Newspaper Page Text
Yol. XI. NTo. 4.
THE DOVE.
A COMPANION TO POE'S “ RAVIN."
BY REV. J. H. MARTIN, P.D.
Once, upon a summer evening.
As I lay reposing, dreaming,
Wliile t lie twinkling stars were beaming.
And their light was faintly gleaming
Through the window of my room,
Suddenly, beside my pillow,
Like the murmur of a billow.
Or the sigh of weeping widow,
'Alid the shadow and the gloom,
There was heard a gentle sound,
Floating on the air around,
As an echo from above;
And I, awaking, saw a dove
Perched upon the whitened llead
Of a statue near my bed;
And it seemed, with soli, low cooing,
My lone heart to soothe with wooing,
Like an angel from the sky,
Or a spirit hoveringiulgh.
■ 'While I lay entranced and dreaming.
Startled by the echo seeming
To be whispered from above,
In the starlight faintly gleaming.
With its form ol beauty beaming,
I beheld the snowy dove:
With a thrill of wonder, gazing
On the visitor amazing,
I demanded: "Who are you?”
And the gentle bird of whiteness,
With its snowy robs of biigbtness,
Answered with a coo:
•‘I am sent,” he said, “from Aiden,
Ly a fair and lovely maiden,
With a message unto thee;
I am come to soothe thy sorrow,
Bid thee irom despair lo borrow
Hope that tliou her face shall see;
For thy cherished one is living,
And her thoughts to thee is giving,
On a blight aad distant shore;
And I come, her carrier dove,
W ith a message from thy love,
Wlio is thine for evermore."
By this Joyful news excited,
liaptured, ravished, and excited,
I, the snowy Bird addressing,
Asked, with earnest voice inquiring,
"What my soul was most desiring.
That her name to me expressing,
He would set my heart at rest—
KStitl the tumult iu iny breast,
And assure me that my maiden
In the distant field, of Aiden
Waited for me on that shore—
Would be mine forevermore.
Then I spoke with greater fervor,
I, the maiden’s ardent lover,
“Does my own departed live?”
To the biul ot whiteness listening,
While my eager eyes were glistening,
For the answer he should give;
“Tell me, O thou earner dove,
Of my absent, cherished love,
Whom I knew in days ot yore:
Has she passed the shining portal
Of the blessed land immortal,
Doing through the golden door?
Does she move in light and splendor,
Do the graces all attend her,
On that lair and distant shore ?”
Words and tones aud looks revealing
AJi my depths of in waid feeling, ,
Moved, affected by my pleading,
And my anxious question heeding,
Thus the dove, ruy soul discerning,
Answer made, these words returning;
“In llie distant fields ol Aiden,
On a bright, Klysian shore,
Lwelis a lair and lovely maiden,
Aud her name is Elinore;
’Mid the flowers about her blooming
’Mid the odors sweet, perfuming
AU tlie balmy air around
Bhe, arrayed in robes of whiteness,
Walks au angel in her brightness,
With a wreath immortal clowned."
Then the bird, his wings unfolding.
Lett me, as 1 lay beholding
Filled with transport ai d delight:
With a soft, sonorouscoo;
Nodding, bidding me adieu,
Through the o»eu window flew
Out into the gloomy night.
But the bright, enchanting vision
Oitiie distant fields of Llysian,
And my cherished Elinore,
As a fair aud lovely maiden,
Dwelling iu the land of Aiden,
Is my light forevermore.
There shall 1, my loved one greeting,
At our future, early meeting,
On that distant radiant shore,
With ecstatic joy and gladness,
Free from parting, pain aud sadness.
Clasp aguin my Elinore,
Call her mine forevermore !
THE COUNTY CLERK’S STORY.
“I don’t suppose there’s any one here
who would ever think of doubting the word
of old 'Squire Overfed, i3 there?” inquired
the Sheriff
“Why ?” promptly responded the Old Set*
tier, straightening up in his chair. It was
plain that he had a suspicion iu his mind,
but did not care to act upou it without fur
ther information. i
“Well,” said the Sheriff, “the last time I
saw the ‘Squire he told me a very remarka
ble story, and—”
-Tb.t’a *»,«, «b. ou
“Thar you be! I know’d it boys; b’gosh.
Iknow’dit! He’s goanter spring a lie agin
us ez’U make Annynias and Sapiry turn
over, an’ he wants to lay it to poor ole
’Squire Overfed—poor ole Squre Overfed,
ez is been playin on a harp fur twenty
year, an never tole a he in his life.
Ghos’migthy! It makes me wish I’d a ben
born a—well born a temperance leet’rer
boys, an’ was here a saym . Teach not, taste
not, handle not,’ ’stead o. gatin’ up as lo
goanter, au’ savin , Yes, b gosh, boys,
jine ye 1”
"But this story is a ripper,’ said the ;
Hill-”
‘ Look a yer, Shurf,” interrup'ed the Old
Settler, “this ain t the time o’ year fur me
to go a razin’ no muss with nobody, Chris'
mus a cornin’ on so clue, an’ everybody a
feelin’ good, Me an’ you’s lived neighbors
a good while, an’ my ole woman an’ your’n
'g horned so many things o’ one another off
»n’ on an’ to an' fro that mine can't
w hut her it’s your’n ez owes her a pair o’
flatirons or whether it’s her ez owes your’n a
cup o’ ginger, the heft o’ evidence bein',
howsumev r, that the flatirons is due. But
that ain’t neither yer nor thar. I don’t
wanter raise no muss, hut 1 kin tell you
right yer, b’gosh, an’ I’m a layiu’ it out to
you with a straight edge, that they ain't no
ihirn man ez trapeses this county, Shurl nur
no Shurf, neighbor nur no neighbor, ez kin
git up when I’m on the taps an’throw up to
me what any o’ the Mushbaeks done. 1
want ye to uu’erstau’, b’gosh, that I had an
aunt ez married a Mushback, an’ I won’t
have no one a lyin’ about ’em What a ye
want a come yer fur, anyway, au’ rake up
them ole Mushback scrapes ez was furgot
forty year ago? They was a good many
things laid to ’em ez they never done, any
how, an’ I’ll bate it’s jest one o’ them you've
got a holt on ; likely ez not that consumed
tie 'bout Uncle Harp. Mushback bein’
ketehed one night a leadiu a hoss ez didn’t
b’iong to him, which the hoss were loaded
with a passel o’ mutton that had ben, i
Solly Clutes’s spring house when Solly went
to bed that night. But I give ye warnin’,
Shurf. Don’t ye say nothin’ agin the Mush
backs, or I'll make things howl ’round yer
to-night, an’ the loudest, thing’ll be you
b’gosht’lmighty 1”
“Bat Major,” said the Sheriff, “this ain’t
any story about the Mushbaeks. I don’t
know anything about the Mushbaeks. It’s
about a man that bought a house of a fam¬
ily by that name.”
“Don’t care !” said the Old Settler. “The
Mushbaeks is mixed up in it, an’ it’ll be a
lie, anyhow if you tell it, an’ I wou’t have
it!”
“Seehere, Sheriff," said the County Clerk.
“You better put that story off i’ve heard
you tell it twice, any way, and the last time’
you told it you got it quite a little different
from the first time. Take a week aud think
it up, and I'll tell a story to-night myself.”
“Thar I” exclaimed the Old Settler, beam¬
ing with satisfaction, “now we’ll ‘git suth
in' ez’ll wash. We'm sure o’ straight goods
now, boys, an’ we won’t have to go hum to¬
night a feeliu’ that all men is liars. Go on
o:e man. Prewnrication is the thief of
time.”
And the Old Settler lay back in his chair
with closed eyes and a smile on his face and
waited for the County Clerk’s straight goods
w hich were measured off as follows;
“Big Hickory Hollow ain't the place it
used to be, even twenty-five years ago. The
old stock of people that once lived there is
all run out. and the scrub oak lias levin! on
most everything there is there. But take it
sixty years ago—”
"I’m durn sorry this is a second-hand
yarn,” said the Old Settler opening his eyes
and looking disappointed. “But then, o’l
course, you got it om yer family afore yer
an’ that’s good 'r.i gh recommendation fur
it.” AudthesmPe came back to the Old
Settler’s face.
“But take it sixty years ago,” continued
the County Clerk, without any declaration
as to his authorities, “and Big Hickory IIo •
low about as chipper a settlement as there
was between the head of the Bushkill and
the Narrows of ihe Lackawack. There was
some curious people scattered through that
corner ot the county, though aud Curly Ben !
Teeter was one of the queerest of the lot
They called him Curly Beu because he wore
two curls, nearly a foot loug, one in front of
each ear. Ben was about as tough a lighter ;
as the Hollow could turu out, although it was
a tolerable even thing between him and
Hipe Sloppensifter, who lived on the c ear !
ing next but one to Curly s. Curly never
missed o dance, a stone frolic, a wedding, a
funeral, or a lawsuit, / that came otf any
where , withm ... a day , s walk n of r his I- cabin. I
He’d go further, though to get in on a law
suit than for anything else. The priecipa
reason for that, they used to say, was be
cause lawsuits were always held at the tav
ern and whenever Curly Ben struck a tavern
he was just moving in society, and no
mistake. They always knew when he was
looking for a light. It came on by degrees
First he’d throw one curl over behind his
ear - Then he was beginning to get mad.
By and by he d flop t other curl over t oth-i
er ear then ha was awful mad, and the
boys that wasn t game would beg.n to drop ,
out of the barroom. But when he tied the
curls in a harei knot behind his head the .
business was in, and he’d fight as long as
there was anybody left, or until the curls
came untied. When they got loose the
(l p caffie loMe When the mu8g wa8 e ud j
e j j Ctirly’d get over his mad gradually by
br j ng j n ,r g r6 , one and then t’other curl back
to tbe front of his ears. Then he’d ask
eTer y one tbe house to have a drink, and
awa y he'd pike for home.
“When Curly Ben Teeter first struck the
Hollow he’d been married fifteen years,
His oldest child was a daughter by the name
■
K<-tuah, but they called her Ketu. Curly’s
c ^ M foot of a ;, arreiJ
cabin feci high, and his
was bu.lt as near the bottom of the
8 ; 0 p g ag Jie could get it. When Ketu Teeter
sifter I mentioned awhile ago. Old Hipe
w ,s a queer Dick too. He had a big farm
ly, and he took all their names out of the
Geography. Some wers'named afur rao'ia
taios, some after rivers, and so on. There
was his daughters Heels, Andes, Carthage
nia, and Amazon, and his sons Darien
Nicaragua, Popocatapeti, and Panama
They weren’t bad sort of people, as people
» .4 ALTON J t| OURNAI J.
HAMILTON, GEORGIA, JANUARY 26, 1883.
went in Big Hickory Hollow, but there war
great animosity between Curly Ben and
Hipe.
“Panama Sloppensifter made a living by
1 splitting shingles. He was about 21 years
old, and never took to a gun. In tact, he
! had never killed a deer, let alone a bear or
a panther, and he wasn’t popular among the
young bucks of the Hollow on that account,
“Well, Panama got to hanging around
the Teeter cabin quite consider’ble, and
finally Curly Ben said he’d see about it.
Ketu, 6he ..liked the youngster,.and when
Ben asked her if she did, she owned up.
One day he found Panama and her talking
together by the front door, and he says to
i the young man:
“Panama," says he, “ye got sort of sneak
in’ notion for Ketu, ain't you ?”
"Wall, now, Curly,” said Panama—every
body called Ben Curly—“Ye’ve struck the
proper shingle tree this time,” says he,
“Wanter marry her, don’t ye?” said
Curly.
"Wall, ruther,” said Panama.
“Ye ain’t much on the shoot, be ye?" said
Curly. Never plugged a deer yit, did ye ?
Ain’t rassetled round the swamps with
many b’ar, yit, hev ye ? Don’t know how it
feels to hev a painter chaw ye, do ye? Ye
ain’t never even shot a rabbit, heu ye ?’
and Ben threw one curl behind his ear.
“I’ve snared ’em,” said Panama, feeling
liis knees begin to shake.
“Ye’ve snared ’em, hev ye ?” yelled Ben,
slinging t'other curl behind his ear. “Ye’ve
nared’em, hev ye? Wall, looko yerl 1’
wanter plant it inter ye that ye can’t come
a snarin’ nothin’ ’round this yer clearin’ I
B’ars is what counts whar I rule the roost 1
B’ars, ye shingle splittin’ lummi 1 B’ars 1
b’ars!” and Curly danced around poor
Panama like an Indian.
About the time that Panama and Ketu
were nearly scared to death Curly quieted
down. He took one curl from behind his
ear.
“Say, kin ye fetch me in a b’ar, d’ ye
s’posc ?" he asked. “Ef ye kin fetch me in
a b’ar, ye kin hev the gal, ez wutelessez ye
be!”
“Curly,” said Panama, “ef they’s a b’ar
ez nigh ez forty miles o’ Big Hick’ry I’ll git
him fur ye, ef I fuller him a year!”
“Panama felt that it would be about as
safe to meet a bear as to have Curly tie
them curls together. Ben took t’other curl
from behind his ear.”
“Fotch me a b’ar,” said he, “and the gal’s
your’n. An’ don’t you come fcolin’ round
yer agiu till you do fotch the b’ar, nuther.
Suw git!”
‘ Panama started far home, but he hadn’t
got out of hearing when Curly called him
back.”
“Looky yer,” said he-, "Ye un’erstan, o’
course, that it’s to be a live b’ar, don't ye?”
“A live b’ar,” gasped Panama.
“It’s to be a live b’ar. A live, wild b’ar.
They ain’t goin’ to be no buyin’ o’ some
secon’ han’ carcass o’ b’ar an’ a workin’ ou¬
ter me fur the gal, A live b’ar. Yer un’er¬
stan’?”
“Bully fur Curly Ben!" said the Old
Settler as the County Clerk paused to light
b ; s pipe. “Oh, this yer yarn is sulhiu' like,
j a8 t e n to dead face, Shurf, an’ arter this try
’ y; ck to ’em."
an g
And tke old Settler smiled and beamed
on everybody, he was so pleased.
“Panama said he understood,” continued
the County Clerk, “and went back to his
gh ; , e 8plitting with his hpart in big boot8 .
He felt that Curly had told him in a delicate
w#y that any connection between the Tee
f er an d Sloppensifter families was not to be
thought of „
“ TUere had been an unusual fall of snow
that winter, and an awful heavy crust had
^ ^ ^ p ftnama wag
rom .tun o ow,j I
\ e “ oun am, ve mi es ie
8 '°^, e reeS j ieront ' eea ’ 81 ® j
0 urDt 1 ie , ” un ones, an
* 1 e e was mar ing em wi is axe a
b* bea /. ^ mped uf a h oI, # * ^
a ‘ h ' 8 Mechanically, M m . . bis fright
he whacke<1 awa > - at th ® bear Wlth ua axe ’
thr0H S a ZTZl'al^LZlZ alr aaa M anu tae Dear wele
'
% ^
neither of Vm could
‘ Panama aud the
br8t tL,n >? that he he knew kne J both botbe he and the a
r>ear were whizzing down the mountain
like a streak of chain lightning. Burnt Hill
more than a thousand feet high, and on
Jhne-f
went so fast that neither him nor the bear
could change position nor do any fighting.
1 h® bear was ' n under, on its back, and
Panama was laying in its hug. At the foot
of the mountain a road that was cut to
snake logs and wood down to the settlement
branched off to the east. It was all the
way down hill from the mountain, and ter
r 'Me steep at that. V.hen the bear and |
Panama struck the road they kept right on
down, with no s aekemng speed. They
the road for four miles, where it made
a sharp turn to the let,. Of course they
couldn’t make the turn, and away they
but they shot up that ridge as if they were
being pulled up by a steam engine, slid over
tbe top of it in a jiffy, and ink-/than three
seconds were tearing down the other side
faster than ever.”
The smile had gradually left the Old Set
tier’s face. He had raised up in his chair.
He had ceased to bea* and was clutching
his cane nervously.
! “Suddenly,” continued the County Clerk
; “when Panama had made up his mind they
' would never stop much this side of sunrise
i they struck something. The next thing
; Panama knew, he was crawling out from
under the roof of a house that had fallen on
him. The bear was crawling out on one
! side of him and on the other, from among
i a lot of logs, shingles,, and household f-urni
j ture various kinds came Curly Ben Tee
ter 4 the most astonished and worst tore up
j looking man that ever trod the footstool,
j claimed: As soon as he could get his breath he ex
J “What under the gol durn hez
canopy
dropped on us ? Be we struck by lighiu’ or
be we rattled up by an ’arthquake ?”
‘'Panama took it all in at once. The
bear had got out by this time, aud was
ready to begin the fight all over.”
“It’s only me, jest got in with that livin’
b’ar ye were so durn anxious fur to git,
said Panama. “I wanted to s’prise ye, so
I come right in without knockin’. 'Thar’s
yer b’ar, and I’m reckonin’ that me and
Ketu is goante buckle.”
"You see-”
The Old Settler arose and walked to the
door without a word. Pausing with his hand
on the knob he turned to the county Clerk,
shook bis cane at him and said :
“Yes, b’goili, we see ! We see that it’s
durn easy to be mistook. We see that, if a
man kin lie good he kin make more Pike
county hist’ry in a quarter of an hour than
could a happened sence the flood, an’ you
kin give ’em all pints a uiakin' it b’gosh
t’lmighty!”
And the Old Settler went out and slam
med the door until the windows jingled
The boys laughed, (hen they smiled, then
(hey all went home.
Tar and Feathers.
A man who helped apply popular law lo
an outrageous offender in Nevada narrates
his observations: “I had no idea until 1
saw that fellow plastered what a lough deal
tarring and feathering is. We painted him
all over pretty thick with a broom, and
some enthusiastic vigilante poured a ftw
gallons of tar on his head. Then the feath
ers, taken from a big pillow, were dusted on
him, and he stood out white and lluffy in
the starlight like some huge and grotesque
looking bird. He had to put his clothes on
over the whole mess, and then he was ridden
on a rail fifty yards or so, and we put him
on hoard the west bound train at midnight
with instructions not to come back on pain
of being hanged. I saw him on the train
lie wan sitting with his lieft-! ou his arms
on the hack of the seat in front of him. The
tar was so thick on his head that it covered
the hair out of sight, aud his poll shone in
the light of the car lamps like a blaek rub
her ball just dipped in the water. The
poor fellow was groaning and I could’ut
help feeling mean at having tak"n a hand
in the job. You see the body is covered
with short hair and when the tar hardens a
little the slightest movement causes acute
pain, as if one’s heard was being pulled out
with pincers, hair by hair. Then there is
the stoppage of all perspiration, which
would soon kill a man if he didn’t mnlte
lively time in getting scrubbed. Besides,
the smell of tar turns the stomach, and
about half an hour altera man has been
coated he must feel mighty sorry he wasn’t
hanged. Then comes the scrubbing with
oil. It took two Chinamen and a darkey
three days in Truckee to reduce Jones to a
mild brown. The rubbing makes the skin
. * j ?' „ ' .j J ,i.„ ‘?. f . . r.„ sor „ a j
' ' '
------
An Orator’s Powe r. I
It T . the . Clay „ - ca upaign.of 1844. An i
was in
. immense _ o audience i- iztuux lo 000 ™ or 20,000, oi\ non had l«,i
assembled to hear Preston. A large stage
had been erected, which was crowded with
prominent persons, and the multitude was
pg.eJced around it. There was the usual
uzz a nd confusion incident to such occa
sions, until after Preston had been speaking
a few moment8 when it began to gnbgid e and
soon there was a dead silinee, except the
“ of that wonderful voice. He was in
fine coacl ition for his work and went atit in
*? e8t 8ty * e * 8 ^f nce 8eeme: * t0 lri
,
a8 tbe Ude . of h ' S * ,0 1 uenc ® l 10urtl1
° V6r th * def ‘ Se ""“V* encbaMted ll9teDer8 -
With the swell of his sonorous voice the
aQ< j; eQCe geemed to rise on tiptoe and to
aink back again with its ebbing cadences:
andagain they swayed with thesweep of his
Ulte field to the breeze. At
flaghing and the mu [ t ; tude hanging breath
!egg jy t 0 hj s words —he seiz?d the brown wig
wb ; e j, be wore, held it up over his shining
b ald head, and, still soaring iu his splendid
flight, replaced it cross wise and soared on;
and there was not, in that vast audience,
the least ripple of laughter at this most
ri dicu!ous performance, but, to the con
trar y^ a0 Q aa seemed to notice it, so com
, x entranced was every listener.
charlotte (N . Joarcal .
"** ~
■
Real Enterprise,
-—
There is doth _ ing like genuine . otigmalty . , , 1
LangHy quietly leads off with telegraphing
the Prince of W ales, then burns down
theater, and this week follows it up with the
outraged chaperone dodge, t he patent
medicine men will have to take a hack seat
—San ' Franckeo Port.
-----
Full and bouffant trimmings, ruches,
shell®, and puffs, adorn the bottom ot many
fashionable skirts.
Louis Blanc’s Voice.
Edward King, writing from Paris to the
New York Evening Post, says: Those who
have never heard Louis Blanc address an
assembly can ill understand the remarkable
and peculiar charm of his manner. It
seems almost incredible that a man of such
inferior size, lilliputinn proportions, should
have been able to fill great edifices with the
resounding harmony of his majestic speech,
until he literally made himself forgotten,
and seemed like a voice from some hidden
oracle. His control over himself was no
less remarkable than his power over others,
when he chose to exercise his astonishing
gift of oratory. 1 once heard him tell of
the curioue mishap which befell him during
the first few (lays of his exile, when he was
lauded in London, broken in hopes and
pretty well broken in fortune. In the me¬
tropolis he found plenty of hands out¬
stretched in sympathy, and among them
the hands of masters like those of Thack¬
eray, the famous novelist; and several
other men prominent in literature and
ci ence persuaded Louis Blanc that he
•should be brought out before a brilliant
company of Englishmen and Englishwo¬
men, and that, after he had shown the elite
of London scholarship what his gifts were,
there would he no doubt ot his finding
ample employment for them.
“1 accepted,” he said, "with much pleas
uro. I had no fears that I should be ahle
to do myself reasonable justice, and I really
needed the opportunities which such a pre¬
sentation was thought likely to offer. But
what was tny consternation”—and here
Louis Blanc, when telling Ih■■ story, leaned
back in his chair aud laughed one of those
merry, contagious, long drawn, deep laughs
which were peculiar to himself—“to find
that ou the morning of the day of my first
appearance I was visited with extinction
voice, caused by a hard cold caught in the
treachrous climate. Here was a misfortune
which 1 had not dreamed of. I steamed
myself, took hot vinegar, saw a phyician,
spent the morning in agonizing experiments
and finished by going to see my good
friends of the lecture committee, who look¬
ed as blue as 1 did when they heard the
news.
“But you mu 4 appear,” they said, “It
will never do. We have summoned the best
people in London. Yon must show your¬
self, and we will make the neepssary apolo¬
gies for you.”
"To this I naturally agreed, and, mor
dead than alive, i found my way into the
hall in the evening, and mounted the plat¬
form, where my committee was in full
force. After u little delay, one of the
celebrities who had consented to patronize
me stepped forward, and, with considerable
confusion, announced that I was suffering
from a severe cold, which might render
portions of my speech inaudible, and that
he begged the indulgence of the audience
for the honorable gentleman."
At this point in the story Louis Blanc
laughed again ; then, changing his manner,
and with the quizzical look in his eye, !
said: "mwled
“j forward to the edge of the
p i at f orno , ail d stood lor a moment eyeing
[ be distinguished Britons, doubtless a most
piteous object myself. In the effort which
j „^,j e t0 vvhiaper a few apologies, some
thin({ 8(!eme d to break loose in my throat,
i my voice unchained itself. I felt a
fi 00 d of enthusiasm in my face, and 1 do
no , know how ’ long K J talked ’ but I am quite
8Ur ? tbat J ne ™. to,ked .. . . b ? tter “ my ....
or m ou < r ot irmer voice. iorn m
-noment my reception in England was se- ,
tur «’ althon * h at time " 1 found U hard !
work to get on. „
i :
----
NOTES OF INDUSTRY
- j
Thk shovel company of St Louis turns
out 200 dozen shovels a day. I
A W.»c. wheel , . , has just .
l,een eaBt at a Hartford f <> 0 “ dr *
Thzrk are sufficient orders to keep the
nail mills in the Shenandoah Valley run
mng through the winter.
Two wealthy New England lumbermen
propose building a $400,000 railway into
the Adirondac wilderness.
* buildings of malleable .
11B a iron com
P»ny at Bridgeport cover 3$ acres, tbe
foundry alone covering an acre.
a ^ hanf))e mn]g at Oaflco , M e.,
^
WOrk to keep Up W “ h tbe 0rd
Jy over 1,000 sugar factories in twenty
seven parishes in Louisiana the fires are
now lighted, and Christmas did not find the
year’s work done. The grinding of rollers
and the whirr of machinery are beard all
night.
Gin daily . . . t
earnings in 1 ‘ co i, ' ‘
nes ,n this country are nearly double wha
-hey were in 840. I he total number o
l P ' ,ld!es 18 10 ’ 6:,i
T he acua consumpt.on of cotton last year
was 1,700,900 hales.
__, m , --
It can not be Hid.
The funera’ service of Gambetta was a
^ paperg degcribe it M theatrical.
■j } }ere w( . re no religious rites, but all the
0 , tf;nta(ion of sMe de coration, military
p ara p| ierna i; a and civil display character
ized the occasion. Milles of procession
followed the remains, and pure and buauti
ful flowers, covered with their rich fragrance
the bier, the laat pathway traversed by the
body of the immortal man, and his resting
place. All along the route of the cortege
lights, like holy censers, sent up a sacred
incense—while all available places of obser¬
vation were occupied, for many of which
large sums of money were paid. But neith¬
er official testimony of regard, nor military
parade, neither civil exhibitons of respect
nor the sweetness of floral decoration, can
hide the impurity of the mans’ life. Vague
rumors of disgraceful private life have
floated through the Press, and before his
body tinds its final resting place, the whole
secret of sin and dishonor is unbosomed to
the world.
His name and memory are blackened
forever. And they should be. The bian
who openly violates the sanctity of mar¬
riage, and unblushingly leads an immoral
life should be held up to universal loathing,
it matters not how great his intellect or
how brilliant his deeds. Of all men those
in high official station should set the exam¬
ple of respect for law and purity of conduct.
Theirs is the highest obligation to do so.
Roof-Top Life In New York.
What do you think of the queer lives led
by jantior*’ families ? J know a junitorwho
has charge of a big building down Broad¬
way who has four little tots of children, and
they don’t get down in the streets more
han once a week or so. Two of them weri
iorn in the seventh story of an immensi
iron building, just under the roof. One
them, to my certain knowledge, has nevei
been down in the street at all. That’s a
fact, it will go down some day. It was
born only last week. Where do yon think
the children's play ground is ? It is the
roof, and a rare, good yard it is, too, wi ll
flowers glowing on it, and everything like a
good, big, paved yard. There is a high
ledge around the four sides, so there is no
danger of tlie youngsters falling off. Ami
there are clothes lines there, and tubs stand
ing there, and clothes pins lying on the
ground—everything so natural you might
easily imagine youi'self in somebody's back
yard. The children seldom see anything
of the world down below; and their mother
hardly over does, for she has her hands full
taking care of the youngsters, There is a
nice secluded life for you, with no danger
from prying neighbors. There is something
attractive about it, too. Just think of the
janitor at dark shutting up the whole place
and barring the big iron doors with himself
inside. There he is, with his family about
him, and all the world securely locked out.
It is as good as living in a castle with the
bridge drawn up and the moat full of water.
But even when the outer doors are locked
the janitors are not always shut in from the
world. There is a block of buildings in one
of the principal business centres of the city
all about the same height. Each building
has its janitor, aud each janitor has his
family. When the outer doors are shut and
locked and no outsider can by any possi¬
bility make his way in, the janitors families
begin to visit. The roofs form their ave¬
nues and boulevards, their grand prome
nade. I hero is something slightly curious
ubout the way of living, isn l there; having |
your neighbor dropping in through the roc
instead of coming through the door? Ji i ,
something like the way of living of the oio
cave dwelieis in the Southwest. -New York
Times. i
Dive Him a Medal.
tt ^ ou ^ w!l " avenue riir ’ 1 , ,!l< ,
one of our solid citizens, whose weather
predictions have never been disputed since
j ie wag ra t e d worth $50,000, remarked to
^ intailoe that thi(f waH ullttttua l
weather for the last of December, tic had
hardly , i. spoken Hnri |r Pfl when un n old M man witn with a a
bundle under his arm hopped up and re
P ’
. , , ,,
>8 '
. . . .
1
* U h - i wp _ t L p ' ?•>
J U8t No,..rl 8Uth . “ , T 1« , ^ * ,nvo‘cas'h ° h *ee live anl . j 1
<!l ^ 1 y ' ar ‘ 1 ', '
, , . rime’of . .,,11 1
at this yea.
is singular”
“Bet you three to one it isn’t - insular!”
cr i e d the old man.
“1 told you 1'wouldn’t bet.”
"Then don’t be deceiving people with |
jrou r ta “ ‘ ^ ( j t you
caution , a weather ■ - w a « it, '-enD m
*Tbe solid citizen was bluffed into silence
finow^this “ f 1 J ® one wt don’t see a flake
f f week !'’ pip*<i the old man.
u ex q nnow when th- air
• IS >, co ] d e, J( ,ugh 'avraifi” to cougeal ** the mo -iurcl’
" it ™
neve/saw ,,. Strain ’ t , ,, , six to one you
with the wind where it y”
" W ell ’ the barometer indicates a storm
of , wme sort^ t , ’ shoute te d t he solid man
1 “^ ake /° U '£*}.. ' ' ' y "
Tbe The ^ prophet rol) L seemed seemed about a ^ a to baa h aa I cut c a
aoilar, out ne enan^eu mo im .u anu
back into his seat and growl out:
“Majbe my thermometer doe.m’t stand
at fifty-four degrees above."
“No, air! No, sir! I'll bet you eight to
one that you are at least three degrees out
of the way 1 Come, now 1”
But the solid man came not.—Detroit
Free Press.
A very becoming bonnet for a brunette
is of deep crimson velvet with plain crown
and Mane Antoinette front, three smei
plumes at the side and an edging o cu
beads being the only trimming.
Sl-OO a Year.
FASHION POINTS.
Fringes are entirely out of date.
House aprons of lnce are among lata
novelties.
Lace, and lace only, is the accepted
trimming to-day.
White marabout ruches make exquisite
trimmings for tulle dresses.
The demi-train remains in vogue for re¬
ception and dancing parties.
Plush trims everything and forms many
entire costumes and wraps.
White and tinted laces trim house wrap,
pers and house jackets admirably.
Basques are made with deeply pointed
waists, cut up very closely on the hips.
Bed camel’s hair pelisses trimmed with
black fur are much worn by little girls.
Little girls of seven or eight wear silk
.Jersey waists with skirts of the new checked
velvet.
The adoption of velvet for evening dress
has led to its being used largely for bridal
toilets.
Blaek lace ruches and cascades and
black lace draperies for skirts are much in
favor for elderly ladies.
Flowers for the hair are worn just above
the l ight ear, and are arranged in sprays.
Wreaths are entirely out of fashion.
Jerseys will be all the rage until late in
the spring. The American manufacturers
are making them up of lighter material.
The Muscovite pardessui, circular man¬
tle with sleeves, is a great favorite in Paris,
where it is worn by ladies, young girls and
children.
Out-of-door costumes, plain or elaborate,
are frequently draped with a large broach
of antique silver looping the tunic or the
HCarf tahlior.
Buttons are no longer fantastic, or even
filigree. Plain gold, oxidized silver, cop¬
per plated, or brass, the latter hammered,
re “the thing.”
Some Parisian dresses have absolutely
no trimming but a cord and tassels de¬
pending from the left shoulder. Severity
of style is much aimed at,.
Short aleevos are worn again. Simple
puffs edged with Hce, or double volants
finished in the same way, scarcely reach
half way to t^ie elbow.
Brocaded flounces, with the figures o
velvet raised on reppod silk, are the ele¬
gant trimmings for the fronts of trained
dresses of silk or velvet.
Beal bullion embroidery decorates the
dog collars of black velvet which are worn
with low dress waists, and which greatly
enhance the fairness of the complexion.
Cords of many colored wools, finished off
with olives, form the bradenbourgs whi«h
fasten the corsages of many costumes, or
drape the tunic and trim the skirt.
Gauze Balbriggan stockings are wornin
0 f H j| k aiu i cashmere stockings, giving
additional warmth, and protecting the skin
j rom ( be jy e ()1 . roughness of the outer
stocking,
For mourning dress, crape is now spar
ingly used. Throe folds down the front of
the corsage are considered •deep, and a
drapery of the same depth up the skirt is
all sufficient.
Very large masculine hats of beaver
plush are revived, the favorite trimmings
for them being a band around the crown
and a large buckle in front or ostrich tips,
or plumes in a tuft ou the side.
What an Arab Does.
-
An Arab on entering a house removes
his shoes but not his bat. He mounts his
bor e upon the right side, while his wife
milks the cow upon the left. In writing
* 'Gter ke puU nearly all his compliment,
*>" tha outslde ’ With bi » tbe P oint of a
P'" i8 its bead ’ whlle its bead is made iU ’
His head must be wrapped up warm
even m summer, while his feet may well
enough go hare in winter. Every article of
liquid merchandise he weighs, and he meas¬
ures wheat, barley and a few other things.
He reads and writes from right to left. He
eats scarcely anything for breakfast, about
as mncli for dinner, but after the work of the
day is done he sits down to a full meal swim¬
ming in oil, or boiled butter. Ilia sons eat
with him, hut the females wait till bis lord¬
ship is done. He rides a donkey on his trav¬
els, his wife walking behind- He laughs at
ihe idea of walking in the street with his
w ’*e and of ever vacating his seat for a wo
mB,a - He kuows no use for chairs, tables,
knives, forks, or even spoons, unless they are
wooden or bone. Bedsteads, bureaus and
fireplaces may be placed in the tame cat
«g<»7- If he be an artizan he dose his work
sitting, perhaps using his feet to hold what
hi* hands are engaged on. He drinks cold
water with a spoon, but never bathe, iu it
unless his home he on the seashore. He is
^ drunk, is deficient in affection
’ ’ has little suriositv ^ and no
animation, wiah . desire . to
no to improve, no
surround himself with the comforts of life.
His Age.
"How old is that dog?” was asked of
colored man.
“Ef he lives ter see de fifth ob naixt
June, sah, he will be de oldest dog on de
plantation.
n ' e °" 'T 6 ,,* 111 1
a i e ea sa . r , ansa T
, .
ler.