Demorratic; atcha
30, 1914.
Bellefonte, Pa., January
‘THANK GOD FOR THE POSTMAN.
He trudges along through the snow and the sleet,
With pack that is heavy to bear;
“The slush of the roadway has hampered his feet
And the whiteness has powdered his hair.
But he stapds at the gate with a smile on his face
And his whistle is cheery and gay:
Oh, people who live in a far-away place,
“Thank God for the postman today!
He carries a massage that comes from the heart
Of a boy who has gone from his home,
And sometimes a letter to make the tears start
From a soul that is sad and alone.
The news of a world that is far from our sight
Is stored in his magical pack,
And he mingles the sorrow with words of delight,
For he carries a world on his back.
Through city and country, through byway and
street
He comes to the home great and small;
And we wait for his coming; he brings such a
treat,
A message of cheer to us all,
And so in this season of harvest and joy,
When the crops have been stored safe away,
‘We raise to the heavens our humblest prayer,
“Thank God for the postman today!”
By Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.
FREMWELL’S LEADING
WOMAN.
[Concluded from last week.]
She laughed. “Now if you had said
‘young men’ I should feel the force of
your argumennt, for after seven p. m.
young men all over New York are buy-
ing four, perhaps six, American Beauty
roses—or if they are extravagant, a doz-
en, for some girl they want to please;
but don’t tell me that hundreds of young
ladies are buying two dozen American
Beauties at eight p. m. unless it is some
great occasion like this.”
“Then,” I said, “she ought to be at the
theatre with her roses.”
“We’ll send an usher to know if seat
C-112 is still unoccupied.”
“If it is empty?”
A shadow passed over Margaret's face.
“Then it is an accident—or she’s gone
home!”
“Why should she go home?”
Margaret pondered a moment. “Of
course, I can only give you feminine rea-
sons. She might go home to make what's
known in bridge as a reentry—a return
to the theatre in some sort of triumph.
Mayby she remembered that she had
scarlet ribbon enough at home to tie up
those flowers without adding two dollars
to the cost of the two dozen roses.”
“But would she miss the play for
that?”
“Of course she has seen it dozens of
times at rehearsals—but I'm inclined to
think she didn’t go home.”’
When we found that Miss Bennett's
sister had not returned to the theatre I
was for calling up the hospitals at once
but Margaret seemed unwilling. An
entr’acte was on, the first act being just
over, and we lingered a moment to hear
the comments of those who came out
into the lobby. From them we gathered
that Alice Bennett was proving a disap-
pointment.
“You see she has a divided mind, poor
dear,” Margaret mumured. “We must
find that missing sister during the next
act.”
Telephoning the apartment we learned
that Miss Jean had not gone there.
“Where, then, did she take her roses?”
I demanded of Margaret.
PETER
She stood ‘for a moment lost in
thought.
“She meant them for Alice. If she did
not return to the theatre it was because
she encountered some-one of even more
interest to her than her sister.”
“Could it have been a sweetheart?” I
ventured.
“A sweetheart need not keep her from
the theatre.”
“Who then?”
“I find it difficult to conjecture.”
We went out again on Broadway, look-
ed up and down, turned south aimlessly.
Alice Bennett had described her sister,
but a verbal description is like a sign-
post. It may point the way to a desti-
nation, but it does not overcome the
difficulties of the road. I saw that Mar-
garet, looking anxiously into the faces of
the young women who passed her, was
bewildered and at a loss what to do next.
Suddenly I saw her dart from my side
toward a diminutive messenger boy who
was sauntering along with the inimitable
leisureliness of his kind, a large American
Beauty rose firmly held in his teeth, his
freckled nose buried in its petals. As I
caught up to Margaret I heard her say:
“Please tell me where you found your
rose.”
He regarded us doubtfully. I obtained
his confidence by slipping a quarter into
his palm.
“On Twenty-sixth street. A young
lady, she dropped it. She was walkin’
and talkin’ very fast, so she didn’t
notice.”
“Was she with a man or woman?”
Margaret questioned.
“With a man. She seemed tryin’ to
take him somewhere—and he wasn’t
payin’ no attention. He acted like he
didn’t hear her.”
“Did she have many roses—like this?”
Margaret questioned, her voice not quite
steady.
“An armful of ’em. That's why I
didn’t think it no harm to take this one.”
“Which direction were they going—the
man and the woman?”
“Toward the East River.”
“Call a taxicab,” Margaret said to me.
“No, not a taxicab, a hansom. We can
see better from a hansom. Tell the
driver to turn into Twenty-sixth street
and then to go very slowly east.”
Luckily a hansom was within call. We
were soon in Twenty-sixth street, Mar-
garet leaning over the apron of the
hansom and looking anxiously first at
one sidewalk, then the other. We had
crossed First avenue and were in sight
of the dark mass of the Bellevue hospital
buildings when she suddenly exclaimed:
“There they are!”
Looking in the direction she indicated
I saw, standing beneath a lamp-post on a
street corner, a middle-aged man of dig-
nified and gentle appearance and a young
woman in an evening cloak, bare-headed,
with her arms full of red roses, who an-
swered to the description supplied by
Alice Bennett of her sister. She seemed
in great agitation. Margaret directed
the driver to draw up to the sidewalk
and to wait. She was out of the hansom
before ‘it had fairly stopped. ‘
As she drew near the girl she said in a
low, clear voice: x :
“Jean Bennett.”
At the sound of her name Jean turned
in astonishment but laid a detaining '
hand on the man’s arm, as if she feared .
he would escape. !
“I am a friend of your sister,” Mar- |
garet explained, “and I've been searching |
for you because your absence from the
Eagle Theatre is endangering the success
of the play. Your sister is very much
agitated over your leaving in this mys- !
terious way. You must come back at
once before the third act is on.” i
The girl began to tremble. She look- |
ed piteously at the figure beside her, who |
stood with a blank, patient expression, as |
if awaiting the opportunity to slip away. |
“This is my father,” she said. “I left |
the theatre to buy roses for Alice at the!
last minute and as I came out of the!
florist’s I found myself face to face with
him, He disappeared five years ago sud-
denly—without explanation. He had al-
ways been such a loving father that we
thought of only two things that could ac-
count for his disappearance, either he
had been killed or he had forgotten who
he was, as people do sometimes. He
doesn’t know me—even now!”
Her voice ended in a sob which seem-
ed to distress her companion, for he look-
ed appealingly at us at the same time
speaking in one of the strangest voices I
have ever heard, as faint and far-off as if
it issued from the lips of a specter in
some fading dream.
“This young lady seems to know me. I
do not know her. I am very sorry.”
“You see I was only thirteen when he
went away,” Jean explained. “When I
say ‘Jean’ he thinks of a little girl with
curls.”
“What is your name?” Margaret ques-
tioned.
He looked troubled, shook his head, re-
mained silent.
“Isn’t it—Charles Bennett?” his daugh-
ter said.
“Charles Bennett—Charles Bennett,”
he repeated; but again shook his head
as if in doubt.
“Will you come with us?” Margaret
said in a soft, entreating voice. “We are
friends of yours.”
“Why, yes, I will come with you,” he
said, at the same time glancing down at
his clothes, which were weatherworn, as
if he doubted whether he was fitly garbed
for her society.
I sent the driver to pick up a taxicab.
Jean was now clinging to Margaret, her
face pale with conflicting emotions.
“It was so good of you to come out to
find me. Poor Alice always believed that
it was a case of loss of identity with
Father—and I suppose she feared some-
thing of the kind had happened to me.
Do you think he will ever know us?” she
added in an imploring voice.
“Some word, some phrase may sudden-
ly bring him back,” Margaret replied.
“These cases where the nerve centers
are affected are very strange. I should
think that the sight of your sister acting
might restore to him the sense of his
identity. She was on the stage at the
time when he disappeared?”
“Oh, yes! and he was so proud of her!
She’ll be overjoyed.”
“Is it best to do more than let her know
you're back—until after the last cur-
tain?”
Jean reflected.
right.”
While this conversation was going on,
Charles Bennett, nameless to himself, a
victim of some obscure visitation, the
dupe of nerves which had perhaps en-
dowed his daughter with her singular
genius, this man unrelated even to the
vast environment of the city about him,
stood watching us with the same patient,
frustrated look. He let us put him in
the taxicab, sinking silently into his place
—with no interrogation. Jean, watching
him with an expression of mingled an-
guish and joy, seemed racking her brain
for some signal of recall to the blinded
memory. Suddenly she leaned over to
Margaret and said in a low voice:
“Alice sings a song in the third act.
Will you go behind the scenes and ask
Peter Fremwell to let Alice substitute a
song called ‘Blue Butterflies’ for the one
she uses? The butterfly song was a fa-
vorite of Father's. She needn’t be told
why—but you can explain to Mr. Frem--
well.”
At the theatre, at Margaret’s sugges-
tion I sent in for the physician who had
attended Alice and as quickly as possible
we explained the situation to him. For-
tunately, the friend who occupied the
seat next to him had been called away,
and Doctor Fleming promised to take
Charles Bennett to his seat and to watch
him closely during the remainder of the
play. Meanwhile Margaret saw Frem-
well and told him the reasons for our
request, Alice having already been in-
formed that her sister was in the theatre.
He went himself to Alice to authorize the
change, Margaret accompanying him.
She said she never saw a human being
so vivified as Alice Bennett after she had
learned of her sister’s return, Margaret
having given as the cause of Jean's
absence only her desire to buy flowers
for the occasion.
“Of course, it’s Jean who wants me to
to sing ‘Blue Butterflies’,” she said gayly.
Jonze very kind tolet me, Mr. Frem-
well.”
“I hope you will reward me in the third
act,” he said grimly. “So far you are a
disappointment, Alice Bennett.”
When the curtain went up we were all
in our places. It was a pity that one of
the finest pieces of acting Alice Bennett
ever did was wasted on Margaret, on
Jean Bennett, on an innocent physician
involved in our little drama, and on my-
self. We didn’t watch the play. We
could'nt! We only watched the poor, pa-
tient creature who sat dazed and wonder-
ing in his chair by Doctor Fleming's side,
his blue eyes following the drama, un-
lighted by any recognition of the daugh-
ter who played in it. The time came at
last for the song. I transcribed it after-
ward, and here it is:
“Perhaps you are
Blue butterflies that on faint wings
Float where the azure myrtles creep,
Out of what dream-land came you forth,
Return you to what sleep?
Perchance you flew from fairy-realms,
Where the lost princess scans the skies
For tidings of her Love, until
At dawn the old moon dies.
Perchance your souls will change to flow-
ers.
In sunny glades or shaded spots,
Where lovers bend with linked hands
To pluck forget-me-nots.
Alice sang through the first verse be-
fore the melody seemed to reach the
numbed ears of Charles Bennett, but I
observed an intense stillness in his atti-
tude. Then gradually over his worn
features spread a light that I can com-
pare to nothing but to the dawn coming,
as it does in the South, with a kind of
divine swiftness. Uttering a muffled cry,
he half rose.
“Alice!”
His voice reached only the people just
about him, and instantly the physician
had pulled him gently down.
“Wait until the play is over, Mr. Ben-
nett,” he said.
Afterward Alice sent for us. We found
her literally in the, arms of her family,
while Fremwell the Hun hovered in the
background, waiting for a word with
her—Ilooying meek for a Hun. It proved
several months later to be the word
which presages a wedding.
The next day I mailed Margaret a clip-
ping from a review of “Count Your
Change,” a glowing eulogy written by a
man usually dejected over plays.
“Fremwell for once was beaten at his
own game. His leading woman, by her
performance in the third act, saved
‘Count Your Change’.”
Underneath I wrote in comment:
“But the leading woman, back of the
leading woman—what praise hath she?”
Margaret's reply was characteristic:
“I had the good fortune once to know
what tricks tired nerves can play one !
That seems to me the only use of pass-
ing through uncomfortable experiences—
to help the undergraduate!”—By Anna
McClure Sholl, in the Woman's Home
Companion.
FROM INDIA.
By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
Country. Violets in Wintertime. A Trip to
Allahabad and a Describtion of that City.
JuANs1, DECEMBER 16th, 1912. |
Dear Home Folk:
The festival season of these Moham-
medan folk is surely demanding much at-
tention; when I go out and come any-
where near the native city or huts, I see |
brilliant colored tissue paper being put |
1
over a square frame, which when finish-
ed is to represent a tomb, and the drums
are being beaten almost constantly, so
that when one wakens up late at night
and all is silent, you are surprised and
wonder what has happened. This morn-
ing about three o’clock I was aroused by
a most unearthly howling or crying; at
first I just couldn’t tell which, when after
getting fully awake I again heard this
long, lonely crying, I realized it was some
jackals in the compound near the piaz-
za, and from the racket they were mak-
ing they must have been tearing some
poor thing to shreds. You can’t imagine
what a lonely, wierd sound it seemed,
everything else was so silent; I wished
for the drums to start their melodious
racket, just to drive the “goblins” away.
I will leave for Allababac on Tuesday,
going from there to Benares, then back
by way of Lucknow and Compore, intend-
ing to be gone at least ten days, and will
have my Christmas day away from Jhansi.
As I look out across the gardenI am
trying to bring before my eyes your
scenery, but it is hard. Here the color-
ing is just a trifle yellow, mixed with the
green and the temperature during the
sunshine is about as near perfect as one
could want; it is after the sun goes down
that one realizes how truly cold itis. I
have just picked six little pale violets
that are trying their best to make one
think it is spring instead of dead winter.
I am disturbed by the noise of the leaves
that have fallen; peculiarly they have
not changed color but are simply dried
green things being whisked over a yel-
low, grassless earth by a mad wind, and
as the most of them are large and heavy,
resembling the leaves of a rubber plant,
you are always thinking that some snake
or other undesirable live thing is about
to make your acquaintance. The hedge
that has been so beautiful is fast becom-
ing merely a long line of bare sticks. It
seems so strange that it should be so for
in our world vegetation would just have
to grow under this hot sun.
ALLAHABAD, December 19th.—I left
Jhansi Tuesday night at five o’clock and
I laughed at my traveling kit. I had a
thin cotton mattress and a pair of gray
blankets wrapped in a piece of burlap,
on top of this a pillow in a blue case,
strapped together with a shawl strap;
these things were for the train. In my
“bisler” (hold-all) I had some sheets,
towels and pillow cases, a comfort, and
another blanket, my long coat, a basket
dress suit case, a black bag with my hat
in it, completed the outfit. Could you
imagine such a start to go to Philadel-
phia for ten days.
The journey to Mainkpur took until
1.15 a. m. (108) miles, I then changed
cars and had a wait of two hours. It
was picturesque; I was the only Euro-
pean woman, there were two white men,
but of the other fifty waiting, from the
squatting postures, the “sauris,” the ab-
solute indifference as to passing events,
every drop of blood in their bodies was
purely Indian. The platform was un-
paved and simply covered with a yellow
sandy gravel, and it was in this, under a
shed roof we waited.
The train was late and we were glad
when it finally came along. The coolie
put my things into a compartment and I
tumbled in after them and was soon fast
asleep and slept so soundly that when
the train finally stopped and they told me
it was Allahabad, I doubted their word.
I got out, gave up my ticket, and after
seeing that the coolie had my packages
I started down the platform to find some
friends. I got to the mission without
any trouble and found one of the wom-
en, a most charming girl, coming to see
me. I have been seeing Allahabad, took
a row on the Junna to where the Ganges
and a supposed underground river meet,
thus forming a triangle, where there
were many natives bathing, and flowers
and pretty leaves floated past us down
the stream.
There is a large Presbyterian college
here and their bungalows and college
front on this beautiful wide stream.
There are several railroads that have
bridges across the Ganges and Junna at
this point and one is a mile long and as
we sat in the boat and watched the trains |
crossing these long bridges, then looked
down and saw the Indians bathing in
these waters, superstitiously believing
that thus all diseases will be healed and
! that they will be blessed by the Gods of
the three rivers, I could not help but
draw a comparison between the East and
the West. This beautiful bridge was the
result of American engineering and 6
think even some of the steel construc-
tion was made in America. As we came
: back we saw some “Tahers,” one who
i had his face and body entirely smeared
| with yellow stuff and a yellow (orange
| colored) blanket wrapped about him, sit-
| ting contemplatively watching one of his
| countrymen fixing his bed of spikes, for
{it was minus one leg. The spikes were
i four or five inch iron affairs, one inch
| broad and one-eighth of an inch thick,
| which ended ina flat, fairly sharp end,
i very closely placed and all of an even
!length. It was truly a formidable look-
ing affair and I was sorry not to see him
, on his bed.
| We had a most delightful drive home.
Allahabad has very beautiful trees, and
being the capital of the United Provinces
and having several colleges here, there
{ are any number of beautiful houses, both
| belonging to the Europeans and those
of the wealthy Parsee and Indians.
We got back just in time for breakfast
and then came along an Indian man, Mr.
Solebi, (a barrister) and he was very
nice; being a christian and educated in
England gives him beautiful manners.
Upon learning that I was a visitor he
suggested a drive in his motor-car, which
we accepted. We had a charming ride,
and were whisked down these beautiful
roads, as smooth as a floor, rushed past
beautiful bungalows of the Government,
flying along in true American style when
a long, straight road gave assurance that
no one was in the way, and I was shown
the beautiful part of Allahabad. In an
hour we returned blown almost to pieces.
As there are some really good old tombs
here that date back to the time the Taj
was built and they are surrounded by a
most beautiful garden, I must needs be
taken out there to have tea. It was all
very lovely and the architecture of these
tombs, their arrangement and decorations
were all so nearly like those seen at
Agra. That they are beautiful goes
without saying. We sat down on the
lower steps and spread our lunch on the
one above, at the side of this century old
Tomb. The big, black, gray-necked
crows came and talked about us; the lit-
tle ants, thinking our sweets better than
nice dead Hindus, swarmed over us and
the flies! horrors, I do wish India had a
“swat the fly” club.
(Continued next week.)
Pennsylvania Fires.
Since September 12, 1912, there has
been an average of nine hundred fires
per month.
Cities and towns throughout the State
are constantly purchasing new fire ap-
paratus. Why not spend a portion of the
amount for fire prevention. The an-
nual fire loss in the State amounts to
$25,000,000.00.
Shingle roofs are one of the most ex-
pensive causes of fires and cost the State
an enormous amount of money that
might be saved by using fire proof ma-
terial for roofing.
Defective flues at this time of year is
another destructive element. Prevent
"this by close inspection and correcting
defects.
Rubbish and trash allowed to accumu-
late cost the citizens of this State over
two million annually. This can be avoid-
ed and should be by carefulness.
Ba-cka-che.
It looks like Greek. But it is plain
English for backache. People who suffer
wiin backache and want to be cured,
write to Dr. Pierce, Buffalo, N. Y.
“I wrote you for advice February 4,
1896,” writes. Mrs. Loma Halstead, of
Claremcre, Cherokee, Nat. Ind. Ty. “I
was racking with pain from the back of
my head down to my heels. Had hem-
orrhage for weeks at a time, and was un-
able to sit up for ten minutes at a time.
You answered my letter, advised me to
use your valuble medicines, viz.: Dr.
Pierce’s Favorite Prescription, ‘Golden
Medical Discovery,” and ‘Pleasant Pel-
lets,” also gave adyice about injections,
baths and diet. To my surprise, in four
months from the time I began your treat-
ment I was a well woman and have not
had the backache since, and now I put
in sixteen hours a day, at hard work.”
Between Friends.
“Isn’t Percy Greener the most polite
man you ever knew? He'll go out of
his way any time to say sweet things
about people.”
“Yes, but 1 don’t believe he’s at all
sincere.”
“Of course he isn’t. Why, only yes-
terday he told me what a perfect fig-
ure you had.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer.
Satisfied His Curiosity.
An inquisitive young gentleman read
this advertisement in a local paper:
“Young man, some woman dearly loves
you. Would you know who she is?
Send postal order for 10 shillings to
Occult Diviner, address as below, and
learn who she is.” He sent the money
and received this answer: “Your
mother.”
The Tip Terror.
“Give me a penny, sir, for something
to eat.”
“But you've got sixpence in your
hand now. What's that for?”
“Oh, that’s to tip the waiter, sir.”—
London Globe.
WIRELESS WAVES.
Puzzling Problems With Which Scien-
tists Have to Contend.
What we don’t know about wireless
telegraphy is still by far the larger
part of that science. Practical efforts
to use this means of communication
are constantly hampered by difficulties
that cannot be overcome or only par-
tially overcome by clumsy makeshifts
because they are not understood.
For example, the characterization of
tie waves used in wireless telegraphy
as artificial is justified becduse the
ether is in a state of constant pulsa-
tion with waves of enormous length
about whose origin we know nothing
or next to nothing. Some of them are
due undoubtedly to lightning, but they
are continuously rolling in on antennae
properly tuued when there is no thun-
derstorm within thousands of miles.
It has Leen suggested that they are of
extra terrestrial origin, perhaps the
result of electrical disturbances in the
sun. Some ingenious speculators have
even attributed them to the Martians
or some other of our planetary oeigh-
bors.
But the fact is that we don't know
where they come from or how they are
generated. They manifest themselves
in the shape of troublesome noises in
the telephone receivers at wireless tel-
egraph stations. Another puzzling
question. perhaps of wore practical
importance to the wireless worker. is
the action of the weather on his trains
of waves. When these signals have
long distances to travel the weather
often plays havoc with them in ways
as yet not well understood. The dif-
ferent carrying capacity of the ether
in the daytime and at night is another
practical problem still awaiting defi-
nite solution.—New York Post.
FLYING BULLETS.
Going Very Fast, They Leave Air
Waves and Eddies Behind Them.
If a photograph of a speeding bullet
could be taken the print would proba-
bly show a space like a body of water !
marked by what looked like speeding |
water bugs, each leaving a ripple in |
its wake. Photographs of projectiles
have been snapped in time of peace, |
but it is doubtful if the camera ever
caught one as it sped on its mission of
death. A bullet speeding at the rate
of 3.000 feet a second, which is more
than 2.000 miles an hour, makes a
great disturbance in the atmosphere
and creates air waves. which, of
course, are invisible to the naked eye.
If you draw a stick through the wa-
ter it causes little eddies and waves to
trail behind it. The faster you draw
the stick the more waves and the
wider the angle will it leave. The
slower the stick is drawn the fewer
waves. Just so the bullet. If it is
traveling slowly no waves can be pho-
tographed. as apparently there are
none. It is only objects traveling at a
terrific speed that create any appreci-
able air waves.
Photographs of a bullet going at a |
rate of speed less than 1,200 feet a sec-
ond show no air waves at all. This is
an interesting scientific discovery. But
anything cutting through the air at a
greater rate than this disturbs the at-
mosphere to such great extent that air
waves are formed and can be photo- |
graphed.—New York Sun. .
A Wonderful Bird.
One day a wonderful bird tapped at
the window of Mrs. Nansen’s (wife of
the famous arctic explorer) home at
Christiania. Instantly the window was
opened, and in another moment she
covered the little messenger with
kisses and caresses. The carrier pigeon
had been away from the cottage thirty
long months, but it had not forgotten :
the way home. It brought a note from
Nansen, stating that all was going well
with bim and his expedition in the
polar region. Nansen had fastened a
message to the bird and turned it
loose. The frail courier darted out into
the blizzardly air. It flew like an ar
row over a thousand miles of frozen
waste and then sped forward over an-
other thousand miles of ocean and
plains and forests and one morning
entered the window of the waiting
mistress and delivered the message
which she had been awaiting so anx-
ously.
Caught It.
A man with a very red face met a
friend on the street and the following
conversation took place:
“You look warm.”
“Yes; been chasing a hat.”
“Did your hat blow off?”
“Jt wasn’t my hat! It belonged to
someone else—there was a pretty girl
under it.”
“Did you catch it?”
“I should say 1 did. My wife saw
me chasing it!”—New York American.
The Poets.
“Poets are born and not made.”
“But they ain’t born tagged,” opined
a rural philosopher. ‘*‘Their fathers
consequently hafter go ahead and ed-
dicate ’em, jest as if they was going
to be good fer something.”—Louisville
Courier-Journal.
Two or Three Hits.
“] suppose your new automobile
made a big hit when you went out in
it?”
“Yes, it did. Most of them are hos-
pital cases.”’—Chicago Record-Herald.
A Natural Choice.
Gabe—Bragley says he would rather
fight than eat. Steve—l don’t blame
him. 1 bad dinner at his house one
night.—Cincinnati Enquirer.
It is a brief period of life that is
granted us by nature, but the memory
of a well spent life never dies.—Cicero
© THE CURIOUS AXOLOTL.
it's a Regular Jekyll and Hyde Sort of
Reptile.
Persons of only ordinary powers of
observation know that tadpoles become
frogs. This process of transformation
is one of the most interesting of the
many curious things that go on about
us every day. The case of the tadpole
and frog is mentioned that the reader
may more easily understand a reptile
that is found in southern California
and Mexico.
There are several varieties of sala-
mandrine reptiles in North America, all
of them perfectly harmless. One in
particular lives in the desert regions of
the southwest. The Mexicans call it
the axolotl. It is perhaps the most
curious of all reptiles. - It is a light
gray or pure white translucent reptile
about seven inches in length. It lives
in lakes and ponds, breathes through
gills just back of the front legs, has a
long tail and caudal fins above and
below that extend its entire length and
four stout legs. with which it creeps
about the bottom of the pond.
In the region where these reptiles
live long continued droughts are com-
mon. Then the ponds and lakes dry
up. As the water falis evaporation be-
gins. Instinct warns the axolotl that
there will shortly be no water, and he
makes preparation for a terrestrial
life. The gills disappear, and he comes
to the surface for air just as a tadpole
does when he is about to become a
frog. As the water grows shallower
the axolotl loses a portion of his tail,
sheds his caudal fins. changes from
, white to brown with gray spots and
when the water is quite gone takes to
the sand hills and becomes a spotted
salamander.
The most remarkable thing about it
all is that when the water supply is
. not exhausted he lives his entire life
as an axolotl and never tries to become
a spotted salamander. By experimen-
tation an axolotl has been made to un-
dergo almost complete transformation
and then has been turned back into an
axolotl again.—Youth’s Companion.
| Their Annual Mad Rushes and Death
After Spawning.
The world’s greatest salmon runs are
to be found along the shores of the
north Pacific ocean. in the states of
Washington. Oregon and California,
the province of British Columbia and
Alaska, on the American side, and Si-
beria and Japan, on the Asiatic side.
So far, however, but few salmon have
. been canned on the Asiatic side.
To one who has never witnessed
these annual runs it is almost an im-
possibility to convey an adequate im-
pression of the countless numbers of
fish that swim in from the sea in the
late spring and summer, all imbued
. with the same desire—to gain suitable
grounds in the upper reaches of the
rivers, some of which are from 1,500 to
2,500 miles in length, where they may
perpetuate the species.
No obstacle appears too great to be
surmounted in this feverish rush.
Jumping falls, shooting rapids, dodg-
ing nets, bears, birds, mink, otter and
. other enemies, fighting with other
males, whom the near approach of the
| breeding season renders especially sav-
age—all these are taken as a matter of
course.
And yet one sometimes wonders if
the heroic struggle is worthily repaid,
for the moment of victory is also that
of death, as, sad to relate. these
valiant voyagers can breed but once
and then must die, their wasted bodies,
. which have received no nourishment
, since leaving salt water, becoming the
. prey of any prowling bear or carrion
bird which may chance upon them.
Why these fish should all die after
spawning still remains one of the great
; unsolved mysteries of the scientific
i world.—Wide World Magazine.
| i
Pocket Hunters.
There is no more interesting charac-
ter in California than that class of
prospector known as the *‘pocket hunt-
i er.”
In certain sections of the moun-
tains the rich gold deposits are con-
tained in small scattered pockets near
the surface. The pocket miners often
discover many rich deposits by tracing
the particles of gold in the soil to
their sources. As soon as a pocket is
gouged out and colors of gold are no
longer shown the place is abandoned.
In one pocket in Trinity county as
much as $45.000 was yielded in a few
feet.—Argonaut.
How He Uses His Hands.
Some curious facts about Mr. Town-
send, the art editor of London Punch,
are narrated. He is a curious instance
of ambidexterity. His drawings are
done with the left hand, but his letters
are written with the right hand. He
is left handed as a billiard player, but
right handed as a card dealer. And
when he plays cricket he is a left
handed bowler but a right handed
batsman.—London Answers.
Way to Marital Happiness.
“Marry a bright woman for success
and a pretty one for happiness.” ad-
vises a student of the problem. Also
ene who can cook for the benefit of the
digestion might be advisable, but the
pesky laws limit you to one.—Louis-
ville Courier-Journal.
Between Girls.
Marie—How are you going to reform
bim? Kate—By marrying him. Marie
~@Goodness! Does he require such he-
roic treatment as that?—Boston Tran-
script.
There is no tonic like that which
somes from doing things worth while.
j =Orison Swett Marden.