Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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YORKVILLE ?l^QUIHER? ^ I Z1 lewis m. grist, proprietor. | ^ii fnbejpltatt Jfamils fttfosppor: Jor % Irontofioit of % folrfiral, JSorial, !|griralftiral an!) Comtntrrial Jntmsfs of f|t JSoufj). j terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 33. YORKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDjAY, SEPTEMBER 771-887. NO. 36. * focttg. THE LONG AGO. BY PHILO HENDERSON. Oh! a wonderful stream is the river Time, As it runs through the realm of Tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broadening sweep and a surgo sublime, As it blends in the ocean of 3 ears. How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow And the summers like buds between, And the years in the sheaf, how they come and go, ' On the river's breast, with its ebb and its flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen. There's a magical ijie up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing ; There's a clondless sky and a tropical clime, And a song sweet as a vesper chime, i And the Junes with the roses are straying. And the name of this isle is the "Long Ago," | And we bury our treasures there; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, I There "are fragments ofsongs that nobody sings, There are parts of an infant's prayer ; There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments our dead used to wear. There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, Ana we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river was fair. Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, All the day of our life un^il'night, And when evening glows with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile, May the greenwood of soul be in sight. mftfltg ifHw. PHIL BARTON'S CLAIM. Phil Barton was a big, raw-boned man. He had a stoop to his shoulders and a sort of chronic scowl on his face. He was middle-aged and unmarried, with no very good prospect of changing his latter condition. Hp was not a handsome man and far from an even-tempered man. In fact, he sometimes played the weii-Known pan of the exceedingly disagreeable man from Bitter Creek?though to do him justice he had only occasionally indulged in those little eccentricities of character which were so marked in the gentleman from the Creek. Only when somebody jumped his claim, then Mr. Barton was reluctantly forced to admit that he hailed from Bitter Creek. Not from Bitter Creek as it is known to ordinary people?the Bitter ' Creek of the geographer?but far up at 1 the head-waters where the black alkali 1 water of Great Bitter Spring gushed out 1 of the volcanic soil?where Bitter Creek was born?that was the humble birth-place and subsequent point of residence of the 8i>eaker, Mr. Phil Barton. And of course it was wholly unnecessary for him to say anything about the fact that residents of 1 Bitter Creek grew worse the higher up 1 the Creek you travel?this remarkable peculiarity of the residents was too wellknown. But to return to Mr. Barton's 1 claim?it was a lamentable fact it was always being "jumped." i "Claim jumping" is a light and divert- 1 ing form of recreation always more or less \ indulged in by Dakotians in such portions * of the territory where there is Govern- ' * ment land open to settlement and being 1 settled. It consists of moving on the I claim of some other person who has not yet secured a title to his land from the Government, and instituting a "contest" at the land office. If the law is allowed 1 to take its course and the aggressive party can prove that the other has not complied with all the requirements of the Depart- 1 ment of the Interior, the right to live on the claim and finally acquire a deed to it is given him ; if he cannot he has the trouble?and the costs, which pile up to the consternation of all except the lawyers and officials?for nothing and the original claimant remains in the possession of the land. But when the country is new, the land choice and the claim-hunters numerous, the law is not always allowed to take its course. In fact it frequently isn't. Anrt the snmrisin? swiftness with which the unfortunate claim-jumper is sometimes removed from the land and his few effects thrown after him, is only equaled by the astonishing manner in which this aggressive personage will sometimes secrete himself in his frail house and welcome the original claimant with an old shotgun loaded with rifle balls and tenpenny nails. As I said before, Phil Barton's claim was frequently jumped. Probably the easiest way to account for this is on the supposition that it was jumpable?if I may be allowed the word. He didn't comply with the law.' 'His improvements were . not sufficient. He failed to live on it with that regularity an^l persistency which the law supposes. Not that any one did all the law is supposed to expect, but the gentleman under consideration didn't even do all the community expected, and the result was invariably, as ne expressed it, "more trouble 'bout that claim o'mine." "I thought I'd die a laughin'," said Judge Posey, of Buffalo City, as he sat in his office. "You know I was out to-day locatin' that Wisconsin man. Well, I seen Phil Barton out on his claim, in 126-65, a havin' it with that Minnesota man. Says Phil: 'Look a-hear, ye goggle-eyed tenderfoot, ye've jumped my claim!' 'Ye bet I have,' says the Minnesota man, 'an' ye'll find me what they call a stayer.' 'Now ye want 'o git!' says Phil. 'Git yerself!' says Minnesota. 'I'll lick ye till ye can't stagger alone!' says Phil. 'Come on!' howls Minnesota. 'One minute to leave an' take yer truck!' says Phil. 'Ye'll find me right here in this identical spot a hundred years from now!' says Minnesota. 'I see I've got 'o lift ye up an' h'ist ye off'n the place!' says Phil. 'Well, talk won't do it!' says Minnesota. Then they went at it. Phil banged him one in the eye and the Minnesota man brought him an under-cut. Then they clinched an' rolled, an' tore, an' pounaed, an' pulled, an' got up an' pounaed, but pretty soon Phil got him down an'set on him, an' says he: 'Now, whose claim is this?' 'I guess it b'longs to a man 'bout your size,' says the Minnesota man, an' so Phil lets him up an' he picks up his duds an' vamooses, Phil keepin' the lumber in his house for his trouble. It's 'bout the quickest way to settle a contest I ever seen," continued the Judge?"no witnesses or postponements or appeals, or waitin', or nofe in', jes' pull your coat an' wade in. Bw * .. L JJ-J 11! J. ,.!J ..?V. tnunaer," ne auueu, -u u u ue mugn uu us lawyers if they all done that way." The unfortunate Minnesotian was not the only man who rose and fell on Barton's claim in much the same way. "It'sgittin' 'most so they move on ev'ry mornin' an' I move 'em off ev'ry night," said Barton himself, as he stood on a street corner of Buffalo City. "I tell ye that claim berlongs to me an' I'm goin't' hold it. I'm a peace'ble law-abidin' American cit'zen, but when anybody tries t' beat me out of my home there's goin' t' be trouble, i There won't be nolawin'?nothin' but jes' straight fightin'an' lots ov it. Them as hops onter that claim with the idee o' holdin' it, will find that I'ma fighter right from Thumper's Corners, county o' Git Thar! Them as move on kin look out the winder an' see old Phil Barton comin' like a slycone, an' they want 'o git while they are able to move about! I ain't no spring V'hicken, an' when it comes t' fightin' they'll find I was raised 'back over Roar ing Ridge! Ye hear me, gentlemen." "But how about the widder Baxter?" said Judge Posey, "I heerd she moved on yer claim an' has put up a shack." "The widder blank!" said the astonished man from Roaring Ridge. "Yes, they say she's on your place." "That one with the black eyes ?" "Yes." "The one what teached the school down at Dead Lake an' licked the big boy an' shoved out the school ofFcers ?" "Same one." "She's got a dog, too." "Yes?big yaller an' white cuss." "I seen him killin' cats down at BufFlo one day. He had 'em stacked up there like hay." "Yes, I heered 'bout it. What d'ye think ye'll do 'bout the widder, Phil?" "W'y?w'y?ye see, Jedge, I reckon the widder'll have t' go. I don't take none too much stock in these women no how, an' my 'sperience has been that widders air the wuss kind. I ain't been out t' my place fer two or three weeks?I reckon I'll mosy out in the morning' an' see how the land lays." Then this man, whose earliest recollections ? ."r cipitous sides of Roaring Ridge, walked away with a troubled vision of black-eyed widows and spotted, cat-killing dogs. The next day Barton went out to his place, but somehow he didn't get any farther. Away down on the other corner he could see a small board shanty. He rightly conjectured that it was the widow's house. But he thought it would do just as well to go down after a day or two. He would think about it for awhile. The widow Baxter was a lady of rather uncertain age, though by no means old. She had come out from Indiana a year before and in that space of time had worked up a reputation for being exceptionally able to take care of herself. After a few days Mr. Barton, late of Bitter Creek, determined to go down and see if he could not induce the widow to move. He had serious doubts as to the success of his mission, but it had to be done; so he started out. Before leaving he carefully washed his face and hands in the kettle in which he usually boiled his potatoes?his possessions not including anything nearer to a washbowl?brushed his clothes with the horse-brush and put on a clean shirt, all of which was rather remarkable when we consider his before-named nativity. He walked down across the quarter-section rather slowly, but arrived near the objectionable shack at last. As he did so, to his horror he saw the white-and-yellow dog sitting in front of the door with his forelegs spread very far apart, and a nervous, uneasy drooping of the lower lip. As he went past the widow's cow, which was picketed near the house, she hooked at him. He ran a few yards to avoid her, and when he looked at the dog he thought he detected a smile playing around the mouth of that intelligent animal, while a calf near by uttered a low "bar-r-r!" and a nig squealed, a rooster flew up on the edee of the pen and crowed while the hen cackled. Evidently the widow!s whole family was against him?they all seemed to be applauding the action of the cow?to which animal must certainly be awarded first blood?figuratively speaking. He pretended not to notice these taunts of the live stock, and, walking up to the door, reached out to knock. But he didn't know that the dog had made a rule against it. But he had?and enforced it personally. The dog didn't say anything but made a vicious and unwelcome spring at his throat. Our friend withdrew his throat From the immediate scene of hostilities. But the dog followed. He tried backing up and kicking at the brute?part of the time with both feet?but he never hit him and once the dog bit through the toe of his boot. So he concluded to run. There wasn't a good prospect across the prairie with his own house the only one in sight, so he started around the widow's. It was ten feet by twelve in size, and as he ran very close to it it necessitated some very short turns. He went around three or four times and the dog followed. He gained on the animal a little on the turns but lost along the sides. Occasionally the white-and-yellow cur took a bite at his legs and once he leaped up on his back and knocked off his hat. About this time Mr. Barton executed a wild leap and scrampled up on the low, tar-paper-covered roof of the shack. The dog didn't seem to bo able to follow, though he acted as if he was going to be very good on the watch. But that was an improvement. And though he was still subject to the taunts and jeers of the live stock and domestic fowls, he nevetheless felt much relieved. But the feeling was shoit-lived. The door opened ana me widow herself came out! She wasn't yery large but her eyes were blacker than ever. And she had a shotgun in her hands. "What ye be doin' up'n the roof o' my house?" she demanded with fearful emphasis. "Mis' Baxter," said the brave Mr. Barton, who had removed scores of objectionable men from his claim and had come down to see that the widow also went, "Mis' Baxter I come over t' see how ye were gittin' 'long an' if there was any 'sistance I could render ye. Haint yet got no chain fer that dog?" "Shut up 'bout that dog! Ye didn't come fer no such thing?ye come to try to make me git off'n this place!" "Ye hain't goin' though, be ye?" he in3uired anxiously, and at the same time iplomatically and guardedly. "No, sir, I hain't!" "I knowed ye wasn't?I knowed it all the time! Say, what ye goin't' do 'bout that dog?" "Shut up, I say! Now ye ever goin' to mosey 'round here 'bout this claim 'gin ?" "No inarm." "If I let ye down air ye goin' to make tracks up 'cross the quarter to yer own ranch ?" "Yes marm." "Tige, come here! Now Mr. Barker, you slide down offn that roof an' don't ye get into the rain bar'l either, an then scoot fer home or this dog'll chew ye up till ye'U feel 'sif the Methodist Church had fell onter you!" "All right, widder?good by!" and as Mr. Phil Barton, professional bad man, late of?etc?., etc., took long steps through the tall prairie grass, it seemed to him as if the co\y, and the calf, and the dog, and even the pigs and chickens were all involved in one immense, malicious triumphant grin. After he arrived home he sat down to think it over and count the wounds the dog had inflicted. "I reckon when she says she's goin't' stay that she means it," he soliloquized. "Wall, blamed if I don't rather like her style! She's got the git up and git, now I tell ye!" He remained very closely at home for several days. A dozen times a day he would look around at his lonely room, sigh and then say: "Blamed if I don't like her style!" And at last his horsebrush and the potato kettle were again brought into service for other than their regular uses and once more he started forth to visit the widow Baxter?this time on a 1_ ? ? rt/iJ rl A/l in ifcl An mUCll LLlUrC ucuiucu iij>ooi\su. He approached her house from the rear and very cautiously. He had visions of the dog. The guardian was nowhere visible, however, and even the cow seemed to intuitively understand the nature of his visit and only sniffed the air inquiringly after the manner of the cow. Still he knew he was treading on a sleeping volcano. But he had a plan. He crept up through the long grass to the back of the house, stepped up on the water barrel and very quietly drew himself up on the roof. Then he laid down and looked over the front edge and kicked on the roof with his toes. Low, harsh, omnious barks came from the house. The volcano was beginning to rumble. Then the firm tread of the widow was heard the door opened, the dog shot out and th widow followed?with the shotgun! "Mis' Baxter," said Barton with a gric "how d'ye do!" She wheeled around quickly and sav him on the roof. "Hey? You here again?" she said ii a loud voice, while the dog made insane efforts to gain the roof. "Oh, don't be scart?I jes' come dowi 'cause I had a little matter t' speak of.' "Scart! Do I act scart ? Did I act scar before?" "Oh, no, no; course not?I meant?er?' "Ye don't know what ye did mean Now you come down an' git, or I'll hel] Tige up where ye air!" "Don't do that, Mis' Baxter?no neet of it. I come down on a very friendly matter." "Go 'head then?don't lay there liki a bump on a log!" "Remark'bly friendly matter, Mis' Bax ter." "Well, out with it, ye old fool!" HIT T.. ? T ?.III cao. T iitanf i, YY y ,yC3 JL W 111. JL C oou JL ?? i?u v teJIye something." "Well, ye see, Mis' Baxter, the fact is blamed if I don't kinder like yer style!" "There, that's jes' zactly what I suspect ed all the time! Ye can't encourage thesi men a bit'thout something o' this kind. ] orter filled ye plum full o' shot the firs time ye werehereand then there wouldn'i been none o' this kind o' talk!" "Mis' Baxter, don't ack so mean t' i feller! I have a great likin' fer yer styh an' want 'o marry ye, if agree'ble!" "Lor' sakes, I knowed it from the first An' then some day ye'll throw it up to mi that I led ye on, Mr. Barker." "No I won't never. 'Sides, my nami ain't Barker?its Barton?Mis' Barton hey? Mis'Phil Barton ? How does tha strike ye ?" "I reckon ye low to marry me an' ge the deed to this land yerself an' I don' have nothin'?" "W'y?w'y?I'd have to, ye know, i we was married." "Then we won't be married. I tell ye you move offn six months til' I prove up an' then I'm blamed if I won't have ye Mr. Barton?though I reckon we'd bettei live in my house, 'cause I notice ye hain got no tar'-paper on yours." "Call off the dog, Mis'?Mis'?" "My name's Julia?call me Jule." "Call off the dog, Jule." Mr. Barton descended, and the widov said, addressing the dog: "There now, Tige, don't bite him n< more 'less yer told to. Come in an' sii down, Phil, an' rest awhile an try a piec< o' my wild strawberry pie." One day the next spring Judge Posej had just returned from a drive into thi country. He put his feet up on the desl to rest, saying: "I was past the place Phil Barton user to have. The widder Baxter that wa; 'pears to have the place an' him too. H< was talkin' to me an' says he: "Jedge, J 'low to put taters on that strip down bj the pump.' 'What ye goin'to put on it? asked the widder as she come out. 'Ta ters,' says he. 'Pertaters?' says she. 'Yes, taters,' says he. 'I 'low ye won't dc no sich thing?I want bean3 on that aii strip,' says the widder. 'Taters 'u'd b< better,'says Phil. 'Whose farm is this? says the widder. Then Phil turns to m< again, an'says he: 'Jedge, I reckon it'll b< beans on that air strip?"'?Dakota Bell A BACHEL0i?SBEWARD. It was a cold January day. John Steeh sat alone in his office, in the midst of t deep reverie. It was seldom that he was idle, as he wai at the present time, but this evening th< memories of the past came flocking upor him like ghosts from another land. John Steele was a bachelor of forty. II< had been born and reared a poor boy, ir the little town of M , and had nevei felt a desire to leave it. He had studiec law and plodded along year after year ir the dingy, grimy office, in which we fine him now, and had grown rich. Hehadnc personal friends, and lived alone in a large old frame house at the outskirts of th< town, with a man servant as cook anc general man-of-all-work. Years and years before, when a younj man of twenty, poor and aimless, Steeh had loved a girl whose parents would noi let her marry him because he was so worth ?11 1113 lagc no umiuou A*V* IV& VM?> and would listen to no reason, and frorr that day had hated women and had led i solitary life. It was this scene that now held John Steele in his office chair, as th< mantle of night gathered over the town. "More than twenty years ago," he mused "and I don't believe I have ever spoker to a woman, except on business, since tha day. They say she married a no-accoun wretch after all, who has sunk down t< poverty and want. Well, well, I must no waste time thinking about such thing! now. I was only a boy then, and did no know what I wanted. I must be going.' Whereupon he arose, buttoned his coai about him, locked his office and trudged 01 his homeward journey. Rumor had it about town that, althougl by her parent's influence, lvatie Drew hat married shortly after her refusal of Steele that she had loved him dearly. This wa most likely true, but as twenty years hac past, the matter had faded from the gen eral mind to give way to more lively gos sip. Steele ate his supper in silence. Wil liam, his man-of-all-work, had a very gooc meal prepared; for, though Steele wai close fisted he believed in good eating, gooc clothes and comfortable living. "Now, William," said Steele, when h< had finished, "if you fix me up enougl food to do me to-morrow, you may have i holiday. And here is your money anc five dollars to have a time with. No holi day for me ; I don't need any and don' want any." "Thank you, Mr. Steele, for your good ness," said William. "But, Mr. Steele don't you never take any extra pleasun at all? You know 1 used to know yoi when you was a little fellow ; and I cai remember seeing your good mother hold ing you at the old church so you could sei the Christtaas tree. And you was a we little tod then, and you clapped your littl hands in glee, and your mother would kis vnur babv face and talk baby talk to you It don't seem like that was near forty year ago, Mr. Steele, but it was." "Confound the fellow," grumbled Steele as he sat down in his room that night ti read. "If I should listen to him he woul< upset me. I don't know what is the mat ter with me this evening, anyhow. I uev er felt so queer in my life. I guess I an using too much tobacco of late." He read until bedtime, and was in th act of taking off his boots, when he hean a knock at the front door. "Wonder who that is," he though! "Something unusual at this place." He listened a moment and there cam another knock. "What the deuce can that William b doing that he don't go to the door ?" sail Steele. "I want to go to bed, and it ma; be some one that wants me. "To borrow money, I guess. Well, uu less they have good security, not a cent d j mey get.At this juncture William opened th door. Steele heard an indistinct conversa tion, and then William conducted the vis itor to the kitchen. After some moment William came walking into the room. "Well, what is it?" "Excuse me, Mr. Steele, but there is poor woman in the kitchen who needssom help badly. I'm sure she does, for sh don't look as a common beggar. She say she has walked through the cold all the wa from the last town, and is most dead. "Yes, that is what they all say. Giv her something to eat and send heron." "But I wish you would come and se her." I, "Bother these beggars." mumbled Steele, e "But I guess I'll go down and get rid of her." i, Steele saw a black figure sitting by the fire. v "Well," he said to her, as he entered, "what can I do for you ; a She turned toward him. Her face was e not that of a beggar. Although a trifle pale, it was the face of a pretty woman of i thirty-five. "I only wished to get warm," she said, t "I was so cold that I felt aaJf I should freeze. I am sorry to disturb,you. I have ' friends in the town, and am sure I can get ! employment of some kind tHere. I used 3 to live there years and years ago." By means of a few questions he learned 1 that she was a widow, without any rela1 tions in the world. He was deeply touched by her story. 9 "What was your husband's name?" asked Steele. "Carter," she said ; "George Carter." "Wait here a moment," he said, and went up to his room. ? wpnt tn his desk, and took out some money. , afford to1>e liberal?) woman." He took two ten-dollar bills and started - back to the kitchen. 2 "She said her name was Carter. Car[ ter?Carter? Where have I heard?what! t Carter! My God! That was the name of t her husband. She said she used to live here years ago. It must be she. It is i Katie Drew! It must be!" 3 Steele shook like a leaf. He seemed young again. He remembered her once ! more as the sweet-faced girl, and the 3 heart which had been slumbering so long seemed to spring into new life. He sat 3 down on the stairs to compose himself, , and then started again for the kitchen, t "Willian," said Steele, when he entered, "here is the key to my office. I wish t you would go there and bring me a packt et you will find on my desk." William fell into the trap without susf picion, and was off. Steele spftted himself in a dark corner ; and looked at the woman. He could see , his old love in every feature of the face. , He was strangely excited and knew not. r what to say. t "You say you lived here once?" he began. "Yes, when I was a girl," she said. "And bad fortune has overtaken you since. Perhaps you knew my cousin, r then, John Steele?" "Yes," she said," I knew him. Is he ) not here now?" t "No, poor fellow," said Steele, feeling 3 guilty as he spoke the words, "he is dead." r "Dead!" and she learned her head on ? her hand and wept. c "Yes," said Steele, feeling like a murderer as he spoke, "but none who knew 1 him, were sorry for it. He had no good 3 in him, and lived a selfish life." 3 "Poor man !" said the sweet, sympathiz[ ing tones. "At heart he was good." r Something seemed to move Steele. He ' got up and stood by her chair. His hand, - by accident, touched her. It sent a thrill ' through him that seemed to make a new ) being of him. r "Katie," he said, "don't you know me?" 3 She looked up, startled, stood erect, and ' got a good look into his lace. 3 "John !" she said, in a scared way, and 3 hid her face in her hands. "Yes, Katie," he said, "it is John. I was thinking of you to-day, and it seems as though heaven has sent you." a "This is such a shock to me," and she " sat down again. 1 Steele's heart wa9 throbbing wildly, and he quivered with excitement. 3 "I am old now, Katie, and perhaps 3 awkward in my speech, but?I?I can't 1 help what I am saying. You have no home ; I am rich, and you are the only 3 woman I ever loved. You are welcome \ I nil T Ua?*a "Yf?? li'f/o Vina Kaon vfiru Inn o. I IU 2111 X liaYC* i.UJ ilic nao i/wwu tv*j j^'mw [ ]y. With you I would be happy. You 1 can't love me, I know, after all this time, } but I do not ask that." 1 She arose as if to go. Poor Steele's )(pheart seemed to be bursting. He uncon> sciously put forth his arms and touched \ her. With a sob she fell into them and 1 rested her head on his shoulder. "Katie!" he cried in joy. > "Oh, John, how can I speak ?" 3 "Say something, Katie." t "I feel so guilty. I thought you would " neverforgive me. But?bdt?butl have?" 3 "But what, Katie ?" . 1 "Oh, John, you know I loved you then, 1 and it was not my fault. I have loved 1 you all these long years. I am so happy, ? if you will but forgive me." "Forgive you! Don't speak of that again. You are homeless no longer, J Katie. I know what love is at least. ' You are in my house now, and you shall never go out of it except as my wife." j "No, John, not?" 1 "Yes, don't object. I know it don't 3 sound well, but I don't care 'for that. A f preacher lives close. Won't you con. sent?" "But?" 1 "Please don't refuse, Katie." "Well, I guess?" ] Just then William came in. Steele 1 nearly ran over him. "Hang the papers?" he said, as William offered them to him. 3 "Here, William," he said, as he came 1 downstairs putting on his oyercoat, "fix " the front room and light a fire. Don't " you hear, you idiot? Don't stand looking; move about." William did not know what was the 1 matter. He had just got the fire lighted 3 when Steele came stumbling in with the 1 preacher.?Arkansas Traveler. \ DISTRIBUTION OF FOREST TREES, i The controlling conditions in the distri1 bution of forest trees, are, first, the char acteristics of the species; secondly, the nat ture of the soil; thirdly, the chance of distribution of the seed, and, lastly, the as saults of the animal enemies which each , kind encounters. Some species?as, for s instance, the black locust?are extensively a subjected to insect enemies. The oaks, on l the other hand, are, on account of their i - acrid sap, tolerably well protected from [ e such dangers. As a'whole, our deciduous [ e trees have established, by one device and i e another, a tolerably strong defense against i s animal pests, in iaci, meyowe uieu tun-i . tinued existence to their success in pre-1 s venting this class of dangers. Now and then some new enemy arises, !, which imperils and may destroy a species. 0 An instance of this sort has recently come 1 to the attention of the present writer from ; - some study of the forests o( Kentucky, j - which was undertaken with the co-opera- j i tion of his assistants. It appears from : these observations that the white oaks of j e that district, which, despite the ravages of i the axe, still continue some of the finest! forests, are in the way to disappear from :. their failure to produce their kind. There J are singularly few young white oaks in e these woods, and an abundance of the less desirable varieties of red and Spanish oaks. ! e The reason for this seems to be that the d nuts of the white oak are more palatable y to the squirrels than those of the other species; so these creatures industriously i- seek them out, and only resort to the more o bitter and probably less nutritious nuts of the other species when those of the white e oak fail them. In similar ways other anii mals act destructively upon other forest 5- trees. The introduction of swine in the s settled portions of the forest brings a greedy and judicious palate to consume the more edible nuts, and so destroy the a progeny of many trees. But what is one e kind's loss is another kind's gain. With e the destruction of one species its corapetis tors find a fair field and hasten to occupy it. y ? ? no?* As from the smallest seeds germie nate the noblest trees of the forest, so from the lowest rounds of toil, rise men, whose e influence is as world-wide as the paths of commerce. Ip&cenattMUis fading PROOFS OF THE EXISTENCE OF GOD. God, on withholding His visible pres enceand His audible voice from man, ha not left himself without a witness; for tin visible creation shows forth his eterna power and God-head, while the "firma ment showeth His handiwork." Take a plain man, in whose mind a vaii infidel philosophy has started no obstacles and you will find a belief in God a fixec element in his creed. He believes th( eartn is an excenueu piuin- arcumacnuti in its dimensions, reareef upon a solic structure, and stationary in its position but he believes God made it, because mat could not make it, and it did not mak< itself. Proceed to induct him into th sublime mysteries of progressive science and demonstrate to his mind that the earth, which he supposed to be heramec in by the overhanging horizon that skirt; it on every side, is of immense magnitude fettered, on one hand, with bonds of per {>etualice, and, atthesamo time, expand ng o'er the other in fiery suns; that iti surface Is diversified with dcean^of xm fathomed depths, and mountains of un trodden altitudes; and swarming tribe; whose strange dialects have never sound ed in his ear. Convince him of its spher ical form, and its serial suspension ; that, instead of reposing in motionless immo bility, it is flying with thought-like velocity alo;.g the trackless azure, and bringing in its diurnal revolutions, the alternations, of day and night. Follow its magnificent circle around the luminary of day, and see with what regularity the successive positions of its annual revolution bring the rolling seasons round?winter and summer?seed time and harvest?now clothed with waving forests and flowerj wreaths; there crusted with frost and mantled with snow. Unfold to his vision the great mass of being, then let him see that this earth is but a minor member oi a numerous family of worlds, all fitted up as the Rhodes 01 me ana intelligence; una the sun, which he considered but a ball ol fire, burning above and beneath him, is the great central orb of his influence through unmeasured distances, and binding the remotest member in the circle ol his attraction. He will stand bewildered with the truth and majesty of God. Proceed, now, to show him that, notwithstanding the amazing vastness of the solar system?its plants and its satellites?sc diminutive is it when compared with all the worlds which people immensity that, to an eye which can at one glance encompass the whole material creation, should it be blotted from the map of being, il would occasion no greater vacuum than 2 leaf falling in the solitude of a vernal forest. Trace your progress of investigator along the milky way that belts the azure vaults; pass the glimmering nebulas, the clustering constellations and scintillating stars, where worlds on worlds, buried ir the profound of distance, sweep on in the unbounded revelry through the universe of endless expanse. There, where thought cannot follow, and bold fancy tires, tel! him that, so far from being on the confines of nature, he is infinitely remote from the vast profound of gloom or glorj where hangs the central scale that balance: creation. Would he turn blindly away ntUK mo:1 a<3trnnnmpr! auu oaj', MI tu niv "There is no God." While the music 01 the spheres is floating softly around hire as the echo of a harpstring, he would respond to the angelic song and shout "Greal and marvelous are thy works, Lord Goc Almighty." Go stand upon some land scape, clothed in nature's own simple loveliness, where the wild-flower is scent ing the breeze, and the butterfly is revet ing in a paradise of sweets; and where the lark is teaching her young nestling their first hymn of praise. See there how God leaves His impress. Look up intc heaven, which His invisible hand has painted so deeply, beautifully blue, while the sun is throwing light upon all beneath his radiant track. See there how God has flung out His sign and written His name Go out at nightfall upon some spreading vale where repose the peaceful herds upoc their couch of turf, while the moon,l-ike b pearl in heaven, is scattering the fucic corruscations of her silvery car, as though a shower of the dust of diamonds were sprinkling the shining air, and the starrj hosts that rejoice in her train are serenelj floating amid wavy undulations of sublimated ether, and do you not see and feel and know that there is a God? There is an everywhere present and presidingUeity. The mountain enthrone him in its sun-lit grandeur?there Hii smile is in the tempest and His song is oc the gale. The flying storm bears Him upon its billowy folds?there His chariol is the cloud, and His voice is the thunder The sounding board of old ocean receives His footsteps; for there the winds are His wing with which he lashes its waves intc foam, or fans them into repose, while the boom of rushing waters proclaim Him Almighty. When He stood upon the mountain He recorded His name in characters of light upon its heaven-pointing peak When He rode upon the storm, hanging in the sky, and bending o'er the earth He left His sign in the rainbow; and wher Pie passed upon the deep, He spread it as a mirror behind, to hold, in far-off reflec tion, the jewelled banner of His realm. From earth, which He has carpeted foi His footstool, and Heaven, which He has sky-curtained for His throne, the sound o, His name and the song of His praise arc borne in the mingled melody of huraar tongues and angelic lyres.?liev. Thonm /> T It. JjUU'C. GOD MADE KINGS AND MEN. The world, if not governed by force greatly dreads force; and among the groug of Princes who rode by the Queen, twc will dispose at will of 1,000,000 soldier* actually in barracks, while two others not present will control the movement 01 1,500,000 more. That is actual power; ant substantial greatness such as belongs tf the heirs of Germany, Austria, Russia, and Italy reflects a kind of greatness on the class or rather clan, to which they all be long. Moreover, the Princes who will be potentates sustain the Princes who will not be with their whole strength. Court: settle rank in Europe, and the Court: unanimously insist that the descendants o royalty, even if dethroned, shall couni everywhere first. Not only will the Kings not marry, legally at all events outside the clan, but they exert a stead} and effective pressure in favor of restrict ingall thrones when vacant to the clar alone. Nothing can be more absurd ir theory than for a new State like Belgiuir or Bulgaria, which needs an organizing chief, a statesman, or soldier, to choose t Prince who may or may not be capable o ruling; but the statesmen know wel that if they step outside the clan, "Euro pean sympathy will be forfeited," or, ir i nlainer words, that the sovereigns wh< [ move armies will think they are dealing | with disagreeable upstarts. Bernandott< [ only kept his throne at the price of turn | ing on his own country?where he is stil ; regarded as a traitor?and King Milan j the only member of an obscure family with a recognized crown, will probably lose it for want of the determined protec tion that, had he been born within th< caste, would have been afforded him That protection was not, it is true, grantee to Alexander of Battenbergs; but then the Battenbergs are hardly royal, and pro tection to him might have precipitatec the gravest of all wars. The momefit hi was gone the Bulgarians examined Eu rope with a microscope to find an accepta ble Prince ; but they knew perfectly wel that their choice was restricted to thosi whom the sovereigns recognize as socially their "equals." It is that recognition not birth alone, which gives the princely cast its unique and almost inexplicabh place in Europe; and as long as tha recognition continues so long will that ? place be maintained. In other words, the _ social privilege of the princely caste will - probably endure as long as the great monarchies. The greater Kings, besides - believing devoutly in the birth to which s they themselves owe so much, and which, a being an indestructible as well as incom1 municable quality, releases them from the - dangers of rivalry?Prince Bismarck, for example, stops short at the steps of the i throne?finds the privileges of the clan con, venient by enabling them to prevent all 1 mesalliances, which it is now not only a i matter of family pride but a historic tra1 dition to avoid. They think it also even 1 more expedient to limit thrones to Princes, ; not only because we all understand our i equals best, but because they thereby pre3 vent the rise of soldiers who might be un ) manageable or too successful. Kings have , had their jealousies before and since the i Hapsburgs killed "the Friedilander," be1 cause he was too successful on their be3 half; and the history of Napoleon accent, uated their distrust of risen men. " IDLE BRAINS*AND HANDS. 3 Bishop Peck has lately produced some - prominent Icteas about dormant forces and idle muscles. He instances the idle young 3 man. No power comes from his muscles. They were made to be strong for work, but he does nothing. His muscular ability i is simply good for nothing. Devoted to agriculture, or handicraft, the physical force which is dormant within him would ; give breadth and health, and respectabili, ty. As it is, he is only a nuisance: peril haps a loathsome object of pity and conl tempt. And the Bishop takes the true ) ground, that an industrious boot-black is : better and better off, than a loafing mis1 creant sprig of aristocracy. Work is demanded everywhere. All " departments of industry are languishing 1 for want of faithful, skilled workers, i whether it be making streets, sawing ! wood or in the higher branches of skill f and art, and yet witnesses the good bishi op, amid all the din and labor of farming, 1 manufactures in all the industrial arts, ' these men have nothing to do! How did i other men get work ? By thinking quickly and acting promptly; by seizing the best, the first that came to hand. Tramping, lounging, begging, never gave eraI nlnvmpnt to nnv man. The thousands of idlers have made themselves viciously brainless. The lapse of powers, active and bright enough in children, has come > of parental indulgence, gormandizing lazi1 ness, indulged dependence, drinking, dis, use or misdirection. Grand fields of in dustry, wealth and usefulness lie all around 1 this idle shiftless nuisance, but he cannot t think himself into them. He has lost his i sole eyesight. The very bread, money, comforts, elegance he sighs for are within i reach of his hands, but he cannot see i them; wouldn't know them if he did i see them. ; But he does not only denounce the idler i but he tells how to find employment. ) Employ yourself then. Sell that apple J instead .of eating it. Sell it and buy two. t Sell the two and buy more. Before you I know it you will have a basket-full?be a trader, a merchant, a valuable citizen. ! Do not hang about the city doing nothing. r Push out into the country, seize that saw 3 and axe; cut a few sticks of somebody's , wood. Earn your dinner, don't beg it. : Get hold of a spade; show somebody that f you are just the man they have wanted i for a long time to make a garden. Seizea plow, and if you don't know how to hold t it, learn. "Hands all blistered!" Very I well. Glad of it. The first signs of life in - you for a long time. If you had blistered i them before they would have been tough and good for something by this time. 5 IMAGINATION. > Here is a story which is often told to r show the power of imagination. A mur> derer was condemned to die, and some 5 physicians obtained permission to try an 5 experiment upon him. They told the 1 prisoner that his execution was to be pri5 vate instead of public, and that death * would be painless. They took him blind' folded into a room and laid him on a table 1 that had little faucets of water at the cor1 ners. He thought he was to be bled to I death. He heard the doctors, who talked 1 as if they were bleeding him, and when J they turned on the water he thought it was r the blood dropping, and actually died ' without having lost a drop of blood, sim ply because he imagined he was dying. ' Another story which shows how the imagination can make a well person sick, is 1 told of a certain Dr. Buckland. He gave * a dinner one day, after he had been dis' secting a Mississippi alligator, and invited i many distinguished people to dine with i him. The table was elegantly set, and the t meal commenced with excellent soup. "How do you like the soup ?" asked the ' doctor of one of his guests. ' "Very good, indeed," answered the gen> tleman ; "turtle, is it not ?" ! The doctor shook his head. "I think it has somewhat of a musky taste," said another, "not unpleasant, but ' peculiar." "All alligators have," replied the host, > "the cayman peculiarly so. The fellow . whom I dissected this morning?" i Before he' could say anything more ? many of the diners turned pale and rushed out of the room. "See what imagination is," said Dr. : Buckland to those who remained. "If I * had told them it was turtle or terrapin or r birds'nest soup, they would have pronoun' ced it excellent, and their digestion been 1 none the worse." } "But was it really alligator ?" asked a lady. "The soup was made from as good a calfs head as ever wore a coronet," replied the doctor. These people lost a good dinner from yielding to the effects of imagination. But many lose years of happiness and helpfulness by imagining themselves sick and I lying in bed, when a little effort of the i will would make them well, and show that it. wflfl nnt their bodies but their im I aginations that were diseased. , ! THE HARDENS OF E(?YPT. ; At the beginning of March the Gardens I of Egypt are really wonderful; the orange 3 and lemon trees spread their most pungent 3 odor; the rose trees are covered with inf numerable flowers; the palms, with their t green and white crowns, swing there in 3 the wind; the oleanders there border the , avenues ; on the lawns anemones, annual ' and perpetual flowering pinks, chrysan themums, violet, zinnias, periwinkles, i snap-dragons, migonette, pansies, and petl unias blend their innumerable colors with i the green of the trees, bushes, and shrubs. ; Groups of bamboos lift here and there i their Jong green or golden stems, drowned f with an immense plume of pretty little 1 trembling leaves. One comprehends on - seeing these stems, which assume in a few l months enormous proportions, the cruelly > ingenious punishment of the Chinese in ? binding a criminal to a young bamboo. } The plant grows and the wretch isquar tered in a few weeks. No wood is lighter 1 or more useful than that of the bamboo. , One does not understand why the Egyp7 tians neglect to plant it along the canals 7 and on every cultivated land, where it - grows so well. But what gives, at least 3 during winter and spring, the most smil. ing aspect to the Egyptian gardens are the 1 great sheets of rose bougainvilles that , cling to the walls, the trees and groups of - foliage, and which display everywhere the 1 varied and exquisite tint of their flowers. 3 The bougainville is certainly the finest of - climbing plants. During five months it - flowers under the winter sun, takes shades 1 of extreme delicacy?one might say a s rose tint, in the intensity of which every 7 play of light varies. The aloes, the agave, , attach themselves on rocky slopes. On 7 the banks of the water courses the blue e> lotus, and the papyrus still revive antique t reminiscences. Grass cannot be raised in Egypt. The layer of soil is so thin that the sun dries it up immediately, and unless the grass is constantly submerged it turns yellow and perishes at once. It is not the heat alone that produces this result, for there is very much fine grass in the tropics; but the heat, accompanied by the shallowness of the soil, renders the aC rtwnpo imnnooiKIn in TTVvirnf Tt, UUlllllC KJl f^laoo HU|)U<?IUib 1U ugj u?> ?w is with difficulty that a few isolated Tblades of grass sprout during winter along the Nile and the canals; they disappear as soon as the spring begins, so that everywhere in the country where artificial cultivation finishes the dry and bare desert begins. In the place of grass a pretty little verbenacea is used, and this is encountered everywhere, the same as grass is encountered in America.?Brooklyn Magazine. ? Steps in Life.?Life may be considered as a succession of steps. We are of no particular account until we learn to step, for up to that time we simply belong to that humble species of vegetablelife known as creepers. We usually signalize our first success in stepping by falling down the first pair of steps we are able to reach. Growing older, our parents cause us to step off in the direction of school, and if we hang back they take steps to make us go. Then there is the dancing school where we learn other steps calculated to give us ease and grace. Boyhood over, we step into a situation if we can, and learn a business or profession by slow and successive steps. As others step down and out we step ah<*ad, if we don't fall behind,, for men can take steps backward as well as forward. Backward steps are very costly, as many discover. The most important step we take is near the steps of the altar, when we step up in front of the minister to be married, since All 01 OUT iuiure Steps amy ucpcuu uu una one. The remark applies to both parties of the contract, let us observe. Once started en the connubial highway the most of us are compelled to step pretty lively to keep up with the procession. In time there are other steps to mind beside our own and missteps to guard against. As the years wear on our steps lose their wonted elasticity and wax slower, and the inevitable hour arrives finally when we must step out and let others step into our shoes. There are grounds for believing that the more correct our steps are here the more agreeable they will be on the other shore.?-Terns Si/tings. Contentment.?Contentment is being satisfied with what we have, not with what we are. It refers to material things, not to mental acquirements nor spiritual attainments. It is more than making the best of everything. It is believing without questioning that God's will and God's way are best for us. It is being sure that whatever comes, "all things work together for good." The contented Christian may be artistic, may have a genuine love of the beautiful, may enjoy dainty furnishings; but if his home be poor and plain he will be just as happy there as anywhere if God reigns within, and he lives only to do His will. A poor widow who had no warm clothes to cover her little boy when sleeping, used boards for blankets, trying to shelter him from the snow, which blew through the cracks of their miserable hovel. One night he said to her smiling, "Mother, what do poor folks do these cold nights who have no boards to put over their cnndren?" A great king walking out one morning, met a lad at the stable door, and asked him, "Well, my boy, what do they pay you here for your work?" "Nothing," replied the lad, "except my food and clothes." "Be content," said the king, "I have no more."? The Illustrator. I ? Irreverence.?It was a common saying of the Rev. Dr. Washburn thatunbebelief comes oftener from irreverent association than from intellectual doubt. The sneer of a Voltaire has killed more than all his arguments. A jesting tone of talk on religious truths, a habit or reckless criticism on religious things, is to "take the name of God in vain" as the vulgar oaths; and, when I hear him who calls himself a Christian, or a gentleman, indulging in burlesque of this sort, I at once recognize some moral defect in him. Intellect without reverence is the head of a man joined to a beast. There are many who think it a proof of wit; but it is the cheapest sort of wit, and shows as much lack of brains as of moral feeling. I would say it with emphasis to each Christian that hears me, never indulge in that habit, nor allow sacred things to be jested at without rebuke, but keep them as the miniature of your mother, for no vulgar hands to touch. There is an anecdote or Boyle that he never pronounced the name God without a perceptible pause; and whatever you think,*1 recognize in it the dictate of a wise heart. We need this reverence in the air of our social life, and its neglect will palsy our piety. Occupation.?Man must have occupation or be miserable. Toil is the price of sleep and appetite?of health and enjoyment. The very necessity which overcomes our natural sloth is a blessing. The whole world does not contain even a brier or thorn that nature could have spared. We are happier with the sterility which we can overcome by industry, than we could have been with spontaneous plenty and unbounded profusion. The body and the mind are improved by the toil that fatigues them. The toil is a thousand times rewarded by the pleasure which it bestows. Its enjoyments are peculiar. No wealth can purchase them? no indolence can taste them. They flow only from exertions which repay the laborer. ^wortl/A a frlon/l JP'IDELilTY. i>CVCl lunanc t? i.iVUU, When enemies gather around, when sickness falls on the heart, when the world is dark and cheerless, is the time to try true friendship. They who turn from the scene of distress betray their hypocrisy and prove that interest only moves them. If you have a friend who loves you?who has studied your interest and happinessbe sure to sustain him in adversity. Let him feel that his former kindness is appreciated and that his love was not thrown away. Real fldelty may be rare, but it exists?in the heart. They only deny its worth and power who have never loved a friend, or labored to make one happy. The good and the kind, the affectionate and the virtuous, see and feel the heavenly influence. The Sensations of the Dying.?It is doubtless the case that in many instances? and perhaps they are the majority?dying persons lapse gradually into an unconsciousness that ends their bodily pain, and saves them from the anguish of the final parting with those that they leave behind. It is notuncommon, however, forclearness of comprehension to persist to the last, and perhaps it is still more common for some of the special senses to preserve their activity. We think it was Ernest Wagner who, in his "General Pathology," dwelt particularly on the preservation of ho ?onso nf heariner in many cases long after the apparent occurrence of unconsciousness, and who tenderly cautioned his readers that this possibility should be borne in mind.--Yew York Medical Journal. Sgy-Take a large sheet of paper and a pen, and write out a list of all the persons you dislike, adding a brief statement of the reasons why you dislike each of them. Having written accordingly, ask yourself this question: Am I doing well to be angry with these persons? Have they given offense to justify the dislike ? And now listen to this prophecy: You will be obliged to confess that you have not. You will feel ashamed of your dislike for them. You will resolve to cease disliking them. A