Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME VIII.
ft B % V l\ Y .
mClIMOND ON THE JAMES.
__
A soldier boy from Franklin,
Lay gasping on the field,
When the battle sho :k was over,
And the foe was forced to yield.
He fell, that faithful hero,
’Fore deadly foeman’s aims,
On the gory plain of batttle,
Near to Richmond on the James.
A soldier stood beside him,
llio comrade iu the fray,
They had long been friends together,
Down to childhood’s happy day;
And side by side they struggled,
Through scenes of blood and flames,
Hut they part that day forever,
Near to liichmond on the James.
Oh ! comrade I would tell you
Of friends in days of yore,
Of far, far distant loved ones
I shall meet in life no more.
My lips can only whisper, -
Their dear aud Messed names,
Hut bear my blessing, say I perished
Near to liichmond on tho James.
Hear my pood sword to my brother,
And the badge upon my breast
To my young aud gentle sister,
By guardian angels blest.
Take a lock from off my forehead,
Say my love till death she claims,
Aud that “brother Ned” oft thought of her
Near to liichmond on the James.
Oh, would that mother’s loving arms
Were foltU d round me now,
That 1 could feti once more her hand
Upon my cold, cold brow.
Now I thiuk for me she’s praying,
With holy, snint-like names,
While I’m dying, dying,
Near to Richmond on the James.
And when I’m dead, dear comrade,
Close lay these tairest braids
On my breast—Oh, she was fairest
Of all the village maids;
Boon, soon we would be wedded,
But death the bridegroom claims,
And I perish here in sadness,
Near t,o liichmond on the James.
And you vail miss me, comrade,
You will mi as me for awhile,
When friends do gather rounds you
Each decked with happy smile*
But soon my name shall perish,
’Mid file’s glories and its shames—
Farewell! farewell—he passed away,
Near to liichmond, on the James.
5?
MI S 0 EL LAN Y.
Y S< ory oft lie Heart.
BY H. II. LEECII.
“Prom'se!"
“I do solemnly.”
“Forever?" continued the solemn,
roken voice.
‘Forever," echoed the weeping
maiden by the bedside.
The wasted hands were raised over
the heads of the weeping figures ; the
pale lips of the dying woman parted
—the tongue tried to utter a bl< ssing;
but all the brightness faded from tho
eyes. The woman was dead.
Two young girls knelt at tho bed¬
side. Constance Owen was the name
of one, with sallow skin and large
brown eyes, and K lith Ormond, she
w is called, with ringlets of gold float
arouiul her fair neck, and whose bead
was leaning upon the shoulders of
Constance who had promised the dy¬
ing woman to be a sister, protector—
mother eveu—to the fair maiden at,
her side.
The strong, faithful, homely girl
colled Constance was an adopted
♦laughter of the dead lady—one of
muse waifs of the street, whose only
h. pe of life is the charity of some ten
'ler-heartod stranger. She^ however,
repaid her protector by a love and re*
«■ 11 ‘1 as filial as that of her own daugh*
ler, and when upon her death-bed
Ormand bade Constance Owen
ina,tc In r the solemn premise recorded,
Ue 1 rave girl did not falter, but
‘'liispered once more to tho strikeu
e 11 at her side.
“Y es Edith, for the sake of the love
,
your d, ar mother gave to the orphan
“•ill I 1, i Vt* you better than myself—
foiever ’’
darkness was in that chamber,
t obuiun
in the hearts of the mourn
era
Two years passed_two years since
-Edith U 10 beautiful a-id Constance the
brave tal lost their best earthly friend
The f °r«»yr had
!‘ Vrn than the gown more lovely
he promise pf the dawn
Mdiont maidenhood • the latter
#<>re | 1(J “»»y, l.r S e, featured, iu lace,
i !
cm ^ r tfmmm i i £2 *«— 4-* <4 - — \ r
hut with the two years an added dig¬
nity of mem, a more intelligent light
' n ^' e tender brown eyes j and
force of character hotter defined in
every movement. There came many
suiters to Bonnybrook—so the little
country-seat belonging to Edith was
called— but, so far, the little coquette
did not pay much heed to any of
them. She was chasing the butter¬
flies of fancy around the garden of
Eden—first youth. But at length her
beauty, grace, and perhaps high social
position, brought one day to the gates
of Bonnybrook one Dr. Paulding, a
superior and rising young physician,
who lived in the city close by, and
when he had found his way to the
pleasant country nook, somehow he
discovered patients in that vicinity
very frequently. Was it Edith's fair
face that made him take that bloom¬
ing highway so often ?
He was, indeed, fascinated by her
bright, girlish beauty, and one even¬
ing after be had been Wandering in
the gardens, under the moon, soft,
pleasant words must have been spo¬
ken, for after he had gone, Edith,
with a a flushed face, dashed into the
room where Constance w >s awaiting
her, and throwing her arms around
tier neck, said in a happy, trembling
voice:
“Oh! darling, I am so happy. He
has told me he loved me."
Constance spoke not a word; Edith
was held a moment to a beating heart,
a soft, kiss touched her forehead, and
the next moment she was alone.
“He loves me ! He loves me!" And
Edith looked out over the gardens
from which the dews of night were
distilling all their oders ; she gazed at
the round, beautiful moon, and peo¬
pled the figures with the shadow of
the man who had first stirred her
young life with the divine music of
love.
A month after the pleasant confes¬
sion had been made Edith was culled
to the mountains of Vermont tc at¬
torn! a dying aunt, the only sister of
her dear mother, and she had t-o pro¬
ceed alone, as Bonnybrook would have
lacked a emar lian if Constance bad
accompanied her—Dr. Paulding’s du¬
ties utterly denying him that pleasi
lire.
Constance was engrossed in her
home duties, and saw but lit tie socie¬
ty, save a few rustic neighbors, who
only recommended themselves by their
goodness of heart, and certainly not
by their brilliancy of wit or under*
standing. Once and a while Dr.
Paulding would ride out to Bonny*
brook, as Constance told him ‘‘from
the force of old habit,’’ but soon it
seemed tli it the man of medicine and
science did not carry on the conversa¬
tion with the old ease, grace and
spirit. What come between Con*
stance Owen and himself ? Something
inexplicable. The noble woman
found a strange pleasure in the socie¬
ty of the gifted man; the scholarly
man a sympathy with the large-hear¬
ted, intellectual woman which ho had
never known or expetienced in any of
her sex. “True," he said to himself
“site is not beautiful; indeed, meas¬
ured by the rules of beauty, she is
postively ugly. But who can guage
the charms of a melodious voio.e, or
define the tenderness of au honest,
kindly eye ?"
And she, too, mused in this wise :
“This Dr. Charles Paulding is a mar¬
velously gifted man. What powers
of language, what treasures of imagi¬
nation he posseses! What a noble ca
re “ r lie 1,a, before him ; and E lith."
hero she would pause and think of
that clinging tendrd, not as helping
the growth of the oak, but as drawing
from it strength* Yet from all such
thoughts as those her staunch and
loyal heart would resolutely turn
away—yet for all this her speech was
not as trippingly on the tongue as
in the old days, and he would often¬
times finish a sentence in the middle
of it, and then lose himself in vague
glan es at the ceiling or out into the
gardens.
0! it was a dangerous tiin a for both
of those awakening hearts. But they
glided on this treacherous stream, and
seemed only conscious that the hours
were sweet and *diat the sun snone on
the waves. There was no thought of
disloyalty in either heart. He was
above all a man of honor, and she of
else a loyal woman. Yet, how
hearts delude bemselves. In the very
P ri,Jc ofhis strenlh Samson was shorn
of of ia locks -
One quiet evening in July Doctor
Paulding bad taken tea at Bonny
brook, aud Constauco-bi. boater
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JANUARY 22, 1SS0.
only 8b e cal lei herself—strolled down
to the gate with him. His impatient
horse w is biting the rough old hitch
post and throwing up clouds of dust
with his fore feet. lie had been kept
there for four hours, and he seemed
more eager than his master to leave
Bonnybiook behind him. The doctor
idly olucked some heliotropes as they
strolled down the ros»*-boidered path,
and mingled with the flowers some
dainty miguonnette and a pale bud or
two of the tea rose. At last he placed
tlie bouquet in her hands a id said
dreamily:
“Read the emblems, Constance—
you, who are a priestess in Flora's
beautiful temple.’
She quickly looked over them.
‘‘Ah," she said, “you choose well,
Sir Bontanist. Here you haue beauty
in retirement, constancy—that is good
—and I am not a summer friend
is better than all. But you flatter
with your flowers, nevertheless."
‘‘Not you," he replied eagerly, al¬
most tenderly, and in a voice that
somehow frightened her.
She replied almost coldly, although
her heart was strangely beating ’md a
warnrq unusual color was in her face:
“My best friend will tell you, doctor,
that I am ugly and commonplace.—
Believe then, I beg of you, and do not
let your imagination invest me with
any charms."
He seemed all at once carried away
by his passion. He leaned over her,
and replied, warmly: “I say yon are
beautiful, Constance Owen. I feel
your beauty in my very soul." But
he said more.
The face of Constance was study;
the flush that before had crimsoned
her checks died out, aud she became
ghastly pale. Her fingers which had
clasped the flowers, slowly opened and
they dropped to the ground at her
feet. All at once the vision of tho
dead woman seemed to present itself
to mind, and the trust she was viola¬
ting struck cold to her heart Was
this the Forever she had sp r ikon?
blie staggered and would have fallen;
'
,, the aims or c T Doctor , , Paulding n were
about , ^ hoc, but she waved j i him - away
•m a moment with tl such , a pityous,
despairing , . . gesture x that he obeyed , ,
her , without .. a word, i d bhe only it had -,
strenth a . to falter: ■- ,,
“Go—and .... , remember , Edith"—and .
she , staggered , ii!. back toward t the ., * house,
, leaving . him standing there, bent , and /
'
trembling. ,
bhe did , not . , know , how she , reached , ,
her room; the strong woman had
learned at the same moment she
loved i that sue must sacrifice •(. and i re
noiince She's!ood
for hours white and mo
tionless, looking out at the sunset and
gathering gloom ofevemtg. with wild
thoughts chasing themselves through
her brain and with a dumb, aching
heart; every hope trailing in the dust,
like those sweet flowers he had giy. n
her. She lain her head after a while
upon her hands, on the window case
ment of her room, and wept softly
for hours, until she heard the
village bell strike the hour of mid
night. She had prayed and wrestled
with her grief and agony, and rose up
at length quiet and calm. She had
yielded to duty and her promise to
the dead
Somehow Constance Owen seemed
to grow prettier as the months pas
sod by-there was some refining
change which was softening her rug
ged features and ronndino every line
in her stately form The summer into
autumn had flowiq and still Edith
Otmond did not return to Bonnybrook.
[ Ier , umt bad died, and lette.s came
from time to time saying that ere
long she would be home; yet she
came not. Could she suspect the dis
‘
loyalty of her lover?
It was late iu the fall, when the
woods had put on their pomp of
glory, and the chill winds sent the fal
len leaves through the yalleys near
B mnybrook, when Dr. Paulding rode
up to the house and aske.t for Con
stance. She had only received him
twice before since the summer even
ing, and bad then contrived by wo
manly tact not to be alone with him—
although she no longer doubted her
strength. Constance on this occasion
received her guest alone; there seem
ed a strange embarrassment in his
manner, After the first greetings
were over he said:
‘‘Constance, I have much to say to
you to-day. Do you think you can
listen to me calmly ?"
“Yes," she replied, “it it is upon a
subject on which you should speak,
and to which I should listen "
“*>*>“ ho sald ' “ WtKa fir8t 1
saw Edith Ormond 1 was captivated
by her beauty and girldish graces ; I
thought I loved her—"
Constance would have stopped him
by a gesture, but he gently begged
her t) listen—‘for you can do so n ^ \
he said, ‘in all honor and reason.'
He continued :
‘‘I had never had my heart stirred
by the full knowledge of love # how
ever, until I knew you and discov
ered the breadth of yuur sympathies
and the womanliness of your charac
ter. I never respected you more
than when you rejected me, knowing
I was he engaged husband of E lith.
But I believe fate has been kind to us
both."
His voice was trembling with emo*
tion.
“Read the last part of this letter."
He handed a folded paper to Con
stance, who took it as one iu a
dream,
“From E lith ?“ she said.
‘‘Yes."
The portion she read ran thus:
“So you see, dear Dr. Paulding, it
is better I should tell you now that I
have met one here—my Cousin Ray—
whom I feel that I love better than
anybody in the world, I have prom¬
ised to be his wife, and I am sure you
will forgive me for you are so noble
and grand, and all that, and I should
feel, I know, that I never could fill
worthily the xalted sphere of Dr.
Paulding's wife—“
Constance could read no more; a
mist gathered over her eyes, but this
time a strong arm was about her, and
a voice, deep and melodious whispered
to her:
‘DearestConstance, will you be mine
at last ?“
Their lips et for the first time, in
one long kiss of love, and her answer
was:
“Yes, thine—Forever!’’
EVENINGS AT HOME.
From _ the Chicago Ledger,
The long evenings ® which follow the
short days are made, in some families,
the , happiest , . of all the happy times.—
1 r *
1 he cares of the day are ended ; the
mother's ... has the
resting tune come; ’
father ~ lias dropped ail bust
sorts of
ness worries and ; perplexities, , . . and-the
whole family throw , * themselves with
zest into ... the innocent pleasures , of „ the ,
... home circle,
bolomon tells us there , is a time for
thing* ; a time to weep, a time to
la»gh. to dance and to play. Surely
the time to laugh, * * play r J and dance
comes most appropriately in the long,
evening hours when 'the cares
that l,lte3t tlle day fuW ,hei '’ ten, ' s
! ,ke thc AnU a^ileruly steal away.'
Tt 18 ,ve11 for tl,e wom3n of thehoase '
hold t0 remember that the pleasant
evenin S s >**•»<> »» 8tron S antidotes
to t!,e praoUce of Iookln » to >' '»)'»?■
men I abroad, and seeking for pleasure
forMden places i for relaxation and
lecre! ' t '“'‘ ‘ v,!1 bo ln,b,, 8 ed 111 Bome -
by most men, aud happy are they
who fl!,d tho h ” me circ,e tl,e
8,0,1 w f 8l,n tl,< *'“*?• * book read A livel aluud - v *»“«• or 1,1 musi an
’ *
' a '"‘" es ’ a new so, ‘» t0 be P rac '
tloe,i ' fnrnish pastime that wi "
make an evening pass pleasantly. A
! iU ', e during the day, a
lW e fm mf ’ of wlres tbat neei1 not
appear ' « ‘ll make the whole thing
°“ sy ’ and d,ffereut ways and
nia> be l' rovl,lctl lor making the even
"'S hours, pass pleasantly, and a time
to be looked forward to with pleasant
anticipations.
TVe vis ted once in a large family
wheie u was the duty uf each sister m
turn t0 l' r ° VI<3e t{le evening's occupa
tl0 " ’ aud e Was a P !easant rival
ry between them as 10 wh “ se evening
sl,ould be t,le must enjoyable. The
Lrutliers antered ^lly i»to the spirit
of the simple home entertainments, aud
were as loth to be obliged to spend an
eveni ig away from home as their sis
ters and pa,ent8 were 6 ° rr >' tohav
them absent. Every oue spoke of this
family as an uncommonly united one^
fer every member showed sach a strong
attachment for the home to which each
one contributed so much pleasure.
The teacher of a class in natural
history gave out this question
‘Which is the meekest of all domestic
animals V A young miss who had
passed the previous summer at Long
Branch, promptly answered; ‘The
meekest domestic animal is ii a
qui*o, because if you hit it ou one
cheek and don't kill it, it comes back
again and giyesjyou a chance to bit it
on the other.
SENTIMENT AND SENSE.
One has only to die to be praised.
It is easier to blame than to do bet
ter *
It is not enough to arm ; you must
hit.
Better free in a foreign land than a
slave at home.
Happily for the little men the giants
have seldom any great wit.
A fine and honorable old age is the
childhood of immortality.
Self inspection is the only means to
preserve us from self-conceit.
Vice stiugs us even in onr pleasures,
but v’rtue consoles us eveu in our
pains!
Acts, looks, words, steps, form the
alphabet by which you may spell char¬
acter.
It is right to be contented with what
we have, never with what we are.-
Macintosh.
He that prhyeth into every cloud
may be stricken with a thunderbolt.—
Joseph Cook.
Ha that has never known adversity
is but half acquainted with others or
with himself.
Harsh counsels have no effect; they
are like hammers which are always
repulsed by the anvil.
Tenderness and its outcome, piety,
are as inseparable from true manliness
as true womanliness.
Our own hands are Heaven's favor¬
ite instruments for supplying us with
the necessaries of life.
No books are so legible as the lives
of men ; no characters so plain as
their moral conduct.
Events are not in our power ; but it
always is to make good use of even
the worst.
A year of pleasure passes like a
f
floating breeze, but a moment of mis*'
fortune seems an age of pain.
I onbe knew a man who had ad¬
vanced to such a pitch of self-esteem
that he never mentioned himself with¬
out taking ofl his hat.— Coldridge.
If riclq he not too joyful in having
too solicitous in keeping, too sorrow¬
ful in lesing,
Virtue maketh men on the earth
famous, in their graves glorious^ and
in heaven immortal.
You cannot dream yourself into a
character; you must hammer and forge
yourself one.
II is not mm*c beautiful fo overcome
injury by kiodness than to oppose it
by obstinacy of hatred.
Inasmuch as laughter is a faculty
bestowed exclusively upon man, we
seem to be guilty of a sort of ingrati¬
tude in not exercising it as often as we
can.
To some men nature is like some
women, inasmuch as it may be neces¬
sary to thrust them into her acquaint¬
ance and imprison them there before
they will learn to appreciate their
worth, hut tben, so great is the reve
latioiq they will call themselves stupid
for not loving her before.— Good Com -
pany;
A BORROWING MAN.
'There goes my best coat,' soldo,
d" 1 '- 1 '' 1 Brown, despondingly. ‘That
fellow Smith will be the death of me.
Be oorrows all my clothes, and yet he
patronizes roe and tells me I ought lo
dress better. My lollypop tells me
the same thiDg, and holds up Smith as
a sample, as the button-hole bouquet
of elegance. Blazes! I wonder how
long I‘ 11 have to stand it It was just
day before yesterday that the fellow
invited me around to see his library,
and, me, if he didn't have half of my
books in it.gSraith would borrew any
tiling.' And Brown pulled the collar
of his old coat over his soiled shirt
front and sallied out in the rain,
A boy called to see Gov. Hampton.
He mo testly communicated his wishes
to the door-keeper.
‘Have you a card # sir ?‘ he gruffly
growled.
‘Caids?‘ said the boy thoughtfully,
mechanically running his hand in the
rear pocket of his coat. No, sir^ I
dont tote 'em.'
‘Where are you from? enquired the
doorkeeper.
‘North Carolina,' was the prompt
answer
‘Well, how do you .lo in North Car
when people go visiting ?
'Weil, they ride up to a feller's
fence and holler to him to tie his dog.
and they git down and go in/ was the
laconic reply.
ECONOMY IN A FAMILY.
There is nothing which goes so far
toward placing young men beyond the
reach of poverty as economy in the
management of their domestic affairs.
It matters not whether a man furnish
little or much for his family if there is
a continual leakage in his kitchen or
in the parlor ; it runs away he knows
not how, and that demon waste cries
for more, like the horseleech's daugh.
ter, until he that provided has no more
to give. It is the husband's duty to
bring into the house, and it is the duty
of the wife to see that none goes
wrongfully out of it—not the ieast ar
tide, however unimportant in itself
for it establishes a precedent ; nor un¬
der any pretence, tor it opens the door
for ruin to stalk in, and he seldom
leaves an opportunity unimproved. A
man gets a wife to look after his af.
fairs # and to assist him in his journey
through life, to educate aud prepare
his children for a proper station in life,
and not to dissipate his property.__
Tho husband's interest should be the
wife's care, Jand her greatest ambition
carry her no further than his welfare
or happiness, together with that of her
children. This should be her sole aim
and the theatre of her exploits is the
bosom of family, where she can do as
much toward making a fortune as he
can in the workshop or counting
house.
It is uotthe money earned that makes
a man wealty, it is what he saves from
liis earnings. A good and prudent
husband makes a deposit of the fruits
of his labor with his best friend ; anil
if that friend be not true to him what
;
has ho to hope ? If he dare not place
confidence in the companion of his
bosom, where is lie to place it? A
wife acts not tor herself alone, but she
is the agent of many she loves, and
she is bound to act for their good and
not for her own gratification.
Her husband's good is the end at
which she should aim—his approbation
is her reward. Self-gratification in
dress, or indulgence in appetite, or
more company than bis purse can en
tertain, are equally pernicious. The
first adds vauityjto extravagance—the
second fastens a doctor's bill to a long
butcher's account—and the latter
brings intemperance, the worst of all
evils, m its train
OUR VERB.
A late number of an educational
journal thus describes the trouble a
Frenchman had with the herb “kreak;’'
‘I begin to understand your lan¬
guage better^* said my French friend,
Air. Dubois, to me, ‘but your verbs
trouble me still; ycu mix them up so
with piepositionsd
‘1 am sorry you find them so trou¬
blesome,' was all 1 could say.
‘I saw your friend , Airs. Afurkeson,
just now,‘ he continued. ’Shi* says
she intends to break down housekeep¬
ing: am I right there ?
‘Break up housekeeping, she mu at
have said.
‘Oil, yes. I remember—break up
housekeeping.
‘Why does she do that ? I asked.
‘Because her health is broken in
to.
‘Broken down.’
‘Broken down ? Oh, yes ! And
indeed, since the small-pos has broken
up in our city—'
‘Broken out.'
‘She thinks she will leave it foi a
few weeks.
'Will she leave her house alone ?
‘No, she is afraid it wiil be broken
—broken—how shall I say that ?
‘Broken into.
‘Certainly, it is what I meant to
say.
‘Is her son to bemarried soon ?
‘No, that engagement is broken
broken—‘
‘Broken off.’
*Yes, broken off.’
‘Ah, I had not heard of that.’
‘She is very sorry about it. Her son
oidy broke the news down to her last
week. Am I right? I am anxious
to spaak English well.'
‘He only broke the news ; no prep¬
this time.'
‘It is hard to ^understand. That
young ruatij her son, is a fine young
fellow; a breaker, I think.'
‘A broker^ and a very fine young
fellow. Good-day.'
So much f >r the verb ‘‘to break."
Some error- you are allowed to cor¬ !
rect' but marriage is a take for better
or for worse, and young man aud
young woman you ought to consider
this before you allow the orage blos¬
som to bloom.
NO. 4.
WIT AM) HUMOR.
- —
All blacksmiths have at least on©
vice.
Can there be a baker's dozen of
leavened bread ?
When a man is in a brown study
does he give color to his thoughts ?
When a grocer retires from business
ho weighs less than he did before.
“Shake," as the medicine bottle said
to the invalid,
A grave-yard— Thirty six inches of
black ciape.
If time is really money, any man
ought to be worth his wait in gold.
“Are you a wall flower ?" ho asked
her. “No, I am a wall, sir. u Then
they waltzed.
There is something in slor^ f&r us
all, but it takes money to pidr&uiidh C,»({ tfio
clerk to hand it out. a in ** H
^ ‘ 1 1 > '> l *1
m 9
Why good resolutions fike .> i
aro a
squalling baby at church ? Because
they should be carried out.
The schoolboy who was asked what
he was good lor, replied that ho had
to be good or be lammed.
-
We saw a girl the other day who
was "just as pretty as she could be/'
but poor thing she jouldu't bo very
pretty.
The difference between a barber and
a sculptor is very slight. The one
curls up aud dyes, the other makes
faces and busts.
The Slate authorities of Texas have
sent out detectives to watch how tho
bell punch is rung by the saloon keep¬
ers.
‘Fll draw the line at beer,' said a
toper to a temperance man. ‘Yea,
but you'll spell it with an i ’ was tho
response.
If women had the ballot, what would
she do with it ? Il isn't long enough
for a belt, or big enough for a bus
tie.
How rapidly a man loses all inter¬
est iu politics and nlioual finance when
he shuts the dour on his own thumb.
Little Johnnie says : “Talk about
your patent base-burning stoves, my
ma's old slipper is a hot enough base
burner for me.’
It is vulgar to tell a man he lies,—
Just inform him in your sweetest man¬
ner that that the prodigally of his as¬
sertion is beyond belief. —Hacaensack
Republican.
Wili the coming man walk ? If he
will, he is liable to he murdered in
cold blood on the first lap, amid cheers
of the entire countjy.
Note from the diary of u swell :—
“ I have observed that my habits are
very elastic in one direction ; I sup
pect I could live up to almost any in¬
come.'
‘Aly darling,' said he, ‘what a de*
heious taste your lips have.’ Then
she sprung up and yelled : ‘Goodness*
John, have you beeu eatiug my lip«*
salve?’ i
The Galveston News says that
Shakspcare was married when he was
18, Dan re at 23, Brigqam Young w hen
he was 19, 20, 21 # 22, 23 # 24, 25 # and
so on,
The English nobility must certainly
be a very dirty set of people, It is
stated that the Duke of Portland has
thirty fanus on his hands, and Lord
Willoughby lias thirteen. Why don't
they wash themselves ?
‘A1 ilia,' observed Air. Holcomb as
lie was putting an his clothes, ‘there
ain't no p itch on them breeches yet.'
'I can't fix it now ; I’m too busy.'—
’Well, give me the p tten, then, and
I'll carry i: around with me. I don't
want people to thiuk I can't afford th«
cloth.