The * In path* of ponce anil virtue Alwar* the guod remain ; Ami aorrow aliall not atay with thorn, Nor long acees* of paiu; At mooting or at parting, Joy* to their Ixtaom atriko, For g<Kxl to gool ia friendly, And Virtue love* her like. The great Hun goon hia Journey Ity their atrong truth impelled,: Ily their pure liven and penance* Inearth lUelf uphold ; Of all which live or xhall live Upon ita hill* and ilelda. Pure heart* aro the protoctora, For Virtue aavee and ahielda. Hover are notde apirita I'oor while their like aurvive ; Without request theao render, Without return they give. Never iM loat or waated The goodness of the good; Never agaiunt a mercy, Againat a right, it atood ; And aeeing thia, that Virtue Ia alwaya friend of all, The Virtuoua and Pure-hearted Men their " Protectors" call. Adirt* lmoM, in Harptr. JOSEPHINES DREAM. Josephine March lived in an old red brick honse, which stood at the corner where the Canon's Close intercepts the Cathedral square. It looked on neither of them, except as it wero by the side glance of two big windows which lit its staircase. All its casements opened on its own groon garden, large enongh to allow of bright flower beds, open snnny lawns and bower like leafy dells. The Misses Knightley, to whom the honso belonged, took a pride and an in terest in their gardon. They wore proud, too, of the delicate nee 1ew,... wu.ch decorated their apartments, and days had been when they had added to its treasures; bnt they were old ladies now. and their eyos wero failing, and they did no more. Bnt spring and summer, antnron and winter, made room for per petual changes in that garden, and their gentle exercise in its genial snnshine did them good. And Miss Margaret often said to Miss Elizabeth: " What shonld wo do without J the garden and Josephine ?" Josephine was not of their blood. She conld remember the day when first she wondered who she was. She re membered asking that question of Miss Elizabeth. And she remembered the kind lady's answer, " that when she • was old enough she should know all they could tell her." The promise was kept when she was seventeen. That was three years ago, and Jose phine wonld have started to be told how many hours she had spent in re volving the few meager particulars sho then heard. She was a foundling dis covered in an encampment of gypsies, whoso thievishness had brought dawn the police upon them. The pretty baby's fair hair and blue eyes had pro voked inquiry, aai some of tho old women of the gang had eagerly con fessed that she was none of their people; she had belonged to a strange young woman who had joined them some months i.ofore and had since died. Thoy could not be quite sura whether sho was the mother. She had always said she was not. One harridan went so far as to narrate the dead girl's con fession that she bad a baby of her own, which had died, and that she had stolen this one to personate it, for the sake of some money. The Misses Knightlcv had heard all this at the time, and, like most of the neighboring innocent ladios, they had . gone to see the poor little babe crowing in the honeet arms of tho constable's wife, who had it in temporary charge. The Misses Knightley walked home in silence till Mis* Margaret said: "Lis sic, the little thing took to you." Then she saw her sister was crying. But Miss Elizabeth put aside her tears, with a strong effort, and said: "Bbe curled her little fingers round mine just as Joseph did when be was a baby." Joseph was a brother years younger than themselves, who hod died in boy hood. " Her eyas are the color of his," ob served Miss Margaret "Ah, if he had grown np and married, we might have had bis ehildien abont ns now." "Why shouldn't we taie this one?" asked Miss Elizabeth, impulsively. "We have a right to do aa we like, I sup pose," she added, with a dash of defi ance at the storm of criticism and ridi cule which she felt wonld rise abont them. And in the end the two ladiee drove back in the twilight and bora home the baby in triumph. • "I never in my life felt so mnoh as if I was oommitting a crime," Miss Mar garet had afterward confided. This was little enongh for poor Josephine to hew, though it was dressed np with loving little details of how they gave her the feminine form of thoir dead boy-brother's name, and added for patronymic that of the "roaring moon of daffodils," daring which she was carried into their quiet retreat. What dwelt moat in Josephine's mind was the vague unknown which lay be *ll tlio information she could get. heart 8110 entirely refnsetlto heliovo that 8110 conld he the child of tho ontcast woman who had died in the gypsies' camp. The police might have refused to believe about her dying con fession—tho Missos Knightley might Bccm to have forgotten all ahont it. What did they care to whom 8110 be longed, now that they saw her a fair and graceful maiden, full of gentle ways and learned in gentle lore, turning over their old volumes of the poets with her fresh yonng finger , and looking and speaking and acting just as they conld hare wished in that dream-child who might have been Joseph's "if Joseph had lived f" They had her portrait painted by tho rising young artist of the town, and it was exhibited in the county art acad emy. It was not called " Miss Josephine March." "Nobody but our Josephine's friends need know who it is," they said to each other, and the pict uro was called " An F.nglish Girl." It showed hor standing at the door of Miss Elizabeth's favorite arbor, just as she really stood nearly every morning during tho mild months, for she always ran down thoro to await that lady's return f om her daily tour round the garden. The yonng artist, Philip Harvey, felt he had never had a sweeter subject, and perhaps there was something in his eyes which said so, for certainly them was something which set Josephine think ing what would happen if they fell in iovo with each other, and she was sud denly discoverel to bo some great man's daughter—the child perhaps of some secret marriago. That dream dominated the poor girl's mind terribly. Hho grow to believe in it. It was only natural that sho should yearn after the unknown kindred who must be somewhere in the world. It was only unfortunate sho bogan to feel that tho twj maiden ladies were not roally hor aunts, and that this, and this alone, accounted for any rebellious feel ings which would ariso when tho wise restrictions and oonnsels of age occa sionally crossed the whims and impulses of youth. It came to pass that one morning, whea she was standing by the arbor, ' just as sho stool in the pictare, acar | riage drove npto the gate. At least, it was not a carriage, but a cab; an l out o.' this cab stepped an elderly lady, with a lean dark face, muffled in rich hut rather rusty black lace. She paid the cabman, and lingered for a moment at the gate, looking to the right and to the left. Then she ad vanced np tho straight center walk to ward tho arbor. Hho was nobody whom Josephine had ever seen bofore—a soar, commonplace looking person, who eyo 1 hor with great cariosity. "This is Miss Kuightley's house?" sho asked, abruptly, when sho was within speaking distance. " Yes, raadame.it is," answerod Jose phine. The lady came a stop nearer and looked at her shrewdly. " And yon aro a Miss March," she said; "and your portrait is in the Gallery. Have they been good to you j —these people hero ?" Josephine flushed hotly. " They have been my truest, kindest friends," she said, warmly. " But for them—" "There, there ohild!" interrupted the stranger, " don't go into heroics. I want to see them. Take me to them." Josephine obeyed. Hho led the stranger to the prim little drawing room and bade a mtii to send the Misses Knightley to her immedi ately. Then she returned to the arbor. Her heart beat fast with uneasy fears. No, no; it oould not bs; she was foolish to imagine it. This was somebody from the oonnty town, probably begging on behalf of some institution. Presently there WAS A light step on the gravel walk beside her. It was only Miaa Elizabeth; bat her face waa pale and her eyes tearfal. Josephine's heart stood still. . "Child," said the old lady, tenderly, "itis a comfort to think yon will not •offer to leaving ns as we shall saffer in losing yon. We often felt that yon mast long for yoar owe people. We think they are fonnd now. "That is not—not my motherT' gasped Josephine. "No," said Miss Elizabeth; "yoar mother died when yon were born, sweet one; and that poor outcast of the gyp sies* camp stole yon from the woman with whom were placed at nnrae. It was that pretty portrait which did it all I'' cried the old lady, bursting into ears. "Yonr relations saw it, and honght that nobody bat her own lost daughter con hi be so like your dead mother. And so they fonnd ont who yon were and all yonr story. This lady ia yonr aunt—yonr father's sister." M And my father f gasped Josephine again. " Is a learned and distinguished old gentleman with whom she lives ia pro found retirement, about a hundred miles from here," returned Miss Elizabeth, with heroic truthfulness. " Gome into tho house, child, and see your mother's miniature and hear all your aunt has to say." How different it was from Josephine's dream ! Yet hor courage somewhat ro vived at the thought of tho learned old gentleman and his scholarly seclusion. Only her nqw aunt her "real aunt"—damped it again. Hhe was so ugly and so business like. Bho did not want to lay any surreptitious claim to Josephine's affections. Bho did not want to carry her off. A lawyer would wait on tho Misses Knightley and go into every detail of the mattor before they would bo expected to resign their charge. Then she would return for her. Her name was Payne Miss Helina Payne; and her niece had boon chris tened after her. "So you're Hclina Payne, too," she said, looking at Josephine March; "and I expect you will bo very thankful to have a namo that really belongs to you." Josephine bad just one more week in the old Corner House, and a sad and trying week it was. As for the Misses Knightley they wept much in secret, and though they said little about Miss Helina Payne they often wondered over Mr. Payne, and remarked to each other that brothers and sisters were frequently very unlike, as if that of fered the most hopeful view of that unknown savant. Then Josephine left them. Miss He lina cut their farewells short. "You're not parting forever," she said. " 1 come very near hero every i half year about some money business, ' ami sometimes I'll bring her with mo and leave her for half an hoar." And before the Misses Knightley could protest against such curtailed visits the cab had driven away. Their railroad journey brought them I to a dismal little black village called i Carrow. It stood up anyhow round a great factory, which was pouring forth fierce light from a hundred square windows. "That's tho works, said her aunt—"the chemical works for which your father experiments and analyze*." "Oh, how ugly!" cried the girl which was perhaps ungracious. " It brings us bread, Helina," said the aunt; "and your father will expect yon to take an interes* in his work and to help him, I can tell you," she added; "though he'll claim more from | yon for his hobbies and his pet* and such useless tra*h." "And *o you're Helina," cried a thin, cracked voice in the hall of tho low, dark honae into which they were ush ; "rod "Ah, you've got Maggie'* eye*. 1 Poor Maggie! TUore, there, don't | smother me! Wo shall have plenty of | time to get to know each other." And a* that life began so it continued through tbat awful winter. The old I lady and gentleman received co visitor*; j they had dropped most of tin- amenities of life, and they were waited on by faith ful servant* after tbeir own heart. * Mr. Payne'sdntieslay among dangerous gases and acids; his recreation consisted of the study and domestication of liv ing snakes and newts and frogs, and the dissection of dead *]>ecimens—delights which ho cordially invited his daughter to share. A* for Mis# Helina, she always gave a grunt when letters came from the i Misses Knightley, and when Josephine : threw out hints that she would like them to roctivo some substantial yet graceful recognition of their goodness to her, Miss Helina curtly replied that she had no doubt they bad paid them selves in one way and another. And this was the fulfillment of the dream for which Josephine had often tnrned away from the sweet reslitiea of her old life at the Corner House! There was nothing shameful in it; on the oontrary, it had credit and honor, for the poor girl saw from t newspaper and certificate how high her father stood in the estimate of hia brethren. And she would inherit n considerable fortune, too. She was assured of that. Yet Josephine's head was sick and her whole heart was faint. The crisis came one day, when, rising from a dutiful but nauseating endeavor to mount a specimen for her father, ahe fancied she heard a familiar voioe in the hail. What could have brought Philip Har vey here, and what sort of reception would he get from Annt Helina? Hastening from the atndy she met that lady returning from the front door with a satisfied smile on her lips. "Who has been heref' asked tho nieoe, with a sinking heart. " Home ynuug whipper-snapper want ing to aee yon," returned Annt Helina. " A Mr. Hafvey. We don't want any of that sort hare. Thoee fellows who live by their wits are always very sharp after fortnnes." As her annt apoke Josephine felt the low ditmsl bsll reel round her, until it seemed ss if the frayed brown oilcloth rose up and smote her on the faoe—and •he had fainted I a a a a • It was summer once more, and %H (dd green garden of the Corner House was again rich in color and sweetness. A carriage ntands at the gate. Half an hour ago it brought up three people; in a few minutes it will carry away only two. A group of five advance from the little arbor. There are the two Misse* Knightley and Josephine. How pale and thin she looks, and bow like a con valescent breathing fresh air and sun shine after months of fevered confine ment! undyet Josephine has never leen. as her Annt Hclina says, " really ill." And there is Aunt Helina herself and Mr. I'ayne. " Yes, ladies," says the old gentle man, " I know it's all right • What can the girl want,' says my sister, ' more than to have na always and to see the Misses Knightley every now and then?* Bay I, 'Helina, maybe the right chemi cal combination would be for her to have the Misses Knightley always, and see ns now and then, just byway of renewed experiment to prove it would not do.' You needn't defend yourself, child, I know you did your best. Helina, are you ready? Well, child, if ever you hear of any curious specimens—you remember that rare toad I was always looking out for—lot mo know. Good bye." "Josephine,'' whispered Miss Eliza beth, as the throe turned back to the old house, " I have asked Mr. Ilarvey to come up and sjtend this evening with ns—l did not think yon would object Why, Margaret, the roses on her cheeks aro beginning to bloom again already!" And Josephine dreamed no more of grandenr and broken hearts. Cutting the Key Log of a Lumber Jam. The first thing to be done is to find out where the jam occurred, and then to discover what is called the "key log," that is to say, tho log which holds the baso of tho "jam." An old experienced "steam driver" is soon on tho spot, for the news is soon carried np stream that there is a "jam" below. Every minute is of consequence, as logs are coming down and tho "jam" increasing in strength. The "key log|' being foiind, there is a cry for volun teers to cut it. Now, when von consider that there are some hundred big logs of timber forming a dam,*an>l tho instant the key log ia cut the whole fabric comes rushing down with a crash, yon will see that unless the axman gets in stantly away he i crushed to death. There aro usually in camp plenty of men ready to Tolunteer, for a man who cuts a key log is looked npon by the rest of the loggers just as a solditr is by his regiment when ho has done any act of bravery. The man I saw cut away a log which brought down the whole jam of logs was a qniet young fellow, some twenty years of age. He stripped everything save hi* drawers; a strong rope was placed under his arms, and a gang of smart yonng fellows held tho eml. The man shook hands with bis comrades and quietly walked out on the logs, ax in hand. Ido not know how the loggy road one felt, bnt I shall never forget my feelings. The man was quietly walk ing to what very likely might be his death. At any moment the jam might break of its own accord; and also if he cut the key log, unless ho instantly got out of the way, he would be crushed by the falling timber. There was a dead silence while the keen ax was dropped with force and skill on the pine log. Now the notch was near half through the log, cue or two more blown, and a crack was beard. The men got in all the slack of the rope that held the axman; one more blow and there was a crash like thun der, and down came the wall to all ap pearances on he axman. Like many others 1 rnshed to help hint away the poor fellow, bnt to my great joy I saw him safe on the bank, certainly sadly braised and bleeding sundry wounds, but safe.— Field. The Tramp'* Reward. A Western newspaper drawa on its imagination for the following story : An ingenious tramp, thinking to wring tears and money assistance from the stoniest hearts with a new science, gave it an experimental trial in the North End. lie has decided not to patent the invention. He told a North End lady of his nnfortnnate condition, and asked if he might eat some of the grass in the yard. The lady, not leas amnaed than surprised, said : " Certainly." He went oat, and getting down on all fours commenced on the grass after the neglected and never popular fashion of Nabnchadnexr.sr, and apparently not enjoying the diet any more than that ancient sinner of olden time. Presently the tramp's anxioos eye oanght sight of the servant girl beckoning to him from the back yard. He thought a rich re srard for his humility ires in store, and instantly responded. " Did yon motion to me T* "Yes." "What did yon srantr He now wore e look of most hopeful expect ancy. " Yon may go in the back yard if yon want to. The grata is taller there." LA 111 EH' HKI'A Itl MKM . Klnnnrl llrcMfa, White, cadet blue, olive and black are the desirable color* for sheer flannel dresses that will bo worn all snmmer at the seaside and monntaina. The white flannel dresses are only anitable for morning wear, but those of color* will be rosed for traveling. The i>rince**e effect, with panier *a*h and plaited ekirt, prevail* for young 1 adieu' creamy white flannel dre*Me*, and to these are sometime* added Byron collars, square cuff* and pocket*, of velvet, but a* these dresses must bo cleansed often, the llorculo* braid in many row* on the skirt, with frog* on the cuirass waist will bo a better trimming. A snugly fitted hunting jacket well belted in, braid to match in color, and a ekirt like that ju*t described, i* the design for black and colored dresse* of flannel.— Bazar. The Hind ol n .Wan la Warr>. A young man, receiving a small sal ary, determines to put aside each week a certain *nm a* a foundation for the pleasant home he some time hojies to have. It foroes him to make many sac rifices; he eschew* jewelry and canes, soda water and cigars, and carries an nnperfumed handkerchief. When in this semi-rustic plight, and wearing a suit (perfectly preserved) two season* old, ho call* on a maiden whose com pany he desire*, she look* with scorn at the dowdy drew, and i suddenly other wise engaged. Discouraging as this may be, he plod* on in the chosen path, and finally lays hi* heart before a quiet maiden who ha* read: "I wo a man: 1 <lo not n* hi* stubby (Irons, I see htm In bis manliness; I one hi* ai. I • bis spade, I MMI a man tliat O x! IIM made. If siirli a man before you stand Give him your heart, give him your hand. And thank your Maker for such men They make this old earth young again.'' The beginning of their wedded life ia devoid of much of the splendor tbat at tended the other jiair, but to them there is no rude awakening to misery and woe. Their aflection having never been trifled awav, but reserved, each for the other, proves a constant joy and ever-present delight \ VVofnßn'a U arilni, The Lowell Courier reports a roc-ent lecture of Mrs. Mary A Livortnore, in which the speaker said: " A prominent cause of the degener acy of woman is the compressing of their chests by the use o. corsets. They are not necessary to a good figure; what artist would choose a corseted female for a model ? Thay are not necessary for support. Indeed, they are destruct ive of those very means upon which a woman should depend to uphold her body. The female form is provided with muscles exactly simi ar to those of the male, but in the former those muscles are not developed, they are weakened, com pros sol, until in a woman forty yearn of age, who has al ways worn corsets, the waist muscles have entirely disappeared, and the woman is alwolutj-ly oblige 1 to depend upon the artificial means to support her body. This practice also interferes with digestion, and with the operation of the lungs." Mrs. Livermore also discountenanced the support of clothing upon the hips, and the use of smsll peg-heeled shoes. The latter occasion permanent injury to the muscles and incurable lameness in many cases. In. Ml. Voir. Worth xifK'B jet profusely. Satin straws are popular. Tournnres are very large. Cloth jacket* are severely plain. Koso* border evening drees skirt*. Some of the new mantles have pan iers. Polka-knotted handkerchiefs are again carried. I.ace is worn with everything and on everything. White camels' hair is mnoh worn for tea gowns. Historical and picturesque oostnme* grow in favor. Brocaded China crape appears among late novelties Some of the new nlslers show box plaits in the back. Hip draperies and tnnics are mnoh tacked and ganged. Ostrich feathers droop over the front edge of large straw hats. Soldier-bine is the popular shade for doth jackets and anils. Patent leather low shoes will be worn in the summer by ladies. Worth usas striped and changeable silks in his riches* dresses. White flannel dresses will be popular in the country with young ladies. Jersey jackets are preferred to the masculine English walking jackets. Pertain cloth mantles trimmed with chenille fringe Me very fashionable. Ficelle or Medici laoe is the coming novelty for trimming dresses tad boa* nets. The heir, to be fashionably droned, mnit (ell low on the neek end if" o*> the brow. In spite of effort* to make nil arm ing dresses short, train* are worn ex tensively. Pink i* a favorite color for young ladies' dresses, i>oth for morning * evening wear. • Hideon* enrtain panicra <li*flgnre a large proportion of Paris-made dreams of this m ason. Pale gray and cotta, pale bine and canary yellow, are favorite com binations for tea gowns. Bride-maids wear white straw Item brandt hats with white plnmea failing over the front of the brim. A loose, puffed drapery just below the hij all aronnd the skirt appears on handsome dresses for children. The colors for neck ribbons are terra cotta, aurora pink, porcelain bine, ma hogany, ruby and cardinal red. Parisian hsir-drenaers are making an effort to revive the Itoman coiffure of the first directory period in the style worn by the Kmpress Josephine and Madame just before the days of the empire. Information About the Aged. After Mrs. Mary McElroy, ofGreena burg, lad., had lived 100 years, she was burned to death. Mrs. Lally died recently in Chicago, aged 108 years. Her health had not been good for three years. Mrs. Catherine Mannion died lately in Baltimore at 10C. Her sister, ninety two years old, had died ju*t_ before. Colonel Camp, of Bhippensville, Pa., was ninety-four years old when he was married recently, and his bride, Mrs. Itich, was seventy-two. Christopher C. Graham, of l.onisville, Ky., is ninety-eight years of age. Ha ; recollects that he was a guest at the wedding of Abraham Linoolu's parents. After ninety-six years of active lifa, Polly Herr, of Phenix, N. Y., passed into eternal rest Bhe was never aick , in her life, and died in her sleep. At a birthday surprise supper giran to Mrs. Hannah Roberta,of South Bend, | Ind., the united ages of the sixteen l>ersots at table made 1,083 years. Archie McTaviah has just made a long journey by rail to spend his old age with s favorite son. He is at Ux bridge, in Canada, and 106 years of age. Mr. Sarah Fifield, who di>d recently at Deer Isle, Va, at the age of ninety i eight, had l>een a strictly pious woman for eighty-three years, and of descend ants had 252. The united ages of a family of New burg, consisting of eleven brothers and sisters, is 700 years, an average of nearly seventy years. Their fstber lived 100 jf ars. With good physical health and all his mental faculties unimpaired, Andrew Bisconnior still lives at 108 in the city of Syracuse, N. Y. He is now cutting teeth and recovering his sight. The father of Robert A. Wright, of Santa Boss county, Florida, is 11G years of age, more or less, and be has three sons fifty-two years old. Healthy triplets, that is to say, were vonchaafed to him in his sixty-fonrth veer. " run" With a Male. A little Southern boy, when asked if his father had a good mule, mournfully replied: "One end of him in good." Personal attempts to play with the heela of a mole are generally failures. A correspondent of the Chicago Time*, writing from Fort Buford, gives an ex ample of that kind of an experiment: A gallant captain of the Fifth In fantry, on a notable occasion, attempted I to coerce a mule which had backed up against his teat on a wild and stirmy night to secure some slight protection from the whirling blasts. The mule was an old offender, and was continually wandering about the oamp after night. Upon this occasion he backed up against the tent, and the light inside permitted an accurate view of the animil aa his shadow fell on the canvas. The captain was entertaining a party of friends, and when he caught sight of the mule be picked up a pine board, and remarking to his visitors, "Now we will bare some fun, boys," leveled a full and fair blow at the animal. The aim had evidently been true, as the shadow was seen to move on the canvas, and then followed an awful tearing sound, and a pair of mule's heels made themselves distinctly visi ble to the assembled crowd. The mole oontin ned the kicking process until he had torn in ah reds the objective side ef the tent selected for his attack, and bin heels reached far enough to enable kin to encounter the stove. The boy* ad journed for the vening, concluding they had bad " fun" enough. The officer who assaulted the male was given other quarters that night, and on the following day purchased tarpaulin with ahfoh to repair his dom icile. A reason given way a piano was not saved at a Are was bee was none of the fireman oould play on it.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers