Bellefonte, Pa., August 9, 1907. minis ami —_— LITTLE SON. When twilight shakes her hourglass at the And fairies from their proppied fastness flee, Then, little boy, with empty arms I wait Tosing you : “Bobby Shafto's gone to sea.” 1 like to think that up among the stars We used to count 'twixt dusk and Land of Nod— You listen still at even for my song There in the shadow of the hand of God. 1 like to feel that still you watch my ways And hand in hand go with me, just as when We saw a thousand wonders in one flower, Flaunting our joy before the eyes of men. For that brief time I offer thanks. Itsheds Its radiance down the years to guide me on; And at the last, sing me our lullaby And 1 will hear and hasten, little son, —Percy L. Shaw, in American Magazine, BIJIE AND THE VISION. Starling Angel was moving his neigh- bor’s goods to the big town some twenty miles away. When be came to the hard, worn, little path that ran off from the road and up to the Eller cabin he pulled his horses to a standstill with a loud ‘*Whoa.” “Hello!” he called. Bijie's mother was washing the dishes that were never quite done. At the sound She wiped ber hands and crossed the cabin oor. “Come on,’’ she said to Bijie. ‘Don’t keep Starlin’ waitin’. Ye've got a right smart journey ahead o’ ye.” Bijie looked down his clean shirt and old green trousers that were clean, too, to the brass toes of his clumsy shoes, proud- ly. “Good-by,’’ he said to the cabinful of children. From the doorway he called good-by to them again, and the pride of the traveled man pricked through bis tones, His bearing was bolder as he fol- lowed bis mother down the path. It was fitting that one about to journey out into the world should have a hold bearing. “They ain’t many leetle fellars hyar- abouts thet's hed the lettin out Bijie's ter get,’’ Bijie’s mother said. She addressed the tall young mountaineer who had climb- ed down from his wagon at her approach. “‘Bijie’s ain't never ben nowhar. BatI lowed Ips’ fall when the leetle fellar run away from the lady thet was gwine ter carry him off an’ eddicate him—hit peared like he couldn’t stan’ ter go off from all he'd ever known—thet I'd do my pore bes’ fer him. Pore folks hev pore ways, Starlin’. An’ seein’ Asheville’s a sight o' larnin’ ter a body, man er chile.” She shook bands with the young moun- taineer limply; shook hands with Bijie, limply, too. If the temptation to kiss the eager little brown face assailed her, she resisted it. She was not a demonstrative woman. The big young man swung Bijie up and up—the neighbor’s possessions loomed like a mountain— and landed him amongst the billows of a feather bed. He looked down at the woman kindly. “Ye'll not fret about the cyars runnin’ over him? Ye'll not be aleared he'll git lost er—er anythin'?"’ “‘Afeared?’’ her voice quivered to a shrill little langh. The sound could have de- ceived no one but a dull young man and a joyous young child. ‘‘The idee! Bijie's got seuse. ain’t a mite o’ danger.” The wagon moved. “‘Bijie,” his mother called warniogly, “‘don’t git no dirtier "en ye kin help.” “No'm’,”” Bijie called back. He breathing in little delighted gasps. A house lurched past his vision. Far, far helow him the horses were lilting their plodding hoofs asilin the corn furrows still. house. At the foot of the long red hill that led back to Marsville the horses drank deep of Banjo Branch’s sweet, singing waters. They moved up stream until their noses were under the footbridge. The soft young leaves crowded about Bijie with whispers. He felt that the tree knew the little boy who so often played under its ostspread branches. The wagon wound arcund the mountain road. The birde, their gossip rippling from tree to tree, chattered as young girls do over their morning toilets. In its parity, its clear-eyed freshness, the Joung an t shot through the trees in shafts of light that was virgin. The sun came up. were like long, shining fingers. It climbed higher. pervasive sweetness; higher still; the dew glinting on a million tender new leaves was crushed in heat. Bijie’s thoughts spun round and round in glittering circles. He tried to catch at them as they passed him. They were stravge fancies, these queer ideas about a city. Bijie bad gleaned most of them when he sat in meetin’, on a bench withouta back, his | But the city dangling uncomfortably. referred. The wagon jogged on. ards that sent warm waves of through the air. The pink and white blos- soms weighted down the branches, they It rolled overa bridge, past a busy mill. The mountains looked soft, still clonde. no longer crowded up to the road.side. They withdrew themselves, drawing veils of mist over their faces. Bijie was no long- the alien er theirs; he was journeying to town. At noon they stopped fox lunch. ng aroused sun was low when little hoy, dee; the feather bed, we're thar!" Bijie, in the Bijie w unwashed face palm deep when the Bijie was and jog back to the mountains. He looked out on a drowned world dispirited- ly. Suddenly his shoulders heaved. He was not yet eight, and when one is not yet eight disappointments hurt. Cots little Seeing ing the great high walls; ing to town had meant 20 much to a who had never been here. Tn He'll not git run over by the oyars. Hol’ on ter yer wits, son. Thar was My, but the houses marched past! The little post office, the store, the school- The pines breathed out a soft ijie was journeying toward was not the one to which the cirenit rider 1t passed orch- ume The the in the motherly folds of adrift in a swimming sea of sleep, with, ‘‘Bijie, wake up, wake up, , his little brown in his little brown unwashed hands, sat in the Jdoor- way of a little honse on the ontskirts of the town. It was evening of the next day, | fession and it was raining. Like all next days rain Joan down, it was dreary. waiting for Starling. When Starling came they would climb into the anyw e streets shining with gold; see- through the gates with shiny angele sitting on them. There bad been no city walls; nogates with shiny angels on them. Not one thing was I: little boy bad imagined it. The streets hort the imprisoned little feet ac- customed to freedom. They were hot. bim, but they were not corporeal. They were things of the spirit—his pope. Bat the little pi bad divined it. ‘Flay pups ?'’ she asked. ‘‘Just make-like ?”’ ie nodded. The people hurticd op and them led | Her eyes pitied him ! Just ! small boys unmercifally. eid She leaned nearer, all woman, Pat ope ed bot, too. led together like | thy. He smelled the faint fragrance of the a lot of frigh sheep. carls jailing so deliciously abont her face. A carriage came down the street and | Then it bappened! stopped in front of a -looking | Sight and sound failed Bijie. The floor house not far from where sat. Ladies | rose up and met the ceiling. Outside the poured out of it. They ran ap the broad walk under bobbing umbrellas. Other came, and other ladies 2 out and ran up the walk under bobbing um- brellas. e carriages blocked up the street. They looked with their wet tops He gliteiy beetles. Bp He swung far out the door, unmind- ful of the rain. Is was a ‘‘meetin’.”” It was a funeral. Inan agony of indecision Bijie swayed back and forth. Suddenly he darted away. He meant to find ont. Down ab Jie gate jadies were, still boy rying out of carriages tripping up the broad walk under umbrellas. Bijie went with them. He bad to find out. None of the ladies touched the door, but it opened. A person standing there offer- ed a tray to the ladies, and they dropped something. Bijie didn’t know just what, into it. No one noticed him in the least. He slipped through the open door. There was a moment of awe. en the door closed. Bijie wasshut out from the from all he bad known before. The ladies swept him with them to the foot of the wide stairway. They ran up the steps, laughing. ijie leaped as the young deer leaps on his mountain side, and crouched behind the curtains that led to a little unoccupied sitting-room. When the tattered line of his courage swept back, he looked ont cau- tiously. Here and there candles were lighted— so many candles! They glowed under shades golden as the wings of a butterfly. There were a bewildering number of rooms opening into one another, and women, beautiful women, wearing wondrous shim- mering d.esses moved about in the soft laminousness. There were flowers, too, and they were golden. They breathed out a subtle sweetness. It was all so beautiful to a little beauty worshiper; it was all so wonderful to alittle lad who found life such a simple matter— to a little lad who tumbled out of an over- full bed in a log cabin and made his simple morning toilet at the branch below a bub- bling mountain spring—that he lost his breath altogether and gasped and gasped before he could find it again, When the ladies bad come down the stairway aod the hall was almost deserted, Bijie stole up the steps pos, He went along a ball and through an open door. He enteed the door without the preliminary courtesy of a knock and found the ange! that should have been sit- ting on the city gate. She had come right out of the sky, Bijie knew. Her eyes were a bit of the sky’s blue, and the sunshine was still tangled in her hair. The question that had so ofte n teas- ed Bijie's mind was answered when she turned. At last Bijie knew how angels looked. Everything about her was soft and white and shiny: the rideulions little skirts that were no more than rufiies below her waist; the great how of 1ibbon that was meant to hold one of the bright carls in place but failed, and drooped to her ear; the socks that bad tried to climb to her Pup, fat knees and had stopped hall way isheartened. The vision shot a glance at Bijie through the shining mist of her carls. A glavee sent in this way is a disturbing thing. Bijie almost pulled bis little brown thumbs out of their socke:s. She crossed the room. The children laced each other. Then the =ofs little hand went out and touched Bijie’s band. The soft little voice, said, half shyly: “You look funny, boy. BatI like you ‘stravagauntly.” Bijie looked at her dumbly. He felt that wome actual lock would bave to be broken on his lips before he could speak. “I'm tired of parties an’ fings,’’ the Vision said. “I’m awfal glad you comed. Yesterday it vas a lunch-party. It’s some- fin’ most every day. Mean’ the woolly lamb an’ my Pinkie doll gets awful lone- some an’ tired of keepin’ out of the way."’ She sighed. But presently she dimpled delicionsly, and shot at him another of the glances he found so disturbing. *‘Le's play,” she said. Bijie spoke at last. ‘‘Whut’s parties?” he blurted ont. ‘‘Is thet a party?"’ The Vision derided him with rippling laughter. * “‘Parties is nothin.” They’s just eatin’ fings an’ sayin’ howdy do. Le's play,’ she said again. ‘‘Le’s play train. Hookle on!’ She got bebind Bijie and put her arms about his throat. Bijie's h swayed; his knees trembled. Bat it was sweet, this swaying and trembling. ‘Tg —ts—te—ding —diog—shu — shu— shu—."" She gave Bijie a little push and they were off for that dear land that ‘‘grown-ups never journey to—that only childhood knows. Time went by—a moment, an hour, an won. Bijie had lost count of earthly rec- ords, but he had reached heaven. When they had ceased to strut about the room with uplifted chests and outpuffed cheeks, there were other games, other Shing None of them were hooking on, though. The Vieion sat on. the floor beside Bijie. With loving im ity she hao her fat knees and the woolly lamb t bad journeyed with her out to slumber since the days of her earliest babyhood. Bijie's eyes fastened on her—eyes the lady who wanted to educate him had likened to pools in a deep wood—were worshipful. He leaned forward shyly. He wanted to tell her. He longed and longed to tell ker. In his whole life he had never told anyone. “Secrets ?'’ she encon . She under- stood, if dimly, and leaned forward in de- licions iveness. ““Whut's secrets ?’’ Bijie badn’t meant to ask a question. He tried to stop it, but it bad leaped beyond bis lips. *‘Secrets is fings you tell somebody,’’ the Vision said gravely. She did not again de- ride his ignorance. Two flame spots showed in Bijie's cheeks. For the space of a breath he hesitated. ““They’s pups.” He hurried into con- *‘They’s both black pups. One's named Sin ; t'other’s Sorrow. They’s a sight o’ com when yer mommie’s tan- ned the bark offen ye fer hidin’ out stid o’ rockin’ the baby ter sleep in the crib.cra- dle. When ye air smartin’ all over an’ feelin’ like ye’d ben in a yaller jacket’s nest, hit’s a sight o’ sompany jest ter hev Shem pups crawl up an’ lick you in the The Vision smiled. “‘Fair is they ?"’ she asked. Bijie looked at her helplessly. They were as real to him as the dolls on the floor, as the woolly lamb she had given on a sodden eweetnesss to | a) window the solid earth spun round and round. He shut his eyes tight. Maybe— ob, maybe—il he shut his eyes tight she would do it again. But it was not a kiss that Bijie felt, He was jerked to his feet. Eden bad been entered by the serpent—a capped and proned serpent. “The likes of you kissin’ her,” the nurse's voice rasped rough as a cow's tongue. With the implacable fury of childhood, the child flang berself at her nurse, who pushed her off roughly. “I'l lick the life outen ye, ef ye hart her,” Bijie cried fiercely. He »quirmed from under the restraining hand and flang his arms about the tearful Vision. But the woman was stronger. She drag- ged them apart. Bumping him spitefully, she drew him down the stairs, out the back walk, and, with a final shake’ aad a “I'd like to break every bone in your body,” she flung him into the street. Bijie stood there dazed. There were a good many of his bones he knew. Maybe all of them were broken. Bat it was not of his bones that he was thinking. His thoughts whirled dizzily round and round one dreadful pivot. Shut out! Shot ont from her! Reality iu the shape of Starling Aogel's hand paulied at B:jie. ‘‘Bijie?'’ There was relief in the monn. taineer’s big voice. ‘‘I've ben lookin’ every- whar fer ye, skeered outen my wits, Whar bev ye ben, boy? Ye leok like ye'd seed & hant. Come on. The wagin’s waitin’. Gosh a mercy!" catching sight of the toy that Bijie still clatched, ‘‘Whar'd ye git thet?" at Bijie was silent. He was silent when be dropped down in the wagon bed and crawled to the back. He longed to =ieal away and hide bis bart as the little wild things of the woods do. The wagon clattered through the streets and out frcm the town. As it grew darker Starling glanced back more than once. In the chill the little boy seemed so little, co comfortless. “Starlin’!"’ Starling turned round quizk- ly. Bijie was plucking at his sleeve. ‘ Gosh a meroy!"’ exclaimed Starling, as he caught sight of Bijie’s face. The child's eyes were burning like stars. “I'm gwine ter lain !' he ¢ried. “I'm gwine ter larn all thar is in the worl’! Larnin’ opens shet doors. She sed it did— an’ she knows—thet lady thet wanted ter eddicate me.” He dropped back on the wagon bed. “Ef I live I'm gwine ter iarn an’ open thet shet door,’ he said solemnly. There in the twilight something bad been born. The new thing beat in the little boy's voice. Already the fight had begun. The wide, deep night grew blacker and blacker. Starling Angel pushed on toward the mountains. Bijie slept, the woolly lamb clasped close. Starling threw an old quilt over him. “1 wonder whar he got thet outlandish elieep thet's ontlived hits legs,”” he muttered. “‘Quare leetle chap. Bijie. A-wantin’ ter larn so bad.” Starling badn’t a seer’s vision. He didn’t know that oue day Bijie would trndge over the mountain to the col. lege in the valley below, a lean old satchel that held all kis worldly goods over one shoulder, and the ax that was to enable him to chop his way through the valley college to open the shut doors beyond, the other. He didn’t know that the day would come when the kindly old teacher there would say to Bijie, ‘‘My boy, we've taught you all we can here. I'll help you togo high- er, for I'm thinking there’s a place in the big world outside for you.” Bijie didn't know it either. The woolly lamb had crept into his dreamland. And the Vieion was there, hugging her fat knees and the belgved lamb, and look- ing at him through the mist of her shining curls.—By Sara Lindsay Coleman, in Zhe Delineator. A Srrange People. High up among the mountains of that wild, beantifel country called Algeria, which lies in the northern part of Africa, dwells an interesting tribe of olive-skinned people known as Kabyles. These people, of whom the world outside their own counn- try hears litfle and of whom, perhaps, most of our girls and boys have never heard at all, are neither Negroes nor Arabs, but are the descendants of the ancient Berbers, who were driven up into the monatains by Arab invaders, more than twelve hundred years ago. And there they have dwelt ever since, generation after generation, farming their own bits of land, weaving their own gar- ments, and making, besides, wonderful things in pottery and metal-work. The only animal that. is sure-footed enough to make its way safely up the steep, rocky slopes on which the Kabyle villages are built is the patient, long-sal- fering mule ; and =o it is on muleback that the pavyles generally ride when they ride at all. Mostly, however, it is only the men who travel in this easy fashion, while the wom- en plod along on foot; for these untought mountain people—who, I am sorry to tell you, are followers of Mohammed—have never learned to regard their women with the respect and thoughtfulness usual amon, Christian nations. Like all Mohamme- dans, they bate the Christians with a fierce hatred, calling them ‘‘dogs’” and ‘‘in- fidels’’; and every once in a while they en- gagein a ‘‘jehad,”” or holy war, hop! to wipe out the white people they so Ee Fortunately, these wars are never sucoess- fal, th D ‘thisy Sumse & grant deal of trouble; for , you see, takes care of i) own 2 people, 28a will Bot let Rem be royed. t the poor ignorant les do not understand that. Do you not think that we ought to pray that soon they may und , and so be brought into the light and peace of the truth? Words Not to Use. Party for person. Depot for station. Promise for assure. Posted for informed. Saicalote in ti hte. or staying. Like Ido for as I do. Feel badly for feel bad. Try and do for try to do. These kind for this kind. Guess for suppose or think. Fix for arrange or prepare. Just as soon for just as lief. Between seven for among seven. The matter of for the matter with. —Subseribe for the WATCHMAN. E | to say, THE OUTCAST. Bee how they quiver— The lights! Studding the night In unbroken flight From river to river And up to the heights. And I am alone Bee how they go— The faces ! All of them smiling Further exiliog One fallen low, Shamed by their graces Further alone ! Hear how it roars— The city ! And ccean accurst, At ev'ry wave-burst, Strewing its shores With corpses of pity. Apd [am alone Something long dead, Yel liviog— The ghost of a woman With eyes that are human That burn in her head With rage noforgiviog— For | am alone, —~Stephen Chalmers, in New York Times, Burden-Bearers of Mexico. Two very long ears,a shaggy body, a sad little face and four flufly legs—that means a Mexican burro, or what we would call a little donkey. And sach patient little creatures as these donkeys are! The Mexicaus make them do the work of the country, and very varied it is, too. You may see one walking along having wood strapped around his little body, so that be looks like a woodpile on four legs. Then he is made into a milk-wagon by baving two large milk-cans strapped on either side, with the milkman sitting oa his back, nearly on the end of his tail, with his feet within a few inches of the ground. This is the way he sells his milk, calling as he goes. One day Isaw a man driving to market eight or ten little burros, loaded with clov- er, which they call alfalfa. It is very dil, ferent from our clover, growing very tall and not very thick, and the people prize it highly. h little barro carried two large bal- Joon shaped bundles roiled in somethin like a fish-net, and each little burro his nose tied up with a muzzle to keep him from nibbling the clover from the pack of his brother in front. When you looked at them, all you conld see were two very long ears and two little, sad eyes. Poor little animale, doa’t you feel sorry for them ? They are never fed like your little pets, hut go around the streets pick- ing up bits of paper and sticks and straw, and I have seen them phe ont their tongues to lap up the hot dust. So I thought, when I saw all that clover, what a delight it would be to let them have a real good dinuer ! I asked the driver if he would Little | sell me ten cents’ worth, and what do you think he gave me? clover !- The first thing was to cat the fish-net and let the clover out. We spread it around like a big green table, with the little bloa- soms for strawberries. Then the next thing was to take off the muozzles. The little fellows stood and looked at the clover and theo at me, as mach as to say : ““‘Do you really mean it ?"’ It did not take them long to get a taste, and hefore many minutes it wae all gone. There was a baby burro, too small to work, and the mao said be would sell it to me for twenty-five cents. I wanted very much to take him home with me, but I knew he would be very homesick for his playmates, and then, too, he wonld be so cold, because where he lives it is always warm. If I ever went to Mexico again I think those little burros would know me, and would like to ask me for ten cents to buy them another dinner.—Youth’s Companion. Two large loads of The Barrowing Owl On the great plains of the Far Wess lives the burrowing owl. His long naked legs and his head devoid of ear tufts, together with his custom of being abroad by day, while other owls sleep, make him an oddi- tory of his tribe, and, indeed, hedoes not associate at all with other owls. Then, too, his home instead of being in trees or other high places as theirs is, is in the ground. He is a thrifty fellow aod rather thau ex- pend labor in digging out a hole for him- self, he looks about until he finds an aban- doned burrow of some fox or badger or of some givasd squirre!, and there he estab- lishes himself with his wife aod, building a nest of the ronghest kind, they proceed to raise a family. They are an untidy couple at housekeep- ing, and their underground residence is soon Bi with unremoved rubbish and offal; for, like all owls, they have a fashion of swallowing their meat, hones and all, and then vomiting up what the stomach cannot digest. Of all sitnations for housekeeping, the burrowing owls seem to prefer a prairie dog village. Here they find plenty of free lodging, for the prairie dogs are constantly extending their burrows, leaving old quar- ters for new, so that of a given village much is always unoccupied by them. Into such abandoned parts the owls like to move, and besides enjoying squatter sovereignty there ia reason to believe that they un- gratefully make forays into their landlords’ quarters and scandalously feast upon the young prairie ‘‘puppies.” It is needless therefore, that contrary to what bas often heen represented, the owls and the prairie doge are no happy family ; and for the rattlesnake, who is opulatly supposed to consort peaceably with them in the same burrow, he is the enemy of both, his only business in the village being to make an a meal of both owlets and ‘‘pup- es. The Candlefish. The Indians of the Pacific Coast of British Columbia use a curious candle. It isa little fish called the ‘‘eunlachon,” or ‘‘can- dlefish.’’ It is not more than an inch in 1 , and looks like a smelt. It is richer in material than any other fish, and so makes a good substitute fora candle. The Indians dry it, when it will burn with a bright flame. Sometimes they simply light it at the tail, and sometimes they run a wick through the body. ~An Irish audience hears a song such as ‘‘A Nation once again,’’ and as one man they rise, rich and poor, men and women, stalls and gallery, and sing it over and over with might and main. eps and advertising make the biggest pair in the deck. ——]t takes a man with a lot of brass to dispose of a gold brick. BR ———— The Red Man's Use of Nature,’ | Mere Record Grom It was the dusky tinted women who first | The crop reports issued by the Depart- taught the colonists the cultivation of | ment of Agriculture on A 10th in- maize, while they themselves used uo other dicated another record-breakiug year. Pre- implements for ite shoulder hlade of a more savory did feasting on its of its parched river nenally made their midday and even- ing meal. the squans taught the white women the art of making bread. As well as with maize, | the Indian women were experts in raising beane. Saccotash is a dieh which they con- tributed to the colonists’ table. The vine which grew lastily about every wigwam is now called squash. In the uses of plant stimulants and ton- ics these mea were well versed. Undoubt- edly they were the first to extract from the bark of dogwood trees a powerfui substance since known as cornin, which they admin. istered for similar ailments as are teday treated with quinine. The dogwood, more- over, was their almanac, since it bloomed just at the right time for planting their corn. They recognized sassafras as a stim- ulant, and delighted in a mild sore of drink prepared from its leaves. For the painting of their laces, the dye- ing of their feathers and baskets, the chil- dren of the forests used those plants which wereabundant in colored juices. Of these, Que gekeraily employed was the exquisite bloodroot (Sangainaria Canadensis, ) which to them was known as red puccoon. It is found in plenty from Florida well north- ward. The little laurel, called also lamb- kill (Kalmia angustifolia, ) was renownedly useful to the Indiaus. Water distilled from its leaves was a drink meted out to ene- mies ; or should one among them be so cow- ardly as to court death, the drinking of | laarel water won it easlly. The Indian tobacco ( Lobelia inflata) was early appreciated by the red men for smok- ing. Although its stems and leaves are | than a shell, the | ooded mattock. N ae I Copii w . No r laxury or one know than thas of | 1t is from maize, as well, that limipary returns put the winter wheat crop at 493,434,000 busbels. The spring | wheat crop was estimated at 27,830,000 bashels, making a total probable wheat ears, while a little barvest of 772 264,000, which is more than meal with water from the | was ever produced in any other country in | the world,about 160,000,000 more than our own average production for the ten years preceding,and nearly 24,000,000 more than 201 Eranteny previous year's production, in Along with the greatest wheat crop we | bave also the promise of the greatest corn | crop on record—no less than 2,713,194,000 | bushels. Add to this a twelve-million- bale cotton crop, an excellent tobacco crop, and crops of oats, barley, rye, and other minor cereals ranging from fair to fine, and it seems evident that the farmers of the United States will bave even more money to spend, the railroads wore freight to carry, and the merchants more goods to sell this year than lass. All through the winter wheat belt there has been a remarkable increase in the yield per acre. The gain is unbroken, from Peonsylvania to California. In Indiana aud Obio, old States whose #0il might be expected to be showing signs of exhaustion, the average vield bas gone above twenty bushels to the acre—a yield that would | bave been considered good a few years ago {for an exceptionally favored farm. In | Nebraska the average bas risen to 23.2 bushels. Last year, when we had the next to the largest wheat crop ever produced up to that time, three of the eleven principal winter wheat States averaged less than ten bushels to the acre. This year only one State has averaged less than twelve bushels and only two less than fourteen. Last year | only three States went above eighteen bush- els; this year three have gone above twen- ty. This year’s gigantic crop of 772,000,- 000 bushels of wheat of all kinds has been somewhat poisonous, still the red men | produced on an acreage ten per cent, smaller dried them to use in their flavor being not dissimilar to that of to- | bacco. The medicinal uses of the New | Jersey tea, or redroot (Ceanothus Ameri- canus), were directly learned by the white settlers of the mountains from the Chero- kee Indians. They reserved it for those afflicted with disease of the spleen. Through the Atlantic states the plant, perhaps, which is most closely associated with the primeval inhabitants is the yapon ( Ilex vomitoria), called also South Sea tea. It is the species of holly from which the Indians anonally made their ‘‘black drink.” At some place where the shrub was known to grow in abundauce, there was held in the spring a gathering of the red men and their families from miles about. A fire was built, acrude kettle hung over the flame, and an immense quantity of the yapoo's leaves put theirin | within water. As the brew became strong, | each Indian in turn took a drink, and then | shortly, as lg expected, became violently | sick. For two or three days together the | whole company continued drinking of the | brew and then being sick. At length, when | they thought their systems sufficiently | cleansed, each one took, as emblematic of the journey, asprig of the holly, laid it over his shoulder, and, feeling himself re- made, marched off to his wigwam. ORCHIDS AS PAPOOSE FOOD. The wild orchids, that is, those which spring from tuberous roots, were assiduonsly sought by the squaws as productive ofa eubstance highly nourishing for their pa. pooses. Another plant, the blue cohosh ( Caulophyllum thalictroides), was called by the Indian herb doctors papoose 100t, prob- ably because they employed it for the good of the little ones. Think of the savage roving the woods ; of the impromptu meals he enjoyed of wild strawberries, wild raspberries, winter- green herries, and all the spicy sorrels and fiagrant leaves he kuew so well to pull— the sweetness of some acorvs flavoring his venison, or laid by for use during the win- ter, the relish he bad from nuts of every kind that grew within his range ! Delica- cies ever concerned him, as is shown by the habit of prolonging them beyond their nat- nial season. The leaves of the creeping snowberry (Chiogencs hispidula), having an aromatic flavor, have tickled no doubt many an Indian's palate ; yet the true de- licacy which the squaws prepared from this plaut was by using its white berries, small aud tedious to gather, from which they made amber colored jelly, a dish reserved for high occasions. The striking wayside plant, joepye weed ( Eupatorium purpurewm), throwing out masses of crimson purple flowers in the late autumn, still commemorates an Indian herb doctor calling himself Joe Pye, who in New Eugland settiements went about caring, through its potency, typhus fever. The beautiful butterfly weed, or pleurisy root ( Asclpias tuberosa), is still closély as- sociated with its early Indian companions. From its colored flowers they extracted a sugarlike substance, nseful in many ways, while a brew from its roots was deemed excellent for the relief of all sorts of inflam- mations, especially pleurisy. Although the American Indians have never been lauded as a cleanly race, they still were young in learning that the sap of bouncing bet (Saponaria officinalis) would form a lather when mixed with water, and greatly facilitate the removal of dirt. Usually the workings of the plant world were r ed with awe. It was for this reason that so much superstitions conjur- ing entered into their otherwise crude but wholesome use of medicinal herbs. Seldom were they content to allow the drug alone to effect a cure, preferring greatly to invoke some spirit to help along the achievement. So also they construed all sorta of legends about every day phenomena. Should two clovers spring up where white ones formerly had grown, they be- came at the indicative of the blood of red men slain at battle. The falling of a leaf, the crackling of a twig at an ious moment, often caused the savage, feeding his mind on wonders, to turn back from bis whole day’s course. His regard for the gracious plant world through which he passed was ¢. Of all that administered to his he partook [reely, yet he seldom ravished wantonly; and for this reason wild flowers did not vanish when left to the companionship of primitive es e. Flowers were never by them their beauty, or to adorn their wig- wams, but simply for their known uses. Tuey never transplanted them, nor, through cultivating and trimming the forests, them farther into it.—Alice Lounsbury, in New York Tribune. ——*"Vhat bave you got in the shape of cucumbers, this morning ?*’ asked the onstomer of the new grocery clerk. ‘‘Noth- ing but bananas, ma'am.” ——It's safer to laugh with the big man than to give him the laugh. pipes ; their trod | piano part of the trio at than the 1899 crop of 114,000,000 bushels ess, It is a noteworthy fact that the amount of land sown to wheat in the United States seemed to reach its limit seven years ago. In 1899 we had 52,588,574 acres in wheat— an area equal to that of Kansas—and we have never equaled that figure since. In other words, the State of Kaneas, if it were all good wheat land, could produce ail the wheat we have ever raised in the United States in any one year. While we have over three million square miles of land in all, it appears that only about eighty thou- sand, cr less than three per centof the whole, can be devoted to wheat-growing. This year’s record crop has been raised on less than seventy-five thonsand. The only prospect of a material increase is found in the reclamation of arid lands by irrigation. The corn crop is one of vastly more im- portance to the United States than the wheat orop, although that is the greatest in the world. Our 2,713,000,000 bushels of corn this year wonld load a freight train extending two-thirds of the way aronnd the globe. This crop has been raised on 05,535,000 acres of land—about twice the acreage devoted to wheat and the greatest ever given to corn in our history. The American cornfields are about equal in ex- tent to the Japanese Empire, and their yield ino single year would pay off the national debt of the United States. Last year Secretary Wilson said in his annual report that if the American farmer could go on without relapse for three years longer he could look back over a decade aud find that in those ton years he had pro- duced an amount of wealth “eqnal to oue- half of the entire national wealth produced by the toil and composed «f the swipluses and savings of three centmic<.”’ Oue of the three years has pa-sed, and ivstead of a relapse there has Leen an advance. Tuis year’s crops alone would pay for half the railroads of the United States, — Collier's. The first change of life, the time when the girl becomes in Nature's purpose 2a woman, is a critical period in every uitl’s history. Mothers should use every vigi- lance not to permit the establishment of conditions which will involve a tremen- dous penalty in later years. Nothing conld be wiger than to suggest the useol Dr. Pierce's Favorite Prescription at such a time. It establishes regularity, quiets the perves, and gives a healthy balance to the whole body. ‘Favorite Prescription” contains no opium, cocaine or other narco- tic, and is entirely free from alcohol. The Old Man's Money. “Did you hear 'bout the old man’s experience in the bankin’ business?” “No: what was it?’ “Why, he put $60 in bank—first mon- ey he'd ever put there—an’ the boys tol’ him that he'd better keep a eye on the bank, as they failed mighty fre- quent, an’ he wuz liable to lose all.” “Well?” “Well, he hung round that bank so constant that the bank people got sus- picious of him an’ thought he wuz goin’ to blow the bank up. Whenever he seen the cashier come out he fol- Jered him round town, always keep- in’ him in sight. An’ it wuz the same way with the bank president an’ all the clerks. An’ when he finally ap- plied fér a job as janitor o' the in- stitution, so's he could be on the spot in case o’ trouble, they had him arrest- ed, an’ the judge decided that he wuz crazy, an’ they wuz jest about to send him to a lunatic asylum when his friends explained things, an’ the bank folks give him his money an’ tol’ him to git."—Exchange. Scared Out of Writing Badly. A well known musician, who writes a very illegible hand, once sent an unusually hopeless scrawl to a friend. The latter studied it a minute, gave it up in despair and then sat down and wrote in reply: “I shall be most happy to dine with you tomorrow at G Kind- est regards to your wife,” etc. In less than half an hour his friend appeared breathless at his door. “There's some misunderstanding,” he sald anxiously. “I wrote you a note asking you if you could play the a's re- cital and here you've sent me an ac- ce of a dinner Invitation, but I 't Invite you to dinner.” “Well,” returned the other blandly, “I didn't suppose you'd really sent me an Invitation to dinner, but I couldn't read a word of, your note, in that case hereafter I mean ¢ to take it for granted that you're me to dine.” For one of his correspondents at «Most pegyle won!d fall short if meas- ured by the golden rale. least the offender now writes legibly. :
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers