m A REGRET, Oh, could we but have seen, whilethey were The grace of days forever passed away; Had we but felt the beauty of the flowers That bloomed for us—before they knew de- Could we have known how we should yearn in vain For looks and smiles no more to greet our Or how the fruitless tears would fall like rain For hours of sweet communion, vanished Their worth to us—had we but better known. Then had we held them dearer,while our own. Had kept some salvage from the joys o’er- throwQ, And loneliness itsell’has found us less alone! —Agnes Mmle Machar, in Century. HOW THE ELEPHANT CAME B y T om P. M okgan . ST ^VER since sunset the prairie-breeze Lad fanned a fe ver-flushed little face. In at the I open window of ' a “ shack” or cabin, close to the little - worn by - road, it had brought the sooth ing sounds of the ing wild flow fluttered the flame of the candle, that, prairie-night and the faint odors of the sleeping wild flowers. It had gently hour by hour, had sunk shorter, and it softly waved a long handbill that hung on a nail «bove the foot of the bed and was gay with pictures of strange acts andauimais. Bolt upright in a splint bottomed chair by the bedside, a man had fallen asleep again and again, in spite of his determination to remain awake. But, notwithstanding his weariness, he had slept lightly, and had often awakened at the sound of a faint moan, or the touch of the night-wind as it softly stirred the erect and unruly whisps of his mop of tangled hair, and often seemed to him, half waking, like the soft carresdng touch of childish fingers. Every time he aw'oke with an anxious start h< **You bet! 'Specially when thar's a elephant as big’s a house movin’ down the road away from us,” said another. ’Twon’t take but little bit,” said old Slade. “We kin ----- ” “But s’posen he shows fight? Beckon he’ll cut up rusty, or ----- ” “Let him cut all he pleases!” broke in Scotty, savagely. “Let him cu t ! We’re able ferhim, all the same. Gran- ) is crranirers!” gers 18 grangers Grangers were grangers, and therefore entitled to little but indignities at the hands of the cow-boys and “cattle- kings.” Though, legally, grangers, as the cattle-men scornfully denominated patches are bravely and toil- convert into fertile so much stolen interlopers, prairie that they s somely trying to farms are regarded from the rightful v^eding-grounds of the cattle. “He kin out all he wants to,” said old Slade. “We’re able ferhim.” Which statement was substantiated by the huge revolver bolstered at the hip of each one of the riders. Although the consultation atthe junc tion was not an extended one, by the time the cowboys were galloping down the by-roads towards the shack of the hated\ granger the last of the circus- wagons was disappearing where the sec- tion-road wound into the strip of distant timber that fringed Buzzard Creek, and the yellow in the east that had supersed ed the earlier ’- --------------- ’---------------ing orange. Neithe:r e ea gray was fast chang to le saw the fever-bright eyes of the did wer* '— • 1 - the gen each time, when the man had cooled the sick child were fixed longingly or pictureil hand bill upon the wall fluttered in the gentle night-wind. And, phant, pappy! ” And the man has told again of the old elephant—^how he was almost as big as the “shack,” and was dirt colored, and had long' “ .. _ Llg- H. ^ P7 » trunk that he swung . from side to side as he walked. ’ he likes little boys—don’t he ? ^ [ ’em“l” ‘•Likes ’em first rate! ” the would answer, “ thinks a heap of 'em! And the fever-bright eyes of the child would be bent more eagerly upon the long bill that flutteaed on the wall, and in spite of iiis loving anxiety, the man would nod, his head would slowly sink forward on his breast, and he would be asleep from sheer weariness. Presently, as the candle burned almost out, the east grew gray, then lighter. A turtle-dove, that had winged her way through the misty half-darkness to a resting-place upon the topmost strand of the settler’s piece of barbed-wire fence, gri efced the coming morning \/ith her soft, solemn “ coowoo ! ” With his dim, half-drowsy and half- delirious thoughts fixed on the poster, the child paid no attention to the dove’s call or the coming day, and the man. sleeping, with his weary head bowed on his breast, heard not the ( 3 one and saw not the other. If they had looked from the window of the “ shack,” and the gray of the morning had turned a little more to gold, the settler and the sick child might have seen a novel procession passing along the section-road, a quarter of a mile away. There were queer, canvas- wrapped vehicles and queerer blanketed animals that looked strange enough in the coming light, but which, denuded of their wrappings in the glare of the sun light and on the main street of Range City, would blossom out into the more or less gorgeous chariots, cages and curiosities of a circus-parade. But neither the settler noi boy beheld them, and the one slept on in the splint-bottomed chair, and the other gazed with weak wistfulness at the fluttering bill on the wall. nor the sick itienng bill on the wall. The last crawling end of the proces- Dn was dimly discerned by a litttle id of broad-hatted, jangle-spurred semen, whose galloping cayu had carried them swiftly squad nies had carried them swiftly the prairie in the direction in ivhich the circus was slowly taking its way. “Thar!” cried one of the cowboys, as they reached the forks where the little- worn by-road that passed the settler’s cabin left the section-road. “Thar they air ! Come on !” The squad seemed squad seemed on the point of dashing along the section-road in the wake of the circus. “Hold on thar, Scotty!” cried the oldest man of tho group. “We’ve got “Bnt thar’s a elephant, Slade,” inter rupted the first speaker, with an almost boyish enthusiasm. “Ketched a glimpse uv him lep] old Slade. “ W e’ve got other business “Never mi mg the wagons, jist as Lind the elephant,” br< ant,” broke in on hand jest now. Got to ketch a glimpse uv a granger, ’stead of an ele- ■ orto------ a granger proi cried another of the broad-hat “Sorto start a i cession !” itted ones. ‘Yes,” growled Scotty, “it’ll be a procession that’ll start quick and go a- tearin’. H’ain’fc got no time to progic i the sleeping childnor the sick man detected the approach of the horse men. The soft prairie grass muflaed the sounds of the hoof-beats of the cay uses. The turtle-dove flew from the” piece of a fence as the squad came close, but thehalf-sleeping, half delirious child not notice the cessation of her sooth mournful coo. The orange in the east ern sky was climbing higher, and the myriad forms of prairie-life were waken ing all about to greet the day. latient Slade. le grangers’ll air pizen !” Then old Slade crept forward to re connoitre. The cayuses were withdrawn too onene side,ide, almost out of range of the littleittle windowindo’ of the shack where the t o s l w night-wind had drifted in, fanning the sick child’s feverish face. Soon a shag gy head was lifted cautiously above the window-sill, but when the sick child’s eyes opened they rested on the bill that fluttered gently upon the wall. Then, as the candl!e-flame, as if wearied with its spluttering struggle, expired, the child tossed uneasily, panting in feeble gasps, and the man in the splint-bottom ed chair awoke with an anxious start. He did not see the old cowboy’s shaggy low the sill. “The ole elephant likes little boys, don’t he, pappy?” the child’s voice piped. To the anxious father the weak voice seemed weaker still, and it was with a face gravely apprehensive, and tom a-tremble, that he told of the old elle- phant, in obedience to the piping. “ Tell me more ’bout the ohe ! >l elephant. of the poor bed. the granger was kneeling, with his bearded face bnrierl in the quilt beside Tell pappy.” Presently the sound of the granger’s voice had ceased, and after several mo ments of silence old Slade cautiously raised his head. Upon the opposite side bed the granger was k] the sick child, and his frame shaking with soundless sobs, almost in unison with the child’s gasping. Then, impatient and wondering at old Slade’s delay, the rest of the cowboys, With the exception of one who held the cayuses, hurried, and then crept for ward till they were all squatted beneath the window. At first their hands were on the butts of their huge revolvers, but ns the granger spoke in trembling tones every hand was withdrawn from its weapon. Then, one by one, they peered cautiously ini. “Prayin’ !”’ Scotty whispered softly to his neighbor. Then the child’s feeble voice inter rupted the prayer. “Pappy,” it moaned, half reproach fully, “I never saw a ole elephant!” “I’m afearecl he never will,” old Slade whispered softly. The prayer grew more supplicating as .the granger’s trembling tones pleaded for his child’s life. Perhaps none of the cowboys squat ting bene«.th the window were marvels of acumen,but as the prayer—vehement, K almost agonizing—went on, they under stood most of the story of the struggles of the despised granger. All night long the child ha 1 been growing worse, and as the prayer went on he gave no heed to it. Once he turned his almost insenlieut eyes from the flut tering handbill on the w.ill to the win dow, yet the burning oiBs, brightened but almost blinded by delirium, saw nothing strange in the quick duckihg of old Slade’s shaggy head. The prayer ceased imesently, but the granger still knelt with his head bowed, and the cowboys heard sounds that made Scotty whisper huskily to his neighbor. “Cryin’l” Then the one thought that was always uppermost in the child’s delirium as serted itself again. “Pappy,” the little voice piped, gasp ingly, “tell me more about the ole ele phant. I never seed him !” ’ --------- ;ain, more ferven t- _ . before. God! ’’ the granger prayed, “ spare him ! Let him live to see tho ole elephant! ” As he went on, the prayer grew more rambling. “ Let him live! Think of the pore little feller; never seed the ole elephant! Per days —ever since that bill was dropped out thar—he’s looked an’ longed fer to day, that he might see the ole elephant. An’ now ----- He broke down for an instant, and the men squatting outside stirred uneasily. “ Never seed the ole oTfef ** in- both father an’ mother to him. An’ what have I done ? Nuth’n’ ! nuth’n’ ! No pleasures ! ” he went on. “ But, what could I do, way out yero on a claim, with no money to buy noth’n’ with? An’ now, when I managed to scrape spare money enough together so’s to ------ Wal, he’s a-gittin’ worse—an’ oh, he’ll never see the ole elephant, I’m afeard.” There was a stir among the cowboys, and as old iSlade looked cautious'y in at tho window, the first rays of the rising sun sent the shadow of his shaggy head half way across the room. Very soon after, the bright rays shone full in the faces of the group of cow boys, as the cayuses bounded across the prairie towards the point wliere the sec tion-road wound into the strip of timber that fringed Buzzard Creek. No one had suggested the movement, but ail had started as if moved by a common impulse, though, to be exact, Scotty, the impatient, was a little ahead of his com rades. Of “ running out ” the granger nothing was said. “Prayed for him to live to see the ole elephant!” muttered Scotty. “Wal,” said old Slade, earnestly, “if he lives half an hour an’ we have luck, blamed if he don’t see ------ ” “That’s what!” broke ip,some one. “Mebby we kain’t— began an other. “Mebby we fiin,\ interrupted Slade, firmly. “But elephants is mighty------” • “No difl'erence. We’re able fer him, I reckon, an’—an’ the sick boy never seed a elephant.” Neither had several of the cowboys, except the glimpse they had caught of a broad back in the far-off procession. Bnt if the Munchausen ta’es they had heard of the huge beast’s strength and ferocity caused them to fv el any appre hension; they gave no sign of such mis giving, as the cayuses continued to kick the distance bebind^lheir flying_feefc,. ,. The Advance o f f he circus toward £hb cattle country hat! not all been attended by good fortune, but hs the armed cow boys dashed up, the manager feared that’ he was -about to sustain liis crowning misfortune. The tales he bad heard of their reckless disregard for the persons and property of s rangers were fnlly as Munchausenlike as those tlie cowboys had heard of the elephaut. The weapons drawn, as the manager felt sure, to slaughter any opposers, were but as pro tective me.-isures against the anticipated charge of the elephant. The managers fears seemed realized as there was a nervous rush upon the part of the cow boys which hurrieii the elephant, driver and all out of the procession. Perhaps if he had beheld the bank-bill tha’t found its way into the ready baud of the ele phant driver, he would not have won dered at the very slight resistance of the tter. When he had recovered from the as tonishment into which he had been thrown by the summary j>roceedings,the few words spoken and the bank bills old Slade dropped as he hurried past, the old elephant was lumbeiing rapidly away in the midst of the frightened and flouncing cayuses. The turtle-dove flew from the piece of elephant and his captors rried up to a fence as the elephant and his captors hurried up to the shack. The grass muffled the foot falls of the animals. The granger was still on his knees, with bis face buried in the quilt of the poor bed, and the morning breeze that fanned the sick child’s face and fluttered the pictured bill on the wall ruffled the unruly tufts of his hair till it felt like the touch of baby-fiugers. The little face was less flushed now, and the gasping feebler. The child’s dim thoughts wandered still more, and his eyes could hardly see the fluttering bill. “ PanniT- ” hlwi -wr<in1r -irmno Toliia- pered, come?” boy of the group, and the subject was *^In^he* audience at the circus, that af ternoon, was a little squad of broad-hat ted and beweaponed cowboys, who sur prised their neighbors by being on their good behavior during the entire perform ance. Only once did they applaud with anything like cowboy boisterousness, and that was when the children laughed and clapped their hands as the old ele phant Nero came into the ring.-r-Fran/c Leslie's, . ANTIQUE MARBLEHEAD. A Glimpse o f an Old-Fashioned Mas sachusetts Town. Marblehead is one of those old-fash ioned towns which the tourist finds perched along the rocky headlands of Massachusetts, and which cannot be seen any where else in this country. The sites were originally chosen mainly for the facilities they offered to fisher men, auU it was from this hardy class that they were principally settled. In the summer the male portion of the pop ulation were employed in fishing and they filled up the short sunlight of the winter days, by making shoes by hand. Its importance as a fishing port long since passed away, its chief industty now being the production of machine- made shoes. It is these establishments, with the new town which grew up and around them, that the fire of last week wiped out a loss, though seveie, which foresight and energy can restore, but which has attracted to it the atten tion of the curious and the lovers of the antique. For Marblehead is the quaintest of the few quaint old towns that the Amer- iran craze for newness has left practi cally untouched. Its little, narrow old streets, beginning nowhere and ending everywhere, and in which the tourist experiences the delightful sensation of having lost his bearings, have never been straightened by a surveyor’s com pass, and many of its antique houses, perched in almost iniiccessible localities and carrying well their 150 and 200 years, still remain unchanged except by time. Nowhere else in Ameiica can be seen so many well preserved old speci mens of architecture, which strikingly remind the European tourist of the an tique fishing towns scattered along the coast of Normandy. It is gratifying to record the concern expressed as to th< safety of these old relics and to witness ^ue le andd whimsicalhimsical hasas not yet been crushed out of the American the evidence it bears that the love for what is antiq an w h people by the sky-scraping style of modern city architt*cture. But the old legends and associations which linger about Marblehead are even more interesting than its quaint houses to Marblehead that “ Parson Avery,” of Whittier’s “Swan Song” sailed away “where duty led, and the voice of God seemed culling to break the living bread.” In the Fountain Inn at Mar blehead, Agnes Swinaae in 1742, first caught the eye of Sir Harry Frankland, the royal Governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony. Sir Harry’s love for the barefooted maid, and his mother’s re fusal to consent to ti)eir marriage until years after, when Agnes saved her lover’s life at the great Lisbon earth quake in 177<5, have been told in verse by Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. The stories related of Skipper Ireson, Skip per Flory, Captain James Mugford, Captain George Baker and other Mar blehead characte's are known to nearly every youth,and on visiiing it the tourist feels that “every stone that trips you in her streets is instinct with the loyal pulse that in its bosom beats.”— Phila- cldphia Press. ustinet with the loyal Taming a Bird. No creature is more jealous or sensi tive than a bird, says Olive Thorne Miller. It is easy however, lo win the heart of almost any bird, and without starving him or making him think he a good deal. Place his cage near you, on your desk or work-table, and retain his choicest dainty to give to iiim with Let him know that ‘Pappy,” the weak voice whis “will the ole elephant ever A great bulk barred the sunlight from the little window, and the long, snaky trunk glided in, and the tinger-Iike pro tuberance at the end very soltly clasped the sick child’s hand. “Ob, pappy! pappy! The ole ele- has come!” The bowed head of the granger was raised. The child had started half up right and the little hands were clasping the caressing trunk of the old elephant. Then, before the granger could give :pression to astonishment, the clinging hands relaxed, and the old elephant’s trunk eased the child’s weight softly back to the pillow again. And the turtle-dove that had returned to the piece of a fence uttered her mourn ful coo. W hen the elephant went away, the granger was kneeling beside his bed, and on the pillow near the still fac e lay the bank-bill that had been given to old Nero’s driver, and beside ib were other bank-bills. As the little cavalcade journeyed back toivards the place where the section-road wound into the Buzzard Creek timber; old Slade said : “I’m agin this runnin’- ont business !” “And me, too!” answered every cow- has mastered you. Simply talk to him Pli laint your own fiugex’s, lie con never have that particular thing unless he take it from y ou, and ho will soon learn, if you are patient and do nol disconcert him by fixing your eyes upon him. After this he will more readily fake it from your lips; and then, when you let him out of his cage, after the first excitement is over, he will come tc you, especially if you have a call you have accustomed him to, and accept the dainty from you while free. As soon as he becomes really convinced that yon will not hurt him, or try to catch him, or interfere in any way with his liberty, he will give way to his boundless curi osity about you; he will pull your hair, pick at yonr eyes,and give you as much of his companv as yon desire. Never Strike at a Bee. About thirty-eight or forty years ago, when I was eight to ten years old (I have been used to bees from childhood), I held up a leafy bush for the swarm to cluster on, while tin pans, bells and two sea-shell horns were making the sweet music of bygone days to induce the bees to clus ter. After circling around about the usual time, a prime swarm began to light Oil the stem of my bush, on a level with my head, and as the cluster call sounded le bees poured in all over my shoulc •s. Then my hat brim dropped down I dropped my bush, my head, and as the cluster call sounded the be< . T iv my face. I dropped my bu took my hat and laid it on the bush, and ved out pretty quickly, with a pint off ^ pretty quickly, with a pint of bees on my arms and 8lioulde7s. not think I got a sting,: but tin swarm clustered on my old hat. Moral Never strike a bee.— Paei^e Farmer. rdo not think but the CHICAGO STOCK YARDS. Receiving; and Killing Cattle—Old and New Methods. In all seasons of the year, in all hours , of the day and night, a stream of live ] stock is flowing over a score of roads to k . ; Chicago. Arrived at the yards the cattle | are consigned to. their pens and the hogs to theirs, where they wait with indiffer ence to fate for an Eastern buyer ,or a Chicago butterine or lard maker. If the cattle are purchased for killing here they are driven through the narrow streets of that busiest of marts and into an entry, where they stand with heads all one way, closely pressed side by side. Just over their backs runs a flooring which supports a stalwart executioner armed with a sledge. He picks out the beast he wants to kill, marks the spot in the forehead just below bis feet, where the blow must fall, and then strikes easily and quickly and shoulders his hammer' *^Itis probable that politicians bor rowed the phrase “dull thud” from the slaughter house, for nothing else de scribes the stroke that ends all bovine sensibility. In an instant a man who has hovered on the flank of the herd prisons the heel of the fallen steer in a clamp, and the power of steam is in voked to lift the carcass high in the air. Hanging there, head downward, still al most motionless from the stunning ef fects of that blow, a sharp knife is drawn across.the throat, plunged a little way into that dark recess which the rude anatomist there knows best, and red blood spouts out in a torrent. Very short shriving, indeed, the beef gets,for as you stand and watch a moment the hide is stripped off, the head and feet go into retirement and two nicely dressed halves, carefully cleaned, are pushed along on the only elevated railroad Chi cago can boast of, and into the dark chambers where the low temperature prepares them for further carving. But if the beef animals do go without complaint to their fate, the hogs feel under no obligation to follow the exam ple, and protest with a most vigorous chrous of squeals at every step of. the way. But their native stubbornness is finally conquered when they are crowded hpon the last floor their reluctant feet will ever press, and they feel one leg caught by a hook which resists all their kicking. Steam power here, as in the beef slaughter house, raises the animal high in the air, and he starts on his last ride—squealing and struggling to the last. One after another is caught, lifted, and shoved along head downward in procession past as mild a mannered man as ever cut a throat, and swing on, still straggling and squealing, but now bleeding, to the hot-ivater vat. If a pig is right lively he- can die by the time bis shackles loosen and he drops into the scalding fluid, bat no .tiine is wasted on — his account,lind if he doesn’t want to ^ die he doesn’t need to; but is given'a header and poled down stream to -the scraper. Do you remember butchering time on the farm ? Can you recollect the scaf fold the men rigged up on the bob-sleds, with a barrel of hot water at the side? Can you see again the picture of that sousing—that heaving out and sousing again—the hog was treated to? And then do the violent scrapings with the old iron candle -sticks come back to you ? How proud the ‘family were when they liad swung up nine hogs in a day, and how painfully weary every one was; and how delightfully greasy everything was, from the front gate to the bars of the woods pasture. Well, the hog that falls into the hands : these i ansit th ancestor, and floats froin the scalding vat out upon a revolving street-sweeping sort of a machine that takes off his stub born coat of hair in a moment and sends him naked into the world for the first time. From here to the table where he is delivered in convenient pieces of shoulder, ham, and side meat, the hog travels faster than he ever did on foot, and is at last deposited iir. a great re frigerator, neatly corded up with a thousand more like him, ready for sale. But the man who has brought the mixed train of cattle and hogs has no interest in the fate of his shipment be yond the office of the commission house that handles his goods, and after settle ment with them, he gathers his helpers and his guests about him and plunges boldly down-town. Here the merchant lays in liis stock of goods, and all ride home together in a parlor car, quite satisfied that the mysteries of the great city have been solved. Humble as they are, they and their kind brought .to Chicago in 1888 a total of over two and a half million catt’e and four and three- quarter million head of hogs. Besides these some ten thousand head of calves and one and a half million sheep.—’ Chicago Herald. Famous Anachronisms. An anachronism is an error in chronoL ogy, by which events are misplaced in the order of their occurrence. A count less number have been made by promi nent artists and authors, among which is that of Tintoret, Avhose picture of the Israelites gathering manna in the wil derness iviiresents the men armed with guns. Breughele, the Dutch painter,’ in a picture of the “ Wise Men of the East,” represents one of them dressed ™'''hite surplice, holding as an offering the model of a Dutch seventy- four gun frigate. Schiller, in his “Pic- colomini,” speaks of lightning conduc tors, the time at which they were re ferred to being some one hundred and fifty years before they were invented, bhakespeare, in ^‘Julius Cresar,” makes Brutus say to C:issius. “Peace, count «rri to Avliicli Cassius replies, ih e clock has stricken three,” whereas clocks were not known to the Romans, and striking clocks were not invented Hll some fourteen lumdred years after Caesar died.