Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 June 1895 — Page 4

BLOSSOM TIME. 4b ! the sweet world of the blossoms, When the blithe winds to and fro Sock the softy tinted cradles Where the fruited orchards grow. All the breezes wafting perfume O'er wide fields of drifting snow. Snow of Rummer and of flowers. Not the flakes oi feathery chid Once that filled the sleeping hollows, Rounded out each watching hill; Snow of summer and of flowers, Acres of it, where you will. Hidden deep among the petals. Even from eyes that love her best, Many a patient little mother Broods beneath her beating breast Wings and songs that wait their rapture When they flutter from the nest. Oh ! the white world of the blossoms, Where the sweet winds to and fro Softly, softly, rock the cradles Swinging high, and swinging low, Cradles of the fruited orchards In the blossoms' tinted snow. —Harper's Bazar.

The Governor's Pardon

BY E. M. GILMER.

It was at the Southern Club, and it was growing late. The crowd of habitues had long since scattered to their evening’s diversion. Only in the smoking room a little group had gathered, closer and closer about the open fire, in a comradeship that seemed to shut out the rest of the world. There was Major Overington, with his long legs stretched out on the hearth, and young Carrington and one or two others, while over against the corner of the mantel sat the colonel, with his leonine old head thrown back against the tall, carved back of his chair. The room was blue and fragrant with tobacco smoke, and it was that witching hour when conventionality is a thing forgotten and men speak from their souls with an abandon they vaguely wonder at the next morning; but notwithstanding all this it had been a rather silent group about the club room fire, and after a bit someone said .something about going home. “Oh, don’t!" said young Carrington, flippantly, taking his eyes off the colonel’s face, where the}' had rested for the last few minutes. “Oh, don’t! It’s never late till morning, and then it’s early. Besides. the colonel has something to tell us. ”

■The colonel stirred a little in his chair as if he roused himself, and then he turned to Major Overington. “Major,” he said, “I’ve been home —down South. “I went back to the little town near which I was raised, and I walked about feeling every change in it. They’d got a fine new govern- j ment building for a postoffice and I went and stood on the steps, trying to locate old landmarks, but it was all cruelly new—people and places. By and by an old colored man, one of the polite, old fashioned body servants—you know, major—came op with Isis hat in his hand and said. ‘Mornin’, marster.' ‘Howdy tmcle.’ I said, and he asked: ‘Marster. kinyou tell me whar 'bouts I kin find de old gin ral?’ General who?’ I inquired. ‘Ole Gin ral Delir’ry, ’he answered. ‘My i son sent me word he writ me a letter, an' for me jess to come to de pos’office an’ ax de ole gin’ral for hit.’ I unraveled the mystery of the postal system for him, and when he got his letterand stowed it away in the lin- i lag of his hat, something in the expression or action struck me with a sudden familiarity, and I said : 1 ‘ ‘ Uncle Ike, don’t you remember Dick Buckner?’ He looked at me a moment, and then he seized me in an ■embrace that lifted me off the pavement. ‘Marse Dick !’ he said. ‘l’clar’ fa’ gracious I jess didn’t known you in yo’ sto’ does.’ “ I took the old man back to the hotel with me, and we spent the day italking over old times, and—but I beg your pardon,” said the colonel, Breaking off abruptly, “ personal reminiscences are always a bore.” “ Go on,” said the major; “ when people have reached our ages they Are entitled to their reminiscences.’ There was evidently a story in the colonel’s mind that he needed little urging to tell, but he gave a deprecating little wave of his hand as he continued:

“I was just remembering Uncle Ike’s story about his young master,” he said. ‘‘lt was something so fine and dramatic in its way, we should say it was touched up if we saw it in print, but I knew all about it in its .beginnings. ■“'iou see, old Ike’s young master !»nd I were boys together, plantations joined, and we were inseperable. We 'went to school together, hunted and tfished together, were beaten for the same juvenile offenses, and when the war came along we fought it out side by side. I don’t think,” said the Colonel, slowiy, “the good God ever made a finer man than Billy Bayuhatn—handsome, olever, brave, loyal, Bre was one of the men who capture .your fancy by their charms and hold .you by their real worth. There was .a fire and vim and enthusiasm about him that carried everything before them. Gentle and affectionate as a woman, too, but under all his airy sweetness of manner and geniality was an iron will and determination, ■and once rouse his hatred, he was implacable in his dislike. ‘‘lt goes without saying that such safellow as he should have a love affair, and should love with all the passionate fervor of his nature. What is it, Carrington, you beardless young cynics quote from the French? ‘ln love, one loves, the •other consents to be loved’—and Billy loved. It began when they were children, and I think none of us ever thought of anything but Billy and Diana Worthington marrying. You *>e, he was altogether unexceptional ma a match, independent of his infatuation for her, and. boy or man, he never had eyes for any one else. She was the one woman in the world for him, and she held his heart in the fwiaa of her little hand. ‘ Suae of us thought the less of her that she was a bit of a coquette *•4 had a hundred men following as- • ■■ .- ■

ter her—lekst of all did Billy. He was too loyal to be jealous, too honorable I and chivalrous to believe the woman j he loved could stoop to deceit ; for the-irest, who cculd see her and not ' admire? And she was his. he was so I secure, so exultant “ Then the war came on. and Billy and I and the rest of my world and yours, major, went out to fight for the South. *‘ It—it is not easy always to hear lovers’ raptures in patience,” said she colonel, after a pause; “but if I jhadknown—poorßilly! Thethou£ht j of Diana’s love and welcome cheered | and brightened for him those four | long, awful years of bitter trial and ( sore defeat, and when, after' Lee’s surrender, we turned our faces homeward the joy of seeing her again swallowed up all troubles in it. “I remember as if it were yesterday how we came home.” The narrator’s voice trembled, and the major instinctively reached out his hand toward him. “I remember how—how it all looked—the familiar scene that the desolation of war had touched and shriveled with its curse —the untilled fields, the broken fences, the ruined homes. We rode along with bowed heads and heavy hearts, two wearied, gaunt, ragged soldiers of a lost cause, when suddenly our horses shied, and coming toward us, down a shady pathway, was Diana Worthington. I looked at Billy, at his transfigured face, and then I turned my r oack. It is not good for one man to look on the unveiled soul of another.

“ ‘Diana, Diana!’ I heard him cry as he threw himself off his horse and at her feet, and then he caught her hands and held them against his ragged gray jacket as if he would ; still the tumult of his beating heart, j ‘Oh, Billy,’ she answered, with j the light laugh I remembered so well j of old. ‘Oh, Billy, haven’t you j learned any self control in all these ! years? \ou must forget I am married.’ ‘Married*’ he cried, and reeled and would have fallen, but I caught him. “‘Why, yes,’ she said; ‘to Mr. Appleby. Haven't you heard it?’ And she laughed again as if she did not know every word stabbed him. lou know,” said the colonel, softly, ‘■that when a man gets his death wound sometimes he stands still and straight for a moment, unconscious even of the pain. It was that way with Billy. He straightened him- j self, as I’ve seen him do when we ; charged the enemy, but his voice j never raised itself above a whisper. } He compelled her eyes to meet his. “ ‘I swear by the love and truth you have murdered in me,’ he said, you shall answer to me yet for this. Tel 1 your husband that; and when the day comes I will show as little mercy as you have shown me. Go!’ And he pointed sternly to the woodland path she had come. ‘Go; you dishonor an honest man with your presence.’ "She shrank away from him, from his haggard face and accusing eyes, and when she had gone I turned to him with—God knows what words of impotent sympathy—but before the misery in his face, pity itself was dumb. Betrayed, forsaken by the woman he worshiped—what was there to say ? “He waved his hand to me in farewell, and struck off into a bridlepath that led to his rained home, and the very night seemed to close in around him in added darkness as he went forth on his lonely and despairing way. “Of course we soon knew' the par-1 ticulars of Diana Worthington’s mar- j riage. The Baynham estate, like many another in the South, was swallowed up in the maelstrom of war. Old Mr. Baynham had speculated in Confederate money, failed, of course, di,ed; and when Billy came home he was .absolutely penniless. Diana had no notion of wasting her charms on an impecunious husband, and a wealthy man coming along, she married him. It was all very commonplace and unromantic, and —usual—only, you see, I knew Billy. "Well, I came on here to try to retrieve my own fortunes, which were bad enough, God knows, and I rather lost sight of Baynham. Of course I knew he studied law, and after a while was elected Governor, but I didn’t know much else until the other day when I met Uncle Ike, his old body servant, as I was telling you. “It seems that of the slaves and

possessions that had once been Baynham’s, all were gone; he had absolutely nothing with which to start his unequal fight against fate, except his iron will and determination to succeed. He stayed for a few days in the old home, gathering himself together after the blow Diana had given him, and then one morning he called Uncle Ike and his wife into the house and explained to them his plan. He was going into the county town to study law. The old man protested against it, saying he would starve, and indeed the chances looked very flattering for it. But Judy—his wife —who had carried Billy on. her tender black breast when he was a baby, encouraged him in it. So he went. And, by Jove!” said the colonel, with his face alight with enthusiasm, “ that old colored man told me the story as simply, and with no more idea of the fine part he and his wife played in it than a child. He ! said Baynham went to the county town and hired a couple of poor rooms, and put every cent he had in books, and foraged for himself —>- cooking miserable messes on a rusty grate.

“ ‘He went hongry many a time,’ said the old man; ‘an’ he would ’a been hongrier oftener still es it hadn’t been for Judy. You know she promised ole Miss she gwine to take kier Marse Billy when he’s a baby, an’ she says she gwine to do it; so she tuk an’ hire herself out, an’ ev’ry week she go in de town an’ take Marse Billy a basket full of snack. You know she jess fairly scrimp herself an’ me to feed him.’ The old fellow chuckled to himself, and then he added: ‘ Maybe you tink Marse Billy’s donelfergot dat time! Maybe you tink Judy ain’t got a silk dress lak a lady, an’ iaoney in her puss—but you know the Baynhams.’ “Well, of course it niras a foregone conclusion that Billy would succeed. Law clients came to him; then he went into politics and was elected Governor. When he received the nomination for re-election, promi-

nent among those who opposed him [ was the man who had married Diana ! Worthington—Appleby. He even went so far as to take the stump against him, and at one place, when Tom Mason, one of Billy’s ardent friends, and he were .pitted against each other they indulged in some personalities, and Appleby so far I lost his temper as to make some ! threats against Mason. I suppose j it didn’t amount to anything, though Appleby was bitterly disliked by his j neighbors; but toward morning I Tom’s horse strayed into the town : riderless and covered with blood, and ! they found Tom in a lonely part of a sequestered road—murdered —shot in the back. Appleby had been seen to enter that road soon after Tom. Some colored men had heard a shot j fired as they went hom» from work. A dozen witnesses testified to his threat—you know how the links in a | chain of circumstantial evidence tighten and tighten about the victim’s neck; and the result was, Appleby was tried and convicted of the murder of Tom Mason, and sentenced to be hanged. “Appleby was cordially disliked by his neighbors, but after the sentence was passed and the day of execution drawing near there was a sort of reaction in public feeling; that maudlin sentiment,” interposed the colonel, testily, “that prompts us to try to save the sinner from the consequences of his sin. You don’t like to have your acquaintances in tha stripes even if you don’t fancy them, and people were sorry for his wife and children, and the result was a petition was gotten up, asking for executive clemency, and Diana took it herself to Billy. They say he read it through, as she stood cowering before him, and then looked at her with those stern, accusing eyes of his. ‘The murdered man was my friend,’ he said, ‘and his blood cries to me for vengeance. If the slayer were my brother I would give him up to justice. Go; this is not the first man your husband has killed. Years ago you two murdered all that was good in me.’ So he turned her from his door. “No other effort was made to save him. People who knew Billy’s impartial justice knew how futile all further endeavor would be, and so the days rolled on until the execution was only a couple of days off. Then, suddenly, one night, one of the men who had testified to hearing the shpt fired, and to having seen the two men enter the woods, sent for Uncle Ike and confessed he had had an old grudge against Appleby, and had been lying in wait for him, knowing he would pass that way, and hearing a horseman coming he had fired and fled, only to find, to his horror, next day, that he had killed Tom Mason instead of his enemy. Afterward, when suspicion pointed toward Appleby, he had gladly shielded himself behind it. Now he was dying, and dared not go into eternity with the secret on his soul. “ ‘I wuz in an’ about skeer’d to death,’ said the old man when he told me this, ‘but I knowed somethin' mus’ be done to keep Marse Billy from bangin’ that man, so I went home an’ retch down my coat off de wall, an’ Judy, she saddle Ma’y Jane—she’s my mule —an’ I put off to find Marse Billy. All dat night I rid, an’ de nex’ day till ’bout dark, till I come to de cap’tol an’ see de light in de winder, an’ dere sot Marse Billy. I cross up right dost to de glass an’looked in, an’ I see dat he looked kinder ole an’ wore an’ mighty broke, an' I ’membered dat I ain’t neffer seen de light in his eyes nor de smile on his face since Miss Di marry Mr. Appleby—not once ; an’ I knowed ’cause Bhe done dat no woman would ever rest his tired head on her breast, an’ no little children ever play about his feet—an’ then I thought 'bout what I come Tor, an’ I 'clarto God, Marse Dick, I wuz skeer’d to go in. By an’ by a clock somewhere struck, an’ I ’membered dere wa’c’t no time to waste, an’ I pushed open de do’ and went in.

“‘“Dat you, Ike?” asked Marse Billy, when he see me; an’ I say, “ Yesair.” An’ den he ax me what I want, an’ I tell him an’ I say, “ Marse Billy, I come for Mr. Appleby’s pardon.” His sac looked like death, hit was so white an’ drawed, an’ then he says ‘‘Who’s to prove the truth of what you say? an’ I answered, ‘‘De grave.” An’ then I hear him say, right easy to hisself, ‘‘My revenge is in mv own hands—a life for a life—an’ they murdered me.” Then he say out loud, ‘‘ln a few more hours your message would be too late—the scaffold is already built. What if I refuseto listen to you?” ‘“‘‘Marse Billy,” I say, ‘‘you dasn’t do it for yo’own soul sake,” but he didn't listen, an’ den I went over an’ took his han’ in mine,' lak he was a little child agin, an’ I says, “ Marse Billy, is I been a good servant to you?” An’ he says, ‘‘A faithful fren’ that stood by me when the worl’ jell away, an’ helped put me here.” An’ Isays, ‘‘ls I ever took any pay?” An’ he says, ‘‘None. ” An I says, ‘‘Fay me.now; give me dis man's pardon,” Well, he set still a while, an’ then he writ somethin’ oh a yellow paper dat say, ‘‘Reprieved.” an’ he sent it off by a boy. An’ I know I done save more than Mr. Appleby’s life—l done save Marse Billy’s soul.’” The colonel was silent a moment, and then he gave a deprecating little cough. ‘‘l beg your pardon,” he said, as he fumbled in his pockets for his cigar case. “ I did not mean to make such a long story out of it —but—l —l—knew Billy—when wo were boys.”—Leslie’s Weekly.

Babies Are Cheaper Now.

There is a sign in a photographer’s window in the city whose wording might horrify those who are not initiated and do not know that the way of the advertiser is hard and his methods to attract attention devious. ‘‘ Babes reduced to $2 a dozen,” does not mean that such commodity has literally been put at this low figure, but that likenesses of that number. can be had at that price. This word of. explanation may be timely and avoid disappointment on the part of those who may be inclined to take advantage of so generous a sounding offer

WHAT THE LIGHTS TELL.

Signals of Ships «t Night, and What Thsy M*an A railroad train cannot turn to the right or left at will, for it is bound by the iron tracks to go the way they lead, and the trains coming toward it are guided in another set of tracks to pass safely by. Therefore the engineer may rush his train along over the guiding tracks, through the brightness of day or the darkness of night, with no fear save for the most unforeseen and infrequent«ccidents. On the sea, however, a ship can go whichever way she is turned, and other ships may meet her coming from any direction. The broad ocean, then, may be looked upon as covered I with an enormous network of tracks j crossing one another in all directions, j where a ship may be switched from ! one track to another at will. In the daytime ships can be seen from each other, and be turned aside to pass in safety; for not only can they be seen, but the direction in which they are going is known. Still, even in the daytime certain rules must be followed to insure perfect safety. How then, do ships, pursuing so many intersecting tracks, pass the others safely in spite of the darkness of the night? Imagine yourself on the bridge of a big ship. It Is really a bridge, you know, high above the deck t extending from side to side near the bow, and projecting a little beyond the sides so that from each end a man can see straight ahead without rigging or masts to interfere. It is night, and very dark Even the ship is only a long, dark shadow under your feet. Over the sky may be a pall of cloud, and you peer away into the darkness, but cannot even tell where sea and sky come together. All is inky blackness above and below. Spreading outward from the bow of the ship is a foaming, phosphorescent wave, which tells how rapidly she is rushing onward over the unseen waters and into the dangers of the impenetrable gloom. In the middle of the bridge stands a man holding a wheel and gazing at a compass lit up by a little lamp. With that wheel lie turns the rudder to keep the ship steadily pointed in the same direction by the compass. That direction is her track. Other ships may be on that track; other ships may be crossing that track in the darkness. How are they to be avoided?

On each side of the bridge stands a man peering continually into the gloom ahead, while back and forth, almost incessantly, paces a fourth man, an officer, who, like the others, is continually gazing ahead or glancing at the compass. He is the officer of the deck. On him rests the responsibility of avoiding all other vessels which may cross his vessel's track or be approaching her upon it. Upon his quickness and judgment depends the safety of the ship. In the daytime he has seen one, two. or perhaps a dozen ships around him during a single hour, and he well knows that just as many may be around him during any hour of the night. How, then, is he to know where they are, and how to keep out of their way? Their lights will tell. When you face towards the ship’s bow the side at your right hand is called the starboard side, and the side at your left hand is called the port side. On her starboard side a ship carries at night a green light, and it is so shut in by two sides of a box that it cannot be seen from the port side or from behind. . On her port side she carries a red light, and it is so shut in that it cannot be seen from the starboard side or from behind. If the ship is a steamship she carries a big white light at her fore-mast-head, but if she is a sailing vessel she does not. This white masthead light can be seen from all round except from behind. So long then, as the officer of the deck sees no lights, he feels sure that there are no vessels near him, and paces his watch in security.

THE TARANTULA’S ENEMY.

A Wasp That Never Failsto Kill the Deadly Insect. Notwithstanding all the tarantula’s great courage and pugnacity, there is one enemy the sound of whose coming throws it into paroxysms of fear. This enemy of which it has such an instinctive dread is a large wasp known as the “Tarantulakiller.” It has a bright blue body nearly two inches long and wings of a golden hue. As it flies here and there in the sunlight, glittering like a flash of fire, one moment resting on a leaf, the next on a granite boulder, it keeps up an incessant buzzing, which is caused by the vibration of its wings. No sooner doc 3 the tarantula hear this than he trembles with fear, for well he knows the fate in store for him when once his mortal foe perceives his whereabouts. This it soon does, and hastens to the attack. At first it is content with flying in circles over its intended victim. Gradually it approaches nearer and nearer. At last, when it is within a few inches, the tarantula rises upon its hind legs and attempts to grapple with its foe, but without success. Like a flash the giant wasp is on its back. The deadly fangs have been avoided. The next instant a fearful sting penetrates deep into the. spider’s body. Its struggles almost cease. A sudden paralysis creeps over it and it staggers helpless like a drunken man, first to one side, then to the other. These symptoms, however, are only of short duration. W'hile they last the wasp, but a few inches away, awaits the result; nor does it have to wait long. A few seconds and all sign of life has disappeared from the tarantula; the once powerful legs curl up beneath its body, and it rolls over dead. Then takes place one of those strange incidents which illustrate the perfect adaptation to circumstances, everywhere so remarkable in the economy of the insect world. The wasp seizes hold of the how prostrate spider, and with little apparent effort drags it to a hole in the ground. Therein it coiinpletely buries it wijbh earth, after having first deposited in its back an egg, which in course of time changes into a grub, and/ lives upon the epeass upon which it was born. This grub in a short while

becomes another tarantula wasp, thus adding one more to the ranks of the enemy of the spider race. The amount of slaughter which ! these large wasps inflict upon the I tarantulas is almost incredible, and I it is noticed that those to which the I greatest destruction is due are the females. It can only be realized when it is known that though the female deposits but one egg in each spider, she has a large number to get rid of, each one of which she provides with a home, and its grub with future sustenance at the expense of the life of a spider. From the powerful character of the tarantula wasp’s sting it may be inferred that they are dangerous to human beings. But this is not so. It never annoys them unless teased. Without a doubt it is man’s friend, not his enemy, and much would dwellers in Mexico regret its absence were it destroyed .

Skin Dressing by Women.

In her tanning and skin dressing work the savage woman’s problem was to remove the dermis from the hide, and leave the hair adhering to the epidermis, with only a thin proportion of the true skin. If the work were creditably done the surface of the robe, frequently more than thirty square feet in extent, had to be uniform in thickness throughout, and she should not cut through the epidermis once. The whole must be as pliable, too, as a woolen blanket; the problem was to reduce a hide of various thickness and twice too thick everywhere to a robe of uniform thickness throughout without once cutting through the outer part of the skin. Her tools for this varied with the locality. The Eskimo women scrape off the fat with a special tool made of walrus, ivory or bone and plane down the dermis with a stone scraper. The Indian women cut off bits of meat and fat and remove the dermis with a hoe or adze. In the good old days of savagery the Eskimo womau made her fat scraper of walrus ivory or antler; her skin scraper was of flinty stone set in a handle of ivory, wood, or horn, whichever material was easiest to procure. But later on, it may be, the whalers helped her with steel tools. The Indian woman had three tools, to wit: the stone knife for cutting away the flesh; the hoe shaped scraper for splitting the skin, and the grainer, a hoe or chisel like tool with serrated edge to roughen up the inner side of the robe and give it flexibility. Beside these, both Eskimo and Indian had hands and feet and teeth for pulling and pounding and breaking the grain. They had also a wonderful supply of pride in their work, and love of applause, which kept them up to the mark of doing the best that could be done with their resources.

Bologna by the Mile.

The revival of trade after the long stagnation which followed in the wake of the Crusades was responsible for many fantastic procession freaks in the larger towns of western Europe. For an instance, we are told that in the Councilor’s processions, which took place at Nuremberg in 1487, the bakers of the town exhibited a loaf of bread weighing 1,14 l pounds, and that in the same procession a cheesemaker exhibited a star-shaped cheese which put three horses on their metal to pull it through the streets mounted on a goodly dray. The old account further says that this bread and cheese, which was distributed free of charge among the merrymakers, “was dinner sufficient for upward of 3,000 persons.” In the New Year's procession of Konigsberg in 1558 a bologna sausage exhibited by the “butchermen” was G 22 feot in length and was carried on the shoulders of sixty-seven men and boys. The one exhibited in the same city in the year 1583 was over 1,600 feet in length and weighed 431 pounds. But the giant of all sausages, and perhaps the largest thing of the kind ever made, was exhibited by the Konigsberg butchers on New Year’s day in 1601, when they paraded the streets with a bologna 3,750 feet in length and weighing nearly 2,000 pounds. It was carried on the shoulders of 187 men, the first and last in the column each having it wound around their necks.

Failure or Success in Farming.

Mr. George Husman, the veteran horticulturist, writes from Napa, Cal., that he is satisfied, after a long experience in horti<»ultural and agrb cultural pursuits, checkered with success and failure, that a life spent on a small farm, with industry, foresight and business tact, is the most peaceful and at the same time the most contenting occupation anyone can follow, as well as the most healthful for body and soul. Even in California, where everything grows and succeeds, failures have been numerous because people have rushed into growing one or two things on a large scale, could not give them proper attention at the right time, or dispose of the crop to advantage when ready for market, The successes have been among prudent men on a few acres of ■land, selecting fruits and grains maturing through the different months, cared for with little extra help and no worry of mind, and altogether with poultry, bees and a few animals, bringing in money in a small but steady stream through the year.

Cured by Antitoxine.

Flora Bearman, daughter of Maurice Bearman, of Peekskill, N. y., was attacked with membraneous croup. No physician was called until the next day at noon, when the family doctor, E. P. M. Lyon, who is also the Health Physician of Peekskill, found the disease presumably so well developed, as to preclude the possibility of recovery. He decided to try antitoxine. He called in Dr. Perley H. Mason, who is also a health officer of the town, and who has bad considerable success in curing diphtheria with antitoxine. Two doses of antitoxine were administered with no perceptible effect. Two more injections were made, and the results were more apparent. The dose was again repeated and the child began to grow better. One injection was then made, and a day later the patient was out of danger and has now recovered.

NOTES AND COMMENTS.

Official estimates place the value of farm animals—horses, cattle, mules and hogs and sheep —in the United Stales at no less than $1 819 - 446,806. According to the census of 1890 there were 3,000,000 bachelors in the United States. That is 3,000,000 men of thirty years or more who have never married. One of the most eminent mechanical engineers in England, Joseph Nasmyth, favors the driving of machinery with cotton ropes in place of leather bands. As a result of many years’ experience and close observation, he states that for heavy main drives it is both more economical and effective to use a series of ropes working in separate grooves. The king business pays well in Europe. The Russian Emperor receives $25,000 a day and house rent; the Sultan of Turkey SIB,OOO. The Austrian Emperor gets SIO,OOO per diem, while William, of Germany, has to worry along on $3,0u0 daily, and his esteemed grandmother, Victoria, finds hard work to make the ends meet on $5,000.

A neat pamphlet just issued from the Government Printing Office at Washington makes the startling assertion that “oysters will not freeze as readily as clams.” No attempt is made to explain why the one sort of bivalves display a greater obstinacy in this matter than the other, nor is any intimation given as to what the Government proposes to do about it. The illiteracy of Portugal is something of which any European nation should be ashamed. It is doubtful whether Morocco would make a worse showing, were one able to take a census of the Moors. Certainly most Oriental countries would present a creditable record in comparison with Portugal. China and Japan, it is probable, have a smaller percentage of illiterates than most European countries. A peculiar fact was lately pointed out by the President of the Manchester, England, Geographical Society, namely, that although much has been done to improve the operation of coal cutting, the collier’s pick remains exactly what it has been for the past century, and as to coal cutting mechanisms, not a single machine of the kind is at work in the Manchester district to-day. It is said tnat the Bolivian tin mines are very rich, the ore sometimes yielding from 40 to 65 per cent, of pure metal. The excessive cost of freighting from the mines to the Pacific coast prevents their development, but railroads are now being built to remedy this, and the development of the mines may have an important effect on American industries.

Corea goes ahead of us in one thfrng, at least. The Queen of Corea lives in such dread of sickness and disease that she keeps a lady physician in call at the royal palace at all times. The doctor’s salary is £3,500, which is not bad for a practice limited to one patient. There are women doctors here, but their income is somewhat less than that earned by the learned Corean. The two leading poets of the younger school of poetry in England at the present time—William Watson and John Davidson—had to kick their heels in publishers’ ante-rooms for a long time before the merit of their verse secured them recognition. Davidson two years ago was too poor to procure suitable food, and his quarters were in the garret of a shabby old building. Watson wrote much of what is now considered his best verse ten years ago. Despair at the public’s neglect, and long brooding over the lack of appreciation of his work, drove him into temporary insanity. He gained sanity and fame at almost the same time, and his books now sell remarkably well for poetry.

France has recently repealed the provision of the code Napoleon that marriage to be legal must have not only the consent of both contracting parties but that of their fathers and mothers on both sides ; failing that, of their grandfathers and grandmothers; if there be none of these relatives, of the oldest members of the families to which they belong. The provision was a vexatious one, as if consent was refused a man of 25 and a woman of 21 were compelled in that case practically to go to law with all their kin to compel them to show why the marriage should not take place. Under the present law refusal of parents or family in the case mentioned no longer acts as a bar to marriage. Henry Gannett, an able statistician, calculates that in 1890 the wealth of the United States was $48,642,000,000, or an average of SB7O to each inhabitant; that it was about $62,600,000,800 in 1890, or SI,OOO to each inhabitant, and that at both dates it was greater than the wealth of any other nation. Mr. Gannett finds that 5 per cent, of the total wealth of the country is owned by millionaires, 27 per cent, by people wcrth from SIOO,OOO to $1,000,000 each, 25 per cent, by those worth from SIO,OOO to SIOO,OOO, 37 per cent., the largest percentage, by those worth from SI,OOO to SIO,OOO each, and 6 per cent, by those owning less than SI,OOO each. The tremendous magnitude of the street railway passenger traffic in large cities of the present time has just been demonstrated by the publication in New York of statistics relating to the profits and work of the roads of that city during the past year. The various items printed foot up to totals that are little Jess than appalling. In the twelve months ending June 80 last the various street car lines of New York carried an aggregate of 246,226,197 passengers, an of over 4,000,000 over the twelve months preceding. A very considerable proportion of this business was done by the great syndicate of lines known as the Metropolitan Traction Company, which carried 107,000,000 of passengers, being a considerable increase over the preceding year. In addition to this multitude carried by the surface roads, the elevated :oads in

twelve morrtlw handled ever 221,uuu;000 passengers, making a total for all kinds for transportation in the city of 467,000.006 passengers carried in one year. Not the least interesting item of these statistics relates to the earnings of the roads, which also aggregate into almost fabulous sums. The gross earnings of all the roads in the year ending June 30,1894, were $12,268,583. Of this amount $4,354,558 were net earnings, making the net earnings of ali the roads a very small fraction less than percent, of the gross earnings. An industry which was introduced into Georgia before the Revolutionary war, and which languished and finally died because the times were unfavorable, is once more gaining a foothold there with a prospect of success under the better conditions which now prevail. The culture of the silk worm, which was first introduced in Gen. Oglethorpe’s early colony, is now attracting the attention of many amateur culturists in Georgia, and is finding its best conditions in Savannah and the country adjacent. The people of this section are looking about for new avenues of investment and employment, and the experiments in silk culture are the natural results of this new spirit of enterprise. It is found that the climate is especially suited. No artificial heat is required to hatch the eggs. They mature naturally on the approach of warm weather, and the young worms begin to eat, just aa their natural food, the leaves of tho mulberry and osage orange, have begun to grow. So it seems that nature has especially adapted this climate for the culture of silk. Experiments which are being carried on in Savannah are watched with interest by many who are noting that the expense of raising the silk cocoons is small, while the product is worth about 35 cents a pound in the market. It is quite probable that the industry under the favorable conditions that now seem to exist will grow to important proportions and become a part of the recognized commerce of Georgia.

CAN OPEN ANY SAFE.

An Expert Says He Can Do It lit Three Hours With a Satchal Outfit. One of the most expert “safe blowers” in this country, or in any othei for that matter, is William C. Clark, now a resident of Chicago. Some foolish friends of Mr. Clark hav& been claiming that he is the only man who knows anything about blowing open a safe, a statement which Mr. Clark promptly refuted yesterday in conversation with a reporter. “How did you gain your expei.v ence in opening safes?” was asked. “Legitimately,” answered Mr. Clark, smiling. “When a boy I learned the machinist trade in tbs Providence, R. 1., locomotive works. When about twenty-one years old I entered the services of my present employer. For three years I was associated with Prof. Charles E. Monroe, of Columbia University, Washington, D. C. He was the expert on explosives selected by the Commission appointed by act of Congress in 1890 to determine by actual tests of various manufactures what would be best for the proposed Government safes and vaults. These experiments, lasting three years, were conducted at Newport, R. I. Lieut. Rodman was appointed by the Government to assist Prof. Monroe, and I assisted in every test that was made.” “How do you proceed to force open a safe?” “If the idea is to do it quickly I usually bore a four-inch hole in the safe—that is, a hole four Inches in diameter. Then a little nitro-glycer-ine does the rest.” “How can you drill such a hole in a hardened steel safe?” “With a compound blowpipe in twelve minutes I can heat red hot a spot six inches in diameter. This draws the temper of the steel and leaves it as soft and easy to cut as iron. Then with a ‘cat-head’ drill we cut a groove an eighth of an inch wide around a spot four or even six inches in diameter. I once cut a four-inch hole through a steel vault door three and a half inches thick in the Mercantile National Bank of New York, in an hour and fifty-eight minutes.” “What tools do you use?” “In addition to the blowpipe and drill I have a small pocket battery, a coil of insulated wire with detonators, a few wedges, a hammer and a halfpint flask of nitro-glycerine mixed with alcohol. I carry the entire outfit in a small,satchel.” “Do you always use nitro-glycer-ine?” “Yes, it is the best explosive for many reasons. Put in a bottle with some alcohol it cannot possibly be exploded, yet in five minutes’ time it can be made ready for use. All that is necessary is to pour water in the bottle. The alcohol unites with it and the nitro-glycerine settles to the bottom. It doesn’t make any report to speak of; it can be introduced where nothiag else could, and it always does the work.” “How much is required?” “From two or three drops to half an ounce for each explosion, depending entirely upon circumstances. Burglars always use too much. The most nitro-glycerine I ever used on a safe, and I’ve opened hundreds of them, was four and eight-tenths ounces. I have opened every known make of safe, except one, and will wager any reasonable amount that there ii no safe made that I eannot open within three hours, without injury to the contents.”

Fortunes of a Play.

Frankfort Moore’s play, “At the King’s Head,” which Kichard Mansfield is to produce, has had a curious fortune. As originally written it was offered to nearly every manage! in London and promptly declined. Then the author transferred it into a story, making few changes in it other than the addition of “he said” and “she said” at the end <sasf the speeches. A magazine printed it, the critics said it would make an admirable drama, and soon there wps a deluge of offers from managers. Mr. Moore probably has some fixed and definite notions now about the prevalence of humbug in literature. The wedding ring is worn on the third finger of the left hand.