Bruna t. Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. 12. 1900. THE OLD AND THE NEW. The New Year came to the Old Year's door When the sands were wasting thin ; And the frost lay white on the Old Year’s thatch. And his hand grew chill as he slipped the latch To let the New Year in. And the New Year perched in the Old Year's chair, And warmed by the Old Year's fire ; And the Old Year watched him with wistful gaze, And he stretched his hands to the fading blaze, And cinders of dead desire. And the Old Year prated, as Old Year will, Of summer and vanished{spring : And then of the future, with grave advice— Of love, and sorrow, and sacrifice, That the seasons’ round would bring. And the New Year listened and warmed his heart In the bloom of the Old Year's past ; But he gave no heed of the thorns that lay In the bud and blow of a coming day, And nodding, he dreamed at last. The New Year came to the Old Year’s door. And warmed in the Old Year's chair; And the Old Year talked till the New Year slept, Then forth in the night he softly stepped, And left the New Year there. —Harpers Bazar, THE STOLEN PRESIDENT. John Ray was President of the United States. Everybody knew that, so there is not much profit in the assertion. President Ray was going on a little tour through the Western States—that nobody knew, not a soul—at least, that was the supposition. In point of fact—Ilet us see— the President knew; John Shutliff, Secre- tary of War, knew; the Secretary’s pet daughter, ‘‘Matt,’’ knew; and, incidental- ly, Frank Rutherford, the big, handsome chap who was Manager of the :: isconsin & Minneapolis railroad. Young Rutherford reasoned that if he could only keep George Black, manager of the rival line, from finding out that the President was going West, he could proba- bly lobby to have the great man go over their line, the W. & M. So, you see, this State secret was gradually assuming the proportions of a joint stock company. There never was such a chance for complications —never such an innocent little seed of dis- cord. * Shutliff was ambitious—terribly so; Rutherford was poor—horribly poor, ac- cording to Shutliff. ‘‘Matt’’ Shutliff, the daughter, was the keynote in one of those peculiar combinations that exist oftener in real life than in novels. She loved Ruther- ford; a good, square, honest, no-nonesense sort of love she had for the big, shrewd, handsome man who worked like a horse over his railroad, and talked good sense to her, and was as gentle as a kitten at just the times when a big man should be gen- tle. But, as I bave said, the father was terribly ambitious, and the ordinary man- ager of a railroad was simply not in the running. If this had been the limit of the com- plexity, in all probability nothing extraor- dinary would have happened. A proposi- tion of that sort is usually settled by the father taking a grip on things with an iron hand, or the daughter snapping her fingers at the parental authority, and yielding obedience to a younger man. But in this case Shutliff contemplated as a desirable son-in-law the son of a cabinet minister. Now, the cabinet minister was President of the K. & D. railroad, the very opposi- tion line that Rutherford felt like scoring over. Oh, but it was a merry mix-up! Even to remember the thing is trying. So the secret was being fairly well guarded— in fact, it had rather a strong bodyguard. Rutherford was a man who did nothing by halves--hedid everything in a big way. He went to work stealthily enough, but also strongly, and ina few days he felt modestly sure that he would get the Presi- dential party over his line on the run to Minneapolis. He consulted with the Presi- dent of his road, and the result was he was authorized to spend $10,000. Quietly and secretly all plans were matured. Of course a special train was arranged for. They would take on the President at Savan at five o’clock on the evening of the eighteenth, and land him in Minneapolis at six next morning. The track would be cleared from one end to the other, and the switches spiked; switchmen, guards, every- body doubled up to insure safety. Oh, but he would give them a run over the line that would be the talk of the land ! The dinner would bea banquet. Krinks, the Delmonico of Chicago, was given carte blanche; he was to spread himself over that dinner. He was to furnish twelve waiters. Why the manager hit upon twelve wait- ers he could hardly say himself; simply it seemed a goodly way of ordering waiters— a dozen of the best. With Rutherford it was purely a matter of business for his line—a paying ad vertise- ment. The only little departure from this controlling motive, the only little pleasure he afforded himself in the whole thing, was the inviting of his friend, Tom Hos- kins, on from New York to take part in the procession. Tom had heen his boyhood friend; they had eaten from the same ap- ple, bite about; now Tom should sit at this banquet his honored guest—should share the triumph of his life. The young manager elaborated his plans with feverish intentness. The prepara- tions had been made in such a manner that no one but Tom knew for what King the celebration had been made ready. But the secret, true to its class, was leaking out, you see, for Tom now knew, also. * On the eighteenth Tom came on and join- ed Rutherford at Savan. Everything was in readiness; the gilded cars were arrayed in brocade and velvet; Krinks and his merry men, the dozen best, had loaded the commissariat with everything grown in the open, in hothouses, or wherever else deli- cacies are matured. Nothing that Krinks’ many years of experience could suggest had heen left for other reckless buyers to carry off. Rutherford felt that the West in gen- eral and his own darling road in particnlar were on probation. The big hundred-ton engine with six- foot drivers puffed restlessly as its copper throat gulped down the water with spas- modic gasps—the water that would scorch through the huge cylinders in blue, smoke like steam as they rushed a mile a minute out into the darkness of the prairied West. Mile on mile of clear track and spiked switches should give them a run such as had never been known in that leisure- creeping land. *‘I’ve beaten the log-rollers out,’’ Ruther- ford confided to Tom, as they walked rest- lessly up and down the platform beside the special. ‘‘The President will ‘be here in an hour, and the first thing ‘Butter-Scotch’ Black, of the K. & D., knows, we’ll he whirling the father of this land over our line faster than he’s ever been toted be- fore.” Savan was a union station for the two lines, and Rutherford was standing in the door of the K. & D. telegraph office care- lessly looking about when a sound came to his trained ear that arrested his attention. One time he had been a telegraph operator himself, and the beelike music of the click- ing instruments was pleasant melody to his active mind. Suddenly he stopped and leaned his big, dome-shaped head forward, listening in- tently. Over in a corner, beyond at least twenty instruments, one tiny sounder had tapped off the Morse letters of his name. He spelled it out as the deft fingers, miles away on the line, ticked it off. There was more coming. It took a mighty effort of concentration to smother the noise of the intervening wire-babblers and catch what was being hurried through in that par- ticular corner. ‘‘Rutherford and his special got left this time. The President has just joined our line at Oaktown,’’ the little instrument clicked glibly to the big man standing with his weight carried far forward over the square-toed boots in an intent, listening attitude. The well-kept secret was leaking, leak- ing; all the elaborate plans were falling to pieces like frail glass vessels in bitter frost. His whole soul had been thrown into this thing he was to do for his railroad—the railroad he strove for, and slaved for, and cherished as a babe. It was only advertising he was after, to be sure; but there was poetry in the way he loved the work that had heen given in- to his hands to do. And now some hit of treachery had tumbled the card-house about his ears. Matt had given him the information of the President’s trip to help him with his road; and now he had muddled it. ‘‘She’ll think me a proper garden goat,”’ he mut- tered disconsolately. ‘‘They’ve beaten me out, and I had first call on it.”” Tom, waiting so patiently outside for the triumph that was not to come, would see only his chagrin—his bitter disappointment. And Matt: he stopped at that—put it away from him. : Men who get to be managers of railways usually have sand, plenty of it; so he smil- ed bitterly to himself as he thought of the locked switches, turned hard and fast against everything but the train for which he now had no guest but Tom. By Jove! be’d take Tom through in style, anyway. Then the babbling instrument over in the corner took up the tale it had been carrying, and which had been broken for a minute by somebody cutting in on the line : ‘Rutherford will get a hot box over it; but we've got the President, and we’ll keep him. Our special will reach Mar- shall at 9:15.” ‘‘Yes, you’ve got him, I guess,’’ he said, scratching his head nervously; ‘but I'll not get a hot box over it. ‘‘Come on, Tom; time’s up!’ he sang out cheerily to his friend as he swung out on to the platform. ‘‘I’ll give you the run of your life to-night.”’ ‘‘Where’s the—where’s the——?’’ he- gan Tom perplexedly, looking about. “Inside; get aboard!’ ejaculated the manager hurriedly. “Let her go!’ he cried to the conductor. The little lantern cut a green circle in the air; the big engine coughed huskily once or twice to clear its throat; the wheels gripped the rail—slipped once in their eagerness, bringing up three reproachful gasps from the black mouch of the smoke- stack—and then the tight-coupled vestibule was pulled swiftly out of the glass-arched station. ‘“Where’s the——?’’ began Tom again. ‘‘Not coming—other fellows stole him !”’ answered the manager carelessly. ‘‘I’ve got to make the run to open up these— spiked switches. The whole blessed sys- tem’s tied up from Savan to Minneapolis. At every station the loyal residents will be waiting for our advent; for the last fool thing I did before I got that shock was to wire along the line to each station-master to have a big accidental crowd on hand to cheer the President of this great Republic. That was a clever stroke, wasn’t it, Tom ?”’ “Yes,” said Tom, trying tolook appre- ciative,but only managing to look extreme- ly lugubrious. “‘Yes, it was great diplomacy; and I'm beginning to think I'd make a fine diplo- matic idiot. I've got a big audience and no show. Do you think you can eat half of a $5000 dinner ?”’ “I’m not hungry,’’ answered Tom de- spairingly. ‘‘What you’ve said has taken my appetite away.’’ ‘‘Well, we’ll have this banquet; and, in- cidentally, we'll run into Minneapolis an hour ahead of these fellows, although they’ve started, just to show them that we’ve got the best line in the West yet. They’re running their special by the South- ern Division, and will run into Marshall fifteen minutes ahead of us; but we’ll pass them before we get to Minneapolis.’’ Then the manager took Krinks to one side and instructed him in the art of manipulating twelve waiters so that they could wait on two men with proper de- corum. Tom’s eyes opened wide when the first course was served. One waiter brought a plate, another the oysters,another a lemon, anothera knife and fork, and so on—the twelve in solemn procession, each carrying something. The utter absurdity of the performance upset Tom’s gravity. He laughed nervous- ly at first, like a school boy who's just been fished from a pond. Rutherford laughed at the struggle in his friend’s face. A ripple of laughter passed down the line of twelve waiters—they couldn’t help it. It was a picnic. The ‘‘hot box’’ did not ma- terialize. Evidently all the journals of the manager’s mind were running cool and smooth. There was nothing to indicate that he was cursing the intrigue of his rival, George Black; but he was—softly, inwardly, and to himself. What an ass he had made of himself. That coup d’ ctat message of his to all the station-masters— what a farce it was! The crowds and the special, but no President. It was like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out. When they swung into Evanstown, six minutes ahead of their schedule time, the people thronged about the car. Ruther- ford had almost forgotten them. All at once it struck him that there would be a world of stupid excuses to make. ‘‘Quick, Tom!’ he gasped; ‘‘you’ve got a plug hat. Put it on and stand out on the rear platform and make a bow—say something to the people, for Heaven's sake! Anything you like. I’Il get the conductor, and pull out of here as soon as Ye can. I forgot about the crowds I wired or.” The tall hat was a happy play. Not one man in Evanstown had ever seen the Presi- dent. Tom was big, and his clean-shaven face had a diplomatic look about it that appealed to the people; but, after all, it was the plug hat that did the business. Nobody in Evanstown wore a plug hat; it was a thing associated with grandeur— Presidential grandeur, in this case—and it went. For a couple of minutes Tom was stam- mering and muttering : ‘‘Pleasure to meet the citizens—great Republic—the Golden West—the kindness chokes the utterances of my heart,”” punctuated by the popping on and off of the plug hat. Whenever he lost the power of utterance in the confusion of the novel situation he had recourse to the tile. He'd take it off gracefully, and saw it energetically back and forth through the air in front of his face; the people cheered, and one husky farmer climbed up on the steps in spite of guard bar and guard chain, and nearly tore the hat to pieces in his eagerness to shake hands with the President. Hand- kerchiefs waved, hats were thrown in the air, and a mighty, roaring yell of farewell went up as President Tom slipped away from them on the rear end of the starting special. ‘God bless you, my children !”’ a voice sounded over Tom's shoulder. It was Rutherford, ‘‘Come and finish the ban- quet, Mr. President,’’ he said as Tom faced about. ‘‘You may keep your hat on, too.’’ Then the twelve solemn men—that is, the twelve men who were trying to be sol- emn against heavy odds—took up the bar- den of the transport service again, and President Tom and manager Rutherford proceeded with the feast. The plug hat was handed gingerly over to Porter Jack. It had assumed tremendous importance in their eyes; it was their one arm of defense against utter annihilation from a disappointed people. With the silk hat, Rutherford felt they would be able to offset one of the greatest of his humiliations. Three times before they had finished their epicurean dinner Tom was called on to don his imperial tile and take possession of the rear platform. : At Cookstown, what threatened to he a catastrophe turned into a complete triumph. Somebody who had once seen the, Presi- dent somewhere sang out: ‘‘You old fraud ! That’s not the President.”’ Ruther- ford, who was just behind Tom, put the brake of ready wit quick, hard down. ‘Will some gentleman guell that turbulent Englishman, so that the President may be allowed to speak ?’”’ he asked blandly. * In a second loyally eager hands had grasped the temporary Britisher hy the throat and choked him until he was black in the face. To deny that he was British or anything else was quite out of the ques- tion, for he was most emphatically throt- tled. “That was a close shave,’ gasped the Manager, as they sat down again. *‘You’ll have to make more use of the hat—keep it more in front of your face.”’ Porter Jack was uneasy during the prog- ress of his master's banquet. He couldn't make it out; evidently Mr. Tom wasn’t really a great man, because he had no sec- retary nor anybody with him. Why his master had wanted this elaborate dinner and twelve waiters he couldn’t under- stand. As soon as he got a chance at Tom, with his master in the other end of the car, he began : ‘‘Me and Mr. Rutherford, us fixes up anybody dat comes dis way ourselves. Even de time a frien’ ob ours, General Me- Neil, that was killed in Egyp’, come t’rough here on dis same cah I cooked for him, an’ he said dat me an’ Mr. Ruther- ford made him moah comf’table den he'd eber trabeled pefoah. Golly! dat so0.”’ The Manager was sitting at the end eof the table with an amused smile hovering about his strong mouth, listening to Jack’s excited monologue. Jack was always a fund of unconscious humor, and to-night anything that killed the hours of realized disappointment was welcome. Suddenly there was a crash, a bang and Jack leaped in the air and fell in a broken heap in his master’s lap. His swaying back had touched the spring of the window blind, and it had gone up with a crash that made him think an assegai had been driven home through his backbone. ‘Golly, sah! TI t’ought dey’d got me,’ he said, as his master spilled him off on the floor. Jack picked himself up, and into the eyes that had been wide open with fear crept a deprecating humility as the two men laughed as they had in the old days of the single apple. Mile on mile the train galloped, while the platform speeches, the twelve-waitered banquet and Jack’s tale of carnage had carried the time on many hours. ‘The engineer’s making her hum,’’ said Rutherford, leisurely pulling out his watch as the car swayed drunkenly from side to side in its eagre rush. ‘Nine o'clock. The K. & D. special will make Marshall at 9:15 ; they will only stop a few minutes, so we’ll be too late to see the Presidential party there. Did you ever see the President of the United States, Tom ?7? The porter had heen dusting a coat while his master was speaking. At the mention of the President the coat slipped from his hands and he came forward stead- ily toward the speaker, with the old look of horror back in his eyes. ‘‘Wha—wha—jyou say, sah?’ ‘“What’s the matter, Jack? Frightened ? Mind the blind.”’ But the porter did not hear. ‘‘Wha—jyou say, sah? De Pres’dent at Marshall on de K. & D. ?”? *‘I guess so, Jack ; unless they’ve struck a wash-out, he’ll be there at 9:15.’ The porter staggered back against the wall, his weak tongue beating idly against his teeth. The thing that was working in his mind was too great a problem for im- mediate crystalization. Nebulous bits of incoherent data were clustering in his sud- denly startled intelligence. The two men watched him curiously. Tom had a suspi- cion that the shock of the flying blind had unhinged the emotional darky. Trembling Jack leaned forward, putting both hands on the table to steady himself. His voice was thick and jerky, and the story he told was broken and disjointed. The night before he had been in a place where there was more drink than prayer. He had heard broken bits of conversation between three men. It was about the President—a special —9:15 at Marshall ; and other odds and ends that glued to- gether made a mosaic of iniquity that Rutherford saw like a landscape suddenly illumed by lightning. The always slow brain of the darky, more or less muddled by liquor, had failed to work out the problem ; but in five seconds his master knew and acted. Springing to his feet, he pulled with a long sweep the slim line in the ceiling of the car. A tiny, birdlike whistle in the cab of the engine sighed its warning note. The left hand of the engineer, that had rested all through that fast run on the short brass handle of the air valve, pushed it swiftly to the emergency, notch ; the other hand threw over the lever closing the steam throttle valve ; the air hissed and screeched as it escaped from the brakes ; the clamping wheels grabbed at the pol- ished rail, and the special banked up against itself, as it had struck into the side of a forest. * “Quick lend a hand!’ cried Ruther- ford, as Tom picked himself from the floor; ‘‘bringing that ‘relay box’ in the corner— I’m going to cut the wire.” When the conductor ran back he saw his manager strapping on a pair of climbers, and in sixty seconds he had gone up the post and cut the wire. Then the ‘‘relay’’ was connected, and he was calling *“W-G—W-G—W-G—"’ That was the call for the operator at Mar- shall. He shoved the button over ; the in- strament burred, clicked,and then silenced. “Got him—thank God!” Rutherford ejaculated. ‘ Back went the button ; the finger and thumb vibrated with trained rapidity ; ‘‘tick-tickety-tick-tick, ticketv-tick-tick- tickety-tick-tick’”’—sweet music to the straining ears. Then the button went back again, and the message came back, repeated ; ‘‘W-G,”’ at Marshall, had got it right: ‘‘Stop the K. & D. special, with President on at Mar- shall. Tracks torn up nine miles west.” Rutherford heaved a sigh of relief. “Good boy, Jack,”’ he said to the frighten- ed porter. ‘‘If we've stopped them the President will owe his life to you, I guess. We'll patch up this wire and move on now; they’ll be waiting for us at Marshall, Isup- pose. Hello, Mr. President! Where's your plug?’ he exclaimed ; for Tom was standing bareheaded. His friend smiled vacantly. Again the httle green-capped lantern swung in the air ; again the iron horse tugged eagerly at the linked traces; §-w-i-s-h, clack ! s-w-i-s-h, clack ! over the long, smoothly connected rails, clackety- clack! clackety-clack! over the spiked switches ; dust-pelted and speed-swayed, the special fought against the lost time at the wire-cutting. ‘‘Drive her! drive her! he said to the conductor. ‘‘Here—wait ! I'll give the order myself.” He went through the train and over the tender. ‘‘How fast can vou send her, Bill 2*” he said to the stout man in blue jeans sitting humped up on a shelf seat be- tween the boiler and right side of the cab. ‘‘As fast as you can ride, sir,’”’ and the right hand pulled out the long steel throt- tle-lever and the little spring-handle clamped it at the wide-open. Rutherford looked at the steam gauge ; the vibrating finger trembled at 180 pounds: ‘‘Keep her there, Jack. Fire up! Shove the coal to her! Drive her, Bill ! drive her! What engine have you got, Bill ?”’ “The old ‘Gunboat.” She’ll stand it.” ‘‘Well, driver her faster than she’s ever gone before. Make her get up on her hind legs and howl I”? Faster, faster the swish-click came ; the wind panted and gasped as it swirled in the half-open glass door in front of the firemen’s seat, on which sat Rutherford. It caught up the sharp barbed cylinder- dust that lay thick on the cab floor and drove it into his eyes and his ears and his nostrels, until he could hardly breathe. He watched the thin, spectral black hand on the steam gauge—it had trembled two points higher—180 pounds. He nodded encouragingly at Jack, who was incessant- ly swinging open and shut the furnace door as each shovelful of coal popped in. At the Red Mule Curve the ‘‘Gunboat’’ swung over until her bell clanged warn- ingly. The left hand of the driver moved a shade on the brass handle ; the air gave a little serpent hise ; brakes clutched sooth- ingly at the wheels, and the ‘‘Gunboat’’ settled back out of the curve to a straight- away of ten miles. ‘Keep it up, boys,’ Rutherford shouted hoarsely. “I'll go back now. We're moving,’ he said to Tom when he got back into the car. ‘‘How do you like it 2” “I'm all right,”” answered his friend. “It’s great! When do we strike Mars— we’ve left the earth, haven’t we? Jack’s having a time there in the pantry with the crockery, though. He’s using worse lan- guage than them A-rabs did when they came at the general.”’ “I'll catch that President yet, Tom ; then you’ll be out of a job—see? I'll buy that hat from you.’’ ‘*Who’s with the president, Rut ? ladies ?”’ “Why ?” ‘‘Oh, nothing ; only the President and political chaps don’t go in much for violets and delicate flowers of that sort. The car is almost snowed under with them.’ You see nearly all the secrets were leak- ing, leaking; and Tom evidently knew something. Any * ‘What about that break in the road ?’’ Tom asked. ‘‘Who do you suppose is up to that deviltry—train wreckers?”’ ‘No, somebody’s after the President. You see it was a pretty close thing between the two of them at the election, and a good many people think the wrong man got in.”’ “But they’d hardly carry it to that length, Rut—try to kill him in a smash u J? “Oh, woulden’t they? These swamp angels go clean daft over their political of- fice hunting raids. Your history must be off if you can’t remember one or two Pres- idents that were dealt with in this way.” Tom remaived silent for a minute ; then he said : “Will you catch them ?’* ‘No ; nobody will ever know who did it. If I save the party I am satisfied.’’ ‘Ts she with him, Rut?” ‘‘Here, smoke,” said Rutherford, hand- ing him a cigar,”’ and don’t bother. Too much knowledge is a dangerous thing.”’ Well, at 9:28, two minutes ahead of time, the old ‘‘Gunboat’’ gave a snort of contented exultation as Bill caressingly pulled ber up at the Marshall station. Eager questioners were there: the K. & D. Division Superintendent, and a dozen others. ‘‘How did you find out about it ? From where had he sent the wire 2”? An engine and wrecking gang had been sent out to look into it. The President who had been informed of the cause of the delay, was there ; had walked over to the W. & M. station ; and if there really was a break and delay on their line would be graciously pleased if Mr. Ruatherford would take the party through to Minneapolis. * There had been some tremendous muddle —some mistake, anyway, in the arrange- ments, the Secretary, John Shutliff, assur- ed Rutherferd. The original intention had heen to travel part of the distance by this line, and part by the other line, 50 as to— 80 as to—at least the arrangements had miscarried. They were under a debt of gratitude to Mr. Rutherford—very proba- bly the President owed his life to him. ‘No,’ said Frank, ‘‘whatever you owe, you owe to my porter, Jack, for it was he who discovered the plot. “While they were still talking, a mes- sage came back over the wires from the scene of the reported break. A rail had been torn up at the bridge over Black A I I I eee eeeeeeioeeeesseeeerteeeresmeemeeemeeettemeemssmmemereres, Creek, a small stream. The line would be all clear in twenty minutes. When the President was informed of this he said : ‘“If Mr. Ratherford will allew us to accompany him we shall be very thank- ful for the great accommodation. We are sorry that by some miscalculations our original intention to accept his hospitality from Savan on was changed.” ‘‘He’s got him !”’ muttered Tom when he heard this. Good old Rut! He’s a goat if he doesn’t get the girl now, too, with this big lead he’s got on the others.’ * Presently, a pair of swimming black eyes, with just a suspicion of moisture in them, were looking into the young mana- ger’s frank blue ones, as a small hand nestled for a second in his big brown paw, and a voice full of soft music was saying: “We all thank you, Mr. Rutherford. We owe our lives to you, I’m sure—at least. father says so.”’ Shutliff drew his eyebrows together in a little puckering frown ; he hardly liked being drawn into it, and saddled with such a load of gratitude right before everyone; and to owe it all to Rutherford, too. “‘T will lay a hundred to one he gets the girl, also,”” muttered Tom, who had heard this. ‘Yon will win the bet,”’ whispered Fate in Tom’s ear.—Saturday Evening Post. Caring for the Hair. Treatment of the Scalp Will Prevent Baldness. Premature Of all the minor afflictions which come to humanity, none is borne with less equani- mity than early loss of hair. The rapid decline in the thickness and luxuriance of nature’s head covering with the prospect of a ‘*hilliard-ball’’ pate, or the alternative of a wig in the not distant future, fills many a heart with dismay and hurries them to the physician, or the barber, or the sure- cure advertiser, or possibly all three. What can be done for these poor unfor- tunates? Sometimes much, sometimes lit- tle, often nothing. Many, many times it is the old story of locking the door after the theft. The mischief bas been done, or rather been permitted, and the result must inevitably follow. These cases are not in the class where an ‘‘ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,’’ but where a pound of prevention is the only cure, and therefore I have deemed the subject worthy or your attention, and shall speak briefly of what may be done to prevent this annoying calamity. We recognize as premature baldness, or Alopecia prematura, loss of hair more or less persistent, coming on before the age of 30 to 35. These cases arrange themselves in two general classes, one class comprising those cases where there exists no disease of the scalp, Alopecia prematura idiopathica, the other comprising thos颒accompanied by some disease of the scalp, or symptomatic Alopecia; and in my own experience, the former class comprises mostly men, the lat- ter class more women. Idiopathic baldness is most often hereditary, descending from father to son, although not all the sons of one father may be afflicted. These patients come, as a rule, when the baldness is al- ready more or less advanced, and for them but little if anything can be done; the hair papillae, on which the nutrition of the hair depends, is atrophied or entirely gone, and nothing can 1enew their integrity. Those saddest words of Tennyson. ‘It might have been,’’ are not applicable here, for many of these unfortunates might have been spared this misfortune had the danger been recognized and guarded against. Something can be done either to prevent or procrastinate this affliction by treatment, but the treatment should be begun the hour after birth and continued through child- hood. The vernix caseosa which covers the scalp at birth should not be scrubbed off within an hour or two with soapand water, but the head should be oiled with olive or sweet-almond oil and gently wiped with a soft cloth; if all the secretion is not thus re- moved it should be again anointed and left for 24 hours, when the same process should be repeated. After four days the head may be gently washed, dried and immediately oiled, and in general it may be said that the scalp should not be washed oftener than every fourth or fifth day, and after each bath should be thoroughly dried and anointed. During childhood the hairshould be kept moderately short in girls until about the eighth year, after which it may be allowed to grow long, and the scalp should be wash- ed only as often as the necessity for clean- liness shonld require. Daily sousing of the head in water should be absolutely prohih- ited, and the presence of excessive dryness of the scalp or the beginning of dandruff shows a diseased condition which should be treated at once. There is no more fatal mistake than the constant shampooing of the scalp for the removal of dandruff. It does remove it for the time being, but it soon returns, worse than before. If the children of parent prematurely bald were treated as to their scalps along the lines in- dicated above I am sure the development of their inherited tendency would be much delayed if not prevented. The second class, Alopecia symptomatica is made up of those patients who present as a concomitant some disease of the scalp, the most frequent being dandruff. Here the prognosis is more favorable, as a cure of the disease is generally followed by a cessation in the failing of the hair; and if the scalp has not heen prematurely damaged, a re- turn of growth may be reasonably looked for. Besides dandruff, anaemia either lo- calized in the scalp or a general anaemia; prolonged indigestion with consequent mal- nutrition; mental worry and anxiety; over- work of any kind; and, in short, any cause which tends to lower general vitality, may act to produce this affliction, and the treat- ment will be successful so far as we may be able to remove the cause and cure the local or systematic disease present. The prevention of these consists in the observ- ance of the same hygienic principals for the scalp as in the first class, and in addition, the early recognition and cure of dandruff. Oldest School Teacher. In Clinton County Celebrates His 92nd Birthday Anniversary. Samuel Hartman, the oldest citizen and school teacher in Clinton county, celebrated the 92nd anniversary of his birth at Salona on Saturday of last week. Mr. Hartman, as is well known, was born in Lamar town- ship Dec. 23rd, 1807, and has resided there all his life. During Governor Ritner’s administra- tion he was collector of canal tolls and held that position during a portion of Governor Porter’s administration. Mr. Hartman in his early life taught school for 35 terms, and also taught ‘‘singing schools,” teach- ing his classes to read the ‘buckwheat’ notes. In 1838 he taught a term of school where Lock Haven now stands, which was attended by the children of all the resi- dents for miles around. He is a brother of the late Rev. Daniel Hartman, for whom former Governor Daniel Hartman Hastings was named. Who is My Neighbor ! [We pubiish the following communication for two reasons : First, because it has to do with a well known locality in Centre county in the early days of the century and; Second, because it teaches a lesson that all should read and give the thonghtfual consideration it merits. —Ep 1 Not long ago I saw a case reported where a poor girl got entangled in the meshes of the law, and when she appeared for trial before court she seemed to he entirely friendless and too poor to employ an at- torney to defend her. But an entire stranger in the crowd of people present took pity on her and offered to pay an at- torney to defend her. This case very forcibly reminded me of a circumstance of asomewhat similar character that came under my observa- tion © more than half a century ago, when I was a grown-up boy, yet in my teens. A striking prototype is related in the 10th chapter of Luke, com- menciug at the 25th verse, where is recited the parable of the man who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves, and wherein the question is put by a lawyer, ‘‘And who is my neighbor?” A half century ago, as it may do now, tor I have not been there since, the prin- cipal street through Pine Grove Mills, Cen- tre county, ran east and west, and about the middle of the village a smart monnt- ain stream crossed the public road. The bed of this stream was a continuation of a Tussey mountain ravine, and was consider- ably lower than the public road, which was bridged over the stream by a high stone arch. The bed of the stream was rocky and very rough, and the north side of the stone bridge was probably 20 feet per- pendicular from top to bottom. On the west side of the stream and on the south side of the road stood a large stone mill, and across the road from the mill and proba- bly only 100 feet from the bridge stood Rankin’s hotel. It was a fine, pleasant, sunny day in April or May, 1849, when I was standing in the door of a shop on the south side of the road and east of the mill and stream, and looking down the road at a one-horse truck wagon coming up through town and passing over the stone bridge. The only occupant of the wagon was a man sitting i upright on the seat, with his chin resting on his breast, and so dead drunk that he absolutely was unconscious of his own be- ing. How he happened to sit up was one of the wonders. It was a painful sight to see that horse, wagon and man pass over the arched bridge. For an instant I felt certain ail would go over the edge of the precipice. But they passed safely, and the horse, as if acquainted, hauled up in front of the hotel and stopped. The man scarce- ly gave any sign of life. I immediately went down to the bridge to see how close to the edge the wagon wheels passed. I am very certain not over an inch. _ There were a number of men in front of the hotel and saw the frightful spectacle. Others also soon came there, and in a short time probably 15 or 20 men were about the wagon and in front of the hotel. No one knew who the man was. After discussing the situation of affairs, it was decided to send the tea and man back the same way they had come. The horse and wagon were turned around and made ready to start back, the man still sitting upright on the seat and blind drunk. It seemed to me to be a terrible proceeding on the part of the man. I was a stranger and only a hoy. What could I do against so many men ? But I saw a well dressed gentleman stand- ing inside the window of the bar room looking out at the movements. As the horse was about to start this man suddenly stepped out onto the porch and sharply said to the crowd : “‘Gentlemen, that is no way to treat a man in that condition; un- hitch his horse and put him into the stable and take the man into the hotel, and after he becomes sober if he don’t pay the bill I will pay it.”” He was obeyed. Whether the inebriate ever was told of his narrow escape of a second passage of the arched bridge, or who the man was who truly proved to be his neighbor, I do not know. The gentleman stranger drove a pair of dark sorrel matches, and from a printed circular I picked up in the hotel and read I concluded he was a phrenologist and that his name was J. M. STAyMAN. In thisI may be mistaken; but that is the impres- sion left on my mind at the end of over half a century. I have often wondered whether he was the STAYMAN who after wards represented Lancaster county in the Legislature. This action was truly a dis- interested illustration of the question in the parable, ‘‘And who is my neighbor ?*’ AULD LANG SYNE. Selinsgrove, Pa., Dec. 14th, 1899. The Bachelor. A bachelor is a coward and a failure. He shaves and primps, but is too cowardly to put his arm around success and press it to his bosom. ‘He resolves to marry every day for forty years, but when the hour for the duel arrives, when in the presence of trembling, rosy cheeks, when beauty shakes her curls, his courage oozes, and he flees the field without even learning of the cow- path that leads to matrimony. Better be old dark ‘Rastus in his cabin, where he holds old Dinah’s hand and asks, ‘‘Who’s sweet ?”’ and Dinah di. ps her head on his shoulder and says, ‘‘Bofe of us.’ Same Old Way. Curious Old Lady—How did you come to this, poor man ? Convict—I was drove to it, lady. Curious Old Lady—Were you, really ? Convict—Yes, they brung me in the van, as usual. MADE YouNG AGAIN—‘‘One of Dr. King’s New Life Pills each night for two weeks has put me in my ‘teens’ again’’ writes D. H. Turner, of Dempseytown, Pa. They’re the best in the world for Liv-" er, Stomach and Bowels. Purely vegetable. Never gripe. Only 25 cents at F. P. Green’s drug store.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers