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•yr. " J S : ORTH GEORGIA TIMES. « ??! c! S«.! *«*•»» u< Proprietor*. 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.