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BY BREWSTER & SHARP. The Cherokee Georgian JH PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY BY BREWSTER & SHARP. HATES OF SUBSCRIPTION: (POSITIVELY IN ADVANCE.) Slagle copy, 12 months $1 50 Dingle copy, 8 months 100 Single copy 0 months 75 Single copy, 4 months 5G A I) VERT IS ING Space | 1 in. | 2m. | 3m. | 6m. | 12 m. ■ liEch~[s2 50 Fs3 50 | SISOJJS7OOJJIOOO 1 inc’t | 850 | 500 | 050 ; 1(100 | 15 00 3 inc’s | — soo j~7 50 | 1000 Q 4 W 1 20 4 inc’» | 650 f 900 | 11 50 j 18 00 | 25 00 j£coij To do | 12 so’l jo do |2sdo | 40 00 <£ col. I 19SQjJOOO I 2500 I 3750 ijsooo •T col. j 15 00 12500j3500 |45 00 | 65 00 do I 35 00 I 50 00 '1 65 00 | 100 00 RATES OF LEGAL ADVERTISING (payable, (N all cases, in advance.] Sheriffs’ sales per levy, not exceeding one square, T- 50 Notice of Application for Homestead, 2 00 Citations on letters of administration, 3 00 Citations on letters dismissory from Administration,. •- • • 5 00 Citations on lelkrs dismissory from Guardianship 3 00 Leave to sell Land,&c, 4 00 Notice to debtors ami creditors 3 50 Hale of personal property, per square, 1 50 Bak of Land by Ad ninisltators, Gu tr dians, &c., per square, 2 50 Es’rays, one week, 1 50 Estrays, sixty days, 5 00 The money for advertising considered due after the first insertion. Advertisements sent without a spec.fica tion of the number of insertions marked i thereon, will be published till forbid, and ch.’.rged accordingly Business or Professional Cards, not ex ceeding three-fourths of an inch in length, including the paper one year, Ten Dollars. Advertisements inserted at intervals will oe charged as new. Local and Business Notices which will always immediately lollow the reading matter, will lie inserted at 10 cents a line eAC.i insertion. No notice, under three lines will he inserted for less than 25 cents each insertion. Advertisements in Co.uiui’H with Beading matter wi’l be charged 15 cents per line for each insertion. Doublecfliunut advertisements 10 per ct. extra. Advertisementss'hoU'ld always be marked far * specified time. Address all communications on bu incss connected with the paper to 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.