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" J S : ORTH GEORGIA TIMES. «
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jf Atone A 1 walked Fame the In the Sand. attend,
ooeaa
A pearly ehell wu in my hand ;
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year, the day.
Aa onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I east;
A wave came rolling high and fust
And washed my line away.
And so, mothoaght, 'twill quickly be,
With every mark on earth from mo,
A wave of dark oblivion’s sea
Will sweep across the place
Where 1 have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been, to be no more—
Of mo, my day, tho name I bore,
To leave no track or trace.
And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands
Inscribed against my namo;
Of all this mortal part has wrought,
Of all my thinking soul has thought,
And from these fleeting moments caught,
For glory or for shame.
—George V. Prentice.
ROSA’S EXPERIMENT.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Pitcher, “what
are our gals so dressed up for ? Aint
it washing day?”
“Hush, father!” said his thrifty wife.
“They’re expecting company. The
Widow Rollins is coming to wash to¬
day.”
Mr. Pitcher whistled softly,
“Piiew-w!” said he. “In my young
days we didn’t hire a woman at seven¬
ty-five cents a day when we had good
stout arms of our own.”
“Things change, father,” said his
wife, hurriedly.
“Not always for the better, though,”
remarked the good farmer as he got
into his one-horse wagon and drove
away. \
“Dear me,” said Rosa, “what a start
that gave me!”
“Just like pa!” said Fanny, “Al¬
ways coming in when we least expect
“He’s out of the way now,” said
Mre. Pitcher, peeping over the top of
the big geranium in the window. —
“And he wont be back until dinner
time.”
“Do you suppose he'll be along soon,”
said Rosa,
“How is a body to tell,” retorted
Fanny; rather impatiently.
“Ob, Fanny, I’m afraid!” faltered
Rosa. “You take my place, wont you ?
He’ll never know that it wasn’t you
who wrote the letter.”
“Rosa, what a child you are!” said
Fanny, with the calm superiority that
belonged to her two years of seniority.
“Don’t you see that it will never do for
you to change your mind now?”
“I wonder if he’s handsome ?” ob¬
served Rosa, with a little excited gig¬
gle. “Ma, there’s the apple-sauce
boiling over on the stove. It will be
herrid to have the house filled with
the smell of cooking.”
“Burnt apple-sauce never yet hurt
anybody,” said Mrs. Pitcher, as she
made haste into the kitchen, where the
Widow Rollins was just getting the
clothes into the blueing water.
“Oh, dear,” said Rosa, “I am in such
a twitteration! I almost wish, Fanny,
that wo hadn’t answered that adver¬
tisement.” „
“It’s too late to think of that now,”
said Fanny. “There he comes this
minute!”
“Where?” cried Rosa, divided be¬
tween her extreme curiosity to see the
man who had advertised for a wife in
the columns of the Fairview County
Journal , and the instinct that bade her
flee to the nearest convenient closet,
“He is handsome!” whispered she.
“And he has got his valise with
him,” said Fanny.
“La!” cried Mrs. Pitcher. “I won
der if he expects to be asked to stay?”
“Isn’t he dressed genteel?” said
Rosa, all in a glow with excitement.
“Ma, you go to the door. I feel as if I
couldn’t stir a step.”
The Misses Pitcher had, in a way,
taken the thread of fate into their own
hands. In a neighborhood like Fair
view Centre, where there were at least
five girls to every eligible young man,
they felt that it was necessary to be
stir themselves in order to get married,
And thus considering, Rosa, the
i younger, had boldly answered a matri
monial advertisement
Mr. Pitcher was kept in ignorance,
The girls were morally certain that
“pa” would disapprove of their new
departure—perhaps even go so far as
to forbid it, up and down. “Ma,” on
the contrary, rather liked the romance
of the thing.
“If the young man Is in earnest,”
said she-"and I don’t see any reason
SPRING PLACE. GEORGIA, THURSDAY. DECEMBER 3, 1885.
why he shouldn’t be—it may be an ex¬
cellent settlement for Rosa.”
At the sound of footsteps on the
door-stone, Fanny fled precipitately,
Rosa sank, panting, on the haircloth
sofa, and Mrs. Pitcher hastened to
answer the knock.
tall "Does Mr. Pitcher with live sandy here?” hair, said a j
young man, a
moustache to match, and pale-blue
eyes veiled behind spectacles.
“He does,” falteringly answered
Mrs. Pitcher. "Please to walk in. My
daughter is in the parlor.”
"Perhaps,” said the young man, hes¬
itatingly, "it might be well for me tp
explain to you that I—”
“No explanations are necessary,”
said Mrs. Pitcher, growing more and
more flurried. “She quite understands.
Please to walk right into the parlor.
You’ll find her there.
Rosa, sitting exactly in the centre of
the haircloth sofa, looked not unlike a
mouse in a trap, who would fain es¬
cape if it could.
The young man set down his valise
and bowed stilly.
"I hope I see you well, miss?” said
he.
“Pretty well,” stammered Rosa.
And then followed an awful silence.
Bosa could havq jumped out of the
window, if it hadn’t been for the big
geranium. She wonld have taken ref¬
uge through the door, if she had not
been inwardly certain that Fanny was
in hiding back of the hinges.
She could not go up the chimney
like a draught of air; neither could
she vanish into a crack of tbe floor.
So she sat there and trembled'.
The young man, after portentiously
clearing his throat, began to unfasten
the buckles of his valise.
"I have something here which I
should like to show you.” said he.
“He has got some credentials as to
character," thought Rosa, “or perhaps
it is an engagement ring. Oh, I hope
it’s a nice one!”
"Are you fond of cooking ?” said the
young man. “But I needn’t ask. Ev¬
ery New England girl is that!”
“I like it pretty well,” said Rosa,
much marveling at the question.
“You read a good deal I suppose?”
“Oh, yes!” said Rosa, brightening up
“Exactly,” said the young man.—
“Well, 1 have here the very thing that
will suit you. Your next neighbor
below, Mrs. Slatterly, has taken two
copies of it, and it was she who rec¬
ommended me to call here. A com¬
plete cookery book, with all the recipes
in poetry and illustrated throughout,
at only one dollar a volume. A sou¬
venir alike worthy of a parlor table
or the kitchen dresser, or even of a
place in a young lady’s boudoir. «And
as for literary excellence—”
His tongue was unloosed at last; he
was sufficiently voluble now.
Rosa started to her feet.
“Are—are you a hook agent,” she
cried.
“That’s my business, miss,” ackowl
edged the young man, unwrapping
several differently bound volumes of
the “Complete Cookery Book, in verse.”
“Will you do me the favoi to look at
this book?”
“No, I wont!” excitedly cried Rosa.
“I only ask a trial to convince you
that—”
“Let me go!” cried Rosa, blindly
rushing to the door, “I—I am not
well! I think I am going to faint.”
The book-agent picked up his spec¬
tacles, looked blankly at the bine, red
and green volumes of *his stock in
trade, and began slowly to replace
them in his valise.
“I don’t believe I shall make a trade
here,” said he to himself. “The peo
P le are queer. I hope I haven’t got
a private lunatic asylum.”
And he opened the front door and
walked out of the house, just as Rosa
ran sobbing down the grape-vine path
in the back garden, directly into the
arms of a tall young giant, who was
coming up from the river, with an
overcoat on his shoulder,
“Rosa,” said he, “I’ve come here to
ask you to pardon me. It was I that
advertised. I did it just for a joke.
But when you answered it—”
“Jotham Eliet!” cried Rosa, nearly
choking with wrath, “I’ll never for
give you in this world—never.”
She struggled to escape from his
grasp, but in vain,
“Now, Rosa, don’t be vexed,” said
he. “You will forgive me—you must!
And you shall marry me, too. There!
I always said I couldn’t pluck up a
spirit to ask any girl to marry me; but
somehow this matter seems to settle
itself. No, you shall not go till you
have said yes. You're the very girl
I have always wanted. And you
don’t know what a deal of store I
shall set by you, Rosa dear.”
Don’t tell pa about the advertise
meat, then,'* sald the fast relenting
Rosa,
“I wont tell a living soul r declared*
Jotham.
The book-agent went on his way
making tolerably good sales that sul¬
try day, while Jotham and Rosa sat
happily under the grape-vines, and the
Widow Rollins hung out the flapping
sheet* and towels on the lines, and
sighed to think of the days when she
too was young. And Mr. Pitcher was
well pleased when he came home and
learned of his daughter’s engagement.
“Jot Eliet is a good fellow,” said he.
"Rosa couldn’t do better.”
“But it isn’t half as romantic as I
thought it was going to be when Rosa
first answered that advertisement,”
said Fanny, sorrowfully, in the seclu¬
sion of the back kitchen.—Helen For¬
rest Groves.
A Desert Tribe.
This tribe of Indians, which con¬
tains, according to Chief Cabezon’s
own statement, about one thousand
souls, has Its rancherla near Walters’
Station, about 125 miles from this
place, on the line of tho Southern Pa¬
cific railroad, west, in California.
This tribe is sometimes called the
"Cahuillas.” They were Christianized
in the early days by Catholic padres,
and maintain to this day a church or¬
ganization and schools to educate their
young. Their dialect is peculiar to
the tribe and is not understood by
other Indians. They are governed by
a single chief, who rules the tribe with
absolute sway. This tribe takes its
name from the title of the line of
chiefs, which is “Cabezon.” The father
of the present chief was called Gerva
cio Cabezon X., and died about two
years ago. according to all authentic
reports, at the advanced age of 140
years. These Indians own considera¬
ble stock of all kinds, and do more or
less farming, and are, therefore, self-
Chief Gervacio Cabezon xr., accom¬
panied by some fifteen of his men and
their Wives, visited Yurns last week.
The present chief is an intelligent
man, about 50 years of age, and is
quite up in our system of government
and laws. As his name (Cabezon) in¬
dicates, be possesses a large head,
which,from his manner and versatility,
must be well stored with Indian know¬
ledge and traditions. In conversation
with him, he informed us that all his
tribe were very friendly to Don Diego
(L. J. F. Iaeger), who resides across
the Colorado river on the California
side. They have great faith in him,
ancl regard him as a seer and a man
of most extraordinary ability and
knowledge. Mrs. Iaeger is regarded
among them a doctress of most won¬
derful healing powers, and their jour¬
ney here is mostly for the purpose of
securing medical aid from her. After
visiting with Mr. and Mrs. Iaeger for
a few days, and receiving what medi¬
cal aid they needed, they returned
home by last Thursday’s freight train.
Cabezon and a number of his tribe
will visit Yuma .again soon for the
purpose of consulting Don Diego as to
their future movements and to have
some of their children doctored by
Don Diego’s wife, in whose great heal¬
ing powers they have the most implicit
faith.— Yuma ( Arizona ) Sentinel.
Lnck and Labor.
If the boy who exclaims “just my
luck!” was truthful, he would say
“just roy laziness!”- or “just my inat¬
tention.” Mr. Cobden wrote proverbs
about Luck and Labor. It would be
well for boys to memorize them:
Luck is waiting for something to
turn up.
Labor, with keen eyes and strong
will, will turn up something.
Luck lies in bed and wishes the
postman would come and bring him
the new3 of a legacy.
Labor turns out at six o’clock, and
with busy pen or ringing hammer lays
the foundation for competence.
Luck whines.
Labor whistles.
Luck relies on chances.
Labor on character.
Luck slips down to indigence.
Labor strides up to independence.
Cold comfort—Something we don’t
get often during the heated term.
BROUGHT IN BY THE TIDE.
A. Ghastly Harvest Gleaned
from New York Rivers,
Many Human Bodies Oast Up Every
Year—Scenes in the Morgue.
A N4w York letter to the Cincinnati
Enquirer, says:—All the year through
dead bodies are found in the rivers,
but tiie spring the season opens at
the morgue and at the potter’s field.
Jack Frost puts an end to it in No¬
vember. In the brief six months how
many an anxious query is answered by
the waters, how many a dreaded secret
revealed. And, alas! how many a one
is buried unfathomed, unsolved, to
which henceforth the cemetery of the
unknown dead only holds the key.
Somewhere between a hundred and
fifty and two hundred human bodies
are cast up by the rivers every year;
the number varies. In hard times,
when business is bad and work scarce,
the record runs higher than in more
prosperous years, and the excess is
credited to suicide. But, bad seasons
or good, quite one-half of the "found
drowned,” are buried unclaimed and
unrecognized. Who they were and
how they met their fate is never found
out .Sucked under in the mad whirl¬
pool of metropolitan life, in which on¬
ly the sum, not the individual, counts,
they are lost, unmourned and un¬
sought. Of the anxious army of
searchers who daily troop through the
dead-house, huntiDg for some sign of
missing friends, no one has a glance
of interest or recognition for these
outcasts. It happens, indeed, that
some stranger’s corpse floats ashore
dressed in such rich clothing, with
jewelry and gewgaws, that public in¬
terest is strongly excited by the news
paper account, which, in the end,
brings the friends from a distance.
But this is rare. The dock-rats, who
reckon the rivers’ dead as among their
just perquisites, are on the lookout for
such ./‘floaters.” and empty pockets,
torn or burned inslcle out, perhaps; tell
too often of their victims. For every
rich “find” that escapes them and is
written up in the newspapers, the
chances of those who come after are
vastly dimished. It may, too, be set
down as a generally safe princple, that
people with money in their pockets
rarely get drowned. Suicide, or the
drunken groping about the piers at
night account for the great mass of
floaters, without a doubt. In either
case the victim is not likely to have
much money. Poverty is, of all, the
most frightful cause of suicide, and
the occasional pawn ticket, the brick
or flat-iron in the otherwise empty
pocket, tell the story more plainly than
any coroner’s verdict. Of the drunk¬
en wanderer, the thieves who prowl
about the piers at night know how to
take care. Cases of mistaken identi¬
fication by parents of children, or by
children of father or mother, occur
every week at the morgue. Partly is
this, in all probability, due to the
shocking state of the corpse, its black¬
ened and distorted features, and part¬
ly to the unhallowed surroundings,
which inspire the visitor with irresist¬
ible disgust. New York’s morgue is
its meanest disgrace—a rickety, foul
smeling old hut in the Bellevue Hos¬
pital grounds, down at the foot of East
Twenty-sixth street, undermined by
age and rats, and soaked through and
through witli decay and corruption.
In a long frame shed on the pier, in
which the temperature in July and
August rarely sinks below 90°, the
dead are laid in a long row, in rude
pine-board coffins on saw-horses, often
fifty or sixty in the row. Tho hospi¬
tals as well as the rivers and the tene¬
ments of the poor send their share.
The stench is fearful; the sights wit¬
nessed in that shed unutterably sick¬
ening. Work-house help is employed
in dragging in the corpses from the
dead-wagon, and in packing them for
burial, a simple matter enough. The
swollen corpse is jammed down in a
pine box as nearly aB may be its size,
the lid spiked down with ten-penny
nails, name and date of death put on
with a pencil, if the tenant came from
a hospital and was known, the simple
word "unknown,” if the streets or the
river spewed him out, and the ghastly
freight is ready for shipment to the
Potter’s Field when the steamer
comes on burial days, twice a week.
Less than a score, probably, of the
whole number of drowned persons
that are found in our rivers in the
course of the year are women. With¬
out a doubt they are all anleWe*.
VOL. V. New Series. No. 43.
have a hundred chances to a wo- j
accident one of tumbling into the river j
In the spring and sum
comes a limited crop of bovs,
of „ them ,. nude, . vmfams . of , a ver
nal ambition for a swim at the pier
when no policemen is in sight Occa
eionally a dredging-machine brings up
part of a body, the mutilated trunk or
a human head, showing that the deep
has secrets which it does not divulge;
that there are dead who never rise
to the light of day. Others are car
ried out to sea and thrown ashore on
Staten Island or Bay Ridge, where the
tide sets in strongly, or pass beyond
Sandy Hook to tho great ocean, to bo
heard of no more.
A Tramp in a Powder-House.
“They tried the gum game on me
down in Pennsylvania,” said the old
tramp, as he get a fresh brace on the
fence for his back, “but I came out
ahead, considerably ahead.”
“How was it ?”
“■Well,- I struck the town of York
one day, and I didn’t look a bit like
a gentleman. My duds were old, my
complexion ruined, and I was all run
down at the heel. Ever,in York?”
“No.”
“Well, the people in York neither
send money to the heathen in Africa
nor waste sympathy on the tramps in
America. I struck thirteen houses in
succession and didn’t get a bite, and I
was looking around for scrap-iron to
stay my stomach when along comes an
officer and gives me the collar. He
was taking me to the cooler when a
wagon drives up and the chap on the
front seat calls out that lie will give
a steady job for $1 a day.”
“What at?”
“You wait a minute. I didn’t hank¬
er for work, mind you, but I didn’t care
for the jug, and so, as the officer was
willing, I climbed into the wagon and
away went. That job was in the pow¬
der-houses which blew up the other
day. The manager thought he had a
big joke on me, and though I didn’t
like the idea of working over a volca¬
no, I turned qAt.” to and putin three days
before I
“Why did you quit?"
“Well, on the third day, as I was
carrying powder to the storehouse, the
manager came into the building.
There was a busted keg on the floor,
and I was smoking my pipe. He
didn't notice this until he got past me
and I had him cut off. Then I sits
down by tbe busted keg, pulls away at
my pipe, and says I;
*• ‘Mr Manager,’ if we get there
at the same moments you must give
me a fair show."
it « W-where?’ says he, his face whit¬
er than snow.”
“ ‘At heaven gates,’I answers.”
“With that he wanted to know if 1
hadn’t rather take $30 in cash—all
the money he had with him—go west
and run for office and become a great
man, and I didn’t know but I would.
He tossed me his wallet, remarking
that the train would leave in about
five minutes, and I picked it up and
walked off. I reckoned on being per
sued, but he didn’t even yell after me.
The last I saw of him his legs were
giving out at the knee, and a snow
landscape was no comparison to his
complexion. He may have pioked up
another tramp since, but I guess not
—I g-u-e-s-s not .”—Detroit Free Press.
The Bee as a Barometer.
A German who has studiously
watched every movement of the honey¬
bee, asserts that they are excellent
storm-warners. He says that on the
approach of thunder storms bees, oth¬
erwise gentle and harmless, become
irritable, and will at once attack any
one, even their usual attendant, ap¬
proaching their hives. A succession
of instances are given in which the
barometer and hydrometer foretold s
storm, the bees remaining quiet, and
no storm occurred; or the instruments
gave no intimation of a storm, but
the bees for hours before were irrita¬
ble, and It came.
Tea Consumption.
The total annual consumption oi
tea, it is now estimated, is 3,000,000,
000 pounds; of coffee, 1,000,000,000
pounds; cocoa and chocolate, 1,000.000
pounds; while similar drinks are used
by leas civilized nations and tribes. It
is the favorite drink of Russia, Hol¬
land and England, the last country
annually importing 100,000,000
pounds, or several pounds to each
man, woman and child.— Philadelphia
Ledger.
Tho Kojal fioad.
f the earth seems sown with sow
And our a r8 £‘ n s “»>“»
* not because we borrow
Joy and pay the pnoe tor pain
- 0amilet08eekashad0W ,
And a rod to find a ray,
luild our hopes on sands of pleasure
Waves of want must wash away.
ieek no field to prove your prowess,
Be a hero every day;
fhcre are enemies within ns,
Ever eager for the fray.
- onquer gin ancl plant yonr flagatatJ »
On the ramparts of success,
)h ! the earth is filled with gladness,
And hut balmy breezes blow;
if we sow no seed of sadness,
Wo oan reap no weeds of woe.
By the pleasant paths of duty,
All the fairer llowcrs bloom;
find whose soul knows naught save honor,
Sees no terror in a tomb.
HUMOROUS.
The bigger the picnic the heavier
the rain,
It seems appropriate for a druggist
eo subscribe himself, "Cordially yours,
a polite way of dunning a delin
juent is to send him a bouquet of for
get-me-nots.
“No, sir,” he said to the captain, “I
un not seasick, but I’m disgusted with
the motion of the vessel.”
It is easier to trace a moccaeined
Indian over a granite mountain than
it is to trace a lost umbrella.
“There’s another cracked pitcher,”
•is the policeman said when he brought
Sown his club upon the base-ball man.
A contemporary remarks with strict
veracity that it is a cold day when ice
;ream is left in tbe hands of the con¬
fectioner.
A radical writer says that sliced cu¬
cumbers will remove freckles. So they
will. Freckled people are just as lia¬
ble to fatal diseases as anybody.
Joshua could successfully command
the sun to stand still, but he could
never have kept a six-year-old son
still Vchile his photograph was being
taken.
A young lady who read that hops
were being seriously injured by wet
weather, declared that no amount of
wet weather would prevent her from
going to a good hop.
A Berlin physician claims to have
invented a machine for looking into
the brain. It is probably a new tan¬
gled corkscrew, although the old kind
will uncover the brain of most any
man.
A Baptist minister was once asked
how it was that he consented to the
marriage of his daughter to a Presby¬
terian. "Well, my dear friend,” he re¬
plied, “as far as I have been able to
discover, Cupid never studied the¬
ology.”
“Pooh!” remarked the wise concert
goer, as the accomplished but quiet
performer of a piano solo was leaving
the stage; “that fellow can’t play.
Why, he don’t wriggle bis body, nor
throw back his head, nor stick out his
tongue a bit.”
A lawyer in Connecticut, whose rep¬
utation in the community was not very
high, met an old gentleman, one day,
and said to him, "Do you know, Mr.
H., that I am a direct descendant from
Miles Standish?” “Is it possible?”
was the reply. “What a descent!”
A Southern Hercules.
Perhaps the strongest man in Geor¬
gia is Mr. Beussee, the blacksmith at
Birchmore’s shop, Maxey’s. He is
about six feet, ten inches high,
stands erect, and his muscles
are prominent. He stands and
with one hand raises a 120
pound anvil out straight for a minute,
and takes a large cart wheel in one hand
by one spoke and holds it out horizon¬
tally at arm’s length. On hearing of
of his wonderful muscular power we
went over last Monday to witness
some of this modern Sampson’s
strength, and when we asked him
about it, “Yes,” said he, “I think I
am strong as any man in this
country. I can take this anvil and
throw it from here to that wagon (a
distance of fifty yards). I use the
hammer with my right hand, but I
believe I am stronger in my left.
Here, feel of this arm and tbe mus¬
cles; measure it if you want to. When
I used to shoe horses I never enoonn
tered one that I couldn’t manage. I
could hold them, even If they were
wild. I have never found a man that
was as stout in the arma as Iam.”
Lexington (Ga.) Echo.