60 dif. U.S. $1,100 dif. Foreign 8c., 125 dif. Canadian, Natal, etc. 25c., 150 dif. Cape Verde, O. F. States, etc. 50c. Agents wanted. 50 p.c. com. List free. F. W. Miller, 904 Olive St., St. Louis, Mo.
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disc. on sheets. References required. 100 var. 8c.; 150 Hungary, etc., 10c.; 250 var., 50c. Watches, etc., given free. 2c. stamp for particulars.
our 10-cent stamp packets and 25-cent approval sheets.
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Fancy Batiste, Stripe Gazine,
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Descriptive list of their publications, with portraits of authors, will be sent by mail to any address on receipt of ten cents.
FOR 1897. 50 Sample Styles AND LIST OF 400 PREMIUM ARTICLES FREE. HAVERFIELD PUB CO., CADIZ, OHIO
"Yo' see dem chilluns a-leanin' on de fence?
Dey's putty near clean gone los' deir sense.
Some leddy done tell 'em dey look like cupids,
But I jes' 'low dey's two little stupids."
In foreign lands the doings of royalty, the state of mind and body of the reigning sovereigns and their families, form always an interesting feature of the daily news for the public. It is no uncommon thing to see in an English newspaper that "yesterday her Majesty the Queen walked out accompanied by Princess This or That"; or that "in the afternoon her Majesty drove from Windsor to Some-other-Place-on-the-Squeegee, attended by Lady Somebody and the Duchess of Nothingmuch." All of this forms a staple of news for the British, and it is a custom which prevails in all lands where there are royal families. The height of absurdity in this direction, however, is reached in Turkey, if the subjoined item, taken from a French journal, is correct. It is as follows: "Turkish papers take a deeper interest in the health of the Sultan than is to be found in the periodical press of other countries. Quite recently a Turkish organ gravely inserted the following lines:
"'His Majesty slightly indisposed, having been bitten last night by a gnat.'"
Mrs. Warmheart. "My good man, why do you let your children go barefoot?"
Pat O'Hoolihan. "For de raison, ma'am, dat I have in my family more feet dan shoes."
The children were discussing a possible musical entertainment for charity.
"We can't make it pay," said Jennie. "Why, I heard mamma say these singers get five hundred dollars for an afternoon!"
"Bosh! Nonsense!" said Polly. "I know a hand-organ man that'll play for an hour for twenty-five cents, and throw in a monkey!"
"Bah!" sneered Willie. "You'll never amount to a hill of beans as a man."
"I know I won't," said Bobbie, meekly. "I ain't even a bean now; but I'll tell you what I am going to be."
"What's that?"
"A man," said Bobbie.
There are many geniuses and inventors hard at work to-day on devices for saving time and money, and one might say that daily the product of their thought is placed before the world in machines that seem almost human in their workings. The chief essential in saving time is to acquire a system, and operators placed before a new mechanical invention quickly establish a systematic method of working it, and eventually find a way of improving on it. These men seldom profit by such little improvements, but their adopted systems suggest valuable ideas to the outsider, upon which he realizes. This is evidenced by the following:
Years ago, in the cotton-mills, the bobbins of the looms used to catch the filaments of cotton and clog the machinery, necessitating a stoppage of the works to clean up. This was a loss of both time and money. One man, however, a seemingly dull fellow, found a way to keep his bobbin free, and his loom never had to shut down. The owner of the mills, one Mr. Peel, father of Sir Robert Peel, noticed this, and obtained from the man his secret for an agreement which financially, amounted to next to nothing. He simply chalked the bobbin, thus preventing the threads from sticking. Peel adopted the idea, and invented machinery for the sole purpose of chalking the bobbins, and patented it. He realized a fortune from it, and gave the original inventor a handsome pension.
"We're getting up a club at our school."
"What for?"
"To hit the janitor with!"
The reason I like my small red drum
In snowy winter and rosy June,
Is because, no matter how I pound,
I never can hammer it out of tune.
"Your pa don't make any money," said Wilbur, scornfully, to Polly.
"No, he don't; but I tell you one thing, Wilbur Jones, he earns a lot!"
"What did your papa get on Christmas, Billy?"
"Mad!" said Billy.
"Well, little chap," said the stranger in the family, picking up one of the children, "what are you going to be when you're a man?"
"Nuffin'," said the child.
"Nothing? Why so?" asked the stranger.
"Because," said the child, "I'm only a little girl."
"Do you think your mamma loves you, Polly?" asked Polly's mother, hugging the little girl up tight.
"Yeth I do," said Polly. "I knows it."
"I am so glad. And how do you know it, Polly?"
"'Cause I'm your doll," said Polly.
"Why do you behave so, Jimmie?"
"It's all pa's fault," said Jimmie. "When I grow up I want to be able to tell my boys what I did when I was little—the way papa does."
[1] I have purposely left out mentioning these names in this story for reasons.—J. H.