FROM THE HEIGHTS. LAST POEM WTITTE* BT THE LATE JOHN BOYLE O'BEILLT. • C* ty Comptroller Onahan. the Chicago Poet. Sfki P poßseasor of an internal"* bit of manuoi rlpt which is doubly prised by him on account of cer tain association* connected it. It consists of P-fndwrlUnt 1? that of the late John Boyle O'Reilly. rat riot an 1 poet. It is the last poein ever 7 an< * on ® that has never been T! ,e po f?L w !3 written for the occasion ©I the dedication of the Washington University. It was read at these ceremonies Nov. 7, IMP. but was not pubjished In the daily press. ;, I was beside OReillywhcn he wrote that poem." said A. W. %? 4 an ' *5 w i* e P he got through with it I turned to him and asked him for the manuscript. He cheerfully promised it.and he kept his word." The poem is as follows: "Come to me for wisdom," said the moun tain; "In the valley and the plain There is knowledge dimmed with sorrow in the gain; There is effort, with its hope like a fountain; There the chained rebel, passion, Laboring strength nnd fleeting fashion; There ambition's leaping flame, And the iris crown of frame; But those gains are dear forever Won from loss and pain nnd fever. Nature's gospel never changes; Every sudden force deranges; Blind endeavor is not wise Wisdom enters through the eyes, And the seer is the knowcr. Is the doer and the sower." "Come to me for riches, '' said the peak; "1 am leafless, cold and calm; But the treasures of the Illy and the palm— They are mine to bestow on those who seek. I am gift and I am giver to the verdured fields below. As the motherhood of snow Bally gives the new-born river. As a watcher on a tower Listening to the evening hour: Ssss the roads diverge and blend 36ft the wandering currents end the moveless waters shine Qji the far horizon line,— All the storied past is mine; its strange beliefs still clinging; iQi its singers nnd their singing; AJJ paths that lead astray; AH the meteors once called day; All the stars that rose to shine- Come to me—for all are minel" "Come to me for safety," said the height; "In the future as the past, flosd and river end at last Like n raindrop in the ever circling sea. shall know by lessened eight Where the gain und the loss Ip the desert they must cross? Guides who lead their charge from ills, Passing soon from town to town, Through the forest and the down, Take direction from the hills; Those who range a wider land iligher climb until they stand Where the past and future swing Like a far blue ocean-ring; Those who sail from land afar Leap from mountain-top to starl Higher still from star to God, Have the spirit-pilots trod, Setting lights for mind and soul That the ships may reach the goal, "They shall safely steer who see, Sight is wisdom—come to me! " MISS ANSTRUTHER'S TRIAL. BY ANNA SHIELDS. In speaking of her niece, Miss Letitia Anstruther was accustomed to plain tively call her "the trial of my life," and, for once, the expression was a simple truth, entirely devoid of exaggeration. Mattie Anstruther certainly was a trial. "You know, my dear," Miss An struther would say to one intimate friend or another, "my brother John went to Texas twenty years ago. Don't ask me who his wife was! I don't know. I never saw her. I never heard her name until John died, and somebody sent his child to me, with her baptismal rec ord, John's marriage certificate aud the lawyer's letters, telling me she will have about a hundred and fifty thousand dol lars when she is twenty-one. John made his money upon a stock-farm, and after j his wife died, appears to have lived alone with Matilda, on the place—'ranch,' she I calls it. She was sixteen when she came here, and she was a perfect savage; a savage , my dear, and is very little better now." And ii savage the girl appeared to her neat, prim aunt, who nearly went into convulsions over a crooked table cloth, and looked upon a knowledge of house keeping and needle-work as the climax of womanly education. MiBS Anstruther's house was small, a cottage set in an exact square of prim garden, but every room was the perfec tion of order and cleanliness, and a small income was economized and nursed to give a margin for Berlin wools and tidy cotton, wherewith in the leisuro hours left by household care, the old maid manufactured wonderful articles for the ornamentation (or otherwise) of her par-1 lor and guest-room. Into this domain there had been thrust! a lank, tall girl of sixteen, in shabby 1 mourning, grieving violently for the loss : of her only friend, her father. A girl who wore thick-soled boots which she ! never wiped upon the door-mat, whose I profusion of hair was gathered into a net j loosely, "anyhow," as her nuntreinnrkcd, .' who had never owned a collar or a pair of cuffs, nor had ever seen a carpet. And yet, a girl who could read Homer 1 and Virgil in the original, was acquaint-! Ed with Shakespeare, Milton and Chau-1 cer as familiar friends, could solve geo metrical problems and make the church ' organ speak, but never had fashioned a garment or knotted Berlin wool. And she seemed utterly untamable. In ! vain Miss Anstruther scolded and i groaned, in vain grew pathetic and tear-1 tub Mattie would "litter up" her neat j rooms with growing ferns, birds' nests, leaves, flowers, stones, would have I "John's horrid books" piled in her owu bedroom on shelves, taldcs or even the floor; would not learn to stir puddings oi' hem towels, and darted about like an elf, regardless of furniture or decorum. Now she was singing in a glorious con tralto the wildest of glees, now sobbing convulsively over some scrap of paper folded away by her father's hand, and newly discovered by the girl in her de sultory reading. She would sit on the best sofas with her feet tucked under her, and wear the ample handsome wardrobe Miss Anstruther ordered out of her lib eral allowance, with utter disregard of the proprieties—wrappers in the evening and evening dresses at breakfast, "just as it happened." In the first two years of her life at Doncester, it would have been hard to say which was more miserable in the little cottage, the prim maiden lady or the wayward niece. yihe was seated under the shade of a willow, one June afternoon, looking tnotjdily into the water of a little brook ' her feet, while the Reverend Albert •hew finished a little lecture Miss 'littler had asked him to deliver, was a tall, near-sighted, bashful man of over thirty, appearing still older from a habitual stoop aud a quiet reserve of manner. It had not been a pleasant task to him to obey Miss Anstruther's request; but, meeting Mattic in an after noon stroll, he had conscientiously done his duty. "But," she answered him, "I can't. I can't stay in the house day after day, stitching and cooking. Aunt Lettv has a servant, and works harder than Jane docs. But it kills me; it suffocates inc. She can't talk of anything but scrap bags and tidies. Oh, you do not under stand 1" "Understand what, my child?"^ 1 'Tho difference between this life and my real life. We were alone, papa and I, though there were servants indoors and out, but no other house for fourteen miles. Sometimes Mr. Parker, my guurdian. came over from Brownsville, but not often. Only papa and I, year in, year out. In the morning we rode over the country to see about the stock, visit ed the cabins where the graziers lived, and were out till it grew hot, and then we went home to rest till it grew cool. And we read and studied and talked, or we played upon the organ papa had built in tno house. We wanted no one else. Sometimes we read Greek or Lutin; sometimes we recited whole plays. We did not care what we ate or what we wore, so we were fed and comfortable. Oh, papa! papa!" and sobs shook the slender frame as Mattie rocked to and fro, convulsed with grief. "But now, Mattie!" said Mr. Mayhcw, very gently, "you are a woman with a woman's duties before you! Can you not try to understand that the wild, free life is unsuitcd to your present position?" She listened, that was one gain, while he talked gravely but tenderly, pointing out to her the pain it would have caused her father to know her discontented, rebellious and wayward. Something in the quiet voice seemed to soothe the girl's heart, and after the sunset clouds were tinged with the last rays of the dy ing day, she rose up, saying very slowly: "I w'ill try to be more womanly, I will try!" Miss Letitia was grimly astonished, but not very hopeful, when Mattie ap peared at breakfast with her hair shining like satin in glossy braids, her collar pinned evenly, ner feet neatly dressed in kid slippers, and sat erect but silent, act ually eating like a lady, not dashing through her breakfast as a necessary evil. Her wonder increased when after the meal was over, Mattie demurely followed her from room to room, awkwardly, but willingly assisting in the dusting and cooking, with a nervous little apology for faults, to the effect that she would try and improve if her aunt would in struct her. It was like chaining a chamois goat to a plow, and Mattie's cheeks grew thin, her eyes dull, as she plodded on, day after day, conscientiously doing her duty as directed. Only one pleasure remained. Every afternoon she went across the rye fields to the little country church, and spent two or three hours at the organ, reveling in music, working off some oi the crushed vitality of heart aud brain in the finder- i work that carried out her improvisation. It became the substitute for home, fa ther, friends and—no, not for love; for I often into the church would steal the fig ure of Albert Mayhew, and Mattie would | hear the few words of commendation j that were her rewards for this suppressed, I cramped life that was killing her. | She loved him after a blind, unreason ing fashion she comprehended as little as ho did. Ifc talked of her books as her father had often talked; he loved music and would praise her wondrous genius understandingly. Summer sped away, and in the early fall a friend with great news came to see Miss Anstruther. "Have you heard of Mr. Mayhew's fortune?" she asked, and Mattie's tan gled wools dropped in her lap as she lis tened. "No; what is it?" Miss Anstruther asked. "He's come into money—a lot, they say—and he's going to be married. There's men to the parsonage now measuring for carpets aud new furni ture." " You don't say so?" And they talked and talked, while Mattie stole away, unheeding the destruc tion of an elaborate piece of canvas work she dragged after licr over the grass and gravel. Mechanically she went to the j church, but not into the organ loft, for in the cemetery she met Albert Mayhcw. His head was more erect, his eyes brighter than she had ever seen them, but he came to meet her swiftly. "Is it true?" she asked, piteously, knowing no maidenly wile to hide her j stricken heart. "That I am richer to-day than I was I yesterday? " he asked. "That is true." I "Yes, I heard that—and—you are hav ing the house—" but her lips were parched and she stopped. "I am making the house more comfort nb"e, or rather Margaret, my house keeper, is. She has been so long lament ing over faded curtains and ragged car pets, that I could not resist giving her the intense happiness of renewing them." "You look nappy, tool" Mattie said. "Shall I tell you why?" ho asked, drawing her hand upon his arm, and so, leading her out of the city of the dead, down the path to the willow and brook, her favorite resting-place. "I have tried to hide my secret from you," he said, "but now I am free to speak. I love, and I was bound in honor to be silent, because the woman I love will be rich, and I was very, very poor." Poor Muttie bent her head away from the tender eyes seeking to scan her face. She pictured a stately, beautiful woman, accomplished and graceful, some queen of society Albert Had met and loved be fore he came to Donccstcr. "I never thought to have this money," continued Mr. Mahew, "for my uncle was angry because I would not leave the pulpit and learn his business. But he has left it to me, and I can do good with it; only I want a tender, faithful wo man's help in my life-work. I want— ah, Mattie, I want a home; some one to love me, to welcome me there ; some one who will let me biing her happiness, will let me shield her from all harm will make my life perfect." "Yes, Mattie said," wondering where l her voice had gone, "you will make her i very happy." '•Do you think so, Mattie? I "Why," she said, simply as a child, ! "she must be happy with your love." | "Then will she come now into my | heart, into my life. Mattie, do you love j ine? Can you give me love for love, be !my wife, my other self ? Will not the (pilot parsonage be a prison to you, little wild bird?" To me? You love mo?" She gasped. | "With all mv heart." "Hut you sail she—" and just then, not before, Mattie remembered that she would he rich. In her humility, the money had never crossed her mind, and she shuddered as she thought it might > have been a bar to this perfect cloudless happiness. I She scarcely knew what she said, but it satisfied her grave lover, and they went home in the gloaming to astonish Miss Anstruther. It was a nine day wonder at Doneester how Mr. Mahcw ever caine to perfect that "harum-scaruin girl" to the steady, gentle misses of his congregation, but in the parsonage there is no regret, and tho Minister does not find his wife or married life a burden, though Miss Lettie still talks of Mattie as a dreadful trial.—[The Ledger. DEEIt IN SNOW PITS. Imprisoned in Corrals of Their Own Making —Easily Tamed. From a gentleman recently down from the mountains the Appeal learns of the strange experiences of various sorts of wild animals last winter: "Deer, when caught iu a blinding snow-storm, huddle together and tramp round and round iu a circle, beating down the soft 9now, so that when a very heavy full occurs during say twelve hours, thoy find them selves in a snow pen, with walls above them, and if they commence to tramp on top of several feet of snow during a storm, they often find themselves in a corral of snow, with a wall surrounding them to a height of ten or twelve feet when the storm clears off, being virtually imprisoned iu a snowy prison pen, from which escape is impossible until the spring thaw of the season. "Tnere lives an old miner on Canon Creek, in Sierra County, several iniles above Brandy City, who wa9 taking a stroll near his cabin last winter after one of the heavy snows, when he came across one of these deer pens in the snow, and there imprisoned were seventeen deer of vnrious sizes. They were In a circular pen of snow; with walls fifteen feet high. Upon the man's appearance the deer be came quite excited, and huddled together aud dodged frcm one side ef the pen to the other. However, as hunger came upon them they became more docile, and the frequent visits of the miner, with boughs and buds from adjoining trees, which he threw into the pen as food, caused the deer to become regular pets, and to watch for the visits of their pro tector. After awhile the man placed a I ladder in the pit, and spent a great deal lof time in handling his pets. Occasion- | ally he would take one out for food, as meat became scarce, and in this way used up several of the deer, but he lias most of the deer yet in a state of domes tication. It is said he has a deer ranch in his mountain home, much after the fashion of a cattle ranch on a small scale." The Appeal i 9 also informed that a similar band of deer was found in one of those deadly snow pits near Washington, Nevada County, and was likewise res cued. The streets of Downicville were enlivened last winter by the appearance of deer which were driven from the mountains down to the river towns by starvation, and domesticated by kindness and food. As the snow has been disap pearing many carcasses of deer have been found where they have perished in the deadly snow corral. The heavy and sudden snows of the past winter have caused fearful mortality among the deer which did not escape to the lower altitude.—Marysville (Cat.) Appeal. A Struggle with a Sturgeon. Faithful Jim is the name of an old Si wash in the employ of Mr. W. 11. Vianen. Jim looks after the fish-house, cleans salmon, runs the delivery barrow, breaks ice, and performs numerous other little duties of an easy and pleasant nature. Faithfvd Jim, as his name would indicate, is a very trustworthy and honest Indian, and he takes really a wonderful delight in performing every one of his little duties with an exactness aud care that would make the eyes of the strictest disciplin arian glitter with pride and pleasure. The other morning a number of fat and hand some sturgeon were landed on the slip, apparently dead, and without the power of motion, and Mr. Vianen ordered Jim to curry them inside and clean tlicm. Jim carried the first two inside and laid them down carefully beside the water hole, and he was just about to deposit the third, a fifty-pounder, when the fish, coming suddenly to life, gave a tremen dous wriggle and almost slipped through Jim's hands into the water hole. Faithful Jim took a strong hold and was about to drag it from the water, when the fish gave another jump, causing the Biwash to slip, and like a flash the flsh and the man shot through tho hole into the river. Then there was a commotion in the depths that betokened that a gigantic struggle was in full swing, and the loit erers who had seen the accident felt very anxious for Jim's safety, for they knew j he would never let go while life remained in his body. The terrible struggle lasted fully a minute, aud Jim's long shaggy hair came to the surface, swirling and I twisting and lashing the water into foam. Mr. Vianen seized the hair and I drew Jim's head above water, and as he did so the Siwash gave vent to a Squam ish war-whoop, which startled the whole neighborhood. "Me Faithful Jim," he said, and sure enough when they drag ged him out the fish was found locked in the strong embrace of his arms, and as peaceful as a snail, after the long strug gle. Then Faithful Jim seized a heavy club, and, after dancing a spocies of Si wash war dauee over the tired sturgeon, belabored it until life was extinct.—[New Westminster (B. C.) Columbian. Iceland's Hot Springs. As to the hot springs, those in Reyk jadal, though not the most magnificent, arc perhups the most curious among the numerous phenomena of this sort in Ice land. On entering the valley you see columns of vapor ascending from dif ferent parts of it. There is a number of apertures in a sort of platform of rock. The water is at 213 degrees Fahrenheit, and it rises two or throe feet into the air. A river flows through the valley in the the midst of which a jet of boiling water issues with violence from a rock raised but a few feet above the icy-cold water of the river. Not far from this place is the grotto, or cave of Surt, which is so large that no one has penetrated to its inner end. In forming these scenes na ture seems to have deserted all her ordi nary operations and to have worked only in combining the most terrific extremes which her powers can command. Nor is she yet silent. After the lapse of ages the fire of the volcano still bursts out among regions of eternal snow, and the impetuous thundering of the geysers con tinues to disturb the stillncs of the sur rounding solitude. [Murray's Mag azine. Georgia's Sinking Mountain, The famous "sinking mountain" on the Chnltonooga River makes a first-class earthquake barometer. Although grad ually sinking all the time, its periods of greatest disquiets are when earthquakes i arernekingsomeromoto part of the globe. | When the great earthquake occurred in : .lava a few years ago Sinking Mountain j instantly lowered ten feet. —[St. Louis | Republic. THE JOKER'S BUDGET. JESTS AND YARNS BY FUNNY MEN OF THE PRESS. Astonishing Development Fitzy Tries to be Funny, — A Fair Average Cost, Etc., Etc. HER MOTIVE WAS ARCHITECTURAL. Mrs. DcFash—Amy, why are you all the time looking out of the window? Don't you know it's not good form? Amy—Yes, ma, but you said yourself the other day that the front of the house is too plain and needs some decoration badly.—[Munsey's Weekly. LOOKS LIKE THEM ALL. Selby—They say that husbands and wives grow to look like each other as they grow older. Ponsonby—ls that so? What a splen did composite photograph old Plenty pop would take, then! He's been married nine times.—[Burlington Free Press. TOMMY WAS RIOHT. "I is—" began Tommy, when the teacher interrupted him. "That is wrong; you should say 4 1 am.'" "All right," said Tommy. "I am the ninth letter of the alphabet." PAPA'S JOKE. Youngest Son—Papa, did you throw stones at apples when you was a boy? Father—No; I threw a stone into a peach tree once, and what do you think? Sou—You broke a window! Father—No. I knocked off a peach and on opening it found the stone.— [Wasp. ASTONISHING DEVELOPMENT. Visitor—l've not seen any of you for ever so long. How is your little brother comiug on, Tommy? Tommy—First rate. He can whistle for himself and wear my pants.—[Texas Siftings. AN OFF YEAR. "Well, Uncle Israel, how did you get on with your farming this year?" Uncle Israel--! didn't made nothin', marster. You see, me an' de boss was workin' orn sheers. 1 'greed to do de farmin' for harf de crap, an' I didn t t make but barf a crap dis year, an' so, in | course, I didn't git nothin'.—[Harper's Weekly. EASILY REMEDIED. "Look here, Davis," exclaimed the manager of the dime museum, aghast, "you have made a mistake. It wasn't an Eskimo girl I wanted for this department. It was a Circassian girl." "That's all right, colonel," replied the traveling agent. 44 Ulga," he said, turn ing to tne dusky beauty, 4 'go wash your face and frizz your hair."—[Chicago Times. FITZY TRIES TO BE FUNNY. "Ilello, Fitzy, where did you get that black eye?" "Oh, it was only a lovers' quarrel." 44 Lovers' quarrel! Why, your girl did not give you that, did she?" "No, it was her other lover."—[New York Herald. CORRECTED. "Will you love me when I'm old?" sang the maiden of uncertain age. 44 Will I?" murmured a crusty old bachelor. "DoI?" you mean."—[Wash ton Star. A DESIRABLE NEIGHBORHOOD. Cliickcring—Some of the new houses up-town are so narrow that a piano can not be put in. Baus (excitedly)— You don't know the rent of the houses next door to them, do you?"—[Puck. A FAIR AVERAGE COST. Mrs. Cumso— 44 You've seen these dol lar-dinner-bills-of-farc in the household magazines? Mrs. Fangle—Yes, I got one up the other day. "How much did it cost you?" "Three dollars and a half." THE BILL WENT WITH THE BIRD. 44 llow much is that canary?" 44 Ten dollars." 44 Very well. I'll take it. Send the bill." 44 We cannot send the bill without the rest of the bird." —[Bazar. WEALTHY AFTER ALL. 44 Mr. Bondheavy," said the young man, with much assurance, 44 1 have come again to ask you for the baud of your daughter." 4 'Didn't I tell you only last night that my daughter should never marry the son of a poor penchgrower?" 44 Yes," said the lover, 44 but my father is no longer poor, lie found two baskets of peaches in his orchard this morning, ana " 44 Take her, my boy, and may you be happy."—[Norristown Herald. LEAVES. In spring-time, when an unseen sprite, A rose wreath in the garden weaves, And all the skies are blue and white, The maple leaves. Before the winter's angry blast In bleak December moans and grieves, Freezing the ducks in the lakelet fast, Then autumn leaves. Through all the year, though dark or clear, From crocus-time to time of sheaves, Though snows make drear or flowers cheer. The servant leaves. —Harper's Bazar. A REJECTED PUNBTEIt's REVENGE. 44 Clara—Miss Simpkins," he raur-j mured, as he reached for his hat after her declination, 44 when you think of a little road where we used to wander be neath the branches of the green trees, I pray you think of me. For I am like that little road—a lover slain; and so he passed out of her sight. And then she was glad she had an swered No.—[Bazar. WHY TOMMY WAS STARING. Clarence (courting Miss Alice, observes that her little toddler of a brother has been staring at him from the drawing room doorway quite five minutes) —Why arc you looking at me so, Tommy? Tommy—Waitin' for you to propose to Alice. Alice—Oh, Tommy, how came you to say such a thing? Tommy—'Cause ma said if he'd pro pose you'd fling yourself right at him, | an' I want to see you. OF NO ACCOUNT. I Miss Boanlcy— 44 Who is that Mr. St. Paul you were with last night?" Miss Bunkeville (contemptuously) I Oh, he's nobody, much, he told me he | had never been in Boston, WITY THE ENGAGEMENT WAS BROKEN. This was what surprised his washer woman: "MY DEAR GIRL: I will call for you at 8 Sunday evening for a drive over to the lake. Don't disappoint me. "JIM." And this was what surprised his "dear girl": "MADAME: What in thunder do you do to my shirts that makes the bosom 9 wrinkle up so? If you can't do better work I must go somewhere else. "JAMES E. BLAKE." EXCLUDING THE UNNECESSARY PART. "You remember, Maud," began the youth, in tremulous tones, "that you granted my entreaty last night and" "One moment, Harry," interposed the young woman, sweetly; "let us go nud sfc by the window; it is cooler." And she led him away from the concealed phonograph. " That you granted my entreaty] last night," he resumed, "and permitted j me to kiss you. A kiss, Muud, is the hardest thing in the world to forget. | That kiss has been burning on my lips ever since, and now, dearest, I have come to ask you the old, old question. Will you" "It doesn't seem to be any cooler here, Harry," again interposed the lovely but business-like muiden, and she led the infatuated young man back to the corner where the hidden phonograph was work ing away. "What were you saying, Harry?"—[Chicago Tribune. THE REASON. Store is vacant, Sign "To Let!" Former tennant Had to get. He in sorrow Sits and sighs 'Cause he didn't Advertise. —[New York Journal. HIS LATEST TITLE. Wee Wife.—Lovo you? Of course 1 do, You dear, blessed old peach crop." Big Husband (lyving but luckless;— Great Scott! Why this new title? W. W.—Because you arc such a per petual failure.—[Ycnownie's News. PROOF OF AFFECTION. "I wonder if McC'orkle loves his wife much." "He adores her! Why, he wears neck ties that she selects for him!"— New York Sun. NERVOUS. "Jane, what is the baby playing with?" "With the Hatiron, mum." "Goodness gracious! Take it away from her at once. She might get it in her mouth and swallow it!"—Norristown Herald. A DISOBEDIENT PATIENT. Irute Patron—You advertise to cure consumption, don t you? I)r. Quack—Yes, sir. I never fail when my instructions arc followed. Irate Patron—My son took your medi cine for a year, and died an hour after the last dose. Dr. Quack —My instructions were not followed. I told him to take it for two years.—[New York Weekly. A COMFORTING ASSURANCE. Ilnyslitt (despondently)—l don't be lieve I have much of a wit, after all, my friends never laugh at my jokes. Grimmage (assuringly)—Oh, yes, they do. They always laugh at them aftci I you have gone out.—Burlington Free I'rcss. RATHER MEAN. I She—"What a bright fellow that Jon kins is." I Johnson (jealous)—" He's a getting j brighter and brighter every year. He's letting his red beard grow."—Once a i Week. I j How Dan'l Drew Did It. I About the time that Daniel Drew be | gan his Wall street career he was up in I the country one time to visit some [ friends, and two farmers called upon him to decide a ease. One had sold the other five bushels of wheat and proposed to measure it in a half bushel and sweep the top of the measure with a stick. The other objected, and Uncle Daniel was asked to decide. "Well, legally speaking, a bushel is only a bushel," he answered. "And can the measure be swept off?" "I think it can." "What with?" "Well, if I was selling wheat I should I probably use half the head of a flour barrel." "Which edge of it?" "Gentlemen, that is a point I cannot now decide on,"sighed the old man. "If I was selling to a widow or a preacher I am certain that I should sweep the measure with the straight edge, but if I was selling to a man who pastures his cows on the road and his pigs in his neighbor's corn I'm afraid I should use the circular side, and scoop a little to boot." Order of the Longest Rivers. The Amazon, in South America, falls from the Andes through a course of 2,800 miles; the Mississippi, from the Stony Mountain, runs 2,090 miles; La Plata, from the Andes, 2,21.1 miles: the Iloang lio, in China, from the Tartarean chain of mountains, is 8,260 miles ; theYangtse- Kiang runs from the same mountains and is 4,000 miles long; the Nile, from the Jihel Kumri Mountains, courses 2,090 miles; the Euphrates, from Ararat, is 2,020 miles long; the Volga, from the Valdais, is 2,100 miles; the Danube, from the Alps, is 1,790 miles in length; the Indus, from the Himalayas, 1,770 miles; the Gunges runs from the same source and is 1,0. r >o miles long; the Orinoco, from the Andes, 1,500 miles in length; the Niger, or Wharra, is 1,900 miles long; the Don, the Ilneiper and the Senegal are each over 1,000 miles in length; the the Hhine and the Gambia are 888 miles in extent. Inflammable Hud, The surroundings of Blaine are not only superficially productive, but several parties of experienced prospectors have been examining the mineral indications, which give promise of undreamed-of richness. Coal is found on both sides of the boundary line, from the coast bnek to a distance of twenty-five or forty miles, and comprised in an area of 20,000 acres or more, nnd the country is so easy of access by a railway line that there is but one way in which the coal will be brought out, and that is through Blaine. It is only necessary to be in this coal district with one's eyes open to sec it, nnd competent judges nfnrm it is coal of the finest quality. Vast deposits of, iron ore abound; in fact there is n moun tain some miles back which is nothing but iron ore, and oil is so much in evi dence that a stick plunged into the marshy land can be immediately lighted by the application of a match.—Blaine, | Washington, Journal. VON MOLTKE. THE GREAT GERMAN SOLDIER AT HIS HOME. An American Representative of In ventor Edison visits the Field Marshal with a Phonograph—Von MoltkeatHis Wires TomU A gentleman named Wangeman has been traveling through Europe as Mr. Ed ison's representative, exhibiting the great inventor's phonograph to the crowned heads and other important personages. Among others Mr. Wangeman, says the New York Sun, visited Von Moltkc, the venerable soldier whom Germany idol izes, and who. since he entertained Mr. Edison's representative, has laid down his sword and surrendered the title of Field Marshal of the German armies. The weight of 90 years now burdens him, but his mind is still clear and vig orous and his heart warm and sympa thetic. Mr. Wangeman was unable to accept his first invitation to visit him at his old chateau at Greisan, and in answer to his written apology the old soldier telegraphed him: "Always welcome; come when you can." 80 late in October Mr. nnd Mrs. Wangeman were the guests of the Count 011 his beautiful estate. The place is a furm or park of about 2,000 acres which Von Moltke bought in 1866, and ever since he lias devotod much attention to Its development and improvement. The house is a grand old mansion, furnished richly, but in the severe old style, and all the surroundings seem peculiarly adapted to the lonely old man for whom they exist. It is a strange spot. The visitor to the chateau encounters one of the oldest but most beautiful bits of land scape imaginable. The mansion is upon a thickly-wooded hill, high and impos ing. All of the trees arc of artificial planting. Many of them were set out by Count Von Moltke's own hands. By ar ranging the trees according to the color of their foliage he has produced a strik ing effect. At the base the lenves of all the trees are of the lightest green. As the ascent rises the shade darkens grad ually and the foliage becomes more dense, until at the top, surrounding the site of the chateau and other buildings, the leaves are of the most sombre hue. The drive through the shaded avenue to the house, with the shadows becoming blacker and more dense until the sudden burst of sunlight at the end produces al most an uncanny impression. Von Moltke came into the hall to givo bis guests a courtly pcrsonul welcome. Although of greater years than Bismarck, he seems to possess groater strength and vitality. He is a sad old man. He has never ceased to mourn the loss of his wife, who died twenty years ago, and the fact that he is childless adds to his loneliness. But he is not the taciturn, silent man he has sometimes been repre lented. lle is an easy entertainer and a fluent linguist. Much of the time he chatted with his visitors in English. There were at the chateau at the time three of the Count's nephew's, one of whom is to be his heir, and their wives, and four or five of the high officers of the army. After luncheon there was a pleasant social hour, during which Von Moltke displayed some of his most prized mementos. Prominent among these was the sword presented to him by the ladies of Baltimore, which hangs in a conspicu ous place in his library. Presently, stepping to one of the long open windows in the drawing-room, VOll Moltke rang u large bell. At the signal, there quickly flew from all directions a great flock of pheasants, tame as chickens, and waiting to be fed. The Count threw them some grain nnd spoke fondly of his pets as lie watched thein gather it up. When the phonograph was set up there was the same unbounded interest in its wonders that all others had shown. The old soldier's tribute to it was thus expressed 011 one of its waxen cylinders to be sent to Mr. Edison: "This invention of yours is indeed marvelous. It enables a man who is buried to appear once more out of his grave and greet with his voice the present," To tins he added a few lines from Faust and supplemented them with other words of his own. The entertainment lasted some hours, and was abaudoned with much regret. Finally, all the members of the company repeated together into the phonograph the first lines of the national iiyran, to note the faithful reproduction of the difference in the voices. As five o'clock approached, Von Moltkc asked his guests if they would walk iu the park on the cre-t of the hill. The others knew what the invitation meant, but Mr. und Mrs. Wangeman supposed it signified nothing more than the words implied. The party strolled out and for a few moments admired the magnificent view of the rich country roundabout. Their steps took them finally toward a little stone chapel set in the midst of a close bank of trees of darkest foliage, which surround It on all but one side. The entrance faced the unobscurcd setting sun. The little chapel is the tomb of Von Moltke's wife, and there he expects soon to be laid by her side. To this sepulchre the old man goes faithfully every afternoon, and stands for a few minutes at the entrance in silent medita tion. As the party approached the spot they stopped reverently some little distance away, and Von Moltke went 011 lone. He was wrapped in a long military cloak and his slouch hat was pulled down so that it half concealed his face. lie strode slowly to the entrance of the mortuary chapel, and stood there with bowed head and folded arms. The silent, soli tary figure of the grim old soldier seemed to await with resignation the coming of the only enemy he must fail to vanquish. There was a pathetic grandeur in the at titude of the great commander, standing there in silent communion with death, which his martial figure as victor upon the world's greatest battlefields had never possessed. The campaigns of earth were behind him and forgotten, and as he stood striving to pierce the veil soon to be torn aside which separated him from her whose companionship had been to him the sweetest thing in life, the sight was one almost too sacred for mortal eyes. For some minutes 110 one moved. Then Mr. Wangeman turned and plucked a twig as a memento of the spot and scene aud put in his purse. Von Moltke's reverie had ended and lie noticed the act. The implied sympathy touched him, fur with tears in his eyes he went to Mr. Wangeman's side and silently pressed his hand. Then he led the way down the other side of the hill by a path so heavily arched with trees that the gloom of deep twilight is perpetual. But half way down the incline there was a sudden hurst of splendor. The path by a sharp turn brought them in quick contrast from the darkness of the pines into full view of a broad and fertile valley bathed in the soft light of the setting suu. The transformation, both physical and mental, was almost startling. " The experience nwmed designed to typify Bunyan's de scription of the passage through the Val ley of the Shadow of Death, and certain ly the glories of the sudden emerging on that October afternoon were as grand as any terrestrial type could afford. Von Moltke said afterward about the striking situation of the mortuary chapel and its surroundings: "When people come to visit my grave, I want them to have something beautiful to look at." The evening at the chateau was passed in a variety of amusements. Von Moltke and three "of the Prussian Generals in dulged in a rubber at whist. Some of the younger members of the party for a joke got the phonograph to record all the frequent remarks of the players with out their knowledge. When the game was over they were called to the phono graph, and very much to their astonish ment it repeated all the conversation ac companying the play. The phonograph, in the role of an eavesdropper, seemed to impress them as a dangerous thing to have around. Another day was pleasantly passed at the home of the great warrior, and then Mr. Wangeman and his wife paid a brief visit to Von Kulinitz, a nephew of Von Moltke, at Breslau. From there the phonograph was taken to Vienna, where it made as great a furor as at the German capital and at Paris. His First Thousand Dollars. While Luther Laflin Mills was going through some old papers the other day he found a very interesting document from the pen of the lamented Emory A. Storrs, which is reproduced below: "I do not know exactly what called for'h these utterances from Mr. Storrs," said Mr. Mills, "but I apprehend that they were in reply to some young man who wrote the brilliant lawyer for ad vice as to the best way of investing a sum of money which he had in his pos session." The manuscript is as follows: "There are several answers to your question: "One boy takes his SI,OOO, spends it cither in foreign travel or in the cultiva tion and improvement of his mind and manners at home. At the age of 81, if he is consistent in this course, he has laid the foundation for u long career of usefulness and honor, and, whatever at his death his bank account may be, he has achieved something for the good of mankind for which the world will al ways gratefully remember him. The high spirit, the clear head, the sharp intellectual discrimination between right and wrong which his travel, culture and education have given him is a capital as much better than bank stock as gold is better than brass. No reverses of for tune can take it. from him. No financial Ennics can rob him of it. It is his and is children's forever. ' 'The other boy lays up his $ 1,000; he doubles it; he trebles it. What of it! What kind of a man is he at the age of 31? The mere money-getter is the sor riest spectacle on God's green earth. Leisure is dreadful to him. He leaves nothing behind him but money, and that his children waste. The glory of this world is not in corner lots nor bank stocks. No great man whom the world to-day reverences is remembered because he was rich. The saddest spectacle on this earth is that of a man dying on his pile of greenbacks, which he cannot carry with him, while his legatees are counting his coin even as the breath es capes from his body. "But suppose that your saving boy loses his stock; suppose, as often hap pens, tluougk no fault of his, values are melted away. Where is he then? A ' bankrupt, hopelessly and irretrievably | ruined. | "Which shall the rich man's daughter marry? I answer that the man of cul ' tured mind and that broad aud liberal spirit which travel nnd education give I cares but little übout it. If the father | desires to sell his daughter, that is his | business - und his daughter's. She may ! start by marrying the compound interest I chap in a palace, but statistics show that in ninety-nine enses out of one hundred j she will wind up in a hovel. The father j of this daughter can take his choice, i "Finally, 110 men recognize the worth, value and splendor of strong native busi ness genius half so much as educated men. Don't despise nor under rate it. It will always help you. It will never hurt you. Stocks and cash aud corner lots are well, but they are not all that there is of this world, nor nearly all. Our great men have lived without thorn and died without them, but the world loves them still. Croesus was very rich, but the generations of 3,000 years have de spised him. Socrates was wretchedly p >or, but for 2,000 years the world has loved hiin. You buy and sell cattle and are at liberty to do so because of what he taught 2,000 years ago."—Chicago News. Hereditary Tufts of White Hair. Every one who knows Mr. Whistlei knows Mr. Whistler's white tuft, which is as much part of the man as his butter fly is part of his writings. "Attention may be drawn," snys the British Medical Journal, "to a remarkable example of n similar peculiarity which was published last year by M. E. Pascal in the Univers I Illustre. In an old Limousin family I with which that gentlemen is acquainted ! nearly all the members, both male nnd female, have from thoir earliest youth a i tuft of perfectly white hair, such as i adorns the head of a well known London ' artist. This tuft is generally situated j over the brow, but sometimes it is on the ! temple and more rarely at the hack of j the head. The family has been famous ! fur this distinctive mark in its own part of the country for 800 years, and they are said to be as proud of it as Hedgaunt let was of the hereditary horseshoe vein on his forehead. The white lock, which can be seen in the family portraits for ; many generations bnck, is said to be i rather becoming, even to the young ! women of the line." A Curious Aneesthetio. A curious anaesthetic used by the Chi nese has recently been made known. It 1 's obtained by placing a frog in a jar of i flour aud irritating it by prodding it. j Under these circumstances it excludes a [ liquid which forms a paste with the flour. i This paste, dissolved in water, has well marked anesthetic properties. After tlio i finger has been immersed in the liqnid it | can be cut to the bone without any pain | being felt. —| Times-Democrat. To Remove the Smell of Paint. j The best way to remove the suicll of ! paint is to first render the room as nearly I as possible air-tight by closing the iviu | dows, doors and other openings. Place 1 a vessel of lighted charcoal in the room, : and throw on it two or three handfuls of ; juniper berries. After twenty-four hours ; the smell will have entirely disappeared. ; Another method of doing the same thing j is to plunge a handful of new hay into a pail of water and let it stand in the newly painted room.— [Boston Cultivator,
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers