Rellefonte, Pa., August 30, 1907. WHAT DOETH IT PROFIT THEM! Hear the foolish people grumbling at the wind and at the rain; They complain about their losses or the little that they gain; They are fretting under burdens that have bent their shoulders low; They are mourning for the chances that they missed long, long ago; Thinking all the world is drear, With sad faces they appear; But what profits are they gaining for the sad- ness that they show? See the foolish people frowning as they hurry on their ways. They have neither time for smiliog nor for giving other praise; They are thinking of their sorrows; which are always multiplied; They are bearing woes that ever in their minds are magnified; They are hurryiog along, Thinking all that is is wrong; But what profits are they gaining for the joys they put aside Hear the foolish people grieving over fancied slights and wrongs; They decline to search for gladness and they hum no hopeful songs; They are looking out for evils and forgetting in their haste To perceive the glowing splendor of the pre. cious days they waste; Burdening themselves with hate, They are cavilling at Fate; But what profits are they gaining for the bit. terness they taste? Bee the foolish people passing joys they have the right to share; They are busy hunting trouble, they are cling- ing to despair; They go peering into corners in their search for sin and shame; They are blind to all the beauty that surrounds them; full of blame For the man whose look is glad, They pass onward, bowed and sad; But what profits are they gaining for the glee they will not claim? ~—8, E. Kiser in Chicago Record-Hearld. HAVEN. It was a one-story house, built of rough stones, with wide overhanging eaves and quaint leaded glass windows. The largest part of me was the ball, where a huge fire. place of rongh bricks, and a floor of red tiles, and a ceiling of low weathered rafters gave me fall opportunity to express the spirit of cordiality. From this ball two steps led down iuto the dining room, and beyond was the enclosed veranda where one could look out upon the gently sloping hills and gniet, beautiful country. Towards the back of the house was a wing which formed a cozy library and bed- rooms. Bat what I loved best was my side which faced the garden, where in the early Spring I could see the crocus peeping ont amid the still brown grass ; then would come the jonquile, afterward the spirea and roses; then the hollyhocks aud poppies and larkspurs, followed by the August golden glow, and, last of all, chrysanthemums. My acquai~tance with them began when I was just commencing to grow and life mysell up enough to take notice. They would come out in the lateafternoons, when he bad finished bis work, and stand side by side, praising each of uy parte, and rectify- ing any mistake. What first gained wy love for them was the strong foundation upon which they placed me, for when it stormed and the wind blew and the thunder made me trem- ble, I could settle myself down upon the strong uodergronud walls. and brace my- self just as a man does ina heavy pair of boots. This is a great comfort toa house that stands on the crest of a hill, exposed to all kinds of weather and strong winds, as I did. It was in the early Autumn when I was entirely completed, and they came to live with me. How well I rememberit! It was one of those blue gray afternoons when the smoke bangs low and everything seeme mellowed by indistinctoess. All day far- niture and packages bad been coming ont, so that when they came there was much to do to get me into a semblance of order. They ran from room to room, admiring and patting my white enameled doors, treading softly upon my hard wood floors. “Look, dear, how beauntifal this old set- tle is, beside the fireplace. It looks as if it had already been here an hundred years,” she would say to him, and he would an- swer, ‘But have you seen the sunset from the library window ?"’ and together they would walk, hand in hand, from one room to another, then hack again, as if it were always new. The clock had chimed twelve that night before they could settle down to a moment of quiet and rest. He bad thrown some logs into my huge fireplace, and when I drew the blaze up the chimney with a roar ehe clapped her hands together and laugh- ed, and then suddenly became very quiet, and I saw two tears roll down her cheeks. ‘What is it, dear,” he asked, gently drawing her down on the settle beside him. *‘Oh, nothing—only, I am so happy in that it is just you and I and our home.’ And they sat there together a long time, her head resting in the hollow of his shoul: der, and he smoking an old brier pipe, hap- py and contented. The minntes sped al lower, and she fe agsil her head Slipped asleep, while he dri into the fairy realm of futures that blended, finally, with her draws. Ye ose were very happy days for us, I in the full regalia of fresh paint, with not a joint to give me ths least uneasiness, not even a crack in my plaster to mar my per- fection. A vain house was I, I must ad- mit, but it was the vanity that comes with the satisfaction of knowing that I made them happy, for it seemed to me that that was all for which I was built. Then, they Wurest 34 and full of life and joy ; how foul 1 0 otherwise than reflect their e days were too short that Winter ; even the long evenings, that began at five and ended at eleven, seemed hardly long enough for us to do and eay all that we de- sired. It was when they sat upon the seitle before the glo 1 ually fall ander the spell oo bn 2] ling that I 1 out that I could talk te them and make them understand. It was she who first heard my voice : ‘‘Listen, listen quick, dear; can’t you hear the fire up the chimney ? It is talk- ing tous. Itiszaying: ‘East or West, Home's best.” Listen, itis si now. Now, it is telling us that it is a haven, the ace and rest, the port from all storms, HR what we shall call it, dear- ‘Ha- ven. talked to them, and always understood we best. . The Winter fled and Spring came gently on. It was then that they hep the gar- der which was to be my pleasure. He would work there, spading and digging, while she planted and watered the flowers. How impatiently we watched for the plants to spring up into life ! I recall one night she awakened, and, remembering the roses had not heen watered, she went ont into the moonlit garden and sprinkled them most carefully. As Summer came on, habit of sitting for the greater of the day under the shadow of an old tree, one that was there long hefore I was even thought of. She would go there directly after »reakfast, sewing all the time upon the tiniest garments, for which I could make out no real use. Yet she kept on diligently until a very large basket was completely filled with these funny little doll clothes. Then, one morning, I found him climbing up the steps which led into wy garret, and calling back to a white- gowned nurse that a bahy most always be carried up first to give it lock. . . . it was she who she grew into the Those were gnite the happiest days that I was to know. The hahy grew into a beantifai boy, and he played with me as I bad never known how to play before. Rainy daye he spent the hours in my attic, ran- sacking every corner and finding out all my secrets—secrets I was very willing for him to know, for it strengthened the bond between ns and made we feel that my claim upon him would Jast as long as I lived. With these treasures in my care, my con- fidence in mysel! grew until I began to think that I was the ouly house in the world worth considering, and lorded it over all the neighborhood. *What do care 2’ said I to them. “You aie only every day houses who change yon: occopants often, but I am more than a house. | am a home, lives within me. Besides, nearly all of vou ers; you are at the mercy of any one who is able to pay vounr price. but I helong to my le, and they belong to me.” hile I talked on thus, I heard a far- distant voice answer me, and as I looked 1n the direction from which it came, I saw an unpretentious old house living far back in a grove of trees. It looked very aged and sadly in need of paint. yet ahont it was an air of comfort and ~olidity. **Vain hoaster,”’ itcalled to me, ‘‘it is all very well to be proud of your beauty. You are young now; youn talk of the spirit of love and heanty, but thas is only the be- ginning. I bave had thas, $oo, and thing still greater, for I have seen the depths of suffering, and know that the only real nobility comes when one a sel through these shad, and can hold himself erect and " At this I only for I kuew that old bouses always grumbled. It was in Midsummer whe: one evening he was late in returning bome. She was waiting for him in the garden. When he came I read in his fac~ hat a great trouble bad fallen upon ther. te whispered the words to her gently and afterward she wept throogh that loux. un<erable night. A week later they | cket thee door, and walk- ed away, the cliiit be «ren them, At the crest of the bh 1] she stopped and looked hack at se ivngrogly hier eyes em- braced mie in their great tove, and 1 heard her marmur, “Don’t Leger us, dear, dear Haven. We aie ¢ mtng hack—some day.” Then was I al ue, ~ utterly alone, with my blinds elo-cd iget and wy rooms dark- ened 80 that the wails tegan to mold, aud the smooth, glass. fl © 1« were deep with dust. But this was. ~ ohing to me in my grief over their departure 1 felt that I was deserted and eli othe mercy of those who thought me wath 10 be huught, Each worvirg a~ I bathed my gables in the early sun. I wouid glow with the bope that perbaps 1nat day they might return, but as the lonely shwdows of the twilight clustered ahont nie, | Kaew it was net to he In wy grief aud fonelines 1 believe I aged more in there tew months that I was empty than in the wany ears speut with them. At the end of thee dreary months, I wa< awakened ficun my lethargy by the sound of a heavy earriage rolling up to my gate. The ja: gling of the chaius, the rest. less prancing of the horse«, the smart glit- ter of the caniage—ail to'd me that the newcomers were tich. They were accom- pied hy the heartless wan who had Poognt me, and a< he unlocked the door and showed the strangers in, one ray of happiness passed over ine—the hope that I might pass from his hands forever. The two women--they were mother aud daughter I learned, when bad come to know them - held their dainty gowns high as they stepped lightly over my dusty floors and criticized me—detail hy detail. “A brick flooi- how absurd, mamwa ! We moet have a wood floor laid here at once. And how plain the walls are ! They will bave to be papered. And all this white wood work i= #0 tiresome,but we can have it stained mahogany. Yes, I believe we can make it presentable hy spending money. Papa, do send for a decorator at once.’ Finally they took possession of me, and with them came a horde of workmen. I reverberated with bammering, my walls were hung with heavy,dust-catchivg cloths; massive, unsuitable furniture was crammed all over me, until I felt that I was myself no longer——that another house stood in m place. When all this was done, I rang with the sound of music, of laughter, of endless frivolities. There was no peace nor quiet self-communion left me any longer. All was hubbub and careless merriment. Thus I lived for a decade. There were alternate periods of rest when the daughter and mother wonld leave on their tours and visits. At such times I felt almost happ again,--and the old man, the hasband oA father, almost won his way intomy heart by his loneliness and bomelessness. Ina way be represented something similar to myself for at heart be craved a real bowme and yet was continually forced to live in what was nothing but a thin imitation. But the friendship between us never grew, for he did not know how to begin to love me, and, before be learned, the daughter was ed,and they moved away. in I found myself alone. Years and years of solitude—stretching out into an eternity of dreariness. An endless og of faces and forms, some remaining with me for several years, others only a few monthe. Some of them were sweet children, one cularly—a little girl with soft, brown hair, and gentle eyes who sat in my garden on Summer after- noons, reading fairy tales aud naming the flowers after her many dream friends. She seemed to feel my presencein such mo- ments, and the only bappy experience in the desert of my years—and even that mo- | ment was the happiness of sorrow—was i when they took her away. The others The spirit of beanty and tru'h and nobility | passing years are rented houses. You know no real own- | The wiud bad died down into the golden So it was that I was named. Afterwards, | were calling ber to follow them and she they would listen to me every evening as I | sli out into the garden before leaving, laid ber head against the big door, kissing the broad pwel which the weath- er blistered and cracked. ‘‘Good-bye, old house,” she said very softly—a wh just for me—*‘I love you very Buch. ou are 80 big, and quiet and al. There were other children, many of them, but they were thoughtless and treated me badly. My doors were slammed until I was sadly in need of new hinges, and my nice smooth paint was scratched and muti- lated, and my fine bardwood floors, which bad been the pride of my youth, were he- yood recognition. Each year marked the decay of some part, until I reached the in- dignity of becoming a rented house. y decrepitude hronght only the poorer classes— le with no thonghtfalness or thrife. They believed in treating me with contempt, using each part of we as suited their purposes best, defacing m-, ruining e , An old hollybock in the garden was my timekeeper. Despite all changes, each Spring would see it struggle up throngh the rampant grass, lifting its stalks of pare white hlossoms high ; then gradually wilt- ing and dviug —~thus did I know another year bad heen added tomy age. Thirty- seven years bad I counted in this way since they left me—thirty seven years wirth- ont the sound of their voice, withont the look of their affectionate eyes. At last the end was near at hand —1 fels it iv every part of me. My s:rong uprights would tremble now when the wind blew ; I felt certain that I could not resist annther loog Winter. I bad heen alove for months, —even the poorest woald not consider me any louger, and oftentimes people would go hy in the late night and shudder when they looked at me saying that I was haunted ; that ghosts lived within my walls. And they were right—ghosts did live within me—the ghosts and memories of that long procession which had marched through me with the And then there came a calm, cold night. December mist, and the clouds hurried across the «ky, only half obscuring the moon. It was a lonely night, and I felt a great passionate need for lightsand fire within me. [I whispered over and over to mysell ; I was to die alone, forgotten and unloved. The night stillness was suddenly hroken by the rambling of a carriage that stopped before the garden gate. Two people came toward me, a m.n and a woman. [I heard the man jangle some keys, and as he fam- bled with the lock the woman held the lighted match until the door swung and they entered. The chilling damp el into their faces and smote them witha musty odor. “‘Tell the coachman to bring us one of his lamps,” I heard the woman eay, and she waited silently in the darkness until the man returned with the light. It was then that my ruin and desolation became evident to them. Isaw her put her bands up to her face and cover her eyes as if some deep pain had suddenly taken possession of her. But he moved ahont with a firm tread and made the staring coachman bring some old, rot- ted palings from the fence, and starta feeble blaze in my old, cracked chimney. Soon the fire crackled and a bright warmth beamed into the room, making it a little less cheerless. I almost felt the glow of youth pass over my shivering body once more. When the fire blazed he pushed the one rough chair in the hall forward into its glow, and led the woman to it. She sank into it, clasping ber bands before her and letting her head droop forward ever so lis. tle till the firelight gleamed on her snow- white bair. Her eyes looked etraight out before her into the blazing timbers. He stood with hie band resting affectionately upon her shoulder, a little back of her, where the light shone on his strong rugged features, so lined and furrowed with the signs of age and disappointment. Au hour raced by and yet no word bad broken the stillness. Finally, he spoke : ‘We must be going now, dear. We shall Tetarn in the morning.”’ She started and looked at him in surprise. “Leave here ? You surely canuot mean I shall never leave here again.’’ *‘But only for to-night. e can retuin to-morrow for good. It is not safe to stay here to-night.” Again her eyes rebuked bim. ‘‘No harm can come to ns here. We are safer here thau any place in the world. Don’t you remeinber, we called it ‘Haven’ ? That means resv atid safety. Tell the coachman togo back. We shall stay here forever now.” He left ber alone—just she and I, and it was then that I knew her. A great tremor passed over me so that one of the loose stones in my chimney was shaken from its fastenings and fell down into the fire, making it blaze up suddenly into a gor- geous glow that rambled far up my chim- ney. And in its noise my voice rose into a passionate ory, ‘‘Beloved ! Beloved.’ Suddenly she leaned forward on her knees before the hearth and listened and heard me. When he returned, and threw down a great armlal of holly on the hearth, she pulled him down heside her so that their arms were about each other and their faces close together. ‘‘Listen, listen,’’ she whispered, ‘‘it ia it. the house talking to ns. It has not forgot- ten. [tis calli ‘‘Beloved ! Belvoved.” —By Norval ardeon, in The Delineator. One baby in arms, a couple of others tug- ging at her skirts as she moves about the ouse, uo help, and yet this woman mana- ges to sweep and and sew. Is it any wonder that she wears out fast ? Is it any wonder that ber nerves are racked ? Hardly a woman is exempt from ‘‘female trouble’ in ‘some form. It is upon the woman of many fe, the woman who cannot rest, that the disease falls the hardest. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescription comes to every nears: working woman, vexed by woman's ills, as a boon and a blessing. Itheals ulceration andinflammation. It dries the drains that sap the strength. It cures female trouble, strengthens the nerves, and makes weak women s and sick women well. ‘Favorite Prescription’ contains no alcohol, neither opium, cocaine nor other narcotic. It cannot injure the most deli- cate woman. Of the common European | Eog- lish is the most widely spoken at pres. ent time and seems to be increasing in populasisy gore rapidly than any of the others. 1800 about 21,000,000 people lish and in 1900 Boke Eoglieh nd fu 1900 about 130000 number ! speakiog Russian increased from COMEDY IN A CEMETERY. Old Chestnut Seller of Genoa and Her Fortune Hunting Spouse. It does not seem possible that one could run across a comedy in such a solemn place as a cemetery, yet there Is, so the optimist assures us, a little comedy In every situation. Surely in the romance of the oid chestnut seller of Genoa and the chagrin of her for- tune hunting spouse, both of whom figure in the local gossip and one of whom is immortalized In marble in the Campo Santo, one must admit that the situation is not without its lighter side. The most serious minded smile as they read the inscription which the shrewd old lady commanded the sculp- tor to chisel on her tomb. Not so many years ago, so the story runs, one of the best known figures in the streets of Genoa was that of an old woman who made a living selling chestnuts. She was without beauty, but was gifted with a quglity which no doubt stood Ler in better stead—a na- tive shrewdness which enabled her to buy her wares prudently and to sell them with a profit. It does not require a large income to live in Genoa, espe- cially when one has not acquired ex- travagant tastes, go gradually the for- ! tune of the worthy toller grew and | finally became large enough to be talk- | ed about. A lad more noted for his | good looks than for principle or intel- | lect caught the rumor of the fortune, | sought the chestnut merchant and | made straight for her heart, which was | not long in responding. The subse- quent marriage of the pair caused the knowing ones to smile. After a short honeymoon it was | LEGEND OF THE BOUNTY. A British Brig Whose Ghost Still Sails the South Seas. 80 famous has become the Flying Dutchn:an and the story of the punish- ment visited for impiety upon her cap- tain that the yarn has overshadowed many others equally good. There Is, for instance, the tale still told in the atolls of the south seas concerning the brig Bounty, of mutiny fame, which, for dramatic intenseness, far out- weighs it. As a tale of adventure few, if any, stories of real life can exceed in tragic detail the story of the mutiny of the British brig of war Bounty. Her men, disheartened and oppressed by a tyran- nical captain, set upon their officers and, murdering some, set the rest afloat in open boats. Then the muti neers sailed to a deserted island, first taking unto themselves wives of the daughters of the islanders, and their descendants still live on a rocky island in the south Pacific. For years after | the mutiny the whereabouts of the | ship and her crew was unknown, and | she was supposed to have foundered | at sea. Naturally stories, weaving | themselves from the phantasmagoria of the sea, were told concerning her | at the wharves where seamen congre- | sated and finally crystallized into one zrewsome yarn which might have | served Coberidge as the framework for | his “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” | Any old whaler in 'Frisco can tell the | lezend which is the white man’s con- | tribution to the romance swathed | south sea islands. She, like the death ship seen by the Ancient Mariner, comes sweeping down | “My dear man, you don't want medi- cine. What you want is something to change the trend of your thoughts, Do as a friend of mine did. He was troubled the same way and found that the old folks’ plan of imagining sheep passing a barrier and counting them was out of date, so he began trying to name all the states in the Union. He soon got them so he could classify them alphabetically. Then, when they no longer interested him, he started on the counties of his state. He now has them at his tongue’s end, classified up to the fourth letter. Now he is start- ing on state capitals and their loca- tions. Then he will take up county seats. A moment's glance at an atlas during the day shows him when he is wrong, and the beauty of the plan is that he rarely has to think along these lines longer than ten minutes before he is sound asleep. To make it short, the study of geography is a good nar- brought to the notice of Interested | on a vescel when the wind has fallen | cotic.”—Philadelphia Record. neighbors that the young husband was | in search of work. His elderly bride | disclaimed all knowledge of the rumor- | ed fortune and said that, as she was almost without a penny, she expected | that he, too, would put his shoulder to | the wheel. Between them a comforta- | 4 ported and an | e theater might | be enjoyed. Notiéven yet having given | up hope that the fortune ayould one appear, the young hy [ Japan an ra 8! patience gave place to discouragenens and love's young dream was shatter# Several years later the deserted wife | died, and, like a mushroom in the | night, sprang up in a conspicuous place | in the Campo Santo a handsome monu- | ment representing, aside from the plot | which it occupied, a snug fortune. The | marble statue, of life size, represents | the old lady, dressed in full gathered skirt, slik apron, fringed shawl and a | rosary wound around her fingers. Lest | there should be a doubt about the his- | tory of the original and her romance | the entire story is set upon the pedes- | tal of the statue, explaining how the lady had been wooed, not, as she knew at the time, for her beauty or her vir- | tue, but for her fortune, and how she | had thwarted her mercenary lover by | the purchase of this lasting memorial, | which not only represented her hus- | band’s disappointment, but might also serve as a warning to others. The | statue is one of the most striking in | the entire place.—Leslie's Weekly. No Mail For Him. i “Yes,” remarked the driver, as his | leaders swept round the turn into a | lightly timbered stretch of level road | in the Australian “bush,” “you may not belleve it, but those kangaroos are | as clever as people.” Then, in response | to the inquiry of a passenger who con- | tributes the story to Cassell's Maga- zine, he proceeded to tell why. “Now, there's Moloney,” he contin- ued, “who owns the section on the oth- er side of the creek. He trained one | of them to meet the coach every week i and get the letters for him. “The kangaroo's pouch comes in real handy, ye see,” he added, with the hu- mor that belongs to the stage driver | the world over. i Presently, as often happens on a | quiet country road, a fine kangaroo, | disturbed by the approach of Hisfinaj- esty's royal mall, came into view, as | he raised himself from the grass where | he had been feeding and looked toward ! the coach with an innocent, inquiring | air. i The driver glanced at him and shook | his head. i “Nothing for you today, old man!” he | called genially. i The kangaroo, as if that was all he | had been waiting for, hopped quickly out of view among the trees, to the amazement of the box seat traveler and intense enjoyment of the other oc- cupants of the coach. The Money Making Game. The first of all English games is making money. That is an all absorb- ing game, and we knock each other down oftener in playing at that than at football or any other rougher sport, and it is absolutely without purpose. No one who engages heartily in that game ever knows why. Ask a great money maker what he wants to do with his money—he never knows. He doesn’t make it to do anything with it. He gets it only that he may get it. “What will you make of what you have got? you ask. “Well, I'll get more,” he says, just as at cricket you get more runs. There's no use in the runs, but to get more of them than other people is the game, and there's no use in the money, but to have more of it than other people is the game. So all that great foul city of London Thoto~aitiing, growling, smoking, ng—a ghastly heap of fermenting brickwork, pouring out poison at every pore—you fancy it is a city of work? Not a street of it! It is a great city of play—very nasty play and very hard play, but still play. It is only Lord's cricket ground without the turf —a huge billiard table without the cloth and with pockets as deep as the bottomless pit, but mainly a billiard table after all.—John Ruskin. | roar, the dog pleadingly stood up on ‘mess and light,” of which Mr. Arnold aud the ship lies “idle as a painted | ship upon a painted ocean.” Her dead | crew are at quarters, and her mur- | dered officers are still on the quarter | deck, but there is no flag flying. Aft, | at the taffrail, a man is struggling to | raise the bunting, but, as the old whal- er will tell you, he can't—“God won't | let him." The planking of the ship is covered with mold, and her sails, worn by countless winds, are a8 lace, letting the sun through in: go! arabesques, All is order and . Plise aboard as she sails slowly: by Imed whaler, the white water un- | der her forefoot and her wake trailing | behind, a glittering furrow. She swings | wide as she comes near, the sun! glances for a moment on her gossamer ! canvas and—she is not. She “goes ’ out like a slush lamp In a blow,” say | old shellbacks who have seen her.— | New York Herald. Bold Yankee Engineers. The operations of Yankee engineers | are a source of constant wonder and | bewilderment to all foreigners. The | Jdaring way in which the Americans | blow up mountains that come in their | way or string bridges over seemingly | impassable canyons almost takes their | breath away. i On one job in South America a con- tractor used about £80,000 worth of | powder in blasting. He employed 8,000 | men and completed a piece of work in less than three months that local au- | thorities said could not be done inside | of ten years. | He put 3,000 kegs of powder in one | blast, and when the shot went off it sent over 700 train loads of rock down a cliff into the river. There was such a mass of debris that it raised the wa- ter of the stream fifty-five feet in less than twenty minutes. The channel had to be blasted out to let the water | through. The force of this immense | charge was so great that it sent huge | bowlders the size of hox cars sailing | over the hill like a flock of buzzards | flying over a barn.—Toledo Blade. i Dog Seeks Aid For Horse. risk, a beautiful coach dog and Jack, a fine bay two-year-old of trot- ting stock, were raised together on our farm and became fast friends, sleeping In the same stall and, in fact, were al- most inseparable. Jack had been over- fed on new oats, resulting in a severe attack of colic, which often proves fa- tal to horses in a short time. About midnight Frisk awakened us by scratching at the door and barking as if In great distress. Upon opening the door to ascertain the cause of the up- | his hind feet, putting his paws against | me and whined most pitifully, then started toward the barn in the same | appealing manner. My curiosity being | thoroughly aroused, I followed and, before reaching the barn, could hear | Jack kicking and groaning. To cure him was an easy matter. Years after- ward Jack was a “favorite” in many races, and Frisk was still a close and loyal protector, guarding Jack from all intruders who sought entrance without the trainer or myself.—Chicago Trib- une. Huxley and Arnold. Dean Farrar records in his “Men I Have Known” an amusing and per- fectly good natured retort which Mat- thew Arnold provoked from Professor Huxley, for the better appreciation of which it may be added that the “sweet- wrote, were exemplified in his own very airy and charming manners. I sometimes met Huxley in company with Matthew Arnold, and nothing could be more delightful than the con- versation elicited by their contrasted individualities. I remember a walk which I once took with them both through the pleasant ground of Paris Hill, where Mr. Ar- nold's cottage was. He was asking Huxley whether he liked going out to dhner parties, and the professor an- swered that, as a rule, he did not like it at all. “Ah,” said Mr. Arnold, “I rather like it. It is rather nice to meet people.” “Oh, yes,” replied Huxley, “but we are not all such everlasting Cupids as you are.” | steps. | being hunted. So, springing over the A BOY HUNT. Chased From Hedge to Hedge by a Big Pack of Weasels. The foliowing extract from an inter- esting book may be of interest to our friends. It is “F" Life as an Angler,” by am Hende ou, pub- lished in aa ; “About this wh n to Windleston@ with two other boys, an adventure occurred sufficient- ly startling to two little fellows from nine to ten years old. We were busily engaged in picking wild strawberries, which clustered in the hedgerows, when we saw at about a hundred yards distance a pack of at least twenty weasels running from hedge to hedge and evidently scenting out foot- It flashed upon us that we were cabin: In ‘ nearest hedge, we ran across a pasture field and, standing upon the farther bank, looked back toward our assail- ants. To our dismay we saw the whole pack, with noses to ground, steadily tracking our course. The word was | given, ‘Run, run!’ and off we scam- pered across another field to take up our position on another hedge. Still the pursuit was going on, and the crea- tures were evidently gaining upon us, so with a wild shout we fled to the village, which, happily for us, was not far off. I have frequentiy heard of persons being attacked by weasels, but was never hunted by them on any oth- er occasion.” The above must have occurred about 1812, the locality being the north of England.—Forest and Stream. Shooting the Steenbuck. Many of the poor Boers in the Trans- vaal, by whom all the shooting that is done is for the pot and not for sport, have perfected a system of shooting with the assistance of oxen. A steen- buck has no fear of cattle and will lie still even if they graze right up to him. The hunter gets together a few cattle and with his gun walks behind them in such a way that he cannot be seen from the front. Great care has to be exercised to drive the oxen so that they may seem to be grazing natural- ly. The hunter must be ready to shoot without having to alter his position. The slightest movement is noticed by the buck. Peculiarities of Long Island. The class in geography in one of the Brooklyn schools was asked by the teacher. “What are some of the natural peculiarities of Long Island?” The pupils tried to think, and, after awhile, a boy raised his hand. “I know,” said he. “Well, what are they?’ asked the teacher. “Why,” said the boy, with a tri- umphant look, “ou the south side you see the sea and on the north side you hear the sound.” Fatalism Exemplified. She—1 hope, dear, that you are not going to worry about my exceeding my allowance this time. He (brightening up)—You don't mean to tell me, dearest, that there isn't any necessity for it? “Certainly not. What's the use of worrying about something you can't help ?'—New York Life. The Flesh She Lost. “You're not looking well, Mrs. Giles. Surely you have lost a lot of flesh lately, have you not?’ “I have that. I've lost me ’usband. 'E weighed nineteen stone when ‘e died.” —London Telegraph. Modern Modesty. “You say a modest woman. Just what do you mean by that?’ “Well, a weman who costs her hus- band less than $2,500 a year is modest as prices go."—New York World. Times Change. Mrs. Benham—You used to say that you would give your life for me. Ben- ham--That was when I was sick and expected to die anyway.—Baltimore World.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers