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VOL. 111.
Their Heritage.
The rich man's son inherits land,
And piles of brick and stone and gold.
And he inherits soft white hands.
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garpient obi:
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold irt fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares:
The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubl.de shares.
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serv ice turn;
A heritage it would .seem to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What does the poor man s son inherit ?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart.
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit,
King of two hands, he does his part..
In every useful toil and art'.
A heritage it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What does the. poor man's son inheri
A patience learned of being poor.
Courage if sorrow comes to bear it.
A fellow feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door:
A heritage, it seems to me
A king might wish to hold in fee.
<). rich man's son, there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whitens soft white hands —
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems tf> me
Worth lieing rich to hold in fee.
O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state,
There is worse weariness than thine
In merely being rich and great;
Toil oujy-gives the soul to shine
And makes rest fragrant and benigt
A heritage, it seemsjo me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
—James Russell Lowel’.
JOHN DALE’S ALIBI.
BY WAI.I,ACE r. HEED.
Early in the present century the Kii
lingworth colliery was one of the most
importtint mines irj England. Railroads
at that day had not been dreamed of,
but the smoothest turn-pike road in the
kingdom made transportation, from the
mine to the city an easy matter.
A long July d’ay was melting into the
shades of evening when John Dale
emerged from the village tavern and
walked across the common. He was a
young fellow, stoutly built, and his
rough garb showed him to be a laborer.
Dale’s face was flushed, and as he
fanned himself with his hat it would
have been plain even to a casual observer
in the twilight that he had taken more
strong drink than was good for him.
The young man had spent the day in
the tavern, and had reached the w ide
awake, surly and dangerous stage of
intoxication.
As he walked slowly along he cursed
the tavern-keeper for refusing him
credit.
•‘He has my wages,” he said, ‘‘and
now he tells me to get out; Well, it is
all right.”
He paused and looked back. He
could see a score or more of miners
making their Way to the tavern. They
haul just been released from their work,
and were going to make a night of it.
•‘I was a fool,” muttered Dale, “to
spend the day there by myself, when if
I Lid saved my money and waited, I
could have been with those good fel
lows. But it is too late to talk about
it.”
The soiled of foot-tops attracted his
■ attention, and ho saw a feeble-looking
old man with a pack on his back moving
slowly across the common.
“The peddler,' said Dale bitterly,
“the stingy old rascal who langhcd
when Oakes ordered me off the premises.
,• ■ Curse him'. I heard his gold clinking in
his pack, and he stood jeering at me
when I was burning up for a drink!”
A cloud settled over the young man's
heavy, sodden face, and his frowning
brow and lurid eyes had a menacing
look.
For a moment he stood motionless,
struggling with the idea up] rmost in
his mind, and then he darted off after
the vanishing form of the peddler.
It was perhaps an hour later when
John Dale, under cover of the darkuew,
slipped into the grimy workshop of
George Stephenson, his employer.
SAVANNAH. GA.. SATURDAY. JANUARY 11, 1888.
f
He lit a tallow caudle and looked at
! his hands.
“Blood'.” he exclaimed. "I thought
| so—l felt it.”
The ruddy glow had left his face, ami
nothing but his flaming eyes indicated
his condition, Going to a tub of water
in one corner of the shop, he carefully
washed his hands, and then examined
his garments. •
“Good!” he cried, after a‘ brief but
, searching inspection. “No traces are
left now, and 1 am ready lor the other
' part of the job. But I wonder what
■ Master .Stephenson would think of this!
Who would have thought, that the old
I mank's invention would prove my sal
vat ion ?”
When he uttered these words his eyes
were upon an odd-looking machine in
the middle of the room. It. was a queer,
clumsy-looking contrivance, but it was
destined to revolutionize the world.
It was the first locomotive.
Month after month John Dale had
! worked in secret with his cranky master
lon this machine. Outside of the shop
■ nobody knew exactly what was going
on, and the hireling grew so interested
■ in his work that even in his drunken
moments he kept Stephenson's secret to
; himself.
Now as he stood there, looking at the,
J little iron monster, emitting jets of
' steam and tired up ready for a start,
Dale could not repress a smile of satis
' faction. He pulled a handful of the
i peddler's gold from his pocket and jin
gled it in his hand.
“ I know what it can do,” he said;
| “it will run twenty-live miles an hour,
I ami that will be enough to make me
‘ safe.”
i The simple preparations that had to
Ibe made did not take long. Stephen
son hid made his in.u hinc with a view
, to meeting the requirements of turnpike
i travel, as there, were no railway tracks
i to try it on, and the concern was more
'ike a steam road wagdh than anything
i else. Occasionally at mid light the in
ventor had tested it on a lonely country
■ road, and more than once Dale had
■stolen off with it for a solitary ride.
It was eleven o'clock by the time-
■ piece over the bar at the Red Lion, in the
hamlet of Medburg when John Dale
vvalked in and called for a drink of
brandy. Every man in the jolly crowd
knew him, and he received a hearty
i greeting.
“What is the hour?” asked Dale, care
lessly.
“Just eleven!” shouted a dozen
■ voices,
“Well, i’ll stay awhile,” said the
new-comer, and he took a sea't at one of
the tables. For an hour or so the bottle
1 w r a.s passed around,jn a lively way, but
after awhile the revelers found that their
generous visitor had taken his depar
' turf.
“When did he go?” several asked,.
Nobody could answer the question,
i and after another round of drinks the
men dispersed.
At two o’clock in the morning John
Dale locked up Master Stepher in’s
steam monstgr in the workshop, and
sought ids bed in the loft ovci al.
18-ha I made good tim As trie ovv
flics, M 'dburg was just fifty mile- tn
i Killingworth colliery.”
' The coroner’s inquest over the mur
dered peddler lasted three days. It was
the most exciting event that had ever
occurred in the annals of Killingworth.
Circuuast lutial evidence wa strongly
against John Dale. He had left the tav
ern and crossed the common at seven
o’clock. A few moments later the ped
dler had gone in the same dir etiou. A
j few minutes before eight the peddler was
■ found dead with his t hroat cut and pack
rifled. Between --ven and eight all the
men in the village could be satisfactori-
'ly accounted for except Dale. Unless
he could prove an alibi he was in an ug
; ly
' The »i-pet ted man wa arrested, i
he stoutly assert- I hi-, innocence, and
t even declared that he was ut Medburg
t at eleven o’clock on the night of the
murder.
Thia was denied by the Killingworth
tavern-keeper, who declared that he
iiad put Dale cut of his house at seven
o’clock. He furthermore said that the
prisoner had spent, most of the day
boozing in a private room, but as it
chanced, he had not been seen by any
visitor except the peddler.
On the second day men began tocome
in Ir <*U Med burg, and by the third day
of the inquest more than a dozen relia
ble xvitnesses had testified that Dale had
been in the tap room of lhe Red Lion
at Medburg at. eleven o'clock on the
night in question.
Jn those days it was nonsense to sup
pose that a man could be at Killing
worth between seven and eight and turn
up fifty miles away at eleven. Horse
flesh was not equal to sueli a trip. I'he '
Medburg alibi was held to he amply
suflicicuf to warrant the discharge of
the prisoner, but the Killingxvorth tav
ern-kenper rushed away from the in
quest declaring that he was either crazy
or Satan had taken a hand in lhe busi
ness.
Dale had a hard time pushing through
the crowd, as nearly every man uresent
wanted to shake him by the hami and
congratulate him upon his .success in es
tablishing his innocence.
Throughout these demonstrations Dale
preserved a stolid face. He had but
little to say, and as soon as possible
started for Stephenson’s workshop.
He had gone about hall wav when he
met Stephenson himself. The inventor’s
usually mild countenance wore an ex
pression of stern r< proof.
“Where now, John?” asked Stephen
son in a strident tone.
“To the shop, sir,” replied the work
man.
“You will never darken my door |
again,” said Stephenson. “See here, ,
John, 1 don’t know that you killed the ■
peddler, but J know how you made out |
your alibi.” |
Dale started, and hi- face blanched.
■fl passed th'.: tavern late in the after '
noon and saw you at a window,” -aid
Stephenson, “so it is useless to pretend ,
that the landlord liefl about your pres- I
cnee. He told the truth. Tin other
fellows told lhe truth, too, about your
arrival at .M dburg at eleven o’clock.
Now, you villain, we two arc the only
living per-ons that, under land the
mystery of this thing. I know what my
machine can do, and you know. !
Whether you committed the murder or
not, you rode on my steam machine to 1
Medburg that night. I,know it; I have
scum the marks of rough usage and the 1
fuel that I had lias al! been usml. ’
“Well,” -aid Dale, sulkily, “what
are you going to do?”
‘fl will save you, if I can,” answered
Stephenson; “but you must, leave, hen
at once, and never return.”
Dale reflected a, moment, and then
h< Id out his hand.
“.None of that!” answered the old
man. “Go at once, am] 1 will be silent,
but I will not take votir band.”
•f
The young man bung his head, and
turning his back to Stephenson, mad<:
for the highway. He had not gone ten
steps before he heard a shout.
“ Dale!”
He stopped and waited to hear wba'
was coming.
“1 say, Dale, did -he rim smoothly ?'
‘Like lightning, Ma-'er Stephen
son.”
“ Ami you averaged twenty-five miles
an hour?”
“A little more than that.”
“Then my fortune made,” said
Sie]Jiensou. “Farewell, ,;md may I
never sec your face again !”
Joi it Dale pulled his i. it over his
eyes and walked off with hi face toward
lhe city. |
lie was never heard from after hi
departure from Killingworth.
Two years later Stephenson’s macl ;:. ■
wa= perfected and took its place among
the wonders of the w< rid. Atlanta
(. un.Gitution.
Lookimr Out l or Himself.
Wife- A box < une to-day, John, ad
dressed to you. »
Husband —Did you open it'
Wife—No.
Husband W«. 11, 1 wish you bad. it
may be one of theie dinged iufcrnul
machines.—[Epoch,
Six Stricken Simiix.
Tn Iss| | was hunting lost,
horses in the broken country west of the
Big Horn river. I had ridden all the
morning over a country thni was stianmn
to me. \bout eleven o'clock I i tossed
a plateau, and was surprised to tome |
suddenly Io the edge of a tic
existence of which I had not even su
pectcd. In lhe canyon w c a stnam i
with clump- of cottonwood limber dong
its banks, and in one of the open -pmes
was an Indian lodge. I’he Indians that
hunted in that country were peaceable, J
but. the war was just over, and the I
Sioux was feeling very sore. if they '
were Crow- or \nipahoc< I might I
get some information about my •
horses. | lay <town and watched. No ;
smoke came from the tepee; no one !
moved around it: half a dozen ponies
grazed a few hundred vnrds distant.
There was not oven a dog, which looked
rather suspicious. Alter waiting five ■
minutes I knew no more than at first. !
Suddenlv three white-tailed deer came
from the timber and walked leisurely
across the opening. Then I knew that
the camp was deserted, and Ihc strange
ness of it startled tne. I mounted and
rode down to the creek, and straight to !
the tepee. I threw back the flap, and 1
shall remember what I saw until death.
In the centre, of the tepee was spread a •
buffalo robe andon the robe were guns
and scalps and many arrows; and
sitting cross-legged in a circle j
around the robe were six braves of
lhe Sioux Nation. All were in their
prime- all decked out in war paint, and
each one held a bow and arrow in his
hand. On every lace was an expression
of calm indifference, as of one who
neither suffers nor enjoys, neither hopes
nor fears. The faces were those of
dead men, and small pox hud marked
them with its itvvi'ul mark. Thev took
their misery with their heads up, and
even the horrors of this disease could
leave upon their hearts no stain of fear,
upon their brows no mark* of suffering.
,And. tip- that their God might judge I
them mon, and fit them to pitch their
camps forever in t4ie groves and gream
fields of paradise. Washington Star.
T . 1
Antwerp.
Among the most, interesting plrno
that 1 visited was the city of Antwerp,
xv rites T. W. <..raw-ford from abrtiad fu
the New York World. This city is .
(hi 1 ily interesting on aci ount of its
modern devclopme it. We have been
taught to believe in the United States
that there is no enterprise or push in
nuy of the European cities. Antwerp is
certainly an exception to the average
European, rule. It is growing today as
rapidly as any We tern town. Some, of
its suburbs look very much like those of
Chicago. B:ocl after block of housis
are going up in various direi tions. If
is the -hipping inte rest which : making
Antwerp. It ha. a beautiful harbor 1
where a nun,l r -of great steamship
lines dhch trgr freight and passenger
for all parts of Europe. The n< w |
growth of this city is most
rem-irkable, for the reason that (itie,
rarely dm and come to fife again.
Antwerp in the. fifteenth century wa:
one of the most powerful ami prosper
ous cities In Europ ■. ft had then a
population of one hundre 1 and ‘'eventy
odd thousand. It was the home of
Rubens, Van Dyck and the greatest
painters of any time. It fell off from
that time through the process of decay
until the pop's! <tion at the lieginning of
this century was down to 45,1100. Now
it is back again to the population that
it had inth" fifteenth century, when it
was at the het tht of its prosperity. Its
growth now is solid. There is plenty
of money in town. The people all aeein
to have work. Thcr ■ nre no beggars of
;.ny account and absolutely no distress
as you bee everywhere in England.
Not on Exhibition.
Grocer to ( :,-.ton. r (plea-nntly): “If
you don't see w hat you want, you know,
ask for it*."
“Well, I don't sec your r< aaon for
charging me IM) cents a pound for this
rank butt r, but I suppose it's useless to ;
ask for that,-—jN< bnxdca btate Journal. ;
i ft. 25 Per Annum; 75 nenU for B>i Month*;
50 cents Thrr« Month*; Bu»<le Copi*»
I t cent*- -In Advano*.
Dr. I'almuge nn«l ths- Gas.
Rev Dr. Talmage in an interview in
the Brooklyn Eagle, says: I began the
mini-try by writing out my vennoos
witli great cure and taking every manu
script into the puipit ami confining my
self «ti icily lo it. But coming out of a
theological seminary with but little
preparation in the way of sermon ma
terial, I found the preparation of two
sermons ami ,i lecture a week a complete ,
physical exhaustion, so I retracted from
that habit and used no notes at all. My J
first experiepice in this new departure j
was marked ami unusual, it was in my [
village cluireh at Belleville, N. J. Find- I
ing that 1 mint stop tlrnevl mislivc work :
of preparat ion I resolved on a certain Sun
day night to I'xlempoi izo. Tha church
had ordinarily been limited with "lamps
as there was no gas in the village, but
the trustees had built a gits home in the
rear of the chilli h, ami the now mode of
lighting the edifice was to lie lesto»l the
very nighi I had decided Io begin my ’
i xieinporaueou< speaking. I’he church
was thronged with people who kadi
( oinc to see the new mode of lighting. I
1 had about ten minutes of my sermon }
in manuscript and put it down on the j
Bible, intending when Hie. manuscript
gave out to launch ont on the great sea
o! extemporaneousness. Although it
was a emd night it was a very hot one
for me, and lhe thermometer .seemed to |
be about up to I'2o degrees. Al a very
■ slow rate I went on with my sermon,
making my manuscript last as long i»a
possible. Doming within throe or lour
1 sentences of w hni I had written, and in
great trepidation as to what would hap-j
pen when I began to extemporize, ,u U
denly the gas-lights lowered to half
their intended size. 1 said within my
self, “Oh! if the gas would only
out I" and sure enough, a- I uttered th©
■ last word of mv manuscript the ligiitA '
were smhb nlv extinct. I ai l. “Iketli- j
ren, it i impossible (or us to proceed. {
Receive the benedieflion,” I went
home greatly relieved fcelitig that I h id
i been rescued front n grciit cri-H. bill ■
fully resolved that I would break !h«;
bondage of rnanu cript and be < frco
man in tin pulpit, and my h.diii has
in i n to extemporize* ever ' ince
I'rlcea of alskins
A <'iiliforninn, iargcl - intere -t d i:i I
the fur seal industry, says Hint swtl-kirfs I
i are expen ive, not because Huy ‘ere|
scarce, but because tin trade limits (ho :
i supply. If all the. -kins that could lae |
taken were jxnjred upon the market, ,
the fur would become so common tlmt
it would cease tn be desired by Ihe J
; wealthy. So the seal catcher aereo
■ upon the total niimbci that they wilt”
put upon the market, and they j
lHeir report to the furriers of Kmdon
and Paris, who meet each year and de- ’
t ide upon jirices.
A Family or Weight.
At floaring Greek, in Randolph
County, West Va., resides a family of j
persons who, are asserte I to b" th j
tallest and weightiest, in the I uif-al
Stales. Tin; family of J< Im K. >■ ott
consisted of 10 childreu, all boVk, two
of whom die I in their infancy. The
height of the remaining > ight is infli,-
vidnaliy over 6 feet. I’he lather vy eight
' 225 pound- Mrs. Scott. *OS, Higii,
2 JO; Giivei J., 207; Charh - J., 2<o: Jof»
son, 215; Janies, 207; Winfield. 2’20;
John, 250; Edwin, 2blJ. VV< iglii of
whole family. *24w pounds.
—— ■UM,— -
A New Water Lily.
A French gardener, Latour M iriiae,
ha- produced a new and beautiful water
lily The flowers are six inc|p in
diameter, un<l their color is thfe soft
canary of tin Marechul Niti roue. Only
two other wat r liliv- arc kijowu—a pret
ty North American species and a dull
colored specie# of Brazil.—(ArktmauW
, Traveller.
Ethel. “Mamma, 1 am writing to
.Nellie Lee; shall I nay anything for
Mamma. “Writing to H»at oon-
■
my love, flow I detent that girl, to be
kur«t!''- [ Harper'* Bazar.
NO. 13.