_ -
VOL. 48.
The Huntingdoi Journal
J. R. DURBORROW,
PUBLISHERS AID PROPRIETORS ,
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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. All kinds of Tones and Pomades
kept OR handand for sale. rapl9,ll—Rm
SIEEIRLEYSRURG ELECTRO-MED
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J. A. NASH,
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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,