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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,