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