————————— ———————————— no —— Democrat atcha. si —— Bellefonte, Pa., June 1, 1908. EE —————— THE LITTLE CHAPS FAITH. It's a comfort to me io life's battle, When the conflict seems ail going wrong, ‘When I seem to lose every ambition And the current of life grows too strong, To think that the dusk ends the warfare, That the worry is done for the night ; And the little chap there, at the window, Believes that his daddy's all right. In the heat of the day and the hurry I'm prompted so often to pause, While my mind strays away from the striving Away from the noise and applause, The cheers may be meant for some other ; Perhaps I have lost inthe fight ; But the little chap waits at the window, Believing his daddy's all right. I can laugh at the downfalls and failure ; 1 can smile in the trials and the pain; I can feel that, in spite of the errors, The struggle has not been in vain, If Fortune will unly retain me That comfort and solace at night, When the little chap waits at the window, Believing his daddy's all right. —Louis E. Thayer, THE EXILES. The street was a narrow lane of asphalt between two walls of brownstone house- fronts; and these two walls were so exact! alike that each seemed to be staring, with all its shutterless windows, across the road- way at the othar, in the dumb amazement of a man meeting bis double. Both were ruled lengthwise in the same four rows of windows. Each window was like all its fellows. All were arranged as regularly in line as the inch-marks on a yardstick; and at every third window in the lowest row, a house was marked off—as if it were a foot on the rule—by the projection of a brown- stone stoop, from which a flight of steps led down to the sidewalk. It bad once been a street of homes; and, in its prosperous days, its stiff monotony must bave realized the ideal of the lives that were lived there then according to the strictest conventions of respectability. But now is bad fallen into shabbiness and dis- repair, and ite set, methodical air seemed only proper to such a street of boarding- houses where the conduct of life was chiefly an affair of subdividing identical days into sleeping, waking, and eating joylessly, by the clock. It was to this street that the dining room maid in Mrs. Henry's boarding-house had to look for entertainment whenever she was tired of her round of cooking, serving, and washing-up. She was an Irish girl; and her name was Annie Freel; and her cheeks were still as fresh as pinks from the breezes of Donegal. She bad the physique of a milkmaid aud a rustic gracefulness of good health that was almost beautiful by con- trast with the background of Mrs. Henry's faded dining room—a background of rusty steel engravings in tarvished gile frames, hung on a yellowed wall-paper that made the whole room look as if the innumerable meals that had been served there had given it the complexion of a dyspeptic. She was sitting beside the grated base- ment window, peeling potatoes into a dish pan, but she kept an eye on the “‘area’ and the street; and whenever the wheels of a wagon sounded ou the pavement, she Stopped her work to watch it pass behind the fat,stone spindles of the area balustrade. The thermometer on the window frame marked 92°, and her face was wet. There were heat rings under her eves; and her eyebrows weredrawn in a frown that made no wrinkle on a forehead that had never been broken to worry. Whenever she looked away from the window, she glanced anxiously at the clock; it marked a quar- ter past eleven, and the groceries had not come. She let her hand fall idly into the cool water of the pan, and stared at the dust floating in the sunlight. The cook called hoarsely from the kiteh- ed : ‘‘Annie I” She started. ‘‘Yis?" “What're ye at?" “‘Peelin’ pitaties.”” ‘What's makin’ ye so noisy 2" Annie looked down at her hands withont answering, **Why dov’t ye sing no more these days?" The voice was querunlous. Annie poised a potato to her knife and blushed to the tops of her ears. *‘It’s too warrm,’’ she said. A pan banged in the kitchen. **Warrm, d’ye call it ? I call it drippin' danged hot !"’ The girl did not reply; and the cook, after grumbling to herself for a while, re- signed herself to a stifled silence. A delivery wagon came clattering up the street, swunoy into the gutter, and pulled up with a jerk; and Annie dropped her po- tato and watched eagerly. When she saw astrange man climb down the wheel, she put ker dish pan oo the deep window-sill and stood hack from the light to regard him with a look of distress. He bustled down into the area and threw all his weight on a tog at the bell. . ‘Glory be !'' the cook cried to her. ‘What's thas 2" She did not answer. She went to the door and tock the hasket withont raising her eyes from it. *‘The grocery man !"' the cook greeted ber in the kitchen. “Does he want to luck the hell out he the root ! That's not ; 4d Annie shook her head. *‘No,”’ she said vacantly, and turned to empty the basket on the serving table, The cook studied a moment on the tone | Th of that “‘No;" and then, taking up the chopper, she attacked the meat in the wooden chopping-bow] with vicious blows. She bad the arm of a butcher—short hut poveriul--aud a hody of the same build; r bair was a greasy grey; her face was the flat-nosed type of slant-jawed Irish, that is so pathetically like an ape's. Annie went ont with the empty hasket, bat this time she met the man’s eyes with a look of inquiry that held him uontil she conld ask : ‘Where's Mister Boland now 2" He grinned. ‘Jack? Oh, he's quit. He's got married. I don't know where he is She released her hold of the hasket, her face as blank as a hewildered child's, *Jack'd sooner marry than work.” he laoghed. Headded over his shonlder as he went, “Hot, ain't it 2" She shut the basement door, and stood for a long time with her finger< in the iron lattice, wazing out at the area with set eyes. When she turned hack to the dining room, she groped her way blindly through the dack hall, And when she sat down to ber work again, her hands went about it mechanically nnder the fixed mask of her face. ‘Is’ the heat that's worrvin’ ye 2"’ the cook asked at their luncheon. ‘‘Sare I know it is,’ she persisted, at the girl's list- | cud scarce get me clo’s off me to git into less denial. “It's bad weather fer young blood. Me own ould skull’s splittin’ like the shell of a hard-boiled egg. Phew! Go in an’ lay versill down, that’s a child. It's out’n the fields y’ t to be, stackin’ bay, 'stid of stewin’ in a kitchen here. Go ou, Annie, gurl, an’ rest yersill.” Aunie went. In the little bedroom that opened ofl the kitchen, she stretched her- self flat on her back and lay stiff. The pillow was hot to her head. She put her cold hand on her borning forehead, and her es settled in a wild stare on a picture of Chriss that was tacked on the wall at the foot of the bed, with the heart in the open breast flaming red in a yellow aureole. The cook muttered over her work : “Please God 't will let up a bit +’ night. “ What's happened that boy Jawn, I wonder. The young thief! She's been lookin’ fer 'm fer a week past. . , . Phew, butit'shot! . . . If he's play- in’ games with her, I'll break his back.” The city baked its bricks and stones in a scorching sunlight all the afternoon, till the streets were as hot and dry as a kiln. Then with the slanting of the sun, a mist as warm as steam began to gather in from the Bay; the faint hreeze that had been flattering along on the housetops feebly, fell among the chimneys; the plumes of steam rose from the elevator buildings straight in the still air. The thick duosk closed down smothering all. Annie came white from her room. She blundered from pan to pan in the fat-smoke of the kitchen, helping the cook. aud stupid, in the glare of the dining room, she served greasy food to the tables and poured ice water in a dream. BSwaying over the pan of steaming dishes—at the sink where the roaches gathered to the sound of trickling water—she washed a thousand glasses, cups and saucers, plates and , knives, forks, and pots, deaf to the kindly garrulity of the cook who helped her. When it was done, she went back to ber bed again. ‘‘Ab, go away, Mary,” she said wearily. “Go away an’ let be.” Mary took the kitchen rocking chair and carried it out resolutely to the area. ‘‘As sure 's = name's 'y McShane,’ she promised herself, “I'll break the back o’ that boy, Jawn ! Here's Saturda’ night, an’ no sight of 'm since this day week. Let 'm come now. Let 'm come. I'll give 'm a piece 0’ me mind.”” And she sat down with her arms orossed to wait for him. There was a fluttering of white skirts here and there on the porches across the road, where some boarders weresitting out; men dragged past with their straw hats in their hands and their coats on their arms; the clang of trolley gongs and the iron hum of trains on the elevated railroad came to her drowsily. She relaxed to an easier posture and began to fan herself with her apron as she rocked. Both motions ceased together. She closed ber eyes, She was awakened by au insistent “I say, Cook ! Cook I" and started np to see the young man whom she knew as *‘Mr. Beatty of the top-floor rear,’ leaning over her. He raid: “What's wrong with Avnie 7” ‘Annie? she gasped, wide awake. “Saints in Hiven—"" ‘Oh, it's nothing,” he laughed. ‘She seemed to be acting rather strangely. Any. hing wrong?" She pat lier hands up to rab her eyes in a pretense of sleepiness. ‘‘Ye scart the heart out o’ me,” she evaded him. *‘I was dreamin.’ ”’ He waited. ‘Annie ?" she said. ‘‘Sare, she’s wor- ried, poor gurl, be the heat. Ske’s not well, She’s not well, at all.” ‘‘Well,”’ he replied, ‘‘she seemed onol enough jost now. She went out in a heavy jacket. She asked me to an- swer the dour bell for her. Iwas sitting on the step« there, baving a smoke.” “Gone wut? Goue out, is she? Ay. io. deed, thio !"' She settled back in her chair. ‘She must 've gone out to meet that Jawn of hers. To he sure ! That's it, to he sure. I thought "twas sick she was. How 're ye standin’ the heat yersilf 2'? Her voice was transparent, sly, He sat down on the window sili, amused. *‘Not so bid Bus this is hoster than Ireland cook." “Ireland 2 She made an exaggerated gesture of despair. “Ireland !”’ She fold. ed hier bands in ao eloquent resignation, “1 was just dreamin’ I was back to it. Aw, dear, dear! Will I never ferget it?" He laughed. He asked in a hantering tone : “Would you like to go hack 2" “Me ?'" she cried sharply. ‘Sure, what fer? What's togobaok to? Naw, naw. Whin ye're ould there's uo goin’ back to the young days —excipt while ye sleep, Av’ it's the sorry wakin’' ye have." “That's tine,” be said. 10 humor her. “Ie 1s," she replied, unmollified, *‘but little enough ye know of ir. Ye'll learn whin ve're a dodderin’ onld man with no teeth to grip yer pipe to."”” She nodded at a memory of her own grandfather, drowsing before the heat fire of an eveniog, under the soot hiackened beams of the kitchen, with his pipe upside down in his mouth, Beatty smiled. The talk of this old woman of the basement’s underworld— with her plaintive lish intonation and her cowie Irish face and her amusing Irish ‘‘touchiness’'—was as good as a play to him. “How long have youn heen out?" he asked. “Loog enough to learn hetter. year an’ more.’ ‘Well, why did you come then 2" She turned on him. ‘God knows ! Why did I? Why did Aonie gurl ? Wali may ye ask !'" She tossed her head resentfully. ‘*Because roasted pitaties an’ good hatter. milk were too Jo fer proud stommiocks. Beca’se we wud be rich, as they tol’ us we wud, here in Ameriky. An’ what are we? e naygois o' the town, livin’ in cellars, servin’ thim that pays us in the mooey that we came fer, an’ gettin’ none o’ she fair words an’ kindness we left hehind. Sure at home they're more neighborly to the hrate beasts than y’ are here to the humans.” She looked out at the stifling street. ‘We're strangers in a strange land, as Father Tierney says. We're a joke to sez. an’ that's the hest ye'll iver make of us.” He sobered gailtily and looked down at his feet. An’ Annie!” she broke ont. ‘‘the simple crature, ust to hig gossoons o' hoya that xwally their tongues whin they go coortin’ an’ have niver a word to say— what's «he to make o' this grinnin’ Jawn of hers with all his blather? I know him. He's the wate of a ind that came noross me the first sear I was ont, with his hat on the corver of his head an’ the divil in ’s ese. An’ he talked with me an’ walked with me an’ called me candy names, till there was nuthin’ bus the sound of his voice in me ears, an’ the look «f his smile in mv ese the whole livelong day till he came again of an evenin’.” Her voice hioke. “Faith, the time he kissed me first—at the gate that was-~1I ran into the Forty house tiimblin’ an’ blushin® wi’ the fear au’ the delight of it, me bans shakin’ so I ‘ me a latin’ ke smilin’ r all nighs is. gust the sort of fool I was. Th’ angils jus’ come to Hiven were no ~ +» . I wascome toth’ ither ho I wasdove with him. . Poor Aonie ! Poor garl I" He looked at her, silenced and ashamed. She wiped her cheeks with ber apron and under a load of for Anuie. 3S axed $0 0ink of soweislg ss iy in reassurance; glancing pi ber, a a loss, he pb dark Spwie mbing the stone steps, silhouetted against a street light. “‘There!” he whispered. ‘‘Is’nt that—Yes it is. She's coming back. She basn’t met him. . . That's all right now. You musn't let her go out again.” “Thank Hiven,"’ the cook said fervently, “I been keepin’ her from goin’ out with him any night these four weeks. She's a mere child, raited in innocency. 'Twas not like her to steal out #0.’ ““There must be something wrong with her,” he . “There is that,’”’ she said. ‘*‘There's somethin’ wantin’ to her an’ she'll niver find it in this town, though she seek it iver #0. A home of her own back o’ the boor- trees—an’ a dip o’ bog fer to plunt ber pitnty. slips in—an’ a scraw fer Ler fire an’ er man toastin’ his big lect at it, an’ the baby crawlin’ between the legs « f his chair, an’ the neighbors doppin’ in to wessip an’ #pit in the hlaze—she’ll viver tind it Leis ! Niver, if she has my lack ! Au’ its power- | ful small satisfaction she'll vit of writin’ | home to thim that has it, tellin’ thim the | big wages she earns an’ sendin’ thim mon- | ey to Christmas—powerfnl small !" | While she bad been talking, Beatty bad : seen a policeman stop to look up at the door | and then saunter back toward his street | corer. And Beatty was still frowning | watchlully at the steps when be heard the | cook say, *‘Whur've ye been to, Anniv?’ | He turned to the girl standing behind the grated basements door. Ia a thick, blurred voice, fumbling slow. | ly over ber words, she replied : *‘Is that— is that—Jawn ?'’ Aud Beatty's pipe click. | ed suddenly on his teeth. i **No, tis not,” the cook ans vered. “Go | back to yer hed. He'll not come to night now. 'Tis too late.” “Is it 2’ she asked, in the simple tones of a child. ‘Is it too late, Mary 2" ‘‘It is that. Go to bed gurl. Ye're tired out.” ‘Oh ?? she said softly. and she disappeared in the darkness. Beatty caught a quick breath. **W.what is it ? What's the matter with her 2 The cook answered wearily; “I've told ye, sor, but ye'll not undeistan’.”’ ‘But there's something wrong with her,”’ he said huskily. *‘That’s not her nataral voice.” ““Let he, boy," she replied. *‘Her tron | ble's come to her. We can do naught fer her now.” She added, more gently : ‘We're like a cat wiih our sores, sor. "Tis best to let us go off be oursilves and lick thim. . She'll be aniet now. It must 've heen hot down town this day." “Yes,” he wighei. “I thought—I thought perhaps the heat had affected her, | The papers are fall of deaths and prostra- tions.’ She nodded and nodded. After a silence, she said : “No doubt. The heat, too. Are y' a Noo Yorker born 2! He cleared his throat to answer : “‘No. A Capadian. An exile, like yourself.” “Ay,” she said. *Thisis a great town fer young men. Ye get yer chanct here.” He did vot reply, and she did not speak : again. For a long time, they sat silent. Then they began to talk in low tones of anything bus the thoughts that were in both their minds, until a stealthy rustle at the basement door brought them around with a start to see Annie, all in white, fumbling as the latch. She got the door | open and drifted out into the light, bare. | footed. Beatty stiffened at the sight of her face. The cook started up and caught her by the arm. She swang unsteadily, “That's me money,” she said tonelessly; and Beatty heard the ring of coins on the area paving. ‘Annie ! Avnie!"’ the cook cried. ‘An’ that's me purse,’ she said, drop- ping it. The cook threw her arms about her. What's this fer? “It’s too late; | “Annie ! Apnie dear! Whas ails ye, gar 2" She put a band down to loosen the cook’s arm from her side. **'Twill burn ye,” she said. ‘‘Me heart's all afire there, like the picture.” A bit of silver fell from her sleeve and tinkled at her fees. She looked down at is. *‘I pur it by fer Jawn. . . What's hecome of Jawn? Jawn?"' The cook backed ber to the rocking chair aud forced her to sit down. ‘Dang yer Jawn !'! gle cried. *‘Will ye drive us al! dafe 2" It was then, for the first time, she got the light on the girl's face—a face set like stone, while the eyes shifted and wept— and she wailed : ‘‘Ach, Annie darlin,’ aud dropped on her knees beside her. *'Is it come to this, gurl ? Dear Lord, whav've they been doing to ye ? Look at we. Look at me, child.” Annie was staring at Beatty, and he was sitting oold with horior on the window- sill, “Who's that?’ she said. “Good evening sir,”’ she smiled. ‘‘Ye're late with the groc’ries.'” She got no auswer. *‘Look at 'm, Mary,” she said fearfully, and put her band up to her eyes, and peered at him through her finger. *‘He glowers at me #0." “Aw, now,” the cook pleaded. ‘“‘Aw now, Annie gurl. Don’t be takin’ on. "Tis Mister Beatty from the top floor, and what'll he be thinking of ye, talkin’ soech like foolishness.’ She whispered : “Have wit, child. Pat down yer hands. Listen to me. Listen. They'll be takin’ ye away. They'll shut y' up in Bellevue fer mad. Have ye no siose 1ift 2" Beatty had risen heavy kneed and stum- bled to the basement door. ‘I'll bring— I’1l bring the doctor,’’ he stammered, and ran in for his hat, The cook bad not heard him, bus when she looked around «he knew what had hap- pened, and she jumped up ina panic. “Quick !| Quick,” she cried. “They're coming;" and fell on her knees to gather, up the scattered move in her apron. “Go to bed, gurl ! Ach, Aunie, Annie," she oried desparingly. Annie was rocking in the chair, eoroon- ing and talking to herself. The cook caught | her by the arm, pulled ber to her feet and | harried her indoors. “*Whist ! Whise ! i she pleaded. “Qait yer nonsinwe, Annie, | Ab, quit it—quitit !' Wad ye ler yerself | he taken to the madbonse ? Ah, God ha’ | merey ——'* ! She dragged the girl back to the kitchen, | and bad her in bed and frighrened into si. | lence when Beatty returned with the doe- | tor trom next door. ‘ She's hetter now," | she said snavely, meeting them in the din- | ing room, ‘‘ "Twas hut a touch o' the sun, doctor.” He looked at her. She stoed blinking | aod shifting her small eyes. “What did | you do for her 2" ! She began to stammer : **W.what did | do fer ber ? Why, to be sure, [—[——" “Take me to her,” be ordered. She gave Beatty a look of bate and de- spair and led into the kitchen. Beatty did not follow. He steadied bimself againss the old marble mantle of the Jiniag room, aod his face and neck weakly with his kerchief. When the doctor , he ordered: *‘Call an ambulance. ilevae hospital, Be quick, now ! Be quick !"’ Ly edged slowly to the door. “I won't !"’ he , and ran ap-stairs and locked bie in his room. “You'll have to get your breakfast ata restaurant, Mr. Beatty,” Mis. Henry, the boarding-house mistress told him next morning. ‘My cook bas left me." **What for 2" be asked guiltily. The shrugged ber shoulders and shook her bead. “The maid that waits on the table took ill last night, She was delirious —out of her mind —positively violent when the ambulance came for her. The doctor ordered it. [ couldn't keep her here. How i Who's to look after her here?! could I? The work bas to be done, and - — “How is she 7"! he interrupted. “She bad a sanstioke or | don’t know what. 1 was too upset lat night—We had a terrible time with her. | dou’s know what it was. [t wut 've been a sunstroke, We had an aniul scene.” “How 1-shie 2" “Well,” she said, in a sort of defiance, “she died early this morving in the hos- pital. . Aud Mary '’ she cried, *‘ac- cases ire of murdering her. And she pack- ed up her trunk and left as six o'clock this morning, without even waiting for her wages. I never heard of such a thing. I's the most absurd’ —She laughed brukenly. “These Irish servant girly ——'* He looked away with a sickly smile. *'I know,” be said. *'l know.”’—By Harvey J. O'Higgins, 1u MeClure's Maglzine. Famine in Muassin, The To the other wmisfortanes which have overtaken the people of Kusaa muse be added the dreadful visitation of famine. | Once in a while during the past year some intimation of the crop failures and soffer- iug mm various provinces of Rassia bas reached the outer world ; but the call for aid has been neither lond nor persistent. | The reason may be that the poor mujik has | wotten so ned to hunger as to regard it as | *omething not worth talking about ; it way he that communications respecting the fam- ! ine have been stopped at the frontier for “‘official’’ reasous. The area covered by the famine embraces 23 out of the 49 prov- iuces of European Russia. The number of persons affected 1 one-fifth the entire pop- ulation of Russia, say 20,000,000, Frow a communication of the United Zemstvos Famine Relief Organization, of Moscow, which ix signed hy Prince Trabet- skoy among others, the following is an ex- | tract, giving a bariowing pictore of what the Russian peasant« have to endure ordi- narily and in starvation times : The Russian people ate starving. Do | the enlightened civilizations of the West | understand what that means? Let us vis- it the dwelling of » peasant in the central | zone of Russia--a sort of huge kennel, with | crooked sides, all a<kew, half buried in snow. The windows are barely visible ; | they have been covered with piled up ma- nare to keep oat the cold ; the roof is of | rotten straw, hall torn away already, ei. ther to feed the stove or to provide fodder for the cattle ; the eaves have been hacked off for fuel. Yon open the door into this izba, and are at once envelo in a suffocating steam and stench abominable. In the dim light filtering through the frozen-up panes of the tiny window yon descry an enormous stove, which occupies the best part of the interior, and the smoke is creeping in sooty wreaths about the walls and ceiling. In this space of a very few cubic feet lives at least one peasants family, and very often two or three families. From the flat top of the stove peep out the dirty, care drawn faces of the elder children, clad in rags ; a young lad, who onght to be at school, is cronching in a corner because he has no clothes that will keep out the cold ; here, too, the smaller farm-yaid animals find a place—the calves, the lambs and the litter of pigs. All these living organisms berd together for the warmth of their own hodie«, for there is hardly any fuel to burn. Aud all the while outside the izba a bliz- zard ix raging with a temperature of 10 de- grees below zero, Of the food there is nothing to say ; at the best of times they eat only black bread washed down with a thin gruel made with a handfal of grain or a few potatoes. But when famive comes upon the district their «ufferings are too terrible for words. Sta. tistics show that in famine years the peas: ants lose 71 per cent. of their cows and smaller farm stock. ~ Epidemics spread apace ; the so-called hunger typhus, scar- latina, diphtheria. The death rate hecomes appalling, while those that remain alive are weaklings all their daye. There is no milk for the babes, the sight of whose pale, consumptive faces and limbs no thicker than a knotted whip-lash sends a shudder through the frame of the unaccustomed visitor. The peasant parts with his horse last of ail, and in order to keep alive this chief instrament of his labore leaves half- eaten his own scanty morsel of black bread. Bat the inevitable moment comes at last, and it comes to many men at about the same time, so thas the price is never more than its hide will fetch. Greedy barpies of dealers watch and wait for this moment, and the peasant who bolds out too long canuot sell his horse at any price, and has to kill with his own band his last hope of making a livelihood. Who shall say that this bitter blow of the knife has not more force in driving the peasant to rebel- lion than all the argument of the profes. sional agitator! On the one side nothing but suffering, a sea of suffering, and on the other but a pitiful attempt at aid, a mere drop in the ocean of tears and despair — Philadelphia Record. — Does Steel Grow Tired? An interesting problem, often discussed, is whether iron or steel hecomes cha in its properties hy what is termed ‘‘fa- tigne.”’ Most probably, according to R. A. Hadfield, says Engineering, it does not, if the material is, in the first or original, state piopetly prepared. Failures, so- called, of this kind are generally owing to the steel possessing either internal flaws, which are often only detected hy an ex- amination of ite micro structure, or that it has not been in the proper condition when sent ont to the user. So called ‘mysterious failure’ ade generally due to improper heat treatment, and are quite ap- parent when adequately investigated. A recent writer states that after long expe- rience, hie has found steel does not change hy fatigne—that is, under ordinary work- ing loads ; ‘once right, always right,” is his explanation. This investigator took a large number «! specimens that had heen many vears in use, some having given sat- isfactory, some unsatisfactory results, and he detected no difference or breakdown in | the mechanical qualities. Probably this | conclusion is correct. At Watertown Ar- senal, the official testing department of the American Government, interesting tests bave been made upon iron, which had been submitted to severe mechanical treatment 23 years ago—that is it had heen stressed close up to the elastio limit and then laid on one side. No change in quality couald be detected. The characteristics of the earlier overstrained condition produced by the loads applied so long before still re- mained. Zebras to Draw Stree: Cars, Street cars in Zanzibar are to he drawn by domesticated zebras, according to the Railway avd Engineering Review. ona Howard de Walden, proprietor of a 40,000 acre zebra farm in Uganda, Afies, ha re- ceived an order for 40 of tle animals for that purpose, The z=bia i« stated to have some advan- tages aver the mule for the wore in ques: tion. He endures the elimat: better and i«=ironger, and is immune from the at- tacks of the tsetse fly. “1 wish or i: no +1 uot stag out at nigh." «ii the ttle wan “Cure Liz” 5:0) her eyvanaulisn, “as a woman 1 kuow cuarel Ler husband, who used to stay ont every night, One night be cc a very late, or, rather. very cariy, aint 3 o'clock in the morn- Ing. ile came home very quietiy. In fact, he took off his shoes on the front doorstep. Then Le unlocked the door and went cautiously and slowly up- stairs on tiptoe, holding his breath, But light was streaming through the keyhole of the door of the bedroom. With a sigh, he paused. Then he open- ed the door and entered. His wife stood by the bureau fully dressed. “‘I didn't expect you'd be sitting up for me, my dear,’ he said. “‘I haven't been,” she said. ‘I just came in myself." Presence of Mind. Mme. Rachel, the great actress, was resting alone in her dressing room one night preparatory to going on the stage when a man suddenly entered and, drawing a dagger, said he was going to kill her if she did not at once con- sent to marry him. The actress saw at a glance that the man was mad and meant what he said. So with the ut- most coolness she replied: “Certainly I will marry you. I wish nothing better, Come with me to the priest at once. 1 have had him come here for the pur- pose.” She took his arm, and they went out together—to where there was assistance, of course, and the man was immediately put under arrest.—Phila- delphia Record, Cigar Smoke and Love, In Siam the lighting of a cigar indi- cates a betrothal. In that country a person wishing to become betrothed to the girl of his choice offers her a flower or takes a light from a cigar or a ciga- rette if she happens to have oue in her mouth, and thereupon, provided there is no impediment in the birth months and years of the respective parties, steps are at once taken to arrange for the payment of the dowry. The fami- lies of the bride and bridegroom have each to provide at least $1,000. In Ca- fabri, as in certain parts of India, a lizhted tapor or a lighted pipe betokens the aecentance of the suitor for the hand of a lady in marriage. In Siberia it is the custom that when a suitor has been accepted by a girl she presents him with a box of cigars and a pair of slippers as a sign that he Is to be master in the house, An Oddity In Toes and Digits. There is one curious fact respecting the animal creation with which you will never become acquainted if you depend on your text books for informa- tion. It is this: No living representa- tive of the animal kingdom has more than five toes, digits or claws to each foot, hand or limb. The horse is the type of one toed creation; the camel of the two toed; the rhinoceros of the three toed and the hippopotamus of four toed animal life. The elephant and hundreds of other animals belong- ing to different orders belong to the great five toed tribe. Fame. Stranger (in Vienna)—Then this is the hotel which Beethoven used to fre- quent! I say, waiter, can you not show me the table at which Beethoven used to sit? Waiter—Beethoven? fitranger —Why, he very often came here! Wait- er (bethinking himself)—Ah, yes! The geutieman Is out of town. Useless Labor, Teacher—Johuny, I don’t believe you have studied your geography. Johnny —No, mum. [ heard pa say the map of the world was changin’ every day, an’ I thought I'd wait a few years till things get settled. — Milwaukee Wis- consin. Natural Privileges, “It is a physical impossibility to keep a watering place exclusive.” “Why so? “Because there anybody who pleases can be in the swim.”--Baltimore Amer fean. Such a Temper, His Wife--But I don't think, George, that you ought to object to marama. Why, just think, if it hadn't been for her you would never have had me! Her Husband—Huh! Don't try to excuse her by saying that. You make me hate her worse than ever.—Modern Society. Doing Thelr Best. “Didn't I understand you to say they keep a servant girl?” “Certainly not. [I said they try to. As soon as one goes they get another.” —Philadelphia Press. Speech is too often not, as the Frenchman defined it, the art of con- cealing thought, but of quite stifling and suspending thought, so that there is none to conceal.—Carlyle. ROMAN MILLIONAIRES. fhe Phenomenon of Mammoth Fore tunes Not a New Thing. While it is not a very tangible con- solation to those of us who belong to the less favored class commercially, there is at least a sort of historic com- fort in knowing that the phenomenon of mammoth fortunes is not a new thing. A magazine writer goes back to an- cient Rome, when there were no rail- roads or trusts or corporations, and gives some figures on the individual fortunes of that day which might look attractive even to some of our modern plutocrats, Seneca, the philosopher and author, was worth $17,500,000; Lentulus, the augur, $16,600,000; Crassus, the poli- tician who formed with Caesar and Pompey the first triumvirate, had a landed estate of more than $8,000,000; the emperor Tiberius left a fortune of $118.000,000, which the depraved Calig- vila got rid of in less than a year. A dozen others had possessions that ran into the millions. It is true that these Romans did not “make” these fortunes in what we would call regular commercial opera- tions. But they got the money, and they held on to it, which is about all that can safely be said of possessions that run into seven figures in any age or country. And, speaking of campaign contribu- tions and so forth, Julius Caesar once presented the consul Paulus with $290,- 000 merely as a token of esteem and coupled with the hope that Paulus would do the right thing in a certain political matter that was pending. The argument was effective with Paulus, and neither he nor Caesar suffered any in popularity. There are many things under the sun that are not new.—Omaha World- Herald. NAILED TO THE CROSS. The Two Thieves That Were Cruci- fied With the Saviour, In nine out of ten pictures of the cru- cifixion where Christ's two companions In death are represented they are pic- tured as having been fastened to the cross with thongs or cords. The ques- tion naturally arises, Were the thieves in reality bound to their different in- struments of torture while the blessed Saviour was nailed to his? And, if so, which mode of death was considered the more ignominious—binding or nail- ing? The remoteness of the event and the fact that in this case historical truth may have been sacrificed to pictorial effect make the above questions hard ones to answer, The early writers al- most invariably refer to the thieves as having been nailed to the cross, while the early picture makers adhered to the general rule of representing them as having been tied or bound to their separate crosses. If we are to give any credence to the story of the holy Empress Helen and her reputed discovery of the three crosses in the year 328 A. D., the two thieves were nailed to their crosses in a manner similar to that observed in the crucifixion of the Saviour. This conclusion has been settled upon for this reason: When the three crosses were disinterred from the mound in which tradition said they had been buried, that upon which Chrizt had suffered was only distinguished from the other two by the miracles it per- formed. This would certainly suffice to prove that all three of the instru- ments of torture bore similar nail marks and that the tradition of Christ being the only one nailed was not known at that time.—-St. Louis Repub- lie. First Matrimonial Agency, The title “Matrimonial Agencies and Advertisements” ought to attract at- tention in our time, when requests for marriage fill the journals in the form of gross or jocular and sometimes seri- ous announcements, That may seem to be a new phenomenon of modern life, yet M. Henri d’Almeras in La Revue Hebdomadaire says the real originator of this industry was one Vil- laume. In the last days of the empire he set up in Paris a sort of universal agency, which would supply furnished apartments, domestics, wives and hus- bands.—Journal de St. Petersburg, So The Tally Stick. - An old time way of proving one's right to the payment of money loaned was by tally sticks. A plain stick was used, and when a man loaned a sum a stick was broken, and the creditor and debtor each took a part. When the time for payment came the man who had the stick which fitted exactly to the stick held by the creditor received the money. Two sticks never break in exactly the same shape, so there was never any dispute about who had a right to the money. Their Reward, Dr, Strachan, bishop of Toronto, was waited upon by two churchwardens, who complained that their clergyman wearied his congregation by repeating the same sermon. He had preached it twelve times. The bishop asked for the text. Neither of the churchwardens could remember. “Go back.” said the bishop sternly, “and ask your clergy- man to preach the sermon once more and then come back and tell me the text.” s Installments, J Bacon—Did you ever get anything on the installment system? Egbert—Yes: I got my household that way. Fi 1 got my wife, then her father awd th. er and now I'm getting her b ers and sisters. Extreme views are never Jue, som thing always turns np which ¢ 3 the calculations founded on their data. ~Tancred, .
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers