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VOLUME VI. A MOTHER’S LOSS. Listen! I hear a sobbing Out in the wind and rain. ’Tis the child miss so, crying For her mother's arms again— Frightened alone in the darkness, But calling me all in vain ! My baby, I cannot come to you, The width of your grave across. We know how far oft is heaven When we measure by our loss The sorrowftHPbrrowlul distance, And mark it by such a cross. Oh, darling! my heart is breaking At the thought of you, lying there With the gloom of the grave chill hiding The sunny gold ot your hair, And your cry that I cannot answer Save with my own despair. No, child, I cannot come to you! We are worlds and worlds apart; And yet I can feel you nestling, As ol old, in my empty heart; When I dream of the eyes I loved so Then 1 waken with a start, And think of you out in the darkness, With the rain on your little bed; Oh! if I could feel on my bosom The weight of your little head, And forget it one brief moment, That the child I mbs is dead ! They tell me it is but fancy— You are not making moan— Only the wild wind’s wailing Over your grave’s white stone. They say you are safe and happy With God, by the great white throne. Oh, if I could only believe it! * * * Forgive me, my brain is wild. In ray grief I forget the wsdom Ot God. * * * m y little child, When they told me you were dying I remember that you smiled. Did you see in that solemn moment The beckoning arms of Cl rist ? You are safe with 'he love which always Has fer ir other-loss sufficed. Oh, my little one, mine forever ! Bute in the arms of Christ! Oh, thought as sweet as the kisses Of the child I held so dear 1 My baby is safe in heaven, With nothing of earth to fear; Andf because you are there, my baby, Heaven seems so near !—so near ! MISCELLANY. ONE NIGHT; 08, HETTY’S TWO LOYEES. BY MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS. *Kun dovvn to the madder lot, Hetty, Leo is there hunting partridges, tell him to come right up here ! Mother’s worse, and he must go for a doctor ! Make child f —thar, don’t cry, little gal, cryin' won't mend matters Bor set mother on her feet agin. But the faster you travel, the better.’ Farmer Wilson returned with a gloomy look on his wrinkled face to liis p >st at his wife’s bedside. 'Poor old wife/ he brush ing away the suspicion of a tear, ‘she‘s stood at the helm here for many aday; shc‘s worn herself out, body and soul toiling and slaving for us all ; and now she's down—-and that's all it amounts to.' Hetty closed the oven door, with a bang; deposited the freshly baked cak’* on the .table ; tossi and off her linen work apron ; and seizing her straw hat rush ed out of the door, tying the strings under her - chin as she wc nt. Out at the side gate, over an immense corn field, she bounded on and on—until at last she reached the Tnedder lot,' she caught sight of Leo Holmes rest ing under a tree. She ran to him, flushed and out of breath, Leo, Leo/ *he cried. ‘What's the matter, Miss Hetty?’ he asked, springing quickly ,0 bis feet. ‘Mother !' panted Hetty, 'she's worse, and father says you must go after Dr. Waites at once. Oh, Leo ! v. hat if le should die/ The young She Wimt£. girl buried her face in her hands for a moment. Leo gazed at her with ad miration, in his fierce black eyes. He was a sullen looking man, of perhaps five arid twenty, handsome in a certain way—but, withal, somewhat forbid ding, ‘l'll make haste V he said, turn ing away. ‘Will you go back to the house now—Miss Hetty ?‘ ‘Hetty, what’s the matter ? Any thing wrong at the house V Hetty looked up, to meet the frank face of Reuben Dale, who leaned on his scythe, his forehead glowing with exercise of reaping. They had known each other from childhood, were almost’overs but a coolness had sprung up between them of late—and Leo Holmes had been at the bottom of it; for Reuben was jealous ; it seemed hard that this man—who was a stranger to them, should come between them, and brino -l • 7 o a shadow into their lives. Leo scrowled ominously at the in truder, who leaned on his scythe, and seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘Mother’s worse/ Hetty sobbed, ‘and I'm afraid—afraid,’ she choked back the sobs. ‘I must go back to the house now,’ she added, turning away. ‘Let me go with you, Hetty !’ said Reuben, throwing down his scythe. H*m going 1' cried Leo, savagely, ‘Mr. Wilson wishes me to go fur the doctor/ ‘Which will you choosy Hetty ?’ Reuben's face was very white, it wa> evident that he meant more serious than the question im plied. It was a choice forever and al ways, and she must make it now. Her foolish little heart trembled at the thought—but that same heart had long been Reuben's. She marked the deri sive smile that curled Leo's lip ; but she was an honest, straightforward girl, and she did not hesitate. ‘You can go home wit , me, Reuben!' she said firmly; and with a glad light in his honest blue eyes, Reuben Dale obeyed her. Leo Holmes stood for a moment —a scrowl darkening his face. ‘Curse them !' he muttered, ‘I love that girl—l’d marry her and settle down here, and make the farm worth double what it now turns out—but she's chosen him, the country clod ! She'll never marry him, though—l swear it 1' He strode away in another direc tion, and soon the sound of horse’s hoofs, going like mad—towards the village, proclaimed bis departure for the doctor. Mrs. Wilson did not improve. It seemed a complete breaking down of her worn out system. Like the major ity of farmer's wives, her life had been like that of an over-burdened cart horse, which drags out a drear} 7 exis tence, and failing at last, completely exhausted, dies in the harness. Farmer Wilson saw all of this now—and he registered a mental vow, that if she did but recover, hers should be a hap pier lot. For days—many days, Hetty tend ed her mother with untiring care.— During that time she saw little of Leo; but sometimes she caught his burning black eyes fixed upon her face with a strange expression, that made the blood rush to her heart with undefined terror. Reuben was always kind and attentive ; but the girl felt intuitively that Leo hated him, and she deter mined to watch them both. It was late in the afternoon of a glorious day. The sun was slowly climbing down from the western sky, when Hetty, with a white face and short quick breath, flew out of the house and sought her lover, who was working within easy call. f Oh f Reuben 1' she gasped, ‘l'm afraid mother is going ! Do go over and get Aunt Rlioda— I don’t know what to do/ He caught her slender form in his arms and kissed her smooth red cheeks. ‘l'll be back in an hour or two, dar ling !' he said, ‘keep up your courage till 1 come ! I'll ride Black Dick, and won't be long.’ Weeping the girl moved slowly to- | ward the house ; while Reuben caught! EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1878. Black Dick, hastily saddled him, and was soon out of sight. Hardly had he gone, when from be hind a hedge stepped Leo Holmes. His face was absolutely pal id ; his black eyes glowed with excitement. ‘l've got him now, curse him !’ he muttered, ‘it's only a matter of a couple of hours, and all will be settled be tween him and me/ He slunk away, like the cowardly villain he was, and soon disappeared. An hour passed, it seemed like an age to poor Hetty. Aunt Rhoda lived some five miles distant ; she would come at once, and Hetty sitting with her father beside the sick bed, kept all her senses on the alert, listening for their arrival Two hour slipped away. Mrs. Wil son had fallen asleep ; or was it the stupor, which sometimes precedes dissolution? Hetty felt that she would soon be bereft of her kind old mother. And, in that lone farm house, away from any other habitation, with no fe rn le near her, save the maid of all work, in the kitchen ; and the near ct of bring motherless staring her in the face, it w s a terrible pros pect. Three h ours dragged by, and still Reuben came not. What could the matter be ? Something had sure ly happened. Quick as thought, there darted into her mind, the remembrance of Leo Holmes' hatred for her lover. Hetty could keep still no longer. She arose and laid her hand on her father’s arm, as she sat by the sick bed. ‘Father!' she whispered, ‘can you stay with mother for a few moments ? Betsy is in the kitchen if you need anything. I believe I'll run down to the south gate to see if there is any sign of their coming/ ‘Very well, daughter ; your mother is sleeping now, and I don't need you. But don’t stay long. lie kissed her tenderly as he spoke. Hetty was a good daughter and his only child, and to him the very ‘apple of his eye/ Hetty hurried from the room. Paus ing to throw a light shawl about her, she hastened out, down the steps of the wide piazza, and on to the outer gates. Hark, the sound of horse’s hoofs. ‘Thank God,' said Hetty. She opens ed the wide gates, and awaited the entrance of the rider. ‘llow f ast he comes/ she thought. The night was by no means a dark one, but clear and starry ; everything was plainly visible to her as she strain ed her anxious eyes down the long country road, which stretched out like a huge black serpent, straight to the distant village. A clock in the house chimed nine ; a cricket chirped in the grass at her feet; no other sounds dis turbed the stillness, save the monoto nous tramp, tramp of the horse‘s feet, flying homeward. ‘Oh, heavens, he is alone 1' cried Hetty, as a single horse bounded for ward through the open gates ‘lt's Black Dick 1’ she gasped. ‘Black Dick—and Reuben rode him. My God, where is my darling now ?' In a second her plans were laid.— This girl came of stern, old Puritan stock, and she had fair share of what the Yankees call ‘grit/ She led the panting animal to the stable, and has tened to the stall where her own horse —Bess—was kept. It was then that she perceived through the clear star light that entered the building, that the fleetest horse on the place, with the exception of Black Dick, was miss ing from his stall. She had not seen Leo since suppei. Something was wrong. She slipped B ! ack Dick’s bridle on Bess, and without waiting for a saddle she sprang • n the bor.-e's back, and dashed off like the winds in the direc tion of Aunt Rhode's. On, on, she flew, with wild eyes seaiching the road before her, in quest of—what ? All at once—just when she had ar rived within sight of the cld farm house, Bess gave a sudden and sprang aside from the road. Hetty glanced downward. What was that lying on the green grass, with upturn- ed face upon which the starlight gleamed ? She sprang from her horse and stooped above the prostrate form. Prone upon his back by the road side he lay—her lover. Was he dead?— Hetty did not scream ; ghe made no noise ; she slipped Bess’ bridle over a young sappling growing near, and tore open Reuben's shirt. It was thickly stained with blood. She laid her hand upon his heart ; it beat very faintly. TWen springing ou her horse again, she dkshed off to the red farm-house. She dismounted and knocked loudly at the door. She received no response. In vain she beat the panels and called Aunt Rhoda's name. No cheery voiee answered her. At last she knew that there was no one here ; and almost despairing, she retraced her steps to her lover's side. She paused, however at the well, and finding a huge gourd suspended at its side, she filled it with clear, cold water, and bore it with her to the unconscious man. She exam ined his injuries as well as she could, discovering at last a deep wound in the region of the heart. A few inches higher, and it would have been imme diately fatal. She shuddered with sickening horror ; and then summon ing all her courage, she bound her handkerchief about it as well as she could. Then she bathed his forehead, lifting his head upon her knee, and chafed his cold hands until at last he opened his eyes. ‘Reubeiq Reuben—look at me— can’t you see me ?’ The starlight was growing dim now, out he turned his face towards hers. 'You—Hetty V be murmured feebly; ‘why, how came you here ?’ ‘I found you/ she sobbed, burying her face on his shoulders as he rested in her arms ‘Tell me who did it/ ‘Leo Holmes/ gasped Reuben faint ly ; ‘I found no one at your aunt's and —he spoke slowly and with difficulty— ‘l then started to return. Leo rode up on the rode—and seizing my bridle— stabbed me—iu the back. Where is Black Dick V ‘He came home. That was how I know that something was wrong— though I felt uneasy all the time.— Oh, Reuben how shall I ever get you home ? You are not able to ride Bess ?' He groaned and shook his head. ‘We’ll have to stay here till morn ing/ said Hetty decisively. ‘There’ll surely be somebody passing who will take you home/ She threw her shawl about bis shoulders and bathed his head again. She feared with a feeling of horror, a return to unconsciousness. And there she sat the livelong night. Just as the first streaks of dawn began to red den the east, the slow, lumbering of a wagon fell on their ears. A few words sufficed to explain her strange position. The driver lifted the young m n, with some into the wagon. Hettie mounted Bess, and so they soon ar rived at farmer Wilson's. She found her father in consterna tion at her unexplained absence. She found her mother still alive ; and what was more, there was hope of her ulti mate recovery, since rest was really all she needed—that rest whiich so few hard-workihg farmer s wives attain this side of the grave. Reuben did not /lie —thanks to a strong constitution and Hetty’s care ful nursing. Of course they were soon married, and mother Wilson was able to sit in a large arm-chair and witness the ceremony. So there was great re joicing on the old farm, for the two wonderfully snatched from the jaws of death. Hetty took charge of the household henceforth, and life at farmer Wilson's grew very pleasant and cheerful. Leo Ho mes was s**en no more, and surely ii’ 'body regretted fiim. But Hetty, though she lived to be an old woman, never forgot the adventures of one night.—\Sunny South. Sentimental youth—My dear girl, will you share my lot for lifel Practical gal—How many acres is your lot? Farmers’ Boys. Farmers are frequently heard to complain that their sons leave the farm for other occupations. Coutinually, the brightest, most intelligent son, the one to whom the old gentleman would like to bequeath his farm, with the hope that for at least one more gene ration, stranger's hands shall not gath er its sheaves, nor garner its grain, is taken with a notion that he must go to town; lie must measure calico or sit in an empty office and wait for the cli nts or patients who, perchance, may never come. In fact, (our out of every five boys raised on a farm are eager to leave the old homestead and become one of the toilers in overcrowded towns or cities. Farmers, of all others, most deeply lament this, and yet we think that they, themselves , help to make it so. There is too much ot the ‘good enough for farmers' at home (or the boys They would like to be among and one of the people for whom such things are not good enough. Farmers are careless as to how their boys dress for Sunday, as it is termed. They do not look to it that when their hoys go out into the world that they should be neatly and taste fully arrayed. They are not careful to have their homes adorned with books and papers and their children learned to appreciate them; and farmers' homes of all others most need these things. They don £ t think it worth while that vines should twine around the verandah, flowers bloom in the yard or pictures hang upon the walls. Peo pie seldom come except the neighbors and it don't matter about that. No need to have music and songs; they're not party folks. And yet for these very things are the boys anxious to leave the farm. For no one will deny that these things help to refine and ennoble us, help us to more self-respect and make us feel like life is worth living and not bestowed upon us as an inevitable evil that we must bear as best we may. And then farmers are careless about teaching their children the graces and annuities of society. They don't seem to think these things become his work', ing clothes. They tell them something about dress is not the man, instead of teaching him to be a man, yea, a gen tleman, at the plow or in the hayfield, as well as behind the desk or counter, and that the courtesies that mark the gentleman at the one place mark him at the other. The boys, when they grow up large enough to mingle with the world, miss these things solely, and attribute the lack of them, not without cause, to the fact that they are farmers 1 sons. If farmers would make their homes more pleasant, make the long evenings times of something besides weariness, the boys would not be so ready to leave them for town. For, I cannot believe that it is al together the wish to mingle in the endless toil and endeavor ol the busy town that makes them leave; but that there is, mingled with it, the desire to be something more than they are raised to feeling that the- are; the earnest desire, indeed, that they may bear without abuse the grand old name of ‘Gentleman/ Johnny’s Composition on the Sheriff. A man wich the sherif of a jail his prisners kept a gittin out nites steelin hens cos the jail wasn’t strong enough for to hold em inside. So the me said, the man did: ‘lie put a stop to that little game, my hartysP and he had another cote of paint put on the jail But the artist he had put some salt in the paint, aDd some cows come a long and licked the paint ol oflf and then the prisners got out a other time and steeled more hens When the sheriff he seen wot they had done he was so angry he said: 'Tois ain’t no place for theefs, you bet; so you fellers has got to either behave your seifs or lite out, and rustle round for your hash the best way you can/ Even a barrel hoop turns when trod upon. Too many peas in the broth —"A pick-pocket picking a pickpocket’s pocket.' 4 ♦. A communication to this paper be-* gius, “ I had no idea,' 1 etc. The rest of the communication proves it. - ■ . A wit assigned as a reason why so few borrowed books were returned, that it was muoh easier to retain the books thau their contents. Episode in a political convention at Titusville, Pa. : The chairman—The chair will not dispute the point with Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter—The chair had better not, unless ho takes his coat off/ ‘This is meat and drink,* said the sailor, who sat on the gunwale sipping his grog, following his remark by tumbling backward in the water.— (Aye, and there's washing and lodgs ing* said his messmate. The question ‘why printers did not succeed as well as brewers,* was an swered thus: Because printers work for the head and brewers for the stom ach, and where twenty men have stom achs, but one has brains. G’m ashamed of the age in which we live/ said a Lowell maiden ot 38. ‘You may be ashamed of 3 T our’s, but I'm not of m ne,' replied a 19-year old companion. And it wasn't much ol a nose that went up, either. — [Lowell Journal. The editor of the Worcester Press has a pocket for his gold and one for his silver. That was the policy wo adopted when we commenced the printing business. Those pockets are just as good to-day as they ever were, hut we have worn out a half dozen pairs of pantaloons. Bill—l say, Mary, run and ask Jule to come and play with us. Mary—You know, Bill, mother says you ain’t to call him Jule; his name is Jul-ius. Bill—Well, what does she call mo Bill for, then? I sha'n't call him Jul ius until she calls me Bili-ious. A picture of human agony—A bash ful young man who climbs out of the upper berth in a sleeping-car, at what he supposes to be midnight, to get a drink of water, and when he steps down in the aisle is horrified to see it is about 9 a. m., and everybody in the is up and looking at him pleasant* ly. Beauty—Still a bachelor, count; why do you not marry ? Count—Veil, it is not zat I am dis inclinationed: but your American mees sue is so beautiful, and ven I see a pretty face I tie one knot in ray neck pocket-handketchief, and ven I see ze next I tie anozer, and at ze last, ven I shall to marry, it is all knot and no vile I ‘Ten dollars fine for riding or drivs ing over this bridge faster than a walk/ ‘What does that mean?' asked a little Indianapolis boy, who was riding with his father. Father explains: ‘if we whip up and go fast the police will stop us and take us to tbs Mayor, and he will not let us go till we pay $lO/ Silence in the carriage. Meditat* ing boy speaks: ‘Papa, if it weren't for the police mans and God, what lots of fun we could have, couldn’t we?' NO. 15.