Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 January 1886 — Page 6

A PREHISTORIC LEGEND. BT PEBTXKAX. Upon this plain, -where rich Chicago stands And rears aloft her palaces of trade, The unbreeched savage ruled the virgin land, Hunted the deer and wooed the dusky maid. Then Wahnakee was Chief of all the bands That wandered on the hillside and the glade. A mighty people were the Hlinois then; Wahnakee was Chief of fifty thousand men. He reared his lodge down by the mighty lake, Whose placid waters change not with the years. The young men of his tribe he oft would take And school them how to hide their hopes and fears. And he loved glory, not for glory’s sake, But that it sounded well in other ears That he had led his tribe against the Sioux, Surprised these wily foes, and whipped them, too. Wahnakee, on many a field had shown his might, Well was he skilled in Indian ways. To cunning march und then as boldly fight. No one was like him in those early days, Whether in council, passions to incite, Or upon Augurer’s omens he did gaze. He was a Chief, the mightiest in the land, Bom to the purple, and bred to command. He lived his time, and.then Wahnakee died, The Chieftain grand, the grandest of his race. His warriors grieved, his w r ife and children cried, Then with the earth they covered up his face. To happy hunting grounds Wahnakee hied, And a new Chief was chosen in hiß place. The entire tribe has passed away from earth And left no record of its death or birth.

LUCIA'S DUTY.

BY CATHABINE CHILDAS, “You do not love me, Lucia!” The speaker was a tall, good-looking young fellow, dressed in the picturesqe costume of the shepherds of the Albano Mountains, but his handsome features were spoilt by an expression of petulant ill-humor. The girl whom ho addressed as Lucia sighed deeply, but she did not raise her eyes nor make any answer. “Is this your last word?” continued the young man. “You moan to say you prefer that wretched foundling that miserable, nameless cripple, to me?” “See here, Enrico: what you ask me is impossible! How can I turn out of doors a helpless child of six years old? Who is to feed him? Who is to take care of him?” “But we are poor people. Why are we to keen a stranger’s child?” Lucia lifted her head eagerly; the “we” sounded encouraging. “Dear Enrico, you shall have no expense. He shall not cost you a farthing. The English signora who taught me to knit has promised to buy all I do. I shall earn a good deal, lam sure. See, I have already begun a stocking, and the work goes on—goes on; whether I watch the goats, or the soup upon tho lire, I knit and knit. Look, how fast it goes!" and Lucia made the steel needles glitter in the sunlight. “Bah! That is nonsense, and the English lady will very likely never come again. Those foreigners are not to be relied on. Besides, when we are married you will have more to do. There will be my clothes to see to, and why are you to be saddled with a foundling? He is no relation of yours." “True, but he is almost like a brother. Did not my dear mother find him lost among the hills four years ago? Did she not take care of him as if he were her own? Has he not always shared our food and our Lome? And now that she is dead—she that was his best friend, always patient when I was angry, always gentle when I was severe—now, before she has lain a month in her cold grave, I am to turn out the poor child she rescued from death? No, Enrico mio, such a thing is not possible. As for loving you, ah! you know ” Here the poor girl’s voice broke, and she said no more. But Enrico did not seem convinced either by her glowing words or her silent tears. He made no attempt to console her; he stood there frowning, and kicking the loose stones of the road, looking just what he was, a bad-tempered, selfish fellow. Ho Lad been brought up with Lucia, and had loved her after his own fashion ever since they were children—that is to say, he had tyrannized over her himself, but had fought her battles with others—and Lucia had reIrnid his championship with the deepest ove and admiration of her little heart. Enrico had taken to spending his winters in Rome, picking up what he could get as a model, and returning to his native mountains during the summer months. His affection for Lucia had become a habit, though, as she was poor, he looked upon iimself as a very magnanimous young fellow for offering to marry her, considerirfg Low many girls were fascinated by Lis person and manners. But as to the cripple, the littie orphan that Lucia’s mother had been silly enough to adopt, that was quite another matter. He wasn’t going to* be saddled with him, a useless creature, that could never be turned to account. Just then the poor child who was the cause of the lovers’ estrangement came hopping and wriggling toward them. One leg dangled, perfectly useless, but he had a crutch, and by means of this and his uninjured leg he managed to get over the ground tolerably fast. Enrico saw the child coming, but took no notice; he only kicked the stones more viciously than before. “Take care, Enrico!” cried Lncia, anxiously; “you very nearly hit his head.” She spoke too late. Enrico had sent a ehaip flint full into the little cripple’s face. It struck his lip and mado him cry. Without a word of regret or farewell, Enrico turned on his heels and strode quickly .away. The two creatures he had wounded so •cruelly wept in each other’s arms. Little Pipino’s face was cut, and the smart was hard to bear, but what was that compared to the pain in the true and loyal heart of Lucia?

“Do not cry,” whispered Pipino, forgetful of his own hurt, and stroking Lucia’s face with his small, thin hands, “do not •cry. He is a bad man. When I grow big And strong I will kill him! * “No, dear little one, you must not say such things. It is very wicked to be revengeful. Enrico did rrot mean to hurt you.” “Yes, he did. He told me yesterday he should like to wring my neck. He would have boxed my ears too, if Nicolo Prato had not come up just in time.. Enrico is a ■coward; he ran away when he saw Nicolo.” “Hush, Pipino!’ said Lucia, angrily. “Little boys know nothing about men. Nicolo Prato can box people’s ears too, I dare say.” “Ah, but not ours,” said Pipino, with .such a comic expression that Lucia could not help smi'ing and blushing. She knew very well why big, rough Nicolo Prato was so kind to the little cripple, but she tried to pretend ignorance. “Come, come,” she said, when she had washed Pipino’s faoe and dressed his

wound, “a plate of soup, and then off to bed.” “I don't want any soup. Nicolo gave me some, and I took it all, because I knew there would be more for you.” “That was very naughty of you! You are never to do so again—do yon year?” The child made no answer.* He took his I reproof with an air of tolerant superiority, ! and walked off to his primitive couch. I He was soon asleep, but Lucia lay awake I all night. Her love for Enrico was deep and sincere, and now an end had come—an end to all her fond hopes and bright plans for the future. Enrico had never been a model character by any means, but his winter in Rome had made him worse. He had come back more idle, more selfish, more careless than ever; before that he had never talked of turning poor Pipino adrift. It was a night of sorrow and tears for Lucia, but she adhered firmly to her purpose. It was a cruel, unjust .thing that Enrico wished her to do, and great as was her love for him, she dared not yield. The autumn days drew on. Visitors were flocking to Italy. Without a word of farewell to Lucia, Eurico loft Genzano and went down to Rome. It was a long dreary winter. People never remembered so much snow. There was much distress about, and Lucia, in spite of her hard work and her constant knitting, began to despair. The English lady had never come back, and it was difficult to find food for herself and Pipino. But Nicolo Prato never forsook them. He was always bringing small presents, ostensibly for Pipino, and Lucia could not be ungracious to the child’s benefactor. She recollected with shame and regret how often she had laughed at the big, rough peasant—how she had encouraged Enrico to make fun of his awkward ways, and how she had mimicked his bashful speech. And now he was the only friend who stood between her and starvation. News sometimes came of Enrico. It was a cold winter, and Rome was crowded with strangers; the models were “coining money;” so Enrico sent word. But never a message for her; she was nothing to him now’. She had only the tiny, clinging hands of the cripple to caress her, and his baby talk to give comfort for the future. And while she sat and grieved in silence, Nicolo, the warm-hearted, awkward peasant, stood timidly aloof, longing, but not daring, to cast his love and devotion at her feet. One evening Pipino was later than usual. Lucia grew alarmed. What could have happened to the child? The twilight grew deeper, still Pipino did,not appear. Suddenly a firm, heavy tread was heard, and Nicolo stood in the doorway. “What is it?” cried Lucia. “Where is the child?” “Don’t be alarmed,” said Nicolo, standing awkwardly on the doorstep, uncertain whether to retreat or advance. “He is at my house ” “Your house? Why? Has anything happened?” “It is nothing serious. His crutch slipped upon a stone; I earned him home.” “But why did you not bring him here?” It was too dark for her to see the flush of embarrassment which spread o.ver the honest fellow’s face as he stammered his reply: “It was so much farther—my house is bigger—he thought—l thought——” “ Whatever you thought, it was foolish,” cried Lucia, stamping her foot impatiently. “If the child is in your house, how can I go and nurse him?” “Ah, Siguorina Lucia!” sighed Nicolo, and then he w’as silent. Lucia grew embarrassed in her turn—neither spoke for a few seconds. “This is folly,” exclaimed Lucia. “Why are we wasting time while the child is suffering? I must go and fetch him here.” Nicolo felt it was now or never. He stepped further into the room and seized her two hands eagerly. Lucia was too amazed to utter a word. “Yes, Lucia,” he said, “let us go; but if you come to my house, you must never leave it again. I w’ant you there—to stay with me always—so does Pipino. I will work for you both. I am strong. I can earn enough for us all. You will not mind my mother living with us. She loves you already, and she is not old; she is *no trouble. You can mind the house together.” Lucia was so bewildered by this avalanche of words that she could not speak. The shy, bashful Nicolo, emboldened by her silence and the semi- darkness, came closer still, and put one arm around her, holding fast her other hand. “Come!” he said gently, drawing her to him—“Pipino wants you.” “Ah, no!” she said, suddenly rousing herself with a cry, and pushing Nicolo violently away. “How can yon say such things to me? It is only *a few months sin ce—since ” “You were betrothed to Enrico. I know; do not think I forget it. I know, too, lam a poor, rough, ugly fellow by the side of him, but I will take care of the child.” Lucia sank panting into a chair. Her old love for Enrico, her affection for Pipino. her gratitude to Nicolo, all fought and struggled iu her heart. Then she started up again. “Why do you keep me talking here and the child is suffering? Is it a bad accident?" “It is not dangerous, and my mother is with him. Give me an answer, Lucia. I love you with my whole heart; will you marry me?” The girl burst into a passion of tears. She knew what Nicolo said was true. Even when she had laughed and scoffed at him the most she had always known he loved her. And yet—and yet her foolish heart clung to Enrico. “Nicolo,”-she cried, and at the sound of his name the honest fellow thrilled all over—“Nicolo, forgive me. I can not forget Enrico.” “Ah!” came like a gasp from the breast of Nicolo; then he was silent, and nothing was audible but Lucia’s sobs. “I know,” she said pleadingly—“l know lam foolish. He is perhaps careless and idle; but if he were to return and say to me, Lucia mia, forgive me and many me, why, then, Nicolo ” “He will never 6ay so,” intemipted Nicolo harshly. “Yesterday he married Maddalena.”

“Maddalena!” panted Lucia, a hot flush tingling her'whole body. It was the name of the worst girl in Genzano, who had gone to Eome that winter. “Tell mo that again,” she said quietly—- “ Enrico has married Maddalena?” “Yes,” answered Nicolo, very quietly also. j A wave of outraged love and indignation swept over Lucia, and overwhelmed for- ! ever in its depths the memory of Enrico. “I did not speak before," said Nicolo, in ■ a broken voice. “I was afraid I should j have no chance, but I have loved you as

: long as Enrico. I have toiled and slaved jto get a home for you, and I will work for ; you all my life. Come —Pipino wants ; you.” j She rose with an hysterical laugh, wrapped a shawl round her, and went out with : Nicolo into the twilight. | It was a grave and solemn walk; both | realized what was implied in it. , Nicolo's mother met them at the door, and welcomed Lucia with a silent embrace; the two young people went on to where j Pipino lay upon tho bed. ! He greeted them with a shout of rap- ] ture. “I told you so,” he said. “I knew she ; would come if Pipino wanted her.” He threw an arm round each of their ' necks, and drew their faces down to his and kissed them. Then he said, half roguishly, half gravely: “Now kiss each other.” But Lucia rebelled, and rising from his hold with flushed cheeks, began to- reprove him. “How is this, Pipino? Is it a trick you have played upon me?” “No, no,” cried the child eageriy. “The doctor says I have hurt my leg badly; but I don’t care if it makes Nicolo happy.” And so the little orphan, who had severed one love-match, cemented another, and Lucia became the wife of Nicolo Prato. The spring days came, and all things seemed to prosper. The English signora took up her abode again iu Albano. and often visited the young wife and little Pipino, who had not only recovered from his accident, but was getting less lame under the skillful treatment of the kind doctor. The boy was very clever, too. People began to shake their heads wisely, and prophesy that he would do great things some day. “Ah!” they said, “it was a lucky hour for Lucia when she took that child. He will turn out a genius.” Sad accounts came from Rome—sad stories of the life led by Enrico and Maddalena, but they never reached Lucia’s ears. Nicolo guarded against that. To him, also, the mere mention of the names brought bitter memories, and no allusion to them ever crossed his lips. And so Lucia’s life went on, passed in tranquil happiness. The love she had accepted was honest and sincere, not full of stormy gusts, like the passion of Enrico, but patient and unselfish, filling every day's commonplace duties with sweet and thoughtful attentions. With her husband at her side, Pipino growing up, and baby voices calling her mother, Lucia has reason to bless the day she took the name of Prato.

Cause and Nature of Meteors.

It is now known that meteors can not originate on the moon, or within the regions of the earth's atmosphere. It is also universally conceded by all observers of natural phenomena that innumerable minute bodies fill celestial spaces, moving around the sun in every possible kind of orbit. Of the exact nature of these small bodies comparatively little can be known, but it is certain that our earth is continually encountering them in its passage through its orbit. They are burned in passing through the upper regions of our atmosphere, and the shooting-star is simply the light of that burning. The question how they can be burned so quickly and with so intense a light puzzled astronomers until it was seen that these phenomena could be fully accounted for by the mechanical theory of heat. It is now established that heat is only a certain form of motion; that hot air differs from cold air only in a more rapid vibration of its molecules, and that it communicates its heat to other bodies simply by striking them with its molecules, and thus setting their molecules in vibration. An exact measure has been found for this increase of heat, a velocity of 1‘25 feet per second being shown to increase the temperature one degree, and higher velocities increasing temperature in proportion to the square of the velocity, as 4 degrees with a velocity of 250 feet, 10 degrees with one of 500 feet second, and so on. To find the‘heat to which a meteor is exposed in moving through our atmosphere we divide its velocity in feet per second by 125; the square of the quotient will give the temperature in degrees. Now, the earth moves in its orbit at the rate of Ob,ooo feet per second, and if it met a meteor at rest this velocity would create a rise in temperature corresponding to about 600,000 degrees, which largely exceeds any temperature that can be created on the earth, even by artificial means. If, as is commonly the case, the meteor is also moving to meet the earth, the increase of temperature will be even greater. It can not be said that the meteors are actually heated up to this temperature, but the air acts upon them as if it .were heated to,, this point; thatsis, it burns them instantaneously with* an enormous evolution' of light and that, just as a furnace would if heated to a temperature of several thousand degrees. Nor are the light and heat of ordinary burning even mentionable in comparison with the fusing temperature, the intense blaze which such heat would create in the hardest, most non-cumbusfible substance in nature. Now, if the meteor is so small and fusible that the heat can act upon it instantaneously, it is all dissipated in the upper regions of the atmosphere, and we have simply a shooting star or brilliant meteor. But sometimes these b -dies are so large and j firm that the he at has not time to penI etrate into their interior, but spends ! itself melting and volatilizing the outer portions; the body then passes throne h j the atmosphere and falls upon the | earth as an aerolite, or meteoric stone. | Sometimes when the body strikes the | denser part of our atmosphere, the resistance is so great that the aerolite is broken to pieces with great violence, | causing a tremendous detonation. This is usually spoken of as an explosion, | but there is a good reason to believe that the loud sound and b rsting of the stone are both due to its strik ng the rapidly moving air with an eno?- . mous velocity of its own,— lnter 1 Ocean.

PISCATORIAL STATISTICS.

Universal Fish Culture Necessary to Supply the Harvest of the Sea. From Turf, Field, and Farm. If Mulhall’s sta'istios are reliable, says an angling journal, there are not far short of 166,000 vessels engaged in Europe and North America in fishing. Between 600,000 and 700,000 men are employed in this industry, and the total annual product of fish is not far short of 1,500,000 tons. Few people realize the meaning of these latter figures. A ton of fish is equal in weight to about twenty-eight sheep; and hence, if Mulhall’s estimate is approximately correct, a year’s fish supply for ten European countries, included in this’estimate, and the United States and Canada might he represented by 42,000,000 sheep. Of this amount the United Kingdom, Canada, Russia, and the United States alone aggregate 1,000,000 tons, equivalent to ‘Js.o 0,000 sheep. It has been truly said that we talk in a metaphor of the harvest of the sea, but we have only lately been able to realize what the metaphor means. The Fisheries Exposition in London in 1883 did a great deal to encourage the study of marine biology, and it is with no small degree of satisfaction that wo are able to say that in this much-needed work the United States ranks second to no other. On the other hand, Great Britain, whose fisheries are of vital importance to her for food, has done little, and can not yet boast a laboratory on the seashore. Indeed, Professor Lankester, an eminent authority on marine biology, declares the British fishing industries still barbaric. The produce of the sea is recklessly-seized, regardless of the consequences of the method, the time, or the extent of the depredations. According to English authority, the o d proverb that there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it no longer holds good. The harvest of the sea in the future, like the harvest on land, needs cultivating. It was shown not long ago that in eight months twentyeight boats engaged in the haddock fishery at Ryemouth, England, used 620 tons of mussels—about 47,000,000 mussels—in the capture of the haddock. Yet Professor L; nkester says that no pains are taken to cultivate or preserve the mussel, and knowledge of its reproduction and growth is still incomplete, as it is of other bait. Soles are every year becoming scarcer, and oysters are becoming more difficult to obtain. At present, said the same authority, absolutely nothing is known of the spawning of the sole; the male fish is not even recognized. The reasons for oysters being scarce are not known, nor how to make them abundant. There are mauy economists in England who maintain that the haphazard and improvident methods of fishing are exhausting the fish supply of that country as sure as mining is exhausting the supply of coal. The supply of many kinds of fish is rapidly diminishing, and the only way to cheek the waste is by systematic study of the conditions which regulate the supply. It is undoubtedly true that “the world could not be fed if men sought their food on land with as little forethought and system as fishermen cast their nets into the sea ?” To what extent these facts, which are causing considerable discussion in England, apply to the United States we are not prepared to say. The excellent work for many years of our fish commission exonerates our Government from the accusation of total neglect of this important industry.

The great variety of colors and dyes obtained from common plants, growing so abundantly almost everywhere, is apparently known to but few persons except chemiss. The well-known huckleberry or blueberry, when boiled down, with an addition of a little alum and a solution of copper as, will develop an excellent blue color; the same treatment, with a solution of nut galls, produces a clean dark brown tint, while with alum, verdigris, and sal ammoniao various shades of purple and red can be obtained. The fruit the elder, so frequently used for coloring so rits, will also produce a blue color when treated with alum. The privet, boiled in a solution of salt, furnishes a serviceable color, and the overrripe berries yield a scarlet red. The seeds of tuo common burning bush (euonyrnous), when treaied with sal ammoniac, produces a beauti ul purplered. The bark of the currant bush, treated with a solution of alum, .produces • a brown. Yellow is obtainable from ..the Vark of. .thq gppjeu tree, ..the box:, the ash*. the buckthWii the -poplar, elm, etc. s ysijj?h. boilJ_d in . water andrtreated witfrialum. Ariively green is furnished by the broom corn.

For an American to marry in Mexico is a somewhat serious business. He must be three times married, twice in Spanish and once in English, besides having a public notice of his intention of marriage placed on a bulletin board for twenty days before the ceremony. This is the law. The public noti e e.an be gotten around by the payment of a sum of money, but a res dence of one month is necessary. The three ceremonies are the contract of marriage, the civil marriage—the only marriage recognized by law since l.*>sß—and the usual but not obligatory church service. The first two must take pla e before a judge, and in the prese ce of at least four witnesses and the American Consul. The civil ma riage is the legal form of marriage. These ceremonies are neoes ariJy in Spanish. Most weddings are confirmed by a church service. Love is a little confidence game in which bo h parties are taken in by the clergyman.

HUMOR.

A tight fit—a drunken on* Darkness visible—a negro taking a sun-bath. A Russian prefers lemon-juice in his tea to sugar. No wonder they are so aciduous in their Nihilist c belief. - How wocud you like to be the cover on a Bible wlion a pretty worn *n witness in court kisses it with a smacks The only persons in the wor d who do not like to see redeeming qua itiea in the human race are pawnbrokers.— National Weekly. Ween Shakspeare wrote “My kingdom for a horse !” be showed that, with all his great knowledge, he was not ignorant of the ruling charges of the Long Branch hackman. — Puck. Queer, isn’t it? A man who will swallow any kind of a dish with an imposing French name will be scared to death if he catches a cold with a Greek or Latin title.— Lowell Citizen. it never comes but once. Her face she seeks from his gaze tj hide, And her heart is wildly beating; See, in her cheik<, how t le rich, red tide Is advancing and retreating 1 Her lips are burning with love’s first kiss— Ah! life holds few such moments as this. —Bcs'on Courier. “What do these letters stand for?" asked a curious wife of her Lusband, as she looked at his Masonic seal. “Weil, really, my love,” he replied, encouragingly, “I presume it is because they can’t sit down.” She postponed further questioning.— Merchant Traveler. “I don’t wonder that people talk of the good old times, ” said the President of the gas company. “At one time it was dark for three days and three nights on a stret ;h in the land of Egypt. What a big thing it would be for the gas companies if we could have something like that in these days!”— Boston Courier. THE BAD BOY’S FRIEND. Grandma is old and wrinkled and gray, The bloom of her beauty has faded awav. But the words of affection still fell from her tengue, And her heart Is as warm os when she waa young. She’s kind to the young, and it makes her heart glad To shield the bad boy from the wrath of his dad. Ah! let him be grateful to her while lie may, He'll lose a warm friend when she passes away. Utica Observer. j A curious sect in Russia, called the “Folk of the Godly Nest,” d g graves, which they call nests, in their earthen floors or gardens, into which they retire at certain Lines and “fast and see visions of saints and devis.” It is a queer notion. In this country “so k” can see such visions, if not worse, by simp v eating a mince-pie and a pickle before retiring to their nests. “Mrs. Primp is a beautiful woman, isn’t she?” “Yes, she is quite handsome, but they say she paints.” “Well, suppose she does, what of it?” “I, don’t like to see a woman resort to such dodges to make herself attractive." “I don’t see "why she shouldn’t. When it has got to be a'l the rage to decorate potato-mashers, scoop-shove’s, and so on, you can’t b aine a woman for giving herself a dab with the brush now and then.”— Chicago Ledger. Little Charley was presented with, one of these new brand of cheap watches which keep p etty good time, but oonsume half the existence of a Loy in winding them up. The other morning he was four hours late so - school, and when taken to task for his ta diness, he told his mother that he stopped on the way to wind up his watch, and before be had finished the job the scola a were coming home to dinner. — Nbrristown Herald. M. Delauney, a weather propheit of France, predicts several destructive earthquakes next year, and says that Saturn will present a part of his ring in the shape of a comet that will eclipse the famous comet of 1858. Delauney is not a very pleasant man to have around, but his prognostications m ght have .been worse. He might have predicted that several French “stars” would appear in this country next year.— Norristown Herald.

Possibility of the Portiere.

The portiere is a creature of mischief When I think of the conspicuous part which the niCe-to-hide- Bek ind curtain plays in novels, ancient land modern; the jealous lovers that'naveused the drapery as a covert, the mischief-mak-ers, whq. have found the folds of the noiseless portiere a sure refuge for their eavesdropping, I feel a sense of horror at the renaissance of the portiere. A wooden door gives forth an honest “Look ,out!” sort of a baug, and the rattle" of its knob or latch enables a young couple to have some sort of chance in preparing against unwelcome intrusion. But the portiere is a snake, Its sinuous folds betray neither the coming nor the departing one. In absolute silence the cruel : father, the stern mother-in-law, the suspicious husband, can part its treacherous folds and stand revealed to the very people who most wish the intruder in the wilds of Africa. All the possibilities confront ti e man who removes his doors and 'substitutes the charming but treaoherous portiere. Washing ion Republic. A Connecticut genius has invented a bonnet for men, which he thinks wi do away with all other kinds of head-J gear for the ma'e part of li manity. It is a cross be'tween a Kossuth hat and a Scotch cap, only much higher and more fantastic than either. He who betrays another’s secret be-, cause he has quarre ed With him was never worthy the sacred name of a friend. A breach of kindness on one side will not justify a breach of truatou the other.