Newspaper Page Text
Entered according to Act of Congress, in June, 1868, by J. W. Burke k Cos., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the So. District of Georgia.
VOL. 11.
JACK FROST.
tACK FROST is a wonderful artist
indeed:
Builds castles with breath on the
. % smooth-surfaced glass ;
s,—Leaves flowers wherever his bright
nv foot doth tread,
(KJ And spreads a white carpet all over
the grass.
He climbs to the top of the tall forest tree,
And crowns it with gems when the green
leaves are gone.
Poor lovers of beauty and wonder are we
If we prize not his work, so tastefully done.
lie breathes on the wind-dimpled streamlet,
and lo !
A bright shield of silver gleams on its soft
breast!
Across the broad river his arms he doth
throw,
And its fast flowing waters arc hushed into
rest.
Fantastic and strange are the pictures ho
draws,
With a pencil of beauty, wherever he goes.
Who’d seek in his works to find out any flaws
Would try to improve the warm tint of the
rose.
The spots unadorned yet by Beauty divine,
His fingers so nimble, so skillful and free,
Move over, and quickly with jewels they
shine,
And look fair, as wo dream elfin bowers
to be.
I love him, although from a bow that’s un
seen
He lets loose his swift-winged arrows of
sleet,
As I cross the wide heath —their sting, sharp
and keen,
But renders my cot, when I reach it, more
sweet.
He comes to my garden, where Robin sings
sweet
On the fence that is covered with roses in
spring,
And makes it a palace of crystal complete.
Where fairies might dance in a jewel-wove
ring.
His icicles fringing the bucket all worn,
That stands on the brink of the old wood
land well,
Look brighter than dew-drops upon a May
morn,
That gleam in the roses that grow in the
dell.
Then come, 0 Jack Frost, from thy bleak
northern home,
Thou beautiful jewel-robed wandering
sprite ;
Show thy skill on the windows of my little
room,
And spread o'er the meadows thy carpet
of white.
MACON, GEORGIA, JANUARY 23, 1869.
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE.
.
ERE is a picture of the cele
(/ brated Jack Tree, or Bread
Fruit Tree, of Madagascar.
It grows on all the islands of
the Pacific Ocean. The fruit is about
the size of a child’s head, and when it
is gathered before it is perfectly ripe,
and baked in the ashes, it is most whole
some and palatable, very much resem
bling wheat bread in taste.
•<&> -
Wasn’t Afraid.
A little three-year-old was in the habit
of helping himself to crackers in the
pantry—lifting the tin lid and plunging
his hand into the stone jar for them.
One day, after listening to stories about
rats, he went after a cracker, and hear
ing some noise that he imagined was
made by rats, he rushed back to the
parlor, and with flushed face said :
g Muzzer, I ain’t afraid of wats, but
I’se so tired I couldn’t lift the lid.'’
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
S A L-O-Q U Aj
OR,
Boy-Life Among the Indians.
BY REV. F. R. GOULDING,
Author of “ Youtiff Marooners,” “ Marooner's
Island,” etc,
CHAPTER IV,
HUNTING AND FISHING —A PINEY WOODS
CHURCH.
V|4l
- MeTWEEN midnight and mor
ning we were aroused by the
violent barking of our dogs.
My father and Mr. Jamison sallied forth,
guns in hand, to see what was the mat
ter. On their return, they reported two
eyes shining in a distant thicket, and
that the two dogs continued growling,
with bristling backs, but refused to go
in pursuit. The intruder was probably
a panther.
At breakfast, next morning, we chil
dren were favored with another dainty
which we always relished, and for which,
I confess, my taste is not yet lost —it
was what we knew as cooler eggs. Not
long after leaving the countryman, the
day before, our carriage wheel cracked
through something in the road that
sounded like the breaking of a hard,
dry gourd. We immediately looked out
and saw an unfortunate terrapin of very
large size lying between the wheels,
with its shell so much broken as to dis
close a quantity of snow-white eggs.
Quash recognized the sound as soon as
it reached his ears, and with an enthu
siastic cry of “Soup! soup!” stopped
his horses, leaped from the carriage and
bore the rich prize to the baggage
wagon.
At daybreak, the whole camp was in
motion, for the same happy excitement
which had delayed our retiring to rest
the evening before hastened our rising
in the morning. Scipio hu - ried through
his duties as house servant, and set out
to look for fish bait, inviting me to join
him. First he rolled over some old de
cayed logs, and being able to find only
a few crickets, he went to the west mar
gin of the stream, and finding there
many little piles of egg-shaped pellets
of earth, he dug under them with a
sharpened stick, and soon obtained sev
eral dozens of the marsh red-worra.
Just then he spied a large wasp nest
hanging in a briar bush. He went to it,
and to my surprise took it with his na
ked hand. I asked him if he were not
afraid the wasps would sting him.
“0, no,” he replied, “ de was’ too
sca’ed o’ me. But ’fo’ I put my han’
to de nes’ Ido so he thrust his hand
into his bosom and rubbed it under the
arm pit. <! De was' smell dat,” he ad
ded, “and fly right ’way.”
I have known the experiment tried
oftentimes since with unfailing success
—the wasps fly away as if in terror.
“I tink we got bait nuff, now,” said
he, examining the cells of the nest,
which were full of white grubs —a deli
cious morsel to most fresh-water fish.
But Scipio’s exploits as a bait-hunter
did not end there. On our way back he
discovered a fallen pine, the bark of
which was just beginning to separate
I from the wood. Underlying the bark
No. 30.