IN CHRIST'S GARDEN. REV. DR. TALMAGE SENDS A SERMON ACROSS THE SEA.

The Great Preacher Now Nearing Austra-

lia--Description of a Beautiful Garden, its Flowers, Fruits and Thorns--An Invitation to Eater.

BROOKLYN, July 1.--Rev. Dr. Talmage, who is now nearing Australia on his round the world journey, has selected as the subject for his sermon through the press today "The Royal Garden," the text being taken from Solomon's Song v, 1, "I am come into my garden." The world has had a great many beautiful gardens. Charlemagne added to the glory of his reign by decreeing that they be established all through the realm--decreeing even the names of the flowers to be planted there. Henry IV, at Montpellier, established gardens of bewitching beauty and luxuriance, gathering into them Alpine, Pyrenean and French plants. One of the sweetest spots on earth was the garden of Shenstone, the poet. His writings have made but little impression on the world, but his garden, "The Leasowes," will be immortal. To the natural advantage of that place was brought the perfection of art. Arbor and terrace and slope and rustic temple and reservoir and urn and fountain here had their crowning. Oak and yew and hazel put forth their richest foliage. There was no life more diligent, no soul more ingenious than that of Shenstone, and all that diligence and genius were brought to the adornment of that one treasured spot. He gave £300 for it. He sold it for £17,-

000.

And yet I am to tell you of a richer garden than any I have mentioned. It is the garden spoken of in my text, the garden of the church, which belongs to Christ, for my text says so. He bought it, he planted it, he owns it, and he shall have it. Walter Scott, in his outlay at Abbotsford, ruined his fortune, and now, in the crimson flowers of those gardens, you can almost think or imagine that you see the blood of that old man's broken heart. The payment of the last £100,000 sacrificed him. But I have to tell you that Christ's life and Christ's death were the outlay of this beautiful gardens of the church of which my text speaks. Oh, how many sighs and tears and pangs and agonies! Tell me, ye women who saw him hang! Tell me, ye executioners who lifted him and let him down! Tell me, thou sun that didst hide, ye rocks that fell! "Christ loved the church and gave himself for it." If, then, the garden of the church belongs to Christ, certainly he has a right to walk in it. Come, then, O blessed Jesus, this morning, walk up

and down these aisles and pluck what thou wilt of sweetness for thyself.

In Christ's Garden. The church in my text is appropriate-

ly compared to a garden, because it is a place of choice flowers, of select fruits and of thorough irrigation. That would be a strange garden in which there were no flowers. If nowhere else, they will be along the borders or at the gateway. The homeliest taste will dictate something, if it be the

old fashioned hollyhock or dahlia or daffodil or coreopsis, but if there be [?] means then you will find the Mexican cactus and dark veined arou-

telion and blazing azalea and clustering oleander. Well, now, Christ comes to his garden, and he plants there some of the brightest spirits that ever flowered upon the world. Some of them are vio-

lent, unconspicuous, but sweet in heaven.

You have to search for such spirits to find them. You do not see them very often perhaps, but you find where they have been by the brightening face of the invalid, and the sprig of geranium on the stand, and the window curtains keeping out the glare of the sunlight.

They are perhaps more like the ranun-

culus, creeping sweetly along amid the thorns and briers of life, giving kiss for sting, and many a man who has had in his way some great black rock of trouble has found that they have covered all over with flowering jasmine running in and out amid the crevices.

These Christians in Christ's gardens are not like the sunflower, gandy in the light, but whenever darkness hovers over a soul that needs to be comforted there they stand, night blooming cereuses. But in Christ's garden there are plants that may be better compared to the Mexican cactus--thorns without, loveliness within--men with sharp points of character. They wound almost everyone that touches them. They are hard to handle. Men pronounce them nothing but thorns, but Christ loves them notwithstanding all their sharpnesses. Many a man has had very hard ground to culture, and it has only been through severe toil he has raised even the smallest crop of grace.

Thorns and Roses. A very harsh minister was talking with a very placid elder, and the placid elder said to the harsh minister, "Doctor, I do wish you would control your temper." "Ah," said the minister to the elder, "I control more temper in five minutes than you do in five years." It is harder for some men to do right than for others to do right. The grace that would elevate you to the seventh heaven might not keep your brother from knocking a man down. I had a friend who came to me and said, "I dare not join the church." I said, "Why?"

"Oh," he said, "I have such a violent temper. Yesterday morning I was crossing very early at the Jersey City ferry, and I saw a milkman pour a large amount of water into the milk can, and I said to him, "I think that will do," and he insulted me, and I knocked him down. Do you think I ought to join the church?" Nevertheless that very same man, who was so harsh in his behavior, loved Christ and could not speak of sacred things without tears of emotion and affection. Thorns without, but sweetness within--the best specimen of Mexican cactus I ever saw.

There are others planted in Christ's garden who are always ardent, always radiant, always impressive--more like the roses of deep hue that we occasional-

ly called "giants of battle"--the Martin Luthers, St. Pauls, Chrysos-

toms, Wyklifs, Latimers and Samuel Rutherfords. What in other men is a spark in them is a conflagration. When they sweat, they sweat great drops of blood. When they pray, their prayer takes fire. When they preach, it is a Pentecost. When they fight, it is a Thermopylæ. When they die, it is a martyrdom. You find a great many roses in the gardens, but only a few "giants of battle." Men say, "Why don't you have more of them in the church?" I say, "Why don't you have in the world more Napoleons and Humboldts and Wellingtons?" God gives some ten talents, to another one.

The Passion Flower.

In this garden of the church, which Christ has planted, I also find the snowdrops, beautiful, but cold looing, seemingly another phase of the winter. I mean those Christians who are precise in their tastes, unimpassioned, pure as snowdrops and as cold. They never shed any tears; they never get excited; they never say anything rashly; they never do anything precipitately. Their pulses never flutter; their nerves never twitch; their indignation never boils over. They live longer than most people, but their life is in a minor key. They never run up to C above the staff. In the music of their life they have no staccato passages. Christ planted them in the church, and they must be of some service, or they would not be there. Snowdrops, always snowdrops.

But I have not told you of the most beautiful flower in all this garden spoken of in the text. If you see a century plant, your emotions are started. You say, "Why, this flower has been a hundred years gathering up for one bloom, and it will be a hundred years more before other petals will come out." But I have to tell you of a plant that was gathering up for all eternity, and that 1,900 years ago put forth its bloom never to wither. It is the passion flower of the cross! Prophets foretold

it. Bethlehem shepherds looked upon it in the bud, the rocks shook at its bursting, and the dead got up in their winding sheets to see its full bloom. It is a crimson flower--blood at the roots, blood on the branches, blood on all the leaves. Its perfume is to fill all the nations. Its touch is life. Its breath is heaven. Come, O winds, from the north, and winds from the south, and winds from the east, and winds from the west, and bear to all the earth the sweet smelling savor of Christ, my lord.

Hir worth, if all the nations knew, Sure the whole earth would love him too.

Full of Fruit.

Again, the church may be appropri-

ately compared to a garden, because it is a place of select fruits. That would be a strange garden which had in it no berries, no plums, no peaches or apricots.

The coarser fruits are planted in the orchard, or they are set out on the sunny hillside, but the choicest fruits are kept in the garden. So in the world outside the church Christ has planted a great many beautiful things--patience, charity, generosity, integrity--but he intends the choicest fruits to be in the garden, and if they are not there then shame on the church. Religion is not a mere flower-

ing sentimentality. It is a practical life giving, healthful fruit--not posies, but apples. "Oh!" says somebody, "I don't see what your garden of the church has yielded." Where did your asylums come from, and your hospitals, and your institutions of mercy? Christ planted every one of them; he planted them in his garden. When Christ gave sight to Bartimeus, he laid the cornerstone of every blind asylum that has ever been built. When Christ soothed the demoniac of Galilee, he laid the cornerstone of every lunatic asylum that has ever been established. When Christ said to the sick man, "Take up thy bed and walk!" he laid the cornerstone of every hospital the world has ever seen.

When Christ said, "I was in prison, and ye visited me," he laid the corner-

stone of every prison reform association that has ever been formed. The church of Christ is a glorious garden, and it is full of fruit. I know there is some poor fruit in it. I know there are some weeds that ought to have been thrown over the fence. I know there are some crabapple trees that ought to be cut down. I know there are some wild grapes that ought to be uprooted, but are you going to destroy the whole garden because of a lit-

tle gnarled fruit? You will find worm eaten leaves in Fontainebleau and insects that sting in the fairy groves of the Champ Elysees. You do not tear down and destroy the whole garden because there are a few specimens of gnarled fruit. I admit there are men and wom-

en in the church who ought not to be there, but let us be just as frank and admit the fact that there are hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands of glorious Christian men and women, holy, blessed, useful, consecrated and triumphant. There is no grander collection in all the earth than the collection of Christians.

Catalogue of Fruits.

There are Christian men in the church whose religion is not a matter of psalm singing and church going. Tomorrow morning that religion will keep them just as consistent and consecrated on "exchange" as it ever kept them at the communion table. There are women in the church of a higher type of character than Mary of Bethany. They not only sit at the feet of Christ, but they go out into the kitchen to help Martha in her work, that she may sit there too. There is a woman who has a drunken husband, who has exhibited more faith and patience and courage than Hugh Latimer in the fire. He was consumed in 20 minutes. Hers has been a 20 years' martyrdom. Yonder is a man who has lain 15 years on his back, unable even to feet himself, yet calm and peaceful as though he lay on one of the green banks of heaven watching the oarsmen dip their paddles in the crystal river!

Why, it seems to me this moment as if Paul threw to us a pomologist's catalogue of the fruits growing in this great garden of Christ--love, joy, peace, patience, charity, brotherly kindness, gentleness, mercy--glorious fruit, enough to fill all the baskets of earth and heaven. I have not told you of the better tree in this garden and of the better fruit. It was planted just outside Jerusalem a good while ago. When that tree was planted, it was so split and bruised and barked men said nothing would ever grow upon it, but no sooner had that tree been planted than it budded and blossomed and fruited, and the soldiers' spears were only the clubs that struck down that fruit, and it fell into the lap of the nations, and men began to pick it up and eat it, and they found in it an antidote to all thirst, to all poison, to all sin, to all death--the smallest clus-

ter larger than the famous one of Esh-

col, which two men carried on a staff between them. If the one apple in Eden killed the race, this one cluster of mercy shall restore.

Water For the Garden.

Again, the church, in my text, is ap-

propriately called a garden because it is thoroughly irrigated. No garden could prosper long without plenty of water. I have seen a garden in the midst of a desert, yet blooming and luxuriant.

All around were dearth and barrenness, but there were pipes, aqueducts reaching from this garden up to the mountains, and through those aqueducts the water came streaming down and tossing up into beautiful fountains until every root and leaf and flower was saturated.

That is like the church. The church is a garden in the midst of a great desert of sin and suffering. It is well irrigat-

ed, for "our eyes are unto the hills, from whence cometh our help." From the mountains of God's strength there flow down rivers of gladness. There is a river the stream whereof shall make glad the city of our God. Preaching the gospel is one of these aqueducts.

The Bible is another. Baptism and the Lord's supper are aqueducts. Water to slake the thirst, water to restore the faint, water to wash the unclean, water tossed high up in the light of the sun of righteousness, showing us the rainbow around the throne. Oh, was there ever a garden so thoroughly irrigated? You

know the beauty of Versailles and Chatsworth depends very much on the great supply of water. I came to the latter place (Chatsworth) one day when strangers are not to be admitted, but by an inducement, which always seemed as applicable to an Englishman as an American, I got in, and then the gar-

dener went far up above the stairs of stone and turned on the water. I saw it gleaming on the dry pavement, coming down from step to step, until it came so near I could hear the musical rush, and all over the high, broad stairs it came

foaming, flashing, roaring down until sunlight and wave in gleesome wrestle tumbled at my feet. So it is with the church of God. Everything comes from above--pardon from above, joy from above, adoption from above, sanctifica-

tion from above. Oh, that now God would turn on the waters of salvation,

that they might flow down through his heritage, and that this day we might each find our places to the "Elims," with 12 wells of water and threescore and ten palm trees.

A Hard Prayer. Hark! I hear the latch at the garden gate, and I look to see who is coming.

I hear the voice of Christ, "I am come into my garden." I say: "Come in, O Jesus; we have been waiting for thee. Walk all through these paths. Look at the flowers. Look at the fruit. Pluck that which thou wilt for thyself." Jesus comes into the garden and up to that old man and touches him and says, "Almost home, father; not many more aches for thee. I will never leave thee. I will never forsake thee. Take courage a little longer, and I will steady thy

tottering steps, and I will soothe thy troubles and give thee rest. Courage,

old man." Then Christ goes up another garden path, and he comes to a soul in

trouble and says: "Peace! all is well. I have seen thy tears; I have heard thy

prayer. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he will preserve thy soul. Courage, O troubled spirit." Then I see Jesus going up another garden path, and I see great excitement among the leaves, and I hasten up that garden path to see what Jesus is doing there, and lo! he is breaking off flowers, sharp and clean, from the stem, and I say, "Stop, Jesus; don't kill those beautiful flowers." He turns to me and says: "I have come into my garden to gather lilies, and I mean to

take these up to a higher terrace, and

for the garden around my palace, and there I will plant them, and in better soil, and in better air. They shall put forth brighter leaves and sweeter redolence, and no frost shall touch them forever." And I looked up into his face and said, "Well, it is his garden, and he has a right to do what he will with it. Thy will be done"--the hardest prayer a man ever made. Heartsease. I notice that the fine gardens sometimes have high fences around them, and I cannot get in. It is so with the king's garden. The only glimpses you ever get of such a garden is when the king rides out in his splendid carriage.

It is not so with this garden--the King's garden. I throw wide open the gate and tell you all to come in. No monopoly in religion. Whosoever will,

may. Choose now between a desert and a garden. Many of you have tried the garden of this world's delight. You

have found it has been a chagrin. So it was with Theodore Hook. He made all the world laugh. He makes us laugh now when we read his poems, but he could not make his own heart laugh.

While in the midst of his festivities he confronted a looking glass, and he saw

himself and said: "There, that is true. I look just as I am--done up in body, mind and purse." So it was with Shenstone, of whose garden I told you at the beginning of my sermon. He sat down amid those bowers and said: "I have lost my road to happiness. I am angry and envious and frantic and despise everything around me, just as it becomes a madman to do." Oh, ye weary souls,

come into Christ's garden today and pluck a little heartsease! Christ is the only rest and the only pardon for a per-

turbed spirit. Do you not think your chance has almost come? You men and women who have been waiting year

after year for some good opportunity in which to accept Christ, but have postponed it 5, 10, 20, 30 years, do you not feel as if now your hour of deliverance and pardon and salvation had come? Oh, man, what grudge hast thou against thy poor soul that thou wilt not let it be saved? I feel as if salvation must come now to some of your hearts. The Immortal Rescue. Some years ago a vessel struck on the rocks. They had only one lifeboat. In that lifeboat the passengers and crew were getting ashore. The vessel had foundered and was sinking deeper and deeper, and that one boat could not take the passengers very swiftly. A little girl stood on the deck, waiting for her turn to get into the boat. The boat came and went--came and went--but her turn did not seem to come. After awhile she could wait no longer, and she leaped on the taffrail and then sprang into the sea, crying to the boatman: "Save me next! Save me next!" Oh, how many gave gone ashore into God's mercy, and yet you are clinging to the wreck of sin! Others have accepted the pardon of Christ, but you are in peril. Why not this morning make a rush for your immortal rescue, crying until Jesus shall

hear you and heaven and earth ring with the cry: "Save me next! Save me next!"

The fisheries of Canada are annually worth nearly $20,000,000.

ODDS AND ENDS.

The charcoal business has been declining for 30 years. For every widower who marries a widow there are 11 who espouse maidens. There are no known means by which the sears made by smallpox may be removed. By the use of electric headlights locomotive engineers can count 17 telegraph poles ahead, as a rule. On all British passenger steamers collections are made at the Sunday service for the Seamen's Aid fund. Corner lots on Fleet street, Piccadilly and other desirable business locations in London are worth $100,000 a front foot. The difficulty in making aluminium castings has been so far overcome that pure aluminium bathtubs are now made in a single piece. The twin daughters of the late General Phil Sheridan are pupils at Eton Hall, the Catholic convent school at Torresdale, near Philadelphia.

Out of 40 men and women sent to Africa by the International Missionary Alliance during the last five years 11 have died. The first year of residence is most fatal.

John Gussler, the only man ever convicted of stealing a hedge fence, was fined $10 by a Larue county (Ky.) court a few days ago. He pleaded that he did it simply to prove to himself that he was not suffering from delirium tremens. "Fagging" has become entirely obsolete at Eton. Thirty years ago it was carried on with great brutality. The story of "Tom Brown at Rugby" has, it is said, done more to kill the old system in English colleges than any other agency.

There are differences in the family of John Pell of Chicago, not of a domestic nature, but in the stature of Pell and his wife. He is 7 feet 1 inch tall, while

she stands only 4 feet 5 inches. Their child is 7 years old and weighs twice as much as his mother and is just as tall. Athletics being the feature of the age, it is proposed to add a special athletic department to the Paris exhibition of 1900. There would be a retrospective exhibition of athletics in all ages, beginning with the Olympian games and the combats of the gladiators in the Ro-

man circuses.

Some one, evidently a wag, recently

started the story in Kansas that Senator

Peffer has become superstitious and al-

ways gets out of bed on one side of it. Some of his Populist admirers began to deny the story until it dawned upon them that everybody gets out of bed on one side of it.

New Zealand Trout.

The classic ground of New Zealand fishing is in the South island, chiefly in the rivers which come tearing down to the east coast from the great central range of the southern Alps--those terrible snow waters which have given to drowning the name of "New Zealand death," today a mere thread in a wide desert of shingle, tomorrow a fast and furious torrent lapping over a mile of trestle bridge. It is in these rivers above all that the trout grow to be

monsters.

It was in one of them that one rod in

a single night took 10 fish, weighing 91 pounds. It was in a lake at the head of one of them that there was netted a

trout of 35 pounds. But these huge fish

have contracted the despicable habit of refusing to take a fly and must be entrapped with minnow or live bait, and that, too, at night. In the lakes the monsters refuse to look at any lure of-

fered them by man. We have seen them cruising about of an evening picking up white moths but we never yet heard that any man had

succeeded in capturing one with a rod,

and having ourselves failed disastrously in the attempt we are, of course, the foremost to maintain the feat to be im-

possible. But in the smaller tributaries the trout will take the artificial fly, and these are the streams preferred by the enthusiast.--Macmillan's Magazine.

A Town He Would Like to Visit.

I was in the front car of a fast ex-

press traveling to New York last week. Just in front of me sat two men. One word a wide brimmed, stiff straw hat,

and his know it all manner seemed to indicate that he had just finished his junior year at college. The other, who was much older, I recognized as a well known professor of archæology at Har-

vard. They were talking about the wonders of this wonderful land.

"I wish you could see our town of Pokerville, professor," said the younger of the two men. "It is a most interesting town--only 20 years old, and with 50,000 inhabitants."

"Ah--yes--very interesting, no doubt," replied the professor dryly. "But, strange as it may seem, I should prefer myself a town 50,000 years old and with 20 inhabitants!"--Boston Budget.

After the Social Bore.

Labouchere is nothing if not resource-

ful. He has now hit upon a scheme for ridding social clubs of bores. The ex-

perience of all clubmen is that in every club there are men whom the majority of the members would eject if they could--men who do not openly infringe on the rules or bring themselves under the notice of the committee, but who con-

trive in numberless ways to make them-

selves a nuisance to the club generally.

Accordingly Labouchere proposes that all members come up for reselection at the expiration of certain periods of time--say, every two or three years. As this rule would be applied to everybody, there would be nothing invidious about it, and it would drive out the bores.

The suggestion is commended to the consideration of club members to other latitudes than London.--Boston Herald.

A Student of the Sun.

Mrs. Mabel Loomis Todd, whose hus-

band, David P. Todd, is the well known professor of astronomy in Amherst col-

lege, has written a valuable little book entitled "Total Eclipses of the Sun."

Mrs. Todd has done all the work her-

self, going to original sources for infor-

mation.

Magna Charta, the great charter of Englishmen's liberties, is preserved in the British museum. It is somewhat stained by time, but King John's seal

and name are still quite legible at the bottom of it.

FIDDLED IN THE FERRY HOUSE.

Why Adolph Brodsky Did This and Passed His Hat For Money.

Three men were standing on the cor-

ner of Twenty-second street and Lex-

ington avenue a few evenings ago when a short, stout gentleman, wearing a silk hat, came walking rapidly toward them.

"Do you see this man?" inquired one of the trio, speaking to his friends.

"Yes," chorused both.

"Well," continued the first speaker, "he is one of the finest violinists in America." The short man just then passed the trio by and walked on down Twentysecond street. As he hurried along the three men kept watching him, when suddenly one of them, who had been listening to the first, blurted out:

"Oh, yes, I remember him. He is a splendid player. I heard him play the violin in the ferry house at St. George, Staten Island, the other evening, and then he passed his hat and took up a collection from the passengers. I should think he could do better."

The first speaker hereupon burst out laughing on hearing his friend's remarks; then he went on:

"Way, don't tell me you ever saw that man passing his hat. There would be no occasion for his doing that. He is the leader of the Damrosch orchestra and a thorough musician. That is Mr. Adolph Brodsky." By this time the person in question was out of sight, and a great argument ensued between the friends, the second speaker being positive that he saw the short man play the violin and pass his hat around the crowd, and that he himself contributed to the pile, while the first speaker was sure there was some mistake. A wager was made, and the money was posted in the hands of the third party.

It was agreed, as Mr. Brodsky was now gone, that the trio see him at the first opportunity, and the stakeholder was elected as the spokesman.

Mr. Brodsky resides at 224 West Central park and was interviewed the next day. He was rather amused at the situation laid before him and explained the affair in the following interesting man-

ner:

"In regard to my playing with the Damrosch orchestra," he began, in answer to several questions, "I will say that I am not with that body at present, but I was musical leader for Mr. Damrosch from November, 1891, until December, 1893. I did play on the violin in the waiting room of St. George, Staten Island, on the night of May 11, and as it seems somewhat strange that I performed in such an unusual concert hall I find it necessary to make explanation in regard to the matter. You see, I was invited to partake in the celebration

of the fourth anniversary of the Staten Island Chess club on that night, and after the festival I was with a party of 20 persons returning to New York. The waiting room at St. George was crowd-

ed with passengers waiting for the boat, and two fellows were playing music, one a violin and the other a guitar. The violinist appeared to be a very gifted

boy. I enjoyed his playing, and I took my hat and passed it around the crowd to try to make a collection, but nobody would give even a penny. I then bor-

rowed his instrument and rendered some of my favorite selections. I passed my hat around several times after that and always got something, the donations being mostly dollars, fifty cent pieces and quarters. I think the fellows made about $20."

The first speaker had lost the bet, but under no consideration would the winner accept the money, though the loser insisted.

The violinist who was the object of Mr. Brodsky's philanthropy was discovered to be a young man named Barney Sinclair of the musical team of Sinclair & Wilson. He was spoken to and corroborated Mr. Brodsky's story in every

particular.

"But the funny part of it all was," remarked Sinclair, "that myself and my partner were simply playing for our own amusement when Mr. Brodsky and his friends entered the ferry house. He thought we were playing for money. He passed his high hat around and threw in a $2 bill himself. I was at first inclined to refuse the money, but when I saw all the bills I accepted it, and tell you it was very welcome. Mr. Brodsky is the best fellow I ever met." --New York Sun.

Sun Light and Heat.

Science teaches a physical impossibil-

ity when it says that heat and light as

such come direct to us from the sun, for these two forces--i. e., heat and light (which are simply different modalities in the motion of electric force, or ether in motion) require a ponderable medium for their transmission, radia-

tion and reflection to render them perceptible to our senses. Could we, then

be placed midway between the sun and the earth we would be wrapped in

worse than "Egyptian darkness" and subjected to a degree of cold beyond all

calculation. Then not only the sun, but all the planets as well, would ap-

pear as balls of fire, from which no ray of light or heat could reach us through the imponderable, motionless, forceless, rayless ether by which we would be surrounded. From this I argue that

the heat and light possessed by the planets must be generated within the ponderable sphere of each and is the natural result of the friction of the sun's electricity passing through our atmos-

phere and rendering both more intense near the earth's surface than it is a few miles above, which, I believe, is an es-

tablished fact.--St. Louis Republic.

A Curious Letter of Introduction.

When Professor Garner planned his expedition to Africa in search of the language of the great apes, he hoped to take with him a curious letter of intro-

duction to a savage negro chieftain. The letter was in the form of a phonograph message in the chief's own language from E. J. Glave, Stanley's young lieu-

tenant. Glave commends Garner to the good offices of the savage warrior, and as Glave's voice is well known to the chieftain the message would doubtless have been effective. But Garner by ill luck failed to receive the phonograph before leaving England.--Chicago Her-

ald.

Suited.

Lesser--I am writing a new tank play and shall play the leading part myself. Dasher--Ah, you will certainly play the part of a tank admirably.--Brooklyn Eagle.

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Y. CORSON, REAL ESTATE AGENT, AND LICENSED AUCTIONEER, No. 721 Asbury Avenue, OCEAN CITY, N. J. Properties for sale. Boarding Houses and Cottages for Rent in all parts of the city. Correspondence solicited.

WM. LAKE, C. E., REAL ESTATE AGENT, Surveying, Conveyancing, Commissioner of Deeds, Notary Public, Master in Chancery. Sec'y Ocean City Building and Loan Association. Lots for Sale or Exchange. Houses to rent, furnished or unfurnished. Deeds, Bonds, Mortgages, Wills and Contracts carefully drawn. Abstracts of titles carefully prepared. Experience of more than twenty-five years. Office: Sixth Street and Asbury Avenue. P. O. Box 825. WM. LAKE.

E. B. LAKE, SUPERINTENDENT OF OCEAN CITY ASSOCIATION From its Organization, and also REAL ESTATE AGENT

Having thousands of Building Lots for sale at various prices, Some very Cheap and located in all parts of Ocean City. Now is the time to purchase property before the second railroad comes, as then property will greatly advance. I have a good many Inquiries for Property between 6th and

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DESIRABLE

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If you intend visiting the seashore the coming season, call on or write

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—AND—

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who has on hand a number of desirable furnished and unfurnished cottages. Full information given on application.

Building lots for sale in every section of the city.

Insurance written by first class Companies. Come and

see me before insuring elsewhere.

Money to loan on Bond and Mortgage on Improved Property.