THE MILLHEIM JOURNAL
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R. A. BUMILLER.
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Your patronage respectfully solicited.
JOB. M. Feger. Proprietor.
R. A. BUMILLER, Editor.
VOL. 59.
J J~RVIN HOUSE,
(Most Central Hotel in the city.)
CORNER OF MAIN AND JAY STREETS,
LOCK HAVEN, PA.
S.WOODSCALDWELL
PROPRIETOR.
Goo<l Sample Rooms for Commercial Travel
ers on (lint door.
TJEABODY HOTEL,
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46-ly Owner & Proprietor.
p H. MUSSER,
' JEWELER,
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Shop on Main Street,
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PENNSYLVANIA
STATE COLLEGE.
FALL TERM BEGINS SEPTEMBER 10,1554
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This institution is located In one of the most
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gheny region. It is open to students of both
sexes, and offers the following courses of study:
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2. A Latin Scientific Course.
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thescientiftc Course (a) AGRICULTURE ;
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TRY AND PHYSICS; (d) CIVIL ENGIN
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8. A Carefully graded Preparatory Course.
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wants of individual students.
Military drill is required. Expenses for board
and incidentals very low. Tuition free. Young
ladies under charge of a competent lady Princi
pal.
For Catalogues, or other inforraationaddress
GEO. W. ATHc.RTON,J,L. D.. Prksidlnt
lyr Stats collegk, centre Co., Pa.
A T
Mrs. Sarah A. Zeigler's
BAKERY,
on Penn street, south of race bridge,
Millheim, Pa.
Bread, Pies & Cakes
of superior quality can be bought at
any time and in any quantity.
ICE CREAM AND FAN
CY CAKES
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Call at her place and get your sup
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ABSOLUTELY!
THE BEST STOKE!
G. A. HARTER'S
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Main St., opposite Bank, Millheim,Pa
Finest Groceries in the
market.
Choice Confectioneries !
FRESH OYSTERS !
Best Tobacco and Cigars!
COUNTRY PRODUCE TAKEN AT THE
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TEEMS CASH T
MILLHEIM, PA., THURSDAY, MARCH 19., 1885.
LOIS.
THE rATIIETIC STORY OF A LIKE OF
SELF-SACRIFICE.
An old red farm-house, with its roof
sloping toward the road, and rambling
off at the back in an undecided way
until stopped by the great bam, whose
open doors showed full mows and made
a dark setting for the vista of blue hills
beyond. Along the side of the house
were ranged squashes and pumpkins,ab
soring their last allowance of sunshine,
and the wide south porch was hung
with strings of peppers and braided
ears of corn. The front door, with its
fan light and iron knocker, opened on
a narrow path leading down to the
road between rows of prim China as
ters ; but the iron knocker was appar
ently seldom raised, for the path was
grass-grown, and an arm of the tall
rose-bash had reached quite across the
door-way.
South of the house the orchard
stretched away, the pyramids of gath
ered fruit making vivid spots of yellow
and red against the brown grass.
Through the still air came now and
then the mellow thud of a falling apple
or the sound of distant chopping, and
over all lay the soft haze of an October
day darkened here aud there by the
smoke of a brush fire. The house fa
ced the west, and just now all its little
old fashioned panes were winking and
blinking at the setting sun as though
there was a good understanding be
tween them. The place seemed the
very heait of content ; but down
where the orchard sloped to the road a
sorrowful little drama was bring enact
ed. It was a common one—merely the
paitingof two young hearts—some
thing we smile over every day,thinking
how soon it will be outlived ; and the
actors were no tragedy king and queen,
only a little New England girl of six
ty years ago and her farmer-lover.
There had been tears and vehement
pleadings, but they were over now, and
the two stood gravely regarding each
other across the old rail tence. The
girl's clasped hands rested on the fence
and young man covered them with his
strong brown hands and made a final
appeal.
"Lois, think what you have chosen ;
think what it will be to be shut up
there with your grandmother."
"I know what it will be better than
you can tell me ; but that doesn't alter
my duty," answered the girl steadily.
"But is it your duty?" urged the
young, eager voice. "Your father is
well able to hire a housekeeper to look
after things and take care of your
grandmother. There's Sam Johnson's
widow, she'd jump at the chance of
such a home."
A wan little smile glanced over the
girl's face. "How long do you think
grandma and 'Viry Johnson would a
gree ?" she asked.
"Well, then, could'nt grandma go to
your uncle 'Bijah's V"
"No, David," was the answer.
"You know she tried that or.ce and
couldn't stand the children ; besides
she was born in the old house and says
she shall die there. It's no use talking;
nobody except father and me will bear
with her, and we must look after hei
as long as she lives."
"And the Dunns live to be ninety,"
said the young man.
Her face paled a little, but she said :
"Yes," quietly.
"O, Lois," be hurst forth, "aou't do
it! It will be a living death. Comj
with me. Now that I have this splen
did chance, I want you to share my
success, for I know 1 shall succeed."
"I'm sure of it," said the girl, with
simple faith boking up to the sunburn
ed face with loving eyes.
Those sweet eyes 1 As he looked
down at them and thought how soon he
should be beyond their light, he leaped
the fence, and, throwing his arms a
bout her, drew her closely to him.
But even the sweet sorrow of parting
was to be shortened, for while the girl
clung to him there came a shrill call
of "Lois ! Lois !" followed by a
weak, impatient blast on the dinner
horn.
With a few hasty words of farewell,
she broke from his detaining hold and
ran swiftly through the orchard.
When she reached the great flit door
stone, she stood a moment with her
hand on the latch and looked back Up
the road went a solitary figure. How
far he had gone already I The sun was
down, the fields looked gray and bare,
there was a chill in t'r.e air, and a9 she
shut the door behind her she seemed to
shut out forever youth and hope and
love.
Grandma Dunn was in one of her
Worst moods. "Where ye beeu,L>is?"
was the sharp inquiry.
"Down in the orchard," answered
Lois, holding out her hands to the
blase in the fire-place, for the chill
seemed to have crept to her heart.
A PAPER FOR THE HOME CIRCLE.
"Was ye alone ? I tlnugnt once or
twice I heard voices." And the old
woman looked suspiciously at hex.
"David Price was there," said the
giil, quietly.
"David Price was there, was he ? rt
echoed the shrill voice. "Well, if Da
vid Price wants to see ye he'd better
come to yer father's house. In my day
young men didn't expect gells to go
philanderin' 'cross lots to meet 'em ;
and I shall tell him so the next time he
comes here."
"He won't come again," Lois an
swered (oh, with what a heavy heart !)
"He's going away."
"Whore's he goiu' now ?" demand
ed Grandma Dunn, as though the
young mau's life had been one round
of travel, whereas he had never been
forty miles from his native town.
"Out to his Uncle Micah's in Ohio.
His uncle is going to take him into
business," answered Lois.
"Hum I" said grandma Dunn : 14 4 a
rolliu' stun gethera no moss.' " Then
with a thought of her own comfort :
"Are ve ever goin' to set the table ?
I'm jest a faraishin' for my supper."
Joshua Dunn, coming in just then,
looked from his mother to his daughter
and said,in his grave way : "Seems to
me, Lois, you might look after your
grandmother a little closer."
Toor Lois I She had the fee'ings, so
common to all of us, that the conscious
acceptance of a burden must somehow
lighten it, and the secret self-sacrifice
must in some mysterious way be felt
and appreciated ; but here iu the first
hour of her cross-bearing had come not
praise, but blame.
She made no answer ; her face flush
ed, then paled, and with close-shut
lips she walked quickly from the roota.
"Joshuay," quavered Grandma
Dunn, "ye ought to take that gell in
band. She's gettin' more high-headed
ey'ry day. She's goin' to be the very
pattern of her mother."
"There, there, 'mother !" answered
the farmer. "Let the girl alone. She's
well enough ; and the more she grows
like her mother the better it'll please
me." For Joshua Dunn held in very
tender remembrance the young wife
who had given her life for her baby's.
Lois did not come down to supper,
but when her father brought in the
milk she came and took care of it in
her deft, quiet way.
He stood and watched her, his one
ewe-lamb, bis motherless child. How
dear she was to him, irom her shining
brown head to her willing feet!
lie was a man of few caresses, but by
aud by he went over to her and laid
his rough hand gently on her head, and
said : "Father's good little girl."
Then, as though frightened at this un
wonted exhibition of affection,he gath
ered the milk-pails together and hur
ried out. •
The touch and the words eased the
heart-ache a little, but ihat night,lying
with wide wakeful eyes fixed on the
square of moonlight on the floor, Lois
said over and over, "The Dunns live to
be ninety," "The Dunns live to be
ninety." And 3he was only twenty.
How could she bear this for seventy
years ?
But nature is kind to the young, and
Lois had forgotten her trouble long be
fore another pair of eyes closed In the
old farm house.
Joshua Dunn pondered long and sor
rowfully. He had not been father and
roothei both for twenty years without
having his preceptions sharpened where
his child was concerned, and remem
bering Dayid Price's frequent visits,
and certain loiterings in the old porch,
and sundry tender glances, it was not
difficult to connect Lois' sober face
with the young man's going away.
In his inmost heart he was thankful
that he was not called upon to give her
up ; but something must be done to
cheer her. If only her mother were a
live ! But he must do his best alone.
She should have some new dresses ;
she must have young company ; he
would take her up to the village often
er. But alas for the tender planning 1
The next time Joshua Dunn went to
the village he was carried there and
laid beside his young wife.
It had happened very suddenly. He
had gone out to the barn in the morn
ing, and, not coming in to breakfast,
Lois had gone in search of him, and
found him lyihg under the feet of a
horse he had lately bought, the good,
kind face trampled out of recognition.
Well, we can live through a great
deal, and after the first bewilderment
was over Loi3 took up her old duties a'
gain
Joshua Dunn had been a well-10-do
man, and everything was left to Lois.
There was to be no anxiety about ways
and means ; there was nothing to do,
except to live, with all the brightness
of life gone. Grandma Dunn, in the
facs of a real sorrow, stopped fretting
for awhile, and Lois had a faint hope
that their mutual loss might bring
them nearer together ; but after a few
week 3 things fell back in their old cours-
! es, her grandmother repining and up-
I braiding, and Lois caring for her in a
cold, mechanical way.
Then the keeu New England con
science awoke. Was this the spirit of
self sacrifice ? Had she g'ven up her
love merely to do the work a.hired ser
vant might do, and with the same feel
ings ? Was she not cheapening her
sacrifice by withholding a part of the
price ?
So the lonely girl goaded herself un.
til by prayers and tears she grew into
a softer frame of mind, and the silent
indifference with which she had borne
her grandmother's sharp speeches
chanced to pity for the poor cross-grain
ed nature. If Grandma Dunn noticed
the change she gave no sign ; but it
made life more tolerable to Lois. At
the best time dragged very slowly at
the old farm-houso. The mornings
were bearable, for the care of the house
kept her busy ; but in the long sum
mer afternoons, when her grandmoth
er dozed in her chair, and in the long
winter evenings, wheu she sat alone by
the fire, she grew to have the feeling
that they had lived in the same wtty for
a bundled years, and would liye ou and
on indefinitely.
But after ten years had worn away a
new interest came into her life. One
day a paper from Boston strayed up to
the red house on the hill. Lois did not
know that the paper held a high rank
in the literature of the day, but she felt
the difference between it and their
county weekly. One little story pleas
ed her especially. It did not abound
in elopements, murders and highly
wrought situations, like the weekly
stories, but ran along as naturally as
one friend might talk to another, and
the thonght came to her, why couldn't
she write a story ?
So one afternoon, when Grandma
Dunn was safely off in her nap, Lois
sat down in the shady porch and wrote
her first story. It was only the story
of a life which had been lived in her
own village. There was no attempt at
fine writing, no romar.ee, wo tragedy— I
unless the story of a broken heart is !
always a tragedy—but the story was j
told so simply and tenderly that it
seemed like a quiet brook running at
twilight between banks of fern aud al
dtr, until it is lost in shadow.
With many misgivings she sent it to
the Boston paper, and the editor, a
man of quiet tastes, read it himself,
then took it home and read it to his in
valid wife ; and the result was that
in a few weeks Lois received a paper
addressed in a strange handwriting,and
in it her little story; and not ouly that,
but a letter came containing a check
and a few words of praise. With a
heart lighter than it had been since her
father's death, she took the paper and
letter to her room. She turned the
check over and over—her own money,
the first she had ever earned, and earn
ed in such a delightful way I Then
she read and re-read her story, and
wondered how it sound 3d to others.
She looked the paper over to compare
it with other stories, and a familiar
name caught her eye, and there,among
the mariiage notices, she read this:
''ln this city, on th 9 10th iiist.,by Rev.
Daniel Simpson, Mary, only daughter
of Roger Lejnard, of this city, to Da
vid Price, of Cleveland, Ohio.
She held the paper a few minutes,
then folded it smoothly and laid it a
way. Her brief suushine had clouded
over.
After awhile, urged by her loneli
ness, she took up her pen again ; and
in all the years that followed she found
it a refuge and comfort, not only to
herself, but to others ; lor her writ
ings, though often crude, had a simpli
city and naturalness which touched
other hearts ; and besides the modest
money return there came to her once
in awhile a letter from some stranger
with words of kindly appreciation.
One day, when her grandmother was
unusually restless, Lois, to entertain
her, brought down her first story and
read it. to her. Graudma Dunn had of
ten listened to her stories without sus
pecting the author, and her blunt ciit
icisms were amusing and sometimes
helpful. "Hum I" she said, at the end
of this one ; "that woman had sorter
the same life as M'lissy Peters she i
that was a Shepley ; only nobody
would think of puttin* M'lissy in a
story—a poor, shir'less thing. If she'd
'a' had less book-larnin' and more com
mon sense, Job Peters's folks would : a'
liked her a deal better, and she
wouldn't 'a' been badgered to death by
'em." Then, with sudden irrelevancy:
"Ye ought to hev married, Lois.
There ought to be children about the
house. Ye'd 'a' done better to bev ta
ken that David Price that used to hang
round here. Somebody was a-telliu'
of n e the other day that he was reel
forehanded out to Ohio. But gells
never know what's best for 'em."
; And she went off into an inarticulate
mutleriDg.
1 For a moment Lois felt a wild im
pulse to tell her grandmother why she
Terms, SI.OO per Year, in Advance. 1
had not married D.tvid Price, to lay
open before her the lou'g years of lone
liness, the starvation ot heart, which
had been endured for her sake ; but
the lifelong habit of reticence wis not
easily broken, and the words died away
without utterance.
Afterward she was glad of this si
lence—for that night the querulous
voice stopped suddenly, and the chain
that bad bound Lois for jtwentv years
was broken. She w;fs free. Hut what
was freedom worth to her ? The "zest
was gone out of life ; she had grown
away from her old friend and made no
new ones ; there was no tie to bind
her to Hillsborough, aud she felt the
full extent of her loneliness when she
realized the fact that she had no ties in
any place in the wide world. But she
could not stay in her old home ; so af
ter awhile she sold the farm aud moved
away to a small town near Boston.gui
ded in her choice only by the fact that
from this towa had come some of the
friendly stranger letters. Here she set
tled herself in a comfortable home, and
faced resolutely ths thirty or forty
years which in all human probability
lay before her. The people about her
proved kindly aud intelligent ; she
found more congenial society than 'she
had ever known before ; her pleasant
house became a center of quiet socia
bility, and she enjoyed a kind of au
tumnal happiness.
One afternoon, some eight years af
ter her coming to Springyale,Miss Lois,
sitting in her chamber, writing, heard
the gate creak, and looking out, saw a
peddler coming up the walk. He walk
ed feebly, and alio noticed that as he
neared the steps he straightened him
self with aa effort. -Her little maid
was out, so she laid down her pen and
went down to him.
The man stood looking through the
open door iuto the wide old-fashioned
hall. It looked very cool and inviting
after his hot tramp,and Miss Lois,com
ing down the stairs, fair and sweet in
her soft gray dress and lavender rib
bons, seemed a part ot the peace and
quiet of the house.
She saw that he looked hot and tired,
and asked him in,setting the large hall
chair for him. He dropped into it
wearily, and opening his stock without
the volubility common to his kind. It
consisted of the usual small wares, and
Miss Lois made her selection of pins,
needles and tape with the careful delib
eration of a New England housekeeper.
Suddenly she turned very white,and
laid her hand on the stair-rail as though
for support. It was over in a moment;
and when the peddler looked at her a
gain she wore her usual calm face,
though the hands counting the money
trembled a little. As he was gathering
his wares together she asked him,"Have
you been long at this business V"
"No, ma'am," he answered, rising
stiffly; "only a year or two. I used to
do a good business in Cleveland, Ohio,
and had a house as pleasant as this,and
a wife and a child; but I failed in busi
ness ; then ray wife and child died, and
I had a long sickness. After I got up
from it I tried several different things,
but finally came to this. Thank yon,
ma'am," putting the monej in his thin
pocket-book. "You look like somebody
I used to know in Hillsborough, where
I was raised."
But Miss Lois made no answer, ex
cept "Good afternoon," as lie went
down the steps. ,
When the gate closed behind him,she
went up to her chamber, unlocked a
drawer in her bureau, and taking from
it a thin package of letters, sat down
with tnem in her hand.
There was no need to read them ; she
knew every word in them. Tney had
come at long intervals during the first
nine years of waiting; she could tell the
very day the last one came. She sat
there very quietly until her litt'e maid
called her to tea; then she put the let
ters back in their place smoothed her
hair, and went down. And neither
Polly nor the friends who came in the
evening suspected that Miss Lois had
seen a ghost that afternoon.
The next morning Polly returned
from the grocery in gieat excitement.
A peddler had a bleeding-spell there
the night before; they had made him a
bed in the back room, and that after
noon the select men were going to take
him to the poor house. Polly had seen
with her open eyes. .
Miss Lois fihished pasting the paper
over the last tumbler of current jelly,
then washed her hands calmly, took off
her apron, and went up-stairs. In a
few minutes she came down with her
hat on. "I'm going out for a little
while, Polly," she said; "and while I'm
gone you may make up the bed in the
east chamber."
Polly was amazed. Of course nobody
in the town would come to stay all
night; and Miss Lois had had no letters
for a few days; besides, there had been
no extra cooking. What could it mean?
But, being an obedient little maid, she
did as she was bid. Bed-making was
an extra science with Polly, who had
been carefully trained in it by Miss
Lois; so the feather-bed was rolled and
thumped until it stood up a great fluffy
mounted to be laborously and critically
NO. 11.
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leveled with the broom-handle, Polly's
arras being far too short for the pur
pose. ,Then the lavender-scented sheets
were carefully laid on, with due regard
to wide h*m and narrow hem ,the home
spun blanKet, with its herririg-bone
bolder, was spread* without a wrinkle
and tucked under the smoothly-rounded
edges, and over all went the big white
counterpane. It was a sight to do your
eyes good. Polly was standing with
the end ol* a pillow between her teeth,
her head very far back, trying to slip
the pillow case on, when there was a
sound of wheels at the door. Without
letting go the pillow she managed to
apply one eye to the shutter. It was
the public carriage, and, wonder of
wonders, the doctor got out, then Miss
Lois, and, with the help of the
man was taken out and caried tip the
walk.
But other eyes than Holly's had been
busy and within forty-eight hours ev
erybody in Springvale knew that Miss
Lois had recognized an old friend in
the peddler and had taken bim home to
nurse. And I think that it is to the
credit of human nature that, while a
few said : "Did you ever ?"and "How
it looks ?" the majority approved of the
act and only hoped Miss Lois wouldn't
get sick herself.
But Miss Lois' kindness was not to
be taxed long. Hhe man failed rapidly,
and another hemmorrhage made the
end certain. lie was delirious most of
the time, aud taJkec' much of "Mary"
and "Willie" and names strange to
Mfks Lois; but as the end drew near he
ceased muttering, and lay apparently
unconscious. That night, as she sat
beside nim, be looked up suddenly, his
eyes bright and clear.
"Why, Lois J" he said.
He made an effort to speak, his eye
lids|quivered, a breath—and a second
time he had gone on a long jonrney,
leaving her behind him.
When the town authorities came to
make arrangements tor the funeral,
Miss Lois asked that he be buried in
her own lot, for in the months of her
homesickness she had bad the remains
of her father and mother brought from •
their bleak hillside graves to rest near
her. 80 he was laid besides his old
townsman, and a few months after a
plain marble slab was placed at his
head, bearing only the name "David
Price," with the date of death, and his
age, "52 years."
When Miss Lois wore the gray dress
agaiu Polly noticed that the lavender
ribbons were gone, and about this time
people said to each other that Miss Lois
was beginning to show her age. Not
that she grew gray and wrinkled sud
denly; but there was 9. change. It was
not her that was changed, for her
friends found her more and more de-
lightfu), and her house was the fayorite
stopping-place for young and old. She
seemed to have a special tenderness for
young girls, and many confidences,
blushing or tearful were pcured into the
sympathetic ear, and many were the
lovers' quarrels healed by her gentle
counsels. She used to say sometimes
in a wistful way : *'l want them to
have all the happiness I haye missed."
But her sympathies were not confined
to the young ; they overflowed on all
who needed them. Discouraged men
and women slouched into her gate at
nig!itfall,and came ont with their faces
lifted and fresh hope in their hearts.
Naughty boys,who deserved and dread
ed the rod, knocked meekly at her back
door for help, which was always given,
given, mingled with such wholesome
reproof that a boy seldom came twice
on the same errand. Even hurt and
homeless animal 9 seemed to know by
instinct where to find an asylum, and
took the shortest route to Miss Lois'
door, and Dot one was turned away un
helped.
So the peaceful years slipped away,
until one day her friends gathered to
keep her eightieth birthday ; and they
ajd,to each other how well Miss Lois
was looking, and that they hoped to
keep her for another ten years; and the
house was gay with flowers and little
children,and Miss Lois beamed on them
until her face seemed transfigured.
That night,as Polly,now grown staid
and eldery, went up to her room, she
stopped to see if her mistress wa com
fortable for the night. She found her
sitting in her great arm-chair, her head
resting lightly against the cushions,and
her eyes closed as though in quiet sleep.
But it was the long sleep. One hand
rested upon a package of y llow letters,
and the thin forefinger of the other had
stopped at a verse in the open Bible in
her lav; and when they laised the stiff
ening hands they read the words?.' Even
Christ pleased not Himself.'
Old and faithful friends gathered up
hei treasures,and when in looking over
her papers they came to the package of
yellow letters and read the signatures,
they suddenly remembered the name on
the stone in the graveyard, and looked
at each other with pitying eyes, half
guessing the atory ; but the story was
ended.
'I am surprised, John,' said the old
lady when she fouud the butler helping
himself to some of the fluestold port.
•So am I, ma'am, I thought you had
gone out,' was the reply.