TE Demonic Yan Bellefonte, Pa., December 26, 1890. A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. It was the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not = creature was stirring, not even a mouse: The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their eds While visions of sugar plums danced through ‘their heads ; And mamma in her ’kerchief, and Iin my cap, Had just Settled our brains for along winter's nap— When out on the lawn there arose sucha clat- er, I sprang from the bed tosee what was the matter : Away tothe window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new fallen SNOW , Gave the lustre of mid-day to object below, When, what to my wondering eyes should ap- pear, ; But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein- deer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. - More rapid than eagles the coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; “Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen! : On. Comer, on ! Cupid, on! Donder and Blixen— To the top of the orch I to the top of the wall! Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all I” As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle,mount to the 8 8n, up ue house top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys—and St Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling [ heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I draw in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. : He was dressed all in fur, trom his head to his oot, . And his clothes were all tarnish’d with ashes and soot ; : A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 2 And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. Hn His eyes—how they iwinkled his dimples, how merry His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cher: His droll OW, And the beard on his chin was as white as the SNOW. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face, and a little round belly, That shook, when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of Jolly, - He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old TY; idtie mouth was drawn up like a elf; And I iened when I saw him, in spite of my- self. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his” team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night I” ———————— THE BAKER OF BARNBURY. It was three days before Christmas, and the baker of the little village of Barnbury sat ir the room behind his shop. He was a short and sturdy bak- er, a good fellow, and orninarily of a jolly demeanor, but this day he sat grim in his littie back room. “Christmas indeed,” he said to him- self, “and what of Chrismas? “Thank you, baker, and a merry Christmas to you,’ and every one of them goes away, with the present of a raisin-cake, or a horse ginger cake, if they like that bet- ter- All this for the good of the trade, of course. Confound the trade, I'm tired of trade. Is there no good in this world, but the good of the trade? ‘Oh, yes,’ they'll say, ‘there’s Christmas and that’s good.” ‘But what is the good of it to me? say I. Christmas day is a family day, and to a man without a family it's no day atall. I'm not even fourth cousin to a soul in the town. Nobody asks me to a family dinner. ‘Bake, baker!’ they cry, ‘that we may eat and lcve each other.’ Confound them. I am tired of it. What is Christmas to me? I have a mind to skip it.” As he said this a smile broke out on his face. “Skip Christmas.” said he, “that is a good idea. They did not think of me last year ; this would make them think of me this year.” As he said this he opened his order book and ran his eye over the names. “Here's orders from every one of them,” said he, “from the doctor down to Cob. bler John. All have families, all give orders. It's pastry, cake or sweet meats, or it's meat or fowl to be baked What a jolly Christmas they will have without me! Orders from all of them, every one; all sent in good time for fear of being crowded out.” Here he stopped and ran his eye again over the list. “No, not all,” he said, “the Widow Monk is not here. What is the mat- ter with her, I wonder? The only person in Barnbury who bas not or dered either pastry, cakes or sweet. meate; or fowls or meat to be baked, If I skip Christmas, she'll not mind i, but she'll be the only one—the only one in all Barnbury. Ha! ha!” The baker wanted some fresh air, and, as this was supper time for the whole village, he locked up his shop and went out for a walk. The night was clear and frosty. He hked this; the air was so different from that in his bakery. ! He walked to the end of the village, and at the last house he stopped. “It's very odd,” said he to himself ; “no cakes, pastry or sweetmeats ; not even poultry or meat to be baked. I'll look in and see about this,” and he knocked at the door. The Widow Monk was at supper. She was a plump little body, bright and cheerful to look upon, and not more than thirty. “Good evening, baker,” said she, | “will you sit down and have a cup of tea ?" The baker put down his hat, un- wound Lis long woolen comforter, took off his overcoat, and had a cup of tea. | mas,” he said to her. “Fine enough for the rest of you,” she raid, with a smile, “but I shall not have any Christmas this year.” “How’s that?” cried the baker; “no Christmas, Widow Monk ?” “Not this year, baker,” said she, and she poured him another cup of tea. “You see that horse-blanket?” said she, pointing to one thrown over a chair. “Bless me, Widow Monk,” cried the baker, “you're not intending to set up a horse?” “Haraly that,” she answered, with a smile‘ ‘but that's the very very last horse-blanket that I can get to bind. They don’t put them on horses, but they have them bound with red, and use them for door curtins® That's all the fashion now, and all the Barabury folks who can afford them have sent them to me to be bound with red. That one is nearly finished, and there are no more to be bound.” “But haven't the Barnbury folks any more work for you?’ cried the baker; “haven't they shirts or gowns, or some other sort ot needling?’ “Those things they make them- selves,” answered the widow, “but this binding is heavy work and they give it to me. The blankets are coarse, you see, but they hang well in the door- way.” “Confound the people of Barnbury !” cried the baker. “Every one of them would hang well in a doorway if I had the doing of it. Andso you can’t af- ford a Christmas, Widow Monk ?" “No,” said she, setting herself to work on her horse-blanket, “not this year. When I came to Barnbury, baker, I thought I might do well, but I have not done well.” “Did not your husband leave you anything ?”’ he asked. “My husband wasa sailor,” said she “and he went down with his brig, the Mistletoe, three years ago, and all that he left me is gone, baker.” It was time for the baker to open his shop, and he went away, and as he walked home snow drops and tear drops were all mixed together on his face. “I couldn’t do this sort of thing be- fore her,” he said, “and I am glad it was time to go and open my shop.” That night the baker did all bis regular work, but not a finger did he put to any Christmas order. The next day, at supper time, he went out for a walk. On the way he said to himself, “If she is going to skip Christmas, and I am going to skip Christmas, why should we not skip it together ? That would truly be most fit and gladsome, and it would serve Barnbury aright. I'll go in and lay it before her.” The Widow Monk was at supper, and when she asked him to take a cup of tea he put down his hat, unwound his woolen conforter, and took off his overcoat. When he sat down his empty cup he told her that he, too, had made up his mind to skip Christmas, and he told her why, and then he pro- posed that they shonld skip it together. Now, the Widow forgot to ask him to take a second cup of tea, and she turned as red as the binding she had put on the horse-blankets. The baker pushed aside the teacups, leaned over the table, and pressed his suit very hard. When the time came for him to op- en his shop she said that she would think about the matter, and that he might come again. The nextday the sun shone golden, the snow shone silvery, and Barnbury was like a paradise to the good baker. For the Widow Monk had told him he might come again, and that was almost the same thing as telling him that he and she would skip Christmas togeth- er! And not a finger, so far, had he put to any Christmas order, About noon of that day, he was so happy, was that good baker, that he went into the village inn to have a taste of something hot. In the inn he found a tall man, with rings in his ears. A sun-browned man he was and a stranger, who had just arrived and wanted his dinner. He was also a bandsome man, and a sailor, as any one could see. As the baker entered, the tall man said to the inn-keeper: “Is there a Mrs, Monk now living in this village 2" “Truly there is,”” said the inn-keep- er, “and I will show you her house. But you'll have your dinner first 2”! “Aye, ave,” said the stranger, “for I'll not 2o to her hungry.” The baker asked for nothing hot, but turned him and went out into the cold, bleak world. As he closed the door behind him he heard the stranger say: “On the brig Mistletoe.” It was not needed that the baker should hear these words; already he knew everything. His soul had told him everything in the moment he saw the sun-browned man with the rings in his ears! On went the baker,hishead bowed on his breast, the sun shining like tawdry brass, the snow ghsfening like a slimy, evil thing. He knew not where he was going ; he knew not what he in- tended to do, but on he went. Presently a door opened and he was called. “I saw you coming,” said the Wid- ow Monk, “and I did not wish to keep you waiting in the cold,” and she held open the door for him, When he had entered and had seat- ed himself before the fire, she said to him : : “Truly, you look chilled, you ‘need something hot,” and she prepared it for him, The baker took the hot beverage. | This much ot good he might at least allow himself. “He drank it and he felt warmed. “Now, then,” said he to himself, as | he pat down his cup, “if she d ask me to dinner I wouldn't ski and the whole v and bless her.” “We are like to have a fine Christ p Christmas, illage might rise up “And now," said the Widow Monk, seating herself ou the ocher side of the fireplace, “I shall speak as plainly to you as you spoke to me. You spoke very well yesterday, and I have been thinking about it ever since and have made up my mind. You are alone in the world and I am alone, and if you don’t wish to be aloneany longer, why, [ don’t wish to be either, and so—per haps—it will not he necessary to skip Christmas this year.” : Alas for the poor baker! Here was paradise seen through a barred gate! But the baker's heart was moved; even in the midst of his misery he could not bat be grateful for the widow’s words. There flashed into his eyes a sudden brightness. He held out his hands. He would thank her first and tell her afterwards. The widow took his hands, lowered her bright eyes and blushed: Then she suddenly withdrew herself and stood up. “Now,” she said, with a pretty smile “let me do the talking. Don’t look «0 | downcast. When I tell you that you have made me very, very happy, you should look happy too. When you came to me yesterday and said what you said, I thought you were in too | much of a hurry, but now I think that perhaps you were right. and that when people ot our age have anything im- portant to do, itis well todo itat once, for in this world there are all sorts of things continually springing up to pre- vent people from being happy.” The whole body of the baker was filled with a great groan, but he denied it utterance. He must hear what she would say. “And so I was going to suggest,” she continued, “that instead of skip- ping Christmas together we keep it to- gether. That is all the change I pro- pose to your plan.” Up sprang the baker, so suddenly, that he overset his chair. Now he must speak. The widow stepped quick- ly toward the door, and turning with a smile held up her hand. : “Now, good friend.” she said, “stop there! At any moment some one might come in. Hasten back to your shop. At 3 o'clock I will meet you at the parsons. That will surely be soon enough, even for such a hasty man as you.” The baker came forward and gasp. ed, “Your husband!” “Not yet,” said the widow, with a laugh, and kissing the tips of her fin- gers to him she closed the door behind her. Out into the cold went the baker. His head was dazed, but he walked steadfastly to his shop. There was no need for him to go anywhere; to tell anybody anything. The man with the earrings would settle matters for him- self soon enough. The baker put up his shutters and locked his shop door. He would do nothing more for the good of trade; no- thing more for the good of anything. Skip Christmas! Indeed would he. And, moreover, every holiday and every happy day would now be skip- ped straight on for the rest of his life. He pat bis house in order; he arrang- ed his affairs ; he attired himself mn his best apparel ; locked his door behind him ; and went out into the cold world. He longed now to get far away from the village. Before the sun set there would not be one soul there who would care for him. As he hurried on he saw before him the parson’s house. “I will take but one thing away with me,” he said, “I will ask the good old man to give me his blessing. That will I take with me.” “Of course he is in,” said the par- son’s maid, “there, in the parlor.” As the baker entered the parson’s parlor, some one hastened to meet him. It was the Widow Monk. “You wicked man,” she whispered, “you are a quarter of an hour late. The parson is waiting.” The parson was a little man with white hair. He stepped toward the couple standing together, and the wid- ow took the baker's hand. Then the parson began the little speech he al- ways made on such occasions. It was full of good sense and very touching, and the widow’s eyes were dim with tears. The baker would have spoken, but he had never interrupted a clergy- man and he could not do it now. Then the parson began his appointed work, and the heart of the baker swell- edi as the widow’s hand trembled in his own. “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?” asked the parson. “Now for this,” quoth the poor bak- er to himself, “I may bake forever, but [ cannot draw back nor keep the good man waiting.” And he said, “Yes.” Then it was that the baker received what he had come for, the parson’s blessing; and, immediately, his fair companion, brimming with tears, threw herself into his arms. “Now,” said the baker to himself, “when I leave this house, may the devil take me, and right welcome shall he be.’, Dearest,”’she exclaimed,as she look- ed into his face, “you cannot know how happy Iam. My wedding day, and my brother back from the cruel seas!” Struck by a sudden blast of bewilder- ing ecstacy the baker raised his eyes, and beheld the tall form of the sun- browned stranger who had been stand- ing hehind them. “You are not a sailor-man,” quoth the jovial brother, “like my old mate, who went down n the brig Mistletoe, but my sister tells me you are a jolly good fellow, and I wish you fair winds and paying cargoes.” And after giv- ing the baker a powerful handshake, the sailor kissed the bride, the par- sou’s wife, the parson’s daughter, and the parson’s maid, and wished the family were larger, having just returned from the cruel seas. The onljy people in the village of | Barnbury who thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas of that year, were the bak- er, his wife and the sailor brother. And a rare good time they had, for a ' big sea chest arrived, and there were curious presents and a tall flask of rare old wine, and plenty of time for three merry people to cook for themselves. The baker told his wife of his soul- harrowing plight of the day before. “Now, then,” said he, “don’t you think that by rights I should bake all the same 2” “Oh, that will be skipped,” she said with a laugh, “and now go you and make ready for the cakes, pastry, and sweetmeats, the baked meats and the poultry, with which the people of Bartbury ere to be made right happy on New Year's day. ER C— OLD SANTA’S BIRDS. Dear Santa Claus keeps a bower of birds To carol his Christmas glees, And every year their joyous notes Resound through the Christmas trees. Good Santa’s birds are children dear, They kecp our hearts in tune, Aud mind us of a better world As roses tell of June. Oh ! what a dreary world this were, How barren, bleak and cold, | Ifchildhood’s harmless mirth were hushed, | Ifall the young were old. TT en blessings be on Santa's birds, | And blessings on their lays, For childhood is a glimpse of Heaven, In the sunshine cf our days. —Good Housekeeping, KITIY’'S NEW YEAR, “Its rather hard,’ said Kitty Penflax, as she scalded the milk-pail with boiling water, and carefully wiped out the seams and depressions of the shining tin pans until not a drop of the moisture could by any possibility linger—“especially dur- ing holiday week, when there are so many little gayeties going on at home, and when cousin Paul Penflax has al- ready telegraphed three times for one of us to s nooth his dying pillow. But of course mother couldn’t come, and Se- lina’s sprained ankle puts it out of the question for her—and Lizzie has her drawing and penmanship pupils, and it’s very mean and selfish for me to grumble and repine like this! Yes, Cousin Penflax, yes, I'm coming |” as a vigorous thumping of a cane or umbrel- la, or some other blunt-ended instru- ment signified the presence of a domin- ant will in the room upstairs. And she hastened to attend the summons, pull- ing down her dress sleeves and flinging off her green checked work apron as she ran, Paul Penflax lay among his pillows, a little yellow, dried up effigy of a man with fretful curves to the corners of his mouth, sharp, bead-black eyes, and hair of that peculiar sandy that fades but never turns gray. “Kitty,” said he, ‘what time is it? Who has taken away my clock ?”’ “It is five o’clock, Cousin Paul.” “You're deceiving me, Kitty! It’s dark, ain’t it—pitch dark ?” “But it’s a snowy evening, Cousin Paul, and the days are short. And you know you gave the clock to Zenas Throgg to repair.” “But I didn’t expect he was going to keep it always.” “Shall I send for it ?’? “No-0-0 !” snarled the yellow-faced invalid. “I don’t suppose he’s touched it yet. He's the slowest snail going. Get some one to move the hall-clock in bere. I'm losi without the time of day 1” \ “Yes, Cousin Paul,” meekly answer- ed Kitty. “Because you know,” said old Mr. Penflax lugubriously, “every minute is of value to me now. My days are num- bered.” “The doctor says—"' “I don’t care what the doctor says,’ interrupted Paul® Penflax. “He can’t see an inch farther than his own drugs. All the Penflaxes die on New Year's eve! It’s the family fate.” “Oh, no, Cousin Penflax, because—" “Your father died on New Year's eve, didn’t he 7” “Yes, but—"’ “And Zachariah Penflax, down in Massachusetts Bay, was blown off the ‘Lively Sallie,’ in a squal, ten years ago on New Year's eve 7 “They didn’t know whether it was the thirty-first of December or the first of January, because—"' “But I know,” solemnly interrupted Mr. Penflax. “And there was your cousin Maria.” “She wasn’t a Penflax 1” “But she married one. It’s all {ke same. The Penflaxes all go on New Year's eve.” “All these are only coincidences, Cousin. Paul,” pleaded Kitty, as she tenderly straightened the sheets and smoothed the pillow cases. “Hump!” grunted the sick man, “When you see me in my coffin you'll say it was ‘only a coincidence,” I sup- pose ?”’ “Please don’t talk so,” soothed Kitty. ‘Here is your gruel, nice and hot.’ “You'll see!” said Paul Penflax. “Shall I make you a cup of tea 2” “You see !” he mournfully reiterated “Or would you prefer coffee 7’? “You'll see!” “I'm going to stew down a chicken for you to-night,” cheerfully went on Kitty. “And Owen French says there’s such a nice little red calf out in the barn. A New Year's present. “Calves and chickens don’t signify to me now,” groaned Mr. Penflax. “But I want the clock brought in, where I cun see it and hear it tick. Every sec- ond is of importance to me now. It’s five o'clock, isn’t it? Very well. Before midnight the Penflax doom will have descended on me. You've been ' very good to me, Kitty. TI wish I had a fortune to leave you, but I've only the farm and— and the big diamond ‘stud that old Captain Blossom gave me be- fore he committed suicide in the garret ten years ago. 1'm calculating to give that to Mary, my niece, who is so poor, down on Beverick Beach. Mary's fath- er helped me years ago, when I needed help badly. It’s all written in a paper somewhere, And the stud is sewed up in a bag of chamois skin leather in the lining of my pillow-tick. Don’t let any one get at the diamond stud, Kitty, un- til the lawyer comes.” “No. cousin Penflax, I won’t” pro- tested Kitty. ‘And now bring me the big Bible and my spectacles,” said Paul. “And call Owen French to move the clock at once!” “Won’t you eat your gruel, Cousin Paul 77 “No,” said Penflax. “What hasa dying man to do with gruel? Isn't it New. Year's-eve? Isn't the Penflax doom approaching ?’’ Kitty crept down stairs, with sn odd prickly sensation in every nerve. She knew that an old sea captain had board- ed with Paul Penflax years ago, but she never had heard of the suicide in the — garret—the great, dark, echoing garret with its angles full of shadows and the | mysterious creaking, scufiling sounds, which might be rats, or might be the wind under the loose shingles, or rus- tling the bunches of dried herbs that hang from the beams, or might be— She was glad when she saw Owen French’s stalwart form by the cooking stove. wood and water, Kitty,” said he. snowing so that we shan’t know where the well is to-morrow morning! Now Kitty, haven’t I earned a kiss?” “Don’t Owen!” said the girl —and yet she smiled a little as she added: “Please go up and move the big hall clock into Cousin Paul's room He wants it there,” “Bound to die. is he?’ said Owen, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, [ sup- pose we’ll have to humor him!” He went cheerily up stairs, moved in gilt sun never left oft rising behind a grove of painted poplars above the face, and the huge brass pendulum swung drowsily to and fro, “Now what else can I do for you, squire,” said he, with alacrity. “Nothing,” said Paul. “Or stay. I can gain.” “Is it this bottle ?’’ said Owen. Mr. Penflax nodded without turning his head —swallowed his medicine, and folded up his glasses. “II rest a little now," said he—and honest Owen tiptoed out of the room, painfully conscious of his squeaking boots. tated gloomily over past, present and future. a “I've been a miserable sinner,” said he; “but I don’t know, if I was to live my life over again, that—I wonder, now, if this is imagination—-this strange drowsy feeling? I’ve heard doctors tell that death was only a sort of o’ falling asleep, used up sensation. Yes, it’s the Penflax fate. It’s New Year's eve, and I'm dying! I wonder-—what—Kitty—’ Only a minute, as it seemed, and there were footsteps and voices in the room. But he lay there, unable to stir hand or foot—even lift an eyelid. “I suppose they’ll lay me out now,’ said he to himself. “I'm dead. And it wasn’t so painful ® after all ? T can’t see em, but I can hear ’em talk.” “I found him lying just so,” said Kit- sy’s soft voice,;when I came upstairs. Oh, dear! oh, dear i do you suppose he’s dead ?” “As a door nail,” said Peter Penflax, a distant cousin who lived next door. “Must a’ died just on the stroke of eleven.” “I told them so. The Ponflax fate!’ was the reflection in cousin Paul’s mind. ‘Dreadful cold weather for a funer- al!” said Peter. “Where is Owen ?"’ “Gone for the doctor,” sobbed Kitty. “For the doctor! That's only money thrown away: He charges a dollar a visit,” growled Peter “You'd a’ deal better fetch the undertaker! By the way, Kitty, where’s that diamond stud of his? And all his papers? I'd bet- ter take charze of ’em at once.” “I don’t know,” said Kitty, thankful that the mention of the papers enabled her to speak truly. “The lawyer—" “Lawyers cost money,” said Peter. “I'm lawyer enough, and I’m the na- tural heir. Paul was nothing but an old miser—rnever helped nobody but himgelf. If he could, he'd took his money with him, he would. And I mean to find that diamond if—" “You shall not touch a thing !” cried Kitty, as Peter began to open the draw- ers of the ancient mahogany desk in the corner and pry around in various direc- tions. “He was good to me, and I won’t have his wishes disregarded |” “I’m bound to have that stud,” said Peter, “or I’ll know the reason why 1” “And I'm dead and can’t interfere |’ thought poor Paul. “Sitdown I” said Peter Penflax, «I ain’t goin’ to be domineered over by no woman! That diamond stud is here, and I’m the next kin—sit down, T say, or I'll choke you like you was a chicken!” . “Oh, if Owen French were here!” gasped Kitty, wringing her hands, “Let go my throat! You burt me! You—" “Let go her throat or TIl be the death of you!” brawled a voice behind Peter Penflax; and the interlsper jump- ed back to behold the yellow visage and flannel bed-gown to match of the sup- posed dead man close to him. “What's them bells? said Paul “The old South Church ringing in the New Year! And I am not dad! Then I shan’t die this year, the Lord be praised! Get out of this, Peter Penflax! You ain’t heic to my diamond stud yet, and I don’t mean you shall be! T'm powerfnl drowsy, and my legs feel like cracked pipe-stems; but I’m as live as ever I was! Getout, I say!” “Your a ghost,” smd Peter, ghosts have no legal rights.” “I’m alive!” retorted Paul. “Kitty, hand me the tongs! Yes, I thought that would scatter Lim. And the old clock stopped at eleven, did it ? Every- thing’s combined agin the Penflax fate, I do believe. And now, Kitty, help me back to bed, and give me a swallow of my tonic! It’s there on the table!” No, Cousin Penflax, it isn’t,” said Kitty. “Tbis is the laudanum liniment for your back 1” Paul Pentax opened and shut his mouth like a piece of newly invented | machinery. “The laudanum liniment !”” said he. “That accounts for it! Owen French | “and i diamond, after all! 1 | live another year I may as well be com. | fortable about it” gave me a big dose of it last night— | reckoned it was the tonic! It must! have put me dead asleep, and I supposed | of course I was dead! But I wasn't, | I was alive enough to come to your res- i cue, Kitty | And you shall have the! You've earned it! my girl! Put wood on the fire, Set’ the clock going. Fetch on that chick- ; en stew you told me about. If I'm to But after that night Paul left off talk. ing about the Penflax doom. He died ‘comfortably in his bed, some xhere in August, that year; but previous to this he sold the big diamond stud and divid- | ed the proceeds equally between his cous- | in Kitty and the widow down on Bev- erick Beach. His room is empty now, and the old clock in the corner has never ticked a tick since that New “I’ve brought you a fresh supply of | To's | the big cherry-wood clock, where the My tonic, please, I need all the strength Paul Penflax shut his eyes and medi- | —— TR FAIA AER Year's eve when it stopped at eleven | “I declare,” said Kitty French—for ' she married Owen and settled down in her inherited home by that time—¢[ don’t know which I miss most—the old clock or Cousin Paul!’ ! And Peter, the miser, has never once: left off railing at bis destiny. Sitting Bull's Career. Sitting Bull, the most noted Indian since Black Hawk, was between 56 and , 58 years of age. His father was Jump- | ing Bull, a warrior of no particalar | prominence, except for his position at | the head of one of the innumerable factions of the Sioux nation. Up to ‘his 14th year Sitting Bull had been called the Sacred Stand, but when he “had killed and scalped a young buck { about his own age his name was chang- "ed to Tattanka-Yan-Tanka, orin En- glish the name which he now bears. Before he reached his 15th year he ' began those traits which afterward | made him a terror. He was lazy and | vicious, and never told the truth when a lie would serve better. But he was | fearless under all circumstances, a mag- nificent rider, an accurate shot and ca- pable of enduring an extraordinary amount of fatigue. THE BEGINNING OF HIS FAME. It was not until after the close of the | war of the rebellion that Sitting Bull began to attract any attention. In 1867 he was known as a “Blanket warrior” by the soldiers at Fort Buford, on the Missouri River, and one who despised | the whites. General Morrow was in | command of the fort, and in 1868 or | 1869, when numerous depredations oc- curred Sitting Bull was accused. He denied the charge, and not long after one of his men was killed. He | charged that the killing was unprovoked rand made a demand for some sort of a settlement, displaying such powers of argument that General Morrow piled up blankets on the dead Indian until the chief declared himself satisfied. This e)ncession drew around him some of the holder members of the tribe, who had before held aloof. From that day forward Sitting Bull became a great chief among his people. He began at once to display a deliberative turn of mind altogether at variance with his previous character. In a few months his perspicacious view of events became so well known that he held every buck in the tribe under bis thumb, and those who had been bold enough to consider themselves possible rivals were heard of no more. As soon as he felt that his power was absolute he gave orders to strike camp and go down to Yellowstone River. Sitting Bull set up a claim to all the land for forty rods on both sides of the Yellowstone and all its tributa- ries. In the latter part of 1875 a party of £fty white men from Montana invaded Sitting Bull's territory and built a fort. The chief ordered them to leave and en- forced the demand by killing one of the party. Then Sitting Bull put the fort under fire, and there were desultory at- tacks daily, lasting through the months of Decemberfand January. Six white mer: were killed and eight wounded. Five hundred warriors surrounded the fort, and their i persistent patience soon convinced the besieged that the intention was to starve them to death. Two of the imprisoned men managed to reach Fort Ellis, and re-enforcements were sent to the besieged. Sitting Bull with- drew, but after the fort was evacuated the Sioux chief had the bodies of six men dug from their shallow graves and scalped. HE LED THE CUSTER MASSACRE. The story of the Custer massacre, in June, 1876, has been told again and again, but to this day no person can tell just what part Sitting Bull took in that fearful scene of carnage, although it is pretty certain that he was the leader in it. Sitting Bull himself was evasive and ambiguous. After he became a show Indian, and posed as a relic of the mighty aborgine in Sunday schools and on lecture platforms, the old rascal sim- ply went back to his boyhood habit of lying, and blandly explained that he wasn’t responsible for the killing, and really knew nothing of it. The public is familiar with his part in the recent Indian troubles. An Early Spring Predicted. Coester county’s eminent weather prophet, J. Williams Thorne, has writ- ten his usual weather predictions for the winter, according to his “Lunar Cycle Rule,” and the Village Record has printed it. The interesting portion of the predicticn is contained in the fol- lowing : “The winter of 1890-91 will be a mod- erate one, with about three weeks of good sleighing. Tce will be sufficiently abundant to furnish a full supply in eastern Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The navigation of the Delaware, at Philadelphia, will be obstructed with ice buttemporarily, ifatall, In Ches% ter county the thermometer will but rarely’indicate a temperature at or be- low zero. The spring will be of mors than average earliness. The summer following will be sufficiently warm and moist to make good crops of grain and hay generally. Apples, pears, peaches and cherries will be more than usually abundant.” BE —— Seven Babies in Two Years. Mrs. Blume of Pittsburg, Beats All Fecundity Records. PrressurG, Dee. 14.—Mrs. Joseph Blume, of No. 220 Frauklin street, Al- legheny City, has astonished her neigh- bors and her husband during the past two years by givingbirth to seven child- ren in that time. Within the last few days Mrs. Blume has presented her hus- band with triplets, plump, healthy youngsters, two boys and a girl. Not quite a year ago the Blume fam- ily was blessed by the birth of twins, and during the preceding twelve months. { Mrs. Blume gave birth to her two first babies. The triplets and their prolific mother are doing well. The Yabies are described as chipper. Mrs. Blume 1s a woman of ordinary build. —————— ———— They are cutting a good deal of ice down in Maine nowadays. Maine pa- pers declare that it is very fine ice, re- markably clear and sound. There is every indication of a big crop.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers