Democratic watchman. (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1855-1940, November 21, 1890, Image 2

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Dewar tiie Alale mt
;Isee beyond the distant hills a high and!
i —
Bellefonte, Pa, November 2i, 1890.
[For the Warcumax.]
(Of the past and present Century.)
In years agone near Milesburg, on the stream
just by its side,
Brave Logan, the Cayuga Chief, would now
and then abide;
There's Logan's Gap, and Logan's Branch ;
the name is always there,
And whether-white man's friend or foe, Logan
was every where.
1 do not mean the Mingo Chiaf—wanx friend--
revengefu), too,
But he who told the traitors plot John Weston
had in view,
From east to west, from hill te dale, he bore &
But sleeps the sleep of death elong the Chick-
Of Shaney John not much is known: he was
the white man’s friend,
Who built his. wigwam in the vale down .yon-
der to defend.
He ends his days in quiet life; the brave he
sinks to rest,
And sleeps the sleep of death mesr by. the
old Bald Eagle's nest.
Job Chillaway. another brave, would smoke his
pipe of peace.
Deliver wampum on a string, that war might
ever cease ;
He roamed our valleys here and there, and
every where around,
Until his spirit light went out fer ether hunt
ing grounds.
All honor to these worthy braves who .stayed
the crimson figed,
And saved our helpless kindred from a -savage
thirst. for bloed ;
There's something which I seem to.sce and
which my love for lore
Would rescue from receding years, as.time. is
passing o'er.
Then eome with me, eseend the hill toretro-
spect the view,
And from old Muney’s rugged height I'llctell
more things to yen,
Will tell you of the savages with kerrid tragic
Resoundinglike.a. revel in a carnival of hell.
I'm thinking of those voices which are
shouting over there,
Where the sound is raising upward on the
stillness of the air ;
I see fantastic figures gesticulating erime,
And I hear the.warhoop @choes dowa the «¢or-
rodors afitime.
Near Milesburg in the valley fair nature seems
to smile ,
And there a savage aspect is arrayed in .gpan
The warriors have weapong, some have toma-
hawks and knife,
And the running of the; gauntlet means the:
cause of noise and strife.
. And thus a worthy chieftain spake as hea,
vietim led :
“The red mar’s bleed cries from the grewand’
thy guilty bands have shed,
Your lite must pay.the forfeit, for your erimes’
has broke the law ;
Run now between yon files you see; your
punishment for cause.”
The savage sped through strokes and blows, !
with fearful speed he ran— !
At_length a brave struck down a blow that |
killed the wretched man. |
This is the way their.cede of Jaws in blood is
satisfied, |
And, down there near Bald Eagle's nest the A
culprit savage died.
* * *® E 3 ® #* EJ #
I see that eagle build its nestupen an island
There rear 1ts young and sear away, proud em”
hlem of the free!
Whence from its eyrie eame the name to val-
ley and to stream,
Which sparkles in the sunlight down among
the grassy green.
Oh! the grandure of yon Eden—how sublime
it seems to be,
As waters of Bald Eagle ereek flow .dewnward
to the sea,
Through wossy banks and shady neoks—no
tongue can ever tell
The sweetness of the music that has. sijrred
my hegrt so well.
Now see the fields and hamlets, ard the, husy
life of yore,
Soin my dreams of other days I viewed them
o’er and o'er;
And then I turged in pensive moed to view
the distant hills,
«Where water gurgles from their base which
form the rigpling rills. i
rounded pegk, ;
Where falling leaves of autumn in a theusand;
voices speak; i
They fill the heantyrith sadness asl linger!
long and lone,
Enchanted by the jnusic of the mountain
zephyr’s moan.
The murmur of the cadence with the rippling |
.of the streams,
Send something down igto the soul whic |
thrills the poet’s digams;
It is the monitor of ehapge, in story I will |
trace, ]
That paints that subject op the heart which |
time cannot efface.
And while I'm looking backyard let me tell
you somethin g more;
Isee the log heaps smoking gnd the brush
light up the shore,
And then the grand old sycamares and oaks
sway ir the breeze,
And fall before a father’s hand remeving such
as these.
I see the early pioneer’s strong arm and fer-
vent toil,
Go forth to brave the storms of life wpon the
virgin soil ;
I see the forest disappear and then with nerve
: and brain,
There is built up a cabin home down yonder
on the plain.
Long years, and years, and years ago, I hardly
know just when,
In seventeen ninety-five or eight, perhaps it
was not then,
A flitting from the valley starts from out the
cabin’s door,
While hearts behind were weeping in the
wilderness of yore.
James had just wedded Nancy, they had
packed up all their goods,
On two pack saddle (horses, meant fo travel
through the woods,
They had no roads to follow, but to guide them
was a trail,
On which the Indians traveled from the lakes
1 have often heard the legend, but to you it
may be new—
The twain moved on in silence up the Alle:
gheny’s view,
They turned to takea last fond look upon the
hills so blue—
Now tell me gentle reader would these things
have melted you?
It was the. sister leaving home, out of the
wooddy dell,
Two hundred miles to seek a home, and with
a husband dwell;
Of other sisters left behind--one’s name was
And if you only listen I have something more
to tell.
Then Mary, too, in ater years, appeared with
smiling face,
That sent a charm af sweet content into her
dwelling place ;
Her raven hair and sparkling eyes may be
remembered still, #
For oft she pushed the old canoe across the
croek at will
Now I see within the valley of my legendary
Another habitation with its smoke ascending
New neighbors settled in there trom the Sus-
quehanna vale,
They brought strong hands and muscle, and
had no such word as fail.
(Henry loved the blue-eyed beauty—Jacob,
the raven hair,
And the brothers! mazried sisters in the val-
ley over there,
Their homes were full of friendship and their
hearts were full of love,
And a halo dwelt within them from the angels
home above.
Haw fondly I remember I would tell you if I
But effort fails me trying to do less than half
I should;
Yes, the blue
and passed away,
In hope of that new springtime when life
is bright and gay
Lam thinking now of Mery, I saw her last in
At her dear old home to meet again, perhaps
in coming years;
She put her arms about my neck, gave me a
mother’s kiss,
And then invoked God’s blessing for a better
world than this.
yed maiden wedded ; she lived
#* = # # # & 3 # # #
I see the houses here .and there with clap-
baards for the roof,
All chunked and daubed with straw and mud
against the winter proof,
And from my view I note the place, the smoke
is curling round,
Where kindred of the old time days could here
and there be found ;
J seem to see an aged man with gun and pow-
A hunting something in the woods, long ’ere
that I was born;
It is John Holt, the pioneer, a wandering all
To shoot the wild deer, if he could, as he
might spy them out.
And then I see the fleeing deer, down there
from where they stood,
With dogs in hot pursuit of chase to catch
them, if they could,
With fearful leaps from off .the shore one
bounded strong and quick,
And tried to swim the swollen flood across the
Bald Eagle Creek.
Then from the cabin door there ran into the
fens and bogs,
“Aunt Jane,” who caught the fugitive, a swim-
ming from the dogs,
{| A hunter's knife was soon at hand, a brother's
heart was thrilled,
As “Uncle Tom” sprang out to help and quick
the. deer he killed.
And so it was from out the reach of dark fore-
boding fears,
The God who fed Elijah fed the early pioneers;
Children became a blessing, to lahor all were
Where loom and oldtime spinning wheél in
every home appeared ;
With cheerful hearts and willing hands each
hepeful, good and true,
Is something of the old time ways the people
The woodman}in the forest. and his axe within
the vales,
Resounds and echoes back how time is
telling tales.
Isee the springtime blossoins, and winters
pass away,
And the hopeful age af manhood going down
in life’s‘decay,
Where I oft have been admonished, and have
seen life’s ebbing tide
Move over, gently onward, to the Jordan's
other side.
I hear the German aeeents ringing now npon
my ears,
As I said good by, grandfather, in the days of
other years.
Yow my head is silvered over, and my heart
is full of pain,
JForthe days I so remember will no mare re-
turn again.
The past is in the present, and the future yet
to be;
Js.wmhere the life’s elysium lies beyond tle
crystal sea;
The oldtime joys and sorrows, now forever
Jhuashed and still,
Repose in silent slumber ‘on yon éemeteny
| I look upon the valley, and I see the village
Where scpiptured marble marks the end of
lifels.gmbitious dream ;
Now when aur dream is over, lay me some-
where down to rest,
To rise from out that slumber in the glory of
the blest.
TITUDE.—Of the late Bishop Ames the
following anecdote is told : While pre-
siding over a eertain conference a
member began a tirade against the
universities and education, thanking
God that he had never been corrupted
by contact with a college. After pro-
ceeding thus for some minutes the Bish-
op interrupted him with & question, ‘Do
I understand that the brother thanks
God for his ignorance ?”’ “Well, yes,”
was the answer; ‘you can put it that
way, if you want. “Well, all I have to |
say,’ said the bishop, in his sweet music-
al tone—%all I have to say is that the
brother has a good deal to thank God
——In China the man who lives near-
est the scene of a murder is accused of
the crime, and he must prove his inno-
cence or stand the punishment. Con-
sequently if he is innocent he rattles
around pretty lively to discover the
unto the vale,
Dorothy Field looked very sweet and
demure as, with her father, old Squire
hung brother Andrew, she walked to
church one Sunday morning forty years.
ago. The litle village of Framleigh
was always quiet, yet on Sunday morn-
ings it seemed even more peaceful than
usual. Dorothy was sometimes a lit-
tle oppressed by the calm, and wished
it would not make itself quite so ob-
structive. But on this May morning
no such rebellious thoughts were in
her mind, for she entered into the gen-
tly beguiling mood of nature, and her
heart was full of sunshine.
As they neared the rather stately-
looking brick church littie groups were
seen coming from all directions. For
every one in Framleigh went to church.
Althongh the congregation was not
large, it was, on the whole, a well-to-
do-one, for the inhabitants of this little
village, most of whom were decended
from a few aristocratic families, prided
themselves on this fact and kept up
their good name.
As Dorothy from her place in the
choir looked over the familiar faces
which showed themselves over the
high, straight pews, her attention was
caught by an unfamiliar face in Dea-
con Gray's pew. Surely, never before
had she seen this tall, elegant young
man, with the pleasant eyes and sunny
bair. And as she looked from him to
her good-natured, awkward brother, 1t
seemed to her that Andrew’s coat nev-
er fit so badly.
Occasionally, during the service, she
glanced demurely over the hymn book
| at the new face beside the staid old
deacon,and while she was singing in her
sweet soprano voice, ‘Sweet fields be-
yond the swelling flood,” she looked
over toward the deacon’s pew, to see
it.the new occupant was singing, and
finding his dark eyes resting on her
with a calm, interested gaze, this sim-
ple country girl blushed and nearly
lost her place.
At the various dinner tables in
Framleigh that day this young man
was spoken of with more or less inter-
est. It became gererally known that
he was a cousin of the deacon’s wife,
and had been studing av the medical
school in Cambridge, but was obliged
to give his eyes a rest.
The blooming damsels of Framleigh,
who outnumbered the young men of
the village, were especially interested
in the stranger. Rebecca Thompson,
a good-natured, red-cheeked girl, who
was hospitably inclined, was much
grieved that it was too late in the sea-
son to have a sugar party, that she
might invite Mr. Deane, but finally de-
cided to content herself with a ‘“gath-
ering,” which meant a social meeting
of the swains and maidens of Fram-
leigh, in the large old parlor, where
they played “fox and geese’ or ‘around
the chimney,” and ate apples and cake
or popped corn. The gath ering would
break up at 10 o'clock, when those of
the youths who were not too bashful
would ask their favorite Mehitables or
Abigails if they might see them home.
This kind of gaiety was quite ngw to
the young Harvard student, and, al-
though he went in a rather superior
mood, thinking to be mildly amused
by the harmless gambols of these
country people, yet he felt a thrill of
interest as he wondered if he should
see the sweet-faced girl who had sung
in the choir on Sunday. And when he
entered the parlor almost the first per-
son he saw was Dorothy, looking very
charming and pensive mn a dainty fig-
ure brocade dress which had belonged
to her mother.
Rebecca, the hostess, ushered him in
and introducee him to every one in the
room. Then Robert did something
whica quite shocked the feelings of
Framleigh society. On one side of
the room ail the maidens were sitting,
while on the opposite were all the
young men ; looking awkward enough
in the straight backed chairs and dress-
ed in their best clothes. For this was
the way in which the guests were al-
ways arranged at the “gatherings’’ un-
til the games began. But Robert,
with an easy, graceful manner, took a
seat on the girls’ side of the room, be-
tween Dorothy and little Ruth Hawkes,
and began to talk to them as it very
much at ease—a proceeding which
«caused a surprised flutter on one side of
ithe room and struck consternation on
the other.
But when they began to play games
the chilly air of reserve which seemed
to encircle the company was changed
to one of merry good humor. From
the moment whe Dorotby’s clear, shy
.eyes looked into his, as she took the
cat’s.wradle off his hands, Robert had
a feeling of exhilaration, and knew
that he should enjoy himself. Aud
when he left Dorothy at her own door
he felt very joyful as he walked home
to the deacon’s, and it seemed to him
that there was nothing more charming
than a country village in May.
Dorothy eame down to breakfast
next morning looking very trim and
domestic in a light print gown, and
when Andrew spoke in a joking mav-
ner about her new city beau she blush-
ed ap to the little curls on her forehead
and looked rather conscious.
That afternoon she thought she
would go into the woods to see if she
could find some late arbutus. When
she reached the top of the hill she
found a beautiful bed of May flowers
which had come out late, as they were
under a pine tree which had kept off
the sun. As she was bending over the
flowers, pulling off the dead leaves
which covered them, she heard a deep
voice humming :
“Qh, do you remember swect A ice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice, whose hair was so brown ?”
Looking up, she saw Robert Deane
not very far from her. Just at that
momene he saw her and came toward
her. So together they gzathered the
arbutus, and when Robert said that
picking Mayflowers seemed to be the
appropriate thing in the world for her
to do, she was so like them, she turned
pinker than the pinkest of flowers in
her hand. And then he added, “1
"neyer knew how beautiful the arbutus
Field, and her tall, rather loosely-.
was before.” After they had gathered
all the blossoms under the pine tree,
Robert wanted to go higher on the
mountain to see if there were not some
flowers there. So they did not get
home till supper time, and Dorothy,
who was usaall very capable about the
house, seemed rather abstracted that
As the days weat on Robert Deane
still stayed at Framleigh. The simple
old deacor, in speaking to the minister
about him, said: “It does seem mighty
queer avout Cousin Robert's eyes. The
doctors told him he wouldn't need to
rest them for more than a week or so,
and here he isn’t able to go back to
Cambridge yet; but he does seem
mighty contented here.” May chang:
ed to June, and still he stayed. He
acquired a great interest in walking,
and he and Dorothy used to take long
‘rambles on the moantains or by the |
He told her about |
his past life, his hopes and ambitions,
quiet little river.
and to this country girl, who had no
interest outside of the little village, it
seemed as if a new world had opened.
One morning when she was working
in the kitchen, the old knocker went
in such a vigorous way that she hur-
ried to the door with her apron on.
She found Robert Deane there, looking
pale and anxious. She had hardly
time to say “Good morning’ before he
began: I have just had a letter say-
ing my mother is very sick. I must
go home. Cousin Nathaniel is going
to drive me to Dayton, and Iam go-
ing right on.
Buti 1 couldn’t go without seeing you.
May I write to you, Dorothy?” Doro-
thy very softly and blushing told him
how sorry she was that his mother
was sick, and that he might write to
her if he wanted to. Then, with an
earnest, lingering look and then, a gen-
tle pressure of the hand, he was gone,
leaving Dorothy in a aery bewildered
state of mind.
She stayed mn the house for several
days, and then she began to go to the
postoffice. At first she asked the good
old postmaster if there was any mail,
demurely, with a happy conscious lit-
tle blush. Then, as the days went on,
and no letter came, she would ask with
an anxious nervous manner. Poor lit-
tle Dorothy ! Although she was faith-
ful in her visits to the postoffice, she
received no letter, and after a while all
the pink went out of her face and it
grew pale and had a pathetic expres
sion. She always cherished a faithful
hope that she should hear from Robert,
and although one of the most well-to-
do young men of Framleigh was urgent
in his proposals of marriage, and the
squire would gladly have welcomed
him as a son-in-law, she told them it
could never be.
It was a bright June morning. Miss
Dorothy, now a nice old lady of 60,
was picking roses off the large old cin-
namon rose bush at her back door. Al-
though her face was not so youthful
looking as it was that afternoon when
she gathered Mayflowers with Robert
Deane forty years before, yet it was
still very attractive, with its clear, kind
eyes, its sweet mouth and just a trace
of the roses that used to bloom in her
cheeks. Perhaps it was partly her
kindly face chat made all the children
ot .Framieigh love Miss Dorothy—
Aunt Dorothy, as they called her—and
no real aunt ever had more regard and
love than she had. Her life was not
an unhappy, lonely one, for it was so
full of kindness and blessing to others
that she was happy and content.
A few years after Robert Deane had
gone from Framleigh she had heard
that he had married a rich Boston
girl. Only about a year after she had
read of his death, While practicing
at the hospital he had taken some con-
tagious disease. That was all she
knew about him. Although at first
her heart had been bitter toward Rob-
ert, yet as time, went on, her feelings
had softened, and she thought of him
in a fond, tender way as one she had
This morning as she was picking
the roses, little Tom Chapin, one of her
most devoted cavaliers, came out of
the back door and said, “I left a letter
on the table in the sitting room for
you, Aunt Dorothy.”
“Thank you, Tommy. Don’t you
think your mother would like these
roses? L'hey’re about the last there'll
be, I guess, and if you'll come in I'll
give you one of my ginger cookies.”
So Tommy followed Miss Dorothy
in, and she gave him a large round
cooky out of the stone jar which she
always kept full so that she might
have something to give the children
when they came to her.
When he had gone, with a large
bunch of roses in one hand and a
cooky done up in brown paper in the
other, Miss Dorothy went into the sit-
ting and opened her rather official-look-
ing letter. There were a letter and a
letter and a note inclosed in the envel-
ope. She unfolded the note and read:
SALEM, June.—
Miss Dororay FIELD:
In refitting the boxes of this postof-
fice it was necessary to take down the
baseboards behind the receiving box,
There we found this old letter directed
to you. On ascertaining that you still
live in Framleigch we at once forward
it. Respectfully yours,
There was another envelope, yellow
with age and with a postmark of forty
years before. Miss Dorothy opened it
with trembling fingers and read :
SaLeM, June, 185—.
My Dear Dororry :—I havethought
about you a great deal since I left
Framleigh, and now that my mother is
better I must write to you. I could
not bear to come away without telling
you that I loved you, although I think
you must know it. I never supposed
that I could care for any one as I care
for you. Now, dear Dorothy, it you
return my love at all, let me know,
and I will come at once to Framleigh.
If you do not and cannot care for ne,
do not pain yourself and me by saying
s0, but do not write at all.
Hopefully yours,
He is out here waiting. |
mist came over her eyes. This was!
the hardest moment of her life, harder |
than those weary weeks of suspense.
As she thought of Robert’s weary, rest- |
less waiting, of his heartache and sor- |
row, and of the sadness which had
come into her own life, it seemed to
her that a very cruel fate had guided
the course of that letter.
But Miss Dorothy’s trusting heart
sould not be bitter long. She believed
that somehow all things must be best
as they were, and after a few quiet |
| hours spent alone, she came out of her
room with her usual sunshiny manner.
Then she went out into the garden to |
pull some of her nice radishes to send |
to unattractive, old Miss Durn, whom
she pitied very much, for she firmly
believed that she never had a lover.
I —————
| A Republican Who Seems Satisfied.
' and influential Republican of Bellefonte,
"in reply to one from a personal friend,
has been handed us for publication.
| While it takes no decided ground for or |
against any one, it will be noticed that |
that the defeat of Quay and his candi-
date does not cause any particular sor-
row, or the selection of Pattison create
any cause for distrust or dissatisfaction |
in his mind.
BrrLLeroNTE, Nov. 11th, 1890.
happy to gather from its perusal that
| you and I are not very far apart in our
| views, touching the late political can-
vas, its methods and results.
It is very possible that one who fails
in securing his object may nevertheless
be possessed of great merit. In the case
position, the less worthy may succeed,
and often does. We should, to a cer-
tain extent, sympathize with the defeat-
ed aspirant, for it is comely to do so;
and regard him as wnfortunate, rather
than undeserving. 1 suppose candidates
for political favor think of the uncer-
tainties of the conflict on which they
are entering, and so are not altogether
unprepared to accept, with more or less
cheerfulness, the verdict of the people.
Whatever may be the character of the
defeated candidate for Governor as to
personal force, he was undeniably from
the start handicapped, as few nien un-
doned. Mr. Delamater was not the
choice of the people, as represented in
the nominating convention. The “ful-
ness of time” had come in the history of
Mat Quay. The “vindication” was not
delayed, but came to him and ‘his
able to him.
The dissatisfactian referred to, at an
early date showed itself in the canvass.
Mr. Delamater was kicked and cuffed
in such a persistent method as no other
candidate could have experienced, Un-
der vituperation he was patient. In-
deed, it might be said of him, he opened
not his mouth, but bore the sickening
incubus with rare composure and with
grave dignity. Not so the other man.
He endured not the contradiction of the
maligning editors, but kicked, and
smote the conscience of one of them in
such a way that in penitence the offend-
er came and acknowledged his guilt and
begged forgiveness, which was fully
granted him, by the stern candidate of
the Democratic party.
One other indignity was cast upon the
defeated candidate, and perhaps harder
to bear than all the other inflictions put
together, and that was the indifference
with which the much abused man was
treated by his own constituency in
Meadvilleand Crawford county. ‘Et
tu Brute.” Truly is Mr. Delamater an
illustration of this utterance. “A pro-
phet is not without honor, save in his
own country and in his own house.” T,
for one, wish that he may draw from
this gracious declaration all the comfort
there is in it; and I do not overstate,
perhaps, when I say that very many
Republicans who voted against the Quay
candidate have similar kindly feeling
for the man who so miserably represent-
ed, in the late canvass, the grand O. R.
‘With regard to Robt. E. Pattison, let
us all hope that in his official life, as in
the past, he will avoid the association
and intimacies which have degraded and
debauched so many men in high official
position, and that be may take good
care of his soul and mind and body, so
that he may prove adequate to the dis-
called in the future.
I have made no reference to that part
of your letter touching the commercial
and industrial interests of: this great
country. I but very imperfectly under-
stand the detailed workings of the won-
derful system, and am confused when
I try mentally “to take it in;” but I
am a believer in progress and hope that
our country within the near future, may
establish the fact that we can bold our
better understanding, in its practical
application, of the great problem of
“supply and demand.”
George, you do not love me as well as
you used to.” Husband — “Why?”
Wife—¢Because you always let me get
up to light the fire.” Husband--{‘Non-
. . |
As poor Miss Dorothy read this a
sense, my love. Your getting up to
light the fire makes me love you al the
The following letter from a life long |
Dear Sir: —I received your letter |
yesterday and read it carefully, and am |
| that he “might receive the gift of poet-
of two men, Delamater and Pattison, |
for instance, seeking the same coveted |
der the circumstances have been con- |
house” in a form and manner not agree- |
charge of any trust to which he may be
own in a “stand up fight” with the!
world, and this to come about by our |
—— Wife (pleadingly) —“I'm afraid,
In a Poet's Youth,
| William Cullen Bryant's Farly Lyrical
Aspirations and Performances
i The poet Bryant was an exception
| to the rule which ordains that precocious
{ children will either die while youns or
| become ordinary men, says the }Yout/'s
Companion. On his first birthday ‘he
| could walk alone, and when but a few
| days more than 16 months old knew ull
| the letters of the aiphabet.””. lr his
{ sixth year he ‘was, as he himself tells us,
| “tan excellent, aimosy infallible speller,
and ready in geography.” In his six-
teenth year Le entered college, having
mastered in less than a year all the
Greek and Latip required for admission
| to the sophmore class al’ Williams col-
i lege.
The boy was as precocious in rhyming
| as in studying. Before he was 10 years
old his grandfather gave him:a 9 pence
for a hymed version of the first chapter
of Job, and the country paper published
a rhymed description of the sghoui he
attended, which he wrote and de-
John Bigelow, in his life of Bryant,
says that “though these early verses
gave no particular poetical promise,
i they were remarkable for two charac-
teristics by which all his poetry was
destined to be distinguished—the cor-
rectness both of the measure and the
| thyme.”
* So intense was the boy’s ambition to
{ be a poet that he not only read what
poetry fell in his way, but in his pri-
ate devotions often prayed with fervor
| ic genius, and write verses that might
| endure.”
“Thanatopsiz,” the poem which gave
| him a national fame, was written in
1811, before he had attained his édight-
eenth year, though it was not published
until 1817. The story of its publication,
as told by Mr. Bigelow, is a unique
literary anecdote.
One day Dr. Bryant, the youth's
father, while looking through the
drawers in his son’s desk, came upon
sonie manuscript verses. He read them
and was so impressed that he hurried
to the house of a friend, and thrusting
the verses into her hand, exclaimed,
while tears ran down his cheeks,
“Read them ! They are Cullen’s.”
In a few days the doctor went to
Boston, without communicating his in-
tention to his son, to show these verses
to his friend William Philips, who was
one of the editors of the North American
Review, then two years old. He left the
verses at the office of the Review with-
out their author’s name or any intima-
tion of their parentage.
Mr. Philips read them and went to
Cambridge to submit them to Richard
| H. Dana and Edward T. Channing, his
editorial calleagues. They listened
while Mr. Philips read the manuseript
| and heard the little he had to tell about
its history.
“Ah, Philips,” said Dana, with a
skeptical smile, “you have been impos-
"ed upon. No one on this side of the At-
lantic is capable of writing such verse.”
Inquiries, however, showed that Mr.
Philips, instead of being imposed upon,
| had read to them the poems written by
"an American boy who had not yet at-
tained his eighteenth year. One of the
poems was entitled “Thanatopsis,” and
‘appeared in the September number of
the Review for 1817. The poem which
accompanied it also appeared in the
sane number under the title of “Frag-
ment.” Itis now known as “An In-
scription for the entrance to a Wood.”
A significaut fact associated with the
two poems is that “Thanatopsis’” was
six years old when it was printed and
the “Fragment’’ two years. Such -‘pa-
tient waiting” is rare with young
Levon CREAM Pie. —For the filling
for this pie there must be taken the
juice of three and rind of one lemon, a
| half of corn starch, a large cupful of wa-
ter, a cuptul of granulated sugar, four
tablespoonfuls of powdered sugar and
four eggs, and the crust will require three
large tablespoonfuls of flour, one large
tablespoonfuls of butter and some water.
Make the crust by rubbing the butter
{ into the flour, adding cold water enough
| to make a smooth, stiff paste, and then
rolling very thin.
Mix the corn-starch with four table-
! spoonsfuls from the cupful of water. Put
[ the remainder of the water into a sauce-
| pan, with the lemon rind and juice and
the granulated sugar, and heat to the
boiling point, then stir the corn-starch
into the boiling mixture, and cook for
two minutes. Stir the butter into the
mixture, and set away to cool. When
cool add the yelks of the four eggs,
well beaten. Pour the mixture into
a large, deep plate that has been lined
with paste, and bake in a moderate oven
for thirty-five minutes. During the last
quarter of an hour make a meringue by
beating the whites of the eggs to & stiff,
dry froth, and gradually beating the
owdered sugar into this froth. At the
end of thirty-five minutes cover the pie
with the meringue and bake, with the
oven door open ten minutes longer.
‘By following this rule one gets a very
large deep pie. The materials are suffi-
cient for making two pies, but these
would of course be sma ler and thinner.
At serving time the dish should ve as
cold as possible. — Marian Maloa.
Vaseline as-a Shoe-Cleaner.
It is not generally known that the
ensiest way to clean shoes or rubber
overshoes which have become muddy is
with vaseline. A little “swab” of flan-
nel on the end of a stick is good for this
purpose. Even if the vaseline touches
the hands, it forms a coating over them
"£0 that the task is not so pleasant as it
otherwise would be. Such a lressing as
' this is sufficient for come fine kid shoes,
but others may need a coat of = polish.
If the polish is put on after a coat of
vaseline it is not liable to erack the
ber overshoes, especially, look much
better and last much longer if cleaned.
in this way than if they are washed
with water.— New York Journal.
— Nearly every building intended
for theatrical performances is called an
opera house. If itis overa rich man’s
store in a swell little town the show hall
will be called the grand opera house,
though its patrons may never see grand
opera nor any other kind of opera.
leather and it lasts much longer. Rub-