Newspaper Page Text
volume yit.
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Wfl ■/iflyrP® 0
m IkVA
i y *17 ■
v
the old mirror.
Oft I at twilight
In the hollow gloom
Of the dim, cld rairror>
I’huutiisrnal visions loom.
^obl? antique faces
S, t J a* with the weight
Of mwc aucieat sorrow,
(some aucehtral late.
Little rose-lipped faces,’
Locks of golden shine,
Laughing eyes of childhood
Looking into mine.
Sweet auroral laces,
Like the morning's bloom ;
Ah, how long, and long ago,
Shrouded for the tomb.
In a bridal chamber
Once the minor hung—
J),raj)feries of Indian looms
Over it were flung.
From its gilded sconees,
Frettsd now with mold,
Waiea tajiers glimmer*.I
Gj caiveanets of gold.
Periumes of the summer night
Were through the lathee blowy,
Scents of brier-roses
And meadows newly mown.
The mirror, (hen looked eastward
And caugkht the mojruiugs bloom,
And flooded with its rosy gold
Jlif .dream-light of the room.
Tc-eight ’tis looking westward,
Toward the sunset wall ,
The wintry wind is waning,
The dead loaves drift and fail.
Ill the hearthston#
The whitening ashes blow,
The wind is wailing an old Bong
Heard loug and long ago.
Lie (he dead leaves drifting
Through the wintry air,
Like white ashes silting
(ter the hearthstone barei.
Hid ancestral faces,
Wau tvs moon-lit snow,
fiiiuui the dim old mirror
That knew them long ago.
MISCELLANY,
TODDLES.
f rom Hurper’a Weekly.
“I brow not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart.”
1 felt like a lady thai morning. I
was a lady, I thought, al ter all ; quite
as much so as Mrs. Jones, who had
lived in the great cupola ho««e ou the
Mi Quite a* much ot a lady, I said
m-yself, briskly, ns I dusted up my
"Uie shop, and arranged the sheeny
•ibi on* and gay striped goods in the
window. The window was hung with
P lace curtains, and there was a
wbe cf gold-fish in it that sailed
MOUt as courteously and busily as
1,1 ugli they were getting their living
38 head clerks*
It was a sweet, soft autumn morn*,
the village streeet was grassy
3 4 quiet, and I hummed a tune as I
glanced cheerily out at little Toddles,
^ about in her scarlet ribbons
die old willow outside. Bless
Mr little rosy face ! why shouldn’t I
M ha PPJ when Pve her to look after?
* as happy, and I hummed again
j* ^ ai J 0 1 sn 1 oddles, *tch of a tune, and nodded
H wondering * , aguely
} m what was going to happen
^ 1 telt so uucannily bright. Noth,
a simply nothing; things were
ne ^ ia ppci)ing me long since. My
a straight and
* narrow, my
, ' quiet
a s and uneventful.
^ l sipped my coffee that morning
^otsber that I held the enp up to
‘“’^faction felt a certain sense of
u in the translucencc of the
re bit of China. It is so pleasant to
J 1 '** that one's own election may
V'< ^ one
j from the ugliness and
a ° r " f P OTor ty. It doesn't take
te ., ch
I *"( I don’t ' one person, of course,
h count Toddles for any
■ needs but the odds and
’ailk' 1 things—a, bowl of bread and
‘"■P °f coffee, with now and
.' Vc ty hit of ribbon —to keep
U ’ i ' ( ' n '‘ 8 going famously.
AimD ’ iilvva3 ’ lJ Wan ted to be a lady,
•* i * nmy bri
hlf r o ht little room I
the ne(1 t0 for S ivu R>«hard Gray
Anfl : ' rt .^ Mea J<i! k gave me long ago.
But If l ^ liad niarried was a heart-break,
WquH I* ^ me, perhaps he
ri%tn 6 S Ut me U P in Bome
v hou to be
J ° n t0 se, a lady after
of f re : for want of a
tb air to walk softly under
0URa , ( a
10 cea 8e ! Ctty G00ve »tionalfti e s, and
UHU Vw cpuld Own mistress. And
endure. So ft is,
Ibe tl tman XtttE ♦
perhaps, as well that Richard left Die
and went off somewhere—God
where.
You set, I like it—my little shop.
There's something so delightful i n 8**e,
the pretty girls of the village, with
now and then a tine lady, hanging
over my dainty Ware, and trying the
tints of scarlet and blue and orange
with many a laugh and many, a glance
in the mirror. I cart it my reception
when they pour in of a holiday after.
noon. 1 love colors, I love grace and
beauty; aid perhaps I might have
been a bit of an aitist, in my way,
I'd ever had the opportunity. Richard
used to say so. But, ah 1 he said many
a flattering thing and many a lalne in
those old days. And if I ever dream
ed of any higher life than contents me
flow—well, IV** given up dream ng.
For there*# Toddle^ so round and
soft and real She leaves me little
time for building air-castles
You see, 1 love the child a* if she
were my very own. For she came to
me one day about four year* ago, a
w«e little baby thing curled up in a
heap on my door-step when I went to
open the shutters. Wbeiever she
came from I never knew. Toddles
never explained ; she just stretched up
her little fat arms t# me and gurgled
‘Tod-od-doddle,' and that was her sole
in reduction. It was surmised that
the child had been dropped by some
travelling circus passing through the
town* and I had excellent neighborly
advice about putting the treasure in
the foundling hospital. But one sel¬
dom takes good advice, and I didn’t.
To tell the truth, I grew so attach¬
ed to the child that I should even have
been wicked enough, I fear, to regret
•my one's turning up to daust it. But
that's not at all likely now, after so
many years—no. not at all likely ; no
more likely than that Rickard and I
should ever meet again in this world
And that—that is among the things
that never can happen.
It wa# on this wise, ourpirtmg;
Richard's mother was old and feebie
and nugerly. She'd spent a good deal
of money on him—sent him to col’ege,
and #xpeeted, folks, said, to ‘make
something of him.' She always ex¬
pected to get her money’s worth out
ot tier transactions. Richard held her
in a sort of awe, somohow, thought
#he was a little wizened old woman
that he could have lifted with his ldt
hand- But I liked him for respecting
his mother. One day we were sitting
at twilight -talking of the future
dreamily, ug was our wont;
‘My little one,’ said Richard, put¬
ting his arm about m*\ 'it half *c«m*
too bright to ever be.'
‘Ever be !' I echoed. ‘Oh, Richard,
if you talk that way it will never be,'
Ri hard smiled, but his fuoe grew
overca»t, I felt that theitorna was coin¬
ing.
‘Well ?' I queri d, seeing that he sat
brooding and silent,
‘D.axliug/ he said, soothingly, ‘I
knew it would come hardly to you ;
but how can J go against my mother ?
Her poor old heart is bound up in me,
Jeanette, and she will never hear to
—to anything that—’
‘That seems to lower you,’ I added,
. i
in a steely voice that seemed lo cut
jr.8 way out of my lioai t like a keen,
Ciild knife.
'Oh I &n» a coward—a pnl roon !’
cried Richard, wringing hi* hands,
I was born to bring trouble on those
I love. Who, who shall I have to suf¬
fer for me now, Jeanette ?,
'The one who will say least about
it,’ I answered^ hardily. My heart
wa* throbbing heavily, like a clock
that ticks the hour of execution, but I
made no outcry, and we parted iu that
final parting silently, And I have
lived silently ever since. One year
after that I heard that Richard’s
mother was dead, and then that he had
married, who, I knew uot—who, I
cared not. He had married another
woman while my last words were yet
ringing in his ears— right there, be¬
fore the face of the living heaven,
married another woman, and swore to
love and ch.e.rish her, a# he had often
vowed to love and cherish me!
But I did not seem to feel this blow
as I had felt our parting. I just flung
nim out of m 3 heart there and then,
and my loye and my silence vanished.
I looked into the face of my misery
with a smile, and I took this little
shop in the village and worked early
and l ate and 0,ade thrive. Then,
two year* later, came my little Toddle
to me, sitting like a lily on my door.
step, as if some angel of peace had
dropped her there. I have named
her Theresa, but Toddle# has always
boon ber own pet name lor bereelf,
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, APRIL 17, 1S79.
and I like it because it is hers. The
child has brought me peace. And I
feel no vengeance against any one
now. Nor do I rejoice that Richard'*
wife is said to have turned (tut so ill,
and spent the wealth she brought him.
But I had forgotten the shop in all
this reverie and reminiscence.
There was a sfiarp twang of the
tie bell, and l heard a heavy step in
the doorway. I set down my coffee
cup basti’y and hurried in to coufront
a great muscular fellow with a big
beard and a slouched hat, whose pres¬
ence seemed fairly to wipe out the lit¬
tle shop. This was a rattier different
type from my usual customers anl I
was a little shy of him. He hesitated
' and seemed bewildered when 1 spoke
t° him—men never do get used to
shopping—and it was some time be
*° !e I quite made out what he want
ed * It was some sort of woolen
goods—a scarf or a kerchief, I think
These were n t very salable stoch just
n<*w^ and I had put the box containing
them out of sight somewhere. While
I rummaged about^ the stranger stood
iu the doorway, watching me in a way
I did not like , perhaps he wanted to
steal something. He looked ueedy
enough and shabby enough.
‘Oh, here they are at last,’ said I #
eagerly, handing down the package
from a high and dusty shelf. The man
did not seem to hear me. He was
looking at Toddles, darling about like
a butterfly outside.
' ‘Whose child is that V said he ab¬
ruptly.
It was an impudent question, and I
felt my blood flush up hotly for a mo
ment But I reflected that this man
looked wayworn and weary ; perhaps
he hud come a 1 >ng journey, and left a
little child like this at home.
‘It is my child,' I s iid, pleasantly.
‘Yours!’ he repeated.
'Oi, at least,' said I, ‘if not mine # it
was ie!t with me to be cared for.'
‘Leit with you,'echoed th# stranger.
‘Ay, so I have heard. Left with you
by the wretched man, the outcast, the
degraded, who knew none else on
whom to thrust his burden when his
tinseled wife fell from the tight- rope,
and died there, graveling in the saw¬
dust— knew none other of whom to
seek charity than the woman who had
loved him.'
I listened as one stupefied with
opium. What did this man know or
guess concerning me and mine? What
object had lie in view in lingering
about the shop? But I said, coolly,
'That is a story that needs to be prov*
ed.
The stranger stooped and looked
keenly at uae. ‘Verily/ said he, with
a iow, sardonic laugh, 'h.e has reaped
his reward, it seems t he is both dead
and forgotten.'
I began to feel afraid of tins man,
who seemed bent upon insulting or
alarming me.
I pointed sternly to the door. 'Sir ‘
said I, ‘If you are satisfied with the
goods, I beg ymi will take them
away, I buye other things to attend
to*
For a m >ment after the great hulk
ing figure d. sappeared through the
doorway of my little shop I covered
my face with my hands, and all the
past of ni.v file rushed entirely oyer
me. I had uot outlived it yet, after
all.
Suddenly 1 remembered Toddles,
and h tsteued to the door to look alter
her. My custom'r bad disappeared ;
the huge willow trunk hi 1 the road
from view, but I felt relieved, for there
was my little one swinging back and
forth with the long pendants of the
willow. Only one instant I saw her
in the sunlight—one instant. There
came a rushing, tearing and tramping,
a terrible sound in the air, and a
great bull, tossing his horn# luriously,
and with eyes glaring madly before
him, came snorting and bellowing up
th# Street. The great willow was in
his course, O God! my little Toddles !
Then I knew not whether I fainted
or whether I screamed for help. I
saw a tall figure leap out from some¬
where in the very pathway of the mad
animal, and the next moment Toddles,
half laughing, half crying, was nest¬
ling in my arm*.
The man whom I had sent from ray
door a few minutes since stood look
iug on us yearningly—the man who
had snatched my darling from its ter
rible p ril.
‘Both dead aud forgotten,' he *aid,
‘Oh, Jenette ! do you not know me V
The rainbow ribbon# in the little
shop-window spun dizzily round, and
all things grew dim before my eyes,
For I knew that Richard Gray was
come back to me. Poor and degraded
and deserted, perhaps^ L# h<!d
back b* me.
He lifted his hat, and stooping,
e l tne little one, who did not resist
him.
‘I brought yon my motherless
one years agone. A beggar and
sinner though I was, I dared to
your charity to my child, whom
mother^ flying fr«*m her home,
have left to perish among the
gaws and clowns in whose
she died. Yes, verily, my punish**
merit has been bitter. And shall
leave you now, Jenetfce f you and my
child, and depart forever, hateful in
your eyes for alt years to
ful when not forgotten ?’
But soni'thing (filed my heart
then^ like the rush of a mighty
I looked back at my quiet life,
bright little shop # the years of silence
and sorrow. I felt Toddles’ warm
heart beat beating against mine. He
had saved her. And I looked at Rich
ard Gray, and put my hand in his.
Since then I have tried what it is to
be a lady in the far West—a lady in a
log cabin, without china or carpet
neck ribbons^ and Richard says I
have succeeded.
Abolish Treating,
The New York Herald contains the
following sound logic :
Treating constitutes one of the
attaching to the custom ot imbibing
spirituos liquors, and there are few
persons who could not, if free from its
shackles, restrict the indulgence of
tlMeir tliiist to a decent moderation.—
A man meeting a group of friends just
as he is bent on obtaining his afternoon
allowance of sherry and bitters must,
if he does not violate usages, and if he
wishes to do wha’ is expected of him,
ask them all to join him. Suppose
the whole party to number seven.
Seven drinks are poured down seven
throats, willing or unwilling. What
is the immediate result of' this hospi¬
tality ? Six other individuals feel
themselves mortgaged with an obliga¬
tion to equal it. There m iy be a little
chat # and ti'en some one says : ‘Ah,
lei's have another drink 1* Then seven
more drinks are poured down seven
throats. More talk. Another happy
thought by another member of the
party. Seven more drinks descend
the seven throats. More talk. A
fourth inspiration by a fourth partici¬
pant. Some one who lias done his
fated duty tries to beg off ; lias busU
ness to transact; ought no] to drink
any more. His <*bj -ction is vetoed by
the asking party, who is already
slightly stimulated perhaps. ‘No,
skuking, ole teller, come on J‘ Repe*
titition of the gulping act by seven
performers. Every one feels the mel
iowiug influence by this time. ‘Cnar**
ley,‘ says No. Six affectionately to the
genius of the bar, ‘Giv's ‘notber! All
hands round !‘ Eucore the feat of
seven men swallowing* s<*ven drinks
No. Seven‘s turn has arrived. The
happy relief is near. He happens to
be the least experienced of the party.
He is already full of bliss. His words
are few but expressive. ‘Set 'em up
again, hie I' Up they go, and then
down they go—s*-veu more drinks.
Let us see. Seven times seven are
forty-nine. All because one man felt
like tak ng a little ‘sherry and bitters.
Perhaps be goes home to his dinner af.
terward. Pehaps he don't. Perhaps
h» i tails to see his wife and mother-in
law until the next day. Such is life
iu a country where ‘treating* is the
custom.
Truths.
Deep river< move in silence; shallow
brooks are noisy.
Iu jealousy there is more love of self
than anyone else.
It is more noble to make yonrself
great than to be boro so.
The world is more apt to reward ap
perances than deserts.
Humility is the low, but broad and
deep foundatioh of every virtue.
Every day is a little life, and our
whole life is but a day repeated.
Wise sayings often fall to the ground
but a day repeated*
There is many a man whose tongue
might govern multitudes, if he could
only govern bis own tongue.
Every now and then some chap
writes to a newspaper for a recipe to
prevent hair from coming out. If men
would go home from the lodge before
midnight with their leg# sober, their
hair wonldn.t come out so rapidly. We
always go home early and we haye
more hair now than the day we were
born.
A Good Name.
How ofb n men and women in
ciety seemingly forget the value
good nfbrtfi M<jney is nothing,
tion is nothing power is
without a foundation—a g >od
In beginning !ifi», a young Man
goes into business sboidd
this one thing! In all iriten'cOffrse
rnen, and in every commercial
tion, to be strictly honest} to tafco
advantage of his neighbor’s
or of his carelessness. If his
is ever investigated, let men say
him that he never put in his own
a penny that belonged to ai.y one else;
that he would scorn-to wrong the
who trusts him and deals with
L t him keep considerations or l
and honesty and fair dealing a'ways
uppermost in his inmd and in
train will come the respect and confix
donee ofhis fellow men. the
tion of his owu soul, and after
— wealth.
In beginning life, let the young girl
think of this: beauty fades, mere per¬
sonal attractions vanish; but that a
good uame is the most precious orna
mena a woman can wear.
It is base action to win the esteem
and the love of those you met in
own little world by hiding under a
false, fair exterior, hidden vices
character—to appear to x be what
know you aye not.
If you would deserve and win a good
name, . be abovejtricke'ry . . . ■ of r every i . -i
Be in reality, modest and
ed generous and forgiving.
Do not send the straving, needy beg¬
gar from your do >r, and in the next
breath talk of philauthrophy; do uot
weave off your blushes, a snare to en^
tangle your neighbor's heart, and
then laugh at the pain you have
caused.
Oh # remember that the brightest
will grow dim beside tbeluatre
of a good name!
Woman's influence is powerful Jin this
worid.
H w many men sink in despair and
yield to the temptations that come
in their way, because the wife forgets
to render the aid f and perforin the
womanly duties, God has allotted her.
There is a nun who is struggling
hard to earn enough t > support his
family. He gives the n a she ter and
a home of the b st that he can afford
supplies the table with the necessary
food, and give* in clothes and in other
directions as far as his head earned
means will allow. But [if has wife—
who should cherish the good name of
her husband, esteeming it as a house¬
hold treasure finds fault instead, dem¬
ands finer attire, greater luxury, and
keeps back from him both smiles and
kind words, both cheers and sympathy.
Whose fault is it then, if, when at last
lie fads and his good name is trailed in
the dust ?
Does the wife not share in his bitter
disgrace ? Does her pride avail any**
thing in this extremity ? Will vanity
minister to hm* needs, or will s*dt-re*.
bring back the jewel she has
lost ?
Is there among all the worldly pos¬
any nobler inheritanc, to leave
children you love as your own
than this single thing—the glory
a name that is untarnished ?
Lands, houses, gold and silver, and
treasure are a* nothing iu com¬
with it. A good name is more
be desired that costly display.
Courage to Live.
We need not preach the courage to
is comm m enough—but the
to live, to be honest in spite
poverty and neglect; to be true,
all is dark except where God
in; to be faithful though heaven
hearts break, and friendships
to gall. Yes, we must teach
to be unpopular, to be mis ippre *
to be ahead of the times, to
the voice of the AUwise Being,
seemingly it would lead you iu
the wilderness; to tell the devil to
face that he lie*, and slso to giv*
hi* dues—an act which require*
most supreme courage at certain
We would not give a farthing for
triumphant f »itn of the death hour
it comes from that triumphant
that makes our life full of noblest
that is ready to fling aiide
wealth, the praise of friends,
than impair for a m-maent the
soul's integrity. Oh for such
to think, to act, to tell the
truth, to overthrow gilded
to disown lies and to ban
tenderest association*, rather
to ch*ck in the least, the
movement of tffc sovereign soul. We
all must djtf with m >re or less equa
| irmty.-frrft We cannot live in 'till splen*
doY of our being except by courage
and dcterii.ind exertion. Tne coward
under certain circmustances, may die
grandly: tult neve^mier any cireum
stances can he live grandly.
buck Remus' Political Theories.
2
fFrom the Atlanta Constitution.]
*This looks like spring,’ &aid one oi
the young mi n, as Uncle Remus walk¬
ed in with a basket of poke salad on
his arm. The old man smiled a serious
smile as he deposited his b isket and
bundles on the floor.
‘Hit's barely a glimpse, boss, but
it'll sorter make the ole ’onian mem'
ber dat its 'bout time for her to rustle
’round and look aider her collard
patch.’
1 Thereupon the old man sat down up¬
on the coal box, took ofl his h it, fished
a bandana from its depths and proceed¬
ed to mop his face. lie was evi¬
dently in a reflective mood. Finally
he said :
'1 hear Mars John leading to Miss
Sally dat dey er kiekin up a monstrus
racket up dere in Congas, stidder be
in at llome Uburiu ’ lon 3iJcr dere
=
lms - HU ’ 8 t,e mme u,d r,lti, I"Js dey
bm liavm cver slncc de falimin da > 8
WH7 ovpr *
Yes, exactly the same.'
"‘ a ' ch ™ kl f cul "P !ac "' l| y>
shifted , Ins leet aroun 1, and went on
’
t0 \
‘De nigger in de , Wood-pile. , ^ Dey
nut 'em in dar, an now dey dtlnno how
to gft 'im out. Dey fling de wood fus'
on one siler de fence an' den on de
odder, an dert dey move it round de
yard, but de nigger is dar, and lie's
gwmeter ’bide My 'pinion is dat he
aint playin'fav'rits dis season.'
‘Well, at any oate he is still in poli
tics,* remarked one of the young
rnen.
'Dey mout be an’ den agin they
mountn’t,' replied jUnclc Remus*, ‘but
dey aiat wotiH’ wid de loosenessa dey
uster. Dey gittiu sorter stuck up 'bouf
dere prevaligis, de.se niggers is. I
done tine out w'at my politics is, and I
am stiekin unto ern like a rusty black
lizzard to de sunny side of a fence
rail.
‘Well, how do you stand, Undo
Remus ?'
‘You see, boss, hit’s like dis : A
man what I don’t know from Adatn’s
saddle boss come ’long and say, ‘Look
yer, ole man, dis is a fight whar your
intrust is mixt up. You rnus wote wid
de republicans, kaze de white lulks'll
have you strung up inter slavery befo’
youk’n bat your eyes.' Dats what de
man say. Den I ask Mars John bout
it, and Mars John he sav, ‘Remus, you
villainous ole sinner, dere’s a pot of
greens and a pone of corn bread uut in
de kitchen. I ain't got time to talk
politicK* now / But bless yo‘heart an
soul, honey, dere wurraore politics in
dat er pot o' greens an dat er pone er
corn bread dan what I ever seed at de
cote house when de nin^er^wuz ram
pin round wa;in fer fdks w'at dey on¬
ly know by he resay. Hit dont make
no difference wid me whichaway aunnn
drops his argyment whew he's a brow -
sin round on deaiges, but when he gits
down to bizness he's des gsCter rub
sum pi a under my nose what smell like
Mars John‘s p >t of greensand Miss
Sally‘s biled ham. De argyment wbats
got a smoke house an a hot store at
de udder eend un it—dat‘s de argy¬
ment what‘ll ketch me.
Our best scholars tell us that tiie
language of ancient Greece was un¬
surpassed for its richness and variety
of expressions. Well, then, when an
ancient Greek wanted to borrow five
dollars of his classic neighbor ho ei¬
ther had to aak him,
’change ?
scads ?
dough ?
rhino?
shin plasters?
shiners ?
ducats ?
soap ?
rock* ?
Have you any spondulix ?
brass ?
scrip ?
legal tender ?
lucre ?
tin ?
chips ?
pewter ?
wherewithall ?
! ready come down
? or else duff his abashed hat to
the superior flexibility and greater
variety and verbal wealth of the
United States language. — Hawkeye.
'I wish, ‘Sally* said Jonathon ' ‘that
you were locked iu my arms and the
key was lost.
NO. 10,
( m *vd&Thumor \ v
v
r* .£r-rji *
**
A'l ships are fof sail.
Every dog has his pants.
A man’s creed is too often hi*
screed.
f had reatlier have absence of
body.
-«.«.---—
The right mao in the right place: a
husband at home in fiic evening.
Too many 'horns' will make one
stagger.
Look out for the train when you
hear the belle.
An oii'iiest hen is the noblest woik
of a pouUerer.
How to bring up calves—shift tilt
saw dust.
•
Tiie most notorious girl of the pe¬
riod is Bezzle.
Song by a .lawyer—*Oh, wliisp r
what thou fee-list.
It is not generally known that ax
handles are chop sticks.
Boys wdio play marbles multiply on
the face of the earth.
Farmers have learned that it takes
the best of soil to raise a mortgage.
‘What nave you to remark, madam,
about my singing V ‘ Nothing, sir. Lt
is not remarkable.
A bartender mint be something of
a bird fancier, since he deals in swal¬
lows.’ : 1
A world to the wise is always
siiffieienrno doubt, but the trouble
so few are wise.
* *»
'Blessd are the peacemakers,, said
little Johnny, as he smashed the sugar
doggy, 'for they shah get the pieces.*
The Mohammedan law is very defee
tive. Ab Bey can readily prove an
AliBey whether he.was present or
uot.
•*>
A South American has discovered r*
plant which gives milk, but we don't
see where the fun comes in, as it can‘t
turn around and kick the pail over.
--- 4 ^* 4 ^
A Dandy aske 1 a durbar,a boy if he
had ever shaved a monkey. ‘No* sir,‘
answered the lad; ' but ifyou will take
a seat Dll try.‘
An editor speaking of a coiitempors
ary, says he ‘ can‘t bear a natural fool.
The latter replies that, ‘unfortunately
his maternal ancestor couldf.' 1
The following classical poser is sub
mitted for college boating clubs: D: 1
swim the Hellespont, or did
Hero
When we are young we waste a
great deal of time in imagining what
we will do when we grow older, and
when we are old, we waste an equal
amount of time in ly ing about what we
did when we were young.
A Rhode Islander has walked twen
ty-five miles in twenty-four hours,
twenty two minutes and thirty eight
seconds, and the Boston Post says he
was some what hindered, too, ' by
having totnrn the corners of the State.
Passionate wooing is like Summer
dust, it lies on the ground a little
while, and then a slight wind comes
and away it is gone. Men who live
well do, not speak flippantly. Their
affections borrows some inspiration
from religion,
----—^ • m - ■ —
Let the youth cherish sleep, the hap
of earthly boons, when yet it is
at its command ; for there cometh the
day to all when “neither the voice of
the lute nor the birds 4 * shall bring back
the sweet slumbers that fell ou their
eyes as uubidden as the dews.
Poor, young th,ug ! She faiuted
at the wash-tub, and her pretty
went kerslop into the soap-suds.
said it was overwoik; others,
whispered that her sweet¬
peeped over the back fence and
out, ‘Hi llo, there Bridget, is
Alice at homed