Among the deeds and messages of charity were a few that especially demand recording. One came from the White House, and was addressed to Mr. E.K. Johnson, Treasurer of the Citizen's Relief Committee of Washington, as follows:

    “Executive Mansion, June 14th, 1889.

    “My Dear Mr. Johnson: - The President directs me to enclose you this check for $300, payable to your order, for the relief of the Johnstown sufferers. You will remember that on Saturday morning following the announcement of the terrible calamity, he telegraphed Governor Beaver, authorizing the Mayor of Johnstown to draw on him for this amount, thinking thereby to expedite the immediate relief which would be necessary. Up to the present time no draft has been made, and therefore he takes the liberty of making the contribution through you to the Washington fund. If any draft should be made upon him from Pennsylvania, he will advise you of it.

        Very truly yours,

        “E.W. Halford,

        “Private Secretary.”

    The following was received by General Hastings, from the Vice-President:

“Ellerslie, Rhinecliff on Hudson,

“June 10th, 1889.

    “My Dear General: - On my return to my country home, I find that my little girls, from eight to fourteen years of age, have been hard at work since the terrible disaster at Johnstown, in making articles of clothing for the poor homeless children who have survived the recent floods in your State. I am forwarding today by the American Express Company, free of charge, a hundred and twenty-seven articles of wearing apparel, as per list enclosed, made by their own hands, or purchased with their own money, with some of their dresses. My children will feel greatly obliged if you will cause the clothing to be distributed among the little sufferers by the recent calamity, for whom they feel the deepest sympathy, I am, dear General, very faithfully yours,

        “Levi P. Morton.”

    Here is a third letter, received by Governor Beaver from the aged statesman who had so long been a dominant figure in the politics and business of the State, and who, not long after writing it, went over to “the silent majority” in the other world:

        “Donegal, June 12th, 1889.

    “My Dear Governor: - As you know, I have been for several weeks past, and am still kept here by illness, and I have been unable sooner to give expression to my profound sympathy with the sufferers by the appalling disasters which have afflicted so many localities in our State, and especially the valley of the Conemaugh.

    “I am glad to see the good work you are doing on their behalf, and I therefore enclose you my check for one thousand dollars for such disposition as you think most advisable.

        “Sincerely Yours,

        “Simon Cameron.”

    The sums realized at the benefit performances at some of the theatres of New York were as follows:

    On July 17th there sailed for Equope from New York on the steamer “City of Chicago,” one Griffiths Williams, with his wife and four children.

    The center of interest was the youngest member of the family, little Moses Williams, then about six weeks old. His little life began in the flood itself, which at the very time was sweeping away so many thousands of lives, in the attic of a building where the parents had taken refuge. It was while death was all about and threatening his parents that little Moses drew his first breath.

    “He doesn't look any the worse for it now,” said a reporter who saw the party off, “and it was probably fright that made him so bald. He is remarkably bright and healthy looking, and on the steamer everybody wanted to pet and talk to him. Being naturally of a retiring disposition he seemed to object to the unusual attention bestowed upon him, and he finally resented so much familiarity, and screamed and kicked lustily in his mother's arms.”

    Mr. Williams, a robust and sturdy young man, who was employed at the Cambria Iron Works at the time of the flood, in speaking of the disaster, said:

    “Houses were being crushed to shapeless masses on every side, and the shrieks and screams of drowning men, women, and children were something horrible. I'll never get over it as long as I live.

    “The baby was born at three o'clock on Saturday morning, in the attic of the house where we had taken refuge. We had then been in the flood nearly ten hours, and expected to be crushed to death every moment.

    “I never expected to save my wife, much less the baby, and yet, here they are, as you see, all same and sound as can be, and all the other little ones too.”

    The father then told how he had removed his family from his own house when the flood came, to that of his wife's aunt, who lived in Lincoln Street. When it was found that they could not escape from the house, both families went up on the roof. They remained there for two hours in the rain, and then went into the attic rooms. Soon afterward the house was carried from its foundations, and went down the stream, tossing and whirling about in the swift current.

    When the railroad bridge was reached, the house was caught in the debris and torn completely in half, one portion floating off in one direction, and the other being forced by the pressure of back-water up the creek, which flowed into the Conemaugh at that point. Williams and his family were in one half of the house, and his wife's relations in the other. The shock of the frequent collisions threw them violently about the small apartment, and they were all bruised and hurt. At three o'clock in the morning, when his wife gave birth to her babe, they were all in utter darkness.

    The roar of the rushing torrent, and the crashing of timbers all about them, drowned every other sound. They could scarcely hear each other's voices. Now and then would be heard the screams of women and the shouting of men outside, as the current bore them down into the mass of ruins. Williams did what he could for his wife, and the baby was wrapped in a piece of the old shawl which the mother had worn.

    Mr. Williams was going to Wales, to remain there with his family the rest of his life. He wants not to forget the horror of Johnstown.

The End