Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

-■* rraU>. VOL. L S ANDERS VILLE„> GEORGIA, MARCH 28, 1873. NO. 39* I, M. O. JCKDLOCK. JZTSBO IBiJft B, L. BODQE8S. By Wedlock, Arttoc Thb Hebaj.d is published ia S*ad«rs’Fiiie, Oft., every Friday morning. Subscription price TWO DOLLARS pec annum. Advertisements inserted at the usual rates. No charge for publishing marriages or deaths. POETRY. Over the Rivet*. Over the River they bee Von to me, Loved ones who’ve passed to the other aide; j The gleam of their snowy robes I see. But their voices are lost in the dashing tide, j There’s one with ringlets of sunny gold, j And eyes the reflection of heaven’sown blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. And the jwtle mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there. The gates of The City we could not see; Over the River, over the River, My brother stands ready to welcome me. Over the River the boatman pale, Carried another—the household pet; Her bright curls waved in the gentle gale— Darling Minnie, I see her ye* 1 She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands. And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We watched it slide from the silver sands And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. Wo know she is safe on the other aide. Where all the ransomed and angels be; Over the River, the mystic River, My childhood’s idols are waiting for me. For none retufn from these quiet shores Who crossed with the boatman cold and pale'; We hear the dip of the golden oars. We catch a gleam of the snowy sail, And lothey have passed away from our hearth; They cross the stream and are gone for aye! We can not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day; Wo only know that their barks no more Shall sail with ours in life’s stormv sea: Yet somewhere now on the unseen shore, They watch and beckon and wait for me. And I-sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore; I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list to the sound of the boatman’s oar; I shall watch Ikr the gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit land! I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be When over the River, the peaceful River, The Angel of Death shall carry me! SELECT MISCELLANY. [Written for the Herald.] CLIFFORD LYLE. BY SUNBEAM. [Continued from No. 36.] Never, did the anciant Egyptian devotee, experience such rapturous devotion whilst bowing at the gor geous shrine of Osiris, than did Eu gene, whilst gazing upon her animat ed face, so purely, peerlessly beauti ful, and listening to the soft, sub dued silvery peals of laughter, that followed his livly sallies and bril liant flashes of wit. To say that Clifford was pleased with her new home, would scarcely convey an idea, of her inexpressible delight. Weeks passed swiftly away, and not withstanding. Mrs Preston was confined to her room, she mari- fested her affection by constantly con triving, rides, drives, picnic excur sions, indeed everything that could promate or contribute in the sliglit- ; est degree to the happiness or enjoy ment of her young companion. Eu gene, who had heretofore engaged in legal practice with unremitting I i zeal and ardour, grew weary of bus- niss, threw aside the dry abstuse volumes of Law, substituting the el- ■ egantly bound, sentimental and po- ■ etical works which added no little to the embellishment of his sumptuous, home. As to business he sagely ar gued, that he could not possible be more profitable employed than in en tering his own suit, pleading and de fending his own cause in the capri cious court of Love and Beauty. He instinctively felt, that in Clifford Lyle he beheld the “guiding star” of his destiny, and resistlessly aban doned himself to the ravishing fan cies, and extatic visions presented by alluring hope. Though their social intercourse was constant and unre strained, their acquaintance was too limited to justify an open avowal of love, yet he would have resigned worlds, had they been at his dispos al, for a single sentence to attest rec- siprocityof sentiment. Not long did he remain in suspense, soon the tell tale blush that tinged her cheek at his approach, the timed, half-avert ed look, the downcast eye when she met his earnest glance, her reserve and embarrassment when they were alone, awakened the hope, that her susceptible heart, was rife with the motions responsive to his own. True —they were “trilles light as air”— but to the vigilant, anxious lover— “confirmation strong, as proof of ho ly writ”—which gratified, but did not however satisfy; her own lips, must decide his fate. Mrs. Preston tacitly marked their increasing attachment, anticipating anxiously, with maternal interest the final results, which was realized soon er than expected. Though for years a confirmed invalid, she Was suddenly stricken with paralysis whichthreat* ened speedy dissolution. Ascertain- 1^6 from the attending physician |JBhat he regarded her condition as j, extremely precarious, she gummon- ed Eugene to her side, and with cau tion delicacy broached the sub ject newest her heart. He frankly avowed their bethrothal, but inform ed her their union was deferred in definitely. She urged and impor tuned an immediate marriage, to which Clifford, over-ruled by circum stances, reluctantly acceded, and ere the “last rose of summer” paled Beneath the blighting breath of Au tumn, the rites were solmnized, that irrevably sealed for time, the des tinies of Clifford Lyle and Eogene Preston. The first snow of winter fell lightly upon a newly made mound in the village church-yard, deposited beneath which were the cherished remains of Mrs. Preston. “See here Love,” observed Eugene Preston, to his happy young wife, several months after their marriage, “I’ve brought you,” taking a news paper from his pocket, a “nine days wonder,” to relieve the monotony and beguile the loneliness of whicn you so much complain, during my necessary absence, handing her the paper. “Col. Ames” sent round to my office this morning, a package of papers for examination, done up in this—TheM Reporter, and hav ing you as usual ever uppermost in my mind, remembered M was once your home—(no, pi-ison is the more correct, eh ?) and hoping to cull a few items of interest for your especial benefit, glanced over it, when almost the first thing I saw was ypur maiden name, “Miss Clifford K. Lyle,” among the list of uncalled for letters.” “A letter for me, Eugene? It is undoubtedly a mistake—why “poor little me" never was so fortu nate as to have a corresponent, or at least since I left ‘The Sisters.’ Let me see—yes, here it is in unmistaka ble characters—“Miss Clifford K. Lyle”—and see, the paper is of re cent date. Who in the name of won der, can be the writer ? Do Eugene send for it immediately, I can hard ly wait until it comes, I’m so impa tient to know all about it.” ‘Tve already done so, my dear, I well knew my little wife inherited from mother Eve, no little of her be setting sin, therefore I dispatched.a letter for the one in question, before leaving my office.” “Thank you, m.y own thoughtful husband, but tell me, who is the wri ter do you suppose ?” “Possibly and probably your Grand-pa.” “Grand-papa ? oh, no Eugene, not he, since he disregarded the appeals of an almost bursting heart, I’m quite sure he would not write volun tarily. * I’d sooner think ’twas from the great Mogul of China," she laugh ingly added. “Notwithstanding yourJGrandfath- er’s inexorable sternness of charac ter, I must think the letter from him. You will recollect he is quite old, most likely in declining health, and it is a reasonable supposition too that he regrets his unkmdnest to your mother, and to atone for the past, seeks a reconciliation—how ever we shall shortly know, glan cing at his watch.” “I must leave you now, to puzzle over and unravel this mystery—a sweet good-bye.” In due time the anxiously expect ed letter was received and to t Clif ford’s astonishment it was as her husband surmised, from her Grand father. He assured her he had promptly replied to her letter writ ten so long ago—then followed an account of the information he had just gained in regard to the inter ception of his letters. He implored her still to come, he was in rapidly declining health, and longed to be hold her before he died. Re-folding the letter in silence— with an irresistible impulse she threw her arms around her hus band— “Dear, dear Eugene—you’ve so often expressed the wish that I would in some way test the strength of your affection—now I intend do ing so, only don’t say no.” “What is thy petition, qneen Clif ford ? and it shall be granted thee; and what is thy request? and it shall be performed, even to the half of the kingdom.” “Then give me up—spare me just a little while—let me go to poor Grand papa?” “ JV-hat! consent for my wee lit tle wife to go all the way to San Francisco alone! why my darling you are dreaming.” “No, Eugene—I do not wish to go alone—I’m aware that business re quires your presence at home, bat { rou know Judge Henry’s family eave for that city next week, in charge of Mr. Gregg, cne of his agents—do please let me accompany them?—I shall stay only a very short time ? indeed I promise to re turn with Mr. Gregg, who accom panies the party solely for protec tion, consequently he will not be long absent.” ‘Why my sweet wife, strictly speak ing, this is not realy a test of affection but a most unheard of sacrifice. Wait, until I can leave—say after Spring court, and I will cheerfully be your escort” “Oh! Eugene, dont ask me to toait, we know not what sad change.* may be wrought, even in so short a time; he, poor Grandpapa, may have pass ed away, then I never could forgive myself-” “Very ture my darling, we know not,” tenderly taking her face be tween his hands, a warm tear-drop fell upon his arm, pointing to which he continued, “see there / as long as a woman’s possessed of a tear, she will certainly have her own way”—I consent, but insist upon your mak ing a genuine pop-cad." Arrangements for the trip were made without delay, and at the ap pointed time Clifford, with many tears and regrets bade adieu to her home. Weeks wore slowly on and drearily enough to Eugene Preston, who pined for the society of his ab sent wife. More at lesure, he was planning for her a pleasant surprise, when she unexpectedly returned. Her visit proved indeed a timely one; her Grand-father surviving two weeks only after her arrival. His will, he had previously made, leaving her sole heiress of his almost fabulous fortune. The morning following her return, she obsered a romantic little cottage owned by her husband in the rear of their residence, though tenantless when she left, now had occupants. Her cariosity much excited, she re remarked.— “Elmwood, I see is occupied Eu gene, by whom?” “Yes—‘and thereby hangs a tale’ let me see, I think it was the very day you left, a middle aged lady of refinement, and truly aristocratic bearing, though in reduced circum stances, called at my office introduc ing herself as Mrs Maxwell, stated she was a widow with one child, a daughter. By a series of misfortunes and pecuniary losses she had been forced to seek a home and earn a support among strangers. She had acted in accordance with the advice of a friend, who had counselled her to come to this place, where she might probably secure the position as mu sic teacher for her daughter (the corps of teachers being incomplete) in our recently established High School, and aid in their support by taking boarders for the same. I had been recommended as having just such a house to rent as she desired, situated in a retired, pleasant healthy locality, and had called to see if we could agree upon terms. There was something about the lady, that at once enlisted my sym pathy , and remembering your oft- repeated injunction “deal kindly with the distressed and stranger,” I cheer fully rented Elmwood for one fonrth its value, besides exerting my influ ence to obtain a situation in the Seminary, for her daughter, Miss i Gracie, who by the way, is really a ; beautiful girl, and full]’ competent to 1 sustian with honour the vocation she | has chosen. She is quite a belle, j having turned the heads of all our j boys, and onr strong-minded broth- I er there” pointing to arthur, “among the rest, in fact, rumor says she evinces a decided preference for the aforesaid gentleman, but there he is, let him answer for himself.” “What! Arthur, you in love ? I thought you were love-proof, invul nerable, and all that sort of thing ? You are'nothing but mere mortal at last. Where is your boasted strength of mind? Did you not positively aver that you did not believe there was any such thing as love, ’twas bat a ‘passing fancy,' and scouted the idea of ‘pinning your faith,’ to a pretty girl whose prerogative it was ‘to change her mind with every alter nate throb of her fickle heart ?’ Nay more—you declared it denoted ‘weakness to succumb to the prac ticed glances of beauty!’ Are these still your sentiments ? Speak, rene gade!” Arthur Preston regarded her with a roguish twinkle, and as she con cluded, he replied “Ahem! well, yes sister mine, they are to a certain extent, and I will ever contend ‘to succumb to the practiced glances of beauty,’ is indi cative of tvealmess; but unfortunate ly of the heart, not of the brain. How soon have all my silly sayings risen up in judgment against me! Pardon fair lady, and remember them no more save as the vague ideas of an inexperienced, unsophisti cated youth. In reply to your first question—I must say I verily be lieve Sis, I’m desperately in love with the most amiable, intelligent, accomplished, beautiful, graceful, sprightly, fascinating, bewitching, tantalizing—neatest, sweetest, dear est little girl in existence.” “My ! Arthur, what a formidable array of adjectives! I’m quite over powered. Ho! Eugene, to the res cue ! This, ‘inexperienced, unsophis ticated youth,' is mad, moon-struck— or what is worse, love-struck—re quires a nurse and strict watching.” “If such be ttie case, you have only to employ ‘Miss Qracie,’ and I’ll be as quiet and gentle as a lamb.” was the laughing response. A few hours later, while Clifford sat smilingly over her work, there was a loud rap at the door of the apartment. Permission being given —a pleasant looking mulatto wo man entered, politely eourtesying-— “Good mornin’ mums.” “Good morning mom Lucy.” “I coins to sea you ma’am, boat dat buckra ’oman to Elmwood. She bin da dislong time an you bleives me missus, not one de ladeis bin call on her yet. Eigh! I nebber see sich hellions, stiff-neck buckra, dunno what niek dem so tun de cole shoul der to dem own flesh an’ caller. I dare to gracious missus, it a pure sin. She pears berry cleber, an Miss Gracie, dat her daughter ma’am, she full-blooded lady ma’am. You see missns, deys got me hired, an derefore I hab a chance of knowin’ all bout dem. I berry shodeys specta- ble buckra, an devs got the berry walk and talk ob de quality ma’am. Without allowing her interested au ditor time to reply the loquacious, gossip-loving negro continued— “Now deoie lady yon see missus, is S uite poorly, on by her lone self mos e day. Miss Gracie she bin blige to stay up to de big school wha she teach music, cause yon know missis, if she stop, de money stop too, an dey can’t ford to loss it ma’am. Miss Langdon, dat rich buckra oman over da in de big fine house, she was de Highest, so I goes ober nnbeknowns to de ole lady, (she mity proud ma’am) and tell her all boat dem. She sniff, tun up her nose an toss her her head like a young boss, an she talk. “I’se got sumting else to do mom Lucy, sides gad din bont an nussin poor sick widders.” I hab notin’ more to say ma’am bntleff her, tinking berry strong, dat ole satnn hab fall bill ob sale ob sombody. Dis mornin I hab to go up street, an I tout I bin stop an see you bout dem." Dey’s— “Yes,” interrupted Clifford.” I’m truly glad you did so mom Lucy; on ly yesterday I returned from Cali fornia, and this morning expressed my intention to call at ah early day, but your information has decided me to call at once, this afternoon I guess. Pm very sorry they have been so neglected.” # In the afternoon according to prom ise she walked over to the cottage, and was ushered by the delighted “mom Lucy, into a neat but scantily furnished bedroom. Fora moment she glanced at the pale face of the in valid, then throwing up her hands in surprise, loudly exclaimed. “Just heavens! - Mrs. Summers— can it be possible, we thus meet again? “Clifford Lyle!” faintly articulated the unhappy woman, covering her changed face with her attenuated hands and cowering beneath the bed drapery, “have I not already been sufficiently punished, that yon too must come to mock and rejoice at my misfortune” ? “Mrs. Summers”—gravely replied Clifford as she removed the cold hands with gentle force, “you cer tainly do me great injustice; be as sured I was actuated by the purest motives in making this visit. I came solely to render any assistance that might be required— The lustreless eyes were raised in credulous! to the sweet, meek face bending over her, then, again as if withering beneath the stinging lash of remorse—she exclaimed.— “Inscrutable are thy ways, oh God, and past finding out/’ Clifford Lyle I have wronged you beyond repara tion—but will you not forgive me?” imidly extending her hand. The proffered hand was gently clasped, and a kiss of forgiveness silently imprinted upon the care worn brow. “Bless yon—forgiving, minister ing spirit that thou art!—Oh! how can I ever atone for the dark, deep ly regretted past ?” “Simply by never again alluding to it. 1 assure you I cherish not a single feeling of revenge or resent ment. Let us ‘forgive and forget.’ But Mrs. Summers, how is it I find yon in circumstances so changed and under an assumed name ?” She then related the story of her irreparable loss, and sad reverses to which Clifford listened with tearful interest. The hours glided swiftly by and old Sol was giving his last touches of beauty to the glowing landscape without, when Clifford with many promises of frequent intercourse, bade the invalid ‘good bye.’ She was proceeding leisurely across the lawn, revolving in her mind the ex citing incidents of the afternoon, when the music of gay laughter, and merry voices, pleasantly interrupted her revery. Glancing in the direc tion from which the sounds diverged, she beheld Arthur Preston, escort ing a fair young girl, whose hat swung gracefully from her arm, while a wealth of bright golden curls lay in sonny heaps above a high expan sive brow, where Thought sat en throned, and Intellect had stamped his magic seal. For a moment the fair creature steadily gawd at the strange visitor, then with a glad cry of recognition she bounded forward mid nestled lovingly within the out stretched arms of her father’s pro of whom you've so often heard me speak, Gracie Summers. Her mam ma, for private reasons best known to herself, thought proper to resume for a time, her maiden name, Max well” An interesting, animating conver sation ensued, and continued until twilights’ deepening shades imper atively closed the entertview. Two weeks more of increasaed happiness on the part of both families, and Author Preston left his pleasant quiet home, with its cherished as sociations for » bustling Northern city, to attend his last coarse of lec tures, leaving a certain pair of bright eyes, to which he laughingly asser ted he was quite content to pin his faith, dimmed with tears. At the expiration of the term, he returned with his blnshing honors thick upon him, and claimed at the Altar his promised reward—the hand of sweet Grade Sommers. Arthur Freston gazed alternate ly at the two, wholly at a loss:.to comprehend the seene. Interpreting his mate appeal for information, Clifford explained— “This, Author, is the tittle friend. Life. Life is what we make it. We can bring up joyous images and indulge in happy thoughts; or, on the con trary make every one around us un happy and miserable by our constant repining and ingratitude. It is only in the proper use of the life which has been given us that we can hope to receive the blessings of the Lord. The beneficent Creator who formed the universe, and made everytbeing in nature subservient to the use and delight of man, meant not that his gifts should only be abused and per verted to gratify onr evil natures. If the heart is young and in its youth ful freshness, every object iis pleasing and delightful; the earth trials have not yet come upon the spirit to damp en its ardor and check its flew of hap piness but with advancing years, new responsibilities and increasing cares devolve upon ns, and deeper, purer resources of joy most come to satis fy our restless and aspiring natures. Then begin those earnest life-strug- glers, those tempests of passion which at times, seem to rend the son! bnt which strengthen and nerve us to en dure the changes which must inevit ably come upon ns, if permitted to remain long in this borderland. Oh! why can we not keep the fresh ness, the purity, the artless innocence of our childhood, and not let increas ing cares and perplexing trials cor rode the heart and close up those fountains of living truth and virtue. Life is real, and every endeavor should be earnest, every duty be per formed in love and faithfulness. Thus only can we attain that heaven ly kingdom where “brethren dwell together in unity,” and where kind red hearts are re-nnited, to be sepa rated no more. If this glorious earth with its flowers and fruits, its wealth of natural beauty, its earthly Edens,, a foretaste of that heavenly Paradise above, does not fill the soul with love and adoration for the Giver and Benefactor, sinful indeed must be the heart, and utterly lost to virtue and goodness. As onr pilgrimage on earth is destined to be a prepara tion for that glorious eternity of life in its reality, every aim and endeavor should be to accomplish that spiritu al regenertain which will fit the soul for an entrance into Heaven. We must eamestfy discharge every duty, in whatever station of fife Providence has placed us, and the quantity of good we do is of more importance than the quality. Even the widow’s mite is accepted, and “a cup of cold water, given in the name of the Lord, shall in no wise lose its reward.” It is the practice of those gentle charities, those hidden virtues, that will not bear the world’s rough blaz oning, that strengthens the soul, ( moulds and prepares it to be made after the image of and likeness of the Lord. Like the sculptor’s chisel upon the block of marble, these si lent influences slowly yet sorely drape the spirit. In the exercise of these blessed charities onr souls at length attain to a heavenly statute, and enter upon the interior and real life of the spirit. A Mother's Love*—Lamartine, the French writer, beautifully illus trates a mother’s love in the follow ing:—“In some spring freshet a riv er widely washed its shores and rent away a bough whereon a bird had built a cottage for her summer home. Down the white and whirl ing stream drifted the green branch, with its wicker cup of unfledged song, and fluttering beside it as it went, the mother bird. Unheeding the roaring of the river, on she went, her cries of agony and fear piercing the pauses in the storm. How like the love of the old fashioned moth er, who followed the child she had plucked from her heart, all over the world. Swept ewsy by passion that child might be, it mattered not, gigfc he was bearing away with hh^ the fragrance of the shattered roof-tree, yet that mother was with him; a Bath through all his life, and A'Bechel at his death.” “Lenny, you’re a pig,” said a fath er fo his five-year-old boy. “Now dotyon know what a pig ia, Lenny V* “Yea, air, a bog’s tittfeboy." “Only a Baby.” . Only a baby! a helpless little soul who had never yet lived for anything but to be cared for—who had neith er words nor thoughts—who must have perished, like a plucked flower, of a few honrs’ neglect; bnt it was hers, her baby, and so not like any other thing in all the world. What do yon know, who never had one of the touch of the little hands against her breast—of its lips there, soft and warm—-of the little nipping nails that hurt so cunningly that the pain was pleasure—of tne long talks it need to have with mamma, when it said “da,” and “mil,” and “ooo,” and “ta-ta,”and meant so much ? What canyon guess of the thrills that went through her when “baby took no tice”—when its wonderful good sense taught it to reach out for an orange, and bob it .with both hands against its nose, and make vain efforts to swallow it whole ? What do yon know of the feeling of utter possession which nothing else can give a woman but her baby? It is all hers—hers in secret, before any one else knew of it—hers while it was only a dream, a flutter of her own heart, a sob of her own breath- hers when, faint with pain and worn with travail, she took it first to her arms, a downy handful that only a woman dare touch, even then her compensation for all suffering. It looked—it always does look, to a mother’s eyes—like .“papa.” It is his too, and. he is hers, but baby is still more her own. A husband may have loved before; a little bit of his heart m y have been, or may be, somebody else’s; he may even once have had another wife—at least there is some one somewhere who has his friendship, or a profession he pur sues, or a dog he pets, or ahorse he is fond of; bnt Baby never had bnt one mother—never can have; noth ing has any claim upon him, noth ing could entice him form her bosom. “Just a little animal,” you say. Yes, of course; but mothers do not think so, cannot feel so—ought not, if they could. There are all the wonderful hopes of all the wonderful world hovermg about baby’s head. Nothing is im possible for his future; to be the best and most beautiful, to be the greatest, to overcome all obstacles, to have friends and no enemies. Why may not this be ? The little soul is new and untainted, the little baby has all growth before it. It’s future is always magnificent. Baby! baby! In the night its little cry waked her from dreams to sweeter thoughts than any dreams could hold. In the morning per haps it had crept up and put its velvet cheek against hers, thrilling her as the first love kiss did with its tiny touch. She wondered at the women who long to be no women, that they may struggle fiercely on life’s arena by man’s right. She could struggle also for baby; but there is no joy like being baby’s mother—his baby’s mother whom she loves. And her man-child lying on her bosom tells her a tale and sings her a song that only mothers ever hear; and she knows that when God made woman the mother of men, He gave her the highest honor that life holds. And now—now—baby is dead! The sweetness is taken from her soul, the warmth from her heart. For a while it must seem as though there were nothing more for her under the son. It will never come to pass that she shall see it a boy, and make for it little tonics and soft velvet caps. She shall never pridefully gaze upon the gold school medal he would have been sure to win. Nor shall she look up at him, taller than her by the head, broad-shouldered and stal wart, and be glorified in having him for a son. Then is nothing now but. a baby image of day put away under a coffin lid. Only a baby! Ah, no; more than that. The beautiful mystery over which she dreamed is gone. The vailed hope .that flitted down the fu ture has followed it The downy armful has left her, and the little thing in frocks and red shoes, and the boy with his shrill clear voice and merry ways, and the youth oi such rare promise, and the grand perfect man withont fault or blemish —so many things that she had in the past, or in the present, or that were to come to her in the fat ; and you say—you who know nothing of it all—“Only a baby!” M. K. D. A Beautifel Iftfltit dte intelligent horse, flfctyw the Turf, Field and Farm, very often sympatkites with distress* About a yew ago, a dog was.set upon by a crowd o£ entef boys, And pelted with sticks and stones. The poor dog had gfyeatfto’ offence, but this mattered net,. He tried to es cape from his toantftiton, and had. nearly succeeded i&dbing so, when: a stone hurled with yWV fibifeitee struck him on the forafcjg bruising the flesh and fracturing the bone.- The animal howled pftnoawfy but none of his persecutors went to his Having injured him, they tamed coldly away and left him to ^ brio the stable of Mr. Edward Kilpatrick, moaning piteously. In one of the stalls of the stable wan a well-bred young hone of more than ordinary intelligence. The diarists of the dog seemed to move the heart of the horse to pity. He bant his head, canreased the canine, and inspected the broken leg. Then with his fore feet he pushed some clean straw in to one comer of his stall and made a soft bed on which the dog was in duced to lay himself down. A close and affectionate intimacy was at once established between the hone mid the dog. The hone was being largely fed on bran mash, and, one day, when receiving his feed, thinking the dog might be hnngry, the equine bowed his head, caught the canine gently, by the skin of the neck, and, with his teeth, lifted him into the trough or box. The dog fell to with a hearty will, which showed that his hanger was great and that his gratitude was equal to his appetite. Days and weeks pass ed, and the dog and hone continued to be firm friends. The bran nm«fi fed them both, and the invalid grew strong and fat on the Wholesome diet. At night, the two animals, thus strangely brought together, slept in the most loving manner. The horse would arrange a soft bed for the dog, and then lay down and tenderly encircle the canine form with one of his forelegs. It is sel dom that such a beautiful and au thentic incident is bronght to our notice. The horse showed for the unfortunate more of that feeling which we term humanity than did the dozen lusty youths who were presumed to walk in the image of their God. Nay, it took the poor victim.of man’s persecution to its h irt and home, and tenderly nursed the same back to health and strength. A boy of tender years and heart has drowned seventeen kittens, tied tin pans to the tails of' all the neigh bors’ dogs, ornamented his chamber by pining flies to the wall, cut brick- bate with his uncle’s razor, blown up a pet canary with a fire-cracker, pull ed the tail feathers out of two roos ters, been thrown into the top of an sppletree by a cow that he was teas ing, brushed his father’s hat against the grain, told his sister’s lover about her false teeth, and still his fond mother intends him for the pulpit. »«♦. «—. What grows bigger the more you contract it? Debtr The Secret. To “aid and assist”—there is the wonderful secret of Masonry. Young men, before you seek admission to our mysteries, pause and consider whetheryou are able to perform the duty and keep the secret. According to the opinion of a very estimable lady we once knew, “the secret of Masonry is to do good and not tell of it,” she had come to thin conclusion by watching the move ments of her husband—one of the best Masons we have met for many a year. It was a very dark night, and the streets in ths village extremely mud dy. He excused himself to his wife after Buppei, saying he must go out, but would not be gone a great while. She noticed that he took the wheel barrow with him, and plunged into the mad and darkness of the street. Her cariosity was so much excited that she determined to follow him, and watch his mysterious movemens. She did so: He went to a certain grocery store, procured a barrel of flour and loaded it upon hie wheel barrow. She still followed him, un til at the door of a poor widow, whose deceased husband had been a mem ber of the Lodge, the good brother halted, unloaded the Soar, rolled it into the door, and without waiting for thanks, started home again. His wife was there before him, end wel coming him with open arms, exclaim- ee, “An, now I know the secret of Masonry!” “Is it possible,” said her husband, and pray tell me what it is.” “Why, said she, “it is to do good and not tell of it.” Yon thought no one saw tint good deed yon have been doing tor night, bnt yon were mistaken and aw you never tell me of these things, I am constrained * to believe that in snch acts consists the true secret of Mssomy.’ Russian proverbs presents a re markable combination of m—J com mon sense, deep religious feeling; and ihthy, almost coarse expres sion. A few taken almost at random will illustrate all three: “Measure your cloth ten times for you can only cut in once.” “A fold can cast a stone into the sea, but a hundred wise men cannot get it out” “If yon knew where you would fell, you could put down straw.” “With God go over the sea; without God cross not the threshold.” “Fear not the rich man’s frown; fear the beggar’s tears.” “We cannot go to church for the mud, bnt we may get to the tavern.”