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f 30 UNION SQUAP' NEW YORK
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•“-- ztfcSs? ' GA. *
[_° n . SALE BY
]J H \|> |> & (WIN.
__ SUMMERVILLE, GA.
Davis
' The lightest running Shuttle Sewing
Machine ever produced, combining
greatest simplicity, durability and
speed. It is adapted to a greater va
riety of practical and fancy work than
any other. No basting ever required.
For particulars as to prices, &c„ and
for any desired information, address
THE DAVIS SEWING MACHINE CO.,
WATERTOWN, N. Y.
158 Tremor t St., Boston, Mass.
1223 Chestnut St., Philadelphia, Pa.
113 Publio Square, Cleveland, Ohio.
43, 48 & 50 Jackson St., Chicago, 11l
F->r sale in Snmmervillo bj
J. S. CLEGHORN * CO.
ALABASTINE
A Superior Substitute
for Kalsomine, etc,
Alabastine is the first and only preparat ion
made front dented gipsum rock, for appli
cation to walls v. nit a brush. and is fully eov
<>r...i hv ,■ ■• i.u.t le-rfycU'ii, bv many years
■ up ; .ij»ug as many
Coats ns des.red, one over another, to any
hard surface, without danger of scaling, or
noticeably adding to the thickness of the
wall, which is strengthened and improved by
each additional coat, from time to lime. It
L the only material for the purpose not de
pendent upon ghio for its adhesiveness.
Altdiiistihij'is hardened on the wall by age,
moisture, etc., while ail kalsomines or whit
entti" preparations have inert soft chalks
and glue for their base, which are rendered
soft or scaled in a very short time.
In addition to the above advantages.
Alabastine, is less ex|xmsive, is it require.-"
but onedtnlf the numlxtr of pounds to cover
'W same amount of surface with two coats,
is ready for use by adding water, and easily
aj'p'k-d by any one.
Ho. sale by your Paint Dealer. Ask for
Vreul.r containing Samples of 12 tints
manufactured only bv the At.sßssTtM'. Co
)_t: Gtiruru, Manager.Graml Rapids. Mich
•v PURE «
PAINTS
ReadyForUse
Olives, Terra Cottas and all the latest
fashionable shades for
CITY COUNTRY OR SEASIDE.
Warranted durable and permanent.
’ D. soriptive Lists, showing 32 actual
shades, sent on application-
For sale by the principal dealers,
wholesale and retail, throughout the
country.
Ask for them and take no others.
BILUNGS, TAYLOR & CO.
CLEVELAND, OHIO,
Spaniards—not Chinamen.
Twenty odd Chinamen arrived at New
York from Havana en route for the
Flowery Kingdom. When asked if they
had had any trouble with the Custom
House authorities on account of the
law prohibiting the entrance of the
Chinese into this country, their leading
man said to the reporter : “Melican law
no good. We get naturalized by the Span
ish government and then come to New
York, not as Chinamen but as Spanish
subjects. We pay $25 in Havana for
naturalization paper and passport, and
that, under the treaty between the Uni
ted States and Spain, allows ns to enter
the land without trouble. The French,
Peruvians, Mexicans and Chileans all do
the same thing. America is the only
country that will not allow ChineMt to
become citizens,”
VOL XL SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA. WEDNESDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER 19, 1884. NO. H.
SANDS* —«
PATENT TRIPLE
FREEZERX
The only Freezer ever ma<le having three distinct
motions inside the can. thereby, of course, produc
ing liner and smoother Cream than any other
Freezer on the market.
300,000 in use. Catalogue and Price List
Hailed upon application.
WHITE MOUNTAIN FREEZER CO.,
NASHUA, N. H.
HOW MY BABY DIEP.
A PAii ENT’S GRAPHIC DI4S(’KIP HON
OF THE < till .D’H DEATH.
How it Appeared in a’l lfn Different Phn»c«
~A Dream and W hat it Revealed.
The doctor said it was a severe cold,
and prescribed for it. He went away
and returned in an hour without being
called. Then I knew my baby boy was
more ill than T had thought, and when
he went away, I followed him out of the
house and into the snow-burdened air,
and said to him:
“Doctor, tell me the truth. Will my
baby die ?"
“It is very ill,” he replied, “but there
is yet a little hope.” Then I returned
and looked again on that sweet face of
my little boy. Where dimples had
been, were hard white linos of pain.
Where the nostrils bad been such a soft
and velvety pink, yon could see the
light shine through their walls, and
every hair-like vein was blue almost to
blackness. The little hands which I
was wont to feel patting my cheeks had
lost their cunning, and were lying use
lessly on its heaving bosom, purple and
clenched, I knew my baby was not for
long. I knew that even the angels, who
loved it a little bettor than I, were wait
ing to take it away. I saw the death
dew stand in diamond beads upon its
alabaster brow and felt the dampening
curls, that clustered like falling sunshine
where I had been wont to kiss it. I
heard the faint gurgling in my baby’s
throat, and saw no recognition in its
eyes, once so soft and bine, and laugh
ing, but now glassy with the film of
death. They were looking through the
ceiling and roof of my humble cottage,
into the realms where the Recording
Angel sat, with the book of life open lic
foro him, at a page as white ns snow,
save where the name was written at the
top—the name of my darling boy.
The snow flakes ceased to full, and
the glad sunlight from the west came in
through the window and fell upon my
baby’s bed, flooding it with radiance and
glory like that which trembles on the
golden tiles of heaven, and then the sun
sas k out of view, and in the gray
twilight my baby lay, struggling body
and soul, the one with the other, for the
mastery. As the shadows deepened,
I saw the bony hand of death reach out
from among the pillows, and clutch my
baby by the throat. I tried to fight the
monster back, but he would not loose
his hold.
The lamps were lighted and I saw my
baby smile, as if it saw a face more wel
come, kind and sweet, than the face of
her that Imre it, bending over its cradle
—the face of Him who said: “Suffer
little children to come unto me, and for
bid them not, for of such is the kingdom
of God,” and while it yet smiled, the
soul went out from the tabernacle of
clay, and left the temple tenantless and
cold, but beautiful as life itself. My
baby was dead, and I was clasping to
my heait only the clay image of its
soul, now winging its flight through the
boundless depths of blue that lie be
tween the grave and the throne of God.
Is it a wonder that men worship idols of
clay, when clay is so grandly beautiful
as this ?
I slept and dreamed, and as I dreamed,
I saw the pearly gates swing open, and
I knew my baby reached home. I
caught a glimpse of heaven, and saw it
fly straight to the arms of Him who
died upon the cross, and ere the gates
were closed, the angel with the book
drew his wand across the page and held
ft np to (he others, and I saw that
nought but the name of my darling boy
was there, written in ctiarcater of shin
ing gold; while all the rest was pure
and white, nod the gates swung shut,
th-. harps nt millions sangaglad refrain.
Throifih Mail.
“Whatever became of Morgan?”
said a iittle boy to bis father, who bad
jnst became a Mason. The father
smiled. “He was never heard of after
ward, was he ?” The father still sni’led.
“Then, if he was never heard of again,
I know what mast have happened to
him.” “What?” asked the father.
“He must have been '•teeteo Vice Presi
dent.”— -PxA.
's<
' St?.
siU’r P
"V 6
@ljc &nmmenriUe
PATIENT WITH THE LIVING
Sweet friend, when then and I are gone
Beyond earth's weary labor,
When miall shall be our need of grace
From comrade or from neighbor,
Passed all the strife, the toil, the care,
And done with all the righing,
What tender ruth bhall we have gained
Alas, by simply dying?
Thon lips too chary of their praise
Will tell our merits over,
.nd eyes too swift our faults Io see
Shall no defect discover.
Then hands that would not lift a stone
Where stones Were thick to cumber
Our steep-hill path will scatter flowers
Above our pillowed slumber.
Sweet friend, perchance both thou and I,
Ere love is past foi giving,
Should take the earm st lesson home—
Be patient with the living;
To-day’s repressed rebuke may save
Our blinding tears to-morrow.
Then patience—e'en when keenest edge
May whet a nameless sorrow.
‘Tis easy to be gentle when
Death's silence shames our clamor,
And easy to discern the best
Through memory's mystic glamour;
But wise it were for thee and me,
Ere love is past forgiving,
To take the tender hsson home—
Be patient with the living.
Maugauet E. Sangster.
- ■ "■ ■ ■■■_■? 1 J 1 LUM- 1 .
A. Homely Boy.
“Mamma,” said little Emily Harding
to her mother, “I don’t want to go to
school to-day.”
“Why not, my dear ?” inquired her
mother.
“Oh, Ido not know. It is so cold 1”
said the little girl.
“But, Emily,” said Mrs. Harding, “it
was not too cold yesterday, and the
weather is milder to-day; you must
have some other reason for not wishing
to go to school; what is it?”
Emily was silent for a few moments,
and then, instead of replying, asked her
mother if she had seen Frank Leigh go
by?
“Yes,” answered her mother; “he
passed ten minutes ago, running as fast as
he could.”
“Oh, let me stay at home to-day,
dear mother 1 do 1” said little Emily,
earnestly.
“You shall stay at home if you so
much desire to do so,” said her mother;
“but you must give me your reason for
not wanting to go to school to-day; it is
quite a new fancy, for you are generally
in such a great hurry to get off.”
“Ahl that is when I am early I”
cried Emily.
“Hut it is not late now,” said her
mother.
“Well, but Frank is gone,” answered
Emily, hanging down her head and
pouting her pretty red lips; “and he
will be waiting for me at the corner.”
“That would be kind in him, Emily,”
replied Mrs. Harding; “so why should
you not like to go with him ?’’
“I do not love Frank Leigh I” said
)he little girl, pettishly; “he is such
a homely boy, and he always walks with
me, and wants to hold my hand when we
are crossing the ice; and his hand is so
hard and rough, and he has such great
eyes, and snch straight hair, and his
jacket is so ugly 1 He is not a bit like
Cousin Edmund.”
“Very true,” said her mother; “but
Edmund has a rich father, who buys
him handsome clothes, and his mother
has time to dress him every morning
and brush his curly hair; but, though
be looks prettier, I do not think he is a
better boy than Frank. Frank’s father
is poor, and his mother has many little
children to dress every day, and cannot
spend so much time on him; besides
Frank works hard in his father’s gar
den, and that makes his hands rough;
but Frank is a favorite of mine; I think
him a very good, industrious little boy;
and I am sorry my Emily does not love
him because he is not pretty; it is bet
ter to be good than pretty, Emily,”
“Yes, mamma,” replied the little girl;
“but all the children make game of me
because I always go to school with him;
they say he is so homely, and call him
‘goggle eyes I’ I wish ho would not
walk with me 1 I don’t love him 1” and
here Emily began to cry.
Her mother tried to comfort her; but
Emily was but a small child and could
not understand all her mother said about
good looks being of less value than good
deeds. She was an affectionate little
girl, but she had been rather petted and
spoiled, which made her vain. She
thought herself very pretty, and her
pride was offended when the school
children said she was Frank Leigh s lit
tle wife, and called her “Mrs. Goggle
eyes.” So she made up her mind not to
walk with Frank or to play with him
any more. Poor Frank Ihe loved iiitle
Emily very much; he had gone to school
with her every morning for a whole year.
He was eight years old—two years older
than Emily— and he always took care of
her. If he bad an apple or a cake he
would save it to share with her; be car
ried her books, and, whale less hardy
boys stood looking on, he would climb
among the branches to gather her a
handful of blackberries, or venture up a
tail tree to get her a bird’s nest.
It was quite true, as Enily said, Frank
was not a good-looking boy, and his
dress was coarse; but he was kind and
good-tempered, and a bright boy at his
book. Ido not think Emily would have
found out that lie was not pretty if her
school-fellowa had.uot made game of him,
and they only did it because Frank was
always at the head of his class, and they
were jealous of him. But the boy who
laid the most ill-natured things about
’rank was Emily’s cousin; he was a year
older than Frank, with eurly hair and
red cheeks; he wore fine clothes and
went to the dancing-school; he was <*
dull boy at his book, and could hardly
read as well as little Emily, yet he could
say spiteful things, and he soon set all
the other children to call Frank names.
But Frank did not oaro about what
they said, until he found little Emily
would not walk or play with him. For
many mornings he tried to meet with
her on the way to school, but Emily was
always first; and coming home she
would keep in the midst of the other
girls, and pretend not to see him. But
Frank was determined to know the rea
son why she was so altered, and one
morning he rose very early, got through
all the work he had to do in the garden
and set oft' on his way to school. Ho
gathered some pretty wild flowers as he
went along, and when he cams to the
turning of the road whore he used to
wait for her, ho sat down on the grass to
watch till she came.
Soon he saw her at a distance, but he
hid himself until she had got close by,
and then coming up to her with a smile,
he offered her the bunch of flowers.
Emily was a little startled at seeing
him so suddenly, but instead of taking
his flowers, she turned her face away,
and walked by; but Frank followed her,
saying:
“Emily, dear Emily 1 what have I
done that you will not play with me as
you used; do tell me—please do I" And
Frank laid tight hold of Emily's frock,
and would not let her go. She tried to
pull her frock out of his hand, but he
said he would not leave go till she had
told him. Then Emily got cross and
said:
‘Go away, Frank; I don’t want to
play with you, and cousin Edmund says
yon ought not to play with me.”
“Why not ?’’ asked Frank. •”
“Because,” said the little girl, “be
cause yon are such a homely boy, and
you wear such an ugly old jacket;” ami
snatching her frock suddenly out of his
hand, she ran off.
Frank stood alone in the road, and for
the first time in his life began to think
about his looks. He cast his eyes over
his clothes; they were worn and shabby,
and they seemed more so when ho
thought of Edmund's fine velvet jacket
and white trousers. Then he ran to the
pond beside the road, and looked at the
leflection of his face in the water. He
flaw bis sunburnt face, with those large
eyes, and that rough, uncut hair, and he
remembered Edmund's rosy cheeks ami
shining-curls. Ho felt quite sure he
was, as Emily hod said, “a very homely
boy,” and be sat down on the bank, sail
and mortified. Two big tears came to
his eyes and rolled down his brown
cheeks, for he felt it was very unkind of
Edmund to set Emily against him. He
sat there for a quarter of an hour, when
the bell rang for school,
Frank jumped up suddenly, his eyes
brightened and he said: “Nevermind,
if I am a homely boy, I’m not a dunce !
Edmund has a fine jacket, but he cannot
write as well as I can; I am always at
the head of the class, and I mean to stay
there—and if Emily does not want to be
my playmate she may let it alone I”
From that day nobody ever saw Frank
Leigh playing with the other children,
ho never idled away his time, but was
always learning or working. At school
he was so attentive that his master took
great pains with him, and he was soon a
good scholar, and when he had time he
helped the carpenter in his shop, and he
cultivated his father’s garden so well that
the vegetables he raised sold for money,
and bought him and his little brothers
each a good suit of clothes, while Ed
mund Price was idle and selfish, and
thought only of amusing himself.
Now it happened one day, as the
children were coming out of school,
that a drover passed by with his dog; it
was a savage dog, and when it saw the
girls and boys run shouting along it flew
at them, and seized Emily by the
clothes. Edmund, who had bold of her
hand, let go and in a moment jumped
over the gate into a garden; the other
children ran screaming away, all except
Frank, who, seeing nothing else near,
seized a great stone and running up to
the dog, gave him such a blow on the
back with the stone that the animal let
go of Emily and, flying at the brave
boy, seized him by the arm and threw
him on the ground. It would, no doubt,
have killed him, but the drover camo to
his rescue, and got the dog off. Emily,
who had ran into a cottage terribly
frightened, now came out to see if
Frank was hurt, and found him in a sad
state, for the teeth of the dog had torn
his arm open, and the blood was pour
ing from the wound.
“Oh, Frank I Dear Frank I” ex
claimed she, crying bitterly; “you are
dreadfully hurt, and all for my sake,
too !”
Poor Frank was in great pain, and so
faint that he could hardly stand; but
Emily helped him back to the school
hon«e, and the master tied np his arm
and took him home in a cart. The doc
tor was sent for, and Frank was sick for
two weeks and not able to go to school.
Emily went to mo turn evert (Uy, and
took him fruit and jellies which her
mamma made for him. She would sit
and read to him and wateh by his side,
and one evening when he was in great
pain she cried sadly, and coming close
to his pillow she whispered :
“Frank, I was very unkind to you,
and I feel very sorry; ean you forgive
me?”
“I never blamed you, Emily,” said
Frank, turning his face round and kiss
ing her.
Emily is now grown a lady; she is
fourteen years old. I went to pay a
visit to her mamma last summer, and
one day I looked out of the parlor win
dow and saw a group of young people in
the garden. One I recognized as Ed
mund Price; he was lying on the grass
smoking a cigar. The other was a fine,
manly, intelligent-looking yonth, and he
was showing Emily something through
a telescope; that wan Frank Leigh,
When Emily came into the room I could
not help asking her if she did not think
Frank a very homely boy ?
“No, indeed 1” she replied. “He is
so kind, and so clever, and so good, that
everybody loves him. and no one thinks
of his looks. ”
A Tramp’s Victory.
The other day when a tramp stopped
a lawyer on Griswold street and begged
for u dime to get his dinner, the lawyer
replied :
“Why on earth don’t you get out into
the country ?”
“What fur?'
“Get you a piece of land and go to
farming.”
“My dear sir,” said the tramp, “if I
had the land, which I can’t get, I’d
know no more about farming than you
do cf sailing a ship. You are a smart
man—ten times as smart ns I am—but
can yon tell me when to plant corn ?”
“Why—ahem—why, in the spring, of
course. ”
“But the month ?”
“Well—ahem—l suppose it’s along
after the snow goes off.”
“And about rotation of crops ?”
“I—never heard of any."
‘ And what is sub-soiling?”
“Sub-soiling? Why, it’s something
connected with farming."
“And how much wheat do yon sow to
the acre ?’’
The lawyer couldn’t remember
whether it was twenty or forty bushels,
but dodged the case by observing:
“The great trouble with this country
is that we have too many consumers.”
“Thon how is it that breadstuff's, gro
ceries and clothing are down, and so
many factories shutting np? Haven't
we really produced too much ?” queried
the tramp. v
“But, as I remarked,” continued the
lawyer, as he shifted around, "this conn
try can never hope to improve until we
have protection.”
“Then how comes it that the lumber
business, already so heavily protected,
is flat as a fish ?”
“Bay, you shut up I” hotly exclaimed
the lawyer as he handed over a quarter
and moved off. “As I remarked in my
opening address we are living beyond
our means.”
“Well, I dunuo," replied the tramp,
as he pocketed the money, “I propose
to make this pay for three meals and a
bed, and I don’t see how you can figger
atty finer.”— Detroit Free Press.
Drying their Peaches.
I took the trouble to ride to Deer
Creek, California, said a newspaper cor
respondent. I thought that I had been
suddenly transported to the Garden of
E lon. I was in a forest of fruit trees, large
and lucious peaches, apples, pears and
plums of every variety. The trees were
not strong enough to bear their burden,
as I notice the greater part of them were
propped up with pieces of fence boards.
After becoming satiated with fruit I re
turned to the road and started to Vina.
I saw several wagons loaded with
peaches, and being driven by Chinamen
I inquired whence they were going.
One sleepy-looking Chinaman informed
me that he did not sabe and had no time
to talk. Curiosity prompted me to fol
low them.
I found they were hauling the peaches
to the high lands, where they had scaf
folds erected for the purpose of drying
the peaches. They cut the peaches in
halves, remove the stone and place each
half carefully upon the scaffold, taking
care to place them so that the sun will '
shine directly upon the inside of the
peach. Starting again to Vina I soon
met Olay Delany, who gave me the follow
ing items: There are now 1,000 China
men engaged drying peaches on Dee-
Creek. There are peaches enough to
keep 500 more employed, but there are
no more Chinamen to be had; hence
they have sold fifty tons to the Sacra
mento Cannery. The peanut crop is
simply immense. There are more pea
nuts raised on Deer Creek this year than
the whole State ever produced in one
year before. I asked Delany why the
Chinamen hanled the peaches to the
high land to dry them. He answered
that there was not room enough in the
orchards, and there was no dew on the
high lands, consequently they were soon
er dried, and as a natural consequence
they retained pore of their original
flavor.
CITY KITCHEN GARDENS.
WHERE NEW YORK (JETS ITS VEGE
TA BEES FOB THE DAY.
The Fm iiierN* Ulldolfilit Illnrket —From the
Truck Fnriiih of Lona loland to the Gob
ble hloneN <»i the ( ily.
(From the N. Y. Herald.]
Just after supper time every evening
during the summer and far into the au
tumn each one of the thousand truck
farms in near New Jersey and Long
Island sends forth a big market wagon
loaded with its produce. Au hour later
the roads as far out as Flushing on the
east and Paterson on the west are filled
Alin long lines of these vehicles slowly
•orverg ng toward one common point—
-5 ew York.
By (en o’clock the advance guard
reaches the North and East rivers, and
from then until one o’clock in the
morning the Bridge and the ferry-boats
are packed with heavily loaded vehicles,
which when once they reach the city go
rumbling over the stones until they
gather in one great mass at the Farmers’
midnight market.
Here, in the streets near the junction
of Dey and Washington, is to be found
one of the most picturesque phases of
night life in New York—long rows of
immense wagons backed up against the
curb, their tired horses standing with
drooping heads meeting in the middle of
the street—great piles of produce
blocking the sidewalks, where every
spare foot of space is occupied by the
farmers, grocerymen and speculators,
bargaining with each other rapidly in
seventeen different languages—checked
shirted “carriers” pushing along, each
one pushing, dragging or carting a bag
or a barrel, and above all the flaring oil
lamps against the awning posts, throw
ing their light in through the windows
of the deserted shops.
For two hours and more the bargain
ing continues and then, all the loads
being sold—for New York quickly con
sumes the vast production—the delivery
commences. This is the work of the
boss “carriers,” one of whom, for a dol
lar, engages to deliver a wagon load to
its purchaser or purchasers. “Tim the
Horse,” “Savannah,” “Pretty Jack”
and “Mustache,” ns the carriers are
called in the cheerful idiom of tiro
street, gather their men together, put
one or two on each wagon, and the
breaking up of the market begins.
The greater part of the produce hav
ing been bought by the speculators or
middle men, who the next day sell it to
the grocerymen, the majority of the
wagons are driven down to West Wash
ington Market This is the stronghold
of the speculators. Over four hundred
of them occupy the queer little double
decked booths which line Country row,
Broad avenue, Vesey pier, Merchant’s
row and the dozen other narrow little
lanes which make the market a minature
town.
Forty years ago the North River came
up to West street, and the New Jersey
farmers brought over their produce in
boats and carried it across the narrow,
unpaved road into old Washington Mar
ket. Now the river has been filled in
for a quarter of a mile further out, and
the made ground is occupied by the
wholesale or West Washington Market,
which is entirely distinct from the old
or retail market, and is as little known to
the average New Yorker as the top of
St. Paul’s steeple.
Many of the curious little shops are
built on piles, end not a few on old
scows and canal boats. The city, how
ever, owns all the space, and the booths
pay a ground rent into the municipal
treasury which aggregates $290,000 a
year.
From sunset until midnight, Country
zow and Garden lane are silent and de
serted. The booths are all open and the
contents thereof, from the boxes of eggs
to the barrels of pickles, are apparently
unguarded. On the floors, on boxes
and on the cobblestones outside lie the
porters, sound asleep. One could walk
through every lane of the market with
out seeing a moving thing.
But when at two o’clock the farmers’
wagons come down from the market
in Greenwich and Washington streets,
and the “carriers” begin to deliver the
variegated loads which the speculators
have just bought, each lane falls into a
condition oi apparent chaos to which a
jam on Bnadway is an easily solved
problem. There is, however, no actual
confusion, for the omnicient “carrier”
reigns supreme, and under his guiding
■hand, a wagon unloads its cargo at
half a dozen different booths, and starts
away over the ferry in an hour's time.
Many of these carriers are paid S3O a
week by the bosses, because of their
transcendent ability to dump a load of po
tatoes or apples on the floor of a specu
lator’s sin p so as to bring the best points
of the sturt uppermost.
“Some of our men are mighty smart,”
said one of the boss carriers to a re
porter, early on a recent morning, as he
watched the unloading of a thousand
bunches of radishes from a wagon to a
shop floor. “If that man was a green
hand he’d make those radishes look
fifty per cent, smaller and more wilted
than they look now—it’s in the way he
sort of sizes up each bundle as he takes
bold of it, and throws it on the heap
just where it will do the most good. Os
course we pay such men high wages.
The farmers won’t give their jobs of un-
loading to a carrier that has poor men,
for they make Ids stuff look poor, and
he loses custom."
Just as the first gray light of the
morning appears the sleepy farmers and
ferryboats and begin their long journey
home, while the boats on their return
trips are packed with milk wagons com
ing from the milk depots at the railroad
stations. The three roads which termi
nate in Jersey City bring in every night
from the neighboring counties of New
Jersey ten thousand cans of milk. As
much more is brought in by the Hudson
River, the Harlem and the New York
and New Haven roads from New York
and Connecticut, but it is all drank be
'ore the next morning comes again.
“Yes,” said one of the middlemen—or
speculators, as they call themselves—as
he rubbed his eyes and stared at the
first red ray of sunlight aero-s the sky
behind Trinity steeple, "it’s been agood
summer for growing things—too good
for the farmers and us. There’s so much
been raised thatprices have been knocked
all to pieces. It don’t pay to bring
Apples, nor string beans, nor tomatoes
into the city, they're so cheap; and cab
bages—why you can get a stunner for
two cents.
“Times ain’t as they used to be,* he
continued, as he put on his coat and
walked along the gutter which runs
through the middle of Country row.
“I'm going home now to get a few hours’
sleep, and let my partner sell what I
bought to-night to the grocetymen.
They’ll be here in a little while. By
seven o’clock to-day the twelve hundred
wagon loads of vegetables which were
brought in last night by the farmers
will be scattered all over the city, and
half of it’ll be eaten for breakfast.”
—. o
Umnosick for Ihe Prairie.
808 BOBPETTE OONTHASTB MFB IN VARI
OUS SECTIONS OF AMEtiIOA.
[ was just thinking I would like to be
sent out West j-ist about now on some
commission for an able and enterprising
journal, at a largo salary, railroad jiasses,
nothing to do and two or three of the
boys to help ino do it. I just feel a
little bit prairie hungry. A Western
man lever lose? les love for the prai
ries. They call them “prurries” in
Indiana, “peraries” in Illinois, “prairs”
in Nebraska, “perars” in Kentucky, and
“pararies" in Boston; but whatever you
call them they are all the same. I
would like to hear the wind blowing
across the great plains in Kinsas, over
the beautiful treeless biuffi at Man
hattan, or along the great ranches out at
Larned. You know the wind never
blows anywhere else as it does across
the prairies. And there it blows all the
time. 3G5 days a year. It roars in your
ears now and then like the rush of many
waters; it sighs and sings and whispers
through the tall, swaying grassgs; its
song is never monotonous; it varies all
day long; and as it sings and whistles
it breathes into your soul a sense of per
fect freedom, such as you can experience
nowhere else.
A mountain is a prison compared with
the prairie. The mountain threatens
yon; it is not loving and tender; it
frowns upon you with great gray locks;
it never smiles; it scowls with dark
ravines and treacherous precipices; it
terrifies you with blinding fogs and
drifting mists; it swathes its stony, gor
gon head in black elouds and speaks to
you in muttering syllables of thunder.
You cannot breathe in the narrow passes,
you cannot run on the steep, rough,
winding paths, you bend your head
back until your neck aches, to see a
little strip of the blue sky. But the
prairie—boundless, immense, a billowy
sea of emerald, dotted- with the rank,
bright colored flowers that play with
the singing, whittling, whispering
winds; the prairie that seems bonnded
only by the bending sky and the stars;
the resin weed gives you the compass
and the compass gives you the pass; go
where you will and as you please, at
a foot pace or at a headlong gallop, free
as the free winds that make the prairie
their only home. There is no room for
them anywhere else.
The I ast of Fanny Elssler.
A dispatch from Vienna, Austria,
says:—Fanny Elssler is dying in this
city. Fanny Elssler is the daughter of
Johann Elssler, who was known in his
time as the amanuensis and companion
of Haydn, the composer. She was born
in Vienna, June 23, 1810, appeared very
early in a juvenile ballet and in 1817
was engaged at a leading Viennese
theatre. In 1825 she went with her
teother to Naples to study the higher
ii\' of ballet dancing. Iler first tri
um;- 1 - were won with her sister in Ber
lin, :■ ! ' Her beauty, amiability and
skill h ■ cintaueously won the hearts of
her au.lieuces in Geimany, Italy, Rus
sia ai.d England. In 1840-42 she ex
hibited her art in America, and in 1848
established herself in St. Petersburg.
Ou .lune 21, 1851, she bado farewell to
the stage at Vienna, where she had
lived since 1854. Her histrion and pan
tomimic talent was quite as remarkable
an her grace, simplicity and skill as a
dancer; Her sister died in 1878.
He Went Around.
Field Marshal von Moltke, returning
recently from Ragatz, in Switzerland,
where he has been spending a few
weeks in retirement, was presented by
the inhabitants with a large bouquet, it
being known that the old soldier is a
great lover of flowers. He proposed to
return home byway of the Vorarlberg,
which would necessitate his crossing the
Austrian frontier. Here, however, his
bouquet was refused passage, it not be
ing permitted to take flowers across the
frontier for fear of the phylloxera. The
Marshal, rather than part from his bou
quet, changed his route, and proceeded
borne through German Switzerland.
. . <■«.»
So many women are now doing i- . .
formerly done by men that the male sex
is being driven into matrimony as a
means of support,