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VOLUME XX!V, NO. 24,
The POTTER JOURNAL
PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY AT
cO UI >ERS P<) RT, PA.
(Office in Olmsted Block.)
TERMS, * 1.75 PER YKAB IN ADVANCE.
Juo. S. Maim, S. F. Hamilton.
C. J. CURTIS,
Attorney at Law anil District Attorney,
,it in 'm MAI .V St.. (over the Post Ojfice,
' COUDERSPORT, FA.,
sllcits all business pretaining to his profession.
' special attention given to collections.
JOASS MASS. ARTHUR B. MANX.
JOHN S. MANN & SON,
Attorneys at Law and Conveyancers,
Collections promptly attended to.
Arthur B. Maun.
General Insurance Agent & FLOUUY Public.
S. S. GREENMAN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
(OFFICE OVER PORSTER'S STORE,)
A.. OLMSTED D. C. I.ARK ABKK
OLMSTED & LARRABEE.
ATTORNEYS AND COUNSELORS AT LAW
(Office in Olmsted Block,)
} SETH LEWIS,
Attorney at Law and Insurance Agent,
A. M. REYNOLDS,
(OFFK'B I.N* OLMSTRIi BLOCK,)
BROWS & KEI.I.EY, Prop'rs.,
, Corner of SECOND and EAST Streets,
Kven attention paid to the convenience and
comfort of guests.
*8"l,ood Stabling attached.
Owner of MAIN and NORTH Streets,
W-Uootl Stabling attached.
JOHN B. PEARSALL,
HOUSE PAINTER and GLAZIER,
All kinds of GRAINING, \ AKMSIIING. &e.. done,
(inters left at the Post-ofliee will he promptly
S. T. HAMILTON,
BOOK AND JOB PRINTER,
(Office in Olmsted Block,)
SCO I : DEIISPORT, PA.
C. M. ALLEN.
Critical and Mechanical Dentist,
I .EM" IS VI LEE, PA.
;V "ik guaranteed to give satisfaction.
D. j. CROWELL,
>•'-" D. H. Ball Jointer & Bolting Machine.
KIN N KM AHONING, Cameron eo.. Pa
■ tl-NJOP. •' I "/'MUX Gilts MA Ci 11 .XP to
• IKb. 'J.) IPCHE,.
• i'viriug .MACHINE and (ieuerai Custom Work
-T.. ORDER. 2,1!J-tf
_ John Groin,
I 1 * o imp, Si •
Tiamrntal. tkrorntire k .fresco
RISING and PAPER HANGING done
w 'th neatness and dispatch.
LIL K F.H IIOUSE
Promptly attended to.
COUDERSPORT, PA., FRIDAY, JANUARY 10, 187 J.
Ha< doubt compell'd that heart of thine
To tiiink me false to thee ?
Believe, Jeanette, the pain is mine,
And thou art false to me.
Howcould'st thou think that I would wrong—
Or be to thee untrue;
I, who have loved so deep and long,
And been so faithful too!
From childhood we have loved, Jeanette—
Since those bright days of yore,
When first as little ones we met,
Outside the schoolhouse door.
I loved thee, too, when, as a boy,
I led thee by the hand,
And thought each smile of thine a joy-
Each wisli a sweet command.
I>o you forget how, at the fair,
When we last met, to part—
I placed a rosebud in your hair,
And clasp'd you to my heart?
"Dear maid," I cried, "for thee I live,
And Death shall claim this breast
Before a thought of mine shall give
One pang to mar thy rest."
Believe. Jeanette, I'm still the same,
I love thee even now;
1 still dwell fondly on thy name;
I still repeat tlx- vow.
Then be to nie the same again,
A maiden fond and dear;
For truth like mine should know no pain,
Nor love like mine a tear.
[From the Independent.]
The Little House at the Crossing.
It stood right at the railroad crossing
—a small, homely house, with a low, tin
painted door and three narrow slips of
windows. Any one would have called
it ugly in winter, crowded in between
its dingy neighbors and the iron track,
along which the trains went screeching
day and night, sometimes fairly stifling
the house in black, sulphury smoke.
But in summer that was another
thing. The little three-cornered yard
was exactly filled by three flower beds,
bordered with turf and crowded to the
very edge with Jolmny-junip-ups, grass
pinks, none-so-pretties, four-o'clocks,
and all manner of sensible old-fashioned
beauties, that grew without a might of
coaxing. And the morning glories
started with the first of May. and climbed
| up in green rows, never once stopping
until they hid all the brown wall and
, dangled down from the eaves.
Behind the house was another little
wedge of ground, as full as the (lower
garden, only that the borders were of
pale green lettuce and curly cress; while
radishes, onions, peas, and cabbage fair
ly elbowed each other for a chance at
the mellow soil.
At tlie end of this garden was a queer,
low shop—so low you never left off won
dering about it until you chanced to see,
standing in his place at the switch, a
little man, a hunchback, only four feet
high. The house, and the shop, and the
two gardens all belonged to him, Tom
Larkin, the switch-tender. The name
was on a board over the shop-door, done
in black letters:
Tom I.AKKIK. CISTRFAN.
You might not see at first just what
was the matter with the crazy little
sign. es]>eeially if you were on the ex
press. which goes by without stopping;
and I assure you it did not make a par
ticle of difference, for Tom had given
up the cistern business, and only kept
the sign U-eause Maggie painted it and
he fancied it looked respectable.
That reminds me to tell you altout
Maggie; for you might pass a great
many times and not see her. But if you
chanced on a fine day, when the wind
blew the smoke to the west, to come
down on the Cranston mail and wait at
the switch for the express to pass up,
you'd be pretty sure to hear some one
singing like a blackbird, and see a small
girl, with an old face, sitting in the
doorway, busy with straws and ribbons.
Always busy and always singing, in spite
of the crutcli leaning against her chair
—a pitiful little i>eggar, that stood there
through the singing, and said as plain
as a battered old stick could say:
"She's a cripple and she sings. The}
are as happy as the day is long, and one's
a cripple and t'other a hunchback. What
do you think of that?"
Well, to lie sure, it did seem hard at
first thought; but, when you came to
know all about it. you'd see plainer than
ever how the Lord never forgets the
least of his little ones, but follows them
all with his tender mercies, and the
Lord's tender mercies are good till the
It was Christmas Eve when Maggie
came to the little house at the crossing.
Tom Larkin sat brooding over his fire,
without so much as a cat or a dog to
keep him company. Christmas was com
ing on Sunday that year, and Tom had
been down to the market to buy his bit
of dinner, and had seen the shops lighted
up, and the children shouting about the
windows, and people hurrying along
with all manner of mysterious bundles;
and the jollity and merriment made him
more wretched and lonesome than ever.
Why should he. of all the world, have
nothing for which to be glad on Christ
mas Eve? The very crossing sweepers
danced with their muddy brooms and
rattled the coppers in their pockets, but
he had not a soul to wish him well or
care if it went ill with him. It seemed
all the worse because there had lieen
| some one, not so very long ago.
The wife who loved him, in spite of
his deformity, had only 'ueen dead a year:
and though he felt that, somewhere and
somehow, she was with the blessed, lie
had never learned to think of her as a
Christmas angel, singing the old song of
peace and good will to men.
So Tom was lonesome as he sat by his
fire waiting until the sound of hurrying
steps and noisy voices should cease, as
it did after awhile. The lights went out,
too. from all the houses in the neighbor
hood, and Tom's lantern burned on un
til it was time to set the sw itch for the
night express. Then he went out gloom
ily, swinging his lantern, and never once
looking up. lie could hear the faint
whistle of the train, three minutes late
that night. lie wondered at it as lie set
Down the lons street, right and left,
' i all was still and dark, only at the bridge,
where the night patrol made a restless
black shadow on the little strip of light.
Overhead the stars were glittering; and
away beyond them. Tom thought, was
God, forgetting all his poor. Dp and
down for a little way the red gleam of
the lantern showt d the eindery road and
the duU black rails; showed the little
j frozen puddles between the ties; and
something else—Tom was not quite sure
what —a small dark bundle lying upon
the track. He bad it in his hands in a
moment. None too soon, for the express
came thundering down, and the engi
neer had a glimpse of something darting
j away from the very brink of destruc
tion. But Tom bad the bundle, and,
with his breath coming quick and bard. <
, he turned into the house, and laid it
down in the light of the tire.
" It's a baby, and it'sdeadl"' he said,
opening the dirty old shawl and looking
curiously at the white, pinched face and
thin, blue lips. Never in all his life!
had Tom touched a baby before; and
his dull heart stirred a little as lie lift
ed the small, pallid hands, and let them
fall again, stroked the cold cheek with
his coarse finger, and then, folding the
shawl alwnit it, laid it on the foot of his
bed. Just as lie laid it down the Christ
mas chimes began to ring from the St.
Madeline steeple, and poor Tom stopped
his ears with his pillow, and said in
his angry heart: "It is all a lie. There
is neither peace nor good will."
Tom slept late the next morning.
He liked his Sunday-morning nap. when
there was no train to waken for, and j
nothing else, indeed —no Christmas!
greeting from wife or child. lie thought
of it sorrowfully, lying half awake,
; with the red sunshine streaming across |
his face. Then he started up with a
| sudden remembrance of the little bundle |
in the dirty old shawl. It seemed warm,
and not cold, lying there at his feet;
and he almost thought it stirred a little,
as the sunbeams, full of flickering, dus
ty motes, laid long, bright figures upon
it. lie opened the shawl, half dreading
to see the wan face by daylight; and oh.
wonder! the great sorrowful eyes w ere
wide open, and the baby looked in his
face with the mute, appealing patience
of one used to nothing but utter neg
lect. and making no claim upon any
How soon the fire blazed again upon
the hearth, and how tenderly Tom's
clumsy fingers held the cup. with its
draught of strong coffee, to the baby's
mouth. He had a vague impression
that milk was the piojier food for ba
bies. But milk he had none; and tla
little one showed its appreciation of the
situation by eagerly swallowing the
coffee, and going off into a sleep a shade
less like death. It slept on and on, while
Tom ate his breakfast and took counsel
of his heart. "I'll bring Mistress Mr-
Bride to look at it," said Tom, at last.
And so he did.
The motherly old Ixidy laid it tender
ly on her knee, chafed the thin, pallid
hands, and stretched out the little
cramped feet to the blaze, while Tom
looked on, wondering and anxious.
"So. so. poor thing, poor lamb!"said
the nurse. "She's beginning to come
round a bit. 'Deed, then, Mister Lar
kin, the croolty of this world is past
believin'. The baby's been drugg* d
'till its brains is all of a water ; an' to
think of luyin' the poor innocent on the
"Might have been dropped accidcn
• tal," suggested Tom.
"Might lie," said the nurse, "soui"
poor drunken creetur'." And shedipprd
her finger in the coffee and moistened
the baby's mouth.
"Here's teeth. Mister Larkin," said
| she, triumphantly—"stmnntick teeth
and grinders; the baby's gojn'on two
| year, if she's a day. I wouldn't won
der now, if she pulled through, after
Tom's face lighted up, as if this were
good news; and then fell again, as he
[added: "Her mother'll be alter her,
"Likeenougb,"said the nurse. nine
poor creator' has used her for lieggin'
pnpposes; and she's lieen drugged with
gin and what not to keep her from
Tom looked so angry that sin hastened
to add ; "There's a-many folks does it,
and maybe this one got sick of t !>e child
and left it. Look at that, now," said
she, as the baby opened her eyes anil
fixed them on the dancing flames;
" she'scomin' round peart enough. An'
what'll you do with tier, then, Mister
"Keep her," said Tom, without any
"The Lord IK* good to ye. Mister Lar
kin. The baby's sure to bring a bless
ing, coining on Christmas, and Sunday
too." And the old nurse lient her gray
head and kissed the little skinny face on
Poor baby! She knew well enough
what blows meant, and cold and hun
ger; but in all her 1 ill i• life she had no
exju ri' iiee of love and tenderness, rii
she lay quiet and unresponsive, only
her t-yes seemed to follow the dancing
"I'll go and see to my old man, now,"
said Mistress Mcßride. "Just you lay
her in the warm, and give her time to
come rightly to herself. I'll brew her
some porridge, and fetch it after a
News traveled fast at the crossing;
and by the time Mistress Mcßride start
ed out with her howl of porridge all the
neighbors knew of the baby at Tom Lar
kin's. "I'd take it kindly of you, Mis
ter Larkin," said the nurse, "if you'd
come over in a friendly way and have
your bit of a dinner with us. There's
my old man, bed-ridden, as you may say.
$1.75 A YEAR
to bis chair, ami tic do get uncommon
lonesome; and it's many a year since a
baby came under our roof."
"They're plenty enough hereabouts."
said Tom, with his old gruff way. But
in a moment his face broke into a twin
kle of a smile, as he added:
"Well, well. I'll come over. What
a tiling it is. now. to have a baby!"
Vnd all the neighbors started in wonder
to see nurse Me Bridecarrying the baby
home in her arms, as carefully as if it
had been a little princess; and Tom
walking after, with a proud air—proud
of his baby, to IK- sure.
The nurse was right. The baby
brought a blessing. The dear Lord sent
her a messenger before his face to pre
pare the way for him to enter into that
humble little house and that poor heart.
Kvt 11 Tom found Maggie would al
ways be a cripple, let her live as longas
she might. It only brought a little cloud
on his sunshine. "It'il turn for the
best, some way," lie said. "We've both
our cross to carry ; and maybe it'll keep
us nearer to each of la r and the Lord."
As for Maggie, everything was right
to her. She sung, and smiled, and kept
the little house full of sunshine, in spite
of the crutch, which never seemed a
hit in her way. Every Christmas Eve
llicy two sat together by the tire, and
Tom told the story of the baby that lay
upon the track: and Maggie listened,
with her eyes shining in the firelight,
and even the cross, grumbling old
crutch grew amiable for awhile.
••I thought the good Lord had forgot
ten all about me. away up yonder among
his angels; and all the time he was
nigh at hand, a takin thought how to
save me," said Tom, with reverent
"lie's a good Lord, Father," said
" Yes. a good Lord," said Tom. fer
vently. "Do you mind the hymn they
learned you at mission-school, Maggie—
'To save thy soul from sin and shame
Thy Lord a helpless child became"?
AY ell, I can't seem to get it out of my
head that the Lord did more than that
forme. lie came twice for me: once in
Bethlehem, that time the angels sung;
and once ten years ago this very night,
right here at the crossing. And it's my
mind the Lord comes to a-many doors
where they never know what they lose by
shutting of him out."
"I vegot myChristmasgiftsallready,"
said Maggie. " Such a lot of 'em, too!"
And, picking up the crutch, before it
had a chance to growl, she whisked it
over the floor to the corner cupboard,
and back again, with a big covered bas
ket. "See, Father! Something for
everybody at the crossing." And Mag
gie spread oirt the gifts, enough to load
down St. Nicholas himself. Warm
flotli slippers for old Sandy Mcßride.
| < ut out by an old shoe and shaped like
the foot of a gouty elephant; but that
was no matter.
"The tailor gave me the pieces," said
Maggie, "and quilted tlie soles on his
big machine. And this flannel night
cap is for Branny Peters: she's been
wishing for one a long time." She
clapped it on her own bright head, and
looked so funny even the crutch laughed
Well. I cannot liegin to tell you. Soft
halls and hard halls; rag dollies, paper
dollies and queer little old dollies, with
heads made from hickory nuts, looking
in their (>naker dresses and white caps
likea regiment of blessed grandmothers.
Pretty pictures, pasted on box covers
and painted gaily; mitte is, made of old
stocking-tops and finished with bright
yarns at the wrist: pin-cushions, hold
ers, all manner of ingenious little trifles,
manufactured out of odds and ends of
ribbon, calico and silk. Nothing came
amiss to Maggie.
"Something for everyltody hut me,"
said Tom. pretending to look grave.
" ( Hi. dear! " said Maggie. " But you
and 1 don't want any Christmas gifts.
I don't see how anything could jmxsibh/
make us any happier."
All the time the old crutch was laugh
ing to itself. It knew of two secrets.
One was a splendid long muffler—gray
with green stripes at the end ; every
stitch knit by Maggie, and safely hid
away for Tom's Christmas present. The
other was a pair of brown gloves, flan
nel-lined and trimmed with fur at the
wrist, that were rustling in their paper
wrapping that very moment with impa
tience for Maggie to hang up her stock
ing and go to bed.
They were both asleep, Tom and Mag
gie, that night when the chimes rang
from St. Madeline's steeple; but I know
that the angels and the Lord of the an
gels blessed them, for they had done
what they could to bring "peace on earth
and good will to man."