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q. F 'll _ Oiß »li J -4 \ Jw» I St?J? WW V/w LiF -W --if ’ ■ ?>’ A S No EQUA 1 - £T“ ~ L - J. f 30 UNION SQUAP' NEW YORK C,*' CAff <? >5 LA 'V>, •“-- 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,