rates of advehhsing. d)t crrst IlrpMifcn j rwi.rnniw rvni vrrrjsBKDit, t J. E. WENK. "Office In Smearbaugh k Oo.'n Bullying, , .ELM STREET, - TIONE9TA, FA, TICUMH, Sl.no X'init, YEAH. No Anlwen'iitlonsrecoivo for ft shorter period thnn thti.'O moniln. (!.UTCHionlmicpfolL'it(Ml from all parts of tie country. No notice wi I be taki:n of anonymous ';:niuuii!uatiouM. i t One Bqnar, one inoli, on inssrlon.... II M One Square, one Inch, one month..... 8 69 One H(iiftrp, one inch, three months.. 8 08 One Kfiiarp, one iiifh, one year. 1" 0" Tvro Hqiiaron, one year 1 M Quarter Column, ona year 80 M Half Column, one year WC One Column, ono year lav Irpal noticos at established ratoe. Marriages and death notices gratia. All bills for yearly advertisements collected quarterly. Temporary advertisements must be liid for in advance. Job work, cash on delivery. Vol. XIV. No. 52. TIONESTA. PA, WEDNESDAY. MARCH 22, 1882. $1.50 Per Annum. Mm r1 n i 1 II JfrfjJ I I. J U I. ft 5 5 ! I if What Is Lire! Eyes opening to the light, ft feeble cry ; A few short ycarf, sonie'JoyH, more tears 1 l'.y a cloning Into nlgbt; a quivering ilgb; And tbli Is llfo. Hands toiling, ne'er at rest, but more and more Eager for gain; oft tired In vain: Hands folded on the breast, the battlo o'or; And this is life. lloart beating warm with love, ft spirit brave; A dauntless broaat, where weak may rest; Hoart-tilont, ne'er to move; a quiet grave; And tills is life. A" promise of rich harvests, sowing dono; Bright hopes and trusts: but " Dust to dust Is murmured sadly e'er the Bett ing sun I And this is life. A dawning fair and bright, ft toil-filled day, Some passing showers that bring forth floworg At even-tide lixbt-ft heavenly ray; And this ia life. FOR LIFE. Eleven 'days on the road. By no TneiiDB the Union racifio, or any other Una of continuous travel, where the minimum of bounce and jerk is com Viinprl with the maximum of comfor YwttRible under steady motion. A road still unknown to surveyor or engineer, beyond reach or thought of railroad man or speculator, and but just open Inc nn its two hundred miles or morn f tirimeval forest. A road trodden only hv Indians or crossed by stealthy fox or lynx, its length winding through treacherous raarh and bog, and Bwift- stream and deep, unbroken forest, only a blaze" here and there, indicating at some points the course to be followed, and where too obtrusive trees were cut away, the stumps left standing at just the right heiabt for impaling wagon hodiAs and stining una degTee or two of nrofttnitv in the drivers. From Tembina to Crow Wing, and in those two hundred miles of a loneliness only the traveler of that region can know, what bad not the patient oxen undercone ? Twelve miles the average day's accomplishment, until Leech Lake ana some fcuggesr.iun iu nvmawu iwi had hern reached. Heavy rainp, swol len streams, fathomless mud-holes, Often a morning was f.pent in hauling wagons across a turbid and turbulent little river, and. while the oxen stood drenched and dripping after their re luctant swim to the other side, bringing over the loads, package by package, on a fallen tree, if such bridge could be discovered, or vaiting while the two half-breeds swam across with them on their heads. Neddo. silent and calmly acquiescent in whatever jfate might hrinc. served as fore and background for Bonlanger, who swore in all dialects from French and English through to Greek and Chippewa, his black beads of eyes shooting" fire, his small and cavlv-bedecked legs dancing wildly among the packages, and his lean arms ... emphasizing the wniriwinaoi invective. Even this had ceased to amuse. Drenched through by constant rains, fnrmente.d day and nicrht by mosauitoos. in size, numbers and ferocity beyond the wildest imagination of the Eastern mind, endurance was all that remained, Even water lilies palled, and for weary body and more weary mind but one desire had force to see the low stock ade of the Crow Wing agency, and an actual inn. where a real bed, eveu if one of four in a row. would be hailed as deliverance, and where one would find a postofflce and a daily stage, con' nectinflr this last outpost of civilization with St. Cloud, eighty miles below, and the fitst point where railroads could be reached. Again a broken bridge gave another morning of unloading and swearing and reloading, and when at last the rushing river was passed and the wagon once more under way, a treacherous and she! via or mud-hole suddenly swallowed up oxen and fore-wheels, dumped load and owners into its very depths, and for five minutes seemed likely to hold them there. Then all struggled out together, and while Boulanger shrieked with rage and Neddo examined pole and wheels and fished out the provision basket, putting the contents on a damp log to dry, patience at last took flight, . and like the ancient prophet in one of his very runny trials and predicaments, I spake with my tongue ; I opened wide my mouth." ' I will not stay in this nest of mos quitoes and flies and wait hours for fliis final catastrophe to unsnarl. I shall march on to Gulf Lake, where there is a beach, unless this last flood has turned it to water, and there I can sit in th sand and sret dry. Of course, now there.is no reaching Crow Wing to-night, and we must make our camp at the lake." For this journey was by no means a first or second one, and the ox-team was aimnlv one more experience of frontier Canoe and flat-train and Indian ponv had all been tried, and either was better than this frightful ml. inoh Vv inch, as it were. - At Gulf Lake, the first camping point the previous year, ten miles above Crow Wing, had been a solitary wigwam, ten anted by a toothless but amiable squaw, mhn cava me fresh pickerel roasted in the BOtiles over her fire, and affording Yinr RPnse of what flavor and savor natnral methods may hold, and pota tnp Vmrdlv bie-crer than walnuts, but duir in my honor from the field she had planted, rerhaps she would be there ta-.lav. Tn any case, alone or with such r v aa sV eould Kive. tber waited for me the clear, still, blue water in its setting of silvery sand, the blasted pine with its eagle s nest, the hush ana se renity of the silent forest. Five miles under the pines, where one was less tormented by mosquitoes, and then came a final one a wade rather than a walk. I had forgotten the bog and the corduroy had sunk quite out of sight, though I could feel it now and then below the black mud which held tena ciously to'.each foot by turn and yielded with a long, slow suck, like a smack of evil satisfaction over my tribulations. Ten thousand hands could not have availed against that gray column of mosquitoes, whose sound seemed at last a trumpet call to other columns, and which, in spite of headgear ana leather gloves, penetrated the unknown and unguarded chink or crevice. Through the swamp at last and out once more under tne menaiy pines, and I ran, knowing the goal was near, and seeing soon the flashing sunlight on the blue water. There was a bend ing figure near the lake. Along the brook emptying into it corn ana peas and beans were growing, and, actually, balsams and even sweet-peas at the end I " My squaw has been brought over to white man's fashions," I say half aloud, and then stopped Bhort, as the figure sprang up and turned with a subdued "my. gracious! , when she saw the mud-coated and caked, torn, and most disreputable-looking apparition before her. So wan a face, such watery and faded, yet somehow intense blue eyes so infinitesimal a nub of hair, so shadowy yet resolute a wraith, I had never yet enoountered, even in remotest and most unfriended cabin, where a woman's lifo means the speedy loss of every trace of comeliness and grace. Well, I call it a providence ! " she said, coming forward with a eort of silent rush as if carried by the wind. " The first day l ye ever been lone Fome a mite or thought to care, but he's gone below three dayg now, an' Shahweah off ;or berries, an' I did say jest now, be the pond there, it was a leetle lonesome. An then to thmK oi a white woman bein' what I should see ! It does beat all I Where be you from ? I reckon it s a dry country youve left behind you," she added with a twinkle, for you have brought all the mud with you. isow you come straignt up aiong with me. an 1 11 scrape you on Borne, Where's your folks?" " Six miles back in a mud-hoie, x answered, with the ghostly impression still strong upon me. The voice was on'v a husky whisper, and a nearer view only intensified the bloodlessness of the sk'in hardly hiding the poor bones below. The woman laughed. " You think I'm a poor show," she said. Folks gin'ly do; but I'm health itself to what I was." You were not here when I went up a year ago ?" . " No ; I come in November. When you're in some of my clothes an' have had a cup of tea I'll tell you all about it. There's the house. Aint that pretty for Gulf Lake ? Kinder comfortable V" Comfortable! A palace could not have held a tenth of all the word meant ! A "but and a ben" only, but how spotlessly neat! Morning-glories and hops climbing over door and window, where white curtains hung ; a snow white bed, Bhut in by mosquito-bar ; a square of rag carpet on the floor ; stove and tins polished to their utmost capac ity one of shining blackness, the other of shining brightness a dresser holding civilized dishes ; a shelf, where two or three books lay tne xnoie, Whittier's poems and David Copper- field," and a pile of well-worn papers; an old-fashioned rocking-chair with patch-work cushions, and "light stand" near it ; and, to complete the curious mixture of old New England farmhouse and frontier-cabin, a warming-pan hang ing between the windows, its copper face shining like everything tlse. "You think that's a queer thing to tote out West?" said my hostess, who had already spread a cloth and put on "I hankered after home; I do it even ... .... V now. once in a great while, tne snaa- owy woman went on; "out x ain s goin' to dwell on that. Likely's not, you've heord forty folhs say the Bame thing. But what you hain't heerd I'm goin' to tell you now. lie cane irom Maine, as maybe, I don't say born a lumberman, an' his father one before him. An' so, when Minnesota opened up, it come easy to put out o' Illinois, where farmm never suited him, an' where there wasn't a stick o timber, except along the river-bottoms, an he always half pinin' for it. He knows his business an' soon fell into work, an we settled down in Minneapolis; thats about as folksy a place as you'll find. But you see I wasn't never over strong, an' I'd Bhook in them bottoms till it's my belief there wasn't an inch inside of mo that kept jest the place the J-iora had laid out to have it keep. Folks said the trouble was your gall ran out into your liver; but I said your liver ran where it was a mind to, an' your stomach into whatever else there was, an' morn'n likely interfered with your lungs an' kept you from having along breath. That's the way it looked to me, even after I got settled in Minne apolis, for mine got shorter an' shorter, an' at last, in spite of me, I was in bed, an' the folks sayin' I shouldn't n6ver see spring. 1 Now, the children had died as last . 4 mi ti as they come almost, 'mere wasn i one left ; an' Hiram is set by natnr on what's his own, an' it seemed as if he couldn't stand it to lose me, too. We'd been unlucky, too burned out once an' the bank broke that had our money in it, such as it was an he was pretty low ; an' when time come to go up to camp he half broke down, an' he said: Malviny, I can't. Supposin' you shouldn't be here when 1 came back. I had better go as hand in a mill, an' earn less.' " Hiram,' I said, you take me along with you.' You never saw a man look more scared, for he thought I was goin' out o' my mind. But I hadn't noticed folks an' ways for nothin,' an I said: Don't you know jest as well as the next one that the doctors keep sendin consumptive folks up into the pineries? an' if your camp ain't as good as an other, I'd like to know. I can't more'n die, anyway ; an' I'm sick of bein' tucked up in bod an' an air-tight chokin' me day an' night, an' I'm goin' with you.' 'Malviny, you can't,' he said, 'it's all men. There ain't no place.' 'Then make a place.' says I. 'Tain't fit,' says he. ' Women don't know anything about a passel of men together.' ' Then the more reason for findin' out, an' seein if they can't be made decent,' says I. if that's what ycu mean. I feel to know I shan't die if I can git up there : but go I will, if I have to walk an' can't do more'n ten steps a day.' " Well, he knew I was set, an , though I didn't put my foot down very often, I had it down then, square, an he set in a brown study awhile, an' he says: Well, Malvmj, 'tain t no time to cross il i T M vou. an l never wan tea to yen. ii you think you'll hold out, I'll start up tne country to-morrow an' see about havin' a separate cabin next to camp. They're fixin' for winter now, an' I km go an' come in a week. But I don't see how you'll stand it, an' I don't believe you - - . . . 1 . A. will. Ihen l can pe ourieu in me woods,' says I; I always did have a hankerin' to lay down for good under pine trees. - - . 1 fYV 1 T :n T " Well, ne weniou; an a wiji buy x didn't see myself how I cculd live till he got back, for I had another time or raisin' blood that very night, It came pourin' straight out ; but I said:. I won't give in. it can t au run oun, an- I calculate there'll be enough leit to keen me coin.' "Folks woman t ueiieve it, oui dj the time Hiram got back I could crawl to the window. I sot there when he came in sight, an' he was astonished as you'd want to see. Uut he had to lay in an' git picked for goin' up, it was anywheres. When Hiram drove up before the camp, an' Smith, the overseer, come out, he looked a minute, an' then swore right out : Be you turnin' into a blamed fool at your time o' life, to be bringin' a dead woman into camp?" he says. But I knew I wasn't anywheres near dyin', an' Smith knows it too, now. I'd give a Bight if he- wasn't below. He's so contented to have me round again, he Bays he don't care if we never stir from here the rest of our lives: an' I'm sure I don't an wouldn't. I walk under them pines, an' smell 'em deep in' an' I says, 'Here's your life-elixir, an' no mistake; an' if folks knew it they wouldn't die in little close rooms, but come out under 'em. I was always a master-hand for out-doors, an' he helps along the house-work, so t we can gar den together, an' Shahweah does what he an' me ain't a mind to. Mostly as long as daylight lasts I putter round outside ; an' I ain't sore but what I shall be an old woman yet, even if I hain't but a piece of a lung left.' "As for them men, you never see twenty fellows more set on bein' agreea ble than they was. For all havin to whisper, I always managed to make 'em hear, an' I did odds an' ends for 'em, an' they went in an' out, an' told stories, an' sung, an' one night I even danced ; an I never had a more sociable winter. I thought he'd be a leetle lonesome when they went below ; but he takes a sight of comfort in the paper we've had it from the beginnin' an' he don't seem to mind one mite. I always read considerable, an I go over an' over the few books we've got, an' find somethiu' new every time. And I expect you'll laugh when I tell you the only thing that ever makes me lonesome or skeery, 'Tain't Injins; I don't see but what they're folksy enough, when you git over their blankets. It s loons. 1 sa; they're the lonesomest thing in natur an' when they holler I jest crawl all over. But then I can git along even with them. An' now I'd like to know how you come here, an' all about it, every word : but I'm dreadful sorry he ain't to home." Helen Campbell, in Lippincotl. an' the very morning all was ready I must needs come down again. Well, he waited a fresh water to boil for the promised day, an' then he says: I'll go with the . ..v.. i. v 'it . f 1 3 nr-l:- a V.it an titan 3a. " 1 ictiea on n oeiore i louu, lumviuj, an ATinnrrb tn roarh it. hftucin I'll come back an take you up on a ( - - .... . i . , i i t i, i in grandmothers kitchen up in empty siea, bo io iub room iur , an when I went West, least- an' things lor you to go easier. x what was West forty years ago wan't to go now, x says; i euau uo ennsylvany I took it along for old dead if I don't vveu we arguea some nn,1 tbnntn Illinois an' Minna- back an' iortu, an at. ias Ue byo. xb v a - I r tt ... was big there Vermont, wavs toTi times, sota an' here we both are up here You'd say it wasn't much more use than Timothy Dexter's ship-load for the West Injies; but he made a iortune out o that, an' I sort of expect good luck from this one. Now, before that kettle biles, you might freshen up a mitfl. The heft of it we won't do nothin to till you've had your tea, , . . , 1 1 t 1 m Words can never tell the aengnt ox that freshening first in cold water in a real wash-basin, then the tea, drank to an accompaniment of narrative nnnrad out as if mere speech were a r-; . . . . . . - cift Btraiaht irom neaven. au, iu- domitable cheerfulness, a resolute crasp of these shadowy threads of life, seemed the strongest characteristic of this creature in whose faded eyes quick irleams of expression came and went, and whose alertness and even vivacity wre miraculous testimonies to the lm perious will that governed the frail body, no matter what human weakness interposed. In the beginning, the story proved one I had often heard tne exoans oi forty years before, when New England, mora especially its northern portion, seemed emptying itself into the West, the white-covered, heavily-laden wagons passing day by day through the old towns, gazed upon by the more con servative with apprehension and dismay. ain't no use. Malviny. All's ready now, an' I'm coin' now. an I'll come back for vou as I said;' an" off he started for the barn. I was up tLat minute an1 into mv waim things in spite of Mrs. Smith tryin' to stop me, an when he drove round an' come in I jest walked to the door. ' No. you don't,' he says, n' iest took me up an laid mo on the bed an' run. " What trot into me then I couldn't tell: Lord carried me along, I reckon. Anvwav. I run too. Mrs. Smith after me. an' Hiram iest drivin' off, an' there T stuck to the runner and wouldn't let go. Hiram was pale as a ghost, an' most cryin', an' he says, 'For the Lord's sake, go back, Malviny,' an' I says, For the Lord's sake I won't, an' jest crawled up into the buffaloes alongside o' him. There's one chance in a million of your gettin' there alive,' he says, an', if you're bound to go on that one, we 11 try it, that's all;' an off we went. " Well, whether 'twas the notion or the air away from the air-tight, or car ry in' the p'int, I couldn't tell, but I grew more an more chirp with every mile. I eat quite a dinner, an' elep' all night, an' Hiram he jest kept still an' waited. I knew he was waitin. But we got through at last, an into these very pi no woods becinnin' at Crow Wing. I tnifftjd 'em, an' knew lifa was in 'eia if Sad Career of a Baron's Daughter. The recent death of Mme. Laura Sweitzer. at Port Jervis, N. Y., recalls one of the saddest and most remark able careers ever recorded. The story of her life, as told by Mme. Sweitzer, reads like a romance and seems almost too strange to be true. Laura Von Pnffnitz Steinburg, daughter of Baron Frederick Otto Von Pnffnitz Stem bure. was born at Wismar, in Mecklen burg, Germany, on the 10th of OctO' ber. 1819. Her father was of an ancient and highly-honored family, and Laura was a younger daughter, fctne waB given all the advantages of an expensive education in music and tne uerman language. At sixteen years of age she met a very poor young nobleman with a very long and honorable name, tne uount Frederick Kolstedt SchleswicK bweit zer. The youjg man was handsome and pretty well educated, but his pov erty was a bar to their union. Laura felt that she loved mm eo deeply that she could marry no one hut him. Her old father would not listen to her en treaties, and finally he sent her to Altona, a town near Hamburg, on the Elbe river, where ho placed her in a convent until she became cured of her passion. She contrived to let her lover know where she was, ana tnitner ne followed her. Having no money he applied for and obtained a position a under-cardener in the convent at s modest compensation. He and Laura were thus enabled to meet daily, and aflairs were going on swimmingly when the old Baron Steinburg, having found that Sweitzer had left Wismar, suspected the true state of affairs, and came posthaste to Altona. lie arrived in time to catch his daughter in an arbor in the convent garden conversing with the forbidden lover. The old baron and the young man exchanged hard words, and a duel, in which the baron was severely wounded, resulted Young Sweitzer and his sweetheart fled from Altona, were married, and came to America, where they landed at Castle Garden. New York, almost penniless, Sweitzer obtained employment and thev lived comfortably several years, Finally his health failed, and the couple came to Port Jervis, N. Y., and took up their abode in a little shanty in a suburb. Madam 8weitzer made enough money to keep them alive by peddling matches and notions among the farmers, and by begging during the winter. She frequently walked fifty miles a day, and on a recent occesion took part in a pedestrian contest in Port Jervis. where she made a record of ninety-eight miles in twenty-three hours, and earned considerable money, During her begging excursions she told the above story of her life, bhe was known in Pike county as "Meeshy Maumie" or "the Countess." Her death was horrible. She was trying to steal a ride on the night freight train to Middletown, thirty-four miles south of Port Jervis. when 6he fell under the engine and was so crushed that her body was scarcely recognizable. Her husband died a few years ago. How Rugs Are Made. How many who stop to admire the show windows of our carpet dealers know how the rug is made ? That it is woven somehow is all that is apparent as it lies there warm, soft, bright with a dozen colors, fruits, birds or figures. The rug'is twice woven, and this is its history : First, the border ana center that is to form the pattern is designed; then painted in straight lines upon paper, containing a ruled scale, and in the proper colors that are afterward to appear on the rug. This paper rug is then cut up into strips, each contain ing two spaces of the scale, and these papers are the pattern that the nrst or weft weaver is to iouow. In weaving weft a warp beam of say 200 threads in width and a wheep beam of 100 threads in width are re quired. Two threads of the first and one of the second pass through the same split in the reed at regular inter vals of say one-third of an inch, the intervening splits of the reed being empty. The paper pattern is fastened to the middle of the work, and the weaver follows it exactly as it is paint ed; that is, the pattern moy neea six threads of crimson, two or DiacK, twelve of corn, ten of green olive, and soon, the weaver filling the "spot" exactly as to length and color. Having woven the full length oi tne paper as painted on the left-hand Bpaoe the paper is begun again and the painting in the right-hand space is ionowea, ana when all the papers which, laid side by side, form the rug, have been thus cone over the weft for the rug is fin ished. The roll of weft-cloth is then run through the cutting machine, a ten-inch cylinder, around which a continuous thread of knife blades is wound. The cylinder is revolved afc a high rate of speed, and the weft-cloth, passing within range of the knives, is cut into strips by them. These strips do not unravel, be cause in weaving the wheep-thread is twisted about the two warp-threads and the filling is locked in. After twisting each strip to change it from being a flat thread into a round thread, it is wound upon a bobbin, and is ready for the second weaver, who is called the setter. The warp of the rug is black flax; and the setter uses two shuttles, alter natelya small one, containing a bob bin of two-ply or three-ply flax, and a large one for the unwieldy bobbin of weft. A white thread on each side, and one in the middle of the black wrap are the guides to the setter, who sees that certain parts of the weft thread come under those white threads before he presses the weft in. Each bobbin of weft will weave about three inches of the rtig; bo, if the rug is one yard long it will require about twelve bobbins, which mean twelve pieces of weft-cloth to complete it. But these twelve pieces, having each been cut up into ninety-six identical strips, will make ninety-six similar rugs. Therefore should tne wen weaver put in, say, eight threads (one-half inch in length) oi a wrong coior or suaae, that error would appear in ninety-six rues. The setter having finished the ninety-six sets of twelve bobbins, the rugs are ready for finishing". The machine through which they pass cuts the surface off evenly, and brushes them free of fragments of the materials used. This treatment brings out every detail of the design and heightens the colors. Most of the rugs made here are of flax and wool; others are of silk and shoddy silk. The weft for the silk rugs has eight strips to the inch, and to cut it requires 288 knife blades, each one of . . . . i mi which must have a razor eage. xne weft cloth and the blades must be set to a nicety, since the variation oi the sixteenth of an inch would make the knives cut the 288 threads instead of the filling between the threads. There is a firm in Glasgow, Scotland, who manufacture for the royal houses of Europe such elaborate designs as the Lord's supper, the weft-weaver, in some cases, using 400 different shuttles. Broken Strings. Thore is no minstrel ripe in years, But, as his song he sings, Feels musingly across his harp To find some broken strings. The early songs that from his lyre His youthful fingers flung, Have lost their first rromcthean firo Since love and life wore young. Tne world may listen to the strains Which from each harp-string float; But still unto his ear remains A discord in the noto. And still his heart, unsatisfied, Seeks, yearningly, in vain, To find the mnsio which has died And mend the broken strain. Ohworld 1 that listens, when too lato, Unto the voice which sings, And loves the music, when the years Have shattered many strings, But little owes the bard to you For praises from your tongue, Who heard not when the harp was now, And love and life were young. HUMOR OF THE DAY. painted," From Berlin it is announced that an important and somewhat successful ex perimont has been tried for the importa tion of meat from the Russian steppes, where enormous herds of cattle abound, the meat of many being allowed to perish alter the hides have been se- I cured. Ingersoll's Position Souud. In his recent lecture in New York city Bob Burdette, the 15urlingt;n (Iowa) journalist, maae a sensation vj his allubions to Bob Ingersoll. The latter's success, Burdette thought, was owing to his overwhelming humor, which made his audience laugh at their own dearest creeds. "And I believe, continued Mr. Burdette, seriously, while his audience was hushed"! be lieve Colonel Ingersoll's position is sound." There was a moment's hesi tation, andall the tittering stopped "I know." continued the speaker, "it isn't the thing to say in this hail ana to this audience ; but I have said it, and won't go back on anything I have said." It appeared lor a moment mat jur, Burdette's candor had got the better of his discretion. He continued : "But that is the trouble with Ingersoll, it is all sound, like a bass drum, and no sense." Then a good orthodox roar went up, and everybody felt relieved. The Panama Canal. Should the projected canals aoross the Isthmus of Panama ever be com pleted. it will be at a terrible cost of human life. The climate is very un healthful' and laborers cannot', be pro- vided with proper food. Dr. rvotes Health Monthly. funeral Budlonir A. Morton, alias Thomas A. Marvin, the celebrated awinJler and bigamist, has earned'a term of solitary confinement by an at tempt to breuk out of the Virginia pen itontiaryr T am not so bad as I am said th3 fashionable woman. The bashful lover who can't express his feelings often sends them by mail. Though manufactured abroad, a home-spun "article A top. Richmond Baton. " If I thought I was'going tobecomo gray, I know I should die I" exclaimed Miss Springle. When she turned gray, she did dye, sure enough. Boston Transcrivt. A certain doctor of divinity said every blade of grass was a sermon, i he next day he was amusing himself by clipping his lawn when a parishioner Baid: " That's right, doctor cut your sermons Bhort." A laaann in lanoruage: "So your daughter has married a rich husband?' "Well." slowly replied the father, "I nhfl has married a rich man, but I understand he ia a very poor hus band." Hartford. Student (not very clear as to his las- sonl " That's what the author Bays, any way. xroiessor x uuu u the author ; I want you !" Student (despairingly "Well, you've got me. Harvard Crimson. " Johnnie, here you are at the break fast table and your faoe is unwashed," said his mother, with a sharp look. " I know it,ma. I saw the animalcules in pa a microscope last night, and I ain't going to have those things crawling all over my face with their funny little legs. " I ne'er was more Infatuated Than now, bentath your glances," Said Jones unto the bonny inaid Wb.086 love his heart entrances; " Excopt," said she, " when ia that tub Of butter you prostrated, That was the time, you'll own yourself, Still more in-fat-you-waited." Rome Dentin She Bat down at the piano, cleared her throat and commenced to harmon ize. Her first selection was, "I cannot sing the old songs;" and a gloom that was colder and bleaker than a Sunday dinner fell on the company when the shanger in the corner said, " And we trust that you are not familiar with the new ones." -Si. Louis Hornet. rbio i a Fashionable Restaurant. Do you not see the pink Chewing Candy and the Angel Cake in the Window? Angel Cake is Nice, but you can get more Molasses Ginger-bread for your money. See the Young Man and his Girl outside or tne xesiaurauu. "m they go in? He is telling her Some one was Poisoned last week by eating Oysters at the Restaurant She ex claims " How Dreadf al !" and says she is glad they have other Things to eai in the Restaurant Besides Oysters. Yes, they will go in, but he Wishes he had " . - ii T 1 4 1 1 V sins thought of a better xjio iu ten uw, Elevated Railway Journal. Mrs. Emma Q. Housh is. making the Woman at Work ver y pleasant and en tertaining. Jnaianapoas imh,i. Emma can do more than we have suc ceeded in doing. We have on several occasions found a certain woman at work, and when the last time we found her at work, we tnea to nuno um pleasant and entertaining by making humorous allusions to the flatness of the biscuit, and by telling her of the exceeding lightness of the pie crust that Brown's wife makes, one, m mo most pleasant and uninteresting way suggested that she wished wo would either go and boara wun xruwu o or fall down thb stairs and break our blessed neck. 2 exas Siftings. A Relic of (iuiteau. A relio at once of Guiteau and of the great Chioago tiro has been found in an old safe, which was being rummaged over by Snydacker & (Jo. upon a faded sheet of note paper was written the following: May 12. 1870. Received of Messrs. bny- dackor & Co : ... Oua judgment noto vs. truest lwes, ua. One noto vs. L 8. Warner. t'2H5. Oua judgment note vs. Jacob IVrwyth, I ;JI)i. Ono ioto va, McGouegul, Biraiut & Co., $31(3.70. One judgment noto vs. Louise Fro' 200. (Signed) Chaki.es J. "ir fy i'Uw.j.w. No. 2 MotUodiBt CL1 O Mr. Snydacker says tb .i LlVKUY.sTAULK a nfn,1 TiinTiratinri oh a, .'l:u 'Ku I' rtoo -..t tniVeit-l'a VI." heBUstained b;''" 'i"; ing a portion . . , .,j,ir,r t-4iutv,.. ai ly- over acjrabuor station.- Mini uui pi i- irot-fiiiss fsCiUVS "ill ' i in.) P , V.. A T-l Tylorsburf, JOHN WALTIS I. Pa. Mruh let k--
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers