Bellefonte, Pa., April Il, 1902
HOW LITTLE 1T COSTS.
How little it costs, if we give it a thought.
To make happy some heart each day !
Just one kind word or a tender smile,
As we go on our daily way.
Perchance a look will suffice to clear
The cloud from a neighbor’s face,
And the press of a hand in sympathy
A sorrowful tear efface.
One walks in sunlight: another goes
All weary in the shade :
One treads a path that is fair and smooth,
Another must pray for aid.
It cost so little ! I wonder why
We gave it so little thought ;
A smile—kind words—a glance—a touch!
© What magic with them is wrought.
A CONFESSION OF LOVE.
It was a cool August evening when Prof.
Viarnois came forth from his modest apars-
ment on the fourth floor back of Veuve
Collin’s pension, to raise his spirits,if possi-
ble, by means of fresh air and exercise.
He had been two weeks in Antwerp, hav-
ing gone there from Rouen in search of a
position as professor of French in some in-
stitution of learning. This, after some dif-
ficulty, he succeeded in finding,and thought
himself fortunate, as French teachers are
not much in demand in a city where French
is universally spoken. However, in the
school where Prof. Viarnois was to practice
his art there were a number of English and
German pupils; to these his time was to be
devoted.
His dejection arose from the fact that
four weeks were yet to elapse before the
opening of the school,” and his entire per-
sonal fortune, then in his pocket, amount-
ed to exactly thirty fiancs. He had hoped
to eke out this sum by means of private
pupils, but none were to be heard of, and
the financial outlook was growing daily
darker.
The professor, known to his friends as
Jean Louis, was the son of a Rouen photog-
rapher, who had sold so many views of
the Cathedral and other monuments of
ancient Gothic art, that he had been able
to give his boy a good education with a
view toward fitting him for teaching.
Jean Louis bad studied faithfully, and
taken his degree after having won the con-
sideration of his teachers and fellow-stu-
dents.
He wasa slim, delicate young fellow,
whose life had been too full of hard work
for him to have become infected with mod-
ern ideas. Facts had oceupied him to the
exclusion of conjecture, and at twenty-four
he retained his belief, in the ghurch, the
marriage tie, and the literature of the ’for-
ties. He had a boyish timidity in the pres-
ence of strangers, but was light-hearted in
solitude, being blessed with the seeing eye
of an artist and something of a poet’s im-
pressionable soul. Even now, with the
prospect of pauperism gathering darkly on
bis horizon, he felt his spirits rising as he
became part of the gay, cosmopolitan tide
which ebbed and flowed through the ave-
nues of Antwerp.
Instead of the musty, mediz:val city he
had fancied it before his arrival, Antwerp
seemed to him to have all the life and ani-
mation of a little Paris. Old Antwerp, if
it still existed, had apparently withdrawn
into a corner where, in silent dignity, it
awaited the approach of the reverent and
serious-minded visitor.
The professor walked slowly along. stop-
ping now and then to look in a shop win-
dow, until, in the gathering dusk, he came
to the Place Verte, in sight of the Cathedral.
The beautiful spire rose, delicate yet ma-
jestic, into the deep twilight blue of the
sky. Behind it the light of the early stars
melted in the last gleam of day. The doors
were closed. The professor pictured to
himself the interior, cold and vast and
dark; the veiled altar-pieces; the lingering
trail of incense; the dark spaces where, in
the daytime, glowed the brilliant painted
glass of the windows; the ghostly shadows
of pulpits and choir-stalls. Surely, there
in the blackness and solitude, he thought,
there 1ings of itself at midnight the bell
which announces the Presence,
He wandered on nntil he came to the river
side. There, where in the daytime stood
a row of dingy waiehonses, there shone
now a line of glittering lights, as if the
city, like a coquettish old woman, had
covered up her hones with a diamond neck-
lace.
The professor shivered in the cold breath
of air which blew over the wide current of
the Schelde. With the old depression
stronger than ever, he turned to go back
to his lodgings. At the doorway he met
Veuve Collin. ;
‘Well Monsieur, how goes it?" she
asked.
The professor responded rather curtly.
He found the widow fat, greasy, and intol-
erable. The cat arched her back at his
approach, and showed hy graceful, feline
coquetry that she was ready to receive at-
tentious; bust the professor passed her by
without a glance, and went heavily on his
way up the staircase until he came to his
own room. He lighted a candle and glane-
ed around the apartment. The one north
window opened on a small iron balcony,
where stood a few straggling geraniums—
plants which, deprived of the sun, refused
to do more than simply continue a barren
and dispirited existence.
The next morning, as he was sitting in
dressing-gown and slippers, slowly sipping
the muddy coffee be had himself prepared
over a small oil stove, he heard a heavy
tread on the stairs, and the lond,asthmatic
breathing which always announced the ad-
vent of Veuve Collin. A moment after,she
knocked, entered in response to his sum-
mons, and stood for a moment, speechless
and gasping, her band on her bosom.
She was evidently out of temper at being
obliged to climb to the professor’s lofty
abode. When she regained breath, she
spoke.
“There is a monsieur below,” she said,
regarding the professor with a small, un-
friendly eye, ‘who would speak with you
—an Englishman who talks like a Spanish
cow. He awaits you in the salon.’”” ‘‘A
pupil I’ thought the professor. He arose,
directly the widow’s broad back was turn-
ed, and began, with some agitation, to di-
vest himself of dressing-gown and slippers;
then he put on his shiny black coat and
his best shoes, cut off the frayed edges of
his coffs with a pair of scissors, and made
all possible haste down stairs. The door
of the small, dark salon was open, and he
found his visitor seated on the extreme
edge of a chair, his hands folded on his
walking-stick, which was planted firmly
between his kness. He was a man of abont
fifty, dressed with great care, and wearing
his clothes with the air of one who feels
that he bas a right to the best. His face
wage smoothly shaven save for a short, stiff
mustache; and his mouth was a straight, |
inflexible line above a very square chin.
The eyes which met the professor's were
deeply set aud of a pale. cold blue; eyes
which seemed made for piercing disguises,
for watching opportunities, and for guard-
ing secrets.
He did not rise from his chair, but said,
‘‘Good-morning,’’ and began to explain in
fluent French, badly pronounced, that he
was searching for a teacher to give French
lessons to his niece, who was stopping with
him at the Hotel St. Martin. He had been
| recommended to professor Viarneis by the
| English hook seller in the Place Verte,and
he wished to know the professor’s terms,
also the hours which he could give daily
to his niece.
The professor, concealing his embarrass-
ment before the business-like stranger un-
der an elaborate show of courtesy, replied
that he received one franc fifty centimes
| per hour for lessons, and that as to time he
was entirely at monsieur’s disposal, as he
had no regular pupils.
From the expression on the stranger’s
face it might have been thought that he
considered this last admission as stupid as
it was unnecessary; at the same time his
manuer increased slightly in cordiality, as
if he were making an unexpectedly good
bargain in getting French for one franc
fifty centimes an hour.
After some further discussion it was ar-
ranged that the professor should present
himself at the Hotel St. Martin the next
morning at eleven. The visitor, as he took
his leave, offered his card, on which was
engraved the name, Mr. Jamas RB. Harris,
and in one corner, 1331 Madison Avenue,
New York.
The next day, in a state of ardent, peda-
gogical zeal, the professor made his way to
the Hotel St. Martin, and sent up his card
to room 9, which, as the German concierge
informed him, was the drawing-room oc-
cupied by the rich Americarand his niece.
He was bidden to ascend immediately and
was ushered iuto a square apartment gaud-
ily furnished and comfortless. Mr. Har-
ris, who was seated by a much-ornament-
ed, uneven-legged wiiting desk, reading
some letters, greeted the professor with a
nod, and looking toward the end of the
room, where a figure had risen, said, with
business-like abruptness, ‘‘The Professor,
Madeline !"” Jean Louis howed nervously,
and the young lady made a slight inclina-
tion of the head.
She was dark and slender, with a face
wherein certain signs indicated extreme
youth and others the experience of an older
age. Evidently she did not share in the
professor’s embarrassment, for she sat down
at the round centre table, folded her slim
hands upon the rough, woolen roses of the
cover, and said something in English. The
professor did not understand English. He
deposited his hooks on the table, but re-
mained standing with his hand on the back
of a chair.
*'Is it that you speak French at all,made-
moiselle?”’ he asked respectfully. ‘‘A
very little,” she answered in that language,
speaking in a painstaking manner, and as
if she recalled the words from some phrase
book. She motioned toward a chair, and
the professor sat down, keeping at a scru-
pulous distance, however.
*“Let us then begin,’’ he said slowly and
carefully, in order that he might he under-
stood, ‘‘hy learning the names of the ob-
jeots in the room.”’
His pupil looked at him attentively, but
with the vacant expression of one who only
partially understands. The professor re-
peated his sentence, and went on to give
the names of the surrounding objents. In
this fashion the lesson proceeded, Mr. Har-
ris, meanwhile, regarding from the window
the operations of some Flemish laborers
who were repairing the road with crushed
stone.
Finally be interrupted the professor by
exclaiming irritably, ‘‘Look at that dump-
cart ! Raised with a hand-crank and emp-
tied from the side. I'd like to show them
a first-class American dump-cart once I"? A
moment alter, apparently with a desire to
vent his scorn of primitive Belgian meth-
ods to the workmen themselves, he seized
his hat, and saying hastily, “I’m going
out, Madeline,” quitted the room, much
to the professor's consternation. To he left
alone with a young girl was to him an en-
tirely novel and disconcerting experience;
but he forced himself to appear at ease,and
composed a series of sentences, according
to the Gouin Method, with a swiftness and
mental fertility which surprised him. He
seldom ventured to raise his eves to those
of his pupil, hut when he did, he found
her regarding him serenely, with an im-
personal attention which went far toward
restoring his self-possession.
A phonograph mechanically giving forth
words and phrases might have received as
much consideration as did the professor.
Becoming aware of this he took a less fur-
pretty in a fragile, uninsistent way, and
attracted Jean Louis as being the product
of an unknown race and unknown environ-
ments.
Something about her, too.impressed him
as being distinctive, apart from birth or
circumstance, some hint of melancholy and
reserve. He commenced hy trying to un-
derstand, and ended, like all true worship-
pers, with simple love and faith.
That first lesson was the beginning of a
spell which crept slowly over him. Day
after day he went to the Hotel St. Martin
with the humble devotion of a pilgrim go-
ing to a votive shrine, yet between him
and his pupil there was as impassable a
wall of silence as if they had hoth heen
dumb.
What interchange of thought could there
be over such sentences as, ‘‘I cross the
room;’’ ‘I reach the door;”” ‘I put out
my bhand;” “I take hold of the knob;”
“I turn the knch;”’ ete ?
Indeed the professor, try as he would,
was obliged to confess to himself that his
pupil hed no natural aptitude for foreign
tongues. Even the Gouin Method, to
which be faithfully adhered, proved inef-
fectual in her case. One had only to look
in her eyes to see that she was not stupid;
the bar to her progress was more a sort of
weary indifference, or, again an almost
irritating levity. Once when the professor
had triumphantly concluded a series of sen-
teuces on the proceedings of an imaginary
cook, she wilfully confounded them with
the evolutions of smoke, learned the day
before, and asserted that the cook was dis-
persed through space, lost himself in the
air, and disappeared. Poor Jean Louis
was as much disconcerted hy this pleasantry
as if the wax Virgin in the chapel where
he worshipped had deliberately lifted her
stiff, gold-embroidered skirts and executed
a pas seul.
In the meanwhile Mr. Harris went on
his own way,comparing Belgian.and Amer-
ican customs, manners, and institutions.
At times he insisted that bis niece should
accompany him on long, fatiguing expedi-
tions along the quays, and then left her
standing among dry docks and warehouses
while he became absorbed in the working
of sluices and hydraulic cranes. Again, he
went off alone, not to return
night, and” she spent the day as’ best she
tive observation of his pupil. She was’
b
until late at |
could in the dreary solitude of the hotel. |
All this Jean Louis was aware of and
mourned over with the dumb sympathy of
a faithful dog. 4
The time set for the departure of Mr.
Harris and his niece at length drew near at
thand. The former was plainly chafing with
impatience to set sail for his native shores.
He had, guide book in haud, thoroughly
patrolled the streets of Antwerp, and visit-
ed all the spots insisted upon by the truth-
ful, unswerving, and relentless Baedecker.
The professor divined this, and perhaps
cherished a student's contempt for the mere
mau of business. Mr. Harris, on his side,
did not consider Jean Louis at all. A
French professor with a puny frame, a
timid manner, and pale blue cravats bad
for him no place whatever in the scheme
of the universe.
One morning, a few days before the sail-
ing of the Red Star steamer on which Mr.
Harris bad engaged passage, Jean Lonis
left his pension to go and give his last les-
son at the Hotel St. Martin.
It wasa fete day. In the Place Verte
the sun shone brightly, and a military
band played livelyand popular airs. The
flower market was a mass of fragrant
bloom; laitieres, having disposed of their
stock of milk, stopped a nioment to listen
to the music, and the tired dogs harnessed
to their little carts lay down and snatched
a moment’s repose. Tourists conscientious-
ly took note of local color, soldiers in gay
uniforms ogled the pretty girls, babies pur-
sued a wobbling career underfoot,and every-
where through the crowd hobbled the beg-
gars—dirty, crippled, revolting, import-
unate.
Suddenly there came in sight two Sisters
of St. Joseph in their sombre gowns, black
poke bonnets, wide white collars, and
swinging rosaries. They were going in the
same direction as Jean Louis. and walked
so swirtly that they presently overtook
him and went on ahead.
The professor pursued his way with lead
en feet and a heayy heart. In afew days
there would he no more lessons; she would
be gone.
He approached the hotel and was greet-
ed by the concierge with his usual toothy
smile. Seeing that the man wished to
speak to him, the professor stopped. ‘‘The
young lady in Ne. 9 is very ill,” said the
concierge ‘‘Monsieur le docteur has heen
twice in the night. The Sisters of St.
Joseph have just arrived to nurse. What
a misfortune ! Hein 2"
The professor waited to hear no more,
but hurried up the stairs. A voice re-
sponded in answer to his knock at the door
of No. 9, and he went in. Mr. Harris was
pacing up and down the room, looking
angry and excited.
‘Yes, she's ill,”’ he said in answer to the
professor’s anxious inquiry. ‘I was a fool
to have brought her. She has been delicate
for a year, nothing much the matter with
her it seemed. The doctors said the ocean
voyage and change and all would do her
good, so I brought her over. Well, it’s
done her no good, and my trip is spoiled.
Here she is on my hands.”’
Mr. Hanis thrust hie hands deep in his
pockets and looked at the professor, with a
line between his brows. Jean Louis was
silent; he could find no words. ‘‘Of conrse
I shall have her well taken care of. She's
got two Sisters in there now, and the best
doctor in the city. The money is noth-
ing. Itisthe bother of having her laid
up here in this foreign hole.’*
‘‘Her family ?’' the professor ventured
to inquire. L
*‘She has no family but we,’ replied
Mr. Harris. *‘She is a queer girl—Made-
line—not like any one else. I never liked
these little creatures with their minds a
thousand miles off; they are depressing to
bave around. I like a woman who is full
of life and spirits and go. Not but that
Madeline is good-tempered enough.” he
added.
The inner room, where Sister Felicie and
Sister Anastasie were busy, had taken on
the grim look of a place besieged hy death.
The sick woman lay on the bed, her flush-
ed, haggard face thrown back on a low pil-
low, her bair dishevelled, her eves closed.
Under the coarse blanket which zovered
her the outlines of her figure could he seen,
straight, rigid, and almost inanimate. Yet,
though she lay seemingly unconscious, her
mind was abnormally alert and strained to
catch the meaning of the low murmur of
rapid French which came from the lips of
the Sisters as they moved noiselessly about
the room. Once she heard a word which
flashed distinctly across her brain as she
bad seen it on the top line of a page in her
grammar, ‘‘Dire, to say,” *‘‘Monsieur le
docteur,”” and she remembered that in
French one never omitted the polite title.
She wondered what the doctor said, then
fell to conjugate the verb “‘dire,”’ with
some vague idea of improving her time. :
Jedis, tu dis, il dit, etc. What was the
imperfect ? She bad forgotten. How an-
noying not to be able to remember ! Her
eyes half opened, and she saw the black
bonnets of the Sisters bobhing toward each
other in the corner. They were discussing
the case, the patient,” and, incidentally,
many things.
Outside the hot noon sun blazed on the
roofs of the houses across the way. Through
he partly closed shutters there could he
seen a strip of sullen blue sky,and the tree
tops gray with dust. The tap of feet on
the sidewalk sounded from beneath the
window, and from the adjoining room,
where Mr. Harris was solacing the long
hours of weary waiting with a brandy and
soda, came the tinkle of a silver spoon
against glass.
The second day of the fever came. a
fever which, meeting with no resistance
from an exhausted body, was raging with
the license of a tyrant and conqueror. The
long, hot hours went slowly by, the doc-
tor came and went, and there were many
whispered consultations between him and
Mr. Harris.
“It is the brain,”” he said, ‘and the
heart is weak. It is a matter of a few
days—hours perbaps.’’
‘‘She has been sickly for a year,” re-
plied Mr. Harris; ‘I don’t know why I
brought her.”’
Toward night the Sisters went to their
convent for supper, and’ Mr. Harris took
their place watching by the patient’s bed.
He was more disturbed than he had
ever been by any mishap, not connected
with his business. in the course of his en-
tire life, and he bad no great affection for
his niece to draw his mind away from the
contemplation of the material vexations
and perplexities of the position.
Poor Jean Louis had spent a day of agony
walking aimlessly to and fro in the streets,
straying sometimes into the Cathedral to
pray for the soul of her who was so soon to
depart for a world more inaccessible even
than America. Toward night fall he had
ventured to turn his steps once more to-
ward the Hotel St. Martin, fearing his visit
might be an intrusion, yet unable to keep
away. N
The Sisters came back from the convent
and-found their patient lying in a sort of
stupor, and murmuring incoberent words
in a half-whisper. Sister Anastasie knelt
by the side of "the bed’ and-took' the thin,
weak bands. in. hers. . Madeline's: eyes
opened and rested on the face of her nuise.
DD’ eau,” she said faintly. **No, de l'eau;
I forget. Water is feminine. Give me
some lady water, Sister.”’
The water was brought, and she drank a
few diops, her gaze wandering around the
room. When she had finished, Sister
Felicie took Sister Apastasie’s place, and
knelt by the side of the bed. Her eyes,
resting on the sufferer’s, had a compelling
power as if to anchor the soul to couscious-
ness. She spoke in her ear, very slow and
distinctly, in her sweet, tender voice :
**This world is nothing.”
The sick woman's eyes met the Sister’s
with a look of ineffable yearning. ‘‘Noth-
ing—nothing !"” she repeated. Her face
quivered like that of a child seeking com-
fort and sympathy. She struggled to find
words—the words of that strange foreign
tongne—to express her thought, hut the ef-
fort was too great. Her face grew dull
again. The Sister held the crucifix against
the dry, hot lips,but already she had lapsed
into unconseipnsness.
“It will be to-night,” said the doctor
when he came again. And in the night,
when the chill that precedes the dawn was
in the air, when the wasting candle threw
on the wall monstrous, fantastic shadows
from the Sisters’ poke bonnets, and the
room was heavy with the smell of fever,
Mr. Harris’s niece died.
The professor heard the news when he
came early in the morning to inquire.
‘Such a misfortune !"’ exclaimed the con-
cierge. ‘‘And the house full of guests!
However, the American is rich, he can
pay.”’ In the upper hall the professor en-
countered Mr. Haris, who seemed hurried
and full of business. He stopped long
enough to hear the professor's expression
of sympathy and’ condolence, and then
made a movement as if to go on, hut the
other still detained him. It seemed as if
he wisiied to say something more, yet no
woids came. His face grew suddenly very
white.
“Well 27 said Mr. Harris.
“If I might ask such a great, such an
unmerited, favor,’’ began the professor, in
a voice which trembled; “it is that [ might
look once more on the face of mademoiselle.
I had for her so deep a respect, so—"
Certainly,’ replied Mr. Harris. *‘The
Sisters are there. You can go in. You
will pardon me if I leave you. I have
much to do,’’ and he hurried off.
The professor made his way to the door
where he had knocked so many times,
was opened by Sister Anastasie. He brief-
ly explained his wishes, and the permission
he had received from Mr. Harris, and
Sister Anastasie motioned toward the inner
root:. He pushed the door gently open
and went in. The disarray of the sick-
room: had not heen yet removed. The
table held some glasses, a spoon, and alcohol
lamp, and an iron saucepan, and on the
shelf stood a row of medicine bottles on
which the dust had already begun to gath-
er. There were no flowers, no burning
tapers; only on the hed a stiff, shrouded
figure, :
As the professor entered, Sister Felicie
rose from her knees by the side of the dead.
There lay the body of the lady of his
dreams. In life she had been as far re-
moved from his thoughts and knowledge
as a star; hut in death alone, neglected,
forsaken, she seemed suddenly near. He
approached the bed. Sister Felicie drew
the covering from the still face, and then
went to the other side of the room. A
quick impulse came to the professor. He
leaned over and whispered in the dead
woman's ear the words he had never dared
say to his own heart while she lived :
“I loved you !"’—By Helen Huntington,
in Everybody’s Magazine.
Steer Worth Its Weight in Silver.
Originally Valued at $30, Law Suits Over it Have
Cost Litigants Thousands.
Quietly browsing on the stubble fields of
northern Charlton county in Mo., is a
spindle-shanked steer that promises one
day to exceed in value that of any of its
kind ever shown in a Western cattle mar-
ket. All unmindful of its greatness, it runs
with the common berd, scrapes around ihe
same feed lot for fodder, journeys to the
same little pond when thirsty and rests its
weary limbs in the same barn with plebian
cattle o’nights.
The steer was originally worth only $30.
That was before John Massengale,
of Macon county, and Elijah E. Rice, of
Charlton connty, began lawing over it and
raised its value nearly pound for pound
equal to silver.
One day in September, 1899, Mr. Massen-
gale went out to round up his cattle and
discovered that one of them was missing.
In his search he visited the domain of Mr:
Rice, some miles south of his own, and
claimed he found there his missing ani-
mal. Mr. Rice was equally positive he had
raised that identical steer from calfhood.
Both Rice and Massengale are extensive
stock raisers and have plenty of money to
back their respective opinions. Although
they have been friends and neighbors for
years, they went to law. Massengale led
off with a suit in replevin.
As the first trial the jury disagreed. As
the second trial Massengale won out, but
Rize promptly went into the Circuit court.
When the case was called, in February,
1900, there was a re-enforcement of law-
yers on both sides, and it looked as if a re-
cruiting officer had been out hunting up
witnesses.
The case was bitterly fought from start
to finish, but at the ‘‘round-up’’ the jury
had six stubborn men on, the litigants
thought, for the ballots were ties. The
case went on again in September, 1900. As
a salient bit of evidence to back up his
oral testimony the defendant drove the
steer all the way to court—some fifty miles
—but the Court refused to permit the ‘‘ex-
hibit’ to go to the jury. The trial lasted
a week and the defendant got the verdict.
Undaunted by the extent of the record
and the expense of getting it up, the plain-
tiff promptly instructed his lawyers to
ascend the next step in the legal ladder—
the Appellate court.
The issues were presented to the Kansas
City court of Appeals in a 241 page brief
this week. It is expected that a decision
will be handed down early next month,
Whoever loses will have to pay the court
costs and for the transcript and brief. Each
of the eight lawyers will also naturally ex-
pect a good fee for his long and hard work,
and this, with the court costs, will proba-
bly land that scrawny, bow-legged steer in
the $3000 class.
——Daniel Houseman, foreman of the
laboring department of the Altoona car
shops, was retired Tuesday, he having
reached the age limit of 70 years. A great
demonstration was held last Thursday at 5
o’clock, when thousands of the employes
assembled in the round house where he
was presented with a gold watch, a gold
headed ebony cane, eye glasses and stud.
Rev. A. E. Wagner of the Second Luth-
eran church, made the presentation speech.
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Horrors of Death Valiey of Southern
California.
Desolate Region, Where so Many Prospectors and
Pioneers have Perished, has Valuable Natural
Products.
The most thorongh exploration made of
the mysterious grewsome Death Valley in
California since Lieutenant W. B. Craw-
ford’s expedition there in 1890 began with
the cool days of last November, and will
close for a season when hot weather comes
to Death Valley in May. The expedition
consists of a dozen mineralogists, botanists
and biologists of California, and several
geologists from Boston and Chicago. The
building of the Los Angeles, San Pedro and
Salt Lake Railroad from Salt Lake City,
Utah, to Los Augeles, Cal, through the
desert country adjacent to Death Valley
has roused interest in the mineral possibil-
ities of this little known corner of the
Union. With a railroad, by which ores,
borax aud same products may be hauled
cueaply to smelters and market, there may
be fortunes to be found even in so forbid-
ding a bit of the earth’s - surface as this.
Thus far the explorers have located, under
the United States mineral laws, the largest
deposits of nitre in North America, several
beds of naturally formed borax, besides
numerous outcroppings of silver and cop-
per ores. The expedition has carefully
studied the remarkable topography and
geology of Death Valley. To cover the
subject thoroughly, however, many months
will be required, and when cold weather
returns next fall the expedition will re-
sume its work for another season.
Death Valley lies in Inyo county, about
250 miles from the nearest railroad, 350
miles from the Pacific Ocean, and close be-
side the Nevada-California State line. It
is a part of the Mojave and Colorado des-
erts, and is the quintessence of all that is
melancholy, grim and withered in desert
characteristics. The valley proper is about
one hundred miles long ard fifty wide.
While most of Inyo county for thousands
of square miles is a plateau ‘averaging 5000
feet 1n altitude. Death Valley is from 300
to 450 feet below sea level. Mount Whit-
ney, to the east, is over 15,000 feet high,
and the descent from that to the valley 1s
very precipitous. All about are mountain
walls of bleached granite. In some places
the walls rise sheer several thousand feet.
The valley is seamed with deep Ganyons and
desolate whitened gulches, and there are
but few places where one may cross from
one side of it to another. In summer when
the mercury ranges from 125 to 145 in the
shade, and when rocks are a shimmering
white and the alkali wastes are scorching,
even the strongest cannot make the jour-
ney safely.
GEOLOGICAL STUDIES.
The bottom of the valley is made up of
great acres of saline deposits, beds of borax
and salt, which under a strong sunshine,
present ghastly appearance with their glis-
tening whiteness. The bedrocks are shale
and schist left from the Jura-triassic pe-
riod, but a most exteusive volcanic eruption
has so scatte.el and demoralized the var-
ious formations that widely different de-
posits are often found within a few feet of
one another. There are dozens of craters
of extinct volcanoes in the valley, and
with their blackened ruins and coating of
dark cinders, acres in area, the general
whiteness of the valley bottoms stands out
all the more lonely and ghastly.
Sand hills that shifc and grow and di-
minish with every desert whirlwind
abound, and great sink holes (half a mile
in diameter) are found all over Death Val-
ley as dry powder, with an alkaline sedi-
ment dry on the hottom, where it was de-
posited thousands of years ago. The In-
dians of the Mojave desert call the valley
“Devil’s Hollow (mingotunk),” and none
will go farther into it than the threshold,
and then only in winter. A wealth of un-
canny stories are in the lore of the Mo-
jave tribe about bad Indians who have
been condemned to live through all eter-
nity in Death Valley.
Therz is no hotter, drier spot in Africa
or Asia. Birds which abound in the Sier-
ras do not wing their way across this spot.
Nature is absolutely lifeless in Death Val-
ley. While the waters of melting snows
on the lofsy mountains run tumultuously
down the canyons on the western sides of
the Sierras, they never reach Death Valley
on the eastern side, for they are sucked
away in the vast sandy stretches long be-
fore they pass the feet of the mountains.
Nowhere else in all America is evaporation
so high. One’s thirst must be slaked every
few hours even in the depth of winter,
and thirst soon hecomes raging, and in
bal a day may cause insanity. Many a
hardy mining prospector has gone insane
with thirst in a few urs, when on the
edge Death Valley. The desert from Mo-
jave to the Searles’ borax works on the
western edge of Death Valley is frequently
dotted with the graves of ‘teamsters and
prospectors who have reeled and died on
the hot sands when they had run short of
drinking water.
The mirages of Death Valley, the explor-
ers there say, are the most remarkable in
the world. Every day in any season one
see’s among the parched hills and scalded
mountain sides phantasmic pictures, miles
in area, of foaming mountains streams,
sylvan shades, alfalfa fields and browsing
cattle—scenes reflected from the other sides
and tops of the Sierras. Occasionally scenes
from the Pacific Ocean may be reflected in
the mirages, and sailing ships and tossing
waves may be seen amid ‘the shimmering
desolate sand hillsand alkali canyons of
Death Valley. The Indians call the mi-
rages the Big Spirit’s picture. Sometimes
in the hottest weather the mirages will re-
main floating wonderfully distinct in the
valley for a day at a time, but generally it’
lasts only a few minutes. There the phan-
tasma vanishes in a twinkling, to be soon
succeeded by another—until as many as
seven different mirages have been seen
there in one day.
FIERCEST OF SANDSTORMS.
Sandstorms are a serious thing on the
Colorado and Mojave deserts, but nowhere
do they approach the deadliness of a sand-
storm in Death Valley. The simoons of
the Arabian deserts are well known in lit-
erature, bus the present explorers of Death
Valley say the simoons are mere babes by
side of a howling gale of hot sand in this
place. The hot air rising from the canyon,
and hottoms of the valleys encounters the
cold atmosphere currents from the Sierras
and Rockies, and the rushing of the cooler
air into the valley instantly creates a storm
undreamed of in any other part of the
world. For hours at a time the sandstorm
rages; occasionally for a day and a night,
Nothing alive can brave the hurricane.
The man who will keep closz within a tent,
with his head wrapped in a blanket, will
survive, but he will suffer with heat al-
most as severely as if in an oven, and for
days thereafter with a pain from smarting
nostrils and inflamed eyes and ears. Old-
time plainsmen, who knew about all the
hardships that man’s anatomy can exper-
ince, are a unit in saying that the ‘desert
sandstorm, more particularly a Death Val-
ley sandstorm, is the moss trying physical
ordeal. The mountains’ which bulwark
Death Valley show the terrific erosion of
their flinty faces by successions of these
tempests. Here and there are starved
grease-root plants, like stunted, starved
trees tnat have been half-buried in sand
during these storms. Many a man who has
been a desert teamster or a mining pros-
pector has suffered chronic inflamation of
the eyes by reason of having experienced
oue of these whirlwind of alkali sand.
The nearest water course to Death Val-
ley is the Amargosa river, a little stream
that trickles down in an enormous bed
from away up among the mountains in Ne-
vada. Centuries ago the Amargosa was a
mighty roaring torrent that eroded granite
rock and ate a river bed half a mile wide
for over eighty miles. The Amargosa
touches the extreme southwestern end of
Death Valley, and-in the locality lizards
and venomous crawling things may be oe-
casionally seen darting from under rocks.
In the same locality tiny rivulets of heavi-
ly charged borax water issue from the base
of ancient volcanoes and form in pools.
Hundred of acres of the purest borax are
created here by the intense evaporation,
and large fortunes have been made by Cali-
fornians, who hauled the product across
the desert to the railroad station in Mo-
ave.
WELL DESERVES ITS NAME.
Death Valley gets its name from its
ghastly aspect, its desolation, and its dead-
ly effect upon many venturesome or ignor-
ant mining prospector who has attempted
to cross it in summer, and who has died of
thirst there. Among all the tales of grim
hardships and dreadful suffering by emi-
gauts to California before there was rail-
roads west of the Missouri river, none is so
pitiful as that of the party who got lost in
Death Valley in 1849. There were 500
emigrants in a caravan at Salt Lake City in
August of that year. All were going to
the gold fields in California. A division
of opinion arose as to the safest and easiest
and trail across the trackless plains and the
Sierras to the new Eldorado. Some 200 of
the party struck out for the southeast, and
found the old Santa Fe trail, which finally
led them to Southern California. The rest
went plodding in a caravan across the
wastes of Southern Utah. There was noth-
ing to show them the way through the life-
less roasting valleys, past the bald moun-
taing, and then westward over the tower-
ing Sierras.
The caravan was in the Land of Thirst.
For four months the starv ng, half-crazed
men and women wandered hither and yon
through the region of horror, seeking some
pass between the mountains to the Pacific
Ocean. Mirages led them vainly miles
away from the trail. Their wagons fell
apart from the dryness, and horses fell
daily under the withering heat. The oxen
fell, and stalwart men sickened and died
in the cainps. One day nine young men
became separated from the main party, and
years later their whitened bones were found
in an extinct volcanic crater, where they
had crawled in their delirum and weak-
ness. For days the gaunt, weak men in
the party went without food. The days
were too hot for them to be out in the sun,
and they confined their efforts to the nights
for finding paths that might lead out of
the roasting tomb.
At last eighty-two of the original party
—uow mere skeletons and so weak that
they could scarcely walk—found a passage-
way through the Funeral Mountains, and,
summoning all their little remaining
strength, managed to get up and out of
Death Valley into the cool aud well-water-
ed region of Southern California, beyond
the Sierras. One of the party, the Rev. J.
W. Grier, weighed 187 pounds when he
left Salt Lake City, and when he reached
Los Angeles eighteen weeks later his weight
was down to 92 pounds. Two of his broth-
ers and oue of his sisters-in-law died during
the awful journey.—New York Evening
ost.
Rallroaded To Gallows.
Quick Trial for Triple Murderer. Peculiar Relations
of Man and Woman.
William H. Lane, the Philadelphia negro
who shot and killed the reputed wife of
Charles A. Furbush and her danghter
Madelive, aged ten . years, and fatally
wounded Eloise, the seven year old daugh-
ter of the woman, has confessed the crimes
and will be hurried to the gallows as swift-
ly as’ justice will allow. Peritonitis set
in and the wounded little one died Friday.
Friday was set for the ingnest and the evi-
dence was given to the grand jury thas
evening and Lane was arraigned in court
Saturday. The trial will be a mere for-
mality as he has confessed the crimes and
has been identified by the dying child, so
his execution is expected within the month.
The name of the dead woman is Ella
Jarden and her mother and two sisters live
in Philadelphia, but they refuse to say any-
thing that would throw any light on the
relations of the woman and Furbush, wha
bad lived together as man and wife for sev-
eral years. Furbush also refuses to talk on
the subject and is prostrated over the crime,
which occurred while he was away. He
said he could throw no light on Lane’s mo-
tive for the tragedy and the latter express--
ed contrition at injuring Eloise, but said
Madeline and her mother deserved their
ate.
Farmers Swindled.
Patent Hay Fork is Used as a Ruse to Victimize:
Them.
A gang of swindleis are victimizing
farmers of York and Adams counties, Pa.
Approaching a farmer they appoint him
agent for a patent hay fork and agree to.
give him a fork if he will show it to his:
neighbors and devote one day of the month,
to taking orders. The farmer signs a con--
tract agreeing to the terms.
When the contract is cut in two, the sig-
nature end is a judgment note, which the-
farmer is forced to pay ata bank. Scores.
of farmers have heen forced to pay from $75.
to $450 each.
Apparently a Mistake.
Leo was a very bad companion. At least
so thought little Gertie, who often tried to
play with him.
Gertie’s mother was telli
that God made everybody.
‘Did He make Leo, too ?”’ said the little
2irl, with eyes wide open.
‘‘Yes,”” said her mother. ‘‘He made Leo,
too.”’
“Well, if I had been God I wouldn’
have done that,’’ said Gertie.
ng her one day
——The following ambiguous advertise-
ment recently appeared in a Detroit paper :
‘‘Notice—If——, who is supposed to be in
Chicago, will communicate with his friends
at home he will hear of something to his
advantage. His wife is dead.” ;
——
The April Fool who's worst of all
. . When spring gets in the air wa tid] ¥
Is he who's led to go and shed. hb Sh Lah
His winter underwear,