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.