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the SOUTHE&ff WORLD, NOVEMBER i, 1882. 10 Written ipecUtlj for The Southern World. THE COMET. BT DOB* DBAH. Tb# comet! the comet! I have seen It to-d»jr For tbe very lint time since It wandered tbli way; Being called ont to view It, at earliest dawn, For a wblla I did nothing but grumble and yawn. But aoon elumber waa banished, and fled from my eyes, As I gated on tbs heavens with awe and surprlae; For there shone tbe great comet, a glorious sight, Bo radiantly glowing with soft, golden light. Asentranced I stood gaslng, with wondering eyes, There arose, from tbe silence, a chorus of cries; My colored attendants, Just roused from their sleep, Were all kneeling around me, too frightened to weep " Fer de Lord's sake, dear missis, suah you Is our friend, And will tell ns de trufe, am dls de world's end? Am dal flery-talled sarpent up dar in de sky Owlne to burn up de yearth? Is we done gwlne to die?” Thus Ibey all sbrJeked together, until a new din Arose In their accusing each other of sin; " Von stole missis' sugar,” •' And you done took her bread,” "De old Debbll will git you, for suah, when you're dead.” As for me, i most glddly escaped to my room, After soothing them all with the words that their doom. Bad nothing to do with the bright vision on high, That ere long would fade harmlessly out of tbe sky* THE CANHMEHE SHAWL,. Life Among the Lowly. " Blest your soul 1 how air ye, Miss Sover eign ?" said a bent, wizened old woman, ac costing a lady who was giving some orders In a store. “ I should hev knowed ye if I'd met you in the Mew Jerusalem: you ain’t a day older’n you wuz a dozen yearago.’ The old woman wore a rusty alpaca, and a tattered woolen shawl that did service at the same time for a bonnet. “ I really—I beg your pardon,” murmured Mrs. Sovereign, smiling apologetically upon the poor old face, and trying to bring to mind all the old women she had ever met. "Is it Mrs. Rue? ’ "Bless your eyes I I knew you wouldn’t forget an old neighbor—when I made your wedding-cake, tool Mow there’s many a fine lady like you wouldhev jest made as if she’d never sot eyes on sich a shabby old body as me ; bu. you never wus proud. Lor sokes! I wish 1 hed my teeth in t I jest thought of it. I'd ’a put ’em in if I’d knowed I wus going fur ter see you; but, ye see, I thought there’d be nobody here to take a grain of no tice of me. That’s jest the way—go without a thing, and you're sure to wish ye hed it; keep on your old gown, and company’s cer tain ter call 1” "You’ve grown into a philosopher since we met,” said Mrs. Sovereign. " Like as not,” answered Mrs. Rue, whose notions of philosophy were rather liszy. “ But, you see, I wus alius one of them folks as set a sight by appearances—more's the pity I And the teeth, I got ’em by the way of a slant; and somehow or other when I don’t hev 'em in, the roof of my mouth seems ter go clear up ter the top of my head. You see, there wus a young fellow as wus a dentist—a sort of peddling dentist—and he wus took down with tbe small-pox, and no body ter look after him but them as wus scared ter death of it; but as it wa'n’t no ' great account ter me noway, and I couldn’t be much worse off in t'other place, if I died of it, than with ’Liza Ann, why, I jest up and nursed him clean through with it; and when he got well, says he, " ‘What shall I do fur you fur all you've done in my behalf ?’ And says I, " ‘Nothing whatsomever. I wus only curi ous to know if I’d be liable to the disease.’ " ‘Nonsense,’ says he; 'I want ter pay you in some way.’ And as he wusn't forehanded and I knowed how ter feel fur them as wasn’t and as it wus all in his line, I said, “ ‘Well, if you’re bent on it, make me a set of teeth.’ And I’m awful sorry I ain't got ’em in.” "Indeed you deserved them,” returned Mrs. Sovereign. “ But don’t concern your self about it; I shouldn’t know that you were without them if you had not told me.” " Oh yes, you would, begging your pardon, if you wus onst ter see them in." " You are dropping a piece of steak from your paper," observed Mrs. Sovereign. “Lori I wouldn’t mind losing the whole of it, I’m that glad at seeing you, only 'Lisa Ann would raise sich a rumpus; she wouldn’t take no excuses; and it couldn't be made up ter her noway I I s'pose she’s a-scoldlng now, ’cause I ain’t at home frying this 'ere; but I left ths table all sot, and the water a-biling far tbe tea." "And who is ’Liza Ann?” “Goodness! I thought everybody knew ’Liza Ann—leastways she thinks they do. ■ Why, she’s my Tom’s widder; an' he left word on his dying-bed that she wus ter per- vide fur me as long as I lived, an’ sometimes I think she’s a-trylng ter see how soon she can git rid of me.” "And do you still live In Joy’s Court?” pursued Mrs. Sovereign. " Bakes alive I didn’t you know that we’d left that there these ten year ? I s’ posed that wus town talk. I wish ter goodness I hed my teeth in, and I’d walk along with you a bit, ter hev a little chat, and not keep you a- waiting.” “ Oh, never mind your teeth." Another woman might have hinted that she had her tongue left. "Now that’s downright Christian in you. I take it, ’Liza Ann herself wouldn’t be seen out doors with me in this old gown; and it wa’n’t but yesterday as I met Miss Deacon Merit, and stopped ter ask after the deacon’s numb-palsy, and she jest makes as though she wus’t looking my way, and walks straight on. I tell ye what, Miss Sovereign, if ye want ter find out the natur’ of folks, what virtues they’re made of, and what air hung onto ’em like their clothes, jest lose your worldly prosperity and your good looks, and wear out your store clothes. But that Cashmere shawl is ter blame fur it all— plague take it!" "What do you mean ?” asked Mrs. Sover eign. " Oh, like as not you never see me wear it. 1 never hed it on my back more'n twice. I felt as if I wus carrying of Christian’s bur den every time I put it on. 'Liza Ann don’t know I’ve got it—she'd take it away If she did. I keeps it sewed up in a towel in my straw bed—there wa’n’t nowhere else out of the way of 'Liza Ann’s prying eyes. I can’t bear the sight of that shawl: it makes my eyes smart ter look at it, and the tears jest come of their own accord. Sometimes I’ve bin half a mind ter sell it; but, sakesalive! you can’t never git the vally of a thing like that 1" "And how much did you give for it?” asked her listener. " A hunderd dollars 1—silver ones I It blis ters my tongue ter tell itl A hunderd dol lars, if I'm a sinner; and I've wore it twice, and hed more wretchedness out of it than there air threads wove into it 1” •’ Oh! oh I” sighed Mrs. Sovereign, wonder ing if her companion was in her right mind. “ Yes, I hev. Sometimes I’ve thought if I could git a hunderd dollars fur it again— thougii, of course, I could’nt—it would be jest enough ter take me into the Old Ladies' Home—that’s one of my castles in the air— so’t I’d be out of 'Liza Ann’s reach. I’ve thought maybe the grave couldn't be so bad if Liza Ann wus’n’t there too!” “Dear, dear! But you were telling me about tbe shawl?” "Lor, yes I I've got a Jjfbit of wandering onto me like my old grandmother. She'd begin a-telling how the children got the measles, and she'd let ye into the private his tory of half the family by the way, and wind up, like as not, with a fortln somebody wus expecting from Angland. Wa’al, I dunno as you remember the widder Miles's son that went a-voyaging ter the world’s end ? They do cay how that he wus rich as Croysus, but she never got no raorp’n his cheest after be wus lost overboard. You see, she wus ex pecting of him heme, and his cheest came in stead. Wa’ai, Miss Miles, she didn’t so much as open it fur six months; and then she found this ’ere shawl in it, which I s'pose he wus a-bringing home ter her. I sometimes wish she never hed opened it! Howsomever, the minute I clapped my eyes on the shawl I wus covetous of it, and I never rested till I got it. I thought it was the most beauti- fulest thing I’d ever sot eyes on. It looked as if it wus all wove of rubies and precious stones, and it wus most all border, save a bit of scarlet about as bigas a bandana handker chief 1 Mow, you see, I’d never owned a shawl but this ’ere robroy that I’ve got on; and though it wa’n’t so nigh used up as it is now, it hed lost considerable of its bloom; and so, one day, when Miss Miles dropped in, and said she hedn’t no heart fur nothing since James's death, andshe shouldn’t never wear nothing but black clothes the rest of her life, and how her only desire now wus ter go out ter Indy fur a missionary, and if she could only raise a hunderd dollars on that Cashmere shawl, ,’twould help pay her way, and after that the. Bqa^d -would take care other, it seemed&AOMtofa pious duty ter help her out, if she . felt a call. Least- ways, it wus one of the biggest: temptations that ever beset a poor vain mortal We wus a-boying baok the house in Joy’s Court et $>- that time—fur, ye see, my husband's name hed bin on Mr. Grew's paper, and what did he do but up and fall, and obleege us ter mortgage the house i Wa’al, I said it then, and I say it now, that it ain’t proper fur a man ter put his name ter another man’s pa per, and leave his family out in the cold— not that I blames John half so much as my self, fur he did it jest ter obleege, and I bought the shawl only ter please myself! We wus trying ter git enough tergither, you understand, ter pay off the mortgage, and some years we could’nt do no better than ter pay tbe interest. I worked amazing hard. I took old Miss Lamson ter board—and a heap of trouble she wus, poor soul, with her rheu matics and ticdoloreux; and she hed ter hev skeleton jelly made for her, and lastly she hed ter be fed ; and it wa’n’t no fool of a job —she wus a powerful eater! But I never give her a hasty word, nor a wry look; and I treated her as handsome as if she'd ’a bin my own mother or the fust lady in the land. You see, the town paid fur her board—and a mighty small one it wus, but it helped; and after she’d gone home I hed more time, and I took in needle-work, and I’d raked and scraped a hunderd and some odd dollars ter gither—my John he’d bin laid up with rheu matic fever, and hedn’t got nothing afore- hand that year—and I wus going ter pay it down that very next Monday, when Miss Miles and the shawl they come in a Satur day ! “ I hed a great struggle with myself fust. It kep’ me a-turning and twisting all night a-making up of my mind. 1 hankered after that shawl like all possessed, till it seemed as if I couldn’t be happy without it noway, though all the while 1 knowed I’d no busi ness with anything so grand. But all the neighbors hed hed new shawls that fall, even Miss Grew—lor! they rides in their carriage ter-day, and goes about cracking in their silks, as if failing and bringing honest folks into poverty wa’n’t a crying sin!—and I thought ter myself how this one would be crazy with envy when she saw me sail out in my new Cashmere, and the other one and her Bay State would be cast into the shade. So, without onst thinking that I hedn’t nothing, like gowns and fixings, ter correspond, 1 jest paid Miss Miles the money and carried my shawl up stairs. Wa’al, she wa’n’t no sooner out of tbe house than I’d give a farm not ter hev bought it; but I wus too proud ter call her back, and I’ve alius hed her heavy on my mind, as well as the shawl; for you know, she wus lost a-go ing ter Indy, and I somehow felt sort of re sponsible-seeing, too, as she wus the last of her family. Wa’al, John he didn’t know I hed the hunderd dollars—I’d kep’ it fur a surprise—and now I couldn’t make up my mind ter tell him about the shawl. So when it came Sunday I put it on with my old de laine, and my rough-and-ready straw bonnet, and sneaked down the back stairs ter meet ing without saying a word ter him—he hed not got able ter be out himself—and I felt so horrid mean about it that when Miss Jenk ins said, ‘)Vbat a splendid new shawl you’re a-wearing of 1’ it didn’t give me the leastest quiver of pleasure as ever wus; nor when Miss Grimalkin said, ‘It really don’t seem worth while ter hev such a dressy shawl ter wear about here, where there’s nobody ter see—now, does it?’ nor when Miss Little de clared, ‘There wasn’t nothing like a shawl ter cover up your old gowns, and make ye look respectable! though I knew it wus all spite and jealousy that made their words stinging. I've come ter think I’d rither hev my neighbors good-natured than envious as I git along in years. I wa’n’t half so com fortable in my Cashmere as I’d been in the old robroy; and after I wore it twice I took sich a dislike ter it that I jest hid it away, and went back to the robroy. But I alius felt as if the Cashmere hed crippled us. Ye see, we alius has ter pay fur our luxuries, even after we’ve got tired of ’em. Money wus harder ter git after that, or perhaps I’d misused my opportunity and didn’t deserve another. Howsomever, Mr. Doubleday, who held the mortgage, died, and his son fore closed, and turned us out o’ house and home I After that there wasn’t much ter hinder us from going down hill pretty lively. John he lost courage, and was gif ting weakly; the children died one after another, except Tom, and ’Liza Ann she worried the life out of him in time; and so here I am, an old woman, with naught in the world but a set of teeth and that there Cashmere shawl. You see, if I hed paid the money onto tbe mortgage, it would hev give John a lift, and put some spirit inter him— fur work never seems so lightas when you’re gifting head—and then may be I shouldn’t hev hed retribution a-follering of me round all my days in the shape of ’Lisa Ann a-twitting me of being a burden and a mill- stone around the neck of she and the chll- dren; though, goodness knows, I slave well fur all I git—what with being up at five o’ mornings, making pies and frying of griddle- cakes, and standing at the wash tub, till my feet were that numb they couldult bear me I But it ain't no use. You may do ninety, nine things fur some folks, and if you don’t do the hundreth, ye might as well let it all alone; and'Liza Ann’s one on’em; though I don't want ter be complaining, only a pot must bile over onst in a while, onless the fire goes out; and you’re an old friend, so’t I’ve made free ter tell ye about the'sha^L A body must speak now and agin about what’s worrying ’em, and there’s no sympa thy in ’Liza Ann more’n a tommyhawk! ” “ And did you never speak to your hus band about the shawl ? ” asked Mrs. Sover eign. “Bless you, yes; and he said as how it wouldn’t hev made no difference noway; Donbleday’d hev foreclosed, and the house and the money'd hev gone together. He wus alius that consoling, John wus. But I’ve thought if any body could feel as how the shawl wus worth a hunderd dollars or less, it might, as I said, pay my way Inter the Old Ladles’ Home, out of 'Liza Ann’s reach, for I'm sot agin being a burden or a millstone ter any body.” " I should like to see the shawl,” said her friend ; “ if you will bring it to my moth er’s house to-morrow, I will see what can be done.” " I'll come, rain or shine.^’I’ve bothered you with an awful long yarn, but if it wa’n’t fur ’L'za Ann—gracious! there she is at the door now, a-looking fur me, and a whole thunder-storm in her face I Good-day, and thanks I ” and the little old woman hobbled off, up a muddy lane. Trne to her word, Mrs. Rue appeared next day with the shawl. "It is as good as new,” she said, unfolding it. "Quite,” returned Mrs. Sovereign, ex changing glances with her mother. “It'sa pity that you couldn’t have sold it before, and bad tbe money at interest all this' time I ” "’Liza Ann wouldn’t hev.heered;ter its staying there I ’’ " But how much do you think it is worth ?” asked Mrs. Sovereign, with an amused smile. “Lor sakes 1 if I cound get twenty-five dollars, I should thank my born stars?” "Well I was looking at a shawl of this kind in Mew York last week, and the price was—two thousand dollars. “Mowdon’t! you’re jesta-jokingof met Who ever heard tell of a Cashmere shawl costing sich a power of money! ’’ "It’s a very good joke is’nt it? But it's true, all the same. You see, it's an India Cashmere; you thought it was French, I suppose; so perhaps did Mrs. Miles. But as she set her own price, and has left no heirs, there will be no trouble. My husband is going to give me an India shawl. If you are willing I will take this, and pay you two thousand dollars I" " My I ” cried the poor woman, with tears in her eyes. “ It’s the first time I’ve wished John alive agin in this 'ere world of worlds! If he only knew! Miss Sovereign, the Lord must hev sent you a-purpose ter take me out of 'Liza Ann’s reach? I don’t hev need ter be under obligation ter the Old Ladies’ Horae neither, fur I can hire a room, and keep house all ter myself, and hev folks ter tea sociable; and what’s more, I shall hev something ter leave the children, ter pay 'em fur being a burden and a millstone 'bout their necks! I wish my John wus here ter thank you 1 ’’ Flat-Soled Shoes, Paris Letter: A lady looks infinitely taller and slimmer in a long dress than she does in a short costume, and there is always a way of showing the feet, if desired, by making the front quite short, which gives, indeed, a more youthful apperance to a train dress. The greatest attention must, of course, be paid to the feet with these short dresses, and I may here at once state that high heels are absolutely forbidden by fashion. Doctors, are you content ? Only on cheap shoes and boots are they now made, and only worn by common people. A good bootmaker will not make high heels now, even if paid double price to do so. Ladies-that is, real ladies- now wear flat-soled shoes and a laCinderella. For morning walking boots or high Moliere shoes are worn. If you wear boots you may wear any stockings you like, for no one sees them. But if y^y wear shoes you must adapt your stockings to your dress. Floss silk, Bcotoh thread and even cotton stook- inga are worn for walking.