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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.