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w. F. SMITH, D. J. THAXTON & S. J. SMITH, Publishers,
dame autumn.
Summer Is dead; too soon her radiant abano
Beneath a hun*d pall of leavon u af,?.
Too soon is fled the swaHow^fescap^ 1
The biting wind, and Winter’s cruel shade.
Kem.^j Bihoad; 8 ih oad; thc weeping forest tree
the cry amid its falling leaves*
1 ast is the cheerful hum of laden bee ’
V anished the mellow glory of tho sheaves.
N Th fl < !°f g^ lm shadows usher In tho night,
That follows fast upon the shorten- and dav-
M A r n,i b ? ' J ; ‘l 0t the ni *ht-bird wing her flfght
And croak deflanco to tho moon's wan ray.
Now doth tho peasant, hastening sadly home
Trembling, recall somo half-forgotten tale-
How in the chill of evening, elf an&m? 0 ’
V porting, hold revel high on hill and dulo.’
Up from tho deop moist bosom of the earth.
Autumn arising shakes her dewy hair
And leaves the sedgy marshes of her birth
lo soar aloft; a creature wondrous fair I
K, i t . sad; one slender hend uphold
Tm.f o fTni ,erhea(lavei, Btranßlucent sheen, ’
J hat falling, wraps within its silv’ry folds
iler limbs, whose charm, thus hiddou, yet is
A Zff?™ 11 ?!?? fl,ck 2F fa,ntl 7 r und her head,
on tho tinted gossamer
Of delicate wings, that to the breeze outspread
support her flight, yet scarcely seem to stir
Y are i. ,n h 2 r oyos ’ mournful tears,
A shadow dims her pale brow as of pain;
Tclhng of faded hopes in vanished years,
tjf mirth and joys that may not come again.
S< ^ vo *, h ?‘*rd her from her couch arise
0 {j"“ of murmurs, and the sound
Ol the chill air that rustles as she Hies,
And tho dead twigs that crackle to tho
ground.
A n! h n,f°i , l oatot *; brushing from tho bough
and he russet loaves that sadly linger there-
And wreathes them into chaplets for her brow,
>r pl'jcks the drooping tiowerets for hor bair.
A gni7wVt ohthe 0 h the P att ® rin ßT rain-drops on tho grass
1 ull with a ceaseless me notone, the night
Enwraps her, and the siars behold her pass
bleak darkness lu her silent
—Ctuimbers’ JouruitL
MISS BECKY’S “HOME ”
Miss Becky was going to the “Old
Ladies’ Home” at last. It was a sorry
fact,, but there was nothing else for her
to do, it seemed. Who would think of
offering any other home to a poor,
almost helpless old woman who had
outlived her usefulness? Having passed
her days in other people's houses, 30 to
speak, she might not mind it as much,
perhaps, as a more fortunate being.
“Yes,” she said, “there’s a vacancy
in the “Old Ladies’ Homo,” and the
hundred dollars that Parson Amory left
uie will pay my way in, but it wouldn’t
hist me long if I began to spend it, you
know, and 1 shall have a warm bed and
my regular meals without worrying
about where the next one’s com ug
from. Pm most tired worrying about
wiys and means. Seems as though I
have been about it all my life; ever
Kinco father was taken with heart dls
<‘H'e hearing the class in algebra. Now
that the rheumatism has got the better
ol me, so that I can’t work in cold
weather, and the doctor says it’ll draw
my lingers up so that I can’t use them
soon, it, doesn’t seem as if there was
anything left for me in this world but
the Home—and I ought to be thankful
for that!”
Miss Becky had had other expecta
tions in her heyday, when young Larry
Rogers mot her and carried her basket;
when his strong arm paddled her down
the broad river to church on Sunday
mornings; when they sang together in
the cho r from the same hymn-book;
when they loitered homeward in the
fragrant summer dusk, and heard the
whip-poor-will complain, and startled
the lire-tlies in the hedges as they
brushed by. It sometimes seemed to
Miss Becky as if all this had hap
pened in another planet. She
was young with a bloom
on her cheek; but although the rheuma
tism had bent her figure and rendered
her more or less helpless at times, yet
her dark, velvety eyes looked out Ike
soft stars, and the ghost of a dimple
still tinkered on cheek and chin in spite
of her sixty odd years. Miss Becky's
father had been the district school
teacher in those far-oll" days of her girl
hood. He had taught her the simple
lore at his command, but it w?is L*in\
Rogers who had taught her music, h cl
atter hour, in the empty old s* h mi
house; they had practiced together,
while he wrote the score on the b!a de
horn'd. But ad this had not sufficed to
enable her to earn a livelihood. Her
education, musical and otherwise, had
stopped short of any commercial value.
In those days she had never expected
to earn her living by the sweat of her
brow. Larrv was go ng to give her ev
erything. llow trivial the little uuarrel
seemed to day which circumvented this
fine resolve of liisl But what magni
tude it had assumed at the time] On his
return from a trip to a neighboringeitv,
some busybodv had whispered to Larry
that Miss* Becky had been seen driving
with Squire Eustis’ son Sam behind his
trotters. Sam was just home from cob
lege, a harum-scarum fellow they said,
who made love right and left and gam
bled a bit; and when Larry reproached
her with it she had not denied; she had
sjniply said: “What then? If you choose
to listen to gossip rather than wait till I
tell you —”
“ But you didn't tell me, and 1' ve been
home a week.”
“ I had forgotten all about it till you
reminded me,” said Becky.
‘‘lt’s such an every-day allair for you
to drive with Sam Eustis'” —which in
credulity so stung Becky that she would
not condescend to explain that she had
carried some needle-work up to Squne
Eustis' which she had been doing; toi his
wife, and that as she left to walk home
Sam was just starting off with his smart
chaise and new dapple-gravs, and the
Squire had said: “Take Miss beckv
home, Sam, and show" her their paces;
and how she had been ashamed to re
fuse the kindness, although preferring
to walk a thousand times; and ho'N,
once in the chaise, .Sara had been the
P‘ n * v ,°‘ courtesy, and had begged her
to drive over with him to Parson
Amory s. three miles out 01 her way.
“that Lucy Amoty may see that you
oon’t disdain my company. For you
so<; 1 * sa id Sam, who was not as black
as lie was painted, or as many liked to
suppose, “Lucy can make me what she
->\ iil; without her 1 shall be nothing and
nobody;-but they’ve told her all kinds
ol wild things about me; they’ve told
her she might as well jump into the
nver as marry such a scapegrace. And
perhaps if I made her a little jealous—
Vu know there’s no harm in that, is
there? All s fair in love; and. perhaps,
if the old folks see me driving about
with Miss Becky Thorne, my stock may
£° up. and 1 may be ‘saved from the
burning,’ as Parson Amory says.”
And Pecky had consented; how
could she refuse to do a service for
s ch a true lover? £0 slight a thing,
too! She had often traversed the same
road since on toot, on her daily rounds
of toil and mercy. Sam Eustis had
married Lucy Amory years a 2O, and
was the foremost man in the county to
day. Strange how that friendly drive
had interfered with Miss Becky’s pros
pects; how the simple fact of carrying
home Mrs. Eustis’ needlework should
have determined her fate, and devoted
her to a life of hardship and the “Old
Ladies’ Home” at the end! Talk of
trifles! Poor Miss Becky! she remem
bered that < nee or twice the opportu
nity had ollered when she might have
made it up with Larry: but pride, or a
sort of fine reserve, had locked her lips
— 1 arry ought to know that she was
above sill v flirtations. Once, when they
met at Lucy Amory’s wedding, when
they all went out into the orchard while
the bride planted a young tree, and the
guests looked for four-leaved clovers,
she had found herself—whether by ac
cident or design she could not tell—on
Hie grass beside Larry; their lingers
met over the same lucky clover, their
eyes met above it, and for an instant
she had it on her tongue's end lo con
fess all about the drive and its result,
to put pride in her pocket, but just then
Nell Amory called to Larry.
“Oh a ho rid spider!—on my arm,
Larry! Kill him quick—do! Oh—oh
—oh! I shall die —1 shall faint.” And
that was the end of it.
The old orchard, with its fragrant
quince bushes, its gnarled apple-trees,
its four-leaved clovers, was a thing of
the past; a cotton mill roared and thun
dered there all day long, where the
birds built and the trees bourgeoned
thirty odd years ago. It no longer blos
somed, except in Miss Becky’s memory.
She had turned her thoughts to raising
plants, when she was left toiler own re
sources, but one cruel winter’s night
killed all her slips and the capital was
lacking by which she might renew her
stock. Since then she had gone out for
daily sewing, had watched with the
sick, had been iu demand for tempo
rary housekeeper whenever a tired ma
tron wished an outing; but latterly, her
eyes no longer served her for line work,
and sewing machines had been intro
duced; she was not fo alert in the sick
room as of yore; she moved more slow
ly, and her housekeeping talent was no
longer in roquet: aided to this, the
bank where her little earnings had been
growing, one day failed and left her
high and dry. Some of her friends had
traveled to pastures new, some had
married away, some had ignored or for
gotten her. As for Larry Rogers, he
h-ul been away from Plymouth this
many a year. Somebody had sent him
abroad the year after Lucy Amory’s
marriage to develop his musical genius.
He had grown into a famous violin
ist, playing all over the country to
crowded houses, before the linest people
in the land. It was a beautiful romance
to Miss Becky to read in the Plymouth
Record about “our gifted townsman;”
she seemed to hear the echo of his vio
lin when the wind swept through the
pine boughs. She had no bitter
thoughts; she did not blame him be
cause she sat in the shadow, because
her life had been co'orless. She sang
again the old tunes he had taught her,
and made a little sunshine in her heart.
All of happiness she had ever known he
had brought her. Why should she
complain? And now she was going to
the “Old Ladies’ Home.”
*Tt isn’t exactly what I expected in
mv vouth,” she said to the old doctor’s
widow.
“No; but you'll have a nice room and
a bright fire, and the neighbors will
drop fn to see you and make it seem
home-like. Now, there s old Mrs.
C,umi. Nothing can persuade her to go
to the Home, She says it's only a gen
teel alms house, after all: and so she
rubs a ong with what little she can earn
and what the neighbors have a mind to
send iu; and they have to do it mighty
gino-erly, too, just as it they were ask
ing a favor of her. Lor, she doesn t
oarn her salt”
•T dare say,” returned Miss Becky.
“Now, if it hadn't been for the rheuma
tism. 1 could earn my living for years
vet, and may be get something ahead
again. But it seems as if the rheuma
tism laid in wait for the poor and friend
less.”
••You ought to have married when
you were young, Becky,” said the doc
tor's widow, who had forgotten all
about Becky's lore affair, and labored
under the impression that she never had
a chance, an impression which matrons
are apt to entertain concerning their
single friends. Miss Becky had been
spending some weeks with Mrs. Doctor
Dwight, who had moved away from
Ply mo it h after her husband’s death.
She was there chie !y in order to put
some stitches into the widow’s ward
i robe, which nobody else would do so
“reasonably,” that lady's grief having
iMotnl to industrial Inter st, the Diffusions! Truth, the Establishment of Justice, and the Preservation of a Peoples' Government.
Incapacitated her for holding a needle
or giving her mind to the material de*
tails of “seam and gusset and band.”
But during the visit Miss Becky had
been seized with her sharpest attack of
rheumatism, which had kept her in bed
for weeks, till her wages were exhaust
ed by drugs and doctor’s fees. It was
at this time that she made up her mind
to go into the Home on her return to
Plymouth.
Mrs. Dwight saw her off at the sta
tion. “I hope you’ll find the Home
cozy,” she said outside the car-window.
“It’s lucky Parsoa Amory left you that
hundred dollars after all. He mi°-ht
have doubled it.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Miss Becky
answered meekly. Perhaps she was
thinking that if she were Mrs. Dwight
no old friend of hers should go beggTng
for a refuge at an aim-house door, were
it ever so genteel an almshouse. Per
haps she was thinking of the pretty,
comfortable home waiting for her
friend, and wondering why their fort
unes were so unlike.
~ Write when you reach Plymouth,
and let me know how you’re suited,”
said Mrs. Dwight; and just then the
cars gave a lurch and left her behind,
and Miss Becky turned her glance in
wards. Somebody had taken the seat
beside her.
“Your friend was speaking of Parson
Amory and Plymouth,” said he. “I
couldn’t help hearing. I was born in
Plymouth myself, but I haven’t met a
soul from there these twenty years. I’m
on my way down to look tip my old
friends.”
“ Twenty years is a long time,” an
swered Becky. “I’m afraid you won’t
find many of your friends left. You’ll
hardly know Plymouth.”
“1 suppose not— l suppose not Have
you lived there long?”
“I? I have lived there all my days.”
“Good! I’m hungry for news of the
people. Did Parson Amorjf leave a
fortune? He was called close. Where’s
Miss Nell—married or dead? I can see
the old place in my mind’s eye; and the
parsonage unaer tne elms, ana tne
orchard behind it, where Lucy Amory
planted a young tree on her wedding
day, and the gown little Becky Thorne
wore—by-the-way, is she alive? Do
you know her?”
Mis3 Becky hesitated an instant.
“ Yes,” she replied, “I know her—
more or less. She’s alive.”
“ And married?”
“Well, no; she never married.”
“She must be sixty odd; she was a
pretty creature, such dimples—l sup
pose they are wrinkles now! Where
have the years gone? Is her home in
the old place still?”
“ Her home?” said Miss Becky, Hush
ing a little. “She has none. She is
on her way to the Old Ladies’ Home.”
“To the Old Ladies’ Home! Becky
Thorne!” he gasped, “and I—”
“You seem to have known her pretty
well,” said Miss Becky, who was begin
ning to enjoy the incognito.
“1 should think so! I’ve loved Becky
Thorne from my cradle; we had a silly
quarrel which parted us —such a tritle!
•—when I look back. Do you ever look
back, madame?”
The twilight was falling about them;
Becky’s face had grown a shade or two
paler all at once; she turned her dark
velvety eyes full upon him with a startled
air.
“You,” she said, “you must be Lar
ry Rogers!” Then the color swept to
her cheeks in a crimson wave. “Do
you know I never thought you had
grown old like myself! Don’tyou know
me? /am Becky Thorne.”
Just then the train thundered through
the tunnel, and they forgot that they
were sixty odd.
“On the way to the Old Ladies’
Home,” she wrote Mrs. Dwight; “I
was persuaded to go to an old gentle
man's, instead.”—.liar?/ N. Prescott , in
Our Continent
A Strange Tragedy.
A strage case is causing a sensation
at Scituate. Jonathan Hunt, eighty
years of age, who lived on. Bay street
with his wife, forty years younger than
himself, had not" been seen by the
neighbors for several days, and sus
picions being aroused by the answers
of the wife in response to inquiries
about him, officers were sent to make
an investigation. When the officers ar
rived they found the house securely
fastened, and an entrance was forcibly
made. Here they found Mrs. Hunt in
a very depressed state of mind. Upon
being interrogated as to the where
abouts of her husband, she informed
them that he was aled and then started
on a run. went swiftly through the
rooms, coming to a fourth, when, she
shut the door and placed herself against
it, remarking; “He is here: you must
not come in.’’ She was removed, w hen
the officers found Mr. Hunt lying upon
a bed, dead. Mrs- Hunt could give no in
telligent account of herhusband’s death,
but said he was taken sck Sunday
night; that she had wrapped him up in
blankets and watched by him ever
since; but nothing further could be as
certained from her. During the con
versation she made many incoherent
utterances regarding the past life ofher
liii-d and and herself, and convinced’the
officers that she was hopelessly in-ane.
I Wheu Mr. Hunt’s death occurred, or
i what was the cause, is a matter of con
i jecture at the present time. It was
learned last night that he had been un
well for a number of days, and that last
Thursday ho called on Dr, Yinal, who
found, upon examination, that he had
every symptom of paralysis. In view
j of this circumstance, coupled with Mr.
Hunt's advanced age, this is thought
| to be the most probable cause of death.
—Scituate ( Mass. ) Times.
JACKSON, GEORGIA.
Pennsylvania Gas Well*
The steady decline in the yield of pfr.
h-oleum in the Pennsylvania oil regions
Is causing capitalists to turn their atten
tion to the greater utilization of the
natural gas, which is a peculiar feature
of the region. The drilling of wells is
always attended by the appearance of
‘nflammable gas in larger or in smaller
quantities, but its presence is not a nec
essary attendant of the finding of oil.
Many years ago natural gas was discov
ered in Fredonia, Chautauqua County,
N. Y., and it has been in constant use,
both for fuel and light, at East Liver
pool, 0., for twenty years, and no petro
leum is found in either place. The
presence of this gas in the oil regions
has been one of the main causes of the
development of the territory to 30 great
an extent that the exhaustion cf the
petroleum deposit has been accomplished
years before it otherwise would have
been, for its adaptability and economy
as fuel has permitted operations to be
carried on where otherwise they must
have been attended with loss to the pro
ducers. It takes from three to twenty
five days to drill a well, and companies
controlling the supply of gas furnish
fuel for the boilers at an average cost of
$1.25 per day per well. To buy coal
or wood for this purpose would cost sev
eral times as much.
Bradford and nearly ail of the oil
region towns are lighted and heated by
the natural gas. The “gas streaks,” as
those districts are called where the gas
is found without oil, are very extensive
in this field, and they were secured by
companies years ago. These companies
—the Keystone Gas Company and the
Bradford Gas-Light and Heating Com
pany—furnish nearly all of the gas sup
ply. They are chartered by the State.
The latter company supplies this city
with light and heat. Its principal
“streaks” are thellixford and the West
Branch. The former is seven miles
southeast of this city, and the latter lies
two miles to the southwest. Six wells
take the supply from these streaks,
three on each. The Rixford gas is col
lected in immense iron reservoirs at the
wells, whence it is forced to Bradford
through iron pipes. For four miles of
the distance the pipes are six inches in
diameter, and for the other two miles
eight inches. From the West Branch
wells the gas reaches the city through
eight-inch pipes by its natural force.
The pressure of this gas at Bradford is
six pounds and a half to the inch. In
genious pumps of recent invention force
the gas from the Rixford receivers,
where it has a pressure of forty pounds
to the inch. Less than a year ago the
Rixford gas reached this city by its nat
ural force at the wells—a force sufficient
to supply Bradford with one million
cubic feet. To drive the gas that dis
tance now requires the use of a four
hundred-horse power engine, and the
natural force of 170 pounds to the inch
has declined to twenty-five. The ma
chinery for pumping the gas cost $50,-
000.
The natural gas is found in the largest
quantity and greatest force in the third
oil sand., and seldom deeper than fifteen
feet in the sand. It is present, how
ever, in all three of the sands in some
wells. The wells are drilled just as oil
wells are, and gas territory ranges from
$l5O to SSOO an acre. It is destined to
be worth much more when the finding
of gas may be calculated on with cer
tainty. In|the Bradford field gas has
been found at no greater depth than
twenty-two hundred feet. It is used
just as it issues from the depths of the
wells, no refining being necessary. The
gas of some districts is better and cleaner
than that of others, the Bradford article
being especially excellent in quality.
There is no odor from it in burning, but
before it is consumed it has the same as
petroleum. In carrying it through the
towns and into buildings the same sys
tem is employed as in conducting artifi
cial gas, and for illuminating purposes
is burned in the ordinary gas fixtures.
In many parts of the oil regions the
pipes are laid on the surface of the
ground, bat in the larger towns and
cities they are buried. For heating pur
poses a pipe is conducted from the mam
into the stove or range. The end of the
pipe in the stove is perforated to give a
spreading flame. A stop-cock on the
outside of the stove regulates the sup
ply. The fire is kindled simply by turn
ing on the gas and throwing a lighted
match in the stove, in grates the effect
of a coal fire is obtained by the placing
of pieces of earthenware inside. These
become red-hot, and glow with the true
anthracite cheerfulness.
For illuminating purposes a uniform
eharge of fifty cents a month is made to
the consumer. Where twelve burners
sre in use a discount of twenty per cent,
is made. To large consumers, such as
hotels, stores, etc., a further discount
from the twelve-burner rate is given.
An ordinary family parlor or cook stove
pays $4 a month for fuel, while ranges
and large heaters cost $6 a month. In
the early days of gas burning in the region
an ordinary stove consumed abont 300
cubic feet an hour. The subject has
been given much scientific study, how
ever, and a regulator devised by which
the amount consumed is much reduced
without affecting the heating power of
the fuel. The gas is not measured. It
is a matter of much surprise to the
stranger visiting this region to see the
gas in buildings and on the streets burn
ing all day as well as during the night.
No one takes the trouble to turn off the
gas. It is believed that the gas would
be consumed and wasted in other ways
even if it was turned off, and so it burns
from one year’s end to the other. For
heat and lighting the gas companies re
quire pay in advance per month, but
well-drilWs pay at the end of the month.
At one time the Keystone Company had
five hundred drilling wells attached to
Hieir pipes, Dut not one quarter of that
number are drilling now. The traveler
through the oil regions will see great
pillars of flame high in the mountains,
in the depths of forests, and down in the
deep valleys. These are made by the
waste gas coming from pipes inserted
in the wells. They burn constantly.
Many of the smaller oil towns are as
light by night as they are by day, owing
to the presence of these pipes in tneir
streets.
Natural gas at drilling wells c ow
many fatal accidents. Veins of it are
sometimes suddenly penetrated by the
drill, and it issues with great force to the
surface. In such case it is liable to
become ignited by the lamp in the der
rick or the forge, or by the fire-box
of the boiler. It is more by good luck
than anything else then if occupants ol
tne derrick nouse escape with their lives,
for a frightful explosion occurs. Even
if the lamo or boiler are removed far
from the derrick, an explosion is apt to
occur, especially if the atmosphere is
murky and heavy. Then the gas settles
to the ground, and if blown toward the
light or fire an explosion is inevitable.
Gas is found in large quantities in the
Sheffield district of the Warren oil field.
One of the heaviest wells ever struck is
at Sheffield, it nas been burning with
a flame fifty feet high for years, and its
roar may be heard for miles. Another
heavy well is the Murrayville well, in
Washington County. There is a great
gas streak in Ihat region, and a com
pany has been formed and chartered by
the State to supply Pittsburgh and other
places with light and fuel from it.—
Bradford (Pa.) Cor. Philadelphia Press.
Farmers and Tlieir Health.
By “farmers” we include, of course,
their wives, children, and we have often
thought, with the general lack of pre
cautions for preserving health, what
wonderful constitutions we have in
herited. Were it not that we have
had a great store of vigor from our an
cestors to draw upon, we should have
been long ago a nation of invalids.
But as one cannot always draw upon a
bank account without adding to his de
posits, so. sooner or later, if we con
tinue to violate all the laws of health,
our drafts will be met with— ‘ ‘no funds. ’ ’
The farmer, of ah men, needs health,
and farmers, as a rule, are the most
healthy ’of all people, and this in
spite of a general* neglect of the sani
tary laws. If we were to say that we
proposed to make same “Hygienic
Suggestions,” they would probably be
passed by. So we give some sugges
tions about keeping well. One of the
general rules given for every one, in all
climates, is to take a daily bath, or, at
least, a bath once in every forty-eight
hours. A daily bath, as generally un
derstood, is impossible to most farmers;
but a pail of water and a large towel is
within reach of every farmer and every
one else. Wet one end of the towel,
and go over the whole body, and rub
dry with the other end. If two towels
can be afforded, all the better, but a
large one, properly used, will answer.
The comfort of a bath of this kind to
the farmer after a day’s work in the
field, when the skin "is covered with
dust, has only to be experienced to
make it a custom. The caution is:
bathe so quickly, and rub dry so
briskly, as not” to get at all chilly.
On going to bed, change the clothes,
and if those taken off are to be worn
the next day, ti\rn them so that they
may air an£ ifov thoroughly. In eat
ing, especially b* warm weather, “go
slow.” Do not come in, hot from work,
and at once sit down at the table, but
take time to cool off, and at meals eat
slowly. Many look upon the time spent
at meals as wasted, while it is realL of
the greatest importance. Eat slow v,
and chew well. If you can prolong liie
time at meals by pleasant conversat on,
do so. Do not be in a hurry to resume
work after meals in hot weather. Take
a long nooning. Better spirits, and
increased vigor and strength, will far
more than make up the time taken to rest.
A general fault of our sleeping rooms
is lack of ventilation. One reason for
th s is the attempt to keep out Hies and
mosquitoes, by closing the rooms dur
ing the day. Frames upon which wire
cloth, or the cheaper mosquito netting
is stretched, will keep out insects and
allow of needed ventilation.
Farmers who work all day, are not
often troubled with sleeplessness, in
somnia, as it is called; yet it is in some
cases a disease, and the more fatigued
one may be, the less he is inclined to
sleep. A brisk walk before bed-time,
and a sponging and rubbing of the
whole body, with a wet towel around
the head, will often break up the very
unpleasant habit.
Fanners are very apt to neglect their
teeth. Every one should have a tooth
brush, not too hard, and brush the
teeth, using water freely, on going to
bed and again on rising.— American
Agriculturist.
—Portsmouth, R. 1., is rated with a
population of 2,000 in the census of
1870, and is probably no more populous
now. Within her borders, it is claimed,
live more nonagenarians than in any
community of equal numbers in the
country. Here are their names and
ages: "William Manchester, 101: John
Burrington, 94; Elizabeth Bramnn, 99;
Cynthia Corey, 92; Henrietta Allen, 95;
Mrs. Sarah Gibbs, 98; Mrs. Green, 99;
Bridget Cogswell, 92; Peleg Almy, 90;
Mrs. Wilcox, 94; Ruth Barker, 93; Ruth
Cogswell, 90; Mary Slocum. 93; William
Sisson, 93, and Margaret Sisson, his
wife. 92.— N. Y. Fo*t.
—Grape-Crowing is increasing rapidly
in California, and promises to eclipse
the mining interests of the State. Gov
ernor Stanford has added 1,000 acre*
to his vineyard, and bids fair to be the
leading grape-grower in the world.
SUBSCRIPTION-SI.SB.
YOL. X. NO. 18.
USEFUL AND SUGGESTIVE.
—Loans have ton per cent more nu
triment than wheat The proportion is
eight v-four per cent of nutritious mat
ter in beans to seventy-four per cent of
wheat—A 7 . Y. Examiner.
—it is said that the Peachblow potato
has done remarkably well this season.
While other varieties dried up and died
n the summer drought, the Peachblow
•mid on. and was ready to make a
growth of tubers after the fall rains
began.
-Cream Cabbage: Peat together the
yelks of two eggs, one-half cup of sugar,
no half cup ot vinegar, butter size of
an egg, salt and pepper. Put the mixt
ure into a sauce pan and stir until it
boils: then stir in one cup of cream.
1 our over the cabbage while hot.—De
tro.t Past.
—Pork to the Bushel: One bushel oi
corn should give ten pounds of pork in
tatten ng when fed on the ear. One
bushel o: meal dry fed will give eleven
pounds of pork. One bushel of meal
mixed with water -will give thirteen
pounds of pork. ('no bushel of meal
cooked iu mush will give liftecu pounds
oi pork. —Practical Farmer.
—According to Secretary Cold's latest
report, agriculture in Connecticut may
be considered a more than ordinarily
remunerative business, none of the
farms in Middlesex County, for in
stance, yielding a return of less than
live per cent, on the capital, while sev
eral gave twenty per cent, and one as
high as twenty-eight per cent.
—Cf all roots, except potatoes, beets
are most sensitive to frost Carrots,
being mostly deep in the ground, will
stand considerable freezing without
much injury, provided they are left to
thaw in the ground. Parsnips and veg
etable oyster plants are better for being
left out all winter; and of parsnips, es
pecially, only enough should bo put in
the cellar for use when thoso out of
doors cannot be got at. — Exchange.
—Bave the buckwheat chaff, says a
correspondent of the Husbandman , and
use it as an absorbent in the cow stable.
Being tine and dry, it makes one of the
best absorbents for this purpose. He
findi a corn basket full ( one and a half
bushel) will absorb all the urine from
ten cows over night, and keep them dry
and clean. He has made a practice of
saving all of his own and baying of his
neighbors for one dollar per load of
fifty baskets, and it pays well.
Sleeping With Serpents.
Prof. Bell, the Smithsonian Institute’s
agent, shipped his last collection of
snakes to the North two weeks ago,
and already has his museum full again.
It is surprising how rapidly they be
come and mesticated under his treatment.
During the recent cold r.nap some of
them that he turned loose in his room
at night climbed up the bed-posts and
coiled themselves in his blankets. He
felt them hunting for cozy spots
about his legs, and knew that he ought
to get up and provide them with some
loose straw, but a sleepy man in a warm
bed of a cold night is not over-obliging,
and the professor snored on musically,
as is lrs custom. The reptiles crowded
upon one another, quarreled, fought a
little, hissed, but the professor did not
budge; only now and then he would
wake slightly and cry softly: “Whist,
boys; be easy, boys.”
At last a big eoachwhipsnak e found
an openingnear the edge of the blan
kets and slowly glided in. There was
a gentle waving and down of the
bed-ciotlies as tlw big clay-bank ser
pent moved about getting himself com
fortable, when suddenly he slapped
about two thirds of his frigid length
against the warm le-s of the professor.
The professor made a violent remark.
He sat up in bed, gathered a handful of
snakes in each hand, depositing them
carefully on the t’o r; then throwing
back the bed-clothes he administered a
kick that sent the coach whip flying
through the dark to the other end of
the room, encountering the lamp in its
aer al flight and knocking f ora its
bracket on the wall the fragile skull of
an ancient Florida mound builder.
“Freeze and be hanged!” exclaimed
the irate professor. “I’ll share my bed
with you, but you shan’t drive me out.”
He drew the blankets over him. A few
moments later several pairs of little red
e. es climbed up the bed-posts on either
side, and soon snake herder and snakes,
in one couch, were lost in peaceful
sleep.— Jacksonville (Fla.) Times.
Empty and Fall.
A gentleman who was looking for a
boarding place rung the door toll of a
parsimonious old landlady ami when
the door was opened by a tall young
man, who was one of the boarders, askea
if he could get board there.
The young man shook his head.
“ Is the house full?”
“Yes,” said the tall young man,
“the house is full, but” he added in a
gaunt voice, “the boarders are empty!”
The gentleman looked puzzled as the
boarder walked off, picking the empti
ness out of hollow teeth, with a preoc
cupied air. But he had no chance to
ask for further explanation. Detroit
Post. m
—Herman Allen died at Whitehall,
N. Y., recently, after a peculiar illness
lasting twelve years. He appeared to
have dropsy, and was insane at times.
A post mortem disclosed that his liver
had entirely wasted away. It is a re
markable case.
—Jennie Lee, who played to empty
benches in “Poor Joe” while in this
country, went to Australia, and cleared
$6,000 a week for nine successive
weeks at the Melbourne Theater.