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.