Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME A IT.
3k- aJRlS
[*] m vV**"® -r:
i*
LIFE is too shout.
Life is too short to waste
In unavnati*« tears,
Too short to spend in bootto«8 grief,
\ a eowt rds doubts and fea^s.
T, w short to give it up
To pleasure ; or to sow
jOue hour in guilt, to yield af loot
Eternity of woe.
Time lags not on its way,
But spans our days iu haste;
If life should last a thousand years
’Twere still loo short to waste.
for, short-lived as we are,
Our pleasures ?et we see,
They vanish soon; they live, indeed,
.Even shorter date than we.
JJut ever with us here
Bides sorrow, pain and care ;
The shortest life is long enough
Its ’Jotted grief to bear.
To the old the end is nigh ;
To the young far oft it seems ;
Yet neither should dare to toy with life
Ur waste it ill idle dreams. >
for by eadh Time’s servant waits;
Though not for servant's wage;
iud the same woym nibbles the bud of youth
ThutgnaWeth the mot of age.
hive, therefore, as he lives
Who earns his share of bliss;
Strive for the prize that Virtue wins,
Life’s not too short lor this.
MISCELLANY.
WHAT WAS DONE WITH DOR i,
BY T, S. /J RTHIIR,
‘What is to be dope about Dora V
asked Mr. Cheney speaking to liis
wife, as the carriage in whic i they sat
dioveout through the cemetery gate,
They had come over from a ueigbbor
ing city to aitend the funeral ol Mr,
Ciieney’s siste 1 ', and were .to go back
iii it lute afternoon train.
The expression that came into Mis.
tlicney’s fare showed that the ques¬
tion was a surprise. It had not occur¬
red to her that they had anything to
do with looking alter the dead sister's
child. She was with her lather's
Mends, and would # of course, remain
ivith tlieip.
‘About Dora? 1 don’i understand
y° u .’ Toe brows of Mrs. Cheney
contracted slightly.
Now, this Dora was a fairy-like lit
Civatur«^ sixyeais old, wliom nei¬
ther Mr- or Mrs. Cheney had seen, un¬
til lids day. The fact v.as the sister
had #
married a man that, for some good
basons, and some bad ones, Mr, Che
n °y did not like, and as she had gone
to live in a distant city the brother
had grown indifferent towards her. He
bad only sten her three tunes since
h ( r n.furigge, and on the last of these
occasions, big eyes Jook.ed only on the
J>nle, still face, out of which the light
*’1 life had gone forever,
‘father and mother are both dead, 4
&‘id Mr, Cheney a troubled feeling in
lbs voice,
hut she is with Iter father's friends,
and they are able en care
of herd
Cheney. a lovely child/remarked Mr.
Is she? I didn't notice her particu
lail y,’ returned his wile with chilling
hulifferetico.
Mr. Cneney said no more, and there
silence between the husband and
w 'fr\ an the way, as the carriage bore
• t in hack to the hotel at which they
‘Wo staying.
k are going home in tne five o'
0, train/ said M>‘8. Cneney, when
tl,(? y Were iu their mom.
^ d hi t know about tha»/ was ao
•wei-ed.
You don't! Wny, John, l thought
ibis was understood *’
was. But-—'
^ kai V T er(J j ^ f de
, was us a s )a
“' a,ra voice of Mrs. Cheney,
_ as idle lnoketl at her husband.
changed my mind/ he
^ eit(1 "itl‘
a grave fir mimes that h :
understood. 'I must-know smie
it '‘b'Uit vvhat they are going to
^ 1 ^ before
1 '» I return home
Hhi.’ ‘ '; 8 "‘y sister.* child/
Z '°' Mr. Cheney's
1 ils *‘-vUines s ‘And/
.
after a pause i i which to
Wo* his wavering self-command,
§HIje fubhnan L ST* mtp 4
ike her mother, when she made
sunshine of our house, many,
years ago, that it seemed, when 1 saw
* ,er to-day, as if my little pet of
long ago time had come back to
‘But we can’t take her, John/
Mrs. Cheney, with rising
yet speaking in a tone of hard
ion. ‘And I want that settled at
We have no children of our own,
I don't mean to make my house a
*erv for other people’s.’
f \ didn‘t say anything about
her/ returned Mi. Cheney; ‘and
*v-ill be time enough to object,
the proposition comes.*
The tone and spirit of his wife
so unfeeling, that it angered him a
tle, aud he betrayed his anger
speech., as well as manner.
Neither spoke again for a
able time,
‘Will you go with me?' asked
Cheney at lengtl i.
‘With you, where?'
‘To see about this child ?'
‘No. She is nothing to me.*
‘As you like, my dear. My duty
pia>n and I‘m going t<> do it.‘
‘Do what V The alarmed look
came back into the eyes of Mis. Che
noy. She knew her husband's reso¬
lute will and decision of character.
*See what is to be done with Dora,
now that her mother is dead.
‘Very well. Go, and s- e about it/
And he did go. Mr. Cheney had
not liked the look of thi igs in the
house where his sister died, nor the
laces of the people he had seen there.
Contrasting them with the tender and
beautiful child, she seemed like a dove
among birds of prey. He c >uld not
get this impression out of bjs mind
and it was confirmed when he return¬
ed to the house, out of vvhiclq a little
while before, he had followed the mor¬
tal remains of that sister. As he stood
at the door, he heard, between the
moans and subs ol a child the hard*
f 9
unfeeling voice of a woman.
‘Come now! You‘ve got to stop
all this. Your m »th-*r‘s de ni, and
crying isn't going to bring her burnt/
But the moaning and sobbing went
on.
‘Didn't 1 teH you to stop !‘ Tne
voice pitched itself to an angry key.
Mr. Cheney rang the bell, with a
nervous jerk. The door was opened
by a thi -laced woman, who fixed on
him a pair of cold, blue, enquiring
eyes, She did not, at first, recognize
li i m.
‘Mr. Cheney / he said, introducing
himself.
Instantly the hard expression died
.out of the woman’s face.
‘Walk in, sir. I didn't remember
you/ she returned, moving back, that
he might enter. Her aspect and man
uor had changed J-apidly.
Mr, Cheney followed her into the
house, the woman stepping quickly,
and snowing considerable excitement.
‘Take a chair, sir-'
Mr. Cheney seated lumself in the
small, dingy parlor into which he was
ushered, the woman dropping into a
chair near him.
‘You are the aunt of my sister's or¬
phan child, little Dora? 4
T< s, sir.* The cold, hard manner
of the woman was coining back.
'What about Dora? 4
‘That’s just the question, sir. Some¬
body's got to take care of her ; and
we've all had trouble and expense
enough, as it is.'
The querulous, rattling voice, the
knit brow, the cold,
eyes, and the thin lips, that drew back
hard upon the teeth, were enough for
Mr, Cheney, Bis decision came
out debate.
‘Where is the child?' he asked.
'Dora/ called the woman.
Here's your Unc’e Cheney. He
to see you.*
A movement was heard in the next
room, and then the beautiful child
Cneney had seen in the morning, her
lay re eyes red, and swolen, stood in the
door, and looked at him, wistfully and
wonderingly. He held out his hands
Lo her, and she came forward
readiug his face with a child's
ring intuition As soon as she was
in reach of him, M«’. Cheney
her in his arms, and after kissing
drew her tightly to his bosom.
sudden rush of tender feelings had
,wered him. He Bad not
to be anything but kind in ms l_
towards Dor*; but fits heart
weaker than he bad imagined, and
had octrayed him.
As for the child, she was
starving torlove though only
had passed since her mother
Was it strange that a wild rap
she to the
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MAY 29, IS > - 9.
of her uncle, crying out and sobbing
so passionately, that he feared her
overstrained nerves would break into
spasms ?
‘Would you like to go home with
me, D *ra?‘ asked Mr. Cheney, alter
the child had grown quiet.
She drew his head down, and kissing
him, answered, in a whisper, ‘Yes.'
He looked into her sweet blue eyes—
and Ins heart was captive to the child
'Shail she go with me ?‘ Mr. Che
ney looked at the woman, who sat in a
grim silence, watching them.
‘I have no objection/ she replied.
‘Will anyone object?*
‘No, sir. We've all got enough of
our own to look after. You can take
her, if you want her, and welcome.'
‘A good riddance/ was on the wo¬
man's tongue ; but, i i very decency,
she kept it back. But Mr Cheney
heard it as plainly spoken to his inner
ear, as if the words had come to him
o'ally.
•‘My dear,' said Mr. Cheney to his
wife, when he returned to the hotel,
‘I'm going to take that child away
from here.*
A startled look cam# into Mrs.
Cheney's eyes. The color deepened
on her face.
‘And^then what are you going to
do ?‘
‘One thing at a time/ was the firm¬
ly spoken answer. 'I've heard it said,
and I think it‘s true, that if we do
what we see to be right, to-day, we
shall not be in doubt as to our duty,
whin to-morrow comes. To-day, tny
duty is clear, and I have decided to do
it. I cannot leave my sister's child
with these people. Dora must go
back with us.‘
‘To our own home ?‘
‘It is large enough to hold her for a
day, or a week, or a month, if need be,
until we can decide what will be best
to do with her.
Mr. Cheney saw his wife's disap¬
probation in her face.
‘There will be no necessity for your
keeping her, my dear, if you don't
wish to do so.‘
‘I shall not wish to do so ; you may
settle that in your mind;/
‘AH right. Let the morrow take
care for the things of itself. To-day's
duty is what most concerns us. I t<>ld
them to have the child ready for me,
at six this evening, when I shall call
for her/
‘Why this eyening? We can't go
back, until to-morrow. It will be
time enough to get her in the morn*
ing.
‘I wish to go in one of the early
trains/
‘But where is she to sleep ?
There's only one bed in our room. 4
Oh ! as for that/ returned Mr. Che¬
ney, smiling. ‘We can have a cot
brought into the room. Where there's
a will there's always a way, my dear/
Mrs. Cneney Knew that when her
husband was in earnest, he generally
had his way ; and it was plain to her
that he wasthorougidy in earnest now.
I have nothing more to say, John.
You must do as you think best. Only
one thing is settled. In that I put my
foot down. The child is not to he adop¬
ted into our family.
‘Of course not ; unless you should
desire it.
‘As 1 certainly shall not/ was tne
positive reply.
Mr Cheney went for Dora at the
time appointed, and his wile waited for
his return in no veiy satisfactory state
of feeling. It was not iu her to be un*
kind to a child ; but she was selfish as
we all are in our degree, and self-in¬
dulgent. there were years in which
she had longed for a child of her own
But that desire had passed away, aud
her mind had acquired a dull sort of
content, as the days moved on, and
her almost aimless life lost itself in a
little world, vvheie the voice of duty
■A’as so low, that it rarely, if ever,
reached the ears of self-denial. Taste
and order were supreme in her home,
and site had come to enjoy the sil nice
that reigned with taste aud order in al^
its luxurious chambers. To have this
disturbed by a chil l, and that child not
h«*r own—to have her selfish ease bro¬
ken up, as it must be—could not be
thought of by Mrs. Cheney for a mo¬
ment.
She was sitting in no very pleasant
frame of mind when the door of her
room was pushed softly open, and a
child with large, wondering eyes^
moved a step or two inside, looking at
j h< r timidly. Her golden hair fell in
ripples about her neck and shoulders,
and made a ‘rame lor her face which
was of unco mm m loveliness.
thinking her beautiful visitor the
child of some at the Mrs*
Cheney held out her hands, and smiled
a winning smile.
Come in/ she said.
The child came forward slowly, not
turning her eyes an instant from Mrs.
Cheney's face. Something in those
eyes stirred the lady's heart strangely.
Over their beauty she saw a veil
grief and sadness.
As the child came closa to her, she
drew an arm about her, and kissed her
in a loving way ; and as she /lid so,
she saw tears come into her beautiful
eyes, and felt the hand she was holding
tremble.
‘Are you lost, dear? asked Mrs.
Cheney. It crossed her mind that the
child had strayed from her mother's
room, aud was notable to find the way
back.
‘No, ma'am'
There was a sorrowful tone in the
voice, and it touched the heart of Mrs.
Cheney.
‘Where is your mother?' she en¬
quired.
‘My mother is dead/ sobbed the
child; and a low, wailing cry, that she
was unable to repress, filled the cham¬
ber.
‘Dead ? Dead ? My poor child !‘
broke from the lips of Mrs. Cheney.—
‘My poor, poor child !‘
And she lifted her to her l ip, and
drew her bea 1 against her bos >m. As
she felt the pressure of that heal, a
flood of pity aud tenderness rushed
through her soul. The child nestled
closer. Then there came a yearning
towards her. The mother-love that lies
latent in the heart of every woman,
stirred with a sweet emotion.
‘What is your name dear? asked Mrs.
Cheney.
‘Dora,*
The arms that held the child so
closely agamst this woman's heart re¬
laxed suddenly.
‘Dora!' There was a thrill of sharp
surprise in Mrs. Cheney's voice, ;>sshe
pushed the child fjtom her, almost pas¬
sionately, and held her at a distance,
looking searehingly intojher face.
‘Dora Dean ? The question was in a
husky whisper.
‘Yes, ma'am. Its Dora Dean.
The child's voice, tremulous and
frightened, went away down into Mrs.
Cheney's heart, and stirred its slug¬
gish depths m re deeply than they had
ever bee i stirred before. AH that was
truly woman in her awoke into life,—
All the repressed tenderness of years
revealed itself.
‘My poor motherless little one ! she
cried as she drew the child back again
and held her in close embrace.
The door op ned and Mr. Cheney
came in. A glance told him the truth.
He put h s arms around his wife and
the beautiful little girl, who was lying
upon her bosom, aud said, with an
emotion he could not conceal ;
'God will make it all up to you, my
dear ; full measure, pressed down and
running over ?
Mrs. Cheney lifted her face to her
husband, as lie stoo 1 over her. There
was a softer sweeter expression in her
eyes than he had seen there for a long
time. She was crowned with a rare
beauty. All the cold, hard shadows
which had been gathering over her
countenance were gone, and tender
lights touched it everywhere.
‘God bless you for this, my darling,
he could not help exclaiming as he
bent over and kissed her with a lover¬
like fervor to which for, oh, so long a
time, her heart had been a stranger.
An hour or two later, as Mr and
Mrs. Cheney stood looking upon the
pure face of the child, out of which
the angel of sleep had taken every line
of sorrow, the sphere of innocence by
which she was surrounded penetrated
their souls and filled them with a
peace that was inexpressible.
And so the question of ‘What was
to be done with Dora?' had settled it¬
self ; and this, long before it came up
in in the debate, towards which both
Mr. and Mrs. Cheney were already be¬
ginning to look with feelings of no
small anxiety. They hud left their
home with troubled feelings—a home
into which no light strong enough to
dispel the stdi shadows that haunted
it every where could find an entrance—
they returned to it, b aring back a
sunbeam, that b ightened every cham¬
ber, and set to music love's chorded
instiuments, that had been silent in
their h< arts for many year-.
A dog coufined in a cellar will be
come consumptive in six weeks,
cording to the observation of medical
No room without the glorious
sunshine is fit for any living creature,
man or beast.
Bret Harte ami the Death Kate.
-
Bret Harte was lecturing in Penn
sylvania a short time ago. At one
of his appointments he felt very much
depressed.
It is a peculiarity of hum irisls, we
are told, to be unaccoutable melanj
choly and gloomy at times. Harte
was in this mood now.
One of the committee went in back
of the scenes to see him, and the de
pressed humorist welcomed him as
a gleam of unusual good sunshine.
They shook hands—Harte earnestly,
and the committee-man decorously.
‘Mr. Harte/ he said, gravely, 'you
will find this an unuassly healthy city,
‘Ah!’ said the pleased humorist.
‘Yes. r l he death rate is only one
a day.’
At this junction Harte took the
committee-man and hurriedly asked;
'Is he dead?’
'Dead!’ ejaculated the committee
man.
‘Who dead? 1
‘Why, the man for the day?' was the
grave reply.
The committee*man staved with all
iiis might into the imovuble l.’VCe ot the
lecturer.
‘Isn't there a clerk here, or regis~*
tear, or coroner, or something like that
of whom you could Hud out whether a
man for this day had died?'
‘Why yes, I suppose so/ slowly
replied the committee-man.
‘Would you be so good, then, to
rind out, and • before I commince the
lecture, if possible, whether tnat man
is d< ad? If he is dead, then I am all
right, for I am to leave the city early
to-morrow morning ; but if he isn’t
dead, I cannot help but feel uneasy
about myself, and I am not well tc
night,'
The kind-hearted oommittee'mau
immediately hurried away to get the
information.
When in his room at the hotel that
night a servant told him a gentleman
wished him fo step down-stairs in the
hall as he wauled to see him. Mr*
Harte went down, and there met the
committee-man,
‘I am sorry, Mr. Harte, to disturb
you/ lie sai l; ‘but I couldn't get that
^formation earlier. It is ail right. That
death rate I spoke of was merely the
average.
That Poor Young Man.
They have put a steam boiler under
the post office, and are going to hear
the building by steam. Men are ex¬
civating under the walk to secure mm e
room, and the work will explain itself
to any person who will us«> bis eyes f >t
a second. Notwithstanding this fact
every man who stops at the stamp
window says:
‘Give me a two-cent stamp. I
they are diggingout there.'
‘Yes.’
‘Going to put in steam?'
‘Yes.’
‘Make it warmer here won't it?’
‘Yes'
‘Government bears the expense, I
suppose?’
‘Yes.
Have they got the boiler down
stairs?'
‘Yes/
‘Considerable of a job, wasn't it?'
‘Yes/
‘Those boilers are heavy things ain't
they?’
'Yes'
The man pauses here to lick on his
stamp, and then continues:
‘That ground is pretty hard out
there/
*Y T es.’
‘And they had to lift up the pave¬
ment, did they not?'
‘Yes/
‘Suppose they'll be at work a whole
week yet?'
'Yes'
‘There won’t be so much draft
through here when the pipes are in?’
‘No/
And you won’t be so exposed at this
window?’
‘No’
About this time a new man comes
up, crowds^ the old one away, and
starts oft with:
‘Say I see they are digging out
l here?'
And the stamp clerk is going to pine
and die if this thing isn’t stopped pret
ty soon.
_ ...
an you te vv,l 5 is in any
1 ie " !l ^ e * loll S
" K " ge " el f
My love is s » true tl#t l can neither
hide ir where it is nor show it where it
nu
LOVE THOUGHTS.
The soul of woman lives in
Mrs. Sigourney.
What concentrated joy or wo**
blessed or blighted love 1— Tapper ,
Nothing more excites to
noble aud generous than virtuous
—Henry Hone
Love! love! when thougettest
of us, we may safely say, ‘Adieu,
deuce !‘—La Fontaine.
A woman cannot love a man
feels to be her interior. Love without
veneration and enthusiasm is
fi iendship. —Madame Dude ua ut.
it is possible that a man can be
changed by love that one cannot
ognize him to be the same
Terenee,
The most loveable heart is
which loves the most readily. But
that which easily loves also easily for¬
gets.— Goethe.
Love is ever.bnsy with his shuttle,
ever weaving into life's dull
bright gorgeous flowers and
Arcadian.— Longfellow.
If is in the heart that God has placed
the genius of woman, because
works of this genius at e all works
lore.— Lamartine.
The greatest happiness of life is the
conviction that we are loved for our
selves—say, rather, loved in spite of
ourse i vet?.— Victor Hugo.
Lore is an .alliance of friendship and
animalism. If the form *r predom nate
it is a passion exalted and refined ;
but if the latter, gross and sensual.—
Colton.
How sweet is the prayer of the vir¬
gin heart to its love ! Thy virtues
won me. With virtue preserve me.—
Dost thou love me ? Keep mi*, therq
still W' rtliy to be loved .—Sir P. Sid¬
ney.
Let grace and goodness be the prin¬
cipal loadstone ot thy affections. For
love which hath ends will have an end;
whereas, that which is founded on vir¬
tue will always continue — Dryden.
Love is the crowning of grace and
humanity ; the holiest right of the
soul ; the golden link which binds us
to duty and truth ; the redeeming prin¬
ciple that chiefly reconciles the heart to
life and is the prophetic of eternal
good — Petrarch.
Summary Punishment.
When he entered tlio editorial sane*
turn of the Chicago Tribune he was
shaking with suppressed
which fairly oozed nut of his eyes and
t} ie corners of his mouth.
Drawing a chair besides that o^cu
pied by the editor.he coughed affably
*u Ins face, and drawing some manu
script from his pocket, said :
‘I've b, eu getting up something
good for yon — something bully, aud
yet it/s so simple that it is a wonder
no body else has thought of it. It'll
be a clear scoop on every paper in
America.*
(Here the edi or took up a heavy
lignum vitae ruler ti:ut was lying on
the desk before him, and rubbed his
nose with it reflectively.)
‘Y"ou know they have elected Mi¬
chael C. Kerr speaker ?‘
The editor answered that he did.
'Well/ said the visitor, speaking
very rapidly/ here’a lot of jokes about
his name—'Mr. Spea-Kerr/ and-'
The heavy ruler descended on his
head with a fearful crash, and the vis¬
itor tumbled upon the floor.
The editor felt his'pulse, and leaned
his ear against his heart; then, with a
smile of satisfaction, rifled his pockets
aud rang the bell. When the porter
appeared, he said, calmly:
‘Jim put him in a barrel and take
him to Rush Medical College, with the
Tribune's compliments. You can keep
his clothes for yourself/
Then he resumed his work, an edito¬
rial on the brutalities of bodjvsnatcb
ing.
Fishes have no eyelids, and ncces
sarily sleep with their eyes open
Tueyswallow th( ir food whole. Frogs f
toais, and serpents never take food
but that which they are satisfied is
alive. When a bee stings, it is often
at the expense of its life. Serpents
are so tenacious of life that thpy will
live for six mouths or longer without
food.
'Thank God for a free gospel,’ said
a *i °ld church member, suddenly car
, j ec j awa y by t |, e eloquence of the
preacher. ‘Five and twenty years
have l been a c mren member, and it
1,118 »‘° l cost me as many coppers'
M iy tne Lord forgive your stingy
t>yul J’ said the preacher.
NO. 21
wit&Thumor
If mMMm!
i
tit*!?
~
Tramps have gorgo-us times.
An angry man should pull down his
cholcr.
Ptr-honnial comes the egg. — Bos¬
ton Transcript.
The chanticleer is adapted to the
chromatic scale.—N. 0. Picayune.
F remen's balls are like women's
hair, because they always come uif at
night.—Derrick.
The fat boarder called the mould on
the pie an oasis—a green spot on the
dessert.
Instead of calling your silver-haired
friend an old dog, why not hail him
as a gray-hound?
Do you know Rose Wood?—Al¬
bany Argus. Certainly ; she is a sis¬
ter to May Hogany.
A new kind of chewing tobacco is
called ‘Consistency.' We suppose be¬
cause it's a chew-well.
When a young man begins to bo
called a blad*^ there is always more or
less steal about him.—Steubenville
Herald.
A music seller announces in his win
dOvv a sentimental song : ‘Thou Hast
Loved and Left Me’ for ten cents*
The Philadelphia Item says ‘tho
best wives are the cheapest. Wrong.
A good wife is a ‘little dear/
El ctricity saved a Baptist clergy¬
man in Waterbary from the assault of
a goat. He climbed a telegraph pole.
'This/ said Augustus, as A ngelina
sat in his lap, sweetly singing, 'this is
a matin-knee performance darling.'
A merchant ‘down East' invites the
attention of the ladies to a large sup¬
ply of red children's stockings just re¬
ceived.
When a young church sexton with
a sweetheart heard any gossip, he al
ways went straightway aud told his
belle.—Whitehall Times,
The man who got in a barbet'h
chair pinned the newspaper round his
neck and began to read the towel,
may justly be called absent minded,
Debating clubs are anxiously wor¬
rying themselves over the problem,
which has (he most bones, a $2 corset
or a fifty cent shad ?—Syracuse Times.
More frogs’ legs are now eaten in*
America than in France. So there
should be. Is not our national game
croak-eh ?—Pniladelphia Bulletin.
Tue Salem Suubeam desciibes
misery as walking through a dry
goods store where there are about fifty
young lady clerks who have nothing
to do bnt look at you.
A man was taken up lately for rob¬
bing his fellow lodger. He said lie
commenced by cheating the printer,
and after that everything came easy to
him.
When you observe a family sitting
anout the dmnei table, each member
bathed in tears, remember that the
horse-radish season is upon us.—
Whitehall Times*
A lDpateh from Europe announces
the suicide of an Italian nobleman.
Great goodness ! who did he leave h s
hand organ to?—Philadelphia Cinon*
jcle^Herald.
One grocer asks another : ‘Is Col.
--a man to be trusted ?' ‘I think
you'd find him s>»,’ was the reply. ‘If
you trust him once you’ll trust him
forever, He never pays/
The best religion is tha, which will
make a colored man sit down content
to eat corn brea 1 for supper, knowing
at the sanue time that a neighbor has
fat chickens and no dog in his yard.
A correspond *ut wishes to know
which is the ‘best Western settlement.'
One hundred cents on the dollar is the
best settlement we know of, but there
aie not m ll4 „ 0 f t } la t fcj B d i n the
West.