STATESMEN AT HOME. RESIDENCES OF FOUR WELL KNOWN CONGRESSMEN DESCRIBED. Bfpreoeiitatl?e McComas Has uu Old Fashioned Dwelling Place at Ifagers town, Md. —The Homes of Messrs. Wil son, Banks and Breckinridge. [Copyright by American Press Association.] In the hiai I of the quiet old city of Hagerstown, Md., one of the earliest settlements in the country, is the unpre tentious dwelling of Representative Louis Emory McComas. It is a plain, old fashioned brick structure, with CONGRESSMAN M'COMAS' HOUSE, square,wide doorways and windows and a long extension in the rear. It and the house next to it, which is occupied by Mr. McComas' brothfcr-in-luw, are the only ones in the center of the town which stand in ample grounds of their own. A latticed porch over the entrance to the drawing room on the side of the house leads into the grass plot and flower garden which adorn the sides and rear of the old home. The main entrance from the street is through a wide, old fashioned hall, wainscoted in (lark oak, and at the head of the stairs leading to the upper part of the house is one of the first clocks ever made in this country. It has told the time of day for six gen erations of Mrs. McComas' family, and is now performing the same duty for the seventh. Tho house was built over seventy years ago, and stands on the main street,, which used to be also the mast fashionable part of Hagerstown. It is comfortably furnished inside, and 1 used to be the residence of tne Beattys, a well known family in that section of Maryland. The handsome home of Congressman William L. Wilson, LL. D., is situated m a small hill just outside of the city of lharlestov.ni, W. Va. It is built of rame on a so no foundation, and stands ha pretty little yard some three acres 1 extent. The original building was a 'ain two story frame house wich an L .tachment, but a few years ago Mr. Hlson connected the two by erecting ie handsome tower which forms the Qitral and most conspicuous part o' l(i residence. Front this tower can bs f L RERESENTATIVE WILSON'S HOME. seen astreteh of picturesque country which e claims surpasses any similar scenerym the ('OllllllOlll. There is the fertile vlley of Virginia, with its pros perous frms and broad acres. 011 one side arethe famous Blue Ridge moun tains, an. on the other the North moun tain, whih is the first outlying spur of the Allegenv range. Harper's Ferry lies in a alley, but the position of the historic Uvn can bo defined, and the Shenandom river traced from its conflu ence at tbt point with the Potomac. Nothing i; wanting to make the view from Mr. Vilson's tower beautiful in the extremi The gronds surrounding the house are filled wi.h trees, shrubs and flowers. The drawiig room on one side of the entrance ail the dining hall on the other both oen on the front porch. Mr. Wilson's litary is in the rear, and is stocked with the finest and largest pri vate collect id of books to lie found in West Virgiiia. When first built the house was qate a distance from the city, but it is now.vithin the corporate limits, and is surrouided by other fine homes. Gen. Natluniel P. Banks lives at Waltham, if ass., and liis lionse is one of tbo most interesting resi dences in tint thriving town. He has been a ftctory hand, a newspaper editor, a Jiwyer, and speaker of the Massaclusetts Legislature; he re ceived the p-esidential nomination at the hands of ,he North American con vention in lew York in 1856; he has been a major jeneral of volunteers, gov ernor of his intive state, speaker of the national houseof representatives, United States marshal and is now a member of congress agair. Through all his varied career he has occupied the plain, old fashioned hom* which is pictured hero, and which he lives because it has been the birthplace cf his children. THE RESIDENCE OF OEN. BANKS. It is a square, two-story frame house, over one hnndned years old, and was one of the first residonc"! to be erected In Waltham. The only decoration on its exterior is a Corinthian portico over Ifce entrance, overgrown with vines. Noth ing would induce him to change the ex terior appearance of the main building daring his own and Mrs. Bunk's lifotime, but he has built an extensive library in the rear in the yneen Anne style of archi tecture, which forms a handsome addi tion to the house. The old coach road from Piston to Wooster runs in front of the dwelling, and a mile further down forms the principal street of Waltham. About twenty acres of fine lawns sur round the house, and in the rear is the tennis court used by the younger mem bers of tho family. Inside, the rooms are large and high, and all connect with one another. Tho room to the right of the porch, which is now used as the din ing room, was the scene of the first Methodist prayer meeting ever held in Waltham, when there were no churches, and the house belonged to the Gale fam ily, who built it. Every room has in it a fine, old fashioned, oaken fireplace, with high, wooden mantels all carved and fluted by hand. It is a fine old place, and Gen. Banks in his declining years would consider it a desecration to make new fangled alterations about it, or to bring within its vonerablo portals any of the modern furnishing gewgaws. - Mr. William Cabell Preston Breckin ridge, the silver haired, silver tongued congressman from Kentucky, has no fixed place of residence. He used to own a pretty home in Lexington, Ky., but on going to Washington he sold it, and has since been living just as his fancy and that of his charming wife dictates. One year he occupies fur nished rooms in some private establish ment, another he tries hotel life. Just at present he is housekeeping on Grant WHERE MR. BREGKI N RI DOE LIVES, terrace, a few blocks east of the Capitol. His home is one of a row of buildings all exactly alike. It stands back some thirty feet from the street on a small terrace, and is built of brick with brown stoue trimmings on a white stone base ment. The entrance is reached by a flight of stone steps, lighted on either side by a handsome bronze lamp. The drawing room on the left of the hall is ornamented with a wide bay window. The "camp furniture" of the house, as Mr. Breckinridge calls it on account of his frequent movings, is of the most ele gant description and is arranged with great taste. Mr. Breckinridge's home life is very simple. His particular chum is his little 13-year-old daughter, who sticks to him like a chestnut burr. The greatest frolic of the year to the pair is on New Year's day, when they both go visiting to gether. Miss Breckinridge wears a cos tume of pure white, and her face is one broad smile of childish delight as she swings on to her father's hand. They first pay their respects to the president. Then they go to the few houses where Mr. Breckinridge calls. The little maid gets her pockets full of candies, is petted by all the men and kissed by all the ladies. Her mother remonstrates at this unique performance, but Mr. Breckin ridge declares he will have his way about this, as he has t> give it up in everything else. HENRY E. ELAND. A Crematory Trn. FOB ASHES OF THE DEAD. That cremation has not lost its hold upon the minds of certain classes of people is amply shown by the fact that leading jewelers throughout the world find it profitable to employ some of their best artists in the manufacture of dainty receptacles for the ashes of the departed. The illustration given herewith is of a crematory urn recently finished a:ad ex hibited in London. The bowl is made of the finest crystal glass, mounted in beautifully decorated silver. A crest tops the urn, on which there are also shown Masonic emblems and two shields for inscriptions. A depository of this sort is valued at $3,000, Very Slow Consumption. Dr. Mortimer Slocum, who died at San Antonio, Tex., recently, had a rather novel experience once. He was supposed to be hopelessly ill of consump tion, and a life insurance company with which ho hi! a policy of $30,000 paid him so,ooo for a release. He removed from his then home at Chicago to Texas, grew well and wealthy and lived for twenty-five years. P THE WORLD'B WAY. j Tho work) 1B OOM And scornful, A.ml though heartless it 1B gtkf, And merit nturvoa while knavery ITpholds it* sovereign away. Tlic sac: -ni things are mocked at And iiiibstlof today Ta prevalent. We igh alaa! "\s !it- the wise world's way. Vl* • rl •' forgot that misery t* :i.f no far away, To-* "now wrapped in darkness Ilea, \ live but for today. As: ' in* v ho borrows trouble X. .11 soon be old and gray; B 'ni;,, enjoy life while you can, Thiri is the gay world's way. Cold, cynical and careless, We grow more so each day; And kind attention to the poor We have no time to pay. O ye who do in kindness Your duty day by day , Among the friendless, blessed your lot, You are not of this world's way. —Brooklyn Eagle. FALSE DAWN. No man will ever know the exact truth of this story; though women may some times whisper it to one another after a dance, when they are putting up their hair for the night and comparing lists of victims. A man, of course, cannot assist at these functions. So the tale must be told from the outside—in the dark—all wrong. Never praise a sister to a sister in the hope of your compliments reaching the proper ears, and so preparing away for you later on. Sisters are women first, and sisters afterwards; and you will find that yon do yourself harm. Saumarez knew this when he made up his mind to propose to the elder Miss Copleigh. Saumarez was a strange man, with few merits, so far as men could see, though he was popular with women, and carried enough conceit to stock a viceroy's council and leave a little over for the commander-in-chief's staff. He was a civilian. Very many women took an interest in Saumarez, perhaps, be cause his nyumer to them was offensive. If you hit a pony over the nose at the outset of your acquaintance he may not love you, but he will take a deep interest in your movements ever afterwards. The elder Miss Copleigh was nice, plump, winning and pretty. The younger was not so pretty, and, from men disregard ing the hint set forth abovfe, her style was repellant and unattractive. Both girls had, practically, the same figure, and there was a strong likeness between them in look and voice; though no one could doubt for an instant which was the nicer of the two. Saumarez made up his mind, as soon as they came into the jstntion from Dehar, to marry the elder one. At least, we all made sure that he would, which comes to the same thing. She was two-and twenty and he was 33, with pay and al lowances of nearly 1,400 rupees a month. So the match, as we arranged it, was in every way a good one. Saumarez was his name anil summary wr his nature, as a man once said. Having drafted his resolution, he formed a select committee of one to sit upon it, and resolved to take his time. In onr unpleasant slang, the Copleigh girls "hunted in couples." That is to say, you could do nothing with one without the other. They wore loving sisters, but their mutual affection was sometimes inconvenient. Saumarez held the balance hair true between them, and none but himself could have said to which side his heart inclined, though every one guessed. He rode with them a good deal and danced with them, but he never suc ceeded in detaching them from each other for any length of time. Women said that the two girls kept together through deep mistrust, each fearing that the other would steal a march on her. But that has nothing to do with a man. Saumarez was silent for good or bad, and as business-likely attentive as he could be, having due re gard to his work and his polo. Beyond doubt both girls were fond of him. As the hot weather drew nearer and Saumarez made no sign women said that you could see their trouble in the eyes of the girls—-that they were looking strained, anxious and irritable. Men are quite blind in ihese matters unless they have more of the woman titan the man in their composition, in which case it does not matter what they say or think. I maintain it was the hot April days that took the color out of the Copleigh girls' cheeks. They should have been sent to the Hills early. No one—man or woman—feels an angel when the hot weather is approaching. The younger sister grew more cynical— not to say acid —in her ways; and the winningness of the elder wore thin. There was more effort in it. Now the station wherein all these things happened was, though not a little one, off the line of rail, and suffered through want of attention. There were no gardens, or bunds, or amusements worth speaking of, and it was nearly a day's journey to come into Lahore for a dance. People were grateful for small things to interest them. About the beginning of May, and just before the final exoaus of Hill goers, when the weather was very hot and there were not more than twenty people in the station, Saumarez gave a moon light riding picnic at an old tomb, 6ix taiiles away, near the bed of the river. It was a "Noah's ark" picnic; and there was to be the usual arrangement of Quarter mile intervals between each couple, on account of the dust. Six couples came altogether, including cha perones. Moonlight picnics are useful just at the very end of the season, before all the girls go away to the Hills. They lead to understandings, and should be encouraged by chaperones; especially those whose girls look sweetest in riding habits. I knew a case once. But that is another story. That picnic was called the "Great Pop Picnic," becauso every one knew Saumarez would propose then to the eldest Miss Copleigh; and, besides his affair, there was another which might possibly come to happiness. The social atmosphero was heavily charged and wanted clearing. We met at the parade ground at 10; the night was fearfully hot. The horses sweated even at walking pace, but any thing was better than sitting still In our own dark houses. When we moved off nndor the full moon we were four couples, one triplet, and Mr. Saumarej rode with the Copleigh girls and I loitered et the tail of the procession won dering with whom Saumarez would ride home. Every one was happy and con tented, but wo all felt that things were going to happen. We rode slowly, and it was i '.i rly midnight before we reached the old tomb, facing the ruined tank, in the decayed gardens where we were go ing to eat and drink. I was late in com ing up. a.' 1. before I went into the garden, I saw that the horizon to the north carried a faint, dun colored feather. But no one would have thanked me for spoiling so \yell managed an entertain ment as this picnic—and a dust storm more or less, does no great harm. We gathered by the tank. Some one had brought out a banjo—which is a most sentimental instrument—and three or four of us sang. You must not laugh at this. Our amusements in out-of-the way stations are very few indeed. Then we talked in groups or together, lying under the trees, with the sun baked roses dropping their petals on our feet, until supper was ready. It was a beau tiful supper, as cold and as iced as yon could wish; and we stayed long over It. I had felt that the air was growing hotter and hotter; but nobody seemed to notice it until the moon went out and a burning hot wind began lashing the orange trees with a sound like the noise of the sea. Before we knew where we were the dust storm was on us, and everything was roaring, whirling dark ness. The supper table was blown bodily into the tank. We were afraid of stay ing anywhere near the old tomb for fear it might be blown down. So wo felt our way to the orange trees where the horses were picketed and waited for the storm to blow over. Then the little light that was left vanishod, and you could not see your hand before your face. The air was heavy with dust and sand from the bed of the river, that filled boots and pockets and drifted down necks and coated eyebrows and mustaches. It was one of the worst dust storms of the year. We were all huddled together close to the trembling horses, with the thunder chattering overhead, and the lightning spurting like water from a sluice, all ways at once. There was no danger, of course, unless the horses broke loose. I was standing with my head downwind and my hands over my mouth, hearing the trees thrashing each other. I could not see who was nest me till the flashes came. Then I found that I was packed near Saumarez and the oldest Miss Cop leigh, with my own horse just in front of me. I recognized the eldest Miss Cop leigh, because she had a pagri round her helmet, and the younger had not. All the electricity in the air had gone into my body and I was quivering and ting ling from head to foot—exactly as a corn shoots and tingles before rain. It was a grand storm. The wind seemed to be picking up the earth and pitching it to leeward in great heaps; and the heat beat up from the ground like the heat of the day of judgment. The storm lulled slightly after the first half hour, and I heard a despairing little voice close to my ear, saying to it self, quietly and softly, as if some lost soul were flying about with the wind: "Oh, my God!" Then the younger Miss Copleigh stumbled into my amis, saying: "Where is my horse? Get my horse. I want to go home. I want to go home. Take me home." I thought that the lightning and the black darkness had frightened her; so 1 said there was no danger, but she must wait till the storm blew over. She an swered: "It is not that! It is not that! I want to go home! Oh, take me away from here!" I said that she could not go till the light came; but I felt her brush past me and go away. It was too dark to see where. Then the whole sky was split open with one tremendous flash, as if the end of the world were coming, and all the women shrieked. Almost directly after this I felt a man's hand on my shoulder and heard Saumarez bellowing in my ear. Through the rattling of the trees and howling of the wind I did not catch his words at once, but at last I heard him say: "I've proposed to the wrong one! What shall I do?" Saumarez had no occasion to make this confidence to mo. 1 was never a friend of his, nor am I now; but I fancy neither of us were ourselves just then. He was shaking as he stood, with excitement, and I was feeling queer all over with the electricity. I could not think of anything to say except: "More fool you for proposing in a dnst storin." But I did not see how that would im prove the mistake. Thon he shouted: "Where's Edith— Edith Copleigh?" Edith was the younger sister. I answered out of my astonish ment: "What do you want with her?" Would you believe it, for the next two minutes he and I were shouting at each other like maniacs—he vowing that it was the younger sister he had meant to propose to all along, and 1 telling him till my throat was hoarse that he must have made a mistake! I can't account for this except, again, by the fact that we were neither of us ourselves. Every thing seemed to me like a bad dream— from the stamping of the horses in the darkness to Saumarez telling me the story of his loving Edith Copleigh since the first. He was still clawing my shoulder and begging tue to toll liim where Edith Copleigh was, when an other lull came and brought light with it, and we saw the dust cloud forming on the plain in front of us. So we knew the worst was over. The moon was low down, and there was just the glimmer of the false dawn that comes about an hour before the real one. But the light was very faint, and the dun cloud roared like a bull. I wondered where Edith Copleigh had gone, and as I was wondering I SAW three things together: First, Maud Copleigh's face como smiling out of the darkness and move towards Saumaroz, who WHS staniling by me. I heard the girl whis per "George," and slide her arm into ths arm that was not clawing my shoulder, and I saw that look on her face which only ©urnes once or twice in a lifetime— when a woman is perfectly happy and tho ni a is full of trumpets and gorgeous colored fire and tho earth turns into cloud because she loves and is loved. At the same time 1 saw Baumarez's face as he heard ?e.'l Copleigh's voice, and fifty Jjjki away from the clump of 1 saw a brown Holland habit gi.-: :• • upon a horse. It mu.: • been my state of over ex citement . made me so quick to med dle with • .t! ilid not concern me. Sau marez v.-: , , ring off to the habit; but I pusln u hi.a back and said: "Stop hers and explain. I'll fetch her back!" And I ran out to get at my own horse. I had a perfectly unnecessary notion that every thing must be done decently and in order, and thut Saumarez's first care was to wipe the happy look out of Maud Cop leigh's face. All tho time I was linking up the curb chain I wondered how he would do it. I cantered after Edith Copleigh, think ing to bring tier back slowly on some pre tense or another. But she galloped away as soon as she saw me, and I was forced to ride after her in earnest. She called back over her shoulder: "Go away! I'm going home. Oh, go away!" two or three times; but my business was to catch her first and argue later. The ride j ust fitted in with the rest of the evil dream. The ground was very bad, and now and again we rushed through the whirling, chok ing "dust devils," in the skirts of the fly ing storm. There was a burning hot wind blowing that brought up a stench of stale brick kilns with it; and through the half light and through the dust dev ils, across that desolate plain, flickered the brown holland habit on the gray horse. She headed for the station at first. Then she wheeled round and Ret off for the river through beds of burnt down jungle grass, bad even to ride pig over. In cold blood I should never have dreamed of going over such a coun try at night, but it seemed quite right and natural with the lightning crackling overhead, and a reek like the smell of the Pit in my nostrils. I rode and shout ed, and she bent forward and lashed her horse, and the aftermath of the dust storm came up and caught us both, and drovo us downwind like pieces of paper. 1 don't know how far wo rode; but the drumming of the horse hoofs and the roar of the windand the race of the faint, blood red moon through the yellow mist seemed to have gone on for years and years, and I was literally drenched with sweat from my helmet to my gaiters when the gray stumbled, recovered him self and pulled up dead lame. My brute was used up altogether. Edith Copleigh was in a sad state, plastered with dust, her heljiietoif, and crying bitterly. '-Why cau't you let me alone?" she said. "I only wanted to get away and go home. Oh, please let mo go!" "Yon have got to come back with me, Miss Copleigh. Saumarez has something to say to you." It was a foolish way of putting it; hut I hardly knew Miss Copleigh. and, though I was playing Providence at the cost of my home, I could not tell her in as many words what Saumarez had told me. I thought he could do that better himself. All her pretense about being tired and wanting to go home broke down, and she rocked herself to and fro in the saddle as she sobbed, and the hot wind blew her black hair to leeward. lam not going to repeat what she said, because she was utterly unstrung. This, if you please, was the cynical Miss Copleigh. Here was I, almost an utter stranger to her, trying to tell her that Saumarez loved her and she was to come back to hear him say so. I believe I made myself understood, for she gath ered the gray together and made him hobble somehow, and we set off for the tomb, while the storm went thundering down to Umballa and a few big drops of warm rain fell. I found out that she had been standing close to Saumarez when lie proposed her sister, and had wanted to gfi home to cry Tn peace, as an English girl should. She dabbed her eyes with her pocket handkerchief as we went along, and babbled to me out of slioer lightness of heart and hysteria. That was perfectly unnatural; and yet, it seemed all right at the time and in the place. All the world was only the two Copleigh girls, Saumarez and I, ringed in with the lightning and the dark; and the guidance of this misguided world seemed to lie in my hands. When wo returned to the tomb in the deep, dead stillness that followed the storm, the dawn was just breaking and nobody had gone away. They were waiting for our return. Saumarez most of all. His face was white and drawn. As Miss Copleigh aud I limped up he came forward to meet us, and, when he helped her down from her saddle, he kissed her before all the picnic. It was like a scene in a theatre, and the likeness was heightened by all the dust white, ghostly looking men aud women under the orange trees, clapping their hands —as if they were watohiug a play —at Saumarez's choice. I never knew anything so nu-English in my life. Lastly, Saumarez said we must all go home or the station would come out to look for us, and would I be good enough to ride home with Maud Copleigh? Noth ing would give me greater pleasure, I said. S, we formed up, nix couples in all, and went back two by two; Sauraarez walking at the side of Edith Copleigh, who was riding his horse. The ah' was cleared, and little by lit tle, as the sun rose, I felt we were all dropping back again into ordinary men and women and that the "Great Pop Picnic" was a thing altogether apart ana out of the world—never to happen again. It had gone with the dust storm and the tingle in the hot air. I felt tired and limp, and a good deal ashamed of myself as I went in for a bath and some sleep. There is a woman's version of this story, but it will never be written—un less Maud Copleigh cares to try.—Rud yard Kippling. A I'rogldy Thin. "Johnny, how many seasons are there?" "Three: pepper, salt and de baseball season."—Enoch. RUSSIA'S OIL CENTER A SECTION OF THE COUNTRY DE VOTED TO NOTHING ELSE. The Basin of the Caspian Sen Rent* on s Subterranean Sea of Naphtha —Discov- ery, Appearance and Largo Output of the Beds —A Town of Fire. Tiflis is midway on the railway that cnts the Caucasus iu its whole width and puts the two seas in communica tion —the port of Batoum on the Black sea with that of Bakou on the Caspian. As we leave the capital in the latter di rection the eye is at first ravished and then desolated by the changing aspects of the land. The track follows the Kour, which rolls its broad sheet of water ma jestically through wild forests and rich tilled soil, while two chains of snowy ridges stretch nway out of sight in the distance—the Caucasus to the left, the mountains of Armenia to the right. Soon we leave the river, which goes to join the Arajces toward the south; the plain gets broader and barer; tall " cages built of planks perched on four tree trunks rise in the midst of the rice fields like watch towers. The inhabitants of the villages, who are all Tartars in this region, take refuge at night in these aerial nests; the marshy laud is so un healthy that it is dangerous to sleep there. In spite of these precautions the peasants whom we see are devoured by fever; their emaciated visages remind us of those of the inhabitants of the Roman campagna. After leaving Hadji-Caboul, the station in Moorish style where a new lino branches off—"the Teheran line," I am told by the engineers who are build ing it, and who hope to carry it into the very heart of Persia—we enter an Afri can landscape, sad and luminous. REMARKABLE SCENERY. The mountain chains become lower; they are now simply cliffs of gilded sand stone festooning against a crude blue sky. At their feet the desert, a sandy expanse, covered here and there with a rose carjiet of flowering tamarisks. Herds of camels browse on these shrubs under the guard of a half naked shepherd, mo tionless as a bronze statue. The fan tastic silhouettes of these animals are in creased in size and changed in form by the effect of the mirage, which displays before our eyes in the ardent haze of the horizon lakes and forests. From time to time we meet a petroleum train, com posed of cistern trucks in the form of cylinders, surmounted by a funnel with a short, thick neck. When you see them approaching from a distance you might mistake them for a procession of mastodons, vying in sliapelessness with the trains of camels which they pass. The sun burns in space. Yonder a green baud glitters beneath its rays; it is the Caspian. We turn around a hill and behold! on this western shore, in this primitive landscape, which seems like a corner of Arabia Petroea, a mon strous city rises before our eyes. Is it once more the effect of mirage, this town of diabolical aspect, enveloped in a cloud of smoke traversed by running tongues of flame, as it were Sodom for tified by the demons in its girdle of cast iron towers? I can find but one word to depict ex actly the first impression that it gives: It is a town of gasometers. There are no houses—the houses are relegated further away on the right, in the old Persian city—nothing but iron cylinders aud pipes and chimneys, scattered in disorder from the hills down to the beach. This is doubtless the fearful model of what manufacturing towns will all be in the Twentieth century. Meanwhile, for the moment, this one is unique in the world; it is Bakou—the "town of fire," as the natives call it; the petroleum town, where everything is de voted and subordinated to the worship of the local god. OIL IN KEMOTE AGES. The bed of the Caspian sea rests upon a second subterranean sea, which spreads Its floods of naphtha under the whole basin. On the eastern shore the build ing of the Samareand railway led to the discovery of immense beds of mineral oil. On the western shore, from the most remote ages, the magi used to adore the fire springing from the earth at the very spot where its last worshipers pros trate themselves at the present day. But after having long adored it impious men began to make profit by it commercially. In the Thirteenth century the famous traveler, Marco Polo, mentions "on the northern side a great spring whence flows a liquid like oil." It is no good for eating, but is useful for burning and all other purposes; and so the neighboring nations come to get their provision of it and fill many vessels without the ever flowing spring appearing to be dimin ished in any manner. The real practical working of these oil springs dates back only a dozen years. At the present day it yields 2,000,000 kilogrammes of kerosene per annum, and disputes the markets of Europe against the products of Kentucky and Pennsylvania. The yield might be in creased tenfold, for the existing wells give on an average 40,000 kilogrammes a day, and in order to find new ones it suf fices to bore the ground, so saturated is the whole soil with petroleum. C. Mar vin, "The Petroleum Industry in South em Russia," compares the Aspheron pen insula to a sponge plunged in mineral oil. The soil is continually vomiting forth the liquid lava that torments its entrails, either in the form of mud vol canoes or of natural springs. These springs overflow in streams so abundant that it is hopeless to store their contents for want of reservoirs; often they catch fire and burn for weeks; the ui'\ impreg nated with naphtha vapors, is then aglow all round Bakou.—Harper's. Aft or the Iluin. Clara—l have just had a delightful walk. How deliriously fresh and pure and clear the landscape looks this even ing! Flora—Ya-as. I just read in the pa pers that some detectives are scouring this part of tne cbufih^f. —Pittsburg Bul letin,
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