The Mount Holly news. [volume], March 07, 1893, Image 1

About The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942

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The Mount Holly News.
VOL. XIV. NO 10.
MOUNT HOLLY. BURLINGTON COUNTY, N. J., TUESDAY, MARCH T, 1893.
ESTABLISHED 1879
PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD.
The standard railway of America. Protect
ed by the Inter-locking switoh and block sig
nal system.
T-oini lease from Mount Holly a* follows:
For Philadelphia, 8.30, 6.00,6.52, 7.30,8.00, 3.67,
9.15, 11.20 A. X.. 12.51, 2.31, 4.24, 6.05,6.19,8.37,
10.50 P.M.
On Sundays. 8.36 A. m„ 12.05, 8.30, 7.50 r. M.
For Pemberton, 7.33. 9.26 A. M., 12.24, 2.03, 8.32,
4.52, 8.06, 7.08, 7.33 P. M. Sundays, 10.23 A. M.,
6.05 p. m.
For Brown’s-MUls-ln-the-Plnes, 7.33,9.26 a. m.,
12.24, 3.32, 4.52, and 7.03 r. M. Sundays, 10.23 A.
M.
For Vincentown, 9.26,11.28 A. M. 3.32, 6.06 P. x.
For Burlington,Bordentown.TrentonandNew
York, 6.38, 9.00, 10.50 A. M„ 2.50, 4.38, 6.56 P. M.
For Lewistown, Columbus, Kin kora, etc., a.
x. 2.03 p.m. On Sundays, 6.05 p. k.
For Lumbeiton, Medford, Marlton, Haddon
fleld and Philadelphia, 6.20, 9.48 a. k., 1.25,
5.10 p. x. On Sundays, 7.32 a. X.
For Toms River, Island Heights, etc., 9.26, A.
X., 4.52 F. X.
For Trenton and New York, via Pemberton
and Klnkora, 2.03, p. x. Sundays, 6.06 p. x.
For Hlghtstown, 7.33 a. x.. 2.03, 4.62 F.x. On
Sundays 6.05 p. x.
For Asbury Park and Long Branch 9.96 a. x.
Mondays and Saturdays only.
For Tuckerton, 9. 26 a. x., 4.62 r. x.
For Beach Haven on Tuesdays, Thursdays and
Saturdays, 9.26 A. X., and dally at 4.62 r. x.
For Barnegat City, Tuesdays, Thursdays and
Saturdays, 9.28 a. x. Saturdays only, 4.62 A.x. ,
Trains leave for Mount Holly at follows:
From Philadelphia, 6.80, 7.40, 8.30, 10.00, 11.20
A. X., LOO, 2.30, 4.00, 4.30. 6.10, 6.10. 6.30, 8.00,
10.30.1L46 P. x. On Sundays,9.16 A. X., 1.00,
5.60, 10.30 P. x.
From New York, vlaTrentonand Burlington
8.00,9.30 a. X., 1.00.4.00,5.00 F. X.
From Trenton, 7.41,9.26,11.10 A. X., 2.53,6.20,
7.00 r. x. On Sunday at 6.40 a. x.
From Burlington, 8.20,10.06,11.53 A. x.,3.32,5.45
7.40 p. x.
From Brown’s-Mills-ln-the-Plnes, 8.20, 12.16 a.
X. 1.56.5.45, 8.05 P. x. Sundays, 4.50 F. X.
From Pemberton, (north) 6.35, 7.42, 8.82.
a. x„ 12.19, 4.07, 8.17 p. x. On Sundays,
8.00 a. x. FromPemberton (south), 8.88 a.
X., 12.30, 2.11, 4.50, 6.00, 8.19 P. X. On Sun
days, 6.13) F.X.
From Vincentown, 6.50, 10.66 A.X., 1.55, 4.00
r. x.
From Hlghtstown, via Burlington,11.02 A.x.
7.00 p. x.
From Medford, 3.33. 11.56 a.x., 4.16, 6.35 P.X.
On Sundays, 6.35 p. x.
From Long Branoh, 2.35 r. x. Mondays and
Saturdays only.
From Toms River, 7.48 a. x., 4.19 r. x.
From Island Heights, 7.35 a. x.t 4.00 p. x.
Chas. R. Pcqh, J. R. Wood,
General Manager. Gen. Pass. Agent.
Pemberton and Hlghtstown Railroad.
Trains leave Mount Holly for New Rgypt
Cream Ridge, Hlghtstown, etc., at 7.63 a. x.
2.03,4.52 p. x. Sundays, 6.06 p. x.
Trains leave Philadelphia and connect for
New Rgypt, Cream Ridge, Hlghtstown, etc.,
6.30 A. x„ 1.00 and 4.00 p. X. Sundays, 5.00 p. x.
Trains leave Hlghtstown lor New Rgypt,
Pemberton, Mount Holly and Philadelphia
at 7.05, 10.00 a. X., 7.05 p. x. Sundays, 6.20
A. x
TUCKE&TOH RAILROAD
Leave Mount Holly tor Tuckerton, 9.26 a.
m.( 4 02 p. m., daily, except Sunday.
For Beach Haven, 9.26 a. m., Tuesdays, Thurs
days and Saturdays, 4.52 p. m. daily, except
Sunday.
Leave Beach Haven for Tuckerton, 6.50 a. m.,
daily except Sundays, 8.00 in., Tuesdays,
Thursdays und Saturdays, and 7.1o p. m- on
Saturdays only.
Leave Tuckerton for Beach Haven, 4.55 a. m.
on Mondays only. 10.20 a. m., Tuesdays*
Thursdays and Saturdays, 8.65 p. m. daily
except Sunday.
Leave Beach Haven for Mount Holly, 6.50 a.
m., daily except Sunday. 8.00 p. m. Tues
days, Thursdays and Saturdays.
Leave Tuckerton xor Mount Holly, 7.08 a. m.,
8.15 p. m., daily except Sunday.
Mount Belly Poet Office.
MAILS LXAVK AS FOLLOWS t
A. M.
New Yorkand East.
Pemberton and Hightstown.,
Vlncentown,.....
Trenton..
Borden town.
Foreign.
West.
Atlantic City.... .
Medford.
Philadelphia.
Burlington....
Camden.
Lumberton.
10 8.30
10'8.30
10 8.30
10 8.30
8.30
8.30
8410
8.30
8.30
8.30
8.30
8.30
8.30
•2.05
2.05
2.05
2.05
2.05
2.05
2.05
2.06
2.05
2.05
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
2.06 8.00
2.05 8.00
4.15 8.00
MAILS ARBIVS AHD BBADY FOB DIBTBIBUTIOM :
a.m. r.u.
New York and E..
Pemberton.
Vincentown.
Hightstown.
Trenton.
Borden town.
Foreign.
West.....
Atlantic City.
Medrord.
Philadelphia.
Burlington.
Camden ..
lmmberton.
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
7.45
9.15
9.15
916
.15 11.15
9.15
9.15
3.00 5.00
5.00 5.00
11.15
11.15
11.15
11.15
11.15
11.15
6.30
8.00
3.00
J.Oj
8.00
3.0U
3.00
3.00
3.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
5.00
4.05
5.00
5.00
6.30
6 30 9.00
6.30
6.30
9.00
900
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
1AHVEL A. ATKINSON,
^ATTORNEY AT LAW, SOLICITOR AND
MASTER IN CHANCEBY.
No. 109 Main St.. Opposite Washington House,
Mount Holly, N. J.
C
BAK1.ES 31. SLOAN,
ri&E and Lira insurance.
Office In Arcade Building, Mount Holly, N, J
c
IBABLU IfflR MERRITT,
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW.
Main Street, Opposite Arcade,
Monnt Holly, N. J.
j. *• <suk*e*6r AND CONVEYANCER,
(Jmmissioner or deeds,
JUSTICE or THE PEACE,
CXDAB Kith. OOBAJT COUWTY, N. J.
s
AMUBL OALIY, 81. D..
HOMCEOPATHIC PHYSICIAN,
Garden Street, near Cherry Street, Monnt
Holly, N. J.
Omen Hours : 7 to 9 A.M., 1 to t r. K.,t 8to r u.
QIOMS W. V ANDBBV&BR, If. ».
Bomoeooathlat,
Garden St. near Buttonwood, Mount HoIIt.
Omoi Hours : -
Until 9 ▲. x.
«to 8 p. x.
1 to 2 f. x.
FMHK, ure AMO AVCIDUT IH8CM
, ANCK.
Reliable Companies and lowest rates. Cor
tspondenoe solicited.
SAMUEL A. ATEIN60N,
General Insurance Agent.
109 Main Street, Mount Holly, N. J.
QHAS. HABKKH, M. U-, D. D. S,
DENTAL OFTIOE AND LABORATORY
No. 137 MAIN STREET.
{ Cor. Main <t Unioc BU„)
Mount Holly, AT. W.
First-Class Work Reasonable Prioes
WILLIAM .H CLINE,
FURNISHING! UNDERTAKER,
VINCENTOWN. N. J.
Orders by Telegraph will be promptly at
tended to.
Mount Holly Academy,
A BOARDING and DAY SCHOOL
—roB—
Boys and Young Men.
Apply tor our catalogue, wblcb contains full
partloaleii and references.
AST. J AMES J. COA LE, A. M., (Princeton),
Principal.
STO
I MM
BOUGHT AND SOLD
OB Commission and carried on favorable
Terms.
Vork. we are prepared to execute orders left
with us promptly and satisfactorily. Ac
counts received and interest allowed.
DeHaven & Townsend,
NO. 420 CHESTNUT 8TBBET.FHlLADBI.rHlA
M
OXJNT HOf.LV SEMINARY.
Kin M. ADELAIDE ATKINSON, Principal
(Opposite the Court House.)
This well-known establishment for Young
Ladles and Children, will reopen on SEP
TEMBER ISth. The oourse of instruction Is
most careful and thorough. Three bright,
well-ventilated and carpeted school rooms
offer exceptional advantages, being well fur-1
Bished with all latest Improvements. South,
am exposure. No "cross lights” to ruin the
eyesight. Two regular grades in each room. |
Flay ground, large and private. The Kinder
garten Idea of combining the amusing and In-1
{cresting with the Instructive, will be entered
Into more fully than ever, in the primary
room, during the oomlng year.
JOSEPH G. BOWER,
THE POPULAR
Baker & Confectionery
No. 72 Main 8t., Mount Holly.
Fresh Bread, Biscuit and Pies |
EVERY MORNING.
FANCY CAKES TO ORDER, i
AND OTHER CHOICE PA8TRY.
Weddings, Parties and Balls supplied at short
notice. Give me a call.
ICE CREAM A SPECIALTY.
ED, PBICK1TT, No. 80 Main street, has th
• best line of Family Medlolnes on tha
wor“ i
Upse Who haVe
used itgticKtoit.
TJjose who try if
regret not having
tried it bejore. it"
isafuLI4oz,plu$
Jno.fln*BrL*u®J||fi^y
g R. LIPPIS COTT,
GENERAL AUCTIONEER,
MEDFORD. N. J.
Special Attention paid to sales of real estate
stock, tanning utensils, etc.
A.
DOKON,
WATCHMAKER AND JEWELER.
NO. M MAIN STBJCJST. MOUNT HOLLY
Keeps the bestassortment ol Watches,
Chains, Kings, and Spectacles In Bur
lington County.
Also, a full line of 811 ver and Plated
Ware.
HAVE YOUR PAINTING
DONE BY
Samuel L. Bullock.
Best materials always used. Pure colors,
best White Lead and Zinc and Pnre Linseed
i OH. All kinds ot painting done; Sign, Orna
mental, Frescoing, Graining, Calclminlng,
Glazing, Ac. Work solicited from all around.
None hut competent and experienced men
employed, and all work guaranteed. All or
ders should be left at my residence. Union
street, or T. B. Bullock’s store, G rden street
Mount Hollv
T
M, COPPER AND SHIEMROI
WARE MANUFACTORY.
The suosenber, thankful ror tne past lib
eral patronage or the public, announces that
he Is still engaged In the manufacture ot
Stoves, Heaters, Ranees, Tinware, Eto.
▲ lull variety ot winch will bekept con
stantly on hand or made to order at the shortest
notice.
Tin Roofing, Spouting, Plumbing, Oat and.
Steam fitting
Promptly attended to by experienced work
men.
W. J. BRANNIN,
MAIN 8TKBKT, MOUNT HOLLY,N.
Adjoining St. Andrew’s church.
SMKEn LIFE OF LUTHER
Should be used In every family. A 10-cent box saves
Ten Dollars of your shoe bill In a short time. It
softens the leather and keeps it from cracking or
breaking. It gives life and strength to leather, and
makes if water-proof, and gives your shoes a fine,
new appearance. It may be used on the finest kid
or morocco shoes. Ask your shoe dealer for it.
^bn Rankey. Mlffllnber*, Pa-. Sole Manafaeturer.
ir sale by Laing & Maginnid. 30 N. Third SL.Phlla
From Bad_to Worse
A Complication of Diseases
Hood’s 8arsaparilla Cave
8trength Just In Time.
Mr. Isaac Aber
Ol Vienna, N. J.
“I gladly testify to the following factst X
have been a very great sufferer for the last five
years with troubles of the Lungs and kid
Beys and the worst stage of
Dyspepsia.
I could scarcely eat anything because of the in
cense pain In my stomach. I was also at one
time covered with salt rheum, and my cough
weakened me so that I could scarcely walk. I
had several attacks of bleeding at the lungs.
My breath became so short that I was unable to
work and was obliged to give up my business,
which Is that of a mason. I could not even
walk about much. So I kept going from bad to
worse. I then had an attack of the shingles,
which, with all my other complaints, confined
me to my room for three months and
Nearly Took Away My Life.
I had heard of Hood’s Sarsaparilla as a good
medicine, so I bought a bottle. When I had
taken It, I found It had done me some good, so
I continued till I had taken three bottles. X Im
proved so rapidly that I could walk out of doors,
and have steadily gained till I am at work
again and use my hammer and trowel once
Hood’s s Cures
more. The physicians told me five years ago that
I would not live three years, and all the neigh
bors think It a very strange thing to see me at
work again. It Is the strength given me by
Hood’s Sarsaparilla which enables me to do It.”
Isaac Aber, Vienna, Warren County, N. J,
Hood’s Pills cure all Liver Ills, Biliousness,
Jaundice, Indigestion, Sick Headache. 25c.
DO YOU
DON T DELAY
BALSAM
l
It caret ColdaXoughs,
t&, Whooping Cough, Bronchitis and AstJ
oertain cure for Consumption in first stages, and
a sure relief in advanced stages. Use at once.
Ton will see the exoellent effect after taking the
first dose. Sold by dealers evervwhcrt. Large
bottles 60 cents and $1.00,
THE NEXT MORNING 1 FEEL BRIGHT AND
NEW AND MY COMPLEXION 18 BETTER.
My doctor say* It acts pently on the stomach, liver
and kidneys, and Isa pleasant laxative. This drink
is made from herbs, and is prepared for use os easily
as tea. It is called
LAKE’S MEDICINE
All druggists sell it at 50c. and $1.00 per
Buy one t<>day. l ane’s Family Medicir
the bowels each day. In order to be hea
is necessary.
package.
Jrlne moves
healthy, this
What is
Gastoria is Dr. Samuel Pitcher's prescription for Infants
and Children. It contains neither Opium, Morphine nor
other Narcotic substance. It is a harmless substitute
for Paregoric, Drops, Soothing Syrups, and Castor Oil.
It is Pleasant. Its guarantee is thirty years’ use by
Millions of Mothers. Castoria destroys Worms and allays
feverishness. Castoria prevents vomiting Sour Curd,
cures Diarrhoea and Wind Colic. Castoria relieves
teething troubles, cures constipation and flatulency.
Castoria assimilates the food, regulates the stomach
and bowels, giving healthy and natural sleep. Cas
toria is the Children’s Panacea—the Mother’s Friend.
Castoria.
'* CutorU la an excellent medicine for chil
dren. Mother* hare repeatedly told me of ita
good effect upon their children."
Da. Q. C. Oboood,
Lowell, Mas*.
•* cuatoria la the beet remedy for children of
which I am acquainted. I hope the day la not
far diatant when mother* will consider the real
Interest of their children, and use Castoria in
stead of the various quack nostrums which are
destroying their loved ones, by forcing opium,
morphine, soothing syrup and other hurtful
agents down their throats, thereby sending
them to premature graves.”
Da. J. F. Kinchxlox,
Conway, Ark.
Castoria.
•• Castoria Is so well adapted to children that
I recommend It as superior to any prescription
known to me.” „ . . „ _
H. A. Archsr, M. D.,
Ill So. Oxford St., Brooklyn, N. Y.
“ Our physicians in the children’s depart
ment have spoken highly ol their experi
ence in their outside practice with Castoria,
and although we only have among our
medical supplies what is known as regular
products, yet we are free to confess that the
merits of Castoria has won us to look with
favor upon It.”
United Hospital and Dispsmsabt,
Boston, Maw
Amjcn 0. Smith, Prtt.,
Th» Centaur Company, TT Murray 8tract, New York City,
ItTast.es
Good i
One reason why ■ Scott's Emulsion of Pure Nor
wegian Cod Liver Oil and Hypophosphites of Lime
and Soda has had such a large sale is because it is
“Almost as palatable as milk;” but the best reason is
that its curative properties are unequalled. It cures
the cough, supplies the waste of tissues, produces
flesh and builds up the entire system.
Boott’s Emulsion cures Coughs,
Colds, Consumption, Scrofula,
and all Anaemic and Wasting
Diseases. Prevents wasting In
children. Almost as palatable as
milk. Set only the genuine. Pre
pared by Bcott 4 Bowne, Chemists, New
York. Sold by all Druggists.
Scptt’S
Emulsion
CONNORS.
The Value of a Blind Word to a
Lonely Man.
“Connors," the lieutenant had said
during their memorable interview,
“have you never known anyone who
was always interested in what you did,
who was sorry when you got into
trouble, and glad when you behaved
yourself?”
“No, sir,” he had replied; “I ain’t
had friends. 1 don’t seem to make
friends easy. I had a good pal oncet
in Chicago, but he didn’t gave a—he
didn’t care anything about my gettin’
into trouble.”
“Connors,” said the lieutenant, and
he looked thoughtfully at a silver
framed photograph on his desk, that
Connors saw was a picture of a little
girl with long tresses of wavy hair,
“I’ve a little daughter back in St. Paul.
I hope she will come out here some
time. More than anything else I
should like to leave to her the memory
of her father as an upright and, I hope,
a brave soldier, and if I have any as
pirations for great deeds in this profes
sion of ours, it is because 1 want her to
be proud of me when she grows older.
I think it helps us to do right if we
sometimes think of the sorrow we
bring to those who love us and to our
friends when we do wrong, and, if
you’ve no objections, Connors, I should
like you to think of me as your friend,
if you will, for I take more of an in
terest in you than in most men I’ve
known in the ranks, and nothing would
do me more good than to see you bring
credit on yourself and your regiment,
and hardly anything would grieve me
more than to see you go to the devil, as
you will if you don’t stop now. But I
think you will stop, and, if you will let
me, 1 should like to shake hands with
you.”
Connors had suaaemy louna me pic
ture of the little girl grow rather dim
before his eyes, and something felt un
pleasant in his throat, but he managed
to mutter a “Thank ye, sir,” and since
that time he had been drunk only once,
and the feelings he had known when
he found that the lieutenant had heard
of that he had never exilerienced before.
And now he was standing on the edge
of the parade-ground looking out on the
brown prairie over which the cool au
tumn wind was steadily sweeping, and
wishing he had been a better man.
Par away the curious peaks and rocks
of the Bad Lands rose like the citadels
of some ancient city. The scene was a
picture of dreariness, not a living or
moving object in sight. If Connors had
been imaginative he might have fan
cied he was a lonely mortal looking
out on the primeval world. But his
weary familiarity with these surround
ings prevented their arousing any un
usual feelings. He was thinking of his
wretched boyhood and youth, and of
the vice and crime he had seen and
taken part in, of the year’s sentence he
had served, and how he had enlisted
under an assumed name to es
cape capture for shooting Sandy Peters
in Fagan’s saloon in Chicago. It was
true that if he had not shot Sandy,
Sandy would have shot him, but he
knew very well that the plea of self-de
fense would have availed him little
with his past record, and with any
number of Sandy’s friends ready to
testify against him. He had sometimes
wished since then that he had not
dodged the rough’s pistol, but had
stood still and made a fitting end to his
youthful but precocious career in the
appropriate setting of the vilest dive
in Chicago, and gone into the history of
that city's crime as a terror to the po
lice and an objest of worthy emulation
to every young tough. What made this
all the more pitiable was that oonnors,
with all his knowledge of evil and un
happiness, was little more than a boy
In years, the time when hope should
seem brightest and life most full of
promise. But of late, since that talk
with the lieutenant, and especially
since the little girl had come out to join
her father, life had seemed more hope
ful somehow—he could not exactly tell
why. “They’re the only friends I’ve
ever had—him and the little ’on," said
Connors to himself, “and I won’t go
back on ’em; I’ll be a credit to ’em yet
-if lean.”
A great intimacy had arisen between
the little girl and Connors from the
moment when the lieutenant had intro
duced them and the child had said, in a
polite little grown-up manner: “I’m
very happy to meet you, Mr. Connors,”
and had insisted on shaking hands
with the orderly, much to his con
fusion, for he did not know exactly
what to do with the soft little hand she
held out to him, and his sensations
were curious as he looked into the
great brown eyes Bhe smilingly raised
to his.
“I think Connors will excuse your
calling him mister,” said the lieuten
ant, with a smile.
Ab Connors looked out on the prairie
and thought in his way about all these
things, he was conscious that he had
changed very much in the last few
weeks If he could hare analyzed his
feelings he would have said that he
had more self-respect than ever before,
for he had been living straighter, as he
would have expressed it He had a dis
tinct longing to do something in the
world, and to bring some happiness to
those who were kind to him—matters
he had never taken much interest in
hitherto; but he may not have been
greatly to blame, perhaps, for he had
never known anyone who was kind to
him. As he stood there he heard his
name called behind him, and turning,
saw the little girl running toward him
across the parade ground, without her
hat, the wind waving her brown hair
back from her forehead. When she
came up to him she caught his hand in
one of her own, resting the other con
fidingly on his coat sleeve, and, as she
looked up at him, Connars saw that
her eyes were brimming over with
tears, and a frightened little quaver
sounded in her voice as she said:
“Connors, they’re—they’re going off
to fight the Indians. Papa will have
to leave me, won't he? and he may be
killed. Oh, Connors, do you think he’ll
be killed?’’ and she bent her head over
Connors’ blue sleeve and sobbed as if
her heart would break.
“Don’t cry, miss,” said Connors.
“Killed? Why, he couldn’t get killed
if he wanted to. Poohl” he contin
ued, grandly, “Injuns is all cowards—
they’d run if you waved your hand at
’em.” He knew that, not to put too
fine a point upon It, he was lying
outright; but he told himself that he
was used to it and ought not to mind
it now.
“Do you think, Connors, you could
take care of him some and not let him
get shot?” said the little girl.
“Why, certainly, miss," answered
Connors, promptly.
“You see, I’d feel more comfortable
If I knew you were looking out for
him.”
"I'll take care of him all right,
miss," said Connors. “Don’tyou worry.
Why. in a few days he’ll be back here
same as to-day.”
“Connors,” said the little girl,
brokenly, in a rush of childish grati
tude, "you’re—you’re so good.”
“Me good,” groaned Connors, inward
ly, as they turned back toward the fort.
Four days afterward all that was left
of a detachment of twenty officers and
men from X Troop, Tenth United
States cavalry, were grouped in an ir
regular eirole on a small hillook in
Devil’s Creek oanyon, husbanding their
remaining cartridges, and sometimes
wondering whether they would ever
see the familiar buildings of the fort
again—a hypothesis that seemed ex
tremely improbable even to the most
sanguine. They knew that two of their
number had been killed when the led
horses were captured, and the bodies of
two more werelying side by side in the
oenter of the group, while three were
wounded and one of whom was alow
If dying behind a protecting rock. The
rest were crouching or lying behind
the rocks and rubbish they had hur
riedly heaped up as a breastwork,
watching for stray shots at the dusky
figures that were occasionally seen
darting from rock to rock or leaping up
suddenly to fire into the little circle.
They knew that there had been some
mistake in the information they had
received. No one had imagined that
there were such numbers of hostiles so
near them. They had been entrapped,
cut off from the horses and surrounded
before they fairly knew what had hap
pened. The regiment was doubtless
expecting their return, but could have
had no news of their danger or of the
proximity of the Indians unless the
redskins had been bold and numerous
enough to attack the whole force sent
against them. The small supply of
water was going fast and the number
of cartridges was becoming smaller
and smaller. They knew very well
what to expect; in a few hours there
would be the yell, the rush of the hos
tiles, the hand-to-hand fight, and all
there would be left would be the heap
of bodies on and about those forms al
ready in the center. But the discipline
of the regular service was strong even
in this crisis, and the love of fighting
for its own sake, that makes good sol
diers, was still apparent in the gleam
that shone in a man's eye when he
saw through the smoke of his carbi ne
one of those dark figures throw up its
arms and fall back. Most of the men
felt in some way that there was some
thing heroic in this position; they
understood that they would die as true
soldiers should fighting to the last.
But the lieutenant wondered, as he
steadily watched a rock from behind
which two Indians were tryiug to gets
shot, why the inspiration supposed to
accompany such scenes was wanting.
In another part of the circle Connors
had been meditating a plan for the last
hour, and as night approached it be
came a determination. Near his posi
tion, outside of the circle, was quite a
large number of bowlders piled togeth
er, around which the sagebrush had
sprung up rather thickly. On this side
the Indians were fewer, and he thought
that perhaps it might be possible for a
man to get through them in the dark.
If the scene had been changed to the
slums of Chicago, and the Indians to
policemen, he felt quite sure he could
do it easily. But he reflected that In
dians and policemen differed. Still,
there was a bare chance, better, at
least than waiting to be butchered,
and he determined to try it
When the stars began to appear, and
the enemy commenced to fire more rap
idly, he turned to the man next to him.
"Look a-here, Jim,” he said; "I’m—”
There was a crash of two or three
shots from the Indians, and Jim rolled
over on his side, his arms and legs con
tracted, then stiffly extended, while his
face turned a ghastly white, and Con
nors saw that he was stone-dead. They
dragged the body into the center and
laid it beside the others Connors
thought better of speaking to anyone
about the project, and in the slight
confusion occasioned by moving the
man who had just been killed, stepped
suddenly into the darkness, over the
low protection, among the sage-brush
and rocks, and disappeared. The men
in the circle wondered at the sudden
firing and a few yells among the enemy,
and as Connors' absence was not no
ticed in the excitement, a faint hope of
relief was raised; but the noise soon
subsided, and all was as before.
In the camp of the regiment the men
were sitting about the fires singing
and telling stories, while the officers
were gathered together smoking, and
occasionally wondering where that de
tail of X troop could be. Still there
was no real anxiety, as no hostiles
were supposed to be in the neighbor
hood. The prairie stretched away
lonely and white in the moonlight, and
the voices of the regimental singers
sounded sweet and plaintive on the
night air.
On a sudden there was a shout from
the sentinels on the western side of the
camp, the singing stopped, and two or
three of the officers ran toward the
western outposts, while some confusion
arose in the camp. Soon there were
cries for the surgeon, and that officer,
who had been interrupted by the noiBe
at the height of one of his best stories,
grumblingly arose and walked over to
the spot where a greup of men had
gathered, bending forward to look at
something in the center of the crowd.
As the surgeon approached he was sur
prised to see an unmistakable Indian
pony standing perfectly blown near
the knot of men, its legs wide apart
and head down, while the steam rose
from its wet skin. “Here's the doc
tor,” said some one, and the surgeon
made his way into the center of the
group.
Connors was on the ground, his head
and shoulders supported by one of the
men. He was trying to say something,
but could hardly whisper.
“The detail’s up in Devil's canyon—
eight miles—east side. Injuns all
around ’em—shootin’ ’em like dogs—
may be all dead now. For God’s sake
hurry!” whispered Connors, weakly,
and then fainted.
In the circle in the canyon a little
flicker of hope had arisen when Con
nors was missed, and the shots and
yells of the enemy thus accounted
for; but the probabilities were so much
against any man being able to get
through alive that it was a very small
flame, indeed. The heap in the center
was larger, and the grim certainty that
that fatal rush would come and the
wish of all that it might come soon
were stronger every minute. It was
quite clear moonlight now. The shots
of the enemy came faster, and had
closed In perceptibly in the last hour.
The men fired slowly, and the order
was given for each man to use his last
two cartridges on no account till the
end. They could not see the Indians,
but fired at the flashes. The faces of
the men were set and rather pale; one,
with a bloody shirt sleeve bound tight
ly around his head, looking particular
ly ghastly. The wildest rumors were
entertained by the most hopeful, but
the determination of despair had set
tled on most. One poor wretch, mor
tally wounded, lay near the canter,
talking- loudly in ms delirium, ue
thought he was back at the fort with
Ills chum, Tom Gordon, one of his
trumpeters.
Suddenly the shots came faster, and
the flashes drew quite close, especially
on the side where the defense was
lowest.
“They’re coming in a minute,” said
some one.
In an Instant there was a harsh, wild
yell of a single voice from the savages,
and immediately the cry was taken up
by the creatures bidden behind rock
and sage bush, till the whole canyon
seemed to be full of devils.
"Here they oome, boysl” shouted the
sergeant. He was an older man than
most of them, and his stern white face
looked steady and cool as he raised his
carbine for those lust two shots.
But there was a pause among the
savages. Most of the men thought it
whs the stillness that came before the
rush. In the lull in the firing the
voice of the wounded man could be
heard.
“Harkl” he said. In a hoarse whis
per, and raised his hand wamingly.
“There’s the bugle! It’s Tommy. I’d
know that bugle any where.” But they
thought hs was raving, and he lapsed
again into his fever, thinking he was at
some great review.
But the lieutenant bent forward and
listened. “Keep quiet,’’he said. “Lis
ten!” And up the canyon, through the
heavy smoke of the rifles, came the
notes of a bugle clear and distinct in
the sudden silence. It was the “gal
lop.”
It was rather a choking, feeble cheer
they gave, but it reached the regi*
mem.
“There they cornel” yelled the ser
geant, excitedly. And they dimly saw
a dark mass In perfect order come
aronnd a projecting crag of the canyon
and move swiftly and steadily up the
great gulch. A few shots met the ad
vancing column. The Indians around
the circle were slipping away.
In a few moments the colonel stepped
over the low breastwork, went up to
the lieutenant, who was leaning dizzily
against a rock, and took his hand. The
eolontl did not say anything, for he
was not a demonstrative man, and per
haps he thought no words were needed.
But he stood silent for several min
utes, and the men came up and stood
about looking with half-smothered
curses and wild faces on the debrie
strewn bit of ground, on the cartridge
shells, canteens, torn pieces of cloth
ing, and on the pathetic heap in the
center. Gordon, the trumpeter, had
one of the bodies in his arms, and,
with his back to the moonlight, was
erying like a boy.
Connors woke at last, with a rather
luxurious sense of weakness, with a
dim recollection of some horrible
dream, but with a feeling that it was
all over now, and that he was rather
happy and contented than otherwise.
His head felt cool, and though when he
tried to raise his hands he found that
they were so heavy he could not lift
them six inches, the discovery some
how did not cause him much anxiety,
but rather amused him.
He must hare alept again, for the
next thing he remembered was seeing
a familiar little face above him, framed
in the long tresses of brown hair that
hung forward as she bent over him.
“Connors,” she said, a little quaver
lngly, as she softly stroked one of his
thin hands, and the touch was wonder
fully soothing to the invalid. “Con
nors, I’m to glad you’re better. In a
few weeks we’ll be going out to look at
the horses together again, won’t we?
And you have done the noblest thing I
ever heard of. Connors, you’re—you’re
the goodeit man in the world, and my
dearest friend!” and she leaned over
and kissed him.
No one had ever kissed him before
Perhaps it was because he was very
weak, but he felt that he was crying.
“Pooh!” he said, faintly, with an ef
fort to stop the tears running out the
corners of his eyes, “me. good!”—Fran
cis Parsons, in Harper& Weekly.
■ •’ - ■- - ■- .
HE NEEDED A DOLLAR.
For Palmistry Did Not Avail Him, and
His Seat on the Truck Did Fall Him,
With groaning brakes and a last rat
tle-ty-bang the long train came to a
halt in the darkness of Colorado Junc
tion. The door of the smoking oar
opened slowly, and a Weary Willy of a
tramp slid in.
“Gentlemen, I beg your pardon,” he
said, pulling from his head a hat, of
which little was left but the brim.
'The men at the poker table looked up.
The tramp’s coat was a disappointed
frock of the shabby genteel cut The
short skirts had fringe on them, and
the cloth was of the color known as
; “guess again.” His beard was the only
thing that he wore which didn’t bear
the misfit stamp
“Gentlemen,” he said again, slowly
and with dignity, "once more I crave
your pardon, but I am in need of a dol
lar.”
“Well, what the-”
“No, gentlemen, I am not begging,”
interrupted the tramp “I am a palmist
in reduced circumstances Would any
gentleman permit me to read his palm?
I have been riding on the truck thus
far. I am afraid that the brakeman
has discovered me, and I must make the
next station. Did anyone offer me a
dollar?”
Several flasks were handed to him,
but no money. The train began to
move, and the tramp slid out to settle
himself on a truck once more.
Ten miles out of Colorado Junction,
and in a desert, the train was brought
to a sudden halt There was a scuffle
under the smoking car, and the tramp
was drrgged out
“Guess a ten-mile walk to-night-UJl
make you less careless about stealing
rides on the trucks,” said the conductor
as he swung on the train and signalled.
‘‘Go head.” We looked out of the
smoker car windows and pitied the
tramp. Just as the train began to
move his voice arose, saying: "Gentle
men, pardon, but can anyone tell me
where I can find a real good hotel
around here?”
“Nerviest dead beat on the line,” said
the brakeman as he slammed the door.
—N. Y. Sum_
Tame Jackdaws.
Mr. Green, an English naturalist,
records a tale about a pair of jackdaws
kept by him at his home in South
Devon years ago They had been taken
from the nest, and during the first
summer their wings were slightly
clipped. Afterward their wings were
allowed to grow, and they lived at full
liberty in the garden. They were per
fectly tame, and would come at call
and feed out of the hand, and in the
morning knock at the windows to ask
for some breakfast Regularly in the
spring they flew away and joined their
wild companions, made their nests and
reared a family. But when this was
over they came back to the garden
again, and were as tame as ever. But
the curious thing was that after one or
two seasons they brought another jack
daw with them, presumably the young
of one of them, which was just as tame
as themselves, although nothing had
ever been done to tame it, so that it
was impossible to tell which were the
original favorites and which was the
new one. Moreover, when after a few
years one of these jackdaws was acci
dentally killed, another was brought
by the other two—Golden Days
WAR CORRESPONDENCE.
The Beginning:* of an Important Depart
ment In Modern Journalism.
In a sense Julius Csesar was a war
correspondent; only he did not send his
“Commentaries” piecemeal from the
"theater of war,” but indited them at
his leisure in the subsequent peace
time. The old “Swedish Intelli
gencer” of the Gustavus Adolphus
period was genuine war correspond
ence; published indeed tardily, com
pared with our news of to-day, but
nevertheless fresh from the 3cene of
action, full of distinctiveness, quaint
and racy beyond compare. The first
modern war correspondent profession
ally commissioned and paid by a news
paper was Mr. G. L. Gruneisen, a well
known literary man, only recently
dead, who was sent to Spain by the
“Morning Post” with the “Spanish
Legion,” which Sir de Lacy Evans
commanded in 18S7 in the service of
the queen of Spain. But this new de
parture was not followed up, and
no English paper was represented
in the great battles of the first and
second Punjab wars. When, at tb*
outset of the Crimean war, in the early
Bummer of 1884, William Howard Rus
sell presented himself to old Sir George
Brown in the roadstead of Malta, an
nouncing himself as the correspondent
of the Times, and tendering an author
ization from the minister of war, the
apparition was regarded not so much
in the light « a revolution as of an
unpebovStsbe* ««» phenom
enon. But Russell’s credentials could
not be ignored, and all the world
knows how he became the pen of the
war, and how his vigorous exposure of
abuses, deglect and mismanagement
contributed mainly to the rescue from
absolute extermination of the British
army wintering In misery on the Sevas
topol plateau. Other papers followed
the lead given them by the Times, and
the Illustrated London News had Its j
artist-correspondent at the Crimea in
the person of Mr. William Simpson,
now a veteran, but still traveling and
sketching for the journal with which
he has been Identified for nearly forty
years.—Archibald Forbes, in Csntury.
WYLIE ADAMS.
The Impetuous Nature of a Child
of the Woods.
“Ee—oh, ee—oh, ho—ee!”
What a sharp young voice it was;
full of character and independence, and
yet with undertones of undefined
sweetness, evidently needing only cul
tivation to bring it into power.
The girl, for it was one, stood just
on the bank of a clear, running
stream, which might have been either a
river or a creek—it was wide, limpid
and deep.
She was tall and somewhat angular,
a woman in height, but the short cot
ton frock and short red hair, and some
thing in the way she stood, spoke at
once of youthfulness, had not her voice
been heard. She was in her eighteenth
year.
With one long brown hand shading
her eyes from the glaring autumn sun
set, she stood apparently awaiting
some one.
All about her were the forest trees
in their richest colorings, and the soft
rustle of the leaves with the ripple of
the water was all that was heard for
a moment after the shrill echo of her
voice died away; then the big black
dog lying at her bare feet growled and
sprang quickly to his own.
“Cornin'at last,” the girl said in an
undertone, as the dip of oars, at first
faintly and then louder, fell upon her
ears.
"You’re never tardy,” a tie continued
with a slight sneer, as a small skiff
containing one occupant, a young fel
low of about twenty-three years of age,
rounded the point.
He wore a suit of blue denims, a
rimless straw hat, and his feet were
also bare. He was dark almost to
swarthiness, and his black eyes gave a
gleam of satisfaction for an instant,
I while the rich blood suffused his neck
and face until it was fairly purple,
“I ain’t late,” he said slowly, while
a wide sweep of the oars with his
strong arms and brawny shoulders
shot the little boat far upon the
pebbly shore, like an arrow from a
catapult.
"Awful smart,” the girl said, senten
tiously, giving the huge brute at her
side several sharp cuffs on his ears to
emphasize her words and give vent to
her temper.
"I wouldn’t kill the dog ’cause yer
mad at me, ” he said.
"Kill nothin’,” she ejaculated, sullen
ly. "What time d’ye reckon it is, Beech
nut Lord?”
"Nigh onto six, 1 guess,” be an
swered, quietly, stepping from the
boat and drawing it still further on
shore. "Cm, um, it’s after seven.”
He fastened the little craft, and then
as she started up the path he followed
her at the heels of the dog, and in
much the same dejected way, through
the thick, winding interlacing'of leaves
and vines
The faint tinkle of bells could be
heard in the distance, as the trio fol
lowed in the foot tracks of the lowing
kine, and anon the whir of partridges
and twitter of night birds. Darkness,
fell as they reached the bars, where the
big eyed cows stood in the fading grass
and weeds, quietly waiting.
Beechnut took down the bars and
drove the cows into the yard, Wylie
following with her pink sun bonnet on
her arm, her sallow face fall of discon
tent. He put up the bars again.
“Good night,” he said, kindly, and
turned away.
“Ain’t ye cornin' in?” wyne turned
suddenly and seowled.
“Not t’night,” and he was gone.
“Smart, I like that,” she commented.
The big black dog still slunk at her
heels, and skulked alter her as she en
tered the low doorway of an old log
house, and then he crept under a
coarse bed that stood In the corner of
the -low-ceilinged room, and lay down
wjth * yawn.
,Wyiie Adams pare a little start as
i she,,entered the room. A bright fire
bljmed in the wide fireplace, over
which hung an iron pot, from which
1 issued savory odors.
S’ !A tall, middle-aged woman was busy
about the room and a stranger sat be
fore the fire in one of the few splint
bottomed chairs the cabin contained.
He did not see Wylie when she entered,
as he sat looking thoughtfully into the
fire, but the tall woman Bpoke.
“Wall, ye’re cum at last?”
Wylie made no reply, but a nod, and
for the first time in her life, looked
down with a blush at her bare feet,
whioh were both soiled and bruised.
It was evidently something unusual
for a stranger to be seen near Silver
creek, and this stranger was certainly
out of the ordinary. Wylie’s daring
spirit quailed.
He turned and arose as Wylie’s moth
er spoke, bowing and offering his
chair, his eyes resting upon the long,
brown feet the young girl was vainly
endeavoring to conceal with her skirts.
Her face was crimson. The stranger
slightly lifted his eyebrows.
“Don’t be a peacock,” exclaimed Mrs.
Adams as she wiped her face with her
gingham apron. “1 reeking this young
feller’s seen feet afore, though they
mout be purtier. Come, take hold and
help git supper on.”
The crimson never left the young
girl’s face during the (to Wylie) te
dious sapper, nor during the evening
as she helped her mother with the
work, while her father sat and
smoked his pipe and talked with the
newcomer.
The gawky girl cast furtive glances
at the stranger, and thought bow fair
and "good-lookin’ ” he was, how yel
low bis hair and blue his eyes! so dif
ferent from Beechnut and other boys
she knew.
Once she discovered him looking
keenly at her, and if she could have
read his thoughts they would have
been in this wise:
“Not such a bad looking girl, if she
was well dressed and educated. Nice
eyes. Badly tanned. No, I don’t ad
mire red hair. Most too thin and tall,
and why does she go barefooted?”
She was not a mind reader, had
never heard of snch a being, and only
continued to feel humble and embar
rassed without knowing why.
After the young man had been given
a “tallow dip," and shown to the In
ner room, and the rude door closed af
ter him for the night, Wylie crept to
her father’s side.
“Who Is he, pap? an’ what duz he
want hyer?”
“A young chap as is rich as all git
out, an’ he’s goin’ to build a big, fine
house down thar by the old ford, an’ 1
reckin he’ll bring his folks hyer arter
that, tho’ he didn't say. ’’
Wylie Adams didn’t wait for more,
but, with a little dry, choking sob, hur
ried away and up the ladder to the loft
she called her room; but she did not
goto bed; she sat down on the floor by
the tiny window, with a look on her
face It had never knows before, and
watched the moon as it came slowly
up through the trees and silvered the
waters of the wide creek.
"X hate him, she murmured, auu
again that dry, choking sob. There
was a glitter in her eyes that shone
brightly under the radiance of the
moon, and in her heart a sensation,
born of woe, that this stranger was a
usurper and had no right to this spot,
these trees, this rippling water, this
place that seemed to her had known
her always, though the land was his
before she was born. All night long
she sat until the day broke, then, with
a pale face and weary eyes, she crept
down the ladder, and motioning to
“Nil,” the dog, who lay at the foot of
the bed where her parents slept, the
two went softly out in the early
autumn dawn and down to the old
ford.
Her heart ached so she was nearly
ill.
Though scarcely four o’clock. Beech
nut Lord, her companion of the night
previous, was before her and unfasten
ing hie boat.
f‘You hare?” she spoke almost fierce
ly
“Yes,” he answered, humbly, not ex
pressing1 the surprise he felt at meeting
her there at that early hour,nor making
any explanations as to his own con
duct, while the drll red crept up to the
roots of his black hair.
“What you follerin’ me for?" she
asked savagely.
Then he did look surprised, for to
him it had seemed just the other wayt
and when he first caught a glimpse of
her dress through the trees, his heart
gave a sudden bound, and, for an in
stant only, he flattered himself she
came because he was there; but it was
only for an instant. He made no re
ply as he pushed the boat into the
water and threw the chain in, prepar
ing to follow.
“Yore alius in my way,” she said
roughly.
He looked up quickly.
“Am X?” deeply.
“Yas, alius an’ alius. I wish you'd
go away so fur ’t I’d never see you
ag’in.”
She sat down and burled her face in
her hands.
“Do you reely mean that, Wylie
Adams?” he asked, as he stepped into
his little skiff.
“Yas,” she nodded, “I do;” and then
she heard the soft dip of the oars as
the boat went from shore, and “Nil”
gave a low, piteous whine, then all
was still. Presently the head that was
buried in the long, brown hands fell
over to one side and rested against the
trunk of a tree, and Wylie Adams slept
while the dog lay dozing at her side.
Voices awoke her, and, scrambling to
her feet, she saw her father, with the
handsome stranger, coming towards
her. Again the pitiful blush mounted
her cheeks, and with one bound she
was out of sight, and flying like a
frightened bird through the trees and
thick underbrush. When she reached
her bumble home again, she paused at
the watering trough and bathed her
face, hands and feet.
“Mother,” she said, coming close to
her side where she sat in the open
door, ‘Tm sick, can’t I put on my
shoes?”
Mrs. Adams looked up quickly; she
was rough and uncouth, but the mother
heart was there.
“X d'clar fer’t, ye look sick. Whar ye
bin so airly, Wylie?”
“Down yonder,” the girl answered,
nodding towardB the creek; and, gain
ing her mother’s consent to don her
footwear, she hastened up to the loft
and put on her one pair of best stock
ings, a mixed red and blue woolen,
and her coarse cowhide shoes, changed
her apron, smoothed out her hair and
came back and sat down in a chair
near the fireplace. The weather was
still warm and balmy, but she felt
chilled through.
None too soon, for her father and Mr.
Howard Anson, the stranger, came in
almost instantly.
“What’s up?” her father asked,
seeing his daughter in holiday attire,
while Mr. Anson, noticing the change,
was too well bred to evince any sur
prise; but he thought;
“Why, she is quite pretty,” and then
forgot all about her.
“I’m afeerd she’s sick,” Mrs. Adams
answered, solicitously, and laid her
coarse hand very gently upon the girl’s
hot forehead.
“Oh, I reckin not,” said lather, and
turned his attention to his guest, who
began making inquiries about procur
ing employes to fell the trees and pre
pare the ground for building.
"I know of one, and he’s a stunner
for work,” Mr. Adams answered, “and
thet’s Beechnut Lord. Wylie here kin
tell you that,” he chuckled, while his
daughter frowned and turned her burn
ing face away; then, after filling his
pipe, he continued: “An’ there’s lots
more. Beech knows lots of fellers up
the creek,” while Wylie’s flashingeyes
spoke volumes.
“How I hate ’em both,” she thought
meaning Mr. Anson and Beechnut
Lord, the young frontiersman, who
would have given his life for hers, with
all her willful caprices.
Wylie Adams and Beechnut Lord had
grown up side by side on the little
woodland farms owned by their
parents, and each was an only child.
Wylie’s was a nature always at war
with itself, and yet, though she stung
him with taunts and treated him worse
than her dog, Beechnut toiled for her,
waited upon her, and loved her with •
dumb, hopeless sort of a devotion,
worthy of any woman’s love, one might
have said a better oauae; but there
were deep wells in Wylie Adams’ na
ture, all unfathomed, and her capabili
lies tor gooa ana usexvuness, ana xinuiy
returns were great. Spoiled in one
sense, she had become a little tyrant
Beechnut Lord would long ago have
turned his eyes and heart in another
direction had it not been for the rare
intervals of kindly toleration which?
lifted him to the seventh heaven, only
to .make him her willing slave and'
adCrer again. t
That day Wylie leaosqfi feat Mr. -An*
sq4 iropj to board with -ljiejt wn-ents for
s«\te%l^vecks, as Mr. ^tarns' house
wa4^tipte;nearest of accesu'tfeljls build
ing slro, and, although everything was
of the plainest and eoarshst, Mrs.
Adams was very neat and the young
millionaire was sensible and content.
The next morning Wylie went about
the house as usual, but she still wore
her shoes and stockings. When Mr.
Anson returned to his supper that
evening, there was a different light in
his eyes, and he regarded the girl
curiously.
As day after day passed by, Wylie’s
repugnance to him grew less, until she
began to long for his presence. His very
indifference drew her towards him.
She began to do many little favors for
him, which he seemed to take as a mat
ter of course.
Boor child, she did not consider
wealth, education, station or power as
anything to be wished for, or as a bar
rier between herself and anything that
she desired. She frequently gathered
fresh flowers and placed them in his
room, but he always gave her mother
the thanks for being so kind, and said
nothing to her. Strange to say, she did
not feel piqued—her heart sank and a
great loneliness stole over her.
Child-like and ignorant, and wholly
innocent of any wrong, she began dog
ging his footsteps, and lying in wait
for him as it were, only that she might
be near him. If he noticed it, he did
not appear to at first, but he began to
frown at her finally, and then the hot
tears sprang to her eyes and she hid in
the bushes, and watched him from her
little window in the loft, fairly devour
ing him with her gaze.
Matters continued in this way for
some time, Mr. Anson not being able
to get away as soon as he expected.
Wylie began to droop, and grow pale
and spiritless, and yet in all this time
she had never onoe given Beechnut
Lord one thought
“What’s beoome of Beechnut?” her
mother asked her, and she answered:
“X dunno ner don’t keer.’’
“Wall, thet’s singler," Mrs. Adams
replied, “you reely don’t know?”
"No," sharply.
The mother said nothing lurtuer; out
she sighed, and noticed that evening,
for the first time, how gladly and
eagerly Wylie waited upon Mr. Anson,
and how the red blood rushed to her
sallow cheeks.
Mho shook her head dubiously.
When Howard Anson announced that
he would leave Silver creek the next
morning and could not tell when he
would return, Wylie’s heart beat so
tumultuously she thought she would
fall. He did not go until the next
afternoon, however, Just before dusk;
and when he had bidden Mr. and Mrs
Adams good-by, Wylie was not there,
but waiting for him outside; and when
he passed where she stood hidden, she
stole after him as he strolled down to
wards the old ford through the now al
most leaflets trees, many of which had
beta «ut down, and lay la hues alias
, about; and, catching- up with him,
touched him lightly upon the hand.
He turned with a violent start.
“Mr.—Mr.—Anson,” she stammered.
Poor child, she was very innocent of
the world’s ways, and much to be
pitied.
He paused and looked at her in as
tonishment.
“Well, what do you want? Have
you come to say good-by? I remember
now that I did not see you at the
house." He extended his hand. She
grasped it eagerly, and held it fast
between her two cold, thin hands.
“Don’t you—don’t you care nuthin’
fer me, Mr. Anson?” meekly, with the
sound of tears in her voice.
It hardly seemed possible that this
was the willful, apparently cruel Wylie
of a few weeks previous.
“What do you mean?” he a3ked,
sternly.
“I like you awful much,” here she
broke down and sobbed aloud. He
took his hand from her detaining grasp.
“Miss Adams,” he said, “1 am aorry
for this; go home; you have been a
great annoyance to me; I wish to never
see you again. A girl to do such a
thing,” and then he strode on, leaving
her standing there, cold, still and
white, wishing she were dead.
Somehow the words he uttered made
her think of Beechnut Lord, and her
last words to him.
With a sudden revulsion of feeling,
she cried out;
‘Oh, Beechnut, you liked me, you
woulden’ her treated me so; where are
you, Beechnut?” And then a heavy
footstep sounded near, and a brawny
arm stole about her waist.
“Hare I am, dearie. I jest reckin
Beechnut woulden’ her treated you
that way, and I’ve come back in time
to tell you so. Is it all right, Wylie?”
She had her long, thin arms about
his neck, and whispered through her
sobs and tears:
“Ye’re the bestest Beechnut in all
the world.”—Mrs. H. C. Bevis, in Wom
an's Work.
POPULAR CHINESE EDUCATION.
Its Place la Imperfectly Supplied by Tra
dition, Fable, Custom and the Ritual.
It is a mistake to suppose that the
Chinese are, in the sense in which we
understand the word, an educated race.
This statement has been frequently
made by a number of authorities, but
it is none the less erroneous. Educa
tion is worshipped in China but not
possessed. There are reasons for this
anomaly, and they are important
enough to be considered. In the first
place, there is no public-school system,
and the rates of tuition are moderately
high. Now what is the wage of the
worker? The common laborer receives
about five cents per day; the skilled
laborer, ten cents; and when employed
in the artistic trades, twelve cents.
Obviously, under these conditio; s,
it is well-nigh impossible for the
father of a family to provide his
children with the most elementary
eduoation, especially as reading and
writing in China are both means and
end. There are forty thousand char
acters in the language, and the present
method of education is not conducive
to their speedy acquirement. Even in
the schools of Chinatown, where every
thing is relatively more practical, chil
dren who dare to put together in ra
tional connection the characters they
are being taught are subjected to tor
tures ■worthy of the'inquisition of the
Scotch Covenanters. They are permit
ted to ponder over the essence of the
character for “dog” and the character
for bite,” but they are not allowed to
put them together until permitted by
the teacher. Four or five years must
elapse before the student of Confucius
even begins to read. What chance,
then, is there for a child of a parent
who is making from five to ten cents a
day?
The Chinese six companies frequent
ly have occasion to paste up notices on
the dead walls of Chinatown. These
notices are intended to be read, and are
therefore couched in the simplest lan
guage. It is a curious sight to watch
these worshippers of learning collected
about the bill-boards. The writer has
counted as many as a hundred, who,
without uttering a word, have patient
ly waited for hours, until the scholar
happens to arrive who shall read aloud
to them an announcement which, if
written in English, would be intelligi
ble to a ten-year-old American ohlld.
It is pathetic that a people who literal
ly worship education should be so
wholly debarred from it.
A reverence for education is part of
their religion. One of the interesting
personages of Chinatown is the itin
•rant paper-scavenger employed by the
six companies to patrol the entire quar
ter. It is his duty to pick up every
piece of paper bearing a written char
acter. These pieces of paper are taken
to the joss-house and burned according
to the rites.
"i Tradition, fable, custom, and the oft
repeated ritual imperfectly supply the
place of a popular education. Indeed,
the poorest child is given what the Chi
nese believe to be a religious education.
The ceremony of “going through the
door” is interesting in this connection,as
it illustrates the solar symbolism, which
is the essence of Chinese ritual. The
“door” or “sun-gate” is erected in the
middle of the room. On a table at the
side are heaped up seven piles of rice,
with a candle on each pile, recalling
the modern birthday oake, with a can
dle for each year of the child’s life.
The rice is in token of abundance,
while the candles represent the seven
stars of the “Bushel,” or “Mother”
Qoddesa When all is prepared a Taou
ist priest takes the young child in his
arms, and, followed by the father and
the reBt of the family, solemnly “goes
through the door”—a movable wooden
frame placed first in the center of the
room, and afterwards at each of the
four points of the compass. This oere
mony is repeated on each birthday
until the child arrives at the age of six
teen, and the memory of it hangs over
the Chinese man during all his life.
For on his fortieth birthday it is cus
tomary to take a common bushel meas
ure, and to fill it with rice and suoh
toys or implements as are significant of
his capacity; the whole is surmounted
by a huge candle, indicating, perhaps,
that the seven gifts of the “Seven
Starred Goddess" are fused into the in
dividuality of one strong character
At death there is that final “passing
through the door” which leads to
another life. In former times this
was also acted out. This ceremony
strongly suggests the extinct arkite
ritual. The body of a deceased emper
or or high official was borne through
the streets on a catafalque. Arriving
at the temple, the coffin was taken
through the entrance; but once within,
enough bricks were removed from the
side of the temple to permit the coffin
to pass out in an unusual manner, thus
symbolizing the resurrection of the
soul. At childhood, middle age and
death the thoughts of a Chinese man
are thus centered on his hope of immor
tality.—Henry Burden MoDowell, in
Harper’s Magazine, i
Furnace and Store Unit.
One little matter which lew people
think about will keep hall the dust out
of rooms that now gathers, and that is
to shut the register and open the pipe
draft whenever the ashes are being
shaken down or taker, up. The same
care should be used with a stove and
the ashes gently wet sprinkled with a
whisk as each shovelful is put in the re
ceiver, Also the register should be
lifted and the pipe wiped free of all
dust in reach at every sweeping. The
quantity that gathers in the bend ,jf
the flue weekly accounts for the com
plaint of furnaces making so much dust
over the house. A damp cloth and a
long arm will bring it up, and when the
register Is wiped clean u percept idle
Improvement will be felt in the smell
and quality of the air.—Chicago New*
Record.