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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,