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VOLUME VII.
the old home.
It is not ft castle olden,
Standing in the sunlight golden,
Relic of the Past;
With a deep moat, mossed and lioary,
And my from bygone glory
O'er its ruin cast,
Rut a mansion, fair and pleasant,
kuuwu alike of peer and peasant
For its kiudly cheer;
With its glades and leafy covers,
ferny haunts ot loitering lovers,
And the shy wild deer.
Crimson blossoms ledly glowing,
Flickering shadows o’er it throWiiig,
Veil the lichen’s stain;
Sunset gleams of rose and amber,
Where the ivy tendrils clamber,
Flush each casement pane.
Lurks r.o ghost behind the arras,
Happy midnight dreams to harass,
Wakes no Banshee’s wail;
Tapestry, nor antique lumber,
Both its sunny hall encumber,
Shield nor suit of mail.
Morning wakes its household noises,
Busy footsteps, laughing voices,
4s in days of yore;
Burns its warm hearth too brightly,
Where the gay groups gather nightly,
Though it knows no more.
Hearts, by other loves supplanted;
Steps, that once its precincts haunted,
Hushed by mouut and sea;
Only my sad heart remembers
Flowery Junes and dark Deceoitjers
Spent, old home, in thee!
Shadows pace the garden alleys,
Wander with me through the valleys,
Join my woodland walk;
4ml tiy streamlets, willow-shaded,
Where the song birds serenaded,
Parted lovers talk—
Idly talking, idly dreaming,
With the sunlit waters gleaming
Golden at their feet;
While the fair-haired children plunder,
llosy-mouthed, with blue-eyed wonder,
Fruitage, wild and sweet.
When I stretch my hands in greeting,
Each familiar name repeating,
Straight way from my sight
Buck to angel bowers they vanish,
Even as beams of morning banish
Visions of the night.
MISCELLANY.
AFTER MANY DAYS,
Arthur St,. John had laid down his
pen, head and heart weary wondering,
alter all flic world-wide fame and pop
ularity lie iv;n gain’ng, the money he
w:\* making, w;is not a poor return for
the hard drudgery of brain toil in which
he had spent his days—wondering if
ever, like other men, find rest and hap
piness and peace in woman's love, real
living, loving w< man, instead of the
beautiful creations of his own fancy,
which hitherto had no rivals.
He had just laid dowu his pen, when
he heard Miss Chester's low, exquisite
voice in the adjoinng room—a voice
he had always thought the perfection
ot sweetly-icy passionlessness, but that
now startled him with its thrilling in
tensity—that astonished him beyond
measure by its utterance :
"Do I admire him? Nita, don’t
quite despise me that I confess to you
what I dare hardly say to my own
heart, I would willingly forfeit five
years of my life to be Arthur St John's
wife!'
To say he was astonished beyond
measure but faintly expresses the feel
ings he experienced when he heard
Hora Chester's plain positive asser
h°n, that she, heiress of an estate
worth nearly ten thousand a year, cov
eted him for her husband who never
once had given her a thought in such
a direction.
Dut naturally, this betrayal of her
heart, set him to thinking with new,
strange thoughts, thoughts that fired
his ambition afresh ; thoughts that
•uoused all his surpise and aatonisn-
Ill( - nt ; thoughts of a sweet, fair face
he had once on a time caught himselt
thinking of-—Nita Bellington, to whom
Chester had given her trust of
confidence.
that Arthur St. John had ever
actually cared fur Miss Behington—he
nd been too much in love with his
literary life for that; but of a'l the
'' nnon he ha 1 ever seen or met, she
1 * come nearer to his ideal of what
a woman— a wife should be.
he sat there at his desk—such an
snit desk—in one of the handsorn
•d gueat chambers, where Miss Ches
r had him installed on his arri
fpje Eastman fpmegl
val, with a dozen ether guests for a
months visit, it occurred to him, as it
never had occurred to him before, that
Miss Chester had shown him many
delicate little preferences, friendly
courtesies he saw now in the true light
of revelation by her own words.
He saw now that there had fallen to
his lot a good fortune that would make
him the envy of scores of men. He
understood now there was irt waiting
for him a destiny that had come to him
without his seeking. Hut what a des
tiny. For he knew he never could love
Flora Chester, for all the golden treas
ures with which she could weigh him
down.
He knew that if he accepted this
golden glory held out to he would
forever forfeit the happiness of which
he had all his days dreamed—ha ipiness
of loving and being loved.
lie k new that this woman was proud,
haughty, reserved, with all hergener
osity, her curious fancy for him, and
ho knew that in her he would not find
one of the attributes, personal or intel
lectual, he desired in bis wife.
She was very plain, lie never knew
how bitterly she had, time and again,
lamented that fact, as she stood before
her {glass, conscious that all the costly
adornings at her disposal would never
make her more than the plain woman
she was, with her small, white face,
pale blue eyes, thin, straight lips,
coloiless hair, that was neither luxu
rious nor graceful, and spare, angular
form.
And Aithur St. John was so hand
some ! It was that at which had at
first attracted her ; his splendid lice,
and head, and physique, to which he
added the rare charm of manner and
the grace of talent.
He was so kingly, jot splendid, and
she so plain, so unattractive ; yet she
had dared love him, and he had dis
covered that she did.
Several minutes after he had heard
her rapidly-uttered,impassioned speech
flic rustle of si ken skirts passed h s
door, told him that the ladies had gone
down stairs, the two women, one of
whom he might have, with all her
wealth, just for the asking ; the other—
and for the first time there came to
him the convincing knowledge that
all these days he had been crowning
Nita Belliugton queen of his heart—
to whom Miss Chester had gone with
her confidence.
He rose from his chair at the desk,
and began a leisurely saunter through
the three rooms of the suite, noting as
he had never noted before, the costly
elegancies that were very delightful
to his aesthetic taste and critical eyes.
And twenty-four hours later Flora
Chester went to Niiu’s room and told
her, with gleams of exquisite delight
shining from her eyes, that it seemed
as if Heaven had corne down to her,
for Arthur St. John had asked her to
be bis wife.
While Nita listened, her sweet face
turned just a trifle pale, her heart
beating painfully for several minutes.
‘You ought to be happy, Flora. You
will have nothing in the world to wish
for—nothing/
Then when she had locked her door
on Miss Chester an hour later, she laid
her bonny head on her pillow, that no
one should hear the sobs that shook
her from head to loot.
‘lf he only could have cared for
me 1*
Seveial days later the party atMay
bury broke up, and Nita went home,
her pitiful secret well concealed, even
from Arthur St. John’s eyes, who had
already come to think it was a grand
mistake he had made.
Yet he took no pains to unmake it,
because the temptation was too bright
ly golden. And so one sunny autumn
day saw his destiny fulfilled—the day
he and his bride started on their wed
ding tour
The days went by, and the weeks
widened into months, every successive
hour bringing to Arthur St. John's
wife the heart-sinking discovery that
her husband cared nothing for her,
heart-sinking, for Flora St. John wor
shipped him with a tenderness, a devo
tion that was so truly womanly in its
unwavering patience and loyalty.
Little by little the appalling truth
had been forced on her, until she real
ized that there seemed no probability
of any future accord for them, until
one day, in almost desperation at his
listlessness, his unsympathetic cool
ness, the bloke through her pride and
patience into a storm of painted re
proach.
‘I know perfectly well you never
have loved me, but is even that an ex
cusc for your aversion to my society .
If you would rather be free of me, say
so. I will go ; you may have every
thing. Nothing is valuable to me since
I learned you hate me/
For a while she was nerved into an
excitement of regretful sorrow, that
brought f>rth its fruit of renewed at
tention, a harvest caused by tier touch
ing self-abnegation ; but there was no
true principle of affection at the bot
tom, and h s defection begaii again.and
then Flora quietly put on her hat and
shawl ana walked out of the house, and
for five years he never heard or saw
sound or sight of her.
Her absence was a relief at first ;
then when he realized how wondei ful
ly generous she had been, how she had
left him sole owner and possessor, re
lief changed to shame, and all his man
hood rose in arms, and he refused her
bounty, and left Maybury alone to the
servants, and went away, no one knew
where.
At first lie w r ent abroad, revelling in
freedom, and getting away fio-.n his
morbid attacks of gloomy regrets and
useless fancies—fancies which, as the
years went by, took more and more
the shape of Nita Bellington, until one
day when he was strolling idly through
a silent, deserted Venetian palace, he
felt for the first time in all Ins life Fate
had been kind to him to Dring him face
to face to her—with her same sweet
and bonny, dusk haired head, and
tender, velvety dark eyes--Nita Bei
lington still, indeed, and truth and
name
After that it was very easy to be
happy. The woman he loved was
with him. It was enough that such
was the tact, and he was able some
how to keep himself from any qualms
ot p tying wonder about the woman
who vas not with him—the woman
who loved him.
Away off* in the remotest parts of
upper Get many, where Miss Belling
tou’s party had been enthusiastically
touring at the time, the news o St.
John's wife had never reached Nita,
and now, when she saw how pointedly
he avoided any remarks of her, her
dc’icacy forbade her mentioning her.
Until one day St. John told her all
about it, entering into fullest, minutest
details, and then asking her if she
would dare promise to make the rem
nant of liis life happy if he should se
cure legal freedom, as be felt he had
long been morally free,
Nita listened, bewildered, not know
ing whether to be most sharply pained
or gladdened ; then all her exquisite
womanhood rose in her as she made her
decision.
‘Find Flora, Mr. St. John—find her
and if she has ceased to care for you--
as you think you have ceased t> care
for her—biing her to me, and let her
tell me I may—care for you.
So Arthur St. John went on his
strange quest, over land and sea. in
city and country, to find the wife that
was no wife.
For months he steadfastly kept to
his purpose, pursuing his self-marked
out course, fired by the reward held
out, eager for the light of Nita Belling
ton’s eyes, the sweetest of her glad
smiles.
One day as he was leisurely walking
along the quiet street of an obscure,
picturesque Normandy village, scan
ning every face he saw with the way
that had become habitual to him, he
stopped suddenly, aghast, at sight of a
face so like his own—the face so sweet,
so fair, of a child who was playing at
the gate of a romantic little cottage.
The child must have seen the unusual
interest in his regard for her, for she
looked gravely at him, and it made his
very heart thrill to meet eyes so exact
ly like his own.
What if—could it be possible—could
it be possible ? And amid all tne
thoughts that went careering through
bis fancy, was one of swift, sudden
regiet and pity for this little girl's
mother. His voice trembled as he spoke
to h3l*.
‘What is your name little one ? Wilj
you tell me ?’
And every pulse in his body seemed
throbbing in mad excite ment as the
answer came sweet, shy accents:
'Alice St. John.'
His child—his daughter ! And he
—Oh, God !—he searching for her
mother, that he might take from her
her repudiation of him. His own lit
tle one—and he, her father, thinking
of a woman who was not this sweet-
C3 T ed child's mother.
And in the clear light of little Alice’s
eyes all the pitiful horror of it now came
to him ; all tho lack of sympathy and
tenderness this child's mother had suf
fered; all the lonely burden of fears
and woes she had borqe these misera
ble years.
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JANUARY 23, 1879.
This child’s mother bis wife ! And
he —he who had been caring for a dif
ferent womaiij who had been actually
bargainingfor his wife's loyalty to him.
His vo : ce trembled as he asked the
child where her mother was—her
mother, his wife.
And when he walked into the dainty
little parlor, to mmt Flora face to face
—Flora, whose plainness and angu
larity and unattractiveness had all
vanished before the mysterious charm
maternity lent her—Flora, his wife,
with her sweet, almost terrified sur
prise, through old pas
sionate idolatry shone brightly as
ever.
‘Oh, Arthur! Arthur!’
And in that blessed moment was
born in his heart abiding affection and
tenderness for her who had alwavs
loved him—and who had sacrificed all
things for him—who found her unex
pected reward at last.
Shortly after, Arthur St. John wrote
to Nita Bellington, bravely, kindly
and manfully ; and, for all the wrench
of pain her heart suffered, there still
was womanly thankfulness to offset it
thanklillness that Arthur St. John
had found at last a haven for his heart.
Fearless for Truth.
The graphic pen of Rev. Edward
Eggleston has sketched, with vivid
touches, the typical ‘circuit preacher;’
but so far as we knew he lias never
written anything of the life and expe
riences of Elder John Easter, of Sus
sex county, Virginia,
John Easter, like all the pioneer min
isters of last century was a man of
fearless character, and tremendously
in earnest in his work. Without the
rude bluntness and oddity of Lorenzo
Dow, and the rough-and-ready muscu
larity of Peter Cartwright, he possess
ed their courage, persistency, and in
vincible convictions; and in the pulpit
or oo the p’alforrn, uttering divine
truth, he was a “son of thunder/’
His preaching was plain, and the
opposition kiudb and by it was ruffianly,
and sometimes personally violent.
O uco, while he was preaching on
•‘The Cowardice of Sin/’ the ringlead
er of a gang who had sworn to break
up his meetings, took a conspicuos
place near him, and in sight of the
whole congregation, brandished a club
at him, purposely to interrupt his ser
mon.
The minister was among strangers,
and too many of the crovd evidently
were afraid of or in sympathy with the
bully. Mr. Easter stopped, spoke to
him, and asked him to put away his
club and be quiet. The man only grew
more insolent, and then the preacher
rebuked him severely.
Tiiis enraged him, and he rushed
upon Mr. Easter, with his club uplifted
to striKe. The preacher stood un
moved.
“1 am ready to spill my blood here,
if that must be,’' he said, “but you
will harm me at the peril of your soul.'
The blow was ahned, but it hung in
air, the threatener’s eyes glaring fury.
“Strike me if you dare to,’' said the
fearless minister, ‘'but I am God's ser
vant, and He will avenge His own/’
Completely outfaced, his assailant
lowered his arm and sneaked away,
like the follow who once undertook to
throw stones at Whitlie’d.
“Said I not the devil is a coward?’’
remarked Mr. Easter, calmly resuming
his sermon. This bold turn conquered
the congregation as thoroughly as the
scene had excited them. None of them
disturbed him again, and many of the
throng who followed his discourse to
its close suffered themselves to be led
to the feet of his Master.
In another place, while Mr. Easter
was leading a camp-nmeting service, a
turbulent ruffian actually seized him
by the breast of his coat, and raised a
horse-whip over his head, at tne same
time pouring forth a volley of profane
abuse. The undaunted preacher ut
tered a lew wordß of warning, and
lilting his eyes to heaven, prayed for
tiie man who assaulted him. John
Easter could pray like Elijah the pro
phet, and .is the awlul appeal went up,
the ruffian with 'he whip turned and
fled as if he saw all heaven armed
against him.
Incidents like the above, often told
of good men merely to illustrate their
powerful presence and heroic mien and
manner, really reveal the moral c nv
ardice ol sinners. He who insults any
thing sacred, forfeits moral protection,
and all wicked men are moral outlaws.
Their weakness is in being such, and
knowing it.
'"To see ourselves as others s *e us/’
would not be half so disagree*ole as
t*> have others see us as we ready arc,
Ran Away to Sea.
The effect of bad books, such as by
wild, improbable stories excite the
imagination of boys, may be seen in
the following story of romance and
and reality, told of a boy named Rich
ard Fielding, who recently arrived at
Baltimore in a Nova Scotia schooner-
Young Fielding is about fifteen years
ot ago, with a bright, handsome face,
pleasing manners, and of evident in
telligence. His father is a wealthy
land owner in Hampshire, an English
gentleman of family and position.
Richard had been sent to school in
Dorsett, where some of the improbable
stories detailing the adventures of
young boys who run away from home,
fell into his hands and were eagerly
read. The natural result followed.
He determined to run away and go
to sea. Tying up the customary bun
dle, he slipped away from school and
went to Liverpool. There he found
it impossible to ship in any capacity;
but determined to go to sea at all haz
ards, lie slowed hiuself away in the
hold of a Mediterranean fruit brig
bound to Messina.
lie was soon discovered, and after
undergoing no end of abuse from the
captain, was s*t to the dirtiest kind of
work, swabbing the decks, scraping
the masts, and tarring down the rig
ging, and on every calm was put over
the side to scrub copper.
Before arriving at Messina, he was
one day tarring down the jib stay (
swung in a boatswain's chair, when
the man who was attending to the
hoisting r-pe carehoigly lost his hold,
and Dick was precipitated to the deck,
falling on an anchor stock and on the
rail.
His arm and leg were broken, and
he bounded into the water. He was
rescued, however, and after being free
ly cursed by the captain for the deten
tion to the vessel which the accident
l ad caused, he was passed below,where
without any medical treatment, he was
permitted to stay till the vessel arrived
in port—fortunately only twenty-four
hours afterward
He was then sent to the hospital,
where incompetent physicians dressed
his limbs, and alter three months he
was discharged, penniless and without
friends, and a cripple.
All the British consul could do was
to get him a berth, which, owing to
the fact of the boy's crippled limb,
was a difficult tiling to do, but which
was finally accomplished, and Richard
sailed as a cabin boy in an American
bark for Rio. His situation in this
vessel was more tolerable, but on ar
riving at Rio, the bark was condemned
as unseaworthy, and Richard was a
second time cast adrift in a foreign
land.
lie finally shipped as cook in a West
India trading schooner, where he got
more kicks than money, and in this
vessel came to Ha'ifax, where he ship
ped in a schooner that afterwards came
to Baltimore with potatoes.
Previous to sailing, he wrote to his
mother, telling her the name of his
vessel His father cabled to Halifax
and ascertained his destination, and
then cabled to a friend in Baltimore to
look out for Richard on his arrival.
Dick came there in the schooner Bertha
Ellen , after a thirty days’tempestuous
voyage.
His father's agent met him, tele
graphed his father, provided him with
anew outfit of clothes and a passage
to Liverpool by the White Star line
steamer, sailing recently.
And a lew evenings ago Richard
left for New York to take the steamer,
a wiser boy, a cripple for life, and one
not likley to again be filled with glow
ing enthusiasm at th<- stories of writers
af melodramatic fiction.
Sulphur for Diphtheria.
Mr. J. S. Wiles, a surgeon of Thorn
combe, Dorset, writes to the London
Time-? that aft- r two cases of malignant
diphtheria out of some nine or ten he
had been call and to attend had proved
fatal, the mother of a sick child showed
him an extract from an American pa
per concerning a practitioner who used
sulphur to cure the diseas-*. Accord
ingly used milk of sulphur for infants
and flowers of sulphur for older chil
dren and adults, brought to a creamy
consistency with glycerine ; (lose—a
teaspoonful or more, according to age,
three or four times a day, swallowed
s'owly f and application of the same to
the nostrils with a sponge. Result
he did not lose a case there or else*,
where, and he succeeded in saving life
when the affection had almost blocked
pip throat.
Touching Scene.
We need not seek amonj the select
classes to discover the finest poetry of
sympathy. The Detroit Free Press
publishes this affecting instance of true
feeling in the hearts of the lowly :
One day three or four weeks ago, a
gamin was run over by a vehicle on
Gratiot Avenue and fatally injured.—
Alter he had been in the hospital lor
a week, a boy about his own age and
size, and looking as friendless and for
lorn, called to ask about him and to
leave an orange. lie seemed much
embarrassed, arid would answer no
questions.
After that he came daily, always
bringing something, if no more than
an apple. Last week, when the nurse
told him that Billy had no chance to
get well,the strange boy waited around
longer than usual, and finally asked if
lie c<>uld go in. lie had been invited
to many times before, but had always
refused. Billy, pale and weak, and
emaciated, opened his eyes in wonder
at the boy, and before he realized who
it was the stranger bent close to his
face and said, with moistened eyes :
‘Billy, can y<-u forgive a feller ? We
was alius fightiu’ and I was too much
for ye, but lam sorry. 'Fore ye die
won’t ye tell me ye have no grudge
agin me ?'
The young lad,‘then almost in the
shadow of death, reached up his thin
white arms, clasped them around the
other** neck and replied:
‘Don’t cry Bob—don't feel bad, I
was ugly and mean, and I was heav
ing a stone at ye when the wagon hit
me I'll forgive ye and I'll pray for
both o’ us.'
Bob was half an hour late the morn
ing Billy died ; when the nurse took
him to the shrouded corpse, he kissed
the pale face tenderly and gasped :
‘ D—did he say anything about—
me V
'lie spoke ol you just before be died
—asked i f you were here,' replied the
nurse.
‘And may I go—may I go to the fu
neral V
'Yon may.'
And he did. He was the only mourn
er. llis heart was the only one that
ached.—No tears were shed by others,
and they left him sitting by the new
made grave with heart so big he could
not speak.
If under the crust of vice and igno
rance, there arc such springs of pure
nobility, who shall grow weary of doing
good ?
What a Mule dan l>o.
This mule looked like he was 138
years old, and he was dead standing
on his feet. He was hitched to a pine
bodied spring wagon, with a high
dashboard. The “team*’ was standing
on the levee in mute silence, while the
old darkie who ‘ f driv” it went aboard
the wharf-boat. A tramp could make
a barrel of money shilling pictures of
that mule, labelled “Patience/’ His
long, flabby ears hung down each side
of his head like window awnings with
the rods out of them. His face wore
a sober look, while out of his mouth
hung a tongue eight inches long. Ilis
tad hung down from the rear end of
his hurricane root like a wet rope, and
his whole body seemed as motionless as
death itself. Presently a red-headed
boy with atijold boot in his hand came
up in front of him, an I lo iking in his
face saw that the mule was asleep.—
He walked around, climbed up that
wagon, leaned over the
lifted that mule’s tail, and quietly tied
the boot thereto. That mule woke
up so quirk that lie kicked the boy and
the dashboard twenty feet into the air
He didn't step there. He changed the
position of his ears hauled in his tongue
and planted his fore feet and his hea l
between his knees, and from the fore
shoulders to the tip of his trunk was
in a lively motion, and he didn't look
like he was more than two years old,
the w iy he was kicking that old wag
on-body into kindling wood with his
heels. He had it all to himself, and
was doing finely when the old darkie
rushed up the hill, got in front of him,
ana grabbing him by each ear, shout
ed, “Whoa ! I tell you ! What's de
matter wid you ? Whoa-up !" and
looking around at the crowd, yelled
“Will some o' yer gentlemen git that
er boot leg out while I hole him ? kase
the waggins mine, and I jes’ borrowed
demulc ? r But noone interfered and
when we left, his heels had almost
readied the toll-gate, and the old ne
gro was still yeiling “Whoa l'*
Pastime—When the other fellow has
the two Lowe's and the aoo of trumps.
A noisy fellow annoys a fellow.
The best illustrated paper out —a
bank note.
Prize fighters show each other mark
ed attention.
Even a blacksmith's bellows some
times come to blow.
Nothing makes a person laugh so
much as anew set of teeth.
The best band to accompany a lady'
vocalist—a husband.
If you've got a bad wife don't ‘IU
quor.' It does no good.
——
"W by is it blush like a little girl?
Because it becomes a woman.
A ooy who was spanked said the
sensation was thrilling in the extreme.
Those who “swore off’’ last New
Ye ar and stuck to it can now resumo
with Secretary Sherman.
Persons who write anonymous let
ters for publication should send fool
names to the publishers.
The average woman is composed of
242 bones, 169 muscles, 22 old news,
papers, and 210 hairpins.
In the bright lexicon of the modern
fanner there is no such word as flail.
All the thrashing in done by machine
ry.
Mrs. Partington declares that sho
does not wish to vote, as she fears that
shs could not stand the electrical
franchise.
When it comes to business, folks
who theorize about love are very much
like those eminent lawyers who always
lose their own cases.
Edison thinks he can light a theatre
for $4.60 a night; but if the receipts
are only $4.60 where will he the gain
over the present syste n?
‘Pants for ss?' said a seedy looking
cnan, reading a sign in the window of
a clothing store he was passing. ‘So
do I; I never panted so for $5 in alll
my life.'
It was Emerson who declared that a i
man ought not to be a slave of his
yesterdays. Quite true—nor yet of *
his to morrows. Let him rather bo
master of his to days.
A company of in naming
their new town, called it
because, as they said, that’s the only
place where peace, prosperity and
happiness are always found.
The difference 'twixt tweedledum
and tweedledee is illustrated in the
fact that the rich man with a great ap
petite is called an epicure, and the
tramp with a great appetite is called
a glutton. }
The moon is just the thing for coory
hunting or sleigh-riding, but it isn't
worth much for gathering chickens or
talking ab ut the greenback movement
over the front gate with another fel
low's girl.
A gentleman, rejoicing in the royal
name of Stewart, felt considerably as*.
tonished the other day when a friend’
slapped him on the shoulder and ex
claimed: ‘Coma along; you're Stew
art's body, ain't you?*
‘How to break up a setting hen,'
was a recent query before a Farmer’s
club. For hens afflicted with that
form of insanity a sledge hammer is the
only eff otual remedy. Any one who
recommends a milder remedy is a quack.
‘I 11 never do a kind act again,'sigh
ed Dr. Drood the other morning. ‘1
just gave a tattered and half starved
looking individual half of my fortune,
and he went right around and invested,
it in a schooner of beer.'
An old toper, hearing some ladies
discussing the wonderful fact that a
baby can say ‘No' several months be
fore it can say ‘Yes,’remarked: ‘Well,
ladies, you see that’s 'cause babies
ain't never asked if they'll take some.*
thin'.’
'Be ever ready to acknowledge
favor,' says a writer. We are, sir; wo
are. What troubles us is that on one
side we are completely loaded down
w ith leidiness, while on the other side.
oppo r t unity is painfully scarce.
NO. 4.