Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME VII.
f> 0 £ TEA.
Mrs. E. T. Corbett, in Harper’s Magazine. ]
T |li; FORECLOSURE OF THE
MORTGAGE.
Vt'ulk ri«lit in tho sittiu’-room, deacon ; it’s all
in a muddle you see,
{jut i hadn’t no heart to right it, so [’ve just
lot everything be ;
Besides I’m goin’ to-noorror—I calk’late to start
with the dawn—
And the house won’t seem so home-liko if it’s
nil upset and forlorn.
I sent off the children this morning; they
both on Via begged to stay,
hut I thought ’twould be easier, mebbo, if I
was alone to-day.
For this was the very day, deacon, just twenty
years ago,
That Caleb and me moved in ; so I couldn’t
forget it, you know.
IVe was ho busy and happy! -we’d been mar¬
ried a month before —
And Caleb would clear the table and brush up
the kitchen floor.
lie said I was tired and he’d help me—but
law ! that was always his wvy—
Always handy and helpful and kind, to the
very last day.
Don’t you remember, deacon, that winter I
broke m y arm ?
>Vby, Caleb skursely left me, not even to tend
to the farm.
There, night and mornin’ I saw him, a seitiu’
so close to my bed,
And 1 knew him in spite of the fever that
made me so wild in my head.
He never did nothin’ to grieve me, until he
left me behind—
Yes, 1 know there’s no use talkin’, but some¬
how it oases my mind.
And lie sot such store by you, deacon, I need
not tell ysu now,
But unless he had your judgment he never
would buy a cow.
Well, our cow is gone, and tho horse too
poor Caleb was fond of Jack—
Ami 1 cried like a fool this momiu’ when I
looked at the empty rack.
I hope he’ll be kindly treated ; 'twould worry
poor Caleb ( so,
If them Jonses would whip the cretur —but I
suppose he ain’t like to know.
I’ve \xseu thinkin’ it over lately, but when
JUary sickened and died,
Her father's speret was broken, for sho was
alius his pride.
Hu wusu’t never to cherry ; he'd smite, but
the smile wasn’t bright,
Ami he didn’t care for the cattle, though once
they been his delight.
The neighbors all said he was ailin’, and they
tried to hint it to me ;
fhey talked of a cbmch-yard cough ; but, oh !
the blind are those who won’t see.
I never believed he was goin’ till I suw him a
la via’ hero dead.
There, there! don’t be anxious deacon; I
haven't no tears to shed.
I’ve tried to keep things together—I’ve been
slaving early and late —
But I couldn’t pay the iut'rest nor^git the farm
work straight.
&> of course I’ve gone beliind-hand, and if the
farm should sell
For enough to pay tho mortgage, I s’pose ’twill
be well.
I’ve prayed ag’iust all hard foeliu’s, and to
walk as a Christian ought,
*But it's hard to see Caleb’s children turned
out of the place lie bought;
And readin’ that text iu the Bible ’bout wid¬
ows aud orphans, you know,
I can’t think the folks will prosper who are
willin’ to see ua go.
But there ! I’m keepin’ you, deacon, and it’s
nigh your time for tea.
“Won't I come over V” No, thank you ; I feel
better alone, you see;
Besides, I couldn’t eat nothin’ ; whenever I’ve
tried it to-day
There's something that chokes me. I’m uarv
ons, I s’pose you’ll say,
“I’ve worked too hard.” No, I haven’t. Why
it's work that keeps me strong ;
I sot there thinkin’ I’m sartin my heart
would break before long.
Kot that I care about livin’. I’d rather be laid
away
In the place I’ve marked beside Caleb, to res*
till the judgment day.
but there s the children to think of—that
makes my duty clear,
^ud III try to toller it, deacon, though I’m
tired ot this earthly speer.
Good-by, then, I shan’t i'orgit you, nor all the
kindness you’ve showed ;?
Twill help to cheer me to-morrow, as I go on
Fi my lonely road,
—what are you sayin’, deacon ? I needn’t
—I needn’t go ?
Ton ve bought the mortgage, and I can stay ?
Stop, say it over slow.
Just wait now—just wait a minute—I’ll take it
in biine-by.
That I can stay. Why, deacon, I don’t know
what makes me cry !
I haven’t no words to thank you. If Caleb
IF was only here
d such a head for speakin’, he’d make my
feelin’s clear.
There’s a picture in our Bible of au angel from
the skies,
And though he hasn’t no great coat, aud spec¬
tacles on his eyes,
He looks just like you, deacon, with your
smile so good and true,
•mid whenever I see that pietur, ’twill make
111 e think of you.
r The children
will be so happy ! W’hy, Debby
will most go wild ;
She fretted so much at leavin’ her garding be¬
hind ; poor child !
^ n<, bw ! I’m glad Debby, ef only for jest
> as
How oue thing—
1 cun tend tho posies I planted there last
0lx spring
Caleb’s grave; ho loved the flowers,
Seems as ef he’ll know
a-bloomin’ all around him while
beepin’ there below.
tuff man eirne
/
ADKIA.
AN ENGLISH STORY.
When I went to Uplands Park, I
took my horse and dog with me ; not
because there were no horseses and
dogs at Margaret’s residence, but be
cause 1 never took up my abode any¬
where without them. Turk, my
blooded Arabian, was the only horse I
had e\ei cared to ride ; and Flo, my
hound, was a creature so magnificent
as to challenge universal admiration.
She knew more about my whims, un*
derstood my moods and humors better
than anybody in the world.
Uplands Park was my sister Mar¬
garet’s home. It was a magnificent
place, but she had never been happy
there, ifhr marriage was one of con¬
venience. Dr. Severn, her husband,
would have been the most ordinary of
men, but for one marked, distinguish
ing trait—obstinacy. Margaret was
the fairest, gentlest creature I ever
knew.
I had come to them because I had
suffered greatly from recent illness,
and was much reduced. The situa¬
tion of the Uplands Park was particu¬
larly salubrious.
‘Oh, a few weeks here will set me
up all right !' said 1 , carelessly, but
holding her face between my hands, to
mark the little new lines of care there.
'Well, sit down here iu my pet easy
cliair, John, while I go and see that
your room is all ready. And,’ added
my sister, as she disappeared, ‘i'll send
Adria up lo talk to you.’
As I relapsed into Margaret's pet
casy-chair, I wondered who ‘Adria'
was.
'flie door was open, and overlooked
the garden. The flowers were in blos¬
som, and the bees were buzzing ever
the mignonette bed. I saw my little
nephew, Pnil, running along the grav¬
el walks, and cal ed to him. He came
and climbed upon my knee.
‘Have you brought Turk, Uncle
John ?‘
‘Yes, my boy.'
‘And Flo?’
‘And Flo, Phil.'
‘Then won’t wc have some good
fun?’ said Phil, with considerable em¬
phasis.
But the child was tired, and, with
his rosy cheek against my breast, the
white lids dropped over the blue eyes,
and the little fellow was fast asleep.
As 1 sat eagerly watching the bees, I
suddenly hoard voices.
‘I told you so before, Uncle Severn.
We had a talk about this a month
ago ; don’t you remember ?'
The voice was a young gill's.
‘Something was said—yes. But
my attention has been called more
closely to this matter lately, Adria.'
‘But when I told you that I didn't
wisli to marry this man I expected
the subject to be dismissed forever!’
The words were uttered in a tone
of ringing impatience.
‘Hush ! hush 1' said the doctor
soothingly. ‘You are getting exceed¬
ingly irritable lately, Adria ; I think
your nerves must be out of order/
‘My nerves will do very well, if you
will never mention Charles Redman’s
name to me again.’
There was the rustle of silk, with a
footstep upon, the terrace. A lady
swept by the dour, looked in paused
and hesitated.
‘Capt. Fane, I did not know you
had come. You have been ill; pray
let me relieve you of that happy
child/
I let her take the boy, for the sake
of having those penciled features and
that wealth of brown bail brought so
near rny face. She was a proud beau
ty, but it was a pride that I liked.
Everything about her—her rippled
hair, her hazel eyes, with their black
?
curled lashes, her white throat, her
dress of rose-colored cambric, her
dainty silk apron—was artistically
pretty. I irreverently thought that
she looked like some pink-and-white
confectionery, good enough to eat. I
forgot that Margaret had promised to
send her to talk to me, but talked, iu-.
voluntarily, for half an hour.
At tbe end of that time my sister
appeared, followed by a footman with
refreshments for her invalid.
1 am glad you and Adria are get
ting acquainted so nicely/ she said.
But on Margaret's appearance,
Adria fell into an absorbt d ic\eiie
ovidently considering me off hei
hands, and giving way to a natuial iu
clination. She sat knitting her white
brows, and staling I use the uoiu
advisedly out at the window. >\-
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JULY 10, IS JO.
and“by, Phil rolled off the sofa, and
naturally woke up crying. The ease
and grace with which Adria Eaton
rescued and soothed that frightened
child gave her a place in rny heart for¬
ever.
She was, it seemed, an orphan niece
of Dr. Severn, and was, henceforth,
to have a home at Uplands Park. I
revolved the fact with interest,
In the course of a week I was on
very fair terms with Miss Adria. She
talked and sang delightfully, and I did
not wonder that she was the belle of
the neighborhood, as Margaret told
mo. lint I, who saw her day by day
in the home circle, fonfld her sweeter,
I think, than any man she danced with
could fancy her to be. Her quiet
tones, her simple and exquisite morn
ing-toilets, her fondness for little Phil
and the baby, showed traits of char¬
acter utterly unlike those which made
her popular at ball and party,
Returning from a walk one morn
j ng with little Phil, I spied Adria Ea«
ton i„ the l une . She wore a white
dress, and swung her straw hat by its
cherry ribbons ; and beside her walk¬
ed the most villainously handsome
man I ever saw.
‘There’s Mr. Redman/ said little
Phil, pointing.
I put down his chubby fore-finger,
passed the pair with a bow, and pro¬
ceeded into the garden.
In half an hour Adria came in, much
disturbed. She passed Phil, who was
putting Flo into a harness of his moth¬
er’s scarf and even the baby, little
Maud, who cooed lor a caress, without
a wo-d. There was—I was rather
shocked to see it—a look of passion¬
ate irritation on her face. She went
up to her room, and was alone until in
the afternoon. Then she came down,
composed in manner, but with some
visible trouble about her.
She took Margaret's infant then,
and sank down upon a lounge. I was
somewhat surprised in a few moments
to sec that both she and the child
were ‘I asleep.
am glad of it,’ murmured my
good sister. ‘I do not know what ails
Adria, but she has not slept well for
weeks past. Almost at any time I
awake I can hear her walking in her
room.'
‘There is more the matter with her
than you suspect,’ said Dr. Severn,
behind us.
‘You don’t think Adria is ill, doc¬
tor ?’ said Margaret, anxiously.
‘Not physically/
‘Something on her mind, then ?
‘She is habitually moody and irrita
bio.'
‘Of late, a little—yes. Poor Adria!
I wonder what lias gone wrong* with
her V and, softly lifting a burnished
wave of Adria's hair, Margaret gent*
ly kissed the beautiful flushed cheek.
Dr. Severn turned away. I took up
my book again, and silence reigned.
At the end of half an hour Adria sud
denly woke, with a sharp cry. Mar¬
garet ran to her.
‘Oh, I thought I was married !’ cried
Adria. '
‘Adria, Adria, what are you crying
about?’ said Margaret, the next mo
uient.
The girl, with her face buried in the
cushions, was sobbing violently.
‘She is ill/ said I.
Dr. Severn enteieJ, and approached
the lounge.
‘She had best go to her room/ he
said, significantly.
When Adria had gone up-stairs,
Margaret turned to her husband, say¬
ing, ‘Doctor, now what do you really
think is the matter with Adria V
‘Some mental disorder troubles her/
he replied ; at which unexpected an
swer Margaret and I stood silent,
‘She must keep her room for a while/
added the doctor,
‘But that, 3*011 know, Adria will
never do unless very seriousl}* ill/
‘She must keep tier room, then/ re
peated Dr. Severn, dogmatically.
From that day this man began a
system of petty tyranny over that
that was, to her morbid, nervous state, !
excessively inflating* 1 do not think
that she was seriously disordered at
first ; but under confinement, and per
sistent thwarting ol her desires, a
slow fever settled upon her. She was
denied all society, and kept in a dark
and imperfectly aired appartment
‘Adria begs to have the windows
open ; bnt the doctor says that if she
catches cold it will be certain death/
said Margaret, much troubled. j
I did not know "hat to sas. Iheie
" as some.hi.ig saaage to me about:
the \v hole affair. I obsuved, however, j
that 1 nad never seen a sick-room that
was not gi catty benefited by the ad
mission of fusli air. |
'Severn is a brute or a blockhead/
I would mntter.
I inquired about her daily.
‘No better/ was the invariable an*,
swer.
At length Margaret said that Adria
seemed to wander much in her mind,
and she was afraid that she was very
ill. A gloom settled upon all the
house.
One morning, at breakfast, the doc¬
tor made a strange announcement.
‘Adria informed me this morning
that she wished to be married !' he
said.
‘Married !' cried Margaret.
‘It is the whim of a diseased brain ;
but I believe that it will be best to
gratify it,’ said the doctor, meditative^
y. ‘You know, of course, that she
is engaged to my friend Mr. Redman V
‘She never told me. Adria was al¬
ways so close about her love affairs.
She seemed to think it indelicate to
discuss them/ exclaimed Margaret.
‘Charles Redman is much attached
to Adria. If he chooses to please this
whim of hers, and take an invalid
bride, I think the change would be
good for her. He would take her to
Italy/
Margaret began to look a little
cheered ; but,'from the time that sly**
eyed mat/s name was mentioned, I be¬
came actively suspicious. That Adria
Eaton did not love him, I was almost
as certain.
Dr. Severn seemed more than ever
interested in his niece's recovery. lie
was with her almost constantly. Mar¬
garet told me that the wedding would
probably take place ; for tbe doctor
had decided upon it, and she had
heard Adria express a wish that it
should be.
‘But, poor tiling,' said my sister,
burying her face in her handkerchief/
it will be more like a funeral than a
wedding’. When Adria lies asleep, it
f rightens me to look at her—she look^
almost, as if she were dead/
‘Is Mr. Redman near here V
‘Yes. But Adria refuses to see him
until her wedding-day. It’s strange/
added my sister, looking troubled
again/
I saw Redman that day—saw him
walking in the avenue with Dr. Se¬
vern. He was listening to the doctor
with such sly triumph on his smooth
face that I instinctively felt smitten
vvitii indignation. From that moment
I resolved to see Adria—to stand her
friend, indeed.
That evening I had an opportunity
for making my request. Margaret
said that the ceremony would take
place the next evening, and asked me
to get the flowers from the green -
house.
‘When I bring them, I should like
to take them up to her/ I said.
‘Why, certainly/ she answered.
Procuring the white roses, orange
flowers, and myrtle, I proceeded to
Adria's chamber, and lightly knocked
at tliogloor. At first there was no an
swer. Then came a faint ‘Come
The door was ajar. I pushed it
open, and perceived that the apart¬
ment had but its habitual occupant,
Adria. She lay among the pillows, a
mere shadow of her former self.
‘My sister gave me permission to
coine in and see you for a moment/ I
said. ‘I have brought your wedding
flowers ’
I held them to her view. Her fa«*e
was much emaciated, her eyes large
and hollow.
‘Roses, orange-flowers. Why are
they mixed with myrtle ? You should
have had cypress instead/ she said
faintly.
‘Cypress at a wedding ?'
‘My funeral is so near, you know*/
she answered.
[ knelt down by the bedside, and
took the frail little hands in mine.
‘Adria/ said I, ‘do you think you
are going to die?'
‘I know that I am/ she answered.
’The doctor has told me so. I would
nc q, p ave consented to this marriage
you do not know/ she inter
*
rU p te d.
‘i wish to kuovv/ I replied. ‘Dear
Adria, I have learned to love you in
your trouble* Trust me, as a friend,
with whatever burdens you/
For e moment she looked at me in
wonder^ then covered her face with
her frail hands, and I saw the great
tears trickling through the white,
slender fingers But, as I bent over
her,’she put me gently back. I
‘No, no! it is too late now] Let
them have it as they will.’
Adria,‘ said I, * you are not going
to die. A ou have a whole lifetime be
fore you. It is this confinement and a
heavy heart which is preying upon;
you/ }
Again she regarded me with
troubled doubt.
‘You do not love this Redman ?‘
She shook her head.
‘Then why do you consent to marry
him V
‘Uncle wishes me to. I thought it
did not matter, since I am to die so
soon/
‘Is there any money in this affair,
Adria ?‘
‘Yes ; ray little fortune—only a few
thousand pounds. It was left so that
it is not in my control until I am
married or of age. I am only 19 now,
you know. It I marry Mr. Redman,
jt will be his, whether I die or not,
and I hud as lief he would have it as
any one. It docs not matter to me
about the money, and when I am mar¬
ried I think they will let me be in
peace/
At that moment I heard a step on
the stair. Adria was also much ex
hausted with talking, and I left the
room. But now I knew my ground.
I was confident that Dr. Severn wish¬
ed to obtain some advantage by this
marriage. I also was determined that
it never should take place. All next
day the preparations went on. Mean¬
while I decided upon my course.
About 4 o'clock in the afternoon a car"
riage came out, briuging Redman and
a clergyman. Soon after the family
were summoned to Adrians chamber,
where a special license was read.
The bed was snowily draped, and
strewn with flowers. There were or¬
ange blossoms in Adria's dark hair as
it fell in lovely profusion upon the pil¬
lows. She was supported iu a sitting
posiure, and Redman stood beside her,
holding her hand, as the ceremony
commenced. The clergyman was sta¬
tioned before them. Dr. Severn and
Margaret stood near. The servants
were Clustered near the door.
As souii as tbe ceremony was fairly
commenced, so that the guilty parties
stood fully committed in their iuteu
tion, I stepped forward and said, ‘I
forbid the marriage !‘
The clergyman paused, aud looked
at n.e blankly.
‘I forbid the marriage now and for¬
ever !‘ I reiterated,
‘On what plea ?‘ he asked mildly,
while Redman and Dr. Severn looked
at me with fierce eyes.
‘.The marriage is enforced contrary
to the young lady's wishes. She does
not, enter it willingly/ I said, calmly.
‘Dr. Severn/ I added, as that gentle*,
man turned furiously upon me, ‘you
need not bluster. This girl is the vic¬
tim of some evil machinations, and,
were you her uncle forty times over,
I would stand her friend and protect
her from you
‘Adria/ lie said in aloud voice, turn¬
ing toward the bed, ‘speak 1 Are you
willing to marry Charles Redman or
no ?‘
To my inexpressible relief, Adria
feebly shook her head. She looked
faint, and weakly wiped the drops of
perspiration from her brow. I threw
open a window, begging Margaret to
at once bathe her forehead.
In great confusion, mingled with
ill-suppressed oaths, the wedding par¬
ty dissolved.
My next intention was obstructed
by the movement of my enemies.
At dark, Doctor Severn and Red¬
man, after close conference, drove
away in the carriage. No vehicle or
carriage-horses were within my reach
As I stood despondently in tho sta¬
ble/a sudden thought came over me.
Turk's gait was more gentle than the
motion of any carriage. My brave
horse should bear Adria from her tor
mentors. I told Margaret what I
wished done. She trembled, but lent
her aid. Adria was dressed, wrapped
in a cloak and I brought her down
the sta.rs in my arum. She kissed
Margaret from my shoulders ; then I
placed her on Turk's bacic.
Never did my pet bear himself with
sucl1 gentle grace. As I walked at the
bridle, carefully watching Adria's face
in the moonlight, she assured me she
was not getting weary—rather that
she seemed gaining strength with
every breath of the pure, sweet, open
air.
Thus I bore m 3 r *treasure three miles
to the railway station, and thence to
the home of my mother,
Six weeks afterward, confidingly
(
willingly, Adria Eaton became my
wife.
Immediately, Dr. Severn sent me a
threatening letter, with which I lit a
cigar. He did not trouble me, for he
had other thiugs to attend to. Red
mau immediately brought a suit
against him for an immense debt. Be -
fere the Jaw could take its course tbe
doctor had fled the country.
He died abroad, and Margaret came
to us in our happy home for a time,
but soon left us to marry tbe man
j her choice—her childhood's love—for
whom she had pined the five long
years of her marriage She is very
happy.
—
Night.
Great is our admiration, when in
open day we behold lovely valleys,
with their border of mountains, stretch¬
ing away, away, till the last blue peak
'seems blended with the sky ; and the
broad rivers, winding among green
bills, tall trees, and graceful, over¬
hanging bushes, and shimmering in the
sunlight like burnished gold ; and
when we gaze out over the boundless
ocean, the grassy prairie, or the tran¬
quil lake, day seems glorious indeed ;
yet, when the suu sinks gently behind
the western hills, making his exit
through gorgeous gates of purple,
crimson and gold ; when in his wake
comes the soft semi-darkness of Twi¬
light, that soon gives place to her
dark-eyed sister, lovely Night, our re¬
flections are surely more deep aud ho**
ly than when indulged in beneath
blaze of the noon day sun. For truly,
at night, “The heavens declare the glo¬
ry of God, and the firmament showeth
Ilis handiwork." Then we behold 11 is
sacred name upon everything, and hear
it breathed in every sigh of the gentle
winds. It is written upon every leaf;
the brook gurgles it; the cricket
it unceasingly, and the great I Am is
written in every part of the heavens,
its words lormed of planets stars and
worlds, more vast, and probably more
beautiful than ours. It is at night,
ever, that the stupendous structure
the universe is realized ; and the infi¬
del, who boldly, in the ’ace of day,
proclaims, “There is no God,” must,
at night, secretly acknowledge that
those wonderful, starry worlds are not
governed by chance. How secure and
peaceful must the Christian feel when
gazing upon those vast worlds and
systems, knowing that though the Fa¬
ther's eye is the great center around
which they revolve, yet not even a
sparrow falls unnoticed to the ground,
and the very hairs of our heads are all
numbered.— Chicago Ledger.
Happy Thoughts,
There is no power in the world that
is so -magical in its effects as human
sympathy.
No indulgence of passion destroys
the spiritual nature so much as respec¬
table selfishness.
Human things must be known to be
loved ; but divine things need to bo
loved to be known.
Human life defined by a line is as
uncomfortable as would be the human
figure defiued by a wire.
No more certain is it that the
flower was made to waft perfume than
that woman’s destiny is a ministry ot
love.
Tears are the gift which love be¬
stows upon the memory of the absent,
and they will avail to keep the heart
from suffocation.
Mothers never do part bonds with
babes they have borne ; until the day
they die each quiver of the life goes
back straight to the heart beside which
it began.
Men and women receive in this world
much of what they deserve. It is like
a looking-glass—this big world. Grin
and smile to it and it will smile back ;
scrowl and it frowns.
Many an unkind or sarcastic word,
dropped carelessly, as a minute seed
often fructifies into a whole garden
noxious weeds ; spring up, they
, . fo.getten _ , how,
hut the words are
there.
Garments that have but one rent in
them are subject to be torn on every
nail, and glasses that are once cracked
are soon broken ; such is a person’s
good name once tainted with re
P roacb *
The harp holds in its wires tho pos
sibilities of noblest chords ; yet if they
be not struck they must hang dull and
useless. So tho mind is vested with a
hundred powers, that must be smitten
b^* a heavy hand to prove themselves
the offspring ot Divinity,
If we would only profit by our own
experiences or the experiences of oth._
ers, it would be almost impossible for
even lightning to strike us ; but rath-,
er than do this we prefer to knock out
what few brains we have got against
somebody's stone wall.faud then howl
about the weakness of reason or
malice of fortune. — Josh Billings.
NO. 28.
How much can a Squash Lift.
A gentleman once tried an experi¬
ment to see how much plants could
lift by their growth. He took a young
squash and put it into a harness or
frame of iron bands, so made that it
forced the squash to grow upward.
Theu he passed an iron bar over this
and hung weights on the end of it.
Day by day he added to these weights
till the lever broke, and then he used
railroad iron till that bent under the
weight. The squash kept on growing
in spite of the weights. August 1 J
it was put in harness; August 21 it
lilted sixty pounds; August 31, live
hundred pounds, and so no until Oc¬
tober 31, when it rased five thousand
pounds. At this point the third lever
broke, the iron bands gave way, the
experiment was given up. Even
when walking in the city streets we
may see examples of this foice of
growth; the pavement is lilted up by
the roots under it. Once three mush¬
rooms lifted a pavement stone weigh¬
ing eighty pounds.
The Trade in Birds.
A dealer in canary birds says that
last year he imported 100,000 birds,
which were readily disposed of at fair
prices. They are generally brought
from the Hartz Mountain region of
Germany. From the large dealers a
fine male canary with a good voice,
t
can be bought for $3, Choice speci¬
mens, with extraordinary vocal pow¬
ers, bring sometimes $ 10 . Female
birds for breeding purposes sell for one
dollar. Next to the canary comes the
mocking bird, and is most in demand.
Those whose vocal powers arc well de¬
veloped are sold for $25 and upward.
The bull-finch is highly regarded when
well trained. A good .whistler is worth
from $25 to $40. The goldfinch, chaU
fiuch, nightingale, lark, and the linnets
and thrushes are also prized songsters
A well trained bird, of either the [gray
African variety or the green American
is woiih$50, or even $ 100 . The .moat
brilliantly colored birds are^the Aua*.
trulim paroquets and strawberry
flinches.
It requires no talent to find fault.
Any one can do it. It easy to say
that no one is honest. It is easy to
say that no one does right ; that every
one looks cut for Number One cxclu,
sively. But isn't easy to look on to
the best side; to see that there are
thousands of honest, sincere .men and
women, countless sets of justice,, char',
ity and humanity which outweigh all
the grumblers, so that it is really only
the finest dust inthe balance. Let ub
be fair and cheerful. The world is
not wrong Everybody isn’t a rascal.
Our neighbors are not .trying to cheat
us. Even the grow I err are not half so
disagreeble as they seem.— Ex.
There can be no doubt that the free
use of saleratus, so much consumed iu
bread, is excessively injurious to the
human system. It is particularly lia¬
ble to induce muscular prostration or
paralysis, and is sure to injure the di¬
gestive organs. Of course it is more
fatal to children, whose delicate or*
ganization is more sensitive than that
of grown persons.
To cure a felon take a pint of com*,
mon soft soap and stir in air-slacked
lime till it is of the consistency of gla
zier‘s putt}*. Make a leather thimble,
fill it with this composition and insert
the finger therein, and the cure is cer¬
tain. This is a domestic application
that every housekeeper can .obtain
promptly.
- ^ » - -„
A peasant being at confession, ac~
cused himself of stealing some Lay.
The father confessor asked him how
many bundles he had taken from the
stock. “I'hat is of' no consequence ,- 4
replied the peasant; ‘you may call it a
wagon-load, for my wife and I are
going to fetch the remainder very soon.
♦
A Fiiend who called 011 a wag
found him busily engaged in writing
with a pitcher of water before him.
‘An unusual companion, I suppose,*'
jocosely observed the visitor. “No/
was the reply; “I keep it handy to
water my wit/ ‘Indeed/ quickly
added the other, “I though it was
thin enough already/*
They were engaged in archery, and
her attitude was very fine as she let
fly feathered arrow from the twangs
ing bow. ‘William, are you hit?’ she
softly murmured. ‘Shot through the
heart/ ho .answered. “ Do, William *
she‘ pleaded—‘ do William, Tel!/ And
thus it is .that history repeats itselfi