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McGBUM & WEBN.
VOL 9
fHE ALTOONA TRIBUNE,
- B.C.DBBN,
* *;»C*Wfr Es aJ p , o „ u „-u.
. (M «ble lw»ri»My in »dwu»ee,).... r $1 M
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~.r for ouch I “ sctto ll' ffionth , i 6 month.. lye»r.
1 50 $ 8 00 $4 00
2 50 4 00 "00
4 00 8 00 10 00
' " 6 00 ' 8 00 12 00
6 00 10 00 14 00
‘ io 00 14 00 BO 00
Six Hue* or less.
Oaf *6naro
Two ~••••
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Four •*•••♦•
Half » oolnmn... M £' 4€| 00
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..ssr."“i“xSKa v«-sa-ti.
.TESTS," SSSA'SSZ*
Obituary notice* exceeding tenjlinee, fifty cenw aequare
WAR-TIME
BY PHKBE CART
Oh 1 my bird, my boautifn 1 bird!
Sing no more to-day;
The saddest maided under the sun
1 must be, till this weary war in done
For my tover has gone
Ah! your voice could never drop as it does
Doacu-fcbrougliAhoee slender bars:
If you ever had a soldier lad,
And be was all the friend you had,
And wia gone away to tho wan.
You are quiet now I too quiet, my bird,
To suit mj restless mood:
Tis fearful to feel the homw.so still,
dingbat again, till you sing your All: .
I shall die with solitude !
Yet low! sing low, while he is gone
to fight for the stripes and stars ;
I would ,uot hear your voice ring out.
Till it'blends itself with the nation’s shout,
When my lover comes from the wars.
You most sing for ua both in that blessed'day
When I welcome my soldier boy;
For my eyes will be dim with the happy tear,
And my heart will come to mydip so near,
That 1 cannot speak for joy!
INCONNU
What,is fancy! ’tin a dream,
Around which hope still Ungers.
A thought or bliss a sonny beam,
Uuilded by fairy finger*.
What is life J a trauleat brealb.
The ceaseless aagaish of decay,
A quickstep for the'march of death,
Greatness of yesterday*.
What’s a spirit? hath It form?
Who marfcathe pathway it baa trod?
The whirlwind’* voice, the howling storm.
Shadow of the unseen God.
And what is hope? a twinkling star.
A promise in the bow of,heaven,
A radiant light that shines afar.
A pledge of sins forgiven.
What is death? go ask the tomb;
The silence of oar woes.
The mourning % modem's peaceful home,
The weary world's repose.
Rternity 1 and what art thou ?
The dew drop in ten. thousand years,
The spirit’s home, the. good man’s vow,
Ihe balm of sorrow’s tears.
ItM |ps«Ua«g.
FINDING A HUSBAND
“ Uncle may I ride Milo ?” I said
.one bright June morning, as we sat
at the breakfast table !
“Ride Milo!” ,
“Yes! it’s such a beautiful day.”
“ But he’ll throw you!”
“Throw me!” And I laughed
merrily incredulously. “Spy
yes, uncle dear,” I continued, coax
ingly, “there’s nothing to fear; and
I am dying for a canter.”
“You’ll die of a canter then,” he
retorted, with his grim wit, ‘‘for
he’ll break your neck. The horse
has ohly been ridden three times,
twice by myself and once by Joe.”
‘‘But you’ve often said I was a
better rider than Joe.” Joe was
the stable boy. “That’s a good
uncle, now do.” And I threw my
arms about his neck and kissed him.
I knew, by experience, that when
I did this I generally carried the
day. My unde tried to look stem,
but I saw he was relenting. He
made a last effort, however, to deny
me, \
“ Why not take Dobbin ?” he said.
‘‘Dobbin!” I cried. “Old snail
paced Dobbin, on ‘such a morning
a* this. One might as Urell ride a
rocking horse at once.”
“ Well,-well,” said he, “if I must
I must. You'll tease the life out of
me if I don’t let you have your own
way. I wish you’d get a husband,
you minx, you’r growing beyond
lUy control.”
“Humph! A husband. “Well
sipp yoa say so, Til begin to look
b\»ybr one io-day, '
“ He’ll soon repent of his bargain,”
said my uncle.; but his smile belied
hisf words. u You’re As cross as pie-*
crust if you can’t have your way.
There,” seeing I was tibout to speak,
“go get -ready', while I tell Joe to
dhddle Milo. You’ll set the house
afire if I don’t send you off.”
Milo was soon at the door, a gay
mettlesome colt, who laid his ears
back as I mounted, And gave.me a
vicious look I did not quite like.
■ ‘‘Take care” said my uncle. “It’s
not too late yet to give it up.”
I was piqued.
I never give up anything,” I said.
“Not even the finding of a bus-v
band, eh?” i
“No. I'll ride down to the poor
house and ask old Toby, the octo
genarian pauper, to have me : and
you'll be forced to hire Poll Wilks
tocookyour dinner.” = And as I said
this,my eyes twinkled mischieviously
for uncle was an old bachelor, who
jtested all strange women, and held
an especial aversion to Poll Wilkes,
a sour old maid of .forty-seven, be
cause years ago she had plotted to
entrap him into matrimony. Before
he could reply, I gave Milo his head.
John Gilpin, we arc told, went
fast; but I went fasten. At first I
tried to cheek his speed ; but he got
the bit in his teeth; and all I could
do was to hold on and-trust to tiring
him out. Trees, fences and houses
went by like wild pigions on the
wing. As long as the road was
clear, we did well enough, but sud
denly coming to a blasted oak, that
Started out, spectre like, from the
edge of a wood, Milo? slued, twis
ted half around and planted stub
bornly in the ground, I did not
know I was falling till I felt myself
m a mud hole which lay at one side
of the road. ■ * :
Here was a tine, end to my boas
ted horsemanship! But as the mud
tvas soft, I was not hurt, and the
ludicrous spectacle I presented, soon
got the upper hand of my vexation.
“A fine chance I have of finding
a husband in this condition, ’ I said
to myself, recalling my jest with
uncle. “If I see some mud dryad
now, and pass myself off for a mud
nymph, I might have a chance.”
And I began to pick myself up.
“Shall I help you* Miss?” sud
denly said a deep, rich; manly voice.
I looked up and saw a young
man, the expression of whose blach
eyes brought the blood to my cheek,
and made me, for an instant, asham
ed and angry. But ion glancing
again at my dress, I could not help
laughing in spite of myself. I stood
id the mud, at least six inches above
the tops of my shoes. My riding
skirt was plastered all over, so that
it was plmost impossible to tell of
what it |was made. My hands and
ajrms were mud to he. elbows, for
I had instinctively extended them
as I fell, in order to save myself.
; The young man, as he spoke tur
ned to the neighboring fence, and
tjaking off the top fail, placed it across
the puddle, then putting his arm
around my waist, he lifted me out,
though not: without; leaving’ my
ajhioes behind. While he was fish
ipg these put, which he began Im
mediately to do, I stole behind the
enormous old oak, to hide my blush
ing face, and; scrape the mud off’ my
stockings and riding skirt. 1 had
managed to get the first a , little
meaner, but the last was still as thick
as ever when my companion made
his appearance with the missing
shoes, which he had scraped till they
\ .here quite presentable, and leading
Milo by the bridle, ■
“Pray, let me see you home,” he
said, “if you will mount again, I’ll
Ijead the colt; and there wul be no
chance for bis repeating his tricks.”
] I could hot answer 'for shame.
But when in the saddle muttered
something about “not troubling
him.”
J “It’s no trouble, dot the least,”
he replied, standing hat in hand like a
knightly cavalier, and still retaining
his hold on the bridle, “and I really
can’t let you go alone, for he colt
js as vicious as he can be to-day.
hook at his ears and the red in his
eyes. I saw you coming down the
road, and expected vbu to be thrown
every minute, till I saw how well
you rode. Nor would it have hap
pened if he had’nt wheeled and
Stopped like a trick horse in a ,cir
pus.” . J ~'V 'I ;
J I cannot tell how soothing was
ALTOONA, PA., SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1864.
this graceful way of excusing my I
mishap., I stole a glance under my i
eyelids, at the speaker, and saw that i
he was very handsome and gentle-S
manly, and apparently about six j
and twenty, or several years older I
than myself. " !
I I had hoped that 5 uncle would be
out in the fields overlooking the
men ; but as we entered the gate, I
saw him sitting provokingly at the
open window; and by the time I
had sprung to the ground, he had
come out, his eyes prim full of mis
chief. I dared not to stop, but turn- \
ing to my escort, I said. “My uu-i
fcle, sir; won’t you walk in V” and!
then rushed up stairs. i
In about half an hour, just as I
was dressed, there was a knock at
my door, my uncle’s knock. I could
not but opeii. He was -laughing a
low silent laugh, his portly body |
shaking all oyer with , suppressed
merriment;' |
“Ah! ready at last,’’ he said.
“ I began to despair of you, you were
■iso long, and came to hasten you.
He’s waiting in the parlor-still,” he
saidiu a malicious whisper. “You’ve
my consent, for I like him hugely,
only who’d have thought of find
ing a husbgnd in a mudpuddle?”
I slipt passed my tormentor, pre
ferring to face even my escort, than
to run the gauntlet of uncle’s wit;
and was soon stammering my thanks
to Mr, Templeton, for as such my
uncle, who followed me down, intro
duced him.
To make short of wlxat else w,ould
make a long story, what was in jest
turned out to be earnest; for in less
than six mouths, in that very room, I
stood up to become Mrs. Templeton.
How it all came about I hardly
-know. But I certainly did find a
husband on that day. Harry, for
that is the name by which I call Mr.
Templeton, says that I entered the
parlor so transformed, my light blue
tissue floating about me so like a
cloudwreatb, my cheeks so rosy, my"
eyes so bright, my curls playing
such hide and seek about my face,
that, not expecting such an appari
tion, he lost his heart at once. He
adds, for he still knows how to com
pliment as well as ever, that my
gay, yet intelligent talk, so differ
ent from the demure Miss he had
expected, completed the buisness.
Harry was the son of an old
neighbor, who had been abroad for
three years, and before that had
been at college, so that I had
never seen him, but uncle remem
bered him at once, and had insisted
on his staying until I came down,
though Harry, from delicacy, would
have left after an inquiry about my
health. My uncle was one of those
who null not be put off’, and so Harry
remained, “the luckiest thing,” said
he, “I ever did.”
Milo is now my favorite steed,
for Harry broke him for me, and we
are all as happy as the day is long,
uncle included; for uncle insisted on
our living with him, and I told him
I would consent, “if oply tokeepPoll
Wilkes from cooking his dinners. ,J
To which he answered, looking at
Harry, you see what a little spitfire
she is, and you may bless your stars
if you don’t rue the day she went
but to find a husband.”
Witty. —Said the second wife of
the witty J udge S -, in a reproach
ful way, as the horse was drawing
them up the hill, “My father al
ways walks up all the hills.” “So
did my first wife,” was the reply.
“There,” said Mrs. , giving him
some trifle, “that is in return for
your abuse.” “Yes,” said he, you
are like the scandal tree, that sheds
its sweetness on the axe that cuts it
down.” “ Then you intend to kill
me, do you ? When do you mean
to do it?” “Hot till you are good;
I think you can’t have a better ser
curity for your life.”
ggp* The assistant whom Blon
din was wont to carry on his back
across the Niagara was a Milanese,
who breaking down in his affairs,
resolved to commit suicide. Blon
din got him to be his assistant in
his perilous feat by the following
logic: “Ifwe go down, very good;
you are drowned according to your
intention; if you arrive on the other
side, the fortune pf both is made.”
The terrible feat was accomplished,
and the two friends have since been
inseparable companions.
[iJTDEPERDEKT IK EVERYTHING.]
The Great American Showman Re
turns fromJMifernla i
HIB OI'IKIOK OH MATTERS AHD THINGS OBVKBALI.T.
The stoodent arid connyseer must
have noticed and admired ip vans
parts of the United States of Amer-.
ica, large yaller handbills, which not
only air gems of art in theirselves,
but they troothfully sit! forth the-at
tractions of my show—a show, let
me here observe, that contains many
livin’ wild animiles, every one ot
which has got a Bootiful Moral.
Thera handbills is scuipt iu New
York.
& I aimoolly repair here to git
some more on ’uni;
&, bein’ here, I tho’t I’d issue a
Address to the Public on matters aiid
things.
Since last I meyaudered these
streets, I have bin all over the Pa
cific Slopes and Utah. I cum back
now, with my virtoo unimpaired, but
then I’ve to git some new clothes.
Many changes have taken place
even durin’ my short absence, and
sum on ’em is Solium to contemplate.
The house in Yarveck street, where
I used to board, is bein torn down.
That house, which was rendered me
morable by me livin’ into it, is ‘par
sin’away, parsin’ a\Vay! ’ But sum
of the timbers will be made into
canes, which will be Sold to my ad
mirers at the low price of one dollar
each. Thus is changes goin on con
tiuerally. In the Hew World it is
war—in the Old World Empires is
totterin’ & Dysenteries is crumblin’.
Thes canes is cheap at a dollar.
Sammy Booth, Duane street, sculps
my hanbills, & he’s a artist. lie
studid in Rome—State of Hew York.
I’m here to read the proof-sheets
of my handbills as fast as they’re
sculpt. You have to watch these
printers purty close, for they’re jest
as apt to spel a word roug as anyhow.
But I have time to' look round
sum, and how do I find things V I
return to the Atlantic States after a
absence of ten months, and what
State do I find the country in ?
Why, I don’t know what State I find
it in. Suffice to say, that Ido not
find it in the State of Hew Jersey.
I find some things that is cheerful,
partick’ly the resolve on the part of
the wimmen of America to stop
wearin’ furrin goods.
I never meddle with my wife’s
things. She may wear muslin from
Greenland’s icy mountains, andbom
bazeen from Ihjy’s coral strands if she
wants to; but lam glad to state that
that superior woman has peeled oft’
all her her furrin cloths and jumpt
into fabrics of domestic manifactur.
But, says sum folks, ef you stop
importin’ things you stop the Reve
noo. That’s all right. We can
stand it if the Bevenoo can. On the
same principle young men should
continer to get drunk bn French
brandy, and to make their livers as
dry as a corn cob with Cuby cigars,
because 4--sooth if they don’t it will
hurt the Revenoo. This talk ’bout
the Revenoo is of the bosh boshy.
One thing is tolerably certain—ifwe
don’t send gold out of the country
we shall have the consolashun of
knowing that it is in the country.—
So I say great credit is dob the wim
min for this patriotic move—and to
tell the truth, the wimmin general
ly know what they’re ’bout. Of all
blessens they air soothinest. If
there’d neyer bin any wimmin where
would my children be to-day ?
But I hope this move will lead to
other moves that air jest as much
needed; one of which is a general
and thorrer curtainment of expenses
all round. The fact is, we air gettin’
ter’bly extravagant, and onless we
paws in our mad in less than
two years the Goldess of Liberty will
be seen dodgin’ into a Pawn Broker’s
shop with the other gown don© up
in a bundle,' even if she don’t have
to Spout the gold stars in her head
band. Let us all take hold jintly,
and live and dress centsibly, like our
fourfothers, who know’d moren we
do, if they warnt quite so honest!
(Suttle goaketh.) |
There air other cheerin signs. We
don’t, for intuns, lack great Gen’rals,
and we certainly don’t lack brave
soljere—but then there’s one thing I
wish we did lack, and that is so ma
ny pisin Copperheads.
Them who think thata cane made
from the timbers of the house I once
boarded in is essenshal to their hap-
piness, should not delay about aend
m’ the money right on for one.
And now] with a genuine hurrar
for the wimin who are goin’ to aban
don. JEurrin goods, anA another for
the patriotic everywheres. I’ll leave
public matters and indulge in a litr
tie pleasau family gossip.
My reported capture by the North
American saxijis of Utah, led my
wide circle of triends and creditors
to think I had bid adoo to earthly
things, and was an angel playin’ on
a golden harp, Bents my ’nval home
was onexpected. j
It wfis 11 P, M. when I reached
my homestid and knodt a
kfiock on the door thereof.
A nightcap thrusted itself out of
the front chamber window* (It was
my Betsy’s nightcap.) and a voice
said:
“Who is it ?”
“It’s aman,” XansUredin agrufvois.
“I don’t beleeve it!” she sed.
“Then come down and search me, ’’
I replied.
Then resumin’ mynot’ral voice, I
sed “It is your own A. W., Betsy!
Sweet lady, wake! Ever of thou!”
“Oh,” she said, “It’syou,is iff I
tho’t I smelt something,”
But the old girl was glad to see me.
In the mornin’ I found that my
family were entertainin’ a artist from
Philadelphy, who was there paintin’
some startlirfwater falls and moun
tains, and I mbren suspected he had
a hankerin’ for my oldest dauter.
“ Mr. Skimmerhoru, father,” sed
my dauter.
“ Glad to see you sir,” Ireplied, in
a hospittle vois ; “glad to sep you.”
“He is an artist, father,” sed my
child.
“A which ist ?”
“A artist—a painter.”
“Andglazier ?” laskt. “Airyou
a painter and glazier/eh?”
My dauter and wife was mad, but
I could’nt held it; I felt in a comikil
mood.
“It’s a wonder to me,. Sir,” said
the artist, “considerin’ what a wide
spread reputation you have, that
some of our Eastern managers don’t
secure you.”
“ It’s a wonder to me, ” sed my wife,
that somebody don’t secure him with
a chain.
After breakfast I went over to
town to see my old friends. The ed
itor of The Bugle greeted me eord
yully and showed me the follerin’
article he’d just written about the
paper on the other side of the street:
“We hatfe recently put up in bur
office an entirely new sink, of unique
construction-—with two holes, thro’
which the soiled water may pass to
the new bucket underneath. What
will the hell hounds of The Adver
tiser say to this ? We shall continue
to make improvements as fast as our
rapidly increasing business may war
rant. Wonder whether a certain
editor’s wife thinks she can palm off
a brass watch-chain on this commu
nity! for a gold on© ?”
“That,’’saysthpEditor, “hitshim
whar he lives. That will close him
up as bad as it did when I wrote a
article redicoolin’ his sister, who’s
got a cock-eye.”
A few days arter my retem, X was
shown a young man, who says he’ll
be dam if hegbes to war. He was
settin’ on a Barrel, & was indeed a
loathsum objek. v „
Last Sunday I heard the Parson
Batkins preach, and the good, old
man preaches well, too, tho’ his pray
er was ruther lenghthy. The editor
of the Bugle, who was with me, sed
that* prayer would made fifteen
sqares, solid nonparil.
I don’t think of nothin’ more to
write about. So “B’leeve me if ail
those endearing young charms, ” &c.
A. WARD.
SraraiNG Bhtme. —An Editor not feel
ing very well the other day, be turned’
bis attention to poetry and Petersburg,
and here is th e revolt .-
Says U. S. Grant toRE. Lee—
“ Surrender Petersburg, to me.”
Says R. E. Lee to U. S. Grant—
“ Have Petersburg ’ Oh, no you shan’t.”
“ 1 shan’t V' said Grant, “Qh, very well-
You say I shan’t, 1 say I shell.”
yy-A brow-beatipg council as
ked a witness how far he had been
front ascertain place. “Just four
yards, two feet and six inches, was
therreply.” “ How came you to be
so exact, my friend ?” “Because I
ejected some fool or other would
ask me, so I measured it.”
EDITORS AND PBOI
Prison And Birds.—lt is Very
pleaaantto hare smgingHbsmhr in
oar house* and few peoplotbink
that tho littlesongstera might ©re
fer the opeu air and the woods to
the confinement of a cage. But one
who has been shut up in prison him
self understands it, like the sailor
in the following anecdote: “ Soon
after the close of the' long French
war in Europe, a boy stood tm one
of the bridges that cross the Thames
at London, with a number of small
birds in a cage for sale. A sailor
who was passing, observed the little
prisoners fluttering about the cage,
peeping anxiously through the wires,
and manifesting their eager desire
to regain their liberty. He stood
some time looking at the birds, ap
parently lost in thought; At length
addressing the boy, he said: “How
much do you ask for your birds, my
boy ?” “Sixpence, apiece sir.” I
don’t ask how much apiece,” said
the sailor; how much for the lot ?
I want to buy all hands.” The boy
made his calculations—they, came
to six “ There is your
money,” said the sailor; giving the
cash, which the boy received with
evident satisfaction. No sooner was
the bargain closed than the sailor
opened the cage door and let all the
birds fly away. The boy astonished,
exclaimed: “"Why did you do that,
sir ? You have lost all yous birds,’
I’ll tell you why I did it. I was
shut up three years in a French
prison, a prisoner of war, and l am
resolved never to see anything in
prison that I can make free.”
The Fibsi Napoleon.— W e never
thought Napoleon a bad man, but
the incident related below shows
that hie was a good one.! He at
once announces a decision and
a noble sentiment with the conden
sed brevity of command on the field
of battle.
The Minister of Marine recom
mended to the Emperior to cancel
the appointment of a young, man in
his department, on the ground that
his father was a man of bad charac
ter, and that one of his relations
had been convicted of crime. Na
poleon wrote [2oth February, 1805)
m the margim, “ Rejected. The
young man must be kept in his em
ployment. Faults are personal.”
“ Faints are personal. ’ ’ Haw just
a distinction, and prompt ain intui
tion. i
A Pennsylvania editor says,
“somebodody brought- a bottle of
sour water into our office, with a
request to notice it as lemon beer.
If Esau was green enough to sell
his birth-right for a mess of pottage,
it does not prove that we will ten a
four-shilling lie for five cents.”
The last joke at the expense
of the French Sofeiety for the pro
tection of animals is to the follow
ing effect. A countryman* armed
with an immense club, presents him
self before the President of the So
ciety and Maims the great prize.
He is asked to decribe the act Of
humanity on which he founds his
claim.
“ I saved the life of a wolf,” re
plied the countryman. “I-might
have easily 'killed him with this
bludgeon ;” and he swung the wea
pon in the air to the intense discom :
fort of the President.
“But where was the wolf?” in
quired the latter “whathas he done
to you ?”
“ Jle had just devoured my wife,”
was, the reply.
The President reflected a moment,
and then said:
“My friend, I am of opinion that
you have “been sufficiently rewar
ded.”
Love. Love is the weapon
which Omnipotence reserved to con
quer rebel man, when all else had
tailed. Reason:he parries; feir he
answers blow to blow; hut love—that
sun against whose, melting beams
winter cannot stand-that soft, subdu
ing slumber which wrestles with
the giantr—there is not one. hhtnWj).
creature in a million, not thong*
and men in earth’s large
whose clay heart is hardened against
love. I"’'
I is but ah’ inscription
on a grave glory; the
zeri on a coffinlid. • - - 1’
■ii-fp
■■-.(A' J. —j.
irf-.
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T' v,
»»:
NO. 25.