B. F. SCIIWEIER, TEE COSSTITUTIOS-TK TUTIOir-AJrD THE HIFOBGEMENT OF THE LAWS. Editor ami Pi-opriefor. VOL. XXXI. MIFFLIXIWN, JUNIATA COUNTY, PENNA., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1S77. NO. 3G. THE EVEXEtQ- TIME. Together we walked in the eveuiug time. Above na the sky spread golden and clear, Aud be bent his head and looked in my eye. As if he held me of all mo dear. O, it wan sweet in the evening time! And our pathway went through fields of wheat. Narrow the path and rough the way. Bat he was near and the birds sang true. And the stars came oat in the twilight gray. O, it was sweet in the evening time ! Softly he spoke of the days long past, Softly of blessed days to be ; Close to his arm and closer I press'd The corn field path was Eden to me. O, it was sweet in the evening tune ! Grayer the light and grayer still. The rooks flitted home throngh the purple shade. The nightingales saug where the thorns stood high. As I walked with him in the woodland glade. O, it was sweet in the evening time t Aud the latest gleams of daylight died, My hand in his unfolded lay ; We swept the dew from the wheat as we paved, for narrower, narrower wound the way. O, it was sweet in the evening time ! Us looked in the depth of my eyes aud said, S rrow and gladness will come for us. sweet ; But together we'll walk through the fields of life Close as we walked through the field of wheat. Saved by Lightning. My uauie is Hunt. Yes, sir; Anthony Hunt. I am a settler and drover ou this Western prairie. Wilds? Yes, sir, It's little else than wilds now, but you should have seen it when I aud my wile first moved up here. There was not a house within sight for many miles. Even now we have not many neighbors but those we have are downright good cues. To appreciate your neighbors a you ought, sir, you must live In these lonely places, so far removed from the haunts of man. What I am about to tell happened ten years ago. 1 was going to the distant town or settlement, to sell some fifty head of cattle fine creatures, sir, as ever you saw. The journey was a more rare event with ine than it is now; and my wife had always plenty of commis sions p charge me with in the shape of dry goods aud groceries aud such like things. Our youngest child was a sweet little gentle thing who had been named after her aunt Dorothy. We called the child Dolly. This time my commission in cluded one tor her a doll. She had never had a real doll; that is, a bought one ; only the rag bundles her mother had made for her. For some days be fore my departure the child could talk of nothing else or we, either, for the matter of that for she was a great pet, the darling of us all. It was to be a big, big doll, with golden hair and blue eyes. I shall never forget the child's worJs the morning I was starting, as she ran after me to the gate, or the pretty picture she made. There are some children sweeter and prettier than others, sir, as you can have but noticed, and Dolly was one. "A very great big doll, please daddy," she called out after me, "and please bring It very soon." 1 turned to nod ayes to her as she stood in her clean whitey-brown pinafore, against the gate, her nut-brown hair falling in curls about her neck, and the Iitit breeze stirring them. 'A brave doll," I answered, "for my lilttle one almost as big as Dolly." Nobody would believe, I dare say, how full my thoughts were of that promised doll, as I rode along, or what a nice one I meant to buy. It was not often 1 spent money in w bat my good, thrifty wife would have called waste ; but Dolly was Dolly, and I meant to do it now. The cattle sold, I went about my pur chases, and soon had no end of parcels to be packed in the saddle-bags. Tea, sugar, rice, candles but I need not worry you, sir, with telling of them together with the calico for shirts aud night-gowns, and the delaine for the children's new frocks. Last of all I weut about the doll aud found a beauty. It was not as big as Dolly, or half as big; but it had flaxen curls and sky-blue eyes; and by dint of pulling a wire you could open aud shut the eyes at will. "Do it up carefully," I said to the store-keeper. "My little daughter would cry sadly if any harm came to it." The day was pretty well ended before all my work was done, and just for a moment or two I hesitated whether I should not stay iu the town aud start for home in the morning. It would have been the more prudent course. But I thought of poor Dolly's anxiety to get her treasure, and of my own hap piness in watching the rarture in her delighted eyes. So with my parcels packed in the best way they could be, I mounted my horse and started. It was as good and steady a horse as you ever rode, sir; but night began to set in before I was well a mile away from the town ; it seemed as if it were going to be an ugly night, too. Again the thought struck me should I turn back and wait till inorulng? I had the price of the cattle, you see, sir, in my breast pocket; and robberies, aye, and murders also, were not quite unknown things on the prairie. But I had my brace of pistol3 with me, and I decided to press onwards. The night came on as dark as pitch, and part of the way my road would be pitch dark besides. But on that score I had no fear; I knew the road well, every inch of it, though I could not ride so fast as I should have done in the light. I was about six miles from home, I suppose, and I knew the time must be close upon midnight, when the storm which had been brewing broke. The thunder roared, the rain fell in torrents ; the best I could do was to press onward in it. All at once, as I rode on, a cry star tled me; a faint wailing sound, like the cry of a child. Reining up, I sat still, and listened. Had I been mistaken? Xo, there it was again, but In what di rection I could not telL I could'nt see a thing. It was as I have said, as dark as pitch. Getting off my horse, I felt about, butoould find nothing. And while I was seeking the cry come again the faint moan of a child in pain. Then I began to wonder. I am not su perstitious, but I asked myself how it was possible that a child could be out on the prairie at such an hour and on such anight. Xo;areal child It could not be. Upon that, came another thought one less welcome. Was it a trap to hin der me on my way and ensnare me? There might be midnight robbers who would easily bear of my almost certain ride home that night and of the money 1 should have about me. I don't think, sir, I am more timid than other people; not as much so, per haps, as some; but 1 onfess the idea made me uneasy. My best plan was to ride on as fast as 1 could, and get out of the mystery into safe quarters. Just here was the darkest bit of road in all the route. Mounting my horse, I was about to urge him on, when the cry came again. It did sound like a child's; the plaintive waif of a child nearly ex hausted. "God guide me !" I said, undecided what to do. And as I sat another mo ment listening, I once more heard the cry, fainter and more faint. I threw myself off my horse with an exclama tion. "Be it a ghost or be it a robber, An thony Hunt Is not one to abandon a childjto die, without trying to save it." But how was I to save it? How fiud it? The more I searched about, the less could my bauds alight on anything, save the sloppy earth. The voice had quite ceased now, so I had no guide from that. While I stood trying to peer Into the darkness, my ears alert, a flood of sheet lightning suddenly illuminated the plain. At a it tie distance, just be yond a kind of ridge or gentle hill, 1 caught a glimpse of something white. It was dark again in a moment, but I made my way with unerring instinct. Sure enough, there lay a poor little child. Whether boy or girl I could not tell. It seenied to be three parts insen sible now, as I took it up, dripping with wet from the sloppy earth. "My poor little thing!" I said as I hushed it to me. "We'll go and find mammy. You are all 6afe now." And, in answer, the child just put out its feeble hand, moaned once, and nes tled close to me. With the child hushed to my breast, I rode on. Iu perfect silence soon showed me that it slept. And, sir, I thank God that he had let me save it, and I thought how grateful some poor mother would be! But I was full of wonder for all that, wondering what extraordinary fate had taken any young child to that solitary spot. Getting in sight of home I saw all the windows alight, Deborah had done it for me, I thought, to guide me home in safety through the darkness. But presently I knew that something must be the matter, for the very few neigh bors we had were collected there. My heart stood still with fear. I thought of some calamity to one or other of the children. I had saved a like one from perishing, but what might not have happened to my own ? Haruly daring to lift the latch, while my poor tired horse stood still and mute outside. I went slow ly in, the child In my arms covered with the flap of my long coat. My wife was weeping bit terly. "What's amiss?" 1 asked in a faint voice. And it seemed that a whole chorus of voices answered me. "Dolly's lost." Dolly lost! Just for a moment my heart turned sick. Then an instinct, like a ray of light and hope, seized upon me. Pulling the coat off the face of the child I held, I lifted the little sleeping thing to the light, and saw Dolly I Yes, sir. The child I had saved was no other than my own my little Dolly. And I knew that God's good angels had guided me to save her, and that the first flash of the summer lightning had shone just at the right moment to show me where she lay. It was. her white sunbonnet that had caught my eye. My darling it was, and none other that 1 had picked up on the drenched road. Dolly, anxious lor her doll, had wan dered out unseen to meet Ine in the af ternoon. For some hours she was not missed. It chanced that our two elder girls had gone over to our nearest neighbor's, and my wife, missing the child just afterward, took it for granted she was with them. The little one had gone on and ou, until night, and the storm overtook her, when she fell down utterly exhausted. I thanked Heaven aloud before them all, sir; as I said that none but God and his holy angeis had guided me to her. It's not much of a story to listen to, sir; I am aware of that. But I often think of It in the long nights, lying awake and I ask my self how I could bear to live on now had I run away from the poor little cry in the road, hardly louder than a squirrel's chirp, and left my child to die. Yes, sir, you are right; that's Dolly out yonder with hsr mother, picking fruit; the little trim figure In pink with just the same sort of white sun bonnet on her head that she wore that night ten years ago. She Is a girl that was worth saving sir, though I say it; and God knows that as long as my life lasts I shall be thankful that I came on home that night, instead of staying in the town. Condii Between Thomas A'Herket and the Kins:. Philip le Broi, a young nobleman who held a canonry at Bedford, had killed some one in a quarrel. He was brought before the court of the bishop of Lincoln, where he made his purga tion eccleiili-ojure that is to say, he paid the usual fees and perhaps a small line. The relatives of tue ueau man declared themselves satisfied, and Philip de Broi was acquitted. The Church aud the relatives might be satisfied; public justh-e was not satisfied. The sheriff of Bedfordshire declined to rec ognize the decision, and summoned the canon a second time. The canon in sulted the sheriff In open court and re fused to plead before him. The sheriff. referred the matter to the king. The king sent for Philip de Broi, and cross- questioned him in Becket's presence. It was not denied that he had killed a man. The king inquired what Bccket was prepared to do. Becket's answer, for the present and all similar cases, was that a clerk In orders accused of felony must be tried in the first instance in an ecclesiastical court, and punished according to ecclesiastical law. If the crime was found to be of a peculiarly dark kind, the accused niight be de prived of his orders, and if he again of fended, should lose his privilege. But for the offence for w hich he was de prived he was not to be agaiu tried or punished ; the deprivation itself was to suffice. The king, always moderate was unwilling to press the question to extremity. He condemned the judg ment of the bishop of Lincoln's court He insisted that the murderer should have a real trial. But he appointed a mixed commission of bishops and lay men to try him, the bishops having the preponderating voice. Philip de Broi pleaded that he had made his purgation in the regular manner, that he had made his peace with the family of the man he had killed, and that the matter was thus ended. He aologized for having in sulted the sheriff, and professed himself willing to make reasonable reparation. The sentence of the commission was that hisbenefieies should be sequestered for two years, and that if the sheriff in sisted iiKn it, he should lie flogged. So weak a judgement showed Henry the real value of Becket's theory. The criminal clerk was to be amenable to the law as soon as he had been degraded, not before,; aud it was perfectly plain that clerks never would be degraded. They might.coniit murder upon murder, rohliery upon robliery, and the iaw would be unable to touch them. It could not be. The king insisted that a sacred profession should not te used as a .screen for the protection of felony. He summoned the whole body of the bishops to meet him in council at West minster inOctolier. The council met. The archbishop was resolute. He replied for the other bishops in an absolute re fusal to make any concession. The Judges and the laity generally were grow ing excited. Had the clergy licen saints, the claims advanced by them would have been scarcely tolerable. Being what they were, such pretensions were ridiculous. Becket might sjieak in their name; he did not sjieak their real opinions. Arnulf, bishop of Lis- ieux, came over to use his influence with Reckot, but he found him inexor able. To risk the peace of the Church in so indefensible a quarrel seemed olstinate folly. The bishop of I.isieux and several of the English pre lates wrote privately to the sc to en treat him to interfere. Alexander had no liking for Becket. lie had known him long, and had no belief in the lately assumed airs of sanctity. Threatened as he was by the enqicror and the anti-Mpe, he had no disiositioii to quarrel with Henry, nor in the par ticiilar question at issue does he seem to have thought the archbishop in the right. On the spot he desjiatched a le gate, a monk named Philip of Aumone, to tell Becket that he must obey the laws of the realm, and submit to the king's pleasure. The king was at Woodstock. The archbishop, thus commanded, could not refuse to oliey. He repaired to the court. He gave his promise. He tin dertook, fruit Jhle tt sine malo inyenio, to submit to the laws o the land, whatever they might be found to be. But a vague engagement of th ikind was unsatis factory, and might afterwards lie evaded. The question of the immunities of the clergy had been publicly raised. The attention of the nation had been called to it. Once for all the position in which the clergy were to stand to the law of the land must be clearly and and finally laid down. The judges had been di rected to inquire into the customs which had been of use in England un der the king's grandfather, Henry I. A second council was called to meet at Clarendon, near Winchester, in the fid lowing January, when these customs, reduced to writing, would be placed in the arch hi shop's and bishop's hands, and they would he required to consent to them in detail. yiarteeuth Century. The ('Ear's Poor Relations. In an out-of-the-way place in St. Pe tersburg stands a gloomy-looking bull ing, large, but of a severe style of ar chiture, aud painted in sombre colors. This Is the Leuchtenberg palace, a name suggestive of a dark page in the history of the imperial family of Russsa. Some there are who remember the romantic story of the marriage of the Czar Nicho las's favorite daughter to a dashing young German officer. The Duke of Leuchteuberg was good-looking, but comparatively poor and obscure, and it is said that the wayward princess made the first advance, and even that the stern emperor consented to the marriage only to avoid scandal. At any rate, romance and royalty did not seem to agree well, and the union did not turn out well. The duchess, tired of her former idol, a gay and dashing, but at the same time scholarly and thoroughly honorable German, and began to form liaisons, the most notorious of which was with a Count Strogonoff. After a life of mortified seclusion and constant study the duke died, refusing to recog nize on his death-bed the last two child ren born to the princess. Immediately after his demise the latter was forced to marry Strogonoff, and was banished from Russia. She took up her abode in Paris where she died a few years ago. The children of this union have been somewhat under a cloud, and several matches proposed for the very accom plished daughter were broken off for some unexplainable reasons. The old est son the young Duke of Leuchten berg has now joined the army of the Danube, and may accomplish something in the field that will place a renewed lustre around his wronged father's name, and bridge the gulf that separ ated him and his sister from the re mainder of his family. Crows bare been known to live a hun dred years. - Old and New Paris. The Latin quarter Is fast disapjiear- ing. The wholesale pulling down of houses which has taken place to make way for new streets and boulevards has swept away nearly all our traditional land marks. The Fauliourg Saint Ger main has not escaied the hand otjtnnnl- isseur. Some say that the majority of the Paris Muuiial Council, acting on the advice of one of its members, M Xadaud, a large contractor, has made up its mind to equalize everything in the building world, destroying the cry Ing reproach to the money-grubbing house-owners in new Paris, who allow no more space for the five rooms en suite which compose our modern apart ments thau used formerly to lie re- rrved for one of the smaller saloons in the family mansions of the old fan bnurg. Baron Ilaussniann, who knew few scruples where his improvements were concerned, conceived the plan of the Boulevard Saint Germain. He com menced at both ends, meeting with very little resistance until he began to trench ou the family estates of those who, sulking under the Empire and absent, had still influence enough to preserve their property from the ruth' less pick-axe of the drnHtlissfur. Tables of coiuiMMisation were drawn up by the municipal authorities, a jury was formed, and arbitration settled every claim, until at last the Latin quarter was traversed by the new boulevard, Baron Haussmaun resting on his laurels and declining the onus of an attack on the privileges of the aueitnnt tuAdttse. The colleagues of M. Xadaud have, however, carried out the project. The machinery of the law has been set iu motion, lawyers clerks have been busy serving writs of ejectment at the houses of men whose ancestors would have considered that jKircliment was an ex cellent addition to the digestive organs of the unfortunate scribes. The Hotel de Luignes and other family mansions have been pulled down, and in time we shall find t lie ground on which they stood occupied by cafes and restaurants where the Anvergnat and the Savoyard will hold their wedding feasts and dance their Imnrrrr, that national jig which reminds one of the ticar on hot bricks. The next generation will know noth ing of old Paris, ami the descriptions they will find in hooks will lie hardly credited by those w ho find themselves surrounded by laces. The ground is being turned over, deep foundation are being dug, and the set-rets of the pal century unveiled as traivs of our i-ouleuioraiieoiis history are being hidden from view, living only iu the memory of the few. L'Abhaye, that sinister prison-house, formerly a jor- t ion of the Monastery of St. Germain des Pres, where the prisoners of the Revolution were massacred by the bands of Marat aud Kobespicrre, is no more; the house where Marat lived until Charlotte Corday purged the earth of a monster has been leveled to the ground, and nothing remains to mark the spot where the blood-thirsty tyrant once entertained his friends. AH kinds of discoveries are being made. The contractor w ho has undertaken to clear awav the houses and watch over the digging of the foundations has had to establish an office w here treasure- trove can be stored. Old coin are licing found, fragments of china, medals and rrpouttt work. Wheu the Commune in 1871, searched every religious house iu the hiqie of finding treasures of gold and silver, great noise was made aliotit some human remains discovered under the earth in the cellars of the Convent of Picpus. There were skeletons of children and adults, aud grave charges were brought against the sisterhood The accusation became, in r-ublicopiu- ion, even more serious, owing to the discovery of some instruments of tor ture. A regular pilgrimage was made to the convent, where the bones, and rusted iron thumbscrews, aud boots w ere ostentatiously displayed. Public indignation was great, aud no one would listen to any explanation until documents were produced show ing that within twenty years the convent had been trail-formed into an infirmary for women and children, siial atteution being paid to orthopedic cases. The tempest iu the teapot wasspeedily at an end, and the orthopojdical instruments were hidden awiy. Like the streets of Pouiieii, the sub terranean jKissages of Paris are being laid hare. In clearing away some houses between the Rue de Reiines and the Rue de Bac, some strange discove ries have liecn made. Digging out some old foundations the workmen camp across a vault, which at one time had been used as an ossuary. In one cor ncT was found a "vault of iieniteii'-c," like that in w hich Constance de Bever ley was immured "for broken vows and convent fled." A hollow stone pillar, over what had evidently lieen a deep well, was joined on to a raised cotliu-like niche, in w hich the victim was placed, the only means of exit lieiug the one short step leading to the well. Some surmise that, owing to the niche being raised above the level of the ground, fire was placed under it and the luckless wretch had to choose between lieing slowly roasted alive or voluntary death by drowning in the well. Time had dealt so harshly with the stone that an attempt to move the "in pace" proved a failure, and it has been destroyed bit by bit, the stone crumbling away as the earth around it was disturlM-d. Another house has been pulled down w hich has managed to obtain a certain importance with the gossips of the Latin Quarter. It was called the "Suicide's Hotel," and had a most unenviable rep utation. It was an hutH viruble, and liecame infected some ten years ago with a suicide mania. A young student despairing and in love, blew his brains out iu the room he occupied, and just one year after another student, in the same house and the same room, com mitted suicide iu the same manner after losing his money in a low gamb ling house. The owner of the hotel, alarmed at the fate which had befallen the two occupants of the room, refused to allow any one to live in it, aud caused it to be transformed into a box and lumber receptacle. A few months afterward the waiter, accused of hav ing purloined some articles of w earing apparel from a lodger, stole away to the lumber-room, where he was found hanged, and the owner of the house, in despair, sold his lease and left a place where the demon of suicide seemed to rule supreme. The hotel was sold again and again, but none could keep it. A strong-minded druggist took the premises and carried on his business despising tradition and laughing at the old gossips, w hose stories had enabled him to make such a bargain. Domestic misfortunes shook the cynicism of the unbeliever, who, finding his wife had deceived him, retired to the room w hich had become the chamber of death, and there poisoned himself w ith his ow u drugs. The w hole quarter w as up in arms, public opinion demanded that the fatal room should lie walled up, but the new ow ner laughed at the fears of his neighbors, and declared that he meant to occupy the chamlier iu ques tion. At last notice was given that the place w as about to be pulled dow u to make room for the Boulevard Saint Germain. An indemnity of A'lO.OtiO was demanded, but refused, and the jury having decided that JK3,.rNl was ample coiucnsatin the owner grew despondent and declared he was a ruined man. He w as compelled to ae cept the money and was ejected in due course, but a few days ago he asked permission to visit the old premises be fore they were pulled down. His re quest was granted, ami nothing more w as heard of him until the ilemuliMrurs w ent into the place, w here they fount him hanging by the neck iu the fatal room. The Low Comedian. Ill the theatre the audience prepare to laugh as soon as his voice is heard behind the scenes, before he makes his entrance; uoliody gets so hearty a wel come, notxidy is listened to with more delight, nobody gets a more thumping benefit. Behind the scenes he Is scarcely so w ell liked i he gets too much the lion's share of the popular favor to lie quite loved by the' actors; to say the truth, he is a little inclined to ride over people's feelings roughshod, and is not too particular aliout making a joke at his companion's expense, both on the stage and off. To the leading man the low comedian is secially objectiona ble, ami the tragedian regards him with ill-concealed dislike and secret bitterness; for the solemn air and ma jestic pretentions of the high artist offer innumerable ojienings to the shafts of w it of the professional joker, and of these he freelv avails himself. Xo man likes to lie laughed at, certainly the great man does not; and so it comes to pass that the two players are seldom to be seen together, and when they are obliged to meet at rehearsals a con stant sparring goes on between them, especially in the arrangement of any scene w here both are present, since the comic man has no scruple in being as funny as he can, and "gagging" most unmercifully, even w hile the hero of tragedy is on the stage. Still we should all miss him if he left ns, for he is very amusing; for theatrical work is duller thau most people imagine. TiHsley,i MlltlHZillf. Hindoo Reunion. The essence of the Hindoo religion is propitiation. The uative mind has a practical turn, and wishes to attain a definite p'uroe in its sacred rites. It is willing to go through any amount of trouble in its observances, if some clear gain is to be got by the process. The clearest gain that the native mind can picture to itself is the averting of evil. Aud its fertile fancy has been set to work to imagine all the sources of evil possible. Every conceivable calamity is attributable to some evil agency. either a god, or a devil, or a deceased man. There are good agents on the other side, aud they may be propitiated to fight against the bad agents. In a dim way they recognize a Supreme Being ; but they argue that he is too good to hurt any one, aud so he may be left out of the account. With this ex ception, everything that produces the notion of power is worth propitiation consisting in depositing little offerings of food or of anything that the agent, if alive and In human shape, might be conceived to like. Thus, on the tomb of one English official, who had terri fied them during his life, the natives deposited little offerings of brandy and cigars, hoping that he will still like these luxuries as much as he used to do, and that as long as his spirit could smoke and drink it would not occupy itself in annoying them. Again, offer ings were deposited ou the tomb of another Englishman who bad in life beun famed for shooting tigers, in the hope that his turn for worrying tigers still survived, and might be somehow put to good account. London Sptetntor. Increase In the t'se of Drugs. The following statistics show a re markable increase in the supply of cer tain favorite remedies since 1855: In that year the central pharmaceutical establishment of the Parisian Hospital furnished two hundred and eighty-two pounds of chloroform; in 1875 the quantity had risen to six hundred and sixteen pounds. The increase of chloral from 18!) to 1875 was from ten pounds to seven hundred and twenty pounds. Bromide of potassium, six pounds in 1S55, was one thousand six hundred pounds iu 1875. The progress of alco hol, considered as a therapeutical agent, is especially worthy of notice. Between 1865 and 1875 the consumption of alco hol in the hospitals increased from one thousand two hundred and seventy to forty thousand quarts. Brandy does not appear on the list until 1862, when four quarts were supplied. In 1875 the quantity had risen to four thousand one hundred and eighty quarts. Great Britain has 1,057 women to every 1,000 men. The Sick Artist. We kept a boarding house, Mitty and I. To be sure, people said it was a shame that Mr. Fontaine's daughters should stoop so low in life as to deal out their hospitality for money. But Mitty said and Mitty had a great deal of common sense that we must live, and all the genteel company that came to visit us w ouldn't put so much as a penny in our pockets tow ard coal and taxes. Mrs. Hall, who lived next door to us said she knew we wouldn't make it pay. Xo one but an experienced house keeper could make it pay. Miss Cynthia Caldwell thought that it w ould be much nicer and more select to do fine sew ing or get a place as gov erness or something of that sort, which wouldn't have lieen quite so public. Old Feruleaf said his daughters shouldn't visit us, and Dr. Millet looked the other way w hen he brought his fashionable new bride to town and met Mitty face to face in the street. 'Iear me,' said Mitty, laughing, 'w hat a queer world this is. But I was angry enough to cry. 'Xo matter, Mitty,' said I; 'we'll teach them that we can be quite inde pendent without them. Well, as time went on, we had sev eral boarders. Old Mr. Pettigrew and his niiM-e Clarissa, the two Mr. Hen leys; and the minister's niece, who gave lessons in wax flowers and water color paintings. Our rooms were full, all except the little over the wing. Kate,' said Mitty, triumphantly, 'we are making money. I put eleven Kuuds in the saving bank to-day, over and alxve all exjienses for the past mouth.' I dare say Mrs. Hall saves more than that,' said I.' I think very likely,' Said Mitty. Only, you see, Mrs. Hall does every thing on a grainier scale than we can pretend to keep up w ith.' We do our own marketing, wa.-h and iron our own table linen, and sift tl e ashes on the sly, while Miss Hen rietta Hall is practicing 'The Maiden's Prayer' on the piano.' 'But then," observed I, 'we are not such fine ladies as Mrs. and Miss Hen rietta. We are only two poor little old maids, who are obliged to earn our own living. 'Kate, you are not an old maid,' in dignantlv cried out Mittv. 'And you are as fresh as a rosebud beside Henrietta Hall,' said I, patting her cheek. Io you know, dear, I think hard work agrees with both of us. So things went on, until one summer evening we were out on our steps w hen there w as quite a commotion iu the carpeted hall of our neighbor, Mrs. Hall. Of course he must go. Mrs. Hall's voice shrilly announced. 'It was a great imposition on me that he should ever come here. I supposed he was an author, or a lawyer, or some such gen teel occupation, aud now, you see, he's nothing but a paiu'rr. A common painter. An artist ma'am, suggested Mr. Birdseye. 'And where's the difference I should like to know ?' sputtered Mrs. Hall. 'Except that one has at least dally wages to depend upon, and the other hasn't. And now here he is down w ith scarlet fever or small-pox, or sonii such hideous ailment, and ' 'Only a malignant form of intermit tent fever, ma'am,' again put in Mr. Birdseve. 'Xo matter what name they call it by, said the lady, waxing hotter and hotter in the ardor of discussion. 'I don't keep a hospital here, aud if I did. I wouldn't harbor any such low trash. So the sioiier he packs off, the better I shall be pleased. But where is he to go?' asked young Deiderinan. 'He has no friends that anybody knows of, and 'All the more reason that I should get him off my hands as quickly as pos sible,' said Mrs. Hall. 'The idea of un becoming resjionsible for his funeral expenses, or Hush, Waller will hear you,' inter rupted Mr. Birdseye. 'His window is open. 1 don't care if he does hear me,' snapped Mrs. Hail. 'He ought t have been ashamed of himself, coming here under such circumstances as this. But he goes, sick or well, before sunset this very night. There are public hospitals enough, I suppose.' 'Plenty of 'em, said Mr. Birdseye, dryly, 'and w bile he is waiting for all the forms to lie gone through with, in order to gain admission, he will most likelv die in the street. "Well, let him die,' said Mrs. Hall. That's no business of mine, that I know of.' Mitty looked at me. I looked at Mitty. Our eyes sparkled mute tele graphic messages to each other ami I spoke out of the choking indignant ful ness of my heart. Mrs. Hall,' cried I, 'Mr. Waller may come here, whoever he is. A sick man friendless and alone, should be able to claim brotherhood with all the world. Mitty and 1 will take care of him until he is able to take care of himself.' Mrs. Hall took us at our word with extreme promptitude, and before night fall poor Bernard Waller was snugly installed in the little vacant room over the wing a pale, ghostly-looking creature, babbling idly of people and places on the Continent that we never hail heard of. Dr. Millet shook his head very gravely. 'He is a very sick man,' was bis verdict. 'Kate, whispered Mitty, when the doctor was gone, and the sick man w as all still and settled for the night, 'sup pose suppose he should die.' 'In that case, Mitty, I don't think we should ever repent that we had done our duty.' 'I am sure we should not,' said Mitty softiy. But Bernard rt'allar did not die. He got well and of course, according to all the rules of true love, he lost his heart to Mitty's blue eyes and pretty face. "You'll never allow vour sister to marry a painter! said Mrs. Hall spite fully. 'I'm sure I've no objection's to her becoming an artist's wife, as long as they love each other,' said I laughing. 'Well, really,' said Mrs. Hall, 'If it were my Henrietta ' 'But it isn't your Henrietta,' I inter rupted, a little sharply; 'it is our Mitty and she has chosen for herself and I, for one, am entirely satisfied.' Well they were married in a quiet sort of w ay. I am reaching the end of my story now the romance that irradiated our lives, w hen the cake w as cut, and Mitty and Bernard had gone on their tour with humble little me along in the capacity of bridesmaid. We had traveled all day, and towards night, on a glorious Octotier day, we drove into the gate of a spacious old place, where were octagonal towers and ivy-mantled walls. O, what a find old place!' said Mitty. Ah, look at that lovely, glittering foun tain, and the beds of scarlet geranium. Bernard, are you going to sketch this place?' I may, in time,' said my sisters hus band, composedly, as he sprang out and opened the carriage door. 'Are we going to get out here, Ber nard?' Ioyou know the people? But before he could answer, the great carved oak doors flew open, re vealing a stately entrance hall, with a fire burning at the farthest end, and glowing softly, pictures gleamed down from the walls, chairs upholstered in violet velvet stood around. To Mitty and ine it was like a glimpse of fairy land. 'Who lives here, Bernard?' still per sisted Mitty, as she advanced timidly up the broad marble steps. I do. Welcome home, sweet wife; w elcome home sister.' I stared blankly at his bright fai-e. 'But, Bernard, we thought you were poor. 'Did I ever say I was? When I come to B to sketch, I certainly saw no occa sion to proclaim my private affairs to the good eopIe there. I engaged a room at Mrs. Hall's because it was con venient. When I was ill and delirious I could not tell the truth. When 1 knew how good and true you two girls were. I resolved that I could wait and give you a surprise. I was only an amateur artist. I am rich. But I am Bernard Waller still.' Xow wasn't that a romence? And, you see, it really hapicned to Mitty ami me, ami we are fine ladies now, and drive about with our ojien barouche aud cream-colored horses. And you can guess how discomfited Mrs. Hall and Henrietta were when they first heard the real position of the sick artist. A a Iri-al Wnraaa. My ideal woman is frank, intelligent generous, energetic, gentle and tender to the heart's core, and has a dash of romance about her. The romantic are ever buoyant, for so-called romantic feelings are only an evidence of the spirit's fresh life. They do not really sink into the dry-rot of an innate exis tence; they do not swell the list of the lie rvoiis-mimlcd. and the sordid and the mean, and the intriguing and the self-righteous. Of them are not made the slaternly or shrew ish w ives, the in capable or indifferent mothers, the treacherous friends, of w hose exi-tenee we may hear any day on all sides. They take no ungenerous advantage of simplicity or timidity, they stand aloof from detraction they would not w illingly sully the pure, bright cur rent of their ou it thoughts. They may startle many around them by an honest outburst of indignation, but they will not harlior malice, or seek to erpeiii atetheevil they have denounced. Alstve all, the romantic are strong in religions faith ; for the ideas of perfection, ami beneficence ami beauty and goodness and truth, are most owerfully devel oped in them. Let no skeptic come near him with his cold philosophy aud useless creed, that consigns "dust to dust," even while the living flesh might-alone ami well confute him by the power of its unconquerable in stincts. Those who have once tasted of the w ater of life at the fountain-head are not to be dismayed by the rejiortsof its after-failing course amid the miry and darkened w ays of an imperfect and faithless world. Of this class were the women who, iu all ages and countries, have greatly signalized themselves in true womanly ways, bearing witness before, time past aud to come, that true nobility of soul, steadfastness of purpose, heroic courage and high faith, are naturally allied to the earnest truth and the deep rooted affection of w hich they spring spontaneously, amid circumstances re quiring the grandest developments of individual Miwer. Prraliarttie of Birds. Almost every faiuiliy of birds has its peculiarities of manner. Thus, the kites and buzzards glide around in cir cles with expanded and motionless wings ; marsh-hawks or harriers fly low over meadows and stubble fields, beat ing the ground regularly. Crows and jays lumber along as though it was hard work, and herons are still more clumsy, having their long necks and longer legs to encumber them. The woodpecker's progress is a series of long undulations, opening and closing the wings at every stroke. Our thistle loving goldfinch also flies in this way, but most of the Fringillidie (finches, sparrows, Ac.) have a short, jerking, flight, accompanied with many bob hings, and flirtings. Warblers and fly-catchers fly high up, smoothly and swiftly. Swallows and night-hawks seem to be mowing the air with scimi tar wings, and move with surprising energy. Ou the ground, most small birds are hoppers, like the sparrows, but a few, like the water-thrush, truly and gracefully walk. The group of "shore-birds," however, are emphati cally runners. Xuns are of Egyptian origin. Dogwood. There are eight species of dogw ood iu Xorth America, butonly one is entitled by iu size to be classed with the forest trees. It Is the most interesting, too, for the value of its wood, the proiiertiea of its bark, and the beauty of its flow ers. It Is generally known by the name of dogwood, aud in Connecticut it is also called boxwood. The dogwood is first seen in Massachusetts, between the 42nd and 43rd degrees of latitude, aud iu proceeding southward it is met with un interruptedly throughout the Eastern and Western States, to the banks of the Missisippi. Over this vast extent of country it is one of the most commoa trees, and abounds particularly in Xew Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, wherever the soil is most giavelly, and sometimes uneven ; further South, iu the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida, it is found only ou the borders of swamps, and never iu the pine barrens, where the soil is too dry and sandy to sustain its vegetation. In the most fertile dis tricts of west Teunessee, it does not ap pear in the forests except wheu the soil is gravelly and of a middling quality. The dogwood sometimes reaches 30 or 35 feet in height, aud 9 or 10 inches in diameter, but it does not generally ex ed the height of 18 or 2n feet, aud the diameter of 4 or 5 inches. The trunk is strong, and covered with a blackWi bark, chapped into many small portions, which are often in tlie. shape of squares, more or less exact. The branches are proportionately less numerous than on other trees, and are regularly disposed, generally iu the form of crosses. The wood is hard, compact, heavy and fine grained, and is susceptible of a brilliant polish. The sap is perfectly white, aud the heart is f a chocolate color. The tree is not large enough for works which require pieces of considerable volume. It is u.-eil for the handles of light tools, such as iuallets, small vises. etc. Iu the country some farmers se lect it for harrow teeth, for the hames of horses' collars, and also for lining the runners of sledges; but, to whatever purpose it is applied, being liable to split, it should never be wrought until it has been perfectly seasoned. The shoots, when three or four years old, are found proper for the light hoops of small portable casks. It will also make good cogs for mill wheels, and its diver gent branches are taken for the yokes which are put upon the necks of swine to prevent their breaking into culti vated inclosures. Such are the protit ables uses of this tree, w hich also af fords excellent firewood. LiKfttuiug. To reassure the timid and nervous In this season of thunder storms, some cal culations and directions for security, which, from the frequent occurrenif and unusual severity of these storms, might not lie unacceptable to some of our readers, are given. There are 7t, 000 chances to 1 of an individual being killed in this way in the whole year. But as there are, perhaps, ten of these storms in a season, the chances of being killed in any one of these storms Is as 700,000 to 1. At the worst, there seems to lie half a million chances against a timid lady's having her terror realized, according to the doctrine of chances. If she lies dow n iu her fright, as she is likely to do, on either a feather bed or hair mattress, these chances in her fa vor are multiplied to at least a million. Another t-oiisolatiou is that .-he has lit tle to appprehend from a flash of light ning which she has leisure In v. As liht travels 'J17,'JU(t miles in a second, and sound only 1,1 12 feet in the same time, you may easily compute the distance of the electric discharge. If 4.72 seconds, or six beats of the pitt-ie elal-e between the lightning ami the thunder the discharge is a mile off. To guard against possible damages, ou Its near approach, you may iu.ulnt? your bed or chair by putting their legs on glass. Feathers and hair afford great security. There is also less danger after the rain has begun t fall copi ously than before, for a moist atmos phere serves as a conductor for the elec tric fluid, diffusing it, and conveying it to the earth. A man who is wet, lieing a better conductor than a tree, which cannot be so thoroughly wetted, ought not to stand under one; ami animals, on account of the moisture of their bodies, are always better conductors than trees. But thoiign wrong to stand near a tree, you will be very safe a lit tle beyond the extent of its branches a position which ought to he chosen, as the higher object will take the lightning first or you might stand on dry wood, wool, or silk. The middle of a room is safer than near the partition, and this, than near the exterior wall. A build ing Is a tx-tter protection than a tree ; but a barn or stable containing wet grain or hay is worse than the open field. Sitting on horseback, or in a car riage, is dangerous. To overcome ex cessive alarm at lightning not only con duces to comfort, but enables one to contemplate at ease by fir the uio-t sub lime spectacle in nature. An Eloquent Kslnirt. Generation after generation hive felt as we now feel, aud their lives were as active as our ow n. They passed away like vapor while nature wore the same aspect of beauty as when she first ex isted. The heavens shall he as bright over our graves as they are around our paths. The world will have the same attractions for the offspring yet unborn as it once had for our children. Yet a little while and all this w ill have hap pened. The throbbing heart will te stilled, and we shall be at rest. Our funeral will weud iu way, and the prayers will be said and we shall be left In the darkness and silence of the tomb. And it may be but a short time that we shall be spoken of, but things of life shall creep on and our names will be forgotten. Days will continue to move oq, and laughter and song will be heard in the room where we died; and the eye that mourned lor us will be dry and animated w Ith joy, and even our children will cease to think of us, and will remember to lisp our names no more. a -. ,.,1-Tas
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