THE POTTER JOURNAL
A.]STD
ITEM.
jno. S. Mann,
Proprietor.
IOLUME niv, NO. 49.
he POTTER JOURNAL
ANI>
I > i :\Vr- I I EM.
I Ti.V AT
|ori>K^ srt >R T PA -
I! (/*?'• h 1 fiitst"' l Mock.)
I , s 1.75 PER VIIAK IN ADVANCE.
..Mum,. s. F. llumiltoD.
' '■ " r - 1
C. J. CURTIS,
| n>< > nt U oi BWiirt Attonifj.
I
I < < >UDERSP< >RT; PA.,
1
■ -
iETHrtB MASS
JOHN S MANN A SON,
i; „n,Mv at lain *•! < otnejaueer*,
1" •, -i •i T. ;> •
■
I Artiurß.Mr.nn. ~
s. S. GREENMAN,
t - : v at LA.w,
tvl DKKSPOKT. PA.
I i I>. C. 1. IRK AI".~E
[ "STED U LAaRACEE,
■ . • v- \<- i < >!> \T l.A\v
I ,
I r. ] i:nn'A.
I SETH LEWIS,
I : ■< at!>l lii-nrance A sent,
] PA.
I ' V. REYNOLDS,
I- xxs x ,
Bcker House,
r.oW V A K EI.LI . I'l opr's.
jrof * Ft <iM> and EAST Streets,
bi IbPOliT, PENS" A.
; .till u> tli- •<nvenknee and ;
-j ; up attached.
>wiv'Me Hote $ ,
i fMA IN and NORTH "tmf,
1 : Wi-A ! i PA.
Lars ALL a WEBSTER,
PAINTERS,
I
I. CUV I EBSFOBX, PA.
pr'!i:ptl:>s. ail 1
: a'i ca-e*. and
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<24-J- !
J. <. MANS
" J On?SON & MANN.
|
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• /
I ' TIHiiWOIiT, PA.
- r. H '..MILTON.
! i D JOB PRINTER
| r
EH V POUT, PA.
I C v ALLEN.
Mechanical Hi ntist,
to give satisfaction.
|
A,. Cameron on., J'a.
■ v:: v Lr: MA CJIIYJ: ■
I'-n jrom,
■' 11 •> *. S i ii ,
■ ~ ix.mvc v\ .Frcoro
■'A IXT ER ,
H- u tRsP 0R T , PA.
I'aFf.H HANGING done
H " lT; o- and dispatch.
I'' Kl HOI SE
lt H - N luin i:,
■ 'AGE FACTORY.
■ i-'T. PENN"A.
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■ iraiiiiitr. Charge
24i5-ly
I EUNLE.
WORK,
■'LiSI'UI;T. PA.
■
' *ork.amuhlp, on
l' r "®pt attention.
I WONDER WHY
I wonder why this world's good things
Should fall in such unequal sliare-;
Way some should taste of all the Joys
And others only fee! the cares!
I wonder why the sunshine bright
Should fall in paths some jeopie tread.
While others shiver in the shade
Of clouds that gather overhead.
I wonder why the trees that liang
So full of luscious fruit should grow
Only where some may reach and eat.
While others faint and thirsty go!
Why should sweet flowers bloom for some,
tor other- only thorns be found?
And some grow rich on fruitful earth,
AY Idle othei s till hut barren ground?
I wonder why the hearts of some
o erflow with joy and happiness,
YY'hile others go their lonely way
Unblessed with aught of tenderness:
I I wonder why the eye* of some
Should ne'er be moistened with a tear,
Y\ hile others weep from moru till night—
Their hearts so crushed with sorrow here.
Ah. well: we may not know indeed
The whys, the wherefores of each life;
But this we know—there's One who sees
And watches us through joy nr strife.
Each life its mission here fulfills.
And only He may know the end,
And loving Him we may be strong,
Tho" -tonu or stinsliiue lie may send.
[From Appieton's Journal]
TOM'S WIFE.
We had just finished breakfast.
Tom laid down the egg-spoon he had
been playing with and looked across
at mother.
'Aunt Anne, I think I'll take a
wife,' he said, exactly as he might
have said. -1 think I'll take another
cup of coffee.'
•T.ike a Yvife ?' repeated mother, by
no means receiving the information
as tranquilly as it had been given.
•What for V
•Well. I don't know,' answered
Tom, thoughtfully. 'lt's a notion
I've got in my bead, somehow.'
•All nonsense! said mother, sharply.
•Do you think so?" said Tom, aj>-
parently doubtful, but not in the
least put out.
•Think so? I know it. What in
world can you want of a wife? After
all these years we have lived so com
ifortaUy together, to bring home
somebody to turn the house upside
down! And, then, what'- to become
• of that poor child?'
The 'p< or ehil I*—that wa- I—red
jdeniiig at being brought into the
, a-_:mn at in ti;l* way, was about to
speak for herself when Ton inter
j pose 1. warmly:
I 'l'm sure May knows I would ncv
; er have any wile who woul 1 make it
j less a home for her—don't you,
I May ?'
'Of course, f said I.
•And I'm -mv >he knows nothing
of the sort.' j r-i>ted mother, 'nor
you either, Tom Dean. How can
you answer for what a wife may take
it into her head to do, once you get
her fixed here? You can't expect
her to forget, as you do, that May
has no real claim on you.'
•That I have no real claim on her.
I suppose you mean, ma'am,' Tom
put in for the second time, just as I
wn> getting thoroughly uncomfort
able. *l>u f . for all that. I intend to
keep her—that is,' added Tom, with
oiv oi his short-sighted blinks side
ways at me,'as long as she'll stay
with me, eh, May? And whoever
has am'thing to saY* against that ar
rangement will have to go out of my
, house to say it—not that I'm afraid
of any such result in this case—and.
j on the whole. Aunt Amine, I should
! like to try the experiment.'
: 'Mother smiled grimly, but Tom was
so evidently bent on his 'experiment.'
as he called it, that she gave up the
argument.
•You can dance, if you're ready
! to pay the piper.' she said, shortly.
•And. pray, how soon do you mean
to be married V
Tom's lace fell a little at this
. question.
•Well.' said lie, *1 can't say ex
actly. I suppose we shall haY'e to be
engaged first.'
•What!" said mother, opening her
eyes: 'why, you never mean to say,
Tom. you haven't spoken to her
yet ?'
•Not yet.' answered Tom, cheer
fully—'Time enough for that, you
knoYv. after I had spoken to you.'
Mother, as a minister's widow, was
1 not much giY'cn to the idle mirth
that is as the crackling "of thorns
under a pot, but noYv she leaned
back and laughed till the tears stood
in her eyes.
•Well,' she said, *if it ivas anybody
else, I should say he was cracked:
Z but you never were like other people
COUDERSPORT, PA., WEDNESDAY, JULY 0, 1873.
and you never will be. Tom Dean.
But, at least, you have fixed ou the
: lady V
'Oh, yes,' answered Tom: 'but. if
you will excuse me. Aunt Anne. I
would rather not sav anything about
i her just jet; for, if—if anything
should happen, it wouldn't be pleas
ant for either party, you know.'
With which veiled illusion to his
possible rejection. Tom took.his hat
■ and left the room.
Our household was rather queerly
put together. There w- no particu
lar reason why I should have been
of it at all; for 1 was not really re
lated to Tom. nor even to 'mother,'
as 1 called her, though I am sure we
were as dear to each other as any
mother and daughter could lie. .She
was the second wife of my father,
who, like most ministers, had been
richer in grace than in goods and
had left us at his death with very lit
tle to live on. Then it was that Tom
Dean had come forward and insisted
on giving a home to his aunt and to
me, whom he had scarcely seen a
dozen times in his life before. That
was exactly like Tom—'queer Tom
Dean," as his friends were fond of
saying, 'who never did anything like
anybody else.' I suppose in spite
of his clear head for business, there
is no denying that he was whimsical;
but I am sure, when I think of his
unfailing generosity and delicacy, 1
can't help wishing there were a few
more such whimsical people in the
world. Naturally, at that time lam
speaking of, my opinion had not been
asked: all 1 had to do was to go
j where mother went, and. while she
gave her energies to the house-keep
ing, give mine to growing up, which
by this time I had pretty well accom
plished. But perhaps for that very
reason—for one sees with different
eyes at twelve and eighteen—my j<o
j sition in the house had already be
gun to seem unsatisfactory to me:
and the morning's words put it in a
clearer light since it had been used
as an argument against Tom's marry
ing. I knew that mother had spok
en honestlj*. believing that such a
step would not be for his happiness;
but was not he the be>t judge of
that ? I knew him, if reflection should
bring him round to her opinion, to
be perfectly capable of quietly sac
rificing his own wishes for my sake,
who had not the shadow of a claim
on him; so it must be my part to
prevent his own kindness being
turned against him now. Stid, it
was not so easy to see how I was to
provide for myself in case it should
become advisable. What could I
do? Draw and sing and play toler
ably, but not 111 a manner to compete
with the hosts that would be in the
. field against me. Literature? I had
i read so many stories whose heroines,
with a turn of the pen, dashed into
- wealth and fame. That would lie
> very nice, only—l was not the least
i little bit literary; 1 had never even
- kept a journal, which is saying a
great deal for a girl in her teens.
• The 'fine arts." then, being out of the
■' question for me, what remained ?
There was some clerkship, or place
i in some family, and—and there was
. Will Broomley!
I That may seem like going away
from the point, but it Was not. 1
> was matter-of-fact, but 1 could see
' well enough what was going on right
? j under my eyes and 1 had a pretty
clear idea of what was bringing Will
to the house so often as he had taken
. to coining lately. There was a'situ
i ation," then, that would give me the
home-life I liked best and felt myself
s best suited for : but—would it answer
in other respects ? I overcast the
- long scam I was sewing twice over,
e I was so busy trying to make up uiy
mind whether I liked Will Broomley
r well enough to pass my whole life
, with him; and even then I had not
r come to any decision, when I was
called down stairs to Lettv Wal
ters.
□ Letty was the prettiest, I think, of
all my friends and certainly the live
s liest. Tom called her 'the tonic."
h and used to laugh heartily at her
s bright speeches. I suppose it was
rl this that made mother fix on Letty
d as his choice. When I came into
the sitting-room. I found a kind ot
v cross-examination going on. It was
1: amusing to anybody in the secret, as
e 1 was. to watch mother's artful way
. of continually bringing tbe conversa
i tion round, as if by chance, to bear
on what she wanted to know. But
f it all amounted to nothing, either be
[ cause Letty was too good a fencer,
j or because she really had nothing to
: betray. But, when Tom came home,
mother took care to mention that
Letty had called.
• 'What, the tonic?" sai l Tom.
' 'Too bad I missed her.'
'But for your choice being already
made,' said mother, with a covert
scrjituiy of his face, *1 dare any you
i might have'as much of tii tonic as
■ you liked.'
'But T go on the homo-pat hie prin
■ ciple, you know,' answered Ton),
with a twinkle in his eye.
After that, mother's beliet in Let
, ty's guiltiness wavered. Her suspi
ieions were transferred from one to
another of our acquaintance, but al
-1 ways with the same unsatisfactory
t result.
.I . *lt passes my comprehension,'
■ she said to me. despairingly, one day.
'I am positive I could tell the right
one by Tom's face in a minute and
yet I have mentioned everybody we
know.'
j 'Perhaps it is somebody we don't
! know,' I suggested; 'some friend of
i his we have never seen.'
'What! a perfect stranger?' said
mother, sharply. 'Never talk to me,
j child; Tom's not capable of that!'
I was silent, for 1 did not want to
worry her; but that was my opinion
all the same.
The same evening—it was rather
1 more than a week since Tom had
hurled that thunderbolt of his at us
—mother began about it openly.
•When are you going to introduce
j your wife to us. Tom? I suppose
I you have come to an understanding
by this time?'
'Oh, there's no hurry.' Tom said,
as he had said before; but this time
he did not speak quite so cheerfully.
•The fact i„' he continued with a
little hesitation, 'there—there's a ri
val in the case.'
■A rival!" leplied mother, with
unfeeling briskness.
'Yes, a younger fellow—younger
by a good deal than I am,' and
Tonys face assumed an absurdly
> S doleful look. 'He's always there
now. 1 confess I don't see my way
. clear; I'm waiting for her to make
up her mind.'
i 'And she's waiting, most likely,
; for you to make up yours,' said
mother, forgetting, in her propensity
1 to right matters, that she was play
I ing the enemy's game.
•There's something in thrtt that
never occurred to me,' said Tom. his
• face brightening. Mother saw her
• mistake and made a counter move
1 at once.
. 'But the ways of my time arc old
> fashioned now; young ladies nowa
? i days take matters into their own
: hands. If she cared for you you
i may be pretty sure she wouldn't
i have waited till this time to let you
. know it—that is. 1 judge by the
- girls I am in the habit of seeing;
' but if this one is a stranger to me—'
; (here mother riveted her eyes on
j; Tom's face; oh, dear, my unfortu
nate words!) *if rdic is an entire
stranger, 1 cannot pretend to form
I any opinion of her, of course.'
- 'Of course,' repeated Tom, al>
t sently.
•Not that I have any such idea,'
1 resumed mother, growing wanner;
i 'I have said and 1 say it again, that
- to bring a j>erfect stranger under this
? J roof is not my opinion of you, Tom."
1' 1 felt mother's words like so many
r pins and needles; for Tom was look
e ing meditatively across at me. and,
, .though that was ju-t away of his. it
r seemed now as if he were reading in
r mv face that the opinion was mine,
e and that 1 had been meddling in
t what did not concern me. 1 felt
s myself, for Very vexation, getting
- redder every moment, till it grew in
tolerable.
f j *lt is so warm here." I said, for an
■- excuse, turning toward the French
window, 'I am going to get a breath
r of air.'
s 1 went out into our little strip o!
y garden-ground; -Tom followed. I
o thought I should never have a lietter
>f opportunity to say what I had it in
s my mind to say, so 1 waited for him
.s I by the bench under the old pear-tree
y *Sit down here. Tom.* 1 .-aid, 'l*v<
- something to say to you.'
r 'Have you?' said Tom; 'that's
t odd, for I—Well, never mind that.
- just yet. What is it, May?'
' I um. I said, still surer now he
) had misjudged me and more resolved
. to set him right, *1 want a place.'
t 'A place?' repeated Tom. puzzled
AS well he might IK*. by this sudden
. and indefinite announcement; 'what
kind of a place?'
I *1 don't know.' I said, for, indeed.
: my ideas were of the vaguest. *1
i thought von might, being in the wav
> of those tilings. Now, pray, Tom.'
I went on quickly, 'don't fancy I am
• discontented, or—or anything of that
. sort; the truth is, ever since I left
off school I have wanted something
- to do and had it in my mind to speak
■ to you about it."
> With this I looked at Tom, fearing
■ he might be vexed: but he did not
look vexed, only preoccupied.
•I do know of a place, as it hai>-
pens," he -aid, after a while, 'only
■ I'm not >ure how it would suit you.'
•That's soon seen,' said I. 'What
I lis it like?'
'Well, it's a sort of—of general
usefulness—'
'Why, it must be to run errands."
said 1. laughing. 'And where is it,
; Tom ?'
j 'Well.' said Tom. hesitating again.
, "it's with me.'
' ! 'How very nice!' I exclaimed.
Tlow soon can I have it ?'
i 'The sooner the lieitcr. so far as 1
am concerned,' said Tom, and with
*' that he turned round and looked at
1 me, and directly I met his eyes, 1
•' knew, somehow, all in a moment,
what it was he meant; and 1 knew,
■ 1 too, both that I could not have passed
• : all my life with Will Broomley and
r j why I could not,
j 1 am sure Letty Walters, who in
. : terrupted us just then, must have
- i thought my wits were wandering
- • that evening, and, indeed, they were
t for I was completely dazed with this
-1 sudden turn tUnga bad taken. But
j Tom, the advantage of me
i there, took it quite coolly and laughed
and talked with L. ttv just the same
. J
■ as ever till she went away.
i | It was pretty late when we went
in. Mother sat where we had left
• iier. knitting in the twilight.
i & e>
•Wasn't that Letty Walters with
? you a while ago?" she said, as we
i came up.
•! 'Yes.' said I. with a confused feel
-1 i ing of an explanation of something
being necessary ; "she just came to
bring the new crochet-pattern she
! promised me.'
! 'll'm!* said mother, as much as
to say she had her own ideas as to
i" what Letty came for.
■ Tom liad been wandering about
the room in an absent sort of fashion
- taking up and putting down in the
- wrong places all the small objects
1 that fell in his way. lie came up and
1 took a seat by mother. I became of
t a sudden very busy with the plants
I , in the window ; for 1 knew lie was
L ' going to tell her.
: 'Wish me joy. Aunt Anne,' said
he. 'it's all settled.'
t 'Settled, is it?" said mother, in
- anything but a joyful tone. "So it's
ejas 1 suspected all along. Well, you
i have my best wishes, Tom : perhaps
| you may be happy togeher after all.
h . I'm sure 1 hope so.'
This wasn't a very encouraging
sort of a congratulation and Tom
? seemed rather .taken aback by it.
t 'l'm sorry you're not pleased." he
s said, after a pause; 'I had an idea
somehow you would be.'
Y i *1 don't know from what you
-judged. 15ut there, it's no use cry
• i ing over spilt milk. You'll bo mar
t ried directly. I presume; I must be
II looking out for a house," and mother
'■ stroked her nose reflectively with a
11 knitting needle.
t 'What for?' said Tom; *1 thought
g of keeping on here all the same.'
i- • 1 never supposed otherwise," said
mother. 'Of course 1 did not ex
n poet to turn you out of your own
h -house.'
h 'But what is the need of look ng
out for another, then ?'
>f • Wh*. for myself."
I -For yourself!' repeated Tom, in a
r tone of utter amazement, -Boing to
n leave us just now? "Why, Aunt
n Anne, 1 never heard of such a thing!"
e. "Now, Tom,' said mother, speaking
e very fast and making her needle rt\
"I. ' ~ t ■
in concert. *we might as well come
to an understanding at once on this
subject. lam fully sensible of your
past kindness—now just let me finish
—I say I appreciate it and have tried
to do my duty by you in return, as
I hope I should always be ready to
do. I wish all good to you and your
wife and shall be glad to help her if
ever I can. but to live in the same
house with her is what would turn
out pleasantly for neither of us. and.
once for all. I ran't do it.'
'Aunt Anne." said Tom. pushing
back his chair and staring in moth
er's face, 'either you or I must lie
out of our wits."
'lt's not me, then at any rate,' re
torted mother, getting nettled.
Amusement and a certain embar
! rassment had kept me a silent listen
er so far. but there was no standing
this: 1 tried to speak but could not.
, for laughing.
•1 think you are all out of your
wits together/ said mother, turning
sharply. 'What ails the child? it's
no laughing matter.'
I 'You don't understand each other.'
I gasped: *oh. dear! it's not Petty—
j oli—oh. dear!' and relapsed again.
! 'Not I.etty ?' rejieated mother,
turning to Tuin. 'Then why did you
| tell me so?"
•1 never told you so,' said Tom.
•Why. yes you did." persisted mo
ther. -You came in and-told inc you
! were going to be married."
•Yes, so 1 am.' said Tom. still at
cross purposes.
•Now. Tom Dean,' said mother,
rising and confronting biin, 'what do
' you mean? TP/to is going to be your
; wife?'
•Why. May. of course,' answered
' Tom.
' 'May!' and then, after a pause of
. i inexpressible astonishment, it was
. mother's turn to laugh. *l>o you
mean to say. Tom. it was that child
, you were thinking of all the while?'
; 'Why, who else could it bo?" said
Tom, simply.
•Well.' said mother. •! ought to
have remembered you never did do
anything like anybody else. But.
still, why in the world did you go to
work in such a round-about way?'
'I wanted to see how you took to
my ideas,' said Tom.
'And how did you suppose we were
. to guess your idea meant May?' rno
;ther asked.
•Who else could it be?'repeated
Tom. falling back on what he evi
, dently found an unanswerable argu
incut. It was no use talking to him.
Mother gave it up with a shake of
. the head.
'And vou wont want another house
then, Aunt Anne?' said Tom sudden
lv. That set mother off again; Tom
, joined with her. and altogether i
. don't think we ever passed a mer
. rier evening than the one that made
; us acquainted with Tom's wife.
i FIFTY YEARS SEPARATION.
* James and Benjamin Payne, two
: brothers, together with their father
I and mother, brothers and sisters,
were born and lived in Smith county.
i Tennessee. :doat fifty miles east of
; Xa-hvillo. James was born in 1 SOD
i and Benjamin in WO ami are thcre
> fore seventy-three and sixty-three
. years old respectively. In Ws.
when J nines was in his eighteenth
: and Benjamin in his eighth year,
i James left home with hi* grandfa-
Ulier, John Payne, to come to Mis
souri. leaving Benjamin and the bal
i ance of the family in Smith county.
: James settled with his grandfather iu
i this county, where he has continued
- to reside ever since. Benjamin grew
- up to manhood, remained in Tenncs-
I ct
>ee and traded South till lSsl,twen
i t\ two vears ago. when he moved
!* • c
i j with hi* family to Sangamon county,
Illinois, fifteen miles from Spring
t field, where he now lives.
Until quite recently each supposed
II the other dead many long years and
- years ago; but not long since, by the
I merest accident, the Illinoi* brother
i heard that James was ->till living.
I He could not at first credit it, but
investigations by letter and other
wise convinced hin that the lost was
a found and the dead had come to life,
o Therefore they arranged it by cor
t respondence to meet each other in
!' this place on Wedut-sday last, on tht
g arrival of the morning train, Berija
\ mill coming by rail from Illinois ami
S. F. Hamilton,
Publisher.
$1.75 A YEAR
James oil horseback from his farm
in this neighborhood, and the ap
pointment was strictly fulfilled.
Thus these two brothers, now old
men. met each other after a separa
tion of more than fifty years, and a
most affecting, joyful meeting it was
—such as the ill- and trials of earth
do not often vouchsafe to brothers
on earth.— Columbia (Mo.) Slata'-
man.
SPONGES.
i lie line. soft. Syrian sjionge is
distinguished by its lightness, it
fine, flaxen color, its form, which is
that of a cnp. its surface, convex,
v.iluted: pierced with innumerable
small orilice.-. the concave part of
which presents canals of much great
er diameter, which arc prolonged to
the exterior surface in such a man
ner that the summit is nearlv a!wavs
pn reed throughout in many places,
'i his sponge i- sometimes blanched
ly the aid of caustic alkalies; but
thi- preparation not only helps to
• destroy its texture, but also changes
its color. This sponge is specially
I employed lor the toilet and its price
is high. Specimens which are round
{shaped, largt- and soft, sometimes
{produce very high prices. The tine
i sjKHige of the Grecian Archajiclago
is scarcely distinguishable from that
ol Syria, either before or after being
cleansed; nevertheless, it jg weight
ier. its texture is not so line and the
holes with which it is pierced arc at
once larger and less in number. It
is nearly of the same countrv as the
, former—in fact, the fishing l'or it ex
tend- along the Syrian coast, as well
a- the littoral zone of the Archipela
igo and Jhirbary. The fine, hard
| sponge, called (Jreek. is less sought
j lor than either of the preceding; it
is. however, most useful lor domestic
and for certain industrial pur|>oses.
Its mass i- irregular; pierced with
small holes. The white sponge of
M ria called Venetian, is esteemed
- lor its lightness, the regularity of its
lot in and it- solidity. In its rough
date it is brown in color and of a
fine texture, compact and firm. When
cleansed it becomes flaxen-colored
and of a looser texture. The orifices
of the great channel which traverse
it are rougu and bristly. The brown
fhirbary -poiige when first taken out
of the water, presents in itself as an
elongated flattened fmdy,"gelatinous
ami charged with blackish mud. It
.is then hard, heavy, coarse and of a
reddi-h color. V hen well washed in
water it becomes louud in .-hajH\
1 , dill remaining heavy and reddish,
i It presents inanv gaps, the intervals
, ol which are occupied bv a sinuous
i and tenacious net work. It is valu
: able for domestic use, because of the
, facility with which it absorbs water
I and its great strength. Other sorts
.j of sponges are verv abundant. The
i blonde sponge of the Archipelago,
often confounded with the Venetian;
• the hard Barbary sponge called ge
t lina. which only comes by accident
into liance; the Salon ica sponge is
. of a middling quality; finally, the
Bahama sponge, from t!ie Antille-.
is wanting in flexibility and is a lit
-1 tie harsh and so i.- sold at a low
price, having few u-eful properties
. to recommend it.— From the Ocean
, i World.
A J.iissionary Family Among the
Lions.
When the He v. Samuel Broadbent
. was traveling near to the diamond
fields of South Africa he and his fam
ily slept in the wagons in which they
■ travelled. One pitchy dark night
' they several times beard a noise
i among their ca.tle and the next
morning found a young cow had
been killed and lay in front of the
wagon.
"As I sat ou the chest." savs the
: missionary, "one ul* my little boys
came and -at on my knee. J was
comforting him on the loss of the
new milk for hi- breakfast, as the
lions had torn the poor cow, when
■ there appeared a noble lioness walk
. ing through the grass, bringing a
, whelp with her. At the same time
I my favorite dog. Malbrook, was
feasting on the carcass of the cow.
On seeing the lioness approach he
- barked at her angrily. Bhe paused
. a moment, raised her head and lashed
I her tail about, then sprang furiously
at him. By a nimble leap and rusn
" - towards us he barely escaped her
■ claws and teeth. Just at the pole
of the wagon, close to which 1 sat,
1 with my eldest boy ou my knee and
I my wife, the next boy and a servant,
girl inside, she tumid away and we
L " were saved.
"The following night beasts of
. prey in great numbers prowled about
t our encampment. Several large lions
had walked around us."
The next day. when travelling as
s plea sail t. they .shot a buck which they
•• hoped to have for dinner. The re
•- port of the gun roused five lions,
The wagon- were turned another way
ami the lions slowly moved to a
e greater distance, rising on their hind
l " leg- an I playing with each other lihvi
l! dogs.—A. 1. Obxreer.