Entries from March 2005 ↓

A hen with a family of ducks is not an uncommon sight, but a hen with a family of pups is a sight rarely witnessed. Such a sight, however, can be seen any day at the farm of John Leyda, Marion Township, a few miles east of Beaver Dam, Pa. Three weeks ago a Scotch collie dog belonging to Mr. Leyda gave birth to a litter of seven pups. During the day the dog left the barn and her family and went to the house for something to eat. In the barn near the pups was an old hen on a nest full of eggs. During the absence of the mother dog the pups began to whine. Straightway the old hen left her nest, went to the pups, and began gathering them under her ample wings as well as she was able, and soon clucked them to sleep. When the collie returned she made no objection to the arrangement, but laid down with them, and from that day to this the old hen has had charge of the little animals.–Pittsburg Dispatch.

South Atchison is shaken from turret to foundation stone. A sensation has occurred within its precincts that bids fair to outrival even the startling wonders of sensational Kansas City, and become the usual nine days’ neighborhood talk. The heroine of the sensation, for the principal character is a woman, is Tenny Dysart, the wife of John Dysart, an intelligent and industrious colored man, who lives in West Atchison, and for an occupation drives A. B. Symns’ delivery wagon. About Christmas time Mrs. Dysart was taken down with dropsy, and the disease has confined her to her house and bed nearly ever since. She was about forty years old, and before her present sickness was a strong and healthy woman. Medical aid had treated her with all that human skill could command, but it was apparently of no avail, and Tuesday night about twelve o’clock she died–that is, to all appearances. Wednesday kind friends came in and looked at the body, condoled with the husband and children, and preparations were made for the funeral. Wednesday night watchers sat by the inanimate body, and Thursday was fixed as the day of the burial. Thursday morning the body was robed for the grave and placed in the coffin, the sorrowing husband and mourning children sadly grieving the loss of their wife and mother. The funeral was to take place at three o’clock, at which time the house was filled with mourning friends, the hearse was waiting at the door, and the body was soon ready to be borne to its last resting place. As the lid of the coffin was thrown back to take the farewell look at the body one lady laid her hand on the forehead of the supposed dead, and with a cry of astonishment declared that the body was warm. This lead to another examination, and Dr. Gough was sent for. The physicians applied the usual tests and pronounced that life still remained. The body was taken from the coffin, remedies and restoratives applied, and to-day at noon the patient was conscious and sensible and in a fair way of recovery. It is needless to say that excitement and consternation prevailed, the hearse and carriages went away and the probabilities are that Mrs. Dysart’s funeral will be postponed for many days to come.–Atchison (Kan.) Patriot.

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Apropos of the report that the Brevoort house was to be closed up there is a story that Lady Dunraven has been known to tell about the famous old inn. The countess is described by those who know her as a woman much more inclined to common sense than to ghost-haunted cock lanes, even with Dr. Johnson’s authority. She used to tell the facts in the tale simply for what they were worth. It was more than one decade ago, years before the Valkyrie was thought of, when Lord Dunraven was first interested in the mining regions of northern Michigan. He and Lady Dunraven were staying in New York for a few days before starting west and had taken rooms at the Brevoort–pleasant rooms–with a view of the avenue and a nice glimpse of Washington square. The first night, being tired with their voyage, they went early to bed, as it happened, not so early to sleep. Both the earl and countess were blessed with hearty English constitutions. They were not at all accustomed to lying awake till the small hours. They wondered what they could have done, what they could have eaten or drank to afflict them with such gratuitous vigilance. Just at a venture, finally, they bundled themselves out into an adjoining parlor, made themselves extempore couches there, and slept soundly till morning. Next night and the night after there was the same wakefulness and in the end the same migration to the adjoining room for relief. They began to think they should have to leave town earlier than they had planned, for they would not for the world have made any pretext to shift chambers. The explanation of the mystery, if it was an explanation, came out by chance. They had a call before long from and old-time New Yorker whom they met in England, and authority on all matters pertaining to the town’s history. “I wonder,” he remarked casually, “that they should have given you these rooms. You know it was in that room that a Mr. X. hanged himself.” It was in that room that Lord and Lady Dunraven had tried in vain to sleep, and they exchanged significant glances. Of course it was only a coincidence, they said, but the next day they took their departure for the west.–New York Tribune.

“Did you ever think,” said an observing man lately to a reporter of the New York Tribune, “how much loose electricity there is around? It is brought to my notice especially every time I have occasion to ride in a trolley car on a wet day. I have frequently received a stinging shock by taking hold of the brass rail as I swung myself aboard. My feet are wet, you see, and water is so good a conductor that a ground connection is established with myself as part of the circuit. The sensation is quite enough to be disagreeable, I assure you.

“The metal doorsill, too, is another place where the current leaks out. Since I discovered that by personal experience I have often amused myself by watching the people who enter and leave the car. If they step over the wet threshold well and good, but if their feet touch it they are likely to get some of the superfluous power. Then the expression on their faces is ludicrous. Most of them look completely bewildered, as if they didn’t know what had struck them, and I suppose they don’t know for the instant.

“Those are not the only places where there is free electricity, either. In my own office I can get as severe a shock as I could from a battery. In one of the incandescent light fixtures there is a spot where the current escapes in great force. By touching this place with a key, a knife or any bit of metal and resting my other hand on the iron of the steam radiator near by I can take a shock of such power as to burn my hand and make me drop the experiment in a hurry. The other day half a dozen of us joined hands and formed a line between the two places. The man at one end held a key to the fixture and the fellow at the other end laid his hand on the radiator. You would hardly believe how strong the current was. Our hands seems suddenly gripped together and after we let go our fingers tingled for minutes from the effect.

“I have often thought that a computation of the amount of unused electric force there is around us would be interesting. There must be numbers of other places that I have never noticed where it escapes and I suppose there is no doubt that in the aggregate the power wasted would be sufficient to accomplish a tremendous amount of work.”