The Millheim Journal,
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY BY
tj. ;T. J It I vl-; 1-J.
Odice in tlio New Journal Building,
Penn St.jiearllartinan's foundry.
SI.OO PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE,
OR $1.25 IF NOT PAID IN ADVANCE.
AcccptaWe Corraioience Solicited
Address letters to MILLHEIM JOURNAL.
B USINESS CARDS
—i
IIARTER,
Auctioneer,
MILLHEIM, PA.
18. STOVER,"
J.
Auctioneer,
Madisonburg, Pa.
•ly H.REIFSNYDER,
Auctioneer,
MTLLTIEIM, PA.
YYT, J. W. STAM,
Physician & Surgeon
Office on Penn Street.
MILLHEIM, PA.
T\B.JQHH F. HARTEK,
Practical Dentist,
Office opposite the Methodist Church.
MAIN STREET, MILLEIM P A.
QR GEO. L. LEE,
Physician & Surgeon,
MADISONBURG, PA.
Office opposite the Public School House.
r. AUD, M. D.,
WOODWARD, PA.
gt). DEININGER,
Solary-Piiblie,
Journal office, Penn st., Millheim, Pa.
and other legal papers written aud
acknowledged at moderate charges.
J. 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.