Bellefonte, Pa., February 5, 1915.
THE NEW MOTHER.
He wondered if her hair was brown like teach,
er’s,
Or whether, like his grandma’s, scant and
thin.
He wondered if the picture on the mantel
Would not be hurt to see her coming in,
He wondered if his curly dog would hear her
And race out, barking, where the pansies
grew;
And whether that a little boy should fear her
And stay inside, or go to meet her, too.
He wondered if the house would seem as empty
Or whether there would be no place to play.
He wondered if she wouldn’t try to keep him
‘When wander voices called him far away.
He wondered, toe, if daddy still would love
him;
If, when the stars had sparkled out the blue,
She’d sing a little, friendly song above him—
The ring of wheels—she kissed him and he
knew. .
—Abbie Craig, in Youth’s Companion.
ANNE RUTLEDGE.
This is a True Story of the Life Romance of
Abraham Lincoln.
By FRANCIS NEWTON THORPE.
“Yes, Sam, I'm goin’ to quit New Salem
for a while and go back to York State
for the old folks; I guess I've made
enough for a starter; you won’t be sorry
for your bargain.” He was a short, mus-
cular man of perhaps four-and-twenty—
John McNeil, late partner of Hill, whom
he was addressing.
Hill, dreaming of a monopoly of profits,
" now that the business had passed into
his own hands, took care rather to con-
ceal his real opinion of McNeil’s retire-
ment. :
“I reckon I shall pegalong, John, some-
how,” he said. “You've done mighty well
here in New Salem. When do you start?”
“Early in the mornin’, unless the old
hoss dies; but he won’t die. I've had
good luck so long I guess it’s come to
stay. This here bill you've given me is
a trifle ragged.” He was running his
fingers through the roll which Hill had
just handed him in final payment.
“Indiana shinplasters best be shed in
Indiana, I'm a-thinkin’; but I'll be there
soon.” He tucked the roll into his
trousers pocket. :
Hill had meanwhile lost himself in the
ledger, whose columns of figures now
registered his rank in the commercial
world as sole owner of the general stock
of merchandise lately the property of
Hill & McNeil, New Salem, Illinois.
McNeil stood in the doorway. The
rough board roof, through whose cracks
the rain was beating, projected slightly |
over the door. For a week the rain had
fallen in torrents; the shack of a store
was reeking with wet, and only by dex-
terous shifting of the stock had the
proprietors kept it from ruin. As Mec-
Neil paused on the threshold, shrinking
from the deluge without, streamlets drip-
ped upon him, and when he stepped forth
the slabs in front of the door settled into
the reeking soil. The roadway was a
ditch of black and yellow pools dancing
in the storm. He stopped short as he
thought of the mud, hub-deep between
him and the tavern, a little to the left
and the other side of the road. As far
as his eyes could follow the road he saw
only the dancing pools: the black, rank
earth of the prairie bottom could no
longer drink up the water.
The winding roadway entered New
Salem from the west, and soon after
leaving the open prairies made a bend,
almost at right angles, near Denton &
Orfutt’s store; thence it ran on, the mud
deepening, past Bill Clary’s grocery, and |
left hand began drumming on the edge
of his plate, and his right slipped in
search of the roll of bills Hill had paid
him. He felt well pleased with himseif.
“Annie,” he half whispered when she
placed his food before him, “I want to
talk over some matters with you after
supper.” His voice carried an aecent of
acquiescence; it was his way of speaking
to her. “I have sold the store.”
She stood by his chair a moment; he
imagined her thoughts. -
“Yes, Hill has done the square thing.
I want to talk it over with you, and—"
But the boarders were gathering about
the table and McNeil left his meaning
express itself in a motion of his hands
and a confidential nod of his head.
New Salem admired Hill & McNeil’s
great store; it stood in the local imagina-
tion as the embodiment of commerce and
prosperity. Annie Rutledge shared the
common thought, and anything John
McNeil said to her absorbed her mind.
“After I do the dishes; in the parlor,”
she spoke softly. and resumed her duties.
Meanwhile, the half-dozen men who
had entered the room and seated them-
selves at table seemed in great good
humor. They were laughing loudly over
some story which one of their number
had been telling in the barroom. This
story-teller, a tall, dark, solemn-looking
man of perhaps five-and-twenty, was
laughing too, and his amusement seemed
his principal . possession, so poor and
wrinkled, so shabby and meagre, were
his clothes. His long, ungainly arms left
his coat sleeves hobnobbing with his el-
bows, and so narrow was the back of his
coat that it had been no unfriendly act
to warn him not to laugh too vigorously
if he had respect for stitches and seams.
“Now, Abe,” protested Sam Hill, “you
jes’ made that thar yarn up, you know
you did.” Hill was dragging his chair
over the uneven floor with a rasping rat-
tle. The accused made no defence, but
cast upon Hill a look of such innocence
and surprise that Hill could only press
his hands against his sides for relief and
burst out laughing again. The table soon
filled, and the story-teller found a seat
by McNeil, who had given him a friendly
nod as soon as he had caught his eye.
“Sam tells me you're going back to the
Eastern country—bought you out. Sorry
you're going to leave us. Hasn’t New
Salem treated you well enough?”
“Oh, that’s not it, Abe. I'm comin’
back. New Salem is all right.”
Annie set the heavy cups of black coffee
before the men. Abe Lincoln bowed
awkwardly to her as for an instant he
caught her eye. He ate rapidly and soon
called for another cup. No one else
knew that it was the hand that bore the
coffee and not the quality of the coffee
that interested him; no one in New
Salem associated Abe Lincoln with any
girl. But Lincoln was running his
thought to its logical end: “McNeil is a
fool to go off to the Eastern country and
leave Annie Rutledge.” But perhaps the
thought vanished in the general talk of
the table on the bottomless condition of
the New Salem road.
“Abe,” spoke up Bowling Greene, who
for some reason chose this evening to
take his supper with the boys at Rut-
ledge’s, instead of with his good wife
Nancy in their cabin on the bluff—*“Abe,
when you go to the Legislature we shall
expect you to fix up that road.”
“All right,” promptly promised Lincoln,
whose political ambition was well known
to Greene and a few other intimates;
“you get the polls for me and I'll get the
poies for the road; you can’t make a
good road without some log-rolling.” A
hearty laugh greeted tnis promise, but
the New Salem boys were in the habit of
laughing at almost anything Abe Lincoln
said; he was a droll fellow.
“A bargain, a bargain,” Greene spoke
up, quickly; “you shall have at least one
po »
“Six right here,” added Hill, “and seven
if McNeil gets back in time to vote.”
McNeil looked up at sound of his name,
smiled, but said nothing. He was not a
talker; he was friendly with everybody,
suddenly emptied its viscid mass into the | but, unlike the other inhabitants of the
Springfield and Petersburg road.
village, he was Eastern born. New Salem
It was spring, though the calendar call- | was the product of Kentucky and Indiana
| counting the bills Hill had paid him.
and closed the door of his room, and just
then, looking down the road, he saw the
long, lank story-teller wading through
the mud and watched him till he entered
Berry & Lincoln’s store. Then Sam Hill
followed down the road, and McNeil
watched him till he disappeared beneath
the roof of the low shack which, a few
hours before, had been McNeil’s centre |
of interest. But he was not sentimental,
and the disposition of ownership easily
dislocates the affections. McNeil faced
facts and liked them; he hated premature
explanations, he loved to get everything
ready before making a new move; he
was secretive and self-contained.
As his eyes roamed over the dismal
scene they caught sight of a man on
horseback slowly wending his way up the
road, his horse black with thick coats of
mud. It was Dr. John Allen returning
from his professional rounds; but his
figure was already obscure in the fast-
gathering darkness. The rain gave no
signs of cessation; the outlook for a
morning start was gloomy. McNeil took
up the flint and steel from the little deal
table that was near the head of his bed,
struck a spark, blew the tinder to a
blaze, and lighted his tallow candle; then
he drew the head of the bed in front of
the window and, feeling secure, began
Opening a small hair trunk which he
drew from beneath the bed, he took out
a wallet and counted and sorted the bills
it contained; he made little packages of
Illinois bills, Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky,and
Pennsylvania; but his New York cur-
rency he folded away by itself as most
valuable of all. He drew a leather bag
from the trunk, emptied its silver and
counted the amount; he made a few fig-
ures, entered some of them in an account-
book, fingered through some papers,
drew up a brief statement, and then care-
fully packed his trunk.
“Pretty good for five years,” he was
thinking; “I guess that is enough to
bring them and prevent all trouble in
future.” He saw that his treasure was
secure, moved back the bed to its piace,
blew out the candle and started for the
parlor.
To him it was the most familiar room
in New Salem. The sperm-oil lamp on
the centre-table gave a dull, heavy head- ;
light which glinted back from the mohair
sofa firmly set between the windows, and
from the six mohair chairs ranged in’
military order about the walls. On the!
table lay the big Bible, its brass corners |
gleaming like yellow . eyes. Some one!
had left the window down at the top and |
the rain was beating in against the green |
paper curtain, the head and nearly half !
the wing of the great bird-of-paradise at
the centre of the curtain running scarlet i
over the yellow poppies amid which the :
bird stood. At the stone hearth the andi- |
| rons, faintly catching the glow from the |
lamp, hinted at comfort. McNeil closed '
the window, took down the flint and steel |
fom the mantel, and knelt to light the
re. |
“Thank you, John; a fire feels comfort- |
able this evening. You are always so
thoughtful.” |
Annie ran her eyes over the room like |
| tated by the echoes of laughter below ! Springfield and the new house and the
new things far better than any in New
Salem. She had never wearied of him,
but now she listened as one having ears
but not hearing. She seemed to herself
sitting in darkness, and the man who
she loved with all the passion of a girl's
first love was playing a part. But she
would believe him.
still and sought to stifle her fears.
She did not know how long she had
been sitting alone; she remembered how
And she sat very
y | for the day. Across the road 2a man on
her all the time. Of course the game
was up; McNeil had won her; there was
an end of the matter. Then the voice
went on singing the line over and over
again:
*“ ‘Vain man, thy fond pursuits forbear.’ ”
He stepped to the window to take in
the weather and the prospects of trade
horseback was just riding away from
swiftly he had spoken, how he had pour- |
ed forth his love for her again; and he
had kissed her before he left. But the
fire was dying, and she could feel the!
gray shadows creeping over her. She
started to her feet and, walking to the
fireplace, gazed pensively into the embers.
She covered the fire and left the room.
Against the panes of the little window in
her own room the rain beat roughly and
the wind, sweeping down from the vast
prairie, stirred strange noises all over the
house. Toward morning she fell asleep;
but her dreams were wearying dreams.
When she awoke the storm was still
raging. Yes, she would believe in him,
she must believe in him; she loved him,
she must believe in him. She heard
voices in the yard. Some one was sad-
dling a horse. Pulling back the curtain
a handbreadth, she saw McNeil on horse-
back accoutred for his long journey. At
sight of her he threw a kiss, and she saw
mm turn the horse’s head toward Spring-
eld.
“Why, Annie, child, what's the mat-
ter?” Her mother stood by the bedside;
she had teard the girl moaning. For a
moment she could not answer; then,
breaking with sobs, she told her mother
the whole story. As the story grew the
mother’s suspicions were aroused. Why
should John McNeil, or any other man,
give her Annie pain? The maternal
spirit was up. Why didn’t he explain all
this long ago and not keep it back till
after the eleventh hour? What evidence
was there of the truth of his story? He
had gone, taking his wealth with him—and
her Annie’s heart. Was he an impostor?
A fugitive from some Eastern jail? What
peril had her Annie run in receiving his
attentions? Her mother’s heart was
wrung; her pride was struck down. And
she soothed the weeping girl as best she
could, resolving to tell the whole story
at once to her husband. He was a man;
he would know what to do, and there
were plenty of men in New Salem who
would help him.
“It kind 0’ looks to me as if he meant
to jilt her,” was James Rutledge’s com-
ment when he heard the tale. “Now
mind you, Mary Ann, if that’s his game,
we are well rid o’ him; but he better not
cross my path. Annie broken up by it,
you say? Wife, if he’s wronged her, I'll
foller him to the ends of the earth and
shoot him on sight.”
At Berry & Lincoln's: grocery—it was
still called by the old firm name, though
everybody knew that Lincoln had dispos-
ed of his slight interest to Berry long
! since—a tall, ungainly man was “open-
ing up” for the day; it was the story-tell-
er of the night before. He slept in the
loft overhead and looked as if he had
slept in his clothes. He had no fixed
ed for early summer; the frost was still | and Virginia. James Rutledge, Annie's
coming out of the ground, and New ; father and founder of New Salem, who
Salem’s only highway was in its most kept the tavern,was from South Carolina;
hopeless state. Along its reeking edge McNeil was the only Yankee in the place,
stood a dozen buildings, their first stories | and, like hundreds of his kind, had come
of logs, their gables boarded with over- | west to make his fortune, and there was
lapping slabs to shed the storm. Salem |arumor afloat in New Salem that he was
was in its fifth year. Back from the | worth $10,000—the biggest fortune in
road, southward toward the bluff, a few | that part of Illinois. He was engaged to
cabins, on higher ground, were only more | marry Annie Rutledge. It had been with
conspicuous, not more comfortable. Some | him a case of love at first sight when, in
had one window; all had puncheon doors, | the second year of New Salem, he came
but only the more pretentious had to board at her father’s tavern. At first
puncheon floors; the rest had floors of | he had taken a room at Rutledge’s till he
mother earth. McNeil glanced along the | could look about and find quarters at
highway and up at the bluff, and then at | some private house, but one look at
his clean, new boots and fresh suit. He | Annie and he decided to stay at Rut-
the habitual hostess, the sight of the ruin- | employment, but worked at odd jobs, now
ed curtain delaying her a moment. She | helping a farmer husk his corn, now car-
was beside McNeil, watching the curling | rying chain for the surveyor, John Cal-
flames. The new light glinted on her ' houn, or putting in a week eccasionally
hair and chased the shadows about her at‘one of the stores—Berry’s or Denton
form. He gazed at her a moment, then, | Orfutt’s—at a busy time, and especially
his face aglow, he drew her to his arms. | when the books must be balanced and
“Now, Johnny, what is it you are going , the innumerable credit accounts with the
to tell me ?” . | community be straightened; for Abe was
He hesitated; he seemed to be think- clever as well as accurate and neat at
g. »~ | all kinds of writing, and no man in New
“What is it?” | Salem rated higher in honesty. Some-
His manner rather than his silence | times people came to him to have their
startled her. | letters written—all sorts of letters—so
“I must tell you, Annie—I must; Ihave | profound was their confidence in him.
never told any one before.” He could { He had lived in New Salem now about
feel her shrink away from him. “You! three years, equivalent to long inhabit-
have heard me speak of my people; they | ancy in an Eastern town; indeed, he had
live a long ways from here, away down | just missed being one of the founders of
in York State. I have brothers and sis- | New Salem. Everybody liked him. He
ters. My people are very poor. Ileft, had settled his reputation in New Salem
them five years ago; they do not know | with his first visit—a somewhat compul-
where I am, nor even that I am alive. I! sory one in the spring of ’31, when he
am going back after them to bring them | and his crew found themselves strand-
here to my farm. I wanted to tell you | ed, their flat-boat caught on the edge of
all about it, first; I shall keep nothing | the New Salem dam. He was on his
back. We are to be married.” | way with a cargo down the river; the
Her hand lay warm and still in his; he | boat had filled with water and every-
felt her quickening breath and caught ' body said she must be abandoned. Her
the sparkle in her eyes. : | nose stuck over the dam and her crew
“But, Annie dear, there is one thing I | jumped ashore, but Abe bored a hole
have delayed telling you, and that is. through her bottom, the water ran out,
about my name; they call me McNeil, | and she floated. This was Abe’s way:
but that was not my real name.” | nothing marvellous when the deed was
He was trembling. = Was her hand | done, but just the thing to be done. He
slipping away from his? “My real name | then hired out to Denton Orfutt to work
is McNamar. Please don’t take your | in his store, but expected goods did not
hand away; I'll explain it all to you.” arrive. He found waiting a dull busi-
"Twas on my father’s account. We were ' ness. It happened to be Election Day;
in business together; we failed and lost | the assistant to the clerk of elections
everything; I ran away, determined to | was sick, and Mentor Graham, the clerk;
make enough mony to retrieve all. My was looking for help. Espying the tall
in;
was not a dozen rods from the tavern, |
but to attempt to reach it promised only
ruin of his plan to set out for New York
next morning with clean clothes.
“Guess I'm in for it,” he sighed as he
surveyed the hopeless expanse, but just
then he sighted a speck in the distance.
“My luck again,” he chuckled; “here
comes a prairie-schooner my way,” and
drawing back just inside the doorway he
waited till the driver of the ox-team
might be within hailing distance. “I say,
Tom”—it was old Tom Clary drifting
homeward—*“I say, Tom, I'm a little dry.
How is’t with you?”
“Drier 'n salt codfish,” the old man
shouted back, and whipped up the oxen.
“Well, you jest heave alongside and
take me in and we'll wet our whistles at
Rutledge’s.”
And so McNeil got across to the tavern
dry-shod.
He boarded at Rutledge’s. It was sup-
per-time. The dining-room had an en-
trance from the bar, and McNeil stood a
moment in the doorway before taking
hisaccustomed seat at table. He was
looking for a face; but not for long, for
he crossed the room smiling.
“Howdy, Annie? Seems to me I smell
supper.”
She was a slender girl, “rising nine:
teen,” as her mother described her. For
a moment she forgot her work of setting
the table as she smiled back to McNeil.
Her face was of the type that lingers in
a man’s memory. Her hair was auburn,
her features neatly is not delicately
chiselled, and one near her could see
that her eyes were soft blue and dreamy.
Her dress became her figure and she car-
ried her head well. Yet her beauty was
not in her face or her hair or her figure;
it lay in a certain charm which novelists
have been attempting to describe in
maids these two centuries and more.
“Good evening, John.” A hint of color
in her face told the tale better than her
simple greeting. ‘“Supper’s ready.”
Her swift glance assured her that the
table at his place was in order, then she
turned back to the kitchen and
serving.
As McNeil sat awaiting his turn his
ledge’s. Soon he had routed all rivals,
among them Samuel Hill, his partner.
But Hill took defeat philosophically, and
never let it disturb his business relations
with the victor. The people of New
Salem—some eighteen families in all—
promptly understood the situation, and
at every fireside the fact was accepted
with approbation that, as Annie was only
a young girl and wanted to attend school
at Jacksonville for a term or two, her
lover was very reasonable to consent to
a postponement of the wedding; then,
too, Annie's folks wished it so. Surely
John McNeil was a square man thus to
accede to their wishes, for in New Salem
girls were won and wedded young, and
usually when and where they willed, and
the old folks were supposed to make the
best of whatever happened; parents
then, as now, had few rights which chil-
dren were bound to respect.
McNeil was not through supper before
the news had passed through the settle-
ment of his sale to Hill and his speedy
return to the Eastern country. Why
leave New Salem? Wasn't the town good
enough for him? Everybody knew that
he was poor as garbroth when he came,
and now was rich. Was he going to take
Annie Rutledge with him?
So New Salem was thinking of Mc-
Neil much as Abe Lincoln, who was sit-
ting beside him at supper at Rutledge’s.
In the midst of one of Abe’s stories Mc-
Neil finished his meal and left the table.
He passed to his room and began his
final preparation for an early start next
morning. A burst of loud laughter well-
ed up from the dining-room; there was
the scraping of chairs and the beat of
footsteps. McNeil knew thatthe story
was done, and concluded that, measured
by the explosion it provoked, it must be
one of Lincoln's best. But this was an
unusual thought with McNeil, for his
sense of humor was rudimentary, though
his wit was sharp enough. He associated
story-telling with just such a poverty-
clad fellow as Abe Lincoln. He could
feel the pressure of the roll of bills in
began | his trousers pocket, and could see Lin-
coln’s scant and seedy coat: evidently
humor did not pay. He felt alittle irri-
father is a broken-down old man. I can
help him now; I have enough and to!
spare.” !
Her hand had stolen back into his. :
“Don’t be afraid, Annie; I have earned |
the money; I am worth $12,000 in money, |’
and my farm besides. The change wasn’t |
much; 1had to doit-McNeil to McNamar.”
The word uttered itself in a tone that!
alarmed him.
“Because they would have followed me |
and taken away my property before I!
had enough.”
“What of that if it belonged to them?” !
She was trembling. |
“But it wasn’t theirs; it was mine. I |
made it right here in New Salem by hard |
work. Now I have enough to pay them |
all. I will bring back father and mother
and the children to my farm; then you
‘and I will be married. Don’t you like |
McNamar better than McNeil?” i
He raised her hand to his lips. !
“This is what I wanted to tell you. |
See, here is a true statement of all my |
property,” and he drew from his pocket |
the sheet from his account-book showing |
all the items. She took it in an absent
sort of way, but did not read it.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this long |
ago?” Again it was the tone rather than |
the words that reproached him.
Why had he not told her? All hisrea- :
sons for silence seemed to vanish into |
thin air.
“I thought I'd tell you all at once when
I had everything ready.” He stammered
as he spoke. “I wasn’t ready to go; I.
hadn’t made the money yet.” |
“But you had changed your name.” !
“Oh Annie, Annie, don’t say it that |
way! I have told you all now, everthing, |
everything; I must start in the morning; |
I shall come back soon.”
The shadows of the firelight played |
ashen gray over her face.
“I'll write often, Annie—every mail; it |
will not be long.”
She suffered him to kiss her, but she
closed her eyes; he was going away from
her, and he had changed his name-once.
But he was telling her, rapidly, of his
plans: of the wedding and the journey to .
4
What a contrast to John McNeil!
stranger hanging about the polling-place,
he called out to him:
“Can you write ?”
“I can make a few rabbit tracks.”
“Well, suppose you sit down and make
em.”
Satisfied with the specimen tracks,
Graham hired Lincoln for the day. But
the clerk had done more than he knew—
he had introduced a new source of joy to
| the men of New Salem. As they came
up to vote and fell to talking with the
stranger after the cheery informality of
the West, they were soon listening to the
most mirth-provoking stories of their
lives. “Indiana yarns,” Lincoln called
them as he reeled off. That night New
Salem went to bed tired out with laugh-
ing. Lincoln had made his place in the
community.
But on this morning when John Mec-
Neil or McNamar rode away from New
Salem, had any one glanced through the
window of Berry’s store and caught sight
of the story teller’s face he would not
have pronounced it the face of a cheerful
man, but, rather, a face strong in hope-
less melancholy, gloomy with shadows
that should never lift. Lincoln was busy
arranging goods for display, putting this
and that in order and tidying up general-
ly. Had he confessed to the vision, it
had been to the shadow of a shapely
hand before his eyes, and in his ears the
melody of a soft, sweet voice. So real
was that voice he stopped suddenly in
his work to listen. The lines of a hymn
he had heard that voice sing persisted in
his memory: :
“Vain man, thy fond pursuits forbear.”
| The gloom of the thought closed in upon
him in melancholy comfort, in nice ac-
cord with his strange temperament. The
line seemed to reveal himself. Poor,
without fixed occupation, without family
influence, his prospect one of toil and
poverty, and his mind ever craving high-
er things; his condition in life hedged
about by limitations and Sbstaclss.
C-
Neil had wealth, business ability, and a
splendid farm. No, Annie Rutledge could
not possibly have a thought for Abe Lin-
coln, but he could not help thinking of
Rutledge’s tavern—John McNeil, of
course. Had Lincoln missed on the man
he would have made on the horse—a
coarse, raw-boned, vicious gray,a veteran
of the Black Hawk War; and Lincoln
had been through that war himself.
“Nothing beautiful about us;” the
thought amused him. ‘War veterans
grow ugly early.” McNeil was making
for the Springfield road. “Hill told me
last night that John was going back, and
there he goes.” Somehow the melancholy
look in his face was fading; his heart
felt lighter as the horseman rode away.
And the voice kept on singing:
“ ‘Vain man, thy fond pursuits forbear.’ ”’
Lincoln was laughing to himself. “And
that’s what the poetry means, is it?” he
asked himself. “Why not? Why not?”
Might the line not apply to McNeil as
well as to himself?
He stood still, analyzing the ques-
tion.
(Continued next week.)
Common Mistake That Wireless Com-
munication Can Be Easily In-
terfered With.
Many suppose that it is possible for
an enemy to disrupt and suazpend all
wireless communication at will by pro-
ducing very powerful waves of irreg
ular length; in other words, by inter
ference or ‘‘jamming.” According to
Commander F. G. Loring of the Brit
ish navy, such tactics are seldom suc-
cessful. It is very hard, if not im-
possible, to “jam” a well-organized
wireless service, for there are many
ways, both technical and methodical,
to defeat such an intention. If the
enemy attempts interference, he must |
put his own wireless communication
completely out of action for the time
being, with no certain prospect of se-
riously inconveniencing the communi-
cation of his opponent. Commander
Loring also believes that the risk of
having the signals of the fleet inter-
cepted by an enemy is very slight.
‘Co-operation between operators, with
full knowledge of each other's meth-
ads, is extremely important when han-
dling difficult code messages, and the
more skilled the organization, the
more difficult it is for a strange op-
srator to take down with the neces-
sary accuracy the groups of a code
message. He cannot ask for the
repetition of doubtful groups, and he
has no intimate and daily familiarity
with the methods of the sender to as-
sist him in his task. And, after all,
giving the enemy every advantage,
giving him a perfect record of the sig-
nals, the ey of the code to his hand,
and equal facility of skill and lan-
guage to translate it for use—a most
important combination, it must be ad-
mitted—he has still failed to prevent
the all-important information from
*eaching its destination.” — Youth's
Companion.
Owners of Anthracite Mines in Penn-
sylvania Decide to Make Use of
It Exclusively.
Electricity is to take the place en-
tirely of steam and compressed air in
the anthracite mines of Pennsylvania,
according to a paper read recently be-
fore the Engineers’ Society of North-
eastern Pennsylvania.
The total of electric generating ca-
pacity and power purchased for use
at the mines at the present time is
given as 79,811 kilowatts, which is ap-
proximately equal to 105,400 horse-
power. The horsepower produced by
steam is given as 531,811.
The first electrical installation in
mines was made in 1887 by the Penn-
sylvania Railroad company. In 1889
the Thompson-Houston company
placed a locomotive and a generating:
station in the Erie colliery of the Hill
side Coal & Iron company. This lo-
comotive was in operation until 1911,
22 years of continuous operation. The
first electric pump installed was in
1890, and has been in continuous serv-
ice ever since. From 1891 to the pres-
ent. year plant after plant has been
| erected in the mines.
The Hearts of the People.
“So you think you have your op
ponent defeated before the campaign
starts?” “I'm sure of it. He is go-
ing to depend on old-fashioned hand-
shaking methods to make himself
agreeable. I'm learning to dance.”
Great City’s Shame.
At a London in yuest on a sandwich
man who commited suicide in the
Thames, it was stated that clergy-
men, solicitors and university men had
been known to carry sandwich boards
in the streets of London.
Western Australia’s Wealth.
Western Australia produces more
gold than any American state, sends
more pearls to Europe than any other
country except Ceylon, and is said
to have the richest belt of hardwood
timber in the world.
Here's the Grouch Again.
“I thought you told me that Jones
was a piano-finisher,” said the Old
Fogey. “Why, I saw him driving a
moving van today.” “Well?” inter
rogated the Grouch.—Cincinnati HEn-
quirer.
Empire Day Essay.
“Dear Teacher: On Empire day we
had a holiday. I had a flag on Fride-
day. On Fridday I was very happy,
was you teacher when we had a holi-
day.”—Punch.
FROM INDIA.
By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
Country. Planning for the Trip Home, Na-
tive Gods a Cheap thing in India, Etc.
JHANSI, NOVEMBER 27th, 1913
Dear Home Folk:
I am too engrossed in trying to find a
way home, through Cook’s eyes, to re-
frain from telling you of it; and again I
wish I were a. multi-moneyed “loidy.”
Of course, the Mission Board give me
the amount that would take me home
via. New York, but San Francisco and the
States demand more, so you may get a
long distance call for food from Pitts-
burgh, for I sure can pay my ticket, but
food—well—that will come out of my
own purse, and me-thinks a walking tour
from Pittsburgh home may be a very fit-
ting finish to this two years’ jaunting
spree of mine. Of course I won't ex-
pect the band to play for me and you
need not have a committee out to wel-
come me, as returning in the same suit
I departed from you in, will make me a
little shy of big affairs.
Joking aside, traveling is a very neat
way of spending money, especially when
not in one’s own land. I sure am thank-
ful that father made me bring the extra
with me else I just couldn’t do it at all
and I would be horribly disappointed not
to go by the Eastern route. I cannot
| even yet say certainly when I shall land
in San Francisco, but it will be in May, I
think, and will you tell Mr. V., as I prom-
ised to let him know when I would be
there, by next week or shortly after my
passages will be secured, and then Iwill let
you know. How I wish clothes did not
have to be made; of course there will be
only what I may need on the way, but
: even those few will be a bother.
Today is Thanksgiving, and Iam alone
this week, the others are at Conference
| so I had Miss L. and Mrs. R. to tea and
| dinner; did not make any fuss, just gave
| them what I had for myself, but it was
| very pleasant and we talked of America.
Of course it don’t look the least like
| November 27th, and it is just delightful
. weather; the doors and windows all
‘stand open and except for the middle of
| the day, which is rather hot, one would
[not ask for anything more, except of
| course, water.
| You should hear the jackals tonight;
| they are either very hungry or are mad
| —howling, howling, from all sides until
‘the air rings with the racket. A dog
{went mad yesterday on the road and
iran into Mr. H’s home, where lay his
| wife and two week’s old son. There was
| much excitement until the dog was final-
ly driven out and although shot at sev-
eral times and struck once, he refused
to die but later, fortunately, was killed
by a good blow. Rabies is so common
here.
I bought today some miniature gods
to take home to you and I am indeed
pleased for they are exactly what I have
been telling you about—that are placed
under the trees and at the sacred pools,
etc., and which are worshipped. I want-
ed to steal one but always found them
too large, but now I have them in much
nicer form. Don’t think they were ex-
: pensive for they cost only sixteen cents
alltogether—and that wasn’t much for
four gods, do you think? And the man
who made and also sold them to me told
us the story of each with much laughing,
not in the least offended when we said it
was funny to think of a god having a tail
that would catch fire and so set fire to
the entire place where he happened to
be and thus set up a fight between two
other very important gods. Just why he
is worshipped I could not quite make out,
but as that is a very common fault with
their stories I was not a bit surprised.
They don’t know themselves why many
are worshipped, so in another way they
resemble the Western people.
I have been fairly busy this week, it
seems as though whenever the others go
away and I plan for much time to my
self, other folks plan for much time from
me, and I must needs work hard. This
morning the servants brought a big scor-
pion, without its tail removed, and I just
put him into a bottle and now he adorns
my table, pickled in alcohol, for a trip to
America. Itis a good specimen and I
wish you could have seen the thingstrike
at my nippers as I was putting it into
the bottle; you knew at once “which was
the business end of that concern.”
I cannot imagine why I can’t tell you
something interesting; perhaps it is be-
cause my brain is empty, or the inter-
ruptions, which have been many since I
began this, and if I had an idea, by the
time I told-the various persons what they
were to do my precious idea had flown
completely. Then, too, I am going to
try to stop talking so much and I guess I
had best begin right here. I wish youall
well and hope the new year will be more
than usually good to you.
(Continued next week.)
Better Than Poultice.
If at any time you have a gathered
finger or poisoned hand, take a cab-
bage leaf, roll it out with a bottle until
the juice comes, and tie it on the af-
fected part. This will draw and
cleanse it far better than a poultice.
A Bit Tired.
A somewhat weather-beaten tramp,
being asked what was the matter with
his coat, replied, “Insomnia: it hasn't
had a nap in ten years.”—Christian
Register.
Generally Succeeds.
There ‘are more ways of winning a
man than by “stringing” him—but
there are few better.