WELSHED IN 1878, HILLSBORO, N. C. THURSDAY, MAY 12, 1898.
NEW SERIES-VOL. XVII. NO. 21.
WHEN THE ANGELS CAME.
^ People tell the story yet,
With the pathos of regret,
1 Slow along the streets one day,
t Unawares, from far away,
-Angels passed, with gifts for need,
''-And no mortal gave them heed.’l
/'They had cheer for those who weep,
v./ 'They had light for shadows deep;
. Balm for broken hearts they bore,
Best, deep rest, a boundless store.
But the people, so they say,
Went the old, blind, human way,—
t Bed the quack and hailed the clown
f When the angels came to town.
$ THROUGH THE DARKNESS. 1
By MABEL NELSON 'TKURSTON.
The missionary
look at each oth
HE light from the
little hand-lamp on
the table struck
sharply across a
corner of the box
on the floor; it was
a large box, and
they had spent the
evening unpacking
it; but it was quite
empty now.
and his wife did not
sr; the man’s hand
rested tremulously on a little pile of
children’s toys; the woman held a
long heavy overcoat with a fur collar;
with studied carelessness she thrust
her fingers into all the pockets, keep
ing her tell-tale face turned from the
light.
“It was a fine box,” said the mis
sionary. His voice was husky; he
struggled with it and added more firm
ly: “A generous box.”
“Yes,” answered the woman me
chanically.
Suddenly she dropped the coat in a
heap on the floor and buried her face
in her hands; she made no sound, but
her thin shoulders shook pitifully.
The man crossed the room, stumbling
over the piles of clothing on the floor,
and caught her in his arms. His voice
was broken with pity.
“Annie,” he cried; “oh, you poor-
little girl!”
The woman did not lift her face;the
words came chokingly from between
he:, fingers; “I was so sure of the
money,” she sobbed. “They’ve al
ways sent us money before, and they
knew how much more we needed it
this year. I thought that now wecould
pay the bills for all last summer’s
sickness, and you could have hot cof
fee when you came home these dread
ful nights, and the children more meat.
Inever doubtedit. Ihad been thank
ing God all these days that the box
was on its way. Andnow ”
The man looked about him at the
motley heap of old and new, poor and
fine, with a pitiful appeal for com
fort.
“And now you have a good new
dress at last, dear; and that overcoat
is just what I need; and there is-much
to give away.” Then his eyes fell
again upon the little pile of toys, and
his face brightened; and he ended
with cheerful confidence: “And we
can have a Christmas for the children,
Annie. They never sent toys in the
box before.”
( The woman lifted her head eagerly.
“I forgot the children,” she said; “I
was thinking of you and the dreadful
winter. I am glad for the children—
oh, I am| I can write—to-morrow—I
am sure.” She spoke with a pathetic
eagerness and touched the toys loving-
ly> trying in her thought to override
her disappointment with the children’s
joy.
Her husband stood looking at her;
as she bentover the toys, he noticed
how heavy were the blue veins on her
temples and how thin the hand that
set the doll’s dress in order; and he
felt a sudden tightening at his heart.
“Annie,” he said, pleadingly, “take
the children and go back to your
mother’s this winter. It is too hard
for you here.”
She looked up, startled and hurt
and indignant all at once. “As if I
would think of it!” she cried. “As if
it is any harder for me than it is for
you! I don’t have to go out in all
weathers. Besides,” she added, with
a laugh that disappointed her by
struggling uncertainly with the sobs
that choked her throat—“besides, I
couldn’t; the money didn’t come, you
know.”
“Yes,’’answeredher husband, heav
ily; that is true. We haven’t the
money. But I wish you could go
Annie.”
She dropped the toys and looked
across at him, speaking with slow in
tensity. “I believe you’re makingme
gl$d that the money didn’t come,” she
said.
They folded the clothing and put it
back in the box; there was much to
spare, they planned; and the check
the minister had received—it was for
only half his quarter’s salary, for the
Board was in debt—would pay their
debt and leave enough, with careful
planning, to buy food for six weeks.
Beyond that they would not let them
selves look.
The winter settled down on them
hard and cold and pitiless. The chil
dren were warmly dressed, thanks to
the box; but they seeded better food
and their whi^ patient faces con-
appeale^s/b the mother for
It has been and will be so:
Angels come and angels go,--
Opportunity and Light,—
Twixt-the morning and the night,
With their messages divine
To your little world and mine.
And we wonder why we heard
Not a whisper of their word,
Caught no glimpse of finer grace
In the passing form and face;
That our ears were dull as stones
To the thrill of spirit tones,
And we looked not up, but down,
When the angels came to town.
—Zion’s Herald.
mother called her softly; “Come
here, Ruth.”
The child obeyed her wonderingly.
She was a sensitive little thing, and
the voice smote strangely upon her.
Her mother leaned down and caught
the child to her as if she could never
let her go. Then she held her away
and looked steadily into the little
serious face.
“Ruth,” she said, “you have al
ways been Mamma’s help, and now
she wants you to do something hard
for her. Will you do it and not be
afraid?”
“I’ll—try,” answered the child,
with- a quick breath.
Her mother, crushing back the fear
in her own heart, spoke with quiet
cheerfulness.
“It won’t take long, dear,” she
said. “Little Mamie Cassock is very
sick, and Papa was going to take her
some medicine; but Papa is sick him
self and cannot go. So you must
carry the medicine to Deacon Gar
nett’s and tell him about Papa, and
ask him to send it to the Cassocks’.
Tell him that it must get there to-
night or Mamie may not live. Can
you remember? It must go to-
night.”
“Yes,” answered the child. Her
heart was beating painfully; but she
said no word, and stood perfectly still
while she was being wrapped up.
Then her mother set the lamp in the
window apd went to the door with
her, and held her for a moment so
tightly that it hurt her.
“Now go, dear,” she said—“go, and
don’t be afraid. Remember that you
are not alone, and that Mother will
be praying for you every minute till
you get back.”
As the door closed behind her
mother the child ran back to the
threshold with a cry of terror. She
was a timid little thing, and she had
never been alone before. Then she
turned sharply. Her mother had told
her to be brave—she must be brave.
The tears rolled silently down her lit
tle white face and waves of fear beat
up in her throat; but she did not fal
ter, she went steadily on into, the
darkness and emptiness saying over
and over her one little prayer: “God,
don’tlet anything hurt me—help me
to be brave; don’t let anything hurt
me—help me to be brave.” And
gradually God’s tender hand hushed
the fear of the timid little child-heart,
and she went quietly on under the
golden stars.
In fifteen minutes she reached Dea
con Garnett’s and stood knocking at
the door; there was no answer. She
knocked again; then as the truth
dawned upon her she beat at it in a
fierce terror; but nobody came, and
the sounds seemed to thunder mightily
about her in the still, sharp air. She
was very cold now; but she sat down
on the step a moment to think. There
was but one thing to do; her mother
had said that the medicine must get to
Cassock’s that night; she must go to
the town herself. Choking back her
sobs she struggled to her feet; even
the few minutes on the doorstep had
made her stiff. She stood a moment
looking pitifully back at the home
light; then she turned away and ran,
ran—into the 'shadows of the great
night.
Nearly an hour later a man, hurry
ing from one of the saloons in the
town, was stopped by a child’s voice.
“Please, sir, can you tell me where
Mr. Cassock lives?”
The man had not been drinking
much; he stared down at her in amaze
ment. “If ’tain’t the parson’s kid!”
he cried. “What are you doing here
this time of night?”
The child’s weary face looked
whitely up at him from the old blue
hood. “Papa’s sick,” she said; “and
this medicine had to go to Mamie Cas
sock, else she’d die. I carried it to
Deacon Garnett’s; but nobody was
there, so I had to come myself. Do
you know where he lives?”
With a smothered exclamation the
man stooped down and picked the
child up. “I guess you’ve walked fur
enough,”he exclaimed. “Tain’t good
fur much in the way of meetings; but I
can’t let the parson’s kid go round town
alone. I’ll take you to Cassock’s, and
I’ll take you home!”
The child put her arms about his
neck and leaned against him with a
sight of content. He was a rough, bad
man; but the child trusted him, and he
knew it. He held her gently so that
she was not shaken by his long strides.
In five minutes he was knocking com-
mandingly at the door of a shanty at
the end of the street.
Jim Cassock opened the door him
self. His eyes werered and swollen,
but he had not been drinking; the door
swinging back showed a bare room,
and a worn, sickly woman holding a
child who was moaning feebly.
“What’s wanted?” said Jim, fiercely,
“1 can’t see anybody; my child’s dy-
ing.”
“No thanks to you if she doesn’t,”
retorted the other man. “The par-
son’s sick and sent the medicine; this
child came walking all the way to town
with it.” His tone was full of a fine
contempt, keener than any rebuke,
toward the miserable creature before
him.
Jim stared at the man uncompre-
hendingly; but the woman started up
with a little cry. ‘She put the child
down on the bed and ran across to her
husband.
“Don’t you understand, Jim?” she
what she could not give. Her hus
band’s cough began to trouble him,
too. The woman met it all with a will
sternly keyed to silence. She could
not bear to touch the dress that had
come for her in the box; it seemed to
her as if it was so much life stolen
from her husband and children; she
could have done so much with the
money that that cost!
One day the minister came in and
began fumbling in the box.
“Wasn’t there a pair of warm gloves
in here?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered his wife, laying
aside her sewing and hurrying to save
something of the order his nervous
hands were destroying. “Wait, dear,
I’ll get them. I wanted you to put
them on last week. They are beauti
ful ones.” Her sure woman’s touch
had gone straight to them through the
chaos; she stood smoothing the fur
tops with satisfaction.
But the minister was looking at her
pitying tenderness.
“They are not for me, dear,” he
answered; “my older ones will do
well.”
“Who then?” cried the woman,
quickly.
“Jim Cassock.”
A silence followed, and in the
silence the name went echoing and
echoing through the woman’s brain.
“I can’t—bear it !” she cried; “he
hates you so—he has injured you so;
and they will just go for drink. Give
him your old ones, if you must, but
not these. It isn’t right!”
“His need is greater than mine,”
answered the minister, simply. “He
hurt his hand last week. You would
pity him if you could see it now,
Annie. And if ”
The woman reached up and pulled
his face down to her and kissedit with
a fierce tenderness. “Go,” she said.
“I shouldn’t pity him—I’m afraid I
hate him; but go!”
She watched him as, his frail figure
bending against the wind, he faced
the immensity of the prairie. When
he returned, several hours later, she
had his supper hot for him, but she
asked no question of his errand. Yet
though she put it aside for her hus
band’s sake, she could not forget it,
and the next time she went to the
town she watched for Jim. He was
always loafing about somewhere down
the long, rambling street; and he was
that afternoon. But as he saw the
minister a strange expression camein-
to his face, almost as if he were strug
gling with his worst self and crying
dumbly for help. It only lasted a mo
ment; then he turnedanddisappeared
behind one of the houses.
“He seems almost afraid of you,”
said Annie, wonderingly. Then her
face changed; the man was not wear
ing the gloves, he had sold them fox-
drink and was ashamed to meet the
minister; she had known that itwould
be so! She would not pain her hus
band by a word, but she looked down
the street with dim eyes; it was so
hard to have things go that way. And
the minister drove silently on, with a
cloud of discouragement blurring the
strong patience of his eyes. Noteven
his wife knew of how many sleepless
nights this man had been the burden.
It was several weeks later that the
minister came in late one night and
went over to the medicine shelf. His
face was pinched and blue, and his
hands shook among the bottles. His
wife ran across to him.
“What is it, dear?” she cried.
He leaned against the shelf, fight
ing the chill that was upon him.
“Cassock’s little girl,” he said, “she
is very sick. I am going to carry
him some quinine; I told him I
would.”
The woman’s face sharpened with
fear. “You can’t,” she cried; “you’re
sick yourself; you can’t^go out
again.”
He seemed to struggle with the
words before they became clear to
him; then he tried to smile down at
her. “I must,” he answered.
She put her thin hand in his and
drew him to the fire, and pushed
him down into a chair before it. She
spoke soothingly, as if to a child.
“I’ll send the medicine,” she said;
“it will be all right. But you must
get over this chill; you can’t go out
again.”
Only half comprehending, the man
huddled over- the fire, shaking from
head to foot. His wife hurried into
the other room; three children were
there, the oldest a girl of ten. Hex
sobbed. “The medicine’s come—it’s
come, man!”
Jim rubbed his hand across his fore
head and looked from Ruth’s tired lit
tle face to his own baby. Then, sud
denly he dashed into the other room.
He came back in amoment with a pair
of gloves which he thrust into the
child’s hands. “Tell the parson that I
couldn’t wear ’em, that I ain’t touched
’em!” he said, eagerly. “Tell him to
put ’em on himself; will you tell him?
To put ’em on himself!”
“Yes,” answered Ruth, wondering
ly; “I’ll tell him.”
Jim stood at the door a moment; he
tried to say something more, but the
words stuck in his throat; then his
wife called him, and he slammed the
door, shutting them out into the
night.
Ruth’s friend grunted, but made no
remark. He picked the child up again,
and she nestled contended in his arms;
she was half asleep from weariness and
only had a hazy knowledge of it when
he got a horse from somewhere and be
gan riding across the prairie.
The minister !had fallen into a
troubled sleep; but his wife was walk
ing the floor, beating desperately back
the fears that stormed her heart.
Nothing could have happened to the
child; there was not far to go and she
knew the way perfectly. Mrs. Garnett
must have kept her until some one
could bring her home. She would not
worry—she would not. But as the mo
ments lengthened into one hour, and
then into another, she could fight her
fears no longer. She knelt down by
the bed where her husband was toss
ing and tried to pray; but only the
child’s name came to her lips.
Suddenly she started and listened.
There was the beating of hoofs across
the prairie, nearer—nearer; now they
were stopping at the door. She
rushed to it and threw it open. In
the sudden blaze of light, horse and
rider seemed to start up from the
ground. She shrank back with a lit
tle cry as she saw who the man was.
The next minute a child’s face was
lifted from his arm, and a child’s
voice filled hex- ears.
“Mamma, I was afraid; but I went,
and he brought me home. Oh,
mamma, it was so good of him!”
The woman caught the child pas
sionately in her arms, and looked up
at the man, her eyes full of the grati
tude she could not speak.
The man’s voice was gruff. “I
wa’n’t going to see the parson’s kid
wandering ’round alone if I knowed
it,” he said. Then heturnedabruptly
away and galloped into the darkness.
The sharp blast of cold air woke the
minister. Through the doorway he
could see into the other room; his
wife was taking off the child’s wraps,
and both the child’s face and the
woman’s were strangely moved. He
called, weakly:
“Did Jim Cassock get the medicine,
Annie?”
His wife ran to him, and she had
something in her hands. “Yes, dear,
he has it,” she answewed; “and—I
wronged him, David. He sent the
gloves back to you and wanted you to
promise to wear them.”
The minister’s patient eyes bright
ened. “Did Jim do that?” he said,
and there was a thrill of gladness in
his tired voice. He took the gloves
and absently began pulling them on.
Suddenly his face changed.
“Annie,” he cried, excitedly; “put
your hand in here!”
She obeyed him wonderingly, slip
ping her hand in the warm fleece lin
ing. Then a flash of great joy illum
ined hex- worn face. “David!” she
cried.
“Tal^e them out,” he answered,
breathlessly.
She slipped hex- fingers into one
glove-finger after another and laid the
pile of bills on the bed; there were ten
in all, and each was for ten dollars.
The woman spoke first; the words
were common, but itwas none the less
a thanksgiving. “And now you can
have the coffee,” she said, “and the
children”—she broke off, but her eyes
were shining through tears.
Over the old coverlet the minister’s
hand clasped his wife’s; but there
were no tears in his eyes.
“Jim Cassock sent it all back,”he
said; and the words sounded like a
psalm.—The Independent.
The “Leake Dole of Bread.”
The most curious charity in New
York, and one which savors of medi
eval times, is, perhaps, the one
known as the “Leake Dole of Bread.”
For over one hundred years a weekly
distribution of bread has taken place
at St. John’s Chapel, Varick street,
one of the Trinity parish churches.
John Leake, who was one of the
founders of the Leake and Watts
Home for Children, left $5000, the in
terest to be spent in purchasing bread
for poor women. This buys about
four- thousand loaves of bread a week.
—New York Tribune.
Mexico Rich in Precious Stones.
Mexico is richly endowed with
precious stones. The opals of Quere
taro, San Juan del Rio, and Tequis-
quapan are famous for their changing
fires. They arefound in crusts on the
calcareous rocks, which are easy to
work, and also in the granite, which
has to be blasted, and this often
breaks the gems. The opal beds arc
are seldom more than ten or twelve
feet below the surface.
LOVE’S PROMISE.
Across the main, and far away.
Where the river joins the sea,
Where blows the broom at break of day,
My true love waits for me;
Ilis brow is sad, his eyes are sweet,
And his heart both brave and true,
0, when, my love, shall we e’er meet,
My lonely self and you!
“Ah, maid most dear,” his lips reply,
In the north land far away,
“We ne’er shall meet till^eternity
Breaks through life’s cloudy day;
We ne’er may take love’s lastjadieu,
Ere Death begins his flight,
But I, for aye, will still be true,
And so, my love, good night.”
—Johnson McClune Bellows,in the Ledger.
HUMOR OF THE DAY.
“Were you box-n in a foreign ooun-
try, Mr. Jones?” “No, I was born in
my native land!”
“Yes; there is plenty of room at the
top, ’tis true,” said the parental fish
to its offspring; “but I’d advise you
to stay down where you are.”
Willie—“Miss Dollie, you are look
ing like a * full-blown rose.” Dollie
Footlites — “Gowan! You’re just
blowing.”—Cincinnati Inquirer.
“Fannie has such a sweet new bon
net.” “Yes. Fannie has charming-
talent for making things over.”—
Browning, King & Co.’s Monthly.
Old Mr. Surplice—“I hope you ob
ject to dancing on religious grounds?”
Young Miss Featherstitching—“Oh,
no; only on unwaxed floors.”—Rox
bury Gazette.
“Poverty,” said Uncle Eben, “am
like riches in one respeck. Whethuh
it’s any disgrace or not depends a heap
on how you happens to git dar.”—
Washington Star.
Miss Gushington—“I, too, Herr
Slevewski, should like to become a
great violinist. What is the first thing
to do?” Herr Slevewski—“Learn to
play.”—Harlem Life.
Owing to the death of my wife, a
seat on my tandem is vacant. Candi
dates for the seat may send in their
names to Scorcher, ixx care of this
paper.—Fliegende Blaetter.
Teacher—“What do you know about
the early Christians?” Tommy—-
“Our girl is one of ’em. She gets up
in the morning and goes to church be
fore breakfast.”—Indianapolis Jour
nal.
“Will I have to be identified when
I come here next time?” inquired Mr.
Jagway. “Not unless you swear off in
the meantime. I should know that
nose again among a million.”—Chi
cago Tribune.
German Professor (in his lecture
on water)—“And then, gentlemen, do
not forget, if we had no water we
could never learn to swim—and how
many people would be drowned!”--
Vienna Fremdenblatt.
Office Boy—-“The editor wants the
proof of his editorials.” Proof Reader
— “What for?” Office Boy—“He
wants to read ’em.” Proof Reader—
“Humph! No accounting for tastes.”
—New York Weekly.
“I don’t think the members of youx-
church would be -willing to sell all
they have and give to the poor.”
“Hardly. They might be persuaded
to sell all they have and invest the
proceeds in something else.”—Puck.
“Ef de average young man,” said
Uncle Eben, “ud be willin’ ter go froo
as much hahdship ter git useful
knowledge as he did learnin’ tex-
smoke his fust cigar, dar wouldn’t be
nigh ez many regrets in dishere life.”
—Washington Star.
Mike—“How old are you, Pat?”
Pat — “Thirty-siviu next mont’.”
Mike—“Yez must be older than that.
When were yez born?” Pat—“In
1861.” Mike—“I have yez now.
Sure, yez told me the same date tin
years ago!”—Tit-Bits.
“Oh, oh!” moaned Mrs. Weeks, who
was suffering from a decayed molar,
“why aren’t people born without
teeth, I’dlike to know?” “Why, my
dear,” exclaimed the husband, “do
you happen to know any one that
wasn’t?”—Chicago News.
“I’m afeard,” remarked Farmex-
Corntossel, “thet the period of useful
ness fur that politician is about to be
drawed to a close.” “What’s the mat
ter?” inquired his wife. “Isit a case
of overwork?” “No,” was the an
swer; “’tain’t nothin’ so onusual as
overwork. It’s a plain, old-fashioned
case of overtalk.”—Washington Star.
The garbage is collected every Mon
day on the street in which the D.’s
live. One morning little Helen D.
proposed discarding for good a rag
doll of which she had grown tired.
“I think, mamma,” she said, “that
I’ll put it out fox- the garbage man to
carry off. He can take it to the gar
bage woman, and she can fix it up fox-
the little garbage children to play
with.”—Harper’s Bazar.
Great Britain’s Expenses.
The expenses of Great Britain are
now about $500,000,000 yearly, ox-
nearly $1000 per minute, but every
tick of the clock represents an inflow
of a little over $10 into the British
Treasury, thus leaving an annual sur
plus of about $20,000,000.
Law to Prevent Overwork.
In Holland women and persons of
either sex under the age of sixteen
are now forbidden to begin work
earlier than 5 a. m., or to continue at
work after 7 p. m., nor may their work !
exceed eleven hours a dav in all.
SCIENTIFIC SCRAPS.
A small piece of cheese and an elec
tric wire form the latest rat-trap. The
cheese is fixed to the wire, and the in
stant the rat touches the cheese he
receives a shock which kills him.
Very young children are not sensi
tive to pain to any great extent. Dr.
Denger calculates that sensibility is
seldom clearly shown in less than four
or five weeks after birth, aud before
that time infants do not shed tears.
A Mr. Rous claims to have invented
a powder which, used in the place of
concrete, wxll have the effect of mak
ing buildings fireproof. It can also be
used in the extinguishing of fires,and
can even be swallowed without fear of
consequences.
Boats are to be painted by machine
hereafter at a West Superior (Wis.)
shipyard. Pneumatic power is to be
utilized, a pail of painc being attached
to the machine, which deposits the
paint in a fine spray on the ship, the
operator merely working a sort of
nozzle much as though he were sprink
ling a flower garden with a watering
pot.
The depth of the sea presents an
interesting problem. If the Atlantic
were lowered 6564 feet the distance
from shore to shore would be half as
great, or 1500 miles. If lowered a
little'more than three miles, say 19,-
680 feet, there would be a road of dry
land from Newfoundland to Ireland.
This is the plain on which the great
Atlantic cables were laid.
The rapidity of thought is limited,
and voluntary action of the muscles is
slow in comparison with the involun
tary movements of which they are
capable. The researches of Messrs.
Broca and Richet show that ten sepa
rate impressions is the average high
est limit of brain perception. The
experiments prove that each excita
tion of the nerves is followed by a
brief period of inertia, and during
this period no new or appreciable im
pression can be made. An individual’s
voluntary movements of any kind can
not exceed texx or twelve per second,
although to the muscles, acting inde
pendently of the will, as many as
thirty or forty per second may be pos
sible.
The Spaniards of Gibraltar.
Your Spaniard born in Gibraltar is
quick to call himself an Englishman,
though his actions may belie his pre
tentions. Your true Briton, with a
long line of cockney ancestors, looks
down upon the whole Spanish nation
as an inferior race.
The English soldier who conducted
us through the Moorish galleries in
the fortifications interspersed his
local descriptioxx ■with information re
garding regimental regulations. He
told of the schools where a man might
learn everything, particularly the
languages. “Of course nobody ever
learns Spanish; it’s no good after you
leave here, and while you are here the
Spaniards have to learn English if
they expect us to have anything-to do
with them”—this in a tone of careless
contempt, quite impossible to convey
ixx words.
As another bit of interesting in
formation, he told us one man out
of every four was allowed a wife,
“and very useful she is ixx making
money for her husband; for she takes
in officers’ washing and does any other
little thing that comes handy.”
“I suppose you choose your wives
among the pretty Andalusians,” com
mented some one.
The fellow stiffened himself to his
full height, thus emphasizing at once
his scorn and the cut of his trim
jacket: “Beg pardon, ma’am, but a
British soldier wouldn’t lower himself
by marrying with a dirty, lazy
Spaniard!”—New York Independent.
Where Stone Is Scarce.
“When you consider,” said a rail
road man, “that when people ixx the
extreme southern section of New Jer
sey have need of stone for building
purposes they have to go a hundred
ox- more miles for it, it is not surpris
ing that the houses clown there, and
even the big hotels are invariably
constructed of wood. Now, at Cape
May, for instance, they have a seawall
of stone, and every pound of rock ixx
it had to be hauled from Trenton, 130
miles away. Just now the Reading
railway is in aposition to secure stone
ballast for little more thaxx the cost
of transportation, because of the oper
ations upon the Reading subway in
this city. There are several big-
stretches of solid rock along the line
of this work, and much of the stone is
now being sent down to Atlantic City
to be used for riprapping where the
railroad company is raising its tracks
across the meadows.”—Philadelphia
Record.
About the Funny Bone.
That which is popularly known as
the “funny bone,” just at the point
of the elbow, is in reality not a none
at all, but a nerve that lies near the
surface and which, on getting a knock
or blow, causes the well-known ting
ling sensation in the arms and fingers.
The first woman on record who held
a medical diploma was Anxx Moranda
Mazzoni, who, ixx the middle of the
last century, filled the chair of anatomy
in the University of Bologne.