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Bellefonte, Pa., December 4, 1908,
A SONG OF THE FARM,
When Dr. Abram W. Harris was president of
the University of Maine, in an address before
members of the State Legislatare he asked the
question : What are the farms fit for if not to
raise boys ’—a question at first misunderstood,
but afterwards applanded.
A word to the restiess people, to an eager fever-
ish age:
A perfect manhood is better than any wealth or
wage,
Some are for gold—vsome, glitter ; but tell me,
tell me, when
Will we stand for the farm and the college, that
go for the making of men ?
Yes, what is the old farm fit for? The word is
wisely said :
There may be stumps in the pasture, and the
house may be a shed ;
But what if a Lincoln or Garfield be here in this
boy of ten ?
And what should the farm be fit for if not the
raising of men ?
*Tis a scanty soil for the seeding, but there we
win our bread.
And a stout heart may grow stronger where
plow and harrow are sped :
Then break up the bleak, high hillside, and
trench the swamp and fen;
For what should the farm be fit for, if not the
rearing of men ?
The crop by the frost is blighted, a niggard the
SEASON seems ;
Yet the hand of youth finds duties, and the
heart of youth has dreams :
The Bar or the Senate tomorrow, tomorrow the
Sword or the Pen ;
For what should the farm be fit for, if not the
raising of men ?
Bat what if our lot be humbler--if we on the
farm abide ?
There is room for noble living, and the realm
of thought is wide ;
A mind enriched is a fortune that ne'er can be
wasted ; then,
Say what should the farm be fit for, if not the
raising of men?
You tread the hills that the Holy, that the
Beautiful, has trod ;
You till the fields of the Infinite, you dress the
gardens of God ;
With Seer and Sage and Poet you worship in
grove and glen :
Then what should the farm be fit for, if not the
rearing of men ?
—By Pastor Felix.
THE FIDELITY OF FIFINE.
George Henry Jenkins stood leaning
upon a pompet of the quay, staring at the
river. It was that hour just before twi-
light when the Seine is wost beautiful—
its perspective veiled in blue-gray mist, its
foreground a vague shimmer of (lights. It
did not, however, look especially beautiful
to the eyes of George Henry, for he was
distinotly homesick. He had been in Paris
just long enough for the mnovelsy of ques:
tionable highly-seasoned food and alien
ways to have worn off, and was in that
state of wind when the memory of home
breakfast and home daintiness was almost
unendurable. He was not, in short, feel-
ing the much-written and talked-of spell
of Paris at that moment.
George Henry was nota bandsome boy,
but he was muscular and broad-shounldered,
with an honest, good tempered face and
that general indescribable air of ‘‘niceness’’
characteristic of the American boy. He
was nos of the type that finds a tempera-
mental affinity with the French city. He
bad not found the accessible Parisian fe-
male society to his taste, and he bad not as
yet met the American girls in ‘the quar-
ter.”” This afternoon he bad not been suo-
cessful in findiog any of the boys with
whom he bad made [riends at the Beanx
Arts, and #0 he had wandered about alone,
insufficiently amused. To bimsell, not
beiog of an analytical turn, he desoribed
his state of mind as a ‘‘grouch.”
After a time he voticed a French girla
few paces away eogaged in the same ocou-
pation as himself, namely, gazing at the
water, It wasthe firsts time he recalled
having observed a Freueh girl interested in
contemplating the beauties of nature, so he
stared at her a moment curiously. He did
not find her especially attractive, his taste
not rnnning to pale, heavily powdered
ladies with prominent eyes, hut he ohserv-
ed that she was young and deeply engrossed
in her thoughts.
Fifice (for that was her name) was, if
he bad but known is, far, far more unbap-
Py than be was. She was in fact desesper-
anfe. Such words as l'amour and mourir
desole were repeating themselves in her
brain, and before her eyes was the image
of one Alphonse—pale, sparsely bearded,
narrow-shouldered, large-eped—mon Dieu,
what eyes he had! Alphonse now pever to
be hers! Oaly a few weeks ago her parents
bad introduced Alphonse the beautiful so
ber consciousness, and she had loved at
once—
been discussed and then yesterday . . . .
was it only yesterday? they bad come to
ber and told her that it was not to be alter
all. Alphonse had thrown over she prop-
osition. ‘‘Another,” the daughter of a
wealthy chocolate manufacturer, bad se-
cured him. There was no hope. He was
lost to her forever. And wo she had slipped
away—it was the first time, being a French
girl of respectable family, that she bad
ever been out alone—she had slipped away
to die. What else did life hold for her?
for hei? As George Henry turned from the
river with alast vision of home griddle-
cakes that almost unmanned him, and
started in the direction of the close little
restaurant where it was his custom to dine,
he heard a loud splash. Turning to look
in the direction of the souvd he saw a
woman struggling in the water.
He did not hesitate, of course, but did
the obvious thing—palled off his coat and
boots with all possible haste, and plunged
into the river. In a moment he had reach-
ed the drowning woman, and, in spite of
ber violent efforts to pull him under and
get her own bead above water, he managed
to grip her securely and land ber safely.
The water was cold, for the month was
November, and George Henry shook him-
ell very much after the manner of a large
dog when be stood again ro ars
the river, where, to his surprise, be found
himself surrounded hy a large crowd which
was expressing itself vehemently. He was
not much at home in the French tongue,
but he realized after a moment that his
act was receiving a frenxed tribute of ad-
miration. Men came op and wrang his
band. Women exclaimed loudly. Fifine
came to lang enough to exclaim faintly,
‘You, mousieur!”’ and give him a 4d
look from her dark eyes before they ol
again, and a policeman made his way
rough the crowd, note-book in hand, to
passionnement. The marriage bad | bal
of Jules Pierre.
demand bis name, age and address with
such saccharine sweetness as George Henry
bad learned to associate only with the gen-
tle Latin art of fleecing the American
lamb.
While George Henry was answering the
policeman’s questions in a most reprehen-
sible accent, a boy he knew pushed
through she crowd of admiring spectators
to his side.
“What's up, old man? In trouble?’ the
boy inquired anxionsly.
“Nothing much,” replied George Henry
briefly.
“Monsieur is a hero magnificent!” ex-
claimed the policeman with lifted hat.
“Without doubt he will receive a medal.”
‘‘Monsieur, it was a deed heroic!” mur-
mured another Frenchman with emotion.
*“The people of France honor you!”
A bareheaded woman in the crowd cried
out, ‘Oh, the beautiful boy there! And he
is #0 young!"
And another exclaimed, ‘‘Oh, the brave
youth American!”
George Heury's ears were red. ‘‘Say,
let's ges ons of this. I want some dry
clothes,’’ he muttered.
““The heroism of mousienr will never be
forgotten,” remarked the policeman, bow-
ing in impressive farewell. Then with
some difficulty avoiding the crowd of hero-
worshipers, Geo Henry and his friend
found a cab and drove home.
The next afternoon George Heory sat in
a room koown as the workshop, which be
shared with the aforementioned Gus Tyler,
an American boy, who bad lodgings in the
same building. George Henry was busy
with a drawing, Gus Tyler was struggling
with the small ccal fire upon which two of
those dismal pieces of artificial fuel known
as briguets were smoldering.
“Never saw such a grate,” grumbled
Gus Tyler; ‘‘put more than three coals on
it and they fall ont. The thing hasn’t any
back!"
George Henry looked up from his draw-
ing and glanced about the room. ‘‘Say,
what made vs think we wanted to come
here anyway!"
The room, in fact, was not such as the
art-student at home pictures him or her-
self occupying in Paris, but it wasola
type with which he or she is extremely
likely to become familiar in the fulfilment
of their dream. The walls were covered
with a peculiarly disagreeable figured wall-
paper of au inharmonious combination of
dulness and brightness which did nos look
as if is had ever been new or clean. The
painted woodwork, on the contrary, show-
ed that it bad once been white; and, in
startling contrast to the dingy effect of the
rest of the room, the floor was brilliantly
polished in conformance with the one ac:
tive impulse of the French housekeeper.
A marble mantelpiece contained she in-
evitable tarnished gilt clock that does not
go and two dilapidated gilt candlesticks.
The table, now littered with students’ mis
cellany, bad originally been covered with a
faded and spotted velvet cover which, how-
ever, George Henry had returned, together
with a vast quantity of dosty red cloth
bed-curtains and coverings to the concierge
who had received them with mingled emo-
sions of amazement and contempt. But
then Americans, she knew, were barbarians
who needed daily washings in order to
keep clean,
George Henry bad just begun to com-
ment on the peculiar fact that he was hun-
gry, although it was only two hours since
dinver, when a knock came at his door
and a card was b t to him by the per-
manently gloomy valet de chambre.
“Jules Pierre Lavallois,’ he read. “Who
is be, I'd like to know? I don’s want to see
him whoever he is. Ican’t parley Francais
and they can never talk anything else.”
Haviog relieved his mind by this protest
addressed to Gus Tyler, he gave instruc-
tions to have his guest sent up. A few mo-
ments later a knock came at his door, and
opening it he discovered a small blond
{eb with a square, downy growth upon
is chin, a hat upon his head and a cane
in his band. As he entered the door with-
out removing his bat, the French hoy ex-
claimed, ‘‘Monsienr Shenkins?”’ with an
intense inquiring look from one American
to she other.
“I am George Jenkins,” explained
George Henry. Then, to his unspeakable
amazement and anguish, Jales Pierre
Lavallois kissed him ardently upon both
cheeks, and drawing out a strongly-scent-
ed handkerchief wiped his eyes,
“My friend—it is to you we owe the life
of our Fifine!” be exclaimed when he had
mastered his emotion sufficiently to per-
wie speech. ‘‘How shall we ever hope to
repay the debt of gratitude!”
“Oh, that's all right,”” mumbled Geoige
Henry in Eoglish. ‘What's it all about
anybow?"’
The French boy indicated with a smil-
ing shrug that be did not understand, then
burst into a torrent of eulogistie ta-
tions upon the heroism of George Henry.
Then the identity of Jules Pierre 1each-
ed the consciousness of the hero and he
contrived to inquire stiffly in French,
‘*How is your siste:?"’
‘Ab, she is better—a small little better.
She suffers, but she still lives. thanks to
you, monsiear, and, we hope, she no longer
desires to die.”” With the enunciation of
this last sentence Jules Pierre removed his
t.
*‘What did she want to die for?" inguir-
ed George Henry, feeling a strong impulse
of disgust.
A shadow [ell across the face of Jules
Pierre. He sighed profoundly. ‘‘L'amour,”
he replied in a low, solemn voice. “It is
not possible for her to marry the one she
loves.”
George Henry was overcome with ocon-
flicting emotions. “Why doesn’t she cut
it out?’’ he growled in his own vocabulary.
Then forced into the insincerity of polite
formula by the exigencies of a limited
vocabulary he ejaculated the only appro-
priate phrase he could recall for the mo-
ment, ‘‘Quel dommage!”’
“We hope,” remarked Jules Pierre
ravely, ‘‘that in time she may forges.”
en, his eye lighting with the fire of en-
thusiasm for a great deed, he again broke
into hyperbol admiration of Shorge
Heory Shenkins, the preserver.
When tbe burden of inarticulateness and
non-comprehension had become mutually
ve, Juies Pierre rose to take his
leave. While he was in the midst of this
formality his eye chanced to light upon a
ina litter on the table.
t was a most likeness of George
Henry in boxing costume.
“What a costume ourions!” exclaimed
le ““Isit of the theatre varie-
ty
“No, it’s a pictare of me,” replied
George Henry, now into English.
He tapped his chest iu {nrther elnoidation.
“Of monsieur!” exclaimed Jules Pierre.
“Might I be permitted to examine it? It is
of an interest extraordinary!”
Then, alter a long scrutiny of the photo-
oh Pog ie sige Fifine began to ex-
George Henry realized some favor was
being asked of bim, and gradually it came
to him thas what Jules Pierre wanted was
the photograph of himself.
“It is thas I desire to have a likeness of
the preserver of my sister,”” he explained.
““That I may show it to ber.”
Overpowered with the absarity of bav-
ing his picture, and especially that ie-
ular picture, exhibited to the sufferi
Fifive, hes finding no words at com
in which to cope with the subtleties of the
situation, George Henry was dumb. He
gave an agonized glance at Gus Tyler, who
studiously avoided his eye and was oblig-
ed in helpless mortification to watch Pierre
carefully putting the photograph away in
an inner et before he took his emotion-
al leave of them.
But George Henry had not yet heard
the last of his heroic deed. Later in the
afternoon, much to the awe of the gloomy
garcon, another gentleman, this time in
uniform, inquired for Monsieur Shenkins.
And when be, too, had been invited up,
George Henry was obliged to «listen to
farther enlogies of his heroism. He learned
that the republic French honored him; that
his name was to go down on the record of
brave men; that a few days from that time
be would be summoned to receive an ova-
tion, and, eventually, a medal. It was
the officer’s privilege to bear the tidings.
“I don’t want their old medal,’ com-
Deine George Henry to his friend, Gus
'yler, who bad remained in order to sup-
port him as this trying moment. “1 feel
like all kinds of an idiot. Why can’s they
cat it out?”
Bot bis ts were of no use. The
republic h must and would honor
bim. He would receive further notifica-
tion of the day and heur. Then, with pro-
found salutations and a dramatic toss of
his bine cape, the officer took bis depart-
ure.
It was the second day after this that
George Henry, looking out of his window
which gave on the street, discovered two
men in aniform standing at the outside
door. He groaned aloand.
* “I suppose it's that fool medal. I'd
rather be kicked.”
The vext moment the sulky garcon an:
Bosse two officers to see Monsieur Shen-
ne. }
George Henry greeted the officers with
careless camaraderie, after his American
hoy fashion. It was a moment tefore he
roeived that their faces were grave. One
eld a paper in his band. He fixed a
piercing glance npon George Henry and
twirled a long, horizontal mustache.
“It is that we desire to ask a question of
monsieur,’’ he began.
“Fire away,'’ George Henry was moved
to respond, but substituted an acquiescent
“Oui.”
“Is 1% that you have notified the police
since your arrival in Paris?’ The officer's
expression and emphasis were peonliar.
‘Notified the police? Notify them of
what? I am nos a forger or a thief,’”’ ob.
served George Henry to Gus Tyler. Bat
to the policeman be said, ‘‘Non pourquoi?”
The officer’s faces became cold and set.
They exchanged significant glances and
some rapid communication. ‘‘You signed
no papers upon your arrival in Paris? You
have not filled out the required blank ?”
Both officers treated George Henry toa
searching glance.
“I baven't seen their cold blanks. I
don’t know what they are talking about !"’
exclaimed George Henry fretfully. Then,
as the officer repea his question, he
shook his head. He began to wish he had
not pulled Fifive ont of the Seine.
“Monsieur,” announced the officer wol-
emnly, *‘it is our painful duty to inform
you that you are under arrest.”
“Say, what kind of guff are you fellows
trying to give me?’ cried George Henry
angrily, this time actually addressing the
officer in the vernacular.
The officer understood a protest. ‘‘It is
unfortunate since monsieur has done a
brave deed,’” he observed coldly, ‘but
when we looked up the records in order to
make out the papers appertaining to the
medal we diecovered that monsieur had
nos declared bimself to the police upon his
arrival in Paris.”
“I tell you I didn’t know anything
about it,”’ protested George Henry. ‘‘How
could I? I would bave done it if any
one had asked me.”
“One does not wait to be asked. It ix
thedaty of each person to declare himeell,”’
replied the Frenchman with official imper-
sonality.
“But I tell yon I didn’t know anything
about your old law,’’ insisted George Hen-
ry, moving helplessly about in the circle
of the Latin mind. ‘‘We haven't got any
The officer caught the last word. “We
have nothing to do with the laws of Amer-
ica,” he replied loftily. *‘It is onr dusy
to take you to the police station.”
Inside the police station, alter being led
past groups of some of the most unsavory-
looking individuals he ever remembered to
have seen, George Henry, accompanied by
the faithful Gus Tyler, was led up to an
absorbed looking official who sat at a desk
making entries in a book. This dignitary
did not recognize George Henry's presence
until he bad finished his writing, which
. suoh law in America.”
| seemed to be of the gravest import, then
he looked up with an expression of expect-
ant sternpess rendered quite terrifying W
the fierce length of his musticie. The of-
ficer accompanying George Henry who had
dove most of the talking explained the
matter rapidly. When be had finished
George Henry, who bad been busily fram-
ing phrases of explanation, opened his
mouth to speak, but the gentleman at the
desk opened his first.
“You are fined five hundred francs, Mon-
sieur Shorge Shenkins. You have violated
the laws of France.”
A few days later when the bitterness of
this climax was as yet unsoftened, appeal
to the consul having proved futile, an add-
ed indignity was heaped upon the head of
George Henry Jenkins ; he had a second
call from Jules Pierre. The purpose, he
sulkily gathered, was an invitation to dine
at the Lavallois home. He caught bints,
too, of delicately worded inquiries as to the
financial situation of his family. Ase
George Henry, with a rather accented
touch of American brevity, persisted in his
refusal of the Lavallois hospitality, Pierre
rose to go ; then, at the door, with a last
outburst of emotion, he turned and ad-
dressed himself to George Henry :
| the blood supply.
er.”” He departed with an air of subdued
melaveioly mingled with one of sympa-
thetic understanding. And only by an-
ticipatory manoceunvers did George Henry
escape a second embrace.
Ope day toward spring when the pros-
pect of the hot griddle-cakes was drawing
nearer and the memory of the loss of the
five bundred frances was growing mercifally
dim, George Henry Jenkins, now reasona-
bly fluent with his Frenod, found himself
standing next to Jules Pierre in front a
ig in the rue Bovaparce.
erre greeted him enthusiastically and
George Henry, with a better grace than ov
Seis previous meetings, inquired for Fi-
ne.
“Oh, she is bappy, altogether happy,”
replied Jules Pierre. ‘'The chocolate man-
alacturer whose daughter Alphonse was to
have marred bas failed, so mademoiselle
bad no dot. after all, and Alphonse is en-
gaged to Fifine. They are to be married
next month.”
“Good work !I'’ rose to George Henry's
lips, bat be trauslated it into, ‘Give ber
my beet wishes.”
‘‘Ah, that moopsienr might he present !"’
exclaimed Jules Pierre emotionally.
“Thanks very munch, but I am going
home,’ responded George Lienry briskly.
“Ah, bus she will have to monsieur a
gratitude eternal !"’ replied Fifine’s broth-
er, and tears of sencibility filled his pale.
blue eyes. —By Catharine Meteal! Roof, in
Smart Set.
Whaat the Records Show.
WASHINGTON, Nov. 26.—That divorces
in the United States are increasing three
timer as fast as the pepulation increases is
shown by the report of the Census Bureao
in is bulletin on marriages and divorce
just issued. The figures cover the period
trom 1887 to 1906, inclusive.
The total number of marriages recorded
during the swenty vears from 1887 to 1906,
inclusive, was 12,832,044. The number
annually reported increased from 483,069
in the year 1887 to 853290 in the year
1906.
The total number of divorces reported
for the twenty years, 1887 to 1906, inclu-
sive, was 945,625. For the earlier investi.
gation, covering the twenty years, 1867 to
1886, inclusive, the number reported was
328,716, or bardly more than one-third of
the number recorded in the second twenty
years. At the beginning of the forty-year
period, covered by the two investigations,
divorces occurred at the rate of 10,000 a
year ; at the end of that period the annual
pumber was about 66,000
An increase of 20 per cent. in population |
between the years 1870 to 1880 was accom-
panied by an increase of 79 per cent. in the
number of divorces granted. In the next
decade, 1880 to 1890, the population in-
orensed 25 per cent. and divorces 70 per
cent., and in the following decade, 1890 to
1900, an increase of 21 per cent. in popula-
tion was accompanied by sn increase of 66
per cent. in the number of divorces.
Is thos appears that at the end of the
forty-year period divorces were increasing
about three times as fast as population,
while in the first decade (1870 to 1880,)
they increased only about two and two-
thirds as fast.
Divorce rates appear to be much higher
in she United States than in any of the for-
eign countries for which statistics relating
to this subject have heen obtained.
The report shows that Pennsylvania is
increasing its divorce rate as well as other
States.
The total number of divorces granted in
Pennsylvania from 1867 to 1886 was 16,020
and the number from 1887 to 1906 was 39,-
686, showing an increase from 21 in 100,-
000 of population to 35.
Two-thirds of the total number of di
vorces granted in the twenty-year period
covered by this investigation were granted
to the wife.
The most common single ground for di-
voroe is desertion. This accounts for 38.9
per cent. of all divorces (period 1887 to
1906); 49.4 per cent. or almost one-half of
those granted to the husband, and 33.5 per
cent. or one-third. of those granted to the
wile.
Only 15 per cent. of the divorces were
returned as contest-d, and probably in
many of these cases the contesting was
hardly more than a formality.
Alimony was demanded in 18 per cent.
of the divorces granted to the wile, and
was granted in 12.7 per cent.
The average duration of marriages ter-
minated hy divorce is ahout ten years.
Sixty per cent. or three-fifths, last less
than ten years and 40 per cent. last longer.
Children were reported in 39.8 per cent.
of the total number of divorced cases. The
proportion is munch larger for divorces
granted to the wife than for divorces
granted to the husband; children being
present in 46 8 per cent. of the lortaer class
of divorces and 26 per cent. of the latter.
The Gluttonons Spider.
A npaturalist attached to one of Uncle
Sam's scientific bureaus at Washington as-
serts that the spider, which is always rep-
resented as having a tremendous appetite,
is by no means maligned in this respects,
inasmuch as its gormandizing defies all
human competition.
This scientist’s investigations show that
a spider’s consumption of food within
swenty-four hours, if he was builton a
human scale, would approximately be
something like this :
At day k, a small alligator ; by seven
a. m., a lamb; by ninea. m., a young ante-
lope; by one o'clock, a sheep; and at din-
per time about one bundred and twenty
small chicken pies.
To get an idea of the prevalence of
“Stomach trouble’’ it iz only necessary
to observe the number and variety of tab-
lets, powders,and other preparations offered
as a cure for disorders of the stomach. To
obtain an iden as to the fatality of stomach
diseases it is only necessary to realize that
with a ‘“weak stomach’’ a man has a great-
ly reduced chance of recovery from any dis-
ease. Medicine is not life; Blood is life.
Medicines hold disease in check while Na-
ture strengthens the body through blood,
made from the food received into the stom-
ach. If the stomach is “weak” Nature
Dr. Pierce's Golden Dis-
covery must not be classed with the pills,
powders and which have at best
a palliative ne “Discovery” is a
DL Tot mal moh Iv
organs na! —
purifies the blood, and by increasing the ac-
tivity of the blood-making glands increases
It is a temperance med-
icine and contains no alcohol, neither opi
um, cocaine, nor other narcotics.
——Fond Mother—Now, Johnnie, you
muss study bard at school, and remember
that when you grow 3p 300 can become
vice-President without half trying.
—Managed right the hog wiil do more
for the farmer than most any other animal.
More Abont Oklahoma.
Editor Watchman :
Since my former letter t you, our cono-
try has been ‘‘saved’’ again for four years
more, the tariff will be revised (?) again
by its “‘Iriends,’’ and Bryac with bis head
full of wheels has gone back tc his Com-
moner to tell us be doesn’t understand why
it bappened so.
If you please, I would like to tell some
things about Oklaboma that I omitted in
| my frst letter.
I have no desire to bosst, for I have no
ax to grind. [ will say by way of informa-
tion that Pennsylvanians are not numerous
there. I can recall but two Centre county
men whom I! have met there, and they
hoth belong to a younger generation than
myseif.
‘The State may not inaptly be divided
into three belts or divisions, from east to
west,
The eastern belt I will call the corn seo-
tion, because it is peculiarly adapted to
that crop. It is, in fact, also the timber
belt, and the coal, oil and gas bLelt—and I
wight add, it is the fever aud ague section,
bust this will disappear as the country
comes under caltivation and the people get
deeper and better water, instead of ng
surface water as at present.
The middie belt comprises the general or
mixed farming portion, while the western
third bas been the short grass conotry, bus
it is rapidly forging abead as a wheat and
cotton country.
Is is a mistaken potion of many that
there are vast acres of vacant land to he
had. As a matter of face, there is no va-
cant land that is worth farming. You
might just as well look around in Nittany
or Pepnsvalley for vacant land to make a
farm.
To give your readers some idea as to the
value they put upon their lands, let me tell
vou that I saw handreds of northern men
this last enammer, 1n the part of the State
that was called Indian Territory until re-
centiy, who went there to buy farms from
the Indians and bhall-hreeds, and they
wonld not consider any offer under from
| thirty-five to fisy dollars an acre, and that
' did not include the oil, for the Standard
Oil company had leases on virtually all she
land where they thought oil might be
found.
Understand now, this is unimproved
land with absolutely nothing but the wild
land.
The improved farms in the eastern third
of the State, belong to what are called
squaw-men, that is, white men who bave
Iudian wives—and there are thousands of
them.
The Cherokees are the farthest advanced
in civilization. They do not inter-marry
with negroes, and a Cherokee girl or wom-
an will not even marry an Indian man if
she can get a white man. You would find
just as handsome, well dressed and well
educated Cherokee women as any white
woman who walks the streets of Bellefonte
or anywhere else. Of course there is but
very liktle Indian blood in them. United
States Senator Owen is a Cherokee, and so
is Senator Curtis, of Kaveas. Many of
those Indians are immensely wealthy from
the cash royalty on their oil leases.
Muskogee is, next to Oklahoma City, the
largest city in the State. It is easily five
times as large as Bellefonte. It is a mar-
vel of bustle and business activity. The
most city-like little town I saw, was Ok-
mulgee. It has something like six to
eight thousand people. It basa bran new
hotel that would bea credit to Williams-
port, Scranton or Harrisburg, and I might
say the same about its postoffice, its banks,
and quite a number of stores.
I speak of only a very few places in this
eastern portion of this wonderful State, and
it calls up to my recollection some lines
that I read when » mere boy :
“I hear the first low wash of waves
Where soon shall roll a human sea.”
and again :
“Behind the squaw's birch bark canoe,
The steamer smokes and raves,
And city lots are staked for sale
Above old Indian graves."
Several eastern people told me last sum-
{ mer, that they would be afraid to live
where there are indians—afraid that they
| would be tomabawked and ecalped. Ido
vot think them half as dangerous as the
dagoes and other rifi-raff that you bave in
the east. They have plenty to eat and
wear, and spending money besides. Lazy
is not balf a name for them. I have not
seen one doing a day's work. They are
too lazy to even fish or hunt. If a buck
can have a big water-melon under each
arm he seems as happy as an Irishman with
a jug of whiskey.
Then again some eastern people have the
mistaken idea that there is no law or or-
der in a Territory. They seem to forget
that ‘Teddy’ swings bis ‘‘big stick’’ over
their heads. In fact the law is quite ae
well enforced as in a State, and “‘without
fear, favor or affection.”
I have thus far spoken more particolarly
about the portion called Indian Territory,
until lately.
The central part is the oldest and best
developed, and most atéiractive to northern
peorle of considerable means, and a settier
ocating in that belt would not feel she
loss of perhaps any of the comforts and con-
veniences he left behind.
You understand that the whole State
was once called Indian Territory, with the
exception of Greer county, which used to
belong to Texas, and she long, narrow strip
in the northwestern part, which used to he
called ‘No Man's Land.” I will not take
the space to explain why it was so called.
Piece by piece it has absorbed what was
Indian Territory, until there is none lefts.
While it is true that the Indians have
been paid for their lands, yet the great ma-
jority of them are squandering away their
mouey, and in time it will indeed be ‘‘Lo,
the poor Indian’’—he will bave to learn to
work or starve.
The Creeks and the Seminoles inter-mar-
ry with the negroes, aud their offspring are
mongrels.
I want now to speak about the south-
western part, commonly called "The New
Country,” comprising Caddo, Camauche
and Kiawa counties, opened August 6ih,
1901, by Uncle Sam’s lottery. It consist.
ed of about thirteen thousand farms, of one
hundred and sixty acres each. Sotuetbiug
over one hundred and sixty-seven thousan
le ‘“‘registered’’—that is, took a chance
a farm. So you see, about one in thir-
teen stood a chance to draw a farm. The
names were put in a wheel and drawn ont
one by one. Number one got the first
choice of a farm, and so on. Five hundred
names were drawn each day.
My name came out as number three hun-
dred and sixty-four the first day of the
drawing.
I located it one mile east and hall a mil
south of the site selected for the county
seat, Hobart, a town of about twice the
of Belletonte. At that time the
only buildings were the railroad station
the section boss’s shanty.
The first two years after the ‘‘Opening’’
it was very dry, and the crops were almost
a total failure. Since then it has been dif-
ferent, and all is going well.
There is a somewhat common belief that
breaking up the virgin sod inoreases the
rainfall. I do oot think there is anything
in this belief, more than there is in plant-
ing in the right sign of the moon, bat I do
think, that after the ground is .
the rain soaks in where it falls, instead of
running off into the low places as before
the sod is broken.
Farming in the newer parts of cur coun-
try is no longer carried on in the old ‘hit
or mise’’ fashion. Instead of expecting the
moon to do things for them, they are read-
ing, thinking and attending farmers’ insti-
tutes, and making two blades of grass grow
where but one grew hefore.
Is used to he that if a boy were consider-
ed too stupid for anything else, they made
a farmer of him.
Irrigation is working wonders for the
people in what is known as the arid or
semi-arid sections of the west, and it is
only in its infancy yet.
If it were not for this help, I do not
know where the vast hordes of Homeseek-
era would find homes.
You bave but to stand in any of the
leading gateways, snch as the depots in
Chicago, St. Lonis, Kansas City. Omaha,
ete., and see the tens of thousands of land
hangry peeple, roshing westward.
And such a very large percentage of
them are native Americans—nos foreign-
erm.
I omitted to say, in the right place, that
a very large share of the products of Okla-
homa and other portions of the Greats
Southwest, go to Galveston and New Or.
leans to ges on board ship, instead of going
to the Atlantic seaboard.
DANIEL MCBRIDE.
The modesty of women natarally makes
them shrink from the indelicate questions,
the obnoxious examinations, and unpleas.
ant local treatments, which some physi-
cians consider essential in the treatment of
diseases of women. Yet, if help can be
had, it is better to submit to this ordeal
than let the disease grow and spread. The
trouble is that #0 often the woman under-
goes all the annoyance and shame for noth-
ing. Thousands of women who have heen
cured hy Dr. Pierce's Favorite Preecrip-
tion write in appreciation of the cure which
dispenses with the examinations and local
treatments. There is no other medicine so
sure aud sale for delicate women as ‘‘Fa-
vorite Prescription.”” It onres debilitating
drains, irregularity and female weakness,
It always helps. It almost always cares,
—It i# a poor plan to try and keep eggs
too long in hot weather.
ADROITLY TURNED.
it Was a Small Hole, but the English
man Crawled Out.
“1 was watching a number of young
Englishmen shooting at a target re-
cently while I was on the other side,”
remarked an American army officer,
“and at my elbow was a pompous Brit-
isher of the old school, who, after
shaking his head impatiently at the
frequent misses that were made, at
length said to me: “That only goes to
show how the young men of England
are degenerating. All this sort of thing
reflects on the British nation.’
“It certainly is mighty poor shoot-
ing,’ I agreed.
“At that the old gentleman flared up
and exclaimed: ‘I say! Perhaps you
can do better, sir?”
“If I couldn't shoot better than that,
I'd be ashamed to eat breakfast,’ I an-
swered.
“Thereupon I was handed a rifle and
told to show what I could do. I shot,
and the first time I missed the target
completely, so the laugh was on me,
but before they could laugh twice I
plugged the bullseye six times in rapid
succession. At this the old gentleman
was a trifie disconcerted, but he com-
plimented me by saying: ‘Really, now,
you can shoot a bit, can't you? I say,
there's nothing like a Yankee marks-
man with an English gun, is there, old
chap? "—Tos Angeles Times.
A GREAT COMBINATION.
When Husband, Wife and Mother-in-
law Co-operate.
Shortly after his marriage, which
took place in 1880, John Burns, the
British labor leader, settled down as a
journeyman engineer in Battersea and
twenty years after confessed that he
was the first engineer to make with
his own hands an electric tram
car in Great Britain. In those days,
however, people did not believe that
electric traction was possible, and
Burns had to take the dynamo and
tram to the Crystal palace and run the
latter round the grounds for six months
Lafore people could be induced to be-
lieve in the novelty.
But the people were so nervous that,
although she charge was only sixpence,
none of them would venture in the
newfangied invention. Then Burns was
struck with a brilliant idea. He said
to his wife, “You have got to come
down to the palace three times a week
and get into the first electric tram car
as a decoy duck for the others.” This
was only temporarily successful. So
Burns brought along his mother-in-
law, “and,” said the energetic labor
leader when relating the incident,
“when a husband, a wife and a mother-
in-law co-operate success is assured.”
—London Tit-Bits.
Towers.
The patient architect had just suc-
ceeded in getting Mrs. Drippingold to
decide between the charms of renals-
sance, classic and Queen Anne for the
plans of her magnificent new country
house.
**The only details I ain't goin’ to
leave to your discretion,” said the
wealthy lady, “is the matter of tow-
ers. 1 want plenty of towers thai
folks can see for a long way off when
they're ridin’ hy”
“But what kind of towers do you
want?” inquired the unfortunate archi-
tect—“Norman, —
Mrs. closed the Engiish
novel of high life on which her soul
bad been
“Why, ancestral towers, of course,”—
Puck.
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