WHAT SEOBBE SMITH DID.
George Smith, of Coalville, &ji born
one of the brickyard children anion);
the dreary clay pits of the country of
Stafford, England. He was una of the
warm of little on en who U-gan their
life In the brickyard at 6 years of age,
carrying on their heads 40-pound lumps
of clay, as big as themselves, or toil
inb about the hot and exhausting flues
fourteen hours a day, and, in addition,
often working all night at the kilns.
Once, after doing his usual day's
work, this child had to carry bricks
and clay all night back and forth be
tween the makers and the kilns. That
night be carried a total of Ave and a
half tons of clay and in doing It had
to walk fourteen miles. Man is made
of clay, but these cbildien were un
made with clay.
From his fifth or sixth year to his
eighteenth year George Smith traveled
over 80,000 miles to and at and from
his work more than three times
around the world. His sufferings light
ed in him the fires of a passionate re
solve to save others.
He began to agitate, to write letters
to the press, to plead with such in-
nueniai men as ne couia reacn. Me
had educated himself by the light of
the kiln fires he watched at
night. His "Cry of the Children" and
other appeals by pen and speech
caught the ear of the public and the
public compelled parliament to act.
Laws were pas-sed bringing the slaves
of the brickyards under the protection
of the awakened social conscience, and
a new source of wealth a fuller man
hood and womanhood for these rav
aged children was opened for Eng
land. The old political economy had
been unable to see the financial folly
of burning out the red of the cheeks
of its children to burn it into the red
of the bricks and tiles.
While he was working for others
with such wonderful success and en
ergy, Smith had been faithful and suc
cessful In his own work. He had risen
to be manager of an important concern
in the brick business,' where he was
making a large profit for hia employ
ers. He had a beautiful home with
green lawns, avenues of trees, gardens
full of fruit, a porter's lodge; he hart
his horse, carriage and coachman. He
did not rest with his victory for the
brickyard children, but turned at once
to rescue another large class of chil
dren the miserable boys and girls of
the canal-boat population beaten,
overworked, wandering up and down
with the canal boats over thethousands
of miles of English channels, sleeping
(be cubby-holes of the boats; uned
ucated, forlorn. The sorrows of these
chilf'.en had entered into his soul and
he pledged himself to set them, too,
free.,, Hut the Hpirlt of vested interests
roused' itself to strike him down. His
employers one dark night called him
before them and demanded that he
give up his work for the children or
hip position. "I cannot stop my wort
for the children," he said, and they dis
charged, him.
George Smith went out of his hand
Bome house and beautiful grounds, and,
step by step, descended through every
grade of poverty. He was made a
bankrupt. He had to take his family
to a wretched hovel which could not
keep out rain or cold. His children had
no shoes to go to school. They suf
fered fojr food and were glad to get red
herring for Sunday dinner. "Scandals,
lies, jffrsecutlon, temptation, . aching
head, sleepless night, insults, snubs,
hunger, fatigue, sobs and poverty"
hear were the ransom he and his lam
lly naif to pay for his devotion to the
cause of the human wreckage of the
canal&i But he kent on with the de
letion oi the religious enthusiast he
was an apostie ui & mrui w wui r
that shall be worship, not profanation.
In his diary for the last day of 1876 he
said: "Made a bankrupt; got a com
mission to inquire Into the canal ques
tion." Here again he was successful,
and after six years' hard work lectur
ing, writing, lobbying constantly in
the House of Commons, his bill was
passed and the canal-boat waifs were
brought In under the same legal shelter
he had got for the brickyard children.
But there was more work to do. He
had rescued thousands of little chll-
, dren from- cruel bondage In the brick
yards; ne naa maue eaucation ana a
decent life possible for tens of thou
sands of children in canal bouts; and
now he turned to bring Into the tent
of civilization the children of the gyp
sins and traveling vans and Bhows who
were growing up in the very scum of
the earth. ' In this work he died, poor
but famous and beloved; known
throughout the length of England and
i beyond: listened to by parliament, the
.press, me purine, nonoreu y testi
monials in wnicn tne queen, men ana
women of title and commoners were
all glad to unite. Hia only title was
that by which he was known up and
down the Midland counties, where he
had gone on his mission of emancipa
tion "The Children's Friend." He
sprang from the poor; he lived and la-
bored, night and day, among the poor;
and he died and made his grave with
the nopr. From Henry D. Lloyd's
grand address at Ruekln, Tenn.
One of the most stylish of the ready
made costumes suitable for a girl of
twelve Is made of a smooth French
blue cloth. The entlr skirt and sleeves
are tucked, the tucking being so fine
that It has the effect of narrow cord
ing. This little costume has the cor
rect Russian blouse, which Is full both
back and front and Is made with a
' skirt cut In Van Dyke points. The
Russian blouse Is covered with a lat
tice work design fashioned of very
narrow black satin folds. Down the
left side of the blouse Is an accordion
Hated frill of changeable blue and
dull red taffeta silk. The cloth col
lar Is exceptionally Wgh and Is fin
ished with a frill of the plaited silk.
For very small girls the long coat Is
more la favor than the short Jacket.
In the coats as well as the dresses the
Russian blouse Is prominent. One of
the newest coats Is in soft gray smooth
cloth and all a moss of tiny tucks. It
Is made with a blouse effect, back and
front, and Is fastened around the
waist with a belt of dark green leath
er. The blouse Is decorated with one
rever on the right side, which Is made
cf dark green velvet and edged with
chlncllla, and the high velvet collar
Is finished In the same war. The
whole little garment Is lined with a
gay Roman striped silk.
SOUNDED THE DEAD VOICE.
AN AWFUL HORROR OF PRISON
LIFE.
The Dead Voice Is Heard Only In
Prisons and Is Dreaded by Keepers
as Well as Convicts It Is Heard at
St. Vincent.
When the Dead Voice sounded In
the penitentiary of St. Vincent de
Paul, Montreal, Que., the faces of the
keepers grew white. Their hearts
beat the quick roll of fear in their
breasts. The people in the village
cowered in their houses.
The Dead Voice is the horrid, inar
ticulate cry cf revolt, the fierce and
dreadful sounds that men and beasts
have in common. It is heard only in
prisons.
it is e'f mentary and huge in its im
port. It knows neither reason nor
sympathy. It is born of hopeless,
helpless, impotent rage and maniacal
fury. It is monstrous and terrible.
It Is called the Dead Voice because
it comes from men who are buried In
steel graves, some for a little time,
some till the end of their time on
earth. It is called the Dead Voice
because It Is the most awful thing of
which the convict, criminal mind can
conceive.
They who are frightened by the
thought of death use it as a bogey to
scare others.
The Dead Voice has been heard in
tvery large prison. Sometimes it,
shakes the building to its very foun
dations. Sometimes it makes it grow
hot with vibrant fear.
The great prison at Auburn, V. Y.,
has heard the Dead Voice twice. Sing
Sing has listened to and known fear.
It is heard not often. "Jimmie" Hope,
the famous burglar, passed nearly the
whole of b's lie in prison, and he
heard the Dead Voice but twice. It
harrowed his soul. And Hope was a
hardened convict, a man who carried
his life In his hands.
Each great prison has Its own ar
got, but In the slang of all the Dead
Voice is known. Even the convicts
feor It. They do not plan it. It is
a spontaneous outburst they cannot
control.
When the Dead Voice gives tone it
means that all the furies in the indi
viduals has broken loone, that the
evil and blackness in their hearts
make them a compact, homogenous,
murderous desire; a huge, tremendous
entity made helpless by Iron bars.
In the penitentiary of St. Vincent
de Paul there are about four hundred
convicts. It Is one of the most Impor
tant penal Institutions in Canada,
because many of the most desperate
and impottant criminals are confined
there.
Thp demon In them was aroused by
an order prohibiting the use of tobac
co. It Is the one comfort, the one Joy
of prison life. Everything else that
makes life worth the having is denied
htm, and this he prizes more than all
the luxuries that might be at the com
mand of a man in confinement.
The anger of the 391 men In the
penitentiary knew no lounda. The
confinement and the impost of silence
makes strange creatures of these men.
They live In a continual gloom. They
are constantly at war with conditions.
They come to look upon themselves
as persecuted men. They live with
these nerves that no su5?estion of
Imposition may escape them. They
feel that they are victims of a great
conspiracy.
The rule prohibiting tobacco was a
real hardship and the feelings of the
convicts sped by that state of resent
ment with which all rules are viewed.
Their anger became a hot and living
thing.
No man among them said that the
Dead Voice should be Invoked. Each
of his own knowledge knew that It
would give tone and that It would
carry fear and terror with It. It was
only necessary to pass the word along
as to the hour when the Dead Voice
should be raised.
It was decided that It should sound
on Wednesday night, Just after the
night keepers had made the second
round. The prison wards were very
silent. The lights played upon the
whitewashed walls. The sweet night
air met the prison odor, wrestled with
It and was worsted. There was no
sound save the heavy tread of one
keeper or the shuffling scrape of
another.
It seemed that somebody had struck
a single blow with a hammer. It was
the signal. The 391 men in the peni
tentiary sprang towards their cell
doors. They grasped them firmly In
their hands and began to rattle them.
At first It was a mere racket. Then
came a regular cadence. It grew fast
er until there was only a din. The thick
bars seemed to bend under the Im
pacts, the very stones seemed to lose
their security.
The keepers knew that the Dead
Voice had been lifted. They Bhoutd
sharp orders to be silent, but the'r
faces were white and their fingers
worked convulsively. The keepers
ran aion the t' rs and gave the'r
commands, but they kept near to the
railing Thev could see the barred
faces of the men.
The rattling and banging of the
doors was leaned for a few seconds.
Harsh, guttural growls, dull, long-drawn-out
monotones, came from the
cells, foreboding sounds that seemed
lorn In hungry stomachs, like the
warning cries of wild animals. Grad
ually the growls grew louder and loud
tr and the rattling Increased.
A shriek that might have come
from a soul catt Into a pit of destruc
tion made the hearts of the keepers
stop for on Instant. Hundreds of oth
ers ratsed their voices Into a mad,
frightful screaming, yelling and howl
ing. The convicts picked up their
heavy buckets and banged them
against the Iron doorg with all their
might.
Nearly four hundred men had be
Home raving maniacs, and ,thei six
keepers felt their blood grow cold,
They were a paltry half doien against
lour hundred whose hearts were filled
with a frenr.v for murder.
Let but on man escape and no hu
mn being could foretell he end.
With a single movement of a lever e
could open very cell door and ther
would rush forth these crated I crimi
nals, who otild fall upon the keep
ers tod tear thaas limb from limb.
And they would bresk from the pris
on and spraad themselves over the
country.
So It wu with reason that the
hearts of the kewpers fluttered and
their breath stuck In their throats.
And It was no wonder that the villag
ers stayed in their homes with white,
scared faces, for the din filled the
town.
Louder, more terrible, more dread
ful grew the Dead Voice. The nun
who sounded it were drunk with their
own murderous enthusiasm. They
were frantic to glut their thirst for
blood. They hurled themselves
against the iron doors, they tore their
fingers in pulling at the bars.
The prison seemed rocking on its
foundation and the whole earth seem
ed shaken by the insane fury of the
men who had become ferocious brutes.
The keepers and the frightened vil
lagers could only pray that the Iron
ind stone would hold the madmen se
cure, but It seemed to them that
neither granite nor steel could with
stand the cumulative fury of the
criminals. Fear took Judgment and
reason from them.
Far Into the night the convicts gave
tongue to the Dead Voice, until at
last they sank to the floor through ut
ter exhaustion, while the keepers
were like men who had looked into
their own graves.
The next day not a cell was opened
and today but few were allowed to leave
their little rooms. Many of the con
victs were utterly prostrated, but in
others the mania still lived. It will
be weeks before the effect of the Dead
Voire passes wholly away.
In Auburn prison, in New York, the
Dead Voice was heard with a fury that
set the whole town by the ears. A
convict had committed suicide by
banging himself to the door of his
cell. The body was left hanging for
twenty-four hours before it was cut,
and this caused the 1,300 convicts to
sound the Dead Voice with an effect
indescriable.
A HIGH-MINDED MISS.
An American Girl Who Refused to
Meet the Prince.
Miss Grace Thompson is a high
minded and beautiful American girl,
who has refused to meet the Prince
of Wales. In other words, she has
contemptuously rejected a so-called
honor which would have transported
almost every other woman of social
aspirations In England or America
into the seventh heaven of delight.
Miss Thompson is the daughter of
Judge and Mrs. William B. Thomp
son, of St. Louis. Her beauty, wit
and charming manners have already
made her one of the greatest favorites
of St. Louis society. The last two
years she has been In Europe, where
she has been received in the highest
and most exclusive circles.
Recently she was at Hamburg, in
Germany, which the Prince visits al
most every year. When he at last ar
rived there he heard of the presence
of Miss Thompson, of her beauty and
charming qualities, and expressed a
desire to meet her, confident that the
opportunity would be grasped with
frantic joy. But the young American
woman noticed It by leaving Ham
burg. lue snub to the Prince of Wales
was so marked that a European news
paper, the Lucerne Times, recorded
it.
Why should a respectable American
woman refuse to meet the Prince of
Wales? some unsophisticated persons
may ask.
because he is an associate, patron
and encourager of Immoral women,
money lenders, stock manipulators,
card players and gamblers of all
kinds.
By his flagrant conduct he has de
graded the tone of public morality in
the higher or fashionable classes of
society throughout the world.
It is a lamentable fact that the
gross offences of theT Prince too often
find only admiration, Instead of the
reprobation they deserve, and which
in others they would receive.
Some years ago the Prince of Wale's
friend. Sir William Gordon Cumming,
was put on trial for cheating at cards.
The Wilsons, Immensely wealthy
parvenus, had invited a party of peo
ple to meet the Prince at their coun
try house. Among them was Cum
ming, an officer and comparatively
poor man.
The chief amusement of the party
was playing baccarat for outrageously
high stakes. This was done, of course,
primarily to please the Prince.
Gordon Cumming wasvlrtually con
victed of cheating and driven from
the army. Thus the Prince's amuse
ment caused the disgrace of his friend
and smirched the reputations of many
persons, some of them women.
The Prl ce was at the Wilsons'
house without the Princess of Wales,
but among the guests was Lady
Brooke, a beautiful woman, whose so
ciety the Prince has favored for many
years. It was well and publicly known
In England that the Princess would
visit no house where Lady Brooke
was present.
To enumerate the Immoderate list
of notorious Intrigues In which the
Prince has been engaged would be
both superfluous and nauseating.
To the Scandal of the Nobility.
The famous Duchess of Devonshire
ball, which was to a certain degree a
duplicate of the Bradley-Martin ball,
was recently reproduced on the stage
of Drury Lane Theatre, London, to
the scandal of the nobility and the
amusement of the commoners. 'ihj
ball was utilized as the setting for the
last act of a new play entitled "The
White Heather," the work of Cecil
Raleigh-Raleigh and Henry Hamil
ton. It was a remarkable romrnsc
to "A Summer's Day." It Is a melo
drama, dilpenling more upon stage
engineers than upon the author 1
effectiveness, and the book Is com
mcnplaee. Mrs. John Wood's acting
Is the redeeming element of the pro
duction. The very possessions of the royalty
were "desWrated" by exhibition on
the stage, f-r the managers, with en
terprise almost American, had pur
chased from the costumeri some of
the most gorgeous bablllmonta worn
at that revel. . They also reproduce,
other oostamrs worn by members f
the Royal umlly by snoclal permis
sion of the Prince of Wales, and had
the stage settings arranged by a so
ciety reporter who attanded the func
tion In disguise.
THE BURGLAR'S STORY.
"There wag a deathly stillness in the
room, I felt unstrung, nervous. 1
groped ray way through the thick
darkness, when suddenly my fingers
tout tied a woman's hair."
Old "Tim" Bardy, seventy-rice years
of age, once a bank robber, burglar and
all-around crook, whose exploits made
him famous in the criminal annals of
the country, was yesterday telling of
his life, says the New York Journal.
Over thirty years have been spent be
hind stone walls and iron bars, but he
is ending his long career aa an honest
man. He lives in New Rochelle, and
picks up a scanty existence by doing
odd chores.
"Whatever I did I never let myself
forget that I was a gentleman, and
that I was brought up under church
Influences," said the old man. "I don't
mean that I remained a church com
municant, for I couldn't have done that
without being a hypocrite; but 1 mean
that 1 never took money from a poor
man that I was always careful of my
associates, and that in short, 1 was a
gentleman."
His parchment face, creased with a
thousand wrinkles, was undecipher
able; his blue eyes flashed with an in
trospective gleam; his mouth, under
a drooping gray mustache, was oddly
puckered; In his easy bearing he was
superior to the old and shabby clothing
that he wore.
"I've made plenty of money, and I've
had good clothes," he said. And he
added, with a queer twinkle: "I've
worked harder for my money, too, than
bank presidents."
When asked what he considered the
renst mrpnm Incident of his long career
of crime, he told the tale of what hap
pened upon a Christmastide many,
many years ago, when he went back
to visit his parents In his childhood
home in Vermont.
"I had been busy for quite a while at
my profesion even then, but the old
folks hadn't the slightest suspicion as
to what it was. And I was on my way
back, with my pockets full of money,
bound to make them happy, if I could.
I should have liked to put a good deal
of the money into presents but well,
circumstances made it advisable for
me to get out of town by the first
train. Night came on, and I was still
travelling. It was Christmas Eve, and
bitter cold. As the train was not to
reach my old home till after midnight
I settled myself comfortably in a corner
of my seat, and before I knew it I was
asleep. When I awoke I found that I
had been 'done'; that for the first and
only time in my life a pickpocket had
swiped my money. He had taken all
of it, and even my watch and railroad
ticket.
"I was not u a position to make
trouble about it," he said, with a rem
iniscent chuckle, "and so at the next
station I dropped off the train. It was
a town I had never been in before, but
I at once started up into the residence
district. It was very cold, but the air
was sharply exhilarating. Underneath
my feet the packed snow creaked, and
above in the sky twinkled thousands
of stars. Somehow and you will
laugh at this, and I don't know how to
explain It myself I felt proud that I
was a man of eduration, and that I
had been raised under church influ
ences. "The streets were deserted. Here
and there lights shone from windows,
and at times I caught the sound of
laughter and songs. But most of the
houses were dark. I walked along,
looking for the right house to go into.
It comes to be a sort of Instinct, you
know. In a few minutes I came to the
one I wanted and went in."
It was noticeable in the various
stories that old Brady told that he al
ways referred to his deeds simply.
Here, for example, he merely "went
into"' the house. There was no elabora
tion or Itemization of how he accom
plished what to the uninitiated would
be a difficult task.
"The family was all asleep, and I
gathered up what I conveniently could
from several different rooms, made
them Into a bundle and went out. But
I hadn't got all I wanted. The swag
was good enough in its way, but it
wasn't what I needed with me in going
back to the old people for Christmas.
And didn't take so much as I might,
for I oidn't want to be hampered with
a big bundle. What I wanted was a
good roll of bills. Well, I went out of
that house and went Into the one next
door. I went through the kitchen into
the hall and then into a larger room.
"It was pitchy dark, and from the
moment I entered the room I felt a
queer feeling that there was danger
there. There was a deathly stillness.
I felt unstrung, nervous. But I never
allowed a fancy to Interfere with busi
ness. I had work to do. and forced
myself tod o It. I groped my way
through the thick darkness, feeling
and stooping like this."
The old man rose from his chair, and
with his body bent far forward and
one hand gently moving from side to
side, in front of his face, and the other
side, held in front of his face, and the
other similarly moving, held in front
of his knees, walked across the room.
"You see," he said, "that in this way
I can never unexpectedly run against
anything. I am sure to find it with
my fingers and touch it gently. And
as I walked this way across the room
I stopped and a thrill went through
me, for my fingers had touched a wom
an's hair.
"Had I awakened her? She did not
move. I stood listening, waiting, ready
for a quick retreat, but not a motion
did she make. If she bad rustled her
nightgown or the sheets ever so little
I would have heard It. I could not
even hear her breathe, and 1 fancied
that she was awake and In deadly fear,
ready to utter a scream and only wait
ing a motion on my part that would
tell her that a man was really In the
room.
"I began to feel more nervous and
my heart was beating hard. Iknewthat
I was In a tight fix, for the town was
not a large one, and if a general mid
night alarm was given I would find it
hard to get away. And I pictured to
myself the disappointment of my
father and mother If I should not ap
pear for Christmas.
"But far stronger than the practical
fear of capture was the Intangible
dread that I had felt from the very mo
ment that I entered the room. It made
me shiver and quake. I was never so
unmanned In my life. To bring It to
a crisis I struck a match. If you ever
want to strike a match don't take the
new-fangled ones that make a crack
In a quiet room like a pistol shot and
a great flare of ligbt, but use the old
fashioned kind. Well, I took one, drew
it quietly across my sleeve (you should
always use cloth, you know), and the
instant that the light burned dimly I
blew it out. But in that instant I saw
plainly the young girl whose hair I
had touched. She was dead. She had
not been placed In a coffin, but lay
stretched out with her hands crossed
over her breast.
"Death was even then no stranger to
me. I bad sen men killed and I bad
often seen dead bodies. But beside
that girl I felt a quivering fear. I
shook so that I was afraid I would be
unable to get safely away, and I fan
cied that she had opened her eyes and
was looking at me, and that she was
reaching out her bands to take hold
of me.
"I stooped and laid upon the floor
the bundle of swag that I had got next
door, and then crept away, out of the
house and into the sharp air of the
bitter winter nighl. I laughed out loud
once to think how funny it ftvould be
for them to find the bundle there in
the morning, and then I went on back
to the railroad station."
"And did you make your Christmas
Visit empty-handed after all, then?"
The old man looked at me with a
queer wrinkle. "No, not exactly, for I
couldn't bear to make them feel bad,
you know. There happened to be con
siderable money locked up in a cheap
safe at the railroad station, and well
the agent wasn't there, so I Just
went in and took the money, jumped
aboard the first freight train, and had
a merry Christmas with the old folks,
after all."
THE NOBILITY OF THE RED MAN
A Tragedy of Seventy Years Age
Among the Indians.
Brooklyn E:-gle.
Three miles west of the village the
level moorland rises into the hills oi
Shinnecock (Southampton, L. I.), so
named from the Indians who were the"
original owners of all the lands. In
1703 the Shinnecock region was leased
back to the Indians by the settlers who
had previously purchased lands from
the tribe and was used as a reservation
until 1859, when the hills were sold
to a local corporation and the rem
nant of the tribe took up their abode
on the Shinnecock Neck, where they
Btill live to the number of about 200.
These are mixture of Indians and ne
gro, the last full-bliooded member oi
the tribe having died a couple of years
ago. The women till the soil and find
employment among the cottagers and
villagers, but the men hug the shad
side of the house or hill, smoke
watch the women at work and say
nothing. They are silent and distrust
ful people. The government furnishes
them with a schoolmaster and a
preacher, but small influence they have
to win the Indian from his contempt
of labor, his pipe and hia taciturnity.
The only thing taught him by the white
man for which he has a liking is a
keen relish for strong drink, and when
in his cuos he is said to be an ugly
creature. In the main, however, the
Skinnecocks are fading off the face ol
the earth.
And yet life among them has not
been without its strange, mysterious
tragedies. At the close of a summer
day seventy odd years ago a small
sloop coming from the northward an
chored near the shore of Peconic bay.
The only person on the sloop who could
be seen by the Inians fishing close at
hand were a white man and a negro.
After darkness had settled over the
bay a light flickered from the cabin
windows of the sloop, and a voice, that
of a woman, was raised in merry song.
In the early morning hours a noise was
heard in the direction of the boat and
a woman's screams floated out over th
water. Then the listeners on shore
heard the sound of an anchor, and s
little later in the early morning light
the sloop was seen speeding out tc
sea. Just before it disappeared a man
standing in the stern threw something
white overboard. Among the watchers
on shore was Jim Turnbull, an Indian
known as the Water Serpent. After 8
time Turnbull swam out to the white
object. As he drew nearer he saw it
was the body of a woman lying face
downward. When Turnbull turned the
body over he recognized the face at a
glance. The woman's throat had been
cut and a dagger thrust in her heart.
The Indian drew the woman's rings
from her fingers, the dagger from her
heart. Then he conveyed the body tc
the beach, and aided by his companions
buried it near the head of Paconic bay.
The day following the woman'i
burial the Water Serpent disappeared
He was absent for several weeks, and
when he came back to his home In the
Shinnecock Hills gave no hint of his
wanderings. Years later, however
when he was about to die, his lipe
opened and told a fearful story. Dur
ing a winter's storm a few months be
fore the murder In Peconic bay, tin
Water Serpent and several other mem
bers of the tribe had been wrecked on
the Connecticut shore. The Water Ser
pent, alone escaping death in the
waters, was found lying unconscious on
the beach by a farmer named Turner
who carried him to his home nearby,
where the farmer's daughter Edith, a
beautiful girl, nursed him back tc
health. An Indian never forgets a
kindness, and the Water Serpent was
no exception to the rule. He did not
see his young nurse again until h
found her body floating In the waters
of Peconic bay. Following this history
he quickly made his way to the homf
of the girl, and found that she had
eloped with an Kngllshman, a former
officer of the British army. The Water
Serpent told the story, and two ol
the girl's brothers went with him tc
her grave. They opened it at night,
Identified the body and carried It away
for burial beside that of the girl's
mother. The Water Serpent had Been
the Englishman and remembered his
fane. With the farmer's sons he took
up the search for the murderer, rjd
finally traced him to a country house
near the village of Stamford. One day
the Englishman was missed from hli
usual haunts, and months afterward
his body was found In a thlclc piece of
woodland, with a dagger plunged
through the heart. It was the san
dagger that the Water Serpent had
found In the heart of Bdlth.
WORLD'S PROGRESS.
No tale In "The Arabian
Nights'," no story of the won
drous treasures taken by mys
tic power from magic nutshells, sur
passes what science Is doing today.
Science, the wizard of the century,
touches with bis fairy wand the black,
viscid coal-tar from the gas retorts,
and cold becomes not only a source of
light and heat, but an arsenal of col
ors, a buffet of dainty tastes, a medi
cine chest for suffering humanity, a
storehouse of new foods and exquisite
perfumes, a source of powerful explos
ives for war, and so many other mirac
ulous powers that the telling challen
ges credence. From the one hundred
and forty pounds of gas-tar in a ton
of coal science today makes aniline
dyes, numbering over two thousand
distinct shades, many of them being
of exquisite delicacy, so that vegetable
dyes are almost displaced. Of medi
cines, antiseptics, hypnotics and fever
allaying preparations it furnishes qui
nine, antipyrine, atropine, morphine,
exalgine, somnal, salol, chloralamide,
hypnol and a host of others. It fur
nishes perfumes heliotroplne, clove,
queen of the meadows, cinnamon, bit
ter almonds, vanillin, camphor, winter
green and thymol. It has given to the
world bellite and picrite, two powerful
explosives. It supplies flavoring ex
tracts that duplicate the taste of cur
rants, raspberries, pepper, vanilla, etc.
It is the housekeeper's ally, with -benzine
and naphtha, the insecticides. It
supplies the farmer with ammoniaeal
fertilizers. It has given to the photo
grapher his two developers, hydro
quinone and likonogen. ft makes the
anatomist its debtor for am ost won
derful stain for tissues. It contains the
substance which tints the photograph
er's lens. It yields paraffin, creosote,
pitch; material for artificial paving;
saccharin, a substance three hundred
times sweeter than sugar, and
saccharin-amide, still sweeter; lamp
black, material for red ink, lubricating
oils, varnish, rosin, almost our entire
supply of ammonia, and hundreds of
other things all these science brings
forth from this coal-tar. By means of
its products this waste that surpassed
its uselessness only by its offensiveness
we can make preserves without
either fruit or sugar, perfumes with
out flowers, and coloring matter with
out animal or vegetable aid, of any de
scription. About one-seventh of the coal mined
in the world is lost by being broken
up too finely to be burned with profit.
This coal-dust accumulates at the rate
of about twenty-eight million tons an
nually in the United Kingdom, and
about twenty-two million in the Unit
ed States. A prominent railway com
pany is now mixing the dust witb
pitch and compressing it into blocks
that burn like hard coal, with the ad
vantage that they are entirely con
sumed to ashes. These "briquettes"
are used on Continental railways of
Europe. It is now suggested that the
coal-dust may be fed to furnaces
through a nozzle, as though it were
gas or petroleum. The vast hills of
coal-dust or culm, n Pennsylvania
have in them wondrous possibilities.
Nearly all the electrc power now used
in lighting the city of Scranton and
in running its car system comes from
the culm heaps. It is now claimed
that the coal-dust can be made into
a cheap gas, while its success as a
heating fuel for boilers has been prov
ed. With culm-firing, a horse-power
per annum will cost but three dollars
and ninety-three cents, while at Ni
agjara Pails, recently harneissed far
man, the annual cost of a horse-power
is fifteen dollars.
The beautiful embossed, leather-paper
covering the wall of
fine libraries, and the delicate,
stamped leather fire-scheens may,
like many social upstarts be
ashamed of their ansectry. Inves
tigation proves them' to be really noth
ing but thick paper covered with a
layer of pressed leather pulp, made by
pulverizing the leather in old boots and
worn out shoes, captured by scavengers
in their raids on the ash-barrels of
society. Old shoes, no matter how de
graded and worn are taken from their
are used to elevate womankind by the
high Louis XV heels. The steel nails
leave the scraps at the suggestion of
the attravtice magnet, while the brass
and copper nails, rescued later, pay the
entire cost of the old shoes. The
clippings and cuttings, transformed
into a paste, re-enter society as ar
tificial leather, and the residue, even
unto dust, is carefully gathered as a
fertilizer for farming purposes. ,
The waste of glass furnaces
is now made useful. Into a
fire-resisting mould are . placed
fragments of glass of various
colors, which are then raised to a high
temperature. The coherent mass thus
produced can be dressed and cut into
beautiful mottled blocks and slabs, form
ing an artificial miarble of decorative
service, uesigns in renei can ne od
tained by pressure while the material
Is still plastic. From broken colored
glass a "stained-glass" window can be
made by firing, without the ordinary
slow process of "leading." A prosaic
soda-water bottle, in the final fulfill
ment of its destiny, may dazzle the
eyes as brilliant "diamonds" or other
"precious stones" on the shirt fronts
and fingers of wearers of cheap Jew
elry. These bottles are also used for
chimney ornaments, inferior glass for
manufacturing districts, and also for
making emery-powder glass-paper.
From one to two thousand tons of cul
let, or broken glass, are collected In
the streets of London every year.
Slag, the refuse from smelt
ing works, . accumulates at the
rate of millions of tons a
year its bulk being three tlmies that
of the iron from which it was separat
ed. For centuries it has formed mount
ains near furnaces, it has been dumped
has trespassed into valuable fields and
towered high in Its Insolence. Arch
aeologists, by these monuments of
waste, have located the furnace fires
of antiquity that smelted ores when the
world was young. Slag, since it has
reformed and become useful, has en
tered into tne construction or roads,
and has been made Into bricks, paving
blocks, tiles and railway sleepers. In
great monoliths, weighing over three
tons each, it has formed breakwaters.
It has proved Its value as material for
paint, because of the fifty-five to seventy-five
per cent of pure oxide It con
tains. As mineral wool, resembling
asbestos, It Is an excellent non-conduct-or
of heat, and Is used" by architects a
a filing under mansard roofs.
