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THE WEEKLY SUN.
1770. NE W YORK, 1876
Eighteen hundred and seventy-six is the Cen
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SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA, JULY (i, 1876.
A Woman’s Answer.
Do you know that you have asked me for the
costliest thing
Ever made by the Hand above?
( A woman’s heart and a woman s life—
And a woman's wonderful love?
* Do you know that you have asked for this price
less thing
Asa child might, ask for a toy ?
Demanding what others have died to win,
j With the reckless dash of a boy?
; You have written my lesson of duty out—
Man like have you questioned me;
! Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul,
| Until 1 shall question thee.
You require your mutton shall always be hot,
Tom socks aud your shirts be whole ;
I require your heart to be true as God's stars,
And pure as His heaven your soul.
You require a cook for your mutton aud beef,
1 require a far greater thing;
A seamstress wanting for socks aud for
shirts,
I look for a man aud a king.
A king for the beautiful realm called homo,
Anu a man that the Maker God
Will you love me, then, ’mid the falling,
As you did 'mid the blooms of May?
is your heart an ocean so strong and deep
f may launch my nil on its tide?
i A loving woman finds a heaven or hell
| On the day she becomes a bride.
1 require all things that are grand and true.
All things that a man should be;
If you give this all 1 would stake my life
; To be all you demand of me.
If yon cannot be this a laundress and cook
You can hire and little to pay;
But a woman’s heart and a woman's life.
Are not to bo won that way.
I
[Written for The Gazette. 1
The Fisherman s Daughter;
—OR, —
A Girl's Life by the Lake.
i
B\ MINTI.KTOE.
CHAPTER IX.
A clear cold day in December, and
Athione's doors were opened to the crowd
of-sight-seers who thronged his apart
ments. The winter sun shone through
tile window of the studio and fell full
j upon the features of a very beautiful wo
j man, who stood quite apart from the ad
i miring throng, seemingly lost in dreamy
contemplation of a painting—that of a
young.girl of rare and strange loveliness.
There was something peculiarly fascinat
j mg in tlie expression; something in the
soft, dark eyes and winsome face that.
. sitKingeiy touched her heart and awakened
recollections of the long ago.
| Leonora Waters had married when
youire, an itnliun Synor Mnssino, with
whom she had lived Iwo short, happy
years; when one day, being thrown from
from iiis horse, lie received injuries from
which lie never recovered, and -after a
lew hours of suffering, died, leaving his
young wife and infant daughter.
She hud been exceedingly bflautifui,
and there were still traces of beauty iri
tlie proud, calm face, that told of suffer
ing long endured. There were linos about
tlie quiet compressed lips, not wrought
hy time, arrtl glistening white hair streaked
the idassj* Wraidsef rich gold that were
caught back from tlie flure brow, and con
fined in aujqii by ,1 richly calved comb of
silver. J There was a leok of sad hopeless
ness, in tlie uicltinfc gleam of the dark
blue eyes, as witli a sigh she turned from
tlie picture to go, when a servant ap
proached and handed her a note- She
opened and read: ,
“Signora Marsi.no:—Come quickly;
;I am dying! Delay not in granting this
j last request. I have something of impor
tance to impart. Signor Bakou.”
“I wonder what he can want witli me,”
she thought crumpling the note in her
hand. ‘ Something of importance, i’ll
go and see him. Leo get tlie carriage
ready”
“The Signor's own carriage is Waiting
at tlie door for you, madam,” he said,
bowing respectfully.
She entered the carriage, and the ser
vant taking the reins, they we're soon at
their journey’s end, the carriage stopping
in front of a lordly residence of brown
stone. Alighting, she was escorted im
mediately up to the sick man’s chamber.
He lay burning and flushed with fever,
yet the heated brow paled a little, and the
glittering intensely black eyes shrank
from coming iri contact widi those of his
visitor. She had never liked this man,
yet she could not but pity him, when she
saw how changed he was. There was a
dangerous look in those eyes of his, that
j had always repulsed and chilled her.
I “I received your message,” she said,
! coining near and looking upon the swollen
and distorted features; “and have has
: tened to you. If there is anything 1 can
(Jo for you, I would he happy to know it. ”
“No, you can do nothing for me—l'm
| past human aid. Nevertheless, I thank
i you for coming—hut don’t look at me
that way I that reproachful look which
seems to creep into your eyes, only when
; they rest on mine, would kill me sooner
than this cursed fever,” lie said, tossing
the silken coverlet from him.
“If this is all you want with me,” she
said, rising as if to go, “I’ll relieve you
of my troublesome-—”
“Stay,” l.e cried, as she moved toward
i the door; “I am coming to it now ; corue
listen to me. I’ll teilyou all—everything
- only don’t look so reproachfully at me, 1
will you?”
“lias he lost his senses,” she won
dered, returning to the bed-side.
He mot.ioned her to be seated, and
then commenced the following:
“I know I’m dying, and I have that on
my mind, that wont let me rest until I’ve
unburdened the secret. The thought of
it has made me wretched these long years
and I can’t go away from hero with it
locked tip in my own breast.” He paused
and glanced at bur to mark the effect of
his words. She was interested, arid lie
continued: “Years ago, I fell in love
with a woman- you never saw her-an
Italian beauty, and all Rome raved about
her, and I, I would have gone through
Hades,"to have won a smile from her.
Rut some wealthy foreigner come, and as
they were so often seen in company with
each other, I became furiously jealous,
I I bought she cared for me, but preferred
tliis man, on account of his wealth. 1 ac
quainted her of the fact that I was near
est of kin to tlie wealthy Signor Massino
and incase he died without heirs, I w mid
succeed to his estate. After this, she
seemed to favor my suit more, though
never relinquishing her hold on the for
eigner. Well, about this time my kins
man. gour husband died, and only his in
fant daughter stood between nu and afflu
ence. Ah! what temptation will not a
man yield to when subjected to that
temptation liy the woman he would move
heaven and earth to possess, and when
that woman is the prize, if he succeeds!”
She had risen, and was standing with
clasped hands and pale face, gazing into
the face of the sufferer.
‘ / stole that child!"
She reeled and clutched the bed for
support.
"Weil?” came faintly from (lie white
lips.
lie partially raised himself on one elbow
and in king fixedly at the colorless face
so near iiis own:
“Leonora Massino, tlie costly marble
monument you had erected over that
little grave does not cover thu dust of your
child!”
She remained pofectly silent, and
seemed waiting for him to speak, as some
dreamer, who is half conscious, lie is
dreaming, and dreads to move lest some
sweet vision be dispelled by waking.
“I said I stole her, ytjt.l intended, if
finding no other way, returning her to
you myself, under an assumed name, in
order to prevent your suspecting mo—
! when you had offered a sufficient ransom
for tlie child. 1 bribed the nurse, and
together with threats, procured her as
sistance, and secrecy. Well, tlie child
was missing, enquiries were made and
search instituted. You had just witnessed
tlie death of your husband under painful
circumstances, in your then distracted
state of mind, I. had a-great advantage
over you. The nurse first pretended to
miss the little one, and came in your
room looking for her. You had not sycji
iter. Search was made, slje could fiql> lift*
iftuud on the promises. Some beggar ft.nl
.stolen her, or site had rambled off, the
given, (?te rfty ransacked over,
a week passed, still net found, and what
was more to me, no ransom anything like
what 1 had expected been offered —not
sufficient to tempt me. 1 was becoming
hneasy, alarmed, constantly afraid too
that the nar.se would reveal all. About
this time, l came upon a family of the
poorest people i ever saw. The mother
held in her arms an infant child about
the age of yours. It. was dead. She
began begging for alms, pointed to the
naked children and drunken Jiusband. I
told her if she would give the dead infant
to me, it should bo buried in great state,
etc., offering to her such reasons for my
strange request as I deemed necessay and
promising to them a considerable sum of
money, gained my point. I took the body
and dressed it in the clothes of your child
arid laid it in the Tiber. Then paying
the woman who had kept your lathy for
me, a sufficient sum to take her to her
relatives-in Ireland, I got her to take the
the little.' one with tier, thus getting rid
of it and her. 1 saw tlie nurse and forced
her to write a note and leave in your
room, explaining the real loss of the child
or pretending to, that she was out with
it, hull put it down to run about, and that
it had wandered to the river and failed in
while she was not noticing, and from fear
of being punished for such criminal care
lessness had not told it sooner. Then 1
sent her away, and well recompensed, fur
i could now command a considerable for
tune, having not only gotten rid of all the
rest and the child too, lhere was nothing
left to hinder my taking possession at
once. You found that note, the river
was searched, tlie body of a female child
was found, you recognized the clothing
though tlie body was past recognition.
That child was buried for yours. That
woman! Diable take her! She deceived
me, and married the foreigner. You
know what a life I’ve lived since; this
thing continually on my mind; no rest ex
cept when beastly drunk. There’s not a
dissipation in which i haven’t indulged,
bul 1 can stand it no longer.”
“Oh, my child!” cried tlie lady. “Tell
mo, where is she?”
“I kept up with her, knew her where
abouts, until some years. 1 then em
ployed a sort of artist, who was going in
that part of the country, to find out where
she was and let me know, lie did so.
After that I lost sight of them, and it
was only recently that I discovered her
again—stop, madam, don’t interrupt me.
let me finish wtiile I’ve strength. 1 wan
dered into the studio of that artist,, tlie
people are making such a furor about—
Athlone —and there I saw a face that re
minded me so forcibly of Massino that I
enquired of him where he had seen a face
like that. From what, 1 could learn from
him, that is the portrait of your daughter
—go to him, ask all about it. I would ;
risk my hopes of heaven ’tis her’s —rio I
great risk though.” |
“filestore her to me —tell me truly if
what you say is true, arid you shall have
all the wealth—”
“You forget I can’t live to enjoy it—
besides, I don’t want it, it's been the •
curse of my life now. Say you forgive j
me?” '
“I do, as I hope to bo forgiven, re- j
plied the lady. _ ;
“I have ever been on tlie eve of dis- j
closing the truth, and lor that reason ]
have tried to keep trace of her. Now, I .
think I can ‘shuffle off this mortal coil’
better satisfied,” and lie really looked re
lieved. She could not find it in her heart
to upbraid this man for the suffering lie
had caused her, when she looked upon his
face and saw that what lie said was too
true, that “death had marked him for
iiis own” indeed.
Was she once more to ffild to her
bosom, tlie darling she had mourned as
dead ? With a lighter heart than she had
known for years she took leave of the
sick mnn and sought the studio of Atli
lone. The crowd had long ago dispersed
ami when she again entered, siie found
Frank quire alone.
She frankly stated the cause of her
visit, and learned enough from that gen
tleman in regard to the subject of the
sketch In confirm the belief awakened by
the disclosures of fiaroli, yet she would
not deceive her heart with vain hopes,
she would be patient, time would show.
“If l am destined to aid in restoring
your daughter to you, madam, by having
once been so foitunate as to have her a
subject for my skill, .1 shall have cause to
be proud indeed,” said Athlone.
“Twice have I been here and each time
lias this sweet countenance seemed to
follow me. I suppose it is because it im
pressed me so deeply at first is why the
recollection clings to m.> afterward. All!
near seventeen years since, a baby face
with starry eyes smiled sweetly up into
my face and nestled against my heart.”
Scarcely one short week had elapsed
when young Lord Kimiemore, with iiis
lovely bride, astonished < ur friend Frank
by walking unann unoed right in upon i
him.
“This is indeed a happy surprise,” lie
exclaimed, extending a hand to each.
After the greeting, and explanation-,,
etc., Frank lost no time in conveying to
the Signora the intelligence of their ar
rival. During tlie week previous to tlie
coming of Eugene and Katie, Leonora
Massino had written to her old school
mate, Lady Kitmomoto, acquainting her
of what wo have just made the patient
reader aware, and asking her assistance
in clearing up the mystery, and proving
the identity of this “Fisherman's Daugh
ter.”
So when a short time later, Lady Ivin
nemore received a let ter from her son and j
she was not surprised to find t hat her son
Jrad married the daughter of her dear
frieiid, Leonora Waters.
• • There is not a happier ho:: -ftp-day hi
the old capital than that over wnieh pre
sides the uiiisie-voicod Italian lieau’ty,
Lady lone, as she is now called by liar
thousand dear friends. But to her de
voted husband, she is ever still the same
Katie. And in her inmost heart, will ever
linger gratefi i remembrances of the only
parents her childhood over knew.
The Signora never goes now to weep at
the little grave which bears on the snowy
marble, tlie name, “lone Massino.”
Frank is happy now in tlie home of his
own; whoso household angel is one of'
sunny Italy’s beautiful daughters.
Never again will the heart-hungry mother
part with her treasure, until death lias
written against her life ur those off tlie
starry-eyed lone.
(the end. )
How a Woman reads a Newspaper.
Somebody says that one who watches a
woman read a newspaper will get some
new ideas on the characteristics of tlie
gentler sex. She takes it up hurriedly
and begins to scan it over rapidly, as
though she was hunting some particular
thing; hut she is not. Fhe is merely
taking in tiie obscure paragraphs which
half believes wore put in out of tlie-way
places for tlie sole purpose of keeping her
from seeing them. As she finishes each
one, her countenance brightens with the
comforting reflection that she has out
witted tlm editor and the whole race of
men, for she cherishes a vague belief that
newspapers arc the enemies of her sex,
and editors it* chief oppressors.
She never reads the head lines, and the
huge telegraph heads she never even sees.
She is greedy for local news, and devours
ft with tlie keenest relish. Marriages and
deaths are always interesting reading t(i
her, and advertisements arc exciting and
stimulating. She cares hut little f/ir
printed jokes, unless they reflect ridieple
upon the men, and then she delights in
them, and neve rforgets them. Shefpays
particular attention to anything eneflosed
by quotation marks, and cmisidf-rs it
rather good authority than anything; first
handed. The column iuwhith tbvplfcor
airs his opinions in leuded 'jiiJahuiij abe
rarely reads.
Views are of no im.pijnV.'.nce in hoi esti
mation, hut facts ai;e everything. She
generally read? poetry. Khe doesn’t al
ways care for it, but she makes a practice
of reading i t because she thinks -lie ought
to. She reads stories, and sketches, and
paragraphs indiscriminately, and believes
every word of them. Finally, after she
has read every word she intends to, she
lays the paper down with an air of disap
pointment, and a half’copiteiuptuous ges
ture, which says very plainly that, she
thinks all newspaper^miserable failures,
but, is certain if she; hud tlie chance she
coSlil make tlie only! perfect newspaper
tlie world lias crcryfyton.
Boxing tlie eT.I i.s an inexcusable bru
tality; many ii fYliid has been made deaf
for life by it, because the “drum of tlie
ear” i.s a meiiil/rano, as thin as paper,
stretches like a curtain just inside the ex
ternal entrance of the ear. There is noth
ing but air jwst behind it and any violent
concussion liable to rend it in two, and
tlie “hearing” is destroyed forever, lie
cause the .sense of hearing i.s caused by the
vibrations of this drum or “tympanum.”
f •-*-
Y'uu need The Gazette!
NUMBER 27.
Having Fun.
There’s generally about six of them in
the bunch (says an exchange), witli light
(tresses on, and they have their poles with
as many hooka and-lines among them,
As soi n us they get to the river bank
they look for a good place to get down on
the rafts, and the most venturesome one
sticks her boot heels in the bank and
makes Two careful stop downs; then she
suddenly finds herselfat the bottom with
both hands in the water and a feeling that
every body in this wide world is looking at
lair, ami .she novel'.'to lls unyhody how she
got there. The other girls, profiting bv
here xainple, turn around and go down
the bank on Llieir hands and toes, back
ward.
Then they scamper over the rafts until
they find a .'hallow place where they can
■ see the fish, and shout:
! “U! I see one.”
! “Where?”
“There.”
“Oh, my ! so he is.”
“Let’s catch him,” ,
‘Who's got them baits?”
You lazy thing, you’re sitting on my
pole. ”
“Show me the wretch that stoic my
worm!”
All these exclamations are gotten off in
a tone that awakens every echo within a
mile round, and sends every fish within
I lirce acres square into galloping hysterics.
Then tlie girls, Ly sqpei'huiiiun exertions,
manage to get a worm rfn toe hook and
“throw in wit h a splash liko tlie launch
ing el a wash! uh, and await the result.
When a silvorlin comes along and nibbles
tiit! bait, they pull up with a jerk that,
had an unfortunate fish weighing less
than fifteen pounds• been on tire hook,
would have landed it in the neighborhood
of three or four miles in the country.
After a while a foehlo-iniuded suufisli
contrives to get fastened bn the Hook of
a timid woman, and she gives vent to her
Longue:,
“Oli, something's got my hook!”
“Pull up, you little idiot!” shouted five
excited voices as poles and hooks are
dropped, and tlioy rush to the rescue.
The girl witli tlie Lite gives a spasmodic
jerk, which sends the unfortunate sunny
into the air the full length of forty feet of
line, and lie comes down on the nearest
curly iiead with a damp flop that sets tlie
girl to clawing as though there wer<siuiu
blebees in her hair.
“Oeli! murder! take it away. Hgb!
the nasty thing!”
{iflien they hold up their skirfs and
gather around that fish as it skips over
the logs, one all the time holding the line
in both hands, with her loot, on the pole,
as though she had an evil-disposed goat
at the other end. They talk over it.
“How ever will he get off?”
“Ain’t it pretty?”
“Wonder if it ain’t dry?”
“Poor little tiling, let’s put it, hack.”
“Pick it up,” says a girl who bucks
rapidly out of the circle.”
“Good gracious, I'm afraid of it. There
it’s opening its mouth at me.”
Just then the sunny wriggles off tlie
hook and disappears between two logs
into the water, and the girls try for an
other hire.
But tlie suu eo/ues down and fries the
hacks of their necks, and they got three
headaches in the party, and they all get
cross and scold at the fish like so many
magpies. If any unwary chub dares
show himself in the water they poke at
him with poles, iiiucb to iiis disgust.
Finally they get mad all over and throw
their poles away, hunt up tlie hiricli
basket climb Up into the woods, where
they sit around on the grass and cater
pillars, and eat enough of dried beef and
rusk and hard-boiled eggs to give a wood
horse the nightmare; after which they
compare notes about their beaux until
sundown, when tboy go home and plant
envy in the hearts of all their muslin
dtflaiiie friends by telling them what “just
a,splendid time” they had.
Stop Your Worship of Money Bags!
Every newspaper one takes up fi'ow-i
--ilays is sure t o have something to say
about “tlie millionaires of America”—the
Asters, Vanderbilt, Stewart, Jones and
Sharon, of Nevada, or Flood, O’Brien,
McKay and Fair, of San Francisco and
Nevada—each of whom is proclaimed to
he worth from forty to one hundred mill
ions, all made by himself.
To haaJ-H'uifiooplo. who are thank
ful for a Imre competency in these impe
cunious times, tiiis tiling is getting to he
somewhat monotonous in fact, some
what of a bore. We have heard and read
about these bloated money bags until we
are surfeited with envy of their mighty
wilos, and with the constantly recurring
thought of how happy we could be with
one of their incomes for a single fortnight
—aye, for a single week, or for even a
single day I
But we implore our brethren of the pen
and scissors to stop this gush of million
aire literature. Let’s have a rest. It
isn’t morally healthy to be always contem
plating those glittering heaps. It leads
to constant, violations of one of the com
mandments about coveting other poeple’s
surplus tilings.
So let’s turn our attention to poor, hut
honest people for a while. They are the
sort that get into heaven easy; they are
tlie sort we need not envy, but are bound
to admire and love and tie to. They are
the sort, too, that will he far more apt
to divide with and hell) us when we run
short or get into trouble than those heart
less millionaires, of whom it was long ago
said “that the souls of a thousand ofthem
might dance together on the point of a
cambric needle without jostling each other
in tlie least!” - Kentucky Yenmnn.