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' <lo the most work'' has
j been the problem of the age, and the
' results are startling. Almost every
r weekly paper records the death of
some great worker whose name is
spoken tenderly, reverently, because
j of the work he has done.
One is arrested suddenly by the
i snapping of the "silver cordanoth
er. with enfeebled brain-force, sinks
through every grade of imbecility
till death is made welcome. I a how
many homes, whose inmates once
thought most of the work to be done,
there is a reaction now; they only
sigh for rest—rest for the aching
; head and bewildered brain—rest for
i the weary feet. A revival of lost
j energies is eagerly sought in sunny
j foreign lands and in the bland air of
j our own Florida. It will be sought
| by thronging thousands the coming
season, among the cool sweet moun
tain shadows and down by the great
sea, where the waves wash the silver
beach. Under such influences many
an invalid will be refreshed and
strengthened.
But the problem we need most to
) 1
solve is how to do life's great work
and yet rest as we go; how to make
each day turn to the most account
and yet feel that delicious sense of
repose that so fits one for the higher
' enjoyments of mind and spirit.
To attain this must not life be
symmetrical ? If all the energies
are bent to bread-getting our sphere
1 is narrowed, the mind is dwarfed,
the affections are cramped, the wings
of imagination clipped and the high
er nature is left trailing in the dust
when it should be soaring Godward,
exultant in freedom—rejoicing in the
light.
I think our work should be more
varied—something to soothe when
we are irritated, to inspire when we
are sluggish. We should have some
thing daily to lift us into a purer,
serener atmosphere—above petty
cares that often fret and corrode.
Every gift of the mind and spirit
wants improvement and apprecia
tion. They each cry out with pain
' if life is cold and unlovely. Our
r work then should be three-fold; the
brain wants work as well as the
bands, the affections want work.
There should be time for reading
and for gracious neighborly ways.
Man's life needs the kindling, elec
trical influence of discussion —even
of the brisk skirmish in polities.
The sparkt, he light flashing back
. and forth when mind meets mind all
aglow with the conviction of some
great truth, quickens and ennobles
manhood.
"Woman, in her gentler life, needs
the vivifying influence of beauty—of
taste; the plainest suffer if life is
bleak and unadorned. All want time
to get a view now and then of the
great, w<>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-