atch them, though they grasped for the lines eagerly enough.
Then a tree caught in their raft and dragged after them. In this way
they swept out of view."

Still finding bodies by scores in the burning debris; still burying the
dead and caring for the wounded; still feeding the famishing and housing
the homeless, and this on the fourth day following the one on which
Johnstown was swept away. The situation of horror has not changed; there
are hundreds, and it is feared thousands, still buried beneath the
scattered ruins that disfigure the V-shaped valley in which Johnstown
stood. A perfect stream of wagons bearing the dead as fast as they are
discovered is constantly filing to the improvised morgues, where the
bodies are taken for identification. Hundreds of people are constantly
crowding to these temporary houses, one of which is located in each of
the suburban boroughs that surround Johnstown. Men armed with muskets,
uniformed sentinels, constituting the force that guard the city while it
is practically under martial law, stand at the doors and admit the crowd
by tens.

In the Central Dead House.

In the Central dead house in Johnstown proper, as early as 9 o'clock
to-day there lay two rows of ghastly dead. To the right were twenty
bodies that had been identified. They were mostly women and children and
they were entirely covered with white sheets, and a piece of paper
bearing the name was pinned at the feet. To the left were eighteen
bodies of the unknown dead. As the people passed they were hurried along
by an attendant and gazed at the uncovered faces seeking to identify
them. All applicants for admission if it is thought they are prompted
by idle curiosity, are not allowed to enter. The central morgue was
formerly a school-house, and the desks are used as biers for the dead
bodies. Three of the former pupils yesterday lay on the desks dead, with
white pieces of paper pinned on to the white sheets that covered them,
giving their names.

Looking for Their Loved Ones.

But what touching scenes are enacted every hour about this mournful
building. Outside the sharp voices of the sentinels are constantly
shouting: "Move on." Inside, weeping women and sad-faced, hollow-eyed
men are bending over loved and familiar faces. Back on the steep grassy
hill which rises abruptly on the other side of the street are crowds of
curious people who come in from the country round about to look at the
wreckage strewn around wher