Bellefonte, Pa., June 23, 1911. ITE ITAA THE GIFTS 1 ASK. These are the gifts I ask Of thee, Spirit serene; Strength for the daily task, Courage to face the road, Good cheer to help me bear the traveler's load, And, for the hours of rest that come between An inward joy in all things heard and seen. These are the sins I fain Would have thee take away: Malice and cold disdain, Hot anger, sullen, hate, Scorn of the lowly, envy of the great, And discontent that casts a shadowy gray On all the brightness of the common day. These are the things I prize And hold of dearest worth: Light of the sapphire skies, Peace of the silent hills, Shelter of forests, comfort of the grass, Music of birds, murmur of iittle rills, Shadow of clouds that swiftly pass, And, after showers, The smell of flowers And of the good brown earth— And, best of all, aiong the way friendship mirth, and ~—Henry Van Dyke. EXCOMMUNICATED. The scowling gates of the jail swung wide and two men emerged into the sun- light. They jostled & other : Se eagerness to reach the street, as feared that some excuse might yet be found to detain them. your journey. you're ve got to do is to he'll wait till Sore S- so get a tu on pra. walked to the station in silence. It Sunday morning, and the bells were ringing for service. On their way they met family groups moving church- ward. In the jail-city most residents lo were familiar with the gait of a recentl discharged convict; Dn Knightly suf- fered the humiliation of seeing mothers hastily collecting their children, as a hen does her chickens at a hint of danger, as he passed. He wondered whether in the old days, before her husband had become a iah, would have behaved like that. Billy didn't wonder. He didn't seem to notice. He had been too long excommunicated to be able to muster the : power of resentment; after forty years of i such treatment, he took it as a matter of course. ' On presenting themselves at the ticket- ! office, they learned that an east-bound | train would be due in half an hour. The t looked at them hard, and followed em with his eyes as they moved away. . On the first opportunity he communicat- . ed his guepiciosie to the train-dispatcher; | the train-despatcher handed on his infor- mation to the baggage-master; when the : east-bound train drew in, the baggage: master warned the conductor and the | brakeman; so by the time the conductor Billy ‘company you When v Lucy - er she was doing right about it, but there she pitied the poor gentleman she said. All through the long and dusty after- noon he tramped; it was a warm day in spring and the effort was fa He was thirsty and hungry, having eaten nothing since the prison But breakfast. wasn't his physical discomfort that troubled him; he was racking his brains to find an explanation for Lucy’s remov- al. An inspiration came to him. Yes, that was the reason—it must be so. She knew that it would be hard for him to settle down at first in an environment where everything was known. A few weeks in the country, where they could overlive the past and the disgrace of the jail, would make things easier. It was just like Lucy to foresee, and understand, and plan. But even now he couldn't imagine why she should have failed to notify him. There could be only one excuse—that she had written, and for some reason the let- ter had not reached him. He hadn't heard from her for a fortnight, which was curious. The letter had probably been delayed or lost. Toward evening he topped the crest of a hill and looked down into a quiet val ley. Its sides were divided into pastures, in which cattle were grazing. He could hear the lowing of the cows, heavy with milk, as the bars were thrown down and the dairymen drove them to the barns. , Through the length of the valley ran a | had collected all the tickets, every pass- . enger on the train was aware that two’ | ex-convicts were aboard. Knightly glued his face to the window, not to notice the cenL of the | questioning eyes. He watched the bright- i i Now that they had gained theopen and | ness of the spring, and feasted his fancy | knew that they were free, they paused irresolute, glanced back toward the pris- river, along whose banks the farms lay scattered. In its very heart was a vil- lage, hidden in elms, through whose branches the lights in the cottages twink- led. Above the elms a spire jutted out; he wondered whether she had prayed for him in the church that morning. he watched, the sun sank under a cloud, and the moon drifted up from obscurity. His eyes filled with tears at sight of so much ‘on the ness of the grass. It was stillness and beauty; it was so far re- | two whole years since he had seen any- on, and stood still, ga ; it seemed al- | thing like that; in the jail all seasons had most as they being masterless and were coveting cap- | tivity. | The warder, who had unlocked the gates, leaned against the stone work, | there they alighted jangling his keys, watching them with | “Billy,” he said, turning to his compan- quiet cynicism. He had seen it all before, | ion, “this is where I lived before my how the routine and the iron discipline | trouble came. My wife has been true to made weaklings out of men, robbing even ' me, and has always believed that I was the most daring of their initiative. He | innocent. She promised, when they took knew that the crulest punishment of | me away, to keep everything just the most prisoners is not endured in the cells, same, so that when I came back we but in the first hours of release. : ight Fiek up our life where it was drop- Cheer up, boys,” he said, kindly: he hasn't kept her word, though; “you'll get used to it. Seems kind o'| eight months after they carried me off e at first, don’t it, after all these | our baby arrived, so itll be all different. | She hasn't seen me in two years—I One of the men nodded. He was an wouldn't let her; and I've never had a old-timer, white-haired and broken; he glim had been a sneak-thief for upward of our first meeting will be very hard, and half a century and had spent two-thirds , —and,” his voice broke and he whisper- of his manhood peeping out from prison ed the last two words, “very sacred.— gratings. He was accustomed to be sub- | Billy, good-by; I'm going home new.” servient; so he gave a watery smile and e held out his hand and the old man of grayness. = midday they drew into Seaford, a of our little child. So you see | whispered hoarsely, “I guess we'll pull through all right, mister; and, if don’t use us Hig over there,”” waving his hand vaguely to indicate everything that was not captive, “we can always do something and get brought back here.” The second man frowned angrily at hearing himself included in the last part of this sentence. He was much younger than his companion, and did not look over thirty. Tall and athletic in build, he carried himself with an erectness which was almost military. His forehead was broad, his features clean-cut and scholarly, his eyes gray and naturally honest. Despite his close-cropped hair and unfashionable attire, he had the in- definable distinction and courtesy of a Ee a urning to the impatiently, he asked, “Can you tell me the way ik the nearest station? I want to board a train going eastward.” The warder laughed good-naturedly; Be Yeas ainuged at this sudden resurrec- on of caste-spirit ina man whom it might have been his duty to have flogged yesterday. “Well, well!” he exclaimed. ‘So you've got important business al- ready! We didn't give you much of a chance toget up the geography of this gd town when first you came here, did we Then he gave the desired information. As he stepped back into the jail and the two men moved away, he called out after them: “Say, boys, if you're ever hard-up and want a bed and breakfast, you know where to come. It costs you nothin’ at our hotel; me and the government is al- ways happy to entertain old friends.” A group of people who had collected outside the gates to watch for the dis- charge of prisoners, hearing the warder’s parting shot, set up a titter. The ounger of the two ex-convicts flushed. Hin his shoulders and holding up his head, he made toward the with a ture that was threatening. As though had been stricken with smallpox, room was | made for him to pass, the men falling back hurriedly and grinning up at him in ill-disguised terror, women utter- ing little shrieks and gathering in their skirts to avoid contamination. He walked swiftly, anxious to get away from these witnesses of his tion and to reach some spot where his record was not knwn and he might be unasham- ed. His white-haired companion tottered along behind, half running in his feeble efforts to keep up; at last, t with the a ro oy, Kaightly, you in’ to an are you?” 1A, Knightly turned. “What's the matter now?” he asked, fiercely. "You've got no claim on me. All that ha over there is past,” jerking his i the direction of the og “l want 5 blot it out from my memory, and Poet Tl po 08 The ald €, you. then called him back. “Here; bu Billy, tell me what's the matter!” : Billy paused, but he did not come back. a ain’t got nowhere to go,” he faltered, ‘and no one to care whether I stay in or I the jail" hom out here I ed if = "Well, bat wit do you think I can do no’. Just let me be with you a little longer, I guess. We was over there—and now I'm so durned lonesome that I don’t know what to do about it.” Billy's voice broke, and he fell to shed- ding the easy tears of the The next thing he knew was that tly's arm was round his shoulders. up, old friend,” he was saying; "I'm going to be so ha today that you must be ha too. Now tell me, what is there that I can do for you?” "Let me stay with you a longer. I won't you no harm, nor give away. I'll behave myself. I'll little very quiet and pretend I don't took it gently. "Good-by, pard, and ood luck to you," he said. “I never had on home and I never had no wife; but I can guess what they means to those as have. Our friendship was made in jail, and I ; don’t yet know what made a swell like [poe stoop to such a rotten old bum as 've become at seventy. I'll be back be- hind bars in a fortnight, I reckon; forty years in quod have spoiled me for the world. I'll never forget you, pard; and I hope to God I'll never set eyes on you n. Knightly let go his hand and clutched . him tightly by the arms, swaying him to and fro, peering down into his eyes. He | couldn't trust himself to speak yet; when he did, his voice trembled and his face quivered like a woman's. “See here, Billy,” he said, "you're old enough to be my father. y father's dead; he died two years ago. I'm going to give you a piece of my mind. You're as good a man as God has made, and you don’t know it. I'm not going to let you drift back to jail; d'you hear what I say? Another sentence would kill you. Here's all the money I've got; I don’t need it any | In four hours’ time you be round the station entry; when I've explai things to my wife, I'll come back and fetch you. You're going to live With we until you find work. D’you hear Without giving Billy time to thank him, he hurried away. The trolleys didn't run in Seaford on Sundays, so he had to walk. He remem- bered with a smile that this delay was his own doing, for, years ago, when he was a prominent citizen, he had helped jo put through the Sunday anti-traffic aw. He came at last on the outskirts of the town, within sight of a house, surround- ed by woodlands, standing on a hill Even at that distance he watched to see | a face at the windows. When he reach- {ed the entrance into the grounds he | could no longer restrain himself; doub- 'ling up his arms, he broke into a run. He arrived at the front door panting, tug- i ged at the bell. The sound of it echoed | faintly through the house. He was a lit- ' tle disappointed in Lucy; he had notified | her a week that this was to be the | day of days. t she had not met him ; at the station was quite in order, for he : had begged her not to do so; but she | might have sent a carriage—and even { now she kept him waiting. He grew im- patient and rang again. Still no one | answered. He took to battering the pan- els of the door with his feet and hands. Presently he heard a movement in an | upper room. A window was pushed open land a shrill voice exclaimed: “Good Don’t you know its Sunday? : Lord! | Making such a row and disturbin’ folks’ you | rest!" He stepped back from under the ve- speak u “What is it that Ee "I want to get into my own house,” he sharply. “And who the devil are sneered. is Mrs. Knightly’s; and she's a 20 the COT I ies one gp j guess | mow who owns this house. I'm eft in charge.” She had withdrawn her head and was LE RE own, Walp ' wi sta - 'm Mr. Kn tly, and I fo En, my wife's She leaned out again with a new inter- re Mr. ightly, are no i surveying you?” she draw top to toe. “Well, I never! [I've heered abogt you Got anything 4 prove it?" es. can describe every- thing that’s in that room.” you : yer you can't; everything that was in this room has been moved out.” After much palaver and anger and The woman laughed brutally. “Bet | it? moved from the clamor and brutality of his last two years of experience. In a already tired of | been the same—an interminable stretch | storm of uncontrollable passion, he cov- ered up his eyes with his hands; the sud- den kindness of the world was to. poig- | pleasant little manufacturing town, and | nant—more than he could endure. At the foot of the hill he met a boy, and stopped him to inquire where the lady lived who had recently come to the valley. The boy scratched his head, re- peaking the words; then he brightened up and added, “It's Mrs. Knightly you'll be meaning, I guess—she’s got a baby.” At this point he seemed to take more notice of his questioner and began to be less friendly. “Mrs. Knightly is a great lady,” he said; “she keeps a rig and a girl to push her go-cart. What d'you want with her anyway?" Having convinced the boy that his busi- ness was important in spite of his soiled appearance, he was directed to go straight down the main street, past the church, till he came to a double-fronted house with a white gate and green veranda. He went forward hastily until he reached the white gate; then for the first time he hesitated. A doubt had shoul: dered its way forward from the back to his mind—what if she did not want him? What if she should be shocked at his for- ward chan for her. ustering his energies, he drag- ged himself up the path. : The door was answered promptly by a tidy maid, dressed in black, wearing a cap and apron. as Mrs. Knightly at home? Yes, but ' ed. ? But his heart cried out. They gazed on each other, embarrassed, as though they had been strangers. “Why was it that you left?” he asked at length. She buried her face in her hands, and her body was shaken with sobbing. Catching her by the wrists, he held her fast, so that she had to look up. "Come now,” he muttered, "speak out. *Vhy was and ceased it Shat ycu left? That at least you shall tell me.” She panted, fighting to release herself. "Because—because of baby,” she gasped. He let her go and his face fell vacant. Staggering away from her, he sank into the chair. She watched him with min- gled pity and repulsion. “So that was the reason!” he whispered, gnawing at his hands and nodding his head, "because of baby." Slowly the intelligence came back to his eyes and he glanced up at her. “But why because of baby?" he faltered, and it was like a little child asking questions, “Lucy. I've never seen her—and I wouldn't hurt her.” There was silence for a minute. The woman was steadying hers:If that she might tell the truth at last. “While we were only two in the world I could bear it,” she said; “and if the baby had been a boy, it wouldn't have mattered so much. A boy can fight for himself and is judged by his own worth; no one will avoid a boy because of his father. But somehow when the baby was a girl it seemed dif- ferent. A giri can't fight. She isn't big and rough. She's so dependent on her men. And if one of her men is the cause of her insults— You know what I mean, Baden? It isn’t that I'm cruel. I'm just saying what must be said. Who would love or marry a girl if he knew that her father had been—had been where you have just come from?” “But you know that I was innozent?” “Oh yes, I know; but what about the world? You can't make the world be- lieve that. You've served a two years’ sentence, and the world will never forget it” “Then I'm not only to be legally pun- ished, but damned eternally for a deed which you know I have not done? Is that it?” “Oh, Baden, I'm so sorry, but I can’t help it. 1 could have been brave and would have stood by you, if baby hadn't come. I'm a coward, I know; and yet it isn't for myself—it's ior her. can't bear to think of what she would have to suffer if we lived together.” : He staggered to his feet and had his hand on the door-knob, when a thought stayed him. His lips twitched and a iast spurt of anger blazed into his eyes as he turned upon her. “And why the devil didn't you tell me all this before?” he blurted out. “You must have known a good twelve months ago that you intend- ed to desert me. What kind of an Iscariot are you, to sit down and write me long loving letters—all pretence—with this hidden in your heart? If I'd known a year ago, I might have got used to your cant and been able to bear it.” She crouched at his feet, for she fear- ed murder; she even brought herself to kiss his hands. He drew them away from her so roughly that her lips spurted blood. “Good God!" he sneered, “what kind of a creature do you thinkI am? You needn't flatter me. D’vou suppose I'd stoop to kill you?” Then he saw the | blood, and his fury died out. He bent | toward her till their faces nearly touch- just at present she was busy, putting baby ! to bed; could he leave any m e, or! would he call again later? He couldn't! | war : Well, then, he had better step inside and | caught her in his arms, and did not notice wait. What was his name? He wouldn't | how she shrank. Holding her tightly to give it! Then he could take a seat in the his breast, he said: “Oh, Lucy, tell me, | until Mrs. Knightly was ready. | why did you write those letters? It was Left to himself, he gazed stealthily ' cruel.” round and pushed open a door to his! “Because I was afraid to tell you.” right; he wished in his first meeting with | “So you went away instead?” Lag to be quite private. ! Her lips moved, and the word they e room which he entered was evi- | framed was “Yes.” dently her favorite. He ized the | “Poor little woman,” he murmured; furniture; she must have brought it with | “poor little woman!” Then he kissed her her. A bowl of tulips stood on the table; on the mouth and left. . she had always been fond of flowers, he. When he got back to Seaford it was remembered. A book lay beside the bowl. ' nearing twelve. The houses were in He picked it up, curious to see what she | darkness and the saloons all shut. The her lips, "did I do that?” had been reading. It was a volume of | air had grown cooler and it had com- | Tennyson; the page was open at Enoch | menced to drizzle. He limped painfuily; Arden. One passage had been under- | his feet were badly swollen and he felt lined: “But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again: ‘If I might look on her sweet face again, And kiow hat she were happy.” So the ought Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth.” He smiled—so she had been thinking about him! In replacing the book his eye caught sight of a little garment thrown across arm of a chair. She had been at work upon it; it was almost warm from her grasp. The needle, full of thread, had been carefully run into the stuff. He went upon his knees beside it, and kissed it reverently; it was the first belonging of his child he had ever touched A footstep sounded on the stair; it ap- | He stood | asked. proached slowly, reluctantly. He his desire 3p. He tof ¢ unnerved him and made him weak. Stretching out for support, he covered gropingly with his hands the baby garment which lay across the chair. A mist rose before his eyes, and with it came a sudden fear; yiiatf hie should go Blind Lefors he saw The door opened and his wife entered. He waited fob hie 1oispeas but she said sometimes he halted, overcome by dizzi ness, clutching at whatever was nearest. Once, when he had halted, he caught a policeman eying him suspiciously; straigh- tening himself up, he tottered He had just one . and that was to find Billy; ! understand. At the entry to across him. His shoulders were huddled, his clothes drenched; he was beating his hands together to keep up circulation. It required but one glance to tell that this was not the Billy he had left. tion. “Got any money?” was his first ques- kep’ me waitin’ mor'an four hours. Had | nothink ter do, sho I got drunk.” Noticing the change in Knightly, he sobered up. “Wor's the matter?” he “Wouldn't sh’ave yer? Poor old pal! Wor's we goin’ ter do nex’!” In loo at him Knightly felt nothing ity; but he was actually pitying himself. “Sothat’s what they'll force me to come to!” was the thought which kept running through his head. Then, answer- ing the old man’s question as to what they were going to no next, “Get back," he said, shortly. Billy stared in amazement. “Sho Jorye foun’ that out a'ready, have yer?” he tly id him no attention. He Knightly paid was intent on a for obtaining rest. When he had com his plan, he outlined it to Billy, which they engaged versation, so hoarsely that it was difficult to make out what he said. Theclerk bent “Lucy,” he whispered, pointing at She did not answer him, for her throat arched with terror of death. He worn out. He loitered in his steps and | ° | was established, “for the benefit of the on. desire in the world, | he would | the station he stumbled 4, | running post or two, to run night and | “Shpent all yer gave me. Yer've| Neighboring towns, such as Lincoln | and | highroads, such as those to Chester, | head, Exeter, and Plymouth. So far no i in order that | Fis: | his Parliament, one main Sdvantage ing drunkenly for the key. He had found it and was about to turn it, when a club on his neck. The club was raised and again descended; then follow- ed a shower of blows, sickening in their brutality. The old ex-convict was beaten down till, desisting from struggle, his body hung limply through the door frame to stir. Knightly released the clerk; he had ac- complished his purpose. Making no ef- fort to escape, he seated himself quietly on the nearest bench. “That's done the trick,” he muttered, gloomily, talking to himself. “We'll get back now. They'll give us seven years at least for that.” But in the case of Billy he was mis- taken, for Billy was dead. The trial was soon over. By his sec- ond offence Baden Knightly had declared himself to be a dangerous criminal and had become an old hand. Within six weeks they had sent him back to prison, with a ten years’ sentence to work out. -—By C. W. Dawson, in Harper's Weekly. The Age of the Earth. An estimate based on a comparison of the quantity of saits in sea water with the uantity continuously supplied by the in- ow, shows that nearly a hundred million years passed before the oceans attained their present condition. According to this estimate, dating from the time when the waters of the great deep condensed to form oceans, the minimum age of the earth is one hundred million years. Sir Archibald Geikie calculates the age of the earth by the time occupied in the forming of the stratified or sedimentary layers of the terrestrial crust. Judging the formations of the remote past by rela- tively recent formations, he declares that a period of between thirty centuries and two hundred centuries must have passed during the formation of every depth of a metre; the time having varied according to the composition of the strata. Admit- ting that estimate, if the total thickness of all the strata is 30,000 metres, as itis supposed to be, between ninety million | and six hundred million years were con- sumed in the course of the earth's stra. tification. But science gives another way to esti- mate the age of the earth. On the earth's surface there is a very sensible compensa- tion between the heat that the sun sends us and the heat that the terrestrial crust loses by radiation from its surface toward cold and infinite space. While the crust is losing by radiation, the centre of the earth is slowly but incessantly cooling, and, as it cools, gradually contracting. The contraction causes the centre to re- cede or slip away from the surface of the crust, and the crust, no longer supported by the centre, sinks here and there, form- ing folds similar to the wrinkles on a withered apple. Those folds or wrinkles are the mountain chains. The total super- , ficies of the mountain chains constitutes ' about 13 per cent. of the total surface of the globe. This fact leads to the infer- ence that the radius of the earth has shrunk a little less than one-hundredth of its primitive length. e contraction of the earth's centre corresponds to a cooling of about three hundred degrees. According to this calculation, at least “one hundred millions of years, and at . most two thousand millions of years,must | ' have passed since the water condensed on the surface of the solid crust. The Origin of the Postoffise. imode in which things change while | names remain. It was originally the of- fice that arranged the posts or roads at | places where, on the great roads of Eng- and, relays of horses and men could be | obtained for the rapid forwarding of gov- ' ernment dispatches. There was a chief | postmaster of England many years before | any system of conveyance of private let- | ters by the crown was established. Such letters were conveyed either by couriers, who used the same horses throughout | their whole journey, or by relays of hors- ! es maintained by private individuals— | that is, by private post. The scheme of the nce of the pub- ! lic by means of crown messengers - natsd in connection with foreign A postoffice for letters to foreign parts English merchants,” in the reign of James I, but the extension of the system to in- land letters was left to the succeeding reign. Charles I, by a proclamation is- el in 1635, may be Sai © have ound. the present postoffice. By this procla- mation he commanded his “Postmaster of England for foreign parts to settle a day between Edinburgh and London, to thither and come back again in six ys, and to take with them all such let- The postoffice is an example of the TORPEDOES AND “FUSES” AS SIGNALS IN RAILROAD TRAF- FIC. “Pop, pop,” or perhaps a single sharp and distinct, like that of a giant firecracker, heard not only on the Fourth of July, but on every day in the year, ys included—what did it mean? And on almost any night, as I look out of my window, I see the edge of the wood or the fields lighted up by red or yellow fire- works. Why this strange illumination? As all these queer happenings took place on the railroad, a few rods from my house, | made inquiries of the railway of- ficials, and here are some interesting facts about the use of these curious “fireworks.” General intendent B. R. Pollock, of the New York, New Haven and Hart- ford railroad, explained as follows: “Our rules provide for the use of deto- nators (commonly known as torpedoes) as audible signals, and of ‘fusees’ as visi- ble signals. “These torpedoes are attached to the top of the rail on the engineer's side of the track by two small flexible metal straps, which are easily bent around the ball of the rail, and hold the torpedoes se- curely in place until exploded by the first train passing over this track. “The explosion of one torpedo is a sig- nal to stop; the explosion of two, not more than two hundred feet apart, is a signal to reduce speed and look out for a stop signal. “The fuses are of similar construction to the well-known Roman candle used for firework celebration, except that they burn a steady flame without explosions. A sharp iron spike at the bottom end will usually stick in the ground or in the cross-tie when thrown from the rear of a train, and holds the fusee in an upright position, where it is more plainly visible. “A fusee must be lighted left by the flagman whenever a train is runni on the “time” of another train, or behi its own time, and under circumstances which call for such protection. “A fusee on or near the track, burning red, must not be passed. When burning yellow the train may proceed with cau- tion when the way is seen and known to be clear. Standard fusees burn red for three minutes and yellow for seven min- utes, and can be seen for quite a dis- tance. You will gather from the above expla- nations that the red glare of a flaming - fusee on or near the track warns the ap- roaching engine that a preceding train pr passed over his track less than three minutes ahead of him, and under no cir- cumstances must he pass this signal while burning red. When the flame turns to yellow he may proceed with caution, only as the way is seen and known to be clear, keeping in mind that when the fusee changed from red to yellow, he was ex- actly three minutes behind a preceding train which may have stopped within a short distance, or may be proceeding at | an unusually slow rate of speed.” Superintendent Woodward,of the Shore Line Division, another branch of the same | railroad, gives this additional detail re- garding torpedoes: “When a train stops upon the main ' line and requires protection against a fol- lowing train, the flagman goes back a ' a specified distance and places one torpe- do. He then continues 2 farther distance . back, placing two torpedoes. As soon as ‘ the train he is protecting is ready to ‘start, the engineer blows a specified | whistle signal, which is a notice to the “", ” | flagman to return to his train. On the way back he picks up the ame torpedo, leaving two on the rail to warn the engi- neer of an approzching train that another trainis a short distance ahead, and to give the flagman time to run back and get aboard his own train.” Of the use of fireworks as signals in the navy, P. M. Watt, cuief of the bureau of construction and repair of the Navy Department, Washington, D. C.,, makes the following statement: “All modern ships are fitted with elec- tric signals, and the use of such is general in the naval service. In the case of small vessels having no electric installation, and also for use in case of the failure of the electric signals, the navy has a system of colored stars in connection with rockets for the purpose of Signaling “These are in no sense the ordinary commercial fireworks, but are manufac- tured by the service for naval use ex- clusively. “There are no photographs of this sys- tem of signals for Sissrioution The ap- paratus consists of a specially designed pistol from which are fired cartridges containing the colored stars that are used in the service code.”—July St. Nicholas. Why Fish Have White Bellies. There is no phenomenon of nature that | ters as shall be directed to any post town | on or near that road.” ull, were to be linked on to this i i 1 | main route, and posts on similar principles were to be established on im : t oly- monopoly was claimed, but two years | afterward a second proclamation forbade the carriage those of the king's post- | master-general, and thus the present sys- tem was inaugurated. The monopoly thus claimed, though no La a wer, to money in , was adopted by Cromwell and i i i | 1 in their eyes being that the carriage of cor- respondence the government would t an e- De atl Sno monwealth The path of motherhood is a thorny one to many women. They have barely vitality enough for themselves, and the claims of another life on the mother’s strength reduces them to a pitiable con- dition of weakness and misery. - tive mothers will find in Dr. Pierce’s Fa- vorite Prescription a “God-serd to wom- en.” To quote the closing a of a letter from Mrs. T. A. Ragan, of Mor- Watauga Co., N. C.: “I cannot tell half that Dr. Pierce's medicine has done for me. Iam well and hearty, can Sleep 4 hn avorite ip- for it— render childbirth i i moment Knightly, peeri through the of him, he called to | the broken | out all She did not reply; but when he threat- | ened to seize her by the hands, she nod-! ded dumbly. i FE by the arm, was bawling | the glass, then | shoulder, and at last his hand, grop- iz A praise of ' it. 1 think it is worth its weight in gold. for my health.” Thousands of other women support the | testimony of Mrs. Ragan. ——*“My dear, I've just been to a fortune- teller, who has told me where I shall find my future husband.” “Gracious me! Do give me her address, my dear. Perhaps she could tell me a my present one is.” escapes the investigating eye of science. Abroad have been experimenting with flounders in order to determine whether the whiteness of the under sides of those fish is due to the exclusion of light, and the presence of color on their | upper sides to exposure to light. ish have been kept in a glass tank having a mirror placed beneath, so as to reflect light upon their under sides. One of these prisoners survived for three years under conditions so strangely dif- ferent from its ordinary habits of life, and it exhibited the development of spots or Pigments on its lower surface. experimenters have concluded that it is exposure to light that causes the col- oration of the parts of the bodies, not only of flou but of other fish, and, conv ,that it is to the comparative absence of light that the whiteness of the under side is due. They extend the same principle to explain the colorless condi- tion of the skins of many animals that pass all their lives in caves. There are I thank God for my life and Dr. Pierce | hody, —*“It's positively disgusting!" “What is?” “The way people crowd to the theater to see an improper play. Just think! They've sold out the house tor three weeks in advance!” “How do you know?" “l tried to purchase tickets and couldn't.”
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers