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.