Jno. S. Mann, ' Proprietor. VOLUME XXIV, NO. 44. The POTTER JOURRAI AND NEWS ITEM. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY AT COUDERSPORT, PA. {Office in Olmsted Block.) TERMS. 91.75 PF.K YEAR IN ADVANCE. Jno. S. Mann. S. F. Hamilton, Proprietor. Publisher. C. J. CURTIS, Attorney at Law and District Attorney, Office on SPAIN St., lorer the Post Office, COUDERSPORT, PA., Solicits all business pretaining to his profession. Special attention given to collections. , uvv ARTHUR B. MAX* JOHN . MAX*. JOHN S. MANN A SON, Attorneys at Law and Conveyancers, COUDERSPORT, PA., Collections promptly attended to. Arthur B. Mann, General Insurance Agent & Notary Public. s. s. GREENMAN, ATTORNEY AT I.A.W, (OFFICE OVER FORSTF.R'S STORE,) COUDERSPORT, PA. j, a OLMSTED • V- > ABKABEE OLMSTED & LARRABEE, ATTORNEYS AND COUNSELORS AT LAW (Office in Olmsted Block,) COUDERSPORT, PENN'A. SETH LEWIS, Attorney at Law and Insurance Agent, LEWISYILLE, PA. A. M. REYNOLDS, DENTIST, (OFFICE IN OLMSTETI BLOCK,) COUDERSPORT, PA. Baker House, BROWN & KELLY. Propr'S. turner of SECOND and EAST Streets, COUDERSPORT, PENN'A. Even- attention paid to the convenience ami comfort of guests. Bflnofl stabling attached. Lewisville Hotel, Corner of MAIN and NORTH Streets, LEWISVILLE, PA. IS" Good Stabling attached. IPFARSALL 4 WEBSTER, PAINTERS, . ABOVE SECOND, (over French's store,) COUDERSPORT, PA. ilnflng, Glazing, Graining, Calclmtnfr.g, -finishing. Paper-hanging, etc., done itli neatness, promptness and dispatch in all cases, and satisfaction guar aii 11 ed . "AINTS for sale. 2425-1 UPSON J. s. MANN HOMPSON & MANN. TEW.F."< IN Medieines, Books, Stationery, OOOS POINTS OILS WALL PAPER, &C., Cor. Main and Third fits., COUDERSPORT, PA. S. F. HAMILTON. ; AND JOB PRINTER Corner Main and Third.) OUDERSPORT, PA. C. M. ALLEN, tii'itl and Mechanical Dentist, LEWISYILLE, PA. : guaranteed to give satisfaction. D. J. CROWELL, •- H. Ball Jointer i Bolting Machine, Cameron co.. Pa. WOE-CUTNHIXGLE MACHIXE to • nag Machine, and General Custom Work John Grom, ,( usp, S i fS II •ftital, decorative & iwcsio PAINTER, °|JDERSPORT, PA. and PAIER HANGING done DH neatness and dispatch. attion guaranteed. 11 \iiEl { TIOUSE Promptly attended to. NEEFE, R RIAGE FACTORY, '' PENN'A. hints r,f u* "-making, Blacksmlthing, ' r *i'h ... 1 limning and Repairing done U>l fatness and durability. Charges 2425 ly x c - BREUNLE, W °IL 1 DERSPORT, PA. isieriV, ii ~ l "ateh!. i r l ?, , "i s ' ETC "> finished to order, TERM* AN ' l WORKMA " BHL P. on Uf . t at theomce of .Jorn -11 receive prompt attention. THE POTTER JOURNAL AND NEWS ITEIMI. J The Wind and Stream. A brook came stealing from the ground; You scarcely saw its silvery gleam Among :he herbs that hung around The borders of that winding stream, — A pretty stream, a placid stream, A softly gliding, bashful stream. A breeze came wandering from the sky, Light as the whisjers of a dream; He put the o'erhanging grasses by, And gaily stooped to kiss the stream, — The pretty stream, the flattered stream. The shy, yet unreluctant stream. The water, as the wind passed o'er. Shot upward many a glancing beam. Dimpled and quivered more and more, And tripped aloug a livelier stream, — The flattered stream, the simpering stream, Tire fond, delighted, silly stream. Away the airy wanderer flew To where the fields with blossoms teem, To sparkling springs and rivers blue. And left alone that little stream, — The flattered stream, the cheated stream, The sad, forsaken, lonely stream. That careless wind no more came back; He wanders yet the fields, I deem; But on its melancholy track Complaining went that little stream,— The cheated stream, the hopeless stream. The ever murmuring, moaning stream. Written for the Journal and Item. DEAR JOURNAL: I hear so many sighing for rest, even in this beauti ful May, that the thought is sugges tive to me. " How to' rld outside. 11 ow i t sweetens toil, ogives freshness and vigor to thought and inspires to nobler plans and purposes! But the young man says, " I must earn a competence and then see the world at my leisure.'' Woman sighs, " It takes an outfit too heavy for my purse just now," and so we all work on for years without those beautiful pictures, hung by memory COUDERSPORT, PA., FRIDAY, MAY 80, 1878. in the soul's galley-, while even the play of the lights and shadows there grows dimmer and fainter. Oh, how much of the higher life we miss for want of the plain good sense that would reduce money to its proper value and would make dress subservient only to the uses and needs of intelligent, sweetened and elevated human nature! I remember a home into which very little money was ever brought —where each one toiled for the daily bread; but that toil was ennobled by affection, it was guided by intelli gence. There was ever some fresh delight that accompanied the daily task; the book full of fresh wonders, like Hartwig's Life in the Frigid i ' Zones and the Tropics; the hasty botanical excursion into the damp,' ferny wood or a sail on the pond i where the delicate water-lilies were all afloat. There was no elegance in that ' home only the grace and charm that refinement gives; no adornment but I the simplicity of nature; flowers - ; blooming and vines trailing in the j windows; sea-shells half hidden in ' , mosses and pictures framed of crag • ged twigs varnished and set together j ' | curiously by their own hands. But! life developed harmoniously. It was i 1 grand and free. Every one who | ' went through that low, vine-covered ' - porch felt the freedom. Life was! I sweeter and dearer when he went - ! forth again—not so much for the - warmth of the welcome as for the ' j nearness of communion. ' i One of the neighbors who had been ' |so diligent in early years that his j ' family rode in fine carriages, hung • their walls with costly pictures and , ' I went to the Springs summers, with i rj several large Saratoga trunks, won r i dered that people so intelligent and t ! genial should be so unambitious. ' ; But the wealthy man, who had I j worked at llrst only very lute on t week-days and afterward on Sundays i J (in his olfice), was interrupted in - his work and obliged to rest when t he should have been in the prime of i' his days. His mind broke its fetters ' ana took leave of the body, where it I had been so cramped and defrauded, and for five years his wife and daugh > tor, confined to the sick room scarce f ly entered their beautiful parlors. How bleak and barren is such a i l : life! It stands out like the pillar of j f' Lot's wife on the salt plains! How j r full of joy, and hope, and courage was the other beside it! The father is vigorous still. His ' gray hair is a crown of beauty. His - children are all in places of trust and . honor. They achieve much because ' they know liow to vary their work j - 1 and adopt it to the moods and needs t of the hour. Their strength and i vigor prove that "Rest is not quitting The busy career— Rest is the fitting Of self to one's sphere; I 'Tis loving and serving The highest aiul best—r 'Tis onward, unswerving"! And this is true rest" , Scattered through the country • where you will go, dear JOURNAL,! . are many young men and maidens— ; t the dew of the morning in their | - hearts—who want to grow into the i perfection of manhood and woman- 1 r hood. They mean that their lives' ; shall be glorious as the sun, giving } light, and warmth, and help to all about them, r But the country is new, and by the . sweat of the brow must the means of - life be brought up from the damp. i productive soil—hewn from the . rough trees. If one would acquire i means for future usefulness the work I must be done. Just here is the danger. Little 5 by little the attention may be al> sorbed, the books that would cheer s and elevate be laid aside and the f delicate chains of sympathy in social j > life neglected. 1 low often the young heart, girding • on the armor of self denial, says: " 1 i must gain a fortune and position now, and in all after time I shall find i delight in books, in study of nature | and in warm, genial intercourse with others." There is a pitiful mistake ■ in such a plan. When the cry of : the soul for better and higher living i 1 has been long suppressed it does not ■ waken readily at the voice of a bird •; or the beauty of the morning. Books lose their interest and friendship its delicacy—its sweetness. The soul, like the prisoner of Chil lon, turns back to its dusty cell, and to the companionship ot spiders. "So much a long communion tends To make us what we are." And this is not the gloomiest shad ing of the picture. Often, as the channels of thought and action grow narrower, the higher principle rebels; there is a break in the play of life; the triple nature, bocly, mind and spirit, will not work together and no rest can restore the equilibrium again. For those living retired and some what isolated there is no antidote for all this, like a dear and intimate communion with the heart and, na ture and with the written thoughts | of the best and freshest minds. Happy are they who see some ; thing more than an arch of bright colors in the rainbow, so softly, se roneiy self-erected over the summer cloud while great drops are plashing against the window panes. They who are astir before the ear liest bird-song is afloat on the sweet i air, while the grass blades are heavy 1 with dew, can afford to pause in their work, wipe the sweat from their fore ; heads and rest in the freshest, cool | est room before too weary to enjoy j nn instructive book and feel uplifted ! by it. An hour a day so spent would, in a year amount to over forty-five school days of eight hours each; ten years would furnish the discipline of two years of academic training, and the habit persevered in for thirty ' years WCllld give six solid years of study and improvement —eqaul to the best college course. It would be without the benefit of living in structors, it is true, but richer in ' good because enjoyed so leisurely as to be received into the life as a spark of it. All this culture is clear gain: for the time so full of recreation (re-ere ation) would sooner or later be wast ; ed, from exhaustion. Best for the literary worker, the student and teacher would form the basis of another letter. At present I am Yours very truly, FRIEND OF THE JOURNAL. CHRIST AT TNE TABLE.— It was in John Falls' Orphan House, in Wei mer, one evening, when one of the • boys had said the pious grace: "Come, Lord Jesus, l>e our guest, and bless what thou hast provided," a little fellow looked up and said: " Do tell me why the Lord Jesus never comes. We ask him every day to sit with us, and he never comes." " Dear child, only believe and you ' may lie sure he will come; for he does not dispise our invitation." " I shall set him a seat," said the little fellow; and just then there was a knock at the door. A poor frozen apprentice entered, liegging a night s lodging. He was made welcome— the chair stood empty for him. L ve ry child proffered his plate; every I child was ready to yield his bed. The little one had been thinking | hard all the time. "Jesus could not ! come and so he sent this poor one in his place—is that it?" said the child. " Yes, dear child—that is just it," answered Falls. " Every piece ol bread ami every drink of water that we give to the poor, or the sick, or to the prisoner, for Jesus' sake, we give to him. ' Inasmuch as ye have | done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" THE AVALANCHE. "THOUGH lIE SLAY ME, YET WILL I TRUST IX HIM." 'Open the window, Bene, my dear son,' said the grandmother with a faint voice; the 'sun shines beauti fully in the valley and the air must be i soft and mild. I long for a breath of fresh air.' 'I will gladly do anything you say, dear grandmother; but that ugly cough of y-ours! The air is not so mild as you think; the wind blows cold enough from the mountains.' The grandmother smiled faintly and raised herself in the bed. 'You need not be afraid, my dear boy,' said she. 'I feel that my end is near; nothing can do me much harm just now.—Open the window; my chest feels oppressed; my heart beats slowly and as if something was try ing to stop it. Bene, dearest child! my old eyes will not see much more sunlight upon earth. I feel that they will soon—very soon—be closed for ever. You will lie glad, my darling, that you no longer have to watch ! over and wait upon a poor helpless old woman who can be nothing but ■ a burden to you.' ; 'Grandmother! O, dear grand mother, don't talk so!' exclaimed 1 the l>oy, bursting into tears and kneeling beside the bed. The ex hausted old woman put out her hand! he clasped it in both of his. 'You break my heart when }ou talk so. You know I love you dcarl}-, grand mother, don't y'ou ? O no, no! you will live a good while yet, to let me show you lioyv much I love 3'ou!' Old Gretna looked into the fresh, open, honest face of the handsome bo 3', who had just completed his twelfth year. It yvas the freshness and open honesty of look that made him handsome. 'Not for a world, my dear bov,' said she, 'yvould I distress 3'ou. How could I, after the years of true and loving care that you have given me! But 1 feel—l feel sure—l can't tell why or how—but I feel sure that 1113' end is near. And who will take care of you, m 3' 1103-, when I am gone?— But I am wrong to ask that; God will. I have prayed for 3'ou, Rene— prayed earnestly—and I know that God has heard me. Don't eiy, my child! diy up your tears. You have comforted my declining 3'ears; don't embitter 1113- last moments. ' j The child tried u> choke down his I sobs. 'But I can't help it, grandmother. | When 3-011 are gone I shall be all alone; not one in the whole world to love me! And 1 love you so ! much!' ' 'No, no, dear child!' said the old ' j woman, 'not all alone; 3*oll have a Father up in Heaven! Give Him ! your heart, iny son. Raise your 1 - j hands and your eyes to Him and you will soon find that 3'ou are not for saken. Be honest, truthful and in dustrious, as yon have alwa3's been and His eye will look upon 3-011 in love. He will bless, guard and keep 3'ou. Now open the window, my son.' Rene got up and did as he was told.—Cool and refreshing the wind from the Alps blew into the room and seemed to breathe new life into that old and feeble frame—She in haled it with delight. 'O how delightful it is, Rene?' said she, with a faint smile. 'Now draw back the ivy branches that hang before the window. I want to take one more look at my dear native valley. O bow beautiful the dear God lias made it! See!' And she pointed out to him the snow upon the mountains glittering in the sun shine, the broad ice fields upon their sides, the roaring, rushing river that poured clown the cleft, the suntipped summit of Mount Blanc towering above fill, and the flocks feeding so peacefully beside the wild streams. At last she drew her breath. 'That's enough,' said she. 'Now bring the stool and sit here beside me.' The boy olieyed. Taking his ' hands in hers, she told him that she was dying; that her death would leave him all alone; and she wanted him to promise that all his life long he would keep God before his eyes, try as far as he was able to obey all His commands and to do nothing contrary to them. The boy promised and added, as the tears rolled down his cheeks: 'And I will never forget, dear grandmother, what 3*ou have taught me.' 'I hope not, I hope not,' said old Gretna, earnestly. 'And remember, Rene, God lias heard your promise now. Don't forget my dying words!' 'O 110, no, not dying!' exclaimed Rene in alarm. 'You will not die vet, grandmother!' 'Very- soon, very* soon, my child,' said she feebly; and even as she spoke she sank back pale and ex-1 hausted upon the pillow. 'God bless you. I can—say —no ' more.—God—' The words died upon her lips, her eyes closed and she breathed so faintly that Rene thought she was gone. Sobbing aloud, he dropped -' on his knees beside the bed, took j | ! ; her old and wiinkled hand and j ; covered it with tears and kisses. But' suddenly, with a strength that was ! - j supernatural, she sat erect and in a ! ,' clear, firm tone cried out: 11 'Boy! Rene! my child! Fly! j i There is danger at hand! A cloud is J t; hanging over our house! Danger is 1 I approaching! fly! I hear thunder in - the mountains!— Hark! a crash, too! 1 1 It is coming nearer! Quick! Fly! 1 fly! or you are lost! God help you! -1 my child, my child!' !! Wondering and astonished, the 1 boy sprang to his feet. A new hope .! filled his heart—his grandmother hail - received new strength, i'oor child! 1 it was but for a moment. One look j of unutterable love, one smile and j again she closed her eyes as she sank ' , back upon the pillow. She was dead ; he could no longer doubt. i The child was now, as he himself s had said, 'alone in the world.' His j j parents had died long before and he ; ; had not, as far as he knew, a relative | ' on the earth. He sat down 011 the J ,* side of the bed, the tears rolling down j I his cheeks and the last words of his ! ! grandmother passing through his I mind. Then he got up to go to the • 1 pastor of the village church—the ' • | father as well as the minister of his j . people. He must ask his help to j 1 bury the dead. But his steps were j . arrested by a strange sound—a fear-: t j ful roll of thunder among the moun- j • j tains. Then there came a crash—a . j crash that shook the hut and made . . the window frame rattle. Then the ; sun was darkened by a stormcloud -5! that rolled down the sides of the mountains and there came a thick . 1 darkness over the whole valley, j 1 Nearer, nearer—thunder, and crash, j 1 and darkness and storm-cloud, all > came on together. j 'An avalanche!' exclaimed the 1 : terrified child, clasping his hands.'! i i 'Dear God, save! Dear grandmother, i | that was what you were warning me j r of! You heard it coming! How j 1 strange! God take care of me! I - cannot fly now.' - j Louder ami yet more fearful came 1 ' the mighty mass of snow in its thun -1! dering leap. He heard it approach; ' he heard the roof crash beneath it; • i lie heard the glass splinter into frag- j jments; he gave one cry, and para- j 5 I vzed I3' fear, fell senseless upon the 1 i floor. 1 It must have been for hours that , > lie lay there. When he opened his : . eyes he was in thick darkness and j j everything was still as death. He ! '! could not see, but he humbly thanked j • God that lie lived. 'How strange!' lie murmured | 1 'What a mercy it is that 1 am saved. ! > | The roof crushed in, everything about, • 1 me crushed and broken and I saved ! j > j Ah! you dear, good grandmother! 1 j It was for 3'our provers tor me that ■ the good God did it!' Raising himself, he felt around him as far as his hand would reach, [ but all was a mass of ruin. The ; broken roof and the fallen rafters i had formed a sort of shed over him . which kept off tlie snow. He felt his 1 way to the bed; he took the .cold ■ hand of his grandmother and then lav down on the floor lieside her, for i the whole room was clear of snow. He said to himself, 'Well, if I must I die here, it will lie with her; and if the good people of the village—if any ; of them are left—ever come to look , for us, they will put us in the same grave. That is a comfort.' He was not at all frightened or anxious, lie thought quietty* over the past and made plans for the fu ture, if he should get out. Most strange of all, it seemed to him, that his grandmother should have known of its coming so long before, for it. was nearly an hour. 'Truly,' he thought, 'it is even as the good pastor said the other da 3', j 'The dying see things we do not J I dream of.' And she warned me, | too! Dear, good grandmother! But | ! I didn't understand her, so it was of! I I jno use. Ma3'be God will make the j neighbors think of me and come to 1 help me—that is if the avalanche has i not lmried them all.' Again he lay still for a long, long ' . time; then he began to feel hungry-. He groped his wa3' to the place where the cupboard had stood; it was shattered, and so was ever3'thing in '' it. But he found a bit of bread and , S. F. Hamilton, Publisher. $1.15 A YEAR a jug of milk. With these he refreshed ' himself and then went back and lay ' down on the floor again beside the , bed.—Soon he feel asleep and slept ! as though nothing had happened. He was awakened by a tumult j over his head. 'There!' said he after j listening a moment, 'the neighbors j have come to help me. I thought they would. Grandmother said that : God would never leave me in trouble O, I am so glad ! Now she will have a decent grave!' The noise over his head increased; soon he heard voices. Then he beard the cleargyman say: 'Here it is, my children. We have hit upon the right spot. See, here are the rafters. Now, courage ! Per ! hajis we may find the living.' 'Ves, sir!' cried the little boy as loudly as he could. 'God has saved me! I am not even hurt!' A cry of joy rang through the air. 'Quick, my friends, quick!' said . the good pastor, eagerly. 'That was Rene's voice! Noble boy! God be j thankful for this blessing on our | work!' The men redoubled their toil. Snow and beams and rubbish were j thrown aside and a ray of light | streamed in upon tho child. A mo- I incut more and he sprang into the j extended arms of the dear old pastor. 'O thank you! thank you!' said j he. '1 wasn't at all afraid. I knew | you would come as soon as you could.' 'But your grandmother, Rene!' . asked the pastor. 'ls she killed ?' 'No, sir,' said the boy, 'not by the ■ avalanche; she died a little before it came. I was just coming to you I when it stopped me. My dear, dear grandmother ! all help is too late for her!' 'Poor, poor child!' said the old man, with tears of pity. 'lt is hard i to lose all at one blow—parent, house, land, everything! But take coiulort; 1 God will not forget you, my child!' 'O, I know be wou't." replied Rene. 'My grandmother told me so with her last breath; so 1 am not at all anxious. But I am sorry, very sorryP Tlie good pastor looked at him ' with surprise; such faith in one so : young! He thought the child did not : realize bis situation; but he found |he did fully. He knew well that he I was not only alone in the world, but , very poor. llis house was in ruins and his field and garden desolate and ! worthless. But he had formed his ! plans, with a full and childlike confi dence that God would kike care of | him just as his grandmother had j done. He said that he was poor, to j lie sure; but God was was very rich, j and was not he God's child?* He proposed, in full reliance upon the clergyman's kindness, too, to stay with him until he should see his grandmother buried and then go to Paris, or some other large city and find work. His father bad done so, be said. lie had worked hard, lived sparing!}-, and saved carefully, j and so had gathered money enough to buy that land and build the hut on it. That was what he meant to do. The worthy clergyman told him he was too young to bear all that and I offered him a home—at least until be i was old. But Bene gratefully de j dined the offer. The pastor was not 'rich, he said, and beside bis owu ■ children had to give to all the poor : and sick of the town. Besides, if he ! watted it would be losing time, for • there was uo work to be had there. 'But, said the pastor, 'it will not I all conic out of ray pocket; the whole town will help.' To that Rene again objected. He said that the people were poor; they had to send away their own children because they could not support them and he bad no better claim, lie was quite right and the pastor told liim so, but bade him come and stay with him as long as he remained there. Rene would stay only until he bad seen his grandmother buried; nor would he go home with the pastor until he had seen her taken out of the ruins. At a sign from him, there fore, the kind-hearted meu again went to work and soon the !>ed and its occupant were carefully lifted out. Poor Rene, first thanking them, knelt beßide It and wept bitterly; and at another sign fron '. : r clergy-