Savory Morsels.

Thames Star, Volume XV, Issue 4923, 20 October 1884, Page 3

Savory Morsels.

A little French boy, on returning from school, brought home a copy-book al! blotted with ink. "You untidy boy," ■aid his mother, " to spoil your nice copybook in that way! You shall be punished for this.' 1 "'Well, mamma," was the Teply, " it wasn't my fault, really ; there's a negro boy sits next to me in class, and his nose bled as he was looking over my page!" A fire has been reging for three days in Raiva, a town in Austrian Galicia (says a Home paper). Three hundred houses have been destroyed and 3000 persons are homeless. A fire also destroyed fourteen dwellings and 327 farms in and about the large market town Bozwadow, Austrian Galicia. The harvest bad just been gathered, and was all consumed. There is a great dearth of provisions in the town. , „ „ A , . . " This will never do, said the local editor of an American paper to the new reporter. You say that 'the man was killed.' That is too tame. You should have said that 'he was crushed into a shapeless mass,' or his' reeking corpse presented a ghastly sight.' Then you made the bald statement that • the doctor was not needed.' The service of the doctor was not called into requisition '—that"s iow you should have put it. That's journalism that is. Then you say nothing of the • sickening spectacle,' and you are painfully neglectful of the fact that 'the man's features were distorted out of all semblance of humanity,' and you haven't a word to say of ' scattered fragments,' or of * blood,' or bruises,' or the screams of the horrified spectators.' No, it will never do; journalism has no use for you, young "My dear," said a New York wife to her husband, "I was looking over a bundle of old letters to-day, and found this one, which you wrote to me berore we married, when you were young and sentimental." "What does it say P\ " I'll xead it. ' Sweet idol of my lonely heart, if thou wilt place thy hand in mine and say, " Dear love, I'll be thy bride,' we'll flj to sunny Italy, and 'neath soft ceru lean skies we'll bask and sing and dream of naught but love. Eich and mostly paintings by the old masters stall adorn the walls of the castle I'll give thee. Thy bath shall be of milk. A box at the opera shall be at thy command, and Eoyalty shall be thy daily ■visitor. Sweet strains of music shall lull the eventide, and warbling birds shall ■wake three from thy morning slumber. Dost thou accept ? Say " Yes and fly, oh fly with me ! And I flew," said the wife ; ■"but, if I bad been as fly as I am now, I wouldn't have flown !"