Newspaper Page Text
[For The Sunny South.l
CLOUD-WRIT TEH.
BT 8. M. A. C.
The earth lay wrapped in gleaming snow;
Low winds athwart it made their moan;
As in a west, clear after storm,
The sun sank down.
The wide white arch of spanless heaven
With ailvereat radiance overflowed,
Save where, to farthest eastward, lay
A faint, gray cloud.
Below the belting woodland sea,
The light-car rolled to a new day,—
A long, slant, filmy, golden track
Marked its slow way.
Borne aB on strong Love's unseen wings,
The misty, sorrowing cloud-waif came
Backward, yet backward, till it felt
The western flame.
Oh, wondrous power of wondrous light!
How rosy-flushed — how magic-fair!
With it, in that rare glory-flood.
What might compare?
Brighter and brighter yet it grew,
Transfigured in that last late glow,
And red reflections danced athwaat
The white cold snow. #
0 Love, who flnd’st me beautiful,
Here read I where the beauty lies:
1 am the cloud,—the love-light shines
From thy true eyes.
OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.
VICE-PRESIDENT WILSON.
BY ESTEEI.E VEH8E.
As has already been announced by the press
of the country, the writer of this sketch sus
tained a very tender relation to the now deceased
Vice-President, and since the statement has been
made, we violate no editorial confidence in mak
ing this allusion. The writer does not give h«-
real name, and her tribute, though brief, is full
of intense feeling, and none can but admire the
enre and delicacy with which she makes any per
sonal allusion that might discover the relation
ship between herself and the distinguished sub
ject of whom she writes. The entire article is
the language of a heart evidently full to over
flowing, and we commend it for its brevity and
pathos.—Editor Sunny South.
“ Not as I will, but as Thou wilt. ”
A great statesman has fallen and a nation justly
mourns her dead.
He was a notable man. By his indomitable in
dustry, energy, perseverance and ability, he rose
from obscurity to be felt as a power in the land
for many years, receiving, finally, the second
most honorable position in the gift of the Amer
ican people. In the midst of his untiring use
fulness, of good works and of richly-deserved
honors, the Angel of Death came suddenly and
unexpectedly, and bore him away from among us
forever.
For many years it was our pleasure to know
him well, and to be the recipient of his friend
ship. We cannot express the admiration which
we feel for a mind so great and at the same time
so healthful, so earnest, and so well proportion
ed—so willingly contracting itself to the hum
blest duties, so easily expanding itself to the
highest, so contented and social in repose, so
powerful in action. Almost every part of his
blameless life, which is not hidden from us in
modest privacy, is a splendid portion of our
national history. Hatred itself could find no
blemish on his memory.
While cold and reserved to the stranger —yet
courteous to all men—he was social, vivacious,
free and easy with his friends. And these were
the qualities for which he was distinguished
and greatly beloved by those that knew’ him best.
Henry Wilson ! ’ Tis a name too glorious to
appeal to sectional hate—too pure, too conscien-
which he was so long a faithful servant, of whose i
devotion to the elevation of humanity he was a j
fearless and constant exponent and advocate, to ,
whose people his presence was so familiar and so |
| cordial, and which so deservedly honored him
with successive and distinguished promotions in
her service. He illustrated in the interest of a ;
government of the people, by the people, that
the politician may lift and not debase his oppor
tunity; that he may touch and not abuse the
popular will: that he may grow greater and bet- j
! ter as he grows older; that he may repay the con
fidence of a people by directing their enthusi- j
asm and using their organizations in behalf of a
higher political and moral civilization, and that
the politician may be also the statesman. The j
example of his life is a tribute to New England, j
He was born in poverty, he was a day laborer,
his college was the borrowed book; the hour
stolen from sleep, the aspirations of the shoe
maker’s bench, the debate of the village lyceum;
his townsmen, recognizing his ambition and
intelligence, made him their representative in
the Legislature. The opportunities of Massa
chusetts were as free to him as the air, and seiz
ing them, he rose to eminence.
Already enfeebled in health by arduous duties
and close application in writing up his history,
[ (“ Rise and Fall of the Slave Power in America ”)
when rest was required; and the dark days of
! the Credit Mobilier investigation coming on, in
which he was thought to be implicated (but
triumphantly acquitted); his lost confidence in
Senators whom he thought above reproach so
j preyed upon his mind that he lost the power to
I sleep and life quivered in anguish. These trials
; and throes was the beginning that hastened the
end. A few months after he was stricken down
almost blind and helpless with paralysis, from
which he rallied but never fully recovered;
1 yet yearning for the health that never came
I to him again.
The following particulars of his last mo
ments, as related bv eye-witnesses, show
how mysterious are the ways of Providence,
and by what slender threads lives are held:
On Sunday, November 21st, the patient
was not quite so well as on several days
previous, though his condition was not such
1 as to give any uneasiness to himself or his
physicians. At 8 o’clock in the evening he
i signified his readiness to be prepared for
| sleep. His attendants then gently rubbed
and manipulated his feet, limbs and back
' as usual, at intervals, until half-past nine
o'clock. During the process, Mr. Wilson
I was very cheerful, and said he felt uneom-
j rnonly well. At thirty minutes past nine
j he fell asleep, and between that hour and
midnight waked only once, took a drink of
j ice-water, and slept almost instantly. At
! midnight, begot up and walked around the
| room: then, going to his table, took up a
■ little book of poems entitled “The Changed
I Cross,” with the motto, “ Not as I will, but
as Thou wilt,” and read three verses from it.
This volume belonged to his wife, and
contained a photograph of her and their
son, both deceased. He treasured this be
yond value, and made it a companion from
which he seemed to derive much comfort.
After reading the verses, he spoke with
gratitude of the kindness of his friends
during his sickness and of the widespread
sympathy in his behalf. He then returned
to bed in a happy mood. Between the time of
his going to sleep again and three o’clock, he
gave no sign of waking except once, when in a
half-conscious, slumbering condition, he asked
the attendant to pull up the bed-clothes a little.
At 3 a. m. he awoke, dropped asleep again very
soon, and slept until almost precisely seven
o’clock, when he awoke, remarking that he felt
brighter and better than at any time previously.
He said that he was going to ride out that day,
as his physician, Dr. Baxter, advised him to do
if the weather was fair. Mr. Wood coming in at
this moment, was privately consulted by Mr.
I Boyden as the advisability of communicating to
| the Vice-President the news of Senator O. S.
; Ferry’s death, and they decided it would be best
I to mention the fact, because Mr. Wilson would
I be certain to read it in the newspapers a few
j minutes later. They accordingly introduced the
j subject of Mr. Ferry’s illness, and mentioned the
| morning’s news and its fatal termination. The
j Vice-President was prepared for it, and expressed
: no surprise, but said, “Poor Ferry, he has been
j a great sufferer.” He then proceeded to speak
| of Senator Ferry’s political services in terms of
I high commendation, characterizing him as an
[Written for The Sunny South.]
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
When, in last midsummer, death knocked at
the door of this great heart’s tenement of clay, |
the lads and lasses of all civilized lands were j
made to grieve for a friend well and lovingly i
known, though unseen save as he appeared in
his charming books. The son of a Danish shoe- j
maker, who died in his boyhood, he found a J
home in the family of a wealthy lady in the i
neighborhood. At fourteen, he began work in j
a carpenter’s shop, but a penchant for the stage
caused him to seek a position with a manager in |
a neighboring city. This desire was not at once [
gratified, but finally, through the friendship of
a court favorite, he became a student for the
lyric stage.
Another destiny was, however, to be worked
out by him, and to his allotted life-work, he j
seemed driven by fate. His voice failed, and i
the stage was abandoned. Tben he obtained a j
scholarship in the Boyal College at Copenhagen,
! and it was there that his career of authorship
! began. While he was yet a young man. secur-
i ing a royal allowance, he began to travel, and to
| tell, in his own rare style, of the scenes and in-
( cidents of his travels, and to embody in his
| books, by means of his inimitable word-pictures,
i all that he did, and saw and felt. The chief
! charm of his works is found, however, in
the unuttered yet unmistakable sympathy of
i the author with the young folks, for whom
[For The 8nnny South.l
SONNET.
BY ESPY.
THE DTIXG POET TO HIS SOUL.
Burn on: though faint thy life, and fleeting, brief
Thy earthly life, O Soul! Thou canst not fail
Unto thyself, though all thy brightness pale
Unto the world. For thou art a belief—
A joy—a glory, and a recompense;
A breathing from a mystery divine—
A life forever life, O Soul of mine!
Thou'rt all of all:—beginning—consequence!
My one sole friend, companion, mistress, wife!
For thee, from thee, my very life has flown—
Like the smooth waters of a nameless river—
Pure from the rufflings of all wordlv strife,
Through quiet joys, in solitude, alone;
Unseen, unfelt, unloved—save by the Giver.
ticipation flushed his sunburnt chaek and lit his
deep-set eye. His loose-fitting gray coat gave
easy room for the movements of his broad chest
and shoulders and careless swinging arms. His
mouth, under its thick mustache, lost its stern
lines in a tender curve as he bent his grand,
shaggy head—half stag, half lion in its aspect—
and looked at her. But his eyes ! In them dwelt
the spell—the persuading, compelling power,
j Esther trembled as they met hers, and her last
night's firmness wavered momentarily. He saw
it and took instant advantage.
| "I see your answer in vour eyes,” he said.
“You are mine—mine until death !” he repeated,
j clasping her to him with a sudden vehemence
! that brought the color to her cheeks, and set her
trembling with a species of terror.
Quickly withdrawing from his embrace, she
I said, with an effort at firmness:
! “Captain Kirne, this is premature. I told you
; that there were obstacles to our marriage; I said
: we knew nothing of each other—and on my life
I there is a stain. Though the fault is not mine,
yet the stain is there. It's source is in a secret
j that has burdened me for years—all the years of
my girlhood. Yes, there is a secret in my life.
I may disclose it to you; but it is hardly possible
you will believe the explanation — it is so
strange ! ”
“I would believe you against the world!—but
| you shall not tell it to me. I can never doubt
CHAPTEK XIV. | you. A look at your sweet face is enough to
Wonderful is the influence of the mind over ! drive away all ugly suspicions. The man that
the body—of the corporeal frame over the incor- I breathes a doubt of your purity in my presence
[Written for The Sunny South.]
FIGHTING AGAINST FATE;
OR,
Alone in the World.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
halo of three-score-and-ten upon
w’ith a wealth of affection poured out as a trib
ute to his great, loving heart from the child-hearts
of the world.
Frank Leslies’ Illustrated Newspaper, comment
ing upon the death of Hans Andersen, says:
poreal essence that thinks and wills. It was due
He died with the j to this influence that Esther sat to-night hesita- j sweetest ket
pon his brow, and ting, weighing a question that under other cir- j ^ es > J- have a
cumstances she could have decided at once. Re
cent illness and trouble had unnerved her mor-
dies for it that instant. Talk no more about it,
keep your secret; I too have mine,
secret in mj T life—a miserable one.
Good saints and pure angels like you would call
it a guilty one, maybe; I don’t hold it so, and I
UCUl 111 Con tliiU LiU U U1C 1!(IU UiiilCi T CU 11UA liiUl O v ' */ ’ 1
s ally as well as physically. Her old courage and j shan’t trouble you with it. What would be the
tons in discharge of honest convictions, sincere __ - ,
, • f able, active, and useful man. He also talked
motives and ardent philanthropies for the whole ; b t M Ferrv - S eftrlv Ufe anii aW
human race, to offend even the least among us.
“ Who mourns him ? The shadows that fall
Bound his coffin are shadows from all
Who knew of his life, aud its worth.
They came with men’s sighs—women's tears—
With a day that in darkness appears.
With a grief that shall linger for years
On earth ! ’’
As we write his portrait hangs before us, his
features ennobled in their expression into more
thiin the “ majesty of an antique Jupiter. ”
The large liquid brown eyes, “with thoughts
that breathe and words that burn; ” the massive
brow encircled with its snowy, silken locks; the
clear, rosy-hued cheeks; the proud, expansive
nostril; the full lips and rounded ciiin, wherein,
as in a book, are clearly written high enterprises
accomplished, sufferings unshrinkingly borne,
deep thought, dauntless resolutions—the suc
cesses of a life.
And as we gaze with undiminished interest
upon his calm features, so faithfully pictured
upon the canvass before us, and bearing the im
press of distinguished genius and high resolve,
the mind instinctively runs over his blameless
but checkered career, and follows him with exult
ant pride in all his struggles against poverty and
the disadvantages of early life. And how un
speakably grand is the record of a heroic life
mastering all difficulties and finally reaching the
topmost rounds of the ladder. Such was the life
of Henry Wilson. In a famous speech, he once
said:
“Sir, I am the son of a manual laborer, who,
with the frost of seventy winters on his brow,
‘lives by daily labor.’ I, too, have ‘lived by
daily labor.’ I, too, have been a ‘hireling man
ual laborer.’ Poverty cast its dark and chilling
shadow over the home of my childhood, and
want was sometimes there—an unbidden guest.
At the age of ten years—to aid him who gave
me being in keeping the gaunt spectre from
the hearth of the mother who bore me—I left
the home of my boyhood and went forth to earn
my bread by ‘daily labor.’’
And now, after an honorable and victorious
life, these resolutions of the citizens of Boston
give to the world in a succinct form the true
history of a great and good man:
about Mr. Ferry’s early life and about his elec-
I tion, and added, “ That makes eighty-three dead
I with whom I have sat in the Senate. What a
j record ! I don’t think any man now living can
| say the same, unless, perhaps, it is Hamlin, of
! Maine. If I live to the end of my present term
| I shall be the sixth in the history of the country
who have served so long a time.” Mr. Royden
I says that the Vice-President, after making the
j remarks previously narrated about his good
night’s rest, etc., looked up with a cheerful smile
and laughingly said:
“I’m a pretty bright-looking boy this morn
ing, ain’t I ?”
At twenty minutes past seven o’clock he said
he would get up and take breakfast. He then |
called for bitter-water (which had heretofore
been prescribed), and having drank it, he laid
with his left side on the pillow as if with sud
den exhaustion, breathing heavily, but uttering
no words, and in a few minutes died without a
j struggle. His death coming but a few min-
j utes after all those evidences of remarkable im-
j provement as to rapid recovery, could not at
first be realized by his attendants, and it was
not until the arrival of the physician that the
i melancholy fact found any credence. In a short
I time there were thousands of mournful hearts.
At the Senate Chamber, where the dead states
man lay, all was quiet. Friends came in softly,
and heard from the lips of those who waited
upon the Vice-President the particulars of his
j last moments, and how he passed away without
a near friend by his bedside, and without any
warning.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
“It was not strange that the little folks lcved
him .‘or his delightful, sympathetic and natural
stories; but if they could have seen the man,
looked into those big eyes, heard the narrative
of the girl with the matches, or the troubles of
Ugly Duck roll from the most expressive of
mouths, their admiration would be turned into
pure worship. He was a large man—large in
head, in eyes, in mouth, in heart. There was a
quizzical look dancing continually over his face,
that, with the unmistakable traces of kindness,
would make one wish to be allowed to walk be-
fortitude seemed to have deserted her when
most needed. She shrank from anv action that
use ? Let the past go. I stand here by you now,
a man in the prime of life, with a stout arm to
called for strength of nerve; she shrank from j work for you and keep you from soiling your
encountering the world that had stung her so S hands, and a stout heart that fears only God
deeply. If she could immure herself in some I a pd loves only you. Yes, I love you with the
solitude, with nature and books for her compan
ions, what sweet rest that would be! But this
she could not do. She must labor for her bodily
support. Food, clothing, shelter—these were a
necessity; and to obtain these she must go
again out into the highways of labor, where the
hydra-headed serpent of slander might at any
time start up in her path and snatch the bread
from her lips. Was there no haven of security ?
Yes, there was one—there was shelter within the
strong arms that were so willing to enfold her—
upon the broad breast that had begged as a boor,
the privilege of sheltering her. That arm had
already defended her from insult, had snatched
her from death, had nursed her as gently as a
mother could have done. Was it wrong for her,
defenseless, injured and alone in the world, to
accept this life-long protection ?
But did she love him ? As she bowed her
head upon the sill of the open window, through
which floated the subtle, penetrating odor of the
night jessamine blooming below, she tried to
analyze her feelings for Captain Kirne. She was
conscious of admiration for his strength and in
ripe love of a strong man—no puling youngster
that has never known life and tried the strength
of his passion. Will you take me—or rather will
you let me take you, my sweet?—now, this mo
ment? Why should we wait? I have the license
in my hand; in that room yonder stands the
priest, good Father Dufresne. He has been wait
ing an hour. All is ready but the bride, and she
must put on bridal garments. I cannot have
her married in this gray robe, like a nun.”
“I have no bridal garments, and such would
not suit my feelings.”
“Would not suit my white lily! They will
suit you well. Go in and try if they will not.
You’ll find that you are wrong in saying you
have no bridal dress.”
He drew her to the door of her room. Half
bewildered, she saw on the bed a mass of white
drapery, sheer muslin and filmy lace, and beside
it Airs. Floyd standing, smiling, with a pair of
white tiny slippers in her hand.
“We’ll dress you now, my dear—Fanny and
I. Father Dufresne is waiting.”
“Aladame!’ said Esther, looking at her with
dependence—for his tall, athletic figure, his dash i bewildered, imploring eyes,
and courage, his broad, backwood's freedom of j “Ah ! you are amazed at the sight ot the dress.
^~ .3 j a a „e TLa I 'onfoin wonrr»riH*» von Ho Lnnorht
thought and action, and contempt of convention
alism—the latter quality being in accord with
her own irrepressible but more polished Bohe-
mianism. In her own unnerved and weakened
state, she naturally magnified the attributes ot
strength and will. In her normal equipoise of
mind and body, these would not seem so supe
rior in her eyes; her own energy and resolution
would then have re-asserted themselves, and the
temptation of rest and shelter might not have
had such power.
Even now, her instincts rebelled against a mar
riage with Captain Kirne. Her instinctive love
of freedom and of truth revolted against it. She
shrank from the thought of putting her life into
the control of another unless that other was felt
to be a necessity of her life. Then, at the bot
tom of her heart there was a deep but hardly
confessed reluctance to give up utterly her girl
ish ideal of life.
., . . . , . , , . , . , : mo. Anguish and bitterness had
side him^ hand-in-hand, or creep into his lap trampled upon but not wholly destroyed that
and get the closer to his compassionate voice. ’
PERSONALS.
The widow of John Alitchell visited Charles
O’Connor on December 9th.
Barry Sullivan commenced an engagement at
New Orleans on December 8th.
The wife of Speaker Alichael C. Kerr is cred
ited with much of his success in life.
The Lord Mayor of Dublin is said to contem
plate a visit to America next summer.
Hon. George H. Pendleton was detained in
Augusta, Ga., by the illness of one his daugters.
Air. J. Carroll Brent, of Washington, possesses
a lock of hair of the unfortunate Mary Queen of
Scots.
Queen Victoria personally conducts a Sunday
school for the children connected with Windsor
Castle.
Capt. James AI. Stewart, the Postmaster of the
House of Representatives, is a native of Alexan
dria, Ya.
Rev. W. C. Wilkes, of Dalton, has been called
to take charge of the College at Gainesville, Ga.,
and has accepted.
Lucca has decided to confine herself to mezzo-
soprano parts in future. Her voice is wearing
in the upper register.
Blind Tom, the pianist, wants to marry a col
ored woman in Baltimore, but she is also blind.
At least she can’t see it.
Pro. R. V. Forrester, of Quitman, Ga., has been
elected President of the Crawford High School
at Dalton, Ga., and will accept.
Aliss Adelaide Alurdoch, a sister of James E.
Alurdoch, is in San Francisco, where she pro
poses to lecture on women’s duties.
Aliss Neilson is in Paris, but goes to London
shortly to act in the play founded on the life of
dream of keeping her life free and apart—conse
crating it to art—literary art, musical art—some
form of worshipping the beautiful.
Was there also another influence of the past—
a lurking memory more passionate and person-
i al—that started up from its hiding-place of dark-
! ness, silence and tears, and uttered a pleading
protest against the step she half meditated? Was
there the memory of a face, full of tenderness as
well as power—a smile, sweet as well as strong—
eyes, whose clear, blue depths spoke of crystal
truth as well as of fearlessness ? If such a mem
ory did rise up, it was instantly confronted by
the remembrance that this strength and sweet
ness and steadfastness could never bear upon
her life—that they made the stay and sunshine of
another, and that for her there could be only the
strength of his scorn.
It was late when she rose from her seat at the
window—so late that the whippoorwill’s cries
had ceased, and only the spectral hoot of the owl
in the woods on the opposite bank of the river
broke the midnight stillness. She laid her head
on her pillow, still confused in mind, still doubt
ful what a day might bring forth, but believing
that she had fully resolved to tell Captain Kirne
that she could never marry him.
A warning dream came to her. She was wan
dering along a dark and narrow path, flinty be
neath her feet, and shut in Dy frowning rocks
on either hand. All at once, a vista seemed to J
The Captain wanted to surprise you. He bought
the muslin four or five days ago, and got Fanny
to take your measure unknowing, and she and I
made it in the back room, with the door locked.
He never said, but we both suspicioned it was
meant for a wedding dress; and when Father
Dufresne came in this morning, a-laughing and
rubbing his hands together, I just knew what
was up, and I told Fanny it was lucky we made
the plum cake yesterday. Then, the Captain
told me to bring the dress in here, and gave me
a bundle to open. I am sure 1 didn’t know
such a pretty pair of gloves and shoes could be
had in our little village, for he got them at
Campte, down the river liere a bit. He wanted
you ail in white—and no wonder; color is a bad
omen for a bride. A bride and a corpse ought
to be dressed all in white, I think."
A bride and a corpse! Esther looked more
like the last than the first, as she stood white and
marble-like, with that strained, bewildered look
in her eyes, her brain whirling, her temples
throbbing, and was dressed for her sudden,
strange marriage, hearing no word of the good
woman’s chatter or of little Fanny's admiring
exclamations as she combed out the rich, long
hair and braided it in broad plaits that she
caught up in some graceful fashion with a spray
of white roses.
“She is ready,” said madame at last “Fanny,
nail Captain Kirne. ”
At the mention of that name, Esther started
from her stupor.
“One moment first,” she said. “Go out,
please, and leave me alone a moment.”
When the door was closed, she pressed her
hands to her forehead, as if to recall her senses,
and walked to the mirror and looked at the re
flection of herself deliberately, as one looks at
the face of the dead about to be hid away under
a coffin lid forever—looked at herself as if to
take leave of what she was and of what she had
hoped to be—of the dreams and aspirations of
her young genius. Fate had been too strong for
genius, too strong for resolution, bounded by
woman’s narrow lot. Social wrong, with its
short-sighted malice and relentless pursuit, had
driven this bright, free nature, born to roam the
world of thought and art untrammeled, into the
narrow covert of a marriage, whose sweetest
hope was its promise of shelter from the world.
As she looked at herself in the mirror, in her
open to her, —light and shade and soft grass in- | white dress and rosebuds, with a sad, half cyn-
— ical intentness, Bhe saw that Mrs. Floyd had fas
tened the lace at her neck with a pearl brooch
containing her mother’s hair—the gift of Dr.
Haywood. The color flowed into her cheeks,
and then ebbed instantly, leaving them colder
and whiter than before, as she took out the pin
and substituted a flower in its place.
I could never wear that," she murmured,
vited her to turn aside and rest. Eagerly she
started forward, when she caught sight of
Dusky’s reproachful face, Dusky’s warning ges
ture. in some opening of the trees beyond. Not
heeding or understanding the look and gesture
that waved her back, she still pressed forward,
when suddenly the sunny vista closed, and a
black, deep pool yawned at her feet—too sud
denly for her steps to be stayed, and she plunged i dropping John's gift into her dressing-box with
headlong into the murky depths. She started ! fingers tnat trembled, as she heard at that mo-
from her sleep at the same instant, all trembling
with the horror and fright of her dream, and
Anne Bolej n, w hich Tom laylor has written ex- j 0 p ene q her eyes U p G n a burst of sunshine and
1 the laughing face of little Zulmee Floyd, who
Full of fervid piety, and a devout worshipper i who goes to Alacon.
presslv for her.
An immense concourse assembled last Sunday
morning at the Alethodist Church in Athens, Ga.,
to hear the valedictory sermon of Dr. Skinner,
of God, “whose ways he justified to man,” he
has passed from among us to Him who stretched
out his hand across the gloom to lead him to a
peaceful rest; to the light which knows no dark
ness, and to a life in the Great Eternal beyond.
“ Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.”
| stood at her bedside with the morning libation
I of black coffee. She thirstily drained the tiny
i cup, and then, telling the child not to call her
| to breakfast, for she would need none, she lay
Ole Bull is making a last concert tour around I back upon the pillow until she heard the firm
the world. He has had great success in Norway ! tread of Captain Kirne as he passed through the
and Sweden, and is now going to Egypt to play j entry and left the house. Then, she rose and
(.Tire for Snmll-Pox and Scarlet Fever.
Here is the recipe, as I have used it, and cured
my children of the scarlet fever. Here it is as I
have used it to cure the small-pox. AVhen learned
physicians said the patient must die, it cured.
Sulphate of zinc one grain, fox-glove (.digitalis)
one grain, half a teaspoonful of sugar, mix with
two tablespoonfnl of water. When mixed, add j of Napoleon L, overthrown, with” the Yendome
dressed herself, and went out upon the back
porch, and stood with her hands upon the rail
ing, gazing out over the wide stretch of fertile,
level lands, green and dew-glistening in the
sunlight of a glorious summer morning. For
,, , _ n „ , miles lay the billowy fields with the brown roofs
Air. 1 itzhugh, the Doorkeeper of the House of | 0 f houses peeping from groves of sycamore and
anrnconTorivno o . K 1 ° . ° . * . . . .
before the Khedive.
Aliss Clara Louise Kellogg is engaged to be
married to Air. Bradish Johnson Smith, a weal
thy New Yorker, of Knickerbocker antecedents.
The affair will take place in a few weeks.
Representatives, is a citizen of Texas, and is
well-known in that section. He was Sergeant-
at Arms to the Confederate Congress.
AI. Chamod, a young sculptor of recognized
cottonwood. Far along the curve of the blue
horizon ran the wall of mighty forest, and nearer,
swept a majestic curve of the river—glittering
through its fringe of trees. Higher up—high up
merit, has been charged by the Alinistry of Fine j in the golden, dreamy air—a solitary groebeck j
Arts with the care of the repairing of the statue ! winged its way—silver-white as an angel vision
ment Captain Kirne’s knock and voice at the
door.
“Esther, my love, are you ready?”
She opened the door and stood before him, so
white and spiritual aud sorrowful, with that
dazed, wistful look in her eyes, that he drew
back and did not touch her as he had meant
to do.
“My sweet, I’ll worship you forever for this!
You are too lovely, and too far above me, I know.
It’s the crow mating with the dffve. But I’ll
have your nest as soft as hands can make it, and
I’ll keep the hawks away from your life. I’ll
live to love you and consult your wishes.”
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips;
then he drew it through his arm, and led her
into the next room, where the round-faced priest
stood waiting, and Mrs. Floyd and her house
hold, having hastily donned their best apparel,
sat in pleased expectancy of witnessing that rite
so interesting to the world at large, and to the
female world especially—a marriage.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
four ounces of water, and take a tablespoonful j Column, by order of the Commune,
every hour. Either disease will disappear in
twelve hours. For a child, smaller doses, aceord-
_ ing to age. If counties would compel their phy-
The*^ announcement of the death of Henry j sicians to use this recipe, they would need no
AYilson, Yice President of the United States, is pest-houses. If you value advice and experi-
received in the capital citv of Alassachusetts with | ence, use this ‘
received in the capital .
sincere and unanimous respect for his useful and
honorable life and sterling character, and with
profound sorrow at the loss of one whose influ
ence was more and more generously difiusing
the returning spirit of reunion over the nation
[ at large. With peculiar esteem is he remembered
Jin this Commonwealth, which was his home, of
i for that terrible disease.
Mr. John G. Thompson, the new Sergeant-at-
Arms to the House of Representatives, is a prom
inent citizen of Ohio; has been Chairman of the
Democratic State Committee for a number of
years, and is an active, energetic man.
Rev. J. J. Ransom, of the Methodist Episcopal
A little boy, whose mother had promised him I Church South, recently appointed a missionary
a present, was saying his prayers preparatory to 1 by the Tennessee Conference to Brazil, sailed
going to bed, but his mind running on a horse, j from Baltimore Monday in the bark Templar for
he began as follows: “Our Father who art in j Rio Janeiro. The reverend gentleman was accom-
heaven—ma, won’t you give me a horse?—thy | panied on board by a number of clergymen and
kingdom come—with a string in it—” * : a delegation of ladies from the city churches.
against the pure blue sky.
| Esther gazed on the scene with the sense of )
sweet peace and beauty flooding her soul and
“The Goose Hangs High.”—The expression
Everything is lovely and the goose hangs high”
is a corruption of the saying “Everything is
drowning for the moment all recollection of i ] 0V ely and the goose honks high.” The honk is
life’s sorrows and perplexities—and of Captain t h e no te sounded by the wild goose in its flight,
Kirne. Only for a moment. She started as she j an( j j s a bout the only music in which that grace-
heard his step upon the porch. She did not ■ f a j bird indulges. The meaningless word hangs
look around as he approached her, stood by her should be immediately eliminated from this beau-
j tifnl and popular description of the situation.
1 —Exchange.
i A good man who has seen much of the world
i and is not tired of it, says: “ The grand essen-
Never had he j tials to happiness are something to do, some-j
The glow of triumphant an- j thing to love, and something to hope for.”
and took possession of her hand.
“ Late sleeper!” he said. “Oris it that you
have taken this long time to make up your mind
to give yourself to me? Have you decided?
Are you mine ?”
She turned and looked at him
appeared so well.
INSTINCT PRINT