W, ,T. WRIGGLES WORTH, Editor and Proprietor. VOL. X. J U. FRAK&UN, AVOCA, WXS., Has on hand a good stock of the best seasoned material in market, keeps first-class workmen, and is fully pre pared to make to order, on short notice, f CARRIAGES, Niieie*> Bob-Sleds, Sleigh*, Cotter*, Flows, Harrows, Cultivators, Etc. lie is eelling Corn and Shovel Plows of the latest makes, 10 per cent, lower than has ever been Hold in the eountv. He is selling best 3-hvnch Uoh-Sleds for only lie is shoeing horses for only s.'! per span. He will fully warrant his work in every particular an- 1 GUARANTEE SATISFACTION. REPAIRING Hope promptly, and in good workmanlike manner. T Vsl B E It. AT AVOCA. The subscriber would respectfully inform his old cus tomers, and others of lowa and Grant counties, that he has now on hand and is now receiving a good stock of LUMBER, TIMBER, SHINGLES, LATH AND PICKETS, And is prepared to sell, in largo or small quantities, DOOR, SASH, BLINDS, 6c c. A good assortment of SIDING, FLOORING, and all kinds of IMiKSSKD LUMBER. All of which he will soil I)®” CHEAP FOR CASH. Ho is also agent for the celebrated Sheathing aud Roofing Board. Call and examine his stock before purchasing else where, Yard at Alvoca, near the railroad depot. GEORGE PARR. rp ROGERS A VO., At tlie Post Office Building, BODGE'VILLE, WIS., PEA I,F,lts IN Blank, School and Miscellaneous Books, STATIONERY, Toys, Newspapers, Periodicals, Magazines, Inks, Gold and Steel Pens, Pencils, Pen-llolders, Fancy Goods, Albums, Knives, Pocket-Books. CIGARS A T CIIIC AG 0 PRIC ES. J- TIMBER Ll'sl Bl'-It!! KING SON. GREAT REDUCTION IN PRICES. 800,000 Feet. LARGEST STOCK IN IOWA COUNTY. Best assortment for the amount in Wisconsin. 150,000 FEET SAWED TIMBER. Farmers Mechanics and Builders, our motto is Live and let live.” Therefore wc offer our immense stock of lumber, Timber, Shingles and !Latli AT PRICES TO SUIT THE TIMES. Our btock is well seasoned. Wo buy no straggling raft. Our lumber Was cut at the mills of T. WESTON CO.. Necedah, Wis., expressly for this market. Thankful for past patronage, we shall endeavor, by honorable dealing, to retain our hitherto very large trade. KING .V SON, p S.—Farmers, remember that Helena Station," 1 .miles from our yard. Is the best grain market in lowa -county. 4 —T c J. YORKER Would respectfully inform liis old customers and the citizens of Arena and surrounding country, that he lias just received a large stock of Timber of All Sizes, SHINGLES, LATH, &C, -v A splendid assortment of LUMBER sold at greatly reduced prices. Terms (tish. K7T GIVE HIM A CALL. "S* DODCEVIILE HOTEL, \JAIN' STREET, DODGE VILLE, AVIS. .5 L This is a large, new and commodious bouse, opened on the fth of July, 1 sew. Jt is fitted up in good >-tyle, and supplied with every modern convenience. Good stabling and Lock-up Carriage Houses,and every accommodation for Travelers and Boarders. Having lately purchased a good hack, he is prepared to carry lH>rsons to any part of the county. He nos always in stock. Pure Wines and Liquors of the best quality. Terms reasonable. RICHARD ROGERS, Proprietor. The proprietor has 160 acres of good timber bum for sale. Noises *v- head, v Price 2.00. j o Vfic^( 0 /iNiirsT. DhEdreWillis. jveVvYorH. A Bird In the Bush. Robin, under my window, just as the morning is breaking. Singing an autumn song ere you flit to the sum mer land. Clear-voiced, swe it-throated songster, me from my slumber awaking, You, at least, are a bird in the bush worth two in the hand. Listening thus to your carol could almost sot me a-singing. Ah if my heart were so light, and my life so free of care I Could I but join thee in roving, southward our swift flight winging. To lands where blossoms the orange, and jas mine scents the air! I can but envy thy freedom, truly as I am a sinner. You neither sow nor reap, and yet by the Father are fed. 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 are never rejected, you chaffer not over their payment, Hopping about as you please, through the long, bright, summer day. You take no thought for the morrow, no care for shelter and raiment, For ere the chill winds of the winter you has ten unburdened away. With no relentless conductor, who pants for your life or your ticket. No implacable 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 at your will. Well, then, go if you must, for the leaves of the maple are burning. Seek for pleasure and health, hut 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. —Scribner’s Monthly. GENIUS IN THE SIERRAS. BY CLARENCE KING. One October day, as Kaweah and I traveled by ourselves over a lonely foot hill trail, I fell to wondering if ever an artist should arise to paint our Sierras as they are, with all their 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 the trail brought suddenly in view a man who sat under shadow of oaks, painting upon a large 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 Dom’d if you ain’t just naturally ketched me at it. Get off and set down. You ain’t going for 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 wdiere his waistcoat might once have overlap ped a strained but as yet coherent waistband. The cut of these garments, by length of coat-tail and voluminous leg, proudly asserted a Bay” origin. His small feet were squeezed in;o tight, short boots, 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 f an swered, “Yes.” That’s me,” he ejaculated. Right over there, down below those two oaks Ever there?” No,” “MyshcAo’s there now;” giving im pressive accent to the word. All the while these few words were passing he scrutinized me with uncon cealed curiosity, puzzled, as well he might be, by my dress and equipment. Finally, after I had tied Kaweah to a tree and seated myself by the easel, and after he bad absently rubbed some raw’ sienna into liis little store of white, he softly ventured AVas you looking out a ditch No, I replied.” He neatly rubbed up the white and sienna with his blender,” unconscious ly adding a dash of Veronese green gazed at my leggings, then at the barome ter, and meeting mjr eye with a look as if he feared I might be a disguised duke, said in a slow tone, with hyphens of silence between each two syllables, giving to his language all the dignity of an unabridged Webster, I would take pleasure in stating that my name is Hank G. Smith, artist,” and seeing me smile he relaxed a little, and giving the blender another vigorous twist, added, “Itvould 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-aiyi-you-old-fel’ tone, and rattled on merrily about bis winter in iNew 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, he rejoined me, and, leading Kaweah by his lariat, I walked beside Smith down the trail to ward Copples’. He 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 he reverted fondly to New York and his experience there O no!” he mused in pleasant irony, “he never spread his najikin 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 be in habit and experience. The long, pent up emotions and ambitions of his life found ready utterance and a willing listener. I learned that his aim was to become a characteristically California painter, with special designs for making himself famous as 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 but it ain’t life—it ain’t got the real get up. If you want to see lhe 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. H. G. will discount Eastman yet.” He avowed liis great admiration of Church, who, though he had a little leaning toward Mr. Gifford, alone met his hearty approval. DODGEVILLE WISCONSIN, FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1871. It’s all Bierstadt and Bierstadt and Bierstadt now-a-days What has he done but twist, and skew, and distort, and discolor, and be-litt’e, and be-pretty this whole doggoned country Why, his 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 of his picture, I didn’t know it. He 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 four teen mules, all the supplies of many cities and villages were hauled across the Sierra at an immense cost, and with 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. I had by this time learned that Cop ples, the former station proprietor, had suffered amputation of the leg three times, receiving from the road men, in consequence, the name of “Cut-off’,” and that, while his doctors disagreed as to whether they had better try a fourth, the kindly band of death had spared him that pain, and Mrs. Copples an added extortion in the bill. The dying “Cut-off” 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, anew light kindled in his eye. You never saw Sarah Jane he in quired. I shook my head. He went on to tell me that he was living in hope of making her Mrs. H. G., but 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 in 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 come-up-there-damn-you look on the teamster’s face, and lhe mules will be just a humping themselves and laying down to work like they’d expire. And the wagon Don’t you see what fine color material there is in the heavy load and top with sunlight and shadow in the folds? And that’s what’s the 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 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 bo 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 I followed, and as we neared the house he punched me fa miliarly and said, as a brown petticoat disappeared in the station door, “There’s Sarah Jane! When I see that girl I 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.” Asa 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 tin art of pig-roasting that they might be 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 of timid and fawning obedience, a very poor ser vant. Now and then at a friend’s house it has happened to me that I dined upon artistic Chinese cookery, and all they who come home from living in China smack their lips over the relishing cui sine. 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 for us, but I 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, and 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 be heard upon this globe. In the calai which ensued, conversa tion sprung up on lead harnesss” the “Stockton wagon that had went off the DEVOTED TO THE INTERESTS OF THE PEOPLE. grade,” 'vvithhere and there a sentiment called out by two framed lithographic belles, who in richness of color and scantiness of raiment flanked the bar mirror —a dazzling reflector chiefly destined to portray the bar-keeper’s back hair, which work of art involved much affectionate labor. A second bell and rolling away of doors revealed a long dining-room, with three parallel tables, cleanly set and watched over by Chinamen, whose fresh white clothes and bright olive-buft’ skin made a contrast of color which was al ways chief among my yearnings for the Nile. While I loitered in the background every seat was taken, and I found my self with a few dilatory teamsters des tined 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 of red light poured, except where the square framed a Chinese cook’s head, or discharged hundreds of little dishes. The teamsters sat down in patience, a few of the more elegant sort cleaned their nails with the three-tine forks, others picked their teeth with them, and nearly all speared with this imple ment small specimens from the dishes before them, securing a pickle or a square inch of pie or even that luxury, a dried apple; a few, on tilted-back chairs, drummed upon the bottom of their plates the latest tune of the road. When fairly under way the scene be came active and animated beyond belief. Waiters, balancing upon their arm3 tw r enty or thirty plates, hurried along and shot them dexterously over the teamsters’ heads with crash and spatter. Beans swimming in fat, meats slimed with pale, ropy gravy, and over 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 which 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 the 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 1 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, dropping 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 ’tis the cottage of my love; and that’s where they are getting up as nice a little supper as can be 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 my feelings stand. Well now you just bet she’s on the reciprocate! When I told old woman Copples that I’d like to in vite you over Sarah Jane she past me in the doorway, and said she 1 Glad to see your friends.’ Then sotto voce for we were very near, he sang again ’Tis, 0 ’tis the cottage of my love; and, C. K,” he continued familiarly, “you’re a judge of wimmen,” chuck ing his knuckles into my ribs, whereat I jumped, when he added There, I knew you was. Well, Sarah Jane is a derned magnificent female; number three boot; just the height for me— Venus de 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 doors, 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 bade us welcome, crackling freely and tossing its sparks out upon the floor of pine and coyote-skin rugs. A few old framed prints hung 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 and whispered Herd s where the old woman Copples lives, and it’s a good thing; I read it aloud to her evenings, and I can just feel the high local lights of it. It’ll fetch 11. G. yet!” At this juncture the door opened a pale, thin, elderly woman entered, and with a tired smile greeted me. While her hard, labor-stiffened, 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 cf rustic birth and mountain life. O 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 tvhich cheered and enlivened the half hour we spent there. H. 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 I could have rid myself of a fear that her buttons might sooner or later burst off and go singing by my ear, I think I might have felt as U. G. did, that she was a magnificent fe male,” with her smooth, brilliant skin and ropes of soft, brown hair. H. G., 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 H. G. 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 H. 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 sale the beauti ful and take her regular aesthetics and then again,” he continued in explana tory tone, she’d orter know how to keep a hotel, derned if she hadn’t, for it’s rough like furt off, ’fore 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 1 Brooks, the mor ning paper!’ Open your regular Herald: Art Notes. Another of 11. G. Smith’s tender works, entitled Off 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 1 Italian Opera. —Between the acts all eyes turned to the distinguee Mrs. H. 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. G.,” continued my friend. “Art is long, you know, derned long, and it may be a year before I paint my great picture, but after that Smith works in lead harness.” He used the poker freely, and more and more his flow of hopes turned a sha