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VOLUME VII. jm —- ---- 7$»V X ik- v — V Farmer’s Five Daughters. BY CAKK1E CAHKANDRA. Five daughters—four of them engaged— Good Heaven! I shall go mad! For such a surfeiting of love No parent ever bod. The very atmosphere is charged With it; no matter where I ffci about the house I trip Upon some whispering pair. At evening, when I take my pipe And seek a quiet nook To read a daily journal or Home new and tempting book, I ope, perhaps, the parlor door, When a familiar sound, Quite unmistakably, suggests It is forbidden ground. Hu, then, more cautiously turu To our reception room, Hut, !o! again upon my ear, From its romantic gloom, Comes softly, yet with emphasis, That warning, when I start And leave, as Lady Macbeth wished Her guests would all depart. My next resort is then the porch, Where roses trail and bloom; Ila! is it the echo that betrays The joys of yonder room? Ah, no! a startled “cluinge of base*’ Reveals the presence there Of t’upid’a votaries, and alas! There’s still another pair, “Rut sure,” I think, “rny library WiU be a safe retreat,” So there at once, with quickened step, I take my quickened feet. Vain hope! that warning sound agaiu Breaks on my listening ear. Thunk Heaven! iny youngest hath not yet Attained her thirteenth year. Hark! there she is, and bless my heart That popinjay, young Lunn, Is at her side. I do believe That she, too, has begun. Oh, re! who love to sit and dreim Of future married joys, Pray Heaven, with i arnest fervor, that Your girls may all be boys. MISCELLANY. Ail Old 31 aid’s Romance. BY JENNY WHEN. The announcement of my father’s : nteiided s coiul marriage had proved t groat shock to me ; but the fact that I was engaged myself, and soon about leave the homestead, softened it, so that I could almost rejoice with him in his'new happiness—the more so that spite of all prejudices, I soon grew to dearly love .the sweet win¬ some young wife (her years scarce out¬ numbered mine) who seemed to have brought back his lost youth—loved her so well that when, one short year after their wedding, the idolized hus¬ band and father was brought home cold and dead, hawing (been seized with apoplexy iu his office, I forgot my ow« grief in rny effort to comfort her. My wedding-eay had been fixed for the month following the terrible ca¬ lamity. Everything for weeks past had been bustle and preparation, for Roy Rollins, my betrothed, intended mak¬ ing his future in a new country, and I had loved him too well to let him go alone. 1 thought so little of myself that, springing from my bed one bright spring .rooming, and glancing at the •calender hanging in my room, I start¬ ed to see if it was the date appointed for rny marriage—a date by me never loin forgotten a day when, instead ol festive mirth, reigned bitter sorrow; mstead of the bride s joy, thernothei s nguish ; instead ot life s cup of bliss, the diegs of death ; ami at its ciose, " iUl tlj " * ,m 8inking l ° ltS rCSt 1 heM ’ ■presetdd to my heart the little stranger, my wee sister, who looked at me with my dead father’s eyes, and who, poor, ! >ttlc helpless thing, was mine now— mine only—since the young mother had had time but for one fleeting glance of love, one whispered prayer. •‘Do for my child, Beatrice—for his sake and for mine!’ She is yours ; I give her to you.. Remember, we sac I'ifice all things, nor call it sacrifice* for our own V 1 his was all ; there was a short sigh *»nd the soul sped upward. My father h id gained his wife ; but I—oh, how changed was everything for me ! Heart and hands were so bnsy it: the days that followed that I scarcely tzc l it, until, when baby was some two .nt.ger I'lunthg deter old, his Roy going told me he could no ; that ho must fpities have the ceremony performed quietly at homeland be married without fur tlier delay. What was to be done with the baby ? It was this thought which flashed like lightning through my brain. She was a delicate child, who required constant care. Already, Roy was complaining of the drain upon my time and health* The long, fatiguing journey, the hard ships to which we would probably be exposed, would prove fatal. The phy sicians had said she only could live if guarded us the rarest hothouse plant, and here by my side my lover sat, un. conscious of the chaos which reigned in my thoughts. How strength was given me to un¬ fold rny resolve I know not, nor how and when that resolve took place; but at last I rna !e Roy understand that he must go without me—that I must stay at home and wait. lie pleaded, he prayed, alternate, ly in love and anger, but I stood firm. ‘Hod grant it may not be many years,’ 1 said, ‘ere you can comeback with this wonderful fortune made.— Ethel will be a big girl then (so I had named her) and she and I will both be waiting for you.’ So I spoke, as bravely as I could ; though when the time came, when my own bursting sobs mingled with agony, and the heart upon which I leaned 1 could feel was throbbing so slowly and so heavily beneath my head; when hot, burning ki-gt s fell like lain upon my lips and cheeks ; when I stretched out my arms for one more embrace, to find only emptiness ; called aloud, and only the echo of rny own voice returned to me. Then my bra¬ very forsook me ; then on my knees I wrestled with my anguish ; then I cried aloud 1 hut the cup was too bitter I could not, could not drink it. A child’s wailing cry aroused me.— Was it heaven-sent? A child’s needs demanded my attention. The little one laughed in my face. I stooped and kissed it, and the first drop of cumfurt stole into my heart. Baby Ethel ! How I grew* to love her, as the weary, weary months which followed lengthened into years, until •nyijahy was no longer baby, except to me. My care had been rewarded. The delicacy which characterized her infan¬ cy no one would have suspected in the after years; and as one by one the bud unfolded its perfect leaves, as it burst into bloom, I could well be proud of the one flower in rny otherwise bar. ren garden. I had been but twenty when my lover folded me for the last time to his heart, and Ethel now wanted but four years of my age then. Sixteen long years since I had bidden Roy good by! Hfs letters had never failed me. Disappointment had been his lot ; re¬ turn seemed impossible. Ah, bad I known how long would have been the waiting, could I have seen him go? I was but thirty-six, but I looked fully ton years older.— Threads of gray were creeping in my hair ; weeping and wakeful nights had stolen the brilliancy from my eyes, the flush from my cheek ; sorrow had laid its mark upon me—until, one bright, blessed morning my youth came back agaiu. A letter from Roy lay at my break¬ fast plate. It lay untouched until I could feast on it alone ; and what a feast was every word, since it tol l me at last, success had crowned his ef forts! He was'eomiug home—would, in tact, be with me within a fortnight from the date of its receipt. j had never told my child> my little 8 j s t er w ho seemed more child than s ister, of rny relationship with Roy.— Something kept me silent now. A strange, new diffidence crept upon me as the days went by, I grew to study bl S m Y face in the glass—a habit new to me—to wonder if I were not sadly changcd . b ut no word escaped my " , ips> j wou |j u qi Ethel all, after he , came> There mU stbe longer waiting j IIe liad wr itten me, ‘‘We must be mar j r j ed once.’’ 1 was sitting alone in my little oar lor, the gas unlighted, on the evening of the tenth day after receiving his letter when there came a ’sudden pull of the bell which thrilled me into mo¬ tionless expectancy. Then I heard a deep, manly voice, inquiring my name —a quick, firm tread, my heart had not learned lo forget. The door open¬ ed— Roy had come home. A faint scream betrayed me. In an¬ other moment 1 was clasped in his arms _the sixteen long years buried in the past. Wo took no note of time ; hours flew on wings. As yet I had scarcely EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSO AT, FEBRUARY 6, seen his face. The servant had light* ed the gas but ditifly, and we sat un¬ heeding, living over our lost youth.-- Then came a sudden disturbance in the hall, a peal of sweet, silvery laughter, a cry of “sister Beatrice, where are you V* In another moment, Ethel burst in upon us. I had but time to whisper, “She knows nothing, do not let her suspect/ ere she had turned on the gas full upon us, and stood flushed with happiness and laughter, where its brightest beams fell upon her. Never had I seen my darling more beautiful as, discovering a stranger for the first time she stood half-timid, halL amazed. • ‘This is an old friend, Ethel, of mine and your father’s. You will bid him welcome will you not?’ ‘It is not—it cannot be—baby Eth¬ el !’ Roy answered. ‘Now, Beatrice, IjCan estimate the lapse of years.’ ‘IIow young and pretty you look to¬ night, sister Beatrice/ Ethel said an hour later, as I entered her room, with Roy’s good-night kiss still warm upon rny lips ; ‘and how handsome your new old friend is !’ ‘Y r es, she spoke truly—how truly, only the pain which crept into my heart in t,lC da }’ s following taught me. Tbe Years which had wrought in me such c hange, had but told for the bet¬ ter with Roy. At forty he was a man calculated to win any woman’s heart; and I—even Ethel, knowing nothing, called me, laughingly, an old maid. Since the first night, Roy had not neen the same. He urged our imme¬ diate marriage with greater fervor, but—what was t he but ? Did not his words imply an almost feverish eager¬ ness, at variance with his natural calm ? He had been home two months, when, one morning, I ran softly down stairs to speak a moment with Ethel, whom I thought alone. Half-way, I stood transfixed. The door of the library was open, and I could see within the door. She whom I Sought stood, in her girlish grace and beauty, looking up into the face of the man beside her, her eyes all uncon¬ sciously telling the story of her heart, his devouring her loveliness, hungry with the desire to tell her of it, full of the suffering enforced silence had brought, but every feature radiant with the expression that years agone had dwelt there only for me. It was a betrayal, not to each other, oi ly to me—to me. I turned and crept —oh, so slowly, so heavily !—the stairs 1 ke an old woman now, until an old woman now, until my chamber was reached. ‘Remember we sacrifice all things nor call it sacrifice, for our own.’ These words rang in my ears, were written in fire before my eyes. Was not the dead satisfied ? Had I not done jpny part ? I could not—could not give him up ; and yet he had ceased to love me. He would never swerve from his word —he would struggle nobly to hide from me the change—he would not let me make the sacrifice, did I call it s,,cb 5 l, ut fhe cruel tru’h stsred me in tbe face. His heart had gone from me. I let a week gG by a week which had add¬ ed ten years to my age—before I spoke; then quietly, in a voice without even a tremor, I told Roy I wished fie would release me, that I believed 1 was a confirmed old maid, and--well we bad both grown older, and it would scarcely break either hea r t. How could he know mine had snap¬ ped when it looked upon that picture a week gone by? He studied me narrowly, keenly ; then a sudden light gloame 1 in his eye of some great happiness ; but he only stooped and kissed me on the forehead, as A e ^ said . A month'Ifter-be'bad waited, that I might think it a sudden growth— Ethel came into my room one night, her face inspired with new and sudden beauty, iu the Heeling gl mpse caught before she hid it on my knee. ‘lister/ she whispered, ‘he loves;me —think of it—loves poor little me and 1 am to be his wife.’ No need to utter the name ; I knew it, but I kissed my darling and blessed her. Was it fancy that an angel from above kissed and blessed me! She uever knew she wore the jewel once mine I asked Roy that it might be so. Her woman’s heart might have taught her what his misled, and I would not have one cloud dim her happiness. It is aunt Beatrice now, with the lit¬ tle ones—hers and Roy’s—the old maid aunt, whose hair is silvering fast.— iYho would dream that she ever held in her heart a grave, or in her life a romance. He ouly knows who gave her strength to bear and suffer. Capital and. Industry. Capital is useless, that is, will yield no revenue, unless it be united with labor. A farm will yield nothing, un¬ less it be tilled, and the grain ed ; raw cotton and a manufactory will produce nothing, unless there be workmen to labor in it. Hence, eve ry man wl.o holds capital is desirous uniting it with industry, that he may share, with the laborers, the profits the resulting products. On the contra* ry he who has industry, is desirous uniting it with capital, because, unless he can so unite it, it will field nothing in return. A roan can earn nothing by spending Ids whole time in heating the air. Hence, when the number of la¬ borers is great—that is, where labor is abundant, and the amount of small, there will be a competition laborers for work, and the price of la¬ bor will fall; that is, the laborer will receive a less compensation for his work. On the contrary, when the number of laborers is small, and the amount of capital is great, there will be competition among capitalists for labor ; that i s, the price of labor will rise, and the laborer will receive a greater compensation for his work.— thus, we see, the greater the amount of capital, in proportion to the number of laborers the greater will be the rate of v r ages, and of course the stronger the stimulus to industry. It deserves, however, to be remarked that the principle is liable to some im. portant modifications. Thus, it is prac¬ tically true, only in so far as men con¬ tinue to he operated upon by the hope of reward. When this ceases to oper ate, and wages are so low as to render the utmost amount of labor necessary to avoid starvation, men will work nore assiduously, the lowe. the wages; that is, the nearer they are to actual starvation. But to this, there is also a limit. Human beings cannot long en¬ dure great toil, under the depressing influences of despair. Many very soon die, and thus a diminished population again raises the price of labor. An¬ other common result of such a condi¬ tion of laborers, is domestic insurrec¬ tion. Men who have long stood on the border of starvation, become des¬ perate. They know, that by no change could their condition be made worse ; hence they unite under any agitator who promises them bread ; the whole fabric of society is prostrated and civ. il war and anarchy succeed. In a newly settled country of great fertility wages are high, because a vast amount of land is open to estiva¬ tion, and apropiietor can afford to give a high price for labor. Still, industry is not active in proportion to the rate of wages, because, the desires which can be gratified in a new country are few, and a man can procure all that is attainable with a less amount of labor than he is able to exert. Hence the reason why men labor so intensely in prosperous seasons, iu large cities. The remuneration at such times is high, and the desires which wealth can grat¬ ify are innumerable. Stop the Leaks. Wherever they may be found, and on every farm they are numerous if not watchfully guarded against. Is the corn yet in the field? If so, it is a leak of magnitude. Squirrels, rats, peri taps two-legged vermin, are peg¬ ging away at it, and the waste is all the more important because it is con¬ tinuous. A rat and burglar proof corn crib is (he only s‘cure and efficient store-house. Are your tools nicely cleaned and laid away under cover, or are they ly¬ ing loosely around, covered with mud and rust? This is a leak which should be stopped forthwith, for not only dol¬ lars and cents are involved, but bodily strength also. Get everything under cover, well cleaned and ready for fu¬ ture use. Too little importance is fre¬ quently attached to this item of farm economy. Y our stock provided with comfort able shelter from cold winds? If not, stop this enormous leak without loss °* .* tlm< \" i • S " comfortablc c . , i ^ P osslble * A few days’ exposure during the severe weather of the win t<or will leak away more than all the gains you have made for a year. Have you settled with your merchant for your advances for the last year, or arc you adding to your obligations? If so, you should make all possible haste and any required sacrifice to stop the leak. Your ship will surely foun¬ der, leaving you helpless and desti¬ tute, unless you attend to this impor¬ tant matter without a moment’s delajn How to Ventilate Rooms. I If a man were deliberately to liimse’f for some six or eight daily in a stuffy room, with close and windows—the doorsnot being to change the air during the period incarceration—and were then to P lai '> of l*eadachc and debility, w “« ld be justly told that his own ! of inlellijrent foresight was the of bis suffering. Nevertheless, this \ night what a of K reat their masa lives, " with f P''"h le thought do ovc ' tio I tbeir imprudence. There are few 1 ,ooras iu " hlch '* P> n ' rectl Y **'« P a8s «‘® ni S ht witl,onl 80raelhin S tllan or,1i " ar - v Potions “> a inflow of fresh air. Every | apartment should, of course, have a P lac0 wilb an °P en ch « nnc r* 3m, | i cold weather it is well it the grate tains a small fire, at least enough create an upcast current and carry the vitiated air of the room. In such cases,however, when a fire is it is necessary to see that the air into the room comes from the of the house. By an easy mistake it possible to place the occupant of bedroom with a fire, in a closed in a direct current of foul air from all parts of the Summer and winter, with or the use of fires, it is well to have a ingress of pure air. This should be ventilator’s chief concern. Foul will find an exit it pure air is admitted in sufficient quantity, but it is not cer tain pure air will be drawn in if air is drawn away. So far as ing rooms are concerned, it is wise let in air from the outside. The aim must be to accomplish the object out causing a great fall of ora draft. Tee windows may be down an inch or two at the top advantage, and a fold of muslin form a “ventilator” to take off the ing of draft. This, with an open place, will generally suffice, and pro¬ duce no unpleasant consequences even when the weather is cold. It is, ever, essential that the air should pure. Little is likely to be gained letting in a fog or even a town inist. The Mysterious Sixth Sense. It is often claimed that besides five well known senses of sight, taste, smell, hearing and feeling, there another unnamed and undefined,which reveals to us the presence of persons things whose proximity is not known by any of the senses named. IIow often we say ‘something tells this or that, when we cannot what that ‘something’ is. During the war a sailing vessel, loaded with miscellaneous supplies, went ashore near Hilton Head. It desirable to get her cargo out. as soon as possible, and a party of were detailed to go on board and break her out. Toe officer in charge was partieu'ar to inquire whether was any liquor on board, but was re¬ assured on learning that what there was was in a cask m the hold, underneath the rest of the cargo, and that his men would not come to it for two days at least. Work began, and in two hours the blue jackets, ev¬ ery man of them, were in a state the most hopeless intoxication, had hoisted over the side and taken back whence they came. Investigation showed that Jack’s unerring had led him straight to the grog. had literally sunk a well through cargo until he struck the cask of ky, knocked in its head, and its contents by the dipperful. That knocked him off his pins is not prising, but how did lie know it on the ship? or, knowing that, how did he know where to begin his operations? Something told him. was it? Taking Cold. When a person begins to shiver, blood is receding from the congestion, to a greater or less extent, has taken place, and the patient already taken cold, to be followed by fever, inflammation of the lungs, neu¬ ralgia, rheumatism, etc. All these evils can be avoided, and the cold pelled by walking, or in some that will produce a prompt a ,id ed reaction in the systen",. The cise should be sufficient to perspiration If you are so chat you can get a glass of hot to drink, it will materially aid the spiration and in every way assist ture in her efforts to remove the This course followed your cold is at an end, and whatever disease it would timate is avoided; your sufferings are prevented and your doctor’s bill saved. Time is Money. One flue morning, when Franklin was busy preparing his newspaper for j the press, a lounger stepped into the , store antis pent an hour or more looking over the books, etc., and finally taking one in his hand asked the shop boy the ['lice, ‘One dollar/ was the answer. ‘One dollar/ said the lounger ; ‘can yon take less than that ?’ ; ‘ No > ln<lced ' onu d " llar ls the P ncc ; Another hour had nearly passed when the lounger said : ‘Is Mr. Franklin at home?’ ‘Yes, sir, he is in the printing office/ ‘I want to see him/ said the Ionn ger. The shop hoy immediately informed Mr. Franklin that a gentleman was in the store waiting to see him. Franklin was soon behind the counter, when the lounger addiessed him thus : ‘Mr. Franklin, what is the lowest you can take for that book?’ ‘One dollar and a quarter/ was the ready answer. 'One dollar and a quarter! Why your young man asked me ony a dol- 1 r.’ ‘True,’ s iid Frnklin, ‘and I could have better afforded to have taken that (hen than to have been called out of the office.’ The lounger seemed surprised, and wishing to end the parley of his own making, said : ‘Come, Mr. Franklin, fell me what is the lowest you can take tor it V ‘A dollar and a half/ ‘A dolla 1- and a half! Why you of¬ fered it yours If for a dollar and a quarter.’ ‘Yes,’ said Frankl’n, ‘and I had bet¬ ter have taken that price then than a dollar a half now.’ Mystery of Perfume. No one has yet been able to ana¬ lyze or demonstrate the essential ac¬ tion of perfume. Gas cun be weighed but not perfume. The smallest known creatures—the very monades of life— can be caught by a microscope lens and made to deliver up the secrets of their organization, but winat it is that emanates from the pouch of the musk deer that fills a wide space for ye irs with its penetrating odor—an odor that an illimitable number of extraneous substances can carry on| without dim¬ inishing its size and weight—and what it is that the warm sumoner brings to us from the flowers, no man has yet been aide to determine. So fine, so imponderable, it has eluded both our delicate weights and measures and our strongest senses. If we come to the essence of each odor, we shou’d have made an enormous stride forward both in hygiene and chemistry, and none would profit more than the med¬ ical profession If it could be as conclu¬ sively demonstrated that such an odor proceeded from such and such a cause, as we already know of sulphur, sul¬ phurate, hydrogen, ammonia and the like. A Prize, anti a Blank. Some years ago when all the world went mad upon lotteries, the cook of a middle-aged gentleman drew from his hands the savings of some years. Her master, curious fto know the cause, learned that she had repeatedly (treat n ed that a certain number was a great prize , and she had bought it. He called her u fool, and never or. itted an occa¬ sion to tease her on the subject. One day, however, the master saw in the newspapers, or at his hook seller’s in the country town, that the number was actually the £20,000 prize. The cook was called np ; a palaver ensued —had known each other for many years—loth to part. etc. In short he proposed and was accepted, but insisted on the mar riage being celebrated the next mom-. ing. Married they were ; and as the carriage took them from church, they enjoyed the following dialogue V\ ed, Mol!\o, two happy events iu one da y* Y ou have married, I trust y i a good husband You have something e ; but, first, let me ask lo’ttcry vou where you have locked up your tick v v v ‘Dan’t ye say no more about it. I j thought how it would be, and that I’d never hear the end on’t, so I sold it to the baker of our village for a guinea profit. So you need never be angry with me again for that.’ ‘It Is all very well,’ said a ed husband, when told to louk aRer the children, ‘it is all very vvefl to tell me to mind the youngster, but it would suit me better if the youngsters would mind me.’ NO. /^Wihumor] fe A s if t job—Sell ng soft soap. Speaks for itselt The phonograph. The worst kind of sipping-—Gossip. ing. The lap of luxury—a cat eating cream. A speaking likeness—\ our twin bro¬ ther. How to remove weeds—marry the widow. A regular attendant of the club—a policeman. r l lie gait of horse does swing a not on binges. IIow to acquire short hand — fool around a buzz saw. Always awake—the track made by an ocean steamer. August is a go >d month for setting out boot-jacks among cats. The only people who really enjoy bad health are the doctors. A volume that will bring tears to your eyes—a volume of smoke. What can pass before the sun with¬ out making a shadow? The wind. In Spanish, liberty is libertad. Think of raising libertad-poles. Very proper slang of the bar-room —Nominate your sun stroke. Tin Cincinnati BreakfastTablethinks trade is looking up because it is flat on its back. Should young ladies be good oars** men because they know how to feath¬ er their sculls? ‘Nothing but leaves/ said Eve pleas¬ antly when Adam praised the taste shown in her polonaise. Why is an agriculturist like the le¬ ver which turns a vessel’s rudder? Because he is a tiller. An air-tight trunk is the latest nov¬ elty. The hey-hole is hung on a strap and fastened to the handle. An old hunter said: ‘I’ve known a great many ioxes to grow gray, but I never knew one to grow good.’ A music seller announces in his win¬ dow a sentimental song, ‘Ihou hast loved and left me’ for ten cents. To preserve a joke—Put it in an almanac, or rent it out by the year to circus clowns and negro minstrels. ----—-- A North-side woman having named her girl baby Eliza, calls her husband Beelzebub, because, she says, he is the father of ’Lize. Dr. Johnson, once speaking of a quarrelsome fellow, said that if ho had two ideas in his beau, they would fall out with each other.. A young lady out West cull her fel¬ low, who is learning to waltz, Alexan¬ der, because he is longing for other whirls to conquer. A cynic, who never could get an in¬ vitation to go anywhere, says that so¬ ciety in made up of one-third money and two-thirds brass. Patsy McGoon observes that if men who ride horseback are called (ha goons, fell iws who drive drays are en¬ titled to be styled dray goons. ‘Why should we ceh bi a f e Washing¬ ton’s birthday more than mine?’asked the the teacher. ‘Because he never told a be!’ shouted a little boy. --_ - -- ‘Our enormous consumption of tim¬ ber’ is a theme which all young men who chew toothpicks on hotel veran¬ dahs are requested to consider. Have you ever observed how mad :nakcs a maw witb a b0re lhlVjat cause lie can’t swallow about two hun dl ' etl and tim es over *V or five . mbll,tes * A young gentleman was yesterday accusing another of having a big mouth, ‘Yes/ said the other, ‘out the Lord had to make yours small so as to givet P le '‘ Q o f cheek.’ ‘Abo brayed there?’asked a mem¬ of the lower house of Congress of persons who were trying by inter¬ to silence him. It was an retorte 1 a voice.