Newspaper Page Text
/• Register.
CARNESVILLE, GA.
Replying to Her Critics.
UrisUouM die, how kind you ell would prow;
3n ! that atranso hour I would beautiful not have to a foe.
There are no words too say
r Of one who aoes forevermore away
Across that ebbing tide which has to flow,
Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low;
While I can hear and understand, bestow
That gentlo treatment and fond Jove, I
| Tho luster of whoso lato though radiant
gild way with mocking light I
iWould my grave
know.
If I should die.
-Ella Wheeler.
“A Bottle.”
In a cabin locker for many a year
A bottle lay: the weather fair dear. .
And whether was rough and or
Or whether the ocean was gray,
Tbo bottle bad nothing to care or fear;
Yet the ship was an iron oaken man,
I And the other was nothing but brittle
gloss- A bottle.
fWhere the billows rose highest, the storm
king flow
1 Over tho sea;
And the waters foamed and the wild winds
blew, tossed in whirling
$ While tho mad wares a
And all tfat was left of a ship and crew
Came, bringing Its message with silent lips
Of the peril of those who g* down in ships—
A bottle.
| —Ernest MoGoffey.
LUCY’S FOE.
Down on the Jersey shore, in a little
brown house with unpaicted floors,
lived Lucy Gray, the flower of the fish¬
ing village ot Saltfish—tho toast of
every fisher-lad May. between Jersey City
and Cape delicate little thing, with
Lucy was a color, golden hair, and
a wild-rose
deep, dark eyes, that had a trick of
drooping shyly beneath their long
lashes whenever young Mr. Thornhill
rode horse, by the cottage and bowed on his low thorough¬ her
bred to as
she sat by the open window at her sew¬
ing; and Mr. Thornhill’s bay horse
seemed to turn that way so naturally,
that Lucy’s father at lost took tho
alarm.
They wero people, “Friends”—quiet, rich, well
meaning least been respectable who, if not all their had
at
world’s And George people”—his Thornhill life was “of long the
was one
holiday of the pleasure; hill his great temple marble
house on was a very of
reigned luxury, over mistress, which though his only only sister his
as at
pleasure. Friend Peter Gray, and his good
wife, Lucy, shook their heads over
their young landlord's evldont admira¬
tion of their ono ewe lamb. And be¬
tween them, in solemn council, it was
arranged that Peter should speak to
him civilly but seriously, the very next
time that ho passed by.
The same evening, ns the old folks sat
by breezo tho kitchen rendored fire, which needful, the cold sea
summer
though them. it was, a groat surprise came to
the Lucy, who house, had gono on nn earlier errand to
next came in, than
8quire” they had (as expected. the fishers generally The "Young
called
him) was with her. Ho led her to her
reverently parents, bowing before them. his handsome head
“I love your daughter dearly,” he
•aid, “Will you give Iter to me for my
wife?”
“Our Lucy!” could cried Peter Gray, as
soon as ho speak for astonish¬
ment daughter “Why, thee might marry tho
of tho .President, Friend
if thee
“But I don’t like,” said tho young
with a smile in his deep blue
eyes. “I have never seen the girl, ex¬
cept Lucy, that I could love; and she
is fond of me, though you may not
think so. Why, 1 havo looked forward
to hor marrying sitting her eyer sinco I first saw
cluster at yonder window, with a
of appio blossoms in her hair.”
"Au eternity, indeed!” said Friend
“I waited seven years for her
mother, and I loved hor dearer every
moment of those seven years, 1 think. ”
“But there is no need of such a do
lay in our case," said tho young Squire,
“Perhaps frightened. But under
not. ono year
we cannot give our consent,” said
Friend Gray consulting his wife by a
look. “At the end of a year thee may
take her, Friend Thornhill—not be¬
fore."
In vain the young Squire fumed and
fretted. The quiet Quaker was “set in
concession his way,” and that Luoy, ho had knowing already the made, groat
dared not plead for more. For it had
been the dream and hope of her par¬
ents to see her the wife of some steady
young Friend, who would dwell with
her on a small farm near their own.
Such a young Friend Indeed existed,
who would willingly have oarried out
his own part of that peaoeful pro¬
gramme; been gentle but Luoy, to Charles who Deane had always before
so
her own neart was touched, had scarce¬
ly long a civil word to conditional offer him during betrothal the
year of her
to the young Squire.
Yet Char lee Deane came to the brown
cottage her all the same, talking chiefly but to
ing parents long, sad during looks his visits, Lucy that cast¬ it
at
tried her patience terribly .to ignore.
That summer dragged ou wearily
enough for Lucy Gray. It Throughout
eaoh week there was only the week’s
work to do, of mending, making, wash¬
ing, the fowls, baking, and attending to the eggs,
and the batter.
At dusk ou Saturday evening, tho
whole house was in the neatest order,
and all signs of labor dono away.
On the Sabbath no cooking was dono
and food whs eaten cold, while the
family solemn spent silence most of the day in the
of a Quaker meeting;
and on the Monday theep was the same
dull round for Lucy to begin again,
t It was not du l to her parents. They
dtejoyed Um nurfeet calm. « -—
happy in Their home, 7n ea'ch "other,
and in their only child, and life had
nothing better to offer them than this
ever-recurring routine of domestic and
religious But Lucy duty. had listened from her
ear¬
liest remembrance whenever the Hall," neigh¬
bors talked about “Thornhill as
most of them called tho great house on
the hill.
fjfco had never entered its doors, yet
she understood perfectly how different¬
ly existence went on there. She knew
all about the magnificent Carpets and
furniture, the curtains over the great
bay windows sweeping to tho floor,
velvet for the winter months, costly
lace lined with rose-color for the sum
mcr.
She had heard of tho marble statues,
the costly chandeliers, the grand circu¬
lar staircase that went up and around
to tho very roof, the stained-glass win¬
dows on Thornhill’s every landing. toilettes,
Miss imported
all aglow with color, might be seen by
anyone who chose to be in tho one
street of Saltfish when tho barouche-
As for the greenhouses, hot-liouses,
and forcing-pits, was not the hill at
Thornfield all one glitter in the sun¬
shine every day with tho acres of
Scotch “glass” over which presided? McCleary, tho
The gardener, little Friend looked sadly
poor from drab
out colored through life the summer this luxury and her splen¬
longing upon share it, but only
dor, to
cause it all belonged to “George.” fuR
Her head and heart were of her
betrothed, and she so seldom saw him
now, except for a few brief moments
in the presence of her mother, before
whom they Were both naturally tongue
tied and abashed.
She saw how these restraints annoy¬
ed and worried him, and she did not
wonder that he came less often when,
in the bright midsummer, his sister
filled the great house with her own
friends—bright young belles from the
city, before whose gay and fashionable
prosence Lucy shrank away timid and
afraid.
George Thornhill was forced play
the host to all these fair guests, he told
her, when he came to excuse his ab¬
sence. She acquiesced; and she heard
of sails the riding the and driving the parties, strolls the by
upon lake, and
moonlight, with perfect composure,
Ulster,’ reMemUer that? "And wlen
you enter George’s home I leavo it I
will countenance no low born beggar
as my brother’s wife!”
Meek as was Lncy, by nature and by
training, and her dark her cheeks flashed flushed fire crimson, this
eyes at
taunt.
“I am no beggar, Miss Thornhill,”
she said hotly. “And if your brother
loves another, not for the world would
I be his wife.”
“Tell him so,” said Miss Thornhill
eagerly. day, and "Write gladly it to he him will this be very free
see how
from you.”
“I will,” said Lucy proudly.
And she went home and wrote the
letter.
The next day she lay in a brain
fever, and hor mother, guessing the
state of the case from her ravings, re¬
fused to let George Thornhill see her,
when he rode down to the farm.
Six weeks afterwards, when Lucy
was able to sit up by the open window
once more, her mother told her, pity¬
ingly, “Where of that visit nowP” from her lover. Lucy,
is he asked
turning “Gone white. abroad, with his
sister and
Miss Ilford, and a great party of
frionds. No one knows when they will
return. Tho great house is closed, and
left in care of the gardener and his
wife.”
Luoy George made no answer. She men¬
tioned Thornhill no more.
As the year passed on to winter, her
paroeils him. But hoped when that she Christmas had forgotten they
at
urged hor to look moro kindly on
Friend Deano, she burst into a passion
of tears that frightened them.
“Never speak again of marriage to
me,” she criod. “I gavo my heart
once for all, and it is broken now.”
land, Spring and smiled Lucy once moro apple-blos¬ upon the
wore no
soms in her hair.
Their color, thoir odor even, mado
her heart faint within her.
But at tho groat house they were
gathored iu clusters to lay upon a cof
fiu lid.
George Thornhill had returned, and
with him came his sister, but no longor
living and imp erious.
Pale and col d she looked, under the
heavy Velvet pall, as they laid her
away in, tho Thornhill vault, and Lucy
Gray, after one glance at the den If ace,
until assigned the gossip of of these the fair neighborhood belles
one to
George Thornhill, and to him alone.
nothing, Then Lucy but grew took jealous. opportunity She said
sne au
one pleasant of the afternoon equestrians of watching side the
return on a road
leading Hall. from her house to Thornhill
Yes! There they were^ precisely as
people George had said. George, her riding own
the bridle-rein *o longer, of perhaps, the beautiful was Miss
at
Kate Ilford.
He did not even see Luoy as they
passed sadly by, him under though drooping she stood elm gazing by the
at a
wayside. But MiflS Ilford, gorgeous
Egyptian and evidently princess recognised that she her was, rival. saw,
Such a scornfully triumphant glance
as she oast on her, utterly Ignoring the
pale but taking and perfeol loveliness of her face,
in each detail of her un¬
fashionable attiro—lingering over it
with that air of pitying wonder with
which one woman knows so well how
to crush another.
Nor was this all. As Luoy shrank
back under the drooping branches of
the etae, ashamed of herself, and still
more ashamed of her Quaker garb, a
second lady, more proud and imperi¬
ous, but not so young or handsome as
Miss Ilford, reined her horse up by the
girl’s “You side.
can see for yourself, Lucy
en,’’ Gray, she where said my harshly. brother’s "He heart loves is Kate giv¬
Ilford with all his soul, but he is a
man of honor, and he will never tell
her so unless you set him free. And
that," she added scornfully, “you will
never do, I suppose. You will not lose
the chance of warning the richest
man in tho State. But I shall hate
you, sisuys! Never will 1 call rou
went homeward, weeping bitterly.
She had hated her, not knowing it,
- while in the bloom and glory of life
she descended to the grav.-.
George Thornhill had returned as he
went, unmarried. But Miss Ilford re¬
mained in Paris, the bride of a French
nobleman.
In the evening a neighbor brought
this piece of news to the brown cottage.
Lucy slipped away after hearing it,
and went io the old /trysting place to
wonder what it could mean.
George Ho Thornhill was there his before
her. turned, dressed in deep
mourning, kindly. to welcome her, gravely but
.
sister “Lucy, on her death-bed, my poor
told me all,” lie said. “I never
loved Miss Ilford, as she assured you I
did. I never thought of any woman
save you as my wife. And you, 1 now
know, did not love young Deane, as I
then believed when I went away and
left you. We have both suffered, dear,
but we must forgive her, for she is in
her grave. And can you forgive me,
Lucy? knows, I have been truo while.” to you, God
all this weary
Lucy’s pale face brightened into its
early bloom as she listened. She held
out her hand to her lover with a happy
smile. And the past months of sorrow
and parting wero forgotten, as beneath
tho stars they sealed their new betroth¬
al with a kiss. *
Healthy Homes.
--—
Highland . . . houses include, , indeed, . , , the .
finest residences of the old and new
world—Probasco s country seat at Clif
ton on the Ohio, Dom Pedro’s Petropo
oils, Captain Nichols octagonal castle
near Mount Yonah in the North Georg
lan Alleghanies, the castles of Heidel
Perugia berg, Gastein, Medellin, Salzburg, Linz. Hill, Pan,
and Lismore the
seat of the Duko of Devonshire the
abbeys Casino of Johanmsberg and Monte
and the incomparable Wilhelms
hone, near Cassel, a fairy realm of
fountains, terraced precipices, mount
am forests, lakes and orange gardens.
In an absolute plain an artificial mound
need not be very high to command a
fair of Semiramis prospect; the in “Hanging truth nothing Gardens but
were
home made hills covered with garden
earth and planted with trees; and who
know 3 if the hillocks of our mound
builders were not the pedestals of their
dwelling houses? On plateaus of
limited extent the residence may form
the acropolis, with the stables and out
buildings at the foot of the hill, but
never vice versa, for drainage cannot
be controlled to the extent of protect
ing the cellars of a lower house. Houses
at the foot of a
HIGH MOUNTAIN
are liable to other objections, being ex¬
posed bursts, to etc., rock besides and snow the disadvantages slides, water
incident to a circumscribed prospect
and obstructed air currents. Only the
French kings evinced a remarkable
predilection haps, Wieland for valley suggests, palaces—per¬ bocaus
as
they cared more to be seen than to see.
On |fre slope of a high hill the south
and west sides are, on tho whole, pre¬
ferable. Few people can be persuaded
to rise with the sun, but all enjoy a
lingering higher latitudes, sunset; beside slope that, plantations in the
west
have the advantage of the afternoon
sun. Four hours after noon on about
six days of the week the weather is
warmer before and less cloudy than four hours
noon.
Science protects our forests and
ought to countermand the impending
crusade against shade trees. Leafy
trees in tho close proximity of a dwel¬
ling lower house are damp supposod and chilly; to make but tho
rooms tho
Golden Age would still flourish if the
causes of Tiuman disease were limited
to dangers from that source. “I shall
not Franklin, attempt “why to damp explain,” clothes says oecasiot Ben
colds, rather than wet ones, because I
doubt the fact: I suspect that neithei
the one nor the other contributes to
this effect, and that the causes of ‘colds'
are cold.” totally independent of wet and even
of
That our ancestors emanated from
tho shades of a tree land is one of tho
few on which
MOSES AND DAKWIN
agree, and it seems hardly probable
that the descendants of a forest raco
should bo damaged by a little tre.
shade, especially tho six where that -shade is
confined to warmest months in
tho year. After October, when sun¬
shine becomes preferablo to shade
trees do not obstruct tho rays of the
sun. They and merely moderate its sum¬
mer lossiole glare, refuge from ht noon the brooding offer the heat. best
So human contrivance can rival tho
anti-caloric arrangements of a leafy
canopy—free access impervious to all the winds of
heaven, and a roof not only
to the direct light of thesuu’s rays, but
also to their warmth, which is felt
through a shingle roof as plainly as
through a flimsy sunshade. But a shade
tree, with its hundred strata of light
absorbing barrier leaves, the hottest interposes an and, effectual
to sun; more¬
over, influence, plants analogous have a direct refrigerating animal
to that of
bodies in generating warmth. 'Even
under the watermelons, blazing sun the juice ot
oranges, from fifteen degrees apples, colder etc., is
ten to than
that of stagnant days the water, air of and treeless on cloudy dis¬
summer a
trict is considerably of shady warmer than the
atmosphere a forest on sunny
days.—Dr. Magasin*. Felts Oswald in LippincoU's
Ttaaa «p Ml.
Aa Indiana farmer who was “holding
oa” to 800 bushels of corn last fall to
•scare a better price, came rushing into
his house one evening, after a cau at a
neighbor's, “Joseph—John—William, and gasped out: we’ve
load with before got
to tnreo wagons corq
we go to bed father, to-night.” what’s happened?”
"What’s “Why, happened?
Sheets he takes Chicago Why, Jim
a paper, and
he was just reeding to me as how a
schooner loaded with 36,000 bushels of
corn Michigan!’" has gone to the bottom of Lake
“And what of it?”
“Why, you three idiots, corn will
;ump 80 cents a bushel before mid
night, beforo and noon! we must Tho be in has Indianapolis
timo arrove to
•ell every ear we’vo got, and scrape in
all the empty cobs wo kin find kicking
around."—Ha# Sired News-
PREYIN G ON F RIENDS, f
Men Who Dive By Borrowing—
Types of the Class.
There are borrowers and borrowers,
and from the mildest to the most ag¬
gressive, unblushing and insatiable
typo of this class of human parstsito people
there is probably no class of
on earth more shunned and detested.
There is nq. limit to the inveterate bor¬
rower’s assurance. He will borrow his
best friend’s last dollar, and his con¬
science—if he has one—seems never to
rebuke him.
The chronic borrower of the worst
type cannot be more forcibly delineated
than he is in the character of Narcisse,
the handsome youno" Creole who figures
so prominently in George W. Cable’s
novel, “Hr. Sevier.” This type of the
borrower never repays, and never re¬
ally intends to, although the the sophistry of
of his nature is so much master
him that in assuring his victim that he
will certainly refund the amount bor¬
rowed he can almost make himself be
lievo that such is really his intention.
Narcisse represents that type of bor¬
rower who is utterly selfish, yet who
manages, through an affected artless¬
ness which is almost natural, to make
it appear that he is the most benevolent
world. and* kindly disposed always person the attitude in the
of chosen Assuming friend, he is be
a pot to re¬
pulsed except by downright insult
vorite His chief weapon is flattery, and his it fa
victim one who can resist no
more than he can summon cou rage to
meet repe ated advances by a blank re¬
Th e young man on a small salary
w hose tastes are more fastidious than
those of many a millionaire invariably
par t a with his monthly or weekly sti
p 0n( j considerably in advance of its re
ceipt. He bridges over his pecuniary
chasm8 by borrowing of his friends and
fellow-employes. kind There is borrower! nothing
m ean about this of a
jj e despises a penurious man above all
others, but then penurious men ara
n ever borrowers, and, while abundant
j y ab le, they are seldom known to lend,
The borrowing clerk or employe con
fines his patronage to one victim at
a tiMe . First he borrows a quarter to
ge t his lunch, and repays it with scru
pulous promptness. He repeats the
process at frequent intervals, and,
w hile increasing his demands from 25
cents up to twice or three times that,
does not fail to refund the amount ac
cordfhg to agreement. Then he g ives
bis victim a breathing spell while he
commences preliminary proceedings
w j t h a fresh unfortunate. Selecting
now a favorable time and place, he re
turns to his first friend and unbo¬
soms himself in a burst of confidence
not to be resisted. He must have $10
or he is ruined, and explains the whole
matter so plausibly H that the lender can
not refuse him. aving been in tho
past refusing, promptly repaid he has no half reason
for so he hands over of
his week’s salary and sees the last of
it The borrower, with a cool hardi¬
hood that does not exist elsewhere,
studies to give the impression that he
has forgotten all about his obligation,
and the lender is too proud to remind
him of it
There is one type of the chronic bor¬
rower whose frank, open hearted man¬
ner is simply marvelous. It is his stock
In trade. He will slap you on the back
in the friendliest manner in the world,
and, looking you smilingly in the face,
will say: “You haven’t got a couple of
dollars about you, have you, my dear
fellow? I declare, I forgot my pocket
book this morning and am completely
strapped!” Of dol¬
course, he gets the couple of
lars and you may be sure that you will
never see it again. Every day. for
weeks, perhaps months, the borrower,
if he sees you across the street, will
come over purposely to say: “Well, I
declare, I forgot all about that little
matter this morning; what a bore, to be
sure!” You agree with him heartily
as to the last clause of his remark, but
politely request him uot to mention it.
Finally your coolness rather discour¬
ages him, and he, too, like every other
member of his class, makes it conven¬
ient to forget all about the matter.
Then there is your distant relative,
or tho man who once did you a small
favor. He is as susceptible to employer insult as
(ie is lazy and shiftless. As
after employer discharges him for in¬
solence, arrogance or utter incapacity, order
or as he voluntarily quits work in
to maintain his cheap dignity, he comes
to you him to keep him out him of the another gutter, situ¬ to
brace up aud get
ation. The longer you pay for bis
board and clothes the more he is wil¬
ling toilet you. and the easier is he iu
sultod by his successive employers,
who do not recognize his title to au as¬
sumption of dignity which so overbal¬
ances his actual usefulness.
Those are some borrowers, but their
name is legion and their methods count¬
less.
Penny bunker’s Disappointment.
Judge He Pennybunker is gourmand, is not a happy epf
man. a or “an
cac," as Mrs. Partington would say. It
ooatt money to buy tne delicacies ot the
season, ana Judge Pennybunker is not
rich.
He happened butcher's to see a splendid window. saddle He
of venison in a
went in and asked the price of it. Then
he came out and sighed, He wanted ft
very made badly, but $2 was too much could money.
He up his mind that he not
afford to pay so much.
On his way horns Pennybunker met
Gus de Smith.
“For heaven's sake, Pennybunker,
lend me $5. I am so pressed for money
that I am almost crazy,” said Gus.
“But, Gus, you have not paid me back
what I lent yqg i’ll last week.”
“No, but do so pretty soon,
judge.” bunker took Kind hearted Jbdge Penny¬
out his pocket-book and
handed Gus a crisp $5 bill. Gus wept
tears Iu the of gratitude and Pennybunker’s* hurried away.
meantime hun¬
ger had increased. His yearning for
venison became stronger and stronger.
At last he said to himself, “a man only
lives once anyhow, so he might as well
enjoy saddle himself while he can. I’ll have
that of venison for dinacr.” He
hurried back to the butcher.
“I'll take that saddle of venison
now.”
“1 am sorry, judge, but it is sold. Mr.
Gus de Smith bought it only a few min¬
utes ago. Hu thought it was very cheap.”
—Texas Siftings.
...... ,;- . „*; ; :
Uncle Tom and “Mammy” as Slaves.
A striking article in the April “Uncle Cen¬
tury , by Walter B. Hill, on
Tom without a Cabiu,” opens with the
following reminiscences of slavery
days: “In the last rear of his life
General ‘Light Horse Harry’ Leetoade
a visit to Dungeness, the residence of
General Nathaniel Greene, on Cumber¬
land Island, Georgia. Wnile there he
was attacked with a sickness which in
the end proved fatal. His nurse was
an old negro woman, the ‘momma’ of
the household. One day, in a parox¬
ysm of nervous pain, ho became en¬
raged at her officious benevolence and
threw a slipper at tho old woman’s
head. There was a skillful dodge of
the red bandanna, and then she delib¬
erately picked him, up *the with slipper the words, and
hurled it back, at
‘Dah, now! I aint gwine to let no white
chile sass me; 1 aint.’
“This incident, which is historic, il¬
lustrates the position of the ‘momma’
or ‘mammy’ in a She Southern rocked family in
the olden time. had the
cradle of her young master and crooned
him to sleep with those weird melodies
which are unsurpassed in the Mother
Goose lore of any land. As he grew
to manhood he was still her ‘chile,’
and she became, in turn, a grand¬
mother in affection to the children qf his
household. In family affairs, in deter¬
mining the of components of a cake, nice the
pattern of a neighbor’s garment, or social some
question a statu#,
she wielded that potent wand, ‘the wis¬
dom of ancestors,’ and quoted ‘ole
marster’ and ‘ole missus’ with oracular
confidence, inspired by the impossibili¬
ty of contradiction. Jealous was she
for the honor of ‘our family.’ The
good-naturedly authority thus assumed was in; always
when acquiesced and,
ly, ignored, was shake overruled the old indirect¬ soul’s
so as not to
self-confidence in her infallibility or
the children’s veneration lor her wis¬
dom. The latter was a conservative
influence too valuable to be sacrificed.
“Very uncle.’ similar Even was the position of
the ‘old the harsh over¬
seer, dressed in a little brief authority,
took counsel of his weather wisdom
the and his ‘sperenee’ Over the in planting to suit
moon. dwellers in the
quarters he was wont to take a patri¬
archal jurisdiction. The children, white
and black, revered him not only for the
stories of Byer Fox and Brer Rabbit,
which a later Uncle Remus has told to
all the but for the unexhausted
stores of similar lore which remained
locked in his venerable bosom. He al
• ways impressed the pickaninnies with
the fact that he only told half he knew.
No grandsire ever had a more eager
audience for his garrulity.
“What element in Cicero’s charming
picture make such ‘de Senectute’ old happy? was lacking to
all and an these age attaches Against
care want old of
the family were insured in the love of
their owners, and, if that was not
sufficient, in a legal obligation for their
support Who have had, more than
they,
4* t That which should accompany old age,
As, friends?’ honor, love, ” obedience, troops of
Inspector Byrnes,
If anyone were to ask, “Who Is the
best-advertised man in New York?” it
is doubtful whether one well-informed
man in the first five hundred would an¬
swer is the correctly, advertising so done well and this ingeniously
in case. It
is not P. T. Barnum, or Jake Sharp, or
Aid. Jaehne, or Ed Stokes, or anyone
quisitely you would be likely publicity to think achieved of, so ex¬
is the for
the man who gets a lion’s share of it.
That man is Inspector Byrnes, of the
police detective force. For several years
there has not been an important arrest
in New York city to speak of to which
his name has not been attached in a
heroic light. The headquarters reporter
of a newspaper telephones down:
“Byrnes has made a big arrest—will to-night”
give Somebody out the is news sent at8 o’clock the
Byrnes chatting with up to the get superintend¬ news.
is
ent. The other reporters are there.
“Follow and me, gents,” says the do great down de¬
tective, all the scribes so,
a narrow passage and through three
swinging hound’s doors into the You eminent always sleuth
led into private bv room. roundabout are and
it a way,
yet you are let out of it through one
door, plump into the main hall. That
is part of the business. The reporters
take cils. seats, and produee lolls pads and leather pen¬
The inspector on a
lounge adventure, A adroitness, marvelous tale of detective and
rolls from his perseverance, The
cunning is and is printed lips, story less
true, with more or
completenesa That is why he is tile
best-advertised man in New York. He
is shrewd enough to give trustworthy
information to the press interestingly.
That is next to the greatest secret of hia
success, which is that he is a born poli¬
tician. He is a well-built, broad
shouldered man, *f average height, with
a round, heavy face, low forehead, pro
tending cheek-bones, and black, stiff
mustache. From being a “sidewalk
measurer,” as they call the patrolmen,
he came to be a sergeant, and then a
captain, by excellent service and know¬
ing how to help himself along. He was
captain of a station, then of the Broad¬
way squad, and next of tile central office
detectives.
day Somebody had asked Inspector Byrnes one
if be ever read the life of Vid
ecq, the great Parisian detective. “No,”
he said, “but I tried to. It’s all bloody
guff—regular French funny business,
got up to goose the public. If there
ever was any ft such business in oar line
the do day for has passed dime-novel by. Ws don’t dis¬
guising any nowadays, stage-property, unless it be to
beard shave off may
put on a or a mustache.
Nowadays, well need we understand the crooks
too to any such contrivance.
There’s a job been done; it’s such and
such a kind of a job, and it’s done by
an old hand, or it r s clumsy and bung¬
ling, as if a greeny had done it Well,
we’ve got the crooks dead to rights on
the different lays. If it’s a bit of sneak
work, we look around among the crooks
in that line, find out where they are
and where they were when the job was
done. Then we narrow it down to one,
and when when we ge t the dead wood
on him we give him thi e collar. Just so
we do if it’s a job of any sort Each
man has his own line, and we know the
men in usch Jino-"— Cor. Utica Observer.
Bootblacks are called “boot bronz
ers" in California.
Wlfr
FARM LIF E IN TH E SOUTH.
Description of Southern Farm Rest,
dences and Their Furnishings.
There is in this region a singular
North uniformity of architecture, writes a
Carolina correspondent of the
New York Sun. The pattern after
which the residences arc built is a
Two single story frame house of four rooms.
—huge large chimneys stand at tho ends
masses of extramural masonry
of brick and stone, which are monu¬
ments of the most wanton waste of
space, labor and material. The roof
projects over directly a piazza, from which
doors open into three of the
rooms, for there is no hall. The “bio
room”—the room of general use, where
visitors are received—contains a high,
rough, seasons big there bedstead, is featherbed, on which at “all
a covered
with a scrupulously white counter
pane, ing, a rickety table splint-bottom with blue cover¬
a rough, rockino- home°
chair, and two or three other
made chairs, the legs of which are paint¬
ed blue, and on the back of which you
may read the name of the bunglino
ma ker in big blue letters. The floor is
carpetless, weekly scrubbing but it glistens from the
with sand.
Above the high mantel-piece there is
a religious religious chromo in terrifying colors,
and a few books hold the table
in place. The three other rooms also
are bedrooms, and they are furnished
or unfurnished in the same plain way.
The kitchen, which is built of logs,
stands innocent fifty feet from the other house.
It is of a cook-stove, but is
guilty of the most extensive fire-place
that was ever constructed—big whole. There enough
to roast an ox is a large
yard of large of oaks, and for 100 feet on
either side the front gate the fence
is of boards, the rest of it of rails.
Such is the residence of a prosper¬
ous man, so at least he considers him¬
self, who lives ten miles from Raleigh
and three from the the village of of hik Cary, and
the. residences of most neigh¬
bors are built and furnished in the
same way. He has three daughters and
two sons, and all but one little girl are
grown. The boys occupy one room
which, besides the bed and the wooden
pegs behind the doors on which they
hang their clothes, contains little but
their “chests”—plain, blue, which they wooden keep boxes,
painted “store,suits,” in their pistols their
and their
fiddles. The girls have similaSfdeposi
tories for their
The old their lady and her daughters
make with own hands nearly all
the clothes the family has. There was
a time when the old woman spun the
thread and wove the cloth, and she
maintains now that there is no other
thread so good to darn with as the
thread of her own spinning. So she
keeps her old spinning wheel for oc¬
casional use and for spiritual comfort,
and last year she gathered cotton from
the field, which she followed with her
own fingers on its long journey from
the stalk to the stocking. Tne house
work and the gardening are the only
employments always of be the busy. women, Once but (bey
seem to a week
they boil the clothes in a pot, suspend¬
ed from the tops of three Doles which
well. are placed The in the front yard near tho
monotony of wash-day is
often relieved by fishing for the bucket
with the pot-hooks. Cooking is a very
simple thing, for the frying-pan and
the pot do their whole duty. Indeed,
the frying-pan is the origin of all their
ailments, certainly of the old lady’s
dyspepsia, ly of the children’s oldest thin, grist¬
faces, and of the boy’s neces¬
breakfast sity for grog. will Fried bacon for early
postpone the millenium
anywhere; add to that fried sweet po¬
tatoes, and an active out-door life and
a perfect atmosphere must do their
best to keep naturally robust people
from groans. The frying-p an is a
worse enemy of man in all this country
than whisky or politics. When all the
ground and the is odor yellow with mellow ap]fles, is
blown of peaches breakfast and table, grapes
over every no¬
body eats fruit’ except between meals;
and the very chickens have the pleas¬
ure of life taken because neither broiler
nor oven awaits one of them, but al¬
ways the frying-pan.
In the evening after supp.er and be¬
fore early bedtime, the boys sometimes
play on their fiddles, their feet accom¬
panying the three tunes they know,
“The Arkansaw Traveller,” “Fisher’s
Hornpipe,” while and “The Old North State, their ”
v the rest of the family hold
hands in silence. And many an evening
these five intelligent adults sit the live¬
long hours holding their hands, saying
now and then a word, as if by accident
and pretending to do nothing; yet they
been are happy. The art of resting has else. not
cultivated so well anywhere
True, the old woman does usually pi/
her knitting needles, stopping now and
then to remark, while she rubs snuff,
that her old bones feel “streaks” of
rheumatism, but that it’s hard to wear
out an old leather string. The girls
sometimes have quiltings, and there
are the “parties” of country society.
How a Wise Man Built His House.
Many of our readers will find their
own experience reflected in the follow¬
ber ing paragraph taken from the last num¬
of the Central Lmp Journal, where
it is used to illustrate another subject
self A gentleman wished to build for him¬
a nice mansion, and, of course, was
exceedingly bation of his anxious to have neighbors. the appro¬ So
friefids and
he asked th* advice of all. The first
•aid, “Here is a nice ejte, and I should
build such a style of house.” The second
said, “I don’t like that cai& site nor the style aud
of house.” The third along,
was utterly amaeed at the selection of
the site made by the others, and of their
total want of taste in architecture. He
said, “Leave off all that; here is the
mqst exquisite plan for a honse.” And
so it went on until the gentleman be¬
came disgusted with his advisers, aud
went and selected his own site and
adopted and builded his own house style of architecture, himself. By
a to suit
a multitude of counselors there is wis¬
dom, but the house builder’s experience
in found seeking it different, the advice and of bis neighbors probably
was
wise and following in rejecting the all plans their his suggestions, judg*
own
ment dictated. The moral here con¬
veyed does not end with locating ot a
bouse site or the erection of the build¬
ing. It will be generally fountl best to
follow one's own impressions and tasto
rather than to defer to others.