Crawfordsville Review, Crawfordsville, Montgomery County, 10 April 1897 — Page 6

Every year:

Lost springs with sobs replying, Unto -weary autumn's sighing. While those we love are dying,

Every year.

It is growing darker, colder, Every year, 1 As the heat and light grow older

Every year

J, I care not now for dancing. Or for eyes with passion glancing, Love is less and less entrancing,

Every year.

For the days have less of gladness, Every year, The nights have more of sadness, I Every year

Fair springs no longer charm us. The winds and weather harm us, 1 The threats of death alarm us,

Every year.

There come new cares and sorrows, Every year, ^ark days and darker morrows,

Every year

Every year.

Of the loves and sorrows blended, I Every year. i. Of the charms of friendship ended.

Every year

Of the ties that still might bind mo, Until time and death resigned me, My infirmities remind me, jv Every year.

1

EVERY YEAR,

The spring has less of brightness, Every year. And the snow a ghastlier whiteness.

Nor do summer flowers quicken. Nor does autumn fruitage thickcn. As they once did, for they sicken

Every year.

I. Life Is a count of losses, Every year, the weak are heavier crosses,

Every year

The ghosts'of dead loves haunt us, The ghosts of changed friends taunt us, And disappointments daunt us,

Our life Is less worth living. Every year. And briefer our thanksgiving,

Every year

Every year

Respectfully, THE AUTHOR.

THE SURVEYOR'S STORY. 'N I///V

name

is George

Washington Carter. Like the illustrious man whose name I bear, I am a surveyor by profession. Like him. also, "I can not tell a lie." Hence, the reader who may be

disposed to receive some of the statements hereinafter recorded with doubt, will please bear in mind that they are not my own experiences or sentiments, and that I only have written out the narrative as a faithful historian is of duty bound to do. I was for some years engaged by the general government in making surveys of its public lands in various parts of the Western States, and the winter of 1870 found me, in company with a number of others, engaged in running lines and establishing corners in Southwestern Kansas. We had a substantial camp on the Arkansas River, about 100 miles west of Dodge City. At that time the country in all that vast stretch of territory was an uninhabited waste, the undisputed home of the untutored savage and the untamed buffalo, and our visitors were few in number, and, with one exception, uninteresting in character. The exception was an old trapper, whose hut, a few miles down the river, we had accidentally run across one day while employed at our usual tasks. Standing six feet in his moccasins, with herculean shoulders, his form, though somewhat shrunken from age, was that of a giant, with a massive head, long, gray hair, almost white, with a beard to mat ch reaching to his waist. Dressed in true frontier fashion, he seemed to ufe a veritable patriarch of the plains. When the weather was bad, as it was a great deal of the time, we were compelled to remain in camp, and time passed tediously, and we were therefore very hospitably inclined toward all visitors. In response to our urgent and repeated invitations, the old man became a

frequent guest at our camp, and, as our acquaintance ripened, a most welcome one. Somewhat reticent at first, as

a consequence of his long seclusion, social intercourse seemed after a time

And love grown faint and fretful, "With lips but half regretful, Averts Its eyes forgetful,

Every year.

Ah, how sad to look before" us, Every year, While the cloud grows darker o'er us,

Every year

When wo see the blossoms faded. That to bloom we might have aided, And immortal garlands braided.

Every year.

To the past go more dead faces, Every year. And the loved leave vacant places,

Every year

Everywhere the sad eyes meet us. In the evening's dusk they greet us, And to come to them entreat us.

Every year.

"You are growing old." they tell us, "Every ,year "You are ,more alone." they tell us, "Every year "You can win no new affection, You have only recollection. Deepest sorrow and dejection," "Every year." *.•

Too true. Life's shores are shifting, Every year. And we are shoreward drifting,

Every year

Old places, changing, fret us, The living more forget -s, There are fewer to regi^ *\s,

Every year.

But the truer life draws nigher, Every year. And its morning star climbs higher.

Every year

Earth's hold on us grows slighter, And the heavy burdens lighter. And the dawn immortal brighter,

Every year.

Thank God. no clouds are shifting. Every year, O'er the land to which we're drifting. No losses there will grieve us,

Nor loving faces leave us, JCor death of friends bereave us,' Every year. —Albert Pike.

$ M?* vi v!*ini'WS}

THE LOST TRIBES,

AND THE LAND OF NOD.

IAN ORIGINAL NATURAL GAS STORY.]

BY A. P. KERR.

INTRODUCTION.

"That "lie may not be charged with plagiarism, which notoriety is probably not in store for the writer, the author wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to "Allan Quartermain" for the idea of transporting the hero of the ensuing pages to an inaccessible country by a phenomenal method of transportation. And, while he does not venture to hope that this volume will be accorded a rank in literature in any sense apprcvching that noted romance, conscious of having failed to exhause the possibilities and carry to their ultimate conclusions the various lines of thought suggested, sensible of having been umable to elaborate the various scenes which he has Endeavored to present in the finished manner that a more skillful novelist would have done, he yet hopes and believes that the reader will be amply compensated for the time consumed in the perusal of this, his first venture upon the great sea of fictitious writing.

"And Tain went out from the presence of the I.ord and Jv^clt in the Lund 01 Nod, on the east of Eden." -GENESIS IT 16

to relax his stoical silence, and under the influence of a hearty supper and an occasional glass of whisky, his tongue became loosened, and he talked in a most entertaining manner. Apparently lie was 110 stranger to the ways of civilized life, although, as near as we could make out from the disconnected facts which we had been enabled to glean from his various conversations, it had been years—how many we were utterly at a loss to determine—since he had visited the "States." There was a certain native nobility about him, an innate politeness, which marked him as a person above the common herd, a man of a great deal more than ordinary mental as well as physical strength. His conversation revealed his acquaintance and familiarity with the entire eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. He had hunted and trapped from Manitoba to Mexico, camped on the site of Salt Lake City years before the Mormons had taken possession of that locality, sold his peltries in Santa Fe while it was yet under Mexican rule, and was conversant with the history of every noted place or person in all of the country lying west of the Mississippi, being also well posted in regard to the mineral resources of that almost fabulous region. These facts we had been able to gather from his disconnected conversations, but as to his personal history, where he had emigrated from, his relatives or friends if he had any, and everything of a personal character, when we came to think it over, we found ourselves utterly in the dark. He had told us nothing. Evidently there was some mystery connected with his career, something which he had purposely withheld and which he did not care to divulge. However ingeniously we guided the conversation in that direction, we found ourselves skillfully thwii.-ted, and his talk would take another turn, seemingly without an effort on his part, but still we knew that we were purposely deceived. His name, even, he withheld. He said he had no use for a name in the wilderness, as he paid no taxes, did not vote, and had no intention of getting married. At times he would sit for hours looking into the fire, buried in thought, paying no attention whatever to our noisy demonstrations over a game of poker, nor answering our questions after his welfare, refusing to eat or drink with us, and seemingly oblivious of our presence. Though often urged to lodge with us, he always refused, preferring to return to his own lonely hut for the night and when he was under the influence of one of his silent reveries, when we desired to retire we would leave the old man sitting by the fire gazing into its phan-toni-weaving depths as though he saw there some vision of the past, some dream of youth and beauty forever lost to him. So entirely had he gained our confidence that we had not the slightest fear in leaving him thus, feeling, indeed, that we were safer with him there. When we awoke in the morning he was always gone. As the winter wore on we came to regard him almost as one of our party, and a warm friendship sprang up between us. At length the spring opened, and having finished our work in that immediate region, we found it necessary to break camp and move some 50 miles farther west. The old trapper heard our determination

with evident dismay. He had lived so long without human companionship, and had allowed himself to become so interest^ in our party, that the news that we were to leave him seemed a real misfortune. We repeatedly urged him to pull up and go with us, telling him that he had nothing to lose, and that we would see that he was well cared for, but he invariably and decidedly refused, saying that he could get along alone as he had done before our coming. That he had always expected to live and die alone, and accused himself of weakness for having allowed us to see that he yet retained some of the social attributes of a man that he thought he had long left behind such womanly weakness. No, he would remain where he was. And we could not alter his determination.

At length the last evening came that we were to spend in that camp. The old man had been with us all day. Had taken dinner with us. which he had not done before, but had said nothiryj. He seemed to derive a satisfaction in looking at us, and our hearts smote ns as we thought of his loneliness when we should be rone. We even thought, and consulted as to whether we should not leave one of our party with him until we could summon aid from the settlements to take charge of him. But we concluded that we had no right to do that, for, although somewhat feeble, he was still able to care for himself, being a most expert hunter and trapper. After supper, which we had endeavored to make as good as possible, we sat down by the fire. But he seemed uneasy, and got up and walked back and forth in a nervous manner. Being urged to take a glass of liquor, he accepted, and sat down again. To our inquiries if anything was troubling him, or if there was anything we could do for him, he shook his head. Evidently, though, there was something on his mind, and we felt sure that he wanted to tell us something, and as it was to be our last evening with him we felt anxious to hear his personal history if it was possible to get him to relate it. We had now known him intimatelysome three months. He was evidently an exile from civilized life from some cause. Moved by these considerations. I pressed them upon him in the most delicate manner of which I was capable, telling him that as we were going to leave him alone in the wilderness he might not have another opportunity to communicate with his friends, if he should have any, wherever they might be that he was a very old man and liable to die at almost any time, and that it would be a satisfaction to us all to know something of his personal experience and history, that we might aid him to return to his friends, which I strongly urged Jiim to do. He at once answered that he believed I was right in the main, and seating himself beside our camp table, before the open fireplace in our rude hut, he said:

THE OLD TRAPPER'S STORY. My name is Joseph Bronson. I was born in Roanoke county, Va., in 1780, and am now in my 90th year. My father was a well-to-do planter, the owner of slaves and an extensive plantation of considerable value. I was his only child and was given a better education than commonly fell to the lot of country lads in that day. In fact, when I had reached the age of 17 I was considered a good scholar and a most excellent penman for those times. At that, age I took charge of a school in one of the log school houses in a back settlement. I was under no necessity for doing this, but it promised an untired field of experience. and afforded me an independent means of living. One term was quite sufficient to satisfy my curiosity, however, and I resigned the birchen rod of power with a sigh of relief, hoping that my duty or necessities would never again cause me to undertake so vexatious an occupation. Little did I think what was in store for me, or that I would again pursue the same avocation with pleasure, among strange and peculiar circumstances and surroundings.

I was a great reader, but my chief delight from my earliest boyhood was to roam the forests and mountains, partially as a hunter, but now I think more from an innate love of nature in all her varied moods. To me the sun rising over a mountain, the morning mist hanging over the summit like a curtain to temper the golden rays the surge of the ocean billows as the foamcrested breakers lapse upon the sandy shore, or dash in foaming spray against the frowning precipice whose battlements defy their impotent attacks the fog lifting itself from the seething waves permitting a view of the waste of waters beneath the undulatinggrass in a calm breeze on the boundless prairie bedecked with flowers of every hue—are works of beauty that no artist can equal. And the songs of the birds the gentle whisper of the evening wind the howling of the tempest as it soars through mountain gorge and glen, or, unresisted. sweeps across the level plain the grand and changeless anthem of the mighty waterfalls which fill with awe the beholder—arc music such as man can not equal. And the wild life of the hunter the freedom from care and conventionality, the abounding health which such a life insures, the wild gallop on the back of a mustang in pursuit of the buffalo or deer, the glowing campfire—all afford attractions that even love of wealth, fame, family and friends can not with me outweigh.

When I had reached my eighteenth year, urged by my father to choose a vocation. I left home to see the world and to ascertain my fitness for the business of life. And I have never returned. While on this prospecting tour I learned of the fitting out of the Lewis and Clark exploring expedition to the great Northwest, and I at once set out for St. Louis, where I arrived early in 1804 after a most eventful trip of some months by way of the lakes and the Illinois river, and hastened to offer my services to those noted explorers, which were readily accepted, as young and hardy men were in great demand at that time. It is unnecessary, and no part of this narrative, for me to recount the adventures of our party in that great prospecting tour to the Pacific Coast. They arc, doubtless, matters of printed history with which you may be familiar, and I will not tax your patience with a recital of them.

In the spring of 1805, while Lewis and Clark were preparing for their return trip to the East, myself and a friend— James Powers by name—decided that we would remain in the Rocky Moun­

tains for an indefinite time, as hunters and trappers, and we accordingly deserted. To us the country seemed a paradise of unlimited extent, stocked with game of every conceivable variety for our especial benefit. Thus, in the summer of that year we found ourselves alone in that vast wilderness, the only white men in all the territory from Lake Superior to the mouth of the Columbia on the north, to Santa Fe and New Orleans on the south. Making our way southward by easy stages along the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, the winter found us near Pike's Peak, where we proceeded to erect a substantia! hut and laid in a supply of fuel and provisions. To the hunter in the mountains the winter with its snow and avalanches is a time of dread and many a hardy Nimrod has thus miserably perished. Anticipating these difficulties we were forearmed, and, although snowed under for nearly a month at one time, we experienced no serious privations. In all this time we had encountered 110 white men, but occasionally met Indians who were always peaceable. And in all my years of life on the plains and in the mountains I have ivariably found the red men friendly. They have never molested me, nor offered to, and I have never killed an Indian, or had anything but friendship for them. And I can but think that if they had but been treated fairly and honestly from the first that all those cruel and bloody Indian wars could have been avoided. But the trouble has now gone too far. and our settlements must be protected even to the point of exterminating the Indian race.

In the spring of 1806 we determined to work our way westward through the mountains to Southern California. By this time we had accumulated considerable property in the shape of ponies, dogs, camp fittings, etc. Turning loose all our ponies but two of the best, and preparing a large supply of dried venison, knowing that wc would have a long stretch of desert to cross, we set out on the 15th of April on what proved to be to me the most eventful journey of my life, and to my faithful friend, also, his most momentous and last trip on earth. For some days we experienced little or no difficulty in making our regular stage of about thirty miles, finding always at night some comfortable and well-watered camp ground. From the Indians we had learned of the existence of a great desert far to the west across the great range—fabulous stories of a country no man could cross, where the very air was poisonous, the water bitter, and no tree or shrub afforded protection from the awful rays of the sun, no grass for ponies, no game to feed the hungry hunter in all the dreary waste. Undismayed by their warnings, we pushed westward, now camping in some dark and gloomy canon, again by some rushing, grassy-banked mountain torrent, always finding game for ourselves and forage for our ponies. We did not hurry, and it was the first of June, as near as I was able to calculate, that found us emerging into the great desert of which we had been repeatedly warned. And the sight was indeed forbidding. But we had set out for the ocean, and we did not feel like remaining where we were, or retracing our steps. Camping on the confines of this, to us, unknown and unexplored waste of sand, we prepared ourselves for what seemed a'tlesperate undertaking as best we might. Divesting ourselves of every unnecessary article, lightening the luggage on our ponies, and filling all the vessels in our possession with water, on the second of June we set out across the desert. The first day, although we experienced some discomfort from the heat, and the glaring sun reflected into our faces from the glittering sand, we suffered comparatively little, and camped down on the sand and obtained [To be Continued.]

Transforming Boy's Clothes. When transforming 01'd clothes into new ones for the boys be sure you have a good pattern and a well-made suit to use as a guide. You will need these until thoroughly skilled in the work.

Always put in a lining when making pants for any boys of old material, as it adds greatly to their strength.

After cutting them out and basting them to the lining, make the pockets, put them in, then press them well. Baste up the seams and try them on. If they fit satisfactorily sew them and press them thoroughly then face the upper parts and put in an inside strip of heavy material, which should be deep enough for buttonholes. Hem the bottom of the legs, but do not turn the hem to conceal the raw edge, for that would make it bungling.

It is not difficult to make pants for the small boy that look fully as well as the ready-made garments, but the coat requires considerable practice before a well-finished piece of work can be turned off. It may be done, however, and the two great requisites are carefui basting and thorough pressing.—Philadelphia Times.

Watering I1OU*P Plants. Eben E. Rexford in the new floral journal, How to Grow Flowers," warns flower-growers against the common mistake of giving plants, especially house plants, too much water at a time when but little is needed. Ovenvatering is a bad thing at any time, but especially so at this season, when most plants are pretty nearly dormant. When a plant is growing actively there is much less likelihood of injury by the too liberal use of it, but even then the possibility of harm from excessive moisture at the roots should be guarded against by providing good drainage. If this is done, the risk of injury by overwatering is greatly lessened at all times. Many do not understand that while a plant is not growing it requires but little water, and go on giving as much, and that as frequently, as they have been in the habit of giving it during the growing season. The plant can not make use of it. and evaporation is slow at this season. consequently the soil soon becomes Sour, and in many instances the plant is killed by the condition which result from lack of knowledge. There is but one general rule that can be given with regard to the watering of plants and that is: Wait until the surface of the soil looks dry before applying more water. Then apply enough to thoroughly saturate all the soil in the pot.

THE OLDEST RELIC.

TCork3 of Man in the Stone Aga Discov-

ed in Massachusetts.

The Working Placo for an Ancient Poople Through Many Generations—For Thousands of Year* Hidden in.the. Bocks—A Remarkable Find, Surely.

Marblehead rock, with it3 black-and-white beacon, constructed partly of stone and partly of wood, is as familiar to yatchmen r.nd north-shore navigators as any object along the coast, says the Boston Horald. It boars southeast by oast half so ith from Marblehead light-house, and is distant ono fourth of a mile. Thero is a clear middle passage with five fathoms of water between it and the point of Marblehoad great neck, sometimes called Nanepashemot. This precipitous mass of rock, rising nbovo the ever-restless water surrounding it, and containing, including the western half, about four acres of surface, is unquestionably of voleanic origin, if not t!io three-chim-neyed crater of an activo volcano in past eons. Vitriliod rock, volcano ashes, both harden oil and unhardened, with traces of lava flow and the mixing of component parts into a remarkable conglomerate, show abundant traces of intenso fiery action. Near the stun mit aro three deep denressions, which, if not craters, must have been formed when the entire mass of rock was in a very soft or molten condition the northeasterly one of these is uow the bed of a pond, about. 25 feet in diameter, 4V feet deep, with an ovorllow through a seam.

The second depression is larger and deeper than the others, supporting a swampy growth of bushes above its thick mud. The crater nearest the summit, is from 7 to 12 feet above the others, 9'J feat in circumference, and somewhat sheltered from the easterly gales by the rocky crown on which stands the boaeon. This crater is filled with comparatively dry earth, whose surface is level aud covered with a sod of golden rod, ivy, woodbine, and other plant roots, with the undecaymg heart of red cedar roots, which must have flourished thero a very long time ago.

During^ the early days of autumn Capt. S. II. Carter, a summer resident at the "Neck," discovered here many evidences of prehistoric occupation, and the removal of the entire sod and earth to a depth of two feet disclosed the sight of a workshop, where human industry had prospered at the hands of the people of the stone age. Their rude implements fashioned for war or chase, after a rest of untold centuries, were again brought to the light of day.

The earth-stained and corroded condition of many of the articles proved conclusively that this had been a work-ing-place for the ancient people through long generations. Deepest in the oarth were numerous large and very rude spear-heads, which had become soft and chalkly on their exterior surface through age, while some, which were accidentaly broken by blows from the pick-ax showed the interior wall of the sparkling feldsite crystals, and as hard and flinty as ever. Here were found great stores of unused hammered stones, which had been selected and placed in heaps containing twenty or more, but not used, and other stores scattered through the great miss of ehippings, whose well-battered ends showed the marks of the innumerable blows they had delt the hard lieldsite quartz and sienite in the making of arrow and spear heads therefrom.

This now rocky island must havo been a bold headland durino- the days of prehistoric occupation, and from its commanding outlook the dwellers there could watyh both land and sea for enemies or game, and for these they were ever preparing spear and arrow. It is hardly probable that they would have carried in their frail canoes such quantities of material and climb the precipitous sides of this rock to establish a stone-chipping shop on its airy height, How many thousands of years have passed since they were there no man knowethorever will now, but undoubtedly it was a long time before the hungry, invading ocean had eaten enough of the land to make an island of Marblehead rock.

It is said to be the captain's intention to give the lot to •the Peabody academy of science in Salem, if he has not already done so. It is said by those who have see* the articles to be the most remarkable find of very old stone implements ever made in the county of Essex.

CRANES.

Where They Live on the Coast of Georgia. Visitors to Daufuskie Island during summer tell of the roosting and brooding places of the cranes on the island. Storks, cranes and bitterns spend tho diiy along the estuaries of the seacoast and wade and ily over tho miles and miles of salt marshes. Along about clock in the afternoon they begin to collect in the ma-tted shrubbery and undergrowth of Daufuskie Island for the night. They fly singly, by pairs and in flocks ranging from' twenty-five to fifty.

A gentleman who was marooning on tho island said that he was ignorant of the habits o* the sea fowl, and one evening near twilight ho was returning to his quarters, and when passing near a dense thicket he heard a groat chattel itig, and many of the voices sounded like that of humans, liestin"- on his gun he listened attentively, "and finally came to the conclusion that it was a colony of cranes, lie threw a stick into the thicket, when with a wild shriek and screech, some four or five hundred cranes flew out, circled about a while and, having recovered from their fright, settled down agairv from sight, still koeping up their chattor and clatter. pilPtuin W. ,J. Thompson says tho cranes find in the dense underbrush of some parts of the island a secure and almost unapproachable retreat from ntrnsion, and there thoy lay their eggs and rear their broods of youn-r. cw people have the temerity' to in••'do the thicket to disturb ezgs or oung birds, for it is not only a home 1 ,tne cranes, but a paradise tor rat-'

tiers, and moccasins, which aro th only enomios which make much n«n way against tho cranes. It i3

s"

howover, that one or two

j,

surom.!!,

ago a daring huntor with diiljcui[* forced an entrance into tho thicket "I'n^ carried oft' three barrels of egir3 f, which he found a ready market, i"" Savannah at tho price of lions' e^.!' for which he sold them, but as the 0^ aro highly prized by epicures lie m£ht have more than quadrupled his money if he had shipped them north. Tho experience was so perilous and dilliciiit however, that no one has ventured into the thickets to disturb tho nests since

Before leaving tho nest the parent birds bring small fish, often from a great distance. As the young grow older, larger fish aro caught by the parent birds, which aro carried in'their bills, and tho fish oagle watches ih0 flight of the stork and craue, and often pursues, forces the frightened bird t0 drop tho prey, and, with unerring descent, tho lish oagles catches the fish before it reaches the water or thtt ground.

The cranes go further south on the approach of cold weather, but if tho winter is an open and mild one tlicv do not all migrate, and their tall forms and snow white plumage .are ofton seen in winter through the herbage of tho marshes liko a picture.

The crane is pursued vigorously by tho hunter, who finds a ready market for tho plumage, as the snow white feathers arc popular with the women of fashion, and plumage dealers in Now York have hunters regularly employed at a salary in the South Florida and along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts of tho peninsula, and all through the almost impenetrable lagoons and bayous of the Everglades, who keep up the warfaro upon tho birds of piumago and song all through tho winter, and this fact has led to the agitation of tho question whether a rigid law should not be passed to punish by fines and penalties all who are convivted of shooting any ,birds except those which aro odible.—Savannah News.

M'aU'np for the Angels.

He was a solemti-visairod, gray-poll-ed, slow-pacing son of sorrow, says tho Philadelphia Record. His features was stolidly set, and there was not a glint of hope in his pale face. Disappoin tmont and discouragement wero written there. He was a Second Adventisc who had for the sixth time awaited the Lord's coming in vain. The excitement of his hope lind driven him almost to distraction and the reaction had driven him almost to the grave. •Til never try again," he said plaintively, with a long drawn sigh. "1 began it in 18-13. I was sure I was going heavenward then, lu 1844 they said the world was coming to an end at Darby and I went down there so as to be on hand. I tried it again in '59, up in New Ilamphiro, at a camp-meet-ing and the next time w-s in the centennial year. Mother Shipton's prophecy that "the world to an end would come in 1S81," I believed to be gospel truth. But though I began with New Year's day and watched and waited for fifty-two weeks, the end was as f-.ir otf as ever. I had about given the whole thing up when the preachers began to tell of Oct. 25, 1889. 1 thought it was all true until Saturday morning came. Then I got mad and swore I'd turn heathen. I have got tired waiting, and my plans have been spoiled so many times that I made up my mind wouldn't stand it no longer. "I've been reading Kzekiel. and from what he says in tho forty-seventh chapter I guess the end won't be for mor 2,000 years yet. Thero's another place where the good book says the pospel must be preached to all tho world before judgement day. Well, I reckon there be millions of poor heathen critters who haven't had a chance to be preached to that means the world an't a-goin' to bust for ages yet. So I'm not a-botherin' my head. I don't care a snap what the preacher folks say. Why, if the biggest preacher in Philadelphia should yell to mo tomorrow that Gabe was flappin' his wings over my hen-roost I wouldn't take tho trouble to look out of my window."

An Et con trie Millionaire.

The most eccentric millionaire in New York is probably Charles Bro idway Rouss,says tho New York Star. He served in the confederate aitmy under Stonewall Jackson and i» a Virginian by birth. Thirteen years ago he was ruined and $50,00,) in debt. To-day no is building a massive structure 200 feet deep, 75 feet front, and 12 stories high on Broadway. This buildiitsr will cost $1,000,000 when finished and is paid for step by step. His business methods are unique. He has 400 employes and pays seventy-five off every day. This makes every day a pay-day. Ilis annual income is estimated at $550,00 Mr. Rouss' energy 13 wonderful, llo works from 6 in the morning till 10 at night. He does not spend more than $1,000 per year outside of his household expenses. His principal source of amusement is to stand oti tho rear platform of a street-car and throw dimes and nickles 10 boys. A short time ago an English syndicate offered him $2,000,000 for his business. Mr. Rouss, who is 52 years old, is a great advocate of phonographic spelling 'nd writes all his personal letters 011 that plan.:- '.

The Hottest Spot on Kartli.

The hottest spot on tho earth is on the southwestern coast of Porsi -, where Persia borders 1he gulf of tho samo name. For forty consecutive ys in the months of July and August the thermometer hns bjen known not to fall lower than 100a, nitfht or dav, ami to often run up as high as 128° in the afternoon. At Bahrin, in tho center of th3 torrid part of this torrid bolt, i""' as thousrh it wero nature's intention to make the region as unbearable us i,of siblo, no water can bo obtained from digging wells 100, 200 or oven 500 fe't deep, yet a comparatively numerous population contrive to live thero, th.tniw to copious springs which break forth from tho bottom of tho gulf moro than a mile from shore.

The water from those springs is ol tained by divers, who dive to the bott"'* and fill goat-sicln bags with the cooli'1# liquid and sell it for a living. 1'[e source of those submarine fountains thought to be in the green hill Osman, some 500 or GOO miles away.