TINTAGEL. Low is laid Arthur's head. Unknown earth above him mounted; By him sleep his splendid knights. With whose names the world resounded. liuined glories! flown dellglitsl Sunk 'mid rumors of old wars! Where they reveled, deep they sleep. By the wild Atlantic shores. On Tintagol's fortressed walls, Proudly built, the loud sea scorning. Pale the moving moonlight falls; Through their rents the wind goes mourn ing. See, ye knights, your ancient home, Chafed and spoiled and fallen asunder! Hear ye now, as then of old. Waters rolled and wrathful foam. Where the waves, beneath your graves, Snow themselves abroad in thunder! —Laurence Binyon in London Academy. MEETING A POET. I was busy one bright September morning packing my trunks for my fall removal from my uncle's house in the country to the marble fronted hotel on Broadway that numbered me each win ter among its inmates, when my cousin Adelaide came dancing into the room and commanded me to give up all thoughts of a journey for three months at least. "And why, pray?" I asked. "You know I have to go out west after I reach New York. Come what may, I must see an Indian summer on the prairies." "Bother the prairies and the Indian summer, tool" cried Adelaide, taking a letter from her apron pocket and waving it in the air. "Look at the signature." I did look, and I might have been looking to tliis day for all the informa tion I got; but' Adelaide grew impatient, and snatching the letter from my hand exclaimed; "Listen, you goose," and read the let ter aloud: " 'My Dear Friend—l am coming into the country for a month or two; my doctor positively forbids my staying in New York during the fall. Remember ing our old schoolboy league I have oe lected W as the place of my exile, and shall be there 011 the 20th —wind and weather permitting.'" "What do you think of that?" asked Adelaide, making largo eyes at me over the top of the letter. "I have not heard anything yet t/ make me postpone my journey." "Wait a moment—l'll finish. 'I am, as ever, yours faithfully' " "Well, go on." " 'James Quitman.'" "James Quitman! You are mad, Ad die —he can never be coining here." "There is the letter—father has always known him, it seems; it is the poet, and we are to have him stay here all the time. Father is to meet him at the sta tion tonight, and not let him go to the hotel on any account. Won't people stare when we walk into church next Sunday?" I closed the lid of my trunk in the twinkling of an eye. The poet I had so often longed to see, the man over whose tender verses I had made myself a Niobe scores of times—was it possible that the same roof was going to shelter us both? Dinner was a thing unthought of in the house that day, and my uncle lunched meekly at one of the china closets off cold meat and bread and preserved strawberries, while Addie and I actually ate rose leaves and sugar ami cream as a suitable pendant to the work in which we were engaged. Nothing less ethereal would we partake while fitting up that poet's chamber. By 4 o'clock that afternoon our labors were ended. The house was like a bed of roses; they blushed and bloomed everywhere, and their fragrance was delicious in the upper chamber. My favorite pictures had been unpacked and arranged upon the parlor walls. Everything was perfect. The tea table sparkled with silver and cut glass; flow ers wreathed the dishes of preserved fruit, and cake and wine for the evening were ready on the sideboard, to say nothing of some delicately tinted ice cream which was still undergoing the process of "freezation" in the cellar. Of course the train was late that night. Trains always are late when we are ex pecting any one by them, and Addie and I had time to work ourselves into a fever ish state that gave us some very becom ing red cheeks. We heard the whistle of the train, and five minutes afterward a carriage stopped before the gate. The poet had come! He climbed out of the carriage like a crab—sidewise—and, coining up the graveled walk toward the front door, presented to our admiring eyes the figure of a stoutish, middle aged man, with dark eyes and hair and a very pleasant Binile. He did not wear a Spanish cloak and a sombrero —he was clad in linen garments and thatched with a rough looking straw hat that had evidently seen service. We heard him as he came up the walk. "Very pretty house, Tom; very pretty house. Those girls your daughters, hey? I see they've got those horrid city fashions—low neck and short sleeves. If I had a daughter I'd sew her dress to her ears." Addie and I looked at each other in consternation and barely managed to give him a civil greeting as he crossed the threshold. Was this the man who had raved about his Lydia That bosom, white and fond and fair, I would I were the enamored air. To faint and fall in pussing there. Low necks, indeed! I sat beside him at the tea table, as had been previously ar ranged, and saw that all things were within his reach. Never did Hindoo idoHax his votary more severely. I had hardly time to snatch a mouthful my self —though, for the matter of that, hiß appetite quite took away my own. He was a regular Dr. Johnson for tea strawberry preserves pleased him, and soda biscuits vanished before his attack as green things before the march of a cloud of locusts. Heaven knows he had one qualification—a stomach! Tea over, we adjourned to the rose scented paVlors. and the volume on the center table caught his eye. He took it up, turned over the pages, laughing now and then to himself, and finally tossed It back carelessly. "The unconsciousness of genius!" whispered Addie in my ear, just as he turned upon us. "Who owns this hook?" I modestly answered that I had that great pleasure. "Great pleasure, hey? She calls it a pleasure, Tom! Hem I I suppose I ought to feel complimented; but I don't. Young lady, will you do me one favor?" "What is it, sir?" "Put that stupid trash into the fire." "Stupid trash!" cried Addie, aghast, snatching up the volume. "Yes, I wrote it. I was a hoy—and, by George, my publishers took it out of my desk and went mad over it, while they actually turned up their noses at my report of the poor laws—would you believe it?" My uncle looked sympathizing. Addie arranged the ice cream glasses before him without a word. "But, sir, look at the fame you have won," I remarked. "Hem! fame—it's a rag fluttering on a bush; I wouldn't give a button for it. Five thousand dollars a year will keep you well clothed and well fed—fame won't." He helped himself to an ice. There was no reply. Tho two gentle men resumed their political discussion, waxing so warm in the defense of their favorite views that they were in a fair way to clear the tray between them. Addie caught up the contemned volume of poems and vanished from the room. I followed her. She fled up the stairs like a fairy, and I found her in the poet's chamber, stripping the roses from the vases with frantic haste. "What on earth are you about?" 1 asked, halting on the threshold in amaze ment. "He shall not have one of them," she said, half crying. "His curtains shall not be looped up with them—l have a great mind to tie them hack with rope yarn. To think how we worked all the day to give him pleasure, and after all he only cares about eating and drinking, and being an alderman. Oh, it is too had!" I hurst out laughing and ran down Btairs. The contrast between our dreams of the poet and the poet as ho was was rich. I had to wait a moment in the hall to get my face into "company order," and then, pushing open the half closed door, I went hack into the parlor At first sight I thought it was empty. The chairs were pushed away from the table, aud there was a faint smell of cigars—had they actually been smoking there? No; I heard my uncle pacing up and down the garden, as was his wont each evening, and the fragrance of the weed came that way, but lie was alone. Where was the poet? I caught sight of him at last, sitting at the open window with the rose col ored curtains falling in soft folds around him. The moon was up, shining glori ously upon the grassy yard beneath him; the night wind rustled in the leaves of the maples above his head. Addie, coming into the room, paused at the sight of my uplifted finger on the threshold. It had been all a "sham" then! Our poet, though a hearty eater, still re tained his love of tho beautiful. What on earth had made him talk such heresy, when he sat rapped in enjoyment, never stirring, scarcely breathing, as he watched that glorious moon? I would steal softly to his side, pause, try to convict him and make him recant all the fibs lie had told about these beauti ful blossomings of his youth—the poems. The carpet was thick and soft, and it muffled my footfall effectually, and I stood beside him unnoticed. His face was hidden by his arm. I heard a chok ing sound—he was weeping. My heart molted in a gush of pity; I laid my hand upon his shoulder as sympathizingly as 1 could; lie started a little; his head set tled down upon one side, exposing his face; the mouth opened, and—he snored! The next morning I started on my trip to the west, and from that day to this I have never met a "poet."—M. W. G. in New York News. Heverul Strange Dreams. A farmer's wife dreamed that she was walking near the house of a rejected lover—one O'Flanagan—attended by a beautiful hound, of which she was fond, when a raven dashed at him, killed him, and tearing out his heart flew away with it. She next imagined that she was running home, and met a funeral, and from the coffin blood flowed upon the ground. The hearers placed it at her feet, opened the lid and exhibited her husband, murdered and his heart torn out. She awoke, as might he ex pected, in great terror. But here fol lows the most incomprehepsible part of the narrative. Her husband entertained an idiot cousin in the house, and lie in doggeral rliyine repeated the very same dream to a gossip to whom tho farm er's wife had related hers. That very night the farmer was mur dered, and the next morning the poor idiot, to the horror of all, exclaimed, as be rose from his bed: "Ulick"—Ulick Maguire wiq; the farmer's name—"is kilt! Shamus dliu More kilt him'.' [Shamus dliu .More O'Flanagan—big black James] "and buried him un der the now ditch at the back of the garden. I dreamed it last night—every word of it." Search was made at tho Bpot indicated by the dream, and the body was found with the skull nearlv cleft in two. In the meantime O'Flaii- Agan absconded and enlisted, but was subsequently arrested, confessed his crime and was executed.—Pall Mall Gazette. A Neophyte's Answer. At a confirmation at Strassbnrg the bishop asked of a pretty souhrette the usual question of the Heidelberg cate | chism: j "What is your only consolation in life j and death?" j The neophyte blushed and hesitated. The first question was repeated, aud { then Blie stammered out; I "The young shoemaker in the next ' street."—Loudon Tit-Bits. FOR LITTLE FOLKS. Baby Julia lie Grignau. Julia De Grignau, or "Baby" De Grig nan, as she is better known, has made a hit as Pearl in "The Scarlet Letter" in Richard Mansfield's production at Daly's. She is seven years old, of dark complex ion, has large, lovely eyes and seems born to the stage. The little lady is as easy and natural on the stago as though she had had many years of experience. It was three years ago that Julia ap ! peared in arms as the baby in "Cootie's Baby" at the Madison Square theater. ' and she went "right on" the stage with out a single rehearsal and behaved beautifully. Then she was in "The Pharisee" at the same house. She took to it like a duck to water. Her first speaking part was iii "Editha's Burglar," and then came "Raglan's Way," with Edwin Arden, and in the summer of 1890 Baby De Grignau appeared with Rosina Vokes at Daly's. Rose Coghlan next had petite Julia in "Peg Woffing ton" at the Columbus theater in Har lem. The baby actress joined the Ken dais in October, 1801, and played with them in "The White Lie." One of her most successful appearances was at the Actor's Fund fair, where she created such a furore in running a booth and in selling pictures of herself that one gen tleman gave her a magnificent doll, and others loaded her with candies and sweetmeats. Julia remained eacli night until the final curtain was rung down. Baby De Grignau is fortunate in hav ing a stanch personal friend in Commo dore Gerry. He pets her and tells her —the probable truth—that she will be come a famous actress. She does not dance or sing, so the head of the S. P. C. C. allows himself to admire her and protect her. Julia's father is French; her mother German-American. Mme. De Grignau says the baby gets her dra matic bent from her father, who once tried opera, but gave it up for reasons of health. The De Grignans were well known on the French stage. Julia says she has no favorite part. "I like them all," she declares.—New York Press. Looking After Her Kitten. The other day in Beekman street L motherly looking cat was calmly sitting on the curb watching the antics of her four kittens, which were having a glori ous time rolling about and mauling one another. The kittens kept at their sport for some time. Suddenly one of them, tiring of further play, wandered away toward a large paper bag that was flut tering in the wind 011 the walk. Nosing around the bag he presently espied an opening into which he crawled. The attention of his fellows was soon di rected to the new attraction, to which they speedily hastened, and entering one by one the four kittens quickly found themselves housed in this unusual domicile. They made 110 effort to leave it, observing which the old cat, who kept an eye all the time on the maneu vers of her progeny, walked toward the bag, smelled and looked within its in terior, and seeing her kittens at rest she picked up the parcel with her teeth, and walking down the street disappeared in a hallway with the bag and her tots in closed.—New York Sun. Swing Away, Baby. Swing away, baby, in the tree top; Though the wind blows, I've no fear that you'll drop; Should tho bough break It won't matter at all, Others below you can catch in your fall. Swing away, baby; your little flst Shows how your forefathers used to exist; In your wee fingers a Uobinson sees Proof that your ancestors lived up in trees. Swing away, baby: if your hand grows Tired you can rest it by using your toes. Ere boots and shoes have distorted the shape. Due to the uueient quadruniuiious ape. Swing away, baby. Monkey and man Both have been made upon one common plan. One missing feature you'll live to bewail; Only a rudiment's left of your tail. Swing away, baby, swing! You have not Need of a cradle, a crib or a cot. Mansion or cottage, or lodgings or flat; Trees, only trees, are your true habitat. —St. Janus Gazette. Highway llobbcry. Wanted Long Dresses. Little Girl—l'll be awful glad w'en I'm old 'nougli to wear long dresses. Mamma—What do you want long dresses for? Little Girl—So I can climb trees j wifout showin zee holes in my stocic ins—Good News. Patching Up the San Marco Lion. One of the most wonderful pieces of mechanical work ever undertaken by human hands lias just been completed abroad. The celebrated landmark of Venice, the lion of San Marco, has during the past three months been great ly missed from the top of the mighty column of the Marcus place by strangers visiting the City of Lagoons. Last year when an examination of it was made, it was found that the statue had fallen into more than fifty pieces, which were liable to come down at any moment. This discovery gave rise to a desire on the part of some of tho city fathers to transfer the original lion to the Civil museum and to make for the column an exact copy of the historical monument. But the Venetians were strongly op posed to this, and argued that the orig inal lion should remain in its place. Thereupon Signor Luigi Vendraseo de vised a plan to repair the damaged mon ster. With infinite labor and care the decayed statue was lowered to the ground and its fragments carried to the arsenal. The experiment by which it was thought the loose pieces could be reunited by a smelting process proved a failure. Giovanni Bontempi, one of the finest mechanics of Venice, was called in, and resolved to repair the fallen hero by welding the pieces together in the presence of several of the municipal of ficers. More than 250 screws were used to re unite the separated pieces of metal, and the cracks and interstices were filled out with an inside lining of bronze. This difficult piece of work was brought to a happy close with marvelous skill. Nothing can he seen of the repairs ex ternally, and as of old the lion of San Marco bids the stranger welcome as he enters the beautiful City of the Doges. —St. Louis Republic. A Hit of Hanger Property* There in one piece of real estate in Maine which is entailed so far as such property can be in this country. It is known as Dundee, and is situated in the town of Linrington. In IGGH Francis Small bought it with other lands from the Indians, the original being yet preserved in the family. Having de scended from father to son for several generations, Huinphj-cy Small purchased a small section of his father's land, which he named Dundee, and he stout ly affirmed that Dundee should remain in the ownership of the Smalls forever, and that it should be allowed to become a forest again. Twice he was offered more than double its value, but although hard pressed for money he remained true to his declaration. On the 28th of November this proper ty will have been in possession of the family 224 years, and to commemorate this and also to celebrate the centennial of Limington, which was organized in 1792, the family had a reunion and pic nic recently. Next year they propose to celebrate their 22.7 th anniversary with a larger gathering, to include all of the Small family that can be gathered to gether.—Bangor Whig and Courier. Architecture tit the Fair. The architectural standards of the average man are the best buildings he lias seen. To show him the possibilities of beautiful construction is to enlarge his aspirations and make him dissatis fied with inferior jobs. He might cross the seas and travel thousands of miles without getting so effective an archi tectural lesson as he will get at Chicago, lie will not only see admirable buildings there, but be will also see some pretty bad ones, and having the good and the bad side by side he will have so much the better chance of learning which is which, and wherein consists the excel lence or inferiority of either. The fair buildings have cost a great sum of money, and most of them are only for temporary use, but we miss our guess and our liope if they do not prove in tlio end one of the most beneficent educational investments that have been made in this country, and as lasting in their ultimate results as stone and iron could have made them. Hurler's Weekly. The Ncarcht Star. One of the most clearly defined figures in the sky is the Northern Cross, which you will find at about 8 o'clock now directly overhead. It would be hard for you not to identify it. The head of the cross, the bright star Deneb, is toward the northeast, and the foot, Al , bireo, is toward the southwest. Thus the ! whole figure lies along the milky way. j Tho cross has no special mythological ! history, nor indeed has the constellation Cygnus (the Swan) of which it is a part. But Cygnus is famous for containing the star that is nearest to us of all the stars seen from this hemisphere, sixty one Cygni, as it is called. It is a faint star immediately under Deneb and in the direction of the Square of Pegasus. ■ The astronomers have obtained the parallax of this star with something I like accuracy, and they find that it is about 650,0U0 times as far from us as the | sun is distant from the earth.—Philadel [ pliia Times. MinsiniiuricK In Scotland. j It seems odd to think of missionaries ; going to Scotland, tho home of the ' Covenanters, to convert tho savage in habitants to Christianity. At Anwoth, in Kirkcudbrightshire, there was found a few days ago one of the old "hillside crosses" set up by the early missionaries j who went to the lowlands from lona. ; or Ireland, to mark the spots where they 1 first preached Christ to the heathen Scots. This interesting cross is of red sandstone, 48 inches long, \4}>£ inches ; across the widest part, and' 4 inches thick. Its arms are 20 inches in length, or were, for one is broken off. Rude in scriptions are carved on the cross.—Lon don Letter. A Niue Cent Stamp. A new stamp is to be issued in Great Britain of the value of fourpence half penny—nine cents —to be available for all postal, telegraphic and revenue pur ! poses. It will be tho first stamp issued of this value, and its issuance is called j for by the new features of telegraph and I parcel post business. GEMS IN VERSE. Wanted—A Situation. Ef anybody ast me what's the thing I'd ruthest do, Puvidin I could have my pick o' John, 1 guess the work my natur'would the soonest tackle to Is shellin corn an pllln up the cobs. I'd want the corn fetched in an biled afore It got its growth. An left to dreen awhile upon a platter; An I'd want some salt an butter, an a plenty of 'ein both— Especially a plenty of the latter. Ef anybody knows a man 'at wants to hire a band To shell bis corn an furnish the machine, Jes' tell 'em 'e can git me if tho job isstiddy an The corn is biled when it is proper green. The Coming Poem. All motion is rhythm, says wise Herbert Spencer, A sago so immense that no sage is immenser. All tho worlds wabble on with a rhythmical teeter And the universe whirls on its mystical meter. Tho sago sees the stars, and their rhythmic orbs show him That the world is a verse and tho Cosmos a poem. The torn sea that surges with wreck scattered trophies Beats out its great theme In tumultuous strophes; The blind winds that blow from the caverns of chaos. Or the zephyrs of twilight that sooth and allay us; The rivers that leap from the high precipices Whose foam banners wave o'er the startled abysses. Or the gay brook that makes the long lilies grow sweeter- All these, one and all, are a part of the meter. And all lives are a poem; some wild and cyclonic With verses of cynical bluster Byronlc; And some still flow on in perpetual benison. As perfect and smooth as a stanza from Tennyson; And some find huge bowlders their current to hinder. And are broken and bent like the poems of Pindar; And some a deep base of proud music are built on— The calm ocean swell of tho epic of Milton; Aud some rollic on with a freedom completer In Whitman's chaotic, tumultuous meter. But most lives are mixed like Shakespearean dramas. Where the king speaks heroics, the idiot stain- Where tho old man gives counsel, the young man loves hotly; Where the king wears his crown and the fool wears his motley; Where the lord treuds his hall and the peasant his heather— And in the fifth act they all exit together- And tho drama goes out with its pomp aud its thunder, Aud we weep, and we laugh, and wo listen and wonder! —S. W. Foss. A Change of Taste. When he was youth and she was maid Full oft would he declare He loved to see her churms displayed In setting rich and rare. The costliest lace, the gayest plume. The quaintest broidered stuir, The choicest fabric of the loom Was hardly choice enough. Years pans, and Angelina's life With Edwin's no%v is blent. And—ho a husband, she a wife— His tastes are different. Simplicity, he says, is best Away with vulgar showl She shines tho fairest when she's dressed In eight cent calico. —New York Herald. The Undertow. You badn't ought to blamo a man fer things he hasn't done, Fer books he hasn't written or fer fights he hasn't won; Tho waters may look placid on the surface all aroun. An yet there may be an undertow a-keepin of him down. Since the days of Eve an Adam, when the s fight of life began. It ain't been safe, my brethren, fer to lightly judge a man; He may bo trylu faithful fer to make his life a f?o. An yet his feet git tangled In tho treacherous undertow. Ho may not lack in learnin, an he may not want fer brains; He may be always workin with tho patientest of pains, An yet go unrewarded, an, my friends, how can we know What heights he might climbed up to but fer the undertow? You've heard the Yankee Btory of the hen's nest with a hole. An how the hen kept layin eggs with all her might an soul, Yet never got a settin, not a single egg, I trow; That hen was simply kickin 'gin a hidden un dertow. There's holes in lots of hens' nests, an you've got to peep below To see tho eggs a-rolliu where they hadn't ought to go. Don't blame a man fer failiu to achieve a laurel crown Until you're sure the undertow ain't draggln of him down. —Carrie Blake Morgan. The Years. Tho years are all alike. With childish laugh ter They follow butterflies with endless wings; They peep into the birds' nests; they look ufter White lambs and other pretty little things. Then in the first flush of their youth they bring us Shy gifts of violets in a gallant way; And ah! what charming, low lovo songs tlioy sing us From leaf green shadows where tho wild doves stay. But somewhat later they show bearded faces And sway tho scythe and bear tho shears about In the hot fields, and quite forget the graces They had of old—as others do, no doubt. Still later they go out for us and gather The scarlet fruit Wi, and tho yellow corn, Or walk about the withering woods wl:.h rather A faded look, and sigh and soein forlorn. Then they sit still and watch the dying embers Behind tho curtains in some pictured room, While each ono somewhere in his heart re members The dew, the summer moonrise and tho bloom. Then comes the last night watch, the lone- | some tapers, The few tears of the many prayers quick J said, Tho black lined columns in the morning pa- ! pers, And, yes—the many virtues of the dead. —S. M. B. l'iatt. i The I)ab. Naked, on parent's knees, a newborn child, j Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled; So live that, sinking to thy last long sleep, Thou then inay'st smile whilo all around thee , weep. -Sir William Jones, i Then at the balauce let's be mute— We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute. But know not what's resisted. -Burn*. 1 CASTOR IA for Infants and Children. "Cantor! a Ls so well adapted to children that I recommend it as superior to any proscription known to me." 11. A. ARCIIER, M. D., 11l So. Oxford St., Brooklyn, N. Y. "The ÜBe of ' Castoria 1 Is so universal and Its merits so well known that it seems a work of supererogation to endorse it. Few are the intelligent families who do not keep Castoria w i thin easy reach." CARLOS MARTYN, D.P., New York City. Late Paetor Bloomingdalo lteformed Church. Tme CENTAUR COMPANY, 77 MURRAY STREET, NEW YORE. NINETEEN "TEARS - EXPERIENCE In I slvely, insuring cleanliness and • ' comfort. ARRANGEMENT OF PASSENGER TRAINS. MAY 15, IBi>*. LEAVE FREELAND. | 0.15, 8.45,J>.40, 10.35 A. M., 12.35, 1.50, 2.43, 3.50 I 0.35, (Ml, 5.47 P. M„ for Drii'ton, Jeddo.* ■ Lumber \ ard, Stockton and Ha/.leton. 0.1;>, U. 40 A. M., 1.50, 3.50 P. M . for Mauch chunk, Allentowu, llethlehein, Phila., Easton Now York) 8 110 conilt; ction lor del phi a' M * f ° F Bethlollem ' Easton and Phila -7.30, 10.50 A. M.. 13.10, 4.89 P. M. (via Highland wiiL n lor i,i ,lito 'Liven, (iivu Summit, IH'tf i' { " llllU ".Junction. 0.1.1 A. M. lor Hluok ltidgo and Tomhicken. SUNDAY TRAINS. Lu!u^Vt.?tfY^:,e^nf OrDrirtoD - Jc,ldo ' 3.4.) P. M. for Delano. Malianov City, Shen andoah, New York and Philadelphia. ARRIVE AT FREELAND. 5 50 0.53, 7 30. 0.15, 10.50 A. M„ 13.10, 1.15,3.33, 4.30, .,i0 and *.37 P. M. from lla/leton. Stock ton, 1 .ii in I•< \ ard, Jeddo and Dritton. 7.30,0.15, 10.50 A. M., 13.10. 3.31, 4.30, 0.50 P. M. lroni Delano, Maliauoy City and Shenandoah (via New Iloston Itruuch). New Pork, Easton, I hiladelphia, Ilelhlehem, Allenlown and Maueh ( hunk. 0.15 and 10.50 A. M. from Easton, Plilladel- I phia, Ilelhlehem and Mauch Chunk. 1", i i \ ' \|. i Mini While Haven, Glen Summit, Wilkcs-ftarrc, Pittston ; and L. and li. Junction (via Highland liranch). SUNDAY TRAINS. 11.31 A. M. and 8.31 P. M. from Haaleton, Lumlter \ ard, Jeddo ami Drii'ton. 11.31 A.M. from Delano, Hazleton, Philadel phia ami Easton. 3.31 P. M. from Pottsvllle and Delano. For turther information inquire of Ticket Agents. I. A. SWEIGARD, Gen. Mgr. C. G. HANCOCK, Gen. Puss. Agt. Philadelphia, Pb |A. W. NONNEMACHEH, Ass't (J. p. A., I tiouth Hetblebem, Pa,.