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Meadows of Rest
? remember the beautiful meadow*
And their sweet streams purling clear,
With flowers besprent, where my young
days were spent,
Where the birds their nurslings rear,
1 was sheltered then in the dear home nest,
Where my feet turned oft to the meadows of
.V rest -
I remember a grave in those meadows,
Where slumbered a laughing-eyed boy;
Death found him at play, he lured him
away,
And with him went half our joy.
We moulded the turf that his feet had
pressed
And kept his grave green is the meadow* of
rest.
I remember a silver-haired father,
Who walked by the river wave
To watch the reeds ©row, or the sweet
waters flow,
Or to muse by that little grave.
He has passed long age to the home he loved
best,
To the infinite peace at God’s meadows of
rest.
I wonder if green are those meadows,
If purling and clear are the streams,
If the moon shines as bright, if the stars
give such light
As they did in my youth’s happy dream*.
Oh, angels of destiny, heed my request:
Give me back, give me back my dear mead
ows of rest.
— Mrs. M. L. Rayne.
The Hero of Bunker HilL
BY JAMES BARTON.
It Is still a little uncertain who was
In command of the American troops at
the battle of Bunker Hill, There was
very little commanding done, it is true,
and it is of no greatconsequence wheth
er that little was done by Colonel Pres
cott or by General Putnam. But there
is no doubt that the favorite here of the
day was, and is, Joseph Warren, who
had the strange destiny to be thirteen
years a Boston physician, then three
days a major-general, and three hours a
soldier in the ranks. He was in truth a
most gallant and devoted spirit, worthy
of the cause to which he gave his life.
As the Seventeenth of June ap
proaches, passers-by read with renewed
Interest a certain inscription on a stone
cottage in Roxbury:
“On this spot stood the house erected
in 1720 by Joseph Warren, of Boston,
remarkable for being the birthplace of
General Joseph Warren, his grandson,
who was killed at the battle of Bunker
Hill, June 17, 1775.”
Another inscription testifies that
Doctor John Warren, a distinguished
physician, and brother of the general,
was also born in the same “mansion.”
The writer of the latter inscription
used a very inappropriate word when
he called the modest abode of the War
rens a mansion. A lady descended from
the hero, still living in Boston, has a
painting of the old house. It was a
farm-house of the plainest possible de
scription, two stories high, with noth
ing large about it except the huge chim
ney in the middle. It was surrounded
by a picket fence of the simplest kind,
and had near the front of it a most un
compromising shed.
It was the house of a Yankee farmer
of the last century, who raised vegetables
and fruit for the Boston market,—a
ikilful, enterprising, prosperous farmer,
who introduced an apple which for a
century bore his name, being called the
“Warren russet.”
The British soldiers in Boston taunted
Joseph Warren with having been “a
bare-legged milk-boy,” and nothing is
more probable than that all the four
Warren boys, each in his turn, carried
milk around for their father.
If they did not carry milk for their
father, they probably did for their
mother.
When Joseph was a boy of fourteen,
a terrible event took place upon the
Warren farm. On a day in October,
1755, when the farmers thcreaoouts
were gathering their later apples, the
mother of this family sent her youngest
ion, John, a little boy just ablo to do
luch an errand, to call his father and
two laboring men to dinner. On his
way to the orchard, the little fellow,
only two years and three months old,
•aw the two laborers carrying homeward
kia father’s dead body. He had fallen
from a ladder while gathering apples,
had broken his neck, and had died in
stantly.
Young as the boy was, this fearful
sight made an impression on his mind
which the lapse of time did not weaken,
and he spoke of it with feeling when he
was an old man. The father thus sud
denly taken from them, was such a man
ts we should naturally expect the
iwm At, Joseph Warren to b< be. One short
x twed in Ida
SCHLEY COTJHTY - ItffWfii
has been recorded, 'timing hi* eye
toward his eldest Wm, Joseph, he said
one day, ‘T Would rather a son of mine
were dead than a coward.
At this time Joseph Warren, fourteen
years of age, was about ready to ente r
Harvard College. The mother, a wise
and vigorous woman, managed the estate
so well that no change had to be made
in the life of the boys, and their educa
tion went on in the way the father
had planned before his death.
In due time Joseph Warren gradu
ated; then spent a year as master of the
Roxbury Grammar School.; then studied
medicine; a*d by the time he was
twenty-three years of age he was a full
fledged Boston doctor, getting into a
good practice, and married a young
lady, Miss Elizabeth Hooton, whom the
newspaper of that week described as the
“only d–ughtar of the late Mr. Richard
Hooton, merchant, deceased, an accom
plished young lady with a handsome
fortune.”
But now came on -the troublous times
preceding the Revolutionary War, and
every man had to choose which party he
would serve. The fashionable society
of Boston, for the most part, sided with
the king. Doctor Warren, from the
first rumor of the Stamp Act, adopted
the cause of his country, and did this
with decision and openness.
His politics excluded him from many
of the wealthy families of Boston, which
led one of the Tory doctors of the town
to say, “If Warren were not a Whig, he
might soon be independent and ride in
his chariot.”
His practice, however, was extensive
and sufficient. When John Quincy
Adams was an old man he liked to tell
of a service rendered him by Doctor
Warren when he was a little boy of
seven. It was Doctor Warren’s skillful
treatment that saved him from losing
one of his forefingers, after it had been
badly injured.
The doctor attended all the best pa
triot families, and thus enjoyed the ex
perience which people usually do who
embrace noble and unpopular causes;
they escape the bores and enjoy the best
society.
General Putnam, in 1774, drove in
from his parish in Connecticut, a flock
of one hundred and thirty sheep as a
free gift to the town of Boston after the
closing of the port. It was Doctor
Warren who took the old hero home to
his house, where he had a continuous
reception for some days.
When the British troops came to Bos
ton, the mere sight of them was almost
too much for Doctor Warren’s philoso
phy. One day he overheard a group of
officers say, as he passed, “Go on, War
ren, you will soon come to the gallows.”
Dr. Warren walked up to them and
said, in a quiet tone, “Which of you
uttered those words?” They continued
their walk without giving him any re
ply.
On the great day of Lexington three
of the Warren brothers wero in the
midst of the strife, Joseph, Samuel and
John, Dr. Warren was busy with his
patients, when a messenger brought the
news to him of what had taken place
on Lexington Green.
Giving his patients in charge to an
assistant, he rode toward the scene of
action, crying to a friend as he passed,
“They have begun itl That, either
party can do. And we will end it.
That, only one can do.”
During the chase of the British troops
from Lexington he servod sometimes as
surgeon and sometimes as a citizen
cheering on the soldiers. A British
musket ball struck a pin out of his hair
close to his right ear.
It was said of him, at the time, that
wherever the danger was the greatest,
there Warren was sure to be seen. When
he resumed his duties as a physician, ho
made up liis mind that, if it came to a
fight, he would not offer his services as
surgeon, but as a soldier, and he made
known this purpose to his friend*.
Accordingly the Legislature of Massa
chusetts, over which he presided, elected
him, June 14, 1775, ‘Second Major
General of the Massachusetts Army.”
Tnrec days after occurred the cver
memorable battle of Bunker Hill. As he
had not yet received his commission, he
was not in military command; he was
not a military man; but as soon as ho
knew the intention of General Artemas
Ward, who commanded the army, he
declared his resolve to share the fortune
of the day at the front.
His brother members of the Legisla
ture endeavored to dissuade him, es
pecially his intimate friend and room
§«to, Gerry, who entreated
not to risk a life so ^luable to
at that moment* He only quotod
reply ike Roman Sfeaxim, “it is sweet
becoming t© for our country. ”
Another friend 'Wrote, “The ardor of
Doctor Warren could not be re
strained by the entreaty of his breth
ren.”
And so, on that burning hot summer’s
day, after toiling through the night in
the service of his country, he did not
appear in the chamber at Watertown,
when the hour arrived for opening the
session of the legislature, He reached
the redoubt on Bunker Hill a few min
utes before the first assault of the British
column.
To General Putnam, he said: “I am
here only as a volunteer. Tell me where
I can be most useful.” To Colonel
Prescott, who was at the front line: “1
shall take no command here. I come as
a volunteer with my musket to serve
under you, aud shall be happy to learn
from a soldier of your experience.”
His mere arrival in the redoubt was
equal to a large re-enforcement of men.
The soldiers cheered him, for their was
no man then in Boston toward whom
they had so cordial a feeling. The ac
tion lasted about an hour and a half,
and during the whole of it Warren
served with his musket, as he had said
he would, cheering the men around him
by his coolness and cheerful confidence*
When at length the failure of ammu
nition compelled a retreat, he was not
among the crowd who ran out of the
redoubt, but, as Colonel Prescott
remembered, he took long steps, aud
parried the thrusts made at his person
with bis sword. The final struggle was
half hidden in a cloud of dust, during
which, as contemporary tradition re
ports, he was recognized by a British
officer, who wrested a musket from a
soldier’s hand and shot him.
He fell dead about sixty yards from
the redoubt, his hand mechanically cov
ering the wound in the back of his head.
It was not far from this very hour,
about four o’clock in the afternoon, that
the people of Salem first heard the can
nonade from the direction of Boston,
fourteen miles distant, and, as darkness
came on, the light from burning Charles
town became visible there.
Doctor John Warren, brother of the
hero, was then just beginning practice
at Salem. He heard the cannon; he
saw the light of the conflagration; and
soon came news, imperfect and con
fused, of what had taken place that day
near Boston. He heard that great num
bers had fallen, and that his brother
Joseph had probably been in the engage
ment.
After a few hours’ rest ho started at
the first s reak cf dawn, about two in
the morning, and rode to Medford,
where he received the certain news that
his brother was among the missing. All
that day, and for several days, he went
about Cambridge and adjacent places
inquiring for his brother; sometimes
hearing that he was alive and well;
sometimes that he had been wounded;
and, sometimes, that he had fallen on
the field.
He was almost beside himself with
anxiety and apprehension. One day, in
his overmastering desire for news of
his brother’s fate, he pressed by a senti
nel, who gave him a sharp thrust with
his bayonet, inflicting a wound, tho
scar of which he carried to his grave.
Many days passed before he learned
to a certainty that his brother had fallen
dead upon the field, and had been bur
ied where he fell.
Nine months after, when the post on
Bunker Hill was abandoned by tho
British, Dr. John Warren, accompanied
by his brother Eben, was guided by an
Englishman to his brother’s burial
place, from which he was disinterred,
and carried in solemn procession, with
military and masonic escort, to the
King’s Chapel in Boston.
Many interesting relics of Joseph
Warren are preserved. One is a small
psalm book tak'sn out of his pocket by a
British soldier on the field. His sword
is s ill in the possession of his family,
and there is some reason to believe that
the very bullet which pierced his brain
has been identified. His father his
living descendants, and the family ranks
among the most distinguished in Massa
chusetts, after having given several
highly accomplished members to tho
medical profession. — Youth's Compan
ion.
About this time of year the family
woodpile becomes so distasteful to the
small boy that he thinks seriously of
shipping as a pirate—preferring the sea
to the saw.
.
OSTRICH PLUMES.
Turning Feathers Into Bright
Articles of Adornment.
The Work and Wages of 3000
Girls in the Metropolis.
Many delicate fingers ply dainty trades
down in the old French quarter below
Washington square. There is none
daintier than feather curling. Could
the ladies that adorn themselves with
ostrich feathers see the plumes before
they have passed through the deft hands
of the girls that prepare them, the fu
ture wearers would, perhaps, look else
where for ornameut. All the world
knows that ostrich feathers come from
South Africa. Perhaps all the world
does not know that feathers from the
wild ostrich are seldom or never seen in
the markets of Europe aud America.
The cheaper plumes in their natural
state look more like the tail-feathers of
reddish-brown turkeys. Some are white,
some black and others gray, brown and
yellow. The commonest are a dirty
gray, the rarest perhaps black. They
reach the factories from the Custom
House in large bundles, each bundle be
ing made up of a small bunch tied with
stout twine. The first process is cleans
ing. This is done with hot water. They
come out pauch bedraggled, and are
uglier than ever when dried.
They next pass to the dyers. These
are men mostly from France and Ger
many. Dyeing is a costly and delicate
process. Even the black feathers must
be dyed, for they do not have in their
natural state a uniform hue. The white
feathers are bleached by a chemical pro
oess. After bleaching and dyeing coroe3
Bteaming. This spreads the bedraggled
plumes into some semblance of the
graceful form which they are to take on
when they have received the finishing
touches. Once steamed the feathers are
turned over to the girls.
A group of feather girls at work is a
pretty sight. They sit in long rows on
each side of a narrow table with great
piles of fluffy plumes before them. The
table is gay with every color of the rain
bow varied in a dozen shades and tints.
Most of the girls are of American birth,
and every shop has its beauties. Many
are below 15 years of age and few are
abovo 25. The tools are simple. The
first process is trimming. This is done
with small scissors.
It requires great care, for a snip too
much may ruin a costly plume. From
the trimmer the plume goes to the
sewer. Single plume3 are little used
now. Two of equal size are sewed to
gether so that the upper side of one is
exposed. The result is a stout double
plume not easily broken. Curling is
the process that brings out the real
beauty of the plume. This is done with
a small, dull, crooked knife of steel.
After curling the plume is fluffier than
ever, and its tip droops like the head of
a half-grown fern. So important is this
process that the whole manufacture is
sometimes called “feather curling.”
Feathers that are not suitable for whole
plumes are cut in two and made into
“tips;” that is to say, the upper part is
sewed on to the lower, so that a grace
ful, curling tip alone is seen, Theso
tips are bunched in threes so as to form
the emblem of the Prince of Wales.
Delicacy of taste and deftness of hand
are the qualities necessary to success in
feather curling. Two years will make a
clever girl expert. Once learned the
trade is profitable, In the best days of
the business a skilful Woman could earn
from $50 to $70 a week in tho busy
season. Even now many women make
from $18 to $25 a week.
From 1880 to 1884 ostrich feathers
were the height of fashion. It was the
period of large hats, and plumes were
worn winter and summer. Then over
production cheapened them; they be
came commonplace and presently un
fashionable. For three years they
were out of form, and stuffed birds,
fancy feathers and what not reigned
in their stead. Two years ago plumes
came in again, but this spring they have
again disappeared, and for the first time
in seventeen years artificial flowers are
fashionable. Of the 5000 girls who
once curled feathers in New York scarce
ly 3000 have found employment this
Beason. Next fall, however, a revival
of plumes is expected, and the curlers
who have been working as best they
could at artificial flowers, lace making
and the like will return to their old
trade. The feiy ostrich feather? worn
fhis spring are sage green in accordance
with the prevailing fashion, but it is whis
pered in the French quarter that brown
plumes will wave everywhere next fall.
The Perfume of Flowers.
Boxes of heliotrope, mignonette and
pansies, placed in windows, will sweet
en the air of all dwellings.
The seamstress and all of the laboring
classes should have sweet-scented plants
blooming in their windows to keep the
atmosphere fresh and pure, and act as a
disinfectant. We can also use the
petals of roses, violets, pinks, tuberoses,
etc., to produce a sweet perfume for the
parlor or boudoir; and by the aid of
modern science it can be very easily
done.
Fill a small, wide-mouthed jar with
ether, and use a glass stopper, dipped
in glycerine, to thoroughly exclude the
air. Fill this jar with the fresh petals
of any fragrant plant, cut after the dew
is dry; and only the petals should be
used; but clusters of heliotrope can be
cut off close to the stems. Ether pos
sesses the property of taking up the
fragrant particles from flowers, and
every day the old petals must be taken
}ut and fresh ones added. Quantities
of flowers are required, but when the
ether is all evaporated, it will leave an
essential oil of the flower, and three or
four drops of it, added to deodorized
alcohol, will give a delicious extract.
All delicious odors can be imprisoned
in deodorized alcohol, which is made
by filtering pure spirits through animal
charcoal or bone black in powder. It
can be used over many times, and a
thick flannel bag, with a wire run
around the top, will make a good filter
Fill it with bone black, and pour in the
alcohol, hanging the bag over a bowl,
so that the liquid will dr<?p into it.
Take jars as described above and fill
half full with the alcohol, and then fill
up with peach leaves, lemon peel, slices
of pineapple, raspberries, cherries, straw
berries—indeed, anything from which
you may desire to extract essence, and
you will have as fine an assortment of
essences as the manufacturer can furnish
you.— Household.
The Effect of Thunder on Dogs.
An interesting story was told last
year of a supposed mad dog out in
Litchfield county that was killed be
cause of its strange conduct, and after
ward it was found to have been only
frightened by the thunder. It had run
12 miles and then takjn to a strange
house, run upstairs, and refused to stir,
and so was shot. It was a Scotch col
lie, and those dogs are peculiarly sus
ceptible to and utterly cowed by thun
der.
There is one in this city not quite so
bright as sunshine in t'a r weather that
becomes an utter imbecile as soon as
the thunder or even a fire cracker is
heaid. Recently,amid the distant rum
ble of a far-rway storm, he laid aside
his intelligence and ran wildly off Irom
home without it. A long search for
him proved futile, but in a couple of
hours he turned up, all wet and muddy,
at his owner’s office, ready to be escort
ed home. On the penitential journey
homeward they met another dog, not
quite so big as this one, and at sight of
the large and ruffle I collie, the strange
dog dropped flat and lay cringing and
trembling, the victim of abject fear, un
til the dog scared by a crack of thunder
had walked proudly by. There are all
sorts of cowards .—Hartford Oourant.
Pen Picture of an Arab Mare.
She was the most beautiful mare I
have ever seen, of pure Najdblood, grey,
with flea bitten spots, eyes too large for
her head, nostrils thin and expanded,
the throat of a game cock, the hair o
her mane and tail so tine and soft that
the most beautiful woman might have
been proud of such a texture, and her
skin so thin and soft that the thorn
bushes through which I rode her used to
tear it;, and after many of my runs
through tho jungle I havo had her,
bleeding from the thorns, looking as if
she had been practiced upon with a light
3abre. She was what you consider in
England a pony,, fourteen hands o*e
and onc-half inches high; but she was
as broad almost as a dray horse, and her
tail was set up so high that as she moved
about her loose box you could, stoop
ing, walk between it and the ground.*
Her feet were black and hard, and the
tendons below her hocks and knees were
like harp strings. Add to this that her
her head was so lean that you might
have boiled it without obtaining any
flesh from it and you have a picture of
what this desert born mare was, Major
Shakespeare .—Horn and Stable,