rated with a fringe of plump turkeys. One 1 : window held a glowing mountain of fruit and vegetables arranged by some one with Srp «i @ keen eye to color—monstrous pumpkins, Bellefonte Pa.. November 25, 1904 = ar SAND WILL DO IT. splendid purple cabbage, rosy apples and “russet pears, green and purple grapes, . snowy stalks of celery, and corn ears yel- | “RE a g ow as stnshine. Crimsoned beets neigh- borr ' +h snowy parsnips, scarlet carrots, |r Jc-wrapped onions. Egg-plants 1 observed a locomotive in the railroad=yssese fea eo like deep-hued amethysts circled one day, ¥ It was waiting in the roundhouse where the locomotives stay ; = 1t was panting for the journey, it was coaled and fully manned, And it had a box the fireman was filling full of sand. It appears that locomotives can not always get a grip On their slender iron pavement, ’cause the wheels are apt to slip: And when they reach a slippery spot their tactics they command, And to get a grip upon the rail they sprinkle it with sand. It's about the way with travel along life's slippery track, If your load is rather heavy you're always slipping back ; So, jif a common locomotive you completely understand, You'll provide yourself in starting with a good supply of sand. If your track is steep and hilly and you have heavy grade, x If those who've gone before you have the rails quite slippery made, If you ever reach the summit of the upper table land, Youll find you'll have to doit with a liberal use of sand. If you strike some frigid weather and discover to your cost, That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of frost, Then some prompt decided action will be call- ed into demand, And you’ll slip way to the bottom if you haven’t any sand. You can get to any station that is on life’s schedule seen, If there’s fire beneath the boiler of ambition’s strong machine, And you'll reach a place called Flushtown at a rate of speed that’s grand, If for all the slippery places you've a good sup- ply of SAND. —Richmond (Ind.) Register. THE DEBUT OF DAN'L WEBSTER. ‘I guess you can get the ell roof shin- gied now, most any old time,’’ cried Ho- mer Tidd. He hounced in at the kitchen door. A blast of icy wind followed him. ‘‘Gracious ! shet the door, Homer, an’ then tell me your news.’”’” His mother shivered and pulled a little brown shawl tighter about her shoulders. The hoy planted himself behind the stove and laid his mittened hands com- fortably around the pipe. ‘‘Oh, I’ve made a great deal, mother.” Homer’s freckled face glowed wish satisfaction. ‘‘What?’’ asked Mrs. Tidd. “‘Did you see the man that jest druv out o’ the yard?’’ ‘‘No, Ididn’t, Homer.’’ ‘“Well,’s was Mr. Richards—the Mr. Richards o’ Finch & Richards, the big market folks over in the city.’ ‘‘Has he bought your Thanksgivin’ tur- keys?” ‘“He bhain’t bought ’em for Thanks- givin’.” “Well, what aie you so set up about, boy?”’ ‘‘He’s rented the hull flock. He's to pay me three dollars a day for them, then he’s goin’ to buy them all for Christmas.’’ ‘Land sakes ! Three dollars a day!”’ Mrs. Tidd dropped one side of a pan of apples she was carrying, and some of them went rolling about the kitchen floor. Homer nodded. Ou ‘‘For how long?’’ she asked eagerly. “For a week.” Homer’s freckles dis- appeared in the crimson glow of enthusi- asm that overspread his face. ‘‘Eighteen dollais for nothin’ but ex- hibitin’ a bunch o’ turkeys! Seems to me some folks must have money to throw away.” Mrs. Tidd stared perpiexedly over the top of her glasses. ““I’11 tell you all about it, mother.”’ Homer took a chair and planted his feet on the edge of the oven. ‘‘Mr. Richards is goin’ to have a great Thanksgivin’ food show, an’ he wants a flock o’ live turkeys. He’s been drivin’ round the country look: in’ for some. The postmaster sent him here. He told him about Dan’l Webster’s tricks.”’ or ‘They don’t make Dan’l any better eat- in’,”’ objected the mother. ‘Maybe not. But don’t you see? Well!’ Homer’s laugh was an embarrassed one. ‘‘I'm goin’ to put Dan’l an’ Gettys- burg tbrough their tricks right in the store window.”’ ‘“You ben’t?’”’ and the mother looked in rapt admiration at her clever son. “I be!” answered Homer triumphant- 1 y. “I don’t know, boy, jest what I think o’ it,”’ said his mother, slowly. ‘‘’Tain’s ex- actly a—a gentlemanly sort o’ thing to do; be it?”? *‘I reckon I be n’t a gentleman, moth- er,”’ replied Homer, with his jolly laugh. *“Tell me all about it.” ‘Well, I was feedin’ the turkeys when Mr. Richards druv in. He said be heered I had some trick tuikeys an’ he'd like to see ’em. Lucky enough, I bad n’t fed em; they was awful hungry, an’ I tell you they never did their tricks better.”’ “What did Mr. Richards say?’’ ‘‘He thought it was the most amazin’ thing he'd ever seen in bis life. He said he wouldn't bave believed turkeys had enough gnmption in them to learn a trick o’ any kind.” ‘Did you tell him how you’d fussed with them ever since they was little chicks.’ “I did. He woz real interested, an’ he offered me three dollars to give a show three times a day. a8 big as this kitchen. He’ll have it wir- ed in, an’ the turkeys ’ll stay there at his expense. Along before Christmas be’ll give me twenty-two cents a pound for ‘em.”’ Well, I vow, Homer, it’s pretty good ‘*Mr. Richards give me a commutation on the railroad. He's to send after the turkeys an’ bring ’em back, so I won’s have eny expense."’ Homer rose and sauntered about the kitoken, picking up the apples that had rolled in all directions over the floor. A week before Uhanksgiving, the corner in front of Finch & Richard’s great market looked as it was wont to look on circus day: only the eyes of the crowds were not turned expectantly up Main street ; they were riveted on a window in the big store. Passers-by tramped out into the snowy street when they reached the mob at the corner. The front of the store was deco- He's got a window half | ahout wiaguificent cauliflowers, while red ¢ 1 yellow bananas made gay mosaic "+ @#l*y through the fruit mountain. Where- ever a cr. 2k or a cranny had been left was a mound of ruby cranberries, fine raisin buncles, or brown puts. "Tt was a remarkable display of American products; yet, after the first ‘‘Ah’”’ of ad- miration, people passed on to the farther window, where six piomp turkeys, su- premely innnocent of a feast-day fate, flapped their wings or gobbled imperti- nently when a small boy laid his nose flat againsi the window. Three times a day the crowd grew twenty deep. It laughed and shouted and elbowed one another good naturedly, for the Thanksgiving spirit was abroad. Men tossed children up on their stalwart shoulders, then small hands clapped ecstatically, and small legs kicked with wild enthusiasm. The hero of the hour was a freckled, red-haired boy, who came leaping through a wire door with an old broom over his shoulders. Every turkey waited for him eagerly, hungrily ! They knew that each old familiar trick—learned away back in childhood—would earn a good feed. When the freckled boy began to whistle, or when his voice rang out in a shrill order, it was the signal for Dan’l Webster, for Gettys- burg, for Amanda Ann, Mehitable, Nancy, or Farragut to step to the center of the stage and do some irresistibly funny turn with a turkey’s bland solemnity. None of the birds bad attacks of stage fright ; their acting was as self-possessed as if they were in the old farm-yard with no audience pre- sent but Mrs.Tidd to lean smiling over the fence with a word of praise and the covet- ed handful of golden corn. With every performance the crowd grew more dense, the applause more ugroarious, and the Thanksgiving trade at Finch & Richard’s bigger than it had been in years. Each night Homer took the last train home, tired bot bappy, for three crisp greenbacks were added to the roll in his small shabby wallet. Two days before Thankegiving, Homer, in his blue overalls and faded sweater, was busy at work. The gray of dawn was just creeping into the east while the hoy went hurrying through his chores. There was still a man’s work to be done before he took the ten-o’clock train to town; be- sides, he bad promised to help his mother about the house. His grandfather, an uncle, an aunt, and three small cousins were coming to eat their Thauksgiving feast at the old farm-house. Homer whis- tled gaily while he bedded the creatures with fresh straw. The whistle trailed into an indistinct trill ; the boy felt a pang of loneliness as he glanced into the turkey- pen. There was nobody -there but old Mother Salvia. Homer tossed her a hand- ful of corn. ‘‘Poor old lady, I s’pose you’re lonesome, ain’t you. now?’ Never mind ; when spring comes y ou’ll be seratch- in’ around with a hull raft of nice little chickies at your heels. We’ll teach them a fine trick or two, won’t we, old Salvia?”’ Salvia clucked over the corn apprecia- tively. ‘‘Homer, Homer, come here, quick!’’ Down the frozen path through the yard came Mrs. Tidd, with the little brown Shawl wrapped tightly about her head. She fluttered a yellow envelop in her hand. ‘‘Homer, boy, it’s a telegraph come. I can’t read it ; I’ve mislaid my glasses.”’ Homer was by her side in a minute, tearing open the flimsy envelop. “It’s from Finch & Richards, mother,’’ be cried excitedly. ‘‘They say, ‘Take the first train to town without fail.” ”’ “What do you 3’pose they want yon for?’ asked Mrs. Tidd, with an anxious face. : ‘“P'r’aps the store’s burned down,” gasped Homer. He brushed one rough band across his eyes. ‘‘Poor Dan’l Web: ster an’ Gettysburg! I didn’t know any- body could set so much store by turkeys.’ ‘“‘Mavbe ‘6 ain’t nothin’ had, Homer.” Mrs. Tidd laid her hand upon his should- er. ‘‘Maybethey want you to give an ex- tra early show or somethin’.”” She sug- gested it cheerfully. ‘‘Maybhe,’’ echoed Homer. ‘‘But, moth- er, I've got to hurry to catch that 7:30 train.”’ ‘‘Let me go with you, Homer.”’ “You don’t need to,’’cried the boy. ‘‘It probably ain’t nothin’ serious.’’ “I'm goin’,’’ said Mis. Tidd decisively ; ‘you don’t s’pose I could stay here doin’ nothin’ but waitin’ an’ wond’rin ?”’ Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes later they stood in front of Finch & Richard’s big market. ‘‘Mother,”” whispered the boy, as he stepped off the car, ‘‘mother, my turkeys ! They're not there! Something’s happened. See the crowd.” They pushed their way through the mob that was peering in at the windows and through the windows of locked doors. i The row of plump turkeys was not hung i this morning under the big sign ; the mag- nificent window display of fruit and veget- ables had been ruthlessly demolished. ‘‘What do you s8’pose can have happen- ed ?” whispered Mre. Tidd, while they waited for a olerk to come hurrying down the store and uolock the door. Homer shook his head. Mr. Richards himself came to meet them. ‘‘Well, young man,’’ he cried, ‘‘I’ve had enough of your pesky bird show. There’s a hundred dollars’ worth of provisions gone, to say nothing of the trade we are ! turning away. Two days before Thanks- | giving, of all times in the year!" { ‘Good laud!” whispered Mrs. Tidd. | Her'eyes were wandering about the store. . Is was scattered from one end to the other : with wasted focd. Sticky rivers trickled here and there across the floor. A small army of clerks was hard at work sweeping and mopping. ‘Where's my turkeys ?’’ asked Homer. ‘Your turkeys, confound them!’’ snarl- ed Mr. Richards, ‘They're safe and sound in their crate in my back store, all but that blasted old gobbler you call Dan’l Webster. He's doing his stunts on a top shelf. We found him there tearing cereal packages into shreds. For meroy’s sake,go and see if you can’t get him down. He has almost pecked the eves out of every clerk who has tried to lay a finger on him. I’d like to wring bis ugly neck!”’ Mr. Richards’s face grew red as the comh of Dan’l Webster himself. Homer and his mother dashed across the store. High above their heads strutted Dan’l Webster with a slow, stately tread. Occasionally he peered down at the ruin and confusion below, commenting upon it with a lordly, satisfied gobble. ‘‘Dan’l Webster,”’ called Homer, coax- ingly, ‘‘good old Dan’l, come an’ see me.”’ The boy slid cautiously along to where a step ladder stood. *‘Dan’l,”’ he called, ‘‘wouldn’t you like to come home, Dan’l?’’ Dan’l perked down with pleased recogni- tion in his eyes. Homer crept up the lad- der. He was preparing to lay a hand op one of Dan’l’s black legs when the turkey hopped away with a triumphant gobble, and went racing gleefully along the wide shelf. A row of bottles filled with salad- dressing stood in Dan’l’s path. He clear- ed them out of the way with one energetic kick. They tumbled to a lower shelf ; their yellow contents crept in a sluggish stream toward the mouth of a tea-box. “‘I’ll have that bird shot!” thundered Mr. Richards. ‘‘That’s all there is about is.” “Wait a minute, sir,”’ pleaded Mrs.Tidd. ‘““Homer’!] get him.”’ Dan’l Webster would neither be coaxed nor commanded. He wandered np and down the shelf, gobbling vociferously into the faces of the excited moh. ‘*Henry, goand get a pistol,’’ cried Mr. Richards, turning to one of his clerks. **Homer,”’—Mrs. Tidd clutched the boy’s arm,—‘*why don’t you make b’iieve you're shootin’ Dan’l? Maybe he’ll lie down, so you can git him.”’ Homer called for a broom. He tossed it gun fashion, across his shoulder, and crept along slowly, sliding a ladder before him to the spot where the turkey stood watch- ing with intent eyes. He put one foot upon the lowest step, then he burst out in a spirited whistle. It was ‘‘Marching through Georgia.”’ The biid stared at him fixedly. ‘‘Bang!’’ cried Homer, and he pointed the broom straight at the recreant turkey. Dan’l Webster dropped stiff. A second later Homer bad a firm grasp of the scaly legs. Dan’l returned instantly to life, but the rebellious head was tucked uw» der his master’s jacket. Dan’l Webster thought he was being strangled to death. ‘“There!”’ cried Homer, triumphantly. He closed the lid of the poultry crate and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “There! I guess you won’t get out again.”’ He followed Mr. Richards to the front of the store to view the devastation. *‘Who’d bave thought turkeys could have ripped up strong wire like that?’ oried the enraged market man, pointing to the shattered door. . ‘I guess Dan’l began the mischief,’’ said Homer, soberly; ‘he’s awful strong.”’ “I'm sorry I ever laid my eyes on Dan’l,’”’ exclaimed Mr. Richards. ‘‘I’ll hate to see Finch. He'll be in on the 4:20 train. He’s conservative ; he never bad any use for the turkey show.” “When did you find out that they— what bad happened ?”’ asked Homer, tim- idly. ‘At five o’clock. Two of the men got here eariy. They telephoned me. I never saw such destruction in my life. Your turkeys had sampled most everything in the store, from ‘split peas to molasses. What they didn’t eat they knocked over or tore open. Iguess they won’t need feed- ing for a week. They're chuckful of oat- meal, beans, crackers, peanuts, pickles, toothpicks, pranes, soap, red herrings, cab- bage—about everything their crops can hold.” “I'm awful sorry,’’ faltered Homer. *‘So am I,” said Mr. Richards, resolute- ly. ‘‘Now, the best thing that you can do is to take your flock and clear out. I've had enough of performing turkeys.’ Homer and his mother waited at the depot for the 11 o’clock train. Beside them stood a crate filled with turkeys that wore a well-fed, satisfied expression. Somebody tapped Homer on the shoulder. “You're the boy who does the stunts with turkeys, aren't you?'’ asked a well- dressed man with a silk hat, and a flower in his buttonhole. ‘‘Yes,”’ answered the boy, wonderingly. ‘I’ve been hunting for you. That was a great rumpus you made at Finch & Richards’s, The whole town’s talking about it.”’ ‘“Yes,”” answered Homer again, and he blushed scarlet. “Taking your turkeys home?’’ Homer nodded. “I’ve come to cee if we can keep them in town a few days longer.”’ The boy shook his head vigorously. ‘‘I don’t want any more turkey shows.” “Not if the price is big enough to make it worth your while?”’ “No!" said Homer. ‘‘Let us go into the station and talk it over.” On Thanksgiving afternoon the Colonial Theater, the best vaudeville house in the city, held a throng that had dined well and was happy enough to appreciate any sort of fun. The children—hundreds of them—shrieked with delight over every act. The women laughed, the men ap- planded with great hearty hand-claps. A little buzz of excitement went round the house when, at the end of the fourth turn, two boys, instead of setting up the regunla- tion big red number, displayed a brand- new card. It read: ‘Extra Number— Homer Tidd and bis Performing Turkeys.”’ A shout of delighted anticipation went up from the audience. Every paper in town had made a spectacular story of the ruin at Finch & Richard’s. Nothing could have been so splendid a surprise. Every- body broke into applause—everybody ex- cept one little woman who sat in the front row of the orchestra. Her face was pale, her hands clasped and unclasped each oth- er tremulously. ‘Homer, boy,’”’ she whispered to herself. The curtain rolled up. The stage was set for a realistic farm yard scene. The floor was scattered with straw, aun old pump leaned over in one corner, hay tumbled untidily from a barn-lofé, a coop with a hen and chickens stood by the fence. From her stall stared a white-faced cow ; her eyes blinked at the glare of the footlights. The orchestra struck up a merry tune; the cow uttered an astonished moo: then in walked a stardv lad with fine broad shoulders, red hair, and freckles. His boots clumped, his blue overalls were faded, his sweater had once heen red. At his heels stepped six splendid turkeys, straight in line every one with its eyes on the master. Homer never knew how he did it. Two minutes earlier he had said ‘to the manager, desperately : *‘I’ll cut an’ run right off as soon as I set eyes on folks.”’ Perhaps he drew courage from the anxious gaze in his mother’s eves. Heirs was the only face he saw in the great audience. Perbaps it was the magnificent aplomb of the turkeys that inspired him. They step- ped serenely, as if walking out on a gor- geously lighted stage vas an every-day event in their lives. Anyhow, Homer threw up his head and led the turkey march round and round past the footlights, till the shout of applause dwindled into silence. The hoy threw back his bead and snapped his fingers. The turkeys re- treated to form in line at the back of the stage. ‘Gettysburg,’ cried Homer, pointing to a stately plump hen. Gettysburg stepped to the center of the stage. ‘‘How many kernels of corn have I thrown you, Getty?’’ he asked. The turkey turned to count them, with her head cocked reflectively on one side. Then she seratched her foot on the floor. ‘“One, two, three, four, five!’ ‘Right! Now you may eat them, Getty.” : Gettyshurg wore her new-won laurels with an excellent grace. She jumped through a row of hoops; slid gracefully about the stage on a pair of miniature roll- er-skates; she stepped from stool to chair, from chair to table, in perfecs time with Homer’s whistle and a low strain of melody from the orchestra. She danced a stately jig on the table, then, with a satisfied cluck, descended on the other side to the floor. Amanda, App, Mehitable, Nancy, and Farragut achieved their trinmph in a slow dance made up of dignified hops and mazy turns. They stood in a decorous line awaiting the return of their master, for Homer had dashed suddenly from the stage. He reappeared, holding his head up proudly. Now he we ¢ the blue uni- form and jaunty cap of a suidier boy; a gun leaned on his shoulder. The orchestra put all its vigor, patriot- ism, and wind into ‘‘Marching through Georgia.”’ Straight to Homer's side, when they heard his whistle, wheeled the tur- key regiment, ready to keep step, to fall in line, to march and countermarch. Only one feathered soldier fell. It was Dan’l Webster. At a bang from Homer's rifle be dropped stiff and stark. From children here and there in the audience came a cry of horror. They turned to ask in fright- ened whispers if the turkey was ‘‘truly shooted.’”” As if to answer the question, Dan’l leaped to his feet. Homer pulled a Stars and Stripes from his pocket and wav- ed it enthusiastically; then the orchestra dashed into ‘‘Yankee Doodle.”’ It awoke some patriotis spirit in the soul of Dan’l Webster. He left his master, and, puffing himself to bis stateliest proportions, stalk- ed to the footlights to utter one glorious, soul-stirring gobble. The curtain fell, bus the applause went on and on and on! At last, out again across the stage came Hom- er, waving ‘‘Old Glory.”” Dan’l Webster, Gettysburg, Amanda, Ann. Nancy, Mehit- able and Farragut followed in a trinmphal march. Homer’s eyes were bent past the footlights, searching for the face of one lit- tle woman. This time the -face was one radiant flush and her hands were adding their share to the deafening applause. ‘‘Homer, boy,’’ she said fondly. This time she epoke aloud, hut nohody heard it. An encore for the ‘‘Extra Turn’’ was <o vociferous, it almost shook the plaster from the ceiling. The Worn Turns. It takes the money to run a newspaper. —8t. John (Kan.) News. What an exaggeration, what a whopper ! It bas been disproved a thousand times; it is acase of airy fancy. It doesn’t take money to run a newspaper. It can run without money. It is not a business ven- ture. It is a charitable institution, a begging concern, a highway robber. A newspaper is the child of the air,a creature of a dream. It can go on avd on, and any other concern would be in the hands of a receiver and wound up with cobwebs in the windows. It takes wind to run a news- paper; it takes gall to run a newspaper. It takes a scintillating, acrobatic imagination and a half dozen white shirts, and a rail- road pass to run a newspaper. But who ever needed money to conduct a news- paper? Kind words are the medium of exchange that do the business of the editor, kind words and church scciable tickets! When you see an editor with money, watch him. He'll be paying his bill and disgrac- ing his profession. Never give money to an editor. Make him trade it out. He likes to swap ! Then when you die, after baving stood around for years and sneered at the editor and his little jim crow paper, be sure and bave your wife send in for three extra copies by one of your weeping children,ard when she reads the generous and touching notice about you, forewain her to neglect to send fifteen cents to the editor. It would overwhelm him. Money is a cor- rupting thing. The editor knows it; what he wants is your heartfelt thanks. Then Le can thank the printers and they can thank their grocers. : Take your job work to another job office, and then come and ask for free church notices. Get your lodge letterheads and stationery printed out of town, and then flood the editor with beautiful! thoughts in resolutions of respect and cards of thanks. They make such spicy reading, and when you pick it up filled with these glowing and vivid mortuary articles, you are so proud of your little local paper! Bot money—scorn the filthy thing. Don’t let the pore, innocent editor know anything about it. Keep that for sordid tradespeople who charge for their wares. The editor gives his bounty away. The Lord loves a cheerful giver! He'll take care of the editor. He has a charter from thr State to act as doormat for the com- pany. He will get the paper out some- how; and stand up for the town and whoop it up for you when you run for office, and lie about your pigeon-toed daughter's tacky wedding, and blow about vour big footed sons when they get $4 a week joh,and weep over your shriveled soul when it is released from its miserable hulk, and smile at your giddy wife's second marriage. Don’t worry about the editor—he’ll get on. The Lord knows how—but somehow.—Cohoc- ton (N. Y.) Zimes. The Frog's Skin. The frog’s skin is a breathing machine. The supply of air is a necessary addition to that taken in by ordinary breathing. The skin is most remarkable for its powerful absorption of water, due to the numberless minute pores. He can soak up half his weight of water in an hour. As the skin perspires quite as freely as it absorbs, we can comprehend why contact with moisture is necessary. Besides the loss from evaporation there is the stopping of skin breathing also, because the skin must be kept moist and soft to absorb fresh air and give off used air from the system. You have noticed the cold, clammy feeling of the skin of the frog when you have bandled him. The soaking of water is the cause. If you put a redhot iron on a frog’s flesh he will not feel it, simply because of the cold water in his skin, which the heat snrns into vapor, escaping underthe iron, but if hot water be dropped upon him be will iostantly jump from pain, as it im- mediately strikes into the skin. This moisture is a safegnard against dry- ing up, and there is still another, which is an interior sack forstoring water. = Like the camel, it thus keeps a supply which carries the amphibian from many a dry place when it would otherwise lose all its moisture and die. : Saw the Battle of Waterloo. Living out the last of her many years under the roof of a married daughter there dwells in Norwich, Eng., a ‘‘grand old woman’’ of 95—the last living eye-witness of the battle of Waterloo. Elizabeth Wat- kins is ber name, and, still with some signs of the comeliness of her earlier years, with memories undimmed by time, she tells the story of her experiences in the ‘‘woman’s camp,’’ near the field of ac- tion, on that epoch-making June day of 1815. Mrs. Watkins’ father, one Daniel Dale, bad fallen in with the recruiting sergeant not long before the great battle was fought, and, having swallowed the King’s shilling at the bottom of a pint pos of Dorses ale, was sent across to the Continent wearing a ‘‘bostle green uniform,’’ which seems to have made a wondrous impression on the small girl who was left behind with her mother. Bat before Napoleon had faced the Duke of Wellington in that last strug- gle, Mrs. Dale and little Elizabeth bad fol- lowed Daniel, and when the historic June 18 dawned, they were in the woman’s camp, with the nurses and surgeons. Elizabeth was awakened by the booming of the artillery, and she recalls how shock- ed she was that there was going to be a fight on Sanday, but she soon could think of nothing save the little duties at her hand, for before her breakfast had been quite finished she had been called to sit by her mother’s side and help shred the lint for binding and dressing the wounds of the soldiers who already were being brought to the rear for care. Off at Hougo- ment and Mount St. Jean the guns were booming away, and close at hand little Elizabeth Dale saw women trying to make comfortable men wounded to the death, saw some of these warriors die, and per- baps her most vivid recollection of all that eventful day is of her terror when her mother lifted a corner of the cloth spread over one of the dead, and she saw his glassy eyes staring off vacuously toward the field where he had met death. It remains to be said that Dale come out of the action unscathed, served the full seven years of his time on the Continent, his wife and daughter remaining near him, and then returned to England. Notes of Science. There is gradually dawning a belief that plant growth is more or less of a chemical piocess that may be accelerated or retarded by the application of the proper reagents, generally in the form of fertilizers, and that the ultimate growth is usually far in excess of the value of the material applied. The Japanese are very. clever agricaltural- ists, and every little patch of ground is made to support its family. Hill sides are pressed into service, and where they are naturally too steep for the purpose they are terraced from crest to foot. This is apropos of some investigations that have been conducted by M. Nagaoka, of the Tokyo Imperial University, in stimulating rice growth by the stimulating action of manganese in the form of manganese sul- phate. A yield of 37 per cent. over a field fertilized in the usual manner was obtain- ed by this investigator and the value of the increased crop was equal to four times the cost of the chemical applied. Professor Robert Koch has recently been investigating an outbreak of typhoid fever for the German government, and has since been at Paris, where he was entertained by the Pasteur institute. In the course of the winter he will proceed to German East Africa in order to continue those studies of tropical and other diseases which he had not completed dating his recent visit to Rhodesia. In particular he will continue to investigate the part played by ticks in conveying the infection of various cattle diseases. ; It bas long been a mooted question whether insects are attracted to flowers by the bright hues of the petals or by the odor of the flowers, and recent experiments car- ried out on quite an extensive scale seem to indicate that the perfume is the essential directive agent. It is concluded that in- _ sects are guided from a distance to masses of flowers by their perfume alone, but that where flowers are grown singly, insects are attracted generally by color, and where the distance is small the odor doubtless assists in attracting and directing the movements of the flying insects. Photograph Album Revived. The photograph album is about to be re- stored to popular favor. For the past 10 years it has been relegated to the garret, while people have hung the pictures of relatives and friends in airy bits of wire known as the photograph holder, injected them into stray corners of bureaus or dressing tables and generally maltreated them and allowed them to be subjected to the dust and grime of the daily atmos- phere. The photographers have rejoiced at this modern method of placing photographs, for the most ‘expensive picture cannot long withstand such harsh treatment and to keep a clean supply of pictures they have to be replenished often. The now general use of the camera has helped to restore the once passe picture albam to its former dignified position on the parlor table. Expert amateur photog- raphers, who did not care to have their labor of months consumed by moths and begrimed by Philadelphia smoke, devised albums to hold their collections of views, and now the photographs of loved unes are to be confined once more between the covers. The new photograph albums are dif- ferent from those of the days of long ago. They are far more artistic and easy to handle. Sometimes they are made of fine leather, sometimes of soft kid, but at all events they are not so likely to jar upon the artistic sensibilities as did the velvet and plush affairs which were once the pride and adornment of the parior tables of all well-regulated households. The Leap Year Letter. The ‘‘leap year letter’’ is written with a tiny bow of rihbon accompanying every line. Thus : If for me your love is true Send me back this bow of blue. If you have another fellow Just send back this bow of yellow. If of me you often think Do inclose the knot of pink ! If your jealousy is keen Remember 'tis the how of green. If you care to see me no more Send back the little lilac bow. If on the contrary your love’s aglow Pin on a note this erimson bow. — New Orleans Times-Democrat, ——1I would as -oon think of doing busi- ness without clerks as without advertis- ing.—Jokn Wanamaker. Curious Condensations. Itis said that Oyama weighs about 300 pounds. . A strang fish is on exhibition at Seattle, Wash. Itissix feet long and is half ani- mal and half vegetable, as a seed grew out of its body. Over 78,000 rats were killed on the Lon- don wharves by the health authorities last year, but a greater crusade will be waged against them next year, as it is thought that the rodents are still increasing. France has got to increase the numter of her naval officers to meet the growth of her fleet. In 1908, when the present naval programme is concluded, she will have 28 battleships, 25 battle cruisers, 6 first- class, 15 second-class and 13 third-class cruisers, a big torpedo boat flotilla and 60 sub-marines. Because, notwithstanding hard times, the employes of Messrs. Yarrow, of Millwall, on the Thames, would not take time and a quarter for night work and insisted on ‘‘sime and a half,’” the building of 28 de- stroyers and torpedo boats for Austria will be done at Trieste, instead of on the Thames. The loss to the workmen is about a million dollars. John 8. and Martha Gentry, hasband and wife, quarreled over the slavery ques- tion at St. Joseph, Mo., jost before the war. He enlisted in the Confederate army, she went to California, and in 1874 she obtained a divorce. The other day they met by chance on a ferry boat on San Fran- cisco bay, and on Sept. 30th they were married. Both are over 70 years old. The marriage rate is higher in England than elsewhere, being 15 a 1,000. In most other countries it varies from 7 to 10 a 1,000. The highest birth rate, according to a volume of statistics, referring chiefly to foreign countries, issued by the British Board of Trade, is in Roumania—-39 a 1,000. The lowest marriage rate is in Sweden, where it is .9 a 1,000. The awards in the World’s Fair sheep show developed that the Canadian breeders are carrying off the bulk of the prizes. The types in which they excel are the Southdown, the Dorsets, the Merinos, the Oxfords, the Leicesters and the Lincolns. Practically all of the prizes in the classes for rams in these breeds have gone to them. In the Shropshire, the Cotswold and other types the breeders from the United States are winning the blue ribbons. The Australian eucalyptus tree is being grown on a large scale in Southern Europe and Northern Africa because of its tend- ency to drain swamps. This was formerly supposed to be due to abundant exhalation of water vapor from its leaves, but it has been shown that actually the transpiration of the eucalyptus is only one-half or one- third that of willows, birches and other trees, and it is therefore assumed that the phenomenon in question is due simply to the rapid growth of the eucalyptus. The Japanese have a number of customs which are jewels, and it is too bad that they cannot be adopted in the Western world. One of the best is the manner in which one hostess gets rid of an unwel- come guest. She does not hint that the time is about up for hie stay or that she is going visiting soon, but sets to work pre- paring a dainty luncheon which she packs in a little box, ties up with ribbon and paper and hands to the guest some morn- ing. It isn’t an insnls, either ; it’s just a hint and one that is always taken. Why Convicts Wear Stripes. ‘Did you ever stop to think about the ori- gin of the stripes we use in our prisons ?”’ said a man with an eye for the curious. ‘If you have not it will not take you long to figure the thing out if you happen to know anything about the Bible. The fact is that we get the idea from the old dispensation. When Isay we, I mean the pecple of our civilization, of our own day and time, and who live under and are guided by our sys- tems and notions. For instance, in the laws and ordinances of Deuteronomy we find the following, which will give us a clue to the origin of stripes as a badge of infamy : ‘If there be a controversy be- tween men, and they come into judgment, that the judges may judge them, then they shall justify the righteous and condemn the wicked. And it shall be, if the wicked man be worthy to be beaten, that the judge shall cause him to lie down and to be beat- en before his face, according to his fault, by a certain number. Forty stripes he may give him, and not exceed; lest if he should exceed and beat him above these with many stripes, then thy brother shall seem vile unto thee.” Now instead of in- flicting these physical stripes, we put strip- ed clothes on the men who offend the law, or who may ‘come into judgment that the judges may judge them,’ as it is put in the text. Of course, you should go much further back in history if youn cared to trace the origin of marks of infamy, but you would find that physical mutilation of some sort in a majority of instances afford- ed the means. But I was just telling you about the origin of onr penitentiary stripes and did not mean to open the whole ques- tion which lies behind the modern prao- tice. : Old Time Problems. Schoolboys and girls of to-day who think they are oppressed by problems requiring the use of both English and metric units of weight and measure would be appalled by an examination of some of the text books their grandmother studied. The author of “Old Time Schools’’ quotes many ques- tions which are in a language unintelligible to-day. ‘“‘How much will 10 serons of cochineal come to,” asks an arithmetic published a century ago in Northampton, Mass., “‘weigh- ing neat 724 okes, 73 rotolas, at 80 piastres per oke?”’ ‘How wuch will 189 bazar mauds, 31 seer and 8 chittacks of sugar come to at 6 rupees per maud ?”’ Any one who had finished a course in that book was evidently equipped to go as supercargo in an old fashioned merchant- man. But who of to day would know for what he was equipped when he bad strug- gled with the nexs one? **Dednct the tare and the tret and divide the suttle by 168, and the quotient will be the cloff, which subtract from the sattle, and the remainder wili be the neat.”’ It becomes scarcely more intelligible when explained by definition; ‘*Tare is an allowance made the parchaser for box, bag or barrel. Tret is an allowance of four pounds in each hundred and four for waste dust and so forth. Cloff is an allowance of two pounds upon every three huundred- weight. Suttle is what is left when a part of the allowance is deducted. Neat remains when all is deducted.” ——Nothing, except the mint, can make money without advertising.— Gladstone.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers