Morris tribune. [volume] (Morris, Minn.) 1880-2000, 1885-12-09

The town of Briefly Hill, in the En-
glish coal regions, threatens to disap-
pear from sig ht. Clefts are opening in
the streets, and the people fear a sud-
den engulfment into the mining cham
bers which honeycomb the ground I'M
derneath. The owners of the pits have
offered to sell them to the town for a
fair consideration, and the Council Is
now considering whether it is best to
buy them or, to use slang term, to let
the town slide.
A Saratoga correspondent asserts
that President Arthur had an elder sis
ter in Washington who was the source
of the greatest possible annoyance to
him. Mrs. McElroy, who did the hon
ors of the White House, and Mrs.
Hapnesworth were supposed to be his
only sisters. The third and generally
unknown sister was the Oldest of them.
She was 50 years old when Arthur first
went to Washington. She has never
been married. She has very peculiar
disposition and is so eccentric at times
as to warrant the belief in the unsound-
ness of her mind. Her brother has al
WAYS provided for her handsomely, and
has been always more than willing to
give her the most liberal of allowances.
Col. Ingersoll's manner of bathing in
the surf is about as unorthodox as his
views concerning Sheol. In the first
place he does not devote an hour to his
''makeup" preparatory to dipping into
breakers. The scene is something like
this: At flood tide in the afternoon the
rotund orator, with one of his daugh-
tiers on either arm, walks down from
the Long Beach Hotel to the bathing
pavilion. He generally appears in a
blue serge suit and, Evarts like, white
beaver adjusted at an angle peculiarly
his own. He looks like what he is-a
prosperous, well-fed lawyer. But ten
minutes later, as his round head and
rubicund cheeks pop up from the crest
of crashing breaker, the Colonel is an
entirely different individual. He looks
like big Long Island farmer in the
bayfield,, whose hat has fallen off in the
hurry of moving and who hasn't had
time to pick it up. A big blue shirt
not Jersey, but more like farmers
blouse-hides his body and arms, and
glaring pair of white suspenders
crossed over his back hold up a long
pair of blue flannel trousers cut in the
mode of the original Cohen. His en-
ioyment of the surf is as ferVid as his
oratory, and when, after few minutes
wait, his two daughters join him in the
water, his shouts and laughter are as
merry as any schoolboy's.
A figure has stalked into New York
that is incompatible. Nothing else is
like it. If the poet Poe, the actor
Steele Mackaye, the dead and gone
Mexican Buchanan dressed for barn
storming tour, and dozen musical
prodigies could somehow be concen-
trated into one tall, slender young man,
the result might distinctly resemble
Mary Anderson's brother. He is just
over from London. His facial likeness
to his famous sister is wonderful. He
is as tall and thin as she. But she is a
woman, and what is fascinating enough
in her is curious in a man. 1t is in his
costume, however, with which he vol
UNFAIRLY fixes the gaze of every one he
meets. His hat is a soft black felt, adj
iusted on his small head with all the
rakishness of q cavaliers bonnet. His
coat is one of those loose raglans which
were in fashion twenty-five years ago,
but are extreme rarities now; and he
gathers the folds of its sleeveless sides
on his arms, after the stage manner OF
managing Roman toga. His trousers
match the rest of the suit in blackness.
He walks with four-foot stride, and
he poses like tragedian. The public
cannot love him as they do the divine
Mary, but they will be sure 10 regard
him with wonder whenever they see
him