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VOLUME VI.
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true love nowadays:
They mtft ct'bl the baU-roora’fl ftlaro,
And only this bad either noted,
That he this dark and she was fair,
When bicalhless in the waltz they floated*
Cut in that ins>; ait Cupid flung
A chain that bound their hearts together ;
&ke thought that Hybla tipped his tongue
Although he only praised the weather.
To hhtlhef spirit seemed divine,
Though still idio talked but commoii places
Iler accents breathed the tuneful Nine,'
Her face and figure all the Graces.
II ; s coat her critic eye approved ;
He owned her perfect in her bdd'ce ;
jttlt! if he to her a god be moved,.
To him no lers the swam a godde 1,
go when they danced it seemed to each
Theft bli. > had bummed its lullest measure
And when they sat in t inder speech,
Life held for them no equal plcdsure.'
So sitting pleased and bent to please,
Or whirhug through the gallop's ma:n,
Uncofaseionsly by swift degree i
ITiey s i: pped through all love’s sweet pi as< r i.
Ho brought her bou'Uon on the s f v* •;
He brought her sandwiches and salad—
With lieVe a hint of deep despair,
And tlieto a snatch of woetul ballad—
With pensive pauses, shifts abrupt,
And speak : ng gaps of conversation,
And so by turns they sighed and supped,
Ai;d slid irorn ices to flirt ilioii.
He squeezed her hand, she blushed and siglied;
( Her lips said “Fie !” but not her glances ;
lie t’o.il cf lovers that had died,
Of cruel maids in okl romances ;
He clasped bef* \va : st he side a kiss ;
Her eyr: still foiled her lips’ ‘How do v e he !’
They dropi>ed cold “Mr.” and formal
A id he was f rank and she was Mary.
Fifteen de lJ cious minutes pass and ;
Love’s star bed reached its culmination.
Twin souls they knew themselves at last,
Bom for each other from creation.
He swOte, ere half an hour went by,
She was his bosom’s only idol
is much she vowed ; with rapturous eye
The glad youth urged an c .rly bridal.
Ah, sweet, coy maiden, shame ! No more
Than tb's the modest Muse d'seovers—
'• hey parted at tho carriage door,
Firth’s loudest pair of plighted lovers ;
With kissei, tears, and vows to meet
They parted—and Hove’s Ilhnn jail ;
Next day sho cut him oia tile lift f eel,
And he, the false one, never knew it!
MI&UELLAJVY.
UNCLE MAURICE’S MONEY.
BY S T EPHEN BK'.NT,
‘Well, what is to be done?’ ques
tlori'ed A l by.
‘ldo nut know,’ answered Jid‘et*
despairingly.
‘I will tell you what to do/ I said.
The girls looked at uie inquiringly.
I sat on top of the stove—it was cold,
oi chursQ —because there were but
two rickety chairs ”i the room. I
continued:
‘Have you got any rtloney, Abby?’
a dime/
‘llieii buy a pan of charcoal, and we
will let our poor, little, starved sorls
float out into ctcir/ly on the smoke. ’
‘Don’t be a goose, Cl'Turd/ said
Juhet, impatiently, while Abby half
groaned.
'lf only uncle Jeffreys would send
us some money. It it so hard to HaVe
to starv'd.’
‘Never mind, Abby / I said, cheer
fully,‘if the rats haven’t eat it; there
k a crust of cheese in the cupboard/
Abby looked up
‘ls that really all, Clifford?*
' Vo the best of my knowledge, yes/
an uncomfortable luhip rising in my
throat. But uncle M&urice had cast
bn'our family just because poor mama
had married a poor man. 1 was nine
teen and tile youngest of the three
gills.
A dreary silence fell between us
after Abby’s last question about the
empty state of the larder. Juliet sat
with her head ou the table; Abby
gazed drearily but at the window; and
I—l was getting desperate when I
heard ‘Clio’ coming dp stairs. Clio
was Mrs. Jenkins, our landlady’s hired
servant, and you would ahVays know
when she came up stairs by the clank,
clank of her big shoes.
She opened our garret door and an
nounced:
‘A gentleman to see you’ens l ,’ and
looking out I saw tall figure, and a
handsome, brown-bearded face beyond
her, and 1 was so astonished I forgot
to get up olf the stuve, until the gen*>
tlernan.uame in and announced himself
Hugh Cha!oner,attoruey-at-law/ Then
1 remembered', but it was to'o late, and
though my cheeks br *ucd v/’i shame
J kept my scat. *
(3,np 4*jflfn tiff 2ft tt
Mr. Chaloner sat down, gave the
miserable little room and three shabby
riguios a comprehensive glance, then
said:
’You arc Frank Royal’s daughters?'
‘ i said Abby;
‘Tiicn yoti are very fortunate. Y r dur
ulicle, Mr. Jeffreys; has left you his foi
tune/
Juliet turned white, but Said notb
ing, while low under her brealh I
heard Abby whisper, ‘Thank God.‘
I was disposed to doubt the
statement. Uncle Maurice might be
dead, but it seemed impossible that he
left us his-property. The mart must
be mistaken or only jesting.
‘Are you Sure you are telling us the
truth?' [ asked anxiously.
Mr. Chaloner laughed.
‘Yes, I am quite sure; and to con
vince you I will send Mr. Grambling
around with the will.’
c Oli, no, it is not necessary/ I cried
quickly, the (act dawning upon my
bewildered rumd* that 1. had been very
fude. Mr. Chaloner rose to depart.
‘Will you have a check made out
this Miss Royal?* turning to
Abby.
Wes, sir.’
‘For w hat driionn;?'
‘1 ilty thousand dollars,' answered
my eldest coolly.
The check was made out, Mr: Chal
oner left, and tho three girls fell into
each othei’s arms and wept for very
joy. For several days I almost refused
to believe in our good fortune, think
ing it must be softening of the brain.
Rut I was convinced when we moved
into an up-town palace, and dressed
in silk and laces every day. Mrs. Uni
son, a aristocratic old lady,
lived with us and was our chaperone,
Companion and grandmother by adop
tion. Our friends w r ero as countless
as the sands on the seashore and tbey
cherished and pure, disinterested affec
tion for us, so they said. Of course,
uncle Mam ice's money had nothing to
do with i(. The thought was too base
for such noble minds as theirs.
Abby and Juliet were both angels
minus the wings; but T was truly of
the ‘earth, earthy.' While they de
lightfully fob in love and became en
gaged, I flirted and enjoyed my new
lile wiln a zest that* was highly amus
ing to Hugh Chaloner.
‘How splendid!’ I cried,when I viev. -
cd tile case and comfort around me.
‘No more back garrets, bid dresses,
and scanty meals, and to think thdt
this will last forever,’ and I gave no
thought to death, or old age, but tided
uy cup of pleasure to the brim.
Mr: Chaloner was our lawyer and
and if my lace ever flushed or
m3* heart-throbs grew quicker at the
sound of his voice, no one knew it-
One evening, nearly a year aftei* that
morning in the garret, Mr. Chaloner
asked me to be bis wife. I waved my
fan w ith a Grand Duchess air, and said:
‘No, Mr. Chaloner, I do not wish to
marry at aud wheii I do, it is
my duty to—to— *
‘Make a grand match?’
Wes.*
‘A duke, for instance,’ suggested rny
lover, coldly.
‘Yes; 1 think that would do.'
Hugh didn't tear his hair or threat
en to commit suicide because I refused
him. He even had that imperti
nence to laugh, and looking down at
me said:
‘You absiwd child! I doubt if you
will ever see a duke. I shall wait pa
tiently, for, of coiuse, we will marry
some day. I have felt it since I saw
you sitting on the stove that morning.*
Now, I had no good excuse for act
ing as I did. it was simply contrarie
ty. Hugh Chaloner was a noble man
ana in mv heait of hearts, I knew I
loved him, but Abby and Juliet calm
ly contented themselves, longed to see
me safely landed on tho shoies of mat*
rimony; hence I determined not to
marry, but to enjoy my freedom as
long as I pleased.
We w*ere going to have a double
wedding. Abby and Juliet were to
bo married on the same day, aud my
two sisters were deeply, truly happy.
One evening, just a week before
the wedding, Mr. Grumbling called
looking very grave.
‘I bring bad news, ladies,' ho said,
abruptly, ‘and it concerns your uncle.'
I felt a cold chill creep up rny spine .
‘Weil/ said Abby.
‘Air. Jeffreys left a later will; it has
just been found to-day and be left his
property to an orphan asylum/
Then there was a long silence, and
I questioned the reality of all earthly
tilings. Three white shocked faces
confronted (he lawyer.
‘it, cui aot bo true,' I c lei out at
last. ‘Uncle Maurice surely was not
so wicked.'
Rut it was true, and wo were as
poor as when we lived ru Mrs. Jeil
kins' back attic.
Abby aud Juliet accepted this re
verse of fortune veiy calmly, but 1
wept and refused to be comforted, and
took pleasure in hating uncle Maurice.
With a magnanimity worthy of praise
( Mr. Chaloner again came forward and
proposed, but pride made me reject
him this time.
‘No/ I said pioudly; ‘I woifld not
matrv you when I was rich, don't ask
mo to now/
Then I went up stab's aud cried un
til my noLe was the size of a ted-ciip.
My sisters naturally thought I would
make my home with them, but I had
not the icmotest idea of such a thing.
We had a warm discussion on the sub
ject one night, and I came off victor.
‘But what are you going to do, Ciifl?‘
asked Abby.
‘I am going down to Pickensville to
teach school and wear out all my fine
ry/
So alter the wedding I departed for
Pickensville. This highly interesting
village was composed of two dozen
houses, five stores, aud a set ot the
most respectably stupid people that I
ever saw.
The mild dissipation the Pickensvil
lians indulged in* when compared to
that I had just given Up, was like blue
skimmed milk to rich, red rue.
My life was a dreary sameness from
week to week. If I had kept a diary
it would have been as barren of events
as Mark Twain‘s on shipboard. Here
would have been an entry:
‘Eat my bieakfast, went to school
and whipped all the children because
they would obey me. Dismissed at
five o'clock, went home and put on one
of my prettiest diesses, and spent the
remainder of the day in the delightful
occupation of tormenting Josephus
Janes, the village lawyer.
Abby and Juliet vVxote regularly
each week, and as regularly begged
me to give yp my foolish pride and
come back to them, but I stubbornly
refused.
0 io morn' >g when I started to my
daily torture—teaching the youth of
Pickensville was a torture to me—l
felt so blue and spiritless, I longed to
lie down by the wayside, and neVet
rise any more.
AT through the day I inwardly
moaned over my lot, looking back re
gretfully to that yeaT of pleasure, that
lay like a rift of warm light across the
grayness of my life.
At recess, when with sever? l dis
tinctive yells my unruly scholars de
parted for their playgroiind, I put my
head down on the desk to have a good
comfortable cry.
The first tears liad just splashed
down when the door opened and Hugh
Chaloner entered. My heart throbbed
fast with joy, but I dried my eyes and
tried to appear as cool and calm as a
May morning, but I didn’t succeed far
‘You have been crying, Cliff,’ were
among the first words lie said to me.
‘I have not/ I cried indignantly.
‘Well, there are tears on ycur face
anyhow/
‘o—l—that—-is—'
‘You are not good at telling stifles/
lie interrupted with a laugh. Then he
looked'keenly at me, and said, ‘301!
are pale and thin, Clifford/
*tt is only the cool wind that makes
me look pale. I have splendid health
and a nice time/
‘lndeed!*
*Yes; Mr. Janes is so kind and agree
able/
Mr. Cba'oner laughed.
‘I am glad you are so happy, Miss
Royal, but 3*oll must congratulate me
now.'
‘What on?’ I asked, feeling m3 7
heaft sinking.
‘The Silver ton bank has broke/
‘Oh, Mr. Chaloner! And you have
lost ail your property? lam so sorry/
‘I am not if this last gives me what
I want,* and then lie suddenly, pas
sionately cried: ‘Clifford! Clifford! my
love I don’t let pride stand between us
any longer. Come and be my wife.’
‘Well, as you are as poor as I am,
I will/ I said slowly, and then ho drew
me to him and kissed to the hor
ror of old Miss Peters who happened
to come in just then.
So we were married and went on a
modest little trip to the seaside. One
evening as our little boat drifted idly
over the smooth, shimmering waters
of the bay, my husband proposed to
me a trip to Europe.
‘But what wiT we go on?‘ I
in a bevv Tiered wa.y.
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1878,
‘On land and sea/ was the provok
ing reply.
‘But where is the money to come
from? 4
Hugh laughed.
‘That is a secret/
‘Hugh/ I said, a faint glimmering of
the truth dawning on me, ‘you have
been deceiving me/
‘I have not/
fe/Yott said your property was all
gone/
‘No: I told you the bank was broke,
but I didn‘t say my money was in it/
smiling. Then be berlt over me and
tenderly said: ‘My darling, I loved
you so truly, I could not let foolish
pride part us. Besides, all is fair in
love and war, is it not?* And looking
into the handsome face, dearer to me
than any other ou earth, I confessed
that it was.
So we sailed out on the broad ocean
of life with Faith, Hope and Charity
for our guardian angels* and love to
shed light on our pathway.
Forty in a Duel.
The famous duel in which forty or
more gentleman were engaged, in
1828, is still remembered in Natchez*
Col. James Bowie, the famous fighter
and inventor of the knife which bears
his name, used to spend a great deal
of his time in that city. He was chal
lenged by a gentleman from Alexandra,
La., whose friends to the number of
forty or more ? accompanied him to
Natchez to see fair play, knowing that
Bowie was a desperate man and had
his own friends about him. All par
ties went upon the field. Tho com
batants took their places in the cen-
separated from their friends in the
rear or enough not to endanger them
with their balls. Behold the battle
array thus. Twenty armed Louisian
ians fifey yards behind their champion
and his seconds and surgeon; and op
posite theirq as far behind Bowie and
his seconds and surgeon, twenty armed
Mississippiaus. Behold the heights of
Natchez thronged with spectators, and
a steamer ri the river rounded to* its
deck black with passengers watching
with deep interest the scene. The
plan of fight was to exchange shots
twice with pistols, and to close with
knives, Bowie being armed with his
own terrible weapon. At the first
fire both parties escaped. At the
second the Louisianian was too
and took the advantage of Bowie, who
waited the word. At this Bowie*s
second cried ‘ foul play/ and shot the
Louisianian dead. The second of the
latter instantly killed the sla3 r er ol his
principal. Bowie drove his knife into
this man. The surgeons now crossed
blades, while, with loud cries, came on
the parties of friends, the light of bat
tle in their eves. Iu a moment the
whole number Was engaged in a fear
less conflict. Dirks, pistols and knives
Were U3ed with fatal effect until one
party drove trie other from the field.
I do not know how many were killed
and wounded in all, but it was a dread
ful slaughter. Bowie fought like a
lion, but fell covered with wounds.
For months he lingered at the Mason
bouse before lie fully recovered.— Mor~
rislduh (Tcnn.) Gazette .
Avoid and fill up all the'
spaces of thy time with severe and
useful employment; for lust easily
creeps in at these emptinesses where
the soul is and the body
is at ease; for no easy, healthful, idle
person was ever chaste if he could be
tempted. But of all employments,
bod.ly labor is the m >st useful, and of
the greatest benefit for driving away
the dev ! . °
I Shall Do as I Like*
There were two lads walking borne
together, and conversing about the
change that was soon to take place in
their circumstances, as they were short
ly after to begin business life as ap
prentices.
One of them, the only sun of a pros
perous lawyer, was going an ap*
prentice to a manufacturer. The oth
er lad was going to leai n a mechanical
trade, and he was to maintain himself
as well as he could on his small wastes.
Each had much to say about his future
career. The poorer lad wa§ telling
his companion how earnestly he meant
to apply himself to his trade, and how
resolute he was iu his determination to
become skillful in every branch of it.
The other, who was more concerned
about the opportunities lie should have
for enjoying himself, exclaimed, r I
shall do as I like V*
The month passed rapidly, as did
the succeeding weeks which necessa
rily transpired before our two young
frieuds were duly settled iu their new
homes.
The difference in their circumstances
was even greater than it had been be
fore ; but the old school-bo} 7 attach
ment drew them into occasional com
munication, and at iriegalar and
distant intervals the two lads would
meet.
'I told you I meant to do as I like,
Irank,’ said John Rayner, one evening
as they were walking in company.—
Tve got to know a jolly set of fellows,
nd they've learned me to smoke first
rate. Look here/ ho added, produc
ing a cigar, which he proceeded to
light and smoke. ‘I couldn't have
done that at home, old boy, even if I
had dared/
Poor lad ! Like many others lie had
strange ideas of what constituted true
manliness, and in seeking to ‘do as he
liked' he was rapidly paving the way
to become a slave t > a vile and injuri
ous habit.
But John Rayner wasn’t content
with becoming a slave himself; lie
wanted to drag bis old school-fellow
into the same course. More than once
he tried his persuasive powers, but
without avail, until one evening he re
minded Frank that tiie morrow was
thejfirst anniversary of his (Frank's)
being bound apprentice, and that there
could be no better time for ‘turning
over anew leaf,’ as he described it.
‘Come, Frank/ he said, ‘make up
your mind, and try a cabbage-leaf ci
gar to-morrow.'
Fdf a while Frank seemed disposed
to resist, but before the companions
seperated be closed the argument by
saying :
‘Well, I think I will allow myself
just one cigar a day/
‘Bravo!' exclaimed Rajmer. 'That’s
right, Frank—be a man, and do as I
do. You know I always told you I
meant to do as I liked/
When, once ill a wfoile the two for
mer school-fellows met, the interview
was brief, though l.iendlv enough.—
John generally wanted to know how
Frank got on with his cigar a day, and
was regularly assured that the allow'-
ance was alwavs adhered to, but nev
er exceeded.
‘I never see you smoking/ was Ray.
ner's remark on one of these occa
sions.
'Well, you see,' was the reply, with
a smile, ‘I prefer to keep my cigar to
myself at home. I can only afford one
you know, and I like to make the mo.it
of it.'
So years passed on, and the appren
tice days were ended. Young Rayuer
hdd formed extravagant habits, and
was heavily iu debt. These things had
grievously offended k his father, who
refused to risk his money by affording
his son the means of entering irto bus
iness for himself, and from that time
forward John Rayner lived an idle,
useless life, consoling hirnself with the
thought that his father would not live
forever, and that sooner or later the
money must become his own, when,
once more, he would Mo as he liked.'
One day he chanced to meet his old
school-fellow, near Frank’s lodgings,
and was iuvited to enter and sit awhile.
In the conversation that ensued Frank
told him of his circumstances, which
seemed far more promising than his
own.
‘l'm a sort of foreman,’ said he, ‘in
one of the departments of the factory
the same that I have been all through.
I mean to go on and qualify myself for
the post of manager, and p rhaps I
may some day get a partnership/
•But what do you do w th all those
books ?‘ asked Rayner pointing to
some well £ h.-d p'elves Up against the
wr/L
‘Oh, that library is my 'one cigar a
day," was the response*
‘What do you mean V
‘Mean just this : When you bother*
ed me so about being a man and learn
ing to smoke, I'd just been reading
about a young fellow who bought
books with money that others have
spent in smoke, and I thought I'd try
and do the same. . You remomber I
said I should allow myself only one
cigar a day 1'
‘Yes/
‘Well, I never smoked. I just put
by the price of a two-penuy cigar ev
ery day, and as the money accumula
ted I bought books; the bonks you sec
there.’ §
‘Do you mean that those books cost
no more Ilian that? Why there are
pounds and pounds of them/
‘Yes, I know there are. I had six
ye rs' more of my apprenticeship to
serve when you persuaded me to be a
man. 1 put the money I have told you
of, which of course amounted at two
pence ft day, to <£3 Os. lOd. a year>
or, £lB 5s in sirr’years. I keep those
books by themselves as the result of
my apprenticeship cigar money ; and
if you had done as I did you would b} 7
this have saved many, many pounds
more than that, and been in business
besides/
Each of these youths ‘did asholiked/
The difference wrsthut one liked self
indulgence, and the other liked to be
careful, studious and industrious.
Prescriptions for Fits.
Fon a Fir of Passion. —Walk out
in the open air. You may speak your
mind to the winds without hurting any
one, or proclaiming yourself to be a
simpleton. “Be not hasty in thy spirit
to be angry, for anger resteth iu the
bosom ot fools."
For a Fit of Idleness. —Count the
tickings of a clock. Do this for one
hour, and 3 7 0 u will be glad to pull off
your coat the next and work like a
man. “Slothfulness casteth into a deep
sleep, and an idle nr 1 shall suffer hun
ger."
For a Fit of Extravagance and
Folly. —Go to the workhouse, or speak
with the ragged and wretched inmates
of a jail, and andyoulwill be conviuc
ed
"Who mak i big bread of briatf aud thou
Must be couteut to lie forlorn,
“Wherefore do ye spend money for
that which is not bread? and your la
bor for that which satiafieth not?”
For a Fit of Ambition. —Go to the
churchyard and read the gravestones.
They will tell you the end of man at
his best estate. “For what is your
life? It is even a vapor that appear
eth for a little time and then vanisheth
away." “Pride goeth before destruc
tion and a haughty spirit before a fall."
For a Fit of Repining. —Look about
r
for the halt and blind, and visit the
bedridden, the afflicted and the deran
ged, and they will make you ashamed
of complaining of your light afflictions.
“Wherefore doth a living man com
plain?"
Fur a Fit of Envy. —Go and see
how many who keep their carriages
are afflicted with rheumatism, gout
and dropsy; how many walk abroad
on crutches or stay at home wrapped
up in flannel, and how many are subs
ject to epikqisy and apoplexy. “A
sound heart is the life of the flesh.
Envy is the rottenness of the bones."
A practical joker, a prudent man
withal, had gone to a cafe and ordered
a three-masted schooner cf beer, when
a friend appeals at the door and beck
ons to him to go out for a minute. The
intending drinker is afraid that in his
absence someone may get away with
the liquid, when a happy thought
strikes and he wraps around the
handle of the mug a scrap of paper in
scribed, ‘I have spit in this/ With a
light heart he hastens to the door, com
municates with his friend, and returns
to fmd written in another hand be
neath his warning, ‘So have 1/
We have known a lady who Was so
delicate she could rarely walk more
than a hundred yards without com
plaining, who would run up a frremeir
dous bill (the compositor is requested
not to set this word UU) without taks
ing a breath.
Common shoe blacking mixed with
castor oil, also the best black ink mixed
with the white of an egg, will give
ladies’ fine shoes color and shine with
out rubbing off on their dresses.
Handsome fire screens, table covers
and mantel decorations are made by
ornamenting black cambric with pic
tu-es and then vanishing the whole
A raiuing favorite—an umbrella.
~T .
A hanging garden—a jail yard. So
to speak
Nice tbmg for a hot day—A cool
thousand.
- ■+*
A spirit wrapper—The paper around
a bottle of whisky.
Bay windows are safe harbors at
night for little smacks,
’Women love flowers and birds. They
are, however, not so partial to swal
lows as the men are.
We have all heard of “patience on a
monument,” but physicians usually
plant their under one.—
When the pound master gets 50 cts.
for shutting up a vagrant hog, is that
animal fees-ance in office ?
■■■■■■ ■ - ■ -■
Did 3 T ou ever see a cow slip ?— Er.
Yes, and wc have seen a bull doze, toe.
Did you ever see a buck saw ?
Au exchange heads an article, ‘Some
Good Indians. It must refer to thoso
killed a year ago. They arc good
enough.
As they passed a gentleman whoso
optics were terribly on the bias, little
Dot murmured : ‘Ma, he‘s got one eyo
that don't go.
An Indiana girl says sho finds noth
ing so good for the complexion as rul
Lung her face on a young man's ves
The young man must be inside of i
though.
It is said that Edison is about to thro’
on the market anew corkscrew crimj
cr will twist tho hair of trustin
woman forty different directions at th
same time.
The definition of Webster of a lon
net as “a covering for the femal
head,“ ought to be remodeled into ;
“covering for the vision of mau iu tho
back 3cat of a theatre,
.
In ancient days the pitcher went
often to the well, but was broken at
last; nowadays the pitcher goes to the
base ball grounds, but gets his noso
broken just as of yore.
* .
In the lobby of an inn the following
inscription is painted on the wall in
conspicuous letters : ’‘No person will
get credit for whiskey in this house
but those who pay money down.' 4
A man may make ten dollars fo bus
iness transactions without going crazy
with joy, but this ean‘t be said of him
when he manages to dodge ahorse car
conductor and secures a lide gratis.
When a woman rises in the dead of
night, nowadays, and brains the fami
ly with a bludgeon or an axe, they call
it hysteria. The term is preferred to
emotional insanity and has the advan
tage of not being hackneyed.
- -
The funniest punctuation mark is
the ky-fuD # of course. Next.— White
hall Times . The queerest punctuation
murk is the peri-odd, to be sure. Next.
— Home Sentinel. No, thank yoiq we
are not so bold as-ter-nsk in ah fog an
other.—N. Y. Mail.
In answer to an advertisement in a
Chicago paper for a number of steady
girls to help on pantaloons, a daughter
of Mrs. Partington writes That a feU
low who cannot help on his own pan
taloons, ought to be ashamed'to advef
t : se for girls to do it for him/
An Austin ( Texas) bachelor being
twitted by some ladies with his single
state, and asked how it w 7 as that he
had never married, said: ‘I don't
know exactly how 7 it is, but I have al
ways felt an indisposition to marriage,
and I cant see why it should be, either
I sun ly don't inherit, for my father
and mother were both inariied.
SO. 37.