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' of every variety and style, printed at the shortest notice, and every thing in the Printing line will be execu ted in the moat artistic manner and at the lowest rates. Professional Cards. AP. W. JOHNSTON, Surveyor and • Civil Engineer Huntingdon. Pa. Orms:c t No. 113 Third Street. m 1101,1672. BF. GE[IRETT, M. D., ECLEC • TIC PH YCICIAN 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 sur rounding country. apr.3-1872. DR. H. W. BUCHANAN, DENTIST, No. 228 Hill Street, HUNTINGDON, PA. July 3,'72. DR. F. O. ALLMAN can be con sulted at his office, at all hours, Mapleton, Pa. h 6,72. CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law, D•No. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied by Messrs. Wbods & 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 • moved to Leister's new building, Hill street 1,-ttingdon. [jan.4,'7l. f . :l L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T. 1..4 • Brown's new building, No. 520, Hill St., Luntingdon, Pa. [apl2,'7l. lIGLAZIER, Notary Public, corner of Washington and Smith streets, Ilun tingl4, Pa.. [jan.l2'7l. Tr C. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law • Office, No. Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa. [ap.lo,ll. T FRANKLIN SCHOCK, Attorney • at-Law, Huntingdon. Pu. Prompt attention given to all legal business. Office 229 Rill street, corner of Court House Square. [de0.4,'72 ▪ SYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at to • Law, Huntingdon, la. Office, Hill street, hree doors west of Smith. [jan.4'7l. T CH A.LMERS JACRSON, Adm.. ft. • ney at Law. Office with Ws, Dorris, Esq., No. 403, Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa All legal business promptly attend," to. [janls R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at t• Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will prtetice in the several Courts of Ifuntingdon county. Particular attention given to the settlement of estates of dece dents. Office in ho JOURNAL Building. V4.1;71. W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law J • and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., Soldiers' claims against the Government for brek pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend ed to with great care and promptness. Office on Hill street. [jin.4;7l. T . S. GEISSINGER, Attorney -at -1--d• Law, Iluntingdon, Pa. Office with Brown A Bailey. [Feb.s- ly K. ALLEN LOVELL. J. HALL Ilussen. L OVELL & MUSSER, Attorneys-at-Late, HUNTINGDON, PA. Special attention given to COLLECTIONS of all kinds; to the settlement of !STATES, <to.; and all other legal business prosecuted vith fidelity and dispatch. in0r6,72 - - p A. ORBISON, Attoney-at-Law, • Office, 321 Hill street, Ilantinlon, [44311.71. JoHi MCOTT. S. T. BROWN. J. X BATLEY ‘'.. I COTT, BROWN & BAILT:, At ►► 77 torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pu. Ansioas, and all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirstgainst the Government will be promptly progeentet, Office on Hill street. [jan.4!7l. 'WILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorwy at-Lim, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attedion given is collections, and all other logal bushcss attended to with care and promptness. Office, co. 224, Hill street. [apl9,'ll. Hotels. MORRISON HOUSE, OPPOSITE I RNXSYLVANIA R. R. DEPOYI HUNTINGDON, PA J. H. CLOVER, Prop, April 5, Is7l-lr. WASHING"ON HOTEL, S. S. Bownos, Prop'r. Corner of Pitt .tMna Sts.,Bedford, Pa. mayl. Misedlaneous, OYES! 0 YliS! 0 YES! The subseriberholds himself in readiness to cry Sales and Auetims at the shortest notice. Having considerable erperienee in the business he feels assured that le can give satisfaction. Terms reasonable. Adders G. J. HENRY, Afarchs-limos. &octet, Bedford county, Pa. Tr ROBLEY, Merchant Tailor, in • Leister's Building (neondfloor,) Hunting don, P., respectfully solicit, a share of public patronage from town anti country. [0ct16,72. A. BECK, Fash.onable Barber R• and Hairdresser, Hill street, opposite the Franklin House. 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DURBORROW & CO You call me sweet and tender names And softly smooth my tresses, And all the while my happy heart Beats time to your caresses; You love me in your master way, I answer—as you let me; But ah I there comes another day— The day you will forget me. I know that every fleeting hour Is marked by thoughts I bring you ; I know there dwells a subtle power In the old songs I sing you; I do not fear the darkest way With those dear arms about me, Ah I no—l only dread the day When you can live without me. And still you call me tender names, And softly smooth my tresses; And still my happy answering heart Beats time to your caresses. Bush I—let me put that touch away And clasp your bands above me, So—while I ask to die that day, • The day you will not love me. You need not check the thoughts that With darkness wrapped about them, For, gazing in your earnest eyes, My heart can almost doubt them ; Yet hush my whispers as you may, Such chidings do not fret me; Ah, no I—l only dread the day— The day when you will forget me. 3BSSI:E2, =A5n The fragrant wild roses lifted their pink chalices up toward the sun shine and dew of the July Heavens ; the robins sang uproarious glees in the branches of the old apple orch ard ; and neither rose nor robin was fairer or sweeter voiced than Bessie Hay, as she stood among the currant bushes, culling the red, ripe fruit under the shade of a huge pear tree, where the stone wall of the garden was draped with emerald festoons of a wild grape vine, while Paul Estcott stood leaning up against the mossy trunk of the tree, twistiEg a stem of blue bells in his hand. "I know I'm poor, Bessie," saidhe resuming a conversation which had apparently lapsed into silence for a moment or so ; "but I suppose poor people have as much right to live and be happy as rich ones." "I suppose so too, Paul." "And lam sure I'm willing to work, if only I could find something to do." "Mr. Elton wants some one'totae long • epistle from his aunt Jemima, the farm and work it—" which contained more news, possi "That is a mere drudgery, and be- ble and impossible, than any gov sides, the pay would not enable me ernment bulletin, serve to quell the to marry and support a wife comfor- fl ame . tably." "Folks say," wrote the epistolary "We could wait, Paul." spinster, "that Eliza Hay ie going to "You are very willing," said the marry widower Sinclair, beer.a.e he's rich. There was a deal of talk young man, bitterly ; "I don't be lieve, Bessie, that you care for me about her and that young Van as Ido for you." • Brugh, but he went away all of a "Oh, Paul !" sudden, folks thought it likely with And a pained look came over the a flea in his ear. Eliza knows pret fair young face. ty well which side of her bread is "Well, then,what do you think of buttered on and cough of his." and Sinclair can't live being tutor to Mr. Sinclair's little long with that boys ?" It was no wonder that when pret "Thank you, I don't fancy being ty Bessie Hay made an excuse to toadeater to *a pompous aristocrat come to Aunt Jemima's, and asked like Henry Sinclair." wistfully and with a certain quiver "But, Paul, we can't always be and in her voice if Paul's letter contain do just what we like in this world,' ed no message for her, the elderly : pleaded Bessie, with a troubled look gossip monger answered shining in her tender eyes. "Dear me, no ! You didn't expect "Easy philosophy for you." ii hear, did you ?" And the young man threw down Bessie went back home, her little his stem of blue bells. hart as cold as lead in her bosom. "I suppose you would;like to have the bad refused Norton Van I Bugh; she had said 'No' to Mr. me break stones upon the road. Snclair, in spite of Aunt Jemima's with the feelings of a gentle thought you, at least, could sympa bowing prognostications ; and peo man." pe began to wonder if pretty Bes "So I do, Paul ; but I believe in sie Hay was going to be an old maid the scripture doctrine of a man's after all. doing with all his might whatever, "Why doesn't he write to me, or his hands find to do." send me at least a word to show that "I see how it is," said Paul Estcott he has not forgotten me ?" thought haughtily ; 'you are weary of our:en Bessie. gagement ; you want to break th( "Why doesn't she answer my let fetters that bind you. Very we 11,30 ter ?" wondered - Paul. let it be. You are free." So the world wagged on, until And he strode away over the higi Mr. Estcott came home from the far grass, muttering something about off flowery land—not indeed with having suspected how it would turn the forgine of which he had dream out, ever since Norton Van Brugh 'ed in such sanguine fashion, but had come down from London to trith a sußeient competence to live sketch the scenery and turn the well and comfortably in a place as beads of all the girls, his native vn age. Bessie Hay made a step or two tc, It \vas a sl^rmy November eve overtake him, but she checked her- ning, with thre.4,, e m ege of snow in self in an instant, with a scarlet flush the chilly air, ant. .1, low wind stir on her cheek, and a gathering mist ring the last withe., d leaves upon in her eyes. the station, looking 'inost into the "He ought to know better ; and he eyes of Bessie Hay, wilt had come does," she thought. "No, I will not once again to the post ok., e to ask follow him. He will come back to for the letter that never can. me when his momentary pique has How seldom are our uisiont., eal _ It is the solemn thought connected wills worn itself away. -zed ! life, that life's last business is In the meantime Paul, vaulting Bessie had dreamed a thousan middle be n in earnest; and it is then, midway be crier the stone wall a few paces be- times of meeting Paul Estcott, but -i....en the eradleand the grave, that a man low, had very nearly stumbled over never in such away as this. beg., t o marvel that he let the days of the prostrate form of a man lying "Paul," she quivered. youth g, ily or half enjoyed. It is the among the red clover blossoms in "Ah!" said Paul, doffing his sty- pensive. alpAlhubeling, it is the sensation the island of shade cast by an um, lish fur traveling cap. "I hope you of Half sadnessh a t we experience when a that ' , lows is shorter, and the the longest daft' the year is passed, and brageous tree readinp" are well. "Mr. Van Brugh. ' 11 e tli t v e s e p t r s y na d t t a re h i e s r ha i , z i nrg withgra grave. gigantic so f d o o t For he did not exactly like to Ca The young artist glanced up with her Mrs. Sinclair as yet. light fainter, anthe feebler shadows tell a sort of scorn, allowing his long, The red strains of sunset had al man look back up! his youth. When the dark lashes. Paul bit his lips. most faded out of the sky when he "Engaged in the noble occupation overtook her about one hundred first gray hairs home visible, when the of evesdropping, eh ?" he muttered. yards from the station. • snwelcome truth Fastens itself upon the "Come, now, Estcott, don't be His heart smote him when he saw niod that a man no longer going up crusty. I didn't mean to 112ar your the look of meek endurance in her Pill, but down, at that the sun is always conversation; but what was a fellow face. n 'e d for t e he u n s westerning, he los back on the things to do ? This is the jolliest place on "Are you alone, Bessy !- o n l i d an T ta h e e: ° l iehind. When 'o were children we the whole farm, and I wasn't to "Yes, Paul." bought as childn. But now there lies n u w ids it t h ahe i n ts th ea e r u ne a s y t e wo a r n k d , blame because Miss Hay came out, "I suppose," he said with an effort, . looking like Hebe's self, to gather "that I must call you by some new •, en home. . secondyouth for red currants, and you followed her name now?" man, better and Hier than his first, if he shadow. Come, let's us go down "Call me Bessie Hay," she nos- vill look on, andnot look back.. W. by the trout stream, and talk over wered quietly. R obertson. matters and things in general. Are "You are not married ?" —_„.....__0 you really in earnest about wanting "No, Paul." BE sure that tbse only have a right to something todo?" He drew a long breath that was season of rest, aid those only truly en "Of course I am ?" almost like a sob. y it, who have dne real work, and who Then suppose you just glance over "Aunt Jemima said—but*Bessie can to again. %is world is full of en this letter, that's all." why did you not answer my letter ?" yment, not even for selfculturein the hest thin butf r takingour part in Paul Estcott obeyed, almost daz- "Why did you not write to me g , things, o zled for the moment by the brilliant Paul ?" _ in 3 Gods fellow-workers, and as the fol. prospect it seemed to open to him. Before they had reached the old vers of his Son, she went about doing xi "You really giveme the privilege . Hay farm, where the currant bush- , of accepting or this refusal, e• situa- es had long since lost their leaves, tion ?" he asked. and the garden was already begin "l really do ; and, consideringthat ning to be whitened with the falling I don't want it myself, it is na great snowflakes,. the mists of doubt and WITII BUSINESS CARDS, LEGAL BLANKS, PAMPHLETS Uht *am Presentiments b, r HUNTING-DON, PA., WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 1873 stretch of generosity on my part. Only you see, you have to decide at once, and be in the city to report yourself at my uncle's counting house within four and twenty hours." Paul sprang up, flushed and ea ger. "I'll do it. I'll show Bessie Hay that I'm no do-nothing, after all ; and when a motive really worth my while presents itself," glancing at his old fashioned silver watch, which contrasted so markedly with Mr. Van Brugh's elegant full jeweled chronometer." "Not a second." "But my trunk ?" "You can get what you need in town; myuncle supplies the outfit." "And Bessie ?" "Write to her to night; and my uncle will forward the letter under cover to me, and I will see that she gets it." Paul Estcott wrung his compan ion's hand. "You are very kind," he said hus kily. "I had almost grown to regard you with distrust." Van Brugh laughed, showing his dainty pearl white teeth under a a brown moustache. "Neverjudge by appearances," he said. "Take my word for it, Miss Hay will pardon all lack of ceremo ny when she learnsall." - Mr. Van Brugh accompanied Paul to the railway station, and saw himoff with a smilingly uttered pro fusion of good wishes. "The bestfriend a fellow everhad!" thought Paul, as the train moved off. But he could not see the sardonic grin which the curves of the fare well smile changed into when the little country station was left once more to silence and lonelinsss. "Now" said Norton Van Brugh, "I'll have the field all to myself. Strange how fascinated I have al lowed myself to become with a mere country girl ! But there is some thing very winning about her style of beauty. " Bessie Hay never answered Paul Estcott'3 farwell letter ; nor did the latter once suspect that it was be cause Mr. Van Brugh never deliver ed it. Paul, firin* up under the feverish impluse of his old enemy, jeaslousy, took refuge in silence. Nor did the Misunderstanding were cleared up, and Bessie Hay had promised to forgive and forget her lover's seem ing neglect. "Van Brugh was a scoundrel," muttered Paul, "but without his aid I would scarcely have been in posi tion to marry you! It has been a long time to wait, but it's all right. Bessie, after all." _ _ "It's like a story, Paul," saidßes sie, where people go through all sorts of trials and tribulations, but are happy at last ! "Oh, Paul, I never thought I should live a story !" gceding for tile pillion. Beaten Paths. We suppose there are few people accus tomed to think at all who have not been occasionally struck with the remarkable tendency to uniformity which seems to pervade in a manner the whole domain of human action, and not of action only but of human thought. Things are being constantly done for no other earthly reason than because they have been done before ; things are constantly said simply because some other people have said them before. Not that the mind is inactive, or that its natural inventiveness is not on the alert; the contrary is emphatically the case just now, and in truth it is the very activity and restlesness of new thoughtsin our day, which throws into special prominence the tendency to uniformity of which complaint is made. Men design and bring forward novelties continually; new theories of all kinds are floating in the atmosphere of our time, and crowds of men whose highest faculty is that of ready receptivity, catch and consolidate them, and offer them for acceptance. But of such novelties, for the most part, we are doomed never to know whether they are good or bad, because they lack the strength to stand against our preconceptions, and get crushed under the tyrannous weight of custom. The new method or the new thought may be good —may be the very best; but the old method and the old thought are in posses sion, and refuse to budge or be elbowed out of the way. Is it not strange and somewhat anomalous that the individual and the general mind are so opposed in respect to innovation, that singly we are each and all so broad and large-minded, so open to the force of argument and ready to accept conviction, but that cor porately we are so narrow, and resent the most logical reasoning, and stick like lim pets on the rock to old conclusions ? Is it that, although the new idea is true, we have an inner and unflattering conscious mess that the truth of life, or what is so N us, is so closely entwined with the old idea that we have not the will or the heart to dissever them. It may possibly be so—Ex. Bra in -Work Dr. Willard Parker has been depreca ting over-work. He says "no man can !nil faithfully for more than four to six burs in the twenty-four. If that time is exceeded, all the phosphorous is carried off, and the mind becomes irritable, broken down, and has softening of the brain." There is much of the Doctor's usual good sense in this, only, those who aro familiar with his own habits of intense activity, will judge that he does not take account of his own experience. There are many exceptions to be named, of such workers as Humbolt and Silliman, who took but four hour's sleep in the twenty-four. The brain is a delicate instrument, and may easily be ruined; but if one only knows how to use it rightly, and has a strong common sense presiding over the will, a great deal may be gotten out. of it, in the way of work, without harm. Ver satility is a great safeguard. There is such a thing as having too many irons in the fire ; but the man who can tarn his attention to various studies, and is not tied to one subject, can accomplish much more than four hour's work a day. Lest any should make excuse for improper laziness of habit, let it be understood that there is considerable difference in what men call "brain-work." A good deal that we have observed never could hurt anybody, nor make a single gray hair. Much puttering with books, and no small amount of page-cov ering, which some folks do by the ream, are of this kind. To such, this dictum of Dr. Parker need give no sort of alarm. The phosphorous of their brain is in no danger of giving out. It is only the downright, hard, personal thinking, to gether with anxiety of mind, which draws on the vital powers and exhausts the nu trition. Outside of that, our mental ope rations are more of the nature of recreation than labor. Indeed, the mind cannot rest utterly inactive without mischief. There must be something to engage its attention, except during actual sleep.- 1 Christian Union. The Autumn of Life. BEAL sorrow is almost as difficult to cover as real . poverty. An instinctive iaacy hides the ways of the one and the Inds of the other, Spring Derangements , BY DR. J. 11. HANAFORD. The idea is absurd and upphilosophical that there is anything in the climate of the spring which necessarily produces sickness, only so far as we disregard the manifest indications of the existing cir cumstances. It is equally preposterous to suppose that at this season of the year, when nature is putting on her best and brightest attire, and rallyine , her forces for a more remarkable display of her powers and her wonders, that special medication is needed and that only for human and in tellectual being. Indeed, with our won derfully elastic constitution, the master piece of the workmanship of the great Architect, we are adapted to all of the natural changes of our somewhat fitful climate, and may so far train ourselves as to be able to battle with all the climates of our globe. _ But to understand the nature of the dif ficulties and derangements with which we so often contend in the spring, it should be remembered that the food appropriate for the cold and warm seasons and climates is governed'by the same principles, con trolled by the same laws which regulate our clothing—warm, thick and non-con ducting for winter, and the opposite for the hot season. During the winter, while we are encased in our fleecy wrappers made of the materials admitting of the least escape of the warmth generated in the body, we also naturally adopt a kind of food corresponding with the same con ditions, highly carbonized, the bey calcu lated to elaborate the needed warmth by an actual combustion of carbon within, a burning of the fuel of our food. These are necessary conditions of enduring the chilling blasts, the frosts and snows of our climate. If we follow our winter appe tites we shall consume an unusual amount of carbonaceous food—real fuel, in one of three forms, starch, rich in the potato and the grains in general: the sweets, and the oils and fats; whiCh ones we adopt makes but little difference so far as the matter of animal heat is concerned, though the last ordinarily tax and derange the stomach far the most. If it is true, therefore, that we positive ly need carbon in some of its many forms, as a part of our food, to promote animal heat in the winter, and the vegetables and fruits, food containing less carbon and more of the bland juices, as a means of eliminating the impurities of the blood on the return of the warm season, after the body has been so thoroughly carbonized in the winter, it is manifest that our food should be changed as soon as we commence to lay aside our thick garments, and for the same reason. But if we disregard all of these conditions, if we continue our winter food—a large per sent. of which is designed for warmth and not for ordinary nutrition—we must suffer as we should, under the same circumstances, by continu ing our heavy garments on the return of hot weather. As the spring time returns with its warm and deliberating breezes—made so to us on account of our abnormal condi tion—if we use the winter food, the same in kind and amount—at least one-third more than the summer demands—we shall as certainly feel an oppression, a supera bundance of bloood at the bead, a commo tion at the stomach—a superabundance of bile in the stomach to dispose of the su perabundance of oily food—a general com motion in the whole body, as if its whole powers had been aroused to vigorous ac tion to remedy some of the impending evils, to ward off some of the attacks made on the vital domain by this excessive sup ply of food when not needed, and of a kind not designed for this season of the year. As an illustration of this principle it is only necessary to refer to a single dish in vogue in some parts of the country as the special spring diet. I refer to ham and eggs. Now whatever may be said of this dish in the winter, when the appetite is keen, the digestion vigorous, and the de mand for more heat urgent, it must be ob vious that when the powers of the body, with those of digestion, are sensibly flagging, such food, so rich in carbon and so difficult of assimilation, to say the least, is not needed under such circumstances. While more than five hours are demanded even under favorable circumstances for the stomach to dispose of the pork, and while it has been made still more difficult of digestion by the smoking, and while the eggs have been cooked in the worst man ner, fried solid, it is not strange that the stomach rebels against such treatment, that its tears of sorrow and anguish flow out in the form of bile. This is but a fair illustration of the course pursued by many at this time of the year. The appetite diminishes, as it manifestly should, and as certainly as it increases at the approach of the cold season, and "all sorts of pampering" are devised to continue the winter food as long as possible. Stimulants and pro vocatives of the appetite are brought into requisition, and the poor stomach is jaded, crammed, cajoled, coaxed, spurred, whip ped and abused in a most shocking man ner, treated worse than our dumb animals, for cruelty to which so many have been justly punished. It is strange that to so many the necessary diminution of the ap petite in the spring should have such a terror, especially while they must know that its increase on the preceding fall was a necessary and desirable result as a means of promoting the comfort and presarving health. A little common sense, it might seem, is all that is needed without the use of "spring bitters." When the weather grows milder, attended with a diminishing appe tite,-it is but necessary to conform to ex isting conditions, using our judgment so far as to use less of the heating food, the fuel—sweets, oils and starch—and not only to take less food, but the kinds calculated to give more strength and less beat. The ' kinds of food demanded by the appetite in the hot weather, the fruits, vegetables, sub-acids, grains, lean meats, fish, etc., will be specially useful and appropriate, to some extent at least, at the approach of summer. A little extra cooling and bath ing, less food and of the cooling kinds, less clothing, and less violence of exercise, will do for us what "bitters" never can do, saving us much "spring sickness," much suffering, present and prospective. Use medicine only whets needed—when reeom. mended by a responsible and intelligent physician—and common sense at all times, and do not attempt to force or do violenee to nature. HE is wise enough who hath learned the gospel ; he is altogether out of his senses who seeks saving knowledge any where else; for here are all treasures. IT is safer to 1 - ) - e humble with one talent, than proud with ten; yea, better to be an humble worm than a proud angel. Why Aunt Sallio Never Married, Now, Aunt Sallie, do please tell us why you never got married. You remembered you said once that when you was a girl you were engaged to a minister, and prom ised us you would tell us about it some time. Now, aunt, please tell us. "Well, you see, when I was about sev enteen years old, I was living in Utica, in l i the State of New York. Though I say it myself I was quite a good looking girl then, and bad several beaux. The one that tock my fancy was a young minister, a very promising younc , man, and remark ably pious and steady. Hei thought a good deal of me, and I kind took a fancy to him, and things went on until we were engaged. One evening he came to me. put his arms around me and kind of hug ged me, when I got excited, and some flustrated. It was a long time ago, and I don't know but what I might have hug ged back a little. I was like any other girl, and pretty soon I pretended to be mad about it, and pushed him away, though I wasn't mad a bit. You must know the house where I lived was on one of the back streets of the town. They were glass doors in the parlor which opened over the street. These doors were drawn to, I stepped back a little from him, and when he came up close, I pushed him back again. I pushed him harder than I in tended to do; and don't you think, the poor fellow lost his balance, and fell through one of the doors into the street. Aunty! Was he killed ?" . _ "No; he fell head first, and as he was going I caught him by the legs of his pantaloons. I held on for a moment and tried to pull him back, but the suspenders gave way, and the poor young man fell clear out of his pantaloons into a parcel of ladies and gentlemen along the street." "Oh ! Aunty ! Aunty ! Lordy !" "There, that's right,.squall and giggle as much as you want to. Girl's that can't hear a little thing like that without tear ing around the room and he-he-ing in such a way don't know enough to come in when it rains. A nice time the man that mar ries one of you will have, won't he. Catch me telling you anything again." "But, Aunt Sallie, what became of him?" Did you ever see him again ?" "No, the moment he touched the ground he got up and left that place in a terrible hurry. I tell you it was a sight to be re membered. How that man did run ! He went out West, and I believe he is preach ing out in Illinois. But he never mar- , ried. He was very modest, and I sup pose he was so badly frightened that time that be never dared trust himself near a woman again. That, girls, is the reason why I never married. I felt very bad about it for a long time—for he was a real good man, and I've often thought to my self that we should have been very happy if his suspenders hadn't given way." A Short Romance, Into the arid atmosphere of politices and bread-and-butter sometimes comes a bit of romance of melting sweetness. Of such is the story of two lovers and a re morseless father, which, as it has just been told by a Bostonian, must of course be true. Ten years ago a beautiful young Boston girl was sent to the Vermont hills to arrest, if possible, the indications of ap proaching consumption. She recovered her health, and meantime inflicted a cureless wound upon the heart of an intelligent and well educated young farmer's son. Unlike Lady Yore de Yore. she did not scorn his timid affection, but returned it heartily, referring him to her father. That traditionally unromantic personage wouldn't hear of it. "Never-r, never-r, shall a base mechanic wed my child !" The young man retired, went west and made a large fortune, and the young woman mar ried the man presented by her father. She went to live in France; her husband died in two years, and her parents also dying she remained abroad. The memory of her first romance faded with her as with its object, who, though unmarried, was too busy in makitg money for tender thoughts. Last year his business took him to Eu rope, and one night found him on a little steamer plying between Marseilles and Leghorn. A storm came up, and a lady, who had risen from her seat on deck to go below, was thrown overboard by a sudden lurch of the vesssl. The "base mechanic" jumped after, and though in the dark the steamer drifted away from them, they clutched a providential plank and floated until they were picked up by another ves sel. During the night, in the cold and darkness, they discovered in each other the loved and lost of earlier years. The old feeling came back in that fearful hour, and on their arrival at Malta they were married. End of the poetry. --*—...--d.—_ How Young Men Fail "There is Alfred Sutton home with his family to live on the old folks," said one neighbor to another. "It seems hard af ter all his father has done to fit him for business. and the capital he invested to start him so fairly. It is surprising he has turned out so poorly. He is a steady young man, no bad habits as far as I know; he had a good education and was always considered smart; but he doesn't succeed in anything. lam told he has tried a number of different sorts of business, and sunk money every time. What can be the trouble with Alfred, I should like to know, for I don't want my boy to take his turn." "Alfred is smart enough," said the oth er, "and has education enough, bat be lacks the one element of success. He nev er want's to give a dollars worth of work for a dollar of money, and there is no oth er way for a man to make his fortune. He must din•.if he would get gold. All the men that have succeeded honestly or dishonestly, in making money, have had to work for it, the sharpers sometimes the hardest of all. Alfred wished to set his train in motion, and a smashup was the result. Teach your boy, friend Aroher, to work with a will when he does work. Give him play enough to make him healthy and happy, but let hinr learn early that work is the business of life. Patient, self denying work is the price of success. Ease and indolence eat away not capital only, but worse still, all a man's nerve and power. Present gratification tends to put off duty until to-morrow or next week, and so the golden moments slip by. It is get ting to be a rare thing lbr the sons of rich men to die rich. Too often they squander in a half score of years what their fathers were a lifetime in accumulating. I wish I could ring it in the ear of every aspiring young man that work, hard work, of head and hands, is the price of success."— Country Gentleman. • ...- WORK while you CCM NO. 28. A Trusty Boy A few years ago, says a New York pa per, a large drug firm in this city adver tised for a boy. The next day the store was thronged with applicants. Among them came a queer looking little fellow accompanied by his aunt, in lien of faith less parents, by whom he had been aban doned. Looking at this little waif the mer chant in the store promptly said : "Can't take him; places all fall; besides he is too small." "I know he is small," said the woman, "but he is willing and faith ful." There was a twinkle in the boy's eyes which made the merchant think again. A partner in the firm volunteered to remark that he "did not see what they wanted of such a boy—he wasn't bigger than a pint of cider." But after consul tation the boy was set to work. A few day's later a call was made on the boys in the store for some one to stay all night. The prompt response of the little fellow contrasted well with the re luctance of others. In the middle of the night the merchant looked in to see if all was right in the store, and presently dis oovered his youthful protege busy scissor ing labels. "What are you doing ?" said he. "I did not tell you to work at night." "I know you did not tell me so, but I thought I might as well be daing some thing." In the morning the cashier got orders to "double that boy's wages, for he is willing." Only a few weeks elapsed before a show of wild beasts passed through the streets, and very naturally all hands in the store rushed to witness the spectacle. A thief saw his opportunity and entered in a rear door to seize something, but in a twinkle found himself firmly clutched by the di minutive clerk aforesaid; and after a strug glo was captured. Not only was arobbery prevented, but valuable articles, taken from other'stores, were recovered. When asked by the merchant why he stayed be hind to watch when all others quit their work, the reply was : "You toldnie never to leave the store when all others were absent, and I thought I'd stay " . . Orders were immediately given once more : "Double that boy's wages, be is willing and faithful." The Charity of the Future. Charity differs in different ages and climes. - In one it gives indiscriminately to all who ask; in another it gives little or none, and only to those who are worthy of it. Among certain savage tribes it is con sidered a charity to let the aged and infirm die, rather than live on in weakness and misery after the bodily powers have failed. Among the ancient Greeks charity did not forbid, but allowed, the killing of weakly children, that they might not burden the State. Indeed charity, which is only an other word for love to mankind, approved of it. There is now agitating the public mind in England a new form of charity, which proposes to deal kindly with pau pers, incurables, lunatics, and hopelessly diseased persons by sending them away from this world of tears to the sunny land beyond the skies. In this way England is to be relieved of, a great burden. So ab surd seems the whole scheme to most peo ple that it excites a smile rather than in dignation ; but nothing is more certain than that the movers of this plan are in earnest. One eminent physician read a paper not long ago before the Anthropol ogical Society, in which he argued that it would be a mercy, a real charity, to give chloroform, or nitrous oxide, or some oth er ancesthetio to all incurable maniacs in England, and set their fetteredapirits free. Humanity stands back aghast at the idea. It is so different from the spirit of Chris tianity which bids us bind up the broken spirit and heal the sick body. For our part we have little sympathy with the method of dealing with the poor and downcast which is now proposed. True, we must do something to rid the world of lazy, worthless human beings; and in the charity of the future this will gradually be brought about by putting an end to the propagation of rascals and paupers. How it will be done is not yet certain ; but we believe it will be done. Meanwhile let us "labor and wait."—Herald of Health. Profanity We are living emphatically in the age of profanity, and it seems to us that we are on the topmost current. One cannot go through the streets anywhere without havino• ' his ears o ff ended by the vilest' f words, and his reverence shocked by the most profane use of sacred names. Nor does it come from the old or middle-aged alone, for it is a fact as alarming as it is true, that the youngest portion of the com munity are the most proficient in the de grading habit. Boys have an idea that it is smart to swear, that it makes them man ly; there never was a greater mistake in the world. Men, even those .who swear themselves, are disgusted with profanity in a young man, because they know how, of all bad habits, this clings the most , closely and increases with years. It is the most insidious of habits, growing on one so insensibly that almost before he is aware he becomes an accomplished cursor. Wouldn't Boil Soft. Charton, Mass., like every other town, is full of reminiscences of past events. It has its curious characters, who have now nearly all passed away. A story is related that about a century ago a party of Eng lish gentry, on their way from Boston to New Haven, were compelled to remain there over night, as the only place where man and beast were accommodated. As many of the luxuries of life, such as coffee and tea, were almost unknown to the in habitants, our travelers carried a supply of theses thing with them. Coffbe and tea were given to the landlady that she might prepare them for breakfast. It was the first time she had seen these articles, and of course knew nothing about such prep aration. Not wishing to be considered verdant she resolved to try. When the travelers called for their tea and coffee she came and told them : "Gentlemen the garbs are done, but the beans won't boil soft." No MAN is born into the world whose work is not born with him. There is always work and tools to work with all those who will; and blessed are the heavy hands of toil. A GOD-LIKE man is the only goodly man ; a Christ.like nature brought into the soul doth only denominate a man a true Christian. . BEAUTY is no local deity, liketbe Greek and Roman gods, but omnipresent,
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