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VOLUME \!• THE CANDIDATE; ■ r.tber, wbo travels the road so late?” . Ilusb, my child, ’tife the candidate; f.t example of human woea— (.’iflv lie cornea und late lie goes; •; greets the women tfrltH edttttly glace; H kisses the baby’s dirty face; Uc culls to the fence the i'arndor At wdi-k; [ebofes the merchant; he bores the clerk; The blacksmith, while his anvil rings; lie greets, and this is thb song he sings;— •' ‘Howdy, howdy, howdy do? How is your wife, and how are you? Ah! It fits my fist as no other can, The horny hand of the workingman!’ *’ •Husband, who is that man at the gate?” “Hash, my love, ’tis the candidate.” •‘Husband, why can't he work like you, lbs bo nothing at homo to do ? ” My dear, whenever a man is down, Ko cash at home, no money in town, lb) stupid to preach, too proud to beg; 100 timid to rob, and too lazy to dig, Then over bis horse his legs he flings And to the dear people this song he sings:— “ ‘Howdy, howdy, howdy do? How is your wife, and how are you? Ah! it fits my fist as no other can, The horny hand of the workingman!’ ” Druthers, who labor early and late, Ask these tliiug.s of the candidate: What’s his record? How does he stand At home; no matter about his hand, Be it bard or soft, so it be not prone lo close over money not his own. Has he in view’ no thieving plan? Is he honest and capable?—he’s our man! Cheer such an one till the welkin rings, Join in the chorus when thus he sings:— “Howdy, howdy, howdy do? How is your wife, and liuw are you? Ah! it tits my fist as no other can, The horny hand of the workingman!” lIOW LITTLE WE KNOAV, H 'W little we know of each other! "<■ pass through the journey of life, "ith its struggles, its fears and temptations, Its heart-breaking cares and its strife. " only see things on the surface, For few people glory in sin, Ami an unruffled face is no index 10 the tumult which within. !i iw little we know of each other! Ihe man who to-day passes by Host with fortune and honor and titles, Aud holding his proud head on high, Hay curry a dread secret with him bhich makes his bosom a hell, And he, sooner or later, a felon, Hay writhe in a prisoner’s cell. it av little we know of each other! lint woman of fashion, who sneers '■ die jKjor girl betrayed and abandoned And left to her sighs aud her tears, Hnj, ere the sun rises to-morrow, 11 ivc the mask rudely torn from her face, Aid sink from the height of her glory lo the dark shades of shame and disgrace. Ho" little we kuow of each other; ft ourselves too little we know; 1 are all weak when under temptation, Ad subject to error and woe. llm let blessed charity rule us; Ut us put away envy and spite, Fur lll ° skeleton gijtn in our closet May some day be brought to light. MISCELLANY" llie Old Bachelor’s Will. BY SIDNEY THORNE. sun ol an August day was scnd i? golden shafts through the interlac foliage overshadowing a limpid stream, young man was kneeling beside ■'i P°lo in Land, ostensibly fishing, but s l*eckl(*d denizens ot the brook had ' ' cause for alarm. The cool ‘ l; and steady hand, so dangerous peace under ordinary circum -‘"ces, were not really putting forth "• against them. Va ß a handsome young faoe turn-' 11 such evident eagerness toward faintly-defined foot-path leading ‘ u ,-lithe woods to the sylvan spot, “'■features were almost too regular 1 ■ Masculine ideas of beauty; but the :il vv ay the red lips were set togeth. aiH * tlie massive yliiu redeemed theni tJi weakness. Started to his feet as the crack uf dried leaves and twigs betray ilri advancing footstep. Another ‘ ‘ ! heut and a breathless young crea- Was beside him, panting from her H! approach 1 began to think you were not com !ls hot, and that my holiday was to prov o a failue/ ■ L was by the merest accident that away. Fathei hardly trusts me his sight. But he was called off 11 ,ln e ;peotod business, and I've run 1 y B tep, 1 >ut, Phil, I can't prom- L,J come again. 1 feel so guilty all fpje JEaetwitn fpwM. the time—l can't dc> it Unless things change.’ ‘Dot/ began reproachfully. ‘I know it is hard/ continued the girl; ‘iout I am Us riiuCh the Suffefe* by it as you. Though, Phil/ with a sudden intensity iti her voice, ‘one thinglcaudo. I Solemnly promise nev" er to marry anyone but him I love, and that is —you know who? ‘That is poor comfort, Dot. To know that the girl you would shed your heart’s blood for cannot even give you a kind word now and then to keep up your spirits! I shall half the time think you are forgetting me, and making up. your mind to marry the man your fa" ther is §o taken with/ Ton are very different from the idea T have of you if you give xVay to any such feeling: Thy; Phil, all the peo ple in the world couldr/t make nie believe you false, if you had promised to be true: Brit I must go. I just came to tell you, no matter what hap pens, that force could not drag me into a marriage with Oram. Diiisriidre; and to say ‘goodly* until wa can meet as we used to, with thb full consent of father/ ‘That'Jl never be/ was the gloomy answer. ‘IPs- good-by forever; I am sure. I wish that old cousin of yours had left his money to someone else. It has destroyed our happiness; Your father 6eemcd to like meuntil that will made you an heiress, and Oram Dings more began coming to the bouse.— Much as he might have been taken with your face, he'd never have both ered bis head about you unless there had been a prospect of adding to bis possessions. I know him of oid, aod he’s tight as the bark of a tree ' 'Really, Philip, you are eompliraen-1 tary. So money is the sum of my at" tractions, is it?' But there was no vexation in the (‘yes she turned upon his troubled face. Hers was a true, trustful nature, and she understood her lover's meaning, though she tried to speak lightly aud playfully, to prevent a painful parting scene. Tears were near her eyes, but she forced them back. She must be strong for both. She held out her hand. ‘Good by, Philip. Don’t be dis" oouraged; all will come right yet/ Philip took the little hand in his brown palm and gazed longingly into the sweet young face. Then he s iid: f Won’t you give mo one parting kfss, Dot?' The girl hesitated, then said grave ly: ‘Yes, kiss me here,' touch ing a slender finger to one of her soft cheeks, ‘and from this time that place shall be sacred from the touch of other lips until we meet again.’ Philip kissed the cheek, which flush ed redly at the touch of his lips. Dot Was chary of permitting caress, and, though they had been fond of one an other from their buy and girl days, Philip had never presumed to kiss her, unless when playing a game of forfeits in some of the merry gather* ings winch are sometimes given in country neighborhoods for t ie purpose of drawing the young people together and of helping the farmers husk their corn, or to get the rosy produce of the orchards into festoons of neatly-pared and quartered apples to dry, on the principle that many hands and nimble fingers make light and pleasant work. The next moment he was following the lithe figure with sad eyes until it had disappeared under the overhang ing branches. He lacked Dot's faith in the kindness of the future. lie could only anticipate a long separa tion, and perhaps estrangement; and it was with a heavy heart that he gathered up his fishing tackle and started for home. A distant relative of the Ingrahams had lately died, and had wiled his property to his cousin, Dorothy Ingra ham. During his lifetime he had nev er showed that he was aware of the existence of our little Dot, and it was a great surprise to her when the old gentlemai/s solicitor came from New York with the intelligence that he had made her his heiress. At first it was a great pleasure to the girl, and she built many pretty ‘castles in the air’ about the way she would use her wealth, until a change came over the scene. Mr. Ingraham, who had heretofore seemed well pleased to see his daugh ter in Philip Bertram's company, be gan to entertain higher views for her, and when young Mr. Diusmore, son of President of the village bank, began to drop in of an evening with the evi dent intention of seeing Dot, though he asked for her father, poor Philip began/,o be treated coldly, and at last was forbidden the house. Had Dot's mother been living things would have been different; for her Sterling good sense would have car ried the day against her husband’s sudden inflation of feeling caused by their good fortune. But since his wife’s death, Mr. Ingraham had no one to influence him, for he considered Dot a mere child, to be petted and governed as though she were 5 years of age, instead of a Well-grown girl of 18, of more than ordinary capacity and good sense. Affairs went oh iri this way for sev eral months. Mr. Dinsmore's calls grew more frequent, aud a strong pres sure was brought to bear upon Dot to make her listen to bis suit, which was now openly declaied. She had tried to discourage him, by treating him with marked coolness and indifference) but he would not make a repulse, and her life was growing to be an unhappy ode, her father's conversation being principally upon the perfections of the suitor, whom she cordially detested; thoug doing her best to treat him with eburtesy. Philip knew of his cdnStailt visits, arid beard rumors of an engagenient. lie grew gloomy and morose, and when he chanced to meet Dot, would pass her in such a way which made her poor little heart aclie. So tln'ugs went on from bad to worse, until Dot would have been glad if her inheritance had been sunk in the sea. At last another actor ap peared—a youtlg girlj wild created quite a sensatiou in the quiet village. She was from a city in the far West, and was very pretty, and kuew just What colors to choose for her toilet, to set otT the tints of her glowing bru nette comph'xion. Dot’s heart felt h\ke lead in her bo som, when one day she the stran ger walking jauntily by .Philip's s.de. She was shortly afterwaro introduced to her, and for a few moments a ful spirit suggested that she sn. make herself disagreeable; but sbP resolutely put the temptation away from her, aud appeared her own natu ral, lovable self. She soon ceased to wonder at Philip’s evident pleasure in Miss Belmont's society. She was so frank, and cheerful, and sparkling in her conversation that she was won from her prejudice, and they grew to be friends. It was not long before Kate Bel- I moot knew the true stale of Dot’s feeling toward Oram Dinsruore, though Philip’s name was as a sealed book between them. Dot loved him as dear ly as ever, and the very intensity of her feeling fur him made her strange ly shy of mentioning him to even her dearest friend. It was a great surprise to her when Kate said to her once, half jestingly: ‘llow strange that you don't like Mr. Diusmore better! I have taken a great fancy to him, but have studious ly avoided being even pleasant to him, for rumor gave him to you; and, think ing him your special property, I did not want to ‘play with edged tools.' But, if you don't love him, I shall adopt different tactics—for I think he’s perfectly splendid!' Dot smiled sadly. “ 'What is meat to one is poison to another.’ How true those old adages are. I don't think he cares for me. He never looked at me before I became rich I wish old Jared Ingraham had left his money to someone else!’ ‘Jarad Ingraham,' said Kate mus ingly. ‘Where have I heard that name? Oh, I know. I have the dear est old friend out West, and it’s her love story which that mme has brought to my mind. Something happened to separate them when they were both very young, and she left all her friends and settled in the West. But she has always remained single, and to this day is true to the memory of her old love. By-the-bye, her name is most the same as yours, only it's Dorothy Ingraham instead of Dot.’ ‘Why,’ said Dot, ‘my name is Dor othy. They only call me Dot for short.' ‘I wonder if you and Miss Ingraham ai e related to each other? lam quite sure that Jared Ingraham was her lover’s name. If it was the same per son, doesn’t it seem strange that he should have left his money to a young chit like you ; begging your Ladyship's pardon, instead of to his faithful old love ? Dot's face was a study as Kate rat tled on. It fairly shone. ‘Kate,‘ said she, ‘I see it all. I am an interloper. Isn't it nice The will saidj ‘I give and bequeath to my I dear cuusiu Dorothy Ingraham,' that's EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, IS7S. all I can rfcmember verbatim, but that's enough. All the law terms in the world wouldn't make it any plainer to me. We all thought it strange that he should have left to me, when he had never paid me the slightest attention when he was but the lawyer said that to his knowledge there was no other person of that name* so I must be the one. Give me your friend's address, and Dll soon get the truth of the matter/ ‘l‘ll give it to you, of but you must first promise me not to say anything about it Until you are quite sure/ 'I will keep silence until you give me permission to speak/ replied Dot. She wrote at once to the old lady, and in due time received a reply which confirmed hei* suspicions. So she im mediately began to put things in train so Miss Ingraham should receive her rights. A month had hardly gone by when much to Dot's amusement, Mr. Dins more called and requested a piivate interview with her. She had noticed his growing fondness for Miss Bel mont's society, and half-expected the denouement. As she went into the room he rose to meet and for the first time Dot felt an emotion of sincere liking and respect enter her heart for hirm Under the influence of genuine feeling he seemed a different person to the plaus ible, polished man of the world who had tried to palm eff the semblance of love upon her, during bis unsatisfacto ry couftship; ‘Miss Ingraham/ he said, flushing as lie spoke, haVC come to make a con fession, and to ask vour forgiveness.— Not for withdrawing my suify for I know you never even liked, much less loved the unworthy man who stands before yon ; but for persecuting you with my unwelcome attentions. Under the light which a genuine passion lias shed upon my actions I see how con temptible they have been, and wish to apologize to you, and make my peace before I dare to speak to the young j aQ ’v I love, of my desire to win her for J \Cy wife. Will you forgive me ? Dot held outlier hand. ‘With all my A’eart, Mr. Dinsmore, and I shall always inspect you fur the franks manly part you have aO-ted at the last. You have my bt>\?t wishes for your success.' Mr. Ingraham was first very angry at Oram Dinsmore's defection, but when Dot said, decidedly, ‘I wouldn’t have married him if I bad remained single all my life/ he determined to give up trying to direct the course of true love, making a virtue of necessity —yet thinking himself all the while a model father. Dot was willing that her father should please himself with this delu sion so long as he withdrew his oppo sition to Philip's coming to the house. When a few months afterward, the real heiress, Miss Dorothy Ingraham, appeared upon the scene, unchantable persons said that Mr. Dinsmore had known of the mistake. But Kate Belmont, his betrothed wifeq bad the pleasant consciousness that she had Won his heretofore mer cenary heart while he thought Dot the true heiress, and that he values one glance of her bright eyes more than he did the whole of Dot‘s supposed thousands. The real testatrix was very much taken with her young namesake, and would not consent to take more than half of the property. The mistake about her legacy has been the means of drawing her into the society of a young relative of whose existence she would otherwise have been ignorant. It has proved very pleasant to her in old age to have such a treasure trove of warm human affection bestowed upon her, for young Dorothy loves her aged cousin very much, and is never better pleased than when entertaining her in her pretty for she is now Mrs. Philip Betrarrq and the happiest little matron under the sun. In a certain benighted part of the country may be seen on the outside of an humble cottage, the following in scription in large gilt letters: ‘Semi nary for Young Ladies.' This was, perhaps, too abstruse for villagers, as immediately underneath there is added in rude characters: ‘Aotey bene—also a gall's school.' ‘3‘iddy, is Miss J ulia at home?’ ‘Well, sur, if you are Mr. Adolphus Laudon, she is; if you are any of er genfe wau, she is not.' He was Mr. LandoD. WOMEN WHO SAVE. The Feminine Mania for Hiding Valuables* Mrs. Hansen put SSO in the oven of her stove one night, to keep it safe.— Next morning after breakfast the na tional debt had been diminished ex" actly that mucin A student of the curious would find it interesting to note the places in which women hide their money. One excellent and fru gal dame use to tuck her little savings away under the corner of the carpet. The tiny roll of greenbacks grew faU ter and fatter in the course of a year or two, when the day after it counted up s2soj the house took fire, burued to the ground, and again the national debt was diminished by a little roll of woman's pin-money. There was that other careful lady who used to hide her diamond rings between two teaN cups in the kitchen cupboard, some times behind a certain brick in the cels, lar, and again under the lining of an old hat. She had divers other places of safety for her jewels also, the only trouble being that she had so many hiding-places she occasionally forgot where she had last put her precious things, and about three months she would fancy she had been robbed, and the house would be turned inside out> and all therein made feel very uncom fortable until the missing gems would be found carefully tucked away in the folds of the bottom towel of the pile in the left-h&nd corner of the lower draw er in the clothes-press in the east end of the dining room. This periodical excite about Mrs. McGillicuddy’s dia mond rings w r as the only event winch broke *he monotony of an otherwise rather dull life iu a suburban resi dence. Shakspeare knew the soul of the sex when he made the “Merry Wives of Windsnr’' hide Falstaffin a basket of linen. Their idea is to hide things in places where people would net be apt to look for them. It is unusual, pet’" haps, for a woman to have much mons ey to take care of, therefore she hides it in an unusual place. An estimable lady used to hide her goll watch and pocket book under an inverted wash hand-basin in the kitch" en every night. A few days ago a New York woman put hec SBOO-diamond ring in the folds of a lace ebrtain. She put it there be" cause that was a place where thieves would not be apt to look for it. A sei yant, who was dusting the room, shook the curtain, and away went the diamoafl ring ou t °f the window, and now its owiiei mourns for it as one without liopoV A most worthy lady, not long since died at her home, not a thousand miles from Cincinnati, and after death,- the family found a large sum of money hid den away in an ancient bandbox, full of old hats and bonnets. It was her savings for several years and nobody knew she had it till after her death.— Whenever a woman dies, who, like John Gilpin’s wife, ‘had a frugal mind/ her anxious and affectionate heirs would do weli to look for her in all places in which money would not be at all likely to be hidden. Niglit Ail*. An extraordinary fallacy is the dred of night air. What air can we breathe at night, but night air 1 The choice is between pure night air from without and the foul from within. Most people prefer the latter. An unaccountable choice. What will they say if it is proved to be true, that fully one-half of all the diseases wc suffer from is occasioned by sleeping With our win dows shut ? An open window mest of the night in the year can never hurt any one. This is not to say that light is not necessary for recovery. In great cities night air is often the best and purest air to be had in the twenty-four hours. We could better understand sbutt : ng the windows in town during the day, for the sake of tne sick, 'ihe absence of smoke, the quiet, all tend to make night the best time for airing ! the patient. One of the [lightest medical author ities on consumption and climate has told us that the air of London is never so good as after 10 o'clock at night.— Always air your room then, from the outside air, if possible. Windows are made to open, doors are made to shut, a truth which seems extremely difficult hf apprehension. Every room must he ! aired from without, every passage from within. But the lower passages there 1 are in a hospital the better. After She Has Graduated. 'Chris/ in the Phrenological Jour nal has some sensible words to say about the relation of the ordinary ed. ucation of girls to their life after school. He says s ‘Girls are reared for the most pait in the belief that woman's chief and final destiny is to marry. This is the Only ambition cultivated. Parents, friends, and society at large, all tend to inculcate this principle. So the ed ucation of our girls goes on; a little smattering of the languages ; a little music ; a great deal of fancy work ; but not enough of anything to enable them to say : *1 hold within myself the power to gain an honorable livelihood by my own exertions.* There is ever the miserable sense of dependence even for thought. To be sure there are a few who have dared to step out'- side their allotted sphere, but these are tho 'strong minded and unfemi nine.* The superficial education finished, the daughter waits in the home circle for him who is to fulfill her destiny.— Perhaps he never cornCs, if so, ouly to deceive. Wh?t then ? Ah, it the par ent could only lift the veil and see ! A miserable life spent in complainings and bitterness of soul. Sometimes the mind and body both a wreck. And all for what ? Because, this hope gone, their education did not supply that which would satisfy the cravings of tho mind—an aim, a something tangi ble for which to work. Society is slow ly working out the problem of the sex es, and ere long the cause which we espouse will need not our poor pencil- We have listened with pleased incre dulity to the discussion of the question of woman's work and education, by the learned doctors of our colleges and universities. It is not they who can settle the question as to woman's mental capacity. Wc must answer it for ourselves. Parents must weigh well the obliga tions resting upon them, and see that the intellectual wants of their daugh ters are satisfied with proper pabulum Let thorn supply for ther daughters as they do for their sons, work which will satisfy not only physical but men tal cravings. It is not good, whole some, satisfying work that wastes en ergy and mental fiber, but rather the lack of it. A child fed on sweetness exclusively cannot be strong, and it is useless to bring up the present weak ness of woman's intellect as her normal condition, when her mental diet has ever tended to this end. Give the girls a chance and they will develop strength and character.— A thorough education, and special training with reference to self-support, cannot detract from womanly dignity. Give them an opportunity, then, to work out for themselves api ice and name. Then, if they he called to fill the divinely-appointed position of wife and mother they will fill it nobly. Strong, intelligent and self-sustain** ing, they will transmit to posterity a worthy heritage. But if, on the com trary, such be not their lot, and they be called to walkthrough life alone, they may still he fruitful of good works and crowned with richest blessings.. Ingenious but Faulty. A well-known Sacramentan whohad been out with “the boys’' until three o’clock in the morning, felt a trifle un easy as to what his wife would say up on the subject, and determined to adopt a little piece of strategy. He entered the house cautiously, noiselessly took oft his boots and made his way to the bedroom, lie was not so obfustica ted but that he knew it would bedan-* gerous to get into bed, so after disrob ing he took up a position by the side of the baby's cradle, and began rock ing it like a 49-er. His wife, aroused by the noise, discovered him, as it was part of his deep laid scheme that she should, and called out: ‘Why, what on earth are you doing there V ‘Doing?* he replied, keeping the kinks out of his tongue by an almost superhuman effort, ‘l'in trying to get this—baby asleep ! She's been crying half an hour and you've slept through it all!' His air of righteous indignation was well put on, but it wouldn't do—luck wos against him. ‘What do you mean ?‘ his better half sternly responded. ‘I have got the baby in bed here with me, and 6he hasn't cried tO'-uight ! When did you come home ?‘ Never stop to argue the point with an excited hornet. The hen becomes a rooster when the sun goes down. — Have one settled purpose in life, and if it be honorable it will bring you rc% ward. Some men are so awful slow that the only time they get ahead is when they buy a cabbage. ‘Mother, I heard sissy swear.’ ‘\\ hat did she say? > ‘Why, she said she was not going to wear her darned stockings to church.* ‘Can you read smoke raa?’ ‘What do mean, child?’ ‘Why, Pve heard some men talk about a volume ot smoke, and I thought you read any vol urne.’ * Every girl who intends to qualify for marriage, should go through a course of cookery. Unfortunately, few wives are able to dress anything but themselves. A captain of a privateer, who had been in an engagement, wrote to his owners that he received but little dam age—having only one of bis hands wounded in the nose. ‘I can't see how you can sit and eat while your wife is sick/ ‘You see, my dear fellow, it is not that I love my wife less, but that I love pancakes more/ • ‘So/ said a young gentleman to a beautiful young lady, at a party in Arkansas, ‘you won't take any of the sardines?' ‘No/ said she, ‘but I’ll take some of the grsased minnows/ A Pike’s Peaker writing to a Minnes sota journal, says the miners are very much discouraged in that region; they have to dig through a solid vein of silver, four feet thick, before they reach the {gold. —-♦♦♦ Faxan, of the Buffalo Republic , says that ‘women are callel the ‘softer sex’ because they are so easfiv humbugged. Out of every one hundred girls, ninety five would prefer ostentation to hap piness—a dandy husband to a me chanic/ ‘I say, Joe, how d'ye do; how's all the folk?’ 'Putty well; only the old man has got the miasma, and Sal has got an affection for some fellow; how is yours?' ‘Oh, so so, except the old man; he is gettingold and infernal/ An Irishman, in great fright and haste, rushed into Abernathy’s room, aud exclaimed: ‘Bedad, the .boy Tirn has swallowed a rat.’ ‘Then, bedad/ said the doctor, ‘tell the boy Tim to swallow a cat/ Bob (aged five)—l say, Fred, does it ever get hard times up at your house? Fred (aged six)—Oh, don't it just!’ Bob—Well, I do hope times'll be soft at Christmas, ever so soft. Fred—So do I—just as soft as mush. — Fifty editors in Maine recently went on an excursion. They made a com mon purse and bought a box of sar dines for dinner. In consequence of that reckless extravagance, forty-nine of them have since taken the benefit of the bankrupt act. An honest old lady in the country, when told of her husband’s death, ex claimed: ‘Well, I declare; our trou-* hies never come alone! It ain’t a week since I lost my best hen, and now Mr. Hopper has gone too, poor maul' ‘Come here, my little dear,' said a young man to a little girl, to whose sister he was paying addresses; ‘you are the sweetest thing on earth.' ‘No, I am not,’ she replied, artlessly; ‘sister says you are the sweetest.’ The queft* tion was popped the next day. TsO. 31.