VOL. LVI.
HARTER,
AUCTIONEER,
MILLHEIM, PA.
J C. SPRINGER,
Fashionable Barber*
Next Door to JOURNAL Store,
MILLHKIH, PA.
JgROCKERHOFF HOUSE,
ALLEGHENY STREET,
BELLKFONTE, ... PA.
c. O. McMILLEN,
PROPRIETOR.
Good Sample Room on First Floor.
BUSS to AND from all Trains. Special
rates to witnesses and Jurors. 44
IRVIN HOUSE.
(Most Central Hotel In toe City,)
Corner MAIN and JAY Streets,
Lock Havea, Pa.
s. WOODS OIL WELL, Proprietor. i
Good Sample Rooms for Commercial
Travelers on first floor.
D. H. MINGLE,
Physician and Surgeon,
MAIN Street, MILLHEIM, Fa.
JOHN F. HARTER,
Practical Dentist,
Office la 3d story of Tomliasoa'a Gro
%
eery Store,
Ou MAIN Street, MILLHEIM, Pa.
BF KIHTF.R,
• FASHIONABLE BOOT A SHOE MAKER
Shop next door to Foote'a Store, Main St,
Boots. Shoes and Gaiters made to order, and sat
isfactory work gnarapteaA. Repairing done prompt
ly and cheaply, and in a neat style.
. R. PKAI.K. H. A. MCKXK.
PEALE & MeK EE,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Office opposite Court House, Beilefonte, Pa.
C. T. Alexander. C. M. Bower.
A bower,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office In Qarman's new building.
JOHN B. LINN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Offloe on Allegheny Street.
QLEMEN'T DALE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
BKLLXPONTK, PA.
northwest corner ot Diamond.
HOY,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Orpbanß Court business a Specialty.
HEINLE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
bellefonti, pa.
Practices m all the courts ot Centre County.
Special attention to Collections. Consultations
in German or English.
J. A. Beaver. ~ ~ j W. Gephart.
JgEAVER A GEPHART,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office on Alleghany Street, North of High.
Y° cum & harshberger,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
BELLEFONTE, PA.
8. KELLER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
BELLEFONTE, PA,
Consultations in English or German. Offioe
in Lyou'd Building, Allegheny Street.
* d. B . iusraa& wT yThnsn.
jj actings A reeder,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office on Allegheny street, two doors east of the
offioe oooupied by the late Arm ot To**"* a Hast
tugn *-
She pttllrin §ittrul
HOMK AND WOMEN.
With rosy cheeks, ami golden hair
And Joyous smile. Just turu'd of throe,
lie came and said that he must toll
A tale to me.
"Three little people," so he spoke,
"Went out to seek for God atwve,
And two of them wore Faith and Hope,
The other Love.
They wander'd near, t .cy wanderM far,
But never found the God they sought,
And Faith and Hope were lost and gone,
And came to naught."
I asked of Love, and where ho was,
"Oh, mother, he is strong to bear;
He struggled on to God at last—
He now Is there.
And I must go, and I must play."
lie danced away with laughing eyes.
Blue as the glacier's sapphire depths
Or summer skies.
But in my brain the baby tale
Reiterated o'er and o'er.
As if It were the last true word
Of this sad hour.
Oh, hope deferr'd 1 oh, faltering faith !
Weak forces doom'd to droop and die,
Not yonrs to find man's mystic God,
Now or eternally.
In Love, as yet but faintly knowu.
Lies all the future of our kind,
fling to him, that on some far shore.
Faith, Hope, ye flmL
DKItTING WITH THE TIDE.
The river flowed smoothly and peace
fully along. Over mountain, hillside
and tree, the straggling rays of a sum
mer sunset poured their last tints, and
cheered into song the woodland warblers
flitting from bough to bough. Here,
Nature was rugged, but grand. The
mountains were lofty and majestic, and
raising their broad fronts on either side,
cradled the flowing river, and hushed
it into noiseless sluml>er. The sun
beams went slanting down the hill
sides, imparting their owu bright-col
ored tints to the clinging moss, and
glancing in and out of the gay foliage,
then falling upon the river, made long
tracks of rosy light, whose bright
coursings were intently watched by one
occupant of a little boat that was drift
ing with the tide. Philip Randolph
dropped the oars, and followed in its
course the circling light. He was won
dering what the angel of dreams was
whispering to the quiet stream; for if
ever river slept, this one was slumber
ing now. Over its surface the winds
chanted a sweet lullaby, and the strong
mountains folded it in their great arms,
and all "was still.
A quaint little lioat it was. and a
quaint little maiden she, who sat at one
end, with head bowed down on her
hand, A rustic hat shaded her face,
from beneath which the soft, brown
curls fell in graceful negligence. Her
only l>eauty was a pair of hazel eyes,
both roguish and sparkling, but when
a word of love would call into being the
most beautiful blushes and the merri
est dimples, you would travel far be
fore finding a sweeter or gentler face.
So thought Philip Randolph.
Of what was she so steadfastly think
ing, on this bright summer evening,
when all maidenhood should be merry
and gay? Perhaps, like the river, she
was dreaming of the one bright sky
the waters of her heart reflected. But
her dreams were not peaceful; aud
raising her head with a sigh, she glanced
at her companion. Very grave and
earnest was his look as he asked the
question:
"Nettie, what is your decision?"
Again her head dropped on her hand,
with the answer.
"Hush! let me think.''
Weighty ana momentous thoughts
were they that filled that pretty head;
her whole life rose up before her—
scenes changing and shifting like the
pictures in a kaleidoscope. Philip
Randolph and she had grown up from
childhood together, under the guardian
ship of Philip's lather. How well she
remembered the old red school house,
where both had gone day after day to
receive knowledge; the snow covered
hill, up and down which Philip had
drawn her on his sled, and made her
cheeks glow like roses when he would
stoutly refuse any rival the honor "of
doing likewise. Her first ride on "Old
Whitey," she standing on tiie farm
yard gate and springing into the sadd'e,
and Philip leading the dear old horse;
then, when she could gallop and leap
ditches, he had brought her home the
prettiest of ponies to be all her very
own; afterward, their separation; she
being sent to boarding school and he
to college. All the homesickness of that
dreary night came back to her now,
and Nettie's tears flowed down her
cheeks at the very remembrance. How
Madame A frowned when a letter
in Philip's bold handwriting was given
her, and the anger of Nettie when
Madame tore it up, as she "didn't allow
young ladies to receive letters from
gentlemen."
The long three years that seemed to
have no ending, and then the meeting
at the old homestead. How she blushed
and smiled, as, instead of a mere youth,
Philip appeared before her as a young
gentleman, and complimented her upon
her improved appearance. Then the
long days of heartsickness when the
flirt of the country manoeuvered ill all
sorts of ways to gain Philip s heart,
and Nettie was so wounded that she
treated Philip coldly and answered hitn
rudely, then wept a'l night about it.
How nobly Philip had saved her life;
saved her from a horrible death, and in
recompense thereof claimed her as hi>
own. Well she remembers the heart's
blood surging up to her cheek, and the
MILLHEIM. PA., THURSDAY, AUGUST 24,1882.
thrill of pleasure convulsing her whole
being; and now she foels that without
him this world would be a dreary void
and slie a stray waif. Then the day,
this very day it was, Philip had asked
his father to give a blessing to their
betrothal, but Mr. Randopli bad de
clared: "It must never be; tliey must
forget one another, and live happy
apart." He rofusod all explanations
until Philip vowed not to obey him in
this case, and not until then did he
tell his son why he must not love Net
tle.
Long ago a duel had leen fought
between Nettie's father and Philip's;
the former was instantly killed; the
latter, struck by remorse, bad endeav
ored to atone by educatiug the daughter
of his enemy, never dreaming of so
disastrous a consequence as the two
young people falling in love. But it is
the old, old story repeating itself once
again. Worldly eyes are wise; they are
far seeing and vigilant and worldly
hands would endeavor to draw asunder
two lives that should mingle as one;
but, in spite of all the worldly eyes and
hands, the current of true love that for
a time had been turned out of its ocurse,
flows back into its original channel with
greater force than before, and thus
flowing on roaches the eternal sea, and
there abideth forever.
Nettie's pale features told the emotion
of her heart, and Philip's face quivered
with anguish as he noted sorrow.
Why should these two, who loved so fer
vently—why should they be separated
for the crime of another? Nettie had
never seen her father's face—had never
experienced her father's care. Should
her young life be darkened with sorrow
to atone for his sin? The little boat
was drifting with the tide; so was her
soul drifting on the tide of dreams —a
silver tide with diamond ripples flashing
in and out. All was fair and glowing;
and the pure soul of the maiden, seeing
the lovely picture, smiled, and smiled
so deeply that it l>ecame visible on her
features, lighting up cheeks, lips and
brow with a wondrous light.
Again Philip looked up, and seeing
the change on the fair face, took her
hand within his own and gently smooth
ed and caressed it. "Nettie, dear Net
tie, there is so little real love and truth
in this world, do not cast mine aside,
but accept it as the guardian of your
life." That beautiful smile and blush
irradiated the sweet face; that smilo
and blush more eloquent than sweet
words; and the setting sun, as he sank
behind the mountains, carried with him
the remembrance of a lover's kiss im
printed on tne rosy mouth of the gentle
Nettie Ray.
The boat drifted to the moorings;
and springing lightly irom it, tlio two
turned to tender a fond farewell to the
river; but peacefully it still slumbered
ou, all unconscious that the fate of two
Uvea had been decided rif>on its smooth
surface. Nettie and Philip walked up
the graveled path and into the library.
where sat Mr. Randolph, idly gazing
out upon the lawn. He turned as the
sound of approaching footsteps fell upon
his ear, and a groan escaped him as he
saw who were the cause of these foot
falls. Nettie si pped softly to his eliair,
and, with her hand clasped on his knee,
looked up lovingly into iiis face. He
stroked back the brown ringlets, and
softly patting the plump cheeks, "Dear
child," he whispered, "I am bowed
with sorrow when I look upon yen, for
I have loved you as my own, and now
you will despise me."
"Never, oh, never!" murmured Net
tie, throwing her arms about his neck;
"I love you, dear father, for my father
you will be now."
And Philip, kneeling at his father's
feet, asked again for his blessing in the
future, which was not denied him.
It was a happy family that night, and
no one ever regretted the summer even
ing when the little boat was drifting
writh the tide, for two lives now made
by God as one drifted along on the line
of years, meeting their joys and sorrows,
bearing their pains and trials with a
Arm trust in one another's love and
devotion.
The Library at Abbots Tor a.
The library la the handsomest apart
ment at Abbotsford. It is fifty feet in
length by thirty feet in breadth, and
has an immense bay-window that affords
a charming glimpse of the Tweed. The
ceiling is carved after designs from
Melrose Abbey. There are twenty
thousand volumes here and in the study.
The book-cases were made under
Sir Walter's direction, by his own work
men. Some of them contain rare and
curious old books and MSS. that are
carefully guarded under lock and key.
Here, on the wall, is the portrait of Sir
Walter's eldest son, who was colonel ot
the Fifteenth Hussars. He went out to
Madras in 1839, and was a verj popu
lar and efficient officer; but he soon fell
a victim to the fatal climate of India and
died on the return voyage to Eng
land, whither he had been ordered on
account of his health. Here, too, is the
bust of Sir Walter at the age of forty
nine, by Chautrey. There are chairs
exquisitely wrought, from the Borghese
Palace at Borne, the gift of the Pope; a
silver urn upon a stand of porphyry,
from Lord Byron; and an ebony cabinet
and set of chairs presented by King
George IV. In a glass case, shielded
from the touch of profane fingers, are
the purse of Rob Roy; the brooch of his
wife; a notebook in green and gold,
once the property of Napoleon I,; and
a gold snuff-box, also given by King
George IV. When this Royal friend
was Regent, he invited Scott to dine
with him in London, addressing him
familiarly as "Walter," and showering
upon him evidences of his esteem; when
he succeeded to the throne, one of the
first acts of the kingly prerogative was
to create' him a baronet.
Why Peggy Married Silas.
I used to he called an old maid. 1 think
old Nancy Vincent was jealous, or she
never would have started out all over the
neigh t*rhood on purpose to tell folks
that 1 was cut out for an old maid. But
thanks to my knowledge of human nature,
1 have at last got a good man and Nancy
may storm and whistle till her mouth is
ail out of shape, for what I care. I mar
ried Silas Harris one year ago, and lam
going to tell you all about it.
You see old Mrs. Harris got took down
s:ck an" they hail no oue to do the house
work, such as bakin', waahin', ironln'
an' sweepiu'; so 1, feel in' kinder tender
hearted—l always was a tenderhearted
creeter—l went up there an' told Mr.
Hams, which was Mrs. Harris'son, that
I would stay an' help 'em If they couldn't
git anybody to suit 'eiu better.
"Nancy Vincent has been here and of
fered her services," said the old lady.
"Then she has been here, has she?"
I was afraid after 1 had spoken they
would notice how mad 1 was, but they
didn't; and i told 'em plainly all Nancy
Vincent was after was a husband—told
'em about her cookin', what miserable
bread she made; what a Agger she cut at
the meetin' house, with a-a-her bustle
clean up to ber shoulders, and told all
about ber tryin' to catch Parson Smith's
son, who was then only 20, and she 51,
an' 1 didn't know but she might be 70.
"Well, if she is such a creature, we
don't want her here," said Mrs. Harris.
\ ou'd better believe that 1 was glad to
hear her say so. Mr. Harris had a good
farm, a nice house an' barn, an' 1 had no
notion of lettm' old Nance come in ahead
of me, though I never did care anything
about the meu sex, never; still 1 didn't
intend to have wool pulled over my eyes.
1 always knew how to be & pesky old
gossip. 1 don't tell stories about my
neighbors, and I don't gad all over town
—unless there is something to gad about.
4 'She is all I've told you and more
too," said I, and then Mr. Harris, which
is now my husband, told me to come and
stay with his mother and he would pay
me.
"J, don't ask no pay," said I. "She is
my neighbor, and neighbors should help
each other in esse of sickness.
"Well, come if you can and I will see
that you don't lose anything by it,"
Of course I went rigut up there; wliat
else could Ido ? Mrs. llairia made me
bake some riz' bread the fun thing, then
1 baked some pies, and then, as it was
near supper time, 1 cooked some nice slap
jacks, for I knew Silas liked slap-packs.
Then I put a clean white spread on the
table, placed some of my riz' bread on,
together with some of my best quince
sauce, that I had brought from home,
fixed the slap jacks, bu 'or and tea in
tbeir places, then I bio a d the horn to
call Silas to suppex. m
Pretty soon ho came in, Iwt who tk> you
suppose was with him ? Why, nobody
but old Nancy Vincent. I was mad. She
went right up to Mrs. Harris and, taking
a paper parcel from under her old yaller
shawl, said: "I thought you'd need some
cookm' done, bem' so unwell like an' not
bein' able to work, an'l took the liberty
to bring you some chicken an' cheese;"
then she laid her vittals on the table and
looked at Silas, while her old mummy
face wrinkled up into what she meant to
be a sweet smile, but it looked more like
a dried bacon, tW years old.
"Thana you very much, but we've got
a good cook," said Mrs. Harris.
"Is she the one ?" and Nance pointed at
my face, while her squinting green eyes
t airly suapped sparks.
"i came with the intention of helpmg
our sick neighbor until she was able to
help herself," 1 answered.
• 4 You did, did you? 1 don't see what
you are meddlin' around in "
* She is not to blame, I told her to
come," suddenly broko in Silas.
4 Then 1 s'poee it's all right, if you told
ber to come, but there's folks in the world
that knows more about sickness an' nussin'
1 can tell you," and Nance flounced to
ward the door.
"Stay and take supper with us, won't
you?" naked Silas.
"1 don't know but 1 will seem' aa how
your mother is so unwell."
"That's right, Nancy, sit down and be
neighborly once in your life, "and I placed
a chair for her at the' table. I could see
that Nance felt dreadful uneasy, though I
felt ail right, except that I was kinder
mad. Silas praised my sauce, and he said
my slap-jacks were the best he had ever
ate. And Mrs. Harris also Said my bread
couldn't be beat.
Nance never said a word, but she was
the spitcfulest lookln'oritter I ever did
see. 1 determined that 1 wouldn't touch
her old chicken and cheese, and so she
thought she'd pass it iound herself.
"Try some of my coicken, Mrs. Harris,
you'll like it, I know you will.
* Have some cheese," and she passed
the plate, but the sick ladv only took a
small piece, she gave a glance at it and
laid it on the table, with the remark that
she dare net eat cheese.
"You'll take a piece, Silas?"
"1 don't care if I do," said he.
She again passed her plate, and Silas
reached out his hand and took a piece, but
just as he was eoing to bite off a chunk, a
little shower of white skippers rattled off
into his tea.
You'd better believe he didn't eat much
of that clieise. He got up, sudden like,
and said his head ached. 1 didn't see him
again very soon. Mrs. Harris said she
felt sick to her stomach,and left the room.
Nance didn't know what to make of it all,
but she bustled up to me and said I'd been
a relliu' stories about her, so that I could
catch Silas myself.
"You lie, you know you do, Nancy
V mcent J" 1 didn't care If I did talk plam
bein' as how Silas and Mrs. Harris was
out of the room.
"You lie yourself, you old cap settin'
snipe 1"
Now to be called a cap settin'snipe,—
to be called so by old Nance Vincent, —was
more than L could stand; so I went at her,
"hammer and tonga."
"Nance Vincent," said I, —and you'd
better believe I felt mad, —"do you think
you can come here, with your oia tly
blown cheese, full of skippers, with your
old chicken, so tough that a—a dog
couldn't eat it, with the expectation of
catchin' Silas Harris for a husband ?"
"You may talk and talk," said she,
snivel, "but 1 can tell you one thing,"and
she looked vindictively at me. "i didn't
come here to come he -c to lie about folks,
and I didn't come to catch a trap to catch
Silas Harris."
4 *No I don't think you did," said I,
"skipper checee ain't quite the the thing
to bait him with; and i don't think he
would have such an old withered gad
about as you be, even if you should ask
Ma."
Nance swept her old cheese and chicken
Into a paper bag, then she tied her old
bonnet on her head, and stepped out on
the piazza as mad as a hornet.
44 You may go," said I, 4 'nobody wants
you here with your old maggotty cheese."
"111 write a letter to Silaa,"she scream,
ed as she switched down the path, 44 and
tell what a mean thing you be."
"I'm going to tell him what an old
mischief-making body you are," was my
answer.
Mrs. Harris now called me, and I went
luto ber room.
"Has that spiteful creatuie gone f" she
inquired.
'•Yea, 1 hope so."
"Good riddance to bad rubbagc, " said
she.
"I hope so," said I.
"If Naucc Vincent comes here again,
I'll get Silas to turn her away. 1 can't
have my nerves disturbed again in such a
manner. NowPoggyyou may do up
the housework."
1 went at it with a will. I washed and
put away the dishes, swept the floor,
blackened the stove, and then as Silas ap
peared willi two pails of milk. I went
into the milk room to help him strain it
and put it on the shelf.
44 You had quite a time with old Nance,
didn't you ?" and then he burst out laugh
ing.
"I couldn't help it, she provoked me."
44 You did just right, but you both acted
as though you bad a deal of temper," and
he actually laughed right in my face.
After 1 had strained the milk, and he
had put it away, he laid his baud on my
shoulder, and said :
4 'Peggy, you and I are getting pretty
well along in years, and I guess we'd bet
tor have a wedding. Don't yon think it
would be a good plan for ua to get mar
ried!"
1 looked at him, kinder started, it come
so sudden. Finally. I thought that as 1
was 45 years old and he only 40, and as I
was all alone in the world, it would be a
good plan, especially as he owned a nice
farm. So 1 told him that I'd have him, —
though I never did care anything about the
men sex, —and we were married just
about a year ago.
But Nance ain't married, and I hope
she never will be.
The Turkish Messiah.
The Mehdi LB a messenger from oo high,
who is expected to come in the last days,
a little before the second coming ot Christ,
He is to reform lalamism, and beat down
its enemies. He is thus to prepare the
way for Jesus Christ, who, according to
the Moslem belief, will then appear and
will unite Moslems and true Christians
into one vast body for the utter destruc
trucliou of Antichrist. Any good Moslem
will say that the Mehdi is to be a man who
is to bear the came name as Mahomet, and
who will appear either from the East or
from the West, He is to come from one
of the two cities of labnlka or labulsa.
In answer to inquiries as to the locality of
these favored cities your good Moslem will
take down a ponderous tome from his li
brary, and will turn to tbe heading "la
bulks," to read tbe description: "labulka,
a great city in ihe West, It has 3,000
gates and 2,000 gatekeepers." Then he
will turn over a little further to read: "Is
abulaa, a great city in the East. It has
2,000 gates and 2,000 gatekeepers." The
Oriental mind is not given to scientific
curiosity, and is thoroughly satisfied to
build upon the ponderous tomes of the
library faith m the existence of a suitable
birthplace forsc great a personage as the
Mehdi.
The Persian oranch of Islam, regarded
as heretical by t he Western Mohammedans,
believes that 4 ut Mehdi has already eome
to earth and is somewhere secreted unul
tbe fullness of time shall arrive. The
Persians hold that in the latter part of the
ninth century the twelfth of the I mama of
the line of Ali mysteriously disappeared.
This Imam is the Mehdi, and is popularly
called the Expected. In the Tillage of
Samara, in Mesopotamia, is a sacred shrine
carefully guarded by Persian doctors of
divinity. In the center is a magnificent
dome lavishly gilded upon the inside and
ornamented with a profusion cf precious
stones. The inclosed space is lighted only
by a skylight in ihe top of this dome.
Directly under the dome is a deep well in
which the lost Imam is supposed to have
established himself. To tbis place come
thousands of Persian pilgrims, who enter
awe-stricken the golden hall of gold, and
crawl on their knees to the edge of the
well to sec in the sparkle of the water be
low the dome tbe "glory" of the Mehdi
who waits below. To this place also
comes an occasional Moslem of the West
ern rite—eome I urk or Kourd in disguise
—who enters the sacred place solely to
gratify his hatred of heretics by surrepti
ously spitting into their well as he pre
tends to gaze in o its depths.
Both of the great branches of Mjham
medans unite in expecting the Mehdi very
soon. The Moslem year 1299 ends in No
vember, With the year 1800 great things
are expected to occur. Every new cen
tury is sot down in Moslem Listory as
having brought some marked event with
its early years, and the consensus of opin
ion tlx s upon 1300 as a peculiarly impor
tant figure. Among the many combina
tions wiiicti make up the portfolios of those
who divine events by means of numerals
this one appears most fertib in portent
Thus the popular mind is ready to selzj
upoa any token of the advent of the
Expected One. Seem look for the Mehdi
as a Moujeddid or renovator, who is to
effect his reform by peaceful exhortations
Others hold that he will be Sahib i
Khourouj, or one who abandons his alle
giance to the ruling powers in order to
initiate reform by the sword. The vast
majority of Moslems look for this more
violent method of reform. But each in
dividual regards his neighbor as more
worthy than himself to be a subject for
the avenging sword that is to purge the
land of Isiam from all contaminating in
fluences cf fabe disciples and contuma
cious infidels. Therefore each man is
eager for the long-expected appearance.
Patience, the second bravery of man,
is, perhaps, greater than the tirst.
Spanish proverb: The man who stum
bles twice on the same stone is a fool.
DeniMiu or the Deep.
"Now, then, heave away," sang out
the Skipper of a New York fishing boat
in Gravesend Bay. All hands braced
up and the slaok of the net oame slowly
in. Crabs, individual star fishes, lacerat
ed jellies, with bunches of seaweed, ap
peared at intervals, entangled in the
meshes, the commotion growing;
greater as the net gradually came np.
Thousands of tails flashed in the morn
ing sunlight; myriads of silvery forms
darted here and there, leaping from the
water in desperation, while larger
shapes coursing about told of better
game. A few more steady polls and
the jnmping, gleaming mass of life was
at the surface. The assemblage was
Argus-eyed and of such variety that but
few would believe that such bizarre
forms oould be found about the waters
of Coney Island. The struggling mass
was held well in hand, and with huge
hand nets the finny victims were tossed
ruthlessly into the boat Menhaden,
bluefish, weakfiah, skates, a young stur
geon and many more were here repre
sented, together with several small
sharks that were speedily knocked on
the head and tossed overboard as food
for the crabs and lobsters. Some file
fishes were among the last, as thin as
shingles, very high, with a sharp, file
like top or dorsal fin.
"I think I caught tills fellow abont
twenty times last season,'' laughed the
skipper, holding up a large one that
rolled its eyes and wagged its brown
tail in a most comical manner.
"No," he replied in answer to a
question, "they ain't no use, so we let
em go. Here's another mighty hand
some fish that ain't my good."
The fish he held np had a peculiir
high, blunt head and presented a most
beautiful appearance, like molten silver,
and is known to science as the "vomer."
"You never see them at the market,"
eaid the captain, "so people don't know
anything abont them. Now here's a
sturgeon—'Albany beef.' Most folks
think they come from fresh water, but
tney come down into the sea, just as
shad, salmon and other fishes go np the
rivers. Striped bass have been reared
in fresh water, iandlooked too. I sup
pose yon think that's kind of a yarn,
but it's a fact, and it was first done by
Mr. Poll, of New York city. He put
male and female fishes in a small pond
iof fresh water that was salted twice *
week until the young appeared, when
he stopped it. The old ones lived
about two months and then died, bnt
the young lived and were afterward put
in a big fresh water pond and became
perfect fresh water fishes. Sometimes
we take an Atlantic salmon here, bnt
it's a rare tiling. The largest I ever
saw was caught up the Sound at the
mouth of the Connecticut Biver. It
weighed 181 pounds, and brought near
ly a dollar a pound at Hartford. Most
of them come from eggs brought from
Germany and other parts."
"Here's a garfish," continued the
skipper, hauling out a slender, silvery,
long billed fish from the great pile.
"They don't look very dangerous, bnt
abont ten years ago I was down the
South Pac'fic on a trading schooner and
saw a man killed by one. The kind
they have there have a long upper bill,
like a swordfish, and grow four or five
feet long. We were lying right inshore
where half a dozen natives were in the
water, when all at onoe they began to
make a big powwow and to drag one of
their crowd ashore. I thought of
sharks, and jumped into the dingy and
pulled ashore. I found that a school
of big garfish had been chased by some
fish and had jumped out of the water
among the men. One of them struck a
native, its bill going oompletely through
his chest. The fish was over five feet
long and weighed abont eighty pounds.
I brought away its bill as a curiosity."
"What do you consider the most
valuable fish?" the reporter asked as
the boat headed inshore.
"Shad takes about as much money
out of New York city as any fish," was
the reply, "and the demand is increas
ing all the time. A man has to be edu
cated up to eating shad and olearing the
bones, and people are just beginning to
get the run of it I've been in all kinds,
of fishing business, from cod on the
Banks to bonyfishing right oil the is
land here. The most valuable fish to
the oounrty. as a whole, is the cod.
Mackerel stand next, then salmon and
then menhaden or bonyfish. Aronnd
here menhaden fishing pays better than
anything. You see there is always a
demand for them and from a number of
different sources. Small ones are can
ned and shipped to the West Indies as
sa'dines. They are the beet kind of
bait for the cod fishermen on the Grand
Banks. Then the mackerelers use
them as toll bait—toss 'em overboard to
chum up the fish, as they call it. In
Gloucester the fishermen use over sixty
thousand barrels of them a year for
bait, and when delivered they bring $4
a barrel to the producer. At M*rble
head, eleven miles from Boston, they
bring $1 a barrel—caught mostly in
Salem harbor—and when salted $6 a
barrel. So yon see bonyfish ain't such
bad shakes after all. Farmers use them
to eat, salted down, and also plough
them in on their farms. In fact," said
the-skipper, "they're like petroleum oil
—there's no end to the use they can bs
pat to, and lately I hear that a man has
disoovered a process that tarns them
into extract of beef. I've sold shark oil
for ood liver, bat I'd never have the
fac l to offer a biled bonyflsh as beef ex
tract.
"As oil producers the menhaden are
much more valuable than seals or whales,
and in one year the oil taken from the
American fisheries amounted to 200.000
gallons, or about as maoh as all the
whale, seal, shark and ood oil oonbined.
All these one masted steamers you see
off the island here and down by Long
Branch are after them, and many fol
low them right up the coast Off nor
thern Forida they are found all winter.
In March they reach Chesapeake Bay
New York in April and so on. Ail along
the Connecticut shore there are man
ufactories, and, strange to say, the refuse
after the oil is taken is about as valoable
ss the oil itself. A good deal of it is need
for manure, while the ammonia taken
from the catch of one year is valued at
$1,920,000. It's a wonderful sight," said
the fisherman, "to look down from a
masthead upon a school of menhaden.
Every school has millions of them; in
the daytime they look like masses of
solid silver, but at night their backs
light np with phosphoresoencs, and the
sea sometimes seems afire beneath, and
as they dart to and fro it looks just like
great sheets of flame, and when the
bluefish strike them like an explosion.
"Oh, yes, blneflsh eat them, and
sharks, porpoises and swordfish too.
Professor Baird has estimated that the
bluefish alone eat 2.600.000.000 fish a
year, and that will give yon a faint idea
of their numbers. But here we are,"
and as the boat ran upon the beach the
reporter tumbled out, somewhat en
lightened upon our harbor net fisher-
Ui* _____
Cool HOUM In Stmmtr.
It is generally remarked that houses
in large cities are cooler and more com
fortable in summer than those located
on farms, although the latter are so sit
uated that the air can circulate entirely
around them. Farm houses are gen
erally uncomfortable in summer for the
reason that large fires are kept in them
for the purpose of oooking substantial
articles of food and for doing laundry
work. It is comparatively easy to dis
pense with a large proportion of the
heat that is produoed in these houses.
The substitution of the oil for the com
mon wood or coal cooking stove will do
much to diminish the >amount of heat
employed for preparing food. An oil stove
produoes very little heat, and this is
ohlefly employed in raising the tem
perature of the articles to be cooked.
The flame can be directed against the
vease's in use, and the amount of heat
that escap ±s into the room ia very small.
The flames are not started till they are
required, and are extinguished as poon
as the dishes are prepared for the table.
The oil-stove can be used to good advan
tage for heating irons for smoothing
clothes and for many other domestic
purposes. The practioe of pioneers of
doing heavy washing in a grove near a
stream or lake deserves to be revived.
It costs but little to fit np an aroh and
boiler for heating water, or a stove can
be protected by a roof so as to be of
servioe when wanted. An old affair that
has outlived its usefulness ia the house
will answer every purpose. The plan pur
sued in many parts of the South of doing
oooking in a building located a short dis
tance from the house is an excellent one.
It results not only in keeping the dwell
ing cool, but in keeping out bad smells
ani many insects.
Suicide Fashionable.
Suicide seems lo he in a fair nay of be
coming as fashionable as suttee once was.
Not long ago a suicide, bet ore drowning
himself in an Eogiiah liver, took the pre
caution of addieesing a letter to the editor
of the local newspaper explaining bis in
tentions and staling where his body should
be looked for. A merchant at Aolon, in
Belgium, has improved upon this, and for
mally notified his intention to commit sui
cide in a certain bote in Pans to the Bur
gomaster of bis native town. That worthy
functionary, instead of attempting to
paevent him, at onoe sent all necessary
particulars for the correct filing up of the
death certificate to the local mairie in
Paris for use in case the merchant execu
ted his intention. The suicide took place,
and no doubt the particulars were found
useful.
This nonchalant official acceptance of a
notification of intended suicide is not far
removed from the official superintendance
of the operation once familiar enough m
the £ ist, Though England, in the opinion
of all Frenchmen, is the land of suicides,
our foreign censors have found themselves
compelled to take precautions against those
who desire to put an end to their lives by
artificial means. No longer will the stranger
be able to climb the Vendome Column for
the purpose of taking a bird's eye view of
Paris. Bo many Frenchmen have re
cently ti rown themselves from the top of
the column that the authorities have re •
solved upon refusing to the tourist the
permission to ascend it. In the early part
of this century a great number of persons
threw themselves m despair from the
monument, and that form of death be
came the popular form o? suicide in Lon
don. The officials thereupon removed the
temptation of self destruction by sur
rounding the platform on the top with an
iron cage, and since then thousands of
strangers have a sounded the monument
with impnnity. Why should not the same
plan be tried on the Vendome Column?
No system of laruTig is o mplete that
dispenses with clover as a rotation crop,
NO 34