i
t
Demoorai atc,
Bellefonte, Pa., February 21, 1908.
“LET GO THE CROSS”
I heard a strange voice in the distance calling
As from a star an ecto might be falling.
It spoke four syllables, concise and brief,
Charged with a God-sent message of relief.
Let go the Cress! Oh, you who cling to sorrow,
Hark to the new command and comfort borrow.
Even as the Master left His cross below
And rose to Paradise, let go, let go.
Forget your wrongs, your troubles and your
losses, .
For with the tools of thought we bailt our
crosses,
Forget your griels all grudges and all fear
Aud enter Paradise—its gates are near.
Heaven is a realm by loving souls created,
And hell was fashioned by the hearws that
hated.
Love, hope and trust; believe all joys are yours,
Life pays the soul whose confidencg endures,
The blows of adverse fate, by larger pleasures,
As after storms the soll yields fulier measures,
Let go the cross; roll seif—the stone—away
And dwell with Love in Paradise todsy.
—By Ella Wheeler Wilcox,
A SOCIAL IMPOSSIBILITY,
By Donal H. Haines,
ESBRO shifted in his seat. set-
tled his eyeglasses more firmly
upon his nose and, with his
gloved hands folded on the top
of his cane, turned his glance again
to the field of play. On all sides of
him men and women were abandoning
themselves to excesses of enthusiasm,
but his cold neutral tinted eyes fol-
lowed the movements of the muddy
figures on the gridiron without a trace
of excitement, though they lost no de-
tails of the play.
“l beg your pardon”—Desbro's high
pitched, nervous voice cut incisively
into the throaty cheer of which the
man next to him was delivering him-
self—"but can you tell me who is the
black haired man at tackle?"
“Babbington,” snapped the other
shortly and turned again to his cheer-
ing. while Desbro murmured courteous
thanks,
Turning a pair of fieldglasses upon
the field, Desbro watched the strug-
gling figures intently for a few mo-
ments: then, laying the binoculars
aside and lighting a cigarette, he com-
menced to talk to himself In a low
tone, oblivious of his surroundings.
“A matchless physique,” he mutter-
ed, “coupled with a face which might
have been Adam's—as devoid of the
spark of intelligence as an ox's—the
very embodiment of the game he Is
playing.”
His intent gaze noted a sudden con-
gestion of the padded figures below
him and an eager craning of necks
from the seats of the big stand. One
of the opposing players lay stretched
on the turf withing in pain, while a
group of the visiting eleven's support-
ers leaned from their seats and point-
ed impotently accusing fingers at the
man called Babbington., who stood
looking down at the prostrate figure
with his hands on his massive hips.
A cold little sneer gathered about
the corners of Desbro's mouth as he
watched the incident,
“What callousness,” he exclaimed
softly. “what savagely unconscious cal-
lousness! Is the man an anachronism
or only a brute? Such simple minded
unconcern for physical agony caused
by one's own hands Is the mark of
mere coarseness or a throwback.
“l must see, more of this strange
man,” he told himself and walked to
the gymnasium, where he sat for an
hour gazing at the ceiling with a
preoccupied air, When Babbington's
great bulk emerged from the door lead-
ing to the baths an hour later, Desbro
rose and walked to meet him.
“Mr. Babbington?’ he asked. The
other nodded. :
“My name is Desbro,” he went on
rapidly, his suddenly keen eyes search-
ing the other's face. *“l1 come from the
same part of the country that you do,
“NO,” HE ANSWERED; ‘THIS IS WHAT 1
, CAME FOR.”
and 1 thought possibly you might give
me news of an old friend, Morton—
Harold Morton. Did you happen to
know him?"
“Morton?” he said slowly. “Morton?
No, don’t believe I know him.”
“Ah, of course,” Desbro hastened to
say. “i thought perhaps”— And he
wove a few sentences of easy fiction
before turning abruptly on his heel.
A few hours later he sat in the bil-
lard room of his fraternity house lis-
tening curiously to the talk of the men
which centered abéut the game of the
afternoon. The comments were all live-
ly, enthasiastie, on the team’s chances,
on the individual prowess of the men,
and constantly recurring in the hum of
conversation was Babbington's name.
“The finest type of a player the crop
of new men has produced.” a fair hair-
ed man with a big voice called from
one end of the smoky room.
“Right you are!" Desbro broke in
suddenly. The men around the tables
sarned in astonishment, for to have
Desbro offer comment on matters of
this nature was unusual.
“Right you are. | say.” he repeated.
leaning back in his chair and survey-
ing the curious faces through hie
glasses. “This man is the very embod-
iment of the spirit fostered by this
beautiful game of yours—bulilt for a
human chopping block or battering
ram, as the case may demand! By the
exertion of those muscles for which he
is no more responsible than Thompson
there for his red bair he brings down
on his richly undeserving head the
frenzied cheers of a sport crazed
crowd. He sends a man less fortunate-
ly endowed physically than himself
Into a few moments of unhappy obliv-
fon and then grins at you with crass
satisfaction when you cheer him—not
for himself or because his name means
anything. but simply for what he has
done.
“This Babbington comes out of no-
where,” Desbro continued, “a grace-
less, conrse fibered clod, with a giant's
strength and the broad ideas of a goat,
hungry for notoriety of the sort his
great muscles can command, and you
pamper his cheap cravings with une-
tion. You sit in the stands and shout
yourselves hoarse while he is battering
some poor fellow in the arena, and you
will go further. You will desire the
eapture of this athletic lion in spite of
the fact that he is a—a social lmpossi-
bility. and you will be crowding around
trying to put your fraternity pins on
his cont. Bah!
“I talked with the man, looked into
his great. oxlike eyes—dead, devoid of
the spark of real life" —
The unfinished sentence broke abrupt-
ly, and every eye in the room followed
Desbro's startled glance to the door-
way, where, turning his cane in his
hands and staring at the speaker with
an expression wholly indescribable,
stood Babbington. For a moment there
was the dead silence of utter embar-
rassment; then one by one the men
turned to the tables, while Babbington
cleared his throat and spoke.
“] came to see if possibly I hadn't
misunderstood you,” he said, turning
to Desbro. ‘That name you mention-
ed was Morton, wasn't it?”
Desbro, redder than any man had
ever seen him, nodded without speak-
ing.
“1 thought possibly I hadn't under-
stood,” Babbhington explained, backing
awkwardly out of the door, “and I did
know a man named Horton.”
A few moments later Desbro passed
the door of the billiard room, wearing
the raincoat and slouch hat which he
invariably wore on the evening walks
which were as much a part of his ex-
fstence as his meals,
No man pretended to know the object
of these nightly walks of Desbro's. To
all inquiries he responded that “they
gave him a chance to think without in-
terruption.”
At the gate Desbro paused to light a
cigarette, and ihe flare of the match
as he shielded it from the snappy Oc-
tober wind brought his thin features
into prominence against the darkness.
Babbington, standing under a tree not
a dozen yards away, turned as the sul-
phur sputtered and saw. His great
hand clinched instinctively into a fist,
and he had already taken a step for-
ward when Desbro turned and started
quickly down the street.
Babbington waited a few moments,
then stepped lightly on to the sidewalk
and followed, quietly at first and then
without caution as Desbro paid no at-
tention to the footfalls behind him. He
glanced now and then at the receding
lights and then increased the length of
his strides as Desbro's phrases throb-
bed through his mind.
“Social impossibility!” he muttered,
gritting his teeth over the phrase. “I'll
teach the little whelp!” 3
His eyes never left the little spark
which marked the other's position, but
every time he started to close the gap
between them something checked him.
His thoughts refused to run to any but
a given point—a fierce desire to get his
hands upon the man who had held his
ignorance up to a roomful of men
while he stood and listened helplessly.
As he had stood under the tree in front
of the house he had felt only a sense
of Impotency, of shame, a gulping feel-
ing of disappointment which was not
easy to understand, a sickening realiza-
tion that some of Desbro’s words had
rung true.
Block after block the man in front
walked, turning now to the right and
now to the left, sometimes walking
rapidly and again idilng along at a
snail's pace. They passed through the
business streets, lonely and deserted
under the harsh glare of the arc lights.
Here Desbro paused to talk with a po-
liceman with whom he seemed to be
on excellent terms, and, turned sudden-
ly cold at the sight of the patrolman,
Babbington crossed the street and
nearly lost his man, who wheeled
abruptly into a dark side street.
Babbington was conscious that a
struggle bad commenced within him
and that the first heat of anger was
passing. He grew ashamed of his
growing calmness, fearful lest the cool-
Ing influence of the walk rob him of
the merited retaliation which he knew
his massive arms could administer.
Desbro stopped abruptly to light an-
other cigarette, and his pursuer halted
in the midst of a stride. For an In-
stant he paused irresolute, divided be-
tween the lingering desire to close his
fingers on Desbro’s neck and a sudden
impulse to run, to get away from ev-
erything, back to the life where other
men had lived and talked like himself.
The hotter sensation triumphed, and
Babbington had taken three quick.
lithe steps toward his vietim when, si-
lent as the shadows from which they
sprang, a little knot of men threw
themselves at Desbro.
The sheck of the attack not only
drove from Babbington's mind every
vastige of his own wrath. but bereft
him for an instant of the power of mo-
tion. He heard Desbro give a low ex-
clamation and saw by the last flicker
of the match the slight figure attempt-
ing to shield itself by leaping behind
an iron pole. In another instant he
found himself in the center of a press
of struggling figures. He received !
blows and felt the impact of his hand
against flesh as he returned them.
“Where are you, Desbro?’ he shout.
ed. “Sing out!”
“Here,” came a choking voice from
behind him, “quick!”
A club struck Babbington’s arm with
a numbing shock, but he kicked the
man who wielded it into insensibility
and the next instant was tearing an-
other ruffian from off Desbro's pros-
trate form. Two of the assailants lay
on the ground, mere blotches in the
darkness. The others had disappeared.
Desbro rose to his feet slowly and
took a step toward his rescuer,
“I say,” he commenced, then stopped
abruptly. “So this is the cheap ‘coals
of fire’ method you pursue, is it?” he
continued, with a sneer.
A sudden easy smile passed over
Babbington’s face,
“No,” he answered shortly: “this is
what 1 came for.” and he struck Des-
bro squarely in the face, felling him
instantly.
For an instant the knowledge of the
strength in his great muscles fright-
ened him, and he leaned over Desbro
anxiously. Satisfied that he had struck
>a Zz
—
EEN
EH
“WILL YOU SHAKE HANDS, BABBINGTON
HE ASKED,
| no harder than he intended, he leaned
| against the iron post panting from his
| exertions. The two roughs on the
ground recovered their senses and
scuttled off into the night. He could
hear Desbro's watch ticking and kept
track of the seconds for two full min-
utes. Then he noticed that the fallen
man was bareheaded and puttered
about on his hands and knees in the
dead leaves and the filth of the gufter
until he found Desbro’s hat.
“Can you walk?" he asked shortly.
The disheveled figure nodded, and in
silence they made their way back
through the deserted streets. In front
of the fraternity house they separated
without words.
Desbro gave up his nightly walks for
a week and was seen but little outside
his room. He explained his marred
cheek and a stiffness in one leg by a
fall through a broken crossing.
* . + * * * *
“Going to make another character
study of the game, Desbro?”
Desbro shook his head and smiled.
“I'm continuing one,” he answered
shortly.
It was with a more interested, dss
coldly critical expression that he fol-
lowed the movements of the men on
the white striped field beneath him.
The problem confronting the varsity
team was a different one from that
which Desbro had watched on the first
occasion, for instead of feeble oppo-
nents who would only afford them
good practice they faced an eleven of
their own class.
From the first the enemy's tactics
had been obvious. They realized that
in Babbington there was a living oppo-
sition which barred all progress to the
varsity’s goal line, and toward the
wearing down of his great strength
they had directed their efforts. Men
had been led to the side lines pale and
bleeding, and the list of the visitors’
substitutes was diminished, but still
Babbington formed the center of every
attack and was the rock about which
split the enemy’s onslaughts. It was
not a showy exhibition, but it was a
splendid piece of physical stamina, and
the great crowd was appreciative. They
saw that Babbington’s endurance
would make victory possible, and they
rose in a great wall of color and cheer-
ed him furiously.
“Babbington! Babbington!”
Close to the goal posts Babbington
raised his great frame from the tangle
of the last attack which had shattered
{ts force upon him and faced the shout- |
ing crowds. Slowly he raised a huge |
fist and shook it in the face of the mul
titude, which grew wonderingly silent.
“Curse you,” he shouted, and the
sound of his hoarse voice carried to
every part of the stands, “leave my
name alone!”
Desbro smiled quietly.
“In the term ‘social Impossibility,"
he muttered, “I was guilty of gross in-
justice.”
When the whistle sounded the end of
the bailf. he scrambled down from his
seat, climbed the wire fence Inclosing
the field and walked toward Babbing-
ton, who. with hanging head. was
walking slo .vly toward the side lines.
“Will you shake hands. Babbington?"
he asked, smiling.
Babbington looked up in surprise.
Then his somewhat heavy features
lghted up, and the big hand shot eut.
Stevenson as He Talked.
He used to stand on the hearth rugin
the smoking room, says Walter Crane
in his "An Artist's Reminiscences” of
Robert Louis Stevenson, the center of
an admiring circle, and discourse very
much in the same style as that in
which he wrote, [t gave one the im-
pression of artificiality rather—I mean
his manner of speaking and choice of
words, as if carefully selected and cul-
tivated. If a remark was offered by
one of the company he would perhaps
accept it and turn about, much as a
conjurer does when he borrows a hand-
kerchief or a hat from some one in his
audience, or perhaps he would work it |
into his next sentence, returning it to
his interlocutor improved—wrapped In
silver paper, metaphorically speaking.
His personal appearance was quite as
unusual as his speech—a long, pale,
thin face and lank hair, quick and pen-
etrating eyes and a rather sardonic
smile. The world in general, especial-
ly in clubland, wore white shirts and
collars as a rule, but Stevenson sported
black ones.
A Queer Ad.
“An Italian with a piano organ was
turning the handle of his machine rap-
idly, but not a note was to be heard. 1
stopped at once. What on earth could
be the matter?”
The speaker, an advertising agent,
smiled.
“Finally,” he said, “I went up close
| to the man.
“+A breakdown? 1 asked.
“He pointed to a small placard on
the organ’'s front, and I read:
“+The interior of the instrument has
been removed. The relief that in con-
sequence you experience is as nothing
compared with that which immediate-
ly follows a dose of Sure Cure Cough
Mixture.’
“It was an original ad.” the expert
ended, “and 1 followed it up. From
what the Sure Cure people told me, 1
found that the same ingenuity and
money put in legitimate newspaper
advertising would have brought 50 per
cent more returns.” — New Orleans
Times-Democrat.
A Lion Tamer's Secret.
The boarhound growled, and the
great yellow lion leaped back in fear.
“The lion could kill the hound,” the
! trainer said, “but he doesn’t think so.
| He thinks the hound could easily kill
him.”
“Why?”
“When the lion was a cub this boar-
hound, full grown, lived in the cage
with him. The big dog could, of
course, lick the little cub, and the cub
therefore feared and respected him.
Now the cub is grown up, but he still
thinks the hound is the better. We
rear a cub with a full grown hound io
this way for a reason. The hound is n
protection to us trainers afterward
when the cub is grown, for then should
he become rambunctious one look from
the dog will send him, subdued and
ashamed, slinking off to the cage's far-
thest corner.”—Philadeiphia Bulletin.
The Story of Zero.
The word “zero” Is from the Spanish
and means “empty,” hence nothing. It
was first used for a thermometer in
1795 by a Prussian named Fahrenheit.
By experimenting with snow and salt
Fahrenheit found that he could pro-
duce a degree of cold equal to that of
the coldest winter day. It happened
that the day on which he made his
final experiment was the coldest that
anybody could remember, and, struck
with the coincidence of his scientific
discovery, he hastily concluded that he
had found the lowest degree of tem-
perature, either natural or artificial.
He called the degree “zero” and con-
structed a thermometer graduating up
from zero to boiling point, which he
numbered 212 and the freezing point
a2.
One of Three Things.
Fred Jones, a man of no small di-
mensions, was a popular conductor on
the Boston and Maine railroad. making
daily trips between Boston and Plym-
outh. One day several years ago while
collecting fares he encountered a man
under the influence of liquor who
would not show a ticket. After reason-
ing In vain with this passenger Mr.
Jones said, “Now, see here, you'll
have to do one of three things—give
me a ticket, pay your fare or get off
and walk.”
“You've (hic) got to do one of three
things,” was the reply—*“eat less (hic),
hoop yerself (hic) or bust.”
His Nerve.
Speaking of a Wall street operator, a
broker said: “The man’s nerve is amaz-
ing. It shocks me. It reminds me of a
money lender to whom a friend of
mine, a great rider to hounds, once re-
sorted.
“ Yes,’ sald the money lender to my
embarrassed friend, ‘1 will renew your
note, but only on one condition, sir—
namely, that during the next paper
chase at Lenox you scatter from your
bag these 5,000 pink slips bearing my
name and the words, “Money advanced
on easy terms.” Is It a go, sir?”
German Humor,
The tendency of the German comic
papers to employ continuously the
same characters as “producers of
mirth” is the subject of an article in a
Berlin paper by Ludwig Bauer. The
writer mentions as the most conspicu-
ous of the funny figures the absent-
minded professor whose habitual um-
breila losing proclivities have made
generations laugh. This figure had its
origin at a time, he says, when the
man of letters was a helpless person
in the active world—a dreamer dwell-
ing in realins away from the actual
and therefore blind to his surround-
ings. In this form he has been rep-
resented in the comic papers. But
Germany, he thinks, not the professor,
has been and is being caricatured. The
professor today must be a wide awake
man, for science is no longer an Is-
land. These are not the days for sleep
and for dreams. Another abused char-
acter is the lieutenant who, having no
foe to fight, is always shown as mak-
ing conquests where Amor has com-
mand. The old maid is another of the
stock figures, and oue of equal impor-
tance is Mr. Newlyrich. Of the latter
it is said: “He is always full of fear
and suspicion. He knows that he has
been misplaced, and he sways from
side to side like a timid rope walker.
This makes him really funny, and we
| must laugh at his antics.”
Too Slow to Be a Soldier.
In a room on the top floor of a large
| factory a boy was amusing himself by
going through the bayonet exercise
with a long handled brush in lien of a
rifle. His boss, coming quickly upon
him, gave him a box on the ear for
wasting his time. The sudden blow
caused the lad to lose his balance and
fall down the hoist shaft, but fortu-
nately he kept his hold on the brush,
the handle of which, getting across the
shaft, broke his fall and enabled him
to grasp the chain, down which he slid
in safety. The boss was horrified at
the effect of his action and rushed
breathless and gasping with fear down
the eight flights of stairs to the base-
ment, expecting to find a mangled
body for which he would have to ac-
count. He was, however, just in time
| to see the lad drop on his feet un-
| harmed, so, recevering his self pos-
| session and his breath, he exclaimed:
“Want to be a soldier, eh? Well,
| you're too slow for that. Why, man, 1
j can walk down all those stairs quick-
er than you can fall down the holst
shaft.” —London Answers.
Toward the Pole.
Ice eight feet thick on the ocean and
snow falling even in summer—such is
the weather experienced in the polar
regions. When the air is dry and still
it is remarkable how low a tempera-
ture can be borne with ease. One ex-
plorer tells us that with the thermome-
ter at 9 degrees it was too warm for
skating. The summer weather in this
region is, moreover, in some respects
pleasant and healthful. Within the
arctic zone there are wonderfully col-
ored sunrises and sunsets to be seen.
They are both brilliant and impressive.
But the nights—the nights are monot-
onous and repelling. A rigid world
buried in everlasting snow, silent suve
for the cracking of the ice or the wall
of the wind. Travelers In these re-
gions experience many discomforts.
The keen air causes their skin to burn
and blister, while their lips swgil and
crack. Thirst, again, has been much
complained of, arising from the action
of the low temperature on the warm
body.
Only Night Air at Night.
Speaking of Florence Nightingale
and her efforts to keep the world
healthy, it seems pertinent to make
special mention of her mission In be-
half of the open window at night. In
the early years of her labors much un-
intelligent opposition to this method
of ventilation because of the supposed
harmfulness of the night alr was ex-
pressed, but Miss Nightingale had one
stock argument in support of her posi-
tion, it being the question, “What air
shall we breathe at night but night
air?” It was unanswerable from her
opponents’ point of view, even If it did
not always convert them, but it did
lead a countless number into saner
ways of living and along the way to
the present methods of treating tuber-
culosis.—Boston Transcript.
Garantized Oils.
The following advertisement of olive
ofl is the work of a Rio Janeiro firm:
“Qurs olives oils have garantized of
fitts quality. Diligently fabricated add
filtrated, the consumer will find with
them, the good taste and perfect pres-
ervation. For to escape to any conter-
feit, is necessary to requiere on any
botles this contremare deposed con-
formably to the law. The corks and
the boxes hare all marked with the
fire.”—Case and Comment.
The Housekeeping Instinct.
A bright little girl who had success-
fully spelled the word “that” was ask-
ed by her teacher what would remain
after the “t” had been taken away.
“The cups and saucers,” was the
prompt reply.
Self Composed.
She—He is a person of perfect ease
and possession and is thoroughly at
‘home anywhere. He—Yes, he even has
‘the faculty of making you feel a total
stranger in your own house.—London
Tit-Bits.
Fear and Danger.
Nervous Old Lady (to deck hand on
steamboat) — Mr. Steamboatman, Is
any fear of danger? Deck Hand
{carelessly)—Plenty of fear, ma'am,
‘but not a bit of danger,
Little girls believe In the man in the
moon, big girls in the man in the hon-
eymoon.
Origin of “Yankee Doodle.”
When Charles the Fist ascended the
throve a ditty familiar in the nurseries of
bigh society was ‘“‘Luooy Locket,” after-
wards known in New Eogland as “Lydia
Fisher's Jig,” and running like this:
Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
Lydia Fisher found it :
Not a bit of money in it,
Only binding round it.
A smart cavalier; adapting the jingle to
potiviea) conditions, produced she follow-
8:
Nankey Doodle came in town,
Riding on a pony,
With a feather in his hat
Upon a macaroni.
A “doodle,” according to Murray, was
a simpleton, ‘a worry, trifling fellow; a
‘‘macaroni’’ was a knot in the ribbon. The
particular Naokey obaracterized thus de-
risively in this case was Oliver Cromwell.
The next adaptation appeared in 1766 in
convection with a cancature ridiculing
William Pitt for espousing America’s cause
and incidentally sniffing at the French and
Virginia negroes thus:
Stamp Act! le diable! dat is de job, sir:
Dat is de Stiltman's nob, sir,
To be America's nabob, sir,
Doodle, noodle, do.
It was bus natural, writes George Har-
vey, in the North American Po that
shafts of the wit of the period should be
aimed at the uncouth American soldiers:
and there was much hilarity in the British
camp in Boston when sn officer-post recis-
ed the lines which became the real ““Yan-
kee Doodle,” beginning with the familiar
verse:
Father and | went down to camp
Along with Captain Goodwin,
Where we see the men and boys
As thick as hasty -puddin’—
aud continuing with the well-worn refer-
ence to ‘‘Captain Washington,” “My
Jewima, Jal, after the well known
ashion designed to ‘‘take off”
vincial thas: vo.
There was Captain Washington
Upon a slapping stallion,
A giving orders to his men;
I guess there was a million.
And then the feathers on his hat,
They looked so tarnal finea,
I wanted pockily to get,
To give tomy Jemima.
Some years before, a British army sur-
geon, stationed at Lake George, had com-
posed oue or two sneering verses, entitled
*‘Yaukee Doodle,”’ and Ethan Allen, whose
liking for stirring melody was stronger
than his waste for classical musio, promptly
appropriated the tune, so that the fifers
and drummers at Dorchester were fully
prepared when they received a copy of the
Boston composition, and the shrill sone
beoawe, probably for a time, our favorite
national marching air. It is essentially
English, as we have pointed out, but only
in our judgment as adapted; in any case,
rightly or wiongly, we prefer to accept
Daychinck’s declaration that it was taken
by the predatory British from an old Dutch
barvest-song whose refrain ran:
Yankee didee doodle down
Didee dudel lawnter,
Yankee viver voover, vown,
Botermelk und Tawnter.
The British officer-poet, is entitled to the
credit of having wade the fires use of **Un-
ole Sam’'’ on record, although there is no
indication that he meant it to refer to the
States theo united only for defensive pur-
poses, thus leaving to the Albany pork in-
spector the high honor traditionally accord-
ed him for sardonic bumor in the use of a
hranding ion,
City Farthest South.
The battleship flees is on a voyage of
discovery—discoveiy so far as the rest of
us are concerned, says the New York
‘Evening Mail.’ It bas hiought a new
city into our ken. That 1s Punta Arenas,
or Sandy Point, midway in the Straits of
Magellan. To those of us who remember
ed Poe’s weird pictures of the far South
and recalled the descriptions of and desola-
sion and blasting cold as given in our
school geographies, Punta Arenas simply
did vot exist, until our battleships anchor-
ed there. It was nothing less than a shook
to learn that there was a city of about 10,-
000 inhabitants ov that remote and storm-
smitten shore, a city with broad streets,
fine buildings, electric lights and a daily
news-paper.
Panta Arenas is literally the southern-
moss city in the world. Cape Town, at the
tip of South Africa, is only a listle south of
the lower boundary of the tropio zone. It
is in the same latitude as Montevideo. The
straits city, where our ships are resting, is
1,600 miles south of Cape Town, and near-
ly 1,000 miles south of Christohureh, in
New Zealand. It is separated from New
York by nearly 100 degrees of latitade. It
has a temperature that in winter rarely
goes below zero and in summer rarely
registers above a mean of 40. It subsists
on the wool and sheep industry of Terra
del Fuego and the Chilean mainland, on a
rather uncertain gold industry and on the
large commerce that passes through the
straits. ‘The commercial movement,’
says the author of ‘Panama, to Patago-
nia,”’ *‘reaches $2,250,000. The exports
exceeding the imports by $250,000. The
export sommerce is of wool, hides, tallow,
ostrich feathers, fox skius, guavaco and
vieano rugs.”
It brings this remote Chilean oity near-
er to ourselves to learn that it dreads the
opening of the Panama canal. It fears that
its trade will be lost when the German aud
New York ships which follow the straits
route to San Frauvcitoo take the shorter
route. At present it is an important coal-
ing station, supplied from Australia and
Newcastle, and it is a veritable eross-roads
oity of the pations. Chile has made ita
free port, the only one in its territory. It
is the meeting place, for the ships of all
countries dwell in its limits. The best fur
store has a Russian woman io charge, and
there are Italian and German hotels. No
shortening of routes can deprive this place
of ite importance of a wool mart, while the
Chilean government will do something to
offset Paname competition by improving
the navigation of the straight.
“Al word in season how good it is.”
That word in season is just what is spoken
by Dr. Pierce's Common Sense Medical
Adviser. The word is speaks may bea
word of counsel or of cantion, a word of
wisdom or of warning, bot it is always a
plain word and practical. This great book
1 1008 pe aa 700 illustrations is sent
on pt of stamps to pay expense of
mailing only. Send 21 one-cent a
for book in paper covers or 31 stamps for
cloth binding. Address Dr. R. V. Piero,
Buffalo, N. Y. }
f
One of the new pinks that is to be
fashionable this Spring both for silk
cotton fabrics is the berry shad
only deeper and hr Mg {
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