Rensselaer Union, Volume 1, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 November 1868 — Page 1

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PHOFESSIONAL CARDS* *tnru a. nauHOND. tfiuKli. 2. ti^TUtn HAMMOND & SPITLER, ATTORNEYS AT &AW, . Rensselaer, Indiana. -1. lx. a. s. nwiaoiaa r. r. tnonrsoN. DWIGGINS & THOMPSON ATTORNEYS AT LAW, -ftrdTAIUES PUBLIC, Heal Estate and .aN lusuranee Agents, llbnsbki.aeh Tnd. Cities in McCoy’s Hank Building, up-stalra. 1-l.ly. wm. l. McConnell, ATTORNEY .S? 'LkW -AND»roTA.mr public. RENSSELAER, INfiJANA’. flfllee In Lsrat's .Stone Building, nftstoirs. 11. r>. ■- A ■ BORGE W. li-VSCALL, REAL ESTATE AGENT / ’ and NOTAHY PjiBIjIO, _j. i Bomington Indiana. All business attended to promptly. JtlH.nk Deeds one] Mortgages always dn hand. 1-17-ts. »' ' _ JOHN BALDUS, - ~ Real Estate Agent, > Front St. Rensselaer, Indiana. Will buy and soil land. Viral ronl bouses and farms. Those wishing to purchase can secure good farms or calling op him, or by letter. Address, John JtalduM, Rensselaer, Indiana. «i,raco M'Cor. alzrkd thomi-son A. JHcVO V 4k THOMPSON, BANKERS. RENSSELAER. INDIANA, Rut and sell Lein and Domestic Kachasge make .'Collections on all available poiiils. pay i |elereat on specified time deposkea, and transact ail business in their line toil A i(spatrk. hours, from 9 a. rn. tot p. m SoSt.lv* DR. G. A^MOSS, Orr.ci—Front room, upstairs, first fo>r, Shanghai Building, Rensselaer, Ind. 11. ly. -v ’' ' ' " *7 DR J. H. LOUGHRIDGE. ftensselaer, - - - Indiana. » . g files on Washington street. I I. ly. JVC. O. MBlAiy, WATCH & CLOCK MAKER. RENSSELAER, INDIANA. •MfSpectaclea, Jewelry, and Clocks on. hand. Also—Notions of tnMmis kinds. Offloe l door south o Thompson’s Drug Store. 1-1-1 *— — rtr—-i r XLffLY* HACK. LiJTB h AMD > U VERY STABLE. Hacks run daily (Sunday* excepted) between Rensselaer and Bradford, on the C dr. L R R, and between Rensselaer and Remingtou • a the TLfcB,RR. Horses and Carriages to Ist nt reasonable it**. 1 W. &. S.O. Duvali. Jtr H O R N , LOCK AM GINSMITH,- , • RENSSELAER. INDIAN A. Mr. Horn Is recently from NAw Yrrk a»d a said to be a first class workman. If Is shop a In Liberal Corner block, seceud door east, whore all having Jocks or gun* to repair srw srlt«d to call. 9 ! 40-em,j- '

THE RENSSELAER UNION.

Vol. I-

gj ' - !A—TIJ U I."'7TT ; 1 .3- ■ - iodry. MVIMMER AND AITIMT. UV GEORGE ARNOLD. Gorgeous leaves are whirling down: Homeward comes the scented hay! O’er, the stubble, sear and brown, „ "Flaunt the autumn flowers; Jlut alas! r-rr Bummers pass—- - Like our joys, they pass away I Fanned by many a balmy breeze, In the spring I love to lie 'Neath the newly budded trees. Gash ng upward to the sky; liut alas! Time will pass, And the flowers of spring must die! Oft my maiden sat with me > J .intoning to the thrush’s tone, Warbled forty from every tree Ere the meadow hay was mown: liut alas! ‘Bummers pass— Now 1 wander all alone! liovc like the summertime, is fair, Decked with budsand blossoms gay; But upon the autumn air Floats a voice, which seems to say, JiOves, alas! Also pass, As summers pass away!

Miscellany.

LUCY BUTHVEN’S WILL. FROM HARPER'S MONTHLY. - ■ ■ - *‘]t [concluded.] “Papa, dear.”“Ycs. darling. lam here, close . by you. “Papa, who else is here ?” “No one, my child ” “Oidy you and I alono, papa 2 ’ “No one else, Lucy. Do you want < any thing, darling? ’ “No; but mainrua— where is; mamma “She is iu Uie other chamber, dear- ' estT Shall I call her ?-’’ “No ; oh, no. But what is she ! doing ? Will she stay in the ether room ?” “Not if yoij want her, Lucy. I will call her; she is close at hand.” —“Oh; no, papa; don’t call her. I only wanted to know where she was.” “.She went to lie down, dear ; but she told me to be sure and call her if you should want her.” “I did not want her, papa. And where is nurse ?” j “She has got (he baby. Do you want her, Lucy ?” “No, no, papa. I don’t want any ; body, hut you. I only wanted to; know it you and I arc at! alone hoffe. * “Yes, my dear, all alone.” “Then, papa, 1 have got something , I want to say to you; hut 1 don’t 1 want any body else to hear it, riot j even mamma—only just you. May -1 tell you ivlial it is? '^ I “Certainly you may. Tell me,' my sweet child ; what is it?” Little Lucy closed her eyes again, j .and lay silent so long that the tender Statelier thought she had drilled off into one ot her little dozing slumbers, 1 and ho whited patiently. .Suddenly sliK rtillinrd"again, and raising to Ins face the great, luminous, dark eyes, 1 which looked larger and more spirited than ever, iu contrast with the little wasted face, she said, quietly, “If yon please, papa, I want to make my will.” “Lucy, my child,” ejaculated the smitten listener, starting as if an adder hud suddenly pierced his heart. “My precious Lucy!” “Yes, papa,” pursued the little one, quietly. “I am very sick, you i know, and I may never be any better. | I I don't get any better, you know; and I do not believe the doctor thinks 1 shall; am,l I don’t much think I shall myself; and I don’t so much mind about it, papa, as I used to think I should. Ido not want to die. If 1 had my choice, I would rather stay here with you, and mamma, and my brothers. Bui lam not much afraid. If God thinks it b£st for me to die, and Jesus Christ will come for mo, I do not think 1 shall he afraid to go with him—should you be, papa?” A fervent pressure of his quivering lips (half kiss, half benediction) upon the ghild’s white hraw_waa the poor father s only answer, and Lucy went on: “But about my will, papa. I was thinking—you are a lawyer—l suppose you make people’s wills sometimes, don’t you ?" “Sometimes I do, Lacy,” the poor father forced himself to answer. “Yes ! Then you can make mine, can’t you ? OH! that will be so nice, won’t it? only I wan’t it made strong and right; just like grown people’* wills, you know.” “ Yes, dear, I understand. But, my dear Lucy, what made ypu think of such a thing. “I will tell yoivpapa. You knowmy'dcar grandmamma that I had once—my grandmamma Rhthven.— She’s dead nver so long, ago; but I remember her. You remember her, don’t you, papa ?” . i “Yes. my darling, Ido;” and the father smiled sadly, that even a little child like Lucy should for one moment imaginu he could have fdlrgottou tho tender mother, so beloved and revered, whose saihtly memory was enshrined iu his heart, as something pure and lovely almost beyond the limits of mere human perfectibility. “She died a great, qreai while ago,” i pursued the child, thoughtfully ; ‘‘oh!

RENSSELAER, JASPER COUNTY, INDIANA, NOVEMBER 5, 1868.

. i n.i 11,4 i—. ; i * ■ ever and ever so long ago, whea t was a little bil of a girl!” “That is not so very ldng ago, either, Lucy.” j “Oh, yes, indeed, papa ! it was a , great, great, monifrows long timeago. ( How long do you guess it wh,s,papa?” ‘.‘l know, Lucy ; it was just three years ago.” “Thrge years!” repeated Lucy, triumphantly. “There! I knew I was right; that is a monstrous long time, I’m sure. Why, I was only four years old then, and now I am seven—almost .eight! I shall be oight next Christ —” Lucy stopped suddenly. Did it- flash over the mind of the child, as it did over the mind ot the father, that, when another Christmas came, •‘They might not count by months and years Where she had gone to dwell ?” —— l — lay silently again for a little while, and when she resumed the conversation it was very subdued in tone. , - —— “I remember grand mamma just ns well as can be, though I was such a little hit of a girl, because I loved her so much. You loved her too, did not you, papa ?” “Ycsj 'Lucy, I did. I loved her dearlyl” “1 know you did, papa ; and you always said I was like her, did not you ?” “Yes, my darling, you are very like her.” “So every body always says, and 11 am sfT glad'; you like me to he like j her, don’t you ?” i “Yes, my dear Lucy; you could j not have a more beautiful model. I But what has that to do with wliat j ou asked me ?” “My will ? Why, don’t you see, papa? I like tn be like grandmamma, and you like to have me; and don’t you remember how she made her will before she “died, and how she left me her great Bible with the beautiful pictures, which mamma is keeping tor me, and ever so many other HriTfgS'f'' u YcsyLwcr'; Irut thurtrtsTi-dilfef.' cnee. Yqur grandmamma* was a grown woman, and you, yon know, are only a little girl.” ‘I know, papa, I can not be just like her, but I want to do just as she did as near as I can.’ •You do not understand me, my darling. Your grandmamma was a wemair of large property, and left children, and it was right and proper for her to say what should bn done with it,’_ t ‘Well, papa, and I want to say what shall lie done with my things; can’t 1 ?’ ‘ Yes, dear; hut it is not lieeessary for you to make a will.’ . ‘But, papa, I want to.’ •My dear Lucy, I will try to explain to yon. You are only a Httie "child," whalls called a minor; and you can not make a wilt that would stand in law ’ ‘Then, papa, do you mean I can not give away all mV pretty things, as grandmamma did ?’ 1 ‘Not by a will, Lucy, because You i are not of aire. AH that vou have is mine! You are mine yourself, my 1 dear little daughter. You can not give a wav your tilings by • a \vill r LitejyTor'.that would not be legal. But vou can tell me just what you want to do, and i will promise to see that it is done.' ‘l Hi, well, ihni wiil do,' said L\icy. brightening up. ‘1 d<m’Lsee,any d»f-~ ! ference* it seems to me it is just ; the same. So you get a pen and paper, and I’ll tell you, and you can I write it all down, won't you ?’ | ‘But-1 can't write iu this dark room, my sweet one ; and if I should 1 light the gas I am afraid it would hurt your eyes, or give you the headache. Suppose we put it off, and do it in the day some time.’ •l’lease, papa, I want to do it now —to-night.’ ‘Then, Lucy, 1 believe you must "te/fmc, and I can write jl down tomorrow.’ ‘But, papa, do you think you shall tgmenibcr it all ?’ ‘I think 1 shall, Luey.’ ‘Well, then, papa—but I’am dreadfully afraid you will forget.’ ‘I think there is no danger of my forgetting, darling!’ faltered the poor father. ‘I feel sure I shall remember every word.’ ‘Well, perhaps so; but it is a great deal to remember, liaise me up a little, will you, papa, and take my hand in yours—so, that is right; and now then I will begin. And first, there’s dear mamma; of course I love her best of any body in the whole world, qnlt/'you! She is so sweet and good; I want to give her something nice ; I want to give her the Bible that grandmamma gave to me; and you know, papa, how it says iu the beginning of it —‘A parting bequest- from Grandmamma . Ruthven to her darling little Lucy.’ You know, papa; 1 guess you wrote it for her; and I want you to write right under it: —‘A parting bequest from little Lucy Ruthven tp her dar j ling Mamma;’ and then put in the date and every thing, just as you did before, won’t yon?' ,‘Yes, Lucy.’ - 7 lAutt write I St nice, won’t you, papa ? yont very best hand !’ •I will try, my darling,’ factored the poor father. * *Wi, well, I’m Fare you will if ton try, yon oan write so beautifully! And, papay I want mamma to have mv camel’a-hair shswl’lTncl* James

OUR COUNTRY AND OUR UNION.

brought home from India for me; and the silver card-case Aunt Fanny gave me ; you know I could not use them, because I am a littlo girl, and they wera .not.proper for mq yet, so mamma is keeping them for me Hill I grow up a wornan;’ hut mamma can use them, because she’s a grown lady. Won’t they He tjioe presents for mamma ? Don’t you think she will like them ?’ ‘Yjea, Lucy; I am sure she will value them very much indeed.’ ‘I hope so. Dear mamma! I love her so much 1 And next, papa, there is Clmrloy. I want to give him all my books, and my paint box, and Carlo, and my ennary-birds. Papa, my mother canary was setting before 1 was sick; I wonder if she has hatched yet. I forgot to ask before.’ ‘No, Lucy, 1 guess not.’ ‘Well, Charley must take good care of them ; ho wilt, I know, he is such a dear, good boy ! Papa, Ido not think there ever was such a good boy as our Charley, and such a good brother! We never quarreled, did we, papa? Only once we came pretty near it, when Charley wanted to cut off poor Carlo’s ears and tail. Poor little Carlo! I almost cried then. Papa, I wonder what it the reason little hoys always want to cut off' a dog’s tail and cars. What did dogs have them for if they are not o*' any use ? I don’t see, I’m sure.’ And hero, pondering apparently upon- the abstruse questiou in natural history, Lucy drifted off again into a little, weak, dozing slumber. Very patiently the sad father waited ; in a few moments she. roused again. ‘What was I saying, papa ? What were we talking about? Oh, I know ! about Charley and Carlo.— Papa, you must uot let him cut oft' Carlo’s tail and ears, will you? Oh, but he won't want to now, I know, when he remembers how it made his little dead sister feel only to think of it; so you need not say a word to him about it—lie won t do it then, I TiTn'sTirijTuj'woh’T” . ‘And next, there’s the baby-dear little Freddy; he won’t know any thing about me, he is so little. Papa, I want him to have my silver cup I had when I was a baby, and the knife and fork and spoon my godmother sent mo; and, papa, you must tell him about me, dear little fellow! and try to make him remember they were given him by his little sister who loved him dearly; though I know he is too little to remember me. You try to make him love me, won’t you, papa ? And next, papa, there is one thing I do not quite know about—l mean I do not know if it is just mine to give away or not. You know, papa, you have promised me a new piano on my birth-day, next Christinas —but you have not trivett it to me vet, is it mine ? I mean, may I give it away ?’ ‘You may, my dear Lucy.' ‘Oh, thank you; that is beautiful! Papa, I want to give it to my cousin Georgiana. Georgie plays and sings a gloat deal better than 1 do, and she is such a nice girl! Do you know, uana. wlicnJjLQld her you had. Just promised it to me she seemed almost as I was, and site kissed me and said. ‘Oh, Lucy dear, that will be grand ! I am so glad ! If my dear pupa had lived, perhaps he would have bought me one; but now, you know, mamma can not afford it. But lam sure you will let me come and practice on yours sometimes, and we can play duets together, and it will be splendid.’ Now, was not that sweet in her ? So, if you are quite Wilting, I should like to have you givqjt-to her, and tell her it is in memory of her cousin Lucy, will you? Oh, dear! 1 am so tired! But there is not much more.’ ‘Had you not better stop, and try to rest now, Lucy? You can tell me the rest of your wishes another time—to-morrow, if you like; will you?’ i* .* ‘No, papa ; if yon please, 1 had rather tell you all now. Oh, am so glad that 1 have told you! I have been thinking of it ever so long, iffid I did not like to tell yon, because I was alraid it might make you feci bad; but it don’t —you don’t mind it a bit, do you, papa ? Oh, lam so glad you don’t; you don't —do you, papa?’ *Go on, my darling,’ whispered the tortured- listener. " 1 Yea, papa. Next, then,you know I’ve got some money somewhere—in the bank or somewhere—you know where it is; it is a hundred dollars, or a thousand—which is it,papa?’ ‘About two thousand-dollars now, I think, Lucy.’ ‘Dear me ! so much, isj.l? I did not think I was so rich. lam very glad there is so much. I want you to take some of it and make niirso Parkfoson a real handsome present—she has always been so kind to me ever since I can remember; • and when 1 had those dreadful -blisters how good she was! and only think how many nights she has set up to watch with me! Let it be a real handsome, valuable present. Yon and mamma will know what it ought to be. And please give to her with ray love, and niv thanks for alLlier care of- me. Will it tr*kc all the money, do you think, papa ?’ ‘Oh no, my dear child ; thero is much more than enough for that.’ ‘ls there? Oh, 1 am ko glad ot i that! for, papa, 1 want you to keep j the rest, and every X?hrist n)** mqTnifig. when you go Ho sej/the pob^

people and give them money and things, just put some of mine iu with yours, and give it to them, and then you will feel as if your littlo daughter Lucy was still going round with yon, just as I used to do. JAnd now, dear, dear papa,’ said Lucy, hesitatingly, ‘there is only one more, and that is you; and I have not any thing half good enough to £i ve you—unless you would like to cut off one of theta to Ipeep. Would you, papa r And as the child spoke sho lifted one’of her long, bright, golden ciiHs and laid it across his hnud. Alas ftfip tho poor tortured father! For Lucy’s sak« he had been enduring, with hi ore 'than Spartan firmness, suffering such as the Spartan never kuew. Twice or thrice, as he listened to his child’s innocent dictation, a mighty throb of" feeling had risen within him, and had beeia*ni<A’ and conquered, though with, an effort which shock his strong frtrtne almost to the weakness of infancy.' But now, indeed, it seemed as if the very utmost of anguish had been readied. Lucy’s long, fair curls had been the pride and delight of the father's heart. He had. been Wont set wind them around his fingers in caressing playfulness; they had flashed around his study chair as she frolicked about him in their twilight game of romps; they had gleamed across his breast when »h« lay nestling in His arms, with her head upon his shoulder, hushed and smiling, as ho improvised, for-her sole benefit and amusement, gorgeous and wonderful tales of giants, and goblins, and fairies. And now, as he held the bright lock she had put into his hand, his thoughts followed Ifor Words, and there rose before him, sudden as a vision, distinct as a reality; with all the dread prescience of a coming sorrow, the sad scene those words prefigured. lie saw, he felt, the close, deadly, oppressive stillness of the hushed and darkened room—the little flowerlined easketj wltli the slight graceful little figure reposing there, so still and beautiful —at once so attractive and so repellent—which tvat, and yet was not, his child, his Lucy. He saw himself trending over to gaze down upon the 6trange, marble-like beauty of the little changed face, which brightened not .beneath his loving gaze —so still, so pale, so statuc liko in its pure, faultless loveliness—so f*Av, and yet *o strangely unlike , his living darling; and as tite thought of shredding away with his own hands one of those treasured curls from that pure brow rose in his niiiul he shrunk as if from a contemplated deed of sacrilege, and, wholly unnerved, he bent forward and buried his face in the bed-clothes, to hide from Liny the agony he could not repress and would not reveaL But the child’s loving eye was upon him; her quick apprehension noticed the movement, though she misinterpreted its cause. Ob, papa, my dear papa,’ she said softly, in a voice f ull of tears, as she lfriAhw»4iHJe-;tre-mHhng;whrtc trend 1 caressingly upon the head so bowed before her, “you do not like it, do you ? and I’m so sorry ! «tid I Hare got nothing better to give yon— you, whom I love the best, the very, very bestofull; but I have not got any thing a grown man like you would care to have. Oh dear, dear papa, I am so sorry !’ Again ‘love strong as death’ conquered; the father raised hi* face, paio with emotion, but calm, and answered her in a voice which sounded strange oven to himself: ‘But 1 do like it,"Truey, darling ! you mistake, dearest; I Jo like it; you could give me nothing I should value half as much.* *Uh, papa, Jo j/OU mean so—real —certain—true V ‘I do indeed, my sweet one; there is no wealth in the world 60 doar to mo as these curls. I do like it, Lucy. - ‘Oh, then I am sd glad ; I hoped j’ou would. And now, papa, that ia all. And oh, lam so tired, and my-pillow is so hot! Would you mlud carrying me about in your arms a little while, as you do sometimes, and let m3' pillows cool?’ In a moment tho futhcr had bent and' tenderly raised her —u light burden to ih* strong armSr but oh ! how hoavy upon tho loving hoart—• and boro her backward and forward through tho cooler chambers and dimly lighted hall. —— : “ ‘Ah, that is so. nice!’ murmured the child ; ‘you carry mo so easily it seems almost as if I was flying. Will you sing to me, papa?—sing ‘Gentlo Jesus, meek and mild,’ wiil 3-011 ?’ - And pacing backward and forward* with gentle, measured steps, like some faithful sentinel, tho lather ! bore her, whilo he suog in low, mur- : muring tones the sweet chilU-b3'mn [that Lucy loved. j ‘Thoro that wilT do,’ she said, at 1 length; ‘thank you, papa. 1 feel quite cool and jested now ; and if 3’ou will lay me down, and give me taj drops, maybe I shailgo to sleep.’ Shaking up tho pillows, and adjusting them with womanly tenderness, Mr. RutHten laid down his preciooa little burden; nnd while the child dropped off into anhther dosing slumber he sat and fannod her, and held sad com mailings with bis owe spirit, through some of

tho*e dark hour* wbicb are perhaps to the human honrt what tho early froits are to tho wild grape, glvfhg it a richness, maturity, aud sweetness it might never have wen from the sunshine. But the sad event Lucy’s words had foreshadowed, and her father’s heart foreboded, was notdffirtOar on the wings of time-as they bad imagined. Little Lucy was not to be summoned away in tho bloom of her innocent childhood. Day by day, by degrees almost imperceptibly slight, tho dull, cold shadow of death drifted away from tho house, ns gradually, by dogroes almost us imperceptible, .color and freshness came back to the wasted cheek, light and life to the sunken eyes, and strengthjsndxoandneH# to the weak, emaciated little limbs; as the sultry summer days shortened and grew cooler the little one left ber couch ; and when autumn came with its invigorating breezes Lucy took again her wonted place among her delighted family-circle. Months rollod on, and whon Christmas came, with its hallowed associations and loving wishes, Mr. Ruthven descended to his breakfast room to bo met by his little daughter, radiant in health and spirits, and with earnest congratulations and warm expressions ot gratitude blended on ber lips, 'Good morning, papa; a merry, merry Christmas to you. and a great many of them! And oh, papa, it has come, and I have seen it, and it is splendid—real splendid—the now „piano I mean; and I’m so much obliged; I never saw such a beauty! But, pupa, what docs this mean ? Here is a note just eome from Goorgie, thankiDg ine for it; is it to go to Georgie, papa V ‘No, Lucy, not this one; this is for you, but Georgie has ono just liko it.' ‘And you are going to give Gcorgieonetoo? On, papa! ain’t you splendid f Dear georgie; Pnr Ttr glad!’ ‘Do you remember, Lucy, tho long talk we had when you were so vory sick—when you asked me to give the piano to your cousin if you did not get well again—do you romcmber it ?' ‘Yes, indeed; I rememhor it all very well. About my will, papa.’ ‘And I remember it too, darling. And as yon did get wol! I have sent the piano to your cousin, in your name, as a little thunk-offeriag to Him who in His great mercy spared the life of my precious little daughter. ‘And now, Pubsy, sec if you can pour out my coffee for me. Mumma is late-detained, I suppose, by that little monkey, Fred; and we want our breakfast immediately, you and 1; for it Is quite a cold morning, and vre are going out, yon know, to call upon some of our ‘poor rela- : tions,’ ’’

Who Ate Roger Williams?

—Tbo-tTtrtb-tfrata orm at nnrttar’frarcP" ees from tlio animal.back tolh&yeg--etnble, and from the vegetable to tho animat kingdom -agettnrecEivcd w curions illustration not long since. For the purposo of erecting a suitable monument in memory of Roger Williams, the founder of Rhode Island, bis private burying ground was soarchod for the graves of himsCif and wifo. It was found that everything bad passed into oblivion. The~sbape of the coffins could only be traced by a block lino of carboaceous matter. The rusting i hinges a«d nails, and a round woodon knot, alone remained in one j grave; while a single lock of braided hair was found in tho other. Near the gravo stood an apple tree. This had sent down two main roots into tho very presence of the confined dead. The larger root, pushing its way to the precise spot occupied by tho skull of Roger Williams, had mndo a turn as if passing around it, and followed the direction of the backbone to tb© hips. Here it divided into two branches, sending one along oach leg to the heels, when both turned upwards to the toes. One of these roots formed a slight crook at the knee, which made the whole bear a striking resemblanco to the human form. There were the graves, but their occupants bad disappeared; the bones oven bad vanished. There stood the thief—-the guilty applo tree—caught in the very net of robbery, Thespoliation was complete. The organic matter the flesh, the bones of Roger Williams haj passed into an applo tree. Tho elements have been absorbed by -the roots, transmuted into woody fiber, which could now bo burned as fuel, or carved into ornaments,' and bloomed into fragrant blossoms, whiib delighted the eye of the pass-er-by, and scattered the sweetest perfumes as Bpring; moro than tbut ■ —has beetLcontartod into luamu# fruit, which, from 3 - ear to year, had ! been gathered and oaten, llow ! pertinent, then, is the question, ' ‘Whp ate Roger Williams!’’' — t Steel’s Fourtetn Weeis in Chtmiitry. | r —K is said that the Siamese twins keep away frpm Chicago beta use they don't wrnt to bo separated. * 1 •+* t. > —;Tbe consumption of flour In (he, city of Boston is said to be ! ,000,00(1 barrel* per annum.

How deep. Sea. Soundings are Made.

The difficulties in soond&g great d Cpctt* nnt. v «*y SttewV/ feJMMigUt til. twine used was s« lig^TTTiat when « certain d#|rtl*.*a* rvi>< hed it* Jbuova>C*‘wu« tha’ lead. It became on mi* account necessary to improve it* qonlity and of sea watff*, "W same time it should have enough strength to sustain the weight used In winking tho cast. T wwie whs ah ah 1 peas footed until it wn* able to sustain a ing only one pound? VVHb IHJWtwine having'll 32jp4u*4 shot atj tacked, very much greatftv. ) than bud been previously poysjb'o were reached. Small wire tips been usod’in lieu of twine, aodwd'belGMie the line need by Lieu ten ani man, of tho Warner Avetie, /!»>• soundings in the Gull 1857, w»en ho reached bottom at a depth'of 4ytßo falfirfm's,' itfbYo’ ttihii" live miles, and in one case 6,000 fathoms, a depth of seven and ©not half miles, woro reached wiiH<¥ittouching bottom, was partially eoTO;, posed of wiro. Tho seeopd difTioulty was the determining the precise moment, at which thd weight rnhWl-’ cd the bottom. It was found; thht whon the bail bad reached tb*.bottom tho lino would continue t.Q out, being *cted upon by thq ( force of deep sea currents. The'shock could not be felt at great depths, and thus it wai necessary to deviao some method by which thin important detail should bo made determinate. If a lino bo made last to ono side of a river, carried across ami allowed to trail on the water, ItwHl run out rapidly from the sida where t it is not fastenod. In sounding when tjhe ball reaches the bottopaj tha same thing occurs. The ball becomes immovable while the under entrants acting upon the lino carry .it rppidly out; So long as thin dif* ficulty remained nothing could bit), ascertained. And still another tjift;, ficulty was discovered. Tho counter currents toade bights In the lific, so that tha length of the line i+w* out was not a correct indication «fi the depth reached. These difiicultioß were overcome/by the indentions es Brooke and Massejr. Tho former invented a self-detaching apparatus by which the^.’weigh* when it reached tb© bottom would h» iimtnntly ruloased. Attbnmpo.. time a small portion of the bottom would adhere to light hollow tube* attached to the line,' i*c that When recovered the character of the bottom could be ascertained. Tho latter invented a small instrument by which the exact vertical distance traversed by the weight in Its descent would be indicated. Thb form of tho lead was subsequently» changed to a doubleooae about two. Teat in length, having its greatest . diameter four inches from tho lower ond, and tapering from this point tb tho top, where it was about two inches in diameter. Through tb© center of tho lead, which weigbod .-, from odo hundred to on* hundred , and fifty pounds, ah iron shaft tended. In the hollow at thi tower' end pioceaof quill barrels were sorted, which penetrating intd thw bottom retained a portion. When this aparatus was used on tlietlenmor Arctio by Lieutenant Berryman, tho detaching apparatus of Brpoke wa9 dispensed with as Masiby’a sounding machine was sufficient -?leterTinno'ttro'ffqirtr'wln?n-CTronglr line was run out to render it absolutely certain that tho bottom had - bee nre ached. Dciteal e ■ vetpregre*--tering thermometers wcro-nls© i»t-< tached to the apparatus, by mcaua of which it was ascertained that the sea was much cooler at great depths than near the surface. With this apparatus the deep sea sound* ings wo have described were made, and there is no doubt that they, were vory nearlycorreot. —Scientific American. i . : . » ■-»

No. 6.

Dr. Livingston says: “During a* portion of the year, the northern dwellers or. Lake Nynssa, in Africa havo a harvest which furnishes a singular kind of food. As wo approached ouriimit in that direction, clouds, ns of sfeolto arising from miles of burning gras°, a cre observed bending in a sontbeasterty direction, and we thought tho «n----sccn land in the opposite side waa closing in, and that wo were neat' the end of tho lake. Rut next morning wo sailed through one of lids clouds in our own side, and diseoe*) ered that it was neither smoke nor. hoao, but countless millions-of mi- • note midges called “kungo” (a cloud of fbg). They filled the air to an* immense bight, and swam upon the. water too light to Sink ift it. Eyes and mouth had to be closed while passing through "this living cloud,, they attack upon the face like flit 0 drifting 6now. Thousands lay ih the boat after emerging (Win the ", clouds of midges. The people gathered these insects by night and boiled thorn into thick cakes, to ho. used ns a relish —millions of tpidgek' ( in a cake. A kungo cake an inch’ thick, and as largo as the blno tfWdl net of a Scoteh plowman, wioi offered to os, it was vety dark in solar,* and tasted not unlike caviare or salted locusts.” : " ■, ™ v — lt ic stated that a ecmeftt f«-, permeabio by air w stead), can bet made ae foUowai—Sl* parts <£»«?»« dered graphite, three parts of slaked lime, and eight parts of sulphate, 1 art) mixed with seven parts of boiled.. I oil. The mass must be #*H> komaffw ! ed, until the mixture ie perfoet, <>-■» —A slugle manufactory h M this season packed iMmkd cans of green -

Eating Clouds.