PERCY H. VAN DYKE, Publisher ted Editor.
NEWPORT, - * ARKANSAS.
DON’T DESPISE THE BOYS.
Don’t plague the bashful country boy
Who looks with awe upon you now;
His clothes are poor and he is coy,
And tangles up his legs somehow
So that he stumbles awkardly
In making way for you—but he
So guileless now, so poorly dressed,
May hide away down in his breast
A T.incoln's heart, or be possessed
Of wishes such as Garfield had
To stand where but the greatest may—
Don’t laugh out at the country lad
Who passes awkwardly to-day,
fa*Vn ...
Don't Spurn the poor boy in the street
Who tries to pass and jostle you;
The shoes are ragged on his feet,
His trousers may be tattered, too.
With grimy hands and tangled hair;
He dodges here and hurries there.
Too little for his years, but still
Deep in his breast may be the will
That spurned Carnegie up the hill
Forgive the child who sometimes dares
To play a little on his way;
Down in the busy thoroughfares
Are boys the world will know some day.
Oh, country boy, I lift my hat
In humble deference to you;
Oh, little worker in the street,
Clad in your soiled and tattered blue,
With awe I watch you as you pass—
1 might cry "Bravo!” if I knew,
Oh, ragged, tired, awkward boy,
What things God sent you here to do.
—S. E. Kiser, in Chicago Record-Herald.
The Philosopher
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—
nr HE Philosopher, spread himseli
1 with an air of singular cheerfulness
as he breasted Ihe fog. The condi
tions surrounding him were precisely
of a character to furnish a very satis
factory test of the philosophy o!
which it was liis boast to profess, ant;
the discomfort of the moment affect
ed him only in so far as it enablet;
him to rise superior to it. He movec
through an opaque, yellow-white
world of impenetrable mystery. He
was conscious of others moving in
the same world—with, it may be,
less satisfaction, if he might judge
from certain detached exclamatory
Bounds which from time to time rose
up out of the encircling darkness.
Palpable though invisible objects
passed and repassed him at every
conceivable angle, cannoning up
aganist each other with aggressive
stupidity, and not infrequently can
noning up against himself, as he
steered his way in what he imagined
to be a straight line along a straight
pavement.
The pavement—as he remembered
it almost from his childhood up—was
certainly straight, and ran from St
James’ past the National Gallery,
which made it the more surprising
when a few yards further on, the Phil
osopher fell over a curbstone in the
middle of the road into the arms of a
policeman.
“Trafalgar square, I conceive?”said
the Philosopher blandly as he read
justed his hat.
“Piccadilly Circus,” said the police
man gruffly.
“Dear me! you don’t mean it?” re
jotnetl tne rmiiosopner. mat ac
counts for my having collided with so
many substantial shades during the
last few minutes. 1 appear to have
lost to an extent my sense of direc
tion.”
“You ain’t the fust,” said the po
liceman, in a tone of encouragement,.
“If you go on long enough you will
come somewhere.”
This remark contained so evident
a germ of philosophy that it tickled
the Philosopher into an appreciative
chuckle. -
“So might Epictetus have spoken!”
he exclaimed, gleefully. “1 perceive
you to be a student of Truth, my
friend! Good evening,” and he con
tinued his way with an uncertain but
complacent gait. He was brought up
very shortly by the unexpected pro
pinquity of a horse.
“Sir, you are on the pavement!” re
monstrated the Philosopher.
“You’re on the road, more like!”
retorted a voice, presumably belong
ing to n phantom driver up in the air.
“Can you tell me where 1 am?”
“I was about to address the same
inquiry to you,” replied the Philoso
pher, “coupled with a request that
you should drive me somewhere else.”
“Drive you—not 1, sir!” the voice
returned. “I’ve signed a contract
with the fog to remain on this ’ere
spot till morning.”
“That contract would appear to
have many signatories,” remarked
the Philosopher, as he walked into a
stationary omnibus. “The man wal
right—1 am no longer on the pave
ment.”
A link boy suddenly flitted like a
will-’o-the-wisp before him. He fol
lowed the fleeting light as it dimmed
into the void, and so attained onct
more the anchorage of the pavement
Here and there, from a shop window
more brilliantly illuminated than iti
#
neighbors, a faint glimmer like that
of a suspended glow worm was
thrown upon the curtain of the fog.
From time to time the Philosopher
paused in his progress to add his vocal
comments to the sum of the echoing
human sounds around him; it en
gaged his fancy pleasantly to address
his brother phantoms in a spirit of
agreeable camaraderie, as their re
spective orbits intersected each oth
er. Certain fragmentary ejacula
tions would call for the echo of a re
sponse—as, for instance, when a hu
man body collided against the Phil-'
osopher wjth some force and a voice
bfifist forth— "'■—• -
“What the deuce place is this?”
“Sir,” replied the Philosopher, “T
apprehend we are not far from the
Styx—a pleasant passage to you!”
But the illusion of an intangible
world was oddly interrupted, before
the Philosopher had travelel a dozen
yards farther, by the sound of a fem
inine voice close at his elbow—
"Oh, please, can you tell me where
I am?”
The philosopher stopped short.
“Not very clearly, I am afraid,
madam,” he replied.
“I am lost—and am so frightened—
I daren’t move!”
The voice was far too soft and sil
very to belong to a ghost—by no
means the vox exigua of a Tartarean
Shade—and the Philosopher’s heart
was touched by its plaintive appeal.
“If I can assist you”—rhe began.
She caught his arm impulsively.
“Oh, don’t leave me!” she cried, in
childish panic.
“On no account!” said the Philoso
pher firmly.
“If I could only find a hansom!”
“We will look for one,” he said.
They had instinctively fallen into
oKcp tugcutci, iiiuu^u tiirj' cuuiu mn
see each other. The Philosopher’s
breast swelled with the sense of a
protective mission. He became con
scious of a little gloved hand touch
ing his own—the impulse by which
his fingers closed over it was, under
the circumstances, a perfectly natu
ral one. She did not withdraw her
hand; the Philosopher’s gentle—al
most courtly—tones had inspired her
with the confidence of a child in a
parent. That she should not regard
it as misplaced, he began at once to
discourse to her in a soothing man
ner as they proceeded.
“There are few things,” he re
marked, “more disconcerting than
the moral influence of a fog upon the
nerves. We are surrounded even now
by numerous people in various stages
of agitation. They afford a strik
ing exemplification of the helpless
ness of human being’s in the face of
any sudden dislocation of normal
natural conditions. Consider if hu
manity were destined to exist always
in such a fog! How would it affect
the trend of human progress?”
A tall figure bumped into the Phil
osopher at this juncture and swung
him around to an angle.
“Thus!” he continued, placidly.
“Humanity would be perpetually
working at a tangent. Advance
would be crablike—for a time; but
at length human beings would, by a
natural principle of habituation,
adapt themselves to the new condi
tions of their existence—and, I doubt
not, triumph over them. In such a
case a sudden burst of sunlight, of
clarified air, would affect them with
as singular a consternation as at
picnrut I pi miWVl ll UJMUI Ill'll bv-jioi •'
by this fog. Let us regard it rather
as typical of that state of mental at
mosphere through which the human
mind must forever be groping to
ward the light, in search of truth.
We can rely but upon the lamp of
philosophy for our guidance. Philos
ophy rejects the disturbing influ
ence—”
“Are you, then, a philosopher, sir?”
she broke in, little timidly.
“1 am,” said the Philosopher,
proudly. “It has always been my aim
to triumph over the accidents of
chance. A fog, for instance, does not
in any way affect the equilibrium
of my mental serenity. Philosophy—
in such a climate as this especially—
is the state of mind to which it
should be the object of every ra
tional person to attain. What matter
whether one walks on the pavement
or the road? Philosophy scorns the
distinction. We cannot see the road,
but we know it is there—philosophy
rests satisfied with the fact—”
She gave a little cry, and stumbled
forward.
“Oh! What’s that? I tripped over
something—” »
The Philosopher drew her back to
an upright position.
“it was probably a dog. You
should not permit yourself to be
startled—you should not indulge the
emotions; all the emotions—fear,
joy, surprise, anger, love—are de
structive of the philosophical attitude
of mind.”
“Love, too?” she asked, with a
pleasing naivete.
“Love especially,” he answered.
“Philosophy and love cannot exist to
gether. Love is in its very essence
antagonistic to the first principles
of philosophy. It rests more often
than not upon no rational basis what
ver. A lover cannot by any con
ceivable concession be a philosopher.”
She made a little grimace, which
the Philosopher could not see.
“Philosophy,” he continued, tran
quilly, “is superior to love; it is in
dependent of the domestic emotions;
it—”
“Then you are not married?” she
interrupted, softly.
“Married!” exclaimed the Philoso
pher aghast. “Should l be a philoso
pher if 1 were? Marriage is quite de
structive of philosophy.”
“There was a lady called Xan
tippe”—she ventured timidly.
The Philosopher was a little taken
aback.
“I beg you pardon?” he said.
“Socrates—he was married, you
know.” ...
“So he was,” observed the Philoso
pher, thoughtfully. “His wife may
be considered to have furnished the
supreme test of his philosophy,” he
added, in a brighter tone.
“Oh, I’m afraid you’re a missy—
missy—missy—” She stopped, per
plexed. “I’ve forgotten the word. A
person who hates women.”
“Misogynist?” suggested the Phil
osopher.
“Thank you. Yes, that’s the word.
Are you one of those dreadful peo
ple?”'
“A philosopher hates nothing. Not
even women,” he replied, indulgently.
“And you prefer your horrid phil
osophy to—to women?” she demand
ed with warmth.
“In philosophy,” was his passion
less rejoinder, “we find truth; but
in women—” He paused, reflecting
that the conclusion of the sentence
might bear an interpretation person
ally ungratifying to his fair compan
ion. She ruthlessly seized on the
• ■« • i • 11 _ J1 T ... -
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“You mean that all women are
false!” she said, dropping his hand.
“T should have satisfied myself
with a more negative distinction,” he
answered. “Pray be careful. There
is a curbstone there—”
She stumbled again, then stopped
and confronted him nervously.
“This is awful!” she exclaimed.
“And there doesn’t seem to be a
hansom anywhere!” She looked
round vaguely at the encircling white
wall. “How shall I get home? Shall
1 ever get home at all?”
“What does it matter whether you
get home or not?” asked the Philoso
pher, calmly.
“Matter? Good gracious! What
do you mean?”
“The limitations of place are quite
arbitrary. One place is in reality as
good as another. To a philosopher
all places are ‘home’—and, for the
matter of that, you can, if you wish
it, by a judicious exercise of the fac
ulty of imagination imagine your
self at home now.”
“I cannot imagine anything so
silly!” she retorted, petulantly.
The Philosopher sighed.
“Have you any idea where we are?”
she demanded, shivering.
“I cannot clearly define our pre
cise position,” he replied, “but 1 con
ceive that we are proceeding in the
direction of Chelsea.”
“Oh, but I don’t want to go to Chel
sea!” she cried in alarm. “I want to
go to Lancaster Gate! What shall I
do?” she added, clasping her hands.
The Philosopher found himself mo
mentarily embarrassed. As far as
his own personal inclinations were
concerned, it was a circumstance of
equal indifference whether he went
to Chelsea or Belgravia. But his
companion’s distress was evident,
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himself her protector. He felt, there
fore, that he must consult her preju
dices in the matter of a destination.
“You must be if ware,” he said, gent
ly, “that no cab driver would take
you a dozen yards in this fog. Listen
to the sounds around you! They
resolve themselves into one vast uni
versal inquiry! In Piccadilly Circus
’buses and cabs were locked together,
midstreet, in an inextricable wedge
of helpless interrogation. Here—
wherever we are, it is little better.
The more venturesome of the ’bus
drivers are leading their horses. One
slipped past us just now. I heard the
grate of the wheel on the edge of the
pavement. If we were still in the
region of shops, we might step in
and investigate our locality. As it
is'—”
“Look, look!” she interrupted.
“Call him, quick!”
There was a sudden flare of a torch
in front of them and out of the dark
ness a link boy dashed swiftly past.
The Philosopher plunged toward
him.
“Lucifer—Bearer of Light—stop!”
he cried.
The urchin paused, with a grin.
“Call me, guv’nor?”
“I did. If you can spare the time,
be good enough to tell me—tell us—
where we are.”
“Where you are? Why, in Bond
street, o’ course!”
“Bond street!” repeated the Phil
osopher.
“Bond street!” echoed his compan
ion, with a gasp of unutterable relief
at the familiar home-like sound.
“Little boy, stay—don’t leave us!”
“Leave yer—well, wot d’ yer think,
Miss? I’ve got my bizness ter attend
to, too!” retorted the boy, impor
tantly.
“Youth,” said the Philosopher, ‘you
are master of the situation—a plebe
ian Charon controlling the vagrant
Shades. I engage your services. If
you insist upon going home, ^ he
added, turning to his charge, “we
cannot do better than follow our
Charon to the nether world.”
“But this is Bond street!” she ex
claimed, still with the ring of relief
in her silvery voice.
“I know it—at least T am willing
to believe it, since Charon says so.
Who better than h,e can conduct us
to the Plutonian Realms-—the Subter
ranean regions of the ‘Tube?’ ’"
“The ‘Tube?’” she cried. “We are
quite close to it!”
“The Idea of distance is purely rela
tive,” he replied. “When, an hour
ago, I left my club, I imagined my
self to be quite close to Trafalgar
square—yet, in the event, 1 found
myself to be immeasurably far from
that historic locality. Boy! lead us
instantly to the station called Bond
street. Charon shall have his fee.”
“The ‘Tube,’ sir? Yes, I’ll take
you there—Bond street; it ain’t very
fur, but the fog is that thick as no
body ’cept a mole could find is way
six yards afore him without a torch.
Five shillin’, sir!”
Ten minutes later they paused at
the mouth of the Central railway
station. The Philosopher paid the
link boy five shillings. “On the
banks of Phlegethon you will find
many others,” he said. “(!o and
search!” Then turning to his com
panion he motioned her courteously
to precede him down the steps.
Together they descended, and,
reaching1 once more a world of light,
by a mutual impulse stopped and
confronted each other on the thresh
old of it.
The Philosopher started. Before
him he beheld a young girl of the
most bewildering loveliness. Her soft
blue eyes were directed to bis with
an expression of timid curiosity, in
which there was the dawning blend
of a gratitude diffidently conveyed.
She, too, started—for she had imag
ined herself to be in the company of
a benevolent and middle-aged gentle
man of peculiar, though interesting
views, whose protection, paternally
offered, a maiden so situated might
without loss of maidenly dignity ac
cept.
Instead, she perceived, gazing into
her face with an admiration ill con
cealed, a young and singularly hand
some man of 25.
“I fancied. I—I thought you were
quite an old man all the time,” she
faltered, “or, of course—” She broke
off with an eloquent blush, and
dropped her eyes.
“P'acilis descensus Averno—” mur
mured the Philosopher, still gazing
on the half-averted face before him.
“Sed revocftre grad urn” * * *
she replied, darting at him a swift
little mischievous glance from under
a flickering eyelid.
“What!” exclaimed the Philosopher.
“Is it possible that you understand
Latin, that you have read Virgil
yon?”
“It is a sin. I know,” she answered,
demurely; “but T do—I have, really.
I—I am a philosopher, too. You see,
I was at Girton, where they make a
study of the emotions,” she added,
with a little sauev laugh.
P'or a moment the Philosopher was
silent. Then he said:
“Philosophy is like a fog, and the
‘twopenny tube’ is like the beauty
that dispels its fallacies. I renounce
my creed. T proclaim a heresy.
Philosophy and love are no longer
incompatible.” He paused to throw
out a suggestion. “May they not,”
he inquired, “continue to walk, hand
in hand, side by side, together,
through the thick, impenetrable fog,
the lonely, inhospitable mists of the
distant unknown future?”
But the reply of his companion
was lost in the sudden roar of the ap
proaching train.—Emeric Hulme Bea
man, in London Sketch,
Strange Catastrophe.
The surgeon of an English ship of
war was noted for the monotony of
his prescriptions. He apparently
considered salt water taken ex
ternally or internally as a cure for
all the ills that tlesh is heir to, for
he ordered his patients to take it, no
matter what might be the malady
presented to his notice. One. day he
went sailing with a party of friends,
and in the course of a squall the boat
was upset aud the surgeon came
near being drowned. “Well,” said the
captain of the ship when he was told
of the narrow escape, “l’,n K|a<] you
were saved, but it hardly seems pos
sible in any event that you could
have really drowned in your own
medicine-chest, now does it, doc
tor?”—\ outh’s Companion.
HI* Idea.
“Would you take our darling
daughter from us?” tearfully asked
the mother.
“Why—er-yes,” replied the startled
youth. “That’s my idea. “I—
ally hadn’t contemplated taking the
whole family, you know.”—Toiontt
News.
PERSONAL AND LITERARY.
Emperor William is master of four
languages and fairly proficient in two
more, but they say that when he is
thoroughly angry he talks in them
all by turns, indulging in polyglot
profanity that makes it sound as if
he w ere speaking in two dozen differ
ent tongues.
Thomas Brackett Reed alw ays had a
well-fed look, of course, but nowadays
he wears a well-groomed air of com
fortable prosperity such as he never
could boast while in congress. When
he visits Washington he puts up at
the best hotel, which involves great
er expense than he could have met
in the old days. The ex-speaker is
said to wonder why he remained in
public life so long.
Tolstoi has always been a warm ad
mirer of the Russian Society-. jd£
Friends. Upon the publication of
“The Resurrection” be gave orders
that all the money brought in by the
book should be turned over to the
Friends. Recently the official repre
sentative of the society returned the
large sum sent them, explaining that ^
as the book was indecent the kriends
could not accept the proceeds of its.
sale.
What is the “valley of decision?”
Is a question frequently asked by
those who have not yet read Edith
Wharton's novel. To those who have
read it the meaning of the title is
of course apparent, but even they do
not all of them know' the source of
the quotation. “Multitudes, multi
tudes in the valley of decision” ap
pears on her title page; “for the day
of the Lord is near in the valley of
decision” is the rest of the sentence,
and it is quoted from the prophet
Joel.
President Loubet, of France, made a
flying visit to his mother at her farm
near Dauphney recently and found
the old lady kneading dough for the
family baking. “Mother,” said he,
“vou are getting too old for that work.
Sit down here and talk to me.” He
then took off his coat, rolled up his
sleeves and undertook the job himself.
He was still busy at it when a mes
senger arrived from Paris with some
important papers. rl*he dandified Pa
risian was more than astonished at the
sight, but the president finished his
kneading before attending to the of
ficial matter.
Consul General Williams of Singa
pore. writes to the Independent to pro
pose a reconst ruction of the map of
the world. He would hav° us make
rti exchange with England of our Phil
ippine possessions for Newfoundland
and the British West Indies and the
Bahamas, and incidentally he would _
have England cede Honduras to Mex
ico. and have Great BritFrance and
Holland give up their claim
which should be made a separate na
tion under our protection. He thinks
that it would he good riddance for us
if we should thus transfer the Philip
pines to a power that wants them, and
that we should gain in prestige and
power by confining ourselves wholly
to this side of the middle of the At
lantic and Pacific oceans.
AN IMMENSE GRAVEL PIT
Tlinnftnnrift of Carlond* of Fine Itai»
last for Hailrnads Taken from
'Wisconsin Lauds.
The immense gravel pit at Rockton,
a small town a few miles south <tf Be
loit. Wis., furnishes ballast for Mil
waukee railroad tracks from Lake
Michigan almost to the Missouri river,
says the Milwaukee Journal.
The product of the pit reaches in
white streaks across thousands of
miles of prairie and forms a bed on
which the fastest and heaviest trains
may he onerated with snfptv
The gravel taken from that locality
Is said to he the finest ballast gravel
in the world, being free from sand and
dirt. Before the gravel is reached it
is necessary to strip off the soil to the
depth of about a foot to 18 inches. A
big steam shovel, weighing 65.000
pounds, is then put to work on a strip
of gravel 48 feet wide and 2,700 feet
(or over half a mile) long. ,5
Jt requires a month for the shovel to
travel through one of these strips
from which 10.000 cars of ballast are
taken, the shovel has a dipper with a
capacity of 21/a cubic yards at one
scoop, and is operated by a crew of
four men—an engineer, fireman,
cranesman and watchman, the latter
watching the pit at night.
These men make some record-break
ing runs occasionally. Not long ago
Engineer John Bishop and hjis crew
loaded 28 ears in 25 minutes. i
Gravel land on which streams of
prehistoric ages, the geologists say,
manufactured this ballast, cost a
great deal of money. Little can be
had for less than $200 an acre, and
some of it cannot be had at those fig
ures. I lie pit, at Rock ton is of great
depth, the bank of the new pit slop
ing down 45 feet, and if the cars
could be got out after being loaded a
further depth of six feet would be
utilized.
Prospect* Good.
Kmd Gentleman—Have you caught
anything, little boy?
Little Boy (fishing)—Nope. I won’t
ketch nuthin’ ’til 1 git home.—Ohio
State Journal.