Bellefonte, Pa., Feb. 24, 1899. A PARABLE. T watched at eve, by the ocean— The crowd was passing near, But I gazed on its bosom, heaving, With feelings akin to fear; The day was dying, westward, In a glory of crimson and gold, And the flush of the sky and water Was a poem of God untold. I looked at the high waves rushing, All crested, upon the shore; I heard, far out on the billows, The ocean’s muffled roar; I thought of the silent thousands Under the water’s sheen, And I seemed to hear them moaning, Like phantoms in a dream. My soul went out to help them In pitifal, earnest prayer, As I pictured those depths all jeweled With the treasures lying there, When a rush of the billows brought me And laid at my frightened feet A half dead, beaten lily, Helpless and drenched and—sweet. It lay there mute and broken, But I fancied it seemed to say. “‘For the sake of the sweet Christ, lift me Ere the next wave bear me away !”’ Quickly I stooped and raised it, I washed it from weeds and slime; I carried 1t home and placed it In a slender vase of mine. I poured in crystal water, I braced up the fragile form, And saw, indeed, it was lovely Before it had met the storm. But I sighed as I turned and left it, And thought, had I passed it by, A poor, wrecked flower on the seashore, I might not see it die. < Time passed. The days wore slowly Ere back to my room I went, But I stopped on the very threshold, Wondering what is meant; There in its vase of crystal Stood the lily erect and fair, And a fragrance sweet as heaven Was floating on the air! 1 gazed and gazed in my gladness At the pure brow lifted high, When the sunlight touched its glory And lingered in passing by. The tears uprose to my eyelids, I held them in no control— Need TI say it 7—my storm-tossed flower Was a beautiful human soul.— Mercedes. AN INCIDENT OF VICTORY. She was sitting on the piazza when the news.came to her. The Marechal Neil roses were blooming; a mocking bird was turning every other bird’s talent into insignificance. The little colored girl brought her a morning paper and laid it down on her lap and sat down at her feet to sort the stockings in her work basket. Mrs. Rivers read the editorials, then turned to the war news. The headlines looked quiet, and down the column were the names of two more identified dead bodies; only regulars. J. P. Rivers, pri- vate, was one of the names, followed by the company and regiment numbers. It was her only son. She laid the paper down in her lap and sat looking over the straggly grass in the yard, over which the great bulky magno- lia trees threw dark shadows. The mocking bird was now singing a luxurious eontralto-solo, having finished imitating amateurs; the little darkey at her feet was thrusting her fingers into the stockings and humming a tune. From the kitchen floated out a folk-song, which the cook was singing. Mrs. Rivers caught herself thinking of this tune and remembered she had read somewhere that persons often pay the greatest attention to trifles around them when a mental blow has struck them like a club. She remembered thinking how impossi- ble a negro’s beautiful tones are to imi- tate; bow it was claimed that the reason for Melba’s great magnetism came from her being the only singer who could strike the exact shade of sound that a negro could; then she had wondered where she had read that. How wonderfully the cook was singing; from what ancestry did she inherit that hypnotic middle of the note; it was espe- cially noticeable when she sang that minor refrain: ‘Chariot of the Lord rolling on Her mind then took up the thread of her boy’s childhood and she realized how her heart had ached through all those early misdemeanors of his; of that first awful fear-awakening that probably her boy was not morally responsible; that what she had forced herself to accept as childish in- diseretions were growing into settled im- . moralities. She had prayed to God with clenched hands night after night that such would not be the case; that the boy would . prove himself as much of a man as his father. : i The father had never seen this child; it was horn while he was in the army of the Potomac just as he was going into battle, and all he could do was to write his prayer that should death come to him while he wore the gray the boy might grow up to be son, protector and guide to his mother. Death touched the father with honor. Men cheered him as he fell and wept when they dragged his riddled body off the bat- tlefield. Dying, he carved his name high among the State's heroes, where men said he would have placed it even had he lived and never fought with a musket. . She thought of that first serious trouble the boy had brought home, and how she had spent her savings that the townspeople might not hear of it; how she had schemed and planned to bear her grief over him alone, so she would have no pity shown her. She was too proud for pity. She grew to shrink from the newspapers, fearing she might see his name in great let- ters staring at her from the headlines, do- ing—she dared not think what. She won- dered how the other mothers stood their children’s immoralities with such equanim- ity, going among their friends as if all were well. A loud ring at the door always made her nerves thrill until they ached. e And now he was dead? For the first time she saw his name in print, but the letters were small and the people on the staff of the paper didn’t seem to know that this was ‘‘Jack’’ Rivers, of their own town. . She was right in that surmise; the peo- ple on the paper didn’t know; they hardly knew there was a Mrs. Rivers in that town. They were of a newer generation and even the older townspeople never knew why this woman had grown so old and howed and silent at 50. Few visitors came to the little, old, rambling house; she rarely went out except to church on Sunday morning. She was a woman with- out confidants; her sorrow had so absorbed - her, that she would have been astonished to know that half the people in the town never remembered Jack’s misdoings very keenly; the world was too swift, to full of worse men than he. There were a few staunch old friends whose hearts yearned with sympathy for this proud broken woman, but they re- spected her tremendous struggle too keenly to worry her with the subject of her sorrow, and nothing they could have said would have convinced her that she would not be pitied if she went out into the world. . She had grown self centered with ab- sorbing one subject, as persons are apt to do if they allow their lives to become nar- rowed. She passed through the French window and said to the old cook: ‘‘Marse Jack is dead, Melinda; he was killed in the big battle last week.”’ Melinda hadn’t been brought up a Cal- vinist, and Marse Jack had been her haby. Morals or no morals, she gave him the loy- alty dogs give men without analysis—and she cried her poor old heart out through the long day. She yearned to go comfort his mother; draw her head down into her big lap and cry with her, but Mrs. Rivers had become a woman that women didn’t easily touch. The next morning the paper had the name in staring headlines. The mother saw it across the length of the piazza as the colored child brought it. ‘Oh, they have remembered,’’ she cried, ‘Why not have let him rest in death!’ But the headlines told of glory. It was a despatch from the Associated Press cor- respondent, and it told how Rivers, pri- vate, had fallen in the front of his regi- ment, holding the old flag, cheering on men who were a quarter of a century older than he, planting his colors at the top of a hill, the first man there! Such was his death in the mad heat, un- der an awful sun, bored by bullets while he dug his flagstaff in the enemy’s country, making crazy by his example hundreds of men who tugged like bloodhounds at a leash to get down the hill after the retreaters, and choke, strangle every man who had shot at him. Then came columns about him from the local staff. This Rivers they,now remem- bered was Jack Rivers, a townsman, an aristocrat who enlisted as a regular years ago; anecdotes of his childhood were told; stories of his daring adventures when he had been the worst young scamp in town and had led every other boy into mischief. There was an editorial telling how his father died. This was written by the gray haired old editor who fought by the fa- ther’s side. He touched the boy’s death with fine old phrases and gave him a place by his father’s side. A cablegram came from the white haired Southern general, who knew the family well, and he told the mother over the wire that death had given her another hero and that the dead hoy lay in his own tent, where hundreds honored him. The mayor sent to ask if the cablegram might be pub- lished, and said he had arranged to have the body sent up at the city’s expense. On the day of the funeral the church was thronged far past the inner doors with cur- ious and interested groups of people, friends and acquaintances. It was the first sol- dier’s funeral in that town since ’65. The townspeople knew now that this was war. It was cannon as well as flag. It wad bullets as well as talk. Every mother in the city had a heartache for this first bereaved mother. But when those people tell you the story of that day now they talk no more of grief; they tell of something that only a few un- derstood. The crowd at the gateway of the church parted to let the coffin pass, and hundreds of faces were lifted to the one mourner. Dozens of emotional colored people were sobbing aloud. The town was showing its patriotism in this funeral. Union veter- ans walked beside Confederate veterans, the local militia had turned out, the Sons of the Revolution and the Daughters of the Confederacy were side by side. The coffin was covered with the flag and was borne by colored servants. The moth- er, the only mourner, walked hehind by the side of the gray-haired friend of the boy’s father. Eyes that were turned to her in pity grew large with astonishment. Here was no bent, broken woman. She stood every inch her splendid height. The face was triumphant. The younger generation who had only known her since she looked so old and feeble hardly recognized her. The gray eyes looked squarely into the future; her step was buoyant; her mouth almost smiled. And only a few in the crowd knew that the look meant that her boy would never be humiliated now. He had died as his father’s son should die! Down the long church aisle she swept, as if going to a marriage altar instead of a mourner’s pew. Her appearance was the sensation ofthe church; and men and wom- en pressed to the door to see her come out. They buried him under the hanging Spanish moss by his father’s memorial tab- let. She stood straight as a lance beside the open grave, and was almost beautiful with that triumphant Jook in her eyes. The bells of the old Spanish cathedral by the sea rung out the ‘‘Ave Marie; a few good Catholics in the crowd crossed them- selves. The salute was fired over a sol- dier’s body. Just as the evening star swung into the glowing sky an old man who had gone through the war wtth his father stepped from behind a great tree and placed the bugle to his lips. He tried twice and failed. Then ‘Lights Out’’ quivered and died on the air. The man sobbed aloud as he broke on the last note. He had gone in memory back to the night before the father’s death. But the mother stood there with that same look on her face, ready at last to look into the eyes of the coming years. Her husband's son had died a hero and the town had forgotten the past. Wouldn’t the dear God do so, too?— Harrydele Hallmark. A Noteworthy Departure. Sixty Cents Worth of Entertainment for only Ten Cents. It has been considered wonderful to pub- lish a magazine for 10 cents containing as much reading matter as would be given in 50 columns of the average newspapers. But the Great ‘‘Philadelphia Sunday Press’ comes to the front with the announcement that, beginning last Sunday, 19th it will be so enlarged that each number will contain six times as much reading matter as any ten cent magazine. Just think of it! For five cents you can get ‘The Philadelphia Sunday Press’’ and find as much entertain- ment and instruction as if you spent 60 cents for magazines. Look out for next ‘‘Sunday’s Press.” It will be a wonder. Those Letter Boxes. They Figure Prominently in the Adams Poisoning Case.—Now there's Another One.—Mrs. Rogers Hired One Under the Name of Miss Addeson.— Found Out by Accident by Her Dentist.—She then Gave it up. f The latest strange development in the remarkably strange case of the poisoning of Mrs. Katherine J. Adams of New York is the fact that her daughter, Mrs. Rodgers, while still living with her husband, Ed- ward Rodgers, and with the full knowledge of her mother, was in the habit of receiv- ing mail at a iprivate letter box, which she rented under the assumed name of *‘Miss Addeson.”’ Private letter boxes have already figured conspicuously in the erime. Much of the mail sent to ‘‘Miss Addeson’ evidently came from the New York Athletic club or from strange persons conmected with that organization, as the envelopes bore the red winged Mercury foot, the insignia of the club. These facts will undoubtedly open a new and interesting field of investigation for the district attorney’s office at the cor- oner’s inquest this week. ACCIDENTAL EXPOSURE. It was by a peculiar coincidence that the identity of Mrs. Rodgers and Miss Addeson was established. She leased the box from David Murdock and his wife, who keep a stationary store at 503 Columbus avenue, which is only a few blocks from the flat at 61 West Eighty-sixth street where she was then living with her mother and hus- band and where Mrs. Adams was afterward poisoned. One day Dr. Albert A. Vedder of 100 West Eighty-sixth street, who was Mrs. Roger’s dentist, was standing in Mur- dock’s store when Mrs. Roger’s passed, dressed in a bicycle costume. ‘Hello!’ he exclaimed. ‘‘There goes Mrs. Rogers in a bicycle suit!’ *‘That isn’t Mrs. Rodgers,’’ said Mur- dock. ‘‘That is Miss Addeson. She is a customer of mine.” ‘‘She is a customer of mine, too,’’ re- plied the dentist. ‘‘I’ve met her husband, and her name is Rogers.’” THE DENTIST'S RUSE. This incident occurred about a year ago, and both the dentist and the stationer have occasion to remember it from its bearing on subsequent events. Dr. Vedder had a bill against Mrs. Rogers for filling her teeth. He had sent the bill to Mr. Rogers, and it had not been paid. While thinking over the discovery of the dual identity of his pa- tient it struck him that it might be a good idea to send the bill again in the name of Miss Addeson. He did so, and a few days later Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Rogers came together to the dentist’s office. They wanted to know why he had sent the bill in the name of Addeson. When Dr. Vedder replied that he had learned that Mrs. Rogers sometimes received mail in that name, Mrs. Adams said that the name Addeson was her daugh- ter’s right name. They then paid the bill and went away. Mrs. Rogers then went to Mr. Murdock and. reproved him for revealing the fact that she hired a private letter box from him under an assumed name. She was so indignant that she gave up the box then and there. Washington's Tact. The First President's Shrewd Knowledge of Femi- nine Foibles. His Excellency, the first of a long line of Presidents of these United States, was an excellent judge of men and manners, also of women, who are not so clearly read at first sight. Underneath his court- ly grace and dignified address Washing- ton possessed a keen and shrewd knowl- edge of feminine foibles. His humor and worldly wisdom illuminates a letter writ- ten about a young lady who was con- templating a second marriage It was evidently in response to some appeal for his advice that Washington wrote: *‘For my own part, I never did, nor do I believe I ever shall, give advice to a woman who is setting out on a matrimonial voyage. First, because I never could advise one to marry without her own consent, and second, because I know it is to no purpose to advise her to refrain when she has obtained it. A woman very rarely asks an opinion or requires advice on such an occasion till her resolution is formed, and then it is with the hope and ex- pectation of obtaining a sanction, not that she means to be governed by your disapprobation that sheapplies. In a word, the plain English of the application may be summed up in these words: ‘I wish you to think as I do; but if, unhappily, you dif- fer from me in opinion, my heart, I must confess, is fixed, and [ have gone too far to retract.’’ What more could be said in dealing with such a case? Men and women upon whom the ‘*Advice Habit’’ is fastening can learn a useful lesson from George Washington, who refused to rush in on the delicate ground where angels fear to tread. High Rate Pensioners, Referring again to the proposition to give a pension to ex-Senator John M. Pal- mer. I find at the pension office that two persons, Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Garfield, re- ceive pensions of $5,000 a year; one, Mis. Sheridan, has $2.500; eight, including Mrs. John C. Fremont, Mrs. Logan and Mrs. George B. McClellan, receive $2,000 a year, and 45 receive $1,200 a year. Among these are the widows of Gen. N. P. Banks, John B. Corse, Walter Q. Gresham, George A. Custer, Gen. Doubleday, Gen. Hartranft, Gen. Robert Anderson, Gen. Casey, Gen. Gibbon, Gen. Kirkpatrick, Gen. Mower, Gen. Paul, Gen. Ricketts, Gen. Warren, Gen. Rousseau and Admiral Wilkes. Among the men who receive pen- sions of $100 a month are John A. McCler- nand, of Illinois; John M. Thayer, of Lin- coln, Neb. ; Franz Sigel, of New York, and John C. Black, of Chicago. The remainder are granted to soldiers of the late war who suffered the loss of both hands, and are as follows: George W. Warner, New Haven, Conn. ; Lewis A. Horton, Boston, John W. January, Dell Rapids, S. D.; Thomas Ri- ley, Cresco, Ia.; William Greiter, Colum- bus, Ohio; Edward P. Latham, Burton, Ohio; Thomas Shelby, Wilson, Ohio; Ber- nard Magoonaugh, Detroit; Samuel W. Price, Louisville; Benjamin Franklin, Red Oak, Ia.; Alonzo Alden, Troy, N. Y.; Morris Dury, New York city; Michael Ma- ker, Highland Falls, N. Y.; Daniel Ful- ler, Ulysses, Pa.; Nathan Kimball, Ogden, Utah; Richard D. Dumpy, Vallejo, Cal.; Joseph A. Cooper, St. John, Kan.; Frank Mark, St. Louis, Mo.; Michael Casey, Philadelphia, Pa.; Samuel Decker, Wash- ington, D. C.; William B. Denny, Wash- ington, D. C., and Thomas Dennis, Wash- ington, D. C. The other pensioners drawing $100 a month are Emily J. Stannard, of Burling- ton, Vt.; Henrietta O. Whittaker, Lexing- ton, Ky.; Laura L. Wallen. Narragansett Pier, R. I., and Mary H. Nicholson, New York city.—Chicago Record. MAJ. W. H. HASTINGS TRAVELS IN THE HOLY LAND. In Jerusalem—Its Narrow Streets and Cosmopolitan Inhabitants—The Mosque of Omar on the Site of the Temple—Bethlehem and Its Holy Traditions’ Marred by Ignorant Superstitions. To visit the Mosque of Omar a consular permission is necessary and the kavass of the consulate must accompany you. So one day the good little Bishop from Bar- celona, Dr. Shoemaker and I were stand- ing in front of the New hotel waiting for the American Kavass to accompany us there. The bishop was wearing his shovel hat, which, was at least two feet across the brim, and contrasted strangely with his diminutive stature. Dr. Shoemaker glis- tened in immaculate white, all except his green veil, green umbrella and green mon- ocle. A tripe visaged, unwashed de- scendant of the Prophet espied us and walk- ed slowly around us wondering, apparent- ly, what were these wild-fowl, of strange plumage, that had so startlingly come from Allah knows where. He passed the word and in a twinkling we were surrounded by a crowd which circled around us to admire the doctor’s veil and monocle and the Bishop’s hat, from different facets, and I was compelled to be inspected with them and generally worried like anew bird at the Zoo. I'm always the victim. A white turbaned son of Mahomet wanted Dr. Shoe- maker to smoke from his pipe, and was amazed because he declined. Another, a fungous faced Islamite hearing us call him doctor, wanted him to cure his rupture. The kavass’ uniform was like that of a clown, he carried a club like an alpenstock, with which, with considerable pomp and display he knocked on the paving stones, or the heads and shoulders of the Arabs, Turks and Jews who were not smart enough in getting out of the way. The Kavass was proud, and, going by the shops where flour, fruit, salt-fish, candles and caviar were sold he saluted his friends, con- descendingly, for he was the visible symbol of the majesty of the great American Re- public, Porto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Tagalos and Visayans thrown in. On the way to Solomon’s Temple we passed through part of the bazaar and the unsavory Jewish quarter. These alleys, dignified with the name of streets, being covered, it is like groping in semi-twilight a sort of Daemon Daemmering, in which you see spice dealers, money changers, scribes (and Pharisees) hooded women (bundles in white) grunting camels, patient donkeys and cup-board-like shops packed with wares. A string of heavily ladened camels came along, the dervish conductors shrieking as if they had an able bodied colic. The street was so narrow that we had to make ourselves thin against the old grimy walls, impregnated with the dust of Nebuchadnezzar, Job and the Maccabees, long since dispersed in the winds. A camel craned his neck, let his head fall, opened his jaws and whisked away, in a breath, the doctor’s green veil! Then the silent, little Bishop threatened to tie a knot in the camel’s neck. Arriving at the entrance to the Temple the Bim-bachi, commander of the Turkish guard, shouted Hast our! and the guard presented arms to the Bishop’s hat and the doctor’s monocle! Here is the spot where Christ came every day when in Jerusalem. Here he disputed with the Jews and per- formed miracles. Here he became angry and indignant with the desecrators of the Temple who were defiling it, drove them out with a whip, overturning their tables, and raised the devil with the money chang- ers. Our kavass hammered on the Temple door as proudly, defiantly as if the bearer of a cartel from the Devil to the Angel Gabriel. The guard trembled, the massive door opened and we were ushered into an ocean of sunlight. In a large piazza 1500 feet square, glis- tening in indescribable splendor was the Mosque of Omar, after Mecca, the holiest spot on earth for the Moslims. The square is closed on the South and East by the old crenelated wall bordered by large, vener- able, eternal cypress trees. Slippered priests and devout sons of the Prophet were per- forming their ablutions, washing their feet, hands and faces at the fountains before prostrating themselves to Allah. Students were reciting in chorus, after a white beard- ed priest, passages from the Koran. They were learning their lesson as Christ when a boy did, by repeating from a book until learned by heart. It’s the method of the Orient. Mothers seated in the shade of the tombs of their celebrated sheiks and dervishes were feeding their babies while listening to the splashing of the water in the large, public fountains. Big fat, strut- ting pigeons were displaying their beauti- ful plumage among the little domes and tombs. It was a relief, a pleasure to be here in the sunlight of Heaven, away from the cold, creepy shadows of the dark, dank, mouldy crypts, the awful, oppressive sadness that hovers over the church of the Holy Sepul- chre. The Mosque of Omar, with its rare mosaic windows and ancient columns, commands attention, apart from its being one of the finest mosques in the world, be- cause it stands on the site of Solomon’s Temple. Rich carpets are spread over the floors and we had to put off our shoes, or cover them with loose slippers that are provided. Here in the centre of the mosque, enclosed by a wooden railing, rises a primeval rock. This is the ancient rock of the sacrifice of the Holy of Holies, of Abraham and Isaac. Here David erected an altar and Solomon his Temple. On the rock itself is shown the foot print of Jesus; another part bears the thumb mark of Mahomet! A slab in the stone floor is ornamented with silver nails, of which only three re- main. The legend runs that the devil has secured the others and when he gets the last, the world will come to an end. On the extensive level of the Temple area is another Mosque, El Aksa, of more recent date. Two columns standing near together are seen to be much worn on the inner sides. A tradition became prevalent, in the good old times, that whoever could pass between these columns would be sure of heaven, and so many forced themselves through that the solid stone was being rub- bed away. To prevent this an iron guard has been fixed so as to effectually prevent any more trials of faith, in this gymnastic fashion. All the treasures of the Orient crystal, enamel; porcelain, white and blue ar- abesques interlaced, intermingled have been lavished upon the Mosque of Omar, and the traveler will never forget the im- pression that its beauty and richness, the lavishness of the gilding and precious stones, of marble and mosaic make upon him. It is worth a year of any man’s life to have seen it. It would take the facile pen of J. Hamp- ton Moore, the prismatic word gilding of James Rankin Young and the rich sunset flushed vocabulary of Jimmy Pollock fused into one to make a description of it. An old, witbered sheik raised a hue and cry which alarmed everybody. Did he see the vision of the ladder, let down from heaven, on which Mahomet climbed to the seventh heaven into the presence of God? No. Dr. Shoemaker was walking on the sacred carpet without slippers on. Prof- anation which cost several metalliks in backschich! Icame away with regret, I would like to have spent a week there. As I looked on the magnificent dome which swells and flames like gold in the light, the muezzin on the tower cried out; Allah! is great! There is but one Allah! Come to Allah! There wereso many Germans in the Holy city that you could almost imagine yourself in Frankfort or Munich. In fact Palestine is fast being converted into a German an- nex. I like the Germans and admire their language and literature and so I fraternize with them very easily. One day we were wetting our whistles at Fasts, in the shadow of David’s tower. A number of Germans made an interested circle around the bishop’s black hat and the doctor’s green monocle, (his veil had gone, alas, to help fill the Tyropean valley), and when some enthusiastic Tudesques started up a student’s song such as ‘‘Die Lorelei; or “Ich weisz nicht was soll es bedeuten,;’ or ‘‘Die Wacht am Rhein,” or, perchance, in a more serious strain, ‘‘Nun danket alle Gott; or, *‘Ein fester Burg ist unser Gott,’ we all joined in the universal chorus. Something akin to that ‘peace on earth good will to men” reigned. I believe that choral songs are the connecting link be- tween patriotism and religion, and that the spruchwort, ‘‘Bose Menchen haben keine Lieder, ”’ is the terse enunciation of a great psychological truth. Who ever heard of a pickpocket singing at his work? Inspired by the music, the Hofbraem and the fragrance of Frankfurter wurst, limburger, tobacco fumes, coffee and hot onions intermingled in dithyrambic con- fusion and an ever crescendo racket of con- servation, the air was indeed Bohemian. In the midst of this feast of patriotism and flow of beer, some one announced that a street sprinkler was coming down Zion street. Then we knew something unusual was going to happen. An Arab with a pig skin, full of water, thrown over his should- ers, around his neck, was deftly directing a stream of water from one of its paws laying the dust, so to speak, which the Sanhe- drim had kicked up some two thousand years ago. Kaiser William had been keeping his movements very secret. We heard a blast of discordant trumpets, (and thought of Jericho), the music of the Kaiser’s Marine band coming through the Jaffa gate, and soon the Kaiser looking solemn and op- pressed, dressed like the Crusaders, in white, superbly mounted, came in sight. The French turned pale green with sheer envy; the Turks yelled Tschok jascha, the Germans Hoch! The kaiser dismounted in the open space in front of David’s tower and went on foot to dedicate La Dormitien de la Vierge, a description of which func- tion I purposely omit. The band was playing exultingly, deaf- eningly. A German is a conscientious man. Whatever pressure to the square inch the trumpet, trombone or cornet, as the case may be, is calculated to ke capable of sus- taining, without permanent injury, that pressure the German bandsman gives. There was a saxophone in the band, how- ever, who exceeded the limit, and who was pushing out of his instrament bass wails enough to make David, an adept in coun- terpoint, over there at Dormitien, turn in his grave. Some man exclaimed ‘‘I’ll kill that sax- ophone if I leave my marrow bones in the valley of Jehosaphat,’’ he made a break for him. But the cordon of Turkish, German and Arab police was too strong for him, you can’t argue with a bludgeon, and so was saved from himself. One day we had been to Bethlehem to see the cradle of Christ and the pretty girls. One gets tired looking at the women in Jerusalem, they look like a white bundle tied with a cord in the middle, and when veiled a man would not be able to recognize his wife if he met her in the street. We were jolting along through the coun- try where Abraham had his cattle on a thousand and one hills, and David func- tioned as a shepherd boy. ‘‘The little birds were singing drowsy day to rest,”’ and our antediluvian, epileptic, apocalyptic carriage was rolling like a ship ina storm. “Cabby,” taking us for Germans, had fastened on his whip sausages for a cracker! I was afraid a wheel might suddenly run off in the fields where Ruth gleaned in the field of Boaz, or collide against the tomb of Rachel, or bring us in too close contact with trains of camels and asses, pilgrims of all sorts, and crowds of armed natives, in picturesque, dirty attire, which we were continually meeting. The guide showed us the very spot where Boaz treated Ruth to parched (pop) corn. We had had a serio-comic adventure in Bethlehem and we chatted about that. One of the plagues of Palestine, after the *‘tlies of Israel is the touts who persistent- ly follow visitors, and harass them beyond all patience. We had entered the Church of the Nativity, had gone by the Turkish soldier in the middle of the church, armed with a rifle, we had visited the Grotto and the Manger where Mary put the baby Jesus to sleep, continually followed by the touts, who utterly prevented our understanding and enjoying what we saw. We were look- ing at the star. and the inscription Hic de virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est, when one of them, more impudent than the oth- ers, made a remark which roused the ire of the Bishop Like a wild man the Bishop gave him a resounding kick in the hinterland of his medulla ob- longata that sent him away howling. I ‘“‘raised his Ebenezer’’ for him said the Bishop, somewhat appeased by his swift revenge. The Turkish guard seeing the affray thought it was a doctrinal, religious quarrel and so he put us all out at the point of the bayonet! We visited the establishment of sir Moses Montefiore, Rothschild and other homes for the indigent Jews, where they are fed, clothed, housed doctored, washed, dressed, shaved, and finally buried in holy ground in the valley of Jehosaphat ——gratis. Judging from what I saw of the cuisine and menu, the inmates have splendid opportunities for high thinking. Returning, a wailing, half blind hag, by the way side, wanted to sell the doctor the withered tooth of some saint or prophet, guaranteed to ward off mishaps! But the doctor was skeptical,didn’t believe it would be good for what ailed him and he told her to go to——Jericho. In our walks around Jerusalem, we were shown an ancient Moslim, with both feet in the grave and a nose that would give Cyrano’s odds. He has five wives, one of whom is only fourteen. The Turks do with their old wives as we do with our money--change a 50 for two 258, or two 158 and a 20. Allah! is great! but one tires of gas- tronomic flirtations with the boiled onions and filet de Capri of the New hotel. I took my last walk through the streets which remain the same as when trodden by the sandaled feet of our Saviour, the iniquitous Sanhedrim and Pilate’s soldiers. I saw again the contending religious sects in the church of the Holy Sepulchre, wa- ging a war as relentless as when burning sorceresses, drowning witches and tortur- ing Jews was practiced in the name of Christ. I saw for the last time the garderr of Gethsemane and the Mount of Olives peaceful, fair and radiant in the sunshine, beyond them the glitter and sheen of the Dead sea; I searched the horizon over there to the South and East, beyond the mount- ains of Moab, where are Arabia, the Euphrates and Menelik and a city called Philadelphia, which existed before Christ was born. : Sitting together, Dr. Shoemaker, the Bishop and I, on the fragments of tombs, in the intense silence of the valley of Dry Bones, musing about those who had peo- pled this scene in past ages, and the stu- pendous scenes enacted here from the time of Moses, Saul, David, Solomon, Herod and the rest of those notorious old free- booters, free lovers, polygamists and pi- rates;—wondering when Gabriel blows his horn, how many will be invited to take the road to the left. The little Bishop took off his hat, with both hands, and deposed it on an adjacent tomb. Then he embraced and kissed Dr. Shoemaker, saying, Dominus Nobiscum and thus ended the meeting. MAJor W. H. HASTINGS. Those Fine Old Indian Names. The State of Washington would be known to fame for its names if not for its mines, mountains, farms, fruits and harbors. The Legislature is now petitioned to change the name of Gilman, King county, to Issequah. That is a pretty good attempt at something unusual, but it will have to fight for fame along with Snoqualmie, Snohomish, Sko- komish, Steilacoom, Squak, Skagit, Sko- okumchuck and Tumwater. Engineer Killed. A disastrous head-on collision occurred at Lewistown Saturday night. A freight train from Sunbury crashed into a shifting engine at the north end of the Juniata river bridge. Engineer Wertz, of the freight train, received injuries which caused his death. Fireman Cupper jumped to the side of a high abutment and snow below saved him from injury. ; ——It is recalled that General Miles is not the only commander of the Army who has been called a liar by a subordinate. Ninety years ago General Winfield Scott, who was then a captain in the army, was tried by court-martial for having said at a public table that he never saw but two traitors—Generals Wilkinson and Burr— and that Gen. Wilkinson was a liar and a scoundrel. He was found guilty, and was . suspended for a year, notwithstanding the fact that his utterance turned out to be true. ——%I thought you were going to turn over a new leaf, John,’’ she said. “I was,” he replied, ‘but I find I can’t.” “Why not?”’ “There won’t be any new leaves until spring.”’
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers