I?
ILL r-rA AK.AAillAlll A rfeeA AA'
13. F. SCIIWEIER,
THE CONSTITUTIOS-THE UUTOff-ASD THE EfTOEOEMEHT OF THE LAVS.
Editor and Proprietor.
VOL. XXXII.
MIFFIJNTOWN, JUNIATA COUNTY, PENXA., WEDNESDAY, MAY 1, 187S.
NO. IS.
4
MERRY RiEt.
Sprinkle, sprinkle, cornea the rain.
Tapping on the window-pane ;
Trickling, conning.
Crowding, forcing
Tiny rilla
To the driving window-ailla.
Laughing rain-drops, light and swift,
Through the air they fall and sift;
Dancing, tripping.
Bounding, skipping
Thro' the street,
With their thousand merry feet.
Ever; Made of grass around
Is a ladder to the ground;
Clinging, striding.
Slipping, sliding.
On they come
With their busy zip and bum.
In the woods, by twig and spray.
To the roots they find their way;
Pushing, creeping. -
Doubling, leaping,
Down they go
To the waiting life below.
Ob, the brisk and merry rain,
Bringing gladness in its train !
Failing, glancing.
Tinkling, dancing.
All around
Listen to its cheery sound :
The Hour Before Dawn
The latest September days hail come
in all their jierfection (lays when the
pure, cool air seemed like an elixir of
life ami youth when there was the
first suggestion of the exquisitely sad
days of the dying summer time in the
hazy, red gold atmosphere that hung
silently over the hill-tops, and brooded
like some palpable blessing over low
land and lawn.
Blanche Carroll sat on the low door
step of the farm-house, that had been
her home that Summer, looking out
through the twilight with wistful eyes
that were blue as heaven's dome.
Thinking always thinking, it seemed
to her. since those other days, not yet a
year gone by, when, instead of being
what she was now, Mrs. Pemberton's
half assistant in the duties of the fam
ily half sister, daughter.friend what
ever one choose to call the intimatere
lation that existed between them
when, instead of this, she bad been
belle and heiress, whose sway was un
disputed, whose reign had been as mag
nificently triumphant as it sudden
ending had lieen pitifully sharp and
hitler.
She hi.d never, in all her eighteen
ears of gay, joyous life, known w hat
it meant to have a wish ungratitied a
want, however imaginary, unfulfilled.
Tuere had never been any lack of
ready money ; there had been horses,
and carriages, and servants at -the girl's
signal, and trips tothe Continent when
ever the faiicr seized her.
Then had come the terrible financial
earthquake, and a week after, Blanche
Carrol had learned from the lips of her
distracted father, that everything must
go, even to her jewels and laces, and
costly little elegancies, so that his name
would not be dishonored for the first
time in his life
A week after that day, which had
seemed the most dreadful of all possi
ble days, some one had come to her.and
added the very blackness of darkness
to her woe by telling her how Mr.
Carroll was found dead in his office
chair apoplexy or paralysis which
was not yet decided. Blanche almost
oliapsed under the second blow.
Never having reuiemliered her mother,
she had loved her father with double
intensity. And when he was dead and
buried, the world yawned before her,
with no protecting arm between her
and it when there did not remain a
hundred pounds in all the wide world
she could call her own.
Poor Blanche!
Aid yet it was not the very worst.
The worst of all was Elmer Westcourt's
defection, with scores of those whom
she had implicitly believed were best,
truest, dearest others whose defection
hurt her for the time, but whom she
learned she could readily exist with
out. But Elmer Westcourt. He had been
all that was most noble, most perfect,
grandest in masculine human nature.
To him she had looked w ith almost the
reverence of a devotee to her patron
saint.
His physical beauty had commanded
her passionate admiration, his qualities
of mind had called out all her keenest
approbation, and his peculiarly master
ful way had taught the girl forthe first
time in her life, how sweet ft was to be
governed.
There hail never been an engage
ment between them, and yet Blanche
had been so positively sure he loved
her.
She had seen it in his eyes, time and
again. She had more than once listened
to sweet, suggestive words he had
spoken, in his low, thrilling voice. She
had, with good reason, built the most
beautiful castles of their future to
gether, and had been only waiting his
pleasure to speak, when her trouble
came to her.
And, with all other summer friends,
he, too, had left her, without a word,
without a sign, to think what she
chose, to suffer or not.as the case might
be. Then, in her distress, her sorely-
wounded pride, her desolation of soul,
Blanche had rushed away from Ixndon
away up Among the cool, green hills
of Cumberland, where she was not mis
taken in supposing she had one friend
left Mrs. Pemberton. who, although
personally stranger to her, Blanche
knew had been a dear, warm mend, in
girlhood davs of -her dead mother.
And so it came to pass that Blanche
Carroll made her home in the" tenant
farm-house, where.with light.womanly
duties, and pleasant responsibilities,
she was bravely striving to forget her
bitter past, and the sound of Elmer
Westcourt's voice, and the look in his
eyes.
She was thinking of all this as she
sat in the twilight, that cool, breezy
September night, and into the beauti
ful blue eyes had come such a wlstful
ness and heartsick woe, that dear Mrs.
Pemberton, looking up from her knit
ting, saw the misery.
"It will never, never do," she said,
energetically so much so that her
kindly, emphatic tones, brought a sud
den dash of color to Blanche's face.
"It will never do the way you allow
yourself to brood on things that you
can't help. I am really delighted to
think John wiil be home so soon. He
will take you in charge, and make you
give up these Useless memories, which
only seem to make you miserable.
Such a dear, blessed old boy as my
John is, Blanche, and so handsome!
Why, I confidently expect it will be a
case of mutual affinity, you and he, un
less he has lost his heart abroad; this
year he has been to Germany."
A case of affinity for her ! Blanche
felt a thrill of sick pain Mrs. Pember
ton never imagiuad her words had
caused, for, although she knew there
was a love story entangled somehow
with Blanche's old life, the girl had
been proudly reticent of particular, or
Elmer Westcourt's name.
Mrs. Pemberton talked so much, so
often of her darling "her.blessed boy,"
her only son, John, who, to her, ful
filled every dream of manly excellence
and perfection. And Blanche used to
wonder often what the quiet home
would be like when Mrs. remberton's
son came into it. She used to wonder
how it would be possible for her to en
dure the presence of anyone who would
in any way remind her of man's per
fidy and heartlessness.
But if their lives her life was to be
invaded by a man. Well, after a time
she grew to be ashamed of her morbid
cowardice of feeling, and rcsolved.with
a stern determination that was pitiful,
that John Pemberton and odd,
strengthful name it was to her should
not interfere with the duties of the
quiet life she had chosen, and which,
although she was hardly conscious of
it, was leaving its impression on her
discipline and patience, and nobility on
her nature.
Nevertheless, the pain the very bit
terness of woe was not removed. Her
fathers death she could, in the ordina
ry healing course of nature, have got
over. Loss of wealth, position, and
summer friends, would, after a time,
have been as a trifle to her.
But Elmer Westcourt's defection!
So long as she lived, it would hurt her
with that keen, sick pain, which some
women do suffer women with great
purity and trust of nature, who can no
more imagine deceit and cruelty in one
they love than themselves are capable
of it. Truly it was her darkest hour.
To her, Elmer Westcourt would al
ways be the one who had jiower to
touch her heart. To her he would al
ways lie the beloved, though not the
lover the one above all others, al
though unworthy, strangely paradoxi
cal as it was.
So Blanche tried her best and bravest
to enter into Mrs. Petnberton's spirit ol
welcome for her son. She beautified
his room, that for more than a year had
stood alone in its iinoccupaney. She
baked delicious cakes, and arranged
toothsome bills of fare, and went
through the whole house, leaving every
where the impression of her artistic
touch, that delighted Mrs. Pemliertou
so thoroughly.
"John will appreciate it so, bless
his dear heart. Blanche, I never want
ed anything in all my life as I want
my boy. And do, Blanche, make him
feel, so far as you are concerned, that
you make him welcome, will you ?"
Up in her room, hours after, Blanche
remembered particularly what dear old
Mrs. Pemberton had said about her
contributing her share towards welcom
ing and pleasing the coming guest, and
as she stood before the glass, brushing
out the long, lustrous hair, that was
full of gleams of sunshine, she thought
bow far past the time it was when she
could be a pleasure or a pride to any
le.
Site thought how worn out she had
grown to be, how aged and old-womanish
her fierce, ceaseless fight with fate
had left her, and she smiled wearily at
the idea of her being even thought of
when John Pemberton came.
I think Blanche really thought it was
so that she was worn and faded, when,
instead of her old-time radiant, spark
line beauty, she saw a sweet, subdued,
serious loveliness, which others recog
nized and admired, if she did not.
She had never, in all her flush of
beauty, wealth and happiness, made a
fairer picture than she looked that day,
after she had dressed for Mrs. Pember
ton 's son's home coming.
She wore white, with delicate blue
ribbons, and her lovely hair was piled
high on her head in a golden confusion
of flossy puffs, tenderly rings, and
elopsv braids.
It seemed strange to tfiaucnetnaisne
could not possiblv take an interest In
the coming of this gentleman sue wno
not so very long ago, had so thoroughly
enioved a flirtatiou. She wondered
why, in spite of herself, she was so
listlessly indifferent, and honestly trieu
to catch the infection of Mrs. Pember
ton 'a excitement of joy.
The old lady had put on her best
dress a rich, rustling silk to do hon
or to her eon'e coming, and Blanche
thought, as she went into her parlor,
that she had never seen a sweeter
tableau of placid, aged beauty, and hap-
ny old days, than Mrs. Pemberton of
fered, in her lace cap and gray puffs,
and pale face lighted by such glad eyes.
"How your , son ought to worship
such a mother !" she said, w ith a warm
lv Graceful little impulsiveness char
acteristic of other days, to which she
seldom eave way now. "Mr. Pember
ton surely does ""
Mrs. Pemberton jumped up from her
chair at the sound of carriage w heels
at the door.
neha3come! Oh. Blanche! But
whatever possessed you to think his
name was Pemberton f Why, John is
my first husband's son !"
And Blanche slipped out of the back
door as the gentleman came in the front
one went away upstairs again,leaving
mother and son to the sweet sacred ness
of their glad meeting.
In all her life, Blanche had never
felt so lonely as in that half hour she
spent up stairs, knowing how entirely
forgotten she was. She was not sel
fish, eitherbut it seemed as if all the
trouble she had ever known came surg
ing its waves of keen remembrance
over her.
She realized as she had never done
before how pitifully alone she was in
the world, and then Into the midst of
the harrowing thoughts, the tears that
had left her heart but had not yet
reached her sweet, sad eyes, into the
midst of the desolation of her young
life, came Mrs. Penibertou's voice,
quick, glad, exultant, as she called from
the foot of the stairs :
"Blanche, Blanche, do come down !
There's a mystery I can't quite under
stand. Come here !"
And BIanche,half smiling at the dear
old lady's pardonable excitement, went
quietly, promptly, to be presented to
her son.
Mrs. Pemberton caught her by both
hands, to drag her perforce to her par
lor. "It beats all I ever did hear of! I
never was so"
Just then a tall handsome gentleman
came through the parlor door, with
quick, eager steps, and Blanche looked
and saw Elmer Westcourt.
"Blanche Carroll ! My darling.whom
1 thought I had lost until a few minutes
ago ! Blanche, my love !"
And the girl stood looking at him,
clutching Mrs. Peuiberton's hand in a
vice-like grip, that was chill as death,
her face pale as her dress, her eyes full
of mingled piteous bewilderment, and
wondering doubt, and mute ecstacy.
"To think I never once thought of
telling you that John's name was West-
court! You see. I always call him
John, although Elmer is prettier, and
he has an equal right to it, it being his
middle name. And to think Well,
I'm clean beat!"
And Mrs. Pemberton sank down in
the hall chair, and wiped her eyes and
her glasses, while Mr. Westcourt took
Blanche in his arms and kissed her,
and hastily explained what she did not
fully understand till later how he had
written to her in the hour of his sud
den, imperative departure abroad how
he had sent her letter after letter, and
how he concluded she had done with
him.
And they both knew then that
Blanche's equally sudden removal from
her old home, and her self-elected re
tirement to the country, had been suf
ficient reason why she never had re
ceived what would have changed all
her life for her.
But the sunshine was come at last
the glad, bright sunshine, that was all
the better for the dark weather that
had so long hidden it. And Blanche's
life blossomed out anew, under the
radiant influences of love and hope.
The KnsBlaa Knout.
There is probably no more terrible
instrument of punishment, or it may
perhaps be more properly called tor
ture, than the knout in the hands of a
Russian executioner. Togive the read
er some idea of its form, the mode of ad
ministering it, and its horrible effects.
we quote the following from a recently
published work, entitled "The Knout
and the Russians ;" "Conceive a ro
bust man, full of life and health. This
man is condemned to receive fifty or a
hundred blows of the knout. He is
conducted, half naked, to the place cho
sen for this kind of execution. All
that he has on is a pair of linen drawers
round his extremities. His hands are
bound together, with the palms laid
flat against one another, and the cords
breaking his wrists; but no one pays
the slightest attention to that. He is
laid flat upon his belly, on a frame in
clined diagonally, and at the extremi
ties of which are fixed iron rings; his
hands are fastened to one end of the
frame, and his feet to the other : he is
then stretched in such a manner that
he cannot make a single movement, just
as an eel's skin is stretched in order
to dry. This act of stretching the vic
tim causes his bones to crack, and dis
locates them but what does that mat
ter? At the distance of flve-and-twenty
paces stands another man: it is the pub
lic executioner. He is dressed in black
velvet trowsers, tucked in his boots, and
a colored shirt, buttoning at the side.
His sleeves are rolled up, so that
nothing may thwart or embarrass him
in his movements. With both hands he
grasps the instrument of punishment
a knout. This knout consists of a
thong of thick leather, cut in a triangu
lar form, from four to five yardH long,
and an inch wide, tapering off at one
end. and broad at the other; the small
end of which is fastened to a little
wooden handle, about two feet long.
The signal is given : no one ever takes
the trouble to read the sentence. The
executioner advances a few steps, with
his body bent, holding the knout in
both hands, while the long thong drags
along the ground between his legs. On
coming to about three or four paces
from the prisoner, he raises, by a vig
orous movement, the knout towards
the top of his head, and then instantly
draws it down with rapidity towards
his knees. The thong flies and whistles
through the air, and descending on the
body of the victim, twine round it like
a hoop of iron. In spite of his state of
tension, the poor wretch bounds as if
he were submitted to the powerful
grasp of galvanism. The executioner
retraces his steps, and repeats the same
operation as many times as there are
blows to be inflicted. Where the thong
envelopes the body with its edges, the
flesh and muscles are literally cut Into
stripes, as if with a razor: but when it
falls flat, then the bone crack. The
flesh, in that case, is not cut, but crush
ed and ground, and the blood spurts
out in all directions. The sufferer be
comes green and blue, like a body in a
state of decomposition. He is removed
to the hospital, where every care is
taken of him, and be is afterward sent
to Siberia, where he disappears forever
in the bowels of the earth."
Bad Game of Freese-Ont.
No, John William is a changed man.
He never will be leal happy again. He
was a light-hearted young man once,
and he wore a good conscience and a
collar as broad as a minstrel joke, and
little tight boots, and his heart was just
as full of aflection and the image of a
girl out on High street as it could hold.
And twice week, Tuesday and Friday
nights, John William went up to High
street just dressed to death and over
flowing with tender things to say that
he had thought up and composed and
read during the day. And she that
High street girl always met him at
the ball door and led him into the par
lor, and he was, oh just so happy he
wanted somebody to kill him right
away, for he felt too good and happy to
live. Oh, he was a nice young man.
Everybody loved him. Dressed in such
exquisite taste, and such a flow of lan
guage. Could talk about any and
everything under the sun; members of
the Pbilo-Apollodorus Diadaetion So
ciety used to call him the Aventinoniens
of America, he was so overflowing and
lucid.
Well, one lovely evening he made his
regular semi-weekly visit, went np
rather early, and anticipated the best
kind of a time, but was struck all of a
heap when the servant answered the
bell, and politely ushered him into the
parlor. But he thought maybe the
dearest girl in the world was just put
ting on a little style. But you can't
imagine how dreadfully discouraged he
felt when he went into the parlor and
couldn't see the young lady anywhere,
and nobody there at all but her mother.
Now, John William's acquaintance
with her mother was very slight. He
had never met her at all in fact, and he
had casually heard that she didn't like
him pretty much, and that she had once
remarked that she'd like to meet him
orce, that she'd take some of his impu
dence aud uoiiseose out of him, that was
all. Naturally, John William stood in
great awe of her mother. Tall woman,
with abroad, high forhead, wide mouth,
with awful parentheses at the corners
of it, thin lips and eyes that had a super
naturally glassy look even when they
were smiling. Talked bass. And spoke
very slowly. Not at all the kind of a
woman to impress a strange young man
very tenderly.
But John William isn't the kind of a
man, isn't John Wi 'liam, not to take
advantage of an opportunity when it
presents itself, and be resolved, as soon
as he took In the situation, to smite
while the metal was in a condition of
temperature indicating malleability.
So he tiroceeded to strike. He sat down
on the edge of the hardest chair he could
find, aud directly opposite the young
lady's mother. anJ looked her directly
in the face, while he began.
To begin with- he didn't say anything.
Couldn't exactly think of what he
wanted, so he just looked at her and
smiled pleasantly.
His overture was met by a stony
glare that not only froze his smile, but
congealed the very blood in his heart,
and he had to grasp for a moment or
two while it thawed out. Then he once
more unto the breach, good friends.
"Pleasant, this evening."
"Very," came like a responee from
the gloomy tomb, and John William
felt the cold chills crawl up ar.d down
his back.
"It has been a lovely afternoon," he
went on.
"Beantiful," she said, hoarsely, and
John William thought of stories he had
read about dead people who were mes
merized and kept on talking for hours
after they were dead.
"It was very warm during the middle
of the day," John William said, going
back for a subject, thinking he would
light on something if he only pushed
his researches far enough down the dim,
shadowy aisles of the buried past.
"Ex-ceed-ing-ly," was the solemn
response, and John William wanted to
stand up and scream so bad that he
thought he would go wild. But in the
bright lexicon of youth there's no such
word as never say die, Mr. Brown, and
he made one more effort :
"It looked line rain once during the
morning."
Ve-ry much in-deed," came in a
sepulchral cadence. And John William
held on to his chair with both hands to
keep himself from jumping out of the
window. But he persevered :
"We had a lovely sun-rise."
"Re-mark-a bly." And to save his
never-dying - soul, John William
could n't help making a gurgling groan
and pounding on the floor with his
heels.
"Sir-r-r !" the lady exclaimed in the
distant thunder tones with which
Janauschek used to S'y. "Mr. Tulk
inghorn, open the door."
"Oh!" screamed John William,
springing to his feet and tearing his
straw hat (Milan braid, $3-50) into
shreds. "Oh! he yelled, dancing up
and down like a wild Indian, while his
hair stood up like porks upon the quill-
ful fretupine. "Oh !" it was doggoned
Infernally hot till night, ou can just
bet your everlasting boots! HotToh-h!
Ui ha ha hahaha-a a!" And he sailed
out of the house and went clattering,
down High street, a gibbering, howling,
shrieking maniac.
O brother n, a girl doesn't know what
fun she misses bv not being a boy I
Flowers and Flower GlrU.
She Is a little brown, black-eyed.
gypsy of a girl, and sits on the side
walk in Fourteenth street New xork,
and sells her flowers every afternoon to
ladies as they shop on that thronged
pavement, or on their way from tne
matinees : or to gentlemen who walk
home in the afternoon from their busi
ness houses.
"Where do yon eet all these pretty
flowers ?" I asked the little flower girl
of Fourteenth street.
From my father's garden over the
river on Lnion HU1."
"So your father is a florist?"
. "Yes. a small one. Mr mother and I
help him in his garden, and we make
bouquets all mornings ; and after I have
eaten my dinner I come over to the city
and sell the bouquets. When there is
not enough flowers in our garden I go
to the larger florists' hothouses and
they sell me flowers at low prices for
my bouquets. I never come before 1
o'clock in the afternoon ; it would be no
use. The ladies who come out in the
mornings haven't any time to buy bou
quets, nor the gentlemen neither."
"Who do you sell the most of your
flowers to?"
"To people!" opening her big black
eyes bigger.
No; I mean, do you sell more to
ladies. than you do to gentlemen?"
"Oh, yes; ladies buy more than gen
tlemen. Men are almost always cross
on their way up town. But one (and
here she brightened into a smile) is al
ways in a good humor, and he always
buys. He takes my littlest bouquet,
too, and pays me five times what it is
worth."
"He must be very kind. Do you
make much money?"
Yes; the flowers help to support us
a good deal."
"Do you "
"Excuse me. Here comes my gentle
man," and, turning from me, she lifted
her tray of flowers to an elderly man,
who took a small bouquet and dropped
twenty-five cents in the child's hand
and, with a smile, passed on.
I found that most of the little street
venders of flowers were the children of
German parents. The fathers, having
small gardens and a hothouse or two
perhaps, do most of the work after their
working hours at some other trade are
over. The mother does the lighter gar
den work, and the children sell the
flowers in the streets. Pursued in this
war. floriculture must be profitable.
That it has been a very" profitable busi
ness in the past to many, there can be
no doubt in the mind of any one who
visits Union Hill, North Bergen, Wee-
jawkeii, and West Uoboken. I tramped
all along those heights which lie between
the Passion ists' Monastery and North
Bergen lately, and found between
thirty and forty large and small flori-
cultural establishments in my walk,
and heard that there were about as
many more. Astoria, too, furnishes
further proof that the cultivation f
dowers can be made as profitable as it is
pleasant. The Astorians make up in
the quality of the floral trade what they
lack in quantity, as compared with the
New Jersey florists. Boston also sends
flowers to New York, and Newport
sends a great many rose. It is a little
remarkable that most of those engaged
in the flower business are taciturn, reti
cent men. I mean all who handle the
flowers, for among the 125 or 130 flor
ists' stores in this city there are only a
few whose proprietors own or ever en
ter a garden. A large quantity of the
flowers used in New York are bought
by agents or middlemen, such as are
ound in every business of any consid
erable magnitude, who buy the cut
flowers from the gardeners in New
Jersey, Astoria, and from nearly all
the small towns around that city and
Brooklyn, and sell the same to the flor
ists who keep the stores. Most of these
agents and flower store owners know
nothing about the cultivation of Sowers.
Again, the florists who cultivate the
flowers rarely know how to make bou
quets, or if they know how, they do not
make it even a part of their business
The florist who sells the flowers, pur
chases the same from the producer or
an agent, who makes the bouqets. He
makes all of those large flat basket and
other fancy bouquets which adorn th
tables of fashionable dinner parties,
evening parties, bells and weddings
and all funeral and church devotions-
The flower business has been dull
this season. The weather has been too
warm, so the men who handle them say.
to have a good market. The supply is
in excess of the demand. The festive
season this year was dull for the florists,
however gay it may have been for the
ball goers and society people. The re
quest that "no flowers" shall be sent to
the house or church on funeral occa
sions. which was the result of too many
being sent formerly, has greatly inter
fered with the profits of the flower pro
ducers and sellers for the last year. All
who deal in flowers, except the small
gardeners, whose children help by sell
ing and whose families aid in the
cultivation, complain that the flower
business is not what it used to be. But
as most of the producers are dealers in
plants as well as flowers, and as both
producers and city dealers get orders
for plants from all parts of the United
States, from Maine to California, they
are not so much affected by the condl
tion of the immediate market for bou
quets and cut flowers as might be
supposed. I judge more by Inference,
however, than by any direct informa
tion on the subject; for the cultivation
and handling of dowers do not seem to
make men, women, or children very
communicative on the subject.
Wearing- Garten.
Children should never wear garters,
as the stockings can be kept up by the
attachment or elastic straps to the waist
band. If garters are woru, it is im
portant to know how to apply them
with the least risk of doing harm ; at
the bend of the knee the superficial
veins of the leg unite," and go deeply
into the underpart of the thigh between
the hamstring tendons. Thus a liga
ture below the knee obstructs all the
superficial veins, which return the
blood from the legs; unfortunately,
most people, iu ignorance of the above
facts, apply the garter below the knee,
Elastic bands are the most Injurious,
They follow the movements of the
muscle, and never relax their pressure
upon the veins. Non-elastic bands
during muscular exertion became con
siderably relaxed at intervals, and allow
freer circulation of the blood.
San Francisco is to be supplied with
water from the Blue Lakes, distant
nearly 125 miles. There are three of
these lakes, the highest being nearly
1.000 feet above the sea. The contract
! price is about $16,000,000.
A Picturesque City.
The wanderer in Tunis will traverse
narrow winding alleys with regular
white buildings; through the old ara
besqued Moorish arches are glimpses ol
cool, bright courts, w ith waving trees
and trickling water. Suddenly he will
emerge into the brilliant bazaars.
Series of vaulted roofs are supported on
liht, graceful arches, all white, and
springing from delicate, brightly col
ored pillars; the little shops are recess
ed on either side. The costumes of Tu
nisians, Moors, Tripolines, Djerbans,
Algerians, Fezzians, Arabs from Djerid
and the desert, blacks and infidels of all
nations, are indescribably picturesque.
The Tuuisians' costumes are almost in
variably in perfect taste. The silk djnf-
lat were of deep red and apple green,
or deep blue and golden, the vests and
jackets pale rose colored, or of delicate
blues, greens or yellows, in silk, cotton
or wool.
It is a constant picture, always vary
ing and always charming. Here is a
regular Moor, with a cinnamon face.
a snowy turban, a rosebud above his
ear, a deep blue embroidered jacket,
waistcoat and drawers, white stockings
and yellow shot's. The next man to
him is dressed in slaty blue and pink,
the next a negro in a blue cloak lined
with brown fur. Women pass in white,
woollen haiks. holding out in front of
their faces red, black and blue silk
scarfs. Strolling from one bazaar to
another, the traveler will be more
pleased as he goes on, past beautiful an
gles of Moorish buildings, mosques.
arches and colonades; past caravansa
ries, where vines or fig trees throw cool
shadows on the camels feeding in the
courts, while the dark-faced white-
robed Bedouins lounge among them.
Thence perhaps to the silk bazaars,
where lovely floss silk hangs in bunch
es, suggesting wonderful embroidery.
Then to the merchants of carpets,
shawls, aud stuffs, and through zigzag
streets beyond the bazaars, with the
beautiful sky overhead, and where soli
tary palms stand up from courts and
gardens. Lovely minarets abound,
square, arabesqued and tiled, others
thin and graceful, with delicate little
galleries; domes covered with old green
tiles, like dragon's scales; Inviting
cafes, with splendid studies of Arabs.
The traveler will decorate his coat with
sweet mask roses, his lips with the gol
den tiuge of orange juice, and he will
drink numerous cups of coffee as he
squats on little square sugar-cane stools.
The evening sky melts from turquoise
into golden, and thence into the rosy
color of a flamingo s breast. I lie
abundance of flower in the bazaars is
charming. Small bouquets of rosebuds
and orange blossoms, stuck on slips of
wood, are in almost everybody's hand,
and cost one caroub. There are four
caroubs iu one penny. A bouquet is
very generally worn over the ear, just
beneath the turbau.
Tue Frost King.
But. though not so dangerous, the
still davs are the coldest iu Manitoba.
There arc every winter a dozen or more
days so magically still that all the usual
sounds of nature seem to be suspended ;
when the ice cracks miles and miles
awav with a report like a canon ; when
the breaking of a twig readies us like
the falling of a tree; when one's own
footsteps, clad in soft moccasins, come
back like the crunching of an Iron
heel through gravel; when every artifi
cial sound is exaggerated a hundred
fold, and nature seems to start at every
break in the intense silence. The at
mosphere is as clear as crystal, and the
range of vision seems to be unlimited
Seen from a window, from the cosy
limits of an almost hermetically sealed
room, the clear sunshine and crisp
freshness of the day appear to invite
one forth to enjoy its seeming mildness.
But the native knows better than to
venture out. A fifteen minutes' walk
in that clear ether is a fifteen minutes'
fight for existence. A sudden prick
and your noze is frozen; next go both
cheeks; one raises his hand to rub away
the ghastly white spots, only to add his
fingers to the list of icy members. Rub
as you will, run hard, swing yon arms,
all to no purjHwe; the little white spots
increase in size, until the whole face is
covered with the waxen leprosy. The
breath congeals almost upon leaving
the mouth, and the icy vapor falls in
stead of rising. Spit, and instantly
there is a lump of ice wpere the spittle
fell. Ah, it is cold beyond belief! The
spirit registers a temperature away
down in the forties. I have seen a
stalwart man, after two hours' exposure
on such a day, walk into the room
where every footfall clanked upon the
floor like blocks of wood clapping to
gether; his feet frozen solid as lumps
of ice. I remember going sixty yards
to shoot a rabbit and returning with
fingers curled into a hook, and frozen
fast to the trigger-guard. On such a
day one inny stand for hours in the
snow with moccasined feet and leave no
trace of moisture behind. The snow is
granulated like sand; there is no adhe
siveness in it. It is as difficult to draw
a sledge through it as through a bed of
sand. Slipperiness has gone out of it.
A horse gives out in no time. And yet
the aspect of all nature is calm, still,
and equable as on May day
One of the still nights on the prairie
is unspeakably awful. The cold is
measured by degrees as much below
the freezing point as your ordinary
summer temperature is above it. Scrap
ing away the snow, the blankets and
robes are spread down. Then you
dress for bed. Your heaviest coat is
donned, and the hood carefully pulled
up over the heayy fur cap upon your
head ; the largest moccasins and thickest
socks are drawn on (common leather
boots would freeze one's feet in a
twinkling); huge leather mittens, ex
tending to the elbows, and trebly lined,
come next; yon lie down and draw all
the available robes and blankets about
you. Then begins the cold.' The frost
comes out of the clear, gray sky with
still, silent rigor. The spirit in the
thermometer placed by your head sinks
down into the thirties and forties be
,low zero. Just when the dawn begins
to break in the east, it will not infre
quently be at fifty. You are tired,
perhaps, and sleep comes by the mere
force of fatigue. But never from your
waked mind goes the couseiousness of
cold. You lie with tightly-folded arms
and up-gathered knees aud shiver be
neath all your coveriugs, until forced
to rise and seek safety by the fire. If
you are a novice aud have no fire, then
count your heads and say your prayers,
for your sleep will be long.
This low temperature, however, is
vastly preferable and more enjoyable
than the shifting climate of the lake
regions. One always knows just what
to expect and prepares accordingly;
the air is crisp and entirely free from
moisture, and there is an utter absence
of that penetrating, marrow-chilling
juality which makes winter life further
south a burden. No sudden changes to
pile cold upon cold, and keep one's
lungs in a continual congestion. The
Iiiuate, while cold, is equable. From
November till April, one knows he can
go out without abundant wrappings.
Just what constitutes an abundance
varies considerably in amount. The
native attires himself in a pair of cordu
roy trousers, retaining about as much
heat as a pine board, a calico shirt, an
unlined coat, very much open at the
breast to show the figured shirt, a fur
cap, moccasins, ana a pair oi uume
socks without legs. Thus apparelled
he is reaily to face all day the roughest
weather of the winter. But then he is
continually in motion, and possessed of
an unimpaired circulation. The for
eigner, not to go into the minutue of his
wardrobe, simply puts on all the cloth
ing he can conveniently walk in, then
closely watches the end of his nose. As
for the alioriginal occupants of the
country, little Indians may be seen
any day running about in the snow be
fore the lodge doors, with the thermom
eter at thirty degrees below zero, clad
only in their own tawny integuments.
The Vampire Bat.
South America also has its large bats,
of one of which everybody has heard
the vampire. Much nonsense has been
written about it, but there was some
foundation for the stories of its sucking
the blood of men and animals until it
kills them. In the interior of South
America nearly everybody sleeps in a
hammock cither out-of-doors or with
the window open, and the weather is so
warm that little covering is used. The
vampire comes in ou silent wings, and
finding a toe exposed, gently pricks it
with his sharp tooth, and draws the
blood until he can swallow no more.
The sleeper rarely is awakened, and
does not know his loss until morning.
He may then feel weak from the flow
of blood, but I am not aware that a man
wan ever known to die from the cause.
Horses are very greatly troubled by
them also. Mr. Charles Wattertou. an
enthusiatic naturalist now dead, who
sent several years in New Guiana, has
told us much about this ugly bat, but
could never induce one to taste of his
toe, although he would have been very
glad to be able to say that he had been
operated upon. For eleven months he
slept aloue in the loft of a deserted
wood-cutter's hut in the deep forest.
There the vampire came and went as
they wished He saw them come in
the moonlight on stealthy wings, and
prick the ripe bananas; lay in his ham
mock and watched them bring almost
to his bedside the greeu wild fruit of
the wild guava: floating down the river
on other moonlight night was struck by
the falling blossoms of the lawarri-nut
tree which the vampire pulled from the
brandies to get at the tender seed-vessel
or the insects that lurk' in the deep
corollo. He lay night after night with
his bare foot exposed, but could not get
them to lance it, although his friends
and companions were all bled by this
nocturnal surgeon; and except that he
once caught one fastened to the shoul
der of one of his animals, he came away
no wiser than when he went of how the
vampire doe his horrid work. The
vampires measure about twenty-six
inches across the wings; frequent old
houses and hollow trees, and repose in
cluster?, head downwards, from the
brandies of forest trees.
Amputating a Dead Man' Leg.
It was shortly after the battle of An-
tietam Surgeon Abraham Lyddon Cox
took charge of a field hospital. Dr. Cox
was an elderly and somewhat eccentric
person, but he was an eminent surgeon,
a profound scholar, a genial gentleman
and a true patriot. At a later day, borne
down with exposure and overwork, he
died at Chattanooga, a martyr upon the
altar of his country. One day in the
performance of his mournful duties,
Surgeon Cox essayed to amputate the
mangled limb of a Connecticut soldier.
He had become greatly absorbed in the
delicate task, when the medical attend
ant remarked-
"Doctor, I think that you had better
stop the operation, the man is sinking
very rapidly."
"Well," replied the doctor, without
looking up, "the work is nearly over,
and I might as well finish it."
Scon afterward the attendant declar
ed : "Doctor, the man is dying."
The doctor had then removed the
limb, and was engaged in taking up the
arteries, and he quietly remarked :
"It is due to my profession that this
operation should be carefully comple
ted," and he calmly went on.
He had begun sewing up the stump
when the hosptial steward eame along
and said :
"Doctor, there's no use of going on
that man is dead."
Surgeon Cox made norepry until the
last stitch had been taken. Then gently
caressing the stump with one hand, he
removed his spectacles with the other,
and looking up, quietly said :
"I am sorry that the poor fellow is
Oead, but there is one consolation about
the matter he has gone to heaven with
a "flap' that lie may be proud of."
During the first three months of
the present year, tne total immigration
at New York was 8.879. against 7.250
arrivals for the corresponding period of
1377 an Increase of I, wo.
The Vatican.
The word is often used, but there are
many who do not understand its Import.
The term refers to a collection of build
ings on one of the seven hills of Rome,
which cover a space of 1,200 feet in
length, and 1,000 feet in breadth. It is
built on the spot occupied by the cruel
Nero. It owes its origin to the Bishop
of Rome, who in the early part of the
sixth century, erected a humble resi
dence on its site. About the year 1150,
Pope Eugenlus rebuilt it on a magnifi
cent scale. Innocent II.. a few years
afterwards, gave it up as a lodging to
Peter II., King of Arragon. In 1305,
Clement V., at the instigation of the King
of France, removed the Papal See from
Rome to Avignon, when the Vatican
remained in a condition of obscurity
and neglect for more than seventy
years. But soon after the return of the
Pontifical court to Rome, an event
which had been so earnestly prayed for
by poor Petrarch, and which finally
took place in 1376, the Vatican was put
iu a state of repair, again enlarged, and
it was thenceforward considered as the
regular palace and residence of the
Popes, who, one after the other, added
fresh buildings to it, and gradually en
riched it with antiquities, statues, pic
tures, and books, until it became the
richest depository in the world. The
Library of the Vatican was commenced
fourteen hundred years ago. It con
tains 40,000 manuscripts, among which
are some by Pliny, St. Thomas, St. Char
les Borrome, and many Hebrew, Syriac,
Arabian, and Armenian Bibles. The
whole of the immense buildings com
posing the Vatican are filled with stat
ues, found beneath the ruins of ancient
Rome; with paintings by the masters;
and with curious medals aud antiquities
of almost every description. When it
is known that there have been exhumed
more than 70,000 statues from the ruin
ed temples and palaces of Rome, the
reader can form some idea of the riches
of the Vatican. It will ever be held In
veneration by the student, the artist,
and the scholar. Riphael and Michael
Angelo are enthroned there, and their
throne will be as endurable as the love
of beauty and genius Iu the hearts of
their worshipppers.
The African Honej Bird.
The honey-bird is about as large as a
gray mockirg-bird, and is of a similar
color. It endeavors to attract the atten
tion of travelers, and to induce them
to follow it. When it succeeds thus far,
it almost invariably leads the person
who follows to a nest of v- ild bees.
While on the route, it keeps up an in
cessant twittering, as if to assure its
follower of success, and ottenj alights
on the ground or a bush, and looks
back to see if the person is still In pur
suit. The native Africans, when con
ducted by the bird, frequently answer
its twittering with a whistle as they
proceed for the purpose of signifying
to their conductor that they are still
following it. When the bird arrives
at the hollow tree, or other place where
the honey is deposited, it hovers over
the spot, points at the deposit with its
bill, and perches on a neighboring bush
or tree to await its share of the plunder.
This is the usnal termination of the
adventure. But sometimes the honey-
bi'd seems to be actuated by a love of
mischief, and then instead of leading
the traveler to oee s nest, it conducts
him to the lair of some wild beast, and
then flies away with a twittering which
sou n 4 a good deal like laughter.
Gordon Cumming, "the lion killer,''
once followed a honey-bird which con
ducted hi in to the retreat of a huge
crocodile; and having introduced t.ie
traveler to Ills august presence, the
little feathered joker look a hasty leave.
evidently much delighed with the suc
cess of his trick.
A New Iolutry.
A new industry has sprung up in
Carbon county, Pa. It is the manufac
ture of the oils of wintergreen, penny
royal and sassafras. The first named is
made most. The leaves are picked on
the mountains from early Spring to the
Fa!l ol the year. This in itself is quite
a profitable occupation for men, women
and children. They are paid from s-;v-en
and eight mills toa cent a pound for
leaves, and it is not nufrequently that
one person brings to the distillery 2H)
pounds a day. Mr. Kuehner has paid
as high as $1, COO a year for leaves alone,
and he has never been overstocked with
them. The pickers make more at this
business than they could make on the
railroad or at almost any other employ
ment. The work is light, and the moun
tains are covered with the herb. At
the distillery the leaves are put in a
large still, covered with water, and
steamed. The oil soon begins to sink
to the bottom, ai.d after a due time is
drawn off. For this there is a ready
market in New York at 2 per pound.
This is the lowest price at which it has
ever been sold. Eighteen or twenty
years ago it brought $16 per pound;
from 1S04 to 1S03 it dropped to $7 and
$8 per pound, and six years ago it came
down to 4. The largest quantity made
in one year was 025 pounds. It is put
up in twenty-five pound cans, boxed
and shipped. It is used largely in me
dicines, sarsaparilla, cream-beer, soaps,
toilet-waters, vermifuge etc.
Words of WUdom.
Despair has ruined some, but pre
sumption multitudes.
Delays increase desires, and some
times extinguish them.
Let them obey those who know how
to rule.
The near miss of happiuess is a great
misery.
Haste trips np its own heels, fetters
and stops itself.
Look well into thyself; there is a
source which will always spring up if
thou wilt search there.
The virtues of a man ought to be
measured, not by his extraordinary ex
ertions, but by his every day conduct.
Liberality, courtesy, benevolence,
unselfishness, under all circumstances
and towards all men these qualities
are to the world what the linchpin is to
the rolling chariot.
i