North Branch democrat. (Tunkhannock, Pa.) 1854-1867, January 27, 1864, Image 1

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TT a TtVEY BICI£XiEII, l, ''orrk'tor.]
IJflrlij irinifli Bmorrah
A weekly Democratic ■
pajier, devoted to Pol- f
tics, News, the Arts w jL-AZlt-l' j-- 1
and Sciences Ac. Pub- y r '
day, at Tunkhannock, Jj
Wyoming County, Pa. y V x!fl3B fJ J''
Terms —1 copy 1 year, (in advance) *1.50. if
not pain within six months, 62.00 will be charged
10 lines orl ,
less, make three four tiro three si.r one
one square iceeks\iceeks mo'th mo'thtao I th year
1 Square l,ooj 1,25; 2,25; 2.87 3,00< 5.00
2 do. 2,00? 2.50; 3,25 3.505 4.50; 6.00
3 do. 3,00 3.75J 4,75 5,50 7,00 9.00
i Column. 4.00' 4,50; 6.51 V 9,00 10,00 15,00
do. 6,00' 7.00, 10.00 12.00 17.00 25.00
do. ROO 9,50 14.00? 13,00 25.00 35,00
1 do. 10,00 i 12,00 17,00? 22,00. 23,00 40,00
Business Cards of one square, with paper, S3.
of all kinds neatly executed, and at prices to suit
the times.
business JTotirrs.
BACON STAND.—Nicholson, Pa. C L
JACKSON, Proprietor. [vln49tf]
'OT Tunkhannoek, Pa. Oliice in Stark's Diick
Block, Tioga street.
\\ five in Staik's Brick Block, Tioga St., Tinik
tianneek, Pa.
i. LAW, Office on Tioga street, Tunkhannoek
•J . Office on Bridge Street, next door to the Demo
crat Office, Tunkhannoek, Pa.
. Newton Centre, Luzerne County I'a.
llt. .1. CL BECKER & Co.,
Would respectfully announce to the citizen* of V .
ming that they have located at Tunkhannoek ivher
hey will promptly attend to till calls' in the line of
neir profession. May be found at his Drug Staro
when not professionally absent.
T M. CAREY, 31, I).— (Graduate of the 3
•J . M. Institute, Cincinnati) would respectfully
announce to the citizens of Wyoming and Luzerne
Counties, that he c mtinues his regular practice in the
various departments of his profession. May r>e found
at his office or residence, when uot professionally ab
ViP* Parti -ular attention given to the treatment
Chronic Diseas.
entreuioreland, Wyoming Co. Pa.—v2u2
THIS establishment has recently been refitted and
furnished in the latest style. Every attention
will be given to the comfort and convenience of those
wao patronize the House.
T. B. WALL, Owner nnd Proprietor.
Tunkhannoek, September 1!, 1861.
JOHN MA Y X ARI) , Proprietor.
HAVING taken the Hotel, in the Borough of
Tunkhaunuek, recently occupied by Kilcy
Warner, the proprietor respectfully solicits a share of
public patronage. The House has been thoroughly
repaired, and the comforts and accomodations of a
first class Hotel, will be found by all who may favor
t with their custom. September 11, IS6I.
Wm. H. CORTRIGHT, Prop'r
HAVING resumed the proprietorship of the ahovo
Hotel, the undersigned will spare no effort to
reader the house an agreeable place of sojourn for
all who may favor it with their custom.
June, 3rd, 1863
ftas Ihflrl.
and BEST ARRANGED Houses in the country—lt
is fitted up in the mo6t modern ami improved style,
and no pains are spared to make it a pleasant and
agreeable stopping-place for all,
v 3, n2l, ly
MGILMAN, has permanently located in Tunk
• hannot k Borough, and respectfully tenders his
professional services to the citirens of this place and
urrounding country.
Office over Tntton's Law Office, near the Pos
Dec. 11, IS6I.
restored to health in a few days, after undergoing all
the usual routine and irregular expensive modes of
treatment without success, considers it his sacred du
ty to communicate to his afflicted fellow creatures
the means of cure. Hence, on the receipt of an ad
dressed envelope, he will send (free) a copy of the
fcrescription used. Direct to Dr JOHN M. DAGNALL,
Fulton Street, Brooklyn, New York. v2n24ly
pott's Corner.
Watching when the morning breaketh
O'er the mountains cold and gray j
Watching when the evening fadeth
In the last long flush of day;
Watching when the stars look gladly
Over all the moonlit ss i,
When the night is siler t round us
Love, for thee
Holy memories steal o'er me
Of the far distant past;
Fairest visions float before me,
All too bright, too sweet to last.
Watching in the midnight dreary,
Longirg thy dear face to see ;
Watching till the heart grows weary,
Love, for thee
Ceaselessly against the window
Beats the dismal plashing rain,
Telling stories weird and wretched
Of what ne'er can come again ;
And the night-lamp burreth faintly
On the table cheerlessly,
And uiv heart is weary, watching.
Love, for thee.
Watching for the lightest footstep
While my soul is deeply stirr'J
By a mufauir 'neath the easement,
By a softly spoken word ;
And I gaze into the darkness,
Rain and darkness, dreamily
Watching, longing, longing, watching,
Love for thee.
Oh ! the day succeeds the night-time
With its floods of rosy light;
Following the gloomy winter
Comes the summer warm and bright.
The light comes to the flowers,
And the leaflet to the tree,
And all is gay in spring-time,
Love, but me.
The iris will mate them gladly
When the year s in its prime ;
The flowers will smell the sweetest
In the happy summer-time,
I, sad, alone, will watch it—
The wide, the cruel sea—
While its billows bear thee tarther,
Love, Irom me.
Watching all the hap; y summer,
When the days are long and bright;
Watching while the autumn noontide
Fadeth slowly into night:
Watching through the dreary winter,
When the spring's lirst buds I see ;
Watching till the heart grows weary,
Love, for thee.
Sklttt Stars,
"Cousin Stella, I promised, some davs ago,
to tell you a story. Everybody is gone to
night; we have the house all to ourselves.
Come with me to the bay-window in the par
1 >r—llo, don't bring any lamps, Stella; this
mellow moon-light is all the light we need.
Sit there Stella,and I'll lake this ottoman
opposite you. Now for my story, ma belle
Stella;it is about—myself."
Stella started.
Horace inwardly smiled, but remained out
wardly expressionless. He, however, drew
his seat a trifle nearer his companion, that he
might more narrowly observe, though all un
seemingly, the effect his narration might pro
duce. His face was in the shadow— he had
no wish to be himself observed. Stella ap
parently did not notice this slight movement,
but she drew instinctively back into the
deeper shadows of the white rose hush that
drapericd the outside of the window, thus
escaping the full flood of moonlight which fell
upon her face. Horace had done better to
have kept his first position.
"The story I was going to tell J'ou," he
continued, '' is about myself. Though we
were nominally couins, and I have been now
these three weeks a favored guest in the
house of my uncle, your step-father, yet we
are almost wholly strangers, and you know
comparatively nothing of my life. This much
you and your family know, that I am and
have been, for years, alone in the world. Not
a known relative have I except this kind old
gentleman, my uncle, to whose hospitable
doors chance, or rather, kind Providence, at
length brought me. My tather died when I
was an infant, so of him I have no remem
brance. My mother—blessings on her mem
ory—lived to guard and guide me til! my
thirteenth year, then she too died. How
vividly do I remember her death-scene—the
heavenly smile that irradiated her pale, sweet
countenance —the last gentle pressure of her
hand npon my head—her faintly-uttered
words, the last to me,
My loved son, be good, love God. He will
be to vou father, mother, friend- He will"—
And thus she died. Ever since then, when
sin has beckoned toe forth to the luring path
way of destruction, that gentle hand and
voice have interposed. When the full tide of
desolation has swept over my soul, her mild,
sweet smile has come back to cheer me, and
to make me forget that I am alone.—This
blessed memory ol my mother, this constant
spiritual companion, if I may so call it, has
been the great, effectual barrier between me
and vice, while among dissolute companions
-JIOJ 9uojndod AQT NI enopi JO 'JOOIJOS
jug to acquire the education necessary to
ffil honoably and usefully the place 1 had
marked out for myself in life—that of a
physician. My toils and studies I will not
detail to you. It is, perhaps, enough, t) say
that, with God's blessing, and the little
heritage uiy parents left me, which was
barely enough, with constant economy, to
feed and clothe and educate me, 1 have suc
ceeded even beyond my most sanguine hopes.
Now, while 1 am firmly treading the high
road to fortune, I walk, also, in a path of use
fulness. When 1 die, Stella, God keeping
me, it shall not be said I have lived in vain—
that tlie world is no better for my having
lived in it.
"In many, in most respects, n.y life has
been an uneventful one. Yet there is a por
tion of it may interest you. 1 have been, as
I before told you, alone since my mother's
death—shut out from all those social bonds
that link families and hearts together.—
More acutely have I felt this desolation when
in the midst of a crowded city. Where all
around me seemed to have friends or kindred.
I had none. You Stella, blessed as you have
been by the common, yet sacred associations
of home, cannot imagine the desolate isolation
from my ki: d that for years has darkened
my life.— But the human soul, however .-oli
tary, will find fcr itself companions. Mine,
at first solely, and always in greater or less
degree, were books. But a time came when
my heart took 'o itself another companion.—
What human heart has not done so in some
period of its existence?"
Did Horace perceive the nervous tremor
that, tor a moment, only, agitated his audi
tor? Perhaps not, for he did not pause or
hesitate in his narration.
"While I was pursuing my studies with
Dr. Stowe, 111 the city. I used daily to see a
fair, young school-girl pu-s my window.—
That she was a school-gill I kuew by the
hours in which she regularly passed up and
down the street, by her books, some of which
she always had with her, and bv the gay
companions that often went back and forth
with her. I knew nothing ah ut who she
was, what her name, or where her home
f scarcely cared to know—at first. It was
enough to know that in the morning and in
the afternoon, like a stray ray of sunshine,
she would flit by my window—enough to re
vel in my dreams of this new divinity, at
whose shrine my very soul bowed to do hom
age. It was my mother's smile in her face
that so riveted my gaxe on that morning
wlenl first beheld her; and each day as I
watched for her advent, she seemed to me
the visible embodyment of my n. other's gen
tle sp'iit. Do you wonder, rftella, that I
thought of her only in vague, wild.dreams?—
that the fair apparition was never spoken of
to those around me? that I never took any
steps to ascertain aught concerning her, but
dreamed n blindly, like one enchanted? If
you wonder, you have never dreamed."
Stella drew back still further the
shadowy I-c**es of the window, but neither
sigh nor sulied sob escaped her. Ilad Hor
ace's listener been a spirit she could not
have been more noiseless.
"At length my divinity came no more. I
watched tor her mornings—she might be !r.te
to school. Late or early she never came. 1
watched for tier afternoons—possibly [ had
missed her in the crowd that jostled by my
window. Ah, no—she was in the crowd no
more. Slowly, reluctantly, I admitted the
fact— she was gone. I might never see her
again. Then the light went out of my heart
From that time, I was like the father of Gin
erva, wandering as in search of something I
could not find. I, indeed pursued my stud
ies and made ray daily round of calls ou va
rious patieuts, but thro'all this T was rather
like an automaton than a living sentient being
''Rut my sun rose again. Oh what a glo
rious morning was that to my lonely, stricken
heart! This was the manner of its dawning.
Dr. Stowe changed his office to a more cen
tral portion of the city : for convenience, I
too, changed my lodging to a place near his
new office. One day T had occasion to return
to my room at in hour when usually I was
engaged at the office, and as 1 approached the
front entrance, my divinity issued therefrom
There was the same sinile upon her lip, the
same unspeakable expression in her eye
that had graced my mother's when she
used to caress me, her child, with looks
words of tenderness. I started grew almost
dizzy with emotion as the vision flitted by
me, and was lost among the crowd; then I
rushed forward through the door-way and up
to my room utterly overwhelmed with the
new thoughts that struggled in my heart.
Did she really live within the same dwelling
that sheltered me ? Was it possible that I
was breathing the same atmosphere with
her ? that one roof nightly covered us both ?
Oh, what blessedness was in the thought!
Who could propecy what full fruition of
earthly hopes the boundless future should
not bring tome 1 Aye, even to poor lonely,
desolate me."
" Again for weeks I did not see her. The
house in which I hired a solitary room was
leased to seperate tenants of whom I knew
nothing. If she dwelt there I never chanced
to meet her in door or on stairway. If she
lived elsewhere, and only visited here occa
ionally, it was only while I was absent,—
There was a mysterious lady who sometimes
sang and played on a piano in the next room.
1 met her on the stairs occasionally, and
sometimes I caught sight of her floating dra
pery just.disappearing in her dooorway.—
One day I chanced to hear her speak of her
music schollars to another lady that stood
with her upon the landing as I passed;—
Then 1 thought this mysterious lady might
be her teacher. Perhaps, could I be there
at tiie right hour, I might even catch the sil
very tones of her voice—might possibly
meet her and find some way of her
acquaintance. I feigned illness for a few
davs. I need scarcely have feigned it, for
the mental wear of the last few months had
made me quite thin and sallow. I found my
conjectures correct. She came at regular in
tervals, and I enjoyed the supreme blessed
ness oflistening to her sweet, half childish
voice. What plans 1 laid to meet and speak
with her. What air castles I built on the
sunny future. Hut they were built alas on
no tangible foundation. Ere I bail completed
any of my schemes the mysterious lady re
moved, the voice of my beloved wis beard
no more, and a new tenant occupied the next
room. I sought my angel, as 1 fondly called
her, all over the city, but I found her no
where. From thencforth. Stella, 1 was chang
ed. 1 gave up useless visions of love and
sympathy, and—her. Hopelessly, as to the
joys of this life, yet earnest in the labor that
should tell upon the life to coins, I resolute
ly set myself at work to become a proficient
in my calliog, that thus I might the better
help to lessen the sufferings of humanity. I
Have made my m ither s last words the watch
word of my life. And, .Stella, even in mv
comparatively joyless life, I have been bless
ed. But, why are you leaving me so hastily,
my cousin? Stay a few moments. Is my
story, then, so tiresome !"
Stella had risen suddenly, and,like a spirit,
was gliding from the room. The last words
recalled her. Sue sunk down silently' upon
her seat. Il she was agitated, peahaps the
shadows concealed it. If she was pale and
trembling, how should Horace see it. Should
she betray thefolly in which she had uncon
ciously Jfailen ! Shou Id, she in her weakness
allow the stranger to comprehend what she
herself had nut until to-night—that she loved
him ? No ! she could, she wouid command
both word and ma nner—would stay anil hear
all, thougli each new sentence struck like a
blow upon her heart. Why had she dared to
hope a.-d what had she dared to hope for?
Poor child, she had not known her heart un
til now—now when it was to late.
Horace resumed his seat.
J here lias been another era in in)* life,
Stella. Since coming to this place I have
seen that sv.eet einbodyment of my dreams ;
aye, have spoken with her—have learned to
call her friend. 1 have fonn 1 her all inv
heart could dream of—loveliness. Again such
hopes as 1 had believed were utterly dead
within me have sprung up into new life; but
are these new hopes also doomed to die?
must hey be trodden in the dust ? Stelia.
do you know what it is to give life for life?
love ior love, lite for lile? Nothing loss do
1 seek. This friend of yours and mine, Stel
la, seems to lcve me. I believe that it is but
to ask and she ;s miue. But will her whole
heatt be mine—mine aione ? \\ ill •>};,* give
mo love for love—life for life ? Of tms I
have ocen in doubt. \ou have H woman's
tact, Stella, will you sound her heart forme?
Will you "
ihis passionate appeal was suddenly bro
ken off, for Stella pressing a hand against her
forehead with a quick convulsive movemen:,
rushed out of the room. Horace lingered a
moment, then went to seek her. She was
not in the sitting-room nor yet in the library-
She had not taken the way to her own room,
lie turned his steps toward the garden, In
a retired corner, beneath the thickly over
arching trees, was Stella's favorite resort—a
beautiful summer house. As Horace noise
lessly approached hidden by the dense foliage
heavy, hall-suppressed sobs reached bis ear
—then Stella's own voice, exclaiming.
" Oh, this blow—this last bitter blow
could he not rot have spared me that?"
" Dearest Stella have I struck you ? Do
you, then, love me wholly ? Do you love me
Stella ? Yon alone have been the day star
of my life. It was you, and you only, that I
BO long, so blindly worshipped. Forgive me
for wounding yon thus. I was selfish, Stella.
I would know whether you could be happy
without me."
Horace had flung himself at the feet of
the weeping fugitive. Again she would have
ficd from him, but his strong arm detained
her, his low voice breathing words of tender
ness. From that night Horace, the orphan
was no longer alone, and unloved.
prince and eminently sucsessful millionaire.
Stephen Girard, in speaking of the agents
which contributed principally to his success,
said : " I have always considered advertis
ing liberally and long to be the great medi
um of success in business and prelude to
wealth. And I have made it an invariable
rule, too, to advertise in the dullest times,
long experience having taught me that money
thus spent is well laid out as by keeping my
business continually before the public, it has
secured me many sales that I would other
wise have lost."
Some three years ago a housshold in our
sister city Covington was thrown into com
motion by the sudden disappearance of a
daughter twelve years of age. She was
tracked to the ferry-boat, but whether she
had passed safely over or had been drowned
was not discovered. Patient and anxious
waiting brought no tidings of her. The fren"
zied and unhappy father, although in moder
ate circumstances, sought the newspaper offi
cers and advertised a reward of $1)000 to
whoever should return his missing child.
All proved unavailing. Some time after
ward the corpse of a young lady was found in
the river near Vevay, about forty miles below
here and hearing of it, he went there but it
was not his daughter.
Time wore on, and no tidings came of the
lost child. She was dead to them but they
could uot visit her grave. About twelve
rnorths since the stricken family moved to
Mexico, and took up their abode in a country
foreign in language and customs, in features
and in habits from that in which they had met
with their great loss. It might wear away
their thoughts from sadly ruminating on the
past, and enable them, in a region devoted to
religious duties, to look more hopefully to
ward the great future. There they still are.
About a week since a steamer arriving
from Memphis was crowded with passengers
who were upon the guards straining their-eyes
to gather into one look the multudinous ob
jects which throng the public landing. One,
however a young girl buddfng into woman
hood, sought the outer rail and looked wist
fully over the naked shore of Covington, to
wh ere, hid away under a clump of trees, was
the cottage of her childhood, hoping in vain
to see the curling smoke announce to her a
warm welcome within.—Quickly she passed
over the ferry, where long since she had dis
appeared; no one noted or knew her, and she
went without interruption to the door of her
father's house. It answered not her knocks,
woods had grown up rrnk and rough where
she had left flowers, and no signs of human
life were to be fouud there.
It was the turn of the wayward child to
weep and when by inquiry, she found how
far and almost hopelessly she was separated
from her parents, she began to feel desolate.
Piqued at some chiding or some punishment
of mother, she had gone upon a steamboat;
where a female passenger hired her to go
with her as a nurse. After a little while the
war broke out, stopped all intercourse with
the South by the river, and though she soon
fhuud that untried friends but seldom prove
steadfast in trouble, and that the harshnsss
of a parent is melting kindness beside that
of a stranger, yet she was unable until lately
to return. A kind lady of Covington has
given shelter to the wanderer until her re
turn is made known to her parents.—Cincin
nati Enquirer.
A GIFTED FAMILY.—A religious friend in
Ohio writes :
A few years ago there dwelt in one of the
wealthiest sections of the state a host of rich
relatives by the name of Brown—all, or
nearly all oi whom belonged to the church.—
They were among the most prominent and
influential, if not the most exemplary mem
bers of the congregation, and at prayer
meetings they generally monopolized the
"privileges." They were all "gifted" in pray
er, and consequently did the most of it. On
one occasion, however, the class-leader be
thought himself of a poor but worthy brother
who was present, and whom he had never
called upon to pray before, and the following
dialogue took place:
Class Leader —"f see Brother Smith is
here. Brother Smith, will you lead in
Brother Smith —"l'm not gifted ; excuse
me. Lei another one of the Browns pray!"
The congregation all saw tho point, and
the rebuke was so just that it effectually put
an end to the Brown monopoly of privileges
in|that congregation.
A HUMOROUS DRIVER A veritable Jehu,
who drives one of the stages of that line that
runs up to High Bridge, perpetrated a dry
joke the other day. A middle aged female
passenger requested to be left at Forty-ninth
street, and so, when Forty-ninth street was
reaehe d, Jehu reigned in his horses and stop
ped . The old lady got out, and staring
wildly up at the driver's perch exclaimed :
" Well, now, I would like to know why in
the name of goodness you have carried me a
mile beyond where I wanted to stop ? "
" You told me, madam, to leave you at
Forty-ninth street."
" Well, I meant Twenty-ninth stroet and,
any way, you might have known where I
live, for I ride up here every week, in your
'• busses."
" Madam," said Jehu, with Napoleonic
composure, "I've druv stage on this line
about ten years or less, and I never yet miss
ed leaving a passenger where he or she direct
ed me to leave him or her; and madam, if
you don't know where you live, you\l
better move
The following appears in a St. Louis pa
WANTED.— I have lived solitary long
enough. 1 want some one to talk at quarrel
with—then kiss and make up again. There
fore, I am ready to receive communications
from young ladies and blooming widows of
more than average respectability, tolerably
tame in disposition, and hair of any color.
As nearly as I can judge of myself, I am not
over eighty nor under twenty-five years of
age. lam five feet eight or eight feet five, I
forget which. Weigh 135,315 or 531 pounds,
one of the three, recollect each figure per
fectly well, but as to their true arrangement
lam somewhat puzzled. Have a whole suit
of hair dyed by nature and free from dan
druff. Eyes buttermilk-brndle tinged with
pea green. Nose blont, according to the
Tonic order of architecture, with a touch of
the composite, and a meuth between a cat
fish's and alligator's—made especially for
oratory and large oysters. Ears palpalmated,
long and elegantly shaped. My whiskers are
a combination of dog's hair, moss and briar
bush—weH behaved fearfully luxuriant. I
am sound in limb and on the negro question.
Wear boots No. 9 when corns are tronhle
some, and can write poetry by the mile, with
double rhyme on both edges—to read back
ward, forward, crosswise and diagonally
Can plav thejewsbarp and bass drum, and
whistle Yankee Poodle in Spanish. Am very
correct in my morals, and first rate at ten
pins; have a regard for the Sabbath and only
drink when invited.
Am a domestic animal, and perfectly do
cile when towels are clean and 6hirt buttons
all right, If I possess a predominating vir
tue it is that of forgiving every enemy whom
T deem it hazardous to handle. I say my
prayers every night, musqitoes permitting ;
as to whether I snore in my sleep, T want
somebody to tell me. Money is no object,
as T never was troubled with any never ex
pect to be. 1 should like some lady who is
perfectly able to support a husband, or if she
could introduce me to some family where re
ligious example would be considered suffi
cient compensation for board, it would do
just as well. Address X. 22, St. Louis P. Q.
—Luzerne Union.
Taking the Starch oat.
A capital example, writes a reader, of what
is often termed "taking the starch out," hap
pened recently in a country bank in New
England. A pompous, well-dressed individ
ual entered the bank, and addressing the tell
er, who is somethiug of wag, inquired}
"Is the cashier iu?"
"No, sir," was the reply,
"l\eli, 1 am dealing in pens, supplying the
New England banks pretty largely, and I
suppose it will be proper for me to deal with
the cashier."
"I suppose it will,,' said the teller.
"Very well; I will wait."
Tbe pen-peddler took a chair, and sat com
posedly for a full hour, waiting for the cash
ier. By that time he began to grow uneasy,
but sat twisting in his chair for about tweu
ty minutes, and seeing no prospect of a change
in his circumstances, asked the teller how
soon the cashier would be iu.
"Well, I don't know exactly," said the
waggish teller, "but I expect him in about
eight weeks. lie has just gone to Lake Su
perior, and told me ho thought he should
come back iu that time."
Peddler thought he would not wa't.
"Oh, stay if you wish," said the teller—
very blandly. "We have no objection to
your sitting here in the day time, and you
can probably find some place in town whero
they will be glad to keep you nights."
The pompous peddler disappeared without
another word.
A SETTLEMENT— A correspondent writes.
Having occasion not long since to ride in the
Mount Auburn cars, I could not help hearing
a part of the conversation carried on by a la
dy and gentleman who entered near Mount
Auburn. They had evidently been in search
of a "lot," and although too grave a subject
to excite one's ristabilities, yet the business
style in which the gentleman spoke of the
" City of the Dead," will excuse me for fur
nishing you with one of his observations.
" Ah, " said he. "I didn't go up that ave
nue which the agent wished to 6how me;
didnt thiuk it worth my while. The fact is,
the man was anxious to begin a settlement
No harm in this; only the idea of "begin
ning a settlement" in such a place struck me
as decidedly original.
the green isle of Erin called at one of oor
drug stores, the other day, with a prescrip
tion, the putting up of which he watobed
with great curiosity. "What's that' ony
way?" asked the customer. "This," said
the obliging apothecary, •' is tincture oemi
cit&ga racemosa and liniment of saponis,
cantharides and opii." A look of bewilder
ment changed to one of grave concern as the
Irishman inquired, "And what is the price?"
"Thirty-seven cents," was the reply. "By
jabers," said pat, "I thought two such names
as that would cost uic at laste a dollar aud a
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VOL. 3, NO. 24