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S ANDERS VTLLE, GEORGIA, JUNE 27, 1873.
J. M. Cr. JIEDLCCE. JETHRO ARLINE. R, L. RODGERS.
By VIcilSock, Arline & Rodgers
NO. 5,2.
Thk Herald is published in Sandersville,
Ga.. every Friday morning. Subscription
price TWO DOLLARS per annum.
Advertisements inserted at the usual rates,
ko charge for publishing marriages or
deaths.
POETRY.
A Won-riding; Word.
A frivelous word, a’Sharp retort,
A parting in angry haste,
The sun rose on a bower of bliss, _
The loving look and the tender kiss,
Has set on a barren waste,
Where p-ilgiim.s trea I with weary feet
Paths destined never more to meet.
A frivolous word, a sharp retort,
A moment that blots out years,
Two lives are wrecked on a stormy shore,
Where .billows of passion surge and roar,
To break in a spray of tears—
Tears shed to blind the severed pair,
Drifted seaward, and drowning there.
A frivolous word, a sharp retort,
A flash from a passing cloud.
Two hearts are scathed toflheir inmost core,
Are ashes and dust for ever more.
Two faces turn to the crowd,
Masked by pride.with a life-long lie,
To hide the scars of that agony.
A frivolous word, a sharp retort,
An arrow at random sped,
It has cut in twain the mystic tie
That had bound two souls in harmony,
Sweet love lies bleeding or dead.
A poisoned shaft, with scarce-an aim,
Has done a mischief sad as shame.
A frivolous word, a sharp retort,
Alas ! for the loves and lives
So little a cause has rent apart,
Tearing the fondest heart from heart,
As a whirlwind rends and rives,
Never to reunite again,
But live and die in secret pain.
A frivolous word, ^ sharp retrot,
Alas ! that it should be so—
The petulent speech, the careless tongue,
Have wrought more evil, done more wrong,
Have brought to the world more woe,
Than all the armies age to age
Records on hist’ry’s blood-stained page.
SELECT MISCELLANY.
Jennie Ratlihnnrs Life-iesson.
.BY EMMA GARRISON JONES.
“I’ve made my choice, auntie—
what do you say to it?”
Mrs. Hunter looked intently at her
niece, who sat before a small writing-
stand, with a couple of open letters
before her.
“That depends upon which ot me
two you have chosen,” she replied.
“Why, Tom, of course!”
The lady’s face grew serious.
“I’m sorry, Jennie,” she .said.
“You are not suited to be a poor
man’s wife ; you are too proud, too
fond of your own ease and comfort;
vou had better have followed my ad
vice and accepted Ralph Parker..
Jennie shook her head, showering
the golden ringlets in bright confus
ion over her white temples.
“No, auntie—no. I despise Ralph
Parker, and I wouldn’t marry him if
he were ten times richer than he is.
I shall send back his diamonds, and
tell him so, too.”
She closed the mother-of-pearl
casket as' she spoke with a lingering,
longing glance at the gleaming gems
it contained, adding, in a lower tone.
“But they are lovely—shouldn’t I
like to wear them to-night ?
Mrs. Hunter smiled, and crossing
the room, smoothed the girl’s bright
head as she said,
“You’re a little silly, Jennie. You
want Mr. Parker’s diamonds—why
not accept them, and shine resplen
dent to-night ?”
But Jennie shook her head with
redoubled decision.
‘ Because I love Tom, auntie; abd
would sooner wear this poor little
rose of his than to own the queen s
jewels.”
The lady’s cold eyes softened per
ceptibly as she looked down upon
the gu-l’s blushing, conscious face ;
and then she turned toward the open
casement with a dreamy, wistful gaze,
her memory going back, perhaps, to
an old rural home, far beyond the
green hills that encircled the grand
city wherein she dwelt—the home of
her happy, simple girlhood. But
Mrs. Hunter had sacriticed her love
on the altar of Mammon, and she
held it worse than folly to indulge in
any such foolish regrets.
“I have Always said, Jennie,” she
continued, gravely, “that I would let
you have your own choice in regard
to marriage. But think well of this.
Mr. Bathburn is poor. As his wife
you will be subject to all manner of
privation, forced to live in a vulgar,
s inted. economical style, that will
not suit a girl raised as you have
b len. You love wealth, and ease,
and luxury; you are fond of fine
apparel and costly jewels; Ralph
Parker can give you all of .these—
Tom Bathburn cannot.”
“My decision is already made,”
said 0 ennie, resolutely. “I shall send
back Mr. Parker’s diamonds, and
wear Tom’s poor little rose to-night.”
She took up the half-blown bud
as she spoke, and set it in a vase, a
warm, tender light glowing in her
eyes. Tom s letter lay open before
b. u\ A straigtforward, manly declara
tion of love, and an offer of his heart
and hand—a true heart, and a hanp
willing to shiMl her, and work for
her forever. If she favored his suit,
she was to wear the white rose at
her birth-night ball that night.
“Yes, I’ll wear it,” she murmured
to herself, as she folded the letter
and put it in her pocket; “and aunt,
you’ll oblige me by sending a servant
to Palace-Hill with . Mr. Parker’s
diamonds.”
“As you will, my dear;” and with
a stately rustle of her costly .silk,
Mrs. Hunter swept from the room.
Jennie rang for- her maid, and
made ready for her birth-ball ip hot
haste; and when Tom Bathburn en
tered the brilliant ball that night, he
Was transported to the third heaven
of delight, by seeing his white rose
bud amid the delicate laces on her
bosom. A few months after they
were married, and started westward,
as happy and hopeful a young couple
as ever the sun shone on.
Tom was a lawyer by profession;
but he was also equal to any under
taking; consequently, notwithstand
ing his poverty, he felt little or no
concern in regard to his young wife’s
future. He meant to work so hard,
and achieve such wonderful things ;
and as for Jennie herself; she was
all enthusiasm—never was a woman
such a helpmate as she would be. to
Tom.
For the first six months of their
wedded life they got on bravely; not
that Tom made any great progress
in his profession, but he had some
little money on hand, and they rent
ed a pretty cottage, with honey-suckle
round the porch, and canaries in the
windows; and Jennie kept a cook
and a chamber-maid, and wore the
pretty clothes with which her aunt
had provided her, and looked upon
marrying a poor man as one -of the
most delicious things imaginable.
But, after a while, funds began to
run low, and Tom saw that it was
time to look around. They gave up
the cottage and took lodgings in the
city; hut still Tom could get noth
ing to do—so they wandered from
place to place, until the last dollar
was expended, and Jennie’s wardrobe
grew sorely in need of replenishing.
Just then a little baby came—a wee,
dimpled little girl, as fresh as a spring
rose-bud. Tom was the happiest,
proudest man alive.
“Never fear, Jennie,” lie said,
bravely; “let the law go to the dogs,
I’ll take to my saw and jack-plan%;
they’ll bring us bread at least.”
He went to work like a man, as he
was, coming home at night with a
glow in his brown eyes that ought to
have more than awarded his wife for
every privation she had to suffer;
but J ennie had been tenderly raised,
and her tastes were luxurious. She
wanted a fine house, and soft apparel
for herself and baby; and it hurt
her pride to see Tom brought down
to the level of a common laborer.
All these things vexed her, until she
began to grow moody and discontent
ed. The roses faded from her cheeks;
she became careless about her house
hold matters, and now slovenly and
untidy in her appearance. When
Tom came home, instead of the
bright fireside, and happy, smilling
wife, that had once gladdened his
heart, he found a disorderly house,
and a gloomy, badly dressed woman,
who was cross to her baby, and cross
to him. But never a complaint did
the poor fellow utter. Jennie was
sick, he argued within himself—over
worked, poor thing, he must try and
do better for her—and lie made his
hammer ring with redoubled energy.
The second autum after the baby’s
birth they journeyed still farther
westward, out into the very heart
of the great land of prairies. They
had a snug enough little home, and a
good, efficient girl for help; but Jen
nie’s discontent became more ap
parent every day. The place was
so wild and savage, and the people
so rude and unrefined, she said Tom
was cruel to bring her there. She
wished she was back in her old home,
where she used to be so happy. Tom
said never a word, but the warm
glow faded from his brown eyes, and
they wore an expression wistful sor
row, piteous to-behold; but he work
ed all the harder, as if to conquer
frotune by the power of his sturdy
strokes.
One day, in the wane of autumn,
a dreary rainy day, matters came to
a crisis. Margie, the good hired
girl, was ill with pneumonia; and all
the household work, together with
care of the child, fell upon Jennie’s
hands. Tom did everything he could
to help her. He milked the cow and
fed the poultry, and then filled all
the pails with water, and heaped the
little wood-shed with fuel.
“Yon won’t have occassion to go
outside the door, Jennie,” he said,
on starting, “and I’ll be home early.
You must do the best you can.”
Jennie was pouring out some tea
for Margie, and just at the moment
baby pulled at her frock, causing her
to upset the cup. The mishap in
creased her impatience.
“Oh, don’t matter!” she replied,
crossly. “I’ve got to work myself to
death, anyhow, and I may as well
do it outside as in.”
Tom made no answer, but-his
brown eyes were full of unshed tears
as he went out. Jennie felt that she
had made an unwomanly answer the
instant the words escaped her lips;
but it merely served to increase her
vexation. ^.Everything she put her
hands to seemed to go wrong with
her. Maggie grew worse, find baby
was unusually active and trouble
some ; and in addition, the wailing,
easterly wind rushed down the ehirn-.
ney in sudden gusts, filling the room
with smoke and ashes. She threw
aside her broom and duster in des
pair, and sitting -down in the midst
of her untidy room, with her hair un
combed, and her dressun disorder,
she burst into a passion of hysteri
cal tears. Baby crept up to her feet,
and essayed to climb into her lap;
but she pushed her away crossly,
“Oh! go off, you troublesome lit
tle thing! I’m tired enough, without
having you hanging round me!”
Thus' repulsed, the little thing
wandered off in search of amuse
ment, and finally settled herself at
an open window, where she could
catch the pouring raid-drops in her
tiny hands. Unmindful of her oc
cupation, and of everything but her
own egotistic reflections, the young
wife sat rocking herself to an fro be
fore the smoking stove.
“What I might hav§ been,” she
soliloquized, “and what I have come
to—a common drudge! Yes, aunt
was right; I ought not to have mar
ried a poor man. I might have had
a splendid home, and servants to
wait on me. Oh, clear! I wish I had
chosen Ralph Parker’s diamonds in
stead of poor Tom’s rose!”
The fire smoked and crackled in
the stove, burning the broth she was
making for Margie, and souring the
pan of bread she had set to raise;
while without, the dreary rain drip
ped incessantly, and baby, wrapt in
nothing but her thin gown, leaned
far out at the window, catching the
swift drops as they fell. Still Jennie
sat there, indulging in her morbid
fancies and regrets. Just as the
clock was on the . stroke of ten, a
rapid step aroused her—Tom’s step.
He took in the untidy room, and his
wife’s aspect and attitude in an in
stant. Jennie saw it, and rose to
her feet, flushing with shame and
anger.
“What’s brought you back so
soon ?” she asked, sharply, giving I
the smoking fire a punch, that spat- j
tered the broth over the hot iron, j
filling the room with a disagreeable,
hissing odor.
“I’m going to the city,” he replied,
gravely. “I’ve heard of a good
opening, and must see to it without j
delay; so I ran by to get a clean shirt, i
and say good-by.”
“You’re all the time hearing of
good openings,” Jennie replied,
pained that he was going away, and
vexed that he had come upon her so
suddenly; “but they don’t seem to
amount to much.”
“So it seems; but I’ll hope for the
better hick this time,” he said quietly,
but with a heavy sigh. “Where’s
little birdie, asleep ?”
Hearing his voice the child clam
bered down, and came toddling to
his side, her garments dripping, and
her little hands and face blue with
cold. He caught her up with a cry
of dismay.
“Oh, Jennie! she’ll be sure to have
the croup—why didn’t you look after
her ?”
“I can’t look after everything—
she’s old enough to know better her
self ; there, you bad, little thing, take
that.”
Jennie put out her hand to slap
the cold, little cheek that lay against
Tom’s breast; but he looked up with
something in his face that stopped
her on the instant.
“Don’t do anything you’ll be sor
ry for by-and-by, Jennie,” he said,
tremulously ; - “you are not quite
yourself this morning.”
“No; and I never shall he myself
again,” she burst out passionately,
half beside herself with shame and
anger at her own foolish temper, yet
too proud to own it. “I’m harassed
and run to death—and I wish I was
in my grave.”
• Tom put out his arm to draw her
toward him, but 'She glided from him,
and went into her bed-chamber. He
could hear her sobbing,, and the
sound seemed to pierce his heart like
a knife. Once or twice, while he
was 'warming and drying the child,
a tear fell upon her golden head.
When he had lulled her to sleep, he
tucked her away in her crib, with re
peated kisses and caresses; and then
after making some change in his
clothing, he went to the door of his
wife’s room.
“I must go now, Jennie,” he said,
opening it softly; “the train will be
due in a few minutes now. Come,
and say good-by!”
Poor Jennie longed to throw her
self in his arms and entreat him to
forgive her, but her heart was too
proud. She sat quite still, her face
averted, and her fingers busy with
sewing that lay on her lap.
“Good-fry, Tom,” she said, coldly.
“You’ll bo back soon, I suppose ?”
“As soon as possible—to-morrow
at the longest; but, Jennie, come
and kiss me, won’tj you ? I "might
never come back, yep. know,”'
She laug bed, anu answered lightly.
“Oh! don’t be ; .polish, Tom,
You’ll be back, I guess-—we’ve- been
married too long to jet like loves.”
Tom turned away yith a swift step;
but she caught the l#ok .on his face
as he went—and it kvas a look that
would go with her ti> her dying day.
For a moment or twlwtehe sat dumb,
almost paralyzed, hoping that he
would come back; thm she started,
up and rushed to thj door—but it
was too late. He wa* out of sight;
and a few minutes Ifter she heard
the shrill cry of the.steam-whistle, #
and knew that he was gone.
The daywent by drearily enough,
and the night closed in, the chill rain
still chipping .from the cottage eaves;
Margie grew worse, and before bed-
hour little birdie had a high fever,
"With a deadly terror at her heart,
Jennie ran across ,the clearing, and
called, to her nearest neighbor, Miss
Pamelie Stebbins. She came with
out delay, for she was a woman pe
culiarly kind of heart, though rough
of speech.
“The child’s been exposed,” she
began, the moment her eyes rested
upon the little sufferer, “tuk a sud
den cold. She’ll have a turn o’ the
croup ’fore momin’; git on a pot o’
water to heat, and warm some goose-
greese. Got -npne? I thought as
much—wimmen o’ your stamp nev
er provide for the hour o’ trouble.
Now I’m an old maid, and never eal-
kerlate on havin’ children, but I al-
lers keep a bottle full on the third,
floor o’ my pantry-shelf. I’ll go
over myself an’ git it directly. I’ve
been squelching round in the wet all
day, doin’ for them as don’t thank
me mebbe—but it’s my way. I ain’t
a woman to set down an’ mope an’
fret like yon do, Jennie Bathburn.
If you’d been ’tendin’ to your busi
ness, an’ not thinkin’ about yerself,
this child wouldn’t a’ had this spell
—I know. I’ve had my eye on you
for some time, an’ intended to give
you a good talkin’—and I may as
well do it now. Make that water
bile—wan’t to bathe this child as
soon as she wakes.” -
Jennie obeyed in silence, her heart
was too full of bitter remorse and
self-reproacn for Uur lips to attar a
single word, and Miss Pamelie went
on.
“I seen yer husband this mornin’.
I was down at the station; tuk my
gold n pipins—an’ a prime price I
got for ’em—they’re v scarce, you
know. Well, I met your husband
jest afore the train went out, an’ sich
a woe-begone face I never set eyes
ou. . It’s a burnin’ shame, Jennie
Bathburn, for you to treat that man
as you do. It’s in everybody’s
mouth how he works and strives,
and how onthankful an’ discontented
you are. You’ll be sorry for it by’m-
by, take my word for it.”
“Oh, Miss Pamelia !” Jennie burst-
out with streaming tears, “I’m sorry
for it now. If ever I see Tom’s face
again, I’ll try and make up for it.”
“It’s to be hoped you will; but I
don’t kno^v as you’ll evej: see his face
. agin—you don’t deserve to. You’ll
never know how to prize him till
lie’s gone. I’ve seen wimmen like
you—you worrit the poor soul’s life
out now; but when he’s gone, you’ll
break your heart over it.”
Jennie sobbed as if her heart were
already broken, and her lecturer
went on,
“What a home you might make
him ! Why, bless my soul, if I had
this house, I’d make it shine agin.
It only needs the will—one pair o’
hands can work wonders ; and then,
instead o’ swipin’ round in a dowdy
frock, wi’ your hair on end, an’ your
face all of a pucker, you oughter be
as fresh as a rose-pink, a pretty
young thing like you, an’ always
have a smile for your husband when
he comes home. It’s your duty.
I’m an old maid, but I think any
woman as has a good husband, an’ a
baby, ain’t got no right to mope—
she oughter sing psalms from sun to
sun. Now I’m done, I’ll go for the
goose-greese. I’ve said my say, an’
if you don’t like it, you can lump it
—that’s all.”
Jennie raised her head, and made
an effort to speak, but her sobs
choked her. Every ivord Miss Pa-
melie had spoken had gone to her
heart like a knife. She arose and
went to the bed-side, and kneeling
down, took the hot, little hands in
hers.
“Oh, baby! little birdie!” she
moaned, “if God Will only spare you
and give me back my husband, I’ll
never complain again.”
The night went by wearily, with
wailing winds«and dripping rain, and
all through its tedious hours little
birdie hung between life and death.
But Miss Pamelia worked bravely,
and as the crimson dawn began to
tinge the darkness, the agonized
mother arose from her knees with
an overflowing heart. The child
slept and would live.
Silently and swiftly she set herself
to the work that awaited her. Tom
would be home at ten o’clock, and
he must find his home a different one
from that lie had left. Somehow,
as she worked, everything went well
with her, and long before the hour
of his arrival she had everything in
trim order ;* the rooms clear of dust,
the'stove burnished like silver, and
a snowy table awaiting the tempting
breakfast that steamed upon the
stove. Dressed in a pretty morning
frock, with her hair brushed out in
short, seeing curls, and a sweeter,
tendererlight.in her blue eyes than
had ever lit them before, she stood
in the cottage door-way, listening
with eager impatience for the com
ing steam-whistle. . She hacT refused
to kiss Tom at parting, but she was
ready ,to give him a thousand kisses
on his return.
Ten o’clock came, hut the whistle
did not sound. Half-past -ten—elev
en—still no Tom. Her heart lay
like a dead weight in her bosom, and
her face grew white with unspoken
terror. Presently the old doctor
came jogging round to look after
Margie.
“Doctor,” she cried, even before
she had spoken about her baby, “has
the eastern train come in ?”
“The eastern train ? Why, bless
me, haven’t you heard the news ? A
terrible collision—the whole train
smashed up, and nearly all aboard
killed or wounded 1”
Jennie grew as white as death, and
reeled back for an instant; then she
steadied lierself, and caught his arm
with a grasp like iron.
“Doctor,” she whispered, “have
you heard anything ? Tell me, quick!
My husband was on that train !”
“Good God! W T hat, Tom—Tom
Bathburn ?”
“Yes, sir. He went to the city
yesterday, and was to be back to
day !”
“But maybe he changed his mind;
maybe he didn't start—let’s hope for
the best, child.”
“No, no,” she answered, wildly,
“he started. He told me he’d come,
and he never broke his word. Oh,
my God ! Oh, Tom! Shall 1 never
see him again?”
“Like as not,” said Miss Pamelia,
sternly. “I told you how ’twould
be—you didn’t know ho.w to vally
him till he’s gone.”
“Woman!” gasped the old doctor,
seizing her by the arm, “have you
no compassion ? Don’t you see she’s
almost dying?”
J ennie fell upon her knees beside
the bed, and buried her face in her
hands. Boused by the noise, the
baby awoke and opened her blue
eyes.
“Mamma,” she murmured, has pa
pa come, and brought birdie’s red
shoes?”
“Oh, baby, baby !” the poor moth
er sobbed, “he’ll never come back to
us again.”
“Yies, he will, mama,” she replied,
putting out her little hand, and stro
king her mother’s cheek; “he said
he’d come, and bring birdie’s red
shoes.”
And with a sigh of content, she
turned over again and closed her
eyes. Papa had never broken faith
with her, and her little heart trusted
him entirely. Jennie rose to her
feet, and, going into her bed-cham
ber, put on her shawl and hood.
“I’m going, doctor,” she • said, as
she came out ; “there’ll be trains
running down ?”
“Yes. But, child, you don’t
know ”
“Yes, I do know—’tis a terrible
sight; but Tom’sjthere, and whether
he’s dead or alive, I must be with
him. Don’t oppose me—I shall die
if I don’t go. Stay here till I re
turn, and attend to the baby and
Margie.”
The- sun was sloping down toward
the west, flooding all the tawny au
tumn woods, and the far-extending
prarie-lands with golden splendor,
when Jennie Bathburn came in sight
of her cottage on her return. A
tiresome journey, hours of sickening
horror, and nothing accomplished.
She had telegraphed to the city, and
ascertained, to a certainty, that Tom
was on the doomed train; but amid
the living or dead he could not be
found- There were a few bodies so
terribly mutilated that they could
not be identified ; and she had come
to the conclusion that one of them
must be her husband. It was a ter
rible thought, but she had to bear
it, and turn her back upon them, and
go home to her child as night came
on. Standing in sight cf her cot
tage, she seemed, for the first time,
fully to realize what she had lost.’
Home, and no husband! Never un
til that moment did she know how
much she had loved him. Should
she never look upon his face again
—never atone to him for all the sor
row she had caused him ? She look
ed up toward the blue, bending sky,
with a yearning at her heart that
must have called his soul back, if it
were possible for those who have
passed the bounds of time to make
themselves manifest to their earthly
companions. Just then the cottage
door opened, and a little figure gli
ded but, and came toward her with
a wavering, doubtful step.
“Mamma,” it called, when just
within hearing, ‘^papa’s done come,
and brought birdie the red shoes.”
Jennie caught a glimpse of them,
and dropped down where she stood
without a word or a cry.
“I’ve killed her,” Tom said, as he
bore her into the cottage. “-What a
fool I was !”
“No, you ain’t” retorted Miss Pa
melia. “Lay her down here, she’ll
soon come to—wimmen ain’t killed
easy—they’re as tough as cats.”
Half an hour later, when Jennie
Bathburn awoke, as from a terrible
dream, she looked out upon a cozy
room, and tempting supper-table;
little birdie sitting before the stove,
conscious of nothing but her . red
shoes., and her husbandbendingdteer
th# bed, his brown eyes fnll-of anx
ious love.
“Tom,” she said, softly, putting
her arms round his neck. “Oh, Tom!
can you ever forgive me, and love
me again ?”
And foolish Tom began to cry,
like the simple boy he was, and to
pet and caress her in an awkward
manner, so happy that his reason
seemed to have left him.
“Hush, Jennie!” he whispered,
not knowing what else to say, “we’re
going to be so happy now. I’ve got
a splendid place in town, and yon
shall have every thing you want here
after.”
“I shall never want anything
again, Tom,” she replied, still hold
ing him in her close embrace, “but
you and baby. I’ve bad my life-
lesson—I’m fit to be a poor man’s
wife now.”
“An’ it’s me as deserves the cred
it, if you are,” snapped Miss Pame
lia, as she went out to look after
Margie.
“Booful.'’
A gentleman went to see a poor
family pinched by poverty. He
sent them wood and food, and, what
was as good, he showed them his
pleasant face.
“This is booful! this is booful ?”
cried the little boy, warming his
cold hands by the stove, which for
many a day had been as cold as all
out doors.
“Are you a man’s corned from
God?” asked the child, looking up
to the gentleman.
•“Yes,” said he; “God sent me.”
“And when you go back, tell him
I’s glad—I’s so glad. Tell him,
thank him ever so many times.”
The child stood some time with as
shining a face as you ever saw.
“Now I’s warm, I think of Pete
and Lizzie. Maybe I’s take them
some of my wood God guv us 1 ”
“Maybe not,” cried his father
gruffly.
“Daddy,” said the child, strug
gling to tell his feelings, “Daddy,
God give, I give. God good; I be
like him. So!”
The child had been a few times
to a mission Sunday School, and
there a few little seeds of divine
truth dropped into his heart. Noth
ing, it would seem, favored their
growth; yet they sprang up, and the
first chance he had showed the
grateful and sympathizing spirit of
God’s little ones.
The gentleman hunted up Pete
and Lizzie, and they, too, had a
basket of wood.
I wonder if we, according to our
light, are up to this little child ?—
Child's Paper.
A Wild Flower.—A bold French
man, while hunting in the Alps for
the mountain goat, fell over a preci
pice upon a ledge, back of which
was a cave. How to get away he
knew not. A day and a night pass
ed, and he was stiff a prisoner, ex
pecting to be starved to death. But
just as his heart began to fail, he
saw a tiny tuft- of the blue fringed
gentian.
That little flower saved his life!
How ? He knew that the wind must
have home the seed from a distance
and God’s sun and rain must have
made it grow. This thought made
his heart swell, and he said: “God
has cared for that little wild flower,
which grows where no one can see
it but himself. Shall he not care for
me also ?”
Filled with this thought, he grew
happy, and began singing a song.
His voice was heard by some shep
herds on the mountain top.
They shouted. He answered.
Guided by his voice, they lowered
ropes down to his prison house, and
drew him up. And thus, you see,
his life was saved by the little blue
fringed gentian—one of the slender
wild flowers which you may find in
the wood.—Exchange.
The Chicago post /prints this:
The boy who forged his mother’s
name to a shingle with a piece of
chalk, and bought five cents worth
of canday with the bogus order, now
languishes and slumbers on all fours
at night. His mother got possession
of the shingle.
Washington, June 17.—The total
amount of back pay returned to the
United States Treasury is $192,-
021 84, and the number of Senators
and Representatives who declined
to receive it is 46.
Begging for Work. '
“Can ypu give me any work, sir?”
said a travel worn lad one day to a
Cincinnati merchant.
“Got all the help I want,” was the
short but kindly spoken reply of the
busy, merchant.
“It’s hard,” rejoined the lad, “that
a fellow who is willing to work can’t
get a job. I’ve heen all «over this
city, and into all the .stores, and no
body wants help.”
“Why did you come to Cincin
nati ?”quered the merchant, looking
askance at the desponding lad.
“Because I want to earn enough
to help my widowed mother and
sister, who liye in . Illinois. They
depend on me mainly for their sup
port.”
This reply, with the peculiar man-,
ner of the lad, somewhat moved the
merchant s feelings, and he asked:
“What are you willing to do?”'
“Anything, sir. Anything in the
world that I can do.”
“Well, go and take hold with the
men,’ replied the .merchant, point
ing to the hoistway, up which bags
of coffee, barrels of rice, and other
heavy packages were ascending.
Without hesitation, the lad pull
ed off ki^ jacket and began pulling
lustily at the rope. Clearfy, he
meant to do the best he could. To
wards nigfrfc the merchant said to the
foreman:
“How is that strange lad. work
ing?”
“Like a beaver, sir. He is killing
himself,” responded the man.
When work was over the mer
chant offered the work worn lad a
dollar. He pushed it back, saying:
“No, sir. I’ve not earned a dol
lar. Give me half a dollafi^. It’s
all I’ve earned, and will buy me a*
supper and a lodging.” • * .
This was uncommon honesty. It
pleased the merchant. He bade the
lad come again in the morning.. He
did so. During the day in the ab
sence of the forema^Mie wrote down
the weight of several ^Jckages^as
they were weighed off. “ fife figures
were so beautifully formed that the
merchant noticed them, and. inquir
ed who wrote them. Finding them
to be the work of the stranger, he
called him into his office, and bade
him write a line as a specimen of
his hand writing. The writing was
so be^utiffll that the merchant read
ily admitted him not only to his em
ploy, but into his confidence and af
fectionate regard. So that this poor
boy became successively, his ser
vant, carrier, clerk, book-keeper,
partner and heir.
A Pest Prescription.—The Lon
don Floricultural Cabinet promul
gates a remedy for the green fly,'
mealy bug, thrip,. and kindred in
sects, which infest house and green
house plants. The editor states that
from experience he knows it to bo
effectual:
Dissolve half an ounce of bitter
aloes in a gallon of water. With
this wash syringe your plants so as
to wet them under as well as over
the leaves. If the enemy be there,
he will be destroyed; if he be not
there, he will not come. Whether
it be the nauseous bitter on the sur
face, or the smell, or both, we know
not; but so far as it has been tried,,
infected plants may be put all round
one so treated, and there will be no
sign of thrips, bugs, or aphides, even,
if the others be covered. It is the
only thing that destroyed the thrip
for us; and we believe that, while
the bitter remains on the surface,
nothing living will touch it. We
feel great confidence that even snails
and slugs will not meddle with it;
and all we can say about its effects
on caterpillars is that they have
not yet attacked a plant so pre
pared, and that they have commit--
ted depredations on plants very
close.
Reorganizing his Wife.—“I nev
er attempted to reorganize my wife
but once,” confessed Artemus Ward.
“I shall never attempt to do it again.
I’d been to a public dinner, and had.
allowed myself to be betrayed into
drinkin’ several people’s health; and
wishing to make ’em as robust as
possible, I continued drinkin’ their
health until my own was affected.:—
Consekence I presented myself to
Betsy’s bedchamber late at night
with considerable liquor concealed
about my person. I had somehow
got possession of a hoss-whip on
my way home, and rememberjjff-
some cranky observation of Mrs.
Ward’s in the momin’, I snapped'
the whip putty lively and in a vejj
loud voice I said: “Betsy, you need
reorganizin’;” I continued, crackin’
the whip over the bed, ‘I have come
to reorganize you.’ I dreamed that
nite somebody had laid a hoss-whip ,
across me several times—and when
I woke up I found she had. I haint
drank much of anything since, and
if I ever have another reorganizing
job ojj hand, I shall let it out.”
When we read we fancy'we could
be martyrs, when we come to act
we can not bear a- provoking word
—Hannah Moore.
