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;{}Y & REID, Proprietors.
The Family Journal.—News—Politics—Literature—Agriculture—Domestic Afjairs.
GEORGIA TELEGRAPH BUILDING.
ABLISHED 1826.}
MACON, FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 1868.
[UaX
YOL XLII.-N0. 43.
Triumph of Scientific Tillage,
L p the late prof. jjuj. l. mapes.
twenty years ago a New York
i purchased a small homestead
West of Newark. There were
' fis, and when the first p*
1 Je lie had no funds in bank to
.pro vement8 with; for he had taken
jjceof land, not to have a polite
Rowing how much money he had
tat that he and his children might
tilling it. It was a. rough old farm,
j hall-ruinous farmhouse, * a large
smelling cider shed, and a small
jioned barn. Great sprawling
fences, dilapidated and overgrown
or three yards on each side with
hushes and sumac and briers, ran
the tract in various directions.—
he put his share in to see what was
Aspect for ryebread and potatoes,
lad he had a tough case of it.
were about three inches of soil,
. places four, perhaps, and below
pan of yellow clay, full of red stones,
and large. It was hard, rough
tfor ploughmen and steers to get up
inches of this stubborn earth, and
ploughed and sowed, what would
oduce? Five, and in good seasons,
n bushels of rye to the acre. One
was overgrown with young persim-
u, so they call it the persimmon lot.
[times it would give fifty bushels to the
:f Irish potatoes and sometimes it
not. But, with these discourage-
jnd drawbacks, the purchaser had
-reme, overmastering advantage.
1 the knowledge, the ideas, the
lion that make one a scientific farm-
t believed that chemistry, in which
learned, would aid him in the op-
s of agriculture; that skill pa-
labor, and shrewd management
enable him to bring order out of
:nos and make the rough hill-side
Seauty for ashes. He believed that
ductiveness of a soil depends no
;n its chemical constitutents than
mechanical condition; as much on
ugh as on the dung-heap; and that
rhas improved much on old Roman
three rules for farming: First,
i thoroughly. Second—Plough
Third—Put in the fertilizers.—
smenced with one comer, about a
»f the tract, and ploughed it well
iinured it liberally. A great num-
stones came to the surface, these
:icked oft and hauled away to make
and perpetual road bed. The
were grubbed out, and the old
tails all hailed away for founda-
Mes aud roads. This was kept up
cer year till more than three tho-
■srtloads of rock had been taken
Jefurface. Professor Mapes was
efied that he had obeyed Cato’s
:e about ploughing thoroughly.—
>ight that he ought to invaae that
subsoil, and let air and moisture
and make it porous, so in a dry
would act as a sponge and draw
Inure from the stratum below.—
•me the question how he was to
it in the best manner. He could
i-ig plough and two or three yoke
sand break up and turn over the
But this would invert the soil,
tag the dark tilth now enriched with
manure and lime and salt and
and blood and decayed fish, ten
Wow the upturned subsoil. This
t seem to he the thing at all, so he
taself to work to invent a plough.—
lole that can work in the ground so
re him a hint. He made a model,
■a changed it, and changed in again,
worked to suit him. He did not
a plough, but a subsoil lifter,
‘'s Subsoil Lifter.” It looks like a
lender flat-iron attached to the
beam. It goes six or eight inches
the bottom of a furrow-bed, lifting
making up the hard-pan, but not
git He used it in all his fields,
ent on adding blood and bone and
•1 lime and dung to'the soil till he
o place which is pronounced the
* rm in the United States. We
tall over these acres the other day,
: -l rule in hand, to probe the soil
"*ston it with scrutiny. There is a
* of twelve inches alike throughout
«,of dark color,-mellow and fine,
1 muddy in wet weather, nor dusty
: jht. Below this is a subsoil that
inches is mellow and porous,
unfertilized. And below this are
'*ms on most of the tract forty feet
Some idea of the vigor of this soil
* obtained by knowing that Mr.
the manager, who realizes upon
"ace all the plans and calculations
Professor, can plant cabbage, on
persimmon lot of seven acres,
a half feet apart each way, and
•hat ninety out of every hundred
*h It makes no difference wheth-
1 ns or not on the Mapes Farm.-
ji - when there was a parching
over half the country, the blades
a U fired and turned yellow, the
■aves of cabbages shrivelling and
off, Mr. Quinn made a full crop.
a small subsoil lifter constantly
between the cabbage rows and
‘car nioisture from below, since it
* given from above. A good
1 ‘ n g is frequently as helpful, and
^ more so than a generous shower,
'.•he Mapes farm pay ?
does, as well as any equal area
gantry. For agriculture purposes
Nacres are now worth a thousand
The old house has been re-
J j an elegant and spacious home.
“ft pictures and carvings, broad
?> ^ell-filled alcoves ana pleasant
all bought with what came from
, ^he gross income from the sale
4 and vegetables is from six to ten
draining, the subsoiling, the generous
manuring, the spacious home, with its
comforts, have been developed from- the
soil itself. In other words, these forty
acres, such as we have described, have
raised a family from comparative penury
to opulence, surrounded them with every
appointment of comfort and taste,-and
are to-day a thousand per cent, more
valuable as a farming property than when
the Professor first began to carry out
upon them his “book-farming” idea of
hillside drainage, deep tillage, and special
manuring. There are now in thrifty
condition on this place seven thousand
pear-trees. One row of thirty has often
yielded, on an averse, ten dollars from
each tree a year. Bad weather in May
has made the crop almost a failure this
year." When the young trees are grown
there may confidently be expected a dol
lar’s worth from each tree on an average.
The spaces between the rows are kept
rich, often ploughed, and until the trees
are ten years old, yield valuable crops.—-
For instance, two hundred and fifty dol
lars worth of rhubarb was sold this Spring
from three quarters of an acre where the
pear trees are six years old.
In January, 1866, this model farmer
died. God’s finger touched him, and he
was laid to sleep beneath the sod he loved,
in the bosom of the soil he had studied
with so much enthusiasm. But his in
fluence is not buried. While he lived he
constantly reported to the world the re
sults of his studies, and gave mankind the
full benefit of his talents. These writings
remain and the farm remains, the exam
ple and the proof of all, a perpetual and
eloquent rebuke to all sneers about book
farming. Let the skeptic who may be
lieve that stage coaches are as gOod as
cars, who believes that six inches of mel
low earth are as good as twelve, who poohs
at such expressions as “superphosphate,”
“sulphate of ammonia,” and plant fruit
in a “progressed” state, visit the Mapes
Farm ana turn from the error of his ways
and live.
B * year, the average coming to
thousand. The labor biH is
^•een hundred, and the expendi-
jaanures from three to four hun-
•“s leaves a net profit of six
per cent, on sixty thousand.
Q al cost of the tract was a hnn-
l, 'j anty-fivedollarg an acre, of four
' aollarg. All the imnrovenients
, 7 —. All the improvements
'bribed, removal of stones, the
Bad News fob the Rats.—Recent
experiments show that squills (Scyll ma
ritime?),. the enormous bulbous root of
which is much used in medicine, is not
only a powerful poison for rodents, but
also one they are very fond of. The way
of preparing it for the desired purpose is
as follows: One of the bulbs is cut
into slices, hashed and bruised, then cook
ed done in the pan with fat, which is af
terwards strained through a cloth and
poured into broken plates and saucers,
to be placed in the cellars and others
places infested with rats, mice, etc. To
prevent dogs and poultry from eating
the poisonous compound, in stables,
pigeon-houses, or farm-yards, it may he
put into a wooden box, about a foot and
a half long, and having a hole at each
end. The rat gets in at one end and
goes out at the other, after partaking of
the noxious food, which soon kills it.
Squills may tie also reduced to powder
for the same purposes, by bruising them
in a mortar to a pulp, which is after
wards incorporated with as much flower
as it will hold. This paste is then rolled
out, as they do for a pudding, then cut
into shreds, which are left to dry on hur
dles or on sheets of pasteboard, and are
afterwards pounded into a mortar. The
powder thus obtained will keep for years,
and may he put into boxes or barrels. If
manufactured on a large scale, it may be
come a profitable article of exportation.
In Algeria squills cost nothing, the conn
try being absolutely over-run with them
—English paper.
Ah Old Manufacturer's Recol
lections.—Ex-Gov. James Y. Smith, of
R. I., ono of the most eminent manufac
turers of New England, remembers the
weaving of printing cloths as far back as
1817—half a century ago. They were
woven exclusively on hand-looms. “Al
most every family had one of these ma
chines, and it was the almost universal
custom for country girls to take home
from the neighboring store a quantity of
yam to weave in printing cloth, as the
young women of the present day make
ready-made clothing or bind shoes. In
this way they earned their pin-money; and
some who afterwards became wives and
mothers of very distinguished men in
Rhode Island and Connecticut, passed a,
good part of their youthful days in this
employment. Amasa Sprague, father of
the well-known manufacturers of the pre
sent day, used to give out yarn to be
woven into printing cloths, at Pequonock
(Groton), about this time.
Up to 1821 or 1822, the hand loom was
exclusively used in weaving print-cloths.
In one of these years, Gov. Smith rode
with Capt. Peabody to Canterbury, Conn.,
to see the operation of some power-looms
which had just been setup by the Sterling
Company. There were 24 of these ma
chines—a marvel, indeed, in those days.
Cloth for printing was mado on these looms.
The earliest printers in Rhode Island
were Zacchariah Allen and William
Sprague. The latter was printing cotton
in 1822, in a very.small way, an<f “under
difficulties.” The cloth used was very
coarse; but the printing was the wont of
the job. He made but two styles of goods
both blue, one with a running vine and
another with a small dot. They were sold
at 37 and 42 cents per yard. The pro
cess of printing was then cumbrous, and
its results precarious; the figure was first
drawn upon the cloth and covered with
paste;- the cloth was then dyed blue, and
the paste being washed offi the pattern
remained.
A DETECTIVE'S STORY.
What lift is more thrilling than that of
a police detective, what more full of start
ling adventure ? An incident in the ex
working. I found out all about her
friends, and with whom she associated.—
From these I learned that she was en
gaged to be married to “Charley,” who
represented himself as a young n echanic,
perience of two men well known in the that he had persuaded her to 'go to 8fc.
city of New Orleans, as the most 'skillful i Louis for that purpose, where it was said
and accomplished detective* in the South
ern country, has been related to the re
porter. It is useless to say who they are,
their names are household words through
out the valley of the Mississippi. The
event about to he related is of recent oc-
that he had relatives. I knew it was only
to get rid of her while he married tl»
merchant’s daughter. I had got all tht
information I wanted. As I returned I
passed by the theatre, brilliantly lighted
for an evening*B entertainment. I stepped
currence. 1 It is one of the unpublished j in; the beauty and the fashion of the city
histories of crime, one of the heart-beats ] were there. In one of the boxes sat
underneath the social current of the great
city. But the words of the detective in
vests the relation with an interest more
potent than the reporter can accord it
Let him tell the story:
A robbery had been committed in one
of our large commercial houses under
very singular circumstances. The day
preceding the crime a large amount of
money had been received and left in the
safe over night. Part of this money con
sisted of $20 and $50 bills. Unknown to
any one but the proprietor they were
marked with a small cross in read ink in
the left hand corner. The safe was locked
at night, in the morning it was open, the
night clerk asleep under the influence of
chloroform and the money gone. The
cashier was a young man of high social
position, and about to be married to the
daughter of the proprietor. He alone
earned the keys of the safe. It was evi
dent that the lock had been picked, or
opened with the key. Our observation
convinced us that it was the latter. Still
we kept our own council. At the request
of the merchant the whole matter was
kept a profound secret. It furthered our
chances of detecting the robber that it
should "be so. Before we had left the
store, we had settled in our minds the
identity of the thief; but it was necessary
to obtain the proof before our suspicions
were divulged, or arrest attempted. De
scriptions of the money stolen was left
with certain parties, under whose obser
vation it was most likely to come if put
in circulation, with instructions to detain
the person offering it until we were sent
for. This was all that could be done for
the present. We went home to await
developments. Still we kept our eyes on
the cashier. He was young, and although
he never drank to excess, was fast. H
Charley and his betrothed. She was ra
diant in beauty—he attentive and lover-
like. My resolution was taken on the
instant. I left the theatre hurridly and
went to. the station. - In a few minutes 1
returned accompained by Mary. I took
her to a seat commanding a full view of
the box. One glance was enough; I saw
that her heart was breaking. Silently I
lead her out of the theatre and back to
the station.
“Will you tell me now ?”
“I can die, but I have nothing to tell.”
She never did. It was useless to detain
her. We let her go, but three weeks af
terward she died of a broken heart. The
mystery of the robbery has never been
explained.
A Grave Matter.— Some time ego an af
fectionate wife departed this life, and, for
the benefit of her husband, who remained in
this “vale of tears,” she ordered placed npon
her tombstone the following verse:
“Weep not Car me mj dearest deer.
I am not dead but sleepier bate.
Repent, my love, before yon die. _
For you must tone and sleep with L
In a year or so afterward, the affectionate
husband, believing it not good for man to live
alone, took unto himself another epouee, and
under the first verse placed the following
explanatory lines: tvMt'aftepji ?•>
“I will not weep, my dearest life,
f or I here *ot another wife,
cannot come and (leap with thee.
ForTmn*t go ibd sleep with she/J
spent a great deal of money, and to use a
common expression, was the duce among
the girls. Once or twice we saw him
walking in the squares of evenings with a
very pretty young English girl, a milliner,
working on Canal street. There was
something very noticeable about the girl’s
face—-a sort of melancholy and sadness
that went straight to our hearts. Any
one would have felt kindly towards her
by just looking at her. Somehow or
other, I felt a presentiment that this girl
was mixed up in the robbery. I couldn’t
get rid of the idea.. It haunted me. In
this way several weeks passed. One day
we'received a message in a great hurry to
come to the steamboat landing. It was
late in the afternoon, and the boat for St.
Louis was about leaving. 1 Arriving
there, we went at once on board the Re
public, and up to the clerk’s desk. Stand
ing at the counter was the pretty English
girl, and in the hands of the clerk were
two of the marked $20 bills. She had just
offered them in payment for her passage
to St. Louis. I felt now that the cashier
was in my clutches. • But it was necessary
to proceed carefully and not frighten the
girl. As gently as I could, I told her that
the money she had just offered at the
counter had been stolen; that it was ne
cessary for me to know where sheobtained
it. At my words her face took the livid
hue of death, but she shook her head as
much as to say she would never tell me,
I plied her with impotunities, entreated
and begged; but. it was of ho avail. I
had no recourse but to take her into custo
dy. Still I hoped to be able to discover
from her the proof of the cashier’s guilt.
He was evidently her lover; but I doubted
much if she knew "his real name or actual
position. I plied her with questions on
this head, and although she was on her
guard, and her answers evasive, I was
soon satisfied that the real name of her
lover was unknown to her. As I left the
cell I heard her mutter in the most poig
nant grief—
Oh, Charley, Charley, can this be
true ?” This was, indeed, his first name.
I returned on the instant and said to her
that I knew the person who gave her the
money, that his name was Charley .
At the mention of this name she clapped
her hands and laughed. It was not the
name she knew him by. I was almost at
my wits end. The girl must confess or
the real criminal would escape punish
ment. I thought, however, of a recourse
and put it into execution at once. I went
to the store and told the merchant that I
wanted a picture of every member of hie
establishment, himself included. He
looked puzzled but complied with my re-
S uest. Armed with these I returned to
ie cell. I told the.girl I had something
to show her—my heart ached as I did so.
I knew she worshipped the heartless
scoundrel who betrayed her. I held the
picture so that she could see it in full; as
the light flashed on it, I said to her,
Mary, thisis the Charity l am after.” -
She gave one quick, hurried glance at
the pictures, then, with a low moan of an
guish, fell fainting to the floor. The tears
would come to my eyes as I looked at the
poor, beautiful creature in her agony.—
Only Heaven knows how I pitied, her^but
justice, as well as her own good, required
that [ the mask should, be lifted and the
criminal .‘exposed; : As soon as she-had
time to recover; I went to her again. I
found her calm, but with a look of sorrow
that pierced me to my heart. I told her
who her lover was, his crime, and begged
her to reveal all she. knew of. him. I
might as well have talked toa stone.-—
She sat deaf silent in her tearless anguish.
Only once she murmured, “he loves me,
he is true to me.” I told her she was
mistaken—he. cared nothing about her—
would never many her. She laughed at
me in bitter scorn. As a last resource, I
went to the place where she had been
Better than £L BTovel—A STew Work
Romance,
New York, August 3,1868.
Several months ago a fair-faced and
flaxen-haired newspaper man, one of the
best one of the class of New York Bohe
mians, managed by his perfect manners
and quiet, insinuating mode of speech
(for he gave no references) to obtain a
front room on the third or uppermost
story of one of the most respectable of
those very respectable houses in Belfair
Place New York. Equally as insinuating
and pleasant mannered, however (for she
likewise gave no references), must have
been the young married lady who a few
days previously had taken the back room
immediately opposite, these two rooms be
ing the only ones on the uppermost floor.
Three months passed on. The young man
wrote hard all day, and either visited or
had friends young or old, to see him of
evenings. The young married lady sat
in her room and sewed or sang 1 , and wa3
never seen to receive any visitor, male or fe
male, made no acquantances in the house,
dressed with plain richness, and paid her
landlady punctually one month in ad
vance. During the hot June days the
heat in these rooms next to the roof be
came intolerable. He left his door half
open, and she heard his quill scratch
while he wrote. She left her door half
open, and he heard her singing the “Hites
lui,” and sometimes caught a glimpse of
a white hand winging its way like a car
rier-pigeon across some filmy blue fabric
like a sky. One day she was taken ill,
and continued so for a week, no one to at
tend her but the doctor, the servants, and
the landlady, whose attentions were ex
tremely precarious. The young man, with
a very natural and gentleman by interest,
inquired after her from day to day, and
when Bhe grew convalescent learned from
the servants that she was sadly in need of
some light reading, all the books she had
with her being of a serious and devotional
torn. He sent her in, with his compli
ments, a package of the latest magazines
and melodies. Perhaps there were some
poems. It must have been so, for a few
days after he overheard her speaking to
the lady of the house of the very graceful
powers as a story-writer and poet of the
young man who occupied the opposite
room. This unmeant, unconscious, fiat-,
tery was like sweet-tasted lightning tq him
nough. They met; they looked; they
loved. I have no sequel to relate which
any one need blush to read either in secret
or aloud. I know the general character
ascribed to newspaper men, or any that
bear about them, the slightest Bohemian
aroma, is not that of intense mortality;
and that young married ladies, lodging
alone, taking their meals out, and re
ceiving no visitors, arc not cited by ma
ternal heads of families as examples of
the most shining virtues. Yet that blessed
exception which is the proof of so many
accursed rules was present in this case,
and nothing passed between this lonely
young man and lonely young woman but
what good people everywhere would de
clare no sin. Of course it was imprudent
for them to continue so close together
when he was burning with all the unre-
strainability of first love, and when her
husband was living. For it was so.—
Four years ago she had married, and for
four years she had endured from her - hus
band all the ill-treatment—including
blows, pennilessness, foul language, and
nameless insult—which it is in the power
of a whisky-maddened brute to confer.—
At length resolving to leave him, she pre
pared for it bysecretly pawning her watch
and jewels, and selling her most costly
dresses, the only articles which in his most
frenzied moments she had had the pluck
to keep out of bis reach under lock and
key. With this very respectable sum ob
tained, she secretly left the home he had
made .wretched for her, and took that
modest room in Belfair Place .under an
assumed name. There she lived in an
humble manner, partly by giving music
lessons out and partly by doing work for
one of two of the large dress-goods houses,
who had been friends of her family, and
to whom she franklv told thestorv of her
wrongs. All this she frankly told to the
young man, whose nom de plume, if not
widely known, would at least, I think, be
recognized in this city. But lie is greater
as a man than he ever will be as a writer;
for he kept his passion for her pure, and
thereafter, whenever they met; it was in
the large, gloomy parlors down stairs,
where a dozen othere were sitting.
At the cheerful hour of 1 o’clock yes
terday morning, however, the three
blocks of Belfair Place were started by a
violent bell ringing at the house I have
indicated, and a stentorian voice of a man
roaring at thd top of his strength, “I
vant my wife! I want my wife!! I want
my wife!,!!” .Christine being the name
of the young married lady occupying the
third floor back. At that hour all the
neighborhood was in a state of dignified
repose, such as no other neighborhood was
ever wrapped in upon earth; but the cries
were so resounding, and the bell-ringing
so violent, that pretty soon lights were
seen quivering from beneath green gloom
ing shades, and decorously frilled night
caps and night-gowns peered through the
infinitesimal loop-holes of mosquito-nets.
A dim glimmering that something was
wrong at last began to pervade the torpid
tranquility of the house before whose por
tal all this hubbub was taking place. In
the third story, mo^e particularly, there
was a very perceptible confusion. Lights
danced about, doors were opened and shut
whispered questions and replies were inter
changed. “Save me! hide me, it is my
husband.” was the burden of the princi
words overheard. But even while they
were being uttered the hall door had been
opened by one of the frightened servants,
and the heavy, uncertain tread of a strong
man in liquor was heard bungling through
the halls. It came nearer and nearer; it
came up the narrow flight of steps that led
to the topmost story, dimly lit by a soli
tary gas-burner. Beneath this stood a
group of two, the sight of which caused
the drunken wretch to make a rush for
ward with an oath and other unrepeata
ble language. In doing so he fell, his
temple striking a sharp hook projecting
two inches from the wainscoting. The
nail that entered the temple of Sisera
did no surer work, and the slow-trickling
blood that oozed in thin channels along
the floorannounced to the terror-trembling
Christine that her husband was dead, the
horror of her life over, and she free to wed
whom she chose. The wretched man will
be buried to-morrow. The young man
is embalming the memory of these events
to make use of in a future story, and the
amiable and virtuous Christine has re
paired to the house of a friend, there to
don befitting weeds, and observe a de
cent year’s mourning. At the end of that
year there will be a wedding; a hard
working newspaper man that I wot of will
be made happy, although I think, after
the honeymoon is over, the new couple
will prefer settling down in a neighbor
hood remote fromB elfair Place.
JIM NELSON’S REVENGE.
I always like coming straight at things,
so if I am going to tell you what I know
about this, I ask your leave to do it in
my own way, for I’m a plain man, with
plain words, and have no knowledge of
writing fine, so here goes: 'v :
I was married to Susan Gately on the
first day of February, in the year 1863,
at St. Paul’s Church, Highford street,
which may be seen by looking at the
writing in the books. Her father is in
the butchering line. He says to me, when
I asked him for Susan, “William,” says
he, “of course I have a liking for my-lit
tle girl, and like to see her well settled in
life, and happy; and I ask you as a man
and a father what’s your lookout?” ,
“ Susan’s father,” says I, “ I drive, as
you know, on the Great Eastern, that
goes across the country, with $400 a year
and fuel, and I’ll take care of youf Susan,
and be a kind and dutiful man to her.’ ;
“ William,” says he, shaking my hand,
with tears in his eyes that the bleating of
all the lambs he’s killed in his day
could’nt bring, “you can take her, and
good luck to yer, though since her moth
er was throwed, she’s been bite and sup
to me, and ’Eaven help but that she may
be the same to you.”
Well, I was going away, feeling hap
py along of the ease with which things
were working, when he calls me back
saying, “William, I ain’t a vicious man
nor yet a backbiter, but 1" must say that
if you take Susan you get ah enemy along
with her.”
“Sho,” says I, taken quite aback.
“Fact,” says be, “that Jim Nelson has
been hankering after my little girl off and
on, but she don’t like him. No more do
I, and no more do you.”
I nodded yes. ‘f
“And he told me one night he’d he ah
enemy to him that gpt Susan, without it
was himself.”
“Never you fear; I thought it was
them lawyers that might be driving us
apart,” said I, laughing .hearty; but the
old fellow shook his head in a doubtful
style.
Well, we—that is Susan and I—were
wedlocked, as they call it, gay and hap
py as a marriage bell; we were coming
out of the church, when up came Jim
Nelson, white round the month and nose,
and he whispered to me:
“William Rogers, there’s something be
tween you and me so long as you live,
which won’t be long.”
What he said.he said quickly, and be
fore I could get Susan’s arm off, so as to
give him a clinch, Susan’s pa—who was
walking behind, with a white rose in his
mouth—stepped up, and being a strong
man, he caught Jim by the shoulders ana
turned him around, and gave him one
with his boot. I think it was done well,
for he rolled down the steps and into a
hole that the sexton was in, and that is
worse. I did’nt feel like laughing, for it
seemed unnatural, and that day was to
and I wanted it so all round;
and it felt as though my engine was run
ning over the sleepers instead of on the
rails, when Jim got out of the hole all
covered with dirt, and stood as pale as a
ghost, shaking his fist at me and Susan,
without saying a word.
of dread stuck to me. In spite of all I
could do, the thoughts of it would come
suddenly to me in the the oddest places,
and I began to feel , a little strange. It
wasn’t fear for me, at all, but I kept
thinking, supposing he should do some
harm to Susan when I was away on the
road, or come and scare her with his
white face. . By George! thinks I to my
self, I’d tie him on the track lengthwise,
and run over him, if I thought he’d do
that. I know [it was a cruel thing to
think of him who bad done me no harm,
but T was just so savage along of think
ing bf his wanting to come between me
and my lawfttl wife.
The next day I went ; on my route, as land put it on the platform behind me,
usual} which was from Croydon to PaUer- then quick as. may be I hallooed for I felt
ton, just one hundred and three miles. I a kina of weakness coming over me. I.
drove the Nestor with the Express down I took the baby in my arms, but was toe
in the morning, and then back to Croy-1 weak to go hack, so I sat down there.—
don again, starting about four o’clock in The engine was going like lightning and
the afternoon; though it'is hot quite cer- the rain was beating: in mine and the ba-
tain, as we have to wait for passengers by I by’s free, and the wheels were grinding
the boat, and that, is kept, back by storms I and.roaring, and afore Heaven I never
and such-like, though on the average the I was so womanish as I was then, with the
time dosen’t vary more than fifteen min- poor little thing in my arms, sobbing as
UteB. I if its heart would break. I was only there
In the winter time, as it was when this I a moment and was nearly fainting, when
happened, of course it is dark as pitch I heard a shout louder than the storm and
when we run into Croydon, without I the noise of the engine, and I opened my
there’s a moon; and l alwayslook well at eyes and saw the figure of a man about
the head light, and drive with my eyes I thirty yards in front of the engine. He
open; and I generally let her go. mil, as I stooped down, then jumped up with some-
tne track is well cleared of special trains I thing large in his hands, ana threw it off
at that time} and the way wty have of I the track; then he did it again and again;
telegraphing now-a-days keeps me well I he worked quick and wila-like, and just
posted about the track ahead, and the I before the engine reached him jumped off
ai^nalalong the route. So you see I felt land waved his arms at me and the baby,
pretty safe, and knowing I was a careful I and the glare of the lantern fell on him
man I didn’t have much fear that Pd-Jet I at that instant; and showed a face which
out anything that would Bhow that Jim I was pale round the lips and nose, such as
was going to get his revenge by doing me 11 had seen before,
a harm on tne road, or by spoiling my I Well, I got hack to the cab with the
reputation as an engineer. For, do you I baby, and whistled brakes off, and went
see, the idea to me, knowing the read {into Croydon thirty-five minutes behind
himself, and all its workings, was that he I time.
might think it was easy to hurt me that I I told Susan all about it, and she took
way, and so I kept my eyes open. I the baby in fine style, and we sat by the
The next day I looked at Jim’s house, I fire that evening, talking and wondering
which is twenty-miles out of ^ r Croydon, in I over what had happened, when. a knock
the woods, and near the track; I saw I came to the door, and I went to the door,
him standing by the doorway, scowling at I and says I, “Who’s there .
me, or at least where he knew we was I “It’s me,” says a voice that was trem-
for he knew my train and habits, as we I bling, as though the man was crying.
chums once. He kept his eyes on | “Let me in, Rogers;.- I’am Jim Nelson;
the cab window, and as we got almost out | Iv’e nothing again you and Susan, now,
of sight I looked around sudden, and saw I God knows.”
him shaking his fist at the train. ^Thinks | So I opened the door and he came in
I to myself, when I saw that, “William Istaggering as if he was intoxicated, and
Rogers you look sharp when you come I as white as snow; then he looked round
back over this route to-night; men that I the room and seeing the baby in Susan’0
have a spite that lived as strong as that I lap, he ran to it, and kneeling down,
two days and two nights ought to be look-1 buried his face in his clothes, and sobbed
ed after;” and more than mat. “ Susan I and. cried as I never saw before or since,
said to me that morning when she was I After awhile he got a little calmed; then
putting my dinner in the pail, says she, J he stood up, and turning to me, he Bays:
“William, dear—” I “William Rogers, I meant to do & harm
“ Yes, Susan,” says I, with my mouth I to-night, hut you saved the little one for
full of bread. I me, which is all 1 love in this big world;
“William, would it make much differ-1 you took one away from me, and I
ence if you' came in half an hour late | thought to mend by breaking; but, Wil-
with the train to-night?” I liam,” he went on; “I wasn’t the old Jim
“No, Susan, perhaps not.” You see I Nelson, which is a true man, and who is
I half knew what was coming. I speaking to you, and so I ask forgiveness
“Because,.I’m afraid, almost, of some-1 of you and her.”
thing; don't ask me what it is, for I don’t I Then Susan and. I shook hands Fjith
know myself. I feel it, somehow, and I him, but we could not speak a word; then
I want you to drive slow, and promise I Jim stooped down and took the baby into
me, William, dear, do look.at the-wheels J his arms, and says as a last wordtoSu-
and things, won’t you?”
“ Susan,” said I, kissing her, “ I’ll walk
her all the way.”
And that was what I was going to dp. ]
I made Collins the fireman as mad as a
san and me:
“God blesshoth of you for man and
wife, and may you always be happy.”
Then he turned away, and shut the door
behind him, and went out into the storm
March hare, -by making him go through I and rain, and I have never seen him since,
the wheels with 1 a hammer before we 1
started hack from Pallerton that night.
I went through the engine myself, ex-1
amined the springs and levers, had two
extra men put on the brakes, and an ex-
Radieal Finances.
From, the Nett York SSntt]
The Radicals are sorely troubled in regard
trelantemfastenedonthe enginemfront!teeLdm
£ au 8hpd at me, j they have obtained a special pleading' report
tiu 1 felt that things were [ in regard to the expenditures daring the past
of the boiler.'
but I kept on tiu 1 telt that things were t in regard to the expenditures daring the past
as they should;be. j year. But that report commences with the
When I was speaking of Jim Nelson’s j statement that all the items of expenditure
hoiiso in the woods,' perhaps I ought to I have not been returned to the Treasury.—
have said that he was a widower, and had | P ow roach this includes, or bow large a ram
a tittle tot of a baby, and I noticed itaaT ‘covers, the pnhhc willnotbe ableto asoer-
v IV y . | tain, until next December, when the ananal
ran by thatmormng, playing in the door- ^ of the secretary of the Treaautyia
yard. I say this that what comes after J m £a e , •
may be better understood. "* ■ j But with all this special pleading they can -
Well, we started back at 4;20, that is, j not get over the figures which have appeared .
back to Croydon. It was storming as 11 in McCulloch’s reports. His official state-
thought it never did before; the clouds I ments ahow Ahat since April 1,1865, nine’
rolled up black, and the winds came th x® T 8nTre , n £ e a r . 0 J ^ 1°.
„ -i A-- -_i j - _ j | theflrst day of June, 1868, the National debt
down through , the mountains cold and I increMcd $143,290,810. His reports also
blustering. I shut her all up tight, and | s h 0 w that from July 1,1865, or three months
turned down the light in the cab, so that | lacking nine days inter the anrrender of Lee's
I might see better how things went out- i army, to October 1, 1867, the Government
side! Pretty soon it came on to rain, I raised by loan. $1,488,881,745 84, and during
mixed with -hail and the night came l the same period the Government received
blacker than before. I kept my handon
the levCT, and my eves on the broad J These figures are taken from the official re-
streak of light that lighted up about two j p 0 rtp of McCulloch, and do not cover thir-
hundred yards of.the track. I let her I teen months of the period'since the anrrea-
along easy at about twenty miles an hour, I der of Lee’s army. Leaving out of the cal-
taking a look now and tnen at the cars, ] culation the amount of money raised by
and keeping an eve on evervthing. I loans, customs and taxes during the period
We ran on this way stSdtiyV two K“ thc %SV®
hours, and lost fifteen minutes, and every- “ d A rom 0cto ^l 1 ’ 1867 J An « n8t 5
TT- ’ . t . _ [the Government has received and expended
thine was right. I kept my course, as $2,658,069,198 23, and yet the national debt
the danger commenced now if there was jj M increased nearly $144,000,000.
any,‘at all. . .The storm and rain were I if we add to the above the amount received
worse than ever, and heat against us like I daring the period not included in the above,
mad, and blew the smoke and steam I or about thirteen months, the amount raised
— by loans and received from customs duties
and taxes, the whole amount raised by the
Radicals would, since the surrender of Lee’S
army, be nearly or-quite $3,000,000,000, or
more tiian the entire amount of the national
debt. Is there any wonder that they squirm
down over us, so that I frit like stopping
altogether, but of couree that wouldn’t
do. We kept on this way for another
hour, feeling our way carefully. About
twenty minutes after that I got off my
seat to look at the oiLcups and guage, I whenever this question is alluded to, or that
when quick as lightning Collins, the fire-1 they procure special reports to explain the
man. lerked mv arm and shouted Good I roatter ?
God! there’s a child crawlingon the track!’ All the above sums were raised in the time
I shoved my lever back and pulled I * nd * et tbe debt b “ ***“ iD <™a«l.
1. i_* , 1 fYnat has been done with this money I How
the;whistle valve short and quick, and lon g wiu the country stand a drain of that
opened the cab window and Jumped out I kind for the purpose of maintaining Radical
on the engine. In doing so, I thought af-1 rule, and aiding them in enforcing negro nils
terward I must have -kicked the lever
back again. At that moment what I saw
made me forget everything else, for sure
enough, about two hundred fret in front
of the engine, kneeling on its hands and
knees, and without moving, looking
straight at the tight of the lanterns, was
a IitttochUdU -.J, La* -i
“prod help me,’ ’said I, seeing the poor,
thing must be killed if I didn’t help it,
and I scrambled forward past the boiler
and out on the cow-catcher. The wheels
upon one section of the country T - Is the
any assurance that the expenses will be any
less during the next four years if the Radi-
cale are successful this Fall! Will thty not,
in that event, call for a large amount or mos
ey, to enable them to forte negro suffrage on
the North ! ’ At r
Crops in Wisconsin are good. The
Journal, published at the Capital of that
State says: “Harvestingisprogreesisg as a
scarcity of help will permit, ana wheat prom
ises a fair average yield. Harvest bands own-
,,.. , , .. _ _ _ . _ _ . mand tbree to four dollawper day, and farm- j
of the cars grated, but the engine was j ere hope to find enough to secure their crops.
I couldn’t sliake off the remembrance of working harder than U had that bight.— I Some farmers have baa to stack - their gnus ‘
it all that day, nor the next, and a kind I couldn’t stop to think why. Mid putting I without binding.” ^
" ’ -r .. /. _,1 r my between the bars, I caught hold I Mr. O'Neal spoke at some length in op-
of the shackle with, my left hand, and I position to the reeolntien. He said, accord-
leaned forward over the track. I ehut | ing to the provisions of the new .Constitution,
my teeth together tight and held on tike J the acta of previous legislation MlttM _
deth, knS "/jut* .lipcf ;oid- b
hand or feet wouM eod ™ J" e J^ r ’ j be elected, and under those laws tbisOsnsfal
cowering little thing crept **ay to one tad a perfect tight to elect % Stats
side but was so scared that it had sunk I printer.
jJ-r J i. i & K—aibaI Who had been hauled up for etefttisgap
God help it, aganaayal, r?” 1 ®?}“wh»tb«V*youtowyforyotfreewF”
down, and steak my straight I ••Kuffih’but disVI wee aa orasy sh a had ^
stiff with my hand ainnen from the ttara;! ^^ whca l stole dat >r poll*t,' <»» I might
in an instant I shoved it along abbut five [have stole a blghtc ®fd 1 net>b*r'ddne it Oat-
feet before I could close my hOpd oil the I s^ows ’cfashra* deVl wsstoborta* Odder dh' 5 - ,
dress, then I lifted it he^.j^tt® tremsada” .. ^ r
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