The Conyers weekly. (Conyers, Ga.) 18??-1888, November 09, 1883, Image 5

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The Conyers weekly., November 09, 1883, Image 5

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Newspaper Page TextXARJOR y MA Y - pffY yavctt metri^g white f«,m town, iu her trim gown, Marjory, slim and fair, sun-hat and her sunlit han-; jjjja ^b^cident, the green lane where I chanced t< Marjory May. Mav had come out for a stroll. WP* . . " v church and round by the toll, T* 84 ,n jhe wood and the wishing-stone, ^ was sweet Marjory tripping alone. ®f e ? now don’t say me nay.” |* T r come too Marjory May. you please,” laughed fell ont that we went on a’one, S° bT tlic wood and the wishing-stone; Jo® - h 'e I whispered the wish of my lito . Jlled ‘hat sweet Marjory Is May it aye were or hay? my wife, Ci®f- ‘ f ° r Answer me quickly, sweet Marjory May l r stood: not a word did she speak. „ “Tthe flushed in her clu-ek; W red Wood iie looked up with a grave, sweet smile ftCBS flush dvinz out of her face the while), m much, hut not in that way, -Hike you is John,” said Marjory May. jjddien there is. ha™ rolled on since that fair summer’! {ears day, bachelor, old and gray. Clever cap I’m a lonely stroll I take my Lid L by the wood, where and back her by children the toll, play: bv tlie house b john kas married sweet Marjory May. n vEXTV YEARS FROM NOW You cam© to California in 1852. You L a home, for the first time, in 1872. !l in an Eastern State, is Doze Jour home. .njje. the last twenty , years you have Ljsisted for in regarding dozeville as still ipossessed j in of youth. all the attractiveness Reflection told it you had 0 r von changed. 1 eople who had if must have nsited Dozeville and returned bore back iloomy stones of its dullness aud monot osy. But you had not seen this. You could not realize it, mere was tor you but one Dozeville young Dozeville— always young, because you saw it last in youth. day-dreams, in . river and bank In picking and shoveling to the claims, up middle, in mud, slum, and water; by cour cabin door smoking tlie evening pipe; on the sterile ridges ot Nevada prospecting for “ledge, you hove in imagination many times visited Coze villa. You have shaken hands with all its old citizens; you have been, for a time, the newly, returned lion of the place. No matter that lettei after letter told you how sires and grandsires and matrons and blooming, dropped off; bright-eyed schoolmates had you would see yourself, on the first Sunday home rf Dozeville, standing m o vi age church; and wi " J ‘ l could you fill it save the one you had left. realized; the The dream is continent is crossed, you stand . j bodily 1 m -n Dozeville. -1 None know of your coming It is night; tlie tram has stopped at the depot. The railroad has been ext d d to Dozeville ^ since yon left—Dozevillians were talk tag of building this r ad when you were * by-. The “branch is th.rty rate , m length. They were thirty years talking it over. Old DozevAllans had wed and died talkmg of it. At asfc a tmk New York speculator came along, “i in a “l 011 11 / 9 t “ ! road was ’ m t ; There is a feeb , e effervescence about the Dozeville depot when the tram s ops. Compared with tlie roaring, hustling, crowding bustle of a wide-awake town, .hs as he languid pop of a stale cliam pagne bottle to the roar of a toity-two pounder. You get in a coach and are toven toward the family residence. It is a cold, clear winters night. You look out; tlie wmd is roaring through the leal less sycamores; every street has its old .curve; every house is in its old place. You recognize them all, as though you had left but ’about yesterday; yet a gloom I seems to hang them, for you real ize, now, that yon are not to meet this or that old neighbor, whose daily coming and going from those gates seemed as unchangeable as the rising aud setting of yonder moon. You have met almost your mother a> d sisters! you have been obliged to prove to them your ideu tity. It was a surprise, but not exactly ef the quality yon hoped for. They were hardly prepared to see a middle aged I man, worn by toil and exposure. The hrt photograph you sent home, ten of years ago, implied still some appearance youth. And after a few days, some I times after a few hours, you make a dis eovery; yon mother are not and acquainted with your own sisters. Twentv years is too long an absence, there * a great gap. 1 whole lifetime of incident and event between you and them. You are bound to a thousand Californian sympathies and associations oi which they know nothing. You be tray tonally them provingf every hour. You are con homl, now that you are back at the old seated in the old arm «bair, aud on the very carpet over which yon toae tumbled fourths in your babyhood, in that the land of your heart is back UotherfnSta^ty^sfg^ of geysers o-rizzlies and Sis uold The tlie not boy’s heart that left her twentv years ago; it is a stranne man’s heart full of topes, fears, plans, and remembrances unknown to her. It is a heart recast, ■’-modelled. It was a beardless boy who •fit her—from the cradle to that last Wing tt this she had known his whole life, is a bearded man who has re¬ timed with dashes of gray in his hair, ^-th a different manner and a different twee He brings with him the volume Hd ■' twenty it years of life, but she cannot all at once. He shows, careless Jh woken a page here and there; but it is and fragmentary to her. Her ?es brighten when he speaks concern¬ ed ms. is some upon event familiar of his ground—that childhood; seems there Piece of her own son. Hers, during ^ ? 111 ® a tire absence, has been the quiet I 6 °f.Dozeville, not making half-dozen ® Inaintances; you have made hundreds me same time, and you bring them home with yon. gDjere b is f AA a younger dim recollection sister in the of house. you; a aer l'fe has she longed to see the yaterious . brother in California who is «*ays writing home that he is on the ' 6 making a fortune. She has painted ?? nehed ‘fteal of him in mind, and often , up the picture with many per ,tC Uons, And this—you, are the reality! She will not, to herself, own any disap¬ pointment; but she did suppose him a differently appearing man. In a crowd, lie is not the very last man she would have singled out for her brother; but he would not have been the first. Tlie morning after your arrival you behold Dozeville by daylight. It is very much the same as when you left; tlie woods, fences and corner posts are all in tlieir old places; the vacant lots, fenced in and not built upon when you left, are still fenced in and vacant. A few veteran trees upon the main street have disap¬ peared. Six new houses in twenty years ! One church has been moved from its former location. Consequent on the change, there was great dissatis¬ faction among the congregation; a part seceded and joined another denomina¬ tion. It was all the work of a new' min¬ ister, who had a mania for moving churches wherever lie settled. This oc¬ curred seven years ago; you bear all about it before being iu Dozeville three days. The unpleasantness has not lost its first lustre; they pickle old eon ten tions in Dozeville, and so keep them ready for use in winter, when things are dull aud the branch road snowed up. Dozeville and the surrounding terri¬ tory seem to have shrunk. The day journeys of your youth to Long Beach and Big Pond have dwindled to mere morning strolls. For years, in the mines, did von tramp two and three miles over mountain and valley to the nearest store for your flour, beans, coffee and pork— sometimes after a hard day’s work. Dozeville miles are mere parlor promen¬ ades compared to the rolling, rugged, steep miles from Mexican Flat to the Loug Gulch store. There are three hundred old acquaint ances iu Dozeville to be met, and shaken hands with. All, after the first greeting, make the remark, “Growing old> j see , i ike tbe rest of us _» TbiS) to one G f thirty-five, from sexagenarians, septuagenarians and octogenarians is bard to bear. The next inquiry is, “How [lave you been all this t i me ?” This is a dl f bcu it question, also, to find an appro p r j a te and applicable answer for fifteen n r twenty times a day. The long-wished f or welcome back to Dozeville proves a tedious operation. The apples wither in vour grasp. Finally, you deem it ad v i S!lb ie to restrict tlie number of these greetings to three per day. You court retirement, and avoid more the locality 0 j- ^he doze n stores constituting the pulsating centre of Dozeville. us read the Dozeville signs : “William Barnes, Books and Station t , r » q' b j s j 8 your first ago’ youthful play¬ mato _ . Twenty years 3 ou left him, • t j auncbed bl the Dozeville hook stoi . e . be keeps it still. Then he was a r uddy-faced, lively young man, just mar r ied- now lie has a shop-worn look ol For twenty years he has stood behind that counter, selling primers, slates, slate nencils, worsted and dolls to bttle boys ai j d girlg- For twenty years he has trudged four times a day—break fast, ’ dinner, supper ancl bedtime—to his bou e , ’ 300 / yards up the street. This, d \ j ^ck tri the citv for replen isbiilg be of dolls> slateS) pencils and primers, ba8 been b j s voyaging, yy bat cban g es and during hurry-skurryings b been yours * these twenty ^na; , Calibo down to A ri over the mo „ u tains to Nevada; j 0 O ki n g on the rise and bustle of new m j n i n g towns—looking on them de cayed quiet, aud deserted years affcer ward & living thatfeomposed now in this community, ^ of keen, sharp, } . men gatb red from the ends of tbe eartb ; witnessing their gradual dis- to ^ ion ud dropping g away-some forming fieId8) some t e gvave; glaciations and colleciing remem- and brances never to be forgotten; tb b aU thig William Barnes lias d ungto | Dozeville, and Dozeville has olun to him, ’ andhe has kept stationary, Satonel Scoy Attorney-at-la ... _ , other old playmate. Samuel focoy was a very troublesome boy in the neighbor hood - He does well to practice law now > for £ e was alwa Y 9 breaking it in his He was your j>artriei in ring ing door bells, changing signs, and ro bing melon patches. He is now a so ier mal ? °* bimily. You are seatet m is P arlor - Your conversation with Samuel 8co Y partakes not of the easy, hilarious ntdur e i «™ er da Y s : somehow you cau find c the scapegrace of entirely old. died Th_ Satan in him seems to have But tbe d ° or °P e " s > alv ele " g !Ult ™man enters. Sam Scoy-no Samuel Scoy, Esq. daughter attorney-at-law, Why, m troduces his eldest are J°. u surprised ? You might have known this. Sam Scoy was married before you left home. This is Samuel Scoy, a toi aey-at-law, with whiskers inclining to 8 ra Y> and a manner inther stem and severe; and this is his daughter. You are old enough to be the father of that self-possessed, elegant young woman, You never thought ot that; ye were she to visit Coyote camp you and a half a dozen nnddle-aged ba chelors would be ordering new suits from the Bay Tad ^ bat a steady old worker is Time poles will grow to fio 0 s. infants will de velop into elegant w omen And this is Miss Scoy, the daughter of Sam Scoy, b whom J the old coa t Tom collar and th once ® gather^ “ of his pantaloons and chucked off the end of Little Neck wharf, for tampering with his eel-pots; and you are nearly old enough to be a grandfather. Now, you begin to feel your years. You are invited to a Dozeville evening party. Being a single man, you are deemed eligible for this sort of thing. There are present a score of old school¬ mates’ daughters, just like Miss Scoy. But Bill Barnes and Sam Scoy are absent. They renounced such parties years and years ago—they are old family men. They would as soon be caught playing marbles on the sidewalk You prepare to go, and attire yourself with all the scrupulousness, the care and anxiety of youth. You go, and find yourself amid a worn, ont-of-place, aged bovine, a crowd of calves. The young ladies— the Misses Scoy and Barnes—charming olive branches of your school-fellows, survey you curiously. They have often heard their parents speak of you. You were young and gay along with their sires.’ That period, by the glass in which they survey life, was ages and ages ago—coeval with the American Revolution, or the discovery of America, or the Flood. You are an “old fellow. You are introduced to one after another; but there is no affiliation as in other days. The gap of years, crow’s-feet, and strag¬ gling gray hairs, lies between you and them. They listen for a period consis¬ tent with civility to the cracked old love song of this their fathers’ friend, and then fly away to young Mr. Cock Spar¬ row, just returned from his first collegi¬ ate term. Cock Sparrow was not even au infant when yon leEt. Now, you feel older. More apples have withered. It is your first Sunday at Dozeville. and you sit once more in the family pew at tlie old church. But the congrega¬ tion seems thin. You miss many a stately gray head. The elders are the young men of 1852. Still, the edi¬ fice is for you thickly peopled, but not with the living. When last you sat here, another, an older minister, preached a farewell and admonitory sermon to that company of young men bound for Cali¬ fornia. They sat together in that pew yonder. least, They were to return iu five years, at with much gold. All had sweethearts, and those sweethearts ex¬ pected at the expiration of those ffve years to become wiyes. Most of them sat in the choir. Some of their daugh¬ ters sing in the choir to-day. But the fathers of these young songsters never went to California, and forgot the they pas¬ tor’s admonitory Laded, sermon, drank, while and mined, and and gambled, and fought, and talked a lan¬ guage half Mexican, half English, and ran for office, and died violent deaths, and were elected to magnificent shrieval¬ ties worth 820,000 per annum, and teamed to bake their own bread, aud cook their own beans, and wash their own clothes. They never “made their piles” in the dry diggings, and lost them in turning the bed of the river, or were “broke,” “strapped,” or “panned out” at faro; then more piles, to be “broke,” “strapped” or “panned out” at monte. They never went to Kern River, Gold Bluffs, Frazer, Colorado, Montana or Nevada. They remained at home; and when those five years were up they married the girls wearied of waiting for the California adventurers, but few of whom ever returned; and those who did brought back sad tales of many who re¬ mained. Thomas Spring was a barten¬ der; William Dimple, a mule driver; Jeremiah Good boy, a confirmed gambler: and it was whispered son,had that Isaiah been hanged Sweet briar, the Deacon’s in tlie southern mines for stealing a mule. So the girls became Mrs. Barnes and Scoy, instead of Goodboy and Sweetbriar. All these memories come crowding thickly upon you, as you look on the pew where the .young men bound for California sat twenty years ago. Are not Dozevillians impressed also by these remembrances on coming here every Sunday? No; the change has been gradual for them. They are not looking now over the wide and freshly cut gap of twenty years. They are thinking of their dinners—of 31on day’s washing—of the repaint forthcoming festival tor raising funds lofty to the steeple! What a steeple that, was once ! Now the vane reaches up to the first limb of the right hand “Sentinel” at the Big Tree Grove. Some of the Dozevillians held but a dim remembrance of California’s grand opening day—the rush and gold fever of 1819, yet vessels, twenty-three years ago, carrying away the pick of their young men, sailed directly from Dozeville to San Franciseo. But other and greater events have since transpired. Califor¬ nia, to many of these Dozevillians, is almost the California of thirty years ago —a land remote and unknown. Some of them scarcely knew of the existence of the Yosemite disgusted. Valley or the Big Trees. this; You are AVorse than some of them have quite forgotten cer¬ tain of the young men born and bred in Dozeville, long resident in California. You speak of Tom Travers, who was a “Dozeville boy.” Half of California knows Tom Travers. Here are men in Dozeville who shake their heads feebly at mention of Tom Travers. “Why, Uncle Abraham Travers’s son, next to the oldest, say you? Well, yes, ’pears as if tUey do remember something of him.” Andtheu they stop, for they are hardly certain whether they do or not. It is not strange. Year after year in Doze¬ ville have they trotted around a little circus-ring of life; sitting about the same grocery stove in winter, sitting in the same chairs in front of that grocery in summer, droning over the weight of tlie last murdered hog, or the last strange face seen in the village; review¬ ing all the Dozeville tattle, until all other recollection is beaten and stamped nut. The mental horizon of these Doze villtans has settled thickly just outside their circus-ring of thought. No wonder that they should forget the well-known Thomas Travers. You call on 3ir. Scott. He was old to von when a boy. He lives in and on nooks. He has traveled all over the world in books. He knows California well bv books. He speaks of the Yo-Se mite Valley, the Ca-lav-erous Grove of Big Trees', and the San Joe-a-kloin ;liver. A ou venture to correct his pro- 11 * I nciation, but he lias his own laws for P'enouncing California proper names md will not stay corrected by a snip .4 thirty live. There is another trial lor von. Dick Harvey, the pioneer resi¬ lient of Whisky Flat, named by and foi u'mself. has done little in California for me last twenty years, save dig, drink, dance and play poker. Dick’s parent reside in Dozeville. Dick was one o that pewful of young men, westward hound, who listeued to the admonitoiv sermon. Old Mr. Harvey, Dick’s father, calls on you that he may learn something of his son; he has not heard directly from him in fifteen years. Dick long since renounced writing home, and with it all idea of ever coming home. Unfortunately, you know too much of Dick. “What is he doing?” asks old Mr. Harvey. You believe he is mining and doing tolerably well. (Dick has been “doing” every one he could “make a rise” from for years aud years. His best suit is a gray shirt and a pair of blue jean overalls. He never comes to camp without making a dis¬ turbance. He was once offered 850 to quit the neighborhood and betake him¬ self to other parts but refused to leave under 8100.) With all this fresh in voui mind, you sit before old 3Ir. Harvey, who longs to hear something comfort¬ ing from his lost and never-to-be-found son. You wish he would go because it is hard work, in answering his inquiries, to equivocate, and squirm, and sneak, and dodge about the truth, which is not to be told at all times about Dick. One certain opinion possesses ail Dozeville. It is that any man in good health, who has spent years in the land of gold, ought to have a fortune. explana¬ Vainly you reason and attempt some tion on this point. Vainly you talk con¬ cerning the risks of mining; of the months idly spent on Pacific Flat, wait¬ ing for water; of the years employed in baring the river’s bed at Grizzly Canon; of the race so expensively cut through a solid granite ledge; of the flume at Split Bar, costing thousands, only to be swept down stream by the fall freshets; of the gravel which did not prospect a cent to the cartload when yon did get into the bed of the river; of tlie tunnel it took years to bore through the rim rock of Table Mountain; of the high prices paid for water, which rook all the life out of your profits in the hy¬ draulic claim at Coyote Creek; of capital you put into the Columbia quartz-lead, whose whose rock assayed actual a cent fell per pound, little and returns a short of a cent per ton; of the fruitless scrambles to Frazer River, to Colorado; of the unsuccessful hunt for the Com¬ stock extension in Nevada, All this is useless. Dozevillians that have it firmly rooted in their brains when a man goes to California it is his duty to get rich. That he does not is an indication of a loose screw in his moral machinery. You cannot alter their minds. They have locked in this conviction for twenty years, and the wards are too old and rusty to be turned back without danger of breaking to pieces. dear old Dozeville You remain in your a couple of months. Would you stay there for life ? Would you call it your home now V No, no, no! There is another land, near the setting sun, which claims you for its own. You are longing now for San Francisco, with its afternoon gales and mosaic of nationality; for the sight of the Contra Costa hills, flecked in the. springtime with their thousand shades of green, and cloud, and sunshine; for Talmapais at eve, with avalanches of white fog rolling down its side; for the great inland plains, walled westward by the dimly blue Coast Range, eastward by the far away snow tipped Sierras; for tlie dark green chaparral and foothills, the scent of pine and balsam in the with their rich fruitage and heavy laden vines. Dozeville is dear, but it is not galvanic enough grizzlies for you. and You periodical require earthquakes, Dozeville is gold fevers. pleasant, calm and quiet, but it seems the calm and quiet of a well-kept churchyard. It abounds overmuch with widows, care¬ fully husbanding the It property outflanked of de¬ ceased partners. is by too many rheumatic aunts with lame backs and Dutch clocks. Dozeville is dear because it. was your boyhood home. Bat the lively Dozeville of your youth no longer exists. The realized Dozeville of 1872 has passed away forever. Prentice Mol ord. KOSSUTH’S ROMANTIC STORY. A Letter from the Patriot, Who Chronicle* a Remarkable Incident. The Vienna German Zeitung of Au¬ gust 7, publishes a letter from Kossuth addressed to Dr. Cotnos about his bril¬ liant defense of the Jews in the Tiszia Eszlar affair. After congratulating inci¬ the advocate the old dictator relates an dent that Neutraer-Comitat. happened some thirty “An years in¬ ago in the dividual named Bartos Saudos, who hated the Jews,” writes Kossuth, “had become enamored of a beautiful young Jewess, called Julia Weiss. He desired to convert her and then take her into his service. Julia Weiss repulsed the man and would listen to nothing he said. Some time later Julia Berecs, a young Christian girl, one of Julia Weiss’s best friends, inconsolable. disappeared. Saudos The bad her Jewess brought was before him, and violently apostrophiz¬ ing her demanded to know the where¬ abouts of Julia Berecs. “How should I know ?” replied the Jewess. “Where have you taken her ?” “I?” said Julia, astonished. “Yes, you. And since you dare not avow it, I’ll tell you. Julia Berecs is ly¬ ing yonder by tlie stone bridge, dead. ’Twas you who struck her to death with a poignard!” “Oh ! She was my intimate friend !” “Be silent. A Christian cannot be friends with a Jew and, to follow the closer the prescriptions of your Talmud, you have washed your hands in the blood of a Christian, thinking thereby to become still more beautiful. ” “In vain the poor girl pleaded that she knew nothing of the Talmud or scarcely how to read or write. She was thrown into prison, passed b fore the assizes and was condemned to death. By reason of her youth her punishment life. Two was commuted had to hard labor for years elapsed and the poor girl could not com¬ prehend why she was so tortured. One day she was taken before the directress of the prison, who received her with great kindness and the startling intelli¬ gence that she was to be immediately set free. At the same time she was pre¬ sented with a purse of twenty-live ducats as a gift from tlie Emperor. “At the prison gate Julia Weiss em¬ braced her family, who were awaiting her there. ’Twas then they told her that three weeks previously had been her found persecutor, dead and Bartos Saudos, that in his pocket was discovered a writ¬ ten confession, in which he acknowledged having killed Julia Berecs and having falsely accused the young Jewess. He proclaimed Julia Weiss’s innocence and begged her to pray for him. He also left his fortune in legacy to her. Julia Weiss refused that fortune. “From continues*Kossuth, the lips of the young girl her¬ self,” “I heard this story.” is but By taking revenge, a man passing it even with his enemy; hut in over he is superior. practical economy. “Give us a dime!” begged a tramp of a philanthropist, whom he met on Broadway. replied the philanthropist. “No, sir,” if you’ll tell “I’ll give you with a cent it.” me what you’d with do it!” muttered the disgusted “Do tramp, as he gobbled the coin, “Do with it 1 I’ll take a walk over the bridge with it. Wliat do yon s’poge I’d do with it; buy a railroad ?” THE PYROTECHNIC ART. A VISIT TO THE FACTORY. AND WHAT WAS SEEN THERE. How Roman Caudle* and Sky-Rocket* are Made. « Au article in the London Daily News on fire-works says:— A visitor to one of those case-making sheds in which a good tire may be roar¬ ing in au open fireplace will perhaps be rather startled to notice a number of barrels and jars which lie will be apt to assume are filled until firework-making materials of an non-explosive character or they would not be in r. building with a fire in it. These receptacles represent the most modern development of the py¬ rotechnic art, Just take a dip into the barrel and bring out a little of its con¬ tents on the point of a knife and hold it in the dark part of the gas flame. It is arsenite of copper and sal ammoniac, and instantly tlie broad light, of noon¬ day is overpowered with a blue glare that would have fairly astounded Friar Bacon, or tlie Heathen Chinee, or John Babington, or any other artist in tire of ancient days. We make another dive and bring out a little chlorate of baryta, and a dazzling outburst of green is the result when placed in the flame. Here is a barrel of sal ammoniac acid wliich is combined with color-giving substances to give depth and intensity. Another receptacle holds chlorate of pot¬ ash, a source of oxygen gas, without a good supply of which neither fire-works nor those for whose enjoyment they are made can be expected to be very bright. Some of the coloring substances are very perilous. If, for instance, a little compound of nitrate of strontia and sulphur and potash—the sources chemists— of the most vivid red color known to if a little of this should be left after a display at the Crystal buried. Palace, it is al¬ ways either fired or It is too dangerous to attempt to store. All this branch of pyrotecliny is of quite recent development. Forty or fifty years ago colored fire-works were unknown, or nearly so. Perhaps the most delicate and inter¬ esting feature of modem fire-work-mak¬ ing is the charging of Roman candles— those colored balls which are puffed out softly into the air, one after tlie other, without any report, and which always are recognized as such a pretty feature of the Sydenham displays. The public like to see tlie 3 e balls thrown out with exactly within tlie au equal sphere. force, so In as order to play ; same to secure this, very careful adjustment is necessary. Tlie fiery balls of color are little lumps of composition filled into the case, and separated from each other by a layer of “dark fire,” underneath. a little charge of gunpowder being just 11 is this little charge of powder which blows them into the air; and if all tlie charges -were alike, every ball wouid be thrown out a little further than its pre¬ decessor, because the deeper down in case an explosion takes place the more violent it is. the resistance being powder greater. To obviate this tlie charge of is made to increase as the tube is tilled up. The workman who fills a Roman candle, therefore, has before him a series of little scoops of different sizes for measuring the powder, and uses them in succession, the smallest being used for the first ball put in at the mouth of the tube. The “dark fire” is a composi¬ tion which only smoulders, and which, therefore, does not burn down to a sec¬ ond ball until tlie first has performed its graceful fireworks progress the rocket through is perhaps the air. Of all the most beautiful, and it certainly is the most curious in its structure. Some of the best of them arc said to rise to a height of more than a third of a mile, and this amazing power of flight is secured by running very tightly into the rocket-case a composition which burns fiercely, and generates gas very rapidly when orco lighted, but which has only a very small vent for its fury at tlie lower end of the case. The gas gen¬ erated inside rushes out with such vio¬ lence against the air outside that the rocket is driven upward by it, the tail of tlie comet consisting of the sparks of the fire burning within. Rocket-making, of course, forms a part In of tlie work the or any fire-work factory. one shed cases are being made; in another building sticks are being split up and rounded at the head so as to fit into the rocket-case. In a third all sorts of curious burdens are being prepared for the flery mes¬ sengers whoso heads are holding cham¬ bers capable of holding “tail stars,” comets, colored stars, golden rain, float¬ ing lights, and a score of other surprises when the rocket cau rise no higher. Story About a Tree Toad. In the fall of 1881 Mrs. William Red 'ield, living in Middletown. N. Y., dis¬ covered a tree toad on a calla lilly which -lie had potted and removed to the muse. The toad was 11 t disturbed and it remained in its adopted home all winter, burying itself in the earth ill the flower pot, and stayed beneath spring, the surface most of tlie time until l'he plant was carried out of doors in the spring, and the toad came out of the ground and sang its shrill song all summer on the lilly, and when the flower pot was taken in again iu the fall buried itself as before. Early last spring it disappeared, and was not seen again until the 2d of September, when it was discovered in its old quarters with » companion. The two toads seem to rave settled down contentedly in the flower pot During the daytime calla they sleep while clinging to the leaf or stalk, and in the evening they serenade the household with their peculiar duet. that awful bot. Five or six couple had been invited in to play cards and listen to music, and peaches had been passed with other re¬ freshments. The party was jnst ready to break up when the terror of the family entered the parlor and called ont: “There, pa, what did ma tell you ?” The “governor” probably could knew what the was comiBg, but before he get youngster out of the way he shot off the other barrel with: “Ma said if we bought cling-stone peaches we’d save at Wast half, and we have.”— M. Qwad. Mary Anderson aud l’rlnce or Wales. A gentleman who returned home from Lou don last week says Mary Anderson lias had a more cordial reception there than has been given to au American ac¬ tress for many years. He also tells a story, which, it correct, cannot fail to increase the respect of the American public for Miss Anderson. her arrival she It seems that upon was invited to some of the best houses in Loudon, and stories were told of her beauty and wit that made the Prince of Wales very anxious to meet her. Miss Anderson was informed of this flattering expression unaccountably of his Royal Highness; but, her most as it seemed to English friends, she showed no desire for the presentation. Finally well"was a gentle¬ man who knew her very asked by the Prince to say to Miss Auderson that he would be pleased if she would indicate a time when it would be agree¬ able to her to receive an introduction to his Royal Highness. She replied disrespect that while she wished to show no to the future ruler of England, she must decline to receive him. Such a reply had never before been made ton request for au introduction by a Prince of the blood, and she was asked to explain. “An introduction to the Prince of Wales,” she pluckily answered, “can do me no good professionally, and I know very well how he regards actresses gen¬ erally. Personally, I have always main¬ tained my own dignity and self-respect, and I do not mean to put myself in any position voluntarily whore I may bo compelled to forgot them. Therefore I must decline to be presented to him. I have gone this far in life without a breath of scandal attaching to me, and I do not mean now to do anything that might change that condition.” This settled the matter. The story got out in London noticeable and was widely re¬ peated, and it was after that that the Princess of Wales invited Miss Anderson to her garden party, an honor she has never before conferred on any actress of the English stage. It is a pity some American girls who are get¬ ting themselves very much talked about in connection with the Prince of Wales could not follow Miss Anderson’s ex¬ ample.— Washington Sunday Herald. The Loss of tlie Proteus. The special dispatch from the N. Y. Herald’s correspondent with the Greelv relief party gives particulars of the loss of the steamer Proteus, when only a week ont on her trip from Godliaven, Greenland, toward Lady Franklin Bay, where Lieutenant Greely’s party built are for stationed. The Proteus was sealing and whaling in the aortic regions, and the doekmaster at Sydney, Cape Breton, pronounced her the strongest of the many vessels that had touched at his port'; hut it seems construct to bo beyond vessel that (he power of man to a eau successfully resist the “nipping” strength of great masses of ice. The es¬ cape of her crew, who had to travel a thousand miles in open boats, seems lit¬ tle less than miraculous, and reflects great eredit on the seamanship of the officers and (he endurance of the men. The failure of the relief vessel to reach Lady Franklin Bay does not necessarily imply disaster to the Greely party. Supplies were stored in 1881 within a hundred and forty miles of the station; others were placed last year at a point which Lieutenant Greely knew might be used for that purpose. If either of these lias been reached and found intact the party will not starve, even if they do not find much game aud fish. There are boats and sledges at the station, and there is no reason the why southward men may by land no' have been sent to or water, or both, in search of relief, or why the station may not have been abandoned, as, according to orders, it should have been a fortnight ago at latest. Domestic Recipes. Stewed Cons and Tomatoes. —Cnr two pounds of fresh pork in half inch pieces, and brown it in a saucepan con¬ taining a tablespoonful of browning, smoking hot butter; while the pork is peel and chop one onion, one green pepper, rejecting the seeds, and one pint of toma¬ toes. and grate six large ears of corn, or a dozen small ones; when the pork is brown add the vegetables, together with sufficient boiling water to cover them, and a palatable seasoning of salt; cover the saucepan, and simmer its contents for half an hour, or until the pork is tender, and then serve the stew hot. Cohn and Tomato Pudding. —Put a quart of milk over the fire 1 o heat; mix r tablespoonful of corn starch with half 9 cupful of cold milk; peel and slice a pint of tomatoes, aud grate enough green corn to fill a pint measure; beat, six eggs smooth, aud then beat with them the corn-starch dissolved in cold milk; next add the grated corn and tomatoes, to¬ gether with four heaping tablospoonfuls of sugar; put the mixture at once into a buttered earthen dish, and bake the pudding in a moderate oven for half an hour; serve it hot. Fried Cohn, Concord Stylm. —Peel and slice a pint of tomatoes, put them into a frying-pan with a tabic-spoonful salt, of butter, a level tea-spoonful of of and quarter of a salt-spoonful pepper, and place them over the fire to fry, stirring them often enough to prevent burning; if the flavor of onion is liked a small one may be peeled and chopped and fried with the tomatoes; ent the grains from six oars of cold boiled corn, put them into a frying-pan containing a table-spoonful of butter with made smoking hot, season them pepper and salt and stir them until they < r, brown; put the fried tomatoes in . the middle of a hot platter, and dish the corn around them, and servo the very hot. “I understand that yon referred to me as a pig, sir,” remarked a pompous elderly gentleman to a young man him who bad spoken disparagingly of to a third person. “Yon have been misin¬ formed, sir,” replied the young man, “I hope I knsw better than to refer to a person of your advanced age an a pig.” —Rochester Express. Women dress less to be clothed than to lie adorned. When alone before their mirrors they think more of men than of themselves.