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.”
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
