Newspaper Page Text
cOBERT S. HOWARD, )
•’' Editor and Publisher. (
iffiUME yi.
PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY.
S- HOWARD, Editor and Publisher,
’JEFFBRSON, JACKSON COGA.
• e[ fE. v. E. COR. PUBLIC SQUARE, UP-STAIRS.
TER'HS OF SUBSCRIPTION.
■ copy 1- months...
“ y “ 1.00
• ” 3 “ so
vfFor every Club of Ten subscribers, an ex
f ipy of the paper will be given.
RATES OF, ADyERTiSiNGT~
vi; Dollar per square (often lines or less)
■ first insertion, and Seventy-five Cents
reach sul).sequent insertion.
*rA square is a space of one inch, measured
• and down the column.
jstjrAll Advertisements sent without specifica
,n of the number of insertions mark ed thereon,
nil be published till forbid, and charged
fcordingly.
or Professional Cards, of six lines 1
f less, Seven Dollars per annum; and where
~y do not exceed ten lines, Ten Dollars.
£epf it l lucctiscmcutß.
GEORGIA, Jackson County.
Ij
Whereas, J. W. 11. Hamilton and T. K. Smith,
Administrators on the estate of Bailey Chandler,
htfjfsaid county, deceased, applies for leave to
the lands belonging to said estate—
This is to cite all concerned, kindred and cred
os. to show cause, if any they can, at the regu
■r term of the Court of Ordinary of said county,
r: the first Monday in October, 1880, why said
ave should not be granted the applicants.
Liven under my ollicial signature, August 22d,
SO. aug27 11. W. BELL, Ortl’y.
j'EOIIGIA, Jackson County.
Whereas John F. Evans, Executor of the last
till and testament of Daniel Evans dcc’d rep
• ents to the court, by his petition duly filed,
it he has fully administered the estate of said
used, and is intitled to a discharge—
This is to cite all concerned, kindred and
’editors, t‘> show cause, if any, on the first
londay in November, 1880 at the regular term
■the court of Ordinary of said county why the
Iters of Dismission should not be granted the
ipplicant.
Liven under my official signature, this August
1,1880. 11. W. BELL, Ord’y.
| HIORGIA, Jackson Cosaaity.
Whereas, C. M. Wood, Administrator upon
;hcestate of Amanda M. Loggins late of said
unity, deceased, applies for leave to sell the real
fate and Oa.lt. It. Stock, belonging to said
estate—
This is to cite all concerned, kindred and cred
l, to show cause,’ if any, on the first Monday.
September next at the regular term of the
rt W Ordinary of said county, why leave to
viid real estate and Georgia It. It. Stock
■■mid not be granted the applicant.
'men under my official signature, this August
i 1880. 11. W. BELL. Ord’y.
DEOSiUIA, Jarksoii County.
Vihorcas, a petition, signed by fifty or niorc
holders, citizens of said county, has been tiled
uhis otlice, asking that the question of Fence or
’ 1 fence bo submitted to the lawful voters of said
Jounty— - ' ’
lino counter petition is tiled on or before the
4 iky of October, 1880* said election will be
dered in accordance with the statute in such
ssemadc and provided.
>q>t. 2.1, ISBO. 11. Vv T . BELL, Ord’y.
.faciuMMi Coiunty.
i'hcrcas, W. S. Flanagan applies to me for
-etters of Administration on the estate of Julia
lOrson, late of said county, deceased—
“l*s is to cite all concerned, kindred and crcd
r' to show cause, if any they can, ou the iirst
1 Jay in October, 1880, at the regular term of
1 >urt of Ordinary of said county, why said
' 1 rs should not be granted,
aven under my official signature, October 7th,
vs| - seplO 11. W. BELL, Ord’y.
WHITE LEAD
AND
OILS,
Varnishes & Colors,
3EUGS,
•SEDICINES ami CHEMICALS,
Grass and Clover Seed.
’• : 'ny of above, or anything in the Drug line,
ou
E. C. LONG & CO.,
Wholesale & Retail Druggists,
ATHENS, C3-AN..
Jktober 24th, 1879.
TEETH 5 SM A.
(VKKTIHN6 FOWUKBS.)
Cures Cholera Infantum. Allays Irritation and
easy. I lenitives and prevents
*- “uhh<inds of Children may he saved et*
tr W year by using these. PoiPdev*
0r sale at DR. PENDERGRASS, Drug Store.
S, Circulars, &c., for schools
<!l( l academies, printed at this oflice.
v ONLY 808.
On tho highway of the great city of M
there were towns and village* without num
ber, but at intervals yame desolate spots,
rocks, whbse hdarv Itches overlooked a beau
tiful sparkling river, depths of forests, which
stretched away to an almost unknown dis
tance, long readies where human homes are
few and far between.
One of these lonely recesses was the chos
en haunts of a young artist, who was spend
ing the autumn in a neighboring village.
The sun was going down, but still Ray
mond Morse lingered, putting the finishing
touches to a picture that he intended to place
on exhibition in one of the great art galleries
of the distant city.
The scene before him was an appropriate
one for an artist’s pencil, for the recess was
beautiful enough for the attiring room of the
queen of nature. Tremulous, feathery ferns
formed a yielding carpet of gold and bronze ;
the grim rocks that stood on guard by the
dimpling river were softened by clinging sil
ver moss ; all around was displayed the cx
qusitc handiwork of the great nature painter
—that cunning workman—the frost —blood
red and royal purple stood out in startling
contrasts; gold and safron stood out in su
perb relief against dun, sombre color, and,
above all, rivaling the glory of the earth, was
the ro3 r ally tinted sunset sky.
The soft summer wind lightly lifted the
heavy masses of hair that waved away from
the white, uncovered forehead of the artist;
his hand moved rapidty, but otherwise the
graceful, firm-set figure was like that of a
statde, so intently was he engaged on the ob
ject of his attention.
Raymond Morse finished the picture and
was holding it up from him, surveying it with
a critical eye, when the sound of a deep
drawn breath, close by him, assured Morse
that the bold eminence on which he sat, ris
ing round and hoary in the deepening twi
light, had another occupant.
Morse glanced hastily over his shoulder
and saw just behind him a boy, ragged and
barefoot, peeping at the picture with a look
of intense longing in his eyes. Seeing that
he was discovered, the boy turned away, a
cowed look coming into the tanned face.
“ Hello, youngster, come back !”
The boy stopped at the cordial tones and
glanced covertly at the artist. lie saw the
eyes glowing with radiant kindness, the
nameless charm of the face, and so lie came
slowly to Morse's side.
“ What’s your name, my bo}'?”
“ I’m only Bob, fanner Rowe’s bound boy.”
“ Well, Robert, tell me what you think of
itand the artist put the picture carofully
into the boy’s hands.
Morse wafcchod the boy as he gazed at the
picture.
It was as if the subtile magnetism was at
work, playing in brightness and beauty over
the bronzed features of this wonder of the
twilight. Finally the boy gave the picture
back, morel}' remarking:
“I wish I could do like that;” but min
gled with the hopelessness of the tones
was an undercurrent of unconscious power.
Actuated by some influence, I! ay in on and
Morse put his hand under Bob’s chin and
raising the downcast face, gave it a pierc
ing look. Great eyes of purplish darkness
met his, in whose depths was foreshadowed
the power of a latent genius.
Removing the hand he gave the boy a pen
cil and an unused leaf of his sketch book.
Bob worked away for a few minutes then
the leaf lay before Morse, sketched with such
fidelity to nature that the artist was aston-
ished.
“ When did you learn to draw like this?”
ho questioned.
“ I never learned. It always came handy
and before I found this pencil”—it was about
an inch in length,—“ I used to mark on birch
bark with coal. I have drawn a great many
things that way'. But I must hurry back
with those cows or old Rowe will give me a
beating,‘and his beatings ain’t nothing to
laugh at,” and the boy shivered.
The artist rose. “ I am going to leave
Action to-morrow. If you ever come to the
city of M——come and see me. Here is my
address,” giving Bob a card which the boy
hid earn fully away. “ Good-bye, Bob.”
“ Good-by'e, sir,” and the artist was alone.
“ Well, Ray, what does this mean?”
“ Good morning, Will, find a seat if you
can.”
Morse’s usually charming studio was in a
state of confusion hard to be described.
The luxurious sofas and lounging chairs were
tilled to overflowing with the various posses
sions of the artist; buu little of the carpet
could be seen from the pile of folios, sketch
books and unfinished drawings that covered
it. Will Thornton sought out the easiest
chair, tipped the contents unceremoniously
upon the floor, and seated hirasell.
“ I say, Ray', when arc you going to an
swer my question? What docs this hurly
burly mean?”
“ It means, my dear chum, that the Vesta
sails Monday, and so do I.”
“ Ray Morse, why did—”
JEFFERSON, JACKSON COUNTY, GA., FRIDAY. SEPTEMBER 17. ISSO.
The sentence was destined never to be fin
ished.
“ Mr. Ray, there’s & little, ragged boy at
the door, who says ho must see you. I told
him to be off, but he will not go.”
“Show him up, Sam,” said the artist.
The servant obeyed.
“ Why, Robert, when and why did you
come to the city?” said the artist in a kiudly
surprise.
Without speaking the boy pushed up his
ragged sleeve. An arm sullied and disfigur
ed by long dark ridges met the artist’s sur
prise.
*' Poor child,” exclaimed Morse, compas
sion ately.
“ You see,” said Bob, in explanation, “old
Rowe found my drawings and threw them
into the fire and then beat mo and called me
a * beggarly cur,’” and the boy’s nostrils wi
dened and quivered like those of a young
horse under the lash, “so I ran away and
came here, for I kept your address.”
Morse turned to Thornton, who had been
listening in amazement, and explained the
affair to him, and then the two young men
had a short and satisfactory explanation.
In a few days Raymond Morse sailed for
Europe. In the handsome, well dressed boy,
that stood on the wharf, watching the reced
ing steamer with grateful eyes, we could hard
ly recognize Bob, the bound boy, now Rob
ert Ward, for such was the name the artist
had given hiin
“ You are Ward, my ward,” he said laugh
ingly.
Slowly the youth retraced his steps to the
engraving rooms in which Morse had procur
ed liira g good situation.
“ lie told me to climb,” said Robert Ward
to himself, “ and I will.”
It seemed a very little tiling to the artist.
“ I merel}' gave a homeless boy a name
and chance to work,” he merrily said, and
soon all thought of that little deed of chari
ity faded from his mind.
Twelve years have passed with their sun
shine and storms, their burden of hopes and
fears, joys and sorrows, and again we will
glance at the actors of our story.
What have those years done for this young
engraver? They have given him work, work
beloved for its own sake, and well and faith
fully performed, and a3 the result, riches has
piled her treasures at the young artist's feet.
Honor has spread abroad his name, and fame
has covered him with laurels. But amid all
busy toil and successful endeavors, whether
engaged in carrying the buffets of fortune
or striving with all his energy to win the vic
tory, Robert Ward never forgot the one who
stopped by the wayside, and placing the feet
of “ only Bob” on the ladder of fame, point
ed upwards. Robert had heard, but indi
reotly, from Raymond Morse during all this
time, for he had never returned from Europe.
There had come the news of his marriage
with a beautiful Florentine—then a silence
of years, followed by faint rumors, vague re
ports of calamity darkening his pathwaj r , and
finally it was confirmed by one of his ac
quaintances lately returned from Italy.
“\ r es, he has been unfortunate in money
affairs, and his right arm being paralized, he
is in fact rather poorly off.”
• Robert Ward turned away from the gar
ulityofthe traveler with a sharp pain retarding
the very pulsations of his heart.
Oh 1 it was too hard to believe. That
trained right arm stricken nerveless at his
side ; that dear right hand never to take up
the loved brush, never to clasp the hand of
the one who had toiled so long in order to
win liis commendation, more prized than the
plaudits of the world. Suffering and in want!
“ Dear friend, at last the time has come
when I can repay 7 to some extent your good
ness to a homeless, nameless boy,”'said the
young artist to himself.
Night in Florence. The afterglow of sun
set still lingered in the sky and the murmur
of the Arno filled the air. The soft Italian
moon poured forth a flood of silver in through
an open window of a venerable building that
could count its age by centuries and had
once been occupied by some aristocratic and
wealthy family. It stood in the midst of a
large lonely garden, in which thickets of
myrtle and ilex, and clamps of cypress made
a solemn gloom.
A gentleman occupied a low seat by the
window. He had evidently been reading,
or trying to do so, for an old book of con
spiracies and assassinations—the black sto
ry of ancient Florence, lay at his feet, but
now with eyes that saw nothing he was gaz
ing on the sheen of the glossy Arno, with
hopelessness written in unmistakable charac-
ters on Ids noble face. “ Oh, God, why hast
thou afflicted me thus?” he groaned, “ When
hope is held ouf that this dead whight,”
glancing at his right arm that lmng listless
by his side, “ may } r et become endowed with
life and power, that I, who never refused a
cry of need, must remain a cripple for want
of gold. I care not for myself but for the
sake of Geuevra and baby lsadore,” and lie
covered his face with his hand.
“ Dear Raymond,” said a voice in soft,
musical Italian, “ you are troubled. Can I
FOR THE PEOPLE.
not comfort you, my husband ?” and a woman
with the pale, creamy skin, rippling black
hair and dreamy eyes of the daughters of the
summer land, laid her hand carelessly on his
shoulder. >■*
Morse put his arm around his wife, and
drew her down beside him.
” Genevra,” he said, “ I saw Yerra, the
great surgeon, to-day and lie says he can cure
my arm, but it will cost $500.”
The wife hid her sorrowful face, for well
she knew that such a sum they could not
raise.
v >Perhaps it would be better for us all, dear,”
he continued, “ if such a useless creature as
I lay under those silver ripples,” and he
pointed to the calm river. “ Your family
would welcome little Isadorc for your sake,
and you would be free to marry—”
“ Raymond !”—it was a cry of the ten
derc-st reproach and love—“ have I loved and
trusted you so fondly, so long, only to lose
you at last? Oh, that I could tell )'ou how
it wounds me, and you would never talk so
again.”
“ Forgive me, Genevra, but it cuts me to
the heart to see you do menial service, you,
the petted child of fortune.”
She took the poor paralyzed hand in hers
and kissed it.
Just then a knock sounded at the door.
Morse arose, crossed the floor and opened the
door. The landlady stood there holding a
sealed envelope.
“Pardon me, Mr. Morse, for interrupting
you, here is a letter for you.”
He took the letter from her hand, closed
the door, and hastily opened the envelope.
A folded paper fell out. In a moment he was
by his wife’s side, and almost speechless with
amazement handed her the paper. She took
it. It was a check for $20,000.
“ What can it mean? It cannot be for
us,” she said positively.
Morse sought the landlady and questioned
her carefully about the letter she had brought
him. She could tell him nothing save that a
young man had told her to deliver it to Mr.
Mo I*so.
The next day Morse went to the bank men
tioned in the check and requested the officials
to inform him who filled out the check. Said
one of them : “ A young man deposited the
money in our hands and then had a cheek
made in your name.”
“ Did he give his own name ?” inquired
Morse.
“ No, sir.”
“ Can you give me a description of him ?”
“ Tall, fair coraplexioned, with black hair
and eyes, and talks with a foreign accent.”
Morse pondeced over the description of his
unknown friend, but unavailingly. He had
quite a number of friends that would answer
to such a description, but none that would be
at all likely to bestow such a gift on the poor
maimed artist.
“ Shall we cash the cheek, sir?” politely
questioned one of the officials.
“No, thanks. I shall consider that I have
no right to this check even, until I know the
name of the donor and his motive for doing
as he has,” and bowing, Morse left the bank
ing house.
Once on the street lie walked rapidly home
ward. A tall figure passed him with a soft
iiat [Milled low over a pair of 03' es that bright
ened as they caught sight of ilie artist and
then saddened at the sight of the arm swaying
lifeless at his side.
“ Well, gentlemen, I presume you cashed
the cheek,” said Robert Ward, entering the
banking house soon afterward.
“ No, sir, we did not.”
“And why not?” imperatively.
“ Simply because Mr. Morse said that he
should not consider the check his own until
he knew the name and motive of the donor.”
A shade of annoyance passed over Ward’s
face, but he said nothing.
“Oh, proud heart,” he said to himself,
“ with the means of restoring that helpless
arm to its wonted power, placed freely at
your disposal, yet that proud naturo rebels
at the thought of assistance from another. I
will soon prove to } r ou that it is only 7 the just
repayment of a long standing debt.
A week had passed, and still Raymond
Morse was puzzled over the enigma that as
yet he had found himself unable to solve.
“ A note for you, sir.”
He recognized the handwriting of the ad
dress at once, for it was precisely like the
other.
It contained but a few words:
“ Mr. Morse—lf convenient will you be so
kind as to call at No. 37 street, on Wed
nesday next.”
At the appointed time Raymond Morse
called at the place designated. The servant
ushered him into a room very luxuriantly
furnished. At his entrance agentleman, tall,
fair, with dark hair and eyes, arose and greeted
him courteously. Seating himself in an easy
chair placed at his side, Morse looked at his
host squarely in the face. Somehow the gaze
that met him so frankly, moved the artist
strangely.
After conversing for a short time on different
subjects, the younger said to the elder artist:
" I have not told you what to call me by
*
yet, and I perceive by you, look that you are
anxious to know the name of the etrnngcr
who sent you that mysterious cheek, for it is
useless for me to deny the act. Mr. Morse,”
bending earnestly forward toward the qronzod
artist, “ if I can prove to you that the chock
was a just return for an obligation contracted
years ago, will you receive it ?"
“ But I know of no such obligation.”
“But if I can prove it?”
“If you can prove it I will receive the
check.”
Robert Ward arose and went to a covered
easc-l. “ Hero !. my proof,” said lie. motion
ing to Morse to follow him. Morse crossed
over to the side of his host, who, drawing
aside the curtain, disclosed a picture.
It represented a beautiful autumn scene.
Tn the back ground were two persons, a young
man surveying with a critical eye a picture
which he held in his hand, and a boy peering
over his shoulder. Under the picture were the
words, “Only Bob*”
Raymond Morse said nothing, but a mist
of tears blinded his eyes, and he reached out
his hand grasp ingly toward Robert, Ward
who took it in a strong clasp. No words
were needed.
Mr- Stephens and Miss Gammage.
In full view of Liberty Ilall lives an old
lady who on many accounts is worthy of
notice. In the first place she is remarkable
for her great age, being now perhaps a decade
the oldest inhabitant of the village. Notwith
standing her extreme age and its accompany
ing bodily decrepitude, she retains the powers
of an originally vigorous mind in a strength
very little if at all impaired. - Her memory
brings up vividly at her will the varied events
of her long life, while it does not allow to let
slip the recollection of passing events, in
which she takes a lively interest. But the
most remarkable part of her history is the
fact that, though unfavored by the advantages
of education and never blessed with wealth,
her practical good sense and spotless purity
of character have won her tjie respect and
esteem of the very best people. Many years
ago, when Mr. Stephens comparatively
a young man, wc observed that her humble
home was one of the first at which he called
on his return from Washington ; and now,
when his own bodily infirmities force liira to
require that his friends shall visit him, he
will sacrifice convenience and ease to visit
Miss Nancy Gammage.
From this announcement of her address it.
will be perceived that she belongs to that
class of ladies who deserve so much praise
and receive so much obloqu}*. Having from
a sense of duty foregone the pleasures of a
family of her own, she became the parent of
th ree suecessi ve generations o f foster-child ren.
Her self-sacrifico has had its reward. The
daughters of her adoption grew up to be true
and noble women, who in their admirable
traits of character reflect great credit upon
the training of this rather stornly-moral old
relative. Her latest protege, upon whom she
bestows all the doting fondness of old age.
has recently graduated at West Point, and
enters the United State army as second
lieutenant of cavalry. lie has .never yet
forgotten, and we trust never will forget, his
debt of gratitude to this fond old aunt.
Proudly independent in thought and action,
keen of speech, unflinchingly rigid in her
opinion of honesty and right, this good old
lady has for half a century been a decided
feature in the society of her village. No
visitor can bo said to have at all “ done” the
place until ho has visited her. Yet has this
attention nothing in it of patronage. One
would in fact, as soon think of patronizing
Miss Betsey Trot wood. It is really a tribute
to modest, unobtrusive worth. It is refresh
ing in this age, where money is considered
all-powerful, either to purchase flattery or buy
off censure, to find one who without any of
the advantages of wealth has been esteemed
and honored simply for merit. One of the
most beautiful traits in the character of this
venerable old lady is the childlike gratitude
that she cherishes for those who have shown
her kindness. She never tires of talking of
those who in her earlier years proved them
selves her friends. Mr. Stephens lias, perhaps,
no such friend in the world. She is proud
of his greatness, very proud, but to her the
great statesman, the brilliant orator, the
classical author is as nothing compared to the
warm-hearted and generous benefactor, whose
ear is open to her most trifling complaint, and
whose hand is ever ready to assist. —Sunny
South .
That Dollar.
A stranger who was recently having his
boots blacked by one of the Post-Office bri
gade. ftijked the lad what, he should do if
someone should hand him a dollar.
“ I’d give half of it to the heathen, and
spend the rest on the Fourth,” was the re
p , y-
--“ That’s right—you’re a good boy,” con
tinued the man. I like to give money to
such a lad as j'ou.”
When his hoots were finished, he handed
the boy a niokle and walked off, never refer
ing to the dollar, which the boy had been al
most eertaim of. lie had gone about half a
block when the lad overtook him, and asked :
“ Did you intend to give me a dollar?”
“ Oh, no, no, no. I simply wanted“to
know what \ T on would do with it.”
“ Well, I’ve been thinking it all over,”
said the hootblacker, “and I’ll tell ye what
I’d do. I’d take it and hire someone to
pare my feet down so I could get on a num
ber ’levcn without springing my jints out of
lone.”
The stranger looked from his feet to the
boy and back, then across the street to a po
liceman, and, as ho turned to go, he mutter
ed :
“ Well I’ve found out what he’d <lo with it.
but l don’t know as I feel any the belter for
it?”
s TERMS, $1.50 PER ANNUM.
} SI.OO For Six Months.
Lassoing A Bear.
THIS BXCITETO A T>V KNT TWQ
A CATVU+UXUS>Bm*,
Tho following Recount of tho liwsolng of a
four-hundred pound cinnamon bear by two
well known citizens of this county has been
sent us for publication, and knowing tho
parties and their high standing for truth and
veracity, wo give it space in onr paper:
“ Ocorgc Coanell and Gus Richardson wero
a short time since engaged in driving a band
of cattle from Camp Wood, in Yavapai county,
to Mineral Park, Mohave county, and when
reaching the Muddy, a little north of Anvil
Rock, they discovered a short distance ahead,
crossing the road, a largo cinnamon bear.
Gus suggested to his companion that they
amuse themselves with his lordship, tho bruin..
No sooner suggested than adopted. The
boys dropped the cattle and prepared their
raitas for sport. They made a charge upon
bruin, who at first seemed a little independent
and oblivious of their presence. Coanell
soon had a hitch around the neck of his
bearship, when commenced a tussle for
mastery and liberty. Bruin caught the raita
in his teeth and made an effort to sever the
strands, when Gus took in the situation and
slipped tho rope around the animal, stretch
ing him out as long as a fence rail. Tho
horses which these gentlemen were riding
being well trained to the work of vaqueros,
assisted in holding bruin safe and sure. Their
raitas were now doing good service, and tho
next question arising was how to get them off
from the old fellow, who was groanin< r in pain
and rage, they having left their firo arms at
home. A thought struck Gus. He backed
his horse up, fastened the raita to the pum
mel of his saddle, commanded him to stand
firm while he dismounted, and commenced a
fusiiade with rocks. The head of tho bear
was pretty severely bruised, the blood running
profusely from his nostrils, when Georgo
recollected that he had a pocket knife.—
Quicker than thought lie was upon the ground,,
and scientifically approached tho struggling
bear; fetched him a tickler under the short
ribs, which ended the struggle with victory
for two of the best vaqueros in Arizona. Gus
says the bear died game, giving a cross-eyed
glance while breathing his last.— Arizona.
Miner.
Carver Outdone.
REMARKABLE SHOOTING IIY A CALIFORNIA
MAN AND IIIS WIFE.
New York, August 21. —A most remark -
able exhibition of shooting was witnessed to
day at the Brooklyn Driving, Park. The ex
hibition was given by Dr. John Ruth ami
his wife, of Oakland, Cal., and was remark
able, inasmuch as nothing like it has ever
been seen in this vicinity. The famous Dr..
Carver who recently astonished various po
tentates of Europe by hi3 skill with the rifle,
shot on the same ground some two years ago
and those competent to judge said Ruth and
his wife certainly performed more astonish
ing feats. The Doctor uses the ordinary
sporting Winchester refle, of forty-four cali
bre, and his wife practices with tho old fash
ioned Remington six-pound pistol.
Tho exhibition to-day opened with Mrst.
Ruth at the score. She is said to be a na
tive of Scotland, of very pleasing, lady-like
appearance, medium height, of stout build,
and has clear, dark, piercing eyes. She
handled a revolver as a mere plaything, and
broke several glass balls suspended at ten
paces. Siic made a noticeable shot by break
ing a glass ball eighteen feet distant, shoot
ing over her left shoulder and taking aim by
the reflection of a small mirror held in her
left hand. She performed another remark
able feat by shivering into pieces a round piece*
of glass, about the size of a silver quarter,
held between the forefinger and thumb of her
husband, who stood eighteen feet away.
She was enthusiastically applauded.
I)r. Ruth’s most remarkable shot wero \n
bouncing glass balls from the ground in the
air, and then loading and reloading and
breaking the balls in their downward pro-,
gross. The Doctor made several other fan
cy shots, which evoked much applause. lie
broke, without the least trouble, glass balls,
thrown in the air, and balls which were
thrown in either direction lie
rarely missed. A marvelous feat which Dr..
Until performed was, when a glass ball was-,
thrown high up in the air he reversed his ri
fle, turned completely around, and broke the
ball before it reached the ground. The Doc
tor claims to have beaten Carver in a trial
of skill on the Golden State District grounds
in Oakland, Cal. lie wears the champion
badge won upon that occasion.— Special to,
the Cincinnati Commercial
That Span New Umbrella-
If all the flustered grandpas and gradmas-,
knew how much they contributed to the humor
of common life, and the keen enjoyment of
children by the fun they innocently make
while hunting for their spectacles, while they
arc all the time perched on their heads, they
would often bo quite reconciled to such
mistakes. A victim of the same description,
was a good old lady who had just finished
her shopping in one of the Boston dry goods,
stores.
“ There 1” she cried in an excited voice,.
“I should like to know what’s become of that
umbril! I sot it up agin the counter when
I come in. and afore I could turn round it’s,
gone—and it was only on a Monday that I
gin four and six fort.”
o
“What kind of an umbrella was it, ma’am?’*'
asked the polite clerk in his blandest tones.
“ A spink and span new gingham, young
man,” was the response, * with an iv’ry handle
en’t and a”
“ Like the one in your hand, ma’m, for
instance?”
“ Hakes alive?” she exclaimed. And one
might have thought she saw a serpent rather
than her own “ spink, and span gingham,”
with its “ iv’ry.” She colored like a drug
gist’s window, and went oflf amidst unintelli
gible excuses. She never felt so flustered in
all her days, as she told Jemima Ann when
she got home.— Evangelist.
NUMBER 15.