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About Weekly Gwinnett herald. (Lawrenceville, Ga.) 1871-1885 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 4, 1880)
Tub ts if/.VA'A' 7’ T II ERA L D ‘‘ v,cu, ' W “»* , ‘» I,AT » Y ptEPLES & DOWLES. jjUBSt’ItIP*'ION It AT EM i lm , p y 12 mofc, <51.50 in advance. rSffi mos., -75 in advance, j C() |,v J mos., -50 m advance. rvd V Voter Should Take It *' ix'aritiK tl>in CitiupuiKii ! tyhieh are tliOjUeroes ? i. With a Mump at hi? head for u pillow. \,i'l biifllwl face lit up with a smile, Pull Icifth ’onitli * <i«rk waving willow, l.irs one of the rank and the file. it. He holds In his tliin hand n packet, ■>Vath n sleeve not famished with p'ahi. n d the buttons left on his jacket, Arc bloody, and arnishwi, ntid old. m The packet may be Irom his mother, Her letters, a Hilda, or chain, With the bnantiful face of another Who will look for his coming in vain. IV. To-morrow the pickets will find him, Aud bear him nwuy with the slain ; I,,„old tailored bl nket they’ll winJ him, The old, (ad story again ! V. You wonder, so long he is lyi .g Out there in the darkness alonQ , You wonder they left him there dying With no one to hear his low woun. VI. Who heeds to tha cry of the wounded When tha wearisome day is done ? Men hear but the trump that is sounded To herald a victory wuti I VII. The captains are covered with garlands As they prance over the blood clogged sod, The heroes are gone to the star-lands To rest in the mansions of tiod 1 Ralph Rkdthor.ne. Ms You Sow, so Shall You lteap.’ ‘Alma ! Alma ! you will be true to met You will wait until I r»- turu to claim you ? I will work eo hard that I will roturn rich, and you shall have everything heart can wish. Oh, my darling ! bo true, for if I should return and find you wedded to another I would take my lifo, for I lovo you eo, Alma, my beautiful one, that tho thought of losing you drives me mad.’ These words, fraught with i» tonne pain, and wild passionate lovo, Ml from the lips of a youug mau us lie half knelt at the feet of ft golden haired brown eyed girl, whoso fair, mobile face was slight ly pule and troubled as she listen ed to his passionate pleading. ’Why, Rupert,’ she said, laying her Laud upon his thick cluster ing curls, ‘What put such a no tion into your head t Have I not premised to be your wife ? Hove you, Rupert, aud yet you doubt me.’ ‘Yos, I know— ’ and he caught her hands fiercely in his—‘but you are se beautiful, Alma, and richer suitors may come and teach you to forget him who has loved you so madly. But forgive me, my darling,’ he cried suddenly, as ho saw how pale and frightened sho looked. ‘I kuow lam selfish, but the thought of being separated fr mi you for three long years half crazes me with agony.’ He clasp od her in his arms, looking anx ieusly into her beautiful face. At that moment the distant report of a gun echoed through tho wood. Rupert Landon started quickly. ‘There is the signal gun to be »n hoerd. Oh, God ! I must leave you. My dariing, farewell —may God keep you in his holy care. He strained her to his horirt, pres ping kiss after kiss oh her * lips, tuen put her from him and turned quickly away. At the edge of the wood he turned and looked upon her as she stood in the light of the dying sun. One last, lingering look, and ho was gone —gone, nev tiv morn, perhaps, to gazo upon her he loved so ipadly. One year has pulsed since Ru pert Landon bade farewell to the little village where he was born, and wont into foroign lands to make a fortune for his affianced bride. In hor humble little room Alina Clinton is pacing to and fro. ‘Gli ! am so weary of this life,’ she mourned ; ‘this dreary life of poverty. Oh, why did I ever promise Rupert Landon to become hi 3 wife 1 Ido not love him, though I thought I did ; and now I must spend the be st years of my hfo in waiting—dreary; dreary waiting—for him who may never he any richer than he is now.. I will never doit—l cannot da it. 1 will accept Herbert La lh'o|fche. is rich and he loves me* ly. devotedly. I will boesmo his wife—l will be rich. Rupert will soon forget me.’ « Forget hor ? Even as she spoke the words his face rose before tim us she had scon it last, white with * Weekly' Gwinnett Herald. TYLBU M. I’KKI’LKS, ) huiTOR AND IbtOi'KI KTOR. j anguish, and again his words rang in hor oars : ‘Oh !my dar ling, he true to me, for if I should roturn and find you wedded to an other I would take iny own life.’ Her faco paled,find for a moment sho wavered, but only for a mo ment ; then visions o; a bright fu turo which would be hers surroun dod by wealth and luxury, banish ed from her memory all thought of him laboring so hard in the dis tant gold mines. And when the summer roses blossomed |Alma Clinton became the wife of Her bert La Troy, and one month la ter, far away in the gold mi*es»f California, when tho rude miners went to awaken Rupert Landon for tho day’s work they fonnd him dead, shot by his own hand, and upon the floor bfside him, staiuod with his lifo blood, was a letter which told him sbe, he loved, was false. In a sumptuously furnished room, adorned with all that mon ey can buy, reclining in an easy chair, is a lady—a middle aged lady—whose face still bears the marks of great beauty. She wore j a wrapper of light gray, trimmed ! with blue silk, and her golden hair was gathered under a little laee I breakfast cap. ‘Mamma, where are you ?’ and the door was thrown quickly open, and a young girl j bounded into tho room. She was veiy beautiful and extremely like the lady, although her hair, fall ing in ringlets to her waist, was ; jet black, and her eyes a deep ha- I zle. A look of passionate love ! crept to her methor’s eyes, for cru j el and heartless as Alma Lx Troy had proved herself, she loved her only child with all her life and soul. From the first time the ba by lips had murmured ‘mama’ she had worshipped it with a wild, passionate lovo. Many a timo, as she gazed upon the beautiful little face, and listened to the swoet voice, a wild fear would take pos session of her as she thought of the life and soui she had wrecked. ‘The sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children,’ and then she would kneel and pray as she had never prayed for herself:— Oh ! God, spare my innocent child; l«t Thy wrath fall upon my heal, but have mercy on my child.' Ah ! rim a La Troy, did you hive any mercy on him who sleeps se far away in a suicide’s grave T The long years have passed away. To day was Violet, La Troy’s nineteenth birthday, and there was a look of perfect joy on hor fair faco as she raised it for hor mother’s kiss. ‘Are yon happy, my darling ?' Alma asked, tenderly clasping hor in her arms. ‘Oh, yes, mamma ; I am so happy. To night is my ball, mamma,' and j she buried her face on her meth j er’s shoulder. ‘Mamma, Carroll has just left, and oh ! he says he loves me, and I am so happy.’ Mrs. La Troy raised tho girl’s hoad and looked keenly oito tho beautiful blushing face. There was a slight look of pain about hor mouth as she asked, ‘Do you love him dearest ?’ ‘Leve him, mamma ?’ was the passionate answer, ‘I love him bet ter than my life. W itiiout his love I could not live.’ A shudder shook Alma La Troy’s frame. She had seen that look upon another face long years ago. Very lovely Violet La Troy looked in her ball dres« of pale pink satin, trimmed with lilies of the valley and rich point lace. She stood in the conservatory, nn der the drooping lilies and japon ica’s, the mellow light streaming upon her fair upturned face as sho gazed into the eyes of a young man staiuling by her side.—‘How beautiful you are little Violet,’ he said, taking tho small, jeweled hand, ‘and how sorry I am that I must loavo you.’ • ‘Leave me, Carroll !’ she cried ;; ‘what do you mean !' He looked airier quickly. ‘Why, of course 1 I must go, Violet. Bid you not j know that I am engaged to be married V ‘Engaged !’ broke from the girl’s lips, while a hue. like the pallor of death, settled upon hei face. -Engaged to Tie married ! Oh, my God ! you are joking. Toll mo, Calf oil, tell me you are jo king.’ He answered, his v»ice slightly troubled, ‘I thought you know it''; ‘Engaged —engaged to bo mar Tied,' murmured the girl, a look of deep'urinf anguish on her face, and you tokhme yon loved me vou taught me to lovo you. •Why, of qgmrse I loved you. Violet; whoTonid help it ? you are so beautiful. But I loved you as a brother might love his eister. Oh, Violet forgive me,— for the Lawrenceville, Ga., Wednesday, August 4, 1880. wild agonoy ’of her faco terrified him. ‘Oh, I did not mean to do this. Tell me, Violet, you forgivo me.’ Not one word issued from her pallid lips, but with a low cry she sank insensible at his feet. Three months lat«r and Alma La Troy kneols beside the couch of her dying child. A stream of sunlight shines through the win dow upon tho beautiful, marble like face of the dying girl, and the dark eyes unclose and wander to the faco of her mother. ‘Mamma,- tho pale lips murmur, ‘do not grieve for me ; I want to die.’ ‘Violet, Violet, my darling, my on ly one, do not die. I cannot live without you ! Oh, my God ! my God ! spare her to me.’ Then, with clasped hands, and her white, despairing face raised to the blue sky, Alma La Troy uttered a wild prayer of entreaty to the God she had so grievously offended—a prayer that sent a thrill, half pity, half fear, through the hearts of the listeners. But God turned a deaf ear to her appeal, for as the last wild words died away a smile lighted up the face of the dying, and stretching out her arms to wards the blue sky, she sank back on the pillow. ‘Mamma ! Papa ! Carroll!’ It was all over. Violet was dead. A low wail of heart broken anguish echoed through the silent room : ‘Oh, my God ! she is dead! My sin has fallen upon my innocent child.’ Yes, it was true. He who slept in his unknown grave, amid the wild flowers, was at last avenged. What pleasure would liar riches bring her now ? Would she not willingly exchange that princely dwelling and retinue of servants for the hut of a beggar to bring to life again the beautiful form lying cold in death ? “As she had sewn so she reaped.” Phil Slieridaa and the Plan ter Bering the pursuit of Lee’s ar my from Petersburg to Appomat tox. Gon. Phil GhoriJan command ed the advance of Grant’s army.— At dawn, April 7th, all the rebels were oft the north side of tho Ap pomattox, with the Union troops close at their heels. “Little Phil," ever at the front, stopped at a farm house near Prospect Station, dismounted, tied his horse and started up the walk. Upou the piazza sat a middle aged typical Southerner—with long, straight hair combed behind his cars and covering his neck—a swallow tailed coat, buff waistcoat, nankeen pantaloons and morocco slippers. A gorgeous shirt frill adornod his bosom, and from tho embrasure of his war like collar he shot defiant glancos. He bowed stiffly to the General, who, nod ding earelossly, sat down on a step and poured over his maps. Soon he looked up and said: “Have you seen anything of Leo’s troops about here to-day ?” Planter—“ Sir, as I can trnly say that none have been by me, I will say so ; but if I had Boon any, I should feel it my duty to refuso to reply to your questions. I can not give you any information which might work to the disadvan tage of Gen. Lea.” The General, with a little whis tie of surprise, puffed away at his cigar, and continued to study his map. In a few minutes he look ed up again and asked; “How far is it to Buffalo Riv er ?" Planter—“ Sir, I don’t know.” Sheridan —“The devil you den t. How long have you lived here T” Planter —“Ail my life, sir.” Sheridan —“Very well, sir, it’s time you did know ! Captain, put this gentleman in charge of a guard, and walk him down to Buf falo River to show it to him." The Virginian of the old school enjoyed tha pleasure of tramping through five miles of mud to look at tho river with which he was perfectly familiar. The Litchfield (111.) Bemocrat is the authority for saying that a few days ago a young lady of Carlin ville sent the following note to ft youug gentleman ©f that place : Beer Will—Bo.mt kum to see mo env more for a whial any way. Fautber has got awfully skeered about burglars, and he sits up cv j cry n te til late with a doable bar i reled shot gun, watching the back vai’d. He put moren a pound of ilead into Brown’s nufoundland dog, which was kummin over tho ! ft a s after a bone last nite. 1 Tlic rose i( ml. the vm let blew, 1 I wouldn't kuui now if 1 was you. A Father’ll Sacrifice. Not long ago a prominent phy sician of Donvor, Colorado, was called to attend a patient in tho last stages of what appearod to be consumption, but which, npon ex amination proved to be simply a wonring away of lifo—a decay of the energies of mind and body.— Although well supplied with inon ey, the stranger was seemingly without friends or relatives. He wrote no letters and reccivodnoue An alien to the tondenioss and charities which sanctify the nft’oc tions, he seemed to be drifting out of the world, in which for him, all the flowers of the heart had perish ed—a black and desolate old man, hastening out of tho sunshine into the winter of the gravo. After making a thorough examination of the case, the doctor told him that although he could find no organiz ed disease, yet he was dying. “I knew it,” replied the patient. “But have you no idea what brought you to this plight ?” in quired the interested man of sci ence. “It is a curious phenomenon.— You have heard a groat deal about cases like mine—more as a vision ary exaggeration of the fancy than as an actual occurrence—but, strange as it may appear, I am dy ing, as you say, of a broken heart.” , “You surprise me !” “Yes, I surprise myself. I did not come to your health giving cli mate as others do—in search of a longer lease of life, but to die in peace and alone.” “But have you no friends ?” auk od the doctor. “None that I can claim. My past is sealed with the shallow of a crime, and over my naiueloss grave not even a memory must hover. lam already dead to all whoever knew my name.” “You say you are a criminal ?" pursued the doctor. “No. lam none. But I assum od the stigma to shield another.” “And that other.” “Was my son.’’ ‘ What was the natuie t ‘A his crime T” The physician’s curiosity had got the better of hia prudence.— Tire shadows of twilight were full ing around them. .Through the opened window streamed the soft brilliance of the dying day. Clouds of amethyst and purple flouted la zily on the far off hills. But in the chamber whore ihe fevered breath was drawn quick and short, there was a hushed stillness which seemed in keeping with tho ghost ly shadows. “It was murder 1" “And was fixed on you ?" “On me—l assumed it and then escaped—but not to evade tho von gcance of the law. but to spare him I loved tho stigma of a felon’s death ” “How long ago was this ?” “Twenty years.” “And you have bean a wanderer ever since 1” “Ever since 1” The feeble pulse was fluttering —the glazing eyes sheathed under waxon lids, and the shattered form was growing rigid momenta rily. “Will you toll me no more ?’’ whispered the physician. “It is all I have to tell.” The next instant the man was dead. lie had kept his secret and sacrificed his life in keeping it A BriKiuid’s Gratitnde. Statesmen have not a high opin ion of the gratitude of their fol lowers. Many of them have learn ed, with Sir Robert Walpele, to define it as “a lively sense of fu ture favors." Even those who take men as they ore, and do not expect all the virtues of the Beca loguo in a place expectant, have often had cause to say with Wads worth: I’ve heard ®f hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning ; Alas ! the gratitude of tnon Hath often r left me mourning. And yet, “the still, small voice of gratitude," as Gray culls it, has frequently influenced the most ol) durate of men. An English offi cial once had an experience which taught him that even an outlaw may be swayed by gratitude. Ho was traveling in a Greek province of Turkey, notorious for the number and fierceness of its brigands. One of tho bands was commanded by a ‘Capitan,’ on whose head a high price had been bet, and for whom a Turkish forco was then seeking. He was honored by the peasants as a regular hrouieuos. The name, which means soiled, is, among tho Greeks, the title of honor for a brigand, whoso fiithy garments in dicate that ho has been long “on the road,” aud so fully employed as not to havo had timo te wash them. \Y ith a strong escort, the En glishman was journeying at night. An adventurous spirit led him to stray away from hia companions. Ho was following, by tho light of the moon, a forost path, when sud denly hiß bridle was seized by sev eral stout fellows. Grasping his revolver, tho En glishman essayed to use it, but was prevented by the “Gapitan,” laying hold of it. A strugglo ensued, in which the pistol was broken, At this moment, when self de fense was out of the question, tho Englishman thought of another means of protection. Removing the white cover of his official cap, he pointed out the crown on it, and announced himself as nn offi cer of tho English Government. Instantly the “Capitan” ordered his bridle to be released, and with his companions retired a short dis tance to consult. In a few min utes he returned to inquire if the gentleman was a son of the consul of ihe neighboring town. “I am,” was the reply. “You aro free to go whero you please, ’ said the ‘Capitan,’ with much feeling. “Your father has saved the lives and property of nanny Greeks. Besides, we all lave the English. “A few miles bonce,” ho contin ued, “you will fall in with the camp of the Pasha, who, with 800 troops, intends to surround our mountain, whero ho expects to entrap us. Give me your word of honor not to reveal until to morrow the fact of meeting mo ; then you aud your escort will be allowed to pass un molested.” The Englishman gave the prom iso, and m a couple of hours on tered tho camp of the Pasha. There he was entertained with an excellent supper, and also with the plan for capturing the brigands on the next day. Bound as he was by his word, the Englishman silently listened. But when, on the morrow, tho Pa sha found hiß game flown, and learned that his guest had encoun tered tho brigand, he was much annoyed. But ho know too well tho English character, which ro garde the pledged word as an oath, to find fault with the official’s reticence. A Girl’s Composition on Jioys Boys are not liko girls ; they are different. A boy likes to spin a top, fly a kito, or ride a horso, or go a fishing; but if you call it work, then they won't unless they are whipped. i don’t think it would he fun to go fishing and fall in the crock anfl not get out, aud drown, and liave your mother say you had been in swimming, though I expect they can swim as well as boys, if they know how.— A turtulo can swim faster than a boy, but a dog fish can beat them both. Bog fishes are not good to eat, but a (log can bite bettor than a fish. Boys like to go with girls; when they don’t go with them, it is bo cause they don’t want to, not bo cause they can’t. Boys like to kiss girls. One kissed me once; I soo lots of girls here that would like to bo kissed, but they mim*. not all depend on —well, I won’t say nov/. Somobody in this town told me it was no fun to kiss # a girl when her mother was looking. I said, “Bid you ever try it ?” ho said, “Yes.” When boys got married thoy generally marry a girl ; though I havo known seme old boys who marry a girl's mother. I guess that was because tho mother was willing and the girl wasn’t. If I hadn’t boon a girl, I guess I’d been a boy. If I was a boy I would like the girls. My rua calls me tomboy sometimes, but tom boys don’t like the girls. That’s all I know abont boys. ‘John,’ said a Now Yark coun try grocer to his man, ‘have you watered tho ram?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Dampened the tobacco ?' •Yes, sir.’ ‘Sanded tho sugar ?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Then you may come in to pray ors -' “This farm for sale, subject to mortgages and cyclones," is the way they now hang out bigus in the southwest. jVol. X.—No. 20. Souping tlie Horn. Our readers may remember the story of the ‘soaping’ of tho signal horn. The story runs that when a certain revivalist celebrity took up the horn to summon the wor shippers to service, one (lay after dinner, he blow a strong blast of soft soap all over the astonished brethren. The brother was so wroth at this joke that he cried aloud. ‘Brethron, I havo passed through many trails and tribula tions, but nothing like this. I havo served tho ministry for thirty years, and in all that timo have never uttered a profane word, but I’ll bo cursed if I cant whip the man that soaped that horn.’ Some two days aftor tho horn soaping, a tall, swarthy, villainous looking desperado strolled on tlio grounds, and leaned against a tree, listening to the eloquent exhorta tion which was made by tlio preach er. After a while ho became in terested, finally affected, and then taking a position on tho anxious seat, coinmoneed groaning in ‘tho very bitterness, of his sorrow. Tho clergyman walked down and en deavored to console him. No con solation—he was too great a sin ner, he su'd. Oh, no—there was pardon for the vilest. No, ho was too wicked—there was no mercy for him. ‘Why, what crime have you coin mitted V said tho preacher ; ‘have you stolen V •Oh, worse than that!’ ‘What! havo you committed perjury? ‘Worse than that—oh, worse than that!’ ‘Murder, is it ?’ gasped tho hor rifled preacher. ‘Worso than that!’ .groaned tho smitten sinner. The excited preacher oominenc ed “peeling oft”’ his outer gar nionts. ‘Hero, Brothor Cole !’ shouted ho, ‘hold my coat—l’ve found the fellow that soaped that horn !’ The Wrong I.cg. The Portlond Advertiser tells the following story. There was an eminent sergeant at law some years ago who had a cork leg that w* s a triumph of artistic docep tion. None but his intimates knew for certain which was tho ro al and which w;n thj sham limb. A wild young wag of tlio ‘utter bar,’ who knew tho sergeant pret ty well, ouce thought to utilizo this knowledge of tlio sorgoant’s secret to take in a newly fledged young barrister. Tho sergeant wus ad dressing a special jury at West minster in his usual earnest and vehement style, and the wag whis pered to his neighbor, “you see how hot old Buzfuz is over his case ; now I’ll bet you a sovereign I’ll run this pin into his leg up to the head, and he 11 novor notice it v lie’s so absorbed in his case. He’s a most extraordinary man in that way.” This was more than tho greenhorn could swallow, so he took tho bet. Tho wag took a large pin from hia waist coat, aud o ming forward drove it to tho head in tho sergeant’s log. A yell that frozo ihe blood of all who heard it, that made the hair of tlio jury stand on end, and caused the judges wig to almost full off, ran through the court. ‘By Jovo ! it’s tho wrong log, and I’ve lost my money,’ exclaimed the dismayed and conscience stricken wag.qui-io regardless of the pain he had in tlicted upon tho learned sergeant. l>r. Brookes on Mr. Beecher Roy. Br. James Brookes, ©f this city, proaohed a strong and elo quent sermon on Sunday last, on the subject of “True Christian Ex pcrionco.” In tho course of his remaiksho took occasion to refer to Mr. Beecher’s recent renuncia tion of some of tho most import ant truths of the Christhin reli gion. Mr. Beecher is roportod to have said tho following in tho course of his spoech or sermon on tho4th of July : “It is a gigantic lie, told with much circumstantiality, that men were created perfect aud then fell; that in Adam and Evo the human raeo fell ail around. * God did not rnako a bad job and then paint it pretty and plaster it up. * * * In a sense God made laws to bo broken. * * The idea is to lie disclaimed and trampled under foot that men must do thus aud thus or bo de stroyed. * * I don’t hold tho theory of the Atonement. * I reject the Mosaic economy and tako a larger view of Christ’s work. * * * f fhe truths of tne Bible aro not to be swo'.law ed whole, but to be sifted.” AS An Advertiaiitff Medium The HERALD is tine,quoted* by reason of its extensive circulation and n mrtrkotdy low rates. Businessmen should fuMVibcr this. BLAWKS! BLANKS! BLANKS (Mil. KINDS NKATI.Y J*KINTKD) FOR SAL E A T T li E HERALD JOB OFFICE % Brookes opened his dis course by showing that coming to God through Christ was the finst essential of Ctfristian experience that wo came out of a condition of sorrow, aud this by God’s grace, and not by our own deserts. Then wo arc prepared to offer accepta ble worship. Flowing from this worship comes practical benevo lence, which’ is connected with obedience to God,.,^ AL this point Mr. Brookes re ferrod to Mr. Bofccher &std the ex tract above quoted, mentioning tho New York pastor by nameA- He said that according to this re port, Mr. Beecher had ' reuoilhced Christianity, and if so, the public was to be congratulated. lie was glad, lie said, that Mr. Boeetier had taken a positive stand, because tboro was much lose dangef to be* apprehended from tho teachings of an avowod enemy to Cliristiani fy than from one who answered the full description of a wolf in shoep’s clothing. He preferred an open to a socret enemy. — •00 • 0m ■ ■ Josh Billinas Philosophy Az a general thing, thozo who deserve good luk the least, pray tlio loudest for it. Mi dear boy, solokt jure bnzznin friend with groate eausburii ouco solekted, endorse him with yure bottom dollar. Beaus seldom fall in luv, but wh in they do, they aro spilto 'or onny regular bizzness. Kurds and whiskey reduce all men to tho same level, and a very low level at that. Good innnitators aroevon more slcarse than originals are. I think I ha 1 rather liv in a big citty, and bo unknown, than exist in a viiligo, obliged to kno evry body, or be suspoktod bi them I kan trace all ov mi bad luk to bad management, and I guessoth ors kan, if they will bo as honest az I am about it. An iinmitafthun to equal an orig inal has got to beat it at least 25 per cent. burning iz cazyenuff to acquire, wisdom cuius also, but stioketh to the ribs. If yor expekt to suckceed in this life yer must make the world think that yer are at work for them, and not for yureself. You may find very plane looking coquets, but who ever saw a hand sum prude. Life iz jjaoazttrcd bi deods, not years, menny a man lutz lived to be ninety, and left nothing behind him but nn obituaro matins Men luv for the novelty of tha tiling, woman lavs bekauze sho can’t help it. Thare iz this excuse for luxury, all luxurys kost money, and some one reaps tiie advantage. The man who kunt lass iz an ani mill, and tho one who won’t iz a a devil. A festive old man iz a burlesque on all kinds of levity. Fashion, like everything else, re poa's itself. What iz new now, haz been new uienuy times before, aud will bo again. Tell God.— A curious story is told of the wreck of a large British coal ship which foundered far out at soa, last June, off tho coast of California. The sole survivor was a rortnguoso sailor named Lopez, who was piekod up, lashed to a raft, as he drifted in the path of an inward bound vessel for Puget Bound. 11c was takon to the Marine Hospital at Port Townsend, and after a week of skillful nursing bo came sensible so as to relate his extraordinary adventure. He had floated with a dozen companions helplessly in the Pacific for ten days, without food or water. One after another his shipmates died from tlnrst, until he w is alone with the last survivor, and be was dy ing. Lopez said to him : ‘George, do you think you are going to God ?’ On receiving an affirmative ro ply, L*>pez added, with all tho in tenseness of despair, “When you get where God is, tell Him to send mo some wafer.’ The dying ‘man promised that he would do so, and soon breath e<l his last. Shortly after, a copi ous shower fell, and Lopez was en aided by its help to hold ent uutil rescued, as stated above, on the twenty second day after tho sink ing of the ship. All tlio world ovor, baby gov erns. Yet often disease will ®ver ’ come the baby, and then it is that ! Br. Bull’s Baby Syrup proves its I worth by conquering the diseaso. , Price 25 cents a bottle.
