THE FOREST REPUBLICAN
Ii published trery Wednesday, by
J. E. WENK.
Otttee in Braearbaugh & Co.'s Building
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VOL. IVIII- SO. 33.
TIONESTA, PA., WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1885.
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3
LUCKY DAYS.
When May with applo blossoms
Her lovlngcup is brewing,
With beams find dews and winds that get
The honey from the violet,
With hopes on which the heart is sot,
Oh, then's the timo for wooing,
For wooing, and for suing,
Dear lad, the time for wooing I
When August calls tbo locust
To sound the year's undoing,
And, like some nltnr di-essod of old
In drapery of doth of gold,
High pastures thick with broom unfold,
Oh, t lion's the time for wooing,
For wooing, and for suing.
Dear lad, tho timo for wooing I
When brown October pauses,
The ripened woodland viewing,
And all the sunny forests spread
Thoir fallen leave, as heart's blood red,
A carpet fit for brides to tread,
Ob. then's tho tims for wooing,
For wooing, and for suing,
Dear lad, the time for wooingl
Oh, listen, happy lovor,
Your happy fate pursuing:
Whon fields aro groon, when woods are sere,
Whon storms ero white, whon stars are clear,
On each sweet day of each sweet year,
Oh, then's the time for wooing,
For wooing, and for suing,
Dear lad, the timo for wooingl
Harriet I'rescott Spofford, in Bazar.
AUNT MITT ABUTS THINGS.
Tho orango glow of tho March twi
light threw tho Icalloss copses into strong
relief ; tho little brook had burst its thick
crust of ico, and sang merrily under tho
velvet fringes of tho pussy-willows, und
up from tho woods thero came an inde
scribable odor of aping. A red flag
rolled up and tied around its stick by a
hemp string, lay just inside tho door
yard, when Airs. tirigson camo !n with
the last pail of water that she should
ever draw from tho old well. She
sighed as she filled the squat copper
kcttlo and hung it over the lire.
"Tho uuction sale is to be to-raorrow,"
said she, "and I never was bo glad of
anything in all my born days. Sech a
time as l're had clcanin' up and scrub
bin' down and scourin' aud polishia'!
There ain't a bone in my body but
aches."
"It's all timo and trouble thrown
away," sepulchrally observed Miss
Kctchum, who had dropped in on her
way from tho store; "the old traps
won't sell for sixpence apiece you see
if they do."
"Hut tho things ain't no uso to mo,"
said Mrs. Grigson, "and I need a little
money so awful bad 1 As for tho poor
luck I've had, right straight through,
there ain't no calculatin' it. Kf I was to
tell you, Martha Kctchum, you wouldn't
believe it. Even down to my last gold
dollar!"
"Eh?" said Miss Ketchum. Being of i
a melancholy turn, sho liked to hear sad
recitals, although personally her sytnpa- ,
tnies were enlisted on tbo W idow u rig
son's sido.
"Why, it was last week," said Mrs.
Grigson, in tho level," complaining tone
that always reminded you of tho little
brook down in tho hollow, "brother i
Lyman left his little Brazil monkey here I
overnight, lie was a-calculatin' to sell it
to Mrs. Gartncy's little boy, John Henry.
And ef you'll believe me, the mis'able
critter swallcred tho gold dollar I'd left
on my bureau to pay tbo meat poddlar
with, and dropped my silver specs down
the well."
"La!" said Miss Ketchum.
. "I seen him champin' it between his
jaws," said Mrs. Grigson, "and shake
and squeeze him as I would, I couldn't
get it out of him 1"
"Well, I never didl" remarked the
guest.
"It did seem as ef that was tho last
straw that broke the camel's back,"
sighed Mrs. Grigson. "Brother Lyman
he was dreadful consarned about it, but
he couldn't do nothin' for me. Hcof
fejed to kill tho monkey, but I k no wed
how disappointed John Henry Gartney
would bo, and, arter all, tho critter had
only acted uccordin' to its natur and
they was to pay brother Lyman a
dollar and a half for him. As for tho
specs, brother Lyman fibhed 'cm up with
a loDg pole with a crooked pin hitched
ou to the end on't. The glasses was
broke, but tho frames is good yet. I'm
calkilatin' to get 'em mended when "
"Wonder how much tho feutherbed
'11 go for!" said Miss Ketchum, break
ing in on the monotonous refrain.
"There ain't no tellin'." said Mrs
Grigson. "They're dreadful old. Auut
Mittable she'd kep' house for forty year,
and never had nothin' new. I don't
a' pose an auction sale will pay, but what
else could I do with all the old duds?
'Squire Daggett wants possession of tho
place at once, and
"Ain't gwine to sell theso 'ere house
plants, be ye?" said Miss Ketcuum, nod
ding toward a green-painted stand in the
corner.
"Brother Lyman thought they might
fetch a few cents, said Mrs. Grigson.
"And tho stand ought to be worth a
quarter of a dollar. It had a new coat
of paint a year ago. 1 give one J'rusa
lem cherry-tree to Abigail Burton for
helpin' me to clean out the old cup
boards. She's been dreadful neighborly,
and sho wouldn't take a peuny for what
she did."
"More fool she," curtly observed Mi9S
Ketchum. "I'd like that thar monthly
rose with the striped blooms on it."
"It is pretty," said Mrs. Grigson, ig
noring tho broad hint. "And I guess
it 'ill sell cheap. I'd like some friend to
hev it, for tho slip it growed from was
give me by Grigson tho very first year
we were married."
And as she was not invited to stay to
tej. Miss Ketchum at last went away,
leaving Mrs. Grigson sitting sorrowfully
before the fire of discarded barrel staves,
ruinous packing boxes, ancient chair legs
and wooden stools which had absolutely
refused to bo made capablo of further
service. "Aunt Mittable" which name
was a pervision of the good old New Eng
land prrcnomen Mehitablc had been all
tie mother she had known, and it seemed
lonesome enough to bo Kitting there in
the empty houso with Aunt Mittable
tucked away in a corner of tho frozen
church-yard. Her husband was dead,
and her thrco little children were strug
gling up in the world as best they could.
She had had a position ns janitress in a
public school, but she had lost it when
sho came to Mullein Farm to nurso Aunt
Mittable in her last illness; nnd now sho
scarcely knew which way to turn.
Brother Lyman, her only living relative,
was poorer than herself a good-hearted,
empty-pocketed man. who occupied
some position on a sailing vessel which
which plied between Boston and the
Azores islands. Thero was ft mortgage
on tho nlace which had swallowed up
all aspirations in tho direction of selling
it, and Mrs. Grigson faintly hoped that
tho auction sale might help to pay the
expenses of her old aunt's burial. Other
wise sho did not, to uso her own expres
sion, "see her way clear."
Mrs. Grigson wns not a sentimentalist.
A janitress in a public school building,
with forefinger roughened by tho coars
est necdlo-work, and mind narrowed
down by the daily tread-mill of tho most
groveling cares, has not much timo for
that sort of indulgence; but as she sat
thero, drinking an infusion of tho weak
est tea, and watching tho yellow March
moonlight lay tho perfect pattern of tho
uncurtained window on the carpetlcss
floor, while tho barrel staves smouldered
into carmine-tinted ashes, sho could but
remember the days when she had hoped
for such a dilTcrcnt life.
"I was a gal then," thought Mrs.
Grigson. "It didn't seem its if thero
was anything impossible. Well, well, I
s'poso most folks are disapp'intcd jest as
bad as I bo, et they live long enough."
And then tho poor widow went to bed
to keep warm: and all night-long tho
yellow moonlight flooded tho ' solitary
room where Aunt Mittublo had died,
and a solitary cricket sang on the hcarth
stono where the red ashes had long since
faded into whito dust.
Tho morrow dawned wild, bright nnd
windy, as March mornings often come
rushing over the bleak Connecticut hill
crosta. The auctioneer arrived in a one
horse buggy from the village; the neigh
bors assembled from all points of the
compass. For in Feltvillo Four Corners
people entertained thesame sentiment
toward an auction sale is New Yorkers
feel toward a private view of tho Acad
emy of Desigu, or a flower show at tho
Madison Square Garden. Miss Ketchum
was thoro in her best dyed shawl, and the
bonnet which the irreverent vouth of the
neighborhood had christened "Old Ply
mouth Hock," from the fossilized ap
pearance of its feathers; Squire Daggett
drove down in his family carry-all
with the six Misses Daggett. The par
son aud tho parson's wife were there,
punching pillows and inspecting bolsters,
aud counting cups and saucers. A man
who was vaguely reported to be an emis
sary from an old curiosity shop in the
city was prowling about with a memoran-dum-book
under his arm. Everybody
was there, even down to the villago fool,
who had been allowed to come with his
grandmother, under solemn promise of
not speaking a word the whole time."
In her special corner Abigail Barton was
whispering to a knot of eager women
with much excited gesticulation, and
close by the high wooden mantel sat poor
Mrs. Grigson in her best gown, trembling
a little, sho scarcely knew why.
"Aunt Mittable was always partial to
auction veudoos," said she to herself.
"It does seem as ef she'd ought to be
here."
Aud sho thought of the lonely grave
under last year's weedy mullein stalks in
tho neglected corner of tho church-yard,
and si ''lied.
"Illl set a rose o' Sharon there as soon
as tbo spring fairly opens," mused she.
"Aunt Mittable always liked flowers."
And the crowd around Abigail Barton
increased, and a sort of intangible thrill
went through the rooms like an electric
current.
"Is anything wrong?" Mrs. Grigson
asked, nervously, "llev they heard any
news?"
"I seen it myself," she could hear Abi
gail saying: "I've got it to hum in my
pockctbook. I've always heard that sho
was queer, nnd I (shouldn't wonder if
that was tho way she'd hoarded up."
Mrs. GriL'son rose to join the group;
but just then tho auctioneer's voice
drowned all c!so in its high, sing song
drone: "Now, then, ladies and geutle
men, if you please," and the sale began
in good earnest.
Tho breadths of well-worn rag carpet
brought a pitiful sum, but the four hair
cloth "cheers" ic tho best parlor, nnd a
certain uncompromising sofa of the same
slippery material, realized twenty dollars,
and tho wooden clock was bid up to six
dollars and a half by Squire Daggett him
self. "lie can't know that tho machinery's
clear worn out, and it hain't struck in
six months," said Sirs. Grigson. "I
don't know but it's my duty to tell him."
"Hold vour tounue, Naomi," whis
pered brother Lyman, who, with his
hands iu his pockets, was flattened up
agtinjt the wall. "1 jruessall the neigh
bors hereabouts know as much about
Aunt Mittable's clock as you do."
"Eight dollars for the old feather
bed 1 Folks must be crazy 1" cuid Mrs.
Grigson. "And a dollar apiece for them
worn-out bed-quilts! Is tho world a
eomin' to an end f"
But when they came to the stand of
house plants, Mrs. Grigsou's amazement
reached its culminating poiut. The
striped monthly toko brought a dollar:
a stumpy old lemon bush iu a irreeu tub.
which had never been suspected of the
faintest inclination to bloom, ran up to
five; a myrtle-tree ascended the scale,
and was linally knocked down at ten and
a half; an oleander was bid up to three,
half a dozen spindling fish-geraniums va
ried from fifty cents to a dollar each,
and ten callas and a sickly carnation
were bought by Miss Dora Daggett at
seventy-five cents each; nnd the surplus
age of pallid primroses and cactus mon
strosities was lumped at a dollar to Mr.
Tows, whoso door-yard was laid out in
carrots and parsnips, nnd who did not
know a pokeberry bush from a holly
bush.
"Bo folns mad?" said breathless Mrs.
Grigson.
The proceeds of the flower stand
amounted to eighteen dollars, nnd tho
purchasers eagerly seized thoir property
and carried it olT, a if unwilling to let
it out of their sight, and tho sale went
briskly on.
"Well, Naomi," said brother Lyman,
chuckling, when the "vendoo" was over,
"how much did ye expeck to git for
Aunt Mittable's things?"
"I did hope for fifty dollars, all told,"
said Mrs. Grigson. "But Miss Kctchum
said I was a fool for calkilatin' on any
sech amount."
"What d'ye say to two hundred!"
said brother Lyman, gleefully.
"What!" shrieked Mrs. Grigson. "Ly
man, you're a-pokin' fun ot me."
"No, I ain't," cheerfully spoke up
brother Lyman. "It's two hundred and
fifteen dollars and eighty-eight cents,
that's what it is! Oh, ef ye'd only
seen the women-folks a-carryin' out Aunt
Mittable's house-plants nugged up close
to 'em, like they was little babies!"
Brother Lyman stopped to shake all
over with a species of inaudible laughter
which convulsed hitu as if he were a
mold of jelly.
"Two hundred and fifteen dollars!"
gasped Mrs. Grigson. "It's like a
dream."
The auctioneer counted out the bills
into the good woman's toil-hardened
hands.
"I congratulate you, ma'am," said he.
"Aro you sure thero ain't no mistake?"
said Mrs. Grigson.
Quite sure, ma'am."
"Well, 1 don't nohow understand it."
said tho widow, slowly shaking her
head. "P'r'aps, Mr. Pulficld, you can
explain it to me?"
The auctioneer looked around, winked
one eye solemnly, and twirled his quill
pen backward and forward.
"No one here?" said he.
"Not a soul," declared brother Ly
man. "Everybody gone?"
"Yes, everybody."
"Then look here," said tho auction
eer. "I couldn't help catchin' a word
here and there; and it wan't uo business
of mine to interfere."
"I don't understand," said Mrs. Grig
son, more bewildered than ever.
"Don't ye, now? Well, less see if I
can't make it clear t' ye," said Mr. Pul
field. "Abigail Barton she was a-whis-perin'
to Deacou Plimpton's widow
how't sho found a little gold dollar bur
ied in tho earth of a flower-pot that held
a J'rusalem cherry-tree you give her;
nnd it went from one to another like
wild-fire. Oh, yes, Mrs. Grigson, your
aunt Mittable was a good woman, a very
good woman, but awful queer. And
now every man, woman and child will
be rippin' open feather-beds, diggin' up
house-plants, and pokin' into cheer seats
and bureau drawers for hidden treasure.
See?"
"You don't s'pose" cried Mrs. Grig
son. "Yes, I do s'pose," said tho auction
eer. "If folks will be fools, there ain't
no way of preventin' 'era as ever I
kuowed of. And I wish 'em good luck
fiudin' what yoi? auut Mittiblo has hid
there."
"Well, I declare!" said Mrs. Grigson.
"Your things hcv sold very well,
ma'am," said Mr. Pulfield, buttoning up
his coat. "1 don't know when we've
had such a successful auction sale in the
neighborhood."
Mrs. Grigson went back to the city feel
ing richer than any capitalist. Aud not
until tho train was running into the New
Haven depot did she start wildly from
her seat in the corner of the car. "It
was the monkey," sho said, speaking
aloud in the sudden enlightment of her
soul "brother Lyman's monkey ! And
there was me, poor, simple critter, a
repinin' again the mischief he had done!"
Tho other passengers stared dubiously
at her, wondering if they had come ittl
the way from Feltvillo Four Corners
with a crazy woman. An old man took
up a basket and shawl-strap and went to
the other end of tho car.
But they need not have been alarmed.
Mrs. Grigson was not crazy. llarper't
JJawr.
Medical Virtues tf Dogs' Tonsnes.
M. lie i mack having recently called at
tention to the mention, in the recently
discovered inscriptions at the Temple of
Esculapius, in Epidaurus, of children
having been cured of blindness at that
sanctuary by having their eyes licked by
the sacred dogs. M. Henri Gaidoz states
that ho has discovered tho faith and
practices of the dog-cure anions several
peoples and in a number of religions.
The Hindoos believe that the English
kill dogs to obtain possession of a sov
ereign lemedy which is found in their
tongues. In a Venetian legend, St. Koch
was cured by a balsam distilled from the
touguo of his dog. Dogs' tongues are
considered to have medicul virtue by
niiiny people iu Portugal, France and
Scotland. In Bohemia they let dogs lick
tho faces of new-born children for "good
luck." A belief in the existence of di
vinities issuing from dogs, whose ollicc
it was to lick the bruises of the wounded,
ouco prevailed iu Armen a. In u sceue
in one of Aristophanes' plays Plutus ie
covers his sight in the Temple of Escula
pius after beinj; licked bv two eerpenit.
which the god bent tor Hint purpose iu
answer to his prayer.
f
AFTER PRAIRIE CHICKENS.
HOW THE WILD BIRDS ARE HUNTED
IN ILLINOIS.
Ihe llnntern' Keen-Srenteil Itog-e A
Ntoriamnn'n Outfit How the
Hlrdv are Found and Killed.
A Chicngo letter says that a gluncc,
almost any day, into tho baggage cars
of tho trains leaving tho city for the
West and South will reveal nil unusual
sight. In addition to tho piles of trunks,
empty milk cans, and tho usual promis
cuous heaps of all kinds of luggage,
anywhere from six to two dozen dogs of
various sizes and colors may bo seen se
curely chained in different parts of the
tar. They may bo chained singty, in
pairs, and sometimes iu double pairs;
but the different groups are kept care
fully apart nnd out of each other's reach.
The reason is that they are apt to be bel
ligerent an 3 arc extremely valuable, aud
a "scrapping match" of even short du
ration might result in the destruction of
serious damage of several hundred dol
lars' worth of property of a kind not
easily replaced, and tho delay of a hunt
ing trip just begun. Tho secret is out.
They are bunting dogs and their owners
are starting out for the corn fields and
grain stubbles in search of prairie chick
ens. Contrary to what one would natu
rally expect, tho dogs are far from being
plump and sleek after the manner of
well fed and comfortably housed pets.
In fact, they are quite the revero, and,
as a rule, are lean and gaunt, although
clean and sound of limb. They
are kept thin on purpose, that
they may worK easily aud without
fatigue, and are trained with all the care
bestowed upon a champion in the ring.
Few of them are valued at less than
150, and a check for ten times that
amount would not buy a number in the
car. Born with the "instincts of the
hunting dog of pure pedigree, they have
been as carefully trained as children, nnd
at a largo expense, by their owners or by
professional trainers, who make a hand
some living at tho business. The ordi
nary pup is worth from $50 to $250, ac
cording to the size, color, disposition
and pedigree, and his training costs from
$50 to $100. If well treated and intelli
gently handled the trained dog is a mir
acle of docility and intelligence, and the
hunter's bag 'would bo woefully small
without his aid.
In the smoking-car will be found the
hunters themselves. While their cos
tumes are much alike, the similarity ends
with their clothes and outfits. A "dozen
or more conditions of , life and business
interests are represented by the group.
The chicken -shooting in Iowa, Minnesota
and the West generally is poor this year,
and the hunters as a rule have obtained
most of their sport in Illinois and In
diana. Theso men aro bound for the
central and southern parts of Illinois,
and tho rich com and grain fields of the
Prairie State. The outlitof each is quite
similar, varying only in quality and com
pleteness. It may be briefly enumerated
as follows: A dog or two, a gun, a
"shell-box" filled with loaded car
tridges, rubber or leather hip-boots, a
pair of lighter shoes or boots, stout
breeches, hunting-coat nnd cap, rub
ber coat and game-bag. Tho
coat is tho most remarkable part of
the costume. It resombles the Irish
man's cannon, which was built around a
big hole, in that it appears to be con
structed around innumerable pockets. It
is made of stout canvas, tho color of
dried reeds or an oat stubble. The hip
boots are for wse in tho morning when
the dew lies heavy on the fields and for
wading in the marshy bits. In the after
noon in dry weather the lighter shoes or
boots may be used. Iu tho pockets of
the coat are a short rawhide whip and a
silver whistle, articles of whose uso the
dog is well aware. The prairie chicken
is an accommodating bird, and may be
hunted in pleasant weather; and this
fact may partially acccount for the ar
dor with which it is pursued. Chicken
shooting, however, is a fascinating sport
in itself, tho game bsing wary, strong of
wing, and exceedingly palatable. Day
light finds tho hunters for they gener
ally, like their dogs, hunt iu pairs
leaving the farm-house where they have
passed the night. At the word of com
mand tho dogs leap into the wagon, and
a few moments' drive brings the hunters
to a "likely field." The hunters alight,
slip a cartritdge into each barrel of their
guns, and turn into the field. The dogs
are eager for the sport to begin, and at
tho words "Hunt 'era up," and a wave
of the hand, spring out iuto the stubble
at full speed, one hunter and one dog to
each sido of the field. Tho docs work
from tho edge of the field to the centre,
cross, keep on to the outer edge, return,
aud cross again, covering the field iu
ever-varying and irregular circles. Now
and then one pauses and snuffs the
wind blowing down tho field,
or turns quickly aside from his
course and follows up for a few
yards an old scent in tho hope of finding
it grow stronger. Suddenly one of them
running at full speed in long, elastic
bouuds, with ear and tail waving as he
leans, falls, flat as if paralyzed and re
mains motionless as a stone. Quick as
is the movement, the other dog has also
crouched and is pointing at the first
dog, "backing him up with implicit
confidence, though the scent may not
have reached his keen nostrils. Then
the sagacious animals turn their heads
aud look back at their masters with in
lelligeut eyes, as if he says, "Hurry up;
here they are!" 'I ho men move rapidly
aud noiselessly up to the first dog. The
intelligent animal, who has not moved a
muscle, except to turn his head and look
back, .rises slowly und crouchingly to
his feet, and with nose extended steals
slowly forward, intelligence and wary
caution expressed in every movement ol
his eloquent body. His feet a'e lifted
iiml put down like niiwsof velvet, and
his progress is noiseless and us Uuuas
tho needle to the polo. The hunter
follow carefully close benind, guns
cocked and ready for use.
Dowc goes tho dog as though shot
dead, and this time ho does not dare to
look back, the tremor of his body giving
warning that he can go no further with
out walking into the covey. Tho men
take one, two stops whiz, whirr three
birds rise, two to the left, one to
thn right 1 Banr! bang! bang!
The man on the right kills his bird, tho
man on tho left kills with tho first
barrel and misses with his second barrel.
Neither hunters nor dog stir a step. Tho
left-hand man breaks his gun, draws out
the discharged shells and slips fresh ones
in their places. While he is loading, up
rises a fourth chicken, this time to the
left. The right-hand man knocks it over,
and at tho discharge of his gun the
chickens riso on all sides. The left-hand
man gets in both barrels and knocks
down two birds. They reload, and the
dog is told to "hunt 'em up." If tho
birds ore plenty and the stubbles in good
condition, the chances are that a covey
will bo found in each stubble-field.
Hunters often "draw a blank," as they
term it, and sometimes two coveys are
found in one field. The coveys vary
widely in size; sometimes as many as
thirty or forty birds are found togelhet
and sometimes an old cock is found
alone with a field all to himself. The
chickens in different coveys also behave
differently. At times they will get up
singly, and in such a case two shooters
will get nearly the wholo covey. At
other times the wholo covey will rise to
gether, and it needs quick nnd skillful
shooting to make each of the four barrel
count. If tho country nnd flight of the
birds allow, it Js sometimes possiblo t
"mark a covey" nnd follow them from
field to field, unless they fly into the corn,
when pursuit is hopeless.
A Great Irrigntinir Canal.
Thero is now in progress in Merced
county, California, a great irrigating
canal. Merced, the capital of the
county, lies in the heart of tho .San
Joaquin valley, which has been for some
years the chief wheat-producing section
of the State. Tho valley extends from
the Sierra Ncvadas on the east to the
skirt of the coast range on the west, its
greatest width being ninety miles, aud
its length from north to south about
forty miles. Tho town of Merced is
expected to make enormous strides when
the canal is completed. The first sight
of the ditch suggests tho earthworks or
a fort, the grotiud being ridged up from
six to eight feet. There are 300 men at
work on the canal. Tho undertaking
was begun on March 14, 1883, and has
been carried on continuously ever since.
Tho canal will run across the country
from the Merced river just above Snel
ling to Plainsburgh, ten miles below the
city of Merced, ou tho Southern Pacific
railroad. Tho slope during this whole
distance is n gradual one, and the
canal is carried well up on a slight ele
vation, so that without artificial means
the water will flow over the wide extent
of level valley land which is to be irri
gated. The entire length of the canal
will be thirty-five miles, of which sixteen
miles aro now completed, In the
portion which has been built there is one
tunnel a trifle over a mile long, and an
other of sixteen hundred feet is now be
ing excavated. The general grade of
the canal is one foot to the mile. Among
tho hands employed are 150 Chinese.
They receive $1 a day and board them
selves, while the whito men receive $20
a month and their board. The Chinese
live in a camp by themselves, aud run
their commissariat. The company which
has charge of the enterprise has expended
already nearly $700, 00n, aod it is roughly
estimated that the entire cost of tho
work will be double that sum. Land on
tho banks of the canal, which was previ
ously valued at $2.50 per acre, has now
advanced to $8 per acre, and the owners
claim that it is worth $35 per acre. Ciose
to the town of Merced, however, land
can not be bought for less than $150 per
acre. Chicago 2'imes.
An Intoxicating Palm.
The Missionary llrrald gives an account
of au inland tour lately mado by the
l!ev. Dr. Hichards, a missionary of tho
American Board, stationed at Inham
bane, on tho cast coast of Africa, from
which the following in relation to the
Amakwakwo tribo was taken:
"They have uo gardens at all. They
nro so frequently robbed Ly I'mzila's
impis (soldiers) that they have become
quite discouraged. Another reason is
that tho native fruit is capable of sus
taining life, and is abundant; and, again,
the palm wine flows freely all over the
country. This palm-tree is lour or five
feet high, seldom ten feet. It manifests
little life, save at the top, where a few
leaves appear, looking like a flower pot
ou a stump. These leaves are all cut off.
and from tho cut each tree yields daily
about a pint of delicious juice, but
highly intoxicating when allowed to
stand for a few hours. There seems to
be uo limit t i these trees, and wo were
surrounded on every hand by drunken
men and women. Even lit t to children
were staggering about us ingloriously as
their parents. It was difficult to avoid
trouble with these people, yet our guns
were respected, and a ball fired care
lessly at a near tree would produce quiet
for half an hour. They were coar.-e,
rough, drunken fellows, often plunder
ing, often plundered, and accustomed to
piancls ami lights not altogether blood
less. One could scarce expect to find
pleasure in passing umciig them."
Little Johnny, ou being asked by hit
school teacher if he knew what was meant
by "at par," replied (hat "Ma was a!
wavs at Pa when ho camo homo late."
re
And now Chicngo claims tliut pork u
a bruin lood, being a prodiic of t lions
amis of pens.' .iic'l Cili.ru.
I'LL KNOW TUBE JIIEtlE.
Ci. D. Trentice siid: "No living poem can
surpass In beauty the following linos from
the muse of Amelia."
Pale star that, with thy soft, sad light,
Comes out upon my bridal eve,
I have a song to sing to-night,
Before thou takost thy mournful leave.
Since then so softly time hath stirr'd
That months have almost seemed like
hours,
And I am like a little bird
That slept too long among the flowers,
And, waking, aits with waveloss wing,
Soft singing 'mid the similes of even;
But, oh! with sadder heart I i-lng
I sing of ono who dwells in heaven.
Tho winds aro soft, the rloudi aro few,
And tenderest thought my heart beguiles,
As, floating up through mist and dew,
Tho pale young moon comes out In
smiles;
And to the green, resounding shore
In silvery trojps the ripples crowd,
Till all the ocean, dimpled o'er,
Lifts up its voice and laughs aloud;
And star on star, all soft and calm,
Floats up yon arch, serenely blue;
And, lost to earth, and steeped in balm,
My spirit floated in ether, too.
Loved one! though lost to human sight,
I feel thy spirit lingering near;
And softly as I feel tho liht
That trembles through the atmosphere,
As in some temple's holy shade."!,
Though muto the hymn and hushed the
prayer,
A solemn awe the soul pervades,
Which tells that worship has boon thera;
A breath of Incense, left alone,
Where many a censer swun; around;
Which thrills the wanderer like to one
Who treads on consecrated ground.
I know thy soul, from worlds of bliss,
Yet stops a while to dwell with 1110.
Hath caught the prayer I brjutlied in this,
That I at last might dwjll with thoe;
I hear a murmur from the sens
That thrills me like thy spirit's sighs;
I hear a voice on every breeze
That makes to mine its low replies
A voice all low and sweet like thine;
It givos an answer to my prayer,
And brings my soul from heaven a sign
That I will know and meet thej there,
I'll know thee there by that sweet face
Round which a tender halo plays,
Still touched with that expressive grace
That made thee lovely all thy days,
By that sweet smile that o'er it shed
A beauty like the light of even,
Whose soft expression never fl:d,
Even when its soul hnd fled to heaven;
I'll know thee by the starry crown
That glitters in thy raven hair;
Oh! by these blessed sights alone
I'll know thee there, I'll know thee there.
For ah! thine eye, within whose sphere
The sweetest youth aud beauty met,
That swam in love and softness hero,
Must swim iu love and softness yet.
For ah! its dark and liquid bsaras,
Though saddened by a thousand sighs,
Were holier than the light that streams
Down from the gates of Paradiso
Were bright and radiant like the morn,
Yet soft and dewy as tho eve,
Too sad for eyes where smiles are born,
Too young for eyes to learn to grieve.
I wonder if this cold, sweet breeze
Hath touched thy lips and fanned thy
brow,
For all thy spirit hears and sees
riecalls thee to my memory now;
For every hour we breathed apart
Will but increase, if that can be,
The love that fills this lonely heart,
Already filled so full of ttiee.
Yet many a tear tuosa eyes must weep,
Aud many a sin must be forgiven,
Ere these pale lips shall sink to sleep,
And you and I shall meet in heavon!
HUMOR OF THE DAY.
The golden mean The miser.
A dead beat. The mullled drum.
Inquirer asks: What must I do to
make my hands soft? Do nothing. fits
ton Courier.
An exchange says that there is a mis
sion in this lifo lor dudes. We hope it
is a foreign mission. Darlington Frt
lvre.
An Iowa veteran draws a peusion be
cause ten years ago his wife struck liiut
with a broomstick. IluiUii'jIoiL Fru
1'rens.
"Attend your church." the parson cries;
To church each fuir one goes;
The old go there to close their eyes,
The young to ye their clothes.
Uooilitll's Sun.
"You are bound to read, I see," said
Mrs. S. to her husband, who, with novel
in hand, was busy among its pages. "So
is this book," ho replied, without look
ing up, and his talkative wifo collapsed.
McicliaiU- Traveler.
HUB COMl'l.lED WITH HIS KKgi LST.
"Pray call me a pretty name," said ho
Ono night to his darling Currie,
The girl ho had courted so long that she
Thought he never meant to marry.
I'p from his boiom she raised her head,
Aud her cheeks grew red as ro--s,
"1 1 lii i b 1 will call you 'mail,'" slw Kaid,
'For they ay that 'uiun proK)vi.' "
li tlitit I 'wiriir.
"If you should allow uio fourteen dol
lars er week on which to run the house,"
she said, as they sat together in tho twi
light, "and I saved three dollars per
week out of that, what would you say?'
"Say? Why, I'd say you ought to run
it ou 'leveu," ho growled, as ho lighted
tho gas. Ihtroit b'ree l'res.
Oli! for a girl with bright bluueyea,
A girl that knowa how lo hue.
A girl that rattimvkegiMid s iu ih pios
And is sweet us the ungels a'oovu.
Oh for a k'.irl that will not flirt,
A nullum kin I und Ii uo:
A w He I" s"W l-utt. uis on your sliii t,
li.'U sIid's i;ol!iiiij els- lo do.
Z ynA U.iion.