Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME VII.
f>3 : E II Y,
PAPA’S LETTER. *
1 was sitting iu my study,
Writing letters, when I heard,
"Please, dear mama, Mary told me
Mama uiasn’t be ’islurbed.
"Bat I’s tired of the kitty ;
Want some ozzer ting to do ;
Writing letters, is ’ou, mama ?
Tau’t I write a letter, too V
“Not now, my darling, mama’s busy ;
Bun and play with kitty now.”
•‘No, no, mama, mo write letter—
'Ian if’oil will show me how.”
I would paint my darling’s portrait,
his sweet eyes searched his fa 26 —
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form ot childish, witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded,
1 slowly shook my head,
’Till I said, “I’ll make a letter
Ofy ju, darling bay, instead.”
So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted
’Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said, “Now little letter,
Go away and bear good news
And I smiled as down the staircase
Chattered loud the little shoes.
Leaving me the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee ,
“Maina’a writing lots of letters—
I’s a letter, Mary— see !”
No one heard the little prattler
As once more he climbed the stair,
Beached his little cup nnd tippet,
Standing on the entry stair ;
No one hoard the front door open,
No one snw the golden lmir
As it floated over his shoulders
In th<? crisp October air.
Down the street the baby hastened,
Till lie reached the office door ;
**Ysa letter, Mn Postman;
Is there room lor any more ?
"Tfttise dis letter’s doin’ to papa ;
Papa lives with God 'ou know,
Mania sent me for a letter,
Does ’ou link ’at I can go ?’*
But the clerk in wonder answered,
“Not to-iluy, my little man.”
“Den I'll find some other office,
Tatuse I must go if I tan.”
F iiu the clerk would have detaiued him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little leet were hastening
As the busy crowd swept ou.
Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
Ala pair of maddened horses
At that moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure—•
No oue saw the golden hair,
Till voice of frightened sweetness
Bung out on the autumn air.
I veas too late—a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there :
Then the little face lay lifeless,
Covered over with golden hair.
Reverently they raised my darling.
Brushed away the curls of gold,
S vw the stamp upon its forehead,
browing now so icy cold.
Not a mark the face disfigured,
But Showing where the foot had trod ;
the little life was ended—
Pipe’8 letter" was with God.
—Burlington IFaicJceye.
_ miscellany.
Advice.
J y ^ enr Susan,’* said a sage moth
e h a >ic,sting her daughter
as she was
* uut to start to walk with her lover,
if ^ hi asks you to go in and have
^ Ul 11 ( l ^ 0 ' Sa stt y ‘rs, y°u even do if you are hungry, of girls
not approve
o-iing the money of their future hus.
“i a P "|| ird s oq to idle furnishing trifles, when it might be
a house. Point
11 Mat lor the cost of an oyster stew
Jou might purchase a couple of tow
?,,l ' uv toweling is so cheap, and that
a •Addle-roaat is
the equivalent of a
1-1 fork—plated, ^ hi*ui$hab1e of course, but not
• i8, from solid silver
-~or a ^lass sugar-bowl. This always
the young men ; it sets them to
thinki G house keeping and matri
^ *y it makes them
^ > believe you are
e ‘tarnation ofeeonomy, would
toake and
1,1 exe <dlent wife and so they
°ften ;
l V which give you a hold
*
(a r
jury or are ^Auctive before a
^olsof bcasured up these sagacious
and the authoress of her being
U P° n ^cra with such earn
hom(. *j H atK was * e ^ ect an engaged that when she came
- Perils woman.
It g v j°' na °ther Susans will prof-
KK
V /
\ Eastman I ' V '-A
Or. Thorne’s Prescription.
‘ There is one thing I never will do,
and that is, marry a widower/ said
Laura, with more energy than she had
displayed before in a week, the idle
white fingers meanwhile beating a
q M iek tattoo on the pine covered with
drops, and her h-ad, with its bright
bronze hair, nodding so emphatically
that the ivy leaves above her were as
in a tremble.
‘Nor a doctor/ said Aunt Prudenc e
shrewdly, she glanced f
as out of her
window in time to see Dr. Thorne's
h n ggy> well spattered with country
mud, go around the corner, and the
stately doctor, under his umbrella, in
the act of replacing his hat on h.s
head. ‘I knew a girl once—'
‘Oh, spare me, Aunt Prue! I know
all about it; she married just as she
had vowed she would not. It does
not follow that I am to be so foolish,
does it ? I had rather be a blessed
old maid, like you, if I could be half
as good, than to be Mrs. Somebody
number two.'
‘How is it about doctors?'
'They are my especial ambition.
1 hey smell of drugs, and are given to
lecturing people/ said Laura, her col¬
or deepening under the spinster’s keen
gaze, and her fingers beating a quick¬
er measure.
‘It seems odd that you have taken
such a dislike to Dr. Thorne, Laura
everybody else likes him/ said that
young lady's mother from her seat by
the fire, where her fingers were busy
doing her darling's mending, while
her thoughts were planning how she
might in some other way take every
shadow of care from her young life.
T did not mention his name in par**
ticular, mother/
Well, I knew you meant him, for
you have not liked him since I called
him in to prescribe for your head¬
aches. By the way, you never showed
me his last pr< scription ; I noticed it
was quite lengthy.'
‘Oh, it was gome nonsense about
exercise and early hours—quite a lit¬
tle lecture, in fact, for which he re*
ceived no thanks/ said Laura, evasive
iy.
Then the conversation was changed
by Mis. Lament consulting her sister
about the pudding lor dinner, while
Laura’s thoughts ran ou in this heed¬
less fashion :
‘The impudence ot the man ! All
those fine words meant simply this :
‘\ou are a lazy, good-for-nothing
girl ; go to work and you will be bet¬
ter,' Not that I think l am anything
else, but one does not care to be re¬
minded of such things. I wonder if
he knows that this dear little mother
of mine has made it the one object of
her life to anticipate all my wishes,
and make me the ignorant butterfly of
fashion that I am ? And Aunt Prue
is iu league with her. Dear souls!
they want to make mo happy. How
disappointed they would be if they
knew how restless and miserable I
am ! To work in this house is impos.
sible;and yet I would like to be of
use to some one. I don't oelieve I am
naturally lazy, or this kiud of a life
would suit me. I suppose he thinks
Agues Bell a paragon. She knows all
about housekeeping, and vi*its the
poor. Everybody says she would
make him a splendid wife, Well I
hope she likes widowers ; I don't.'
Here the soliloquy was ended by
Laura turning to the piano and dash¬
ing off' the most brilliant tiling she
knew—anything to draw her thoughts.
Presently the notes grew softer, and
she heard Aunt Prue say :
‘There is our new neighbor out at
the gate, and such a careless-looking
creature ! IIow can people be so
thoughtless about their appearance V
glancing over her own spotless attire
‘Perhaps there is some excuse for
her, Prue/ said the other sister, who
always fouud a cloak for everyone’s
shortcomings. 'Katie says she has
three little children, and does her own
work. A sick baby, too, who cries
half the night, You know Katie's
room is on that side of the bouse. She
says she often sees the little woman
wa Iking the floor late at night, with
the baby in her arms.'
'All habit, this walking the floor
with children/ said Aunt Prudence,
who would have every child brought
up vy rule, as far as sleeping and eat
ing were concerned.
‘Why haven't you been to see her .
inquired Laura, wheeling suddenly
around on her piano-stool. without
‘Sue has her hands full see¬
ing strangers,' answered l.er mother.
Then the sisters’ conversation drift-
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY. JUNE 20, 1S79.
ed away upon other top’cs, while Lau¬
ra fell into a browu study that lasted
about ten minutes, when she suddenly
rose, and, taking her waterproof from
a closet, said, abruptly :
‘I am going oyer there *
‘Where V echoed mother and aunt,
having forgotten their previous con
versation.
‘Our next-door neighbor's.*
'Are you crazy, child ? It is morn**
ing, and she will not have her work
done,’ said her mother.
‘Your hair is in crimp-pi us/ oalled
Aunt Prue, for the willful girl had by
this t'rne reached the gate.
The door-bell next door was broken,
so Laura rapped ; but there was such
a commotion in the hall that she could
not he heard, so she opened the door
and walked in. A boy of 5 was in
the act of sliding down the balusters,
which feat he accomplished with such
rapidity that the astonished visitor
held her breath till she saw he landed
safely. A little girl with tangled curls
and a very dirty apron was shouting
and clapping her hands as audience.
‘We're are playing circus. Mamma
is iu the sitting-room/ they replied, in
answer to Laura’s questions.
The door was opened, as Laura tap¬
ped, by a pale, tired-looking v 7 oman,
with a baby in her arms just freshly
dressed, but so fretful that nothing
but constant tossing up and down
would keep him quiet. There were
traces of tears on the mother’s face,
and the room was in disorder. She
evidently was much surprised at her
visitor, but Laura's easy manner reas¬
sured her.
‘I am Laura Lament—your neigh¬
bor. I only heard this morning that
your baby was sick, and came over to
rest you a little while ; I am sure your
arms must ache.'
And without waiting for a reply she
took tiie bah}', who was so surprised
to see the lovely lace bending over
him that he forgot to cry.
Tie is not sick/ said the mother,
trying hard to keep back the tears ;
‘lie has fretted like that since he was
born. I feel sometimes as if I could
not bear it much longer. I was awake
hall the night with him, and now it is
nearly time to gei dinner, and my
breakfast-table not cleared, nor a bit
of work done. I believe he tries to
keep awake.'
‘Why don’t you try letting him
cry V
‘I have to, sometimes; but he cries
so hard I am afraid he will have a
spasm.**
‘ Well, trust him with me a little
while / and Laura began walking up
and down the room, singing alow lul¬
laby, while the little woman picked up
the playthings, brushed the hearth,
and made the room look a little more
cheerful ; then she went over to her
breakfast-table.
A half-hour’s singing and walking
before the little one was ready for his
cradle ; then Laura nodded good-by to
her neighbor, w r ho was busily prepar¬
ing dinner, and got tn return such a
look of heartfelt thanks that she went
home with a new feeling in her heart.
'It was such a little thing to do,
and yet I have made somebody hap¬
pier. I have been of some use. Poor
thing, I should think she would be ut¬
terly discouraged/
And forthwith there was a slight
changa in the resolution she had form¬
ed that morning. It now read, ‘I will
never marry a widower, a doctor, or a
poor man.’ Then she laughed softly
to herself, as she thought what Aunt
Prue would say.
The next morning the sun shone,
and Laura, to everybody's astonish¬
ment, appeared at the breakfast-table
and announced her intention of sur¬
prising her lazy pony by going for a
drive. Everybody else was busy, so
she started alone. But just as she
was gathering up the reins a wistful
little face peered through the fence in
the next yard.
‘I say, you've got a jolly pony.'
‘Would you like to go with me,
Charlie ?’
*My name is Tommy Blake. I’ll bet
I'd like to go ; and Susie, too.’
‘Well, run and ask mamma.'
In a few minutes the happy little
ones were in beside her—Susie cling¬
ing timidly to her skirts, while Tommy
stood boldly up in front, whip in hand,
ready to stur up the pony.
‘It will be such a rest for me ; they
are so full of mischief/ said Mrs.
Blake, as she put them iu ; and again
the thankful look went down into Lau¬
ra’s heart, and made the morning a
very happy one.
It was one of those early spring
day^fwhen everything seemed delight¬
ful after the long, cold winter. The
pony felt lively, and so did the chil
dren. Tommy, in particular, was in
dined to be rather more communica
tive about heme matters than Laura
desired.
‘Papa is cross sometimes when din¬
ner isn’t ready, and says bad words ;
then mamma cries. Dinner was ready
yesterday, though, ’cause you helped.’
‘Who is coming, Tommy ?' said
Laura, anxious to change the subject.
‘Hello—that's ‘the doctor ! I know
him. He sewed up my head when I
fell down stairs ;’ and he waved his
hat at that gentelman, who was look¬
ing w ith surprise at the phaeton and
its occupants.
Laura fancied his bow was a trifle
less cool than usual, and thought, an¬
grily, ‘I’ll never take them again. He
thinks I am following his advice, and
I won’t gratify him/
He thought, ‘There is more to that
girl than I supposed. I really wish
she would cultivate Mrs. Blake ; the
little woman sadly needs a helping
hand/ Then he straightway Lanisli
e.i the beautiful Miss Lament from his
mind, and commenced planning his
new treatise on diptheria.
The lovely spring days followed
each other in rapid succession, and
every day Laura's pony carried its
happy load out into country roads
where the air was the purest. Some¬
times the little mother and the baby
went, and it was surprising to see
what a change came over them all.
The rich color came into Laura’s
cheeks, and she no longer complained
of headache or blues.
. Cheerful companionship and a litttle
leisure made Mrs. Blake bright-eyed
and interesting, while Aunt Prue
found some old-fashioned remedy for
colic that made the baby sleep at
nights, and Laura helped her in many
little ways that gave her time to rest
and improve herself.
'The quiet parties before Easter
where Laura frequently met Dr.
Thorne, gave place to those of a live¬
lier tendency that he seldom frequent¬
ed ; for, although a social man, he had
reached that age when dancing and
flirtation had lost their charm.
‘What makes you always quarrel
with Dr. Thorne ?’ said a girl (riend>
one evening. ‘All the other girls are
crazy over him, and you sometimes
act as if you hated him. I believe he
likes you all the better for it, though i
for he watches you so much.*
‘Nonsense, Sue ; your imagination is
running away with you !' said Laura,
coloring deeply as she caught the
gaze of those earnest brown eyes fix¬
ed upon her at that very moment ; and
then she flirted desperately with Will
Dayton the rest of the evening.
The owner of the brown eyes was
not deceived, however ; he was think*
ing of the last time he had met this
young lady at Mrs. Blake's. He came
in without knocking, one evening, and
as he stood in the hall he saw before
him a very pretty picture.
Laura was rocking Baby Blake to
sleep, singing alow, sweet cradle song?
and Tommy stood behind her industri‘
ouslv taking out all her hair-pins, so
that when she rosj to lay the baby
down she discovered her hair floating
over her shoulders. Making a dexter
ous movement to catch the rogue who
had done the mischief, she almost ran
into the doctor's arms. What a change
then! he could hardly believe this
stately creature was the same girl who
sat a moment before with the babe in
her arms, and her hair ruffling over her
shoulders. Her pride aided her to
make a haughty exit ; but he should
have seen her as she ran home crying
with vexation. After that the treatise
on diptheria was laid aside, and the
doctor took up a new study, evidently
more lnteiesting, namely, the chaiac
ter of a beautiful but willful young
^ af ^'
Sometimes he thought she was as
much interested in him as he was in
her; then she would snub him, until he
was very doubtful, Ido not know
how long things would have gone on
in this way had not Fate taken it in
hand *
The Lamonts had their _ trunks all
packed for a summer trip, when Tom
m\ was taken ill. He begged so pit
eonsly tor his dear Miss Laura that
she resolved to postpone going for a
few days.
Her mother tried to reason her out
of it; but all the arguments of new*
dresses and the delightful seashore
was powerless to move her.
‘My new dresses can wait,' she an -
s\\ eied ; and donning a calico wrapper
started for Tommy's bedside.
His illness proved to be a fever that
brought him near death's door ; but
Laura never flinched, even when she
knew the danger to herself. The
mother kept the other children away,
and Aunt Prue helped Laura nurse the
boy. When the worst came, Dr. Thorne
remained also, and together lie and
Laura brought the little fellow back
into bis place in life. Then Laura
went home ; and although she did not
take the lever, she was sick for sever¬
al days, her mother and Aunt Prue
tending her with a devotion charming
to behold.
Of course they must consult the
doctor, who prescribed rest and quiet ;
but left a little note for the young la¬
dy's own perusal.
‘Another prescription, my dear/ said
her mother ; and Laura read :
Dearest : Be my wife. It shall be
the one aim of my life to make you
happy. Alexander Thorne.
That was all ; just those few lines ;
but, strange to say, they made her
well immediately. And Aunt Prue
had the satisfaction of sayiug; ‘I told
you so.‘
GOOD MANNERS.
BY R. W. EMERSON.
'Tis a rule of manners to avoid exag¬
geration. A lady loses as soon as she
admires too easily and too much. In
man or woman, the face and the per¬
son lose power when they arc ou the
strain to express admiration.
A man makes his inferiors his supe¬
riors by heat. Why need you, who are
not a gossip, tala as a gossip, and tell
eagerly what the neighbors or the
journals say ? State your opinion with*
out apology.
The attitude is the main point. As¬
sure your companion that, come good
news or come bad, you remain in good
heart and good mind, which is the best
news you can possibly communicate.
Self-control is the rule. You have
in you there a noisy, sensual savage,
which you are to keep down, and turn
ail his strength to beauty.
For example, what a seneschal and
detective is laughter ? It seems to re¬
quire several generations of education
to train a squeaking or ashouting hab¬
it out of a man.
Sometimes when in all expressions
the Choctaw and the slave have been
worked out of him, a coarse nature
still betrays itself in his contemptible
squeals of joy.
The great gain is not to shine, not
to conquer your companion—then you
learn nothing'but deceipt—but to find
a companion who krows what you do
not; to tilt with him and be over¬
thrown, horse and foot with utter de¬
struction of your logic and learning.
There is a defeat that is useful.—
Then you can see the real and the
counterfeit, and will never accept the
counterfeit again. You will adopt the
art of war that has defeated you. You
will ride to l attle on the very logic
which you found irresistible. You'll
accept the fertile tiuth instead of t h
customary lie.
When people come to see us, we
foolishly prattle, lest we appear inhos¬
pitable. 3ut things said for conversa¬
tion are chalk eggs. Don’t say things.
What you are stands over you the
while, and thunders so that I cannot
hear what you said, to the contrary.
A lady of rny acquaintance said, “I
don't care so much for what they say
as I do for what makes them say it.
The law of the table is beauty—a
respect to the common sort of all the
guests. Everything is unseasonable
which is private to two or three or any
portion of the company.
Tact never violates for a moment
this law ; never intrudes the orders of
the house, the vices of the absent, or
a tariff of expenses, or professional
privacies, as we say, we never “talk
shop before c -mpany.
Lovers abstain from caresses, and
haters from insults, whilst they sit iu
one parlor with common friends.
Would we codify the laws that
should reign in households, and whose
'daily transgression annoys and morii
|fies us, and degrades our household
life, we must learn to adorn every day
with sacrifices. Good manners are
made up of petty sacrifices.— Chicago
Ledger.
-
A Yankee auctioneer lately indulged
in the following little bit of pathetic :
“If my father and mother stood where
you do,*and didn't buy these boots—
these elegant boots—when thfyj were
|g'*ing for $1, I s!iouul feel it my duty
** son to tell both of'em that they
were false to themselves and false to
l hoir country. ’
Into the Sunshine.
‘I wish father would come home.'
The voice that said this had a
troubled tone, and the face that look¬
ed up was sad.
‘Your father will be very angry/
said an aunt, who was setting in the
room with a book in her hand. The
boy raised himself from the sofa wh^re
he had been lying in tears for half an
hour, and with a touch of indignation
in his voice, answered:
Tie'll be sorry, not angry. Father
never gets angry. 4
For a few moments the aunt looked
at the boy half-curiously, and let her
eyes fall again upon the book that
was in her hand. The boy laid him¬
self down on the sofa again, and hid
his face entirely from sight*
“That’s father now!* lie started up
after the lapse of nearly ten minutes,as
the sound of the bell reached his ears,
and went to the room door. He stood
there a little while, and then came
came back, saying, with a disappomtd
air—
‘It is not father. I wonder what
keeps him so late. O, I wish he would
como.‘
‘You seem anxious to get yourself
deeper into trouble/ retna.iked the aunt
who had only beeu in the house for one
week, and who was neither very
ble nor very sympathizing toward chil
dren. The boy's fault had provoked
her, and she considered him a fit sub
ject lor punishment.
‘I believe, Aunt Phebe, that you‘d
like to see me whipped,* said the boy,
somewhat warmly, 'but you won't.‘
'I must confess,* replied Aunt Phebe
‘that I think a little wholesome disci
pline of the kind you speak of would
not be out of p’ace. If you were my
child, I am very sure you would not
escape.
‘I am not your child; I don't want
to be. Father is good to mo, and he
loves me.*
‘Ifyour father is so good, and loves
yon so well, you must be a very un¬
grateful or a very inconsiderate boy.
His goodness does not seem to have
helped you much.*
'Hush, will you 1‘ejaculated the boy
excited to anger by this unkindness
of speech.
'Phebe!* It was the hoy's mother
who spoke now for the first time. In
an undertone she added: ‘You are
very wrong. Richard is suffering
quite enough, and you are doing him
harm rather than good.*
Again the bell rang, and again the
boy left the sofa and went to the sit¬
ting-room door.
‘It's father!' And he went gliding
down stairs.
‘A! , Richard!‘ was the kindly greet¬
ing, as Mr. Gordon took the hand of
his boy. ‘But what’s the matter? You
don’t look happy.*
'Won't you come in here?' And
he drew his father into the library
Mr. Gordon sat down, still holding
Richard's hand.
‘You are in trouble my son. What
has happened?*
The eyes of Richard filled with tears
as he looked into his fathers face. He
tried to answer, but his lips quivered.
Then he turned away, and opening
the door of the cabinet, brought out
the fragments of a broken statute
which, had been sent home only the
day before, and his father, over whose
countenance came a shadow of regret.
‘Who did this, my son ?* was asked
in an even voice.
‘I did it.
‘How ?
‘I threw my ball in there once—only
once—in forgetfulness.
The poor boy's tones were trernu
lous and husky.
A little while Mr. Gordon sat, cons
trolling himself, and collecting his dis
turbed thoughts. Then he said
fully :
«What is done, Richard, can't be
helped. Put the broker, pieces away:
Yo u have had trouble enough about it,
I can see— and reproot enough for your
thoughtlessness—so I shall not- add a
word to increase your pain.
‘Oh, father T And the boy threw
his arms around his father's neck.—
‘Yon are so kiud—so good !
Five minutes later, and Richard en
tered the sitting room with his father
Aunt Phebe Loked up for two ediad
owed faces, but did not see them. She
was puzzled,
‘ That was veiy unfortunate/ she
said, a little while after Mr. Gordon
came in, 'it was such an exquisite
work of art. It is hopelessly ruined.
Richard was leaning against his fa
t l»er when his aunt said this, Mr.
Gord -n only smiled and drew h's arm
NO. 20.
closely around his boy. Mrs Gordon
threw upon her sister a look of warn
ing ; but it was unheeded.
‘I think Richard was a verv naughty
boy.
‘We have settled all that, Phobe,
was the mild but firm answer of Mr.
Gordon ; ‘and it is one of our rules to
i get into the sunshine quickly
as as
possible.
Into the sunshine as quekly as pos¬
sible! O, D that not the better phil¬
osophy for our homes ! It is selfishness
that grows angry and repels, because
a fault has b?en committed. Let us
get the offender into the sunshine as
quickly as possible, so that thoughts
that are true and feelings that are right
may grow vigorous in its warmth.—
We retain anger, not that anger may
act as a wholesome discipline, but lx»
cause we are unwilling to forgive.—
Ah ! if we were always right with
ourselves, we would oftener be light
with our children.
How One Mother Trained Her
Little Girl.
“Maybe I am foolish, Mrs.- f
but ever since my little one was given
me I have loved to kiss the baby hands
as well as the baby lips. I used to
lay the soft little pink palms upon mv
mouth and kiss them till my baby
,UI ^ 1C( *
“ As slle S lew olJc1 ' 1 8ti " k l
«P »1>
cu3lun b iuu * w hr n night came and
undressing her I (ailed to kiss the lit
tie hands, Amy knew it was because
they were not quite clean from naught¬
iness. If they had been lifted in anger
during the day, if they had struck at
on rse or a little playmate, mama could
not kiss baby, I assure you. It w r as
the same with the little lips. If a
naughty word had escaped them—I
mean wilfully naughty words—or if
my little girl had not spoken quite the
truth during the day, 1 could not kiss
the lips ; although I always kissed her
cheeks and forehead, never allowing
her to "go unki-sed t > bed. But sin*
cared more for kisses on hands and lips
than for anything els*, in the world, I
believe ; my loving little Amy l And
gradually the naughty ways were done
away with, and each night my babe
would say • ‘Tean haunios to-night,
mamma ! Tean liannie, for 'oo to tiss/
‘And even now—though she is five
years old—I keep "up a custom which
sho has known from her birth, because
I think it helps her try to be good.—
You may laugh, Mrs. -, but I do
waul my little girl to grow np pure
and sweet ; and iftheloveof mamma’s
kisses can keep, by God's help, tne lit¬
tle hands, lips and heart clean, l think
1 shall continue the custom until Amy
is old enough to understand fully things
too hard for her as yet.'
My own eyes were tearful when Mrs
Horton's sweet voice ceased, nnd I en
vied little Amy her beautiful young
mother's companionship. Did I think
it a foolish idea ? Alt, no indeed I But
the truest, sweetest custom in the
world—keeping her small hands clean
for mama's good-night kiss ; and that
is why Sallie Jones was not paid in
her own coin, as the saying is. That
is way the sweet lips made no angry
reply. *’ Mama's kiss was too precious
thing to be given up for the gratifl*
cation of one moment of evil speaking
— Wide Awake.
Two Beautiful Blacksmiths.
Two beautiful blacksmiths have been
discovered by a reporter of the Louis
vill Courier-Journal. Over the door,
painted in modest letters, was the sign,
“Blacksmithing, by Carine arid Neliie
Blair.“ From the interior of the shop
came the pleasant ling ol the anvil,
and the dull sound of working bellows
Right in the center stood an anvil,and
upun it lay a red-hot iron, into which
a young lady was endeavoring to weld
the link of a large log-chain. 6he was
a blonde, her complexion being as Dir
as that of any petted belie of fas.iion,
“"d the lovely tinge of pink a:>d red
which ever and anon spread 'over the
face and reek served to heighten her
natural beauty, but gave evidence of
excellent constitution and robust
health. Her eyes were of a beautiful
dark brown, shaded by lovely lashes
of the same hue. Her lips were* red
as coral, and her teeth as firm and
white as pearls. She was dressed iu a
vei 7 becoming attire of large Turkish
pants and Lose blouse coat ; her
sleeves were rolled up the elbow, ex
hibitiog a beautifully rounded white
arm.
Reflections of a misanthrope—'T here
are twokmds of friends—the kind that
betrays us and the kind that we be
tray.'