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PROFESSIONAL CARDS OF
* V. T. Alexander. C. M. bower.
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Office la German's new building.
JOHN B. LINN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Office on Allegheny Street.
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Northwest comer of Diamond. •
Y<K I'M & HAS I'lNliS,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
High street, opposite F.rst National Bank.
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Practices in all the courts of centre County.
Spec al attention to collections. consultations
in German or English.
-yy7 II.BUR F. REEDER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
. BELLEFONTK, PA.
All business promptly attended to. collection
of claims a speciality.
J. A. Beaver. J. w. Uepb&rt.
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Office on Alleghany Street, North of High.
A - MORRISON,
. ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Office on Woodrlng's Block, Opposite Court
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Consultations In English or German. Office
in Lyon' j Building, Allegheny street.
JOHN G. LOVE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Office in the rooms formerly occupied by the
late W. P. Wilson.
BUSINESS CARDS OF MILLHEIM, &.
f 1 A. STURGIS,
* DEALER IS
Watches, Clocks. Jewelry, Silverware, A". Re
pairing neatly and promptly don • and war
ranted. Main Street, opposite Bank, M lllielm,
A O DEIXIXGEK,
• NOTARY PUBLIC.
SCRIB-NKR AND CONVEYANCER,
All business entrusted to him. such as writing
and acknowledging Deeds. Mortgages, Releas- s,
ae., will be executed wt h neatness and dis
patch. Office on Main Street.
ALL KINDS OF
Groceries. Notions, Drugs, Tobac- os. (igars.
Fine Confectioneries and everything in the lino
of & flrst-class Grocery st re.
Country Produce t aken in exchange I< >r goods.
Main street, opposite Bank. Ml llielin Pa.
MANUFACTURER AND DEALER IN
TINWARE STOVEPIPES, Ac..
SPOUTING A SPECIALTY.
Shop on Main Street, two houses east of Bank,
* JUSTICE OF THE PEACE,
All business promptly attended to.
collection of claims a specialty.
Office opposite Elsenhuth's Drug Store
Tlf USBEK~& SMITH,
Hardware, Stoves, Oils, Paints, Glass, Wall
Paper , coach Trimmings, and Saddlery Ware,
SLC • Ac.
All grades of Patent Wheels,
corner of Mala and Penn Street-, Mlllhelrn,
- TACOB WOLF,
Cutting a specialty.
Shop next door to Journal Book Stoie.
jyjILLHEIM BANKING CO.,
A. WALTER. Cashier. DAV. KRAPK, Pres.
Into all live* some rain must fall.
Into all yes some tear drop* start.
Whether they tall as a gen le shower.
Or fall like Pre from an aching heart.
Into all hearts some sorrow uiust creep,
Into all souls some doubting come.
leashing the waves of lafo's great dee])
From duupiing waters to settliug foam.
Over all paths some clouds must lower,
Under all feet some sharp thorns spring.
Tearing t" e flesh to bitter wounds.
Or enter ug the heart with their bitt rating.
Upon a.l brows rough wi must blow,
Over all shoulders a cross be lain,
flowing the form in ts lofty height
Down to the dm-t in the hitter pain.
Into all hai d- some duty thrust,
Unto all arms s me buidens given.
Crushing the heart w th its dreary weight.
Or lifting the soul from earth to heaven.
Into all hearts an t homos and lives
Hod's dear sunlight comes streaming dowu,
Gilding the nuns of Life's great plain-
Weaving for all a golden crown.
The Bachelor's Will.
The suit of ail August day was sending
golden shafts through the interlacing
foliage overshadowing a limpid troul
A young man was kneeling beside it,
pole in hand, ostensibly fishing; but the
speckled denizens of the brook had but
little cause for alarm. The cool brain and
steady band, so dangerous to peace under
ordinary circuiustauces, were not really
putting forth any effort against them.
It was a handsome young face turned iu
such evident eagerness toward the faintly
defined foot-path leading through the woods
to the sylvan spot. The features were al
most too regular for masculine ideas of
beauty; but the firm way the red lips were
set together and the massive chin redeemed
them from weakness.
He started to his feet as the crackling of
dried leaves and twigs betrayed an ap
proaching footstep. Another moment, and
a breathless young creature was lieside
him, panting from her rapid approach.
"I began to tliiuk you were not coming,
!>*, and that my holiday was to prove a
"It was by the merest accident that I got
away. Father hardly trusts me out of bis
sight. But he was called off on unexpect
ed business, and I've run every step. I feel
so guilty all the time —1 can't do it unless
"Dot," began Philip reproaelifully.
"I know it is hard," continued the girl,
"but 1 am as much the sufferer by it as
you. Though. Phil," with a sudden in
tensity in her voice, "one thing I can do,
I solemnly promise never to marry any
one but him I love, aud that is—you know
"That is poor comfort, Dot. To know
that the girl you would shed your heart's
blood fwr cannot give you a kind word
now and then to keep up your spirits! 1
shall half the time think you are forgetting
me, and making up your mind to marry
the mau your lather is so taken with."
"You are very different lrom the idea I
have of you if you give way to any such
feeling. Why, Phil, all the people iu the
world couldn't make me believe you false,
if you had promised to be true. But I
must go I just came to tell you—no mat
ter what happens—that force could not
drag me into the marriage with Oram
Dinsmore, and to say good-bye until we
can meet as we used to, with the full con
sent of father."
"That'll never be!" was the gloomy an
swer. "It's good-bye forever, lam sure.
I wish that old cousin of yours had left his
money to some one else. It has destroyed
our happiness. Ycur father s emed to
like me until that will made you an heiress,
and Oram Dinsmore began coming to the
house. -Much as he might have beeu taken
by your looks, he'd never bothered his head
about you unless there had been a prospect
of adding to his possessions. I know him
of old, and he's as tight as the bark of a
♦•Really, Philip, you J.re complimentary.
So money is the sum of my attractions, is
it?" - ' " . .: -
But there was no vexation in the eyes
she turned upon his troubled face. Hers
was a true, truthful nature, and she under
stood her lover's meaning, though she tried
to speak lightly and playfully to prevent a
paiuful parting scene. Tears were near
her eyes, but she forced them back; she
must be strong for !>oth. She held out her
"Good-bye, Philip. .Don't be discour
aged; all will oome right yet."
Philip took the little hand in his brown
palm and gazed longingly into the sweet
young face. Then he said:
"Won't you give ipe one parting kiss,
"Yes, Philip, kiss me here," touching a
slender finger to ofie of cheeks,
"and from this time tliat place will be
sacred from the touch of odher lips until
we meet again." . "
Philip kissed the cheek, which flushed
redly &t ijie touch of his lips. Dot was
chary of permitting caresses, and though
they had been fond of each other from
their boy and girl days, Philip had never
presumed to kiss her, unless when playing
a game of forfeits in some of the merry
gatherings which are sometimes giaremin
country neighborhoods for the double pur
pose of drawing the young people together
and helping the farmers to husk their corn,
or get the rosy produce of orchards into
festoons of neatly pared and quartered
apples to dry, on the principle that many
hands and nimble fingers make light and
The next moment he was following the
lithe little figure with sad eyes until it had
disappeared under the overhanging
branches. He lacked Dot's faith in the
kindness of the future. He could only an
ticipate a long separation and perhaps
estrangement; and it was with a heavy
heart that he gathered up his fishing tackle
and started for home. A distant relative
of the Ingrahams had lately died, and had
willed his property to his cousin, Dorothy
Ingraham. During his lifetime he had
never shown that he was aware of the ex
istence of our little Dot, and it was a great
surprise to her when the old gentle
man's solicitor came from New York with
tiie intelligence that he had made her his
heiress. At first it was a great pleasure to
the girl, and she built many pretty "cas
tles in the air" about the way she would
use her wealth, until a change came over
MI 1,1.11 KIM, I'A.. TIIUUSDAV. AUGUST 19. ISNO.
Mr. Ingraham, who had heretofore
seemed Well pleased lo have his daughter
in I'hilip Bertram's compauy, tx-gau to en
tertain higher views for her, und when
young Mr. Dinstnore, sou of the President
of the village bank, began to drop in of an
evening, with the evident inteution ofaoo
iug Dot, though he naked for her father,
poor Philip began to be treated coldly, and
was at last forbidden the house.
Hail Dot's mother been living, things
would have been different, for her sterling
good sense would have earned the day
against her husband's sudden inflation of
feeling caused by their good fortune. But
since his wife's death Mr. Ingraham UHd
no one to influence him, for he considered
Dot a mere child, to lie potted and govern
ed as though she were live years of age,
instead of a well-grown girl of eighteen,
of more than ordinary capacity and good
Affairs went 011 this way for several
months. Mr. Dinsmore's calls grew more
frequent, ami a strong pressure was-brought
to bear on Dot to make her listen to ids
suit, which was now o|enly declared. She
now tried to discourage him by treating
lam with marked coolness and indifference,
hut he would not take a repulse, and her
life was growing to be an unhappy one,
her father's conversation being almost
principally uixm the perfections of her
suitor, whom at heart she cordially de
tested; though doing her best to treat him.
Philip knew of his constant visits, and
heard rumors of an engagement. He grew
gloomy and morose, and when he chanced
to meet Dot, would pass her in away
which made her poor little heart ache.
So things weut on from bad to worse,
until Dot would have been glad if her in
heritance had been sunk iu the sea. At
last another actor appeared—a young girl
who created quite a sensation 111 the quiet
village. She was from v city in the far
West, and was very pretty, and knew just
what colors to choose for her toilet to set
off the tints of her glowing hi untitle ami
Dot's heart felt like lead in her bosom,
when one day she met the stranger walk
ing jauntily by Philip's side. She was
shortly afterwards introduced to her, aud
for a few moments a hateful spirit sug
gested that she would make herself dis
agreeable; but she resolutely put the temp
tation away from her and appeared
her own natural, lovable self. She
soon ceased to wonder at Philip's evi
dent pleasure in Miss Belmont's society.
She was so frauk and cheerful, and spark
ling in her conversation, that she was won
from prejudice, and they grew to Ik*
It was not long before Kate Belmont
knew the true state ot Dot's feelings to
wards Dram Dinsmore, though Philip's
name was as a sealed book between them.
I)ot*loved him as dearly as ever, aud the
very intensity of her feelings fer him made
her strangely shy of mentioning himtoeven
her dearest friend.
It was a great surprise when Kate said
to her one day, half jestingly:
"How strange that you don't like Mr.
Dinsmore better! 1 have taken a great
fancy to him, but have st udiously avoided
being even pleasant to him, for minors
gave him to you, and thinking him your
special property, 1 didn't want to play
with edged tools. But if you don't love
him, I shall adopt different tactics—for 1
think he is perfectly splendid!'*
"What is meat to one is poison to
another. How true those old adages are.
I dou't think he cares for me; ho never
looked at me liefore I became rich. I wish
old Jared Ingraham had left his money to
some ne else."
"Jared Ingraham," said Kate, musingly.
"Where have 1 heard that name? Oh! 1
know. I have the dearest old friend out
West, and it's her love story which that
name has brought to my mind. Something
happened to separate them when they were
both very young, and she left all her
friends and settled in the West. But she
always remained si gle, and to this day is
true to the memory of her old love. By
the by, her name is almost the same as
yours, only it's Dorothy Ingraham instead
"Why," said Dot, "my name is Dorothy.
They only call me Dot for short."
"I wonder if you and Miss Ingraham are
related to each other? 1 am quite sure
that Jared Ingraham was her lover's name.
If it was the sane person, doesn't it seem
strange that he should have left his money
to a young chit like you, begging her
ladyship's pardon, instead of his faithful
old love ?"
Dot's lace was a study as Kate rattled
on. It fairly shone.
"Kate," said she, "I sea it all! lam an
interloper. Isn't it nice? The will said,
T give and liequeath to my dear cousin
Dorothy Ingraham'—tlmt's all I can re
member verbatim, but that's enough All
the law terms in the world wouldn't make
it any different to me. We all thought it
strange that he should have left it to me
when he had never had paid me the slight
est attention when lie was alive; but the
lawyer said that to his knowledge there
was no other person of that name, so I
must be the one. Give me your friend's
address, and 1 will soon get to the bottom
of the matter."
"I'll give it to you, of course, but flrst
promise me not to say anything about it
until you are sure."
"I will keep silent until you give me
permission to speak," said Dot.
She wrote at once to the old lady, and in
due time received a reply which confirmed
her suspicions. So she immediately began
to put things in train so that Miss Ingra
liam should receive her rights.
A mouth had hardly gone by when,
much to Dot's amusemenl, Mr. Dinsmore
called and requested a private interview
with her. She had noticed his growing
fondness for Miss Belmont's society ami
half suspected tlie denouement.
As she went into the room he rose to
meet her, and for the first time Dot felt an
emotion of sincere liking and respect enter
her heart for him. Under tlie infiueuce of
genuine feeling he seemed a different per
son to the plausible, polished man of the
world who had tried to palm off the sem
blance of love upon her during his unsat
''Miss Ingraham," he said, flushing as
he spoke, "I have come to make a confes
sion and ask your forgiveness. Not for
withdrawing my suit, for I know you have
never even liked, much less loved, the un
worthy man who stands before you; but
for persecuting you with my unwelcome
attentions. Under the light which a gen
uine passion has shed upon my actions I
see how contemptible they liave been, and
I wish to apologize to you and make my
peace before 1 dare speak to the young
lady I love of my desires to win her for my
wife. Will you forgive me!"
! Dot held nut her hund. "With all my
heart, Mr. Dinsmore, and 1 shall always
respect you for the frank, manly put you
have acted at the last. You have iny best
wishes for yoar success.''
I Mr. Ingruhain was at first very angry at
Oram Diiismore's defection, but when Dot
said decidedly : "1 would not have mar
ried hint if I remained single all iny life,"
he determined to give up trying to direct
the course of true love, making a virtue of
necessity, yet thinking himself a model
| Dot was willing lliat her father shoulcl
' please himself with Ibis delusion as long as
! lie withdrew his opposition to Pliilip's
j coming to ifie house.
When u few monthsafter the real heiress,
I Miss Dorothy Ingraham, appeared upon
the scene, uncharitable persons said thai
Mr. Dinsmore had known of her mistake.
But Kate Belmont, his betrothed wife,
had the pleasant consciousness that sin* had
won his heretofore mercenary heart while
he thought Dot the true heiress, and that
he valued one glance of her bright eyes
more than he did Dot's Supposed thou
fh * real testatrix was very much taken
with iier namesake, and would not consent
to lake more than half the property. The
mistake alxmt her legacy had been the
means of drawing her into the society of a
young relative of whose existence she
would otherwise have been ignorant. It
proved very pleasant to her to have such
a treasure trove of warm human affection
bestowed upon her, for young Dorothy
loved her aged cousin very dearly, and w as
always pleased to entertain her in her pretty
home, lor she became the wife of Philip
Bertram, and the happiest little matron un
der the tun. .
A Murderer'* Tor.
11 ay nes, the Rockland (Me.) murderer,
has recently giade a toy house after the
' French style. It is about four feet higli,
i by two deep and four long is as nictcy built
|as the best mansiou, with tJaleron and
; fancy chimneys, has two stories, the lower
one living devoted to a kitchen and a din
ing hall, the upper story lo a drawing room
ami best chamber. The fioor of the din
ning hall is inlaid with cherry and mulibg
any, one thousaud and twtuty pieces of
wood being used inlaying it; the kitchen
jis also iulaid. but less expensively. The
! furnishings are somewhat regal for a small
personage. They cousiat of the usual
kitchen paraphernalia, including hard wood
tables with drawers iu them roller for long
towel, dishes, eveu to an old lady with
sjK'CS, who eyes the visitor conspicuously.
In the dinning room or hall a large chan
delier pends übove a black walnut table on
which rests a handsome tettatee sett, made
ot wood, painted blue. A sideboard stands
at the back of the room—merely as an orna
ment. The sets in the drawing room and
chamber are perfect marvels of mechanical
skill and Yankee ingenuity. The floors
aw tastefully carpeted. A marble fireplace
is in the drawing room, and in a rack al its
side stand the shovel and tongs all already
to "poke up the tire" which merrily burns
behind the grate. The chairs are as nicely
made and upholstered as though they had
been intended for the president of the
United States. The walls and windows of
the room aie well adorned, and the house
as a whole is a com pic e gem.
- A Peculiar Fashion and Its Cause,
Many years ago the village of Kb el ford,
near Nottingham, England, was distinguish
ed by a very peculiar fashion in dress af
fected by most of men. This consisted in
the wearing of coats with red velvet collars,
and for a long time no explanation of it
was forthcoming. Eventually, however,
the mystery was solved through the vicar
of the parish. It appeared that the village
tailor was also the sexton, and that the vel
vet with which he adorned his customers*
coats had been appropriated by him without
license from the burial vaults of the Earls
of Chesterfield, to which he had access by
virtue of his office. The vicar commuuica
ted to the Earl a discovery which had filled
him with horror, but thai nobleman not
merely forgave the offense, hut actually
commended the tradesman for making a
good use of that which he and his ancestors
had consigned to corruption an J? decay.
Probably the Earl who approved the tailor's
action was the famous "letters lord" who
was the first prominent man in England to
give a blow to undertakerdom. "Sated
with the pompous follies of this world of
which 1 have had an uncommon share, I
desire no funeral honors," wrote the man
who has been stigmatized "a high priest
of the world's vanities;" and he proceeds
to limit the expenses to be incurred at his
obsequies to SSOO.
Tlie Winter Drama,
The heroic prevails in the dranla of the
West, even among the amateurs, and what
is lost in style is made up in action. The
Kitchen of the Bon Ton Lodging-house in
Bodie,Colorado,recently witnessed an ama
teur performance of thrilling interest. There
was a Critical audience present when the
curtain, a horse-blanket, was drawn aside.
The piece was Dead wood Bill; or. The
Roaring Waterspout of the Rocky Moun
tains," and it opened with a bloody tight
between Bill and Pete Dickson, the terror
from Tar Flat, for the possession of a lovely
maiden, who was seated in a stage-coach,
personated by a dry goods box. The tight
1 was long aud desperate, and brought iuto
| play all the knives and pistols the actors
could borrow. Of course Bill whipped.
There were nine murders in the first act,
and in tiie second lour stages were robbed
1 and a hand of Indiaus routed. The piece
! was a great success.
What He Did With the Soda.
A little washing soda was wanted Jot
cleaning purposes, so George was given a
dime and dispatched to the apothecary's at
the corner to get it. George soon returns,
hut no soda.
"Why didn't you get the soda, George?"
I chorused the family.
"Where is it, theu ?"
"Yes; the man said it wouldn't keep to
A new light dawns on the family's mind.
It ask 8 eagerly:
"What did you ask for?"
"Did you say washing soda ?"
" Washing soda? No; only soda."
Family laughs as though it were crazy.
, George doesn't know what all the fun's
about-, hut he is subsequently heard to say:
"That was a boss drink !"
A Chfiinploii Liar,
Vouug Gluckerson met old Judge Van
Snyder on the ferry boat at Sau Francisco,
the other day, and, after sliakiug bands
respectfully with that venerable friend of
the family, said, casually:
''Did you bear of that terrible accident
up ai Bolts' the other night?"
"Accident? Why, my dear young friend,
no. Nothing serious, i hope?" said the
Judge, much interested.
"W.OJ, I'll tell you how it was," said
Gluckerson, in a mournful voice. "You
see, the old doctor was out until al>out
2 o'clock in the morning attending some
patients, and, supposing he would le hun
gry when he came in, Mrs. Potts put a
large pan of mush and milk"—the old
doctor's favorite dish, you know—under
the stove to keep warm for him."
"Yes! yea!" said the Judge eagcrty, as
Gluckerson stopped to light a cigar. '*Go
on—what then ? '
"Well, the doctor came in after a while,
and went groping round in the dark for his
mush —couldn't find a match, you know—
and, tis luck would have it, he picked up
instead a pan containing bread, put there
to laise over uight. He was too tired to
notice the difference—besides, he had taken
two or three nips sis he drove round—and
so be actually ate up all the dough
"Gracious!" said the Judge.
"It's a fact, though. Well, towards
morning tlie doctor began to swell, and
swell—the yeast was getting its work in,
you know—and pretty soon the whole
family was up and mailing Around half
distracted. The doctor kept on groaning
and shrieking and swelling, until be looked
like a Saratoga trunk. At last they founo
out what he had done, and the wholr fami
ly piled right on top of him, and sat there
while they sent for a cooper."
"A cooper ?"
"Yes; you see, they saw at once that
unless something was done the doctor
would burst lief ore morning. So the
cooper started in and put nine of those big
half-inch beer keg hoops around his stom
ach. Of course that stopped his swelling,
and by keeping a tin tube dowu his throat
for the gas to escape, be just managed to
"Oh! the doctor pulled through did
"Oh! yes; he's all right now except
"Excuse me," said the Judge grimly as
lie took out his notebook, "but will you
favor me with your middle name in full.
They are getting up a medal for the cham
pion liar in the Htate, by order of the Gov
ernor, and I think I'll send in your—"
But the boat had landed, ami the prom
ising young candidate had melted away
into the crowd.
Of all marine algte, the Ner<ocy#tia is
most wonderful. its stem occasionally
attains a length of three hand red feet,
though it is extremely slender even at the
top, where it i- surmounted by an euor
mus floating bladder six or seven feet long,
which affords a favorite resting place to
the sea otter. The account, indeed, is ap
parently so fabulous as given by Mertens
in an interesting paper on the botany of the
Russian posses-ions in America, that it
could not be believed did it not depend
upon unquestionable authority. Tiie fili
form stcm( which isaltoul as thick as a pack
thread) wueu two or three feet long, swells
suddenly above into a globose bladder.
From the top of this springs a tuft of ger
minate leaves, mostly rising on five petioles.
These leaves are lanceolate and membrana
ceous, from one to two feet long, aud two
inches broad in the center. As the plant
grows older, the stem increases enormously
iu length, but only slightly in thickness.
The globose bladder swells into a tarmp
shaped or retort-like cylinder, six feet long
and four feet six inches or more in diameter,
in the widest part, the lower extremity
gradually passing into the stem. Tho
leaves, which at first were marked with a
few faint nerves, split in the direction of
the latter, cover h large space by their en
tangled mass, aud attain a length 01 twenty
seven feet or more. Where the plant grows
in any quantity, the surface of the sea be
comes impossible to boats, "in consequence
of the dense floating masses of vegetation.
The stem is employed for fishing lines
when dry, and the large cylinder is used as
a siphon for draining water out of boats,
in the same way that another seaweed—
the Ecklonia bucotna/i* —is used fre
quently at the Cape.
Of late several burglaries have been com
mitted in the ncighltorhood in which Mr.
James Simpson lives, and, of course, the
folks are not a little alarmed. In Simp
sou's row alone enough tire-arms and am
munition have been collected to conduct a
very fair-sized war with Mexico, and
Simpson, particularly, has bought a whole
army of weapons ami loaded them to the
muzzle. Simpson's brother-in-law, George
Washington Budd, commonly known as
"Wash," lives with him, and for weeks
past Wash, upon going to bed, has made
such a preparation and display of various
kinds of engines of destruction that a look
er-on might have concluded that his pur
pose was to conduct a kind of bailie of
Gettysburg on his own responsibility.
The other night Wash, after recapping
all his revolvers, running his thumb along
the edge of his broadsword, half-cocking
bis gun, and laying bis bowie knife on the
chair, thought he heard a burglar prowling
about down stairs. Buckling on his artil
lery, Wash, in his stocking feet, crept
down the back staircase, determined to an
; nihilatc the thief.
Simpson heard the noise at the same mo
ment, and he, thinking Wash was in lied
asleep loaded up his machinery ofr death
and crept softly down the stairs also with
out his boots.
Both reached the floor at the same mo
ment. They stopped and listened. Wash
thought he heard the burglar in the parlor.
Simpson felt sure the rascal was in the
dining-room pocketing the spoons. So
while Wash tiod noiselessly frontwards
Simpson stepped stealthily to the rear.
Midway in the hall they came into colli
sion. Each felt perfectly certain that the
other was the burglar.
Wash grappled with his antagonist in
stantly. Simpson knew that a death strug
gle had begun, so he took hold with all
his might. .Neither had a chance to draw
Wash strove to throw his burglar down,
and Simpson, perceiving the game, made
a huge effort to prostrate Wash. They
pushed and pulled, and jerked, and shoved,
and panted, bumping up against the wall,
kicking up the carpet, and making such a
hubbub that Mrs. Simpson, up Btairs in her
room, and afraid to come out, lifted up her
voice and screamed with awful vehemence.
After h fearful and desperate struggle,
duriug which Wash had his coat torn to
rags and a couple of handsful of hair pulled
out, aad Sitnpaon had his nose jammed
against a chair until it felt as if it had
swelled to the size of a watermelon, Wash
let go a moment to get his breath. There
upon Simpson made a rush for the front
stairs quietly. In the dark, and Wash
pretty well scared and tired of war, dashed
off up the stairs, resolved to go and see
why Simpson didn't come down and help
him wij>e the burglar out.
As Simpson got to the landing le saw
Wash's loriu. by the dim light from the
bathroom, in the back entry.
"Who's that?" shouted Simpson, ner
vously, feeling for his revolver.
"Me—Wash," replied his brother-in
law. ♦ 1
Simpson went to him and saul—
" Thunder und lighting, Wash! Why J
didn't you come down sooner?"
"Sooner! Why, where've you been?
I've had the moat awful tine you evtr
heard of." J
"So'veT," replied Simpson. "There's
a burglar in the house, and I've lieen tear
ing him to pieces?"
"You don't say so? Why, my garcious.
I've had a fight with one, too, and I thiuk
1 laid him out!"
"You did ? where?"
"Why, down stairs, there, in the front
"Not in the entry, you dou't mean ?"
"Yes," said Wash, "in the entry; near
ly banged the head off of him. Where was
"Why, iu the eutry, too. 1 didn't
hear you !
"Its is queer," replied Wash, "because
1 hammered his nose agaiust a chair until
it must be mashed flat."
"The burglar s: and he tore my coat to
rags, and pretty nearly scalped me."
Simpson was silent a minute, and then
he said— > ■ - - ?
"Come in here to the light."
They entered the bathroom, and Wash
looked at Simpson,and Simpson looked at
"Wash!" said Simpson.
"What ?" said Wash.
"Wash, you're the biggest idiot in the
State. Hang ine if I don't believe you've
been fighting with me! Look at my nose?"
"No! you dou't say? Did you pull out
your burglar's hair, aud splinter up bis
"I'm afraid I did,"said Simpson.
"Mr. Simpson,'* said Waah, calmly, "if
there is a bigger ass on the continent than
I am, I think I can lay my hand on the
man; a party by the name of Jim Simp
Just at this juncture Mrs. Simpson flew
from her room, down the hallway, and into
the batliroom, where she fell on her knees,
clasped her hands, and shrieked—
"Save me, James! oh. save me! Wash
ington, save me! Don't let me be murder
ed! Don't! oh, don't!"
Simpson looked sheepishly at Wash;
then, without saying a word, he seized
Mrs. Simpson by the arm, ran her over to
her liedroom, ami slammed the door. Then
George Washington Budd went sadly up
stairs, disgorged his murderous apparatus,
locked his bowie knife in his trunk, and
went to bed.
Both combatants swore secrecy; but
Simpson couldn't help telling his wife,
and she spread it, of course, and so here it
* Richer Than Cwnn*.
Th arcieut historians have a great dea
to say about the wealth of various old
Greeks aud Romans; but noDe of them
were so rich, in all probability, as are
many living Americans. Croesus, king of
Lvdia, 500 years before the Christian era,
had so much gold, with other kind of pro
perty, that "rich as Croesus" flss been a
threadbare simile. He was the great
plutocrat of antiquity, and it is difficult to
judge of the value of his possessions; but
it is not likely tliat it ever reached more
than $100,00,000 to $1*2,000,000 of our
money. There are, no doubt, forty New
Yorkers at least worth more than he, and
some six or seven may have four-fold his
wealth. The richest Roman in Julius
Ccesar's time, and one of the triumvirate,
was MarcußLucinius Crassus, an astute
speculator, noted for avarice. His fortune
has often lieen estimated, and never above
$9,000,000 to $10,000,000 iu United States
currency. An Athenian or liom&n who
CvHild count his e tate at what would be
1,000,000 of our dollars was considered
immensely wealthy, but residents of our
large cities who have uo more than SI,OOO
- are not now considered particularly
well off, and are unknown among the
opulent members of the community. Mere
millionaires are so common as to merit lit
tle disliuction financially. Therp was no
such estate in ancient times as those of
the Astors und Vanderbilts, aud no such
private fortunes as are held in Boston,
Philadelphia, Baltimore, Chicago, San
Francisco, and other cities ot the republic
The growth of wealth has been prodigious
in this country within this generation.
Some of the largest accumulations in the
land have been made within forty or fifty
years. Half a century ago only one man
in New York was worth $1,000,000, and
his name was John Jacob Astor. Now
huudreds of its citizens can go beyond
those figures, aud they feel rather poor
than otherwiss. When Stephen Girard
died, in 1831, he was considered by all
odds the richest man on this continent.
Nobody approached or began to approach
him monetarily, and yet his property was
not valued at more thau $9,000,000. Men
who do not regard themselves as very old
can easily remember when SIOO,OOO was
thought to be a fortune, even in our larg
est cities, and when SIO,OOO in the small
towns was deemed an independence. At
present SIOO,OOO is hardly reckoned suffi
cient to make a man comfortable, and $lO
- would not be deserving of mention,
unless In some rural village, where general
poverty lends a magnifying power to any
eye that contemplates any kind of coin.
Wittnn the next firty years it is likely that
great tortuues will be increased beyond
what they have been in the same period in
the past. In 1930 and 1940 it is probable
enough that we shall hear of plain Ameri
can citizens who are worth from SIOO,-
000,000 to $150,000,000, and who will be
grumbling that they have no more.
TrlnkH on mm Amateur Bartender.
The HOD. Hugh Carlin, of Lyon county,
was in Virginia City last week. He is
naturally good-natured and unsuspecting,
hut, don't presume too far, or he will be
sure to drop on your little game. Some
time ago Hugh was in Eureka. Not hav
ing anything to do when he first arrived in
town, he wore away a good deal of time at
a saloon kept by an old acquaint nee,
whom he happened to find there.
One morning tills friend had some busi
ness out of town and got Hugh to take
charge of the bar during his absence.
Hugh laid aside ids hnt and lookup his
position. Some person who was in the
saloon when Hugh thus took command
went out amoug the boss jokers of the
town. In pursuance of a plan agreed upon
the first customer that arrived said, as he
matched up to the bar, "Got any real first
rate whisky ?"
"Have 1 git any good whiskey? Haven't
I ? You don't find anything else passed
over this bar. Never was a finer package
of whiskey lugged into Eureka thau what
is on tap hack in the store room!"
The man poured out a big horn, took a
Ugut swallow of it and begin coughing.
He coughed so hard that he was obliged to
set down his glass. He then clapped both
hands on his stomach and coughed himself
all about the room—coughed his hat off
and coughed until he was almost black in
the face—coughed till the tears streamed
down his cheeks—till he seemed not to
have breath left to cough more, or to utter
a syllable, when he took his handkerchief
from his eyes, shook his fist a£ the astonish
ed deputy barkeeper and rushed out of the
saloou without a word, leaving his glass of
liquor standing on the counter.
Hugh was frightened and bewildered.
He took the whiskey bottle, held it up to
the light and carefully examined it, fear
ing he had made some mistake. Finally,
to make sure, he tasted it, and found it to
lie whisky, and pretty fair whisky,
He had hut little more than recovered
his usual serenity of mind when a gentle
man came in and said:—"Have you got any
good brandy—real, genuine brandy—no
"What do you take us for?" cried Hugh.
4 'There's not a drop of doctored liquor of
any kind about this. establishment. No
such brandy as this was ever before brought
to Eureka. It cost $22 a gallon iu Sau
Francisco. It's like oil!" ■
The customer poured out a liberal al
lowance, but had no sooner attempted to
swallow it than he began coughing and
spat out what he had taken into his mouth.
He held both n&nds to his cheeks and
whirled around on one heel like a dancing
Dervish, then ran for the water pitcher
and finally began coughing as though he
would cough up his lungs.
"Ough, o-ough—hooh! hough!" coughed
he. "Call that brandy ?" and, doubled up
like a half open jack-knife, he coughed
himself out of the saloon.
Again was Hugh astounded, and again
he critically inspected the liquor he had
dealt out. He was finally convinced that
it was all right, but that the fault was iu
the people—something wrong with them.
About the time that he had arrived at
this conclusion a man came in, and spread
ing himself out before the bar to good ad
vantage, said, ''Have you got a good arti
cle of gin—real good, pure gin !*'
"Of course we have—never keep any
thing else. What do you take us for?"
and Hugh reached down the gin bottle
from a shelf behind him with his left hand,
while with his right he brought up from
under the bar a cocked revolver, which he
pointed at the head of the customer, as he
placed the bottle before him; saying,
"Now, you cough!"
That customer didn't cough.
1 Can and*l Will
How many boys there are who can, bu
never do, because they have no will-power
or, if they have, do not use it! Before un -
dertaking to perform any task, you must
carefully consider whether you can do it,
and, once convinced that you are able to
accomplish it, then say, "1 will do it,"
with a determination that you will never
give up till it is done, and you will he suc
The difference between "Give up" and
"I can't" and "1 can and will" is just the
difference between victory and defeat in all
the rreat conflicts of life.
Boys adopt for your motto "If I can I
will," and victory will be yours in all life's
"I can and I will" nerves the arms of
the world's heroes to-day, in whatever de-"
partment of lalior they are engaged. "I
can and I will" has fought and won all the
great battles of life and of the world.
But I must not forget my schoolboy. He
was prepairing to enter the junior class of
the New York University. He was study
ing trigonometry, and I gave him three ex
amples for his next lesson. The following
day he came into my room to demonstrate
his problems. Two of them he understood,
but the third —a very difficult one—he . <ad
not performed. I said to him :
"Shall I help you ?"
He replied, mildly, but firmly:
"No, sir! I can and will doit, if you
will crive me time."
I said: "I will give you all the time you
The next day he came into my room, to
recite another lesson in the same study.
"Well, Simon" (this by-the-way, was
not his name), "have you worked that ex
"No, sir!" he answered; "but I can
and will do it, if you will give me a little
t4 Certainly you shall have all the time
I always like these boys who are determ
ined to do their own work, for they make
our best scholars, and men, too. The third
morning, you should have seen Simon enter
my room. 1 knew he had it, for his whole
face told the story of his success. Yes, be
had it, notwithstanding it had cost him
many hours of the severest mental labor.
Not only had he solved the problem, but,
what was of infinitely greater importance
to him, he had begun to develop mathe
matical powers which,under thefnsp'ri: o i
of "I can and I will," he hasjcontinued 10
cultivate, until to-day he is professor of
mathematics in one of our largest colleges,
and one of the ablest mathematicians of his
years in our country.
My young friends, let your motto ever
be: "If I can, I will."
HE had one son hanged, another 'son
in the penitentiary, and his wile eloped
with a chromo peddler. "Have you
any family?" he was asked by a fellow
passenger. "None to speak of," was
the prompt response to the census man.