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his foot plump down in that pan of water. There was a yell and a jump, and over went the pan, and when I got up there he stood holding up one leg, as you have seen a hen do on a wet day. What I said on that occasion kept Mr. Bowser very quiet for a whole week.

Then he began to grow restless again, and one night he brought home a suspicious-looking package and sneaked it upstairs. After supper he suddenly disappeared, and when I looked for him upstairs he had something in a basin and was about to hold it over a gasburner.

“Mr. Bowser, have you got a new theory!” I asked.

"Look here, Mrs. Bowser," he replied, as he put down the basin, "you have heard of bacteria, I presume?

“Yes, sir.”

"They are the germs of disease floating about. They are alive. If inhaled, cholera, yellow fever and other dread diseases are the result. Fumigation kills them.”

“And you are going to fumigate this room ?” “I am. I am going to kill off the dreaded bacteria.” “Well, you'll drive us out of the house or kill us.”

I went downstairs and he burned a compound of tar and sulphur. In ten minutes we had to open doors and windows, and the cook came running in to ask :

“ Is it cremation Mr. Bowser is trying on us ?”

"I am simply driving out the bacteria,” he replied, coming downstairs at that moment.

“And there's bacteria in the house?” she gasped. “ I'm afraid so.”

“And I've worked here four weeks under the noses of the dreadful creatures ? Mr. Bowser I quits. I quits now!”

And quit she did. We bad to sleep on the sittingroom floor last night, and three weeks later every caller could still detect that oder. It was hardly gone, however, when Mr. Bowser began to sniff around again.

Any more bacteria ?” I asked. "Mrs. Bowser, if you want to sit here and die I have

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no objections, but I don't propose to neglect common sense precautions to preserve my own health."

“Is anything wrong now?”

“I think so. I think I can detect an odor of sewer gas in the house.”

“Impossible! I shall have no more stuff burned until I know it is necessary!”

“Wont you? If there is sewer gas here it must be eradicated at once."

For the next week the entire house smelled of chloride of lime until one could hardly draw a long breath, but Mr. Bowser was not satisfied.

“I have been thinking,” he said to me one evening, “that I may bring the germs of some terrible disease home in my clothes. I ride on the cars, you know, and I ought to take precautions."

“ How?” “Carry a disinfectant about me to repel the germs." “It might be a good idea."

“ Now you are talking sense. Now you seem to understand the peril which has menaced us.”

He got something down town the next day. I think some of his friends put up a job on him, knowing his

It was a compound which left him alone on the street car before he had ridden three blocks, and he had no sooner got into the house than we had to retire to the back doors. The cook got a sniff of it, and down went the dinner and up went her hands, and she shouted at Mr. Bowser:

“ A man as will keep skunks under his house would beat me out of my wages, and I'll be going this minute."

It took soap and water and perfumery and half a day's time to remove the odor, and when I declared that it was the last straw, Mr. Bowser crossed his hands under his coat tails and replied:

“ Mrs. Bowser, I believe this house to be clear of bacteria, owing to my prudence and self-sacrifice, and I want it kept so."


"I suppose I got 'em here!” I said, coldly.
“Without a doubt, madam!”
“And all this rumpus has been on my account?”.

“Exectly. But don't go too far with me! Enough is enough. You must stop right where you are. I have humored you all I propose to."


All day long the river flowed,
Down by the winding mountain road,
Leaping and roaring in angry mood,
At stubborn rocks in its way that stood;
Sullen the gleam of its rippled crest,
Dark was the foam on its yellow breast;
The dripping banks on either side
But half-imprisoned the turgid tide.
By farm and village it quickly sped, -
The weeping skies bent low overhead, -
Foaming and rushing and tumbling down
Into the streets of pent Johnstown,
Down through the valley of Conemaugh,
Down from the dam of shale and straw,
To the granite bridge, where its waters pour,
Through the arches wide, with a dismal roar.
All day long the pitiful tide,
Babbled of death on the mountain side;
And all day long with jest and sigh,
They who were doomed that day to die
Turned deafened ears to the warning roar'
They had heard so oft and despised before.
Yet women trembled—the mother's eyes
Turned oft to the lowering, woeful skies-
And shuddered to think what might befall
Should the flood burst over the earthen wall.
So all day long they went up and down,
Heedless of peril in doomed Johnstown.
And all day long in the chilly gloom

Of a thrifty merchant's counting-room, "An incident of the terrible food at Johnstown, Pa., May 31, 1889, caused by the breaking of the South Fork Dam

O'er the ledger bent with anxious care
Old Periton's only son and heir.
A commonplace, plodding, industrious youth,
Counting debit and credit the highest truth,
And profit and loss a more honored game
Then searching for laurels or fighting for fame.
He saw the dark tide as it swept by the door,
But heeded it not till his task was o'er;
Then saddled his horse,-a black-pointed bay,
High-stepping, high-blooded, grandson of Dismay;
Raw-boned and deep-chested,-bis eyes full of fire;
The temper of Satan-Magog was his sire;
Arched fetlocks, strong quarters, low knees,
And lean, bony head-his dam gave him these;
The foal of a racer transformed to a cob
For the son of the merchant when out of a job.
“ Now I'll see,” said Dan Periton, mounting the bay,
“What danger there is of the dam giving way!”

A marvelous sight young Periton saw
When he rode up the valley of Conemaugh.
Seventy feet the water fell
With a roar like the angry ocean's swell!
Seventy feet from the crumbling crest
To the rock on which the foundations rest!
Seventy feet fell the ceaseless flow
Into the boiling gulf below!

Dan Periton's cheek grew pale with fear,
As the echoes fell on his startled ear,
And he thought of the weight of the pent-up tide,
That hung on the rifted mountain-side,
Held by that heap of stone and straw
D'er the swarming valley of Conemaugh!
The raw-boned bay with quivering ears
Displayed a brute's instinctive fears,
Snorted and pawed with flashing eye,
Seized on the curb, and turned to fly!

Dan Periton tightened his grip on the rein,
Sat close to the saddle, glanced backward again,
Touched the bay with the spur, then gave him his head,
And down the steep valley they clattering sped.
Then the horse showed his breeding--the close gripping knees
Felt the strong shoulders working with unflagging ease

As mile after mile, 'neath the high-blooded bay,
The steep mountain turnpike flew backward away,
While with outstretched neck he went galloping down
With the message of warning to periled Johnstown,
Past farm-house and village, while shrilly outrang,
O'er the river's deep roar and the hoof's iron clang,
His gallant young rider's premonitant shout,
"Fly! Fly to the hills! The waters are out!”
Past Mineral Point there came such a roar
As never had shaken those mountains before!
Dan urged the good horse then with word and caress :
'Twould be his last race, what mattered distress?
A mile farther on and behind him he spied
The wreck-laden crest of the death-dealing tide!
Then he plied whip and spur and redoubled the shout,
“ To the hills! To the hills! The waters are out!”
Thus horseman and flood-tide came racing it down
The cinder-paved streets of doomed Johnstown!
Daniel Periton knew that his doom was nigh,
Yet never once faltered his clarion cry;
The blood ran off from his good steed's side;
Over him hung the white crest of the tide;
His hair felt the touch of the eygre's breath;
The spray on his cheek was the cold kiss of death;
Beneath him the horse 'gan to tremble and droop-
He saw the pale rider who sat on the croup!
But clear over all rang his last warning shout,
“To the bills! To the hills! For the waters are out!”
Then the tide reared its head and leaped vengefully down
On the horse and his rider in fated Johnstown!
That horse was a hero, so poets still say,
That brought the good news of the treaty to Aix;
And the steed is immortal, which carried Revere
Through the echoing night with his message of fear;
And the one that bore Sheridan into the fray,
From Winchester town, “twenty miles away;
But none of these merits a nobler lay

young Daniel Periton's raw-boned bay
That raced down the valley of Conemaugh,
With the tide that rushed through the dam of straw,
Roaring and rushing and tearing down
On the fated thousands in doomed Johnstown!


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