VOL. VII.
figr, PEOPLE'S JOURNAL.
rtHHASHED MIRY THURSDAY MORXING.
BY ADDISON AVERY.
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ONLY WATT No
A very aged nrin In an a'hilition.o was
ts'ied what he was doing now. lie replied,
.ti n y waiting."
Only waiting till the shadows
Are a litt'e longer grow
0 1 ,6. w ai.ing :ill the glimmer
Of the d tai: be on 3
dntrn—
Till nsh or earth s ruled
Front the he in once full of day—
Tid the stars of heaven are break
Through the twilight soft. and grey
Only waiting till the reapers
liave the tact sheaf gathered home—
For the summer time is faded,
And the autumn wind:: have come—
quickly, reapers! gather quickly
The - last ripe hours of my heart—
For the bloom of life is withered,
And I hasten to depart.
Only waiting till the angels
Open m•ido the mystic gate,
At whose feet 1 lung have lingered,
Weary, - poor, and desolate.
Even now I hear the footsteps,
And their voices far away—
If they call me, I am waiting,
Only vatting to obey.
Onlv waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown—
Only waiting till the glimmer
Of the day's last beam it flown.
Then front ont the gathering darkness
llolv. deathless stars shall rise,
llr whose light to soot shall gladly
'Tread its pathway to the skies.
TO SCIENCE.
IT I.LCILTI/ M. DAVIDSON
Let others ill CO:e pleasure's courts be found,
But may I tee'er he I,hirled the giddy round ;
Ix: me a•: ^.rl Genitb: r.ipid flight,
Till the fur It:It of Seieuce meets toy_sight
ll:est with a pihot who my fee will guide,
Bireet my way, whette•er I step aside; -
Mae one brigh: r ty of :Science on me shiner
And be the {tit': of learning ever mine.
TEE INDIAN'S PAYMENT.-
GET."
BY MRS. CAROLINE A. SOULE
It IN2S late in the month of Novem
ber. The day had been cold and
gthty, with occasional dashes cif rain,
and the evening, which se`t-in early,
promised to be. one of gloom and tem
pest. The wind went rushing about
with that low, mournful, hollow sound
which is known only in !the autumn
time, lashing the naked boughs of the
old forest trees with its furious surges,
whirling the dead leaves which lay
heaped in the dark ravines intl mael
strom eddies, and driving everything
before it with a violence that made
them only too glad to flee. The clouds
which had hung in scattered masses,
while the livid sun sent its struggling
beams among them, gathered them
selves into a single mighty one and
shrouded the heavens as with a pall,
threatening every moment to burst
into drenching floods.
"God pity the homeless to-night !"
exclaimed a young man in an emphatic
tone, as pUshing open the rude door
of his log cabin, he dragged in the
old back-log that was to warm the
rough hearth-stone and irradiate the
brown rafters through the long, cheer
less hours of the autumn storm. " God
pity them and help them, too, for a
cold and weary time they'll have: I
trust no one wanders to-night in this
wilderness: though lest one there
shold be, I'll do what I can to give
them a beacon light," and even while
he spoke, he planted the huge, knotty
stick into a bed of mimson coals and
filled the space between it and the old
ttnn fire-holders with a generous arm
ful pi" light, dry kindling, which soon
-burst into a brilliant blaze, not only
scattering light and heat acros ? ithe
' dim apartment, but sending a stream
Pf moon-like rays through the fitly
windows, that went dancing like a
thing of life through the outer 44 1
ness, till it was lost in the mazes' of
the untracked forest.
"There," said the warm-hearted
woodsman, as he. watched the sky
bound sparks and the continuous glow,
"I've dope my part toward leading
them to a home,if any there be abroad
and wandering, and I'll enjoy it, too,
myself," and he drew his seat to the
homely board on which smoked a
hunter's fare, steaks from the wild
deer, a stew of birds which he had
shot while standing in the door of his
cabin, sod cakes of powdered corn,
THE'.:'-,PEOPLUSH. JOURNAL
nicely baked and browned on a clean
corner of the rough hearth.- A.relish
ing meal it was, too, for the hands of
a loving and gentle wife bad cooked
it all, and honest, sturdy toil had
awakened that keen zest for food
which the idler never knows.
"A supper fit for a king," said be,
as he returned to his cozy place before
the fire.. "We sha'n't
_starve yet
awhile, Moll,-,-not while there are
birds in the trees and game in the
woods, and strength in these brawny
arms. Only keep a warm - hope in
your heart, little wife, and our home
will yet-be a bonny sp.A." And often
he folded' bis hands on his bosom and
bent his head, and seemed to be . read
ing
bright fancies in the warm fire
light. And when her light evening
chores were done up, his wife drew
her seat close . beside him, and as we
were all wont on such stormy nights,
when the hearth-stone beams the two
warmed their yonng memories and
strengthened the pi moos of hope.
And the evening speti on, wildly and
awfully .without, but cairn cad beauti - -
fully within,- by the side of the blazing
fire. whose streaming light was the
only star that gleamed in that old
_forest.
"We'll keep the fire up all: night,
and as bright as we can, too," said the
brave pioneer, as, ere be
the
into.
bed, instead of raking the coals, he
threw on a fresh bundle of splints;
"it's too awful a night for me to sleep
sound, and I may as well tend it as net.
,Cod help them that roam, if Any there.
be, and guide them this way. It will
never be aid that 22rkened my fire
in a night like this."
i Once or twice did be rouse himself
from the slumber that in spite of his
, awe of the storm would steal over his
senses, and renew the blaze that was
I dying away, hut then as. the rain
ceased its dashing and fell only on the
I rough roof with a lullaby tone, and
the wind hushed its bowls and only
moaned in a weary like way, he suf
fered himself to sink in that calm,
deep sleep which comes only to those
who have labored with hands that
were clean and hearts that were pure.
An hour or two passed away, and
still he slept, and the blazing brands
(lied in the ashes., and the old back
(log, cleft with the. evening's flame,
dropped slowly its crimson flakes,
giving out no longer a brilliant flash,
'but only a steady, ruddy glare.
Just then, footsore, wearied, and
• sick, there leaned against the rough
door a poor Indian hunter, a brave
and right loyal descendant of those
red men Who, ere the pioneer girdled
his trees, was king of this wild old
wood. 'Many a long, weary mile had
he traveled since dawn, and when the
dark night set in so stormy and cold,
he had drawn his torn blanket around
him and, sought only to find in the
grove some hollow in which to lie
down and chant the death-hymn that
bad rung all day in his" ears. A long I
time he wandered, entangling himself!
yet deeper in the intricate windings of
the dense old wood. But just when
his feet lagged most, and his heart was
sorest, a beam from the woodman's_
fire lit- on his path, and it lit, too, a
hope in his bosom. He followed the
ray, and ere the last brand had fallen,
was so near the rude home that his
Indian eye could track the path which
the owner had made in the forest, and
fidlow it to the door.
. But there he paused awhile. Would
the white man be kindle his red-faced
brother, and give, him the food he
craved, and-a skin by the fire?
" Me try him," said he, as he pushed
againt.t the door—" me try him—he
good to me, me no fbrgct," and the
wooden bar rattled, and the woods
man awoke, startled but not afraid:
One bound brought him to the door,
and with one hand on its guard and
one on his rifle, he called, " Who's
there—what want you?"
"Me Indian; me sick and me hun
gry; me—" but me lie could speak
more, the door flew open, and he was
bid to come in and be welcome. • ,
"Friend nor foe stands outside my
door on a 'night like this," said •the
sturdy host, as he, threw a generous
armful of his light-wood and raked
out the coals till they were all of a
glow.
" Me your friend, and me no forget,"
said the Indian, in a voice emphatic
though weak; as he sank on thebearth
stone, tore off his blanket that Was
dripping and cold, and suffered the
warm, rosy light to creep 'over his
great, brawny limbs ,and redden the
cheek that bad never been pale before.
'"l'm your friend; for God knows
by your looks you need - one," re
sponded the brave pioneer; "and'the
best
. that I have
. shall be. yours to
night ;" and suiting the actions to the
words, ho set on the. table the remains
of the evening meal, dnd then draw
ing out a • clear bed of coals, laid over
them d generous slice of the noble
'!NE NO FOR
DEVOTED TO THE PRINCIPLES OF DEMOCRACY, AND THE DISSEMINATION OF MORALITY LITERATURE,-AND NEWS
COUDERSPORT, POTTER
deer be had 'slaughtered himself, and
had soon - a smoking meal to tempt the
hungry palate of the guest. Then
casting a bundle of skins on
. the floor
close to the hearth-stone, and taking
from oft the bed whereon lay his wife,
trembling in Silent terror, a heavy
blanket, he told the poor Indian to
rest himself till morning, or longer if
he chose. -And then
,with a heart hap
pier thzn when he rose, lie lay down
again, drawing his pale companion
closely to his breast, and quieting her
fears with' endearments as gentle and
soothing as those a mother bestows on
a frightened child. e
When they awoke in the morning,
their Indian guest lay still upon the
floor in a sound, refreshing sleep.
When lie rose from hiS rustic couch,
they asked him not Wnence he had
come and whither lie was going, but
only to partake of their hospitality as
long as he thought fit. With Indian
taciturnity, he said nothing,- but ate
with them, and then lay down again,
and in this way passed two days. On
the mornina . of the third, when the
hearty breakfast l had been disposed of,
he drew his blanket around him, and
went to the door. As be crossed the
threshold, he turned his face to the
still seated husband and wife, and said
emphatically—" Pale face good to In
dian—me no forget ;"and as an arrrow
darts frcm its bow when I the strong
arm draws; he sped from the sheltering
roof-and was lost almost instantly in
the mazes of the dense wood.
For some weeks the incident was
dwAr. on frequently by the family, but
gyfidually it faded from their memo
ries, and as years passed away, it was
only once in a while recalled at the
request of two buoyant lads, that
"father would tell them an Injun
Story, a true story about a lire Injun."
Then taking them on his kneo, .he
would relate to them what has just
been written, and they would draw
his arms yet closer-round their trem
bling forms, and wonder if they would
dare to go to sleep while a "live Injun"
lay stretched belbre the fire; and they
would say, "Were n't you afraid,
father?" and cuddle up to his-heart.
Alas! they, nor he, nor that still
beautiful wile thought then of the sor
row that - "live Injuns" were to bring
upon their happy hearts. Closer
would those little ones have- clung 'to
him, and fairer arms than theirs would
have been wound about his bosom.
But the threatened blow came soon,
and a sad and crushing one it was.
Many changes had occurred since
the pioneer bad 'cleared his first acre
and built-a - cabin. - Whit was then a
wild and tangled forest, with game
starting up at every rod, had become,
before the hands of -labor and cultiva
tion, a blooming plain dotted with
white men's homes. Not now, as
once, could the hunter shoot a buck
while standing . under his own eaves;
he must roam now away - over - fertile
field and grassy meadow, across the
roliing - river and round - the foot of a
woodland hill, ere he would often spy
the wild deer he .so loved to hunt.
But - they were • plenty there, and a
smoking steak or a saddle of venison
was often seen upon a'settler's board.
It was to hunt.a deer, to fill up, he
said, the empty spot on the table, that
Hugh Ely, the warm-hearted pioneer
of whom we have written, left his
dwelling one morning in winter and
hastened away out of sight 'of the.
smoke of the settlement, and far away
from its sounds. Fleet Was his foot,
but fleeter the l foot of the noble buck
he had started; and not until noon,
and when he -was many miles from his
home, did he succeed in pointing to
ward it his unerring aim. Ere it fell,
it gave one wild hound and' leaped
into a tangled brake, and
. after him
went the hunter, flushed with success,
but weary, too, with his lengthened
chase. But with a wilder bound than
the wounded game, and a fierce fire
iu their glaring eyes,. there burst upuu
Hugh a bander Indian warriors, and
in a *moment he was disarmed and
bound, and helpless as the dying deer
which gasped just at his feet. Why
he was then made captive, and why
he was . dragged with them so many
weary miles, no rest allowed hiS torn
and bleeding feet, no sleep -his heavy
eyelids, no hope his sad, lone heart,
he . never knew, though he guessed
afterward,. when they finally halted
with him -at. the hunting
. ground in
Canada, far,,far away -from that valley
Which had teen - so dear
. a home, that
he had been miStaken for another, for
a brother pioneer, who had once given
a deadly insult to a fettered I.tidian .
who had after Ward escaped.. -
. Lion& and Weary . were the months
of captivity 'that erisUeillong rind
'weary to the, captive, torn so andileidy
from his. -household treasures, but
longer and sadder, to the dear ones
left'behindfor theirs, was the agony
Of 'iuspenSe, and of all eartles agonies
rthat is the most harrowing ant Fea-
COUNTY, PA., MARCH 8;
ing, 'extinguished even hope itself.
For a while Hugh cherished the idea
of escape, but the close and continued
watchfulness'-of his captors, and his
situation-in a wild, and, save by the
red man, unfrequented- country, path,
less only to the moccasined foot, after
a while convinced him it was best to
submit.patiently to his wrongs, and
trust in God.
'When he had been with them about
a year, his faithful fulfillment' of the
menial tasks allotted him, his cheerful,
contented air, his manly bearance of
his captivity, so impressed the Indians
that tl.ey relaxed - their severity, and
occasionally allowed him to wander
off a piece into the woods or ramble
beside the river. • He was seated-one
bright autumnal afternoon on a log
that had fallen close to the water's
edge, sadly musing on his lone and
desolate condition, and wondering if
he should ever again see the faces of
those whose memory was so holy,
when suddenly a low cooing sound,
like the notes of a dove, broke the
deep silence that reigned. Hugh heard
it ler some moments without observing
it very closely, fer he was intently
looking into his darkened future.—
But after a while it struck him that
the sound was-.an unusual- one for the
spot, and somewhat versed in Indian
ways, he recognized it as one of those
signs by which they express sympathy
or affection, and he. gazed cautiously
around to see if some human form
was not concealed in the vicinity;
wild with joy at the thought that amid
the dusky warriors who surrounded
him, one there might
_be whose heart
had yet a loving pulse. - A clump of
low, tangled bushes grew just back of!
his•rudeveat, the only spot close by
that could conceal friend or foe. He
fancied as he gazed there, he beheld
them move--he was certain of it—and
it could not be the wind, fur scarcely
a breath was stirring. Then noise
lessly the branches were pushed aside,
and from the opening there appeared
the face of a stranger Indian. Intently
it looked Upon the captive, so intently
that ,its gaze was like a marvelous
fascination to him, and he stood rooted
to the spot. In a few moments the
branches were • pushed still further
aside, and a brawny red arm was
visible, It held in its fingers .a—pair
of moccasins; it turned ti t , and down
and around, and then pointed them
southward; while from the stern lip
issued the same cooing sound. The
heart of Hugh looked up with a quick
ened life, and he was starting to /the
side of the unknown, but ,as be felt
now, friendly stranger, when the sig
nal whoop - for his return whs sounaed
from the camp.. The Indian pressed
his hand to his mouth in token, of
secrecy, and darted through the hushes
and out of sight so- quickly, that it
seemed to the observer the earth must
have swallowed him .up.
More bravely than ever did Hugh
now bear his captivity, for hope
burned brightly in his bosom. There
was something in the mien of the un
known Indian, which assured him he
was planning his deliverance ; and
though - he could not conceiVe who he.
was, or why he had taken so deep an
interest in him, he should see again
his belov'ed home—clasp again his
beloved family. : •
Many days passed ere he saw an
other token, but one sunny morning
as -he sat on the ground floor of his
wigwam, engaged in one of his Menial
duties, t. e broad belt of sunshine that
streamed in . through :the entrance.
was suddenly obscured, and raising
his eyes; Hugh beheld the same red I.
face that had peered through: the
bushes. It was but one look he had
a chance to give ere it had vanished,
but in another instant, - • from the rear
'of the wigwam issued The same cooing
notes that . had, se sweetly disturbed
his mournful reverie once before.
In another instant • the shadow again
intercepted the sunbeams, • fleeing
almost as quick as seen. As it pasSed,
Hugh felt, rather than saw, that some
thing was thrown in; but *hen the
,sunshine again played upon his knees,
he beheld a pair of moccasins resting
there, a wilder; stronger pulse beat
in his bosom, for he fe.lt that the hour
of his deliverance was nigh. -He
remetribtred that on the morrow: a
grand hunt came off, and' he knew
that on such occasions all tile bravest
of the braves werelone, and in
felted that as he, - should be left, as he
had been many times befors, in the
care of only the squaws, and perhaps
one at two Indians, his deliverer had
selected that- as . the propitious thine
to effect his escape.
With leaden wings rolled - on the .
hours that intervened hetWeer' . the :
token and the time.' Bin' the mgr-:
row's sun dawned at length, and with
its: firit rays, the ,huntersspeoMty.
But so many-duties bad=t epl f for a .
their captive to perfornipAtiOri was:
late- in •the...afternoci3 oirA he ceuld'
1855.
repair to his a . cecstomed seat ..beside
the river.. But all day long his some
what weary heart bad been cheered.
by those cooing sounds that first woke
hope. Now they seemed circling in
the air above him, now stealing Up,
out of the - mossy ground, and anon
floating as it were on the breath of
the few flowers that yet smiled into
life. As he neared the water, louder
and clearer rang the - notes, and fol
lowing 'them; he was led
. a mile or.
two dowii the bank to a spot he re
membered as one where the river
indented the grassy soil with a tiny
bay.
Scarcely had be stopped ere a light
canoe darted from under• a shelving.
bank, and at the helm stood the Indian
friend. Hugh had lived long enough
with the red men to understand un
spoken language, and a sign from his
deliverer was
. enough. to tell him that
he must crouch in the bottom of the
tiny craft and be motionless under
some•skins,
- The sun set and the moon rose and
still the, canoe sped on over the blue
calm waves and - not until midnight
was it moored, and then Hugh knew
that he was safe. Up a steep ledge of
rocks did his conductor lead hits, and
through long, narrow, dark aisles,
whose bottom, but fin- the friendly
moccasins, would have sadly torn and
bruised his feet. At length they
stopped, and the Indian released his:
grasp, lighted a torch and ;revealed to
the white man the fact he had guessed,
that they were deep in the earth, and
in one of those wierd-like caverns of
which legend loves to . sing. A fire
was kindled, the smoke somehow
finding vent for itself without annoy
ing the lookers on, and soon over the
crimson coals that dropped on the
rude hearthstone,- was broiled a veni
son steak' that the Indian had taken
from his wild looking larder; and,
refreshed and happy, Hugh in less
than-two hours after he entered the
cavern, slept soundly on' his couch of
dried grass, and dreamed beautiful
'visions 'of home:
•
.For-several days they tarried there,
.the Indian going out each morning,
but returning regularly at sunset, and
alwav bringing a plentiful supply of
gam. When a week had elapsed,
simply saying to Hugh, "We go, now
they no find us," he led him forth,
and' commenced, journeying toward
the south. One night, alter they had
been long on the road, they walked
to a much later hour than usual—
walked till Hugh, who had fancied
several times through the day that be
'had discerned familiar trails, and
1 - thought he must be close to his home,
bectime lost as it were, and followed
Lis guide blindly, thinking in his wea
riness and perplexity he must be mis
taken, and was still in a strange wood.
They rested at length, but the white
man had scarcely, it seemed to him,
cloSed his eyes, ere the Indian friend•
awoke him, and together they toiled
pp a steep and wooded hill, that re"
directly before him. But the intense
and . soul-thrilling joy of the , long
absent one can. only be conceived,
When -on. reaching its summit, ho
beheld close at hand the valley of his
choice, the home of his heart.
When his emotion was somewhat
passed, he turned to his deliverer, and
in the mute but expressive signs of
Indian language, told his thanks. The
red man heard him through and ,then
pointing at the dwelling cif Hugh: and
in the brief words lie had learned of
the English tongue, "Many - moons
ago,,ledian sick, tired, hungry. He
go to white man's cabin—he no turn
him - off; he give him supper—let him
sleep on his skins- 7 take blanket from
his pretty squaw; he good to him till
he want to go. .1" thank _lndian. Me
no - forget, .Now - 1 pay you.. Go
home."
,Oftener than ever did Hugh's little
ones, as they bounded ou his knees,
beg. for the story of the "live Injun ;"
and when he had passed away to the
green, silent graveyard, they in turn
.told it to their little ones, nor failed
to. draw from it a moral beautiful and
holy as,was the . lndian's gratitude.
TOUCRING.—The Tobacco Plant,
(Va.,) describes the death of a girl in
Clarksville.. by burning... Her clothes
took fire while she. slept in a . chair.
Aroused, she ran toward ler master's
bed. The editor says: • , . .
" Mr, Watkins forced hex :outof ,the
door, and threw her in a mud puddl
supposing that he Would , thus but
abled ta •• extinguish tho fiarroefore
failed to do so. Her barnsttlo hope
stated arexery bad, andiovery., ', She
is, entertained of ,begins we ever Sato, -.
: 114 POI °P 43 Pfe the. 4riitfor , $ l,OOO on . the:
fi b ll ia d cr." 4 - ‘1 :- Iiiir :
11
' •
_
ARt the beauties of authorson
,Oiriagirition and.
flin your hciart.
iIUEMN
A LUNATIC'S CUNNING
A very laughable incident occurred
at a lunatic asylum at Lancastter about
ton days ago. A parish, officer from
the neighborhood of Middletown took
a lunatic to the asylum, pursuant to an
order signed by two magistrates. As
the man, was respectably connected, ix.
gig was hired for the purpose, and he
was persuaded that it Was merely an
excursion of pleasure on which he
was going. In the course of the jour
ney, however, something occurred to
arouse the suspicions of the lunatic
With .respect to his real destination;
but he said - nothing on the subject,
made no resistance, and seemed to
enjoy his jaunt. - When . they arrived
at Lancaster, - it was too late in the
evening to proceed. to the asylum, and
they took up their' quarters for the
night at .an inn. Very early in the
morning the lunatic - got up - and
searched the pocket of the officer,
where he found the magistrates' order
fur his own detention, which, of course,
let him completely into the secret.
1 With that cunning which madmen not
unfrequently display, he made the best
of his way to the asylum, saw one of
the keepers, and told him that he had
got a sad - mad fellow down at Lancas
ter, whom he should bring up in the
course of the day, adding: "He's P.
very queer fellow, and he has got very
odd ways. For instance, I should not
wonder if he should say 1 was the mad
man, and that be was bringing me;
but you must take good care of him,
and not believe. a word that be says."
The keeper, of course, promised
compliance, and the lunatic walked
back to the inn, where he found the
officer fast asleep. He awoke him,
and they sat down to breakfast to
gether. ,
"You're a lazy fellow to be sleeping
'all day; I have had a long walk this
morning," said ate lunatic. .
" Indeed," saidthe officer, "I should
like to have a walk myself after break
fast; perhaps you will go with me I"
The lunatic assented, and after
breakfast they set out, the officer lead
ing the way toward the asylurniintend
ing to deliver his charge; but • it never
occurred to him to examine whether
his order was safe.
When they got within sight of the
asylum, the lunatic exclaimed: "What
a nice house that is!''
'..Yes,".said the officer,-
like to see the inside . of it."'
- "So should I," observed the lunatic.
il Well, I dare say they will let us
through;" was the - response.
They went to the door; the officer
rang the bell, and the keeper whom
the lufiatic had previously seen made
his appearance with two or three as
sistants. The officer- then. began to
fumble in his pockets for the order,
when-the lunatic produced it and gave
it to the keeper, saying: " This is the
man I spoke to you about. You will
take care of him ; shave his head, and
put a straight waistcoat on him."
The men immediately laid hands on
the poor officer, who vociferated loudly
that-the other Was. the-madman, and
he The officer; but, as this only con
-firmed the story previously told by
.the lunatic, it did not at all tend to
procure his liberation. \ He was taken
away, and became so indigirantly furi
ous that the straight Itiaistcoat , was
speedily put upon him, and his head
was shaved secundunt artem.
Meanwhile, the lunatic walked de
liberately back •to - the inn, paid the
reckoning, and set otit on his journey
homeward. The good people in the •
country were, of 'course, surprised on
seeing the wrong - man return; they
were afraid that the lunatic in a. fit of
frenzy had murdeied the officer, and
they asked him, - with much trepida
tion, what he had done with Mr. Ste-
venson.
•• "Done with him?" said the madman,
'why, I left him at the Lancaster
Asylum.as mad as li- r -11!" which, in
aecd, was not far from the truth; for
the wits of the officer were well tii
upSet-by• kis unexpected detentiad o
subsequent treatment.
• Further inquiry ascer
was ' a .ra'lly in the
by his neighbors, anq order was
rained that the ma .
rn,a,.. Nration, and he
asylum. A
m yt h a handkerchief
produced
1 fo ie Mead, in lien of the
.its
returned
er ,.,nich nature had bestoWed
• 31ancheiter ( Enoland) Guar-
Core'
• TATEILW LtczNar..--Among the 1112-
mmus applic,atious made for tavern
License, at the present court term
there were but five granted, viz :
S.l. Holliday, Middlebury : A. L. S.
Leech; Westfield; Benj.Barse, Gaines ;
B.:11.. Hall, Blossburg and Leander
I Culver, of Elkland.—Tioga Eagle.
' We may live without a brother, but
not without a- friend. in order to de
aervert good friend wo muetbecorne one.
MI
1 ....
NO. 42.
should