VOL. xxx - Read! Read!! Read!!! of the greatest bargains ever offered in But It r. in Dry Goods, Millinery. Wraps, Notions, Trimmings, Underwear, Hosiery, &c NOTE PRICES. Best all wool white blankets, worth $5.00 for $4.00. Best all wool country flannel, worth 35c per 3d for 25c. Ladies' full size all wool skirts, worth SI.OO lor 85c. Men's natural all wool underwear, worth $3.00 for a suit. Ladies' all wool hose, worth 35c per pair for 25c Good all wool factory yarn. 50c per lb. Lawn nce L L sheeting, w irth 7c for 5c per yd. Good pinghams at 5c |>er yd. Good fast color, dark prints 5c per yd Gcod unbundled Damask, worth 35c for 25c per yd. Best unblt .ched Damask, worth 50c for 37c per yd. Besides ali this we have the latest novelties in Millinery, Wraps, Dress Geods. Novelties in Fancy Dress Good Patterns, no two alike, (Black Goods a Specialty.) These are all to be found at the well known Bargain House of Butler. JENNIE G. ZIMMERMAN, (Successor to Ritter & Ralston.) Mel's Reduction Sale Of Seasonable Goods. Oar entire stock of russet goods including many -[different styles in Ladies'and Gents shoes and oxfords have been placed on our biirgain counter to be closed out at less than cost prices. Call and see our Russet shoes and Oxfords, whether you are needing a pair or not, for after visiting our bar gain counter you are pure to buy. A FEW OF OUR LEADERS. Ladies Rassett Shoe 3 Hand Turn, price $4.00. now at $2 50 " $3.50, " $2.25. " " regular price, $2 25, now at $1.75. Men's Russett Shoes—many different style*, price $4.00, now at $3.00. Men's Russett shoes, regular price $3.25, reduced to $2 50. Ladies' hand turn Oxfords, price $2.25, now at $1.65 Ladies' Russett Oxfords, regular price $1.25, now at 75c Balance of our Misses' and Childrens' Tau aud Red shoes .and t Oxfords at a bargain. We have received most of our Fall stock and can sell fall foot**wear cheaper than ever before. Fall stock of Men's Box toe Boots and Shoes Ladies' Calf Shoes button or lace at $1.25. Ladies' best Oil Grain Shoes at $1.25. Ladies' Kip shoes at SI.OO. Misses' and Children's school shoes 75c and upwards. Boys' school boes at SI.OO per pair Men's fine calf shoes, button, lace or cougress at $1.25. Men's fine calf Dress Boots at $2.00 to $3.50 per pair. Fall stock of Mens' Fine Dress Shoes in Calf, Kangaroo or Cordovan. Balance of oar Men's Patent Leather shoes go at $2.50 per pair. Fall stock of Rubber Goods and prices very low. When in Sutler, call and examine my goods and learn my prices. Hail Orders Receive Prompt Attention. RKPAIRING I )OX 1~ JOHN BICKE^L. 28 SOUTH MAIN STREET. BUTLER. PENN'A Opening of Clothing*;- DON'T FAIL TO ATTEND FALL SUITS. ODR FALL OPENING OF FALL UNDERWEAR, CLOTHING. HATS AND FALL OVERCOATS GENTS FURNISHING GOODS %* %* All oar Fall Goods are entirely new a* did not buv a dollars worth of heavy goods when we opened in the Spring All welcome whether you wish\o buy or uot. Come anil tee DOUTHETT & GRAHAM, Reliable One Price Clothiers. Cor. Main and Cunningham Sts., Butler, Pa. The Fair is Coming. OUR SHOES ARE DOWN. 60 pairs of Ladies' fioe Oxfords Eddys & Webster's make were 2.75 now only 1 90. 200 pairs of Ladies' sbdbs Eddy & Webster's make hand turned and welt were 4.50 and 5.00 no# only 3 75. 1 lot of Ladies' shoes hand turned werp 2.25 and 2.50 now only 1.90. 1 lot of Oxford? ties only 60 cts All children's Red nndtan shoes at 85 eta. wore 1.00 aud 1.25 1 lot Men's Cordovan Strong & Carrell make were 550 now ouly 4.65. 1 lot Men's French ealf shoes Strong & Carrell make were 475 now only 3.90. 1 lot Men's Dongola were 225 now 1.65 1 lot Men's double sole aud »ap were 2.00 now 1.45. All Shoes Down to Rock Bottom Prices at ROBINS BROS., 8. E. corner of Diamond • _ Butler, Po. , RINGS, \J let 111 Oil (IS < SCARF PINS, [ '•Trips, ( GENTS GOLD, ~W/ \ I'ADlfciS " 'OLD, ▼ t cllUirS ( GKNTS SILVER 1 A DIES CHATLAIN. JpWPIrV • i G ? ,d S p » w . * ar-rings, ,7 ] Rings Chains, Bracelets, Etc, 1 Tea sets, castors, butter dishes Sllvprwiirp "i and everything that can be ' * { found in a first class sto*-e. RODGER BROS. |™|Tp.a^ rks> Spoons - E. GRIEB, THE JEWELER No. 139, North Main St., BUTLER, PA., THE BUTLER CITIZEN. ITHE KIND " THAT CURES. m MRS. P. J- CROMWELL, B P lA WORLD OF JOY IN | | FOUR WO? S! ■■>, I |"Two Bottles Cured Mei'^ MUpAXA BARSAPAEII.LA < o. fi ■■i DKJia t>lE6:—For yrara I bar - :. i ! <1 Ssviih llheamittl«ui. ulto 1.;.« r «• ... ■Brtfy HVoublt*. Nothing b»<- ; '-i to it ■ Bpwuifanlly until I trie*J 1 DANA'S | SARSAPARILLA P two l»ottle ££ Esperanto, N.Y. MRS. P. « T . CROMWKIJU ■ISCIIOIIABIE Co. 85. 8? == This crrtifie* that I know the above Mrs. I' J. g=j-Cromwell to be trunlworlliy, ar-J one upon*** ■whose word you ran rely. A. 11. McKLE, Justice of the Fe* «. '; s. Lsper&nct. N. Y. m Dins Sarsaparlila Co., Beifsst, Maine. _ B. <*• B. i . _ How • Much? Tbe qu.t-**i<>u with u- in extending this already enormous bu.~in":-a is, not bow much wl* can get for the merchandise, but for how little can it be sold? This hut ex-!< ulifies how its to your it and profit to trade with us. Autumn Di •ess Woolens. Sale of 5,000 yards double width Suit ings—half wool, neat styles; every yard worth 25c , 35c. to 50c.—all at one price, and its a popular price, 15 Onls a yard. 50 inch Scotch Suitings, Greys, Browns, Taus, 25 cents —you've paid 50c for Dress Fabrics not so good. £>,ooo yards genuine fmported Tailor Suitings, finest wool —4B inches wide—new Fall colorings and tbe choicest of tL 8 season's styles—neat checks, stripes and mixtures, SI.OO a yard. Somestores—and good stores too —get $1 40 a yard—some $1 25--and the universal selling price—the closest price for tbese choice Dress Fabrics is $1.15. We sell them at SI.OO aod you're ahead the difference. Our Mail Order Dapirtmaat will send samples if you wish. Boggs &C Bulil, iia to 121 Federal Street, ALLEGHENY. PA. Clearance Sale. We must have more room and we want to reduce our wall paper stock. We will sell you paper now cheaper thau we can afford to sell it next spring. Our object is to reduce stock uud we will give you wholesale prices on any amount. If you will evir need wall paper, buy it now. NEW AND LATE PATTERNS at J. H. Douglass', 341 S. Moin St, Ntar. 1* O * Great Clothing Sale-;- .A-T The Racket Store, Men's suits double or single breast ed, square or rouad corners ia cash mere or cheviots at sfi 00, $6 50 and $7.00. These suits are richly worth SIO.OO and will o >st you that else where. Youths suits, age 12 to 18 for $3 50 worth $5.00 Fine lelay worsted cutaway suits at SIB.OO, others sell at $22.00 THE RACKET STORE. 120 South Main Street, Butler, I'a Planing Mill —AND— Lumber Yard J. L. i*U KVI-.. t . o. n HVIB S.G. Purvis&Co. MANUFACTURERS AND DEAI.KRB IK Rough and Planed Lumber o? JCVCKY description, SHINGLES, LATH & SEWER PIPE. Butler, Po. WHEN SISSY STARTS TO PLAY Oh' yiere's sadness in the household, an< there's gloom upon the street— When Sissy starts to play on the planner. The robins and the bob-o-links, they beat a swift retreat— When Sissy starts to play on the planner. Even the organ-grinder passes swiftly by th« gate, His empty tincup in his hand, his eye a-j-lcan with hate; The neighborhood for blocks around is strangeij desolate- When Sissy starts to play on the pianner. The yoang man in the parlor is sitting pale a< death— When Sissy starts to play on the pianner. While father thinks the house too warm and goes to get a "breath"— When Sissy starts to play on the planner. The tomcats jump from off the fence and fly t< parts unknown, Where they may charm the stilly night Witt music of their own. And Towscr s:ts and bays the moon out in th< yard alone— When Sissy starts to play on the pianner. The dishes leave the pantry shelves and roi: upon the floor- V.'lien Sissy starts to play on the pianner. And grandma says she's positive a burglar's at the door— When Sissy starts to play on the pianner. Oh: what woe and mental anguish upon my mind descend; What haste and desperation all my movements do attend! Excuse me—l must snatch my hat and go to see a friend— Ere Sissy starts to play on the pianner. —Henry D. Muir, in Puck. RECONCILIATION. Why the Old Line Fenoe Was Torn Down. It was a close, sultry summer after noon, with scarce a breath of air stir ring-, while the sun poured his scorching rays from a cloudless sky. All nbout the old Burton farmhouse a deathlike stillness reigned. There were no sounds of voices from within, no creaking foot steps on the uncarpeted floors; while, without, even the songs of the birds were hushed. The dingy, forlorn-look ing house, with its low unpainted, weather-stained exterior, its low doors and its small windows, was even more desolate and forsaken in appearance than was its wont, and at first glance one would have thought it completely deserted. But a closer observation proved that such was not the case. Isaac Burton, old and gTay, and bent under the cares and burdens of years of trial and toil, sat on the doorstep of the house wifh his face buried in his hands, now and then casting a furtive glance through the open door in tie di rection of a bed in a corner of the room. While he sat there the sun crawled down the western sky, casting its shadow obliquely through the open door, yet he seemed unmindful of the fact that time wjw passing. Rising from the steps, finally, he stood an in stant listening to the slow, regular breathing that came from the bed, then walked out across the neglected yard, muttering, half audibly: "She sleeps well, but I don't like the 'pearance of her face." Iteacliing the crooked rail fence that separated the yard from_ the public highway, old Isaac stopped and for a little while stood looking down the hard, white road that ran through the long, straight lane to the east. The road was deserted, not a living object being visible on all the two miles of it that lay within his view. "She ort to have the doctor," he mut tered, "yit I don't like to leave her to go and fetch him. She looks mouty quare 'bout the face an' eyes, an' I'm afeerd she's bad tuck." Then, after a short silence: "If only somebody was passin' this way, so's I eould send word to the mill an' git the doctor." Then Isaac cast a look in the direc tion of the ridge, a fourth of a mile to the west, where a small log house, similar to his own, stood, and some thing like a sigh escaped him. Shak ing- his head sadly, he turned away. "Neighbors 'd be powerful helpin' an' comfortin' just now," he mused, "an' I'd give a heap if we had some. I never got lonesome when Lindy was up an' about, but now she's down I feel like half the world is gone, an' it 'pears like I hope fer somebody to keep me company. Them people," nodding toward # the house on the opposite ridge, "ain't no neighbors, an' no matter what comes I can't go to them for nothin'." For some time old Isaac walked to and fro in the little path leading from the gate to the door, then again he went and leaned over the fence to look down the road. Instantly his face brightened and a glad light came into his eyes, for away down the lane he saw a man approaching. hearty a quarter of an hour passed before the latter came up, but Isaac waited for him and accosted him at once: "Sam, I never was so glad to see any body as lam to see you. Are you goin' over to the mill?" "Yes," Sam replied, after eying old Isaac inquiringly for almost a minute. "What has happened, Ike?" "Lindy is bad sick, Sam," Ike said, in a low tone, "an' all night an' all day I've been stayin' with her alone. I lcnowed, too, that she ort to have the doctor, but I was afeerd to leave her, an' there wa'n't nobody to send. You kin tell him to come when you git to the mill." "Yes, I'll tell him, Ike, an' if there's anything else I kin do fer you I'll do it, an' bo glad to." "No; that's all. Tell him to come as quick as he kin, Sam." "Yes, I will. But you ort to have somebody to stay with you, Ike. Some body to help 'bout nussin' an' 'tendin' on Mis* Burton." "I know that," Isaac replied, with a sigh and a slow shaking of his head. "I'd give a heap to have somebody here, but I can't git nobody now." For a moment Sam was silent, casting a. glance first at Isaac, then at the house on the ridge to the west. Isaac saw the action and understood. "Xo, Sam," he said, half sadly, half vindictively, "I'll never go there for a favor, never!" "In a case like this things ought to be different," Sam suggested. "People ought to forgive and forget, Ike." "Mebby so, Sam, mebby so; but they wouldn't feel that way. All that's been said an' done in thirty years can't be forgot in a day." It was a little while before Sam spoke again. lie wished to proceed just right in his kindly purpose—that of reconciling two long estranged families —and for a time he was at a loss how to do it. Finally he said: "Ike, if Mis' Martin felt inclined to come you wouldn't object, would you?" Isaac shook his head. "She won't feel so inclined, Sam It ain't natural that she should." "I don't know," Sam replied. "Mfe' Martin has a kind heart, an' she is syaipathizin' with the sick an' the needy. She's a good woman, Ike." "She may be, but I ain't ready to say so. It's been thirty years since my family an' the Martins have neigh bored, an' in all that time not a word has passed between us. It's hard to forget an' forgive after so long, Sam, an' I 'low Mis' Martin can't do it. She may be a good woman, but she ain't good enough to do that." Sam said no more, but went on up the road toward the mill, while Isaac returned to his seat on the doorstep. Lindy still slept, and, as her husband sat listening to her breathing, his thoughts ran over the conversation he had just had with Sam Gross. "I'd be glad to have Mis' Martin here," he thought, "but I ain't no right to ex pect her to come, even if she was Chris tian enough to forgive an' forgit. Three months ago. when Martin lay sick, I Saeref. Wa. aa' tvte BTTTLER, PA., FRIDAY. OCTOBER 18, 1893. when he died I kept away from the house, not so much asseein' him buried. I ain't no right to expect her to be more forgivin" than myself." When Sam Gross arrived at Mrs. Mar tin's house he went in and asked for a drink of water. She gave it to him, then asked him to stop awhile to rest. "I'd be glad enough tcf Sara replied, mopping the perspiration from his brow, "but I'm in too mu:h of a hur ry. Comin' by Burton's just now, Ike he comes out an' says Lindy is bad tuck, an' that he's afeared she's goin' off, an' he asks me to send the doctor up, so I'll have to git 'long as peart as I kin. Poor Lindy!" Sam went on, after a short pause, "I 'low that doctors an' medicine an' sich Pkes ain't agoin' to do her much good 'less'n she has proper nussin'. Ike can't 'tend on her wv.th shocks, no matter how hard he tries, an' if he goes 'bout in sight of 'er with that forlorn, sad look he wears, she'll die shore, jest o' that alone. She needs a good, cheerful woman nuss, Mis' Mar tin, sech as you'd be, now." Sam stopped and waited, as if for a reply from Mrs. Martin, but she did not speak, and he went on: "In cases like that," he said, "it's a great pity folks ain't got no neighbors, fer good neighbors is a power o' com fort to the sick an' them as is related to the sick. There's no knowin' what good nussin' would do fer Mis' Burton, ner how consolin' a word o' sympathy would be to poor old Ike in his loneli ness. I feel fer them poor critters, Mis' Martin, an' I do wish somebody would be neighborly with 'em." Again Sam paused, but Mrs. Martin said nothing, and he saw that he must speak plainer in order to make the im pression he desired. "Mis' Martin," he continued, "life is powerful short, an' if people expect to prepare fer eternity they ain't got no time to waste ia useless bickerin's. Them as expects to be happy in the next world can't afford to spend their time here in contentions. Fer my part. Mis' Martin, I'd hate to let a cross fence atween two farms stand betwixt me an' my neighbors, much less betwixt me an' Heaven. Now fer thirty years that cross fence up there has kept you uns an' the Burtons apart, makin' you enemies when you ousrht to 'a' been friends an' neighbors, an' it was all on account of contentiousness. Either family would 'a' made up in a minute if the other would 'a' tuck the fust step, but neither would budge an inch, an' so it's gone on an' on, al) of you bein' as miserable as sin. Mis' Martin, 'tain't right. People as hopes to be for give in the next world must forgive in this. I put it to you, now. Mis' Martin, if I ain't right?" "Sam, you are right," Mrs. Martin re plied. "That cross-fence trouble has caused me many sorrowful days, and there never has been a time when I wouldn't gladly have buried the strife and made friends with the Burtons. But I thought the first advances to ward a reconciliation ought to come from Isaac. He was most to blame." "Mis' Martin," said Sam, "I don't know who was most to blame. I ain't no call to speak of that. But this I know: If a person is a true Christian an' wants to so act, that person mustn't stick at no fine p'lnts; an' in a effort to fetch about a reconciliation lie must be willin' to go more'n half-way to meet t'other party. Scripture says, Mis' Mart'-i. to'do good to them that de spiteiully use you,' an' as Christians we're bound to do it." S :m spoke with deep solemnity, and it was plain that his words had a great effect on his auditor. Mrs. Martin was a Christian woman and she meant well, but, like many other good people, she found it hard to humble herself. There was a long silence, during which a con flict between duty and pride waged within Mrs. Martin's bosom. "Sam," she said, at last, "do you think Isaac would not resent my com ing into his house?" "I know he wouldn't," Sam replied, promptly. "More than that, Mis' Mariin, I know he'd welcome you." "Then I'll go, Sam, an' let the out come of it be what it may, I know I shall feel the better for goin'." Sam started on his way, happy in the thought of wha,t he had accomplished, and hoping that his efforts might lead to the burial of the differences that had so long kept the two families at enmity. Mrs. Martin went immediately to Burton's, and when old Isaac from his seat on the doorstep saw her coming up the yard-path he was more surprised than he ever had been in all his life. However, he composed himself suffi ciently to give her a fitting reception and remove from her mind all fear of her visit being considered an intrusion. At first there was an air of restraint about the actions and conversation of both, but that gradually died out, and in time they became easy and natural in their deportment. The doctor came, but he could not give Isaac any encouragement, for he found that Lindy was in a dangerous condition, with little prospect of im provement. "She is very low," he said, "and we can hope for no change for the better. I'm afraid she cannot last long." And the doctor was right, for day by day the sick woman sank, and aCter the lapse of a week she closed her eyes on earth forever. All through the week Mrs. Martin stayed by the bedside, de voting herself to the invalid as faith fully as ever nurse did, receiving the blessings of her charge and the heart felt gratitude of Isaac. Then, when all was over, she returned to her home happier than she bad been for thirty long years. A year passed, and the people of Possum Ridge began to wonder if the cross-fence trouble was to be revived in court again. The time for which a stay of proceedings had been granted had nearly expired, and at the next sitting of the court the case would be called up for further action. Isaac and Mrs. Mar tin had become neighborly, but neither of them had ever mentioned the cross fence, and the matter stood just as it had before Lindy's death. People had talked a great deal about it., some con jecturing that old Isaac would dismiss the case after Mrs. Martin's kindness to his wife, some maintaining that he would not, and some going so far as to predict that Mrs. Martin, in the for giving disposition of her heart, would dismiss the case herself. Sam Gross heard all that was said, watched pro ceedings quietly, and even ventured to speak to each of the parties separately, in the hope of having the affair settled amicably. But still everything re mained in doubt, and but a week must elapse before the coming on of court. Sam shook his head sadly, feeling that, after all, his efforts had fallen far short of his cherished desired. Late one afternoon old Isaac donned his best clothing, and, taking down his cane, walked up the road to Mrs. Mar tin's. The widow received him gra ciously, inviting him to a seat on the long, rambling porch, and exerting her self to the utmost to make him feel welcome. "Mis' Martin," Isaac said, after they had exchanged a few commonplace re marks, "you know, of course, that the cross-fence suit is to come up in court next week?" "Yes; I know it," the widow answered, sadly, "and I wish with all my heart that it wasn't. I'm tired of it." "So am I, Mis' Martin," Isaac said, with a slow shaking of his head. "I wish now that cross fence had never ex isted. It's been a source of sorrertoall of us, an' many's the time I've regretted deeply that the suitwas ever brought, an' I've regretted it a thou'san times more than ever durin' the last year." "So have I," the widow replied "If we had only been friends an' neighbors while Martin and Lindy lived. We've missed a great deal, Mr. Burton, by our contentions, an' now that t'other two is (rone we ought to try to live better an' happier lives. We ought to drop the old suit an' bury our differences. Don't you feel so?" "I da I've felt it for a long time, Mis' Martin, an' I come here this even in' to talk the matter over an' see if we couldn't agree to a plan of settlement. 1 have a plan to offer, Jane, which, if 'twas agreeable to you, would settle the trouble forever." Mrs. Martin arched her eyebrows in surprise when Isaac spoke her first name, for that was the first time in his life that he had shown such familiarity. Yet she did not seem offended at all, nor did she appear displeased when he drew his chair nearer hers and looked into her face with an unmistakable tenderness. "Jane," he went on, in low soft tones, "we are gittin' old, an' we're all alone in the world. For thirty yeirs we've been as strangers, an' we've each helped to sadden the life of the other. We can blot out the old trouble, an' the line-fence with it, an' I feel that we ought to do it. It's our duty to forgit the past, an' in the future try to make up to each other the happiness we've missed. We can make the farms one, Jane, an' then there'll be no need of no cross fence an' we kin make our lives an' interests one, an' then there'll be no need for no more contentions." Isaac paused, but, as the widow di d not raise her eyes nor attempt to speak, he went on: "I'm a lonely old man, Jane," he said, "an' want somebody to keep me compa ny through my few remaining years, an' nobody would suit me like you. I love you, Jane, for your .kindness to Lindy, an' I want you to forgive me for all of the past an' be my wife. We can be comfortable an' we can cheer each other in our declining days. Jane, will you do it?" The widow lifted her face, beautiful in spite of its age, and, looking into Isaac's eyes with an answering tender ness, laid her hand in his. "Yes, Isaac," she said, "I will be your wife, an' will faithfully try to fill Lin dy's place in your home." A few days later the old couple were married, and Sara Oross, who was pres ent at the ceremony, took to himself much of the credit for the happy termi nation of affairs, and not unjustly, either. Isaac immediately threw the old suit out of court, then put men to work to tear down the old line fence and turn the two farms into one, just as the own ers had turned their lives and interests into one. Thus the last vestige of the old trouble was removed, and the two surviving litigants entered on a quiet, happy existence, at peace with all the world. —Thomas E. Montfort, in Les lie's Weekly. —"Truly good young men," said Mrs. Errordite, "are as scarce as angel's teeth!" "Why, (fran'ma! What an ex pression!" "I should have said," hastily added the old lady, "as scarce as hen's visits." TYPES OF BAD MEN. Characteristics of the Frontier Deiper adoet Who Held Life Cheap. The wonder grows whence sprang these men, who, with pistols on both hips and knives in their belts, were ever eager for some fray, and when no one could be found to accommodate them picked a quarrel and then killed their fellow-man. The peculiar dangers that attend the pursuit of gold seem to bring out, in enormous degree, all the latent vic iousness in man, and the interest is, where did such men hide themselves when in more peaceful parts, or did the mere sight of the precious metal or the insatiable greed to obtain it transform a respectable citizen into an animal in contrast with whom a royal Bengal tiger would be sociable and almost coaapanionable? I asked this question, says a writer in the San Francisco Chronicle, of 11. J. Crow, of Los Angeles, one of "her most prosperous and adventurous busi ness men, who had founded Idaho City and had followed mining in many states and territories, about the char acteristics of these "bad men" and whence they came. "You could generally bet on it," said Mr. Crow, "that they were from the southern states, and seemed to have had dark experiences before they had penetrated into the mines. As a rule they were lazy men, possessed with al most animal strength, and were utter ly devoid of remorse. Indeed, these men—and I have known several—ap parently felt that they owed nothing to society and had no responsibility. I saw three men hanged together one day and heard one say to the other: " 'Well, Jim, go ahead, I'll meet you in hell in a minute,' and when it came his turn to swing he shouted: 'Three cheers for Jeff Davis.' They actually ifeared nothing and held their own lives as cheaply as they took others. Where these men disappeared after the mines gave cut, or whether they ever became peaceable citizens, I cannot say. I know several have adopted the latter role, buft it would take very lit tle provocation to make them as blood thirsty as when they sought victims in Idaho." The Cureall. A Bazar reader who is blest with a large family, is a striet disciplinarian, and never gives in to a refractory child. She thinks spanking accomplishes all things. One day the dessert was a pie which seemed small for the number to be served, and she said: "Oh, dear me, this pie won't go round." "Spank it and make it go round," sang out a little voice from far down the table. —Harper's Bazar. Not IJribecL Citizen—People are saying that you were bribed to put through that thiev ing bill in behalf of the Graball com pany. Legislator (haughtily) —Huh? Who would there bo to bribe me, I should like to know. No one, sir. Not a liv ing soul. Citizen—But that company- Legislator—Why, I'm the company. —N. Y. Weekly. Horse and llorse. Butler —There's a man below to see you, sir. May berry—What did you tell him? Butler —I told him you told me if it was a lady to say you were in; and if it was a man to say you were out. Mayberry—What did he say then? Butler —He said to tell you he was a lady.—Chicago Post. The Trouble. "Arc you going to the fair?" "If I can afford to. I doubt if I can." "Why, your wife said she was go ing." "Yes, but I pay her expenses. I haven't anybody to pay mine."—Judge. A Work of Time. Mr. McSwat—Have you packed your trunk yet, Lobelia? Mrs. McSwat —Not yet. Mr. McSwat (looking at his watch) — Then you» haven't any time to lose. The train leaves in exactly thirty-six hours. —Chicago Tribune. Small Change. Mrs. Riverside Parke —I wish I could have ft little change this sum mer. Mr. Riverside Parke —You can, my dear. Here is a dime for ygu.— Texas DEATH IS RARELY PAINFUL. BUT Sri Mtloni of Approaching DIMOIO tIon Are l.lttlo Known to I'hjilrluu. Descriptions of the sensations of those who thought they were about to die, but who passed into a more or less profound state of unconsciousness and afterward recovered, though intense and realistic, cannot be accepted as authentic portrayals of the sensations of the dying, since these persons did not die, says a medical writer in Kate Field's Washington. The temporary suspension of all the physical signs of life, as in a trance or lethargy, may so exactly simulate death that all may agree that the person is dead, while yet that indefinable something which holds the soul to the body remains and is capable of reinstating the common phenomena of life. We have no reason to assume that the sensations expe rienced in passing into this state of unconsciousness resemble the sensa tions of those who have actually felt the earthly house of this tabernacle dissolved. Unconsciousness is not death. It only objectively resembles it. Physicians at the bedside of the dying, while holding the flickering, weakening pulse beneath the finger, eagerly watch for some word or sign expressive of the sensations of ap proaching dissolution. Nothing, how ever, of value ever comes to us. In deed many a life goes out leaving be hind clear indications that there is no appreciation whatever of the great overshadowing change that is upou it, even though the wind remains clear and active to the last. A mother hearing me whisper at her beside: "She is dying," opened her eyes and replied: "I'll be better in a minute," though when the minute had elapsed she had given her last sigh— her last heart-throb A little gtrl clinging to her father's hand one sunny morning said: "Papa, light the lamp; it is getting so dark," and immediately expired. A young man asked: "Why do you all cry? I shall get well soon," and fell back on his pillow, dead. These expressions show clearly that the putting on of immortality was un accompanied by sensations indicative of the change. In a great majority of cases death ia Ijjeeeded by a period of unconscious ness, more or less profound and of greater or iess duration. In this state the vital spark goes out painlessly and without any evidence of the mind be ing illumined for a single instant by returning consciousness. Deathbeds are rarely painful. ARCTIC INSECTS. Immrngo Quantities of La nee Brought Down by Glacier*. It is a matter of surprise to all who, for the first time, have any experiences in high northern latitudes, to note the great abundance of insect life in Alaska. The writer of this paragraph, says Meehan's Monthly, was especially interested in noting the large amount of larvaj and other low conditions of animal life which was carried down from the melting glaciers into the rivers and streams which flowed from them. It is to this that we have to attribute the great abundance of high er forms of animal life which prevail. Fish especially are in such quantities near the coast, attracted by this abundance, that it seems like repeat ing the tales of Baron Munchausen to the listener. The young son of the writer, who was with him in this ex pedition, was, with a couple of Indians in a boat, able to drive salmon into narrow creeks in such abundance that the boat would be driven against the fish in their endeavors to escape. They could have been dragged up la shoafcs by any strong and ordinary net. In the earlier history of Colorado very much stress was laid on the fact that Fremont saw a bee on one of the high elevations while crossing the Rocky mountains. Lieut. Peary in his recent expedition to North Greenland found a bumble bee on the north coast of Greenland —the highest point of land yet reached by a human being so far as known. This explorer states that not only bees, but other insects abound as soon as the spring fairly opens. Flowers of many kinds are particular ly beautiful and abundant, affording a good chance for honey and pollen-col lecting insects to lay up rich stores in advance of their long Arctic winters. WOMEN WORKERS IN BRITTANY. While the Men Idle Away Their Time Their Wive* Labor. The women of Brittany are remark able for their individuality, industry and strength of character. In "Artis tic Travel" the author says that while the men slumber and smoke, the women are building little fortunes or propping up old ones. Let us picture a prominent person age at the old Hotel du Lion d'Or. She has a beautiful name, Augustine, pro nounced with enviable accuracy by all the household. She hovered abo»t us like a fairy, at tending to all our wants in the most delicate way; to outward seeming a ministering angel with pure white wings, but in truth, a drudge, a me thodical housewife, massive and hard to the touch. She did the work o'f three Parisian garcons, and walked upstairs, unaided, with portmanteaus which would re quire two men to lift, anywhere out of Brittany. She slept in a box in the kitchen and dressed "somehow" in five minutes. She ate what was left, contentedly, at the end of the day, and rose at sunrise to do the laborious work of the house, helping also at harvest time in the fields. She had the sweetest of smiles, when she liked, an unconquerable habit of taking snuff, and a murderous way of killing fowls in the early morning which we shall not easily forget How it comes to pass that this girl of nineteen occupies such an important position in the household is one of those things which are peculiar to Brittany. All through the land, in the houses, in the factories, and in the fields, the strong, firm hand and arm of a woman does the work. What Would Ton l>o? Now If you should visit a Japanese home Where there Isn't a sofa or chair. And your hostess should say: "Take a leat, sir, I pray," Now, where would you sit? tell me where. And should they persuade you to stay there and dine. Where knives, forks and spoons are un known; Do you think you could cat with chop