Newspaper Page Text
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f <mtr* fLjjadmmt.
ENIGMA—No. 100.
I am composed of 16 letters :
My 1, 10, 9, is a vehicle.
Mv 3,7, 9,9, 5, is a Jewish Priest.
My 9, 13, 11, 4, is a Scottish poet.
My 2,6, 6,7, is a girl’s name.
My 15, 11, is a conjunction.
My 8, 13, C, 4, is a division of the
Earth.
My 14, 2,8, 8, is a round substance.
My whole is a great light of the Catho
lic Church. Crock O’Dile.
Answer next week.
DOUBLE ACROSTIC.
1. Nomde Plume of the author.
2. Modern discourser on the origin of
the Negro.
3. A tribe of Ancient Goths.
4. A girl’s name.
5. \V as used to soothe King David’s
melancholy. Paola.
Halcyondale, Ga., 1868.
Answer next week.
CHARADE.
lam a word of eight letters. Take off
my hat, and I am two words, and will
supply the blank in the following sen
tence, ‘‘Fort Sumter !” which ap
peared in the Southern papers alter the
surrender of said Fort. Take of my hat
and coat, and I am what should be done
to a fence to render it firm. Take off
my hat, coat and vest, and 1 am what a
good many Yankees were during the
war. Take off my hat„ coat, vest and
pants, and I am, with the insertion of
the letter “1,” the name of a city in
South Carolina. Take off my hat, coat,
vest, pants and boots, and I am the
Scotch for “know.” Take off my hat,
coat, vest, pants, boots and drawers, in
fact, strip me of everything except my
shirt, and I spell the fourteenth letter of
the English Alphabet. When fully
equipped, I express what we very often
are in worldly things. “Paola.”
Halcyondale , Ga , 1868.
Answers to Last Week’s Enigmas,
Etc. — To Enigma No. 98. —Saint Jo
seph’s Academy-Home—May—Pet-*Po
Hat—Mane—Dime—lce—Sin—Joe
Sad—Seine.
To Enigma No. 99.—The Land We
Love—Walton—Dove—Law—Hen—
One.
To Square Word. —
SHEA R S
II O R N E T
E RING O
ANN U A L
REGALE
STOLEN
[Prepared for the Banner of the South by Uncle Buddy.]
• FAMILIAR SCIENCE.
COMBUSTION CONTINUED.
Blazing wood burns more quickly
than red-hot coal, because the inflamma
ble gases of the fuel (which are then
escaping), greatly assist the process of
combustion. The coals of a clear, bright
fire burn more slowly than blazing coals,
because most of the inflammable gases,
and much of the solid fuel, have been
consumed already, so that there is less
food for combustion.
Smoke -is the unconsumed parts of
fuel, (principally carbon,) separated from
the solid mass, and carried up the chim
ney by currents of hot air. There is
more smoke when fresh fuel is added
than when the fuel is red-hot, because
carbon, being solid, requires a great de
gree of heat to make it unite with oxygen,
or, in other words, to bring it into a state
of combustion ; when fresh fuel is laid on,
more carbon is separated than can be re
duced to combustion, and the surplus
flies off in smoke. There is so little smoke
with a red-hot fire, because the entire sur
face of the fuel is in a state of combus
tion; and as very little carbon remains
unconsumed, there is but little smoke.
There are bright and dark spots in a
clear cinder fire, because the intensity of
the combustion is greater in some parts
of the fire than it is in others. The in
tensity of combustion is so unequal, be
cause the air flies to the fire in various
and unequal currents. We see all sorts
of grotesque figures in hot coals, because
the intensity of combustion is unequal,
owing to the unequal manner in which the
air flies to the fuel; and the various shades
of yellow, red, and white heat, mingling
with the black of the unburnt coal, pro
duces strange and fantastic figures.
Paper burns more readily than wood,
because it is of a more fragile texture,
and, therefore, its component parts are
most easily heated. \Y ood burns more
readily than coal, because it is nut so
solid, and, therefore, its elemental parts
are more easily separated and made hot.
When a coal fire is lighted, charcoal
is laid at the bottom against the grate,
because charcoal, in consequence of its
fragile texture, very readily catches fire.
Wood is laid on the top of paper, because
wood, being more substantial, burns longer
than paper, and, therefore, affords a longer
contact of flame to heat the coal. Paper
will not kindle afire as well as charcoal,
because paper burns out so rapidly that
it would not afford sufficient contact of
flame to heat the coal to combustion. A
log of solid wood will not kindle without
shavings, straw, or paper, because wood
is too substantial to be heated into com
bustion by the feeble flame issuing from
a match.
Paper would not do as well, if placed
|on top of the wood, because the blaze
i tends upward; if, therefore, the paper
j were placed on the top, its blaze would
afford no contact of flame to the fuel
lying below. Coal should be placed
above the wood, because, otherwise, the
flames of the fuel would not rise through
the coal to heat it. A fire is kindled at
the lowest bar of the grate, in order that
the flame may ascend through the fuel to
heat it. If the fire were kindled from the
top, the flame would not come iu contact
with the fuel placed below.
Cinders will become red hot more
quickly than coal, because they are
sooner reduced into a state of combustion,
as they are more porous and less solid.
Cinders are lighter than coal, because
they arc full of little holes, from which
vapor, gases, and other volatile parts
have been driven off by previous combus
tion. Wet kindling wood will not light
a tire, because : Ist. The moisture of the
wet kindling wood prevents the oxygen
of the air from getting to the fuel ; and,
2d. The heat of the fire is perpetually
drawn off by the conversion of the water
into steam. Dry wood burns better than
green, because : Ist. None of its heat is
carried away by the conversion of the
water into steam; and, 2d. The air, im
pinging against the pieces of wood, is
thrown upon the fire in a kind of eddy or
draught.
Wood or paper will not burn, if
steeped in a solution of potash, phosphate
of lime, or ammonia, (hartshorn,) because
any “alkali” (such as potash,) will arrest
the hydrogen which escapes from the
fuel, and prevent its combustion with the
oxygen of the air.
A jet of flame will sometimes push into
the room through the bars of a stove, be
cause the iron bars conduct heat to the
interior of the fuel, and the volatile gas
which escapes from it, is kindled by the
glowing coals over which it passes. This
jet is sometimes of a greenish-yellow
color, either because some lumps of coal
lie over the hot bars, or because the coal
Below is not red-hot; in consequence of
which some of the gas, which is of a
greenish color, escapes unburnt. This
gas escapes unburnt, because neither the
coal nor the bars over which it passes are
red hot. A bluish flame sometimes
flickers on the surface of hot cinders, be
cause the gas from the hot coal at the
bottom of the grate, mixing with the
carbon of the coal above, pioduces an
inflammable gas, called carbonic oxyde,
which burns with a blue liarne.
The light of a tire is more intense some
times than it is at others, because the
intensity of fire-light depends upon the
whiteness to which the carbon is reduced
by combustion. If carbgn be white hot,
its combustion is perfect, and the light
intense; if not, the light is obscured by
smoke. %
A FAIRY STORY.
Near the palace of King Latis was a
fairy ring; and every night came there
and danced the little-folk in green, and
kept up such a fiddling and serafnng, that
his majesty (who was nervous,) couldn’t
sleep a wink. So, one day, in a rage, he
ordered his servants to plough up trie
ring, and sow it with corn; and though
the Queen, and all the courtiers begged
him, on their knees, to forbear, King
Latis never rested till the last blade of
grass was turned up under the plow.
The fairies disappeared, and the King
could sleep at night; but when Theor was
born, he was such a frightful monster
that the nurses were afraid of him, and
his own mother hated him.
East, West, North, and South, the
King sent for magicians; but they all
shook their heads when they saw the
Prince, and returned the same answer:
“ The only magic that can cure him is
that of love; and lie must weave the spell
himself.”
So Theor grew to be a man, and he
couid hunt, ride, tight, and sing; he
knew the languages of every nation, and
that of birds; he could read the Heavens,
and talk with the winds; but ot what
use was it ail, when he had but one eye,
was lame, hump-backed, and red-haired l
Though Latis was a great King, not one
of his neighbors would give him a who
fur his son, because the fame of his ugli
ness had gone abroad; while toe people
of his own Kingdom and the courtiers
loudlv declared that such a monster
Mill! ©I fll
should never reign over them* And so
oue day, Theor; who had heard what
magicians had said, put on bis finger the
ruby ring that had been given his father
by Lilia, Queen of the fairies, and started
off to learn what this magic of love might
be.
At night he came to a cottage, where
he heard someone weeping bitterly, and
going in, lie saw a man lying dead on a
bed, and beside him bis daughter, one of
the loveliest maidens in the world, with
hair like sunbeams, and a blush like that
on a rose-leaf; but she was blind. Theor,
who had a tender heart, set himself to
comfort her. He sang all the songs of
Ura, his nurse, and told her tales out of
the books of the wise men; he went hunt
ing and brought her home game and
fruit; he led iier out in the sunlight, and
told her how the brook sparkled, and
the light filtered in on the cool, green
turf; and what the birds were saying.
And in this way months passed, and
I!da, for that was her name, came to love
him better than she had ever done her
father.
“ But I am a monster.” said Theor.
“You would hate me if you should see
me. My own mother cannot endure to
look at me.”
But Uda always answered, “No, I am j
sure I shall always love you.”
And time passed on, till Theor chanced ,
to remember the ring that he wore.
Now in tills thing it was peculiar ; who
ever wore it could wish for anything
for those whom they loved best.
“ I will not give her sight for she
would hate me,” thought Theor, but she
shall have a palace instead of this cottage.” j
So he turned the ring and wished, pud!
there sprang up a castle with marble •
towers, and the doors were of cedar, the j
walls of mirrors, the stair-caises of oak, I
and the hangings of cloth of gold. Gar-j
dens stretched out around it on every j
side, and music sounded in all its halls; j
but still Theor felt that she was unsatis
fied.
“*Bhe is lonely,” he thought. And he
wished again, and all the halls were filled J
with lovely giris, whose business it was j
to wait and sing to Ilda. But though j
she smiled, he still felt that she was not
completely happy.
“Os what use is it all since she can
not see the beauty ?” thought he. “ She ;
will hate me, but she shall see!” And |
wishing again her eyes were opened; |
and at all she saw she wondered, but!
especially at her own beauty, as she j
stood before a mirror, and saw there her!
golden curls and soft violet eyes.
Theor would have hidden himself, but
turning she spied him.
“ What is that frightful creature ? ”
she asked, “and, where is Theor ? ”
*' Tam lie,” answered Theor. “I told
you you would hate me.”
And he ran out of the castle into the
forest, and wished to die. But presently
he heard light footsteps coming after him.
“ Come back,” said Ilda, “for I love
you. Tlie castle is beautiful, but it
could never dry my tears and comfort me
as you have doue. The gardens are
lovely, but they can neither sing nor
talk like you. My maidens are as fair
as [, but their chatter is as unmeaning
as the wind sounding among the leaves.
Os what use, then, is this beauty of which
you think so much, if it can neither com
fort, protect, nor amuse me ? ”
So Theor went back to the castle, and
lying down on a sofa he fell fast asleep.
Then Ilda took the ring from his finger,
and placing it on her own, said, softly :
“I will that Theor become as fair as I.”
And at once lie started up one of the
handsomest Princes in the world.
Then sang all the birds, and the flow
ers in tlicqforcst: “ There is no magic
so mighty as that of loving looks and
hearts.”
HAVE I NO FATHER'?
I was once in an awful storm at sea;
wc were for many hours tossed about in
sight of dangerous rocks; the steam
engines would work no longer; the wind
raged violently, and around were heard
the terrific roar of the breakers, and the
dash of the waves, as they broke ever the
deck.
At this dreary and trying time, while
we lay, as might be said, at the mercy of
the waves, I found great comfort and
support from an apparently trifling cir
cumstance; it was, that the captain's
child, a little girl of about twelve years
old, was in the cabin with us. He had
come two or three times, in the midst of
his cares and toils, to see how his child
went on, and it is well known how
cheering is the sight of a captain in such
a time of danger. As our situation grew
worse, I saw the little girl rising on her
elbow and bending her eyes anxiously to
the door, as if longing for her father’s
re-appearance. He came at last. He
was a large, bluff, sailor-like man; an
immense coat, great sea boots, and an
oilskin cap with flaps hanging down on
his neck were streaming with the water.
He fell on his knees on the floor beside
the low berth of his child, and stretched
his arms over her, but did not speak.
After a little while, he asked if she
were alarmed. “Father,” the child an
swered, “ let me be with you, and I shall
not be afraid ”
“With me !” he cried; “you could not
stand it for an instant.”
“Father, let me be with you,” she re
peated.
“My child, you would be more fright
ened then,” he said, kissing her, while
the tears were on his rough cheeks.
‘‘No, I will not be afraid if you take
me with you, 0 ! father let me be with
you !” and she trew her arms round his
neck, and clung fast to him. The strong
man was overcome; he lifted his child in
his arms, and carried her away with
him.
How much, I felt her departure ! As
long as the captain’s child was near, I
felt her to be a sort of pledge for the re
turn and care of the captain. 1 know
that in the moment of greatest danger
the lather would run to his child; I was
certain that were the vessel about to be
abandoned in the midst of the wild waves,
I should know of every movement, for
the captain would not desert his child.
Thus in the presence of that child I had
comforted myself, and when she went,
I ffelt abandoned, and for the first time
fearful, I rose, arid managed to get on
deck. The sea and sky seemed one.
It was a dreadful sight; shuddering, I
shrank back and threw myself again on
my couch. Then Came the thought: the
child is content: she is with her father;
“and have Ino father ?” 0 God I thank
thee ! in that moment I could answer,
Yes. An unseen father, it is true: and
faith is not as sight, and nature is not as
grace; hut still I knew 1 had a Father; a
Father whose love surpasseth knowl
edge. The thought calmed my mind.
My little reader, does it calm yours?
Oh ! cries the trembling soul, the,
storm isdearful; the sky is hid; we walk
in darkness and have no light. “Be
still, and know that I am God,” saith
the Lord; he happy, and know that God
is thy Father.
“Fear not, for I am thy God.” All
things are under the dominion of Christ,
and all things, yea even terrible things
shall work together for good to them that
love God. Tempest-tossed soul, as the
child clung to her father’s bosm, so
cling thou to thy God; in the moment of
thine extremity He will appear to be with
thee, or take thee to he with Him.
cleaTlips.
We know a dear old lady, who many
years ago, taught a little private school
in a certain town. Her heart was pure,
and, therefore, her words were sweet.
She loved the blessed Saviour, and cared
most tenderly for the lambs of his fold.
She seemed to live in the little children’s
world, rejoicing and suffering with them.
She had always something pleasant to
say, and a flower or kiss to give, so that
the scholars loved the school house next
best to “mother’s room” at home.
They never had to be sent to school,
hut ran off cheerfully before nine o’clock,
that they might speak to her before the
little bell rang. She believed what Solo
mon said about the “rod of correction;”
hut still, in sonic way, she got along
without using it very often
Once her heart was deeply wounded
by hearing that a little fellow had spoken
dirty, impure words, while out at play.
When forced to punish little ones, she
used generally to take them on her lap ;
but, as Master Charley was nine years
old, she called him to stand before her.
Taking both his hands between her own,
and looking into his blue eyes, she asked,
“Have you been using wicked words to
day, my dear ?”
“I didn’t swear,” whispered Charlie,
with his head hanging down.
“Are you willing to go home and re
peat all you said before your mother ?”
Charlie hung his head, and colored
deeply, and whispered, “No, ma’am, be
cause it would grieve her.”
“And have you forgotten, my dear boy,
that One, who is far holier than she, has
heard in Heaven those naughty words
which came from those lips of yours to
day ? lam afraid there is something
unclean in your heart ; but, as I cannot
reach that myself, I will ask God to do
it. I can reach your lips, and as lam
very sure they are not fit to give your
mother the good-night kiss, nor to say
your prayers, I will clean them for you.”
She then took from her desk a bowl of
water, a tiny piece of soap, and a small
sponge ; and bidding Charlie open his
mouth, she washed it well—teeth, tongue,
lips, and all ! She then wiped them dry
with a soft towel, and bathed the tear
stained face, on which she pressed the
kiss of forgiveness.
This simple punishment, and the real
sorrow of her who inflicted it, made a deep
impression on the minds of her scLol- >
Charlie now is alnfo«t a man, but n ,l'
since that day has au impure
escaped his lips. At the very thought •'
such words, he fancies he tastes soap i
that he hears again the gentle rebuke r
his first teacher.
—
[For tlie Bannerol' the South j
To ILA. p.
BY ZEFHYB.
I'm thinking of thee, Willie,
Os happy days we’ve seen,
The happiegt of my life, Will,
(To the past my heart mill lean ;
I’m sitting in the twilight,
Soft zephyrs fan my brow,
Sweet mem’ries flit across my heart,
I’m with thee, Willie, now.
In thought, I’m with thee, Willie,
Though far apart we are;
1 feel that I see thy face,
As I gaze on yon bright star;
It seems to speak so softly,
Like Willie was wont to do,
In the familiar accents
Os Willie, kind and true.
Willow Glen, Dec. 12th, 1868.
The Stable at Bethlehem as jt
To-day. —The spot whore our clear Sa
viour was born is situated about 200 yar’s
southward of Bethlehem. It is a gr o(tl *
hewed in soft rock, thirty-eight feet lon<>
eleven wide, and nine high. Three oil’
lars of porphyry support the vault. I„
the middle is a kind of niche, which is
divided into two parts by an altar suni
ciently large for the celebration ofAlass.
On this altar thirty-two lamps burn con
tinually night and day. Costly marble
bestowed by 6t. Helena, covers the roc 1 ;-
and pavement of the cave. At its fai th ,
end, towards the East, is the spot who e
the ever Blessed Virgin brought forth
the Saviour of the world. This spnt
lighted by sixteen lamps, is marked by a
slab of white marble fixed in the pave
ment,and lined with jasper, in the centre
of which is a silver sun, surrounded with
the inscription: 11 Hie de Virgine Ma
ria Jesus Christus natus cstT “ lie>
Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin
Mary.” Over this is placed a marble
slab, serving for an altar. The Divine
Infant, after his birth, was placed in a
manger now preserved at Rome, but the
place where it stood is {narked a little
lower down, by another manger of white
marble.
CEREMONIES THERE ON CHRISTMAS NIGH
On Christmas Eve, at 11 o’clock, j\
M., the sound of the bell of the Francis
can Fathers gathers all the Catholic in
habitants of Bethlehem at the door of
their Monastery. At 12 o’clock tie
Bev. Father Warden, attended by tx
children in white, opens the procession
towards the Basilica, advancing slowly,
his head bowed, and reverently he carries
in his arms a waxen image of the infa t
Jesus laid in a basket of flowers. On
reaching the very spot sanctified by the
nativity, the Deacon, with deep devotion,
chants the Gospel. When he comes to
the words, “and wrapped him in swad
dling clothes,” he receives the infant from
the hands of the Father Warden, wraps
it in swaddling clothes, lays it in the
manger, falls on his knees, and worships
the Saviour of the world whom it r< pre
sents. The Gospel being finished, the
“Gloria ia ExcelsU? is intoned and
sung in enrapturing strains, after which
midnight Mass begins. —Sunday Salt ■><
Messenger.
The Right Way to Begin—A little
girl once said, “0, mother, how very bar 1
it is to do right 1 I don’t think l shall
ever be able.’’
“Have you really tried, my dear ?”
“Oh ! yes; I try every day. Whet; 1
awake, before I get up, I say to myself,
‘I will be good all day ; I will be gen ie
and kind; I will obey my parents and
teachers; 1 will not quarrel; 1 will alwuy
tel! the truth.’ But then, mother, 1 and m’t
know how it is, I do so often forget
Then, when evening comes, 1 have to
say, ‘There, now ! what is the use ot try
ing ? I have been in a passion: 1 have
been disobedient;’ and once or twice,
mother, you know, I have said what wa
not true.”
The dear child seemed very run a
ashamed while saying this, so her moth
er looked kindly at her and only sai 1:
“My dear, I do not think you have
begun right ”
The little girl looked up wondering 1 )',
and her parent went on:
“The first thing is to have an vv hear .
have you asked lbr this ?”
“No, mother, I am afraid not.
“Then, my child, do so at once. Cos:
fruit, you know, can only come from
good tree. If your heart is wrong, yum
conduct will be wrong. You cairn*
make it right yourself, w ith all your gg*
resolutions; but a>k God, for bhrmt
sake, to help you. He will give y* *
His Holy £p lit. and you will not fin !
any longer impossible to do right.
My ■’ear young reader, are you, in a.-
things, trying to do right ‘ And hm
vou kv’in hi the ri'/ht way?