VOL. LVI.
HAULER,
AUCTIONEER,
REBKRSBURG. Pa.
J C. SPRINGER,
Fashionable Barber,
Next Door to Journal Store,
MILLHEIH, Pa.
jgROCKERHOFF HOUSE,
(Opposite Court House.)
H. BROCKEBHOFF, Proprietor.
WTI, McKrkvkk, Manager.
Goid sample rooms ou first floor.
Free bus to and from all tr&ius.
Special rates to Jurors and witnesses.
Strictly First Class.
IRVIN HOUSE.
(Most Central Hotel In the CltyJ
Corner MAIN and JAY Streets,
Lock Haven, Pa.
S. WOODS CALWKLL, Proprietor.
Good Sample Rooms for Commercial
Travelers on first floor.
D. H. MINGLE.
Physician and Surgeon,
MAIN Street, Millhkim, Pa.
JQR. JOHN F. UARTER,
PRACTICAL DENTIST,
Office in 2d story of Tomlinson's Gro
cery Store,
On MAIN Street, Mili.heim, Pa.
BF KIMTER,
• FASHIONABLE BOOT A SHOE MAKER
Shop next door to Foote's Store, Main St.,
Boots, Shoes and Gaiters made to order, and sat
isfactory work guaranteed. Repairing done prompt
ly and cheaply, and in a neat style.
S. R. Pkalk. H. A. McKke.
PEALE Al McKEE,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Office opposite Court House, Bellefonte, Pa.
C. T. Alexander. C.M. Bower.
A BOWER,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office in G arm ail's new building.
JOHN B. LINN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Offlce on Allegheny Street.
OLEMENT DALE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Northwest comer ot Diamond,
p S. HASTINGS,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Offlce on Allegheny Street, 2 doors west of offlce
loruierly occupied by the late tlnu of Yocum k
Hastings.
C. HEINLE,
ATTORNEY AT LA W.
BELLEFONTE. PA.
Practices In all the courts of Centre County.
Bpec al attention to Collections. Consultation!
In German or English.
F. REEDER,
ATTORNEY AT LA W.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
All bus'ness promptly attended to. Collection
of claims a speciality.
j. A. Beaver. J W. Gephart.
JgEAVER & GEPHART,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office on Alleghany Street, North of High.
A. MORRISON,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Offlce on woodrlng'a Block, opposite Court
House.
S. KELLER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA,
Consultations in English or German. Offlce
in Lyon's Building, Allegheny street.
J OHN G. LOVE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
& BELLEFONTE, PA. %
Office in the rooms formerly occupied by tha
tow w. p. wilaoo.
lie pillleiw fiirinl
BY THK KlVKlt.
Klvsr, 0 Klver, that slngeth all night,
Nor waitost 1 hou for light
To pour out thy mirth
Along the chill earth,
The words of thy song let me kuow. -
"1 come, ami 1 go."
River, O Klver with swell ami with fall,
Thy musical call
Waketh, sutuimmetli me;
What thought is iu thee
That lulls me, yet muses mo so?—
"1 come, and 1 go."
Kiver, O River, a word thou must give
To help me to live.
"Then slug on thy way :
Smg the Joy of To-day—
Time's ripple, Eternity's flow :
1 come, and 1 go."
Kiver, O River, thy message ts clear,
chant ou, for 1 hear.
"What the mountaiu gives me
Hear 1 forth to the sea.
Life only is thine to bestow.
I couie, ami 1 go."
Kiver, O River, thy secret of power
I win from this hour:
Thy rythm of delight
Is my song lu the uight:
1 aiuglad with thy gladuess; for, lo!
1 coiuc, ami / go.
A WOMAN'S STORY.
It bad rained all day a dull, depres
sing pour-down; but just uow, as the
day was ending, the sun saw tit to burst
out from behind a pile of jagged black
clouds, aud flood tlte little planet below
with crimson glory, The far-spreading
sea shoue like an ocean of flame; and
all the western wiudows of the old farm
house were flecked with the crimson
glory.
Janet Stuart stood looking out at the
radiant Western sk} r , her heart in her
eyes. The red light went shifting iu
fiery lances through the thick musses of
blue black hair, and flashed back from
her deep, strong eyes. She stood there
looking fixedly out at the lurid light,
her back turned to the pair at the piano,
talking and singing softly in the April
twilight.
One of these was Miss In ties tre, their
New York guest—a delicate, fairy fig
ure, not at all Like Janet's; a delicate
rose-bloom face looking out at you
through a halo of pure gold hair; the
other, Mr. Etlieridge.
Now the pair struck out into a duet.
Softly and sweetly came across the room
the delicious Italian song, a song full of
passionate pain. Out of the western
sky slowly faded the crimson sunburst,
gravely crept up the twilight, palely
gemmed with stars.
"Darkening!" Janet Stuart thought,
with weary eyes, that never left the
steel-blue sky. "Darkening—like my
life!"
It faded entirely out, the last Hush of
the dying day. The stars swung into
the blue black ooncave; and a pale,
young crescent moon sailed serenely up
to the zenith. And still, while the day
faded and the night came, the twain at
the piano never stirred. Their low
laughter, their half-whispered words,
their soft singing came to the listener's
ear; but she never looked at them. She
sat colder and whiter than snow, her
still hands folded.
"He promised to love me and be true
to me always," her heart kept crying;
"and see how he keeps his word!"
"In the dark?" called a cheery voice,
and old Mr. Etlieridge came in.
He was the owner of all the broad
acres that spread right and left; and his
nephew, Ernest, was the sole heir, for
his wife had died nine months before
and there were no children. Janet
Stuart was his adopted daughter, of
course; but she was to marry handsome
Earnest and reign in the line old home
stead, where all her happy girlhood had
been spent.
"In the dark, you three young owls!"
called iMr. Etheridge. "Jennie, lass,
where are you ? Leave off billing and
cooing, and ring for the lamp."
He looked over at the piano, and the
two heads so close together separated
suddenly. A tall, dark tigure rose from
the window.
"I'm not billing and cooing, Uncle "
Janet rang for the lump as she spoke
this, and Miss lugestre fluttered oft' the
piano stool.
"Oh !so it was you, little Eva, and
not Janet. I want a wedding in two
montns; and you mustn't cut Jennie
out."
The red blood mounted guiltily to
Earnest Etheridge's face,but Miss luges
tre s musical laugh chimed softly
through the room. Janet sat by the
table, fixedly pale, her eyes bent on a
book; but the printed page danced be
fore those eyes; and Miss Ingestre's
faint, sweet voice, chattering pretty
nonsense, with her blue eyes fixed on
the old man's face, sounded in her ears
like the rushing roar of a waterfall. By
and by some neighbors dropped in, and
there was more singing and some danc
ing; and Janet played waltzes, redowas
and quadrilles until the miduignt hour
struca; and she toiled up to her room,
too fagged in body and mind even to
think.
But she was up early for all that—up
with the April birds singing in the scen
ts 1 trees outside, and down on the sea,
shore, staring with dreamy eyes over
the dancing sea. How bright it was
all sparkling in the bright sunlight,with
the saline winds strong and sweet, and
the fishermen singing as they caßt their
nets, and the noisy children, rolling in
the warm sands, filling the air with
their glad shouts.
"Oh!" she thought, "What happy
creatures there are in the world! Men
who love, and are never false, women
who trust, and are never betrayed. And
I—to think I shou.d have staked on one
throw —and lost!"
A man's step came crunching over the
sand —a man's clear voice singing, "O'er
the muir among the heather," on the
shrill wind. She knew both step and
voice, but she never turned.
"Janet!" cried Ernest, "I thought I
should find you here. I know what
heathenish hours you keep, and what
heathenish places you frequent."
She never answered; Ner eyes were
fixed on the far sea line, her lips closed
in nameless pain. He threw himself on
the sands at her feet, and looked up
MIIJJIEIM, PA., THURSDAY, JANUARY '2(3,1882.
with laughing bluo eyes in her oltauge
leas face.
"M v solemn Janet! What has come
over you of late? Where hua your sun
shine, your sparkle, your youth, your
smiles, your color gone? Tell ute what
it ; .s, Janet?"
"Nothing you would care to know."
He shifted uneasily; his eyes left her
pale, still face, and wandered seaward.
"You know I am going to-morrow,
Jennie?"
"Yes, I know."
"1 wanted to speak to you before I
went, Janet; that is why I got up at
this unchristian hour, and looked for
you here. I don't see the necessity of
hurrying our marriage as uncle Ether
ulgo wishes to hurry it—we are both
youug enough to wait. I should like to
spend this summer in Switzerland and
Italy, if you have no objection."
"1 hare none."
"And when I conic hack in the au
tumn, Janet, you will bo my little
wife?"
She rose up straight and looked in
his handsome face for the tir-t time.
"No," she said, steadily, "I will never
be that. Hero is your ring, Mr. Ether
idge, and here we part."
"Janet!"
"He sprang to his feet and stood
looking at her in surprise, in a sort of
error—in nothing else.
"Htro is your ring—take it. You
will not? Then let the waters take it,
less faithless than you!"
She drew the baud of gold, studded
with brilliants, from her linger,and flung
it far into the sea.
"Janet, listen to me, Janet—good
heaven!—are you mad?"
"I would bo if I listened to you. Go,
marry Eva lugestre to-morrow, if you
like! What is it to me?"
She turned and walked steadfastly
away, leaving him there, a petrified
gazer. Straight up to lier owu room,
and then sank down by the window, her
arms dropping on the table, her face
lying 011 them. Not ill tears, not in wo
manly sobs; only in mute, deadly pain,
weary of life, of herself, of the sunshine,
of all the world.
"False!" ber tortured heart kept err
ing—"false! Audi loved him so dearly
—so dearly."
The breakfast bell rang. She rose up
and went down, a little paler, a little
stiller than her wont—nothing more.
Old Mr. Etlieridge was there, bright
and lively. Miss lugestre WJIS there,
chattering like a magpie, her pretty
ringlets freshly perfumed and curled,
her roses at their brightest. Ernest
was there, silent and sulky, but ghwi,
if the truth must be known, that ho was
well out of the scrape.
"She gives me up of her own accord,"
he thought with a sense of injury; "no
body can blame me. I'll sj>eak to Eva
after breakfast."
But he was forestalled. After break
fast his uncle carried Eva oft', to get her
opinion al>out some ornamental garden
ing to be done, an.l his tender declara
tion had to wait. Janet attended to her
household duties; and then, with her
work-basket, went and sat down by the
open window; presently the aching eyes
closed in dull, dreamless sleep.
With voices in her ears, she awoke—
voices that blended with her sleep, and
that confused her. They came from the
garden—the voice of Earnest, tender,
pleading; the voice of Eva, sweet and
dear.
"Marry you. Earnest! Good gracious
me! What an idea! And you engaged
to that solemn Janet?"
"She is engaged to me no longer; she
has broken off of her own free will—
jealous of you."
"And you want me to take what an
other lady rejects! Flattering, really!
Atliousaud thanks, Mr. Etheridge; at the
same time—no."
"Eva! Eva! For Heaven's sake,listen
to me! I love you with my whole—"
"Heart! Of course you do! And you
will break it because I refuse? I shall
be shocked and disappointed if you do
not. There! There! Don't coax. I can't
marry you because I am going to marry
your uncle! Now. the truth's out!"
Janet rose abruptly and closed the
window, fully awake at last.
"I never thought of that," she said,
on her way to her own room. "I might
have seen; but I never thought of
that."
She kept her chamber until dinner !
time, and then went down to preside at
the table with that fixed and stone-like
faoe. Only her uncle and Eva were
there.
"To think the boy should go off five
hours earlier than he need," Unci?
Etheridge grumbled. "Janet, how can
you allow such capers?"
Miss Ingestre looked at her, a mali
cious smile on her rosebud lips. Miss
Stuart met the look steadfastly.
"Mr. Ernest Eldndge's comings and
goings are nothing to me; lie is free as
the wind that blows. But when am I
to congratulate yon, my good uncle?"
Mr. Etheridge stared laughed—
looked at Eva.
"So you have told her, pussy?"
"I protest that 1 have done nothing
of the sort," cried the amazed Miss In
gestre; "but then she is a witch, and
knows everything."
"Precisely. And when is it to come
off?"
"Well, since you have divined it, in
three weeks; and you must be first
bridesmaid, Jennie."
"With pleasure, Miss lugestre."
t'l'm afraid you'll find it rather dull
during our absence, Janet," her uncle
said. "We're going on a three months'
bridal tour, and "
"And lam going to New-York. My
dear uncle, don't say a word, I have set
my heart on it. .My old nurse lives
there. I will lodge with her; and,
really, life in this stagnant village is
growing insupportable."
So it was settled; and duly the wed
ding came off; Eva, the loveliest of
brides, Mr. Etheridge the most ecstatie
of old addleheaded bridegrooms, Janet
Stuart the stateliest and calmest of
bridesmaids- Then they were gone—off
to Paris to begin with; and Jauet f?aid
good-bye to the old homer oad ,and wa
whirled away to the mestpoetlis, where
SHE was 800 11 busy in the precarious
venture of writing book.
Another summer, uud it came out and
was a brilliant success. Another, and a
second followed; and Janet Htuart woke
up one morning aud found herself fa
moua. Hieli, too, or comparatively 80,
and able to gratify the deaire of her
heart and go uhroud to fair, foreign
lands, with an admiring party of literary
friends. Once—ah! how long ago it
aeemed now—alio had thought io wan
der through those atoiiod nutiona as
Ernest's happy wife.
So the world went round, and the
years went by, aud ten of those jears
had been counted ofl' the great rosary,
when Juuet Stuart came back to her
native land. Wealth and fame had
crowned her; but she came back Janet
Stuart still, true to that old dream, a
saddened and lonely woman.'
There were changes liefore her. Her
uncle was dead; his young wife all his
vast wealth hod inherited; the tine old
homestead was for sale, and Ernest was
—where? No one knew; he hod gone to
Australia, having quarteled with his
new aunt, and consdqucntly with his
old uncle; that was all Juuet could
learn.
Janet Stuart went back to the village
of her girlhood, purchaser of the fiiiu
old homestead w here her happiest years
had been spent, and settled down among
tho familiar sights and souuds to con
tented old maidenhood. There were
friends there still glad and proud to
welcome her—and she could do good;
and with her "gray goose quill" und her
piano and her pets she was happy.
She stood in the May twilight under
the sycamore by the gate, one radiant
evening, six mouths after her coming,
tying up early roseH, and singing softlv,
when a man came siowly up the duHtv
road and looked at the pretty picture.
A man who was bronzed, haggard,
weather-beaten, aud but poorly clad,
with his cap pulled far over his eyes
—handsome blue eyes still. He paused
at the gate, weary and pale.
"Janet!"
She turned round, with a shrill, low
cry, dropped the rose vine, aud caught
Inith of his hands her face more radiant
than tho sunset sky.
"Ernest! Oh, Ernest! Ernest!"
'•And you are really glad to see me,
Janet?"
She opened the gate, her happy eyes
shining luminously, aud drew liim
in
"Did you know I was here!" she
asked.
"Yes; why else should I have come?
But I did not mean to intrude. I only
wanted to look upon your face once
more before I wont away again."
"Went away! Ml 1 ere?"
"Back 1o Australia. I am poor, and
can do nothing here; there is still an
opening there. And before I go, dear
est, bravest Janet, toll me that you for
give me for the past."
His voice broke down; the old love,
stronger than ever, looked at her im
ploringly, hopelessly out of his eyes.
She stood l>efore him, her hands lightly
on his shoulders, her dear face smiling
up at him so tender, so true.
"You must not go; you must not
leave me! Dear Ernest, I don't forgive
—I only love you!"
Later, when the moon was at its
highest, and the last lights were dying
1 out ol the homestead windows, Ernest
Etheridgo walked up the peaceful moon
lit road to his hotel. But with, oh!
such an infinitely happy face, and sing
ing as he went along:
"Say I am old, and gray, and sad:
Say that health and strength have
missed me:
Say I'm poor, but also add—
Jenuie kissed me!"
Humping Along.
Last summer as a northcTU man who
was looking up land in Alabama was ri
ding along the highway he met a father
and son riding at a furious gallop and
both armed with shot guns. They drew
up as they reached him,aud the old man
called out:
"Say, stranger, liev ye met a young
man and a gal riding the same inulo and
humping along as if Satan was after
them?"
"No."
"Well, my darter has eloped with Bill
Gordon, and Sum and me are trying to
git within shooting distance before the
knot is tied."
"All? Why, that oouple were being
married in Blankville as I came through
there an hour ago."
"Did tho gal liev on a blue waist?"
"Yob."
"Aud was it a cream mule?"
"Yes,"
"And it was a tall fellow with a skeered
look?"
"It was."
"That was them, stranger, and I'm
much obleeged. Sam, we're too late to
stop 'em, and the only satisfaction we
kin git is to let our bosses jog along iuto
town and shoot tho preacher arter we
git thar!"
GIIIIIUD t hut I'en.
Oue day, in a 'cow case,' at Wabash,
Indiana, the judge was in a hurry to go
to the races over ou the Fair grounds,
and he put on his hat before the lawyer
for the plaintiff got half through aud
said:
"There, John, you can dry up HOW;
I've heard enough about tho case, and
I'm going to decide against you."
"But, your Honor," expostulated the
lawyer, you can't decide agaiust me;the
law is all on my side."
"Law! What do I eare about law?
This ain't HO law office, sir; this is a
justice office. If you want to practice
law, go to a law office."
"But, Judge, you cau't decide this
case against us, I say, the law is all
ft
"I can't hey?"
"No, it's impossible." >f
"Who says so?—gimme that pen.
LIM A* K Pra sarvatlva.
It would lie interesting to record tho
many evidences of the value of lime in
arresting decay. As long ago as 1709 a
Mr. Jackson, a chemist, ob'aiued permis
sion to prepare timber for the shipyards,
by immersihg it in a solution of salt
water, lime, muriate of s-nla, etc.; an
other practical experimentalist suggested
slaked lime, thinned with a solution of
glue, for mopping the timbers of a ship.
The preservation of timber has tieen
attempted by surrounding it with pounded
lime, and several ai'cmpts have been
made to preserve timber by the use of
lime. Mr. Brilton, in his work on "Dry
Hot," mentions s number of cases where
lime has been of service. lie says,
" quicklime with damp has been found to
accelerate putrefactiou in consequence of
its extracting carbon; but wheu dry and
in buch large quantities as to absorb all
mob lure from (he wood, the untod in pr*
nerved and the nap Uardetud." "Ves
sels loug in the lime trade have afforded
proof of this fact, also examples in plas
tering laths which are generally found
sound where they have been found dry."
The joisLs and sleepers of baseiueiil floors
are rendered less subject to decay by a
coating of limewhite; and this might lie
P'liewid at interval. The same writer
adds, "it does not appear practicable to
use limewater te any extent for preserving
limber, because water holds in solution
only about 1-500 part of lime, which
quantity would he too inconsiderable; it,
however, renders timber more durable,
hut at the same l ine very hard and diffi
cult to be worked." These facts are in
structive; they show, at least, that lime
lu a sufficient quantity kept dry is a valu
able preservative agent, and some practi
cal chemist might earn a deserved repute
if he could piepare a lime solution that
would be capable o! rendering so substan
tial a service to all builders. Buch a solu
tion in? at least sufficiently re
munerative to make it worth while to try
a few experiments in this direction. It is
stated on g-xnl authority that the white
aut in ludia Cos's the government £IOO,OOO
a year for repairing woodwork, bridges,
etc., caused by its depredations. Con
crete basements have been found to resist
the encroachments of the ant. Dr. Dar
win proposed a process of timber preser
s rvation Mine years ago, in which an
absorption of limewater was t fleeted, and
after that had dried, a weak solution of
sulphuric acid, so as to form sulphate of
lime in the pores of the wood. The
growth of dry-rot or fungus ou timber has
been prevented by limewater, and many
ins ances have been mentioned of its
v llue. The cleansiug ami sanitary virtues
of lime are more generally known. The
painter uses limewater to kill the grease
upon his work irntead of lurpeutine ; and
soot stains on the outside of flues have
been removed by the agency of thick warm
limewasn. The value of hmewhite as a
w ash fcr walls, as a purifier ot the air in
sheds, stables, and other buildings is un
q (tt-tiouabie, though all lime washed roof
tiuihers have rather a rough and penurious
look. As a preservative coating to the
jois's of floors and other timbers n<?t ex
posed to damp, it seems worthy of a more
extended tual.
In The Citnjuu .
A muttering of the Heavens —a trem
bling of the earth—the growling of a mil
lion mad foices deep down under hill and
valley. This is the warning.
A rocking to and fro —a weaving this
way and that, as if hill-tops were drunk—
a rumble—a roar—a shock so mighty that
giant trees are but jack-straws to its in
fluence. That is the climax.
In that convulsion mountains were rent
aud split and shivered, and canyons were
bom—dark, dismal and cold. A canyon
is a highway into the heart of a mountain,
it may be 200 feet broad at one spot and
not more thau three feet at another, but it
is always full of death. You may look up
from the rocky path and count the stars at
noonday. You may walk for nnles and
see no p.fu v where a panther could scale
the rocky walls.
See bow suddenly this canyou widens
from six to sixty, jumps a distance ot fifty
feet aud narrows again. This makes a
rocky IKHI sixty by fifty feet. Its walls
are 300 feel high. A bird would have to
make a powerful effort to rise out of this
canyon. Daylight beats down into this
locky square, but only faintly. You would
have to look closely to read the coarsest
print. You would be nervous and wary,
and the drip 1 drip 1 drip of water trom a
ere vice in the left hand wall would startle
you as it first struck your ear.
A body is moving up the canyon with
cautious step and watchful eye. It is a
mau with grizzly locks, semi-iudiau dress,
face scarred and tanned. His sole weapon
is a hunter's knife, which he carries open
handed and with a firm grip, borne great
danger coupled with accident has driven
hiui up the dark rift, and he carefully
scans the rocky walls in hopes of an es
cape that way.
A body is moving down the canyon just
as cautiously and with eager eyes, it does
not scan the walls, but it sniffs the heavy
air, tosses its head, and o]>enß its mouth
lo show a great red tongue and tangs which
rran meet each other through the leg of a
korse.
It is a grizzly bear, angry as they al
ways i.re —hungry as they ever seem to be
—ready to attack any foe that God ever
made.
One walks up the rocky path slowly and
cautiously.
The other creeps, crawls and ambles,
sniffing its prey, but it is not able to lo
cate it.
The fall of a pebble from the wall would
j have halted one and seut the other running
back, but no pebble fell. No bird uttered
a note. The wind had ceased sighing
tlirougti the louely chasm. When the two
bodies debouched upon the rocky square
they laced each other with no sound
between tliew but the drip 1 drip 1 drip I
of water striking the hard rock
It was light enough to see the hunter's
face grow white as he looked into the blaz
ing eyes of the body opposite. Retreat 1
He could not run a hundred yards before
those terrible claws would siuk into his
lies in . Retreat? A giizzly bear would
pot retreat from lhe front of a marching
army. Tliey must fight it out.
•'Drip 1 dnpl diipl"
There was time for a shot, but the heavy
rifle had been lost or thrown away. No
revolver, no hatchet —nothing but a knife
like those found upou the butcher blocks.
Not a word from tne man, not a growl
from tb* b^r B, it for the monotonous
plush of the water it would have been the
silence ot the grave.
One—two—three minutes. Are they
going to f%ee each other forever? Have they
turned to atone that they have neither hand
nor paw ?
''Drip! drip! drip!"
Jt acts upon both at the name instant.
It is a mon:>tony which strings up the
nerves and excites deejieratioa. Of a still
night, when the only sound is the tick !
tick ! tick! of a clock, the sound will un
striug the nerves of men and excite a feel
rng of anger.
Sixty by fifty feet, with a surface as
level as a floor. Neither had selected the
spot, but it could not be better. Plenty of
of room for the hunter to dodge, sprimr and
retreat— a splendid surface for the grizzly
to sharpen his tetTible claws !
"Drip! drip! drip!"
They advanced as if one lever moved
and controlled both. Not a growl from the
bear—not a muttered word of despair from
the mau. They meet half way. The bear
rears up, strikes, gnashes his teeth. The
huuter s'rikcs, dodges, retreats There is
blisid on his knife as they back away from
aah other to breathe. If the man would
shout—if the bear would growl—but ttiey
will not. As they look into each other's
eyes and rest the stillness is so deep that
(he earth seems to sleep.
Forward again ! The knife is wet again,
but not the knife alone. These long, sharp
claws are red with blood clear to the roots
Why didn't the man scream out when tbey
tore cloth and skiu and flesh and muscle
from his shoulder i It would uot have been
cowardice, and yet he did not even groan,
ited blood oozed out and stained the bear's
half white coat, but he lay down on the
rocky floor and licked that other blood from
his paws. It was a long rest, but the si
leuce was not so oppressive.
"Drip-drip! drip-drip ! drip-drip !"
First the water—tbeu the blood from that
shoulder. It was au awful souud,
and yet the ear took no notice of iL Man
and bear glared at each other and rested
and moved to the third attack. It lasted
longer than the others. Knife and claws
and teeth found blood but there was no
word —no growl. When they had moved
t>ack the knife fell from the hunter'B
hand. No wonder, when the flesh had
been stipped to the bone from shoulder to
wrist, lie did not totter and weave about
iu his weakness, but sauk slowly down
like a mhriity tree yielding to the inevi
table,
"Drip 1 drip! drip!"
Daly tbe single sound now. Tbe other
was lost in the pool of blood creeping over
the rocks, its centre the mau who could no
longer stand. This [>ool spread aud spread,
and by and by it mingled with darker and
thicker blood.
Eyes kept fast hold on eyes, and the
drip of the water sounded fainter and
fainter. Due pair of eyes began to loose
their fury. Despcir and desperation began
to fade from tbe other. They stared at
each other, out the distance between them
grew longer. No sigh or groan—no growl
or move. A pebble tell, it did not start
them up. A buzzard sailed leisurely over
the canyon, and uttered its harsh note.
There were no listeners.
"Drip! drip! drip!"
The ears of the dead were closed—
nerves had ceased their play—the pool of
blood was growing cold.
1> Your own Kopnlriaic.
We think that almost every furmer
will agree with us that every farm
should have its own workshop, and
every cultivator of the laud understand
how to use it. He may not do so when
he first enters upon farming on coming
of age; hut altera year or two of what
we should call apprenticeship, when he
finds thai to "know how to do things"
is absolutely indispensable, he will
rapidly learn to attend to most of his
own repairing of the ordinary imple
ments and machines upon his premises,
instead of incurring delay, expense and
uncertainty depending upon profes
sionals at a distance. Rather than to
be without a workshop and the neces
sary tools, one should be erecte i express
ly for the purpose, in a convenient spot
and daily warmed in winter so as to be
ready at all times for use, in which
many odd jobs can be done also not
immediately connected with thb farm.
All ordinary wooden repairing ought
to be done by the farmer and his hands
during rainy days and in whiter, when
there is plenty of time on hand for that
purpose. Every part of a wheelbarrow,
except the waoel, ou rht hi be made on
the premises; new forks and handles of
iron rakes, repairing even some portions
of the farm machinery, building of
garden and yard fences, repairing roofs,
building of corn-cribs, hog-pens, wagon
and cart shelvings, making of the
frames of hotbeds, aud all the many
jobs constantly requiring to bo done
about a well-conducted place too nu
merous to mention, A person becomes
very handy in the use of good tools after
a short experience, and saves many a
dollar without consuming any time
necessary for the usual demands of the
farm,
Right Side of Starvation.
Years ago, a man down East quarreled
with his wife and moved out of tbe house
into the corn-crib, which was just large
enough for himself and his two dogs. He
slept here at night for several years—being
driven into the kitchen occasionally of a
very cold night in order to get warm. His
step-daughter having a mortgage on the
place, foreclosed it, and last April the
constable ejected him. Taking his old
horse and two dogs, a buggy-box and
springs, without wheels, a useless stove,
some shreds of harness and two boxes full
of junk, he went to a barn about half a
mile distant, which he had rented, but not
paying the rent he and his traps wore put
out into the road, where they have stood,
covered with a board over them. His dogs
he ties in the woods, shifting them about
when people complain of their howling,
and his horse, with rags and scraps ot car
pet thrown over him, grazes in somebody's
field. He sleeps out of doors, disdains to
beg, cuts stones for horse-blocks, and in
this way manages to keep just on the right
side of starvation.
Dogs and Their natters
At the meeting which has just taken
place at Dan trie of the two Emperors
who between them sway half Europe,
tliere is mention of the fact that Prince
Bismarck arrived to attend the inter
view "accompanied by liia short hand
writer and his famous dog," The im
age of the "Iron Chancellor" who has
welded long-divided Germany into one
Empire will go down to posterity not
quite solitary in its sternness. Beside
him will always stand the noble beast
whom he has loved, and who, it
is said, has more than once saved
his life.
Perhaps, as Schopenhauer, with his
oandid vanity, remarked of himself.
"It is always lonely upon the heights,"
A philosopher who is bored by the folly
of his human neighbors, a poet who is
disgusted with the vulgarity of man
kind, a king, or great noble, who is
weary of the toadyism of his courtiers,
doubtless may all find relief in the dumb
! companionship of some faithful hound,
who troubles his master with no stupid
remarks or petty gossip, and whose
flattery is free from suspicion of auy
deeper iuterestedness than may arise
from oovetousness of a a biscuit or am
bition for a bone. The greatest Sov
ereign on earth may safely unbend with
his dog. and neither fear to raise insa
tiable hopes nor to provoke dangerous
jealousies, nnless it be in less fortunate
canine minds. Even this slight incon
venience si ay be removed when, as iu
the case of one of the Queen's favorites
—a splendid Dachsund—the animal is so
perfectly dignified and rigid in his de
meanor that he keeps all Her Majesty's
inferior terriers and oolleys in meek
subordination, and is himstlf generally
known as the "Lord Chamberlain" of
the canine Court.
Prebaps it would not be too much to
say that, us the Aryan race loved dogs
more thau the Semitic so, among
Aryans the Anglo-Saxons have been
pre-eminent for the same sentiment. It
is true we have among the Celts the dog
of Llewellyn (though, alas! Professor
Max Muller, we believe, has ferreted
out that pleasant tale in another poem
in early Sanscrit, leaving on us in spite
of Beddlegcrt, an unpleasant sense of
mythical uncertainty); and among the
French and Germans, besides the Dog
of Montargis, we have innumerable
glorified dogs of tradition and poetry.
But tbe tone of nine French writers oat
of ten, when they talk of dogs, reveals
the hollowness of Gallic regard for tne
loyal beast, which has not half enough
of finesse and duplicity to suit the read
ers of MM. Balzac et Cie. Good honest
old Dumas (Taine) might describe poor
"Black" in simple and glowing colors;
but in more recent French novels "un
mcchant chien bar bet," or "un detest
able petit caniche hargnevx" is com
monly introduced solely to add a point
of ridicule to the old simpleton or dis
agreeable woman whose steps it fol
lows.
Truth must be told, indeed, that dogs
with their wonderful habit of "growing
like the thing they worship," seem con
stantly to become, under French mas -
ters and mistresses, less single-minded
than we fiud them, or—as a cruel canine
critic has described the species "Chien
loup," par eminence —"frivolous, vol
atile, interested, aud wholly without
conscientiousness." In the same way
in Italy dogs are as a rule infinitely less
useful thau English dogs, and are often
treacherous enough to receive caresses
graciously, and afterward, when oppor
tunity offers, to turn around aud bite.
But the very land of dogs, and the land
wherein the dog receives most genuine
honor, and himself rises to his noblest
development of character, is unques
tionably England. It is to be deplored
that the greatest English poet never
drew the chiracter of a noble dog, and
condescended to degrade his pen by the
miserable caricature of Launce's cur;
but since Shakespeare's daps our poets
have done what in them lay to make up
for the omission. Cowper, Walter
Scott, Burns, Byron, Tennyson, the
two Brownings, and Matthew Arnold,
have all been eminent dog lovers, aud
have written tender things of flogs, liv
ing and dead.
English history is full of records of
dogs—noble dogs of Charles L and
Kenelm Digby; pi ifully faithful dogs,
like the little creature which accom
panied Mary Queen of Scotts to the
scaffold and' laid itself down between
the severed head and beautiful neok;
silky spoiled favorites, like the spaniels
of Charles 11., and Diamond, the dog
of Sir Isaac Newton, which gave that '
great philosopher a year's extra t.ouble
by destroying his papers. We have
materials for a book of "English Dogs
of Dignity;" and, moreover, we have
had iu England (since the gaum, boar
hounds of Syndersare rather wild beasts
than dogs) the one greatest painter of
dogs whom the world has seen—Edwin
Landseer, the Titian and Vandyke of
the canine race.
A Tliree-War Old Colt.
44 Do you love music ?" she asked.
44 Passionately," replied Irwin; 44 1
can whistle 4 The Skids Are Out To
night' perfectly, and 1 never heard it be
j fore last week."
44 How quite I" said Myrtle.
44 Altogether too, too," was then an
swer in soft, low tones that made the girl
feel instantly that he loved her.
44 They tell me you are very wicked,
Mr. Muilican," said Myrtle, as 4 the sound
of a Strauss waltz floated m from the ball
room. 44 Is it so I"
44 Well, 1 have always tried to keep up
with the procession," was his answer.
44 1 suppose you will hate me for that."
44 Oh, no," responded the girl, quickly.
44 It is namby-tamby men that are dis
tasteful to me. I like a man whose Llood
runs wine, not water."
44 Do you* like Gladstone ?" she asked
suddenly.
44 No," said Irwin. 44 1 lost SBO on
him yesterday. He was beaten in a mile
dash at the fair grounds."
44 Can I ever love this man?" asked
Myrtle of herself as they parted that
nigbt. 44 Can I give my soul to one who
doesn't knew the greatest statesman from
a three-year-old colt?"
Two weeks later t ley were
NO 4