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VOLUME YL [UY BEQUEST.] Tin: SOCK THAT BABY WORE Read before the Mississippi Press Convention at Kosciusko, June 2 d, 1675, by Emmett L. lioss. Ilud I the gilt that Homer had—could tuue my harp at will, I’d bid my sluggish muse awake to cliaim you with its trill. Had I the powers your Speaker has, our loved State’s gifted sou, I’d use them all iu lavish store to tuue a harp uustruug. Could I command the beauteous words your Wei ome has employed, So kind, so fittingly expressed by lovely Anna Boyd, I’d bid my muse’s spirit write upon your mem ory’s scroll The gratitude that penetrates and stirs the priub r’s soul. Hut I have not such gift as these; though wish ing all the while For mystic aid, these moments to beguile. So I shall be content in this, to smg in simple lines, And ask indulgence for my lack of numbers, figures, rhymes. Before a crackling fire’s blaze a matron drew tier chair, And turned the kettle from the crane that sang its evening air* Responsive to the good dame’s will, who wait ed all alone The sound of distant rolling wheels that brought her husband borne. A moment more the great yard gate swung wide io John and team, Aud soon his face popped iu the door, with happy smile ugleam. He drew his old wife to his heart, his bride of long ago, Atyd kissed her cheeks of cherry red, her brow so like the snow, Forgetting Time had left its trace and made its furrow' there, Nor knew that raven locks and curls had turned to silver hair. To him it was enough to know her heart beat just as true As it had done back forty years when first they ’g, n to woo, He led her to her iow-backed chair, and drew his by ber side, Atid told her all the news in town—the latest de ith an i bride. How ’Squire Dyke, from “rheumatiz,” had taken to his bed; llow Dolly Dili had caught a beau, aud very soon would wed; How Sarah Smith and Polly Green, and lots of other “wimmin,” Wore flaming feathers in their hats and piled on ribbon “trimmin’.” Iu fact, how' all the girls put on their hi-ta-lu tin ways, And Wore their dresses all hitched up with patent straps aud stays. And bow their precious little cheeks were smeared with paints aud dyes, And how they wore their hair all crimped, or pulled down o’er their eyes. And how they sang their opera tunes, aud banged piano keys As if they owed the thing a grudge, aud want ed to appease Their wrath by pulling oft its hair or scratch ing out its eyes! Until the “critter” fairly groaned beneath a weight of sighs. Aud how T the boys put on the swell, and wore their nobby clothes, But where they get their money irom, Old Harry only knows; Aud how they stand upon the streets ana twirl their little canes And twEt the down upon their lips with most exquisite pains, Aud how they talk of blooded stock, horses aud hogs in turn, And how they mix their talk with drinks, and all took sugar m their’n. How times were tight aud mouey scarce, and growing worse each day; JJovv many merchants had “bust up” ’cause people would not pay. How meat had “riz” and cotton “fell,” how taxes had grown bigger; How black the white folks all had got, how white had grown the nigger. And how the State was iu a mess—its little credit gone, And how its bonds were scarcely worth the paper printed on. How Congressmen and Senators had all learn ed how to steal, How Grant had stocked the cards on us and claimed ihe righi to deal To us such hands as he could beat, no matter how we played, Because he held for winning card a knave who “wa’n’t afraid.” In all this time the good old wife kept busy as a bee Iu getting tor her dear old man his meal o’ toast and tea; And as he chatted, iaughed and ate, she drew beside her chair A basket mil of half-worn socks, and with the teuderest care Began the work of darning up each worn out toe and heel, Till John should finish out his talk and eat his evening meaL This done, she set the things arght and gave the fire a poke, While he filled up his corn-cob pipe and fixed himselt to smoke; Again she took the work in hand and searched the basket o’er, While he had fallen oil to sleep and now be gan to snore. Among the pile of socks that lay about Lev! here and there, ttljf fprnegl She spied a tiny little one her baby used to wear. I-iong years hart passed since last she saw this precious little thing; It had not been on baby’s foot for thirty years last spring. But oh, the memories that it brought of sad ness and < f joy; Oh, how it called up in her mind her blue eyed baby boy— lhe toils, the pains, the anxious cares that she had ’round him thro vn— How watched him through Lis boyhood’s years until a man he’d grown— How her fond heart, his lather’s, too, had cen tred all in hitn— How kind, how gentle, in return that boy to to them hud been. How proud he looked that April morn in eighteen sixty-one; Ihey saw him with his gray suit on, with knapsack and with gun. They never saw him after that; the day he went away, As long as country needs an arm, he said, I mean to fctay, One day they got a letter from his captain, and it said, In the tight before Atlanta he was numbered with the dead, And on the crimson hillside they had laid his form away, W ith a score ot other heroes, from ranks of blue and gray. No useless coffin held his form; his blanket was his shroud; The twinkling stars watched o’er his gra\e from skies without a cloud, As if in joyous welcome to another spirit born Unto the glorious Prince of Peace from battle’s smoke and storm. Apd here the mother’s heart strings loosed in bursts of sobs and cries That drove the heavy slumbers from the old man’s drowsy eyes. He crossed the room to where she sat and kuelt beside her chair, •Just as their boy had years ago to lisp his evening prayer. She told him of the little sock she’d found upon the floor, The many memories that it brought back from the days of yore. Ho said to her, dear wife, grieve not: in yon der far eft skies There is a fountain at whose brink all pain and sorrow dies; And high upon a pearly throne Jehovah, King ot Kings, Dispenses to the sous of men from out its crystal springs The heating drops in amplitude, while angel voices fill The gladsome air with songs of love; Peace, troubled soul, be still. He raised liis face to gaze iu hers. Her eyes could ope no more, While to heart she pressed the sock, the sock that baby wore. Next day the friends and neighbors came aud bore ber form away, And laid it’neath the churchyard mold—gave back the clay to clay. That night the old man had a dream; he thought tile angels came And bore his old and shattered form up into God’s domain; And as they' passed the golden gates, there on the pearly floor, He saw the sock, the little sock, the sock that baby wore. And just beyond, at Jesus’ feet, there stood his wale and child, And joined their songs with seraph hosts, while God and angels smiled. Friends, thus it is that little things make up of life the sum, This little sock is but a type that into use has come; Hot that it is so much itself, but that it bears a part In this sad story I have told, this story of the heart. Tis so with types that printers set;—as single type they’re small, But once iu lines aud paragraphs, at Inspira tion’s call, They move a heart to smiles and tears, and point a moral where All moral seemed but sentiment as hollow as the air. Yet, like the socks, the types get worn, and like them thrown away; But then the good that they have done should live with us alway. So may the types that write our lives be cher ished all the more, I hat their impress may reach our hearts like THE SOCK THAT BABX WORE. THE BELLE'S ABDUCTION, OR the exiled criminal. BY MAJOR E F. GRANT. CHAPTER I. THE HUT ON TIIE COAST. Towards the close of an extremely sultry day on the southeastern coast of Africa, a strange event was trans piring. A singular-lo king human being was standing under a giant tree, toy ing carelessly, as it seemed with the coil ol a stout lariat. lie appeared : to be expecting the approach of game, for be glanced anxiously through the poor foliage that stretched from his right. De was half savagely clad, strange-looking knives # and pistols pro truded from his belt, and his gun look ed like a dangerous weapon. His face was swarthy his limbs strong and active, his eyes dark and full of low cunning. All at once a scries of noises far to EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 28, IS7B. the right made him uncoil the lariat, and his eyes flashed. A troop of ze bras was approaching, as the sounds plainly indicated. Stepping from the shadow of the tree in order to give iiis strong arms play, the man kept his eye fixed on the wild animals that wero nearing him at a break-neck gal lop, clos _ly pursued by two wolfish looking dogs. The thunder of hoofs seemed to shake the earth, the air resounded with the mingled cries of dog and bra. It was a thrilling sight, as the beautiful animals with heads erect, dashed on, and ever an anon aimed fin •ious kmks at their panting pursuers. Ti le man selected one of the finest members of the band, and with a pre cision that stamped him no novice in the art, the noose dropped over the striped neck. The zebra, brought suddenly to a stop, made desperate attempts to tree itself ; but the victor had passed his lariat around the tree, and the prize was securely held. On, still on rush ed the remainder of the tro<’p, and their tramping were soon lost in the distance* At last the captured beast lay on the ground exhausted, and the swartl y man, alter making his rope secure, turned Irom the spot. He seemed elated with his victory, and chuckled to himself while walking away between the two fierce-Boking dogs. Nothing appeared to dampen his spirit, and as he reached the coast and looked far seaward, he exclaimed : ‘No sail ! I wish a ship would never put in here ! This is the land for me. Here no officers of the law live to hunt a fellow man down—here I can breathe the pure a r with nothing to fear and hate After a good long walk he entered a substantial though roughly-built hut and the dogs threw themselves down before the door. The structure looked like the labor of one man, as indeed it was. It was built of such timber as the tropical coast afforded, and the roof was covered with a profusion of gigantic palm-leaves. The interior of the singular abode was not very prepossessing. The ceiling was low and dark, and the few articles which the single apartment contained consisted of several stools, a rough table and a cot. ‘I want to end my days here,’ the man said, surveying his home with a sense of gratification. ‘1 sincerely trust that no American vessel will ev er sail into the harbor. They know that l have sailed from New York ; but they don't know where I am/ He talked like a criminal, and his eyes were those of a bad man ; but he did not appear a hardened wretch.— He set about preparing supper, after having communed with himself ns above. The cuisine was not elegant, but it included many of the delicacies to be found on the delightful African coast. He partook in silence, and with an appetite sharpened perhaps by a wearisome hunt. While he en joyed Ins evening repast in the (little' hut, a young man in New York was reading the following advertisement to a fashionably dressed gent email of his own age; ‘ l Ten Thousand Dollars Reward ! Hie undersigned will pay ten thousand dollars for the apprehension of one Bolivar Box, who is supposed to have left the City of N ew York between the 10th and 26th of April. Said Box is a dark-complexioned man, with j*t* black eyes, long, dark hair, and stout - limbcd. As he has been a sailor, it is probable that he may have shipped.— He is wanted that he maybe punished for his crimes, as he is supposed to be concerned in the recent mysterious dis appearance of Miss llecei Bloomfield. Any information that may lead to bis apprehension will be liberally paid for Edgar McCann. No. —, Broadway. Second floor. ‘lt hasn't caught him yet V young McCann’s companion said, when the last words of the advertisement had been read. ‘No ; and what I fear will avail me nothing.’ ‘But, after all, Edgar, may you not be hunting the wrong man ?' ‘What ! the wrong man ? Do you suspicion— ’ ‘I suspicion nothing,' was the re ply. ‘Then what do you mean when you talk about the wrong man V ‘This Bolivar Box never was Miss Recei's lover, I believe ?' ‘Bless you, no. Why I thought he was tlie last man upon whom the girl would sinile. He was homely, stoop shouldered, and no fit mate for an American woman. No, sir, he is not the wrong man.' ‘Then what had he against the young lady ?’ ‘1 cannot say.' ‘Could he have been hired ?’ ‘I never thought he could. People in the vicinity of his cobbling shop were won't to say that Bolivar Box was as honest as he was ugly and mis happen. Ilis action mystifies me.' ‘Then I suppose I shall have to give it up,' was the response. ‘I hope that Miss Recci will return unharmed, for I fear Bolivar Box will prove too sharp f>r you. He will see that no person secures an opportunity to catch your liberal reward. Edgar McCann did not reply for a moment. ‘lt is a deep plot,' lie said at length. ‘I fear we cannot unravel the mystery. I sent for you to help me, as yon have been a detective. Miss Bloomfield has been spirited off, hut by whom ? I am confident that this Bolivar Box is the active person in the affair, but he may have had abettors.' 'My opinion is that lie had ’ the young man's companion said. ‘While we hunt for them, we should not for get this Mr. Box.' The foregoing conversation took place in the counting-room of one of the largest business houses of New York. The strange disappearance of Recei Bloomfield, one of the handsomest young women of the city, still re mained the top’e of convers ition in certain circles. She was the betrothed ot Edgar McCann, the young mei> chant, and at the time of her disap pearance, slie stood in the very shad ow of the a tar. Miss Bloomfield had been the victim of a clever but well-laid scheme. One evening a carriage, purporting to be her lover’s, halted before her home, and the driver handed her a message purporting to come from Mrs. McCann, the merchant’s mother. Tbe young lady was requested to hasten to the McCann home, as her betrothed was declared to be very low. Suspecting nothing, Recei hastened t> comply, and was driven rapidly away. It was the last seen of her, for days had lengthened into weeks, and no tidings concerning her true situation had been returned. The driver was believed to have been Bolivar Box, the shoemaker, and whose shop had not been open since the night of the dastardly*deed. This is the story of Miss Recei Bloomfield's disappearance in brief. Now let us return to the inhabitant of the hut on the Naval coast, fir he is no less person than the badiy want* < and Bolivar Box. We left him at supper. He finished the repast, and passed from the hut. The wind was blowing strongly from the sea, and betokened a storm on the waters. The night was settling down on the exile’s home, and his dogs were seeking their rest, when a strange cry came from the sea. Bolivar Box started and listened with all his might. A repetition of the cry startled the wolfish dogs. ‘Help ! nelp ! or I shall drown !’ The next distant B livar was bound ing lowatd the sea. CHAPTER 11. *A MAN FOR a' THAT.' The waves were already high when Bolivar Box reached tne shore, but he launched a boat which /lanced on the foam-tipped waves and pulled j away. No star appeared to show ihe man the way through the waters, and while he rowed hither and thither through the gloom, he listened for the cry that had aroused him to daring exertion. \ At last he shouted at the top of his voice. It penetrated the night like the tones of a speaking trumpet, and floated far to sea. But no cry respond ed, and the would-be rescuer was about to return to the shore. He had per fected his resolve, when something struck his boat. Dropping an oar he seized the object, which appeared tc be empty. ‘lt has been capsized,’ said Bolivar Box, ‘but I will take it ashore, as it may prove of service to me in the fu ture/ The next moment he was pulling shoreward with the captured boat fol lowing in his wake, and at last drew up with an exclamation of satisfac* tion. But what was his consternation when he discovered a female form ly ing prone in the bottom of the craft which he had wrenched from the grasp of the sea? lie rubbed his eyes as if to assure himself th it he was not dreaming, then bore the insensible he" ing to his hut, where with the help of a candle he gazed upon her features. They were pale and beautiful. Her fragile figure was arrayed in spotless white, and her rich hair was bound with bands of beaten gold. In short, she looked like a bride to Bolivar Box, who had seen many biides in the great city from which he was a hunted ex ile. But strangest of all, he started vios lently when lie had gazed for a mo ment upon the white face that lay up turned to the light of his candle. He looked wildly about him, and then permitted his eyes to fall again to the unconscious one. ‘I had not expected to gee her again,’ he said, like a criminal. ‘I wond r how she came to find me here. lie said that she should never recognize me ; but here she is in a stupor from which she is waking as fast as she can. My heart ! this is a pretty go. But there is a way to get rid of her forev er ! and as the speaker's eyes flashed lie laid his hands upon the waif from the sea. ‘No, I dare not do it 1' he said shrinking back at the touch. ‘She’s too pure and sweet for Bolivar Box. I've wronged her enough already, heaven kuow, and I ought to be thinking of reparation.' The last word was still quivering his lips, when the eyes of the sleeper opened and fell upon his dark and guilty face. ‘Where am IV she cried. 'I remem ber fore and marriage, the boat and the storm. Did they succeed ? Tell me ! am I Horace Ware's wife?' ‘No, thank heaven,' said Bolivar Box. ‘At least I hope you are not, gentle lady.' ‘Then I am content V wag the re ply, and the eyes closed as if to shut from sight an unpleasant scene. 'But I am not on the ship now V ‘lndeed you are not. This is the home of Bolivar Box/ ‘What V ‘I live here, rnv lady. You are Recei Bloomfield, and 1 am— 9 ‘Bolivar Box V ‘Bolivar Box, at your service/ an swered the quaint man with a smile. ‘Do not fear me now. I rejoice that I have been able to save your life Do you know in what part of the world 1 found you adrift on the ocean? ‘I do not/ ‘This is the southeastern coast of Africa. As well as I know I am the sole tenant of this part of the woild.— They are hunting me in America ; but I think they ate far from the right path. I exiled myself. I hate the crowded cities, fur in one of them I committed a ciime—l left my cobbler's bench to do a villain’s bidding, for his gold/ ‘I know it/ and the eyes of Recei Bloomfield fell pityingly upon Bolivar Box. ‘Let rne tell 3*oll what has hap- 1 penod to me s no 1 we parted c impntiy. \ I never knew until I found myself in the hands of Horace Ware that I was loved by two men. lie knew of my betrothal, and hoped to make me his wife at all events. I was conveyed to a vessel in the harbor of New York one night several weeks after my ab duction, and sailed on the following d;iy. Once at te 1, Horace Ware ap peared and renewed his • protestations of love. Ho grew excited when ho met with a firm refusal, and refused to restore me to my friends and reld tives. •, Our voyage was long and tire some. I did not know whither we were bound. At last he determined to suc ceed. I found assistance in an old sailor, and pretended to accede to his importunate demands for I knew that he had bought the captain over to his designs, and intended to force a mar riage. ‘The hour came but I did not ap pear at the obnoxious altar. With the assistance of the sad or I managed to escape to the boat in which you found me, and we pushed from the vessel. But the wind struck us and careened the boat. My companion was swept away, and I lifted my fee'* b!e voice for help/ ‘And I heard you !’ cried the exile with joy. ‘I thank fortune that I have been able to save your life. lie will not think of looking for you on a coast which is supposed to be uninhabited. Now listen to me, Miss ltecei Blooms field, I am not going to be an exile any longer/ The young girl's flashed with exul tation. ‘levant to avenge myself. He drew me from my bench with a golden hook/ ‘Yes/ exclaimed Rccei. ‘Bolivar Box, if you help me to my friends, which would be the grandest revenge for you in the world, you shall not need to cobble the remainder ol your life. But I am worth ten thousand dol lars now. 'Mr. Edgar McCann thinks enough of me to offer that sum for my apprehension/ Tie thinks you will disclose my whereabouts/ the girl said smiling. ‘I fancy I could/ Half an hour later the belle of the avenue was sleeping quietly in the ex ile’s humble hut, and he was down on the beach. All through the night he worked, while Recei dreamed of the home she had not seen for many a weary day. The morning revealed the labors of Bolivar Box. Several tall signal poles stood along the shore, and he was straining his eyes to see if a sail was in sight. The very man who, a few hours before, was hoping that no ship would ever disturb his retreat, wks hoping and praying for a sail. At last a sail caused hirn to shout for joy, but alas ! it went by, and ans other night settled down upon the sea and land. Recei Bloomfield held out better than Bolivar Box. She felt that deliv erance would corne, as she had so mi raculously been saved from the sea, while the heart of the impatient mail sank within him. It was getting late one evening several months after the events nar rated above when three persons cons fronted a well dressed man, wdio stood in one of the reception rooms of a well known hotel. ‘Mr. Horace Ware, we want you/ said one of the trio, who looked like an officer of the law. The lace of the person addressed turned slightly pale. ‘May 1 enquire into the cause of this V he asktd. ‘Certainly. Miss Recei Bloomfield has returned, and Bolivar Box Las turned state's evidence. The mai/s face grew suddenly pale. ‘Returned ?—state‘s evidence V he gasped. He was taken into custody, and the law sent hirn to prison. Bolivar Box was happy to escape with but a reprimand, as he had turn mi against the chief criminal, and Ed gar McCann, believing him an honest man at heart, took him into his enis ploy. When the city was prepared to hear of it, Reeei‘s wedding took place, and siie at last found herself a happy bride in the home trom which a scheming lover bad torn her. Bolivar Box‘s repentance has been sincere. He is trying to forget his one error, and let us hope that he will suc c m and. NO. 13.