Bellefonte, Pa., Nov. 11,1898,
——
A WONDERFUL BABY.
Isn’t he a wonderful baby ?
The finest, we think, in the land ;
Why, if he had strength, I believe, sir,
He really would try to stand.
His lungs are as strong as a bellows,
And his voice as loud as a bell 3
Why, if he could talk, I believe, sir,
His wishes he surely would tell.
You just ought to hear him ery, sir,
He'll keep it up for an hour;
I believe he’s just trying to tell us,
What he’d do if he had the power.
His eyes are a sight to behold, sir,
As blue and true as the sky,
And I'm sure he'll be a great learner,
For his forehead is broad and high.
And he’s got such a cute little nose, sir ;
They say “it's a sign he'll be smart id
Why, he might be the President yet, sir,
Then I"d have the desire of my heart.
Yes! he’s really a wonderful baby,
The finest, we think, in the land,
But why the people around don’t say so,
Is what we cannot understand.
— William Bell.
——————
JEM’S MOTHER.
“The mail’s a-coming."’
“That ain’t smoke, father, it’s just a
cloud.”
“I think it’s smoke,’’ and both the old
people with faces pressed close to the win-
dow peered wistfully at the thin, gray film
wavering above the trees of the distant
grove.
“It is moving this way, mother.”
“Like enough the breeze is in the east.’
“There !”” they both exclaimed as the
faint sound of a whistle reached them. The
rumble of the car wheels became distinct,
but still they stood watching the shifting
line of smoke as it came nearer. Neither
moved until the long train rushed through
the town, passing only a few rods from the
windows where they were watching.
Then Uncle Matt turned away and sat
down in his old-fashioned splint rocker.
His hands bronzed and knotted with
weather and work, were clasped over the
head of his walking stick. He leaned for-
ward, heavily resting his head on his
hands.
*‘Aren’t you goin’ for the mail father 2”?
“Tain’t any use. I’ve been every day
for ten years, and never a word from Jem
yet.”
“But it might come to-day, and I
couldn’t stand it noways to think maybe
there was a letter there and we didn’t
know it.”
Uncle Matt rose slowly from his chair.
‘Seems ’zif I couldn’ drag myself up to
the post-office many more times. This go-
in’ and goin’ every day, and watchin’ and
watchin’ the letters poppin’ into the boxes
here and there and everywhere, and think-
in’ every time that the next one will fly
into our box and it will be from Jem—bus
there, mother, I'm goin’. Meybe it will
come to-day.”’
Aunt Betsy rocked back and forth cry-
ing softly, while Uncle Matt with labored
effort moved around the room getting
ready for his walk. He came and stood
beside her as he buttoned his worn, faded
coat snugly across his chest, then he patted
her silvery hair with clumsy sympathy,
saying, ‘‘There mother, there mother, I’m
goin’ now.”’ Aunt Betsey nodded and tried
to smile as he went out the door. ’
It was a snowy, tedious walk, but uncle
Matt trudged bravely on, the heroism of
his wife’s smile filling his lovely old heart
and urging forward his aged rheumatic
limbs. Everyone in the village knew him
—knew the almost hopeless hope of his
daily pilgrimages to the office. The group
of idlers waiting to catch stray bits of gos-
sip from those who were coming and going,
smiled sympathetically when the postal
clerk took a letter from the box and waved
it at the old man as he entered the door.
“For me?" he asked. ‘‘Is it for me ?”’
The clerk nodded. ‘I hope it’s all
right,” he ventured, noticing how the
letter shook in the trembling hand that
received it. But Uncle Matt could make
no reply. He stumbled out into the street
again, the precious letter crushed in his
intense eager grasp. He forgot all the
heart-breaking anxiety of those long years.
He forgot that Jem had left home in a
drunken fary, without one word of fare-
well but sullen curses. He forgot the bit-
ter cruelty of his unbroken silence during
the long years. He remembered only that
he was their son, their bright, beautiful
winning boy. As he neared home he ex-
ulted in the thought of the happiness he
was taking to his boy’s mother. He knew
he should find her sitting before the little
open stove trying to knit. She had long
since stopped asking if there were any
mail, and this morning she did not even
look up as he came in, lest he should see
her too willing tears. He sat down by her
and put the letter in her lap. There was
no need to ask from whom it came. They
had no thought at first whether the news
was good or bad. It was enough for the
moment that Jem was alive, that he had
written to them.
“You open it, mother,”” Uncle Mutt
said at last. She lifted it from her lap,
took hold of one corner with thumb and
finger, but her hands refused to do her bid-
ding.
“I can’t father. You open it.?’
He reached to take it, but all the sorrow
and loneliness of those long years, all the
disappointed pride and ambition, and all
the possibilities and happiness or misery
concealed by the common yellow envelope
overwhelmed him. ‘No, mother, I can’t,’
he faltered, and after a pause, We'll take
it to Lizy.” :
Lizy’s heme over on the next street was
in plain sight across the open space. They
went across the field by the footpath the
school “children had ‘worn through the
snow.” Lizy saw them coming, carrying
the letter between them, and opened” the
door as they turned into the yard.
“You open it,’”’ Aunt Betsey said, hy
way of greeting, holding the letter toward
her sister.
Lizy was a plump, comfortable woman,
with much sense and little sentiment.
‘Lost your glasses?’ she asked, running
her scissors along the edge. “Why! It’s
from Jem! Now you let me set right
down between you and I’lIl read it out
loud.”
‘Wait a minute, Lizy,”” Aunt Betsey
pleaded, content at first to see the letter
unfolded in her sister's hand. Lizy talked
in easy commonplaces until her sister said,
“Now commence, read every word.’
‘‘Dear Father and Mother’’—Aunt Bet-
sey put out a detaining hand. “Wait a
minute, Lizy, read that over again. You
see he hasn’t forgotten ; he says, ‘dear
father and mother.” Now goon.” And so
the letter was read with many interrup-
tions and comments.
" When once more they were at home, sit-
ting side by side before the fire they dis-
cussed Jem'’s letter from beginning to end,
over and over, until both were nodding in
drowsy happiness. Aunt Betsey was the
first to start up.
‘Do you know, father,’ she began, with
a little break in her voice. “I’ve always
blamed myself for Jem’s goin’ away. He
just had common store stockings that win-
ter. You mind. My hands were lame
and I couldi’t knit him any. ‘N D've
thought sometimes if he’d had on stockings
that I knit those boys couldn’t have led
him into the saloons so easily, and all these
years of sorrow might have been differ-
ent.”
‘Don’t, mother, don’t blame yourself.
It was all because Jem was too anxious to
please everybody.” The old man rambled
on, fumbling for excuses for his profligate
son. ‘“‘Twasn’t because he was bad at
heart. He was too good-hearted. Wasn’t
that it, mother? He couldn’t offend any-
one.”’
Aunt Betsey nodded. ‘If I only could
send him some stockings that I knit, may-
be they’d help to keep his feet from paths
of destruction.
Uncle Matt brightened up. ‘Do
mother ! Of course it would help him.’
Then he stopped in dismay, for his wife
was crying again. What’s wrong ?
Haven’t you the yarn?’
She shook her head, holding up the
cylindrical strip she was working on.
“The last bit is in these wristers, 'n if I
ravel them out there wouldn't be more
than enough to begin a pair of stockings.”’
Uncle Matt’s hand instinctively sought
his pocket and searched hopelessly for the
money he knew was not there. Then he
went to the book shelf and drew from be-
hind the books the well-worn purse. With
a desponding glance he replaced it.
*“There ain’t anything we could sel] 2” he
suggested, brightening.
“No, nothing. Everything has gone
long ago. The spinning wheels went first
and then the old clock ; everything has
been sold but—’’
‘‘Have you sold the foot stove 2’
Aunt Betsey caught her breath. “It’s
the only thing that’s left of mother’s.”’
“Is that so? I wouldn’ have said any-
thing if I'd known that.’
There was little sleep for tite anxious
mother that night, but with the morning
her spirits rose. After breakfast she wrap-
ped up the old-fashioned foot stove and
put the package in her hushand’s hands.
“You take that up to Mis’ Deering. She
said she’d give me five dollars for it if I
ever wanted to sell it. Then go up to the
store and get me some yarn ; they know
what kind I buy. Go quick before I
change my mind.”
‘‘Uncle Matt made no remonstrance, for
be knew the mother rejoiced in the sacrifice
she was making for their son. The pang
of parting with her treasured relic would
be forgotten long hefore the stitches for the
first stocking were cast on the ‘shining
needles. Oh, the warmth from that little
old foot stove and the strength of the
hardy pioneer lives it had made comforta-
ble must have heen woven into those
sturdy blue wooden hose! When they
were finished, the mother spread them in a
row on her bed. and with her face bowed
on its patchwork cover, prayed heaven to
make them in someway instrumental in
saving her dear son. Then, with a letter
full of sweet mother-love, she sent them on
their way.
Uncle Matt resumed his daily visits to
the office. Gradually Jem’s letter was
worn thin from much reading. The folds
cracked and the pieces were held together
by zigzag stitches. Many nights during
that lemg, cold winter Jem’s letter was
tucked under his mother’s pillow, while
she looked forward with loving certainty
to the time when another should come.
And one day in the carly spring the letter
came.
“I was coming home, mother,’ he wrote.
“I’ve been a long time on the way. I had
saved a little money, and wanted to bring’
it to you. It is only a little bit, but I will
send it, for I can’t come now. They say I
can’t live, but mother, I want you to know
that I have not touched a rop of the stuff
that ruined me since I got your package.
T couldn’t walk up to a bar with stockings
on that I knew you had woven so many
prayers into. Then, too, your letter was
in my pocket, and your love seemed more
real to me than it ever had when I was
home.”
Here the shaky, uncertain writing broke
off, the pen had fallen from Jem’s exhaust-
ed hand. The nurse wrote in explanation.
Jem was in a hospital in Chicago. He had
saved a little child from injury by a half-
drunken cart driver, but he himself had
been knocked down. His injuries were
not serious of themselves, but his very life
had been burned out by alcohol. His few
weeks of abstinence was in his favor, but
his recovery was doubtful. Then she for-
got that her patient was simply a ‘“‘case’’—
one of hundreds—and told with tender
sympathy of the manly heroism of Jem’s
cond uct.
Aunt Betsey arose when they had finish-
ed reading the letter and put on her bonnet
and shawl. There were no tears and sighs
now, but a resolute preparation for the
inevitable. ‘I’m goin’ over to Mis’ Deer-
ing’s,”’ she said quitely, and carried the
letter with her. The few crises in the lives
of these humble people had been met by the
prompt action of the gentle, submissive
wife, and Uncle Matt was more than con-
tent to leave the matterin her hands. Nor
was he greatly surprised which they found
themselves on the Chicago express travel-
ing toward Jem. They gave no thought
to danger or fatigue or to the possible fail-
ure to find him. He was there, they must
see him.
These two old people, so innocent, so
genuine, so trustful, won the kindliest ser-
vices of the big, good-natured conductor.
At another time the breakneck speeh at
which the carriage in which he placed them
was driven, would have made them faint
with terror, but now they only thought, in
a dazed way, how kind the driver was to
hurry so for them.
When the afternoon began to wane, the
nurse hy Jem’s bedside gave place to a lit-
tle woman in a rusty black dress, She sat
by him scarcely breathing until he stirred
uneasily, then she put her hand on his fore-
head. She stroked his cheek and patted it
as she had been used to do when he came
in his little white “‘nightie’”’ to say his
prayers by her knee. Her touch seemed to
turn back the stained, blotted leaves of his
life to the pure pages of youth. He smiled
and murmured, “Now I lay—down—to
sleep,” and then, ‘No, mother, I have not
touched a drop since I got your letter.”’
Toward midnight he roused, but with
the calmness of one to whom death has
drawn near, he showed no surprise at
seeing his loved ones near him. ‘‘Tell the
boys, mother, that I wasted my life. Tell
them” —his words were coming more slow-
ly now as the ebbing tide carried his soul
out toward the dark waters. ‘‘Tell them
I tried to stop drinking, but I forgot to
say ‘Our Father.’”’
?
’
There was an empty cot in that ward in
the morning. There was a little procession
that wound its way in mute sadness
through the noise of the city. There were
two sorrow-laden old people who returned
to the lonely home in Brushville.
Jem’s life had been a record of time wast-
ed, talents abused and honor tarnished.
But at the setting of the sun of his life the
golden glory of one honest effort and one
deed of noble heroism shone through the
clouds of wrong-doing that had darkened
his day.— Union Signal.
er —————
Mortality of the War.
Lives of Nearly 3,000 Soldiers and Sailors Sacri-
ficed.
Pension Commissioner Evans, states that
up to September 30 the war with Spain
had caused the loss of the lives of 2,906
American soldiers and sailors. He further
declared that the statistics of his office
show that the percentage of deaths in
camps from disease last summer was much
less than in the civil war.
When asked for further particulars he
spoke as follows :
“In the rebellion 40,000 men were kill-
ed in battle and 360,000 perished in camps
and prisons. From official figures which I
have recently completed, covering a period
from May 1st to September 30th, I find
that the total number of deaths as a result
of the war with Spain was 2,906. Of this
number 107 were officers. At Santiago the
loss of life was twenty-two officers and 222
men. This is an average of one officer for
every ten men. At Cardenas one officer
was killed. Since the battles on Cuban
soil sixty-one men have died of wounds re-
ceived in service. The total number of
American soldiers who have died in camps
from disease is eighty officers and 2,520
privates. This is remarkable in view of
the terrible climatic disadvantages, and it
fully verifies the soldier's adage that dis-
ease Kills more men than bullets. There
have been six hundred claims for pensions
filed to date as a result of the war.
*‘In the Cuban campaign the loss of so
many officers is accounted for by the fact
that Spanish sharpshooters hidden in the
trees and dense foliage used smokeless pow-
der, and picked off the officers with ease.
Some of the wounds received by officers
were remarkable. I recall one case in par-
ticular—that of Captain Knox, of the First
cavalry. The captain was shot in the back.
The ball penetrated his kidney, liver and
lang and broke two of his ribs, He is
alive to-day, and the president has promot-
ed him.”
Commissioner Evans says that the loss of
life resulting from the destruction of the
Maine in Havana harbor will be placed on
the same basis as mortality in battle. He
bolds that the general law providing for
indemnity to sailors and soldiers in the
federal service will apply to the explosion
at Havana.
“Thus far only fifty-five claims have
been presented from relatives of the boys
who went down with the Maine,’ said the
commissioner. Every one of them will be
pushed through. It is no more than right
that the dependents of the men who went
to watery graves in Havana harbor be pro-
vided for by the United States govern-
ment.”’
——————
Pipe Saved His Life.
Stroudsburg Man Who Was Caught In a Cave-in
Breathed Through the Long Stem.
John W. Angle, one of the hest known
men in Stroudsburg, and a retired mer-
chant, had a miraculous escape from being
buried alive. A pipe with a long stem
saved his life. Some days ago a few resi-
dents conceived the idea of sewering a por-
tion of the town. Angle was at the head
of the movement, and while the workmen
were engaged gave the laying of the pipes
and their proper cementing his close atten-
tion.
While at work on the sewer in the exca-
vation in Green street, near the residence
of former collector Charles B. Staples.
he stooped over a joint, and while in this
posture a lot of carth caved in. Angle was
completely buried. Two of the workmen
happened to be near the cave in and went
to his rescue, removing the earth with
shovels.
When Angle was making the examina-
tion he was smoking a long-stemmed pipe.
The earth knocked him backward, and
he managed to breath through his pipe,
the end of which stuck out above the earth,
the bowl having broken off, until help
came. Angle was severely bruised about
the body and cut in the face from the
heavy stones. His first words uttered
when taken out of the hole was, “Where
is my pipe 2”
——
What Stamps a Gentleman.
“In all questions of manners a young
man should always remember that “while
politeness is a good trait to acquire, cour-
tesy is infinitely better,’”” writes Edward
Bok on “What makes a gentleman’’ in the
July Ladies’ Home Journal. ‘Politeness
is mauners, but courtesy is heart. Ming-
ling in good society can give us the veneer
which the world calls a polish of manners,
and true politeness is not to be made little
of or scoffed at. Politeness is a fine art,
but is an art pure and simple, even at its
best. Infinitely better is the cultivation
of that courtesy of refinement which enters
into the feelings of others and holds them
sacred. What we want our young men to
have is courtesy of manner not regulated
by social code or professional censor. It is
as much the current coin of good society as
itever was. More than any other element
or grace in our lives, it is instantly felt and
recognized, and has an unfailing influence.
It calls for respect as nothing else does.
Courtesy of manner and courtesy of speech
are gifts a young man should cultivate,’
re eeeaec—
——A contributor to the Ladies’ Home
Journal tells how Fanny Crosby, the blind
hymn writer, composed ‘‘Safe in the Arms
of Jesus,” in a quarter of an hour. One
day W. H. Doane called upon her and said:
‘I have forty minutes in which to catch
my train, and I want to take with me the
words to this music.” And he hummed
the melody. ‘‘Can you do it?’ he asked.
Miss Croshy replied ‘‘All right ; Iwill do
it.” In a quarter of an hour the hymn,
‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus,”’ was com-
pleted. ‘It was an inspiration,’’ she ex-
plains. The article says :
**When the blind hymn writer composes
her hymns she withdraws into a room
where, sitting alone with a little hymn
book ‘pressed to her brow, she allows’ her
thoughts full play. She never writes her
hymns out, but composes the stanzas one
by one until the whole hymn is completed.
Then she dictates it to an amanuensis.
Her memory is remarkable. As an in-
stance of this she states that Philip Philips
had once asked her to write the words of
forty hymns, the titles of which he read to
her. These titles she retained in her mem-
ory, and one by one she composed the
hymns. When the forty were finished she
dictated them, titles and all, to an aman-
uensis ? She has written over 3000
hymns.
i
The Summer Resorts on the Colorado
Midland Railway.
From Colorado Springs to Grand Junction There
are no Less Than Ten Famous Resorts.—Each
Has Some Special Feature of Beauty and Each
Its Particular Crowd of Admirers.
A description properly begins with Mani-
ton and ends with Glenwood, one at the
eastern end and the other near the west
end of the Colorado Midland Railway, and
both belonging to the line as children of
its enterprise.
In the history of Colorado it is written
that the Ute warrior, sick from his wounds
or possessed by bad spirits which would
not be driven forth by the medicine man,
drank of the waters at the foot of Pike's
Peak and was cured. In his simplicity he
thought he had regained his health through
the direct influence of the Great Spirit,
and he reverenced the springs of Manitou
as he did the great Snowy mountains.
When his white brother settled the land
and sought the springs, the fame of Mani-
tou and Ute Pass, from a shadowy Indian
legend became world wide.
Manitou is 6,432 feet above the sea. The
springs contain salt, soda, iron and sul-
phur, and their curative properties are well
known. The Garden of the Gods, Chey-
enne Canon, Glenn Egyrie and many other
attractive places are near hy. The won-
derful Cog Road, extending to the summit
of Pike’s Peak, begins at Manitou Iron
Springs.
At Glenwood Springs, the mountains
encircle a town, surpassing in the beauty
of its location and simple loveliness the
Swiss village of the Alps. Here the great
hills, lying one behind the other, fading in
the distance, make giant fortressses that
isolate and guard the town ; here the sun
sinking behind the western water-sheds
casts shadows into the deep ravines and
gloomy passes and gives a glorious tint of
mellow light to the splashing waters of the
Roaring Fork ; here the breeze sweeping
the hillsides of evergreen and pine, arouses
a chorus of mountain voices and bears its
full burden of mountain odor and song
over the town. Glenwood has a magnifi-
cint hotel, five stories high, containing 200
guest rooms. It is lighted throughout by
electricity. A sanitarium and bath house,
separate from the hotel, are complete in all
of the necessary appliances. Glenwood is
5,280 feet above the sea, and with its pine-
laden mountains on all sides commends it-
self to invalids.
UTE PASS
Is so closely connected with the history of
Colorado and so many new chapters are be-
ing constantly added to its own history
and given to the public in the newspapers
that nearly all know Ute Pass thoroughly.
Its new title, the Gateway to Cripple Creek
has added interest to this pass so difficult
of access. Its resorts, of which there are
five, in a distance of twenty miles, are fa-
mous.
From Manitou Iron Springs to Woodland
Park the line is built on solid rock road-
bed, dug in the left (southern) side of the
bass, at an ascending grade of 4 per cent.,
or 211 feet to the mile. The ‘‘Fontaine
que Bouille”’ (boiling water), a mountain
stream fed by the snows of Pike’s Peak, de-
scends the pass, famous as having been the
trail traveled by the Ute Indians in their
excursions from their mountain fastnesses
to the plains below.
Woodland Park is on a mesa at the head
of the pass. The streets are well laid out
and the water supply is piped from the
mountains. It is a great summer resort,
as well as a mining camp. The stage starts
from here to the West Creek nining region.
Green Mountain Falls is one of the most
beautiful spots in the West. Three
streams descend the precipitous sides of the
canon to the bottom, a fall of over 2,000
fect. A comfortable hotel, numerous cot-
tages, many tents, supply all of the needs
of the crowds of the tourists.
Ute Park is in the heart of the pass and
enjoys the advantages of a splendid hotel,
an artificial lake and a large park.
At Cascade Canon nothing could enhance
the beauty of the town. The mountains
are magnificent and wild flowers line the
roads and trails and mountain streams rush
down from the hillsides. The most pict-
uresque carriage road in the world begins
here and rans to the summit of Pike's
Peak.
An Editor Loose.
This is the way the editor feels when he
does his sentiment in blank verse :
“I would flee from the city’s rule and
law—from its fashions and forms cut loose
—and go where the strawberry grows on
its straw and the gooseberry grows on its
goose ; where the catnip tree is climbed by
the cat as she clutches for her prey—the
guileless and unsuspecting rat on the rat-
tan bush at play ; T will catch with ease
the saffron cow and the cowlet in their glee,
as they leap in joy from bough to hough on
the top of a cowslip tree; and list while
the partridge drums his drum and the
woodchuck chucks his wood, and the dog
devours the dogwood plum in the prim-
itive solitude.
“0 let me drink from the n10ss-grown
pump, that was hewn from the pumpkin
tree ! Eat mush and milk from a rural
stump, from folly and fashions free—new
gathered mush from the mushroom vine,
and milk from the milkweed sweet—with
pineapple from the pine. And then to the
whitewashed dairy I'll turn, where the
dairymaid hastening hies, her ruddy and
golden-red butter to churn from the milk
of her butterflies ; and I'll rise at morn
with the earliest bird, to the fragrant farm-
yard pass, and watch while the farmer
turns his herd of grasshoppers out to grass.
— Pacific Union.
He Had Nerve.
Rauchtown Store Robbed in Daylight.
A thief entered the store of Mrs. Anna J.
Ranch, at Rauchtown, Clinton county,
Saturday afternoon, during a temporary
absence of the proprietress. He broke
open the cash register and took therefrom
$100 in cash and $252 in school orders. The
orders were payable to Lizzie Chatham,
Ernest D. Wentzel and Frank G. Getgen.
The following checks were also taken: One
for twenty-five dollars drawn by John
Engler in favor of Lessie Zerbie ; one for
ten dollars and another for five, both of
which were signed by J. P. Rauch and
made payable to May Kerns, and another
check, amount unknown, payable to
Thomas Batten and signed by Stuart
Group. The thief was seen leaving the
store, but as it was thought he was mak-
ing purchases no attention was paid to
him at the time. He was tall, heavy set
and wore a light hat and shirt. He effect-
ed an entrance by raising a side window.
The police authorities have been notified.
Robbers Kill Cattle in the Flelds.
A highway butcher is alarming the farm-
ers of Lower Cumberland county. Two
steers have already been slaughtered. The
head and entrails were left in a field and
the hide and meat carried off.
Autumn Fashions for Men.
This year, in actual clothes, there have
been very few changes from the fashions of
last winter. Then began the adoption of
sober attire ; and the grays and drabs and
blacks, in tweeds and homespuns this year
again will lead for business and morning
suits. The tweeds and worsteds are, how-
ever, in many patterns, but these are not
in the least pronounced, and the over lap-
ping checks, plaids and squares have some-
times to be thrown strongly in the light to
be made visible. In London the majority
of the sack or lounge suits have been made
with double-breasted reefer jacket or coat.
This has a double row of three buttons,
and is cut somewhat high in the neck, and
is the length of an ordinary sack-coat.
There is no outside breast pocket, and the
two side pockets are with flap or without
them. There are also single-breasted sacks
and the color is not absolutely confined to
gray. There are some greenish and gray
mixtures, and some browns as well ; and
other patterns in these woolen fabrics have
broken lines, or even the well-known her-
ring-hone design. There is certainly a
great variety from which to chose, and in
blacks the rough goods will be preferable
for business wear. In cut, the coats will
be slightly longer; the waistcoats- -for
business, the single-breated being more
popular—will have five buttons and a
notched lapel collar, closing high. The
trousers will be loose about the hips and
will narrow below the knee.
Last winter there were seen many cut-
away coats of rough black cloth, and these
have been the fashion in England this sum-
mer. They are worn with waistcoats of
the same material, single-breasted, and
“fancy” trousers. With this suit a top
hat is allowable and a derby permitted.
The diagonal cut-away coat has gone ont
of fashion, but some tall, slim men still
cling to business suits of this style, prefer-
ing that kind of coat to the sack or the
reefer. Frock-coats of light gray, fawn or
drab, or mixtures, are popular in London,
but in this country they are yet a bit out
of the ordinary.
The double-breasted frock-coat for the
afternoon, for visiting, for church, and in
which to be married, or to wear when one
is best man or an usher, is made this sea-
son of rough black cloth, or soft unfinished
worsted, of a very dark gray mixture.
The trousers to go with this garment are of
cashmere or fancy worsted, and in pattern
and color are narrow-striped on a dark
blue or gray ground. The frock-coat is
only moderately long, with square skirts
falling just below the knee. The lapels
are peaked, and faced with silk. The coat
must fit well, but not tightly. The idea
is to give a comfortable easy roll, and all
shoulder and other padding is avoided. It
is still a fad to wear it unbuttoned, but
this is not an absolute decree of fashion.
The waist-coat may be either of the same
material, single-breasted, or of figured silk
or matelasse. In these cases it is double-
breasted. A top silk hat, and white shirt,
with straight standing collar, are always
worn with the frock-coat.— Harper's Ba-
zar.
How Some of the Little Song Birds Get
Across the Mediterranean Sea.
How ever the little birds contrive to get
across such vast expanses of the sea in
their annual migrations is a puzzling ques-
tion. That they do it is unquestionable ;
it is admitted by the most competent ob-
servers that they sometimes get over
stretches of billowy brine that for a thous-
and miles afford no perch for their weary
little claws to clutch on. That such an
extended flight is too much for them is not
only evident in itself, but is proved by the
fact that these too venturesome songsters
sometimes alight on the rigging of ships in
such a state of exhaustion that, when dis-
turbed, they are unable to fly the length
of the vessel, and occasionally even fall
helpless upon the deck.
An English traveler, who was considera-
bly interested in the birds, happened to be
passing the autumn in the island of Crete,
in the Mediterranean, and he often no.
ticed a sound like the twittering of small
birds at times when the sandcranes were
passing overhead on their way southward.
As the only fowl in sight were the cranes,
this aroused his curiosity and he mentioned
the matter to a friend, who was a native of
the island, suggesting that possibly the
noise was caused by the whirring of the
feathers of these great birds. His friend,
however, said no; the noise, he declared,
was made by the song birds that were rid.
ing on the backs of the cranes, and further
asserted that the saucy little fellows had
came all the way from the coast of Europe
with their good-natured companions, who
lent, if not a helping hand, a helping back,
which was much more serviceable, as often
as needed.
A few days later the Englishman got
pretty conclusive proof of the truth of
these statements. He was cruising about
in a boat about 15 miles from shore, when
another flock of cranes passed overhead,
and he heard the same twittering notes.
He therefore discharged his gun to see
what would come of it, and forthwith he
saw three small birds rise up from the
flock in fright. After a short time they
disappeared among the cranes,
The next day he was visiting Cairo, in
Egypt, and observed a great number of
wagtails in the palm gardens there. After
watching them for some time, as they
hopped about and tilted in the fashion that
has given them their name, he asked an
old Bedouin chief who stood near how he
imagined they got there, as they always
spend the summer in Europe. The sheik
at once replied : ‘‘Yakhamageh (my dear
sir), do you know that these little birds
are borne across the sea by the larger ones ?”’
The traveler put the same question to a
couple of Arab donkey boys who came up
to offer him their beasts.
‘‘Surely,” they cried. ‘Abu sand (the
stork) has carried them over the sea.’’
It is said that Indians of the region
south of Hudson's bay tell a similar tale of
a finch which travels very comfortably on
the back of the Canada goose. It cer-
tainly seems improbable that a belief so
widely dissemminated should he wholly
without foundation.— Pittsburg Dispatch.
——A compilation of railroad statistics
by Duane Doty, of Puallman’s Palace Car
company, for the year ending Sept. 1st,
1898, contains the following: ‘‘One pas-
senger was killed for every 2,250,000 car-
ried. Twice as many people are killed an-
nually by falling from the windows of
their dwellings as lose their lives while
traveling as passengers on passenger trains.
The average mortal, it would seem, is
safer as railroad passengers than he is at
home. Two-thirds of those accidentally
killed lose their lives at stations, highway
crossings, and while trespassing upon
tracks. The theory of probabilities re-
quires a passenger to travel 75,000,000
miles to be tolerably sure of getting kill-
ed. This is equivalent to riding contin-
uously on an express train for over 400
years. One passenger only was injured in
every 4,500,000 miles of travel.
The Red Light at the Crossing.
‘* ‘At the. time of the great strike on the
‘Q’ he said, ‘I was out of work. I don't
believe in doing ‘scaly work, but when I
looked at the pinched faces of my little
children, it was a toss-up between honor
and starvation, and I couldn’t see them
starve ; so I took a place as engineer on the
freight.
‘“ ‘But one night something
that made me a coward.
o'clock, and pitch dark. The headlight
seemed to throw but the faintest light,
which could not pierce that great vale of
darkness ahead. We had a heavy train,
and everything seemed to £0 smoothly, but
I had a strange feeling that I never had
before. Something awful seemed about to
happen !
** ‘The first quarter of the trip went
smoothly enough, and as soon as I reached
signal-tower No. 54, which is about half a
mile this side of a sharp curve, I whistled
for the road-crossing just beyond the cut.
It was storming frightfully, and now and
then the lightning would show us the road
ahead for a little distance.
‘“ ‘As we turned the curve, a flash of
lightning showed a man in a wagon in the
middle of the track, madly lashing his
horses, which refused to move.
‘“‘I sprang from my seat, whistled
down-breakes, reversed my engine, and
gave her sand. Then I shut my eyes.
“ ‘In an instant we struck them ! And
I could hear the sickening crunch beneath
the wheels. A few rods beyond, the train
was gradually stopped.
‘‘ “The men were out of the caboose in a
minute, and were running back along the
track, their lanterns appearing like fire-flies
in the black night.
‘“ “We did what we could for
fellow, and lifted him carefully into the
caboose. I don’t think he ever knew what
Killed him.
‘* ‘We finished the run a very glum crew.
We felt personally responsible for his
death.
happened
It was about ten
the poor
* *
‘The next night, on the return trip, as
Wwe came to this same crossing, I saw a red
light. It was being waved frantically to
and fro. Again I whistled for brakes, and
gave her sand. As we approached the
fatal crossing, I saw plainly on the track
the same wagon, and in it the man we
killed the night before.
**My hair stood on end as he coolly
swung the red light and signaled for us to
stop. Then a cold chill crept all over me.
My chest felt as though a great burden was
[a
on it ; but it was only for a minute. In an
instant, the vision, or whatever it was,
vanished.
“The next night the light appeared
again at the crossing, but it seemed all too
real to be a vision; yet why, I do not
know, but I let her have more steam. I
felt the train dragging—it was the phantom
light again.
** ‘Not a night passed after that, while I
was on the road, that I did not see that
red light on the crossing. We stopped
several times to try to find the cause of it,
but we knew it was needless to search, and
that red light preyed on my mind so that I
lost my nerve and had to come East again.
—=Saturday Evening Post.
———
Gideon Marsh’s Return.
Gideon W. Marsh, who was president of
the Keystone National bank when that in-
stitution collapsed in 1891, and who was
charged at the time with causing its fail-
ure, returned suddenly and unexpectedly
to Philadelphia the other day, after wan-
dering about the earth for seven years and
a half. Marsh fled, according to his own
account, with less than $1400 in his pocket,
bis own money which he collected from
debtors, and with it he managed to livea
long time and travel a great distance.
But when it was gone he was obliged to
earn his living by the hardest kind of toil.
For all these years Marsh has been a fugi-
tive, moving stealthily from place to place
as suspicion began to rest upon him, never
daring to take up his residence anywhere
very long, and constantly. fearful that he
was being followed and spied upon. His
bondsman, William Wanamaker, who bad
lost $20,000 when Marsh disappeared, is
said to have spent much more in trying to
find him. His agents were everywhere on
the alert and Consuls and commercial rep-
resentives in every corner of the earth were
warned of Marsh’s crime and disappear-
ance.
This experience of a hunted man is
strikingly illustrative of the way in which
the world has grown relatively smaller dur-
ing the past fifty years. Marsh has evi-
dently had no peace of mind since he went
to Brazil in 1891. At Cape Town he was
scared away by a paragraph in a newspa-
per, which showed that his identity had
been suspected. Wherever he might wan-
der he ran grave risks of detection. Per-
haps his own remorse haunted him. But
by hook or by crook he kept out of the
reach of the men who were chasing him by
train and boat, following him literally to
the ends of the earth. At last, the other
day, he read an account of a speech deliv-
ered by John Wanamaker, in Philadelphia
in which Marsh’s crime was mentioned,
and the speaker welcomed the return of
the missing bank wrecker and a full inves-
tigation of the collapse, with which Wana-
maker’s name has been freely associated.
He promised Marsh his help if he would
return and tell all he knew.
This word reached the fugitive in the
State of Washington, and he decided to re-
turn, welcoming the peace of the prison in
preference to the harassing uncertainty of
continued flight. His trial may not reveal
much" that is not already known, but it
will permit the closing of one of the most
sensational financial crimes of this end. of
the century. The fact that Marsh man-
aged to elude pursuit for all these years is
a striking tribute to his shrewdness and
his determined energy. ,
Seven Miners Killed,
Seven miners were killed and a number
fatally injured by an accident at the Exeter
colliery, West Pittston, Saturday morning.
The accident was due to the alleged care-
lessness of engineer David Price, who, act-
ing in disobedience of positive orders,
caused thiee cars to run into the top of the
shaft. These cars, loaded and weighing 11
tons, fell down the 360-foot shaft and
crashed with frightful force upon the car-
riage carrying 10 men. Seven were al-
most instantly killed. They are : i
Michael Smith, aged 35 years, miner,
married, leaves widow and four children ;
Andrew Tinko, aged 40 years, miner, mar-
ried, leaves a widow and six children ;
Michael Podestbtany, aged 25 years, miner,
unmarried ; Michael Brazuke, aged 33
years, miner, unmarried ; Joseph Culock,
aged 25 years, married, leaves a widow
and one child ; Michael Waslowski, aged
45 years, unmarried ; Joseph Pukos, miner;
Joseph Winsler, laborer, and Paul Lecks-
nones, laborer.
——Subscribe for the WATCHMAN.