VOL. 47
The Huntingdon Journal.
J. R. DURBORROW,
PUBLISHERS AND PROPRIETORS.
Office on the Corner of I , Vth and Washington streets.
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Professional Cards
BF. GEHRETT, M. D., ECLEC
TIC PHYCICIANN AND SURGEON, hav
ing returned from Clearfield county and perma
nently located in Shirleysburg, offers his profes
sional services to the people of that place and sin
rounding country. apr.3-1812.
DR. F. 0. ALLEMAN can be con
sulted at his office, at all hours, Mapleton,
Pa. [march6,72.
CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
D•No. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied
by Messrs. Woods do Williamson. [apl2,'7l.
DR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his
professional services to the community.
Office, No. 523 Washington street, one door east
of the Catholic Parsonage. Dan.4;7l.
J. GREENE, Dentist. Office re
mooed to Leister's new building, Hill street
Yoltingdon. Dan.4,'7l.
L. ROBIi, Dentist, office in S. T.
kJ!
• &even's new building, No. 520, Hill St.,
Huntingdon, Pn. [ap12,71.
131 i GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
• of Washington and Smith streets. Hun
tingdon, Pa. [ jan.l2'7l.
AC. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law
• Office, No. —, Hill meet, Huntingdon,
Ps. [ap.19,'71.
JSYLVANUS BLMR, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street,
hree doors west of Smith. [jan.4'7l.
R. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth
r, • miry, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun
ingdon, Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded.
Pure Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70.
HALL MUSSEII, Attorney-at-Law,
rfi • No. 319 Hill Bt., Huntingdon, Pa. [jan.4,'7l.
R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at
r." • Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the
several Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular
attention given to the settlement of estates of dece
dents.
Offlue in he JOURNAL Building. [feb.l.,'7l.
W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
J
• and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
Soldiers' claims against the Government for back
pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend
ed to with great care and promptness.
Office on Hill street. [jan.4,'7l.
KLOVELL, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
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ment of Estates, &c.; and all other Legal Business
prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch.
Air . Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
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MILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at-
Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly
to all legal blisin.s. Office in Cunningham's new
bu pan. 4,11.
R. ALLISON MILLER. R.
MILLER & BITILAINAN,
DENTISTS,
No. 228 Hill Street,
HUNTINGDON, PA.
April 5, 11-Iy.
PM. & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
• at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to
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Office on the south side of Hill street, fourth door
west of Smith. [jan.4,'7l.
RA. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
• Office, 321 Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa.
[may3l,'7l.
JOHN SCOTT. !J. T. BROWN. J. Y. BAILEY
SCOTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At
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11 W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
-A..' • tingdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart,
EN. paa.4,'7l.
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Hotels.
MORRISON HOUSE,
OPPOSITE PENNSYLVANIA R. R. DEPOT
HUNTINGDON, PA
J. H. CLOVER, Prop.
April 5, 1871-Iy.
WASHINGTON HOTEL,
S. S. BOWDON, Prop'r.
Corner of Pitt Jc Juliana St.., Bedford, Pa. mayl.
EXCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
January 4, 1871.
Miscellaneous
COLYER & GRAHAM, PAINTERS.
Shop No. 750, Hill Street,
(2d door from S. E. Henry I Co'e.,)
Huntingdon, Pa..,
. .
will do all kind of p;inting cheaper than any
firm in town. Give them a call before applying
elsewhere. lmay6m.
ISAAC TAYLOR & CO., MANUFAC
TURERS or Hemlock, Pine, and Oak Bill Tim
ber and Shingles, Osceola, Clearfield county, Pa.
They make a specialty of furnishing to order all
kinds of
HEMLOCK AND BILL TIMBER.
Orders taken and any information given by M.
AL LOGAN, at his office, over the Union rank,
Iluntingdon, Pa.
Jan.24,1872-6mo.
A. BECK, Fashionable Barber
R• and Hairdresser, Hill street, opposite the
Franklin House. All kinds of Tonics and Pomades
kept on hand and for sale. [spl9/71-6m
The Huntingdon Journal.
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Home Again.
Yes, there it is, the old, old home !
he garden trim and neat,
The gambrel roof of ancient shape.
The rustic wooden scat;
The very smoke, it curls aloft,
As it was wont to do,
When years ago, with heavy heart
I bade my home adieu.
The rustic stile on which I lean,
The fields all around me spread;
The silver stream in yonder glade,
The trees above my head ;
The waving corn like yellow gold,
The hedges thick and green,
All tell me that I'm back again
In some familiar scene.
The little church whose old gray spire
Stands dark against the sky,
Now throws its shadow o'er the grave,
Where both my brothers lie
And there's the tree I loved to climb,
And swing among its boughs ;
The tree where happy lovers came,
To whisper lovers' vows.
How many, many weary years
Have passed since that glad time !
With shrinking feet I've often had
The hills of life to climb.
Climb on, brave heart, and do not fail
Half way, 0, never stop,
For though 'tis gloomy in the vale,
There's sunlight at the top.
The Little Milliner.
GEORGE LENOX was a clerk in a whole
sale grocery store of Messrs. Moore &
Reese in one of our Eastern cities. George
was an ambitious young man, bad many
bright hopes of the future, and was gen
erally in good spirits, though sometimes
the great highway of ife seemed darken
ed and the star of hope shone feebly on
his path. But George was honest, and
Messrs. Moore & Reese had long since
come to the conclusion that he was just
the clerk for them.
Some distance from Messrs. Moore &
Reese's—away down street, a quarter of a
mile, and nearly opposite George's board
ing place, was a milliner's shop—a real
fancy shop, with a handsome sign, large
windows with splendid curtains on the in
side, displaying a rich and beautiful array
of those dear treasures that so delight the
fair sex, viz : dear little bonnets, all styles,
and trimmed in every imaginable way,
with bright ribbons and delicate flowers,
formed with exquisite taste by the fairy
bands of blooming maidens.
Were not these attractions ? Yes, George
never passed the door of Madame Josephine
Lavelle, from Paris, without casting
a
glance into the window or through those
beautiful plate glass doors.
George did so often, for he often passed
on his way to and from his boarding
house; but it was not for his sake of
catching a sight of the bonnets or ribbons
of Madame Josephine, for he could see
them equally as fine in other milliner shops
in the neighborhood, but it was to steal a
glance and get a good look as often as
potmihie at Madams'. Jsrmy 1. 5 „ us,
"Queen of Beauty," as she was called.
Yes, Jenny Irving, the orphan or "poor
orphan," as some termed her, was Madame
Lavelle's favorite apprentice, and possessed
the love of George Lenox. She had caught
the prize without angling for it.
In our hero's estimation she was the
most bewitching of maidens. Her tiny,
but faultless form golden hair, bright blue
eyes, dimpled cheeks and dainty mouth,
offered attractions which he could not re
sist; and her voice, so sweet and musical,
was melody itself, and her almost baby
hands, so fair and soft; and her fairy feet
seemed scarcely to touch the ground on
which she trod, actually charmed him and
completed the conquest which Cupid—lit
tle knave—had so artfully planned and so
successfully carried forward. After having
secretly admired Jenny for months, George
one day became acquainted with her—no
matter how—though of course, in the same
way that all young people get acquainted
who are struck with each other's appear
ance—first, an introduction at some party
or social gathering, with an "I'm happy to
make your acquaintance," on the lady's
part and "allow me to see you home," on
the gentleman's; then a moonlight walk,
with a great many silly, foolish remarks
made on both sides concludes the first
day's ceremonies. Of course, this mode
of proceeding soon makes fast friends.
George continued to attend to business
closely, but his evenings were generally
his own, and then, when Jenny was not
busy, of course they had delightful times.
Jenny was not by any means without
other admirers. Many a young man in
the neighborhood would discommode him
self much to accommodate her, and con
sider himself well paid if he could thus
win a smile, or "thank you" from her
sweet lips.
But George was her favorite lover, and
he sedulously improved his opportunities
until finally it was whispered around, and
pretty freely, too, that he and Jenny were
engaged. Such reports always spread like
wildfire, and this one was not long in reach
ing the ears of Mr. Moore, one of his em
ployers.
Mr. Moore had a daughter who took a
fancy to our friend, and he was aware of
it, but could not reciprocate the compli
ment. Her father also knew that George
was a smart fellow, and would, as he often
said, "make a stir in the world." He tho't
that George and his daughter would make
a good match, and that the former would
feel highly complimented at the proposal.
Therefore, soon after Mr. Moore first heard
the foregoing report, he called George to
one side and "opened the case" to him,
concluding by hinting at a partnership in
case matters turned out favorably.
WITH
BUSINESS CARDS,
LEGAL BLANKS,
The old gentleman's proposal took George
somewhat by surprise ; but as a young man
of principle, he felt in duty bound to give
an immediate and decided answer.
"I feel flattered by your preference,
and it is very gratifying to me to know
that you hold me in such high esteem;
but I cannot accede to your proposal—l
am engaged to another."
"Well, sir, as you please," said Mr.
Moore, with a suddenly assumed sternness
of demeanor, "but you will lose much by
your decision. Allow me to ask who your
intended is ?"
PAMPHLETS,
"Miss Jenny Irving."
"Miss Irving I" said Mr. Moore with
feigned astonishment, "Miss Irving, a pen
niless girl."
"Yes sir, and an orphan," was the quick
reply.
"Indeed, an orphan ?" said Mr. Moore,
"well I pity her then, as I do all orphans;
but really, George, you are throwing your
self away—you'll not get a cent by her."
"I know it, sir, and do not wish it," re
plied our hero, with spirit—"l marry her
for herself, and not for her money."
"Very well, sir," said Mr. Moore; and
turning away he soon left the room.
Uhr
HUNTINGDON, PA., JUNE 12, 1872.
"Ah, ah! my lad, in love with Madame
Lavelle's queen, the little milliner," said
young Toni Moore, addressing George as
the former came rushing into his father's
store, one afternoon, soon after George's
conversation with Mr. Moore. "Ah, ah
in love, eh ?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I might as well
own up first as last," said George with a
smile.
"Of course you might," said the former.
"Well, man, what's her dower ?"
"Youth, beauty and a contented mind
is her dower," replied George, "and that's
enough for me."
"Enough !--that support you, eh ?" said
Moore provokingly.
"No, but will make one happy," said
George.
"Happiness and poverty are two exact
opposites, in any opinion," replied Tom,
"and such as you will find hard work. I'm
thinking, to reconcile to each other."
"I'll try it," said George.
"Well, do if you please," replied Tom,
sneeringly, "and by and by report pro
gress. I fancied that girl myself, but I'm
sure I can't marry a beggar. A wife with
out money is a poor prize in my estimation."
"Jenny is no beggar," was on George's
lips, in reply, but ere he had time to speak
he was summoned to a customer.
=
"Jenny will show them value yet," said
a low, musical voice behind him, and turn
ing le saw Jenny, who had glided in
noiselessly to bring him an invitation to a
party which sho bad just received for him,
holding another also in her hand, on which
her own name was oistinctly written.
She had unintentionally heard, young
Tom Moore's remark, and well understood
its meaning of her when she said, with un
usual emphasis, "Jennie will show them
their value yet."
But a few days elapsed ere the storygot
around that George had been offered the
hand of the rich Mr. Moore's daughter in
marriage, and had declined it for that of
Jenny Irving.
Some wondered at his choice, while
others considered it one of true love, and
consequently one of wisdom.
Time wore away, and a year brought
around the day fixed for George and Jen
ny's wedding.
One evening, but a few days previous
to the time appointed, they were convers
ing together at Jenny's aunt's, where she
boarded,
"We shall be obliged to have a plain
wedding, I suppose, toy dear," said George,
"and commence life in a snuo c way, for my
income is not very large you know."
"As you please, George," was the reply ;
"any way that is the most agreeable to
you, and in which we can live the hap
piest. But," said she, with a light, ring
ing laugh, "are you not going to take me
to the church in a carriage ?"
"In a carriage, perhaps," said George,
"though probably not in my carriage, as I
have not the pleasure of owning one."
"Just so," said Jenny. "Well, then,
suppose I send mine after you."
"Yours'.—that would be a joke, for a
milliner girl hardly out of her apprentice
aap, mg& p a oaaaiaga
send off after her intended on the morning
of her wedding."
"Strange things have happened."
"Yes, may be, but the thing does not
seem possible, or at least probable, in our
caso. You were not born to fortune,
Jenny."
"Indeed!" replied Jenny, "your re
marks are not calculated to give me a very
exalted opinion of my 'condition in life;
but I will forgive my future husband, this
time, as be has not yet very closely inves
tigated my personal history. Of one thing,
however, I am certain, and that affords me
no little gratification ; you did not marry
me for my money; 'little beggar,' as I am
or at least as Mr. Thomas Moore saw fit to
designate me."
Nothina ' more was said about fortunes
then, but George bad a sudden surprise in
store for him, somewhat startling and un
expected as any event that could happen
to any mortal.
On his bridal mornina c as he was dress
ing at his boarding house, an elegant
carriage with a span of milk white horses
stopped at the door, and the driver spring
ing from his scat, rang the door bell, an
inquired for Mr. George Lenox.
"What does this mean !" was George's
first thought, "I engaged a carriage, but
not near as elegant a one as this. There's
something wrong here." . . .
"You've made sonic mistake in the
name," said he to the driver.
"I think not," said the driver.
"Then who sent you here ?" said George.
"Miss Jenny Irving."
Miss Jenny ! impossible."
. . . .
"Yes sir, times her name, and this is
her carriage and horses," replied the
driver.
"Jenny Irving," said George to himself,
musingly, and striving to unravel the mys
tery—" What street does she live on ?"
"Rand street, No. 39, sir."
"The same. Ah, dear girl," thought
he, "she is trying to mystify me a little by
sending round a carriage at her own ex
pense; for no doubt she pays for it out of
her own hard earnings. Well, I will grat
ify her and take a ride down to her aunt's
in her carriage, as the driver calls it. It
is hers, I suppose, while she hires it."
So in jumped the hero and was soon at
Jenny's door.
"How do you like my travelling estab
lishment ?" said she as George entered the
room.
"Oh, first-rate," was the reply, "it is
splendid. I see you practice 'woman's
rights,' and hire your own carriage. Well,
there's no harm in that, it will answer ad
mirably for to-day, and then its owner will
have it I suppose."
"Undoubtedly," said Jenny with a smile.
After their marriage at the church they
returned to Jenny's aunt's, and sat down
to await the arrival of some friends whom
they were going to treat to a few viands
prepared for the occasion.
"Why don't the driver take that car
riage home ?"
•
"Perhaps he is awaiting the order of
the owner," replied Jenny.
"Its owner r where is he ?"
"His name is George Lenox, and he oc
cupies the very place where you now sit,"
said Jenny ; "is any further explanation
necessary ?"
"George Lenox? Not me," said George,
fairly starting from his seat.
"Yes, you," was the reply. "It was my
carriage, and I have now made you the
owner of it."
"Your carriage!—why—Jenny, you sur
prise me," said George; "how came you
by such an expensive establishment ?"
"I bought it and paid my own money
for it."
"Bought it—and—paid—my—own—
money—for it," said George slowly, and
pausing slightly before each word, as if
weighing their meaning, for he was pro
foundly perplexed.
"Yes, my dear," continued Jenny, "it
was mine; it is now yours. You are its
owner, and there it stands subject to your
orders. If you wish, we will drive to the
country house, just out of the city, this
afternoon."
"Country house just out of the city !
believe you are crazy, Jenny," exclaimed
George.
"No, I am not."
"Well, then, what do you mean ?" said
he. "Explain yourself. There is some
mystery that I don't understand."
"I know you don't understand it dear,"
said Jenny, "and now I have mystified
you a little, I will solve the riddle."
And then Jenny, with sparkling eyes
and in her happiest mood, told Lim how
that her parents had died when she was
quite young, and left her penniless, and in
the care of her aunt, who had adopted her,
and that four years before a wealthy uncle
in England—her father's brother—had
died, leaving her his large property,
amounting to seventy-five thousand dollars,
and that there was so much courting heir
essess for their money, she had resolved to
keep the matter a secret, and pass among
the people as a dependent for support upon
her own exertions from day to day, so that
if she was wooed at all, it might be for
aerself, and not for her money; and that
for this reason she had served an appren
ticeship in a milliner's shop.
"Am I dreaming ?" exclaimed George,
amazed at a revelation from Jenny's lips
so astonishitin. '
and unexpected, and which
increased, if possible, the esteem he al
ready had for her, who could conceive so
noble a project, and so effectually carry it
out.
"No, George, it is no dream, but a
pleasinc , reality. You know I said, 'Jenny
would show her value yet.' I then refer
red to my fortune. Of my value aside
from that it is not for me to speak. And
now," said she, looking confidingly into
the face of him whose love she prized high
er than all treasures, "Jenny entrusts to
you herself and her fortune, without any
fears for their safe keeping."
. .
George's income was now amply suffi
cient for his and Jenny's wants, but being
one who abhorred idleness, he in a few
days opened a wholesale grocery in the
city, and was soon engaged in an extensive
and flourishing business.
'puffing fa the
The Bird's Avengers
In the religion of the ancient Greeks
every injured person, however he might
fail of justice at human hands, was certain,
soon or late, to be avenged by the terrible
Erinnyes, the demons of torment, whose
hunt after crime is so powerfully descri
bed by Sophocles. These dreadful divini
ties started into life whenever a crime was
committed, and pursued the criminal ever
after, visible to him alone. It argues well
for the humanity of the early Greeks that
they held that the animal creation was
within the circle of this supernatural pro
tection. n yy., believed that the god
Pan punished, through Erinnyes, the
wrongs of beasts and birds. Thus Achy
lus says :
"When birds, their young ones feeding,
Behold with grief exceeding
The spoiled nest empty, flit
Back and forth over it,
Borne on their oar-like wings,
Missing love's task that brings
Joy with it, and send up their bitter cry,
The great gods hear on high,
And charge the Erinnyes, late
Or soon, the doom of Fate,
To visit on the spoilers, far or nigh."
"He stilleth the young ravens when they
cry," is the language of Scripture; and in
the Moslem tradition, the Almighty is
represented as preserving from the hoofs
of steeds, and feet of men, the lap-wing's
nest in the midst of a battle-field.
The thought of the old Greek poet has,
in modern times, been expanded in the
"Ancient Mariner" of Coleridge. The
moral of that wonderful poem cannot be
too often repeated :
"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and
For the dear God who loveth us
Made them, and loveth all."-
-John G. Whittier, in Our Dumb Amintals.
The Unwearied Action of the Heart,
The effect of everything that touches
the heart is multiplied by the intensity of
the heart's own changes. Hence it is that
it is so sensitive, so true an index of the
body's state. Hence, also, it is that it
never wearies. Let me remind you of the
work done by our hearts in a day. A man's
total outward work, his whole effect upon
the world in twenty-four hours, has been
reckoned about 850 foot tons. That may
be taken as a good "hard day's work."
During the same time the heart has been
working at the rate of 120 foot tons. That
is to say, if all the pulses of a day and
night could be concentrated and welded
into one great throb, that throb would be
enough to raise a ton of iron 120 feet into
the air. And yet the heart is never
weary. Many of us are tired after but
feeble labors ; few of us can hold a poker
out at arm's length without, after a few
minutes, dropping it. But a healthy heart,
and many an unsound heart, too—though
sometimes you can tell in the evening, by
its stroke, that it has been thrown off its
balance by the turmoils and worries of
life—goes on beating through the night
when we are asleep, and when we wake in
the morning we find it at work, fresh as
if it had only just begun to beat. It does
this because upon each stroke of work
there follows a period, a brief but a real
period of rest; because the next stroke
which comes is but the natural suspense of
that rest, and made to match it ; because,
in fact, each beat is, iu force, in scope, in
character, in everything, the simple ex
pression of the heart's own energy and
state.
DIGESTIVE ORGANS.—No single medi
cine is more useful than asafcetida in re
moving that torpid condition of the bow
els which is so commonly associated with
general debility, which is exhibited by
tympanites, sometimes of an immoderate
degree causing oppressed breathing and
severe attacks of cholic, and which often
becomes the immediate exciting cause of
an hysterical attack. Should the patient
be of an anmmic or chlorotic constitution,
the asafoetida should be associated with
aloes and iron, and taken soon after, or
immediately before meals. The following
formula will be found a good remedy :
Pulverized asafcetida cone drachm, pul
verized alces, twenty-four grains; mix and
divide into twelve powders ; take one
three times a day, mixed with a teaspoon
ful of molasses.
A Kentuckyelopin ,, e party consisted of
a gent, lady, and three daughters.
SUBSCRIBE for the JOURNAL.
A Death Bed Scene.
Sam is a colored "man and brother."
He came north during the war. He got
as far as Connecticut and hired out to a
farmer as a farm hand. Sam was free—
that is, he was free to work early and late
for a very little pay. He got his board
and clothes, such as they were, and occa
sionally, on a holiday, he found himself
master of a shinplaster, of a small denomi
nation. Once his employer, aware that
Sam was calculating to go to Hartford to
attend a colored celebration, opened his
heart and tendered the contraband a twen
ty-five cent shinplaster. Now Sam had
an indistinct idea that notwithstanding'
his master's protestations of love for his
unfortunate race, there were other colored
men working in the same neighborhood
who were infinitely better off than he was,
and one especially who had a small sutu
laid away in one of the Hartford saving
banks. So Sam had grown to be suspi
cious that his master was not treating him
so generously as his self-laudation might
seem to imply ; and when he offered the
twenty-five cent bill, he picked up courage
to say, "Golly, masse, I knows I's a cullud
person. and am not wuff much anyhow;
_but sein' dis chile ain't had nuffin' for
about six months, 'pears to me you might
raise it to half a dollar.
This stroke of audacity on Sam's part
subjected him to a severe lecture, in which
his employer figured as a benefactor, and
Sam as an ungrateful creature who could
not realize or appreciate what had been
accomplished for his race. After this,
Sam almost thought it his duty to decline
the twenty-five cent piece; but when he
thought of the dusky city charmers whom
he might wish to treat to ice cream, he
smothered his feelings of sympathy, pock
eted his money and started for town topar
ticipate in the emancipation celebration.
some time after this Sam's master was
taken sick, and supposinc , ' that his end
was approaching, sent for Sam to come to
his bedside. The negro made his appear
ance, and with a joyful face drew near, ex
pecting something vastly to his benefit
would occur. What it would be he had
not the remotest idea, but judging from
his own feelings he thought that nothing
less than a pretty good fiddle would be at
all appropriate for a death bed present.
"You know," said his employer, "you
have been a faithful servant to me, Sam."
"Yes, massa," (Sam's ebony features
developed into a broad grin. He bad now
hoped for a new pair of cowhide boots in
addition to the fiddle.)
"You know, Sam, I always treated you
kindly."
"Yes, massa." (By this time Sam's
imagination had expanded into something
like activity, and his desires now embra
ced the fiddle, boots, and a handful] of plug
tobacco and a bandana handkerchief, and
anxiously waited to hear the nest word.)
His master then said in a solemn voice,
"Sam, in consideration of yourj,faithful
services, I have directed in my will that
when you die, if you in the meantime live
in this neighborhood, you shall be buried
by my aide."
After waiting a few moments as if ex
pectin.-somethingsomethin else was to be said,
Sam asked, "Is dat all, manna?"
"Yes, Sam, all."
"Then," said the disgusted African,
'dis nigger don't like it !for may be some
dark night de debble come to look formassa,
an' make a 'stake an' take poor Sam. No,
massa, if all do same to you, dis chile
'fers to be buried by hisself."—Times.
How Small Expenditures Count.
Five cents each morning—a mere trifle.
Thirty-five cents per week is not much,
yet it would buy coffee and sugar for a
whole family—s4o 27 a year—and this
amount invested in a savings bank at the
end of the year, and the interest thereon
at six per cent. computed annually, would
in twelve years amount to more than $689
—enough to buy a good farm in the West.
Five centsbe - fore — breakfast and dinner
and supper—you'd hardly miss it, yet it is
fifteen cents a day—sl 05 per week.
Enough to buy a small library of books.
Invest this as before, and in twenty years
you have over $3 000. Quite enough to
buy a good house and lot.
Ten cents each morning—hardly worth
a second thought, yet with it you can buy
a paper of pins or a spool of thread. Sev
enty cents a week--it would buy several
yards of muslin, $36 40 in one year—
deposit this amount as before, and you
have $2,340 in twenty years—quite a snug
little fortune. Ten cents before breakfast,
dinner and supper—thirty cents a day. It
would buy a book for the children. $2 10
per week, enough to pay for a year's sub
scription to a good newspaper. $lO9 50
per year—with it you could buy a good
melodeon, from which you could procure
sweet music, to pleasantly while away the
evening hours. And this amount invest
ed as before would in forty years produce
the desirable amount of $15,000.
" That's How !"
After a great snow-storm, a little fellow
began to shovel a path through a large snow
bank before his grandmother's door. He
had nothing but a small shovel to work with.
'How do you expect to get through that
drift ?" asked a man passing along.
"By keeping at said the boy cheer
fully ; "that's how 1"
That is the secret of mastering almost
every difficulty under the sun. If a hard
task is before you, stick to it. Do not
keep thinking how large or hard it is ; but
go at it, and little by little it will grow
smaller, until it is done.
If a bard lesson is to be learned, do not
lose a breath in saying, "I can't" or "I do
not see bow ;" but go at it and keep at it
—study. That is the only way to conquer it.
If a fault is cured or a bad habit broken
up, it cannot be done by merely being
sor
ry, or only trying a little. You must keep
fighting until it is got rid of.
If you have entered your Master's ser
vice, and are trying to be good, you will
sometimes find hills of difficulty in the
way. Things will often look discouraging,
and you will not seem to make any pro
gress at all ; but keep at it. Never forget
"that's how."
Busy CHILDHOOD.—DOyOU ever think
how much work a little child does in a
day ? How, from sunrise to sunset, the
dear little feet patter round (to us) so
aimlessly ? Climbing up here, kneeling
down there, running to another place, but
never still. Twisting and turning, rolling
and reaching and doubling, as if testing
every bone and muscle for their future
uses. It is very curious to watch it. One
who does so may well understand the deep
breathing of the rosy little sleeper, as, with
one arm tossed over its curly head, it pre
pares for the next day's gymnastics. A
busy creature is a little child.
Here and There in Advertising
A STORY WITH A MORAL,
BY A. BARNES.
After many years of incessant labor, a
merchant of New York, who shall here
be nameless, found himself just where be
began twenty years ago. without a dollar
he did not owe. Seated at his desk one
morning, pouring over bills and other un
satisfactory documents, be asked himself
for the hundredth time, how it happened
that his neighbors were flourshingwhilete
stagnated, and found it a hard matter to
hold his own.
He said to himself, "I work twice as
hard as they do ; I am as honest and
prompt in all my dealings, and still Ido
not make any headway. There's my Thm
ily growing up, and my eldest boy, now in
the firm, and he must have, what I fear,
unless I shall fii,d it very hard to give him,
a fair portion of the profits. What's to be
done ?"
As be asked himself this question, a re
spectable looking young man, with a book
under his arm, entered his office, stood be
fore him, and immediately addressed him
with a polite "good morning," which sal
utation the merchant as courteously re
turned.
"I have called on a little matter of busi
ness. sir."
"Yes, sir," said the merchant pleasant-
ly.
He hoped he was about to receive an
order for some of his goods.
"If you are advertising now I should
like to receive your order—."
The frown returned to the merchant's
face, and turned from his visitor with :
"I am not advertising, sir, and do not
intend to."
-You could not choose a better medium
than the firm I represent sir."
"Times are bad, young man."
"The more reason you should endeavor
to stimulate trade."
"I don't believe in it, sir."
'That is strange."
"Stranger still," thought the young
man as he quietly took his leave.
As he passed the outer door he said half
aloud :
'You won't last long, old gentleman, if
you don't advertise."
A gentleman with a care-worn look on
his face, who stood in the door-way as he
passed, happened to overhear the remark.
Walking into the office, he asked :
"Who was your visitor, father ?"
"One of those troublesome advertising
agents. All nonsense throwing away one's
money in that way. We've none to
spare."
"Any orders this morning ?"
"No" said the old gentleman, with a
sigh, "yet the last lot of goods are splen
did. I suppose they will be on our hands
next."
The son answered not. a word, but went
to his desk and examined his private bank
account.
Presently he said . :
"It isn't much, but I'll do it !"
Then taking up his hat he left the of
fice.
About a week afterwards the old mer
chant sat as usual, at his desk, more than
ever discouraged and anxious.
"If I could only get rid of that lot of
goods," he said to himself, I should be
saved ; as it is, we are ruined. I've writ
ten to all my customers, but they're all
supplied. I ought to have realized fifteen
thousand dollars, easily. It's terrible, ter
rible !"
The office boy entered, just then, with
letters, from the post office, He opened
them, one after another, and groaned over
their contents, There was one more left.
He opened it and read :
Gentlemen : Please send us sample of
your cloth. If approved we will take the
lot at your figure. Respectfully,
G. O. A. HEAD k CO.
"Bless us," said the old gentleman, I've
never done business with these people.
But they are good as gold. How did they
know Pd got the goods they want ?
Well, thank Heaven, we are saved from
ruin."
When his son came in, he found his
respected progenitor trying a pas seule.
"All right my son ; we're saved.—
Here, read this letter. Hallo I've
overlooked the postscript. What's that ?
'We saw your advertisement in the Daily
Babbler.' Why, why—it's a mistake,"
and his countenance fell.
"It's no mistake," said his son joyfully.
"But I never advertised in my life.
"I did, though."
"You l"
"Yes; I sent three hundred dollars to
Rowell & Co., and here's the result. A
pretty good advertisement, eh ?"
The samples were all right, the goods
sent, and the money paid. The junior
member of the firm has serious thoughts
of getting a straight jacket for the old
gentleman, for he's almost gone mad on ad
vertising ; and he would possibly stop
him, only-1T PAYS.
An Example for Young Mon
Thoso extra nice young men who never
wish to soil their hands with manual labor
but aspire to professional and lazy "gen
tility," can learn a good lesson from the
course pursued by the nephew of the late
Colonel Colt, of Hartford, Connecticut,
who received from his uncle an immense
fortune. At the time of Colt's death, the
nephew was learning his trade of machi
nist, in his uncle's shop, working diligently
every day, subject to the same rules as
other apprentices. On his death, he be
came a millionaire; but choosing a guar
dian to manage his property, he continued
at his labor and served his apprenticeship.
Now, when he walks the rooms of his fine
house, or drives a handsome and costly
team, be has a consciousness that if his
riches take to themselves wings and fly
away, he is furnished with the means of
getting an honest livelihood, for himself.
He was a great mechanic, and is not asha
med of it again. Labor, with its accom
panying dirt, is not dishonorable or de
grading; laziness, and its almost necessary .
evils, are disgusting and destroying. Dirty
hands and a sense of independence, are to
be preferred to his kid gloves and a con
sciousness of bein. , a mere drone in the
human hive. Tools rust of neglect—wear
out from use. Neglect is criminal—use is
beneficial. So with man's capacities—bet
ter to wear them out than to let them rust.
GRIEF murmurs ; anger roars ; impa
tience frets; but happiness, like a calm
river, flows in on the quiet sunlight, without
a ripple or a fall to mark the rushing on
of time toward eternity.
WHY is a newspaper like an army ?
Because it has leaders, columns and re
views.
NO. 24.
A Little Girl's Views.
I'm only a little girl, but I think I have
as much right to say what I want to about
things as a boy. I hate boys ; they're so
mean ; they always grab all the strawber
ries at the dinner-table, and never tell us
when they are going to have any fun.
Only I like Gus Rogers. The other day
Gus said he was going to let off some fire
works, and he let Bessie Nettle and me go
and look at them. All of us live in a hotel
and his mother's room has a window with
a balcony. His mother was gone out to
buy some creme de Es to put on her face,
and he'd went and got eleven boxes of Lu
cifer matches, and ever so many pieces of
castile soap ; he steeled them from the
housekeeper. Just when she went to put
them in the closet., Gus went and told her
Mrs. Nettle wanted her a minute, and
while she was gone he grabbed the soap
and matches, and when she came back be
watched her ; and she got real mad and
she scolded Della (that's the chambermaid),
and said she knowed she did it, and I was
real glad, because when I was turning
summersets on my mother's bed the other
day Della slapped me, and said she wasn't
going to make the bed twice to please me.
Then Bessie and me sticked the matches
into the soap like ten pins, and Gus fired
them off, and they blazed like anything
and they made an awful smell, and Gus
went and turned a little gas on S his
mother would think it was that.
We get our dinner with the nurses,
cause the man that keeps the hotel charges
full price for the children if they sit at the
table in the big dining room. Once my
mother let me go down with her, and
I talked a heap at the table, and a gentle
man that set next to us said, "little girls
should be seen, and not beard." The
mean old thing died last week, and I was
real glad, and I told Della so, and she
said if I went and said things like that I
couldn't go to Heaven. Much she knows
about it ; and I wouldn't want to go there
if dirty things like she is went there.
Yesterday, Mary, our nurse, told Bessie
Nettle's nurse that she heard Larry Fin
negan was going to marry her Larry is
one of the waiters, and he saves candies
for me from the big dining room ; and
Bessie Nettle's • nurse said, "Oh, Lord !
what a lie !" and Bessie went into her
mother's room, and her little brother said
she nipped him, and Bessie said, "Oh,
Lord ! what a lie !" and you should have
heard how her mother did talk to her, and
went and shut her in a dark-room where
she kept her trunks and didn't let her
have nothing but bread and water, and
Gus Rogers went and yelled through the
keyhole and said, "Bessie, the Devil is
coming to fetch you," and Bessie screamed
and almost had a fit, and her mother told
Mrs. Rogers, and got Gus licked, and
Gus says he's a mind to set the house on
fire, and burn her out.
One day I went into the parlor and
creeped under the sofa, and there wasn't
anybody there. They don't let dogs nor
children go into the parlor, and I had to
creep under the sofa, so nobody could see
me ; and Mr. Boyce and Miss Jackson
came in and sit down on the sofa, and he
said, "Oh, Louisa, I do love you so much,"
and then he kissed her, for I heard it
smack. And then she said, "Oh, Thomas,
Ido wish I could believe you ; don't you
never kiss anybody else ?" And he said,
"No, dearest," and I yelled out. "Oh,
what a big story ! for I saw him kiss Bes
sie Nettle's nurse in the hall one night af
ter the gas was turned down." Didn't he
jump up ; you bet ! and he pulled me out
and tore my frock, and said, "Oh, you
wicked child, you, where do you expect to
go for telling such stories ?" And I told
him, "You shut up, I ain't going anywhere
with you." I wish he would die like that
other man, so Ido ; and I don't care
whether he goes to Heaven or not.
Flowers for the Parlor.
There is no home so elegant in its adorn
ings that a charm may not be added by
fresh flowers, arranged with taste and skill;
none so plain and humble that the lack of
rich furnishing may not be forgotten, if
the matchless beauty with which nature
paints and embroiders the fields and woods
be transferred to its lowly rooms, for the
eye to rest upon with never-wearying de
light. Yet a faded and withered bouquet
is an unsightly object, even in the vase of
the rarest crystal ;
and daily care is need
ed to keep these frail beauties in present..
able condition.
I have often wondered at finding not a
single flower in homes where the garden
was glowing with beauty, and the reason
usually given has been, "It is so much
trouble to keep cut flowers in order, and
the water is always liable to be spilled
upon something valuable." This is very
true, so let me tell my lady Flora how to
avoid this danger without banishing the
flowers.
Take almost any kind of a dish—a glass
preserve dish, a soup plate, a saucer a com
mon pie plate—fill it with clean sand or
with soil from your garden press it down
firmly with your hands, and wet it just
enough to make it pack nicely. Take a
slender twig of the proper length, and
plant each end firmly in your sand, making
a handle ; then take long twigs of myrtle,
or any pretty vine, plant them beside your
handle, and twine them around it until the
stick is concealed. Now for your flowers,
which should have stems of various lengths,
and plenty green leaves. Beginning at
the outer edge, plant a border of leaves to
droop over and conceal the dish, and pro
ceed toward the center, using longer stems
as you go on, and interspersing your . colors
skillfully, and you will find yon have the
semblance of an exquisite basket of flowers,
which will last for days, some varieties for
weeks, and may be set anywhere without
danger of overturning. The sand requires
an occasional moistening, and when a flow
er or a leaf withers, it can be pulled out
and replaced by a fresh one, without dis
turbing the arrangement of the rest. Try
r it, little folks and big folks, and you will
be astonished at the beauty so easily pro
duced. A great manyshort-stemmed flow
ers may be used in this way. Balsams are
among
the most effective varieties for this
'style of arrangement, and will last almost
indefinitely.—Little Corporal.
THE returns of sales of the different
sewing machines, during the year 1871,
show the Singer machine to be by far the
most popular of all in the market, the
number sold being 181,260, out of a total
of 610,194 of twenty-five differet
It appears, too, that the Chicago -
Committee, which undertook to fuss'
sewing machines to persons needing thepa,
supplied 2,427 Singer machines against
517 of all other kinds. This preference
for the Singer machine is due to its intrin
sic superiority, and seems likely to be main
tained against all competition.—New York
Sun.