Bellefonte, Pa., May 2, 1890.
THE ART OF COURTSHIP.
How to Change a Girl's Negative into an Affirm-
ative Answere.
So ye ast her, did ye, Cyrus? An’she answered
witha “No? ;
An’ ye think the world a sandy desert wilder-
ness of wee ? iL
An’ the wind is fall uy groanin’ an’ the air is
full uv pizen,
An’ there ain’t no blessed star uv hope peeps
over yer horizon ?
An’ the purty smellin’s roses look like tossils
on a hearse,
An’ the joys uv this probation you are findin®
very skurce,
An’ the birds sing funeral dirges to the ears
uv Gyrus Baker,
An’ the universe is lyin’ ready for the under-
taker.
Cyrus Baker, yer a flat, sir, an’ you couldn't
well be flatter;
The wey to get the girl ye love is jes’ by keep-
in’ at her, : :
All the purty dears are cur’us; this is jest the
way I view it;
That the gals would like to love yer, but
you've got to make ’em do it.
Don’t hang roun’ a lookin’ lonesome as an
icicle in June, :
An go-a-janglin’ through the worl’, a fliddle
out uv tune,
Jes’ call an’ see her now an' then, but don’t
get sentimental; i
Jes’ drop in once or twice a month, as if "twas
accidental.
But don’t do reg'lar courtin’, an don’t hang
roun’ an’ haunt her, :
An’ don’t say any words uv luv, however much
yer want ter; .
An’ ten to one she'll sweeten up, for Nancy
can’t stay soured,
An’ nex’ time she'll say “Yes” so quick that
you'll be overpowered.
An’ then the universe'll be brim full uv song
an’ praise,
The sky will be a flower patch stuck full uv
star bouquets,
The wind'll be a fiddler playin’ tunes upon the
grass, :
An’ he'll playshis jolliest music wen you an’
Nancy pass. :
—Springfield (Mass) Union.
MORE THAN HIS MATCH.
One morning, the customers who
came to Beckett's mill with their
‘turns’ were a little surprised to find
the mill door closed and written no-
tice posted thereon, which read :
‘Mill closed on account of wife dyin’.
Have to go to burryin’ over to Coon
Run Meetin’ House. Will be back in
two hours: Sam Beckett.
Two or three cnstomers, who had
come from the extreme end of ‘Possum
Ridge, concluded to wait for Beckett's
return rather than to make the trip
again ; and so, tying their horses, they
sat down on a log and fel! into afriend-
ly chat.
I'll tell you what,fellers,’ Rial Hard-
er said, after the weather and the crops
had been discussed, ‘the takin’ off of
old Sam’s woman is pretty doggoned
suddint, ain’t it ?’
“Yes, it air, Rial, fur a fact, Dan
Hawkins replied. ‘Reckon there warn’t
nobody spectin’it.’
‘No; and I guess old Sam hadn’t
figured on it any hisself.’
‘Wonder if it'll git Sam down much ?’
‘Reckon not bad. You see, when a
feller's buried four wives, he naterally
gits sort 0’ used to it, and the takin’ off
of the fifth hain't likely to go so hard
with him as it would if she was the
first. It's all in bein’ used to things.’
“Yes, that's so, Rial. And if a feller
ever gits used to wives a-dyn’, I guess
Sam ought to be. There ain’t many
men as kin boast o’ buryin’ five of ’em
hand-runnin’.’
‘No, there ain't many, Dan, that’s
so. Wonder who Sam’ll marry next
time ?’
‘Lor’, I hain’t no ide. Nobody ever
thought of him marry'n’ any of them
women he has married. Seems like
he has a mighty takin’ way with the
women folks tonehcw, and it does
‘pear like women do the most unac-
countable things. Now there wasn’t
anybody as ever thought of Tilly
Smith a-marryin’ old Sam, was ther?’
‘I guess not.’
‘But she married him, though.’
‘Yes, that's so, she did.’
‘Well, and that's the way it'll be
agin. Old Sam’s doggoned lucky
when it comes to marryir’, and I guess
he ought to be, after all the experience
he’s had.
“Yes, and the first thing you know,
he'll have another wife. And she
won't be an old hag, either, but the
purieest gal on ‘Possum Ridge.’
‘Azactly—azactly. He has always
married young gals, and I ’low he'll
do it this time.’
‘I wouldn't he a blamed bit svrpris-
ed, Dan, if he did spruce around Bet
Higgins. Bet’s the best-looking wo-
man on the Ridge, and most anybody’d
be glad enough to git her.’
‘But that wouldn’t do him any good,
Rial. Reckon that preacher has got
her fast enough’
‘He may have and he mayn’t have.
We kin tell better a week from now.’
The two hours had run out and
Beckett returned.
‘Sorry I had to keep you waitin,’
men,’ said he, as he came up; ‘but it
couldn't be helped. Folks will die,and
they can’t be blamed for it; and they're
just as liable to vo one time as another.
’I ain’t in the nature of things for peo-
ple to choose their own time for dyin’;
and when they die they have to be
buried, you know.’
‘Shore, Sam; that’s all natural
enough. Reckon you find it a power:
ful hard blow, comin’ so unexpected ?’
‘Yes, I do, Rial. It's awful unhandy.
Tilly was a smart woman, and I hat-
ed to give her up; and besides, there is
always more or less time lost in bury-
in’ of the dead one and lookin’ round
for somebody to take her place.’
‘Reckon youll marry ag'in ?’
‘Why, yes, of course; but I hain’t
gettled on anybody yet. It takes time
for these things, you know, and a man
has to look around a little.’
Old Sam Beckett was well-to do, and
on ‘Possum Ridge he was looked upon
as'the money king of the world.
He owned a good farm, besides the
old mill, and lived in a two-story frame
house—a luxury that was rare at that
time, and which loomed up immensely
among its numerous log-cabin neigh-
bors.
Some time previous to the death of
Beckett's fifth wife, old Jerry Higgins
had died, and having a daughter to
leave to the tender mercies of the
world, bequeathed her to old Sam’s
fatherly care.
Betty Higgins was jusi ‘rising onto’
eighteen, and was as pretty a girl as
ever graced ‘Possum Ridge society, and
for that matter she would have been
no mean ornament in more aristocrat
ic circles.
For years she had constituted Jerry
Higgins’ family, and he being a man
well-to-do financially, and justly proud
of his daughter, he devoted consider-
able means to giving her an education,
and had even gone so far—against the
protest of his neighbors, of course—as
to send her away to attend school in
the city.
Old Sam was a rude, gruff fellow,
who had seen thesuns of fifty summers,
but who was perfectly preserved physi-
cally, and in good trim for taking a
sixth wife at any time.
The work at the mill had run be-
hind a little during Tilly Beckett's
short illness, and for two or three days
after the funeral old Sam was kept
quite busy grinding the accumulated
‘grists.
In the meantime Mose Hackett, the
‘preacher feller,’ had spent a good deal
of his spare time in the neighborhood
of Beckett's mill. ~ In fact, he and Bet-
ty spent a great many hours mm quiet
strolls along the shady lanes of ‘Pos-
sum Ridge, or in peacefulramblesalong
the banks of the beautiful Coon Run
River.
In one of these long walks they hap-
pened to pass by the mill. Beckett
was at the time leaning through the
little window looking listlessly down
the road that ran off through the
woods, and all at once his gaze fell
upon the advancing couple.
In a moment a dark frown came over
his face, and his brows contracted with
vexation. He watched them until
they had passed on and out of sight,
and then, with a dissatisfied shrug of
his broad shoulders, he turned away
muttering :
‘Twon’t do—twon't nigh do! That
thar feller’s gittin’ too numerous in
these parts, an’ the first thing I know
that gal will be fer marryin’ him. I
promised old Jerry I'd keer fer ’er, an’
I'll do it. ’Tain’t fer her good to mar-
ry sech upstart as him, an’ she shan’t
do it.’
Since the death of Beckett's wife,
Betty had gone to live at Dan Bunkers,
and accordingly, as soon as the grists
had all been ground out, Beckett clos-
ed ths old mill, and dressing himself in
his best suit, walked over to Bunker's
house.
Pretty soon after his arrival, Dan
and his wife managed to retire, leav-
ing Beckett and Betty alone together
in the best room.
‘Ruth,’ Dan said,when they were out-
side "yer know what Beckett's come
fer ?'
‘No, I don’t,’ Ruth replied.
Wal, T do.’
‘Then what is it?’
“Why, he’s come a sparkin’ uv Bet.’
“The land sake, Dan! do you rec<on
80?
‘I know it. Ain't he got on a b'iled
shirt an’ his go-to-meetin’ blue-jeans
coat? An’ what else would he have
them on for if he wasn't figuring on
axin’ Bet to have him ?”
‘Dan Bunker, do you know what I
think of old Beckett?’
‘No, I don’t, Ruth; but, tor that
matter, I 'low it’s not so munch what
you think of him as what Bet thinks
of him, that’s of interest to old Beckett.’
‘Well, I think he’s an old varmint ;
and, for that matter, I ’low that Bet
won't think much different when she
finds out his business. The idea of the
old thing marryin’ a pretty young gal
like her—and that, too, when his oth-
er wife ain’t been dead a week I’
As soon as Dan and Mrs. Bunker
were well out of the room, old Sam
turned to Bet and remarked :
‘T see you walkin’ about a good bit
of late with that preacher feller, an’ I
don’t approve of it. I hope you don’t
mean nothin’—like business.’
‘I don’t know that I understand your
meaning, Mr. Beckett, the girl replied,
‘but I must say that I am ata loss to
know what objection you can have to
Mr. Hackett.’
‘Wal, I've this much objection to
him or anybody else; I don’t want you
to marry anybody but me. ['m your
guardeen, an’ I know who'll make you
a good husband, and I ain’t willin’ to
trust you with them thar young upstarts.
I’ve made up my mind to marry you,
Bet. 1 done that the day Tilly was
buried, an’ now I've come to ax
you to jine me.’
‘Marry you! the girl exclaimed, in
amazed wonder. ‘Why, I never thought
of such a thing!’
‘Don’t need to be thought of. All
you want to do is to say the word, an’
T’lIl git Dan to go an’ fetch Squire
Beeson, an’ we’ll have it over in less 'n
hour. Don’v need no thinkin’, Bet.
You know me an’ I know you, an’ you
know how much money an’ land I've
got, an’ you know what sort of home I
kin offer you. Ain't that enough ?’
‘No, it’s not enough. You are a fool
if you think I could be induced to mar-
rg an old man like you, simply because
you have a little money ; and that, too,
when your poor wife is hardly cold in
the grave. [ won't listen to you, and
either you or I will leave the room !’
‘Do you mean what you say, Bet?’
“Yes, I mean what I say—every
word of it. I'd die before I'd marry
you!
‘Well, I ain’t used to bein’ treated in
| that way, gal, an’ you may be sorry
, for it yet.’
| ‘Never!
[I think you will; an’, as your lawful
| guardeen, I now give you notice that
you shan’t never marry that upstart of
"a preacher. Do you hear that?’
I° ‘Yes, I hearit?
© “Then see that you heed it!’
‘I won’tdo it. 1'm going to marry
him, and you can’t prevent it.’
‘Goin’ to marry him?’
Yes, going to marry him.’
Oil Sam took two or thee turns
across the room, then halting in front
of the girl, his face livid with rage and
his form shaking with anger, he bent
forward until his hot breath scorched
her cheeks, and hissed :
‘You shan’t do it. You're mine,
and I'm goin’ to have you, and before
you shall marry that fellow I'll, I'l
He never finished the sentence, but
the look in his eyes and the awfulness
of his manner made his meaning plain
to the girl, and she shrank back from
him.
‘You will not,’ she cried.
not.’
Won't I. You'll see. And, girl, his
blood will be on your head, for you
drive me to it. I've had five wives,
and I loved them as well as man usuai-
ly love their wives, but I never loved
anybody as I love you.’
iGo! I've heard enough!” and with
that the girl swept from the room.
For a moment Beckett stood still,
looking after her, then, whirling on his
heel, he strode out and away.
As he walked along the road leading
toward the mill, his mind dwelt on the
scene he had j:st quitted, and, with
each succeeding minute, his rage grew
fiercer and his anger higher, and his
face looked strangely white in the soft
moonlight. Once he clenched his fists
and muttered : :
‘It shan’t be so. [ll kill him first.
It's her money that bought that land
and her money that built the house,
and though nobody knows it, it'll be
found out it she marries him, and then
I'll be fixed in a nice pickle. No, it
musn’t and it shan’ be. She must be
my wife.’
He had walked quite a distance and
come to the point where the road fol-
fowed along the river bank.
narrow pass between the river and the
bluff, and only a foot-path, or nigh cut
as the people called it, where foot
travelers turned off from the main road
and saved some distance by going
through.
Beckett had passed several yards
along the bank when he heard the
sound of foot-steps approaching from
the other way, and looking up, what
was his surprise and indignation to
find himself face to face with the
preacher feller.
Both stopped short, and for some
time neither spoke. Beckett's rage
was too great to permit of his uttering
a word, while the other was too much
shocked by old Sam's looks and actions
to find any power of speech.
‘What's the matter, Mr. Beckett?
the minister finally said.
‘Matter enough,” Beckett replied, in
a trembling voice.
‘I hope nothing serious has gone
wrong with you.’
“You're a liar, Beckett screamed.
‘You don’t hope any such thing and
you know you don’t. If you did you
wouldn't do it.”
‘Do what, my friend? I donot ender-
stand your meaning.’
‘No, I reckon you don't understand it,
when you are at the bottom of it.’
‘Buttom of what?’
‘Bottom of this trouble. Oh, you're
a good one, and you've worked it
mighty fine, but you shan’t never mur-
ry her. :
A light began to dawn on Hackett,
and he thought he was getting an in-
sight into the old man’s meaning.
‘Now look here, Mr. Beckett,’ he
said, very calmly, ‘I know you are
Miss Higgins’ guardian, and I propos-
ed to respect your rights by informing
you of our intentions.’
‘Hang your intentions. I say you
can’t marry the gal. You can’t have
her.’
‘What's your objection ?’
‘I’m goin’ to marry her myself.’
The reply struck Mose Hackett as so
preposterous and ridiculous that he
could not avoid laughing.
In an instant Beckett's face grew
red with anger, and taking a step for-
ward, he said:
‘You Jaugh at me, do you, you little
guttersnipe of creation? You think
youll get her anyhow, but I'll see to it
that you don’t.’
And before the minister realized his
meaning, Beckett had his strong arms
about him and was doing his utmost to
throw him over into the river.
Beckett was a hardy man and unus-
ually strong, and he experienced no
difficuity in liftng his little antagonist
up and churning him about. But to
throw him into the riyer was a much
more difficult task, since the little man
clung to him like a leech, and refused
to be shaken loose.
There was a strong struggle, which
at last ended in both getting too near
the bank and slipping into the water.
The minister being the most active
was the first one to comeup ; and see-
ing his advantage, was quick to seize
it, and in an instant he gathered Beck-
ett by the nape of the neck and proceed:
ed to duck him too or three times,
after which he said still retaining his
grip :
“Mr Beckett, I want you to consent
to the marriage between Miss Higgins
and myself. Are youn going ty give it?
“Never,” Becket muttered.
‘Then under you go again !”
After two or three more duckings the
minister asked again :
“Do you give in ?"
“Never !”
“Phen I shall have to repeat it.”
A few more plunges weakened the
old man, and he promised to sanction
the marriage. *
“That's not enough,’ the minister
went on. ‘You have her money, and
you must give it up. Do you promis:
that ?’
‘No, I dont, and I won't! T'il die
first I’
“Then I shall put you under and
hold you under.’
‘For heaven sake, don't do that.
man ! I am drowned now.’
“Then you promise ?’
‘Yes I promise.’
‘Will you swear it ?’
‘Yes—yes | Let me out ; I am dying:
At that moment Dan Bunker and
Betty Higgins arrived.
They knew that the minister was
‘You dare
.
It was a,
coming, and they feared Beckett would
meet him and use violence, and came
to his rescue.
‘Now repeat your promise in the pres-
ence of these two,” the minister com-
mauded, and Beckett reluctantly com-
lied. :
“Ill tell yon what,’ the minister con-
tinued, ‘it will be a good idea to com-
plete this business while we’er at it.
So if Dan will go and fetch Squire Bee-
son, we'll have the marriage perform-
ed and the papers signed over while Mr.
Becket is in the notion.
Dan went for the squire, who lived
less than a half mile away, and in a
short time the marriage ceremony was
gone through. Beckett then signed
over the girl's property and departed
for home, a sadder and a madder man.
The next dav he went down and
married the Widow Muggs, and from
that day he and his old mill have jog-
ged along, doing moderately well.
But Beckett has never liked a preach-
er since that night.
A — ————]
Wasteful Economy in the Kitchen.
«Many a young wife,” said a moth-
erly woman the other day, “would find
the wheeis of her household moving
much more smoothly if she would spend
a little less money on the furnishing of
her drawing-room and devote it,instead,
to supplying her kitchen with labor-sav-
ing appliances and plenty of utensils.
Economy in kitchen utensils may easily
be pushed too far, and if there is another
place where a woman may be more
readily excused than another for
extravagance it is just there.
“To haveto stop in the middle of
making a dessert in order to clean a
saucepan or a kettle in which the soup
has been prepared, because you have
not another, is folly when soup kettles
can be had for twenty-five cents each.
To have your kitchen knives of such
poor metal that they will not stay sharp,
or tolet a good knife remain dull be-
cause you think you cannot afford to
have it sharpened, is a real waste out of
all proportion tothe saving. To have
nothing by which you can measure your
ingredients accurately, because it costs
more to buy a set of weights or a gradua-
ted glass measure than to trust to guess-
work and an old tea cup, has spoiled
many a good dish that cost as much and
has brought humiliation on many a good
cook. To scrape your porridge pot with
aspoon because you will not buya
patent pot-scraper, for twelve cents,
wears out ten spoons, to one pot scraper,
and the hired girl invariably selects
your best spoon for that purpose. Sitting
the coal ashes is such a dirty business as
it is usually performed and the servant
kicks against it so vigorously that the
most ecnomical housekeeper soon aband-
ons it in despair. A patent ash sifter
that allows no dust to escape and preserves
all the half-burned coal will pay for
| itself in one winter and last five. A
cheap refrigerator can be bad for one-
third the cost of a good one of the same
size, but if you buy it your ice-bill will
be twice as large.
“There is hardly anything in the
kitchen of which there are not two
varieties,the cheap and the dear, and the
result of the use of either is generally its
exact opposite in actual cash. Butin
comfort to one’s self and to one’s hus-
band and children, and saving of time,
temper, brain-worry and back-ache,
they repay their own cost many times
over every week.”
He Wanted to “Remain.”
A typical Missourian from the back
counties appeared at the Tremont House
recently and asked for a room. He said
his name was John Wakely. About 5
o'clock he approached the clerk’s desk
and said : ’
‘Guess I'll remain, ‘cause I'm kinder
tired.”
‘Pleased to have you, sir,’ rattled the
clerk. ‘What's your name ? Wakely.
Oh, yes, give you No. 561 front room,
with bath, southern exposure. You can
get dinner at 6.
The fellow stood like a bronze for a
few moments, and then took a chair
opposite the counter. At 6 o'clock an-
other clerk came on watch, and Wakely
wert to him, saying :
‘My name’s Wakely. Guess I'll re-
main.
‘Thank you, Mr. Wakely. Let's see,
561 ; best room on that floor, if not in
the house. Just make yourself at home
here.’
The man seemed dumbfounded at
something, and he returned to his chair,
directly opposite the register. When
the night-clerk appeared at 11 o’clock
the Missourian almost ran to the coun-
ter.
‘I'm glad they got a new boy,” he
said. ‘I'm what they call 561, and I
want to remain. Do you understand ?’
‘Certainly, Mr. Wakely. Iam going
to eat my luncheon now, butif I can
do anything for you after that, don’t
hesitate to call me. Be pleased to serve
you, sir.’
The strange guest, after glaring at the
clerk, returned to his chair, where he
did not move until 2 A. M. Then he was
disturbed by a couple of late boisterous
travelling men.
‘We've had enough fun,’ spoke one
or the drummers. ‘We mightas well
retire, and —’
Here the man from Missouri jumped
two feet in the air, yellingjto the clerk :
‘Retire. That's the durned word I've
been trying to say since yesterday noon.
I guess I'll retire.’
ACC ——
Indiana’s much married woman”
has just been wedded at Shelbyville,
Ind., to her ninth husband. Her first
appearance as a blushing bride was in
1867, and she has been reappearing
in the same role, at intervals of from
two to four years ever since. She has
been no respecter of persons in her
eager hunt for a satisfactory life part-
ner. The high and low, rich and poor,
farmer and townsman, have all been
tried and found wanting, but she has
shown no sign of letting up in her
pursuit of an_ideal husband. Six of
her ex-husbands are still living.
t«___The sphere of woman is certainly
extending,” said Mrs. Lushington to
her husband. “Every once in a while
some woman goes into thelecture field.”
Yes,” said her husband wearily, “every
married man knows that.”’— Washington
Post.
“That Settles It.”
How a Hotel Clerk Took Fanny D iven-
port's Refusal.
The other night as the curtain went
up on the second scene of “Hamlet,” a
gentleman in evening dress, whose
fierce mustache and goatee suggested
fire-eating nroclivities, marched down
the right aisle of the cpera house par-
quet to a front seat, sat down, and then
with a very fierce expression upon his
face, strode up the aisle acain into the
toyer and out of the theater. A gentle-
man who saw this singular performance
said to me: “That reminds me of an
incident which took place in this very
theater about a dozen years aco. It
was while Fanny Davenport was piay-
ing an engagement here. A young
man, who was a clerk at the U nion De-
pot hotel, after a rather lively priming
with the boys, went to the opera house.
He was a good looking youny fellow
with a black mustache, and the figure
he cut that night was given color by his
new light overcoat and high silk hat.
By the time he reached the theater it
was pretty full; so was he.
bought a ticket fora parquet seat right
down front, and with tolerable .steady
steps he made his way to it. It wasin
the middle of a scene. What the play
was I don’t remember. As he reached
his seat and was divesting himself of his
loud evercoat, Fanny Davenport came
down the stage to the footlights and
said 10 the villain, who was courting
her, but with her eyes to the audience:
‘T can never Jove thee!’ She said it
with great emphasis, and the handsome
hotel clerk arose from his seat, took up
his hat and overcoat, and saying in a
loud voice, ‘Well, that settles it,’ re-
traced his steps up the aisle, while the
audience bursted into a roar of laughter
and applause.”
Cooking a Trout.
A Couple of Recipes Apt to Make the
Mouth Water.
The successful angler, on returning to
camp should clean a few trout in the
crystal waters of the stream he but a few
moments before lured them from. A
fire is built. The trout are buttered,
and seasoned with salt and pepper;
then wrapped in paper or leaves and
buried in the hot ashes, where they
steam in their own fragrant vapor.
As the angler removes the wrappings
and the delicate aroma ascends, his sen-
sitive nostrils quiver, his palate rouses
into self-consciousness, and in a tone of
emotion he murmurs: “Ye gods!
N’yum—n’yum—n’yum !”’
The next best mode of cooking small
trout is to clean them, rinse quickly in
cold spring water, dry with a towel, and
rub a little salt on the inside along the
bone. Then cut into dice half a pound
of the sweetest salt pork obtainable, fry
it out in the frying pan, and into the
pork fat, actively boiling, plunge the
delicate fish. :
The writer is a firm believer in and a
vehement advocate of cooking fish by
steaming. Large brook trout, salmon
and lake trout are delicious steamed.
Butter the trout and season with salt
and pepper; wrap the fish in muslin,
put them in the old-fashioned steamer,
1 lace it over a pot of boiling water, and
the ascending steam will do the rest.—
New York Evening Sun.
Tory Hatred of Gladstone.
Gladstone is hated by his political op-
ponents with a virulence indescribable.
I have a letter from the leading literary
man in London,in which the ex-Premier
is referred to as “a just punishment”
sent by God to panish us for our hypo-
crisy.” The common assertion among
his bitterest adversaries is that Gladstone
is weakening intellectually—that senili-
ty has developed to an extraordinary
degree his natural vanity, atd that he is
now simply a paranoiac. Yet, in spite
of his alleged weakness, he is strong en-
ouch to reject peremptorily every pro
position to elevate him to the peerage.
He might have been an Karl long ago,
but he prefers to remain a commoner
The old Queen has hated and feared him
most cordially for many years. The
two have quarreled like cats and dogs
on numerous occasions, but Gladstone
has never yet weakened in thé face of
royalty.
“You must do so and so,” he once
said to the Queen. .
‘Whereat Her Majesty bridled up and
bestowing upon him a withering look,
she cried, angrily: “Must did you say?
And do you know, sir, who I am ?”
«Madame,’’ answered Gladstone cool-
ly, “You are the Queen of England;
but do you know who I am? I, as prime
minister, am the people of England,
and in this emergency the people say
“must !’’— London Letter to Chicago
News.
Mount Vernon.
All the associations of Washington's
life cluster about Mt. Vernon. Not the
mansion as it now stands, but the house
ot cou paratively small dimensions
which is embodied in the later structure,
was a familiar spot to Washington,
from his boyhood. His brother whose
home was there was very fond of the
boy George Washington, and he was
often a visitor at Mount Vernon, and
when at sixteen he was made public
surveyor, he made his home with his
brother that he might be near the scene
of his labors. The estate was in due
course of time bequeathed to him and it
was to this home he brought his young
bride in the spring of 1759. He wrote
a description of it at that time, which
states that it was in a highly healthy
country, 1n latitude between the ex-
tremes of heat and cold, on one of
finest rivers in the world.
The mansion at that time was two
stories in height and had four rooms on
each floor. A lawn sloping toward the
high river bank was shaded by stately
trees. The surface of the river before it
abounded with water-fowl in their seca-
son, and the white wings of commerce
connected with the port of Alexandria
above enlivened its placid bosom. This
was the home to which Martha Wash-
ington was brought, and this the happy
beginning of a domestic reign of forty
years.
But Mount Vernon, as it now stands,
was built after the Revolution. George
Washington and wife found that the
duties and pleasures of their lot called for
much wider and greater accommodation
for their numerous guests than they could
give, and so ‘yielding to the inevitable,”
the historian Lossing tells us, so the
General and Mrs. Washington, who en-
tirely under-rated the importance of
their position, sat down and planned an
enlargement of their dwelling to dimen-
sions which would allow them to exercise
a generous hospitality so congenial to
their feelings. Every arrangement of
the new house was planned primarily
for convenience and durability. Wash-.
ington was his own #rchitect. He drew
every plan and specification for the
builders, but invariably submitted his
But he
suggestions to the judgment of Mrs.
{ Washington. The house was to be her
| realm over which she was to reign queen.
i He calculated and indicated every meas-
{urement with exactness, ascertained
{ the cost and defined the quality of
all materials to be used before purchas-
ling, and superintended the building in
person with the greatest vigilance. The
result was the production of the spaci-
ous mansion at Mount Vernon, as it ap-
! pears to-day.
The old building was not disturbed
| until the extensions, which were made
"at each end of it, were completed, when
lit was modified. The whole structure is
of the most substantial frame work. It
has stood in its present form a century
| and exhibits few signs of decay, though
| long neglected in intermediate years.
I It is two stories in height, ninety-six
| feet in length, thirty feet in depth, with
a covered piazza or colonnade twelve
| feet wide, extending along the entire
| eastern or river front, and supported by
eight square columns twenty-five feet in
height. Over this piazza js a balustrade
of a light and pleasing design, and in
the centre of the roof is an observatory
or cupola octagonal in torm, with &
small spire. There are seven dormer-
windows in the roof.
There is a spacious passage on the
ground floor extending through the
building from east to west, from which
a massive staircase leads to the second
story. On the lower floor are six rooms.
These and the passages are all wainscoat-
ed and have large cornices giving an
appearance of great solidity to the
whole. On the south side of the pass-
age are the parlor, breakfast-room and
library, and a narrow staircase lead-
ing to a private study on the second
floor, and two several chambers. On
the north side of the passage are a recep-
tion room, a parlor, and a large draw-
ing-room. When there was much com-
pany the latter was sometimes used as a
dining-room.
On each side of the mansion and
about forty feet from it are substantial
buildings, one erected for a kitchen and
the other for store-house and laundry.
They are connected with the mansion by
gracefully curved colonnades which are
paved and roofed. There were also two
other buildings used for house-servants
quarters. The flag stones for the large
and smaller colonnades were imported
trom Ostend, and a house joiner and a
brick-layer were procured from England
to do the work. The enlarged mansion
at Mount Vernon was completed in
1785, and it was made the scene of a joy-
ous house-warming on Christmas Eve.
From that time Mount Vernon was sel-
dom without a guest while Washing-
ton, occupied it.
This was of course before he was chos-
en President. As we all well know af-
ter he had served his country by filling
successfully the highest office in its gift,
he was enabled with his wife to spend
his closing years at his beautiful ‘home,
and there he died,
The form and general arrangement o
the grounds are the same to-day as they
were at the death of Mrs. Washington
in 1802.
|
}
|
1
A Very Small Peach Crop.
Easton, Pa., April 18. —-Ex-Assem-
blyman Joseph M. Hackett, of this city,
returned this morning from his farm in
Caroline county, Maryland, and reports
the peach crop there a failure. His farm
last year yield 6,000 baskets, while this
year he does not expect a basket. The
weather was very warm in February,
and all the trees were soon in bloom.
The blossoms were killed by the heavy
frost on the night of March 6. Mr.
Hackett also says there will be peaches
along the water courses in Maryland,
but none in the interior of the state. The
crop in Delaware, he says, will also be
a failure.
A Call That Will Soon Be Heard.
MR. CLOVER, President of the Farm-
ers’ Alliance of Kansas, tells a Chicago
Herald correspondent: “When the
Alliance is fully convinced that the
tariff is inimical to the best interests of
the farmers, they will go further in a
demand for redaction than the Demo-
crats have ever dared to go. These de-
mands may not bear the Democratic
stamp, but they will be made loud en-
ough for the country to hear them.
And the day for that may be not far
off, either.” The Republican statesman
who recently declared that ‘farmers
have the call in this Congress” was only
premature by a little. The farmers’
call has begun to lift its voice.
An Easy Situation.
The late Rev. Henry Ward Beecher
received a letter from a young man, who
recommended himself as being honest,
and closed with the request; “Give me
an easy situation, that honesty may be
rewarded.” To which Mr. Beecher re-
plied: “Don’t be an editor, if you would
be ‘easy.’ Do not try the law. Avoid
school keeping. Keep out of the pulpit.
Let alone all ships, stores, shops and
merchandise. Abhor politics. Keep
away from lawyers. Don’t practice med-
icine. Be not a firmer or mechanic;
neithera soldier nor sailor. Don’tstudy.
Don’t think. Don’t work. None of
these are easy. Ob, my honest friend,
you are in a very hard world! I don’t
know of but one real easy place 1n it.
That is the grave.”
Strewep Trire —Take a pound of
tripe and cut into narrow strips, put it
in a saucepan, and cover it with gravy
stock ; add about a third of a can of to-
matoes, some chopped onion, a dash of
olive oil, Worcestershire sauce and a
whole red pepper, salt and pepper;
stew gently until very tender and rich;
serve.
“
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