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The Millheim Journal,
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY BY I|. A. Office ia the New Journal Building, Pena St.,nearHartman's foundry. SL.OO PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE, OR $1.30 IF NOT PAID IN ADVANCE. Acceptable Correspondence Solicited Address letters to MILLHEIM JOURNAL. BUSINESS \ HARTEK, Auctioneer, MILLHEIM, PA. B. STOVER^ Auctioneer, Madisonburg, Pa. -yy H.REIFSNYDER, Auctioneer, MILLHEIM, PA. J. W. ST AM, Physician & Surgeon Office on l'enn Street. MILLHEIM, PA. TYRTJOIIN F. IIARTEU. Practical Dentist, Office opposite the Methodist Church. MAIM STREET, MILLIIEIM PA. D R GEO L LEE> Physician & Surgeon, MADISONBURG, PA. Office opposite the Public School House. P. ARD, M. D.. WOODWARD, PA O. DEININGER, Notary-Public, Journal office, Penn st., Millheim, Pa. 49*Deedsand other legal papers written and acknowledged at moderate charges. J. SPRINGER, Fashionable Barber, Havinq had many years' of experiencee the public can expect the best Icork mil most modern accommodations. Shop opposite Millheim Banking House MAIN STREET, MILLHEIM, PA. QEORGE L. SPRINGER, Fashionable Barber, Corner Main & North streets, 2nd floor, Millheim, Pa. Shaving, Haircutting, Shampooning, Dying, &c. done in the most satisfac tory manner. Jno.H. Onrls. C. M. Bower. Ellis L.Orvis QRVIS, BOWER & OR VIS, Attorneys-at-Law. BELLEFONTE, PA., Office in Woodinga Building. D. H. Hastings. W. F. Render. TTAS'riNGS & REEDER, Attorneys-at-Law, BELLEFONTE, PA. Office on Allegheny Street, two doers east of the office ocupied by the late firm of Yocum A Hastings. J 0. MEYER, Attorney-at-Law, BELLEFONTE PA. At the Office of Ex-Judge Hoy. C. HEINLE, Attorney-at-Law BELLEFONTE, PA. Practices in all the courts of Centre county Special attention to Collections. Consultations in German or English. J A.Beaver. J. W.Gephart. JgEAVEB & GEPHART, Attorneys-at-Law, BELLEFONTE, PA. Office on Alleghany Street. North of High Street JGROUKERHOFF HOUSE, ALLEGHENY ST., BELLEFONTE, PA. O, G. McMILLEN, PROPRIETOR. Good Sample Room on First Floor. Free Buss to and from all trains. Special rates to witnesses and jurors. QUMMINS HOUSE, BISHOP STREET, BELLEFONTE, PA., EMANUEL BROWN, PROPRIETOR House newly refitted and refurnished. Ev erything done to make guests comfortable. Ratesmodern** trouage respectfully solici ted 5-ly -J-RVIN HOUSE, (Most Central Hotel in the city.) CORNER OF MAIN AND JAY STREETS LOCK HAVEN, PA. S.WOODS CALDWELL PROPRIETOR. Good sameple rooms for commercial Travel •ers.on first floor. R A. BUMILLER, Editor. VOL. 00. At One Soldier's drove. How warm the day was, and bow si lent the way. 1 bad ridden miles with out meeting a human being. Yet it was a fertile and populous northern country I was passing through. Big, roomy farmhouses sat upon shaded hill tops, fair fields answered the sun's warm glances with full crops, and cool groves dotted the landscape here and there, under whose drooping blanches the lazy kine stood panting. I entered a bit of cool, damp wood, and let my horse move at his laziest pace. 1 enjoyed the shade, but 1 felt a loneliness and isolation the moment 1 was within it. Some woods are cheery and refreshing, however thick and im penetrable. This was moist, silent and gruesome. Tiie sandy road was so damp that my horse's feet made no sound, and that added to the queer sense of solemnity 1 felt. 1 passed down a long, gently sloping hill into a still more gloomy hollow. Under a rude little bridge a struggling stream of surface water slowly meudered, with a melancholy sound, seekiug the far-off sea. The hill on the other side of the bridge was steeper than the one I had just descended. The top stretched out into a broad table land, nearly half a mile in length toward the north,though it shelved off west of the road about twenty yards into a diminutive valley. To the right, near.the road.stood a dis used,dilapidatedQuaker meeting house. When I saw it I instantly understood the Impressive loneliness of the wood. No places are so full of mysteriously sad influences as those wherein men aDd women havedweltor met and then abandoned. The loneliest mountain side is not so lonely as a deserted house though it stand in sight of cheery homes. I am half afraid of ghosts in such places—not weird and chilling shapes exactly, but ghosts of the hopes, ioys,sorrows and sins which were there born and which there died. This rude old meeting house, tin painted, decaying and grim as a primi tive law, made the gloomy wood still more desolate. An unfrequented road crosses another a few yards north of it; trees sighed about it ; moss grew upon its lotted roof, and wild grass and briars clambered about its sunken door step. It told its mournful story with out the aid of words. The plainly habited,honest people who met beneath its roof iu the past had vanished from the earth, and their descendants were scattered or had departed from the faith of their fathers and belonged to the world's people. I stopped to look at it, held by a sad fascination. A shrill whistle interrupted my reverie, and scattered the ghosts of the silent landscape. Turning to my left I saw a boy climbing a bitof shaky fence. The climbing was a self-imposing task, and was evidently indulged in for the sole purpose of adding interest to the occasion, whatever it was, since an un steady gate swung open but a few feet farther on. He wore an enormous straw hat, gayly decorated with grasses and roses, and carried in one hand a big basket, heaped full of flowers, old fashioned flowers, old time roses, May pinks, lilacs, blue bells, snow balls, Deonies and honeysuckles. The other hand waved a brilliant half-grown flag, and on the end of the basket a very small flag had been clumsily sewn. Altogether, this bright eyed infant had a festal appearance in strong con trast to the gloom and silence of the scene. He whistled a bar from the "Star-Spangled Banner," emphasizing it by waving the flag energetically. He seated himself on the top rail of the fence and eyed me with some interest, though pretending not to see me. llis bare, brown feet beat time to the meas ure of the tune. lie struck up, in a shrill treble : I am a patriot true, sir; Yes, I am; yes, I am! A patriot firm and true, sir; Yos, I am; yes, I am! 'I don't doubt it in the least,' I said, attempting to bo sociable; 'indeed, you look it every inch.' A grimace was his only answer. Still it was a friendly grimace. liis dignity would not permit him to make my acquaintance too easily. I must make all the advances. 'Going to a picnic, are you not ?' I asked, believing that the be3t way to open a conversation with him would be to take some interest in his affairs, though I detest that method a3 applied to myself. 'No—a strew,' he answered. 'A what ?' 'A strew,' he replied, with a little annoyance in his yoice, 'a Decoration day strew. Don't you know that this is the day to decorate soldiers' graves— the 30th of May ?' 'I had forgotten it,' I answered hum bly. 'But where are there any soldiers' graves ? Not near here, surely.' He turned like a bird on the old fence and pointed with the flag into a mass of brambles. MILLHEIM, PA., THURSDAY, MAY 27., 1886. 'Not there V' 4 Yes, there. That's a graveyard— the graveyard that belongs to the old meeting house. Everybody that used to go to meeting tlieie (pointing to the house) is in here now (p noting again toward the briars and weeds), so there are no moie meetings.' I looked at the giaveyard with pity i".g interest. It was nothing but a square patch of bramHe*, and rank, dark weeds, inclosed by a bioken and worm-eaten fence and surrounded by the thick and silent wood. Nothing could be more isolated from busy life, more completely forgotten by the world. No, not quite forgotten, for here was the brown-legged I oy, with his Ihg and iiis flowers, his whistle and song. 'But soldiers are not buried hero,' I said. 'One of them is,' the boy answered with an accent of pride anil an ad ditional wave of his flag. 'lt's his grave that Missis Oilman is goiu' to strew with these (lowers, though he wasn't any relation of hers at all. He was a captain, and he has a marble headstone, the only one in the whole graveyard. His company put it up. It's getting a little old now, for he's been dead nearly twenty-four years died 'most fourteen years before I was born.' lie rattled this off with child like eagerness, happy in being the first to tell a bit of something interesting to another. 'Were you iu the war V he asked. 'Yes.' 'So was my gran'father. I have the picture of a fight he was in. lie was killed, too.' This with a special accent of pride. It was something to be kill ed, evidently, in his opinion. Hiding close to the old fence I looked over into the neglected place of the dead and saw the edge of a marble headstone and beside it the dark folds of a woman's gown. 'Come in and see this soldier's graye,' said the boy, glad of a new interest. I hesitated. Tho occasion seemed too sacred for the intrusion of a stranger ; but he insisted so warmly that I left ray horse and followed him into the graveyard. His simple, but not undig nified introduction made an apology to the lady unnecessary. 'Misses Wilson,' lie said, gallantly taking off his flower-trimmed hat, 'this gentleman was in the war, and I've asked him in to help put the flowers on Capt. Rathbone's grave.' We weie on the ground of common sympathy at once. This woman was 110 longer young, but she was beautiful with the beauty of a spirit that had long dwelt on calm heights. She was of the past, scarcely seeming to belong to the present at all. Her soft black silk and its laces, and even her face, were of a fashion not new. She was an old school-lady, with the gentle dig nity and majesty of manner that indi cate the old-school training. 'This is not my son's grave,' she said, 'but that of his dearest friend, and I am the only one left here who knew him or cares to lay a flower on the earth that covers him.' I bent to read the inscription on the fast-dimming headstone : To the memory of CAPTAIN WILBUR RATH BONE, A true friend and brave soldier. Tills stone is raised by Co. G. th Regiment, Vol. 1., which he commanded. The grave had been carefully tended. Its rounded outlines and fresh, closely trimmed sod made of it a green island in a lake of disorder and neglect. The pale old lady kueß down and began to pick the (flowers from the basket and reverently lay them upon the grave. The boy, big eyed and silent,came soft ly up and planted his flag at its head. 'Wilbur ltathbone was my son's closest friend,' continued the old lady, in a soft, sweet voice. 'They were babies together, school-fellows, com rades and friends. The home of each was as much tho others as his own. They spent almost every hour of their time together for twenty years. They grew alike in looks and manners, though they were totally unlike in character. Ev°n their Dames resemb'ed each other. My boy was called Willis. He was rash, impetuous, quick to an ger and not easy to control. Wilbur was brave but gentle, given to quiet ways and of few words. He loved music better than merrymaking, and dogs, horses and birds better than the society of most persons. I fancy I can still hear the piano speak under his fingers when I sit silent and alone in my now childless and almost empty house. And when the quiet of even ing comes I sometimes close my eyes, to blot out of my memory a quarter of a century, and hear the notes from his violin float over the hills. liis mother and father, my good neighbor, lived over there iu tho house whose chimneys you can just see from here,' and she pointed through a break in the wood. 'They are long since dead, and lie here by tho side of their son. Tney were not members of the Society of Friends A BAP Ell FOR THE HOME CIRCLE that mot in this little housi, but limit' pit routs bad boon, and wlmn limy died there was, after nil, no spot of ground in which to bury thorn morn sacred 111 an tins, though it is so desolate—so very, very desolate. •But the Inys ! They were never separated until afew months before the war broke out. My son giew restless and talked of going out into the world and doing great things. Wo held him here,his father and I, foolish souls that we were, feeling that we could not let him go; that to go once meant really to go for ever. You know thai when birds once try their wings they never go back to the nest. And we had only one other child, our girl, our Katie. At last the pressure upon his restless spirit rasped his ever quick temper, and lie quarreled with his father, left us in the uight without a word.' She rose, turned her face away, and stood so long silent that 1 thought she meant to say 110 more. But she went on presently, stooping down and picking up a flower from the soldier's grave. 'Never before had I a trial like that. llis father had been stern with him, I know, but he loved him, and I loved them both, and now anger raged in their hearts toward each other. One was ?oing where I could not help him, and the other hugged his wrath in silence at home. 'Oh, the agony of those days ! One by one they went by without bringing a word from my boy. The hours sat upon my heart like mountains. The disgrace of it almost killed us. To think that our son—our only son, whom we so loyed—had fled from his home like a thief in the night, and was wan dering, we knew not where.' 'At last Wilbur came to me one day, bringing a letter from Willis, which he had sent within one to him. lie wrote humbly to me, begging 1110 to forgive his uuceremoniousdeparture and assur ing me again and again of his love, but said not a word of his father. His heart was still full of auger toward him, I could see. 1 have that letter yet. I have read it a thousand times. It was the last line I ever had from his band. 'He was in Georgia. Why he went South Ido not yet understand. Per haps it was accident ; perhaps it was destiny. Even then there were rumors of war. and in a short time it burst up on the country in all its terror and hor ror. These quiet hills echoed the sounds of the bugle and the drum trom morning till night. Down iu the town companies were forming and regiments waited to be ordered to the front. Wil bur ltathbone commanded a company, and waited in camp for au order to de part. Before he left the news came one day that our Willis had joined the Confederate array; that he was captain of a company under Longstreet. I tried to doubt that awful story. 1 would not believe it—l could not. That he had left us 111 anger was sorrow and disgrace enough ; to know that he was in arms against his and our country was too great an affliction to bo calmly borne. His father raved like a mad man, and forbade us to speak of Willis iu his presence. 'I SAW Wilbur march away with a heart heavier than stone. If my boy had only been with him, it seemed to me 1 could have laughed from joy. But now, these two whose lives had been spent in brotherly companionship were in arms against each other. The roll of the drums sounded in my ears day after clay and would not die out even after every soldier had been seut 011 to the south. I awoke night after night from dreams of battles in which I saw my Willis wounded and dying. Some- Limes I called his name in my sleep and his father's groans of anguish would wake me. 'When the body of Wilbur ltathbone was sent home, I envied his mother her sorrow. He had died for his coun try—died for freedom. I stood dry eyed by his grave, loving him as a son, and feeling that my own sorrow was greater than death. My daughter died a few months later. This affliction we bort unmurmuringly ; but that other, that unspeakable sonow, grieved us unceasingly. 'At last I, too, grew stem and unre lenting toward my soil, I banished him from my thoughts. I drove his memo ry from my heart. 1 had no forgiye ness for him. And so the years went 011— those awful years of the war when the whole country mourned and suffer ed. At last it was over. Peace came and the country bound up its wounds and began to live again. Nearly a year later we learned that Willis had been killed while fighting at Cbickamauga. liis father's heart softened then, lie wept and murmured affectionate ex cuses for him. But I—l felt relieved to know that I should never see his iaco again. They talk about the death less tenderness of a mother's heart ; but mine had its day of hardness. Al- I ways this thought stung me; I, a patri ot, the daughter of patriots, was the mother of a son who had defied his par ents and fought against his country. ' Three years later my husband died, and I was left alone, lie spowo of Wil lis often in the last days of his life. But I was silent. Not till long, long after did 1 lind in my heart forgiveness formyeriing son. I realized at last, that I had no right to judge him; that if he erred perhaps I was to blame. I know now that, the passions, sorrows and evils of life be came as nothing in the sweep of time. He was buried in the trenches ofChick atnaugu. Lcaitnol lay a flower on his grave, so I come on the day they honor soldiers and lay my tributes on the earth that covers the body of Wilbur, bis best beloyed friend. Somehow I teel that Willis understands and knows that in my heart are flowers of affec tion for him. They were both dear to roe—very dear to me. 'Yes, he surely understands. 1 have long felt that, and have long ceased to grieve. Both my boys aie safe—safe and dead. It is well with them.' She ceased to speak, and stood with her hand resting on the soldier's head stone, her eyes seeing visions of tlu past, and nothing of the present. The hoy sat in the grass at the f<£>t of the grave, with tears dripping down his brown cheeks. The tale bad touched him, little as he could understand the deep tragedy of it. And I beard again the clash and thunder of war, saw the blazing lires of battle and felt, in \ rush of memory, the fierce fever of those vanished days of carnage. The boy followed me out to the road side. 'Do you think,' be said, earnest ly, as I mounted my horse, do you think there will be another war here in my time ?' •1 think not ; I hope not,' I auswer ed. He looked disappointed. 'I want to fight,' he said, eagerly; 'for I have a sword that was my grandfather's.' I rode away from that lonesome spot full of sad thought. All contentions, strife and anger seemed so needless ; all suffering so gratutious. Yet, thank God, peace and rest always come at last. EBBON OLIVER. He Sketched with His Mouth. Percy W. Hastings, of Lunenburg, Mass., who won fame as an artist, al though completely paralyzed below the neck, is dead. He attended school at Ashliurnham six years ago, where be fell from a trapeze, striking upon bis bask. It was two months before he could be removed to his father's house. Since the accident 011 June 3, 1880, Per cy Hastings has had 110 use of his body below the neck, as a result of the frac ture of the third or fourth vertebrae. To amuse himself, Percy learned to hold the pen in his mouth. lie soon succeeded in writing a good business hand. Sketching was next in order. An easel was attached to his reclining chair and placed but a few inches from his face. In sketching Percy met with such signal success thai he tried paint ing in water colors and made good progiess. All attendant would prepare his paints and place the brush in Per cy's mouth. The principal work has been the painting of flowers from na ture The work has been on exhibi tion many times and has received much praise. The general size of the paint ings has been about six by six, the ex tent of the area that could be covered by the motion of the head. Of these paintings ; many readily sold for from S3 to $5 each. Many persons are on record as having been enabled to pro duce almost phenomenal results by the use of the mouth, but only with the use of other portions of the body. Lunen burg's young artist is the first illustra tion of what can be accomplished by the moutii alone. Wit Saved Him. A brigade was encamped near Charleston, Va., says Allen F. Ilail, in the Grand Army Sentinel, and a guard had been detailed to protect the prop erty of the citizens in the neighborhood and strict orders given against forag ing or taking anything without paying for it. The colonel of one of the regi ments was out one day with his staff and all of a sudden he came upon a private of his regiment with a sheep on his back, evidently just killed. lie rode up to the soldier and asked him : 'Where did you get that sheep V lie answered : 'Up here in the field.' 'Did you buy him ?' 'No, sir ; 1 just killed him, so.' 'Why, don't you know that strict orders have been issued against doing anything like that V 'Yes, sir, I know it, and will tell you how it was. I was going along the road whistling the 'Star Spangled Ban ner,' and this sheep held tip his head and looked straight at me, and said, 'ba-a, ba-a,' and sir, I up and killed him, as I won't allow anything to say 4 ba-a,' at me when I'm singing or whistling the 'Star Spangled Banner.' ' It is needless to say the colonel told I him to go ahead. The fellow's wit sav ed him that time. Terms, SIOO per Year, in Advance. Making a Man Orthodox. An olllcer in the Russian urmy, of distinguished family, was striken down with ;i lever while serving in Siberia, lie finally became delirious, and the doctors |ironounced the case hopeltss. Nobody happened to know that ho was a member of the Lutheran church, and the priest sent for was orthodox. That priest, in suite of the exp'.iet injunction of his church, administered the sacra ment to a man who was out of his mind, and then performed the rile of extreme unction. A few hours after ward the crisis of the fe\er passed over and the patient gaye evident signs of recovery. The priest at once proclaim ed to the neighborhood that,with God's help, he had wrought a miracle, lie that as it may, the ollioer steadily im proved in health, and after some weeks was strong enough to start for St Pe tersburg. Now mark what followed. In going one day into the Protestant church, of which he had long beeu a member, he was greeted by his pastor that lie would leaye the church and not bring upon him the penalties which fell upon every heterdox preacher who ministered to the orthodox. On demanding in aston ishment, an explanation, he was in formed that the account of his'miracu lous cure had been sent to the Synod, which had warned his former Lutheran pastor that the man was henceforth or thodox. In vain he protested that he had always been a member of the Lu theran Church, that he bad never vol untarily altered his faith, that the sac rament and extreme miction had heen administered to him when he was un conscious. It made no difference—or thodox he must he fcr the future ; and a direct appeal to the Czar only elicited the reply that his majesty could not in terfere'with general regulations of the Ecclesiastical Synod,which had already received Ins imperial action. With such power as this wielded by the church, it ceases to be a wonder that the Russian heterdox sects have never united in a common movement. Far more wonderful is it that dissent has ever been able for one moihent to assert itself. - !!..! -*• " Failed and Succeeded. Men admit that 110 man is equally great in all things. Yet they often do see that a man's failure in one line of work is no reason why he may not suc ceed in a different calling. An incident which occurred some years ago in a London linen store illus trates this blindness. A young man, whose bluntness was such that lie was of 110 use as a sales man, was told that he did not suit and must go. Seeking the head of the house the youth said : 'Don't turn roe away ; I am good for something.' 'You are good for nothing as sales man,' replied the principal. 'I am sure 1 cau be useful,' continu ed theyouth. 'IIow? Tell me liow ?' 'I don't know, sir „• I don't know.' 'Nor do I,' said the principal, laugh ing at the boy's eagerness >nd ignor ance. 'Don't put me away,' continued the youth ; 'try me at something else. I know I can't sell,but;l can make myself useful somehow ; I know I can.' Moved by his earnestness the princi pal placed him in his counting-room. Immediately his aptitude for figures showed itself. 111 a few years he be came the head cashier of the concern. Throughout the country lie was known as an eminent accountant. What Made Him Feel so Bad. 'Job 11, do you remember coming home last night and asking me to throw you an assorted lot of key holes out of the window, so that you might find one large and steady enough to get your latchkey in ?' 'Yes dear.' 'And you remember the night before how you asked mo to come down and hold the stone steps still enough for you to step 011.' 'l r es, dear.' , 'And the night before that how you tried to jump into the bed as it passed your corner of the room ?' 'Yes, dear.' "And still another night when you carefully explained to me that no man was intoxicated as long as he could lie down without holding on, and then at tempted to go to bedlon a perpendicu lar wal' ?' 'Yes, dear.' 'John, do you realize that you have come home, sober but two nights in the past week ?' 'Have I, dear ?' 'That's all; and you ought to be ashamed of yourself,too. The idea of a man of your age—But, John, why, you're crying. There, there, dear, I didn't mean to be too seyere. After all, you did come home sober two nights.' 'Yes, that's what makes me feel so bad.' And then the meeting adjourned. NO. 21. NEWSPAPER LAWS If subscribers order the discontinuation of newspapers, the puollsliers may continue to send them until all arrearages are paid. If subscribers refuse or neglect totaVelheir newspapers from Iheofllee to which they are sent they are liehl responsible until they have settled t he. hills and ordered I hem discontinued. If subscribers move toother places without In forming the publisher, and the newspapers are sent to the former place, they are rcspoiiblbic. l-i _ 1 _ ADVERTIBINO RATES. 1 wk. 1 mo. I.linos. 6inos. J ven 1 square *2 01) S4OO | S6OO s<s 00 s'soo X " 700 1000 isoo woo 4000 1 " 1000 15 001 25 00 45 00 75 00 One Inch makes a square. Administrators and Executors' Notices sr_'Ao. Transient, advei tisements and locals 10 cents iter line far fti>t insertion and 5 cents per line for each addition al Insertion Four Children Perriah in a Burning Building. The Mother, With Her Babe in Her Arms, Leaps Through a Window and Is Unhurt. Akron, 0., May 19 —The little home of Mrs. Mooney, a widow,about 3 miles north of Akron, was burned to the ground shortly before last midnight and four of her children, the oldest 12 and the youngest 4 years, perished in the flames. Mis. Mooney awoke in the night to find herself choking with smoke and snatching up lier baby of 2 years, told the other little ones who were almost stifled to follow her. Mrs. Mooney sprang out of the window with the baby in her arms and landed almost unhurt, the baby a'so receiving but slight injuries. Lawrence Mooney, aged 60, a brother-in-law of Mrs. Moon ey, was awakened by the children's cries and rushed out of the house only to he told by the frantic mother that her four little ones were still in the burning building. Both mother and uncle rushed 'into flames time ar.d again, hut were beaten back. Mr. Mooney at length falling exhausted and terribly burned while the flesh on his hand hung in shreds. It took hut a few minutes longer for the crackling flames to consume the little building and this morning the charred ones were found in the ruins. Lawrence Moon - ey's injuries may prove fatal and Mrs. Mooney and her two 'grown daughters living in this city are wild with grief. The S9OO insurance and the little patch of ground is -all that is left to the stricken mother. The fire caught from an oyerheated stove. Best Seasons for Planting. How late we can sow or plant with a reasonable prospect of getting a crop, depends very much on the season, and somewhat on the character of the soil. We can plaut an early variety of pota toes as late as the middle of June. But you will, as a rule, get a far better crop if planted in May. I have had good corn planted the first week in June. Rutabagas have done well sown the 4th of July. Mansrold wurzels will pro duce a moderate crop sown any time in June, but if you want a big crop, sow in May. I have had a very profitable crop of beans planted the middle of June. But of course we plant earlier if we can get time to do the work. We plant with a drill in rows thirty inches apart and drop about six beans in hills fifteen inches apart in the row. The quautity of seed required per acre, de pends on the size of the beans. The white Boston Marrow beans require a bushel per acre. Pea beans, three pecks per acre. If you drill in the seed right along the row, dropping the beans about an inch apart, you require aboat twice the quantity of seed. Some of our bean growers think they get enough larger crops to more than pay for the extra seed, and for the extra work in pulling the crop.— American Agriculturist for May. The Secret Out. 'Oh I've just made the funniest dis covery.' said Mrs. Minks. 4 You know my husband never would tell me what they do at the secret societj he is a member of ?' •Yes; mine won't, either,' returned Mrs Finks, sorrowfully. 'Well, yesterday a big cau of alcohol came addressed to him for the lodge. He is a past grand something or other and takes care of things. Welt, I no ticed him going up-stairs with some of the alcohol, and when he got to his room I peeped through the key hole,and what do you think I saw ? He had the alcohol lamp, and was putting salt on the wick and it made the awfullest ghastliest kind of a light. I was posi tively scared out of my wits, he looked so much like a goblin. I suppose they do that at their initiations. I always thought they had some horribly ghastly performance.' 'Did you ever!' exclaimed Mrs. Finks, in a horrified tone. 'Well, I might have known they used alcohol at those secret meetings, for my husband always comes home smelling dreadfully strong of it.' Giving a Housewife Points. A careful housewife upon entering her kitchen said to her colored cook ♦ "Great goodness, Jane, you must be more careful. You are not clean enough in your cooking." "Lady," replied the cook, as she took up a piece of beef that had fallen on the floor, "I see that yer's gwine ter act foolish wid me. Ain't yer got nuthin' ter do 'cept ter Tool round out heah ?" "It's my business to come out here occasionally." "All light den, bab it yer own way, but I wanter say one thing : If yer wants ter 'Djoy yers9'f at de table an' eat wider 'comin' apertite, yer'd bet ter stay outen dis kitchen. Yas," she added, as she wiped a dish with a dirty rag, "yer'd better not nose rouu' heah, for cookin' is er business wid me, an' [ when er pusson is 'gaged iu business, foolishness is awful tioublesome,"