Newspaper Page Text
Volume LIZ.
MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA,' TUESDAY, MAY 23, 1871.
Number 20.
THE
^eutbern fUmtUt.
BY
R. A. HARRISON, OEME & CO.
bascoji myrick, Editor-
Terms, $2.00 Per Annum in Advance
KATES OF ADVERTISING.
2
a
>
5C
K
ff.
*
<0
pr
4 weeks.
3 months.
6 months.
Vj
©
p
1 l
$1.00
1.75
$2.25
5.00
$7.50
12.00
$12.00
18.00
$20.00
30.00
2.00
7.00
16.00
2800
40.00
3.50
9.00
25.00
35.00
50.00
4.00
12.00
28.00
40.00
60.00
leojl
6.00
15.00
34.00
50.00
75.00
10.00
25.00
60.00
80.00
120.00
lcul| 20.00
50.00
80 00
120.00
160.00
legal advertising.
Ordinary's. —Citation 8 for letters
)f ad ninistration, guardianship, &c. ij
Flomestead notice..••••••••••*---•*
X.pplicationtor distn n from adm n~
Application for dism'n ofguard’n
Application for leave to sell Land
S'otice to Debtors and Creditors
Sales of Land, per square of ten lines
Sale of personal per sq., ten days
Sheriff’s—Each levy often lines,
Mortgage sales of ten lines or less..
Tax Collector’s sales, (2 months
£k r £’ s —Foreclosure of mortgage and
other monthly’s, per square
Astray notices .thirty days
Sales of Land, by Administrators, Execu-
orsor Guardians, are required, by law to
>e held on the first Tuesday in the month,
ictween the hours of ten in the forenoon
nd three in the afternoon, at the Court-
iouse in the county' in which the property
s situated.
3 00
2 00
5 00
3 50
5 00
3 00
5 00
1 50
2 50
5 00
5 00
1 00
3 00
Notice of these sales must be published 40
,ys previous to the day of sale:
Notice for the sale'of personal property
ust De published 10 days previous to sale
Notice to debtors and creditors, 40 days.
Notice that application will be made to
e Court of Ordinary for leave to sell land,
weeks.
Citations for letters of Administration,
nariianship, &c., must be published. 30
lT8 —for dismission from Administration,
onthly six months, for dismission from guar-
insliip, 40 days.
Rules for foreclosure of Mortgages must
s published monthly for four months—for
tablish ng lost papers, for the full space of
ret months—for compelling titles from Ex-
utors or Administrators, where bond has
sen given by the deceased, the full space
three months.
Application for Homestead to be published
vice in the space of ten consecutive days.
CHANGE OF SCHEDULE.
MACON & AUGUSTA S. R-
PASSENGER TRAINS GOING
EAST DAILY.
Lsave Macon at -...6. a. m.
Arrive at Milledgeville 8.14 a. m.
“ “ Sparta ..9.24 a. m.
<• “Warrenton H.00 a. m.
Connect at Camak with up train on Geor
gia R. R. for Atlanta.
Arrive at Augusta 1-45 p. m.
PASSENGER TRAINS GOING
WEST DAILY.
Leave Augusta. 12 00 m.
Arrive at Warrenton — 2.00 p. m.
“ “ Sparta 4.20 p. m.
.* “ Milledgeville 5-30 p. m.
“ “Macon ....*....7.10 p. m.
TRI WEEKLY FREIGHT
GOING WEST MONDAY, WED
NESDAY AND FRIDAY.
Leaves Camak .....6.00 a. m.
Arrives at Warrenton.. —........6.30 a. m
*• “Sparta 9.24 a.m.
“ “ Milledgeville.......... 11.20 a. m.
•* “ Macon ...3.35 p. m.
RETURNING—G O I N G EAST
TUESDAY, THURSDAY AND
SATURDAY.
Leave Macon ...6.00 a. m.
Arrive at Milledgeville 10.00 a. m.
“ “ Sparta 12.00 m.
“ “ Warrenton.. : 2 00 p. m.
* “ Camak.... 3.00 p. m.
Change of Schedule.
GEN’AL SUPERINTENDENT’S OFFICE,
CENTRAL RAILROAD,
Savannah, January 20, 1871.
O N AND AFTER fcUNl-AY, 22D INST.
Pas«enger Trains on the Georgia Central
Lailroaa will ran as follows ;
UP DAY TRAIN.
Leave Savannah...... .... ?:00 A. M.
Arrive at Augusta-..- .... .... 5:38 P. M.
Arrive at Macon....- - -. .5:40 P. M*
Connecting at Augusta with trains going
North, and at Macon with trains to Columbus
And Atlanta.
DOWN DAY TRAIN.
Leave Macon................... .7:00 A. M.
Arrive at Milledgeville........ 9:35 A. M.
Arrive at Eatouton...... ........11 -35 A. M.
Arrive at Augusta............ 5.38 P. M.
Arrive at Savannah.... ...........5:25 P. M.
Making same connection at Augusta as above*
NIGHT TRAINS GOING SOUTH.
Leave Savannah............ ......7:00 P. M.
Leavo Augusta .............8:15 P. M.
Arrive at Milledgeville ,....9:35 A. M.
Arrive at Eatonton..............11:25 A. M.
Arrive at Macon 5:05 A. M.
Connecting with trains to Columbus, leav
ing Macon at 5:20 A. M
Trains leaving Augusta at 8:15 P. M. arrive
in Savannah at 4:40 A. M.
NIGHT TRAINS GOING NORTH.
Leave Savannah...... ..........11:00 P. M.
Leave Macon...... .... •••• ...... 11:31* P. M.
Arrive at Augnsta ......... .....7:40 A. M.
Arrive at Savannah.... ...... ....9:10 A. M.
Making close connection with trains leaving
Augusta
Passengers going over the Milledgeville and
Eatonton Branch will take day train from Ma
con, night train from Augusta, and 7 P.M.
train from Savannah, which connects daily at
Gordon (Sundays excepted) with Milledgeville
*nd Eatonton trains.
WILLIAM ROGERS,
General Superintendent:
May 5,1861, 1 tf.
i&acon &&bertiscmtnts.
B. F, UILLEWIX & SOX,
niHUFACTCKERS fcBerilRERS
—OF—
BOOTS AND SHOES.
IN BASEMENT OF
F,L. GROCE'S SHOE STORE,
HOLLINGSWORTH BLOCK MACON, GA.
R March 21,1870. 11 3m.
*. STRONG.
Wholesale and ZLetail Dealer
IN
No. 52 SECOND STREET,
MACON, GA.
R March 21, 1871.
11 3m.
CROCKETT IR0X WORKS,
MACON. GA-
Build Iron Railings for G-rave IiOtS and
Public Squares, &c.
Make HORSE POWER SAW MILLS,
GRIST MILLS, Portable Engines, and Iron
and Brass Castings of all kinds.
E* CROCKETT.
R March 21, 1871. 113m.
T MARKWALTERS
><\
Broad St., Augusta, Ga.
MARBLE MONUMENTS, TOMB
STONES &C., &C.
Marble Mantels and Furniture-Marble of all
kinds Furnished to Order. All work for the
Country carefully boxed for shipment,
p M’ch 12 ’70 ly. r Feb 1, ’71 ly
T. W. WHITE,
MILLEDGEVILLE GA,
WILL FEAC1ICE HT THIS AHD TEZ A2JCE7IN3 COUNTIES.
CF* Applications for Homestead Exemp
tions under the new law, and other business
before the Court of Ordinary, will receive
proper attention.
January 1 1871. ly-
STER EOSCOPE S
VIEWS,
ALBUMS,
CHROMOS,
FRAMES.
E. & H T. ANTHONY & CO
591 BROADWAY, N Y.
Invite the attention of the Trade to their ex
tensive assortment of the above goods, of
their own publication, manufacture and impor
tation.
Also,
PHOTO LANTERN SLIDES
and
GR4PHOSCOPES
NEW VIEWS OF YO SEMITE.
S. dl H. T ANTHONY 6c CO
591 BroadWAv, New York,
Opp osite Metropolitan Hotel
importers and manufactures OF
PHOTOGRAPHIC MATERIALS.
P March 11.61 6m. R March 14, 10 6m.
NATURE’S
UII RESTORATIVE.
Ulisctlluraus.
Free from tlie Poisonous and
Health-destroying Drugs us
ed in other Hair Prepara
tions.
No SUGAR OF LEAD-No
LITHARGE-No NITRATE
OF SILVER, and' is entirely
Transparent and clear as crystal, it will not
soil the fiuest fabric—perfectly S AFE, CLEAN
and* B FFICI15 N T—desideralums LONG
SOUGHT FOIt AND FOUND AT LAST !
It restores and prevents the 11air from be
coming Gray, imparts a Soft, glossy appear
ance removes Da druff, is cool and refreshing
to'.he head, checks the Hair from falling ofF,
and restores it to a great extent when prema
turely lost, prevents Headaches, cutes all hu
mors cutaneous erupt ions, and unnatural Heat.
ASA DRESSING FOR THE HAIR IT IS
THE BEST .ARTICLE IV THE MARKET.
DR. G. SMITH, Patentee, Groton Juuotinn,
Mass., Prepared only by PROCTOR BltO III-
ERS, Gloucester, Mass. The Genuine is put
up in a panuel bottle, made expressiy for it
with the name of the article blown in the glass.
Ask your Druggist for Nature’s Hair restora
tive, and take no other.
For sale in Milledgeville by L. W. HUNT
&CO.
In Sparta, by A. H. BIRDSONG & CO.
p July 2 ly. it Feb28 ’71 ly.
(77i« following Story, written by a gifted
Southern writer, is entered as a competitor for the
$100 00 P T * z e offered by Messrs. It. A- Har
rison Bro., for “The best original contri
bution" furnished their papers, during the pres
ent year.
MISTRESS ELSIE.
( Concluded.)
PULASKI HOUSE
Savannah, Ga.
WILTBERGER & CARROLL, Prop’.
CHAPTER XIV.
Whilst T was sheltered in my place
of refuge unconscious of the mighty
things going on around me, the sav-
ages had been warned ot the. return
of the hunting party. Some fore
boding of evil had come upon them
so strongly that, despite the need for
food, they had gone a day’s journey
into the forest, and had turned back
again, forced by the conviction that
all was not well. Signs of disturb-
ance struck them as they drew near
er home, and they made the greater
haste. It was near midnight when
a glow was discovered tinging the
cloudless sky in the direction of
Jamestown, and on their reaching an
high hill overlooking it, to their dis
may they beheld the curling tongues
of fire leaping up from the spot
where their all was cradled. Like
men driven to desperation, they for
got fatigue and cold, and with swift
feet came upon the savages before
they were prepared for their return
at all. Then ensued a sharp strug
gle, and when the sun rose again on
the little village the fires were smol
dering slowly—the foe was van
quished, and in more than one house
there was some one dead or dying!
whilst the snow, upon which count
less stars had shown on Christmas
night, was tracked with blood and
trampled under, foot. I wist that a
wail of greater anguish never went
up from more desolate hearts than
ascended from the stricken house
holds of Jamestown that morning ;
and in this latter day when the Lord
doth smile upon the people and the
country. I bethink me often, how He
laid his hand upon them and visited
them for a season with sore trials.
Nan saith that during the conflict,
she lay hidden in her house, which,
from some cause, the savages had
not molested—and so soon as they
were driven away, she ran with all
speed to see how we were faring;
lor in her heart she was troubled ori
our account. None heeded her as
she went down the streets, and when
she saw the cottage fire yet burn*
ing, she ran faster—for she had mis
givings we were needing help sore
ly—nor rested to gain breath, until
she stood directly by the box. Then,
for the first time, she saw the snow
stained with blood, and her eyes fell
upon the motionless figure of the In
dian, lying with his face up-turned
and his weapons beside him ! For a
moment fear overwhelmed her and
she did not realize that he could not
harm bet ; but she gathered all her
courage to look well at him, and
then she saw that he vas dead, and
from the blood which had trickled
down, knew that cold and loss of
blood had killed him. How to move
him,she did not know; but she felt
that if we were benealh ihe box, no
time could be spared; she even
dreaded she was too late—that we
were already frozen! Whilst she
turned about for help, two men pass
ed, and on her calling loudly, they
came to her assistance. First they
lifted the dead man away, and then
came back. When they found us
the child was very cold, but sleep
ing, and I was fast nearing that
world whither my feet shall shortly
lend. I was sitting upright, and my
arms were frozen in their clasp about
the child.
With ail their might they strove to
recall life in me; and after they had
borne me to Nan’s house and had
done all that could be done, 1 came
back to consciousness and fell into a
gentle sleep.
That was the third day since An
thony had gone.
Toward the dusk of the evening I
wakecLand found that my hard couch
had been exchanged for a belter rest
ing place; and as I thought thereon,
sudden fears for the safety of the
child came to me and I arose from
bed and with faltering steps crept to
the door to see if it was in the next
room. As I iooked through the door
way I saw in the gray light, a long
couch in the centre of the room, and
on either side one sat as though
watching.
“I have been carried to some house
of mourning,” I said in my mind.
The remembrance of the night be
fore was distinct, and I knew that
there were many to mourn for, who
had fallen beflic the blow of the
tomahawk. Yet I did not see the
child, and I thought mayhap some
Indian had borne him away whilst
I was cold and lifeless !
“Hath any one seen my little
child ?” 1 asked of the two watchers.
Through anxiety for his welfare, and
pity for the afflicted, my voice was
very low.
“He is well cared for by Nan
Murray,” they answered ; and both
looked with pity in their eyes upon
me, as they spoke.
“What hath become of the sav
age folk ?” I said again.
“The men came haply from the
hunt, and they have fled.”
Being satisfied concerning the
child and relieved in mind about
ihe foe, I looked toward the couch
before me and thought the dead
might perchance be one of those poor
mothers whom they had slain whilst
begging mercy ; and with mine eyes
exceeding heavy with tears, I drew
nearer and inquired, “Whom watch
ye—some poor mother taken from
her household yesternight ?”
“Nay,” they said, and looked at
one another.
“Then whom?” I asked again;
but they seemed to hesitate, looking
often toward the door, as though ex
pecting one more competent to
speak, and without further question
ing, I took the chair they bade me
sit in—marveling in my mind what
all this mystery might be, but too
weak to make it a ma’ter of much
thought or care. I had not sat
there long before the door open
ed and Nan came in. I saw a startled
look upon her face as she caught
sight of me ; but to my eager ques
tioning, she replied that all was well
with the child, and came over to
see for herself if I needed aught.
Finding me so much better, she held
a few words, in private, with the
watchers; and presently, she lead
ing them, they began to speak of the
recent attack and victory. Like one
in a dream, I heard them tell how
the men had returned from the for
est—guided it might seem by the
hand of Providencq—and had put
the enemy to contusion, in the midst
of their wicked work of plunder and
and bloodshed.
I heard them speak of those who
had fallen, and pity the wives that
were left with no husbands to pro
vide for them during the cold and
famine. They dwelt much upon
their sorrows and upon the loss the
colony sustained, when good men
and brave, fell at the hands of the
Ind.ans; and scarcely knowing what
I did, yet with a strange sense of
evil upon and before me, I rose solt-
ly from my seat, and whilst their
eyes were turned away I drew’ near
to the couch and with mine own
hand lifted the covering:
It was even so! The strongest
arm and the boldest heart in all the
town was as still as the figures cut
from stone! and no matter where
we turned, there was no one left to
care for the child and me.
“Come rest upon my bed, good
mistress Elsie,” Nan said, when at
length she saw me.
“Nay,” I cried, “1 will bide
where I am, only go fetch the little
child that I may see him !”
And thus it was that we were left
in that far off land.
The winter continued to be very
cold, ’yet we never lacked food or
shelter; for Nan and her husband
gave us both, and other folk were
very kind—ministering to our neces
sities as though they were claim e-
nough in themselves to make them
share their scanty meals and warm
us by their firesides.
Yet, I knew that we could not
alway expect such care. The
memqry of Anthony’s kind deeds—
the story of his valiant ones, would
fade in time from the hearts and
minds of his people; and I never
ceased thinking what I could turn
my hand to, by which to gain food
and clothes for us. When the Spring
came, bringing ease from perplexing
cares to so many, it found me heavy-
hearted and weary, searching the
future in my longing to see beyond
my present misery, and forgetting
tu my deep dejection He whom I
might have seen had I lifted my eyes
aloft instead of mourning the rugged
path I had to tread ! He whom I
might have heard, had not mine ears
been vainly listening for the foot
steps of the good man who had been
wont to shield me from all trouble—
gone out forever !
At length—more because I could
not help mine own self than from a-
ny grace I had—I folded my hands
and strove to wait patiently. Grad
ually greater faith came to me. And
even, whilst I sat at His feet—who
seemed to will it so—I learned how
beautiful a thing it is to trust the
Word lhat saith, “He careth for the
widow and the fatherless.”
During the Summer days, I had
not strength to work at all, and was
often prostrate from low fevers; but
the child waxed strong and large
beyond our expectations ; and often
I saw Nan and her husband leaching
his small hands to hold the weapons
his father had used before him, and
if he showed some sign of special
courage for his age, cry out, “Look
how he showeth master Anthony’s
spirit!” or, “Saw anyone ever a
child so bold !” whilst, day by day,
they grew the fonder of him.
Toward the early Fall a ship
came from England fetching sup
plies and more colonists ; and with
her came a letter sealed with mourn
ing, for me. Nan gave me it, and
waited by my side, with adimhope
that there might be some message in
it to her from her father’s home.
The news was all for me; and ere
I rejoiced at the providence thus
timely sent, I said—“God grant I
rejoice not that my uncle is dead,
but solely that we have henceforth
the means of living.” Then I made
known to Nan how that the letter
said my uncle had died in great
peace and charity with all mankind,
but was tormented, even to the
d<*or of death, by the remembrance
of his lack of love to me, and of his
broken fahh to his sister! That he
had made all the requital he could ;
had giver, me the half of his worldly
goods and besought me, as I hoped
for grace myself, to bear him no ill-
will, else he could not rest at ease
within his grave. Furthermore, the
letter said my aunt had gone back
to her old home in the north coun
try, bearing her widow’s dower;
and that my portion remained in
London, whither I must go to claim
it.
The ship would return so soon as
she had undergone certain repairs
and had received her cargo. And
after consulting with Nan’s husban^l,
I made up my mind to go back m
her. I saw that gloom hung over
the little household—heard low whis
perings between Nan and himself—
which seemed to be upon some
weighty ma‘ter, and finally was told
the cause. They were weary of
their present life and unwilling to
endure another winter of hardship
and suffering; and if I would be
willing to take them into my house
hold would tend upon me as they
bad done since my husband Antho
ny’s death, and be faithful alway.
So the matter was settled, and unto
this day they have been to me wil
ling ones, in whom no cause of com
plaint could be found. As the time
drew near to leave Jamestown, a
feeling well nigh akin to remorse
took possession of me; for albeit, I
had striven to do my best toward
Anthony, and hail known his worth
as none other did, yet in our short
lives together, he must have been of
ten minded of how much I might
have been, which I was not; and
though uo spoken word gave me to
know he thought of 6ucb, I felt that
often be had known, and borne with
patience jnore than any one knew,
saving himself, who felt what he lack
ed ! And I said in my heart (taking
the little child’s hand in mine) as I sal
Ly his grave, that I would honor his
memory all the days of my life. Be
fore I left the spot which, in all hu
man foresight I was never to see
more, I made the child kneel down
and I taught him to clasp his hands
and S3y that he would never forsake
the land of his lather’s choice, but
would make lhat father’s name to be
honored and remembered for aye—
a vow which it was my part to teach
him to fulfill, and which—God hav
ing helped tne—I have done, as some
slight token of my mind toward his
father.
It was a good thing and pleasant
to the eyes, to see how Nan rejoiced
on the homeward voyage. How of
ten she wondered if the children had
out-grown their old-time love for
her; and how she taught slow, easy
Murray the different fashions of her
kindred from his own, that he might
be less awkward and please them
the belter. As for me, I strength
ened much upon the trip, and was
more like mine own self when I land
ed in London town.
Never had I cause to dread fam
ine or cold again, for my patrimony
was enough and to spare. After
making such investment of it as was
best, I set my heart upon some qui
et country home, where I might
weave in peace my crown of charily
and love towards my neighbors—my
crown to wear some day! and in
thought for others forget myself.
My aunt I never saw again ; but
I heard she rested ill during her lat
ter days, though her tablet in the
parish church says “all was well
with her!” which surely savors of
great peace.
One day, before we set out from
London, I heerd sounds of a voice at
the entrance door, and then some
one caress the child. Full well I
knew who was without, and I stretch
ed out my arms toward a sorrowful
woman who was even then com ms
into the room where I sat.
“Dear little mistress,” she said,
and then gave way to a burst of
tears.
“Janet,” I exclaimed, “this is a
sorrowful meeting, but not so bitter
as the parting was—tell me how it
hath fared with thee.”
Then she told me how Donnel had
died and left her so lonesome and
sorrowful; but that the kindness ot
my uncle had provided for her old
age, so that she wanted for no \» orld-
ly goods. Then she left her chair
and coming over to mine knelt down
and said—
“Sweet lady, let me tell thee how
he died." 1 ’
“Whom, my uncle?”
And her eyes looked at me full of
reproach.
“Nay, dear mistress, but master
Gray.”
For a moment—it was but a mo
ment—I seemed to see a prison
house I once had known, and a face
pressed against the grating, whilst
the full moon shone on both ; then I
spoke earnestly—
“For the sake of the little child’s
father, who lyeth in Jamestown
cburch-yard, I pray thee do not re
call it.”
She iooked at me as though she
thought I had forgotten!
There is little more to tell. Liv
ing as I have lived beyond the busy
world, my life and hope seemed for
years to have no other outlet than
was Anthony, my son. To make
him all that I wished him to be, I
have tried faithfully to be’all that I
myself should be; and in these lat
ter days, when ihe fire on the hearth
stone burns brightly, and the dews
of evening art falling gently, it seem
eth to me that he is such as I have
tried to make him—such as his fa
ther Anthony was ! And when his
days are ended and they two meet
upon the other shore, I pray God
hat my husband may see the motive
that led me to make his son like him
in all things.
script, and as I reach the close, my
unworthy pen longs to record what
traditions are in the family of the
right good and wise Mistress Elsie
Morris, and of her peaceful end.
Her life was spent in constant
tendance upon, and in many chari
ties to, the sick and poor ; and it be
came known to all how sweet and
gracious a lady she was. Old age
came gently upou her; and the ho
liness of her life seemed in the hour
of her need, to fold itselflike a man
tle about her to ward off suffering.
On the evening that she died, her
household were gathered in silent
sorrow about her couch. She bade
them each farewell—tenderly, as a
mother, to her son, who knelt by
her; sweetly, kindly, as a friend
and mistress to Ann Murray and
her husband and some other domes
tics ; and, as if her last earthly act
was over, she laid in peace to await
her summons.
It came ere long. They saw a
strange bright light settle upon her
face! A look of almost youthful love
liness overspread it, and her hands
were raised in eager greeting; whilst
a voice of such ringing sweetness—
like the chiming of delicious bells,
filled the room.
“Hast come, dear love? Let Elsie
lean on part thy staff.”
And as she sank away, the words
11 Forever and forever /” sounded as a
whisper.
“Thinkest thou it wasvny father ?”
But Nan shook her head, she did
not know who came for the spirit of
her mistress, only she knew she had
not gone alone!
Be Social at Home.
Let parents talk much and talk
well at home. A father who is hab
itually silent in his own house .nay
be in many respects a wise man, but
but he is not wise in his silence.—
We sometimes see parents, who are
the life ot every company they enter,
dull, silent, uninteresting at h->me
among their children. If they have
not mental activity and mental stores
sufficient for both, let them first pro
vide for their own household. Ire
land exports beef and wheat, and
lives on potatoes ; and they fare as
poorly who reserve their social
charms for companions abroad, aud
keep their dullness for home con
sumption. It is better to instruct
children and make them happy at
home than it is to charm strangers
or amuse friends. A silent house is
a dull place for young people—a
place from which they will escape if
they can. They will talk or think
of being “shut up” there; and the
youtfi who does not love home is in
danger.
(The words of Mary Morris,—
gentlewoman added in all respect.)
:o:———
I have re-written this old manu-
Married Hen.
Married men are of two kinds—
good and bad. The bad are truly
horrible; the good, very good in
deed. The bad married man ill-
treats his family in every way, and
generally ends by running away
and leaving his wife to earn a living
by needle-work. But the good mar
ried man—well, he is not madly in
love any more, but he believes there
never was such a woman as his
wife. He does not see Time’s chan
ges in her face; she is always young
to him. Every baby binds them
closer to each other.
There is an expression in every
married man’s face that a bachelor’s
can mt have. It it indescribable.—
He is little nearer the angels than
the prettiest young fellow living.
You can see that his broad chest is
a pillow for somebody’s head, and
lhat little fingers pull bis whiskers.
When some one has said Husband,
and some other Papa, a little seal is
set upon his forehead. No one—no
woman, at least—ever mistakes the
g< o 1 married man for an instant.
It is only the erratic one who leaves
you in doubt. The good one can
protect all the unprotected females,
and make himself generally agreea
ble to the ladies, and yet never
leave a doubt on any mind that there
is a precious little woman at home
worth all the world to him.
Rev. Dr. West, of New Bedford,
once heard that his choir would re
fuse to sing on the next Sunday.
When the day came he gave out the
hymn: “Come we that love the
Lord.” After reading it through he
looked pp very emphatically at the
choir, and said: You will begin at
the second verse, “Lei those refuse
to sing who never knew our God.”
The choir sang.
Near Chicago is a steam garden
of two acres, covered with grass,
and a network of pipes laid beneath
the beds, supplied with steam by a
powerful engine and boilers, to sup
ply warmth and moisture.