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The Potter journal and news item. [volume] (Coudersport, Pa.) 1872-1874, January 03, 1873, Image 1

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The Potter Journal
and News Item.
(Office in Olmsted Block.)
TERMS. 8 1.75 PER Year in Advance.
J no. S. Maim. S. F. Hamilton.
Proprietor. Publisher.
Attorney at I-aw and District Attorney,
entice "ft MAIM St., (orer th> Post Office,
A 1 :, its ail business pretaining to lib profession.
Special attention given to collections
Attorneys at Law and Conveyancers,
CoUech promptly au.-nded to.
Arthur B. Mann.
o-Lerai Insurance Ageat 4 iiotary Public.
attorney AT LAW,
(Office in Olmsted Block.)
Attorney at Law and Insurance Agent,
Baker House,
Brow n A Keli.et. Prop'rs.,
< onier of SECOXD and EAST Streets,
Every- attention paiil to the convenience ami
comfort of guests.
Stabling attached.
Lewisville Hotel,
Comer of MAIN and NORTH Streets
A-i..nsl Stabling attached.
All kinds of Gkaintno. YarnislUNvj. Ac., done.
Orders left at the Post-of!:will l>c promptly
atteiulcil to.
(Office in Olmsted Block,)
Surgical and Mechanical Dentist,
All w.irk guaranteed to give satisfaction.
H. E. Ball Jcister £ B:lting Eaiaine,
SNN'KMAUOMN'G, Cameron co.. Pa.
J-..: fr ill is t .:> 2K inches.
*"-••• pmnng Machines and (jeuerni Custom Wurk
aoc to v rder. 2422-tf
John Grom,
Ho u ho, Ki^n,
flcrorative k fresco
with neatness and dispatch.
Satisfaction guaranteed.
' Yders '„. ft with
be prouipUy attended to.
She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscanued upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan.
She laid it near a mighty stone.
Which some nine swain* bad haplv east
Thither in sj>rt long age, j>ast.
And time with inosse-, had o'erlaid.
And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,
And all about batle roses bloom.
And violets shed their rieii jwrfuine.
There, in its cool and quiet bed.
She set her burden down and tied:
Nor tiling, all eager to eseajw*.
One glance upon the perfect shape
Tliat lav, still warm and fresh and fair,
But motionless and soundless. there-
No human eye had marked her pass
Across the linden-shadowed grass
Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven:
Only the innocent birds of heaven—
The nutgpie. and the rook, whose nest
"wings as the elm tree waves his crest —
And the lithe cricket, and the hoar
And bilge-limbed hound t hat guards the door,
looked on. w hen. as a summer wind
That, passing, leaves no trace behind.
All unappareled. barefoot all.
She ran to that old ruined wall.
To leave upon the chill, dank earth.
(For ah! she never knew its worth,)
'Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling.
Ami dews of night, that precious thing!
And there it might have lain forlorn.
From morn till eve. from eve till morn.
But that, by some wild impulse led.
The mother, ere she turned and rted,
One moment stood erect and higii:
Then poured into the silent skv
A cry so jubilant, so strange.
Thai Alice—as she strove to 'range
Her rebel ringlets in her glass—
Sprang up ami gazed across the grass;
Shook back those curls so fair to see.
t'iaiuied her ~'ft hands in childish glee;
And shrieked —her sweet face ail aglow,
Her \ery limbs with rapture shaking—
•• Mv hen has laid an egg. I know:
And only hear the noise she's making!"
—C. S. Cayerley.
Wisi rllanu.
Shoe-Binding and Music Lessons.
" Well. I ant thankful it is the last
scholar to-day " said Mrs. Lewis as she
closed the piano wearily. " What a
hard way to eke out a livelihood. If
Charles could only earn a living supjxirt
for us. what a comfort it would be. < Inly
three dollars for three such tiresome les
sons. She w ill never have any skill in
it. It is only a waste of time, money
and patience."
So. in a very dissatisfied mood, gener
ally. Mrs. Lewis took up her sewing
w< irk and seated herself in a low rocking
-chair by the window. Presently a jnxir
woman called, whose husband had been
much disabled by sickness, and who had
a large family of little ones to maintain
on half a week's wages. He had once
lieen in much more prosp.-rous circum
stances and had filled ably the jiosition
of professor of natural sciences in a
popular institution of learning.
Mrs. K. looked very weary, and had
stoj!]H-d at Mrs. Lewis's to rest a tew
minutes before resuming her long walk
" I have ljeen binding a few shoes for
the factory." she said, "but can get no
more to do at present. They are not
doing much work now. they say, and
will not l<c until fall. lam very sorry
for that," she said with a sigh.
"How much do you get a pair?"
asked Mrs. Lew is with interest.
"Only four cents. It is small pay.
hut 1 wish I could get more of the work
to do."
" How many can you do in a day?"
"Oh. sometimes only three pair, and
at tlie very lest only five. I can work
only a few minutes at a time before I
have the baby t<> take up or some of the
children to look alter. I could not do
so much, but Ella washes all the dishes,
and sweeps the house for me and at
tends to the baby a great deal."
"Did I ever repine," thought Mrs.
Lewis, "at my work? Surely I never
can again." Further conversation drew
from the poor woman the fact that cloth
ing for the children was the great want
at present. It was that which made her
so eager to do the shop work, for which
she received such small pay: though it
obliged her greatly to over-tax her slen
der. under-sized, little daughter of nine
! years.
"Mrs. King." said her friend. "I
| have some articles of Freddie's and Jim
i rnie's quite out-grown hut good. If you
would accept them. I should lie glad to
let you have them. Your boy can stop
when he goes from school and get the
"I should lie very thankful indeed
for them," said the other fervently and
with a brightening of the eye which had
lieeu so downcast before.
she soon went on her way, far more
hopeful than when she came in. and
Mrs. Lewis thought over and over as
she turned over her ample stores: " Can
I ever repine again?"' With a heart
full of thankfulness to God that she
had a gift by which she could earn such
liberal wages, she laid out one and an
other little garment for the poor wo
man's children.
" It would take weeks of shoe-binding
to earn even one of these." she thought.
" What if I had to buy them at that
slow rate? "
From that day. when tempted to re
pine at her tasks, she had but to think
of binding shoes at four cents a pair,
and she grew content. Ah. if we would
oftener look at our mercies instead of
our crosses, it would he a great gain to
body and soul. Mrs. King conferred a
greater good than she received.—Luther
an Observer.
Old Roman Babies.—l must also
say a few words about the babies and
young children. They are made lotul
slaves at birth, for the first thing the
nurse does after the ablution i> to wind
around the infant —arms, body and
legs—swaddling-eloths, and these usu
ally indicate the rank of the parents.
Some are wrapped in very costly stuffs
tied with a golden band: others with a
purple scarf fastened by a glittering
buckle : others with a tine white shawl,
such as the wealthy ladies wear in cold
weather in their houses, fastened with
scarlet strings: while the i>oorwraptheir
babies in broad fillets of common cloth.
Tim old Lacedemonians seem to have
been wiser, for they only wrapjied a
broad fillet of linen around the body,
and left the arms and legsat full liberty.
These Romans put their babies into
cradles of various forms. The most corn,
nton are those of a bout and a hollow
shield. Joseplius, the Jew I have men
tioned. tells me that the infant life of
the great lawgiver of hisjieople was saved
. by his having lieen concealed among the
osiers of the X ile by his mother in a boat
cradle. Sometimes. when the baby is a
year old. the mother shaves its head and
puts jewels in its ears, if it lie a girl: and
so soon as it liegins towoik an ornament
railed i.-dlo ishungabnut itsneek. Tlsisis
often only a disk of metal with the name
of the child's family engraved u]on it.
so that the little one may lie identified if
lost; hut oftener it is a hollow metal case,
sometimes highly ornamented, which
contains charms against evil spirits.
Tiie children of the poor have disks of
leather so marked that the ha lie may be
identified. —From the "Old Romans at
Ilome,"by Benson .T. Lossing. i:i 11-tr
l<> r's fr,r Jinntorp.
A Night in the State House.
It was a forlorn sight.
A drunken father, blear-eyed and bloat
ed. to whose hand a child of five years
old clung with tenacious grasp.
"What's this man brought in for?"
asked tlie thief of Police.
"Disorderly conduct, throwing stones
at jieople. cursing and swearing."
"Very well, put him into the cell—but.
stop, there's the child."
The little fellow was an exceptionally
beautiful boy. He had grave, blue eyes,
so large and so pitiful that their glance
appealed to the thief's stout heart.
His complexion, where it was not dis
colored by dirt and tears, was the finest
and fairest. His lips were like cherries.
His yellow hair curled thickly over a
nobly shaped head.
"That man has seen better days."
said the chief to himself. "Come, hub.
j your father must go in the cell; we'll
find a place for you some where."
"Xo, no, sir; oh, no!" cried the boy
in a terrified voice. " I go with papa. < >.
please don't take m front my papa."
"But, child, you must: see here. Col
bert. you must take the child away.
How can lie cling to such a wretch?"
Easier said than done. The little fel
low caught his father's hands, clung to
his body which staggered at his touch,
all the time screaming in heart-breaking
tones that he must, lie would go with
" L" "i 111 "lone." said the man at last,
seeming to come out of his stupor for a
moment, "Don* ye see—he'sh got nobody
bu" tne? L" "im "lone."
"I can't allow the child to go into
the cell." said the Chief, "but I can't
bear to hear his cries. I supjuise there
is nothing else to do—he must go. Put
tliem in together. Colbert."
80 they were put in together in the
dark, stilling den. and the door was
shut. The little fellow cuddled himself
against the half-insensible form, and laid
his head upon his father's bosom* So
they slept together.
The faint light looked in through
gviininy bars, when on the following
morning the fatln-r awoke and liestirred
himself. Of course, as is usually the
case, he wondered where lie was. and
how he came there. The last thing he
remenil hthl he had gone into a saloon
alone, and diank a few glasses, and then
recolli ction ceased. Where was his liat?
where hiscoi.t? and looking around he
cried out in agony:
"God of heaven! there's little Benny!"
Yes. there was little Benny, the pure,
fair child, the idol of a broken-hearted
mother. There was little Benny, and
he had sjient the night in this hole, the
man fairly beat his breast as he
looked down on that bright curly head.
"Husband and child both," he mut
tered bitterly; "too bad. too bad."
At that moment the blue eyes of the
boy opened. He raised himself in won
der. but as lie met his father's gaze lie
smiled like an angel.
"The bad man would put you inhere,
papa, but I wouldn't let tliem take me.
You didn't know anything, papa, wlnn
I found you 111 the street. You lost
your hat. I gues> the wind to k it and
the IKIVS were all laughing. You was
sick, wasn't you. papa? And w hen the
bad man took you off. 1 came too. Now
let's go home and tell mama all almut it;
lets tell her we was stoled:" and the
dear little fellow laughed merrily over
the brilliant idea.
But that father, God help him. Hi?
heart was touched as it never had lteen
before. lie could not speak—-could
scarcely think. What was the mother
suffering that moment? And this aw
ful sin that had led him into its toils—
it never had looked as it looked to him
now. within the unsightly cell, the
light lying on t lie curls of His innocent
And when they went out then- tood
the mother, who. half distracted, la d
lieen wandering and searching all night
O what a sight for her gentle, loving
eyes! With a wild cry she fell ujion the
neck of the child, and drawing him
away sank to the floor with him, sob
bing as if her heart would bieak.
Think of the bitter anguish so many
good and gentle wemen are called to
endure, and then look in the face of the
resectable rumseller and call him gen
tleman if you can.— Oootl Templar.
A Lesson to Parents.
When I was young, busy mother, like
yourself, and Arthur was about your
Willie's age. I was making him a little
new dress. It was a soft, fine merino,
of a delicate shade, and contrasted beau
tifully with his soft, black eyes, and I
was so proud and happy in every stitch
of the work. It was for Christ mas, and
when it v. is nearly done I called him to
try it on for the last time.
The little restless, dancing fellow found
S 1.75 A YEAR
it hard work to stand still, and made it
almost impossible for me to tell what
changes it needed. Turning him round
to see the hack of it, I did not notice
that he caught up the scissors from a
chair. When I took a front view again
I saw that he had taken the oily wiping
cloth that lay on the sewing machine
and had it press* d tight against the breast
of his dress, trying to cut it. In utter
vexation and dismay I roughly snatched
the rag and scissors from his hand—just
as you caught the l>ook and pencil from
Willie this morning—only giving them
an additional unnecessary twist from
loss of temper. A sharp cry of pain from
my baby boy. and the stream of blood
that poured from his little hand, sobered
me instantly. In some way his finger
had been between the blades, and iny
wrench of the scissors had brought them
together, so that the tender little linger
was cut through to the lame on both
sides. I lost no time though my heart
bled with it. The jagged wound was
gaping widely apart on each side, and
no doctor within two hours of us. I
summoned all my senses to my aid. and
succeeded in quickly dressing and bind
ing it up. and then sat down, with Ar
thur on my lap, to find ways of beguil
ing him from the sense of his pain.
My heart was numb with the excess
of suppressed emotion. I could see the
cruel cut plainly as if it were open be
fore me and I knew it would leave a last
ing sear. I felt as though, in a fearful
dream, that I. his mother, had mutilated
his precious dimpled hand in a moment of
causeless auger with a baby, and that it
would remain a mute witness against me
as long as he lived.
Kate, no one but God can ever know
what I felt as I sat smiling to the dar
ling on my knee. I told him stories —
all of his favorites. I sang and laughed,
even while I kissed the little swathed
finger. But his lips quivered with pain
and deep sobs heaved liis breast long af
ter he lay sleeping on my arm. Words
cannot tell the agony of grief and shame
that overwhelmed me as 1 knelt beside
the crib when I laid him down. lie
slept tiie sound sleep of exhaustion, and
1 yielded to the tempest of remorse that
utterly prostrated me. It swept away
• very defence, every subterfuge and pal
liation. and showed me the hideousness
of the sin.
Had the scissoi s killed my hoy I should
have been no more guilty or responsible.
It was the act of a passing moment —
gone like a flash; but it was an ungov
• Toed, blind tenq*r. and the result would
i>e lifelong. This thought was absolute
ly insupportable. In unavailing peni
tence I kissed the joor maimed hand of
the little unconscious sleeper, literally
Uithing it with my tears.
After a time the storm sient itself,
and I took up the day's duties again.
The little dress I gave away. I never
saw it afterward —I could not have borne
the sight. For weeks and months I
watched the wounds as they healed, and
the deep red of the scar slowly faded.
At last it came to Ite white and distinct,
like a thread tight-drawn across both
sides of the flag .. I saw it whenever I
saw the baby- at the table, at his play,
when he folded hjs chubby hands in
prayer at my knee, that white, still wit
ness of my sin was always lefore me. It
seemed branded on my heart. At times,
when my punishment was greater than
I could bear. I implored Hod in His
mercy to permit it to fade out as the
child grew in stature.
My prayer was answered, but not in
the way I asked; the scar was not hid
den, but changed to one of tie truest
blessings of my life, by Him who maketh
even the wrath of man to praise him.
It has led me, each moment of my life
with my children since then, to set a
watch at the door of my heart and lips,
and to pray constantly that each day's
record may be such as I shali wish to
meet before the great white throne.
Watchman and Beconler.

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