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ENQUIRER-SOJST: COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1890,
T
THE LAST GOOD-BY.
How shall we know It is the last good-by?
The skies will not be darkened c that hoar,
No sudden blight will fall on lew or flower.
No single bird will hush its careless cry.
And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh
Just as before. Perchance the sudden tears
In your dear eyes will answer to my fears;
But there will come no voice of prophecy—
No voice to whisper: "Now, and not again.
Space for last words, last kisses and last prayer.
For all the wild, unmitigated pain
Of those who, parting, clasp hands with de
spair,"
“Who knows?” wesay, but doubt and fear remain.
Would any choose to part thus unaware?
—Louise Ck Moulton.
A PRETTY GIRL’S WHIM.
It was a beautiful garden—a garden in
which one might almost lose one's self
among the heavy sweetnes.3 of the blos
soming sj'ringa bushes and the avenues
of pink wygelia that wound irregularly
here and there.
It was a July day. A girl lay idly in
a wide luxurious hammock, her bright
head on the soft tinted cushions, her
deep brown eyes upraised to the whis
pering leaves above.
She looked the ideal of happy content
as she lay there in pretty laziness, one
slim hand drooping over the hammock s
edge. A great Newfoundland dog lay
on the grass beside her as she swayed
gently to and fro, toying affectionately
■with the dog’s great, noble head.
Sometimes he would open his almost
human eyes and look up at her silently,
with a happy content that matched her
own.
It was very pleasant there. The book
she had been reading had dropped upon
the grass and lay with crumpled leaves.
A rosebud marked the place.
Wilma Pierce, whose summers were
spent at her grandmother's quaint old
country home, had come here a few days
since, tired out in body and brain as
only a young, hard working teacher can
be.
Already the soothing quiet of the love
ly place had done lier good, and the
brightness of complexion and the lithe
ness of form, which had been impaired
by the year’s hard work, were returning
to her.
A silvery haired, sweet faced old lady
came out of the wide hall door with a
light wrap in her hand. She approached
the hammock with anxious solicitude in
her kind, old face.
“Child, it is cool for thee here; thee
must be more prudent with thyself.”
She wrapped the soft, gray shawl
about the girl’s shoulders with loving,
motherly hands. Wilma looked up and
smiled protestingly.
“It isn’t chilly, grandmamma, dear—
but I submit.”
She took the wrinkled old hand in
hers and held it gently against her warm
cheek.
The old Quakeress bent her stately
form and left a soft, swift kiss upon the
girl’s forehead.
“I must go in. dear heart; thee had
best fall asleep for a little if thee can.”
The soft, gray gown swept away
across the grass, and the wearer stopped
beside the door to pull a sweet, white
rose that stretched temptingly toward
her.
She went in, and the girl and her
dumb companion were again alone.
By and by she fell asleep. The roses
at her bare, white throat rose and fell
with gentle regularity as her breath
came and went. It was a pretty picture.
Ronald Mitchell, coming quietly across
the garden, thought so as he caught
sight of it. and paused involuntarily.
The dog raised his great, shaggy head
and looked a silent welcome from his
brown eyes. The}’ were old friends—
Ronald, the young farmer, and Rebecca
Nor time Id’s dog Don.
The young man stood breathless a mo
ment looking at the sleeper, then with
a softer light in his blue eyes and a
wanner tinge on his smooth shaven
cheek he went on toward the house. He
entered with the familiarity of a well
known and welcome friend, and sat
down easily in a big, antiquated rocking
chair.
RebecSw Northfield came into the
room, her old face alight with welcome.
She came and laid her small hand on
his shoulder. “Ronald,” she said, “my
grandchild, Wilma Pierce, is come.
Perhaps it is not news to thee? She is a
good child, Wilma is, but 1 fear she
loves the world too well. There is little
of the Quaker about her, Ronald.”
He smiled. “I saw her when I came
tlirough the garden just now. She is
unlike you in her dress, but her face has
a likeness to yours.”
They sat together in the quiet room
and talked a little while. All at once a
shadow fell across the bare, white floor,
and they both looked up. Wilma stood
in the wide doorway, her face a little
flushed with sleep, her eyes dewy like a
child’s after a refreshing slumber. She
held a yellow rose in her hand.
“Grandmamma,” she said, all uncon
scious of a stranger’s presence, as she
looked half sleepily at the flower; “grand
mamma. what a lovely rose! Just see
how”
“Wilma,” the calm, sweet voice inter
rupted her, “come here. This is Ronald
Mitchell, the son of my old friend and
schoolmate, Eunice Sand.”
Wilma advanced a little and held out
her hand frankly, but when she met the
intense gaze of the clear blue eyes above
her a shy look came into her own and
she withdrew her hand.
Ronald, watching her, wondered if
her grandmother’s remark about her had
implied that she was a bit of a coquette-.
She leaned over the old lady's high
backed chair and fastened the rich rose
in the silvery white waves of her beauti
ful hair. And then she went away.with
a ittmrmured word of excuse, leaving be-
liii^l her a scent of r:_ses and a remem
brance of a fair, fresh young face rising
flowerlike above her pale blue gown.
That was their first meeting. All sum
mer the young farmer came and went at
his own will and Helped to make the old
place pleasant.
They sang together in the garden.
There was no musical instrument in the
primitive Quaker household, but Wilma
had brought her guitar with her. They
read together in the old summer house
through long, lovely afternoons, while
grandmamma sat near with her homely
knitting work.
They walked toga^er in the great old
fashioned garden and along the mur
muring creeks, and sat idly on the little
rustic bridge, watching the rhythmic
flow of the waters and the minnows
darting in the cool, dark depths below.
It was an idyllic summer. Both were
happy. One knew why it was; the other
onlv half guessed it.
Ronald Mitchell at 30 years had for
the first time felt his inmost heart
stirred and thrilled by a woman's pres
ence. He loved her with all the un
wasted strength of his perfect manhood,
with all the tenderness of a true man’s
first love.
One evening he told her. They were
sitting together on a mossy log beside the
creek.
Wilma had thrown off her wide gar
den hat, and the late rose in her dark
hair gleamed whitely like a soft star in
the dusk.
What caprice seized the girl?
She listened to his eager words with
averted face turned toward the dying
sunset light.
When he had finished she did not an
swer.
“He takes too much for granted,” she
thought; “he is too masterful; he asks as
though my heart was some light thing
:o which he had a right. I will teach,
.aim it is not.”
She rose and turned to go. He caught
her liands and detained her.
“Wilma, are you not going to say a
word? Are you then the coquette I al
most thought you that first day?”
His words stung her. She tried to free
herself, and the rose fell from her hair.
He picked it up.
“If you won’t say anything, Wilma,
give me this rose. Let it be a symbol of
hope to me.”
She snatched it from his hand.
“When I am ready to answer you,”
she said, “I will send it to you,” and
then she slipped away and hurried toward
the house. A spice of romance had al
ways been part of her nature. Now as
she flitted away she touched the sense
less flower with lips that trembled.
“I do love him—I do love him,” she
whispered as she sped along the shadowy
path through the garden.
But the girl’s willful heart was slow
to yield. A week passed.
Ronald Mitchell came not once to the
farmhouse. Rebecca Northfield won
dered at his absence, and looked search-
ingly at the quiet faced girl. One even
ing she came into the quaint old room,
with its sloping roof and lattice window,
where Wilma sat reading.
“1 thought I’d tell thee, Wilma, that
Ronald is going away to-morrow. He is
tired, he said when 1 met him today,
and needs a change. He does look worn.
1 wonder why he keeps away from us.”
She looked keenly through her gold
rimmed glasses at the girl.
“I don't know, grandmamma, I'm
sure. He does act strangely of late.
Will he stay away long, do you think?”
“A month, he said,” she answered.
The girl drew a quick breath. “A
month,” she thought. “In a month I
shall be back in school.”
Her heart beat quickly. After a while
she took a little box from her bureau,
and went down stairs and out into the
garden.
She called to Don and wandered down
to the mossy log beside the creek. She
had been here every day since that time
a week ago.
She sat down on the log, and Don sat
down beside her, looking gravely at the
running stream.
She drew a little folded note from the
box in her hand and opened it.
“Come to me,” it said, and then in deli
cate tracery her name, “Wilma.”
That was all.
The girl’s eyes shone half mischievous
ly as she fastened the tiny box to Don’s
silver collar with a bit of ribbon, and a
bright color glowed in her cheeks.
Then she folded her small hands to
gether and looked seriously into the
dog’s great, noble eyes.
“Good old Don,” she said, “take it to
Ronald — to Ronald — do you under
stand?”
He looked up intelligently into her
face and trotted off sedately.
Ronald Mitchell was in his room
alone. One by one such articles as were
necessary were being packed into his
traveling bag.
A sudden patter on the stairs arrested
his attention, and the next moment a
familiar black head was thrust through
the half opened doorway.
“Why, Don, old fellow! Come to say
good-by? What’s this?”
He unfastened the little box and open
ed it When he had unfolded the slip of
paper and found the withered white
rose ho sprang to his feet. Then, to
Don’s amazement, he bounded down the
stairs and out into the summer twilight,
the grave dog following at his heels.
He found her on the mossy log beside
the creek, looking expectantly toward
him with the shy, sweet glow of love in
her dark eyes and on her face.
Only Don was the witness of that
meeting, but when a little later the
happy lovers wandered np the sweetly
scented garden, cool and shadowy in the
gloaming, and grandmamma came to
meet them with a glad surprise and a
light of calm contentment in her serene
face, all thoughts of the projected visit
were banished, and the half packed
traveling bag lay forgotten on the floor
at home.—Harriet Francene Crocker in
New York Ledger.
Suspicious Conduct.
Patron—The conductor on car No. 999
is the most agreeable street car con
ductor I ever saw. He is very polite.
Street Car Superintendent (alarmed)—
Polite is he? My gracious! He must be
knocking down ten dollars a day.—New
York Weekly.
His Weapon.
Judge—And you say the prisoner came
np and assaulted you with malice afore
thought?
Witness—No, sah; he didn’t use no
sech implerment as dat. He jes’ hit me
wid er dub, sah.—West Shore.
NIGHT ON PONTCHARTRAIN.
Night on Pontchartrain—how the brilliant star
Of evening shines adown the western sky.
Slowly descending in its golden car.
As if inclined to linger; while on high,
Her cup of light half filled, the moon floats by,
Tipping stray clouds with silver, as through
space
They, wandering, chance to meet her radiant
eye.
Night on Pontchartrain—and for such a night
We gladly hail the closing of the day.
How soft, bat yet how brilliant, is the light
Of yon fair stars that flood the heavenly way,
Twinkling and shining still with lambent ray.
Like beauteous eyes oft oyened and oft sealed.
Showing ’neath languid lids a bright display.
And the soft sounds that fall upon the ear
Are well accordant to the lovely scene.
So soft Silence, herself a listener.
Is not disturbed by them; yet so serene
That tne low whisperings of the winds, I ween.
Can scarce be called a zephyr, while the sound
Of murm’ring ripples cometh still between.
—New Orleans Times-Democrat
Reminders of Burns.
In Dumfries one cannot look upon a
single olden structure, or follow with
the eye any close, wynd, vermeil or street,
without knowing that at some time it
was more familiar to Bums than any
portion of the old city is to any one of
its inhabitants today. In the ancient
Bank street house where he first lived in
Dumfries, in the three tiny apartments,
more than one-third of the more than
100 poems he produced in Dumfries were
composed. Then in the Mill, now Bums,
street home, which was his last, the re
mainder were given birth. Among these
were “Auld Lang Syne,” “My Wife’s a
Winsome Wee Thing,” “The Soldier’s
Return,” “Willie Wastle,” “Contented
wi’ Little, and Cantie wi’ Hair,” “Thou
Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie,” “Ye Banks
and Braes o’ Bonnie Doon,” “My Love Is
Like a Red, Red Rose,” “My Heart Is
Sair. I Dauma Tell,” “O Wert Thou in
the Canid Blast,” “Duncan Gray,” “Flow
Gently, Sweet Afton,” and that grand
martial ode, “Bruce’s Address.” The
old, though still spruce, King’s Arms inn
could never have so long stood the
assaults of time and tourists had not
Bums, in a forgivably irreverent and
delicious mood, scratched upon its win
dow pane.—Cor. New York Commercial
Advertiser.
Putting Gold on Books.
In a room at the government printing
office adjoining the one in which a
drawer full of gold is kept, you can see a
man putting on gold titles on superb de
partment ledgers and such things alto
gether by hand. He lays the pieces of
gold foil on the backs of the bound and
completed books, and bums the lettering
fast with little wooden handled dies
that he keeps heated in a small gas stove.
It requires great skill to get the titles
perfectly straight and symmetrical,
though a black silk thread is used to
make preliminai-y lines across the gold
film for a guide. Finally the gold is
rubbed off with a leather tipped stick
and with burnt rubber.
Real gold is only used in this way for
particularly flue books. Designs and
lettering of the sort for ordinary volumes
are done at the government printing
office in nearly the same manner, but
with a yellow composition called “Ger
man metal,” which looks very much
like the gold and is decidedly cheaper.
No trouble is taken to save the wastage,
and each hook cover, after being stamped
by the hot die, is simply put through a
brushing machine.—Washington Star.
The Andes Sinking.
The startling announcement is made
that the Andes are slowly sinking into
the earth's crust. As proof of this La
Gazette Geographique says that Quito
was 9,596 feet above the level of the sea
in 1745; in 1800 it was only 9,570; in 1831,
9,567, having sunk twenty-six feet dur
ing the fifty-five years following 1745, and
but three feet during the thirty-one years
which intervened between 1800 and 1831.
In 1868 the city’s level had been redneed
to 9,520 feet above the level of the Pa
cific. To sum up the total, we find that
Ecuador’s capital has sunk seventy-six
feet in 122 years. Antisnna’s farm, the
highest inhabited spot on the Andes
(4,000 feet higher than Quito, the highest
city on the globe), is said by the same
authority to be 218 feet lower than it was
in 1745.
Filial Affection Among Hebrews.
There is nothing in the world of pleas
ure and recreation to compare with the
beautiful devotion that is paid the old
Hebrew people by their children and
grandchildren at the various summer
resorts. A rude remark is never made
in their hearing, nor adisrespectfnl word
uttered to aged mother or father. The
gentle yielding of easy chairs, the offer
ing of choice things to eat and drink,
the last consideration of self where there
is a drive or sail for a limited number,
and the graceful anticipation of creature
comforts are attributes of the children
to which the filial respect of the Christian
is not approachable.—New York World.
A Maine Man’s Trank.
I was talking with one of tfie old set
tlers the other day, and he said:
“Don’t know Hen Jones, do you?
Wall, when you see him you’ll know
him; he's got the damdest nose on him
that you ever seed on a live being.
T’other day I see Hen coming down hill in
to the village, and he was driving a horse
with one hand and mairin’ queer motions
with t’other. When he got up to me 1
seed what he was doin’. He was pickin’
up pebbles from a pile in his wagin and
was stonin’ mosquitoes off’n the end of his
nose.”—Lewiston JournaL
Saving the Government Money.
“Yon want a pension, and yet you say
you were not even enlisted. On what
do you base your claim?”
“Just this: If I had gone to the front
I might have been totally disabled, and
so been in a position to claim $100 a
month. As it is I ask for only $25.
Money in the government’s pocket, don’t
you see.”—Harper’s Bazar.
A Precocious Child,
xt was a Toledo child who, being down
for a recitation at a Sunday school ex
hibition, told the audience of a place
Where every prospect pleosw
And only man has bile.
—Detroit Free Press.
A MISTAKE
Before he went away to make his
fortune Samuel Wadleigh had been very
much in love with Cora Eastman. It
v*'.s a boy and girl attachment, and a
very romantic one. The boy was a tall,
blue eyed fellow, with a small waist
and curly golden hair that lay in thick
little rings all over his head. He was at
once very manly and very youthful in
appearance, and it would hare been
hard for a girl not to fall in love with
him if he had tried to make her. Cora
was a little brunette with big black eyes
and a good color, and he thought her
beautiful.
He longed to offer her his hand and
heart and get her to engage herself to
him before he left home; but he reflected
that he had no right to hind her by any
promise until he was sure of that for
tune he was going to • seek, and when he
gave her a little forget-me-not ring he
only spoke of it as a token of friendship.
However, when they parted she knew
as well as he did that he loved her, and
looked forward to the usual finale of a
wedding.
Time passed on. The young people
wrote at first once a week, then once a
month, then occasionally. “Absence”
—says the modern poet—“makes the
heart grow fonder of somebody else.”
Young Wadleigh went a good deal
into society abroad, and Cora had plenty
of admirers. He got into a convivial
set, where they drank a good deal of
wine and had liberal views. She be
came very pious, and rather leaned to
prohibition. Their last letters were
very formal, and when fifteen years had
passed and Samuel Wadleigh found him
self coming home with the fortune he
had made after all, he scarcely remem
bered Cora Eastman.
Certainly Cora did not know him.
The light haired youth had changed into
a man of 40. All his curls were gone,
and his head to his ears was as smooth
and shiny as a billiard ball. His waist
was gone, too. He had the proportions
of an alderman. However, he was still
what people call a fine looking man. As
for Cora, she had all her black hair and
no wrinkles, and had kept her trim little
figure, hut she had changed curiously.
He knew her at once, but she was not
the same. What does Time do to us?
When does he do it? How does he do it?
If we women could but find out!
There was nothing to sigh over in
Miss Eastman’s case. She was a tight,
trim little woman of five-aud-thirty.
But where were Cora's smiles? the dim
ples that seemed about to appear when
she smiled? the soft brightness of the
eyes? the way of looking and moving'.
All gone—vanished!
It did not occur to Mr. Wadleigh that
be had altered much more—it never does
occur to men. He told Miss Eastman
that he was delighted to see her once ’
more, and she said polite things to him,
wondering all the time whether this
could be the charming youth who used
to set her heart beating by a touch or a
glance—this very nice person, portly,
well to do, well mannered, but not in
the least interesting. She compared
him unfavorably with Mr. Sweetsmile,
the charming new clergyman who had
just had a call to their church, and who,
had taken both her hands in his only
yesterday and said, “What we should
do without you in the Sabbath school,
Miss Eastman, I cannot imagine!” He
was charming!
The course of events threw Samuel
Wadleigh a great deal into the society
of his old love; the families were con
nected and moved in the same circle.
By degrees he met small nieces and
nephews who had been children whet
he went away, and were now young
ladies and gentlemen—among them a
certain little Cora, Miss Eastman’s
niece, prettier than she had ever been,
and with all her witching ways, her
half-hidden dimples, her smiles and her
sweet side glances. She sat opposite
him at the dinner table, and he could
fancy all the years rolled away, and he
the boy who gave the girl he loved the
forget-me-not ring. He remembered
her a pudgy little child in white fur
walking with her maid in the park and
kissing her hand to auntie.
“What a charming girl!” he said to
Miss Eastman. “You over again!” And
then Miss Eastman made the younger
Cora come and talk to “her old friend,
Mr. Wadleigh.”
Cora had heard of him as the gentle
man who had been her aunt’s admirer
and lived single for her sake, and she
was very nice to him. She felt that he
had a romantic history, and that Aunt
Cora ought to have been more constant,
and so she was, as we have said, very
nice.
And of all this Mr. Wadleigh never
dreamed, and little thrills went through
him, and he made up his mind that fate
had been very good to him. Here was a
lovely young creature—exactly the sort
of girl he admired—smiling on him and
listening to all his compliments in a way
that encouraged him to pay more.
“The elder Cora is a very sensible wo
man.” he said to himself. “She has quite
forgotten old times; she has none of
those foolish little ways that some wo
men would have of reminding me that we
were lovers. Really, some of those first
letters of mine were tantamount to pro
posals; but it is all over; I am quite free.
I’m a good match. No doubt little Cora
will see that at once,” and after solemnly
deliberating the pros and cons for three
days and nights he began to take Cora
out to drive behind a pair of very hand
some horses, to send her bouquets, and
to invite her to the opera. As she re
sided with her Aunt Cora he naturally
invited the other lady as chaperon. He
did not sa.y that, but plainly she under
stood it, for she left most of the talk to
the girl and was sometimes grave and
silent. Once or twice she even seemed
to try to excuse herself.
“So very sensible,” thought Mr. Wad
leigh, and at last, when he had, he fan
cied, spent time enough dancing attend
ance on this fair one, he seated himself
one evening at his desk and wrote an
offer of marriage. “Which,” he added,
“surely cannot surprise you—you must
know by my manner how I feel.”
\ This he addressed to Miss Cora East-
maa ^d carried to the house with hi*
own hands.
“For Miss Cora,” he said to the serv
ant. “Don’t make any mistake.”
“Not I, sor,” said old William. “1
know right well which lady it's for.”
_ New old William had been in the fam
ily many years. He well remembered
those old days when this gentleman was
spoken of as Mr. Samuel, Miss Cora's
sweetheart, in the kitchen. He had no
doubt whatever that the letter in his
hand was meant for his young lady.
The “bit of a girl,” her niece, he still
considered a child, and so with slow and
solemn steps he made his way to Miss
Eastman’s own room, rapped on the
door, opened it and entered on tiptoe.
“Miss Cora,” said he in an awful whis
per, “Master Samuwell—I mean Mr.
Wadleigh—tould me to give you this
quite private, and to be particular about
it.”
“Thank yon, William,” said Miss East
man, and when he was gone she sat
looking at the envelope rather dismally.
At last she. opened and read it.
“I thought so,” she commented, with
a little groan.
On the evening he had appointed in his
letter Mr. Wadleigh rang the doorbell
a little apprehensively. He had a
carnation in his buttonhole and a big
bouquet in his hand.
William opened the door. His smile
was confidential.
“Miss Cora said if you would take a
sate in the library she’d resave you in a
few minutes,” he whispered, and Mr.
Wadleigh entered the library. Here all
was very quiet and no callers would
intrude. Here he would learn his fate.
“And why should I fear it?” he asked,
surveying himself in the glass over the
mantelpiece. Yet all the same he was
conscious of a certain tremor, rather
inward than outward, and his ears
burned.
Ten minutes at least were given him
in which to quiet himself. Then a door
opened at the end of the library and a
figure entered—Cora. Ho started up
and advanced toward it. It was Cora
certainly, but not the one he expected—
not his new love, but his old. He
stopped—stood still. She advanced; she
held his letter in her hand. It suddenly
dawned upon him that William had
made a mistake.
“Pray be seated,” said Miss Eastman,
and he was very glad to sit down.
“I beg,” said the lady, “that you will
give me a little time. I can not formu
late my ideas as I desire to. I”
“Oh, take time, take time!” said he.
and walked away to the window.
It was all up with him, he felt. She
would shortly exclaim, “Samuel, I am
yours!” anti perhaps fall into his arms.
All the mistaken spinsters and widows in
the plays did that, and he must make up
his mind to it. There had been a tacit
engagement between them. It had never
been broken off. He had written to
Cora Eastman. She was Cora Eastman.
Nothing could• alter that, and he could
not injure and insult her. After all.
she was a nice little woman, and of the
proper age for his wife.
She was pretty still, she was good.
He had not the strength of mind to get
out of this fix. unless it had been bad
enough to warrant him in cutting his
throat. And at this moment she spoke.
“Samuel,” she said—she had not called
him Samuel since his return—“Samuel,
I have found words at last. Come
here.”
He came and sat down in a great chair
opposite her.
“You can’t tell how I feel,” said she.
“You tell me I must have expected this
letter, but I did not. I thought you bad
forgotten. If you had said a word—one
word. I was very constant for years,
but time has an influence. I’ve altered;
so have you. I did not know you when
1 first saw you, but still had I guessed
I should have thought it my duty to try
—I—I—it must come out somehow. I
am engaged to be married to our pastor.
Mr. Sweetsmile, and I feel that I have
chosen for my happiness. Don’t feel too
bad, Samuel. I will always be a sister
to you.”
Ten minutes before this Mr. Wadleigh
would have fancied that he must rejoice
at this termination of their meeting.
Here he was out of his dilemma, free
again. All he had to do was to bow,
look grave, accept the position of friend
and brother, and retire gracefully; but,
after all, he had been refused, and he felt
angry. He had been informed that he
was no longer an Adonis, and he was
hurt; and somehow Cora, in her excite
ment under the influence of emotion,
and in the shadows of the library, looked
so charming that some portion of his old
love sprung to life again. Now that he
knew he could not get her, and that
some one else wanted her, she became
desirable.
“I am an idiot,” he said aloud, and
Cora answered:
“Oh, dear, no! I shall always remem
ber your truth and constancy very ten
derly.” He bowed and took his hat. He
bowed again and retired to the door. As
he went along the passage to the central
hall of the large house he heard the
front door open.
“William, where is auntie?” said Cora’s
voice.
“In the library,” said William. “But
don’t you go there. Mr. Samuel is in
there offering of his3elf. Poor gentle
man, I’m afraid it’6 the day after the
fair; but such is life.” ,
Then Cora giggled and ran upstairs.
Mr. Wadleigh never proposed to the
youngest Miss Eastman. Later he mar
ried a showy widow who admired him
intensely. She had no young Samuel
Wadleigh with hyacinthine locks and
slender waist to compare him with, and
still Mrs. Sweetsmile keeps a little for
get-me-not ring in a little Russia leather
box and looks at it sometimes.
“Poor fellow!” she sighs. “How true
and faithful he was to me, and how little
I deserved it!”—Mary Kyle Dallas in
Fireside Companion.
In England, where particular attention
has been given to the subject of electric
brakes, a means has been discovered by
which a train going thirty miles an hour
can by an electrical brake be brought
to a standstill in a space of 200 feet.
CRAWFISH SPRINGS.
A PHENOMENAL WORK—A WONDERFUL
LY ATTACTIVE TOWN.
Crawfish Springs, Georgia, on the bor
ders of the historic field of Chickamauga,
thirteen miles from Chattanooga, is des
tined to be one of the most wonderfully
attractive towns in the country and a fa
mous resort.
Mr. Carroll H. Smith, the clever and
affable General Freight and Passenger
Agent of the Columbus Southern Rail
road, who has recently been on a business
trip through that section informs the
Enquirer-Sun that it is impossible to
convey in a descriptive article a satis
factory idea of the magnificent capabilities
of this place, or conception of its grand
eur and beauty now. He states that there
is now in operation a railroad—broad
gauge—eighteen miles in length, front
Crawfish Springs to the top of Lookout
mountain, to the Round mountain coal
mines, extending over 4,000 acres, owned
by the Crawfish Springs and Land Im
provement Company, and containing
three separate seams of coal superior to
the famous Pocahontas mines of Virginia.
This coal contains 804 per cent, offixed
carbon and is the best cooking coal, as
shown by analysis and practical test, that
is found in America. The company owns
4800 acres of land surrounding the town
of Crawfish Springs, which is conceded
to be the most beautiful town site in the
State. The spring flows 24,000,000 gallons
of water in each twenty-four hours
and is invariably clear and cold, the tem
perature being 59 deg. There is now
nearing completion a seventy-room m od-
em hotel, which will be supplied with
water from this Spring, heated by steam
and lighted by electricity, and 3200 feet
glass enclosed veranda. A lake two miles
long of clear water is being arranged, and
Naptha steamers will be plied thereon
with beautiful barges for the pleasure of
the guests of the hotel. There is now
about completed a boulevard completely
encircling the lake and immediately along
side the water. This will be the most com
plete and beautiful pleasure drive in the
South. The company control within fif
teen miles of Crawfish Springs.immediately
on their own, and other railroads, 15,000
acres of the most valuable iron lands in
the South. The intention of the company
is to make this place more attractive, both
as a business place and pleasure resort,
than any place within the reach of the
people. They recognize the fact that in
order to do this they must spend their own
money to develop the properly. With
this in view they are now expending $600,-
000, which sum will go into improvements
before one dollar’s worth of property is
offered for sale. The company is com
posed of Kaiser A Co.. London, England,
Alfred Suilv,Lehman Bros.,Simon Borg &
Co., R. K. Dow of New York, J. D. Wil
liamson, Rome, Ga., Gen. J. T. Weiider,
Chattanooga, Tenn., and the Chattahoo
chee Brick Company, Atlanta, Ga. The
scheme is the outcome of the untiring
energy and brain of Gen. J. T. Weiider,
and has been a dream of his life since he
marched his brigade ovej this property to
the great battle of Chickamauga, in Sep
tember. 1863. The property of the Com
pany joins broadside onto the lands which
the United States Government is now ar
ranging to buy for the National Park,
commemorating the above named battle.
This is to be the grandest park of its kind
in the country, containing about 7,000
acres, and will be given the same careful
attention and improvement that character
ize all work of this kind undertaken by
the Government. It is proposed to ex
pend about $2,000,000 in beautifying and
improving the park. This was the scene
of.the greatest battle of the late civil war.
FOR RENT I FOR SALE.
$18.50. House West Fifth avenue, between
Twelfth and Thirteenth streets.
$13.50. House No. 1031 Fifth avenue.
$16.00. House West Second avenue, near Four
teenth street.
$15,00. House West Fifth avenue,on corner Sixth
street.
$20.00. House East First avenue, south of
Seventh street.
$30.00. No. 1333 Broad street.
$16 2-3 House West Hamilton avenue, on Rose
Hill.
$18.00. House corner Oak avenue and Twentieth
street, on Rose Hill.
$10.00. New houses on Roberson street on Rose
Hill.
$1(100. Houses in Girard.
$11.00. House No. 727 Front street.
$15.00. House No. 608 First avenue.
$25.00. House near girls’ public schools.
$15.00. House next south of corner Fifth street
and Broad street.
Stores and rooms in Webster building and
Jaques’ building and over Needham’s comer.
Also many houses and lots lor sale, and planta
tions for sale. Apply to
MOON <fc HARRIS*
REAL ESTATE AGENTS,
Telephone No. 250
Office No. 17 Twelfth street, opposite post office,
AUCTION SALE
OF THE
C.S.Harrison 30-Acres Survey
IN BEALLWOOD
A Half Mile North of Columbus
And the Present Terminus of the Colufm-
bus Street Railroad.
On Tuesday, October the 7th, 1890, in the city
of Columbus, at the corner of Broad and Tenth
streets, at 11 o’clock a. m.. the a.ove 30 acres
will be sold to the highest bidder. It is situated
on the east side of Hamilton av.nue, adjoining
the land of Mrs. William Griggs on the north,
Mrs. Ennis on the east, and the City Land Com
pany on the south, and very near the home of
Col. William H. Young
The 30 acres have been subdivided into lots 65
feet 4 inches wide, 148 feet in length. Four
teenth, Fifteenth, Sixteenth, Seventeenth and
Eighteenth avenues, on the prese> t plan of the
city of Columbus, have been extended through
said lands north and south, and Forty-second
and Forty-third streets running east and west.
Fifte- nth avenue has a width of 70 feet, the other
avenues and streets a width of 50 feet. Beal.-
wood is noted for being one of the healthiest sub
urbs of the city, having an altitude of 135 feet
above Broad street. Excel ent well water, and
the best of neighbors. Twelve acres of this tract
is heavily timbered with virgin forest, consisting
of pine, oak and hickory. Any one of the tim
bered lots offered for sale has at least $!0O worth
of wood on it. The sale is made without reserve.
Now is your opportunity to get a portion of this
valuable land, and secure a home which in the
near future will be within the limits of Colum
bus. If you fail to buy at this sale you will have
to pay from one to two hundred per eeut. profit
hereafter.
Terms—One-third cash, balance one and two
year-, at eight per cent., with privilege of all
cash if preferred. Circulars with plat of the sur
vey will be on hand on the day of sale, to-wit:
11 o’clock a. m., Tuesday, October 7th, 1890.
Titles perfect. Apply to
Grigsby E. Thomas, Jr.,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
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