Bellefonte, Pa., Sept. 3, 1897.
“THE WEEKLY CLARION.”
Of course there’s city papers here, but I don’t git
the time
To read a dozen pages every day,
And them there pesky dailies air so chock-a-block
with erime
That they jest give me shivers, anyway.
I'm pretty busy ’round the place, I can’t be settin’
down,
And leavin’ all the chores and things to do,
But when the Weekly Clarion comes, that’s print-
ed in our town,
I gin’rally contrive to read her through.
Them dailies give yer“furrin’ news and tell yer
all the woes
And troubles of the folks acrost the sea,
The Clairon tells what's happened to the folks a
feller knows,
And that’s the kind of news that pleases me.
“Vietory’s had a jubilee .” Well, what of that?
She hain’t
No more ter me than ithe Pop of Rome;
But “Luther Wixon gives his barn a bran new
coat of paint,”
Why, thunderation! now you're gitting’home.
And as for Cuba and Japan, I'd never care a darn
About the rows and squabbles that they've had,
But I know Luther Wixon well, b’gosh! and
know the barn,
And know it needed paintin’ mighty bad.
1 like to read “A’nt Polly Hedge is visitin’ her
son,”
And ““Judkin’s” sorrel mare is goin’ lame,”
Of course I knew it all before, but still it’s kinder
fun
To see it in the paper jest the same. J
Sf
And there’s the “Poet’s Corner.” Well, 1hy eld-
est darter, 'Liz.,
Most allers heads the colyum with a verse,
And though I hain’t no judge myself, I'm told by
them that is,
That better poets than her ave pretty scarse.
And, p’raps, maybe, I'll set, yer know, a-readin’
news out loud,
And down acrost the pages chance to squint,
And see my name, and though, b’gosh! I hain’t by
no means proud,
"Most any feller likes his name in print.
So, as 1 say, I seldom read them city papers now,
Their editors and me are out of touch,
For scandals, yes, and murders, (those of strange-
ers, anyhow*)
They hain’t the things that interest me much,
Maria cuts them journals up for patterns for her
gown,
The children they malke pipe-lights of “em, too,
But when the Weekly Clarion comes, that's print *
ed in our town,
I gin’rally contrive to read her through.
—L. A. W. Bulletin.
OLEANDERS.
“Margaret! Is it possible? After so
many years! Tell me you are not a
dream, Margaret ! Margaret !”’
John Stair put out his hands as he spoke
and caught both those of the women firmly
in his hold. She arising from her seat,
gazed at him with startled eyes and parted
lips, while the flowers in her lap were
scattered in a rosy mass about her feet.
“I was thinking of you,’’ the man went
on in a soft voice of entire gladness. ‘In
all these years, the long ten years, since
we said goodby, you have been in my re-
membrance always, always. At every lit-
tle pause in the life which has been so full
and yet so empty, your face has come be-
fore me, and here just now, looking at
the sea and the sunlight, the pain was
more than I could bear. I turned to leave
the terrace, and there you were among the
flowers, Margaret. In all my life it is the
first good turn that fate has done me.
Tell me you are glad to see me again.”
Margaret drew her hands from his with
asigh, still looking up at the thin, keen
face, the gray eyes bent eagerly upon her.
“Glad—yes, I am glad,’”” she said, but
her voice was sad with the remembrance
of long pain and much weeping. ‘It will
be worse afterward—but for the moment—
ah, John, how long the years have heen !
How lonely !”’
There was a pause between them, and he
sat beside her on the low bench, each
afraid to break the silence, while he gath-
ered up the flowers and laid them on her
knees again.
Around them azaleas and oleanders grew
in a glowing curve of rosy color, shutting
out the length of the terrace. Before them,
beyond the glitter of the white houses on
the beach, lay the sea, blue and sail fleck-
ed, meeting the curves of the cloudless sky
in the serenest mood.
‘‘Tell me of yourself,” he said at last,
leaning forward and touching the black
ribbons on her white dress. ‘I know so
little—just a few meager lines in the paper
or a chance remark in a man’s letter. I
know that he is dead, that you are free,
but that is all. Tell me Margaret.”
The spell of his. entreating voice was
upon her, and the long sorrow of her lone-
ly life came to her in a vivid stroke which
caught her by the throat in a sob and
drowned the blueness of her eyes in tears.
“There is not much to tell,’”’ she an-
swered, leaving her fingers in his clasp.
‘Six months after you left me for India, I
was married to him, as you read of, of
course. ”’ :
Her brow knitted sharply in an instant’s
contraction of pain, but he did not turn
away. ! !
‘Yes 2”?
‘Well, there it is—the story of my life,”’
Margaret said, with a little smile sadder
than her tears. “I was 30, penniless and
pretty. I married a millionaire of 60, and
you—you went to India.”
A silence, while the eyes of both were
bent upon the sea, and the sound of music
from the hotel terrace above came faintly
over the flowery screen around them.
‘He was generous in his way, ’’ Margaret
went on after a little. ‘‘He freed my
father from the money he owed him and
and thie boys got on all right and Dolly
made a good match. Father and mother
got their part of the bargain, and he—well,
he got his too.”’
John Stair flung her hand from him sud-
denly and turned away sharply.
**Ah, you wince !”’ said Margaret, bitter-
ly. ‘“‘But for me—think of it—he was
hard and miserly and course, and I was his
wife and loved you.”’
Stair turned to her again.
“‘But now! You are free ?”’
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “‘Iam free.
Two years ago he died and left me free and
rich and childless. Tell me now, John—
tell me about your wife.”
‘No, no ; not. now,”’ Stair said eager-
ly. Let us forget for a few hours— forget
all except that we have been so long apart,
that we have met again, Margaret.’
“No. no, you shall teil me,’”’ Margaret
cried sharply. “Why, why did you mar-
ry? You were a man, and strong. There
was no one to torture you. You shall tell
me.”’
The eager look on Stair’s keen face fad-
ed, and his face grew white.
“It was in India. I was ill, down for
months with fever, and she nursed me at
the risk of her own life and good name. I
could do nothing else but marry her. Poor
Martha!”
Yes.’
‘‘What is she like—your Martha ?”’
There was a ring of scorn in Margaret’s
voice, but her eyes saw the sea through
the glitter of her unshed tears. ‘“What is
she like ?”’
‘A homely little body, very small and
very plain. Her whole soul and affection,
I think, is centered in her hoy. She wor-
ships him”’—
‘Ah, she has a child ?”’
‘‘Yes. The little one was born in India,
and grew up very delicate, and two years
ago she brought him home. He is all right
now, I believe, and she seems happy about
him atlast. I got leave about a month
before I expected. She does not know
that I am in Europe. I wandered out of
my way—not being in a hurry to get home
to Martha, and found you, Margaret.’
The thrill of gladness softened his voice
again as he uttered her name, so long un-
spoken, and his eyes noted tenderly every
little detail of her beauty, the glitter of
her fair hair, the curves of her lovely face,
the folds of her soft white dress.
From the terrace above the sound of the
music came faintly in a dreamy air. A
warm, light breeze touched the laces and
ribbons of her dress and swayed the leaves
above them till the little lights and shad-
ows danced to and fro over her figure and
the flowers in her lap. The years had on-
ly added to her beauty, and they had been
so long apart.
‘Better that you had not—in the eud
better a thousand times. We must pay for
it afterward with such a heavy price ! Fate
has been a heavy usurper to us, my
dear.”
“If I could only pay for both of us,”
said Stair, ‘‘But, in spite of the price, tell
me, Margaret, you are glad that we have
met. Let fate exact what price she will,
tell me that you are glad just for one min-
ute,—glad to be together and alone dear-
est.”’
His lips touched hers, and for a moment
her head lay on his shoulder. The music
wailed above them and the breeze gave a
shivering sigh and left them alone, while
for a minute’s space life and time and the
universe itself were forgotten.
Then with a footfall as light as the
leaves which the breeze stirred, a woman
came round the curve of the flowery screen
and stood before them. She was very
small and plain, with a wan, white face,
from which the pale hair was parted in
sedate smooth bands, and her dress fell in
sombre folds upon the rosy blossoms which
the wind had scattered from Margaret's
knees to the ground, Her empty hands
were interlaced, one upon another, and
pressed against her bosom.
‘‘I—heard—you--a little while ago,”
she said after a moment, while Stair and
Margaret sat dumb. “I was: on the seat
beyond. I heard John’s voice and what
he said. Iam Martha.”
Stair had sprung to his feet and stood
looking down at her. Margaret buried
her face in her hands.
*‘I am Martha,’’ the level, toneless voice
went on gently, ‘‘and—the child —my lit-
tle son is—dead.”’
Stair made a step forward,
motioned him back with a gesture.
‘He was ill again a month ago, and the
doctors said I should try a warmer climate.
So I brought him here to the sun and
flowers. He died a week ago, my little
son, and 1 came to gather the flowers he
was so fond of and take them to him. He
loved the color, and the earth is so brown
and cold upon his grave.
Again she clasped her hands upon her
bosom and looked at Margaret with her
sad eyes that were tearless.
*‘I heard you John,”’ Martha went on,
‘‘and what you said. It istrue, I know.
I am plain and homely, and you married
me for pity. No, indeed, I do not blame
you. You were very good. Many men
would not have done so much. And now
—the child is dead! And you—’’ she
turned to Margaret with a break at last in
her level voice—‘‘You have gathered all
the flowers I could reach !”’
Slowly Margaret lifted up her face and
locked at John Stair’s wife—wan, with
hanging black garments and hand stretched
out toward the blossoms on her lap.
Almost without knowing it, Margaret
lifted the mass of rosy color and laid it in
those empty hands. Martha held them
gently and stood looking at the two for a
moment—the man who was her husband
and the woman that he loved.
“I will take them to the child,’ she
said.
She turned away. In one moment the
sunlight darkened to her eyes, and before
her husband could catch her she had fallen
on the marble of the terrace.
She had taken them to the child.
but she
Ogden Goelet Dead.
Ogden Goelet, one of New York's multi-
millionaries died, on the Isle of Wight,
England, on last Friday, after an illness of
two months. ~ He was only 46 years of age
and had entertained most extensively dur-
ing the recent jubilee. He had a magnif-
icent town house in London leased for the
season but died on board his yacht.
Ogden Goelet, who was one of the two
sons of the late Robert Goelet and a grand-
son of the late Peter Goelet, was with his
wife very prominent in the society of New
York, London and Paris. The Goelet
estate is one of the most valuable in New
York, due to the increased value of the old
time Goelet farm. The latter, originally,
ran from that section of the city where
the Windsor hotel stands, to the east river.
The possessions of the Goelets incluile
many other valuable pieces of real estate,
for instance the land on which Sherry’s
establishment stands and the land ‘on
which the Imperial hotel is built.
The Goelet name is also known in Phil-
adelphia where they own much property
among which is the Walton hotel.
The Truck Ran Away.
Three Italians, employed by the Glen
Uuion Lumber company, at Lock Haven,
boarded a truck to go down the heavy
grade of the narrow gauge road to their
shanty, five miles distant. The men lost
loaded with prop timber. Barney Sallio
had both legs crushed and a scalp” wound.
He died a few hours later. George Gulian
had his skull fractured, both legs broken
and was injured internally ; but cannot
recover. Nick Figeo received a contusion
of the hip and was internally injured ; may
recover.
The Finest Complexions.
The finest complexions in the world are
said to be in the Bermudas. This is ac-
counted for by the fact that the inhabitants
live chiefly on onions, of which they ex-
port over 17,000,000 pounds annually.
control of the car and after running two |
miles at great speed it plunged into a car |
Joaquin Miller Tells of His Irip to Sheep
Camp, in the Chilcoot Pass.
Alaskan Miles are Long.
Keeps up His Spirits. His Descriptive Powers Are
in no Wise Diminished by His Toil. Some of the
Scenic Surprises.
IN SHEEP CAMP, CHILKOOT Pass,
ALASKA, Aug. 10, via San Francisco, Aug,
27.—Here you are, Mr. Merrvman, here
you are. I think I was about shouldering
my bag of traps and tricks for the Klon-
dyke, looking away up the starry bluff at
our lines of white sacks and the men, who
looked in the far distant end of the line
like creeping white mice under the black,
steep bluff, in my last hurried screed.
Well, I trudged along over the slippery
rocks and sea slime and sand ; no shells
under foot ; fishes leaping in the air all
along by the dark green sea bank. Half a
mile under my 70-pound bag and 1 began
to get out of slime and onto solid land.
Then a bank of mammoth English prim-
roses ; my boots became yellow from the
primrose blossoms reaching almost to my
knees. Think of blossoms like that in
Alaska ! A kingfisher, such as you see al-
most anywhere in America, flew by scream-
ing wildly as he went. Then other land
birds, strange to me : then I soon came to
a tall red honeysuckle. I saw no hee,
though I turned aside and searched eager-
ly.
tem only say that it was a splendid
| place for hees. Pretty soon I came to tall,
green grass, and saw horses and mules feed-
ing—and fat, too. Then I met a wagon,
fat horse and white driver. He wanted a
load. TI rested, sat down on my bag, as
the ground here was warm and dry, and
the grass and flowers most pleasant, and
looked back at the City of Mexico still un-
loading. There was a big hoat-load of
women landing now, and I advised the
teamster to drive on and pick them up,
and I again shouldered my load.
fast. The factis, I had more than 70
pounds, having agreed to carry a Winches-
ter rifle for a man while he went back to
look after his pack.
PRIMROSES GALORE.
A mile orso, and I came to the outer
edge of a canvas city ; piles on piles of
primroses. A wild, swift river puts in
here—a river sent rolling ahead and plenty
of buds and blossoms. A prettier walk
than I found here on the bank of this swift
river of birds and blossoms could not he
found in the United States. It reminded
me of our Bunker Hill camp at Los Gatos.
Cal., this last 17th day of June. The air
was quite as warm as at Los Gatos, and
the scene quite as flowery on the hillside.
There were great gardens of snow instead
of gardens of grapes and prunes.
A great many Indian families live all
along here. The children look much like
Chinese children, and are clean and indus-
trious. These Indians nearly all have
pretty cabins, stoves and bedsteads. Some
old women sat by the doors knitting socks.
I bought two pairs of good socks, such as
mother used to knit in Oregon, for 50 cents.
When I paid for them and was picking up
my pack, an Indian wanted to help, as
teamsters and packers, black and white
and red and brown, had offered to do all
the morning, and I declined. When T de-
clined to let them carry the pack the old
women were delighted and cheered ine as
much as our Indians allow themselves to
cheer.
This made me feel that perhaps I look
out of place and eccentric with a big pack
at my age; and maybe was overdoing
things. Ifell to thinking, as I trudged
along, on the beautiful and sunny river
hank of blossoms, through the city of tents
Indian cabins and people—people as plen-
tiful now as in a city. The kodak man of
torture and impudence was all along here.
HIS PACK GREW HEAVIER.
My pack got heavier and heavier. I
took off my necktie and tied it to my hand-
kerchief and put the two around the bag
and the strap over my shoulder. In a very
few miles of this pleasant walk in the
sweet air I began to feel all right, to rest,
as it seemed, under my load. I felt that
the Klondyke question, so far as a poor
man getting there goes, was settled for me
in the affirmative.
And now I must record a change to some
extent. I have melted into, or been ab-
sorbed, if youn please, by the *‘Evaminer-
Journal-Post,”’ special expedition. That is
I go along with the ‘‘Evaminer-Jowrnal-
Post’’ party, but only on condition that I
carry a pack, such as any poor man must,
who goes or comes this way. But we will
camp, eat, sleep, do all things in common
as other partiesand partners do all along
here. Even poor men, the poorest, are
rarely, if ever, alone along here, and I see
| no practical good in doing that which no
| poor man wants to or will do under any
stress, be he ever so poor and friendless.
Do not be displeased at this or disap-
| pointed. AsT said at setting out, I am
| not doing this for fun, but having heard
| and seen it said and written so often that
*“This is no place for a poor man,” I want-
ed to prove that a poor man has as much
right here and as many opportunities as
any man. 1 shall not forget the purpose
of my venture, and shall not he diverted
from it at all hy being in company with
equipped as the agents of a Rothschild.
HE CUT DOWN HIS LOAD.
The head of the ‘‘Exvaminer-Journal-
Post’ special party turned back upon the
ship at Dyea and I, after rearrang-
ing my pack and cutting it down from 75
to 55 pounds, came right along with the
packers that he had employed. three white
men, a Japaneseand one Indian. He pays
20 cents per pound to have provisions car-
ried over to the headwaters of the Yukon,
24 miles.
Leaving Dyea, we tramped along in
line almost through the pleasantest of
shady woods, summery and sweet, with
flowers as high as my head on either hand.
Pretty log cabins, with Indians about the
door and women knitting, girls drying fish
men mending nets and hoats—a brighter
| scene or more cheering I do not hope to
see. A hundred or more of white tents,
piles of bacon and flour, and lots of little
stoves, and men cooking. Truly, if this
had been Mill valley or my own woods on
the heights, the scene would not have heen
more pretty and homelike.
Tall cottonwood trees moaned and
moaned in the rising winds, clouds gath-
ered, and it began to threaten rain. I also
began to feel the dread mosquito as we
struck the thick weeds. Pretty soon a
swift and shallow and shifting river, exact-
ly like the old Platte in color, was reached.
Two Irishmen kept a boat, as the bridge
had gone down before the flood, and into
it I put my people and packs.
MILLER NEARLY IN A FIGHT.
‘‘Hold the boat, Kelley. Let her go,
Kelley. There, now, I told you, Kelley,
to hold her.”
And, so! the Irishman at the stern kept
yelling till I told him to shut up. Kelley
was doing all the work, and the hoat had
The Poet's Pack Grows |
Heavier as the Difficulties Crowd upon Him. He |
It was |
a little heavier now, and I did not walk so |
other scribes, even though they should be
already twice been nearly upset in the con- |
| fusion. I told Kelley to go ahead and not
; mind the other man, and so I had a chance |
| to fight when we got on the shifting, shelv- |
| ing sand, but I did not like to fight just for
fun. I told the man that we could make
heaps of money to fight over on the Klon-
dyke, and that I would sign articles to
fight him there, Queensbury rules.
He got in good humor at once, for a mo-
ment. but when I handed Kelley, the other
man, $3, and took up my pack, he wanted
to fight more than ever. By the strangest
good luck I was carrying what had been
given to me in the morning, and I got in
shape for action ; else that fellow would
have tried to bang my head.
Only a few miles of walking up the
wooded valley of wild flowers ; then gla-
ciers looming over and hanging down out
of the clvads on either side, and the trail
becomes tantalizing. It leads over fields
of small granite boulders so plentiful that
your feet donot touch ground. The round
little rolling rocks are alike in color, char-
acter and ugliness. You must keep your
eyes to the work hefore you or fall. And
be careful as you can. you will roll and
come to the ground many times.
When he had done a mile of this we were
in a minute upon another mile, and
so on for hours. Then woods and steep
rocks, right into the heavens. The valley
faced us now, and the walls of granite shut
out the sun and winds. The water came
tumbling down out of the clouds, as at Yo-
semite, only here the great cataracts are
too many to even count them, much less
name them.
CATARACTS ARE NUMEROUS.
We have truly a hundred Yosemites, a
string of Yosemites for 10 miles, except
| that the walls of granite literally hang over
| us in places. Dense woods of small growth
now ; many wild flowers, some of giant !
| growth ; grass as high as my shoulder—a
| sort of Kentucky bluegrass, and in blos-
som—only there is not much of it. I
found a few strawberries and some of the
best huckleberries I ever ate, and, like
everything else in Alaska, they are the big-
gest in the world. :
And now how heavy my pack began to |
grow. All the party had passed ine. |
True, I was never out of sight or sound of
people, all of them in camp now ; but my |
people were still going and were far ahead, |
I passed all sorts of people, three pretty
women, one of them in men’s clothes,
made of buckskin. I passed a party of col-
ored men and wet one giant black man,
along with a Japanese, carrying the outfit
that indicated their calling as packers.
All sorts of people pack here. Itis a!
good way, if it is a hard way, to earn good
money. The Indians are the most numer-
packers. They work their squaws |
and dogs and children, and do well at it.
One Indian told me that he makes $50 per
day. All his household is dressed as a pic-
nic. What largeness, largeness all about
and above ! Such glorious, such unending
distances! And now I begin to feel, un-
der my pack, as I trudge, often to my
knees in the freezing water, that the miles
of Alaska are in keeping with the rest of |
her.
ALASKAN MILES THE BIGGEST.
I tell you that an Alaskan mile, with a
50-pound pack on your back, and the mud
and ice water to your knees, is the biggest |
mile, the broadest mile, the thickest, long-
est and hardest to go through of any mile |
on earth. You see, the Russians measured |
these miles on sleds on the snow, where |
you slid up ordown a stream that is buried |
in snow and ice: and that is swift and
easy enough, but when we have to walk
over little round boulders, on round blocks
of granite, or to climb where it is difficult
to get a foothold, it is another thing, and
the miles in the mud are nearly twice as
long as in the frozen and level snow. !
Often I sat down to lift my face to the |
scenery, feeling that I must rest or drop in
the mud. Man never was so weary, as I
was when I looked down at last into a city
of tents. The head of the Evaminer-Jour-
nal-Post expedition, who, like a gentleman
had carried only arifle all day, met me at the
suburbs of the city and led me to the hotel.
Hotel —yes. Right here in the heart of
the dread Chilkoot pass is not only a city.
but a city with two hotels. They are not
palace hotels, it is true, but I will wager
that no hotel palace or not, ever gave a
meal eaten with more relish than that din-
ner of mine at the hotel in the city of tents
in the heart of the Chilkoot pass, Alaska.
And the bed. ‘‘Yes,’’ said the good land-
lady, “I will give you Mr. Johnson’s bed,
in his tent. He has gone over the summit,
and maybe won’t get back to-night. You |
can all three sleep in there.”
Did you ever hear of such kindness?
Her heart, too, like all other things in
Alaska, is big, big.
“But if Mr. Johnson should get back ?”’
modestly asked the head of the Examiner.
Journal-Post expedition.
‘Oh, you can all four sleep in his hed
all the same.”
WILD BEES IN ALASKA.
I open this letter again to say that
we saw a bee in Johnson’s tent, and on
asking our landlady I learned that there
are plenty of wild bees in Alaska. I men-
tion as a remarkable thing that here is a
city without a graveyard, a fact that speaks
mightily for the healthfulness of this cli-
mate, and also testifies that the dread pass
is not responsible thus far for any fatalities.
This hurried letter goes back by courier.
To-morrow morning we settle on the sum-
mit, and you shall know with what results.
No news from beyond, but we are passing
right along, coming nearer and nearer
each day. We must know something good
or ill pretty soon.
The above letter was written a day
earlier than the letter that was received on
Monday morning. Both were published
in San Francisco on Saturday, but the let-
ter of August 1st had become almost oblit-
erated in some parts evidently hy rain, and
several days were required for the transla-
tion for the poet's handwriting.
Mr. Miller's chirography is entirely
oviginal, and the difficulties of it are often
ingenious and varied, but when an Alaskan
storm is contributed by nature to assist in
obscuring the written thoughts, the difii-
| culties become appalling in their Chilkoot
grandeur. The letter here presented des-
cribes the first day of the journey over the
pass to the lakes.
1
Fell Thrity Feet.
Ollie Campbell, of Clearfield, superin-
tendent of the telephone exchange at that
city, met with a serious accident Friday
afternoon. While at work on a high pole
he missed his footing and fell a distance of
30 feet, sustaining very serious injuries.
He was carried to his home on a stretcher
and medical aid summoned. While his
injuries are of a very serious nature, yet
the physicians say there are no bones
broken.
The injured man is a son of Frank
Campbell, of this place, and up to a short
time ago was connected with the exchange
in this city. |
Rich Alaska.
The eyes of the nation are turned toward
Alaska. The discovery of gold in fabulous
quantities is the sensation of the hour.
Hence, facts about the far-away land are
eagerly read and talked about.
Do you remember what Alaska cost us ?
The price paid was $7,200,000. The $7,-
000,000 was for the land. It is not often
that one hears what the $200,000 was for.
That sum went to Russian trading com-
panies who had received concessions from
their government. To them it was so much
money picked up in the middle of the road
since it did not cost them anything ; but
they were out of pocket all the same. While
the price paid for Alaska is generally
known, few people are aware of the tre-
mendous returns from the land of snow
and seals. It has paid for itself many
times, over, and its career as a revenue pro-
ducer is yet in its infancy., The fact is
that Alaska has given back more than its
purchase price in whalebone alone. The
returns from this article were $7,000,000 in
1890. They are now something like £9,-
000,000.
Alaska has paid us to date $103,000,000.
This enormous sum has been derived from
furs, herring, salmon, cod, ivory, whale-
bone, and gold. At the time of the last
census the United States had taken out
$76,000,000. Since then we have heen en-
riched by $27,000,000. Of this $20,000,- |
000 has been gold, and the remainder from
other products. These are giant figures,
but they are the exact truth. The first ac-
tual settlement of that wonderful country
will begin next spring. The sum total of
what it will add to the world’s wealth in
the coming years passes conjecture. It
will be a pile of money, mountainous and
sublime.
It is a singular fact that the existence of
| gold in quantities along the tributaries of
the Yukon was known to few men a cen-
tury and a half ago. The truth has been
held back by the fur-trading companies.
feared the ruin of their industry. which
was, in itself, a gold-mine. Trappers, ex-
plorers, and men who lived with the In-
| dians were forbidden to tell what they
knew on pain of death. The Russia Fur
Company did summarily shoot one man
who grew excited aud blabbed. That
death is still remembered in Alaska, hav-
ing been passed from mouth to mouth, as
in the manner of unlettered peoples. Oth-
er fur companies have done nothing to de-
velop the country, and have kept their lips
i sealed. They foresaw the effect of a tor-
rent of immigration.
be hidden, however.
last. ©
It is a prevalent idea that the Alaskan
territory produces only gold and things of
the sea. But this is wrong. Even in
Klondyke hardy vegetables grow in pro-
fusion. Hay is as high as a man’s head.
When the country comes to be better
known it will be found capable of making
many things for humanity now unthoughs
of. Although reports have gone abroad
that there is no game, the fact remains that
there is plenty of it. Moose, elk, and cari-
boo, or the American reindeer, abound.
Every river is stocked with fish.
The newspapers havesounded a warning,
Such things cannot
The secret is out at
{ and the rush to the gold fields has some-
what subsided. It is said hy those best
qualified to judge that those who attempt
to get into the Klondyke region before
next spring do so at the risk of death by
starvation. Winter begins in earnest about
Sept. 1st. Early next spring, however,
crowds of eager men will rush in. It is
predicted that when the diggings are work-
ed for a year or two there will still be
greater significance to the term ‘‘Rich
Alaska.”
Do People Have a True Conception of
Their Looks?
It has been said by one who ought
to know that no man has any clear
conception of how he himself looks. The
expression of the face is continually chang-
ing. No artist, no camera, can catch this
changing, fleeting, evanescent expression.
When you look in the glass, the very in-
tent to find out how your look is depicted
on your face. The more you strive, the
more the intent is intensified, and such an
expression is not natural to your face.
How often do we look at a photograph and
find only disappointment in it? Why is
this? The camera depicts the sitter just
as he is at the moment the picture is taken
but very seldom can the instrument catch
and record that subtile thing called ‘‘natu-
ral expression,’”’ because few persons are
natural when seated before the camera.
Well, what of all this? Simply this. If
you are noble, loving and true, such virt-
ues will light up your face ; 1f you are sor-
did, mean and selfish, your face proclaims
it to the world. Anything in your life
that is active for either good or evil will
impress itself upon your personal appear-
ance. Pride, scorn, hate and lust write
themselves indelibly in the physiognomy.
When such ignoble qualities rule the life
and have become habitual, they are im-
pressed on the face and finally become
habitual to the countenance, and the feat-
ures themselves become permanently
changed to accord with such expressions.
It has often heen remarked that persons
who have been married for a long term of
Years come to look something alike, nor is
| this surprising when we call to mind that
their life and environment is one, made up
of the same joys and sorrows, the same
hardships and trials, and the same succes-
ses and pleasures in short, the intellectual
and spiritual atmosphere of both is to a
considerable extent identical, and we
know that these things affect the physiog-
nomy often to such a degree as to mould
the physical features of the face into the
same shape.
Where Destitution is Great.
NELSONVILLE, O., Aug. 29.—The des-
titution among miners here is very great.
Mayor Buckley says 1.260 persons, the
entire mining popalation of the town have
absolutely nothing to eat, and one hundred
of these are sick.. In this immediate vi-
cinity there are 7,000 destitute people, a
large number of whom are chiidren. Local
charity has helped them until its means
are gone. Gardens supplied the wants of
these people until recently but that re-
source is now exhausted. Relief commit-
tees have been appointed for the entire
district, bug they are powerless on account
of the lack of supplies. Nothing in cash
or supplies had been reached here this
week, except $5 in money. A citizens’
special committee is exerting itself to
secure temporary relief hy to-morrow. If
outside help does not come soon the conse-
quences will be appalling.
——Harry Burns the ex-chief of police,
and constable of Osceola, intends trying
his luck in the Klondyke gold fields, and,
together with three other venturesome
spirits from Osceola and Punxsutawney,
will leave for the frozen North about the
first of January.
|
|
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
Miss Bertha Stoneman, a student in the
botanical department of Cornell University
for several years, who received the degree
of doctor of philosophy there in 1896, has
been appointed professor of botany in the
! Huguenot College in Cape Colony, Africa.
The charming woman is not in the habit
of talking about herself and her peculiar
troubles and grievances. She has her ‘‘bad
days,” like everybody else, but she takes
care that others shall not suffer on her ac-
count, and when she has an attack of the
dumps she isolates herself in order that the
infection may spread no further. She is,
above all, a sympathetic woman and knows
how to make people feel that she takes an
individual interest in them. She is never
too busy to lend assistance, and a shake of
her hand is as good as a number of words
from anyone else. She is a woman who
adapts herself to the varying circumstances
of life and who prefers to look on the
bright side of things. All disagreeable and
unkind remarks that she hears made about
others die with her, and she knows how to
say the right word at the right time, In
conversation she studies the sore points of
her acquaintances, studiously avoids them
and adroitly introduces subjects on which
they can talk best. She is content to be
in the shadow if she can make another
shine. Such is the description of ‘‘the
woman who charms.”” These characteris-
tics have not been acquired in a flash, but
by careful study of herself and others. She
is by no means a paragon of perfection,
but, with all her shortcomings, she pos-
sesses the valuable art of charming.
The stylishly made gown must be carried
oft with a stylish air, else all good results
in the manufacturing are lost.
Many women ruin the most. faultless
creations by a poor carriage and ungrace-
ful walk, or by sitting down all in a heap,
They were not after minerals, and they | which crushes and twists the best hanging
skirts out of their original shape. Some
women are hopeless so far as style goes,
while others are a great success no matter
what they may have on, says the
“ Woman’s Home Companion.” But if we
will observe. the woman utterly devoid of
some natural style is, as a rule, slovenly,
having her clothes pitched on any way to
get into them.
Her hair is stringy, gloves ill fitting
and soiled, veil looking as though it had
blown toward her and by accident found a
lodging place on her millinery.
Her general air is one of neglect, and
usually in keeping with the ungainly walk
seen in so many women who give their per-
sonal appearance little or no thought.
The stylish woman has a good poise,
stands well, walks well, and her clothes
take on just the correct swing. Put these
same clothes on the woman who shambles,
and stands on her heels with shoulders for-
ward and abdomen thrown up. and the
style of toilet is swallowed up in the lack
of style in the woman herself. It is safe to
say that more style is lost in the way a
woman carries herself and wears her clothes
than in any other way.
Sleeves will continue to he self-trimmed
with tucks or ruffles with lace insertion, or
baby ribbon where the material is of silk
or very soft. The heavier ones will have a
small leg-o’'mutton with the indispensable
epaulet in various shapes.
The newest French skirt—is circular
shape, designed expressly for cutting wide
wools—measures three and three-quarter
yards at its widest circumference. It is
plain in front, with all the fullness at the
back, and is fitted closely over the hips by
means of a very deep, curving dart on each
side, these darts being necessary to hold
the skirt in perfect shape over the hips.
When finished they are covered with orna-
mental stitched or trimmed strap, and
fastened under a fly, as a means of getting
in and out of the skirt, which is not
opened at the back.
Scotch and French plaids, the difference
in designs being slight, are popular for rib-
bons. Belts and stocks of these have odd
gilt, or enamel buckles.
The gown of grenadine or ladies’ cloth
with soft silky surface in navy blue isa
great favorite, the trimming consisting of
vivid grass green in the form of belts and
closely-pleated chiffon ruches.
Too much brushing causes the hair to
fall. In the spring we shed our hair as
birds shed their feathers. This—shall we
call it human moulting ?—is the result of
hair maturity. As the hairs die and fall
out they are replaced by new ones. Vigor-
ous brushing is a great mistake ; eventu-
ally it is likely to cause baldness. A soft
bristle brush and a comb with rather blunt
teeth are the only proper things to use and
these must he considerately applied to the
locks, whether they are scanty or flourish-
ing, or scalp irritation and undue stress
upon the roots will bring about a trouble-
some state of affairs.
Here is a list which housekeepers should
paste up where it would be handy when
the query comes, advises an exchange :
Oh‘ dear, what is it that takes out mil-
dew stains or peach stains? I've read it
somewhere, but I can’t remember to save
my life I” For fresh tea and coffee stains
use boiling water. Place the linen stained
over a large bowl and pour through it boil-
ing water from the tea kettle, held at
a height to insure force. Old tea and cof-
fee stains, which have become ‘'set,’’
should be soaked in cold water first, then
hoiling.
For peach stains a weak solation of chlo-
ride of lime combined with infinite pa-
tience. Long soaking is an essential.
Grass stains may be removed by cream
of tarter and water.
For scorch, hang or spread the article in
the sunshine. For mildew, lemon juice
and sunshine, or if obstinate dissolve one
tablespoonful of chloride of lime in four
quarts of cold water and soak the article
until mildew disappears. Rinse very thor-
oughly to avoid any chemical action upon
the linem.
For wine stains sprinkle well with salt,
moisten with boiling water and then pour
boiling water through until the stain dis-
appears. For blood stains use cold water
first, then soap and water. Hot water sets
the stain.
For chocolate stains use cold water first
then boiling water from the tea kettle.
Fruit stains will usually yield to boiling
water ; but if not, oxalic acid may be used
allowing three ounces of the crystal to one
pint of water. Wet the stain with the so-
lution, place over a kettle of hot water in
the steam or. in the sunshine. The instant
the stain disappears, rinse well ; wet the
stain with ammonia to counteract the acid
remaining. Then rinse thoroughly again.
This will many times save the linen, which
is apt to be injured by the oxalic acid.
Jayele water is excellent for almost any
white goods. It can be made at home or
hought at any druggist’s.