Burns and Scalds

1895

A remedy for scalds and burns that one woman has used successfully for years is compounded as follows:

Mix thoroughly equal parts of raw linseed oil, limewater and laudanum. Keep this mixture tightly corked, label it "poison" and set it on the top shelf of the most out of the way closet, so that inquisitive children will not get hold of it. It makes an excellent dressing, affording speedy relief from pain. Keep a soft linen cloth saturated with the mixture closely over the burn, excluding the air. Shake before using. — Washington Star.

The Household Garbage Consumer

1896

A Boston physician has invented a vice by which all kitchen garbage may be utilized as fuel. The material is put into a dryer through which the hot air from the range circulates until all the moisture is evaporated. The receptacle then contains a quantity of refuse that is highly inflammable and will make excellent kindling, or may be thrown upon the fire and speedily burns out.

This, of course, is practicable only where people burn coal fires. In wood-stoves the heat is not of the right quality unless the fire is kept up to a raging pitch. Where gas or electricity or oil is used for heating, this way of disposing of garbage is out of the question. There are, however, enough coal-stoves used in our large cities to make this a matter of very great importance. It would pay the Board of Health to furnish these garbage dryers to every family, and pass the most stringent laws compelling their use and proper care.

The most useful plan would be to use the garbage as a fertilizer for worn out lands, but this involves great cost and great danger. Decaying animal and vegetable matter must be carted through the streets, drippings fall upon the pavements, are dried and whirled by the wind into the nostrils of pedestrians.

Where it is possible, garbage should be consumed, and, by the way, a great deal of this is done when nothing is said about it. Many families put into the kitchen range everything of a waste character, and find great economy in fuel in consequence. — New York Ledger.

House Cat is Nearly Baked

1914

The Family Pet Slept in Oven of Cook Stove and Is Nearly Burned to Death

Waynesboro, Pa. — M. B. Ayers, Hamilton avenue, Waynesboro, almost cooked a new dish at his home.

When he retired at night he left the oven door of the kitchen stove open. To get away from the cold the family cat crawled into the oven and there curled itself up for a sleep that lasted all through the night.

When Mr. Ayers went downstairs in the morning to stir up the fire he closed the oven door. The cat slept on and made no protest. Then Mr. Ayers turned on the drafts and thrust the poker into the bed of coals, and in a short time he had a good fire going.

He heard the mewing of a cat, but he couldn't see a cat, and he fancied the animal might be on the outside. But the cat grew more persistent in its mewing and added a tone of anguish to it, and then Mr. Ayers bethought him of the oven. He opened the door and the cat sprang on to him, almost knocking him off his feet.

The animal was burned terribly. Its feet were badly charred and its body was almost baked. It is still living and is on the road to recovery.

The Burning of Joan of Arc (poetry)

1874

The Burning of Joan of Arc

They've bound her to the iron stake,
That fierce and haughty soul!
Oh! mistress of the hearts of France,
Is this the conq'ror's goal?
The flashing fire is round her now,
And mocking lips are near;
But scorching flame and mocking lips
Can wake from her no tear.

Oh! France, where is thy chivalry,
Where, where thy crowned king.
That he can suffer death like this
To claim so fair a thing!
Shame's clouds are o'er thy sunny hills,
The siroc breath of shame
Hath blotted out from valor's list
The records of thy fame.

Where are the friends of early youth?
Forsaken, France, for thee!
The martyr in this awful hour
Is one that made thee free.
Where are the battle hosts she led
To vict'ry and renown,
O'er fields of shiver'd spears and helms
Her arm had stricken down.

Come, come, ye men of iron souls,
Behold your leader die;
Your eyes may see no quiv'ring lip,
Your ears hear ne'er a sigh.
Is there no sword in mighty France
To save her from the tomb?
And England's chivalry, can they
Be witness of her doom?

God! there is none; it is no dream!
There is the stake, the fire,
The sparks, the smoke, the trumpet tone,
By Rouen's market spire.
Joanne of Arc, on! can it be
Thine is the felon's doom,
And thine the quiv'ring, withered form
Within the smoke-clouds' gloom?

One cry -- a gasp, but not of fear,
Springs from the sea of flame,
And France, th' Recording Angel stands
To chronicle thy shame.
Bear forth the tale on eagle's wings,
Joan, of France, the pride,
Hath, like a felon at the stake,
Ignobly, basely died.

—Printed in The Indiana Progress, Indiana, Pennsylvania, Jan. 15, 1874, p. 2.