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J. W. ANDERSON, Editor and Proprietor
ARAB LOVE SONG,
TUe love fires glitter in the sky,
The earth is filled with dreamy light.
Ob, come to me, for I am nigh!
Oh, come to me, my soul’s delight!
The earth is filled with dreamy light.
The night wind scatters odors sweet.
Oh, come to me, my soul’s delight !
fio! I am waiting at thy feet 1
Tire night wind scatters odors sweet,
It wakes the slumber-laden flowers.
Lo 1 am waiting at thy feet—
01), leave thy jasmine-scented bowers !
It wakes the slumber-laden flowers,
The nightingale breaks for th in song.
Oh. leave thy jasmine-scented bowers!
My heart, why tarriest thou so long ?
The nightingale breaks forth in song,
The roses sway above the gate.
My heart, why tarriest thou so long?
When they awake wilt thou still wait ?
The roses sway above the gate,
Thy sister blossoms, red and white.
Winn they awake wilt thou still wait ?
Oh, eomo to me, my soul's delight!
ttYDNEV HeBBEET PlEIiSON.
JOHN’S DAUGHTER.
“Ton will care for my child? You
will not let my little one suffer?”
My old friend and college chum, John
Harmon said this as ho wrung my hand
hard. I repeated my promise that in
my own homenest, where there was
a nursery full of little ones, Susie Har¬
mon should hold a daughter’s place.
We were standing upon the wharf
waiting for the signal that it was time
for my friend to step aboard an out¬
going California steamer. Ho had lost
his wife within the year, aud soon after
was beggared by a fire that totally de¬
stroyed the cotton mills in which he had
held the position of superintendent for
ten years. With his home desolate, his
purse empty, he resolved, as many a
man had done before him, to seek his
fortune in the modern Ei Dorado, aud
dig for gold in her mines.
The only drawback to this scheme
was the difficulty of taking his three
year-old daughter, who had been in the
caro of hired nurses since her mother
died. I, who shared every thought of
John’s mind, talked with my wife, and
found her eagerly willing to take care of
the little one.
“I am sure I loved Mary as well as
you loved John, she said, “and there
is no one can have a stronger claim upon
the child than we have.”
Bo, sure of her cordial welcome in onr
nursery, I made John the offer of a
home for his little one, and it was ac¬
cepted as lovingly as it was offered.
This care removed, my friend hastened
his preparations for departure, and I ac¬
companied him to New York and saw
him off.
The next morning I returned home
to find Susie almost inconsolable, crying
perpetually for “papa to come to Susie.”
My wife was distracted at the failure
to comfort this childish sorrow, and our
own three children looked on wonder
ingly at -—
“Naughty Susie, who cried and oried,
after mamma told her to be quiet.”
Fortunately, Susie was accustomed to
see me, to snuggle iu my arms when I
talked with John, to associate me with
her father, and she allowed me to com
fort her. In time this violent grief wore
away, and the child became very happy
in our care. My business, that of a
hardware merchant, being very pros
lercus, we did not feel the additional
expense of the child’s support a burden;
and as the years wore by, she was as
dear to us as our own little ones.
But she understood always that she
was not our child, but had a dear fathei
who loved her fondly, and was away
from her only to make a fortune for her.
As soon as she was old enough she had
her father’s letters read to her, and hei
first efforts at penmanship were letters
to “Papa.”
John wrote often for ten years, re
counting his varying success, sometimes
sending money to buy presents for Su¬
sie. Ho was winning fortune slowly
not at the mines, where his health brokt
down, but iu the employ of a San Frau
cisco merchant, and some speculation/
in real estate.
He was not a rich man, he wrote
after an absence of ten years, but pros
peril)g, when he purposed paying ns a
visit. He wrote hopefully of seeing his
child, perhaps of taking her home with
him, setting no definite time, but lead¬
ing us to expect soon to see him. Then
his letters ceased, and he did not come.
J wrote again and again. Susie wrote.
No answers came to either one or the
‘ ‘her. We did not know the name ol
: ‘is employer, and after nearly two years
more passed we sadly thought he must
he dead.
Tt might have seemed to many un¬
natural for Susie to grieve so deeply as
■ be did for a father almost unknown tc
ber in reality, but she was a girl ol
most sensitive feelings, with a tender,
loving heart, aud we had always kept
her father's name before her, striving to
, uin him a place in her fondest affection.
That we had succeeded only too web
was shown by her sorrow, when week
after week passed, and there was nc
good news from California.
“ ou we had really lost all hope, it
1 oeanie Susie’s great pleasure to sit be
'tde me and ask me again and again for
ue stories I remembered of her father’s
& m he Comnaton Star.
boyhood and youth, his college life, our
many excursions, and, above all, of liis
marriage and the gentle wife and mother
so early called to heaven.
She dearly loved those talks, and no
memories were more precious than my
description of her father’s pain in part
mg from her, and his desire to win
money in California only for her.
Tims softened Susie’s grief, and at
eighteen she was one of the sweetest,
most winning girls I ever saw. Without
being a wonder of erudition, she was
well educated, had a fair musical talent
and a sweet, well-cultivated voice. She
was tall and graceful, and when she was
introduced to society with Joanna, my
handsome, brunnette daughter, both be
came popular.
Albert and Will., my boys, were oldex
than the girls; Albert in business with
me, and Will at college, the winter
when Joanna and Susie made their
debut.
It would take me quite too long to
tell of the pleasures of the young folks
during this winter, but Joanna was won
from us by a Cuban gentleman, and
Susie became, if possible, dearer than
ever.
Spring had come, when one evening
Albert came into my library, where I
was ploddingoverabook, having worked
busily all day. He fussed about the
books in a nervous way, quite unlike his
usual quiet manner and finally said:
“Father, yon have often said Susie is
as dear to you as one of your own chil¬
dren.”
I looked up amazed at this opening
speech.
“Well?” I asked.
“Will you make her your daughter in
fact by giviug her to me for a wife ?”
Dear ! dear! To think I had been so
blind. Susie had in truth become so
much one of our children that I was as
much astonished as if Albert had fallen
in love with Joanna.
But I soon found, when Snsie’s blush¬
ing face was hidden upon my breast,
that she, too, had given away her heart,
and I was only too well pleased that no
stranger had won the precious gift.
In September they were married, my
son and the child of our adoption, and 1
gave them a house next our own for a
home, having old-fashioned ideas about
such matters, and believing it is better
for young married people to live by
themselves and assume housekeeping
cares.
The new home was a gem of neatness
under Susie’s dainty fingers, and the
spirit of perfect love kept it ever bright.
Having been brother and sister for so
many years, Albert and Susie thorough¬
ly understood each other’s dispositions
imd I have never known domestic hap¬
piness more perfect than theirs.
Susie's first child, named for her
father, John Harmon, was two years
old, when the mail brought me a letter
in an unknown band from Cincinnati. 1
opened it, and upon a large sheet ol
paper found written, in a scrawling, un¬
even hand, three lines:
“Dear Sir: Will you come to me at
47 M--street without letting Snsie
know. John Harmon.”
At first I behoved it was a hoax. John
had written a bold, clerk-like hand, clear
as print. This was a scrawl, struggling
all over the paper, uneven as the first
penmanship of a little child.
But the more I pondered over the
matter the more I was inclined to obey
the summons. So pleading business,
saying nothing of the letter tc any one,
I left home by the night train for Cin¬
cinnati
No. 47 M-street I found to be a
boarding house for the poorest classes,
and in a shabby room, half furnished, 1
found au aged, worn man, perfectly
blind, who rose to greet me, sobbing.
“Fred, I knew you would come.”
“Why, old friend,” I said, when sur¬
prise and emotion would let me speak,
“how is this? We thought you were
dead.”
“Does Snsie think so ?”
“Yes. We all gave you up.”
“Do not undeceive her, Fred. 1
meant to come home to her rich, able to
gratify every desire of her girlish heart.
Do not let her know that only a blind,
sick wreck is left for her to call father.
Tell me of her, Fred. Is she well ? Is
she happy ?"
“She is both, John—a happy wife and
mother.”
“Married ! My little Susie ?”
“Married to Albert, my son, of whom
you may judge when I tell you folks say
he is his father over again.”
“I would ask no more for my child,”
said John.
Then, in answer to my anxious ques¬
tions, he told me the story i f the years
of silence. He was preparing to pay ns
his promised visit when a great fire
broke out in San Francisco, that ruined
his employer for the time, and swept
awav a row of buildings uninsured, in
Iota « to «.ed a)) Mb
Worst of all, in trying to save the books
of the firm, John was injured on the
head by a falling beam, and lay for
months in a hospital. When he so far
reC overed as to be discharged, his mind
wf £ still impaired, and he could not per
form the duties of clerk or snperiutend
ent, while kis health was too feeble for
manual labor.
“I struggled for daily bread alone,
Fred,” he told me, “and when I re
ceived yonr loving letters, and dear Su-
COVINGTON, GEORGIA, >
MARCH a 1885.
fortune’s wheel. It never came, Fred. I
left California three years ago, and came
here, where I was promised the place of
foreman in a great pork-packing house.
I saved a little money and was hoping
for better times when my health failed
again, and this time with it my eye-sight.
I hoped against hope, spending my sav¬
ings to have the best advice, and not
until I was pronounced incurable would
I write to you. I want you to take me
to an asylum, Fred; and, as I must be
a pauper patient, I must go to my own
town. You will take me, Fred ?”
“I will take you to an asylum, John,’
I promised.
“Aud Snsie? You will keep my se
cret. You will not disturb Susie’s hap¬
piness ?”
“I will not trouble Susie’s happiness,”
f said.
Yet an hour later I was writing to Su¬
sie, and I delayed our departure from
Cincinnati till an answer came. It was
the answer I expected from the tender,
loving heart, but I said nothing of it to
John.
Caring tenderly for his comfort, I took
him on his way homeward. It was even¬
ing when we reached the railway depot
of our own town, aud as we had been
long cramped in the car-seats, I propost
to walk home.
“Is it not too far off?” John asked
“I thought the asylum was a long wa
from here.”
“Oh, the whole place is changed from
the little village you left 1” I answered;
“We have a great town here now, and
yonr asylum is not very far from here. ”
He let me lead him then, willingly
enough, and we were not long iu reach¬
ing Susie’s home. She was alone in the
cheerful sitting-room as we entered, but
obayed my motion for silence, as I
placed John in a great arm chair, after
removing his hat and coat. He looked
wretchedly old and worn, and his clothes
were shabby, yet Susie’s soft eyes, misty
with tears, had only love in their expres¬
sion as she waited permission to speak, j
“John,” I said to him, “if I had found
you in a pleasant home, happy and
prosperous, and I had known that Susie
was poor, sick and blind, would it have
been a kindly act for me to hide her
misfortune from you, and passing by
your home, to have placed her in the
care of charit able strangers ?”
“Fred., you would never have done
that!” he said, much agitated.
“Never !” I answered. “You are right.
But you, John, ask me to take from
Susie the happiness of knowing a father's
love, the sweet duty of caring for a
father’s affliction.”
“No, no, Fred., T only ask you to put
no burden upon her young life, to throw
no cloud over her happiness. I am old
and feeble; I shall trouble no one Ioug.”
“And when you die, you would de¬
prive yonr only child of the satisfaction
of ministering to your wants—take from
her her father’s blessing."
He turned his sightless eyes toward
me, his whole face working convul¬
sively.
“Where is she, Fred. ? Yon would
not talk so if you did not know my
child still loves her father.”
“I am here, father,” Susie said; and
I stole softly away, as John clasped his
child in bis arms. Albert was in the
dining-room with Johnnie, and I was
ebattiug still with him, when I heard
John calling:
“Fred. ! Fred. !”
I hurried to the room to find him
struggling to rise, Susie vainly trying to
calm him.
“I want my child !” he cried, deliri¬
ously. “you promised me my child 1”
I saw at a glance that the agitation of
the evening had brought back the wan¬
dering mind, of which he had told me.
Albert and I released Susie, who left us
quickly.
Some finer instinct than we possessed
guided her, for she returned with Johu
nie, and whispering him to be very good
and kiss grandpapa, she put him in
her father's arms. In a second his ex¬
citement was gone, and he fondled the
curly head, while Johnnie obediently
pressed his lips upon the withered
cheek. So, in a little time, they fell
asleep, Johnnie nestled in the feeble
arms, and the withered face drooping
upon the golden curls. We watched
them silently, till we saw a shadow pass
over John’s face, and a change settle
there that comes hut once in life.
Gently Albert lifted the sleeping chilit,
and carried him to the nursery, while
Susie and I sat beside the arm-chair.
“Uncle Fred,” she whispered, “Al¬
bert will go for a doctor. But may I
waken him ? Let him speak to me once
more J”
Even as she spoke John opened his
eyes. All the wild look was gone from
! “1X1* "SXSS . .
smile came upon the wasted lips, and he
said softly, tenderly:
“Susie, my own little child, Snsie.”
Aud with the name on his lips John’s
spirit went to seek an eternal asylum, in
which there will be no more poverty,
pain or blindness.
To Make Them.— One of the surest
recipes for making hard times, says au
exchange, is to talk hard times and keep
up the chatter.
MWH IN A COAL MINE. j
HOW SIINERS CAN DU! BRAVEI.T
Calmly VVrilinjc MeMnset lo fioved Utica
Willie Deuth Creeps Upon Then,
Sixteen years ago there was a terrible
colliery explosion in Saxony, by which a
iarge number of miners lost their lives.
Of that disaster an old miner in Scran¬
ton has preserved a most remarkable
record in a series of manuscript copies,
translated iuto English, of messages
written to their friends by such of the
doomed Saxon miners as were not killed
outright by the explosion, but were pre¬
served for the no less sure and more ter¬
rible death by suffocation, as the poi¬
soned gases slowly destroyed tho pure
air that remained in the mine. These
messages were found in note-books and
on scraps of paper on the dead bodies of
the poor men when they were at last re¬
covered. The manuscript copies of
these touching notes were made in
Cornwall by a relative of the old miner,
and were sent to him shortly aRer the
disaster. They are interesting outside
of their pathos, as answering tho fre¬
quently asked question, How do men
feel when about to die—not after being
wasted and weakened by disease, or
when the blood is heated by the strife
of battle, but when they see inevitable
death slowly but certainly approaching
them, and kuow that in exactly so many
minutes it will seize upon them ? Do
they rage and struggle against their
fate, or do they meet it with calmness
and resignation? These messages show
that the poor miners awaited the com¬
ing of death with singular calmness and
resignation. Not one word in the whole
reoord reveals a feeling of bitterness
against the fata they eould not avert.
There is a curious pathos in some ol
the lines scrawled by these death-be¬
sieged men in the gloom of their nar¬
row prison. A young man, Janetz by
name, had pinned to his coat a leaf from
a note-hook. On it were written his
last words to his sweetheart: “Darling
Rika—My last thought was of thee.
Thy name will be the last word my lips
shall speak. Farewell,”
The miner Reiehe, when his body was
found, clutched iu his hand a scrap of
paper. “Dear sister,” it read, “Meyer,
in the village, owes me ten thalers. It is
yours. I hope my face will not be dis¬
torted when they find us. I might have
been better to yon. Good-by.” Reiehe,
according to the old Scranton jniuer,
who seem3 to have the histories of all
the unfortunate Saxon miners at his
tongue’s end, was a severe man, and
though just to his sister, who was his
only relative, gave her no liberties. The
thought that he had not done right evi¬
dently haunted him in his death hour.
The absence of all selfishness, all re
pinings on account of themselves, is
touchingly apparent in all the messages.
“My dear relations,” wrote the miner
Schmidt, “while seeing death before me
I remember you. Farewell until we
meet again in happiness. ” Lying next
to young Janefz, whose message to his
sweetheart is quoted above, a miner
named Moretz was found. On a paper
in his cap was written: “Janefz has just
died. Reiehe is dying and says, ‘Tell
my family I leave them with God.’
Farewell, dear wife. Farewell, dear
children. May God keep you.” The
miners who died by suffocation had evi¬
dently been driven from one place o.
refuge to auotber, according to the fol¬
lowing, found in the note book of a
miner named Bahr: “This is the last place
where we havo taken refuge. I have
given up all hope, because the ventila¬
tion has been destroyed in three separate
places. May God take myself and rela¬
tives, and dear friends who must die
with me, as well as our families, under
His protection.”
“Dear wife,” writes Moller, “take
good care of Mary. In a book in tbe
bedroom you wilt Had a thaler. Fare¬
well, dear mother, till we meet again.”
Mary was the miner’s only child, who
was blind.
A miner named Jahue or Jaehn wrote
to bis brother, who was a miner, but
had been unable to work that day
“Thank God for his goodness, brother
You are safe. ”
“No more toil in darkness,” wrote
another.
The uniform spirit of piety that
marked all the messages of the dying
men was explained by the custodian of
these touching records, He said the
miners of Saxony are aft fleared in a
strict religious school, and that on enter¬
ing the miues they all petition Heaven
for protection through the day, and on
leaving the mines return thanks to God
for guarding them and bringing them
safely through the dangers or their toil.
“I never read the simple messages of
those poor men without moistened eyes,”
said the old miner, and his eyes were
certainly more than moist as he spoke.
“I can picture to myself the scene of the
rough-handed but soft-hearted men,
spending their last moments not in wild
.•ries for mercy and screams of remorse,
nor in repinings against their cruel fate,
out in sending these farewell messages
to their loved ones, who wire even then I
tiewailing them as dead. While my
heart bleeds over the picture, I thank j
God that, tfce’v humble miners though they 1
were, showed the world how bravely '
and nobly they could die.'
««.«*«
Uurd WorU by Day and Jolly Times at
Nigltt iu the For, tug of iUalue.
Bespits the unprofitable year just
past in the lumber business, the woods¬
men have gone in swarms from Bangor,
as usual, this winter, to cut spruce and
piue on the upper Penobscot. One in¬
ducement to the lumbermen to operate
is the low cost of provisions, it being
possible to board a crew of men 20 to 25
per cent, cheaper than a year ago. '
Labor also is low, as the Prince Edward
Island boys have poured into Bangor by |
(he hundred this season looking for em- |
ployment, and they have put wages
down and kept them there. Think of a
stout young man swinging an ax all
winter for $10 to $15 a month and his
board. These are the wages accepted
by many of the Prince Edward Island
loggers. There was a time in the days
of big pines, near by, when a woodsman
was looked upon as a man who had
learned a trade.
Many people have queer ideas of how
loggers iive in the woods. They buiid
a camp immediately, if there is not one
already near the scene of their work,
and are seldom more than a day about
it. The camp is simply a log house,
with low sides and steep-pitched roof.
The chinks of the walls are filled in with
mud, moss, and leaves, and a high bank¬
ing of earth or snow reaches almost to
the eaves outside. The entrance is
iu one end, aud the only window is iu
the opposite end. The cook and his as¬
sistant have a sort of panfy partitioned
off at the window end, and there are
wood and provision storerooms on either
side of the entrance. The remainder of
the building forms one room. On one
side is a long conch made of boughs,
hay or straw, covered with heavy quilts
and blankets, on which the men sleep in
a row. On the opposite side is a long
table, made of small logs, hewn smooth
on top, on which the food is served. In
front of it is a big log hewn out for a
settee, and called the deacon seat. The
men, when done eating, have only to
turn around in their seat .to toast their
shins at a big fire of logs, which glows
like a small vocanol in the midst of all,
and sends its smoke and sparks through
a hole in the roof, six feet square, the
draft being aided by a roof-tree.
The fare is plain and monotonous,
but wholesome and substantial. Pork
and beans, bread and molasses, aud
pork fat, the latter used for butter, make
up a breakfast at suurise. Then the
crew go to work, and, if near by the
camp, they come back at 12 o’clock for
dinner, which is beans and pork, with
perk scraps and doughnuts. The men
work until it is too dark to tell a hem¬
lock from a spruce, and then come back
to eat a supper of the same viands,
varied with dried apple-sauce. Fish is
served ones or twice a week. The bev¬
erage is cheap tea.
Evenings and Sundays are passed in
telling wonderful yarns, singing ear
splitting songs, and smoking. In some
camps the men play cards, and gamble
for tobacco, clothing, and even wages.
The woods beans are the best of all
naked beans, and pat Boston in tho
shade. They are cooked in an iron pot
placed in a pit surrounded by live coals
and covered tightly with earth over
night. In the morning they are done
to a turn. No range can compete with
the bean hole of the woods.
The woodsmen range iu ago from 16
to 65. dress iu heavy woolen or knit un¬
derwear, cheap ready-made clothes,
cloth or knitted caps, moccasins, and
many socks and mittens. They work on
an average four months,. come out as
fat as bears, and with from 850 to $150
due them. They spend the money, and
then are ready to work on the river or
go driving.
He is in Troublo.
The Arizona editor has got into trou
ble. He explains it thus : “We edit
our paper this week from the jail, where
wo are living for the present. We have
been put in the jug for a month because
we resented au insult offered us by the
pin-feather journalist who tries to run
an opposition paper in this town. But
if he thinks he will muzzle the press in
this way he is mistaken. Like Edmund
Yates, we shall come out of jail stronger
than ever, aud shall take our place iu
the world with renewed vigor and
A month is not a long time
to a man with a good conscience, which
onr case. We would reqnest our
to turn in all items of news to the
jailer, who wiJl give them
us.”
A Farmer Lord.
A Sioux City correspondent says that
F. Sagden, a member of the English
in Arlington, twenty miles east of
place, has lieen notified from Eng¬
of his acoesaion to the baronetcy of
Leonard through the death of Lord
Leonard, who fignred in the courts
a year ago on a charge of at- |
violence on the person of a do- i
iu the residence of a gentleman
ho was visiting. Mr. Sagden, or
Bug,” as he was familiarly called
the other colonists, made no preten
to being anything more than a
farmer. He always comes to town
a lumber wagon, and is popular in
circled.
VOL. XI, NO IT.
THE GUT FAWKES PLOT.
Tlio Infninoiss Conspiracy to Blow Uptbe
House of fiords Uecitlled.
The exp’osions in the English House
of Parliament recall the infamous “gun¬
powder plot,” of 1605, for which Guy
Fawkes was executed in London, Janu¬
ary 30, 1606. The event has already
boon a memorable one in the history of
Eugland, aud November 5, the day of
the disclosure, was set apart as a day of
thanksgiving, 'The and is religiously observed
in England. historical features of
the affair may be told briefly. Guy
Fawkes was an adventurer, who, at the
time the plot of blowing up the House
cf Parliament, and thus destroying tho
King, Lords and Commons, was con¬
ceived, was serving in the Spanish army
in the Netherlands.
Upon the accession of James I., the
severe penal lipvs of Elizabeth against
Romanists were again put into execu¬
tion, contrary to the expectations of the
followers of that faith. The plot was
conceived by Robert Catesby, a Homan
Catholic of ! ancient family, who
au
vowed vengeance against the English
rulers for the severity of the penal laws.
Guy Fawkes was the fourth person ad¬
mitted into the conspiracy. He with
the others took the oath of secrecy, aud
the sacrament was administered by a
Jesuit priost. Among the other con¬
spirators was Thomas Winter, who se¬
lected Fawkes to visit Spain aud solicit
the intervention of the King iu behalf
of - the English Catholics. Fawkes re¬
turned to England in 1604, haviug been
unsuccessful in his mission. Shortly
afterward-Thomas Peroy, another one
of the conspirators, rented a house ad¬
joining the one in which Parliament was
to assemble, and Fawkes, who was un¬
known in London, took possession of it
under the assumed name of Johnson.
Parliament adjourned until Feb. 7,1605,
and on Dee. 11 following, the conspira¬
tors held a secret meoting in the house.
The work of exoavatuig a mine was be¬
gun and seven men were engaged iu
this labor until Christmas Eve. They
never appeared in the upper part of tho
house, where Fawkes kept a constant
watch. When Parliament reassembled
the work was abandoned, bat finally
completed betwee n February and May
following. About this time Fawkes
hired a vault beneath the House of
Lords, which had been vacated by a
dealer in coal. At night thirty-six bar¬
rels of gunpowder were carried into the
vault aud covered with faggots.
The conspirators then adjourned to
hold a consultation. A number of
wealthy men were taken into the plot,
among whom were Sir Everard Digby,
Ambrose Rjokwood and Francis Tresh
am. Parliament was to meet again on
November 5, and Fawkes was appointed
to fire the mine with a slow match.
Some of the new men who had been ad¬
mitted into the conspiracy, desired to
save their Catholic friends in the two
houses. Lord Mouteagle, a Roman
Catholic peer, received au anonymous i
note cautioning him against attending 1
I he meeting of Parliament. The matter
was laid before King James, and at mid¬
night, November 4, a search was ma lo of
the neighboring houses and cellars,
which resulted in the capture of Guy
Fawkes as he was coming from the cel¬
lar. Matches and torchwood were found
iu his pockets. Although put to torture,
he refused to' disclose the names of his
confederates. A meeting of the con¬
spirators was convened, and in the ex- J
citement that followed they were ail
either killed or captured. Guy Fawkes
an 1 eight others were tried, after which
they were drawn, hanged and quartered
Alleged Penitentiary Abuses.
CHARGES OF INHUMANITY WHICH HAVE
CAUSED A SENSATION IN TENNESSEE.
A few days ago the Nashville Bannet
published a report of Dr. E. D. Sim,
chairman of the Committee ou Prisons
aud State Board of Health of Tennessee,
making a severe criticism on the present
penitentiary system. The Banner in¬
dulged in some strong editorial com¬
ments upon the system as represented
iu Sim’s report and was sued for $60,000
for an alleged libel, and two of its pro¬
prietors indicted by the Grand Jury.
The Banner insists that its assertions
can be sustained by proof, and publishes j
an interview with Dr. J. W. Reed, rep
resentative from Campbell county.
Dr. Reed said the convicts at the coal
mines have been cruelly treated; that
he and Drs. Smith aud Britton hail die
sected the l>ody of a convict four hours
after death; that it was customary to j
furnish physicians with dead convicts,
and that he never knew the body of a
convict to be buried. He also says the
convicts are whipped unmercifully. Sick
or well, if any fail to complete the task i
for them they are whipped.
He continued: “I have known some
be so sick that they could not com¬
their task, and -others have Volun¬
to help them out to keep them
having the lash applied to them,
remember that not long ago the bank
forced some convicts to go into a
when it was suspected to be on fire.
refused to go himself, but pushed j
convicts iu and two of them were j
One was blown seventy yards I
crushed to death. There has not j
a single charge brought against the ; 1
system that cannot he
i
STRAY BITS OF HUMOR
FOUND IN.Til IS UlIJHOUOl/S COLUMNS
OF OUU EXCHANGES.
Not too Fresh—Where interest Censed-A
/Sober Indian—The Sleigh Bells— Ou »
Car. Etc.
NOT TO BE OUTDONE.
At Potaluma, a small milk-can station
on the Napa road, a fervent appeal was
made last Sunday by the pastor of the
proposed church there for funds to build
h aid edifice. Not a cow-puncher moved.
The entire congregation of teat-squeezers
seemed wrapped in slumber. As the
minister gazed mournfnlly around a hen
suddenly flew out of the old ping hat
used as a contribution box, making a
terrific cackling.
The pastor approached the hat and
beheld a new-laid egg.
Holding up tho hen fruit, he exclaimed
sarcastically:
“She has contributed her all. Will
you allow yourselves to be outdone by a
hen?”
The effect was electrical!
In less than twenty minutes there was
over forty-five cents in the pool.— Sar
Francisco Post.
THE MOTHER’S ADVICE.
“What do you think of Mr. Thomp¬
son, ma?”
“He seems to be very nice; but I
would not encourage him if I were you.”
“Why, mamma?”
“He has red hair, and red-headed
men aro always deceitful.”
“But pa has red hair.”
“Well, not quite red, child- It’s
quite red enough, though.”
TOO FRESH.
A young gentleman who was pledgee
to take a young lady to a party, re¬
marked on the afternoon previous to the
event that ho was going home to take r
sleep in order to be fresh.
“That’s right," she replied, “but dr
not sleep too long.”
“Why ?” he asked.
“Because,” she answered, “I do not
want vou to be too fresh.”— Schenectady
Union.
DAVE WAS ERECTED.
“Well, Dave, you got elected, after
all, didn’t yon?”
“Yes, I did.”
“It was a mighty tight squeeze,
though, wasn’t it ?”
“It was, for a fact.”
“Took a heap of hard work, didn’t
it?”
‘ No, not such an awful sight, but it
took just oceans of behaving. "—Chicago
Ledger.
A BLACK EYE.
“Johnnie, have you been fighting?’
gravely inquired Mrs. Muggins.
“No, ma’am,” promptly answered the
heir of the Mugginses.
“John Muggins; how dare you tell me
an untiuth 1” exclaimed his mother.
“Where did you get that black eye,sir ?"
“I traded another boy two front teeth
and a broken nose for it,” replied John
nie as lie crossed the woodpile.— St.
Louis Post.
A FOLLOWER.
An American strolled into a fashion
able church just before the services be¬
gan. The sexton followed him up, anti
tapping him on the shoulder, and point¬
ing to a small cur that had followed him
into the sacred edifice, said :
“Dogs are not admitted.”
“That’s not my dog,” replied the
visitor,
“But he follows you.”
“Well, so do you.”
The sexton growled, and removed th«
dog with unnecessary violence.
THE SLEIGH BELLS.
The sleigh bolls tinkle merrily,
The moon shim s cold and bright,
And ClariheU’B laugh cheerily
Rings out upon the night.
The grind and crackle of the snow
Is music to her ear,
She only thinks “How fast we go I”
Nor l;as she caro nor fear;
Happy behind the flying «pan
i She sits beside her Will,
l Who thinks “I wonder if I can
Get trusted for the bill?"
—Boston Post.
NOT HIS NAME.
Oat in Xenia, Ohio, there is a bright
lawyer. There is a score of them in faet,
but this bright particular legal star is
Heury Warrington. I call him Henry
Warrington because that is not his name,
His real name appears oh the playbills
of “Youth.” Well, the Second Advent
ists came to Xenia one time and the
preacher did a lot of street preaching,
One day Lawyer Warrington stopped to
listen to him just at the time when he
was wanted in eourt, and a bailiff came
to the window to call him. Thepreachei
was just shrieking: “And who will be
damned ? Who will be damned ?’
Roared out the stentorian tones of the
bailiff over the way: “Henry Warring
ton ! Henry Warrington 1” And Henry
only said he would be, if he was. Only
he didn’t say it just that way.— Bub
DETTE.
A MATTER OF INTFREST.
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” said a young lady
at a church fair, “I want your help for /
moment”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Smith
“what can I do for yon?”
“I have just sold a tidy for $15 tha
cost fifteen cents, and I want you to tel
me what percentage that is.”
“A transaction of that kind, my deal
Muss B.,” said Mr. Smith, who is a law
yer, “gets out of percentage and into
1 aroeny, "—Dra’-e’s Magazine^