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jaCKSON CO. PUB. COM’Y, )
Proprietors. i
VOLUME iy.
PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY.
ROBERT S. HOWARD, Editor and Publisher,
JEFFERSON, JACKSON CO., GA.
iP fice, n. e- uor. public square, up-stairs.
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WAII Advertisements sent without specifica
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irill he published TILL FORBID, and charged
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jjU Business or Professional Cards, of six lines
# r less. Seven Dollars per annum; and where
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Ju’pf Ailuertisemmts.
Jackson Cos. Mortgage Sheriff’s
Sale.
vyiLL be sold, on the first Tuesday in May
IT next, before the Court House door, in the
town of Jefferson, Jackson county, (la., within
th legal hours of sale, the following property,
to-wit:
The plantation inherited by S. I). Mitchell from
his father, situated and being in said county of
Jtckfion and State of Georgia, known as the Giles
Mitchell place, containing eleven hundred acres,
more or less, lying west of Jefferson, the property
of said S, 1). Mitchell, as described in a certain in
denture of mortgage, bearing date on the tenth
day of February, A. 1).. eighteen hundred and
wrenty-six. Said plantation adjoins lands of N.
H. Pendergrass, J. M. Garner, Peter McLester
nd others, and is on the Middle Oconee river,
there being on said place a large quantity of line
bottom land and good up-land, a large portion of
which is in a high state of cultivation ; two good
residences, one being in or near Jefferson, the
other about two miles out—both on Lawrcnceville
road; good out-buildings, tenant houses and other
improvements, orchards, well, etc., on the place.
Levied on and sold as the property of said S. I).
Mitchell, to satisfy a certain mortgage ti. fa. issu
ed from Jackson Superior Court in favor of Anna
F.. Mitchell against S. D. Mitchell. Property
pointed out in said mortgage li. fa. Written no
tice given Franklin Waddle and Wm. Roberts,
tenants in possession, as the law directs.
iaar-28 T. A. McELHANNON, Sh'ff.
{AOKGIA, Jnckwon Uoiinly.
Whereas, If. C. Appleby, Executor of the es
tate of Elizabeth Buchanan, late of said county,
dec’ll, represents to the Court, in his petition duly
filed, that lie has fully and completely adminis
tered the estate of said deceased, and asks the
Court to grant him Letters of Dismission from the
Mine—
This is to cite all persons concerned, kindred
and creditors, to show cause, if any they can, on
the first Monday in June, 1871), in the Court of
Ordinary for said county, why Letters of Dismis
sion from said estate should not be granted the
applicant.
Given under my hand officially, this Feb. 25th,
M 79. fcb2B 11. W. BELL, Ord’y.
| j KBItUIA, Jaeksou Comity.
Whereas, John Brooks makes application to
me. in proper form, for Letters of Administration
on the estate of Lloyd Brooks, late of said county,
deceased—
This is to cite all persons concerned, kindred
and creditors, to show cause, if any they can, on
the first Monday in April, 1879, at the regular
terra of the Court of Ordinary, to he held in said
county, why the applicant should not he granted
*aid letters.
diven under my official signature, Feb. 25tli,
D7S>- felt2B 11. W. BELL, Ord’y.
| Jai'ktton County.
"hcreas, W. I. Pike applies to me in proper
isrm for Letters of Administration on the estate
Julia J. Flournoy, dec’ll, late of said county —
I his is to cite all persons concerned, kindred
and creditors, to show cause, if an3 r they can, on
fhe first Monday in April, 1879, at the regular
torm of the Court of Ordinary to be held in said
county, why the applicant should not he granted
Mid letters.
(dven under my official signature, Feb. 25th,
feb2B 11. W. BELL, Ord’y.
QKOKIA,
•la<‘k*on ('ounty.
"horeas, the Hoad Commissioners appointed
lowers, upon application of certain citizens, to
ffoew, mark out and report upon the public util
of certain changes to be made in the Athens
( Urkesville road at Harmony (irove, to-wit:
at the Railroad crossing east of C.
n ' , s store and running opposite Thomas
arher s dwelling into the old road, have report
j. ! ' at the same will be of much public utility.
aloss good cause is shown to the contrary, on
? r 'T the 10th day of April, 1879, an order will
P*ed establishing said changes as a part of
* o-thens and Clarkesville road.
tuven under my official signature. March 4th.
mar7 H. W. BELL. Ord’y.
( j hOKUIAf Jarkswii Comity.
"hereas, John A. Smith represents to the
? Ur t. in his petition duly tiled, that lie has fully
' ministered the estate of W. 8. Smith, late of
if" c . O,, nty, deceased, and applies for Letters of
This is to cite all concerned, kindred and crcd
.° rs ‘ to *how cause, if any they can, on the first
• °mlay in June, 1879. at the regular term of the
°urt of Ordinary of said county, why Letters of
'Miiission should not be granted the applicant,
lc-n Ven un dcr my hand, officially, March 4th,
IN9 - mar? 11. W. BELL, Only.
Established iB6O.
inventors
address EDSOX BROS.. Attorneys at Law
Solicitors, 711 G Street, Washington. I).
t ' lor circulars of instructions. Reasonable
&t[' n i e^ crenc<?s and advice sent frkk We
Int ''r excl,lsi vely to Patent business, Reissues,
'terferencea, and cases rejected in other hands a
jPecialty. Trade-marks and Caveats solicited.
u .l‘ 0n receipt of model or sketch and description
( 1 lv ® °ur opinion as to patentability, free of
of p ,u ' K * " e refer to the present Commissioner
1 a tents and alt Ex-Commissioners who have
' ru ''l " ithin the pastlifteen years. feb2S
TO MAKE MONEY
Pleasantly and fast. Agents should address
• FINLEY, HARVEY & CO.,
jUl, e 8 Atlanta, Ca.
THE FOREST NEWS.
Tin People their own Rulers; Advancement in Education, Science, Agriculture and Southern Manufactures.
SELECT MISCELLANY.
after many years.
W ell, darling ? ’ I said, catching her two
hands in mine, as we met under the trees in
the loveliest corner of the square.
I had no other words and she needed
none.
I lie old story,” looking up at me, just a
glance that showed her pretty eves had been
crying. “I m—l’m here, Shirley,”.
Do you know what those three words
meant ? That Edna Verderay, before the first
star looked out of the opal sky up above us,
would be my wife.
It was the old story, you see—a penniless
lover, a true-hearted little woman clinging to
her faith, and a parental curse impending
over both our heads. We had done our best,
and she would have been true to father and
lover both, only it was not to be. She had
made the last attempt to day to win a late
consent to our marriage, and had failed ; and
she came to tell me so, and to follow me and
my fortunes.
The sun was only just setting, hot and red ;
the long street was aflame, and its bordering
palmettos looked crested with gold. I drew
her hand tightly through my arraf and we
walked away together very quietly, for she
was tired, and the little hand trembled against
my side. She only told me that she was not
afraid, that sho loved me, and she would be
glad to rest when it was all over, and we two
safe and far away together. And so we went
on and were married.
Then I took home ray wife. It was a poor
home, but she was not afraid to sweeten it
with herself, and she had said that she was
glad to come. You do not care to hear how
our happy time went by, and I could not tell
you ; only it was very sweet, and we were all
the world to each other. She never spoke of
her father and mother, and never seemed to
miss them or regret what she had lost in them.
I never would have known it was a grief to
her, but for one day. She met me when I
came home at night, with her face all spark
ling and her voice unsteady with excitement*
and, even before she kissed me, cried out:
“ I've seen my mother!”
“ Your mother ? lias she been here ?”
“Yes! Only think how glad I was—how
surprised ! She came and she kissed me,
and forgave me.” putting her arms around my
neck and beginning to cr}” in her gladness,
“and forgave you, too; and she said she
couldn't live and lose her only daughter. Oh,
Shirley', it was the only thing more that I
wanted on earth! lam so liapvy now, dar
ling !*’
“ And vour father ?”
“ He couldn't be as kind as she was,” said
my little wife, with her cheeks on mine. “Fa
thers never are ; hut she thought—she was
sure, she said—that he'd forgive it all, and
that he loved me just as much all the time,
and it would be all right at last, Shirley.—
Oh ! aren't you happy, too ? Look glad !
Tell me you’re glad, dear; you don’t know
how much I wanted it!”
I was glad for her sake. God knows, for
my own I would never have cared to look on
either of their faces again. I could not for
get that they had made my darling wretched
for twelve long months ; the forgiveness they
talked of was like an insult to us both.
But all was changed now. Mrs. Verdc
ray’s carriage rattled day after day, down the
little dull street, and stood at Mrs. Lecompte’s
door, and Edna Lecoinpte was pardoned and
petted and caressed as if Edna Yerderay had
never disobeyed. And then we were asked
to dine at home, she and I; and the old man
greeted us both kindly, and kissed his daugh
ter with two tears in his cold eyes ; and seem
ed to bury all our old enmity as he shook my
hatjd ; and after that it was all sunshine be
tween us.
But I never ceased to feel an odd chill in
my heart like a prophecy of something bitter
coming between us. Perhaps it was because
instead of growing richer since I married a
wife, I only grew poorer, and the world out
side our little room got/dark and threatening
over head, and seemed only a cold place for
my unborn child to inherit.
He came to test his tender muscles just
with the early winter, and as he came Edna
was very nigh going out forever. She was a
delicate little tiling, and needed so much pet
ting and nursing and tender care—my heart
ached as many a poor man's before me, when
I looked in the little white face that had been
so rosy when I first took her from her home.
And, instead of growing stronger, she only
drooped more and more, like a flower in the
first frost; and the child was equally as frail
as she.
I don’t like to tell the story of those months.
Other people were kind and helped us; and I
was forced to take the help, for the sake of
those two creatures who needed more than I
could give them. Her mother came every
day, now, to nurse my wife and fondle my
child, and bring them luxuries that I could
not buy—such luxuries as would have been
heaped before them in Edna's old forfeited
home. I worked night and day at my clerk
ship, bearing as best I could in agon/ of
heart and soul the burden of utter helpless
ness ; the torments of standing aside empty -
JEFFERSON, JACKSON COUNTY, GA., FRIDAY, APRIL 4,1579.
handed, while others gave to the woman and
child who were all my own. And then there
came a blacker day still, and even the little I
had was snatched away.
There was a season of business losses and
heavy failures; firm after firm gave way, and
men went home idle, and my turn came with
the rest. And I knelt down by my wife's
bed and looked into her eyes, and told her,
and asked her to forgive me for the wrong I
had done in loving her.
“ Don’t feel so badly, Shirley,” she whis
pered, moving her head on my shoulder. “I
know I am a burden toj'ou, darling, but I
I can t wish *t undone; we’ve got each other
and baby, and such a long life yet for all these
troubles to pass away in ! And it can't last
long; you’ll get something better than what
you lost. Perhaps it will be the very best
thing for us after all, that you should lose this
place, and thereby be forced to make a
change.”
“Perhaps ! It’s all a chance,” I said, bit
terly, “ and I must sit with my hands tied and
wait, and you—Edna, they were right! I was
a selfish brute to draw you down to this !”
She clasped her arras round my neck and
kissed me, and stopped my mouth; and we
were silent for awhile, and the room grew
dark in twilight.
“Shirley,” she said softly, at last, “would
you let ray father help j’ou ?”
“ What do you mean ?”
“Mamma asked me a month ago if you
would leave New Orleans and take a position
in my uncle’s house in New York. 1 never
told you, because she wanted me to come
home, Shirley, and let you go alone, and I
couldn’t.”
“Go home !” I gathered her in closer—the
baby in her arms, too. “Child, has it come
to that ?”
“ No,” she whispered softly. “It never
will; I’ll go with 3 r ou there, or anywhere else
on earth, Shirley.”
“Is it too late to take the offer now ?” I
asked, starting up. “ Why do you ask if I’ll
let him help me, Edna ? Better that than tak
ing his alms, God knows—and I’ve done that
long enough. What is this place ? child, I’d
beg at the street corners for you, if that was
all!”
“Will 3*o u go and see papa ?” she cried,
lighting up all over her wasted face. “I do
not know about it, only that mamma said
there might be an opening for you, and it
would be so much better than your old place,
and papa would use his influence for 3*oll. —
Will you go, Shirley ?”
“ Yes, I will,” I said, stooping down to kiss
her.
Something was dragging me back all the
while—held me fast to the bed-side, within
touch of her little hot hand, and hearing of
my baby’s sleepy, soft breath—but I didn’t
heed it. I was desperate, and her eyes drove
me out into the world, to struggle with it,
and win, for her sake—and I went.
So the end of it was that letters went back
and forth ; add in two weeks from the day
that I was discharged of my clerkship, I was
engaged by the New York house, of which
Mr. Verderay's brother was head, at a salarv
that would keep Edna safely all the winter
far enough out of the reach of want or the
need of alms. Olll3* it was a desperate man's
resource, you know—she must l e in New Or
leans, while I was in New York.
It was long before I could show her that
such a parting was inevitable. In all tlm
years after I had that to remember—that she
clung to me to the last, but I had to put her
from me. Ever since our boy was born she
had been growing weaker, and her lungs and
chest were delicate—even dangerously so.
A winter at the North, they said, would kill
her, and I must not dream of taking her away
until she was thoroughly well again. I must
leave her behind ; and since I could not leave
her alone and sick, she must go to her father’s
house.
That was the way it happened. They were
so glad to take her back ; the}' bad forgiven
her so entirely and wanted her so, and they
were so fond of little Shirley. I ought to
have been willing and glad to leave them in
such tender care. I was neither, but I knew
it was my duty to give her up, and I did it.
I kissed her good-bye at the last, and drag
ged myself away from her arms, that tried to
hold me back even then, and the last glimpse
I had of my wife and child was a little, slen
der figure at the open window, half buried in
white, soft wrappings, holding up a baby who
laughed and sprang in her arms, and whose
little hand she tried to wave to me.
Then came the lonely winter at the North
—the silent starvation of my heart through
nights and days, the longing impatience, hope.
It only lasted a little while. I knew I should
have her in the spring, in a home of our own
that I had planne alreadyd, I chose the very
bouse—a little brown cottage on the outskirts
of the city—where ray bird would have her
nest.
It was in March when her letters, which
had come faithfully all winter on their stated
days, failed suddenly. A week went by with
out a message from New Orleans ; and when
it came at last, it was written in another
hand.
It was a long letter, but I never read it,
through. I only read three lines, that told
me she was dead—that my baby was buried
in her arms. The yellow fever had broken
out in the city, and the two were among the
first to go. Her parents had left New Or
leans, and, before their letter reached me,
would have sailed for England, leaving Edna
and her child in the vault among the dead
\ erderays, in aver much crowded city cem
etery.
So I never saw the little white-wrapped fig
ure and the laughing baby any more.
When there was no one else to share suc
cess and worldly comfort with me, nobody’s
life to be sweetened by the things that mon
ey could give them, it came to me in m}* lone
liness. 1 had no object in life now, no care
or occupation that was pleasant to me ; but,
because nothing save hard work and untiring
application could make existence bearable
and deaden m3’ heart in me, I worked hard,
and made money like other men. It was like
a sacred duty to my dead, to brighten others
lives with the means that would have spared
hers.
I never saw either of her parents again. It
was better for us all. Mr. Verderay had said
that the intercourse should cease with Edna’s
and the child's death, and, God knows, I felt
so too.
So I lived in New York alone, and rose in
the firm ; travelled, and made money ; and
wandered from city to city, at la9t successful
in everything that I touched, without a trou
ble or anxiety in life, only the burden of my
empty heart. I was thirty years old when
my darlings died ; I had plenty more }*ears to
live, and deatli was still a long way off. Peo
ple called me a young man still, even after
my hair was very gray ; and I seemed to have
grown old and tired down to my heart’s core.
And the }*ears went by wearily ; and I was
forty-eight, and my hair clear white.
It was at Fleming’s house that I met Har
riet Stanhope. She was a cousin ofhi9 wife’s,
and an attractive woman—not a girl—the sort
of woman whom everybody calls interesting,
clever and cululivated to the uttermost, sweet
Matured, and adaptable and good, with even
more than a woman’s share of tact. She was
■me of those people who win }*our confidence
just by the atmosphere of their own natures,
without effort or even wish.
I hntf not known her very long before I
ciAild '4Mk to her of the story that she knew
already 1 , and tell her about the day when I
looked back and saw the little figure in the
window, holding up my child for me to see.
Well, you have guessed already, I suppose,
at the end of this beginning. I never loved
Harriet Stanhope, never. I was one of these
men—and, say what you will, they are not
rare—who love just once and never forget.
But it came to me, slowly at first, and very
reluctantl}*, and then with a great shock, that
this woman cared for me, and had given more
than I ever could give back again. And I
began to think of the possibility' of her taking
—in men’s eyes, at least, and to outward
seeming—Edna’s empty place.
She was lonely too, as I was, with no near
relatives. No claim of love on any one, no
home, and a sorrowful outlook before her. I
never could bear the sight of a solitary and
uncared-for woman, and this woman touched
all my pity and sympathy. I gave her that
and my friendship most freely and sincerely,
and that was all. But I began to think that
even without love, might be sweetened a lit
tle, and made easier to bear, and that we
might both taste some quiet happiness at the
last; and so I said to myself that I would
marry her.
I did not resolve hastily. I had known
her two years before I thought of it at all.
and then it was long before the idea took a
definite shape. I was traveling in the West,
and one of her letters, reaching me at a lare
town in Ohio, decided the last doubt that was
left in my mind. I read it twice, and then
walked the floor all night, and lived my life
over i’n memory, and reached far out into the
future to plan out what it would be—what it
must be, if God preserved it—and then I sat
down to write a letter to Harriet.
I wrote her a long one, and laid my heart
before iier as honestly as I would have con
fessed its secret before heaven. I told her
how much and how little I could give her;
how far I had out-lived the warmth of youth
and the best part of loving, and I asked her
if she would take me as I was—a man who
had buried half his nature twenty years ago.
I read the letter once and sealed it, and wrote
her name on the cover. I had no doubt of
what the answer would be, and I was glad, I
think, that the step was fairly taken and the
end decided.
It was only natural that I should dream
that night of Edna. She caine to me at dawn
and stood by the bedside with the child—my
son ; who bore my name; and was so like
me. And she told me that she had never
died at all, but had been waiting for me all
these years, and God had kept her young, and
the baby was a baby yet—only be would call
me ** father,” and the word was ringing in my
ear 9 when I awoke.
I thought of her while I dressed, and I
went down stairs at last, the letter safe in my
breast pocket, sealed and directed to Harriet
Stanhope. Hut I had forgotten Harriet, and
was dreaming of a woman older but fairer
than she, when into my dream stole a voice
and the sound of my own name.
“ Is everything read}’, Shirley, dear ?”
I looked up. There were two people at the
little round table nearest mine~“alad}',quietly
dressed, as If for traveling, in black, without
a touch of color ; and a tall, straight, broad
shouldered stripling, with a young face like
hers. I knew they were mother and son even
before he answered her.
“All ready. The train starts in an hour.
You’ve got nothing at all to do, Madame
Mere, but to sit and read a novel, or look out
of the window till I call you.”
And then they laughed together. She had
a girlish laugh and a girlish face, and yet it
was a sorrowful one, too. Her e3’es were
brown. 'I looked into them, and all my youth
time looked hack again, and I saw the old
house in the old street in New Orleans, and
the face in the window, and heard the baby
hands patting on the panes. Only two brown
e} r es, and a sweet voice, and words spoken
softly to call up all that witchery !
She arose from the table almost that min
ute.
“ I don’t want the strawberries, Shirley;
I’m going up to my room, and if 3*oll want
me to read a novel, 3*oll must run out and get
me one. I’ve packed everything, and I want
some light reading for the cars.”
Her dress was sweeping by my chair as
she spoke, and, stirring my senses—fast
asleep for so long—there came a soft,- violet
scent. I was going mad, I believed. As if
no woman but Edna Lecompte bad ever used
that faint, subtle perfume!
I started lip and strode out of the dining
room, following those two, and saw the moth
er go up the staircase—a slight, daintily
moving little figure, with a touch of girlish
grace in it still—while the son passed on be
fore me to the hotel. He went and leaned
over the desk and spoke to the clerk in his
cherry, fresh voice, and I stood near him,
turning the leaves of the hotel register.
“M rs. Shirley Lecompte.”
“ Shirle\* Lecompte, New York Cit}*.”
I turned and put my two hands on his
shoulders. I could have taken him to m3’
heart and kissed the child-likeness in his face,
but I did not say one word for a minute,
while he flashed his brown e3*e3 round on me
with a half augr}* little frown.
“Are )’ou Shirley Lecompte’s son ? Where
—where is your father V'
“My father is deatL That was his name,”
looking straight into roy face. And then I
dropped my hands,
“ I was your father’s friend, my bo}'. I
I can see his looks in you ; and your mother !
Will you take me to your mother, Shirle}* ?”
*******
Well, I have forgiven him—the man who
stole the sweetness out of life for me ; he is
dead and buried, and Edna is alive. Twenty
years ago a forged letter told her that she
was a widow, and the old man and his wife
had their daughter back again ; twenty years
she kept her life sacred to my memory, and
loved me in her child, and waited tor another
world to give her into m3’ arms again. She
told it all to me that day j a long, long story,
hut this was the 9uin of it—-I was dead and
was alive again ; was lost and was found.
And 1113’ life had its aim and crown, even
so late; my love blossomed new, and my
heart wanned fresh with old dead fires—we
were happy, Edna and J. Out of the baby’s
grave rose up my strong, manly son, to carry
my name in honor and pride; it will have a
nobler meaning when I am gone than ever it
had in the past.
How to Manage a Hog.
At midnight the summons came. Maria
Ann thrust her elbows cleverly between two
of my ribs, and whispered in ghostly accents :
“ Joshua, there is a hog in the garden.”
I have lived with Maria long enough to
know that she expects me to catch her ideas
instantly, and although she had said nothing
about it. I knew she anticipated that I would
rise in my might and go for that hog.
I accordingly rose in m3’ might, and began
groping around for pantaloons. I felt
that without them I could not appear to that
advantage that would command the respect
of the the hog, I had no idea we possessed
so much wearing apparel until I begun to in
ventory it in the dark, while looking for my
pantaloons. I got hold of articles of edging,
and articles with flounces and with einbroi
der3% and with strings, while Maria kept
whispering through the gloom $
“That hog will eat up all the potatoes be
fore you get down stairs. You are fearfully
slow.”
I supposed she whispered for fear the hog
would hear her and become offended. She
never could bear to give any offense, not
even to a bog. except me. All this time 1
was trying on things that did not fit me, hut
finally I lit into some sort of a garment that
had what was intended for a row of buttons
on it, and I buttoned it tip, although there
was a lightness and cheerfulness atout it
that did not seem entirely familiar*.
I got half way down stairs, when it sud
denly occurred to me that the hog was not in
our garden, for the very good reason that we
\ TERMS, $1.50 PER ANSUM.
( SI.OO For Six Months i
had no garden for the hog to’ get into; still;
we had a cistern, and the hog might get into
that. Tt would be just like a hog. 'this
thought so startled me that I foiled (town to
the bottom of the stairs, a feat made easier
from the fact that I seemed pretty well
tangled up in the garment I had adopted.
Maria Ann, who always proves etpial to
any emergency, soothed me a good deal by
Coming to the top of the stairs and ending
me an idiot and other pet titles she is ill titt
way of applying in moments of tenderncssi
I got out of the front door as siKm as pos
sible, and the hog, who was looking at the
house from the front 3'ard, apparently with a
view of renting it, stood appalled. I did not
wonder at this. In my haste in dressing!
inadvertently- put on Maria Ann’s polonaise,
and it stands to reason that a man arrayed
in a white night-shirt and a blue polonaise,
rushing from the front door of a Imuse at the
solemn hour of midnight, must present an
appalling spectacle to any bog. After re
covering from his momentary astonishment,
the hog took three more kinks in his tail and
scooted three times around the yard. The
front gate was wide iypen, but be never
thought of going through that. lie seemed
to be looking for a good place to jump efrrif
the feucc. I tangled mvself up in the polo
naise again and took a flying leap into tb
yard, landing on my left eye brow.
We da not give women half the Credit they
deserve. I am convinced that it requires
more downright genius to pilot a polonaise,
cut will: darts in the back and trimmed with
knife pleating, than it does to manage a Na
tional Presidential Convention. The hog
ran around the Itonse three times more in the
opposite direction with four kinks in his tail,
I am slow to Wrath, but I am afraid I was be
ginning to get mad, and 1 Went tfrortrtd be
hind the house and got a hatcliet, I am oblig
ed to confess that it was with a firm purpose
to kill that hog or die trying to.
I don't think the liog had noticed the wood
shed until 1 went there for the hatchet, but
when I returned to the front yard he immedi
ately retired to the woodshed, and then Iwaa
sure I had him cornered.
Maria had by this time recovered her pres
ence of mind, and had got her head out of ft
front window up stairs, and w.isyelling “fire 1”
with all her might, and in a way calculated to
be of inestimable service to me.- All I need
ed to spur me on to glory was someone to
yell “fire !” 1 entered the Woodshed cau
tiously and found the hog completely at my
mefey, unless Ire made a hole through the
kitchen door and escaped that way. He did
not do that. On the contrary, he rushed di
rectly at me. 1 stepped back rather hastily,
not because lie scared me any. but to prevent
him from tearing my polonaise. tam al
ways careful to keep hogs off my polonaise,
so far as it is possible.- There was a wash
tub full of suds behind me, and as I stepped
back out of the Way of the hog, in a fit of ah
sent-mindednes3, I sat down in the tub. It
may seem curious, but my recollection now
is that the tub fitted me a good deal more
snugly than tire polonaise had, artd yet I had
never tried the tub on before in all my born
days. The only way out of the tub was Ui
tip it over and float out on the suds ; and that
I at once did.
Marla, still true to me' in my affliction,
opened the kitchen door, and with her face
full of wifely anxiety, and surrounded by a
night-cap frill, and her mouth wide open, she
really looked like a saint or something, bill
she was remarking murder” at the same
time, and Iter voice so startled the hog that?
he ran over me before 1 could get oat of the?
suds. How he managed to step on me thirty-'
two time 9 in running over me Once, is a 1113’s
tery both to Maria Ann and m3’self} bht hef
did, for we counted the spots his hoofs made.
After running over roc,-he walked ant the
front gats an solemnly sfg thoifgh he vtere on
his Way to church, and it is my sobef belief
that he came into the 3'ard on purpose to run
over roe, and for nothing else.
Mafia Attn declares she' won't wefar (hat
pohmaise an3' more, and I auC-tolerably surd
I shall not i not if I know
{Minn.) Lumberman.
Railway Temperance Lecture.
‘ Twenty’years ago,’ said the passenger
with the red ribbon in his buttonhole, ’I knew
that man whom 3’OU saw get Off at the last
station. He was a mats rtf rare promise, a
college graduate, a man of brilliant intellect
and shrewd mercantile ability. Life dawned
bofore him in all the glowing colors of fair
promise. He had some money when he left
college. He invested it in business and his
business prospered. lie married a beautiful
young girl, who bore him three lovelv chib
dren.’ 'The sad-looking passenger sitting on
the wood-box All at one time?’ The red
ribbon passenger in biennial instab
ments of one. No one dreamed that the
poorhouse would ever be their home. But
in an evil hour the yotig man yielded to the
tempter. lie began to drink beer. He liked
it and drank more. He drank and encourag
ed Others to drink. That was only four teener
years ago, and he was a prosperous, wealthy
man. To-day where is he?’ The clergy mart
in the front seat, solemnly ‘ A sot artd n
beggar.’ The red ribbon man, disconsola
tely ‘Oh;no; he is a member of Congress
and owns a brewery worth $50,0(10/
Sometimes it will happen that way.
NUMBER 4?.