i —— L Bellefonte, Pa., December 13, 1907. A PRAYER. —— tiod of the lonely soul, God of the comfortless, God of the broken heart— for these, Thy tenderness! For prayers there be enough Yea, prayers there be to spare, For those of proud and high estate ; Each hath his share, But the beggar at my door, The thief behind the bar- ; And those that be 160 blind to see The shining stars, The outcast in his hut, The useless and the old ; Whoever walks the city's streets Homeless and cold ; The sad aad lone of soul Whom no man understands ; And those of secret sin, with stains Upon their hands. And stains upon thei: souls ; Who shudder in their sleep, And walk their ways with trembling hearts, Afraid to weep, For the childless mother, Lord, And ah, the little cnild Weeping the mother in her grave, Unreconciled— God of the lonely soul, God of the comfortiess, For these, and such as these, | ask Thy tenderness! Whose sin be greatest, Lord: If each deserve his lot ; If each but reap as he hath sown— I ask Thee not. I only ask of Thee The marvel of a space When these forgot and blind may look Upon Thy face, — [Ella Higginson, in Scribner's Magazine, THE BOY AT BROWNS When I was only eleven [ didn’t under- stand thiogs, and I cried becanse Santa Claus didn’s briug me a lot of presents as he used to. But last Christmas [ was twelve, 80 I knew that be was Nan, aud Nan couldn't afford presents, because she did vot get muck money for giving music lessons, aud it was all we had to live on, since father died. He was a doctor, and we had nice clothes then, and I had five cents a day to by candy. The night before Christmas eve Nan seemed worried when she came home; she didn’t talk much at supper, and kept look: ing at me. I knew what it was and went and sat on her lap. **I don’t mind, Nau,” I said. *‘I didn's expect anything; aud we've got a Chriss. mas padding.” Nav nodded and tried to smile. ““Thauk you dear,’ she said. *‘Yon see the rent will be due, and —I wish I conld god a fairy godmother, Imp.” My real name is Arabella Winifred, bus they always call we that. I don't know why, because imps are ugly, and I am not. Sometimes I thivk I am good-looking, and poeple say I am like Nan. “Poot!” I said. “You'd better find a prince and marry hiw, and then we'll bave a motor car and eggs for breakfast, and a new dress wheuever we want to, Let's wake up a story about it.”’ Nao laughed aud put the fire together to make 1t last without more coal. Coal al- ways gets dear at Christmas tiwe. “You're a good lwp to night,’ she smd. | “I'll tell you a story.” She tuiued down the gas, because you don’t want much light for stories; aud a quarter in theslot does not last long. Then she sat in a chair aud I «at on the hearth- rug, and leaned against her knees, “Once upon a time there was a prinee,’’ she began; aud then ~he stopped, and put her elbow un hei knee and ber chin on her | baud, and stared at the fire, and sighed; and the ~igh made a choking feeling come into my throat. ‘Nan, I said, *'I believe you're only try- ing to make out that 1's a really and truly.” “Yes,” she owned, “it’s a ‘truly’ story, but you mustn’t ask questions. When | was a little girl, like you, 1 used to make ap stories to mys-1f ahout—ob! princes and all sorts of thing=! When you were a baby in India, with fatber and mother, I stayed with Auut Jave; aud then I made a lot of stories, because she didn’t like a noise, and I bad to play quiet games by myself. She was very old, and she looked like a fairy godmother; but I kuew she couldn’t be, because her name was Smith.” . “'‘No—o,” I agreed. *‘But she might be a wicked witch. Did she live in High Street at Ranbam: just opposite toa big school for hoys.”’ “Oh! 1 sand. his name?” “I dou’t know,” Nan told me; “and I never did; bus I used to call him Claude Montague to myself. He waa a tall, thin boy, about fourteen; and I was eleven. He stayed ut the school for the Christmas hohi- days. He was the only boarder who did, and be seemed lonely. He used to look out of his window, and I used to look ous of mine: and sometimes I wade faces at him.” “If I make faces.” I reminded her, ‘you say it’s rade.” \ *‘It was rude; but he made faces at me too. Ove day when I was out in the front garden, be threw a snowball at me. It hit me, and | began to cry. Then he threw a bag of candy and ran away. It was nice candy, and the next time I saw him at the window I waved my band instead of mak- ing faces; and after that he often threw me candy, and I thought he was a nice boy, and made him the prince of my stories; and on Christmast I got a Christmas card — it was a bandsome young man bowing to a beautiful young lany—and sent it to him. I didn’t koow ‘his name, so I addressed it to ‘The Boy at Browon’s.” It was a very shocking thing to do, and you must never do anything of the sors.” “Umph!” I said. “There's no chance!” We didn’t know any boys then. ‘‘He must have known thas I sent is, for the next day, when I went out with Aunt Jane, he followed us down the street, and when she wasn’t looking be pushed a pack- age into my band. I put it in my moff and it when I was in my bedroom, It was a box of chocolates, with walnuts on 39, and —" “Oh —h!" I oried. ‘‘Don’t, Nan?” “Poor old Imp! We'll bave some ehooo- lates on Chrisemas day, somehow or otaer. There was a little note in it: ‘From The Boy at Brown’s. I like you.’ I've the note in my desk now.” “Now I see! What was she found the note and showed it to me. There were thiee cioeses for kisses that she hadn't mentioned; and I wanted to know what happened next. “There wasn’t any next,”’ she told me. “Uncle Will came nexs day, and took me up to town, and | had a five time; and I never went to Runbam, and I never saw again.” the Boy at Brown's She fidgeted the little fire in the corner of the grate with the poker; and I koew there was something else that she badn’t told me “Go on,” | said. “The next Christmas I had a euriouns lester. It war addressed to ‘The Girl at Smith's, who was there last Christmas.’ There was a lovely Christmas card in it; a purple boy and a vellow girl sitting on a pink fence; and be was giving her a rose as big as a cauliflower.” She fished it out of her desk and showed it to me. “Ob!” I cried. ‘‘What a comical thing! And the verses! My love is like a red, red rose, And how | love her no one knows, A merry Christmas to you, dear, And hwppiness through all next year! Wasn't it ridienlous!"’ **No,"” Nan said shortly, “it wasn’t. It was kind. I felt dreadfully hecause I had forgotten the poor lonely hoy; avd I made up my mind that I never would again. So the next year [ sent him a card; and | wrote on it, ‘From yoar Friend, the Girl at Smith's’.”’ “How did yon address i?" “To ‘The Boy at Brown's,’ and I puta note to explain that [ meant the one who stayed there two Christmases before.”’ “Ind be send you one?"’ “Not that year. You see [ hadn't sent him one the time before, so [ suppose he thought I'd forgotten him. He sent me oue the next year—when [ hadn't sent him one. See!” She took out a satin scent bag, with a moto, ‘Sweets to the sweet.” “He wrote a lot better then,”’ I remark- ed. “Yes ; but this is better still.”’ She took out a card-board box with a colored bottle of perfumery in it. ‘It came two years later—when [ was seventeen. [ sent one the year hetween,and another the year alter, though I was old enough to know better. The next year, it was his turn, but —well, I like to believe that he sent, though I didn’t get it. You see, Aunt Jane had died eighteen mouths before ; and I suppose he addressed it as asual, and it didu’e get re-directed. Anyhow it didn't come; and I thought perhaps he'd fallen in love with some one, and forgosten me; and anyhow it was a foolish childish affair and I dido’s aend last year,and—that’s she end of the prince; and now you'd better go to bed.” “Ob, no, I bettern’t !"” | contradicted ; “and I don’t believe it's the end of him jand you don’t either, and you may as well teil me the rest at once, because I sha’n’t go till you do.” . Nan stared at the fire very hard. “We don’t seem to have any one now,” she said; “and it’s nice to be remembered hy somehody—I was looking at the papers in the Pablic Library this morning. I al- ways look at the Persons! Colomn ; aud— Imp!” She grabbed my shoulder. ‘I copied this ous !"’ She took a seiap of paper from her pocket and showed it to me. “The Boy at Brown's wishes a Merry Christmas to The Girl at Smith's. He would he glad if he might renew their ao yuaintance X6217, Cr. Daily News." I clapped mv hands and laughed. “The prince!” I cried. **The fairy prince ! He's »are to fall in love with you! I hope he's got lots of money." “Don’t be absurd, cbild,’”’ Nan said. -**You may say what you like,”” I told her ; “but you'll end by marniying him. As 800n as you write to him——"" “I'm vot going to write to him,’”’ Nan declared. She shut ber mouth with a whack. So I knew she was going to be obstinate. “Nan!” Ietied. ‘You don’t mean that you won't even send him a card? When he's remembered you all this time? [t's horrid, and mean and unkind 1” I knew that would fetch her; for, if there's one thing that Nan hates, it is to be unkind to any one. “Oh, Imp!” she said. ‘‘It isn’s that. | —if we were—as we usid to be—I shonld put in an advertisement in answer; and then if he liked to write to me, through the newspaper—but it is so different now. We are poor, you see, aud—well, you don’s see; but it is impossible; quite impossible, Imp, dear—! am glad that be remembered —I'm so tired. Let's go to bed.” ‘Let me read just a little while,”’ I heg- ged. ‘I'll be mousey quiet; and I'll hard- ly burn any gas: and there's such a nice little cozy fire that ought to he enjoyed. Do let me, Nan." ‘Very well,”’ she agreed; ‘‘but don’t stay after the fire bas gone out and catch cold. You do catch colds, you know, and —aud you're all I have.” She kissed me quickly and rushed off. 1 could tell she was a bit upset, avd I knew that it was about ‘“‘Brown’s Boy’' and be- cause we were so lonely. [ thought how nice it would be to know anybody if he was nice; it wonld he just like a novel, and Nan likes novels. I like them too, when they bave good endings; and I don’t read the others, because I always look at the end first. Any one could see how Nan's story ought to end ;and I sat down on the hearth- rug to cousider if there wasn’t a way of making it end as it ought to. The first way [ thought of was to per- saade Nan to write him a little letter, without any address, just to wish him a merry Christmas. Then be could notice the postmark, and the writing, and find out where she bought the paper, as they do in detective stories; and then he would and one day he would see me, and notice that I looked exactly as Nan used to look. (I’m sure { do, bus she says I don’t.) And he would come up to me and say, ** me but you are very like someone,”’ and I should toss my head and say, “Indeed!” And then he would beg me to wait a min- ute; and after we had bad a long conversa- tion (I shoonght it all out, hut it is sco | to write) I sioald take him to Nan; when he was my brother-in-law he would always like me, and give me lots of pres. ents and we wou'd live happily ever after. But I was afraid he might not do the de- tective part properly, and if he did he might not meet me, use Nan won't les ms walk about muoh alone. 80 [ decided that it would be better to get Nan to let me have the letter to mail, and I would put our address on the back; bat I thought she might be suspicions and want to mail is herself; and very likely she wouldn’s write itat all. So it would be best to write it myself, as if it came from ber. Only then the writing and spelling might pus him off! I was frowning at the fire and thinkiog ahout it; and then suddenly I jumped up and opened the desk and I bad a sensible idea. I would write to come and walk about the streets near us;| 1.4 him from myself ! Aud I did ; and this is put my fioger on my lip; and Nau caonght | The Richest Women what [ wrote : i Dear Boy at Brown's : Iam ber sister. | am only twelve. That | i» why I don’t write very well. She was | glad that you remembered her, but she | won't write because we are poor since fath- | er died, and she gives music lessons. If that pats yon off, you are perfectly horrid. She is awlolly nice and good-looking. | am like her when she was twelve. [ want to see if yon are nice before I tell yon our address. We are going to walk aroun: d the park after church on Christmas morning. Please wear a white flower in vour left battonbole, aud if I like you I'll write again. I wish yon a merry Christmas, and so does Nan, though she won't wiite. Our Christmas won't be merry hecanse she hasn't been paid for all the lessons. So [ shav’t have any Santa Clans. [ wish he would bring me a lot of books. I don’t like ehildren’s books, but love stories. Yours truly, ARABELLA BERESFORD. P. 8S. If Nan married anybody I shonld live with them, but yon musn’s tell her about this letter, because she woald be mad. I hope you are nice, I addressed it to X 6217, Cr. The Daily News, and ran down stairs and got the jan- itor to mail it. I paid for the stamp out of a dime I bad saved to buy Nan a Christ- mas present, Nan was very solemn after breakfast, and sat down at our old piano and played Traumerei and things like that. In the afternoon she 100k me to Mra. Vere’s when she went to give Mabel her music lesson, hecanse she wanted some one to practice a duet with her, They were very jolly and ve us some tea with lovely cakes; and 18. Vere put a two dollar bill into my hand when nobody was looking; and when we were going she grew red and spoke to Nan. “There's something that [ don’t know if you would like me to ask you, or not to ask you. So forgive me if I blander dear We alwaye pay a pianist for the children’s parties, and—uobody would know, hegavse we want you both to come as guests any- way, and —you understand 2’ Nan grew very red too. ‘I never have,” she said. “I know, dear, I know,” Mis. Vere stroked her arm. “I quite understand.” ‘*‘And so do I.”’ Nan said. “How kind you are !—We should so much like to come, hut—yon see, wearen’t very well off for dresses.” “We grown-ups shall dress very quiet- ly,”" Mrs. Vere told her : “and you always look nice.” *‘I was thinking—the ohildren will wear party dresses,”” Nan said slowly. She looked at me, but I turned round from ber. [didn’t want her to see bow bad 1 felt about not going, hecanse I'd grown out of my old dresses and [ knew we couldn't afford to buy a new one. “Children’s white dresses are much alike,”” Mrs. Vere suggested ; “‘and they grow out of them hefore they're half worn out. There's one of Mabel’s that wounld just suit your sister. Nobody will know, I'll have it changed so that Mabel won’t recognize it. Now don’t say a word, youn poor, dear girl. I know—it's the third of January. Good-by dears ; and a merry Christmas to you."’ We grinned at each other when we got down the stepe. “A party I” I cried. “Think of is, Nan! And Mrs. Vere's the fairy godmoth- er! And vext you'll find the prinoe!” **Silly child I’ Nan said ; but she laugh- ed and was very jolly. We did have a merry Christmas after all, I bought Nan a lovely bandkerchief ont of Mis. Vere's present, and some candy ; and she booght me a pair of gloves and two novels (they were the cheap editions, hut they are just as good to read;) and we had ten cents’ worth of ivy and hoily to deco- rate oor room; and the man gave me a piece of mistletoe, because be said I looked as if I knew what to do with it; and I said he might give me half a duzen boys, too! Aud Nan said “Arabella!” and looked Shocked ; bat the man laughed and so did We had eggs for breakfast and Uncle William sent us some money from abroad. | I said it would buy Nan a new dress; and she said she conldn’t do that because it was balf mine; and I said that was what made it so nice, because I could do some- thing for her once; and she hugged me and wiped her eyes; aud she said she expected the Brown's boy thought she was very hard hearted vot to ‘answer, and she thought she would geta card and send it to the newspaper office; and so we sent it before we went to church. After church we walked to the park. We were hardly inside the gates before I notic ed a very tall, thin, well-dressed young fellow in a black overcoat and a very shiny silk bat. He was wearing a white flower in his left buttonbole, and nobody else was wearing one, so I knew in a moment who he was. He was not really good look- ing, because he had a very big nose; bat I liked the look of him because you could see that he was a gentleman, and strong. I talked vo Nan very fast and pretended not to notice bim, or any one, so that he should not guess who she was; but he walked straight up to us and took off his hat. x ‘Miss Beresford, I think?’ he said to an. *‘Ye-es,”” Nan said ; ‘but I don’t think —"" She stopped and looked at bim very hard, and tarved pink, aod gave a quick little laugh. *'I believe—!"’ she said ; and sopped and laughed agais. *‘The Boy at Brown’s,”” he told her; and he laughed too. *‘I was afraid you might cut me,” he said. **No,”” Nan told him. that.” Then he shook bands with her, and with me, too, and said thas his name was Frank Rayner, and walked he round with us. ‘“‘However did you know me?’ Nan “I won't do He nodded at me. : ‘Your sister is exactly nke you were.” “There, Nan?’ I said. *‘I always koew I was!” “Iwas a little monkey then,’’ Nan remarked. ‘Do you remem- ber the snowball ? And the candy ?”’ ‘‘And the faces?’ he reminded her. put) suppose you couldn’t make faces now *Counldn’t II” Nan said; and she actu- ally made a fanny face. I$ reminded me of the time when dear old dad—but I don’t want to write about that. e think I'm only a kid, and can’t feel things. They don’t know. 1 dido’s notice what they were saying for a minute; then I seemed to wake up. “We live in a wretched little flat by ourselves,’ Nan was telling him. “So we can’t ask you to call.” : with my people,” “I live at Ham he answered. ‘‘My mother expects me to take you there this afternoon; you and your . You’ll come, won't you ?"’ “How did youn know that I had a eis- tar?’ Nan asked SuisklY. He hesitated for a moment, and I frowned at him and me. ‘ Imp I’ she said, as il her breath was almost taken away. ‘This is your doing!” | I saw I'd have to own up sooner or later; so | thought I'd get it over. **No, it isn’t,” [ said. ‘He wanted to find you; and you wanted to be fonnd, whatever you may say. It's your own faults: but I suppose you'll put it all down to me if he doesn’t turn out all right; and he'll put it down to me if you don’t.” “But we're going to turn ous all right,” he eaid, “‘aren’t we, Miss—aren’t we, Nao ?” “I—don’t—know,” seemed all in a flutter. “Then you'd better find ont,” [ told her. ‘I'm going to look at the birds, and I'm coming back in five minotes,” ! When I came back Nan was rather red and very smiling; and he was smiling, but not red. (Men can’t blush.) When we got home I asked if he had proposed. She said ‘Of course not !"” But she hugged me like mad; and I knew very well that he'd given her a broad hint that he meant to some time, and [ knew that she had made op her mind what she'd say when be did. He came in a cab directly after dinner (we nsed to call it lnneh, and now we do again) avd took ue off to Hampstead. His mother was very nice. He had a brother who was fifteen and his name was Jack and he was a very cheeky boy. He took me to see the presents that Frank bad bought for me; and when we were going through the door he said, *‘They're up Nan said. She there!” And when I looked op it was only mistletoe. (Doors are a good place to | put it.) He is at school where Fiank osed to be, and we send each other picture post cards. Sometimes we write letters, hat Nan and | Frank don’t know that, and you musn’t | tell them, I live with them now, since they are married, and they tease me al- together too much about “The Boy at Brown's.”’—By Owen Oliver in the Deline- ator, | How Birds Hulld their Houses. Birde have their homes just like yon and | me, only we live iu houses a: d they live in nests. Bat if you should ever get so that | you counld talk the bird langnage and ask | them about it, I am «are that shey would | say that a vest is a much more comfortable dwelling than a house. Aud so itis for them because they have wings and can fly to their homes, aud then they do not mind at all being out in the in: bot [ am sare | you wouldn't like a nest at all and woun!d | fall out if you tried to turn around in it just as some of the naughty voung birds | do hefore they have learned to fly. Some kinds of birds build on the ground | and others in the highest branches of the | biggest trees. The little brown song-spar- rows tuck their snug little nests of horse- hair and feathers in a grassy bank or on a low vine or bush. The male ohrries the materials of which it is made, and the mother bird weaves them together. The partridge chooses a hollow in the ground close by the roots of cornstalks or tufts of grass, with overhanging weeds as a covering, #0 that passers-by will not readily discover it. A few bits of twig and grass are woven together, then the home is ready for the fifteen or twenty eggs. Then there is a little bird that really sews, called the tailor-bird. She picks out two leaves or one large one near the end of a twig. In these she bores tiny holes with her beak, and aided by her slender claws, she sews the materials together, making extremely neat stitches, leaving a small | hole at the top for entrance and exit. | Gathering delicate thistle-down, fine grass | or feathers, she lines the nest so that it | may be a soft, warm resting place for her young, | The little brown wrens, that are always | dispating and fighting each other, are very | careless housekeepers and are satisfied | with almost any kind of a hole. After stuffing it with twigs avd rubbish, six or seven brick colored eggs are laid in the center of the heap. But the very queerest of all nests is built hy a bird that lives in far-away India call- ed the baya. This bird builds a very elaborate house indeed, consisting ob three rooms. Under the eaves of the houses this curious home is placed, and if no one dis- turbs the fiist nest quite a settlement of bayas will build their bottle-shaped homes ander the same eaves. The upper part of this curious nest is divided into two rooms —one for the mother bird and the other for the father bird— while down below is the living-room. Just as soon as Mrs. Baya is settled on her eggs, her thoughtful mate brings bits of soft clay, which he sticks on the inner wall of the nest ; then out be darts again, and secures live fireflies, which he fastens on each olay lamp so there will be light in the bome. Another odd vest is made by the flam- ingo, that carious great red bird with the long legs that lives in the far South. These nests are nothing but slender mourds of mud two or three feet high, looking some- what like an old-fashioned charn—small at the top and growing larger toward the bot- tom. A small hollow is out to hold the eges, and here the bird sits, like some scarlet statue on a pedestal. Tarkey Facts. Mauy of the large Western packing houses are content to sell at the present prices because of the pressure in the money market instead of holding their goods for fancy midwinter prices. Asa cousequence large shipments of turkeys have been start- ed eastward earlier than usual with the hope of catching early buyers. Many cat- loads passed throug the unfavorable weath- er conditions of the latter part of last week. Careful buyers refused the goods, but oth- ers bought them up eagerly at a reasonable figure. Western turkeys were more plen- tiful, but near-by fresh ones are decidedly scarce and immatare. Storage turkeys are good under favorable conditions. When the storage man learns that poor stuff does not improve in his freezers and that only A No. 1 goods will come out fine, he will have gained a point. This will not happen until our buyers de- Sa) oe ves goods and the poor stuff goes ng. The writer saw a splendid hen turkey that had been kiiled last Jaouary and taken from the freezer a few days ago des- tined to feed a Jrowitiehs merchant's family on Thanksgiving Day. The royal bird was in a perfectly preserved condition bu it wasa very fine turkey to begin with. ——“‘] heard of a man who langhed so hard at a story that he lost his voice,”’ de- clared Singleby. ‘What was that story ¥’ asked Mar- riedman, anxiously. “I'd like to tell that to my wife.” Why are lightaiug rods like wait. ers ‘‘Beoanse they have to be well tipped to make them of good service. Eh in the World The wealthiest womrn in the whole world is not an Awerican but a German, Frau Boblen-Halbach, better known per- baps as Bertha Krapp, the daughter of the famous guv-maker. father died aud she became owner of the vast Krapp works at Een and other Ger- man towos and wistress of a fortane which is said to be close to the huge sum of $225 - 000,000. The gun works cover a space of over two thousand acres and employ oue hundred and twenty five thousand men. Perhaps the richest woman on this side of the water who leads the most strenuous life at presens is Mis. Russell Sage. Ever since her husband died a little over a year ngo aod left her a fortune that has been variously estimated at from seventy five to a hundred million she has had listle peace oi rest in her life. She is over seventy-six years of age avd has notil lately always led a very quiet life. Bat since the terms of ber busband’s will became known, she hax heen besieged by begging letters fiom all parts of the world, and has been obliged to announce through the newspapers ber de- termination to give nothing to promiscuons heggars, although she fully intends to dis tribute the greater part of her fortune to charity, leaving herself ouly just enough to live on quietly aod comfortably. And while endowing many worthy charities she 2180 aims to aid poor people who stand in need of help bat have too much self-respect to ask for it. Another famous platocrat aud philan- thropist i« Miss Helen Gould. She cares nothing for society and titled foreigners, aud wen of wealth of her own country have sought her band in vain. With the same ivflexible purpose which made her father supreme in the realm of finance, Miss Gould has consecrated her life 10 charity. Her residence on Fifth Avenue has become a vast charitable burean, and here Miss Gould may be found busy at her sell-imposed labors, which engage the con- stant work of five secretaries as well as her own unremitting attention. Charities of every kind claim Miss Gould's sympathy aud aid, but soldiers, sailois, railroad men and crippled children are her special care. On her father's railroads she has establi