The Potter journal and news item. (Coudersport, Pa.) 1872-1874, July 16, 1873, Image 1

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    Jno. S. Mann,
t'/tJic Cor. Main ami Third.)
TERMS, * 1.75 Per Year is Advance,
J uo, S. Maun, S F - Hamilton,
Propriet"r. Publisher.
Attornov at Yaw and District Attorney,
~ \vn MAIS' St.. V>rer the I-ost
Solicits all business preuuung to his profession.
Social attention given to collect ion a
tftorners at Lav and Conveyancers,
Collet' oos promptly tt<-i il-d to.
Arthur B. Mann.
Gccrl ic-ttrnnw Ageut A Notary Public. j
(orrics over forjTer's to*e.)
(S-< id St. opposite Court House.)
Attorney at Law and Insurance Agent,
Broker House,
Rkown .V Keli-t, Propr's.
'Corner of SECOND and I.ASI Street"-,
Ererv attention paid to th convenience and
comfort of guests,
aillood stabLng attached.
Lewisvtlle Hotel,
Corner of M.YIN and NORTH Streets.
trr Hood Stabiing attached.
MAIN ST. above SECOND, over French's store,
Bouse Painting, Glaring, Graining. Calcimining, :
Gloss-flnMMn*, Paper-hanging, etc., <loce j
with nearnes". promptness and
dispatch in ail cases, and
sati.-fa."':i guai'-
ai) 11 ed .
MIXED PAINTS for sale. 2425-I j
*. S. THOMrsOM j. 8. MASS I
Dnvtrv. Medicines, Books, Stationery, ,
Cor. Main and Third Sts..
' rner Main UAd Third.)
"'urgieal and Mechanical Dentist,
I A work guaranteed to give satisfaction.
--:T: 2. E. Ball Jointer 1* Bolting Machine,
BNSEMAIIOSING, Cameron co.. Pa.
ut tb. IDK-CI'TSHISGLE ma CHIsK to
' >36 inches.
* ) .• Machines and Gfcrji Custom Work
1 border. 2422-tf
John Groin,
HOu so . s i o* ii ,
w 2mtal, decorative & .ttcsco
with neatness and dispatch.
_rs Wft With
■* Promptly attended to.
vJI" 1 /' '/ ' lV agn-inaW!ng, Hlacksmithlug, I
: xrr:ug.- Trimming ami Repairing done
, n neatness and durabiiltv. Charges
2425 lv
Nl V U HL L \V" OKK,
' dudershHT. PA
'■> V_.."s •s ~ st.,u etc., Bnished to order,
- os ; kw*l and workmanship, on
8 * V|v®"V,' r ft at tl>eoffl.-e of Jour- i
receive prompt attention I
J A Child's Night Musings.
From her chamber window peering
Stood a litMe child <>ne night,
.. r,le deepening siiadows hearing
Mingled with the waring light.
S 'uH.l h . e 'andseajie. faint and fainter.
Which she loved to look upon.
Lay a gloomy ma-- lie/ore her.
All it's grace and form were gone.
Gazing thus, her eves grew tearful
.... -i""? ,h *' day's last beam had fled;
\ hiie her little lit-a rt grew fearful.
To herself she softly said.—
"Who will mind the sheep. I wonder *
For the shepherd cannot see;
And the cattle grazing yonder
Uli how lonely they must be:
"Grandpa says the Saviour keepeth
Watch o'er all things here l>e!ow.
Iliat He slumbers not, nor -.eepeth,
>or doth ever weary grow.
'*-Yre the -tars so brightly Ieamiug,
And the moon with silvery light.
Oer the darkened eartii now streaming.
Helps to Jesus in the night ?
"Doe- the moon shine ro nd the steeple,
So thai He should -ee the wav
To the homes of all his people
W hen the sun is gone away?
"LJdve to think He stands beside me
• • I £?.? tny evening pfyr.
i And though aii is iu,i. around me,
I His watchful love inav share."
It was just such a village as you
j see in pictures. A background ot
superb bold mountain, all clothed in
blue-green cedars, with a torrent
i thundering down a deep gorge and
J falling in billows of foam; a river
reflecting the azure of the sky; and a
knot of houses with a church spire at
one end and a thicket of factory chim
neys at the other, whose black smoke
wrote ever changing hieroglyphics
against the brilliancy "of the sky.
This was Dapple-vale. Ami in the
rosy sunset of this blossomy June
day the girls were all pouring out of
the broad door-way, while Gerard
Blake, the foreman, sat behind his
de.-k. a pen behind his ear and his
i 1
small bvady black eyes drawn back,
as it were, in the shelter of a preci
pice of shaggy eyebrow.
One by one the girls stopped and
received their pay for the week's
work, for this was Saturday niglit.
One by one they filed out with fret
ful, discontented faces, until the last
one passed in front of the high-railed
i desk.
She was slight and tall, with large
; velvety blue eyes, a complexion as
delicately grained and transparent
', a* rose-colored wax, and an abun
, of glossy hair of so dark a
brown that the casual observer would
have pronounced it black: and there
was something in the way the blue
, ribbon at her throat was tied and
the manner in which the simple de
tails of her dress we r c arranged, that
bespoke her of foreign birth.
"Well. Mademoiselle Annette,"'
said Mr. Plake, jocosely nodding,
\ ''and how do you like factory life?"
"It is not disagreeable," she an
swered, a slight accent clinging to
| tier tones, like fragrance to a flower,
as she extended her hand for the
' money the foreman was counting
| out. "
j • v< u gr> t'4un ino Kut four <iol
lars," she said. "It was to be eight
j by the contract."
Mr. Blake shrugged his shoulders
| disagreeably.
" Humph!"'grunted he: "you ain't
much accustomed to our way of do
ing things, are you, Mademoiselle?
Eight—of course; but we deduct
two for a fee—"
"A fee! For what?" Mademoi
selle Annette demanded, with flushed
cheeks and sparkling exes.
" For getting you the situation.
Mademoiselle, to l>e sure." said Mr.
Blake, in a superior sort of way, as
if he rather pitied her lack of infor
mation. "Such places don't grow
ion every bush. And folks naturally
i expect to pay something for the pri
! vilege."
"/ did not!" flashed out Amiette
j Duvelle.
" Oh—well—all right. Because,
YOU know, you ain't obliged to stay
unless you choose. There's plenty
of girls would be glad of the chance
of getting into the Dapplevale Calico
44 L>o you mean," hesitated An
nette, "that if I do not pay you this
j money—"
" You can't expect to stay in the
works," said Mr. Blake, easily hitch
ing up his collar. "Yes; that's
al>out the plain English of it, Made
"But the other two dollars?"
"Oh." said Mr. Blake, "that s a
percentage the girls all pa>*
"But what is it for?"
Mr. Blake laughed.
I 44 Well, it kind o' helps my salary
:=... . _ __ . —■——— a———
along. Of course, you know, the
girl 9 all expect to pay something
every week for keeping their situa
tions in a place where there's so
many anxious to get in. You may
consider yourself very fortunate.
I Mademoiselle Annette, to secure so
j desirable a post."
All tbis Mr. Blake uttered, in a
i slow deliberate way, through his
nose. Annette Duvelle looked
scornfully at him.
"And Mr. Elderslie?"
i "Oh, Mr. Elderslie," repeated
: Blake. 44 He han't nothing to do
with it. I run this little machine of
the Dapplevale Ualieo Works."
j "Mr. Elderslie owns it, I believe?"
, 44 M ell, yes, he owns it. But I
i manage everything. Mr. Elderslie
i-eposes the utmost confidence iu my
! capacity, ability and—and—respon
- , sibility. Mr. Elderslie is a good
business man. He understands his
i own interest. And now, Mademoi
f selle, if you've any more questions
t | to ask—"
t 1 " I have none," said Annette, wist
-1 fully. "But I need this money my
r; self. I work hard for it. 1 earn it
[ righteously. I cannot afford, any
t more than the others among these
. poor laboring girl-, to pay it to jour
> greed—"
? 4 'Eh!"ejaculated Mr. Blake, jump
. ing from his seat as if some noxious
> insect had stung him.
"And I will not pay it," calmly
["'concluded Mademoiselle Annette.
I "Very well—very well. Just as;
. you can afford, Mademoiselle," cried
- tiie foreman, turning red in tli" face.
. "Only if you won't conform to the
- rules of the Dapplevale Works—"
1 '
i "Are these the rulea?'' scornfully
I demanded Annette.
" Pray consider your name crossed
. off the books," went on Mr. Blake.
•• You are no longer in my employ.
Good evening, Mademoiselle Wiiat
And Mr. Blake slammed down the
cover of his desk as if u were a pa
tent guillotine and Annette Duvelle's
neck were under it.
Two or thr-e of the factory girls,
who had hovered around the open
door to hear the discussion, looked
with awe-stricken faces at Annette,
as she came out with tiie four dol
lars which she had received from the
cashier in her hand.
"You've lost your place, Ma'am
selle," whispered Jenny Purple, a
pale, dark-eyed little tiling, who sup
ported a crippled mother and two
little sisters out of her mulcted earn- 1
I ings:
II "And he'll never let you in again," '
, added Mary Rice. 44 He's as vindie
• tive as—as the old Evil One himself." j
; j "It matters not," said Annette.
: " lie is a rogue, and rogues some- j
| tnofi out-gmcrnl themselves."
" But you can't starve," said Jen
! ny. " Look here, Ma'amselle, come
> home with me. It'.-> a poor place,
! but we'll make you welcome till— j
; ! till you can write to your friends."
Annette turned and impulsively
kissed Jenny on her lips.
"I thank you," she said; "but I
do not need your kindness. My j
friends arc nearer than you think."
And Annette Duvelle went back;
to the little red brick cottage, all
, thatched with the growth of woo l
bine and trumpet-creeper, where she ,
lodged with the wife of the man who j
tended the engines in the Dapplevale
" Does he cheat you, too, of your ,
• money?" she asked, when Simon
Pettengill came home, smoke stained
■ and grimy, to eat his supper.
1 "One-sixth I pays to him." said
. Simon, with an involuntary groan,
as he looked at the five little ones
around his board. "Yes, Miss, he's
: villain, but the world is full o' sich.
> And I finds it a pretty middlin' hard
world to gel along with. Mr. Elder
. slie never comes here, or maybe j
i things would be a bit different. Mr.
Elderslie lives in Paris, they say."
44 He is Wi this country now," said
- Annett. 44 1 inteud to write %o him.'"
> Simon Pettengill shrugged his
- shoulders.
" Twon't do uo good. Miss," said
i "Yes, it will," said Annette, qui
| etly.
The petals of the June roses had
, lallen, a pink carpet all along the ;
-; edge of the woods, and the long July j
e | days had come, epics of sunshine,
g jewelled at either end by dew and
l- moonlight. And the Dapplevale
0 Works wore their holiday guise, even
y down to Simon Pettengill's newly-
I brightened steam-engine, for Mr. El
-3 lerslie and his bride were to visit the
j works on their wedding tour.
ij "It's a pity Ma'amselle Annette
s went away so soon." said Simon to
1 his assistant; "'cause they say the
master's kind-hearted in the main.
j and she might ha' spoke up for her-
I self."
i j Mr. Gerald Blake, in his best
fj broadcloth suit and mustache newly
j dyed, stood smiling at the broad
' doorway as the carriage drove up to
the door, and Mr. Elderslie, a hand
some blonde-browed man, sprang out
and assisted a young lady, in a dove
colored traveling suit, to alight.
"Blake, how are you?" he said,
with the carelessness of conscious
superiority. "Annette, my love, this
is Blake, my foreman."
"Mademoiselle Annette!"
And Mr. Gerald Blake found him
self cringing before the slight French
girl he had turned from the factory
door a month before.
" I must beg to look at the books. 1
Blake," said Elderslie. anthoritative
ly. "My wife tells me some strange
stories about the way tilings are
managed here. It became so noto
rious that the rumors reached her
even at Blythesdale .Sprirgs, and she
chose to corne and see for herself.
Annette, my darling, the best w-ed-'
ding gift we can make to these poc
working girls is a now foreman. 1
Blake, you may consider yourself i
| dismissed."
"But, sir—"
"Not another word." cried Elder
slie, with lowering brow; and Mr.
Gerald Blake crept away with an un
comfortable consciousness of An-;
. nette's scornful blue eyes following
; him.
Elderslie turned to his wife.
44 You w>ere right, mv love," said I
he. " The man's face is sulllcient'
■ evidence against him."
And a new reign began for poor
Jennv Purple and the working girls,
as well as for Simon Pettengill.
And Annette never regretted her
week's apprenticeship in the Dapple
vale Calico Works.—Z< / ,-r.
j *
Letters of Recommendation.
A gentleman advertised fur a bov to j
' assist him in his office and nearly fifty
applicants presented tliemsffves to him.
' Out of the whole number he in a short I
! time selected one and dismiss d the rest. |
"I should like to know," said a friend,
"on what ground you selected that boy. j
who bud not a single recommendation?"
"You are mistaken." said the genUe
! man, "fie had agn at mauy. lie wiped
! his feet when he came In and closed the
j door after fiim, showing he was careful.
! lie gave up his seat instantly to that
' old man, showing that fie was kind and ;
thoughtful. He took off his cap wlien 1
' he came in and answered my questions ;
: promptly and respectfully, showing that
I he was polite and gentlemanly. lie
picked up the book which I had pur
| posely laid on the floor and replaced it
ori the table, while all the rest stepjxtl
! over it ot shoved it aside; and lie wait
ed quietly for his turn instead of \
• ing and crowding, "nig Le was hon- j
jest and orderly. "When I talked with j
him I noticed that his clothes were cam-.
fully brushed, lii hair in nice order and j teeth as white as milk: and when j
! he wrote his name I noticed that His|
j finger-nails were clean, instead of being
tipped with jet like that handsome little
• fellow's in the blue jacket. Don't you
j call those letters of recommendation? j
: I do, and I would give more for what
I I can tell about a boy by using my eyes
ten minutes than all the fine letters he ;
can bring me."
On the western horizon of the Lib
yan Desert, as viewed from the sum- 1
mit of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh,
a conical hill stands in solitary grand
! eur, far removed from the route of
desert travelers. This lias long been
supposed to be the ruins of a pyra
mid. yet nowhere is it recorded to
have been visited by any but the
Bedouin trilres who pass within a
1 few miles of it, on the old caravan
route to the Faioom. It is enumer
ated by Lepsius as one of the pyra
mids of Egypt and in a recent work
on the Great Pyramid it is called Dr.
Leider's Pyramid, "until a better
name be found for it." merely from
I its having been pointed out to the
?, author by the late Dr. Leider, o:
d Cairo, who, however, had never vi
e sited it.
n | The following narrative of a visit
to the eminence by Mr. YVymann
1- Dixon, engineer, and Dr. Grant, ol
e f airo. and of their discovery of a
! very remarkable petrified forest near
e its base, whose gigantic trees lie
a scattered about the desert in profu
e sion, has been communicated to us by
. the former gentleman.
Leaving the pyramids behind and
lighted by the clear silver moonlight,
t we set out into the desert by the
caravan route To flic r doom, leading
I | np a solitary valley, in the rocks ol"
> 1 which are cut ancient Egyptian tanks
- and mummy pit-s. Presently we turn
: off from the regular track and take
- our way into the unfrequented desert,
steering straight westward for the
. I distant pyramidal hill. The sand of
i the desert is here hard and compact,
and traveling easy; indeed with the
exception of one or two places w here
the sand is soft and heavy, a wheeled
i carriage might' drive all the way and
to most of travelers would be much
preferable to camel, or even donkey
j riding.
After many hours' hard liding.
we at last reach the top of the >light j
eminence and across tHe wide valley .
in front of us is the place of our des
j tination.
These long valleys, or ,4 wadys,"
■ have much of interest about them;
throughout may lie seen the dry
i water courses where the rare rain
sliowers carry down the sand into the
1 bed and leave all the little hills and
! eminences covered by flints as big as
i potatoes and with surfaces so brightly
! polished as to give the desert a
silvery look by moonlight, or by day
to cause the appearance of rippled !
watei where they reflect the sunlight.
The zoology and botany, too, of the
desert are verv interesting. There
are numbers of little "jerboa," a,
species of rat, with long hind legs
and long tail with a tuft of hair at
its end, which hops about like a k.m '
j garoo. Now and then may be seen
' a gazelle or two scampering off at
the unusual sight of a caravan. A
i few small birds get a precarious ex
istence and in the sky an eagle or
vulture sometimes wings it- way.
The insects are few and the herbage
is extremely scant and it is a marvel
i what the animals live on. There are
here and there in the water courses
small tufts of camel-thorn—a little
shrub not unlike a whin, another
with a coral-like growth and now !
and then a handful of a tough wiry
soit of grass, but what these again
j subsist on it is hard to say, for there j
is not a shower more than once ori
twice a j ear and for nine months
there is no dew, while the heat of]
the sand at middav in summer is over
100 degrees.
Arrived at our destination before
{daybreak, we dismount from ouri
camels and while the Bedouins are
unloading the baggage, we hasten as
fast as our legs, stiff with camel rid
ing. will permit, up the heaps of
sands and flints to the so-called Pyra
mid. to find, on attaining it. that it 1"
~ * |
' out the conical end of a prism-shaped
! hill stretching westward, ami stand
ing boldly out of the desert plain.
Near tiie top the rock crops out
j and appears to be a species of friable j
sandstone fretted by the weather in-,
to curious shapes, but the actual
summit is covered with flints and
sand, and what strikes one as being
very strange, many fragments of
petrified wood.
i Taking a general survey from this ;
j coign of vantage, we choose the best
! spot to the north of the hill to pitch
jour camp, exposed to the slight
north wind which blows incessantly
here and descending its steep sides.,
: at the bottom are surprised to find
near the chosen snot three large stone
I * * i
' trees Iving prostrate on the sand.
The largest is 51 feet in length and 3
feet 6 inches in diameter at its widest
end and 2 feet at its smallest; they
are branching exogenous trees, ap
parently a species of pine, and the
one l>efore us has the fork of a large
branch very complete.
Wandering on up the wady to the
n nth of the bill, named by us "Kom
. el Khashob." the hill of wood, we
• find the whole desert littered with
i fragments of petrified wood, from
> twigs the size of one's finger to pieces
f of large branches or trunks of trees:
i- and on the flank of the hill to the
north are hundreds of immense trees,
t, lying half buried in the sand, some
u seventy feet long and in many in
if stances with the back still attached,
a j All of them are exogenous trees—no
r ; single instance of a palm could we
e discover—and from the absence of
- j roots it may be presume 1 have been
y drifted here by the sea. The stratum
i is apparently sandstone, overlaying
1 the limestone of the Nile valley:
, there are also here and there patches
* of a dark chocolate-colored finable
r mineral with specks of green which
f looked like copper; but proved on
>! subsequent analysis to be carbonate
i ol iron; beds of what the Arabs call
1 "Gyps'* or gypsum, and nodules of
. i an intensely hard black granulated
looking stone—not unlike emery
stone; the whole geological charac
j ter suggesting the—possibly delusive
| —suspicion of the existence of coal
i under the surface.
: Having, carefully surveyed this
neighborhood we again climbed the
, • Komnel el Knashob," takutginstru
i menus to measure its height and de
jtermine its "position: the former oft
! which we found to be 752 feet above
' the Nile level at Cairo, 602 feet above
j the northeast socket of the Great
Pyramid and consequently about 140
I feet higher than its summit.
Having secured one or twosketehes
of the iiill and the sun being now
near iwtting. we '"fold up our tents
like the Arabs and silently steal
away." Mounting our camels again
and taking a slightly different route
j on our return, we j<a.-s some ancient
solitary well tombs away iu the des
ert. but without mark or hieroglyphic '
inscription on them. All the way
! we notice fragments of pet rifled wood
and near to the pyramids extensive
] beds of oyster shells. This forest
i may almost be said to lie a continua
j j
j tion—doubtless going much farther
: westward than'we penetrated—of the
well known petrified forest in the
Abbosieh Desert to the east of Cairo,
which extends a long way in the di
rection of Suez, but is inferior both
in extent and in the size and perfeet
ness of the trees to that of the newly
discovered fore-t. The formation of
the land here would lead to the suiv
position that it was the ancient coast
line and that trees drifted to where j
J they are now found and were then'
left in the briny waters of an evapo
rating sea or salt lake; and as the
fibre of the wood decayed slowly
1 away, the space of each cell lias been
filled up by the crystalizing silica
I which was held iu solution in the !
; water that surrounded it.
Since the discovery of this forest ;
jit has been visited by many Euro-J
peans in Cairo and English travelers
and to geologists especially it is wid!
worthy of a visit. It may bo easily
reached from the Great Pyramid '
j either by donkey, camel or horse, and '
] is distant under three hours from it
—a journey which in the w inter may j
with comfort be accomplished in one '
day from Cairo. Indeed, If His
Iligbiies.-, the Khedive, w ho has done
-o much for the comfort of travelers
; in making a magnificent road to tin;
| pyramids, were to extend it l'or some !
i half mile farther through the tract of
j soft sand, carriages could easily drive j
i all the way to the Komnel el Knashob.
The locality is now well known to'
the Pyramid Arabs and most able
and intelligent guides will be found ;
in Ali Dobree, Omar, or others of
this Bedouin tribe.— Xatwc.
Too Much for His Nerves.
Several nights ago. a young gen
tleman of this ei'.y invited a lady to
accompany him on a moonlight ride.
At the appointed time the wagon j
i was at the door and together they 1
started for the Cliff House. During '
the ride the conversation turned on
things supernatural, and the Dono
i van ghost was discussed at length,
j The gentleman professed to be free
altogether, from that dread of the
mysterious unknown, which deters
some people from entering grave
yards after nightfall, or sitting alone
with the dead. He declared that he
would even lie willing to have a lete
■ cdt'te interview with anj- ghostiy vis
itant who might choose to make him
a call in the -till hours of the night.
Alter a couple of hours spent pleas
-1 antly at the cliff, the horses' heads
1 were turned homeward. The road
> was deserted, the pleasure-seekers
S. F. Hamilton,
51.75 A YEAR
; hail all returned an J as they bowled
e along the smooth road still thev con*
. versed on the supernatural. Wh n
•i -short distance beyond the toll-gate
e the. horses stopped suddenly and be
- gan to tremble and snort violently*
. The driver stood up in the wagon to
, find out the cause, and lo! a coffin
lay at the side of the road. The
moonlight shone on the silver plater
1" and the courageous young man ins
1 mediately let go the reins and drop
j ped into the bottom of the wagon as
r if he had been shot. The iaxi. fortu
nately caught the lines and the- pre
• vented a runaway and piotaMe dis
; aster. As she was endeavoring to
> i restore of mind which
, had lh;d from her crouching eoin
panion, an undertaker's cart drove
up an 1 th<? driver dismounting, lifted
the coffin into it. "Get up"' said the
lady. "Is that horrid thing gone?'
'tgroaned the gentleman and ventured
j to peep out from the twiggy robe in
j which lie had wrapjted his pallid
face. It appeared that the under
taker Was earning the coffin to a
i house on Geary-street, win n his
wagon broke down and he wa> com
i pel hid to leave it on the roadside
! while he returned f;r repairs. The
gentleman drove meekly home and
has not since been heard to declare
his indifference to ghostly visitations*
, —Han Hrancixeo Hall' tin.
How Young' Men Hail.
"Then is Alfred Sutton home with
liis family to live on the old folks/* said
one neighbor to another: "It seems hard
i after all his father lias done to fit him
j for business and the capital he invested
,to stmt him so fairly. lit- is a steady
. young man. no bad habits, ;*s far as I
know; be has a good education aud was
always considered smart, but he doesn't
j succeed in anything. 1 smi hld he lias
, tried a number of different kinds of bus
iness aiid sunk money even t hue. What
. -an lx> lite trouble with Alfred. 1 should
like to know, for 1 don't want my boy
1 to take liis turn/'
1 "Alfred is smart enough,"' said the
i other, "and has education enough but
he lacks the one element of success,
lie never wants to give a dollar's woriii
of work for a dollar of money and there
is no other way for a young man to make
' hi- fortune. He must dig if he would
! get gold. All the men that have suc
ceeded. honestly or dishonestly, in lnak
j ing money have had to work for it. the
; sharpers sometimes the hardest of all.
i Alfred wishes to -el hi.- train in motion
and let it take care of itself. Xo won
der it soon ran off the track andasmash
!np the result. Teach your boy, friend
1 Archer, to work with a will wlien ho
does work. Give him play enongh to
j make him healthy and happy, but let
him early that work is the busiuee- of
| life. Patient, self-denying work is the
' price of success. Ease and indolence
1 eat away, not capital only, but worse
still, all of man's nerve power. Present
gratification tends to put off duty until
. to-morrow or next week. It is getting
to be a rare thing for the sous of rich
men to die rich. Too often they .sqnan
j der in a half s oo- of y what their
' fathers were a lifetime in ueeumulatfug.
: In wish 1 could l ing it into the ears of
every aspiring young mini that work
; hard work, of head ;uid hands —is the
price of success."- —C" unlry (JtitUiinan.
A seedy looking individual walked
j into the Crawford llou.-e, Cincinnati,
a few evenings ago and. stepping up
to the counter, seized a pen and reg
istered his name at the foot ot a long
list of the day's arrivals. It was a
noble name—George ■ Washington
• Botts—written in a firm, bold band
and with a big flourish underneath.
It was plain that the seedy man was
.acu doinedtouiakiugafiouijsh in the
world, if it were only with a goose
j quill. '
*■ Have a room?" inquired Captain
! Oakes, the proprietor, incidentally
j measuring the man with his eagle eye
; to see if he wouldn't fit in one ol" the
sky Boudoirs.
"No," said seedy, shortly, picking
his teeth with a spliuter tooth-pick
j lie had selected from the w ell-assorted
supply always found on the counter.
''Supper, then. I suppose?" added
; the Captain, preparing to add an U S"
to the end of George Washington
. Botts' name.
, "No, sir, no supper," said Mr.
Botts with severity; •• I simply want
jto arrive, I want neither room, sup
per, nor anything else, but I particu
larly wanted to arriv-. It is t. long
time since 1 have arrived at a hotel
—a very long time (his voice choked
a little) and I thought if you hadn't
any objection—l—would like to ar
rive once tof re before 1 died."
Here he wis obliged to hide his
emotions in bis coat-tail, in the ab
sence of a pockv t handkerchief.—
Captain Oakes. always ready to do
a good aeti >n. generously allowed
the unfortunate individual to arrive
a'u.i George Washington Botts, has
tily drying his eyes with the pen
wi] er. wrung the Captain's hand .in
mute but heartfelt gratitude and then
stalked gloomily forth into the dark
ness and the night.
He had arrived.