vol.. LV.
BARTER,
AUCTIONEER,
REBERSBURG. PA.
J C. SPRINGER,
Fashionable Barber,
Next Door to JOURNAL Store,
MILI.HKIH, PA.
JJROCKERHOFF HOUSE,
(Opposite Court House.)
H. BROCK£BHOFF f Proprietor.
WM. MCKKKVKK, Manager.
Good sample rooms on first floor.
Free bus to and from all trains.
Special rates to jurors and witnesses.
Strictly First Class.
IRVIN HOUSE.
(Most Ceutxal Hotel in the City J
Corner MAIN and JAY Streets,
Lock Haven, Fa.
S. WOODS CALWKLL, Proprietor.
Good Sample Rooms for Commercial
Travelers on first floor.
JQR.J). H. MINGLE,
Fliysiciau and Surgeon,
MAIN Street, MILLHKIM, Pa.
JJR. JOHN F. HARTER,
PRACTICAL DENTIST,
Office In 2d story of Tomliuson's Gro
cery Store,
On MAIN Street, MILLHKIM, Pa.
C. T. Alexander. C. M. Bower.
A BOWER,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office in Carman's new building.
JOHN B. LINN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office on Allegheny Street.
QLEMENT DALE,
ATTORNEY AT LAWX
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Northwest corner of Diamond.
YOCUM & HASTINGS,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, FA
High Street, opposite First National Bank.
HEINLE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Practices to all the courts of Centre county.
Bpec.'&l attention to Collections. Consultations
to German or English.
ILBTJR F - KEEDER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Ali business promptly attended to. Collection
of claims a speciality.
J. A. Beaver. J W. Gepbart.
JgEAVER A GEPHART,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA
Offlce on Alleghany Street, North of High.
A. MORRISON,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA
Offlce on Woodrlng's Block, Opposite Court
House.
S. KELLER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
BELLEFONTE, PA
Consultations In English or German. Office
In Lyon's Building, Allegheny Street.
JOHN G. LOVE,
* ATTORNEY AT LAW,
BELLEFONTE, PA
Office in the rooms formerly occupied by the
late w. P. Wilson.
ADYEKTISE IN THE
Millheim Journal.
R ATES ON APPLICATI GN.
flic pitllelw iitwwi
I SEE TILKK STILL.
I set' thee still I
KeiuenibrHuoe, faith fill to her trust.
Calls thee in beauty from the dust;
Thou eoinest in the uiornlug light.
Thou 'rt with me 111 the gloomy night;
in dreams 1 meet thee as of old
Then thy soft arms uiy neck enfold,
And thy sweet voice is 111 my ear ;
lu every scene to memory dear
1 see thee .still!
1 see thee still
lu every hallowed token round;
This little ring thy linger bound.
This liK'k of hair thy forehead shaded.
This silken chain by thee was braided;
These flowers, all withered now, like thee,
Sweet sister, thou didst cull tor tuc;
This book was thitie* here didst thou read
This picture—all, yes! here indeed
1 see thee si ill!
1 see thee still!
There was thy sumiuer-noou's retreat.
Here was thy favorite tlreside seat;
This was thy chamber—here, each day,
I sat and watched thy sad decay ;
Here, on this lied, thou last didst lie —
Here, on this pillow, thou didst die !
Hark hour! once more its woes unfold;
As then 1 saw thee, pale and cold,
1 see thee still!
1 see thee still!
Thou art not in the grave confined—
Death cannot claim the immortal mind;
Let earth close o'er its sacred trust,
Hut goodness dies not in the dust;
Thee, O my sister! 'tis not thee,
Beneath the eorttn's ltd 1 see;
Thou to a fairer laud art gone :
There let me hope, my journey done.
To see thee still!
"SAUCY KYKS."
She came smiling across the ileitis,
lior arms laden with hawthorn blinim.
Harold Carleton, as he saw her, thought
her the very inearnation of spring, she
was so young, so fresh, so full of ex
uberant vitality. Yet she was only a
cottager's daughter, apparently, for her
dress, though neat, was cheap. She
glanced up at him as she passed, with
her great, eloquent eyes, lialf-sly, lialf
misehievously.
Harold was fresh from Camhrige,
and at eighteen thought himself quite in
another sphere, even in point of age,
from the rustic of thirteen. Ho was
disposed to be patronizing.
"What's the hurry, little Saucy
Eyes?" he said. "Stop and give a fel
low a kiss."
"My name isn't Saucy Eyes, and you
know it. Gentlemen," and she empha
sized the word, "when they speak to
me call me Miss Kent."
She had stopped to say this, and she
now walked on with head erect, and the
air of a born princess.
"Whew!" whistled Harold, "but I've
made a mess of it No cottager's
daughter luis an accent like that. Who
the deuce can she be? A regular little
spit-fire, though."
He ventured to ask the landlord alnnit
her, at the small inn where he lodged.
He had come to this picturesque, hilly
region on a trout-fishing excursion, and
knew no one there.
"0, that's the minister's daughter,"
was the reply. "Had her hands full of
hawthorn, you say? Yes, there's plenty
of it about here; one of the few places
there is. We've miles of hedges. Miss
Kate was taking the bloom home to dec
orate the parlor. She's a rare one for
flow ers. You should see her decorate
the church at Christmas. All the
young ladies give way to her in that,
though she is but a child as yet."
"If she grows up as pretty as she is
now she'll make many a fellow's heart
ache" said Harold, philosophically, as
he helped himself to another brook
trout; and in five minutes more, so ex
cellent was the dinner, lie had forgotten
all about the child.
Years passed. Harold had taken his
degree and was now studying law, the
profession of his father, Hugh Carleton
and his grandfather before him. Just
before the summer vacation began lie
had received a letter from home.
"We shall certainly expect you,
dear," his mother wrote, "this year, and
will take 110 excuses. It has been two
yeai*s since you were home, remember.
We have had such an accession, too, to
our society. Our new rector is a most
excellent man, and has such a charming
daughter, a very pretty girl, and so
bright, intelligent and high bred."
Now Harold, who had gone the sum
mer before to France and Germany, had
thought this year of going to Norway—
had almost given his promise, in fact;
but at this appeal he wrote back that he
would come home and spend the whole
vacation at "Inglewood," for that was
the name of Hugh Carleton's place.
"Dear mamma, it was so hard on her
last year," he said to himself.
The yery day that Harold came home
the rector went away on a four weeks'
visit with his wife, and the last words
he said to his daughter, as he got into
the carriage, were:
"Good-bye, Katie, and don't forget to
go up to Squire Carleton's and ask to
have the gardener come to see the gar
den. The Squire told me to send for
him only yesterday. With his aid we
can manage to keep the garden very
nice."
"I suppose I might as well go at
once," said Kate, when the carriage had
disappeared. "Dear old papa, lam
sorry you and ma have gone; but I'm
going to have lots of fun, with no one
but old Nannie to look after me." And
her eyes fairly danced with the mischief
of eighteen.
Harold Carleton himself was in the
garden when Katie came in. He had
arrived unexpectedly the night before
MILLHKIM. l'A.. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1881.
H week sooner than he had expected.
He wuH fond of a little amateur garden
ing at times, ami was just now bonding
over a moss-rose bush, hoe in hand.
His back was toward Kate, and she,
snpiHising him to tic the gardener, call
ed out:
"O, Adam that's your name, 1 hear
please ask Mr. t'arletoii it he can
spare you for a couple of hours this af
ternoon. It's I >r. Kent's at the rec
tory ."
Harold glanced mischievously at the
pretty face half hidden by the tall lil
ies, which she had stopped to smell as
she was speaking. Hero was a chance
for some sport. Kate had never, prob
ably, seen the new gardener, who had
only come two days before. Why could
not he personate the old fellow? It
was fortunate for him that ho had an
old cent on, ho thought.
Ho calling Adam he took the old man
into the plot giving him a crown for
hush money, and in the afternoon made
his appearance at the rectory, and
knocking at the back door, asked for or
ders.
"0, Adam, is it you?" cried Kate,
coming forward. "Lot me show you
your work. I'll put on my garden hat
tual be out in a minute."
Harold presented rather a curious ap
pearance as he followed Kate down the
long walk. His usually elegant attire
had been exchanged for a jacket and
trousers of coarse jeans, and his dark
curling hair was covered by a red wig,
similar in color to Adam's fiery locks.
He lia^passumed the same shuttling gait,
also.
"Here is your work, Adam," said
Kate, "tie up tV roses, and then weed
this bed of hyacinths; train this wistar
ia, and, if you have any more time,
come to me for further orders."
Harold bowed awkwardly, while a
mischievous gleam shot from the brown
eyes as he proceeded to tie up the way
ward roses.
"This is g eting interesting," he ob
served. "1 wonder what inv next or
der will be. By George, but Miss Kate
queens it well ! What a perfect little
beauty she is ! Whew ! how hot it is !"
He wiped the perspiration from his
heated brow.
"I begin to understand how the origi
nal Adam must have felt when command
ed to earn his bread by the sweat of his
brow. There, the wistaria is tied up.
Faith, mum," he said, as Kate reappear
ed, "I was jist eomiu* to see whatever
else there was to be done."
"How nice you've made things look !"
cried Katie, as she glanced at the roses
and wistaria. "But it's warm work, isn'i
it? Adam's your name, I believe. 1 am!
glad," affably, "to make your acquaint
ance, Adam."
"Faith, mum, but it is that same as
you say," replied Adam, drawing his
straw hat further down over his eyes,st'll
more to hide his face.
"Well, Adam, train up this hedge,and
then you may go," she answered, and
then swept away.
Several days went by. The pretended
Adam never failed to be on hand in the
afternoon. But in the morning Harold
Carleton, in his own proper person had
fishing, boating and picnic excursions,
most of which Katie attended ; for by
this time the squire's wife hail called,
bringing her son, and of course, after
that, Katie was included in everything
that went on.
Katie, too, learned to like Harold Car
leton very much, for no one more genial
or whole-souled ever existed. He was
generous to a fault, frank and open
hearted us the day, and had out grown
the conceit and coxcombery of his youth.
One morning, when Katie went into
the garden unexpectedly, she found
Adam fanning himself with his straw
hat. which was usually drawn so closely
over his eyes, and she caught a quick
Manee that reminded her of Harold. But
it was only for a moment.
He had not seen her, nor did he see
her when she quietly seated herself in a
vine covered summer-house, and took
out some pretty; graceful work with
which she soon became quite absorbed.
The long, drowsy afternoon was wear
ing away. Nothing but the tinkle of the
little brook back of the rectory, the
sound of the scythe which Adam was
wielding, and the murmur of the bees,
broke the silence of the place. Sudden
ly Katie's ear was arrested by a clear,
manly voice, singing a bar from a favor
ite opera, in a rich, ringing tenor.
She startled to her feet and looked
out. Only last evening she had sung,
with Harold Carleton, that very song,
and this surely was his voice again. Hut
110 one was in sight except Adam, who
was industriously hoeing peas. The
truth was, Harold, ignorant of Katie's
presence, had forgotten himself, but he
was now furious at his indiscretion, for
he had heard Katie, and knew what call
ed her out.
"Adam, has Mr. Carleton been here,"
she asked. "I thought I heard him just
now."
"No, mum, it's not yet that I didn't
see him," said the apparent stolid Irish
man.
"I was sure it was his voice," said
Katie, looking just a trifle disappoint
ed.
He would cross-examine Katie a little
and thus discover herieal feeling toward
imeelf. So he asked, carelessly, though
his whole heart was iu her answer :
"Did yes wish to see him, miss ? For
it's uieself as will bo afther Minding the
likes of him to yes?"
"No," said Katie, decidedly. "Stop
talking and go to work. 1 am afraid you
are getting la/.y," and Katie walked ofi'
with her most queenly step.
"Whew 1" whistled Harold. "She's
too bright to lie eaught in that way.
Thinks Adam w ill tell on her. Getting
laky, am 1? Well, it isn't beeause 1 don't
work hard enough." with a doleful gu/.e
at his blistered hands, as lie set vigor
ously to work, adding : Even as Adam, I
must win the good opiuioii of my Eve."
The next afternoon Katie went to call
on a friend, and Harold discontentedly
watched her depurture. It was so plea
sant to know that she was in the sum
mer-house or about the grounds that he
did not like to have liofcgo away.
He did not notice ht* return, nor that
she came to the arbor soon after. But
when he had finished his last order he
threw himself down on a mossy seat,and
tossing his wig off, began to fanning
himself vigorously with his straw hat.
"I can't wear that oontounded wig any
longer !" he exclaimed. "Its color even
is enough to set me on fire Now this
is refreshing. Beppo, you scamp, bring
buck that wig. What if your mistress
should come ? Must I chose after that
dog this scorching day ?"
Bepi x>, Katie's dog, had rim off with
the wig, as the reader has conjectured,
and on eliuse being given to him, rushed
to the summer-house and laid the wig at
his mistress's feet.
"Why, Beppo, what have you there !"
she cried. "It looks like the scalp of
old A dan. I wonder if—
And she broke into a fit of ringing
laughter as she met the astonished Har
old face to fuoe.
"Mr. Carleton!"
"Miss Kate !"
Then, unable to resist it, he also broke
into a hearty laugh.
"Oh, so you're not Adam,"suid Katie,
demurely, at last.
"No, but I will lie if you'll only be
inv I've !" he cried, with a touch of his
old boyish impudence, "0, Katie! Miss
Kent, darling, I've learned to love you so
dearly—say you will. We'll make anoth
er paradise where we can be happy to.
get her, and f shan't le obliged to work
so hard," breaking into laughter as he
saw Katie's roguish look, and wiped his
dripping forehead.
"Very well," said
it. Bni you must rememlier that it was
not a woman who made trouble in the
garden this time." And she added arch
ly, "But I'll forgive you for deceiving
me, if you will forgive me for—for—"
"For what?" asked Harold, as she
hesitated.
"For not letting you know before tha
I guessed your secret. I knewfrom the
beginning that you were not Adam. That
first day when I pretended to be smell
ing the lilies I had seen you were, at
least not a gardener."
"And you let me work all this time?
And it so hot," with a crestfallen look.
"Yes. You deserved it for your trick,
but 1 an glad you can work and obey or
ders. You may have to do so some
time, you know."
"Every man has, they say, when he
falls in love," he retorted,
"Yes," she said, saucily, "and you
musn't hope to lie an exception. But
there, there, isn't that quite enough ?"
for lie was devouring her with kisses. "I
declare you're as impudent as you were
five years ago."
"Five years ago!"
"Yes. Oh, you've forgotten. Men al
ways do. It is only woman who remem
ber. "
"What do you mean ?"
Her eyes danced with mischief. She
enjoying his perplexity to the full.
"Well, I'll tell you a fairy tale. Once
on a time—there, stop now, or I'll never
get 011 —there was a little girl coming
across a field with her arms full of haw
thorn bloom."
He gave a quick start, Katie wont 011
demurely. :
"And she met an impudent young fel
low, a collegian, who thought himself a
prince, but wasn't. And he called her
'Saucv Eyes,' the conceited ."
"What! You're 'Saucy Eyes,' are
you? O, I remember it all. Who'd
have thought it ? Why it's the joiliest
fairy tale I ever heard. Only, then she
wouldn't let me kiss her, and now—"
"Now somebody will get liis ears box
ed if he dosn't behave himself. One
must draw the line somewhere, and half
a hundred, surely—"
"Well since you are so cruel. But
when did you first recognize me ?"
"The first day I Haw you at leisure;
the day you called with your mother."
"And," said Harold, reflectively,
"there was always something in your
face 1 thought familiar. Yes, after all,
you are 'Saucy Eyes.'"
HK wrote it: —" Be not weary in well
doing." It came up smilmg in cold type:
" Be not weary in well-digging."
A RISING artiste in Paris is named
Mile. lJram. The public are fairly in
toxicated when they can drink in her
sweet, melting melody.
A 1.1. experience goes to show that peo
ple are far more liable to contract disease
or contagious fevers on an empty than
with a full stomach.
PHARAOH is believed to be one of the
Anc'ent Nile-ists,
Hint* to Mothsri.
When your daughter performs a bunk
ill au ill-fashioned manner, always say,
"Tiioro! I might as well have done it my
self in the first place." and then take the
work out of her hand and do it your
self. This w ill enoourage the girl not to
try to do the tlnng next time she is set
about it.
Never permit your son to have any
amusement at home. This will induce
him to seek it iu places where you will
not be annoyed by the lioise.
There is no place like home. Impress
this truth UJHUI your children by making
home as disagreeable and unlike any
other place as possible.
Never neglect the lock on the pantry.
Some boys have probably turned out
first class housebreakers all on account
of this judicious treatment in early child
hood.
Never permit your children to contra
diet. Let them know that that is your
peculiar prerogative. •
In cliihling your children's faults,
never forget to mention how much bet
ter the Jones children behave. This will
cause your little ones everlastingly to
love the Jones children.
Take frequent occasion to tell your
children how much more favored their
lot is than yours was when you were a
girl. It is always pleasant to children
to be constantly reminded of their obli
gations.
Don't let your son indulge in any kind
of outdoor games. Keep him to his
books. It will make a great man of him
some day, if he should happen to live.
Your girls should never be permitted
to romp. Let tliem grow into interest
ing invalids, by all means.
Be gentle and courteous before com
pany ; but it you have a teinj>er, let your
children have a taste of it as often as
convenient. A mother should never
practice deception upon her brood.
Talk slightingly of your husliand to
your boys and girls. This will make them
respect their father.
Tell your child he shall not do a tiling
and then let him tease you into giving
your consent. This will teach him what
to do on subsequent occasions.
Make promises to your children, and
then neglect to keep them. This will
lead your children not to place too much
reliance uj>on your word, and shield them
fro u many disappointments.
When your boy gets comfortably seat
ed in the easy-chair, take it from him.
This w ill induce him to appreciate a good
tiling when he grows older, and stick to
it—a seat in a crowded horse ear, for ex
ample.
Tell your children they are the worst
you ever saw, and they will no doubt
endeavor to merit your appreciation.
Artist*, on M Lark iu Maine.
Life had quickly settled into regular
ity. I"very morniug sketch-books and
easels, paint-boxes and palettes, came
out ; the girls broke up into groups of
two or three, and started out in var
ious ways to work. Not a picturesque
s|>ot hut had sketchers encamped
about it; a dilapidated set of bars, the
scorn of cows but the delight of an
artist; a pile of rocks in an orchard,
the thorn in the flesh to a farmer, who
stared open-eyed to find it attractive
to somebody; a path through the
woods; or a luxuiiant group of tall
ferns. The neighlwirhood was an un
worked mine of wealth. One could
not turn in any direction without see
ing a charming spot that she longed
to carry away with her, and the only
regret of the enthusiastic students
was that each one had not two pairs
of hands to work with. Dinner
brought them all home, and then came
criticism, comparison, and much pleas
ant talk over canvas and paper, ending
—in the Larks' Nest—in nailing the
studies to the wall, and- making ready
for the next day's work.
Before long some of the daily needs
of girlish humanity become pressing,
and a party was made up to visit the
"store" of the neighborhood—a barn
like place, with drugs and dress goods,
hardware and groceries, all in one
room.
"Have you straw hats?" asked the
first girl.
The clerk was sorry but they were
out of hats.
"What! no hats?" in a chorus from
the party who had been seized with an
ambition for broad-rim hats.
"I should like some shoe-buttons,"
began the second.
These, alas ! they never kept.
"What! 110 shoe-buttons?" in one
breath again.
"Please show me some ribbons,"
spoke up the third.
The clerk regretted to say that rib
bons were not in stock.
"What! 110 ribbons?" cried the
chorus, in dismay.
"Writing paper, if you please," cried
the fourth, sure that she at least could
supply her wants.
The clerk was embarrassed. He
began to have a horror of the chorus,
and hesitated whether he had better
slip out of a back door, and let his in
quisitors find out for themselves his
stock, or whether he had better laugh.
He decided 011 the latter just in time,
for Peggy began :
"I want some rye flour for sunburn."
The man shook his head,
"What! no rye flour?"
Clip hail been looking alsiut, and
seeing potatoes, a thought struck her.
"I say, girls," she began, in eager
whisj>erH, "now we're out here iu the
woods, and no callers, we might eat—
onions I"
"Onions! onions!" whispered one
and another. "Delightful! so we
will!"
"I love onions," cried Clip; and,
turning to the amused shop-keeper,
added, "Please send us up a bushel."
The man luughed, but again he shook
his head.
"What! no onions? Oh !" and, thor
oughly disgusted with the country
store, the party went out in search of
another. After that, whenever in their
rambles, which extended many miles,
around, they came near to a store,
they invariably went in and asked for
those articles, expressing their sur
prise in chorus as at first, and always
ending with the demand for onions,
which, by-the-way, they were never
able to get in that land of farms and
gardens, though Mrs. Duncan offered
to send to Portland foi them.
TH SWEET By-nud-liy.
l)r. Bennett says "the story of the origin
of the hymn, 'The Sweet By-and-By,' is
a short one and soon told. From 1861 to
1871 I resided in Elkhart, Wis., where I
kept an apothecary store, and during that
per od was associated with Joseph P. Web
ster, a music teacher, in the production of
musical works, 1 composing the words and
he the music. Our first production was
'The Signet Ring,' our second 'The Beati
tudes,'our third 'The Sunday School Can
tata, and our fourth and last "The Great
Rebellion.' It was in the fall of 1873, when
we were at work on 'The Signet King,'that
we compose 1 'The Sweet By-and-By.' it
was computed for that work, and published
first in iL And this was the way we hap
pened to compose it. Webster was an ex
tremely sensitive and melancholy man,and
very prone to think that others had slighted
him. He was alw iys imagining that some
old friend had spoken to him coolly, and
t hen dropping into bottomless despondency
about it until some casual meeting after
ward dispelled the illusion. After awhile
1 understood this weakness so well that 1
knew how to take it, and it gave me no
trouble at all. On the contrary, 1 used to
aid him in getting over these spells,
generally by putting him to work, which I
learned by experience was sure to relieve
him. So one day in the fall of 1874—1
could give you the day if I had the copy
right here—l was standing at my desK in
my drug store, writing up my books, when
iu came Webster looking uncommonly
blue. 1 knew at a glance what ailed him,
but said to him pleasantly, 'Webster, what
is the matter with you?' 'All,' he said,
nothing much. It will bo all right by-and
by.' 'That is so,' I said, 'and what is the
reason that wouldn't be a good subject for
a soug—By-aud-by ?' With that I suaichcd
up a piece of paper and went to writing,
and within fifteeu minutes 1 handed him a
paper with these words written on it:
" 'There's a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we may see it afar.
And the Father aland* over the way
To prepare us a dwelling-place there.
** 'We shall sing on that Iteautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blest.
And our spirits shall sorrow no tuoee,
Not a sigh for the blessings of rest.
" 'To our bountiful Father alore
We will offer the tribute of praise.
For the glorious gif;of His love,
And the blessings that hallow our days.'
44 'There, 1 said, 'write a tune for that.'
Webster looked it over, and then turned to
man named Bright in ttie store, and said,
'Hand me my fiddle over the counter,
please.' The fiddle was passed to him,and
lie went to work at once to make a tune.
And 1 hardly think it was more than thirty
minutes from the time that he came into
the store that he came into the store that he
and 1 were singing together the words and
music just as you see them here, on the
nineteenth page of 'The Siguet King.'
We liked them very much, and were siMg
lug our song, off and on, the rest of the
day. Toward evening, Uncle John Crosby,
as we used to call him, my wife's uncle,
came into the store, and we sung it to
him. lie was deeply affected by it, and
when it WHS ended the spirit of prophecy
came over him and he said, 'That piece is
immortal.' And be was right."
4 'Has the song been corrupted any by so
many publications ?"
"A little. The tune is frequently writ
ten now in the key of G, instead of the key
of A, which is no improvement. As to the
words, I wrote a different repeat for each
stanza. The first was 'We shall meet on
that buautifut shore,' the second was 'We
shall sing on that beautiful shore,' and the
third was 'We shall praise on that beauti
ful shore.' As it is printed now, the first
repeat is used for all three stanzas. Then,
too, the Methodists have added two whole
stanzas to the hymn. I can't repeat them,
but I don't like them."
"Were not you and Webster Methodists!"
•'No, sir. We were both liberals, but
not members of any church. Webster has
never been connected with any church, but
1 had been a Methodist in my youth, and
until I was nineteen years old."
"There is a story going around that you
and Webster were drunk when you com
posed that hymn. Is there any truth in
it?"
"There is not. Webster was in the habit,
of drinking, but I know he wasn't drunk
the day he composed that tune."
44 What has become of Webster ?"
"lie died at Elkhart of heart disease,
five or six years ago. llis life went out
like a flash. He was a married man, ten
years older than I, and left four children.
His daughter is traveling now. and singing
4 The Beatitudes.' Webster used to adver
tise himself as 'author of Lorena' until he
wrote 'Sweet By-and-By,' but after that
he never said any more about Lorena."
A GKEAT many people who want to be
wrapped up well when they retire at
night dislike very much to be rapped up
in the morning.
A LOVK (K) NOT — She—•' 1 do wish
him near because I love him, father."
He— 44 Because you love him near I do
wish him farther."
A MEDICAL writer says children need
more wraps than adults. They gene-
I rally get more.
The Mosquito and the Gnat.
Entomologically,the mosquito is classi
fied as A gnat. But it is only the theor
ist iu natural history that entertains
this opinion. In far southern climes the
more able bodied members of the order
are called gallinippers, and if any scien
tist should insult one of them by calling
him a gnat would be promptly impaled
by a}prol>oHcia,and dried and hung up in
a museum of natural history, lal>elled
"Home; species, scientist; dried and
innutritions, but insolent." The French
call her "cousin." Pronounce the word
iu French, slowly, lengthening the last
syllable, and the vesper hymn of the in
sect will be lecognized. The more strict
ly scientific name of "diptera," or two
winged, has, however, given general
satisfaction to the society. No case has
yet been noted where a well-bred mos
quito has objected to the classification.
The thirst of a given mosquito may be
estimated aocmately by her vertical an
gle of inclination. The thirstier she is,
the more the head is depressed and the
tail exalted. The Jones' Falls mosquito
stands comparatively horizontal on her
legs ; the Eastern Shore species has a
steeper slope, while the New Jersey
variety stands vertical, head downward
among her legs, like an umbrella handle
amidst its ribs. She does not sing, but
wafts softly earthward and settles dowu
to business. Her proboscis is a very
wonderful, though highly objectionable
instrument. It contains six lancets and
a suction tube in a sheath—one of them
has an exceedingly fine point; two jag
ged laceratorw like tiny saws, something
like a corkscrew, of unknown use, and a
tul>e full of acrid juice for inflaming the
wound and increasing the flow of blood.
She makes her own diagnosis and does
her own probing. She never uses the
induction balance to locate the scene of
her operations—she knows just where
the cavity is. She never holds a con
sultation, never calls in another surgeon
to use the knife, but does all her own
cutting, and inserts the drainage pipe
herself, and issues all the bulletins which
it is proper to lay before the public. She
may, while roosting on the mos
quito bar, mention casually to another
practitioner that the patient slept well
during the operation, with slight in
crease of temperature, but no greater
acceleration of pulse than was properly
due to the infiltration of the acrid ejec
tions of the proboscis ; the establishment
of a small pus cavity on the instep and
another on the wrist she rather flatters
herself has l>een effected. The chances
that the patient will wake up, slap wild
ly, apply friction to the wound, and
use profound language on the next oper
ation, she considers very great—but that
she adds calmly, is a very small matter.
Professional etiquette forbids her to say
more.
Rults for Right Living.
Keep the body clean. The countless
pores of the skin are so many little drain
files for the refuse of the system. If they
become clogged and so deadened in their
action, we must expect to become the prey
of ill-health in some one of its countless
forms. Let us not be afraid of a wet
sponge and fire minutes brisk exercise with
a crash towel every night or morning.
Devote eight hours out of the twenty
four to Blee|>. If a mother is robbed of
sleep by a wakeful baby, she must take a
nap sometime during the day. Even tea
minutes of repose strengthens and re
freshes, and does good "like a medicine."
Children should be allowed to sleep until
they wake of their own free will.
Never go out to work in early morning
in any locality subject to damps, fogs, and
miasma, with an empty stomach. If there
is not time to wait for a cup of coffee, pour
two-thirds of a cup of boiling water on
two teaspoonfuls of cream, or a beaten
egg. season it with salt and pepper and
drink it while hot before going out. This
will stimulate and comfort the stomach,
and aid the system in resisting a poisonous
or debilitating atmosphere.
Avoid over-eating. To rise from the
table able to eat a little more is a proverb
ially good rule for every one- There is
nothing more idiotic than forcing down a
few mouthfuls, because they happen to re
main on one's plate, after hunger is satis
lied, and because they may be 44 wasted"
if left! It is the most serious waste to
over-tax the stomach with even half an
ounce more than it can take care of.
Avoid foods and drinks that plainly
"disagree" with the system. Vigorous
out-door workers should beware of heavy
indigestible suppers. Suppers should al
ways consist of light easily-digested foods
—being, in the country, so soon followed
oy sleep, and the stomach being as much
entitled as the head to profound rest. The
moral pluck and firmness to take such food
and no other for this last meal of the day
can be easily acquired, and the reward of
such virtue is sound sleep, a clear head, a
strong hand and a capital appetite for
breakfast.
„ The Postal of the World.
A German paper has been compiling
the statistics of the world's correspond
ence by post and by telegraph. The
latest returns which approached com
pleteness were for the year 1877, in
which more than 4,000,000,000 letters
were sent, which gives an average of 11,-
000,000 a day, or 127 a second. Europe
contributed 3,036,000,000 letters to this
great mass of correspondence ; America,
about 760,000,000 ; Asia, 150,000,000;
Africa,2s,ooo,ooo;and Australia,so,ooo,-
000. Assuming that the population of the
globe was between 1,300,000,000 and
1,400,000,000. this would give an aver
age ol 3 letters per head for the intira
human race. There were in the same
year 38,000 telegraph stations, and the
number of messages may be set down
for the year at between 110,000,000 and
111,000,000, being an average of more
than 305,000 messages per day, 12,671
per hour, and nearly 212 per minute.
NO. 41.