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About North Georgia times. (Spring Place, Ga.) 1879-1891 | View Entire Issue (May 26, 1887)
NORTH GEORGIA TIMES. Vol. VII. New Series. Who Knows? June leaves are green, pink is the rose, White bloom the lillies; yet who knows, Or swears he knows the reason why I None dare say—“l” The oriole, flitting, sloops ariiC sips A soft, sweet kiss from the lily’s lips; Who taught the oriole to steal so? None sav they know. Whether the oriole stops and thinks, Or whether he simply stoops and drinks, Baying it only suits him well; This who can tell? We marvel whither this life stream tends, And how remote are its hidden ends; But life and loving soon slip over Time and the lover, A kiss is all; a sip and a song; A day .s short, and a year not long, Loving would double—but thinking stole Half from tbo whole. —[James Herbert Morse. An Unexpected Result BY HELEN FOKREST GRAVES. “Mary I Mary!” The landlady’s voice echoed shrilly down the deserted hallway of the King’s Cross hotel. Deserted, we say, for at this time of the year little traveling patronage was vouchsafed to King's Cross. The postmaster boarded at the hotel, and the town clerk had room there, and the fanners dined there of market days (which only came once a week), but the arrival of a real live guest from the railway station, four miles away, always created a flutter. King’s Cross was a dreary little hamlet, scattered, in an inconsequent fashion, along the ragged Maryland coast, with a round lighthouse, whose eye of revolving flame glared wickedly out to sea of stormy nights; there was a bathing beach, more or less washed away by the capricious tides, and an irregular street of old stone house's and wooden cottages. Thero was a post office, a village store, and an ancient stone church, whose graveyard, on a steep side-hill, seemed to be slipping down the bank, in a suc cession of rude terraces, until its down¬ ward course was promptly arrested by a hedge of gnarled and hoary yew, at the foot. And this was King’s Cross—one of tho oldest and ugliest villages on the Mary¬ land coast. “Mary! I say, Mary, where are you?” Once more Sirs. Yorltc’s voice scut its cracked burden down the paved hall, and a tall, pretty girl came hurriedly up through the tall, purple spikes of the lilac-trees in the bai k garden. “Wero you calling me, Mrs. Yorke? Oil, I am very sorry, but—” “Calling you!” Mrs. York put her hand plaintively lo her throat, and rolled her eyes tip toward the ceiling, by way of evincing great mental and physi cal prostration, “CaUing you! And where, may I venture to ask, have you been?” Mary Folyott was a pale, violet-eyed girl, with hair of the ical Scotch gold, a delicate profile, and sensitive red lips. “I—I have been to the graveyard,” she murmured, “with some wild roses and white lilies. Oh, Mrs. Yorke, par¬ don me! I ran both ways; but it was Decoration Day, and I did not want his grave to be desolate and neglected, while every one elsu’s was loaded with flowers.” “Mary Folyott, I’m surprised at you!" said Mrs. I orke. “Hos dead and bur¬ ied, and, by all accounts, though I never saw the young man, you couldn’t treat him decently while ho was living. I don’t think it signifies much about flow¬ ers now that he’s gone. And you’re hero, I beg you to remember, to work for me, and not to carry flowers to other folkses’ graves!” Mary Folyott hung her head; but she was well accustomed to eat the bitter bread of dependence. How brief a while ago it was that she was tho petted darling of fortune 1 Nov/, orphaned, penniless and v alone, she was drudge-in-chief to Mrs. Yorke, of the King’s Cross Hotel, her father’3 second cousin. “Come, make haste!” said Mrs. Yorke. “There's a gentleman came in the nine o’clock stage. He’s in Number Nine¬ teen, and he wants his breakfast, and old Cassy’s got the toothache, and won’t lift a finger. Stir up some muffins and fry some eggs, there’s a dear, and I’ll be broiling chicken and getting tho coffee ready.” Mechanically Mary obeyed. It was rather a monotonous life for a girl of eighteen; but after all Mrs. Yorke was fairly kind in her way when there was no especial hurry, and when Cassy, the cook, did not aggravate her, or Mr. Yorke give way to his particular failing of too much Bourbon whiskey. Mary stood in tho cool shadows of the vine leaves that veiled tfee milk-room The muffins were baked, the eggs fried to the exact shade of golden brown, and the breakfast for “the gentleman in Number Nineteen” safely off her mind, when Mary Folyott stole down to the graveyard once more, with a basket of delicious white rhododendrons, which a little colored girl had just brought her from the woods. “I done knowed yo’ loved white po¬ sies, missce," said Cora Anne, who was in Miss Folyott’s class at Sunday school, “so I done brung yo' dese yar!” It was golden noontide now; the clus¬ ters of sweet fern exhaling aromatic scents; the cows standing in the shadow of hazel copses; the ocean sparkling like a plain of blue diamonds. The task of decorating the graves— for which King’s Cross usually turned out with a band, a covered wagon, and a concourse ot straggling villagers— would not commence until three o’clock. “They shall see that he has not been forgotten,” said Mary, as she toiled along under the bowery apple branches, and past the rippling music of the little brook. “Oh, Hugh—my Hugh—if only I could recall one short hour of the pastl" Site strewed the white rhododendrons on the green sod, as the words escaped involuntarily from her lips. “Oh, Hugh—dear Hugh—if I could only speak to you once again 1” she uttered, aloud. “Speak, then, dearest Mary! My Mary, if I were indeed dead and in heaven, I think I could not be happier than I am now.” The basket of rhododendrons fell to the ground. Mary Folyott would have fallen, too, if she had not been caught in a pair of strong arms. “Darling Mary, do not turn so white!” pleaded her lover. “I am not a ghost, no phantom! I am Hugh Derby’s self, alive and well, come back to lay my heart at your feet, and claim the love that is so precious to me. It isn’t so impossi¬ ble as you think. I’m not dead, and I never have been dead. But the poor fellow who had the bed next to mine in the Accident Ward of the St. Monica’s Hospital, died tho night they brought him in, and the cards at our bed-heads got accidently changed. I was No. 4, an( l when my number was affixed to another bed, I lost my SPRING PLACE. GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MAY 26, 1887. window, listening to the rush of the surf on the shore, and watching the robins dart in and out of the old button-ball trees, and stirred the English muffins with busy fingers, while her thoughts went sorrowfully back to the grave undot the shadow of the yew hedge, where she had left the white lilies and the crushed heap of fragrant roses. “Not even a sunbeam 1” she had said, rebelliously, as she pushed back the gray-green yew, breaking off the branches and bending back the spurs in a sort of hot anger. “He shall have sun shino on his grave—to-day, at least.” And as Mary worked, the slow tears trickled one by one down her cheek. She had loved Hugh Derby very dear¬ ly, but she had a coquettish element through her nature—like most women, unfortunately—and he had gone away to the far South, believing that she did not care for him. And then had come the dreadful rail¬ road accident, and they had brought back his body to be buried at King’s Cross, because the railroad corporation owned a lot in the old churchyard, and it was the most convenient place for the interment of the poor victims of the mishap. . There they lay, side by side, their graves marked only by rude stone crosses, inscribed simply by the name and death date of each sleeper. And Mary felt that her heart was broken and lifeless within her forever. “Nonsense t" Mrs. Yorkc had said. “It won’t last—nothing lasts. Why, I had just such experience when I was a gal. There was Abe Alcxon, as drove a tin-peddler’s wagon, the likeliest fellow you ever set eyes on. Me and him was as good as engaged, but we had a spat and parted, and the very next week he fell over King’s Cross Cliff of a dark night and was killed. Bless you, I felt as if the whole world had come to an end; but here I be now married to Hiram Yorke, and as happy as most folks. Hiram ain’t perfection, to be sure, but Abe was pretty partial to old rye, too, or he’d never have drove h ! s old horso over King’s Cross Cliff instead o’.’round it. And I reckon things al’ays happens for the best, take one year with an¬ other,” contentedly added the stout ma¬ tron, as she stirred a saucepanful of onions with a ponderous tin spoon, while Mary Folyott winced at the unpalatable parallel. What was there in common between handsome Hugh Derby and the luckless hero who, once on a time, peddled tin and drank too much? identity at once. We arc not Smith or Brown in a hospital, i Mary—we are only Six or Four, as the case may be. So when poor Maurice Blenheim died, in the bed labelled ‘4,’ they turned to their books and made out a burial certificate for Hugh Derby, one of the victims of the railroad accident. And before I recovered from the brain fever that followed on the blow I re¬ ceived from the end of the car seat when I fell they had me duly buried with all the honors of book and bill. I couldn’t make ’em believe that I was Hugh Der¬ by, and not Maurice Blenheim, ‘and so I left off trying. And, after all, what did it matter much? What charm had life left for me?” “But, Hugh, I loved you.” “But, M ry, I did not know it; and so I dawdled away the sunshiny hours on those sweet Floridian shores, thinking how strange it felt to be wandering alone, like a disembodied spirit, without any identity at all, and half disposed to wonder for what especial uso God had given mo back my life, when all of a sudden the Strong desire came upon mo to travel northward to King’s Cross—to look upon ray own grave. Mary, I be¬ lieve to heaven it was your love attract¬ ing me like an invisible magnet. Sweet¬ heart, you have brought me back to you and now I never shall go away without you.” “I—I don’t want you to!” whispered Mary Folyott, her soft cheeks suffused with blushes her eyes shining like, wet stars. “Oh, Hugh, I am so very, very happy. I haven’t deserved this, Hugh, but I will never be silly or capricious again.” “Mary! Mary!” screamed tho shrill, falsetto voice of Mrs. Yorke. “Why, what has becomo of tlij child? She’s here, and there and nowhere, like a will-o’-tho wisp. Mary! is th. j you coming up the lnnc? And Cassy sick,. and old Betsey gone homo to hor sister’s funeral 1 I should liko to know what is to become of Number Ninctoen’s dinner, with [he chickens scorching, and tho bread-sauce to be made, and tlje cherry . tartlets pot looked ati Y«ttuwc.-@e ^ . too careless for anything, and—Oil, good gracious me, sir,’’ with a prodigious start, “I’m sure I beg a thousand pardons, but—” “Am I always hereafter to be known by a number, like a lottery ticket ?’’ said Hugh Derby, laughing. “Never mind tho dinner, Mrs. Yorke—Miss Folyott could tell you that I am au old friend of hers.” And when Mrs. Yorke heard the story, she was quite willing to concede that truth was stranger than fiction; and for an instant it seemed almost possible that Abe, the tin-peddler, might yet appear on this mundane sphere. “One thing wouldn’t be more im¬ possible than t’other,” said she, as she weighed out spices for a pudding. While Hugh and Mary, walking by the sea, watched tho purple portals of sunset close on the beautiful Decoration Day which had brought such a gift of happiness to their hearts.—[Saturday Night. A Temple of Serpents. The small town of Werda, in the kingdom of Dahomey, is celebrated for its Temple ot Serpents, a long building in which the priests keep upward of 1000 serpents of all sexes, which they feed with tho frogs and birds brought to them as offerings by the natives. These serpents, many of them of enormous size, may be seen hanging from the beams across the ceiling with their heads hang¬ ing downward, and in all sorts of strange contortions. The priests make the small serpents go through various evolutions by lightly touching them with a rod, but they do not venture to touch the larger ones, some of which are big enough to enfold a bullock in their coils. It often happens that some of these serpents make their way out of the temple into the town, and the priests have the greatest difficulty in coaxing them back. To kill a serpent intentionally is a crime pun¬ ished with death; and if a European wero to kill one the authority of the King himself would scarcely suffice to save his life. Any one killing a serpent unintentionally must inform the priest of what has occurred, and go througli the course of purification which takes place once a year.—[St. James Gazette. Coffee Cherries. The fruit of the coffee tree is so like English cherries that, it is said, most folk would be at a loss to tell a heap of the berries from a heap of the edible fruit. This applies, however, only to their outward appearance, for the berry contains no stone, but two seeds in¬ stead. These seeds (which are carried in a thick leathery skin, called “parch¬ ment”), after going through different processes, become tho coffee beans of commerce. UNIQUE DINNERS. Eccentricities at Dinner Tables in the Metropolis, Artistio Skill in Gutting Fruit and Vege¬ tables, Practioal Jokes, Etc. “Eccentricities at the dinner-tables,” says a New York correspondent of tlic Detroit Post, “seems to be the rage this season. Any startling or unique inno¬ vation appears to be welcome, The fresh young man, who cuts a human face on an orange and then squeezes the fruit until the eyes weep and the mouth drizzles, is in his glory. If ladies are at the table, he takes greater pleasure in exhibiting his artistic skill, A few smile, some give vent to exclamations of commisseration, and others preserve a dignified silence. Peeling an orange geometrically is anothor accomplish mont. The yellow rind is cut in lines with a sharp penknife until it re sembles the “prisoner’s puzzle,” just now attracting so much attention. The skin is then stripped from the fruit in sec¬ tions, making quaint angles, made amus¬ ing by the explanations accompanying them. Tho apple, the Malaga grape, the radish, and the banana also afford much amusement in the hands of accomplished artists. Iudeed, one man has won such eclat by his skill in carving vegetables and esculents that he is known in society as “Banana Bob.” *w Frequently these dining-table eccen¬ tricities are turned into practical jokes. At a little dinher given to cx-Sheriff William Wright of Newark, N. J., at George Hopcraft’s recently, the guests were in a continual roar ot laughter. Tho chocolate cream candies were stuffed with cotton, the lemon drops wore mado of gum guaincura, and the candied al¬ monds were filled with Tabasco sauce. Vegetables in covered dishes were placed ' on the table with each course, and the •guests were asked to assist in serving /them. In removing the covers a live eel, an enormous bullfrog, and a huge Wizard from Lake Ontario were disclosed. ' All ' Were extremely lively. The eel slipped within tho low-cut waistcoat of the Sheriff, tho bullfrog landed on Fish Commissioner Charles Murphy's shoulder and the lizard shot into the bosom of the wicked Senator Gibbs. An old shoe, mildewed and rotten, was placed before Mr. McSwyny, a well-known shoemaker. He grew red in the face and was about to treat the matter as a mortal insult, wherj Park James Oliver of Paradise turned the old shoe over, opened a slide in the sole, and disclosed a dozen cigars of the finest flavor. Tho shoo was a candied dummy, mado to or¬ der. The little party became so boister¬ ous in its merriment that a police officer of Irish descent appeared. On seeing the condition of tho table, tho room, and its occupants, he apologized for his in¬ trusion, saying: “Shin fane! shin fanel I thought yoes wero having a bit of a ruction, but it’s nothin’ but a shindy 1” He improved the opportunity offer-d while all heads were turned listening to a good story to sweep the remains of the confectionery into his capacious coat pocket. The theft was discovered after his departure. “If his wife gets a chocolate cream, his mother-in-law a lemon drop and the youngest child an almond bean, what a happy time that policeman will have after he gets home,” observed the sheriff, and the hilarity was redoubled. I hear of dinners in tho avenue where living canaries fly out of the pies and where bouquets of choice flowers hooped with diamond rings are placed at the plate of each guest. At another enter¬ tainment tiny oil paintings on leaves of ivory depicted scenes in the life of each guest. Uncle Rufus Hatch dis¬ played an unmatched eccentricity prior to his departure to Europe. He had in¬ vited a friend to dine with him in a private room at Morelli’s. An excellent dinner was served. At its conclusion, and while the coffee was steaming, Rufus called for Cubanos. They were brought. “Now bring us a light, ” said tho ex magnate from Wall street. The waiter lighted a short snowy-wicked candle. Rufus raised the china candlestick to his mouth and lighted tho cigar. He then replaced the stick on the table, and to the surprise of his guest took the lighted candle from its socket, put it in his mouth, ate and swallowed it. He changed not a muscle of his countenance, but there was a merry twinkle in his gray eyes. A similar candle was placed before his guest, who also lighted his cigar. When asked why he did not eat the taper he replied that he was no Cos¬ sack. Thereupon Rufus opened liis mouth and sent the second candle into his stomach after the first one. It was a week before the guest got an explanation dles of tho mystery. The can¬ were parts of apples fashioned into rotund shape by the expert use of a pen¬ knife, and the wicks were the meats oj almonds pared clown and stuck into the top of the vegetable tapers. Unlienlthful Occupations. When the air we breathe is contami¬ nated by stagnation, by breathing, by fires or artificial light, such as candles, lamps and gas, it operates as a poison and injures the constitution, People j seem to think that wholesome food and drink are much more important limn pure air, and their reason of so thinking is becauso air is an invisible substance. Crowds of mechanics of all kinds, are frequently pent up from morning to night, without even thinking of opening their windows for a single half hour for the admission of fresh air. When in England ono-fifth of all the deaths are from pulmonary consumption; in France one-sixth; in Germany onc-seventh, and in our own country one-eighth ;and when we sec the carelessness on every hand about what we breathe, it is not difficult to discover the cause of such a fearful mortality, and also it is not difficult to discover the remedy. As things are now it cannot be denied that, some occupa¬ tions are more unlienlthful than others, and yet the differences, in a sanitary sense, could be gneatly lessened. City people are more subject to pulmonary disease than those of tho country, and this neoll not be; at least while then is so free a circulation of pure air in the city, a better uso could be made of what there is. Sedentary employments are less favor¬ able than the active kinds, yet the man¬ ner and posture can work marked modi fleations. A dust laden atmosphere is tho most difficult evil to face. < To environ tho worker with a pure atmosphere is possible, but its execution is not so easy. Occupations that are classed as unhoalth ful can bo made less so by properly un¬ derstanding and juacticing tho law* of breathing.—[Health and Home. A Curiosity of tho Unmoral We have often seen, in school and college annuals, tables giving the aver¬ age weight, height and mental attain¬ ments of a class of fifty, or perhaps two hundred members; but that the personal appearance of all tho different individ¬ uals composing the class cOuld be fo¬ cused into ono set of features, which would combine the most prominent characteristics of the entire number in a single type—this might seem to be be¬ yond tho bounds of possibility. And yet the foat, for such it may still bo called, has been successfully performed a num¬ ber of times. An almost uncanny sensa¬ tion seizes one as he realizes that the face which he secs as the result is neither tho fancy sketch of an artist, nor yet tho likeness of a friend. The process by which tho various portraits are transferred from their re¬ spective negatives and blended into one resulting typo is a very complicated and delicate one. To be sure, even in the most successful cases, the outlines are somewhat indefinite and hazy, but the face itself preserves to a wonderful de¬ gree the most marked characteristics of the group. The art has been named composite photography; and we should think that our American novelists, with their par¬ tiality for character study, might herein find an interesting field for their pens. — [Golden Argosy. j Adulterated Spices. ! “I know a man,” remarked a gentle¬ man this morning, “who is so conscien¬ tious that, after starting in the spice busi¬ ness at considerable expense, ho sold out at a loss rather than continue a manufac¬ turing concern that could only be made profitable by adulterating the manufac¬ tures and selling impure goods. There is more adulteration in spice, he told me than in anything else, and the making of the adulterating agents is a business in itself. Why it has not been long since there was a mill over in Camden where fruit-importing firms here, and those that manufactured prepared cocoa nut, sent their cocoanut shells, which were then ground into powder and used for adulteration. I believe the method is to find out what you can get for your spices and then adulterate them so you can make a profit at the figures named. The strength and pungency of the spice are usually made to correspond with its price.—[Philadelphia Bulletin. The Wrong Boy. “Ain’t you tho boy who passed a i plugged quarter off on me yesterday?” asked tho grocer, as the boy wanted two cents’ worth of maple sugar. j j “No, sir.” “Well, you look like him.” “Mebbe I do, but I’m not the one. AU I ever done was to pass a bad fifty-cent piece on the man next door.”—[Free Pits*. NO. 16. The Poet. He sings; and such uuscornful few as heed, Say kindly, “Good, perhaps, but what’s the need?" And others mutter, “Words! All liae been said that there is need to say. What does he want, this piper bound to play Before unlistening herds !” And so the dreams that dazzled him at dawn Decline, and as the silent night comes on, Mad pray’r and protest cease; Yet sickening hope through failure wffl abide, Until the hungry heart, unsatisfied— In death finds its first peace. And then—one day the wakening nations say, “No doubt, this man’s was an inspired lay Bow to the laureled head!” And then—he is bewept, and loved and praised; And then—enduring monuments are raised To him long dead, long dead! | —[Gertrude Hall, in the Cantury. HUMOROUS. It is a wise stock that knows its own par. The best illustrated paper out—A banknote. A flowery speech—An address before a millers’ convention. A leading question—“Will you take this horse to water?" The ocean is like a good housewife— very tidy. Crossed in love—The suspenders your girl makes you. Would it bo proper to call an alley where a street fight has taken place an allegory? , Poor people nre like oysters in one re spect. A number of them have to sleep in the same bed. The base ball players, it is predicted, will be out on strikes very frequently during the season. “You can’t play that on me,’’ said the piano to the amateur, who broke down on a difficult piece of music. The postage stamp is particularly un¬ fortunate. When a man wauts to lick it he attacks it behind its back. A physician says: “If a child does not thrive on fresh milk, boil it.” How docs he expect a boiled child is going to thrive? “That’s what I call hush money" re¬ marked the man as he paid the druggist for a bottle of paregoric to take homo to the baby. A youth is conscious how little his elders know until he gets to bo an elder himself. Then he realizes the deficien¬ cies of youth. Customer; “Do you have ‘Night Thoughts?’” Salesman: “No, marm, I have to work so hard day-times, I sleep powerful sound," A recent novel says: “And he went to bed and enjoyed a sound, dreamless sleep.” How can a man enjoy anything when ho is unconscious? A pretentious woman, who had proba¬ bly heard of amulets, boasted that she “kept off all sorts of evils by wearing an omelet about her neck.” An exchange has an article on the temperature of bumble-bees. We should say that the question would largely de¬ pend on which end of the bee was tested. .Tay Gould says that it made him very sad to go to church when a boy. He made a great many other men sad when he left the church and went to Wall street. Husband (impatiently to wife)—“I told you I only wanted half a cup of tea, and, as usual, you’ve filled it up to the top. Don’t you ki.W what half full is?” Mother- in-law (grimly)—“She ought to know by this time. You’ve been half full often enough.” Too Narrow. There was an estimable Quaker woman who kept a boarding-house, and was so prospered as to be often obliged to send some of her patrons to lodge in the houses of her neighbors. Recently a company of a dozen or so of Baltimore¬ ans, who had been recommended to this lady, arrived in the city, and st once re¬ paired to her residence. “I can give thee all board,” said she to the Marylanders, “but thee must sleep in Coffin's." “What!” cried the amazed spokes¬ man. “That is the best I can do for theej and if thee do not like it, thee can go elsewhere.” And the indignant visitors went. The Unhappy Creditor. First student—“Where are you going, Tom?” Second student— * ‘To my tailor. ” “Going to pay him what you owe him?” “Not much. When he wants money he has to come to me, and then I toll him whento come again.”—[Siftings, ________
