A DIVINE COMFORTER

GOD WIPES AWAY THE TEARS OF THE AFFLICTED CHRISTIAN. Dr. Talmage Preaches on the Uses of Bereavement as a Preparation For the Future Life--God's Loving Kindness and Tender Sympathy.

NEW YORK, Aug. 18.--Rev. Dr. Talmage could not have selected a more appropriate subject than the one of today, considering the bereavement that has come upon him and his household. He

had already prepared his sermon for to-

day, selecting as a topic "Comfort," and taking as his text, "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,"

Revelation vii, 17.

Riding across a western prairie, wild flowers up to the hub of the carriage wheel, and while a long distance from any shelter, there came a sudden shower, and while the rain was falling in torrents, the sun was shining as brightly as I ever saw it shine, and I thought what a beautiful spectacle this is! So the tears of the Bible are not midnight storm, but rain on pansied prairies in God's sweet and golden sunlight. You remember that bottle which David labeled as containing tears, and Mary's tears, and Paul's tears, and Christ's tears, and the harvest of joy that is to

spring from the sowing of tears. God

mixes them. God rounds them. God shows them where to fall. God exhales them. A census is taken of them, and there is a record as to the moment when they are born and as to the place of their grave. Tears of bad men are not kept. Alexander in his sorrow had the hair clipped from his horses and mules and made a great ado about his grief, but in all the vases of heaven there is not one of Alexander's tears. I speak of the tears of God's children. Alas, me, they are falling all the time! In summer you sometimes hear the growling thunder, and you see there is a storm miles away, but you know from the drift of the clouds that it will not come anywhere near you. So, though it may be all brighth around about you, there is a shower of trouble somewhere all the time. Tears! Tears!

Tears and Laughter. What is the use of them anyhow? Why not substitute laughter? Why not make this a world where all the people are well and eternal strangers to pain and aches? What is the use of an eastern storm when we might have a perpetual nor'wester? Why, when a family is put together, not have them all stay, or if they must be transplanted to make other homes then have them all live--the family record telling a story of marriages and births, but of no death? Why not have the harvests chase each other without fatiguing toil? Why the hard pillow, the hard crust, the hard struggle? It is easy enough to explain a smile, or a success, or a congratulation, but come now and bring all your dictionaries, and all your philosophies, and all your religions, and help me explain a tear. A chemist will tell you that it is made up of salt and lime and other component parts, but he misses the chief ingredients--the acid of a soured life, the viperine sting of a bitter memory, the fragments of a broken heart. I will tell you what a tear is. It is agony in solution. Hear, then, while I discourse of the uses of trouble. First, it is the design of trouble to keep this world from being too attractive. Something must be done to make us willing to quit this existence. If it were not for trouble, this world would be a good enough heaven for me. You and I would be willing to take a lease of this life for 100,000,000 years if there were no trouble. The earth cushioned and upholstered and pillared and chandeliered with such expense, no story of other worlds could enchant us. We would say: "Let well enough alone. If you want to die and have your body disintegrated in the dust and your soul go out on a celestial adventure, then you can go, but this world is good enough for me!" You might as well go to a man who has just entered the Louvre at Paris and tell him to hasten off to the picture galleries of Venice or Florence. "Why," he would say, "What is the use of my going there? There are Rembrandts and Rubeuses and Raphaels here that I haven't looked at yet." No man wants to go out of this world, or out of any house, until he has a better house. To cure this wish to stay here God must somehow create a disgust for our surroundings. How shall he do it? He cannot afford to deface his horizon, or to tear off a fiery panel from the sunset, or to subtract an anther from the water lily, or to banish the pungent aroma from the mignonette, or to drag the robes of the morning in mire. You cannot expect a Christopher Wren to mar his own St. Paul's cathedral, or a Michael Angelo to dash out his own "Last Judgment," or a Handel to discard his "Israel in Egypt," and you cannot expect God to spoil the architecture and music of his own world. How, then, are we to be made willing to leave? Here is where trouble comes in. After a man has had a good deal of trouble he says: "Well, I am ready to go. If there is a house somewhere whose roof doesn't leak, I would like to live there. If there is an atmosphere somewhere that does not distress the lungs, I would like to breathe it. "If there is a society somewhere where there is no tittle tattle, I would like to live there. If there is a home circle somewhere where I can find my lost friends, I would like to go there." He used to read the first part of the Bible chiefly. Why has he changed Genesis for Revelation? Ah, he used to be anxious chiefly to know how this world was made, and all about its geological construction. Now he is chiefly anxious to know how the next world was made, and how it looks, and who live there, and how they dress. He reads Revelation ten times now where he reads Genesis once. The old story, "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth," does not thrill him half as much as the other story, "I saw a new heaven and a new earth." The old man's hand trembles as he turns over this apocalyptic leaf, and he has to take out his handkerchief to wipe his spectacles. That book of Revelation is a psopectus now of the country into which he is soon to immigrate; the country in which he has lots already laid out, and avenues opened, and mansions built. The Ministry of Trouble. Yet there are people here to whom this world is brighter than heaven. Well, dear souls, I do not blame you. It is natural. But after awhile you will be ready to go. It was not until Job had been worn out with bereavements that he wanted to see God. It was not until

the prodigal got tired of living among

the hogs that he wanted to go to his

father's house. It is the ministry of trouble to make this world worth less and heaven worth more.

Again, it is the use of trouble to make us feel our dependence upon God. Men think that they can do anything

until God shows them they can do noth-

ing at all. We lay our great plans, and

we like to execute them. It looks big. God comes and takes us down. As Pro-

metheus was assaulted by his enemy, when the lance struck him it opened a great swelling that had threatened his

death, and he got well. So it is the arrow of trouble that lets out great swellings of pride. We never feel our dependence upon God until we get trouble. I was riding with my little child along the road, and she asked if she might

drive. I said, "Certainly." I handed

over the reins to her, and I had to admire the glee with which she drove. But after awhile we met a team and we had to turn out. The road was narrow, and it was sheer down on both sides. She handed the reins over to me and said, "I think you had better take

charge of the horse." So we are all children, and on this road of life we like

to drive. It gives one such an appear-

ance of superiority and power. It looks

big. But after awhile we meet some

obstacle and we have to turn out, and

the road is narrow, and it is sheer down

on both sides; and then we are willing

that God should take the reins and

drive. Ah, my friends, we get upset so

often because we do not hand over the

reins soon enough.

After a man has had trouble, prayer is with him a taking hold of the arm of God and crying out for help. I have heard earnest prayers on two or three

occasions that I remember. Once, on the Cincinnati express train, going at 40 miles an hour, the train jumped the

track, and we were near a chasm 80 feet deep, and the men who, a few minutes before, had been swearing and blaspheming God, began to pull and jerk at

the bell rope and god up on the backs of the seats, and cried out, "O God, save us!"

There was another time, about 800

miles out at sea, on a foundering steam-

er, after the last lifeboat had been split

finer than kindling wood. They prayed

then. Why is it you so often hear peo-

ple, in reciting the last experience of

some friend, say, "He made the most

beautiful prayer I ever heard?" What

makes it beautiful? It is the earnestness

of it. Oh! I tell you, a man is in earnest when his stripped and naked soul wades out in the soundless, shoreless,

bottomless ocean of eternity.

A Helpful Father. It is trouble, my friends, that makes us feel our dependence upon God. We

do not know our own weakness or God's

strength until the last plank breaks. It

is contemptible in us when there is noth-

ing else to take hold of that we catch hold of God only. Why, you do not know who the Lord is! He is not an autocrat seated far up in a palace, from which he emerges once a year, preceded by heralds swinging swords to clear the way. No. But a Father willing, at our call, to stand by us in every crisis and predicament of life. I tell you what some of you business men make me think of. A young man goes off from home to earn his fortune. He goes with his mother's consent and benediction. She has a large wealth, but he wants to make his own fortune. He goes far away, falls sick, gets out of money. He sends for the hotel keeper where he is staying, asking for lenience, and the answer he gets is, "If you don't pay up Saturday night, you'll be removed to the hospital." The young man sends to a comrade in the same building. No help. He writes to a banker who was a friend of his deceased father. No relief. He writes to an old schoolmate, but gets no help. Saturday night comes, and he is moved to the hospital. Getting there, he is frenzied with grief, and he borrows a sheet of paper and a postage stamp, and he sits down, and he writes home, saying: "Dear mother, I am sick unto death. Come." It is ten minutes of 10 o'clock when she gets the letter. At 10 o'clock the train starts. She is five minutes from the depot. She gets there in time to have five minutes to spare. She wonders why a train that can go 30 miles an hour cannot go 60 miles an hour. She rushes into the hospital. She says: "My son, what does all this mean? Why didn't you send for me? You sent to everybody but me. You knew I could and would help you. Is this the reward I get for my kindness to you always?" She bundles him up, takes him home and gets him well very soon. Now, some of you treat God just as that young man treated his mother. When you get into a financial perplexity, you call on the banker, you call on the broker, you call on your creditors, you call on your lawyer for legal counsel; you call upon everybody, and when you cannot get any help, then you go to God. You say: "O Lord, I come to thee. Hel pme now out of my perplexity." And the Lord comes, though it is the eleventh hour. He says: "Why did you not send for me before? As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you." It is to throw us back upon God that we have this ministry of tears. The Office of Sympathy. Again, it is the use of trouble to capacitate us for the office of sympathy. The priests, under the old dispensation, were set apart by having water sprinkled upon their hands, feet and head, and by the sprinkling of tears people are now set apart to the office of sympathy. When we are in prosperity we like to have a great many young people around us, and we laugh when they laugh, and we romp when they romp, and we sing when they sing; but when we have trouble we like plenty of old folks around. Why? They know how to talk. Take an aged mother, 70 years of age, and she is almost omnipotent in comfort. Why? She has been through it all. At 7 'clock in the morning she goes over to comfort a young mother who has just lost her babe. Grandmother knows all about that trouble. Fifty years ago she felt it. At 12 o'clock that day she goes over to comfort a widowed soul. She knows all about that. She has been walking in that dark valley 20 years. At 4 o'clock in the afternoon some one knocks at the door, wanting bread. She knows all about that. Two or three times in her life she came to her last loaf. At 10 o'clock that night she goes over to sit up with some one severely sick. She knows all about it. She knows all about fevers and pleurisies and broken bones. She has been doctoring all her life, spreading plasters and pouring out bitter drops and shaking up hot pillows and contriving things to tempt a poor appetite. Drs. Abernathy and Rush and Hosack and Harvey were great doctors, but the greatest doctor the world ever saw is an old Christian woman. Dear me! Do we not remember her about the room when we were sick in our boyhood? Was there any one who could ever so touch a sore without hurting it? Where did Paul get the ink with which to write his comforting epistle? Where did David get the ink to write his comforting Psalms? Where did John get the ink to write his comforting Revelation? They got it out of their own tears. When a man has gone through the curriculum and has taken a course of dungeons and imprisonments and shipwrecks, he is qualified for the work of sympathy. When I began to preach, my sermons on the subject of trouble were all poetic in semiblank verse, but God knocked the black verse out of me long ago and I have found out that I cannot comfort people except as I myself have been troubled. God make me the son of consolation to the people! I would rather be the means of soothing one perturbed spirit today than to play a tune that would set all the sons of mirth reeling in the dance.

I am an herb doctor. I put into the caldron the root out of dry ground, without form or comeliness. Then I put in the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley. Then I put into the caldron some of the leaves from the tree of life and the branch that was thrown into the wilderness Marah. Then I pour in the tears of Bethany and Golgotha; then I stir them up. Then I kindle under the caldron a fire made out of the wood of the cross, and one drop of that potion worst sickness that ever afflicted a human soul. Mary and Martha shall receive their Lazarus from the tomb. The damsels shall rise. And on the darkness shall break the morning

and God will wipe all tears from their eyes. Jesus had enough trial to make him sympathetic with all trial. The shortest verse in the Bible tells the story, "Jesus wept." The scar on the back of his either hand, the scar on the arch of either foot, the row of scars along the line of the hair, will keep all heaven thinking. Oh, that Great Weeper is just the one to silence all earthly trouble, wipe out all stains of earthly grief. Gentle! Why, his step is softer than the step of the dew. It will not be a tyrant bidding you to hush up your crying. It will be a father who will take you on his left arm, his face beaming intoyours, while with the soft tips of the fingers of the right hand he shall wipe away all tears from your eyes. Homesick For Heaven. Friends, if we could get any appreciation of what God has in reserve for us, it would make us so homesick we would be unfit for our everyday work. Professor Leonard, formerly of Iowa university, put in my hand a meteoric stone, a stone thrown off from some other world to this. How suggestive it was to me! And I have to tell you the best representations we have of heaven are only aerolites flung off from that world which rolls on bearing the multitudes of the redeemed. We analyze these aerolites and find them crystallizations of tears. No wonder, flung off from heaven! "God shall wipe away all years from their eyes." Have you any appreciation of the good and glorious times your friends are having in heaven? How different it is when they get news there of a Christian's death from what it is here? It is the difference between embarkation and coming into port. Everything depends upon which side of the river you stand when you hear of a Christian's death. If you stand on this side of the river, you mourn that they go. If you stand on the other side of the river, you rejoice that they come. Oh, the difference between a funeral on earth and a jubilee in heaven--between requiem here and triumph there--parting here and reunion there! Together! Have you thought of it? They are together. Not one of your departed friends in one land and another in another land, but together, in different rooms of the same house--the house of many mansions. Together! I never more appreciated that thought than when we laid away in her last slumber my sister Sarah. Standing there in the village cemetery, I looked around and said, "There is father, there is mother, there is grandfather, there is grandmother, there are whole circles of kindred," and I thought to myself, "Together in the grave--together in glory." I am so impressed with the thought that I do not think it is of any fanaticism when some one is going from this world to the next if you make them the bearer of dispatches to your friends who are gone, saying, "Give my love to my parents, give my love to my children, give my love to my old comrades who are in glory, and tell them I am trying to fight the good fight of faith and I will join them after awhile." I believe the message will be delivered, and I believe it will increase the gladness of those who are before the throne. Together are they, all their tears gone. My friends, take this good cheer home with you. These tears of bereavement that course your cheek, and of persecution, and of trial, are not always to be there. The motherly hand of God will wipe them all away. What is the use, on the way to such a consummation--what is the use of fretting about anything? Oh, what an exhilaration it ought to be in Christian work! See you the pinnacles against the sky? It is the city of our God, and we are approaching it. Oh, let us be busy in the days that ermain for us. I put this balsam on the wounds of your heart. Rejoice at the thought of what your departed friends have got rid of, and that you have a prospect of so soon making your own escape. Bear cheerfully the ministry of tears, and exult at the thought that soon it is to be ended. There we shall search up the heavenly street And ground our arms at Jesus' feet.

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Bismarck's Duels.

Bismarck used to be a famous shot and an excellent swordsman, and has been "out" five times--hit three.

Motley in his letters speaks of "constant pistol firing" at Bismarck's private shooting gallery. How like the New England Puritan is this expression of "constant pistol firing" from a man who probably never had a deadly arm in his hands during his life.

The weapons generally used at duels on the continent are the sword and dueling pistol. The sword has a triangular blade, 32 inches long from guard to point. For over a foot it is hollowed out like a bayonet. The point and edges are very sharp. It is an awfully dangerous tool to fool with. Sometimes curious results follow wounds with the rapier. A New Orleans gentleman was run through the right lung in a duel, the steel coming out three inches under his shoulder blade. At the time of the fight he was thought to be in the last stage of consumption. He not only got over the thrust, but the wound cured him of the dread consumption as well. The counter irritation relieved the lung of its inflammation and effected a perfect cure.--Exchange.

ALBERT EDWARD'S EXPENSIVE JOKE. How He Smahed the Crockery and Furniture of an Elderly Countess. Albert Edward, prince of Wales, is perhaps the most popular man in England. This popularity is due to his love of sports and all manly traits which are particularly commendable in the eyes of the average Britisher. As a youth his audacity and appreciation of a joke, either as a perpetrator or victim, were well known. One of his early escapades resulted in her majesty the queen footing a bill for broken crockery and wrecked furniture which the young prince caused in the house of one of the lesser members of the nobility. A rather elderly countess whose quick temper and sharp tongue drove even her servants away from her advertised for a footman. The prince, to whose ears tales of the peculiarities of the old lady had come, resolved to teach her a lesson. He therefore presented himself in disguise at her ladyship's house and applied for the position of footman. The countess had just finished her breakfast, and pushing her chair back from the table instructed the servant to bring before her the applicant. The prince was thereupon ushered into the room. The countess looked him over from his feet up. Apparently pleased with the appearance of the prince, she said, "Let me see you walk." Albert Edward did as commanded and walked across the floor from one end of the room to the other, now walking briskly at the request of the old lady and then pacing slowly, as she wished to obtain points on his score. This performance over, the countess ordered him to trot. The dining room still the theater of action, the prince trotted around it several times. When this exercise was completed, he again came to a standstill near the head of the table, where the countess was seated. Her ladyship seemed pleased and was just on the point of asking the young man some questions about himself when he shouted: "Now see me gallop!" Grasping a corner of the tablecloth firmly in one hand, the prince rushed around the room, pulling the crockery off on the floo rin a heap, knocking over the furniture and finally winding her ladyship up in the folds of the cloth. He then bolted for the door, leaving the countess sputtering and shouting and the servants running about in a distracted way to liberate their mistress and quiet her rage. In the hubbub and confusion the prince escaped. The next day a check from the keeper of the privy purse settled the amount of the damages and likewise established the identity of the mischief maker.--New York Herald.

An Example. Theodore--Tell me, now, what is the

meaning of the expression, "pulling your leg?"

Richard--I can't tell you in so many words, but I will illustrate. You haven't

$10 about you that you can let me have for a week or two? Thanks.--Boston Transcript.

COST TO RUN A SHIP. THE BIG ST. LOUIS REQUIRES $80,000 FOR THE ROUND TRIP. She Burns $15,000 Worth of Coal--The Bill For Breakage Is No Small Affair, Salaries of Officers and Men Are Small, but Some of Them Get Large Fees. The cost of running a big ocean greyhound to Europe and back reaches into the thousands. A transatlantic liner is really a floating hotel, and everything on board is conducted on the same scale of lavishness that is found in a fashionable Fifth avenue hotel. Clement A. Griscom, Jr., son of the president of the line controlling the St. Louis, agreed to give some figures to a World reporter covering the expense of her voyage to England and back. He figured for some time and then said that the expenses of the round trip of a steamer like the St. Louis average between $60,000 and $80,000, according to the season. The voyage between the two ports takes a trifle more than seven days, making the daily cost of operating in the busy season something like $5,500. No single individual on the St. Louis gets a large salary. The captain heads the list, getting about $5,000 a year. Captains on smaller passenger steamers only receive $3,000 a year. The chief officer of a ship like the St. Louis gets $1,600, and the bulk of the heavy work really falls on his shoulders. The second officer's pay ranges from $900 to $1,200, according to the size of the ship, while the third and fourth officers only get from $600 to $900. All of these men have to perform duties of a responsible kind, and as there are no bonuses attached to their work it can be seen that they are not overpaid. The crew of the St. Louis numbers 410 men. Two hundred of these are in the engineer's department, and all of them are directly under the authority of the chief. The steward's department is the next largest, numbering 170 in all. The sailors, including the deck officers, number but 40. The engineer's department is the most expensive on the ship, owing to the immense coal bills. The St. Louis burns more than 300 tons a day, or about 4,500 tons the round trip. This means an expenditure of $15,000 alone. The salaries of the men, the engineering supplies, including the thousand and one things needed for the vast machinery of a great ship, will require an expenditure of $5,000 every round trip. The chief engineer draws $3,000 a year, and his immediate assistants receive $1,500, $1,200 and $1,000 respectively. The stokers or firemen average about $30 a month, and the furnaces of the St. Louis require 180 of them working in different shifts. The purser, who is a most important person on board, does not get much in the way of salary, as the company in fixing his pay figured on the large bonuses he receives for changing money and performing the little services which the wealthy traveler does not hesitate to pay for liberally. His salary is only $1,000 a year, but he makes another $2,000

in fees and sometimes considerably more.

The ship's surgeon only receives $900 a year for the same reason. He is brought in contact with numerous real and fancied invalids of the wealthy class, and although no one is compelled to fee him few fail to do so, and a big, popular ship like the St. Louis is worth to him at lesat $3,000 to $4,000 a year. The steward's department is one of the costliest on the ship. The provisions for a round trip cost in the neighborhood of $13,000, and the salaries of the steward's men amount to $3,000 mre. The stewards are the least paid of any on the ship, for the reason that in the fees of the passengers they collect a considerable sum annually. All the pay they get is $20 a month, but they take in $40 a month in tips. The seasick man and woman are always willing to give their last cent for some little service. The chief steward receives $1,500 a year and also comes in for his share of the tips, as it is within his power to place many delicacies in the way of the liberal tourist. The chief cook is a great man on the ship, almost as great as the captain, and in all makes $3,000 a year out of his job. The breakage and wear and tear on the ship and its furniture are very heavy, requiring an expenditure in incidentals of about $5,000 each round trip. There are countless things to be replaced, and a comparatively little thing like the washing of the ship's linen means an expenditure big enough to support a man for a year in the lap of luxury. Here are some odd facts about the St. Louis: There are fully 1,000 tons of piping of various kinds in the ship. The concensers will pump up at least 50,000,000 gallons of cool water a day. The furnaces will consume no less than 7,500,000 cubic feet of air an hour. The boiler tubes, if placed in a straight line, would stretch nearly 10 miles and the condenser tubes more than 25 miles. The total number of separate pieces of steel in the main structure of the ship is not less than 40,000, and the total number of cubic feet of timber use in the construction is more than 100,000. The total number of rivets is not far from 1,250,000.--New York World.

Some Everyday Mistakes.

Current natural history is sometimes very amusing. An observant country boy can give you more reliable information in half an hour than many of the writers who are accepted as authority. Two examples of the fallacies of the latter have been going the rounds. One was an article on the cricket, which was described as a very dainty insect with a delicate appetite. There is in reality but one that is more voracious, and that is the cockroach. The cricket

has a robust taste for almost anything,

especially farinaceous matter, and it is very destructive to clothing. A housekeeper had her lace curtains eaten up, and the writer remembers once visiting in a house where the walls had been

ceiled and papered. The paper hung

loose here and there, due to the crickets

that gnawed through to get at the paste that had been used by the paper hangers.

Another story was of the marvelous self control of a man who discovered

that a black snake had concealed itself

in the pocket of his coat, which he had thrown aside in the field and donned again, very stupidly, without discover-

ing the reptile. This of itself was sur-

prising, as it is generally from four to five feet in length and and [sic] weighs several pounds. The black snake of the northern middle states is as harmless as the road, and moreover, is extremely cowardly. Its greatest fault is its de-

structiveness of young birds--the broods of those species which nest in low shrubs or upon the ground. But a man might carry one in each pocket and come to no harm, if his pockets were large enough and if he did not have the niherent animosity of mankind toward reptiles.--Chicago Inter-Ocean.

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Saved by an Elk. A curious story of adventure comes from Montana. While a freight train

was lying over at a small mountain station the engineer borrowed a shotgun and started out for a hunt. He was about returning to his train when a cow made her appearance. Before he realized

that there was any danger the animal made a rush at him, and he ran with all

his speed. But the cow was a better

racer, and in a few minutes caught him by his clothing, splitting his coat from

waist to collar and tossing him into the air. Getting to his feet as quickly as possible, he dodged behind a tree, and then to his dismay found that the gun barrel was bent so as to be useless.

The next ten minutes were very lively ones. The cow chased the engineer round and round the tree and when he got a chance to hit her with the gun barrel it was only a question of time when he would succumb to fatigue, but a diversion occurred that saved his life. An angry snort was heard, and a big elk appeared upon the scene, head down and prepared for a fight. The cow was so mad by this time that she was ready for anything, and in another moment the two animals dashed at each other. The engineer watched the combat for a few minutes until prudence suggested that he should make a retreat while he could. He regained the train in safety and never knew the outcome of the battle, but his assumption is that the elk was the victor.--Exchange.

Humming Birds and Flowers.

It has long been known that insects assist plants by carrying the fertilizing pollen from flower to flower, but the fact has only recently been prominently brought forward that humming birds are just as effective distributors of pollen as insects are. It has been shown that these little birds, which are as fond as bees of the honey of flowers, carry the pollen grains in great quantity, not only on their feathers, but on their long bills also. Indeed, so well suited is the humming bird to do this work of distribution, without any intention of its own, that the question has been raised whether it may not be the most beneficent of all the unconscious friends that the flowers have in the animal world.

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The Storm Center. The great lakes and the St. Lawrence vally have more storms per annum than any other portions of this country. This is due to the fact that storms originating west of this district move directly east, while many originating farther south move to the northeast.

A mean landlord raised the rent of one of his houses because the walls have bulged out, and therefore made the house larger.

Knew His Way.

A young gendarme had to take a prisoner before the magistrate and after the trial convey him to the court prison. He had never been in the building before and stood in the corridor with his charge, not knowing which way to turn. At last the old offender had pity on him and said: "Come along, I'll show you."--Rappel.

SMITH & THORN, 846 Asbury Avenue,

PLUMBING & DRAINAGE. All kinds of Pump, Sink, Drivewell Points and Plumbing Material constantly on hand. All kinds of Jobbing in our line promptly attended to. Best of Material used. Experienced workmen constantly on hand.

Thousands of lots for sale at various prices, located in all

parts of the city. For information apply to

E. B. LAKE, Secretary, Ocean City Asso'n, SIXTH ST. & ASBURY AVE.

The sea bladder consists of a parent animal ,with [?] bladder, and from which [?] children attach to it by hairlike [?]. The whole family moves together.