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... , :■. ■ 0 - ■ . »lis am EORGIA Si i <*% \*rs M I • i J fj | ‘ Se S «PP. I ft 4- * ■ •• ■■ w! ?. 3 ?*bM< Kdi,0rB * nd Proprietor*. i 'S* . A VIGIL. ®* *»WTOJ> CUkSXVtSt, STXDNAN. E walk the lane'* dim hollow,— Past is the twilight hour, Bnt stealthy shadows follow And Night withholds her power, Bor somewhere fn the eastern sky The shrouded moon is high. Dews from the wild rose drip unheard,— Their unforgotten soent With that of woods and grasses blent; No muffled flight of bird, No whispering voice, my footfall stops; 2i© hre©®« aaiiditHJ poplar-top* The smallest leaf has stirred. Yet round me, here and there, A little flattering wind Plays now,—these senses have divined A breath across my hair,— A toneh,—thaton my forehead lies. And puhsses long These, lips so mate of song, And now, with kisses cool, my half-shuteyes. This night 1 Ob, what is here 1 i "What viewless aura clings V So fitfully, ao near, On this returning even-tide When Memory will not be denied Unfettered wjngi ? My arms reach out,—in vain,— They fold the air: And yet—that wandering breath again t ioo vague to make her phantom plain, Too tender for despair. —Jdarch Century. Tbe Two -Admits. “H’m ! H’m 1 Upon my word! Just what might have been expeoted! Sel¬ fish 1 Heartless I Cruel!” Not all at onoe, as written down, but popping out at brief intervals, sharply wad suddenly as pistol shots, the above "ejaculations fell from the lips of Mrs. Carpenter Wainwright, as she sat beside lengthy an open-grate fire, reading a letter. A letter, too, closely written upon four large pages of paper. After she folded it, she said more sharply than • ever: “Well, thank goodness her mother is “*5KK fSL silence upon the the woman who was no relation of hers, touched Mrs. Wainwright deeply. Her brow was clouded, and, as she mused, angry flashes sprang more than onoe into her large, dark eyes. Upon all sides of her were evidenoee of wealth, and her own dress, though a morning negligee; was eostly and in exquisite taste. She was not young—past sev¬ enty—yet she oarried her tall figure erectly still, and her eyes were brilliant as those of youth. While she sat in profound thought there was a tap upon the door, followed by the entrance of a young girl, just touching eighteen, with a fair, sweet face, lighted by eyes as dark as Mrs. Wainwright’s own. “Aunt Cora,” she said, brightly, "shall I read to you now ?” The old lady looked into the sweet face with a keen glance, as if question¬ ing herself somewhat about the girl • then she said, abruptly: “I have had a letter from Mrs. Pope, this morning.” “With news from Mill Village ?” the girl asked, a look of pleasure on her fa06. “You are very fond ol Mill Village ?” “No; I like the city much better. Still, there are some people in Mill Village I am fond of.” “Theoda West?” The girl hesitated; then, lifting hei bright eyes, she said, frankly: “I love Aunt Mary, but I don’t think that I am very fond of Theoda. She is very handsome, very accomplished, and too fond of patronizing me. ” f‘Ah I” “Yon see, she has been pupil teacher at the seminary, and learned all the ex¬ tra branches to teach again.” “While you were making dresses ?” “Yes. Aunt Mary let me choose, and I knew I could make a living at dress¬ making, while scholars were doubtful, so ■* near the seminary.” “Your Aunt Mary was very kind to ,o„r “Very! She took me when poor mamma died, ten years ago. She oonld not give me luxury and pleasure as yon have done in the last year, bnt she never made any difference between Theoda and myseif.” "H’m I yes. She is yonr mother’s sister, I am yonr father’s. 8he gave yon a share in the house of oare and poverty. I have taken you to this one and will not forget you in my will” The girl’s face flushed under the sar¬ castic emphasis of the words. “I never weighed one obligation against the other, Aunt Cora,” she said, quietly; •"you have been very, very kind to me.” ‘ Tour Aunt Mary is an invalid, too ?’ “She is in consumption. We have feared every winter would be the last.” X #;V -frW •SPftlNG PLACE. GEORGIA. T SDAY, APRIL 23. 1885. fc ft “H’m 1 Well, my news is that your loving cousin, Theoda, has eloped with the Qerman teacher of the seminary who lias taken a situation In Philadelphia.” The fair face grew deathly pale, and an expression of positive horror looked oat from the soft, dark eyes. There wae a pause of silence that was paiufnl Then Estelle Mason spoke in a choked voice: “I must go to Aunt Sfary.” * “Go to her 1 Nonsense, child. What claim has she on yon?” “The claim of gratitude.’’ “But what can you do? Ton have no money.” “loan work.” “Have I no claim ?” “Only seoond to hers. Yon have been very good to me. But you have so many relatives that wouldi be glad to come and. fill my place. You are strong and well, with money lor every comfort She is feeble, sick and poor. Oh, how could Theoda desert- her? How could she?” “Do yon* know who this German teacher, James Kent, is V’ “No.” “He is my husband’s nephew. Not mine; but all my wealth came from my husband, and James Kent, knowing me to be a just woman, expeots a handsome legacy when I die. Probably when he told Theoda he would be a rioh man some day, he did not tell the name oi the annt who had the money to leave.” “I never saw him. He came to the seminary after I came here.” 4 'Exactly I He displeased me 1 I do not keep people near tne who displease me.” Again that cutting emphasis of tone. Estelle did not answer, and Mis. Wain¬ wright spoke again. “I expeot, therefore, that you will abandon this romantic scheme of return¬ ing to Mill Village. There are asylums where your aunt can be reoeived.” WOrk ior her ’” . ^ P**' *** ■ ■ “* ir.„ - *>u will let , me g „ T pret nd - to . contro1 . , your movements,” was the reply, in a cold voice. “When I took you from a life of poverty and toil, to take yonr plaoe here as my niece and heiress, I expeoted to have a loving, grateful companion. Since I have been mistaken, you can leave me whenever you desire it. Only I wish it understood that you choose be¬ tween your Aunt Mary and myself, finally.” Estelle’s eyes were full of tears, but she controlled her voioe, by a strong effort, to say: “I am not ungrateful, Annt Cora, though I never considered myself your heiress. I thank you from my heart, and if you were poor and sick you would not find me ungrateful. Bnt my duty seemB so clear to me that I cannot hes itate. Even at the price of yonr dis¬ pleasure, I must go. Bnt,” she added, timidly, “I hope you will forgive me.’ 5 “Oh, I shall not qnarrel with you, child. Yon may go, certainly. Only do not flatter yourself with the idea that yon oan return here when you tire of yonr sentimental duties. There, goto your own room, and give me your de¬ cision at dinner. Not a word now.” So dismissed, Estelle went slowly to the room where every adornment spoke of her aunt’s care fear her. She was young and had endured poverty for many years, so it was not without some bitter tears for herself that she faced the situation. She folly appreciated the difference between Mrs. Wainwright’t heiress, and a dressmaker toiling for the support of two women; between the petted efaild of this home of luxury, with servants to obey every wish, and the drndge of a little cottage with an almost helpless invalid to care for. Yet she never faltered. And when Mrs. Wainwright saw the pale, resolute faoe at dinner, she knew that she must lose one who was very dear to her. Not for the first time, she regretted her own residence abroad for fourteen years, when sho might have been winning Estelle’s love, as this JS r,TL h 6r fVl th6 ,l e “ t ’ ’ dut ^’ Go tben ' ™ Si wilh I 11 ^, 1 . h °i 7 y B ° nr glV6U un ' grateful desertion. I had rather spare myself the pain of any parting scene. John shall dnveyou to the depot in the morning, and this will pay your travel ing expenses, and help yon until you ob ta “?. wo , . . , , SSSSaW* hand and kissed it warmly. “Do not me ungrateful,” she said, her tears fid 'ling fast: “it breaks my heart to offend you. Please' kiss me, and give me a loving word before I go.” “There, child, never make s scene I Good-by;” and she did hiss the pleading, upturned face. “May X write to you?” “Just as you please. I shall not ex peot it.” And keeping her cold, impassive face, Mrs. Wainwright went to her own room, bolted the door, and came oat no more until Estelle had taken her de¬ parture the next day. It was a room most unlike that in which Mb. Wainwright had taken leave of Estelle, that the yorfng girl entered late in the afternoon of the fallowing day. The little cottage where Mrs, West wept for her unnatural child’s de¬ sertion had but four rooms, all oounted, and these were furnished very simply. In one of these, stooping over a sewing, machine, stopping often to oougn, an elderly lady, In plain mourning gar¬ ments, was seated when Estelle came in. Every traoe of agitation was carefully driven from her faoe, as, with a tender smile, she said: “Aunt Mary, will you say home to me?” “Estelle 1” That was all, but the joy of the was too warm to bo bidden. “You are glad to see me,” said, brightly. “Glad, child! glad I My own little girl. I have missed yott Estelle. But,” she said, “you have not quarreled with Aunt Cora?” “We heard you were alone,” said, evasively, “so I got permission make you a long visit. Aunt Cora me a hundred dollars for “Alone !” the mother said, “Theoda has gone, Estelle. My ' whom I never denied any pleasure my power to grant I Oh, Estelle, it kill me 1” her aunt spoke truly. The little nant of life in the consumptive frame was surely to be shortened by the cruel¬ ty of her own child. But by every loving devioe the self sacrifioing girl strove to keep the feeble flame of life still burning. She let it be known in the village that she was anxious to obtain work as a dressmaker, and soon found employment. Some curios¬ ity was expressed at this sudden return from tho “rioh aunt” who had taken her away a year before, but Estelle only told the simple truth, that one aunt needed her, while the other did not. Work, none too well paid, came to the little cottage, and the household duties were shared while Mrs. West could keep about. It was in November that Estelle came to her, and before February she was unable to leave her bed. The duties then of nursing and still keeping up with her engagements for dressmaking, pressed very hardly upon Estelle, bnt she never faltered. Day after day the invalid was tenderly oomforted, and yet the busy click of the sewing-maohine was beard far into the night. There was kindness shown by the village people that helped in this labor of love. Some came to sit up at night, when the invalid required watching. Many a dainty dish, sent to tempt Mrs. West’s appetite, proved a sufficient meal for both. One neighbor sent a cart-load of fire-wood, one a barrel of apples, and there was never wanting a kindly word of sympathy. So the dreary winter wore away, and to the surprise of all, Mrs. West lived through the bitter March weather. How tenderly she was guarded and nursed in that trying month none knew but herself; but as the warm spring days oame she brightened visibly. Theoda wrote occasionally, seemingly glad that Estelle had oome to take the post she had so heartlessly abandoned. In one of her letters she wrote: “My husband bids me tell Estelle it is as well, perhaps, that she did not build any strong hope upon MV« , Wain wright’s capricious adoption of her, as he will certainly inherit his nnele’s money.” Estelle made no comment upon the message, but in her heart wondered if money could be ever put to any good use in hands so selfish as Theoda’a or her husband's. It seemed a bad pre “Odout for any noble action, this deser tion of a dying parent. Summer stole away, every day lessen j Dg the invalid’s strength, and winter loomed np threateningly in the future, All of Mrs. Wainwright’s gift was gone, and poorly paid, Often interrupted sew. x-sataersfe the 6ig ht, Auk wrote to her cora. It 1ft waioneof many hmg letters, but the ftrlt that asked for aid. Estelle wrote; The doctor tolls me Annt Mary can noi live many weeks longer, and she re¬ quires almost inoessant care, having frequent distressing spells of bleeding aB(l suffocation. 1 find I cannot supply the comforts she needs; bo I turn to you, not to beg, bnt to borrow. Will you lend me a hundred dollars, and I will fwilfully work till it is paid, when Aunt * lon needs 8? “Sere no 8 er my time ? was the usual curt reply to this ■*&?, but the loan was sent with a brief tfmation that the promised payment was expected. Early in November the end came, gefitly and painlessly, the dying breath spent Never in a blessing for the faithful nurse. onoe had Mrs. West suspected that hep nieoe was forbidden to return to the luxurious home she had quitted for her sake, so she had mode no* dispo¬ sition of the little property in her power to will away—the cottage and garden around it. It seemed to Estelle, young and ignorant of business, only a matter of course that she should oontinue to live and work in the oottrge where she had nursed her aunt’s last moments. But Theoda, who [came to the funeral, informed her [she would put the place ink) the hands ot a lawyer for sale, and she-must look for a boarding-place in the Village. Bewildered, weary with watching, sorrowing sincerely for her dead, Estelle turned from the words, issued almost invitingly, heart. with a’sick faltering of her true “A letter, Miss Estelle,” said one of the village boys, tapping at the low window. “I was passing the post-office, and brought it.” “Come and work out your debt to me Cora Wainwright.” a temporary home, at least, and the ■3 1 desolate ’girl promptly obeyed. In the* November twilight, as they had 3, these two met again. The stern, IF, woman, who had so harshly put hoice* of duties before the warm writing’ when she en¬ tered timidly. "So you have oome baok,” she said, looking at the pale faoe and drooping eyes. “To pay my debt,” was the gentle reply. “Pay it here 1” And Estelle found herself infolded in an embrace so warm that the tears sprang to her eyes. “Here on my heart!” said Mis. Wain¬ wright, “craving suoh love as you give, tender, true, self-saorificing little Estelle! I tried you sorely, child, only to find you! We will not part again, Estelle, till the grave closes over another old annt.” And when that hour came, oomforted by Estelle’s love, Mrs. Wainwright’B will was found to leave all her property to her “beloved nieoe, Estelle Mason.” Bnined by Red Lights. “Do yon see that poor old bloat walk¬ ing up the track there?” remarked a switchman to some loungers in his little shanty. “See how groggy he walks. He’s a wreck; no good on earth any more to himself or anybody else. Two years ago that man was the oraek engi¬ neer of this road. He had ail the posts of honor. If there was a flying special to be run with the president or the di¬ rectors or some big bugs on the private car, he was always selected. His regular job was palling the limited. A better man never thumbed a throttle. Bnt red lights ruined him. Yes, sir, red lights got away with him, and now he couldn’t get a freight engine and hasn’t run a mile in six months. All owing to them infernal red lights, “What do you mean? Did he fail to stop some time for a red light and thus cause an accident. “Oh, no; it wasn’t that sir. He never had a wreck of no kind, save him¬ self. He always stopped for red lights, and that was just the trouble. He got so he couldn’t walknp the street hut he would stop at every place where there was a red light out Now look at him.” Chicago Herald. A Spanish Town.— Alhama dc Gran¬ ada, recently destroyed by an earth¬ quake, possessed the most romautio situation and the most romantic history of anyj town in Spain. It stood high upon the verge of a gigantic cleft in the mountains, the result of volcanic action. From its position it was justly regarded by the Moors as the key of their King¬ dom of Granada, and when captured in 1482 by the forces of Ferdinand and Isabella, the Alhambra was felt to be foredoomed. origin to J||pkhat the mournful event which gave ballad, “Muy Doloroso,” translated by Lord Byron, -iff refrain at tho close of eachjtamm- Woe is me, Alhama I" VOL. V. New Series. No. 11, 4 TOUCHING SCENE. A TOUCH OP NATURB WHICH MAKES THE WHOLE WOULD KIN. The Self-Sacrifice of * tVduittn Which Chanced SelSihueo* fo Sympathy. “There was a pathetic scene on a train on the Western Division of the Erie re¬ cently,” said a conductor on that road. “A woman boarded the train at Olean. She carried in her arms a baby bnt a few weeks old. It was very cross and peevish, and defied all of its nurse’s ef¬ forts to keep it quiet. Its cries were at times so loud and piercing that the other passengers oonld not hide their annoy¬ ance, and after a while audible expres¬ sions of their feelings came from all parts of the oar. The woman was patient ander 4,16 double trial of the ohild’s troublesomeness and the evident knowl¬ edge of the annoyance it was to her fel¬ low passengers. She talked soothingly to the child, plaeed it in all positions, and tried to so arrange its wrappings as to, in a measure, deaden the sound of its ories. Finally some one in the car, whose impatience had got the better of his sympathy, shouted out: “ ‘If that child can’t be kept quiet, I hope it will be removed from the oar at the next station 1’ “This unfeeling remark seemed to meet with general approval, and the poor woman’s eyes filled with tears, and in attempting to speak her feelings over¬ came her, and she pressed the baby closer to her and sobbed violently. She soon recovered herself, and redoubled her efforts to keep the child quiet. For a short time she anoceeded somewhat, but presently the ories of the baby were as loud and prolonged as ever. At last a man arose and stftd sharply: •t < Madam, it would seem to me that the mother of an infant should know how to take at least half oare of it,’ “The train had now stopped at Sala manoa. At the remark of the second speaker, the woman arose in her seat, and, facing the oar full of passengers, said, in a voioe trembling: “ ‘I am not tola poor little mother. I never saw it before yester¬ day, and I believe it hasn’t a living rela¬ tive. Its father was killed on the rail¬ road a week before it was bom. Its mother, living in a distant place, hurried to the scene of her husband’s death. The child was bom among strangers, and day before yesterday the mother died, leaving her little one with no one to oare for it. I lived in the house where the mother died, and volunteered to do what I oonld ior the poor little thing, and to go with the dead woman’s remains to her native plaoe. Her body is in this train. I am sorry the child is so troublesome, but isn’t it entitled to some little sympathy?’ “The effect of the woman’s words may be imagined. There were few dry eyes in the car when she dropped, sobbing, into her seat. All selfishness was lost in sympathetic thoughts of the little wan¬ derer, and a soore of hands that a mo¬ ment before were almost willing to raise in chastisement of the babe were now anxious to extend aid to it and its self sacrificing guardian. It was a tonoh of nature th at makes the whole w orld kin.” The Amount of Water Trees Absorb. Dr. J, M. Anders, in a geological survey report, gives the results of his inquiry as to the quantity of water pumped from the earth by trees. He finds that the average exhalation from soft, thin leaved plants in clear weather amounts to one and a quarter ounces Troy per day or twelve hours for every square foot of surface. Henee a moder¬ ate sized elm trees raise and throws off seven and three-quarter tons of water per day. In the report the facts are applied to what is going on in America, where certain inland fertile districts are becoming converted into deserts by wholesale clearings; and in other places, such as the plains of Colorado, where only five or six years of irrigation and planting have already prodnoed a meas¬ urable increase of rainfall. It is main¬ tained that the deserts of Syria and Africa are the resalts of cutting down trees, and that original luxuriance may be re¬ stored by skillful renlantinar. IN THE LEGISLATURE. “Mr. Speaker, t arise to plaoe in nomination a man, sir, what we all know, sir, to be a man what ain’t got no peer nowhar. We all know that he is more than qnalifled, sir, for the posi¬ tion, for I sarvqp with him dnrin’ the wah, sir; he will not only represent the great partee, but, sir, the entire State. Dnrin’the dark and bloody days when the pale faoe of hunger pat its bloody hand on the heart ot the nation he was found to be ss true as steel, an grabbed the gory wolf by the lappets of his shirt and shook him nntil he loudly begged for mercy .”—Arkansan * Trav¬ eller. > THE HUMOROUS PAPERS. WHAT WE FIND IN THEM THIS WEEK TO SMILE OVK1L A Safe Place—A Pretty ftlrl’e Shot—Had Urea Katina Oalooo-Tbe Dear Children. Etc., Etc. A FBBTTS Gini/S SHOT. As they were all coming out of the dentally theatre together trod the young dress Sypher of the pretty acci¬ on girl just ahead. “Oh, shoo 1” involuntarily <*ol aimed the young girl as she suddenly brought up. Young Sypher thought he saw aohanoe for a mash. “You needn’t shoo me,” he simpered, smartly; “I’m no oow.” “No,” the pretty girl returned, with a glance that pinned him to the side of the lobby, “perhaps not now, but yon will be when you grow up.” Then she swept on, while young Sypher was so astounded that he actual' ly forgot to light bis oakum-stuffed oi garette when he got outside.— Boston Journal. BATING ONIONS. •What makes you think they’re en¬ gaged, Mrs. Quigley ? Did her mother tell you ?” “No; she hasn’t said a word to me about it.” “Then I suppose her father men¬ tioned it to your husband ?” “Oh, dear, no.” “Well, I give it up, then. How did you find it out ?” “Why, I met them out walking the other afternoon, and stopped to chat with them a few minutes. They’d both been eating onions, and I tell you, Mrs. Duekley, a sign like that never fails. They’ll be married before throe months, or I don’t know a mop from a mug¬ wump.”— Chicago Ledger. MRS. 8MITHBR9 GETS IN A CRUSHER, “Did you make that, papa?” inquired Johnny Smithers. “Yes, my son,” replied Mr. Smithers, self-satisfaction aqd paternal pride bq^m ing from his oountenanoe. “And yon made it all out of your own head, papa?” “Yes, my son.” “Beallyand truly?” “Johnny," interrupted Mrs. Smithers in an iqy tone of voioe, "yon will often be surprised as yon grow older to learn how many curious things oan be from wood.’’—Oil City Derrick. THE RETORT COURTEOUS. Woman’s oruelty to woman has made thousands fail to speak to each other. Gioely had jnst dropped in to congrat¬ ulate her friend on pleasant prospects direotly after Lent. “Oh, I am so glad for yon, my dear. Augustus always was suoh oharming company. Oh, he’s real nloe. He paid me marked attentions half a dozen years ago." “Indeed 1 I believe I’ve heard him say something about your being a very dear friend of his mother." The coffee cream froze in the little quaint pitcher on the table. So did the morning’s conversation. — Hartford Post. EASILY PROVEN. “I want to get rid of my partner,” remarked the mean man to a lawyer. “Who is he?” “My brother. I want to prove that he has a bad reputation." “That is easy enough. You oan say that he is your brother." WORKED BOTH WATS. “Why are you like the moon, Nick up,” said his friend Bates. “I give it up,” answered Niekup. “Well, because your faoe is always bright and beaming with good nature,” said Bates, and he looked toward the bar. "That ain’t bad; I’ll jnst tell that to my wife when I get home,” said Niokap, and then he winked at the bartender and told him to “set ’em up again.” “Mary,” said he, as he tumbled into bed that evening, “Why am I like the moon ?” “What is it ?’’ she sharply asked. He repeated the question. “Be¬ cause yon are full every Lonth in the year,” she answered and ushed him .—Chicago Tribune. THE DEAR CHILDREN. Deaoon Buorag addressed the Sunday school ehildretf as follows: “I will tell you a story, dear children. Little Harry was a real good little boy, but his brothers Tom and George were bad and thoughtless. One day, while passiug Ihe house of a poor widow, Tom and George began to throw stones at her oat. Little Harry reminded them that this was very wrong, and remon¬ strated so earnestly that presently they stopped throwing stones at the eat, and now, dear ehildren, what do you think Tom and George then did ?” “Began to throw stones at little Nan Harry,” was the general Bhont,— Fromisco IngieHde,