Newspaper Page Text
The uations of the Old World are now
so well armed, avers the St. Louis Star-
Sayings, that none dares fire the first
shot.
In Australia no newspapers are pub¬
lished nor railroad trains run on the
Sabbath. Telegraph offices are closed,
and all business is suspended.
The Guatemalans are evidently adepts
in the arts of the ward politician, thinks
the San Francisco Chronicle. In their
recent election the Conservatives at
Esquitia are reported to have voted the
soldiers in the morning in uniform and
H'min in the afternoon in citizens’ dress.
O
It is estimated' that the expenditure!
necessitated by the World’s Fair wifi
exceed $28,000,000. Over $18,000,000
of this will be expended directly by the
commission in the erection of buildings,
pay of employes, etc. The remainder
will be expended by the States and for¬
eign Governments.
The production of pig-iron during the
last six months of 1891 was unprece¬
dented,but the output for January shows
a further increase. It looks to the New
York Commercial Advertiser as if Eng¬
land had been permanently passed in
this line of industry. Except West
Virginia the Southern States showed an
increase in production last year as com¬
pared with any earlier year. Pennsyl¬
vania and Ohio showed a heavy falling
off, due largely to stagnation in the rail
trade.
The consumption of those delicious
' Crustacea, crabs, in both varieties, hard
, and soft shell, has grown so fast, de¬
clares the Boston Transcript, that a
• goodly sum is invested in the fisheries.
At Crisfield, Md., which has been the
principal point of production since some¬
body there started the business about
fifteen years ago, to the amusement of
unbelievers, there arc employed nine
• hundred to a thousand people, over
seven hundred boats are in use, capital
amounting to nearly $40,000 is required,
and the catch foots up about 5,000,000
crabs a year, valued at $150,000.
s
Souther Farm, near San Leandro,
Cal., has constructed aud fully equipped
a saltwater swimming tank, and it is be¬
lieved to lie the first ever built for th<
use of a horse-training farm. Experi¬
ment so far have all gone to demonstrate
the practicability of the swimming tank
as a labor-saving device for training,
.which will sooner or later come into
general use. Horses, like all other ani¬
mals, require baths, and it is claimed
that while taking his bath he indulges
in swimming, which affords a different
but as helpful exercise as does the track.
Swimming is now claimed to be a great
assistance in developing speed, and the
drudgery of track and road work is
thereby wonderfully reduced. The tank
at Souther Farm has a concrete basin,
ninety feet long over all, twenty feet
wide and eight feet deep. From each
wall there is an easy grade to deep
water, making it safe for a horse to walk
down. A platform is constructed over
the centre of the tank, which swings
from the roof. Upon this elevation a
man stands and guides the swimming
horses, giving them the required amount
oi exercise.
Pleuro-pneumonia is one of those
things, admits the American Dairyman,
that will not “down.” We can keep it
pretty well under control in this country,
where the air is comparatively dry, but
in moist England it keeps bobbing up
serenely. Just now it is making consid-
erable trouble and great losses to the
farmers in various parts of England and
Scotland. Sixteen outbreaks have been re¬
ported and 872 head of cattle slaughtered
in the past eight weeks. This looks to
«s in this country as a fearful slaughter.
There have been a few outbreaks on the
Atlantic coast,where the air, we presume,
is more moist than in the interior, but
this disease has never taken on an epi¬
demic form heae, as it constantly threat¬
ens to do in some countries in Europe,
and will do unless the most energetic
remedies arc constantly employed. Long
Island seems tc carry the burden of these
ilia for the United States, at least such is
the frequent report of the authorities,
but always denied by those who live
there. It has the misfortune, so far at
pleuro-pneumonia is concerned, to be
sntirely surrounded by water, thu9 mak¬
ing the atmosphere damp and arousing
the suspicions of the doctors. Like
conditions, they think, are liable to pro¬
duce like results.
across the sea.
Across the sea, the shining Southern sea,
Is she with whom I am full fain to be,
Though well I know her heart has turned
from me.
Sly through this wintry, rainy Northern
air—
Fly, Love, to her! Fly, eager Love, to
where
The purple South smiles, warm and flushed
and fair!
Stand by her. Love, when fast asleep she
lies
And drop for me, on her dear lips and eyes,
A kiss, that for my longing shall suffice.
Be thou to her as song, and scent, and shins;
Let all thy dearest memories combine
To turn once more her queenliesb heart to
mine.
—Philip Bourke Marston, in Lippincott.
A SILK HANDKERCHIEF.
BY EMMA A. OPPEU.
HERE was to be a
ym Mj C! picnic at the lodge
[hat afternoon, and
Cora had promised
Ifc ||p/ =|p} let to go. me,” “She’ll never
Cora
(jpg thought, the parlor wielding
duster
on her blue silk
iCHf handkerchief to-day
\ and don’t I know by
experience that she
wears it only when she’s feeling dismal
md thinking over all tbe troubles she
ever had or will have, and that she never
wants me to do anything when she's
that way. Oh, dear! And I told
him—”
Cora paused in her reflections and
turned to face, with a courageous smile,
the stout and dignified lady who had
entered.
“There’s a picnic at the Lodge this
afternoon, Aunt Cecilia,” she began—
“just a little impromptu affair. They
talked it up the other night at Bess Lang's
party, and I promised to go. Of course
I meant to speak to you first/'
“Certainly!” said Aunt Cecilia. The
blue silk handkerchief was folded around
her plump neck in a paiticularly un¬
becoming way. “You should hsv®
spoken to me immediately. Who has in¬
vited you?”
“Mr. Pierce.” Cora raised her soft
eyes anxiously—“the youug man who is
here prospecting for the Bryan Valley
Railroad, you know. They are think¬
ing of putting a branch through here,
and Mr. Pierce has been here several
times this summer. He’s very nice and
he’s invited everywhere; and—and we
seem to know each other very well now,
for he always talks to me, you know.”
Cora spoke with pretty, eager rapidity,
her cheeks flushing. “He wants to call,
and he's coming this morning to see if it
is all right about my going this after¬
noon. I told him of course it would be.
We want to start about one—”
“Pierce?” said Aunt Cecilia. “One
of the West Gainesbro’ Pierces? ’
“I don’t know; presume not. No, I
think he's from—”
“I know tbe West Gainesbro’Pierces
root and branch,” said Aunt Cecilia, de¬
liberately— “root and branch—and I
would no more allow a niece of mine to
associate with one of them than I would
allow her to associate with—Never mind;
I will not argue it, Cora. I know the
Pierces. I am grieved and I am dis¬
pleased that you have formed an ac¬
quaintance so unpleasant to me, whom
you should have considered. I hope not
to hear of another—”
“But he isn’t one of the West Gaines¬
bro’ Pierces,” Cora cried—“I’m sure he
Isn’t, Aunt Cecilia 1 I can’t think of the
place he does come from. He told me,
too. But ch, Aunt Cecilia, he’s so gen¬
tlemanly and—nice 1”
Helpless tears stood in her eyes. She
had not quite realized before how much
he had come to be to her—handsome,
bright-mannered Albert Pierce.
“I desire you to have no more to do
with him,” said Aunt Cecilia, showing
her niece a severe, straight profile. Aunt
Cecilia was certainly good-looking; her
niece resembled her. “A clandestine
acqaintance of that sort, Cora! I am
astonished! Even were his family
woitliy—”
“It is—I know it is. And ‘clandes¬
tine,’ Aunt Cecilia? How can you say
lo? And what shall Ido? He’s coming
this morning to see about it, and—dear
Aunt Cecilia—”
“I should prefer not to have him
come,” said Aunt Cecilia, “We will end
this undesirable acquaintance ‘here and
now, Cora. He is at the Lane House, I
presume? I will send Matthew there
with a note, if you will write it. My
niece cannot attend picnics with a stran¬
ger, and a Gainesbro’ Pierce.”
Aunt Cecilia moved away. If she
heard presently, from her seat by the
sitting-room window, something like a
faint sob, she persuaded herself that she
had not heard it.
For Aunt Cecilia had a heart and a
warm one. Her niece knew that. Stand¬
ing with her eyes hidden, childlike, on
the back of her hand, which was wet
with her tears—standing with indigna¬
tion and real misery in her desparing
heart—Cora murmured, dismally:
“She never would have done it!
Don’t I know it? It isn’t like her; she
couldn’t have! It’s that blue silk hand-
kerchief.”
Aunt Cecilia had the phaeton brought
around early that afternoon and called to
Cora.
Cora, fresh as a rose m a pink
dress, with white lace flounces, was
playing did a new waltz in lively style.
Cora not believe in worrving
sulking.
The gay gown and the music, and the
bright look with which she greeted Aunt
Cecilia, when she stepped into the car-
riage beside her, were the results of
sensible determination not to make mat¬
ters worse than they already were.
Aunt Cecilia wore her blue silk hand¬
kerchief—that was enough.
yes,surely—things would come out right
somehow.
Cora hummed the waltz as they drove
away.
“If I’ll run back and get you a lace
fichu, Aunt Cornelia,” she ventured,
“won’t you put it on instead—instead
of—”
“This handkerchief does very well,”
Aunt Cecilia responded. “I have had
it twenty-two years, and I wear it now
and then for old times’ sake, Cora.”
“Um—yes!” said Cora, patiently.
“What are you going to do with these
two jugs, Aunt Cecilia?”
“I am going to have them filled vrith
boiled cider at Bently’s cider mill,”
Aunt Cecilia rejoined.
“Oh!” Cora murmured.
Never, never would Aunt Cecilia have
driven to Bently’s mill for two jugs of
boiled cider if she had not been wearing
her blue silk hankerchief for old times’
sake.
“Yes, Cora,” said Aunt Cecilia,
gloomily. “I have had this hand-
kerckief twenty-two years this fall.
I remember perfectly how I came
by it. Your Great-uncle God-
frey had a store in West Gainesbro’,
and lived there—that is how I came to
know the Pierces, Cora—and he gave me
this handkerchief. His store burned that
same winter, and the poor man lo3t his
sight only the next year. Was it that
year your Aunt Sarah died? No, that
was late the next spring. An excellent
wom«n your Aunt Sarah was. She caught
a terrible cold, and it settled on her
lungs, and her death was painful and
lingering. The next year-—”
Aunt Cecilia paused in her cheerful
reminiscences.
“I wonder if Dan will be all fidgety
at that machine up the road? I think
not. Can you make out what it is?”
“A steam thresher,” said Cora. “Dan
wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t in the mid¬
dle of the road.”
“We can manage him/’ said Aunt
Cecilia,who was always plucky. “Thera
are some men there to hold him if he is
nervous.”
She drove on.
“Nervous?” said Cora, anxiously.
“I’m afraid he’s more than nervous. If
we could turn back-—”
But Dan was prancing rapidly on
toward the monster which had startled
him as by a frightened fascination.
Dan was young, and somewhat skittish
in his most soberest moments. He eyed
the machine askant, whinnying and
pricking his ears and already trembling;
ahd when its steam whistle was suddenly
blown, he gave a neigh of wild terror,
threw up his head and his hind hoofs,
and dashed on up the road, swerving
dangerously near the ditch at right or
left as his frightened sense# prompted
him, and oblivious of all but his foolish
equine fears.
That moment seemed a lifetime to
Cora. The roadside shrubs rushed ir¬
regularly passed, the dust flew.
Aunt Cecilia was pulling frantically
at the lines, with no faintest effect.
They would be overturned in the ditch
and hurt—killed, perhaps.
In which ditch?
Cora found her benumbed mind con¬
centrating itself on that whimsical ques¬
tion.
On which side of the road would they
be found with broken arms or necks?
“Upon my soull” said Aunt Cecilia,
twenty seconds later.
Dan was stopped—caught by his bits
by a strong hand whose possessor had
first broken his speed by springing into
his path and turning him aside. The
hand was not so strong, though, but
that it felt the powerful wrench; the
young man looked pale, and was winc¬
ing. His hat was in the dust, and some
dark curls lay very becomingly on his
white forehead. He was broad-should-
erad, strong-faced, tall, and he was
smilling pleasantly up at them, and bow-
ing to Cora, too.
Aunt Cecilia reiterated her ejaculation,
“Upon my soul! Have you sprained
your wrist? You certainly have. Well,
I never saw anything braver. I— Well,”
said Aunt Cecilia, wiping her flushed,
excited face, “I can’t express myself at
all! You might have been seriously in-
jured—were you aware of that? It isn’t
every man that will risk his own life to
save a stranger’s. Who are you?” Aunt
Cerilia demanded, her intent, admiring
eyei roving from the tall head to the
firm-set feet of the preserver.
“Albert Pierce, madam. And don’t
thajik me!” Albert Pierce begged. “I
am so glad to have been of service to
you and—and Miss Cora!”
His comely face shone.
“Oh, Mr. Pierce 1” Aunt Cecilia
echoed, mildlv, studying him thought-
fuiiy. “From West Gainesbro*?”
“From Russell County, ma’am—from
Saalsberg,” said Mrs. Pierce.
“You don’t say so!” Aunt Cecilia
cned. “I once knew a John Pierce who
moved to Saalsberg, Russell County,
from my native town, Phoen—”
“Phoenicia,” said Albert Pierce, yet
more amilincrlv. “Haven’t I heard him
tell Phoenicia legends till I know some
of them by heart? John Pierce was my
father, Mr9. Turner.”
“Dead!” said Aunt Cecilia, her face
softened. “Yes, yes I I remember hear¬
ing when John Pierce died. A tine mac
he was—a man in every sense, and of a
tine family. And this is his son! And
his son,”said Aunt Cecilia,beaming upon
f him with admiration and gratitude and
warmth, “has saved two lives.”
“Nonsense 1” his son protested. “Ex¬
cuse me, Mrs. Turner, but—”
“Two lives,” said Aunt Cecilia,
“which I risked by my own rashness. I
will try to thank you, Mr. Pierce. Will
you drive us home?” Aunt Cecilia quer¬
ied, abruptly, there being a slight
quiver in her voice and an eloquent look
in her eyes.
He was in the phaeton in a second, his
feet among the jugs and his eyes on
Cora. Hers were dropped, and the rap¬
idity with which her breath came was
not accounted for by her fright, which
had passed over.
“I thought you would be at the pic¬
nic,” she faltered.
“Did you imagine I would go without
you?” he whispered, reproachfully, “It
wasn’t you, Cora, I know it wasn’t. It
wasn’t your idea, writing that note to
me—that miserable little note? I know
better!”
“You will come home to supper with
us,” said Aunt Cecilia. “I have a salve
which is unequaled for sprains. You
must let me bandage your wrist. John
Pierce’s son! How strangely things
come about!”
“I don’t believe it’s sprained,” said
Mr. Pierce; but he looked happy,
Aunt Cecilia wore a beautiful white
lace fichu at supper, and was in good
spirits. She eyed John Pierce’s son, and
listened to him, and considered him from
all points of view; and when he had
gone, late and lingering, she pinched
her niece’s pink cheek, sighing and
smiling,
“I suppose if it is to be, Cora,” she
said, “that I can stand it. I don’t
want to lose you for some years yet, and
I don’t think I should have looked
with favor upon anybody else, But a
son of John Pierce—”
“You will burn up that awful old blue
handkerchief, won’t you, Aunt Cecilia?”
said Cora, laughing as she kissed her.
“It’s so—unbecoming! And you’ve
had it twenty-two years already; and—”
“Just as you say, my dear,” said Aunt
Cecilia, placidly.
Life History of the Rattlesnake.
Without attempting to enumerate the
traits of character popularly ascribed to
the rattlesnake, says a Florida corre¬
spondent, I may heie sketch the promi¬
nent features in his life history so far as
they arc accurately known. The age of
a rattler cannot be determined by the
number of bis rattles. Individuals in
confinement have been known to acquire
from one to four rattles in a year, and at
any time they may accidentally lose one
or more of these appendages. Rattles
are a modification of the epidermis (a
step in this direction is shown by some
snakes which have the tail developed
into a horny tip), and their number is
added to from the anterior end of the
“string.” The longest “string” ever
seen by tbe writer was composed of
twenty-two rattles and the customary
button, but there are well authenticated
records of twenty-eight rattles, The
sound produced by tbe vibration of the
rattle has been variously described by
different authors; the aptness of their
descriptions and comparisons depends
much on the car of the listener. To the
writer it resembles the rattling whir of a
mowing machine, heard in the distance,
and one is also strongly reminded of the
“song” of the common “locust” or ci¬
cada. The rattle, however, lacks the
musical quality noticeable in the note of
the cicada. As a rule a lattler does not
sound his alarm until he considers him¬
self threatened and in danger; it is then
truly a note of warning, and fortunate is
the man who appreciates its significance
in time to profit by it.
The distance which a rattler can strike
depends upon the position he strikes
from. When stretehed out at full length
and with the muscles extended to the
utmost, he could not strike one inch for¬
ward, but it is said that from this posi¬
tion the head can, in one movement,
reach the tail. The typical position from
which to strike, and the one assumed
before the rattle is sounded, is the coil,
This is not necessarily a symmetrical
spiral, but the body is massed in more or
less regular folds, the muscles are con-
tracted, and the reptile may then be
likened to a set spring. From this posi-
tion a rattler can spring about two-thirds
of his length. The blow is delivered
with a iapiditv which defies escape, and
is much more likely to be received below
the knee than above it. This is due not
aione to the angle at which the snake
strikes, but also to the proximity of the
person struck at. The force of a rattle-
snake’s blow as compared with that of a
moccasin is remardable, and supplies the
chief reason why the former is so much
more deadly than the latter.—New York
Post.
A French physiologist reports an m-
teresting experiment in preventive mocu-
Nation for consumption. About eight
months ago he inoculated two monkeys
with the tubercular bacilli of the fowl,
and after six months they showed no
signs of the disease. These animals and
a third were then inoculated with human
tubercle, with the result that those first
inoculated still continue well, while the
third died after a few weeks.
SCIENTIFIC AND INDUSTRIAL
Glass coated bricks are annouuced.
About 1500 years ago we entered th«
epoch of a more genial winter tempera,
ture.
Common wheat bran, or any kind of
mill feed is recommended for extinguish,
ing oil fires.
A reverse of seasons is supposed to
take place upon this earth once iu everr
10,500 years.
In his own laboratory Mr. Aitkea cj;.
culated 30,000,000 of dust particles in i
cubic inch of air.
Experiments with two straight edges
separated at one end by a sheet of paper
show that light can be seen through j
clean-cut opeuing of not more tha;
1-40,000 of an inch.
In some German telephone offices at
electricaliy driven clock is attached to
each telephone, which will work as Ions
as the telephone is off the hook, anc
stops directly it is replaced.
Recent experiments have shown that
in the dog and the cat, as well as in the
rabbit, the removal of more than three,
fourths of the liver is not followed bj
serious consequences, and that the or.
gan regains its weight within thirtv-si.x
days.
Vaccine virus has been cultivated by
a Russian physician, who finds that tht
artificially cultivated is as effective as tht
genuine product, while having the ad
vantage of absolute freedom from germ;
of scrofula, tuberculosis or other dis<
eases.
Mr. Haly, Curator of the Colombo
Museum, has discovered that carbolizec
oil is one of the most perfect preserva
tives ot the colors of fish and other am
mal specimens. The most delicate frogs,
snakes and geckoes retain their evanes¬
cent tints when kept in it.
The first white enamel factory in
United States will be located at
Iowa, and the plans fot it have just
received from Germauy. The process
manufacturing these goods is a seem®
and that it may not be discovered
building will be constructed
doors and windows except those openia
in an inner court,
It has been decided to work the
pool (England) Elevated Railway I
electricity, using motor cars, instead i
separate locomotives. The line is si
miles long, and the generating stationi
being erected There near the several middle openid of thj
railway. sire compose]
bridges, and the structure is
' entirely of iron and steel, spanning W
the most the existing dock railwai
which will thus be left free for
traffic of the docks.
Forest vegetation is much richer
North America than in Europe, and
prises 412 species, of which 176 are
tive to the Atlantic region, 106 to
Pacific, ten are common to both,
six to the Rocky Mountain region,
seventy-four are tropical species near
coasts of Florida, as against 158
in Europe. Six North
of forest trees—the Judas tree,
mon, hackberrv, plane tree, hop
beam and chestnut—are also
in Europe, all now growing there h atu
ally south of the Alps.
Legends of the Maorics.
The Maories are sometimes
sad even exquisitely poetical. One
them relates how the heavens and
earth were at the beginning of
united in marriage, and how the
was torn away from the partner of
love by her own children, the
winds. Every nigh; she weeps over
lost husband, and her tears arc the
Sometimes the stories are very
and oddly imaginative, as where
tale is told of three bretheren who
canoe to fish, and went far, far out
the open sea, when one of them, w
prepared a magic hook, caught what
supposed to be a great fish at the b
tom, and, drawing it up to the
found that he had discovered New
land. That was how the land
being, and the Maories point to three
the great mountain ranges as the
sanoes in which their giant
came from some far-off country to f
pie the land, The mixture of child
naivete and high imagination makes .—$>
jollection actually fascinating
temporary Review.
How a Russia n Peasant
I Count Leo Tolstoi described
recently to Octave Houdaille, who
him at Jasnaja-Pojaua, how a Ru*
peasant dies:
“Death is dark and terrible
the canvas of the painter, but
this country it is almost a
mirth. I just came from a peas
deathbed. The man knew that he
die and his pain lasted several days. 1* g
not once did his serenity of soul
him. When death was quite near.
as is customary, a waxed taper was
in his hand, his face essumed an ex]®.
sion of unutterable happiness. It
strange to me that after such a
that I have felt so little emotion. M I
from all religious feeling, death i*l I*
these people a release from trofl I
therefore, all absence of the cM
sorrow seen elsewhere, it is the
the slumber which the peasant]
longed for in the depth of his
and the of living is over.” 1
sorrow
It is said that gnp germs have *
caught and photographed. Won*-
they “look pleasant?”—Statesraa*- I