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Democratic messenger. (Snow Hill, Md.) 1869-1973, July 30, 1881, Image 1

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W$ f)emo£fali£
VOL. XIII. —NO. 30.
The Democratic Messenger,
PrBLi&HEo Evert Satcrdsy bt
Bih#rription. S1 a Year in Advance.
Liberal arr tngeuicnte made with ilubs.
Corre|H)ndence solicited from all part* of
the county.
One dollar for one Inch apace will be charged
for the first insertion, and fiftv cents for each
subsequent Insertion.
A liberal discount will be niadeou quarterly
i* months, or yearly advertisement*.
Loral notices will be inserted at 20 cents pet
lina. 1
Marriage and death notices inserted tree.
Obituary notices inserted at half advertising
All advertising bills are dne after the first
Insertion, unless otherwise agreed npon.
Office opposite Court Bouse, Bnow Hill. Md.
Wiii visit Pocomoke dlty every Saturday.
Btrict attention given to the collection ol
Office opposite Court House, Suow HIIII, Md.
Strict attention given to the collection of
claims. Will visit Berlin on the second Satur
day of every month.
Office opposite Town Hall. Berllt . Md.
Special attention given to the collection ol
(Late of Baltimore Bar.)
Snow Hill. Md.
Office opposite Court House, adjoining the
Post Office.
Office, Court House Square. Snow Hill, Md.
Prompt attention given to the collection of
Office, opposite Court House. Snow Hill. Md. j
Claims promptly collected. Will visit Pi>co- J
moke City on the second Saturday of eaeli :
George w. coyington,
Office, Court House Square, Suow Hill, Md.
Prompt attention given to the collection of
Office, opposite Court House. Snow Hill, Md. ;
Prompt attention given to the collection of
Office on Washington Street three doors
above Post Office. Snow Hill, Md.
Immediate attention given to the collection
of claims.
Dr. e. e. dashiell,
Office, opposite Franklin House, Snow Hill.
Will visit Berlin on Thursday, Friday and
Saturday of each week. All operations on
the teeth performed in the most skillful man
(Latk Col. Dtmoci's.)
Opposite Court Honse. Snow Hill
Large Airy Rooms.
Excellent Table,
Home Comforts
Permanent aud transient guests kindly re
ceived and hospitably entertained.
Terms. 81.50 per day.
Hacks at the R. It. Depot to meet all trains
J. 8. PRICE. Proprietor.
TJLMAN 4 BR0„ Proprietors.
Division Strict, opposiito
Court Houno,
First-class Restaurant, Billiard Parlor. Bar,
and Livery Stable attached.
Free Hecks at Depot to meet all trains.
Passengers conveyed to any part of ths
Peninsula upon the most favorable terms.
First-class accommodations and home com
H. C. POWELL, Proprietor.
Accommodations Unsurpassed
Twilley A Bros.’ Livery Stable connecte-* witti
this House.
(Late English's.)
W J. MATTHEWS ft CO., proprietor*.
The undersigned beg leave to inform theh
friends and the general public that they have
leased at:d refurnished the above elegant and
e .mmodious bouse, and are now prepared to
accommodate permanent and transient guests
'■n flrst-cla>s style.
Large, airy room*. Home comforts.
Flue Sea and Bar Fishing, Gunning and
Bathing, etc. The table is provided with Wild
Pori. Terrapin, Fish, Oysters, Crabs, and all
he luxuries of the season.
Pleasure boats of all kinds, gnidea, fishing
li es, decoys, ponies, etc., always ready for
th u of gnests.
Irs-elass Bar a'tached. Choice winea,
beers and cigars.
Pftse Were for Cblncoteagne connect with
steam*\ r the Island at Franklin City, the
termlnu r the Worcester Railroad, morning
and evtnin. Connection may also be made
dally at
may rm ass*, a that they will receive eour
teona and excellent fare.
Yir patroiigt la respectfully solicited
| In gilded saloons, where the fairest of belles
! Flung around me their subtlest of glamour and
I broke thronph their magic, I mocked at their
Unmoved in my fancy, untouched in my heart;
j But yielded a captive, well pleased at my ate,
When Dora I met at the old farm gate—
When Dora I met,
When Dora I met,
: When Dora I met at the old farm gate.
j I passed, rod in hand, on my way to the brook;
And planned as I went little fishes to hook.
She stood there in silt uce, half smiling, half shy,
And moved from the pathway to let me go by.
! Ah! who would not bite when such charms
were the bait V
; So Dora catnrht me at the old farm gate—
So Dora caught me,
So Dora caught me,
' So Dora caught me at the old farm gate.
I We had met and had parted full often before,
! But we met on that morn to be parted no more
j The light in her eye and the flush on her cheek
; Emboldened my tongue of my loving to speak.
What cared I for tront V They might lie there
aud wait,
j Now Dora said “ ves” at the old farm gate
Now Dora said “yes,”
Now Dora said “yes,”
1 Now Dora said “yes ” at the old farm gate.
Aunt Susan.
An English Story.
“You’re to go down to the railway
| station, sir, at once; there has been an
accident npon the line.”
On my arrival, however, I found the
train standing whole and sound by the
platform, while a little knot of railway
officials and some few passengers were
; collected round the motionless figure of
! a girl of some fifteen or sixteen years
: of age, who lay on one of the benches
in the dusty waiting-room. An elderly
woman, apparently a respectable ser-
I vaut, stood by her side sobbing help
lessly, while the officials were discussing
the accident and its causes and disputing
as to where lay the blame.
“ Twas altogether her own fault,” j
said the guard; “what business had she
to lie getting out of the train till it
! stopped?”
“The door onght to have been locked,
J Tom,” said the station-master.
“So ’twas, sir, but she had a key of
j her own. 1 never see such a young
! lady. Didn’t she offer Jim half a crown
i awhile ago tolet her travel on the engine? !
! She’ll get no compensation anyhow.”
“Compensation ! it’s fined she ought
| to lie.”
; “Hush,” said she first speaker, “here’s
the doctor. ”
i And the little crowd, dividing, made
way for me to pass.
My patient was a tall, overgrown girl,
with a freckled face and a quantity of
dark red hair hanging in thick plaits |
' over her shoulders, the mischievous cast
of countenance, with its tnrned-up nose !
i and wide mouth, forming a painful con
trast to the death-like pallor which now
| over-spread it. A short examination
showed me that the case was not serious;
! a dislocated shoulder aud broken collar
bone makiug up the sum of the girl's
injuries. I turned to the servant who
had suspended her sobs aud was watch
ing me eagerly.
“Is there no one with her bnt you?”
I asked.
“No one, sir. I’m sure I did my be d
i to take care of her, but Miss Violet is
| one that will never be gainsaid by any
one. Will she die, sir, do you think?”
“I think not. As far as I can judge
! at present, her injuries are but trifling.
She must be taken to my house at once;
I can deal with her better there than
anywhere else.
As soon as I had reduced the disloca
tion and seen my patient comfortably
settled in bed, I went in search of the
maid, who had now recovered sufficient
I equanimity to be of some use. Telling
her that she might go up and sit with
i her young mistress, I asked to whom I
| was to send news of the young lady’s
! accident.
“ I think yon had 1 letter write to Miss
Violet’s aunt, sir,” she said after a mo
ment’s consideration. “My master is
| ill at present, and a shock would be bad
i for him.”
“Very well,” I said, “will yon kind
ly tell me the lady’s name and address ?”
“Miss Ferrars, Templearden Rectory,
“ I suppose,” I said as I penciled the
words in my note book, “that Miss
Violet’s name is Ferrars, also.”
“ Yes, sir. Her father is the Rector
| of Carlingham; he is a great invalid,
j and his sister, Miss Ferrars, manages
everything. He has been worse than
usual this time back, and Miss Ferrars
has been so busy attending to him that
; she had no time to spare for Miss Vio
| let, so she sent her on a visit to another
i aunt she has, a sister of her mother’s,
living near Loudon, little thinking what
| would be the end of it. I’m sure I
i never thought when I saw her putting
i that railway key in her pocket, but that
i she was takiug it back to her cousin,
I Mr. Tom, for ’twas ho tiiat forgot it
after him last time he was at the Rec
tory. I hope you’ll say when you write,
| sir, that the accident was altogether Miss
j Violet’s own fault.”
“I shall, at any rate, say that it was
not yours,” I auswered. “I suppose
that will be sufficient.”
I wrote to Miss Ferrars by the even
ing post, making my letter as short and
simple as I could. Fortunately there
was in so doing no need to suppress or
soften the truth, as Miss Violet’s injuries
were really only such as would be com
pletely cured by time and care. I said
to Miss Ferrars that if any of the
I young lady’s friends wished to come to
her, my sister and I would do our ut
; most to make them welcome; but should
they not find it convenient to do so, they
might rely upon our taking every care
’ of the patient.
Next day Miss Violet was much better,
, and able to give warm thanks, somewhat
; brusquely expressed, to Mary and me
> for our hospitality. My first idea as to
! the expression of her face proved eor
rect; I never before or since, saw so
muob mischievous fun concentrated in
a single countenance. And this bright
“ 'Tis Liberty Alone that Gives the Flower of Fleeting Life its Lustre and Perfume —and We are Weeds Without it.”
expression was the one thing which re
deemed her from absolute plainness,
since she had not a good feature in her
face; her gray eyes even being small
aud fringed with sandy lashes. She
1 made no secret of her vexation at the
accident, while fully admitting that it
had been caused by her own careless
“ It is such a shame,” she said; “I
was looking forward to a pleasant time
at Aunt Margaret’s. It is a jolly house
! to stay at, and I am very seldom allow ed
to go there. Papa and Aunt Susan have
1 some prejudice against my cousins. My
1 cousins are the prettiest and nicest girls
I ever saw\ As Shaw says, it would be
1 well for me to be like them.”
I went on to tell Violet of the letter I
had written to her aunt, aud the invita
tion contained then in.
“ She will not come,” said Violet, de
cidedlv. “ My father could not possibly
I spare her. He has lieen very ill lately,
1 and no one understands his ways but
Aunt Susan. She will be fretting about
me, though. I wish I could write just
one line to tell her what good care Miss
Ellison takes of me. I must be an awful
nuisance both to you and to her.”
“Do not imagine such a thing for a ,
moment. My sister likes nothing better |
than the care of a sick person: in fact,
it is her true vocation. I will write ;
again to your aunt aud tell her, from j
you, that you are content with your j
quarters here, and that you mean to get I
well as fast as possible. Will that do?” j
“Thank you,” she answered; “are ;
yon certain that I shall get well?”
“ As certain as I can be of anything j
in this world. You surely did not im- j
agine that your accident was a serious
“ Well, I did hope that it was of somo
j little consequence; it is too bad to have
all the pain and none of the prestige of
a railway accident.”
“ There is nothing to be proud of in
an accident caused by one’s own care
lessness,” said my sister, severely.
“Well,” Raid Violet, “I certainly j
would rather suffer from my own care- 1
lessness than from auy one else's. I j
never bear malice toward myself. ”
Aunt Susan’s letter came in due time. |
As Violet had predicted, Miss Ferrars ;
declined our invitation, saying that it
would be impossible for her to leave her
brother who was recovering from
; a severe illness, but that she felt no
hesitation in trusting her niece to us ;
having heard of my very great sklli
iu surgical cases.
This latter sentence somewhat bewil- [
dered me. Could it. lie possible, 1 asked :
myself, that Miss Ferrars had heard of i
that successful operation performed by
me in the county infirmary? It cer-*
tainly had been mentioned in some of ;
the medical journals, but then medical
journals is hardly the sort of literature i
one expects to find in a country parson- 1
age. Any way it was gratifying to be j
thus appreciated. Strange to say, the j
i obvious explanation—that Miss Ferrars
: was mistaking me for my uncle, whose
namesake and successor I was, aud who ;
hail been a man of undoubted ability j
i aud a certain local reputation—never
once occurred to me.
A letter had come, directed in the |
same handwriting to Miss Violet, to 1
! whom I sent it up. On going a little
later to pay her my professional visit, I i
j found her still reading and laughing
j over it.
“Yon seem to have an amusing let
■ ter,” I said.
“Aunt Susan’s letters generally are
amusing,” answered Violet, “but this is j
from an unusual cause—a mistake on }
her part. I cannot explain it to you, I
bnt it is very funny.”
Perceiving that the mistake was iu 1
some way connected with myself, I j
! asked no further questions, and to !
change the subject I took up the cover j
of Miss Ferrar’s letter, which lay upon j
the bed.
‘ * What a fine hand your aunt j
writes !” I said.
“She does everything well that she,
undertakes, and she undertakes a great ;
many things. She is papa’s right hand I
—as good as another curate, she says, |
She plays the organ and trains the j
choir at church, and she teaches me.”
“Yon consider yourself a decided
success, then, Miss Violet?”
“ You need not laugh,” she said, in a
dignified tone. “ You think that, be
cause I am ugly and awkward, I am ig
norant also; but I am not. I took a
high place at the Cambridge Local Ex
j aminations last year, because I was well
prepared. Aunt Susan has a real genius
! for teaching.”
There was evidently nothing of per
, sonal vanity in this boast, the object of
wliich was solely to exalt her teacher.
“ Are you like your aunt?” I asked.
“Not a bit. I wish I were. lam a
caricature of my mother, who died
when I was six years old. Would you
like to see Aunt Susan’s photograph ?
Shaw, will you find my little tin box ?
Is’t somewhere in my trunk, I think.”
“ I know where it is, miss, seeing that
’twas I packed it. ’Tis well you’ve
Bomelmdy that knows where your things
| are. Miss Violet.”
Mrs. Shaw brought the box—a small
tin one, filled with a regular schoolboy
collection of odds and ends, which had
to be removed before the photograph
could lie found.
“ I wonder,” said I, as I stood await
i ing the conclusion of this process, “if j
i the educational system of the present
day, with all its advantages, will pro-
i 1 dtice many women ns really able and
cultivated as some of those who belong
to a former generation—women like
I : your aunt, for instance. ’’
> Violet, who hail by this time found
• the bundle of photographs, paused ]
l with it in her band, and gave me a!
quick, inquiring look. Then, selecting
I one of the photographs, she handed it
> to me.
i : “ That is my aunt,” she said.
The photograph was that of a very
I sweet-looking elderly lady, with snow
i white hair and many wrinkles, bnt in
> whose bright eyes and softly curving
lips much of the joyonsness of youth
, still seemed to linger. She wore a mob
t cap of lace and muslin, with a large
> handkerchief of the same material over
> her shoulders—a costume which made
her look like the original that onr mod
, era coquettes try to oopy.
t “What a charming old lady!" I ex
t claimed.
“ Well,” said Miss Violet, with an
, odd sound in her voice, “ Aunt Susan is
r not generally considered so.”
1 , “I am surprised at that,” I said ;“ I
3 1 have seldom seen so sweet a face. I
3 j suppose that, although you call her
t aunt, she is in reality" your great
- jannt ?”
“No,” answered Violet, “she is my
[ father’s half-sister. But there is a dif
■ fereuce of twenty-live years between
> them. You may keep that photograph
1 if yon like. I have another copy.”
> \ My opinion that Miss Violet’s injuries
' j were not of a serious nature proved to
* be correct. She mended rapidly, and
> I was soon able to lie on the sofa in the
drawing-room, devouring every book
within reach, and showing considerable
appreciation of Mary’s efforts at invalid
! cookery.
! Alary and I soon became very fond of
j our guest, although we agreed that we
' would rather take charge of her in sick
i ness than in health. She soon got over
■ her dread of shocking Miss Ellison, and
j succeeded in doing so pretty effectually,
j I could not help laughing at the d*e
j scriptions of some of her pranks, and I
! tried to make MRry see that, with all
I her unconventional ways, she never
i showed any want of refinement. She
[ was very clever, and a great credit to
I her aunt’s teaching, being well and
j solidly grounded.
Violet kept very faithfully her promise
of writing to Alary, nor did I allow my
! correspondence with Miss Ferrars to
I drop; it was seldom difficult to fiud
a pretext for a letter; one led to another,
and we were soon writing, each to the
other, as to an old friend. Each step
toward intimacy served but to deepen
the impression made upon me by
Violet’s description of her aunt. It was
curious what a hold had been taken
: upon my imagination by this woman i
j whom I had never seen, and who, if she
, were five-and-twenty years older than
Violet’s father, must have been almost,
I if not quite, contemporary with my ;
i graneinother. I had even constructed 1
i a little romance about her. No one who
| saw her photograph could doubt that |
j she had !>een singularly beautiful, and I j
I decided that in early youth she had lost
| her lover by death, and had remained
i faithful to his memory ever since. “A
S lucky fellow he must havo been,” j
I thought I to myself, as the face of the j
photograph in the guise it must have
I worn some forty or fifty years before !
, rose up iu my mind. “ What a donkey
! I am, to be sure ! Here am I making a !
! fool of myself about a woman who must
| hoje been past her youth when I was ;
; born. I must try to fall in love with
some one byway of an antidote.” But,
! somehow, none of the girls whom I was
. in the habit, of meeting were fair enough
1 or wise enough to put the ideal Susan |
Ferrars from my thoughts,
i About a year after I had thus come
into contact with the Ferrars family,
; business took me to within a few miles i
of Carliugham, and I determined to
! profit by this opportunity of seeing '
i both my unknown correspondent and
■my former patient. As I walked up the
; hill from the railway station I was over
i takeu by Alias Violet—something taller
; than she had lieen last year, and every
! bit as unconventional. Just as friendly
and affectionate also, for she seemed
| really glad to see me, and insisted on
my going straight to the rectory, to lie
; introduced to her father and aunt. We I
passed across a green lawn surrounded
, by some fine old lime trees, through a
; glass door into a matted hall, and thence
\ into a pretty drawing-room, cool, shady,
and flower scented.
“Here is Dr. Ellison, Annt Susan,”
called out Violet as we entered.
I looked across the room, expecting to
j see my ideal old lady, but the person
' who came forward to meet me, uttering
i some cordial words of welcome, was
| quite young, almost a girl in fact, being
; certainly under five-and-twenty; tall,
slender, and dark-haired, aud bearing a
curious resemblance to my mental pic
ture of Aunt Susan in her youth.
She paused suddenly on coming near
j me, half withdrawing her outstretched
“ I thought you said Dr. Ellison, Vio
“So I did,” said Violet. “Thisis Dr.
“ I beg your pardon,” said the girl, :
recovering herself, “I was under a wrong
impression with regard to you. lam
very glad to have the pleasure of makiug
your acquaintance,” and she motioned i
me to a seat opposite to the low wicker
chair from which she herself had risen.
“ Will you look for your father, Vio
let ?” she said, after a few minutes, j
“ He will be delighted to see Dr. Elli
“ And Alias Ferrars—am I not to have
the pleasure of seeing her ?” I asked.
“I am Alias Ferrars,” said the girl,
“ I mean the elder Miss Ferrars—Vio
let’s Aunt Susan.”
“ But this is Aunt Susan,” said Violet. ;
“ This Aunt Susan ! But your Aunt
Susan is an old lady !”
“Is she? 1 wasn’t aware of that.”
“But you gave me her photograph,”
I persisted. “J have it still—a charm
ing old iady in a mob cap.”
“I remember,” said Violet, suddenly,
“ I did go in for a bit of mystification.
You said in your letter to me, Aunt Su
san, that you had often heard your
j mother speak of Dr. Ellison, who was
such a kind, courteous old gentleman, :
and such a clever doctor. While I was
reading the letter, in came Dr. Ellison,
looking about as venerable as he does at
present. In speaking of you, he said
something which showed me that he on
his part imagined you to be on the other
side of ninety ; so, just for fun, I showed
him that photograph of you, dressed for
the acting charades at the Alanor. I
did not intend to carry the thing far,
but I forgot all about it, and Dr. Elli
son appears to have recognized in you
his ideal great-grandmother, and revered
you accordingly.”
“ That explains,” said Miss Ferrars,
laughing, “ the deferential tone of Dr.
Ellison’s letters. I thought it proceeded
from the ohivalrous courtesy of a gentle
man of the old school, whereas it seems
merely to have been respect for gray
“ But,” said I, still bewildered, “ you
told ms that your aunt was twenty-five
years older than yonr father.”
“ I beg your pardon ; I may perhaps
l have told you that there was twenty-five
s years’ difference lie tween them, ns "there
is, my father being the elder. By the
r way, I suppose you also, Aunt Susan,
l continued all this time nuder a similar
r delusion ?”
- 1 “I did,” said Aunt Susan, laughing
and blushing. “As I told you, I often
r heard my mother speak of Dr. Ellison of
. Calethorp, and it never occurred to me
i that your friend could be other thau the
i same. You know you never gave any
more definite description of him thau
i that he was a ‘regular brick.’ It seems
> to have been a game at cross-purposes
[ altogether.”
s The consequences of this game at
; cross-purposes, with regard to my feel
! ings, may easily be guessed. But that
; these feelings, true and deep though
they were, should have been returned
1 to Busan Ferrars, is a mystery at wliich
I can only marvel in heartfelt gratitude
to the Providence which thus blessed me
so far beyond my deserts.
Tree Culture iu California.
A San Francisco paper says:—Eight
years ago un emigrant from an Eastern
State arrived in one of the hay counties ■
with his family and a capital of §75. He
had some knowledge of horticulture,
and was a good practical gardener. A i
capitalist, who was the owner of some
comparatively useless land, contracted
with this emigrant for planting and
tending forty acres of this land in Aus
tralian gums or eucalyptus.
The breakiug, fencing, planting and
labor on the land cost the owner §3,600.
At the end of the first year he had 32,- j
000 thrifty trees, and the second year he
set out the shaded ground iu pasture,
which retained its verdure nearly '
throughout the entire twelve months, j
showing a denser growth from year to
year. At the beginning of the third
year he utilized this pasture for dairy j
cows, and found it strong enough to
support two cows to the acre. He esti
mated its value for this use at §4 per
mouth per acre for eight months out of
twelve or §32 per year per acre. The 1
total yearly profit from this source was
At the end of the eighth year ho was
offered in cash by the keepers of a wood 1
yard thirty cents each for his trees, or ;
§250 per acre, the purchaser to pay all
the cost of cutting and removing the
timber. The total value was §9,600, hut j
in the meantime the owner of the land
had had five years’ use of the pasture,
which, by his own close estimate was
worth to him §6,000. This makes the
grand total of gross earnings in eight
years §15.600. From this must be de- ,
ducted 83,600 paid out for the nursery j
plants, fencing and labor, and an ex
pense of §SOO for water for irrigation
during the first two years, leaving a net
income of §11,500, or §287.50 per acre
for the eight years, or §36 per acre for !
one year.
The Late Dean Stanley;
The late Arthur Penrhyn Stanley
was a son of Dr. Stanley, the Bishop
of Norwich, and was horn ir Aldarley, (
| Cheshire, in 1815. He was educated at
Rugby under Dr. Arnold, during that
period made familiar to all by the story
of the adventures of Tom Brown. At
Oxford, afterward, he distinguished
himself by his scholarship, aud gradu
ated in 1838 at the University College.
He remained there for twelve years
afterward as a tutor. During his uni
versity course he took the Newdigate
prize for an English poem, “The
Gypsies,” gained the Irish scholarship, j
took the Latin essay prize in 1839, and \
in the year following won both the
English essay and the theological
prizes. He was select preacher in 1845,
and in 1851 was made Canon of Canter
bury. He was successively regius pro
fessor of ecclesiastical history at Oxford,
Canon of Christ Church and chaplain to
the Bishop of London, until 1864, when
he was made Dean of Westminster. He
was a leader of the broad church party,
j His “Life of Di. Arnold,” published in
1844, was his first literary work to make
him widely known. He also published
“Sermons and Essays on the Apostoli
cal Age,” “Memoirsof Bishop Stanley,” j
“Historical Memorials of Canterbury,”
“Sermons on the Unity of Evangelical
and Apostolical Teaching,” as well as a
large number of other sermons and
lectures. He has also contributed many
articles to the reviews and magazines,
1 aud to the Dictionary of Classical Biog- j
raphy and the Dictionary of the Bible,
as well as to the Transactions of the
Archaeological Institute. He was elect
i ed Lord Rector of the University of
St. Andrew’s iu 1874.

The Small Boy’s Explanation.
It was Sunday evening. Angelica i
! had invited her “best young man” to
the evening meal. Everything had
passed off harmoniously until Angelica’s
1 seven-year-old brother broke the bliss
ful silence by exclaiming:
“Oh, ma\' yer oughter seen Mr.
Lighted the other night, when he called
to take Angie to the drill, he looked so !
nice sittin’ ’long side of her with his j
“Fred J” screamed the maiden, whose !
I face began to assume the color of a well
done crab—quickly placing her hand
I over the hoy’s mouth.
“Yer oughter seen him,” continued j
the persistent informant, after gaining
his breath, and the embarrassed girl’s
hand was removed; “he had his arm—” ;
“Freddie !” shouted the mother, as in
her frantic attempts to reach the hoy’s
auricular appendage she upset the con-
I tents of the tea pot in Mr. Lightcd’s lap,
i making numerous Russian war maps
j over his new lavender pantaloons.
“I was just goiug to say,” the half
frightened boy pleaded, between a cry
and an injured whine, “he had his
! arm—”
“You boy 1” thundered the father,
“away to the wood shed.”
And the boy made for the nearest
j exit, exolaiming as he waltzed, “I was <
only goin’ to say Mr. Lighted had his i
army olothes on, and I’ll leave it to him
if he didn’t!”
And the boy was permitted to return,
and the remainder of the meal was spent
in explanations from the family in re
gard to the number of times Freddie had
to he “talked to” for using his fingers
for a ladle,
War’s Horrors.
The UeraUl, a newspaper published
in Chili, contains the following descrip
tion of one of the most terrible scenes
witnessed during the war with the Pe- ,
The Peruvians fired from the houses j
at Miraflore with the object of driving j
them out. The Chilians applied the :
torch. When the progress of the flames
made it impossible for those within to
remain, the Peruvians began their esc- i
dns. When they were out they had to !
meet the enemy’s soldiers, who were
watching for them in order to shoot j
them down. The corpses of the Peru
| vians were laid in piles before the doors
and walls of the burning houses, and
j actually added fuel to the conflagration
in progress.
If any one of the besieged was happy
enough to escape from the place of the
struggle he was soon hunted for and
killed like a rat, and sometimes several
prisoners were kept alive by the inter
■ vention of the officers and commanders,
, and were put under the charge of a cer
tain number of officers, more to be pro
tected than with any object of being es
corted. But as soon as any Chilian
soldiers were wounded or slain by those
who continued the struggle, the prison
ers were formed in line and shot without
mercy by those who were escorting
| them. At other times, before setting
fire to the house, they tried to blow up
a part of it with torpedoes, in order to
reach the immured Peruvians, and to
kill every one who could be found,
without listening to their piteons ap
i peals for mercy.
While the commanding officer, Dnvil,
was exhorting several Peruvians who
were sheltered in a building to surrender
themselves, he was slightly wounded. !
j It is impossible to give an idea of the
fury with which the Chilians were seized
when they saw the way iD which the
; enemy answered their proposition of a
; surrender in order to save their lives.
- The building was immediately set on
fire, the soldiers carrying everything
they could lay their hands on to assist
i the flames. In a short time the build
ing was surrounded, and there was no
escape left for those who were left in
side. The smokecommenced to suffocate
( the prisoners before the fire had begun
j to do its work.
In that situation the Peruvians tried
to find away to free themselves from
| such a horrid death, but every door,
j every window and every part of the
I building which could have afforded any
j chance of escape was barricaded with
| the corpses of those who had been
butchered. Many of these unfortunate
Peruvians became crazy, and many tried
to free themselves from such a death by
crossing the fire which surrounded the
building, but in vaiu. Others jumped
from the top of the burning buildings
into the streets to meet death at the
hands of the Chilians, who threw those
who were alive into the fire.
A Country of Poor Men.
Emerson has said : “ Ours is the coun
try of poor men. Here is practical j
democracy; here is the human race
poured out over the continent to do j
itself justice; all mankind in its shirt
! sleeves ; not grimacing, like poor rich i
men, in cities, pretending to be rich,
i but unmistakably taking off its coat to j
j hard work when labor is sure to pay. ;
This through all the country.” We
! must not let our toil occupy us too t
much. Justice, says Emerson, satisfies
everybody, and justice alone. No mon
opoly must be foisted in, no weak party
or nationality sacrificed, no coward ;
j compromise conceded to a strong part- i
ner. Every one of these is the seed of
vice, war, and national disorganization.
It is our part to curry out to the last the
ends of liberty and justice. We shall
j stand then for vast interests. North
and South, East and West will be pres- :
ent to our minds, and cur vote will be j
as if they voted, and we shall know that !
: our vote secures the foundations of the i
state, good will, liberty and security of |
traffic, and of production, and mutual ,
increase of good will in the great in- i
terests. True it is, even in view of the ;
staitling array of r aterial facts pre- ;
seuted tor the consideration of the conn- j
try on this, the 105th anniversary of its
birth, that trade and government will
j not alone be the favored aims of our
50,000,000 of people, but every useful, j
every elegant art, every exercise of
imagination, the height of reason, the :
noblest affection, the purest religion, :
| will find their home in our institutions, '
and write our laws for the benefit of 1
1 men. —Hubert P. Porter.
Somebody— if we knew who, we would
give due credit—writes thus tersely and i
: trnthfully of newspapers and their j
worth to the world : “The value of
newspapers is not fully appreciated, !
but the rapidity with which people are
i wakiug up to their necessity and nse
: fulness is one of the significant signs of
the times. Few families are now con
\ tent with a single newspaper. The
; thirst for knowledge is not easily sati
ated, and books, though useful—yea,
absolutely necessary in their place—
fail to meet the demands of youth or
age. The local newspaper is eagerly
sought for and its contents as eagerly
; devoured.
“Newspapers are also valuable to
material prosperity. They advertise the ,
village, county or locality. They spread
before the reader a map on which may
be traced character, design, progress.
If a stranger calls at a hotel, he first in
quires for the local newspaper, and yon
feel discomfited if yon are unable to find |
a late copy, and confounded if you are |
compelled to say you do not take it.
“The newspaper is jnst as necessary \
to fit a man for his true position in life
as food or raiment. Show us a ragged,
barefoot boy rather than an ignorant
one. His head will cover his feet in :
after life if he is well supplied with i
j newspapers. Show ns the child that is I
eager for newspapers. He will make I
the man of mark in after life if you
gratify that desire for knowledge. Other !
things being equal, it is a rule that
never fails. Give the children news- j
papers. ” i
By and by, the evening falls,
Sons of labor rest.
Weary cattle sees the stalls.
Birds arc in the nest.
By and by the tide will turn,
Change come o’er the sky,
Life's hard task the child will learn.
By and by.
By and by, the din will cease,
Day’s Jong hours be past.
By and by in holy peace
We shall sleep at last.
Calm will be the sea-wind’s roar.
Calm we too shall lie.
Toil and moil and weep no more,
By b nd by!
A MAN is known by the company he
keeps out of.
An exchange has an article on “ How
to drive a hen.” It is a shoo-her way.
A crank is a new name for a lunatic.
It shows that something has turned his
A man cannot be tolerably honest
any more than a woman can be tolerably
The Germans are all good gardeners.
Americans imitate them only in cultiva
ting beer gardens.
A Massachusetts town rejoioes in
the name of Woodtick. It should be a
popular picnic resort,
“ What is the proper gait for girls ?”
asks a journalistic contemporary. We
should say a garden gate.
Evert man is fond of striking the
nail on the head, but when it happens
to be his finger nail, his enthusiasm
becomes wild and incoherent.
“ Gracious ! wife,” said a father, as
he looked at his son William’s torn
trousers, “ get that little Bill reseated.”
And she replied, “So I will.”
Brush, the electric light man, predicts
that electricity will soon be stored for
family use. Think of sending your
oldest boy to the grocery store for a
paper of saleratus and a two pound can
of electricity.
“ In wendiu’ yonr varus ways to your
varus homes,” said the President of the
Lime-Kiln Club, as the clock pointed
to the hour of ten, “let each one carry
wid him de feeiiu’ data meek answer
turneth away wrath, an’ dat bluster am
rewarded wid a black eye.”
A Syracuse girl broke off her engage
ment because her lover joined a base
ball club. She felt that she would
never be happy with a man who had six
fingers and his nose bioken, and four
teeth knocked out, and who was liable
to dream that he was batting for a home
run and knock her clear across the room.
Webster (Mass.) Times.
He belonged to a chnrch with a
steeple, and prayed in a manner most
grand ; he chose his companions from
people who were ranked as the best in
the land ; but with all of his luminous
morals, vice over him hung black as jet,
and darkness his crown of bright florals
—he played on the fiendish cornet—
Modern Argo.
These moonlight nights arc glorious
at the seaside. “Isn’t it heavenly,”
said Miss Sillybilly to Mr. Polo.
“ What ?” heasked. “ Why, the moon,”
“ Oh, yes, just too utterly heavenly for
anything.” “ Oh, Ido justdote on the
moon, don’t you?’’ “ Yes, it’s awfully
nice, isn’t it, and so splendidly con
spicuous, too!”
Poor little fly ! He was flitting about
the table, and in a little while he settled
on the glucose, but the waiter brushed
him away so rudely that he fell into the
oleomargarine. There he struggled
bravely, and at length he got his legs
loose and flew—alas! only to drop into
the sulphuric acid that had been ponred
over the beets.
In the Treasury Department there
lies $1,400,000 of unclaimed interest on
government bonds. This shows how
little some people care for money. No
doubt a great deal of that unclaimed
interest belongs right in the newspaper
offices, but the bonds have probably
been mixed np with spring poems and
sold for waste paper. The boys are too
awfnl careless about these things.
A country clergyman, who on Sun
days was more indebted to his manu
script than to his memory, called at a
cottage while its possessor, a pious
parishioner, was engaged reading tile
prophecies of Isaiah. “ Weel, John,’
familiarly inquired the clerical visitant.
“ what’s this you are about?” “I am
; prophesying,” was the prompt reply.
, “Prophesying!” exclaimed the astound
ed divine. “ I doubt yon are only read
ing a prophesy.” “ Weel,” urged the
religions rustic, “ if reading a sermon be
preachin’, is na reading a prophecy
prophesying ?”
Inside were half a dozen ladies and
gentlemen, when the driver stopped the
car and said: “There is somebody in
this car trying to beat me outef a fare.’
The passengers looked at each other and
all said they had put in their fare. “It
don’t make any difference. There are
only six fares in the box and seven peo
ple in the car.” Then a gentleman got
up, aud with a sigh put iu the missing
fare, remarking: “I put in one before,
bnt as I was once iu the Legislature
everybody will say it can’t be anybody
else but ne, so I’ll have to stand it.”
A Tramp’s Luck.—ln February last a
tramp printer walked into the office of
the Sun at Socorro, New Mexico, Bor
rowed twenty-five cents and w-orked"un
tilhe had earned $5. With this capital
he started out prospecting, located a
claim, two-thirds of which he sold out
a short time ago for $30,000. The
above information will no doubt render
uneasy the printing fraternity of the
country, who will hie them away to
New Mexico to do likewise.
Broke rr Up.—A Chinese mother at
; Fresno, Oregon, bandaged her little
! girl’s feet after the fashion of her oonn
! try, and for several days the cries of
I the sufferer were heard throughout the
mining town. Then a mob of indignant
miners oroke into the honse, cut off the
bandages and soaked the feet in lini
: ment, and threatened to hang the woman
i if she renewed the process.

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