Bewrai iatda Bellefonte, Pa., July 14, 1899. THE MAN WITH THE HOE. Bowed by the weight of centuries, he leans Upon his hoe and gazes at the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes. Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw ? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow ? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain ? Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over the sea and land, . To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity ? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this— More tongned with censure of the world’s blind greed— More filled with signs and portents for the soul— More fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look: Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy. 0, masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul- quenched ? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dream; Touch it again with immortality; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 0, masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man ? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world ? How will it be with kindoms and with kings— With those who shaped him to the thing he is— When this dumb terror shall reply to God After the silence of the centuries? — Edwin Markham. BACKWOODS WOOING. Up the long and slanting hill slope a man’s figure went slowly, plodding onward after a sturdy black mare and turning up the ground between two tall rows of corn, which at times hid him completely from view. The shoulders under the straw hat proclaimed him young and manly, and the steadiness with which he went forward and his short stay at the top of the slope be- spoke him a man of purpose. Then came galloping through the white dust of the road below a lanky boy on a roan horse in whose veins was the rac- ing blood of generations. Clear and flutelike came the call, ‘‘Marion, oh, Marion!’ : Marion, handsome Marion, came leisure- ly up to the rails. He did not expect any letters and was not excited. However, the boy knew his news was worth attention, and burst out impetuously: ‘‘Yer won’t be so cool when yer hev heerd it, either. Beck Bailey’s man is dead!”’ He had the gratification of seeing Marion grow pale to his lips. “What killed ’im?’’ ‘“The doctors air callin it blood pizen,”’ returned the boy. ‘‘Say, Marion, they're gittin thar hot fut. I seen Tom Pence hitchin up and Cunnel Will hez been thar, high an dry, sence the turn kum.”’ Still Marion did not speak, but the boy saw his lips tremble. ‘‘Run along, Pete, with the mail. Folks’ll all be waiting,”’ he said finally, and Peter, disappointed at nothing more definite, dug his heels into the colt and galloped away. Then the man unhitched Dolly and, mounted on her bare back, rode down the lane into the sunlit woods, on, or without path or guidepost, deep into the woods until he was sure he was far enough from human beings to be safe. And then, with a shout jubilant enough to frighten the black mare, he threw back his head and laughed a sonorous peal that astonished himself. He knew he was happy and he had come away here to fight the impetuous demons of newly aroused passion and eager- ness until he could subdue them enough to be decorous before the world. For he had loved Beck Bailey when she was a slip of a girl and as a young woman, and when she married another he had come away here to the woods to fight out his hatred and misery and rebellion. Nature, dear mother, had calmed him and he even became resigned. But Beck Bailey’s man was dead and she was free, and the heart of the man went after heras a bird after the home nest. Beck —slim, sweet Beck, with her laughing, mocking mouth and wonderful changef:l eyes! She should be his—for what cared he for Tom Pence and even Colonel Will, the bold, owing, smirking beau? He would go down with the country side and see Beck at the ‘‘berryin,’’ but not before. Oh, no—he could wait awhile now. The ‘‘berryin’’ was a great affair. The Baileys house had been thronged for days, and Beck kept up by a continual state of excitement. It was all grist to her mill, for she loved ‘‘somethin goin on,”’ and in this case was almost wild, besides, with a sense of freedom and relief. Her new black clothes made her look ‘‘mighty peart,’’ as the women said, and she was the adored and center idol of every one, petted and condoled with, cried over and appealed to for advice and assistance in planning the great funeral. Never had quiet Edward Bailey made such a stir in the world as now, when, quieter than ever, he lay in state in his black coffin, one ‘‘with solid handles.”’ The traditional ceremonies were all gone throngh with—the weeping, the wailing, the dolorous hymning of quavering voices, the sermon, long and full of eulogy, the farewell to the dead, at which Becky faint- ed dramatically into her father’s arms, and the slow walk to the graveyard near, a long procession of the country people fol- lowing. came on, the crowd dispersed, wondering what ‘‘Beck wud do jist at fust and who’d get ’er.”” For not one had missed Tom Pence at the ‘‘berryin,’’ with his pleasant, jovial face and smiling eyes, nor Marion Moore, silent and watchful, nor the *‘‘ole cunnel, mussin aroun.’’ They had all been to ‘‘herryin’s’’ before, and they all knew Becky Bailey. It was only four years since she set the country mad with her beaux and her fun and her daring escapades. And now she was a widow, rich, hand- It was all over, and, as nightfall |. somer than ever. ‘‘An ef the old Nick hain’t let loose in these pairts, I'm a coon,”’ said her own uncle in the bosom of his family. In four weeks some one met Beck out riding with the ‘‘cunnel.”” The news went like wildfire. Aunt Dilsey went over to see Beck. She found her in a white dress, lying in a hammock reading a nevel. ‘“‘Whatever air ye doin, Beck?’’ she said. “What I please, an plum enjoyin it,”’ said Becky. ‘Yeh able to be lazy,”’ sighed Aunt Dilsey, ‘but I wouldn’t go ridin jest iY y Beck’s handsome eyes smiled. I wud,” she said, ‘‘do jist exactly what I pleased. I’m rich an I’m free and I'm goin to enjoy life, an ye can save yerselves a power by shettin up.” “Then,’’ said Aunt Dilsey, ‘‘she curled up like a young cat an I cudn’t git anoth- er word int’n her.”’ The next Sunday night there were ten saddle horses and buggies tied to the posts and the fence. Beck never enjoyed any- thing so much in her life. She treated every one alike, gave them cake and home- made wine, laughed, joyed and turned them all out at 10 o’clock, inviting .them to call again. But the next Sunday night there was no Becky at home, and she elec- trified the small audience at the Methodist church at the crossroads, by appearing among them with a stripling cousin of 17. During these days Marion Moore never appeared at the Bailey house, nor formed one of the young men—aye, even the mid- dle aged and old men—who never failed to crowd about the young widow whenever she rode into the country town on Sunday afternoon. Being the only man she miss- ed, Beck grew restiveand one October day, when Marion was clearing up a new bit of ground for the spring tobacco, she came riding down the lane towards him, her black skirts flying, her cheeks blazing and her tendrillike curls all falling down from under her black cap. He saw her coming, away off, and he knew the errand on which she came, and he had to steel his heart against her to hold his vantage ground Stalwart, brawny, handsome, he rested on his ax calmly, though the bloed in his veins ran as riotous a course as is a brook’s after a storm. How Beck laughed as she drew up! *‘I haven’t been up here fur years,’’ she said. ‘‘Come over to the cliff, Marion. I'll walk Black Nell.” “I must work, Beck,” he said. isn’t play all around, ye know.”’ ‘Which means ye won’t’’ she smiled. “But I know ye want to go, plum bad! Ye’re play’n a losin game, Marion, fur I known by yer eye that ye’re just the same as ye were,’’ and she laughed tantalizing- ly. “Don’t think ye can fool me, Marion.” He threw his ax down with angry vehe- mence and stood looking at her. “I don’t know whether ve’re witch or what,’’ he said hoarsely, ‘‘I am jest the same, Beck, an ye want to look out. I can’t stand foolin.”’ “I won’t marry ag’in. I'm goin to en- joy life,”’ she mocked. ‘‘What’s the use of my marrin? I’ve got money an land an years of good times ahead of me. What'd I git in exchange!” Marion never answered except by his persistent gaze. *‘Goodby,’’ she said presently. in too bad a humor. Ye’re takin life too serious, Marion. There’s more’n gray skies above my head. Give me the blue ones. Then she galloped away to the bluffs and Marion’s temple of nature, high in the woods above the river. He half fancied she would come back his way but no. The afternoon wore away and no lithe, slim figure on a black mare appeared on his horizon. So she knew, and since she knew, she mocked him. Well, he bad always loved the brier rose. How could he tame this untamable tigress, this guesser of men’s secrets and mocker of men’s loves? The intutitions of Marion Moore were better than his knowledge of his reason. He guessed that only a real, lasting affection would ever make her more faithful, more tender, more true than any other woman— but how, indeed, was this to come to her? The mad reports went flying hither and thither. Becky was here, there, every- where. It was Colonel Will and Tom Pence and Arthur Smedley and Henry Car- roll. The widow’s bonnet was now never worn, and bows of lavender and elaborate black and white toilets were sent for to Cincinnati, and cooking and feasting and fun went on in the Bailey house. Thanks- giving came and Becky was the queen of the Pence family gathering on that day. One morning Marion Moore was near his favorite wood hunt and stopped to look over the fair river valley and the infinite hills spread out before him like a beautiful winter picture. As he stood quiet there fell from the great tree beside him some- thing rustling and dark and green, a love- ly piece of the native mistletoe, with its waxen berries thick and plentiful. A smile came to Marion’s face. He had been sent a token and one he would accept. He would hesitate no longer. He took his bunch of mistletoe and walked away. He would become the wooer, for nature, whom he trusted, had sent him a token. He dressed himself with care and rode his fine chestnut horse up to the side gate in the lane leading to the cluster of cabins that long ago had been the ‘‘quarters,’”’ but now were turned to various uses. Becky, wrapped in a gray shawl he well remem- bered, was giving directions to some men at work inside the nearest building. It was just sunset. Perhaps nothing in the world had ever seemed so fair to Marion Moore as this saucy and careless creature who greeted him with a cool triumph which he had expected and ignored. He accepted her invitation to supper and walk- ed by her side to see the promising colts and into the house, and Marion proceeded to make himself comfortable in a very matter of fact way. He looked critically about, much to Becky’s astonishment. *‘Whatever air ye lookin about fur, Marion?’’ “‘Seein ef this house is as comfortable as mine,’’ he made reply. ‘Well, it plum is, Marion, she replied, forced into earnestness. ‘‘The outlook is better with yer all, but this house has more comforts.’’ “We could soon put some of ’em inter mine,’’ he replied musingly. “We?” “Yes, yean I.” ‘‘Yer takin a deal fur granted, ’pears ter me. I don’t intend to leave here.’’ *‘Oh, well, we could live here. It is all one ter me, so it is where ye’re livin.” “I'm bespoke yer askin by two, Mor- ion. ’Pears like the men are all crazy.” “Ye're good temptation, Beck, but no one else shall have ye,’’ he said. Her eyes grew luminous. ‘‘Well, now, what wud ye do ef ye heard I was off on the marry with one of the others?’’ “Don’t ye try it?” She was up in arms in a minute. ‘I’m not tellin ye anything, but ye all air too heady with me, Marion. I got an engage- ment ter go ter Cincinnati tomorrow, an ‘Life ‘“‘Ye're ef I say the word what's ter prevent me comin back married?’’ Marion was quite white, but was equal- ly determined. “If ye go, of course, I'll know it is all up. I’ll be at the turn of the road at any time set. That’ll end it for me, which ever way. Lord, ye're a hard one! I won’t stay ter supper. I’ll never sit down ter supper here ‘less it’s as master. What time’ll ye go!”’ She set her lips. ‘Noon!’ was all she replied. He put on his coat and hat. ‘‘I wish when I think of some things, I'd never seen ye, little or big, girl or widder, but when I go out in the woods an see the wild, sweet things runnin around, I can’t help lovin ye. It is born in me.” Then he went out, having tossed to her the fresh branch of mistletoe, and thus left her the memory of a day, long ago when they were little more than children and he had taken her out to give some of the weird, waxen berried growth, and had kissed her, the first kiss of love and desire she had ever known, and the memory of which had never left her. The next day at noon Marion sat grim and silent on his horse at the turn. He held his slight whip in his hand, but he grasped it like a weapon—he could not keep one thought from returning itself again and again. He could not let that man live who would carry Becky Bailey away from him. When he heard thesounds of wheels, he got off from the restless horse he rode, fastened him, stood erect and braced himself for the ordeal. The buggy came nearer. He drew an awful breath as he recognized the horse. It was Colonel Will’s Flighty Dan famed throughout the country. It was that old profligate, was it, who was to win the brier rose? An aw- ful singing rhythm in his brain went say- ing, ‘Kill him, kill him, kill him!’ What Marion would have done he never knew, but the buggy stopped and Becky, in all her dark furs and fluttering feathers, came running toward him, holding out her hands and crying: “I don’t want ter go ter Cincinnati, Marion, an we’ll live in which ever house ye like, fur I’ve been fightin my feelin’s fur ye all the time, an I won’t give up ter no other one. Take me home, Marion, an I’m plum tired of being wild. I want ter live quieter’n any one.”’ The colonel drove Flighty Dan on into Cincinnati alone, and Becky went with Marion along the homeward road, she rid- ing the chestnut and Marion walking, and there was no wild bird that had ever built a nest in the woodlands near that was as con- tented as this wayward creature who had at least been conquered by her best feel- ings— Elizabeth Haire in St. Louis Republic. Joy Caused His Death. Pardoned Negro Convict Dies Suddenly When he Reached His Old Home. George Jones, a negro convict, died of an excess of joy on Tuesday as a result of his liberation from prison at Montgomery, Ala. He had been convicted of murder several years ago, and was sentenced to be hanged, but secured a new trial and was sent to jail. At the trial Jones protested that he did not know the gun was loaded. It was shown that he had not known his vietim and had therefore no ill-will toward him. Governor Johnson recently had his attention called to the case, and after in- vestigation granted Jones a pardon. It was an unexpected piece of good for- tune to the negro, and when he was releas- ed Tuesday from the prison walls he hur- ried to his old home near Demopolis. As he approached the old log hut under the trees where he had been born and raised, his mother, father and sisters ran out to meet him. He was so overcome by joy and emotion that he swooned away and died in the embrace of his relatives. He had com- plained of no ill health and his death is at- tributable to an excess of joy. FRIGHT KILLS A GIRL. Six-year-old Alice Guipal of No 210 Clinton street, New York, fell undera mov- ing van Tuesday evening. It was stopped just at the edge of her dress. A man res- cued her, and she stood on the sidewalk, pale and trembling. She cried. ‘‘Mamma, it hurts so.” “Boo, hoo, Alice thinks she’s hurt!’ jeered a boy. Asher mother took her she looked up and gasped again: ‘‘It hurts so,’’ as if the wagon wheel was passing over her. Then she died. Doctors said fright had killed her. Running Down Rabbits. Farmers in California are troubled with a pest of rabbits, and at this season of the year have a rounding up of the pests that frees them for a time from their disastrous incursions. When the rabbits are to be rounded up the farmers combine rid the surrounding country of their enemies. Due notice is served on all the residents for many miles around, and on the date fixed for the drive a cordon, constituted of several thousand people, is established and set in motion. These cordons are frequent ly four miles or so in length, and are not only composed of men and women, but in- clude several hundred carriages as well- As the rabbits do not burrow they are easi. ly driven forward in any direction, and ad- vantage is taken of this circumstance to force them to enter large enclosures, with wide open mouths, which have been erected for their reception. As the cavalcade draws near the mouth of the enclosure a cloud of dust shows the position of the army of flying rabbits in full retreat. When the four-footed pests have been driven into the enclosure the entrance is immediately closed and the work of exter- mination begins. Men armed with clubs come upon the scene, and the rabbits are ruthlessly slaughtered. Their bodies lie everywhere, and in many instances are pil- ed one upon the other to two feet or more in depth. The Kissing Bug a Fake. Lives on Plant Juices and Doesn't Attack Persons While Asleep. - When State Zoologist Fernald was asked about the “‘kissing bug’’ that is alleged to have infested the cities of the State. He smiled and replied: ‘‘I have known that bug for fifteen years. It was only recently, however, that I heard of its alighting on the lips of persons, especially at night. That story is a ‘fake,’ as the bug lives off plant juices. Ido not say that the bug would not bite a person, but the stories that have been sent out about it I do not belive true. It was a clever newspaper invention. He Knew Not the Word. “Did your father bring you?”’ asked a teacher in a West Virginia mountain Sun- day school of a small new pupil.” *‘Me what?” “Your father.” ‘Nome.’ ‘Did you come alone?’’ ‘‘Nome.”’ “Who came with you?’’ ‘Me pap.’’— Harper's Bazar. The Martyr of Devil’s Island. Brief Review Showing the Present Status of the Dreyfus Case. The return of Dreyfus to France and the preparation to do him tardy justice by a new court martial marks another chapter in this celebrated cause which has disgraced France. It has been almost five years since the martyr of Devil's island was arrested, secretly tried and railroaded off to a con- viet prison. During that time the eternal verities have been under a cloud. Blacker and blacker have become the fumes of cor- ruption. From time totime there have oc- curred in the midst of this cloud explo- sions—sensational incidents which might be likened to lightning flashes. All the while there have been mutterings and grumblings as of thunder. Now it looks as if the sun would shine again. Nothing less than a thick volume could contain the whole history of the case, with all its developments and ramifications, but possibly a brief review of the main inci- dents is appropriate. More than once the general public has lost sight of the original incident. It was in April, 1894, that the suspicion was aroused in the French war office that some one in its employ was selling secrets of the national defense to a foreign power. An investigation was ordered and begun, the most rigid surveillance being ordered over all the officers of the general staff. The guilty parties, believed to be Count Walzin Esterhazy and Colonel du Paty de Clam, thought to shield themselves by throwing suspicion on another, and, cast- ing about, selected Alfred Dreyfus, captain of the artillery, as the most logical culprit upon whom to fasten their guilt. According a bordereau was written hy Count Esterhazy containing a memorandum of information to be furnished and was sent to Colonel Schwartzkoppen of the German embassy, so that it would he interjected by French secret employees and brought to the foreign war office. It imitated the handwriting of Dreyfus. When received by Colonel Sandherr, the department’s head, specimens of the handwriting of the officers were called for and secured and Dreyfus was suggested by Col. du Paty de Clam and the Marquis de Mores as the cul- prit. Commandant du Paty de Clam was charged with the preliminary inquiry, and on Oct. 14th he wrote to Captain Dreyfus, asking him to call at the war office the next morning and receive a communication which concerned him. In the meantime, on this same day of Oct. 14th, General Mercier, the minister of war—a violent and anti-Semite—ordered a cell to be prepared for Dreyfus in the Cherche-Midi prison. He also ordered that the prisoner’s name should not be in- scribed in the prison register, that he should be put ‘‘au secret,’’ so that no one should see him except the chief warden, who was to take him his food. The chief warden was also told to give the prisoner the scant fare of condemned prisoners and on no account to divulge to any one the fact of the captain’s arrest. All this, be it noted, was done before the preliminary inquiry, which by law must precede a formal order to prosecute in a military court. Dreyfus was treated as a condemned man before he had even heen informed of the charge against him and ten weeks before the verdict of the court mar- tial. Since the arrest there have been more than a score of sensational episodes growing out of the case. The most strik- ing have been the Dreyfus court martial, his public degradation and transportation, Picquart’s accusations against Esterhazy, the court matial and acquittal of the latter. Picquart’s arrest, Zola’s ‘I Accuse’’ letter, his trial and conviction for contempt, fol- lowed by Henry’s suicide and the resigna- tion of Cavaignac, Brisson and Beaurepaire and finally the order for revision and for the arrest of Du Paty de Clam and Ester- hazy. On June 7th the commandant of Devil’s island saluted his prisoner, informed him of the verdict of the court of cessation and the restoration of his rank. Later Dreyfus sailed for France on the cruiser Sfax. Now he is to be brought before the court martial and given a chance to prove his in- nocence. As it has already been well es- tablished that others were guilty, this ought to be a simple matter. But the res- toration of Dreyfus to freedom and his mil- itary rank by no means wipes the slate clean. France must pay the penalty for injustice. Wonderful Siberia. Siberia is a topic which is a good deal in the air just now by reason mainly of the an- nouncement that the Czar is carrying into practical effect the project announced some weeks ago of abandoning the convict-settle- ment system. It has always been the cus- tom, not only in our generation, but for the last 200 years, to regard ‘‘Siberia’’ as an expressive synonym for all that is cruel, pitiless and horrible. As a matter of fact, however, the real Siberia, so far from being a country of des- olation, is as green and fertile . Jad as Australia. It is doubtful if the 1a/ssians have any very definite ideas about the mar- velous fertility of this territory, which oc- cupies so large a space on the map of Asia. A man who traveled through the country a few years ago from the Caspian to Vladivo- stock, by way of Omsk, Tomsk and Irkutsk, was deeply impressed at every point of the journey with the wonderful agricultural possibilities which are latent every- where. The soil is of great richness and the crops, wherever the country is cultivated, are of most phenomenal abundance. For the most part it has lain idle so long that its productive power is almost illimitable. The forest tracts are luxuriant and the nat- ural irrigation system magnificent. There is room in Siberian for 20,000,000 of col- onists and an abundant living for them all, without drawing upon the equally exten- sive mineral resources of this wonderful country. Texas Lily An Heiress. A Little Girl Who is Now in Pittsburg to Get a For- " tune. ‘Texas Lily,’ a little girl who until re- cently was in the Children’s Home at Washington Pa.,has been made heir toa large estate in the State of Texas. The girl is but 10 years of age and was a short time ago given a home in a family in Pittsburg, where she is now living. Harry McCormick, a representative of a wealthy Texas ranchman, came to Wash- ington to secure information concerning the child. The mother of the child was form- erly of Washington, but went to Texas some years ago and married a son of this wealthy ranchman. Her husband died and she, with her only child came North. The mather died and the child was placed in the County Home. The grandfather ot thu child on its father’s side learned that the: little one was still living, and, being old and wishing to make his wil, sent McCor} mick to make inquiries concerning her. Robert Bonner Dead. The Noted Publisher and Owner of Famous Horses.—Had Been [ll for Some Months. Robert Bonner, publisher of the New York Ledger and owner of famous horses, died last Thursday night in New York. Mr. Bonner had been ill for some months, but was able to be about until about ten days ago. Death was due to a general breaking down of the system. There were with him when Le died Rob- ert Edwin Bonner and Francis Bonner, his song, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Bonner, son and daughter-in-law, and Mr. and Mrs. Francis Ford, daughter and son-in-law. Mr. Bonner enjoyed i1emarkable health until a year ago, when his life-long friend, Rev. John Hall, died. A second shock to him was the death of his son, Andrew Allen Bonner, on December 27th last. After this Mr. Bonner’s temperament changed completely. He made fewer trips to his magnificent farm near Tarrytown, and con- tented himself with a short drive daily. Robert Bonner owned the fastest horses in the world, and he would not let them trot for money. He devoted the later years of his life to the study of the horse’s hoof—a subject about which he undoubted- ly knew more than any other man living or dead. He practically founded the New York Ledger, which he made one of the most profitable weeklies of the world. Born in Ireland in 1824, he came to this country in 1839. Entering a printing office in Hartford, he learned the printing trade, and then went to New York, where he worked as proofreader and assistant foreman in the office of The Mirpor. His dexterity in setting dis- play advertisements secured him a position on The Merchants’ Ledger, and when the owner failed Bonner bought the paper. For two years he published it as a commercial weekly, but he had ambitions, and he de- cided to make it a paper for general reading. He employed Fanny Fern. then a rising and popular writer, to contribute to The Ledger. He paid her the unprecedented price of $100 a column and began his uni- que plan of advertising by publishing a part of the first installment of the story in a number of papers, with the statement that the remainder of the romance could be had only in The Ledger. The effect was magical. The Ledger grew and thrived as no publication had ever grown before. He employed the best story writers and paid the highest sums for novels. Perhaps ‘‘Nor- wood,” a story by Hemry Ward Beecher, for which the famous divine was paid a fab- ulous price, was more thoroughly adver- tised than any other story that ever ran in The Ledger. But ‘‘Capitola; or, The Hid- den Hand,” by Mrs. Southworth, and ‘The Gunmaker of Moscow,” by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.. were by far the most popular of the stories published, and they were repeat- ed several times. It was the custom in The Ledger’s palmiest days never to issue any of its serials in hook form. Mr. Bon- ner was always very careful about his stor- ies, and in factall contributions to The Ledger. He would not even allow the marriage of cousins in any story that was published in his paper. Joseph Harper, of Harper & Bros., Com- modore Vanderbilt, General Grant and many other eminent men who loved horses as he did for the pleasure they gave them became fast friends, and for years he and his ‘‘rig”’ were well known on the handsome drives and about New York. His study of the horse’s foot was most ex- haustive, and he gave himself up to its pursuit almost entirely when some years ago he retired from The Ledger and left its conduct to his sons. His theory was that many of the alleged diseases of the horse, especially those that bring on lameness, are the result of ignorance of the structure of the foot and consequent bad shoeing. He proved his theories to be sound by always having the great horses he owned shod under his direction and their feet properly ‘‘balanced.’” Asa result his horses were never lame. Endeavorers’ Big Army. Membership Increased to 3,500,000 in 55,813 Sc- cieties. Enthusiasm at Detroit. Earnestness characterized the work and enthusiasm the demeanor of the army of nearly twenty thousand members of the Christian Endeavor Society who gathered in aunual convention at Detroit, Mich., last week. Their first business meeting was held last Thursday, when ten thousand persons were present, aud the plaudits of the vast throng on hearing the report of the General Secretary of the United States was ample testimony of their gratification over the great success attained by the or- ganization since its inception in 1881. With a total membership of 3,500,000 peo- ple, representative of more than half the nations of the globe, the possibilities be- fore the society in the way of the exten- sion of its influence throughout the United States and the Old World are almost un- limited. Secretary John Willis Baer submitted his annual report, in which the following, among other remarkable statements, ap- peared: ‘‘The official enrollment is 55,813 societies, with a total membership of 3,- 500,000. Christian Endeavor has borne fruit, and is to-day one of the many other agencies for increasing the membership of the churches of Christ. During the last ten years one million and one-half of our members have joined the church. ‘In England the Baptists lead in Christ- ian Endeavor, in Australia the Wesleyan Methodists, in Canada the Methodists and in the United States the Presbyterians. ‘The Christian Endeavor ‘Tenth Legion’ now numbers 14,700 members, who are giving not less than one-tenth of their in- comes to God. ‘Pennsylvania, including the Junior societies, now has over five thousand so- cieties within its horders; New York, over four thousand; Ohio and Illinois, over three thousand; Indiana and Ontario, two thousand; Towa, Michigan, Kansas, Mass- achusetts, over fifteen hundred ; California, Missouri and New Jersey, not far behind with over one thousand each. Rev. Dr. Frances Clark was re-elected president of the United Societies. Every meeting of the immense conven- tion was characterized by intense enthu- siasm. Among the distinguished delegates pres- ent and taking an active part in the con- vention were Rev. Charles M. Sheldon, author of ‘In His Steps.” Mrs. F. E. Clark, Mrs. Joseph Walker, of Queensland, Australia, Mrs. Scott Williams, of San Luis Potosi, Mexico, Miss Jessie Acker- man, Chicago, Ill., Hon. John Charlton, M. P. of Ontario and Rev. J. Wilbur Chap- man, of New York. ——First boy—Your father must be an awful mean man. Him a shoemaker, and makin’ you wear them old boots. Second boy—He’s nothin’ to what your father is. Him a dentist, and your baby only got one tooth. Vision of Splendor Gone. Stone Will do Without the New Luxuries in His Mansion. An Outcry at Extravagance. Board of Public Buildings and Grounds Gives Up the Fine Plans for 0il Paintings and Marble Busts. Dismayed at the protests that have been so vigorously made by press and people against the addition to the Executive Man- sion of new rooms, an elevator,decorations, statues, marble busts, pictures, ete., at a time when the public treasury isso low that a cut of a million dollars had to be made in the school fund, the Board of Pub- lic Buildings and Grornds has determined not to give out the contracts for these new things, and the bidders will have trouble for their reward. It was the original intention to make ai- terations, repairs and adornments to the Executive Mansion ata cost of almost $30,- 000, but that money will not now be spent. The Board held a meeting recently, and what they did is best told in the words of superintendent of Public Buildings and Grounds T. Larry Eyre, in a statement made public. LARRY EYRE’S HUMOR. It is as follows: ‘‘Ata meeting of the Board of Public Grounds and Buildings the question of furnishing the man- sion was considered. The items— the elevator, decorating halls and stair- ways, raising the roof over the officeand providing additional sleeping rooms, oil paintings and marble statues—were all disallowed. None of these expenses will be incurred. The Board has had no inten- tion at any time to make these expend- itures. The Governor opposed the outlay. ‘These items were in the schedule of possible things required during the com- ing year, like many other items that get into the schedule under the law requiring every purchase to be from the lowest pub- lic bidder, but the items scheduled and awarded to the bidders cannot be purchas- ed except on requisition subsequently ap- proved by the Board. Thearticles appear- ing in the papers charging Governor Stone with needless and extravagant repairs to the mansions are absolutely false and with- out any justification.’ THE GOVERNOR ‘‘STOOD IN.”’ This statement is not even fooling a blind man. That Governor Stone opposed the expenditure is all balderdash, calculated to throw dust in some people's eyes. The Governor, asa member of the Commission, helped to make out the schedule for the adornment of the palace he occupies, and he assisted at the opening of the bids, and he could not help being aware of all that was going on. That the useless extravagance was check- ed by the information concerning it made public is known to everybody now, and what was whispered in the past, that the work -has been abandoned, is only con- firmed by superintendent Eyre’s state- ment. But, perhaps, superintendent Eyre’s disavowal has a string to it. It may be well to keep an eye open. Mrs. Southworth Dead. Writer of Sixty Novels and a Most Popular Author. Washington’s only native novelist of prominence, Mrs. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth, died Friday June 30th in the 80th vear of her age, at her little frame, vine-covered cottage on a hill in West Washington. When Mrs. South- worth built this cosy little home, in 1853, it was the only building on the hill south of Georgetown college, at the western end of what was then called Georgetown, in a most picturesque spot overlooking Arling- ton, the Potomac and the city of Wash- ington. But now the city has grown beyond it, its immediate neighborhood is crowded with cheap houses, and two street railways and a suburban trolley line meet at the front door, which is noisy with crowds of excursionists and railway employes and others who frequent the numerous eating houses and saloons. Her view to the east- ward was cut off by a street railway sta- tion several years ago, and her property was damaged by the construction of its ap- proaches. . Altogether, the rather shabby-looking house behind the primitive fence,surround- ed by untidy locust trees, has little beauty left, except in its abundant honeysuckle vines and its view of Arlington and the river. Here Mrs. Southworth has written fully half of the sixty books which have made her reputation, many of them having been republished abroad in French, German and Spanish, and here, attended by her daugh- ter, Mrs. James Valentine Lawrence, of Yonkers, N. Y.: her son, Dr. Richmond J. Southworth, and his wife, Mrs. Blanche Porter Southworth, of Yonkers, she has been dying of old age through the week. Mrs. Southworth was born in Washing- ton the day after Christmas, 1819, and educated in her stepfather’s school, grad- nating in 1835, and marrying in 1840 Frederick H. Southworth, of Utica, N. Y., an eccentric inventor, who disappeared later on, and is supposed to have died abroad. For Mrs. Southworth’s benefit Congress passed the first law for the district of Col- umbia, making desertion a cause for di- vorce, but, against the advice of her friends, Mrs. Southworth refused to avail herself of it. While teaching the public schools from 1844 to 1849, Mrs. Southworth began to write her stories for local ‘newspapers. “Retribution,’”’ the one first issued in book form, appearing in that shape in 1849. Her stories were very popular,aud she produced them rapidly and constantly from that time on. Besides 60 novels in book she is said to have written twice as many uncollected stories, supporting herself and her children from the proceeds. Good Fresh Whiskey. work all the morning carrying bricks and mortar to the workmen on a new building in South Washington were overheard re- cently discussing the important matter of locating the best whiskey. They sat in their dusty overalls puffing their pipes at the end of the midday meal. . ‘Brother Simon,’’ said one in a medita- tive tone, ‘‘whar does yo’ usually git your dram?”’ *“Well, brother Rastus, most in generally I buy my liquor at Mistah Dan Jones's. Why does you ax me that question?”’ ‘Cos I gits mine at Mister Bill Carbey’s. I wouldn’t drink none o’ that ole stale whiskey of Mister Jones’s. Mr. Carbey he makes his fresh every day, and it buhns as it goes. Yo’ can tas’e it all de way.”’ ——Jones—Strange thing, Mirandy; every time you draw a breath somebody dies. Mrs. Jones—Well, I ain’t going to stop breathing on that account. ——You ought to take the WATCHMAN Two negro workmen who had been at ,-'- sot Lo)
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers