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IN THE TWILIGHT.
As we grow old onr yesterday*
Beem very dim and distant;
Vie grope as those in darkened way*
Thro’ all that is existant.
But far-off days seem bright and cle«
With suns that long haYe faded.
And faces dead seem strangely near
To those that life has shiuled.
As we grow old our tears are few
For friends most lately taken.
But fall as falls the summer dew
From roses lightly shaken,
When some chance word of idle strai**
The chords of memory sweeping,
Unlocks the flood gates of our pain
For those who taught us weeping.
As we grow old our smiles are rare
To those who greet us daily;
Or, if some tender faces wear
The look that beamed so gayly
From eyes long closed, and we should smile
In answer to their wooing,
Tis but the past that shines the while—
Our power to smile renewing.
As we grow old our dreams at night
Are never of the morrow;
They come with banished pleasures bright,
Or dark with olden sorrow;
And when we wake the names wo say
Are not of any mortals,
But those who in some long dead day
Tassed thro’ life’s sunset portals.
Lockery
BY ANGELINA TEAL.
T made her acquaintance at an Old
Settlers’ reunion. The club, which
held its yearly meetings at Gershcm,
was composed of the surviving pioneers
of 1839. All persons who, either as
adults or children, had settled in the
the district covered by the organization
previous to or within that year were en¬
titled to enrollment.
A group of men wore discussing wheat
prospects. They seemed to belong to
that class in whom the uncertainty of
the farmer’s hope had bred a condition
of chronic foreboding. One said the
wheat was too strong, and would all be
“lodged” before harvest. Another
thought the recent rains would produce
“rust in the stalk.” A third predicted a
hot, dry time, that would cause it
to “fire at the root.”
Old Seth Householder had been a re¬
markably good shot in his time. We
paused in our saunter to hear him tell
about it. He was a grotesque old man,
with yellowish curling hair hanging
over the collar of his clean calico shirt.
“I presume tlier’s a good many old
fellers here,” said he, “that minds about
the doggery Hank Sloan kep’ over on
the old State road. He kep’ a little
stock of grocery, too, and about once a
fortni’t he’d hev a sliootin’-match. He’d
tie up bundles of tea and terbacker and
sugar, and we’d shoot fer ’em. Well,
one afternoon in the beginniu’ of winter
—it was the thirty-first of November, if I
mind right—Hank had a shoot. Ther’
was just seventy-three of them pack¬
ages, and when the match was out, and
Hank told ’em over, all but four was
marked ‘S. Householder.’ Yas, that
was rather fair shootin’. I tell you,
gentlemen, it’s all in the optic nerve of
the eye. Tlier’s whare it lays.”
The band began multitude playing on the ros¬
trum, and the moved toward
the music.
“ Should auld acquaintance mind be ? forgot
And never called to
Should auld acquaintance bo forgot
And the days of auld lang syne?”
The sweet horns seemed to speak the
words!
There was roll-call, answered to in
varying from the robust, mellow
of middle age to the feebler quaver
the octogenarian. A brief biographi¬
obituary of a late member was read.
the orator of the day was intro¬
After the speech came the bas¬
ket dinner under the trees. The after¬
noon was devoted to music and story¬
An aged farmer named Man¬
said:
“I was the first white settler in Deer
Lick township. Things was ’ud middlin’ folks
onliandy ’long at first. What
think now of driving thirty miles for n
of seed wheat and two plow-pints ?
I did that in ’37—druv it with oxen,
too. It was powerful hard work clearin'
np my land—timber so heavy and help
so scarce. I had one hired man that did
me a heap of good. He was only a boy,
but he was a good one, strong-fisted and
keen-witted. He’d shop all day and
study his books till ten o'clock at night.
He's here to-day, friends, and maybe
some of you knows who I mean. It’s
Judge Tazewell, there on the platform.
He split and laid up the rails that fenced
my first clearin’. He’s been to Con¬
gress since, and I’m proud to say he’s
as honest a law-maker as he was a fence
maker. I propose three cheers tor the
rail-splitter of the old Tenth district.”
They were given with energy, and
Jndge Tazewell came down and shook
hands with Uncle Eli Manning. asked
The president of the club then
How many in the assembly had any per¬
sonal reoollection of a two-days’ hunt
for a lost child in the autumn of '41.
“Answer Sunday-school fashion,” said
he, and about half a dozen hands went
np.
“Is the Widow Lockery here ?” he
next inquired. in
“I reckon she is,” came the answer
n woman’s voice from somewhere in the
crowd.
“Mrs. Lockery,” continued the presi¬
dent, “found the lost child, and if she
will tell us all about it, I, for one, will
lie much pleased. I have a vague im¬
pression of the terror which the hunt
produced and the excitement if iiroused
in my childish mind; but I do not to¬
member that I ever heard the occurrence
fully desorilied by any one who took part
in the search.”
He glanced again in the direction
whence came that prompt response, and
sat down.
A tall, straight woman rose from her
seat, walked slowly down the aisle be¬
tween the rude benches, and took a po¬
sition facing the people. She seemed hi
no hurry to begin her story, but delib¬
erately took off her starched bonnet and
laid it on the grass beside her. She
was the most remarkable personage I
had seen that day. TliongU fully
seventy years old. she was erect. as
an Indian, and gave one the impression
of great physical power. Her iron-gray
hair grew iow over her forehead, and
was gathered into a great, rough-look¬
ing knot at the back of her head, and se¬
cured in its place by a brass comb. Her
complexion was swarthy, and her dark
eyes were shaded by darker brows which
almost met above her prominent aquil¬
ine nose. Her lips closed firmly, and
her whole face had an expression of un¬
speakable sadness.
“Friends and I neighbors,” found myself she smiling, began;
and all at once
as I observed many others doing. Never
before did human countenance so quickly
transform its expression, The dark
eyes twinkled, the corners of the mouth
gave a humorous curl, the lips parted in
speech revealed a double row of perfect
natural teeth, gleaming with drollery,
was the whole changed physiognomy
and laughter-provoking. neighbors: Seein’ashow
“Friends and
Mr. Evans has sort o’ give out that I'm
the herowine o’ this tale o’ terror, maybe
it would sound better for someone else
to tell it. So much by way of preface.
“It was Benjamin Nyfer’s child that
was lost. Ben started one mornin’ in
October to get some grindin’ done.
There was no mill nearer than the one
on Taylor’s Fork, twelve miles off, and
the way roads was then, it would take
him away ’long into the night to get
home. That little boy o’ his’n, just five
year old, took a notion to go ’long, but
his Pa wouldn't let him. He whipped
the poor little fellow in the mornin’ for
ervin’ to go; but when he started the
child just follered the wagon and bawled
to be took in. The other young ones
told me that; and that precious mother
o’ his’n, instead of coaxin’ him into the
house and fryin’ him a dough horse, and
twistin’ him five or six yards of tow
string for drivin’-lines, just went on
about her work, and paid no ’tention to
him till he was clean out o’ sight. ’Long
toward noon Mary to”my Ann Nyfer, the oldest
gal, came over house, lookin’ real
scairt. and said Sammy was lost. He’d
follered Pa a ways in the mornin’ and
hadn’t came back. I says right away:
ti l He’s all right. Your father’s give
in to his yellin’ gal shook and took him ’long.’
“But the her head, and re¬
marked :
“ ‘Father him never gives in to nuthin’.
He’s druv back, and Sammy’s lost.’
“I went home with her, and found
Luke Wilson there. We three families
lived purty cloast—all within a mile.
Luke thought just as I did, that Nyfer
had took the boy along, but the mother
and Mary Ann seemed to doubt it.
Wilson said he’d go down the road, and
stop at Fell’s and Harder’s—maybe little
Sam had stopped to play. Well, he
didn’t find him, and the good feller hoofed
it on 1 ill he met Nyfer, three or four
miles this side of the Fork. There was
no Sammy with him. He said the child
had turned back mile at the from big home. shingle-tree
stump, about a
“When Ben druv up to his house,
there was quite a company of the neigh¬
bors there waitin’ to see if he had the
boy. A 8arch was started that night
with lanterns and kep’ up till mornin’.
Word was sent fur an near, and before
noon the next day three townships were
on the hunt. Horns was blowed, bells
rung, and the poor baby’s name called
in hundreds of voices. The woods and
swamps was scoured and every brush
heap and holler log peeked into.
“The sarch lasted another night and
another day, till in the afternoon
some begun to give out, myself among
the number. I went home and tlirowed
myself onto my bed with my clothes on,
and slept as I’d never slept before.
About ton o’clock that evenin’ I woke up
sudden, just as wide awake as I am this
minute. My mind seemed oncommon
clear and quick. ‘That child can’t be
fur away,’ I thought. ‘He’s been with
the rest to the huckleberry swamp this
summer. The trail leadin’to the swamp
leaves the main road not fur from the
shingle tree stump, I’d often heard
that lost children would never answer
when called, but at night, when
every hiug noise. was quiet, they’d cry and
make a It seemed as though the
hull kentry had been well sarclied, but I
still believed he was stickin’somewheres
in that huckleberry marsh.
“Now, herowine, I don’t want anybody to think
I was a for I wasn’t. I think
I felt more’n common sorry for Bacliel
Nyfer, because I’d luul a dislike to lier
for quite a spell. It growed out of an
egg trade. I wanted a settin’ of goose
eggs; she had some, and said she’d let
me have a dozen for two dozen hens’
eggs. Well, we traded, and I s’posed it
was all right, till one day she come over
and said sho thought she orter have
about another half-dozen eggs; for she’d
opened a goose-egg shell and then broke
two hens’ eggs into it, and it wasn’t quite
full. ’Twould have held easy half an¬
other egg! I counted ont six eggs, and
she lugged ’em home; then I told Miss
Luke Wilson and one or two other
women that I was purty thick with, and
w* made no end of fun about it whenever
we got together.
“I didn’t like the general make up of
the woman. She bad five purty children,
nut she didn’t seem to take no kind o’
comfort with ’em; just pushed’em one
ude and druv ahead with her work.
She and Nyfer both seemed to think all
the duty they owed their young ones
ny us to make ’em mind from the word
go, and dig away like all possess, to
moke property for ’em. But I was there
that evenin’ when Ben came home with¬
out the boy, and I saw ’em stand and
look in each other’s faoes, like the end of
the world had come, and neither one
could help the other. Then she went
about puttin’ a bit of supper onto the
table; but when she set out Sam’s little
tin plate and mug. all the mother in hex
broke loose, and she flung herself down,
shudderin’ and sobbin’ in a way I’ll
never forgit. Well, seein' as bow I
kinder misjudged the creetur for havin’
no heart, I felt pushed to make one
more try for that poor lost kid o’ hern;
so I jumped right up and said out loud:
4 4 4 With the Lord's help, I’ll And him
vet!'
“I lit my lantern and shaded it so it
let just a little light down onto the
ground. Then I went over the road,
just as I guessed the boy bad done,
turnin’ off on tlie trail at the big rod
oak stomp, and right down to the swamp.
There I stopped and listened, still as
death. Sure as there’s mercy for us all
above. I heard him almost right away.
“ ‘Oh, ma !’ Such a pitiful call! TheD
he cried and whimpered, very weak,
like his breath was ’most gone, and his
heart ’most broke, I followed that
sound and found him easy. He was
mired to his arm-pits in mud and water.
I couldn’t at first see how I was to get to
him. There was the body of a big wal¬
nut tree lyin’ back on the hard ground,
and the bark was loose. I pulled it ofl
in slabs and throwed ’em onto the hum¬
mocks, and so bridged my way out to
that little yaller head. He struggled
wild when I first pulled him out; then
gave up in a kind of faint. I carried
him home in a hurry. There was still a
good many people at Nyfer’s. They
made some milk warm and put a taste
of liquor in it, and forced a few drops
down his throat, as you’ve done to a
chilled lamb on a winter’s mornin’. He
was bathed and rubbed and wrapped in
soft flannin and laid in the baby’s warm
nest afore the fire. Nyfer and bis wife
stood lookin’ down at him.
(i ( Raich,’ said he—and she looked up,
her black eyes a-swimmin’ and her face
all a-tremble. Then he took her into his
arms and held her cloast—‘Raich, we
hain’t loved one another enough, and
we hain’t loved our children enough.
There’s that that’s better’n money ami
land, and for the rest of our lives we’ll
try and keep holt of it.’
“And I believe they did. The little
boy had a fever, but he came out ah
right at last. Miss Nyfer died about
five years after that, and he took the
family and went back East. Of course. I
I wouldn’t have told this story just as
Lave if any of ’em had been around.”
The people had listened closely, and
when Mrs. Lockery put on her bonnet
and resumed her seat the bush was so
profound that we could hear, high above
our heads, the twittering clamor of a
nest of young tanagers, to whom the
mother-bird had brought a worm.
The next to address the assembly was
a noble-looking old man with silvery
white hair. It was Mr. Luke Wilson,
or ’Squire Wilson, as he was generally
called. He had a firm, intellectual head,
and when he spoke his language was
correct and well spoken.
“The Widow Lockery,” he title began,
“has disclaimed all right to the oi
heroine. Do not let the verdict be ren¬
dered till I have finished wliat I am about
to relate. My friend and neighbor for
forty years will, I know, pardon me if I
for once lift the veil from a passage of
lier experience to which she seldom al¬
ludes, and of which many in this audi¬
ence have never heard. Nothing has
been told here to-day, nothing could be
told, more strongly illustrative of the
covrage and endurance of the pioneer
spirit, at least of the spirit of one brave
pioneer.
“One winter evening, many years
ago, a stranger presented himself at the
cabin of Thomas and Buth Lockery,
and begged a night’s lodging. He was
a Canadian, completely tired out, and
far from well. Neither Lockery nor his
wife had it in them to turn a sick stranger
from their door; so they gave him sup¬
per aud a bed. The next day he was
unable to rise, and before night he
broke out with small-pox.
“The following morning when I wont
out to feed my cattle I happened to look
toward Lockery’s, and saw on a sharp
rise of ground, about half wav between
the two houses, a woman standing and
beckoning to me. It was my neighbor while
here. I went toward her, but I
was some distance away she halted me
and told me in a few words about the
man with the small-pox, and charged
me to watch the road and warn the com¬
munity. She said she had been inocu¬
lated, and would not take the disease,
but she feared for her husband and
children. That day I rode eleven miles
to the nearest doctor. His wife cried,
and would not let him go. He read his
books for an hour, while my horse
rested, then he made up a package of
medicines for me and I started back. I
left the medicines and stimulants on the
scrub-oak hill, and Tom oame and got
thorn.
“As Ruth had feared, her husband
and two children were taken down.
Several out of the nearer families then
offered to take all risks and help her
nurse her sick, but she firmly refused
their assistance.
“ ‘I can get along alone,’ she wonld
say from her post on the hill. ‘The
Lord gives me strength for all I have to
do, and this horror must not spread.’
Everything sho needed was furnished
promptly and suffer abundantly, and this is all
she would ns to do. The stranger
bad the disease in its mildest form, but
Lockery and the little boys, Amos and
Willy, were hopelessly bad from the
first. One morning the poor woman
called to me that both the children were
dead, and told me to have two coffin,
brought to the hill that evening at dark.
George Giles and 1 dug a short, wide
grave at a spot on the place where she
designated; and that night she took
those coffins to her cabin, put her chil¬
dren into them, and buried them with
her own hands ! One morning, some
three weeks later, as 1 went ont of my
house just at daybreak, I saw Mrs. Lock¬
ery waiting on the bill. She looked
changed and bent, and her hair was
loose and flying in the wind. I can see
it all now. 'The sky was such a clear,
pale gray, and she looked so dark and
wild against it! I ran to my old post,
from which I had hailed her daily tor
weeks.
(4 4 Thomas died at midnight,’ she
called. ‘ Make his coffin as light as pos¬
sible to have it strong enough.’
“Then I shouted back :
it i Ruth Lockery, yon have done
enough ! Giles aud I will come to-day
and bury your dead.’ At this she threw
up her arms and uttered an awful
cry.
(4 4 Don’t do it, for the love of God !
I’ve gone through this all alone, that no
other place need be desolated as mini
lias been. Don’t let it be for nothing.
It shall not be for nothing ! If man oi
woman dares to come near that awful
house, I’ll draw my rifle on them !’
“The Canadian was by this time well
enough to render her some assistance,
mid together they coffiued and buried
poor Tom. They drew the body on a
stone-sled over toe snow, andlaid itintbi
new grave beside the other. The next
day we saw a red flame shoot np through
the timber, and we knew Rath had tired
her cabin with all the little effects it
contained. There wasn’t much, to be
sure—nothing that she valued after what
had gone before. We left a pound of
sulphur and two suits of clothing on the
hill by her orders. The stranger got
into his fresh garments after Ruth had
smoked them welL Then she cut his
hair short, and rubbed his head with
sulphur till, she said afterward, she
knew he’d carry the scent into the next
world with him. He took a gun and a
pouch of provisions and went away,
promising solemnly to enter no human
habitation for at least a month.
“The weather had turned very mild—
it was the last of March—and Mrs. Lock¬
ery begged us not to ask her in for a
little while longer. She built herself a
wigwam of poles and barb; we took
her some bedding, and for three weeks
she lived out of doors. Then she changed
her clothing again and came among us,
pure enough, we thought, to mingle
with the angels of heaven. The people
got together and built her another house,
and furnished it with everything for her
comfort. She lived alone for years, a
brave, cheerful, actively helpful life;
then she adopted a friendless babe,
whom she reared to womanhood, and
who is now well married, and gives to
Mrs. Lockery .”—Our in her old age a child’s
love and duty Continent.
The Delights of Country Life.
“Hello, Mr. Spivkins, moving again ?”
“Yes, you see me here amid the debris
of a once happy home,” replied Spiv¬
kins. “But my wife called the dance,
so I grabbed the coal-scuttle and swung
in for another cotillion with the furniture
van. The twins and the canary bird are
coming with the next load. ”
‘ ‘Been living in flats again ?” asked
the news man.
“Oh, no ! Flats are not lofty enough
now. My wife grew ambitions. She
wanted a place in the suburbs, one oi
those fifteen-minute walks from the train
Swiss cottage, gable-ended country
mansions, with every modem conven¬
ience and lots of expense, where we
would be free from the dust and smoke
of the city, have plenty of butter and
eggs, fresh air and a goat for the chil¬
dren.”
“And you had a goat?”
“Oh, yes, we had several; one wasn’t
enough.”
“How’s that?”
“Why, it was too exhausting upon one
to keep all the trees in the neighbor¬
hood barked, eat up all the old boots,
hoop-skirts and tramp down all the ad¬
joining gardens, and not liking to show
any udice partiality against among this particular neighbors, or prej¬
goat, I got
several to assist him.”
“And the butter and eggs? You had
plenty, I suppose ?”
“Plenty, yes! kept all the dogs in the
neighborhood lean trying to suck them
as fast as the hens laid them. ”
“Did your hens lay so fast ?”
“Oh, no, not my hens—no, these were
the groceryman’s hens—my hens had
their hands full pf setting. Why, I had
one hen that sat for four weeks under
a barrel, in a tub of water, that never
laid an egg in her life. Another sat on
a screw-driver, and a monkey-wrench in
a termined horse trough for a fortnight, and so de¬
was she to become a mother
that six roosters with a peck of corn
couldn’t tempt her to move. We finally
concluded it was cheaper and more con¬
venient to buy eggs than to wait for an¬
other generation of chickens, so the
groceryman was called in. To really en¬
joy country life and get health, pure
air and lots of mud, a man never wants
to go beyond the suburbs. Ho must
keep within hearing of the street car
driver’s whistle and the tin peddler’s
voice. He must carry home a market
basket every night, and occasionally a
bundle of brooms and a ham; and then,
■when he sits down on the back porch at
eve, with a towel over his bald head to
keep the mosquitoes off, he will think
with fondness unimaginable of those
ten-dollar- apiece rcasting-ears andthree
dollar tomatoes that his wife and the
gardener are going to raise next summer,
if his purse holds out. Have you bought
voir ticket to the Gymnasium yet!”
“No.”
“Well, don’t do it; go buy a place in
iho suburbs.”
A Philadelphia Hero.
Readers will remember Charles
Reade’s hero, who saved many lives
from drowning, and in whose behalf the
warm-hearted novelist addressed the
American public nearly ten years ago.
But in Philadelphia they have just dis¬
covered a modest young man of about
thirty who, if liis exploits are to be
measured simply by the number of lives
be has saved, is a greater hero than
James Lambert. “Reddy” Shannon, in
who is a hard-working stevedore
Philadelphia, living in an humble frame
tenement in “Crooked-alley,” near the
wharves, is accredited with an astonish¬
ing number of rescues—of no less than
one hundred and sixty-three men woman” and
boys. He says he never “got a
in bis life, which is partly to be account¬
ed for by the fact that his life-saving
work seems to have been done about the
wharves. He began when he was ten
years old, and has been at it ever since,
because, as be said modestly to a re¬
porter: “It’s my nature to drop in if I
sees anybody in trouble, and I have
pulled out a tidy few.” But he remarked
deprecatingly : “It looks as though
somebody was making a fuss about noth¬
ing. They are always tumbling in about
here,” he said, “and I never get more
than thank you from any of them, and
sometimes I don’t even get that. Tlie
first thing a man does when he’s brought
ashore is to shout for his hat.” He ex¬
plained that they were usually poor men
and he wanted nothing. It wasa strange
irony of fortune that Shannon, who
saved so many from the water, lost his
six-year old son by drowning. The boy
seemed to have inherited his father’s lik
i n g for the water, but got beyond his
depth, and drowned with a hundred men
and boys looking on who did not realize
that he was not in sport. Congressman
O’Neill is interesting himself to obtain
a Government medal for Shannon, who
j s modestly grateful for this and other
attentions' but seems disposed to think
that the chance to earn more than $12 a
week for his wife and four children,
would be a pleasanter reward than many
medals,
A CHILD’S PRAYER.
H»w It JMelted the Hcnrt at .Hissonri’* Act
ing Governor.
Governor Campbell has issued a par¬
don to Eli Burnett, of Bates county,
Mo., sentenced who to was three at the July term, 1882’
years in the Peniten¬
tiary for grand larceny. The pardon was
granted upon a petition which sets out
that the crime was Burnett’s first offense,
and that the law having been sufficiently
vindicated by a year’s imprisonment, if
given his liberty he would lead an honest
life; and, further, he is the father of c. a
little motherless, sickly girl, who j s
thrown upon the world and who needs a
father’s care and attention. The peti¬
tion is signed by the prosecuting wit¬
nesses, recorder prosecuting attorney, sheriff and
of the county, ei-State Sena¬
inent tor Bradley aud a large number of prom¬
citizens of Butler county, among
whom are bankers, attorneys, physicians
merchants, ministers, termers, and other
trades and professions.
Tlie Governor’s order recites as fol¬
lows:
“Granted for the reasons given in the
within application signed by the prose¬
cuting attorney, prosecuting witnesses
and the officers of the county and leading
citizens, and especially upon the applica¬
tion and tearful supplication of his six
year-old motherless little girl. ”
The petition was presented by the sis¬
ter of the prisoner, who was accompa¬
nied by the little child. While the Gov¬
ernor was reading the petition the little
girl quietly approached him, and, at¬
tracting his attention, said, with stream¬
ing eyes and sir, trembling let lips:
“Please, my papa go home
with me.”
The Governor was greatly affected by
the simple prayer of the little orphan, and
with difficulty controlled his feelings. It
was no put up job, no acting; simply the
earnest pleading Whatever cf a weak little child
for her papa. he might do to
others to her he was all in all; too young
to know of crime, she only knew her
father had been taken from her and was
in prison, and she wanted him.
The Governor, however, did not allow
his feelings to sway him in this matter,
and declined to act in the case until he
had duly considered it, but kindly told
the little one he would see what he could
do for her by morning. When she left
she took his hand and said:
“Pleaselet me have my papa.”
In the morning the sister and child
again called on the Governor, and the
child renewed her pleadings for her
father’s release. The Governor, not
having decided on granting the pardon,
told the little one she could go home
and he would send word what he would
do, but she replied:
“I cannot go home again without my
papa ”
Following this they took their depar¬
ture and went out to the Penitentiary.
About an hour later the Governor came
to the conclusion that the circumstances
of the case, the strong recommendations
and particularly the need of the child
for a protector, warranted executive
clemency, and ordered the pardon. Im¬
mediately upon its being signed he dis¬
patched a messenger to the prison with
it, so the little one’s heart might be
made glad and her burden of sorrow re¬
moved as soon as possible.
The sister of the prisoner says never a
day has passed since the imprisonment
of Burnett that the little girl has not
wept for her loss and fretted for his re¬
turn .—Jefferson City Letter.
The Windmill Cow.
A few days since a well-known De¬
troiter, who is a bit of a wag, visited a
friend who resides in one of Michigan’s
young, growing and aspiring villages.
A tour of tlie place was made, the resi¬
dent calling the Detroiter’s attention to
every two-story house aud all the places
of business, the new church, the spot
where a fire engine house is going to be
built and all the other village lions.
After the round had been made, be
turned upon the Detroiter and inquired:
“How do you like our town? Give us
a candid answer!”
“It seems to me to be a wide-awake,
stirring kind of a village. ”
“Wideawake? You bet it is ! Stir¬
ring? There’s more git up and git here
than in any other place of ten times its
size in the State. We will be a city
when the next Legislature meets, and do
I’m going to run for Mayor. What
you think of our streets ?”
“They are of fair width, and when
graded and paved, you will have some
very prettv drives, especially if you set
ont shade trees.”
“We are going to pave them all, sir,
every one of them, and not have muddy
back streets as the old-fogy cities do.
How do you like our mercantile estab¬
lishments ?”
“Some of your shops and stores ap¬
pear to be well stocked, and I should
judge your wants can be all supplied
right here at home.”
“That’s one of our strong points.
We are entirely independent of every¬
body and everything. Whenever we of
discover a want, some energetic man it.
business steps right in and supplies
No matter what business a man may be
engaged in here, his market is right
here, and all that he needs to make his
msiness profitable is at his hand.”
“I am satisfied that such is the fact,
for I have seen many evidences thereof
this afternoon. Here, directly opposite,
on the other side of the street, is an in¬
stance.”
And the Detroiter pointed to a large
windmill for pumping water, beneath
the revolving arms of which stood a cov¬
ered delivery wagon, upon the sides of
which was inscribed:
“PUKE dairy farm milk.”
—Detroit Free Press,
The Meadows.— Just now is the best
time of the year to replenish the mea¬
dows. The fall rains will carry into
the soil whatever manure or fertilizers
are given to them. The fresh seed sown
will lie started into growth and the old
roots will be invigorated. Root growth
does not stop in the fall, but goes on all
the winter when it has the needed nutri¬
ment to encourage their growth, seed so that will
the new growth from the fresh
take hold of the soil and the old growth
will be strengthened. In the spring the
herbage will start with vigor, and, mak¬
ing an early growth, will make a strong
and sure one, even in a dry and unfavor¬
able season.
famous ESCAPES.
INTERESTING accounts E c
FKOVI THE IMRANS. * CAp l
Some Notable Storlee of ui fe
-Many Years A J” ** „ Colo,,ll
paper fnlT War in ?he^eptembM t Ceni;ii 1 ! nStr ^'
following “ the Monies,” recounts 5 th th
and exploits: “Stories of tuT >
ous ingenious escapes 6
mance of the colonies, were mlh 1 r °
tures date back ^d
to the earliest
war wife, m who Virginia, had where a man' 1
sale been spared in the
while slaughter, the found their dancing oppoj fS wf
Indians were
over the acquisition of a white J
boat that had drifted ashore ™
ward captives surprised got into their a canoe, friends and BoonlfT' ft
in %e
They s&Srarasf TOro'Sto“lb“ m'i™
spoil. Bracket’s wife found a broken '
bark canoe, which she the“vhole
needle and thread; temily
then at length put to reached sea in this Black rickety Point, craft ^ aS
they got on board a vessel. A little W
of eleven years named Eames. taken
Philip or more s war, to the made settlements. nis way thirty milS l!
of the famous Hannah Two effect^ s
an ingenious escape, lying Bradley, iiJ
day hollow all the
in a to log and using their vrn
visions make friends with the do™
that had tracked them. They jonrnere,!
ni extreme peril and suffering for nin«
days, and one of them fell down with
exhaustion just as they were entering
white settlement. A girl jL, a
sachusetts, after three young captivity" in
weeks of
made a bridle of bark, and after catch
mg a horse rode all night through the
woods to Concord. Mrs. Dean, taken at
Oyster river in 1694, was left, with her
daughter, while in charge finished of an old Indian
the others their work of i
destruction. prisoner what The would old fellow asked his i
head. She cure a pain in lug !
recommended him to drink
some rum taken from her house. This
put him to sleep, and the woman and
child got away. Another down-east
captive with the fitting name of Too- L
good, while his captor during an attack
piece on a of settlement string with was which disentangling a I 1
to tie him 1
jerked the Indian’s gun from under his
arm and, leveling it at his head, got safely I
away. |
“Escaping captives endured extreme I
hardships. One Bard, taken in Penn- 1
sylvania, lived nine Mrs. days on a few buds f
and four snakes. Inglis, captured
in the valley of Virginia, escapedincom- f 1
pany with a German woman from a place
far down the Ohio river. After narrowly I 1
avoiding discovery and recapture, they I
succeeded in ascending the south bank
of the Ohio for some hundreds of miles. 1 I
When within a few days’ travel of settle
that rnents, the they German were so reduced enraged by famine ] j
woman, that j
she had been persuaded to desert the In- |
dian flesh-pots, aud crazed with hunger,
made panion an with unsuccessful cannibal intentions. attack on her com- ]
of ‘ New ‘The most England famous captives of all the escapes that of j j
was
Hannah Duston, Mary Neff, and a boy, I j
Samuel Leonardson. These three were
carried off, with many others, in 1697, 8
in the attack on Haverhill, Mrs. Pus- I
ton’s child having been killed by the In
dians. the party When to whom the captors the two had separated, and j |
women 1
the boy were assigned encamped river. on mid- an
island in the Merrimac At
night, killed ten the Indians—two captives secured men, hatchets two women and | J
and six children—one favorite boy, whom j
they meant to spare, and one badly- I
wounded woman, escaping. After they j
had left the camp, the fugitives rmem
bered that nobody in the settlements *
would had believe, performed without redoubtable evidence, that an j
they therefore so returned and
action; they Indians, after which they
scalped scuttled the all the the island but
canoes on
one, and in this they escaped down the j
Merrimac, and finally reached exploit Haver- made j j
hill. This was such an as that I
the actors immediately famous in
bloody time. The Massachusetts Gen
oral Court gave Mrs. Duston twenty-hve j
pounds and granted half that amount to
each of her companions. The 8t ° r y “
their dariDg deed was carried far to the
southward, and Governor Nicholson, ot
Maryland, sent a valuable present to tne
escaped prisoners.”
The Little Stockings.
The Queen of Italy is very fond of
children, and seldom takes a wadi witn
out stopping to chat with one or two of
especial .....
her youthful subjects, y
^In former days she would is often father, ask my a
protegee: “And what your
But since the haughty reply of a mite
of —her seven—“My Majesty father studiously is a Repute^ avoids this
question. ‘ months ago she af^ a little
Some
as a
lire
forg when she was reminded of
came, of of well
the arrival maker’s a pair best wishes. ,*o
ings and the Marghe a
to be outdone, Queen to **””W
pair to her 7?™? fwl 1
one stocking being Tkv were ac
tbe other of bon-bons. Tell m my
companied by a httle note ,
liked best f
dear, which you the palace n
A reply reached Queen-Both the
“Dearest shed many bfiter
have made me with the mone.,
Papa took the one other.
my brother took the
GAtt-SttflEZ
if something displeased her.
uho sweetest thing tbs*
rI. L SS r S»*»“'’ ! ® ot,01 '"“ SW '
into.