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A. M. 0. RUSSELL. Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME 11
Select Miscellany.
CORTEZ.
I.
The ImUaus came to the Sjmnaird;
Am! wondrous tales they told
eities whose streets were silver,
And ))iiluces paved with gold.
And the .Spaniard burned his ships
At anchor on the strand.
And he and the sun together
Marched on to the Unknown Land;
On, to the unknown inland;
All turning hack they spurned ;
Hope and lies pair pointed onward,
And the keels oi returning were burned.
It.
So, i stake my life on my loving.
At a word from your stately lips
I give up home, friends and fortune,
And burn my dearest ships.
Thus onward and hopefully march
Into the Unknown Land;
Onward to die, or to win you—
This you and I understand
Never again need my steps come
To the Burned Shins on the strand !
THE YEARS
Why do we heap huge mountains of years
Before ns and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind ?
Each, turning round a small, sweet face
As beautiful us near,
Because it i- so small a face
AV’e will not see it clear.
And so it turns from us and goes
Away iu sad disdain;
Though v. c could give our lives for it,
It never comes again.
—Mum ihdoch.
The Gambler’s Wife.
Can a woman hinder fate ? And
eould I hinder or stop the tide of love
which came into my heart for Mian
Starr? Did I not know the man sis
well, better than those who warned me
against him ? If he was in the wrong,
then so much the more need of a love
> t rong as death to set him right. How
eould I throw down that which had
been sent to crown my life; and above
all, how could 1 turn from him, since
every step but increased the distance
which might lie between us for all eter
nity?
Once, just once, he doubted me. lie
had heard that friends were trying to
influence me against him, and in the
heat of his mad passion he came to see
me. Anger, intense anger and desper
ation were in his blazing eyes, and
the fiercest reproach upon his
haughty lips, as he faced me, the first
time he ever frowned upon me in all
my life.
“ So you have given me.over, like
the rest of them ? I thank you,” he
said, in freezing tones.
“I? what do you mean, Allan?” 1
asked;
“ I mean that the one who dares to
speak words which shall take you
away from me, must be brave enough
to face death itself; lor I will ”
I sprang up and covered his quiver
ing lips with both my hands.
“Don’t say it, Allen,” I cried. “I
am yotirs always. Oh, do keep back
the wicked words ! ”
He caught me in his arm, and burst
into tears.
I believe I never saw a man break
down wholly before, aud I never want
to again. It was frightful to see my
handsome, brave lover so shaken with
stormy sobs. But I knew then how he
loved me; ah, I knew then.
When he was quiet, he made me go
upon my knees, and with my hand
lifted towards heaven, swear that 1
would be his forever, in spite of all
(hat the world might say. I was glad
enough to do it; and when afterwards
he added, with his hand clasping mine
and both raised, “as I do by thee, so
may Divine justice do by me hence
forth ; ” though his terrible earnest
ness made me shiver a little, I was
thankful to feel that we trusted eaeh
other at last, and were past all doubt
ing forever.
We were "married soon after, and
our life began together. I knew well
enough what mine would be. I had
not clime to a path full of soft, fragrant
flowers. It was to be a fearful, if not
a long struggle—likely both ; for, eith
er I must turn the current of my darl
ing'.- life, or we should go down together.
No earthly power could separate us
now. But I was strong in the great
love I bore him, and my heart never
once faltered.
For a month after our marriage he
came home regularly —his apparent
occupation was head clerk in a well
known (jrm ; but I knew, oh, pity! i
that his real employment was far!
enough removed from anything as hon
orable as that—but then he began to
return later, until one, two, three, and
sometimes lour o’clock would strike
without bringing him.
I had resolved at first that 1 would
always remain up until he came, think
ing that I might thus have more hold
upon him. My business was to save
him. Nothing w r as too hard to be
•done if I might but reach that goal at
aat.
As I said, he began to return later
now, and there grew to be a haggard
BUENA VISTA. MARION CO., GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, NOV. IT, 18TB.
look upon his face which it was dread
to see, since I knew, only too well,
what brought it there. But I tried to
be patient and whenever he came was
careful not to make the slightest allu
sion to the lateness of the hour. It
would not do with him. We sat down
to supper, for I persisted in having it
invariably at his return ; and though I
have seen his eyes fill many and many
a time when ho looked at me steadily
as ho had a way of doing, he did not
tell me his thoughts, and I pretended
not to notice them while T attended to
his wants.
It is an awful thing for a woman to
sec the husband of her love going
down steadily, but surely, before her
frightened eyes, and she powerless to
■save. 1 had wondered once how miser
able, ill-treated wives, whose husbands
were scarcely fit to live, could still cling
to them ; but though Allan was tender
and kind when with me, I could under
stand now, by my own heart, how it
was that they bore everything rather
than separation.
A year went by and no visible change
came; but the constant anxiety told
upon my face. I wanted to keep the
signs back, hut I could not. Friends
noticed it, and among them the aunt
who had taken my dead mother’s
place. She had never liked my hus
band ; and at the anniversary of our
marriage she came, in solemn state,
“to inquire into matters,” its she
termed it.
“You are looking poorly, my child,”
she said, opening the subject at once.
“Your marriage, is perhaps, un
happy?”
“ There could’not be a kinder hus
band, than Allan,” my fa?e flushing in
a moment. “He has never spoken a
harsh word to me.”
“But something has worn you to a
shadow,” she went on, ignoring my in
dignation : “and we all know that Mr.
Starr is not what he ought to he.”
That was more than any wife should
bear tamely. I rose at once.
“ Such words must neither be ad
dressed to his wife, nor spoken under
his roof,” I aaid angrily.
“ My home is open to you neverthe
less, she urged with her keen eyes,
which I hated, because I feared them,
upon my face.
“ My home is here where my heart
is, I retorted, I desire no other; ”
and with that our interview closed.
Allan heard in some way that my
aunt had called ; and he would not be
satisfied until I had told him her exact
words.
“ She is right,” he said bitterly,
“ You would be far better off under her
roof than under mine.”
I know he did it only to try me,
for be had not the ghost of a lear that
I should choose my home away from
him.
“ I did not think fit to tell her so.” L
replied.
“ But you believed it ? You believed
it, then?”
His breath seemed to stop with the
intensity of his desire to read what was
really in my heart, and he would have
wormed the truth from me whatever it
had been.
“ No, L d : d not believe it, Allan,” I
responded quietly, meeting and answer
ing the questioning doubt which for
the moment had leaped into his eyes.
“ Wherever you are taking me to, your
own soul tells you I am powerless, and
must from choice follow.
“ You are a good, true angel,” he
said, with a strange tenderness upon
his lips, but though 1 was certain he
loved me with a strongman’s strength,
he did not, alas! love me well enough
to leave the gambler’s den which was
fast drawing him on to ruin.
Another year went by, another year
of anxious "dread and sorrow, and still
afiother year was added to it, and all
that love could suggest or ingenuity in
vent, had failed in accomplishing my
purpose. I was forced to acknowledge
this, and the admission made me trem
jblc. Was I indeed, then, to go down
j with this man to whom I was bound
by all the ties which can bind a human
heart to that of another, down to an
endless perdition ? Or could I break
the chord, and let him drift on alone ?
Drift on, out in the lonesome,
boundless sea which swallows up its
victims so pitiously, and leaves no
sign?
“No, no,”I cried, with my hrnds
clasped over my horror-stricken eyes,
to shut out the picture which rny im
agination so wildly portrayed.
The fourth year after my marriage
—four years seems like an eternity to
travel such a road as 1 had been trav
eling —Allan came home at dusk ; and
while I wondered what had come over
him to bring up the new and astonish
ing exultation which I saw upon his
face, he led me into the library and
stepped before a painting of myself,
which had been one of my wedding
presents flora him.
“ Four years ago that was an exact
A I )emoeratic* Family Newspaper.
likeness of my wife,” he said. S‘ She has
changed since then.”
“ But little, I trust,” I answered.
“She became my wife freely,” he
went on ; “knowing well that! was
what the world calls, truly enough, a
wicked man.”
“ Always good to me,”l said, through
my tears, laying my hand trustingly in
his.
“Always cruel to you, iny love, since'
he thought more of his own chosen
sins, than of you peace and pleasure.
But the wife who loved me, thank
heaven, and who has stood bravely by
me, has conquered at last. For a year
I have been a tree man, free and hon
est ; and this is my new year’s
present to you, best and truest of all
women.”
I was sobbing in his arms, so thank
ful and happy, I thought heaven itself
must have fallen to my feet. Our lit
tle child, who is fast getting towards
his teens, would never believe his
father had ever been other than the
best of men, ns, indeed, I hardly would
myself.
I am thankful, every day of my life,
that I listened to my own heart’s
promptings, instead of the coun
sel of those who meant, I know,
to help me, but who would have
ruined us both, had their wishes been
fulfilled.
Married Politeness.
“ Will you ?” asked a pleasant voice
And the husband answered :
“ Yes my dear, with pleasure.”
It was quietly hut heartily said ; the
tone, the manner, the look, were per
fectly natural and very affectionate.
We thought: How pleasant the
courteous reply! How gratifying it
must be to the wife! Many husbands
of ten years’ experience are ready
enough with the courtesies of polite
ness to the young ladies of their ac
quaintance, while they speak with ab
ruptness to the wife, and do many
rude little things without considering
them worth an apology. The stranger
whom they may have seen but yester
day, is listened to with deference, and
although the subject may not be one
of the pleasantest nature, with a ready
smile; while the poor wife, if she re
lates a domestic grievance, is snubbed
or listened to with ill-concealed impa
tience. Oh! how wrong this is—all
wrong.
Does she urge some request —
“Oh! don’t bother me,” cries her
gracious lord and master. Does she
ask lor necessary funds for Busy’s shoes
or Tommy’s hat—
“ Seems to me you’re always want
ing money!’” is the handsome retort.
Is any little extra demanded by his
masculine appetite, it is ordered, not
requested:
“ Look here, I want you to do so
andso —just see that it’s done and
off marches Mr. Boor, with a bow and
a smile of gentlemanly polish for
every casual acquaintance he may
chance to recognize.
When we meet with such thought
lessness and coarseness, our thoughts
revert to (he kind voice and gentle
manner of the friend who said: “Yes,
my dear, with pleasure.” “ I beg your
pardon” comes as readily to his lips,
when by any little accident he has dis
concerted her as it would in the pres
ence of the most fashionable sticklers
for etiquette. This is because lie is a
thorough gentleman, who thinks his
wife.in all things entitled to precedence.
He- loves her best. Why should he
hesitate to show it? not in sickly
maudlin attentions, but in preferring
her pleasure, honoring her in public
as well as in private. He knows her
worth. Why should he hesitate to at
test it? “ And her husband he
praised her,” saith holy writ, not by
fulsome adulation, not by pushing her
charms into notice, but by speaking as
opportunity occurs, in many ways of
her virtues
Though words seem little things,and
slight attention almost valueless, yet,
depend upon it they keep the flame
bright, especially if they are natural.
The children grow up in a better moral
atmosphere and learn to respect their
parents ao they see them respecting
each other. Many a boy takes ad
vantage of the mother he loves,because
he sees often the rudeness of his
father. Insensibly he gathers to his
bosom the same habits and the thoughts
and feelings they engender and in his
turn becomes the petty tyrant. Only
his mother ! Why should he thank
her? Father never does. Thus the
home becomes the seat of disorder and
unhappiness. Only for strangers are
kind words expressed, and hypocrites
go out from the hearthstones fully pre
pared to render justice, benevolence
and politeness to every one and any
one but those who have the justest
claims. Ah! give us the kind glance,
the happy homestead, the smiling wife
and courteous children of the friend
who said so pleasantly:- “Yes, my
dear, with pleasure.”
Our Young Folks.
REMEMBER THY MOTHER.
Lend thy mother tenderly
Down life’s steep decline ;
Once her arm was thy support,
Now she leans on thine.
Sice upon her loving face
Those deep lines of care";
Think—it was her toil for thee
Left that, record there.
Ne’er forget her tireless watch
Kept by day and night,
Tnking from her step the grace,
From her eye the light.
Cherish well her faithful heart,
Which through weary years
Echoed with its sympathy
All thy smiles and tears.
Thank God for thy mother’s love,
Guard the priceless’boon;
For the bitter parting hour
Cometh all too soon.
When thy grateful tenderness
Losses power to save,
Earth will hold no dearer spot
Than thy mother’s grave.
Philip’s Secret.
Very happy seemed a dozen bright
faced boys, who with skates and lunch
baskets, were speeding away over the
crusty meadows toward the river. The
ice was smooth,and in the best possible
condition for skating.
“ I’ll be with you, boys, by the time
you fairly get agoing," shouted Philip
Raymond, as he suddenly left the rest,
and turning to the rigid, hastened off
in the direction of a little cross-road
leading from the main village to the
hill beyond the river. <
“What’s up now?” asked Dick Dahill.
But Philip was off; and no reply came
back.
“He means to strike the bend and
skate down to the ‘Spread,’ and scare
us from the willow hedge, i’ll bet a
guinea,” Dick continued.
“ He’s only going over by the Van*
derver’s new house to see if he can’t
get a chance to bow to pretty Mabel at
the window,” suggested Tom Russel.
He’s polite to the girls, you know,” he
added sneeringly.
“ Goin’ to count the chickens in
Stephen Dublin’s hen-house, more like
ly! ” put in Bill Barton.
Perhaps the boys were quite uncon
scious that the coward, the fop, and
pilferer were all interpreting Philip’s
motives from standards of their own.
Carroll Mackay was Philip’s best
friend among the boys, and was quite
worthy to be. He could not bear to
hear low motives attributed to one
whom he loved so much. He spoke
up at length. “You all know better.
Every one of you’d be surprised to
have Phil do a mean thing; you know
yon would. If we don’t find out some
time that there’s some good at the bot
tom of this freak, as you call it, I shall
lose my guess.”
“ Yes, yes! ” said Dick with a sneer.
“He’s a saint, and you’re another.
A II ready for the kingdom, ain’t you!
How soon ye goin’ up ? ”
There was no reply from Carroll,
and the subject dropped.
The condition of the river was be
yond their brightest expectation. The
last skater was mounted, and careering
about, cutting circles backward and
forward, when a prolonged whistle was
heard up the river,and Phil came glid
ing down.
“Look out for the locomotive!”
shouted he. He was drawing a sled,
on which sat a sad-faced little boy,
carefully wrapped in a faded shawl and
tippet.
“Boys, this is little Connie Weeks.
He lives in'the house the Kellys left.
He wants a little fun as well as we ;
and what’s more, he can’t help himself
to it, as we can, poor boy! ”
“ How do you like it, little one ? ”
continued he in a kind tone, as he
tucked up a trailing corner of the
blanket and prepared lor a freffi
start.
“ Oh, so much.”
But a glance at the little one’s bright
eyes replied sufficiently, without the
faint voice.
Carroll came up, speaking kindly to
the little one, and took hold of the
rope with Philip.
“Here’s a whip for you, Connie,”
said he, breaking off a long slender
willow, and hand bur it to him. We’re
your horses now'. If we don’t go fast
enough you must whip us.”
But poor bewildered little Conrad
thought there would be no use for the
whip, as he glided over the ice behind
his steel-shod horses.
The other boys kept; aloof from
Philip; only shouting, as they passed
him, —
“How’s your babv auntie? Who
takes care of the rest of ’em? ” and de
claring to themselves in an undertone,
“Never could understand that Phil
Raymond, never! ”
“I-low’d you happen to think of
this ? ” asked Carroll.
“ Well, I’ll toll you, Carl. His
father saws wood at our house ; and,
the other day, he was sawing out a
little slick, just the right curve and
timber “to mend a sled beam with,”
he said. And so I found out about
this little crippled boy. I made up my
mind then, there was a good chance
for some great, strong fellow like me
to make the little one happy. And
it’s what I call ray secret; but I’ll tell
you about it. I’ve found, ever since I
began to try to be a —well, for a year
past, you know —that, whenever I do
a thing to make somebody else happy,
it’s the surest way of being happy my
self.”
“ Phil, you’re a noble fellow. This
would be a different world, if we all
possessed your secret, and lived up to
its teachings as you do.”
The Boys’ Bed-Time Stories.
“ It’s the ‘ childrens’ hour,’ papa,”
said the elder of the little span of boys,
who never forget the customs that
please them, however forgetful they
maybe about coming “straight home
from school,” and being prompt at
meals, and going to bed when the hour
comes. It’s wonderful how boys re
member what they want, and what
a “good forgetery” they have about
things that are not so pleasant.
“A story?” —says the father —“ let
me read you one from Chatterbox.”
“No!” said both the waiting little
chaps at once —“ printed stories ain’t
half so good. Tell us one your make
ups.”
“Well, what shall it be about?”
“ Oh—-about, a hear and a hunter
lor a lion and a rhinoceros. Only have
'it kind o’funny, and have the hunter
lick, or the lion.”
Well, once there was an old hunter,
who lived, all alone in the woods, in a
snug little log house that he had built.
And he spent all his time shooting
deer and bears and things, and catch
ing beavers and minks in his traps.
()ne day in the summer he got very
tired of eating nothing but meat and
pancakes, and he thought he’d go and
get some honey. So he took down a
little vial of sweet-smelling stuff, and
rubbed some on a log; and the bees
liked the smell, and came down to get
some, as he knew they would. Then
he chased and chased them until he
saw them crawl into a great big dead
tree, where there home was. So he
climbed the tree and drove some plugs
into holes, so the bees couldn’t get out,
and then he took his sharp hatchet
and cut a big hole farther up, and
reached in his arm and took out five
or six cakes of honey, and put ’em in a
pail he brought with him on purpose.
Then he crawled down, and covered
up his honey with a cloth, and put his
pail by his gun, and went back to a
brook to get some water. When he
came back, what do you suppose he
saw?
(Two. “ I-don’t-knows.”)
Well, he saw a big brown bear sit
ting on his hind legs, and just going
for that honey ! He had the second
cake in his fore paw’s, and was eating
as fast as he could, with the honey all
streaming down his breast, and all over
him. That made the hunter awful
mad, because he couldn’t get his gun.
So he thought a minute, and then just
climbed tiiat tree in a hurry, and
pulled the plugs out, and the bees
came a buzzing and swarming out
madder than hop-toads. And they
smelled the honey quick, and knew it
was theirs, and they just went for that
bear lively. More’n a thousand of
them lit on his head and back all over
him, and begun to sting. And the
way he dropped that honey and com
menced to howl and paw his head and
roll over just made the hunter laugh
till he cried. The more he pawed the
more they stung, and tlio more they
stung the more he howled: “ E-r-r-a-h!”
“ Y-o-w!” And the bear’s head swelled
up so he couldn’t see, and the hunter
got his rifle and shot him dead ; and
at night when the bees had gone to
bed he came hack and got all the
bear’s meat and more’n twenty pounds
of honey.
And the next morning when he was
eating honey on his pancakes he
j laughed all’to himself as he said;
“Guess I’ll get a swarm of bees and
take ’em along with me to hunt bears
with.”
“Good night.” —Golden Rule.
Not a thousand miles from Rich
mond a wife lay in a dying condition.
Having brought up a clever orphan
girl, who was grown, the dying woman
called the young woman to her and
said: “ I will soon leave you my lit
tle children, motherless. They know
you and love you, and after I am gone
I want you and my husband to marry.”
The young woman, bursting into tears,
said : “We were just talking about
that.’
Ax unmarried but not young woman
in Chicago has a father who will not
allow her to change “1845” to “ 1855”
in the record of her birth in the bible;
and she turns pale with fright every
time her lover goes near the sacred
volume as it lies on the parlor table.
TERMS, $2 00 Per Annum.
NUMBER 8.
Fun and Folly.
A brave and good little Ohio boy
sat on the fence two hours in the freer,-
ing cold of dead winter, watching a
broken rail on the railroad track, so as
to carry the latest news of the impend
ing accident to his father, who was
local editor.
A young local poet is very indig
nant with us because his latest con
tribution, a tender monody on “ Van
ished Hopes," came out as “ Vanished
Hogs.” He needn’t come here to
porklaim his grief. This office never
listens to any complaints. — Hawk-Eye.
Ike has had an irritating skin dis
ease. Mrs. Partington says “ the
Charolotte Russe broke out all over
him, and if he hadn’t wore the Injun
beads as an omelet, it would doubtless
have caused calumniated fatally.”
A maiden lady said to her little
nephew: “ Now, Johnny, you go to
bed early, and always do so, and you’ll
be rosy cheeked and handsome when
you grow up.” Johnny thought over
this a few minutes, and then observed:
“ Well, aunty, you must have sat up
a good deal when you were young.”
A correspondent who signs him
self “Apiarist,” asks us, “hew to
smoke bees.” We can’t tell him. We
never smoked bees—nor tobacco either.
But we should think a good way, if not
the best, would be to dr/ the bees and
grind ’em up like fine-cut before put
ting ’em in a pipe. —Norristown Herald.
One of the “ respectable citizens ”
of an Indiana town wa3 recently found
frozen to death with a jug of whisky
within his reach. A man who will
deliberately freeze to death within
reach of a jug of whisky may be able
to palm himself off as a respectable
citizen in benighted Indiana, but there
are other states in the union.
Opjginai< G. W. item from the San
Francisco News letter: On a certain
occasion, when Mr. Washington was
at dinner at Mt. Vernon, Mr. Ran
dolph, who sat opposite, pressed the
general to partake of the turnips.
“ Sir,” said the Father of his Country,
impressively, “sir, I do not eat tur
nips, because they disagree with me!”
There was not a dry eye in the room.
A group of one man and two women
halted in front of “The Bridal of
Neptune,” sorely perplexed to make it
out. But one of the women was a
smart Massachusetts girl and she soon
solved the difficulty. “It’s either,”
said she, with some lingering doubt,
“ it’s either the Delooge —or the burst
ing of the Worcester dam ! ” “ Taint
the Delooge,” replied the male yank,
“ cause that ain’t the costoom of the
period! ” “ Then it’s the Worcester
dam sure! ” voted the trio, and glode
peacefully on their way.
It was at the second battle of Bull
Run that a cannon ball carried off a
poor soldier’s leg. “ Carry me to the
rear!” he cried to a tall companion
who had been fighting by his side —
“My leg is shot off.” The comrade
caught the wounded soldier up, and
as he was about to put him across
his shoulders another cannan ball car
ried away the poor fellow’s head. His
friend, however, in the confusion, did
not notice this, but proceeded with his
burden toward the rear. “ What are
you carrying that thing for?” cried an
officer. “Thing?” returned he, “It’s
a man with his leg shot off.” “ Why,
he hasn’t any head! ” cried the officer.
The soldier looked at his load, and for
the first time saw that what the officer
said was true. Throwing down the
body, he thundered outi “Confound
him! he told me it was his leg! ”
Baltimorean.
VivieA’, the eccentric Frenchman
who has made it the business of his
life to worry the custom-house inspec
tors of all European countries, has re
turned to France. His wont formerly
was to pack a huge trunk full of trou
sers straps, such as are worn with
gaiters, using hydraulic pressure if it
were necessary to cram five bushels
into a three-bushel space ; then to lure
the inspector to open it as a suspicious
package, when naturally the contents
were overset, and the whole force of
the custom-house was occupied for
hours in putting them back. A power
ful jack in-the-box was another device
of his that was very successful. His
latest performance at Boulogne is thus
recounted: “M. Vivier placed his
valise and traveling-sack on the coun
ter. ‘ What is in this traveling-sack ?”
i‘Two rattlesnakes,’ said M. Viver,
meekly. The inspector jumped back,
and said it was unnecessary to open it.
‘ And in this valise ? ’ ‘ Three more
rattlesnakes,’ softly responded Mr.
Vivier. The inspector knitted his
brows for a moment, consulted a tariff,
and replied in an awful voice, ‘ That
makes five rattlesnakes ; there is no
duty on rattlesnakes unless there are
six or more. Pass this gentleman’s
luggage! ”