The Weekly Sumter republican. (Americus, Ga.) 18??-1889, April 02, 1875, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Text/ 4s PUBLISHED BY aA HOOOK &/BEILLY, Volume 22. DEVOTED TO 1TEWS, POLITICS AND GENERAL PROGRESS—INDEPENDENT IN ALL THINGS. TERMS: Two Dollars a Year PAYABLE IV ADVANCE. A.MERIOXJS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1875. Number 7. •jufflttr (fbc mm, iixN CO<K «v REILLY. ’ AdTiTtUlng. er'.ion, .,#1 00 ... - 50 «,t Mic.on type, eolld, coniti- „nt* not contracted for will be uot BjticifyinK thj length of , v »r« to be inserted will becon- i ml <>ui and charged for ac«»rd- ki occupy fixed will be *1 column inserted for twerty 5 10 ■ ... 5 00 te,... 5 00 Professional Cards. KUOKXZ A. HAWKINf Hawkins & Hawkins, \TTOllSKY3 AT LAW, tMESIelU' GEORGIA COOK Os CR.I63?, l ttohnct at law. \MLJ11CUA GEORGIA. r»ill, j.rtctice in tho Counties of l!wn, W i, , y, .'-c-hley, Webeter, hiimterandj^e, The f Ok i. .1 bn- !iip dot i the U. B. P. HOLLIS, . MCCLF.8KKY Fort & McCleskey, ’,riin/\ ill Low inut Sofiritor* in Etjnity AMBRICUS, GEORGIA. counties of the South- in the Supreme Court ol (trict and Circuit Courts folmmport Pickitt and King's N A. SMITH. rvt Xj aw Courts of Snmt'-t tTTlI.L|.r»cti<-e in the W , h,lining <Y,untie*, and in Circnit Court ol Sir Office on College street, next to Republic » ..ffin. feb 25 tf. MERREL CALLAWAY, attorney at Law, AMF.IlICUS, GA. spofti** over Kendrick A Wheatley’s Store. Guerry & Son, Attornoy* at Xjaw OUOITORS in kquity America*. Ororgla, the Superior Court* of Macon, Dooly, Lee. Ter- nd ’Marion counties ; in the of Georgia and in tho United Dr. W. A. GREENE, QHATEFUL for tho liberal patronage bestow- Dr. W. J. REESE, j-cople of Ai lie. offer* a good STOCK of DRUGS, togoth- *uh GARDEN SEEDS, Ac.. Ac. Next door tc ft . Shcm eld A Co Ho would liko to eee hi. M I S C E L L A N E 0 U S. Dr. G. P. COOPER, Will give hi* kntibe time Dr. J. B. HINKLE, Phyalcinn and Surffoon, of Dr. E. J. 1 (in front of C< rompt and f»ft mar 13*73tf. Dr. S. IT. HAWKINS. ff T OFFICE at Dr. EUIridgo’* Drug Store. io»r the Methcdi-' “* .. lin tender the g< tnd country generally. Coming to Woo. When Aunt Fhilinda went away, the last thiug she said to mo was: **I m going to send somebody down to see you afore long, an’ I hope you’ll act like a sensible girl, an’ not stand in your own light. He’s smart as the averidge, an’ he's got tho best farm I know on anywhere in the section o’ country. You couldn’t do better.” hadn’t the faintest idea that she would do as she said; but I begau to be lieve she meant business when I received tin following letter: Dear Niece Mariak : I’ve told Mr. Green about you, an’ he’s goin to come down to your place next week. 1 do hope you’ll like him, for a better bus- ban’ never lived than he’d make you. Afore Mehetable—that was his liret wife—'lied, he was one of the best pro-, viders I ever seed, an’ the hord knows lie’s had to be sence, for that sister of his’n ibat keeps house for him is awful wasteful. lie's considerable took up with you from my description, an’ I know he’ll like you. Anybody that’s pable can do well to marry him. The children arc purty behaved, in’ take after their father. Now don’t hink he won’t suit you 'cause he ain’t lixt up like a young man. He’s w^rlh a dozen young men, fur’s property’s con cerned, an’ Mchiiablc used to say he was awful lovin’. Do be a sensible girl, Maritr, an’ not stand in your own light, l-’rotn your affectionateauut, Piijljnda. “For goodness sake!” I exclaimed, when 1 had read the letter through to sister Jane. “What shall I do ? Here it’s Monday, and the letter ought to have been hero las*t week. He’s likely to happen along any time. Such an old fool as Aunt Fhilinda is ! The idea f my marrying an old widower, with half a dozen children.” “Hut they’io ‘putty behaved,’ and kc after their father,’” said Jaue, wiping the tears from her eyes, and hardly able to talk from laughiug. “ And he’s awful lovin’!” “I don’t want any of his loving ways und me,” says I, indignantly. “I on’t speak to him. She might have known better. I think it a regular in* suit.” I’ll tell you what,” cried Jane, her s luminous with a brilliaut idea. :t me pretend that-I’m you. I’ll be ria for the time being, aud you he Jane.” “What good’ll that do?” I asked. “Kver so much,” answered she. “Fa ther and mother won’t be back for four days, aud I can tire him out be fore that time. I’ll be deaf! Won’t that be splendid? I won’t be able to hear anything lower than a shout.” “I’m agreeable to the plan,” I said. And Jane began to make preparations for her wooer. She combed down her hair smoothly on each side of her face, nd put ou mother’s old mohair cap. Then she added spectacles, and arranged herself in an antiquated old dress. When she had finished her toilet she looked old maidish, I assure you. I laughed till I cried. About three o’clock there came a rap the door. “It’s him, I’ll bet !” cried Jane. “If is, remember I’m Maria, and can’t hear you unless you talk very loud.” I went to the door and opened it. There stood Mr. Green, I was sure. Ho had on his Sunday best, evidently, and very comical he looked in it, and very uncomfortable he felt, judging from his actions. He was wiping bis face wills a huge red and yellow handkerchief.” “I’m Mr. Green,” ho said, making a bow and introducing himself at the same time. “I came to see Miss Mariar Law- ton. lie you her?” “She’s expecting you; she’s in the parlor. “Come in,” I said, choking with laughter. “You’ll have to talk a little louder than usual, for she’s a trifle deaf.” “Deaf!” exclaimed Mr. • “Your aunt didn’t mentiou t’aat.” By that time we were at the parlor door. Jane was all expectation, and did look so comical that I thought 1 should have to laugh or die. But I managed to keep my lace tolerably straight while I introduced them. ‘•Maria, this is Mr. Green !” shouted I. iu a shrill key, putting my mouth close to her ear. “A little loudei,” said she, and I ihouted “Mr. Green” an octave higher. The poor man looked terribly disappoint ed. His faucy had not paiuted .her true colors, evidently. “Ah, yes. Mr. Green,” said Jane, fairly beaming with delight. “How do you do?” and she shook the poor gentle- hand energetically* “Jane, get Mr. Green a chair. Put it bore by tho side of mine, so that he can talk to me happy to seo you, sir. Aunt Phil- inda spoke of you in very complimen tary terms, indeed.” little,” said I cheerfully. “We don’t.” “I dun no’ 'bout that,” said Mr. Green, doubtfully. “Wc couldn’t never have ao secrets, ’cause the neighbors'd beer ’em ’fore she did, if I weut to tellin’ her any. Don’t seem to me’s if I ever see lybody quite so deaf as she is.” “Talk to me,” said Jane, who had dried her eyes. “Tell me all about your children. 1 know I shall take so much comfort with them. Bless their souls.” Thereupon Mr. Green began his fam ily history way up in tho octaves, und I got so nearly deafened at his shouting that 1 had to leave the room. I sat down on the back steps and laughed for half ’ our. When I stopped I could hear him shouting still, but I fancied he was getting hoarse. June kept him talking all the after noon. I never saw any one quite so re lieved as he was when I announced that supper was in readiness Jane fastened herself upon him, and accompanied him to the supper-table. “It’s such an awful pity about her,” said the poor man to me, regretfully. “She’s got a wonderful nffeckshun&te way, an' she’s awful anxious to bo Miss Green ; but,” and there Mr. Green stop ped, dubiously, *‘I know’d an old woman who was so deef that when it thundered c, she though some one was knockin’ hollered ‘come in;’ an’ she didn’t be- to be as deef as she is, no, not be- I dou’t s’pose you’d be willin’ to settle down on a farm, uow, would you?” hopefully. “Oh. I couldn’t think of such a thiug,” 1 answered. “Maria is the wife a farmer.” .She takes such an in terest iu such matters.” “That’s a fact,” said Mr. Green. “I aun’ no when I’ve seen a woman more interested than she is. I swan’ I’d give twenty-five dollars if 'twould cure hir, an’ up our way we can get a good cow for that price ” Mr. Green had got so used to talking to Jane that he had forgotten that I was not deaf, aud shouted the last sentence at me.” “You say vou are fond of rice ? Oh, am I,” said Jane, delightedly “Jaue,” me, “you putf some on to cook alter supper; we’ll have some for breakfast.” “Don’t put yourself out for mo” shouted Mr. Green. ‘Wish you had some for tea, did you I wish so, too.” Jane smiled another tender smile rt her suitor, and ipped her tea slowly, smiling at him very time he looked at her. “Where’s your folks?” he asked, sud denly, ns if lie had just thought of them. - l’cs, it i< a good plan,” answered Jane, nodding her head appreciatively. ifce -always ought to wear pokes. If they don’t, they’ll get into the garden and cat everything up.” I asked after your father an’ mother,” shouted Mr. Greco, with awful emphasis, and turning red in the face with the ex ertion. “Let me sec,” said Jane thoughtfully. Henry Bascomb’s brother? No, Mr. Green, I don’t think I ever knew him.” ‘‘Oh, dear,” groaned Mr. Green. She gets deefer and deefer. I can’t marry her. What if I wanted to say anything to her in the dead o’ night ? I’d have to wake the hull house up to ake her hear. It’s an awful pity, I Jane kept him shouting at her all the evening, under the beaming effulgence of her smile. I never laughed so much my life before. He came into the kitchen next morn ing. where I was getting breakfast. 7 m so hoarse I can hardly talk loud,” he said, mournfully. ‘‘I like her. She’s •t, naturally, an’ seems willin’, an’ she wants to get married as bad as any woman I ever saw; but she’s too deef! I guess I won’t stop to breakfast, ’cause it’ll only make her more sot on havin’ me, an’ I can’t make such a sacrifice for the sake o’ anybody. If you’d think favorable ’bout it, I’d say. Couldn’t you now, s’pose?” with a very tender smile. “Not for a minute,” said I. And seeing th%t there was no hope, Mr. Green took Ids departure. Aunt l’hilinda evidently sator through the state of affairs, as reported to her by Mr. Green, for she hasu’t been visiting since. I wonder if he is still single ? Dr. W.M. HARDWICK IjD' INii renamed tbe rractiee of Medicine. "nernhie eerricea to hie old friends end E/®®* •*>(! to the paying public generally, .(yj*! attention will be’ given to all Chronic •Jr*;. Particularly those of Females. He will SC*-** ami treat ordinary cases at his . JfJ Office at the Drug Store of Davenport A T ^Starkville street, opposite Dr. B. J. HEAD, ii n,v * e rtio *tody and treatment of chronic wjf* 8 * specialty, particularly those dinesaca to females, and clain to have discov er ‘rt'uexhe* and treatment peculiarly adapt- ,7" cure of thia class of disease. ItoS* U th ® . Dr ug store of Dr. W. J. Reese. _ t u} * aet> ou the East aide of public sqaaro, i ffiS,° rmer ' 1 ooeupfcd by Mrs. JTcCreo. A Matrimonial Slave. A Californian, named Aborns, pub lished the following card in a San Jose “All NOTICE. persons are hereby warned to trust Mary E. Aborns (my wife), she Ins left my bed aud board without just cause or provocation, and I will not pay any bill contracted by her from and after this date John Aborns. “San Jose, Feb. G,»1875. The following conclusive and exhaust ive defense by his wire, appeared in the next issue: Why atn I thus published to the world ? and what human being on earth has the right ? Let us look at the facts. I have been the wife of John Aborns for about ten years, and lived with him during the whole of that time—the prime of my life. That makes 3,G50 days. During that time I have cooked about ten thousand meals of victuals, set the table as many times, aud cleared it off and washed the dishes. During the ten yeare, Ihaye spent between ten and fifteen thousaud hours over a hot rook stove, both in summer and winter. I have cleared up and swept the house for him over ten thousand times. Dur ing those ten years I have borne to him six children, five of them now living, the youngest two and a half years old. Besides tbe pains and the accidents inci dent to childbirth (which every mother knows;, what steps, cares and troubles (to say nothing of the sickness and anxious thoughts for my children) it is impossible for me to say; every mother knows it better than she can possibly tell it. In addition to that, I have made all their clothing (besides my own), and during that time I have also made clothing and done sewing for others for money, it went into the “community” funds; that is, as 1 understand it, all the property made by tbe husband and wife is community property, but in reality belongs to the husband, and is called in law “community property,” to take off the sharp edge of injustice. More than that, during these ten j’ears I have milk ed on an average, three cows twive a day, which will make about seven thousand milkings, besides taking care of the milk and making butter from it. I have dur ing the whole of that time attended to the poultry, and often have assisted Mr. Aborns in loading hay, sewing sacks, and oven cleaning his stable. I have drawn the picture mildly. I have made allow ances for my sickucss, when I have had help, something after the way that a farmer would hire a horse, if his own was sick and unable to work. I had nothing when I went, and nothing at the end of those ten years of servitude. I had lived, it is true, aud was very mod erately furnished with clothing. This is all for my labor. What mau is there in the world that would do the work I havo done for the same compensation ? I make this statement, not oat of any feeling of revenge to Mr. Aborns, for he has done only what hundreds of.others would have done. Iu many respects he is a good mau;‘industrious, and, like hundreds—yea thousands of others, hon est with everybody except his own fam ily. I choose to live with him no longer; my reasons are my own. And 1 say agaiu, what right has he to impair my credit by publishing me? In the name of all that is just I solemnly protest against it. Mary E. Aborns. “I’t The Handwriting of Poets —The handwriting frequently hears an 'analogy to the character of the writer, as all vol untary actions arc characteristic of the individual; but many causes operate to cminteract or obstruct a uniform result. “I am intimately acquainted,” says D’ls- raeli, “with the handwritings of five of our great poets. The first (Scott) in early life acquired, among Scottish advo cates a handwriting which cannot be dis tinguished from that of his ordinary brothers; the second, educated in public schools, where handwriting is shamefully neglected, composes his sublime or sport ive verses in a schoolboy’s ragged scrawl, . - as if he had never finished his tasks with glad ^of that,’ said Mr. Green, j t ] ic writing-master; the third writes his ‘ ’ highly-wrought poetry in the common hand of a merchant’s clerk, from early commercial avocations; the fourth has all that finished neatness which polished his verses; whilo the fifth is a specimen of a full mind, not in the habit of cor rection or alteration, so that he appears > be printing down bis thoughts,with out solitary erasure - The handwritiug of the first and third poets, not indicative of their character, wo have accounted for; the others are admirable specimens of characteristic autographs.” W. P. BURT. . D ENTI8T, AMERICDS, GA. sinking into the chair. -Eh? what did you say?” said Jaue, turning her ear toward him. “A trifle louder, if you please.” Mr. Green repeated his remark, while I retired to the window to laugh. “A very tine day 1” he added. “Good crop of hay? I’in glad of it,” iponded Jane. “I’tn greatly intcrest- in farm matters, Mr. Green.” “I- said the weather was fine,” cor rected Mr. Green. “When’ll. I be yours ? Why, you’re so sudden, Mr. Green!” exclaimed Jane, pretending to blasli. “ I don’t really feci as if X knew you yet. And yet, uiy heart tells tells me that you are an affin ity,” and then the wicked girl leaned most bcwitchingly upon the uneasy who looked at mo appealingly. “I didn’t say that,” he shouted, spoke about the weather ” “Yes; I hope we’ll bo happy togeth er,” said Jane, pensively. “Oh, Mr.' Green, If you knew how I havo longed for the companionship of some heifrt like yours these many Years,” and then she proceeded to shed unseen tears her handkerchief. Mr. Green was touched. “She’s awful affeckshunate, ain’t she?” he said to me. “I wish the wasn’t so awful deef. Can’t anything be done for her V 9 , “Oh, yon won’t mind that, after ft Few are aware of the vast n ber of people that can be placed ii small space. When we speak of mil lions of men, we arc apt to pic ture to ourselves an almost boundless mass of humanity; yet a million of peo ple standing together, each person occu pying four square feet, could be placed on a patch but little more than m mile square. A square mile will accommo date 7,965,000. The whole population of the United States would hardly cover two and a half miles 'square, and the population of the entire world could be easily accomomdated on a tract twelve miles wide—less in extent than some townships. D&" An old maid in T speaking of mar riago, sats St is like any other disease— whTlo thcre's-lifo fliere’s hope. ; . . Horrible Funeral Ceremonies in the Soudan. Sir Samuel Baker, iu his account of his expedition into Central Africa gives tho following account of a royal funeral in Unyore: When a King of Unyore dies, the body is exposed on a framework of green wood, like a gigantic .gridiron, over a slow fire. It is gradually dried, uutil it resembles an overroasted hare. Thus mummified, it is wrapped bark-clothes, and the body lies in stato within a large house built specially for its reception. The sons fight for the throne. Tbe > - il war may last for years, but during this period of anarchy the late king’t body lies still unburied. At length, when victory has decided in favor of one of his sons,the conqueror isits the hut in which his father’s body ies iu state. He approaches the corpse, and standing by its side, he sticks the but-end of his spear in the ground, and leaves it thus fixed near the right baud of the dead king. This is symbolic of victory. The son uow ascends the throne, and the funeral of his father must be his first duty. An immense pit or trench is dug, ca pable of containing several hundred pie. This is neatly lined with >ark clothes. Several wives of the late seated together at the bottom, to bear upon their knees the body.of their departed lord. The night previous to the funeral, the ng’s own regiment, or body guard, round many vilbges, and seize the peo ple indiscriminately as they issue froi their doors iu the early morning. These captives are brought to the pit's mouth. Their legs and arms are broken with clubs, and they arc pushed into the pit the king’s body and his wives. An immense din of drums, horns, flag eolets, whistles, mingled with the yells frantic crowd, drown the shrieks of the sufferers, upon whom the earth is shoveled and stamped down by thousands of cruel fanatics, who dance and jump upon the mould so as to force it into compact mass, through which the vi tims of this horrid sacrifice cannot grope their way, the precaution having been taken to break the bones of their an and legs. At length the mangled mi is buried and trodden down beneath _ tumultuous earth, ahtTall is still. The funeral is over. ^iXhis is a story from California. If told of atoj other country in the world we’d doubt it. A fine bay horse was fonnd suspended one morning recentlv from a cherry tree by the neek and deac He had been left hitched to a branch of the tree, which “ad* grown so rapidly during the night that it raised him o his feet and hong him. And they don’ think of fencing in California. - LITTLE TINA. Or the Song that the Teakettle Sang. BY LOUISE DUPEE. The teakettle was hamming something that sounded liko this, aud startled Nora, who was half-asleep by the fire: “Putf, puff, puff, steam, steam, steam ! Wake, little maiden, out of your dream, TherbVa beggar at the door. Steam, s eam, steam, puff, pnff, puff ! On the table there’s rapper enough For one little maiden more.” ‘Dear mo!’ said she to herself, ‘I did not hear any one at tho door. - What a funny tajkettle! I belave, after all; it’s telling a. story.’ But no, lor sure enough, when she opened the door, there sat a forlorn little being on the step, with white hair .that looked like thistle-down, and so long and tangled that it hid her fkce entirely. All that Nora could see or her was her head and a bit of ragged old cloak; and, as she remarked afterward, “the white re minded her’ of a tall thistle-stalk in the autumn that had caught and was cling ing to a bit of rags!’ ‘Come in and warm yourself, won’t you ?’ said she, half-afraid of tho weird little object. Tho child arose without a word and followed her into the room. Nora placed her a seat uear the fire, and she spread out her tiny purple hands to catch the heat with an air of great satisfaction. ‘I wonder if the tnykettlc conjured her up, sure,’ thought Nora. ‘She might be a steam sprite, if there do be any such, but indade I never heard of the like.’ She was the possessor of a learned vol ume which weot very deeply into fairy lore, but it did not mention anything of the kind. ‘Where do you live, sure? Did ye get lost,poor little thing ?’ she questioned tho child. ‘I live down by the wharf, and I didn’t get lost, only a dog stole my basket with all I got for the day in it, and I don’t dare to go home. Aunty whips me when I don’t carry anything home and will kill me for losiog tbe basket,’ said the little mite in a precise, piping tone. ‘What’s yer name, thin ?' said Nora, her rosy Irish face all ashine with sym pathy. ‘Mamma used to call me Tina,* said she, ‘but aunty calls me Mary.’ ‘And where is the mother, that ye live with the aunt?' ‘She said that sho was going to Heav en, but they took her away in a box. I suppose they carried her there, though they didn’t go up when I saw them. She was sick, O such a long time! and 1 wanted her to go, because she said that she shouldn’t be sick any more, but be happy with papa,’ said the little thing, solemnly. ‘And the aunt is a cruel thafe of a woman, and sinds ye you out a begging, with yonr poor bits of toes to the ground, in weather like this. You shall stay with me to-night. We’re poor eaough oursels, me, mother and I. Me mother lives out in a hotel. She used to be cook, and made lots o’ money; but then he got sick, being over tho fire so much, she only helps the cook, and docs little odd jobs, and little wages she gets. I worruk, too. I’m cash girl at Habberly’s, and with what we both ear- wo got along. Mo mother she sleeps with me nights, and to-night, cox ’tin Saturday night, she’s coming to sup- l’ts her I'm kaping the table for.' Will she like to have me here?' said the child, looking anxiously toward the door. Sure sho will. Me mother has the kind heart. Don't you fear, me dear. How could anybody shut the door on the likes o' you ? You looks a bit fairy/ Just then the door opened, and a woman with a kind face, very like Nora's, entered the room. Here's me mother,” said Nora spring ing up gladly. ‘Mother, see what a nice little company I've got. 'Nice indade,' said Mrs. Murphy, pat ting the cornailk head. ‘And who might she be, me dear.' Her name's Tina, and she lives with her aunt, and her aunt is cruel and bates her; and, mother, I'm going to kape her with me—for a while, at laste. She's lost her basket, and doesn't dare to go home, and the weather's so cowld T said honest Nora, nil ih one breath. Well, well, we'll see about it, me dear; but now let's take a bit o' something to eat, if the toy's all ready Tina seemed pleased with the little flowered plate Nora placed for her. Her eyes were as bright and wide as stars, and she seemed more than content with her surroundings; but she could not Maybe yon had your dinner late?' said Nora, anxiously. ‘I don't hive dinners/ piped Tina ; ‘I ly bad breakfasts and suppers/ ‘I'm nfcard the child's going to be sick. Her cheeks are so flushed like, and her eyes is too bright," said Mrs. Murphy. But Tina said she wasn't sick, and she liked to look at the pretty room, and the red flowers on the paper. 'The paper do be pretty. I put it on meself, dear/ said Mrs. Murphy. “But you will be sick if you don't eat a bit. I lwaya know roe Nora's going to be sick when she don't care for supper Do you know, mother, that taykettli found speech for itself? It woke me up talking aod singing away this very night/ said she carnestl} - . “It made a sort o' song about somebody's being at the door, and there being room at the table for one more. And sure enough, there was Tina at the door, though I hadn't heard her at all!' 'Ocb, you were dreaming, me dear. Taykettics don't spake!' ‘Why, no ; t'wasn't exactly spiking,' said Nora; it was just singing along a sort 'o song/ It was a fearfully cold night, and it grew later the wind arose and blew fu riously. Mrs. Murphy had thought of taking Tina home horself, as they had but one bed, and that one hardly wide enough for two; hut she could not have the heart to take snph a frail-looking lit tle thing out into snch bitter cold.. But warm-hearted Nora would * ' nothing of the cold, for aside from the pi* j she felt for her she took a great fan yto the ch’ld. She told her fairy stories until bed time. The wonderful adventures of that sagacious youth Jack, the Giant Killer; the fascinating story of Fuss in Boot, and the perils aud tri umphs of those valiant philaotropists the Seven Champions of Christendom. Ti« na's brown eyes shone like stars out of the tangle of white hair, and she hardly dared to breathe for fear of losing the spell. ‘I like stories/ shs said, clasping her little brown hands; ‘and you good. I never saw anybody so good be fore, 'eept mamma, and she went away so long I can't hardly 'member. I s'pect you're au angel, aren't you ? An gela are gooder than anything !' Foor Nora, with her little freckled Irish.face aud funny turn up nose! She didn't look much like au angel. She couldn't help laughing at the idea her self, though she felt immensely flattered. She thought that Tina looked like an angel when she was attired for bed that night. She had ! put one of. her own white nieht dresses on to her, and had combed the cornsilk locks back from the little fair wistful faco.. The child's beau ty was striking, and it was highbred beauty, too; even Nora recognized that. But there were black and blue marks ou the delicate shoulders aud arms that made her warm Irish heart ache, and she kissed them with something like tears in her honest eyes. It isn't me that'll ever let ye go back to the aunt again,' said she, half to her self. ‘If I have but a crust, tho bit of thing shall share it, and I'll slape on the floor mesel, if the mother objects to be ing crowded.' , [ Tho next morning Tina was flushed and feverish, but still she said that she wasn't sick; her head ached—that was all. Nora hurried home from Mass as list as ever she could, to keep her com- •any, and the two children spent a cosy lay together. Nora kept a bright fire, and told stories until her stock was en tirely exhausted. Tina seemed thor oughly happy, and took no thought of the morrow. Nora, to her, was like one of the good faries in her stories—she would take care of her. Auuty aud the days when she went begging were already like a dream. ‘It's onlikely that that spalpeen iv a woman sho calls aunty is any relative of hers/ said Mrs. Murphy, as she watched her while she was sleeping that night. ‘Mind, Nora, that child has gentle blood. These vile women steal pretty, frail-like children to send a-begging, bad 'cess to them! The mother's weepin' lor the poor lamb now, I doubt not/ ‘Ah, mither, we'll niver let her go back to the likes iv her, will we ? Didn't the good praste say as how the good saints would give back aU.a body spent in deeds »' charity ?” ‘But, me dear, how are you iver going to provide for another ? Areu't your own poor hits of toes almost out of the ould shoes now ? And when will ye be able to buy another pair? Coal is so dear and there is so much sp:ut iu this weather. Then I want you to go to the school and get a bit o' lamin', and not grow up in such haythen ignorance/ ‘But I don't want to go to school,' said Nora; *1 can radc now. I'd a hape rather kape Tina/ Foor little Tina! she was really very ill. All night she tossed aud moaned in her sleep, and in the morning she could hardly lift her head from the pillow. Mrs. Murphy did all she could for her before she went to her work, and Nora hangover her until the very last moment, almost broken-hearted that she must leave her to suffer alone. But work be gins on Monday morning, and if she did not got to the store she would be sure to lose her place. Then what would become of her little friend ? When she came home at noon she found ;r in a high fever; her eyes looked wild and strange, and she talked incohe rently. ‘Whatever shall I do for her?' said poor Nora in despair. ‘It's tho favur Rhe have, sure; and who knows but she'll die. the poor thing ? I'll never get over " L if she do die on my hands. Ferhaps jug of hot water at the fate would draw the hate from the head, and p'r'haps a bit of hot tay, if I could make her drink it, she said,'as she stood that useful ves- the glowing coals, ‘you towld me to take the little thin' in and give her tho supper; now tell ire what to do for her if you can. But the teakettle only looked mildly contemplative,and didn't open it's mouth; aud, n» Tina was quiet for a few mo ments, she sat down by the fire to think what she could do to help tho little suf ferer. I’ll not lave her again/ she said to herself; ‘I shall lose my place, but the saints will provide.' Leaning her head on her hands, she was quite lost in thought,until that funny witchlike old teakettle startled her with another one of its sage sayiugs in rhyme. The steam was pouring in a flood out of its crooked nose, aod it sang along this wise: Steam, steam, steam, pnff, puff, pnff 1 The doctor, the doctor, ’tis qnite plain enough What to do for the child. Nora started to her feet in a moment A doctor, sure 'uough. Why did she not think of it before ? She was so un used to sickness that,with all her thought fulness the idea of calliug a doctor never entered her mind. ‘FU run for one this instant/ she said. ‘I've got $2 iv me own that I was saving for the boots, .but it is better to let me feet go bare thin to let Tina be moaniug in illness. I'm much obliged to you, taykettle, and sure I'll always be after asking advice of you. You're good as gould.' And she made a little courtesy, that was not mockery, by any mean’s, to tho homely household god; for if there ever was a fairy, she believed that one hauntod the teakettle. Then, hardly stopping to put on her things, she rushed out of the house. * ‘Do you know where there he's a doc* tor?' she asked of Mrs. Donahoe, over the way, who always had a sick baby. But no, Mrs. Donahoe didn't know where there was a doctor., .The city doq^ on the wind to find a doctor’s sign. She found two or three, but the first one was away attending to a patient, the second was ill himself, and did not go out; the third told her shortly, without givingany reason, that he could not go to visit her patient. ‘If all tbe doctors he's as stony hearted as you, I may as well go home now/ said she to herself, as she stood on the side walk. She clasped her two little red hands together, looking in every direc tion, as if in search of help. ‘What did you say about a doctor, my child ?’ said a gentleman who was waiting in an elegant carriage by the street side, noticing her look cf distress. ‘O, if I could only find a doctor, sir the little one at me house is that sick I am afeard she’ll die/ ‘Indeed! Well, I’m a physician my self, and, and I will go to see the child at once, if yon desire it. Your sister, I suppose.' ‘No, sir,’ said sho without stopping to give any explanation. ‘.The number is ten, Canal court, if you please. I’ll bo at tho door when you get thcro; aud thauk you kindly sir.’ ‘He didn't lojk as if he’d be that good,’ she thought, as she rau toward homo. ‘I should ‘a’ said that he was like and stuck-up iu his carriage, and with his gold-headed cane; but you niver can tell by looks/ He was rather a stern-looking man. Nora was half-afraid of him as he came up the rickety steps into the house. lie was not so very olJ, but his hair was snow white, aud his features were sharp and compressed as if it bad’known trouble; and he had a grand air, which seemed to awe the very house. Nora had brush ed Tina’s hair back from the little flushed face, and she lay quite still, with her wide, fever-bright eyes fixed on tho doctor. glance at her, and then started hack as if in alarm. this child V he deuiauded. iu a tone of more severity than the occasion required, Nora thought. ‘I don’t know what her last name bo's. I couldn't make out from what she said. Her first name’s Tina.’ I thought so,’ he said in a tone hall triumphant—half anxious. ‘But where did you find her? She's no relative of •s, certainly.' And he felt the fever ed pulse with more than professional anxiety. She came here Saturday night, and took her iu/ said Nora. ‘She was afeard to go home coz she’d lost her bas ket, and her auut bates her. Sho sinds her out a begging. Me mother doesn’t thiuk it he's her aunt at all, though, but some thafe of a woman that stoled her z she was pretty.' Tho doctor bit his lips, and bent very low over the little prostrate figure. He he's a quare man,' said Nora to herself. ‘Do you think she will die, sir?' she asked, with tsars in her eyes. ‘I hope not, my child; but she is very ill,' he said, iu a husky tone. ‘I am indebted to you, my good girl, more thau express/ he went on. “for this little I beggar child is my grand daughter. Her mother was lost to me years ago. She married a worthless man against my will, and I never forgave her. When she was dying she wrote to me, begging me to care for her child when she was gone. I did not receive the letter for some time, I was in Europe then, but when I did receive it,I hastened home with all possi ble speed. When I reached here she had been dead for nearly two months, as I could learn, and I could fied no trace of the child. I have bccu searching for her ever since, and despaired of ever finding her. But as soon as my eye fell on her face this morning, I recognized her, for she is the image of her mother when she was a child. She has her eyes, her hair, her forehead, her expres sion. We called her Tina, too/ And the strong man's voice was broken, as if he were weeping. ‘If he have been hard to his daughter, he repints and may God forgive him !' prayed Nora, ‘O, sir/ she said, ‘there do be a good fairy in cur taykettlo, aod 'twas she that bade me take Norah iu. I niver should a knawed she was at the door/ ■ The doctor looked at her as if he thought she were insane. But when Tina got well she found some sympathy in her faith in the ‘taykettle fairy/ Tina was very ill for a time, but she got well at last. All through her illness, though she was delirious all the time, and did not seem to recognize any one, she would have no one to wait on her but Nora. Nora's hand was the only one that.. 'M bring ber relief; Nora's very presence seemed to quiet her. When she was able to be moved to the luxurious home of her grandfather, Nora went with her, and Nora's mother also. ‘I want my Nora always/ she said. And tho saints did pay the honest lit tle Irish girl tenfold for what she ‘spint in charity/ Thcro was no more 'climbing other people's stairs/ no more hard work for either herself or her mother after that; for Tina's grandfather in lib gratitude could not do enough for them. He gave them a dear little homelike cottage for their very own furnished in a way that would have suited the most fastidious, and what was better to Nora than any thing else, it was so near to Tina—just at the cud of tho garden. And besides this, he gavo them a suui cf money which seemed almost fabulous to Nora aud her mother This was to be kept in the bank, and the interest of it to support them in their cheery little house. Nora goes to school, and b growing into a perfect lady, though she will cling to her Irish tongue; aud she still holds to her faith in fairies, and cherishes that old teakettle as if it were a golden treas ure. And you may be sure sho still spinds' in deeds of charity, for such a warm little heart as hers oould never be made forgetful by prosperity. the bard.floor herself, rather, than have her brave, that dangerous aunt, to say on tyr who fame fpr nothing to poor peoj had moved, and she‘had no account < any other/ And so Nora rushed away Wayside Gatherings. A repentant* husband at Lancaster, Fa., picked from the floor his left ear, which had been shaved from his head by a sharp butcher-knife in the haods of his wife, and meekly said: “My darling, I would sooner have bought you two new bonnets than have had my confi dence in your temper thus shaken.” A Solauo, California, farmer advertises for a wife in this style : “Money no ob ject. She must be well recommended by responsible parties, and, as a alight guarantee that tho lady is what they rep resent her to be, I shall require the par ties to deposit iu my hands $1,500.” It looks bad to see a dog preceding his master down the street and calmly turn down the ttairs to the first saloon he approaches. It shows there b some thing wrong, something lacking, a de plorable tendency on the part of the dog. A gentleman entered a bachelor’s room, and, loolting round, said : “Very snug—rather too snug—but I suppose they are large enough for a bachelor.” ‘Yes,” said the bachelor; “but I suppose if I had had a better-half, I might bars had better quarters.” . An Irishman, after seeing the numer- s hills and mountain ranges “np west,” exclaimed, “Bodad I never was in a country before where'they had so much land they have to stack it.” , wide w was weeping bitterly for the loss of her husband, and a friend tried to ole her. “No, no,” said she, let me have my cry out, and-then I shan’t care any more about it.” A Missouri woman who applied for a situation as a car driver, being asked if she could manage mules, scornfully re plied , “Of course I can, I have had two husbands.” Thus spoke a Murphy’s sweotheart to him the other night: “If you intend to hug me, dou’t do it suddenly, because the chair you arc sitting on has got a broken leg, and you might get a tum ble.” A Buffalo paper prints the following letter from one of its old and prompt-pay ing patrons: “Please discontinue my ? aper from the time l have paid up to. do not stop the paper because I do not waut it; but to get rid of an intolerable old bore that intrudes himself in my house, regardless of time or circumstan- to sit fur an hour or two, three or four times a week, to read my papers, and who is a thousand times more able to take a dozen papers for himself than I to take one. If the nuisance is stop ped. I shall send for the paper again/’ Every young man is eagerly asking the best way to get on in life. The Bible gives a short answer to the question: “Walk in the way of goodmen, and keep the paths of the righteous.” A great many books of adviee and directions have been written, but here is the gist of them all. A Danbury girl received a porous plaster in a gorgeous envelope bearing a monogram. At ten o’clock that night the owner of the monogram, standing disrobed before his fire, preparatory to applying a remedy to his chest, fainted dead away on drawing from a paper a mass of paper flowers and mottoes. There y®* , no fire in the parlor Sunday evehing. A Beautiful Figure. Life is like a fountain fed by a thou sand streams that perish if one be dried. It is a silver chord twisted with a thou sand strings, that part asunder if anyone be broken. Thoughtless mortals are sur rounded by innumerable dangers, which make it more strange /hat they escape so long, than that they almost all perish suddenly at last. We are encompassed with accidents every day to crush the decaying tene ments we inhabit. The seeds of disease are planted in our constitution by na ture. The earth and atmosphere whence we draw the breath of life are impreg nated with death; health is made to op erate its own destruction. The food that nourishes contains the elements of de cay, the soul that animates it by vivi fying first, tends to wear it ont by its own action; death lurks in ambush along the paths. Notwithstanding this, truth is so probably confirmed by the daily example before our eyes, how little do we soek our friends' good, or how often do we freely forgive those who seek to do us injury. Let us, therefore, seek that grace. Let us humble ourselves before the great Searcher of hearts, and with our own sins and infirmities ever in view, go forth ioto the walks of life, imitating our great Pattern, who even in his dying agonies prayed for hia murderers. Thus, shall we be the chil dren of our Father in heaven, “who sendeth his rain upon the juat and the nnjust, and maketh his son to rise up- ■On the evil aud upon the good.” The Adventures of a Package of Postal CAffbs.—This story of a package of postal cards may seem to read like a romance, but the Springfield (Mass.) Union asserts that it ia literally true: Mr. Springfield is tho postmaster at Tyner, Tennessee, and Mr. Tyner, is the agent of the Post office Depart ment at the postal-card factory aft Springfield, Mass. Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, needing some postal cards, ordered them from the Post Office Department. The order from Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, WM for warded to Mr. Tyner, of Springfield^nd Mr. Tyner, of Springfield, «ent the cards to Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, bat Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, not getting the cards from Mr. Tyner, of Springfield,Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, wrote to Mr. Ty ner, of Springfield, making inquiry re garding the cards ordered to be sent by Mr. Tyner^f Springfield, to Mr. Spring- field, of Tvner; and this letter from Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, to Mr. Tyner, of Springfield, inquiring about tbe cards to be sent to Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, by Mr. Tyner, of Springfield, Mr. Tyner, of Springfield, now keeps to show to his friend, when telling the story of the postal cards ordered bj Mr. Springfield, of Tyner, and sent to Mr. 8pringfield, of Tyner, by Mr. Tyner, of Springfield, and finally received by Mr. Springfield, of Tyner. UST “It is a great pity that you come dangling at my heels, Mr. Nonentity,” said a consequential lady to her adorer; “you remind me of a barometer that ia filled with nothing in the upper story.” “Most amiable of your sex,”said he, “for so flattering a compliment, let me remind you you occupy it entirely.”

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The Weekly Sumter republican. (Americus, Ga.) 18??-1889, April 02, 1875, Image 1