text: ~ss:;CALHOUN CHROIN CLE.iw^ I ™VYy\ SS2 IWr] !,u!:! ft «" vaiircrar< *H5 '=r“ r=~~ — ^^UjUN^. I...K POXTorKirK AW ««CQMP.CIA»W UAH. MATTKR._ i £ Smf, •jftfSfSB ' w G..em,(„t| p„ Hom„ a„d Wi, h«„u. $i.5o <.«»«.« * «^£3sssr „ , . ”--- --_ " • I . TWfcl CUailnv ad Tart 1m men til mad* CALHOUN CHRONICLE -■- .. — _ =m=- - kjiZ?£•PP,‘«»*ion i* th. pabiuh*r. .. _-_ GRANTSVILEE, W. VA., TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14,1897. WHOLE NO. 73;!. I tesEsE"”1£=F5aK , OUR LATTER DAYS. A cloudy morning, nnd » golden eve. ’TU «n old tale, beloved; we may nnd Warm with the glow that never lingers Heart stories all ar .un | us just the long sa-no. Bueh Is our life; nnd who would pause to Speak to the sad. an 1 tell them Hod is kind Over a tearful day that ends In song? through which The dawn was gray, and dim with mist nnd Our youth went by in recklessness nnd rn ,i: haste. There was no sweetness In the chilly Aud precious things w?re lost as soon as blicd; gained; Dead oaves were strewn along the dusky Yet patiently our Father saw the waste That led us to the sunset light at la ,t. ***&££?* UP fra-ai*’ut; «■* ">* Taught by Ills love, wo learnt to love aright; Led by Ills hand, wo passed through dreary ways And now how lovely Is the mellow Jlgkt That shines so calmly on our inttcr days! - Surah Doudncy, in Sunday Magazine. Magic Breastpin. By L. E. Van Nooman. I saw that it was likely to rain all day I determined to visit my friend Azral, who keeps the very shop on Wardour street. I had several holidays on hand and knew of no more delightful way of spending an idle hour than in looking over old Azral's collection of vertu, which had a great fascination for me. The old man, who had taken quite a fancy to me—probably because I could appreciate his love for the bizarre and antique—and who even became quite chatty at times, was a venerable Hebrew who boasted descent from David. Contrary to the traditional characteristics of his race, he was frank and open-handed—I had found him even generous. A fine old fellow he was, tall, majestic, with a long white beard sweeping his breast; stately and slow in speech, polite, but not cringing, with that self-respecting courtesy which Dickens gives us in Isaiah, the “Godmother.” I cannot say why, but he was my most picturesque picture of Aaron—he had a sort of silent eloquence about him. Without either kin or kin, he lived in the love of his relics, his children he called them. And a rare and exquisite, but decidedly versified, family he had. The shop, which was wedged in between a jeweler’s on one hand and a second-hand book-dealer’s on the other, was narrow and low, but extreme back some distance. On shelves in the walls, on tables, in drawers were spread fire objects of his passion in the most enchanting disregard for the conventional modes of arrangement. Here a shelf of old-fashioned lace showed stout burgomasters in blue and yellow. Next was a shelf from which gleamed arms and cutlery, swords, real Damascus laces, of so magnificent a temper as to admit of being bent in a circle. Here was a bureau drawer full of exquisite ivory carvings, crucifixes and amulets of rich and varied workmanship side by side - a diminutive Persian narghiles and squat Chinese josses. In the next was a gato from Japanese lapidaria, along with wood fretwork from Geneva and jet from Cornwall. Here hung a painting of Cimahue, here one of Benjamin West. To examine such a curiosity shop was my delight, and I often resorted there. He had lately bought a stock of Moorish jewelry, and asked me to examine it. I eagerly complied, and while looking it over saw a curious breastpin that immediately attracted my attention. A delicate little golden heart held together two swords crossed. The swords were each about three inches long, one a Scotch claymore of pure green gold, the basketful of the most beautiful lace-like arabesque tracery. Every of gold interwoven with silver. At the end of the handle sparkled a tiny topaz, scintilating like an imprisoned sunbeam. The other was an Eastern simitar, with broad, slightly curving blade and an edge of some white metal, possibly silver. At the cross-piece of the handle there was a ruby, and at each end of the cross-piece a diamond of the purest water. The Latin was “Oladii duo, corium. In the whole thing had a rich exotic look about it that stimulated my curiosity. I asked my venerable friend if I might buy it. No, he said slowly “no, Hint is not for sale; but if you like it I will tell you its history.” I replied that nothing would please me better. “That breastpin,” said he, “is a trust confined to me, leave it in the Holy Land with my mother, in Jerusalem. Once on a journey to visit my kinsman, Javan, at Damascus, I came upon a pool Turk half dead by the wayside. He had been attacked and beaten by robbers so that he was driven. I got off my beast, and went to him and tried to lift him up. He attempted to speak. Bending close, I caught the question in Arabic; “‘Art thou a Jew?’ I had some faint hope that thou wert a Christian, a European, perchance an Englishman.” I live In England, in London, I said, "The dying man clasped his hands." 'Allah is good,' he whispered. 'Do thou lift my head up. I have a trust, I will conclude it to thee.' Here his breath came thick and I could scarcely hear the words. 'My father made me promise to get this to James — 'bed Thursday by the Lord,' he said, 'I will be heard of the Prophet, 'Twill tell thee,' he cried, starting up 'it is—' but the spark of life was almost out. It flickered, and he had only strength to put his bond into his bosom and partly drew it forth again when death began to glaze his eyes. 'Allah Aklmr!' he murmured faintly, and the spark went out. I felt that I had taken from his breast that jewel; the parchment around it said: 'James Thurshy, Singleton Cross, London, England,' and I must deliver it to James Thurshy.' The old man paused. My wife's father was James Thurshy! T exclaimed, excitedly. 'He has been dead these ten years, and Singleton Cross is our home.' Then if thou art really his relative thou hast been blessed of fortune, mine eyes would rejoice to behold thy wife.' The next day I brought my wife with me to see the venerable Hohrow. "Daughter," said he, after we had presented indisputable proof of our connection to James Thurshy, and given documentary evidence of my wife's genealogy—for the old man, firmly as he had been, was cautious about giving up his trust, and in that he was, of course, justifiable—“and so, my daughter, thy sire was James Hurstby. Then I have fulfilled my trust,” and he handed her the beautiful jewel. Once at home, we were all burning with eagerness to examine it more closely. I held it up to the light. As I did so, the handle of the simitar pressed against my hand, and click— the swords uncrossed. They had been set at an angle of about twenty degrees, and now they were at right angles. I was astonished, perplexed. I tried to get them back to their original position, but they were firm. Wind did it mean? I turned the pin around in every conceivable way. Dressed part for secret springs, but no solution of the puzzle offered itself. Much disappointed, I laid it down, and my wife took it and began to examine it. To picking it up, the point of the claymore pressed against the table, and her finger rested on the hilt of the simitar. Immediately there was a click as before, but—miruble diet! the jewel did not assume its original form, but the simitar opened like a box split lengthwise. That is, there were now two scientists precisely alike, each one half as thick as the first one, joined by a most perfect but entirely invisible hinge, and inside was a tiny piece of very, very fine parchment. Irembling with eagerness, I opened the parchment. Ha!—something written but in Arabic. What a shame! But no; I would show it to my friend the Jew. He would interpret it for me. I looked longingly at the claymore and tried to open it. I set its point on the table and pressed its hilt. No result! Then I remembered that when the simitar opened the door, the stone was gone. Point of the sword touched the table and my wife pressed the hilt of the former weapon. I believed I had found the secret. Setting the points of the sword, touched the basket hilt of the tiny claymore. Magic! Open the sword. In it was a paper or parchment like the other, but triumph!—in English. And this is what it said (I had to use a magnifying glass to read it): "My name of God, Amen!" I then followed the regular legal form of an English will, bequeathing to John Thurnby or his heirs the sum of £10,000 sterling, to be found deposited in the bank of England. It was signed "Nonreddin Aga," and witnessed with long Turkish names. Then followed the name of a prominent London business house as agent of Nonreddin, and in whose name the deposit had been made. To say that it was utterly dumbfounded is to put it very mildly indeed. It read so much like a fairy tale that I almost looked to see the pin take wings and fly off. As for my wife, she acted as though she was bewitched. We were staring at each other in silence. She was the first to speak. "Stephen," she said, "I think—but here there came a voice from the door. "Where's Hue?" if, said, and my wife's elder half-brother appeared. No sooner, however, he had he glanced at the table than he stopped short and cried excitedly; "Where did you get that?" "We are just recovering from the surprise." It gave us," said I, laughing. "Look at it." He had it in his hand before I had spoken, saying as he picked it up, "This is worth a fortune to you." I looked at the figure in surprise. “What is it, Arthur?” she asked eagerly. “Tell us about it; we don't understand.” “As I thought,” he said, as he scanned the document in English. “Arthur,” said his sister, fretfully, “how can you keep us in such suspense?” “Well,” replied Arthur, “it's rather a long story, but you shall have it as I got it from your father. The Turks, you know, are very old family. They date back further than the Conquest. The Jarl Malise Thursbigli, for so it was originally spelled, is said to have been a Norwegian, who came to Scotland some time about the year 1000. His grandson Magnus was a knight in the First Crusade. He fought under Hugh of Vormandois at the battle of Antioch. During a desperate charge Magnus’ heavy Norman horse stepped on a wounded Turk and crushed his foot. “In the heat of battle Magnus could not stop for one time, though he did remark the noble countenance of the Muslim over whom he had ridden. But after the Turks had been driven back, and he, like a true knight, was nearing for the wounded scattered over the plain, he came across this same man. Magnus cared for him, nursed him tenderly, and they struck up quite a friendship. Noureddin, the Turk, was a man of influence and nobility of character. Before they separated they exchanged weapons, Noureddin taking Magnus’ heavy Scotch clay more, and Magnus the sim. The Moslem. “They met again at Ascalon, this time Magnus being a prisoner. The chivalrous Mussulman treated him like a prince and had two jeweled breastpins made by a Damascene artisan, showing an ord crossing a similar over a heart of gold. Each took one as a keepsake, and solemnly swore—a strange compact it was—that when the male line of either failed all the earthly possessions of that house should go to the last surviving member of the other’s family. "Where did you get this?” I explained to him all I knew of it. “I see,” he said, “the Turk must have been the last of his house. I have no doubt he had all his property arranged in this way by bank deposit, in accordance with the oath of his ancestor made 800 years before.” There is nothing more to be said except that I went to the bank, and found everything all correct, and my wife heiress to £90,000. My old friend the virtue I did not forget, but made him a present of the next stock of curiosities I came across. As for the pin, it is guarded with great care and veneration, and brought out only on state occasions.—Arthur’s Home Magazine. Suicide of a Dog. The tenants of Nos. 10, 12 and 13 Forsyth street, were badly frightened by a dog, which they thought mud. Henry Wostey, the janitor of No. 12, saw the animal first, and he says its eyes bulged, its mouth frothed, and its mouth snapped as it began to circle around him on the sidewalk. He picked up a child that was playing near and running into the house, darted into a room on the ground floor just in time to save his life and that of the child. For the clog, a small brown cur, came with a hump and a growl against the door. Then the dog went up to the roof, the people in the house shrieking the warning to keep out of the way. A few minutes later the dog leaped off the roof to a shed five stories below and broke its legs. A man in the shed was frightened out of it by the thud of the tail, but his wife from the window above shrieked to him to hurry back out of sight of the infuriated animal. A policeman came and shot the dog. Then a reporter arrived and began to impure among the neighbors about the history of the dog's madness. It is possible he was mad, if despair, hunger, thirst and ill-treatment can affect the canine brain. For one of the women remembered that the dog had been seen on the roof for three days. Sometimes it had scratched at the doors for food or water, but it got home. The women drove it off with brooms and the men hurled at it the next thing at hand. It was a pretty clear case of animal suicide which the janitor might have prevented with a drink of water or a morsel of food. New York Post. A Sparrow Ornttucle Co n ISor. It is a rare occurrence for a family in a wild state to select a man for a companion and friend, yet well-authenated instances when this has been done are a matter for record. The following incident is noted for by a young woman who is a close and accurate observer: Last week, my brother (a lad of twelve) killed a snake which was just in the act of robbing a song sparrow's father since then the male sparrow has shown his gratitude to the sparrow for a truly wonderful manner. When he goes into the garden, the sparrow will fly to him, sometimes imitating alighting on his head, at other times on his shoulder, all the while pouring out a tumultuous song of praise and gratitude. He will accompany him about the garden, never leaving him until he rends the garden gate. George, as you know, is a splendid boy, who loves animals, and this may account, in a degree, for the sparrow's extraordinary actions. Louisville Courier-Journal. For Poor Travelers. Switzerland has always been foremost in the cause of charity, recently a society has been formed which has most commendable objects. The State subsidizes and the police authorities assist the operations of this society, which has been founded for the purpose of aiding poor travelers. In the canton of Aargua refuges are now provided on the main thoroughfares at regular intervals, where homestead travelers on foot, who are seeking work or who are seeking work or who are seeking work. Passing through the country for a legitimate purpose, ran obtain refreshment and a night's lodging. The Herne Consul says the beneficial results of the scheme are likely to cause a great stir throughout Switzerland. THE HARVEST OF PRUNES. AN INDUSTRY OF GREAT WASHINGTON TUDE IN CALIFORNIA. That There Are 33,000 Acres In the East to the East. Involving an Investment of $50,000,000. How Prunes Are Listed and Fruit. The magnitude of the prune industry of California is little realized by the people in the Eastern States. In a decade the growing of prunes has gone forward in California by leaps and bounds, and today 320,000,000 is invested in it—that is, in lands, trees, irrigation systems, agricultural tools and packing houses. Notwithstanding damaging frosts last spring through the lower part of the San Joaquin Valley, and all over the horticultural volleys of Pomona, San Gabriel and Hannibal, the total product of green prunes now on the trees in this State, says a Los Angeles letter to the Chicago Record, is estimated at 83,000 tons. Of this quantity about one-fifth will be shipped East as green fruit for sale at fruit stands and for cunning purposes; the remaining four-fifths will be dried for market, making about 24,000 tons of dried prunes. Ten years ago, the total area of bearing prune orchards in California was less than 7000 acres. In 1890, the total area of bearing prune orchards was 13,000 acres, and there was an enormous planting of prune trees that year in all the fruit growing valleys of California, because of the large profit in the industry. Twelve thousand acres of prune orchards were set out in the winter of 1891-91, and 21,000 acres more were planted in the next two years. These orchards have now come into bearing, and the State Board of Horticulture finds that there are 53,000 acres of bearing prune orchards in California today and about 8000 acres more to come into bearing. Conservative estimates put the total crop of California prunes in a favorable year at not less than 90,000 tons. The value of the crop has gone down very rapidly in the last three years. In the season of 1832, good prunes fresh from the trees sold for $335 a ton. In 1831, the same product brought $325 a ton. This year, the very best prunes bring $318 a ton, but the general market price is $315 a ton. When the prune crop is harvested in August, the scones in the orchards and in the drying fields are long to be remembered. Thousands of men, women, and children throughout the valleys of central and southern California are busy in the prime orchards and at the fruit-packing houses in these days. A prune orchard in itself is one of the most beautiful things in the realm of horticulture and when the throngs of workers are there, it is an interesting sight. The thousands of trees are planted in long rows, so equidistant one from the other and in such symmetry that one may look in any direction among them and the alignment is perfect. The ground is soft and even, and the years of monthly cultivation and care have made it so smooth that not even a pebble or a clod or a blade of glass or the smallest weed may be seen anywhere. When the fruit grower, who has been daily watching the process of ripening of his crop, finds that the fruit is so thoroughly ripened as to be soft to the touch he employs a force of workers. Great sheets of cheap cloth are laid on the ground beneath the trees. Strong men shake the trees and boys shake branches so that the prunes may fall. The sheets are gathered up at the ends and the fallen fruit poured into padded boxes, so as to avoid handling as much as possible. Once a tree is treated in this way, once each day, until the crop is gathered. The operation is often repeated once a day for twenty days before all the prunes are harvested. Meanwhile, the gathered fruit has been carried to the washing boxes and the dripping caldrons. The prunes are put into great heavy wire cages holding several hundred pounds each and are first dipped into running water, where the dirt and dust are washed away. In a moment more, the cage is elevated on a crane and let down into a caldron of hot water, heavy with concentrated lye. The purpose of this operation is to remove the bloom and crack the skin that envelops the flesh of the prune in order that the drying process may take place more rapidly. In its natural state, the skin is so smooth and tough that it would take a week to dry the fruit properly for market. From the caldrons of hot lye water, the cages of prunes are lifted again and once more plunged into hot clean water, so that the lye may be washed away and a gloss be given to the fruit. Then comes the drying process, for girls and boys come with shallow wooden trays a yard square and, as the prunes pour down from a hopper into which they are dumped from the cages, deft hands spread the product over the trays in the twinkling of an eye. A little tramway carries the trays and fruit out into the drying yard every minute and there on the ground, covered for two or three acres with some cheap fabric, the prunes are placed for drying by the sun. There is a strong sunshiny twenty-nine days out of thirty in each summer month in the valley of central and southern California, and In the rule that prunes are well dried in two and a half or three days. A little army of workers is always busy in the prune season in gathering the dried products from the trays and carrying it in baskets to the sweat boxes, where, after a week or ten days, the dampness that arose from quickly dried fruit has evaporated. Often a prune grower on an extensive scale may have in his bins at the top of the harvesting of the crop 100 or 700 tons of dried prunes, while his drying yard of several acres may be so completely covered with trays as to look as if smeared a purple black. The more extensive prune growers in California handle as many as seventy tons of prunes in a day. It takes from two and one-half to three pounds of the green fruit to make one of the dried product. The active work of the harvest over the grower looks about for buyers for his yield. There are always scores of purchasing agents for Eastern whole fruit dealers and commission houses throughout the horticultural regions of California in the fruit season and they are hundreds of local fruit shippers in the State. The fruit is sampled and tested for its saccharine qualities, the firmness of the flesh and the gloss of the skin. Little bags of sample fruit are sent here and there. When a sale is made it is done on the basis of the sizes of the dried prunes. Thus there are six sizes: 1, those ranging from forty to fifty to the pound; 2, fifty to sixty to the pound; 3, sixty to seventy; 4, seventy to eighty; 5, eighty to ninety, and 6, all below ninety. An experienced prune grower and buyer can tell at a glance what size of fruit he is looking at and, of course, the larger sizes are the more marketable. Soldiers to Guard the Fort. The Secretary of the Interior at Washington has under consideration a project which will hereafter furnish some of the Fort Logan cavalry men with a novel variety of active duty in the summer and fall seasons. It is that a detail of Regular Army troopers he told off guard the herd of buffalo which exists in Lost Park, Colorado. There are still about forty of these rare heasts alive, but if some immediate precaution is not taken to protect them against the depredations of pot hunters they will speedily be exterminated. Late last fall one buffalo was found alive at a remote distance from its fellows, having been wounded a number of times by rifle bullets. It was put out of pain by a deputy game warden, and its stuffed fruit is now among the collection of rarities in the rooms of the State Historical Society. This incident led to the discovery that several others of the herd had been killed during the precoding summer. No trace of the marauders who did the killing could be discovered, nor could any effective means be devised by the State Game Warden to guard against them in future. A good deal of indignation was aroused thereat among sportsmen and others who are interested in preserving Colorado’s rapidly dwindling buffalo. As a result, the scheme to use cavalrymen was concocted, and James A. Miller, clerk of the Supreme Court, was delegated to communicate with Congressman Shafroth on the subject. This action was taken by Mr. Miller on May 5, and yesterday he received from Congressman Shafroth a letter, inclosing a statement from the United States Adjutant-General's office to the effect that the military buffalo warden proposal was under consideration by the United States Department of the Interior. —Denver Republican. All residents of the lower Mississippi have for many years felt the greatest concern on account of the washing away of the banks and the necessity of some means by which the currents could be deflected and stop the continual wearing away of the shores. Some idea of the expense attending the keeping of this great body of water within reasonable bounds may be gotten from the statement of an expert who has just finished an examination of this erratic stream. Immense mattresses or mats are made of willows and underbrush. These are woven in with wires and poles of various sizes, forming an enormously heavy and apparently very strong resisting material. These mats are woven on barges anchored out in the stream for this purpose. Then they are slid off into the water and weighted with stones. Some of them are three or four hundred feet long. Some of the largest of them will cover eight acres. The work can only be done during low water, which fact greatly adds to the cost, as there is only a short season, and the work must be pushed to the highest rate of speed. Sometimes, after all of the effort, the first high water sweeps the whole structure away, and all must be done over again. Asbestos Roof. Asbestos formerly in use now has a formidable competitor in the blue asbestos of South Africa. The latter is less than half as heavy, and furnishes finer and longer fibers, which have been worked into webs that little inferior to those made of vegetable fiber, are absolutely fireproof. and resist most known chemicals, corrosive vapors, and atmospheric influences. A blue asbestos rope, three-fourths of an inch in diameter, was weighted at one end with 220 pounds, and exposed to a constant flame from a large gas jet, so that a considerable portion of its length was surmounted by fire. It only broke after twenty-two hours. The asbestos rope has only two-thirds the strength of a new hemp rope, but as they grow older the proportion changes in favor of the former, since it is but little affected by the atmosphere. The blue asbestos fiber is also worked into mattresses for hospitals, which are cooler in summer and warmer in winter than those of animal hair or vegetable fiber. As an experiment from the farm, a farmer's apparel is being manufactured from the fiber. — Chicago Inter-Ocean. Some London Statistics, An expert at figures 12,000 vehicles, a quarter of them omnibuses, pass through the Strand in London every day, and the narrowness of the street causes each of their 68,000 occupants to waste on an overage three minute. Training bloodhounds. In the Unerring Purvey of Convict, how it is in the human. "The dogs!" The cry of agonized apprehension was simultaneous with the appearance of a man with disheveled hair, distorted features, and the torture of fear in his eyes, who leaped from the arroyo and dashed past with the speed of the wind. The horror of the situation. struck me dumb and palsied my nerves. The yelps of the swift-appearing dogs beat on my ears like the roar of cannon, and the pressure of my brain was like that of a man down in forty fathoms of water. I tried to run, and a million pains shot through my limbs as though I had been shocked by a powerful electric battery. I was only conscious of one fact, and that was that I stood directly in the path of a pack of bloodhounds, taught by instinct and training to tear human bipeds to pieces. The knowledge that they would only attack the man they were delegated to hunt down did not occur to me. It only came to me when the pack dashed past in full cry. The dogs paid no more attention to me than if I had been one of the sagebrush brushes of the plains. Strength and sensibility came back as quickly as they had deserted me, and I followed the dogs at top speed to learn the fate of the fleeing convict. A hundred-yard dash brought me in sight of the race track stables and within hearing of a chorus that made my blood run cold. The dogs had caught sight of their game and were yelping like a pack of hell-hounds; a dozen horsemen and stable boys were shouting at the dogs and trying to turn them from the fugitive’s truck. Hut terribly clear and distinct above these sounds came the maddened shriek of the convict, who was plunging in headlong fashion toward the open door of one of the stables. It was evident his strength was almost gone, but he dashed through the stable door and I heard the key turn in the rusty lock while the dogs were still several yards away. The horror was still upon me when the head of the convict appeared at the open window ten feet above the ground and, to my amazement, he greeted the people and dogs below with a jeering laugh. “That was a bad easy one,” he said, still laughing. “I could have been here ten minutes ago, but I wanted to give you fellows a scare.” The dogs recognized the man they had been pursuing and made frantic efforts to reach him. They jumped toward the window, striking against the side of the barn and falling back, while they yelped and now led in impotent rage, until the team streamed from their red chops. I appealed to the stablemen for an explanation, but all I could get out of them was: “They’re trying the dogs, if they’re going to.”—Cripple Creek (Col.) Guide. Mine on a Bank Roof. A committee of export employees of the Treasury Department at Washington is now at work at the local assay office supervising the annual settlement of the accounts of the melter and refiner, B. T. Martin. The work began with a sweeping of the assay office roof, to get thereby the stray particles of the premises that might have escaped through the chimneys. The furnaces and flues will be torn down, and the flues, chimneys, and floors will be scraped. The material thus obtained will be put into crucibles and reduced. Apropos of this, occupants of the building at 27 Pine street, adjoining the assay office, complained recently of certain fumes which, they said, came from the institution. The fumes were due to vapor from the gold stews and escaping, and permission was obtained from the making house of Kuhn, Loeli & Co., owners of the building, to sweep the roof. An assay of those sweepings showed gold at the rate of $200 to the ton. —New York Dispatch. A Railroad Who Antedated Steam. Charles Stewart died recently at the home of his son-in-law, Mr. John Hill, No. 1115 Valley street. Mr. Stewart was ninety-three years old, and had the distinction of driving the first car over the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad when that road was completed to Ellicott City and before steam power was used on the line. Mr. Stewart also had the honor of assisting in the laying of On the 22nd of May, 1810, the road was opened to Eipcott City, and on that occasion Mr. Stewart drove the team which drew the first car, a distinction of which he was very proud. When steam was introduced and the railroad was pushed towards the West, Mr. Stewart was appointed to a position at the company’s stables, where he acted as veterinary surgeon. He continued in this position for forty years, when he was retired by the company. This was about fifteen years ago.—Baltimore Sun. Henshaw for Consumption. Another class of men who watch sheep are those who do it for their health. Dozens of men claim to have been cured of consumption simply by putting in several months at watching sheep. The work gives what is most required in the deadly disease—plenty of fresh air, moderate exercise, and employment that is not wearing on the brain, but is still enough to keep it occupied and prevent nervousness. Of course, if a man has plenty of money, he can get these things without breeding sheep, but there are many men who need them badly who have no money, and all who have taken advantage of this knowledge have surely been benefited. A number of men who have taken up sheep herding have been so fascinated with it that they have stuck to it long after they got over the trouble.—Providence Journal. Fair Inez. O. saw you not fair Inez? She got upon a hike. And folks that saw her stand declared They never beheld the like; She wore a pair of bloomers, A dickey and a vest; The neighbors held the wheel for her— Fair Inez did the rest. And with the lovely Inez A gallant cavalier It does down the pike, to teach her To pedal and to steer; He whispered airy nothings, He boldly scouted fear. Until he struck a jagged rock, And landed on his eur! I saw the tovely Inez Descend along the shore. And there was dust all over The bloomers that she wore! I saw her face she landed. She's beautiful no more In wager such a mixed-up mess Was never seen before. Alas, alas for Inez! went away with song; with ribbons on a few handlebars And shoutings of the throng! She came back all disordered. Nor brought her... along — The doctor says 'twill be a month Before she’s well that strong. —Cleveland Leader. PITH AND POINT. The man who deserves the most credit generally has to pay cash.— Life. "Two weeks from today we’ll be one. He—“Well, let’s be happy while we can."—Picayune. "I can't see why you object to young Softly. I’m sure he’s constant." "Worse than that. He’s perpetual." —Truth. "I wonder why Dr. Reaper is advising all his patients to go to White Reach this summer?" "He probably tends to go there himself."—Brooklyn Life. Johnny Barr—“Ha, what’s an ego tist. Handel Barr—“An egotist, my son, is one who thinks all the world but himself is riding low-grade wheels."—Pittsburgh Post. Mrs. Youngish—“Oh, Bob, what shall I do? Baby is crying because I won’t let him pull all the fur off my new muff.” Mr. Youngish—“Well, that’s all right, (live him the cut!”— Tid-Bits. “I have proposed to seven girls this summer already,” said Timmins, “and I haven’t been able to get accepted once. Dinged if I am not beginning to feel like one of my poems.”—Indianapolis Journal. Customer—“Is he up-to-date parrot?” Dealer—“Well, we’ll let him speak for himself. (To parrot). “Polly, want a cracker?” The Parrot — “Moot, moil! I don’t know! Hoo’s a' wi’ ye? Cung awn’!” Customer — “I’ll take him.” —Puck. “Of course you’ll give me one little kiss before I go,” he pleaded. She looked at him intently for a minute and sighed. “It’s pretty high pay,” she replied, “but if you will go early enough I suppose I’ll have to call it a bargain.” Chicago Post, “I wonder,” said the man of a statistical turn, “I wonder how much powder is destroyed daily in useless salutes?” “There must be a lot of fluid the frivolous girl.” “But I suppose women will go on kissing one another just the same.”—Indianapolis Journal. “Trying that man who writes to mix one day and signs himself ‘Well,’” said one citizen. “I suppose he comes a great deal nearer being a constant writer.”—Washington Star. Hallow—“I tell you there’s just as good writers in the world as ever there were.” Dillon—“How about Shakespeare?” Hollow—“A piece of luck on his part. He happened to be born at...” The right time, when there weren’t so many writers as there are at present.”—Boston Transcript. Many Card With a Comp. A weird story of the plague comes from Bombay, India. A party of searchers, making its rounds, came upon a party of natives in a house intent upon a game of cards. Something in the stolid appearance of one of the players attracted attention, and an officer placed his hand on man’s shoulder. The figure swayed and fell over prone to the floor—stone dead. It was only another attempt at concealment. On the approach of the search party, the friends of the dead man had hastily propped him up and stuck some cards in his hand. The dodge was as bold as it was grewsome. And its detection was purely accidental. What a subject for a Holbein or a Dorn—that grim group in the plague-stricken house, with a dead man holding trumps! Nothing more ghostly or more cynically horrible than this Bombay tableau is to be found in "The Dance of Death." And yet the hiding of the dead and dying is an everyday incident. The awful labors of the Poona searchers have so far been rewarded by the discovery of thirty hidden cases and eleven corpses. —North Chinn Daily News. Now I'll find water. The fact that in wet weather the soil dries slowly even when covered with plants that ordinarily drain the soil rapidly, leads some to think that when wet, the leaves absorb moisture on them. But the fact can be equally well accounted for by the knowledge that water on the leaves prevents them from evaporating the moisture. brought from the soil by roots. This soil contains some mineral elements which units with carbonic acid gas from the air in forming plant tissue. While the leaves are wet, they cannot absorb carbonic acid gas. This, with the effect of stopping evaporation, makes the sappy growth which many, jumping too quickly at conclusions, think must be caused by the direct absorption of water through the leaves. 