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VOLUME V.
ON A KICKING MI LE.
Oh, mule!
Whut Btronvr aud complicated machinery!
"Wlmt sudden and pieeipitate extremes!
Ainu’s judgment and his vision must We keen
or he
Will hesitate to rouse thee from thy dreams;
A nigged school
Trained thy great qua.h ‘Seeps extensor
To bust o. kt'g of nails, kick down a fence or
i.ift a man. oh mule.
Say, mule,
Thau wasn’t always thus insoluble,
Insensate to a kindly touch or word?
A*V*t always have thy accents, loud and voluble,
-Tan’s fearful heart with dreadful terror
stirred;
Has your hars h rule
Alv* n ys impelled him, with emotions fleet
To fly the fondling of thy later feet?
fciuy. gentle mule?
Speak, mule:
Why dhl'st thou, with intense vitality.
Lift through the bingeless roof of yonder shed
A man: an earth-born child of immortality,
Because he passed th*“ with incautious tread?
He was no fool,
That base born, soulless mule should kick
him. No!
He was a scholar, an A. M., a Ph, I)., a D.—
Oh! !
Whoa mule! ! !
Burlington liawkeye,
*<&—
TWO FAIR DECEIVERS.
What do young men talk about when
they sit at an open window smoking on a
summer evening? Do you suppose it is
of love? Indeed, I suspect it is of
money; or, if not of money, then at least
of something that either makes or spends
money.
Clove Sullivan has been spending his
four years in Europe, and lie hasjustbeen
telling his friend, John Seldcn how he
spent it. John has spent liis in New
York —he is inclined to think just as
profitably. Both stories conclude in the
same way.
“I have not a thousand dollars left.
John."
“Nor I, Cleve.”
“I thougt your cousin died two years
turn; surely you liayc not spent ail the old
gentleman’s money already.”
“1 only got $20,000; and I owed half
of it. ”
“Only got $20,000! What did he do
with it?"
“Gave it to his wife. Ito married a
beauty about a year after you went away,
died irt a few months afterward, and left
her his wholo fortune. I ba tno claim
on him. ITe educated me, gave me a
profession and $20,000. That was very
well; he was only my mother’s cousin."
“And the widow —where is slit?”
“Living at his country seat. 1 have
never seen her - She was one of the St.
Maura of Maryland ”
“Good family and all beauties. Why
don’t you marry the widow?”
"Why, I have never thought of such a
thing. ”
“You can’t think of anything hotter.
Write her a little note at onee; say that
you and 1 will soon ho i;‘i her neighbor
hood, and that gratitude to your cousin,
and all that find of thing—then beg
leave to call and pay respects, ete., etc.
.1 nhn demurred up 1 deal to the plan,
but Cleve wa- masterful, and the note
was written, Cleve himself putting it in
the Post office.
That was on Monday night. On
Wednesday’ morning the Widow Clare
found it with a dozen others upon her
hr akfast table. She was a dainty, high
bred little lady, with
“Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor,
Cheeks with r'-se 1 )af timings tender,
Lips like fragrant posy,”
and withal a kind, hospitable temper,
well inclined to be bap; y in the happiness
<•
Selden had re
garded himself tor many years as diis
cousin's heir, and that, her marriage with
the late Thomas Clare had seriously
altered his prospects. Women easily see
the best laid plans ot men, and
nirout enough to the
•.— v
any other inconvenient place.”
“No, I have a better plan than that—
Clementine, do stop reading a few
! minutes. I will take that pretty cottage
at Ryebank for the summer, and Mr.
Selden and his friend shall visit us there.
No one knows us in the place, and 1 will
take none of the servants with me."
"Well?"
“Then, Clementine, you can he the
Widow Clare, and I your poor friend and
companion.”
“Good! very good! 'The Fair De
ceivers' —an excellent comedy. How l
shall snub you, Fan! And for once I
shall have the pleasure of outdrossing
you. But lias not Mr. Seluen seen
you?"
“No; I was married in Maryland and
wont immediately to Europe. I came
hack a widow, two years ago, but Mr.
Selden lias never rem'euibered me until
now. 1 wonder who this friend is that
he proposes to bring with him?"
“Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan-
They never decide oil anything until
their particular friend approves. What
is the gentleman’s name?"
The widow examined the note. “ ‘My
friend, Mr. Clove Sullivan.’ Do you
know him, Clementine?”
“No, I atu quite sure that 1 never saw
Mr. Clove Sullivan. I don’t fall in love
with the name —do you? But, pray ac
cept the offer for both gentlemen, Fan,
and write this morning, dear.” Then
Clementine returned to tho consideration
of thelaeo in coquilles for her new even
ing dress.
The plan so hastily sketched was sub
sequently thoroughly discussed and
carried out. The cottage at Ryebank
was taken, and one evening at the end of
June the two ladies took possession of it.
The new widow Clare had engaged a
maid in New York, and fell into her part
with charming ease and a veiy pretty
assumption of authority; ami tho real
widow, in her plain dress, ami pensive,
quiet manners, realized effectively the
idea of a cultivated companion. They
had two days in which to roshearse their
parts and get all the household machinery
in order, and then the gentlemen arrived
at Ryebank.
Fan and Clementine were quite ready
for their first call; the latter in a rich and
exquisite costume, the former in a simple
dress of spotted lawn. Clementine went
through the introductions with consum
mate easo of manner, and in half an
hour they were a very plea:, ant party.
John’s “cousinship” afforded an excel
lent basis for informal companionship,
and Clemeutine gave it full prominence,
indeed, in a low days John began to find
the relationship tiresome: it had boon
“Cousin John, do this," and “Cousin
.John, come here,” continually; and one
night when he and Cleve sat. down to
smoke their final cigar, he was irritable
enough to give his objection the form of
speech.
“Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I
do not like Mrs. Clare."
“I think she is a very lovely woman,
John.”
“I say nothing against her beauty,
Clevo; I don’t like her, and L have no
uiimi to occupy the place that beautiful,
ill-used Miss Marat fills. 'JTie way
Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman
to whom she is every way inferior makes
me angry enough, i. assure you.”
“Do not fail in love with the wrong
woman, John.”
“Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am
in love. There is no use in our dec iving
ourselves or each other. You seem to
!ue the widow—why not marry her? f
am quite willing you .should.”
“Thank you, J dm; i have already
male some advances that way. They
have been favorably received, 1 think.”
“You are so handsome, it h ilow him no
chance against you. But we shall not
quarrel if you do not interfere between
lovely little Clement and myself.”
“I could not afford to smile on her,
John; she is too poor. And what on
earth are you going tc do with a poor wife?
Nothing added to nothing will riot
ma e a decent living.”
gi.iug to ask her to he my wife,
,c
a ■out living out of my
aßbt'rit *fSl J ’•■> ■ ’ !
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S®®'lpsSlpvK i 'L-til
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a much attendant. '1 tr
ibe party fell quitcHi'.ur.iily into <• mph -,
and the two weeks tliut the gentlemen
SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, IX7B.
had first fixed as (ho limit of their stay
lengthened into two months.
It was noticeable that ns the ladies be
came more confidential with their lovers,
they had less to say to each other; and it
began at la t to bo quite evident to the
real widow that the play must end for
the present,, or the denouncement would
come prematurely. Circumstances favor
ed her determination. One night
Clementine, with a radiant face, came
into her friend’s room, and said:
“Fan, 1 have something to tell you.
Clove has asked mo to marry him"
“Now, Clement, you have told him all,
I know you have.”
“Not a word, Fan. He still believes
mo the Widow Clare."
"Did you accept him?"
"Conditionally. 1 am to give him a
final answer when we go to the city in
October. You aro going to New York
this winter, are you not?”
“Yes. Oar little play progresses finely.
John Selden asked mo to bo his wife to
night.”
“I told you men think and act in pairs."
“John is a noble fellow. 1 pretended
to think his cousin had ill-used him, and
he defended him until 1 was ashamed of
myself; absolutely said Clement, that you
wore a sufficient excuse for Mr. Clare’s
will. Then he blamed his own past idle
ness so much, and promised if 1 would
only try and endure the slings and arrows
of your outrageous temper, Clement, for
two years longer, he would have made
a home for me in which I could he happy.
Yes, Clement, 1. should marry John
Selden if we had not five dollars bo
tween us.’’
”1 wish Clevo had been a little more
explicit about his money affairs. How
ever, there is time enough yet. When ;
they leave to morrow what shall wo do?” ,
“We will remain here another month;
Levine will have the house ready for me
by that time. I have written to him
about refurnishing tho parlors.
So next day the lovers parted, with
many promises of constant letters and
future happy days together. The in
terval was long and dull enough; but it
pasced, and otto morning both gentlemen
■ eceived notes of invitation to a small
dinner party at the Widow Clare’s man
sion, in street. Thcro was a good
deal of dres irig for the party. Cleve
wished to make his entrance into his
future homo as became the prospective
master of a million .and a half of money,
and John was desirous of not suffering in
Clement's eyes by any comparison with
the other gentlemen who would probably
be there.
Scarcely had they entered the drawing
room when the ladies aprearod, the true
Widow Clare no longer in them assuming
toilet she had hituerlo worn, but. mag
nificent in white crepe lu.;;; and satin, her
arms and throat and pretty head flashing
with sapphires and diamonds. Her
companion had assumed now the role of
simplicity, and Cleve was di appointed
with the first glance of her plain white
Chan berry gauze dre-s.
John had seen nothing but the bright
face of the girl he loved arid the love light
in her eyes. Before she could speak he
had taken both her hands and whispered,
“Dourest and bestand l iveliest Clement."
Her smile answered him first. Then
-ho said: “l’ardon me, Mr. Sehlen, but
wc have been in masquerade all summer,
and now we must unmask before real life
begin-. My name is not Clementine
Marat, but Funny Clare. Covein John,
1 hope you are not disappointed. ” Then
he put her hand into John’s, and they
! wandered off into the conservatory to
j finish their explanation.
Mr. Cleve Suliivan found himself at
that moment in the most trying circum
stances of his life. The real Clementine
Marat stood looking down at a flower on
the carpet, and evidently expecting him
to resume the tender attitude he hud
been accustomed to Lear toward her. He
was a man of quick decisions where his
own interests were concerned, and it did
not take him half a minute to review his
position and determine what to do. This
plain blonde girl, without fortune, was
not the girl be could marry; she hud
deceived him, too —he had a sudden and
severe spasm of morality—his confidence
was broken; he thought it was poor sport
to play with a man’s most sacred feelings;
he had been deeply disappointed and
grieved, etc., etc.
Clementine showed to no one her dis
appointment, amt she probably soon re
covered from it. Her life was full of
many other | leasant plans and holies, and
she could well afford to let a selfish lover
pass out of it, She remained with her
friend until after the marriage between
her friend and John Seiden had been con-
suinmated; and then Clevo saw her name
among the list of passengers sailing on one
particular day for Europe. As John and
his bride leit on tho same steamer, Clevo
supposed, of course, she had gone in their
company.
“Nice thing it would have boon for
Clevo Sullivan to marry John Selden’s
wife’s maid, or something or other! John
always was a lucky fellow. Some fellows
arc always unlucky in love affairs—l
always am.’’
Half a year afterward he reiterated this
statement with a great deal of unneces
sary emphasis. He was just buttoning
his gloves preparatory to starting for his
afternoon’s drive, when an old acquaint
ance hailed him.
“Oh, it’s that fool Belumr,” he mut
tered; “I shall have to offer him a ride.
I thought he was in Paris. Iloilo, Bel
mar, when did you got back? Have a
-ride?”
“No, thank you. I have promised my
wife to ride with her this afternoon."
"Your wifel When were you mar-
ried? ’
“Last month, in Paris.”
“And the happy lady"
“Why, I thought you knew; every one
!is talking about my good fortune. Mrs.
Belmar is old Paul Marat’s only child.”
“What?"
“Miss Clementine Marat. She brings
me nearly $3,000,000 in money and real
■ estate, and a heart beyond all price,.”
“How on earth did you meet her?"
“She was traveling witn Mr. and Mrs.
! Selden —you know John Selden. She
has lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she
I left school; they wore friends when they
were gil ls together.”
j Clove gathered up his reins, and nod
ding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a
finable rate up tho avenue and through
the Park. Ho could not trust himself to
speak to any one, and when he did, tho
remark which ho made to himself, in
strict confidence, was not flattering. For
once .Mr. Clove Sullivan told Mr. Clove
Sullivan that he had boon badly punished,
and that he well deserved it. — JJarqiir'*
Widely.
AIUHRICAN IUUI.S IN I‘A IMS.
Among (he many wonders of the ex
hibifion none is more striking than the
little compatriot, the dainty, the delicate
and the irrepressible American girl, who
has come for the first time to Europe,
and who airs her surprise and pleasure
with a grace peouliatly Iter own. It is
refreshing to meet, her in the midst of this
dead wilderness of conventionality, to see
her set at defiance the haughty indiffer
ence ot the blonde maids of Albion and
the excessive gaueheric and over-delicacy
of the unmarried French girl. When she
I con es from England it, is scarcely neces
sary to say that she allows herself' to ho
surprised by little or nothing; that she
treats this pearl of I’aris with cool yet
willhrcd disdain, which would arouse the
vindictiveness of the Gaels could they hut
| understand it. .She will drink ice water,
she will persist that there is nothing wliat
j ever which could render it worth her while
ito remain on this side of the ocean. She
has an impression that i’aris was burned
to ashes during the Commune, and she is
surprised to find it so well built up again.
As for the exhibition, she declares ihat.
it is not as fine as “oura,” and her pa
triotism is so earnest that she would like
to declare her nationality at every second
step. Heaven bless herl iShe is a be
wildering mystery —a lovely mass of
contradictious—a being to Le very proud
of and to allow to conduct herself as she
pleases. Now and then o e encauuters
the serious Boston young lady, who has
come over with the intention of learning
Paris and the exhibition by heart before
she returns. Bhe goes at work with a
grim persistence, and with a disregard for
physical discomfort which makes her
apparently more robust English sister
hold up her hands in holy horror. — Bos
ton Traveler.
A large make of the gaiter species was
lately killed in Atchinson, Kam-a arid on
being opened a female quaii was found in
side. The quail was also cut open and
three eggs taken from her and placed un
der a lien. In a short time two of the
eggs hatched young quails, who were as
lively and healthy as any other: are, hut
had defective heads, as they wet e -ha; ad
and had the appearance of a.snake, bein'
entirely destitute of feathers.
- .y
It is the confession of a widower, who
has been thrice married, that the first wile
cures a man’s romance, the seem ntc -i,
him humility, and the third make- hi .
philosopher.
Itt-N 1101.1, A DAY’S NOSH.
“One night." said Ben fli-lladay, "long
before the Pacific Railroad was built, 1
was bouncing over the plains in one of
my overland coaches. My wife was with
mo. She was sick, and lay asleep on tho
bottom of the stage on a bed of - buffalo
skins. The night was fearfully dark, and
a drizzling rain was falling. Airs. Bolladay
and myself wore the only passengers.
Several stages had been robbed within
two months, and the driver was ripping
along as though a gang of prairie wolves
were at ter him. Suddenly the horses wore
thrown on their haunches, and the stage
stopped. I was heaved forward, bit
quickly recovered and found myself gazing
at the muzzle of a double-barreled shot
gun. By the dim light of the stage lamps
tho barrels looked as big as nail kegs.
‘Throw up your hands and don’t stir,’
shouted the owner of a gruff voice.
“Up went my hands, and 1 began to
commune with myself. The fellow
damned my soul, and then coolly asked
for my money. 1 saw tint lie did not j
know who 1 was, and 1 was afraid that my j
sick wile might awake and call my name. |
M.v coat was buttoned over my bosom,
but hardly high enough to hide a mag- ,
nificent emerald that cost mo over SB,OOO
a few Weeks before in San Francisco. I
hardly breathed thr ugh fear that the
light might strike the stone, and its spark
ling brilliancy attract the attention of the
robber. I had about $40,000 in a money
belt close to the skin, and several hundred
dollars in my pocket.
“Suddenly my friend shouted, ‘Come,
shell out, d —d quick, or I’ll send the
devil a free lunch.’
”1 passed out ihe few hundreds loose
in my pockets, and handed him uiy gold
watch and chain. They were hefty. I
think the chain alone would weigh five
pounds at least.
“ ‘There’ said I, ‘(here’s every cent T’vc
got. Take it, and let me go on. My wife
is very sick, and 1 don't know what would
happen to her if she knew what was
going on.'
“ ‘Keep your hands up,' was the reply,
while a second robber received the watch
and money. Then a search was made for
the expn-s company’s box, hut the
I double-barreled shot-gun did not move.
Its muzzles were within a foot of my nose.
For my life l did not dare to stir. My
nose began to itch. Tin stiff hairs of my
moustache got up, one after another, and
tickled it until the .sensation was intoler
able. I could stand it no longer.
“ ‘Stranger,’ I cried, 'I must scratch
my nose. It itches so that lam almost
crazy. ’
“ ‘Move your hands,’ he shouted, ‘and
I’ll blow a hole through your head big
enough fora jack rabbit to go through.’
I appealed once more. ‘Well,’ lie said,
‘keep your hands still and l scratch it for
yen. 1 hate to see a partner suffer. ’ ”
“Did he scratch it ?” asked one of Ben's
interested listeners.
“Sure,” said Mr. Holladay.
"How?” asked the breathless listener.
"With the muzzle of the cocked gun,”
said the great ovcrlauder. "lie rubbed
the muzzle around my moustache and
raked it over the end of my nose until I
thanked him and said that it itched no
longer. ’ ’ —Savannah New*.
TIIK Tint! ATENKI) MKXICAN WAIt.
It is almost impossible to determine
whether Mr. Hayes is simply drifting into
a war with Mexico, or whether he is de
termined to signalize his administration
by some sort of heroic policy to relieve it
of being a blank page in history, or
whether he has only determined to ado] t
a policy of protection on the border to be
pursued regardless of what, the cor.se
qucnccs nmy he. The first policy adopted
was no recognition until pledges vr re
given. Ti e obvious injustice of this policy
■led to its abandonment. In treating with
the Mexican Government, a policy has
been adopted which just as surely leads
to war unless Mexico yields to the inevit
able. No one who l nows anything about
.if u ignorance, pride and courage,
expects anything of the kind. They do
not figs t > ell, hut they do fight. Their
or van / arms, every part of the
military system, is defective, hut they arc
capable of continuance, endurance, and
] - od of undoubted courage. They
have been trained to believe that they are
invincible. There is no such word as
M■ ■;ie;j!) defeat ill their history. The
battles lough: during the war of 1847-8
Ur. .-lill celebrated as Mexican victories,
and the Greaser knows that ho soundly
threshed the (. mums. They have been
f 111 1 1 1 (v: pulled up by a really brave re
: a nee to the power of France and the
'fraction of the imperial ruler, and
NUMBER 39.
there is no doubt that n large part of tho
Mexican people ho ievo themselves able
to cope with tho United States. Of
course Diaz and the few well informed
Mexicans do not believe these absurd
fancies, hut they are believed by tho
masses, by the army, and by the officers
proverbially ignorant. Diaz cannot stem
tho tide without being swept from power
as ,i traitor. He is compelled to olio ,-o
between a patriotic ami a hopeless war
and destruction by hi - own people. If
the United State- insist upon invading
Mexico Vith n thief-hunting posse tho
Mexican people will certainly demand re
sistance.
With nine millions of people Afoxico
can raise an army of at least 300,000 men,
and with ali our power and resources the
conquest will not be light in any respect.
Mexico is well formed for defense. Her
terraced tablelands and mountains, and
her hot, unhealthy plains of tho coast are
equally susceptible of every defense, and
while conquest is a certainty, in caso of
war, it is only so at enormous expenso,
with a large army, and then not to he ao
cornpli: lied in one season. Perhaps
\ nothing would do Mexico more good than
a stubborn war. She would acquire more
stability in a war of one year than in 20
j years of internal strife. She acquired her
nationality almost in resistance to the
I Jnitnl States, perfected and strengthened
the political and social bond in war with
Maximilian and France, and now another
war would prove area! solid blessing to
the coming generation, and do more to
watd the development of Mexico than all
her statesmen will ever accomplish in such
peace as they have in that country. It
is a matter for us to consider whether
there is any corresponding advantage to
accrue to us- Wo cannot afford to extend
i the blessings of war to Mexico at our own
expense, and yet we could not couie out
of such a war without a very large in
crease in the national debt for which no
possible ga’n could compensate, and with
a reputation for rapacity which would
prevent the acquisition of that influence
wc should obtain in Spaniah-American
countries. Before we rush into such a
war it will he well to stop and count the
cost. Why not propose an international
arbitration, in which only American
nations shall take part, to settle the ques
tions at is.-ue?— A/ashvi/lc American.
I*o INSKCTS TALK?
“Two ants” says Buchner, “when they
are talking together, stand with their
beads opposite each other, working their
sensitive feelers in the liveliest manner,
and tapping each other’s heads. Num
erous examples prove that they are able
in this way to make mutual communica
tions, and even on certain definite sub,
jects.”
“I have often.” says the English natu
ral-t, Jesse, “placed a small green Cater
pillar in the neighborhood of an ant’s
nest. It is immediately seized by an ant,
which calls in the as-istanco of a friend
after ineffectual efforts to drag the cater
pillar into the nest. It can bo clearly
seen that the little creatures hold a con
versation by means of their feelers, and,
this being ended, the repair together to
the caterpillar in order to draw it into the
nest by their united efforts. Further, I
have observed the meeting of ants on the
way to and from the nest. They stop,
touch each other with their feelers, and
appear to hold a conversation, which I
have good reason to suppose refers to the
best ground for obtaining food.”
Hague writes, in a letter to Darwin,
that be one day killed with his finger a
number of ants who came every day from
a hole in the wall to some plants standing
on the chimney-piece. He had tried the
effect of brushing them away, but it was
of no use; and the consequence of the
slaughter was that the ants turned hack
and tried to persuade their companions
who were not yet aware of their danger
to turn back also. A short conversation
ensued between the ants, which, however
did not result in an immediate return, for
those who had just left the nest first con
vinced themselves of the truth of the
report.
A loving couple on a railroad train, near
Klmira, N. V., made known to the con
duct or that they wanted to get married,and
asked to be recommended to a good clcrgy
iil nin the next place. One was found on
the train and they were coupled while the
train stopped at the next station. The
locomotive bell and whistle celebrated the
event.
—■ ♦is
A drunken man fell and struck bis nose
against a barber’s pole and exclaimed:
“Whatin thunder zat—hie—woman wi’
; stiiped stocking.- on—hie -got agin me?”