Ra mamencm & E Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. 25, 190L. YOU'RE IT. If you're sore To the core With aching bones, And husky tones When you speak, And you're weak In the knees, And you sneeze, And often cough Your head near off, And you note That your throat Feels quite raw, And your jaw Feels as if You'd got a biff And dull pains Vex your brains, Then you've caught it, You have got it— It’s the grip. If yon feel The heat steal O’er your frame Like a flame, Till you burn And you yearn For chunks of ice At any price, Then like a flash The shivers dash From head to feet, A chill complete, And you shake And you quake And there’s desire For a fire And something hot Right on the spot To quickly drink, And you think Right there and then You'll ne’re be warm again Then you've caught it, You have got it— It’s the grip. It’s in the air, It’s everywhere; The microbe of the grip It’s on another trip, And up and down Through all the town, By night and day It seeks its prey, And it's the fad And you are sad, Or even mad Or if you sneeze Or cough or wheeze, Or feel too warm Or chills alarm To wear a look of grim dismay And hoarsely say : “I’ve caught it, I've got it— It's the grip.” Pittsburg Chronicle- Telegraph. THE POWER OF THE PRESS, Martin Wallace went on a great Chicago daily shortly after he left Harvard, to learn his trade, as his father expressed it. Wal- lace was rich and Martin was his only son; but he had some Spartan notions. One was that before Martin stepped into the editorship of a flourishing country news- paper with a wide outside circulation and a wider influence, he should wrestle with the newspaper world a little for himself, and live on his own earnings. It consequently happened that one day Martin limped into the city editor's office (he was lame from his boyhood, ever since a certain football game in which he had snapped the tendons of one ankle) with a little frown of disgust between his fair eye- brows, and just fifty cents in his pocket. “If I don’t get a good story off today, I’m likely to have a stupid Sunday,” thought Martin. And there was a certain girl in Evanston whom Martin want=d to see Sun- day; and he had it in his mind to take her flowers. Just as he was about to catch the city editor’s eye an old man leaned a shabby elbow on the desk and interposed a bent, gray profile. There was a deprecating apology in his motions. ‘‘I beg your par- don,’’ he said to Martin, ‘‘but I believe it is my turn—I—I—have been waiting——"'’ His manner and his smoothly modulated voice and his crisp enunciation made a con- trast to his appearance strong enough to make Martin stare. “Why, the tidy old tramp’s a gentleman !”’ he ran into a noise- less whistle. “Oh, Mr. Stuyvesant!” said the city editor, ‘‘just a day too late. You weren’t here yesterday ; and I gave that story to another man.” A faint shadow settled on the gray pro- file; but the old man straightened with a smile and a courteous wave of the hand. ¢I—I was indisposed—a severe cold.’’ He turned to go; but stopped and added : ‘‘If you have anything, you have my address. I shall notbe busy this month; and I—I should be glad to do anything.” “Certainly, Mr. Stuyvesant,”’ said the editor with unusual civility. In his turn, he hesitated ; but if he meant to say any- thing more the chance passed, the old man turned and walked off stifly, bunt with his head well in the air, and not forgetting to nod a recognition to two or three familiar faces in the room. ‘‘Send your story in this afternoon,’’ said the editor as Wallace appeared. And Wal- lace was conscious that the boys were eye ing him a little critically. He turned it over in his mind, deciding that he had gotten the old man’s assign- ment, and that the old man was poor. Im- pulsively he followed the shabby coat into the hall. Its owner looking shrunken and haggard, was crumpled against the wall with his face twisted. But he contrived to straighten himself up and mutter : *‘It was just a spasm; I have them sometimes ; its nothing.” “Let me get you some whiskey,” cried Martin; and he was off to get it, disregard- ing a murmur of protest; he knew Had- dock would have a flask; and very good for Haddock would it be, also, were his flask emptier. Haddock supplied the flask, as Martin had anticipated; he wasa kindly sort. He pursed up his lips over Martin’s description. ‘“‘Poor old Stuyv,”’ he said; ‘I wonder if he doesn’t need soup more than whiskey. I'll go with you ; he’s a sandy old duck.” ‘‘Is he so poor ?’ said Martin. ‘‘Couldr’t be poorer, I guess. Too bad —he was rich once—now look at him !’’ They had got back to the old man, who was sitting in his chair, with a gray look on his face that Martin, inexperienced as he was, felt was the mask of one stricken with death. ‘‘He ain’t fit to walk,’’ said Haddock as Martin held the flask to the colorless lips; but at the trickle of the liquor down his throat the old man straightened his head and coughed. us He sat up against Martin’s arm. ‘It’s nothing; I'm all right,’”’ he murmured, and began to fumble in his pockets with his withered and trembling hands. ‘I'm afraid I shall have to ask you boys for the loan of a nickel,” said he. “Your pocket picked ?’’ ciied Haddock. “Well, if that wouldn’t jar you! Those fellows are getting foo slick. But you don’t want the street cars—’ “No, call a cab, I’m going his way; I'll take him,’ said Martin. He forgot he had only fifty cents in his pocket; but when he remembered, be considered that he had a watch and his reporter's badge; and he abandoned himself to his compassion. He assisted the old man downstairs, feebly protesting, but too spent to persist in his refusals. He gave his address, when as- sured that Martin was going his way. A modest neighborhood,’’ he said, ‘‘but retired and quiet, so I can work.” The neighborhood was a cross street in a far suburb (Martin felt the fare rising at every block !), with a dismal outlook of prairie and yearling cottonwood and soft maple trees. The street car whizzed past, down an illimitable avenue. looked like wooden tents, each with its tiny stoop in front. Withered dock and thistles defied the city ordinances in the vacant lots between houses. When Stuyvesant motioned for the hack- man to stop they were opposite a dingy brown dwelling in a disheveled vacant space, bestrewn with tin cans and shaggy with jimsom weed and wild mustard stalks. At aside window was a steam- dimmed silhouette of a woman over a wash tub. She came out at their approach, wiping the suds from her arms. She was none too tidy; but she looked sympathetic. “I jest wish I hadn’t ’a’ let him go out this morning,’’ she declared; ‘‘he ain’t fit, this cold weather. I got some bricks a- heating in the oven this minute; and some hot coffee on the stove—and he’s jest got to take it !”’ The use of the hot brick was evident the instant she threw open the door of the fire- less room. There was no carpet on the floor, no picture on the walls. The only decoration of the latter was a collection of intaglios in the artless style of Mound Builder’s relics, representing a former lodger’s opinion of Chicago and his land- lady, with vigorous but not polite expres- sions cut in the plaster beneath, and man- fully signed with his name, Billy Long- man. The room was very neat and very bare. The only furniture, besides the lank bed, was a table, a chair, a chest of draw- ers, a washstand and a battered tin bath- tab. The old man sat down feebly on the bed, motioning Martin to a chair, and s : “I am very much obliged to you, young gentleman; I feel your kindness. I regret I have not the —ah—funds just this moment on hand to repay you for the hack—"’ ““That’s nothing; charge it up to the of- fice—on the house, you know.” Martin struck in smiling (he wished heartily that it were!) “I'll leave this flask.” He cheerfully and unscrupulously deposited Haddock’s flask on the table. ‘‘Can’t I get you into bed ?”’ “1°11 just lie outside,’’ said Stuyvesant feebly; ‘‘please don’t go; I want to say something to you.”’ Martin helped him upon his bed; he would have taken off the sodden shoes, but Stuyvesant stopped him. “Just untie them—by and by,”” he murmured feebly; and Martin did not persevere. ‘If you'd get a newspaper—so they wouldn’t soil the bed coverlet,’’ said the faint voice, and si- lently Martin did his bidding; while the woman in the door shot an eyeblink over Stuyvesant at the young man. She shook her head, and her face was softer. “Look here,’”” said Martin firmly, ‘‘you’ve got to be more comfortable; let me get you to hed—"’ “I only want to say a word to you,’’said Stuyvesant. He did not seem to see his landlady, and she (with a delicacy which Martin bad not expected) quietly slipped out of the room. ‘‘I helieve I am worse than I expected ; I may not get through the night——"’ “Don’t you think it; I’m going out now for a doctor; you'll be all——*’ “I hope not,’’ interrupted the old man feebly. ‘‘it’s been a hard journey; I’m glad to have it over. But this is what I want to say to you. You seem a kind young gentleman, and a gentleman. Will it be too much trouble——"! ; “No, certainly not; anything I can do,” interrupted Martin. The old man fumbled at the breast of his coat and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper. Through the transparent folds Martin caught the dull shining of red leather. ‘‘It is a miniature—a portrait of my wife,’’ said Stuyvesant. ‘‘There is the card inside with the address. Will you send it, and tell the—the young lady that Peter Stuyvesant is dead, and that he sent her this, his last possession, and his love and blessing with it? It will cost a little —not much—to send it; but Mr. Carwen will be willing, I think, to repay you-—’ ‘He will not have the chance,” said Martin. “You're the right sort,”’ said the old man; and. a dim flicker lit np in his eyes. Martin by this time had become interested ; he was a young fellow with a heart always getting him into trouble. Hesat a minute with knitted brows; then he scribbled a few words in his notebook, told ‘the old man to take a brace, for he would be hack directly, and went out in the hall to the landlady. “Say, he’s awful bad ain’t he?’ said she. There was something in her face be- yond the grisly interest in calamity or Geath. { Martin nodded. : ‘‘He’s a nice old gentleman; so obliging. Always cleaned his own room. Why, he’s worked the wringer for me half a dozen times. And he’s so polite, always ‘Madam’ says he, like I was a fine lady. Oh, my, I'd be sorry to have him—say, has he got any money?’ ‘Not a cent.’ ‘‘And he paid me this morning. I wish I hadn’t took it, but I'd got money to pay myself. He said he was going to git money down town. But trouble with him’s he jest naturally can’t push. Not a mite. And he’s so nice; jest’s quiet, washing his own winders, lugging the water for his own bathtub, yes, an’ washing my Tim and Willy for me in his tub-—say, we got to get the doctor.” ‘“Yes, and have him taken to the hospi- tal, I think; but meanwhile will you heat up some milk while I will get some eggs and things outside ?”’ ; The woman was glad to help her best, while Martin calmly bestowed some cigars and a note on the hackman and engaged him to return at a certain hour. Then he went forth and confidently spent his fift cents at a little grocery. He returned, his arms full; and thanks to a camping expe- rience of cookery, and Mrs. Baxter's stove, he was soon able to proffer some steaming oyster soup to Stuyvesant. He found him tidily tnoked in bed, with a fresh store of coverlets heaped on him and a kerosene i converted . into a hot water can at his The houses | me ‘Ah, it’s nice to be warm in your own room,’’ he sighed gratefully. Martin, seated at the table, his feet on a heated brick, and drawing his pencil, gave him a nod and a smile. ‘‘We’ll have you in a dandy place directly,’’ said he. “No,” said the old man ; “‘I don’t want to move: it’s not worth while. Martin wrote on until the doctor came. The doctor was a professionally cheerful, professiorially reticent man. Peter Stuy- vesant watched him with a dim and deli- cate smile. He asked no questions; he smiled again as Martin followed the doctor into the hall. ‘‘Almost over, Janey,’”’ he murmured. ‘‘I shall not mind a little pain. I’ve done my best, dear ; I'm so glad I've held out. If only I’d enough to pay every- thing—"’ Martin came back and tucked the cover- lets more closely about the lean form on the bed, at which the same smile flitted again over Peter Stuyvesant’s lips. ““You’re a good boy,’ he said ; ‘‘let’s be honest; the doctor’s said I’m going. God knows I’m glad. I seeyou want to help ay *I’d be honored to help you, sir,’’ said Martin; and something ran in a shiver over the muscles of his face. “Why — what — did Doctor Willard know ?”’ ‘‘He knew about the bank ; his father bad money in it. He said, ‘I owe my edu- cation to that man’s honesty ;it was money my father had put away to send me to col- lege.” He didn’s expect me to tell, bnt I don’t care. I believe you’ll feel easier—?’ “I was worrying—a little about paying him.”’ *“Po you think he'll take a cent from you? Don’t insult him so!’ Peter Stuyvesant smiled : ‘‘Just like the boys I used to know; just so headlong. I remember Petey——’’ A change stiffened the muscles of hig face, a shadow of anx- iety, almost shame; his eyes fell. *‘I shonld like, if you don’t mind, to hear what he said.” Martin had keen gray eyes; they looked their keenest for a second, then he slowly caught his breath; it was as if he saw his way out of a sudden hewilderment; he an- swered slowly: ‘‘He told me that you were once a very rich man, a scholar, very much respected. That you married a beautiful and charming woman. You had one son. He was a very clever business man, the cashier of one of the banks. He got into difficulties; he was married; and one of the bank officials his wife’s brother. That man went wrong and your son tried to cover up his losses, and it didn’t work; the specula- tion that they went into as a sure thing wasn’t sure; and in the end there was an ugly time and you paid every cent of the shortage, although you could not save your son.” The old man had listened in a kind of melancholy calm. “Would you mind if I told you you look- ed like my son ?’’ said he. “I am glad sir,’’ said Martin stoutly. “Yes, I noticed it the minute I saw you; it made me want not to take your place at the desk; but I had nothing but the chance of that story. If I had gotten it I meant to sit down in the office and write it and get the money. Ibadn’t a nickel. You thought I had my pocket picked. I hadn’t. I walked half the way down because I had no carfare. I was afraid I should be tempt- ed to spend some of the money I owed Mrs. Baxter if I kept it in my pocket—for—food or car fare; so I paid her before I left the house. Well, it doesn’t matter now.”’— Octave Thanet in Saturday Evening Post. To be concluded next week. State Senator Osbourn. He Expired Sunday Night at His Home in Philadel- phia. State Senator Francis A. Osbourn, of the Third Philadelphia district, died at his home in that city Sunday night after a brief illness from pneumonia. Senator Osbourn contracted a heavy cold in the early part of last week during the senato- rial contest at Harrisburg. This rapidly developed into congestion of the lungs and on the day the ballot for United States Senator was taken he was a very sick man. Despite his dangerous condition and the inclement weather, he went to the Senate and voted for his long time friend, Senator Quay. He was granted a leave of absence and returned to his home in that city. His ailment soon developed into pneumonia, which resulted in his death. Francis A. Osbourn was born in Phila- delpbia March 1st, 1845, and received his education at the hands of private tutors. He was admitted to the bar in 1869. Daur- ing the civil war he served in the Twen- tieth regiment, Indiana volunteers, and as first lieutenant in the Sixteenth regiment, veteran reserve corps. U.S. A, and was also hrevet captain of United States volun- teers. He lost an arm in the Seven days’ battle before Richmond, Va. He was a Republican and was elected a member of the House of representatives for the ses- sion of 1877-78. He served as assistant city solicitor of Philadelphia from 1878 to 1884, and was elected state Senator from the Third Philadelphia district in 1884, 1888, 1892, 1896, and re-elected in No- vember of last year. Colorado’s Senator a Democrat. Patterson Formally Withdraws From the Populist Farty. In accepting. his election as United States Senator before the Colorado Legisia- tare Thomas M. Patterson formally bade farewell to the Populist party, with which he has been prominently identified since 1892. He secured the support of the Populists in the Legislature and took them with him back into Democratic ranks. He said : “When I take my place in the Senate I will unite my efforts with ite Democratic members and enter their caucuses. The principles in the Kansas City platform are those in the main for which the Peoples and Silver Republican parties have con- tended. They are the principles upon which our great Republic is founded and by upholding which our Republican sys- tem of government can be maintained. Yet, these principles must he fought for by Democrats and against those who call themselves Democrats. They are prin- ciples to maintain which Populists and Silver Republicans should make every sac- rifle. I believe the fight for them can be most successfully made with the Demo- cratic ranks. Derivative. “Um trying to get some information about a friend of mine named Fox, who came ont here,” said the stranger from the East.’ ‘“They tell me he died of some throat trouble.” : “I guess that’s about right,’’ replied the cowboy. ; “What was it? Bronchitis.” “Bronkitis? That's a new one on me, but I reckon I see the connection. He stole a bronece.” ; Victoria Sleeps Peacefaully Away. Stricken With Paralysis Her Entire Family Were Quickly Summoned to Osborne. Queen Victoria was stricken with para- lysis Saturday night and there is no hope of her recovery. Her family were hastily summoned and gathered about her bedside were the Prince and Princess of Wales, the Duke of York, the Princess Louise, and other members of the royal family. OsBoRNE HousE, Isle of Wight, Janu- ary 21—12.15 a. m.—The official bulletin issued at midnight says that the queen’s condition late last evening became more serious, with increasing weakness and diminished power of taking nourishment. A collapse, or what the physicians feared was a collapse, occurred unexpectedly about 10 o’clock last evening. Arrange- ments were hurriedly made to provide special telephonic and telegraphic facilities. Details are not obtainable at this hour, but it is asserted that her majesty’s condition is chiefiy due to a severe sinking spell, and an increase to the paralytic symptoms. It is understood that tue physicians have re- sorted to artificial methods to prolong life such as are used only in cases of persons, in extremis. The Associated Press learns that the paralysis is chiefly evident in the face, one side of which appears to have lost all nerve and muscular power. At 6 o'clock last evening the malady had not reached the vital organs, although it had naturally caused an almost total loss of the power of speech. What was so much feared was that the brain might be attacked. Those in close touch with the royal household have been aware of a general breakdown in Her Majesty’s health follow- ing the recent death of the Dowager Lady Churchill, who was her oldest maid of honor and most intimate companion. It was feared that the Queen would fall a vietim to melancholy following Lady Churchill’s death, as she often said that she would live as long as her aged com- paunion, but not any longer. Other occurrences have recently contrib- uted to affect the Queen’s spirets. The illness of Dowager Empress Fred- erick of Germany, the death of the Duke of Saxe-Coburg last summer and of Prince Christian Victor subsequently, and the in- cidents of the war in the South Africa have been great trials to the Queen. For a year the Queen has been steadily failing, despite all the medical skill of the United Kingdom. Her ailment was deep- er than the most famous physician could reach. It started in her Kindly, sym- pathetic heart. The Boer war was at the bottom of it all. From the first the aged sovereign besought her advisers to consid- er their determination to war upon the Boers. She pointed out that all Africa wasn’t worth the lives that it would cost to win just a little piece of it. But she was overruled. War was de- clared. Then came the British reverses. At her advanced age this wore on Queen Victoria terribly. She slept badly and her eyesight began to fail. This was in May last. All the oculists could do was to perseribe glasses that fitted perfectly. She was forbidden to read or write, except to sigh state documents. In July came the assassination of the King of Italy. Coming on top of her other troubles it shocked her inexpressi- bly This, too, told on her health. A SERIES OF SORROWS. In September she received distressing news as to the condition of her daughter, the Empress Frederick of Prussia. She began to look as old as the Queen herself and was unable to walk. On top of this came the unexpected death of her second son, the Enke of Edinburgh. Tt wae fol- lowed by the death in Africa of her grand- son, Prince Christian Victor, son of her daughter Helena, wife of the Prince of Schleswig-Holstein. These deaths in her family well-nigh prostrated the aged Queen and more and more sapped at her health and strength. For years she never missed her morning ride in a donkey chaise around the private gardens until the last couple of weeks, when this was forbidden by her doctor,who ordered her instead to drive through the park in a closed carriage. It was also whis- pered that Her Majesty fell into a doze at meal times, and the other, when putting on a hrave front and pretending to review the Colonial Volunteers, she fell fast asleep in her carriage.”’ On January 5th the Dispatch’s London cable said : ‘‘Quecn Victoria was unable to attend any Christmas or New Year’s festivities at Osborne, owing to the shock of Lady Churchill’s sudden death, from which she has not yet recovered. Her condition is known to be extremely and increasingly feeble. She recently had a fall, causing consternation among her suite. For state reasons all inquiries respecting ber health are answered in the most re- assuring terms.’”’ . A BEMARKABLE SOVEREIGN. On the 19th day of January Queen Vie- toria passed the date when she became the oldest sovereign that ever ruled England. She was 81 years and 240 days’ old that day, which made her one day older than her grandfather, George III., who beld the previous record for age and a long reign. Queen Victoria has held the scepter since June 30th, 1837, or 63 vears and 7 months, to-morrow. This is the longest reign in English history. ies England’s Sovereign was born May 24th, 1819, and was the daughter of the Duke of Kent. Shesacceeded her uncle, William IV., when 18 years old. She married Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, who died on Dec. 14th, 1861. She has had 83 descendants, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, of whom 71 are living. The heir to the throne is her eldest son, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, who is 60 years old. Good health was the Queen’s until the death of the Prince Consort in 1861. This prostrated her cumpletely, for she was de- voted to him and he to her. After that she gave heed to her doctor. For many years now she has lived according to a few simple rules laid down for her by the late Sir William Jenner, M. D., her physician. A simple and careful diet regularly and plenty of open-air exercise—these have heen her mainstays. LEFT HER BED TO LEARN THAT SHE WAS QUEEN. Victoria was awakened out of a deep sleep, at 5 o’clock in the morning of June 20th, 1837, to learn that she was Queen of England. She received the news clad in her nightgown, her bare feet in slippers | and her shoulders. On that eventful morning she was a girl, who only 27 days before, on May 24th, had celebrated her 18th birthday, when she be- came legally of age. King William IV. died at 2a. m. in Windsor, three hours before Victoria was notified of her accession in Kensington Palace, where she lived with her mother, the Duchess of Kent. In expectation of the King’s death a carriage had been kept air falling loosely over her ready at Windsor. As soon as the King breathed his last the Archbishop of Canter- bury and the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Conyngham, left the death chamber, and entering a carriage, were driven with all speed to Kensington. Victoria had retired the night before with no thought of the vast change that a few hours would make in her life. Kensington Palace was wrap- ped in slumber when the two emissaries arrived. What followed is told in the “Diary of a Lady of Quality’’ in this way: “They knocked, they rang, they thump- ed for a cousiderable time before they could rouse the porter at the gate. They were again kept waiting in the courtyard, then turned into one of the lower rooms, where they seemed to be forgotten hy everybody. They rang the bell and de- sired that the attendant of the Princess Victoria might be sent to inform Her Royal Highness that they requested an audience on business of importance. “After another delay and another ring- to inquire the cause, the attendant was summoned, who stated that the Prin- cess was in such a sweet sleep that she could not venture to distarb her. “Then they said : ‘We are come on busi- ness of state to the Queen, and even her sleep must give way to that.” It did; and so from that she did not keep them waiting. In a few moments she came into the room in a loose white nightgown and shawl, her nightcap thrown off and her hair falling upon her shoulders, her feet in slippers, tears in her eyes, but perfectly collected and dignified. The attendant, notwithstanding the urg- ings of the visitors, had not called her mother. The Duchess of Kent had aroused the young girl and sent her alone into the room, where Lord Conyngham and the Archbishop were waiting. The Lord Chamberlain knelt down and preseunted a paper to the astonished girl, announcing the death of her uncle and notifying her that she was his successor. The girl could say nothing, and the Archbishop announc- ed that he had come by desire of Queen Adelaide, widow of King William, who wanted Victoria to know of the peaceful death of her uncle. The Queen’s first words were addressed to the Primate. She said: °‘I beg Your Grace to pray for me,’”’ which he did. Victoria's first written communication as Queen was dispatched an hour later to Queen Adelaide. in reply to a request that she might remain at Windsor until after the funeral. She addressed this letter to ‘‘Her Majesty, the Queen.’’ Victoria was told that it should be directed to the Queen Dowager. “I am aware of that,’’ answered Victoria ‘‘but I will not be the first to remind her of her altered position.” At 11 o'clock on that same morning she had to preside at her first Privy Council. An extemporized throne had been placed at the head of the table, around which were grouped the greatest men in the kingdom. Without any embarrassment, she read to them her first speech, which had been pre- pared by some older and wiser head. Her only embarrassment came when the old men, whom she had heen taught to revere from infancy, knelt before her to swear al- legiance and kiss her hand. An hour after the Privy Council she was called upon again to preside at the gathering of the Cabinet Ministers. MARRIAGE OF VICTORIA. The Queen proposed marriage to the man who became her husband. Royal etiquette imposed the difficult task upon Victoria,as she was a Queen and the man of her choice Prince. Albert, was of inferior rank and station. Many accounts have been told and written of how Vietoria ‘‘popped the question,’’ but the true one has never been published and probably never will be. The matter was too sacred to the Queen for discussion among her closest friends, and the Prince Consort, her husband, faithfully kept the secret until he died. Victoria had but one love affair. No other romance ever figured in her life, though scores of mighty suitors sought her hand. In her infancy she was consecrated to her first cousin, Francis Charles Augus- tus Albert Emanuel, second son of Ernest, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld. Albert's father and Victoria's mother were sister and brother, children of the Duke of Co- burg. The marriage contract between Al- bert and Victoria was entered into by their parents when no one dreamed that the lit- tle girl would be the Queen of England. ‘She grew up with the idea so firmly imbed- bed in her thoughts that she was to be the wife of Prince Albert that it never occur- red to her to alter the arrangements after she became Queen. Albert and Victoria met for the first time when they were both about 17 years of age. Albert was very shy as a boy, but Victoria was never embarrassed when in his company, and regarded him in a mat- ter-of-fact way that greatly amused her elders She has been Queen a trifle more than two years when she proposed to the Prince, and he dutifully accepted. A task even more difficult than asking the man she loved to marry her confronted the young Queen. Duty and official pro- cedure compelled her to personally an- nounce her engagement to her privy coun- cil. This announcement was made Nov. 23rd, 1889. The privy council was sum- moned specially to Buckingham Palace to receive the announcement. In the ‘‘Gre- ville Memoirs’® the scene is described as follows « “All the privy councillors had seated ‘themselves when the folding doors were thrown open and the Queen-came in, at- tired in a plain morning gown, but wear- ing a bracelet containing Prince Albert’s picture. She read the declaration in a clear, sonorous, sweet-toned voice, but her hands trembled so excessively that I won- dered she was able to read the paper which she held.”’ { Victoria did not believe in lengthy en- gagements. At noon, on Feb. 10th, 1840, the Queen was wedded to the man of her choice in the chapel royal. St. James’ Palace, less than three months after the formal engagement. : VICTORIA ALEXANDRINA. Official Title—Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; Defender of the Faith; Empress of India; Sovereign of the Orders of the Garter, the Thistle, St. Patrick, the Bath, the Star of India, St. Michael and St. George, and the Indian Empire, ete. Born—May 24th, 1819, at Kensington Palace, London, Baptized—June 24th, 1819, as Alex- andrina Victoria. : Ascended the Throne—June 20th, 1837. Crowned—June 28th, 1838. Married —February 10th; 1840. Name, as a wife—Mre. Guelph. First child born—November 21st, 1840 Princess Victoria, Empress Dowager of ermany. ) i yince of Whales born November 9th, 1841. . Children—Four sons, five daughters. Became a widow—December 14th, 1861. Proclainied Empress of India—January 1st, 1877. Celebrated Jubilee—June 20th, 1897. Died at Oshorne House, Isle of White, Jan. 22rd, 1901. Published writings—‘‘Leaves from the Journal of Onr Life in the Highlands’ (1866), and More Leaves from a Journal of Our Life in the Highlands’ (1885.) Residences—St., James’ Palace and Buckingham Palace. London ; Windsor Castle, Berkshire ; Kensington Palace and Hampton Court, Middlesex; Osborne House, Isle of Wight; Holyrod House, Edinburgh; Balmoral, Aberdeenshire; the Castle, Dublin, The Eider Duck. This Arctic Bird Supplies the Down So Much in De= mand’ Have you ever paused to wonder what eiderdown really is, just how it is gotten and where it is obtained ? Like ever so many of our winter luxu- ries it was never intended for us, but rath- er formed a natural padding over the breast of the eider duck of the frozen North. The north wind as it sweeps down from the pole surely encounters no softer barrier. So trueis this that some of the toilers who have needs of femininity at heart actually take up their residence in- side the Arctic circle for the purpose of raising ducks that supply this down. The down of commerce. without which cushion or comfortable are considered failures, is exported from the polar re- gions, Russia, Greeniand, Iceland and Norway, while in Newfoundland and Labrador the ducks have been 0 neglected and persecuted that their exports do not count. i In Iceland and Norway there have been established ‘‘duckeries,”’ which are pro- tected as we protect fisheries, and they pass from father to son asa valuable inheri- tance. Here we find these ducks cozily established in little promontories arti- ficially cut off from the mainland, where, in addition to water privileges and quiet aud ducks’ rights generally, they are safe from dogs and foxes. These ducks are of a sociable nature and easily become domesticated. They weigh from four and a balf to five and a half pounds and make their nests in little hollows between rocks, using small sticks, sea weeds and dry moss, and often go near together that one can hardly pick a way between them. Madam Duck, who is the only toiler in the house of eider duck, lays from five to seven pale green eggs, and plucks the down from her breast to make a cozy nest lining and to cover her eggs. At this stage the down gatherer appears. He gathers the eggsin one basket and puts the down in another. When separated from the twigs there is a quarter pound of down in each nest. The brave bird repeats her labors, only to be robbed a second time in the very game way. Lest the stock be reduced her third effort is undisturbed, and if her own poor breast is about bare and if the head of the house stays at home long encugh she often makes an onslaught on his manly bosom for this third sanpply of down. This is the usual way, though occasion- ally the ducks are picked. The down brings from $3 per pound up- ward. All Contracts Let. For the Construction of the West Branch Road. Several days ago some of the contracts for the construction of the West Branch railroad were published in these columns. Since that time all the subcontracts have been let. The Clearfield Spirit gives the reasons for dividing the work as follows : On December 21st, 1900, the contract for the building of the West Branch valley railroad was let at the New York offices of the New York Central railroad company to the Pennsylvania Construction com- pany at a price of $2,500,000. It was stipulated in the contract that the road must be completed hy January 1st, 1902, under a penalty on the contractors of $200 per day for every day over that time, Ac- cordingly the construction company, un- der the able management of Hon. A. E. Patton, of Curwensville, and A. G. Pal- mer, of Jersey Shore, went to work im- mediately to close up the details inciden- tal to the beginning of the work of con- struction just as soon as possible, and on Monday last had all the subcontracts let and work begun all along the line from Clearfield to Keating. The road will be thirty-one miles in length and the work will be very heavy all along the entire dis- tance. It was on account of the character of the work and the short time in which to complete it that the work was sub let to so many different contractors. Some of the largest contracting firms in the coun- try are represented on the work, and the short time in which the work was closed up is a fine tribute to the husinesssagacity of the managers of the construction com- ny. Phe work has been apportioned as fol- lows: Firstseven miles from Clearfield to Shawasville, J. H. Corbett, Reading. Fulton tunnel, 2,700 feet long, to Ma- son, Hoge syndicate, Frankfort, Ky. Shawsville tunnel, 1,700 feet long, Car- penter & Boxley, of Clifton Forge, Va. Eight sections to the Miller Coustruc- tion company, Lock Haven. * Sections 8. 9. 10. 11. or the first four miles below Shawsville, H. O. Rodgers & Co., of Hyndman, Pa. Karthaus tunnel, 1,700 feet long, Car- penter & Wright, of Virginia. boss, The masonry work will be done by No- lan Bros., of Reading; Pa. The balance of the road will be built by the Pennsylvania Construction company. A. G. Palmer, of Jersey Shore, will have charge of the work and will bave his head- quartersin Clearfield, Charles E. Patton, of Curwensville, will be on the line for the company and will superintend all the work. ; Long Parted Lovers Married. Happy Ending of Romance Begun 57 Years Ago. At Culvert, a little village near Jersey Shore, last week occurred the wedding of Palmer Chumway, aged 76 years, and Mrs. Harriet Francis, aged 75 years. Fifty- seven years ago. the couple were engaged to wed, but a quarrel estranged them. Both married, and Mis. Francis became the mother of nine children. Chumway is the father of six. Seven years ago Mrs. Chumway died, and three years ago Mis. Francis became a widow. Three weeks Chumway went to the home of Mrs. is, at Ulysses, Potter county. A reconciliation was effected, and they came to Cnlvert, to the home of Mrs. Francis’ son, to be married. Satisfied. “Did the bulld #No, he got all jump. rsue you far!” or at the first
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers