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DOWN IN A COAL MINE. .
BOW MINERS CAN DIE BRAVELY i
Calmly Writing Blessagei to Loved ones
while Death Creeps Upon Then.
I
Sixteen years ago there was a terrible
colliery explosion in Saxony, by which a
large number of miners lost their lives.
Os that disaster an old miner in Scran-j
ton has preserved a most remarkable
record in a series of manuscript eopiefi,
translated into English, of messages
written to their friends by such of the
docmed 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 the 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 after the
disaster. They are interesting cutside
of their pathos, as answering the 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 know 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
record reveals a feeling of bitterness
against the fate they could not avert
There is a carious pathos in some of
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-book. 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 Reiohe, when his body was
found, clutched in 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 And us. I might have
been better to you. Good-by.” Reiche,
according to the old Scranton miner,
who seems 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 ho 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
m.-et again in happiness.” Lying next
to young Janetz, whose message to his
sweetheart is quoted above, a miner
named Moretz was found. On a paper
in his cap was written: “Janetz has just
died. R iohe is dying and says, 'Tell
my family I leave them with Go!.’
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 another, according to tho fol
lowing, found in the note book of a
miner named Bahr: “This is the last place
where we have taken refuge, I have
given up all hope, liecause the ventila
tion has been destroyed in three separate
plac< s. May God take myself and rela
tives, and diar friends who must die
with me, as well as our families, under
II s protection.”
“Dear wife,” writes Moller, “take
go ] .-n ,) of M iry. In a book in tho
bdr -ui you will find a thaler. Fare
well, dear mother, till we meet again.”
Mary was the miner’s only child, who
was blind.
A miner named Jahne or Jaehn wrote
!<• Lis brother, who was a miner, but
b.ol be> n 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 ail the messages of the dying
men was explained by the custodian of
these touching records. He said the
miners of Saxony are all reared in a
strict religious school, and that on enter
ing the mines 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 of their toil.
*‘l never read the simple messages of
those poor men without moistened eyes,”
said the old miner, and his eyes were
certainly more than 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
cries for mercy and screams of remorse,
nor in repinings against their cruel fate,
out in sending these farewell messages
to their loved ones, who were even then
bewailing them as dead. While my
heart bleeds over ths picture, I thank
God that, humble miners though they
were, they showed the world how bravely
and nobly they could die.”
No Letter Yet
Did you ever spend the day in a coun
try Post-Office ? No 1 I sat behind a
big glass «SJ with the Postmaster, and
as we sat aid chatted girls and boys
came trooping in, asking for letters for
“our folks.” The Postmaster was ur
banity personified, and with a smile he
would say again and again and again,
“Nothing to-day for you.” “Do you
know that some of these children’s
parents, to a certain knowledge, haven’t
had a letter in three years ? And yet
they come here every mail without fail
and chirp cat, ‘lf you please, sir, any
thing for our folks ?’ And do you sup
pose they are dismayed, after a year’s
continued daily inquiries ? Not at all 1”
—.Kinxzston Freeman.
@lje (SMjette.
VOL XII. SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY EVENING, MARCH 18, 1885. NO. 9.
ARAB LOVE SONG.
The love fires glitter in the sky,
The earth is filled with dreamy light
Ob, come to me, for I am nigh 1
Oh, come to me, my soul's delight I
The eaith is filled with dreamy light.
The night wind scatters odors sweet
Ob, come to me, my soul’s delight !
Lo I I am waiting at thy feet I
The night wind scatters odors sweet
I wakes the slumber-laden flowers.
Lo ! I am waiting at tby feet—
Oh, leave thy jasmine-scented bowers !
It wakes the slumber-laden flowers,
The nightingale breaks forth 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 1
the roses sway above the gate,
Thy sister blossoms, red and white.
Win n they awake wilt thou still wait ?
Oh, come to me, my soul's delight!
Sydney Hf.hbeut I’ieiison.
JOHN’S DAUGHTER.
“You will care for my child? You
will not let my little oue suffer?”
My old friend and college chum, John
Harmon said this as he wrung my hand
hard. I repeated my promise that in
my own homenest, where there was
a nursery fall of little oties, Susie Har
mon should hold a daughter’s place.
We were standing upon tho wharf
waiting for the signal that it was time
for my friend to step aboard an out
going California steamer. He had lost
his wife within the year, and 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 en p‘y, he resolved, as many a
man had done before him, to seek his
fortune in the modern El Dorado, and
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
care of hired nurse? since her mother
died. I, who shared try 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
yon loved John,” she said, “and there
is no one can have a stronger claim upon
the child than we have.”
So, sure of her cordial welcome in our
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 cried,
after mamma told her to be quiet.”
Fortunately, Susie was accustomed to
see me, to snuggle in 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
percus, 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 father
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 vaiying success, sometime!
sending money to buy presents for Su
sie. He was winning fortune slowly
not at the mines, where his health brokt
down, but in the employ of a San Fran
cisco merchant, and some speculation/
in real estate.
He was not a rich man, he wrote
after an absence of ten years, but pros
pering, when he purposed paying us a
visit. He wrote hopefully of seeing his
child, perhaps of taking her homo 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.
I wrote again and again. Susie wrote.
No answers came to cither one or the
other. We did not know the name o!
his employer, and after nearly two years
more passed we sadiy thought he must
be dead.
It might have seemed to many un
natural for Susie to grieve so deeply as
she did for a father almost unknown tc
her in reality, but she was a girl ol
most sensitive feelings, with a tender,
loving heart, and we had always kept
her father’s name before her, striving tc
win 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.
When we had really lost all hope, it
became Susie’s great pleasure to sit be
side me and ask me again and again for
the stoiies IjMcjembered of her father’s
boyhood and youth, his college life, our
many excursions, and, above all, of bis
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
ing from herj and his desire to win
money in California only for her.
Time 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 oldei
than the girls; Albert in business with
me, and NViH at college, tile winter
when Joanna and Susie made their
debut.
It would take me quite too long to
tell of the pleasures of tile 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 1
was plodding over a book, having worked
busily all day. He fussed about the
books in a nervous way, quite unlike his
usual quiet manner and finally said :
“Father, you 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 giving her to me for a wife ?”
Dear I dear 1 To think I had been so
blind. Susie had in truth liecome so
much one of our children that I was as
much astonished as if Albert had fallen
in love With Joanna.
But I soon foiind, when Susie’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 I
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.
Tho 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, Albeit and Susie thorough
ly understood each other’s dispositions
and I have never known domestic hap
piness moreVerfect than theirs.
Susie’s first child, named foU her
father, John Harmon, was two years
old, when tho mail brought me a lettet
in an unknown hand from Cincinnati. I
opened It, and upon a largo sheet of
paper found written, in a scrawling, un
even hand, three lines!
“Dear Sir: Will you coma to me at
47 M street without letting Susie
know. John Habmon.”
At first I believed 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 ns tho 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, I
found an .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 Susie think so ?”
“Yes. We all gave you up.”
“Do not undeceive her, Fred. 1
meant to come home to her rich, aide tc
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 cf the years
of silence. He was preparing to pay us
his promised visit when a great fire
broke out in San Francisco, that ruined
his employer for the time, and swept
away a row of buildings uninsured, in
which John had invested all his savings.
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 ha so far
recovered as to be discharged, his mind
was still impaired, and he could not per
form the duties of clerk or superintend
ent, while his health was too feeble for
manual labor.
“I struggled for daily bread alone,
Fred,” he told me, “and when I re
ceived your loving letters, and dear Su-
sie's, I would not write, hoping to send
better tidings if I waited for a turn of
fortune’s wheel. It never came, Fred. I
left California three years ago, and came
here, where I was promised ttie 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, aiid this tithe Withit my eye-sight.
I hoped against hope, spending iiiy say
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
» pauper patient, I must go to my own
town. You will take me, Fred ?”
“I wdll take you to an asylum, John,’
I promised.
“And Susie? You will keep ray so
cret. You will not disturb Susie’s hap
piness ?’’
“I will not trouble Susie’s happiness,”
I said.
Yet an hour later I was writing to Su
sie, and I delayed our departure from
Cincinnati till »n answer came. It was
the answer t ex pooled 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, and as we had been
long cramped in the car-seats, I propost
to walk home.
“Is it not too fat off?” John asked
“I thought the asylum was a long Wa
from here.”
“Oh, tho whole place is changed from
the little village yon left I” I answered;
“We have a great town here now,’and
yonr asylum is not very far from here.”
He let mo lead him then, willingly
enough, and we were not long in reach
ing Susie’s homo. She was alone in the
cheerful sitting-room as wo entered, but,
ob -yed my motion for silence, as 1
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.
“John,” I said to him, “if I had found
you in a pleasant home, happy and
prosperous, and I hail known t hat 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
Cate of Charitable 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 oaring for a
father’s affliction.”
“No, no, Fred., I only ask you to put
no burden upon her young life, tothrow
no cloud over her happiness. -I am old
and feeble; I shall trouble no one long.”
“And when yon die, you would de
prive your only child of the satisfaction
of ministering to your wants—take from
her her father's blessing. ”
Ho 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 his arms. Albert was in the
dining-room with Johnnie, and I was
chatting still with him, when I heard
John calling:
“Fred 1 Fred. I”
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 I”
I saw at a glance that the agitation of
the evening bad 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 John
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 but once in life.
Gently Albert lifted the sleeping child,
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 1”
Even as she spoke John opened his
! eyes. All the wild look was gone from
i them as he groped a moment till Susie
put her hands in his. Then a heavenly
smile came upon the wasted lips, and he
said softly, tenderly:
“Susie, my own little child, Susie.”
And with the name on bis lips John’s
spirit went to seek an eternal asylum, in
which there will be no more poverty,
I pain or blindness.
To Make Them. —One of the surest
recipes for making hard times, says an
exchange, is to talk hard times and keep
ujp the chatter.
THE GUY FAWKES FLOT.
The Onsplrncy to Blow Up the
llouwe of Lortfa Recalled.
The exp’osions in the English House
of Parliament recall the infamous “gun
powder plot,” Os 1605, for which Guy
Fawkes was executed in Loudon, Janu
ary 30, 1606. The event has already
been a memorable one in the history of
England, and November 5, the day of
the disclosure', Was set apart as a day of
thanksgiving, and is religiously observed
in England. The 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 the
King, Lords and Commons, was con
ceived. was serving in the Spanish army
in the NothcrlauJi.
Upon the accession ol James 1., the
severe penal laws of Elizabeth against
Romanists were again put into execu
tion, tiontrnry to the expectations of the'
followers of that faith. The plot was
conceived by Robert Catesby, fl Boman
Catholic of an ancient family, who
towed vengeance against tho English
rulers lor ttie severity of the penal laws.
Guy Fawkes was the fourth person ad
mitted into tho conspiracy. He With
tho others took tho oath of secrecy, and
tho sacrament was administered by a
Jesuit priest. Among the other con
spirators was Thomas Winter, who se
lected Fawkes to visit Spain and solicit
the intervention of the King in behalf
of the English Catholics. Fawkes re
turned to England iii 1604, having been
unsuccessful in his mission. Shortly
afterward Thomas Percy, another one
of the conspirators, rented a house ad
joining the one in which Parliament was
to assemble, and FawkeCj who was un
known in London, took possession Os it
under the assumed name of Johnson.
Parliament adjourned until Feb. 7, 1605,
and on Deo, 11 following, the conspira
tors held a secret meeting in the house.
The work of excavating a mind Was be*
gun and seven men were engaged in
this labor until Christmas Eve. They
never appeared in the upper part of tho
house, where Fawkes kept a constant
wateh. When Parliament reassembled
the work was abandoned, bat finally
completed between February and May
following. About this limo 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 wore carried into the
vault and covered with faggots.
Tho conspirators then adjourned to
hold a consultation. A number of
wealthy men were taken into the plot,
among whom were Sir Everard Digby,
Ambrose Rockwood 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 Monteagle, a Roman
Catholic peer, received an anonymous
note cautioning him against attending
(ho meeting of Parliament. The matter
was laid before King James, and at mid
night, November 4, a search was ma le 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
io 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
citement that followed they were all
either killed or captured. Guy Fawkes
and eight others were tried, after which
they were drawn, hanged and quartered.
Alleged Penitentiary Abases.
CHARGES OF INHUMANITY WHICH HAVE
CAUSED A SENSATION IN TENNESSEE.
A few days ago the Nashville Banner
published a report of Dr. E. D. Sim,
chairman of the Committee on Prisons
and 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
in Sim’s report and was sued for 860,000
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
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 and Britton had dis
sected the body of a convict four hours
after death; that it was customary to
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
et for them they are whipped.
He continued: “I have known some
to be so sick that they could not com
plete their task, and others have volun
teered to help them out to keep them
from having the lash applied to them.
I remember that not long ago the bank
boss forced some convicts to go into a
mine when it was suspected to be on fire.
He refused to go himself, but pushed
the convicts in and two of them were
killed. One was blown seventy yards
and crushed to death. There has not
been a single charge brought against the
penitentiary system that cannot be
proved.”
WINTER AMONG THE WOODSMFX
Hard Work by Day and Jolly Times nt
NiflLt in the Forests of Maine.
Despite the unprofitable year just
past in the lumber business, tho woods
men have gone in swarms from Bangor,
as usual, this winter, to cut spruce and
pine on the upper Penobscot. One in
ducement to tho 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
the 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 810 to sls 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 live in the woods. They build
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 lions#,
with low sides and steep-pitched roof.
The chinks cf 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
in one end, and the only window is in
the opposite end. The cook and his as
sistant have a sort of panty 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 couch 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, wlieti 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,
lint wholesome and substantial. Pork
and beaus, bread and molasses, and
pork fat, the latter used for butter, make
up a breakfast at sunrise. 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 once 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 put Boston in the
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 in age from 16
to 65, dress in 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 8150
due them. They spend the money, and
then are ready to work on the river or
go driving;
The Oyster’s Enemies.
At a meeting cf oyster raisers on
Long Island, Mr. John Mackey said:
“I have made a special study of what
oysters feed on. They feed on vege
table matter so minute that it can be
seen only under a microscope. A star
fish destroys the oyster in this way: It
spreads itself over it and cuts off a
part of the upper shell with an instru
ment it has in the centre of its body.
Then it sticks a long kind o’ thing into the
oyster and sucks it out. The winkle has
a saw with which it cuts off the edge of
tho shell and so does the drill or borer.
I’ve seen star fish chaw up sea spiders,
too. It picks ’em all to pieces, and
things look like a wreck when it gets
thropgh.”
—Sfc-
He is in Trouble.
The Arizona editor has got into trou
ble. He explains it thus : “We edit
our paper this week from the jail, where
we are living for the present. We have
been putin the jug for a month because
we resented an insult offered us by the
pin-feather journalist who tries to rnn
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, and shall take our place in
i tho world with renewed vigor and
j strength. A month is not a long time
to a mau with a good conscience, which
is our case. Wa would request our
friends to turn in all items of news to the
I gentlemanly jailer, who will give them
■ toua.”
STRAY BITS OF HUMOR
HOUND IN THE HUMOROUS COLUMNS
OF OUR EXCHANGES.
Not too Fresh—Where Interest Ceased—A
Sober Indlan-The Sleigh Delis-Ou »
Oar. 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
s aid edifice. Not a cow-puncher moved.
The entire congregation of teat-squeezers
seemed wrapped in slumber. As the
minister gazed mournfully around a hen
suddenly llew out of the old plug hai
used as a contribution box, making t>
terrific cackling.
The pastor approached the hat and
beheld a new-laid egg.
Holding up the hen fruit, he exclaimed
sarcastically:
“She has contributed her alh Will
you allow yourselves to bo outdone by a
hen ?”
The effect was electrical I
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 are 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 pledged
to take a young lady to a party, re
marked on the afternoon previous to the
event that he was going home to take »
sleep in order to be fresh. •
“That’s right,” she replied, “but de
not sleep too long.”
“Why ?” he asked.
“Because,” she answered, “I do not
want you to be too fresh.”— Schenectad}
Union.
PAVE WAS ELECTED.
“Well, Dave, you got elected, after
all, didn’t you ?”
“Yes, I did.”
•<lt 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.
K MATTER OF INTEREST.
“Oh, Mr. Smith,” sflid a young lady
at a church fair, “I want your help for t
moment.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Smith,
“what can I do for you?”
“I have just sold a tidy for 815 tha!
cost fifteen cents, and I want you to tel
me what percentage that is.”
“A transaction of that kind, my deal
Miss 8.,” said Mr. Smith, who is a law
yer, “gets out of percentage and intc
larceny.”— Drake's Magazine.
NO SYMPTOMS.
Mother —Are you quite sure, dear,
that young Featherly is not fond of
you? He certainly seemed very de
voted last night when he buttoned your
glove.
Daughter—Ah, yeS, mother ; but his
hand never trembled.
THE SLEIGH BELLS.
Tile sleigh bells tinkle merrily,
The moon shines cold ami bright,
And ClaribeU’s laugh cheerily
Rings out upon tho night.
The grind and crackle of tho snow
Is music to her ear,
She only thinks “How fast wo go I”
Nor has she care nor fear;
Happy behind the flying span
She sits beside her Will,
Who thinks “I wonder if I can
Get trusted for the bill?”
—Boston Post.
NOT HIS NAME.
Out in Xenia, Ohio, there is a bright
lawyer. There is a score of them in fact,
but this bright particular legal star in
Henry Warrington. I call him Henry
Warrington because that is not his name.
His real name appears on the playbill*
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 court, 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 tho way: “Henry Warring
ton I Henry Warrington I” And Henry
only said he would be, if he was. Only
he didn’t say it just that way.—Bub
defie.
HOARDING HOUSE MARKETING.
“What shall I order this morning,
mum ?”
“You may order some beans, about a
quart, I guess, one quart of chickory,
one pint of condensed milk and five
pounds of sugar, and—”
“Yes, mum, but you know Mr. Simp
son complained that his coffee wasn’t
strong enough only this morning.”
“That’s so. I had almost forgotten
about it. I guess you can order an
other quart of chickory.”— Texas Sift
ings.
TUB INDIAN WAS SOBER.
The other day a rather fresh tourist
got off the cars at away station on the
Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe. Seated
on a stone, with a dirty blanket wrapped
around him, was an aborigine. He had
on moccasins and wore a scalp look, and
was just such a wild Indian as the imag
inative tourist desired to meek The
latter danced before him, waved an im
palpable tomahawk in the air, gave a
whoop and yelled:
“Big Injun? Great chief? Wahl”
The buck grunted.
“Killum heap 1 Heap scalp ?” shouted
the tourist. Again the buck grunted
and looked surprised.
“Where’s wigwam? Love pale face ?”
“What in thunder arc you talking
j ibout?” said the buck. “Axe you
drank T’—PUtebus-g Chronicle,