Newspaper Page Text
VOL. II.
SANDERSVTLLE; GEORGIA, JULY 25, 1873.
NO.
POETRY.
The Golden Ladder.
BY MARIE P. BUTLER.
j. II. G. MEDLOCK. JETHRO ABUSE. B, L. RODGERS.
By Be cl lock. Arline & Rodgers.
The Herald is published in Sandersville,
Ga., every Friday morning. Subscription
price TWO DOLLARS per annum.
Advertisements inserted at the usual rates.
No charge for publishing marriages or
deaths.
The children watched the sun go down,
And in its gleaming changes,
The west seemed first a sea of fire,
Then golden mountain ranges.
And Fannie asked, “What are the clouds?”
They look like hills of glory.”
“The steps of heaven,” Frank replied,
•‘It is a sweet, old story :
“A guardian angel, every day,
To each of us is given;
And everything we do or say,
They carry up to Heaven.”
“When we do wrong they write with tears ;
When good, their hearts are gladder ;
And every night they climb to Heaven,
Up o’er that golden ladder.
“And then the gates of pearl swing back
Upon their gleaming hinges,
And all the sky seems melted gold,
With red and purple fingers.
“But when the doors are closed again,
The guardian angels gather
In solemn silence, with their books,
Around our Heavenly Father.
“And then I close my eyes and think
How, in that sinless dwelling,
Will sound the story of the life
My angel must be telling.
“Some days I know, my angel takes
The record of my sinning ;
But then I always try to make
The next a new beginning.
“So, when at night our Father calls,
My angel may be gladder,
And be the first to climb to Heaven,
Up o’er the golden ladder.”
SELECT MISCELLAOT.
MAUD’S CHOICE.
BY E. A. LORD.
The low weird strains of a waltz
pulsed through the gaily-peopled
rooms to the green nest of a conserv
atory, where Maud Dalton stood un
der the fragrance of orange-blossoms
and tube-roses, the strains mingling
softly with the tones of Malcolm
Mortimore’s voice as he bent to
wards her, saying something that
made the blood surge up to her
temples in great scarlet tides.
She was a beautiful girl, tall, wil
lowy, graceful, with coils of purpl
ish-black hair, and great luminous
eyes that thrilled one through and
through; and as she stood, slightly
inclined towards him, her nervous
fingers scattering the scarlet blos
soms she held all over the amber
satin of her dress, the man’s love
found expression in one passionate
torrent of words:
“I love you,” he said, “better than
life ; with all my heart, my strength,
my soul! I have wealth and posi
tion, but so have yon, and with these
I cannot tempt you; but my love
alone must win you, peerless and
queenly Maud. ConJe to me, my
passion-flower, my wife!”
He was flushed and eager, but she
stepped back, folding her white arm
over her throbbing heart.
“Let me think. Remember, it is
for life, Mr. Mortimer!”
“It is for ever! Come to me for
life—for eternity?”
“I am not sure I love you,” she
went on to say. “I have known yoA
such a little while. I must be sure
that I can honor and trust the £an
I give myself up to, and Maud Dal
ton will take no second place in any
man’s heart. Look at me, Malcolm
Mortimer, and tell me whether or
not you are offering me a heart pure
in its first love.”
He raised his thrilling passionate
eyes to hers, and lifting one of her
velvety hands to his lips, held it
softly there while he murmured over
it:
“Beautiful Maud, my first love,
never before has Mortimer's heart
stirred or throbbed at any woman’s
voice! Hove you alone, now and
forever!”
“Give until to-morrow, then, to
decide.”
A moment more, and they had
joined dancers out in the glare of
lights and crashing of music.
He handed her to her carriage
that night, fastening her wraps about
her with a lover’s tenderness, hold
ing her jewelled fingers even after
the coachman had been given the
word to start, saying to her, in plead
ing tones:
“Be merciful to me, sweet Maud.
I shall not sleep till I have heard
your decision—and then it wiH be
happiness or misery for life!”
And then something, a form shiv
ering in the bitter night, came out
of the fold of shadows, and the hors
es shied madly ere the driver could
hold them in.
As it was, the angry, half-sleepy
coachman struck at the shivering
heap with the long stinging lash,
and it cut through the thin tatters.
But the creature never gave a
moan or cry, though the whip cut
her cruelly.
“Take that for frightening decent
folks this time of night!” he mutter
ed, driving on, while Maud, uncon
scious of it all, looked out at the
dark night with troubled eyes.
Malcolm Mortimer turned towards
the woman, saying, sternly:
“Who are you? Such creatures
as you should be under lock and
key. You came near frightening the
horses into running away. If you
had, and a hair of Maud Dalton’s
head come to harm, I would have
killed you! Be off with you!”
And he touched her with his pol
ished boot ere he turned back to the
music and mirth, not yet over.
When he had gone the woman
flung out her wan, white hand and
raised her heavy eyes towards the
stormy sky with such a look of dumb
anguish that the very angels must
have pitied it.
And then she fell prostrated on
the hard, cold earth, her thin, hollow
cheek against it, the wild, stormy
winds lifting the tattered shawl from
the poor pinched body, never moan
ing, never a cry, with only Heaven
to see the poor broken heart, and
the tears falling upon it slowly, until
the end should come.
By and by she gathered herself
up painfully, murmuring, in broken
tones:
“Maud Dalton—he called her that.
I must find her, and then my journey
is done.”
And then she moved away in the
■msinal night, and the darkness closed
over her.
A white mantle of snow lay over
the earth, the air was full of whirling
flakes. Maud reclining in an easy-
cliair before the glowing grate,
watched it idly. Her maid broke in
upon her reverie.
“Some flowers for you, Miss Dal
ton.”
Maud lifted the cluster of frag
rant blossoms, and saw in the heart
of them a tiny note. A moment and
she had read it, while a pleased smile
broke through the shadows on her
face.
“Please take my flowers, poor as
they are, as a slight gift. Heaven
bless you, my friend and dear play
mate of my childhood.
Habey.”
Maud laid her face down in the
fragrant bloom.
“Dear, true fellow,” she murmur
ed, “he never forgets me; true as
steel, tender as a woman!” and then
she fell to thinking again, forgetting
the time as it slipped away, aroused
at length only by hearing Harry
Derwent’s voice without, asking if
he might come in to her.
She sprang up, pleased and smil
ing, opening the door with her own
quick hands, welcoming him with
bright sparkling eyes, as he stood on
the threshold, the snow clinging to
his brown curly locks, bis face aglow
from the keen north wind, but with
such a tender light in his soul-lit eyes.
“Thank you for holding my little
gift of flowers, dear friend; if I were
rich you should have had something
better than that, but I’m only Har
ry Derwent, a miserably poor fellow,
who laughs at poverty even when its
grip is upon him.”
“Nonsense! You know I don’t
care a fig for what people say, and
you do know I care a great deal for
you, but I' shan’t praise you, you
great giant—so there !”
And then they laughed together,
and he sat down opposite h£, say
ing a moment after.
“Tell me what your trouble is. I
see the shadow all over your face?”
“Am I a book that you read me
so well, Sir Harry ? It ought not to
be a trouble, but somehow I am un-
happy over it. You will laugh at
me when I tell you it is that I am
trying to decide whether to say yes
or no to a question asked.”
“And the question ?”
“Whether I shall be Malcolm
Mortimer’s wife.”
The red glow went out of Harry
Derwent’s face. He arose and went
over to the window, looking out at
the blinding drifts, feeling only the
snow falling on his own heart, flake
after flake, chilling him like death.
“Do you ioxe the man ?” he said
at length.
“Love him? I am not certain.
At times I have thought I did, and
yet I could not promise myself to
him when he pleaded with *all his
soul. I wish some one would tell
me what irue love is like,” she add
ed, with a little uncertain laugh.
He turned his ashen face towards
her. *
“Shall I tell you what true love is?
It is to feel every throb of y.our
heart beat out the one name; to
have the touch of one hand thrill
your whole being as the song of an
angel might. It is to have this dull
earth turned into a bright golden
heaven. To feel that the hardest
battle could be fought, fate con
quered, death borne without a mur
mur, if through it all the clasp of
one hand was on yours until the
glory of the other world should flash
upon your earth-closed eyes. To
feel that eternity, with its pulseless
hush, could never, never divide the
hearts that were one on this earih.
That is love, stronger than death—
stronger than the grave!”
She turned her agitated face to
wards him, the eyes full of misty
tears, her fingers working nervously
together.
“But I do not feel like that—yon
have frightened me. I am shivering
from head to foot. Harry, Harry,
have you loved like that ?” He smil
ed bitterly.
“Yes I Have been foolish—I have
loved you like that—you, Maud
Dalton. I, a poor young lawyer,
without practice, have dared to love
the Hon. Steele Dalton’s only child.
I do not wonder yon cower down and
shrink away from me. I have been
mad. Why, it would take all the
money I have to buy you a ring like
the one Malcolm Mortimer will put
on your finger. But if I were rich, if
I had wealth and position to back
me, there should not be on all this
great earth a Malcolm Mortimer that
could take you from me!”
Maud sprang to her feet, the blood
surged to her brow and cheeks, her
eyes glittered like diamonds through
the tear-laden lashes, but the voice
was clear and sweet that answered
him.
“Rich or poor, there is not a Mal
colm Mortimer that can do it now.
My lesson is learned. I love you,
Harry Derwent. It is that which
has kept me from promising my
hand to another, but never until now
did I know my own heart.”
A great sob choked him, a white
ness, like death, settled about his
lips.
“Maud,” he cried, “I dare not be
lieve it; this happiness is too great!”
Then she came over to his side
and laid her head against his heart,
and he folded his arms about her,
his kisses falling on her tender face,
and then he laid his face down on
her clustering hair, and she felt his
lips move and knew in her heart he
was thanking Heaven.
After a little while he turned her
face where he could look into it, ask
ing with troubled voice, the question
that had lain with dread forebodings
on his heart.
“What will your father say to this,
dearest, when I tell him of our love ?”
“Papa loves me, Harry, and once
I heard him say he wished he had
been given a son with a head and a
heart like Harry Derwent. We will
go to him, ask his consent, and if he
refuses, then we will brave poverty
together. Do not fear that anything
shall separate us, Harry.”
Then he gave her a smile, bright
and tender as her own, holding her
to his side, calling her by every en
dearing name that a lover could in
vent. And time went by golden
winged, and they had floated out of
this dull, commonplace world into a
sea of amber glory, forgetting the
past, with its trials and cares, the
ruture shining out to them like a path
of roses.
Do you smile, you who have for
gotten the romance of early youth?
To me it is beautiful, this great love
that makes me forget the past, and
swallow up the future. But how
few, oh, how few of us ever feel it!
Maud’s maid broke upon their
silent happiness and brought them
back to the real again.
“There is a woman below,”’'she
said; “a ragged caeature, crazy, I
believe, who is bent on seeing Miss
Dalton. Shall I turn her out ?”
“Turn her out in such a storm ?
Are you heartless, Jennie ?”
“No, ma’am, not that quite, but
sbe isn’t a lady. And I told her you
were engaged, and could not see her;
and she just turned such a wild look
upon me that it made my blood
freeze, and told me if you sent such
words’as these from your own lips
she would not take them, but would
deliver her message. She made me
angry.”
“Send her up here, Jennie.”
The girl withdrew, and ere long re
turned, and ushered in the stranger.
Maud turned round and saw the tall,
stooping figure of a yaung woman,
with the traces of rarest beauty linger
ing on the thin w’hite face. Great
blue-black eyes, coil upon coil of
golden brown hair, lying in tangled
masses about her face, touching the
throat, losing itself here and there in
the tatters of her shawl. Behind
her blue, white lips teeth glittered
white and even as pearls.
“You wish to see me,” Maud asked.
“Sit down, you look worn and tired.”
“I have come a long journey, day
and night I have travelled; how
long I know not, but my journey
will end to-day. Will you send that
gentleman away for a little while ? I
have something to say to you?”
She spoke in husky whispers, her
breath coming brokenly from between
her lips.
Harry arose to leave the room,
but lingered reluctantly.
Maud seemed to read his thoughts,
and answered them instantly.
“Go, Harry,” whispered. “Stay
in the next room, where I can call
you if .needed "and tfcen when he
had withdrawn she turned to the
woman, sitting so still and awfully
white before her.
“Do you know I was once just
as beautiful, ju3t as happy and pure
as youjare*to-day ? I had the same
gladness in my eyes, for I loved as
yon love, and I thought I was a
heaven blessed-wife. My babe was
born, and after that the surse came
upon me. I must tell my story quick
or not at all. The man who won me,
whom I had called husband for
year, the father of my boy* cast me
off. My marriage was a mockery.
I was no wife. He laughingly threw
the maddening truth in my face, and
left me to starve or die, I and my
young babe. I followed him from
Italy here, only Heaven knows how
I have come. I cannot remember
all, but my boy starved cm my breast.
I wrapped liis little cloat about him,
and one night I stole into a - little
country grave-yard, andlaid him un
der the shadow of a white cross,-and
the moon shone upon his little u
turned face like. the smile of angel
“Last night, I came to a house all
ablazq with lights. Tie sound of
music came out to me. I knelt down
and looked through the window at
the dazzling sapper awaiting the
dancers. Oh! I went almost mad,
for I was starving out there in the
bitter, bitter blackness.
“After a while I saw the company
come down. He was 'with them,
bright, fascinating, the did smile on
his lips, and I watched outside, with
my brain on fire. I lingered late.
It was I who frightened your horses
when I strove to see your face, and
he spurned me with his foot when
you had gone.
‘That man was Malcolm Mortimer;
the father of my dead babe! I heard
his words to you last night. I have
come through the storm, with death
at my heart, to save you from him.
He may love yon now^-he will make
you his wife, for you arfe rich and
great, but he will be noue the less
false to you when a few years have
gone by. Do you know what it is
to be hungry—oh, so hungry?”
Her head fell forward upon her
breast, and then she slipped from
the chair down, limp and lifeless on
the soft, rich carpet.
Maud gave one quick cry to Har
ry, which brought him instantly, and
then she knelt down and took the
weary head in her arms.
“Bring me wine, quick! I fear she
is dead even now,” and Harry sprang
away to obey the order, returning
almost instantly; and together they
tried to pour the drops between
those tight-clenched teeth.
By and by the lids of her great,
sorrowful eyes trembled ; she moved
wearily, and shivered.
“It is bold! Mother—mother!”
A tear fell from Maud’s eye down
on the dying face; she looked up,
startled.
“I thought I was a child—that my
mother held me! I want to pray,
the old prayer I used to say at her
knee, but I cannot remember—my
memory is breaking up)—it goes from
me- -I Cannot think!”
“It will soon be over,” Harry
said, in a solemn, awed voice.
Jennie opening the door stood
aghast, remembering to say at last
that Mr. Mortimer was waiting in
the parlor.
“Show him up here,” Maud an
swered, and though the girl wonder
ed, she dared not question. Harry
glanced up at Maud, but the look on
her face silencedhim.
Malcolm Mortimer sprang up the
stairs, opened the door smilingly,
gay words on his lipje^but stopped
instantly, -frightened at the sight
that met his eyes. He conld not
see the woman’s face as she lay in
Maud’s arms, but something in the
coils of tangled brown hair falling
wildly about, sent the blood out of
his face.
“Come here,Mr. Mortimer,” Maud
said, and he obeyed her silently.
As he did so, the girl opened her
eyes, glazed with the awful change
that comes but once over all, and
wildly threw out her hands.
“Malcolm, I’m—dying. Oh, I
have—been—so—hungry. Our—
babe—starved!”
They saw him shiver slightly, the
bearded chin quivered; then lie
turned towards the door, but Harry
Derwent faced him.
“Stay till the end!” he said, in a
voice that Malcolm Mortimer dared
not resent.
“It’s cold! Malcolm, Malcolm,
you broke my heart!” And' with
the words, the sorrow-laden spirit
fled.
Harry Derwent lifted her to his
arms and laid her down on the vel
vet lounge—coverineg her face and
folding the hands reverently.
Maud turned to Malcolm Morti
mer. *
“Go!” she said, “rad let it be for
ever, I know that poor woman’s
story, and you are her murderer!
Leave me!” * .
“Let me speak,” he cried out.
“Who among us is without®sin? I
have sinned, bat I have as bitterly
atoned. Show me mercy, as you
may one day expject it!”
“Man—fiend—I loathe you! Go,
and if ever you cross my path again,
I will make the story public 1”
“I cannot go,” ne cried. “My
heart and soul cry out against this
parting; it will be more than death.
Your pity and love will be my salva
tion ; without it I am lost.”
‘And do yon think I could lay my
hand in yours,content to walk through
life beside yon? No! a thousand
times no! I have made my choice.
My future husband stands beside
me, and he has all the sweet trnst
and love of my womanhood. Go!
And let ns never meet again. I pity
■on; for I know how, in many a dark
lour of your life, the white face of
her you have ruined will come up
before you, haunting you with its
dumb anguish. Farewell! and again
I say let it be forever!”
He turned away, a hard defeated
look over his features, and wentfrom
her presence, and she never saw him
again.
'Maud left the ill-starred woman
in the care of the old nurse who had
cared for her in her childhood, and
then she took Harry’s arm, and went
down to the library. Her father, a
haughty, gray-haired man sat in his
cushioned chair, reading. He glanc
ed up, smiling, as they came towards
him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Der
went?”
“I love your daughter, sir. Don’t
think me mad. Only promise*that
some day she shall be mine, when I
have won for myself a name and
wealth.”
‘Are you crazy, sir?”
‘Not as bad as that, yet I know I
have not wealth to plead for me,
sir: but your daughter loves me.”
‘And what have you to offer her,
sir, for that love!”
“A true heart and clean hands, a
spirit and a will that must carve
for itself a name. Heaven helping
me!”
‘Yery fine talk that, but you must
remember that my Maud has been
brought up to expect all the luxu
ries of this life.”
And then Maud said, in her soft,
low tone:
“Please, papa, Harry’s love is more
to me than all the luxuries of this
life. Do give your consent, please;
for I love him, and some day I shall
marry him, papa.”
‘You will, whether I give my con
sent or not, eh ? Is that what you
mean ?”
I am very sorry to have to say it,
papa; but I have your spirit and
will, and I shall many him when he
is ready.”
“But let me telLyou I have chos
en a husband already for you, a man
of wealth and position equal to your
own. Malcolm Mortimer is my
choice.”
“Listen, papa,” Maud said. “I
have a story to tell you.”
And she told him the story of the
dead girl upstairs.
Something for Married Folks.
The first year of married life is a
most important era in the history
of man and wife. Generally, as it
is spent, so is almost all subsequent
existence. The wife and the hus
band then assimilate their views and
their desires, or else, conjuring up
their dislikes, they add fuel to their
prejudices and animosities forever
afterward. “I have somewhere
read,” says Rev. Mr. Wise, in his
Bridal Greeting, “of a bridegroom
who gloried in his eccentricities.
He requested his bride to accompa
ny him to the garden a day or two
after tjje wedding. He then threw
a line over the roof of their cottage.
Giving his wife one end of it, he
retreated to the other side and ex
claimed :
“Pull the line.”
She palled it, at his request, as
far as she could. He cried :
“Pull it over.”
“I can’t,” she replied.
“But pull with all your might,”
shouted the whimsical husband.
But vain were all the efforts of the
bride to pull the line so long as her
husband held on to the opposite
end. But when he came around,
and they both pulled at one end, it
came over with great ease.
“There,” said he, as the line fell
from the roof, “yon see how hard
and ineffectual was our labor when
we both pulled in opposition to each
other; but how easy and pleasant it
was when we both pulled together.
It will be so with us 'through life,
my dear. If we oppose each other
it will be hard work. If we act to
gether it will be always pleasant
to live. Let us always pull to
gether.”
In this illustration, homely as it
may be, there is sound philosophy.
Husband and wife must mutually
bear and concede if they wish to
make home a retreat of bliss.
One alone cannot make home
happy. There must be unison of
action, sweetness of spirit, and great
forbearance and love in both hus
band and wife, to secure the great
end of happiness in the domestic
circle.
When she had finished, he sprang
to his feet.
“The scoundrel!” he cried. “Greaf
heavens! and I would have given
him my child! A true heart and
clean hands! Blpss yon, my boy!
yon have offered her something bet
ter than wealth and position. Take
her, with my blessing. Only re
member, that I do not agree to part
with her. I am a lonely man, and
she is motherless; let this be your
home.”
And then he hurried oat and left
them with their great happiness.
“My own darling!” Harry cried.
“Thank Heaven, you are mine, to
guard and protect ever in this life;
and, as I deal with you, so may Heav
en deal with me!”
Harry did not wait long for his
bride; and though people wondered,
at first, that she should have mar
ried so poor a man, it did not mar
the happiness and sweet trust of her
heart. And to-day she is a Heaven-
blessed wife, and he has risen to
fame and wealth; but his heart is as
trae and his hands as clean as in the
days that are gone!
Wife, Mistbess and Lady.—Who
marries for love takes a wife; who
marries for fortune takes a mistress;
who marries for position takes a la
dy. You are loved by your wife, re
garded by your mistress, tolerated
by your lady. You have a wife for
yourself, a mistress for your house
and friends, a lady for the world and
society. Your wife will agree with
wife will take 'care of your
hold, your mistress of your house,
your lady of appearances. H you
are sick your wife will nurse you,
J our mistress will visit you, your
ady will inquire after your health.
You take a walk with your wife, a
ride with your mistress, and go to a
party with your lady. Your wife
will share your griefs, your mistress
your money, your lady your debts.
H you die, your wife will weep, your
mistress will lament, and your lady
wear mourning. * ’ ~
have?
Which will you
Mrs. Partington saysthe only wqjt-
to prevent steam explosions, is to
make the engineers ‘“bile their wa
ter” ashore. In her opinion, all the
bustin is caused by “cooking the
ste&m” on board.” ; . :
Saying “Hateful” Things.
What a strange disposition is that
which leads people to say “hateful”
things for the mere pleasure of say
ing them. You are never safe with
such a person. When you have done
your very best to please, rad are
feeling kindly and pleasantly, out will
pop some bitter speech, some under
hand stab, which you alone compre
hend—a sneer which is masked, but
which is too well aimed to be mis
understood. It may be at your per
son, your mental failing, your foolish
h abits of thought, or some little secret
of faith or opinion, confessed in a
moment of genuine confidence. It
matters not now sacred it may be to
you, be will have his fling at it; nay,
since the wish is to make you suffer,
he is ah, the happier the nearer he
touches your heart. Jnst half a dozen
words, only for the pleasure of see
ing a cheek flush and an eye lose its
brightness, only spoken because he
is afraid you are too happy or too
conceited. Yet they are worse than
so many blows. How many sleep
less nights have such attacks caused.
How, after them, one awakes with
aching eyes and head, to remember
that speech before everything else—
that bright, sharp, wellaimed needle
of a speech that probed the very
center of your soul. There is only
one comfort to be taken. The re
petition of such attacks soon weans
your heart from the attacker; and
this once done, nothing that he can
say will ever pain yon more.—Mes
senger.
The Caterpillars in Alabama.—
The Montgomery Advertiser of Sun
day says :
We saw sevrat cotton stalks vester*
day with worms enough on them to
satisfy the skeptical that this dread
ful foe of the cotton planter is put
ting in his appearance. The stalks
can be seen moor office. The worms
are said to be of the second crop
and do not damage to any great ex
tent. These fellows, however, were
hard at work yesterday, and conld
eat up a cotton leaf in short order.
The next crop is now greatly dread
ed, and if it should appear in regular
force about the 10th or 20th of August,
the crop will be cut short to an im
measurable extent.
About PiCKLES.-An exchange says:
To keep them from becoming soft
use alum. To a gallon of vinegar,
add one ounce of powdered alnm.—
If the vinegar is put in bottles, tight
ly corked and set in a kettle of cold'
water, with hay or straw between
them to keep the bottles from knock
ing together, and allowed to remain
over the fire until the water boils,
then removed and kept in & kettle
frill nearly cool, the vinegar will kqep
perfectly clear when used for pickles,
bat it should be added to them cold.
Shreds of horse radish-root will pre
vent pickles from moulding.
A little “drpp” now and (hen
Makes fools of wisest man.
Naked Arms and Sore Throat.
Editors Herald: During the late
splendid examination of the San-
dersrille Academy, a gentleman call
ed my attention to the mischievous
cruelty that some mothers practive
on their girl children, by making
them go with naked arms. He
urged me to write an article for the
Herald about it. While we were
talking of this, two little girls, ap
parently sisters, stepped into the
Court-room. We called one of the
children to us and felt of its arms.
Hot as the day was, the little crea
ture’s arms were strangely cold. In
stead of writing anything myself, I
send'the enclosed slip, ent from an
Illinois paper. Oh! that every read
er of the Herald would memorize
this piece :
“The following wise words are
taken from Lewis’ ‘New Gymnas
tics.’ ” Let every mother read the
truth, and then see whether the
dresses of her little ones correspond.
A distinguished physician, who died
some years ago m Paris, declared:
“I believe that during the twenty-'
six years I have practiced my pro
fession in this city, twenty thousand
children have been carried to the
cemeteries, a sacrifice to the ab
surd eastern of exposing their naked
arms.”
I have often thought, if a mother
were anxious to show the soft, white ’
skin of her baby, and would cut cut
a hole in the little thing’s dress, jost
over the .heart, and then carry it
about for observation by the compa
ny, it would do very little “harm.
But to expose the baby’s arms, mem
bers so far removed from the heart,
and with such feeble circulation at
best, is a most pernicious practice.
Put the bulb of a thermometer in a
baby’s mouth; the mercury rises to
99 degrees. Now carry the same
bulb to its little hand; the mercury
will sink 40 degrees. Of course, all
the blood which flows through these
arms and hands must fall from ten
to forty degrees below the tempera
ture of the heart. Need I say that
when these cold currents of blood
flow back into the chest, the child’s
general vitality must be more or less
compromised ? And need I add that
we ought not to be surprised at its
frequently recurring affections of the
longs, throat and stomach ? I have
seen more than one child with habit
ual cough and hoarseness, or choking
with mucous entirely and perma
nently relieved by simply keeping
its hands and arms warm. Every
observing and progressing physician
has daily opportunities to witness
the same simple cure.
After the Event—A Fable.—A
swallow’s nest fell from the eaves of
a farm-house, and the barn-yard
poultry and the hedge-birds gather
ed about the mins, and went into
committee on them. “I knew it
was going to fall—I felt sure it must
the last time I went on the roof,”
chirped a sparrow.
“Stupid thing—building its nest
up there,” hissed a goose.
“I could have taught her how to
lay eggs without getting them smash
ed, if she had only come to me,”
quacked a dnek.
“And I conld have taught her
how to hatch them—I have had to
hatch yours, Neighbor Duck,” cluck
ed a hen.
“Gobble, gobble, gobble—if peo
ple choose to be fools, they most
take the consequences,” said a strut
ting turkey-cock, puffing out his
feathers.
“My friends, you are very kind to
take so much interest in my affairs,”
twittered the poor swallow; “but if
you were so sure that my house was
going to fall, isn’t it a pity that you
didn’t tell me so a little sooner?”—
Good Things. . _ _
Destroying Ants.—A French agri- •
culturist, after trying every method
known to him for the destruction of
ants infesting his fruit trees, succeed
ed in .effecting his purpose in the
plete manner by placing a mix-
i of arsenic and sweetened water
in a saucer at the foot of the trees.
For the larger species he made use
of honey instead of sugar, and in a
few days’ time he claims to have ex
terminated them completely.—South
ern Farmer.
An impulsive young countryman
sent his girl the piece of sheet music
entitled “I will meet you at the Beau
tiful Gate.” Her father saw the
piecee when she opened the package,
adB after daubing a bucketful of tar
over his gate, quietly remarked to
his daughter, “He can wait for you if
he wants to, but you. won’t either of
you swing on that gate if tar will
keep you off.”
To Remove Sunburn.—(Ellen G.
C.)—Put two spoonfulls of fresh
cream into half a pint of milk; squeeze
in the juice of a lemon, half a glass
of brandy, a little alum and loaf su
gar; boil the whole; skim well, and
when cool apply to the skin. It takes
off sunburn and freckles.—Exchange.
Marriage makes a man and wo
man one; bat the troupe is to tell
which of them is the one.
• ■ * .f,,ietsv :.a» aw ; ; o zil
com
ture
