Newspaper Page Text
*7 <- \ -5
33 S' m
4 -
0 N A
S. B. Burr,
TRIED AND TRUE
In the midst of a pleasant con¬
versation with his hostess, Harold
Arleigh abruptly paused, a sudden
flush on his fine face, a strange,
startled look on his handsome dark
eyes.
What he had been about to say
he never knew; of his ungracious¬
ness ho was not conscious, until he
• saw Mrs.. SdS,glvsea of po
litoly-surprised inquiry.
‘Pardon me,’ ho said, turning to¬
ward her with a winning and jtp
pologetic smile; ‘I saw a lady
among your guests just now so
like a dear friend I knew and lost
long [.ago, that the resemblance
quite excited me/
‘Ah, you mean the young lady
in eilk and opal ornaments, with
Curly yellow hair and cheeks like
peach blossoms. She is very beau¬
tiful—there is none like her. She
is Ermengarde Burroughs—a dear
friend, who is staying with me for
a few weeks. Shall I introduce
you ?' returned the lady.
‘If you wish —if you will do so
kinl as to honor me,’ faltered the
young mao, visibly embarassed.
His hostess gave him one keen
but covert look.
‘Emengrade has made another
conquest,’ she thought. ‘If I dar¬
ed I should warn him—I should
tell him that this fair woman, with
her alluring, smiling eyes, has no
heart to be won,’
Five minutes later her two
friends were whirling through a
waltz together and she wondered
why Harold hod grown so pale, and
why Ermengrade seemed so haugh¬
ty and cold.
‘One would think they were lov¬
ers who had quarreled,’ was her
mental criticism.
She was not wrong, for years be¬
fore these two had loved each oili¬
er deaj-ly. They had been betroth
ed, and the marriage day fixed,
when the trial came that parted
them. Harold Arleigh suddenly
found himself fatherless and utter¬
ly penniless, but idleness and lux¬
ury had not spoiled his high and
noble spirit. He could cheerfully
accept years of toil and study and
straggling, but he felt that he
could not happily and conscien¬
tiously wed his wealthy Ermen¬
grade until he might regain his
wordly equality with her.
‘The world says unpleasant things
of poor men who marry rich wo¬
men,' he had told her.
‘Why should we care for what
,
the world has said or may say,’ the
girl had returned impatiently.—
‘All I have belongs to you, Harold.
Do not leave me.’
Even in that trying moment,
with her dear hands clinging upon
him, he never wavered. ‘I must,
my darling,’ he had answered her
‘ firmly, though his heart was heavy
with regret and pain. ‘And re¬
member, though I shall leave you
free, I shall remain loyal to you in
heart and deed, as the only woman
I can ever make my wife. Aud I
am not selfish enough jo ask you
to wait for me a few years, my Er¬
mengrade.’
What the girl replied she could
never distinctly remember, but she
' knew her words were cruelly re¬
proachful, for she was half mad
with the agony of losing him for
even a few brief years
And he loft her with a look ou
liis white, beloved face she would
never forget until her dying day.
- She felt that ho wronged
generous affection, insulted her
womanly pride, and left her with
pitiless indifference to be scomcd
and mocked, as a bride deserted by
her bridegroom. She bad heard
of sweet hearts who had waited for
lovers who never came ; of women
who had wasted the best years of
their lives upon lovers ths.fi were
false, and her wholo soul cried
in a bitter unforgiving
against him. Neither pardon nor
trust would sh# give him. And
yet she accepted the freedom
had given her with that sort of do
fiant misery’ all women feel when
slaves of a lovo that neither
»or luijuiuh nor humiliation,
nhuman cruelty even, can ever
essea.
And that night at Mrs. Goldsby’s
soiree they had met again—met
after long years as strangers.
And during those years Harold
worked so faithfully. He had won
an honorable position among the
most honorable of men; he was es
teemed as one of the most brilliant
members of the legal fraternity,
nn„l by trayo!.gmd study ho had
acquired that elegance and digni¬
ty of manner that commands the
homage of society. If Harold Ar
leigh choose to wed an heiress, the
world could not say he married for
money and social distinction, nor
would he feel that he would bar¬
ter the noble independence of his
manhood by such a union.
But for him the wide world held
only one woman, sweet and dear,
and she, it seemed, was no longer
attainable.
‘Is this the Emengrade I have
loved all my life V he asked him¬
self as he gazed upon her fair pas¬
sionless face ; ‘the Ermengrade in
whoso affection and faithfulness I
trusted, despite her unreasonable
anger against rue?’
And he sighed heavily as he led
her to a seat after the waltz was
over.
‘I did not think to meet you
here,’ he faltered, as the gay groups
swept by, leaving them alone.
‘We meet many people unexpect¬
edly, Mr.' Arleigh," she answered,
in a cold, serene voice.
Her cool tranquility almost mad¬
dened him. Tho years that hjd
passed seemed to him but the
dreaiw dream of an hour, and their
sorrowful parting but of yester¬
day.
He bent over her until his -hot
breath burned her cheek.
‘Ermengrade,’ he - whispered in
hoarse, agitated tones, ‘are you
so changed? Have you really
forgotten, or do you quite ignore
what we were once to each other ?
I have made myself worthy to ask
you to be made my wife. Give me
one word, Ermengrade—ono word
to send mo from you again or to
keep me by your side for tho re¬
mainder of our lives.’
Her stony calmness was all gone
now. She trembled perceptibly
and arose before him pale as death.
Her lips moved with a little gasp
but what she meant to say she did
not utter, for at that moment a
gentleman came to her, and with a
word of apology to Harold, claim
ed her for the next dance.
And just then his hostess touch¬
ed his arm with her fan.
‘My husband is asking for you,
Air. Arleigh,’ she said, adding light¬
ly, ‘did you not find my dear Er"
mengrade charming ? She is a love j
ly creature. Just the least bit of
a coquette, perhaps. I believe she
is engaged to the gentleman who
is dancing tho German with her.’
Harold Arleigh despised gossip
and regarded all rumors as unre¬
liable, but in his present mood of
suspense the words of his hostess
grieved him a3 the most bitter
proven truth could do.
Ermengrade had pledged herself
to another, and this was the end of
his dreams and hopes. All that
was left for him to do was to
bravely bear his disappointment.—
But how could he meet her day af¬
ter day and look upon her fair,
dear face, listen to her loved voice,
and not betray the pain of cruel
loss.
Many things puzzled Harold
during tho weeks that followed.—
Often ho found her regarding him
with a singularly thoughtful, half
resentful look in her earnest blue
eyes. Once coming into tho un¬
lighted parlor at twilight, he saw
her sitting before the piano,
golden head bowed low, her
lovely form shaking with silent
sobs. And onco when they were
quito alone slio spoke kindly and
gently of tho evening they met.
•You asked mo a question that
night, she said,’ with quiet dignity,
and a delicate reluctance of manner;
‘it was scarcely my fault that it
j I was ‘1 not knjw answered what then.’. would have
you*
FORT VALLEY, GEORGIA, FRIDAY, MAY 7, 1880 .
said, Miss Burroughs,’ he returned,
gravely, ‘I am sorry for having so
startled and offended you. I was
wrong and inconsiderate, and I can
only acknowledge lay fault and ask
pardon for it.’
She regarded him for one in¬
stant with shy wonder, and then
turned away haughtily, her fair
faco scarlet, and an unmistakable
expression of scorn and resentment
in her Irlug bcsufij’ul eyes.
‘I fear I am hopelessly stupid ;'
resumed Arleigh, in pained, per
p'exed tones. ‘I am sure I have
displeased you again, but I cannot
conjecture how. Oh, Ermengrade,
will you never understand that I
would not willingly give you one
moment of disquiet ?’
‘I do not profess to understand
you Uifc <ill, she Eiuswered u.s she
left him.
‘She denies me even her 'friend¬
ship,’ he thought, sorrowfully.
A long time after she had gone
he stood by the parlor window,
gazing out into tho night—a black,
dreary night with ^he rain drifting
over the roof in sheets and tho wild
wind roaring up from the river.
‘Just the evening for a cosy chat
bafore a comfortable fire,’ observed
Mrs. Goldsby, coming in, and after
ringing for lights, drawing the
heavy curtains with a little shiver.
“I thought Ermengarde was with
you, Harold --you are not going? Mr.
Goldsby wishes to show you those
curious things seat him to-day.—
The dear fellow has a passion for
odd and antique relics, and hi3 stu¬
dy will interets you. Alan,do bring
Miss Burroughs,” concluded the
vivacious little lady.
Presently Ermengarde came—a
slim, elegant figure, dressed simply
in. black silk, with a cluster of white
roses on her bosom.
“Here is something you would
like, Miss Burroughs,” observed
Mr. Goldby, taking from his box
of relics a carious necklace of gold,
with a pendent of exquisite pear’s.
“If ono could only know the his
tory of all theso things,” murmured
the girl, as she glanced over them—
a tiny grotesque statuette, a few
coins centufies old, a cup of silver
fantastically carved, and among
them all a small toy pistol with a
jeweled stock.
“This, at least, is not very an¬
cient, ’ she remarked, taking up the
diminutive weapon.
“Be careful, dear, it may not be
harmless,” remarked her hostess.
This wise injunction came too
late. As Ermengarde turned it
about scrutinizingly in her white
fingers there was a sharp click and
report; the dangerous toy dropped
at her feet, and she flung up her
shivering hands with a little cry of
fright and pain.
“0, what have you done?’’ cried
Harold, as he saw the red blood
trickling over her soft cheek and
staining the whito roses on her
bosom.
“It is nothing/’ gasped the girl,
and then tottered back upon
sofa pail^ and unconscious.
“fiho has only fainted,” said Ar¬
leigh, as he bent over her. “There
is no cause for alarm. The ball
barely cut the tender flesh, ’
But the host had gone evidently
to send for a physician, and his
frightened wife bad followed him
aimlessly into the hall
“0, my love, my love,” moaned
Harold. “I had almost rather see
you lying herebefore me dead than
to know that you will live to
the wife of another.”
It would seem that she heard his
voice and understood his words
even in her unconsciousness,
she suddenly opened her eyes
smiled liko a littlo child
from a dream.
“What wore you saying, Harold?”
she asked; faintly, regarding
vyith a wondering look.
. “That it is agony to givo you
to another, my darling,” ho rejoined
slowly. nl*
Her pain and fright were
i gone now. Hho arose before him
proudly, her pale cheeks growing
rosy.
“Harold,” she said, gravely, “if
I mu not your wifo. I shall
bo the wife of another. You hart
wronged my love and fidelity if,
ypu have ever thought differently.
The spell of the sweet old" love
dream was upon them; there was
no need for explanations for heart
spoke to heart and each under¬
stood the other; all anger was for¬
given and all mistalces forgotten.
“I suppose only for my stupid
accident we should never have b"?ji
reconciled,"
and by, “anal slfouid h-.rtel.icen as
angry with you all my life as I had
for years,’
“Then those years of our lost
happinesss have not been lived in
vain,” he answered, seriously; “our
0 ve is tried and true, and your
husband will be your honor and
supporter instead of a pensioner on
your bounty. *
Lovely, happy Ermengarde was
inclined to contest the practical
part of her lover’s argument,
thinking of his great, manly love
so tried and true,, she, with true
womanly sentiment, began to be¬
lieve in his wisdom.
‘After all,’ she confessed to Mrs.
Goldsy, “I think I should despite,
husband who would be what my
dear Harold would have been if I
in my silly fondness could have
made him so. I loved him then, I
adore and honor him now/
“And we shall send you that en¬
chanted pistol for a bridal present,’’
Mr. Goldsby assured her, laughing-
4
The Stomach of the Horse
The horsed stomach has a edac¬
ity of only about sixteen guarts,
while that of the ox is two hun»
drod and fifty, in the intestines
this proportion is reversed, the
1101 ’ 83 having a capacity of one
hundr ed n r v j ni nntg quarts-, -and one
hundred of tho ox. The ox and
most other animals have a gall-blad
der fer a retention of a part of the
bile secreted during digestion.—
The horse ha(5 really none, and the
bile flows directly into tbo intas
tine as fast as secreted. This con
st-ruction of the digestive apparatus
indicates that tho horse was formed
to eat slowly and digest continu¬
ally bulky and innutritions food.—
When fed on hay, it passes very
rapidly through tho stomach- into
the intestines. The horse can eat
but five pounds of hay in an hour,
which is charged, during mastica¬
tion, with four times its weight of
saliva. Now, tho stomach, to di¬
gest it well, will contain but q,bout
teu quarts, aud when the animal
eats about one-third of his daily
ration, or seven pounds, in one
and one-half hours, he has swallow¬
ed, at least, two stomachs full of
hay aud saliva, ono of these having
passed to tho intestine. Observa¬
tion has shown that tile food has
passed to the intestine by the stom¬
ach in tho order which it is receiv¬
ed. If wo feed a horse six quarts
of oats, it will just fill his stomach,
and if as soon as he finishes this
we feed him tho above ration
seven pounds of hay, lio will eat
sufficient in three-quarters of an
hour to have forced the oats entire¬
ly out of his stomach into the in
testine. As it is the office of the
stomach to digest the nitrogenous
part of tho seed, and as a stomach¬
ful of oats contains four or
times as much of those as the
amount of hay, it is certain that
either tho stomach must secrete
the gastric juice five times os fast,
which is liardly possible, or it
retain this food, five times as long.
By feeding the oats first, it can
not be retained long enough
their proper digestion of hay; con¬
sequently it seems logical, when
feeding a concentrated food liko
oats, with a bulky ono like hay, to
feed tbo latter first, givin g
grain the wholo time between
repast to bo digested.
“I’a, dear,” asked liis sou
heir, “tell mo wbat is tho difference
between rn accident and a misfort¬
une?” “Pa, dear,” gavo it up.—
“Well,” said hia son and heir,
my tailor were to full into a
pond it would ko an accident; but
any ono were to pull him out
would bo a misfortune.
Advice to a Young Man
My son, if you do a mean thing,
if you are guilty of a small spiteful
action, if you wreak some paltry,
shabby vengeance on your neigh¬
bor, if you do anything supremely
little and cowardly and hateful
and still hold up your head and
want to be respected by the world
just lay this flattering unction to
your soul—you are the only man
no one is fooled
ymuiiolf. If yi/ti are mean every¬
body knows it, the rest of mankind
as well as yourself. Your neigh¬
bors may not, it is more than likely
they will not, tell you.of it. They
will not express their houest con¬
victions on the subject to your
face, but when you lie down at
night and* blush over your mean¬
ness by yourself in the dark, don’t
you add foolishness to your wick¬
edness by hugging to yourself the
flattering delusion that nobody
known it. They all know it and
they all talk about it. Don’t you
know of every mean thing your
neighbors do? Don’t they all tell
you all the mean things they know
about each, other? And do you
suppose that they don’t know all
about your littleness, if you have
any, just as well? My dear boy,
you must know that this shrewd
old world is too sharp for any of
us, and that you can’t fool it. It
will hold you at your own estimate
of yourself; not your publicly ex¬
pressed estimate, maybe, hut at
your own private, honest estimate;
the estimate you hold yourself at
when you have turned out the
light, and crept into bed, and
know that thesA is- just one
in all the universe telos^y Ihat is
your heart as as and
more honestly Amd purely than
can. And ydn
world to think you really
and manly and noble, my Json,
you have got to be honest
manly and noble. Otherwise,
don't care what it says it
of you. Be honest with
my boy,- so that when the day
done, and the blessing of the
falls upon you, you can shake your
self by the hand, and say, “Old
you have made a fearful mess of
to-day; you have stumbled
faltered; yort have blotted tho
cord, you have bristled with
hut you did it all in honesty,
human ignoVance and
and you haven’t bed to
and when yon go out on the
no man’s accusing glances can
your eyes drop.”
A Kansas Spitter
As the train stopped for
minutes, aud that individual
goes along tapping tho wheels
his hammer was passing rapidly
the smoking car, one of tho
dows was hoisted and a torrent
spittle ejected. Tho
paused a moment and, wiping
ot the stream from his person,
to the offender: ‘Mister, what
of the country did you come
‘Me.’ said the spilter, puckering
lips for another expectoration,
come from Knnsas. ‘I thought
said the machinist, ‘for if you
lived in Massachusetts or
cut they would hate had a
wheel in your mouth long ago.’
Kearney a Prisoner.
the San Francisco mobocrat
blackguard, was committed to
last Monday morning, after a
attempt for delay, to sue out
habeas corpus from the
court. lie received the labors
the prison harbor and the
ate garb with ill grace, and
propably pass a quiet Summer.
“What,” asks a communistic
clined paper, “are kings good
Uneducated and
youth, a man never fully
ates tho real value of kings
the other follow holds a pair
queens.
A gentleman having a
with a very thick skull used to of
ten call him tho king of fools.
wish,” said tho fellow one day,
could mako your words good, as
should then be tho monarch of
world.”
Women as a Census-Taker
In many parts of the country
women will be appointed as census
enumerators, with the probable re¬
sult something like this.
Neatly-dressed woman of an un¬
certain age with big- book under
'her arm and pen in hand, rings the
door-hell, Young lady appears at
the door.
Census Enumerator —Oood
morning, I am taking the census.
You were bom?
Young Lady—Yes’ni.
“Your name, please? What a
pretty dust-cap you have ou. Can
I get the pattern? It’s just like the
one tho lady at the next house has.
Let's see, your name!''
“I haven’t tho pattern. Don’t
you get awful tired walking round
taking the census?”
“Oh, yes; its wearisome, but I
pick up a great deal of informa¬
tion.
How nice your dinner smells
cooking! Plum-pudding?
“In Maine. No, I haven’t plum¬
pudding' to-day. I’m looking for
a new recipe—”
“I’ve got one that I took down
from a lady’s cook book across the
way. Are you married?”
“No. Want an invitation to
the wedding, don’t you? It will
be a long time before you get it.—
You can keep your plum pudding
recipe, thank you?’’
“I sh'd think ‘twould be some
time. Have you chil—Oh, of
course, I forgot. This hall carpet
is just the pattern of AuntPrudy’s.
She's had it more than twenty
years. 11 ow many are there in fam
ily I”
“If this hall carpet don’t suit
you, you can get off from it, and
go about your censusing.”
“W'Sh yon’ re an impudent jade.
anyhow-. You haven’t told me
when you wcr3 born, or what’s
your name, “or when you expect to
get married, and there's ten dollars
fme for not answering census tak¬
ers' questions, and if I was you I
wouldn’t be seen at the door in
such a slouchy morning dress, so
there.’
“Oh, you hateful thing. You
can just go away. I’ll pay teu
dollars just to get rid of you, aud
smile doing it. it's none.of your
business, nor the censuses’ either.
No it isn’t. You can keep your
pattern and your plum-pudding,
and your saucy, impudent questions
to yourself—I—I”
“Good morning. I must be get¬
ting on. I haven’t done but three
families all the forenoon,” and an
energetic bang of the door just mis
sed catching a foot of her trailing
dress skirt.
——---—«S>
Dot Delephcne
“I guess I half to gif up ray dol
ephoue nheady,” said an old citizen
of Gratiot avenue yesterday, as
ho entered the office of the company
with a very long face.
“Why, what’s the mat’er now?”
“On! everything!. I got dot del
ophone in mine -house sons I could
spheak mit uer phoys in der saloon
down town, and mit my relations in
Springwells, but I liaf to gif it up.
I nefar halt so much droubles.”
“How?”
“Vhell, my poy Shon, in dor sa¬
loon, be rings der pell und calls me
oop says an old front of mine vhants
to see how she works. Dot ish all
right. Isay: ‘Hello! - u nd he say
‘Come closer/ I goes und helloes
again. Deu ho says: ‘Sthand a
leedle off.’ I sthands a lecdlo off
und yells vunce more und ho snys:
•Speak louder/ I yells louder. It
goes dot vhay ten minutes, und don
he says, ‘Go to Texas, you old
Duchmans!’ You sec?”
“Yes.’
“Aud don mein brudder in Spring
wells he rings do pell und culls me
oop und says how I vas dis eafaings.
, I says 1 vhas feeling like soino
colls, und lie says: ‘Who vhants
to puy somo goats?' Isays
—eo’.ts—colts 1’ uud ho
‘Oh! coats. I thought you said
goals!’ V'lun I goes to ask if
feels pettcr 1 li ars a /oieo crying
oudt, 'V hat DucUmoiu is dot on
line?' Deu so in | ody uunwr', ‘I
V0I.-9 No. 43
(loan’ know but I likes to punch his
hs?adt.’ You see?’.
“Yes.”
“Vhell, somedimes my vifo vants
to spheak mit me vheu I am down
in der saloon. £>be rings mein pell
und I says, ‘Hello!’ Nopody
spheaks to ma. She rings ngaiD,
und I says, -Hello!’ like dunder.—
Don der Central Office tells me to
go a headt, und den tells nre- holdt
on, und deu tells mein vhifo dot I
am gone avbay. I' yells oudt dot
M not so, "find o-M.v.boJy says,
How can I talk if dot old Dutchman
do,an’ keep sthilll’ You see?”
“Yea.”
“And vhen I gits in pedt at
night, somepody rings der pell like
der house vas on fire, uad vhen I
shumpts oubt und says hello, hear
sompody saying: ‘Kaiser, doan
you vhant to puy a dog:’ I vhant
no dog, und vhen I tells ’em so, I
heard some beoples laughing: ‘Haw!
haw! haw! You see?’
“Yes.”
‘Uad so you date it oudt, und
vhen somepody likes to spheak mit
mo dey shall come right a ray to
mein saloon. Oof my brudder is
sick ho shall get pet'.er, und if
somepody vhants to puy me a dog
he shall come vliore I can punch
him mit a clap!”—Detroit Free
Press.
The Poor Cuss's Luck
“I ana hungry and ragged and
heartsick and dead-broke,mutter¬
ed a tramp yesterday, as he sat
down for a sun-bath ou the wharf
at the foot of Griswold street; “but
its just my luck. Last fall I got
into Detroit just two hours too
late to sell my vote. Nobody to
blame. Found a big wallet on
the streets in December, and loxir
police came up before I could hide
it. Luck again. Got knocked
down by a street car, but there was
no opening for suit and damages,
because I was drunk. Just the
way. Last fall nails were way
down. I knew thore’d bo a rise,
but I didn’t buy and hold for the
advance. Lost ten thousand dols
lavs out and out. Alius that way
with me. Glass went np twenty
five per cent., but I hadn’t a pane
on hand, excepting the pain in my
back. Never knew itti fail. Now
lumber’s gone up, and I don’t even
own a fence-picket to realize on.—
Just mo again. Fell into the riv*
er ‘tother day, but instead of pul¬
ling me out and giving me a hot
whiskey they pulled mo out I’d and
told me to leave town or got
tho bounce. That’s me again. Now
I've got settled down here for a
bit of a rest and a snooze, but I'll
be routed out in less than fifteen
minutes and I know it. It’ll be
just my behaugod luck!” liis lliit
Ho settled down, slid
oyer his face, and was just bogin¬
ning to feel sleepy when a Iran
pred pounds of coal rattled down
on him.
“I knew it—I knew it” slioitted
the-trainp as ho sprang head—“I up and rub¬ said
bed tho dust off his
r.o all the time, and 1 just wish the
darned old hogshead had come
down along with tho coal and
jammed me through tho wharf.”
“IVliat do you suppose we'll say
whan wo meet in heaven, George?”
said she. “Say? I knew what you’ll
say, darling.” “Me say ! what?"
“Why, you’ll say: I told you so.-»
I just know how it would bo up
here.’
--... + ---- ,
One of tbo Methodist ministers
of Ibis city was, a few days ago
called upon by a Gorman and re¬
quested to conduct tbo services over
his wife, who had just died. Brother
L -- with liis usual urbanity con¬
sented, of course, and the services
were held with duo deconim and
solemnity. After tflo funeral was
over the widower stepped up to the
minister, and tbo following dinlouge
ensued: Gorman: “Veil, Mr. L-- < r
how much you charge for burying
my vifei’ Puncher- “Oh, I da
not charge anything for attending
funerals.’ German (smiling ’signifi¬
cantly); "Veil, now, this is very kind
of you. But ahtop a minute! Itr a
few days I give you a better job
ihan ilnt.” Preacher. “Why, what
i may that be’’ German: “Oh. very
mu :U teller jod dan dal. I bos go*
^ lag to get warned again/’