The Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1871-1904, August 30, 1871, Image 1

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    )L. 46
HuntiUgdon Journal,
the Corner of Bath and Washington etree'ts.
:t,rtsonom JOURNAL is published every
by J. It. DIIRRORROW and J. A. NAse,
firm name of J. IL Dunnonnow J 6 Co., at
annum, IN ADVANCE, or $2,50 if not paid
months from date of subscription, and
paid within the year.
,er discontinued, unless at the option of
shers. until all arrmtrages are paid.
. .
RTISEMENTS will be inserted at TEN
,r lino for each of the first four insertions,
CENTS per ling for each subsequent inser
than three months.
..r monthly and yearly advertisements will
ed at the following rides :
miGm9inlly i 3m 6m Sully
00 € 0010 00,12 01$ " 24 00 360 501 65
00 tO 004 00118 00 4 " 34 00 50 00 65 SO
00 14 00'20 00,24 00
50 18 00115 00130 00 , 1 col 36 00 60 00
I notices will be tbserted at TWELVE AND
BENTS per line, and local and editorial no-
IFT . EEN CENTS per line.
solutions of Associations, Communications
1 or individual interest, and notices of Mar
.] Deaths, exceeding five lines, will be
TEN CENTS per line.
and other notices will be charged to the
ring them inserted.
rising Agents must finl their commission
.f these figures.
rertbring account , ' are due and collectable
adrert;vement ix once inserted.
'RINTING of every kind, in Plain and
Mors, done with neatness and dispatch.—
Ils, Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, loc., of every
.nd style: printed at the shortest notice,
y thing in the Printing. line will be cocott
e most artistic manner and at the lowest
Professional Cards
)ENGATE, Surveyor, Warriors
mark, Pa- [apl2,'7l.
CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
To. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied
rs. Woods d Williamson. [apl2;7l.
espectfully offers his professional services
tisens of Huntingdon and vicinity.
removed to No. 618 Rat street, (Smines
o.) [apr.s,'7l-1 y.
J. C. FLEMMING respectfully
fors his professional services to the citizens
ingdon and vicinity. Office second floor of
;ham's building, on corner of 4th and Hill
may 24.
D. P. MILLER, Office on Hill
itreet, in the room formerly occupied by
a M'Culloch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res
., offer his professional services to the citi-
Huntingdon and vicinity. Dan:l,7l.
. A. B. BRUMBAIMH, offers his
professional services to the community.
on Washington street, one door east of the
Parsonage. [jan.4,'7l.
. G. D. ARNOLD, Graduate of the
University of Pennsylvania, offers his pro
.l services to the people of Huntingdon and
ansct::—Dr. B. P. Hook,of Loysvil.e,
,oin he formerly practiced; Drs. Stifle and
of Philadelphia.
on Washington street, West Huntingdon,
J. GREENE, Dentist. Office re
moved to Leister's new building, fill street
gdon. f10n.4,•77.
L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T.
Brt.wn's new building, No. 520, Hill St.,
gdon, Pa. [ap12,71.
GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
of Washington anti Smith streets, Hun
t, Pa. Lian.l2'7l.
C. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law.
Office, No. —, Hill street, Huntingdon,
SYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at-
Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street,
oors west of Smith. Lian.47l.
'ATTON, Druggist and Apoth
,, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hen-
Prescriptions accurately compounded.
s for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70.
R. 1
a, Pa.
HALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
Huntingdon, Pa. Office, second floor of
.'s new building, 11111 street. [jan.4,7l.
R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at-
Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the
I Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular
on given to the settlement of estates of demi-
ie in he JOURNAL Building. [feb.l,ll
A. POLLOCK, Surveyor and Real
Estate Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend
veying in all its branches. Will also buy,
• rent Farms, Houses, and Real Estate of ev
ad, in any part of the United States. Send
lircular. Ljan.47l.
W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
rs' claims against the Government for back
aunty, widows' and invalid pensions attend
with groat care and promptness.
se on Hill street. [jan.4,'7l.
ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at
• Law, iluntingd3n, Pa. Special attention
to COLLECTIONS of all kinds ; to the settle
of Estates, de.; and all other Legal Business
•uted with fidelity and dispatch..
. .
P Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
, Esq. [jan.4,'7l.
"ILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at
- Law. Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly
legal business. Office in Cunninr,bauf s new
lug. jan.4,'7l.
M. & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
at-Law, liuntingdon, Pa., will attend to
nds of legal business entrusted to their care.
ce on the south side of Hill street, fourth door
A Smith. [jan.4,'7l.
A. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
• Office, 321 11111 street, lluntingdon, Pa.
torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions,
.11 claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against
()comment will be promptly prosecuted.
me on Hill street. Dan.4;7l.
W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
• tingdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart,
Dan. 4,71.
at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
eto collections, and all other legal business
ided to with care and promptness. Office, No.
Hill street. [apl9,'7].
XCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Po. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
.nuary 4, 1571.
3. 223 Rill Streit,
5, '7l-Iy,
OB T. KING, Merchant Taylor, 412
Washington street, Huntingdon, Pa., a lib
share of patronage respectfully solicited.
pril 12, 1571.
The Huntingdon Journal.
Zile Inoue Puier.
Humble Life ,
Tell me not that he's a poor man,
That his dress is coarse and bare
Tell me not his daily pittance
Is a workman's scanty fare ;
Tell me not his birth is humble,
That his parentage is low;
Is be honest in his station I
This is all I want to know.
Is his word to be relied on?
Has his character no stain?
Then I care not if he's low born—
Then I care not whence his name.
Would he from an unjust action
Turn away with scornful eye?
Would lie than defraud another
Sooner on the scaffold die?
Would he spend his hard-gained earnings
On a brother in distress?
Would he succor the afflicted,
And the weak one's wrong redress ?
Then he is a man deserving
Of my love and my esteem,
And I care not what hie birth-place
In the eye of man may seem.
801 100
Let it be a low, thatched hovel ;
Let it be a clay-built cot ;
Let it be the parish work-house—
In my eye it matters not.
And if others would disown him
As inferior to their caste,
Let them do so—l'll befriend him
As a brother to the last.
A Beautiful Um.
"There's many an empty cradle,
There's many a vacant bed,
There's many a lonely bosom,
Whose joy and light have fled
For thick in every graveyard
The little hillocks lie,
And every hillock represents
An angel in the sky."
BOGORODSKOE is a pleasant place in
summer, to those, at least, who are not
above plain living, for neither hotel nor
refreshment room has ever been heard of
there. The whole place is - simply one of
those quaint little clusters of rough-hewn
log huts, clinging like limpets to either
side of the high road, which are nowhere
seen to such perfection as in Sweden or
Russia. Some few of the houses are of a
grander sort, actually two-stories high,
with brightly-painted, roofs and white
washed balconies iu front, that makes them
look as if they had white ties on. These
are the "swell" mansions of the place, and
look down upon the poor little shanties
around them as a footman looks at a beg
gar ; but for the most part, our village is
made up of little cabins of the regular
Russian type, built with no tool but ashort
axe—one-storied, thatched with straw, con
taining two, or, at most, three rooms, and
topped by the cocked-hat-shaped "Tcker
dak" or garret, in which the Russian peas
ant stows his hay, piles his wood, stores
his provisions, dries his clean linen. (when
he has auy,) and, iu a word, bestows eve
rything that he cannot cram into the little
kennel below stairs, where he, his wife,
his children, and very often likewise his
ox and his ass, his pig and his poultry, and
everything that is his. The beams of Mr.
Ivan's house fit into each other at the ends
like the corners of a slate-frame, his door
is fastened by strong wooden pegs, beside
his big stove hangs the rudely daubed pic
ture of some Russian saint with a candle
burning in front of it, and in the corner of
the room stands a huge "soon-dook" or
wooden chest,. painted red, and clamped
with iron bands. This chest is the peas
ant's greatest pride ; he keeps his Sunday
clothes in it—and his friends sit upon it
like a sofa, and whenever he changes from
place to place, he always drags this great
heavy sentry-box of a thing along with
But I doubt whether any of you wodd
like to live in a Russian cottage. The roof
is just a mixture of sapling and spiders;
the walls a mish-mash of wood, earth and
earwigs; the floor a paste of straw and
clay, dotted with black beetles, like the
plums in a Christmas pudding.
The hut I lived in had only just been
Wilt, so that I had nothing worse to dis
turb me than a regiment of black
ants marohing every now and then out of
the cracks in my window-sill, or a swarm
of mosquitoes comino• ' "ping-pinging" thro'
my open window. And, what's more, I
had a little table fixed in the ground in
front of my cottage, and a low bench put
beside it, and there I used to have my
breakfast and tea in the open air; and I
can tell you that when I was sitting there
about seven o'clock on a glorious summer
morning, fresh from my early walk, with
my cosy little tea-urn steamitfg in front of
me, a fresh roll on one side, and a couple
of newly laid eggs on the other, and the
soft, dreamy, sunny uplands stretching be
fore me for miles, edged here and there
with dark patches of forest, like fur trim
ming upon a velvet robe—l was as happy
as could be. One may be comfortable in
Russia as well as anywhere else; and when
you come to travel there, you soon find out
that it is not the cold dark prison, full of
spies, wolves and frost-bites, that we used
to imagine it; that there are other things
to eat there beside soap and candles, and
other things to do beside sitting all day
close to a stove with a woolen comforter
round your neck.
While the beat of the day lasts you don't
see much of our villagers. Here and there
you may fall in with a stray one creeping
along the highway, or straggling about the
fields; but as a rule, the bulk of the popu
lation don't show up till towards evening.
Then, as if by magic, the whole place sud
denly becomes alive with all kinds of queer
figures; bearded laborers in greasy red
shirts, with baggy trousers stuffed into
their boots; shouting children, shaggy as
bears and brown as hazel-nuts, with noth
ing on but a pancake-colored night-gown
well lined with dirt; short-skirted women,
with scarlet handkerchiefs round their
beads, and round, flat, wide-mouthed faces
that look like a penny with a hole through
it; sallow students with straggling Mack
hair, and an earthy unwashed look about
them, ogling the brown-cheeked, barefoot
ed lasses who come tripping by with their
pails of spring water ; and spruce village
policemen dotted with brass buttons, and
looking on with fatherly superiority. But
it is beside the rickety pump in front of
the village "shop of all sorts" that the
great assembly is held. There fathers dis
cuss things in general, with their mouths
full of black bread and salted cucumber;
there mothers compare notes on family
matters, or drive bargains among them
selves; and there children of every age
amuse themselves with-the national sports
of rolling in the gutter and throwing dirt
in each other's eyes, varied by an occasion
al bout at knuckle-bones, by way of variety.
But in winter a sad change comes over
Merry Bogorodskoe. Instead of the charm
ing little village, full of life and enjoy
ment, you see nothing but a cluster of si
lent huts, half buried in snow, peering
above the great white desert that extends
on every side. All around the bare, deso
late fields stretch their ghostly wastes to
the horizon, while here and there a solitary
raven, disturbed by your approach, flaps
heavily away with a dismal scream, like.
some belated spectre returning to its grave.
The few peasants who still linger about,
muffled in their thick sheepskin frocks,
survey you with an air of disdainful aston
ishment, as if wondering what business
you have here at all ; the lafless trees stand
up gaunt and grim against the cold, grey
sky, like an army of skeletons, and over
all broods a dead, dreary, ghostly silence,
broken only by the distant barking of a
dog, or the moan of the wind through the
distant forest. And worse still, if you hap
pen to stroll beyond the village after dark,
you will see pale spots of light like the
flame of a half-quenched coal flitting among
the trees—and hear a long, melancholy
howl, like the wail of the wind on a gusty
winter night, going drearily up through
the still frosty air—and suddenly find
yourself face to face with a huge, gaunt,
grey wolf, as savage and bloodthirsty as
hunger can make him.
Well, it was on a January evening, the
winter before last, that six men were as
sembled in one of the huts which I have
described. It was a room of the common
sort, a big bed, with a patchwork coverlet,
filling up one side, the usual huge chest in
one corner, a picture of the emperor on
one wall, a picture of the bombardment of
Sebastopol on the other, and a portrait of
a saint, as usual. beside the stove, several
clumsy wooden chairs, and a low table, on
which stood a "samovar," or Russian tea
urn, with a tea-pot perched on top of it,
while around it stood half a dozen tum
blers, full or empty ; for in Russia you
know its the way to drink tea out of tum
blers instead of cupd, a fashion which burns
one's fingers shockingly, Wit does nothing
Beside the tea-urn stood a small lamp
(gurgling and sputtering as if it had a bad
cold,) which threw a pale circle of light
upon the heavy cross beams of the roof and
the dark, sallow, bearded faces of the com
pany. They made a very - striking group
under the dim lamplight, these six men,
and all the more so from the strange man
ner in which they were behaving. In an
ordinary party of Russian peasants you
would have heard ceaseless talking and
laughing, boisterous jokes, stories of Neigh
bor This and Neighbor That, snatches of
old song, sung in this very place, by the
same kind of men, in the days of Peter the
Great, and possibly if' the story-teller of
the village happened to be of the party, an
old legend or two, handed down from gen
to generation since Russia first be
came a people; how Ilia Murometz fought
with the Nightingale Brigand, and how
Alexcy Popaviteh slew the Flying Tartar.
But these men were silent and thoughtful;
no jokes, no stories, no laughter, every face
clouded ..444. ..knrry oyo flet.rl
moodily on the ground.
And what was it, then, that made them
so gloomy? Let us listen to their talk,
and perhaps we can find out.
"lt's a sore judgment on us I" said one
who seemed to be the host—a big, burly
man, with a tangled, yellow beard. "The
like has not been seen since the year '6l,
when the wolves came right into The vil
lage, and killed nine of our dogs in one
aught. But then there were many wolves,
while now it is only one that does all the
mischief, and yet we, as many as we are,
can do nothing against him."
And how the mischief can we do any
thing," cried a second, "against a brute
that scurries about as if he had wings ?
Pounce he comes into the village, gobbles
up the first thing that comes to hand, and
off again, and you may try to recollect his
name !" (This is the popular phrase for
utter disappearance.)
"Well, we must do somethingto stop it,"
said the third, a grim old fellow, who had
had his nose taken off by a frost-bite.—
"Mother Avdotia's only cow killed last
week, poor Ivan Masleg torn to bits on
Friday, Feodore Nikeetin's dog snapped up
last night, and our watchman's shoulder
bitten through—brothers, we are wrong
before God if we allow this to go on !"
"Ah, it is all very well to say we must
do something—but who's to do it ?" re
turned the second speaker emphatically.
"When we turn out, three or four togeth
er, the cunning rascal marks it, and keeps
on, and there's not a man in the village, I
take it, that would venture upon him sin
gle handed. Who'll try it think ye ?"
"I will !"
It was a very low quiet voice that spoke
the last words ; but there was a firmness
in it which no one could ntistake. The
sixth of the party, seated in the &Mier
corner near the door, had hitherto been so
quiet that they had almost forgotten his
presence, but now every eye was turned
upon him. He was a young man, but lit
tle over twenty, though his heavy mus
tache and square, thick-set, muscular frame
made him appear considerably older. His
face was course and commonplace enough
—the sallow, low-browed, weather beaten
countenance of the genuine Russian peas
ant; but there was a nameless something
about the broad, square jaw and small deep
set gray eye, that would have made you
pick out that man among all the six for
any work requiring courage and he had
performed more than one feat which the
village gossips still remembered with ad
miration in their winter evening chat round
the tea-urn.
"Ah, Valdimir Mikhailovitch !" (Wal
ter son of Michael), cried the host, "what's
this you're thinking of ? You that have
only been married two months, to go ma
king wolf's meat of yourself ? Nonsense,
lad, stay at home, and take care of your
wife, and leave wolf hunting to them that's
got nothing better to do."
Valdimir answered never a word; but
his features hardened like a mask of iron,
as he slowly rose to his feet. All present
knew well that when his face wore the look
that was upon it now they might as well
try to move a mountain as to persuade
him; and they sat silent, waiting to hear
what he would say.
"You say that Nikeetin the butcher lost
a dog last night; did the wolf eat the
whole carcass ?" asked Valdimir of the
noiseless man, in the quick commanding
tone of one who knows that he must be
"No; he hardly got a bit of it, the ras
cal—that's one comfort!" answered the
old fellow with a grim chuckle. "Feodore
Stepanovitch heard the dog yelp, and out
rushed he and his men with lights and
hatchets, and scared the brute away. As
for the dog, it's lying there in his yard
one of yon, and bring it; and if
any one has a sharp wood-knife, let him
give it to me."
It was curious to see how absolutely this
man, the youngest and least important of
the whole party, issued his orders; and
how unhesitatingly the rest obeyed them.
Here, as everywhere, the stronger mind
took the lead, and the weaker instinctively
The host produced a huge, broad-bladed
knife, which Valdiinir slung around his
neck without a word ; and, a few minutes
later, the carcass of Nikeetin's dcg was
lying beside the door. He then drained
his glass and said : "You tell me this
brute generally comes about midnight ; so
between eleven and twelve I shall take
this carcass to the cross-roads, and throw
it there as a bait for him, hiding myself
behind the fence hard by. When he
comes up, I shall attack him; and then
let it be as God wills. But you, brothers,
mind and don't say a word of this to ,any
one, lest my Masha (Marh) should hear of
it. If I get off, there's no need for her to
know the matter at all ; and, if I am killed,
she'll hear of it soon enough—God help
her ! And now, Alexcy Nikolaievitch, if
you can spare me your bed for awhile, I'll
take a nap to freshen me for my work."
And a few moments later, this hero
(himself all unconscious of doing anything
heroic) was sleeping as calmly as if a dead
ly conflict, from which he had little or no
chance of escaping, were not awaiting him
four hours later on.
Midnight—cold, dreary, ghostly. A dead
grim silence over the lifeless village and
lonely high road. A faint glimmer of
moonlight, giving a weird, spectral look to
the half-seen outlines of the dark, silent
log-huts and making the gloomy depths of
the encircling forest aeem all the blacker.
A shapeless mass lying out upon the hard
snow of the cross-roads, and a dark figure
crouched behind a fence hard by, with
something in its hand which glitters as the
moon falls upon it.
Weary, weary work, crouching there in
the cold and darkness, with the stiffening
fingers clutching the heavy hatchet, and
the strained ears watchful to catch the
slightest sound. Hark ! was not that low
howl from the far distance ? No, it was
but the wind moaning through the skele
ton branches of the forest. Patience yet !
Hark, again ! and this time there is no
mistaking the sound; not the long melan-
choly howl wherewith a supperless wolf
may be heard bemoaning himself, on the
outskirts of Moscow, almost every night in
the week, but a quick, snarling cry, as of
one who sees his food near at hand, and
wishes to hasten its arrival. And there,
gliding ghost-like over the great waste of
snow, comes a long gaunt shadow, straight,
swift, unswerving, towards yonder shape
less lump of carrion on the highway, upon
which he pounced with a fierce worrying
snarl that snakes even the brave heart of the
listener stand still for a moment with in
voluntary horror. Now is Valdimir's time !
To rush out at once might scare the beast
away ; he must try to cripple it. The axe
flies at the monster's head with a force of
a catapult; but the dim light deceives his
aim, and it hits the fore shoulder instead,
tearing it open with a fearfulgash, from
wh:Th the blood gushes freely over the
snow. With a sharp howl of pain, the
wolf turns and flies; but the swiftest foot
in Bogorodskoe is hard at his heels. After
his long, weary vigil, this breakneck chase
is like the breath of lite to Valdimir, and
over this hard smooth snow, his speed is
a match for any wolf wounded like this
one. Already he had almost come up with
the game, and is raising his knife for a
sure stroke, when the flying grey shadow
in front of him suddenly wheels round,
shoots up from the earth like a rocket, and
falls right upon the breast of its pursuer.
Down goes man and wolf amid the whirl
Of flying snow, while ashrill yell rings out
on the silent air, for even in the sudden
shock of that death-grapple, Valdimir's
knife has found time to come home, and
the hot blood pears over his face and breast
from the wounded side of his adversary.
I And so, far out on the lonely plain, with
the cold soon looking piteously down upon
it, begins the tug for life and death. Over
and over they roll in the bloody snow, the
wolf clutching at the throat of the man,
the man burying his knife in the side of
the wolf. Crushed to the earth beneath
the stifling weight spent with his long
watch and headlong run—with certain
death glaring at him from the yellow, mur
derous eyes of the savage brute, the stub
born Russian still fights doggedly on. In
the hot fury of that mortal struggle, the
fierce hunter-nature awakes, sweeping away
all memory of his comrades, his wife, his
devotion, he feels only the longing to tear
and kill tingling to his very finger ends,
only the grim enjoyment of plunging his
knife again and again into that gaunt mus
cular side where the life seems to lie so
deep. See ! those merciless stabs are at
length beginning to tell ; the fierce yellow
eyes are growing dim, the huge jaws quiv
er convulsively, and from their edges the
froth and blood drip in hot flakes upon
Valdimir's thee. But now, with a mighty
effort, the wolf' wrenches his head from the
iron grasp of Valdimir's left arm, and with
one fierce crunch of his strong teeth breaks
the bone below the elbow. The limb drops
powerless at his side. One more desperate
stab into the quivering flesh of his enemy,
and then he feels the savage teeth, fasten
ing upon his throat; everything swims
around him, there is a rushing as of water
in his ears, a thousand sparks dance before
his eyes, and then all is blank.
"God be praised, brother, that you are
still alive !" said a gruff voice in Valdi
mir's ear, as he recovered consciousness;
while, at the same moment, a soft arm was
thrown round his neck, and a fervent
"thank God !" murmured by a sweet voice
that he knew well.
"Where am I?" asked Kovroff, looking
vacantly around, and recognizing first his
wife, and then his host of the evening be
"Where are you ?" repeated Alexcy ;
"why in my hut to be sure, where you've
been ever since we brought you in last
night. You know, when you went out,we
followed at a distance ; and as soon as we
saw you start in chase of the wolf, we set
out after you; but it is not every body that
can run like you, so we didn't catch you
up till 'Uncle CI reycoat' was first trying to
get the best of it,"
And finally he recovered, sure enough ;
at least, when I met him at Bogorodskoe
last summer, he was well enough to run a
mile shoulder to shoulder with me, and
break a thick sapling like a stick of sealing
wax. And after the race I wont home to
tea with him, and saw the wolf's head (its
skin he had sold to a Russian officer)
nailed up above the door of his hut. And
the old man who had lent him the knife
told me the whole story, just as I give it
to you ; and he told me too, that from that
day forward the whole village called Val
dimir nothing but 'Mujeek Bogatler,' or
the Peasant Hero.
ire goktrot gudo.
A Lawyer Among Cows,
Squire Wick, a lawyer who fancies
what he don't know ain't w)rth "pum
kins," and whose home ain't a thousand
miles from the Pine Tree State, was a
great favorite with the late Judge Cranch.
Once visiting the Judge, the latter invited
him to walk over his premises. Among
other places they visited the barn-yard,
and the squire was struck with admira
tion as he gazed upon the noble herd of
cows which had just been driven up for
milking. He talked as elaborately of their
good points as would a first-rate good
stock breeder, when the fact was he knew
next to nothing about stock, and some of
the good points which he spoke of caused
the Judge a hearty laugh—in his sleeve.
"Well," said the Judge, "which of the
cows will you take ?"
"Which will I take your honor ?" said
the Squire, not knowing the Judge's
meaning. . _
"Yes — , which will you take ? I am going
to make you a present of one of them—
which shall it be ?"
"Really, your honor, this is unexpected ;
I will nut object to the present, but had
rather your honor would make the selec
tion, as receivers should not be choosers."
"If you accept this present you must
make the selection. Being a good judge
of stock, you will not be likely to cheat
yourself." And the eccentric judge smi
led to himself.
The Squire rubbed his gold-bowed spec
tacles, and began to view the cows with a
critic's precision. After much scrutiniz
ing. he said :
"I apprehend your honor, you would not
like to part with that very fat, short-horn•
ed, thick-necked cow ?"
"I have no choice; make your selec
tion," said the judge, his risibles hardly
"I don't want to rob you of your favor
ite cow, but if you have no choice, I should
prefer the very fat one; she has many
goo4yoints.". . .
"N - o
favorite—no robbery at all—the
fat cow is yours. My man will drive her
to your house before milking."
The delighted Squire hastened home to
inform his wife. In about an hour he saw
the "fattest and the best cow in the vil
lage," as he styled her, driven into his
yard, and despatched a sable daughter of
Africa to milk her. In a few minutes in
came ebony, giggling and laughing. Squire
Wick knew something was to pay, and
what he could nor conjure. There stood
Dinah, "round up" with laughter, the
empty pail dangling by her side.
"What on earth is to pay, Dinah !" in
quired the Squire.
"0 masse, for coffin, only—ki-ki-ki,
ho-he-he-e-a-e !"
The Squire looked at his wife—she at
him—then both at Dinah, who had "con
niptioned" with laughter, and settled down
by the door, her face covered with her
apron, and her laughing machinery shak
iuoJier sides at a tremendous rate.
The Squire's mad riz.
"Dinah," sates no, at, the wp or nib
voice, "tell me what's to pay, or I'll throw
you out of the house."
Dinah rose and mastered herself long
enough to say, "0 for masse, noffin, only
dat cow of yourn's--a genzmen cow !"
and then fell into another fit of laughter.
Ifyou know how a chop-fallen man looks, a
portrait of Squire Wick's countenance
would be superfluous. The way that "very
fat, short-horned. cow!' walked back to the
yard of .Judge Cranch wasn't slow, and
the way the Judge shook his sides was a
caution to critics.
Morrow B. Lowry and the Rocky
Mountain Cat.
Jim Stewart. sometimes called "The
Commodore," is the most noted darkey in
Erie. Jim is a good natured, shrewd sort
of a fellow, somewhat addicted to doing
business now and then on the Jeremy Did
dler style, as the following incident will
testify. Living near the residence of the
lion. Morrow B. Lowry, he was frequent,
ly employed by the latter to do odd jobs
around the house and in the garden. One
day Mrs. Lowry concluded that the pecca
dillos of a worthless and venerable tom
cat, long an attache of the family, were
sush as demanded the infliction of capital
punishment, and Jim was called upon to
play the part of executioner. After a
long chase, the victim was captured and
put in a basket over which an old shawl
was securely fastened. The next question
was, how to dispose of the prisoner. Mrs.
L., sugg6sted drowning, but Jim, with
tears in his eyes, protested that he could
no more drown •'that ere cat" than he
could "drownd hisself;" that were he to
do so, his conscience, acting on a naturally
tender heart, would trouble him so much
'at nights that he was sure he could never
sleep a wink thereafter. Not wishing to
ruin Jim's peace 'of mind, Mrs. L., com
promised the matter by giving him a dol
lar and directing him to take the cat and
dispose of it in any way he pleased, so that
she could never see it again. Putting the
dollar in his pocket and the basket ou his
arm, Jim started down town. He had not
got out of sight of the house, when he met
Morrow walking leisurely toward his
home, and the following colloquy ensued :
Moaaow—Hello, Jim, what have you
got there ?
Jim—One ob de celebrated Rocky
Mountain cats, sah.
Morthow—A Rocky Mountain cat !
Why Jim, where did you get him, and
what are you going to do with him ?
JIM—I golly, sah ! Didn't you heah ob
de big bunch ob dem cats dat kum to town
yesterday from Kaliforny, sah ? Bes mous
ers in de wurl, sah, and dis is de biggest
and bee one ob de lot, salt Dey arc gwine
to gib me foah dollars fur him at the Reed
House, sah.
Monhow—(Recollecting the "general
cussedness" of the family cat.) Jim, we want
a good cat up home, and I guess I'll take
this fellow, but—but--don't you think
four dollars is mighty steep for a cat ?
Jim—All de re? sold for five &nabs sah
This decided Morrow, so he paid Jinr
the price asked, and told him to carry the
"Rocky Mountain cat" up to Mrs. Lowry.
Jim, however, had very important business
elsewhere, and begged Morrow to take the
basket himself, which the latter good na
turedly consented to do. Arriving at home
•he took his prize into the sitting room,
carefully closed the doors, slightly lifted
the basket and covering, and smiling be
nevolently at Mrs. L.'s apparent astonish
ment, remarked : "My dear, I've brought
you a Rocky Mountain cat—the best mous
er"—at this moment the cat jumped out of
the basket and commenced rubbing him
self against his master's legs. Morrow
stopped short, while his wife broke in im
patiently : "La me, Morrow ! Why that's
the same old cat I gave Jim Stewart a dollar
to drown, not more than ten minutes ago."
What followed we know not, but a few
minutes later the Hon. Morrow B. Lowry
might have been noticed on he streets of
Erie, armed with a very heavy walking
stick, and wondering "why a man can nev
er find that d—d nigger, when he wants
to see him badly."—Beaver Radical.
-41;' iozvlbiutous.
United States Expenditures.
The expenditures of the United States
from 1791 to June 30th, 1870, inclusive,
for all purposes, may be seen by the fol
lowing table :
War 83,925,833,822 61
816,220,310 1&
122,616,573 33
221,153,156 32
858,154;938 33
43,006,739 Oa
1,046,827,786 17
4,457,930,869 86
Public debt.
Gross expenditures 11,492,889,196 41
The gradual progress of these ,expendi
tures may be seen by the following exhib
it :
Years. Total Expenditures.
12,273,376 94
13,594604 89
19,090,572 69
30,038,446 12
31;797;530 03
48,479;104 31
85,387,313 08
70007;842 88
The expenditures fur the decade from
1860 to 1870 inclusive were as follows :
Total Expenditures
677,05,125 65
85,387,313 08
565,667,503 74
899,815,911 25
1864. _.
1,296,541,114 86
1865 1,906,432,331 37
1866 1;139;344,081 95
1,093,079,655 27
1,069,889,970 74
584;177,996 11
702,907,842 88
These figures, referring to the financial
history of the United States, cover the po
litical lifetime of this nation. Taken in
connection with the increase of population,
the acquisition of territory, and the addi
tion of new States to the Union, they fur
nish an example of national development
without parallel in the history of any oth
er country. Such a growth of govern
ment expenditures implies a correspon
ding growth of resources, in order to sus
tain them. In the course of the next
thirty years the greater part of our national
debt will probably be paid, and by that time
the United States, with the exception of
China, and possibly Russia, will in popula
tion be the largest nation in the world. It
is well worth all the cost of treasure and
blood incident to the late war to save such
a nation from disintegration and political
rnin.—N. Y. Sunday Press.
Tit-Bits, Taken on the Fly,
The next State election to be held this
year.- is that of California, on Tuesday,
Sept. 5, when a Governor and other State
officers will be chosen. The Legislature
of the Territory of Wyoming is chosen on
the same day.
Tuesday, August 15th, One Hundred
years ago, Sir Walter Scott was born. Who
so dull that cannot think to himself a ser
mon on what the world has done in this
hundred years since the birth of Walter
Scott. The event has been largely cele
brated throughout all Scotland.
What William Tell did as a matter of
fiction, Capt. Travis performed as a matter
of fact in Cleveland the other evening,
where he shot an apple from the head of
a boy 12 paces distant, sending a bullet,
clean through the center of the apple,
which remained undisturbed on the boy's
Secretary Boutwell, in answer to a let
ter from Hon. John Scott, has furnished
a statement of the unadjusted balances
Against ex-collectors of internal revenue
i❑ this State. It is a complete refutation
of a favorite charge of the Democratic
press, and deserves to be read and ponder
ed by every thinking man.
The Cumberland Daily News says :
"Within a few days, proposals will be in
vited for grading the new railroad from
the selected point of juncture on the Cum
land and Pennsylvania railroad to the
Maryland line, a distance of some three
miles." The, seven miles from the Bridge.
port end will be under way soon.
Mr. Edward Richardson, a Vermonter,
after residing 18 years on the Island of
Hawaii, owns an estate of 400,'.00 acres of
land, plentifully interspersed with lava
from the volcano of Mauna Loa. He
went to the Sandwhich Islands a poor man
to earn a livelihood as a carpenter. Among
his other possessions are 500 head of cat
Returns from the back counties of Ken
tucky show Democratic gains on the ma
jorities of last year. We are constrained
to concede Leslie, the repudiator of the
New Departure, a majority of at least 30,
000, if the counties heard from fairly mark
the current, as we have no reason to
Henry Clay Dean having disgusted
half of the Democracy by his position in
the new departure, a Kentucky paper
hopes to get him in disgust with the rest
f that party by urging him to wash his
ace and put on a clean shirt. The scheme
will fail, however, for Dean never follows
such advice. No never. He is the dirti
est dog we ever saw.
One of our Republi can exchanges fits
to the new departure policy of the Democ
racy the old anecdote of the boy and the
woodchuck. The boy was observed
watching for a woodchuck to come out of
his hole. Do you suppose you can catch
him ? said a passer by. Catch him ? said
the boy contemptuously; "I've got to
catch him stranger, we're out of meat."
Honors Greatan, an old, withered, rag
ged crone, who, for the past fifteen years,
has traversed the streets of New York
harnessed to a hand-cart, and collecting
rags and bones from the gutters and swill
tubs, died suddenly in a tumble-down
shanty near the foot of West One Hund
red and Twenty-fourth street. Investiga
tion proves that although she died from
starvation and exposure, she had nearly
five thousand dollars eposited in the
North River Savings Bank. This money
she bequeathed by will to a little girl eight
years of age, who lived with her. The
will provides that the girl shall be educa
ted at some Catholic boarding school.
Petty Expenses
The value of capital is fairly measured
by its ability to produce an income. The
value of a hundred dollars is indicated by
the fact that the possessor may, without
any more trouble than putting it in the
saving bank, or in government bonds, re
ceive six dollars a year for its use, or by
employing it in his business, together
with his own exertions, he may receive
very much more. In this community the
money itself earns only about six per cent.
When a man secures more than that, it is,
either because lie takes a risk and might
have lost, or because his special intelli
gence, skill or industry was combined with
his capital, and the increased income was
the earning of both. The share which the
money alone earns is usually understood to
be about six per cent.
Whoever therefore spends six dollars
nullifies one hundred dollars of capital for
a year. Or, in other words, to save six
cletin.:, from. - ortrowassikl6.l inn past, is As
good as to have a hundred dollars of capi
tal at work during that time.
A young man who has a salary of eigh
teen hundred dollars, considers, perhaps,
that squandering five or six dollars is only
losing a day's wages; but lie might with
accuracy consider that it is abandoning a
hundred dollars for the year. An invest
ment of fire thousand dollars would be
nullified by wasting six dollars every week
in useless expenditure. The petty ex
penses nullified just the amount of capital
that it takes to produce the sum spent.
If for instance a young man spends on
Monday three dollars on a bunch.of cigars
and Tuesday five on a ball, Weinesday
three at the opera, and Thursday two on
billiards, Friday three on a big dinner,
and Saturday evening two in doing noth
ing, his eighteen dollars have eaten up all
that fifteen thousand dollars could have
earned for him in the same time. With
fifteen thousand dollars of capital invest
ed, such a free spender is not so well off as
a young man without these expensive hab
its who has not a cent of capital
A questionable expenditure may often
be wisely tested in this way : I can get a
certain article I have a fancy for, for
twenty-five dollars. It is worth three or
four years' interest on a hundred dollars ?
Is it worth while to nnllifiy four hundred
dollars for a year, in order to gratify this
"I was just thinking, mother," said Ra
"Thinking about what ?" asked Mrs.
Harland, seeing that her daughter did not
complete the sentence she had begun.
"It was something about knitting. Mrs.
Barclay said this morning, as she passed
the window and saw me at work, 'This is
soft and beautiful yarn, but not half so soft
and beautiful, I trust, as the.yarn you are
knitting into your life.' I've been think
ing ever since what she could mean, and it
has just come to me."
"Has it ? I'm glad you've thought it
out for yourself. What is merely told us,
often goes no deeper than the memory, but
rt - we ctrinr out anyaiiii B Iva vutaclrwj 1L
becomes more real to us and more our own.
We understand it better."
"Yes, I am sure of that," replied Ra
"And what do you think Mrs. Barclay
meant ?" asked Mrs. Harland.
"I suppose she meant that Our thoughts
and feelings were like yarn, and that every
day we were knitting them into our lives."
"I think that was her meaning," replied
the mother. "If day by day we knit pure
thoughts and kind and gentle feelings into
our lives, we shall not only form to our
selves beautiful characters, that will make
our presence a charm and a blessing to
others, but acquire a heavenly quality that
will draw near to us, as like draws like,
the angels of God with their protecting
power, though we may not perceive their
A tender thoughtfulness was in the eyes
of Rachel. She did not answer, but looked
down at her knitting, and as the soft
thread passed through her fingers, she pon
dered this new lesson in the book of life.—
Children's hour.
The Boy of the Period
Every body has seen the Boy of the
Period. His face hangs on the show
board in front of the photographer's. He
is on exhibition for while every fair even
ing on the corners of conspicuous streets.
He is carefully and exquisitely dressed,
wears delicate kids ; twirls a light stick ;
puffs a fragrant cigar; eyes every young
lady that may chance to pass, and gives his
opinion of her at once and while her ears
are in reach. Having finished his street
performance, he lounges into a billiard sa
loon, flourishes his cue, drinks his drinks,
pays for them with ostentatious parade of
his indifference to money, and then sallies
out in search of home or of some other
The Boy of the Period is a great reader.
He is familiar with 'Our Best Society,"
"The Day's Doings," and all the pictorial
literature which draws its embellishments
from a lewd imagination. He detests
reading of a solid kind as being unworthy
the attention of a modern young gentleman.
His taste is too fine and fanciful to be re
galed with the vulgar food of useful
knowledge. He glances his eye now and
then over the leading daily prits, but if he
fails to find in them some rousing sensa
tional record of crime, he tosses them away
in disdain. He has heard of the Library,
but deems it of no use to him—it may serve
plodding blockheads very well.
The Boy of the Period is a genius. He
is above work, and has a clerkship; buthe
has no intention of passing his years in the
dull routine of a profession, trade or craft.
He is too smart fur all that. He needs
money, for lie has the habits of a spend
Chance is Protean. Honesty is straight
forward, and has a single eye. The Boy
of the Period worships chance, and waits
daily at her shrine. At length he sails in ;
makes a venture, in some form, and luck,
the deceiver, at first is on his side. Sud
denly luck has turned- against him. He
fights against his luck desperately : floun
ders into a crime; is detected, arrested, im
prisoned, and punished. The Boy of the
Period gets his face into the rogues' galle
Such is a brief outline of the biography
which very nearly describes the line of
life along which a good many young men
are traveling. A little reflection on their
part, might induce them to choose a better
and safer path.
Wirt is an elephant the mort prudent
of travelers ? Because he never takes his
eyes off his trunk.
GOOD country butter—an old ram.
NO. 34.
ght gime eirdt.
Is This All.
Sometimes I catch sweet glimpses of His face,
But that is all.
Sometimes He looks on me, and seems to smile.
But that is all.
Sometimes He speaks a passing word of peace,
But that is all.
Sometimes I think I hear His loving voice,
Upon me call.
And is this all He meant when thus He spoke
"Come unto me ?"
Is thrze no deeper, mere enduring rest •
In Him for thee?
Is there no steadier light for thee in Him?
.0, come and see !
0, come and see I 0, look, and look again !
All shall be Sight;
0, taste Ills love, and see that it is good,
Thou child of night!
0, trust thou, trust thou in His grace and power!
Then all is bright.
Nay, do not wrong Him by thy heavy thoughts,
But love His love.
Do thou full justice to His tenderness,
His mercy prove ;
Take Him for what He is ; 0, take Him all,
And look above!
Then shall thy tossing soul find anchorage
And steadfast peace ;
Thy love shall rest on His ; thy weary doubts
Forever cease.
Thy heart shall find in Him and His grace,
Its rest and bliss.
Christ and His love shall be thy blessed all
Forevermore !
Christ and His light shall shine on all thy ways
Forevermore I
Christ and His peace shall keep thy trouble
The World Our Battlefield,
A mind of wandering and melancholy
thought, impatient of the grievous realities
of our state, may at some moments, almost
breathe the wish that we had been a differ
ent order of beings, in another dwelling
place than this, and appointed on a differ-
ent service to the Almighty, In vain !
Hero still we are, to pass the first of our
existence in a world where it is impossible
to be at peace, because there has come
into it a mortal enemy to all that live in
it. Amidst the darkness, that veils from
us the state of the universe, we would wil
lingly be persuaded that this, our world,
may be the only region (except that of
penal justice) where the cause of evil is
permitted to maintain a contest. Here,
perhaps, may be almost its last encamp
ment, where its prolimged power of hos
tility may be suffered in order to give a
protracted display of the manner of its
appointed destruction. Hew our lot is
cast, on a ground so awfully preoccupied;
a calamitous distinction ! and yet a sub
lime one, if thus we may render to the
Eternal King a service of a more arduous
kind than it is impossible to the inhabi
tants of any other world than this to ren
der Him; and if thus we may be trained,
through devotion and conformity to the
Celestial Chief in this warfare, to the
final attainment of what He be has prom
ised in so many illustrious forms, to him
that_oiercometh. We shall soon leave the
region where so much - is in rebellion
against our God. But we shall go where
all that pass from our world must present
themselves as from battle, or be denied to
mingle in the eternal joys and triumphs of
the conquerors.—John Foster.
Getting What is Sought.
When a man can say, "I am going to
the house of God this morning, and, 0.
may God meet me there!" he will not long
go there in vain. When a hearer can de
clare, "As soon as I take my seat in the
congregation my one thought is, Lord,
bless my soul this day !" he cannot for
long be disappointed., Usually, in going
up to God's house, we get what we go for.
Some come because it is the custom, some
to meet a friend, some they scarcely know
why; but when you know what you come
for, the Lord, who gave you the desire,
will gratify it. I was pleased with the
word of a dear sister this morning when I
came in at the back gate; sh 4 said to me,
"my dear sir, my soul is very hungry this
morning. M3y, , t1.0 Lard giro you brefol
for me." I believe that food convenient
will be given. When a sinner is very
hungry after Christ, Christ is very near to
him. The worst of it is, many of yon do
not come to find Jesus; it is not He you
are seeking for; if you were seeking Him,
He wpuld soon appear to you. A young
woman was asked during a revival, "How
is it you have not found Christ ?" "Sir,"
said she, "I think it is because I have not
sought him." It is so. None shall be
able to say, at the last, "I sought Him,
but I found Him not." In all cases at
the last, if Jesus Christ be not found, it
must be because he has not been devoutly,
earnestly, importunately sought, for His
promise is, "Seek, and ye shall find."—
Seoret Sins,
The Ichneumon fly lays its eggs in the
body of the caterpiller. When the egg is
hatched, the larva begins to feed at once
on the body of the poor worm. It avoids,
by a remarkable instinct, the vital parts,
and the caterpiller creeps on its way, feed
ing as unconsciously as if he- were in no
danger. So many a soul is lost by some
secret sin. The friends of a young man
were shocked by finding him suddenly
transformed into a drunkard. Before they
suspected him he was lost to all shame or
self-respect. He had been for years drink
ing in secret, before his exposure, and the
last stages were very rapid.
There is a little weed which sometimes
creeps into our canals and rivers which
seems very insignificant at first, and its
rope like stems become so matted that it
seriously hinders navigation. Just such
a multiplying evil is one little secret sin,
suffered to take root in the heart. Let ns
offer every day the prayer. "Cleanse thou
me from secret sin.--nmerican Messenger.
Saying Grace.
How soon wid a child notice the relig
ions practice of a family ! The sayidg of
grace, the asking of a blessing at the table,
will set the young thought astir as to the
meaning of the thing. Then, gradually,
the idea of some Power that. provides the
daily bread of the family will become dis
tinct in the child's mind. The ever re
curring acknowledgement of God's being
and goodness, and gratitude due to Him
as the giver of every good and perfect gift,
leaves a distinct impression on the young
soul that is beginning to ask itself the
meaning of whatever strikes the senses.
That there should ever be a meal in a
Christian house without a blessing aske , l
decently and recently, is a crying sin sco:
omission—sin against a, souls of little
children of the family in particular.