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VOLUME VII.
ft 3 K ¥ II '¥ .
THE PLEDGE AT SPUNKY
POINT.
in/or VIRTUOUS EFFORT AND HUMAN PERFIDY.
It’s nil very well for preach in,’
I5nt preacbm’ and practice don’t gee ;
I'm posted on v > rtue and tern’prance,
Anil you can’t ring it on me.
Jjst toddle along with jour pledge, Squire,
Ef that’s what you want me to sign ;
Edv.ixt me ank you I’ve been there, |
And I’ll not take any in mine.
A year ago Inst Fourth o’ July
A lot of the boys was here ;
VVi 3 all got corned and signed the pledge
Fur to drink no more that year.
There was Tillman Joy aud Sheriff McPhail
And me and Abner I ry,
And I'belbj’s boy Leviticus,
And the Golyera—Luke and Cy.
And we antoed up a hundred,
In the hands of Deacon Hedge,
Fur to b« divided the followin’ Fourth
’Jfongsl the boys that kept the pledge.
And we kuowed each other so well, Squi.e,
Yon may take my scalp for a fool,
If every man when he signed his name
Didn’t feel dead sure of the pool.
Fur awhile il all went lovely,a
We put up a job next day
fur to make Joy blieve his wife was dead,
Aud he went home middlin gay.
Then Aimer Try he killed a man,
Aud afore ho was hung, McPhail
Jest bilked the widder outen her sheer,
By gittiu’ him slewed in jaiL
But Chrib’uias scooped the Sheriff—
The eggnogs gathered him in—
Am! Shelby’s boy, Leviticus.
Was, New Year’s tight as sin.
And along in March the Golyers
Got so drunk that a fresh biled owl
"Would ’a looked Tongside o’ them two men.
hike a sol er temperance fowl.
Tout months alone I walked the chalk :
l thought my heart would break,
And all them boys a slappin’ my back,
Ahum’ me “What’ll you take?”
1 never slept without dreamiu’ dreams
01 Bourbon, Peach or Iiye,
■ ftit I chawed at my nigger, head, aud swore
I'll rake that pool or die.
At last—the Fourth—I humped myself
Thruuga chores and breakfast soon,
Then scoo'ed down to Taggart’s store,
Fur the pledge was off at noon :
Ail the hoys were getkered there,
Aud each man hilt his glass,
^atchiu’ mo and the clock quite solemu-likg
fur to see the last minute pass,
The clock .struck twelve ! I raised the jug
Aud took one .lovin' pull—
I was holier from skull to boots,
It seemed I couldn’t git full,
tht I was roused by a tieudi«h laugh
Hut might have raised the dead—
iii u unary snaaks had sot the clock
Half au hour ahead.
Ail right,” I squawked, “you’ve got me :
fet order your drinks agin,
AM we’ll paddle up to the Deacon’s
Aid scood the autee iu. ”
But when we got to Hedge’s,
hi /katasight Deacou was that we saw 1
and Parson iSkeeters,
Gil of a gauae of lAraw.
*-) hud shook the hof: of the morning ;
| fl hie Parsou’e luck was fa'r,
A- * he raked, the minute got there,
The we
last of our pool on a pa’x.
110 taure temperance for me. Squire,
I know it’s all very fine,
“ lor “yself, I thank you,
, 111 not take iu mine*
any
MISCELL A JfY.
Pearls Aral Pebbles.
ni ] ' n '
m B ‘ ,lir, es arc seldom canceled by
m ■benefits. ,
; ) 1,5 Want enemies excel if
others;
' a!! t friends, let others excel
■ V
|//Ian '■ dest. foresight, often leaves its
possessor only a choice of
^ krt °vv that must meet to
rt we
U but u ’eknow not that we part to
■
• ‘gain.
a
n *j } 'ii inclination be to those who
uftjl , al 1 * lor than to those who praise
■ net.
| s sis hard work for those who
la K ^ wht. *t, and dull work for
!1* are.
if® ^tnnishing how much easier it
io f ' V| i tliari hear to be told of the
/ e *'ave d, >ne.
4] ^/diose teems with disappointment
sources of enjoyment
* Ul .tlieely 8 iuin of fancy
A 0 1, bo
10 ha PPy, must have
,' u';n
!TUel!, g euc e, enthusiasm,
" r *ct buck aud
I*** wo. encourage
tlAtlik eall the company
et w, th b lU if brought
, we are in
we must make the best.
j j
TWO YEARS WEDDED.
BY H. C. TYNG.
Kate Vernon had been scarcely two
years wedded when her aunt, with
whom she had formerly lived and from
whose house she had married, came to
spend the winter with her.
Mrs. Beverly had not been long with
tier niece before she saw, or thought
she saw, that things were not going
right with the young couple. Kate
often looked as if she had been crying.
Her happy expression and fresh color
had disappeared. On his part Mr
Vernon was strangely silent and
moody. After the first evenings, too,
he began to be absent himself.
It was on one of these occasions that
the wife broached the subject that had
been on her lips since her aunt’s arri¬
val. *
4 I suppose I ought to apologize,
aunty !’ she began, with some confu¬
sion.
‘Apologize, my child ! What for ?’
‘For Edward’s going out and leav.
ing us alone so much. I know you
think it strange. It isn’t a bit like
what it used to be.’
‘Perhaps he has business which calls
him from home oftener than usual/
returned her aunt, not wishing to ac¬
knowledge that she certainly saw that
Kate’s husband was not so attentive
to his wife as she could wish.
‘I think not, aunt ; I know of no
business that should make him absent
himself from home so much as he has
done of late; besides, he is not so lov¬
ing and kindly now. I wish, indeed,
business was the cause/
Here the young wife burst into tears.
It was a relief to her to have made
her confession. She had been misera¬
bly unhappy fora long while, and now
she flung herself on her aunt’s bosom,
and wept as if her heart would break.
Mrs Beverly drew the poor child to
her again and again.
‘I have seen you have been unhap¬
py ever since I came here/ she said,
after a pause. ‘But I have seen, also,
that the cause is one easily correct¬
ed--’
‘Oh f no, no !’ interrupted the young
wife, ‘Edwm d doesn’t care for me any
more. He goes out almost every even¬
ing, as lie has done to night—lie who
never could stay one evening away be¬
fore we were married/
‘Kate, my child/ said her aunt, seri¬
ously, ‘you say your husband does not
love you. You quote his going out of
evenings as a proof of it. I admit the
neglect/ Kate winced. ‘But is there
no cause for it ? You used to bo, my
dear, scrupulously neat »n your attire.
I do not say you are now untidy. But
there is a very great difference, as I
plainly see, between the way in which
you come down to breakfast now and
that in which you used to at my house.
There your lace was always fresh,
your hair nicely arranged, your collar
unwrinkled, your gown spotless.
Now, I grieve to any, my darling,
things are very different; and, what
is worse than carelessness in dress
oven, your countenance is, sometimes,
the least hit sour.’
Kate, during this plain speech, had
gradually ceased sobbing; aud now,
with her hands bolding back her hair,
was staring up into her aunt’s face,
halfin anger, ' half in astonishment and
°
,.
claimed' ‘Sour! I didn’t know it!’ she ex
‘Are you sure? Ohl it's
when Edward has been scolding me.’
’lite von mv dear? Edward
doesn-t look a man who would
scold.’
‘Well, he’s jea’ous of baby; he looks
at it often ; and he as good as says it
sometimes- He has even hinted, once
twice, that since i baby was Knm born I t
or
don't eare as much abort my-my
good looks-as I used to do. That’s
the way of them all, I suppose—they
marry us lor our beauty, and, when
our health fails, then they blame
blame us for it.’
‘My child ’ answered Mrs Beverly,
kindly too much in earnest to
f done if ir hud been
as she would have
anybody else; ‘I think you are unfair
to Edward. Certainly there is
i„gi„ your state of health to spoil
vourgood looks. You are, or might
he, far prettier than when you mar
lied A very little more attention to
your dress \V I uld vender you more at
tractive than ever.’
‘But I’m sure I love Edward just as
much as ever/ said Kate, looking up,
her large eyes dilated with surprise
and Utile indignation; ‘and it s very
a
inst of him to think I don t because
unju she burst into
of baby.’ And then
tears again.
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, AUGUST 21, 1870.
‘Perhaps he is a little to blame, my
dear/ Raid her annt, kissing her.
‘What I say is that it is not very
strange he should feel hurt. Consider!
Love is to be judged, like everything
^ se > works, If Edward finds
y° u 1,0 Io "£ er paying any attention to
your personal appearance, if he sees
you take offense when he hints that ho
would like you to dress as you used
to, is it absolutely cruel, or even un¬
natural, on his part that he should
think you hardly can love him as you
used, to love him? He reasons, re¬
member, that if you did you would
have some regard for his comfort
And, further, if baby is made the ex¬
cuse for all this, he becomes not exact¬
ly jealous of baby, but occasionally the
least bit cross.’
Much of this had its effect ou Kate,
who, after all, was a sensible and Kind
hearted woman.
‘But what must I do V she whis
pered, her face hidden in her aunt's
j a p
‘Come down to breakfast to-mor¬
row in your neatest dress, and w r ith
your hair nicely arranged. Do not
be late, as you have been. Get up
in time to have the baby off your
hands. Be as cheerful and pleasant to
Edward as if nothing had ever hap¬
pened. Let the last few weeks be
ignored entirely. Meet him in the
evening in your freshest attire, and
have everything about the room cheer¬
ful; if you Cui, there be something
for dinner to v you remember his
likings, a tic houghtful for his eom
fort and ba t , .. ss. Why my dear, it
is the easiest thing for a wife to return
a husband’s love. If she will only
show the same interest in him that she
exhibited for the lover, all will ue
well.’
‘But what of baby the meantime?’
asked the young mother.
‘You have the whole day, darling to
devote to baby, and surely that is
enough. The little fellow is a dear,
sweet child, but yon must not let him
monopolize all your time. Only be
your old self for one week, and youi
truant will be won back again.’
Kate took her aunt’s advice. The
next morning she was down before her
husband, had seen that the bre ik'ast
table was perfect in all its arrange¬
ments, and had even ordered the cook
to prepare Edward’s favorite dish, as
a little surprise to him. Edward saw,
without h ilf-coneealed astonishment,
the brighter looks of things, gave one
quick glance at lu's wife, flushed with
gratification and fell at once into some
thing of his old lover-like manner.
Certainly Kate had neyer seemed lov
lier.
‘You are fresh-looking as a June
rose, my dear/ said her aunt, kissing
her, when Edward had left for his
office. 'The battle is half won al¬
ready, I see.’/
That evening was quite like old
time*. Kate welcomed her husband
in the hall with a kiss. The hearth
was swept up; there was a little vase
of flowers on the sideboard, and Ed
wsrd ’ 8 favorite magazine, winch had
corae thut <la y> was rea< h 0llt for him.
The *«■«• t0 °. excellent. There
w: ‘“ ™ going out. Part of the time
was spent in cheerful talk, and partm
alo " d - Tlle husband could
uot k,Je P his eye* off his pretty wile,
I« loveliest of blue dresses, and
with her color heightened by many
emotions, Kate looked more beautiful,
he thought, than ever in the days of
their courtship.
Wh itcommenced so favorably went ;
happily ever after.
•/I can never thank you enough, aunt,
for your advice/ said Kate, kissing
Mrs Beverly enthusiastically, when
the latter was leaving, at the end of
her visit. . . real
lour coming ® was a
hlessrng. How long Edward . aud , _ I
»hould have gone on at. crosa-purpo. j
oviug oac t oibei in spite of all,
perhaps, but still getting more and ;
unhappy, I cannot tel! ; pmba
bly And all our here lire,. sire burst “d if so |
into tears, the i
Kospect her fancy had conjured up
being too much fur her.
Mrs. Beverly aissed the tears away,
and said: ‘Go on as you are going
^ «T *«• It is often a wife’s
a husbaud ceases to be a
Iover -
To another is teach him I
vex to to
vex us agaiu; injuries awake revenge
and even an ant sting, aud a fly troub¬
le our patience.
• 4
When marri -ge is founded on pru-,
dunce and honor, life has a definite ob- s
jeet and existence becomes a substas- ,
tial blessing.
Men’s Eyes and Better Ones.
BY JOHN BURROUGHS.
The whip-poor-will walks as awk¬
wardly as a swallow, which is as awk¬
ward as a man in a bag, and yet she
manages to lead her young about the
woods. The latter, I think move by
leaps and sudden spurts, their protect¬
ive coloring shielding them most e r -
fective. Wilson once came upon the
mother-bird* and her brood in the
woods, and, though they were at his
very feet, was so baffled by the con**
cealrnent of the young that he was
about to give up the search, much dis¬
appointed, when he perceived some¬
thing ‘like a slight moldiness among
the withered leaves, and, on stooping
down, discovered it to be a young
whip-poor-will, seemingly asleep.’
Wilson’s description of the young is
accur! “ e - H “ it3 dow »y cover -
ing does look precisely like a ‘slight
maldiness/ Returning a fow mo¬
ments afterward to the spot to get a
pencil he had forgotten he could find
neither old nor young.
It takes an eye to see a patiidge in
the woods motionless upon the leaves
this sense needs to be as sharp as that
of smell in bonds and pointers, and yet
I know an unkempt youth that seldom
failg to see the bird and shoot it before
it takes wing. I think he sees it as
soon as it. sees him and before it sus¬
pects itself seen. What a training to
the eye is hunting! to pick out the
game from its surroundings, the grouse
from the leaves, the gray squirrel from
the mossy oak-limb it hugs so closely,
the red fox from the ruddy or brown
or gray field, the rabbit from the stub*
ble, or the white hare from the snow
requires the best powers of this sense.
A woodchock, motionless in the fields
or upon a rock, looks very much like
a large stone or bowlder, yet a keen
eye knows the difference at a glance
a quarter of a mile away.
A man has a sharper eye than a dog
or a fox, or than any of the wild creat¬
ures, but not so sharp an ear or nose.
But. in the birds he finds his match
How quickly the old turkey discovers
the hawk, a mere speck against the sky
and how quickly the hawk discovers
you if you happen to be secreted in the
bushes or behind the fence near which
he alights. One advantage the bird
surely has, and that is, owing, to the
form, structure and position of the eye
it has a much larger field of vision—
indeed, can probably see in nearly ev¬
ery direction at the same instant, be¬
hind as well as before. Man’s field of
vision embraces less than half a] circle
horizontally and still less vertically;his
brow and brain prevent him from see¬
ing within many degrees of the zeuith
without movement of the head; the
bird, on the other hand takes in nearly
the whole sphere at a glance.
I find I see, almost without effort,
nearly every bird within sight in the
field or wood 1 passed through (a flit
of the wing, a flirt of the tail are
enough, though flickering leaves do alt
conspire to hide them), and that with
like ease the birds see me, though, un
questionably the chances are immense¬
ly in their lavor. The eye sees what
it has the means of seeing, truly. You
“list have the bird in your heart be.
fore J' ou Ci *“ <» '» the bush. The
e y c must have purpose jand aim. No
oue ever yet found the walking fern
"ho did not have the walking fern in;
“ 8 m ‘. nd - ^ person whoso eye is lull
of Indian r relics picks tuern up in every
Held be walks through.
■ ^ ♦
Mintl Your Own Business.
Nothing but ul imate ruin stares
that farmer in the face who does not
pay personal attentioned to the min
nte detai|g of Ms farm . lw ar0 a
t( u)usan(1 small leaks about the man
agemMtof a „ (>rdi „ ary , wm that ; f
„ ot eI()9eIy , tte „ de d to, will surely
bring the most hard-working farmer
fannere ca „ altri bnte their present
condition to no ether cause than a
luck of close attention to the small de
tails of the farm. Close supervision
to the machinery # tools, stock and
their feet, a place for everything and
everthing in its place. No hired help
is as much interested in attending to
these duties as the farmer himself.
Such a course would in a few months
or years at most, enable many farmerr
who are now on a down hill grade to
again begin to ascend, and if perseves
in it will surely make headway against
what would otherwise look doubtful.
-
Rats and conquerors must expect no
mercy in misfortune.
A LUCKY DIE.
BY e. b. w.
What the deuce ails me? Where
am I, anyhow? Wherever I am,
springs and mattresses must be scarce,
for I know I am laid on some mighty
hard substance. Wonder if it iscna
dissecting board? Wonder if I’m
dead? I feel mighty like it. Maybe 1
am stretched out ready for the doc¬
tors to carve me.
These were my first thoughts, very
cheering, indeed, as I became con¬
scious, I could neither speak nor
move; but I soon learned that I could
hear.
A door opened, footsteps approach¬
ed, I felt a cloth removed from my
face, and a voice, which I recognized
as that of my intended father-in-law j
said :
‘He hasn’t changed much,’ and his
companion, whose voice I recognized
as Sower by’s, the undertaker, said
lightly:
“There’s just where you are mista¬
ken, Mr. Muffins; he looks a cussed
sight better dead than alive, but how
does Priscilla feel about it? Take on
much, eh ?'
‘Oh! no, just enough to appear
well/ said the father of my affianced,
with a chuckle. ‘She never cared
much for Smith; ’twas his stamps that
she fancied. My Priscilla is a prac¬
tical girl and went in for his domes,
his carriage and greys, although at the
same time I must own she was spooney
on bald-pated Howard, the artist, but
he’s poor as Job’s turkey, as the say¬
ing is.’
‘Well she can have him now for all
this poor cuss, can’t she?’ said
by, beating a tattoo with his digits on
my chest.
‘Ipresume so, but she will wait till
the year is np, for fear of gossip, you
know.’
‘But who gets his money, seeing the
poor cuss has no relations?’ queiied
the undertaker.
‘Oh! that’s all right. You see, my
Priscilla is a sensible girl. Before sne
promised to marry him she had him
make his will in her favor. Poor Smith
was rather sappy, you know; had
nothing against him, however, al¬
though he was deucedly homely, and
such a barn-door of a mouthy always
open/
‘Well/ su'd the cheerful voice of the
undertaker, ‘his mouth is shut tight
enough now, I reckon; he’ll never
open it in this world again. I reckon
his immortal part is now with the an
gels.*
And my mortal part is also with the
angels thought I—a fine pair of an¬
gels! I felt indignant at their clumsy
ridicule I tried to shut my fist, but
the devil a shut was to it. I could do
nothing but listen. He then began to
measure me for my coffin. I had
heard that undertakers whistled joy¬
fully when they got a measure. I be¬
lieved it to be only a joke on the eratt;
but Sowerby actually struck up the
air ‘Pull Down the Blinds’ in a sub¬
dued trilling whistle wh le he meas¬
ured me.
‘A nobby casket and 100 hacks, eh,
Mr. Muffins? Must make a big thing
of it. The cuss left lots of money, and
remember he was to be your Priscilla’s
husband. Must make a splurge, Mr.
Muffins/ said the worthy undertaker,
with an eye to his own pocket.
‘Well, I don’t mind if the coffin is a
little nobby looking; but 100 hacks!
The deuce! Ja-t send one or two for
the mourners, and tie rest who come
to attend the funeral ean furnish their
own rigs or hoof it, which ever suits
them
They covered my faee again and
left me to my own reflections. I had
often , , heard . . rt remarked that medita
tion was good for the soul, and this
was the best chance I ever had of c 'try
ing it.
An hour must have passed and the
door was again opened, and two per
sons came, whispering along^ p’om- to
where I by, aud the voice of my
'
ised wife fell on my ear.
‘I dread to look at him, Mr. How
ard; be was so homely when living
he must be frightful when dead.’
I ground my teeth in rage as I re¬
membered how often she had gone
into raptures^ or pretended to, over
my noble brow and expressive mouth
and would solemnly declare that if I
were taken from her she would enter
a convent, take the black veil and
nevermore behold the sun.
One of them r d ed the cloth, I knew
they were looking at me. Howard
was the chap she was spooney on,
whom her father had mentioned.
‘Seems tome you don’t feel very
bid about his dying, Mis9 Muffins/
exclaimed Howard, deliberately.
'Well, to toll the truth/ said my
betrothed, ‘I don’t eare very much
about it. If he had lived I suppose I
should, have married him, because he
was rich ; but I was getting about
sick of my bargain, for 1 know I
should always be ashamed of him/
‘ But you loved him/ remarked How
ard.
‘No, I did‘t! My affections were
wasted long ago, on one who never
returned my love/ And my fast¬
fading idol sighed heavily. They ha 1
now covered my face again, and were
standing within a few feet of where I
lay.
‘About how long ago. Miss Muffins?*
asked II<>w T ard.
‘Oh! about a year or so/ with an¬
other sigh.
‘About the time 1 went away?* in¬
terrupted the cautious Howard, cough¬
ing a little.
‘Well, yes, about that length of
time,* assented my dear affianced.
‘Now, MissMiu-Muf-Muffins—you —
oh! you don't mean to insinuate that
I—I—I, oh! oh! oh! too much bliss—am
the lucky—'
‘I dou't mean to insinuate anything,
Mr. Howard;' and the angelic sweet¬
ness of her voice became somewhat
metallic.
‘Now, see here—Pris-Pris-cilla—
oh! let me call you by that melodious
name. See here! I always loved you;
not for your beauty, God knows, but
for your artlessness; ’pon my soul I
did, and would have proposed to you
only I heard you were engaged to the
chap that is stretched there/
'Oh! Mr. Howard! 1 said Mrs. Smith
that was to bo, giving a little squeal.
‘Don't Mr. Howard tne. Il you re
turn my affection you must call tne by
some pet names. Call me Harry—
call me Lovey—but for Heaven’s sake
don't Mr. Howard me, my own Pris¬
cilla!* said Howard, in a quavering
voice. Then I heard a movement of
feet, accompanied by a loud lip ex¬
plosion. Moses! bow mad I got! I
tried to kick or grate my teeth, but
the devil a kick or a grate could I
raise. I was obliged to grin aud bear
it Bear it I had to; but grin I
couldn't.
Soon my company left, and I was
again entertained by my owjc pleasant
thoughts, until I again felt the .cloth
gently removed from my faee. A
soft, warm palm was laid on my fore¬
head, and the low, sweet voice of
Minnie Rivers whispered—well, no
matter what.
Night came—so did the neighbors
to my wake; and from two old crones
who sat near me I learned to my hor¬
ror that I was to be buried next day.
‘Of course you are coming to the
funeral to-morrow, Mrs. Frizzle
baum/ said one of them.
‘Oh! dear, yes, surely. I hope it
may turn out a fine day, for I want to
enjoy the ride to the cemetery/
I then lost consciousness, and the
next I heard were the grating voices
of Priscilla, my fianece, and her moth-1
er. Apparently they were brushing,
dusting and giving the room a general
slicking up before the funeral.
’Is Howard to be one of the pall¬
bearers? 1 asked the voice of my moth¬
er-in-law that might have been.
‘He would be, gladly, but he hasn‘t
a suit of black clothes/ said my sweet.
e*t.
‘Why, Priscilla! my chi!d # don‘t
you remember Smith's black broad¬
cloth; the suit is brand new. I know
it will fit Howard. Call him in—be‘s
sitting in the kitchen—and let him try
them on/
Now, this black suit was a particu
favorite of mine, a perfect fit, that
sct m y P^scn off to great advantage,
arjci Gi'de my blood boil to hear
them talk so coolly of transferring it
to my rival, to be worn at my funeral.
1 was g et t- ln g very mad now. I felt
1 he crisis was near, aud that I should
e, h jer die or explode if they meddled i
with my black ‘suit. Priscilla took it
down from the peg-I knew it, for I
heard the buckles jingle—and made
for the door I tried to shake my fist,
and yell at her, but all in vain, and
there I lay, outwardly calm as a iamb,
m y inwards boiling with wrath. It
was too much! The deepest trance
could not have held out against that
su ’t’? with a powerful effort I sprung
up and howled. Priscilla dropped my
clothes, her mother the duster, an j
bAh bounded out of the room squeal- I
ing like shot rabbits. With difficulty
I managed to get my clothes, and had
jnst got inside my pants when Mis. j
Muffins and her daughter, headed by j
NO. 31.
the undertaker, peered in at the door;
a motley company of women and smut
ty-faced children stood in their rear.
Such sacred-looking owls; enough to
amuse a dead man. So I laughed,
It was not very becoming; but I
laughed peal after peal till my sides
began to ache. Then the undertaker
ventured near me, saying, rather du¬
biously:
‘So you are not deal yet, Mr.’
Smith?*
‘Well, no, not exactly; sorry to dis¬
appoint ray friends about tho/uueral,
however/
‘Yes/ he assented, absently; ‘bad,
rather—that is—aheral*
Fooled out of the dimes, carriage
and greys, my gal, thought I, as I
looked at Priscilla.
'Go speak with him/said her father,
in an undertone! ‘act your part well/
They now began to gather aiound
me and to congratulate me on my nar*.
row escape. I noticed they cried a
great dead more than when I was dead.
Priscilla came ami hung on my neck,
sniveling desperately. I gave her a
not-over-gentle push from me, and
told her to wait next time till I was
safely buried befoae she meddled with
my clothes.
‘Oh! I‘m so ghul!“ siic said, sweet¬
ly, without appearing to notice what
I said about my clothes, “that you
are not dead, dear. My heart seem¬
ed withered aud broken to see you
lying so cold and white. I wept bit¬
terly over your poor, angelic face, my
darling.’
‘Oh yes, you did. I heard you and
Howard take on at a furious rate. It
was a very lucky die for me, mjr
ducky/
‘Could you hear?’ she gasped.
‘I rather think I could/ I replied*
‘So good-by, my noble girl; you can
have the pleasure of calling Howard
all the pet names you can lay your
tongue to/ She made a bee-line for
the open door, and her pull back was
jhelast I ever saw of her. Howard
never married her, and I hear she still
lives a life of single blessedness. As
1 am writing this piece a quiet little
figure steals to ray side, and a soft,
white hand, which sends a thrill of
pleasure to my heart, is laid lovingly
on my shoulder; yes^ the hand of Min¬
nie Rivers, now Minnie Smith, my
wife.
‘My Mother’s Been Fraying.*
in February, 18G1, a terribly gale
raged along thejcoaat of England. In
one bay Hartlepool it wrecked eighty
a&e vessels. While the storm was at
its height,, the Rising Sun, a stout
brig, struck on Longreur roek, a reef
extending a mile from one sileof the
bay. She sunk leaving only her two
topmasts above the foaming waves.
The lifeboats were away, .rescuing
wrecked crews. The only means of
saving the men clinging to the sway
ing masts was the rocket apparatus..
Before it could be adjusted, one mast
fell. Just m the rocket bearing the
life-line, went booming out of the tnoj
tar, the other mast toppled over.
Sadly the rocket-men began to
draw in their line, when suddenly,they
felt that somthing was attached to it,
and in a few minutes hauled on to the
beach the apparently-lifeless body of
a sailor boy. Trained and tender
hands worked, and in a short time he
became conscious;
With wild amazement, lie gazed
around on the crowd of kind and sym¬
pathizing friends. They raised him to
ins feet. He Jooked up into the weath¬
er-beaten faee of the did fisherraau
near him and asked:
<Where am /. I ?'
,rp, lhouart here my . lad/ , .
‘Where’s the Ca tad’ ’»?'
‘Drowned * m ' n y ?/
t , r .
, H/s dr#wnc ^ too ,
crew?'
_n i . , , .
^
^ )e ‘L/ on | f ono 0 " esav sav “ G <
■
T ““ bo * ‘ !to / '’^whelmed, for a
, '/ " 10rau raised both
' s >. en e bis
1 s an orle ,
’ > ln a 01 " voice.
My TT/ '""’T
,, ' T P T"*
And then he dropped on his kat-e on
the wet easd and hid his sobbed face
#
in his hands.
Hundred* heard that day this trib
ute t0 a mother**} love, and to God's
faithfulness j'd listening to a mother's
prayers.
The little follow was taken to a
house near by # and in a few days be
was sent home to his Hiotheo‘s cottage
* n Northumberland.