Newspaper Page Text
**Tour hsir 11 twisted 1b a soar!JHBM
And Just look at that hand!
It looks m though ’twere newer wMhed-
How tare you sny ’tl* tanned 7
•‘Ton've been a fishlna, sir, I ■'ueav-
What! been to see the match 1
You'll have a fit of sickness, sir ;
A pretty cold you’ll catch." •
And thea she talks for half an hour
And only stops to say,
"Yonr gather’ll bear of this to-nlgbt
What do yon think he’ll say 7"
My friends in complimentary way
Declare to me they see
A close resemblance—very marked—
Between the boy and me.
But nothing that they see In him
In either form or face
Bespeaks my son as do his pranks-
In these my own 1 trace.
And why should I at tattered clothes
Or dirty ones repine 7
In him I live my yonth agatu—
God bless the bov 1 he's mine 1
LITTLE MISS TURPIN’S FATE.
A little conversation took place, one day,
on the top floor of a dingy old lodging
house in the metropolis, that led to strange
results. It was in the front room, but made
its way vary readily through the chinks and
crannies in the mortar to the neighboring
apartment, where little Miss Turpin was
preparing her frugal breakfast. The toast
ing fork almost fell from her hand, and her
dimity apron narrowly escaped baiog se
ducec by the sumptuous flame from the
grate, when the harsh g uff vo'.ce of her
landlord fell upon her ear.
"I want my money," Mid Mr. Shadrack,
“So do I," replied the young doctor, "and
more. 'He that'wanto money, means and
content, is without three good friends.'"
“Can I have my money to-night ?"
"I think not"
'To-morrow V
“It io extremely doubtful.”
“Then you must get out of here. 1 want
my room.”
“When do you‘want it - ?"
"As soon as possible."
"Will to-morrow do?"
“Yes.".
“Thon leave, friend; the room shall be
jours to.morrow morning.”
The young medical student was a man of
spirit, and would have vacated these not
very alluring premises at once, but he had
nowhere to lay his head, and there seemed
a vital necessity just then for some such
proceeding on his part. He bad discovered
two days before that the faltering and shab
by source of his pecuniary supplies had ut
terly failed, and the knowledge that he was
without money and friends in a strange city
together with an inability to beg, borrow or
steal, had robbed him of sleep. The loss of
this necessary rest to a tired brain and worn
out body, rendered him tbe prey of many
different sensations during Mr. Shadrack's
visit. An iron band seemed to compass his
forehead, his eyeballs burned, bis hands
shook, bis knees seemed at times about to
collapse beneath him, as he walked to and
*- fio the length of the dreary apartment, for
lack of nourishing food chewing the cud of
many a bitter fancy. He asked himself
over and over again if this was to be the end
of it all, and why he had been such a fool
as to fancy he could pursue the study of
medicine with tbe wretched capital of a
worn out body, a distracted mind and barely
enough money to keep flesh on his bones.
That an indomitable spirit had prompted
him to go on, hoping for a little desultory
practice by the way; -that tbe r se color
with which youth and inexperience are apt
to tint those fallacious dreams had been too
vivid in his case,—that these and many
other excuses could be made for his folly
availed little just now. A systematic course
of semi-starvation and over work had broken
his indomitable spirit, and turned the rose
colored dreams to exceedingly greenish
hued nightmare.
The only patient he had during his nine
months' stay with Mr. Shadrack was a poor
little work woman in the neighboring room
a washed out, timid, wretched little creature,
with scarcely enough stamina about her to
rally after a slight touch of pneumonia.
Her little fee bad been ready for him after
every visit—in fact, obtrusively ready, for
it was out of the question, of course, to take
money.
“It was merely a neighboily service,” be
said, when, upon his fii'h visit he found her
up and at work again, and on his departure
she had stammered out something about
his bill. “I am only too glad, Miss—
Miss —"
“Turpin," she whispered.
“To be of service to you, and beg you
will call me in whenever my presence is
desirable.”
Miss Turpin faltered out her thanks. A
burning blush chased tbe pallor out of her
face, as he warmly pressed her trembling
hand in his and bade her good bye.
“Poor little devil I" he said, as he strode 1
away to the lecture room. “It's bad
enough for a strong ox like myself to face
and oattle with this grim old grindston j of
a world, but for a miserable waif like that
—phew, it’s monstrous."
He thought of her pityingly till he Crossed
the threshold of tbe college, then gave him
self up to tbe sobject in hand, which so
engrossed his mind, that he forthwith forgot
the existence of little Miss Turpin. But
she, upon her part, repeated over and over
the words of young Dr, Blake, blnshing
again when she became conscious of the
fact-that she real’y had the temerity to
dwell upon hie genial but commonplace
■
Miss Turpin’s work was delicate and are
tistic, but not soul absorbing like the doc
tor’e. She could tint her photographs all
the better for this little episode in her life.
The vines and tendrils took tender shapes
under her deft little fingers; a sby, sweet
melancholy helped to make the shadows at
least more and more perfect; under the rose
buds grew the thorns; but there seemed to
lurk even in their cruelty a subtle, myste
rious charm. It was enough for Miss Tur
pin to dream. Tbe physical and practical
reality of the doctor’s nearness, had its
weight, but not consciously so, to the little
woman. She never ventured to get up a
cou«h or cramp for the sake of stamping
more cl< arly his shape into these vague but
extravagant feats of fancy. In truth, so
timid and afraid was she of a pulsation of
practical joy, that she actually shunned and
shrank from its approach.
But more and more imposing, grander and
grinder grew this one figure of her faccy
around which revolved the satellities df
health and wealth, popularity and fame
all that could render life sweet or desira
ble.
' Perhaps it is detrimental to my heroine
to say that shs would have been quite con
tent to have lived upon the fruits of her own
fancy for ’he remainder ofter natural life.
Had circumstances compelled her to change
her abode, and bad she thus lost sight of Dr.
Blake, the dreams would have gone along
just the same, the fact of his dying in a
neighboring hospital of weakness and want,
and the quenching of all her material in a
pauper’s greve not interfering in the least
with Miss Turpin's airy fabric. It would
have been impossible to convince Miss Tur
pin that he could reach so dire an extremity,
bad not tbe knowledge been forced in upon
her in away that she could not possibly re
fuse.
She absolutely heard the gruff voice of
Mr. Shadraoh upon the morning in question
and the low, musics', but bitterly mocking
words of the doctor in reply.
She sat down upon the rug, and clasped
both her hands. He was going away then?
Until that moment she had not realised the
extent of such a disaster. She could have
borne, perhaps to have been compelled to
go away herself, becanse the inevitable for
her had become, long since, a matter of
course; but to have the iron hand of inexor
able necessity grasp this magnificent young
man was terrible lie had the flashing eyes,
the lordly mein, t! e exultant step —for thus
had little Miss Turpin been wont to classify
the somewhat alluring personal attractions
of young Blake—he had become the prey
of an adverse destiny I
Miss Turpin's breakfast that morning was
a failure. By dint of long practice and an
exceedingly gracious gift of housewifery she
had.always managed to get up extraordin
ary little meals (or herself. It was as if a
little, sooty angel sat up aloft in the chim
ney and assisted the culinary efforts of the
lone*little woman. Her toast was of brown
the most golden, her coffee was of Mocha
the most delicious, her bit of steak so juicy
and appetising, that sometimes poor Blake,
in the neihboring room, with some chunks
of brown bread floating helplessly in a
chalky fluid before him, fiuding this savory
odor under his nostrils, raised his clenched
hands at the stern wall between them in
envy and despair.
But even the litttle angel in tbe chimney
became impatient with the behavior of lit
tle Miss Turpin that morning. The little
woman, usually so practical and capable,
while straining her ear to listen to faulter
ing, stumbling steps in the next room, de
liberately burned the toast and boiled the
coffee, and the sooty wings spread them
selves, taking flight in disappointment and
disgust.
She held her breath as the familiar foot
step passed her door, and slowly one by one
went down the worm eaten stairs. Ob,
where was he going? What would he do ?
She had read sometimes of an evening,
when working hours were over, tbe shaded
lamp upon the table at her side, the coals
leaping and blazing in the refulgent grate,
her little slippered feat upon the fender—
she had read of people who, having neither
money, means nor content, had drifted into
a moment of frenzy and despair, and thus
leaped the awful bar that separates the
known from the unknown, content to risk
any fate which awaited them there. She
had read thus of poor, strange unfoitunates,
and her heart had ached in their behalf.
Bat now ? Well, now her heart almost
ceased to beat. She put away her work —
of what a .-ail was it, all blotted and blurred
by her tears or ruined by her shaking brush?
All day she feared and trembled ; at night
fall some intuitive lope caused her to
brighten the fire, cook a dainty meal, and
placing the table opposite the door, leave
the tempting, cozy room open on tbe wind
swept, gloomy corridor.
Then she waited and waited. The clock
struck at midnight; then one, two, three,
from a neighboring belfry. The meal was
cold, the fire burned low; the chill, gray
morning had almost dawned, when at last
it came; yes—thank God! faltering and
slow; but it was his footstep ; none other
could quicken little Miss Turpin’s pulse
He reached the landing, the door (of he
room. Why, truly, he did pause—jeJ, and
stagger in. | ’
Any other woman, but think peihaps,
would have recoiled with di •gust»' hor
ror, and, above all, with fear, lor the. oung
man was evidently not himself. His hair,
damp and dishevelled, hung in heavy dis
order about his face and neck; his eyes,
glassy and lurid, blazed upon here ; <t red
flame burned in his cheeks; a slight foam
flecked his trembling lips.
He fell into the chair st the tab e, and
looked wonderingly upon the food before
him; but that which would have been fran
tically devoured six hours before, was like
the ashes of bitterness to him now. He had
not tasted food for thirty-six hours. But it
was not hunger that tortured him ; it was
thirst—an appalling thirst
He drank tbe pitcher of sparkling water
from little Miss Turpin’s hand, and looked
pleadingly for more.
“Do not be afraid to give tbe patient wa
ter." he mnrmnred eagerly. "In caies of
febrile debility they sometimes suffer—suf
fer. I recommend, by all means, water
water—water.” Then he fell back with a
groan of agony.
Miss Turpin ran out o! the room and
down the stairs; pounded on the door of the
German tailor below, who, with his wife and
five children, was enjoying in sleep tbe only
immunity granted them from endless labor
and toil; bade him fly for the best doctor in
the neighborhood ; ran up stairs again like
a deer, and found Dr. Blake insensible, his
head thrown back upon the chair, his eyes
half closed, his stentorian breathings audi
ble in the corridor below.
Tbe little tailor returned with the
very beat medical aid in the vicinity, even
that of the eminent Dr. Havershaw himself
All this fuss and confusion had aroused
Mr. Shadrack, who followed them up the
ataira and protruded his very long and hairy
chin in at the doorway.
“It is, perhaps, beat that you should
know, madam,” said the surgeon to Miss
Turpin, “that this is a doubtful case. Your
husband is in a very critical condition. If
this worthy man will assist me we will get
him to bed. Our ouly hope will be a pow
erful sedative, to be given at once.”
The worthy man alluded to was Mr. Shad
rack, whose eyes almost left their sockets
when he found the doctor preparing to put
his young lodger into Miss Turpin’s bed.
"Why— why," he gasped, looking at Miss
Turpin, “this won’t do, will it ?'
Mias Turpin bowed her head. She could
not speak, but it seemed to her that her
heart made all the noise that was nece.sary.
Its convuhive throbs moved the shawl that
she had thrown over her shoulders.
"Don’t chatter here,” laid tbe doctor,
thinking Mr. Shadrach was addressing him
"Just do what I bid you, and the more qui
etly, the better. Now then, lend a hand.”
Half an hour later. Miss Turpin was
atom again, eave for the body of the doctor
that lay upon tbe bed. He was helpless
there, perhaps dying, his face was strai ge
and distorted, his eyes half closed. A con
fused, unintelligent murmur flowed from
his lips, bis hands clenched and unclenched;
at times a groan seemed wrung from his
vitals.
Mias Turpin's features were pale and
haggared, her eyes streaming with tears
Yet, in the midst of an anguish that par
took of despair, with throes of pain and
terror unspeakable, there was born to her a
solemn and almost sinister joy, the first ever
given to that sterile soul
When the doctor came in the evening he
thought he had never seen so patient and
noble a face; there was something in it that
wnni to his noble heart.
"Be comforted,” he Mid, "let ut lely on
the youth and strong physiqne of your
husband,”
The incoherent muttering of his patient
attracted the doctor’s attention. Sharp and
strong sentences fell upon his ear. that ex
cit. d his professional curiosity. When he
heard from Miss Turpin of the enthusiasm
and zeal of the young student, as much as
‘she dared tell him of his defeated apirations
and hopes, the good doctor's dark eyes kin
dled with sympathy.
“Let him only get well,” he said, "and
we will sweep these lions out cf his path."
Miss Turpin smiled through her tears.
"He will get well, thanks to you,” she
Mid.
"And to you,” he added, Icoking around
the room with approbation. It had been
suddenly metamorphosed into the model of
a chamber for the sick. The open fire,
with its cheerful blaze and veutilatiug
draught; the subdued light; the white and
warm drapery of the bed; her own little
couch near by; pretty, shadowy pictures
upon the walls tinted by her own hands —
an eloquent silence reigning over all.
“Il is lucky for yonder lad," thought the
doctor, "that in all this big, wretched bar
rack the one little snuggery is his own.”
And so the days went by, each one
fteighted with hope and fear. There came
one at last upon which rested the life or
the death of the young medical student
"Some time this evening," said the doc
tor to Miss Turjin, “he will regain con
sciousness; be sure that you do not leave
his bedside. I would not for the worl.f, at
that critical moment, that a strange face
should meet h's own.”
Miss Turpin turned pale, and then
streached out her bauds with a gesture of:
entreaty. Then she slipped from her chair I
to her knees and from hence to<the floor.
Now had come tbe supreme moment of tor
ture. Now her labor, her joy, her life itself,
was done.
A strange face I What face could be
stranger than her own ?
"Tut, child,” Mid the doctor; “I thought
you had more courage. There is every
hope for him Can’t you bear joy,as you
have sorrow? I only want that la shall
see of his wife, tbe dearest to him
in the world.”
He put down his hands to her, but still
she hid her face from his. Her whole frame
trembled. She wished at that moment, so
unhappy seemed her fate, that she could
die there and then.
“Oh, doctor,” Mid she, lifting her eyes to
his, “how can I tell you ? how can I make
you know ? I am not his wife ?”
The doctor drew back coldly; .but as her
farnk earnest eyes causht his own, he
could not tbe, innocent pleading there. She
might be a pocr Magdalen even, but he had
never sren so childlike and yet womanly a
creature.
“We mucst think of nothing now but onr
patient," he Mid, gently; “your face is at
least familiar and dear to him.”
"Alas ! no,” she said; “ it is strange, al
most unknown. It is far better I should go
away."
Then she told the doctor all. /nd as she
went on to confiss how she had dared to
shelter this poor neighbor of hers, without
a roof to cover him, without money, with
out friends; sick unto death, helplees and
alone —how she had dared at any risk to
shelter him and to nurse him back to life —
the good surgeon's eyes blinked under his
■baggy brows. He put his heavy hand in
benediction upon her bowed head.
“Thou goo I little Samaritan 1” he said.
And two big hollow, handsome eyes
upon the white bed in the corner also filled
with tears. He was so weak, this poor
young Blake, th t he could scarcely help
sobbing outright at so touebi >g a story.
“Why—why,” he faltered to himMlf, "in
little Miss Turpin's room ! 0 thou merci
ful Heaven I in little Mias Turpin’s bedl
With the cheery little fire in tbe grate to
foil yonder biting blast, with all the little
Knick -knacks and furbelows about—the lit
tle pictures on the wall, her bird-cage at the
window, a neat little medicine stand, with
lots if spoons in various does, each spoon
with little Miss Turpin’s name; and to her
then under heaven, I owe my life! Ab,
may God do to me, and more, alao, if I de
sert little Miss Turpin, or let little Miss
Turpin desert me I” ’ '
“And now," Mid the sweet, tad voice of
Miss Turpin, "take me to hie bedside. I
am foolishlp weak, I can scarcely see. Let
me look upon him just once more before I
go. You will take care of him now, doctor,
won’t you ? But let me My- goodbye.”
The doctor, undecidely, scarcely know*
inw what to say or do, half carried her to
his bed.
“Good bye, good-bye,” she said, bending
over him, her warn- tears falling on his pale,
sunken face, her hot. trembling hands
clasping themselves together.
But suddenly two other hot, trembling
bands seize hers in a f-cble grasp—the hok
low, sunken eyes of the student fasten them
selves upon Miss Turpin's face with a very
hungry tenderness.
“Oh, no,” heMiJ, "you cannot go from
here, not for the world; you tee the good
doctor has Mid it will not do to have a
strange face at my bedside. Yours is the
d< arest to me in the world. I love you,
Miss Turpin. It perhaps a sal fate 1 offer
you; but, oh I be still more generous—be my
wife. I have loved you so long I"
He didn’t say bow long; he was too weak
to talk. He din't tell her taat perhaps his
loved dated only a little hxlf-hour back,
when be listened to that wvnderously touch
ing story of hers.
What mattered it? Cannot love be m
strong as life and deep as the sea, however
and whenever it is born ? Good Dr. Haver
shaw took care of their future. It began
in a mat, two-story brick house, with a big
braM sign upon the door, to which the
worthy surgeon drew Lis attention enough
to set the bot to boiling.
And now in her stylish brougham, with a
liveried lackey at her command, with her
rustling silks and dainty laces, with her
wildest fancies more than realized, who
could find fault with the fate of little Miss
Turpin ?
—
■oxart.
A slovenly, commonplace wife, low, dis
orderly connections, and reckless habits,
reduced him to a system of constant over
work and constant borrowing. One child
after another was born and died, his wife
was continually ill, symphonies had to be
sold before they were written, usurers had
to be resorted to, till the catastrophe came,
which the father, the unwitting but original
cause, was mercifully spared from witness’-
irg. Mozart, whom the poor, anxious
chapel master of Sa'xburg had hoped to see
“at the head of a comfortable Christian
nousehold”—feverishly anxious to get eight
pupils—writing a masterpiece, tbe “Zauber
flote," for a suburban theatre of planks,
owned by a harlequin—begins, according to
his own expreMion, to have the taste of
death on his tongue, dies miserably and
painfully, leaving only six florins to pay
his debts, and is hurriedly buried in the
cheapest manner in the common ditch of
the public cemetery, without even a cross
to distinguish his resting place from that of
the beggars around him Mozait believe' l
he was being poisoned, as Pergolesi had
believed himself to be when he, too, died in
obscurity and want, but what need could
any of his enemies have had to poison him?
He could never have struggled out of the'
wreck of his fortune.tof nia career, and of
his health. The stury is a miserable one,
and, being that of Ahe composer of “Den
Giovanni” and tbe “Zauberflote,” contains
a deep, tragic interest for us; yet it is in
reality the story of hundred . of other mu*
sicians of small or no gilts; and tbe only
really strange circumstance is that this
commonplace tale of failure should be that
of a man of genius like Mozart. This an
omaly we have partially explained by
showing how h'S father arranged matters as
if be had positively been planning an ob
score and unaucceMful career for his son ;
the other half of tbe explanation must be
sought for in Mozart’s own character, which,
compared with his genius, was almost as
commonplace as was his life, and which
might, like it, have been that of a very me
diocre artist.
A Real Mm Girl.
I saw a girl come into a street car the
other day, though, who had, I was ready to
bet, made her own dress and bow nice she
did look. She was one of those clean, trim
girls you see now and then. She was about
18 years of age, and to begin with, looked
well-fed, healthy and strong. She looked
as though she had a good sensible mother
at home. Her face and neck and ears and
her hair were clean —absolutely clean How
Midcm you see that. There was no pow
der, no paint on the smooth, routded cheek
or firm, dimpled chin ; none on the moist
red lips; none on the sheik tinted, but not
too small ears; note on the handsomely set
neck—rather broad behind, perhaps, but
but running mighty prettily up into the
tightly corded hair. And the hair I It was
of* light chestnut brown and glistened with
specks of gold as the sun shone on it, and
there was not a smear of oil or pomatum or
cosmetic on it; there was not a spear astray
about it, and not a pin to be seen in it As
the girl came in and took her seat, shs cast
an easy, unembarraued glance around the
car, from a well opened gray eye, bright
with the intimitable light of "good condi
tion, *' such as you Me in some handsome
young athletes who are "in training.” There
were no tags aid ends, fringes, furbelows
or fluttering ribbons about her closely fit
ting but easy suit of tweed, and, as she
drew off one glove to look in her purM for
a small coin for fare, I noticed ts at the
gloves were not new, but neither were they
old; they were simply well kept, like the
owner awHheirs'wi>er's hand which was a
solid hand, with plenty of muscles between
the tendons and with strong but supple fin
gers. It would have looked equally pretty
fashioning a pie in a home kitchen or fold
ing a bandage in a hospitable. It was a
hand that suggested at the Mme time
womanlileu and work, and I was sorry when
it found a five cent piece and had been re
gloved. One foot was thrust out a little up
on the slats of the car floor —a foot in a
good walking boot that might have plashed
through a rain storm without fear of damp
stockings—an; an eminently sensible boot
on a two and one ha’f foot with a high in
ttep, a small round heel, and a prett" broad
tread. Tbe girl was a picture from head to
foot as she mi erect, disdaining the support
of the back of the seat, but devoid of all ap
pearance of stiffness. Perhaps the whole
outfit to be ee.n, from hat to boots, did not
cost |4O; but I have seen plenty of outfits
cost’ng more than ten timee or even twenty
times that, which did not look one-tenth or
even one-twentieth as well If our girls
only knew the beauty of mere simpiieity
cleanliness and health, and their fasc-i nation!
—Washington Cap'tsl.
Cutie Garden Scents and Incidents.
Castle Garden, on tbe whole, is a sad
place, Mys a New York letter. Among the
myriad of swarthy faces which meet one's
gaze, it is ruely that one encounters a
smile or a laugh ; the emigrant, though he
has just Mt foot in "the land of the free
and the home ot the brave,’* is still an emi
grant, -ithout a home and among strans
gers. The Italians, of whom vast numbers
are now crowding in upjn ut, have a pen
sive look, especially the women, that is
particularly toojhing. The Sveedish and
Danish emigration just now h beyond all
precedent As a rule, the women are as
strong and sinewy as the men. If poor,
they are usually r eady and comfortably
dratted, and th. re i« a frank, open expres
sion in their countenances that at once in
forms one they arc fi om countries that have
escaped the centuiiea of serfdom which
have taken the spirit of independence from
other populations that have been less fortu
nate. They can look you straight in the
face without being ashamed. Their child
ren, with which every family is liberally
provided, look as tou.h as pine knots, and
are just the kind of human machinery need
ed to develop a new country. Sveedish girls,
for domestic strv'ce, are in active demand
by city people, and all that offtr are read
ily taken at wages ranging from twelve to
sixteen dollars a month. 1 heir imperfect
knowledge of the v-tnacilar is a serious
drawback, as it necessitates frequent panto
mimic performances in the kitchen and at
the dinner table; but then, as they quickly
learn, the little d fli u't:e< ate soon forgot
ten. The Norwegians are a people of a
coarser fibre than the Swedes and Danes.
Their industry almost equals that of the
he then Chinese: but it is not a skilled
industry, and it must find its appropriate
sphere in the bald and forest rather than in
the workshop and the manufactory. Hence,
a great mjority of them push out West as
soon as they leave the ship.
All shades of gray are popular.
GEMS OF THOUGH".
In all the superior people 1 have met, I
notice directness, truth spoken more truly,
as if every.king of ohstruc ion, of malform
ation, has been trailed away. —Emerson.
“But it's an ill wind as blows no g x:d to
nobod i; that’s what I always My when them
lads has a wisitation. The world is chock
full of wisitations A wisi'atiop, sir, is the
tot of mortality."—Squeers.
Reason is always imperfect in judging of
character, since the logic of the Creator
overpasses tbe logic of the school-; and our
thought may not grasp the premises of a
human soul.—M. A. Tinck- r.
Get yosr breastplate of truth first, and
every earthly stone will shine in it.—Rus -
kin.
•
There is naught eIM worse than the sea
to confound a man, how hardy so ever he
may be.—Homer.
It seems to me that, on the same princi
ple on which Government ought to superin
tend and to reward tin soldier, Gbvernment
ought to superintend and reward the
schoolmaster. —Macaulay.
I returned, and mw under the sun, tha 1
the race is not to the swift, nor the bat'le to
the strong, neither yet bre«. *■> the wise,
nor yet riches to men of understanding,
nor yet favor to men of skill: but -ime and
chance happenetb to them all.—Ecclesi
astes.
There are no times in life when oppor u
nity, the chance to ba and do, gather so
richly about the soul as when it has to suf
for. Then everything depends on whether
the man turns to the tower or the higher
helps. If be resorts to mere expedients and
trick', the opportunity is lost. He comes
out no richer nor greater; nay, be comes
out harder, poorer, smaller, for his pain
But, if he turns to God, the hour of suffering
is the turning hour of his life Phillips
Brooks.
Our brains are Mventy year clocks. The
angel of life winds them up once for all; he
closes the case and gives the key into the
hand of the angel of the resurrection. —
Holmes.
Take this for a golden rule through life-.
Never, never have a friend that is poorer
thanyonrMlf.—Douglass Jerrold.
Sense endureth no extremities, and sor
rows destroy us or themsel’es.- Sir Thoma*
Browne.
As long as there is life in the plant, though-?
it be sadly pent in, it will grow towards any
opening of light that is left for it. —Helps
A very considerable share of the diMsee
and deaths of our race are tbe natural ef
fects of sin. or wrong dcing.
10WBIMT
Linimenl
f n/rititrf, jtnaaSa, oa.
avta-ata Twvzs Szia<glas fox 1»."W
For all In J urlaa In man or boast nothing equals
Hikscm LrwmzwT.
Relief from Cough in Ten Minute«
n DENISON’S n
Balsamic syrof
OF
Bed Spruce Gum and Button Root.
A PLEASANT AND POSITIVE OUBE
TOK ALL DISEASED OF THE
CHEST and LUNGS,
V CUdt,
Lot of Voice, Spitting of Blood*
D\jkull Breathing, etc. Thia Balaamic By rup will
pravant and cura Conaumption when taken <n time
(bugMng, in many caeee, eeaeee In ten minutee qfler
it le taken. Reetleeeneoe ie gone, and eiceel,
tieop eneuet. Tha moat agraaabla and affectiva
Cough Ramedy in the world i BYee from Opium
and Morphine. Can be taken in etifety by the
moet deltoate. The family Cough and Lung Modi*
cina— oanepariet.
PEMBERTON, IVERSON A DENISON,
MAIUFAOTUIIIG CHEMIETk,
soli raorziiTOM,
ATLANTA. • - - GEORGIA.
