+ Dear us.
Bellefonte, Pa., May 25, 1894.
_—
A SONG OF TROUBLE.
—
BY FRANK L. STANTON.
Little bit of a fellow—
Couldn't get him to sleep; ;
And the mother sighed as he tossed and cried:
“He's such a trouble to keep.”
Little bit of a fellow—
Couldn't get him to sleep!
Little bit of a fellow—
But the eyes of the mother yesh;
For one sad night that was lost to ight,
God smiled, and kissed him to sleep—
- Little bit of a fellow, !
And he wasn’t a tronble to keep!
EE RISTTT
A DRIFT FROM BUCK RUN.
‘BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE.
For an April day it was pretty warm.
“clot
, sert itself
nainsook packed away in the bottom
bureau drawer at home.
Hemmingway, who
me, his face very red, and covered with
perspiration.
despairingly.
back to the store. = There
enough minnows in the whole of Buck
Run to go fishing with once. It’s
been too dry a winter, and no spring
rises. What few there were
~ been caught already.
“What time does the creek general
ly rise I" I asked, for lack of anything
better to say.
“Any time it rains—now or sooner.
I have seen it all over this bottom at
this season, and the people getting out
like rats.” -
“It comes up to those houses,
then ?”
“Well, T guess you'd think so. Why,
one time, when the ice pond above
broke away, a house floated over
where we are standing, and a baby
was drowned over there by the old
brewery,”
“Why, then, do these people build
down here 2! I asked, with awakened
interest.
“Why 2° Why do people always
build in such places? In the first
“place, they are a poor miserable lot
that rather enjoy the yearly or semi-
yearly overflow, when it doesn’t come
up too high.
ful enough, God knows!
them are colored people,
whites are even worse, if anything. I
think they are never happier than
when the slack-water backs up from
the river, and gets just to the door-sill.
Then the whole family go wading, and
watch the rise and fall by the drift line
on their bare legs.
“And I suppose lots down here are
rather cheap, too,” I said, laugh-
ing.
“Oh yes ; no value at all scarcely.
more worthless than} the houses, and
you see what they are.”
“And they rebuilt the ice dam ?”
“Of course. You don’t expect peo-
ple to do without ice for such riffraff as
this, do you?” and Hemmingway
laughed, with a contempt for poverty
which I knew was not genuine.
We were walking slowly back in the
direction of the business centre, follow-
ing down the broad hollow that divid-
ed the city, and through the centre of
which ran the uncertain watercourse
known as Buck Run.
It was my first year in this pleasant
little city. I was not doing much as
I had a small office, where I kept
yet.
my wading-boots and brass rod, and
dealt out legal advice in homaeopa-
thic doses. Hemmingway, who bad
been my earliest acquaintance, had
continued to be my companion in such
sport as the country afforded. He was
a fine-looking, broad shonldered, good-
natured fellow, and enthusiastic fish-
erman, fond of good cigars, and, in
moderation, such other refreshmeats
as only a ‘probibition State can ade:
quately supply. He was a partner 1
a large wholesale grocery house located
somewhat out of the business centre.
The building fronted on the main
thoroughfare, while the rear entrance
of the basement was a little way up
the sloping ground that overlooked
"the bottom-land lying adjacent to the
run.
Reaching the cool shade in the rear
of Hemmingway, Master's, & Martin's
we seated ourselves on some boxes to
rest. A number of drays were loading
and unloading on the wide platform
A narrow street at our right
sloped from the wide one above, mak-
ing a rather steep descent until it
. reached the level ground just below
the store, crossing this flat on a
six foot rock fill that ended at the
massive arch culvert which spanned
the run. Beyond this culvert was an-
. other fill, which the road crossed, then,
rising again somewhat abruptly, it dis-
appeared over a little wooded hill.
Just below the culvert. on the opposite
bank, there was a miserable box
shanty.
“Trade prétty good, isn’t it?” I
asked after a pause.
“Yes, tip-top : never better. Open-
ing of the Oklahoma connty isa big
thing for us. Everybody rushing in,
and nobody got anything to eat.”
“Does the water ever come up this
high ?’ reverting to the former sub-
ject. >
“Never knew it to. It is possible,
however. © Heavy rains raise the
creek very quickly sometimes, although
it’s the backwater irom the river that
generally comes highest. We pever
keep much in the basement that water
could iujure. I've got a boat, too,” he
added, laughing ; “wade it out of an
old show-case box ; thought I might
need it some time.”
“It would be bad on the folks down |
there if you did.”
“Yes; it would
sweep.”
make a clean
“I suppose we will have to give up
fishing to-morrow.”
People who still woretheir winter under-
ee felt stufty in the afternoon sun,
that in southern Kansas begins to as
remarkably ‘early, and
thought wistfully of the cool gauze and
was rather
fleshy, and had been using the net for
the first few minutes, turned : round to
Tt is no use,” he said,
We might as well go
aren’t
have
It gives them a little ex-
citement, and their lives are unevent-
Many of
and the
«Yeg—no—perhaps not. See that
little house down there by the bridge ?
Well there's a tamily lives there—one
of the lowest probably of the entire
hollow. No father, I think, at least
none regular—maybe never was.
Mother's an ignorant, tat, dirty old
scum of the earth; one boy, nearly
grown, is & half-wit, aod has St. Vitus's
dance ; another boy, younger, vith
more seuse, and the image of the old
lady; a girl between the two that
seems to be sort of a compromise—
kind of a general average—not quite so
dirty, not quite so silly, but frightfully
ignorant. All live, eat, and sleep in
one room. Ugh !"” and Hemmingway
shiverad as though a galvanic shock
had flashed over him, then relapsed
into silence.
I waited a moment for him to re
sume. then remarked, ‘Interesting,
Hemmingway, but I don’t quite see
the application.”
“Oh, beg pardon! I forgot, Well,
last summer I once or twice hired the
boys to catch minnows for me ; if
there is one in the creek they will find
it. The girl is very good at it, too;
she frequently carried my bucket for
me last year, and followed me about
like a dog ;”” and he laughed, rather
queerly, it seemed to me.
I looked at him quickly. “How old
is she 77 I asked.
“Don’t know ; don’t Suppose she
does ; fourteen or fifteen probably
Goes barefooted, and dresses otherwise
simple. One garment, I judge. She's
nat so bad, either, all things counsider-
ed,” he added, after a pause. “Some-
times I’ve thought that in different cir-
cumstances she might be as intelli-
gent as—as the ordinary society girl.”
Hemmingway was a bachelor, and in-
clined to be somewhat cynical.
“Sort of an Arcadian shepherdess,”
I suggested. “I suppose you are a
great prince to Aer.” i
“Possibly. I have generally given
her what loose change I had. She
didn’t want to take it at first; but I
threatened to deprive myself of her
company otherwise, upon which she
condescended to accept my bounty.
We'll go down there and hire the boys;
they can seine the run, and if they
don’t get minnows enough there, they
can go to the river. You may gee the
girl if you wish, that is, provided she
still exists. I haven’t seen her myself
since—" He blushed, and hesita-
ted.
“Hemmingway,”" I said, “there is
something back ; tell me the rest of
it.”
“Well,” he said, blushing still more,
“you will be disappointed. It's noth-
ing of any consequence whatever.
One night last winter, when we were
pretty busy, I was alone jn the office
writing some letters. By-and-by some-
body knocked. I went to the door,
and found one of those boys—the
younger one—Tom, or Dick, or Bill,
or something like that.
“Hello I” I says. ‘What's up ?
(Oh, mister,’ he says, ‘Sister Moll’
—or fal, or Lize, or some such name
as that—*is dead sick, an’ she jes keeps
a-callin’ an’ a-goin’ on about you ; an’
mam seed the light, an’ told me ter
core over an’ gee if you was here, an’
would jes come over a minnit, ‘kase
she thought it might help Sal’—or
Moll, or Lize, or whatever her name is.
“Well, I went over, and of all the
hard places I ever was in, that was
certainly the toughest. And right in
the midst of it all, the girl down with
a raging fever—no doctor, no medi
cine, no anything, Just as I got to
the door, I heard her say :
“Why don’t Mr. Hemmingway
come? why don’t he come? The
crick’s a-risin’y, an’ we won't get no
minners.’
“I went in, and spoke to her; she
seemed to know me, and got quieter.
Then I wrote a note to Doc Baker, and
sent it by one of the boys. Next day
I sent the porter over with some clean
bedding and a basket of fruit. She
was ail right again in a week ; you
can’t kill that kind.”
We walked down the road and des-
cended half a dozen rude stone steps to
reach the house by the arch culvert.
An old red-faced, blear-eyed woman
was sitting in the doorway, and a
young girl was standing behind her. 1
caught a glimpse of her face, and
judged her to be about fifteen, well de-
veloped and pot bad-looking. She
caught sight of Hemmingway. and
darted back into the room.
“Come out hyar, Polly, hyar's Mr.
Hemmingway,” said the mother as we
approached.
Polly came to the door, blushing
furiously. =
“Polly's mighty’shamed the way she
done last winter,” continued the old
lady and Polly hung her head so low
that her face was entirely hidden.
“Never mind, Polly,” said Hem-
mingway. “We know it's all right,
don’t we ? Where are the boys ?”’ he
added, carelessly.
“Gone miunerin’,)’ said Polly,
weakly.
“That'sjust what we want. Tell
them to bring a lot up to the store,
and I'll givethem half a dollar.”
“Lor’, Mr. Hemmingway,”’ broke in
the old Jadv, “yer mighty good,
though the boys ’ud bring 'em fer
nothin’, I reckon. Bud aller savs you
saved Poll’s life last winter. Bud jes
thinks the sud rises an’ sets in Mr.
Hemmingway ;' ‘this last one to
me.
While the old beldam talked, 1 bad
been watching Polly. Her eyes had
heen fixed on my companion’s face.
Nowhere before or since have I ever
seen such a look of absolute dog-like
devotion as wae in hers at that moment.
Never have I seen a human face so
illuminated with the light of love.
“Tell Bud not to let that worry
him,” laughed Hemmingway ; ‘and
above all, not to fail us on the mio-
| nowe. Wewant them for to-morrow
| morning, sure.”
| “Boys ain't got a very good pet,”
- meekly sugzested Polly. “If they had
.a better pet, they'd do better, I
reckon.”
“They can have mine,” said Hem-
mingway, as we turned to go. “I'll
ERT IRIT hr ani wh ACS
get it out back of the store. If they
don’t have enough when they come in,
tell them to come and get it.
We went back up the hill. Hem-
mingway was soon busy with a cus-
tomer, while I loitered about the cool
store reading the gaudy labels on the
canned-goods boxes, and breathing
the pleasant odors of coffee and spices.
Going back to the hydrant for a drink,
I glanced out the rear window just in
time to see Polly slipping away with
the minnownet under her arm.
As I walked back to my office a lit-
tle later, I noticed that the sky had a
white hazy look, and the wind had
crept round to the east.
We did not fish the next day nor the
next. During the night a slow steady
rain set in and continued, broken only
by occasional thunder-showers, for
more than a week. Buck Run rose
steadily and filled its banks, becoming
really riotous during the hard showers,
and quieting a little when they were
over. Then thelittle river that skirt.
ed the town overflowed and backed up
into the ground. The Buck Run bot.
toms became a vast shallow sea, into
which the current of the creek was
merged and lost. The rock-filled road
became a causeway, while above and
below it in the inhabitants improvised
boats. rafts, and other nondescript
water vehicles for which no possible
name could be devised, and thus nav-
igated their domain, or waded about in
its peaceful waters, and were hap
BY ai a new thing to me, and I spent
considerable time watching them from
the back windows of Hemmingway,
Masters, & Martin's big store. My
eyes frequently wandered to_the little
house by the culvert ; but if Polly par-
ticipated in any of these sports, I was
not aware of it. Still it rained, and
the backwater crept up higher and
higher. It was within a few inches of
the road, and within two feet of Hem-
mingway's basement. We calculated
that it was from three to six inches
deep in many . of the squalid houses,
most of which were elevated on blocks
nearly to a level with the road.
“Why don’t those people move out ?"
I asked ot Hemmingway.
“No place to go,’ was the grin re-
ply ; “besides, they don’t mind it
much, 1 guess.”
“But they will all die if this holds
on much longer.”
Hemmingway wroteon in silence.
perhaps he did not bear me.
It was near supper-time, and I turn-
ed to go. As I stepped out into the
street there was a bright flash of
lightning and a roll of thunder, follow-
ed by an increased downpour of rain.
I went back into the office to wait uon-
til the shower was over. The light
ning was very vivid, and the crashes
of thunder followed each other with
terrible rapidity. The rain fell
as though it were trying to amend for
the long drought. From the lighted
office it seemed, between the flashes, to
be pitch-dark outside, although it was
not yet six o'clock.
By-and-by I walked back to the rear
of the store, and looked out upon the
water revealed by tbe almost contin-
uous electric blaze. Then I came
rushing back to the office in front,
“For Gods sake, Hemmingway
come quick | The water is up over
the road, and people are getting out of
their houses. Some of them have no
boats, and are on the roofs.”
Everybody jumped from his chair
and followed us.
“Come,” said Hemmiogway, “my
boat is in the basement. I might have
known this flood would do the busi-
pess. If the dam were to break now,
it would sweep things clean.”
We rushed down the basement
stairs, and laid bold of the rough box
that stood in one corner. While we
were getting it out, we could hear the
water gurgling beneath the floor. Then
the big side doors were thrown open,
and we carried the rude craft out on to
the wide shipping platform that was
now but a few inches abovethe wa-
ter.
The rain was still pouring, and the
lightnicg was incessant. We launch-
ed the boat in the middle of the nar-
row street, that was now itself a mad
river that added its yellow torrent to
the rising sea. Hemmingway leaped
into the boat, and two others started to
follow.
“No; keep out!” he shouted.
“There is only one pair of oars, and
you would add extra weight. Bring
a coil of rope, somebody, quick I"*
One of the men ran back to the
basement, and returned » moment later
with an unbroken coil of rope taken
hastily from stock. Hemmingway
snatched out his knife, and cutting
loose an end, tied it through a hole in
one end of the box.
| “Pay it out to me,” he said, “and
when T hello, pull in.”
Then be bent to his rade oars, keep-
ing bis boat in a line with the road,
and pulling straight across that wild
sea. By the white flashes we could
gee his powerful form and the miser-
able family on the house-top below
the culvert. Suddenly I noticed that
Polly bad seen him too, and was
pointing him out to the others. He
was now near to the culvert, and was
fighting with the current to keep his
boat in the road. We knew that his
object was to eross the channel there,
for the current would be weak in the
shallow water just over the arch. He
would then pull until he was above the
house, and let the tide swing him
around against it, then we would drag
them to shore.
In other parts of the bottom we saw
people working their way out on the
ruder crafts that now stood them in
such good stead. Other less fortunate,
were in trees, and some, like the fam-
ily by the bridge, on their housetops.
We gave a shoutas we saw Hemming-
way cross the channel, and a moment
later saw him drifting down upon the
the hut that appeared now more thana
third under water. Then the torrent
that was plunging under the culvert
caught our slack rope, and almost
pulled it from our grasp. We saw
the four people climbing down into the
EA.
— AROS
boat, and heard, between the thunder-
bolts, Hemmingway’s shout to pull in.
| We felt the boat swing round with the
fierce tide, and our united strength
could hardly prevent its breaking
away. Then, in the white flare, we
saw a huge drifting log, with one
| black limb’ standing high above the
water, bear straight down upon them
and strike. There were bat two seats
in the boat, and Hemmingway was
standing half erect. Then there was a
second of blackness, and in the flash
that followed we saw that Hemming-
way was gone. Then ancther second
of obscurity, and in the succeeding
flash we saw that Polly's seat was va-
cant; then, a moment later, that she
was clinging to the limb of a small
sapling several yards below, and sup
porting Hemmiogway, who was evi-
dently unconscious, above the water.
It all happened so quickly that we
had scarcely uttered a cry. We saw
now that we could. not drifc the boat
around to them, it having already
swung out the current into the slack-
water.
“Haul in at ounce,” I shouted ; “then
we will go after him.”
Our load pulled much lighter now,
and in a few minutes we bad the two
boys and the old woman on the bank.
Hemmingway had dropped the oars,
and they were still in the boat. I
leaped in, and two others followed to
assist me in getting him in. By this
time our shouts had attracted others,
and we had plenty of help and lan-
terns. I pulled the boat down the
dead-water until I got even with Polly
and ber charge, then began working
my way toward them. Esch of the
others had grabbed a broken board,
and were aiding me what they could.
It seemed as though we made al-
most no headway into that wild cur-
rent. I bad my back toward them,
but one of the others shouted at last
that we were almost there. :
All at once I noticed with horror
that our boat was nearly half full of
water. Hemmingway was a heavy
man, and it would perhaps not sup-
port his weight; it would never hold
them both. Then I felt the boat tip,
and heard one of the men shout: “All
right ; I've got his hand ; let go of
him.”
I stopped rowing from sheer ex-
haustion, and the boat swung out of
the current again into slack-water.
“Don’t try to get him in,” [ called;
“it is certain to tip us over. Hold
him above the water, while I try to
get back to the girl.”
Then, in a moment of lull, we heard
Polly’s voice:
“Take Mr. Hemmingway to shore,”
it shouted ; “never mind me. I can
hold on till vou come back.”
There was nothing else to be done.
To get back into that tearing torrent
with our load and water-logged craft
was impossible. I shouted to those on
shore to pull in, and we towed our
insensible burden slowly to the
bank.
As we lifted him out, he showed
signs of returning consciousness, and
was carried at once into the store. We
dragged the box up into the road, and
emptied out the water preparatory to
returning for Polly. Then as we hur-
riedly shoved it back into the water,
there came a sound that made our
hearts stand still. Not as deafening
as the crashing thunder, but a mighty
and continuous roar that was growing
louder and louder and louder. All who
heard that roar knew whatit meant.
The ice dam had gone out! A moment
later a wall of water four feet high
swept down upon us, seething, foam-
ing, and carrying everything before it
deluging us to the knees before we
could get cack out of its reach.
The morning dawned bright and,
beautiful. The waters had partially
receded, and daylight disclosed the
scattered wreckage and a long gap in
the road, where a portion of the rock
fill had been swept away. A lot of
birds were shouting themselves hoarse
in the tree-tops, while others were
flocking over the washed ground
gathering food. Here and there were
people in boots and little knots of peo
ple were gathered along the shore talk-
ing in low voices, and searching eagerly
for the lost. i
It was some days before we tound
all the victims of that terrible night.
There were six of them, aud Polly's
face was the most peaceful among
them all.—Harper's Weekly
Corn Bread as Food.
Its Effects on the Colored Laborer on a Southern
Plantation.
«Behold the average colored laborer
on asouthern plantation,” said Mr. P.
B. Winston, of Minnesota and Virginia,
atjthe Arlington. ‘How fat and sleek he
looks; how his shining eyes and smooth,
ebony, skin reveal the robust physical
man. Heiss type of perfect health,
and to what does he owe his superb con-
dition? I'll tell you in two words—
corn bread. There is the grandest food
product in the world, and all honor to
the noble American who is trying to
teach the Old World people the various
delicious uses of corn, and the many
palatable ways it can be prepared for
the table.
«If it were not for corn I don’t know
how many of the poor people of Virgin.
ia, white and black, would exist. It is
in reality the mainstay of life in many
localities of the old state. Butto really
love corn bread, I think one must be
used to it from childhood. Southern-
born men of the old regime commenced
gnawing on corn ‘pones’ when they
were babies; as they grew older the
poue accompanied them on every hunt-
ing and fishing expedition, and so when
maturity was reached corn in some form
or otber was wanted at the table three
times u day.”
i Uncle Treetop—*That heifer is
two years old.” City Niece—‘How do
you know?” “By her horns.” “Oh,
to besure; she has only two’’.— Life.
When pigs carry straw in their
mouths, or when they run grunting
home, rain is at hand,
-——Chameleons live on air only.
and is welded in a second. This done,
0S ES SK Sgn:
How An Ax Is Made.
The Numerous Processes It Undergoes In the |
Course of Manufacture. |
On entering the main workshop the
first step in the operation which is seen |
is the formation of the ax head without :
the blade. The glowing flat iron bars |
are withdrawn from the furnace and are
taken to a powerful and somewhat com- |
plicated machine, which performs upon |
them four distinct operations, shaping
the metal to form the upper and lower
part of the ax, then the eye, and finally
doubling the piece over so that the
whole can be welded togather. Next the
iron is put in a powerful natural gas
furnace and heated to & white heat.
Taken out, it goes under a tilt hammer
one blow from the ‘‘drop.”” and the poll
of the ax is completed and firmly weld-
ed. Two crews of men are doing this
class of work, and each crew can make
1,600 axes per day.
‘When the ax leaves the drop, there is
some superfluous metal still adhering to
the edges and forming what is technic-
ally known as a ‘fin.’ To get rid of
the fin and ax is again heated ina fur-
nace and then taken in hand by a saw-
yer, who trims the ends and sides.
The operator has a glass in front of him
to protect his eyes from the sparks
which fly off by the hundreds as the
hot metal is pressed against the rapidly
revolving saw. The iron part of the ax
is now complete. The steel for the
blade, after being heated, is cut by
machinery and shaped. It is then
ready for the welding department. A
groove is cut into the edge of the iron,
the steel of the blade inserted, and the
whole firmly welded by machine ham-
mers.
Next comes the operation of temper-
ing. The steel portion of the ax is heat-
ed by being inserted in pots of molten
lead, the blade only being immersed. It
is the cooled by dipping in water and
goes to the hands of the inspector. An
ax is subject to rigid tests before itis
pronounced perfect. The steel must be
of the required temper, the weight of
all axes of the same size must be uni-
form, all must be ground alike and in
various other ways conform to an estab-
lished standard. The inspector who
tests the quality of the steel does so by
hammering the blade and striking the
edge to ascertain whether it be too brit-
tle or not. An ax that breaks during
the tests is thrown aside to be made
over.
Before the material of the ax is in the
proper shape it has been heated five
times, including the tempering process,
and the ax, when completed, has passed
through the hands of about 40 work-
men, each of whom has done something
toward perfecting it. After passing in-
spection, the axes go tothe grinding de-
partment, and from that to the polish-
ers, who finish them upon emery
wheels. — Phila. Record.
Why Did He Do It?
A Southern magazine, by way of illus-
trating the transitoriness of fame, says
that less than 20 years after the close of
the civil war the following conversation
took place at a Chicago railway station,
where a soldierly passenger had just
stepped from a train.
“Who is that fine-looking man ?”
said a prominent citizen of the city to
an ex-Confederate.
“That is General Buckner,” was the
reply.
“Who is General Buckner ?”’
“General Bucknor, of the Confeder-
ate army, you know, who surrendered
Fort Donelson.”
The prominent citizen seemed to be
collecting his thoughts.
#Oh,” he said, ‘he surrendered . Fort
Donelson, did he? What did he do
that for ?”
Coxey Buys Lead Mines.
The General's Father Will Develop a Bucks
County Tract.
Doylestown, Pa., May 19.—Thomas
Coxey, father of General Coxey, of
Commonweal fame, to-day purchased
the farm of Isaac M. Landis, in New
Britain township, for $10,000. This
farm of 60 acres is iz the new Galena
lead mine district, and the purchase
mouey is to be paid by July 1. Mr.
Coxey has assigned five-sixths of his
interest in the property to W. L. War-
wick, Otto E. Young, George P. Fish-
er, J. J. Sullivan and J. N. Seeze.
Mr. Coxey is a practical mining expert
and believes there is a rich deposit of
ore on the property, which will beim-
mediately developed.
——The styles never change in Japan
and the fortunate Jap who desires to be
a dead swell is not obliged to pay $8
twice a year for a quarter of an inch dif-
ference in a hat brim.
——The trouble with not afew men
lies in the fact that they have a tongue
that runs fifteen knots an hour and a
brain that moves at the rate of only ten
knots.
—— Blizzard soda is new.
——Milkvshakes are in order.
——Girls wore gum boots yesterday.
—— Beetles are both deaf and blind.
——When ants are unusually busy
fool weather is at hand.
——To mept a frog is an indication
that you are about to receive money.
——If owls screech with a hoarse
dismal voice it bodes impending dis-
aster.
——1It is a bad omen to have a mouse
gnaw the clothes that a person is wear-
ing.
——The swan retires from observa-
tion when about to die, and sings most
melodiously.
All the paths of life lead to the
grave, and the utmost that we can do
is to avoid the short cuts.
——Dealers in sporting goods and
whisky bave nothing to complain of
The Sun Dance of the Crees.
A Big Indian Explains the Meaning of a Singu-
lar Custom.
The Cree Indians, who have been
refugees from Canada since the Riel
rebellion, are preparing to celebrate
the sun dasce with unusual elabora-
tion of ceremonial about June 1. Ful-
ly a thousand warriors will participate.
Little Bear, the head chief of all the
Crees, recently consented to & ‘‘medi-
cine talk,” in which through an inter-
preter, he explained the character of
the famous Indian ceremony.
“When our children are sick,” he
said, ‘we dance the sun dance to
make them well, to make the trees
and grass and everything that grows
flourish. As a priest fasts for several
days at certain times, so we Crees fast
in the spring time, and think of Mani-
tou.”
The Salvation Army paesed outside,
and little Bear pointed to them and
went on: “We have Sundays like
white men, and then, like those march-
ing by, we ask all people to come and
hear us. We do not care if they laugh
inside ; that is because they cannot un-
derstand. Nepauguishemonatick (sun
dance) is from Manitou. He taught
my ancestors, and they me. My fath-
er said 80, and my father-in-law, also,
both old men in the tribe.
“At the sun dance all of us Crees
came together to do penance. For
days and nights before the dance we
eat nothing, we drink nothing, we
grow very thin, then we dance. The
men sit apart on one side, the women
on the other. The young braves come
to me and ask my permission to exhib-
it their courage. Sharp sticks are
skewered through the flesh on the
arms and heavy objects attached by
ropes, and these the young men drag
about. Once we used buffalo heads,
but the buffalo are gone.
“Then, too, on the first day of the
dance the old men go into the woods
and select a growing tree. They noti-
fy the lodges and then a procession
forms of braves and squaws on ponies,
sometimes two or three on one pony.
We gather about the tree, singing songs
that were written by Manitou. The
young men have guns and bows, and
as the tree is falling they shoot it down.
The tree is dragged to the lodges and
set up, stalls are made about its foot,
in which naked warriors, screeened up
to the waist, dance, and overhead we
build a roof of woven willow rods.
Strings from the top of lodge poles are
fastened to skewers in warriors backs,
and they dance in a circle, leaning
hard on the strings as a young pony
holds back when led for the first time,
and they imitate other animals. Then
as we used to fight Crows and Pigeons,
we make believe fight now, and we
march in and around the lodges sing-
ing and dancing.”
New York’s Churchgoers.
Its 600 Churches of All Creeds and Attendance of
900,000 Worshipers.
There are 84 Catholic churches in
New York city for a Catholic popula-
tion of 500,000. Of these churches 3
are of the Jesuit order, 2 Capuchin, 2
Franciscan, 1 Carmelite, 1 Paulist and
1 Dominican. There are 10 German
Catholic churches, 2 Italian, 1 Bohe-
mian, | French, 1 Hungarian, 1
French Canadian and 1 Polish. The
Polish church is in Stanton street and
is now the subject of litigation. It is
the only catholic church in the most
densely popalated ward of New York,
which contains 75,000 inhabitants in
110 acres of ground.
If, as the church authorities expect,
this church is closed for religious uses,
the Tenth ward will be the only one in
town of 24 without a Catholic church.
The Twenty-fourth ward has seven.
There are 200,000 colored Catholics in
the United States, and those of them
who reside in New York, a small frac-
tion of the whole number, have a
church of their own at the intersection
of Bleecker and Downing streets.
Since its establishment in 1883, 456
colored children have been baptized
there, 104 adults have been confirmed
and 92 marriage ceremonies have been
performed. There are three orders of
colored sisters in the United States—
viz. one in Baltimore, established in
1829 ; one in New Orleans, established
in 1842, and one in Savannah, estab-
lished in 1888.
The total number of churches of all
creeds and denominations in New
York city is 600. Their seating ca-
pacity is 325,000, and their value is
$80,000,000. The assessed value of
the marble cathedral, the most import-
ant of the Catholic churches in town,
is $3,000,000 ; Trinity church is val
ued at $4,000,000, Grace charch is val-
ued at $350,000, the Jewish Temple
Emanu El on Fifth avenue and Forty-
third street is valued at $400,000, and
the Jewish Temple Beth El on Fifth
avenue and Seventy-sixth street is val-
ued at $400,000
New York is very largely a city of
the churchgoers. The total attendance
taken collectively on Saturday and
Sunday at all forms of religious wor-
ship amounts to about 900,000 in a to-
tal population of 1,800,000, including
the sick, the disabled, infants, octo-
genarians and persons in public insti-
tutions. There are more Methodists
than Baptists in New York, more
Presbyterians than Methodistsand more
Catholics than = Presbyterians. The
oldest Catholic church in New York is
St. Peter's on Barclay street. Next
oldest is St. Mary's at Grand and
Ridge streets. There are 46 Jewish
synagogues in New York city,—New
York Sun.
——An exchange says the name
thobo’’ may be a contraction of Ho-
boken, or it may have come from the
name of a Chicago saloon-keeper who
kept a low dive for tramps. Neither
explanation seems trustworthy, for the
reason that the name ‘“hobo’’ has never
been prevalent in the press of the east-
ern or middle states, but has been com-
during the fishing season.
——A Kensington survivor of the
late war has been discarded by his fami-
ly because he refuses to draw a pension.
mon in the papers of the far northwest
and Pacific coast.
——1It is unlucky to kill a lady-bug.