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He had been down in Indiana
From the Detroit Free Press.

Yesterday forenoon when it became known around the City Hall that there was a Detroiter in one of the offices who had just got back from Indiana there
was a rush of politicians anxious to know how matters stood in that state.
"How does Hancock stand?" asked one.
"Hows Garfield?" queried a second.
Each of the dozen men around him had some query pertaining to politics.
"Yes Ive been down to Indiana," calmly replied
the individual as he tipped his chiar back. "I was
in sixteen different counties and I heard a great
many opinions expressed."
"What majority will Hancock get?"
"Hancock! You mean Garfield," said the second
man.
"Yes I heard a good many opinions expressed,"
continued the man and the excitement in every
town was in fever heat.
"Hurrah for Hancock!"
"Hurrah for Garfield!"
"Yes I heard a good deal of hurrahing. You
people up here have no idea of the hard work being
done down there on both sides. On every railroad train I found"
"Found a majority for Hancock."
"For Garfield!"
"On every railroad train I found men canvassing
the political situation," continued the man.
"Yes, but what did the leaders seem to think?"
"I didnt talk with any of the leaders."
"Well what was the drift?"
"It didnt drift."
"What we want to know," said a ward leader as
he pushed to the front "is your unbiased opinion
based on what you heard and saw down there as to
how many Indiana will go next week."
"Well sir I"
"Keep still back there!" yelled a man.
"Keep still yourself!" replied another.
"We want your unbiased opinion," put in a third.
"Well I went down to Indiana. I saw my grandmother
die. I buried her. I was in the very centre
of the political excitement and I heard prominent
men in both parties say that"
"You heardem say what? Give us what they said."
"I heard them say that my grandmother made
the first soft soap in Central Indiana! Ah gentlemen,
she was a good old soul, and you who have
had grandmothers will surely excuse my emotion!"
He put down his head to conceal his tears, and
thirteen men got out of that on the gallop and left
him alone.

The Two Artists.

From Harpers Bazar.

"Edith is fair," the painter said,
"Her cheek so richly glows,
My palette ne'er could match the red
Of that pure damask rose.

"Perchance the evening raindrops light,
Soft sprinkling from above,
Have caught the sunset's color bright
And borne it to my love.

"In distant regions I most seek
For tints before unknown,
Ere I can paint the brilliant cheek
That blooms for me alone."

All this his little sister heard,
Who frolicked by his side;
To check such theories absurd,
That gay young sprite replied:

"Oh I can tell you where to get
That pretty crimson bloom,
For well I know where it is set
In Cousin Edith's room.

"I'm sure that I could find the place
If you want some to keep;
I watched her put it on her face
She didn't see me peep.

"So nicely she laid on the pink,
As well as you could do;
And really I almost think
She is an artist too."

The maddened painter tore his hair,
And vowed he ne'er would wed;
And never since to maiden fiar
A tender word has said.

Bright rosy cheeks and skin of pearl
He knows a shower may spoil;
And when he wants a blooming girl,
Paints one himself in oil.

If we knew the woe and heardache
Waiting for us down the road.
If our lips could taste the wormwood,
If our backs could feel the load;
Would we waste to-day in wishing
For a time that neer can be;
Would we wait in such impatience
For our ships to come from sea?

If we knew the baby fingers
Pressed against the window pane
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow
Never trouble us again;
Would the bright eyes of our darling
Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the print of rosy fingers
Vex us then as they do now?

Ah these little ice-cold fingers
How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions
Strewn along our backyard track !
How those little hands remind us
As in snowy grace they lie,
Not to scatter thorns but roses
For our reaping by-and-by!

Strange we never prize the music
Till the sweet voiced bird has flown;
Strange that we should slight the violets
Till the lovely flowers are gone;
Strange that summer skies and sunshine
Never seen one half so fair
As when Winters snowy pinions
Shake their white down in the air!

Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God can roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty
As adorns the mouth to day;
And sweet words that freight our memory
With their beautiful perfume,
Come to us in sweeter accents
Through the portals of the tomb.

Let us gather up the sunbeams
Lying all along our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of today;
With a patient hand removing
All the briars from our way.

Sidney Smith's High Courage and
Warm Heart

Subsidiary to this personal courage was his
hopeful way of looking at the world. He was
always practising and inculcating the disposition.
"Some very excellent people," he said
"tell you they dare not hope. To me it seems
much more impious to despair." He had
an excellent rule for the happiness and wisdom
of life as to the future not to look too far into it
for inevitable though probably distant disaster.
"Take short views hope for the best and
trust in God." Inclined by temperment to anticipate
coming evils for our wit spite of his
many jests was a serious man he resisted the
atrabilious tendency and avoided drawing
drafts on the misery of futurity. "Never," he
said "give way to melancholy; nothing encroaches
more. I fight against it vigorously.
One great remedy is to take short views of life.
Are you happy now Are you likely to remain
so till this evening or next week or next
month or next year Then why destroy present
happiness by a distant misery which may never
come at all or you may never live to see it for
every substantial grief has twenty shadows and
most of them shadows of your own making."
It was said of the happy nature of Oliver
Goldsmith that he had a knack at hoping with
Sindey Smith it was principle. Cheerfulness he
made an art. He liked household illuminations
of a good English coal fire the "living thing,"
he said, "in a dead room;" abundance of lights
flowers on his table prints and pictures on his
walls. There is a highly characteristic anecdote
of the man illustrating his habitual regard to
human happiness and his frequent solicitude
for the natural welfare of children. The story
is thus told by his daughter Lady Holland:
"One of his little children then in delicate health
had for some time been in the habit of waking
suddenly every evening sobbing anticipating
the death of parents and all the sorrows of life
almost before life had begun. He could not bear
this unnatural union of childhood and sorrow
and for a long period I have heard my mother
say every evening found him at the waking of
his child with a toy a picture book a bunch of
grapes or a joyous tale mixed with a little
strengthening advice and the tenderest caresses
till the habit was broken and the child
woke to joy and not to sorrow." Duyckincks
Wit and Wisdom of Sidney Smith.