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*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/’