Democratic watchman. (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1855-1940, May 25, 1894, Image 2
+ 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.