IS THE BISHOP AND By WINIFRED Heaven bad made him a most com panionable baby. From the first he bad possessed an unusual evenness of health and disposition. No matter how bitter tho drafts roared through the little rectory, Master Baby never caught cold. Whooping-cough and measles, scarlet fever, even might weep the village; baby smiled on un scathed. Baby's character, also, was one of indomitable cheerfulness. In a little parish in northern New York there may be other anxieties than the high price of coal and beefsteak; but vei tries, choirs and diocesan appropria tions fretted baby no more than did the coming of a lower tooth. Ha gur gled and crowed and "patty-caked," and found life at one year old a de lightful thing. It was well for tho minister's girl-wife that he did. A warm-hearted Kentuckian, Doris found other things than the weather cold In this Northern village. Two years before she had come here with her husband, fifteen years her senior, ' with such high thoughts of being help ful to his people. But the people were so difficult for her to understand, these farmers who tolled so hard, these women who lived in their kitch ens, and who obviously did not wish her to drop in on them in the morn ings. Only three or four times in two years had Doris been Invited out to a meal. Much oftener than that had she entertained the parishioners at little suppers, where they sat silent and critical, and would not touch her Maryland biscuit. Somehow the thought of the Maryland biscuit ran kled. Two years .of disappointment tbey had been for Doris, her girlish Impulsiveness growing slowly chilled. Yet Doris was plucky. To the min ister, serious, dull, utterly unselfish, she seemed the blithest little wife in the world. It was only to the baby she talked, and that only because he could not understand. They were sitting, mother and baby, by the uncurtained front window, looking down the snowy village street. They were dressed for company. Both dresses had come out of the last mis sionary box. Doris. wore a heavy black silk, which had evidently be longed, in its previous existence, to some stout matron, for all Doris's skill could not alter it to a semblance of her slender figure; the gown still bulged and billowed hopelessly. Baby had the opposite trouble with his frock. Doris could not resist the dainty embroidery, and she had some how squeezed the fat little body into the sheer muslin, and baby had gur gled so uproariously at the process that he had burst out two buttonholes at once. It still lacked half an hour of train time. Doris was talking to the baby. Her voice was rich and sweet, full of rising Inflections and slurred conso nants not expressible by print. "Do you-all know why you're so dressed up, son? The bishop Is com ing to see you. He only comes once In two years, you know, and you'll be a big boy when he comes again. He's a very great man, baby. He writes books, and we sing his hymfns In church. He's known all over the world. He's been entertain ed by Queen Victoria, and now lie's going to be entertained by us! O baby, I'm so afraid of him I'd like to run down cellar and hide! Mother's a naughty girl, baby; seems like she don't feel much like having company, anyway." Doris rocked silently, gazing down the wintry street, looking south, to ward Kentucky. "The bishop is right old, I reckon. I wonder If he looks like grandpa, baby. Baby, say grand pa. Say it!" "Ga-ga-ga-ga!" replied the dutiful son. "O baby, I wish grandpa could see you. I wish I could take you to him. I want him to see you now. But we'll never have money enough, never. It would take fifty dollars; it 's so far away. It's spring there; they're planting now. Oh, if I could only see our place and all our folks, and pa, seems like I could come back and not be blue!" There came a gust of tears, quickly mopped away on baby's petti coats. "I mustn't get my eyes red, With company coming." The train wheezed and trembled, tugging along the up grade of the branch read. For thirty miles It ap peared to stop at every cross-road, to stop long enough, too, for the train men to get off and clap their arms to their bodies for warmth, and bellow out to the station hangers-on above the rattle of the milk-cans. There was only half a car for pas sengers; the other half was .for bag gage. The passenger section was cold. The car seats were sprlngless, and jolted unmercifully. The bishop knew he should be stiff on the mor row, and even now a draft from the rattling window started a twinge in his right shoulder. He was shivering as he held out his hand to the little girl whose face had appeared over the back of the seat in front, staring stolidly at him. He won her smile at last, but when he asked her to come and sit with him she tum bled down sheepishly into her place, and would have nothing more to do Wkh him. He wished she had come, for be was lonely. He wondered if he had put everything into his bag. He jntssed his own little girl so much -when it came to packing! She had al ways taken care of that, and of bis THE BABY. M. KIBKLAND. letters and his vestments and his pudse and his engagements, of every thing. He should never get used to doing without her. Five years since she bad gone, and he seemed only to miss her more. . The train was stopping again. On the platform just outside the bishop's window stood a rugged old man, muf fled up to the ears, peering into the car. Tho stolid little girl In the seat in front jumped up, shouting, "Grand pa, grandpa, grandpa!" The bishop tried to wave her a good-by, but she did not see him; she was buried In tho little old man's embrace. Theie had been a time when tho bishop had thought a child's voice would, some day call him "grandpa," but the little lips had .been cold be fore he could kiss them. Sometimes, as he traveled, the bishop would fancy that all on the car were going toward their own kin, going to be welcomed by children, parents, sisters, brothers all but him. Every day for him there was the shaking of strange hands, the speaking to strange faces. The bishop heard bis station called, and rose stiffly. "I miss the little girl today," he said to himself. "I'm afraid I'm a lit tle tired for visiting." The brakeman sprang to carry the bishop's bag. People always helped the bishop. Every stranger was his friend. Perhaps it was because of the infirm stoop of the shoulders un der the old cape overcoat; perhaps it was his sweet, absent-minded eyes; perhaps it was his smile, the smile of a little child on the Hps of an old man. The rector had gone to a funeral off on the bleak hills, and so old Daniel Springer met the bishop at the train, and escorted him to the rectory, shuf fling away at the door, however, not accepting Doris's Invitation to enter. He left the bishop staring In sur prise. From the gray outside world the door had opened on a picture that caused him, poet and artist as he was, a keen delight. This was hardly the minister's wife he had expected, this girl with the rosy baby on her arm a slender girl in black, a knot of old lace at her throat, with rich, dark col or, great browi eyes, brown braids piled high on her held, vivid, parted lips, which showed still an expression wistful and appealing. Just so the little girl's lips had looked when he had come back to her after long ab sence. A rich Southern voice was bidding him welcome All Doris's shyness was gone. She led the bishop to the roar ing wood stove in the little room that in the winter was dining-room and parlor both in one. The baby was tumbled on the floor. Doris was help ing the bishop off with his overcoat,, pushing a footstool to his feet. The kettle could be heard singing in the kitchen. In an instant a cup of steam ing tea was ready. This drunk, the baby would no longer be disregarded. The bishop lifted him to his knee. They danced and trotted and "patty caked" and went to Banbury Cross. Then the baby settled to a long and silent scrutiny of the bishop's watch, only now and then lifting his head for a smile of sympathetic understanding from the bishop. I,t was all vory com fortable. Doris drew her little low rocker up to the bishop's knee and began to darn a little sock. "Ga-ga-ga-ga!" gurgled the baby. "He is saying grandpa," said Doris. And then she never knew how it hap pened that she told it all to the bish op, all that she had previously told only to the baby. Afterward she was surprised at herself, but the bishop had long ceased to be surprised that people should tell him many things on brief acquaintance. He thought it one of the beautiful compensations sent him for his loneliness. "I'm the youngest," Doris told him. "I'm twenty-two. . Mother died when I was little, and I was the last ono left home with pa." The bishop knew the names of all the sisters and brothers, of all the darkles on the place, too, even of all the horses, and understood all the free, happy-go-lucky life. "People are so different up here!" Doris was saying. Then the bishop spoke for a little while. He told her how well ho bad known the South in his youth, but how well he had come to know these peo ple of the North, too, in going about among them for forty years. They were stern, he admitted, slow to ac cept strangers; but their hears once found, were stanch and tender In beautiful, surprising ways. "And you will surely find their hearts some day," be Bald. "And once found, you'll never lose them or for get." Doris, listening, tried to believe and understand and gather courage. But the bishop, while he talked, was think ing of the harshness of her transplant ing, and of "pa" sitting on the piazza sweet with honeysuckle, looking north, another old man longing for his little girl. Now it was time for lamp-lighting and supper-getting, and presently the minister came in from his drive over the hills, a little man lost in hi great ulster. The supper was a merry little meal. Not even when he was entertained by Queen Victoria had the bishop been more delightful. He made the weary little minister laugh like boy, and the baby pounded the table with bis teaspoon in his appreciation of the fun. The bishop's eyes twinkled a little as rv r passed Mm the bread, for she ass "Do you-all like Mary land biscuit, sir? I didn't dnre to have any, because people up here don't like It Even Herbert doesn't like it." "It's delicious, snld the bishop. "And t haven't had any for five years." "We'll have some for breakfast," said Doris, beaming. After supper they left the bishop and the baby to sit cozlly by the Are. The rector had to excuse himself to wipe tho dishes for Doris. The baby drowsed against the bishop's shoulder, and the bishop smiled to himself a lit tle . as, through the open door, he watched the certor's laborious polish ing of every plate. The evening confirmation service followed close on the dlsh-washlng. The bishop and the rector left Doris to follow with the baby, for of course the baby went to church. Doris had answered the bishop's Inquiry In sur prise at his surprise. She could not go herself unless baby went. She al ways bundled htm up well, and he usually went to sleep and was very good. The frame church was crowded to overflowing. People came from ev erywhere to hear the bishop, and yet old Daniel Springer's criticism of his preaching was perhaps true: "I can't remember what he says. All I know Is, after he's through, I feel like shak ing hands with every man, woman, and child In church." To-night the bishop found that he had hard work to keep trxn preaching to only one person, the girl who sat in the front pew at his right, and held a gray woolen bundle pressed against her heart, and had great brown eyes and a mouth wistful with homesick ness. After service Dorts saw the people acting as she had never seen them act alter church. No slinking out of their pews with looks neither to right or left, but a moving about among themselves with handshaking and a how-do-you-do for every one. Hand shaking for Doris, too, in abundance; she grew radiant with the warmth of It As soon as the bishop came out of the vestry, how they surged to speak to him, and how warmly he spoke to them, remembering all, Inquiring for all news of these two years. The peo ple, for their part, did not need to ask the bishop about himself; in those two years be had aged so much. Some of them turned away with quick tears. Doris watted for the bishop until all the congregation had left the church. They had brought a lantern on ac count of the bishop's falling sight, al though the stars and snow made the night luminous. The bishop went up to bis room early, but not to go to bed. He had just seated himself to read when there came a tapping at his door. There stood Doris, hooded and cloaked, a strange, glad excitement in her face. "They've sent for me!" she exclaim ed. "Duncan Speers is suddenly much worse, and his wife la all alone with blm and the children, and they've sent for Herbert, and sent for me! They never sent for me before. But," she hesitated, "I don't know how long we shall be gone,' and there's tho ba by's milk could you " She Btopped. "Of course I could," said the bishop. "But how do you do it?" "Come in our room; I'll show you. Here's the oil-stove. You light it here, and the milk U all ready in this pan. You pour it through this funnel into the bottle. He usually wakes up about half-past one, and all be wants Is his milk. He'll go right to sleep again. Will it be very much trouble for you? I thought you'd know how much I want to go to them." "It will be fun!" declared the bish op, radiant and boyish. "Is he all right now?" peering into the crib. "Oh, yes. You-all can go to bed if you'll leave the dcors open. You'll hear him when ts wakes up." . The. bishop did go to bed, but not to sleep. He was much too happy for that. Twice he stole In to find baby still slumbering soundly. When one o'clock came the bishop got up, put on his dressing-gown, and sat holding his watch, listening. At baby's first whimper he was at the e'.de of the crib. Baby blinked up at him, then laughed and crowed, "Gaga-gaga!" "Yes, little boy," said the bishop. "Yes, grandpa's here. He's going to get baby's milk ready. You light the oil-stove this way, and the milk is ready here in this pan.. . It will be hot presently. Then grandpa must taste It to see if it's all right" The baby was watching the process through the bars of the crib. "Then you pour it into the bottle through this funnel, and pop on this little rubber thlng-um-bob, and here we are." The bishop laid the bottle on the ta ble and arranged a rocking-chair care fully beside it; then he went to the crib. "Come to grandpa, little boy," he said, lifting up baby and wrapping the blanket about him. Ho seated himself in the rocking-chair and held the bottle to the baby's eager lips. The bishop's heart was full of a great contentment. He bowed his lips to the baby's head. How soft and warm and helpless the little body felt! In that hour the baby belonged to him, for there was no one else In all the honse to take care of him but the bishop. "He'll go right to sleep again," Doris had said; but It would surely be better to bold him just a little while. The little while lengthened to an hour. In the silent house there was no sound but the crackling now and then of the wood stoves, banked for the night, and the soft sound of the bishop's rocker. One after another, in the vlHage gardens, the roosters began to crow In the morning. The baby had long been sound asleep, but he might wake If he laid him down; besides, it was all too sweet fof the bishop to leavo off yet. Doris was aghast when she came In upon him, tired and happy, the ba by sleeping In his arms. "But he's been asleep a long time!" cried Doris. "You might have put him down." "I didn't want to put him down," answered the bishop. The bishop was roused from his morning nnp by a great pounding. What was it, that regular thump, thump, fulling on some soft substance. Oh, yes, he remembered, with a smile, that was Maryland biscuit. He found Doris setting the breakfast table. She was a little dark about the eyes, but radiantly happy. "You were right, bishop," she told him, "about the people up here. I don't guess I'vo understood before. Duncan Speers was easier when we left, and Mrs. Speers kissed me when I came away." There was an appetizing smefl of crisping bacon. "Do you-all like your eggs turned, sir?" asked Doris, from the kitchen. "Yes, and the yellow done hard, please!" called back the bishop, who was dancing the laughing baby on his knee In the morning sunshine. Breakfast was another cheery meal. Such Maryland biscuit as they were, so golden and rounded on the outside, so fine-grained within! The bishop ate four, and Doris glowed with de light. "I wish ou didn't have to go this morning, bishop," said tho rector. "And so do I," said Doris. "And so do I," said the bishop. "And so does the baby," said bis mother. , But the leave-taking had to come. The rector, In his long ulster and cap pulled over his ears, stood in the hall, holding the bishop's bag. Tho bishop lingered to bid good-by to Dor is and to the baby In her arms. "Before I say good-bye," the bishop was saying, "I want to ask you a great favor. I want you to take this. Tho baby will take It, perhaps, because we played grandpa last night." He press ed a tiny green roll Into the baby's fist. "I want you and the baby to go to see that other grandpa," he continu ed. "Don't soy no until I've mado you understand a little. I had a daughter and she died, she and the little one together." For a moment the bishop's lips showed a pitiful, palsied trembling, that brought the tears to Doris's eyes. "For my lit tle girl's sake, will you take thl3 and go to Kentucky?" "Yes," whispered Doris. The tears were running down her cheeks. She tried to say thank you. Then she just said, holding out her hand in good-by: "I was tired when you came. I feel rested now." - The bishop was kissing the baby good-by. "I think I feel rested, too," he said. Youth's Companion. HOW FLOWERS HOLD HONEY. Pits Into Which Bee Must Delve In In the Lily. Before "the bee sucks," as Ariel put It, he must find the wonderful places where the flowers hide away their honey, to be fovnd like the priests' hiding holes in ancient mansions by the right sort of visitor, and to keep away all Intruders. ' Ih the recesses of the crown Imper ial lily at the centre can be seen six large honey pits, one on every floral leaf, and each is brimming over with a big drop of honey and glistening like a tear drop. Shake the flower and it "weeps" as the big1 drops fall from it, soon to be replaced by other tears in the rapidly secreting flower. The simple folks call the flower "Job's tear." The snowdrop Is literally flowing with honey, for In swollen veins trav ersing its fragile whiteness are rivers of nectar. The petals of the colum bine are ingeniously and elaborately designed with a view to providing good places of hiding for the honey. Each Is circular, holl6w shaped, like a born. In each the honey is secreted In a round knob at what would be the mouthpiece end of the horn, and the five are arranged ina ring side by side with the honey knobs aloft. Though the honey store is obvious from with out, yet the insects who would sip it must creep into the Cower and pene trate with a long noee up the curving horn to the knob. Sometimes the petals are all joined together into a tube and the sweet nectar simply exudes from the inner side of the wall and collects at the bottom. This Is the case in the dead nettle, the tube of which forms so toothsome a morsel that some children call it "suckles." The honeysuckle is similarly planned and its sweetness is so striking as to have furnished its name. - The monkshood has quaint nectaries. If the hood be drawn back there sud denly springs into Bight two objects on long stalks which are sometimes like a French horn, sometimes like a cowl, or, looked at sideways, not unlike a pair of doves. Their presence within the hood has provided the nicknames "Adam and Eve" and "Noah's ark." Thus the honey bags are carefully tucked away and protected. Chicago Tribune. Telling Her. Mrs. Cbugwater "Joslah, this pa per talks about 'peanut politics.' What is peanut politics?" Mr. Cbugwater "It's the kind they use in a goobernutorial campaign. ThlflJt you understand it now?" Chicago Tribune. PITTSBURG COAL MARKET. The loss occasioned by the drouth of the last month or bo . has been enormous. It is estimated, by sev eral of 'the larger companies, that tho total less to business and equipment will reach Into the millions' of dollars In this state and West Virginia. Some idea of the real loss may be had when It Is said that several compan ies In the Pittsburg district alone had to pay from $2,000 to $5,000 per day for the water used at different plants. The demand for coal has continued to Increase, just as had beeu predict ed and anticipated. It has now come to tho time of the year when the smaller consumer is beginning to lay In his winter's supply, hence the busi ness of the retailer Is showing on In crease. The marine parade . was held on last Wednesday afternoon, and was one of the greatest successes, In its line, ever witnessed In an Inland city. Practically the entire fleets of the Monongahela River Consolidated Coal & Coke Company, the River Consoli dated Coal & Coke Company, the United Coal Company, and the Dia mond Coal Company were In the pag eant, the first mentioned company having about fifty-two boats In line. Over a thousand vessels of all kinds participated. Prices remain practically the same, although a few small advances have been reported among the retail deal ers. The operators have not an nounced any change, however, and will likely not do so for some weeks. The coke situation has again shown some improvement, both the total number of active ovens and the total production having Increased within the week. Water Is now not so scarce In the Connellsvllle and Klon dyke regions. Those spectators of Pittsburg's ses-qul-centennlal big parade who sta tioned themselves on the frame work of the Sixth street bridge were treat ed to a dual attraction when the big pageant was crossing the structure. H. McWhlnney, a structural iron worker, was seated on one of the tie rods when the bagpipe band, in full tune, started across the bridge. All McWhlnney's Scotch blood was ' stir red when he beard the airs of his fatherland and rising to his feet b'e darted across the 2-inch rod, keeping up with the band. The sight of the swiftly moving human being, suspended between water and sky, caused not a little ex citement and for the minute the par ade was forgotten. Those gathered along the walk gazed upward with rapt attention, expecting momen tarily to see the man dash to the floor of the bridge. This did not occur, however, and when he reached the end of the rod, McWhlnney quietly seated himself, and with a backward look at the rapidly disappearing plaid clothes band, settled himself to watch the remainder of the parade. Refusing the chairmanship of the MeKeesport City Republican Com mittee for the reason that he "has pulled too many chestnuts out of the fire," and has never been repaid for his labors, W. C. Cronemeyer, one of the pioneers in the tlnpiate Indus try and, at one time, president of the United States Tlnpiate Company, of MeKeesport, has created a sensation n political circles. 'Tip claws of the old cat have been burned off," he declared in an address which he made at the Me Keesport Republican headquarters last Thursday evening. "I have worked for the Republican party for years and never had been given anything. I am done with pol itics forever. "I am In favor of spreading the principles of socialism all over the country and shall vote for Eugene V. Debs, at the coming election. But If I thought that there was the slight est chance of William H. Taft failing to be elected, I should vote for him. I do not think, however, that there is any possibility of his being defeat ed. Consequently I shall cast a complimentary vote for Debs." Mr. Cronemeyer is one of the old est members of the Republican party In MeKeesport and was a friend of the late President William McKlnley. Branch 24 of the Green Glass Bot tle Blowers elected the following of ficers: Wllbert Wilson, president; Samuel Morrison vice president; Ar thur A. Morris, recording secretary; U. E. Belles, financial secretary; Thomas Kane, treasurer; Henry Hor ner, conductor; John Norrls, inside guard; Augustus - Leiber, outside guard; Judson Bingham, Edward Gil bert and Gottlieb Flohr, trustees. ' Local No. 107, American Flint Glass Workers' union, elected the follow ing: John W. Wright, president; James Gillespie, vice president; Al bert Anderson, recording secretary; Lawrence Swearingen, financial sec retary; Harry Calmus, treasurer; Archibald Huffman, Inspector; CIId ton Ray, outside guard. Ora Faull wan elected a trustee for three years. Branch No. 73, Bottle Blowers, elected the following: John Hart, president;; Charles Selgler, vice pres ident; Joseph Colbert, financial sec retary; George Rodewig, recording secretary; Walter Upperman, treas urer; Henry Kleist, outside guard; Oscar Wenzel, Inside guard; Edward Upperman and John Nlemon, trus tees. Secretary John T. Dempsey of the Bcranton district of the United Mine workers, has sent out a call for a trl dlstrict convention of the miners of the anthracite regions to be held In Scranton on October 12. At this convention the men will determine what will be their policy in the spring, when their agreement with the operators expires. A general eight-hour day and a uniform rate of wages and "check-off" system are probably what the men will domand. The officials of the Amalgamated Association of Iron, Steel and Tin Workers entered upon a new year on Thursday of last week. The old death benefit of $100 has been done away with and a new graded system of Insurance put in effect, ranging! from $100" to $H300. The first named sum is paid for three months' continuous good standing and the $500 for ten years' good standing, also adding a benefit of $50 payable ou the death of the wlfo of the mem ber. A sick arid accident and disability benefit of $5 a week has also been1 arranged. This Is payablo for a period of 13 weeks In any one year. Any member or the association is eligible to participation In the bene fits who has been a member in good standing for at least three months. Members In good standing, retiring from mill work, and desiring to con tinue their Insurance, shall be per mitted to do so by withdrawing by honorary card and making applica tion for silent membership. They are to pay to the national lodge a total of $2.C0 a year. Upon the total disability of a member in good stand ing, when such disability has not been caused by Intemperance, de bauchery or other Immoral conduct, the secretary-treasurer shall pay one half of the amount said member would be entitled to In case of death, which Is as follows for good standing not less than three months, $100; two, years, $160; three years, $200; five years, $300; 10 years, $500. A mem ber who receives the disability bene fit will have the said amount deducted ! from the death benefit due his heirs or assigns at death. In order to create a reserve or sink ing fund to further make the benefic ial features tenable, and to assure their permanency, the initiation fee has been advanced to a minimum of $5, two-fifth of which shall go to the benefit fund, and a reinstatement fee of $5 to be charged, two-fifths of which shall also go to the benefit fund. Efforts are being made to have the unemployed men of Pittsburg go to the Plnevllle and Mlddlesboro dis trict of Kentucky, where, according to information given by Controller E. S. Morrow, miners and laborers are needed. H. H. Spayd, secretary and treasurer of the Poplar Hlgnite Coal and Coke Company, Darrsburg, Ky., has requested the controller to Inform the unemployed of the Pitts burg district of conditions in Ken tucky. Mr. Spayd's attention to Pittsburg was attracted by a newspaper clip ping containing an account of Con troller Morrow's intention to have au ordinance introduced in councils for a permanent appropriation to give work to the unemployed. Controller Morrow snld that the clipping read by Mr. Spayd was mis leading. The account did not state that the appropriation was to be per manent. It stated that Mr. Mor row would have an age limit placed upon the employees. On the con trary, the controller has been advo cating the abolition of an age limit in employing men under the emer gency funds of the city. The control ler's ordinance will provide for the employing of American's only. Mr. Spayd's letter: "I came into this section about ten days ago and found a scarcity of min ers and other mine laborers. I take it for granted that there are miners among the unemployed In and around Pittsburg. Would it not be better to advise some of these to leave tho congested parts of the country and find proper employment? Your scheme is at the best only tempor aryit is artificial. Good work men can readily earn from $1.70 to $2 a day and miners from $2.50 to $3.50 a day here. "Eatables are 10 per cent higher than In Pittsburg or Pottsvllle (Min ersvllle) In the anthracite region. There Is no drink here, but steady work. We have been at work here nearly two years and given employ ment to from 25 to 50 men all the time, without a break. I understand there are plenty of places In this Plnevllle and Mlddlesboro district looking for men. Can't you aid some of the deserving men to come to this section. This is a new section and, of- course, people can't expect tho comforts of civilization." Robert Naylor, a well-known mem ber of the Amalgamated Association of Iron, Steel and Tin Workers, who Is employed as a roller at the Sygan steel mill, M'olllne, 111., Is recovering from a second operation on his foot. President P. J. McArdle and Vice President Llewellyn Lewis, of the Bheet division, Amalgamated Associa tion, addressed the members of Em pire lodge at Cleveland last week. Cataract lodge, Amalgamated Asso ciation, elected John Herbert as a delegate to the Ohio State Federation of Labor convention to be held at Day ton, October 19. Harry Gotschall, a stranner on the 10-lnch mill at Vlncennes. Ind., an! a prominent member of the Amal gamated Association, has quit the mill and taken up a mercantile occu pation. D. N. Curry, vice president of the Indiana bituminous miners, will re tire as an official of the U. M. W. or A. S. A. Whetzel, national executive board member from tile Pittsburg dis trict mine workers, spent several days at Clearfield, Pa., Ia3t week, at tending a special convention of Dis trict No. 2. A Thompsonvillo, Conn., special says: - From eight o'clock to noon to day Theodore Roosevelt. Jr., spent at a wool washing machine. From one o'clock to 4:30 he did the same. Then 1 he spent ta!f an hour in the main office, not doing much of anything. Other employes in the wool room work from 7 A. M. to C P. M. The mill help like "Teddy" who Is deter mined to stick to his job. J
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers