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VOLUME VII. 1 <6 X V ------- — not alone. ‘•Alas! I am alone.” —A young girts Idler. Bt maby k. bbtan. Say not “alone," though lips of Love Reuil not to press your lips; Because I jOve’s eyes shine not for you, Oh! »it not in eclipse. Are there not othei birds to sing Beside the turtle-dove? Bloom there not other flowers beside The radiant rose of love? The kiss oi childhood’s dewy mouth The thirsting lips ruay bless, And truth lives more in Friendship's clasp Than in Love’s will caress; Nor cau the poet be alone. The stars, th 3 clouds, the flowers — All lovely things her kindred are, And sm le in loneliest hours. The rain plays its wild lute for you, To you the bright waves call, The golden jessamine nods to you Upon the cottage wall; The west wind parts your silken hair With fingers, soft, unseen, And cool from tossing the white spray Upon the billows green. And though you sit “alone” to-day, By no fond arm caressed, Look around—the beautiful, the true With love, your life have blessed. “Mono!” there is triumphant joy With strong, young heart to stand Amid the world’s conflicting throng And battle hur.d to hand; Without cue arm to lean upon. Save His strong arm alone, And no soft voice to drown the call Of Duty’s clarion tone; To draw the hand from Love's warm clasp Aud gr.mp the sword of Truth, Autl lay ou labor’s noble shrine The energies of youth; To say to memory and regret, I have no time for tears, There’s earnest work tor hand and brain Through all the coming years. And yet to keep th© heart still warm, Although unwed -uuwou. And give to all the love that else Might have been kept lor one ; To have the yearning heart eutold Its human brotherhood, And feel with them in joy or woe. And work to do them good. MISCELLANY. NOMA LEMAN’S LOVE. by wm. w. lo.vg. M hat a strange, unwritten dream is lile. There are many scenes enacted of which the world knows nothing— histories unwritten, that lie sleeping in the inmost recesses of desolate hearts; griefs too deep for tears ; lives whose ‘Tightest dreams have gone out in darkness ; whose future looms up as “ bleak and barren as a rainy sea ”— There are many green graves in the hearts of those who surround us ; who ily walk life’* paths side by side with and give no outward sign ; little silver streams in the land of the “ might have been,” bounded by an “ if.’’ Me thinks it well that there is a veil thrown over mysterious our thoughts, for if wo had the cower to read the human Tea 1 would we not shudder at the ‘-aik thoughts and passions that so of¬ ten li,* sleeping t!mre, and turn away t! ° m ^his picture in horror, cl.o >sing ruher to live on iu blissful ignorance ? Jhit I Lave promised you a »tory, and i jrortnot l go iw ’ aiontlizing f overtakes in this strain, you ere .U commence it. Perhaps it will be ' w 1 't sai, yet it is a true history r °'“ tlje b0uk ct ‘ b>ve and life. A long reach of sea beach stretching ‘ w »v on either hand, with the music ° ^ oce »n s waves dashing their w bite spray upou its shell-strewn sand, "as near the death of a midsummer a v ’ an, i a calm glory lay like spirit ^ * a piayer upon hill, vale, beach and 8u - Away off in the west crimson ^ !, V 0u V «ls, piled ming| ed with gold and amber, up in magnificent beauty ; z °pli\ra fresh from the bosom of the t fc ” al waters, blew gently the an white upon i l seagulls sailed round and n ' ,|( in the blue ether above, and, Uk, »g it all in all, it just the time was D place for youth aud beauty to U ' their chateaux d'Espagne. h " lhou ght the two standing in f i R l ’t Aoclininggod Umar, of ,na and Leslie Du Vere. ls not ini* a beautiful world, Nor c*i . said Lealh^ gazing >Pon h» r . ‘For my pan } .cannot ly ptople w,u jpe r *i<# in ^tiling ip H JLm aetman 8Tim*f C a m * ♦ cold, heartless, unfriendly abiding place. Say you so, proud son of wealth and opulence? Change places with yonder poor fisherman ; earn your brand by the sweat of your brow, know the heart aches, trials, miseries, want and suffering of the poor, and how soon you would change your tune. ‘Everything is to beautiful, and you queen beauty of all/ went on Do Vere, ‘that I hardly know whether I am in fairy land or upon this mundane sphere of ours.' 'Why, Leslie, how you talk/ replied Norma. One would think, to hear you, that you had been educated iu the school of flattery.’ ‘Oh, no,’ replied Leslie, ‘not flattery by any means but truth, every word of it I am so glad your schoo’days are over, and that you have coin** home for good. Reach wold has seemed sue . I , r r a lonely place without ... you ; the day , so long and dreary, and the nights to* times longer. I’ 1 wager there hav 1 b* en at least 400 days in the years tha 5 * you have been aw ,y at school.* \ <c l f i 1 I hen „ 1 don't • . believe there will ,, K. , ^ m >re than , 200 days in all the t years •stay at homo,’ she replied, laughingly* th“ti she added in a m >re serious ton ' ‘but it is a blessed thi >g to come bac^ bell, which |*jr.iin reminds -»,.d t’.ere me that is the I am supp,, hunt gry/ and lightly tiillmg an air fr.qfl the opera of tho ‘.Bohemian Girl/ sh H tripped up th“ shell lined path witict led to the proud old mansion of Beaclc wold, followed inure slowly by Do Vero¬ und disappeared from si-*ht around f turn in the path. i The B»*aohwold estate was a pes ter* paradise of beauty. T ie grand oh s mansion stood upon a gentle eminences overlooking thab'ue waters of the At¬ lantic, embowered in trms and cm. braced in flowering vines, that held in’ their variegated hearts a thousand de-’ livions odors, which caused the travel-, er to long to stop and rest within ther spacious hall of the mansion, where 1 sumptuous eushionsiuvited repose from" the glare and he.it of the Southern sun There were groups of acacias and mag . nolias in fragrant bloom ; thickets of orange trees, woven together by a net work of grapevines, heavily laden with 1 tlu ii rich purple fruit ; clusters ot\ shrubbery a id rare flowers, that gre\v t ;n shady nooks by the murmuring riv. ulet and clustered around tike limpid 1 * spring. Immediately surrounding the man¬ sion were gardens of all that is beautU ful, useful and rare, interspersed with marble fountains, statuary, hedges of roses, bright-winged butterflies and sweet singing birds. Every airange raent displayed the wealth, liberal spirit and refined taste of the owner, who, from h : s broad, cool verandah, could look out upon the waves of the majestic Atlantic, dotted with the white-winged messengers of commerce. Truly Beachwold was a paradise of beauty if any place on earjtfi can be called such. IIow beautiful Norma looked, stand mg’ upon the marble steps of the ver¬ audah, health and happiness resting upon her brow ; her form clothed in a dainty velvet bodice, fastened with gold buttons ; a crimson skirt trailing like royal robes around her ; a velvet cap^ with silken plume, resting upon her head , and her long hair gleaming like ebony in the dying glory of the setting sun. basket and gem were alike matchless. Byron would have said, if he had seen her, as he did of tbe fair-browned, dark-eyed Zule'ka: the ^ ftote he, face; Tlte n>e*rt, whose softness harmonized the whole And O. that eve was iu itself a soul. She had a warm, pure, trusting na tore, like that fair woman of Verona, the gentle Juliet-one that could love deeply, passionately, and but once., Such natures » hers are beuutil.lly described m “test us, whose hearts, ‘‘aloe-like, flower once.'- and never bloom with the same freshness and beauty again. She was an orphan, and years agone had been intrusted to the care of Wal¬ ter De Vere by a dying father, the true friend and companion vif his boyhood, and nobly had he kept that trust, guarding aud cherishing her as tender¬ ly as if she had been his own daugh ter. Living under the same roof, growing up together, is it any wonder that Les¬ lie De Vere, the son of her guardian, could help loving her—that is, as much as his fickle and weak nature could love anything ? HoW swiftly the bright summer day. tew t>7 1 EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1879. Together Korina and Leslie would wander over the bills by the blue-waved sea, and down through the cool old woods, where the air was heavy with a thousand sweet odors, caught from the heait of innumerable tropical Together, in the hush of the still sum mer nights, they would sit in the grand old parlor and read to each other from their favorite authors; explore the witching and dreamy field of romance and linger over the fascinating tale of love and glorious deeds of the days of chivalry ; cull gems from the rich fields of P«©»»y. or dwell with tear* wet eyes OTer the •*<! history of Lamermoor's fair bride and genile Amy R >f*sart.~ At other times Leslh* would lea 1 her to ^ ie piutio, and, with rapt attention and quick-pulsating heart, listen to the rich music as she accompanied it with some j°y >us melody or sottand tender lay Mon^ of the abdomen to the liver, ue lived until day morning when death relieved him of his KU g erlU g 8 The difficulty occurred at Seely’s house/ Deceased, it is said, was quite a violent man , 1 and enjoyed hugely the practice of breaking W P frolics-the occasion of this assemblage was. such—and when under the influence of liquor regarded , ,, by ,. his comrades , dangerous , t was as a character. On this occasion he had, with 5 knife in hand, rnn Seely from his house, and; when a short distance away, he was. told by* not to comfl ou him his knite. lie, ilfot’Lm. White endeavoring to execute his threat be was shot by Seely with above results. The negroes. were co-laborers on the turpentine works of Messrs. Bellingrath & Carr. • Coroner 8 . B. Goody was stnt lor after the death ot Lloyd, and , inquest . . . held, .. The en was following gentlemen were sworn as jurors; C. B. Murrell, J. W. Phillips, A. N, Powell, W. B. Sapp, II. S. Hill, P. S. Hargroves, W. P. Hartman, R. A. Harrell, M. Daniel, J. W Weld*, J. C. Rawlins and vv. W. Humphreys. Dr. J. M. Buchan was the attending physi cian, and alter examining the body testified that “deceased came to his death by a gun shot wound iu the abdomen,” Tho jury, after examining several witnesses, returned the following verdict: “That the said Aaron Floyd came to Ixis death from the effects of a gun shot wound in¬ flicted upon his body by a pistol discharged ir the hands of Jerry Seely, and that the shooting was in sell-del ense. W. \V. Humphreys, Foreman.” Up to this writing there has been no war rant issueil against Seely, and no arrest IF remains at borne. The general verdict seem to be in keeping with the one reudered by th coroner’s jury, that the shootiug was done pure ly in self-defense. NEW ADVERTISEMENTS. It is false economy to buy a cheap Organ whet a tew dollars more will get the incom paraole ancl always reliable seal , — ...j me she read : Norma Darlivo : I have received news of the utmost importance, which requires New me to l<*ave here immediately for Orleans. Goodby, darling, and pray for me while absent l will explain all when I return. Ever thine, Leslie. No tmirmurings entered her heart, and whatever came afterwards, if Les¬ lie De Vere could have looked into her heart then, he would have read only pure, trusting love. Days passed into weeks. Autumn had come with its crimson dyes; dug k ,r shadows wrapped themselves about the stalwart trunks of the forest trees; the ocean moaned sadly upon the beach —gray clouds glided across the som¬ ber heavens ; the air was full of the shaken glory of red and yellow leaves; the cricket chirped sadly in the wither¬ ed grass ; nature was holding her ob sequies, and the fullness of the year was dying. Norma was standing by she sea-coal fire, in the spacious drawing-room of Beachwold, with an open letter iu her ^ ‘ An f, th, ‘ " the Cn / she the , end of love’s sweet dream. He is . to be married at Christmas, so he says in his letter, to a dark-eyed beauty and heiress of the Crescent City. A fairer face than mine has won him. Well, I am a woman, and have had my love. dream, and its »*ak niog has been hitter as death. Bask in the light of another, settles ; l,st. ; n to the muste o« another's voice,Leslie Dt Vere ; my heart mayj.reak, but 1 cannot curse J 00,1 And with a white, rigidly set face, and tightly clenched lips, she left the room. Love, unhappy love—how many deaths thou die*t—ever loving, ever dy' r, g J‘‘ 9 » dying a thousand deaths more terrible than that of Prometheas chained to the rock of torture, dying a thousand deaths while living—and when the end comes ; the play over ; the curtain falls on what ?—a mockery —the wreck of all that was purest, no¬ blest, grandest, and best of mortality. No kiss, however war .11 and pure ; no tpupb, however low aod swfet, will ever bring back to life this dead thing, once so trusting and confiding in its youth, innocence and beauty, that be. cones, in the terrible agony of its deaih, a very horror—a ghastly spec ter that shall never leave its victim’s side ; wh<>sepresence will be felt in the halls of revelry, amid the maze of the giddy dance ; the war of elements and the shock of battle, casting its shadow of blight over all things, though the wide world be crossed. Yesterday, thou wort life and all that life holds dear—to-day, naught but a meraorj, and silence seals the life that sung thy praise, It was a beautiful autumn morning ; the white frost lay like a c<»at of silver upo i the earth ; the late autumnal sun was just peering lazily above the east ern horizon—a cool, refreshing autumn morning. Yet there was stillness and qn ; et in Beach wold. Shadowy iorms , lently to and fro awful , s ; an & Ioom resting upon the house And why? In the grand old room, where yesterday she had moved the light and j * oy of thilt proud home, lay all „ that . was mortal , • of beautiful , Norma v Leman. Down under the water, where in summer the golden-hearted lilies loved So well to grow in the gray of ^,e morning, they found her ; and now W"* in ** white r " b< ' 8 " f P'"ity,Viil, ,he 8tam P ot llj e death angel upon her br<«w, she was sleeping. And he, Les* lie De Vere, the cause of all this Woe ail( j sorrow ; he who had blighted that sweet _ , _ young life, in *.11 the far southern • . ha »W . «** another's c,tv > »' ^ love, knew not, or if he did, seemingly eared not for the wretchedness he had niade. Aiid this is love Ah, love ! 8ome'imes I have thought tin- love pt* /pfe prate about so much died with Petrarch, in Italy., 500 years ago.— Chicago Ledger. Joe White’s Temptations, Deacon Jones kept a little fish mar ket. 'Do you want a boy to help you V asked Joe White one day. 'I gness I can sell fish/ ‘Can you give good weight to my customers, and take good care of my p nnies V ‘Yes sir,’ answered Joe, and forth¬ with he took his place in the market» weighed fhe fish and kept the room in ordci ‘A whole day for fun, fireworks and crackers to-morrow/ said Joe as he buttoned his white apron around him the day before th»* fourth of July. A great trout was flung down on the counter. ‘Here’s a royal trout, Joe. I caught it myself. You may have it for teu cents. Just hand over the money, for I’m anxious to buy my fire crackers/ said Ned Long, one of Joe’s play¬ mates. The Deacon was out, but Joe had made purchases for him before, so the dime was spun across to Ned, who was off like a shot. Just then Mrs. Martin appeared. ‘I want a nice trout for my dinner to¬ morrow. This one will do, how much is it ?’ ‘A quarter, ma’am;’ and the fish was transferred to the lady’s basket, and the silver piece to the money-draw er. But here Joe paused ‘Ton cents wus very cheap for that fish If I tell the deacon it cost fifteen lie’ll be satis* fied, and 1 shall have five cents to in¬ vest in fire-crackers/ The deacon was pleased with Joe’s bargain e’ad, and when the market was cWd went bU way f,.r ,he „i s ht. Bet the niekle in Joe’s pocket hunted like a coal ; he could eat no supper and was cross and unhappy. At last he could Ptand it no longer, but walking rapi d!y tapped at the door of deacon J out5 * 8 cottage. A stand was drawn out, and before the open Bible snt the „U man. Jon's heart almost failed him, but he told his atory , a „ d with tears of sorrow laid t h e co i n in the Deacon’s hand, ’ Turn iflg ovcr the leaveg of the B ib | ej the <>ld man read : ‘He that covereth his s ; ns Khali not prosper : but whoso con fessutti and forsakoth them, sha’l have mercy/ ‘You have my forgiveness, Joe ; now go home and confess to the to tfie Lord, but remember, you must forsake as well as confess.—And keep this little coin as long as you live, to remind you of your fiist temptation/ ‘Where shall we find rest? 4 asked a religious weekly. My dear sir, the very best place to find rest, and plenty of it, is to become clerk in a drv goods aud grocery store that doesn't adver> ti»o. A Chip that Could Talk. The following ansedote, related by John Williams, the missionary to the Sou»h Sea Islands, will be new to many oi our readers. He was engaged one day hewing timber for a chapel, surrounded by many wandering na¬ tives. It was when thus employed that the incident occurred of which he thus tells in bis “Missionary Enterprise.’' ‘As I had come to the work one morning without my square, I took up a chip, and with a piece of charcoal wrote upon it a request that Mrs. W. would send me that article. I called a chief and said to him : ‘Friend, take this to our house, and give it to Mrs. Will urns/ He was a singular looking man, re* markably quick in his movements, and had been a great warrior; but in one of his battles he had lust an eye. Giving me an inexpressible look with the oth¬ er, he said : ‘Take that!—she will call me a tool and scold me if 1 carry a chip to her.’ ‘No/ I replied, ‘she will not ; take it and go immediately—I am in great haste/ He took it from me, and asked: ‘What must I say V 1 replied— 'You have nothing to say—the chip will say all I wish.* With a look of astonishment and contempt he held up the piece of wood and said : ‘How can this speak ? has it got a mouth V On arriving at the house he gave the chip to Mrs. Williams, who read it, threw it away and went to the tool* chest, whither the chief, resolving to see the end of this mysterious business, followed closely. On receiving the square from her, he said : ‘Stay, daughter ; how do you know tfiat^.thls what Mr. Williams wants?’ ‘Why/ she replied, ‘did you not bring me a chip just now ?' 'Yes/ said the astonished warrior ; I did not hear it say anything. ‘If you did not, I did, was the reply* for it told me what he wanted. And al you have to do is to retnrn w'th it as quickly as possible. With this the chief leaped out of the house, and catching up the mysterious piece of wood, he ran through the set-* tlement with the chip in one hand and the square in the other, holding them up as high as his arms would reach, and shouting as he went : ‘See the wisdom of these English people 1 They can make chips talk !— they can make chips talk I' On giving me the square, he wished to know how it was possible to com¬ municate with persons at a distance.— I gave him all the explanation I could, but it was such a mystery that he ac¬ tually tied a string to the chip, hung it around his neck and w'ore it for Some time. For several days after we frequently saw him sui rouuded by a crowd, who were listening with intense interest while he told them of the won* ders which this chip performed. Proofs of Immortality. It cannot be that earth is man’s on¬ ly abiding place. It cannot bo that our life is a bubble cast upon the ocean of eternity, to float a moment upon its surface, and then go into noth¬ ingness and darkness forever. Else, why is it that the high and glorious aspirations which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts are forever wandering abroad, unsatisfied? Why is it that the rainbow and the cloud come over with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave , 0 mu9(! on their laded loveliness? Why is it that the stars which hold their festival around the midnight throne are set above t’.e grasp of our limited faculties forever inockiim- us with thair unapproachable glory?— And fina'ly why is it that bright forms uf human beauty are presented to the view, and then taken front us leaving the thousand streams ol the affections to flow back in Alpine torrents upon our hearts? We are born for a high¬ er destiay than that of earth. There is a realm where the stars will be spread out before us lik*, the islands that slumber on the ocean; and where the beautiful beings that here pass before us like visit>ns will stay in our presence for«*ver.— Prentice. Sympathetic old lady (givingmoney to solemn looking tramp) — Is it your inability to get work, my good man, that causes your dejected air? S 1. t. (preparing to light out)—No, m »m; it is my liability to get suthiu’ to do that keeps me all the time pensive and c*st dpwn, “Too Mean for Anything .* 1 There was a score or more of wo¬ men gathered together at Mr. John** son's house. Mr Johnson is a good hearted man, and a respected citizen, though he is rather skeptical in some things. The women had just organized the “Benevolent Society,’’ when Mr. John¬ son entered the room. He was at once appealed to to donate a few dollars as a foundation to work on, and then Mrs. Graham added : ‘It would be s < p'<‘ ».-• n», I imagine iu after years for you to remember that you gave this society its first kind word. He slowly drew out his pocket'* book, took out a ten-dollar bill, and as the ladies smacked their lips and clap¬ ped their hands, he asked : ‘Is this society organized to aid the poor in foreign countries V ‘Yes—yes—yes, chimed a half dozen voice*. ‘And wants money ?’ 'Yes—yes !’ ‘Well, now, said Johnson as he fold¬ ed the bill in a tempting shape, 'there are twenty married women here. If there are fifteen of you who can make oath that you have combed the chil¬ dren's hair this morning, washed the dishes, blackeued the cook stove, and made the beds, I will donate ten dol¬ lars. 'I have, answered two of the crowd, and the rest said ; ‘Why Mr. Johnson.* 'if fifteen of you can make oath that your husbands are not wearing stock¬ ings with holes in the heels, the mon ev is yours/ he continued. ‘Just hear himl‘ they exclaimed, each one looking at the other. ‘If ten of you have boys without holes in the knees of their pants, this X goes to the society, said Mr. John¬ son. 'Such a man/ they whispered. ‘If there are live pairs of stockings in this room that do not need darning, I w II hand over the money, he went on. ‘Mr. Johnson/ said Mrs. Graham, with great dignity, ‘the rules of this society declare that no money shall be contributed except by members, and as you are not a member, I beg that you will withdraw and let us proceed with the routine of business. Which is Best ? How often we hear farmers ask this question. Which will pay me best, cattle or sheep ? Now, there is much difference of opinion on this subject > those that keep cattle claim that they are the most profitable, and those that keep sheep think the same of their flocks. I claim that sheep are the most profitable, and will try to prove it to your readers. Take for instance a two year old steer, weighing 1,000 ponnds, worth 4 cents per pound, or $40. What is the cost of raising to that age ? First year to milk, grain and hay, $12; one summer's pasture, $5 ; six months feeding hay and grain, $16; making the total cost of $33. This is a very low estimate ; everything is down to the lowest notch. Now you see that it has cost $33 to raise tf.is steer, and he has sold for $40. Subt act his keeping from what he sold for and you have the profit of $8. This is counting nothing for trouble, allowing the manure to balance that. Now for the sheep. It will cost to raise and keep eight lambs until they are one y< ar old, for pasture, hay and grain, $12; for one year more for hay and grain, $20; making their total cost from birth until two years old $32. Now for the other side. Eight head of sheep weighing 125 pounds per head, making 1,000 pounds at 4 cents per pound is $40. Two clips of wool, sixteen fleeces, weighing five pounds per fleece, makes 80 pounds wool ; at thirty-two cents per pound, $15.60.— Now take the $40 that the sheep sold for. and yon have $65 60 as total re¬ ceipts. Subtract the cost from this arid you have $33.60 profit on eight sheep against $8 profit on the steer, both weighing the same at the same age, and both costing the same for keeping, leaving a balance of $25.60 in lavor •>f sheep, showing clearly that it is better to keep sheep than cattle, espe¬ cially where we have small farms. I think that this estimate is correct, tak¬ ing price* in this neighborhood as a basis. —J. N* B in Practical Farmer. A Wisconsin farmer cured a case of cold feet by tilling his boot-, instead | pf bij stooiapb, with whisky. * NO. 10. Twins are the parapets of a house. ——-m m + — ---- Home stretch—over a mother's knee. Dress reform—turning a silk dress. ------------ A fare proposition—ticket, pl< :as;e. It is safer to bear a hug ban to hug a bear. -■ 1 w ^ Opening spring goods—Showing rat traps. Opticians are well-behaved men and never make spectacles of themselves. —............... ■*»» -. tV ho can give us the name and ad¬ dress of the shoemaker who first tried to cobble stones? The best thing in the world can nev er be duplicated. A boy can never have but one mother. A writer, describing a bevy of girls, says'each face was a picture.’ Painted by her own bauds, we presume. V ou often hear of a man being in advance of his age, but you never hear of a woman being in the same predicament. America White is she name of a colored worn in in Kentucky, and Af rica Black is the name ot a white wo**, man in Ohio. What is the difference between* a successful lover and his rival? The one kisses hts miss, and the other misses his kiss. If the characters of all our young men stood as high as their shirt collars, the community would present a better aspect than it does. Grace Greenwood says, ‘a little mar riage is a dangerous thing/ Just so. But, isn’t too much marriage open to the s tun; objection? A mule’s head does not contain a brain capable of culture and refined hearing, but it is wonderful to what extent the other end of him can be reared, —-- - A bankrupt was condoled with the other day for his embanassment: ‘Oh, I’m not embarrassed at all,’ said he; 'it is my creditors thai are embar** v asset!.’ --^ - ‘Why, Willie/ said his mother at dinner, ‘you can’t possibly cat another plate of pudding, can you?’ 'Oh, yes I can, ma; one more plate will just fiil the Bill/ A man never realizes the beauties this world till he drops two square inches of tnor ughly buttered toast on the polished side of a newly laundried shirt bosom. ‘Your late husband, rnadame/ be¬ gan her lawyer. ‘Yes, I. know he was always late out of nights, but now that lie’s dead don’t let us upbraid him,' said his charitable widow. It was a loving but jocular husband who, when his wife asked him what what she was going to have in her stocking, replied: ‘You are just the sweetest thing I care to see in it.’ 'Mamma/ said an urchin the other day, ‘am I your canoe?’ No, my child, why?’ ‘Because you are always talk¬ ing aboutf paddling your own canoe, and 1 thought you must mean me.’ -----—- A schoolmaster spoke of his pupils as being so thoroughly disciplined that they were as quiet and orderly as the chairs themselves. It was probably because they were cane bottomed. The E lijay Courier is of a practical turn of mind. It says: ‘The next time a mm gives us his uote, we want it on a cabbage leaf, so that if' we never get the money we can e it the note/ -----— ^ » - ‘Twenty years ago/ said a colored philosopher, ‘niggers was wuf a thou¬ sand dollars apiece. Now dey would be dear at two dollars a dozen. It’s 'stonishiug how de race am 1 minin’ down/ Pity the printer. He never ceases to s* nil out ‘sheets/ wi.ile he may shiv¬ er for covering; he has his b<>x full of ‘qu .ins/ while no* a cent may be found in pockets; his rules are the hardest, thev are of brass; ne has ma¬ ny ‘racks/ but no horse or cow; many eases but no clients; in fact, he might be a 1 hristiaa gentl. man, but is do m, ed to have hts 'help aud his *devii.‘