Newspaper Page Text
W. D. B CHAMBER?, Proprietor.
VOL. X,
, "A POCKETFUL CF SUNSHINE.'*
"A pocketful of sunshine
*s better far than gold;
' It drowns the daily sorrows
i Of the young and of the old
; It fills the world with pleasure",
In field, in lane and street,
And brightens every prospect
Of the mortals that we meet.
“A pocketful of sunshine
Can make the world akin,
And lift a load of sorrow
From the burdened backs of sin;
Diffusing light and knowledge,
j. Through thorny paths of life;
It jrilds with silver lining
i The storm clouds of strife.”
—Ladies’ Home Journal.
A TANGLED SKEIN.
Bjr C. F. Case.
THE west bound train from
Fargo was, as usual, an hour
late, An hour late was, ac
cording to general report, the
regular time of that train.
Eden village, as Its Imaginative early
settlers had named it, was a dining
station on the road, and as Landlord
Stevens, of the hotel, thus gathered In
shekels enough to keep him at the
level of good nature, his patrons al
ways found hltn a pleasant and social
individual.
A young man who had registered as
Doctor Lawrence of Fargo, was a
guest of the hotel, and after the meal
was finished and the train had pulled
out for the Missouri Itiver, he inquired
of the landlord if he could direct him
to the house of Mr. Elvidge.
'‘Old man Elvidge’s place is about a
half mile straight south of the village,”
the landlord said. ‘‘You can’t miss the
house, for it’s the only one out there.
The old man owns the whole south half
of the section, and wants no neigh
bors,”
“You don’t flatter him.”
"‘‘You’re not a relative? No? Well,
every one here who knows old Elvidge
knows he’s just that style of a man.
He’s honest,’and when you say that
you’ve said about all you can that’s
good of him without lying. He wor
ried his wife to death, and he can’t
keep help long at the ranch. About
five years ago he adopted an orphau
daughter of a brother of his, and seems
to have taken a fancy to her. She’s
now about twenty. Elvidge has done
considerable for Miss Mary, to every
body’s wonder. She has just returned
from Fargo, where she took a seminary
course. But she has to do just as her
uncle tells her or she’d be stepped on
hard. The old man hasn’t a friend in
the world, except his girl. You don’t
know him?”
“No; I never saw him,” said Law
rence; "but you have been so candid
in painting the old man that I don’t
mind saying I know his niece. I met
her in Fargo. In fact lam engaged to
her.”
"So? God bless you both then,” the
landlord replied. “And I may add, too,
God help you!”
Doctor Lawrence easily found the
Elvidge ranch, and was warmly wel
comed by Mary, who, very likely ex
pected him.
Mr. Elvidge did not show himself
till supper time. He gave Doctor Law
rence a cool reception, suspecting his
mission and not approving of it; he had
other plans for his niece’s future.
“Mr. Elvidge,” said Lawrence, when
an opportunity offered, “I don’t know
whether your niece has given you any
information regarding the matter or
not, but I have been hoping for some
time to become your nephew-Iu law,
and would be much pleased to gain
your consent to our marriage. I have
a practice that is reasonably prosper
ous, and the prospects for the future
are promising.”
“When I sent Mary away to school,”
Mr. Elvidge said, “I did not expect to
lose her, and I cannot consent to this
sudden upsetting of my plans. I will
consult with her later, and. write you
my decision.”
Doctor Lawrence shortly after took
the train for Fargo.
Mr. Elvidge held a long and serious
session that evening with his niece.
He was very much disappointed in her.
To fall in love without her uncle’s
counsel was not only childish and silly,
but a wrong and ungrateful act. The
idea of love was a relic of babyhood,
and the adult who allowed it to Inter
fere with business was a fool. Dr.
Lawrence was very likely a fortune
hunter. What had he to offer? Noth
ing.
Now Mr. Workman—a sensible and
Appropriate name, by the way—had for
R ome months before asked for her
hand, and had received encouragement
from the uncle. Mr. Workman was old
enough to have a seasoned mind, and
he owned a half section adjoining the
Elvidge ranch. The union of these
two farms had been the uncle's dream
for a long'time. He would never give
hia. consent to Mary’s marriage with
any one but Mr. Workman, and she
heed not hope to change this decision.
To talk of her lack of love or even re
spect for Mr. Workman, and her af
fection for Doctor Lawrence, Mary
knew would be useless and she re
rosined silent. Any other course would
have added fuel to the fire.
Doctor Lawrence received two let
ters during the week. One from Mr.
Elvidge, peremptorily declining his
offer for Mary’s hand, and one from
Mary herself, assuring him that she
Would be true to her plighted word,
but begging him to wait patiently for
nwhile, as she was unwilling to defy
her uncle, to whom she owed much.
she might win him over and
all would be well. And with this as
surance Lawrence was obliged to be
content.
Time went by, and winter came with
Us cold and snows. Simon Elvidge,
DADE COUNTY SENTINEL.
now past seventy, fell ill, and for once
encountered a foe stronger than his
wl died, having bequeathed to his
niece his entire estate, which should
remain in her possession so long as she
was uumaried or the wife or widow of
Richard Workman, who was appointed
administrator. In the event of her
marriage to any other than the said
Richard Workman, the estate would go
to the heirs of Susau Hartley, a sister
of the testator’s deceased wife.
The hopes created in Richard Work
man by this will was quickly dissi
pated by Mary's emphatic refusal to
entertain his suit, and he declined to
act. The judge of probate entertained
the popular prejudice against the pro
visions of the will, aud appointed Dr.
Lawrence, whom Mary had summoned
to the funeral, administrator. The doc
tor hesitated some time over the pro
priety of accepting the charge, but
Anally yielded to Mary’s wishes that
he should assume It,
A year passed aud there being no
sufficient reason why it should npt be
so, Mary and the doctor were married,
thus, as she supposed, sacrificing
wealth for love. There had never been
a moment since the will was read
that she had entertained a thought of
retaining the estate with the conditions
imposed.
But now anew difficulty arose . The
heirs of Susan Hartley could not be
found. Doctor Lawrence tried his best
to trace them, for he had pride, and
while Mary, the adopted child of Simon
Elvidge, would inherit the property in
the absence of Susan Hartley's heirs,
such inheritance would cause public
comment. He employed an attorney In
St. Paul who had won some celebrity
in untangling legal tangles, and in
structed him to reach the bottom of the
case at any reasonable expense.
Two years passed. Dr. Lawrence aud
his wife were happy and contented in
their home in Fargo, caring compara
tively little about the Elvidge estate.
They felt sure that It would be lost
to them, and had no desire to keep any
one out of his rights.
The attorney in charge of the case
had been in occasional correspondence
with them, but gave little information
of what he had accomplished. One
day he visited Fargo, and had a per
sonal interview with Doctor Lawrence.
“Doctor,” he said, “I want to make
a full report of my findings in the case
of the Susan Hartley heirs. You know
we ascertained that Susan Hartley,
then a widow with two small children,
left St. Paul, where her husband died
after a long illness that exhausted their
little wealth, for NewYork City, where
she followed the occupation of nurse
for a time. Then we lost the trail.
By accident I found, a few months
later, that she was engaged as a nurse
to a wealthy woman, an invalid, who
had been advised by her physician to
make a European trip. The engage
ment was so good a one that Mrs.
Hartley felt that she must not decline
it. She made arrangements with the
managers of a public home to care for
her children during the few months
she expected to be away. The party
left on the steamer Gironda for a
French port. The Gironda was
wrecked in a storm on the voyage, and
ail, on board except three or four of the
crew, were drowned. The older of the
children, a little girl, died soon after in
an epidemic of scarlet fever. The
younger, a boy, attracted the attention
of a gentleman who adopted the child.
“Impertinence is an acquired habit of
mine, you know, and I am sure you
will excuse my asking a few questions
of you about your early life. A Doctor
Jerome Lawrence came to Minneapolis
from New York several years ago, and
died about ten years later. Are you
his son?”
“I always supposed so,” Doctor Law
rence replied, “till after his death.
He was a widower, hut married again
when I was twelve years of age. My
step-mother and I never got along well
together, and soon after my father’s
death I left home to seek my own for
tune. She was much incensed, as she
found me useful, and said I need never
ask nor expect anything from her, for
I was not a sou of Doctor Lawrence,
ns I had been allowed to think, but
only a boy he had taken from an asy
lum through charity. She claimed to
have proof of this, but refused to show
it to me. In wrath I left home and
came West; and I have never tried to
prove nor disprove the assertions of my
step-mother.”
"Doctor Lawrence,” the attorney
said, “your story supplies the last link
in the chain of descent from Susan
Hartley. You are the lost heir to the
Elvidge estate, and I heartily congrat
ulate you on your success in finding
yourself. I traced the line to your
step-mot her, Mrs. Lawrence, and I per
suaded her to show me the proof she
refused to show you. It consisted of
a document written by Doctor Laxv
rence before his death and properly
attested, stating that he had legally
adopted a son of Susan Hartley. The
rest was easy, but I wanted you to tell
your own story. The chain is now
perfect, and I am out of the case.
My fees will not be light; but as the
estate is near the half, million figure.
I know you will not regret the expense
I have made to get this mystery un
tangled.”
What Doctor Lawrence said, or how
Mary expresed her satisfaction at the
strange transference of her once ex
pected estate to her husband, is not
worth space to describe; but the event
was properly celebrated, and every
body who knew them rejoiced with
them over their good fortune.—Waver
ley Magazine. v. - .
The Population of the Seas.
Taking into consideration the num
ber of ships that are on the seas and
navigable waters of the world, it is
estimated that about 1,700,000 of the
world’s population are constantly
afloat. , J,-i -e-
BILL ARP’S LETTER
Grip Has Lst Up On Him and He
Feels Much Better.
GIVES BiS EXPERIENCE AS A PATIENT
During Trying “Ordeal” He Was
Cheered By Good Company and
Loving Attention From
the Children,
This is a bright and blessed morn
ag. I feel better—a good deal better,
l’hlnk T will write a verse or two of
poetry. If a sick man has good sur
oundings it beats medicine. Good,
fieerful company to call and not stay
-'ng —good children to sympathize and
• atch the clock for medicine time,
,ood grandchildren to come and kiss
ou and go to and from and talk and
-lake noise; a good wife to Scold you
xnd tell how Imprudent you have been,
and a good doctor to look at your
.ongue and choke you with a spoon
-landle so as to see away down the
sophagus. But nature has the best
J medicines stowed away in the bless
d sunshine that gives life and vigor
.o everything animal and vegetable
and revives the drooping spirits of the
aick. It has been a long and hard win
der —the coldest and most disagreeable
one hundred consecutive days that we
nave had for years. How I envied the
lood people of Florida while I read
i’om Sawyer’s rhapsodies in the Clear
Water paper over the advent of spring
with its peach trees and yellow jes
mine perfuming the balmy air with
their fragrant blossoms. But it is com
ing—gentle spring is not far away now
and a day like this is its harbinger. If
it were not for the daily catalogue of
horrible things that headline the daily
papers even a sick man could be calm
and serene on such a day as this. An
aged country friend told me that he
had quit taking the daily papers, for
it.distressed him to read such things.
“I haven’t long to live,” said he, “and
i don’t wish to cloud my mind with a
daily record of human misery.” But
most all people have to mix up with
the affairs of nations and of men and
keep posted about everything that hap
pens. We can’t skip the bad and read
the good only. There is a fascination
about horrible things that we cannot
resist. They are the first things we
look for. They excite our pity or our
indignation or our wonder. Our child
hood began that way, for we never
tired of Jack the Giant Killer and
Rawhead and Bloody Bones, and Rob
inson Crusoe. And now the editor of
the press dispatches carelessly looks
over the little slips that are laid upon
his desk and reads “Another explosion
in the mines—one hundred killed;”
“Another railroad wreck —thirteen kill
ed,” and then resumes the little anec
dote that he was narrating to a friend.
We are all growing case hardened to
pain and grief and suffering for the
same reason that thc surgeon becomes
case hardened to the pain of his pa
tient.
But ever and anon some new horror
comes along that shocks humanity and
astounds the world. I read three long
columns last night about the horrors
of adulterated food in Paris and how
18,600 infants died the'last year from
poisoned milk. How the great incorpo
rated dairy companies in the suburban
towns have to deliver 800,000 quarts
every night. It is skimmed before it
is canned and then is watered 20 per
cent before it is put on the cars. On
arrival at their depots it is delivered
in cans to 800 milk boys (garcons),
who get $1.40 a night and as much
more as they can make by watering
the milk from the hydrants that are
supplied from the river Seine, the filth
iest river in all France. One hundred
detectives are employed to watch
these boys, but the boys have detec
tives, too, and are seldom caught or ar
rested. The superintendent of police
says it is impossible for one hundred
men to watch these eight hundred boys
and he now asks for two thousand.
This watered milk quickly sours and
by the time it is delivered to the re
tailer at daybreak it has to be watered
again with a solution of bicarbonate
of soda. This is the milk that supplies
all Paris, and is daily fed to infant
children and in a brief time they
take cholera infkntum or diarrhoea
and die. The medical faculty all testi
fied that this milk caused the death of
over 18,000 infants in Paris in one year
and the mortality was on the increase,
and this does not include the deaths of
children over one year old. These
eight hundred boys are organized into
a powerful syndicate for protection
and defence. Each pays into their
treasury $4 a week, making a total of
$14,000 a month with which to pay
lawyers’ fees and fines and the wages
of those in jail and to bribe the city
detectives not to catch them when wa
tering the milk. They water it while
the wagons are on the go—pumping in
behind with cans of water. The milk
suspected is turned over to the city
chemist, who analyze and report, and
if the boys are arrested, most of them
escape punishment in some corrupt
way, but none are discharged. They
go back at once into the company’s
service. But Paris is aroused ns it
never has been and declares the death
dealing business shall be broken up if
It takes two thousand detectives to
pursue eight hundred boys. "Our chil
dren are fed on microbes from the riv
er Seine,” is now on every tongue.
OfQoial Organ of Dado COunty.
TRENTON. GA. FRIDAY. FEBRUARY 21.1902.
Other cities have taken up the cry
and Bouen and Dunkirk show a larger
death rate of infants thari rku-ls, arid
fiOW they £&y fio wofidef the popiilfl
tion of France is decreasing iristead
of increasing. We are poisoning three
fourths of all the children before they
are a year old and half the remainder
die.soon after, geitie rtiiertibes
and bicarbonate of soda!
This exposure comes from late offi
j ?ial sources and is no doubt the truth,
or very near it. Just think of it and
; shudder —18,000 innocent, helpless
| babes murdered in one year in one
I city. Tom Hood wrote a song about
! the poor sewing women that aroiised
| all London. If he were alive in Paris
I now what a pitiful subject he would
j have for aUothef sofig. What a shame
upon our sex, for It is not women whd
do these things, but men aud boys.
The mothers suiter in giving them
birth. They nurse and cherish and
clasp the little things to their bosom
and love and hope and pray, but the
destroyer comes and then all she can
do is to grieve and weep. England
slaughtering the Boers and France her
innocent children. What next?
A graphic writer in The New York
Press describes a different kind of hor
ror that we know not of, but is a liv
ing, breathing, Seethihg thing that is
not new, but has come to stay and
grows bigger and more horrible as the
years move on. He says: “It would
have been unnecessary for Gustav
Dore to follow Dante for a text in or
der to picture the horrors of hell.” The
government has established free baths
at Hot Springs, where thousands of the
most miserable of all God’s creatures
congregate and bathe for relief and a
cure from their loathsome diseases.
These wreches leave their rags upon
the cemented floors which are an inch
deep in water, theti stagger Or feel or
crawl naked ris the fiends in the cham
hers of hell. From thence they crowd
into a third room, where the water and
the air is up to 110, and the stench of
foul odors is horrible. In this room
are two large pools like vats in a tan
yard, and the victims tumble into
like hogs into a mud puddle. No
doctor, no soap, no towels, no attend
ants, and they are soon hurried out to
makeijflpm for more, for seven hun-
is the maximum. Ten, fif
teen or twenty at a time soak their
loathsome infirmities in the nasty,
filthy, hot healing waters, and then
reclothe tnemselves with their wet rags
and go somewhere to dry. All are ben
efited and 10 per cent are cured. What
a picture! Their lives, such as they
have made them, are not worth saving,
but they cling to them and live in hope
and defy despair. t One hundred and
seventy-eight thousand of these human
beings passed through the free baths
last year. One bath room is for white
men, one for white women, one for
negro men ; nd one for negro women.
Not far away is a magnificent hotel,
and there is a fashionable ball going
on. The rich, the gay, the elite are
there. One moment a man is waltzing
with his wife, the next with some other
man’s wife, the next with somebody’s
mistress, and the next with his own
mistress. Everything goes, and all is
hell. A famous physician took his
daughter there this season, JMt sent
her home quickly to keep
company of wealthy and ’*
sites. Almost every jjt' goes
there registers an Assumed
name and during his
stay. A southdJltf'Tudge was recently
called upon for a toast at a hotel ban
quet and said: “Here’s to the name
we left behind us.” But the half has
not been told —some of it is too bad to
tell. Every night the poker rooms
are in blast and thousands won and
lost. The reader ponders and wonders
can such things be in this Christian
land, and in this God’s country. Ver
ily, the humble and the poor who live
around us on the hills and in the val
leys or down in the piney woods should
be thankful for the health and morality!
that comes from poverty. Burns neW
er wrote a truer verse than that which
says:
“And I know by the smoke that so
gracefully curled
From among the dark elms that a
cottage was near,
And I said to myself, if there’s peace
in this world,
The Heart that is humble might
hope for it here.”
—Bill Arp, in Atlanta Constitution.
THE NEWEST NAPKIN RINGS.
The latest in napkin rings is the
embroidered variety. These rings are
made of two thicknesses of heavy
weight linen with one end cut pointed
and the other square. The ornamenta
tion consists of a fioral or other de
sign embroidered in the center and
toward the square end, with an initial
worked at the other end. A variety
may easily be introduced in embroid
ering a set for general family use. The
linen is cut into strips about two and
a quarter inches wide and eight inches
long and the fastening is accomplished
by means of a small pearl button and
buttonhole, or with shank buttons, as
desired. The embroidered strips are
lined with plain strips and the initials
are so placed as to be easily distin
guished by the respective members
of the family.
Inclined railroads to the tops of fa
mous mountains are increasing in
number. It is not likely that within
a comparatively short period such
lines of ascent will be built to the
summits of the Egyptian pyramids?
How old Rameses would stare if he
could come back to earth and ree ex
cursion trains moving on cogged
wheels or drawn by cables to the
crests of Cheops and of Chephren!
DR.TALrtAGE’S SERrtON
The Eittinertt Divine’s Sunday
Discourse.
Subject: When tTwTsnn of Life Sets—The
Clirislltin Finds Fulfillment lit the
Time of Old Age —The Light of Even
tide—La-t Hours Illumined.
VVASHIXGTOX, I) C,—ln this subject Dr.
Talmage puts a glow of gladiltss and
triumph upon passages of life that are usu
ally thought to be somewhat gloomy; text,
Zachariah xiv, 7, “At evening time it shail
be light.”
While “night” in all languages is the
symbol for gloom nnd suffering, it is often
teallv cheerful, bright and impressive; I
speak not of such nights as come down
With no star pouring light from above or
Silvered Wave tossing up light from be
neath—murky, hurtling, pdrtcntio'us, but
Such as you often see when the pomp and
magnificence of heaven turn out on night
parade, and it seems as though the song
which the morning stars began so lopg ago
were chiming yet among the constellations
and the sons of God were shouting for joy.
Such ights the sailor blesses from the fore
castle, and the trapper on vast prairie, and
the belated traveler by the roadside, and
the, soldier front the tent, earthly hosts
feazing updfi heavenly and shepherds guard
il)§ their fldckS afield; While angel hands
above them set the silver bells a-ringing,
/‘Glory to God in the highest and on earth
peace; good will toward men.”
What a solemn and glorious thing is
night in the wilderness! Night among the
mountains! Night on the ocean! Fra
ferhnt night Smong tropical grpyesj Flash
ing night amid arctic severities! , Calm
night on Roman campagna! Awful night
among the cordilleras! Glorious night mid
sea after a tempest! Thank God for the
night! The moon and the stars which rule
it are lighthouses on the coast toward
which I hope we are all sailing, and blind
mariners are we if, with so many beaming,
burning, flaming glories to guide us, we
cannot find our way into the harbor.
My text may well suggest that, as the
natural evening is often luminous, so it
shall be light in the evening of our sorrows,
of old age, of the world’s history, of the
Christian life, “At eventime it shall be
light.”
This prophecy will be fulfilled in the
fevening of Christian sorrow. For a long
time it is broad daylight. The sun rides
high. Innumerable activities go ahead with
a thousand feet and work with a thousand
a v ms, and the pickax struck a mine, and
the battery made a discovery, and the in
vestment yielded its twenty per cent., and
the book came to its twentieth edition, and
the farm quadrupled in value, and sudden
fortune hoisted to high position, and chil
dren were praised, and friends without
number swarmed into the family hive, and
prosperity sang in the music and stepped
in the yance and glowed in the ivine and
ftte at the banquet, and all the gods of mu
sic and ease and gratification gathered
around this Jupiter holding in his hands
so many thunderbolts of power. But every
sun must set, and the brightest day must
have its twilight. Suddenly the sky was
overcast. The fountain dried up. The
song hushed. The wolf broke into the fam
ily fold and carried off the best lamb. A
deep howl of woe came crashing down
through the joyous symphonies. At one
rough twang of the hand of disaster the
harpstrings all broke. Down went the
strong business firm! Away Went long es
tablished credit! Up flew a flock of calum
nies! The would not sell! A
patent could not be secured for the inven
tion! Stocks sank like lead! The insurance
company exploded! “How much,” says
the Sheriff, “will you bid for this piano?
How much for this library? How much
for this family picture? How much? Will
you iet it go at less thau half price? Going
—going—gone!”
Will the grace of God hold one up in
such circumstances? What has become of,
the great multitude of God’s children who
have been pounded of the flail and crushed
under the wheel and trampled under the
hoof? Did they lie down in the dust, weep
ing, wailing and gnashing their teeth? Did,
they when they were afflicted like Job
curse God and want to die? When the rod;
of fatnerly chastisement struck them, did
they strike back? Because they found one
bitter cup on the table of God’s supply,
did they upset the whole table? Did they
kneel down at their empty money vault
and say, “All my treasures are gone?”
Did they stand by the grave of their dead,
saying, “There never will be a resurrec
tion?”
Did they bemoan their thwarted plans
and say, “The stocks are down; would God
I were dead?” Did the night of their dis
aster come upon them moonless, starless,
dank andJiowling, smothering and choking
their No, no! At eventide it
was The swift promises overtook
them. eternal constellations, from
their ‘■JBBi. about God’s throne, poured
down lustre. Under their shin
ing billows of trouble took on crests
and Jlumes of gold and jasper and ame
thym and flame. All the trees of life
rujflTed in the midsummer of God’s love.
Tip night blooming assurances of Christ's
„ jF.ipathy filled all the atmosphere with
Weaven.
J The soul at every step seemed to start
up from its feet bright winged joys, warb
ling heavenward. “It is good that I have
been afflicted!” cried David. “The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away!”
exclaims Job. “Sorrowful, yet always re
joicing,” says St. Paul. “And God shall
wipe away all tears from their eyes!" ex
claims John in apocalyptic vision. At
eventime it was light. Light from the
cross! Light from the promises! Light
from the throne! Streaming, joyous, out
gushing, everlasting light!
Again, the text shall find fulfillment in
the time of old age. It is a grand thing to
be young, to have the sight clear and the
hearing acute and the step elastic and all
our pulses marching on to the drumming of
a stout heart. Midlife and old age will be
denied many of us, but youth—we all know
what that is. Those wrinkles were not al
ways on your brow; that snow was not al
ways on your head; that brawny muscle
did not always bunch your arm; you have
not always worn spectacles. Grave and
dignified as you now are, you once went
coasting down the hillside or threw off
your hat for the race or sent the ball fly
ing sky high. But youth wiil not always
last. It stays only long enough to give us
exuberant spirits and broad shoulders for
burden carrying and an arm with which to
battle our way through difficulties. Life's
path, if you follow it long enough, will |
come under frowning crag and cross trem- !
bling causeway. Blessed o'd age, if you
let it come naturally! You cannot hide it. i
Y"ou may try to cover the wrinkles, but
vou cannot cover the wrinkles. If the time
has come for you to be old, be not ashamed
to be old. The grandest things in all the
universe are o'd—old mountains, old riv
ers, oi l seas, old stars and an old eternity.
Then do not be ashamed to be old unless
you are older than the mountains and old
er than the stars.
How men and women will lie!. They say
say they are forty, but they are sixty.
They say they are twenty, but they are
thirty. They say they are sij ty, but they
are eighty. Glorious old ags if found in
the way of righteousness!
How beautiful the old age of Jacob,
leaning on the top of his staff; of John
Quincy Adams, falling with the harness
on; of Washington Irving, sitting, pen in
hand, amid the scenes himself had made
classical; of John Angell James, to the last
proclaiming the gospel to the masses of
Birmingham; of Theodore Freiinghuysen,
down to feeb’eness and emaciation devot
ing his illustrious faculties to the kingdom
of Cod. At eventide it was light!
See that you do honor to t/id aged. A
philosopher stood at the corner df the
street day after day, saying to the passers
by: “You will be an old man; you will be
an old man. You will be an old woman;
you will be an old woman.” People
thought that he was crazy. I do not think
that he was
Smooth the way for that mother's feet;
they have not many more steps to take.
Steady those ottering limbs, they will soon
he at rest. PiuW not up that face with
any more wrinkles; trouble and care have
marked it full enough. Thrust nO thorn
into thftt old heart; it will soon cease to
beat. “The eye 'hat mocketh its father
and refuseth to obey its mother the ravens
of the valley shall pick it out, and the
young eagles shall eat it.”
You have watched the calmness and the
glory of the hour. The laborers
have edrite frdftl the field; the heavens are
glowing with id indescribable effulgence,
as though the sun in departing had forgot
ten to shut the gate after it. All the
beauty of cloud and leaf swims in the lake.
For a star iff the sky, a star in the water;
heaven above and heaven beneath. Not a
leaf rustling or a bee humming or a grass
hopper chirping. Silence in the nlOadow,
silence among the hills. Thus bright nnd
beautiful shall be thfi evening of the world.
The heats of earthly conflict are cool; the
glory of heaven fills all the scene with love,
joy and peace. At eventime it is light—
light!
Finally, my text shall find fulfillment at
the end Of the Christian’s life. You know
how short a winter s day is and titlW little
work you call dob Now, my friends, life is
a short winter’s day. The sun rises at 8
and sets at 4. The birth angel Itnd the
death angel fly only a little way apart.
Baptism and burial are near together.
With cine hand the mother rocks the cra
dle and with the other she touches a grave.
I werit into the house of one of my pa
rishioners on Thanksgiving Day. The lit
tle child of the household was bright and
glad, and with it I hounded up and down
the hall. Christmas Day came and the
light of that household had perished. We
stood, with black book, reading over the
grave, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
But I hurl away this darkness. I cannot
have you weep. Thanks be Unto God, who
giveth Us the victory, at eveniime it shall
be light! I have seen many Christians die.
I never saw any of them die in darkness.
What if the billows of death do rise above
ou: girdle, whd docs not love to bathe?
What though other lights do gd out in the
blast, what do we want of them when all
the gates of g’.ory sw'ing open before us,
and from a myriid voices, a myriad harps,
a myriad thrones, a myriad palaces there
dashes upon us “Hosanna! Hosanna!”
“Throw back the shutters and let the
sun in,” said dying Scoviile MeCullum, one
of my Sabbath-school boys. "Throw hack
the shutters and let the sun in.” You can
see Paul putting on robes and wings of as
cension as he exclaims: “1 have fought the
good tight! I haVe finished my course! I
nave kept the faith!”
Hugh McKall went to one side df the
scaffold hf martyrdom and cried: “Fare
well sun. moon and stare! Farewell all
earthly delights!” then went on the other
side of the scaffold and cried; ‘ 'Velrome,
God and Father! Welcome, sweet Jesus
Christ, the Mediator of the covenant!
Welcome, death! Welcome, glory!”
A minister of Christ in Philadelphia,
dying, said in his last moments, “1 move
into the light!” They did not go down
doubting and fearing and shivering, but
their battle cry rang through all the cav-
the sepulcher and was echoed back
froiMlll the thrJnes of heaven: “O death,
where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy
victory?” Sing, my soul, of joys to come.
1 saw a beautiful being wandering up
and down the earth. She touched the aged
and they became young; she touched the
poor and they became rich. I said, “Who
is this beautiful being wandering up and
down the earth?” They told me that Her
name was Death, What a strange thrill
of joy when the palsied Christian begin
to use his arm again, when the blind
Christian begins to see again, when the
deaf Christian begins to hear again, when
the poor pilgrim puts his feet on such pave
ment and joins in such company and has a
free scat in such a great temple.
Hungry men no more to hunger, thirsty
men no more to thirst, weeping men no
more to weep, dying men no more to die.
Gather up all sweet words, all jubilant ex
pressions, all rapturous exclamations;
bring them to me, and 1 will pour upon
them this stupendous theme of the soul’s
disenthrallment!
Oh, the joy of the spirit as it shall mount
up toward the throne of God, shouting:
“Free! Free!” Your ej’e has gazed upon
the garniture of earth and heaven, but eye
hath not seen it; your ear has caught har
monies uncounted aud indescribable—
caught them from harp’s trill and > bird s
carol and waterfall’s dash and ocean s dox
ology—but car hath not heard it.
How did those blessed ones get up into
the light? What hammer knocked off their
chains? What loom wove their robes of
light? Who gave them wings? Ah, eter
nity i3 not long enough to tell it, seraphim
have not capacity enough to realize it—
the marvels of redeeming love!
Let the palms wave; let the crowns glit
ter; let the anthems ascend; let the trees
of Lebanon clap their hands—they cannot
tell the half of it. Archangel before the
throne, thou failest!
Sing on, praise on, ye hosts of the glori
fied, and if with your scepters you cannot
reach it and with your songs you cannot
express it then let all the myriads of the
saved unite in the exclamation: "Jesus!
Jesus! Jesus!”
There will be a password at the gate of
heaven. A great multitude come up and
knock at the gate. The gatekeeper says,
“The password.” They say: “We have no
password. We were great on earth, and
now we come up to be great in heaven.
A voice from within answers, “I never
knew you.” Another group come up to
the gate of heaven and knock. The gate
keeper says, ‘‘The password. Ihey say,
“We have no password. We did a great
many noble things on earth. We endowed
colleges and took care of the poor. Ihe
voice from within says, “I never knew
you ” Another group come up to the gate
of heaven and knock. The gatekeeper
says, “The password." They answer, ”\Ve
were wanderers from God and neserve to
die, but we heard the voice of Jesur ”
“Aye, aye,” says the gatekeeper, .“that is
the password! Lift up your heads, ye
everlasting gates, and let these people
come in.” They go in and surround the
throne, jubilant forever!
Ah, do you wonder that the last hours
of the Christian on earth are illuminated
by thoughts of.the coming glory? Light in
the evening. The medicines may be bitter.
The pain may be sharp. The parting may
be heartrending. Yet light in the even
ing. As all the stars of the night ziuk
their anchors of peari in lake and river
and sea so the waves of Jordan shall be il
luminated with the down flashing of the
glory to came. The dying soul looks up at
the constellations “The Lord is my light
and my salvation; whom shall I fear?”
“The Lamb which is in the midst of the
throne shall lead them to Irving fountains
of water, and God shall wipe away all tears
from their eyes.”
, Close the eyes of the departed one;
i earth would seem tame to its enchanted
vision. Fold the hands; life's work is
ended. Veil the face; it has been trans
figured.
Mr. Topiady in his dying hour said,
“Light.” Coming nearer the expiring
moment he exclaimed with illuminated
1 countenance, “Light!” In the last instant
of his breathing he lifted up his hands and
, cried: “Light! Light!”
1 Thank God for light in the evening!, j-
ICopyrifht, 1902, L. Hvpscb.l jjaJ*
SI.OO a Year.
NO. 40.
PLAINT OF THE WAN ON A SALARY
Bli, I'm only a salaried man
oln* the best, that I can , r nr
To save tip a little and put by a little for
use wlififl I*6® old and gray,
But. ever and always they .a®® 111
To fce planning some new kind of scheme
To take all my earnings away.
I work and I WWk and 1 try
To make myself worthy—to let
Mr employer discover that 1
km earning much more than I get;
And he gives me a raise
After many delays,
And joy fills my breast *4 I soar
As hoy does and then
They hotlnd me again, ~
And leave me as poor as before.
Oh, I’m giving the best of my life .
To arrange matters so that my wife
May nay out the dollars and r hand out
the dollars to silence tne miugry ac
When'Tearned but a thousand I thought
If I just had two thousand Id not
Bea puppet in any mans hands— /
When I got my two thousand at last,
I found that I ought to have three,
Ah, my hoping, my dreaming, is past,
There will never be leisure for me.
They scheme and they plan
To get all that a man %
Can earn, let hilt! toil as he maj
One thousand or five.
They keep “looking alive,
And mariSgs to get it away.
The hair on my temples is white ,
And I’m forced to work extra at night
To keep the wheels going, to keep up th<
showing for those that arc helplest
and dear, '
And when I’ve a dollar or two j
Ahead it's a sign that anew
Expense of some kind will appear! s
The money I’m going to save
Next week or next month or next year
They take with the rest and I slave
For a mere dull existence down here.
Though I toil night and day
They still get it away
And leave me to struggle and fre„— . <
Let the salaried man
Do the best that he can.
Still they’ll always take all he can get.
"So MlSs Gotrox is to marry Count
Spaghetti this month? He must be an
ardent suitor.” “Suitor, nothing. He’s
a financier."—Judge.
“His a good compass.”
“Y-yes; but ft didn’t prevent his being
all at sea in that last song.”—Philadel
phia Evening Bulletin.
Miss Trill—“l love to hear the birds
slug,” Jack Downright (warmly)— 1 “So
do I. They never attempt a piece be
yond their ability.”—Tit-Bits.
Smith—“ There goes a man who
hasn’t a friend in the world.” Jones—
“Foor fellow'. How tlkl he lose his
money?”—Chicago Daily News.
Once more the youthful statesman comes,
For fame’s fair prize he reaches;
Once more we find him full of hope,
And also full of speeches.
—Washington Star.
Tommy—“ Pop, what is meant by a
prophet without honor in his cwn coun
try?” Tommy’s Pop—“A weather
nwr f* TkKilrt #1 1 Vs t n
piuituct, ouu. —a uiutuciituta uv v
ord.
Blobbs—“What is Scribbler’s particu
lar line of work?” Slobbs—"He’s an
obituary poet.” Blobbs—“Attends to
the last sad writes, eh?” —Philadelphia
Record.
“One’s teeth require lots of looking
after, don't they?” “Yes. Ma mislaid
her upper set yesterday and it took us
two hours to find them.” —Philadelphia
Evening Bulletin.
“I care not for gold—though I shall not
conceal
A certain vague yearning for pelf.
But just give me stock in the metal called
steel
And the gold will take care of itself.”
—Washington Star.
Miss Hoamley—“l understand you
do very handsome work and make very
pretty pictures.” Photographer—
“Yes’m, but I could give you an exact
likeness, if you wish.”—Philadelphia
Press.
La Montt—“l wonder what they are
selling over there? I just heard them
shouting: ‘Here is something to catch
a man's eye!’” La Moyne—ll'm! they
must he selling ladies’ umbrellas.”—
Philadelphia Record.
**■ New Glacial lirpoiheais.
A Russian servant, P'-ofessor E. Ro
govsky, in a recently published paper
on “Planetary Atmospheres,” suggests
incidentally a possible explanation of
the earth’s glacial period. He says:
“If we suppose that the temperature
of the sun at the preseht time is still
increasing—and this is a matter' about
which there is a division of opinion
among solar physicists—or, at least,
that it has been increasing until now,
the glacial period of the earth may be
easily accounted for. Formerly the
earth had a high temperature of its
own, blit received a smaller quantity
of heat from the suu than now. Its
climate was then warmer and more
uniform than at present; on cooling
gradually, the earth’s surface attained
such a temperature as caused a great
part of the surface of its northern and
southern hemispheres to be covered
with ice; but the sun’s radiation in
creasing, the glaciers melted, and the
climatic conditions became as they are
now. In a word, the temperature of
the earth’s surface depends upon two
quantities—one decreasing (the earth's
own heat); the other increasing (the
sun’s radiation), and consequently
there may be a minimum, and this
minimum was the glacial period,
which, as has been shown, by recent
investigations, was not local, but was
general for the whole earth.
Workmen’s Unelllngsif^H.omlon.
London owns at the pwsent time
completed dwellings containing over
1500 tenements, erected solely for the
benefit of the working class. One
housing scheme, the largest ever at
tempted In London or elsewhere. In
volved the expenditure of $1,410,000-