VOL. 46
The Huntingdon Journal.
J. R. DURBORROW,
0 . flee on the Corner 1;1 Bath and Washington street
TnE Ilrxruscrios JOURNAL is published every
Wednesday, by J. It. Dunnoneow and J. A. NAAR,
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Travellers' Guide
rIO3YLVANIA RAIL ROAD.
IT= OF LEAVING Or MOM
Winter
'ESTWAED
g qi
10
O
x
:4 1 .-, STAT. or F.
l z II ;
I
11 431 !N.Hamilton
4 461...... 12 52 7 50 Mt. Union.
4 1111....- 12 01
5 02; l2 10 803 Mill Creek.
5 15'5 al 12 25 8 15 11,crompox
... .., .
~—. ......
5 35, —,
,12 47i ..
Petersburg—
-4 15
5 45 , fl 2 53 Barre° . , 4 061
5 53 I 1 07
6 08
616,—. 132 9 06 Tyrone lO 30 339
6 27' l4s ' Tipton
6 34
6 39 ' 1 SS , ißell's Mills.
7 00 9 30 200 9 40' Altoona ....„ 10 00 300 '
P. 11. i A Kir X. A. 11.1
The Fnst Line Eastward, leases Altoona at 12 48 a. m.,
and arrives at Ilantingdon at 1 17 a. a.
The Cincinnati Express Eastward, leaves Altoona at
5 55 P. 11(., and arrives at Huntingdon at 7 05 P. M.
Pacific Express Eastward, team; Altoona at 6 25 A. a.,
and passes Huntingdon at 7 25 A. a.
. .
Cincinnati Express Westward, leaves Huntingdon at
3 35 A. x., and arrives at Altoona at 4 50 a. st.
The Fast Line Westward, passes Huntingdon at 7 35
P. L., and arrives at Altoona at 8 45 e. a.
HUNTINGDON AND BROAD TOP
. _ _
Winter
On and after Wednesday, Nov. 22d, 1870, Passenger
Trains will arrive and depart as follows :
Ur THAI
Accom.
MAIL
STATIONS.
A. M.
Lu 9 00 Huntingdon.
9 00 Long Siding
• 9 21 Nlet'onnellstottn
9 30 Pleasant Grove ,
9 45 Marklesburg
-10 00 Coffee Run
10 08j Rough and Ready _
10 29 Cove
10 27 Fishers Summit
10 43
10 50 Saxton
11 08 Rlddlesburg
11 18 Ilopewell
11 36 Pipers Run
11 56 Tatesville
12 US Bloody Run
mt 12 12151ount Dallas
P. M.
Lx 5 20
5 28
13 .12
6 401
6 03
6 18
625
ss 810
829'
8 13
8 85
648
AZ 7 00
ca 1 10
SIIOUP'S RUN BRANCI
10 50,8ftxton,
tx 7 101
!az 0 4°l
11 10 Coa'moat ...... ..—..—.
11 15 Crawford.
as 11 25 Dudley,
Broad Top City—..—,
301iIi
22, 1610.
7 301
As 740
Is 6 10
a 2,1
:ILLIPS:
Professional Cards
MILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at-
Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly
to all legal business. Office in Cunningham's new
building. DanA,ll.
IPr ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at
-Au-. Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
given to COLLECTIONS of all kinds; to the settle
ment of Estates, &c.; and all other Legal Business
prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch.
B- Office in room lately occupiedby U. Milton
Speer, Esq. Dan.4,'7l.
M W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Han
-A- • tingdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart,
Esq. Dan.4,l/.
jr HILL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
• Huntingdon, Pa. Office, second floor of
Leister's new building, Hill street. Dan. 4,71.
P. W. JOHNSTON, Surveyor
A. and Scrivener, Huntingdon, Pa. All kinds
of writing, drafting, &c., done at short notice.
Office on Smith street, over Woods & Williatason's
Law Office. [mayl2,'6ll.
PM. & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys-
A- • at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to
all kinds of legal business entrusted to their care.
Office on the southside of Hill street, fourth door
west of Smith. [jan.4,'7l.
T SYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at
ei • Law, Iluntingdon, Pa. Office, 11111 street,
three doors west of Smith. [jan.4'7l.
JA. POLLOCK, Surveyor and Real
• Estate Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend
to Surveying in all its branches. Will also buy,
sell, or rent Farms, Houses, and Real Estate of ev
ery kind, in any part of the United States. Send
for a circular. Dan.47l.
DR. J. A. DEAVER, having located
at Franklinville, offers his professional ser
vices to the community. DanA,'7l.
W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-L^ . . w
ci • and General Claim Agent, Huntingdor .
Soldiers' claims against the Government f , b ac k
pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensio ,as auca d..
ed to with great care and promptness.
Office on hill street, A ?t
JOHN SCOTT. S. T. BROWN ,
DAT .,
ICOTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At
torneys-at-Law , finntinpdon, Pa. Pensions,
and all claims of "'Alien and soldiers' heirs against
the Government will be promptly prosecuted.
Office on nil:, Amt. [jan.4,7l.
DR.
D. P. MILLER, Office on Hill
_ street, in the room formerly occupied by
Dr. Jahn 11PCulloet., Huntingdon, Pa., would re.-
, ctfully offer hip professional service. to the eiti
tens of Huntingdon and vicinity. pan.4,'7l.
PATTON, Druggist and Apoth-
T.., • scary, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun
tingdon, Pu. Prescriptions accurately compounded.
Pure Liquory for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,10.
DR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his
professional services to the community.
Affice on Washington street, one door cast of the
'Catholic Parsonage. [jan.4,'7l.
V . J. GREENE, Dentist. Office re
• moved to Leister's new building, Hill street
Huntingdon. Dan.4;7l.
RALLISON MILLER, Dentist, has
. removed to the Brick Row, opposite the
Court trolley. LjanA,'7l.
EXCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
Jauuary 4, 1871.
F OR ALL KINDS OF
JOB WOR
Go to Tag JOURNAL BUILDING, corner of Wsebi
ton:and Bath streets. Oar pressas and type an
all new, and work is executed in the beet style..
The Huntingdon Journal.
TO ADVERTISERS
J. A. NASH,
THE HUNTINGDON JOURNAL,
PUBLISHED
EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING
J. R. DITRBORROW & J. A. NASH.
Office corner of Washington and Bath Sts.,
HUNTINGDON, PA.
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J. R. DURBORROW k CO
"You will meet Walter Sutton at the
Roses. Enter into no rivalry with him."
This was the postscript to my father's
letter, and the one cloud in the bright
horizon of my hopes.
I was twenty-three years old, just re
leased from college, a little pale and
weary with study, and bound for that
paradise of the earth, my widowed sister
Margaret's home—the Rose,. I was to
spend the summer with Mag, and the
prospect had been one of intense delight.
But now heard that Sutton was there.
This Walter Sutton was a younger
brother of May's deceased husband, a
millionaire's son, and Parisian by educa
tion.
At twenty he bad been familiar with
the Marbelle. At twenty-six he was pro
nounced the handsomest and most dissipa
ted man in London, and now, a year later,
I was to have his companionship for the
summer, at the house of my sister, Mrs.
Margaret Sutton.
The man always had a fascination for
me, while I despised him. His Apolian
beauty, his knowledge of the world, his
coolness, daring, and fearlessness, I re
garded with wonder. But I had sense
enough to weigh these against his cynic
ism, his blackened reputation, and his
rakish manner, which told his tale of un
happiness, and to keep quietly on my way,
unenvious of his success. At the time I
went to the Roses I was, moreover, less
liable to impure influences, for I had just
lost the noblest and dearest of mothers.
It is true I did not relish meeting Wal
ter Sutton, but I was not one to borrow
trouble. It was June weather; "green
and blue were glad together," and I was
free. My horse arched his beautiful neck
and trotted slowly and proudly along the
road, while I looked across the sunny
fields, watching for the first sign of my
sisters mansion—trees rustling, flowers
blooming, birds singing around me.
Suddenly I saw a carriage whirling in
advance of me. I recognized the man on
the box, and spurred forward.
I gained it. The stately lady within it
looked up, threw aside her sable veil, and
cried, "Lewis!"
"Are you going home, Maggie ?"
"Directly. ,,
"I am with y0u." ... . .
At that moment I became conscious of
the earnest gaze of a pair of golden brown
eyes. My sister was not alone in the car
riage. A young girl, with her lap full of
water-lilies, and a large straw hat shading
the fairest and loveliest of faces, sat be
side her. We looked inquiringly at each
other; but for once, my admirable sister
,forgot the demands of society. In her
pleasure at seeing me she omitted the in
troduction, and leaning from her scat she
questioned me eagerly regarding occur
rences at home. She had not been there
since mother's funeral had taken place in
the winter.
WITH
Suddenly a light phaeton whirled by us,
the driver of which lifted his hat as he
passed, giving a piercing look into the
carriage. I followed it, and I fancied I
caw the young girl's hand quivering among
the lilies in her lap.
"You know Walter is with us, Lewis ?"
remarked Margaret, a little cloud on her
face.
SUCH AS
"Yes, he is looking well."
"He always looks well, said Mag,signifi
cantly."
We were entering the avenue. Two
splendid rose trees guarded the gate. The
rustic trellises held an arch of blossoming
vines above their heads. I questioned
Mag as to the garden.
"My gardeners say they have been very
successful this year. I think I appreciate
the roses more than usual this year, for
Alice enjoys them so much."
My sister turned as she spoke, with a
fond smile for the girl at her side, and
then remembered to say, "Alice, this is my
brother Lewis. Mr. Verner, Miss Lee."
So those golden brown eyes came up to
mine again, and my look of admiration
was rewarded with a smile, so sweet that I
then and there fell in love with its owner.
BUSINESS CARDS,
CONCERT TICKETS,
We drove through clouds of perfume to
the door. There were ladies and gentle
men upon the broad terrace.
"I have other guests," said. Margaret
aside.
LEGAL BLANKS,
I had met some of them before—all
nice people. The summer promised to be
gay. I knew that I was very happy that
evening singing with Alice Lee. But there
was an evil influence in the house. I soon
felt it. Sutton's wealth and extravagance
bred a spirit of envy atuoung the young
men. His sneering smile blighted our
pure and simple pleasures, and it exasper
ated the masculine portion of the company
to observe the influence this Mephisto
pheles had over the beautiful, innocent,
romantic girls whom they loved. There
were those of the men whom he sediteed
at the start. They copied his vices in
less than three weeks. Then followed
dissatisfaction and heart-ache among men
and women.
PAMPHLETS,
But I, who for the first declined to play
cards and drink wine in Sutton's room,
felt uncontaminated, and free to seek that
priceless treasure in life a pure woman's
love. _ _
I tried to please Alice Lee, and succaded.
In July we were engaged. And then • I
just began to understand how good and
sweet my darling was. I remember I came
home from fishing one day, with a
face nearly blistered by the sun. Alice,
?1h 4 0
tint ' gratr.
The Thorns Came On The Bose.
BY MARY BAYARD CLAREM.
In a garden once there grew
Thornless roses, not a few,
Deepest red—pink and white ;
Oh, it was a lovely sight I
Sweet their smell,
Who can tell
How much sweeter than to-day,
Fairer, too,
To the view,
Where the roses then, they say.
Soon attracted by their scent,
All to gather rose-buds went;
Some by passing feet were trod,
As they trailed upon the sod ;
First in scorn
Burst a thorn,
From the tender bark so green,
Then in pride,
Side by side.
Soon a hundred more were seen.
Bristling now and wounding all
Grew the rose-bush stout and tall,
It could shield its flowers from harm,
But alas! they'd lost a charm.
Beauty waned
As they gained
Self-defence that did avail,
With it went
Half their scent;
So tradition tells the tale.
Vitt ffitarp-Vtlier.
DARED AND DEFEATED•
HUNTINGDON, PA., FEBRUARY 1, 1871.
in her cool white dress, with violet ribbon
at the throat, peeped out the door at me
as I came up the garden where I had de
livered the spoils of the day into the hands
of Mag's cook, and held up her hands in
mock horror. In truth, I was something
of a spectacle, with my white snit illumin
ated with the juice of strawberries—the
pantaloons thrust into the legs of muddy
boots—plentifully besprinkled with dust
of eountry roads, and fiercely sunburnt.
But I had been gone all day, and Alice
made up a face to kiss me.
"No," said I, "I will excuse you, since
I have a blistered nose, and am covered
with dust."
I was quite in earnest, and tried to hold
her off; fearing her delicate dress would
get soiled if she couched me ; butshe won
her way to my breast, rubbed a little place
clean on my forehead with her embroider
ed handkerchief, kissed the spot, and
laughed in my eye , .
"Dear Lewis," she said, "It is you, and
I'm not afraid of dirt that will wash off."
The merriment softened in her lovely
face.
"Lewis," she said softly, "don't think
I love you for your clothes, or your com
plexion, or whiskers, which all the girls
admire, but because you are good and
true, and I feel that I can trust you. Do
you know what made me lov,you at first ?"
I shook my head.
"Because all Sutton's wiles to draw you
over to his side failed. You admire hon
esty and purity, and have maintained
them so nobly that I honor and admire
you. If you were a blacksmith, I'd marry
you and live in a hovel."
And with her beautiful eyes sparkling
with tears, my darling hugged sue, and
then pushed me off, and then ran away to
hide how she was crying.
Blissfully happy, I stumbled up stairs,
plunged into a bath, and divested myself
of all stains of earth. But when I went
into my dressing room, I perceived the
perfume of Sutton's cigars. They were of
a peculiar brand, and no one smoked them
but himself. He was sitting in the south
portico, close to the door where I had met
Alice. How long he had been there?
My hand trembled as I brushed my hair.
Should I have been ashamed of it ? I
think not. Sutton had a reputation of
taking horrible revenges and I had so
much to lose.
But after a moment, I braced myself
mentally and physically, and sat down to
read. I was too tired to go down stairs.
But the fumes of that cigar seemed to
have got into my head; the page was hazy
and indistinct; I could see nothing so
plainly as Sutton's Greek profile and hya
cinthine hair; and suspecting I was ill I
at length threw down the volume, and
went to bed by starlight.
I was ill for a fortnight, with a low ner
vous fever. My valet took me in charge,
but Alice came in every day with Mar
garet, and did more good with ten minutes'
petting, than Eugenes' most patient at
tention accomplished the whole day. She
kept flowers at my bedside, and stretched
proprieties to the utmost to see me. At
first her smiling eyes at my pillow were
delicious ; but one day I saw she regarded
me in a troubled, wistful way, and after
wards I discovered that she was growing
pale.
"What is the matter, tell me, pct," I
said.
"Oh you get well so slowly," she said,
a transient flush on her cheek.
I did not dream what persecution she
was undergoing while I lay there, bat she
would not worry me with any complaints;
brave, faithful, loving little heart.
I was nearly well at last—sat up all flay
in my room, and sent word to my friends
below that I would be with them the fol
lowing day.
At midnight the radience of the moon
light awoke me from a deep sleep. I
could never sleep in a room flooded with
the light of the moon. I arose, threw on
my dressing gown, and was preparing to
close the blinds, when I distinctly parceiv
ed the pungent odor of chloroform.
Now if I had been in the body of the
house, I should have decided that some
unfortunate person among its inmates had
experienced a midnight attack of tooth
ache, but there were no chambers in the
south wing but Alice Lee's and mine.
Every pearly tooth in her rosy mouth was
perfectly sound, I knew—so I was puzzled.
The next revelation was the proprinquity
of a horse's neigh.
The horses belonging to the house were
or ought to have been at a distance from
the house in a well-locked stable. This
horse—nay, two of them, and an elegant
phaeton, I could see at the front gate. At
first I did not recognize the equipage.
But I was impressed to believe there was
something wrong. A lark of Sutton's set,
I decided it to be, when I at length recog
nized the carriage. I dressed and sat
down at the window, watching the horses
tossing their heads under the larches,
their silver trappings glittering in the
moonlight.
Suddenly Sutton walked rapidly down
the walk, bearing something in his arms,
wrapped in a cloak. It might have been
the figure of a corpse for any life or mo
tion it appeared to have. He sprang into
the carriage, placed himself so as to sup
port his burthen, gathered up the reins,
and whirled rapidly away.
The instant he was gone, a horrible sus
picion broke over. I sprang up and rush
ed down stairs. The chamber in which
Alice slept was full of the scent of chloro
form, the window was open, a long glass
door leading directly into the garden
There was chloroform among the roses.
Alice was not there.
If an oath escaped my lips it did then.
Never thinking to alarm the house I rush
ed into the stable, expecting to find the
hostler awake. But no—the man was
sleeping soundly in his loft. Sutton's
horses had not been stabled that night,
and only violent beleaugement brought
him down. Bridling the fleetest and fierc
est horse in the stable, I sprang bareback
upon him, and tore out upon the trail.
The long road leading over the hill
stretched white and empty before sue, but
by that way he must have gone.
My noble black flew after, snorting and
striking fire from the stones.
The birds were twittering all along the
way I noticed that, and knew I meld not
be far behind him. Suddenly I heard the
click of a carriage wheel. The next mo
ment I pulled up, for the road diverted;
one path lay over a steep hill, the other
entered the woods.
I was close upon him; I was sure of
that, but I could not decide whether he
had gone over the hill, or entered the
woods, which looked dark and murderous
enough. If I made a mistake he would
escape. Just then I heard a cry—a wo
man's piercing shriek. My heart leaped
up; I plunged into the woods. That was
his way.
It was narrow and difficult, and I knew
he had taken it in hope to escape me. He
must have heard the thunder of my horse's
hoofs behind in the road. We bounded
under the boughs. Soon I saw the car
riage ahead. It rolled rapidly along, yet
swayed heavily on its springs as if badly
driven.
I shouted, "stop!"
The nest moment a pistol shot whizzed
by me. I could make out the figure of
Sutton standing in the carriage, for a mo
ment. In my reckless speed the bough
of a tree struck me in the face. But I
heeded nothing until:l was at the phaeton.
Sutton was not in yet, but my darling, all
wild and white, stretched out her hans to
me. My horse, in spite of sTeed, was
manageable. I galloped close to their
heads and contrived to stop the flying
bays.
"Where is Sutton ?" I asked.
"He fell or sprang out, I do not know
which. Oh, Lewis, save me from him !"
"You have nothing to fear now," I ans
wered. "My darling, be brave."
Though momentarily expecting a ball
through my head, I fastened my horse to
the back of the carriage, got in, and turn
ed the heads of the horses. They were
all white with foam, but obeyed the rein
withot excitement. I wrapped Alice
more carefully in the cloak, and guided
them swiftly toward home.
Suddenly the bays swerved, and seemed
to leap over some object in the road, and
instantly the carriage passed over some ob
struction. Alice's wild eyes flashed their
terror into mine; a sickening thought pass
ed over me. Reining in the horses I leap
ed out of the vehicle, and retraced my
way for a few steps. 'Something lay dark
among the leaves. It was the corpse of a
dead man—the dead body of Walter Sut
ton.
He had been flung from the carriage.
It is not probable that he attempted to es
cape, for he was heavily armed, and would
have sooner taken my life than to have
been defeated.
Ile had probably driven over a stump
or log, and I had ridden over him twice.
There was a hoof mark on his forehead,
and the wheels passed directly over his
breast. But the fine scornful smile was
on his lips, as I gazed at the dead face in
the moonlight, as if, even in death he cher
rished his revenge, and was yet confident
of compassing it. But the abduction
which he had dared, he had been defeated
in, and, happy in our marriage, Alice and
I had no fear of the dead.
for 11It °`') MOM
How a Boy Wakes Up•
There he lies in his crib, a nut-brown
stub of four years. He sleeps in sleep of
healthy childhood. In the same position
he lay when he dropped off into uncon
sciousness, one arm under his head, one
leg kicked out from under the coverlet.
He is perfectly motionless. His round
check pillo..s itself on the extended arm,
and his leg seems to have been arrested in
the middle of the last restless kick, as the
curtin drops over his blue eyes, and he
was asleep. He is in a deep sleep. You
can scarcely perceive the regular respira
tion. A train of cars thunders by with
out notice—he might be carried across the
street without awakening
A healthy by sound asleep, is an inter
esting object. Particularly if he is your
boy. For the time, his tremendous ener
gies are at ' rest, his noisy clatter, his
ceaseless motion, his endless questions,
bis boisterous play, his boundless wants,
his fountains of laughter and tears, all
are quiet now. One can take a good look
at him.
It is morning. Daylight streams into
the windows, the sun shines on the hill
top. The sounds of stirring life are be
ginnino•' to be heard about the house.
Watch the boy. Still as motionless as a
figure of marble. As you look, the gates
of sleep are suddenly unlocked. He is
avigke in a twinklin.—awake all over.
His blue eyes arc wide open and bright—
his lips part with a shout—his legs fly out
in different directions—his arms are in
rapid motion—he flops over with a spring
—in ten seconds he has turned a couple of
somersaults, and presents before you a
living illustration of perpetual motion.
There is no deliberate yawning, no slow
stretching of indolent limbs, no lazy rub
bing of sleepy eyes, no gradually becom
ing awake about it. With a snap like a
pistol shot, be is thoroughly alive and
kicking—wide awake to the tip end of
each particular hair. The wonderful thing
about it is its suddenness and complete
ness.
The World's Wonders.
This world of ours is filled with wonders.
The microscope reveals them not less than
the telescope each at either extreme of
creation, particularly there is so much to
know that has never been dreamed of—
wheels within wheels without computation
of number. Let us take a rapid glance at
the proofs of this statement. The polypus,
it is said, like the , fabled hydra, receives
new life from the knife which is lifted to
destroy it. The spider-fly lays an egg as
big as itself. There are 4,041 muscles in
the caterpillar. Hooks discovered 14,000
mirrors in the eye of a drone; and to ef
feet the respiration of a carp, 13,000 arte
ries, vessels, veins, bones, &c., are neces
sary. The body of every spider contains
four little masses pierced with a multitude
of imperceptible holes, each hole permit
dug the passage of a single thread ; all the
threads to the amount of a 1,900 to each
mass, join together when they come out,
and make the single thread when the
spider spins its web ; so what we call a
spider's thread consists of more than 4,000
united, LOPuWhe4aO4, trigaliti of micro
scopes, observed spiders no bigger than the
grain of sand, and it took 4,000 of them
to equal in magnitude a single hair.
A Puzzle.
Here is a puzzle for a young arithme
titican and others who like to crack an
arithmetical nut now and then to try their
wits upon : Two Arabs sat down to dinner
and were accosted by a stranger who wish
ed to join their party, saying that he could
get no provisions in that part of the coun
try; if they would admit him to eat only
an equal share with themselves he would
willingly pay them the whole. The fru
gal meal consisted of eight small loaves of
bread, five of which belonged to one of the
Arabs and three to the other. The stran
ger, having eaten a third part of the eight
loaves, arose and laid before them eight
pieces of money, saying: "My friends,
there is what I promised you; divide
among you according to your rights." A
dispute arose respecting a division of the
money, and reference was made to the
cadi, who divided it justly. Query, how
did he divide the pieces of money ?
A Man with Twenty Wives.
A MODERN ROMANCE.
CHAPTER I-THE MORMON'S DEPARTURE.
The morning on which Reginald Glov
erson was to leave Great Salt Lake City
with a mail train dawned beautifully.
Reginald Gloverson was a young and
thrifty Mormon, with an interesting family
of twenty young and handsome wives.
His unions had never been blessed with
children. As often as once a year he used
to go to Omaha, in Nebraska, with a mule
train for goods ; but although he had per
formed the rather perilous journey many
times with entire safety, his heart was
strangely sad on this particular morning.
and filled with gloomy foreboding.
The time for his departure had arrived
—the high-spirited mules were at the door,
impatiently champing their bits. The
Mormon stood sadly among his weeping
wives.
"Dearest ones," he said, "I am singular
ly sad at heart this morning ; but do not let
this depress you. The journey is a peril
ous one, but—pshaw ! I have always come
back safely heretofore, and why should I
fear. Besides, I know that every night, as
I lay down on the starlit prairie your bright
faces will come to me in my dreams and
make my slumbers sweet and gentle. You,
Emily, with your mild blue eyes; and you,
Henrietta, with your splendid black hair;
and you, Nelly, with your hair so brightly,
beautifully golden ; and you, Mollie, with
your cheeks so downy ; and you, Betsy,
with your—with your—that is to say, Su
san, with your—and the other thirteen of
you, each so good and beautiful, will come
to me in sweet dreams, will you not, dear
ests ?"
"Our own," they lovingly chimed, "wc
will."
"And so farewell !" cried Reginald.—
"Come to my arms, my own !" he cried,
"that is as many of you as can do it con
veniently at once, for now I must away."
He folded several of them to his throb
bing breast, and drove sadly away.
Jut he had not gone far when the trace
of the off-hind mule became unhitched.—
Dismounting. he essayed to adjust the
trace; but ere he had fairly commenced the
task the mule, a singular refractory animal,
snorted wildly and kicked Reginald fright
fully in the stomach. He arose with dif
ficulty and tottered feebly towards his
mother's house, which was near by, fall
ing dead in her yard, with the remark,
"Dear mother, I've come home to die."
"So I see," she said ; "where's the
mules ?"
Alas ! Reginald Gloverson could give
no answer. In vain the heart-stricken
mother threw herself upon his inanimate
form, crying, "Oh my son, my son! only
tell me where the mules are and then you
may die if you want to."
In vain, in vain I Reginald had passed
on.
CHAPTER IL-FUNERAL TRAPPINGS,
The mules were never found.
Reginald's heart-broken mother took
the body home to her unfortunate son's
widows. But before the arrival, she in
discreetly sent a boy to burst the news
gently to the afflicted wives, which he did
by informing them, in a hoarse whisper,
that their 'old man had gone in."
The wives felt very badly indeed.
'He was devoted to me,"sobbed Emily.
"And jo me," said Maria.
"Yes," said Emily, "he thought consid
erably of you, but not so much as he did
of me.?
"I say he didn't!"
"He did !"
"Don't look at me, with your squint
eyes!" _ _ _
"Don't shake your red head at we !"
"Sisters," said the black-haired Hen
rietta, "cease this unseemly wrangling. I,
as his first wife, shall strew flowers on
his gray..."
"No you won't," said Susan. "I, as his
last wife, shall strew flowers on his grave.
It's my business to strew."
"You shan't—so there !" said Henrietta.
"You bet I will," said Susan, with a
tear-suffused cheek.
"Well, as for me," said the practical
Betsy, "I ain't orr the strew much, but I
shall ride at the head of the funer.l r ...
cessitm."
"Not if I've been introduced to myself,
you won't," said the golden haired Nelly;
"that's my pos ition. You bet your bon
net strings it is."
"Chitren," said Reginald's mother, "you
must do some crying, you know, on the
day of the funeral ; and how many pocket
handkerchiefs will it take to go around?
Betsy, you and Nelly ought to make one
do between you."
'l'll tear her eyes out if she perpetuates
a sob on my kandkerchief," said Nelly.
"Dear daughter-in-law," said Reginald's
mother, "how unseemly is this anger.
Mules of five hundred dollars a span, and
every identical mule my poor boy had has
been gobbled up by the red man. I knew
when my Reginald staggard into the door
yard that he was on the die, but -if I'd
only thunk to ask him about them mules
ere his gentle spirit wok its flight, it
would have been four thousand dollars in
our pockets, and no mistake. Excuse
these real tears, but you never felt a pa •
rent's feelings.".
"It's an oversight, sobbed Maria. "Do
not blame us."
CHAPTER 111.-DUST DUST.
The funeral passed off in a very pleas
ant manner, nothing occurring to mar the
harmony of the occasion. By a happy
thought of Reginald's mother, the wives
walked to the grave twenty abreast, which
rendered that part of the ceremony
thoroughly impartial.
That night the twenty wives, with hervy
hearts, sought their twenty respective
couches.
In another house, not many leagues
from the house of mourning, a gray-hair
ed woman was weeping passionately.
"He died," she cried, "he died without
signifying, in any respect, where them
mules went to I"
CHAPTER IV.-MARRIED AGAIN.
Two years elapse between the third and
fourth chapters. A manly Mormon, one
evening, as the sun was preparing to set
among a select assortFuppt, of gold and
crimson clouds in tho western borison—,
although foe that matter the sun has a
right to "set" where it wants to, and so, I
may add, has a hen—a manly Mormon, I
say, tapped gently at the door of the late
Reginald Gloverson.
"Is this the house of the widow Glover
son ?" the_Mormon asked.
"It is," said Susan.
"And how many is there of she ?" in
quired the Mormon.
"There is about twenty of her, includ
ing me," returned Susan.
i'qui I see her ?"
"Tail Caii, "
"Madam," he softly saicl, atltlressinu the
twenty disconsolte widows. "I have seen
part of you before. And although I've
already twenty-five wives, whom I respect
and tender'ly care for, I can truly say I
never felt love's holy thrill till I saw thee !
Be mine ! be mine . •he enthusiastically
cried, and we will show the world a stri
king illustration of the beauty and truth
of the noble lines only a good deal more
so—
'Twenty-one souls with a single thought.
Twenty-one hearts that beat as one.'
"They were united—they were."—Ar•
(emits Ward.
Useful Information.
How to lay off a. square acre of ground
measure off 209 feet on each side and you
have a . spate acre within an inch.
Contents of an acre—An acre contains
4840 square yards.
A square mile contains 160 acres.
Measures and distances—A mile is 5280
feet, or 1760 yards in length.
A fathom is six feet.
A league is three miles.
Wheat, beans, and flaxseed, 56 pounds
to the bushel.
Corn, rye, and flaxseed, 56 pounds.
Buckwheat, 53 pounds.
Barley, 43 pounds.
•
Coarse salt, 85 pounds
A. cubit is two feet.
A hand (horse measure) is four inches.
A palm is three inches.
A pace is three feet.
Barrel measure—A barrel of flour
weighs 196 pounds.
A barrel of pork 200 pounds.
A barrel of rice 250 pounds.
A keg of powder 25 pounds.
A tub of butter 56 pounds.
Bushel measure—the following are sold
A liquid ton is 252 gallons.
A box 16 by 16i and 8 inches deep
contains a bushel.
Under the head of useful facts for the
grocer, the American Grocer gives the fol
lowing:
A box of lemons will average 330 in num
ber, a box of oranges from 200 to 250.
A ease of preserved ginger contains six
jars. _ _ _
A,frail of dates weighs from 250 to 200
pounds.
A drum of figs is 3,4, and 8 pounds.
A cask of prunes 1300 to 180 4 0 pounds,
averaging about 1500 pounds.
Currants come in casks of from 175 to
'3OO pounds. _ _
Citrons come in small boxes of about
10 pounds each. Tare, 2to 4 pounds.
Peanuts arc generally sent to market in
sacks containing about 3 bushels.
Dried apples and peaches come in bar
rels generally from 150 to 220 pounds.
A quintal of fish is 112 pounds.
Virginia peanuts weigh 22 pounds to
the bushel; Wilmington peanuts 26 to 28
pounds; African peanuts 32 pounds.
The Suburbs of Jerusalem.
We leave the city, says a writer in All
the Year Around, by the Damascus gate,
which is close to our hotel. and skirting
its walls, traverse the road overhanging
the Valley of Hinnom, and so, past the
modern burial ground and the Potter's
Field, we are soon on the main road to
Hebron. The sun gains power every
minute And the Hazards and chameleons
are darting - rapidly in and out of the
stones exposed to its rays. On the bank
raising from the opposite side of Hinn om
stands a row of neat modern dwellings,
which would not look out of place in the
neighborhood of Battersea. They are the
new almshouses erected by Sir Moses Mon
teflore for indigent Jews, and all are occu
pied.- But, as was one invariable exper
ience in Jerusalem and its vicinity, the
real and apocrypha traditions crcwd upon
us so quickly, that we have difficulty in
masterinc , the externals of each. On that
lonely and blighted tree seen high up to
the left yonder, Judas Iscariot is said to
have banged himself. It is close to the
ruins of the house of Caiaphas, the high
priest, and on the naked crown of the
Hill of Evil Counsel, which raises ab
ruptly on the north side of the ravine,
Hinnom below it and the house of Caia
phas above. The photographs and pictures
u 1 lh,2r;it _an
pears in reality, by reason of their almost
variably bringing its harsh rocks and an
cient burial places into prominent relief.
By these means that accursed and blighted
look is given it which accords so well with
its shocking traditions, but which is, as we
decided, misleading. The Potter's Field
is wore fertile than the rest of the ground
near. The ()live flourishes on it, and the
view over the Valley and towards Zion is
comprehensive and picturesque.
Learn a Trade.
The Cleveland Leader gives the follow
ing sound advice: No fact is truer than
that the man who is possessed of a good
trade, well learned, and who uses his re
sources to their best advantage, is master
of his destiny: The demand tor skilled
workers is well nigh exhaustible, the field
for their employment nearly illimitable,
and the supply almost continually inade
quate, at least in this country. And the
growth of the demand is more rapid than
that of the supply in most of the indus
trial pursuits. •
In this broad laud of ours, with its vast
resources and its vigorous strides in devel
opment, no man who can work at any use
ful employment need be idle;. no man need
feel dependent upon the favor, or the in
dulgence, or the charity of any other man.
Possessed of a trade, the young man in
America has a capital for which he can
find ample and ready investment at all
times, which will pay him the highest in
terest, and which will grow in value and
availability with each day of its use. We
know, therefore, no better or more profit
able sermon to preach to the youth of the
land than one that has for its text: Learn
a trade, and learn it well. It is a talis
man of power and independence, upon
which you may always rely, and which
will never fail you.
Living Within Your Means,
Bulwer says that poverty is only au idea,
in nine eases out of ten. Some men with
£lO,OOO a year suffer more for want of
means than others with $3OO. The reason
is, the richer man has artificial wants.
His income is $lO,OOO a year, and he suf
fers enough from being dunned for unpaid
debts to kill a sensitive man. The man
who earns a dollar a day and does not go
in debt, is the happier of the two. Very
few people who have never been rich will
believe this, but it is true. There are
thousands and thousands with princely in
comes who never know a moments peace,
because they live above their means. There
is really more happiness in the world
among the workingmen, than among those
who are called rich,
NO. 5
Übe Tout ariL
Going Home,
They are going—only going—
Jesus called them long ago ;
All the wintry time they're passing,
Softly as the falling snow.
When the violets in the spring-time
Catch the azure of the sky,
They are carried out to slumber
Sweetly where the violets lie.
They are going—only going—
When with summer earth is dressed,
In their cold hands holding roses
Folded to each silent breast;
When the autumn hangs red banners
Out above the harvest sheaves,
They are going—over going—
Thick and fast, like falling leaves.
All along the mighty ages, •
All adown the solemn time,
They have taken up their homewar4.
March to that serener clime,
Where the watching, waiting angels
Lead them from the shadow dim
To the brightness of His presence
Who has called them unto Him.
They are going—only going—
Oat of pain and into bliss—
Out of sad and sinful weakness
Into perfect holiness.
Snowy brows—no care shall shade them
Bright eyes—tears shall never dim ;
Rosy lips—uo time shall fade them—
Jesus called them unto Him.
Little hearts forever stainless,
Little hands as pure as they,
Little feet by angels guided
Never a forbidden way I
They are going, ever going,
Leaving many a lonely spot;
But 'tis Jesus who has called them—
Suffer and forbid them not.
Now.
Novi ! A short word; a shorter thing.
Soon uttered ; sooner gone. Now ! A grain
of sand on a boundless plain. A tiny ripple
on a measureless ocean . Over that ocean
we are sailing ; but the only part of it we
possess is that on which our vessel'at this
moment floats. From the:.starn we look
backward and watch the ship's wake in the
waters; but how short a distance it reach
es, and how soon every trace disappears !
We sec also sonic landmarks farther off, and
then the horizon cies& the view ; but be
yond; that ocean still rolls far, for away.—
Memoiy contemplates the few yours of our
individual life; history shows us a dim out
line of mountains; science . tells us that still
farther back, out of sight, stretches that
vast sea; reason assures us that, like space,
it has no boundary ; but all that we possess
of it is represented by this small word—
Now ! The past, for action, is ours no
longer. The future may never become
present, and is not ours until it does. - The
only part of time we can use is this very
moment—Naze !
O. listen to the voice of warning now !
"Awake thou that sleepest !" Awake now !
"Seek the Lord while he may be found !"
Seek him now ! "Believe in the Lord Je
sus Christ and thou shalt be saved ! Believe
now•! Confesh to him your sins, aSk pardon
through his blood, rely on his atonement,
implore the help of his spirit, devote your
self entirely to his service. PO'it now
"Strive to enter in at the straight gate."
now ! Offer the prayer. "God be merciful
to me a sinner," now. Too much time has
been wasted already. 4.se no more, :This
may be your only opportunity ! Seize it
now !
Now ! for time is short, and death is
near, and judgment threatens ! Now ! for
iu eternity it will be tow late, and your ve
ry next step may land you there ! The
only season of which you can be sure is
now ! The only season in which you can
work is now ! The purpose may not last
till to-morrow; fulfill it now ! Fresh dif
ficulties will flood the channel to-morrow—
wade it now ! The chain of evil habit will
bind you more tightly to-morrow ; snap it
now ! Religion is a work for every day ;
begin it now! Sin exposes to present mis
eries ; escape them now ! Holiness confers
present joys; seize them now! Your Cre
ator commands; obey him now ! A (led
of love entreat; be reconciled now ! The
Father from his throne invites ; return
now ! The Saviour from hiS cross beseech
es ; trust him now!! The Holy Spirit is
striving in your heart; yield now ! -"Be
hold now is the accepted time, beheld now
•
Lay'
_Sermon.
"If ye abide in me, and my words abide in
you ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall, be
done unto you."—John, :tr. 7.
We want so many things we do not have,
that we can scarcely believe it poss-ibtd that
we can have all our wants satisfied; and
yet there stands the premise of the Lord,
and it cannot fail. We all want health,
and riches and friends, and wally other
things, the possession of which is gratify
ing to the natural man; and when we fail
to obtain them, and in their stead get sick
ness, and poverty, and enemies, we are dis
posed to repine, and even to doubt the
goodness of the Lard. 13nt it' we abide i::
the Lord, and his words abide inns, we will
cheerfully accept whatever the Lord, in
His infinite wisdom, sees is best for our
eternal welfare. Instead of asking for our
own will to be fulfilled, we will, in all cir
cumstances, say : "Thy will. 0, Laid, be
done." When we come to have full faith
in the Lord's goodness and wisdom, we Shall
receive all that we ask for; bemuse we will
ask only that He will give us such . things
as He sees we need. Our prayer will be :
"Thy kingdom' come : thy - will be done on
earth as it is in heaven." We will ask for
nothing but what the Lord sees. is belt for
us; and that He will always gire us; and
thus the promise, '-)7e shall aslF what ye
will, and it shal be done unto you," will
receive its fillfillment, and we will be saved.
No other faith than this can save us.
A Hundred Years to Come,
To-day we are striving, pushing, grasp
ing after wealth, honor, power and pleasure.
The poor claim wealth that they may be
above want, the rich seek to add to their
countless thousands. So are we wishing
forward, reckoning not the result of our
probationary existence. No one ever ap
pears to think how soon we may sink into
oblivion—that we are one
_generation of
missoins. Yet such is the fact. Time and
progress have, through countless ages, come
marching hand in hand—the one destroy
ing, the other building up. They seem to
create little or no commotion, and the work
of destruction is as easily and silently ac
complished as a child will pull to pieces a
rose. Yet such is the fact—the solemn
truth. A hundred years hence, and much
that we now see around us will too have
passed away. It is but the repetition of
life's story we are horn, we live, we die.—
Think, then, of the souls that are above,
imperishable. The souls of countless mil
lions s ill exist in punishment or in bliss.
We all within our graves shall sleep
A hundred years to come.