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fense may be taken if it is not accepted. The mines are quicksilver mines.


The ore (calamine) being found as well as large clay deposits, both of which are smelted or reduced in large reduction works lately erected for the purpose. An overhead ropeway, nearly a mile long, conveys the ore from the mines to the works. Quicksilver is the only ore found in the district, which is full of veins and deposits yet to be opened up and worked.

After spending two or three days

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IN Vesta's temple she lay hiding fast,

Around her Ilion's towers fell in flame,

And trembling, shrinking, she could hear her name
Pealed out with curses on the wild night blast.
Of all the friends who in the glad years past

Had praised her beauty and forgot her shame,
Not one to aid her in her peril came,
Not one in her defence a spear would cast.
The Greek, too, hostile, could he find her lair,
Would drag her quickly from the sacred place,
Though clinging to the altar of the Hearth
And pleading with her loveliness laid bare,-
Would look unmoved upon that peerless face,
And sweep the hated creature from the earth.

Ill must it fare with her who breaks the band

Which close in its embrace keeps home and child,
And though her heart with lawless love defiled
Mocks at the world's reproach when from her hand
The marriage ring she casts, and in some land

Remote would spend her careless days, beguiled
By hopes delusive and by visions wild,
Her sin's reproach stern conscience shall demand.
And she shall live to feel when passion dies
A heavy longing for that hearth betrayed,
The little fingers that once clasped her own
Shall seem to point at her in grieved surprise,
The scorn of friends and kin shall pierce the shade
In which she hides, deserted and alone.

Marshall Graham.

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ON airy wings, these sunny August days,
Slow sails the thistledown;

Through quivering seas of shimmering golden haze
The fairy shallops float in aimless ways

And touch at many ports; but wanderers yet,
For distant harbors are their light sails set,

Though all too frail for voyage long, at last
Each bush and briar holds stranded vessels fast,
While heaped in. drifts of summer fallen snow
Whole argosies lie wrecked the hedge below.

But when the tradewinds sweep with desolate cry,
Fast, fast the thistledown,

Sped by the mad blasts, wildly flutters high
Above the trees all landward blown, to fly
And seek in sudden turns and circlings wide

A shelter by the fierce gale still denied.

While from their moorings torn, the captives rise
In snowy swarms like startled butterflies;

Far, far they go, and fade in headlong flight
Against the gray sky, from my eager sight.

The harvest of the winds thus reaped in haste
Poor wandering thistledown-

Is swiftly sowed in fields remote and waste
That fringe the dusty roads, whose bounds are traced
By ragged ranks of crowded stalks that show
But empty silvery crowns, from friend or foe
Kept safe by sturdy spines. The vanished seeds
The early rains shall find, as onward speeds
The flying year, till under April skies
In countless hosts the purple blossoms rise.

Ella M. Sexton.


VOL. XX-56.



EVERYBODY thought Marie a lucky girl the day.she married Pierre Dubois. "Such a catch!" muttered the Widow Mahone enviously, as she listened to the shriek of the festive violin and the twang of a well-worn harp that made things merry for the wedding guests. "Such a catch! If the Virgin had sent me such a son-in-law! Ah, well, better be born lucky than rich, and God knows, Marie was always lucky!"

The lucky girl in question was dancing in a way that made one feel young, while Pierre was showing his appreciation of the event by executing some astonishing steps, in imitation of the new danseuse at the French Opera House. "One does n't get married every day," he said gayly, as he swung his partner somewhat boisterously in the dance, "and one ought to improve the occasion!" It was the gayest sort of a wedding, and Pierre the life of the company.

"It's clever of Marie to get married so young," remarked the Widow Mahone to her neighbor, while they sat enjoying huge plates of gumbo, as the night advanced, and the substantial feature of the occasion progressed. "It is n't every girl that gets a husband at eighteen."

"I was married at sixteen," replied the neighbor, with an air of one whose achievements in this particular pastime of husband-hunting could not be surpassed; "but," with some scorn, "girls nowadays don't seem to take to matrimony as early,"-as though matrimony were some sort of abstruse science, and difficult of feminine comprehension.

"That they don't!" exclaimed Mrs. Mahone decidedly. "Now my girls," and she raised her hands and shoulders

expressively. One would have supposed the six black-haired Mahones had received a surfeit of masculine adoration, and that indifference alone prevented them from entering the state that has been authoritatively stated to be the only proper one for women. Whereas the real facts of the case were very different, for the Widow Mahone was regarded by the young men as a desperate old match-maker, and the most callow and inexperienced youth soon learned to extend favors in the most cautious and guarded manner to the young Mahones; for otherwise he knew he would be suddenly called upon by the Widow to "declare his intentions." So great indeed was the desire of Mrs. Mahone to procure husbands for her daughters that for the past five years, on the way to market, she had regularly stopped at the cathedral to invoke the aid of the Virgin towards this end. "It can do no harm to pray," she told herself. "Six daughters unmarried!" It was a reflection upon her discharge of her duty as a mother.

The six Mahones, meantime, in spite of this anxious maternal solicitude, appeared to enjoy life very much. If they were upon this occasion consumed with envy of the bride, they gave no outward and visible sign of this emotion. They were ugly girls, there was no denying the fact, but they were neither dull nor stupid. It was against nature, with a French mother and an Irish father!

It was a most successful wedding, and much of its success was due to the assistance of the vivacious Mahones. Kitty electrified staid people into dancing, and Mary made bashful young men talk and shy girls grow animated; Maggie communicated self-possession to those who did n't know what to do with their hands

and feet, and whose wretched demeanor at festive gatherings made one speculate as to the nature of the inducement held forth to allure them from the domestic hearth; while the talent of Nora found vent in the most toothsome and delicious dishes of the wedding feast. The two youngest Mahones, just as capable and efficient, were looked upon by the elder members of the family as "too inexperienced to do anything else but enjoy themselves," so this, notwithstanding their extreme ugliness, they did with great energy.

On both sides of the family all of the relations had been invited to the wedding. No one was slighted, and wonderful to relate, the feelings of none were hurt. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, from the first to the fifth degree, came to congratulate the happy pair. Old men and maidens, young men and children, frisked and skipped, and joked and talked to their hearts content. Everybody was happy, except perhaps the envious Widow Mahone.

There was not much talk of "society" in those days. Class distinctions were felt and recognized, and the line was sharply drawn between "aristocrat" and "parvenu," but nothing was said about such things in the newspapers. The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, in a general way were satisfied with those conditions of life to which it had pleased God to call them. They did not expect — even in the event of making vast fortunes to occupy the proscenium boxes at the French Opera House, or to dazzle the wealthy planters who came to town for the season with the splendor of their entertainments, or the size and costliness of the jewels of their wives. Birth went for something in those days, and an honorable action entitled a man to distinguished consideration. To be a Delarelahousée was something, though one had not a sou!

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The violin shrieked, and the old harp thumped its bravest, and Marie and

Pierre were kissed and danced by each one of their relatives in genuinely hearty creole fashion. This particular wedding was among plain and most simplehearted people. The head of the house would have been puzzled indeed had you talked to him of "society" or of "social grades," while his excellent wife knew no better manual of behavior than that which emanated from her own. good heart. Hand-books of etiquette had not begun to flood the land, and a self-respecting bridegroom of those days would have scorned to have written for advice to a newspaper as to how he should conduct himself on so individual an occasion as that of his own marriage. It was even before the rage for bridal presents had set in,- a most benighted time indeed! A simple little trousseau and Pierre were more than enough to satisfy the romantic head of the little bride, so when the priest presented her with an ornamental marriage certificate, drawn and colored by himself, as a token of his affectionate esteem, Marie felt that her cup of happiness was indeed. filled to overflowing. Pierre, holding the certificate with both hands, grew eloquent in praise of its beauty, while the wedding guests crowded around him, loudly expressing admiration.

It was a singular looking certificate. No one had ever seen one like it before. It differed from others in being very large, and embellished with colored designs after the manner of illuminated missals. In the center was a pen and ink sketch, representing a marriage ceremony, and under this was the regular form made out in plain, bold writing.

Of course, everybody loved Father Adair. He had christened both Pierre and Marie; and under his ministration they had "made their first communion." The tie of affectionate interest had now been strengthened by the solemnity of the marriage service, and Pierre and Marie were naturally delighted at this unusual expression of favor on the part

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