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VOLUME VI.
si# %/U t^p
• *
TO-MOIUtOVV.
BY LOUISE MALCOLM BTENTON.
WLat blessings have we not in store,
That will be here—to-morrow?
Of wealth and health, and love and lorof
All surely ottrs—to-morrow.
The Winter’s storms, that chill to-day
\v 11 drift away—• to-irorrow.
And old King Sol’s most cheering ray,
Will brighten each to-morrow.
The phantom Fame and Fortune, too—
W ill nt elude -to-morrow ;
The lover’s lips that softly sue,
Will press our own—to-morrow.
The child that climbs our knees to-day,
A man may bo—to-morrow ;
The debt to-day we cannot pay
May cancelled be—to-morrow.
The friends we love, who distant rove,
May homeward turn—to-morrow;
The thunder clouds, that loom above,
May rainbows greet —to-morrow.
The letter that we miss to-day,
The posts may bring—to-morrow;
The fate that sheds no cheering ray,
May lenient prove—to-morrow.
The weary head, so full of pain,
May rest in peace—to-morrow;
The buds that blossom along the lane,
May roses be—to-morrow.
Why Bless Her, Let Her Go,
Some time ago I fell in lovo
With pretty Mary June,
Ami I hope that by and by
She’d love me back again,
Alts! my hopes a-davvning bright,
Were till at once made dim;
She saw a chap, I don’t know where,
And she fell in love with him.
Next time I went—(now how it was
I don’t pretend to say)—
but when my chair moved up to hers,
Why hers would move away.
Before 1 always got a kiss
(I own with some small fuss)
But now, forsooth, for love or fun
’Tis non-coine-at-a-buss.
Well, there wo sat, and when we spoke,
Our conversation dwelt
On everything beneath the sun
Fxct pt what most we felt.
Enjoying this delightful mood,
Who then should just step iu
But he. of all the world whom I
Had rather see than him.
And he could sit down by her side
And she could —all the while
He pressed her hand within his cwn—
Upon him sweetly smile;
And she could pluck a rose him,
Ho tresh and bright and red,
And gave me one which, hours before
Was shrunk and pale and dead.
And she could freely, gladly sing
The songs he did request :
r i he ones I askid were just the ones
She always did detest.
1 rose to leave—slic’d I>e so glad
To have rue longer stay !
No doubt of it! No doubt they wept
To see me go away !
I sat me down—l thought profound—■
This maxim wise I drew :
Us easier tar to like a girl
than make a girl like you.
But alter all, I don’t believe
My heart will break with woe ;
It she’s a mind to love the chap,
W hy bless her, let her go !
MISCELLANY.
Valley forge.
A Legend of the Revolutionary War.
Ui-klen away then 1 in a deep glen,
n °f many miles from Valley F< rge, a
T iai nt old farm house rose darkly over
11 'vasto of snow. It was a cold, dark
winter night, and the snow began to
ki l—when from the broad fireplace of
l '“- °ll farm house the cheerful blaze
o: massive logs flashed around a wide
ail( l spacious room.
1 \vo persons sat by the fire, a father
an I a cliiid. The father, who sits yon-
r > with a soldier’s belt thrown over
*‘' 8 (armor's dress is a man of some 50
Hmi’.s, his t .y es blood-siiot ids hair
Ringed to an untimely gray, his face
"Tinkled and hollowed by care, and
i'V dissipation more than care.
And the daughter who sits in the
fdl light of the blaze opposite her fa
ther— a slenderly formed girl of some
#
seventeen years, clad in the course lin
sey skirt and kerchief which made np
the costume of a farm* r\s daughter in
the days of the Revolution.
i hat farmer, Jac >!> Munheim, was a
peaceful, happy man before the Revo
lution. Since the war he has .become
drunken and u’l*—driven his wife
broken hearted to the grave-—and
worse than all, jo nod a band of Tory
iefugees, who scour the land at dead
ot night, burning and murderi g as
they go.
To-night, at tlu* hour of two this to
ry hand will lie in wait, in a neighbor
ing pass, to attack and murder Wash
iugton, whose starving s Idlers are
yonder in the lints of Valley Forge.
Was! ling ion on his lonely journey is
wont to puss the farmhouse, t o ent
thro its are in the next chamber drink
ing and feasting, as they wait lor two
at n ght.
The daughter, Mary had been rear',
ed by her mother to revere this man,
Washington, who to-night will he at
tack ed and murdered—to revere him
next to God. Nay more; that mother
on her death bed joined the hands of
tliis daughter in solemn betrothal with
ihe hands ol a young partisan leader
Harry William s, who now shares the i
crust and col 1 of Valley Forge.
Ycs ernft' rn um she went lour miles
over roads <>i snow an I ice to tell Capt.
Williams the plot of the refugees. She
and and not reach V tiley Foig■* until G >n.
Washington h and left on one of his
lonely journeys ; so this night at twelve
the part s ill cip aill w II occil >y the
rottks above the neighboring pass to
f ‘trap the trapper of George* Washing-!
ton.
V es, that pale slender girl remom
t>ering the words of her dying nodi r,
h nkterok m through her obedience to
her father, after a I mg and hi er
struggle. II ov and >rk that struggle in
a faithful (laugh er's tv art. She had
betrayed plans to his <nemies —
stipulating first for the lift ands defy
of her trait >r father.
And now as father ad child are sit
ting there, as the shouts of the lory
refuge sec to from the next chamber—
as the hand of the old clock is on the
hour of eleven—hark ! There's a
sound of horse's h *ofs without the
farmhouse —there is a pause—the door
opens —a, tall stranger, wrapped in a
thick cloak, white with snow, enters,
advances to the lire and in brief words
solicits some refreshments and an hours
repose.
Why does that Tory Manheim start
aghast at the sight of that stranger’s
blue and gold uniform—then mumbling
something to his daughter about ‘get
ting food for the traveler/ rush wil ,ly
into the next room, where his brother
Tones aie feasting ?
Tell an* why th it young girl stands
trembl ng before the tall st 1 anger,
veiling her eyes from that calm face,
with iis'blue eyes and kindly smile?
Ah, and we may believe tin.*, legends of
tuai time, few m n, few warriors,
wno dared the terror of battle with a
smile, could stand unabashed before
the Solemn presence of Washing"
ton.
For it wis Washington, exhausted
by a long journey—lds limbs stiffened
and his face numbed with c -id—it
was the great ‘Rebel* at Valley Forge,
who return ng to camp sooner than h s
usual hour, was forced by the storm to
take refuge in the farmer's house and
claim a little food and an hour's repose
at his hands.
In a lew moments belmld the soldier
with his cloak thrown off sitting at the
oaken tab ! e, partaking of the food
spread out there bv the hands of the
girl who now stands trembling at Ins
shoulder. .
And look 1 Her hand is extended
as if to grasp him by ihearm—her lips
move as if to warn him of the danger,
but make no sound. Why all this si
lent agony for the man who sits so
calmly there ?
One moment ago, as the girl in pre
par ng that hasty meal, op *ned yonder
closet door, adjoining the next room,
she heard the h-w whispers of her fa-,
ther and the Tories ; sue heard the dice
box rattle, as they cast lots who should
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MAY 2, ISIS.
stab George Washington in his slums
her.
An-1 now the words, ‘Beware, or
this night you di * tremble half-forms
ed upon her lips, when tin* father en
ters hastily from that room and hushes
her with a look.
‘Show the gentleman to his chamber.
Mary, that chamber at the head of the
staiis (-m the left. On the left, you
mind ‘
Maiy t ikes the light, trembling and
pale. Site loads the soldier up the
oaken stab-s. They stand on the land
ing in this wing of too farmhouse, com
pos- and of two rooms, divided by the
thick walls from the main body of the
mansion On one side, the right, is
the chamber of the soldier—to him a
chamber of death.
For a moment Mary stands then;
trembling and contuse 1. Washington
gazes upon that pale gid with a lo- k
of surmise. Look 1 She is about to
warn him of his danger, when, see
there ! her father’s rough face appears
above the head of the stairs.
‘Mary, show the gentleman into the
chamber on tin left. And look ye,
girl—it/s late—you'd better go inio
your own and go to sleep/
While the Tory watches them from
the head ot the stairs, Washington
enters the chamber on the left, Mary
the chamber on the right.
An hour passes. Still the storm
beats on the roof-—still the snow drifts
on I he hills.
Before the (ire, in the dim old hall
of that larmh -use, are seven half
drunk n men* with thatJta’l Tory, Ja
cob Mamie ui, sitting m tlnir midst—
he murderer's kn In in his hand.—
F>r the I tial ta Ifm upon him. lie
is to go up st His and ;-t d> the sle- pi g
man.
Even li s ii iE-di u ll ken n\ur erer is
pale at ti e thought—how the knif ■
tremoles ii Ins hand—trembles against
the pistol barrel. Toe jeers of his
comrades rouse him to the work. The
light in one hand, the knife in the
other, he goes up stairs —he listens!—
lirst at the door ofh s daughter's room,
iin the right, then at the soldier‘s door
on the-left. All is still. Then he places
the light on th-* floor—he enters the
chambei on the left--he is gone a mo
ment—silence!—there is a faint groan.
Fie comes forth again, rushes down
stairs, and stands there befoie the fire,
with the bloody knife in his hand.
‘Look !’ he shrieks, as ho scatters
the red drops over his comrades faces,
over the hearth,and into the tire; ‘look!
it is his blood —the traitor Washing
t m I r
His comrades gathered around him,
witli yells of joy ; already, in fancy,
they count the gold which will be
paid for this deed, when, lo ! that stair
door open*, and there, without even
the stain of blood—without even a
wound of any kind, stands George
Washington, asking calmly for his
horse.
‘Wlmt 1‘ shrieked the Tory Man
heim ‘can neither st el or bullet harm
you ? Are you a living man ? Is
there no wound about your heart ?
no blood upon your uniform V
That apparition drives him mad.—
He starts forward, he places his hands
trernb ingly upon the arms, upon the
breast of Washington. Still no sign !
Then he looks at the bloody knife, still
clutching in his light hand, and stands
there qu vering as with a dead spasm.
While Washington looks on.in si
lent wonder, the door is flung open,
the bold troopers of Valley Forge
throng the room, with the gallant form
and bronzed visage of Captain Wil
liams in their midst. At this mom *nt
the cl ck struck twelve. Then a hor
rid thought crushes like a thunder
bolt upon the brain of the Tory Man
heim. He seizes the light—rushes up
stairs —rushes into the room of his
daughter on the right. Someone had
just risen from the bed, but the room
was vacant. Then towards the room
on the left, with steps of leaden heavi
ness. Look ! how the light quivers in
his hand! He pauses at the door, he
listens. Not a sound—a stillness like
the grave. His blood curdles in his
veins ! Gathering courage be pushes
open the and >or. He enters Towards
that bed through whose curtail s he
struck so blindly a moment ago !
Again lie pauses—not a sound—a still
ness more t rrible than the grave. II
flings aside the curtains There in the
full light of the lamp, her young form
but half covered, bathed in her own
blood —there lay his daughter, Mary.
All, do not look ii{ on the face of the
father as he starts silently back, fro
zen to stone ; but in this pause o
horror listen to the mystery ot this
deed.
After her father had gone down
stairs an hour a;0, Mary silently stole
Rom the chamber on the light. Her
soul shaken by a thousand fears, she
opened the door on the left, and beheld
Was! iington sitting by a table on
which were spread a chart and a Bi
ble. Then, though her existence was
wound up in the act, she asked him in
a tone of calm politeness, to take the
chamber on the opposite side. Mary
entered the chamber which he left.
Can you imagine the agony of that
that g ri‘s soul as lying on the bed in
ti n led for tiie death couch of Wash
ington, she silently awated the knife,
a though that knife might be clenched
in a lather's hand
And now the a her, fr >zcn to stone,
st od there, holdi ig the light in one
haul, and stili couching the red knife,
fnere lay Ins child, the blood stream
ing from that wound in her arm—her
ey. s covered with a glassy film.
Mary !‘ shrieked the guilty father
—lor robber and Tory as he was, he
was sti 1 a father. ‘Mary 1* he called
to her, but that word v\ as all he could
say.
Sudd n!y she seemed to w -ke from
her stupor. She Sit up in bed with
her gin.- sy eyes. Toe s rmg hand of
ilea h was up m her As Hi * -at there
erect and guasily, the room was till
ed v\ith sol liirs. Her lover rushed
forward and called her by name. No
answer. Called again—spoke to her
ill the familiar tones of olden times
still no answer. She knew him not.
Yes it was true—the iron hand of
death was upon her.
‘II is he escaped / she said in that
husky voice.
‘Yes / shrieked the father. ‘Live,
Mary, only live, and to-morrow Til
join the camp at Valley Forged
i hen that girl—ill .t hero worn .n—
--flying as she was net so much from
the wound in her arm, as from the
deep agony which had broken the last
cord of life, spiead forth her arms as
though she beheld a form floating
there above her bed, beckoning her
away. S,e spread fbrtli her arms as
it’ to inclose that angel form.
‘Mother V she whisper d—white
there grouped the soldiers—there,
with a speechless agony on h s brow,
stood tuo lover—there holding his
face with one hand, while the other
grasped the light, crouched the father
—that light flashing over the dark
bed, with the white form in its cen
ter. —‘Mother, thank God. For with
my life I saved him.*
Look, even as starting up on that
bloody couch, she speaks the half
formed words, her arms stiffen, her
eyes wide open, set in death, glare
in her father's fac *.
That half fumed woid, still quiver
ing on the white lips of the hero wo
man —that word utt red iu a husky
wh sper, choke ! by the and afh-rattlo
—that word was, Washington.
* —>
Advice.
Don't make slaves ot yourselves for
the sake of your children. For want
of proper training, many a young man
has grown up without discipline. He
has been able to run through iu an in
cred bly short space of time, all that
his strong-minded father left him.—
twenty years ago we knew such a
man. io-duy his son owns only a poor
old §} an ol horses, and is living from
hand to mouth, ami a very poor living
he gets at that. The flee estate sip
ped easily from the hands of the son,
who had no skill to manage it. So
one generation makes money for the
next to squander.
Why Lizzie Didn't Marry.
BY E. 11. S.
They were seated together, side by
sale, on the sofa in the parlor.
‘Lizzie/ he said, ‘you must have read
my heart ere this ; you know how truly
I love you/
‘Yes, Fred/ she answered, ‘you’ve
c rtainly been very attentive.’
‘But, Lizzie, darling, do you love
me? Will you be my wife?'
‘Your wife, Fred ? Of all things !
No, indeed ; nor any one else's.'
‘Lizzie, what do you mean V
‘Just what I say, Fred. I have two
married sisters/
‘Certainly; and Mis. Hopkins and
Mrs. Skinner have tw'o very good hus
band*, I believe/
‘So people say; but I wouldn't like
to stand in either May's or Nell's shoes
—that's ali/
‘Lizzie, you astonish me.’
‘Look here, Fred ; I’ve had over
twenty-three sleigh rides this winter
—thanks to you and other gentlemen
friends.’
Fred winced a little here, whether
at the remembrance of that unpaid
Every bill, or at the idea of Lizzie’s
sleighing wi'.h other gentlemen friends,
I cannot positively aver.
‘II i\v many do you think my sisters
have had ? Not the sign of one ei
ther of tlu'm. Such jin tty girls as M,y
and Nellie were, too, and so much at
tention as they used to have/
‘Now Lizzie—'
‘l am fond of going to Hie theatre
occasionally, as well as to a lecture or
concert sum 'limes, and I sh mldn’tlike
it, it I proposed attending any such
to be invariably told
that times were too hard, and my bus
hand couldn’t afford it,and then to have
him sneak off alone.'
‘Lizzie, Lizzie—'
‘And theiq if once in a dog’s age,
he did condescend to lo go with me
anywhere in the evening, I should not
like to be left to pick my way through
the slippery places,at the risk of break
ing my neck, he walking along uncer
emoniously by my side. I’m of a de
pendent, clinging nature, and I need
the protection of a strong arm.’
‘Lizzie, th s is all nonsense.’
‘l'm the youngest of our family, and
perhaps I’ve been a little spoiled. At
all event-*, I know it would break my
heart to have my husband vent all the
ill temper which he conceals from the
rest of the world on my defenceless
head./
‘But, Lizzie, I promise ymi that—'
‘Oil, yes, Fred; I know what you are
going to say—that you will be differ-
I ent ; but May and Nell have told me
time and again that no better husbands
than theirs ever lived, and I'm inclined
to believe them. No, Fred ;as a
lover you are just perfect, and I shall
hate awfully lo give you up. Still, if
y* u are bent on marrying, there are
plenty of gads who have not married
sisters, or who are n t w ise enough to
profit by their example if they have.—
And don't fret about me, for I’ve no
doubt 1 can find someone to fill your
place— ’
But before Lizzie had concluded,
Fred made for the door, muttering
something unmentionable to ears po
lite.
‘There,’ exclaimed Lizzie as the street
door closed with a bang, ‘I knew he
was no better than the rest. That's
precisely the w ay John aud Alex swear
and slam doors when things don't go
just right. He'd make a perfect bear
of a husband , but I'm sorry be came
t > the point so soon, for he was just a
splendid lean/
The motto of lovers is, ‘E plural
buss, yum, yum!'
‘I have my opinion of that roan/
remarked a local philosopher the other
day, ‘who, when I ask him to take a
cigar, goes hunting around the fifteen
cent box 1'
Some girls in Pennsylvania were
attacked by rattlesnakes and fright
ened them away by shaking their pet
ticoats. Dear, dear! why didn't Eve
think of that!
-
‘Do editors ever do wrong?' ‘No/
‘What do they do?* ‘They do write/
‘The child is father of the man / but
if the child is a girl? We simply pap
the question.
At this season of the year anglo
worms begin to wear Osh hooks in
their polonaise.
A young lady rebukingly asks us:
‘Which is worse, to lace tight or to
get tight?' We give it up—we never
laced.
The young woman who used to
sing so divinely, 'Oh, had I the wings
of a dove/ is satisfied with a chicken
leg now. She is married.
The following conversation rcoently
took place in a hotel: ‘Waiter.’ ‘Yes,
sir.’ ‘What’s this?' ‘lt's bean soup/
‘No matter what it has been; the
question is, what is it now?'
♦.
A lady of Chicago, who was buying
a pair of pantaloons for her son, ou
being asked by a salesman how large
her boy was, replied, ‘About six inch-*
es taller and somewhat smarter than
you are/
- ♦<
Tiie pathway of lifejsfull of difficul
ties, but Griggins says lie has about
made up his mind that one of the har
dest things in the wm’ld for a man to
do is to admit to his wife that he has
been in the wrong.
‘Does your sister Annie ever say
anything about me, sissy?’ asked an
anxious lover of a little girl. ‘Yes/
was the reply; ‘she said if you had
rockers on your shoes, they'd make a
ni c cradle for my doll/
They were passing by a house even
with the street, when she was heard
to plead: ‘Don’t take off your flannels,
yet, darling. It is too early. • Don't
do it.’ What he said was not heard,
but, as far is could be observed in the
gloom, lie did not do it.
Nothing destroys the appetite so
quickly as the announcement that
Jones, of whom you have just agreed
to accept ten cents on the dollar, is
going to Europe with his family to
spend a year. In the bright lexicon
of check there's no such word as fail,
V young lady said a pretty good
thing the other evening. She had
many admirers among the limbs of
the law, and on being asked how she
escaped heart-whole, said she supposed
it was owing to the fact that ‘in a
multitude of counselors there is safe
fy-’
According to the . spring fashion
plates, there is such a similarity hr***
tween the apparel of ladies and gen**
tlemen that a married man will want
to see a red patch on some of his
clothes to avoid the blunder of getting
on the wrong garments when he gets
up first in the morning—if a married
man ever does get up first.
You need not be afraid of giving
tno much. The old darkey who said,
‘lf any ob you know ob any church
w'at died ob liberality, jes tell me
whar it is, an' I will make a pilgrim**
age to it, as/ by de soft light ob de
pale moon I will crawl upon its moss**
covered roof an' write upon de top>
most shingle, ‘Dressed ain de dead
who die in de Lord."
There used to be a man —gone west
now, poor fellow—in the United States
railroad mail service, who ran east of
Burlington, whose eyes were so crook
ed he could catom with them. lie
could hold a postal card out at arm’s
length before him, read the address
wuh one eye arid look around the end
and read the message with the other,
and watch a man trying to climb in
at the car door behind him, all at the
same time. He left the service be**
cause lie always had to go to the door
on the other side of the car to see the
stiticn.
>o. IS.