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VOLUME VI.
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sMIL e whenever you can
When things don't go to suit yon,
And the world seems upside down,
p on ’t waste your time in fretting,
Put drive away that frown;
Since life is oft perplexing,
'Tis much the wisest pirn,
To bear all trials bravely,
And smile whenever you can.
Why should you dread to-morrow,
And thus despoil to-day ?
Tor when you trouble borrow
You must expect to pay;
It is a good maxim
Which should be often preached—
Don’t cross the bridge before you
Until the bridge is reached.
You might be spared much sighing
If you would bear iu mind
The thought that good and evil
Are always here combined:
'There must he something wanting,
And though you roll in wealth,
You miss from out your casket
That precious jewel—health.
And though you’re strong and sturdy,
You may have an empty purse—
And earth has many trials
Which I consider worse.
But whether joy or sorrow,
Fill up your mortal span,
’Twill make your pathway brighter
To smile whenever you can.
ROCK A BYE, BABY.~
Rock a bye; iu the tree top,
When the wincWblows the cradle will rock; 1
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall
Down tumbles baby, and cradle, and all.
Rock a bye, baby; the meadows in bloom;
Laugh at the sunbeams that dance in the
room,
Echo the birds with yonr own baby tune,
Coo iu the sunshine and flowers ot June.
Rock a bye, baby; as softly it swings,
Over thy cradle the mother love sings;
Brooding and cooing at even or dawn,
What will it do when the mother is gone ?
Rock a bye, baby; so cloudless the skies,
Blue as the depths of your own laughing
eyes;
Sweet is the lullaby over your nest,
That tenderly sings little baby to rest,
Rock a bye, baby; the blue eyes will dream
Sweetest when mamma’s eyes over them beam;
Never again will the world seem so fair—
Sleep, little baby—no cloud in the air.
Rock a bye, baby; the blue eyes will bum
And ache with ihat your manhood will learn;
Swiftly the years come with sorrow and care,
With burdens the wee dimpled shoulders must
bear.
Rock a bye, baby; there’s coming a day
Whose sorrows a mother’s lips can’t kiss
away;
Days when it’s song will be changed to a
moan;
Crosses that baby must bear all alone.
Rock a bye, baby; the meadow’s iu bloom,
May never the frosts pall the beauty in gloom;
Be thy world evtr bright as to-day it is seen,
Rock a bye, baby; thy cradle is green.
MISCELLANY.
“ PUT YOURSELF IN MY
PLACE.”
‘I cannot wait any longer. I must
have my money, and if you cannot
pay it I must foreclose the mortgage
and sell the place,’ said Mr. Merton.
‘ln that case^’ said Mr. Bishop, ‘it
will, of course, be sold at a great sac
rifice, and after all the struggles I
have made, my family will again be
homeless. It is hard. I only wish
you had to earn your money as I do
mine; you might then know something
of the hard life of a poor man. If you
could, only in imagination, put your
self in my place, I think you would
have a little mercy on me.’
‘lt is useless talking; I extended
this one year, and can do so no long"
er/ replied Mr. Merton, as he turned
to his desk, and continued writing.
'The poor man rose from his seat
and walked sadly out of Mr. Merton’s
office. Ilia last hope was gone. lie
had just recovered from a long illness
which had swallowed up the means
with which he had intended to make
the last payment on his house. True
Mr. Merton had waited one year when
he had failed to me*t the demand,
owing to illness in his family, and he
had felt very much obliged to him for
doing so. This year he had been laid
up lor seven months, during which
time he could earn nothing, and all
his savings were then needed for the
support ol his family. Again he failed
and now he would again be homeless,
and have to beg;n the world anew.
Had heaven forsaken him, and given
him over to the tender mercies of the
wicked ?
Alter he had left the office, Mr.
Merton could not drive away from his
thoughts the remark which the poor
man in his grief gave utterance, ‘‘J
wish you had to earn your money as
I do mine.’
In the midst of a row of figures,
'Put yourself in my place’’ intruded.
Once after it had crossed his mind
he laid down his pen, saying, ‘Well,
I think 1 should find it rattier hard.
I have a mind to drop in there this
afternoon and see how it fares with
his family; that man has aroused my
curiosity.'
About five o’clock he put on a gray
wig and some old cast-off clothes and
walked to the door. Mrs. Bishop, a
pale, weary-looking woman, opened it.
The poor old man requested permission
to enter and rest awhile, saying he
was very tired with his long journey
for he had walked many miles that
day.
Mrs. Bishop cordially invited him
in, and gave him the best seat the
room afforded; she then began make
preparation for tea.
The old gentleman watched her aU
tentively. lie saw there was no elas
ticity in her step, no hope in her
movements, and pity for her began to
steal into his heart. When her hus
band entered, her features relaxed
into a smile, and she forced a cheer
fulness into her manner. The travel
er noted it all, and he was forced to
admire this woman who could assume
a cheerfulness she did not feel for her
husband’s sake. After the table was
prepared, there was nothing on it but
bread and butter and tea. They in
vited the stranger to rat with them,
saying, ‘We have not much to offer
you, but a cup of tea will refresh you
after yom long journey.’
lie accepted their hospitality, and,
as they discussed the frugal meal, led
them, without seeming to do so, to
talk of their affairs.
‘I bought this piece of land,’ said
Mr. Bishop, ‘at a very low price, and
instead of waiting, as I ought to have
done, until I saved the money to build,
I thought 1 would borrow a few hun
dred dollars. The interest oil the
money would not be as much as the
rent I was paying, and 1 would be
saving by it. 1 did not think there
would be any difficulty in paying
back the money; but the first year
my wife and one of my children were
ill, and the expenses left me without
means to pay the debt. Mr. Merton
agreed to wait another year if I would
pay the interest, which I did. This
year I was for seven months unable to
work at my trade and earn anything,
and of course when pay-day comes
round—and that will be very soon—l
shall be unable to meet the demand.’
‘But,’ said the stranger, ‘will not
Mr. Merton wait another year, if you
make all the circumstances known to
him?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Bishop; ‘I saw
him this morning, and he said he must
have the money and should-be obliged
to forclose.’
‘He must be very hard-hearted,’ re
marked the traveler.
‘Not necessarily so,’ replied Mr.
Bishop. ‘The fact is, these rich men
! know nothing of the struggles of the
poor. They are men, just like the
rest of mankind, and I am sure, it
they had but the faintest idea of what
the poor have to pass through, their
hearts and purses would open. You
know it has passed into a proverb—
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 21, 1878.
When a poor man needs assistance,
he should apply to the poor. The
reason is obvious. Only the poor
know the curse of poverty. They
know how heavily it falls, crushing
the heart of man, and, to use my fa
vorite expression, they at once put
themselves in the unfortunate one’s
place, and appreciate difficulties, and
are, therefore,' always ready to render
assistance, as far as they are able. If
Mr. Merton had the least idea what I
and my family had to pass through, I
think he would be willing to wait sev
eral years for his money rather than
distress us.’
With what emotion the stranger
listened, may bo imagined. Anew
world was being opened to him. He
was passing through an experience
that had never been his before. Short
ly after the conclusion of the meal he
arose to take his leave, thanking Mr.
and Mrs. Bishop for their kind hospi
tality. They invited him stay all
night, telling him he was welcome to
what they had.
lie thanked them and said, ‘I will
trespass on your kindness no longer.
I think I can reach the next village
before dark, and bo much farther on
my journey.’
Mr. Merton did not sleep much that
night; he lay awako thinking. He
had received anew revelation. The
poor had always been associated in
his mind with stupidity and ignorance,
and the first poor family he had visited
he had found far in advance in intelli
gent sympathy and real politeness, of
the exquisite and fashionable butter
flies of the day.
The next day a boy called at the
cottage and left a package in a large
blue envelope, addressed to Mr. Bish
p.
Mrs. Bishop was very much alarmed
when she took it, for large blue envel
opes were associated in her mind with
law and lawyers, and she thought
that it boded it no good. She put it
away until her husband came home
from his work, when she handed it to
him.
He opened it in silence, read its
contents, and said fervently, ‘Thank
heaven ! ’
‘What is it, John?’ inquired his
anxious wife.
‘Good new, wife,’ replied John; ‘such
news as I never hoped for or dreamed
of.’
‘What is it—what is it ? ’ Tell me
quick ! I want to hear if it’s aoy
thing good.’
‘Air. Merton has cancelled the mort
gage—released me from the debt both
interest and principal—and says any
time I need further assistance, if I
will let him know, I shall have it.’
‘I am so glad ! It put new life into
me,’ said the now happy wife. ‘But
what could have come over Mr. Mer
ton ? ’
‘I do not know. It seems strange
after the way he talked to me
day morning. 1 will go light over to
Mr. Merton’s and tell him how happy
he lias made us.’
He found Mr. Merton in and ex
pressed his gratitude in glowing
terms.
‘What could have induced you,’ he
asked, ‘to show us so much kindness?’
‘I followed your suggestion,’replied
Mr. Merton, ‘aud put myself in your
place. I expect that it will surprise
you very much to learn that the
strange traveler to whom you showed
so much kindness yesterday was my
self.’
‘lndeed ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Bishop,
‘can that be true ? How did you dis
guise yourself so well ? ’
‘I was not so much disguised after
all; but you could not very readily
associate Mr. Merton the lawyer with
a poor wayfaring man—ha ! l.a 1 ha ! ’
laughed Mr. Mertou.
‘Well, it is a good joke,’ said Mr.
Bishop; ‘good iu more senses than
one. It has terminated very pleasant-,
ly for me.’
‘I was surprise,’ said Mr. Merton,
‘at the broad and liberal views you
expressed of men and their actions
generally. I supp >sed I bad greatly
the advantage over you in means and
education; yet how cramped and nar->
row-minded have been my views be-*
side yours! That wife of yours is an
estimable woman, and that boy of yours
will be an honor to an}’ man. I ttll
you, Bishop,’ said the lawyer, becom
ing animated, ‘you are rich—rich be-*
yond what money c mid make you;
you have treasures that gold will not
buy. I tell you, you owe me no
thanks. Somehow 1 seem to have
lived years since yesterday morning.
What I have learned at your house is
worth more than you owe me, and I
am your debtor yet. Hereafter I shall
take as my motto, ‘put yourself in my
place,’ and try to regulate my actions
by it.’
Make Your Homes Attractive.
[Cor. Southern Cultivator.]
In traveling over the State, and es
pecially over the country districts, one
is astonished to gee so little attention
paid to the agricultural treatment of
the farmers’ homes. Asa general
thing, there is a painful monotony of
style, and an utter disregard paid to
natural advantages that so often make
home attractive and comfortable. It
is not to be wondered at that farmers’
sons are so often discontented, and
leave their homes to lead a city life.
Take the railroad train from any city,
and ride one hundred miles, aud nine
chances out of ten you will not see a
single farm house that has any sort of
attraction in its architecture, nor the
grounds near by ornamented by the
evergreens, grasses, flowers or vines
so easily grown, and which impart to
any place a degree of refinement and
taste that is sure to arrest the eye of
those who travel over our roads for
pleasure, and often searching for a
Southern home.
I have been in many portions of
the State, and I have seen farm-houses
located e ther in the bottom or on the
hill, and I have seen on these
same places some as beautiful
sites as one could ask for, surrounded
with such natural advantages, that it
would afford a study for an artist.
Now why all this disregard for com
fort, for beauty, for convenience?
There is nothing better calculated
to advance the interest or value of a
place, than having its buildings and
surroundings in a complete state of
repair, and nothing so detrimental as
to see the same—house, barn, fences
and outbuildings all dilapidated and
brokeu down, which at once speak of
its owner as a thriftless and unsuccess
ful farmer.
It is not necessary that these attrac
tions and embellishments should be
made by the hand of an expert or ars
tist. A log house made with neat
ness, built on a proper site, with neat
fences, or hedges around the yard,
with vines climbing up the porches
and ivies up the stone chimneys, the
well covered with a rustic frame, to
gether with many other similar things
go to refine the place—all of which
can be executed by any man having a
will and a desire to promote the
growth, interests and attractiveness
of his home.
On the contrary we too often see
farmers’ homes with rail fences in front
partly down, aud likely his barns
close to the road also in front—his im
plements for work all exposed to the
weather, to wear and rust out, instead
of being in a shop or tool house. No
evergreen scarcely to relieve the
glare of the sand or the redness of the
soil, and the grasses or carpets of lawn
are scarcely ever thought of. Now
all these thiugs tend to lower the dig
nity of the grandest calling man can
engage in. Make your homes attrac
tive by keeping up a neatness of style
in afl the surroundings ot the home,
that it may not seem repulsive, but
inviting. Let the flowers and roses
so easily grown, adorn the front yard.
Let your barn and outbuildings be
built in such a style, however plain,
as will compare with the house, and
constructed so that when all are built,
they will show that there is method
in your design.
I>ou’t I Told You So?
One night lust week a jolly old
German farmer rode to Chestnut Hill
from A\ hitemarsh after a physician
for his wife, who wa-* very sick, lie
dismounted from his horse in front of
a saloon just as the boys inside had
began to make merry over the first
keg of beer. lie approached and
looked cautiously around the scene.
Foaming glasses were held high above
the heads of the revellers, as one of
the number proposed a toast appro
priate to the occasion.
The silent watcher licked his lips
and wished his errand had been one
not requiring so much dispatch. He
was turning reluctantly away when
the crowd saw him.
‘Hallo 1’ they shouted, ‘there’s Fritz.
Bring him in.’
lie was laid hold upon and hauled
up to the bar, all the time protesting
‘Poys, I was in a quick hurry. Old
vooman sick like de tuyfal. I vas
come mit der doctor sooner as li<rht
nin’.’
‘Well, you can take some beer
while you're here, and kill two birds
with one stone,’ was the reply.
‘Yaas, I kill von chicken mit a cou
ple of shtones utid der old vooman
die raitout der doctor; I don’t forgot
myself of it. Eh?’
‘Oh, she wont die. You don’t got
beer often, and you’ve got the old wo
man all the time. Fill ’em up again.’
‘Yaas, I got her all der dime, but
exposin she go dado, I don’t got her
any more somedimes. It’s petter to
go mit der doctor seldom light away.’
But he didn’t go. As one glass af
ter another was forced upon him by
the reckless crowd, the errand was
floated further from his vision, until
it was carried out of his mind alto
gether, ami his voice, untinged with
anxiety, joined in the drinking songs
and arose above all other.
Thus he was found by his son, late
that night. The boy grasped him by
the sleeves and said:
‘Fader, come home.’
Fritz turned, and at the sight of his
boy a great fear arose in his mind,
swept away the fumes of his beer, and
brought him to a sense of the situa
tion. In an awe-struck tone he said:
‘Yawcob, how you was comes here?
Vas somedings der matter?’
‘Yaw,’ replied the boy.
‘Veil, shpoke up apout it. Vas der
old vooman—vas your rnudder—is she
dale? I can shtand di m best. Don’t
keep your fader in expenses, } y.
Shpid it oud. Vas ve a couple of or
phanses, Yawcob?’
‘Neiii,’ answered the boy. ‘You
vas anunder. A leetle baby vas coorn
mit der house.’
Fritz was overcome for a moment,
but finally stammered out:
‘Vas dot so? I expose it vas not so
soon already. Veil, veil. Iu der mid
dle of life, ve don’t know vat's to
turn next up. Men exposes. Fill uj)
der glasses!’
The bey ventured to ask the old
man why he had not seen the doctor.
‘Vy did she vant a doctor ? Petter
she tole me so. 1 get him pooty quick.
Nefer mind, I safe more as ten dollar
doctor bill on dut baby. Dot vas a
good child. Fill up der glasses. 1100
ray for dat little buck baby! Ve von’t
go home till yesterday.’
Fritz got home soon, and was in
Chestnut Hill again in a couple of
days after some medicine. The boys
couldn’t get him back again, though
he said to them:
‘You bate 1 tend to my peesness
now.’ —lKennesaiv Gazette.
Professor Goode in a paper read
bdore the American Fish Ouhurists at
New York, shows that the consump
tiou of oysters in the United States
reaches the enormous aggregate ol
fifty millions of bushels annually. The
total value of all other fish taken in
1877 is set down at $75,278,829.
Our ancestors, the monkeys, could
not have been so ignorant after all,
j Mr. Darwiu. They were all educated
1 iu the higher brunches.
mi
Hartford talks of a bachelor show.
Yes, give them a show.
A man with a false set o’ teeth does
not necessarily have a falsetto voice.
‘Boiling liair in a solution of tea vv ill
darken it,’ says an exchange ; but
some people don't like to have their
tea darkened in that way.
.
Said a friend to a bookseller, ‘The
book trade is affected, I suppose, by
the gener 1 depression. What kind
of books find it most ?' ‘Pocket-books, 1
was the reply.
Job bore all sorts of privations, and
yet was patient ; Washington under"
went all the hardships of a long war,
and 3 T et was always cheerful ; but it
utterly crushes the heart of a pretty
young lady if her “bang*' flies out of
order just before she enters the parlor.
‘I want 5 cents’ worth of starch,*
said a little girl to a grocer's clerk.—
‘What do yon want 5 cents worth of
starch for V ‘Why, for 5 cents of
course/ she answered, and the clerk
concluded to attend to his own busi
ness.
A gentleman in England committed
suicide the other day, and left a paper
stating that lie did so because his wife
was a great deal too good for him.—■
That’s why the jury returned a vers
diet of recording their opinion that the
deceased Svas of an unsound stato of
mind/
-
A Firm recently sent a lot of bills
West for collection. The bills came
back, with the result noted against
each name, one being “dead.'’ Three
months after the bill got into anew
lot that was forwarded, and when the
list came back the name was marked
‘still dead.'
A yankee said that Nantucket
horses were celebrated f r their gen
eral worthlessness, imbecility', and mar
velous slowness. lie said a citizen
sold one to a cavalry officer during the
civil war, and warranted him to be a
good war-horse. The soldier came
back afterwards in a towering pas
sion, and said he had been swindled.
As how ? said the Nantucketer.
*\Vhy these's not a bit of go in him J
and yet you warranted him as a good
war-horse. Yes, I did; and he is a
good war-horse; he'd sooner die than
runl
.> — i
The following translation was made
by a Frenchman who professed to
teach languages, and who thought he
was telling a story in really beautiful
English : ‘A lady which was to dine
chid to her servant that she not had
used butter nough. This gild, for to
excuse himselve, was bring a little cat
on the hand, and old that she came to
take him in the crime finishing to eat
the two pounds from butter who re
main. The lady took immediately the
cat whom was put in the balances, it
just weighed that two pound. This is
all the very much well for the butter J
the lady then she said, ‘but where i*
the cat ?’
A timid girl came in and laid the
following poem on our desk, and as
she said it was the first effort of her life
we give it a place :
How dear to my heart is the goat of my child
hood,
\\ hen fond recollection presents him to me;
The beautiful beast which whene’er he was
riled would
Make everything fly from the presence of he.
My mischievous Nan was the frowiest butter
That ever did butt a stone fence till it fell;
He'd see it a-commg—u scream he would
utter.
Then brace his lour legs and go at it pell
mell.
O, how he would buck it ; An iron-bound
bucket,
Ho once tried to buck it, aud died in the
welL
NO. 12.