Bellefonte, Pa., December 6, SEA VENTURES. 1 stood and watched my ships go out, Each one by one, unmooring free, What time the quiet harbor filled With flood tide from the sea. The first that sailed, her name was Joy, She spreads a smooth, white, ample sail, And Eastward drove with beading spars Before the singing gale. Another sailed, her name was Hope, No cargo in her hold she bore, Thinking to find in Eastern lanas Of merchandise a store. The next that sailed, her name was Love, She showed a red flag at her mast— A flag as red as blood she showed, And she sped South right fast. The last that sailed, her name was Faith, Slowly she took her passage forth, Tacked and lay to; at last she steered A straight course for the North. My gallant ships they sailed away, Over the shimmering summer sea, ! the room, from the house, and refuse to en- dure that this last in<alt should be added to the irreparable injury. Bot by a su- prewe effort he wastered himself, and out of the dusk by the window a voice spoke, barshly, almost boarsely. “She is dying,” it said, ‘aud she wants she forgiveness of the wan she w St Dying? For a moment the 's eyelids flickered, then he moistened his lips and spoke with judicial coldness. Possibly she has it,” he said. ‘Possibly she has not,’ the other retort- ed. ‘Has he done nothing on her behall ?"’ the Bishop asked. ‘‘Has he exacted any payment for the trespass, has he persecut- ed her or her lover, has he prevented— whatever his private judgment on sach things—the nomival legalization of their union, bas he made no sacrifice ?"’ “To forgive is more than that,”’ came the auswer. ‘It is to be as if the offence bad not been, to love not less hut different- ly, to pity, to understand, to balve the burden and wipe out the stain. The Bishop drew back into shadow ; it was his own judgment ard it wasdelivered against himsell. For a moment he sat si- lent, condemned ; then he asked, ‘‘Does she repent ?"’ ‘Repent ?*’ Fortius who bad come back to the fire, himself to repeat the word as if he did not see ite hearing on 1 stood at watch for many a day — But one came back to me, For Joy was caught by pirate Pain— Hope ran upon a hidden roof— And Love took fire and foundered fast In whelming seas of Grief. Faith came at last, storm-beat and torn, She recompensed me all my loss, For as cargo safe she brought A crown linked to a cross, THE TEST. A man had come to see she Bishop of Halohester ; he gave no name, and vo state- ment of his business ; nevertheless, he sue- ceeded in obtaining an interview. His lordship, in spite of his busy life, usually fouod time to see those who sought hie opinion or Belp. He was a tall man, this visitor. To the Bishop, who had dealt a good deal with bumanity, the thing most obvious about bim was that be was laboring under some emotion, held strongly in check. The Bish- op wondered what it might be ; wondered, 00, if he bad ever seen the man before, or if the ball-awakened sense of vague recog- nition was a trick of fancy. The stranger, for his part, did nothing to enlighten him, though he eyed his lordship like one who takes a measure and has to decide what wea! to use. “I tear I intrude on the little leisure of a busy man,’’ he said, ‘‘but I want your opinion.” The Bishop replied that it was his if ie was of any use. “It is on the matter of forgiveness,’ the other said. ‘‘How far ought a man to for- give?” A somewhat unnecessary question, oue would say, for a man to bring to a bishop, seeing how most folk answer it for them- selves, even if they are not willing to ac- cept the uncompromising reply given nive- teen hundred years ago. But if the Bishop thought this, he did not say it. “We are told ‘until seventy times sev. en,’ he replied. “Is that possible ?'’ the stranger asked, soeptically. ‘‘I think not.” The Bishop may have been ready to de: fend hie words, bat the other prevented. “We don’t torgive, you know,” he said, ‘“‘not seventy tivies or even once io things that count. There are things we never for- give atall.”’ “Yon did not ask me what was done,” the Bishop rewinded him, ‘but what should be done ; and if it should be, then, helieve me, it could be. Itis difficals, bat it cannot be impossible.” The stranger nodded, as if he allowed the justice of the correction.'* What it is to forgive ?'’ he asked. ‘‘Is it to exact no penalty for the wrong done, to take no vengeance, to ignore the offence —and the offender ?"’ “‘More than that,’ the Bishop answered. “It in to be to the offender as if the offence bad not been ; it is to love—differently, rbaps, but as much ; to trust less, per- e's flies trust is sometimes mis- placed—but to pity more ; to understand and so forgive.” Again the stravger nodded ; then he Wheel keen eyes. ‘‘Do vou forgive ?"’ he “I bave not bad many offences to for- give.” ‘‘Not many ? But some ? At least ons?" His voice had taken a vibrant note, and swiftly the.Bishop had the hall-awakened memory fast—Fortesque ! It was—no, it wae not, it could not be! Yet fifteen years make a difference to a man’s looks ; fifteen ears, and beard or no beard. But it was possible, totally impossible, that For- tesque should be bere. It is possible that a man shonld take another's wife, destroy his home, and shatter his life, bat is is not possible that after fifteen years he should come to consult him on matters of ethics. “I do not think that I heard your pame ?'’ the Bishop leaned forward to say. ‘‘No,” the stranger answered. ‘‘I did not give it. It is a personal matter on which I wish so consult you, avd I would rather remain nuknown.” ‘‘Have I seen you before ?”’ “Very likely ; you must see many ple; I have seen you.” He rose as he spoke and moved across the room. “‘I will tell you the story,”” he said, hastily. “I don’t say I am the man concerned. I don’t say I am not. Youn shall hear and advise what he onght to do. Some years ago a young girl was married toa man a good deal older than herself. He was grave, wise, virtuous, all he should be ; she was beautiful as a May morning, as fall of life, as ignorant of it as a young fawn, and as ready to taste and see. The union worked out as such affairs generally do. She did her duty, and found itdry diet; she saw the world, such glimpses of it as reach the Pasonage of a manufacturing town, and iscovered she had tied herself up too late. Then came along the other man. They be. haved well for a time ; at least they tried — at all events she did. She was not to blame —I mean— Oh, it! it was just na- ture, and the inevitable, and—"’ He broke off abruptly, and stood, his back turned, staring out of the window, where there wae nothing to be seen in the November dusk. The of Halohes- ter did not move ; only the fine ascetio face | heq lined by sorrow and fighting, had grow hard, the pity gude from the sad, Sven eyes. [Instinot been right, and reason, ng fender by hing to thrust him the subject. ‘‘Repent of love, of sunshine, of—of life! Repent!” The words chok- ed in his shroat. ‘Good Lord !"’ he groan- | ed, “fifteen years of it, only fifteen! I| would go through hell to have it agaiv. Aud so would she! And’’—he covered his face with his hands—"'she is dyiug!" John Peterbam, of Halchester, leaned forward at last ; but it was John Peterbam who looked as the bowed head, the Bishop of Halchester was gone. It was John Peterham who saw the suddenly call ed vision of love, of sunshine, of blood that coursed fast, of joy new every morning ; life at its fullest, sweetest, richest, life with the woman he had loved with the sole love that bad come to him. He saw that, and he saw in his mind the backwa 1 stretoh of the gray lonely years that was all that had been left to him. Work had been his —gnocess—the kindling of many bearts, the bearing of many burdens, but his own heart had been left unto him desolate and his own hearth cold. These two bad had all, and the man in bim rose up, refusing this last demand. “Sir Richard,’ he said, ‘‘you have gone too far ; you have no right to come here: no right to enter my house.’’ Fortesque looked up. ‘‘No,”’ he said simply,—*‘no, I know that ; it was a heast- ly ie to do, bat it conld not be helped ; she wants you. I said I would fetch you.” “That is impossible.” “What! You will not come ?"’ John Peterham shook his head. “But she isdying !"’ S80," he said, with coldness, ‘I bave heard.” “And youn will not come? Man, don’t you understand ? She has got it on her mind ; she wants to see you !"”’ But she argument which was so unan- awerable to the one man seemed to carry no weight with the other ; he only shook bis head, and rose as if the interview were at an end. Fortesque did not move. “For her,” he said—*‘for her you will come? Ob, I don’t suppose it will be any easier for you to come to me than for me to come to you ; hut forher! A man would doit twenty times over for that, oreep kneeling down your cathedral before all the world—anything !"’ The Bishop's face did not relax; perhaps even it hardened a shade. ‘Sir Richard," he said, **it is useless to say any wore ; on the door. Then Fortesque saw that it was of no avail. “You won’t come ?*’ he said. ‘You will not practice the creed you preach? You—you damned hypoorite !"’ “I am not a hypoerite,”’ Peterham an- swered. ‘‘If I came and appeared to for- give, I should be a hypocrite ; for though she might believe, it would be a lie. Ido not forgive, neither you nor her ; I shall never forgive so long as I live. You have taken all—all, do yon hear me? and left me pothing, nothing!" He opened the door. “Gol” Sir Richard Forterque went back to town alone. Just as he reached the rail way sta- tion a thought occurred to him. He took a oard from his et, enclosed it in an envelope, then addressing it to the Bishop he went back the way he had come, and left it with the man who had before open- ed the door ; after that he went back to town. But the Bishop of Halchester was alone in the gloom, and over and over in his mind a few words r themselves— “‘fifteen years of sunshine, of love, of life —fifteen years,” and he had nothing! Across aoross the room he strode, hut ever the same words were there—‘‘and he bad had nothing I"”’ The common joys, the right of men, had been taken from him; love and Sum tadeuip, wife and children, al! had been denied him. And these two, those two had all. And now, when it wae over, when they had wrung the uttermost from life, and the end was come, now they came to him to lorgive—to forgive! Across aud across the room again. There by the window ue had stood when he said that she was dying. Dying? Kis. ty, little Kitty ; it was hard to believe ; he could only recall her full of life and youth and the joy of living. A wild oreature of peo- | sunshine and winsome ways, with obarm beyond the power of words. His Kitty, his little, litle Kitty. Something choked at the hack of his throat ; almost for a mo- ment he felt the touch of her fluttering hand—saw her eyes that laughed, then grew wistful when he refused her some re- quest. Child's eyes, neither blue nor gray, where the soul slept, had always slept— until Fortesque came and love woke the slumbering woman within to suffer and to rejoice, to live—for him ! The Bishop opened the door and went out. In the hallway the man servant gave him the envelope Fortesque bad left. Me- chanioally he opened it. Inside there was only the card with the mame and address, left in the forlorn hope that he might re. lent. Left by one who Jid not mind how he stooped or how besought even the man The Bishop tore the card across and drop- ped it into the fire ; but the address, once read, remained at the hack of bis mind, Then he wens out, for it was ime for even- through to his son mittis was sung, the servant was ready to depart i grow a e more set. the smallest choir-boy of all looked, ing to his custom, to the kind, lined yon have my answer,” and he put bis band | rouged for she sake of his beloved. | 5 there was no encouragement in the face to- night ; the hoy turned awal repelled. Others turned from the Bishop, too, that night. There were children runuing about the close when he crossed it ; shey shrank from the grave man who passed them by the gas lamp—a thing they were never wont to do. He observed it, hut weat his way. "The Bishop spent a busy evening ; he was one who took little 1est, and until after eleven he and the others with him were hard at work. Once one began a tale of trouble and suffering, bat stopped him- sell, putting is hastily off for another time; for there was neither sympathy uor inter- est in the Bishop's eyes, which were used to be quick to see tronble and to bring help. Onee one began humbly to speak of failure and difficulty, bot he did not go on; there was neither hope nor cheer sonight in the man many had come to regard as a tower of strength. By eleven o'clock the Bishop was alone in the library, with vo readiness for sleep or desire for bed. He went to his desk and took up a sermon that lay there ; tomorrow he was to speak to a great meeting in Lon- don ; what he would say was here, all ready. He glanced through the mana- soript, then put it down ; it no longer rang true to him. He felt it was not what he ought to say. But what could he say? How alter this, how say anything differ- ent? How speak at all to these people? For a little while he sat gazing before him, facing the question. They were ordinary people, who sinned avd suffered, worked, played, straoggled ; they needed a faith to live by, a hope to live for, a charity wide ae the world to live with one another, to forgive one another. He was to speak to them, tc show them a light—and be was iv the dak ! Five miuates later a door shut quietly and steps sonuded iv the street : John Pe- terbam, Bishop of Halchester, had gone out. Down onestrees and down another, aimlessly, restlessly, it did not matter where, driven forth like those of old who were of adevil. And Kitty was dying—Kitty, the girl wile he had taken, hoping that the great love he bore her was big enough for two, knowing in bis inner- most soul it could not be; Kitty, who wanted him to forgive, not her alone, but with ber, included in her, the man who had made her life blossom, given her all the joys of earth, but who could not with- ous the fiist lover smooth the way of death —death that was calling Kitty ! Joseph Horner, the one-legged cobbler, was a patient individoal ; when a thing could not be doue, i% could not, and there was an end for him. Mrs. Horner, who was twice the size of her husband, lay in the gutter bopelessly and completely in- toxicated. Joe, having tried in vain to get her to her feet, sat down on the curb to wait the time of nature. “If you won’t, you won’s,”” he said ; “‘but you're a dirty ole toad to choose the gutter, you are.’ “‘What is the matter ?"’ Iv the darkness, the street was bat ill lighted, Joe coald not see that it was the Bishop of Halohester who spoke. ‘“Tain’s nothin ’,”" he eaid. “Is any oue burt?" the Bishop asked. ‘‘No,"’ Joe answered ; ‘‘it’s only my ole Dutob. She's been on the drink again. When she cowes round a bis I'll take ber home,” ‘‘Home ?"’ the Bishop said. ‘‘It would be better if she were locked up for the night.”’ But Horner thought otherwise. ‘‘She’s my ole 'oman,”’ he said, as if that explain- ed everything. “Do you waut her home like this?" the Bishop asked. ‘‘Iu course I do,” Joe answered. “I'll get her there as soon as I can. It's just round the corner ; I'd a-had ber hefore this, only she popped my clothes along o’ the other things while I was abed. The Bishop was a big man ; be stooped and lifted the woman. ‘Show me the way,” he said. *‘I will bring her for you.” Horner hobbled off, his wooden leg stumping on the uneven pavement. *Thavk you, mister ; thank you kindly,” he said. “Why do you want her home ?'’ the Bishop asked. ‘‘She is no good to you ; she takes your money, pawns your things, disgraces herself and you. Why do youn want her?’ “Why ?”’ Joe said, in astonishment. “She's my ole ’oman!” Then feeling somehow that a fuller explanation was needed, he added : ‘‘She don’t get like this all the time, sir; not more’n ball a dozen times a year, or maybe a dozen. She's a good ’un in betweenwhiles. Turn her out? I ain't no saint myself, not with the drink. I'm a teetotaler, bus I ain’t no better'n another, and I'll be in Queer Street if the Lord don’t blink at some 'o my doin’¢ by and by.” He sto] at the Yee. ' es,” he door of a humble added, as he opened it, ‘‘she’s my pal, wy sweetheart what was, my ole oman He pushed the door open and entered. »ta way in,” he said. ‘Wait till I get a 5. e Bishop followed, and in the small glow of a low fire found his way across the room, and while Horner found a light he put the woman on the bed. Joe struck a match, but almost let it fall when he saw the man who had brought home his wife. Te Bishop !”” he said. “Lord love us ‘ The Bishop had gone to the door ; in the unsteady light one could not see plainly the new lines that had come in his face. “I didn’t know you, my lord,’’ Joe said, with embarrassment. ‘That I didn’t. Fan- o yo bringin’ the ole gal home ! 'Tain’t t ‘You are right,’’ the Bishop murmured and his voice was strangely humble. ** am not fit, but thank God that He let me do ie.” He turned on the threshold. “Good night,” be said, ‘‘and God bless | 80 you.” en he went ont. Down the street and down another, quickly, quickly as before. And still in his mind words rang—Kitty was aving } Kitty whom he used to love, whom he loved still; Kitty, who wanted him to for- ive het 40d the man who had made her ile perfect, as in the beginning it was meant to be. ‘Forgive ns our trespasses as we lorgive them that against us,” these words rang in his ears too. esus, the carpenter’s son, had said them. Peter and James and John, the fishermen bad taught them, and Joe, the one-legged cobbler, lived them in his daily life; and John Peterham, Bishop of , bad refused to go to the woman be loved —the woman who was dying | Twelve, the cathedral olook séruck sol- emn and slow—twelve! And there was no train to London $ill seven in the morn. ing, and Kitty was d Jobn Peter- a 10 er pray ore, Ww night in praver, ed that sbe might live till he came, that he might be ven. On the next day, when the Bishop of Holchester preached in town he did not speak with his usual eloquence; his voioe a the depths in the deep. straight from the bedside of the woman be loved. He bad been in “My dear, my dear, I forgive, stand ; a3 Gul forgive us all.” When first December snow fell, two men followed a woman's body to the grave. Between them war the greatest gull there can be between man and man, yet was it bridged over by love for the womau who was gone, by a great wrong dcue and for- ven. And when the dust was given to ust and the earth to earth whence it came, they turned away and with a silent hand- clasp parted, each to go bis own separate way—the one to the desolation that had cowe npon him, the other to the work that was his to do. They were Sir Richard Fortesque and John Peterham, Bishop of Halohester.—By Una L. Silberrad, in Har- per's Monthly. Some Famous Hymns. Strange and pathetic are many of the stories counected with the origin of famous hymns. In some cases, however, fictitious romances have heen huilt round the beau- titlul words sung in our chapels and churches. For many years it was “elieved that Cowper's “God Moves in a Myste- rious Way'' was written as an out-pouring of the poet's soul in gratitude for the frus- tration of his attempted suicide,in October, 1773. The fact, however, that this hymn bas been fonud in a MS. in which the lat- est date is August, 1773, proves that it was written before Cowper's attempt ou his life, says London Tit- Bits. Then again it is a popular belief that Augustus Toplady wrote ‘‘Rock of Ages” while sheltering from a storm between two limestone rocks in the Mendips. No proof of the story is forthcoming, however, and consequently it mast be accepted with cau- tion. But there is no doubt that she aathor of ‘Christmas Awake,” John Byron, composed that magnificent hymn as a Christmas gift to his favorite daughter, Dorothy, for he inseribed upon the MS, “Christmas Day for Dolly.” It was charaoteristic of the late Bishop Bickersteth, who wrote ‘‘Peace, Perfect Peace,” that be always found it easiest to express in verse what subject was upper- moss in his mind. Ove day he heard a sermon delivered by Canon Gibbon, vicar ofl Harrogate on the texs, ‘Thon wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stay on Thee,” and shortly afterward went to visit an aged and dying relative, Arch- deacon Hill, of Liverpool. Bishop Bick- ersteth found the arohdeacon somewhat troubled in mind, and, it being natural to him to express in verse the spiritual com- fort which he desired so convey, the bisho took up a sheet of paper and there av then wrote down the hymn jnst exactly as it stande, and read it to hie dying friend. An example of a hymn being written to suit a certain tune is fornished by the grand old favorite, *‘I Think When I Read That Sweet Story of Old.” Mrs. Luke,the author, was very much impressed one day by an old Greek tune which she had seen the children of the Normal Iofant School, Gray's Inn Road, marching to, and while going home on the etage coach she wrote the words to suit the music on the back of an old envelope. There are two accounts of how ‘‘Just As I Am’ came to be written. One authority asserts that it was while she lay in great physical weakness on a sofa, the other members of the family being present at a bazaar in which all but the invalid were takiug an active part, that Charlotte Elliot the author of the hymn, wrote the words which have stirred the hearts of thousands, Oo the other hand, the story is that a young girl was going to the town to choose a new dress fora ball. On her way she met a priest, who said she ought not to go. However, she went, but did not enjoy the evening at all and returned home miser- able. Charlotte Elliot (for that was the young giri’s name) went to confess to her priest all ahout it and asked what she should do. He advised her to go home and tell Jesus all about it. ‘‘Jost as I am,” she said. “Yes just as you are.” She returned home and on her knees com- that lovely hymn : “Just As I Am.” e proofs, however, seem to point to the first story, which is given in Dootor Julian's “Dictionary of Hymnology,” being the correct one. This dictionary by the way, which was first published fifteen vears ago, and anew edition of which bas lately appeared, is the most wonderful work its kind. The author has been in communication with two thousand correspondents in all parts of the world and t upward of £350 in post. age alone. e volume contains 3,000,000 words and figures, two-thirds of which have been written originally or in revision by Doctor Julian himself. Altogether the work has ocoupied bim forty years. Doctor Julian, by the way, tells us that the total number of Christian hymus in the 200 or more and dialects in which they bave been written is not less than 400,000. Germany coming first with 100,000 and England next. The most popular hymns, according to a census which he has taken, are “When I Sarvey The Wondrous Cross,” ‘Awake, My Boul, and with the Son.” ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” and ‘‘Rook of Ages, Cleft for Me.” A Woman's Story. A woman's story is very often a story of suffering if it deals with the period of ma- ternity. A great many such stories have begun with suffering and ended with smiles o8 happiness because Dr. Pierce's Favorite Pi ion bad cnred the pain and restor- ed the health. The following is one wom- 's : Mrs. W. J. Kidder, of Hill Dale Farm (Euncsburg Center), Enosburg, V&., writes : “Your kindly advice aod medicines bave brought me great relief. During the Jone I tound myself ¢ and in rapid- y failing bealth. suffered Greadranly from bloating and urinary diffion was growing weaker each day and m sharp pain at times. I felt that Seumetbing must be done. op Jou advice received a og twelve bottles of Dr. Ea Favorite Presoription, and also followed your in- structions, 1 began to improve immediate- ly, my health became excellent, and I could do all my own work (we live on a good sized farm.) I walked and rode all I could, and enjoyed is. I had a short, easy oon- finement, and have a healthy baby boy.” —— It's a deplorable fact that the aver- age man spends too much time trying to uire money and too little trying to ac. quire happiness. ——Critioise yoursel! today aud others tomorrow. —Subsoribe for the WATCHMAN. She knocked at the Paradise gate, She tiried at the golden pin. “Who is this that cometh so late, And tninks to be let in? “Ah! keep me not here withont, Open quickly!” she cried, “For there are those that need me, need me, Waiting just inside.” Weary she was and worn, Her knees and her shoulders beat With the leaden burden of years loriorn, All in vanity spent, But she leapt like a yearliag doe Across the threshold of light-- She flex to the arms that drew her, drew her, As a homing dove takes Hight. One was clasping her wrist, And one was grasping her gown: ‘To one that cried to be kissed Tenderly stooped she down. As a bird outspreadeth its » ings, She gathered them closely in— “Now is the time, O childien, children, When life shall at last begin!" [Pall Mall Gazette, Logging in the Northwest. The pictoresque lamber regions of the North aud Northwest, which once produo- ed most of the lomber supply, are now almost destitute of pine and cedar, the woods which once made them famous, and are cutting timber formerly despised. The well-known logging scenes of the New Eugland States will live only in pictures aud history, and when the supply in the northern Minnesota, Miobigan, aud Wis- consin forests is exhausted, there is only the Pacific slope on which to depend on the American side. Across the Great Lakes on the Canadian side lies one of the largest timber lauds of Canada. which bas not been surveyed yes, ro, in spite of the tariff im- posed, itis not unlikely shat we will be able to draw from a for many years after our own supply is exhausted. In fact, much timber cut on the other side of the line bas been shipped to this country. It is said that there is a timber belt of at least three thousand miles in Canada. Esti mating the amount of timber still stavding in the United States, and that which we could draw from our neighbor country, it will be nearly a century before a substitute will be necessary. Of course the Forestry Department is nos idle in the meantime, and active steps are being taken to maintain the reserves and plant new trees. When the immensity of the industry forces itsell upon the attention, it is little wonder that one is interested in the men who do the actual work. Early in the fall the lumberman sends out his ‘‘tote teams,” with supplies to last for the season, from the centers of northern Mich , Wisconsin, and Minnesota, and he gathers a beterogeneons lot of men, known as ‘lumber jacks,’’ comprising men of almost every vation under the sun, who leaves civilized life, and go back close to ‘‘nature’s heart’’ aud to labor as did their forefathers in the days before luxuries warp- ed their strength. Their work, iu spite of the many labor- saving devices of the day, is that of the primitive man. The discipline of the cam life is rigid. The men are up at four o'cloc in the morning, and work from dawn until dark. At night sheir lights are out at nine. There are no holidays except Sundays. No liquor is sold or allowed to be used in the lumber camp. The cook and his assistants are the first out in the morning, and bave breakfast ready as soon as the men are up. The menu of the camp is very different from that of a few years ago. Now coffee,sngar, condensed milk and cream, onknown loxu- ries to the camp of even twenty years ago, are daily staples, Their bard outdoor life strengthens these men physically, and when one sees a large crowd of them eating their dinner in the open with all the gusto of a school hoy, while the temperature is sixty degrees be- low freezing, ove is disposed to envy them. The plan of bringing out the midday meal to the men, instead of having them leave their work and trunge back to camp, isa recent idea and saves much time, ides heing very pleasing to the men. The cook, with his ‘‘rupabout,”” brings the dinner, ‘red hot,” to the nearest opening, or olear- ing space, summons the men with bis whis- tle, and they sit about on logs or on the snow and partake of dinner utterly disre- garding the weather. It is at the evening meal that you see the men at their hess. They relax and thor- oughly enjoy themeelves. After supper they retire to the bunk-house and smoke. One might feel a little ‘‘finical”’ about sleeping in a room after fifty or sixty ill- smelling pipes of all sorts and conditions had been filled with tobacco, the odor of which baffles description, but this, like eating out of doors with the thermometer thirty degrees below zero, is av acquired taste It is only natare that there should be all kinds of men in a camp—garrulouns, noisy men; sullen, morose, and reticent men. Sometimes sickness or death reveals the fact that a man who in camp is known as Joho Smith really was given another name quite different when he came into the world, and perhaps sold hie birthright for drink, orime, or for some other reason. A camp is usually loyal thou-h, and Joho Smith he remains to the end of the chapter it be so desires. Then there is the born entertainer, quite a different sort of a fel- low, who always bas a story and who is always in demand. The lumber jack, like the dog with a bad pame, is often a maligned individual, not being collectively any better or any worse than other men. It is said that pine out of ten lumber jacks are intemperate, and it is certain that the drink habit is the pre- vailing evil. The very strictness with which the liquor law is enforced during the long lumbering seasons seems to foster the past Quizes dud in the spring, when released from the camp, the majority of the men never get beyond the Bowery district of their home town, always conveniently near to their landing place, until every cent of their hard-earned money is gone. Itis $8ia shat he) moral status lumber camps mproved in the ew years, owing to the distribution pe itera- ture, missionary efforts, and the infusion of a number of better class laborers, nota- bly Finlanders. In every camp there is a “general store,” where everything from a needle to a suit of clothes is kept, and an account run with with every man. Each camp also bas its own blacksmith and barness shops; in other words, each camp is a small settlement, complete within itself. One thing done quite early in the season is the construction of an ice road by means of a large water cart. And this roadway ids greatly the baoli " ey ows. a hauling parts The methods of the country. In the South, an axle with the giant logs differ in different the large wheels and the chain are used, in ichigan horses and sleds are used, and ice road is made at the heginuiog of the season by means of a sprinkling cart, and in this way it is com- paratively easy to draw a load quite a dis- tauoe to the iat, In Oregon and Washington traction en- gines are used to baul the timber from the entting points to the place of shipment. Ou the Great Lakes the lumber hoats are amoug the iargest of the modern water craft. It is gnite a sight to see two medinm- vized horses drawing an immense load of logs with so little apparent effort, this ease being entirely due to the ice road way spoken of previously. When the trees are felled and sawed into logs, they are skidded into piles hy the side of the ice road. This “‘skiddiog’ i« done by means of a small sled, to one end of which she logs are fastened while the other drags upon the giound. Modern skidding 14 done by meavs of a skiddivg machine. Loading logs is an achievemert of iwsell, It is done by means of horses, or by a ma- chine. The banking groand, or rollway, i# usoally heside a river or stream of some Lkind, down which the logs are floated toa shipping point. ith the breaking up of the ice in the spring, these large piles of logs are rolled into the stream, to te brought to the mills. This is a wost interesting aud exciting time. The drivers, as they are called, the men who goide these immense lots of loge, are necessarily men of strength, quickness of perception, and nerve, for it is a very perilous accupation, and in which many lives have been lost. The most expert of these men ride upon the swiftly-moving jogs, jumping from one to another when the case requires it, and being a second too late will cost them their lives. Wheb, passing through some nasrrows, a log is caught, causing hundreds of others to pile ap, raising the water and forming what is known as a jam, a driver has the opporto- nity to show his mettle, for this is the real davger. There are what are called ‘‘key logs’’ in this jam, that is, loge which, if released, will ease the congestion, and it is locating these and releasing them which becomes the driver's duty. Sometimes this is not easily done, and frequently a driver loses his life because he is not suffi- ciently agile to escape, once the fallen giants are released. In many portions of the conntry rafts are used, as for instance in the South and on the Columbia River, rafts of from five to six million feet of logs are not uncommon. In the early days on the Great Lakes, rafts were brought down to the barbors of Lake Erie, where the sawmills were located. For the part number of years, however, the mills have heen located at the shipping points, and the lnmber is shipped on the boate. There are over three hundred Inm- ber boats depending for cargoes on the lomber of northern Minnesota, Michigan, and Wiseousin, loading at Daluth, Sa- perior and other points. Somtimes there is more than a million feet of lnmber in one load, and it can be readily estimated what a statement of this kind wonld mean, when one realizes that there are some dozen or more lumber har- bore on the American side of the Great Lakes. Chicago, Cleveland, Duluth, Erie, and Tovawanda are all large distiibasing points, and each has received more than five million feet of lumber during one ship- piog season. It would be interesting to figure the number of car-loads this world make, estimating the carrying capacity of a car at forty shoneand feet.— Scientific American. Few of those who read recently of the stranding of a school of hlackfish on the Falmouth shore in Buzzards Bay avd of their subsequent purchase hy William F. Nse, of this sity, had any idea of what sort of oreaturee blackfish were or what Shite is about them that makes them valo- able, Blackfish oil is the finest in the world for delicate mechanisms, such as watches, olocks and chronometers.and the monopoly in petroleam enjoyed by the Standard Oil isn’t in it for a moment with tbat enjoyed by William F. Nye in the manofacture of watoh oils. The watch of the conductor who has charge of the train across the con- tinent, the watch of the bearded official wh) controls the destinies of the trains aci08s the Siberian deserts, are oiled with oil made in New Bedford; while the same oil is used io lubricating the mechanism of the clock in the Strasburg Cathedral, the necessary supply being furnished gratis by Mr. Nye in commemoration of a visit to that city some years BBo, Mr. Nye makes blackfish oil, but the oredis for the discovery of its superlative merits belongs to a Fairhaven man, Ezra Kelley. A Provincetown sailor saved some blackfish oil free from the oils of other species of fish. Ezra Kelley, a repairer of watches and ships’ chronometers, tried it and found it the best he had ever used. He began using it in chronometers brought to him for adjustment. The whale ships carried these chronometer to foreign ports and there took them ashore for adjustment. The repairer noticed the excellent qualiey of the oil and made inquiries. Mr. Kelley sent amples abroad aod soon built up a considerable bosiness. It remained, how- ever, for Mr. Nye to push the trade into practically all the countries of the world. There is hardly a railroad in the world hut wnat has an account with Mr. Nye. Every one has noticed the bells at unpro- teoted grade orossings which signal the ap- proach of a train. ese bells are by a delicate mechanism, which of neces- sity is exposed to extremes of heat and cold. The best of oil is required to kee them in good condition, and that oil manufactured in New Bedford. At the time of the Centennial Exposition at Phila. delphia Mr. Nye offered a prize of $1,000 to anyone who would produce an oil other than fish oil that would be the equal of fish oil. The offer is still standing. FOR SOME ONE. I wonder why I toil away, My heart replies “For some one.” Why think and work the livelong day? For some one, just for some one, I pressed along the crowed street, I hear the tramp of many feet, But over all I hear the sweet, Sweet little voice of some one. For there is with me a'l the while The fair of some one, And thro’ my ¢lound there shines the smile, The cheering smile of some one, Hard is the toil and and stern the fight, But work is play and icads are light And darkest days within are bright When it is all for some one. For what is life if lived for self ? Without a thought for some one? What sest inglee ? What gain in pe!f ? Without a share for some one. But there is wealth of countless price A joy supreme in sacrifice, And earth becomes a paradise, When it is all for some one.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers