Dewscralic; Watchman
Bellefonte, Pa., April 14, 1899.
r——
WHICHEVER WAY.
s———
Whichever way the wind doth blow
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.
My little craft sails not alone ;
A thousand fleets from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;
And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another, with the shock
Of doom, upon some hidden rock ;
And so I do not dare to pray
For winds that waft me on my way,
But leave it to a Higher Will
To stay or speed me—trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Thro’ storm and calm and will not fail
Whatever breezes may prevail,
To land me—every peril past—
Within His sheltering haven at last.
Then whatever wind doth blow
Some heart is glad to have it so;
And blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is Dest ;
—Sel.
STORY BY THE JUDGE!
While several of the old court bhenchers
were in the county court house in New
York city, the other day, discussing a fa-
mous poisoning case, the one called judge
inquired: ‘‘Should a lawyer defend a man
charged with murder when he knows the
man to be guilty?”’ This question led to
an animated discussion, which, after some
two hours, was brought to an end by the
judge suddenly exclaiming: ‘Do you see
that man?”
The benchers turned their faces in the
direction indicated by the speaker just in
time to see a tall, lank man in shabby at-
tire leave the building.
Before a word was spoken hy any of the
curious benchers the judge said, as though
musiog to himself, though in a tone loud
enough for the others to hear:
‘‘Strange that I should see that man just
at this moment and when we were discuss-
ing a question that he could have answered.
His life, like mine, has been a failure, but
thank God! my regrets, though many,
can never be as bitter as his are. He
ruined his career as a lawyer by defending
a man who had confessed that he was
guilty of murder.”
‘“Tell us the story,” exclaimed the one
known as the proctor.
‘‘He was ruined,’ began the judge, ‘by
his ambition.”
‘‘Ambition,”” suggested the solicitor,
with a genial smile on his kindly, clean-
shaven face, ‘‘is responsible for much good
and much evil. It is ambition that has
made wrecks, legal driftwood of many of
us. We have dreamed of great deeds in
our profession, we have builded fairy cas-
tles in the air, while others have hy hard
work succeeded. I for one—’
‘‘The story! the story!” exclaimed sev-
eral of the henchers.
The judge, thus urged, told his story:
‘‘Some 50 years ago it was that I entered
the small courthouse in a small town in
the western section of New York. Court
was in session, and the hush that had fall-
en upon the crowd in the room was oppres-
sive. Nothing was heard at that time but
the ticking of the clock and the breathing
of the spectators. The presiding judge was
looking up some legal question iu the law
books before him. The rapt attention of
the jurors and the eagerness of the counsel
caused me to realize that a trial of more
than ordinary interest and importance was
in progress. I asked a bystander what the
cause on trial was. He gazed at mein
surprise for a moment and then exclaimed,
“You must be a stranger in these parts?’
“Iam,” I replied. “I have just come
here from New York city to file a com-
plaint in an action of ejectment.’’
‘‘This,”” replied my informant, ‘‘is a
murder trial, and there, he pointed in the
direction I was to look, ‘is the man who
will certainly hang.’’
‘‘I looked at the prisoner at the bar. He
was a good looking young fellow of about
25 years of age. There was something in
the expression of his pale face that con-
vinced me of his guilt.
“While the trial judge turned over page
after page of the law hooks I learned the
details of the crime.
“I learned that in his house on the out-
skirts of the town, one morning two
months before the day of the trial, John
Peterkin, a wealthy old man who had been
it was said, in the habit of keeping large
sume of money in his house, was found
murdered, shot in the back. The mur-
dered man had been seated when he was
shot, for his chair was overturned just as
he had fallen from it. Peterkin, who was
about 67 years old, lived alone with his
niece, a pretty girl about 18 years old.
She it was who discovered the murder.
When she had sufficiently recovered from
her alarm, the niece, Mary Peterkin,
aroused the neighbors.
‘‘At first it was thought that the motive
of the crime had been robbery, but when
the police discovered that the safe, the door
of which was unlocked and balfway open,
contained $1,750 and tbat the old man’s
watch had not been taken, that theory had
to be abandoned. For several days the
case was a mystery. Then it came to the
knowledge of the chief of police that Has-
dall Renidder, the only son of a widow,
whose father had been postmaster of the
little town, had been seen around the
house and bad spoken unkindly of old Pet-
erkin, Renidder was arrested.
“When I had learned this much,’’ said
the judge, ‘‘the trial judge, whom
we will call Blank, looked up from the
legal books and said: ‘‘I will admit the
testimony objected to.’
“While Judge Blank was reviewing the
law questions I looked at Mary Peterkin.
She was seated in the rear of the 2ourtroom
and was an exceedingly pretty young
woman, the pallor of her refined face il-
lumined by large blue eyes. She was in
deep mourning, which but enhanced her
beauty.
“Proceed,” exclaimed Judge Blank.
*‘The witness on the stand—a police of-
ficer—then testified that he had found a
small revolver with an ivory handle in
some bushes just outside of the window of
the room where the crime had heen com-
mitted.
‘“Were there any marks on that re-
volver ?’’ asked Horace Dash, counsel for
the prisoner—the man I just pointed out
to you.
‘Yes,’ replied the witness.
“What were the marks ?”’
‘The initials M. P.,”" replied the wit-
ness.
‘Did you ascertain who owned that pis-
tol 2’? asked Lawyer Dash.
‘‘Yes—Mary Peterkin."’
‘‘An exclamation of surprise went
around that little courtroom. Mary Peter-
kin started up in bewilderment and then
fell back into her chair.
‘‘Silence in the courtroom!’ exclaimed
Judge Blank. :
“With a face paler than that of either
the prisoner or the niece of the murdered
man, Lawyer Horace Dash, counsel for the
prisoner, said to the witness, ‘Step down.’
The next witness called was a woman
who had formerly been employed by old
Peterkin as a housekeeper. She was ex-
ceedingly nervous, and her voice trembled
when she swore to tell the truth. There
was a malignan#é expression on the face of
the counsel for the prisoner when he asked
the witness:
‘Do you know Mary Peterkin 2’
“I do,” was the reply.
‘‘She is the niece of the murdered man?’
‘She is,” replied the woman in a whis-
er.
P ‘You once lived with the dead man and
his niece ?’’
“I did.”
Did uncle and niece ever quarrel ?”’
“Must I answer that?’ asked the old
woman, turning to Judge Blank.
“You must,”’ sternly replied the judge.
‘“‘Yes. They quarreled,’”’” faltered the
witness.
“What about?’’ asked the counsel for
the prisoner.
‘‘She—Mary—wanted to marry a man
her uncle did not approve of.”
“All eves were turned toward Mary
Peterkin, who with an expression of horror
on her face, sat crouched up in her chair.
Everyone in that courtroom seemed to
realize that the testimony already adduced
against the prisoner at the bar was as
nothing compared with that just brought
out against the girl. The prisoner at the
bar was pale and trembling and, I thought
an object of abject misery. Then the
thought flashed across my mind that he
might be innocent. It was evident that
Lawyer Dash was struggling with himself
when he asked the next question.
“Did you ever hear Miss Peterkin
threaten her uncle 2’
‘I heard her say once that she wished he
was dead,’’ replied the witness.
“With a moan of anguish Mary Peter-
kin fainted. The prisoner started forward
and, despite the efforts of the bailiffs
to restrain him, exclaimed:
‘This is a shame. I am guilty, and that
man—pointing his finger at Lawyer Hor-
ace Dash—knows that I am.” :
“What does this mean ?’’ asked Judge
Blank, addressing the prisoner's counsel,
who was leaning on the table and seemed
about to faint.
“I don’t know, your honor,’ replied the
lawyer, who was seen to press his hand to
his heart.
“Let the trial proceed,” said Judge
Blank, ‘‘and don’t let that woman,” indi-
cating Mary Peterkin, ‘‘leave this room.’
‘Stop!’ exclaimed the prisoner. ‘I
withdraw my plea of not guilty. I am
guilty.”
‘For a moment silence, oppressive si-
lence, reigned supreme. Finally the judge
said: “Do you appreciate your position ?
That I can pass sentence of death on you?”
“I do,” replied the prisoner, with a de-
fiant look at his counsel, “but I would
like to say a few words.”’
‘‘Proceed, sir,’’ said Judge Blank.
*‘I committed the crime, your honor, but
not from desire for gain. It was done in a
moment of anger, just anger, and for the
sake of my dear old mother. Years ago
my mother, so that she might pay some
debts I contracted while in college, mort-
gaged her farm—the home where she was
born, the home that she went to as a happy
wife, the home where I was born—to old
Peterkin. Each year since then she paid
him usurious interest. Finally there came
a day when he would not renew the mort-
gage. That was the day I killed him. I
pleaded with him, but in vain. He insist-
ed he would foreclose the mortgage. He
called my mother a vile name. I saw the
revolver on his desk, picked it up and
aimed at him. He wheeled around in his
chair toward his desk, and the bullet en-
tered his back.”
{While he was telling this story the
prisoner several times pressed his
hand to his left side and moaned as if in
pain.
‘‘Have you anything else to say ?'’ asked
Judge Blank.
“Yes. I want to say,’”’ explained the
prisoner in gasping tones, ‘‘that after I had
retained that lawyer’’—pointing to Horace
Dash—*“I told him I was guilty; that I
wanted to plead guilty. He forbade my
doing so—said it was a splendid case. He
would acquit me and cover himself with
glory. He said he would ask no fee. I
urged that I was guilty, but he said he
could clear me. I consented to the plea of
not guilty.”
‘‘Again the prisoner placed his hand to
his heart and with an effort said: “I could
not save my life at the expense of an inno-
cent person, and that person a woman. I
am guilty.”
‘‘He sank back into a chair, and Judge
Blank turned to Horace Dash, the pris-
oner’s counsel and asked:
“What have you to say for yourself ?'’
“l1did my duty—my plain duty,’ said
the lawyer. ‘‘As I understand it, it isa
lawyer’s duty to defend his client and to
acquit him as best he can——’
“Not at the expense of an innocent per-
gson,’’ remarked Judge Blank.
‘I maintain it is,”’ replied the lawyer.
‘‘Although a prisoner may confess guilt he
may be innocent. He might be insane
when he confessed. He might be actuated
by a desire tosave, at the expense of his
life, a guilty person. He might—"?
“I am guilty 1” shouted the prisoner.
“Idid it. I did it.
‘‘He fell backward on the counsel’s table
gasped and after a few convulsive move-
ments, attempted to rise, fell back, twisted
half around, and his soul passed to a higher
tribunal. Judge Blank, after ascertaining
that the prisoner at the bar was dead, said:
*‘I accept his plea of guilty.”
The teller of this story then added: ‘“The
man who so strangely passed before me to-
day was the prisoner's lawyer. He never
prospered at the har. His career was
ruined with the case which he hoped
would earn him fame.”’—L. C. P. in New
York Evening Sun.
Lorca?
——1In Forest county there is a 2 year
old child with a 16 year old mother, a
grand mother who is 34 years old, great-
grand parents who are 60 and 59 years old
respectively, and great-great grand parents
who are 93 and 74 years old respectively.
The child mentioned is the daughter of Mr.
and Mrs. Michael Eminger and lives near
Marionville. The grandmother’s name is
Mrs. Estella Silvis.
—!Can you tell me what kind of
weather we may expect to find next month?’
wrote a subscriber to the editor of a paper,
and the editor replied as follows: ‘It is my
belief that the weather next month will be
very much like your subscription.’ The
inquirer wondered for an hour what the
editor was driving at, when he happened
to think of the word ‘unsettled.’ He sent
the required amount the next day.
—_—— EEE
A Cruise in the West Indian Islands.
1!
The illness of ex-Secretary of the State
John Sherman on the American liner Paris,
which was making a cruise among the West
Indies, has attracted the attention of the
entire country to the progress of the vessel.
The Paris cleared March 4th from New York
for a voyage to the West Indies. The plan
of the steamship company had been to give
its patrons a cruise to and among those
islands which the late war had brought to
public attention and interest. Their mag-
nificent steamer served, less than a year
ago, as one of the swift auxiliary cruising
scouts of the government, and it was justly
thought that the voyage would be of pecul-
iar interest on that account.
She carried many first-class passengers
and for two days and nights steamed south
from Sandy Hook, on her holiday trip.
And with the delightfully speeding hours
the wind grew balmier, and the sea bluer,
and the pale grays and far, faint skies of
the north gave place to the wonderful col-
orific luminosities of the Antillies, and
then, on the third day, the huge mountain-
ous bulk of Hayti lifted itself out of the tur-
quoise sea. Mole St. Nicholas was sighted.
This is the cable telegraph station where
the auxiliary cruisers so often called to take
or receive the dispatches passing between
the admirals of our fleets and the Navy de-
partment, in those days when the country
was in a fever heat of expectancy.
The magnificent steamer made no stop
here, but kept her course, to drop anchor
next day in the harbor of San Juan de
Porto Rico, where Gen. Miles landed his
troops to commence his northward march
across the fertile island, now sleeping so
peacefully under the stars and stripes.
For thirty-eight hours the ocean grey-
hound rested here, while her passengers
visited the quaint town and its envi-
rons, and then, speeding southward,
touched at Danish St. Thomas, once the
most prosperous of the Windward Islands,
now lying half ruined and prostrate, but
still as beautiful as when sugar was king,
and she the centre of a huge trade and
shipping.
Charlotte Amalie, the only town on the
island of St. Thomas, is a pretty place,
with an almost entirely land-locked harbor.
It has paved streets, and low, neat, houses,
and about one-tenth of its population of
12,000 is white. All wear cotton suitings,
and broad-brimmed straw hats. The
island lies steep in that ineffable blue
which Rico loves to give his Venetian pic-
tures. Luxuriant foliage climbs its mount-
ain heights.
Capt. Mahan thinks this island has im-
mense strategic importance, and on two
separate occasions the United State govern-
ment came near purchasing it for a naval
base. It belongs to Denmark now. I met
a kind old English merchant here, who
talked to me of the island’s changeful for-
tunes. Years ago, when slavery prevailed
and sugar was the best paying staple raised
the world over. St. Thomas was very
wealthy. Its trade at the beginning of the
century was greater than that.of New York
at that time. Now, it costs Denmark
$150,000 a year. She would like to be rid
of it. Indeed, all the Lesser Antilles are
an expense to the home governments, ex-
cept some of the British isles. Yet, in the
past, many of the now well-nigh worthless
plantations yielded a crop that sold for
$500,000. Think of the ruin this change
has wrought! Magnificent country places
and palatial homes abandoned, gardens
choked with rank tropical growths, cane
fields run to waste, fruit groves strangled
by the huge, creering, twining vfnes, walls
overturned, everything crumbling. The
story is much the same in many of ‘these
islands. :
Just as in our South they used to talk,
and still do, of ‘‘befo’’ the ‘““wah,’’ so here
they talk of ‘‘when sugar was selling at
52." How much sugar was sold and what
money 52 refers to, I don’t know.
But the Lesser Antilles are none the less
beautiful te the tourist, for all the ruin.
There is still the matchless color; still the
magnificent forests; still the wrinkled up-
heavals, the groves of broad-leaved bananas,
the slopes of feathery bamboo, the drooping
palms, and the ruins of man’s work seem,
somehow, strangely fitting.
The population of most of the islands is
very dense. Martinique is said to have
more people to the square mile than Belgi-
um, and Barbados more than China.
Southward stil, to the English Barba-
dos, now the busiest, and with Bridgetown,
its capital, so full of modern sights and
buildings, seeming the least exotic and to
me the least interesting of this beautiful
chain of islands.
Southward yet, to old Trinidad, with its
mixed population of English, French and
Spanish, Creoles, negroes of every tint,
Hindoos and Chinese .coolies; and then,
after lying here the length of a day, the
great ship hurried northward and at last,
eleven days out from New York, touched
at that fairest and most fascinating bit of
earth, that island Paradise, affectionately
called, because of its resistless fascination
for those who have lived there, ‘‘the land
of the comer back’’—Martinique.
II.
The Leeward and Windward Islands are
but the higher levels of a submarine
Greater Antillies to the South American
coast—great, wrinkled upheavals, often
with the narrowest coast lines. Sometimes
the slopes are barren, but even then the
brilliant light of the blinding tropical sun
often breaks upon them through an atmos-
phere so humid that, to the sea-voyager,
looking across violet water, they are witch-
eries of colorific radiance. Often the hlaz-
ing greens of the tropical woods cover vast
spaces and everywhere tall, drowsy palms
lift their spreading heads. The little towns
of low buildings, with red and yellow
roofs, and tinted walls, frequently seem to
be clinging precariously to the mountain
declivities. From the vessel’s deck they
appear more beautiful than any fancy can
conceive. Colors of sea and sky, forest and
peak surpass language—surpass the dreams
of any who have not voyaged among the
islands of a tropical sea.
Approaching Martinique from the south,
the island lifts on the purple horizon to the
northeast, like a vapory cloud; then, as we
race on, streakings of ghost blue appear
where valleys are; then dim green outlines
shape themselves, and suddenly the strong
contour of the mountain island, shimmer-
ing, million-tinted, is before us, the peak
‘of Montange Pelee, with its aureole of
cloud, dominating all.
Martinique is a French possession, and
as it is the largest and most picturesque of
of the Leeward and Windward islands, one
cannot refrain from lingering over its
charms. It typifies best the matchless
loveliness of its sister island, and is far the
fairest of all. Its inhabitants, too, are, to
the casual observer, at least, superior to
the people of the rest of the archipelago—
handsome, obliging, and outwardly cour-
teous.
III.
Northward hound, one sights first Fort
de France, the capital of the island, and then
mountain chain, which sweeps from the.
after a brief stop, on to St. Pierre, but fif-
teen knots away—heyond doubt the most
fascinating, the quaintest of all West In-
dian towns. The harbors of nearly all the
islands are crossed with bars, and hide
dangerous reefs. At St. Pierre, as else-
where, the ship lies at anchor a long dis-
tance from the beach. The city looks as
though it might slip into the sea, so steep
is its site. Above and around, the high
slopes are clothed with the dense, shimmer-
ing, luxurious tropical growths. Cocoa
palms shoot up above the roofs, some high-
er, even, than the towers of the cathedral,
and so dizzy the angle of streets that climb
from the harbor, that some one ventured
the fear that a sneeze might tumble him
into the sea.
Here, as in the other island ports, a fleet
of tiny boats soon swarms around the ship,
in which sit naked boys, of every color
from black to the tint of ripe bananas, to
dive for coins that passengers throw into
the water. Wonderful swimmers and div-
ers these little colored boys are. They sel-
dom fail to bring the coins to the surface.
We are soon on shore in this most en-
chanting of West Indian cities. Narrow
streets are bordered by low houses, of grey
stone, or brick and stucco, with tinted,
thick walls, and windows without glass.
The walks, even in the principal streets,
are scarcely two feet wide. Mounting from
the shore, the acclivity is so great that
steps are cut every little way, and even the
thoroughfares, running across the steeper
streets, are not level, but billow away in
either direction.
The population is of all shades. A white
face is a rarity. One hears only the music-
al French patois spoken and the costumes
of the women are often scanty—a Madras
handkerchief about the head, and a simple,
loosely-flowing gown of wrimson, yellow,
purple, blue or green.
Some of the girls are remarkabl y pretty.
Many of them are bearing burdens of some
sort on their heads, and all walk as one
fancies princesses should. Some of them
wear costly jewelry of Oriental pattern.
What eyes! What sinewy grace.
Naked little boys play here and there in
the streets.
Powerful, muscular forms the colored
men and blacks bave. It is said that four
or five of them will carry a grand piano on
their heads—the usual way of bearing bur-
dens. Women coal the ocean steamers,
with baskets so carried, and young girl ped-
dlers, with trays upon their heads, climb
the steep streets, and even walk the mount-
ain roads into the interior, bearing often
fifty pounds, a distance of twenty or thirty
miles in a day.
Streams of bright running water flow in
gutters along the streets, adding to the
cleanliness and salubrity of the town, and
keeping it—so it is said—absolutely free
from the pest of mosquitoes. At these cold
streams the poorer classes may be seen
making their morning ablutions, some-
times forgetful of circumspect modesty.
Bits of artistic, quaint architecture are
seen, and every little while, a fountain for
public drinking. In some quarters of the
town you will find little angles filled with
palms, where you may loiter and rest.
How foreign everything is! The shops
are small, but bright and attractive, and
drinking places abound, yet there is little
drunkenness. The few whites wear white
duck, or cream colored linen suits, and
Panama hats. The weather here in March
is like August at home.
Where there are so few whites (less than
five per centum, and the proportion grow-
ing less and less with years, ) the merchants
and public officers are mostly colored gen-
tlemen—courteous and intelligent, too,
those we met. Cheerful and polite, also,
this fine race of blacks seemed. But be-
tween the colored element, and the unmix-
ed negro citizens, the social lines are strict-
ly drawn.
Miscegenation has always been the rule
in the French colonies, and by the natural
selection of the fairest among the female
offspring of such unions, a class has arisen,
very fascinating—from the purely physical
point of view. The state of morals in Mar-
tinique is not edifying. Official returns
show as high as 80 per cent. of the births
to be illegitimate.
There is much superstition among the
colored and black populations. Crosses,
shrines and chapels are scattered every-
where along the mountain roads, and on
the - heights overlooking the city there
stands a statue of the Blessed Virgin, of
heroic size, with white robes—the impos-
ing, protecting guardian of this charming
city of the tropic steeps.
In the markets, busy and interesting
places, there are piles of tropical fruits—
oranges, mangoes, marmin, guava, tama-
rind, custard apple, grancedilla, figs, dates,
bananas, saprodilla—and the list runs on
past recollection. Many of them are most
delicious. And there are as many varieties
of fish brought in from the harbor every
morning—fish of every size and color, but
not to be compared with fish of northern
waters for edible qualities.
The city washing seems to be done in a
mountain stream, shallow, but rapid, that
rans through the city. Here the black
blanchiseusses stand, with naked limbs,
beating linen upon the rocks from morning
till night—a most novel and picturesque
sight.
There is a club, and a large handsome
theatre, and there are not afew pretentious
and elegant houses high up the mountain
slopes. The Creoles live here, much as
elsewhere in the tropics. A glass of some
stimulant on arising, breakfast at about
11—the mid-day siesta—dinner at night-
all, This seems to be the rale.— Pittsburg
0st.
Olives in History.
When the dove flew out from the ark it
brought back to Noah an olive leaf. When
King Solomon was settling accounts with
the workmen who built his temple he gave
160,000 gallons of olive oil as wages.
In Southern Europe for hundreds of years
the olive groves have been the fortunes of
their owners. ' It is said the gnarled and
knotted olives trees in Gethsemane are the
same trees under whose branches Christ
prayed. It is said Italy’s olive crop is
worth $125,000,000 a year.
In one year an olive tree will yield 190
gallons of olives and they sell from 50 to
75 cents a gallon. A young tree gives $5
profit a year, and in California, where the
olive tree has been transplanted, it begins
to yield fruit much sooner than in its origi-
nal home. One county in California has a
grove of 200,000 trees.
Names for Battleships and Cruisers.
The President has selected the following
names for three new battleships and three
new armored cruisers:
Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Georgia,
West Virginia, Nebraska and California.
The six new cruisers will be named Den-
ver, Des Moines, Chattanooga, Galveston,
Tacoma and Cleveland.
——You ought to take the WATCHMAN
A Matter of Encouragement.
The Widow Said She Was Willing to Meet them
Half Way.
It was a balmy day in the springtime,
with the buds bursting into bloom and the
bluebirds bursting into song, as I rode
down off of a spur of the Cumberland
mountains and stopped at the gate of a
hewed log farmhouse, much better than its
congeners of the mountains. A good look-
ing woman was bending over a bed of flow-
ers in the front yard, and to her I addressed
myself.
“Good morning,’’ I said, “Will you be
kind enough to tell me how far it is to
Hill’s store?’
“Two mile, er sich a matter,’’ she re-
plied as she moved down toward the gate
and me.
“Is it a straight road?’’
“No, it ain’t. It’s crookeder nera dog’s
hind laig, but you can’t git offen it unless
you foller some pig path er other.’
I thanked her and was about to pass on
when she stopped me.
‘‘Are you goin’ right thar from here?’
she asked.
“I am if I can get there.’’
“Well, mebbe tain’t jist perlite to ax a
stranger, but I’d be powerful obliged to
you ef you’d do an errant for me down
thar.” :
“I'm sure I'll be only to glad to serve a
lady,” I responded, with my equestrian
bow.
‘‘Hold on a minute,”” she added and
went into the house, to return very short-
ly.
‘‘Here’s a bundle I wisht you'd give to
the storekeeper,’’ she said, handing me
what seemed to be a roll of dry goods of
some sort.
I was too polite to ask her any questions
but I must have looked one, for she pro-
ceeded to explain.
‘‘You see,”’ she went on, “I told him
t’other day when I was down that when
his new goods come he was to send me a
pattern uf somethin’ I’d like, an’ he sent
me that. It’s black goods, fer I am a wid-
der, but it ain’t what I want. My old
man has been dead for 14 months an’ Sam
Mathers has been coming to see me for the
last six weeks, and Sam says that mournin’
ain’t so almighty incouragin’ to a courtin’
man ez it might be, an’ I ought to wear
somethin’ else.’
‘Oh,’ I laughed, ‘“‘you want to encour-
age Mr. Mathers, do you?”
‘*No, not pertic’ler, Sam, she hesitated
and blushed and smiled,” hut thar’s a few
other likely one’s that seems to be a-hang-
in’ back an’ I thought ef I could git some-
thin’ kinder mournin’ sorter betwixt an’
between, with a yaller posy in it er a pink
speck, mebbe it would be a kind uv a sign
that I wuz willin’ to meet em half way.
In course,” she added apologetically, “I
ain’t in no hurry, but thar ain’t no use
puttin’ things off, is thar?’’ and I hastened
to assure her there was not.
Why the Klondike Became Famous.
Among the first to hear of the strike were
four men who came from above—Dan Me-
‘Gilvray, Dave McKay, Dave Edwards, and
Harry Waugh—and they located Nos. 3,
14, 15, aud 16 below Discovery. These
men did the first sluicing that was done on
the creek, and they made the first clean up
with five boxes set. The figures are lack-
ing for their first shovelling, but on the sec-
ond they cleaned up thirteen and a half
ounces of gold ($329.50). being five hours’
work of one man shovelling. The gold
varied from the size of pin heads to nug-
gets, one of $12 being found. Now the
Klondike magnifier began his work with
this curious result, that the lies of to-day
were surpassed by the truth of to-morrow,
uatil it came to be accepted that. ‘‘You
can’t tell no lies about Klondike.’’ Me-
Gilvray and the rest had perhaps fifteen
hundred dollars, surely a large sum in that
country and for the time they had worked.
Ladue weighed the gold, and as he came
out of the store he said to some assembled
miners, ‘“How’s that for two and a half
days’ shovelling in—$4008?"’ Next time it
was an even $4000, two days’ shovelling.
The liability to exaggeration about a min-
ing camp is so great that itis impossible
for any one to escape who writes or speaks
in the midst of affairs concerning any specific
find. A man with a town site must also
be allowed a great deal of latitude in such
matters. But soon the joke was on the
other side.
There were a few old-timers in the pro-
cession up from Forty Mile. They knew
all about Klondike. It was nothing but a
moose pasture. It was not like some other
place where they had seen gold, and so
there could be none there. They climbed
the hills and walked along the divide until
they could look down into the valley of
Bonanza. Here many of them stopped and
threw up their hands in disgust. Others
went the round of the creek, cursing and
swearing at those who told them to come
there. One old-timer got up as far as 20
above, where the last stakes were. He sur-
veyed the prospect, and as he turned away
remarked, “I’ll leave it to the Swedes.’
(The Swedes were supposed to be willing
to work the poorest ground.) Another, or
it may have been the same, is said to have
written on the stakes of 21, not the usual
“I claim,” etec., but, “This moose pasture
i8 reserved for the Swedes and Cheechahkoes’
(new-comers). Louis Rhodes staked it
right afterwards. When he had written
his name, he said to his companions, being
ashamed of staking in such a place, that he
‘would cut his name off for two bits’
(twenty-five cents).— Harper's Weekly.
——The losses of our troops in the Phil-
ippines since August 6th are officially re-
ported as follows: Killed in battle and
died of wounds, 214; died of disease, 254.
Total deaths, 468. Wounded, 1,020, or a
total of casualties, 1,489. The Tenth of
Pennsylvania has lost 15 killed in action or
died of wounds and six dead of disease;
twenty-five are reported wounded and one
missing. The usual proportion of wound-
ed to killed is five to one, but the Tenth
bad 15 killed to 25 wounded, while in the
entire army in the Philippines the loss was
214 killed to 1,020 wounded. A corres-
pondent writes:
At present we know thatabout 400 Amer-
ican soldiers have perished in the Phil-
ippines, since fighting with the Spaniards
ended, who would have not died in the
course of nature at home. At the modest
estimate placed upon the money value of
men by our courts this is a loss of $2,000,-
000 in dead soldiers alone. As the total
gross value of Philippine imports from the
United States used to be less than $170,000
a year in time of peace, in how many de-
cades will the natural profits of Philippine
trade, with an open door policy in force,
amount to $2,000,000? In how many cen-
turies can such trade be expected to bal-
ance the other items in the debit account
of imperial America?
——‘‘How did the soprano happen to get
80 mixed up in her Easter solo?’ :
‘I suppose that new hat she had went
to her head.”
Doves of Florence.
Tour ists Feed these Pets in Italy's Beautiful City.—
Women Sell Corn Near the Colonnade Where the
Birds Alight.
I was passing the winter in the city of
Florence. On a Sunday morning as I was
entering the colonnade of the Uffizi Gal-
lery the doves that haunt this classic porch
were collected in two little flocks in the
street, and were being fed with bread from
the hands of the tourists, says Our Animal
Friends. The old pensioner who sells corn
(done up in newspaper cornucopias) looked
on ruefully while the doves contented
themselves with crumbs instead of grain.
To ‘‘treat’’ the doves and to lighten the
spirits of the little old corn merchant by
making her pocket the heavier by a copper
soldo I bought one small package of her
merchandise. Pausing at the entrance of
the colonnade, as I did so, I had not time
even to invert my paper horn-of-plenty be-
fore the benediction of wings fell upon
me.
The blessed birds, with a swift and sweet
susurrus, rose from their mean meal of
crumbs, circled and settled around me and
the prize. Some lighted on the railing;
but as many as could find a foothold there
chose my outstretched arms and hands.
Crowding each other until they made a
feathery shield, they swept down and took
possession. To make an equal division, I
tried to scatter some of the corn for those
below. It was gone almost instantly, and
So too, was another and another paper bag
of grain; and the astonished almoners of
bread saw themselves quite deserted for
the impromptu bounty of Ceres lavished by
my equally astonished self. A little crowd
of Italians—of children and the childlike—
gathered around, glad to have the city’s
pets appreciated, and no less glad, per-
haps, of the pleasure which the forestiere
had in feeding them. I touched with my
face the shield of wings.
One small white dove, tamer than the
rest, lingered on my arm even after all the
corn was exhausted, and did not seem
averse to caresses. Later I was told that
this dove, which had in some way been in-
jured, was a particular pet; and, also, that
my lovely experience might occur to any
one who would invest a soldo in corn for
their benefit when the flock was not sur-
feited with the public’s generosity.
A ———
A 30 Year's Sulk.
Living 10 miles east of Bardstown, Ky.,
is one of the most singular characters in
the State. Now in his 75th year, he has
not touched his foot to the earth for over
30 years. Living in a comfortable resi-
dence, surrounded by many acres of the
best land in Nelson county, he is spending
his declining years in solitude.
Basil Hayden is one of the wealthiest
farmers in a district composed of half a
dozen counties, and he descended from a
family well-known in the pioneer annals of
the State. Many of them have also been
distinguished in the different lines of life,
says the Philadelphia Times.
Basil Hayden, or the ‘‘Hermit,”’ as he is
known throughout the section in which he
lives, in his youth was a social leader and
very popular with a large circle of friends.
When the war broke out he entered the
Confederate army and made a good soldier
to the end. When he returned home he
found his slaves free and his property great-
ly damaged. The emancipation of his
negroes affected him seriously and he brood-
ed over it constantly. He hecame silent
and morose, declining all overtures of
friendliness on the part of his neighbors.
He declared the Lord had dealt harshly
and unjustly with him in depriving him of
his slaves, and out of revenge he uttered a
terrible oath that he never again would put
his foot on the Lord’s ground. And so far
he has kept his vow.
Never since its registration has he ap-
peared without his door, nor will he have
converse with any save two, and then his
words are of the briefest possible character-
His landed interests are extensive, and,
under the management of a competent over-
seer, yield him a handsome income. The
overseer makes his reports to the queer old
man in the darkened retreat, who gives his
directions and orders as tersely as possible.
He has never spoken to a woman in any
manner since his self imposed exile, nor
will he allow one to be employed upon his
place.
How Silk is Made.
Where the Trees Come from and How the Worm is
Cared for. .
Never has silk been so popular as it is to-
day. It would be impossible for woman to
get along without it. The silk worm and
the mulberry tree upon which it feeds are
natives of East Asia, and silk has been
made from time forgotten. Nearly 3000
years before Christ a Chinese empress is
said to have raised silk worms, and from
the earliest ages webs of the shimmering
substance woven from the cocoons were
important articles of commerce.
To-day the silk trade of China and Japan
is the largest and most important of all
their branches of commerce. The white
mulberry, upon which silk worms feed, can
be easily raised. In April the leaves ap-
pear, and then the silk worm grower takes
down his cards of silk worm eggs, which
he has kept from the preceding Summer
and hangs them in some airy place. In a
few hours the tiny silk worms appear and
are fed with chopped mulberry leaves.
They grow for over a month and eat enor-
mous yuantities of the big leaves. When
ready to spin the worm is 6000 times as
large as when it emerged from the egg and
is almost transparent.
A cocoon consists of a single thread from
300 to 425 feet long, and it takes a week
to finish. Out of every 100 only about
forty are perfect. The rest, however, are
worked up into coarse floss silk.
Perfect cocoons which are to be reeled off
into the thread for weaving are placed in
the sun and steamed to kill the silk worm
inside. Japanese raw silk ranks next to
that of France and Italy.
A Giant at His Winter Home.
Eleanor, above Punxsutawney, probably
has the largest giant in the United States,
in the person of *‘Col.’’ Cooper. His height
is eight feet four inches, and he weighs
over 300 pounds. He is a foreigner, but
became a citizen of the United States by
taking out papers at Brookville a few days
ago. Cooper travels with a show in the
summer and makes his home at Eleanor
in the winter.
——One of our school girls asked her teach-
er this question the other day: What three
noted men had trouble growing oui of
their connection with fruit trees? He
couldn’t tell, and she enlightened him by
saying, ‘‘Adam, with the apple tree;
Washington, with the cherry tree and Quay
with the plam tree.
——Pimples, boils and humors show that
the blood is impure. Hood’s Sarsaparilla
is the best blood purifier that money can
buy.