Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 August 1894 — Page 4

MIRAGE. • With mfik-white dome and minaret Most fair my Promised City shone; Beside a purple river set The waving palm trees beckoned on. O yon, I said, must be my goal No matter what the danger be, The chosen haven of my soul, How hard soe'er the penalty. The goal is gained—the journey done — Yet naught is here but sterile space, But whirling sand and burning sun, And hot winds blowing in my face. —[Graham R. Tomsox, in Scribner.

A LAST RESORT.

A dark night, and the sky hidden by a mass of hurrying clouds. A raw, chilly wind, the ground all mud, the tall .grass and- trees dripping from heavy rains. Justemerging into a dark cornfield from still darker : woods, a young man, his clothing j drenched and mud-stained, his face i haggard and desperate, and his whole attitude as he leaned heavily against j the rail fence telling of utter exhaustion. He was worn out. For more than two hours l*e had been flying for life over a country imperfectly known to him, though familiar to his pursuers. Turn which way lie would, Gilbert Hazelton could see nothing before him but speedy and disgraceful death. Never to see the sun again, nay, not even a friendly face! Was this the end of the bright hopes with which he had kissed his mother goodby only two short months before. He had been accused of murdey- j tried for his life, found guilty and \ sentenced to death. His letter to his friends miscarried, for they ha come to his relief. Poor and alonenhmong strangers, who persisted in believing him identical with the tramp who had murdered poor David Westford, Gilbert had yet fought bravely for his life. Some few had been convinced of his innocence, and his lawyer had succeeded in obtaining a new trial, in which new witnesses might at least prove an alibi. But when this word went abroad, the townspeople were furious. They had seen more than one undoubted criminal escape through some technicality. Were they now to see the murderer of poor David Westford escape through the easily bought perjury of some worthless companions in crime? They vowed it should not be. Last night at dusk groups of stern-looking men stood before the jail talking grimly together, and a whisper in the air warned the Sheriff what was coming. The jail was old and sickety* He could not defend it, and his resolve was quickly taken. In the early dusk the prisoner was sent out by a side door, under charge of the Sheriff’s son, while the Sheriff himself remained to make sure mob violence did not make a mistake and seize some other victim. But treachery carried the word to the mob, and they were soon in hot pursuit of the fugitives. In this emergency the boy, who was firmly convinced of the prisoner’s innocence, released him, demanding only a promise to rejoin him at a place appointed, and himself turned back to throw' the pursuers off the trail if possible. Gilbert fully intended to keep his promise, but in the darkness lie missed his way, and the bloodhounds in the rear caught his trail. Now for two hours, which seemed two eternities, he had bee a running for life, and the unknown country and horrible mud had completely exhausted the little strength that two months of confinement and terrible anxiety had left him. Nothing but utter desperation could have driven him another rod. But when a shout came faintly from the rear he pushed forward with a great effort across the strip o? cornfield, through thj fence, and out on a well-travelled road. To one less utterly worn out this would have given a glimmer of hope, for here at least the mud had become liquid ooze, which retained no footprint, The pursuers would not know Tpvhich way to turn, and must watch both roadsides to see that he did not turn aside. But he was too tired to use the advantage, and when, after running a few rods he slipped and fell, he lay there a full minute, too utterly exhausted to rise. A farmhouse stood a quarter of a mile farther on, and as he lay there panting, exhausted, waiting only for death to overtake him, his hopeless glances fell upon its light. And then he suddenly scrambled to his feet, resolved to make one last effort for life. He would struggle on to the farmhouse, and appeal to the quiet family circle.

It took all the strength this last faint hope gave him to carry him to the gate and up the cinder walk, whose hard, dark surface would betray no footstep. Yet his heart failed as he reached the door, and leaned, utterly exhausted against the doorpost. The window was but a step away. He crept to it and looked between the curtains. A plain, neat farmhouse kitcken, and two women, evidently mother and daughter, sitting by the table before the fire, the mother sewing, the daughter reading aloud. No one else in sight, yet Gilbert gave a smothered gasp and fell back in despair. “David Westford’s mother and sister! That settles it!” He had seen both faces at the trial —the elder, sad and patient under its silvery hair; the younger pure, pale clear-clear-cut, thrown into strong relief by the dark eyes, long jet lashes and heavy black braids. He stood there still hopeless and helpless, when there came a break in the clear voice within. The girl had ceased reading. He looked in and saw her pick up a pitcher and come toward the door. A moment more and she had come out, all unconscious of the man so near, gone straight to the pump, on which the lamplight ehone, and was filling her pitcher. Nerved by desperation, Gilbert stepped toward her.i “I will appeal to her. Why shouldn't I? I did not kill her brother. She may pity me. She is a woman, and they are half Quakers I have heard,” he muttered and aloud, “Miss Westford, help for God’s

[The clanking of the pump ceased. The giil looked around with a startled I air. “ Who spoke?” she demanded, j “A fugitive, utterly exhausted with fFght-from a bloodthirsty mob. They are close at heels. I can’t go farther, and I am doomed unless you have pity and give me help, or concealment.” “Who are you?” she inquired, ard with a dreadful sinking at his heart he gave his name, “Gilbert Hazelton.” She uttered a sharp cry and looked i away where the distant lanterns were gleaming through the cornfield—the pursuers on his track. “I must- ask mother,” she said, and snatching up her pitcher swept past him into the house. He heard her quick voice, and Mrs. Westford’s startled outcry, and in very desperation followed her in. The old mother met him, whitehaired and venerable. “So thee can seek shelter here, of David Westford’s bereaved mother ? ” she said, bitterly, wonderingly. “Why not ? I never harmed you or him,” he urged desperately. “As true as there is a heaven above us, 1 am innocent of what is laid to my charge. It will be proved when my friends come. But that will be too late unless you help me.” ‘-But I do not know it now,” Mrs. Westford wavered. “Thee speaks fair, but do not all criminals do the same ? A trial was given thee and thy innocence was not proved. Why should I save the murderer of my boy ?” Gilbert fell into a chair too exhausted to stand. “You will know V'»V*n it, is too late if you refuse me dm. Madam will you risk it ? —risk feeling that you have saved an innocent man, but instead let him go to his death ? ” “Ernestine,” cried the old mother, piteously, “what ought we to do ? How can we risk a lifelong remorse, or how can we risk letting David’s murderer go free to break other hearts as ours are broken ? What does thee say ? ” The girl stood in the open door,her glances alternating between the pleading face of the fugitive and the lanterns coming along the roadside. ‘ 'We must decide quickly, mother, ’ ’ and her clear voice quivered with feeling. “He may be innocent. It hardly seems as though a guilty man would come here—to David’s home —for shelter. And if we are accessory to his death—mother, it is murder for them to take the law into their own unauthorized hands. Our choice lies between one man, who may or may not be a murderer, and a score who Will surely bo if we do not binder.”

“Then thee says save him?” Mrs. Westford asked, doubtfully. “I dare not refuse it, mother. Do you?” The old lady hesitated, then, opening a corner cupboard, took out a pair of handcuffs—relics of the days when David had been deputy sheriff and earned the enmity of tramps and evildoers —and held them towards Gilbert. “If thee will put these on, that we may have no fear from thy violence when the mob arc gone, we will conceal thee safely, and when the search is over send thee back to thy lawful guardian. That is all. I cannot place myself and my daughter at the mercy of one who may have none. Will thee consent?” She was only prudent. Gilbert bowed silently and extended his hands. It was his only chance for life, and it would be the height of folly to object. Yet a faint color came into his face as the cold steel snapped on his wrists, rendering him helpless—yet scarcely more so than fatigue had already made him. The hesitation of both was over now. Ernestine bade him remove His muddy shoes, while she swiftly closed the door and drew down the blinds, and the mother hurried into another room. Thither Ernestine beckoned ljim to follow, pausing only to thrust the shoes out of sigTit. At the door she turned. “It is David’B room,” looking keenly in his face. “Come in!” It was a small, plain!}' furnished room. Mrs. Westford had drawn the bed from the wall and thrown back the last breadth of carpet, revealing a tiny trap-door. At his entrance she opened it, and motioned him down. “It is only four feet. You can drop that far,” said Ernestine encouragingly. “There is no outer door. Y’ou will be quite safe.” Her mother smiled sadly. “How many frightened fugitives have slept there in safety! But that was years ago—before the war. Thee need not fear. Now—but stay, thee must be faint. I will bring thee food and drink.”

She hurried away, and he swung himself down. It was not very easy, with his manacled hands, and Ernesttine helped him. llis heart thrilled at the touch of her cold, trembling fingers. “She shrinks from my touch. She thinks my hand stained with her brother’s blood,” he thought bitterly. But another glance at the pure, pale face relieved him. She was listening anxiously, and said with hurried kindness, “There is an old bed there. Look, while I hold the light down. There! Even half an hour’s rest will help you. But you must eat and rest in the dark, for this cellar extends under the kitchen, which is carpetless, and has cracks in the floor. Here comes mother.” Very hurriedly Mrs. Westford passed the well-filled dish and pitcher to him, reporting the mob almost before the house. “Cover up, quickly, Ernestine, I am going to wake Harry.” That was her youngest son, still sleeping soundly upstairs. She hurried away, and Ernestine quickly lowered the trap-door and pushed back the bed. Shut down in the darkness, Gilbert groped his way to the old bed, and sank down on it in utter exhaustion. He heard the girl’s quick step, the closing door, the louder steps directly overhead, and a slender spur of lamplight came down through a crack. She was back in the kitchen —and there were stern voices indistinctly to be heard without. Ernestine heard them more plainly, and stood with clasped hands and pale face, pravinsr silently, but oh,

(so earr,*etly, that the innocent, If he were innocent, might be saved, when | her young brother came rushing | downstara just as there came thunI dering knocks at the door. Mrs. Westford had told him no | more than that a crowd of men with i lanterns were approaching, and it was in perfect good faith that he flung open the door and angrily demanded their business. They soon satisfied him. “The tramp that murdered your brother is at large, and we are hunting for him. We have looked all up and down the road, for we know he caine this way. and it looks mightily as if he had slipped into your premises and hidden somewhere. Your folks will have no objection to our searching, I reckon?” “Not a bit. I don’t think he would j stop here, but if he did I hope you’ll j catch him and hang him to the near- i est tree,” the boy answered fiercely, i The fugitive, plainly hearing every i word, shuddered, but he had no idea i how many times that old house had | been searched in vain for hunted j souls, or he would not have feured. ; The out buildings and premises were I thoroughly searched, while Ernestine j and her mother looked on with pale, I quiet faces and wildly beating hearts, | and the fugitive lay and listened in the darkness. Then the men rode on, J grumbling and cursing the Sheriff for letting the prisoner escape. Silence settled on the old farmhouse, and Gilbert actually fell into a light doze, from which Mrs. Westford’s soft call aroused him. Half asleep, he made his way to the trap door and was helped up. Ernestine, in cloak and hat, stood waiting. “Mother thinks it best that you should be back in safety before daybreak,” she said simply “ I can drive you over very soon.” “I hate to let thee go, dear,” her mother said anxiously. “It is only for an hour, mother,” reassured the girl ; “and we can hardly trust Harry. He is only a boy and so impetuous and bitter.” Mrs. Westford sighed. “It seems to be a duty—and surely our Father will not let thee suffer for doing thy duty. Well, go. My prayers shall go with thee. But be careful, child.” The light wagon and bay pony stood at the door. The prisoner was helped into the back seat and Ernestine sprang in before. The big watch dog followed at her call and curled up under her seat, and Gilbert felt that however kindly these women might feel they were not disposed to run any useless risks. “Good-by, mother. Don’t fret,” was Ernestine’s parting word, and Mrs. Westford’s earnest “May God protect thee” showed her uneasiness. Yet she added a kindly word to the prisoner, “And may He bring out the truth? I hope we shall see thee free before all the world right speedily.” Then they drove away in the darkness. Ernestine spoke little; her heart heat too fast. She half apologized for taking the dog. “The roads would be so lonely coming back,” an apology which he readily accepted. Could he resent her prudence when she had given him his life? Blithe could not help being intensely thankful that the dog had been asleep in the barn when he approached. Their trip was about half done when lanterns gleamed ahead, and wheels and voices were heard approaching. “The mob!” was his first thought, and Ernestine whispered hurriedly, “Down under your seat till they pass!” then with a sudden joyful change in tone and manner, “Oh, it is the Sheriff! Thank heavens!” The Sheriff it was, looking anxiously for his charge, but with little hope of ever seeing him again alive! Ernestine turned quickly. “Your wrists, please,” and the manacles fell off. “There! You need not tell that part unless you wish. It was only—but you understand. Mother had a right to be cautious, £ou know.” I And then the Sheriff was hailing I them, and as much surprised as de- | lighted to find his prisoner in such hands. The transfer was soon made, and with a kindly word of farewell, Ernestine hastened back to her anxious mother. At the new trial Gilbert Hazelton had no difficulty in proving his own identity and was triumphantly acquitted. Of all the warm handclasps and congratulations ho received, none gave him more pleasure than those of Mrs. Westford and her daughter, “You must come and see us,” Ernestine said blushing. “I know we were not over-polite to you, mother and I; but come again, and you will find that we can be civil.” And he did come —not once, but many times—and at last earned sweet Ernestine away as his bride. —[Overland Monthly.

Nest of a Tree Ant.

The nests of an extraordinary tree ant are cunningly wrought with leaves, united together with web. One was observed in New South Wales in the expedition under Capt. Cook. The leaves utilized were as broad as one’s hand, and were bent and glued to each other at their tips. How the insects manage to bring the leaves into the required position was never ascertained, but thousands were seen uniting their. strength to hold them down, while other busy multitudes were employed within in applying the gluten that was to prevent them returning back. The observers, to satisfy themselves that the foliage was indeed incurvated and held in this form by the efforts of the ants, disturbed the builders at their work, and as soon as they were drjven away the leaves sprang up with a force much greater than it would have been deemed possible for such laborers to overcome by any combination of strength. The more compact and elegant dwelling (E. virescens is made of leaves, cut and masticated until they become a coarse pulp. Its diameter is about six inches; it is suspended among thickest foliage, and sustained not only by the branches on which it hangs but by the leaves, which are worked into the composition and in many parts project from its outer wall.—[Popular Science Monthly. The number of possible voters in 1890 was 27.05 per cent, of the population. \

BUTTEBFLY BUSINESS.

FULL-GROWN SPECIMENS ARE RAISED FROM THE EGGS. Str«n9« Adventures of the Butterfly Collectors in All Parte of the World. The chasing of butterflies has a fascination which does not always end with childhood. There are men who have never ceased to feel the enthusiasm of the hunt, and, combining with it the knowledge and resources of mature years, have gath-

AFTER THE HIGHFLYERS.

ered butterfly collections which number thousands of specimens and worth thousands of dollars. There are many of these collectors in New York, but only one who breeds his own butterflies. Jacob Doll is his name, and in Brooklyn he has a caterpillar farm. While others are paying hundreds of dollars for rare butterflies, Mr. Doll is receiving the tiny eggs at much lower prices and rearing them until they burst into gorgeous butterflies. “An egg,” he said the other day at the farm, standing amid the shrubbery and wire cages under which were thousands of caterpillars feeding, “ doesn’t necessarily mean that you are going to get a butterfly. You are lucky if you get one out of ten eggs. And it is mostly the fault of the wretched little ichneumon fly. This parasite, which is the everyday wasp, stings its victim and leaves some eggs in its body. The caterpillar goes on feeding, and after full growth has been attained winds itself in the cocoon exactly as its fellows do. But instead of a beautiful butterfly emerging there is nothing but a mean little wasp. “There is another difficulty. The eggs come from all parts of the world, and the caterpillars want the food their fathers ate. Very often they won’t touch any other and then they die, as half the time you have no idea what plant they feed on, and couldn’t get it if you did. But it often happens that a caterpillar from Madagascar, say, will take kindly to one of our native leaves. Sometimes you think you have the right thing when you haven’t. They eat all right and begin to grow. Then some morning you find them all dead. The caterpillars didn’t dislike the plant till they arrived at a certain stage of development. Then it was poison to them. I have dozens of different plants, and upon every one of them a different species of caterpillar is feeding.”

GOT ANY 'BACCA?

“What are the stages of a butterfly’s growth?” I asked. “Well, to begin with the egg, it may be sent from the Alps or the Amazon—from Siberia or the Cape of Good Hope. I receive them on leaves inclosed in boxes. I keep the eggs in the house until the caterpillar crawls out. Then I determine, if 1 can, to what species the little fellow belongs and what he likes to eat, and put him on a plant under one of the cages, where he feeds and grows, meanwhile changing his skin two or three times. When he shows signs of having had enough of the world I put him into a box with two feet of earth in the bottom. He burrows in and is seen no more until he is ready to assume the gay life of the butterfly'. This may be a few weeks later, or, as is the case with some species, it may be two or three years. When he does come up he gets a few hours of life as a butterfly, and then a sniff of chloroform, which makes him ready for the collection. “How large is the collection? Well, I suppose there are between 60,01)0 and 70,000 specimens, including the duplicates. Let me show them to you.” With this Doll led the way indoors to the butterfly room. It is a room of cases. They begin with the floor and end with the ceiling. * Every climate that will produce a flower which the gorgeous creatures eat has paid tribute to this collection. There are butterflies whose wings measure nearly a foot across, 'there are tiny ones not half so large as a ten-cent piece. There are the magnificent Asiatic group in velvets of the most brilliant black, crimson, green and orange. The snow butterflies are here, far from the mountain tops, where they r flit over perpetual snow,. There are the Satrus Argentini from Chili, whose wings look like bits of burnished silver; and the Caligds. whose reverse side bears a striking resemblance to an owl,and the beautiful Thaliurae Rhipheus from Madagascar, with wings that glisten with a wonderful mingling of old gold and red and blue and yellow. “The males and females are side by side. In many cases it is the former that wear the brighter colors

' and are the more delicate A marked example of this is seen in ihe curious and gorgeous sock bearers, whose females are crawling, wingless creatures.” In the collection are many silk spinners, which vary greatly in size and beauty. There are members of the family gaudy with markings on the wings which are almost perfect representations of the human eye. Bat these fine creatures are not the ones that spin the silk of commerce. It is the smallest and meanest looking of them all—little fellows, of a dull, white color—which makes their cocoons of the long silk threads which can be woven. The silk spinners originally came from China, but thrive wherever the mulberry can be obtained. It would be an endless task to descJibe half the strange denizens of the butterfly world in the Doll collection. There are thousands of varieties, and yet so vast is this insect family that no one collector has a tenth part of the whole number. Furthermore, many varieties in existence are unknown. Every year collectors find butterflies which they are at a loss to classify. It is this possibility of capturing insects which are very rare or are complete strangers that lends so potent a charm to scientific butterfly hunting. Once while Mr. Doll was engaged in his pursuit in the Rocky Mountains a gorgeous butterfly flitted past Jiim and disappeared over a precipice. Far below it alighted on a flower. It was but the work of a moment for his guides to fasten a rope around the collector’s waist. Then they lowered

A WESTERN ADVENTURE.

him into the depths. Suspended in mid air, with a rushing mountain stream hundreds of feet below, he deftly swept the butterfly into his net. It was well worth the perilous descent, being the only one of its kind ever found. The Indians took great interest in the operations of the butterfly hunters. They would ride a long distance out of their way to see what was going on. “What doin’?” one of the blanketed gentlemen would ask. When told that they were after butterflies the red man- would turn away with a look of disgust, But invariably he wheeled around again and asked: “Any tobac?” It is not necessary to go long distances for rare butterflies. The electric lights of New York City, with their irresistible attraction for the moths or night flies, have brought many new varieties to the notice of the collectors, and in the woods and swampy ground of Long Island and New Jersey a fly is occasionally caught which is worth much more than its weight in gold. But it is almost impossible to capture them without a minute knowledge of their time and manner of flying.

THE GREATEST COLLECTOR OF ALL.

“Just last night,” said Mr. Doll, “I and a couple of friends went to a swamp near Brooklyn to see if we couldn’t catch some wood borers. While these are not a particularly rare fly, they bring Sfil or more apiece. It was 7 : 80 when we arrived at the place and not a borer was to be seen, but all of a sudden at ten minutes to 8, they began their low and rapid flight from bush to bush. “ ‘l’vegot one,’ somebody shouted. There was another shout, and then another, until we had secured five. But they stopped flying as suddenly as they began, and by 8 o’clock it was as if the insect never existed. This is always the way. /They feed for five minutes or so at twilight, and for the remainder of the time keep in hiding places that collectors have rarely discovered. “My methods in catching butterflies? Well, except for those that fly rapidly a bottle containing a little chloroform is best. You can put it over the victim and brush him in without the handling which a net often necessitates, and which is so disastrous to his beauty. The chloroform soon puts him to sleep. Moths are attracted by a lantern, the bigger and brighter the better, and you can bait them by spreading molasses on the trunk of a tree. The manner of catching a butterfly depends upon his habits. These are carefully studied by the successful collector. The late Prof. Hahnel spent five years doing this very thing along the banks of the Amazon. Noticing that the rare and beautiful Morpphos fly above the tree tops, he erected platforms twenty feet high, and there, during the hours of flight, secured enough specimens to supply the collectors of the world.”

SOMEWHAT STRANGE.

SEASONABLE HINTS ANO MATTERS OF MOMENT. Queer Facts and Thrilling Adventures Which Show that Truth is Stranger Than Fiction. Dr. Gutherie, of Edinburgh, after carrying on ragged schools in that city for a number of years, sent invitations to a dinner to boys who had found a blessing in the schools. Two hundred and fifty responded, one gentleman traveling 500 miles to be present. A tame crow with luminous legs is owned by Zebedee Smith, of Elks Run, Md; At least, Zebedee claims that peculiarity for the bird, when it is placed in a dark room and somebody whistles “Sweet Marie.” This, he asserts, will cause its legs to twinkle in a most beautiful manner. A human* face clock is on view in the window of a St. Petersburg, Russia, watchmaker. The hands are pivoted on the nose, and any messages spoken into its ear are repeated by a phonograph through its mouth. It is said to be the only clock of the kind at present in existence. James Leedom, a Rockville, 111., farmer, has a Brahma rooster which amuses itself by hanging head downward from the rung of a ladder. It was hatched while a company of strolling acrobats were performing in Leedom’s barn. Whether this has anything to do with this unchick-en-like act, is the merest conjecture. Charles Hinton*, a farmer, near Covington, Ga., found the other day that one of his sheep had got a large maypop lodged in its throat. He took his pocketknife out and cut the creature's throat, removed the maypop and sewed up the wound. The sheep will recover. Hinton had had no veterinary experience but is naturally clever. Dental surgeons in Stony Stratford, England, are puzzled over the case of a weaver, who has shed four sets of teeth in twenty years. His wife rubs his gums with a rubber ring and doses him with soothing syrup when he is cutting a new set. The neighbors make remarks intended to be facetious, but which wound his feelings considerably. Up to a few weeks ago John Baisch, of Mascoutah, 111., delighted in giving his family pleasant surprises. Just before he died he told his son to dig in a certain spot, after the funeral. The son obeyed him and found a kettle containing $1,160 in gold. A few days later the family was further surprised by the discovery that the father had his life insured for SB,OOO. Probably the oldest clergyman in the world was a Greek priest who lately died in Thessaly, Greece, after completing his 120th year. He never left the place in which he was born and where he died. He was accustomed to begin his priestly offices before sunrise, and to retire promptly at 9. His sight and hearing were in excellent condition to the day of his death, and he never made use of glasses. He was in the active ministry for ninety-nine years. A marriage resulting in an extraordinary state of complicated family relations recently took place in Birmingham, England. The woman had been married three times before, and each time had taken for her husband a widower with children. Her fourth husband was a widower, and, as he had children by his first wife, who was herself a widow* w*ith children when he married her, the newly married couple started their matrimonial companionship with a family composed of no less than eight previous marriages. It is a unique position which a young Englishwoman, a Miss Hamilton, of London, will fill in the palace of the Ameer of Cabul. She is simply to pose as a lady for the inmates of his harem. With an unusual liberality of spirit for an Asiatic potentate, he perceives the advantage to be received from his wives’ intercourse with a refined and intelligent woman, and he is giving it to them. Miss Hamilton is highly accomplished, and a physician as well, but she goes to the ameer’s court in the sole capacity of lady, and is well paid for it.

Mas. Elmer Hathaway, of Gering Neb., has a little more presence of mind and a trifle more of muscular activity than most women. The other day she left her two babies in a wagon while she stepped into the post-office. In a moment she heard a shout, ahd looking down the street, she saw her team running away, with the babies behind riding to almost certain death. Instead of screaming, she ran into the road, and, as the flying horses dashed past her, she seized the end gate of the wagon, pulled herself up into the box, secured possession of the reins and brought the frightened animals to a stop. And all the babies did was to smile. “Did you ever see people bathe in blood and drink it by the cupful?” asked Ell wood Johnson, of Boston. “I saw that very thing recently in Rome during a tour of Europe. It was at a place called the Zootheiwiie Institute, and it is quite a fad thire. I have heard of people drinking blood, fresh from slaughtered animals, for the cure of consumption, all my life, but at this institution people drink the blood, or bathe in it, for the cure of gout, rheumatism and the malaria, which is such a curse in the marshes around Rome. The Roman doctors have great faith in the curative powers of blood, and the patients claim to be benefited by the treatment. For my part, however efficacious it is, I think I would rather fall a victim to disease than be cured by such, to me, revolting methods.” Oxe use of the whalebone to which the Esquimaux put it, and one case of which came under my personal observation, I must not allow to pass unnoticed, writes Eugene Mellville, of the United States Navy. Whenever wolves have .been unusually predatory, have destroyed a favorite dog or so, or dug up a cache of reindeer meat just when it was needed, or in any way have aroused the ire of the Innuit hunter, he takes a strip of

I whalebone about the size of those used in corsets, wraps it up into a compact helical mass like a watch spring, having previously sharpened both ends, then ties it together with reindeer sinew, and plasters it with a compound of blood and grease, which is allowed to freeze and forms a bind- ; ing cement sufficiently strong to hold j the sinew string at every second or | third turn. This, with a "lot of simij lar looking baits of meat and blubber, j is scattered over the snow or ground, i and the hungry wolf devours it along | with the others, and when it is | thawed out by the warmth of his j stomach, it elongates and has the j well known effect of whalebone on j the system, but having the material 1 advantage of interior lines its effects | are more rapid, killing the poor wolf, I with the most horrible agonies, in a couple of days. “A few years ago,” said Charles J. Patterson, of Philadelphia, “I learned the secret of the life of a man who had passed more than a quarter of a century with scarcely a smile. He had been a physician and surgeon, and on one occasion had to remove an injured eye in Order to save the other eye and prevent total blindness. The night before the operation he had been drinking heavily with some friends, and although the following morning he was sober, his hand was unsteady and his nerves unstrung. After administering chloroform he made a fatal and horrible blunder, removing the well eye by mistake and thus consigning his patient to perpetual blindness. The moment he discovered his error he turned the man over to a competent surgeon, deeded everything he possessed to him, and hurried from the neighborhood like a convicted thief. The remainder of his life was one constant round of remorse, and he rapidly developed into a confirmed misanthrope. The secret of his life w*as know*n to a number of people, but when it was finally revealed to me it explained a mystery and made me to respect the man, for however grave was his original blunder, which in some respects was, of course, worse than a crime, his repentance was of the most genuine character.” A man who has died three times has been describing his experiences. He is a lineman connected with an electric company. According to his story he was first knocked out by an accumulation of gases in a manhole; the next time was by an. electric shock, and the third by sunstroke. “I don’t see,” said he, “why they make such a fuss about suffering and all that from an electric shock. I don’t think it was half bad.” He was up on a pole when the shock came and.was sitting with his legs interlocked around the pole. “When the shock came,” he said, “it just knocked me backwards the same as if you had hit me in the head with a hammer, and down I went, head first, but not very far, because my locked heels caught on the lowest cross-beam, and there I hung. My senses were numbed right off, and I hadn’t the least sensation, except waiting rather unconcerned a couple of seconds; then I lost my senses.” He says that by all odds the worst was the sunstroke. For two hours he suffered such torture as Dante describes. All the time he was conscious and the bad things he had done in his life kept parading themselves before him. He could hear the people say that he was dead, and could understand their discussions over ways and means to determine whether there was a spark of life left—all this was going on for several hours until he did really lose all consciousness. After that he was for three weeks in a hospital. A unique operation has been successfully performed by Dr. James Haley, a veterinary surgeon of New London, Conn. A handsome little cocker spaniel was brought to him a short time ago suffering with curvature of the spine, as the result of a kick administered by some brute. The little fellow’s back was twisted out of shape and he was practically helpless. His back legs were helpless, and he could not move. He was always a sufferer, and kept moaning and whining. Dr. Haley thought when he first saw the dog the most humane thing to do was to kill him, but he was such a handsome little fellow the doctor thought he would try to save him. After submitting an anesthetic the spine was straightened and the dog was encased in a plaster paris jacket, swung in straps and given proper medicine and food. Finally the plaster was removed and the dog stood on his feet for a moment in a surprised sort of a way, then wagged his tail, gave a spring into the air, and, with a loud bark started off on a dead run in a circle, barking like mad. He kept it up for about ten minutes, and seemed anxious to show every one he was all right. He is just as good a dog now as he ever was, climbs stairs without trouble, and gets about with just as much ease as any of his playfellows. The doctor is quite proud of his job, and the owner of the dog is, of course, greatly pleased, to say nothing of the dog himself.—[New York Dispatch.

English Harbors.

The bar at the entrance of the river Mersey, and which has been such a source of trouble to the city of Liverpool, has now been so far lowered that there is a minimum depth of nineteen feet over a channel 1,000 feet wide, and a minimum of twenty feet over a width of 500 feet, and the river authorities say that at no distant date the channel to Liverpool will be open to all vessels at all states of the tide. It is also stated that vessels drawing twenty-one feet six inches can now successfully navigate the Manchester canal. —[San Francisco Chronicle.

Tea from Rainwater.

They say that tea made from rainwater is incomparably the best. Many of the fashionable housekeepers keep a stone jar in readiness to catch any chance rain, which, when obtained, is securely bottled and pqt on ice, to be used when needed. Says one of these: “The water makes far more difference t’nari the mere leaves. I could make good tea out of anything with pure rainwater.” Over three-fourths of the voting strength of Minnesota and w i«innsin is foreign