were wrecked completely, while others older and undoubtedly weaker
passed through the shock unharmed. A house on one corner was perfectly
shattered, while, just a few hundred feet away, the house on the
opposite corner was not damaged in the slightest except that a little
plastering was shaken down.

Knowing that a city with a population of sixty thousand had been wrecked
in every direction by an earthquake, one would expect the death-list to
be enormous; but not more than about forty were killed outright, and but
a few more were wounded. Had the shock occurred in the daytime, when the
streets were thronged, the loss of life must have been terrible.

HIDING PLACES IN WAR TIMES

BY J. H. GORE

For some years after the close of our Civil War, the attention of our
people was chiefly occupied with a study and recital of the most
prominent battles, the decisive events, and the acts of famous officers.
But when these bolder features of the war panorama had been examined and
discussed, more time was taken to look at some of the details, to call
up the minor incidents, to bestow meed of praise upon privates, or to
record the littles that made up the much.

The sacrifices of the women and children at home have been repeatedly
referred to in general, but seldom do we see mention made of their daily
privations, the petty but continual annoyances to which they were
subjected, and the struggle they made to sow and reap, as well as the
difficulties they met in saving the harvested crops.

The hiding-places here described were all in _one_ house. This house was
in Virginia, near a town which changed hands, under fire, eighty-two
times during the war--a town whose hotel register shows on the same page
the names of officers of both armies, a town where there are two large
cities of the fallen soldiers, each embellished by the saddest of all
epitaphs--"To the unknown dead." Out from this battered town run a
number of turnpikes, and standing as close to one of these as a city
house stands to the street was the house referred to--the home of a
widow, three small children, a single domestic, and, for part of the
time, an invalid cousin, whose ingenuity and skill fashioned the secret
places, one of which was on several occasions his place of refuge.

With fall came the "fattening time" for the hogs. They were then brought
in from the distant fields, where they had passed the summer, and put in
a pen by the side of the road. A