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VOLUME VI.
THE MAY.
BY MARIE 8. LADD.
When the cruel frosts have dried
All the jrices from the trees,
Adcl the snow, with mantle white,
Wraps the world so wearily;
In the shadow then we sit
Solemnly, and sing our lays,
Yet through memory will flit
Thoughts of other fairer days.
These, alone, can give us cheer,
Wmtry hours are then so drear.
Creeping her slow lenth away,
Leaving earth full brown and bare,
Then the winter on her way
Leaves behind her glcom and care;
Lotindeu by our earthly scope,
’Mid the gloom so dark and strange,
There would be no wing for hope,
If we do not look for change—
And there comes a happier day,
With the opening buds of May.
So when sorrows grimly clasp
’Round the heart with frosty touch,
Steeling life within the grasp
Of their unrelenting clutch;
Shading all with wintry gloom,
Thrilling with dismay and dread,
Bringing blight where only bloom
Ouee dropped sunshine ’round the head—
Fear not, neighbor, then, I pray,
There w ill surely come the May.
FAltMEll A. AND HIS BUTTER
Avery line dairy has old farmer A.;
He makes “gilt-edged," his neighbors all say.
Now, old farmer A thought his butter so nice
That by “holding" he’d get a much higher
price.
JUNE.
"Good morning, good morning,” the middle
man said;
"Have you butter to sell?" Mr. A. shook his
head.
"What d’ye say?" “Thirty-five is a very fair
price.”
Mr. A. shook hjs head; “My butter’s too nice.”
SEPTEMBER.
"I’ve called 'rouud again to look at your butter."
This remark set the old man’s heart in a flutter;
(It’s advanced, his cal ling shows that very plain;
I think I won’t sell till it rises again;)
"What d’ye pay?” “Forty cents,” the middle
man said.
"That's a little more like it,” out still shook
hie head.
NOVEMBER.
"I want some ‘gilt-edge, ’ some ‘A number one,*
I think to the very top ‘notch it has gone;’
Mr. A. you bad better take my advice—
Dispose of your butter while it brings a good
price.
01 course you’re aware you may liokl it too
long;
Ihe best butter sometimes gets very atroug.”
"'Vliat d’ye pay?” “Forty five,” the middle
man said.
“Let’r bob up to fifty,” he still shook his head.
march.
The butter is ‘frowy;’ he’ll ‘hold’ it uo longer.
I or every day it smells ‘stronger and stronger,’
•Sorry he hadn’t sold when ’tw r as higher,
He starts off to town to ‘hunt up’ a buyer,
the middleman’s trier goes down through the
stuff-
Whew! whew! how it smells! One smell is
enough.
“I don’t wish to buy." “Make me an offer,
please.”
“Mr. A.,1 am paying ten cents for poor grease.”
moral.
N°w, don’t ‘hold’ too long just because it is
nice;
‘Dot ’em slide” every time when it brings a
good price.
MISCELLANY.
fWritten tor the Eastman Times.]
THE LOST RABY.
BY MRS. C. V. A.
As Mrs. Devant sat sowing busily,
an( l Kinging a soft lullaby to her baby
she heard the familiar footstep of
her husband advancing hurriedly.
‘Come, Mildred, away with
and toil. I have goo 1 news for
you ; we will soon be in possession of
untold wealth.’
T)o explain yourself, Mr. Devant, or
I shall really think you have violated
your temperance pledge '
! ‘Ah, no, indeed—read this, (throw-
£l]c Eastman ernes.
ing her a letter) it is all truo—blessed
fate/
Mrs. Devant obeyed in breathless
surprise.
‘Dear Walter— Conte without delay
to my death-bed. Bring your wife and
child, that I may bestow on him the
wealth that long years of industry has
accumulated. He is the only male child
to propagate my name. Unclosed is a
check for a small amount to bear your
expenses. ('Small amount, indeed; he
little dreams how great it seems to ns/
murmured Mildred, lifting her tear
dimmed eyes t> her husband.) Now,
as delays are dangeaous, had best
make the greatest possible haste.
Your affecti mate uncle,
11. James Devant/
‘Oh, how c m this be true ? Are we
to he made wealthy in a single day ?
I can realize no such good luck/ said
Mrs. Devant in a vehement outburst
of gratitude.
‘Now, dear, when can you be ready ?
The steamer leaves to-morrow at 12.
If we do not go then we will have to
remain another dav/
‘Yes, to-morrow ; my trunk shall be
packed to-night—l shall hinder*
ance ’
The night was far spent ere Mrs.
Devant sought her pillow. But she
could not sleep, thinking of the long
journey ami trie unexpected happiness
that wealth can bestow.
Tiie morrow came, and soon the
hour of departure. Now can be seen
two happy faces, beaming with hope,
on the handsome Glide, embarked for
a southern port. Many hours were
spent in day-dreams of the future, and
the thought of returning in more than
regal splendoj to the former horn a of
noverty, was one of the most pleasant
and cheering. The city of S was
reached,after a few days voyage, where
they were to spend one night only, to
prepare for the consummation of their
journey. But, alas ! how sad are the
decrees of fate. Like a robber in the
night came the enemy of childhood—
croup—and in two short hours the
messenger of Death had folded his
somber wings about the idolized form
of little bright-eyed Homer, and the
p >or, disconsolate, weeping mother sat
alone in the sti ! lnoss of death’s cham
ber. All the bright hopes of the future
gone and a broken heart her only so
lace—no kind friend to so >the her an**
guish with loving sympathy—no gens
tie hands to close the eyes or fold the
tiny hands. Mr. Devant returns with
a physician—too late—all is over—
earthly help can avail nothing.- We
turn from the scene—we will not in
trude on their sorrow.
‘Mildred, we must shake off this
gloom ; dear as our little Homer was
to us, we will have to leave him in
this strange Southern city, and pursue
our journey.’
‘No, no ; I cannot leave him—l will
not leave him. We must take the
dear lifeless form to our native home,
and make his grave among our loved
ones. I care not for wealth, nor even
life, now our babe is gone/
‘Mildred, you astonish me in youv
weakness ; be calm and brave, as be
comes a woman of ybur strength of
mind. Would you dash a fortune away
in this manner ? I will not —I cannot
—as much as I love you and our babe;
I cannot let this golden opportunity
pass. I have a plan to disclose to you
which I trust your better judgment
will submit to, if not at first approve/
‘A plan, Mr. Devant 1 Oh, Walter,
what can you mean ? Tell me, for I
cannot bear this torture longer—for
as such I feel it to be.’
‘Now, Mildred, try and calm your
self ; when the last sad offices are per
formed, 1 will disclose all.*
Mrs. Devant burst into a fit of dis
consolate weeping.
‘You will not carry him back, then
let me go with my child homo, aud you
can continue your journey. Your un
cle will not change his plan, and if
he does he will give you enough to
remove our present embarrassment.
‘Mildred, you know not what you
say, or of whom you speak ; moreover
my plans are laid, aud I demand your
acquiescence/
‘Then I am a tool in your bauds, and
care not what you do ; but my babe
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MAY 16, IS7S.
is more to me than wealth, even tho'
he is dead. Remember, that whatever
your plan may be, I shall not bear the
burden of the sin before my Gol,
though the world condemn me/
‘Nay, Mildred, speak not thus i if I
sin it will be only that good may
come.j
In the afternoon of the same day
two lone persons might be seen return
ing from an unmarked grave—the fa
ther thoughtful and slow—the mother
weeping sad and lonely. Who can.
tell the depths of a love and
sorrow for a lost babe, when alone in
the solitude of their own room?
Mr. Devant made a full disclosure
of his hastily matured plan, and wheth
er for weal or woo, his mind was made
up to carry it into effect. Could he
persuade Mrs Devant to keep the se
cret ? Ilis heart was not dead to all
feelings of good, but money had tempt
ed him, as it had others, and will con
tinue in time.
‘We will linger in the city to-mor
row in search of a child to bear the
name and inherit the fortune that is so
soon to be ours/
Mrs Devant threw up her hands in
holy horror at the* thought of commit
ting so great a sin, and begged and in
sisted that he wouldn't engage in such
a crime.
‘Leave all to me—just promise to
keep my secret, and I can manage the
rest/
It was not without long pu-suasion
and stern commands that Mrs. Devant
would take any part in the daring
scheme.
Early in the morning of the second
day they set out to find some babe to
fill the place of the dead. Nor were
their efforts vain—late seemed to smile
on them. Before one short hour they
met*i babe carrie 1 by a woman star
ing idly about as if all were new and
strange to her.
‘There, Mildred, if that is a boy we
must act at once.’
Calling to nurse, ‘Won't you let the
lady see that pretty baby ?'
‘Yes, sir/
‘What is the baby's name, girl V
‘II >mer Eugene Cromwell, sir.'
A tear stood in the mother’s eye.—
Mr. Devant seeing it, whispered :
‘Courage, Mildred, courage.'
‘lndeed, how strange —that is my
wifi/s old friend. We must see her—
does your mistress live in the city ?'
‘No, sir, she just come down last
weeK to spend a short time with Miss
Lou/
'Can you tell me where to find
her?' We will call on her immedi
ately/
‘On Soutli Broad # sir.’
‘We will take the babte with us and
you can come on—here is some money,
go buy something for yourself.'
‘Thank you sir, but please lot me
carry the baby, he might cry, and then
Miss lola would not like it/
‘Never mind that, your Miss will be
so glad to see her old friend she will
not think of that. Now come home
when you have spent your money.'
The Devants drove away and the
girl made no haste.
There, Mildred, you see the first ef
fort is a success, and in one h >ur we
will be on our way westward. You
must change his clothes for our own,
and destroy these he has on.'
‘Do you remember its name is the
same as our babe's V
‘Yes, that is so strange —Cromwell
—I once had a particular friend at col
lege, Eugene Cromwell, that lived
S'Uth/
‘Waller, supp >se that should he his
babe and you should meet him in fu
ture ? Have you thought of the Hearts
you are breaking, even though we es
cape detection V
‘See here/ continued Mrs. Devant,
‘are little loop-ups with baby's name—
what shall I do with them ?’
‘Destroy them, by all means/
But Mrs. Devant followed the dic
tates of her own head, and put them
safely away.
‘Now Mildred, be re idy in fifteen
rninut *s, aud we will soon be beyond
detection/
Toe Devants are speeding away as
fast as rail and steam can carry them.
Let us turn to our friends, the Crom
wells. Behold the agonized look of
terror and dismay on the faces of both
mother and nurse when they were
convinced that the baby was no where
to be found.
A runner is dispatched in haste for
Mr. Cromwell and his host, to inform
them of the abduction of Mrs. Crom
well's babe, while her frien 1 Miss Lou
was exhausting every argument in
woman's power to convince her that
tiie friends would arrive soon with the
little one
‘Noj Miss, they are gone. I see the
man whisper something to his wife,
and she was crying, and I begged
them to let me carry the baby/
‘Did they give any names ?’
‘No, Miss ; I 'tirely forgot to ask
them. I did not want to be p jrt to any
of your old friends.'
J ust at this juncture the two friends, !
Cromwell and Ashton, came in, breath
less and pale, with suppresse 1 eni >tion.
Mrs. Cromwell rushed to her husband,
and could only litter^
‘My babe ! my babe is gone !' and
was borne fainting from the room.
The two gentlemen heard the nurse's
statement, and were deliberating what
course to pur ue, wnen anew thought
suggested itself to Mr. Ashton.
‘Can you put full confluence in the
girl's statement —may she not be
bribed ?'
‘.She and her mother are old family
servants, and have ever been faithful.
I must think she is the dupe of this
scheme/
‘But you can have a private inter
view with her and see if there is any
ground lor hope from that source.’
‘He'’ sorrow was so de p that none
could doubt her, though money some
times dazzles stronger minds than
hers/
‘I will go and see what I can glean
from her/
‘Make her any offer for the tiuth—
her liberty, aud that of her mother—
anything to gain information of my
lost child. Ido so much fear the re
sult on Mrs. Cromwel/s health—poor
lola —she is so unprepared for this
blow/
Mr. Ashton so m returned, with all
hope from that source dispelled. They
proceeded to alarm all the detective
and police force, and send advertise
ments to all parts of the country. —
Much time and money was expended;
still day after day passed and no tid
ings came to gladden the hearts of the
sorrowing parents. Sorrow aud des
pair were delineated on every feature
of the stricken parents' faces. Though
hope, true to her mission, would whis
per ‘your babe will yet oe lound.'—
They lingered in the city many weeks,
till hope seemed to be vain, aud being
deferred made the heart sick. Mr.
Cromwell proposed to return home.
‘How can we go without our babe ?
If I c >uld only see God’s hand in this,
my submission would be meakness its
elf. I cannot feel that it is Ilis will. —
If I could have seen the angel of death
in all its cold horror, bear my babe
away, and the clods of this distant
city cover his form, I could - recognize
His hand, and submit with Christian
fortitude. But, alas ! not so ; this
very moment he may be cold or hun
giy —thrown on some cold charity, or
perhaps raised to revel in crime and
vice—a curse to the land My God !
my God ! why hast thou forsaken
me !'
‘lola, my dear .wife, this is unlike
your sustaining faith, -rust and pray,
my dear, and God will in his own good
time restore our darling to our arms.’
The quietude of their home reached,
Mrs. C. was taken ill, and for many
weeks hovered between life and death.
The ravings through all her delirium
were for the restoiation of her babe
Many were the tears shed f>r the suf
fering of so gnod and pure a friend.
She was not thus to die and f >rget her
sorrow —she must come back to life
again to realize all the grief ot a life
spent in sorrowing for a lost child.—
Slowly and surely did the doctor watch
the recovery of his patient.
‘Friend Cromwell, you must take
your wife away from this place and
its associated memories. A change
will do her infinite good. She willjbe
diverted from her absorbing grief by
new scenes and surroundings/
Anywhere, Doctor, your judgment
may suggest. I will spare no time and
means to restore lola to her wonted
health/
‘Allow to suggest the beautiful scen
ery of the Potomac, There you will
find every comfort that the noble sons
and daughters can bestow, and the
bracing air will do much to restore
her vigor/
‘\\ hen do you think Mrs. Cromwell
will be strong enough for the trip ?'
‘Several weeks hence, but anticipa
tion will do much to strengthen her,
b >th mentally and physically.’
‘I will make known your suggestion
to her/
‘lola, how would you like a visit to
the mountains of Virginia ? The doc
tor thinks it advisable for you to trav
el/
‘I leave it with you, dear ; we have
nothing to live for now.'
‘But we have much to gain, dearest.
Your health is the only source from
whence comfort can arise.'
‘Then as I grow stronger we will
decide/
Before the heat of summer is fully
upon them, Mr. Cromwell is seen fol
lowing the meanderings of the Poto
mac, with his wife by bis side. She is
stronger now, but the old grief still
grows at the heart, and the roses for
bear to bloom in their former richness
on her almost snowy cheek.
[concluded next week.]
A ‘gentleman of the period' was go
ing out in his carriage to make some
calls with liis wife, when he discovered
that he had left his visiting cards He
ordered his driver, recently come into
his service, to go to the mantel piece
in his sitting room and bring the cards
he should see there. The servant did
as ordered, retaining the articles to be
used as he was directed, and off start
ed the gentleman, sending the driver
with cards wherever, the ‘not at home'
occured. As these were numerous,
he turned to his servant with the ques
tion, ‘How many cards have you left?'
‘Well/ said the servant, ‘the queen of
hearts is all that remains/
‘When I was quite a boy/ says
Smith, ‘my father ordered a coat f>r
me from an Israelite, and when the
garment came home, it was luge
enough for two or three of my size.
The perplexed Jew, after vainly trying
to gather up the fulness in the back
with his hand so that the front might
set tight, declared at length that ‘the
coat was goot; it was no fault of to
coat; te coat fit goot enough, butte
poy was too slim '
‘Mama/ exclaimed a beautiful girl,
who suffered affectation to obscure in
tellect, ‘what is that long green thing
lying on the dish before you?' ‘A
cucumber, my beloved Georgiana/
replied the doting parent, with a
bland smile of approbation on her
daughter's commendable curiosity.—
‘A cucumber! gracious goodness, my
dear mama, how extraordinary! I
always imagined until this moment
that they grew in slices!'
Babies are said to resemble wheat
in many respects. First, neither are
good for much till they arrive at ma
turity; second, both are bred in the
house, and are also the flower of the
family; third, both have to be cradled;
fourth, both are generally well thrash
ed before they are done with.
A Newton county man having lost
his horse recently, recalled to mind
Sut Lovengood’s story of ‘How Dad
Piaved Hoss.’ So he hitched himself
to a plough, and made a boy drive
him In this way lie ploughed out
two acre 9of corn in two hou rs. All
| who feel inclined to doubt this story
j are respectfully referred to Covington
! Enterprise.
Why can’t the captain of a ship
keep a memorandum of the weight of
his anchor, inst ad of weighing it ev
ery time he leaves port?
‘B b* said a young fellow at a fancy
fair, ‘you are missing all the sights on
this side/ ‘Never mind, Bill,* retorted
Bob, ‘I am sighting all the misses on
the other/
Two lovers courted a Miss Grubb.
One named Garrett was successful.
The other left the country because he
detested a garret, aud couldn’t live
without grub.
‘Mother/ said young hopeful to his
mother the other day, ‘did you know
the iron horse had but one ear?’ ‘One
ear? merciful gracious, child, what do
you mean?’ ‘Why, the engineer, of
course/
Why are sheep the most dissipated
animals in creation? Because they
gambol in their youth, spend most of
their days on the turf; the best of
them are blacklegs, and they are sure
to be fleeced at last.
■ ♦♦♦
‘Waiter/ said a fastidious gentle*-,
man, exhibiting a singular looking ob
ject on the soup-ladle, ‘waiter, do you
know what that is?’ ‘That, sir, looks
like a mouse, sir. We often find them
in soup, sir. No extra charge, sir.’
The author of a radical total-absti
nence novel wrote in his book, ‘Drunks
ennoss is folly.’ lie was much cha
grined when the work came homo
from the press to find that the printers
had made it read, ‘Drunkenness is
jolly/
‘My dear, did you say or did you
not say what I said you said, because
Mrs. Grundy said you said you never
did say what I said you said? Now,
if you did say that you did not say
what 1 said you said, then what did
you say?’
‘Ton say, Mrs. Jones, that you have
lived with the defendant for eight
years. Does the Court understand
that you are married to him?* ‘lu
course it does/ ‘Have you a marriage
certificate?* ‘Yes, your honor, three
on *etn—two gals and a boy.*
A perplexed housewife introduced
to her guests a dish of oysters, the re
sults of her first efforts at Cooking this
luscious bivalve, with this explanation:
‘I found it very difficult to dress them,
so I just held on to their wings and
cut their stomachs off. I guess they **l
be good/
—
A gentleman being asked by a cler
gyman why he did not attend the
evening prayer meeting, said be could
dot leave the children. ‘What! have
you no servants?’ ‘Yes,’ he replied,
‘we have two servants who keep the
house and board us; we are allowed
few privileges/
it a supper party at which Dumas
was present, the lady of the house
called upon him, in the name of the
other guests, to say something bril
liant and witty. ‘Pray do so, Mon
sieur Dumas/ she said, when he did
not seem to listen to her; ‘say some
thing witty, that is your business;
you are doing so every day.* ‘Ah!*
replied Dumas, ‘if you look upon the
matter in that light, I am ready to do
so, provided all the other guests give
us likewise a specimen of their busi
ness. Pray, sir/ he continued, turn
ing to an artillery officer on his leff,
! ‘commence, and fire off a cmnon shot,
I It will be my turn next/
xo. 20.