Full text: Zeitungsausschnitte über Allg. Kunstgeschichte

© Hessisches Staatsarchiv Marburg, Best. 340 Grimm Nr. Z 47 
unruly weather, he' thanked God that there could 
nevér really be any lonelinesss or sorrow in his 
wife’s heart, since he could always leave that 
precious little morsel and image os himself to 
keep his place warin for hiin whenever he was 
nofc by. 
The e venin g voie away toward nsght, and 
Phœbe still sat by the sire alone, waiting. She 
vas not ànxious yet. Paul might hâve been over- 
persuaded, and hâve gone up to the village for 
his grog. Ile vas never too fond of his drink 
-she often thanked lier fate for that—but he 
toas fond of merry coin rades, and they were fond 
of liim. She had never oved him a grudge be- 
fore for lovjng good company. She had rather 
liked it, because it shoved lie vas a favorite. 
But to-night, just to-night for the first time, she 
did owe him a tin y bit of a grudge. Had she not 
promised to hâve the varm stuif ready for him 
whenever he should step in? 
And there vas the kettle boiling now on the 
lire and the rum in the glass on the table. It 
vas linkind of Paul not to corne for it, and it vas 
lonely sitting listeningto the storm when the boy 
vas asleep. 
But, aster ail, perhaps Paul had not gone np to 
the village ; perhaps lie vas ont there in the cold, 
batlling with the wind, drenehed through with the 
sait spray, chilled to the marrov. 
lier heart softened again as she thought of it, 
and as she lookcd into the mysterioua brightness 
of the sire she began to tell over in lier mind ail 
the happy days thev had had together. 
How well he had loved lier, and how little she 
had understood ail that love meant that evening 
when lie had wooed her under the pines on the 
hill, with the sunset fading behind them ! But 
he had loved lier just the same ever since, in his 
quiet, simple fashion, and he loved just as well 
as ever now. Even though he should vaut to go 
up to the village for a bit of nierrv companion- 
sliip and manly talk now and tlien, still she knew 
that he loved lier just as well as ever. Ile loved 
lier very dearly ; and now she understood ail that 
love meant ! Yes, Phœbe thought she understood 
it ail. 
She did not often stop to think about the mat- 
ter ai ail. Life vas full of dut!es and occupa 
tions to so busy a mind as hers, and lise had flowed 
so calmly and so easily for lier up to the présent 
time. But to-night, somehow, as she sat there 
by the sire waiting for Paul, she did stop to think. 
And the summer night when he had first wooed 
lier, so gentlv and tenderly, came back to lier 
with ail the vividness of a dream. Just as ten 
derly and just as gently he had clierished her 
and loved her ever since, and she thought that 
no woman could be happier and more blessed 
Ihan she vas in the possession of sucli a good 
ma»'s life-long dévotion. 
Yes, Phœbe vas quite happy and qui te content- 
ed, and said to herse)f that she had learned ail that 
love could mean, and that lise held nothing fur- 
tlier for lier but the quiet affection for her hus- 
band and the rapturous love for his chjld. And 
vet how vas it that, as she mused upon these 
blessings, the memory of the pine’s fragrance 
that summer night five years ago brought back 
another memory with it, unbidden and almost un- 
perceived—a memory that vas not the memory 
of Paul ? 
A mightier blast than ever shook the cottage 
to its verv foundations. It roused Phœbe from 
her dream. She rose from her seat and vent 
aeross to the window. 
The rain that had been struggling with the 
wind ail day vas trying to corne down at last, and 
beat furiously against the window-pane, as if 
handfuls of shingle had been pitched at the glass. 
The wind howled and sighed and hurled its fury 
against the cottage, as though it would force it to 
the ground like a pack of cards; the rush and 
roar of the waves as they swept np the beach be 
hind the embanknient would hâve struck terror 
to the heart of any but tliis sea-bred maiden, to 
wlvom the ocean’s voice could never say anything 
that she had not heard before. 
She stood there and listened, laying her warrn 
face against the cold pane, and looking ont with 
lier steadfast eyes into the darkness that vas 
perfectly opaque in its mystery. 
Ail of a sudden aeross the depth of the night, 
souuding faintlv above the roar of the waves and 
the wind, a dull, muffled Sound struck upon the 
wife’s car—a Sound that sent a vague and sickly 
fear into her heart. 
She had often heard a Sound like it before— 
the Sound of a report in the night, signais of dis- 
tress from some ship at sea. How vas it that 
tliis one sent the blood from her heart with tliis 
horrible foreboding ? 
She listened again—listened for a long time. 
There vas nothing further. If the sliot had corne 
from some ship’s signal, it would hâve been re- 
peated. True, the sea vas so cruel to-night that 
that one signal might hâve been the last and 
oiily possible effort of a sinking vessel ; but that 
vas hardly probable, and somehow the Sound had 
riot seemed to Phœbe like the signal of a ship in 
dis'tresS'. i 
She listened again and waited. But there vas 
o»ly the ding os the horrible waves upon the shore 
to bo heard now, and the fury of the gale tearing 
iirÜtrnd, and the dash of the hard rain-drops 
against the window. 
A long time seemed to Phœbe to go by tlius in 
dreadful silence that vas ail Sound, but not the 
huma» sound that she vas listening for. And at 
last she could stand it no longer. 
The boy vas still. She would get the neigh- 
bor to corne and liston to him. But for once he 
held a secondarv place with lier. She must go 
and look for Paul. 
One kiss pressed upon his sleeping brow, as 
she wrapped her stout plaid over her head and 
shoulders, and she vas ont into the night. 
Even she, bred beneath the storm-wind as she 
vas, did not guess what strength was in the starm 
that she was going to brave to-night. 
The wind took away lier breath at first, and 
when she reached Peter’s cottage, hard bv, and 
began luiocking on the pane to summon the \ o- 
man, she could not get the words ont to say her 
The neighbor laughed at her for lier pains, but 
she promised to go in to the little chap for a 
quarter of an hour, and Phœbe started on again 
as quickly as she could. 
She had to cluteh on to the little railing of the 
gardon as she turned the corner and faced the 
sea, but she fought each gust gâllantly as it 
came, and dipped down as soon as she could be 
neath the partial shelter of the sand bank beside 
the dike. The wind partly helped her now as she 
sped along the wet and slippery bank with the 
swiftness of the gale itself. It was lucky for lier 
that she knew every stone and mound upon the 
road, for the night held no gleam of ligh.t, and 
even if it had, the driving rain must hâve blinded 
her sight. 
When she came to the place where the canal 
stops beneath the rising disk, there he 
shelter of the rock, she stopped and n». r 
it suddenly seemed to lier, by an indefinable i.jI- 
in g, that she was nearing the prose» ce of huma» 
lise in the vastness of a lonely and terrible nature. 
But she heard no Sound, and, although with a 
beating and siek heart, she began to move for- 
ward once more. 
The canal had to be crossed at tliis point, for 
there was no menus of shirting the pool that it 
formed under the overhanging rock. 
A slender bridge, made of a single plank with 
a hand-rail, was thrown aeross for the purpose. 
Phœbe stepped on to the bridge. 
The darkness was so intense that she could not 
even see her own hand before lier face. But she 
knew the way well, and would not be daunted. 
She knew that on the further side the bridge 
landed on a ledge of rock overhanging the 
pool formed by the termination of the canal, 
and that from tliis point the path on the oppo 
site shore—flooded to-night by the wash of the 
lieavy sea, but soft sand or dry shingle at any 
ordinary tide—became, ail at once, narrow and 
perlions as it skirted the base of the suddenly 
towering cliff, a mercy to the ravages of the 
waves on such nights as tliis. 
It vas here that she had implored Paul not to 
venture when he lest her, and it was true that it 
would be no easy task even for a strong man to 
keep a footing there to-night. 
But Phœbe forgot ail that. She forgot that 
there was danger; she forgot that she was not 
even a strong man ; she forgot everytliing but 
her fears for her husband. 
And so she stepped on to the bridge. 
For a moment the wind seemed to hold its fury, 
and she made two steps forwarsl boldlv. 
Two steps only, then she was forced to corne 
to a sudden liait, crouching down on the plank, 
and holding wildly on to the slender hand-rail for 
For the gale had but lulled to gather new 
strength, and it burst forth afresh now in such a 
terrible gust that it shook the frail structure as 
in the grip of a giant, and bade fair to snatch the 
woman upon it and cast her into the water below. 
With a sinking heart Phœbe stood bowed and 
trembling, for the first time realizing that she 
was in danger. 
What should she do? 
Should she go back, or should she press for- 
vard ? To go back she must turn upon tliis fee- 
ble and narrow ledge. She must fight the wind 
alone, and now she was afraid. 
If she pressed for ward, Paul might be on the 
other side—Paul, who would proteet and comfort 
her, and take her safe home again. 
She would press fonvard. 
She made two more faltering steps on ward. 
She was just in the middle of the bridge now. 
The wind was swelling up again for another lash. 
It reached its full, and the lash came. 
What was that crack? 
It was a crack ? Yes, and the wood-work was 
swaying. Too surely it was swaying. 
Phœbe felt her blood grow cold. 
She knew well enough what it was. 
The wind was loosenmg the bridge! 
In another moment she would be hurled into 
the murky dike, swelled now to a greater depth 
than usual by the overflow from the raging sea 
Ileaven help lier ! what was she to do ? 
It was as far now to go back as to go for ward, 
and more dangerous, and there was not even time 
to think winch was best. 
The gust had thrown lier on her knees. She 
dared not try to get up, but with a desperate ef 
fort she attempted to drag herself along on her 
hands, hoping against hope that she might be for- 
tunate enough to reaeh the opposite side before 
the next stroke came to finish the impending min. 
Surely she must be close to the other bank by 
tins time ! Surely slie must be within reach of 
sal vation ! 
The gale held its breadth, but only, as before, 
for a little space. . 
Then, as in a dream, she heard that terrible 
roar rise slowly and surely to its full heightonce 
more, and the next minute she knew that its fury 
had doue the work that she had féared. 
She knew that the bridge was going, and that 
she was lost. 
Tue one great achievement winch will carry 
the naine of Henry II. Gorringe into his tory is 
his exploit in bringing the Egyptian obelisk to 
Central Park. Yet there was a long préludé of 
good seamanship in Ins career, that enabled him 
to euccessfully use his great opportunity. Born 
in 1840, in the West Indies, the son of an English 
clergymàn, young Gorringe made his first voyage, 
as cabin-boy, to London; on his second he was 
wrecked in the Bay of Bengal. Still he stuck to 
his calling, which duly took him into the Amer 
ican marchant service, and then into the navy. 
Beginning as mate July 12,1802, he had risen to 
be Lieutènant-Commander in December, 1868. 
lie had also take» a ereditable part in the naval 
battles of the Mississippi squadrou. 
On his return from a two years’ cruise in com- 
mand of the Geltysbury, he was intrusted, in 1880, 
with the dilïicult task of embarking, transport- 
ing from Alexandria, and erecting in New York 
the fanions obelisk popularlv called Cleopatra’s 
Needle. Theskill with which Gorringe lowered 
the column, dragged it without injury into the 
hold of the transport Dessony, then, aster hold 
ing it in New York, conveyed it in a journey of 
112 days to its present site, richly deserved the 
praises lavished on it. 
From being a inan unknown outside of a nar 
row naval circle, Gorringe at once' leaped to 
world-wide famé. Yet a compensation of ill 
fortune quickly followed. Ile resigned from the 
navy in 1883 to take charge of the new Amer 
ican Ship-building Company, which failed hardly 
twelve montlis later. Not long aster, he receivcd 
a strahl which seems to hâve been the cause of 
the painful spinal malady of which on the 6thof 
July he died. Ilis faine, however, will last as 
long as the monolith with which it is connected 
stands in its present resting-place. 
The Hon. Am.ai E. Stevenson, who became 
First Assistant Postmaster-General on the 6th 
inst., is a robust and powerful man in the prime 
of lise. He was born in Christian County, Ken 
tucky, on Oetober 23, 1835, and was educated at 
Centre College in Banville. Ilaving studied law 
in Bloomington, Illinois, he was admitted to the 
bar in 1858, and soon as ter ward he began the 
practice of his profession in Woodford County, 
Illinois. From 1861 to 1865 he held the office 
of Master in Chancery, and from 1864 to 1868 
lie was State’s Attorney for the Twenty-third Ju- 
dicial District in the State of his adoption. He 
became a resident of Bloomington in 1869, and in 
1874 lie was elected as the candidate of the “ In 
dependent Reform Party” to re present the Thir- 
teenth District of Illinois in Cougress, bis Oppo 
nent having been a Républicain Ile was a can 
didate for Presidential elector on the McClel 
lan ticket in 1864, and was a delegate from Illi 
nois in the Démocratie National Convention of 
1884. In the Post-office Department he succeeds 
the Hon. Malcolm Hay, of Pittsburgh, Pennsyl 
vania, who was forced by ill liess. Io retire. 
The First Assistant lias charge of the appoint- 
ment of all postmasters not included in the Pre 
sidential dass. There are about forty-five thou- 
sand of these officers, and for obvions reasons the 
position held by Mr. Stevenson, in the first montlis 
of a new administration, is a very important one, 
requiring executive ability and strength of mind 
as Well as a robust physique. 
Tiiroüghout the middle portion of the Atlantic 
States, whereverchoiee varieties of elms are plant- 
ed in our gardens or parles or along the streots 
of our cities, these beautiful trees are blighted 
every year and rendered unsightly by the attaeks 
of a small betztle ( Galcruca xanthomehena), which 
was introduced from Europe about the year 1837. 
It is partial to the European elm, and is partieu- 
lary bad the present year. 
She heard her 
wind as she real 
hand wildly tow 
should be. Ala 
For one niom 
plank ; it slippet? 
struck upon her ' 
heart. There w 
and that was all 
g out upon the night 
out her 
The perfect beetles hibernate under old leaves, 
or in the ground, or in the cracks of old trees, or 
they even enter our dwellings in fall in searcli 
of snitable winter -quarters. Such hibernating 
spécimens are mostly fein aies. In spring, as 
soon as the young leaves of the elms have begun 
■ to un fohl, the beetles emerge from their retreats, 
and at once proceed to lay their eggs. The eggs 
are always laid in an upright position on the un- 
der-side of the leaves, and always in a group eon- 
sisting generally of two, rarely three, more or lcss 
irregulär vows. The individual eggs are laid close 
together, their mnnber in each group varying from 
five to twenty or more. They are oblong-oval, 
polnted at the tip, opaque, and of straw-yellow col- 
or. The duration of the egg state is about a week. 
The larvæ are at first yellowish-black, covercd 
with sparse black liairs, and with large black 
markings. With each successive moult the yel 
low color becomes more and more conspicuous, 
until when full y grown the créature lias a well- 
marked wide pale Strip along the middle of the 
back and a narrower one on each side. The gen- , 
oral shape is elongate, cylindrical,and »early equal 
in width throughout. In about three weeks it at- 
tains full growth, and then descends the trunk of 
the tree or simply drops to the ground, where it 
changes to pupa under whatever light shelter 
there is near the base of the tree. The pupa is 
of brighter color than the larva, oval in shape, 
and strongly convex on its dorsal surface. The 
perfect beetle issues aster a lapse of from six to 
ten days. It is about seven millimeters in length, 
elongate-oval in shape, moderately convex, not 
shilling, and very finely puhescent. Its upper 
side is pale yellow or yellowish-brown, with two 
spots on the head and three on the thorax, black. 
The wing-covers are finely, rugosely punctured, 
with a narrow stripe along the suture and a wider 
stripe on each side, black. There are three or 
four animal générations, according to latitude. In 
the month of September the beetles commence to 
seek snitable places for hibernation. 
Düring their whole lifetime the larvæ prey 
upon the leaves, which they skeletonize, leaving 
the venation and certain portions of the leas, 
which become rusty brown. The beetle assista 
the larva in its destructive work, but, as usual in 
such cases, the damage doue by the perfect i li 
sent is small as compared with that donc by the 
By far the most satisfactorv method of warfare 
against this pest is the water application of Paris 
green, London purple, or other arsenical prépara 
tion, as soon as the larvæ commence to lutte h 
from the eggs. Paris green should be applied at 
the rate of one pound of the poison to a bar,-et 
(about forty gallons) of water, wliile in tli- case 
of London purple the amount of the poia a 
should not be greater than one-hnlf pound to one 
barrel of water. Either poison mixture should 
be applied in as fine spray as possible, and this 
eau be aocomplishod by means G a good force- „ 
pump and one of the improved spray nozzles. es- , 
pecially the cyclone or eddv-chamber no/.-'.C, as 
illustrated and recommended in the ânimal re- } 
port of the United States entoinologist for 1883, 
and in Bulletin 6 of the Division of Entomo'ogy, 
Department of Agriculture (1885). By means of 
a rubber tube passed through a bàmboo rod quite 
large trees can readily be sprayed, and the pro- 
tective efïect of a proper application is remark- 
The mode of pupation under the tree, beneath 
whatever shelter it can find, or in the crevices 
between the earth and the trunk, permits the 
killing of vast numbers of the pupæ and trans- 
forming larvæ by pouring hot water over them. 
If the trees stand on the side walk of the streets, 
the larvæ will go for pupation into the cracks be 
tween the bricks or at the base of the tree, 
where they can also be killed in the saine way. 
Varions deviens for intercepting and destroy- 
ing the,larvæ in their descent from the tree, as 
troughs such as are used for canker-worms, 
tarred paper, feit bands salurated with oil, have 
been tried with more or less succesS ; also spray- 
ing with pvrethrum powder stirred in water, and 
finally diluted kerosene émulsions; but, all in 
ail, the application of the arsenical poisons as ,1e- 
scribed above lias given by far the most satisfac- 
tory results C. V. Riley. 
. , „ „„„s,, j, îuvvæ • c adulls: e, eags (enlarged) : /, scalpttre of eü hi'?’. ^rya 
of grfatiy enlarged segment of larva; r. dorsal view of same; /. *gvd); 
!, portion of e'lytrou of beetle (greaüy enlarged).

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