Millheim Journal. (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, May 27, 1886, Image 1

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    The Millheim Journal,
I|. A.
Office ia the New Journal Building,
Pena St.,nearHartman's foundry.
Acceptable Correspondence Solicited
Address letters to MILLHEIM JOURNAL.
Madisonburg, Pa.
J. W. ST AM,
Physician & Surgeon
Office on l'enn Street.
Practical Dentist,
Office opposite the Methodist Church.
Physician & Surgeon,
Office opposite the Public School House.
P. ARD, M. D..
Journal office, Penn st., Millheim, Pa.
49*Deedsand other legal papers written and
acknowledged at moderate charges.
Fashionable Barber,
Havinq had many years' of experiencee
the public can expect the best Icork mil
most modern accommodations.
Shop opposite Millheim Banking House
Fashionable Barber,
Corner Main & North streets, 2nd floor,
Millheim, Pa.
Shaving, Haircutting, Shampooning,
Dying, &c. done in the most satisfac
tory manner.
Jno.H. Onrls. C. M. Bower. Ellis L.Orvis
Office in Woodinga Building.
D. H. Hastings. W. F. Render.
Office on Allegheny Street, two doers east of
the office ocupied by the late firm of Yocum A
At the Office of Ex-Judge Hoy.
Practices in all the courts of Centre county
Special attention to Collections. Consultations
in German or English.
J A.Beaver. J. W.Gephart.
Office on Alleghany Street. North of High Street
Good Sample Room on First Floor. Free
Buss to and from all trains. Special rates to
witnesses and jurors.
House newly refitted and refurnished. Ev
erything done to make guests comfortable.
Ratesmodern** trouage respectfully solici
ted 5-ly
(Most Central Hotel in the city.)
Good sameple rooms for commercial Travel
•ers.on first floor.
R A. BUMILLER, Editor.
VOL. 00.
At One Soldier's drove.
How warm the day was, and bow si
lent the way. 1 bad ridden miles with
out meeting a human being. Yet it
was a fertile and populous northern
country I was passing through. Big,
roomy farmhouses sat upon shaded hill
tops, fair fields answered the sun's
warm glances with full crops, and cool
groves dotted the landscape here and
there, under whose drooping blanches
the lazy kine stood panting.
I entered a bit of cool, damp wood,
and let my horse move at his laziest
pace. 1 enjoyed the shade, but 1 felt a
loneliness and isolation the moment 1
was within it. Some woods are cheery
and refreshing, however thick and im
penetrable. This was moist, silent and
gruesome. Tiie sandy road was so
damp that my horse's feet made no
sound, and that added to the queer
sense of solemnity 1 felt. 1 passed
down a long, gently sloping hill into a
still more gloomy hollow. Under a
rude little bridge a struggling stream
of surface water slowly meudered, with
a melancholy sound, seekiug the far-off
The hill on the other side of the
bridge was steeper than the one I had
just descended. The top stretched out
into a broad table land, nearly half a
mile in length toward the north,though
it shelved off west of the road about
twenty yards into a diminutive valley.
To the right, near.the road.stood a dis
used,dilapidatedQuaker meeting house.
When I saw it I instantly understood
the Impressive loneliness of the wood.
No places are so full of mysteriously
sad influences as those wherein men
aDd women havedweltor met and then
abandoned. The loneliest mountain
side is not so lonely as a deserted house
though it stand in sight of cheery
homes. I am half afraid of ghosts in
such places—not weird and chilling
shapes exactly, but ghosts of the hopes,
ioys,sorrows and sins which were there
born and which there died.
This rude old meeting house, tin
painted, decaying and grim as a primi
tive law, made the gloomy wood still
more desolate. An unfrequented road
crosses another a few yards north of it;
trees sighed about it ; moss grew upon
its lotted roof, and wild grass and
briars clambered about its sunken door
step. It told its mournful story with
out the aid of words. The plainly
habited,honest people who met beneath
its roof iu the past had vanished from
the earth, and their descendants were
scattered or had departed from the faith
of their fathers and belonged to the
world's people. I stopped to look at it,
held by a sad fascination.
A shrill whistle interrupted my
reverie, and scattered the ghosts of the
silent landscape. Turning to my left I
saw a boy climbing a bitof shaky fence.
The climbing was a self-imposing task,
and was evidently indulged in for the
sole purpose of adding interest to the
occasion, whatever it was, since an un
steady gate swung open but a few feet
farther on. He wore an enormous
straw hat, gayly decorated with grasses
and roses, and carried in one hand a
big basket, heaped full of flowers, old
fashioned flowers, old time roses, May
pinks, lilacs, blue bells, snow balls,
Deonies and honeysuckles. The other
hand waved a brilliant half-grown flag,
and on the end of the basket a very
small flag had been clumsily sewn.
Altogether, this bright eyed infant
had a festal appearance in strong con
trast to the gloom and silence of the
scene. He whistled a bar from the
"Star-Spangled Banner," emphasizing
it by waving the flag energetically. He
seated himself on the top rail of the
fence and eyed me with some interest,
though pretending not to see me. llis
bare, brown feet beat time to the meas
ure of the tune. lie struck up, in a
shrill treble :
I am a patriot true, sir;
Yes, I am; yes, I am!
A patriot firm and true, sir;
Yos, I am; yes, I am!
'I don't doubt it in the least,' I said,
attempting to bo sociable; 'indeed, you
look it every inch.'
A grimace was his only answer.
Still it was a friendly grimace. liis
dignity would not permit him to make
my acquaintance too easily. I must
make all the advances.
'Going to a picnic, are you not ?' I
asked, believing that the be3t way to
open a conversation with him would be
to take some interest in his affairs,
though I detest that method a3 applied
to myself.
'No—a strew,' he answered.
'A what ?'
'A strew,' he replied, with a little
annoyance in his yoice, 'a Decoration
day strew. Don't you know that this
is the day to decorate soldiers' graves—
the 30th of May ?'
'I had forgotten it,' I answered hum
bly. 'But where are there any soldiers'
graves ? Not near here, surely.'
He turned like a bird on the old
fence and pointed with the flag into a
mass of brambles.
'Not there V'
4 Yes, there. That's a graveyard—
the graveyard that belongs to the old
meeting house. Everybody that used
to go to meeting tlieie (pointing to the
house) is in here now (p noting again
toward the briars and weeds), so there
are no moie meetings.'
I looked at the giaveyard with pity
i".g interest. It was nothing but a
square patch of bramHe*, and rank,
dark weeds, inclosed by a bioken and
worm-eaten fence and surrounded by
the thick and silent wood. Nothing
could be more isolated from busy life,
more completely forgotten by the
world. No, not quite forgotten, for
here was the brown-legged I oy, with
his Ihg and iiis flowers, his whistle and
'But soldiers are not buried hero,' I
'One of them is,' the boy answered
with an accent of pride anil an ad
ditional wave of his flag. 'lt's his
grave that Missis Oilman is goiu' to
strew with these (lowers, though he
wasn't any relation of hers at all. He
was a captain, and he has a marble
headstone, the only one in the whole
graveyard. His company put it up.
It's getting a little old now, for he's
been dead nearly twenty-four years
died 'most fourteen years before I was
born.' lie rattled this off with child
like eagerness, happy in being the first
to tell a bit of something interesting to
'Were you iu the war V he asked.
'So was my gran'father. I have the
picture of a fight he was in. lie was
killed, too.' This with a special accent
of pride. It was something to be kill
ed, evidently, in his opinion.
Hiding close to the old fence I looked
over into the neglected place of the
dead and saw the edge of a marble
headstone and beside it the dark folds
of a woman's gown.
'Come in and see this soldier's graye,'
said the boy, glad of a new interest. I
hesitated. Tho occasion seemed too
sacred for the intrusion of a stranger ;
but he insisted so warmly that I left
ray horse and followed him into the
graveyard. His simple, but not undig
nified introduction made an apology to
the lady unnecessary.
'Misses Wilson,' lie said, gallantly
taking off his flower-trimmed hat, 'this
gentleman was in the war, and I've
asked him in to help put the flowers on
Capt. Rathbone's grave.'
We weie on the ground of common
sympathy at once. This woman was
110 longer young, but she was beautiful
with the beauty of a spirit that had
long dwelt on calm heights. She was
of the past, scarcely seeming to belong
to the present at all. Her soft black
silk and its laces, and even her face,
were of a fashion not new. She was
an old school-lady, with the gentle dig
nity and majesty of manner that indi
cate the old-school training.
'This is not my son's grave,' she said,
'but that of his dearest friend, and I
am the only one left here who knew
him or cares to lay a flower on the earth
that covers him.'
I bent to read the inscription on the
fast-dimming headstone :
To the memory
A true friend and brave soldier.
Tills stone is raised by Co. G. th Regiment,
Vol. 1., which he commanded.
The grave had been carefully tended.
Its rounded outlines and fresh, closely
trimmed sod made of it a green island
in a lake of disorder and neglect. The
pale old lady kueß down and began to
pick the (flowers from the basket and
reverently lay them upon the grave.
The boy, big eyed and silent,came soft
ly up and planted his flag at its head.
'Wilbur ltathbone was my son's
closest friend,' continued the old lady,
in a soft, sweet voice. 'They were
babies together, school-fellows, com
rades and friends. The home of each
was as much tho others as his own.
They spent almost every hour of their
time together for twenty years. They
grew alike in looks and manners,
though they were totally unlike in
character. Ev°n their Dames resemb'ed
each other. My boy was called Willis.
He was rash, impetuous, quick to an
ger and not easy to control. Wilbur
was brave but gentle, given to quiet
ways and of few words. He loved
music better than merrymaking, and
dogs, horses and birds better than the
society of most persons. I fancy I can
still hear the piano speak under his
fingers when I sit silent and alone in
my now childless and almost empty
house. And when the quiet of even
ing comes I sometimes close my eyes,
to blot out of my memory a quarter of
a century, and hear the notes from his
violin float over the hills. liis mother
and father, my good neighbor, lived
over there iu tho house whose chimneys
you can just see from here,' and she
pointed through a break in the wood.
'They are long since dead, and lie here
by tho side of their son. Tney were
not members of the Society of Friends
that mot in this little housi, but limit'
pit routs bad boon, and wlmn limy died
there was, after nil, no spot of ground
in which to bury thorn morn sacred
111 an tins, though it is so desolate—so
very, very desolate.
•But the Inys ! They were never
separated until afew months before the
war broke out. My son giew restless
and talked of going out into the world
and doing great things. Wo held him
here,his father and I, foolish souls that
we were, feeling that we could not let
him go; that to go once meant really to
go for ever. You know thai when
birds once try their wings they never
go back to the nest. And we had only
one other child, our girl, our Katie. At
last the pressure upon his restless spirit
rasped his ever quick temper, and lie
quarreled with his father, left us in the
uight without a word.'
She rose, turned her face away, and
stood so long silent that 1 thought she
meant to say 110 more.
But she went on presently, stooping
down and picking up a flower from the
soldier's grave. 'Never before had I a
trial like that. llis father had been
stern with him, I know, but he loved
him, and I loved them both, and now
anger raged in their hearts toward each
other. One was ?oing where I could
not help him, and the other hugged his
wrath in silence at home.
'Oh, the agony of those days ! One
by one they went by without bringing
a word from my boy. The hours sat
upon my heart like mountains. The
disgrace of it almost killed us. To
think that our son—our only son, whom
we so loyed—had fled from his home
like a thief in the night, and was wan
dering, we knew not where.'
'At last Wilbur came to me one day,
bringing a letter from Willis, which he
had sent within one to him. lie wrote
humbly to me, begging 1110 to forgive
his uuceremoniousdeparture and assur
ing me again and again of his love, but
said not a word of his father. His
heart was still full of auger toward
him, I could see. 1 have that letter
yet. I have read it a thousand times.
It was the last line I ever had from his
'He was in Georgia. Why he went
South Ido not yet understand. Per
haps it was accident ; perhaps it was
destiny. Even then there were rumors
of war. and in a short time it burst up
on the country in all its terror and hor
ror. These quiet hills echoed the
sounds of the bugle and the drum trom
morning till night. Down iu the town
companies were forming and regiments
waited to be ordered to the front. Wil
bur ltathbone commanded a company,
and waited in camp for au order to de
part. Before he left the news came
one day that our Willis had joined the
Confederate array; that he was captain
of a company under Longstreet. I
tried to doubt that awful story. 1
would not believe it—l could not. That
he had left us 111 anger was sorrow and
disgrace enough ; to know that he was
in arms against his and our country
was too great an affliction to bo calmly
borne. His father raved like a mad
man, and forbade us to speak of Willis
iu his presence.
'I SAW Wilbur march away with a
heart heavier than stone. If my boy
had only been with him, it seemed to
me 1 could have laughed from joy. But
now, these two whose lives had been
spent in brotherly companionship were
in arms against each other. The roll
of the drums sounded in my ears day
after clay and would not die out even
after every soldier had been seut 011 to
the south. I awoke night after night
from dreams of battles in which I saw
my Willis wounded and dying. Some-
Limes I called his name in my sleep and
his father's groans of anguish would
wake me.
'When the body of Wilbur ltathbone
was sent home, I envied his mother
her sorrow. He had died for his coun
try—died for freedom. I stood dry
eyed by his grave, loving him as a son,
and feeling that my own sorrow was
greater than death. My daughter died
a few months later. This affliction we
bort unmurmuringly ; but that other,
that unspeakable sonow, grieved us
'At last I, too, grew stem and unre
lenting toward my soil, I banished him
from my thoughts. I drove his memo
ry from my heart. 1 had no forgiye
ness for him. And so the years went
011— those awful years of the war when
the whole country mourned and suffer
ed. At last it was over. Peace came
and the country bound up its wounds
and began to live again. Nearly a year
later we learned that Willis had been
killed while fighting at Cbickamauga.
liis father's heart softened then, lie
wept and murmured affectionate ex
cuses for him. But I—l felt relieved
to know that I should never see his
iaco again. They talk about the death
less tenderness of a mother's heart ;
but mine had its day of hardness. Al-
I ways this thought stung me; I, a patri
ot, the daughter of patriots, was the
mother of a son who had defied his par
ents and fought against his country.
' Three years later my husband died,
and I was left alone, lie spowo of Wil
lis often in the last days of his life.
But I was silent.
Not till long, long after did 1 lind in
my heart forgiveness formyeriing son.
I realized at last, that I had no right to
judge him; that if he erred perhaps I
was to blame. I know now that, the
passions, sorrows and evils of life be
came as nothing in the sweep of time.
He was buried in the trenches ofChick
atnaugu. Lcaitnol lay a flower on his
grave, so I come on the day they honor
soldiers and lay my tributes on the
earth that covers the body of Wilbur,
bis best beloyed friend. Somehow I
teel that Willis understands and knows
that in my heart are flowers of affec
tion for him. They were both dear to
roe—very dear to me.
'Yes, he surely understands. 1 have
long felt that, and have long ceased to
grieve. Both my boys aie safe—safe
and dead. It is well with them.'
She ceased to speak, and stood with
her hand resting on the soldier's head
stone, her eyes seeing visions of tlu
past, and nothing of the present. The
hoy sat in the grass at the f<£>t of the
grave, with tears dripping down his
brown cheeks. The tale bad touched
him, little as he could understand the
deep tragedy of it. And I beard again
the clash and thunder of war, saw the
blazing lires of battle and felt, in \
rush of memory, the fierce fever of
those vanished days of carnage.
The boy followed me out to the road
side. 'Do you think,' be said, earnest
ly, as I mounted my horse, do you
think there will be another war here in
my time ?'
•1 think not ; I hope not,' I auswer
He looked disappointed. 'I want to
fight,' he said, eagerly; 'for I have a
sword that was my grandfather's.'
I rode away from that lonesome spot
full of sad thought. All contentions,
strife and anger seemed so needless ;
all suffering so gratutious. Yet, thank
God, peace and rest always come at
He Sketched with His Mouth.
Percy W. Hastings, of Lunenburg,
Mass., who won fame as an artist, al
though completely paralyzed below the
neck, is dead. He attended school at
Ashliurnham six years ago, where be
fell from a trapeze, striking upon bis
bask. It was two months before he
could be removed to his father's house.
Since the accident 011 June 3, 1880, Per
cy Hastings has had 110 use of his body
below the neck, as a result of the frac
ture of the third or fourth vertebrae.
To amuse himself, Percy learned to
hold the pen in his mouth. lie soon
succeeded in writing a good business
hand. Sketching was next in order.
An easel was attached to his reclining
chair and placed but a few inches from
his face. In sketching Percy met with
such signal success thai he tried paint
ing in water colors and made good
progiess. All attendant would prepare
his paints and place the brush in Per
cy's mouth. The principal work has
been the painting of flowers from na
ture The work has been on exhibi
tion many times and has received much
praise. The general size of the paint
ings has been about six by six, the ex
tent of the area that could be covered
by the motion of the head. Of these
paintings ; many readily sold for from
S3 to $5 each. Many persons are on
record as having been enabled to pro
duce almost phenomenal results by the
use of the mouth, but only with the use
of other portions of the body. Lunen
burg's young artist is the first illustra
tion of what can be accomplished by
the moutii alone.
Wit Saved Him.
A brigade was encamped near
Charleston, Va., says Allen F. Ilail, in
the Grand Army Sentinel, and a guard
had been detailed to protect the prop
erty of the citizens in the neighborhood
and strict orders given against forag
ing or taking anything without paying
for it. The colonel of one of the regi
ments was out one day with his staff
and all of a sudden he came upon a
private of his regiment with a sheep on
his back, evidently just killed. lie
rode up to the soldier and asked him :
'Where did you get that sheep V
lie answered : 'Up here in the field.'
'Did you buy him ?'
'No, sir ; 1 just killed him, so.'
'Why, don't you know that strict
orders have been issued against doing
anything like that V
'Yes, sir, I know it, and will tell you
how it was. I was going along the
road whistling the 'Star Spangled Ban
ner,' and this sheep held tip his head
and looked straight at me, and said,
'ba-a, ba-a,' and sir, I up and killed
him, as I won't allow anything to say
4 ba-a,' at me when I'm singing or
whistling the 'Star Spangled Banner.' '
It is needless to say the colonel told
I him to go ahead. The fellow's wit sav
ed him that time.
Terms, SIOO per Year, in Advance.
Making a Man Orthodox.
An olllcer in the Russian urmy, of
distinguished family, was striken down
with ;i lever while serving in Siberia,
lie finally became delirious, and the
doctors |ironounced the case hopeltss.
Nobody happened to know that ho was
a member of the Lutheran church, and
the priest sent for was orthodox. That
priest, in suite of the exp'.iet injunction
of his church, administered the sacra
ment to a man who was out of his
mind, and then performed the rile of
extreme unction. A few hours after
ward the crisis of the fe\er passed over
and the patient gaye evident signs of
recovery. The priest at once proclaim
ed to the neighborhood that,with God's
help, he had wrought a miracle, lie
that as it may, the ollioer steadily im
proved in health, and after some weeks
was strong enough to start for St Pe
Now mark what followed. In going
one day into the Protestant church, of
which he had long beeu a member, he
was greeted by his pastor that lie would
leaye the church and not bring upon
him the penalties which fell upon every
heterdox preacher who ministered to
the orthodox. On demanding in aston
ishment, an explanation, he was in
formed that the account of his'miracu
lous cure had been sent to the Synod,
which had warned his former Lutheran
pastor that the man was henceforth or
thodox. In vain he protested that he
had always been a member of the Lu
theran Church, that he bad never vol
untarily altered his faith, that the sac
rament and extreme miction had heen
administered to him when he was un
conscious. It made no difference—or
thodox he must he fcr the future ; and
a direct appeal to the Czar only elicited
the reply that his majesty could not in
terfere'with general regulations of the
Ecclesiastical Synod,which had already
received Ins imperial action. With
such power as this wielded by the
church, it ceases to be a wonder that
the Russian heterdox sects have never
united in a common movement. Far
more wonderful is it that dissent has
ever been able for one moihent to assert
- !!..! -*• "
Failed and Succeeded.
Men admit that 110 man is equally
great in all things. Yet they often do
see that a man's failure in one line of
work is no reason why he may not suc
ceed in a different calling.
An incident which occurred some
years ago in a London linen store illus
trates this blindness.
A young man, whose bluntness was
such that lie was of 110 use as a sales
man, was told that he did not suit and
must go. Seeking the head of the
house the youth said :
'Don't turn roe away ; I am good
for something.'
'You are good for nothing as sales
man,' replied the principal.
'I am sure 1 cau be useful,' continu
ed theyouth.
'IIow? Tell me liow ?'
'I don't know, sir „• I don't know.'
'Nor do I,' said the principal, laugh
ing at the boy's eagerness >nd ignor
'Don't put me away,' continued the
youth ; 'try me at something else. I
know I can't sell,but;l can make myself
useful somehow ; I know I can.'
Moved by his earnestness the princi
pal placed him in his counting-room.
Immediately his aptitude for figures
showed itself. 111 a few years he be
came the head cashier of the concern.
Throughout the country lie was known
as an eminent accountant.
What Made Him Feel so Bad.
'Job 11, do you remember coming home
last night and asking me to throw you
an assorted lot of key holes out of the
window, so that you might find one
large and steady enough to get your
latchkey in ?'
'Yes dear.'
'And you remember the night before
how you asked mo to come down and
hold the stone steps still enough for
you to step 011.'
'l r es, dear.'
, 'And the night before that how you
tried to jump into the bed as it passed
your corner of the room ?'
'Yes, dear.'
"And still another night when you
carefully explained to me that no man
was intoxicated as long as he could lie
down without holding on, and then at
tempted to go to bedlon a perpendicu
lar wal' ?'
'Yes, dear.'
'John, do you realize that you have
come home, sober but two nights in the
past week ?'
'Have I, dear ?'
'That's all; and you ought to be
ashamed of yourself,too. The idea of a
man of your age—But, John, why,
you're crying. There, there, dear, I
didn't mean to be too seyere. After
all, you did come home sober two
'Yes, that's what makes me feel so
And then the meeting adjourned.
NO. 21.
If subscribers order the discontinuation of
newspapers, the puollsliers may continue to
send them until all arrearages are paid.
If subscribers refuse or neglect totaVelheir
newspapers from Iheofllee to which they are sent
they are liehl responsible until they have settled
t he. hills and ordered I hem discontinued.
If subscribers move toother places without In
forming the publisher, and the newspapers are
sent to the former place, they are rcspoiiblbic.
l-i _ 1 _
1 wk. 1 mo. I.linos. 6inos. J ven
1 square *2 01) S4OO | S6OO s<s 00 s'soo
X " 700 1000 isoo woo 4000
1 " 1000 15 001 25 00 45 00 75 00
One Inch makes a square. Administrators
and Executors' Notices sr_'Ao. Transient, advei
tisements and locals 10 cents iter line far fti>t
insertion and 5 cents per line for each addition
al Insertion
Four Children Perriah in a
Burning Building.
The Mother, With Her Babe in Her
Arms, Leaps Through a Window
and Is Unhurt.
Akron, 0., May 19 —The little home
of Mrs. Mooney, a widow,about 3 miles
north of Akron, was burned to the
ground shortly before last midnight
and four of her children, the oldest 12
and the youngest 4 years, perished in
the flames. Mis. Mooney awoke in the
night to find herself choking with
smoke and snatching up lier baby of 2
years, told the other little ones who
were almost stifled to follow her. Mrs.
Mooney sprang out of the window with
the baby in her arms and landed almost
unhurt, the baby a'so receiving but
slight injuries. Lawrence Mooney,
aged 60, a brother-in-law of Mrs. Moon
ey, was awakened by the children's
cries and rushed out of the house only
to he told by the frantic mother that
her four little ones were still in the
burning building. Both mother and
uncle rushed 'into flames time ar.d
again, hut were beaten back. Mr.
Mooney at length falling exhausted and
terribly burned while the flesh on his
hand hung in shreds. It took hut a
few minutes longer for the crackling
flames to consume the little building
and this morning the charred ones were
found in the ruins. Lawrence Moon -
ey's injuries may prove fatal and Mrs.
Mooney and her two 'grown daughters
living in this city are wild with grief.
The S9OO insurance and the little patch
of ground is -all that is left to the
stricken mother. The fire caught from
an oyerheated stove.
Best Seasons for Planting.
How late we can sow or plant with a
reasonable prospect of getting a crop,
depends very much on the season, and
somewhat on the character of the soil.
We can plaut an early variety of pota
toes as late as the middle of June. But
you will, as a rule, get a far better crop
if planted in May. I have had good
corn planted the first week in June.
Rutabagas have done well sown the 4th
of July. Mansrold wurzels will pro
duce a moderate crop sown any time in
June, but if you want a big crop, sow
in May. I have had a very profitable
crop of beans planted the middle of
June. But of course we plant earlier if
we can get time to do the work. We
plant with a drill in rows thirty inches
apart and drop about six beans in hills
fifteen inches apart in the row. The
quautity of seed required per acre, de
pends on the size of the beans. The
white Boston Marrow beans require a
bushel per acre. Pea beans, three pecks
per acre. If you drill in the seed right
along the row, dropping the beans
about an inch apart, you require aboat
twice the quantity of seed. Some of
our bean growers think they get
enough larger crops to more than pay
for the extra seed, and for the extra
work in pulling the crop.— American
Agriculturist for May.
The Secret Out.
'Oh I've just made the funniest dis
covery.' said Mrs. Minks. 4 You know
my husband never would tell me what
they do at the secret societj he is a
member of ?'
•Yes; mine won't, either,' returned
Mrs Finks, sorrowfully.
'Well, yesterday a big cau of alcohol
came addressed to him for the lodge.
He is a past grand something or other
and takes care of things. Welt, I no
ticed him going up-stairs with some of
the alcohol, and when he got to his
room I peeped through the key hole,and
what do you think I saw ? He had the
alcohol lamp, and was putting salt on
the wick and it made the awfullest
ghastliest kind of a light. I was posi
tively scared out of my wits, he looked
so much like a goblin. I suppose they
do that at their initiations. I always
thought they had some horribly ghastly
'Did you ever!' exclaimed Mrs.
Finks, in a horrified tone. 'Well, I
might have known they used alcohol at
those secret meetings, for my husband
always comes home smelling dreadfully
strong of it.'
Giving a Housewife Points.
A careful housewife upon entering
her kitchen said to her colored cook ♦
"Great goodness, Jane, you must be
more careful. You are not clean enough
in your cooking."
"Lady," replied the cook, as she
took up a piece of beef that had fallen
on the floor, "I see that yer's gwine
ter act foolish wid me. Ain't yer got
nuthin' ter do 'cept ter Tool round out
heah ?"
"It's my business to come out here
"All light den, bab it yer own way,
but I wanter say one thing : If yer
wants ter 'Djoy yers9'f at de table an'
eat wider 'comin' apertite, yer'd bet
ter stay outen dis kitchen. Yas," she
added, as she wiped a dish with a dirty
rag, "yer'd better not nose rouu' heah,
for cookin' is er business wid me, an'
[ when er pusson is 'gaged iu business,
foolishness is awful tioublesome,"