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SPRINGER, Fashionable Barber, Having had many years' of experiencee the public can expect the best \cork and most modern accommodations. Shop opposite Millheim Banking House MAIN STREET, MILLHEIM, PA. L. SPRINGER, Fashionable Barber, Corner Main & North streets, 2nd floor, Millheim, Pa. Shaving, Ilaircutting, Sbampooning, Dying, &c. done in the most satisfac tory manner. Jno.H. Orvis. C. M. Bower. Ellis L.Orvis QRVIS, BOWER & ORVIS, Attorneys-at-Law, BELLEFONTE, PA., Office in AVoodings Building. D. H. Hastings. W. F. Reeder. TJASTINGS & REEDER, Attorney s-at-Law, BELLEFONTE, PA. Office on Allegheny Street, two doors east of the office ocupied by tbe late firm of Yocum & Hastings. J (J. MEYER, Attorney-at-Law, BELLEFONTE PA. At the Office of Ex-Judge Hoy. rrTM. C. HEINLE, Attorney-at-Law BELLEFONTE, PA. Practices in all the courts of Centre county Special attention to Collections. Consultations in German or English. J A.Beaver. J. W.Gephart. JGEAVEIL & GEPIIART, Attorneys-at-Law, BELLEFONTE, PA. Office on Alleghany Street. North of High Street JGROUKERHOFF HOUSE, ALLEGHENY ST., BELLEFONTE, PA. C. G. McMILLEN, PROPRIETOR. Good Sample Room on First Floor. Free Buss to and from all trains. Special rates to witnesses and jurors. QUMMINS house, BISHOP STREET, BELLEFONTE, PA., EMANUEL BROWN, PROPRIETOR House newly refitted and refurnished. Ev erything done to make guests comfortable. Ratesiuodera 1 "* trouage respectfully solici ted 5-ly "J~RVIN HOUSE, (Most Central Hotel in the city.) CORNER OF MAIN AND JAY STREETS LOCK HAVEN, PA. S.WOODSCALDWELL PROPRIETOR. Good sameple rooms for commercial Travel ers.on first floor. R. A. BUMILLER, Editor. VOL. 00. GIAOOMO, Or. ' I Remember Thee." 'Mrs. Bacon ! Mis. Bacon ! Mrs. Ba con V' cried Mrs. do Luce. •Yes, ma'atu.' The housekeeper started to her feet at the sound of her lady's voice. 'Missus is in a temper,' she said to herself, and smiled,ami looked amiable, hoping to conciliate ; but the lady did not smile in return. 'Mrs. Bacon, my daughter is playing with a dirty little ragged boy.' Mrs. Bacon turned red. 'Phoebe told me that there had been a child there lor several days, and that you actually a'lowed Gladys to play with him,' continued the lady. 'I re fused to believe it, but she asked mo to see for myself, lie is there. What does this mean, Mrs. Bacon ? Who is he ?' 'My first cousin's second wife's aunt by marriage's daughter, ma'am ' began Mrs. Bacon. 'This biy !' gasped Mrs. de Luce. 'This boy is that ?' "'No, ma'am,' said Mrs. B icon,pluck ing up spirit. 'I only said that my first cousin's second wife's aunt by marriage's daughter lets lodgings since she was a widow, left with a house of her own; and one of them died with a week's rent owing, a fortnight ago,and this was his child ; and, as for sending it to the poor-house, who could have the heart ? and I thought I'd have him in my room a I it; and he'll do anything you bid him ; and Miss Gladys just run in; and though shabby, he is not dirty; and I've given those old clothes master said I might have for any poor person, to be made up for him; and ■' 'I fail to understand you, Mrs. Ba con,' exclaimed Mrs. de Luce. 'lf the lodger died,l'm sure it is to be lament ed. But why should Gladys be set to play with the child V Send the boy away at once, and tell him never to come again. lie looks like a foreigner.' 'I believe his pa was Eyetalian,' said Mrs. Bacon; 'but as good a boy, and—' 'Call Gladys and send the boy away I' interrupted Mrs.de Luce. 'Really,Mrs. Bacon,l thought you could be trusted.' For one moment it occurred to the housekeeper that it would be delightful to give a month's warning and speak her miud; and, to do her justice, it was rather because she loved little Gladys so well,than because of her good salary that she refraine 1. Mrs. de Luce swept out of the room and entered her carriage ; tlie house keeper bustled into the little room she called her parlor. A fair haired gtrl, and a dark but beautiful boy were sitting opposite each other on little benches. The boy was singing a song. 'Listen ! it is so pretty,' cried the other child, with her blue eyes shining so pretty 1' 'Yes, it's lovely,' sajd Mrs. Bacon. 'And now I'll give you each a bit of cake, and then Giaoorao must run a way. Your ma dosen't like you to play with the little boys, she's just told me. So you'd better not come again, Gia.' 'Can't he play with me anymore ?' sobbed Gladys. 'Oil, he must—he must !' 'I shall be so sorry not to come here,' said the boy, wiping away a tear ; 'but I will go nowhere where they don't want me.' 'You'ro a little gentleman, if you are poor,' said Mrs. Bacon. 'And it's not me, Gia; I'd like you to stay here, poor boy !' 'No one wants me,' said the cnild. 'Mrs.Garth dosen't; I heard her say so. And I will never go to the poor-house —never !' 'You might get to be cash-boy,' Mrs. Bacou said; 'or you could sell papers.' 'I could do one thing,' said the boy, 'it I had a violin T could play on it; but I have none. 1 could go to places I know, and play, and they would give me money, I play well enough.' 'A little creature like you !' cried Mi p. Bacon. 'Well, I never !' 'I have a violin,' said Gladys. 'lt is all my own. My poor Uncle William gave it to me before li 3 died —that and his music-books. I shall never learn the violin. Mamma says the piauo is light for girls. So I will give you that. Uncle would like it, because then you can earn money. Gladys rau away. Up in the nursery the violin lay, on an upper shelf. After some teasing,the nursemaid consented to leave the fluting of her own saps for a moment and get it down. Then, in the housekeeper's room, the boy proved bis skill. 'Such a little creature to play tunes!' cried the housekeeper. 'Now kiss and say good-bye,' she said. Gladys began to sob. 'Good-bye,' said Giaoomo. 'Some times, when everyone is asleep, I will come arid play on the pavement before your house. Listen, that you may know it is I. I will always begin with MILLHEIM, PA., THURSDAY, MAY 13., 1880. this tune. It is a song, called "I Re member Tliee." lie played it over and over again. '1 shall not forget it,' said Gladys. The boy sighed and lifted his lips to these ot the h iuseke-'per ; then he kiss ed the little white hand of Gladys, and was gone. For a long tinio Gladys used, LOW and then, to be awakened from her sleep by the sound of a violin. Listen ing, slu* would hear the air—"l Rt mcmher Thee.'' 'lt is G iaoomo,' she would say. And tears would fall upon her pillow to think of thojhi'd alone in the daik midnight st reels. i* t last he came no more. 'Come here, little fellow,' a musician hul said to him, one night. 'You are a genius. And, in the name of Heav en, how do you come by such a violinV' Then he had talked to the boy, and it had emled in his taking 'him abroad with him. He had called to see Mrs. Bacon, to tell her what had happened ; but she was away, and the servant did not think it worth while to remember his message. Fifteen years had passed. In a little room, in a small suburban house, sat an old woman aud a young one. No ono who had ever seen Mrs. Bacon could have failed to recognize her, though she had aged considerably. The girl was Gladys do Luce. Strange tilings had happened since those old days when Mrs. Bacon was her mother's housekeeper. That moth er, left a widow, had married a rascal, who had wasted her fortune,and dually broken her hear t. Gladys had found Mrs. Bacon her only friend. The old woman had taken her little savings and kept a modest home for them both in this little cot tage, while Gladys gave lessons on the piano to young children. She was no genius, but had had good master*, and taught patiently. To-night she was busy trimming a pretty though simple bonnet for even ing wear. Two tickets had been given her for a grand all iir. A yioliuist.said to be utifqualed, was to appear for the first time iu Philadelphia, a id tickets were utterly beyond her reach ; but the bachelor uncle of one of her pupils had given her two, which lie had intended to use, but could not, being obliged to leave town on business. 'lt was so kind,' said G1 idys, 'and we shall enjoy the music, I know. Oh, Aunty Bacon, do you remember little Giaoom > V I believe he was a genius. I wonder what became of the sweet lit tle fellow.' 'I wish I knew,' said Mrs. Bacon. 'I do, indeed. I hope it was no harm. Ho was a good little fellow, and he might have stayed in that big house. His meals would never have been miss ed by anyone; but your ma wasn't very apt to take to poor folks.' So they talked oyer the past, and Gladys felt herself on the verge of tears as she recalled the memory of those nights in which she was awakened in her warm bed to hear the Utile violinist playing "I Remember Thee" in the cold street below her window. .She had never heard anyone else play that air in all her life. The night of the conceit came. Gladys, chaperoned by Mrs. Bacon, took her place in the large room, filled with fashionable women and men of society. The lights were bright, the dresses elegant. Great pots of plants adorned the stage. Beyond hung a rich drapery of cream-colored velyet. It formed an exquisite background for the splendid figure and beautiful dark face of the great musician as he ad vanced towaids the foot-lights. He played; none who heard him eyer forgot. Thunders of applause filled the hall. lie played again amidst a rapture of silence. Encore followed encore. In reply to one of these he stepped forward and turned his face towards the seats in which Gladys and her old friend sat—his eyes met those of the girl across the heads of the other listen ers. and suddenly she heard music like a revelation from an angel's heart, so sweet, so low, so tender. Not the less great for its simplicity was that to which the audience now listened ; Ibey did not know the name of the composition, but Gladys knew. She had heard it in the street below her window many a winter night. It was the tune little Giaoomo had bidden her keep in mind— "i Remember Thee." Yes, he had remembered, for he saw her-he was playing it to her, and this was Giaoomo. Shortly after, an usher brought Mrs. Bacon a card. It was from the great Violinist, begging them to remain seat ed after the performance. That night as they droye through Chestnut, Broad and Walnut streets, to their humble abode in his carriage, he held a hand of each. 'But for your gift, I never should have been what I am,' he said to Gladys ; and then he spoke of the old A PAPER KO. rilK HOME CIRCLE times, of the little cakes Mrs, Bacon had given him, and of the kindness which had kept him from Muttering when ho was left an orphan. 'Did you ever hear me play beneath your win dow ? ho naked Gladys ; and she an swered : 'Oh yes ; I haye til ways remembered how I used to cry for you there in the lonely street.' 'Poor little fiddler !' said the great man. 'I can haidly believe it was 1 ! Yet here beats the same heart ; and remember, it is to you 1 owe all.' ***** Well, reader, you know how this story ends just as well as I do. Imagine the wedding, and make it as splendid as you please, only I will tell you this much : In the elegant home to which Signer G iaoomo conducted his bride, there was a plaae of honor for good Mrs. Bacon. Munymds Illustrated World. OUT ON STRIKE. 'Little one, little one,' said he, 'it is come to this at last.' Nancy could but partly understand him. She was so wee, only four, and this speech of father's puzzled her. The little one was motherless. Quite two years ago tney laid lu-r mother to rest in the lonely churchyard, and now the grass grown mound was a haunt of spring's first daisies, and by strange chance a few frail snowdrops lifted their heads above the swad. 'lt is come to this at last!' sighed Ned.' 'What at last ?' asked Nancy. 'That there's no help for it. Father must—must go.' Ned broke down with sobs. 'Go where ?' asked N mcy. 'Far away—away to look for work, my darling.' 'Without me ?' 'Yes, even without you; and, childie, 1 could better bear death than this parting.' Ned turned away to hide his tears from Nancy's g; z\ 'Don't cry, father,' she said. And the poor wee one had not tasted aught but dry ci usts for many days ; besides which, the* failed to keep fire now. So the room was cold and comfortless,and Ned's Nancy was starving. But oh ! the wee darling's patience. 'lt seems as though she knew all a bout it,' said Ned to himself. 'Don't cry,' said Nancy, soothingly, 'but come by the fireside an' sit on your chair, take me on your knees, and I'll tell you what we'll do.' So Ned took her. 'Father,' she said, looking up into his face, and, with her glance, a heaven of light seemed to fill her father's heart. 'Father, we must, sell the chair, and— and sell Bob the cat, and ' Tears choked Nancy's utterance. She could better spare the chair than her cat. 'There,' she exclaimed, dash ing her tears away, 'I mustn't cry, for I'm a big girl now.' Ned clasped her closdy to him. ".Veil, father,' added Nancy, 'if we sold the chair (it was their last piece of furniture,) and—and Bob, we'd have enough money to go.' 'Where ?' asked Ned. 'To Heaven,'replied Nancy. 'There's bread in Heaven. Dosen't our hymn say so, an' that would feed us tiil we'd want no more.' With that Nancy tried to sing the hymn, and she never knew the anguish of heart which seized her father. 'Bread !' he gasped. Ned bowed his head. Poverty -merciless, cruel pov erty—and the helplessness that comes with the want of food, caused the stiong man to tremble ana weep like a child. A man 'on strike' in the face of myriads of unemployed, a man whose life, even though honest, tem perate and upright, was not.worth liv ii g. how could he look upward ? 'Nay,' he muttered ; 'I have cried a loud to the walls, 'Give me bread or I die,' and nobody has heard. I have pleaded for her, ay ! and to no purpose. The rich heed no', the poor are often meiciless and jealous of their fellows ; aud who cares that one grave more shall be dug, in yone churchyard, even though two bo put in it one morning ? Let us sleep and die—and wake.' 'Where ?' asked Nancy. 'Wake,' repeated Ned, as one in a dream. 'Wake—where ?' 'Yes,' said Nancy ; 'in Ileaven, I s'pose.' That was enough. The factory hand among the trees turned to the open door. Far out from over the hills a gleam of sunshine darted down into the yalleys, and, at the same moment, a sunbeam entered Ned's wintry-cold heart and cheered it. Ned took cour age, comforted by bis wee one's words. Better days came f.>r Ned's Nancy,but her father never forgot the dark days when he was out 'on strike.'—Man yon" 1 s Illustrated World. -First-class job work doue at the JOURNAL office. A Journey in a Coffin. A Boston correspondent of the New York Tribune writes: 'Do 1 remem ber any incidents of the underground railroad that haven't got into print V' said an old abolitionist and slave-res cuer the other night in response to a question : 'Well, there is one story that 1 don't remember to liayo seen in the books or the papers. In 18.59, just m the height of agitation, S , our agent at Columbia, S. C., had occasion to ticket a middle-aged negro, Job Van cey by name, through to Providence,lt. 1., by the underground. Job had shel tered a runaway in his cabin and bad been betrayed by another negro. lie learned the situation and came into Co • uinbia'in the middle of the night. There wasno hope of concealing him. Our agent had thought of a now means of shipment that he had never tried. This was his opportunity to try it, for Job was clear grit,strong with the well-knit strength of middle age, and patient as his namesake. 'S got a large colllu that he kept for the emergency, and into this cofiin he put poor Job, and with him a quan tity of crackers, cheese, dried meat and a rubber bag full of water. A few gim blet holes addiuitting air. On the first train the nextmorningJobVancey went off, shipped as a corpse to a chosen ad dress in Providence. Trainmen were general respectful of the dead in those d lys, and Job traveled comfortable for a time, barring the hours that he oc casionally lay on some depot platform in the broiling southern sun. Travel was slow, and sometimes the treatment was a little rough. Job after a day or so began to get exceedingly lame with the confinement and pressure, his grim berth grew irksome, hut it was when the loud shouts and laughter of his own kind died away around him, and when that and the sickening chill came over him when they dumped him one night on the stone lloor of a cold baggage room somewhere told him that he was in the north, and ho began to suffer. The mere consciousness that lie was in the north might have buoyed him up, however, if it had not been for one dreadful circumstance. 'There was a sort of a faint gleam around him that told that lit was day, and ho must have been in New York, for he says that lie knew that he had been carried across some water by the sensation of rising and falling that he had felt. He had felt himself rattled along in a wagon, too, and the wagon had brought up in a place where he had heard the clatter and the roar of trains again. His colli': was dragged violent ly out of the wagon and when his bear ers put liiin down they stood the colli n against a wall—oil his head. Job be gan to feel the blood rushing to his head. He felt that he was lost, and would die. but he dared not shout for help, as that would mean discovery, a delivery to his owners, and worse than death. Better die there ; even a horri ble death from torture, than be carried back to his master's plantation. He clmig to the determination, but at last felt his weakened senses give way. Ilis consciousness, after miuutes of agony, which seemed hours, was lost. 'When he recovered Job had actually arrived at Providence and his new found friends —better friends than lie had ever known—were using their best endeavors to restore him. In a few days he was able to step out into the world, in a home in a chosen vi'lage, a free man.' He Fired Up. He had been courting a West End girl for a long time, but he has quit now. It happened Sunday night after church. They were sitting as close to gether a3 the sofa would permit. She looked with ineffable tenderness into his noble blue eyes. 'George,' she murmured, with a tremor in her voice, 'didn't you tell me once you would be willing to do any great act of heroism for my sake ?' 'Yes, Fannie, and I gladly reiterate that statement now,' lie replied in con- Hdenttoues. 'No noble Roman of old was fired with a loftier ambition, a biaver resolution than I.' 'Well, Goorge, I want you to do something real heroic for me.' 'Speak, darling; what is it ?' 'Ask rae to be your wife. We've been fooling long enough.' The sequel is stated in the preface. In a Hurry. Horace was standing in the upper hall one day doing something which his mother disproved of and ordered stop ped. lie continued at it after one or two prohibitions, and finally she start ed toward him. lie darted toward the stairway aud down the stairs with such haste that he went two, three and four steps at a time, and lauded in a heap on the lloor. Gathering himself up, he managed to climb upon a chair, and sat there pulling and panting until his frightened motiier reached him, when j he was just able to gasp out : 'Mother, you oughtn't—to—hurry me so I' Terms, SIOO per Year, in Advance. SENORITA LOPEZ. TIUS HANDSOMEST FED Kit A I. SI'Y. When tlie Senorita Maria Lopez made her appearance in Atlanta during the siege she created a decidt il sensa tion among the gallant officers who were lighting all day and dancing all night, riio senorita was pretty. Her Hashing eyes seemed to look right through a man, and her manner of flut tering a fan was too eloquent for any thing. Just where the Senorita Lopez came from no one knew. Sh i said that her father, a New Orleans refugee, was in Richmond, and that in reluming from a visit to friends in Charleston she had received instructions to await his arrival hero. Of course this expla nation was satisfactory, and if there Lad been any doubt the young lady's glittering diamonds, bright eyes, and ardent Confederate principles would have won the day. We were not entirely given over to sackcloth and ashes during the siege. Halls and receptions took place almost every night, and there were various amateur entertainments. In all the festivities of the time the charming Spanish senorita bore her part. She was the acknowledged belle of the siege and her almost ieckless dating com pletely fascinated the ollicers, from the general down. One thing about Maria Lojiez delighted us. Federal shells had no tenors for her, and when other la dies shrieked and ran off unceremon iously from their visitors to plunge into a bomb-proof, this brilliant and fearless creature would simply clap her hands and iqakesoinc scornful remark about the wretched aim of the Yankee gun ners. After our fortifications around the city had been nearly completed, the senorita rode out nearly with some of her military admirers to view the works. This was rather perilous. Stray bullets and shells were always whizzing by, and it was a common thing to see a general or a colonel dodge behind a tree. Hut it was soon noticed that the senojrita never even ducked her proud little head. She would sit on her horse like a statue, and laugh in deri sion when herescorts proved themselves unable to stand the racket. "Oh, I would give anything to be a soldier 1" she said one day, after look ing through Colonel Blank's field glass. "I would glory in the opportunity of showing men how to fight and die for a great cause." Perhaps this was too intense, too lK)inbastic, but in those days every thing that we wrote and spoke was in this fervid strain. So the senorita's talk provoked no comment, except a tribute of admiration. One day our heroiue passed me at a gallop on her way back from the breast works. Something white lluttered down from her riding habit. I picked it up, but the lady was out of sight, riding like the wind. Thoughtlessly I allowed the paper to come open. What I saw troubled me not a little. I saw traced out in detail the plan of fully of our forts and trenches. The paper also contained the location of certain Government buildings,and an estimate of our forces. There was but one tiling to do. I hated to get a pretty woman into trou ble, but I had to do ray duty. In an hours time the paper was in the hands ot the proyost-raarshal. The next day I was brought face to face with Maria juopez. The hearing was in private, and a circle of colonels and Majors sat around the accused, frowning at me as if I had been guilty of some criminal act. When I related the circumstances attending the finding of the paper, the little Spaniard looked at the ollicers with a merry smile. U I think," said she, "that you don't care to hear from me. I will say how eyer, that I never saw the paper, and therefore could not have dropped it. The young man perhaps found it, but he could not have seen me drop it." She smiled sweetly on the provost-mar shal. "Ahem !" said that individual. "There must be some mistake here. We do not doubt your lidelity, sir, but we had better hear no more of this." I was dumbfounded and abashed. Knowing very Uttle about the ways of the world, I hastily retired, thanking my stars that 1 had saved my head. In a day or two the Seuorita Lopez disap peared. Her lovers did not have time to mourn her loss, because Slocum's corps crossed the Chattahoochee, and our forces had to get out in a hurry. But I was destined to see the senorita again. Many of us failed to follow Ilood's army south. We were whirled about in such a vortex of confusion that we were glad to escape with our lives. A mong other flotsam and jetsam I was thrown beyond the Federal lines. Stranded in Nashville, at that time a vast military camp, felt badly enough. I could not go South, and I ould not get a pass to go North. One night I went to the theatre. During one of the scenes there was a buzz, and people stood up to look at a man in the dress circle just above my head. Finally I rose, as somebody said : NO. 19. NBWBPAPBR LAWS If subscrftar* order the discontinuation of newspapers, the |>iit<llshiMH nmy ftwUoue to send flmm until all nm-a rapes arc paid. if subftirrliH-vs refn.se >r neglect lo lake their newspapers from theoflloe to * lilch tlicy are sent tlieyuie responsible until they have settled tin* Mils ai ii ordered thoirt discontinued. 14 sul.-tuiUe* it>ov#-U*4Uitr ptruuis without In formlnp tin* publisher, and the ie\vspa|H*in are .sent to the former place, they are resi-oti&lble. i ADVERTISING RATES. 1 wk. 1 ino.l 3 nios. Gnios. 1 yea 1 square ISM ♦4oM 8"0 *6 00 $8 00 % " 7 (XV 1b) If, 00 Wioo 401(0 1 44 10 00 1500 £">W 15 00 75 00 One inch mt*M I square. Administrators and Executora' Notices *JAO. Transient adver tisements and locals 10 cents iter line for first insertion and 5 cents |>r line for each addition ul insertion "He is the most successful guerilla and spy on the Union side." I stood up until my face was on a level with the railing of the dress cir cle. It was a wonder that I didn't faint I Looking calmly, mockingly, into my eyes was the handsomest man I ever saw. ITe was dressed in a glilteriug uniform, and wore diamonds. That clear cut, dark face,those burning eyes, the slight scar under the left ear—there could be no mistake. I seized toy overcoat and rushed out of the door just in time to hear the al legeJ Senorita Lopez say iu a voice like a bugle: "Arrest that man.*' A wave of darkness came over me. An officer caught me by the arm. 1 felt that I was lost. If the senorita was not only a man, but an enemy, I had no mercy to hope for. There was a sudden tumult, a wild cry of Hie, and then a crowd surged down the stairway. When I picked uiyself up the officer who had arrested mo lay on the sidewalk with a fractur ed skull. I limped quietly away, and took the out-going train for Louisville. I had no passport and trusted to luck. "Passes.gentlemen,"shouted a sleepy ' lieutenant,us he passed through the car. i kept my head bowed down, "with my hat over my eyes. "See here, show your pass," said the officer. A gruff man behind me spoke up and said : " You dont want to see it twice. He showed it to you a minute ago." "Beg pardon,"said the soldier, slight ly confused. He went on, and I was safe at last. I have never seen Hie senorita since, and I have no desire ever to meet her, or rather him, again. lie would have had me shot as a spy beyond a doubt if it had not been for my lucky escape at the theatre. Stealing an Invention. A little more than 100 years ago the manufacture of steel may be said to have had a beginning in England. A bout that time there was living in Shef field, Eng., a man by the name of Iluntzman. lie was a watch and clock maker, and he had so much trouble in getting a steel that would answer for his springs, he determined to make some steel himself. He experimented for a long time in secret, and after many failures he hit upon a process that produced a superior quality of steel. The best steel to be obtained at that time was made by the Hindoos, and it cost in England about $50,000 a ton; but Huntsman's steel could be had for SSOO a ton, and as he found a ready market for all the steel he could make he determined to keep his inventions secret, and no one was allowed to enter his works except his workmen, and they were sworn to secrecy. But other iron and steel makers were determined to find out how he produced the quality of steel he made and this is how they accomplished it at last .* One dark and bitter cold wintry night a wretched looking beggar knocked at the door of Huntsman's works ai d asked shelter from the storm that was raging with out. The workmen, pitying the sup posed beggar, gave him permission to come in and find warmth and shelter near the furnaces. In a little while the drowsy beggar fell asleep, or at least seemed to do so, but beneath his torn and shabby hat his half-shut eyes watched with eager intent every move ment made by the men about the fur naces, and as the charging of the melt ing pots, heating the furnaces, and at last pouring the steel into ingots took several hours to accomplish, it is hard ly necessary to add that the forgotton beggar slept long, and, as it seemed, soundly, in the corner where he lay. It turned out afterward that the ap parently sleeping beggar was a well to do iron maker living near by, and the fact tnat he soon began the erection of large steel works similar to Hunts man's was good eyideoce that he was a poor sleeper but a good watcher. A Client Demands Protection. A few days ago, in the District Court, a prisoner, who had been de fended by one of our young lawyers (who had been appointed by the court) received the highest penalty the law al lows for horse stealing, fifteen years. After the verdict was announced this lawyer was observed to speak excitedly to his client, whereupon the client stood up and told the judge that he looked to him for protection. Ilis Honor, Judge Noonan, replied that the sheriff would see that his rights were not interfered with. 'But that is not what I mean,' urged the prisoner. 'What do you mean?' inquired the judge, kindly. 'I want you to protect me. This young man you 'pinted to defend me says he is gwine to ask you to giye me a new trial, and I want you to protect me, judge.' And now that young lawyer tells people that he won't defend pauper criminals without being paid for it not even if Judge Noonan sends him to jail for refusing.— Siftings.
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