Various 
WHAT TO DO IN CASE OF SUNSTROKE. 
Now that the true nature of the disease 
is known, the method of treatment becomes 
most obvious, and we learn not merely what 
to do, but also what not to do. As 
heat is the cause of (he symptoms com¬ 
mon sense points to the abstraction 
of the heat in some way as the mode of 
cure. And here again vivitlcation comes 
into play. 1 have taken an animal, coma¬ 
tose, paralyzed by heat, apparently dying, 
and plunged it into a bucket of cold water. 
The temperature of the sufferer at once 
rapidly fell until it reached the normal 
point, and just in proportion that of the 
water in the bucket rose. As the animal 
cooled, its respiration became more regu¬ 
lar, the unsteady whirr of the heart was 
stilled, by-and-by the eyelids were lifted 
and out from the glassy eye came the beams 
of new life. 
If the period of unconsciousness had been 
short, the animal was in a few hours ap¬ 
parently as well as ever; if long, the animal 
would recover sufllcieiitly to recognize its 
surroundings and to struggle for release, 
but when allowed to escape, the paralyzed 
limbs and t he slow, imperfect progression 
indicated the profound injury the nervous 
system had received, and in a few hours t he 
animal would be dead. The lessons of t hese 
experiments are too plain to be overlooked. 
Whatever is to be done in this disease is to 
be done quickly. Clinical as well as experi¬ 
mental observation enforces this doctrine. 
There should in such cases be no waiting for 
the doctor. The remedy is so simple, the 
death so imminent, that the good Samaritan 
passing by should save his brother. The 
good Samaritan must, however, have a cool 
head to be useful. Not every man that falls 
unconscious on a hot day has sunstroke. 
There is, fortunately, one criterion so easy 
of application that any oue oau use it, Go 
at once to the fallen man, open his shirt 
bosom and lay the band upon his chest; if 
the skin be cool, you may rest assured that, 
whatever may be the trouble, it is not sun¬ 
stroke. If, on the contrary, the skin he 
burning hot, the case is cert ainly sunstroke, 
and no time should be lost. The patient 
must be carried to the nearest pump or 
hydrant, stripped to his waist, and bucket- 
full after bucket-full of cold water be dashed 
over him until consciousness begins to re¬ 
turn, or the intense heat of the surface de¬ 
cidedly abates.— Dr. Wood. 
-- 
A WOMAN FAIR. 
At the eastern extremity of the Kingdom 
of Hungary, there is a little province lost 
among the mountains, and inhabited exclu¬ 
sively by herdsmen. Conlined by nature 
within their valleys, cut off from relations 
with the outer world, these people have re¬ 
mained but little more than half civilized. 
They have religiously preserved the man¬ 
ners and traditions of their ancestors. 
Among other remarkable and picturesque 
customs of this strange people, is a fair, 
which is certainly unlike anything else to 
be found in the world. 
Every year on 81 . Peter’s day, may be 
seen, in the Plain of Kuliuusa, long trains of 
carts, accompanied by troops of peasants, 
arrayed in their best attire, laden with fur¬ 
niture and house-keeping utensils. They are 
followed by droves of cattle and sheep, 
decked out with ribbons and bells. The 
young girls, especially, are dressed in their 
newest aud gayest. The carts, having ar¬ 
rived in the plaiu, form a line with the 
herds belonging to them. From the oppo¬ 
site side of the grounds, come, arrayed in 
their handsomest goat-skins, the young men 
who wish to take a wife. The review be¬ 
gins. The young men pass along the line of 
carts, and question the fathers with regard 
to the number of ducats and cattle. The 
dowries are displayed and compared, and 
the cattle are carefully examined. During 
all this time the young girls sit silent and 
motionless spectators of this inspection up¬ 
on which their future lives so much depend. 
There are marriage-brokers on the ground, 
who exert themselves, for a consideration, 
to effect negotiations which, however, are 
not unfrequently interrupted by the discov¬ 
ery that a pair of oxen have seen their best 
days, that a cow is intractable, or that the 
house-keeping utensils are incomplete. 
When a bargain is struck, the priest, who 
walks about gravely, is called. He chants a 
hymn gives the young couple the nuptial 
benediction, and the ceremony is over. 
The bride embraces her parents and rela¬ 
tions, mounts her cart, and the husband 
drives her away with the rest of the live¬ 
stock, to a village she has perhaps never 
seen. 
--- 
THE NIAGARA OF BRAZIL. 
The Quebrada, or gorge of “Paulo Affon- 
so, the King of the Rapids,” is two hundred 
and sixty feet deep, aud in the narrowest 
part it is choked to a minimum breadth of 
fifty-one feet. It is filled with what seems 
not water, but the froth of milk, a dashing 
and dazzling, a whirling and churning, sur- 
faoeless mass. Hero the luminous white¬ 
ness of t he chaotic foam-crests, hurled in 
billows aud breakers against the blackness 
of the rocks, is burst into Hakes and spray, 
that leap half way up the immuring trough. 
There, the surface reflections dull the daz¬ 
zling crystal to a thick, opaque yellow, and 
then the shelter of some spur causes a mo¬ 
mentary start and recoil to the column, 
which at once gathering strength, bounds 
aud springs onward with a now crush and 
another roar. The eye is spell-bound by the 
contrast of this impetuous motion with the 
frail steadfastness of the bits of rainbow 
hovering above, with the “Table Rock ” so 
solid to the tread, and with the placid, set¬ 
tled Stillness of tiie plain and the hillocks, 
whose eternal homes seem to be here. 
In "geological” times the Sao Francisco 
stream must have spread over the valley. 
Even now, extraordinary floods cover a 
great portion of it. Then, the waters, find¬ 
ing a rock of softer texture, and more liable 
to decay, hollowed out the actual “Tal- 
hadao,” or great fissure, and in the courseof 
ages deepened the glen. Here, also, from 
the beginning, is the greatest possible di¬ 
versity of falling water; in fact, a succes¬ 
sion of rapids and cauldrons, the mighty 
fall ending in the “ Mairda Cachaeira' ’—that 
terrible tangle of foam we have just de¬ 
scribed. 
The prospect lacks, however, the sublime 
and glorious natural beauty of Niagara, and 
we do not find in Paulo Affonso those beau¬ 
tiful sapphire aud emerald tints that charm 
the glance in the Horseshoe Falls. 
SENSE AND SENTIMENT. 
Misery requires action; happiness, re¬ 
pose. 
Nor one false man but dues uncountable 
mischief.— Carlyle. 
With the majority of mankind, forgive¬ 
ness is but a form of forgetfulness. 
(’ommox-sexse is only a modification of 
talent. Genius is an exaltation of it; the 
difference is, therefore, in the degree, not 
nature .—Ii i diver. 
Ik you have a place of business, be found 
there when wanted or in business hours. 
Max is an animal that cannot long be left 
in safety without occupation; the growth 
of his fellow nature is apt to run into 
weeds. —Tnila rd. 
It should seem that indolence itself 
would incline a person to be honest, us it 
requires infinitely greater pains aud con¬ 
trivances to be a knave.— Slicnxtnnr. 
Men are often capable of greater things 
than they perform. They are sent into this 
world with bills of credit, and seldom draw 
to their full extent.— Waljiole. 
Curses always recoil on the hoad of him 
who imprecates them. If you put a chain 
around the neck of a slave, the other end 
fastens itself around your own. — Enxcrunn. 
Nothing more impairs authority than a 
too frequent or indiscreet use of it. If 
thunder itself was to be continual, it would 
excite no more terror than the noise of a 
mill. 
1 feel I am growing old for want of some¬ 
body to tell rao that I am looking as young 
as ever. Charming falsehood! There 
is a vast deal of vital air in loving words.— 
Lander. 
He who sedulously attends, pointedly 
asks, calmly speaks, coolly answers, and 
ceases when be has no more to say, is in 
possession of some of the requisites of man. 
—Lnvntcr. 
Generosity during life is a very differ¬ 
ent thing from generosity in the hour of 
death; one proceeds from geuuiue liberal¬ 
ity and benevolence, the other from pride 
or fear.— Horace Maun. 
THE EMERALDS. 
One wintry afternoon in January, away 
up in the bleak attic of a wretched tene¬ 
ment house, a pale, satl-eyed woman sat sew¬ 
ing. The garment upon which slio was en¬ 
gaged was very rich and costly, being a 
hand so i no party dross. The twilight closed 
In rapidly, with a blinding Tall of snow, and 
a bitter, wailing blast, that inado the win¬ 
dows rattle in their easements. Still the 
pale-faced woman stitched on. 
“ Mother,” piped a slender voice from the 
cot beneath the window, “shall you got the 
fine dress done 't ()h mother, I’m so hungry, 
if l could only have some tea, and a bit o’ 
sausage.” 
Tile mother worked on steadily for a few 
moments, pausing only to brush a tear from 
her white cheek, then she arose and shook 
out the glittering robe. 
" ’Tis done at last;” she said; “ now moth¬ 
er’s poor little girl can have her supper, 
only be patient a little longer. Flora. Ross, 
Ross, where arc you, my boy?” 
A manly little fellow came out from the 
little bedroom beyond. 
“The fine dress is done, Ross,” said bis 
mother, “ and you must run home with it 
as fast as ever you can. Miss Garcia will be 
out Of patience, 1 know. Tell her I couldn’t 
finish it one moment sooner, and ask her to 
give you the money. We must have it to¬ 
night. And you can stop in at, Mr. Ray’s as 
you come back aud buy some coal, and wo 
must have some bread and tea, and a mite 
of butter, and you must get a sausage,, Ross, 
for poor little Flora.” 
“I’ll gct’cm all, mother,” lie said, “and 
be back in no time. You shall have a big 
sausage, little sis,” he added, turning to¬ 
wards the cot,. 
The little girl nodded her curly head, and 
her great, wistful eyes sparkled with delight. 
“ Ami you shall have half of it, Ross,” sho 
piped, in her slender, bird-voice. 
“Hadn’t 3-011 better put on your thick 
jacket, my boy?" continued the mother; 
“ the wind cuts like a knife.” 
“Pshaw, little mother; 1 don’t mind the 
wind.” And away he went, down the 
creaking fi ight of st a i re, and out in the *t< >rm. 
in her splendid mansion on Fifth Avenue, 
Miss Garcia Fontenay was in a perfect fu¬ 
rore of impatience and anger. Her dear five 
hundred friends were assembling in the 
halls below, aud her handsome dress had 
not come home. What did that beggar wo¬ 
man mean by disappointing her? At that 
moment there was a ring at, the door, and a 
voice in the ball. 
“Plense tell Miss Garcia my mother could 
not finish it sooner, and she wants the mon¬ 
ey to-night.” 
The servant took up the handsome dress 
and message. 
“I’ll never give her another stitch of 
work,” cried the angry beauty ; “ I ought to 
have had it three hours ago. Here, Fanchon, 
come and dress me at once, there’s not a 
moment to lose! No, I can’t, pay to-night, 
I haven’t time. lie must call to-morrow.” 
“But we’ve no tire, and nothing to eat, 
aud my little sister is sick,” called the boy, 
pushing up the grand stairwa,y. 
“Shut that door, Fanchon,!”commanded 
Miss Garcia. And the floor was closed in 
his face. 
From her perch at the parlor window, lit¬ 
tle Pansie watched the whole scene, her vio¬ 
let eyes distended with childish amazement. 
“ Poor little boy,” she said, as Ross disap¬ 
peared down the stairway, “ sister Garcia 
ought to pay him. It must be dreadful to 
have no fii'e and nothing to eat.” 
She stood for a moment, balancing herself 
on the tip of one dainty foot, her rose-bud 
face grave and reflective:—then a sudden 
thought flooded her blue eyes with sunshine, 
aud snatching something from the table, she 
darted down stairs. The servant had just 
closed the street door, but she fluttered 
past him like a humming bird and opened 
it. On the stops sat Rosa, brave little fel¬ 
low that ho was, his face in his hands, sob¬ 
bing as if his heart would break. 
“What’s the matter, little boy?” question¬ 
ed Pansie. 
Ross looked up, half believing that it was 
the face of an angel looking down upon him 
through the whirling snow flakes. 
“O, I cannot go home without the money,” 
he sobbed; “ poor mother worked hard, and 
little Flora is sick and so hungry.” 
Pansie’s eyes glistened like stars. 
“Here," she said, “doyou take this, lit¬ 
tle boy, and buy her lots o’ nice things, ’Tis 
worth a great deal; papa bought it for my 
