The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa on January 5, 1898 · Page 3
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The Algona Upper Des Moines from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

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Wednesday, January 5, 1898
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Wt*EK BUS MOJUWffis ALGONA IOWA, WEDNESDAY JAMTAHY 5 S INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION XVin.—(CONTINUED.) Ton are very unjust, iny lady," an- fered the Frenchman. "Believe me, |am your- friend." ? She lay back, moaning for some sec- ids; then, struck by a new thought, tie looked up wearily. "I see how It is! You want money!" "I am not a rich man, madame," an- Iwered Caussidlere, smiling. "If I give you a hundred pounds will 'you leave this place, and never let me i-flee your face again?" Caussidlere mused. "One hundred pounds. It Is not fi much." "Two hundred!" exclaimed the lady, •eagerly. "Two hundred is better, but still not much. With two hundred pounds—and fifty—I might even deny myself the pleasure of your charming acquaintance." Miss Hetherington turned toward her desk, and reached her trembling hand toward her check-book, which lay there ready. "If I give ye two hundred and fifty pounds will you do as I bid ye? Leave this place forever, and speak no word of what has passed to Marjorie Annan?" "Yes," said Caussidiere, "I think I •can promise that." Quickly and nervously Miss Hetherington filled up a check. "Please do not cross it," suggested •Caussidlere. "I will draw the money at your banker's in Dumfries." The lady tore off the check, but still hesitated. "Can I trust ye?" she muttered. "I knew it was siller ye sougbi, and not the lassie, but " "You may rely upon my promise that I shall return forthwith to France, where a great political career lies open before me." "Will you pufit in writing?" "It is needless. I have given you my word. Besides, madame, it is better that such arrangements as these should not be written in black and whita Papers may fall into strange hands, as you are aware, and the result might be unfortunate—for you." She shuddered and groaned as he spoke, and forthwith handed him the check. He glanced at it, folded it up, and put it in his waistcoat pocket. Then he rose to go. "As I informed you before," he said, "you have nothing to fear from me. My only wish is to secure your good esteem." "When will you gang?" demanded Miss Hetherington. "In the course of the next few days. I have some little arrangements, a few bills to settle, and then—en route to France." He bowed again, and gracefully retired. Passing downstairs, and out at the front door, he again hummed gaily to himself. As he strolled down the avenue he drew forth the check and inspected it again. "Two hundred and fifty pounds!" he said, laughing. "How good of her, how liberal, to pay our traveling expenses!" Meantime, Miss Hetherington sat in ner gloomy boudoir, looking the picture of misery and despair. Her eyes worked wildly, her lips trembled convulsively. "Oh, Hugh, my brother Hugh," she cried, wringing her hands; "if ye were living, to take this scoundrel by the throat! Will he keep his word? Maybe I am mad to trust him! I must wait and wait till he's awa'. I'll send down for the bairn this day! She's eafer here with me!" ways said you were my best friend. But I cannot come with you to-day." "When will you come?" demanded the lady. "Give me time, please," pleaded Marjorie; "In a day or two, maybe- after the sale. I should like to stay till I can stay no more." So it was settled, to Marjorle's great relief; and Mr. Menteith led the great lady back to her carriage. At sunset that day, as Marjorie left 1 the manse and crossed over to the old churchyard, she was accosted by John Sutherland, who had been waiting at the gate some time in expectation of her appearance. She gave him her hand sadly, and they stood together talking in the road. "They tell me you are going to stop at the Castle. Is that so, Marjorie?" "I'm not sure; maybe." "If you go, may I come to see you there? I shan't be long in Annandale. In a few weeks I am going back to London." He paused, as if expecting her to make some remark: but she did not speak, and her thoughts seemed far 'away. "Marjorie," he continued, "I wish I could say something to comfort you in your trouble, for, though my heart is full, I can hardly find my tongue. It seems as if all the old life was breaking up under our feet and carrying us far asunder. For the sake, of old times we shall be friends still, shall we not?" "Yes, Johnnie, of course," was the reply. "You've aye been very good to me." CHAPTER XIX. IMMEDIATELY after his interview with Miss Hetherington, Caussidiere disappeared from the neighborhood for some days; a fact which caused Marjorie little or no concern, as she had her own suspicion as to the cause of his absence. Her heart was greatly •troubled, for she could not shake off ,the sense of the deception she was practicing on those most interested in • her welfare. While she was waiting and debating, she received a visit from the lady of the^ Castle, who drove down, post-haste, anci stalked into the manse full of evident determination. Marjorie was sent ifbr at once, and coming down-stairs, ifound Miss Hetherington and Mr. Menteith waiting for her in the study. "It's all settled, Marjorie," said the Impulsive lady. "You're to ccfme home 'With me to the Castle this very day.-" Marjorie started in astonishment, but before she could make any reply, Mr. ! Menteith Interposed. • : "You cannot do better, my child, than Ificcept Miss Hetherington's most genr lerous Invitation. The day after to| Borrow, as you are aware, the sale •wjll take place, and this will be no , 'longer your home, Miss H>f herington ( is good enough to offers/a' a shelter ; u,ntil such time as we can decide about •>y.eu? future mode of life." "J.ust so," said the }ady, decisively. ; your things/and come awa 1 wl' ip. tfte carriage." knpw you are very kind," returned "and maybe you'll be think- I'm ungrateful. Mr, Lorrainf gj. "Because I loved you, Marjorie. Ah, don't be angry—don't turn away—for I'm not going to presume again upon our old acquaintance. But now that death has come our way, and all the future seems clouding, I want to say just this—that come what may, I shall never change. I'm not asking you to care for me—I'm not begging you this time to give me what you've maybe given to another man; but I want you to be sure, whatever happens, that you've one faithful friend at least in the world, who would die to serve you, for the sake of what you were to him lang syne." The words were so gentle, the tone so low and tender, the manner of the man so full of melancholy sympathy and respect that Marjorie was deeply touched. "Oh, Johnnie," she said, "you know I have always loved you—always trusted you, a§ if you were my brother." "As your brother, then, let it be," answered Sutherland sadly. "I don't care what title it is, so long as it gives me the right to watch over you." To this Marjorie said nothing. She continued to walk quietly onward, and Sutherland kept by her side. Thus they passed together through the churchyard and came to the spot where Mr. Lorraine was at rest. Here she fell upon her knees and quietly kissed the grave. Had Sutherland been less moved by his own grief, he might have noticed something strange in the girl's manner, for she kissed the ground almost passionately, and murmured between her sobs, "Good-by, good-by!" She was recalled to herself by Sutherland's voice. "Don't cry, Marjorie," he said. "Ah, I can't help it," she sobbed. "You are all so good to me—far better than I deserve." Tttey left the churchyard together, and wandered back to the manse gate. When they paused again, Sutherland took her hand and kissed it. "Gocd-by, Johnnie." "No, not good-by. I may come and see you again, Marjorie, mayn't I, before I go away?" "Yes," she returned, "if—if you like." "And, Marjorie, maybe the next time there'll be folk by, so that we cannot speak. I want you to promise me one thing before we part this night." "What do you wish?" said Marjorie, shrinking bnif fearfully away. "Only tula, that as you've given me a sister's IOT 5, you'll give me also a sister's trust; I want to think when I'm away in tli! great city that if you wor« in trouble vou'd send right away lo me. Just think a?ways, Marjone, that I'm your brother, aiiJ be sure there isn't a thing in this world I wouldn't do for you." He paused, but Marjorie did not answer; she felt she could not speak. The unselfish devotion of the young man touched her more than any of his ardent love-making had done. "Marjorie, will you promise me " "Promise what?" "To send to me if you're in trouble— to let me be your brother indeed." She hesitated for a moment; then she gave him her hand. "Yes, Johnnie, I promise," she said. "Good-by." "No; good-night, Marjorie." "Good-night," she repeated, as she left his side and entered the manse. About ten o'clock that night, when all the inmates of the manse had retired to rest, and Marjorie was In her room about to prepare for bed, she was startled by hearing a sharp.shrill whistle just beneath her window. She started, trembling, eat on the side of her bed and listened. In a few minutes the sound was re- peated. This time she ran to the window, opened it and put out herhead. "Who Is it?" she asked softly, "la any one there?" "Yes, Matjorle. It Is- ft Leon; come down!" Trembling more and more, Marjorie hurriedly closed the window, wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and noiselessly descended the stairs. The next minute she was In the Frenchman's arms. He clasped her fervently to him. He kissed her agalii and again as he said: "To-morrow night, Marjorie, you will come to me." The girl half shrank away as she said: "So soon—ah, no!" "It is not too soon for me, little one," returned the Frenchman, gallantly, "for I love you—ah! so much, Marjorie, and every hour seems to me a day. Listen, then: You will retire to bed to-morrow night in the usual way. When all the house is quiet and everyone asleep you will wrap yourself up la your traveling cloak and come down. You will find me waiting for you here. Do you understand me, Marjorie?" "Yes, monsieur, I understand, but—" "But what, my love?" "I was thinking of my things. How shall I get them away?" "Parbleu!—there must be no luggage. You must leave it all behind, and bring nothing but your own sweet self." "But," continued Marjorie, "I must have some clothes to change." "Most certainly; you shall have Just as many as you wish, my little love. But we will leave the old attire, as we leave the old life, behind us. I am not a poor man, Marjorie, and when you are my wife, all mine will be all yours also. You shall have as much money as you please to buy what you will. Only bring me your own sweet self, Marjorie—that will be enough." With such flattery as this the Frenchman dazzled her senses until long past midnight; then, after she had made many efforts to get away, he allowed her to return to the house. During that night Marjorie slept very little; the next day she was pale and distraught. She wandered about the house in melancholy fashion; she went up to the churchyard • several times and sat for hours beside her foster-father's grave. She even cast regretful looks towards Annandale Castle, and her eyes were constantly filled with tears. At length it was all over. The day was spent; the whole household had retired, and Marjorie sat in her room alone. Her head was ringing, her eyes burning, and her whole body trembling with mingled fear and grief—grief, for the loss of those whom she must leave behind—fear for that unknown future > into which she was about to plunge. She sat for a minute or so on the bed trying to collect her thoughts; then she wrote a few hurried lines, which she sealed and left on her dressing-table. After that was done, she looked over her things, and collected together one or two trifles—little mementos of the past, which had been given to her by those she held most dear, and which were doubly precious to her, now that she was going away. She lingered so long and so lovingly over those treasures that she forgot to note how rapidly the time was flying on. Suddenly she heard a shrill whistle, and she knew that she was lingering over-long. Hurriedly concealing her one or two souvenirs, she wrapped herself in her cloak, put on her hat and a very thick veil, descended the stairs, and found the Frenchman, who was waiting impatiently outside the gate. Whither they went Marjorie scarcely knew, for in the excitement of the scene her senses almost left her. She was conscious only of being hurried along the dark road; then of being seated in a carriage by the French' man's side. (TO BE CONTINUED.) (TALMAGJS'S SERMO& "'HbUSEHOLb CARES." LASt SUNDAY'S SUBJECT^ "lord, Doit Thon Not Care That My Siiter Hiis left Me to Serve Alone?" —Lakes Chapter X., Terse 40. Thomas Cooper, the Chartist. The autobiography of Thomas Cooper, the English chartist, is, as Carlyle would say, "altogether human and worthy," and onq of the most fascinating records of a strange and often stormy career that can be read in any language. "With a vividness that even Carlyle might envy, it describes the hard struggle of Cooper's early years— how his poor widowed mother was tempted to sell her boy to the village sweep for money with which to pay the rent, of their little cottage; how he got a smattering of the three R's, and at 15 was apprenticed to a shoemaker; how he learned by hook and crook to read four languages, and acquired, besides, as much history, mathematics and science as made him a prodigy even in the eyes of educated men; how he became a schoolmaster, then a journalist, and at last, in 1840, flung himself heart and soul into the Chartist agitation. It cost him two years in Stafford gaol. Through the kind offices of Charles Kingsley he was provided with writing materials. Mixing them "with brains," he speedily produced a number of short poems and stories, a "History of Mind," and, most Important of all, a vigorous and imaginative poem in the Spenserian stanza, "The Purgatory of Suicides," which has gone through several editions. It is just about four years since Thomas Cooper died, at the age of 87. He had outlived his fame, as he had outlived his Chartism. Indeed, we might say of him what an American critic said of Beecher, that, had he died sooner he would have lived longer." Would Have Oue Soou. A freak museum manager wrote a party in Kentucky naming an offer for 9- rope with which any man had been lynched. The party replied: "We have none on hand now, but have placed your order on file, and you are Wfcely to bear from us soon," Yonder is a beautiful village homestead. The man of the house is dead, and his widow is taking charge of the premises. This is the widow, Martha of Bethany. Yes, I will show you also the pet of the household. This is Mary, the younger sister, with a book under her arm, and her face having no appearance of anxiety or care. Company has come. Christ stands outside the door, and, of course, there is a good deal of excitement inside the door. The disarranged furniture is hastily put aside, and the hair is brushed back, and the dresses are adjusted as well as, in so short a time, Mary and Martha can attend to "these matters. They did not keep Christ standing at the door until they were newly apparelled, or until they had elaborately arranged their tresses, then coming out with their affected surprise as though they had not heard the two or three previous knockings, saying: "Why, is that you?" No. They were ladles, and were always presentable, although they may not have always had on their best, for none of us always has on our best; if we did, our best would not be worth having on. They throw open the door, and greet Christ. They say: "Good-morning, Master; come in and be seated." Christ did not come alone; He had a group of friends with him, and such an Influx of city visitors would throw any country home into perturbation. I suppose also the walk from the city had been a good appetizer. The kitchen department that day was a very Important department, and I suppose that Martha had no sooner greeted the guests than she fled to that room. Mary had no worriment about household affairs. She had full confidence that Martha could get up the best dinner In Bethany. She seems to say: "Now let us have a division of labor, Martha, you cook, and I'll sit down and be good." So you have often seen a great difference between two sisters. There is Martha, hard-working, painstaking, a good manager, ever Inventive of some new pastry, or discovering something in £he art of cookery and housekeeping. There is Mary, also fond of conversation, literary, so engaged in deep questions of ethics she has no time to attend to the questions of household welfare. It is noon. Mary is in the parlor with Christ. Martha is in the kitchen. It would have been better if they had divided the work, and then they could have divided the opportunity of listening to Jesus; but Mary monopolizes Christ, while Martha swelters at the fire. It was a very important thing that they should have a good dinner that day. Christ was hungry, and he did not often have a luxurious entertainment. Alas me! if the duty had devolved upon Mary, what a repast that would have been! But something went wrong in the kitchen. Perhaps the fire would not burn, or the bread would not bake, or Martha scalded her hand, or something was burned black that ought to have been made brown; and Martha lost her patience, and forgetting the proprieties of the occasion, with be- sweated brow, and perhaps with pitcher in one hand and tongs in the other, she rushes out of the kitchen into the presence of Christ, saying: "Lord, dost Thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone?" Christ scolded not a word. If it were scolding, I should rather have his scolding than anybody else's blessing. There was nothing acerb. He knew Martha had almost worked herself to death to get him something to eat, and so he throws a world of tenderness into his intonation as lie seems to say: "My dear woman, do not worry; let the dinner go; sit down on this ottoman beside Mary, your younger sister, Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things, but one thing is needful." As Martha, throws open that kitchen door I look in and see a great many household perplexities and anxieties. First, these is the trial of non-appreciation. That is what made Martha so mad with Mary. The younger sister had no estimate of her older sister's fatigues. As now, men bothered with the anxieties of the store, and office, and shop, or coming from the StockEx- change, say when they get home: "Oh, you ought to be in our factory a little while; you ought to have to manage eight, or ten, or twenty subordinates, and then you would know what trouble and anxiety are!" Oh, sir, the wife and the mother has to conduct at the same time a university, a clothing establishment, a restaurant, a laundry, a library, while she is health officer, police, and president of her realm! She aiust do a thousand things, and do ;hem well, in order- to keep things going smoothly; and so her brain and her nerves are taxed to the utmost. I know there are housekeepers who are so fortunate that they can sit in an arm-chair in thte library, or lie on the belated pillow, and throw off all the care upon subordinates who, having large wages and great experience, can attend to all the affairs of the household. Those are the exceptions. X am speaking now of the great mass of housekeepers—the women to whom life is a struggle, and who, at thirty years, of age, look as though they were forty, and at forty look as though they were fifty, and at fifty look as j though they were sixty. The fallen at Chalons, and Austerlitz, and Get, tysburg, and Waterloo are a anjaU number compared with the Armageddon e| go out to the cemetery and you will see that the tombstones all read beautifully poetic; but If those tombstones would Speak the truth, thousands of them would say: "Here lies a woman killed by too much mending, and sewing, and baking, and scrubbing, and scouring; the weapon with which she was slain was a broom, or a sewing machine, or a ladle." You think, O man of the world! that you have all the cares and anxieties. If the cares and anxieties of the household should come upon you for one week, you Would be fit for the insane asylum. The half- rested housekeeper arises In the morning, he must have the morning repast prepared at an irrevocable hour. What If the flre will not light; what If the marketing did not come; what if the clock has stopped—no matter, she must have the morning repast at an Irrevocable hour. Then the children must be got off to school. What if their garments are torn; what if they do not know their lessons; what if they have lost a hat or sash—they must be ready. Then you have all the diet of the day, and perhaps of several days, to plan; but what if the butcher has sent meat unmastlcable, or the grocer has sent articles of food adulterated, and what if some piece of silver be gone, or some favorite chalice be cracked, or the roof leak, or the plumbing fall, or any one of a thousand things occur—you must be ready, prlng weather comes, and there must be a revolution in the fam- be ready. Spring weather comes, and you must shut out tho northern blast; but what if the moth has preceded you to the chest; what if, during the year, the children have outgrown the apparel of last year; what if the fashions have changed. Your house must bo an apothecary's shop; it must be a dispensary; there must be medicines for all sorts of ailments—something to loosen the croup, something to cool the burn, something to poultice the inflammation, something to silence the jumping tooth, something to soothe the earache. You must be in naif a dozen places at the same time, or you must attempt to be. If, under all this wear and tear of life, Martha makes an impatient rush upon the library or drawing-room, be patient, be lenient! Oh, woman, though I may fall to stir up an appreciation in the souls of others in regard to your household toils, let me assure you, from the kindliness with which Jesus Christ met Martha, that he appreciates all your work from garret to cellar; and that the God of Deborah, and Hannah, and Abigail, and Grandmother Lois, and Elizabeth Fry, and Hannah More Is the God of the housekeeper! Jesus was never mar-- ried, that he might be the especial friend and confidant of a whole world of troubled womanhood. I blunder; Christ was married. The Bible says that the Church Is the Lamb's wife, and that makes me know that all Christian women have a right to go to Christ and tell him of their annoyances and troubles, since by his oath of conjugal fidelity he is sworn to sympathize. George Herbert, the Christian poet, wrote'two or three verses on this subject: «The servant by this clause Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws, Makes this the action fine." A young woman of brilliant education and prosperous circumstances was called down-stairs to help in the kitchen in the absence of the servants. The door-bell ringing, she went to open it and found a gentleman friend, wlfo said as he came in: "I thought I heard music; was it on this piano or on this harp?" She answered: "Nq; I was playing on a grid-iron, with frying-pan accompaniment. The servanfs are gone, and I*"am learning how to do this work." Well done! When will women In all circles find out'that it is honorable to do anything that ought to be done? How great are the responsibilities of housekeepers! Sometimes an indigestible article of food, by its effect upon a kins, bas overthrown an empire. A distinguished statistician says of one thousand unmarried men there are thirty-eight criminals, and of one thousand married men only eighteen are criminals. What a suggestion of home influences! Let the most be made of them. Housekeepers by the food they provide, by the couches tboy spread, by the books they introduce, by the influences they bring around their borne, are deciding the physical, intsl- lecjual, moral, eternal destiny of the race. You say your life is one of sacrifice. I know it. But, my sisters, that is the only life worth living. That was Florence Nightingale's life; that was Payson's life; that was Christ's life. We admire it in others; but how very hard it is for us to exercise it ourselves! When in Brooklyn, young Dr. Hutchinson, having spent a wholo night in a diphtheritic room for the relief of a patient, became saturated with tho poison and died, we all felt as if we would like to put garlands on his grave; everybody appreciates that. When, in the burning hotel at St. Louis, a young man on the fifth story broke open the door of the room wharo his mother was sleeping, and plunged in amid smoke and fire, crying, "Mother, where are you?" and never caiuo out, our hearts appk.uded that young man. But how f€? of us have the Christlike spirit—a^Mlingness to suffer for others! A Pafeh teacher in a school called upon a pJbr, half starved lad who had offended against the laws of the school and said, "Take off your coat, directly, sir." The boy to take it off, whereupon tb, said again, "Take off 86 he swung the as at the third cointnand hS slowly off his coAt, there went ft fdfc through the school. They saw tneif why he did not want ttt remote 1i!« coat, and they saw the shoulder 1 olftisa had almost cut through the sklft, and a. stout, healthy boy rose up and went to the teacher of the school and Baldi "Oh, sir, please don't hurt this poo4 fellow; whip me; hee, he's nothing but a poof chap; don't hurt him, he's po6f; whip me," "Well," said the teacher, "It's going to be a severs Whipping; I ani willing to take you &3 a substitute." "Well," said the boy, "I don't care; you whip me, If you will let this poor fellow go." The stout* healthy boy took the scourging with* out an outcry. "Bravo!" says every man—"Bravo!" How many of us ara willing td take the scourging, and the suffering, and the toll, and the anxiety for the people! Beautiful things to admire, but how little we have of that spirit! God give us that self- denying spirit, so that whether wo are In humble spheres or in conspicuous spheres we may perform our whole duty—for this struggle will soon bo over. One of the most affecting reminiscences of my mother is my remembrance of her as a Christian housekeeper. She worked very hard, and when we would come In from summer play, and sit down at the table at noon, I remember how she used to come In. with beads of perspiration along tho line of gray hair, and how sometimes she would sit down at the table and put her head against her wrinkled hand and say, "Well, the fact is, I'm too tired to eat." Long after she might have delegated this duty to others, she would not be satisfied unless she attended to the matter herself. In fact we all preferred to have her do so, for somehow things tasted better when she prepared them. Some time ago, in an express train, I shot past that old homestead. I looked out of the window, and tried to peer through the darkness. While I was doing so, one of my old schoolmates, whom I had not seen for .many years, tapped me on the shoulder, and, said, "Do Witt, I see you are looking out at the scenes of your boyhood." "Oh, yes," I replied, "I was looking out at the old place where my mother lived, and died." That night, In the cars, the whole scene came back to me. There was the country home. There was the noonday table. There were the children on either side of the table, most of them gone never to come back. At one end of the table, my father, with a smile that never left his countenance even when he lay in his coffln. It was an eighty-four years' smile—not the gmlla of inanition, but of Christian courage and of Christian hope. At the ottier end of the table was a beautiful, benignant, hard-working, aged Christian housekeeper, my mother. She wa: very; tired. I am glad she has so good a place to rest in. "Blessed are .the dead who die In the Lord; they rest from their labors, and their* works do follow them." Napoleon's Lost Treasure. The recent find of an old military knapsack filled with French gold pieces coined about the beginning of the century near Vilno,.Russia, recalls the dreadful fate of Napoleon's grand army and Its disastrous Russian campaign in 1812. After the destruction of Moscow the bold conqueror was compelled to seek safety, but his return to the frontier was not the retreat of an orderly army; it was flight with all its horrors. Napoleon himself hurried back in advance of his army, in order to steady the throne, which had become shaky by events in Paris and elsewhere. The shipping of the war treasure, which at that time still contained 12,000,000 francs, and which was transferred in barrels in carriages drawn by picked horses, was intrusted to Marshal Ney. Napoleon never saw the treasure again, and where It'has remained was kept a profound secret for a long time. Under strong cover the transportation of the treasure was started for the frontier, but not far from Vilno the wagons stuck in a defile and it seemed impossible to get them out again. Rather than see the treasure In the hands of the Russians, Field Marshal Ney gave orders to break opea the barrels and distribute the money to the returning soldiers as they passed, by, and thus it was done. Many of the soldiers threw away all their belongings in order to fill up their knapsacks with gold, but only a few of those who carried the heavy wealth were able to drag the burden to the frontier, and the-very gold which was intended for their benefit was the cause of their perishing. Queer Name for u Town. The Warmest Place on Earth is ac* * tually a town, and not merely a locality. It lies in San Diego county's desert side, about twenty-five miles due west of Yuma, and the name of its postofflce is Mammoth Tank. This information has been dug up through tha posting of a newspaper at San Francisco addressed to "Hank Yohnsen, Warmest Place on Earth." It was sent in turn to Sacramento, Fresno and Bakersfleld. Then the marking continues: "Try Yuma." But Yuma sent it to Tucson. It visited Npgales. At Phoenix it was hung up as a humorous exhibit. There some desert prospectors saw it and they proceeded £9 enlarge the postmaster's geographical and social understating, for Hank Yohnsen is not a, "yoke," b^a prominent citizen of the Warmest Place o» Earth, Ca^.— Los Angeles Record, fB JPt»t fe me dex^^r tf the —

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