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
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Half Column, one year WC
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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
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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--