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VOLJVjt
BARNWELL, S. C., THURSDAY, AUGUST 7, 1884.
NO. 49.
A Se£ 0, ’f?-
— Hurrah for the soa. ,pre the chowders bo.
And the Sculpln w 18 hi8 hornl
Where the star-flsb ' no through the spumy
brine.
And the mammol&ystors yawn!
For the barnlole hi 8 * n d the conger crows
As we chase the Jcklod prawn.
Then roll out of oCaplaln’s gig, my lads,
Isit the bobstayirncss be!
* With the breeze Mft. and fore, and aft
We’ll drlro o'eh« wind-whipped sea.
r ■ " -
Uearthe bo’s’n icut: “Let the port hatch
out!
Haul tne affld^U tautl
Like snowy crod 8 spread the white, white
shrouds
Where the drd night’s gleam Is caught!
Onlay the keellU the compass heel
And the watr-llne runs shortl’’
The mal.i shet tills with the mad monsoon,
We have fcled the foro-crosstreo,
And so tighty laced the vessel’s waist.
As we skir o’er the creamy soa.
The sen-giits shriek from the for'ard peak.
As the shrimps go prancing by.
And tbs .mermaids kiss the whistling buoy,
Wbll* the urchin pipes his eye;
Thu dtv-llsh bark at the tipsy shark.
And the halibut join the cry,
Then cheer, mates, cheer, as the good ship
speeds,
Tlli we make the hawser gcc!
For tho wind lit the sale blows a martingale.
And wo plow the furrowed sea.
Ho binnacle, fly from the rapstnln high!
Make the mlzziiu scupper fasti
fly the lanyard's light through the nasty
night
We will scud before tho mast;
For the breeze Is a-lee and the rover Is free,
And a schooner of beer has passed.
Hurra for the ship! Hurra for the crew!
Merry, merry boys are wo—
Aud our course Is pressed for the glowing
west
As vo rise on the yeasty sea.
HATTIE’S HATRED.
new house in progress at tho other end
of the street is his. I wonder who tho
bridc-eleot can bo? Clara Perkins, do
you suppose?”
‘Tatn sure I do not know,”sho re
plied. “Of one. thing I am positive.
wife
hus-
boar
playi
lug.
•T never look ridiculous,” criod Hat
tie Hall, “but some one appears to
whom I’m particularly anxious to look
my best. There 1 was—sleeves rolled
up to my elbows, hair in anything but
graceful disorder, washing the parlor
windows, and singing as loudly as my
lungs would admit, when who should
walk in, ‘sans ceremonie,' but Frank
Wright I haven’t seen him in four
i cars. not since 1 was 14, and ho was
ust disagreeable enough to compli
ment mo on my improved looks, glance
maliciously at my rumpled locks and
wet gown, while I stood looking just
about as largo as your littlo nngcr.
Don’t I hate him?”
“Undoubtedly you do,” I replied,
leisurely taking off my gloves. “Mr.
Wright called at our house a short
time ago—ho mentioned being hero. n
“Montionod being boro!” Hattie ro-
S eated. “Did he give you a graphic
escription of my appearance? What
did he say?”
“I have no idea of ministering to
I our vanity, my dear,” I replied; “but
really regret that you are ashamed of
having been surprised in useful em
ployment. Why, 1 fancied yon rather
proud of your housekeeping qualitioa.”
“Housekeeping qualities, indeed!”
exclaimed llattio in a vexed tone. “A
good housekeeper never neglects her
own person.”
“But. Hattie,’’ I ur^ed, “one cannot
expect to find one’s fncuds cn grande
toUetto while engaged in washing win-
dows.”
“But my hair was In such shameful
disorder.”
“You are looking your very best now,
Hattie,” I remarked, “whatover your
forenoon appearance ipay have been.”
“Oh, yes! f ' she replied. “As Uncle
John says—-after the horse was stolen
1 locked tho barn!”
“Well,” said I, “play mo something
by way of forgetting your unfortunato
rencontre.”
Hattie played exquisitively. She
was just dashing off one of my favor
ites when Frank Wright came in. Hat
tie nodded, amd demanded petulantly
rhethor he was as charmed with her
ping as he had been with her sing-
ag.
“More so,” Mr. Wright had tho can
dor to reply.
“Ah! inen I dare say you do not
consider mu tho sweetest singer in the
world?” she questioned.
Mr. Wright was positive, on reflec
tion, that ho had listened to as good
vocal efforts as ho had hoard that
morning. After lingering as lone as
propriety would admit of, Frank with
drew.
“What a conceited puppy!” Hattie
exclaimed as soon as he had gone.
“How ungenerous you aro,” said I;
“you know you are thinking now,
away down in your heart, how much
tact and cleverness he displayed iu
warding off the shafts of your ridicule
without turning the {joints against
yourself. Besides, ho is considered by
wiser heads than ours a young lawyer
of great promise. 1 heard father say
yesterday that ho never listened to a
more able and touching anneal than
his plea in tho Austin and Wilkins suit;
and he gained tho cause, too. So the
widow and orphans aro not shelter
less!”
“That was nothing,” Hattie main
tained. “If ho had been employed oh
tho other side it would have been the
same thing.”
“Bnt he refused a retaining fee on
the other side, and volunteered his ser-
Tices to the poor widow.”
But Hattie would not believe it.
Frank had been so unfortunate as to
surprise her in questionable dishabille,
ana she could not forgive. “She never
<lld like him when she was a littlo
5 irk” she said. Ho was infinitely more
isagreeable now.”
“Then why were you so particularly
anxious to appear your best before
him!”
- ^Oh! he mentioned me in his letters
to Ellen, and Ellen had writen back all
sorts of nonsense about what she call
ed my beauty. Do you think J wished
to be canvassed by a pair of malicious
eyes, aud read in their Ul-concealod
expression: ‘This is not quite the
Hattie that I'expected to see?’ Not
Time passed.. Ellen Wright and
Hattie Hall were friends.
Frank’s equanimity was never dis
turbed by Hattie’s pretty sparring; in
deed, he seemed rather to enjoy it
This only incensed her the more. “It
was,” she said, “as if she wore not
worth minding.” * —
“Hattie,” said I, as she sauntered
Into my sitting-room one day, with her
apron Tull of flowers, and her hat
■winging bv one ribbon over her shoul
der, “Frank Wright must be oontem-
tdating matrimony. Husband says tho
however; I shall not envy his
neither her new house nor her
baud. You know that I can’t
Frank Wright”
I had boon telegraphing over since
she commenced, but she either could
not or would not understand my signs,
nor did she manifest any embarrass
ment when on turning around she saw
the object of her spleen standing in
tho open door, a very perceptible smile
wreathing his features.
“You have learned nothing now, I
presume, Mr. Wright,” she said. “But
there is a certain adage about eaves
droppers that I would recommend to
your leisure. Besides when you enter
a room where people aro talking about
what you ought not to hear, please
cough, clear your throat, or give other
indications of your august presence.”
And she saucily tossed her head.”
“My dear Miss Hall,” said Frank,
advancing toward her, “I shall certain
ly strive to profit by your counsel;
neither shall I regret having heard
f our expressed dislike of myself, since
trust it may teach mo how I may ren
der inyself less repulsive, to you. For,
believe mo,” he added, intones intend
ed for her oar only, “I cannot tell you
how much I regret this singular abhor
rence you have over manifested. Can
you not point out some method by
which I may yet hope to stand better
in your regard?”
I did not hear tho reply as I wa«
summoned to the kitchen at that mo
ment. But 1 have just foundations fur
believing that she did point but a way
by which her esteem might be won; for
not long ago I saw her and Frank
standing in close proximity, while a
venerable looking m^n propounded
certain momentous questions which
Frank answered frankly and distinctly,
and Hattie’s replies, though low, were
quite satisfactory.
Tlie Mule aim! the Hull.
I rode once with some cattlc-buyors
through tho stock ranges of Nevada.
My pony—it was called Bob—drifted
into Nevada Utah, and was known as a
buffalo hunter. Bob was as moan
looking as a sheared sheep, and as bul
let-headed as a political opponent.
However, Bob and I got along very
well tho first day of our acquaintance;
got along, in fact, about fifty Nevada
miles, which 1 have carefully estimated
! to bo equal to sixty-live Christian
j miles. Tho next day Bob was tired, or
| cross, or bored. Ho regarded the
wastes of sage-brush disdainfully,
while I threaded my whip upon him.
and lunched off the sage-brush while I
i wore out my spars on his shaggy sides.
Then i led him a few miles, and ho re
garded mo in big-eyed meditation.
When I remounted, which I did only
when my shoes were worn out. Bob ap-'
f eared so broken up that l felt sorry.
determined to go no further that day
than tho ranob^houqe we were ap
proaching, for I did not want ‘Bob s
i life charged to my cruelty. Just bo-
i fore we reached the house a herd of
| cattle readied us. A big bull, tho big-
f est and wildest I remember ever to
nve seen, selected Bob aud me for a
target.
Considering Bob’s condition, I was
about to dismount, and take my chanc
es afoot, when BOtrstarted. I believe
Tie thought ho was entered for the Der
by. You never saw such , a rate of
speed attained by such a remarkable
gait. Bob would alternately roll him
self up in a ball, and stretoh out to
three times his normal length; his head
would got out of sight into his shoul
ders, and then got out of sight in the
distance. Suddenly Bob stopped—
very suddenly—so suddenly that it un-,
seated my dignity and pose. Looking
about I discovered the cause to fie that
tho bull had stopped. Just as sudden
ly the bull began charging the other
way, and Bob—that fool of a Bob—
began charging after The bull. If tho
ball had been a peck of oafs Bob could
not have displayed more earnestness
in tho chase.
Between my anxiety lest Bob should
catch the bull, and not knowing what
to do with it, and my uncertainty as to
my seat, I was verry unhappy. Bob,
howeveror, appeared to bo having a
real good time. Tho chase was kept
up for miles, and until the bull sudden
ly stopped short and swung his big
hornad head around at Bob and me as
wo came along. Both dodged beauti
fully, aifd then the bull chased us
awhile. That thing was kept up for
hours. If the bull wouldn’t chase us
Bob would chaso the bull; it was all
tho same to him—just as much fun for
ono as another. I reckon wo chased
each other—Bob and the bull and I—
about fifty miles, when wo happened
upon a little oasis and Bob and the bull
began browsing tho unexpected grass
together in the most friendly manner.
I excused myself and walked back to
tho ranch.—San Francisno CalL
The Wolbeck Tunnel, which the late
Duke of Portland, the “Invisible
Prince,” created for his workman to
pass through on coming to and return
ing from work, without disturbing the
serene repose he longed for is one of
the wonders of the world. During tho
day it is lighted by onormons plate-
glass bull’s-eyes, superseded at night
by hundreds of gas jets. The floor is
excellently asphalted, and tho tunnel
is high enough and wide enough for a
carriage to pass along. Stepping into
it during the hot davs of summer, one
fools if do had walked into an ice-
house, and the whole length of its in
terior can be traversed without catch
ing the slightest glimpse of the abbey,
or the beautiful park under which it
passes.
^ ^ . ■— , .
A gentleman visited the house of
Henry Ward Beecher and was surprised
at the smell of tobacco smoko in the
library. Turning to Mr. Beecher ho
asked him if ho smoked. Tho reply
was: “No, but my sons do. I cannot
pretend to pat down these small vices. I
once tried to, I believe.” “Oh, yes,”
•aid one of his sons; “the only thrash
ing he ever gave was for smoking a
cigar. * But when the War broke out and
I went to the front the first present I
received from home was a box of cigars
sent to me by my father.”
The Society Novel.
During the last few years tho line,
“A new society novel, by ,” coupled
with eulogistic adjectives of various
degrees of intensity, has appeared with
remarkable frequency in the advertise
ments of book publishers, until, at last,
tho conclusion is forced upon ono that
this style of fiction almost monopolizes
tho talents of our story-writers. Per
haps, however, “story-writers” does
not accurately deseribo those who load
tho shelves of circulating libraries with
this sort of reading matter. For, as a
general rule, the books which tho
American school of novelists produces
cannot bo classed as stories. They
aro rather photographs of different
phases of social life. Of plot there is
little or none. The writer does not
exert himself in tho least to create an
element of suspense as to tho probable
fate of his hero or heroine. He ignores
Incidents as much as possible. His
characters seldom do anything that*
has any bearing on the development of
the sketch. Tne catastrophe, such as
It is, excites only l&nquid interest,
unless tho author, impelled by a
desire to appear “original,” discards
the good old method of bringing his
young men and maidens safely out of
their troubles, and, instead, gives us a
conclusion that is odd, disappointing,
irritating.
Tho plea that is urged in defense of
the society novel and the social study
is that the age is one of introspection,
that the critical spirit is abroad and
that the analysis of character is the
true reilcction of that spirit, that men
are more concerneik with motives than
with deeds, and that tho world has
outgrown the novel of incident, adven
ture, action. And what a change has
been brought about! Instead of listen-
ing (with how much pleasure!) to the
songs and jokes that, with pipes and
brandy-and-wator make the night
merry in the Cave of Harmony, we sip
our champagne and talk philosophy or
stocks at Delmonico’s. Dora’s tribula
tions aro old-fashioned; we are interest
ed now in Miss Rosebud’s flirtation at
Newport \Vho cares whether or not
Bois-Guilbert’s advances are rejected
by Rebecca? Our hero of to-day is
not a brute. Listen to him as he urges
his suit. Is ho not refined, as befits
tho temper of tho times? And is not
Jacob Harvard, playing Ifcnnis or lead
ing a german, a much more agreeable
book-companion than Femienms, mak
ing love to Fanny Bolton nt~Ynuxhall?
Alas, that wo should have fallen upon
evil days when cleverness, refinement
gver-olaboration and cynicism take the
! >lace of the strong, simple, direct
iramatic qualities that will keep tho
novels of Scott Thackeray and Dickens
alive scores of years after the social
studies of tho present day are buried
in oblivion.
The allurements that this field of
ficton offer to tho clever writer of a
moiAphyelcal or descriptive turn of
mind aro many and well nigh irresisti
ble. But if the society novelists in
crease in numbers m the next ten years
as they have in the Iasi decade, they
may echo the cry of the shrewd but
Illiterate Hebrew who, commenting
the other day of tho depression in tho
drygoods trade, summarized tho situa
tion with the words: “The produc-
tionists produce too much, the con-
sumptiouist* don't take it. and financial
matters is in a bad way.” Too much
of this stylo of fiction will inevitably
bring about a reaction in favor of
something more nearly akin to the
novels of the old school Yet there
will always exist a demand for the
well-written society novel that shall bo
a faithful reflex of life in circles from
which tho great hulk of the people are
excluded. For the country girl who
longs every Summer to go to Newport
to see for her self tho polo matches,
the lawn parties, the drags and what
not—the things. In a word, that engago
tho attention of “societv,” as she
understands it—a novel describing
those affairs of moment has to serve
as a substitute. And the prevalence of
this cariosity to know how those who
are “in society” look, talk, dress and
behave is recognized by our younger
writers, tho more accurate they are in
dptail tho more valuble they are sup
posed to be.
But what is their real worth? How
arc they to stand the test of time?
Will they be found side by side with
Pcpya’ Diary two hundred years hence,
and will they be referred to as oL the
highest value of their pictures of men
and manners as they existed just after
the Civil War? We can see the
historian, antiquary or critic of the
future as ho stumbles upon a dozen or
so of these American society novels
and pores eagerly over tho mildewed.
—The Hour.
Samuel Shin Removed from Office-
“De man who minds his own biznou
has got all de work dat should be cut
out for one pusson. De man whose
fingers itch to pick up articles he hasn’t
paid for will sooner or later make a
mistake and burn his fingers. It . am
nuffin to mo who gets drunk nor who
keeps sober, so long as neither one
damages mo. I doan’ kcer a straw to
know how do neighbor on my left libs
widout work or position, an’ it am none
of my bizness how de one on my right
spends do $10 he aims each week.
“GcmTen, Samuel Shin was ’pinted
Janitor of dis hall uhder de impreshun
dat he was strictly honest. It has bin
conclusively proved dat ho am an em
bezzler. Had he taken all oar money
it would have bln In order to call him
sharp an, keen an’ be* satisfied to git
half of it back an’ let nim go free. As
do sum total am only a few shillings
justice yells for vengeance. Samuel
owns a mole. Befo’ lavin’ dis place
to-night he must gin us a bill of sale of
de animal. We mast have a chattle
mortgage on his cook stove. If ho has
any wages du£ him wo must serve a
garnishee. Dar’ must btf no let up. no
unworthy feelins of mercy. Samuel
Shin am deposed from his position as
janitor, an’ de tranquil Cadaver Blos
soms am ’pinted to fill out de onex-
pired remainder of de term. Judge
Cahoots, Kyann Johnson, and Porua
Davis am .nominated a committee to
remove de body on a cheap cart to its
home on Grove street, an do regTar
bizness dat has called us together to
night will now puroeed to begin.”—.De-
trait Free Frtu.
Story By a Forty-Niner,
“I toll yon what, sir”—It was an old
forty-niner who spoke, as ho sat with
his feet on the ton of tho hotel stove—
“there ain’t no life on God’s earth as
comes up to minin’; leastwise no life
that I’ve struck, and I’ve tried a good
many things, too. A man don’t make
money at it, not one in 500; rather they
get plenty, but they gamble it away in
camps as fast as they got it, so’t when
a region’s petered out there probably
ain’t three men outside tho bunko men
and saloon-keepers as have got a dollar
In their pockets.
“But it’s tho fascination of it Lor’
man, when you’ve struck it pretty
rich and can see ycr gold right in front
of you; when you’re piling it uj/overy
half hour o’ tho day, with a nugget now
aud again' as big as a bullet to cheer
you, and then when tho evenin’ comes
and you count it up ami find a hun
dred odd dollars just picked out o’ tho
earth that day—well there ain’t noth
in’ like it Then when you don’t strike
U rich you always think you’re goin’ to
■ext day, and it’s just as exciting
fabarin’ other men toll in tho evenin’
what they pulled out as it is countin’
ovw your own. Why, I’vo been three
and four months at a time without
making a dollar and without a cent in
my pocket; but, Geewhittakor! tho ex
citement of it don’t give a man twice
to think how hard up no is.
“But there are times when a man
don’t know how to kick himself hard
enough; you bet he don’t. It was
down on the Stanislaos once, I was
monkeying round with a pard—Long
Gus we called him—an’ I picked up a
clod to throw at him, jdst a lump of
earth that was lyin’ handy. Well, it
just went to ono side o’ Long Gus, and
no sorter reached out his hand to catch
it, an’ it all broke in pieces leavin’
some in his hand. I expected hT<’d
throw it back at mo; bathe didn’t Ho
I uit tossed it over in his hand careless
ike, and then said we’d had enough
foolin’. So we walked on again. Next
mornin’ Gus didn’t say a word to mo,
but he just wont off with his outfit to
the place whore I’d thrown that clod at
him. an’took $250 out tho first day.
An’ I don’t know how many thousands
he took out before he’d done with that
claim. As the clod broke in his hand
it laid bare a small nugget, maybe as
largo as a pea—he showed it to mo
afterward—an’ he said it startled him
so he very nigh called out an’ gave
hisselt away, as nobody supposed thero
was any gold left just there. It was
all thought to bo worked out, but tho
darned fools had gone right by the
richest part of it. I wish he had called
out, I know, but you bet I never felt
more like kicfcfcg myself into tho
river’n I did then. Way, if I’d only
turned tho cussed thing over, or broken
it in two—it was a sight too largo to
throw at once, as I thought when I
threw it, but !
“But there was another time when I
felt like hurting myself, too—hurting
myself right bad—and so did all tho
other boys, I can tell you. Thero were
somo two hundred of us in it, sir. An’
we were all fools. It was one Fourth
of July, down to Mokelumne, an’ wo
wanted to do su’thin’ to celebrate, an’
wo wore pretty badly fixed for what to
do. Well, after rakin’ round a bit we
settled on . an old tree—one o’ these
sugar pines. Tiio gold, yo know, used
to lie all along tho bottom of tho
gulches—or so we used Vo think—and
nobody ever thought of going up tho
hillside to look for it, but just kop’ on
working along tho gulches. Am this
sugar pine was some three hundred
feet up the hillside, right away from
where the gold was. It was a fine
tree, as straight as whisky for 100 feet
or more without a bough or a leaf on
it, and then the boughs began all of a
sudden. It stood out there all by itself
like, an’ wo settled we’d blow it np. So
wo gets a twenty-five pound keg o’
blastin’ powder and hauled it np tho
hill an’ set to work to dig a hole under
the tree. We got as far under as wo
conld for the tap-root and then stowed
the keg away, an’ just heaved rocks
and earth onto it and beat it down
hard. ^hen vVe lit the fuse and
The Moon Inhabited.
scrambled away as fast as wo conld.
Well, you just believe it wo scattered
those rocks somo. Gee! but wo had to
look out for our heads, and the earth
went all around the place. Bnt it
didn’t blow tho old tree np; itot worth
a cent It ju#t stood there as if noth
ing had happened, ’oept that the trunk
was split open somo twenty feet or sa
However, wo all cheered and hollered,
an’ felt we’d done suthin’ to celebrate,
and then we went back and ’r&hed
around the camp.
“That, as I’vo said, was on tho 4th
of July. Along to the end of Septem
ber, it might bo, it rainod—rained
quite a sight that year. too. Well,
after it’d been ritinln’ a bit a man
called Harris—Jim Harris, as good for
nothin’ a chap as you ever see.'Wfi'd
couldn’t work or do anythin’, an’ had
never washed out a dollar honestly in
his life—chanced to come over that hill
on his way to camp, an passed right
by this ’ere pine as we tried to blow
np. None of us had never been up to
the durned tree again, but a’elp mo
Johnny Rogers! if that rain hadn’t
gone an’ washed all tho earth as tho
powder’d kicked up, nu’ this fellar
Harris just picked up $60 as he stood
there! That proved one of tho richest
loads in the whole Mokelumne, an’
here had we been washing away In
gulches an’ say in’ as there warn't no
f old up tho hillside. Warn’t there 1
his feller Harris got rich out o' that,
’cos he never spent no money like tho
rest of ns; an’ was about the only man
as did get rich, I guess. I didn’t, I
know. But I tell you thero wasn’t one
of us 200 as wouldn’t havo taken it
kindly if some one ’ad kicked him well
when_ we first heard o’ what we’d
done.”—N. Y. Tribune.
A Brooklyn man who hit wheat for a
few thousand dollars last week, rushed
around and rented a brown-stone front,
and then sought tho services of a fur
niture mover. “I’ll take it by the job
and do the fair thing by you,” replied
the mover. “Well how fair?” ‘Til
say fifty dollars for the two.” “What
two?” “Why the moving this week
into the brown stone, and the moving
in about a month, from that into a
cheap framo house in suburbs? 1 al
ways job the two moves together in the
ease of a grain speculator.
At tho astronomical observatory of
Berlin, says a translation from Sya
Prcssen Ildsingfor, a discovery has
lately been made, which, without
doubt, will cause the greatest sensation
I not only among the adopts in science,
! but even among tho most* learned.
Professor Ulondniann, m that city, haa
found, beyond a doubt, that our old
friend, the moon, is not a more lantern
which kindly furnishs light for tho lov
ing youth and gas companies of oar
planet, but tho abode of living, intelli
gent beings, for which he is prepared
to furnish proofs most convincing.
This question has agitated humanity
from time immemorial, and has been
tho object of tho greatest interest Bnt
tho opinions havo always differed very
widely, and no two minds hold ono
and tho same. Already In ancient
times the belief prevailed that tho moon
was inhabited with somo higher or
ganized, intelligent beings, somewhat
resembling man, and in order to com
municate with them tho earthly enthu
siasts planted rows of trees several
miles in length so ns to form the figure
of the Pythagorean theorem. The cele
brated astronomer Schroder, in the be
ginning of tho present century, fancied
that he could detect places on the sur
face of tho moon which periodically
grow lighter and darker, and from this
fact ho derived tho conclusion that tho
phenomenon was a proof of exiating
vegetation. During tho last few de
cades, however, tho idea of life on the
moon has been hold up to ridicule, and
totally ^corned by men of learning.
But, nevertheless, it has now been
proved to bo correct.
By accident Dr. Blondmann found
that tho observations of tho moon gave
but very unsatisfactory results, owing
to the intensity of the light power of
the moon’s atm'osphero, which is that
strong that it affects tho correctness of
tho observations in a very high degree.
He then conceived the idea to make
tho object-glass of the refractor lesa
sensitive to tho rays of light, and for
that purpose ho darkened it with the
smoko of camphor. It took months of
experimenting before ho succeeded in
finding his right degree of obscurity of
the glass, and w hen finally found he
then with tho refractor took a very ac
curate photo of the moon’s surface.
This ho placed in a sun microscope,
which gave tho picture a diameter of
664 feet. The revelation was most
startling. It perfectly overturned all
hitherto entertained iuoas of the moon’s
surface. Those level plains which for
merly were hold to bo oceans of water
proved to bo verdant fields, and what
formerly was considered mountains
turned out as deserts of sand and
oceans of water. Towns and habita
tions of all kinds were plainly diaoern-
able. as well as signs of industry and
tratfio. The learned profeasoc’s study
and observations of old Luna will
repeated every full moon whok the si
is clear, and wo venture to predict thi
the time is not far off when we shall
know more about tho man in the moon
than as being un agent in English
politics
Hard Glove Fight Between Sparrows.
Beneath a sign, over the door of one
of the busiest establishments in Lewis
ton, a recess in the wall has formed
ono of tho snuggest retreats for a bird
or beast imaginable. As winter atorms
beat down the recess in the wall has
boeii secure in its protection. The
rains trouble not its quiet, and the son
can look in in springtime. A score or
more of nests of birds havo been built
there. A progeny of English sparrows
has, after uncounted struggles with the
original dwellers, won the lands by
right of conquest, and now inhabit its
disputed domain. Over the sign open
tho windows of an office. Ono sits by
the open windows aud sees all the
doings of tho entire family of birds.
Their battle of conquest was lately
fought. Hastings bloody field was
partially re-enacted. It was about 10
o'clock. A sparrow or two were loaf
ing around the house, when a dozen or
more intruders settled down on the
iron rods of the awnings and signs,
and began to make trouble. They
were running things when re-onforce-
ments of the home birds began to
arrive. The aggressive, thick-headed
English sparrows plumed his feathers,
and all tho sickening details of war fol
lowed. The uproar called the spocta-
tors to tho window. Tho home-birds
fought oil the intruders. They flew
down in increased numbers, and the
invaders fled. Two birds in tho thick
est of the fight flow up and down, and
up and down again. A gentleman on
the walk below hold out his hands, and
tho birds settled in his outstretched
palms and fought still. After tho in
truders had been routed thero were ex
pressions of joy in the nest The En
glish sparrow is nothing if not a fight-
si:.—Lcwistown Journal.
A Chapter on Legs.
Ciesar had short legs.
Napoleon was bow-legged.
Lord Palmerston had caricature legs
and so did Disraeli
Alexander Pope was humpbacked
and had a cripple’s leg; so did Cowper.
Plutarch tells that Alexander’s left
leg was badly out of plumb. Hannibal
had notoriously big heels, and was
knock-kneed.
Cicero was very spindle-shanked,
and Demosthenes is said to have had a
shuffling, stumbling gait, which meant
that his legs wore not wholly In gear.
Her (Spotted Dear.
Two young women were examining
the animals in Central Pork, N. Y.,
last Sunday.
“Oh, what a beautiful Spotted deer,”
said one. The other woman bowed her
head and wept.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, yon don’t knowhow bad yon
made me feel when yon talked about
that spotted doer. I once had a
dear.”
“You did?”
“Yes, my dear was a street car con
ductor, and we were going to get mar
ried, but the company spotted him, and
he lost his position, and ever since it
me feel bad to hear people- say any
thing about spotted dears.”—Texas
Biflmgt.
Sitting Bull is said to contemplate •
tour throughout tigs oodhtry.
I* Life Growing Longer?
To bo told that under proper condi
tions wo ought to live one hundred
years, and that the discouraging doe-
trine of tho influence of heredity in
shortening life is only true in a limited
sense. Is intorosting to most people.
So, also, is the circumstance that we
are living longer than we used to lire,
and tho assurance that much may be
done yet to prolong our live*. These
and analogous topics were given In a
recent lecture by Dr. John Foster, of
Bradford, England, read at the Febra-
mooting of the Modico-Chtragical
society: “The late Dr. Farr in hla de
scription of the march through life of a
million children, has given the follow
ing results : Nearly 150,000 will die in
the first year, 62,000 in tho second year,
28,000 In tho third year, and leas than
4,000 in the thirteenth year. At the
emUof forty-five years 606,000, «r
half, will have died. At the beginning
of sixty years 370,000 will still be living;
at tho beginning of eighty years, 90,-
000; at eighty-five vears 38,000; at nine
ty-five years, 2,100. At the beginning
of 100 years thero will be 229, and
at 108 years 1. The mean lifetime of
both sexes in England was calcnlatod
somo years ago at 40.858, nearly or 41
J ears. Mr. H. Humphreys has shown,
owevor, that in the five years, 1878 to
1880, the mean age at death was 43.66
(females 46.3), being a gain of nearly
2} years. This within twenty years,
notwithstanding an increased birth
rate, density of population, and tho un
sanitary condition of towns suddenly
grown largo, more than 2} years havo
been added to the life of every inhabit
ant of England.
“The Spectator asks: ‘What is the
kind of life which is increasing? Are
we young longer, or mature longer, or
old longer? Do we live longer, or are
we only a little slower in dying?' I
am bound to admit that some of the gain
in early life is lost in middle life; that
while tho expectation of life at birth ie
25 or more, the expectation from 86 to
60 is a fraction less. But notwithstand
ing the slight increase of mortality at
35 and upward, a large portion of the
additional eanrivors five on to the high
er ages Of 1,000 born, the additional
number of survivors is 35 at the age of
45, 26 at 65, 9 at 65, 3 at 76, ancl 1 at
85. The increase is much greater
among females. By far the greater
proportion of the increased duration of
numan life in England is lived between
20 and 60.’’ It is interesting to as
certain what is the natural limit of ex
istence. Dr. Farr says the natural life
time of a man is a century. That is
the time the body will live under tho
moat favorable conditions. Another
most interesting question la: “When
does old age commence?” Dr. Farr
divided life aa follows; Boyhood, 10 to
15 years; youth 15 to 26; manhood, 26
to 65; maturity, 65 to 76; ripeness, 76
to 86, and old age 86 and upward.
In taking the period pi 66 to 76, and
Still following the foremen el the uatU-
ion children born, we find thnt 809,029
enter this age and 161,124 leave it
alive. Diseases of the brain, longs and
heart are the most common; 31,400 died
of old age. The number Umt enter the
next decennial—76 to 86—are 161,124,
and the number that leavea it alive is
38,565. About 122,500 die chiefly of
lung, heart, brain and other local dis
eases. Nearly 50,000 die of atrophy,
debility; and old age. Some writer
•ays he has met few or no cases at
death from old age, everybody dying
of some recognized disease. It is true
that symptoms of disease are obscured
in old age, many cases of pneumonia
and other inflammations escaping rec
ognition. But it is also-true that many
deaths attributed to disease are mainly
due to old age; alight injuries, cold,
heat, want, or attacka which in early
years would have been shaken off. Of
the million with which we started,
2.135 live to the age of 96—228 to 100.
Finally, at the age of 108, one solitary
life dies.—New York Bun.
Tls simply fes
Have tried to sooop water owt of
Witt a sieve IneteM « „
-Mew TeiW Jemset
Always langh st yonr own jokaa. *4f
yon want anything done well, 4o M
yourself.” „ ^—
All red-headed girls are BoifroastiM
west, bnt they aU have a color rsddy
style abont them.
Der reason vhy dhere
big fools in der world,
eferybody dinks he vaa *
A doctor writes, asking the renewal
of a bill and saya, “We are in a horri
ble crisis; there is not s sick man in
the district”
Lives of great men all remind os that
wo have got to watch ont very careful-
on*, ly if we expect to leave any respect-,
Aatf every
r 'f : '
to hn
Bergh’s Sympathy fbr dm Marie. ’
Mark Twain tells this story of Mr.
Bergh: A lady was talking with Mr.
Bergh one day and chanced to speak
of a friend of hers who had lately Men
traveling out west In crossing the
frontier it became necessary that the
father, mother, and three children
should cross a somewhat swollen ford.
Their only beast of burden was a male.
So the father placed two of the chil
dren on its bac£ then plunged in and
led the beast with him. It swam obedi
ently behind him. and all reached the
other shore in safety. At the'man’s
bidding the intelligent mole returned
to where the nlother and child were
waiting to cross. The mother, fearing
to pnt too heavy a burden on the al
ready tired animal, pat only the child'
upon its back, bade him hold fast, and,
with a prayer, led the animal to the
water’s edge. They plunged in, swam
bravely for a time, and then Vrere seen
to struggle and go down.
“Oh, think, Mr. Bergh,” said the ex
cited and pitying lady, “just think
what must nave been the feelings of
that mother as she saw her darling
child lost in the depths of that black
water?”
“True; oh, too true," sighed Mr.
Bergh. “But did yon ever think my,
dear lady, what most have been tho
feelings of the mule?”—Boston Letter.
w » m
Reclaimed Herself!
Women are skillful. "Who it that
horrid whisky bloat?” asked a lady d
an acquaintance, while they stood view
ing the guests at a fashionable Yeoep-
tion. “Which one?” “That one with
the red mustache and awful nose.
Don’t yon see?” “He is my hosbandt”
“Oh,” laughed the lady, “I see that
you are not sensitive.” although sha
■aw vengeance in the eyes of tne in
sulted lady. “Several nights ago a
friend made a similar remark aoont
my hosband and I became very angry.
I declared it would anger any woman;
bnt my friend said that yon. Laving the
best husband in tbs world, would not
care, and I wagered a pair at gloves
that yon would; bnt yon see i have
lost I hear that your husband It
spoken of as an available candidate for
governor. How clever be most be.”—
Arkatuaw Traveler.
Edwin Forrest’s house in Philadel
phia is now occupied by the School el
Design for Women.
r
able foot-prints.
Never trust with a secret a married
man who iovse his wife, for he will tell
her, and she will tell her sister, and her
sister will tell everybody.
“Did Mr. Yeast ever strike yon as be
ing a man of great force?” said a com
panion to young Crimsonbeak, the
other day at the clnb.
A municipal candidate wboee prin
cipal supporters are tavern-keepers
and shoemakers, proudly alludes to
them as members or the bar and beach.
A suburban correspondent writes to
inquire the best methrtl of raising
calves. It evidently never occurred to
him to ask his mothezv—Yonkert States
man.
“Just go over that scheme again,”
said the bank cashier to a speculator,
adding: “Never mind that old oodger
who has jnst coins In. He’s only a
director.”
The following question in
wrestled with by a country
society at its next session: u the Mor
mon who has eight wives buries one el
them, how muon of a widower does he
become, if any?
“So you say your hosband loves yon,
Mary?’’ “Oh. he dotes wildly npon
me.” “Indeed; hot he’ll seen gel over
that” “What makes yon think so?”
“Because men generally soon get over
■owing their wild dotes.”
“We cannot," writes a shrewd eon-
tempory, “impress too strongly npon
all correspondents, when in doubt
whether the postage of a letter Is n
penny or twopence, the force of the eld
proverb, Two heads are bettei
one.’ ”
Conversation between a Yale
and an Oberlin senior: Y. &: “Do yon
play with tops at Oberlin?” O. &t
“No.” Y. 8.: “Marbles?” O. fft
“No.” Y. &: “What do yon pUyf’
O. 8.: “Copenhagen.”
Hosband (airily, they had lost re
turned from their wedding trip)—“If
I’m not home frees the club by—ah—
10, lorn you won’t wait ,r Wife
(qtfletlt)—“No, deer**—(bnt with ap
palling flrmneee—“I*U come far yonP’
He was book at 1:46 sharp.
If a man is getting shaved In U bar-
ber-shop, and a fly allghti on hie aoee.1
and he rivet his head a twitch to re*
move a fly, daring which tho barber re
moves a slice of tee man’s ear, who ie
to blame—the man, or the barber, or
the fly, or the ear, or the ranor?
A lady reader writes to say that she
has been losing her hair recently, and
wants to know wkat aha shall de to
prevent it Either keep your bon
drawer looked, or else discharge
hired girl and get another of a oc
plexion different from yours.
In New York a woman ie paid
for making a akin and the
aa outragei
IS
pen speak of it as
here in Vermont a woman not only
doesn't get a oent for making n shin
bnt thinks herself mighty happy if
hosband doesn't swear like n parrot at
the wsy R fito
The organ of the bachelors Is
rled to find out why a woman
spend six weeks potting eentteo
her drees that nobody hat herself will
ever get a glimpse of, and then ran
about the neighborhood In an old dirty
wrapper without any belt and every
other button bant off ,
Leaving home this
office, we kissed our little
old good-by, saving to him: “Bengood
boy to-day.” He somewhat surprised
os by saying: ‘T will Be a good man.
papa.” Snn enough, we thought We
need the exhortation more then he.
As they were trudging along to
school a 6-year-old Boston miss mid to
her oompanion, a lad of six sniaiaafii
“Wen yon ever affrighted at the non*
tiguity of a rodent?” “Nay. forsooth,**
he replied; “I fear not tho jnstepoei
tion of the ere store, bat dislike it*
alarming tendency to an In tin ate pro*
plnquityT”
When a certain lady rafneod, §oom
after her husband’s death, to lot tho
hounds go out. a sergeant-at-law aakod
Chief-Justice X. whether there unuld
be any harm if they were allowed to
do so with a piece of erape round their
necks. “I can hardly thdak.” said the
Chief-Justice, “that a piece of crime if
necessary; it will surely suffiee If they
are in full cry.” . £ **%?***■■
Little Florence C. waa besieging hit
father to take her to visit her grand
mother, who lived some miles distant
To get rid of her importaniag ho said:
“It oocta $10 every time we ge to see
grandma, Florence, and $10 don't freer
on every huh.” “Neither do
ma’s grow on every
the little girl promptly,
was oonniicing. They v
“H. H.” has a poem in Harper be
ginning “I have mund out Spring’s se
cret” Now wo know that H.”
does write most beautiful things, and
we always did and do sdarire bar poo-
try, but we haven’t read poet the nst
line of this poem. lif
like an advsrtieassent of n
purifier. We’ve been
timee on that sort of
fen Eawkeye.
” said* a sweet young
with the a BJs iwnrieg. and
have i
“George,
ife to her
M
said evosythlff was •»'
was high, sad the prii
tatter had rissn to sns
everything—l
Kirrfnm
dSyStTi
'm.
.♦ A ,
‘<f .. TW
■* v.