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VO L. \
THE
NEWS & FARMER
BY
ROBERTS & BOYD.
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Textual railroad.
ON and after SUNDAY the 20th June, th
Pa*'eug<r trains -n the Ueoigia C ntral
Karlroa i, its brunches and will
Ull MB oHoa.3*
I
r.enve 9;15 a ni ,
Amve m Augusta LOO p m j
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Leave dae.oh tor ('olu nbu..----- j
Leav* Macon for Eufaula 9:10 r m
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' Arrive at ‘’olninbus 1:45 a rn '
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Lo*ve Atlanta 10:4o p m j
Live Kufaula &22 a m j
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Arrive at Macon from Atlanta d.40 p m j
rrive at Macon from Eutaula s:l.qp tll >
Ar.ivf at Macon from Columbus (1:55 p n ,
Lea - Macon ?:IH) a nil
Arrive at Augusta 4:00 p m j
Arrive at .Savannah 5:25 p m |
Connect daily at Gord-m with Fassengei
Trains to and f om Savannah and Augusta.
iicofessiotwl (Carts.
J_i. JL* G AMBi.Jt., f) li
ATTORNEI AT LAW.
jtLouunuTlc, (Ga.
January G 1 y
j, U. Gaia. J. *i. 1/uiliiii
CAIN & POLHILL.
\ T 'l' UIiNEVS A T LA W
JLOUISVILL, GA.
Mit}-5, IS7I. 1 >y
dejeTeTparsons
DET'TIS r
Kouisville* Ga.
WiM lo in Loueville tha thirl week in encli ;
month
i'iT' 1 >r.l*r- left at thi Central Hotel promptly
► attended to. lh 24 ly.
f*-A F DURHAM? M- D.
Physician and ....
Ga.
SITUOEBBFUI.I.Y boats Diseases of the
I.nngs anil Throat, diseases of the Eve,
Nose an 1 Ear, ami all forms of I'ropsev ; dis
eases of iho He n t Kidneve, Bladder and (stric
ture, secret diseases, long standing Ulcers.—
Removes lleoioi rhnidal Tumors witimut pain
Makes a speciality oI diseases peculiar to l'e
males. Medicines sent to any point on the
Knilrnad. All enriespeudenee coulidemial.
Fcby 15, I4 ly
- HOTJuS.
k CENTRAL HOTEL.
LOUISVILLE , GA.
A, M. Kirkland, Proprietress.
Per Day.
Lanier House,
Mulberry Street,
MACON GEORGIA
B Bfißo Proprietor
Free Craribas fr.raaoil Cos ibe Depot
. fM r 2*
[Original.]
DEATH.
“Dust thou art, lo duat returnest
Was not sjiok- li of the -oul.”
Death is the common lot of man :
He lives with the warm blood
Tinging his brawny cheek to day,
Wit h the high hopes of manhood
Mantling his brow with stern resolve ;
And in his eye, a noble purpose reigns—
Reigns as a rightful heir to energy of
mind, ——
lo health of body and of brain.
To-inorrow all his vaunted strength
And all his rosy hopes will flee,
And all his stern resolves will pass
away
Beyond the limit of earth’s circumfer
ence.
Perhaps they reach beyond the evanes
cent air
That circumscribes nis transitory stay
in this delusive sphere? Then all is
well.
But, ah ! If he lived as lives
A hope in a bright bird’s breast,
Who pines i'ortne freedom of the woods,
The music of the pearly brook, or re-
lease
From a gilded prison home and nothing
more;
Not like tne bird when the silver bowl
Is broken, and the golden chain is
•snapped,
Who finds repose in oblivion, utter and
eternal.
Ah, no; he just begins to live forever
Or else forevermore to die.
Death is the common lot of man—
Not man alone, but of the flower
That blooms about his feet, and makes
The air lie breathes supremely soft and
sweet —
And of ail the forms of life that fill
In dense profusion all this earth,
Or float in atom shapes, in oceans deep
expanse,
All, all must stoop to the stern decree,
"Dust tuou art and unto dust shaft thou
return.”
But of all the mighty throng of beings
animate,
The hosts of boasts, and birds, and
fish,
Of things that creep, or crawl, or swim,
or fly,
Upon the.land, or sea, or in the air;
tlrehiiige of his G od, < —•
W ith the seal of deity on his brow ;
Alone lives after death.
The damp of the dreaded charnel house
May decompose the parts, and worms
M ay feed on human flesh and blood,
But the soul can never die.
. it is the vital part that lives
Through end.ess ages blest, or in eter
nal misery. *
SUNSET.
Upward do I journey slowly,
As Uia shadows lengthen fast,
To a land of sunlight holy,
Where no evening sha lows are cast;
Noontide glory
la that land shall always last.
See the sun in splendor, shining,
On the hills of the west;
Grandly thus tiie day declining,
Things a night of peaceful rest;
While earth’s weary,
Long to find its slumber blest.
Life's high western hills are shading,
Solemnly the path I go ;
Sunset glory too is fading,
Soon Tlf miss the gol ieu glow ;
Sunset shadows,
Soon will leave my path below.
And with joy unmanned with sorrow
Do I hail life’s eventide;
Herald of a bright to morrow.
Over on tiie other side ;
Through the darkness
Gladly will my spirit glide.
Some 1 love are over yonder,
Basking in a fadeless ray,
And my feet would gladly wander
With them in their new-found day;
Since they left me,
Lone to me lias been life’s way.
Night comes on; and not regretting
That tiie day is almost done,
Calmly I await the setting
Of the distant sinking sun,
Glad in spirit
That the race is nearly run.
[original.]
MORAL COURAGE.
Among the many things that are in
their tendency deteriorating, is a want
of moral courage and moral standing,
in order to give a moral tone to socie
ty, and to build up its broken down
bulwarks —its battered walls, and to
bring out into bold relief its defaced
landmarks. By landmarks oe mean a
stand, —a position—a corner post, if
you please, that through all inclem
ency aud vicissitude is ever the same,
and when you go to look for it, you
may find it deep-set, unswerved to the
right or left.
We need men who will stand up
against wrong, and who are fearless to
defend the right. Every one a linits
that disorganization of society and
demoralization of public sentimeut
are, to a great extent, wide-spread
evils; every one admits that lie does
not know who to trust, and that there is
not that high regard for truth that
should be an unfailing emblem of
an honest and an upright people.
Tins is a terrible idea to become ex
THE NEWS AND FARMER.
LOUISVILLE. JEFFERSON COUNTY. GA., APRIL 13, 1370.
tant, and more fearful the picture, if it
be absolutely true. When a country —
when a people cease to be honest and
to observe the golden rule, “Do unto
others as you would that others should
do unto you,” why religion itself, and
its object, (being the chief incentive
to honesty) must be at a low ebb.
We are told, too that the law is to
hiatus for it. The law may court evils
and abominations and bring them to
the surface, just as a diseased body—
vegetable—or a animal will germinate
and support a fungous growth; but
there are incipient causes that lie deep
er. Pluck the mote out of thine own eye,
Cry down, have the moral Courage to
denounce error, to wage war on a ,y in
novation of h .nesty and uprightness,
wherever it may exist, and siand up as
a monumental landmark that cannot
be shaken from a firm position.
Let every one determine to do this,
uncompromisingly, wiiether it injures
his popularity or not, and it will not
be long before the clouds will roll
back tueir dark banners, and the sun
light will stream in' on a prosperous
people, like a glad thought illuminates
the sanctuary of a stricken heart.
A GAME OF DR AW.
One of the River War Incidents—
Possessing Certain Interesting
Features.
They were sitting around the table
in a Fifteenth Ward faro bank that is
temporarily closed through some mis
understanding with the police, and hav
ing got tired of short cards, they fell to
telling stories.
“You may have heard this one,” said
a square jaweu, firm-taced, gray-whis
kered man, “for it was printed briefly
at the time ; but I was there.”
“in tile latter part of '67 I made a
trip down the river. There came on
board at Cairo a young paymaster who
was on his way to pay a brigade of
troops somewhere in the neighborhood
of Vicksburg. It was very quiet on the
boat, and ou the first nignt be ow Cairo
tbe paymaster spent a good deal of ins
time after supper walking up and down
the saloon. There was also walking up
and down the saloon a trim, square
shouldered man, who seemed to be suf
fering from the same tedionsness ; and
wheu they had met a few times, the
eteangev.-imile i a Uttiel at the <*fciymas
ter, and said :
•Dull.’
‘D n dull,’ answered the paymas
ter.
'Suppose we have a little game of
draw,' said the stranger.
•Good idea,’ said tne paymaster, and
they sat down and went at it.
•Rota of them were playing merely to
pass time, at least the paymaster was,
and the other man seemed to be. They
had it one way and the other for an
hour or two, playing about $5 for a top
bet, and neither of tvein winning or
losing much, but still getting more and
more interested. Finally each seemed
t get a Lig hand, and they begau bet
ting heavy in tbe most natural sort of a
way. The tire had been smouldering,
you see, and it broke out apparently
without their knowing it.
'Neither of them seemed disposed to
lay down, anil they kept on raising and
raising till they were making bets of
two, tiiree, and five hundred dollars,
and they got the pot up to about sev
en thousand dollars. Then the stran
ger rested his eye on the paymaster for
a moment, and made an estimate of the
amount of pluck and tiie probable size
of Ins pile, and the result of his obser
vations seemed to be a belief that he
could bluif or freeze him out, for ho
threw his hand down on tiie table, and
leaned over and pulled a bowie knife
out ol his boot, and drove the point of
it through the cards into the table.—
Then lie took a big wallet out of his
breast pocket and counted out twenty
one five hundred dollar uote3. lie saw
the paymaster’s last bet of five hundred
and then hauled a revolver olf his hip,
pushed the other twenty bills in the pot,
ami said:
‘I raise you ten thousand dollars.’
•The paymaster looked at Sue gam-:
bier about two seconds. Then he beck- 1
oned to uis colored toy, a bright young
fellow who liad taken the thingm from
tne start, aud would have given his mas
ter the wink if he had ever happened to
look in Uis direction, winch he hadn’t.
But he brightened up when he heard
the word, and he walked straight olf to
the paymaster’s state-room. He disap
peared a moment, aud then showed up
agaiu, backing through the door, drag
ging a trunk alter him ; aud he came
down the saloon rolling that trunk
along on its end, just as handy as if he
had smashed baggage on a through line
all lus life. Tne paymaster took a key
from his vest pocket, threw up the lid
of the trunk, and took olf a sheet of
sole leather that seemed to serve as a
sort of hinder l'or tiie two bundles of
bills underneath. He took two big
packages out of tiie end, and laid them
up on one side of th3 table. Then he
began taking >ut the other bundles aud
stacking tiiein upon the table in tront of
him. lie kept taking out aud stacking
up till he had built a triangle-shaped
pile, like two pairs of stairs meeting at
tne top and all filled in solid under
neath.
“Then he threw his hand down on
the table, and pulled a bowie-knife out
of his boot and spiked it down through
the cards, and while tiie candle was
still shivering he handed the two bun
dies into the middle of the table, and
said:
‘I see your $ 10,000’ —here braced hira
|. seif back against the pile and began
shoving it up the table, talking all the
time—‘and I raise you a hundred and
seventy-five thousand!’ and then (he
did it so quick that I couldn’t see when
it was done) he had a pistol off each
hip, and was resting an elbow about
half way up on each side of the green
back stairs, both shooters covering the
gambler, and holding them very steady
and straight, too.
‘Now, tne gambler was an older man
and of much more espe.iejaie than the
paymaster, and uniter aoj; ordinary cir
cumstances he eoulct have handled him
ten to one, and lie knew it, and had no
thought of laying down even then, and
he seemed to revolve the thing in his
mind for about a quarter of a minute,
and when he had settled what to do he i
looked up ready to act, but one glance
at the paymaster made him change his J
mind ; for he could see shining through
his face all the aeeum dated unqsedj
grit of years, and a man with half an’
eye could see that he meant busiuess.
‘The gambler realized that fact. He ■
pulled his knife out of the table, stuck I
his pistol into his pocket, and walked 1
on down the saloon whistling “Rosa
Lee,” just as soft and pleasant as i hough
he was going for a cigar after dinner.
Then the paymaster hooted ids knife
and slung hts shooters and packed his
trunk, putting in along with the rest the
thirteen thousand odd of the gambler’s
money; and lie didn’t take any more
draw that trip.”
“And 1 am told that ho was so much
impressed by the revelation to himself
of ins own backbone and nerve that he
made up his mind there was something
better for him to do than wasting his
time in gambling, and lie hasn’t handled
a card since.”
YANKEE* TRADING.
A certain farmer, who in the course
of a year purchased a hundred dollars
worth of goods, (and always paid for
them,) called at the store of a village
merchant, his regular place of-trading,
with two dozen brooms, which lie
offered lor sale. Tiie merchant (who,
by the way, is fond of a good bargain)
examined his stock, and said :
\\ cli, Cyrus, 1 will give you a shil
ling apiece tor these brooms.
Cyrus appeared astonished at the
■‘ >r “ ' 1 y-.a-l ■ ■ 4 . . .
Oh, no, John, I oan*|gin.t6 take
that for’em, no-how, ! nt I'll let you
have ’em for twenty cents- apiece, and
not a cent less.”
Cyrus, you are crazy, fej lied John.
Why, see here, showing him a line lot
’of brooms, here is an article a great
deal better than yours, (which was not
true,) that I am retailing at twelve and
a halt’ cents apiece, (which was not
true, by seven and a ha4£-cents )
1 don’t care for that, Answered Cy
rus ; your brooms are cheap enough,
but you can t have mine tor less than
twenty cents* no how, and pretending
to be mote than halt angry shouldered
his brooms and started for the door.
The merchant, getting a little ner
vous over the probable loss of a good
customer, and fearing he might go to
some other store and never return’,
said:
See here, Cyrus, hold on a while, if
I give you twenty cents for your
brooms, 1 suppose you will not object
to take the price of thchi in goods.
No, I don’t care if 1 do, replied Cy
rus.
Well, then, said tne merchant, as
you ate an old customer, I will allow
you twenty cents apiece for this lot.
Let me see—twenty times twenty-four
makes just four inindreTand eighty—
yes, four dollars and Eighty cents.
What kind of goods will you have,
Cyrus?
Well, now John, I reckon it don’t
make any diirereuce to you what kind
of goods I take, does it?
Ob no, not at all, said tiie merchant.
Well, then, as it don’t make any dif
ference to you, I’ll tali3 tiie amount
in them brooms of yearn, at twelve
and a half cents apiece $ Let me see,
four dollars and-eighty ■cents will get
.thirty-eight brooms, *nl five cents
over. It don’t make’much difference,
John, about the live cents, but as you
: are a right mever feller, I believe I
j believe 1 will take tha change in tor
backer.
IVIIO ARE THE CREOLES?
Before I came to New Orleans, says
a correspondent, I thought a Creole
was a halt-bee l of soauj race—Cuban,
or Spanish, or French—l didn’t exact
ly know which. I think .the Northern
people have the same hit.ion, and will
be grateful if I eomict them before
they come down here |aud show their
ignorance, as I did A creole is a na
tive of Louisiana. Any one who is
born here is a Creole, just as any ore
who was born in Indhna is a lL>o3ier
and in Ohio h Buckeye. They don’t
have dark, pensive and romantic hair;
they don’t sit on verjindas with their
! fingers against Aheit cheek, and a
j shapely arm, bare to the elb nv, rest
! ing on the balustrade; aud they don’t
■ look olf into tiie gardens of bananas
and drooping palms, witli alligators
crawling over the wak. It is a base
misrepresentation, this idea; but I was
sorry to have my rimance shattered
when I found it out.
A Dubuque editor in-allowed a pen
| the other day. l’erliajis lie intends pre
paring editorial matter for his “inside.”
A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.
Weddings are as thick in this vicin
ity just now as blackbirds in a mul
berry marsh. This time it is two
couples from the classic and mystic
shades of the Badger State, not more
than a hundred miles from Sinsinawa
Mound. They had heard of the hos
pitality of our clerlfe, our lawyers, our
squires, and the people of Dubuque in
I general, and concluded that the envi
j runs of the Key City was just the place
I wherein to weld the fetters that 'find
a life. Arriving in Danleith, ti
boardeiL.the ferry-boat, and {ptaouiV
themselves under the protecting wing
of Captain Yates, soon stood upon the
levee that has cost the city so much
time, money, and condemnation. The
horse cars took them to a hotel, where
they were assigned to the parlor while
a messenger was dispatched for ’Squire
Griswold. Upon arrival the squire
took in the situation at a glance, and
after satisfying himself that all was
legal and correct, performed the mar
riage ceremony in duplicate.
The grooms were brothers and the
brides were sisters, young and hand
some. After they were married, the
clerk of the hotel was requested to
show them suitable rooms, which he
did, putting John and his wife in one,
and James and his wife in the other,
which was immediately over John’s
room on the next floor.
The grooms left their newly made
wives in their respective rooms, and
sauntered abroad to look over the city.
During their wanderings they fell in
with several of their neighbors, and
congratulatory drinks were the eonse
queuce of the meeting under the cir
cumstances. The hilarious greetings
continued late in the evening, when
John and James thought it was time to
retire. John was asked by the clerk
if he should be shown to his room, but
John said he could find it,, as it was in
the northeast comer of the building.
James tarried a while lear the warm
stove, in witch was a cherjy lire burn
ing, and for two hours was thinking,
pe;haps, of by-gone times, recalling
the old scenes and summoning half
forgotten faces out of the mists of the
past. He, too, soon retired, an i with
the same assurance to the clerk that
ua could easily hud his room, as he re
membered it was in the northwest cor
ner of TANARUS,“.! building.
—* aha t*, Tri'. Pifrp - -r{- t ~ the
two happy couple'v jttTßhey slept in
loves dreams. The Mj§sing dawned,
and with it the fact that'-the lovers had
mistaken rooms. John had uncon
sciously retired in James room and
with James’ wife, while James had done
the same in John’s room. Here was a
dilemma, which bashfulness had caused.
What was to be done? The girls were
perplexed and abashed, but the mis
takes were irreparable. Altera consul
tation over the wreck of their connu
bial bliss they coaelu led to forgive and
forget, and avoi i dark rooms in the
future.
HO IV THE IViDO WCA UGH TII IM.
A gentleman of an autobiographical
turn relates how he was instructed in
the custom of taking toll, by a spright
ly widow during a moonlight sleigh
ride vvitii a merry party. He says :
‘The lovely wido w L—sat in the same
sleigh, under the same bulfalo robe with
me.’
‘Oil, oh, —don’t, don’t l’ she exclaim
ed. as we came to tiie first bridge, at
the same tune catching me by the arm
and turning her veiled face toward me,
while Uerlitlle eyes twinkled through
the moonlight.
‘Don’t what?’ I asked. Tm not doing
anything.’
‘Well, but I thought you were going
to take toll,' replied tiie widow.
‘Toll?’ I rejoined. ‘What is that?’
‘Well, I declare!’ cried the widow,
her clear laugh ringing out above the
music of the bells, ‘you pretend you do
not know what toll is?’
‘lndeed, 1 don’t, then,’ I said, laugh
ing ; ‘explain, if you please.’
•You never heard, then,’ said the wi
dow, ino3t provokingly, ‘you never
heard that when we are on a sleigh-ride
the gentlemen always —that is some
times—when they cross a bridge claim
a kiss and call it toll. But 1 never pay
it.’
1 said that I never heard of it before;
but when we came to tiie next bridge I
claimed the toll, and the widow’s strug
gles to Bold the veil over her face were
not enough to tear it. At last the veil
was removed, her round rosy face was
turned directly toward mine, and in the
clear light of a lrosty moon tiie toll was
taken, l'or tiie first time in my experi
ence. Soon we came to a long bridge
with severa. arches; the widow said it
was of no U3e to resist a man who would
have his own way, so she paid the toll
without a murmur."
‘But, you won't take toll for every
arch, will you?' she sai 1 so archly, that
1 could not fail to exact all my dues ;
and that was the beginning of my court
ship.’
A correspondent of the Ploughman
describes how he made a turf cutter:
“1 took a hard-woo.l plank about the
length of a plough beam, an! then
morticed a hole the size of a coulter,
had an iron plate upon top an i bottom,
sc a3 to keep the cutter in place, put
ting it well back. I then made handles
like plough liaudles, then hitched the
horse to .t, cutting it into squares of
about one foot; then I had but little
trouble in turning ,t with a grab-hook."
A BEAUTIFUL INCIDENT.
A young man recently rail away from
the galleys of Toulouse. He was strong
and vigorous, and soon made his way
across the country and escaped puisuit.
lie arrived next morning before a cot
tage \n an open fiel!. and stopped to get
something to eat, and get refuge while
he reposed a little. But he found the
inmates of the cottage in the greatest
distress. Four little children sat tren
ding in the corner ; their mother sat
weeping and tearing, her hair, and their
Father was walking thp floor in, agony.
VTlie Galley-slave asked what Was th,*'
matter, and the father replied that they
were that morning to be turned out of
doors, because they could not pay their
rent.
“You see me driven to-despair." said
the father, “my wife and my children
without food or shelter and' I without
means to provide for them.”
The convict listeued to the tale with
tears of sympathy and said, “I wili give
you the means. I have e leaped- from the
galleys. Whosoever brings back an es
caped prisoner receives a reward of
fifty' francs. How much does the rent
amount to?”
“Forty francs,” said the father.
“Well,” said the other, “put a cord
around uiy body. I will follow you to
the city, where they will recognize me,
and you will get fifty francs for bring
ing me back.”
“No, never!” exclaimed the aston
ished listener. “My cliil -ren should
starve a thousand times before I would
do such a base thing.”
The generous min insisted, an 1 de
clared at last that he would give him
self up if the father would consent to
take him. After a long struggle the
latter yielded, and taking his preserver
by the arm, lie led him to the city and
to the mayor's office.
Everybody vras surprised to see that
a little manlike the father had been
able to capture such a strong young fel
low; but the proof was before them.
The fifty francs were paid and the
prisoner sent back to the galleys. But
after lie was gone, the father asked a
private interview with the mayor, to
whom he told the whole story. The
mayor was so much affected that he not
only added fifty francs to the father's
purse, but wrote immediately t<# the
ministers of justiu*, bogging the noble
jjonutf releasee 'The ininix
fpußtirt-Vlpi-o trie K '-7Tr, and -.\nW'
mg n was a comparatively small offence
which had condemned the young man to
the galleys, and that he had already
served out half his term, ordered his re
lease.
ESSAY ON TIIE ONION.
In onion is strength, and a garden
without it lacks flavor. The onion in
its satin wrappings is among the most
beautiful of vegetables ; it can almost
be said to have a soul. You take off
coat after coat, and the onion is still
there; and. when the last one is re
moved, who dare say that the onion it
self is destroyed, though you can weep
over its departed spirit? / doubt not
that all men and wc men kve the onion ;
but a few confess their love. Good
New Englanders are as shy of owning
it a3 they are of talking about religion.
Some people have days on which they
eat onions—tiie act is in tiie nature of
a religious ceremony, an Eleusinian
mysiery ; not a breath of it must get
abroad. On that day they see no com
pany, they deny tiie kiss of greeting io
the dearest friend, llappy is said to
be the family who eat onions together.
Look at Italy; all eat of tiie common
vegetable. The social atmosphere of
that delicious land is laden with it. In
the churches all are alike ; there is one
faith, one small. Tiie entrance of
Victor Emanuel into Borne is only the
pompous proclamation of a unity which
gallic lias already accomplished, a id
yet we. who boast of our democracy,
eat onions in secret.
ROUND TO GET A SUBSCRIBER
ANY WAY
He w w once out on a jaunt in tiie
township of White Oak, Ingham county,
sticking to every farmer untill lie got
his name and money, and it so happen
ed that lie came to a house where death
had called a tew hours before. The
farmer’s wife was laid ou‘, and the hus
bandman and his uliildre i were griev
ing over her loss when tlu* editor knock
ed at the door.
“What’s up?" inquire l tho editor, as
he saw tiie farmer’s solemn countenance
before him.
"My wife is deal,*- replied the farm
er. Istliat so? “muse 1 the editor, a lit
tle disappointed. “Did she die easy?"
Dropped off like a lamb.”
“Did she suv anything?”
“Not a word—just went right to sleep
like.’
“I didn’t know,” continued tiie editor
a sad look on his face, “but what she
might have requested you to subscribe
fertile Candida which you know is the
best paper in the county. If you want
it, I’ll take your name right in, and
under the circumstances l won't charge
a cent for the obituary notice.”
Tha farmer hung off for a while but
before the editor went away he had two
additional dollars in his pocket, and
had written out an obituary notice for
publication iu tho next issue, which
the bereaved husband pronounced "a
mighty smart piece.”
i—l 4IV —'
Subscribe now.
! HO IT UE GOT RID OF THE AL
LIGATORS.
Lying in, taking on wool one trip
between Rod river, and Bayou Sara. I
addressed an old darkey standing ou
tne bank.
"Uncle, I suppose you have plenty
of alligators around here?”
-Marsa, we used to hab a mighty
smart heap of dern out in do swamps
and bayous, but dey dun all cleaned
j out, 1 tell you !”
i “Why,, ho-.v is that, Unclef”
>*-• Ijt 1 ‘(e ycftl see, MsnAy. I was wid
i Mr. iuiifvum’s soger boys, and I learnt
i a heapt ’bout deni tings. Wus wid do
| boys wliar dare was mighty hard
I scratc’ien, 1 tell you. Laraed all ’bout
Idem tarpeedses, frown shells, etc.
I\Y iiau I corn3 balk homo I had plenty
lof powder and sonic dem tings what
| you pull wid a string to lire do cannon
! wid. Dam alligators had been playin’
d-c debil wiiou I come back—dim tnied
olf nearly all ob my pigs. One day I
■sees one of dem pigs layin by do
bayou wid his logs broken and nearly
a!i of his bref gone. So I kills him
and cleans him out; den I gets one
ob dem cans what dey puts up tomaties
'in and filled him up wid powder and
matches; den 1 fastens him uptight
and puts a hole in do top an 1 puts one
dem tings in what dey touches de can
non off wid ; den I tie3 my string to it
jes as if 1 was gwine to tire de camion ;
den I puts him in tie pig and sews him
up an-i totes him down by de water
Den I gets back ’tno-ig de cane, wid de
end ob do string in my hand to wait.
Presently, by and b3', I seed one of
dem ugly black heads swimming to
ward de pig. Yah, hah, yah, 1 could
not belli lading, just .to tink what dat
feller was gwine to coteli. I‘urtc soon
he made a dive for dat pig, and swal
lowed him right olf and started. Deu
I pulls do string, yah, yah, } r ah, hi, hi,
hi, lie. Marsa, I dcelnr to goodness if
dat alligator wasn’t Mowed into free
million pieces, .and apiece of dat same
pig struck me on the head and nearly
knocked me down, Dar hasn’t bsan
one of dem ’gators seen ’bout har
sense. ’Spect dey found out that one
ob de Linkum sogers libbed around
dese parts.”
• IIE DID IT FIRST'
too sheep’ wV> lived
in a field. One was black and one was
white. In tne same Add lived a horse
an l cow. Now the black sheep was not
at all good. But where lie chose to go,
the white sheep would go; and what
he did the white sheep would do.
Sotheyd'd what they ought not.
And when the white sheep was asked
why he did what he ought not, he would
say, ‘‘The black did it,first.’ One day.
a boy went through tiie field, and did not
shut the gate. The black sheep saw it.
and ran out of the field with great glee,
The-white sheep saw it too, and they
both-went some way.
But soon they met a large dog, who
khey that they ought not to be out in
th : roa l. He ran at them, and bit them,
and tore some wool off their backs.
They wore glad to run back to the field ;
and the white seeep was quite ill with
fright all the restoj the day.
•Rut why did you go? said the oi l
cow. ‘The black seeop went,' said the
white one. ‘He did it first.’
Whell tiie gate was shut; but one day
tiie black sheep found a way out of the
field throuh a hole in the fence. He
crept through Use gap ; and, of course
the white sheep crept through as wall.
They got out o:i the moor, and thought
it fine fa i to b; there, with no one in
sight.
Soon the black sheep, who was first,
came to the edge of a deep pit. Ho,
gave a great jump, an ' leaped m.
The white sheep did not stop to
think. He gave a great jump, and
leaped in too. Down, down down he
101 lto a heap of sharp stones. Both he
and the black sheep were much
hurt. Tqay could not get out. and
were force 1 to lie there in great pain-
By and by some men came by, nndaw
the sheep in the pit. The meu goftWem,
o-.ft, and R*nt for som ? one to see what
could be done for them.
The horse an 1 cow’ in great relief,
cam® and stoo ' by tiie side of the white
sheep as lie lay o.i tiie grass. They
were fond or him in spite of all his
faults. “Oil, why 1” cried tho cow,
with tears iu her eyes (and the bell
that was hung run id her shook and
rang as she leane 1 over him) —“why
did you leave the Hell with the black
sheep?'
“He di i it ti: st,' said the white one iu
a faint voice.
“Toon why di 1 you jump down that
steep place? Could you not sea that it
was a pit?
“I di 1 not see it. lie did it first."
said "the white sheep. Then, with a
groan, he asked, “How is the black
sheep? Is he here too? And what
does the man think who comes to see
us?
“1 grieve to say,’’ said the cow, “that
he thought you were both far too much
hurt to live. The poor black sheep
lias just died, an 1 1 fear that you must
die too."
“lie did it first,,” said the white sheep.
And with those words he died.
—Author of “Hick and I.”
How much pain have those evils
•cost us which never happened? AV'nit,
then, til. trials come.
NO. 49,