Bemorvalic; alc. Bellefonte, Pa., March i5, 1901. arse. THE CRY OF THE DREAM. I am tired of planning and toiling In the crowded hives of men; Heart weary of building and spoiling, And spoiiing and building again. And I long for the dear old river, Where I dreamed my youth away: For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. I am sick of the showy seeming Of a life that is half a lie; Of the faces lined with scheming In the throng that hurries by. From the sleepless thoughts’ endeavor I would go where the children play; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. 1 can feel no pride, but pity For the burdens the rich endure; There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor. Oh, the little hands too skillful, And the child mind choked with weeds! The daughter's heart grown wilful, And the father’s heart that bleeds! No, no! From the street's rude bustle, From trophies of mart and stage, 1 would fly to the woods’ low rustle And the meadow’s kindly page. Let me dream as of old by the river, And be loved for the dream alway; For a dreamer lives forever, And a toiler dies in a day. —~John Boyle O'Reilly. THE MEANING OF A MOMENT. Nigel Farquahr, M. D., F. R. L. C. S., and many more curiously assorted initials, tucked his long legs into the tiny two wheeled cart in which his friend’s wife had come to the station to meet him. He lift- ed his straw hat, and turned a worn, color- less face to the breeze which skimmed over the dunes, keen from three thousand miles of ocean. “I thought that a surgeon’s hand never trembled.’”’ Winifred Stanhope said, glanc- ing at the slight, supple fingers which held his hat, ‘‘yet yours shakes as mine does when my nerves have got what Jack calls the ‘jumps.’ ”’ “It is unprofessional,” he answered, leaning back with a smile, ‘‘but surgeons are human as well as professional, and four hours of grilling with a plentiful seasoning of dust may excnse some testimony to the weakness of the flesh.’”’ Her pretty eyes dwelt on him kindly. ‘Jack was right to bully you away from your work. You look nearly worn out.” ‘Does your welcome appear to you as flat- tering as that of a hostess should be?’ he asked. Then he sat erect and met alertly the eager glance of a man who rushed across the platform to the side of the cart. “Carew, how are you?’ he exclaimed. “I saw you just now, but as your ladies seemed hurried for their train I did not de- lay them.”’ ‘Too bad of you !”! Carew declared, his grasp lingering on the other’s reluctant band. ‘‘I will answer for them that they would rather have missed their train than a word with you after all these years.’’ ‘‘Perhaps Mrs. Carew may run down again while Doctor Farquabr is with ns,” Mrs. Stanhope interposed. ‘My husband means to keep him a month, now that he bas got him away from those horrid hos- pitals.”’ : Carew shook his head regretfully. *‘Our children have been turned out into the Maine backwoods for the summer, and I am to join my wife there after a bit more hunting. But I shall see something of you hefore I go,”’ he added with a glance at Farquabr as nearly wistful as one man ever permits himself to bestow on another. “Will you be at the hunt breakfast to- morrow ?’ ‘‘T came here to loaf,’ Farquahr replied languidly. ‘‘The breeziest dune, where the sand is most softly drifted, will be more frequented by me than any social gathering place.”’ Carew urged an invitation to a bachelor dinner at the club, and when that was somewhat summarily declined, Winifred compassionated his very obvious disap- pointment with a general offer of ‘‘tea’’ any afternoon—the safest of resources to an amiable woman hesitating between an in- stinctive hospitality and a perception of - personal objection. *‘Doctor Farquahr was almost uncivil to the poor fellow,’’ she observed an hour lat- er as she stood beside her husband’s dress- ing table while he adjusted a white tie. ‘If he had not looked so haggard I should bave scolded him.’’ ; Jack’s attention deserted the tie. He turned to her with a tenderness in his gay bia eyes which was not altogether for er. : “Can you keep a secret ?”’ iid ‘‘Have I not kept your secrets these four years ?"’ . ‘‘All mine, of course,” he hastened agree, ‘‘But this secret is Nigel’s. Eight years ago, Carew, who was the third. in:our riangle of college comradeship, went off with Nigel to the White Mountains for some fishing. There they both fell in love with the same girl-—and Carew married her.”’ ‘‘Have they never met since ??7 ; ‘‘Never. Carew, who, as you know, lives in New Orleans, seldom comes North. He told me recently that he had seen and heard no more of Nigel in eight years than he had of me. ' Indeed, I have long fancied that the way in which he dropped out of touch with me proved as conclusively as Nigel's silence that he, or his wife, or both had behaved badly to Nigel, and believed that, being in his confidence, I would re- sent their conduct.” : © “Does not Doctor Farquahr talk to youn about them 2? , ‘Not. a word since his last letter from the White Mountains begging me never to mention Miss Dallas to him again. He went to London for some special study just then, and returned the ‘working machine’ you call him.”’ ‘‘He is handsome in his ascetic way, and I like him, though he forgets me entirely when he comes to dine with us,”” Winifred murmured. Then she dimpled delightful- ly. ‘“‘There are charming girls here this summer—surely after eight years—'’ Jack laughed and went back to his tie. * ‘Being feminine, you find difficulty in understanding a life scheme from which -matrimony is willfully left oat,’”’ he de- clared. . ‘Trust me, there are men so built that they have neither capacity nor inclina- tion to love. more than once. Nigel Far- quahr’s profession is home as well as career to him. He: is sufficiently content. But I should have | ned his visit, when I found the Carews had at last turned up again, il'l had not heard that they were leaving—and the kindest thing we can do for him now is keep Carew away.” = Yet, ‘‘the best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley.”” No other than Jack brought these two together on the morrow with an instance which would not be de- nied. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. The veranda, which faced the ocean, was shady. Farquahr, lying ina low wicker chair with his hostess near by, was almost reconciled to the idleness he annually inflicted upon himself as conscientiously as he inflicted necessary, if unpleasant, treatment upon his patients. Winifred belonged to that rather rare tpye of womanhood which, though prone to chatter, isable to be silent at discretion. After a glance at her guest’s tired counte- nance,she, too,leaned back in her chair and gazed at the softly shining sea, as if its daily contemplation held her as subject to its glamour as one who saw it only ina brief breathing space between stretches of hard work. Across the stillness of scene and spirit broke the rush of hurrying hoofs. She sprang to her feet. Plucky though she was, not even Jack guessed the terrors of apprehension she endured when that M. F. H. hunted. ‘‘Something has happened !”’ she ex- claimed, ‘‘nobody rides at such rate un- less——"’ The horse swept around one of the many angles of the cottage. “Jack !”’ she cried, a whole Te Deum in her voice, but Jack’s glance passed her. ‘Nigel !”” he exclaimed. ‘‘Thank God you are here ani can give him another chance! I stopped at the stable—your horse is coming at once.’’ Farquahr rose. ““‘An accident?” he asked alertly. ‘I have not got my tools, but of course, the village doctor——"’ “Yes, yes, but he is hopless—and poor Carew——"’ : Farquahr dropped back into his chair. “I think I will not interfere if the sur- geon in charge has given up the case,”’ he said coldly. *‘I rarely practice during my holidays, and professional etiquette does not permit me todo so unless the other sur- geon requests—"’ ‘‘0ld Brown would go on his knees to get you,”’ Jack asserted wrathfally. ‘‘It is not good will he lacks, it is skill—so be- tween you, I think you may save the pa- tient. Here is your horse.” “Did Carew send you?” “Carew has not spoken two coherent words since his horse, in falling, kicked him on the head. It is all one to him which of you is beside him, but to the rest of us—have you forgotten the days when you and he and I—-"’ “I have forgotten nothing,’’ Farquahr muttered, so low that only Winifred heard him. ‘‘Here is your hat.”’ He took it mechanically, walked down the veranda steps, and, swinging himself into the saddle, rode away without further word. She sprang to Jack and put both arms abont his neck as he bent from his horse. “If another woman had taken you from me, I hope I should not wish her dead !”’ she whispered, ‘‘but I would rather some- body else should save her life !”’ For only answer Jack kissed her and gal- loped after Farquahr. They rode swiftly along a sea swept road, and Jack, with one glance at his friend’s stern profile, felt no disposition to break the silence, which was eloquent, even to his half comprehension of that long ago when Farquahr and Carew had loved the same girl, and Carew had married her. While to Farquabr? Between the lines of Jack’s brief summary of the story which had cost Farquahr his sweetheart and his comrade, rapture and anguish yet haunted him who was now summoned to interpose between that comrade and death, between that sweetheart and widowhood. ~ It bad been a vivid, youthful passion, so burned into Farquahr’s unforgetting heart that all the glow of life yet pulsed in it. He had loved Marjory Dallas from his first sight of her among those pine woods which had been as the garden of paradise to him. But her family were neighbors to Carew’s in Louisiana, and when Farquahr, confess- ing his love to his comrade, besonght that apparently gay trifler to leave the field to him, Carew had refused, declaring that he, too, loved Marjory, and had loved her be- fore going North to college. For awhile the rivalry between the for- mer friends had amused the sweet coquetry of the girl, and then her sweeter serious- ness had seemed to turn to Farquahr. She promised to be his wife, though with ten- der ruefulness for her old playfellow she insisted that Carew should hear of her en- gagement only at her discretion. A day or two of a jealous lover’s bitter misgivings and Farquahr rebelled. Marjory, he de- clared, must at once make their engage- ment known to Carew, or he himself would go away immediately and forever. She re- fused—and he left her. No entreaty for his return followed him, as he had passion- ately hoped, and some months later he heard, through an acquaintance, that Ca. rew had married a Miss Dallas. During the years which intervened since then the world had become merely a big workshop to Farquahr, upon whom a cold reserve had grown, which forbade new inti- macies and imposed certain bonds of silence even upon the genial loyalty of Jack Stan- hope, though it was in his society that the great surgeon’s rare leisure was spent. In all these years Farquahr had neither heard of the Carews nor met them, until yester- day upon the station’ platform. ; After a couple miles’ rapid riding, Jack directed Farquahr to the club house of the County Hunt.. Men in ‘‘pink’’ lounged on the veranda which ‘surrounded the low building, while servants led about the heated horses of late arrival,, who had rid- den to the finish without knowledge of a serious accident. ; Among these jovial sportsmen an omin- ous silence reigned, and a brief murmur of “No change’’ responded to Jack’s question. Hurriedly he preceded Farquahr into a large, picturesque room, which belonged to the feminine members of the club, and was then tenantless. An inner door stood ajar, and, beckoning Farquabr to follow, he en- tered a hastily arranged bed chamber. An elderly man advanced to meet them, but Farquahr, with merely a nod, passed to the bedside. : . Carew lay motionless, his head swathed in bandages, his face ghastly, though flush- ed and his breath. coming stertorously. Rather nervously the village doctor inform- ed the famous surgeon of the nature of the injury, the little he had found possible to do, and his belief that the patient was dy- ing. i : . 5 hen he ceased speaking, Farquabr lift- ed a limp wrist from the coverlid. = As though magic was in his touch to stir the soul lingering within that hurt brain Carew opened his eyes. filo oi He looked up in the grave countenance bending over him and smiled—the boyish smile long ago. Foi wid iss - “Another scrape for you to help me from old fellow !’” he murmured. ‘‘It is a busi- ness more familiar t6 yon even than carv- ing hones.” : oil fia Farquahr’s glance softened. ‘You must not talk,”’ he said very gent- ly. “I’m going to see what ails youn.”’ A sudden excitement banished Carew’s smile. “There is something I must do for you first !"? he exclaimed. struggling to his el- bow. ‘‘Something I always meant to do. Send away those men, Nigel—this is only for you and me.”’ ‘‘Hush !”’ Farquahr said, laying him back among the pillows. ‘‘Your business must wait for mine.”’ But Jack drew Doctor Brown into the adjoining room. ““If a poor chap happens to be dying,”’ he said unsteadily, ‘‘it is not fair to take away his last chance of setting himself straight.”’ Carew stared wildly as Farquahr’s firm hands held him quiet. ‘‘She always liked you best—you grim, long legged Quixote !’’ he cried. ‘*T'his is raving,” Farquahr muttered. He bad grown white, and relaxed his hold. “I am sane, but I am dying,” Carew panted, ceasing to struggle. ‘‘A dying man must be honest—and forgiven !"’ Farquabhr walked hurriedly to an open window. “When Marjory told me there was no hope for me, she said she had written to you—to come back,’”’ Carew faltered. *'I knew if you missed her letter you would never come—I stopped her letter. You remember the queer old postmaster who let anyone look over the mails? I read her letter--‘‘you were right,”” she wrote. She had given up her folly—she loved you with all her heart—you must come back quickly to your own Marjory.”’ His voice wavered just audibly. ‘I was a foolish hoy, who thought only of the chance to keep you from her—I burned the letter.’’ The smell of pine woods, the rush of a mountain stream, a gleam of sunshine through lofty treetops, a girl’s fair face, lips that laughed, eyes that loved. Across a space Farquanr was aware of these things—a space into which eight years ago he had flung faith and tenderness and the joy of living—the wreck of his youth from which he had saved only a fierce greed for work, a restless pursuit of knowledge and the fame of it. He was beside the bed again. “When you had stolen her letter, did you lie to her because I did not come—un- til she despised me enough to marry you ?”’ he gasped. But Carew had relapsed into unconscious- ness. The door opened and Doctor Brown hesi- tated on the threshold. ‘You will recognize that every moment is vital, Doctor Farquahr, when you have seen—’'' He broke off anxiously. ‘‘In- sensible? I fear there will be no further rally.” With steady keenness Farquahr went through the task this country colleague set him, and, at its conclusion, agreed mono- syllabically that their patient's death would be inevitable. Doctor Brown was a kindly person, ac- customed to see death come slowly, or at an age when life meets it easily, if sudden- ly. Looking up from the vigorous young manhood lying smitten before him, his eyes dimmed behind his spectocles. . “I hoped,’’ he said wistfally—‘‘I am rusty living down here-——and you head and shoulders above even other New York sur- geons in modern ideas-—I hoped you might kuow of some new operation which would give him another chance.’’ Farquahr did not answer. His folded arms rested on the brass rods of the bed- foot. He started silently ai the senseless body of the man upon whom his silence pronounced death sentence —and there panted in his ears certain words : ‘‘She al- ways liked yon best !”’ A little more silence and this man would be gone who had robbed him all these years. But there would remain other years in which to win once more her who had ‘‘al- ways liked. him best’’—and who, though she must hear her husband’s dishonor,need never know that, to gain her freedom, her lover had hecome as surely responsible for her husband’s death as if his hands had slain him. Doctor Brown looked up again at his tall companion. Lines had come into that rig- id countenance which were not there ten minutes since; the dark brows were knit, the tense lips were colorless. He laid a plump palm timidly on the folded arms. ‘You feel this very much,’ he whisper- ed. ‘Mr. Stanhope told me that you were boys together; but it is the good God who limits your splendid powers, and He knows how unwillingly you let your old friend die.” Farquabr started. A sombre glance con- fronted Brown—a glance whose terrible meaning for an instant he vaguely divined though he never explained it to himself, and never guessed that his words had turn- ed a quivering balance to the saving of a soul. Farquahr shivered, pressed both hands between his eyes and those mildly gleaming spectacles and presently looked down at his colleague with a glance from which a devil had been banished. ‘“There is an operation‘”’ he said geutly ; ‘‘one which I have tried twice successfully. With yonr assistance, I believe he can be saved.” * * * * * * * ‘*A critical operation, and foity-eight hours’ constant nursing of a patient who bas spared neither himself nor you for a single moment of consciousness,” Jack Stanhope said, two days later, with a hand on either of Farquahr’s broad shoulders. ‘“That is not exactly the holiday idleness which I expected would restore your strength and your beauty. Therefore, that you look like some particularly weird kind of specter is—"’ “I will be as idle as you and your wife lease as soon as I get to your house,”’ arquahr interrupted smiling. ‘‘As a proof that I recognize the worn condition both of my looks and my nerves, I mean to avoid Mrs. Carew and her--her gratitude for the presens.”’ a ‘Shall I drive you home before I go to the station to meet her ?’ He Farquahr passed an uncertain hand across his brow. : : ‘“Carew needs my authority to keep him calm. This delay of missent telegrams and slow trains through the wilderness where Mrs. Carew is staying bas tried him. He will fancy a railway accident or some other horror if she should be late, so I shall mount guard until ‘I hear your wheels. Then I shall resign to dear old Brown, step across the corridor before she enters, and drive home with you.” : Jack agreed, and Farquahr, returning to the sick room, sank wearily intoa chair near the window. 147] . Through those bowed shutters he could watch the moonlit avenue along which any oar from the staiton must need ap- proach. ; 2 ad “Are you there, Nigel?’ Carew called feebly. SE mins “‘T am here.”’ “‘My wife will come soon ?”? ‘Very soon.”’ “I—told you about—about Majory’s let- ter ?’* “Yes.” ‘“Thank God !"’ Something half laugh, half sob struggled in Farquahr’s throat. For what curious happenings do men thank God ! Yet, futile as was his late knowledge of Majory’s letter, bitter as was his memory of the horrible temptation Ca- rew’s revelation of that letter’s treacherous destruction had brough him, he, too, could murmur ‘Thank God’’—a little while his sweet love had longed and waited for his coming—— ‘‘Nigel,”’ Carew’s voice drifted throngh the dimness. °‘I always hoped that you had forgotten—and that she would forget —hbut now —7"’ “Hush,” Farquahr answered. ‘‘There is no more to be said about the past. You are to get well and do honor to my profes- sional future.” An hour later Doctor Brown Farquahr’s watch. Rather stumbling Farquahr found his way through the semi darkness into the adjoining room. While he paused listen- ing, the sound of wheels brought a sudden color across his haggardness, and as sudden an eclipsing pallor. As a chain is only as strong as its weak- est link, so Farquahi’s resolve to avoid this meeting with the woman he loved, and of whose heart he had such strange insight yielded to his desire for one more glimpse of her face. He stepped into the angle of a screen. The door opened and two women entered. The first, flitting as a shadow, passed hurriedly to the bedroom. The other walked slowly to a table, turn- ed up a lamp, and faced Farquahr as he stood beside the screen. The woman bore herself most calmly—as is wont. She moved forward with an ex- tended hand, which shook no more than gratitude excused. ‘‘We can never thank you enough,’’ she said. ‘‘Mr. Stanhope has told us that yon have saved my brother-in-law a second time by your care since the operation.” Her band dropped to her side, for Far- quahr made no motion to take it. ‘Your brother-in-law !”’ he dully. A glow, a tremor, changed her pale calm- ness. ‘Did you not know he married my sis- ter 2’ she asked unsteadily. ‘‘When Agnes came home from school the week after you went away, they fell in love with each oth- er at once. The past nonsense was to him as if it had never been. and the strength of his love for her has made him more se- rious, more——"’ She broke off as Farquahr staggered, caught at a chair near him and sank into it. She was beside him swiftly. “You are faint—you are overworked ! I will bring——"’ ‘No, stay——"’ His voiced failed, and his white face lay heavily against the velvet cushions. But in his haggard eyes was that before which eight years vanished—in the presence of which time and parting are no more than they shall he in Eternity. ‘*Your letter never reached me,”’ he whispered. ‘‘Carew stopped it—destroyed it when he had read it—and two nights since he told me what he had done —’ With a shining, tremulous smile she let his cold fingers close upon her own. “I always knew my letter missed you somehow—though I could not write again —even for you?’ She started and frown- ed. ‘‘But that he should be so hase ? Must I forgive him, too?’ Farquahr thrust her hands from him and sat upright. ‘‘Forgive me first—if you can !”” he mut- tered vehemently. ‘“When he told me of your letter I still believed you his wife. When Brown thought him dying, and I knew I could save the life which stood be- tween you and me—for a moment I meant to let him die.”’ She put her trembling hands into his clasp. **God is good to @s !’’ she whispered. * “To us?’ he repeated, and took her in her arms.—By Ellen Mackubin in The Sat- urday Evening Post. relieved repeated What Eyebrows Indicate. “It’s all very well for a girl to plume herself upon her pretty eyebrows,’’ said an. expert physiognomist to the Boston Globe man, ‘but I, who have been studying character for years. have perhaps a different point of view. Eyebrows show character, and the wise men will take note of them when choosing his friends. Eyebrows, for instance, that are wide apart denote frank, generous, unsuspicious and impulsive nature. 5 4h “When they meet one may be pretty sure that their owner’s temperament is ardent, but jealous and suspicious. Eye- brows which are elevated at starting and continue in long, sweeping lines over the eyes, with a downward tendency, indicate artistic feeling. ; “Straight eyebrows, forming a firmly de- fined line close to the eyes, denote great determination and will power. Those which begin rather strongly and terminate abruptly without passing beyond the eyes show an impatient and irascible nature. *‘Sensitiveness and tendernees are indi- cated by slightly arched eyebrows, and firmness of purpose and kindness of heart by those which are straight at the begin- ning and are rather arched at the temples. The eyebrows of people utterly devoid of mathematical power are raised at the ter- mination, leaving a wide space between them and the corners of the eye. ‘On the other hand, if they are close to the eye at the end, mathematical talent may general- ly be assumed. ine Eyebrows of the same color as the hair show constancy, firmness and resolution ; if lighter than the hair they denote indecis- ion and weakness, while if darker we may probably be right in our surmise that their owner is of an ardent, passionate and in- consistent disposition. An energetic and easily irritated nature is shown by the hair growing in different directions ; while close, closely-lying hair, growing in one direction, indicates a firm mind and good perception. An ardent but tender nature is shown by the hair be- ing soft and fine. : *‘When the hair of the eyebrows has a downward droop so that it almost meets the lashes with the eyes widely opened, tenderness and melancholy are betrayed. The nearer the eyebrows are to the eyes, the firmer and the more earnest the char- acter, while the more remote the more vol- atile and flightly is the nature of the own- er. '——8he—~‘‘Marriage is a lottery.”’ He—!'Notat all?” .. ... .. She—*‘But it is.” He—*'Oh, no, it isn’t. ‘A lottery is for- bidden to the mails.” 4 | { | i The Fur Seals at Home. A Strange Summer Resort in Far-Off Behring Sea. The Rookeries at the Pribylof Islands. Remark- able Social Relations of the Seals-Jealous Bulls, Patient Cows. Nobody can go to she Pribylof islands, the home of the fur seal, except on a gov- ernment ship or on the one steamer of the company that runs the seal farm. That ship goes to take supplies and bring away the skins; the government ships—revenue catters—come and go as the please. Except the seals there is nothing of in- terest on the islands. 'Treeless, bleak, rocky lands rising out of an ice-chilled ocean, they are surely as uninviting as any part of the known earth. But the seals love them and so they are priceless posses- sions in the commercial world. : The two islands of St. Paul and St. George, which compose the group, lie about 250 miles northeast of Dutch Harbor, the chief port and coaling station on the Alaskan peninsula. St. Paul, the larger, lies about forty miles to the west and north of St. George, and much the larger num- ber of sealsis found there. Its area is about sixteen by twenty-five miles while St. George is only ahout six by nine. Just how many seals are on the islands in the season cannot be definitely arrived at, but possibly 150,000, which compared with the 5,000,000 that were estimated to have been there before seal-skin became a fashionable fabric for feminine apparel, are few enough. x There were millions of these seals on these islands when this government was negotiating with Russia for the purchase of Alaska, which includes them, but they were never mentioned in the valuable assets of the property. They were not counted, simply because at that time they were not held to be any special value. But what a gold mine they proved to be to the first commercial company that put them on the market. St. George at first sight isn’t a bad isl- and to look at on one of the rare days of sunshine that visit'it, and when we first saw its green hills from the deck of the revenue cutter McCulloch it was quite easy to imagine it a garden spot. Nota tree grows on it, however,and what we thought was soft green grass was chiefly coarse moss. We skirted the island around to the lit- tle village of St. George, where six white people and a hundred Aleuts live in small frame houses, getting their spiritual sup- plies from one Greek church and their physical from the company store. Anchor- ing a mile or more from shore for lack of a harbor, we landed in boats. The only white woman on the island was the wife of Major Clark, the government agent, and as she was to see no visitors from October un- til the following June, as ships only come in summer time, it is fair to suppose she was not expecting a very brilliant social season. Accompanied by Mr. Jett, deputy agent, we went along the shores for about a mile until we came to the rocks where the seals make their home. These seal grounds are called rookeries and to complicate the use of terms, a male seal is called a bull, a female a cow, and a little one a puppy seal. We could hear a good deal of racket as we approached the rookery under the chff, sounding something like the barking of dogs and the bellowing of cattle and the granting of pigs, but we were not prepared for the sight that met our eyes as we look- ed down on the rocks and the sea at the foot of the cliffs. The rocks were black with little fellows; there were great bull seals on high points lifting themselves up on their flippers and roaring, there were cow seals, lowing, and the sea was alive with seals of all sexes but the smallest, and never a one was quiet in lung or limb. This discordant din con- tinues night and day from July to No- vember or later, and in foggy weather is the only signal for the mariners, who are getting too close to the rocky and danger- ous coast. ‘We went down on the rocks to get a closer view of the animals and there came in aotual touch with the puppy seals. Those of them that were no playing were cuddled up asleep in the nooks and crannies of the rocks, piled indiscriminately on top of each other. They slept so soundly that we could stroke their fur. Usnally they ‘| did not awake until we would pick one up by the tail, or what passes for a tail, and then it would wake witha bark and a great spitting and spluttering somewhat as a cat might. It would try to bite, too,and when it was left loose, would go wabbling over the rocks with its companions, boune- ing around like rubber, and apparently reckless of bumps and bruises. A young seal is about eighteen inches or two feet long, not much bigger than a puppy and quite black. The youngsters cannot swim, and have so little desire for water that their mothers have to push them into the sea to take their first lesson. The older seals, are, as a rule, gentle and they may be approached within a few hun- dred feet without disturbing them. Oc- casionally an old fellow ie ugly, and I saw a very large one, provoked by one of the cutter officers, give chase to him, and with such evident purpose of fight that the of- ficer ingloriously turned his back and ran as best he could over the rocks, the seal lumbering awkwardly after him, and giv- ing him a close race. A cow seal is as vain as a woman and she never tires of preening herself. The sight’ of one of them floating on ‘the waves fan- ning herself with her flippers is as funny as it is womanly. ‘The day before our arrival the puppy seals had been counted, and in this rookery: there were 6,000 of them, which would give about 15,000 in all, bulls. cows and bachelors, or killable seals. The last kill- ing'day ‘of the season is “Aug. 10th. On killing day the seals are driven to the kill- ing grounds, and the bachelors, that is, those not the heads of families, are killed for their furs and meat. The killing is quite simple enough. Armed with heavy hickory clubs made in Connecticut, the killers, to the beating of tin pans and oth- er noises to keep the seals bunched, go among them and with a tap on the head the seal is knocked insensible and his throat is cut before he recovers consciousness. The skins are removed and packed away in salt, and the meat is used by the natives and for fox feed in the winter. We ate some of the meat and found it very delicate, though a little bluer in color than was attractive. Seal liver is finer than the finest calf liver, "The family life of the seal is remarkable, and shows" intelligence that cannot be ac- counted for in an animal ‘which is said to be absolutely unteachable, as the fur-bear- ing seal is. During the winter the rook- eres are deserted, the seal being off to the warmer water of the south, but from May 10th to 15th, the bull seals make their ap- pearance aud take up positions on the rocks, selecting locations as near the water as they can get them and fiercely fighting any others ‘who seek to dispossess them. The weaker brothers must take their places further back and so on until the 2 ehelor seals are reached and they are driven en- tirely off the rookery proper.” = = These bachelor seals are young fellows 4 and 5 years old who have not yet grown sufficiently strong to fight the old ones dnd take a family, but if they escape the kill- ers they will dispossess the old bulls in time, to be driven forth themselves when they have grows old. On each plot of space selected, say a rod or more square, the bull seal maintains himself by his valor alone and he engages In a constant succession of battles,in which hoth contestants are not infrequently slain. About the first of June the cow seals ap- pear and then the battle of the bulls rages more fiercely than ever, until the house- holds are all made np. The bull seals do not again return to the water after they have come out on the rocks until the families begin to break np in the autumn and they neither eat nor drink during that time. They come out as fat as they ean roll, weighing sometimes as much as 40u pounds, and when they re- turn to the sea they are so thin and weak that they can scarcely get about. In pleasing contrast with the disagree- able displays of temper and jealousy on the part of the male members of the various families is the delightfully amiable disposi- tion of the mild-eyed, sweet-faced females. They never complain or quarrel or fight, and even when they are severely injured in battles over them they submit to it all in a perfect spirit of gentleness and resigna- tion. The real family life of these interesting animals begins with the appearance of the puppy seals. Thousands of little fellows chase over the rocksand play,quite neglect- ed by their parents as soon as they get be- yond the limit of their homes. A mother seal shows no affection for her baby if it gets beyond the home limits, and it may be killed before her eyes without a protest from her, but either father or mother will fight for it to the death within the limits of its birthplace. At the same time a mother seal will se- lect her own puppy from among 10,000 when she comes in from the sea at nursing time and she will not permit a strange puppy near her. She recognizes her own by its voice, and if she calls and gets no answer she will lie down to sleep for awhile and wake to call again. When she hears its voice among the thousands she pushes her way through the throng until she reaches it, and then gives it the care it needs, She will sometimes be away for two or more days feeding out at sea, but the puppy doesn’t seem to miss its mother for any ordinary length of time. A puppy seal does not like the water at first, and though the mother teaches it to swim in several weeks, it is nearly half grown before it becomes an expert. As soon as they have mastered the art, how- ever, seals are the most graceful of swim- mers, and they can have more fun dashing through the surf riding the waves than a dozen small boys. The bachelor seal is really a pathetic in- dividual. He has no home to go to, nor has he any social recognition in seal so- ciety, and he is compelled to live away back in the subnrbs of the rookery. A narrow street is left open for him to get down to the sea through the rookery, and he is not disturbed as long as he keeps in that narrow path, but woe to him if he gets off it. The old seals thump him and beat him and drive him forth in utter dis- grace. In addition to his hard domestic lot he is killable and at any moment after the first of July and until the 10th of Aug. be may be driven to the slaughtering grounds and be knocked in the head. Single blessed ness is no snap in seal life. As the season advances, the family rela- tions aud regulations are gradually relax- ed. The husband grows less jealous, the wives go further out to sea seeking food and stay away longer, the bachelor seals are not fought so fiercely hy the old fel- lows and by the middle of August the rookeries present a scene of general disor- ganization and breaking up as if the entire community were about to move out. The husbands and fathers now desert their homes and take to the water or herd to themselves away from the rookeries and begin to eat and drink. During the autumu the departure of the seals is gradual, the puppies in some in- stances not getting away until as late as January, but by that time all are gone and the rookeries ave still, save for the cries of the innumerable sea fowl that have their homes in the cliffs. ‘Where the seals go in the winter I do not know, nor do I know why they have se- lected these two islands in the Behring sea for making their abiding place, almost to the exclusion of all others. A seal doesn’t like sunshine if it brings a temperature above 45 degrees, neither can he endure the least mud on his living grounds; bus there are other places where it is cold and where rocks abound, and yet on these two little islands more seals live for half the year than are in all other parts of the world together.—New York Sun. A Change of Holiday. Senator Snyder, of Chester county, has introduced a bill in the Legislature abolish- ing the public holiday on February 12th, Lincoln’s birthday, and providing that the second Monday in August be made a pub- lic holiday, and that it be known as ‘'Lin- coln’s Commemoration Day.”” The object of the bill is to have Lincoln’s birth and the emancipation of the slaves commemor- ated on the same day. { A — «=A boy can sit on a sled six inches square, tied to a sleigh. moving eight miles an hour, but couldn’ sit still on a sofa for a dollar, says an exchange. A man will sit on an inch board and talk politics for three hours; put him in a church pew forty minutes and he gets nervons, twists and goes tosleep. A man will fill his cheek with filthy tobacco juice until it runs down his chin and feels good ; but a hair in the butter will kill him. ; SOME TIME YOU'LL KNOW. Last night, my darling, as you slept I thought I heard you sigh, And to your little crib I crept, And watched a space thereby ; And then I stooped and kissed your brow For oh! I love you so— You are too young to know it now, But some time yon will know ! i Some time, when in a darkened place Where others come tc weep, Your eyes shall look upon a face Calm in eternal sleep; : The voicelessjlips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile will show— .. You are too young to know it. now, But some time you will know. ‘Look backward, then, into the years, And see me here tonight— ‘See, O my darling! how my tears Are falling as I write; And feel once more upon your brow The kiss of long ago— ' You are too young to know it now, But some time ‘you will know. Fit 11 = Rugene Field.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers