St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 18, Number 9, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 17 September 1892 — Page 2

evening. °’ er all the dreaming woods; sk y are gleams ° f A° i v 1 aud amber > Pearly rose-edged clouds, .Looking so passing fair, one almost dreams. The opening gate of Paradise hath lent Some tinge of glory to the dying day • And earth-bound souls, with longing, ling’ring Would fain rise up and move along that way. A stillness sweet and solemn all around • The song of birds is hushed; there falls no quiver Os rustling leaf, or shaken trembling reed. Upon the fair faint brightness of the river. T 6 ? 0 ® 1 11? 1 moon gleams coldly, dimly,’forth • And the deep’ning blue of heaven, r fa- ’ A tender watcher o’er the troubled world, burneta one solitary glittering star. The shadows deepen on the distant hills ; P ettks but touched with ling’ring And down their purpling sides, soft misty clouds J Wrap all the valleys in a dusky night. And far away the mu: mur of the sea c/“9. moonlit waves breaking in foamy line, bo wight--Gods Angel, Night—with silvery wings, J Fill all the earth with loveliness divine. —Chambers’ Journal.

THE STATION MASTER. I had been traveling all the a^rnoon. Reclining amid the soft cushions of the vestibule car, I was lazily dreaming of once more seeing my home and friends. And therefore, it was with a feeling of disgust that I was obliged to alight at the little station of D , where I had to wait live dreary hours, before the arrival I of the regular train which would take ' rm to the city. Grumbling about the inconvenience ; of “stop-overs,” I got off. Hardly! had I overcome my drowsiness when I Ihe train started, and I was alone on I the platform. It was quite dark. Around me I could see the dim forms of bold and craggy mountains, rising straight up into the misty darkness.

A single light shone from the window of the little station, barely illuminating the gloom without. As I stood for a moment or two, looking about me, I heard the ever decreasing rumble of the departing train, and finally the sound ceased, as it went rolling away among the ravines and hills. I turned and went inside. Not a soul was there, except the stationmaster. He came out of his little office and greeted me cordially. Going to the stove in the middle of the waiting-room, he poked the fire, slammed the door, and turning to me. said—

“Dark, ain’t it?” “Yes, quite so,” I replied. “Goin’ far?” “Quite a ways—to Boston.” “Well, well! You’ve got quite a stay here—live hours—l’m ’fraid you’ll find it somewhat tiresome waitin’. Its mighty inconvenient, but we’ll make the best of it. Come into my room here, and have a bite of somethin’ to eat—l’m just havin’ supper.” This conversation made us friends ! for the time being, and I entered with him into the little apartment which was set aside for his duties as stationmaster. My new acquaintance,—and 1 can von that nn4nr stances he v/as a most agreeable one,

—was a man of about 30 years of age, of good size, rather slim, and with a , long, narrow face. His movements ! । were impulsive, and he was rather of a nervous disposition It struck me at first that this was not the man for a station-master, a position which often demands a person of steady nerves, and quick yet delibeiate ac- ■ tion. But as the evening wore on, and our talk became more familiar, j my opinion of him changed. Although > his actions were decidedly impulsive, । yet his brain was very clear, and , characteristic of one who could meet; a crisis in proper condition. As we partook of the luncheon . which he had spread before me, I । learned much of his duties and life in I the midst of that lonely valley. He told me many of his experiences as a railway official, and for two hours or more he closely held my attention to his stories. . As the evening wore on, I occupied myself in examining the railway maps, and in finishing a novel which I purchased that afternoon on the train. At about 11 o’clock I heard the dull and laborious puff of a freight engine approaching in the distance. Louder and louder the noise became, until suddenly, with a glare from the headlight, the great locomotive thundered by the little window, and in a moment the heavy train rolled away in the direction from which I had come a few hours before. Silence again fell upon us. We continued our talk, interspersed nowand then with moments of quietness, h oken only bv the frequent clicking

Dl UKVII VIIAJ mj uuv . of the telegraph instrument on the table under the window. At last I finished my novel, and once more sat idly tossing about my watch charm. The station master was sitting opposite me, with his feet on the edge of the telegraph table, while he carelessly ran over the columns of a newsr iper. I was on the point of making some remark, when suddenly there came a sharp clicking of the instrument. My companion sprang to the table and answered the call. Instantly I saw that something unusual had happened. As the little brass key clicked off the message,! saw the station-master’s face grow white, then livid. He rose quickly from the chan placed his hands over his eyes, and almost shouted, “My God'. My God What have I done!” 1 sprang to his side, asking hin what was the trouble. He rudel; pushed me awav, and with a loot which I shall neyer forget, fairl; veiled, “Don’t speak to me! —don’ speak to me!” Then he sank mb the chair with his hands convulsivel. grasping the arms. But it was on! for a moment. Quickly gathering himself, he drew up to the table, am then followed some of the most es citing moments that I e\ei expel ieuced.

W nderlng what it all meant, yet . realizing that something must have i occurred in which he was an important actor, I closely fixed my eyes upon lim- No sound save the spasmodic ticking of the machine and the heavr : breathing of its operator was audible. He sat bolt upright in hi $ chair, his left hand on the arm, his right busy with the key. His eyes were rivitetf on the table before him. For a min ute he was busy with his mes age, and then silence. And what a silence! Aot a muscle moved, not a sound could be heard. Even the agent’s breathing had stopped. He watched h<s machine with the gaze of a lynx. I stood behind him, my heart throbbing with anxiety and fear. At last, after a silence which s emed ages,the machine began to click. I watched him while the message came forth from the wires. It was. evidently, a satisfactory reply, for he did not appear more agitated. The machine

scon stopped. He rose from his chaii and came towards me. It needed nt words to tell me that he had suffered । during those five minutes. Great । drops of sweat rolled down his cheeks. । His hands shook through anxiety. | Placing them both on my shoulders, jhe addressed me thus, in a hurried । and impassioned voice: | “1 don’t wonder that you’re sur- ; prised,—Heaven knows that I was i awfully frightened.'—but listen: I I got orders this afternoon to stop the freight train which just went by here on our turnout. I was to detain it until the Boston express should arrive, and then allow it to go on. But somehow or other, I forgot the order, —as you know—and didn’t think about it ’till a few minutesago. Soon after it went, I heard from ’ two stations above here, sayin’ that the express had iust left thorp

; -- juou inure v ; for this station. You see it doesn’t - । stop at A , the one between here 1 । and B . That message reminded t me of my mistake, and the express and freight have both been running 7 towards the same station. If the exI press had arrived there first, and left before the freight got there, or they 1 had not received my message, then then—” he paused in his rapid talk, : and said in an awful voice: “Then ( there d have been a collision, and I’d ।be to blame. But God knows that I didn t mean to forget to obey that order.” said he impulsively. “There was only one thing to be done.—

telegraph to A , telling them 'to hold over the train that arrived there first, that I did. For five minutes as you saw, I waited in mortal agony for the answer to that message. It came just now. Said that neither ’ train had arrived, and that they’d 1 hold over the one that got there first. 1 So, thank God, I was not too late 1 and that everything is all right.” 1 He sank into a chair and folded his arms on his breast. Hardly had he i done this when the ticker began c again. He read the message, and ' then, as the clicking stopped, he * bowed his head on his hands ’and I sobbed aloud. The message was, “Have stopped express here; will' ****** i

The Boston train reached D half an hour late, by reason of the stop-over at A . Bidding my friend good-night, who was now completely calmed down, I boarded the sleeper, and soon went rolling towards life and civilization. Two weeks later I came across a country paper from the vicinity in which my adventure with the ticket agent took place, and I noticed this article • ; “Much,to the surprise of his friends, ' Mr. John Huss, the popular and ! trusted station master of D , last I week resigned his position, and has ! now, we learn, removed to New York, i We wish him much success in his ! new quarters.”—Amherst Literary Monthly. The Drying Up of the Globe. Another essential cause of increase of dry land that might be added is the decrease of the ocean itself in consequence of infiltrations of water ' through the crust of the earth, which I is a kind of a porous mass, into which ! the liquid element percolates by inj numerable fissures, taking possession of the depths and directing itself slowly toward the centre, as the internal fire diminishes and the crusts 1 crack open in conse >uence. It is un- ' : derstood that the activity of volJ i canoes and many earthquakes is । largely due to this inevitable penetration of the water, which internal heat transforms into vapor under . pressure. Some geologists think that 1 the primitive ocean has already di- ; minished in this way one fiftieth of ’ its volume.

The water is all destined to disap pear from the surface of the globe by being absorbed by the subterranear with which it will form chem

TOCKS, WIUII wuivu ieal combinations. The Heavenly spheres exhibit sufficiently striking examples of such an evolution. The planet Mars shows what will become of the earth in some thousands of centuries. Its seas are only shallow Mediterraneans of less surface than the continents, and these do not appear to be very high; and in the appearance of the nr on all cracked and dried up, we have a view of the final surface of the earth —for the absorp- ; tion of the water by the solid nucleus ’ will be followed by that of the atmos- , phere. —Popular Science Monthly. The Chinese. 1 ' The Chinese settlers on the Island Ii of Sumatra have a strange and f ludicrous form of salutation. When f they meet each other, say after an t absence of a month or longer, they 3 do not shake each other’s hand; they r smile broadly, and each grasps hr f own hand. shaking it vigorously tor a f few moments. - " > The trouble with the people wh( •- pray a great deal is that they wo: kst little.

■ fl womans Influence

CHAPTER Xll—Continued. Tae next morning Margaret received a note from the rectory asking her to

~ 11 IT LU ir come to Mrs. Ivens, who was very sick. i 0 Waiting only fr a hasty breakfast, and d obeying Brian’s instructions to wrap herself warmly, she departed on her errand of mercy. ’ Through the peaceful quiet of the Sabbath morning she made her way 5, over the well kept road, until she d reached the rectory, an unpretentious little house, sitting back in an equally .. unpretentious garden. 3 A narrow, beaten pathway led to the j mod. st entrance, and on either side of it were tiny borders of dead flowers, around whose lifeless sterna the brown , leaves clung convulsively. t _ Margaret’s ring was answered bv a 1 tired-looking maid servant, who led the . way into the poorly furnished little □ parlor. While she questioned the girl t as to her mistress’ condition Margaret’s eyes tiaveled wistfully about the room whose cheery homeliness not even the l disillusionizing influence of poverty could entirely dispel. Yet thme was ! Bomething vaguely pathetic in the worn ■ chairs, the faded, almost threadbare , carpet; the few inexpensive ornaments’ and the numerous makeshifts; little pretensions to comfort and luxury which deft fingers had fashioned into pretty deceptive devices, all presenting the long and patient labor, thoughtful love, and tender self-denial, so often wrought into the possessions of the ' poor. Up stairs in the front room she found the brave little woman who had seemed so well only a few days before stretched on a bed of weakness, the busy brain no longer worrying over the wants of a growing family, the tireless feet resting at last. Near the bed sat Mr. Ivens, the rector of the most un- 1 popular church in S . He was a man of many talents and attainments, but unfortunately for himself he lackel the self-confidenee necessary to meet and i overcome the difficulties of life. Margaret knew and understood a na- ! ture so similar to her father’s. She discovered the wealth of learning and nobility of soul hidden under an overmastering diffidence, and she admired j the qualities which others could not see. - Now as she saw him, bowed by the ‘ shadow of a coming great sorrow, h >ld- f ing the nerveless hand that had smooth- । ’ ed so many difficulties for him, yet whose cheerful aid could never more be 1 his, she felt her heart filled with a com- , passion no words could express. He was so engrossed with his grief ? a i i hia nIuAH

quietly glided, to EeirwiWlrs. Ivons had heard fhe^R most noiseless footsteps and opcaeU her eyes wearily. . “Ah, it is you, Margaret, she saA with a momentary flush of pleasure on her pale face. , Margaret nodded cheerily, and lam her hand, with a soothing tenderness, on the hot, throbbing head. “Does it ache much?” she asked. “No, Margaret, only a little. Win you tell Mary to get the children ready for school? I should be up to do it myself, but I am very tired.” “I don’t believe you ever admitted as much before,” was Margaret’s rather unsteady answer, ' The childien won’t go to school to-day. It is Sunday.” “Sunday, and I lying here! James, why didn’t you tell me? Ye had so much to do to-day.” Her eyes sought her husbanu s. bu. he was looking rather wistfully at Margaret. Maraaret read the unspoken language

of that glance, and she found it very difficult to answer cheerfully. “We are going to let you be lazy to- | day, Ellen, so that formidable amount 1 I of work must wait for another Sunday. 1 । I intend to assert ray authority, and, to i begin, I’ll sit here while Mr. Ivens eats I some breakfast. Mary told me to send him down.” The <’entleman took this hint, and, as । obedient as a child, left the room. He knew that Ellen was safe and happy in Margaret’s hands, and already he felt better for her cheerful, helpful presence. Half-way down the stairs he was met by a preternaturally grave child of 8 years' whose wistful eyes gazed sad.y 1 . into his. Evidently she had been wait- , ing for him, for without a word she . ' stole quietly to his side and allow 'd her , hand to glide with n assuring sympathy . into his. In this silent way they reached tna' • dining-room, where Mary had breakfast. j on the table, and three tots aged, recr».eiivelv six. four, and two seated m

epecuveiy, - ~ their high-chairs, waiting for papa. Little wonder that Margaret’s mind should be filled with pa nful thoughts of these tables, as she sat by their mother s bedside, or that her eyes became so misty when Ellen expressed such gratitude for her attentions. “If yoi - i ly knew how glad it makes me to do t on a little for you,” she said, with a struggle to speak calmly. “Lou see, it is so seldom I can be usetul, that I am particularly proud now. If I had been poor, I believe I should have taken up nursing as a profession.” “Yes, but you need not do it now, Margaret. You don’t know what it is to be poor. It is hard for him and the children. ’’ The voice was full oi pain. “ I have known,” Margaret answered. “I have known rhe pain and cruelty of it. The s -ales of lite are so uneven 1 have no more right to comfort and luxury than you have, and yet But 1 did not come here to talk on such d leful sub'ects; I want to see you trigai and heerful.” , “It is hard to be bright and eheer.ui, ’ Margaret. Lying h re with nothing tc 1 do, so many thoughts come to me. I n afraid I hav ■ giv- n up so often when . . should have helped and emoiraget * James New it is so near Ghnstmai ’ and much to do, while I am hen

helpless. Nou must help me to get well, Margaret. Help me to get strong. i Why do you turn your eyes away? Is it Ah! is n ^aus^ you think I shall never be well again? Sometimes I have thought so too, and I have prayed that it may not be so, for James’ : sake and my babies.” | The weak voice broke, and Margaret, 1 a ?l e , a word ’ could only press j th n-| h °k hand between her own cool ones I while her eyes burned with the tears she found so hard to withhold She was very glad when the rector came in a few moments later and she could leave the room to overcome her Brian° n WFit ° lhe followin g note to I Dear Brian Do not expect me > b ?.“ e to d^ner. Mrs. Ivens is very ill

u , vn . ~ very iu. , Will you come here this afternoon? I j : am anxious to see you.” ! Finding a boy, Margaret directed him r ■ to leave the note at Elmwood. CHAPTER XIII. 0 i BRIAN’S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 3 I When Brian came to the rectorv that afternoon Margaret asked him to go up ’ . and see Mrs. Ivens. H u andid opinion,” she » ? thlnk fr he is very ill, for Ellen is not the one to give up until forced to do so. ; j .from his brief visit Brian came down

i™ a serio is face. Margaret was standing in the lower hall, and one made her heart sink heavily Jhe case is hopeless,” he said, in answer to the question she was trying to frame. "I am so sorry for vou." i Bather be sorry for them,’” she rejomed trying to shut out the sympathetic lace which made it more difficult for her to be calm. “Who will tell him? Do you suppose he can ever be reconcile! to her loss?” want’S’ ’ inter Posed Brian, for want of a better answer. “I suppose । we must all be reconciled to whatever comes to us. ” “Ah! don’t. It is cruel to talk of being reconciled. I’d never be reconciled. Never!” i "Eh these abrupt words, she started to move away, but her tears blinded her and she would have fall, n had not Brian, cu ok to detect her weakness caught her in his arms. This will not do, Margaret," he sa d with some authority. "I think you had better go home with me. You will make yourself ill.” “What nonsense, Brian! 11l from watching a few hours with a s : ck friend.- I wouldn’t be fit to live if that were the case. Ths is not physical weakness. ” "Aren’t there others to do for Mrs. be asked - some warmth. Vhy should it all fall on your shoulders?" “All fall on my shoulders? Oh, Brian, how you do exasperate mo! Os course there are others. Plenty of them. Everxl o ly loves her, tut for some reas n she likes to have me with her. And her I intend to stay.” “Then stay you may,” he answered, meeting her defiant eye. “I sha’n’t carry you away by bodily force, though 1 don t think you should laaHonr own

by m >rrow, if you will.” Erian did call to-monow, and this f second visit only confirmed the opinion expressed in his first. Mrs. ivens was dying —from no special disease, but from a gradual giving away of the vital ‘ forces. A life of care and anxiety, vexations and privations, and wearjing I struggles to make both ends meet, had ' told at last on the delicate constitution. ’ Many who fall by the wayside uro not i less brave than those who re ach the j 3 martyr’s stake, and, if the truest heroes r are tnose who bear life’s burdens un--1 complainingly, Mrs. Ivens might justly wear the crown of heroism. 1 Margaret was faithful to her trust, i, i Others came and went, tut she remained o by the sick bed. Erian exhausted his e treaties in vain, and even Christmas t ’ Eve could not tempt her to leave her , friend. ' “You tell me her hours are numbered, e ; Let me stay until the end. It cannot be

very long now.” And Brian said no more. Mrs. Ivens’ hours were, indeed, numbered. The flame of life burnt fainter and fainter, and when the night of Christmas Eve passed into the dawn of Christmas Day, the angels of life and death crossed in their pathway, and the tired soul found the land of perpetual rest —the joys of an eternal morning. । The incidents of those closing moments were indelibly photographed on Margaret’s mind. She had to be brave and strong for the sake of those so sadly ber aved. Mary had sobbed and the rector had bowed his head in anguished grief, but : she had shed no tear. She had brought j the solemn, awe-struck children to their । ■ mother’s side' she had seen the kiss of I infinite tenderness pressed upon each I : sad little face; her heart had echoed i Elsie’s cry of anguish when for the last . time that'little head was pillowed on a dying mother’s breast; yet her eyes had been hard and dry, though the painlul tightening at her throat had made her ; promise to be a friend to these mother- j

less little ones, so hard to speak. And even now the tears would not come, though she hal thought and thought until her mind was weary. The sunshine lay all about her, the : bright, glad sunshine of Christmas; on j 1 the floor, where the carpet looked so faded and worn; on the very spot that Ellen’s fingers had mended so often and so patiently in their old busy days; on the old chintz sofa, where she was lying j now—so carelessly, so thoughtlessly while the heart whose tender, unselfish love had made this house a home, in all ■ that gives that word its highest, holiest j meaning, was forever stilled in its last sleep, and the tired, patient hands lay j folded in the calm lest to be broken : never again. | f A sound in the hall! She started up I to listen. Ihe long period of watching - had made her nerxous and sensitive, ■ I and the house had been so still. Even - the baby voices were awed to silence, t The heavy footsteps jarred sharply on her . ars. They "were not Mary s and : not the rector’s. They were Brian’s, o He entered the little room where she n was trying to fest, and with his sympaI thy reflected on his la e, came to hei d si de- „ , ~ . ~ is “Mary has told me, he said, quietly. •e “I am so soriy. I suppose I may take

you home now. It Is Christmas, you know, and I ” J Christmas! ” she echoed, in a faraway voice. “Are you sure. Bi ian 9 Christmas always brings happiness, I thought, and there is no happiness here lam ready to go home, though. I believe I have been waiting for you. lam so tired, so very tired. I don’t feel that 1 can ever be rested again.” Brian looked his concern. Such weakness was unusual in Margaret. I am afraid you have done wrong ” Wlth Bome Jeproach. “You should have taken my adv.ee, Margaret; but I suppose it is too lat ■ to scold now iou need rest. That is evident." Margaret scarcely heard him. She rose rather unsteadily and started to leave the room, but with sudden remembrance she turned back with the words: I shall take the children to Elmwood. Christmas here would be a mockery for them. J A shade of annoyance passed over his ace. It would be useless to oppose you, even if I desired to do so,” he returne 1. Take them, of course, but do

let Mrs. Davis care for them. I won’t have you worrying yourself info an illness. I believe in a certain amount ol symp ithy, but too much is too much " I only want to go to bel and sleep iorever, was Margaret’s answer. “I aa 2 tired from bc-ing sorry. ” i i? hen th e sooner you go home the better. I have the < arriage, and if you are ready ” “In a second, Erian. I will not keep you waiting long. ” This time of waiting was spent bv -laigaret in the darkened loom, where the rector sat by all that remained to H 1 « V ~ J ...

4 u- J , , , - vuai, ivuianieu io 3 him ot a beloved wife. 3 She approached the still form and pressed a long kiss on the pale brow. She felt the rector’s burning eyes upon > her and she heard the hoarse words with which he turned to her: How am I to live my life alone?” She longed for the power to comfort ' him. yet all the sympathy she could express seemed to hold the mockery of easy consolation. "There are the children,” she said in a low voice. “Four lox ig little hearts to make your life less lonely. And there is God. He sends the cross, and He senos the strength to bear it. We see so dimly. What seems so hard to us is often a kindness from our Father’s hands. We must linger here in suffering and tribulation, but for her the crown has come before the cross had giown too heavy. Father, teach our hearts to say ‘ Thy will be done.’ ” Leaving the echo of her prayer behind her, Margaret joined Brian, with the four g ,n ve-faced children, upon whose childish minds the intangible shadoxv and silence hud made such a solemn impression. She found it hard to meet the pathetic inquiry of those baby eyes, and she was quite relieved when she could give her । new charges into the kindly care of the surprised Mrs. Davis. After this, she went to bed and slept for the remainder of the day, and when dinner time arrived her inclinations were so decidedly a.a nst rising that she could scarcely force herself to dress and o n Brian. “He ll find me rather doleful at best ” j she remarked to the heavy eves and ! pale, tired face which looked at her from I the mirror. “1 suppose I must try to be । cheenul. ; But her short talk with Elsie iust-l>e- I for- dinn<^ brighten her '

found it bard those earnest eyes upon her. ^^You may be little, Elsie, yet you can help papa even now. These little feet ( an be tireless i his service, this dear face may alwu , s wear a smile for lum, and this tender little heart may love and comfort him in every trouble." “Little people, and .big people, too, can only do their best. “Poor little tot,” commented Brian, when Margaret repeated this conversaI tion afier dinner. “Let us not think of them any n ore to-n'ght, Margaret. Let us try to be happy. lam so sorry o; r Christmas has been clouded. I got you this little remembrance, and I really have not had a chance to give it to you. “Only a remembrance?” she asked, taking the exquisite little jeweled pin from his hand. “This is fit lor a princess How it flashes in the light. It dazzles me. I—l don’t know how to thank you, and I have nothing for you, Brian.” Ftm Rr. CONTINUED. I

|TO BE COMAMtu. | The Rosetta Stone. The “Rosetta Stone,” a famous Egyptian curiosity now in the British , Museum, was discovered in the year j 1799 by M. Boussard, a French explorer, near Rosetta, a seaport of Lower Egypt. It is of black basalt, i about forty inches long by thirty wide, with three engraved inscriptions upon its surface. The first of these is in Greek, the second is a conglomeration of hieroglyphics and the third is enchorial writing, a system used by the Egyptians in recording every-day matters. After years of laborious research the savants of Europe ascertained that the three inscriptions were three versions of a degree in honor of Ptolemy Epiphanes by’the priests of Egypt, because he had remitted their taxes. This wonderful relic dates back to about the I year 200 B. C. —Philadelphia Press.

V VCM • — - A A Mixed Brood. A resident of Friendship, Ga., owns a turkey hen that not only keeps his family well supplied with young turkeys, but sometimes surprises the family by the presentation of a mixed brood. On the last occasion, after setting on twelve eggs for her usual term of incubation, she was found the other morning hovering over ten young turkeys and one young opossum, it having required two turkey eggs to produce one ’possum. The young ’possum in question was about the size of a half-grown' rat, and was nestling under the turkey as contentedly as any one of the legitimate brood. To Clean Copper. To get the tin, solder and dirt off 1 old copper bottoms, so as to make them clean, cleanse first in a boilin; I solution of three parts caustic soda, i one part niter and five parts water, and then in dilute sulphuric acid: oi dip momentarily in warm nitric acid, specific gravity 1.2, and wash imj mediately in running water.

ELOPED WITH INDIANS. Two of Vice President Johnson’s Daughter* Have Aboriginal Lovers. The discussion resulting from tha finding of some old vaults at the corner of Broad and High streets, Cincinnati, where workmen were digging for the foundation of a new building, has revived some romantic history of the ante-emancipation days, says the Cincinnati Commercial Gazette. The story is that of the elopment of two daughters of Col. R. AL Johnson, Vice President of the United States under Van Buren. Johnson had established near nis home in Kentucky a school for Indians, and as Cupid’s darts were quite as erratic in their flight then as now, the two girls became enamored of two young Indians who were attending the school and planned an elopment. Thev escancd’ tn ci,,,.-,,

jhvj escaped to Cincinnati and from there they made t-heir way to Columbus by a rapid coach. John Kerr, an old resident, remembers the details distinctly. He says that when the party arrived in Cincinnati they stopped at the old -National Hotel, standing where the Neil House is now located, and that the proprietors were in some doubt as to whether to admit one of the girls to his hostelry because she was so dark that he suspected she had negro blood in her veins. After a

; snort stop here the eloping party conl j '.inued their .journey east. They 1 had not been gone more than two , nours, however, before some of Col. i Johnson’s men came riding fast from | Cincinnaii in pursuit of them. Se- • curing frosh hurses here the pursuers i pressed on and overtook the eloping ■ party near St Clairsville, where the I Indians escaped, but the men succeeded in bringing the Johnson girls back. On their return they stopped over the first night in Cincinnati, and the tiirls were locked up in a rear room on the second floor of the old National Hotel. During the night thej managed to escape from a window to the kitchen roof and thence to the ground. One of the girls, > Tarthena Johnson, was finalh” re- , captured iu a thicket northeast of the town, and placed for temporary safe-keeping in the Gay street jail She was finally taken back to Kentucky. Cassie was never captured. Mr. Kerr, who tells the story, says that he saw her a year or more after- : ward employed as a waitress in a hotel at Lower Sandusky, now Fremont. Col. Johnson was "a historic character. He is supposed to have killed the Indian Chief Tecumseh, and is gratefully remembered in Kentucky i # he author of the law abolishing imprisonment for debt. The Most Useful Mineral in the If onejveretoa^^frfendswhat ouHu we are most familiar with and most commonly used as food. tW’ answers would >-Grainlnc J,7

■। —t »u jgaassegMM one form or another, we use wit i food to build up bone and brawn, would be amply urged. But, aftei all, it is water, for wat r is a mineral ■ a fused mineral. You will find it ; desd d bed as such, along with quartz I and topaz and the diamond, in Dana's I Mineralogy, or in other treatises on ' stones. We usually think of minerals as I solid things, such as m tals and locks and jewels and various chemical salts. But when we consider the matter a little we «ee that Til these things if 1 melted by strong heat are minerals , 1 still, only they are now in a fluid in--1 stead of in a solid state. The cl iff erI ence between these minerals and , i water is that water gets fluid at a j lower temperature than they do. and. like quicksilver, stay smelted at 1 ordinary living heat. But in those

old ice ages which, one after another, have swept now over the Northern and now over the Southern Hemi- । phere, bringing rum and desolation. the natural and common condition of water was that of a solid—ice—as it i largely is to-day out of doors in win- ■ ter when not kept fused by the storedup heat of the soil and rocks, or melted by the sun.—Harper’s Magai zine. Fortunes in Smoke. The utilization of the smoke of factories is becoming an element of I greatest importance. The waste ■ smoke and gases from the blast fur- ' naces of a Scotch iron works are ! rented out for a handsome sum. I rom the works they are conducted through several miles of wrought iron tubing, diminishing in size from six feet to e’ghteen inches, and as the gases cool there is deposited a considerable yield

of oil From a comparatively small factory some twenty-five thousand live hundred gallons of furnace oil are thus recovered weekly, to say nothing of the large yield of sul] hate of ammonia and residual gases which can be used as fuel lor distilling and other purposes. In many other industries the same disposition to use what was formerly wasted is manifesting itself. A company has been formed in England for collecting the carbon dioxide given off at breweries and distilleries during the process of fermentation. This has hitherto been allowed to s mply poison the atmosphere, and the loss is estimated at 25,000,000,000 gallons a year, equal to $2,500,000,000. It is intended to liquefy the gas by a new process at about one-sixteenth the cost of the ordinary methods. The supply of liquid carbonic acid will be sold almost entirely to manufacturers of carbonated drinks. In spite of this prospective economy of production it is not reported that any reduction in the price of the popular beverage known as “soda” is contemplated.