Newspaper Page Text
•OMK
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YOL. I.
SANDERSVTLLE GEORGIA, MARCH 14, 1873.
NO. 37.
J. M. O. MEDMCK. JETHBO AEXJNE. B. X.. BOBGEBS.
By Jledlock, Arline ABodgers.
TheHeraat* is published in Sandersville
Ga every Friday morning. Snbscnptioi
price TWO DOLLARS per annum.
Ad ertisements inserted at the usual rates
No'charge for publishing marriages o
deaths. .
poItry^
A Mother’s Wail.
BI HENRY TIMROD.
My babe! my babe! my only babe!
My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns!
My lamp that in that narrow hut of life,
Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm,
Burned with the lustre of the moon and stars.
My babe! my tiny babe! my only babe!
Behold, the bud is gone! the thorns remain!
My lamp is fallen from its niche—ah, me!
E.irtli drinks the flagrant, flame, and I am left,
Forever and forever, in the dark!
Mv babe! my babe! my own and only babe!
Where art thou now ? If somewhere in the sky
An angel hold thee in his radiant arms,
I challenge him to clasp thy tender form
With the ferver of a mother’s love.
Forgive me, Lord ! forgive my reckless grief,
Forgive me that this rebel, seitisb heart
Would almost make me jealous for my child,
Though my own lap enthroned him;
Lord,°thou hast so many such! I have, ah!
liad but one.
0 vet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry!
O vet once more, my babe, to see thy smile!
0 vet once more to feel against my breast
Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager
. mouth,
With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls
But it must never, never more be mine,
To mark the grawing meaning in thine eyes—
To watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf,
Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy,
Thy dawning recognitions of the world.
Three different shadows of thyself my babe,
Change with each other while I weep. The
first,
The sweetest, yet the not less fraught with
pain, '• *
Clings like my loving babe around my neck,
Or purs and murinus softly at my feet.
Another is a little mound of earth;
That comes the oftenest, darling. In my
dreams
1 see it beaten by the midnight rain,
Or chilled beneath the moon. Ah, what a
couch
For that which I have shielded from a breath
That would not stir the violets-on thy grave!
The third, my precious babe! the third, 0
Lord!
Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars,
AVearing the roses of a mystic bliss,
Yet, sometimes not unsaddened by a glance,
Turned earthward on a mother in her woe.
This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep
Before me always. But, alas ! as yet
It is the dimmest-and the rarest, too; j
O toneh my sight, or break the cloudy bars j
That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel. . ;
SELECT MISCELLANY.
[Written for the Herald.]
CLIFFORD LYLE.
BY SUNBEAM.
[Continued from No. 3G.]
“Has been attended to. She re
ceived no material injury. Her ner
vous system alone suffers from the
shock,"however, a good night’s rest
will, I think enable her to report in
person. An experienced nurse is
with her, acting in accordance with
my instructions—but come, I want
to*do something for your relief, after
ascertaining the nature and extent
of your bruises.” 4
A mournful shake of the head,
was his only answer.
Tut, tut, cheer up Ed, you’ll soon
be ail right—why you are not the
only man that ever had a rough tum
ble* aud I’m sure ’tis not your first
runaway scrape, though I il ^ admit,
by far tile most disagreeable.” ,
Still no response, save a harrow
ing groan, and fearing matters might
be more serious than he apprehend
ed, proceeded to make a careful ex
amination, which by no means al
layed his apprehensions. He soon
found that Mr. Lyle had received
severe if not dangerous internal in-
junes. Nothing that skill 01 science
could suggest for his relief was omit
ted. As the day waned, he succum
bed to the influence of powerful opi
ates, and sank into a partially ob
livious slumber. Directing an at
tendant to notify him should Mr. Lyle
awake in his absence, Dr. Summers
withdrew to inform himself as to the
state of his fair patient. On enter
ing her apartment the nurse obser
ved,
“I’m so glad you’ve come Dr. I
bad just rang for a servant to sum
mon you. Miss Lyle soon recovered
from that death-like swoon, perfect
ly concious, simp]}- inquired, ‘where’s
father?’ and ere I could frame a
prudent reply, she dreamily added :
“I’m so tired.” Then overcome with
drowsiness, her senses were locked,
in this sleep, so unnaturally, painful
ly profound, as to excite uneasiness.”
Hastening to her side he placed
his fingers upon her slender wrist,
saying after a brief silence:
“Sleep on child—aye, let her
sleep—her’s, I fear, will prove a bit
ter awakening.”
Why Dr. do you consider Mr.
Lyle’s.case critical?.
In the extreme—in fact, I have
not the faintest shadow of a hope
as to his ultimate recovery,—nt
may—and undoubtedly will, lingei
a day or two; but poor fellow, hr
doom is sealed.” Rising to with
draw, he glanced again at his pa
tieni, whose sleep was so nearly as
similated to death as to fill the be
holder with awe, and detecting a
slight quivering of her heavily fring
ed lids, that seemed even, now
“charged with unshed tears”—.re
seated himself, and quietly awaited
the result. In a few moments she was
fully awake, and with startled look
attempted to rise;—Dr. Summers
soothingly remonstrated, and with
gentle force restrained her move
ments. Pressing her hand to her
brow, she expressed a desire to see
her father.
“Your father is not in the room,—
can I do anytliing for you ?”
“Nothing sir—where is father ?”
“Miss Lyle, I must positively for
bid any further conversation at
present,—you require rest and qui
etude for a few hours at least. Your
escape was marvelous, and ”
“Then ’twas not a frightful dream
—a hideous incubus ?”
“No, a stem reality”—and know
ing her next question would be rela
tive to her father’s safety, he add
ed—“unfortunately Mr. Lyle did not
escape with as few bruises as your
self,—he is however now sleeping;—
he quite still, talk as little as possi
ble, and to-morrow you will be at
liberty to see him.”
Cheerfully bidding her good even
ing, he retired, anxious to regain his
place, at the bedside of his friend.
Mr. Lyle was still sleeping, but seem
ed restless, as if in pain. Dr. Sum
mers marked with pained surprise
the great change that had taken place
in the appearance of the sufferer.
Sadly and closely he watched the
sleeper, and far into the night his lone,
ly vigil extended. A heart piercing
moan, followed by his daughter’s
name, was the first intimation he had,
that Mr. Lyle had aroused from that
seemingly interminable stupor.
Springing from his chair and grasp
ing the hand of his friend was the
work of a moment.
“How do you feel Ed—in much
•pain ?”
“I feel that I’m a dying man, Sum
mers. ’Tis foUy to conceal the sad
truth; my hours are numbered, is it
not so? be candid Summers; it will
not excite me in the least nor hasten
the flow of life’s ebbing sands.”
Forgetting his profession, ties of
friendship alone remembered, Dr.
Summers bowed, his head and his
surcharged heart found vent in tears.
A brief pause ensued.
“Edgar, during my professional
career, I never intentionally with
held from any rational patient, a
knowledge of approaching dissolu
tion. I deem it the sacred duty of
every physician; would to God, in
this instance it devolved upon some
other. Nothing save Almighty pow
er can heal your injuries, and stay
the death-angel’s hand.”
“My child, my poor child! Ah,
Summers that to me is the sting, the
bitterness T)f death. I must see her;
prepare her Summers, for the com
ing trial.”
Dr. Summers, knew there was no
time for delay, the case required im
mediate action, yet, hoio to broach
the sudden, unsuspected tidings! It
wrung his noble heart to know, the
words must by him be spoken, that
would bring sorrows untold, and
prove a death-blow to her dearest
hopes. Slowly and reluctantly he
started upon his sorrowful mission.
His light rap at the door of Miss
Lyle’s apartment was answered by
the nurse in charge. Assuming a
composure strangely at variance with
the struggle within, he inquired,—
“How seems the young lady?”
“See”! pointing to the bed, “she
slumbers calmly, as an inlant.”
The murmur of voices aroused the
sleeping girl. With an instinctive
dread and foreboding of evil, she
sprang to the floor excitedly ask
ing.—
“Is father worse? Dr., I must go to
him this night. He is suffering, dy
ing, perhaps dead, and you are con
cealing it from me.”
Dr. Summers gently seating the
excited girl, handed her a glass of
wine.
“Listen to me Miss Lyle, your
father is worse, and wishes to see
you.”
With agonized, pleading look she
grasped his hand:
“Say, oh say, he will not die. No,
no, he cannot, must not die,” then
raising her streaming eyes heaven
ward, she continued. “Oh! Father,
spare me this trial so bitter. I con-
not cannot bear it.”
Impelled by a sudden impulse she
rushed to the door, wildly calling,
“Father, father, Oh! where is he?
in mercy take me to my father.”
Dr. Summers again seated the
half frantic girl. “Compose your
self my dear young lady, and hear
what I wish to say, or this frenzied
excitement will certainly prevent
what you most desire.”
“Now I will try to listen,” groan
ed the unhappy girl, draining, by
his direction, another glass of wine,
“but oh, speak quickly—quickly Dr.
this suspense is insufferable.”
“Your father, is as you fear, be
yond all hope of recovery —is con
scious of his real condition, and
wishes to see you. Now, the least
injudicious conduct on your part,
may in a moment’s time, launch him
into the “mysterious unknown.” Be
calm, remember you in a great meas
ure, control his slight hold on life.
Be in readiness as soon as possible,
I will return in a few minutes.”
“No, Dr.—don’t leave me”—hasti
ly throwing on her dressing-gown,
“I’m ready.”
Heavily leaning upon the arm of
Dr. Summers, Clifford Lyle entered
the apartment of the dying man.
At first sight of that loved face,. so
wan, so altered, her assumed self-
possession vanished, and regardless
of warning injunctions—with a cry
of agony she bounded to his side.
Tenderly placing his hand upon her
head, which like a wounded bird
nestled near his heart, he fervently
ejaculated:
“Oh God! bless and protect my
precious child—keep her near Thy
side, guide and sustain her ’mid life’s
cares, and when temptations hover
near—oh, shield and save my child.”
“Father, oh father-—how can I give
you up ? you will not—must not die.
Life seems so useless, cheerless—
drear, without you my dear, dear
father. Save—oh, save him Dr.—
my tortured heart will break—no
one to love me—left alone—all
alone ”
No, not alone, my child. He who
is “without variableness or shadow of
turning” hath promissd: “I will
never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
“Cast all care upon Him, for He
careth for thee.” Summers promise
when I am—
The exertion was too great for ex
hausted, expiring nature; a mute
appealing glance, a faint sigh, a gasp,
and Edgar Lyle numbered one among
the mighty host that throng the
“echoless shore.” The ominous si
lence that ensued, fell like a pall of
darkness athwart, the crushed heart
of Clifford Lyle. Raising her head,
she gazed strangely upon the fixed
inanimate features before her, pite
ously crying:
“Father, speak father,” listening
with agonized intensity to hear his
voice once more; then as the awful
truth was forced upon her mind, she
uttered a low wail of anguish, like
the last despairing sob of a break
ing heart, her head drooped, and in
utter unconsciouness, as rigid and
motionless as the dead, she was borne
from the appartment.
Dr. Summers performed the last
sad duties incumbent upon the liv
ing, and having seen the remains of
Edgar Lyle committed to the sacred
keeping of mother earth, he tender
ly conveyed the still insensible girl
to his own home, resolved to com
ply with the unfinished request of
his dying friend. Hours lengthened
into days and days into weeks, and
still in blissful unconsciouness she
lingered on the threshold of Eterni
ty. Possessing naturally a vigorous
constitution, which aided by skill,
and careful nursing, her shattered
system rallied, and soon, too soon
the orphan girl awoke to the cares,
and stem realities of life. Grace
Summers, sweet ingenuous Gracie,
was by her father’s direction install
ed chief nurse, the height of her
childish aspirations, for dearly she
loved the patient, suffering stranger)
and eagerly sought in her own art
less manner to dispel the gloom, and
despondency, that hovered unceas-'
inglv above the path-way of their
victim. While Clifford knew tha
Gracie was favorably impressed, am
gratefullfy appreciated a friendshij
so pure, she intuitively felt, and
could not divest her mind of the idea,
that Mrs. Summers regarded her a
an intruder, and notwithstanding th>
apparent anxiety and friendly inter
est she invariably and openly profess
ed, there lurked beneath, a secre
and inexplicable dislike. Every at
tempt on the part of the family, t<
obliterate or subdue the soul-crush
ing memories of the past, prove*
futile, she clung to them with a ten
acity wholly incomprehensible. Re
trospection, seemed to afford a mel
ancholly enjoyment. The dark grie
cloud, that had vented its sudde:
and uncontrolable fury upon he!
young, inexperienced heart, still cat
its huge shadows of impenetrabl
blackness. By the scathing crucibl
of affliction she was subjected t
the severest tests of endurance, (
which the human heart is capable
Aware of her father’s insolvency, th<
dependent position she now occu
pied, increased the poignancy of he
inconsolable grief. The rapid tram,
ition from an idolized, petted chile
to a penniless, homeless orphan, in
voluntarily compelled to accept tt
charity and guardianship of stran
gers, stung, with unmitigated bitte;
ness, her sensitive spirit, alread
bowed ’neath the blighting bunk
of care.
Winter’s icy chains were riven an l
Spring heralded by softened airs an; l
budding flowers, with gladsome ste >
was hastening on ere Clifford Ly >
ceased to be an invalid. A few da} ;
after her release from the thralldo i
of that sick room—feeling unusual r
dejected, and sighing for change, si i
wandered about the house hoping
to find something that would ter
: porarily assuage the ItMhering fires
j which scorchingly glowed upon the
altar of memory. Finding the parlor
door ajar, she entered unobserved,
allured by the quiet scene within
which was heightened by the mellow,
subdued light that pervaded the
apartment. Silence reigned supreme.
Throwing herself on a divan, she fell
into a revery which deepened into
sleep. Evenings’ gloom had vanish
ed, and sable night was holding her
dark and silent vigils, when she was
awakened by voices on the verandah,
by the window, beneath which she
was reclining. Completely bewilder
ed by surrounding objects, she had
not succeeded in recallmg and satis
fying her wandering, wondering
thoughts, when she heairi Dr. Sum
mers remark, in continuation of a
sentence—“T’is just five weeks to
day since he died—poor fellow!
“Yes” rejoined Mrs. Summers
“T’was an unfortunate affair, was he
worth much Hugh?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. ° I find
on examining his papers, and inves
tigating his financial matters, that
his liabilities are very heavy, far ex
ceeding his means. Poor Ed! his
predominant failing was “fast living,”
an evil from which few are exempt.”
Clifford, knew they were uncon
scious of a listener, and her instinc
tive delicacy prompted her to retire,
which she essayed to do, but the
next words quickly following held
her spell-bound.
“Well see here Hugh, his daugh
ter, when and how do you intend to
dispose of her?"
“Dispose of her? Why Adela, you
speak of the poor girl as if she were
an article of merchandise to be bar
tered or sold. Of course I intend tak
ing care of her."
“ Of course you’ll do no such thing.
What an absurd Idea! you are cer
tainly jesting.
“Never was more serious. Ties of
friendship out of the question,
claims of humanity would prompt
the same course of conduct, beside
I consider the young lady quite an
acquisition to our home circle j edu
cated, accomplished, refined, by na
ture lively—”
“An acquisition indeed! a nuisance,
I think the more applicable term,
Why Hugh, I declare I’d as soon be
immured in a church-yard vault, as
to live in a house with that mopish,
ghost like girl, ugh! a glance at her
long, solemn face is enough to give
one the horrors.”
“Adela, my wife! you shock and
pain me beyond expression. I did
not dream you were so devoid of sym
pathy and Christian charity. The
E oor child is morbidly sensitive, and
er condition is calculated to excite
the compassion of any one, whose
Heart is not scarred by prejudice (as
is yours) or callous as adamant.
She’s alone in the world, you may
say friendless, her father was my
earliest, dearest friend, and it is my
sacred duty to provide for and pro
tect her, which I’m resolved to do, so
help me God."
“Really Dr. Summers,” in sneer
ing tones, with a proud toss of her
head, “you grow warm and eloquent
in defending the charming Miss
Lyle. Quite Quixotic in your ma
ture years, but,” with a mocking
laugh, “I see ‘which way the wind
blows,’—were she homely and other
wise unattractive, you would then
feel it your indispensable duty to
pack her off to some charitable in
stitution,—as it is, she must share
your home; a very pleasant and con
venient arrangement you think, no
doubt, but you’ll never ‘catch me
napping’—never ! Don’t tell mo
about men, they are all alike—‘a
generation of vipers’—‘white sepul
chres’—exact counterparts of Adam
the first, (in this one particular res
pect)—you’d barter your souls for
a pretty woman, then have the dar
ing assurance to plead “disinterested
motives.”
“But Adela ”
“No—I won’t hear another word—
yon can simply take your choice—
that wonderful piece of divinity or
myself; both of us cannot remain
undef the same roof—that's sure.”
“Adela,. I entreat you to restrain
yourself, and respect the feelings of
that unfortunate girl. Never violate
your own sense of propriety aud
honor, by insinuating word or act
that will disclose to her, your re
cently expressed senti ments. I shall
at once write to her implacable
Grand-father, but fear ’tis useless
in the meantime be merciful pray,
and promise me, that she
“Oh yes, certainlyI promise for
your sake, since your happiness
seems at stake, that I will not for
get my duties as hostess, while this
paragon remains our guest, but never
will I bow to the immaculate idol,
you have reared upon our domestic
altar.”
Rising with the dignified air of an
insulted queen, she entered the
house quickly followed by Dr. Sum
mers. Clifford Lyle, in speechless
agony, arose from her recumbent
position, with her cold hands tightly
clasped over her aching heart, as if
by mere physical exertion, she would
forever still its tumultuous throb
bing. With blanched cheek yet
tearless eye she guided her trembling
feet to her own apartment, which
was scarcely reached when the tea-
bell sounded. - Her non-appearance
created some surprise and a servant
dispatched to ascertain the cause.
Pleading sudden indisposition, she
hastened to secure the door and
falling upon her knees, a voiceless
prayer was wafted to ‘Him who sit-
teth upon the great white throne,’
whose ear is ever open to the cry of
the distressed—for strength and
guidance in this her darkest hour of
trial. A Father’s loving hand gent
ly touched the sealed fountain of
sorrow and tears—sweet, refreshing,
heaven-sent tears—relieved her tor
tured heart;—while in obedience to
the hope-inspiring mandate of Om
nipotence—‘Peace be still’—there
rested a holy calm upon the troub
led waters of her darkened soul.
Strengthened and cheered she arose
—approached a table whereon lay a
tiny rosewood escritoir (tha last gift
of her cherished dead) before which,
she seated herself, and for several
minutes appeared absorbed in tho’t.
With a start as if some suggestive
idea was presented and required in
stant action—her dark, languid eyes
beaming with hope—she quickly
opened her desk, nervously adjusted
the paper
“Yes, I too will write to my stern
implacable Grand father. Why did
it not occur to me sooner! Father
has so often told me of his unforgiv
ing nature but t’is my only hope. ’ I
will write such a letter that he can
not resist. He is quite old and must
be very lonely, oh, happy, thought
he will surely grant me a place in
his heart and home. Yes, I will write.’
The night was for advanced ere
the letter was completed. Review
ing its closely written pages she en
closed a well executed photograph of
her own fair features, surmising its
resemblance to her mother, would
prove the “open sesame,” to the old
man’s heart.
Next morning sustained by an un
seen Power, aud cheered by the
thought of soon receiving a favorable
response to her pathetic little mis
sive, with a hopeful heart and buoy
ant step, she hastened to join the
family circle around the breakfast
table. The usual morning saluta
tions were exchanged, on her part
with quiet dignity, devoid of con
straint, and the numerous inquiries
in regard to her health, responded to
with a calmness and composure so
natural as to surprise even herself.
Save a slight corrugation of her
smoothly polished brow, and the un
earthly pallor overspreading her face,
there fingered not a perceptible trace
of the agitation and excitement of
the previous night. On leaving the
table she handed her letter to Dr.
Summers, with the request that he
would have it mailed speedily as pos
sible, which he cheerfully promised.
Weeks dragged on their weary, drea
ry lengths, and still no letter for Clif
ford. “Hope deferred maketh the
heart sick”—her thin cheeks grew
paler, her steps slower, and hope’s
faintly glimfnering star, was wholly
obscured by the blackness of des
pair. Dr. Summers noted with re*
gret the marked change in the un
happy girl, and divined the source^
With truly parental solicitude he ex
erted himself to revive her depress
ed spirits, but vain the exertion; for
though really grateful for his disin
terested care and protection, she
threw over her intercourse with all, 'a
reserve so icy and repellant, that
neither kindness or indifference could
penetrate or remove. |
• Mrs. Summers finding that Clifford j
was necessarily an established mem- i
ber of the family, unhesitatingly j
threw off her mask, assuming a j
haughty, patronizing air, that was!
peculiarly galling to a sensitive na- >
ture. Rude, unfeeling sneers and
inuendoes were of frequent occur
rence, yet they failed to elicit a sin
gle retort, from the helpless uncom- ‘
plaining girl. {
Meanwhile the letters—the one
teeming with love, and bearing with
in its folds, a host of new-born hoffes
—the other concise, explicit ana to
the point, sped safely on their way,
reaching in due time their destina
tion. Mr. Knox was leisurely en
joying his breakfast when a servant
entered, depositing a score of letters
on the table; among which there
gleamed a tiny white envelope, ar
resting his attention instantly. With
wondering surprise he picked up the
little ipessenger, glanced enviously
at the delicately traced superscrip
tion, and leavinghis meal unfinished?
eagerly broke the seal. As he open
ed the letter, the photograph within
met his view. With trembling hand
he held the picture, upon which his
gaze was rivited.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A new f ther seriously objects to
his wife calling the youn’un ‘a pre
cious little lamb,” because in what
manner of light does that place him
before the world?
** calicos 10* i’VlSSw* GO.
The Grandmothlrs.
God bless them! the dear, loving,
patient souls, who never grow weary
in well-doing, or who, at least, never
seem to—who bear the burdens of
their children’s children—who are
forgetful of self—who are true and
tender always!
God bless them!
I do not mean the grandmothers
who are ashamed to be old—who
cling to gay colors and false hair—
who powder and rouge, and are pa-
niered—who never dandled, and pet
ted, and cared for their own babies
—and whose grandchildren, bom to
luxury, know in their helpless infancy
only the nurse-girl, and, a little later,
the governess—but the grandmother
in the middle or lower walks of life,
whose hands have known the digni
ty of labor, and whose labor has
been always of love; the grandmoth
er who is proud to repeat, in her age,
the sleepless, watching hours of her
youth, for sake of a child and its
mother.
I met such a one of late. We were
fellow-travelers during the long, si
lent hours of a long night, when an
accident to the Pullman car had
robbed us of our anticipated repose.
She was still young, and her face was
placid as any saint’s that mortals
dream of. She had buried two
daughters in their budding woman
hood, and a third, whose babe she
tended, was an invalid, and who
clung to her just as she had from her
very birth.
And that grandmother was a stur
dy one of a most ennobling kind !
I watched her the five-long night.
No rest for her—not an instant when
she was off duty 1 If the baby moan
ed, she lifted and hushed it again to
sleep, While the young mother look
ed on in helpless anxiety, nestling
back, as soon as might be, in her old
place over the heart that was, and
would be, truest of all hearts in its
love of her.
And the grandmother would stroke
her hair softly with fingers that were
brown with toil, and smile, and seem
so happy and so blest, watching the
baby all the while, as if fearing it
might take wings and fly away if she
forgot it ter an instant.
I watched her, wondering if, when
that baby grew to manhood, he
would be good to his grayhaired
grandmother. If he would some
day, and day after day, come in from
his place in the world without to hers
in the world within, and lay his
bearded face on hers that had forgot
ten its blooming, and say: “You
are an angel, grandmother, and I
love you!” If he would smoothe her
hair, read aud sing to her. If, in
short, he would make her last days
restful and sweet, as the last days of
all old people should be and might
be.
And then I remember a grand
mother whose children and grand
children consider her a burden—one
who was never talked to except to
be ordered out of the way—one who
had loved, labored, sacrificed and
suffered for three-score years, and
who, at three-score-and-ten, filled a
pauper’s grave, while ^ier grandchil
dren were men with large farms and
comfortable homes.
Was such a fate in store for the
patient, sweetened woman before me?
How I watched and wondered—how
I wait and wonder still!
God bless the grandmothers!
God grant to each one of them a
cosy corner to sit in; happy faces to
give happy greetings and good-byes;
loving hands and loving hearts; and,,
at the last, for the clay that has en
dured so much, a couch that shall be
sweet with flowers, year after year,
and on whose low green cover shall
fall, oftimes, the tears of grateful
memory and unceasing love.
Hermigne.
Ho^ Men have Risen in Life.—
It is not necessary that a boy who
learns a trade is compelled to follow
it all his life. Governor Palmer of
Illinois was once a country black
smith, and began his political ca
reer as a Constable in Macoupin
county. A Circuit Judge in central
part of HUnois, was once a tailor.
Thomas Hoyne a rich eminent law
yer of Illinois, was once a bookbind
er. Erastus Corning, of New York,
was too lame to do hard labor, and
commenced as a shop-boy in Alba
ny. When he applied for employ
ment first, he was aeked: “Why my
little boy what can you do ?” “Can
do what I am bid,” was the answer
that secured him a place. Senator
Wilson, of Massachusetts, was a
shoe-maker. Thurlow Weed was
canal driver. Ex-Governor Stone,
of Iowa, was a cabinet maker, which
trade the late Steven A. Douglas
also worked at in his youth. Large
numbers of men of prominence, now
living, have risen from humble life
by dint of industry without which,
talent is useless as gold on a barren
Island. Work alone makes men
bright, and it does not depend upon
what kind of wotk ypu have to do
whether you rise or not. It depends
upon how yon do it.
Cimb Factory cheese, bv the box 18 cte $
M. A. EVANS* CO.
Too much for Midget. «
Timkins, Tarbox, and Midget were
a convivial trio. They were mar
ried men, and yet they spent many
of their evenings at the tavern, thus
leaving undone duties which ought
to have been done, and doing a
great many things which ought nev
er to have been done. One night
the trio sat at the festive board of
Pimple’s tavern until very near to
midnight, at which hour they were
about as drunk as men could be and
not be dead. A dispute arose touch
ing the payment of the bill for the
evening’s entertainment.
‘Hole on,” said Timkins. “Let’r
be till t’morrer. When we get home
our wives’ll be sure to tell us to do
some onaccountable thing, and if
ary one of us refuses to do the first
thing his wife tells him to do after
he gets into the house, he shall
pay the whole bill for the party.”
This was agreed to, and it was
further stipulated that each should
give a true account of the result at
their next meeting. On the follow
ing evening the mends met again.
Timkins led off.
“Well, boys,” said he, “I had a
tough one, but I did it. It was dark
as pitch in the house when I got
home, and as I was lumbering
through the kitchen, I stumbled
against the stove, and knocked the
tea-kettle off onto the floor. That
started my wife, and she sang out to
me,—'Say, you brute, tip over the
cooking-stove, and done with it !’ No
. sooner said than done. I gave the
old thing a h’ist, and over it went.—
My eyes!—didn’t my wife come out
of bed ! But I did it.”
Tarbox next gave his experience:
“Good for you Tim.; but I’m even
with you, though my job wasn’t
? uite so tough. When I got home
had to get into the house through
the buttery window, as usual, and
I’ve no doubt that I made considera
ble of a clatter among the tin pans.
If my wife had been asleep she
woke up. ‘That’s right!’ she called
out, at the top of her voice. ‘Tip
things over, won’t you! Don't miss
the cream pot. Upset that too!' I
knew the pot must be nearly full of
cream, but I’d got the order, and
was bound to obey, and over went
the next churnin’ on to the floor.
What befell me very shortly after
ward, and what particular language
Mrs. Tarbox used on the occasion,
I won’t say,—but I’d obeyed or
ders.”
Midget came next, and he ap
proached the subject of his narra
tive with downcast looks. “Well,
boys,” he said, “I s’pose I’ve got to
foot the bill* Unfortunately my
wife asked too much of me. When
I got home I found the back door
left unlocked, so I got into the house
without making much noise; but in
going up stairs, I stumbled, and the
racket of my fall was quickly echoed
by Mrs. Midget’s voice, pitched in a
most snappish and peremptory key.
‘There, Midget,’ she cried, ‘tumble
again I Tumble and break your worth
less neck !' Says I, ‘That’s too much
for Midget! I’d rather pay the bill
at the tavern.’ And so,'boys, I’ll
settle up.”
A Real Gentleman.
A few days ago I was passing
through a pretty shady street, where
some boys were playing at base ball.
Among their number was a little
lame fellow, seemingly about twelve
years old—a pale, sickly looking
child, supported on two crutches,
and who evidently found much diffi
cultly in walking, even with such as
sistance.
The lame boy wished to join the
game; for he did not seem to see how
much his infirmities would be in his
own way, and how much it would
hinder the progress of such an ac
tive sport as base ball.
His companions, good naturedly
enough, tried to persuade him to
stand one side and let another take
his place; and I was glad to notice
that none of them hinted that he
would be in the way, but they all ob
jected for fear he would hurt him-
sell
“Why, Jimmy,” said one at last,
you can’t run, you know.”
“0, hush said another—the tall
est boy in the party—“Never mind,
I'll ran for him, and you can count
t for him,” and he took his place by
Jimmy’s side, prepared to act.—“If
you Were like him,” he said aside to
the other boys, “you wouldn’t want
to be told of it all the time.”
As I passed on, I thought to my
self that there was a tiue little gen
tleman.—Child’s World.
Papa—“I’m sorry to hear my dear
boy, you have failed again in obtain
ing a prize this quarter. You must
be very wooden headed.”
Dear Boy-‘Yes, pa, I’m afraid I’m -
a ehip of the old block.”
Happy is he who has a life-pur
pose, a work. He has something to
follow all his life. He has found that
which will be a blessing of his life.
Poor is he who has no aspiration
beyond the present—no fixed pur
pose for good.