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•OMK ■ 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.