iit Pltleiit SUntrmvl. VOL. LIV. ifL $g #>■ u & * + **•- ai' K wi- PROFESSIONAL CARDS OF BELLEFONTK- * V. T. Alexander. C. M. bower. ATTORNEYS AT LAW, BELLEFONTK, PA.. Office la German's new building. JOHN B. LINN, ATTORNEY AT LAW. BELLEFONTK, PA. Office on Allegheny Street. OLKMEXT DALE, ATTORNEY AT LAW. BKLLBPONTE, PA. Northwest comer of Diamond. • Yr goods. Main street, opposite Bank. Ml llielin Pa. i. BROWN, MANUFACTURER AND DEALER IN TINWARE STOVEPIPES, Ac.. SPOUTING A SPECIALTY. Shop on Main Street, two houses east of Bank, Millbelm, Penna. J EISENHLTH, * JUSTICE OF THE PEACE, MILLHEIM, PA. All business promptly attended to. collection of claims a specialty. Office opposite Elsenhuth's Drug Store Tlf USBEK~& SMITH, DEALERS IK 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, Penna. - TACOB WOLF, fashionable tailor, MILLHEIM, PA. Cutting a specialty. Shop next door to Journal Book Stoie. jyjILLHEIM BANKING CO., MAIN STREET, MILLHEIM, PA. A. WALTER. Cashier. DAV. KRAPK, Pres. UARTER, AUCTIONEER, REBERSBURQ, PA. jAtUfaction Guaranteed. DECREFD. 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 stream. 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 failure." "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 tbiugs change." "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 whom " "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 tree." ♦•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 hand. "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, Dot?" * "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 pleasant work., 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 the scene. 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 sense. 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. with courtesy. 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 plexion. 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* friends. 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 of Dot." "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 isfactory courtship. ''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 father. | 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 andss. 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. "I did." "Where is it, theu ?" "Drauk it." "Yes; the man said it wouldn't keep to bring home." A new light dawns on the family's mind. It ask 8 eagerly: "What did you ask for?" "Soda." "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 pull through." "Oh! the doctor pulled through did he?" "Oh! yes; he's all right now except ing—" "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. A Monntrmift Of all marine algte, the Nere 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 entry." • "Not in the entry, you dou't mean ?" "Yes," said Wash, "in the entry; near ly banged the head off of him. Where was your man?" "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." "Whose nose?'' "The burglar s: and he tore my coat to rags, and pretty nearly scalped me." "Who did?" "The burglar.*' 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. "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 coat?" "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 son." 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 is. * 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, too. 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 manufactured stuff?" "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 e 'ssful. 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 battles. "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 .