J. R. GROVE J. R. ODER,
VOLUME I.
A Bird in the Bush.
Kobin, under my window, just as the morbing is
breaking. n
SinKinK an autumn sow; ero you flit to the sum
mer land.
Clcar-voiecd, •weH-th rooted sonKster, me troin
my slumber owokinir.
You, at least, are a bird in the bush worth two
in the hand.
Listening thus to your carol could almost sot mo
a-siriitina.
Ah 1 if my heart were so light, and my life so
free of care!
Could I but join thee in roving, southward our
swift flight winging.
To lands where blossoms tho orange, and jas
mine sconts the air!
L can but envy thy freedom, truly ns I am a
sinner.
You neither sow nor reap, and yet by the r other
nro fed. T
But I—l must toil late and early, if I would be
sure of my dinner:
Am I, then, better than you because i must
work for my bread
'Your songs ure never rejected, you cliafFor not
over their payment,
'flopping about as you please, through the long,
bright, summer day.
You take no thought for tho morrow, no care for
shelter end raiment
For ero the chill winds of the winter you has
ten unburdened away.
With no relentless conductor, who pants for your
life or your ticket.
No itnplacablo landlord to put in his dreadful
bill.
You’ll travel by private conveyance, will stop in
some first-class thicket.
And, dropping down in some corn-field, break
fast and dine nt your will.
Well, then, go if you must, for the leaves of tho
maple nre burning.
Seek for pleasure and health, but do not tarry
too long;
With the first buds of the spring-time, back to
my window returning.
Waken me early some morning from dreaming,
again with your song.
"A'criioler’a Monthly.
GENIUS IN THE SIERRAS.
11Y CLARENCE KING.
One October day, as Kawcah and I
traveled by ourselves over a lonely foot
hill trail, 1 fell to wondering if ever an
artist, should arise to paint our Sierras
as they an\ with all tlieir color glory,
innumerable pine and countless pinna
cle, gloom of tempest, or splendor,
where rushing like shatters itself upon
granite crag, or burns in dying rose
upon far fields of snow.
Had I rubbed Aladdin’s lamp? A
turn in tho trail brought suddenly in
view a man who sat under shallow of
.oaks, painting upon a largo canvass.
As I approached the artist turned
half round upon his stool, rested pal
ette and brushes upon one knee and in
a familiar tone said Dern’d if you
ain't just naturally ketehed me at it.
ddet off and set down. You ain't going
ifor no doctor, I know.”
My artist was of short, good-natured,
'butcher-boy make up, dressed in what
had formerly been black broadcloth,
with an enlivening show of red flannel
shirt about the throat and wrists, and a
•considerable 'display of the same where
iiis waistcoat might once have overlap
ped a strained but as yet coherent
avaistliand. Tho cut of these garments,
by length of coat-tail and voluminous
leg, proudly asserted a Bay” origin.
His small feet were squeezed into tight,
short hoots, with high, raking heels.
A round face, with small, full mouth,
non-committal nose and black protrud
ing eyes, showed no more sign of the
ideal temperament than did the broad
daub on his square yard of canvas.
“Going to Copples'?” inquired my
friend.
That was my destination and I an
swered, Yes.”
That’s me,” he ejaculated. Right
over there, down below those two oaks
.Ever there?”
No,”
“My studio's there now;” giving im
pressive accent to the word.
All the while these few words were
passing lie scrutinized me with uncon
cealed curiosity, puzzled, as well lie
.might he, by my dress and equipment,
finally, after 1 had tied Kaweah to a
tree and seated myself by tho easel,
and after lie had absently rubbed some
raw sienna into his little store of white,
he softly ventured
Was you looking out a ditch
No, I replied.”
Ho neatly rubbed up the white and
sienna with his blender,” unconscious
ly adding a dash of A eronese green
gazed at my leggings, then at the barome
ter, and meeting my eye with a look
as if he feared 1 might be a disguised
duke, said in a slow tone, with hyphens
of silence between each two syllables,
■giving to his language all tho dignity of
.an unabridged Webster, 1 would take
pleasure in stating that my name is
Hank G. Smith, artist,” and seeing me
smile he relaxed a litlle, and giving the
blender another vigorous twist, added,
I would request yours.”
Mr. Smith having learned my name,
occupation and that my home was on
the Hudson, near New York, quickly
assumed a familiar me-and-you-old-fel’
tone, and rattled on merrily about his
winter in New York spent in “going
through the academy”—a period of
deep moment to one who before that
only painted wagons for a livelihood.
Storing away canvas, stool and easel
in a deserted cabin close by, lie rejoined
me, and, leading Kaweah by his lariat, I
walked beside Smith down tho trail to
ward Copples’.
lie talked freely, and as if composing
his own biography, beginning: “Cali
fornia-born and mountain raised, his
nature soon drove him into a painter’s
career.” Then lie reverted fondly to
New York and his experience there
“0 no!” he mused in pleasant irony,
“he never spread his napkin over his
legs and partook French victuals up to
old Delmonico’s.”
Mr. Smith found relief in meeting
one so near himself, as he conceived me
to he in habit and experience. The
long, pent up emotions and ambitions
of his life found ready utterance and a
willing listener.
1 learned that liis aim was to become
a characteristically California painter,
with special designs for making himself
famous us the delineator of mule-trains
and ox-wagons to be, as he expressed
it, the Pacific slope Bonheur.”
There, he said, “is old Eastman
Johnson he’s made the riffle on barns,
and that everlasting girl with the ears
of corn hut it ain’t life—it ain’t got
the real get up. If you want to see Me
thing just look at Gerome—his Arab
folks and Egyptian dancing girls; they
ain’t assuming a pleasant expression
and looking at spots while their like
nesses is took. 11. G. will discount
Eastman yet.”
He avowed his great admiration of
Church, who, though he had a little
leaning toward Mr. Gifford, alone met
his hearty approval.
It’s all Bierstadt and Bierstadt and
j Bierstadt now a-davs I What has he
i done but twist, and skew, and distort,
and discolor, and be little, and be-pretty
this whole doggoned country Why,
bis mountains are too high and too
-slim; they’d blow over in one of our
fall winds. I’ve herded colts two sum
mers in Yosemite, and, honest now,
when I stood right up in front ot his
picture, 1 didn’t know it. lie hasn’t
what old Ruskin calls for.”
By this time the station buildings
were in sight, and far down the canon,
winding in even grade around spur after
spur, outlined by a low, clinging cloud
of red dust, we could see the great Sier
ra mule, train—that industrial gulf
stream flowing from California plains
over into arid Nevada, carrying thither
materials for life and luxury, in a vast,
perpetual caravan of heavy wagons,
drawn by teams of from eight to tour
teen mules, all the supplies of many
cities and villages were hauled across
the Sierra at an immense cost, and witli
such skill of driving and generalship of
mules as the world has never seen be
fore.
Our trail descended toward the grade,
quickly bringing us to a high bank im
mediately overlooking the trains, a few
rods below the group of station build
ings.
1 had by this time learned that (top
ples, the former station proprietor, had
suffered amputation of the leg three
times, receiving from tho road men, in
consequence, the name of Cut-off,”
and that, while his doctors disagreed as
to whether they had better try a fourth,
tlie kindly band of death had spared
him that pain, and Mrs. Copples an
added extortion in the hill.
The dying “Cutoff” had made his
wife promise she would stay by and car
ry on the station until all his debts,
which were many and heavy, should be
all paid, and then do as she chose.
The poor woman, a New Englander of
some refinement, lingered, sadly fulfill
ing her task, though longing for liberty.
When Smith came to speak of Sarah
Jane, her niece, a new light kindled in
his eye.
You never saw Sarah Jane?” he in
quired.
I*shook my head.
lie went on to tell me that he was
living in hope of making her Mrs. 11.
G., hut that the barkeeper also indulged
a hope, ana as this important function
ary was a man of ready cash and of
Derringers and few words, it became a
delicate matter to avow open rivalry
but it was evident my friend’s star was
in the ascendant, and, learning that he
considered himself to possess the dead
wood and to have “gaited” the bar
keeper, I was amused, even comforted.
It was a pleasure to sit there leaning
against a vigorous old oak while Smith
opened his heart to me in easy confi
dence, and, with quick eye, pencilled
ill a little sketch-book a leg, a head, or
such portions of body and harness as
seemed to him useful for future works.
“These are notes,” he said, I’ve
pretty much made up my mind to paint
my great picture on a gee-pull, i’ll
scumble in a sunset effect, lighting up
the dust and striking across the backs
of team and driver, and I’ll paint a
eoine-up-there-damn-you look on the
teamster’s face, and the mules will be
just a humping themselves and laying
down to work like they'd expire. And
the wagon Don’t you see vvliat fine
color material there is in the heavy load
and top with sunlight and shadow in
the folds? And that’s what’s tho mat
ter with H. G. Smith. Orders, sir, or
ders, that’s what I’ll get then and I’ll
take up little Sarah Jane and light out
for New York, and you'll see Smith on
a studio door-plate, and folks’ll say,
Fine feeling for nature has Smith I’”
1 let this singular man speak for him
self in his own vernacular, pruning
nothing of its idiom, or slang, as you
may choose to call it.
The breath of most Californians is as
unconsciously charged with slang as
an Italian's with garlic, and the two, af
ter all, have much the same function—
you touch the bowl or your language,
but should never let either he recogniz
ed in salid or conversation. Yet Smith’s
English was the well undefiled when
compared with what I every moment
heard from the current of teamsters
which set constantly by us in the direc
tion of Copples’.
Smith and 1 followed, and as we
neared the house he punched me fa
miliarly and said, as a l-rown petticoat
disappeared in the station door,
“There’s Sarah Jane! When I see that
girl 1 feel like I’d reach out and gather
her in;” then clasping her imaginary
form as if she was about to dance with
him, he executed a couple of waltz
turns, softly intimating, “That't what’s
the matter with 11. G.”
As a hotel Copples’ is on the Mon
golian plan, which means that dining
room and kitchen are given over to the
mercies—never very tender—of China
men not such Chinamen as learned
tho art of pig-roasting that they might
he served up by Elia, but the average
John, and a sadly low average that
John is. I grant him a certain general
air of thrift, admitting, too, that his
lack of sobriety never makes itself ap
parent in loud, Celtic brawl. But he is,
when all is said, and in spite ot tinii.l
and fawning obedienee, a very poor ser
vant.
Now and then at a friend’s house it
lias happened to mo that I dined upon
artistic Chinese cookery, and all they
who come home from iiving in China
smack their lips over tho relisliinc cui-
I wish they had sat down that
day at Copples’. No; on second thought
I would spare them.
John may go peacefully to North
Adams and make shoes lor us, but 1
shall not solve the awful domestic
problem by bringing him into my kit
chen.
After the warning bell fifty or sixty
teamsters inserted their dusty heads in
bucket of water, turning their once
white neck-handkerchiefs inside out,
producing a sudden effect of clean
linen, anti made use of the two mourn
ful wrecks of combs which hung on
strings on either side of the Copples
mirror. Many went to the bar and par
took of a “dust-cutter.” There was
then such clearing of throats, and such
loud and prolonged blowing of noses
as may not often bo heard upon this
globe.
In the calm which ensued, conversa
tion sprung up on lead liarnesss” the
“Stockton wagon that had went off the
An Independent Paper—Devoted to Literature, Mining, Commercial, Agricultural, (ieneral and Local News.
FROSTBURG, ALLEGANY COUNTY, MARYLAND, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER *2;'), INTI.
1 grade,” with here and there a sentiment
called out by two framed lithographic
belles, who in richness of color and
scantiness of raiment flanked the bur
mirror; —a dazzling reflector chiefly
destined fo portray the bar-keeper’s
back hair, which work of art involved
much affectionate labor.
A second bell and rolling away of
i doors revealed a long dining-room, with
three parallel tallies, cleanly set and
watched over by Chinamen, whose fresh
i white clothes and bright olive-buff skin
made a contrast of color which was al
ways chief among my j earnings for the
I Nile.
While I loitered in the background
every seat was taken, and 1 found my
i self with a few dilatory teamsters ties
tincil to await a second table.
The dining-room communicated with
a kitchen beyond by means of two
square apertures cut in the partition
wall. Through these portholes a glare
i of red light poured, except where the
i square framed a Chinese cook’s head,
or discharged hundreds of little dishes.
The teamsters sat down in patience, a
few of tho more elegant sort cleaned
their nails with the three tino forks,
others picked their teeth with them,
and nearly all speared witli this imple
ment smalt specimens from the dishes
before them, securing a pickle or a
square inch of pie or even that luxury,
1 a dried apple; a few, on tilted back
s chairs, drummed upon the bottom of
i their plates the latest tune of the road.
When fairly under way the scene be
i came active and animated beyond
belief. Waiters, balancing upon their
l arms twenty or thirty plates, hurried
i along and shot them dexterously over
the teamsters’ heads with crash and
i spatter. Beans swimming in fat, meats
slimed with pale, ropy gravy, and over
i everything a faint Mongol odor—the
flavor of moral degeneracy and of a
disintegrating race. Sharks and wolves
may no longer be figured as types of
prandial haste. My friends, the team
sters, stuffed and swallowed with a
rapidity which was alarming but for the
dexterity they showed, and w hich could
only have come of long practice. In
fifteen minutes the room was empty,
and those fellows who were not feeding
grain to their mules lighted cigars and
lingered around tho bar.
Just then my artist rushed in, seized
me by the arm, and said in my ear,
“We’ll have our supper over to Mrs.
Copples’s. 0 no, I guess not— Sarah
Jane—arms peeled—cooking up stuff
old woman gone into the milk-room
with a skimmer.” He then added that
if I wanted to see what I had been
spared, I might follow him. We went
round an angle of the building and
came upon a high bank, where, through
wide-open windows, I could look into
the Chinese kitchen. By this time the
second table of teamsters was under
way, and the waiters yelled their orders
through to the three cooks. This large
unpainted kitchen was lighted up by
kerosene lamps. Through clouds of
smoke and steam dodged and sprang
the cooks, dripping with perspiration
and grease, grabbing a steak in the
hand and slapping it down on the grid
iron, slipping and sliding around on the
floor, drojiping a card of biscuits and
picking them up again in their fists,
which were garnished by the whole bill
of fare. The red papers with Chinese
inscriptions, and little joss-sticks here
and there pasted upon each wall, the
spry devils themselves, and that faint,
sickening odor of China which pervaded
the room, combined to produce a sense
of deep, sober gratitude that I had not
risked their fare.
Now,” demanded Smith, “you see
that little white building yonder?”
I did.
He struck a contemplative position,
leaned against the house, extending one
hand after the manner of the minstrel
sentimentalist, and softly chanted
”Tis, 0 ’tie the cottage of my love;
and that’s where they are getting up as
nice a little supper as can bo found on
this road, or any other. Let’s go over.”
So we strolled across an open space,
where two giant pines towered sombre
against the twilight, a little mountain
brooklet and a few quiet cows.
Stop,” said Smith, leaning his back
against a pine and encircling my neck
affectionately with an arm; “I told
you, as regards Sarah Jane, how ray
feelings stand. Well now you just bet
she’s on the reciprocate! When I told
old woman Copples that I'd like to in
vito you over Sarah Jane she past mo
in the doorway, and said she ‘Glad to
see your friends.’ Then sotlo voce for
we were very near, he sang again:—
’Tis, O ’tis tho cottage of my love:
and, C. K," he continued familiarly,
“you’re a judge of wininten,” chuck
ing his knuckles into ray ribs, whereat
1 jumped, when he added “There, I
knew you was. Well, Sarah Jane is a
denied magnificent female; number
three boot; just the height for me—
Venus tie Copples, I call her—and would
make the most touching artist’s wife in
this planet. If I design to paint a head,
a foot or an arm get my little old Sarah
Jane to peel the particular charm and
just whack her in the canvas.”
We passed in through low floors,
turned from a small dark entry into the
family sitting-room, and were alone
there in the presence of a cheery log
fire, which good-naturedly hade us
welcome, crackling freely and tossing
its sparks out upon the floor of pine
and coyote-skin rugs. A few old framed
prints bung upon dark walls, their faces
looking serenely down upon the scanty,
old-fashioned furniture, and windows
full of blossoming plants. A low-cush
ioned chair, not long since vacated, was
drawn close by the centre-table, whereon
were a lamp and a large open Bible,
with a pair of silver-bowed spectacles
lying upon its lighted page.
Smith made a gesture of silence to
ward the Bible anti whispered Here s
where the old woman Copples lives, and
it's a good thing; I read it aloud to her
evenings, and 1 can just feel the high
local lights of it. It’ll fetch 11. G. yet!”
At this juncture tho door opened a
pale, thin, elderly woman entered, and
with a tired smile greeted me. While
her hard, labor-Btiffened, needle-rough
ened hand was in mine, 1 looked into
her face and felt something (it may be,
it must be but little, yet something) of
the sorrow of her life—that of a woman
large in sympathy, deep in faith, exter
nal in constancy, thrown away on a
rough, worthless fellow. All things she
hoped for had failed her—the tender
ness which never came, the hopes years
ago in ashes, the whole world of her
yearnings long buried, leaving only the
duty of living and the hope of heaven.
As she sat down, took up her spectacles
and knitting and closed the Bible, she
began pleasantly to talk to us of the
warm, bright autumn nights, of Smith's
work, and then of my own profession,
and of her niece, Sarah Jane. Her
genuinely sweet spirit and natively
gentle manner were very beautiful, and
far overbalanced all traces f rustic
birth and mountain life.
that unquenchable Christian fire,
how pure the gold of its result! It
needs no practiced elegance, no social
greatness, for its success only the warm
human heart, and out of it shall come
a sacred calm and gentleness, such as
no power, no wealth, no culture may
ever hope to win. No words of mine
would outline the beauty of that plain,
weary old woman, the sad, sweet pa
tience of those gray eyes, nor the spirit
of overflowing goodness which cheered
and enlivened the half hour we spent
there.
11. G. might perhaps be pardoned for
showing an alacrity when the door
again opened and Sarah Jane rolled, I
might almost say trundled in. and was
introduced to me. Sarah Jane was an
essentially California product, as much
so as one of those vast potatoes or mas
sive pears: she had a suggestion of
State fair in the fullness of her phy
sique, yet withal was pretty and mod
est. If 1 could have rid myself of a
fear that her buttons might sooner or
later burst oft' and go singing by my
ear, I think 1 might have felt as 11. (i.
did, that she was “a magnificent fe
male,” with her smooth, brilliant skin
and ropes of soft, brown hair.
11. 0., in presence of the ladies, lost
something of his original flavor and rose
into studied elegance, greatly to the
comfort of Sarah, whose glow of pride
as his tale ran on came without show of
restraint.
The supper was delicious.
But Sarah was quiet, quiet to 11. (i.
and to me, until after tea, when the old
lady said You young folks will have
to excuse me this evening,” and with
drew to her chamber.
More logs were then piled on the sit
ting-room hearth, and we three gather
ed in semi circle. Presently 11. G. took
the poker and twisted it about among
coals and ashes, prying up the oak
sticks, as he announced in a measured,
studied way An artist's wife, that is,”
he explained, “an academician’s wife,
orter, well, she'd orter sake the beauti
ful and take her regular (esthetics; and
then again,” he continued in explana
tory tone, she'd orter know how to
keep a hotel, denied if she hadn't, for
it's rough like furt oft', Tore a feller gets
his name up. But then when he does,
though, she’s got a salubrious old time
of it. It’s touch a little bell (he press
ed the andiron top to show us how the
thing was done), “and Brooks, the mor
ning paper!’ Open your regular Herald:
“‘Art Notes. Another of 11. G.
Smith’s tender works, entitled “Oft 1 the
Grade,” so full of out-of-doors and sub
tle feeling of nature, is now on exhibi
tion at Goupil’s.'
Look down a little further
Italian Ocera. —Between the acts
all eyes turned to the disiinguee Mrs. 11.
G. Smith, who looked,’ —then turning
to me, and waving his hand at Sarah
Jane, I leave it to you if she don’t.”
Sarah Jane assumed the pleasing color
of the sugar-beet without seeming in
wardly unhappy.
It's only a question of time with
H. continued my friend. “Art is
long, you know, domed long, and it
may be a year before I paint my great
picture, but after that Smith works in
lead harness."
lie used the poker freely, and more
and more his How of hopes turned a
sha 'e of sentiment to Sarah Jane, who
smiled broader and broader, showing
teeth ol healthy whiteness.
At last I withdrew and sought my
room, which was 11. G.’s also, and his
studio. 1 had gone with a candle
around the walls, whereon were tacked
studies and sketches, finding here and
there a bit of real merit among the pro
fusion of trash, when the door burst
open and my friend entered, kicked oil'
Ins boots and trousers, and walked up
and down at a sort of quadrille step,
singing:
Yes, it’s the eottapo of mo lovo
You bet, it’s the cottage of me lovo
and what’s more, 11. G. has just had his
genteel good night kiss, and when and
where is the good old bar-keep
Slowly from this atmosphere of art I
passed away into the tranquil land of
dreams.— Atlantic Monthly.
English ami American Railways.
Hev. Thomas I\. Beecher, in one ot
his letters from England, says:
The railways here are not better than
our own. Either the English roads
have deteriorated, or else our own have
appreciated. I assume that the fastest
train on the direct line between Liver
pool and London may be taken as a
fair sample, and compared with similar
trains on the Erie Railway at home—
with which lam most familiar. From
Liverpool to London, two hundred and
ten miles, through first-class fare is
thirty-five shillings—say nine dollars.
On the Erie, from New York to Elmira,
in drawing-room coach, is eight dollars
for two hundred and seventy miles, a
“local” rate. We ride in by far the
more elegant coaches at home, and at
perceptibly cheaper rates than here.
We ride as fast, too, on the Erie as
here; about thirty-five miles in either
case.
In smoothness there is no compari
son. Motion on the Erie is like rolling
on oil; but here we rattle in our seats
like tin pails in a wheelbarrow. Hero
there are four wheels under a coach
on the Erie twelve! Here one wheel
failing necessitates disaster; there we
we can spin off from one to six, and, if
judiciously selected, the coach is still
mobile and not a wreck. Here it is
difticult to talk, and impossible to
write there I do both quite intelli
gibly.
I am proudly surprised, after an ab
sence of eighteen years, to find an
English railway no longer superior to
our own in any particular that affects a
traveler—no, not even in the matter of
dust and ashes.
Tue Dutch Gap Canal, once a national
jest, is now navigated by steamers, sav
ing a distance of seven miles every
trip.
Where Bristles Come From.
j The sources of the vast majority of
the bristles of commerce are the inter
-1 minable forests of Northern Russia.
Here, for thousands of miles in extent,
the land is covered with wood—pine
1 trees, larches, oaks, beeches, rowans,
and other cone, mast, acorn, ami berry
bearing trees, the fruits of which form
a delicious diet for swine, which in a
sort of half-wild state, and more or less
under the surveillance of swineherds,
swarm in prodigious numbers. It need
not be supposed that all these swarms
surrender their bristles to the bristle
merchant. The pigs under culture for
the bristle-crop are mostly a privileged
race that pasture near the great tallow
factories of Russia, where the animals
reared too far from the habitations of
men to be consumed for human food
are boiled down for the sake of their
fat. The swine are fed on the refuse of
the tallow-houses at certain seasons,
ami become in prime condition after a
few months’ feeding. The bristle har
vest is reaped, or rather is uprooted, in
the summer, by a process which re
minds one of the quill plucking of Lin
colnshiro geese, but which is really not
so cruel as it appears at first view.
When the animals are well fattened,
after months of unlimited feasting, ami
their bristles are in the finest order,
they have to compensate their host for
their entertainment. They are then
driven in multitudes into a kind of
kraal, or fenced inclosure, where they
are crowded as thickly together as they
can stand, or perhaps rather more so.
Here, by dint of kicking, striving,
struggling, and scrambling together,
they are sure to get considerably heat
ed, in which feverish condition they are
seized by the pluckers, who have then
but little difficulty in pulling up the
bristles by the roots. This is no sooner
accomplished than piggy is allowed to
regain his liberty, and scampers oft'
again to his pasture. The spectacle is
not a very delightful one, as may be
imagined, nor is the extemporaneous
concert improvised on the occasion very
agreeable to the ear. Thgt the bristle
harvest is really reaped in this way any
one may satisfy himself by inspecting a
consignment of undressed bristles be
fore they have been passed through any
cleansing or purifying process. He will
see that the stiff hairs have been forci
bly dragged up by the roots, and he will
see further, in the case of Siberian bris
tles, that together with the roots of the
stiff hair there has been torn away no
inconsiderable portion of the softer
wo 1 which by a kind of provision of
nature underlies the bristles in the
severe North.
Women Taking Part In a Peace Con
gress.
A noticeable feature of the Peace
Congress at Lausanne, Switzerland, was
the participation of women in its pro
ceedings. Among the female delegates
were Madame Paulo Minck and Ma
dame Andre Leo, who organized during
their visit a female apostolate, the mis
sion of which is to preach communal
doctrines and equal rights. It is re
cruited chiefly from the French ladies
taking refuge in Switzerland from the
police of M. Dufaure. The founders of
this propaganda are club oratresses,
who made a mark at the public meet
ings of the Folies Bergeres in the Em
peror's time, and at political meetings
at La Chapelle and Pipcus during the
siege. Andre Leo was then an editor
of the Sieclc. She was afterward the
editor of the Sociale and in that capaci
ty gave every morning to a credulous
public a bulletin of Communal victories
never gained. Her baptismal name is
not Andre, nor her surname Leo. They
are the names of her two sons—still
children of a tender ago—which she
adopts as a nnm tie plume, and not un
frequently a nom de guerre. It was this
oratress who first started the project
of forming a corps of Amazons of the
Seine.
Madame Minck is described as a
dried-up yellow-looking little woman—a
very vixen in petticoats. Concerning
the Commune, she said that 40,000 men
were shut up by the Versailles troops in
Paris. At this astonishing statement, a
citizen near the platform in tho Con
gress said Ah” in a low tone of voice.
Madame Minck was down upon the un
fortunate man in an instant. The
citizen interrupted me.” “No, I did
not, really,” said the unhappy man,
trying hard to look as if it wasn’t him.
Oh, yes, you did though. lam ready
to answer what you said.” “If you
please, M. le President," exclaimed the
wretched man, driven to desperation,
I said, 1 All.’ How can the orator an
swer that?” The audience roared with
laughter, and Madame Minck had de
cidedly the worst of it. She waxed
angry at this, and warned the audience
of the wrath to come, if socialists were
laughed at, instead of being listened to.
Flour Without Millstones.
At a recent meeting of the British
Association for the Advancement of
■Science, a paper descriptive of a new
mill for grinding wheat without mill
stones was read. According to the de
scription this mill reduces the wheat by
percussion, while it is unsupported and
falling freely, or being projected through
the air. The wheat, in passing through
the machine, is struck by a series of
bars moving at an immense speed in
opposite directions it is thus instanta
neously reduced to a state ready for
bolting, no injurious heat being caused,
and the Hour produced is of much su
perior quality to that obtained by ordi
nary grinding, while the cost of its pro
duction is considerably less. One of
these machines, in its perfected state, is
in full operation in Edinburgh, and
realizes all the advantages claimed for
it. These advantages are, the very light
and rarely needed repairs it requires
compared with millstones; the fewer
men required and consequent saving in
wages; the exemption from loss by
scorching the small ground and space
occupied and the much less driving
power needed.
The following epitaph is from a ceme
tery in Cape May county, New Jersey
MARY .JANE,
Aged 11 yrs. 8 mos.
She was not smart, she was not fair.
Hut hearts with grief for her are swoll’n’;
All empty stands her littlo ehnir--
tihe died of cutin’ wntermelin.
A bov in Cynthiana, Ky., made eleven
partridges quail in one shot.
A Suburban Arcadia.
The writer of the following exquisite
bit of word painting is Mr. .1. C. Gold
smith, managing editor of the New
York Leader:
The pleasures of a country cottage,
to people who are not deceiving them
selves, are not few. If the ambition is
not a mere dune sentiment, one may go
into the country and find his Arcadia.
If he will study time tables, and seek
to know the places whereat chills and
fever do not shake one, and have the
sagacity to avoid agents and drive into
some byway alone, he may find an acre
or two that will make his heart glad for
many a year. Just such a place we
know. The agents have not reached it,
and it lies in all the innocence of rural
beauty. No water-view graces it—it is
purely rural. The two acres cost to-day
live hundred dollars each to got them.
'l'he owner paid a hundred and tifty
more than they were worth. The little
peaked cottage, with its disproportionate
but comfortable verandah, covered with
vines all purple and white with bloom,
cost hut a thousand dollars. It is
painted a quiet, pearly brown, with
darker tints under the eaves. As you
approach it through the cedar gates,
you may bow your head lest the weep
ing willow make you bare it in sym
pathy. A tall Norway spruce stands
before the doos, and under its dark
green a bitter-sweet vine is creeping,
and in the white winter days will burn
brighter than a street lamp. The black
tartarian cherry is not tall, and the fruit
is not plentiful, but what little there is
attracts the birds, who give sweet music
for what they are welcome to steal. Hut
next year the ox-hearts will be white
beside the verandah, and you may
watch the birds from your bed. Beside
the stone wall grow gjpat currants, just
turning red, and the gooseberries have
been making stout English pies for a
month. What need of ice when the
well is so cool The cellar has kept the
currant wine pleasant all the summer
long.
When the snow begins to fall and
the icicles to hang on the trees, you will
find inside a cosy room, all dark-stained,
with a soft, quiet carpet in purple and
brown, over which the fire flickers from
a low-down grate of blazing coals. The
bright brass and irons and shovel and
tongs Hash brighter in the red blaze.
Over the coals hangs a little black ket
tle, whose nose makes music :is merry
as an zEolian harp, and sighs to mingle
itself with the warm—lemonade! It is
a homely room, ami comfortable; for
the chairs are of unpainted hickory; the
oiled oak mantle is ornamented with
only a pair of brass candlesticks but
the fire-light illumines busts of Dickens
and Irving that stand on black-walnut
brackets against the wall. The homli
ness is so quiet that turbulent Carlyle is
content to watch Hawthorne across the
room. 'l'he sun that set behind the
hill left a memory of landscape, so that
nono is needed within the house. In
country places one delights in pictures
of men and plenty of books, so that if
Thackeray be out of his place on the
shelves, and Tom Brown cannot be
found, it is because their accustomed
place is beside the blazing fire.' 1
Never Missed It.”
You will never miss it, it is so
young.” These were cold words that
were meant for consolation spoken to a
young mother. Never miss it
Was not a place then vacant by the
side of that feeble parent Better
have it dio young while it is innocent,”
the speaker-continued, but a sob was
the only response. Many tender words
were spoken, but that, You will never
miss it,” sank deep, deep into the va
cant heart. So the little form was car
ried out, that had gladdened two fond
hearts but a few days. Never missed
it!” The young mother folded up the
garments that her busy fingers had la
bored on for many weeks and put them
away. Tears fell like rain on the clothes
her babe had never worn.
“Never missed it!” Weeks and
months moved on, and years one, two,
three, passed, and many admired the
submissiveness that showed no outward
murmurings. Strangers loved the quiet
that reigned in that house, and said in
their hearts, They have never missed
it.” But what would not that mother
have given for one shout of childish
glee in that quiet house.
“Never missed it!” Time flew away
and middle age found them childless.
Out in the streets the merty voices of i
other children made them sad. Ijov
ing fathers and mothers were educat
ing their own, and looking forward to
days beyond that they might have a
younger ami stronger arm to lean upon,
and yet the world said, They have
never missed it.” Onward passed the
years, until one score was counted on
the little tablet and they missed it
still. Eater in life they heard the
voices of children’s children echoing in
other households, and deeper than the
little grave sank the loneliness of being
childless.
“Never missed it!” These words
spoken years before made a dent in one
heart, at least, that no time and com
fort could fill. People said, llow
happy they seem; they have not had
the care and anxiety that others have.”
Did not their hearts then yearn for the
broken bud transplanted to the immor
tal gardens so many years ago
Never missed it?” They went to
their graves and were buried by the side
of the wee darling, and their free spirits
dwell in that land where separation is
unknown and “you will never miss it”
is not hoard.
There is a story of a self-willed dea
con, who was always on the wrong side
and ludicrously stubborn. When the
temperance reform was in full feather,
and the question was discussed in the
church of which he was an officer, he,
of course, opposed it. He would not
sign the pledge; ho would not consent
to its presentation in the Sunday
school; he objected vehemently to the
distribution of tracts. One day, in the
presence of a full house, one of the
members of the church made the case
of the deacon a subject of prayer. He
said: “O Lord! if thy servant, our
brother, continues his opposition to us,
wilt Thou, in Thy tender mercies, re
move him from the church militant
below to the church trimphant above?”
“I won’t go!” thundered the indignant
and obstinate deacon.
Kililors aml Proprietors.
lUTMISKIt
Current Items.
I San Francisco was fired in five places
by incendiaries one night last week.
Eono Branch was sold ”00 years ago
for a barrel of cider.
Colorado housewives mourn over but
i ter at 95 cents a pound.
Nilsson claims that her Paris and
Chicago losses foot up to $150,000.
Macon, Ga., is building one of the
largest cotton factories in the world.
Montreal will have a typesetting
tournament for the Canadian champion
ship.
The “Chicago sufferer" is stated to
have become a numerous nuisance
throughout the east.
The Eondon underground railway
cost four million dollars a mile.
Ei.in Bi rritt is addressing Engl
audiences effectively on behalf of
cago sufferers.
The Kuth-Medlirott murder ease,
which has caused so much excitement
in St. Eouis ami Garnet, Kansas, where
the trial took place, h s concluded. Tho
jury returned a verdict of murder in
the first degree against Dr. Medlicott.
A letter addressed “To Eny Promi
nent Buisaniss Man Handclling Butch
ers Stock. Quincy 111.,” and containing
the following marginal direction “Post
master'will pleas hand this to some fat
caitlc man,” was received at the post
office in Quincy, Mass., lately.
An envious Chicago paper says that
Bret Ilarte is about to publish a new
poem, called “The Outlaw of Cholera
Gulch.” It will relate how the outlaw,
a rude but benevolent man, poisoned
his benefactor, and carried off his two
daughters for wives how ho smote one
of those wives with a stick until she
inconsiderately died, and then expend
ed for whisky the money she had left
for a coffin how lie disposed of tho
other one to the Piegans fora pumpkin
colored horse; how he extinguished
that horse’s eyes with a hot poker be
cause it got beaten in a race and how
he was finally caught up by an angel
one Saturday afternoon and translated
to Heaven, where he received a crown
of glory.
Australian Salt Lakes.
An interesting description of the salt
lakes of Australia is given by a writer
in the Sydney Empire, who, spiking ol
the salt lakes and mineral springs o
the Paroo, says These wells are a
real curiosity. Mounds of earth rise
about ten or fifteen feet over the sur
face, no doubt thrown up by the force
of tho water; they form a kind of oasis
in the wilderness, and have saved the
lives of many a weary wanderer. These
mounds can be seen for miles. The
water is very clear and soft. It is im
pregnated with magnesia, soda, and
alum. It is very palatable to drink,
and I think very wholesome. The
water does not flow after touching the
surface but, as soon as it overflows tho
fort-like basin, sinks into the earth.
The alum and soda crack under your
feet, as you walk around these wells,
like frozen snow. Sand-storms occa
sionally set in with great violence,
sweeping along and drifting like snow
but in this it dilfers—that nothing is
proof against its penetrating propensity.
It enters your eyes, your nose, your
mouth, your ears; even your very skin
seems gritty from it, and everything is
covered with it. It enters all culinary
matters, so that while it lasts you are
continually eating, drinking, and wear
ing sand. As an instance, the first
evening I entered the Paroo, one of the
sand storms set in, and, after viewing
one of those beautiful clear lakes, in
which we thought we could quench our
thirst, having had nothing to drink
since the morning, what was our sur
prise, 1 might almost say despair, to find
that the water was salt as brine The
driving sand beat with such furv that
we could not see each other on the road.
Our party numbered five, and I took
the bridle and saddle off my horse and
let him go to shift for himself. 1 lay
down, putting the saddle between my
self and the storm for shelter. The
morning at bust came, and 1 found at
about five miles distant my party, horse
and water.”
Eilthle Insects.
It is probable that famine anil star
vation, caused by the terrible ravages of
I armies of locusts, first caused the insect
invaders themselves to be eaten. As
they were found to be nutritious and
not unpalatable, they came in this way
to In* considered a staple article of diet.
The earliest Asiatic and African history
informs us of their use as food, and
they are thus occasionally mentioned
in Grecian annals. The Arabs and Af
ricans now consume them in the great
est quantities. They are gathered from
the trees where they alight, or brought
down when flying low by making a
dense smoke. They are then roasted
with salt in an underground oven,
bruised, and put away for use. For the
table they are pulverized and made into
a pudding, or, divested of their heads,
wings, and legs, are boiled in water or
in oil. They resemble in consistence
and flavor the yolks of hard-boiled eggs,
and various English travelers agree that
they are very good eating.
Double Antidote for Love.
The White Pine News, of the 13th
ult„ says Yesterday morning a young
man named John G. T living near
Treasure City, in a fit of despondency
threw himself headforemost into a
thirty-foot shaft. At noon two men
happened along and discovered a coat
and hat on the edge of tho shaft. On
looking into the shaft they discovered
the sore-headed young man trying to
come to the surface, and scratching
gravel like the mischief. They pro
cured a rope and hauled him up.
Strange to say the only injuries ho re
ceived were a sprained ankle and a few
scratches on the side of the head. Tho
young man’s reason for the rash act was
the receipt of a letter from Harrisburg,
Pa., announcing the marriage of his
first love to another feller. He forth
with flew to a saloon and commenced
throwing in the gin-slings. For two
days he practiced before the liar trying
to forget his first-love. Yesterday morn
ing he awoke and found himself in his
own cabin, with nothing to cheer up his
spirits —not even a cocktail in sight,
1 and—he did as above stated.