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BY BREWSTER & SHARP.
The Cherokee Georgian
JH PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY BY
BREWSTER & SHARP.
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Address all communications on bu incss
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The Georgian,
Canton, Ga.
JAMES O. DDWDA,
Attorney at Law,
CANTON, - - ■ GEORGIA.
WILL practice in the Superior Courts
ot Ch rokee and adjoining counties.
Will faithfully ami promptly attend to the
collection of all claims put in tiis h inds.
Ollier in the court house, Canton. G t.
_jm4, _ 1 *y
13. I<\ Pavin',
Attorney at Law,
CANTON, - - - GEORGIA
Will practice in the courts of Ghetokee and nd
loiuing louiitlca. Ortle in Iho Court-house. 2-1 y
W. A. BRIGHTWELL.
CARPENTER, CONTRACTOR AND
BUILDER,
Residence, Canton, Ga.
_____o
AI.I. work done by me will lie done with neat
«ieM and dispatch. Prices reasonable- satiataction
guaranteed.
Aug 4, _ 1-bm
J. M. 11 AII DIN .
HOUSE AND SIGN
PAINTER,!
j
Canton G-a.
Aug 4, I—ly
J. IL CLAY,
Brick and Stone Mason, Brick
Maker and Plasterer,
CANTON, • • • GEORGIA,
"I \ FILL do all kinds of work iu his line.
\ V sm’di as building Brick am! Slone
Houses, Villars and Chimneys, PLi'leriug
llouxss, ma AU work dime m the best
style. Malist'ailion guai an teed. Prices rea
•unable and just. Beal of retervuccs cau
be given when dtfeirvd.
align -‘ly
@ljc Cljctolw CfWtQWL
CHARITY.
“Now abidetlt these three. Filth. Hope, Char
ity : but the greatest of these is Charity."
If w" knew the cares and crosses
Crowding round our neighbor’s way,
If wc knew the little losses,
Sorely grievous day by dav,
Would we then so often chide him
For his lack of thrift and gain ?
Leaving on his heart a shadow —
Leaving on our lives a stain.
If we knew the clouds above us
Held but gentle bless ngs there,
Would wc turn away, all trembling,
In our blind and weak despair?
Would we shrink from little shadows
Flitting o’er the dewy grass,
If we knew tha t birds of Eden
Were in mercy flying past?
If we knew the silent story,
Quivering through the heart of pain,
Would we drive it with out coldness
Back to haunts of guilt again ?
Life hath many a tangled emssimr,
Joy hath many a break of woe ;
But the che< ks, tear washed, are whitest,
And kept in life and flower by snow.
Lot us roach into our bosoms
For the key to other lives,
An 1, with love toward erring nature,
Cherish good that still survives;
So that, when our disrobed spirits
Soar to realms of light above,
We may say: ‘Dear Father,love us,
E’en as we have shown our love.”
Farmer Barling’s Revenge.
I did love her. Oh, how I did love that
girl! And they say till is fair in love and
war, and perhaps that is some excuse for
me. Ih id liked her a long while, and I
knew that she liked me. I was as big a
fellow as she could see anywhere about. I
had ti farm of my own, and when I was
married, father had promised to budd a first
rate house and stock t ie place for me.
And when I went to church on Sunday,
or to the city, I had good clothes, and was
never told I looked ill in tlvm. On the
whole, I felt myself a good, fair match for
Fanny Martin, though she was so nice a
girl. And her father and mother thought
so, too, and she never refused my atten
lions. I had settled in the slow, quiet sort
of way in which country men do settle
these things that we’d make a match of it.
The other young fellows knew it, and if
we were not fashionable we were so far
g ntlemen that we l ad < ur code of honor
None of them ever interfered or tried to cut
me out
But, then, he came, don’t you see, dap
per and pretty, an 1 dressed like a tail >r’s
fashion plate, and he talked of things 1
knew very little about, and bis hands were
white, tin.l he had graceful, gallant ways
that! had never learned.
Mr. Williams—tint was his name.—
And in that summer holiday of his, while
we were wot king over the crop, ami w< r<
tanned and dirty and worn, and so tired
that sleep was about all we wanted when
work was over, whv, then, he, s< ft and
sweet and smiling, made himself a.-recal 1
to the girls and cn pt into Fanny M triitt's
heart. My Fanny. She sca-cely looked
at me. She did not cure whither she met
me or not; and on Sunday there he was
making me feel s< mellow so coar-e and
rough nnd vulgar; and when I wanted her
to go with me into the woods where we
used 'osit in the green shadow, and listen
to the birdfljking. she had some excuse for
staying at home; and when on the road
from church I took her hand in mine, she
snatched it away and said quite crossly :
‘Don’t Ben.; don't do such silly rustic
things while the city folks are here. They
never do it themselves, and they laugh so.’
‘Mr. Williams laughs, you mean, I sup
pose,’ said I. ‘That gentlemanly, too.’
And then she blushed and curled her
little lip nnd said t
‘You aie criticising Mr. Williams's man
ners, are you ?’
After that there was a coolness between
us; butthough it made my heart ache, I
could not think that it mattered much to
her. I stayed away from her father's house,
and did not walk home with her from
church on Sunday ; indeed, I did not go to
church nt all. And I knew the young folks,
yes, and the old folks too, were saying that
we were out with each other, and I suppose
every one guessed why; but I would never
answer any questions—not when my own
mo'her asked them, no not I.
So the summer passed and the fall came
on, and the city people stayed ; I saw that
fellow's Panama hat and silk umbrella and
pretty linen suit, wherever I wen*. Farther
than 1 could see other people, I used to
see him and her —Mr. Williams and Fanny,
you know.
They never made Fanny work much at
home, and she had plenty of time to enjoy
herself. The only girl yon know, and her
people what we call forehanded.
1 never intended that she should drudge
after we were married. When I had hoped
' tor that, I did not mind work myself. I’d
i never have made a slave of my wife, as
most fanuets do; any can see that by look
■tag at the poor women who have no time
for test or preltincss. or even to play with
the babies they bring into the world—wo
i men, whose husbands are rich men, too,
i very often
' This Mr. Williams, he could not have
CANTOX, CHEROKEE COUNTY, GA., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1875.
nude her more of a precious thing than I
would ; I knew’ that.
I was thinking this all over one evening
on the meadow —not trying to think, you
know, bu‘. fighting the thoughts that came
like mosquitoes, as fast as I drove them
away, ro iring in my ears and stinging me—
when suddenly I heard some one say :
‘Ah —Mr.—Mr. Burling.’
And I looked up and there was Mr. Wil
liams, nattier than ever, with a cigar in his
mouth.
If he lia l known just how I felt to him,
I’m not sure that he’d have come to find
me alone in the great meadow, and I
thought of that as I jumped up from the
grass and looked at him. But he was
smiling as politely as possible, and there is
something in a man’s heart that makes it
hard to do the first rude thing to one who
•s civil.
Still I was not over polite to him, I
know.
‘That’s my name,’ said I. ‘Do you want
me ?’
‘I want something of yon,’ said he.
‘There’s a little excursion to-night over at
our house. We are going to drive to the
falls and sup, and I’m going to taken lady.
II tve you :my light wagon, and a horse, of
course, that you could hire me for the even
ing? I’d rather go alone with her than iu
the big wagon. You know, I’m sure, how
it is--that a fellow had rather ride alone
with a pretty gill, and if you’ll help me out
I’ll be ever so much obliged to you.’
So he had com : to ask me to help him
to have a nice time with my girl—he who
had cut me out. I looked at him, just
holding my hands stiil by main force, and
I thought of him riding along the moonlit
road, with Fanny close beside him. I
asked myself whether his arm would not be
around her waist, and whether in the shad
ow, as they fella little behind the others, he
would not kiss her.
‘And you want me to help you !’ I said
out loud. ‘Me!’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘Come along,’ I said. ‘l’ll show you what
I’ve got.’
On the .arm that was mine there was one
building, a little We put the
tools in there sometimes, and I bad a pad-1
lock for the door, the key was in my pocket. ■
It came into my head that I could epoil
his evening for him, and spite Fanny, too,
by locking him in this shed. And if he
had spirit enough to light me for it aftei
wards a much the better. And I led the
way down into the meadow where it stood,
and unlocked the door.
‘Jdst look in,’ said I, ‘and see if that will
suit you.’
‘Can’t see anything,’ sa’d he. ‘lt’s pitch
dark. Wait, 1 have a match.’
lie took one from his pocket, and stooped
to strike it on the sole of his boot, and then
1 gave him a push and over he went, and I
had the key in my pocket.
‘You’ll not make any one hear very soon,
my lad,’ said I, grinning to myself, ‘and
you’ll not kiss Fanny Martin goirg over the
bridge th.s evening.’
Then I w< nt away and laid myself flat on
the porch in front of our house, and felt
happier than I ha I felt la fore for a long
tim •. Revenge is sweet now and then. I
don't pretend to nave none of the old Adam
in me. I'd been there about half an hour,
and the chirp, chirp, chirp of the crickets
was lulling me off to sleep, when suddenly
I heard a little light step close by me, and
saw a woman’s white dress fluttering, and
jumping up, stood before Fanny Martin.
The first thought that came into my mind
was that she was looking for her beau, and
it made me fiendish.
‘That you, Miss Martin?’ said I.
‘Yes, Mr. Burling,’ sa’d she ; and though
I’d said Miss Martin, how it hurt me not to
he called B< n. ‘I came over to see your
mother. Is she in?’
‘No,’ said I; ‘gone to prayer meeting at
Deacon Dull’s.’
‘Then I had better go home,’ said she;
but she lingered.
‘Not looking for any one else ?’ said I.
‘No,’ she said, very sadly, ‘Good night.’
But I could not let her go without a cut.
‘1 thought you’d be on this wonderful
moonlight drive,’ said I.
‘There you were mistaken,' said she.
‘Did he forget to come for you ?’ said I—
‘Mr. Williams, you know.’
‘I haven't been asked to drive,' said she.
‘I don’t know why you say so. The city
folks are all by themselves, and Mr. Wil
liams, I suppose, is with the lady ne’s en- j
gaged to. She came down lust week with >
her mother.’
‘Oh,’ said I. and I began to wish I had .
aiked a tew more questions, Lafore I lockeil j
young Williams up iu the cow house.
We stood still, apart from each other. I
saw her lip quiver. Was it for him? Had ,
he jilted her? That was tit for tat, any-j
how. But she was so pretty and so sad,
and so winning, 1 lelt my heart give one
great throb. I look a step nearer- she took ’
another.
‘Oh, Ben,' cried she, ‘I can’t stand it if’
vou stay angry with me. I always have i
liked you best, but you’ve been so awfully |
cross,’ and then she was crying on my .
shoulder.
Did you ever make up with some one
Virtue and Intelligence—The Safeguards of Liberty.
you’d‘fallen out’with, loving her all the
time? Did you ever feel, holding the dear
face between your two palms, pressing
sweet kisses on the dear, soft mouth, that it
had all come back, all the old love and
trust, and sweetness, and hope that you
thought dead ? If you have, you know
what I felt that moment.
I found myself again. I was Ben. Bur
ling once more. Not the hot, angry f< How,
with a curse upon him I had seemed so
long, and all fora little silly woman ; a dear,
sweet, silly little woman, how strange it
was. Out of all nly life I’dl ke to have tmtl
one moment back; it was the sweetest I
ever lived through.
Then what? A splash of crimson and
oranye on the white wall of the house ; a
cry from Fanny. Wc both turned and
looked. Up to the midst of the far meadow
rose a column of flame. The cow-house
was on fire, and I hud locked poor innocent
young Williams up in it to be roasted
alive.
‘Oh, Fanny,’ I cried, glaring at the horri
ble sight. ‘l’m a murderer —a murderer
—don’t touch me.’
And away I flew to undo my mischief, if
there was time. Th* re might be, perhaps.
• Never was such a ruu as I took across
that long meadow. But when I reached
the door, plunging my hand into my pock
et tor the key, 1 could not find it. I had
dropped it somewhere. It was not about
me.
‘Williams!’l cried; ‘Williams! are you
there ?I am outside; courage !’ There was
no answer.
‘For Heaven’s sake, if you can speak do,’
I shrieked; but silence answered me.
Doubtless the smoke had already smother
ed the poor fellow, but I set to work and
tore away the burning boards. I was
scorched. My hair, my face, my eyebrows.
Twice my clothes were on fire, but I rolled
on the dew-wet grass, and was up and at
the flames again. Oh, it was horrible. If
he had been my rival it would have been
bad enough, but tin innocent young fellow,
his sweetheart waiting for him somewhere.
What a wretch I was.
‘G-kI have mercy on mo,’ cried I. ‘Let
•ue s »ve him, don’t punish me by making
me a murderer !’ and I tore and wrenched
the boards with nty burnt hands. And in
a moment more —well it was the root that
fell, I think —I don't know.
Tie’ll do very nicely now,’ said some one
—‘very nicely, plenty of nourishing food,
quiet, and the wash as directed. No danger’
no danger, though his escape is wonderful.’
It was the family doctor, and I was on
the spare bed in the bedroom, with ban
dages about my hands. Mother sat there;
so did Fanny. Father looked over the bed
foot. Peleg and Jane Maria, the help, were
also visible.
‘And why to gracious he was so sot on
saving that old shed, I can’t tell,’ said moth
er. ‘Must have hid something precious
there.’
They did not know, then. I sat up and
looked at them all.
‘lt wasn’t the shed,’ said I. ‘Mother, fa
ther, Fannie, it was Mr. Williams. I had
locked him up there. I’ve murdered him.’
‘No, vou haven’t, said another voice, and
some one came aroqpd the bed. T m alive,
you see. Y< u didn’t think I’d stay locked
up in a cow-shed when I had an engage
ment with a lady, di 1 you? I just burned
the lock off with my cigar, and came away.
I intended to give you a fright in return for
your trick. I suppose it’s what you call a
practical joke in the country; but I didn’t I
think of anything serious. I’m really sorry.’ j
I don’t know what I said. I know I felt |
like a fool; but that was not as bad as feel-1
ing like a murderer.
I had a pretty pair of hands for the next
four weeks; but I didn’t mind it as much as
if Fannie had not fed me with hers. She
pelted me as though I were a hero, instead j
of an idiot. I believe she thought I had i
done something noble and grand. And ;
she’s been my wife now—how long, Fan
nie? Not so long as to have forgotten to j
be lovers, though my boy’s head is on a I
level with his mother’s shoulders, and my
own is turning gray.
The Spider’s Web.
How wonderful is the tenuity of these
fairy-like lines! yet strong enough to enable
the aerial voyager to run through the air,
and catch the prey which ventures within
his domain It is so fine, that in the web
of the gossamer spider, the smallest of the
tribe, there are twenty tubes, through i
which is drawn the viscid globules—the •
gummy matter it employs in spinning—
each of the thickness of about one-tenth of
an inch. It takes 140 of these globules to i
: form a single spiral line; it has 24 circum
| locutions to go through, w hich gives the I
number of 3.360. We have thus got the
[ average total number of lines between two '
radii ot the circle; multiplying that num
i ber by 26, the number of radii which the
i untiring insect spins, gives the total amount ,
I of 87,360 viscid globules before the net is ,
| complete.
t The dimensions of the net, of course,
vary with the species. Some will be com-1
posed of as many as 120,000 lines; yet, j
even to form this net, the spider will only
'take five minutes! Wonderful, indeed, is
; t'ne process by which the spider draws lite
thread from its body—more wonderful than
any rope or silk spinning. Each of these
spinnerets is covered with bristle-like
points, so very fine that a space about the
size of ti pin-head will cover a thousand of
them. From each of these points of tubes
issues a small, slender thread, which unites
with the other threads, so that from each
spinneret proceeds a series of thr< ads, form
ing one compound cable; these are situated
, about one-third of an inch from the apex
! of the spinnerets ; they also unite and form
one thread, 621 of which are used by the
spider iu forming his net. Wit!: the in
strument which nature has given him, the
claws of his feet, the spider guides and ar
ranges the glutinous thread as this seem
ingly inexhaustible fiber is drawn from his
body, and interweaves them with each
other until the web is complete. In this
way spiders are weavers of a supple line,
whose touch, or quickness and fineness,
surpasses any spinning-jenny.— [Cassell’s
Family Pap- r.
Broken Friendsliip.
Friendship is a good deal like china. It
is very durable and beautiful as long as it
is quite whole; but break it, and all the
cement in the world will never quite repair
the damage.
You may stick the pieces together so !
that at a distance it. looks nearly as well as
ever ; but it won’t hold water. It is al
ways ready to deceive you if you trust it ;
but it is, ou the whole, a very worthless
thing, fit only to be put empty on a shelf
and forgotten there.
The finer and more delicate it is, the
more utter the ruin. A mere acquaintance
ship, which needs only a little ill-humor to
keep it up, may be coarsely puttied like
that oil yellow basin in the store-closet;
but tenderness, and trust, and sweet ex
change of confidence, can no more be yours
when angry words have broken them, than
can those delicate porcelain tea-cups, which
were splintered to pieces, he restored to
their original excellence. The slightest
crack will spoil the ring, and you had best
search for a new friend than monel the old
one.
And all this has nothing to do with for
givene s. One may forgive and be forgiv
en, but the deed has been done, and the
word said ; the flowers and the gilding are
gone. The formal ‘making up,’ especially
between two women, is of no more avail
than the wonderful cements that have
made a cracked ugliness of the china vase
that you expected to be your ‘j >y forever.’
Handled delicately, washed to purity in
the waters of truth, confided to no careless,
unsympathizing hands, friendship may last
two lives out; but ‘it does not pay’ to mend
it. Once broken, it is spoiled forever.
Rules of a Newspaper Ollice.
Visitors will confer a favor on the editors
by adhering strictly to the following rules
when visiting them:
Take a seat in the editor’s favorite chair,
nn<l read the unfinished editorials on the
table before you.
Look over the exchanges, and hunt out a
three-year-old joke and read it to us.
Be certain to smoke. Fivc-cent cigars
preferred, if you can get them.
If wc are engaged in private conversa
tion, be sure to listen to what we are say
ing.
Ask us to loan you five dollars, and look
unconcerned when we tell you we haven’t
got it.
Persons with no special business will
please call oftener and stay a long time.
If you come within a mile of us, be sure
to stop.
If we arc out when you happen to call,
sit on the desk and read all the letters you
see. Plenty more in the drawer.
It pleases us amazingly to be questioned,
especially when we are writing.
Ask us for a stamp, and pick your teeth |
with a gold pen, not forgetting, in the mean
time, to take our pipe for a smoke.
Call over the list of papers you wish to
know if we exchange with, and wc will be
glad to tell you on what days they are pub
lished.
Scatter the exchanges all over the room ;
spit on the floor again, tell us you ‘wish us
well,’ and then leave.
First Isuuikssions. —Every one must I
have found how difficult it is to eradicate f
early impressions, or to overcome prejudices I
acquired later in life. Our first impressions
cling to us with a tenacity which no change
of place nor situation can destroy. The
home of our childhood, the friends and as
sociations of our youthful days, foim im
ages in our remembrance which can never ,
be wholly obliterated. The wanderer from ’
his native country may in his adopted I
home meet new associations, and acquire
more wealthy connections, and a higher'
standing in society than he held in the j
land which gave him birth, still the humble I
dwelling iu which he was reared, the part
ners ot his early joys and sorrows, the hab- j
its he was accustomed to in youth, arc all'
‘green spots’ in his reminiscences, continu- !
ally watered from the fount of never failing ■
memory.
VOLUME 1.-NUMBER 6.
.ILL FOR FUN.
Sweets in adversity—A sugar-house fail*
ure.
How to become puffed up—Swallow a
pint of yeast
The dentists are said to be pulling
through these hard times.
The politest gentleman we ever heard of
was the one who, on passing a sitting hcn y
said : ‘Don’t rise, madam.’
A Pennsylvania man dislocated bis jaw
in laughing a* a joke in a borrowed news
paper. The moral is obvious.
‘What did yon hang that cat for, Isaac ?'
asked the school-ma’am. The boy looked
up, and, with a grave look, answered : ‘For
mew tiny, ma’am.’
A lazy fellow falling fifty feet and escap
ing with only a few scratches, a bystander
remarked that ‘he was too slow to fall fast
enough to hurt himself.’
The editor of a country p-pcr, having
received a bank-note detector, return*
thanks, and modestly asks for some bank
notes upon which to test its accuracy.
A wag, seeing a door which bad been
neatly off its hinges for some time, ob
served that, when it hid fallen and killed
some on-', it would probably be hung.
In Norway, the longest day lasts three
1 months. The man who six months ago
pronii-ed to call in a day or two and settle
that little bill, must have goue to Norway
on a visit,
A bad little boy, upon being promised
five cents by bis mother if he would take A
dose of castor oil, obtained the money nnd
then told his parent that she might cast ’ef
oil in the street.
A printer’s devil says his lot is a hard
one. At bis boarding-house they charge
him with all the pie they can’t find, nnd at
the ofii ‘e his employer charges him with all
the pi they do find.
‘Does the court understand you to say
that you siw the editor intoxicated ?’ ‘Not
tit all, sir; only I’ve seen him in such n
flurry as to attempt to cut out copy with
the snuffers; that’s all.’
A newspaper biographer, trying to say
his subject ‘was hardly able to bear the
demise of his wite,’ was made by the inex
orable printer to say he ‘was hardly able
to wear the chemise of his wife.’
A skeptical old man, who heard for the
first lime, the other day, that the earth
turned round every twenty-four hours, sat
up all night to see if the water ran out of
his well, aud now knows better.
‘Joshua,’ said a mother to her hopeful at
breakfast, ‘what’s an heir-apparent ?’ ‘Why,
there's one on the butter, mother,’ replied
the unfilial youngs'er. And the old lady
‘lit’ upon him with the coffee-pot.
Once in awhile the obituaries now so
common in all well-regulated newspapers
are worthy of immortality. Here is one
from Boston: ‘Amanda Jane has gone to
rest; she’s laid her head on Abraham’s
breast; to tell the truth, and not to sham,
it’s awful rough on Abraham.’
A clergyman says it is interesting to ob
serve how many people go to the circus
•just to please the children,’ and very curi
ous to notice that sometimes it takes sev
eral a’tlc-bodied men and motherly women
to look after one little boy or girl on such
an occasion.
At a camp meeting this summer, a ven
erable sister began the hymn: ‘My soul,be
on thy guard, ten thousand foes arise.’
She began in shrill quavers, but it was
pitched too high. ‘Ten thousand —ten
thousand,’ she screeched. ‘Start her at
5,000 !’ cried a converted stock-broker.
A Nashville preacher’s little- lx>y was
reading a religious work, and, coming to
the word ‘matrimony,’ was somewhat puz
zled as to its meaning. Turning to his
brother, who stood near by, he asked what
it meant. ‘What do you think it means ?’
answered the brother. ‘Well, I dou’tknow;
if it don’t mean hell, I don’t know what it
does mean,’ responded the sprightly ur
chin.
An lowa paper tells a story of a well
known life-insurance agent, who approach
ed Hammond the revivalist on the subject
of insuring his life. Ilammond said he
could not affbid to turn bis attention to
such a temporary and worldly subject,
but if the agent could insure his soul, it
might be worth while talking. The agent
slowly shook his head, and said it was im
possible ; his company did not carry any
fire risks.
‘l’ll give you half a dollar if you’ll stop
whistling that tunc.’ The boy had been
whistling 'Mollie Darling’ for more than an
hour straight. The boy stopped, swung
his leg for a moment, reflecting whether he
could afford it, and then said : ‘lt's a bar
gain—gimme the money.’ The gentleman
pulled out a postal half. Boy took it, gave
it a close examination, carefully folded it
up and put it away, and immediately open
ed, upon a clear high key, ‘The Mulligan
Guards.’ An hour afterwards the boy was
whistling ‘The Mulligan Guards’ with un
impaired cheerfulness, while our fastidious
lover of the old masters was ravaging his
attic for a shot-gun.