SULLIVAN REPUBLICAN. W. M. CHENEY, Publisher. VOL. X. Out of 110,000,000 souls comprising the Russian Empire, fully 80,000,000 are engaged in agricultural pursuits. A French company is now building a street car line in Tashkend, the Capital of Russian Turkestan, where, not very many years ngo, any white man who had visited the place would have lost his head. New York contains an average of.'l 7, • 675 inhabitants to the square mile, or fifty-eight to the acre. The population varies from three to the acre in Ward Twenty-four to 471 in Ward Ten. This last, which is at the rate of 303,360 tc the square mile, is the densest in the •world. Since 1885 the course of the River Volga, in Russia, has rapidly been changing, until the city of Saratoy, once called the "Golden Port of the Volga," is left three milts away from its banks. Saratoy is a wnll-built city of about 135,000 inhabitants. Its trade, which was very large, depended mainly on the liver. There were published last year in this country 4065 books,according to figures just compiled. In this total, which has been surpassed in the last six years only by the number credited to the year 1886, are included- new editions of American books and reprints and trans lations of foreign books, as well ai original works. In his "Race Prussienne," Quatre fages maintains that the Prussians are not Germans. Ethnographically they are a different race, he sayS, but they have acquired the Teutonic tongue, just as the Highlanders have received Eng-< lish. According to- him, the German is the vassal of the Prussian now, as he was of the Roman in the past. Doctor Sargent, the Director of the Harva-d Collage Gymnasium, and an authority on physical training, has for years been making a careful study ol the human form. As a result of his in vestigations he has determined upou what would bo considered the ideally perfect man from a physical point ol view. W. C. Noble, the sculptor, is to prepare a bronze cast based upon these measurements which will be exhibited at the Columbian Exposition. Loyalty to the lost cause dies hard in England, confesses the San Francisco Chronicle. The death of Mary, Queen of Scots, is still commemorated, aud those who hold the Stuarts in. veneration may lay flower.? upon the tomb of this loveliest and most unfortunate of her race. There is something touching in this reverence, and in this country we could have more of it with proSt, for the number of heroes that we hold in grate ful remembrance is painfully small. A curious movement of population is noted by the New Orleans Picayune in Illinois. Sixty-nine cars recently left Peoria for Central lowa loaded with farm ers, their families and household ef fects. The emigrants are mostly from McLean County, 111. Thera were in all 112 adults and eighty-two children. They said that they were moving be cause their Illinois lands had grown so valuable that they could not farm them with profit, so they sold out and bought lands equally good but much cheaper in lowa. The Christian population of the world is ascertained to bi about five hundred millions, constituting a third of the in habitants of the earth. It is an interest ing fact, remarks the Atlanta Constitu tion, that the increase within a century and a half has reached this number from only 200,000,000. A year ago the pro gressive nation of Japan revolutionized the Government and adopted a more popular form. At the first election for members of their Parliament it was found that several Japanese believers in Chris tianity had been chosen by popular suf frage. There are no-.v tliirieen Christiaa Japanese in the present Parliament and many offices of note are held by Japanese of the Christian faith. In fact, this beautiful country must soon take raalc among the Christian nations, aud when we consider how r.ear it may be made to us commercially by the construction of the Nicaragua Canal, as well as by rnpid transit acioss the American con tinent, we may expeo - - our people of the twentieth century to , icome nearly as familiar with Japanese they are with Europeans. IN THE BATTLE. If a trouble binds you, break it; Life is often what we make it. Good or ill—and so we take it; Let not disappointment fret you, If a seeming ill beset you, Cast it off, and hopeful get you On your way— As you make it, so you take it, In the battle every day. If your genius slumber, wake it; For our life is what we make it; As we shape it, so we take it; If we hunt for care or sorrow, We shall only always borrow Trouble from n better morrow Kvery day— As we make it. so we take it— So the life will run away. If the heart is thirsty, slake it; If a blessing offers, take it; For our life is what we make it; Joy abounds in happy faces; Pleasure lives in rosy places; Let us court the goodly graces By the way; And we'll take it as we make it In the battle every day. Dig the garden, smooth it, rake it; For the math is what we make it; As you work it, so you take it; Sit not idly hoping, dreaming— Wrapt in fancy's futile teeming; Victory does not come by scheming— Strike and stay! As you make it, so you take it. If you faint not by the way. —M. V. Moore, in Detroit Free Press. HER LITTLE JOKE, « ISS JOCELYN is BP lookiug out of the \ Jrm w ' n dow. It is a m-»o\ drenching day, and I B there is nothing to AAI AAI f//g H be seen but the gar (*en > ' ts heavy I/t m heated roses droop- C )B,V § n ing under the down n> 3 P our > the vil <\ W I H lage street beyond, JSV. now fast becoming a water-course. "I call this the dullest place in exist ence," said Miss Jocelyn, half aloud— "the very dullest." She does not finish her sentence, but turns to the massive pier glass to look at the reflection of herself—a handsome girl in a smart frock. After one glance she turns back to tho window with a sigh. "What's the use? One might as well wear sackcloth trimmed with ashes in this place, for all the people there are to see one's gowns. It was much more fun at school, alter all. "Why"—suddenly craning forward— "if that isn't that frumpy little Miss Blake with Mr. Stanford, and he is hold ing his umbrella over her! She has got his arm, too! I wonder how he likes it? Poor mau—l wonder if he ever notices whether a woman is old and plain or young and pretty? "Now he's gone splash into a puddle, and she is actually looking up at him and blushing and laughing. Oh, what a joke. Fancy her blushing! Why she must be forty if she's a day—quite forty. And these little curls bobbing about as she goes! "I wonder if lier sister makes her wear her hair like that? I wonder if she is in love with him? Poor old soul!" Mr. Stanford is a curate, but he is a man first and afterward a cleric. Strcng, manly, gentle, lie plays cricket with the village boys, is ready to gossip for a few moments with the old gaffers, is a mem ber of the debating society as well as the rowing club. But Miss Jocelyu is young, and is not vet able to grasp more than the fact that she is better looking and better dressed than most of the girls whom she knows. So to her Ruth Blake is a ridiculous sight, and Mr. Stanford's quiet courtesy, which he would extend just as readily and pleasantly to his washerwoman, is a "good joke." She watches them part at the Misses Blakes' little green gate, and thinks she can see Miss Ruth's upward glance and smile at the line face above her before Mr. Stanford turns and comes striding and splashing back through the puddles. Then, having nothing else to do, Miss Jocelyn plans a pretty little piece of mis chief, which she promptly seta about carrying out. She has one gift, this handsome Miss Jocelyn; she is very skill ful with her pen, and after a little prac tice c.in imitate almost any handwriting. And now she remembers that there is in the study a letter of Mr. Stanford's to her father, and her eyes sparkle with de light.^ "What fun to send poor old Miss Blake a love letter! Perhaps she has never had one. It will be a kindness, positively! How she will blush and simper—silly old thing! Well, serve her right! When there are so few young men in a place, what business have old maids strolling about with them under umbrellas. "Miss Cornelia's a lying down, Miss Ruth. She have one of her bad head aches, and she says as how no one is to disturb her. And your tea is ready and waiting, Miss." Ruth Blake turns into the prim little dining room, seats herself upon one of the straight backed chairs and begins to draw off her brown cotton gloves. She is an odd little figure, small and slim, and dressed in a hideous antiquated plaid, with shades of glaring blue and LAPORTE, PA., FRIDAY, APRIL 22, 1892. green; yet her fair hair—which tho wind and rain have ruffled and made to look like a halo about her meek, small face— painful curve of her lips, aud her slightly flushed cheeks, render her nppearance not altogether unpleasing. She eats her simple tea quickly, glanc ing from time to time at a book which she has propped up against the milk jug —a book Mr. Stanford mentioned inci dentally one day, and which she has ob tained from the village library. The next morning Miss Ruth gets a letter. She knows the handwriting upon the envelope before she opens it. •'Parish matters, of course," she says to herself. "Perhaps it's about the school treat." She opens the envelope, unfolds the note within and is reading it slowly, when suddenly she utters a low cry, her breath conies fast and the familiar world about, her grows iu a moment strange and unreal. For it is a love letter. ' She is thirty three, and this is her very first. And from such a man—the man whom she has looked up to and reverenced and I followed so humbly and modestly ever since she first saw him! She goes down to breakfast with a flushed face, quiver ing lips and radiant eyes. "Miss Cornelia's just ou the ramp this morning, miss," says the little maid warningly, as she meets Ruth in the nar row passage that does duty for a hall. Miss Ruth nods and smiles as if this were the pleasantest intelligent possible. Cornelia's diatribes this morning fall up on heedless ears. Ruth answers at intervals, "Yes, dear,"and "No, dear," and"l will see to it, sister," as in duty bound; but her heart and soul are tilled with one thought —thar wonderful letter. After breakfast, Miss Cornelia goes out to visit her district. Then Miss Ruth takes up her pen and writes tremblingly out of the fulness of her heart: DEAH MR. STANFORD—Your letter has surprised me very mueli. I scarcely know what to say, excapt that 1 am most grateful to you. It is so good of you to love me as you say yon do, aud love lias always seemed such a beautiful thing to me, thoujen I never thought that it was likely to conn* to either my sister or me. But I atn very, very glad to have had your letter, and shalL always be so, even if you change your mind, for, in deed, X am not worthy of all the {jood things you say of rae. .Still, whatever liappens, I stuill always feel happy to know that you onco thought as you have written. And 1 beg you will think the matter over well. Though it seems impertinent of me to advise you, yet I think only of your good. And 1 am always your faithful friend. RUTH BLAKE. She reads the letter over .several times, and then shakes her head. "How poorly I have said it!" she thinks. "But he is sokind; he will un derstand that I mean well." The curate, when he receives the gen tle, humble epistle, is filled with dismay. He paces wildly up and down bis small sitting room. "Somebody has played a cruel, heart less trick upon that poor little woman, and I have to face her and tell her so. 1 would rather be shot." He drinks his scalding tea in great gulps, and is glad of the pain it causes him. "But what am Ito do? Go and tell a woman—a kind, gentle, little lady— coarsely and brutally to her face, that she lias been played with and insulted; that I never dreamed of loving her; that it is impossible for me to do so? Oh, cruel and cowardly! How can I strike a gentlewoman, or indeed any woman, such a blow as that?" lie rests his head upon his hands and groans. After a while he readsithe letter over again slowly. He reads between the lines and seems to see a soul laid bare before him, and he realizes how much that means to her. What a new flood of light has been poured suddenly upon that sad, unselfish life! And there is no help for either of them. He must do it? Well, then, let it be done at once. Mechanically he takes his hat down from its peg and goes out into the street, walking with his head bent down, see ing nothing, hearing nothing until he is close to the little green gate; then a child's clear, high voice reaches his ear. "My g'aunie made it," she says. "Ain't it pitty?" "It's a beautiful doll," a gentle voice answers. "Is it a goad baby?" "Welly dood," the child says, tucking the rag doll under one chubby arui. "Dive me a wose, please." Miss Ruth plucks one of the few re maining June roses, one of the prettiest, aud puts it into the little outstretched hand. As she turns to look after the child Miss Ruth sees him and pauses shyly. Something has to be said, so he comes forward. "What a lovely evening?" he exclaims, though he scarcely knows whether it raius or whether the sun shines. "Yes," she answers. "Won't you— were you—will you come in?" He follows her into the hou9e with an intense longing lor something, however dreadful, to happen to him, and save him from what is to follow. Ruth takes him into the dining room. He feels vaguely that hi 3 task is becom ing more difficult. In the bare, chill little drawing room he could have said his say better. But she brought him straight into the sauctuary ot her home, and again he feels oddly that her life lies open before him. There is her work lying folded togeth er. What a tiny thimble! He glances down at her small bare hands. She has taken off her ugly gloves. What a bit ! of a woman for a strong man to tight! What a gentle life to be mnrred arfd shattered by a bitter shame! Still Mr. Stanford does not speak, but stands there before her, looking very pale. His back is to the window and she cannot see his face well, but the light shines full upon hers. "I did not show my sister your letter," she begins hesitatingly. "I thought I had better wait—that perhaps you would change your mind, think differ ently about it all, and then it would be best that only we two should know." She does not say a word about changing her own mind. She stands there before him, a sweet, fair woman, in spite of her old fashioned gown and her oddly arranged hair. She looks at him with smiling, stead fast eyes, and bids him take or leave her as pleases him best. And his courage to hurt, wound, perhaps kill her, fails him. In a moment his resolution is taken. He strides hastily forward. "Ruth, do you love me?" he asks, holding out his hands. And the calm of her face breaks up as she sinks into his arms. "Oh, so much—so much!" she almost sobs. "But lam not worthy of you. You should marry some one ever, ever so much better and younger and prettier than I. Do you know," hiding her ashamed face and confessing it as she would have confessed a sin, "I am thirty-three." "And I am thirty-four," he answers. "Dreadful isn't it?" When Miss Jocelyn hears the news,she goes away suddenly on a visit to some friends. Three years have passed, and Laura Jocelyn is older, sadder, wiser. She has loved and suffered, and learned to sympathize with others. But she has never seen Mr. Stanford or his old maid wife again. When she returned home the marriage was over, and they were gone to his new living. "This was the worst thing I ever did," she says sadly to herself. "I will go and confess, anil tell him how sorry I am. What a horrible thing to have ruined two lives!" So she goes on her penitent errand to th