who among these flattering suitors of mine is sincere

and genuine in the compliments that are paid me. Men are such

deceivers, and they all give me such unstinted praise, and make such

pretty speeches to me, that I do not know who among them, if any, are

true and sincere in their regard."

"I will tell you a way," said Marian. "The next evening when there are

a number of them calling upon you, recite a dramatic poem, and then

tell me how each one expresses his opinion of your effort."

The young lady was much impressed with the idea, and on the following

Friday evening when some half-dozen young men were in the parlor

paying her attentions, she volunteered to recite. She has not the

least dramatic talent, but she stood up and went through with a long

poem, with many gestures and much rolling of eyes and pressing of her

hands to her heart. She did it very badly, and without the least

regard for the rules of elocution or expression.

Later on, her friend Marian asked her how her effort was received.

"Oh," she said, "they all crowded around me, and appeared to be filled

with the utmost delight. Tom, and Henry, and Jim, and Charlie were in

raptures. They said that Mary Anderson could not have equaled it. They

said they had never heard anything spoken with such dramatic effect

and feeling."

"Everyone praised you?" asked Marian.

"All but one. Mr. Judson sat back in his chair and never applauded at

all. He told me after I had finished that he was afraid I had very

little dramatic talent at all."

"Now," said Marian. "You know who is sincere and genuine?"

"Yes," said the beautiful girl, with eyes shining with enthusiasm.

"The test was a complete success. I detest that odious Judson, and I'm

going to begin studying for the stage right away."

His Dilemma

An old man with long white chin whiskers and a derby hat two sizes

small, dropped into a Main Street drug store yesterday and beckoned a

clerk over into a corner. He was about sixty-five years old, but he

wore a bright red necktie, and was trying to smoke a very bad and

strong cigar in as offhand a style as possible.

"Young man," he said, "you lemme ask you a few questions, and I'll

send you a big watermelon up from the farm next summer. I came to

Houston to see this here carnival, and do some tradin'. Right now,

before I go any further, have you got any hair dye?"

"Plenty of it."

"Any of this real black shiny dye that looks blue in the sunshine?"

"Yes."

"All right then, now I'll proceed. Do you know anything about this

here Monroe docterin'?"

"Well, yes, something."

"And widders; do you feel able to prognosticate a few lines about

widders?"

"I can't tell what you are driving at," said the clerk. "What is it

you want to know?"

"I'm gettin' to the pint. Now there's hair dye, Monroe docterin', and

widders. Got them all down in your mind?"

"Yes, but--"

"Jest hold on, now, and I'll explain. There's the unhappiest fat and

sassy widder moved into the adjinin' farm to me, you ever see, and if

I knows the female heart she has cast eyes of longin' upon yours

truly. Now if I dyes these here white whiskers I ketches her. By

blackin' said whiskers and insertin' say four fingers of rye where it

properly belongs, I kicks up my heels and I waltzes up and salutes the

widder like a calf of forty."

"Well," said the clerk, "our hair dye is--"

"Wait a minute, young feller. Now on the other hand I hears rumors of

wars this mornin', and I hears alarmin' talk about this here Monroe

docterin'. Ef I uses hair dye and trains down to thirty-eight or forty

years of age, I ketches the widder, but I turns into a peart and

chipper youth what is liable to be made to fight in this here great

war. Ef I gives up the hair dye, the recrutin' sargent salutes these

white hairs and passes by, but I am takin' big chances on the widder.

She has been to meetin' twicet with a man what has been divorced, and

ties his own cree-vat, and this here Monroe docterin' is all what

keeps me from pulling out seventy-five cents and makin' a strong play

with said dye. What would you do, ef you was me, young feller?"

"I don't think there will be any war soon," said the clerk.

"Jerusalem; I'm glad to hear it! Gimme the biggest bottle of

blue-black hair dye fur seventy-five cents that you got. I'm goin' to

purpose to that widder before it gets dry, and risk the chances of

Monroe takin' water again on this war business."

Something for Baby

This is nothing but a slight jar in the happy holiday music; a minor

note struck by the finger of Fate, slipping upon the keys, as anthems

of rejoicing and Christmas carols make the Yuletide merry.

The Post man stood yesterday in one of the largest fancy and drygoods

stores on Main Street, watching the throng of well-dressed buyers,

mostly ladies, who were turning over the stock of Christmas notions

and holiday goods.

Presently a little, slim, white-faced girl crept timidly through the

crowd to the counter. She was dressed in thin calico, and her shoes

were patched and clumsy.

She looked about her with a manner half mournful, half scared.

A clerk saw her and came forward.

"Well, what is it?" he asked rather shortly.

"Please, sir," she answered in a weak voice, "Mamma gave me this dime

to get something for baby."

"Something for baby, for a dime? Want to buy baby a Christmas present,

eh? Well now, don't you think you had better run around to a toyshop?

We don't keep such things here. You want a tin horse, or a ball, or a

jumping jack, now don't you?"

"Please, sir, Mamma said I was to come here. Baby isn't with us now.

Mamma told me to get--ten--cents--worth--of--crape, sir, if you please."

Some Day

Some day--not now; oh, ask me not again;

Impassioned, low, and deep, with wild regret;

Thy words but fill my heart with haunting pain--

Some day, but oh, my friend--not yet--not yet.

Perchance when time hath wrought some wondrous change,

And fate hath swept her barriers away.

Then, lifted to some higher, freer range.

Thou may'st return and speak again--some day.

Oh, leave me now--do not so coldly turn!

Thou seest my very soul has suffered sore.

Adieu! But, oh, some day thou canst return

And bring that drygoods bill to me once more.

A Green Hand

"I shall never again employ any but experienced salesmen, who

thoroughly understand the jewelry business," said a Houston jeweler to

a friend yesterday.

"You see, at Christmas time we generally need more help, and sometimes

employ people who can sell goods, but are not familiar with the fine

points of the business. Now, that young man over there is thoroughly

good and polite to everyone, but he has just lost me one of my best

customers."

"How was that?" asked the friend.

"A man who always trades with us came in with his wife last week and

with her assistance selected a magnificent diamond pin that he had

promised her for a Christmas present and told this young man to lay it

aside for him till today."

"I see," said the friend, "and he sold it to someone else and

disappointed him."

"It's plain you don't know much about married men," said the jeweler.

"That idiot of a clerk actually saved the pin for him and he had to

buy it."

A Righteous Outburst

He smelled of gin and his whiskers resembled the cylinder of a Swiss

music box. He walked into a toy shop on Main Street yesterday and

leaned sorrowfully against the counter.

"Anything today?" asked the proprietor coldly.

He wiped an eye with a dingy red handkerchief and said:

"Nothing at all, thank you. I just came inside to shed a tear. I do

not like to obtrude my grief upon the passersby. I have a little

daughter, sir; five years of age, with curly golden hair. Her name is

Lilian. She says to me this morning: 'Papa, will Santa Claus bring me

a red wagon for Christmas?' It completely unmanned me, sir, as, alas,

I am out of work and penniless. Just think, one little red wagon would

bring her happiness, and there are children who have hundreds of red

wagons."

"Before you go out," said the proprietor, "which you are going to do

in about fifteen seconds, I am willing to inform you that I have a

branch store on Trains Street, and was around there yesterday. You

came in and made the same talk about your little girl, whom you called

Daisy, and I gave you a wagon. It seems you don't remember your little

girl's name very well."

The man drew himself up with dignity, and started for the door. When

nearly there, he turned and said:

"Her name is Lilian Daisy, sir, and the wagon you gave me had a

rickety wheel and some of the paint was scratched off the handle. I

have a friend who tends bar on Willow Street, who is keeping it for me

till Christmas, but I will feel a flush of shame on your behalf, sir,

when Lilian Daisy sees that old, slab-sided, squeaking, secondhand,

leftover-from-last-year's-stock wagon. But, sir, when Lilian Daisy

kneels at her little bed at night I shall get her to pray for you, and

ask Heaven to have mercy on you. Have you one of your business cards

handy, so Lilian Daisy can get your name right in her petitions?"

Getting at the Facts

It was late in the afternoon and the day staff was absent. The night

editor had just come in, pulled off his coat, vest, collar, and

necktie, rolled up his shirtsleeves and eased down his suspenders, and

was getting ready for work.

Someone knocked timidly outside the door, and the night editor yelled,

"Come in."

A handsome young lady with entreating blue eyes and a Psyche knot

entered with a rolled manuscript in her hand.

The night editor took it silently and unrolled it. It was a poem and

he read it half aloud with a convulsive jaw movement that resulted

from his organs of speech being partially engaged with about a quarter

of a plug of chewing tobacco. The poem ran thus:

A Requiem

The soft, sweet, solemn dawn stole through

The latticed room's deep gloom;

He lay in pallid, pulseless peace,

Fulfilled his final doom.

Oh, breaking heart of mine--oh, break!

Left lonely here to mourn;

My alter ego, mentor, friend

Thus from me rudely torn.

Within his chamber dead he lies,

And stilled is his sweet lyre;

How long he pored o'er midnight oil.

With grand poetic fire!

Till came the crash, when his bright light

Went out, and all was drear;

And my sad soul was left to wait

In grief and anguish here.

"When did this happen?" asked the night editor.

"I wrote it last night, sir," said the young lady. "Is it good enough

to print?"

"Last night! H'm. A little stale, but the other papers didn't get it.

Now, miss," continued the night editor, smiling and throwing out his

chest, "I'm going to teach you a lesson in the newspaper business. We

can use this item, but it's not in proper shape. Just take that chair,

and I'll rewrite it for you, showing you how to properly condense a

news item in order to secure its insertion."

The young lady seated herself and the night editor knitted his brows

and read over the poem two or three times to get the main points. He

then wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper and said:

"Now, miss, here is the form in which your item will appear when we

print it:

Fatal Accident

"Last evening Mr. Alter Ego of this city was killed by the

explosion of a kerosene lamp while at work in his room.

"Now, you see, miss, the item includes the main facts in the case,

and--"

"Sir!" said the young lady indignantly. "There is nothing of the kind

intimated in the poem. The lines are imaginary and are intended to

express the sorrow of a poet's friend at his untimely demise."

"Why, miss," said the night editor, "it plainly refers to midnight oil,

and a crash, and when the light blew up the gent was left for dead in

the room."

"You horrid thing," said the young lady, "give me my manuscript. I

will bring it back when the literary editor is in."

"I'm sorry," said the night editor as he handed her the roll. "We're

short on news tonight, and it would have made a nice little scoop.

Don't happen to know of any accidents in your ward: births, runaways,

holdups, or breach of promise suits, do you?"

But the slamming of the door was the only answer from the fair

poetess.

Just for a Change

The "lullaby boy" to the same old tune,

Who abandons his drum and toys,

For the purpose of dying in early June,

Is the kind the public enjoys.

But, just for a change please sing us a song,

Of the sore-toed boy that's fly,

And freckled, and mean, and ugly, and strong,

And positively will not die.

Too Wise

Here is a man in Houston who keeps quite abreast of the times. He

reads the papers, has traveled extensively and is an excellent judge

of human nature. He has a natural gift for detecting humbugs and

fakirs, and it would be a smooth artist indeed who could impose upon

him in any way.

Last night as he was going home, a shady looking man with his hat

pulled over his eyes stepped out from a doorway and said:

"Say, gent, here's a fine diamond ring I found in de gutter. I don't

want to get into no trouble wid it. Gimme a dollar and take it."

The Houston man smiled as he looked at the flashy ring the man held

toward him.

"A very good game, my man," he said, "but the police are hot after you

fellows. You had better select your rhinestone customers with better

judgment. Good night."

When the man got home he found his wife in tears.

"Oh, John," she said. "I went shopping this afternoon and lost my

solitaire diamond ring. Oh, what shall I--"

John turned without a word and rushed back down the street, but the

shady-looking man was not to be found.

His wife often wonders why he never scolded her for losing the ring.

A Fatal Error

"What are you looking so glum about?" asked a Houston man as he

dropped into a friend's office on Christmas Day.

"Same old fool break of putting a letter in the wrong envelope, and

I'm afraid to go home. My wife sent me down a note by the hired man an

hour ago, telling me to send her ten dollars, and asking me to meet

her here at the office at three o'clock and go shopping with her. At

the same time I got a bill for ten dollars from a merchant I owe,

asking me to remit. I scribbled off a note to the merchant saying:

'Can't possibly do it. I've got to meet another little thing today

that won't be put off.' I made the usual mistake and sent the merchant

the ten dollars and my wife the note."

"Can't you go home and explain the mistake to your wife?"

"You don't know her. I've done all I can. I've taken out an accident

policy for $10,000 good for two hours, and I expect her here in

fifteen minutes. Tell all the boys goodbye for me, and if you meet a

lady on the stairs as you go down keep close to the wall."

Prompt

He raised his arm to strike, but lax and slow

His arm fell nerveless to his side.

He might have struck a mighty ringing blow.

A blow that might have been his joy and pride.

But no--his strength at once did fade away,

A sudden blow seemed all his soul to fix;

He was a workman, working by the day,

And heard the whistle blow the hour of six.

The Rake-Off

"Who bids?"

The auctioneer held up a child's rocking-horse, battered and stained.

It had belonged to some little member of the man's family whose

household property was being sold under the hammer.

He was utterly ruined. He had given up everything in the world to his

creditors--house, furniture, horses, stock of goods and lands. He stood

among the crowd watching the sale that was scattering his household

goods and his heirlooms among a hundred strange hands.

On his arm leaned a woman heavily veiled. "Who bids?"

The auctioneer held the rocking-horse high that it might be seen.

Childish hands had torn away the scanty mane; the bridle was twisted

and worn by tender little fingers. The crowd was still.

The woman under the heavy veil sobbed and stretched out her hands.

"No, no, no!" she cried.

The man was white with emotion. The little form that once so merrily

rode the old rockinghouse had drifted away into the world years ago.

This was the only relic left of his happy infancy.

The auctioneer, with a queer moisture in his eyes, handed the

rocking-horse to the man without a word. He seized it with eager

hands, and he and the veiled woman hurried away.

The crowd murmured with sympathy.

The man and the woman went into an empty room and set the

rocking-horse down. He took out his knife, ripped open the front of

the horse, and took out a roll of bills. He counted them and said:

"It's a cold day when I fail without a rake-off. Eight thousand five

hundred dollars, but that auctioneer came very near busting up the

game."

The Telegram

Scene: Telegraph office in Houston.

[Enter handsome black velour cape, trimmed with jet and braid, with

Tibetan fur collar, all enclosing lovely young lady.]

Young lady

Oh, I want to send a telegram at once, if you please. Give me about

six blanks, please. [Writes about ten minutes.] How much will this

amount to, please?

Clerk

[counting words] Sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents, ma'am.

Young lady

Goodness gracious! I've only thirty cents with me. [Suspiciously.] How

is it you charge so much, when the post-office only requires two

cents?

Clerk

We claim to deliver messages quicker than the post-office, ma'am. You

can send ten words to Waco for twenty-five cents.

Young lady

Give me another blank, please: I guess that will be enough. [After

five minutes' hard work she produces the following: "Ring was awfully

lovely. Come down as soon as you can. Mamie."]

Clerk

This contains eleven words. That will be thirty cents.

Young lady

Oh, gracious! I wanted that nickel to buy gum with.

Clerk

Let's see. You might strike out, "awfully," and that will make it all

right.

Young lady

Indeed I shan't. You ought to see that ring. I'll give you the thirty

cents.

Clerk

To whom is this to be sent?

Young lady

It seems to me you are rather inquisitive, sir.

Clerk

[wearily] I assure you there is no personal interest expressed in the

question. We have to know the name and address in order to send the

message.

Young lady

Oh, yes. I didn't think of that. [She writes the name and address,

pays the thirty cents and departs. Twenty minutes later she returns,

out of breath.]

Young lady

Oh, I forgot something. Have you sent it off yet?

Clerk

Yes, ten minutes ago.

Young lady

Oh, I'm so sorry. It isn't the way I wanted it at all. Can't you

telegraph and have it changed for me?

Clerk

Is it anything important?

Young lady

Yes: I wanted to underscore the words "awfully lovely." Will you have

that attended to at once?

Clerk

Certainly, and we have some real nice violet extract; would you like a

few drops on your telegram?

Young lady

Oh, yes: so kind of you. I expect to send all my telegrams through

your office, you have been so accommodating. Good morning.

An Opportunity Declined

A farmer who lives about four miles from Houston noticed a stranger in

his front yard one afternoon last week acting in a rather unusual

manner. He wore a pair of duck trousers stuffed in his boots, and had

a nose the color of Elgin pressed brick. In his hand he held a

sharpened stake about two feet long, which he would stick into the

ground, and after sighting over it at various objects would pull it up

and go through the same performance at another place.

The farmer went out in the yard and inquired what he wanted.

"Wait just a minute," said the stranger, squinting his eye over the

stick at the chicken house. "Now, that's it to a _T_. You see,

I'm one of de odnance corps of engineers what's runnin' de line of the

new railroad from Columbus, Ohio, to Houston. See? De other fellers is

over de hill wid de transit and de baggage. Dere's over a million

dollars in de company. See? Dey sent me on ahead to locate a place for

a big passenger depot, to cost $27,000. De foundation will commence

right by your chicken house. Say, I gives you a pointer. You charge

'em high for dis land. Dey'll stand fifty thousand. 'Cause why? 'Cause

dey's got de money and dey's got to build de depot right where I says.

See? I've got to go on into Houston to record a deed for a right of

way, and I never thought to get fifty cents from de treasurer. He's a

little man with light pants. You might let me have de fifty cents and

when de boys comes along in de mornin' tell 'em what you did, and any

one of 'em' hand you a dollar. You might ask 'em fifty-five thousand,

if you--"

"You throw that stick over the fence, and get the axe and cut up

exactly half a cord of that wood, stove length, and I'll give you a

quarter and your supper," said the farmer. "Does the proposition

strike you favorably?"

"And are you goin' to t'row away de opportunity of havin' dat depot

built right here, and sellin' out--"

"Yes, I need the ground for my chicken coop."

"You refuse to take $50,000 for de ground, den?"

"I do. Are you going to chop that wood, or shall I whistle for Tige?"

"Gimme dat axe, mister, and show me dat wood, and tell de missus to

bake an extra pan of biscuits for supper. When dat Columbus and

Houston grand trunk railway runs up against your front fence you'll be

sorry you didn't take up dat offer. And tell her to fill up the

molasses pitcher, too, and not to mind about putting the dish of

cooking butter on de table. See?"

Correcting a Great Injustice

Something has been recently disclosed that will fill every chivalrous

man in the country with contrition. For a long time men have supposed

that the habit of wearing tall hats at the theater by the ladies was

nothing more than a lack of consideration on their part for the

unfortunate individuals who were so unlucky as to get a seat behind

them.

It now appears that the supposition did the fair sex a great

injustice. A noted female physician has exposed an affliction that the

female sex has long suffered with, and have succeeded up to this time

in keeping a profound secret. Their habit of wearing hats in places of

public entertainment is the result of a necessity, and relieves them

of the charge of selfish disregard of the convenience of others, which

has been so often brought against them.

It appears that ladies who are past thirty-five years of age are

peculiarly sensitive to the effect of a bright light striking upon

their heads from above. The skull of a woman is quite different from

that of a man, especially on the top, and at the age of thirty-five,

the texture of the skull at this place becomes very light. Rays of

light--especially electric light--have a peculiarly penetrating and

disturbing effect upon the cerebral nerves.

Strange to say, this infirmity is never felt by a young woman, but as

soon as she passes the heyday of youth, it is at once perceptible. The

fact is generally known to women, and discussed among themselves, but

they have jealously guarded the secret, even from their nearest male

relatives and friends. The lady physician who recently exposed the

matter in a scientific journal is the first of her sex to make it

known to the public.

If anyone will take the trouble to make a test of the statement, its

truth will be unquestionably proven. Engage a woman of middle age in

conversation beneath a well-lighted chandelier, and in a few moments

she will grow uneasy, and very soon the pain inflicted by the light

will cause her to move away from under its source. On young and

healthy girls the rays of light have no perceptible effect. So, when

we see a lady at a theater wearing a tall and cumbersome hat, we

should reflect that she is more than thirty-five years old, and is

simply protecting herself from an affliction that advancing years have

brought upon her. Whenever we observe one wearing small and

unobtrusive headgear we know that she is still young and charming, and

can yet sit beneath the rays of penetrating light without

inconvenience.

No man who has had occasion to rail against woman's supposed

indifference to the public comfort in this respect, will hesitate to

express sincere regret that he has so misunderstood them. It is

characteristic of Americans to respect the infirmities of age,

especially among the fair sex, and when the facts here narrated have

been generally known, pity and toleration will take the place of

censure. Henceforth a tall hat, with nodding feathers and clustering

flowers and trimming, will not be regarded with aversion when we see

it between us and the stage, but with respect, since we are assured

that its wearer is no longer young, but is already on the down hill of

life, and is forced to take the precaution that advancing years render

necessary to infirm women.

A Startling Demonstration

What a terrible state of affairs it would be if we could read each

other's minds! It is safe to say that if such were the case, most of

us would be afraid to think above a whisper.

As an illustration, a case might be cited that occurred in Houston.

Some months ago a very charming young lady came to this city giving

exhibitions in mind reading, and proved herself to be marvelously

gifted in that respect. She easily read the thoughts of the audience,

finding many articles hidden by simply holding the hand of the person

secreting them, and read sentences written on little slips of paper by

some at a considerable distance from her.

A young man in Houston fell in love with her, and married her after a

short courtship. They went to housekeeping and for a time were as

happy as mortals can be.

One evening they were sitting on the porch of their residence holding

each other's hands, and wrapt in the close communion of mutual love,

when she suddenly rose and knocked him down the steps with a large

flowerpot. He arose astonished, with a big bump on his head, and asked

her, if it were not too much trouble, to explain.

"You can't fool me," she said with flashing eyes. "You were thinking

of a redheaded girl named Maud with a gold plug in her front tooth and

a light pink waist and a black silk skirt on Rusk Avenue, standing

under a cedar bush chewing gum at twenty minutes to eight with your

arm around her waist and calling her 'sweetness,' while she fooled

with your watch chain and said: 'Oh, George, give me a chance to

breathe,' and her mother was calling her to supper. Don't you dare to

deny it. Now, when you can get your mind on something better than

that, you can come in the house and not before."

Then the door slammed and George and the broken flowerpot were alone.

Leap Year Advice

Spinsters must be up and doing: 1896 will be the only leap year for

the next eight years. Once in every four years the wise men who made

the calendar insert an extra day so that the average year will not be

so short. Once in every hundred years this extra day is omitted, and a

leap year is also dropped. The year 1900 will not be a leap year.

Unmarried ladies who yearn for matrimonial chains, and have been left

standing in the comer by fickle man must get to work. If they fail in

landing their prize during 1896 they will have to wait eight years

more before they can propose again. Therefore they should work early

and late during the present year.

The following communication pertaining to the subject was received

yesterday.

Houston, Texas, January 1, 1896.

The Houston Post.

Gentlemen: This being leap year I

arose this morning at daybreak, resolved to utilize every

moment of the time possible. Four years ago, I wrote and

received some very valuable advice from you in regard to the

exercise of the privileges of my sex (female) during the leap

year season. I followed your advice strictly, and in the year

1892 proposed marriage to twenty-seven different men. I am

still single, but am not to blame for that. I was engaged to

three men in 1892, and, but for the unforeseen bad luck, would

certainly have married at least one of them. Two of them

committed suicide the day before the wedding and the other got

his hat and walking cane and went to Patagonia. I see in the

papers that the year 1900 will not be a leap year, and I

realize that for the next twelve months I have got to carry on

a red hot aggressive campaign, as eight more years will

decidedly weaken my chances. Any suggestions you may make that

will aid me will be appreciated. I enclose my photo. I am

nearly thirty-six, and sleep on my left side.

Faithfully yours,

Bettie Louis M---

This is an awful subject to speak lightly upon, and the few words of

advice we propose giving are sincere and well weighed.

Your photograph shows that whatever you do must be done quickly. A

good way for a lady of your age and cut of collar bones to open New

Year would be with prayer and massage. It may be a defect in the

retouching of your photo, but still, it would not be amiss to take a

good Turkish bath and then go over low places with plaster of Paris

applied with a common case knife with gentle downward motion,

breathing as usual, and dry in the sun, turning over frequently two or

three hours before eating. You should not waste any time in selecting

a man. Try the milkman first, as he generally comes before it is very

light.

As the milkman will no doubt refuse you, be prepared to give the

postman a shock. Do not be too abrupt in proposing, as a rude shock of

this nature will often cause a timid man to stampede, causing great

loss of confidence and bric-a-brac.

After getting a victim to stand, speak gently to him until he ceases

to quiver in his limbs and roll his eyes. Do not pat his chest, or rub

his nose, as men will sometimes kick at this treatment. Bear in mind

the fact that 1900 is not leap year, and keep between him and the

door.

Approach the subject gradually, allowing him no time to pray and

remove the cigars from his vest pocket. If he should shudder and turn

pale, turn the conversation upon progressive euchre, Braun's egotism,

or some other light subject, until a handkerchief applied to his neck

will not come off wet. If possible, get him to seat himself, and then,

grasping both lapels of his coat, breathe heavily upon him, and speak

of your lonely life.

At this stage he will mutter incoherently, answer at random, and try

to climb up the chimney. When his pulse gets to 195, and he begins to

babble of green fields and shows only the whites of his eyes, strike

him on the point of the chin, propose, chloroform him, and telephone

for a minister.

After Supper

Mr. Sharp: "My darling, it seems to me that every year that passes

over your head but brings out some new charm, some hidden beauty, some

added grace. There is a look in your eyes tonight that is as charming

and girllike as when I first met you. What a blessing it is when two

hearts can grow but fonder as time flies. You are scarcely less

beautiful now than when--"

Mrs. Sharp: "I had forgotten it was lodge night, Robert. Don't be out

much after twelve, if you can help it."

His Only Opportunity

Last week "The Rainmakers" gave two performances in Houston. At the

night performance a prominent local politician occupied one of the

front seats, as near to the stage as possible. He carried in his hand

a glossy silk hat, and he seemed to be in a state of anxious suspense,

fidgeting about in his chair, and holding his hat in both hands

straight before him. A friend who occupied a seat directly behind,

leaned over and asked the cause of his agitation.

"I'll tell you, Bill," said the politician in a confidential whisper,

"just how it is. I've been in politics now for ten years, and I've

been bemoaned and abused and cussed out, and called so many hard names

that I thought I'd like to be addressed in a decent manner once more

before I die, and this is about the only opportunity I shall have.

There is a sleight-of-hand performance between two of the acts in this

show, and the professor is going to step down to the front and say:

'Will some gentleman kindly loan me a hat?' Then I'm going to stand up

and give him mine, and it'll make me feel good for a week. I haven't

been called a gentleman in so long. I expect I'll whoop right out hard

when he takes the hat. Excuse me now. I've got to be ready and get my

hat in first. I see one of the city councilmen over there with an old

derby in his hand, and I'll bet he's up to the same game."

Getting Acquainted

His coat was rusty and his hat out of style, but his nose glasses,

secured by a black cord, lent him a distinguished air, and his manner

was jaunty and assured. He stepped into a new Houston grocery

yesterday, and greeted the proprietor cordially.

"I'll have to introduce myself," he said. "My name is ----, and I live

next door to the house you have just moved in. Saw you at church

Sunday. Our minister also observed you, and after church he says,

'Brother ----, you must really find out who that intelligent-looking

stranger is who listened so attentively today.' How did you like the

sermon?"

"Very well," said the grocer as he picked some funny-looking currants

with wings out of a jar.

"Yes, he is a very eloquent and pious man. You have not been in

business long in Houston, have you?"

"Three weeks," said the grocer, as he removed the cheese knife from

the box to the shelf behind him.

"Our people," said the rusty-looking man, "are whole-souled and

hospitable. There is no welcome too warm for them to extend to a

newcomer, and the members of our church in particular are especially

friendly toward anyone who drops in to worship with us. You have a

nice stock of goods."

"So, so," said the grocer, turning his back and gazing up at a supply

of canned California fruits.

"Only last week now I had quite an altercation with the tradesman I

deal with for sending me inferior goods. You have some nice hams, I

suppose, and such staples as coffee and sugar?"

"Yep," said the grocer.

"My wife was over to see your wife this morning, and enjoyed her visit

very much. What time does your delivery wagon pass up our street?"

"Say," said the grocer. "I bought out an old stock of groceries here,

and put in a lot of new ones. I see your name on the old books charged

with $87.10 balance on account. Did you want something more today?"

"No, sir," said the rusty man, drawing himself up and glaring through

his glasses. "I merely called in from a sense of Christian duty to

extend you a welcome, but I see you are not the man I took you to be.

I don't want any of your groceries. I can see the mites in that cheese

from the other side of the street, and my wife says your wife is

wearing an underskirt made out of an old tablecloth. Several of our

congregation were speaking of your smelling of toddy in church, and

snoring during the prayers. My wife will return that cup of lard she

borrowed at your house this morning just as quick as my last order

comes up from the store where we trade. Good morning, sir."

The grocer softly whispered, "There Won't Anybody Play with Me," and

whittled a little lead out of one of his weights, in an absentminded

way.

Answers to Inquiries

Dear Editor: I want to ask a

question in arithmetic. I am a school boy and am anxious to know

the solution. If my pa, who keeps a grocery on Milam Street, sells

four cans of tomatoes for twenty-five cents, and twenty-two pounds

of sugar, and one can of extra evaporated apples and three cans of

superior California plums, for only--

There! There! little boy; that will do. Tell your pa to come around

and see the advertising manager, who is quite an arithmetician, and

will doubtless work the sum for you at the usual rates.

City Perils

Jeremiah Q. Dilworthy lives away up on San Jacinto Street. He walks

home every night. On January first, he promised his wife he would not

take another drink in a year. He forgot his promise and on Tuesday

night we met some of the boys, and when he started home about nine

o'clock he was feeling a trifle careless.

Mr. Dilworthy was an old resident of Houston, and on rainy nights he

always walked in the middle of the street, which is well paved.

Alas! if Mr. Dilworthy had only remembered the promise made his wife!

He started out all right, and just as he was walking up San Jacinto

Street he staggered over to one side of the street.

A policeman standing on the comer heard a loud yell of despair, and

turning, saw a man throw up his arms and then disappear from sight.

Before the policeman could call someone who could swim the man had

gone for the third and last time.

Mr. Jeremiah Q. Dilworthy had fallen into the sidewalk.

Hush Money

He was a great practical joker, and never lost a chance to get a good

one on somebody. A few days ago he stopped a friend on Main Street and

said, confidentially:

"I never would have believed it, but I believe it my duty to make it

known. Mr. ----, the alderman for our ward, has been taking hush

money."

"Impossible!" said his friend.

"I tell you, it's true, for I overheard the conversation and actually

saw it handed over to him, and he took the money and put it in his

pocket."

Then he went on without explaining any further, and the thing got

talked around considerably for a day or two.

He forgot all about it until one day he met the alderman and suffered

from the encounter to the extent of two black eyes and a coat split up

the back.

And then he had to go all round and explain that what he meant was

that he had seen the alderman's wife give him a dime to buy some

paregoric for the baby.

Relieved

A Houston gentleman who is worth somewhere up in the hundreds of

thousands and lives on eleven dollars a week, was sitting in his

private office a few days ago, when a desperate looking man entered

and closed the door carefully behind him. The man had an evil,

villainous-looking face, and in his hand he held with the utmost care

an oblong, square-shaped package. "What do you want?" asked the

capitalist.

"I must have money," hissed the stranger. "I am starving while you are

rolling in wealth. Do you see this little package? Do you know what it

contains?"

The wealthy citizen sprang from his desk in horror, pale with fright.

"No, no," he gasped. "You would not be so cruel, so heartless."

"This package," continued the desperate man, "contains enough

dynamite, if let fall upon the floor, to hurl this building into a

shapeless mass of ruins."

"Is that all?" said the capitalist, sinking into his chair and picking

up his newspaper with a sigh of relief. "You don't know how much you

frightened me. I thought it was a gold brick."

No Time to Lose

A young Houston mother rushed into die house the other day in the

utmost excitement, calling out to her mother to put an iron on the

fire as quick as possible.

"What is the matter?" asked the old lady.

"A dog has just bitten Tommy, and I am afraid it was mad. Oh, hurry

up, mother; be as quick as you can!"

"Are you going to try to cauterize the wound?"

"No--I've got to iron that blue skirt before I can wear it to go after

the doctor. Do be in a hurry."

A Villainous Trick

When it becomes necessary for an actor to write a letter during the

performance of a play, it is a custom to read the words aloud as he

writes them. It is necessary to do this in order that the audience may

be apprised of its contents, otherwise the clearness of the plot might

be obscured. The writing of a letter upon the stage, therefore,

generally has an important bearing upon the situation being presented,

and of course the writer is forced to read aloud what he writes for

the benefit of the audience. During the production of "Monbars" in

Houston some days ago, the gentleman who assumed the character of the

heavy villain took advantage of a situation of this description in a

most cowardly manner.

In the last act, Mantell, as Monbars, writes a letter of vital

importance, and, as customary, reads the lines aloud as he writes

them. The villain hides behind the curtains of a couch and listens in

fiendish glee to the contents of the letter as imparted by Mr. Mantell

in strict confidence to the audience. He then uses the information

obtained in this underhanded manner to further his own devilish

designs.

Mr. Mantell ought not to allow this. A man who is a member of his own

company, and who, no doubt is drawing a good salary, should be above

taking a mean advantage of a mere stage technicality.

A Forced March

The young man is a-walking with his girl

Hear him swear

That he loves her and adores her.

And he woos her, and, of course, her

Little foolish heart doth force her;

She's half crazy and her thoughts are in a whirl.

The young man is a-walking with his girl.

(Hear him swear.)

She is two months old and screaming,

While around the room he's steaming,

And her ma is in bed dreaming;

He's half crazy and his thoughts are in a whirl.

Book Reviews

_Unabridged Dictionary by Noah Webster_, L. L. D. F. R. S. X. Y. Z.

We find on our table quite an exhaustive treatise on various subjects,

written in Mr. Webster's well-known, lucid, and piquant style. There

is not a dull line between the covers of the book. The range of

subjects is wide, and the treatment light and easy without being

flippant. A valuable feature of the work is the arranging of the

articles in alphabetical order, thus facilitating the finding of any

particular word desired. Mr. Webster's vocabulary is large, and he

always uses the right word in the right place. Mr. Webster's work is

thorough and we predict that he will be heard from again.

_Houston's City Directory_, by Morrison and Fourmy.

This new book has the decided merit of being non-sensational. In these

days of erratic and ultra-imaginative literature of the modern morbid

self-analytical school it is a relief to peruse a book with so little

straining after effect, so well balanced, and so pure in sentiment. It

is a book that a man can place in the hands of the most innocent

member of his family with the utmost confidence. Its material is

healthy, and its literary style excellent, as it adheres to the

methods used with such thrilling effect by Mr. Webster in his famous

dictionary, viz: alphabetical arrangement.

We venture to assert that no one can carefully and conscientiously

read this little volume without being a better man, or lady, as

circumstances over which they have no control may indicate.

A Conditional Pardon

The runaway couple had just returned, and she knelt at the old man's

feet and begged forgiveness.

"Yes, forgive us," cried the newly wedded husband. "Forgive me for

taking her away from you, but see, I have brought her back."

"Yes," said the old man, his voice trembling with emotion, "you have

brought her back. You have brought her back. Bat that is not all, lad;

you have brought her back, but you have also brought the part of her

that eats provisions. I will forgive you for fifty dollars per month,

lights and washing extra."

* * * * *

It is but justice to the Pension Bureau at Washington to state that

they have not yet granted the pension claimed by a man who was wounded

in the late unpleasantness by the accidental discharge of his duty.

* * * * *

A careful inquiry has revealed the fact that Samson was the first man

who rushed the growler.

Better blow your own horn than one you haven't paid for.

If your rye offend you, buy a better quality.

Inconsistency

Call a pretty girl a witch

And she'll do her best to charm you.

Tell an old maid she's a witch,

And she certainly will harm you.

Thus you see how hard it is to please them all.

Call a pretty maiden "Puss,"

And she'll archly smile upon you.

Call an ancient one a "cat,"

She will grab an axe and run you.

The same name will not fit them all, at all.

If you call your girl a "mouse,"

She will think it cute and pretty.

If unto an aged spinster

You say "rats," you have our pity.

Thus you see you need not try to please them all.

* * * * *

"In a lighthouse by the sea" is what the opera company sang to a

forty-dollar audience in Galveston.

* * * * *

"Yes," said the tramp as he accepted the dime and made for the lunch

counter, "I always hollers when I'm hit and I always hits a man when

I'm holler."

Bill Nye

Bill Nye, who recently laid down his pen for all time, was a unique

figure in the field of humor. His best work probably more nearly

represented American humor than that of any other writer. Mr. Nye had

a sense of ludicrous that was keen and judicious. His humor was

peculiarly American in that it depended upon sharp and unexpected

contrasts, and the bringing of opposites into unlooked-for comparison

for its effect. Again, he had the true essence of kindliness, without

which humor is stripped of its greatest component part.

Bill Nye's jokes never had a sting. They played like summer lightning

around the horizon of life, illuminating and spreading bright, if

transitory, pictures upon the sky, but they were as harmless as the

smile of a child. The brain of the man conceived the swift darts that

he threw, but his great manly heart broke off their points.

He knew human nature as a scholar knows his book, and the knowledge

did not embitter him. He saw all the goodness in frailty, and his

clear eyes penetrated the frailty of goodness.

His was the child's heart, the scholar's knowledge, and the

philosopher's view of life. He might have won laurels in other fields,

for he was a careful reasoner, and a close observer, but he showed his

greatness in putting aside cold and fruitless discussions that have

wearied the world long ago, and set himself the task of arousing

bubbling laughter instead of consuming doubt.

The world has been better for him, and when that can be said of a man,

the tears that drop upon his grave are more potent than the loud

huzzas that follow the requiem of the greatest conqueror or the most

successful statesman.

The kindliest thoughts and the sincerest prayers follow the great

humanitarian--for such he was into the great beyond, and such solace

as the hearty condolement of a million people can bring to the

bereaved loved ones of Bill Nye, is theirs.

To a Portrait

She might have been some princess fair,

From Nile's banks where lotus blooms;

Or one of Pharaoh's daughters there

Asleep amid long molded tombs.

Or fairy princess sweet and proud,

Or gipsy queen with regal smiles;

Helen of Troy, or Guinevere,

Or Vivien with her witching smile.

Or Zozo's Queen, or Lily Clay,

Or Mrs. Langtry; or a maid

Of fashion, who, in costume scant,

Her charms is wont to have arrayed.

But none of these she is--not e'en,

Andromeda chained on the rocks.

I found her lovely, lone, and lorn

A chromo on a cracker box.

A Guarded Secret

It is time to call a halt upon the persistent spreaders of the alleged

joke that a woman can not keep a secret. No baser ingratitude has been

shown by man toward the fair sex than the promulgation of this false

report. Whenever a would-be humorous man makes use of this antiquated

chestnut which his fellow men feel in duty bound to applaud, the face

of the woman takes on a strange, inscrutable, pitying smile that few

men ever read.

The truth is that it is only woman who can keep a secret. Only a

divine intelligence can understand the marvelous power with which

ninety-nine married women out of a hundred successfully hide from the

rest of the world the secret that they have bound themselves to

something unworthy of the pure and sacrificing love they have given

them. She may whisper to her neighbor that Mrs. Jones has turned her

old silk dress twice, but if she has in her breast anything affecting

one she loves, the gods themselves could not drag it from her.

Weak man looks into the wine cup and behold, he babbles his innermost

thoughts to any gaping bystander; woman can babble of the weather, and

gaze with infantine eyes into the orbs of the wiliest diplomat, while

holding easily in her breast the heaviest secrets of state.

Adam was the original blab; the first telltale, and we are not proud

of him. With the dreamy, appealing eyes of Eve upon him--she who was

created for his comfort and pleasure--even as she stood by his side,

loving and fresh and fair as a spring moon, the wretched cad said,

"The woman gave me and I did eat." This reprehensible act in our

distinguished forefather can not be excused by any gentleman who knows

what is due to a lady.

Adam's conduct would have caused his name to be stricken from the list

of every decent club in the country. And since that day, woman has

stood by man, faithful, true, and ready to give up all for his sake.

She hides his puny peccadilloes from the world, she glosses over his

wretched misdemeanors, and she keeps silent when a word would pierce

his inflated greatness and leave him a shriveled and shrunken rag.

And man says that woman can not keep a secret!

Let him be thankful that she can, or his littleness would be

proclaimed from the housetops.

A Pastel

Above all hangs the dreadful night.

He pleads with her.

His hand is on her arm.

They stand in the cold, solemn night, gazing into a brilliantly

lighted room. His face is white and terror-stricken. Hers is willful,

defiant, and white with the surging impulse of destiny.

Ten miles away on the Harrisburg road a draggle-tailed rooster crows,

but the woman does not falter.

He pleads with her.

She shakes off his hand with a gesture of loathing, and takes a step

forward toward the lighted room.

He pleads with her.

Crystal flakes of moonlight quiver on the trees above; star dust

flecks the illimitable rim of the Ineligible. The whicheverness of the

Absolute reigns preeminent.

Sin is below; peace above.

The whip of the north wind trails a keen lash upon them. Carriages

sweep by. Frost creeps upon the stones, lies crustily along parapets,

spangles and throws back in arctic scintillation the moon's

challenging rays.

He pleads with her.

At last she turns, conquered.

He has refused to treat to oysters.

Jim

Thanks, young man; I'll sit awhile,

And rest while Betsy trades a bit.

We've druv 'bout twenty mile to-day;

I'm real tired. Just think of it!

"Me a-restin' on this here bench

'Mongst all these trees and flowers and sich;

A park! You say? It's a nice place

To drive your team and stop and hitch.

"Farm? Yes, we've got a good one;

Two hundred acres as fine as you'll see,

We're purty well fixed as to worldly things,

We've worked hard for it, Betsy and me.

"But there's one thing keeps me mighty sad,

We can't get over it, night or day.

Never an hour we don't think of Jim--

Ten years now, since he went away.

"Dead?--No; just got mad and left.

Never a word have we heard from him;

Ten years of waitin', hopin', and prayin'

Jest fur one more sight of Jim.

"Jest about your height, young man;

Slender and straight as a stalk of corn;

Good as gold, though quick to get angry--

But, then he was mine and Betsy's first-born.

"I think if I could git hold of Jim's hand,

And kinder explain the words I said,

He'd know his old dad's heart would ever

Be just the same--but I guess Jim's dead.

"Or he never--what's that you say, sir?

You Jim!--My God!--it can't be true!

Come to my heart, boy--closer, closer--

Can it be Jim--oh, can it be you?

"Run quick and call your mother!

She's in the store--come quick again;

I'll wait here for you. . . .

. . . Here! Police! Police!

That young feller's got my watch and chain!"

Board and Ancestors

The snake reporter of the Post was wending his way homeward last night

when he was approached by a very gaunt, hungry-looking man with wild

eyes and an emaciated face.

"Can you tell me, sir," he inquired, "where I can find in Houston a

family of lowborn scrubs?"

"I don't exactly understand," said the reporter.

"Let me tell you how it is," said the emaciated man. "I came to

Houston a month ago, and I hunted up a boarding house, as I can not

afford to live at a hotel. I found a nice, aristocratic-looking place

that suited me, and went inside. The landlady came in the parlor and

she was a very stately lady with a Roman nose. I asked the price of

board, and she said: 'Eighty dollars per month.' I fell against the

door jamb with a dull thud, and she said:

"'You seem surprised, sah. You will please remember that I am the

widow of Governah Riddle of Virginia. My family is very highly

connected; give you board as a favah; I never consider money an

equivalent to advantage of my society. Will you have a room with a

door in it?'

"'I'll call again,' I said, and got out of the house, somehow, and

went to another fine, three-storied house, with a sign 'Board and

Rooms' on it.

"The next lady I saw had gray curls, and a soft gazelle-like eye. She

was a cousin of General Mahone of Virginia and wanted $16 per week for

a little back room with a pink motto and a picture of the battle of

Chancellorsville in it.

"I went to some more boarding houses.

"The next lady said she was descended from Aaron Burr on one side and

Captain Kidd on the other. She was using the Captain Kidd side in her

business. She wanted to charge me sixty cents an hour for board and

lodging. I traveled around all over Houston and found nine widows of

Supreme Court judges, twelve relicts of governors and generals, and

twenty-two ruins left by happy departed colonels, professors, and

majors, who put fancy figures on the benefits of their society, and

carried victuals as a side line.

"I finally grew desperately hungry and engaged a week's board at a

nice, stylish mansion in the third ward. The lady who kept it was tall

and imposing. She kept one hand lying across her waist and the other

held a prayer book and a pair of ice hooks. She said she was an aunt

of Davy Crockett, and was still in mourning for him. Her family was

one of the first in Texas. It was then supper time and I went in to

supper. Supper was from six-fifty to seven, and consisted of baker's

bread, prayer, and cold slaw. I was so fatigued that I begged to be

shown to my room immediately after the meal.

"I took the candle, went into the room she showed me, and locked the

door quickly. The room was furnished in imitation of the Alamo. The

walls and the floor were bare, and the bed was something like a

monument only harder. About midnight I felt something as if I had

fallen into a prickly pear bush, and jumped up and lit the candle. I

looked in the bed and then put on my clothes, and exclaimed:

"'Thermopylae had her messenger of defeat, but the Alamo had a

thousand.'

"I slipped out of the door and left the house.

"Now, my dear sir, I am not wealthy, and I can not afford to pay for

high lineage and moldy ancestors with my board. Corned beef goes

further with me than a coronet, and when I am cold a coat-of-arms does

not warm me. I am desperate and hungry, and I hate everybody who can

trace their ancestors farther back than the late Confederate Reunion.

I want to find a boarding house whose proprietress was left while an

infant in a basket at a livery stable, whose father was an

unnaturalized dago from the fifth ward, and whose grandfather was

never placed upon the map. I want to strike a low-down, scrubby,

piebald, sans-culotte outfit that never heard of finger bowls or grace

before meals but who can get up a mess of hot corn bread and Irish

stew at regular market quotations. Is there any such place in

Houston?"

The snake reporter shook his head sadly. "I never heard of any," he

said. "The boarding houses here are run by ladies who do not take

boarders to make a living; they are all trying to get a better rating

in Bradstreet's than Hetty Green."

"Then," said the emaciated man desperately, "I will shake you for a

long toddy."

The snake reporter felt in his vest pocket haughtily for a moment, and

then refusing the proposition scornfully, moved away down the dimly

lighted street.

An X-Ray Fable

And it came to pass that a man with a Cathode Ray went about the

country finding out and showing the people, for a consideration, the

insides of folks' heads and what they were thinking about. And he

never made a mistake.

And in a certain town lived a man whose name was Reuben and a maid

whose name was Ruth. And the two were sweethearts and were soon to be

married.

And Reuben came to the man and hired him with coin to take a snap shot

at Ruth's head, and find out whom she truly loved.

And later on Ruth came and also hired the man to find out whom Reuben

truly loved. And the man did so and got two good negatives.

In the meantime Reuben and Ruth confessed to each other what they had

done, and the next day they came together, hand in hand, to the man

with the Ray, for their answer. The man saw them, and he wrote two

names on two slips of paper and gave them into their hands.

"On these slips of paper," he said, "you will find the name of the one

whom each of you loves best in the world, as truly discovered by my

wonderful Cathode Ray."

And the man and the maid opened the pieces of paper and saw written on

one "Reuben" and on the other "Ruth," and they were filled with joy

and happiness, and went away with arms about each other's waists.

But the man with the Ray neglected to mention the fact that the

photographs he had taken showed that Reuben's head was full of deep

and abiding love for Reuben and Ruth's showed her to be passionately

enamored of Ruth.

The moral is that the proprietor of the Ray probably knew his

business.

A Universal Favorite

The most popular and best loved young lady in the United States is

Miss Annie Williams of Philadelphia. Her picture is possessed by more

men, and is more eagerly sought after than that of Lillian Russell,

Mrs. Langtry, or any other famous beauty. There is more demand for her

pictures than for the counterfeit presentments of all the famous men

and women in the world combined. And yet she is a modest, charming,

and rather retiring young lady, with a face less beautiful than of a

clear and classic outline.

Miss Williams is soon to be married, but it is expected that the

struggle for her pictures will go on as usual.

She is the lady the profile of whose face served as the model for the

head of Liberty on our silver dollar.

Spring

A Dialect Poem

Oh, dinna ye fash y'r sel' hinny,

Varum kanst du nicht the thing see?

Don't always be kicking, me darlint;

Toujours le meme chose will not be.

Tout le monde will grow brighter, ye spalpeen;

Und das zeit will get better, you bet;

Arrah! now will yez stop dot complainin'

Und a creat pig quick move on you get.

Ach, Gott! gina de monka a peanutte;

Und schmile some, for sweet spring is here,

Gott in himmel, carrambo das was sehr gut,

Kase its purty nigh time fur bock beer.

The Sporting Editor on Culture

"Is the literary editor in?"

The sporting editor looked up from the paper he was reading, and saw a

vision of female loveliness about twenty years of age, with soft blue

eyes, and a heavy mass of golden brown hair arranged in a coiffure of

the latest and most becoming style.

"Nope," said the sporting editor, "you can bet your life he ain't in.

He's out trying to get bail for having assaulted a man who wrote to

the Letter Box to ask if ten men could build a house in twenty-seven

and one-half days by working eight hours a day, how many buttons would

be required for a coat of paint for same house. Did you call to see

about a poem, or did you want him to sneak you some coupons for the

bicycle contest?"

"Neither," said the young lady, with dignity. "I am the secretary of

the Houston Young Ladies' Society of Ethical Culture, and I was

appointed a committee to call upon the literary editor and consult him

as to the best plan for the exercise of our various functions."

"Now, that's a good thing," said the sporting editor. "I don't seem to

exactly catch on to 'ethical,' but if it's anything like physical

culture you girls are going in for, you've trotted up to the right

rack. I can tell you more about the proper way to exercise your

functions in one minute than the literary editor can in an hour. He

understands all about the identity of the wherefore and the origin of

the pyramids, but he can't punch the bag, or give you any pointers how

to increase your chest measurement. How long has your society been in

training?"

"We organized last month," answered the lady, looking at the cheerful

face of the reporter rather doubtfully.

"Well, now, how do you girls breathe--with your lungs or with your

diaphragm?"

"Sir?"

"Oh, you'll have to start in right, and you've got to know how to

breathe. The first thing is to keep your chest out, your shoulders

back, and go through arm exercises for a few days. Then you can try

something like this: Keep the upper part of the figure erect, and

standing on one leg, try to--"

"Sir!" exclaimed the young lady severely, "you are presumptuous. I do

not understand your obscure talk. Our society is not connected with a

gymnasium. Our aim is the encouragement of social ethics."

"Oh," returned the sporting editor, in a disappointed tone, "you are

on the society and pink tea racket. Sorry. That lets me out. Hoped you

were going in for athletics. You could do it so well, too. Take my

advice now, and try that little exercise every morning for a week.

You'll be surprised to see how much it will benefit your muscles. As I

said, just stand on one--"

Bang! went the door, and the blue-eyed young lady was gone.

"It's a pity," said the sporting editor, "that these girls don't pay

some attention to self-culture without that--that ethical part."

A Question of Direction

"Do you mean to tell me," gasped the horrified gentleman from Boston,

"that this man you speak of was shot and killed at a meeting of your

debating society, and by the presiding officer himself, during the

discussion of a question, simply because he arose and made a motion

that was considered out of order?"

"He certainly was, sure," said the colonel. "This is simply awful,"

said the traveler. "I must make a note of this occurrence so that the

people of my State can be apprised of the dreadful lawlessness that

prevails in this section--a man shot down and killed at a social and

educational meeting for the infringement of an unimportant

parliamentary error! It is awful to contemplate."

"That's whatever," said the colonel reflectively. "It is for a fact.

But you might state, in order to do justice to our community and town,

which is, as it were, the Athens of Texas, that the motion made by the

deceased was in the direction of his hip pocket. Shall we all liquor?"

The Old Farm

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare.

On the apple trees, and the growing grass

Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;

With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass

Of the old farm I am dreaming,

And softly smiling, seeming

To see the bright sun beaming

Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows,

And hauled the hay from the meadows low,

And walked the furrows behind the plows,

And chapped the cotton to make it grow,

I'd much rather be here dreaming,

And, smiling, only seeming

To see that hot sun beaming

Upon the old home farm.

Willing to Compromise

As he walked up to the bar he pulled up his collar with both hands and

straightened the old red tie that was trying to creep around under one

ear.

The bartender glanced at him and then went on chipping lemon peel into

a saucer.

"Say," said the man with the red tie, "it makes me right sick to think

about it."

"What?" said the bartender, "water?"

"No sir; the apathy displayed by the people of the state in regard to

presenting the battleship Texas with a suitable present. It is a

disgrace to our patriotism. I was talking to W. G. Cleveland this

morning and we both agreed that something must be done at once. Would

you give ten dollars toward a silver service to be presented to the

ship?"

The bartender reached behind him and took up a glass that was sitting

on the shelf.

"I don't know that I would give you ten dollars," he said, "but here's

some whisky that I put some turpentine in by mistake this morning and

forgot to throw it out. Will that do as well?"

"It will," said the man with the red tie, reaching for the glass, "and

I am also soliciting aid for the Cuban patriots. If you want to assist

the cause of liberty and can't spare the cash, if you could rustle up

a glass of beer with a fly in it, I would--"

"Trot out, now," said the bartender. "There's a church member looking

in the back door, and he won't come in till everybody's out."

Ridiculous

The following conundrum was left at the office yesterday by a young

man, who immediately fled:

"Why is the coming Sunday like a very young body?"

Answer: "Because it's neck's weak."

We do not see any reason why this should be the case. It is impossible

for Sunday or any other day in the week to have a neck. The thing is

printed merely to show what kind of stuff people send in to the paper.

Guessed Everything Else

A man with a long, sharp nose and a big bundle which he carried by a

strap went up the steps of the gloomy-looking brick house, set his

bundle down, rang the bell, and took off his hat and wiped his brow.

A woman opened the door and he said: "Madam, I have a number of not

only useful but necessary articles here that I would like to show you.

First, I want you to look at these elegant illustrated books of travel

and biography, written by the best authors. They are sold only by

subscription. They are bound in--"

"I don't care to see them. We have sm--"

"Small children only, eh? Well, Madam, here are some building blocks

that are very instructive and amusing. No? Well, let me show you some

beautiful lace window curtains for your sitting room, handmade and a

great bargain. I can--"

"I don't want them. We have sm--"

"Smoking in the house? It won't injure them in the least. Just shake

them out in the morning and I guarantee not a vestige of tobacco smoke

will remain. Here also I have a very ingenious bell for awakening lazy

servants in the morning. You simply touch a button and--"

"I tell you we have sm--"

"Have smart servants, have you? Well, that is a blessing. Now, here is

a clothes line that is one of the wonders of the age. It needs no pins

and can be fastened to anything--fence, side of the house, or tree. It

can be raised or lowered in an instant, and for a large washing is the

most convenient and laborsaving invention that--"

"I say we have small--"

"Oh, you have a small family. Let's see, then I have here a--"

"I'm trying to tell you," said the woman, "that we have smallpox in

the family, and--"

The long-nosed man made a convulsive grab at his goods and rolled down

the steps in about two seconds, while the woman softly closed the door

just as a man got out of a buggy and nailed a yellow flag on the

house.

The Prisoner of Zembla

By Anthony Hoke

So the king fell into a furious rage, so that none durst go near him

for fear, and he gave out that since the Princess Astla had disobeyed

him there would be a great tourney, and to the knight who should prove

himself of the greatest valor he would give the hand of the princess.

And he sent forth a herald to proclaim that he would do this.

And the herald went about the country making his desire known, blowing

a great tin horn and riding a noble steed that pranced and gamboled;

and the villagers gazed upon him with awe and said: "Lo, that is one

of them tin horn gamblers concerning which the chroniclers have told

us."

And when the day came, the king sat in the grandstand, holding the

gage of battle in his hand, and by his side sat the Princess Astla,

looking very pale and beautiful, but with mournful eyes from which she

scarce could keep the tears, and the knights who came to the tourney

gazed upon the princess in wonder at her beauty, and each swore to win

her so that he could marry her and board with the king. Suddenly the

heart of the princess gave a great bound, for she saw among the

knights one of the poor students with whom she had been in love.

The knights mounted and rode in a line past the grandstand, and the

king stopped the poor student, who had the worst horse and the poorest

caparisons of any of the knights, and said:

"Sir knight, prithee tell me of what that marvelous shaky and

rusty-looking armor of thine is made?"

"Oh, king," said the young knight, "seeing that we are about to engage

in a big fight, I would call it scrap iron, wouldn't you?"

"Ods bodikins!" said the king. "The youth hath a pretty wit."

* * * * *

The tourney lasted the whole day and at the end but two of the knights

were left, one of them being the princess's lover.

"Here's enough for a fight, anyhow," said the king. "Come hither, oh

knights, will ye joust for the hand of this lady fair?"

"We joust will," said the knights.

The two knights fought for two hours and at length the princess's

lover prevailed and stretched the other upon the ground. The

victorious knight made his horse caracole before the king, and bowed

low in his saddle.

On the Princess Astla's cheek was a rosy flush; in her eyes the light

of excitement vied with the soft glow of love; her lips were parted,

her lovely hair unbound, and she grasped the arms of her chair and

leaned forward with heaving bosom and happy smile to hear the words of

her lover.

"You have fought well, sir knight," said the king. "And if there is

any boon you crave you have but to name it."

"Then," said the knight, "I will ask you this: I have bought the

patent rights in your kingdom for Schneider's celebrated monkey wrench

and I want a letter from you endorsing it."

"You shall have it," said the king, "but I must tell you that there is

not a monkey in my kingdom."

With a yell of rage the victorious knight threw himself on his horse

and rode away at a furious gallop.

The king was about to speak when a horrible suspicion flashed upon him

and he fell dead upon the grandstand.

"My God!" he cried, as he expired, "he has forgotten to take the

princess with him."

Lucky Either Way

The Memphis Commercial-Appeal, in commenting on errors in grammar made

by magazines, takes exception to an error in construction occurring in

Gode's Magazine in which, in J. H. Connelly's story entitled

"Mr. Pettigrew's Bad Dog," a character is made to say: "You will be

lucky if you escape with only marrying one."

A man says this to another one who is being besieged by two ladies,

and the Commercial-Appeal thinks he intended to say: "You will be

lucky if you escape with marrying only one."

Now, after considering the question, it seems likely that there is

more in Mr. J. H. Connelly's remark than is dreamed of in the

philosophy of the Commercial-Appeal.

The history of matrimony gives color to the belief that, to whichever

one of the ladies the gentleman might unite himself, he would be lucky

if he escaped with only marrying her. Getting married is the easiest

part of the affair. It is what comes afterward that makes a man

sometimes wish a wolf had carried him into the forest when he was a

little boy. It takes only a little nerve, a black coat, from five to

ten dollars, and a girl, for a man to get married. Very few men are

lucky enough to escape with only marrying a woman. Women are sometimes

so capricious and unreasonable that they demand that a man stay around

afterward, and board and clothe them, and build fires, and chop wood,

and rock the chickens out of the garden, and tell the dressmaker when

to send in her bill again.

We would like to read "Mr. Pettigrew's Bad Dog" and find out whether

the man was lucky enough to only marry the lady, or whether she held

on to him afterward and didn't let him escape.

The "Bad Man"

A bold, bad man made a general display of himself in a Texas town a

few days ago. It seems that he'd imbibed a sufficient number of drinks

to become anxious to impress the town with his badness, and when the

officers tried to arrest him he backed up against the side of a

building and defied arrest. A considerable crowd of citizens, among

whom were a number of drummers from a hotel close by, had gathered to

witness the scene.

The bad man was a big, ferocious-looking fellow with long, curling

hair that fell on his shoulders, a broad-brimmed hat, a buckskin coat

with fringe around the bottom, and a picturesque vocabulary. He was

flourishing a big six-shooter and swore by the bones of Davy Crockett

that he would perforate the man who attempted to capture him.

The city marshal stood in the middle of the street and tried to reason

with him, but the bad man gave a whoop and rose up on his toes, and

the whole crowd fell back to the other side of the street. The police

had a conference, but none of them would volunteer to lead the attack.

Presently a little, wizened, consumptive-looking drummer for a

Connecticut shoe factory squeezed his way through the crowd on the

opposite side of the street to have a peep at the desperado. He

weighed about ninety pounds and wore double glass spectacles. Just

then the desperado gave another whoop and yelled:

"Gol darn ye, why don't some of ye come and take me? I'll eat any five

of ye without chawin', and I ain't hungry either--whoopee!"

The crowd fell back a few yards further and the police turned pale

again, but the skinny little man adjusted his spectacles with both

hands, and stepped on to the edge of the sidewalk and took a good look

at the bad men. Then he deliberately struck across the street at a

funny hopping kind of a run right up to where the terror stood.

The crowd yelled at him to come back, and the desperado flourished his

six-shooter again, but the little man went straight up to him and said

something. The crowd shuddered and expected to see him fall with a

forty-five bullet in him, but he didn't. They saw the desperado lower

his pistol and run his hand in his pocket and hand something to the

little man.

Then the desperado walked sheepishly down the sidewalk, and the little

man came back across the street.

"Bad man?" he said. "I guess not. He wouldn't hurt a fly. That's Zeke

Skinner. He was raised on the farm next to me in Connecticut. He's

selling some kind of fake liver medicine, and that's his street rig

he's got on now. I loaned him eight dollars in Hartford nine years

ago, and never expected to see him again. Thought I knew his voice.

Pay? I reckon he paid me. I calculate I always collect what's owing to

me."

Then the crowd scattered and the twelve policeman headed Zeke off at

the next corner and clubbed him all the way to the station house.

A Slight Mistake

An ordinary-looking man wearing a last season's negligee shirt stepped

into the business office and unrolled a strip of manuscript some three

feet long.

"I wanted to see you about this little thing I want to publish in the

paper. There are fifteen verses besides the other reading matter. The

verses are on spring. My handwriting is a trifle illegible and I may

have to read it over to you. This is the way it runs:"

Spring

The air is full of gentle zephyrs,

Grass is growing green;

Winter now has surely left us.

Spring has come, I ween.

When the sun has set, the vapors

Rise from out the meadows low;

When the stars are lit like tapers

Then the night winds chilly blow.

"Take that stuff up to the editorial department," said the business

manager shortly.

"I have been up there already," said the ordinary-looking man, "and

they sent me down here. This will fill about a column. I want to talk

with you about the price. The last verse runs this way:"

Then it is that weakening languors

Thicken in our veins the blood

And we must ward off these dangers

Ere we find our names are "Mud."

"The reading matter that follows is, as you see, typewritten, and

easily read. Now, I--"

"D--n it," said the business manager. "Don't you come in here reading

your old spring poems to me. I've been bored already today with a lot

of ink and paper drummers. Why don't you go to work instead of fooling

away your time on rot like that?"

"I didn't mean to bother you," said the other man, rolling up his

manuscript. "Is there another paper in the city?"

"Yes, there's a few. Have you got a family?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why in thunder don't you get into some decent business, instead

of going around writing confounded trash and reading it to busy

people? Ain't you got any manhood about you?"

"Excuse me for troubling you," said the ordinary-looking man, as he

walked toward the door. "I tell you how it is. I cleared over $80,000

last year on these little things I write. I am placing my spring and

summer ads for the Sarsaparilla firm of which I am a member. I had

decided to place about $1,000 in advertising in this town. I will see

the other papers you spoke of. Good morning!"

The business manager has since become so cautious that all the amateur

poets in the city now practice reading their verses to him, and he

listens without a murmur.

Delayed

There's a good time coming--so the optimists all say;

When everything will be alive and humming.

And we'll have lots of money and sing and dance all day;

It may be so--but it's a good time coming.

A Good Story Spoiled

Few nights ago in a rather tough saloon in a little town on the

Central Railroad, a big, strapping desperado, who had an unenviable

reputation as a bad man generally, walked up to the bar and in a loud

voice ordered everybody in the saloon to walk up and take a drink. The

crowd moved quickly to the bar at his invitation, as the man was half

drunk and was undoubtedly dangerous when in that condition.

One man alone failed to accept the invitation. He was a rather small

man, neatly dressed, who sat calmly in his chair, gazing idly at the

crowd. A student of physiognomy would have been attracted by the

expression of his face, which was one of cool determination and force

of will. His jaw was square and firm, and his eye gray and steady,

with that peculiar gray glint in the iris that presages more danger

than any other kind of optic.

The bully looked around and saw that someone had declined his

invitation.

He repeated it in a louder voice.

The small man rose to his feet and walked coolly toward the desperado.

"Excuse me," he said in a low but determined tone, "I'm a little deaf

and didn't hear you the first time. Gimme whisky straight."

And another story was spoiled for the papers.

Revenge

The man, woman, child, or animal who pens

"Postscripts" for the Houston Post is a weird,

wild-eyed genius and ought to be captured and put on

exhibition with the "nameless things" they are taking

out of the government well at San Marcos. There is

certainly a reward for both specimens.

Kyle _Star-Vindicator_

Although we can stand a great deal, this attack has goaded us to what

is perhaps a bitter and cruel, but not entirely an unjustifiable

revenge. Below will be found an editorial from the last number of the

Star-Vindicator:

"Spring, with her magic word of music, pathos, and joy, has touched a

thousand hills and vales, has set a million throats to warbling;

sunshine, song, and flowers bedeck every altar and crown each day more

glorious. Imperial spring is here--the brightest, gayest, and best of

all God's seasons. Springtime is like the little child--crowned with

its own purity and love not tarnished and seared with the hand of

Time. It is like the bright, sparkling miniature rivulet that bursts

from the mountain side and goes merrily over the shining pebbles

before it hastens into a dark, deep, dangerous river. The sweet

cadence of music, the scent of wafted perfumes, the stretch of

glorious landscape, radiated and beautified with lovely gems of

Oriental hue, catch our attention at every step. The world today is a

wilderness of flowers, a bower of beauty, and millions of sweet native

warblers make its pastures concert halls, where we can go in peace at

even-time, after the strife, the toil, the disappointments, and

sorrows of our labors here and gather strength, courage, and hope to

meet on the morrow life's renewed duties and responsibilities."

No Help for It

"John," said a Houston grocer the other day to one of his clerks. "You

have been a faithful and competent clerk, and in order to show my

appreciation, I have decided to take you into partnership. From this

time on you are to have a share in the business, and be a member of

the firm."

"But, sir," said John anxiously, "I have a family to support. I

appreciate the honor, but I fear I am too young for the

responsibility. I would much rather retain my present place."

"Can't help it," said the grocer. "Times are hard and I've got to cut

down expenses if I have to take every clerk in the house into the

firm."

Rileys Luck

Riley was a lazy fellow,

Never worked a bit;

All day long in some store corner

On a chair he'd sit.

Never talked much--too much trouble--

Tired his jaws, you see;

When his folks got out of victuals,

"Just my luck!" says he.

Fellow offered him ten dollars

If he'd work two days;

Riley crossed his legs and looked up

Through the sun's hot rays;

Then he leaned back in the shadow,

Sadly shook his head;

"Never asked me till hot weather--

Just my luck!" he said.

Riley courted Sally Hopkins

In a quiet way;

When he saw Jim Dobsen kiss her,

"Just my luck!" he'd say.

Leap Year came, and Mandy Perkins

Sought his company;

Riley sighed, and married Mandy--

"Just my luck!" he'd say.

Riley took his wife out fishing

In a little boat;

Storm blew up and turned them over;

Mandy couldn't float.

Riley sprang into the river,

Seized her by the hair.

Swam a mile into the shore where

Friends pulled out the pair.

Mandy was so full of water

Seemed she'd surely die.

Doctors worked with her two hours

Ere she moved an eye.

They told Riley she was better;

Doctors were in glee.

Riley chewed an old pine splinter--

"Just my luck!" says he.

"Not So Much a Tam Fool"

A man without a collar, wearing a white vest and holes in his elbows,

walked briskly into a Congress Street grocery last Saturday with a

package in his hand and said:

"Here, Fritz, I bought two dozen eggs here this afternoon, and I find

your clerk made a mistake, I--"

"Coom here, Emil," shouted the grocer, "you hof dis shentleman sheated

mit dos rotten eggs. Gif him ein dozen more, und--"

"But you don't understand me," said the man, with a pleasant smile.

"The mistake is the other way. The eggs are all right; but you have

given me too many. I only paid for two dozen, and on reaching home I

find three dozen in the sack. I want to return the extra dozen, and I

came back at once. I--"

"Emil!" shouted the grocer again to his boy. "Gif dis man two dozen

eggs at vonce. You haf sheated him mit pad eggs. Don'd you do dot any

more times or I discharge you."

"But, sir," said the man with the white vest, anxiously. "You gave me

too many eggs for my money, and I want to return a dozen. I am too

honest to--"

"Emil," said the grocer, "gif dis man t'ree dozen goot fresh eggs at

vonce and let him go. Ve makes pad eggs good ven ve sells dem. Hurry

up quick and put in drei or four extra vons."

"But, listen to me, sir," said the man. "I want to--"

"Say, mein frindt," said the grocer in a lower voice, "you petter dake

dose eggs und go home. I know vat you pring pack dose eggs for. If I

dake dem, I say, 'Veil, dot is ein very good man; he vas honest py

dose eggs, aind't it?' Den you coom pack Monday und you puy nine

tollers' vorth of vlour and paeon and canned goots, and you say you

bay me Saturday night. I was not so much a tarn fool as eferypody say

I look like. You petter dake dose t'ree dozen eggs and call it skvare.

Ve always correct leedle misdakes ven ve make dem. Emil, you petter

make it t'ree dozen und a half fur good measure, and put in two t'ree

stick candy for die kinder."

A Guess-Proof Mystery Story

The most popular and recent advertising dodge in literature is the

Grand Guess Contest Mystery Story. Everybody is invited to guess how

the story will end, at any time before the last chapter is published,

and incidentally to buy a paper or subscribe. It is the easiest thing

in the world to write a story of mystery that will defy the most

ingenious guessers in the country.

To prove it, here is one that we offer $10,000 to any man and $15,000

to any woman who guesses the mystery before the last chapter.

The synopsis of the story is alone given, as literary style is not our

object--we want mystery.

Chapter I

Judge Smith, a highly esteemed citizen of Plunkville, is found

murdered in his bed at his home. He has been stabbed with a pair

of scissors, poisoned with "rough on rats." His throat has been

cut with an ivory handled razor, an artery in his arm has been

opened, and he has been shot full of buckshot from a

double-barreled gun.

The coroner is summoned and the room examined. On the ceiling is a

bloody footprint, and on the floor are found a lady's lace

handkerchief, embroidered with the initials "J. B.," a package of

cigarettes and a ham sandwich. The coroner renders a verdict of

suicide.