Domoreic Yat Bellefonte, Pa., March 7, 1890. THE DYING HORSE. Fall back! Give him room to die! . Hard is the bed where he needs must lie. For his toilsome life this is the end, Has he no master—no loving friend! Is it here the old horse must welcome death, Where a gaping crowd watches every breath, Under the midsummer’s scorching sun? Is this his reward for work well done ? How his limbs shudder! How his eyes roll ! Seek they at last for a pitying soul ? Or only for quiet—quiet to die In some valley green, where a brook gur- gles by? No, he knows nothing of clover fields cool, Where cattle at noonday stand deep in the pool, He never wandered the pastures sweet— His roadway through life was the stony street. Cherished while work brought his owner gain, To strangers left in this hour of pain ; Deserted now that his task is over ; Not for his old days are the fields of clover. Not for him will the field lark sing, Nof for him the lush grasses spring ; Nor to him will liberty come, In his tired old age, in some country home. Here he must suffer—here he must die Under the midsummer’s scorching sky, Him the broad shade tree will never woo; He has known but the pavement his whole life through. Still we in our vaunted pride of soul Conceive no future, no restful goal, No ethereal pasture in regions blest Where the poor old horse may in spirit rest. —Chicago Ledger. . LIGHT IN THE EAST. Summer in Oatariois always delight ful, but that of 1885 was especially so. The long days with their hot noon- tides, had a tropical air about them that suggested palm groves, pome- granates and cinnamon. The nights were cool and refreshing, and the radi- ance of each sunset was eclipsed only by the splendor of the following sun- rise. The stars were brighter, and the moon gave a clearer light than ever before. The clouds, blown by freshen- ing winds, took new and fantastic shapes, and all nature, smiling in her supurb beauty, whispered, Behold me! It was on one of these fine summer days, in August, that the good steam- ship Alexandria touched at Massassa- gua Point on her way up from Montre- al. As the boat neared,a crowd of cam- pers stood upon the dock, all of whom displayed an air of happy indifference, excepting Mrs. Secord, who, leaning upon the arm of her son, gazed intently toward the passengers. Only one dis- embarked—-a lady of perhaps 40 years, dressed in French custume, Mrs. Se- cord recognized at once her sister, Mme. La Londe, whom she had last seen as Alice de Beaumont twenty years before. Of course there were em- braces and laughter and tears, and then more embraces, until finally the French widow was led away to a group of five tents, the summer home of the Secords. Mme. La Londe’s story is a short one. The first eighteen years of her life were epent with her parents in Ottawa. She was sent then to Montreal to study, and there made her home with a married sister, who was ten years her senior. Two years latter there came to visit at her sister's house an old friend of the family, Mr. George Carpenter, a man perhaps 50 years of age. Mr. Carpenter had a small in- come, to which he added by doing lit- erary work occasionally. He was a bachelor, and had not a relative in the world excepting a half sister in Austra- lia and two cousins in San Francisco. He was a talented man, with a warm heart and genial manner that endear- ed him to all who knew him. He loved every one in general, and gave this as a reason for never having loved any one in particular. But even Mr. George Carpenter was susceptible to the charms of the light hearted Alice de Beaumont—*‘the child of the morning,” he always called her, for she reminded him of the glad sunrise that he so much loved. So the man of fifty actually’ became in love with the girl of twenty, and, O lamentable thought! the girl of twenty became in love with the man of fifty. What was to be done? Mr. and Mrs. Secord talked the matter over and very wisely decided to “let them love.” So they loved. Mr. Carpenter was the happiest man in the world. His great heart throb- bed with a joy to which it had been a stranger for fifty years. He now lov- ed every one more than ever. All the street Arabs in Montreal learned to know him. The poor sought him for his money and the rich for bis mirth. “Spring and Autumn have gone fora stroll,” Mrs. Secord used to say to her husband when he would inquire for the lovers. “Half a century, my darling,” one day answered Mr. Carpenter as Alice wound her soft white arms around his neck and asked how long he had lived. “Am I too old?" he inquired,and then added, laughingly, “What matter swift- ly passing years if the heart remain young? My soul in spite of these years, is filled with a joyfulness to which it was a stranger in what was called my youth. You are my youth, the glad, golden morning of my life; while I have you I can never be old.” Of course Alice promised to marry the old man to whom she was all the world. Bat, strange to say, no oue had the courage to impart this bit of irfor- mation to Mr. and Mrs. de Beaumont, who were living a life of cold conven- tionality in Ottawa. It was finally de- cided that Mr. Carpenter himself should be the first to approach the sub- ject. But love had been allowed to slip out of the life of Papa de Beaumont and Mamma de Beaumont, and they were shocked at the thought of their daughter’ connection with one who had neither youth, nor a noble name, nor a fortune. Alice must leave Montreal at once. Then followed tears and entrea- ties innumerable. Mr. Secord insisted that Alice should remain, in spite of the opposition of her parents. It wae a time of great mourning, for the pa- rents refused to yield, and Alice 1:ft i Montreal “bearing in her heart a life long sorrow.” Three months later she | sailed with her parents for France, where, nine years afterwards, she mar- ried a fat man with a bald head, a big name and a bank account. M. Alfred Engene La Londe lived to see the fiith anniversary of his wedding day, then fell into his last sleep. Mme La Lon- de remained in Franceuntil the summer of 1885, when she came to her sister in Ontario. As soon as Mr. Carpenter fully real- ized his loss his grief was intense. He went at once to Ottawa, and, with all the earnestness of a man pleading for his life,implored the parents of Alice to favor him, But all his pleading passed for nothing with the fashionable pa- rents, and Mr. Carpenter returned to Montreal the most sorrowful man in the world. “The light in the east has gone out,” he would sometimes say to his friends. “I thought it was morning, and behold! it is midnight.” About the time of the death of M. Alfred Eugene La Londe the Secords left Montreal and came to Kingston to reside. Mr. Carpenter came with them. ! The family decided to spend the sum- mer of 1885 in camp at Maseassagua Point, and Mr, Carpenter—now nearly 70 years of age—agreed to accompany them. So preparations were made and the party pitched five tents on one of the most charming spots of this charm- ing Ontario. The tents were pitched close to the Bay of Quinto. All night the warm winds swayed gently to and fro the white canvas walls, and brought the sounds of steamships as they plowed the smoothed surface ofthe bay. Boat after boat passed by on its way to Mon- treal. Sometimes the sounds of musi- cal instruments were heard. Some- times voices sang in exquisite barmo- nies, that echoed among the trees stretching for three miles back of the tents. The moon rose over the bay mn solemn beauty, and gave her light so generously that no lamps were needed within the white walls. When all else was quiet there still could be heard the lapping of the waves upon the pebbled beach, and the occasional splashing of a fish in the bay. Mr. Carpenter roseat daybreak every morning and, passing Mrs. Secord’s tent, wandered up and down the beach. “He is waiting for the sunrise,” the lady would say to her husband as,draw- ing aside the door of her tent, she would watch the old man upon the shore, his long white beard blown aside by the wind that freshened from the the south. Mme. La Londe arrived in August. “Does he expect me ?”’ she asked of her sister when they were alone. “Not to-day,” answered Mrs. Secord ; “he snows that you are coming, but I did not tell him just when you would be here.” Then followed considerable planning as to how the gentleman should be in- formed of the arrival of his old sweet- heart. Alice's impulse was to rush to him at once. “I must see him,” she cried. “I have waited twenty years, and that is lodg enough.” “But my child,” answered Mrs. Secord, “the morning never breaks suddenly, the transition weunld be too severe, it would be paintul. We must give him the gray of the morning first and then the golden sunrize.” It was now late in the afternoon, so it was decided that Mrs. Secord should spend the night with her sister in the tent prepared for her, and Alice should awaken at daybreak, herself, and, just as Mr. Carpenter was passing, allow him to hear her voice in some old, fa- miliar song. The family thought the arrangement a fine one, so the little widow was kept out of sight all the evening. Mr. Carpenter thought he noticed an unusual excitement on the part of different members of the family, and he said to himself; “Sheis com- ing! Thereis light in the east!” The next morning was a glorious one. The air was sweet with a frag- rance of wild flowers, and the soft breeze brought the sound of sheep bells from the distant fold. When Mr. Car- penter passed the tent where the ladies had spent the night, he heard a voice which at first he thought to be Mrs. Secord’s, but, listening again, he recog- nized an old song which he had sung scores of times to Alice in the long ago. Could it be—it must be—and yet ? The old man held his head with his hands and sank down upon a rude bench near by. Then came the voice again, sweet- er than any he had ever heard, fuller and deeper, and trembling with emo- tion, singing the old song : “There’s Ij A Sn ht in the east; lo! tis morning, ight shines than the light of yon sky. . Transcendent the beam of thy love laden eye! Eclipsing the light of the morning. “The world is awake, birds are singing A melody sweeter sing thou to my soul, And all thro' my being the music will roll, My heartis awake! come with singing I” Long before Alice had finished the song the good man had fallen to his knees, and, with tears streaming down his face, was now murmuring, “God of the morning ! receive the thanksgiving of the heart too full for ut: erance.” Alice gave a joyful cry and rushed to him. He held her to his breast for some moments, then led her away to his tent. Of course the family were all astir by this time. When they had break- fasted Mr. Secord took a boat and a pair of strong oars, and rowed hastily to Belleville. From there he sent this telegram to their clergyman in King- ston: “Autumn and Winter have met. Come at once.” The clergyman arrived, and the next morning, standing besides the wa- ters of the Bay of Quinte and bathed in the glorious light of an unclouded sun- rise, these two happy ones were united forever. Mr. Carpenter lived until the sum- mer of 1889. “There will never be any more night,” he often said ; “it will al- ways be morning, either here or there.” When he died the shadows tell around Alice, but only for a short time, for soon she closed her eyes to the autum- nal tints of her life and opened them to | | | the beauties of an eternal springtime.— Eva Rose York, in Toronto Globe. Uncle Silas’ Way. A Satisfactory and Successful Civil-Ser- vice Examination. “Tut-tut-tut! exclaimed old Silas ‘Wetherel, as he entered his office one morning. He had advertised for a boy, and no less than twenty applicants were present. After a cursory examination, he dis- missed all of them but three, who were about the same age. Two of them, Fred Baylis and Harry St. Clair, were evidently the sons of well-to-do parents. The attire of the other boy, whose name was Charley Benson, indicated that he belonged to the poorer class. “Well, I want but one boy,” Uncle Silas said, as he settled down into his | chair, a ruminating.look on his face. “How am I to make a selection ?’’ He was a stout, jovial, loud-voic:d gentleman, eccentric in his ways, partial to boys, and always ready to “poke fun” at them. : “We'll have a civil-service examina- tion,”” he announced, a flash of humor brightening his face. “Where is the ‘Westminster Abby of America?’ That was a puzzler, and the boys glanced into one another’s faces. ‘At Cambridge,” Fred Baylis hesitat- inly said. “At Princeton,” suggested Harry St. Clair. “I don’tknow,’” was Charlie Benson’s -reply. ‘Question number two,” Uncle Silas said. “How is the word ‘so-met-i-mes’ pronounced ?’’ and he spelled the word with the pauses indicated. “So-met-i-mes,” replied Fred Baylis, plunging headlong into the trap set for him. “It is Latin, isn’t it?’ asked Harry St. Clair. “T would pronounce it some-times,” said Charlie Benson. Uncle Silas laughed Heartly, and Fred and Harry grew red in the face. “Please hang this picture,” Uncle Silas said, as he offered Harry St. Clair a small picture, and pointed to the wall. No sooner had Harry complied than he was ordered to return to his desk. “Where was it that twenty-seven thousand men were killed by the falling of a wall?’ asked Uncle Silas. It was an odd question, and rather an indefinite one. “I don’t know,” frankly admitted Harry St. Clair. “I never heard ‘of such a dreadful ac- cident,” said Fred. “An account of it is given in the Bi- ble,” quietly replied Charlie Benson. Uncle Silas flung up his head in a : pleased way. “Where?” he asked. “In the first Book of Kings. pened in the city of Aphek.” “How many Israelites were killed 7’ “None, sir,” replied Charlie. “They were Syrians.” “You are right,” declared Uncle Silas. He rubbed the end of his nose for a few moments, and then, designating Fred, ordered him to hang up the pic- ture. Fred cornplied but thought it a funny proceeding. “You may bring it to me again,” Uncle Silas said. The picture on his desk once more, he asked: “Is this a correct sentence: “Your trunk has come ?"’ A short silence ensued. “Tt is, said Fred Baylis. “Tt is,” declared Harry St. Clair. Uncle Silas looked at Charlie Benson, who said. “It is grammatically correct.” “But is it correct.” “Tt isn’t a correct statement,” Charlie slowly said. “A trunk is an inanimate thing. It can notcome. To say ‘your trunk has been bronght’ would be more precise.” : “Pretty well taken,” Uncle Silas said, laughingly. “Of course, I thought you meant its grammatical construction,” Fred re- marked. “It is a quibble,” declared Harry. “Please hang up this picture.” Uncle Silas said, extending 1t to Charlie, who complied with the re- quest, and it was not followed with an- other to return it. “I am sorry that two of you are to be disappointed,” Uncle Silas said. “But how can I help it? There are three nails in the wall. Master Benson hung it on the proper one, with deliberation and an artistic eye. You will observe that it is equally distant from the cor- ners of the wall, and the same height from the border that the other pictures are. It was a trifling test, but there is a good deal in it. I have concluded to engage Charlie Benson.” “All right!” said Fred, rising. “Good for Charlie Benson; he scored one every time!” “Twas a fair field, and you won,every time! good for you, old fellow!” said Harry. The boys showed their admiration in their eyes, and Uncle Silas leaned back in his chair and beamed on them as they bowed themselves out. “Your re- marks do you credit, voungsters—good day! good-day!” said he.—Frank H. Stauffer, in Wide- Awake. Unlocked. It hap The deadlock in the Towa Legislature has at last ended in a compromise by which the Democrats have secured the Speakership snd a few of the minor offices ; the Republicans taking all the other offices and the control of five of the important committees. The Repub- licans have gaired possession of the channels of party legislation, but with the two parties equally divided in the ; House there is little danger that extreme measures will be presented by either. The Democratic Governor will now be inaugurated, and the selection of a United States Senator to succeed Mr. Allison proceeded with. It would be a huge joke if Allison would be knocked out although he 1s the caucus nominee. ——The wealthiest class in the Unit- ed States is considered to be vastly richer than the wealthiest class in Great Brit- ain. The average annual income of the richest one hundred Englishmen is Machine-Made Ice. How It is Produced in the Factories at New Orleans. The machinery and apparatus required for making ice commercially from an extensive plant, says Harper's Weekly. There must be a powerful engine to drive the pumps, great iron retorts to to hold the aqua ammonia and generate the gas, and to receive it again; a long system of pipe coils for the circulation of the gas, and extensive vats in which the ice-cans are placed and the ice formed. The process is simple in its philoso- phy, and depends upon the heat-absorb- ing power of a substance which is ex- panded after great condensation. The substance used in this case is ammonia. Mixed with water to the amount of? ; per cent., it is placed in one or more cylinders or retorts which contain coils of pipe. Into these pipes steam is sent heating the contents of the retort until the ammonia is separated from the wa- ter and forced out into another retort, where it is subjected to a pressure of something over 200 poundsto the square inch, under which it liquefies. In another room, which has double walls and ceiling and protected doors, as in a refrigerator, are arranged one or may be several vats, each perhaps 50 feet square and 10 high, in which are suspended from the top frame or cover- ing as many cans, made of galvanized iron, as the space will accommodate. A convenient size is a can about 4 feet high 8 inches wide one way and 16 inches the other, which will hold a cake weighing just 200 pounds. Some, how- ever, are much larger than this, as is the case in some of the New Orleans fac- tories, where the cakes are slabs extend- ing clear across the vat which need to be sawed up before marketing. Be- tween all these cans, as they hang in the vat, pass lines of iron pipe, connected with mains outside that lead from the retorts and the whole vat is filled with brine ; so that when the cans are all in place the space between them is filled with salt water, in which they are im- mersed up to their rims. This brine is kept in motion by pumps, so as to main- tain a uniform temperature throughout. Sich is the whole apparatus for man- ufacture. Inthe great condensation to which the ammonia gas has been sub- jected in order to liquefy it, it has been obliged to part with its heat and the large pipes in which it is carried to the vats are white with frost, showing how cold they are. ‘When ice is to be made the cans are filled with distilled water- -the machin- ery for producing which is a part of the plant—and covered with thick caps. Then the stop-cocks are turned and the ammonia admitted from the main pipe into the coils that run throughout the brine in the vat. The instant the tremendous pressure is relieved by opening the stop-cocks, ‘the liqued ammonia expands into gas, and rushes to fill every coil of the pipes. In this expansion it must reassume the amount of heat it parted with when un- dergoing condensation, and it extracts it from the surrounding brine, which presently becomes so cold that it’ in turn extracts all the heat there is in the distilled water within the cans, which at once bezin to congeal, as would the water outside the cans were it not saline and in motion. In a few hours each can is found to contain a block of solid ice. A travel- ins pulley is then rolled over it, hooks are fastened in the can; it is hoisted out of the vat, lowered for a moment into a bath of warm water to loosen the ice, and then upset, whereupon the block slides out, and is taken away to be stored, or put into a delivery wagon, or divided into smaller blocks. A perfect block of such ice is as white, transparent and flawless as a cube of flint glass—a perfection due to the absence of any air whatever in the distilled water from which it is made. Spring or hydrant water, however pure, will not answer here, as it contains so much air that the ice would look like snow, and have little solidity