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About The Conyers weekly. (Conyers, Ga.) 18??-1888 | View Entire Issue (Nov. 23, 1883)
foreman o* 1’IIE SHOP. *-A HE Should Nut Sb«'" <l He ^ge Be. •.; 0 n of foreman of a shop or P of p a „i<r S of workmen out demands of fair as ^ > Sod the turning a - e f work Some fill one ponut of f L demand and others the feen ,r- but it is only the man who fills both. are sometimes at fault in &M' 0 - foremen the largest from in given time, of work a r k f and mishiug, grumbling than sp b occupied more time a 0 nud picking up every , n ; p tion as a direct attempt P g rion If a foreman is honor P pC f !l sensitive he will not bear this P ami so in simps ruled by such P“| f or changes such instance of foremen occurs are fre- to P- ff/’inst One proprietor of a very now of a business, requiring the services ^ nd a good foreman?” he inquired. “ have an excellent man for the oU ,ri‘. iu your shop,” was answered, lace “ “Oh, he’ll never do; he’s r. ^the Him driver men himself. I want a K°L ought to be a stranger.” estabhsh- The r tinn of foreman in that r is periodically vacant, and a &er Es and who has can the bring qualifications fair recommen- of a KL,” ^position, can generally have has assurances to wait even if he a 7} 1 time for proprietor his predecessor s shoes usual vet this is in no ^ ‘“a hard man;” 1 he simply has a kssf idea of the duty of a foreman, -a* foreman is a mechanical blus ffi, w ideal cydones in the shop, Kff) who stirs up general Ldaces an atmosphere of un _ hop round Liness; and “makes the men My.” as he once remarked. The kemm^and make trouble for every new his “life is not a happy bne.” hovrever, some foremen | Lo I],ere are, instructors rather than mana¬ are Under their rule gers of men. more Le L is spent in the in details “doing of work, correcting errors, over, itim should be required to complete the L Lement, The scrap heap, under their man grows to enormous propor Ls; slight every mistake slight error in apprehension m work and of e verv another accretion to the order makes growing pile. ‘Under such foremen the [workmen |or material. never learn economy of time | of capacitated foreman is sibility, A truly and his portrait is drawn a from pos¬ L [where f iffl cy sketch. In the establishment he is a manager a strike has not [occurred [twenty-five since it had Probably an existence— there are [many' years. and his portrait [Eland like him, may | for those of others. Although he is generally as exact as [tie lis workmen stir as them to “bell if he hour,” is late there and L no among attention when he letting down of [goes [job and out. does He it, assumes wearing a his part honorable of every overalls like his men. He is not afraid of a loss of dignity or a relaxation of authority by addressing his men famil¬ iarly. He suffers no diminution of well haraed superiority in asking advice of home of his more experienced men. If one of his men “funs against a snag,” lie goes at once to his foreman, who either knows what to do or has some proper and timely suggestion to make. Be contrives to have his men interested i)n the work from incipiency to finish, and when one of them shows hearty in¬ terest in the work and turns out a good job he is told of it in plain words that cheer his heart, instead of being re¬ warded with a grumpy “That’ll do.”— Scientific American. The Slaughter of the Aunamitcs. | [capital A description of Annam, of the is published. fall of Hue, The the report is hv a Trench officer, an eye¬ witness of the slaughter of the con¬ quered and cooped-up Annamites. “The beaten Annamites were cooped up in the burning village,” says this lurid sketch. “The only road of escape lay under the guns of the fort. We saw them halting at the end of the village with singed garments. Then the poor helpless creatures rushed under the French fire. A great battery then com¬ menced. Two volleys were fired. It was quite a treat to see these fan-like streams of bullets sweeping down upon the fugitives. They were poured in twice in one minute at the word of com¬ mand, It and in a sure methodical manner. was like a jet from a huge watering pot, which mowed them down by doz¬ ens. In a cloud of dust and gravel, continues this fierce report, we could see some who seemed to be driven mad,* picking themselves up, limping now one My, now another, like wounded ani¬ mals. Gathering ud their robes in a comical manner, their long hair unfast¬ ened and streaming down their backs, hade them look like women. | ‘ Our men continued to kill them all i the same when they came up to breathe bke seals. The men then amused them¬ selves counting the dead—fifty on the ■eft, eighty on the right. In the village toe small heaps. With those killedin the southern forts about eight hundred ® a thousand must have been disposed °t After all this massacre had conclud ™> a “d ‘the route of the Annamites was *mpiete,’ ercely the French sailors were dpless hunting Ann after the wounded and J amites. Some were crouch hi holes, others feigning death, rile others at the last gasp were fetching er out their hands pleading for cy and shouting ‘Han, Han !’ in fed eartrending them accents. Our menslaught jtonwith with bayonets or brained the butt ends of their mus Piaxtation Pleasantries - -Dere’s a Tfh t° poverty in dis country. No man Pb too po’ ter keep a dog. I have hiow d whisky ter make a plain, dull speaker ’pear eloquent an’ witty, but it as the listeners had drunk it. De man ; a , thinks cast-iron pistols can’t hurt to body sutinly nebber fired off many er 5^- «long He agricultural colleges must be way off, ’cause heap er farmer , • , *s goes off ter ’em an’ nebber gits ack ter de farms agin.— Texas Siftings. AFTER THE EVACUATION. Ilow New York City Cooked After it was Turned over to Washington by the British. The appearance of the town at the time of its restoration to liberty and peace at the end of the He, volution ary War, is described bv one who saw it as the most desolate and gloomy imagin able. Beginning at the foot of Broad way, there stooa the old fort with its dismounted cannon lying under the walls over which they had apparently been toppled by the British soldiers in the wantonness or haste of their departure. In the Bowling Green was still seen the pedestal from which the leaden image of George III. had been hurled on the re ceipt of the news of the Declaration of Independence. Immediately above ibis point began the burned district, extend¬ ing up both sides of Broadway to Hec¬ tor street, except some half dozen houses left standing near the Battery. To the east of Broadway, as far as Broad street and up to Beaver street, all was a heap of ruins, while on the west side all was swept away except St. Paul’s Church and a few buildings beyond the compact part of the city as it was at that time. Opposite St. Paul’s were several dwell¬ ings of the better class, From this point the fields were open to the north as far as a line ranging eastwardly from Warren street, where the prospect was bounded by a row of more useful than nr:: amental public buildings—the bride¬ well, the Poor-house, the jail and the gallows. Toward the west there -was nothing to obstruct the view of the North river but a few low houses and the half ruined buildings of Columbia Col¬ lege. No visible attempt had been made since the fire to remove the ruins, and as many of the edifices destroyed were of brick, the skeletons of the walls cast their grim shadows upon the pavements, imparting an unearthly aspect to the streets. The semicircular front of Trinity Church still reared its ghastly form and seemed to deepen while it hallowed the solitude of the surrounding graves. Turning from those ruins, Wall street presented some of the aspects of a living city. There stood the mined shell of the old Presbyterian Church. At the head of Broad street was the old City Hall, in all its primitive nakedness. At this time, and until it was fitted up for the use of the federal government, this building stood upon brick arches, permitting a passage from street to street underneath. Above Wall street, toward the Common, lay the best por¬ tion of the city, the residences of the upper classes, though even upon these the hand of the destroyer had made deep and broad impressions. The churches were ruined and dilapidated shells; the shops and stores were few and poorly stocked, and the old sugar house, no longer vocal with groans and surrounding execrations, desolation. frowned dismally on the Nor was the ruin of the material city greater than that of its social institutions and pecuni¬ ary resources. The resident population was less by more than one-half than be¬ fore the war, though after the restora¬ tion of peace many of the exiled fami¬ lies returned to their former habitations, commerce was completely anilhilated and all industrial pursuits and social and re¬ ligious observances' greatly depressed. The revenues of the city were of course in a ruinous condition, as neither rents nor taxes had been collected in many years. The old landmarks were in many cases entirely effaced and often no avail¬ able means remained for determining the boundaries of estates. The hooks of public records had in many cases been destroyed or carried off by the former royal officers, civil and military. —Herald. Why Chilvers Didn’t. As the three of us rode out from Wa¬ terproof, La., on horseback, we overtook a citizen jogging along as if at peace with the world. No introductions were needed, and presently we were chatting away on the most familiar terms. After awhile, and when about six miles from the town, we met a man on horseback who had a shotgun lying across his lap and a revolver on hie hip. drew “Morning, gents,” he said, as we rein. “How far is it to town ?” “Six miles,” answered our stranger. “And mought you be acquainted ir> Waterproof ?” “A few.” ‘ ‘Mought you know a chap as is named Chilvers—Jedge Chilvers ?” “Wall, I’ve seen him around.” “Likely to he thar’ now?” “I should say so.” “That’s all; good-bye.” of sight, _ and then We watched him out one of the men said to the stranger: “That chap had a wicked look.” “Oh, he’s on the shoot, lie is.” “Is he going to shoot Chilvers?” “He thinks he is, but he won’t.” “Why?” I’m Chilvers myself! Per¬ ■ “Because mit me to introduce myself.” tell him who “And why didn’t you you and what he wanted ? ’ was see “That would have brought on the shooting and some of you would have been hit,” he answered, “I rather sus pect he’s a chap from up the country about 30 miles whose brother I shot in a little fracas last year. If it’s the man, he’s a terrible poor shot, and if one of them ar’ bosses of your’n should get hit you’d have to pay all damages.” “But won’t he waylay you on the way back?” !” “No, sir. I shall waylay him That evening, an hour after our re¬ turn, the Judge led his limping horse into town, and when asked what the trouble was he replied: decent “It’s enough to disgust every shots man ! That fellow had five square at me, and yet he must go and put a bullet in an animal worth $200.” How the other party came out we didn’t inquire. The Judge didu’t act like a mau who would answer leading questions until he knew whether the horse could be saved. —M. Quad. The St. Paul Pioneer Press says: “Three little girls called at the lockup the other evening to apply for the re¬ lease of a drunken father. Their plead¬ ing words and faces, as they clung to their parent, made one of the strongest temperance lectures the hard, gray walls of the city prison ever looked upon. A FAITIIFL’L DOG'S DEATH AFTER IT HAD SAVFD THE FIVE* OF ITS MASTER AM) 311 sTREsS. ciimhins on to Wnitcrs.uraimmV lirenst ,he Ni«i>t it u Hin<» cteks ins Io r T~ A " ; ' k " ,tr '‘ C Wud * "’ e ,,unse °“ ["From the New York Snn.1 For four years Mr. Walter S. Graham, aNew York business man, has lived at Netherwood, N. J. His home there was » neat brick cottage, two stories high, with a peaked roof ami a high basement. There were bay windows at the side and a high stoop in front and a grassy yard, with walks and flower beds all around. On Wednesday the flower beds were all trampled down, the grass was covered with brick and mortar, and ragged brick walls only remained where the house had been. During ihe time Mr. Graham had lived there, and for years before, the one pet which constantly shared the house and the affections of himself and wife was a Skye terrier called Nellie. Nellie weighed about seven pounds, and when her long silver blue hair had been combed she was a very handsome dog. Unfor¬ tunately Nellie lost her sight, from an unknown cause, about a year ago. She was none the less, but rather the more, a pet ou that account. She usually slept at night at the foot of Mr. Graham’s bed. The bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Graham and the girl also had rooms on the same floor. Nellie was in her usuai place on Tues¬ day night. Mr. Graham says he was very tired that night, and slept soundly until about 2 o’clock Wednesday morn¬ ing. Then he was awakened to find that the dog had climbed on his chest and was licking his face and whining. He at once laid the dog on one side and then got out of bed, having a feeling that something was wrong. Picking up a re¬ volver, he stepped to the room door and out into the hall. There he distinctly heard footsteps going down the basement stairs. He ran along the hall and into a rear bedroom. Putting his head out of the window he saw a man climbing the low terraced hill back of the yard, and another coming up the outside steps from the basement. He at once fired two shots at the nearest man, hut whether he wounded him or not is not known. The man ran away, saying something to his companion as he did so. As the man disappeared behind a shrnl i Mr. Graham thought he saw a puff of light blue the smoke roll out of tlie laundry door, in basement. He drew in his head and hurried along the hall toward the stairs. He had slipped on his trous¬ ers when he got out of bed. Hanging in the hall was an overcoat. As he caught the coat off the rack his wife, awakened by the shooting, came out of her room and followed him down the stairs, begging him to return lest ho should be killed by the burglars. He hastened out of the front door and around the right side of the house, shout¬ ing “Thieves !” as he ran. He had hopes of getting another shot at the men or of enabling his neighbors to do so. As he rounded the corner of of the house he found that flames were stieaking the volumes of smoke that were pouring out where the first puff had come. The laundry was on fire, and the flames were rapidly spreading through the open door, all over the basement, and up into the rear of the second floor. Then he shouted 1 ‘Fire !” and ran back to the front of the house. His wife had discovered the fire also, and had gone up stairs, and was wrapping some clothing in a sheet to carry out. When Mr. Graham got into the house again the whole upper story was filling with dense smoke. His wife had tried to get some valuable sets of silver plate from a closet in ihe second story, but the closet was locked and she could not find the key. Without waiting longer Mr. Graham assisted his wife and the girl through the smoke to the front door, leaving the stuff behind because of the urgency of the case, and then ran into the dining room to get out some movable property tliere. The dining room table, a rug from the floor, and three or four cups and saucers, the first things at hand, were carried out. A basket full of silver plated taule ware which the robbers had packed up but had left on the floor when discovered was not taken at first, because it was so easy to remove that he thought he could get it at any time. When he went for it he found his way cut off by the fire. Nothing else was taken out of the house. A host of neighbors answered Mr. Graliam’s cries for assistance. Some of them tried ineffectually to put out the fire with buckets of water, others broke into the chapel and rang the bell, and everybody shouted. In the midst of the noise and confusion, Mr. Graham re membered that he had left blind Nebie on the bed on the second floor. A neigh¬ bor had a long ladder iu his yard which Mr. Graham had seen. He got it liis as quickly as he could and raised it to bedroom window. Then he started to climb it, but his neighbors pulled him back. They believed it would be cer¬ tain death for him to venture into the building. lives,” said “The dog had saved our Mr. Graham. “If I had slept a few minutes longer the smoke would have suffocated ns all. I suppose I acted as if I were wild when I started to go up the ladder.” As the alarm Spread some one tele¬ graphed for the Plainfield Fire Depart¬ ment. The call was at once answered, but it is over a mile from Netherwood to Plainfield, and the fire was under con¬ trol when the engines arrived. The house contained a fine collection of vases, plaques, and other bric-a brac, a large number of valuable paint¬ ings, silverware, and jewelry, and the usual furniture. The loss will amount to §10,000. Mr. Graham had §6,000 insurance on it. The building was valued at §12,000. It was not insured. Mr. John Plummer saw two men pass his house, coming from the direction of Mr. Graham’s just after the shots were fired. One of them was groaning. Men of noble birth are noted tobe en¬ vious towards new men that rise ; for the distance is altered and it is like a decent of the eye, that when others come on they think themselves go back.—Bacon. AN UNLUCKY MA-N. a eft a pte it or mishaps which be fifil.l. HIM. An Unfortunate Texan Whose Luck Would Never Turn, Old man Syntax, as he was familiarly called, was one of those unfortunate mortals whose lives are one unbroken run of bad luck. He was always on the point of consummating some great achiev ment, when a combination of disastrous circumstances would squelch all his hopes. Sadness and sorrow brooded over his early life, and grief and be¬ reavement had the drop on him in his old age. Many and many a time when he was about to get the better of a greenhorn in a trade, would some one take the greenhorn aside, a .<1 Syntax would be foiled. Often and often when a piece of buttered- toast would vie raised to his mouth, would it fall to the ground, and in nine cases out of ten would the buttered side be down. Ami thus the whirling years went round and old man Syntax was sad and gloomy He had a son named TV m, and Tom was wild and would never settle down to steady work. He and the old man moved to the vicinity of San Angelo, Texas, and soon after their arrival, what fortune was beginning to relax her fea¬ tures preparatory to smiling on them, Tom was hung by a mob of lynchers who mistook him for another man. He was a martyr to circumstantial evidence. The lynchers felt very sorry when they discovered their mistake, and they ap¬ pointed a committee to wait, upon Tom’s bereaved parent and apologize. The committee called on old man Syn¬ tax: “Wo regret the—the accident, Col. Syntax, and we assure you it will uot occur “Gentlemen,” again.” replied the old man sadly, “it’s putty tough on me, but I’m giftin' “Had kinder much used trouble to misfortune.” before, old man?” “Trouble! Well I should sob. ’ceptiu’ Why, I’ve never had nothing else trouble and disapp’intment. ” “Is that so ?” “Yes; some years ago I went into the cattle business near Austin, and in a short time, considering my capital, by hard, hard work, I accumulated a large herd of cattle, from which I expected to realize something handsome, but just as I was gittiu’ ready to drive them off and sell them, a lot of men came to my ranch and took possession of the whole bunch. ” “How could they do that if you could prove that the cattle were-” “Hey?” cattle, they “They were your were not ?” “And after that me and Tom started a store in San Antonio, and would have made a heap of money out of it if the fire insurance company had paid up.” “Why, didn’t the insurance company pav you for your los3 ?” “Hey ?” “I say, why didn’t-” “And then Tom and me discovered a mine out on the Hondo canyon and we got a rich Englishman interested, and we had some chunks of ore assayed and we were mighty near gittiu’ $10,000 for a half interest.” “ What prevented the Englishman from purchasing ?” “Hey?” didn’t the-” “I say, why and Tom “As I was saying, me going we to come here and we were just open out in the land business when yon’uns took Tom out and hung him.” The old man wiped the moisture from his eyes, and the chairman of the vigi¬ lance committee was visibly affected as he said: “Col. Syntax, the committee requested me, in token of fheir sincere grief at having bereaved you of your son, to tender you a purse of one hundred dol¬ lars.” The face of the old man lighted up and his fingers moved nervously as if eager to handle the funds: “Gentlemen, I believe mv spell of bad luck is broken. It is a long lane that has no turning, and I reckon my turn . lias come. So you are going to thatboy pay me for having hung Tom ? I knew would be a source of revenue to me some day. Gentlemen, I’ve spent hundreds of dollars to lawyers gittin’ that boy out of jail.” “We were going to give you a think purse I of one hundred dollars, but I had better give you--” “Two hundred!” “No, ten minutes to leave the town, you old scoundrel.”— Texas Siftings. The Irish Harp. The old style Irish harp was about four feet high, had no pedals, and The was strung to the back with straps. one belonging to King Brien Born, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf in 1014, is still preserved in the museum at Trinity College, Dublin. It is black with age, and polished, but with worm-eaten. silver The old relic is adorned or¬ naments. The King’s son, Teague, took the harp to Rome after the battle and presented it to the Pope, together with the crow r n and regalia that had been worn by his father. A succeeding pope gave it to Henry the Eighth, together with the titleof “Def'enderof the Faith,” and Heniy gave it to the Earl of Clan ricarde, in whose family it was held until the beginning of the eighteenth century. It then passed through college sev¬ eral hands until 1786, when the became its owner. Footing it featly.Ethel— “I can’t think what Maud can see in that ungainly, awkward Captain Heavitree. ” Madge— “My dear, it’s becoming perfectly told ab surd. Ouly think! The gardener hoped the the cook yesterday that he captain would stay for another fortnight, for positively there was no necessity to roll the gravel walks while they kept per¬ petually promenading up and down.”— Ijondon Funny Folks. Wipe your pen after using, and it will last the longer, Remember, a pen is saved, a pen is earned.— Boston I ran script. The certain way to be cheated, is to fancy one’s self more cunning than others. THE MIDNIGHT SUN. On© ot the Spectacles* Alibi dec! by Nature. [From the London News.] Nature is, indeed, very often skillful iu her arrangement of shows. She has a fine sense of contrast and knows how to set off one thing by another. So at North Cape the splendor of sea and sky is heightened by a dull and unintorest ing laud. The spectator stands upon a bare and gloomy moor, and his vision ranges along a broken but monotonous coast, attractive only when its highest portions catch and throw back the rosy light that falls upon them from the glorious heavens. Nothing, therefore, draws the mind away from contempla tion of the expanse of water and sky over which the sun lords its strength, Many a traveler has sought to paint in words the weird splendor of the scene when, at the midnight hour, the orb hangs above the 'horizon diffusing over all a rich yet mysterious light. We glow may say mysterious, for this uncanny. has about it a sort of night effect hide scribable in words. The light is that of dav, but it is not day, and all nature seems to sleep as though shfouded in darkness. True, Lord Dnfferiu’s cole brated “rooster” did not perceive “high fhe fact. Au uureflective stranger iu latitudes,” the unhappy bird was de ceiveii into an idea of perpetual sunrise, and, having proclaimed ihe victim morn im- for thirty-six hours, died a to pulse, combined with ignorance of pbysi cal geography. Chanticleer’s experience notwithstand ing, there i» over the whole scene and in the mind of the observer a conscious ness of night, which makes ihe more wonderful a simultaneous vision of the orb of the day. The impression cannot bo communicated, but the mere picture has been again and again limned for us by skillful pens, and by none more sue cessfully than that of Bayard Taylor, who speaks of the "eddies of returning birds, gleaming drifts' golden beech in leaves the nocturnal the sun. like of in October air,” and continues : “Far to the north the sun lay in a bed of saffron light over the clear horizon of the Arctic ocean. A few bars of dazzling oraugo cloud floated above him, and, stili higher in the sky, where the saffron molted through delicate rose color into blue, hung like wreaths of vapor, touched with pearly, opaline flushes of pink and golden gray.” He describes the sea as “a web of pale slate color, shot through with threads of orange and saffron,” and the air as “filled with a soft mysterious glow,” while “between the headlands stood the midnight sun shining on us with subdued fires, and with the gorge ous coloring of an hour for which we have no name, since it is neither sunrise nor sunset, but the blended loveliness of both—but shining at the same moment in the heat and splendor of noonday on the Pacific isles.” Even on paper the magnificent picture excites admiration and awe. We are all sun worshipers more or less. We go up uncomfortable mountains to watch the luminary rise; and his setting on is sea or land, on height or in valley, often a spec tacle grand enough to justify Jean Paul Richter’s outburst. “I see the sun stand ing amid roses in the western sKy, into which he has thrown the ray brush wherewith he had all day been painting the earth. ” These spectacles, are viewed for the most part, however, under ordi nary conditions, and lack the wonder of that upon which Herr Stoll had recently been crazing. Far deeper than any made by physical beauty must be the impression duo the thought of the dark and sleeping world out of which the traveler has come to “look through golden viatfis into heaven.” This is the idea upon which Carlyle reized when making his Teufels druckh stand at the fartherest northern limit, of the continent. “Silence as of death, for midnight even in the Arctic latitude has its character; nothing but the granite cliffs ruddy tinged, the peaceful gurgle of the slow, heaving Polar ocean, over which, in the utter¬ most north, the great sun hangs low and lazy, as if he, too, were slumbering. Yet is his cloud cloth wrought of crim¬ son and cloth of gold; yet does his light stream over the mirrors of water, like a tremendous fire-pillar hides shooting itself down¬ under ward to the abyss, and my feet. In such moments, solitude also is invaluable; for who would speak or be looked upon when behind him lien all Europe and Africa, fast asleep, ex¬ cept the watchman, and before him the silent immensity and Palace of the Eternal, whereof our sun is but a porch lamp?” We know not whether Herr Stoll had thoughts like these, our in¬ formation being limited to the statement that he found two spots on the sun’s face; but in such spirit, which soars far above science, should worshipers pene¬ trate to the holy places of nature. a case of bigamy. “How does yer new wife take to city life?” inquired Aunt Sukey of Gabe Sloshing. married The latter had quiet recently a negro girl out in the country and brought her to the city. “I tells yer, Aunt Sukey, dat it am all a piece ob foolishness, a delusion an’ a snare, dis brunging country female nig¬ gers inter a big mertropolis like Austin. It’s slioah ter done spile ’em. Dere’s too many frivilties an' follies, an’ frip pries fer dem to stan’ it. De.y becomes jist " 1 *--- too —'---’ vain an peacocky peacoeay for ior any any use, use, an’ sling on mo’ style stvle den den a a mule mule kin kil draw. My two wives will be de ruina shun ob dis niggah.” What does “Your two wives, Gabe ! yar mean ? Yer ain’t got no two wives, has yer ?” “Dat’s a fac’. I ’spects ter be in dieted fer bigamy ef I doesn’t keep my eye peeled.” make out dat yer’s got “How does yer two wives ?” “Ebery night I goes home, I sees ’em.” “Sees ’em!” “Yaas, one in de lookin’ glass, an’ one in front ob hit.”— Texas Siftings. “Can your wife drive?” one Somer¬ ville man asked another. “Drive what ?” “Drive a horse, of course.” “Drive a horse? why, man, she cannot drive a nail.” king of the canyon, HIM HOAR MAKES EVEN THE ROCKS TitEnnti.fi. An rnterestijur Description of tl»© Canyon Itself— You Shudder nt the Awful Still¬ ness Around. Driving square into the great moun tains, as if human engineers had planned it and human hands blasted and dug it. is tne great, dark ravine called a canyon, Its floor is of rock and bowlder, with, per Its naps, sides a tiny stream trickling down, and gravel. are soil, and bush, and rock Its roof is the heavens, Stand hern in the mouth and look up. It is midday, and yet it is twilight around yon, and above you can see the stars twinkle. One falling from the cliffs above would pass through a, thou sand feet of space before striking the rocky bottom. You shudder at the thought, brings and the awful stillness around you a chill. The canyon is grim. It may echo your chirp footsteps, but there is no squirrel nor of bird. If living things tread this rocky path they leave no trace be hind. It would furnish quarters for a thousand Indians waiting to pounce down upon the emigrant or prospector, but the savage stands here and feels the chains of awe clogging his footsteps. The grimness awes him; this silence makes him tremble. Push forward a few steps. The dark ness deepens. Overhead the stars shine brighter, and you can hear the drip of water down the rugged and moss-grown rocks. The dark cell of the prison lias its terrors, but the occupant feels that he can almost reach out and touch the sunny, bustling world around him. There is nothing to bring awe or fear, In this canyon it is ever night. It is over terrible in its silence. 11 is ever chilly iu its grimness. The intruder feels his heart jump and throb ns he wonders what dangers may be concealed by the further darkness, The miner never comes here. The prospector looks in and hurries away. The savage halts, wonders, and passes on. It seems as if a wolf would draw back from such a retreat. In the hot test brightest day of summer sunlight it is chilly here. In the tlio shadows ever dance over the jagged rocks and rugged cliffs. When'earth rent herself apart iu some awful and struggle, and mountains were torn seamed as they rocked to and fro, the canyon was made. It is one of the scars left behind by which to read the history further of ages ago. Fifty steps up. Now the black - ness of midnight surrounds us. The trees, a thousand feet above our beads, shade the chasm until the stars aie lost sight of. The grimness becomes a bur den which you can feel, and as a current of wind sweeps up or down the rocky defile you can hear groans and sighs and feel your blood ran cold. The drip of water has life, but it weighs upon you.. I 11 such stillness that you can count the heat* of jour own heart, the drip ! dripr drip ! of the icewater trickling along the cliffs would drive you insane in an hour. Hark ! Thunder ? No ! Beginning with a low mutter, like the gathering of a terrible storm, and swelling and grow¬ ing until the canyon seems to quiver and the pebbles rattle down from above—it > s the King of the Canyon—the Grizzly ! Our footsteps have reached his ear—lie sniffs the air with growls which mean death Two hundred feet beyond ns in the pitch darkness is the lair of the King. Nothing that lives and walks can P asH E* 8 toll-gate. Right down there the canyon narrows, and there is his home, Listen! How the rocks tremble under that roar ! The scream of a whirlwind sweeping over the prairie cannot stun y on llkc this. The King rises up and moves about, and Ins feetiling the bones °f k ’ 8 many victims against the rocks and down the dark path. His eyes have a baleful light, and ho tears at the cliffs with his long claws. He lias the scent, but he cannot locate it. If he could—• if he does— ! Como away ! The King of the Canyon is at home and hungry. —M. Quad. The Jordan ( anal. Considerable interest has been devel¬ oped in England in the scheme to build a canal in the Jordan Valley; but owing to the oposition of Turkey it is not likely to come to anything. The idea, as pub¬ lished in Iron, is to cut the canal twenty live miles from Acre to the valley of the Jordan. The canal would be about thirty-three feet deep, so that it would take the largest ship. It would, more¬ over, be about 200 feet wide, which would bo sufficient to allow vessels to pass each other. There would tie no necessity for locks, because, when the water was let in, the water of the Dead Sea and the Mediterranean would prac¬ tically flow on the same level to the Akaba Gulf of the Red Sea. The depth of water at Acre is sufficient, and the cutting of the canal seems to present There no great engineering difficulties. would lie about 81,000,000 aud yards what of stone and earth to take out, was taken out of the canal would go to form a protection for the harbor, It is calculated that the cutting would cost about £2,130,000, and that the expense of forming the harbor would be £1,150, 000. ‘ Although the distance would be greater by the new route, that would lie more than compensated by the great saving of time. Ships would be able to go through the canal at full speed—say hour; at the rate of sixteen miles per while through the Suez Canal, they can only travel at the rate of abont four or five miles. If a ship got through the Suez Canal in seventy hours, it was thought a very good passage; lint through the new canal, although there would tie 117 miles extra to travel, they would be able to pass in twenty hours, thus effect¬ ing a saving of days, which would prove an important economy to ship owners. Jordan The expense of keeping the there is Canal open would be trifling, as a natural valley nearly ten miles wide, and there could be no wash, which is so mischievous to the Suez Canal. The project is said to have been received with favor by shipowners and others, and practical steps are being taken to start it. A lady of this city recently filled her lamp with gasoline, and since then she has not benzine.
