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NORTH GEORGIA TIMES.
r “ ’’'OAKtka,
8. B.
Lore Me.
I wander through the blooming woods
Where no unhallowed thought intrudes
And song and sunshine fall in floods;
* I hear among the budding trees
Contentment sighing in the breeze,
And even the winds reprove me,
For crying out ’mid scenes like these,
“Love me I Love me I Love met”
I mingle with, yet walk apart,
The crowds that throng the busy mart,
And silent bear my breaking heart,
And live—Oh, life! with pain replete,
So sweetly sad, so sadly sweet,
With only one hope to move me,
These echoing heart throbs still repeat,
“Love me! Love me! Love me!”
The pinions of the day are furled
And night enshrouds the sleeping world,
But still, like restless billows hurled
Upon the shore; my spirit flies,
From star to star with weary eyes
Through the pitying skies above me
And in its hopeless anguish cries,
“Love me! Love me! Love me!"
— M. M. Folsom <n Atlanta Constitution.
i The Story of a Picture.
BY H. E. CLAMP.
It is about 10 o’clock p. m., the hour
when life in its lightest and most frivol¬
ous form is on parade in tho upper part
of the city’s great artery of traffic—
Broadway.
Among tho crowd of busy talkers,
thoughtless idlers and devotees of pleas¬
ure, walking at a leisurely pace and
with a thoughtful air, comes a man
Whose genius has already made his name
a household word in many lands. It is
Geoffrey Vail, the artist The hand¬
some, scholarly faco, with its delicate
whito complexion, its large, soft, black
eyes and sweeping black mustache
which fringes his sensitive mouth, his
graceful carriage and the plain but fault¬
less style of his attire, stamps him easily
as a man of superior type even to those
who do not recognize in the lone indi¬
vidual the well-known figure of metro¬
politan life.
Above the jargon of sounds in tho
streets rise occasionally from a side
street tho tones of a piano-organ, ac¬
companied by the voice of a person
singing some Italian songs. The artist
pauses for a moment to listen to the un¬
usually pathetic ring of this voice, and
as he approaches it is struck by the ap¬
pearance of the singer. It is a young
girl, about sixteen years of age, with a
Madonna-like face touched with a look
of most exquisite sorrow. Is it possible
that the coarse-looking Italian yonder
can have any connection with this lovely
child? It is not of this the artist thinks
as he lingers,throwing coins into the old
man’s hat. It is of how that lovely face
would look on canvas I
Suddenly the girl sees his ardent gaze
and her eyes droop to the ground,
while a color like the first blush of sun¬
rise mantles her cheek. The artist is yet
more charmed, although he diverts his
gaze, still following the couple from
street to street.
Finally the organ is closed up and the
two performers prepare to go home.
Goeffrey Vail approaches the Italian as
he is about to go and touches him upon
the shoulder.
“Is it your daughter?” he asks, point¬
ing to the girl.
The man nods his head.
“I am an artist and would like to
paint her picture, ” said Geoffrey.
The man shook his head in disap¬
proval.
“If you will allow her to come to my
studio every day for a month I will pay
you liberally.”
“How much?” asked the man,gruffly.
“One hundred dollars,” answered
the artist after a moment’s reflection.
“She would earn me more than that
with the organ.”
“Then we will say two hundred.”
The man’s greed was satisfied, and he
consented to the terms.
“When shall she commence!”
“Tomorrow, if it suits you," said the
artist.
“Yeiy well,” answered tho man, and
Geoffrey handed him his card.
Geoffrey turned homewards, pleased
with his discovery. For a long time ho
had meditated painting a series of
pictures representing the emotions.
“Here is my ‘Angel of Sorrow’ ideal¬
ized already,” he said to himself as ho
pursued his way through the still
crowded thoroughfare home.
The pretty Italian found Geoffrey
Vail in his studio awaiting her visit on
the following day.
Tho strong light in the studio, where
the curtains were purposely drawn
back, revealed to the artist that he had
not been deceived with regard to her
SPRING PLACE. GA.. THURSDAY. JULY 11, 1889.
appearance, The face was delicate, re
fined and indescribably sad.
She had evidently put on her best
clothes—a dress of some soft black stuff
and a shawl of the same sable hue
wrapped round her head and shoulders.
“You have posed as a model before?”
asked Geoffrey, noting tho artistic ef¬
fort of this simple costume.
“No,” said thc-girl, “never before.”
“What is your name?” asked the
artist.
“Consuelo.”
“Consuelo,” repeated the artist, “and
you look inconsolable. ”
The girl did not understand his re¬
mark, but her large dark eyes were
turned upon him wonderingly.
“Well, Consuelo, we must make the
best of our time,” said the artist.
“Como, I will arrange you as I wish you
to sit,” and ho placed a chair for her,
arranging with some care her attitude
and drapery.
“You not feel timid, do you?”
asked Geoffrey, kindly.
“Oh, no,” answered the girl, looking
at him with wonder again. It was in¬
conceivable to her that she should feel
timid in his presence.
Tho grave, gentle face of the artist
had won her confidence completely. Ac¬
customed to rough looks and sometimes
blows, tho child seemed in the atmos¬
phere of this elegant studio to breathe
the air of paradise.
But the look of sorrow did not leave
her face; it was too deeply imprinted
there.
Geoffroy was soon busy with his pen¬
cil. An artist, his soul was in his art.
To him the animate beauty was only a
stepping-stone to tho inanimate, every¬
thing lovely created that it might be
copied on the canvas and immortalized.
Consuelo’s sitting was not a long one.
Ho thought it best not to tire her too
much the first day, and at tho end of the
third hour rose from his easel, and
thanking her, dismissed her till the
morrow.
- “You will come again, won’t you?”
said Geoffrey.
The girl’s look answered him.
For the first time that she could re
member Consuelo went to her miserable
home happy. A now vista had been
opened to her. She had caught a
glimpse of another world with which
she seemed to feel some strange kin¬
ship.
The last sitting came. Artist and
model wero to part.
Geoffrey, who had grown familiar
with the child, took her hand in his
own when he bado her adieu. Sudden¬
ly Consuelo burst into tears.
The artist himself felt unexpectly and
strangely moved. Even to him the
parting seemed painful. Why? Blind
egotist I unknown to himself ho had
learned to love. Only at this crisis did
the truth dimly dawn upon him. But
why these tears of hers? Strange infat¬
uation 1 Then the child must love him
also.
She had turned away to weep.
“Consuelo,” ho said gravely, “come
here. ”
Consuelo came at his bidding.
“Look at me straight in the face.”
“I cannot,” she sobbed.
“Consuelo, why do you weep?"
The face could be doubted no longer
except by the blind.
Geoffrey folded her tenderly in his
arms, unresisted. Tho lovely head
rested upon his bosom. His lips were
pressed to the blushing cheek.
“Consuelo, would you like to stay
here always—to be my wife?” he said
rather nervously, half frightened him¬
self.
The girl looked at him and seemed’ to
make somo sudden resolve.
Withdrawing herself from his em¬
brace she wiped her eyes, and then
without another word or look fled from
the studio.
“She is frightened, but I must follow
her,” said the aTtist. How soon she
had become infinitely precious to him 1
He hastened to the door, but no trace of
Consuelo could be seen. He paused to
reflect. He did not know even her ad¬
dress. The Italian had already called
for his money. How should he find
her? What strange impulse had eaused
her to turn and fly so suddenly. It was
inexplicable, but he must find a key to
the mystery. How? Would she not re¬
turn to hor old avocation, accompany¬
ing the organ? If he searched the
streets for a few days, he would soon
meet her again. (
But days, weeks and months rolled
by, and no trace of Consuelo or the
Italian rewarded his anxious search.
So his passion died away into a vague
and hopeless regret Nothing remained
of Consuelo but tho blending of her
beauty with his own dreams in tho
picture. So he devoted himslf with re¬
newed ardor to his favorite pursuits.
The “Angel of Sorrow’’ was completed;
extravagant oilers were made for it, but
the picture was not for salo. Money
could not buy it.
It was hung in the artist’s own studio
—his greatest achievement—and mauy
wondered as they gazed upon the sor¬
rowful face whence came tho inspiration
for it.
Five years had gone by since his brief
lovo dream had had its sudden birth and
tragic finale.
His gentle face had grown gentler,
and perhaps a tinge of sadness had crept
in between the handsome lines; but he
had little to complain of so far as suc¬
cess was concerned.
Ho is busy in his studio when some
callers are announced. They are
foreigners, evidently, from their names.
Geoffrey glancos carelessly at the card,
and, not recognizing the names, is about
to excuse himself, but suddenly changes
his mind.
His visitors are shown into tho studio.
A gentleman, refined and distinguish¬
ed in appearance, and a lady some
years his junior. A white veil partly
secludes the lady’s face.
Geoffrey bows politely, and advances
to meet them as they arc announced.
The gentleman, speaking in French,
apologized for their intrusion and asks
permission to look at some of the artist’s
work, and the lady, who has observed
the artist’s favorito picture, leads her
companion towards it. After viewing it
for some minutes and exchanging re¬
marks of admiration in their own
tongue, the gentleman, turning to Geof¬
frey, asks him if the picture cau be
purchased.
“On no consideration,” replied the
artist. “It is reserved at a prico which
even tho most extravagant would never
care to go to.”
“Which means that you do not wish
to sell it,” replied his visitor.
Tho artist bowed in acquiescence.
“And did you ever see a faco which
suggested such beauty?” asked his visi
itor, adding “Pardon me, but I have a
purpose in inquiring.”
“I have seen one,” replied tho artist,
“with which this creation of mine could
but feebly compare.”
As he said this his eye caught the
face of tho lady who had removed her
veil.
“Consuelo 1” cried tho artist, forget¬
ting his visitors for a moment."
But they wero smiling at him pleas¬
antly.
“Pardon me,” ho said. “Somo fan¬
cied resemblance compelled me to utter
that name.”
Tho lady approached nearer to him.
“Do you not remember me, then?”
she said, softly.
The artist looked puzzled and per¬
plexed.
“Surely it is Consuelo; but, pardon
mo, you have changed your name.”
And he glanced significantly at her com¬
panion. “Ah! and you are no more the
Angel of Sorrow; you might now pose
for tho Angel of Joy.”
Consuelo seemed to enjoy his per¬
plexity. “And have not you found a
true Consuelo also?” she a9kcd laugh¬
ingly.
The artist shook hi s head sadly.
“Papa, this is Mr. Vail,” said Con¬
suelo, turning to her companion, who
offered his hand to Geoffrey with a pleas¬
ant smile.
“You aro wondering what it all
means,” said Consuelo, also smiling;
but it is a long story; papa will tell you
while I look at some pictures round the
studio, and if you wish to repeat the
question you asked so long ago, which I
never answered, repeat it to him-”
Tho story was briefly told.
Consuelo had been kidnapped from
her home in Italy and- shipped to New
York. After many years she had been
traced and returned to her parents.
She had fled from Geoffrey’s presenco
because ashamed of her humble origin
and parentage, believing the padrono
to be her father, and had been rescued
immediately afterwards.
In Italy she had been educated, pre¬
viously exacting from her father a
promise that as soon as her education
was completed ho would bring her to
New York.
Such a story could have but one so
qucl—a happy marriage, It was
assuredly a happy one, and soon after
it Geoff re ft commenced the twin picture
—{NfW York llereury.
THE SLAVE MARCH.
Terrible Trials of Captives in the
African Coast Trade.
A Blow in the Head Ends the
Troubles of the Weak.
“Yes, I have seen the terrible slave
march,” said Mr. II. F. Moir, who for
many years has traveled abroad, spend
ing.moro or less time in Africa. Ho was
speaking of tlio sufferings of those cap¬
tives who carry great burdens across the
deserts in the African coast trade. Mr.
Moir is a resident of New York Slate,
and last night in the lobby at the Grand
Hotel entertained a few friends with a
recital of some of his adventures.
“When tho slaves are captured, ” ho
said, “they are taken to tho headquar¬
ters of the east coast traders. There a
yoke is placed about their neck, and is
allowed to remain night aud day with¬
out being once taken off. Tko constant
rubbing upon the neck chafes the skin,
and gradually ugly wounds begin to
fester under tho burning African sun¬
shine. Tho men who appear tho
strongest, and whoso escape is
feared, have their hands tied, nnd
sometimes their feet, in such' fashion
that walking becomes a torture to them,
and on their necks aro placed the terri¬
ble goree or taming-sticks. The yoke is
8 young tree with forked branches. It
i9 generally about five or six foot long,
nnd from three to four inches in dinme
tc^. One which I examined not long
ago was about twenty-eight pounds in
wiiight, but I am told that refractory
slaves are often placed in yokei weigh¬
ing fifty pounds or more. Through each
prong of the fork is a hole bored for the
reception of an iron pin, which, after the
neck of the slnvo has been placed in tlio
fork, is made secure by a blacksmith.
Tho opposite end i3 lashed to the corre¬
sponding end of another yoke, in tho
fork of which anothor slave is held, aud
thus the poor creatures have to march,
carrying besides this intolerable weight,
a load of provisions or ivory slung across
tho center of the polo. Other slaves aro
in gangs of about a dozen each, with an
iron collar lot into a iron chain.
“Aro males alone of these captives?”
asked an Enquirer reporter, who was
one of the party.
“No, indeed,” said Mr. Moir. “Wo¬
men slaves are plentiful. A man with
any spirit can scarcely trust himself to
look at the starting of one of tho cara¬
vans. I accompanied one which con¬
tained many women. They are .all fas¬
tened to chains or thick bark ropes.
Very many of the women in tho caravan
to which I refer, in addition to their
heavy weight of grain or ivory, carried
their little brown babie3. The
double weight was almost too much,
and still they strugglo wearily on
knowing too well that when they showed
signs of fatigue, not the slaver’s ivory,
but tho living child, would be torn
from them and thrown aside to die.
One poor old woman I could not help
noticing. Sho was carrying a baby boy
who should have been walking,
but whose thin, weak legs had evidently
given way; she was tottering already; it
was the supreme effort of a mother’s
love—and all in vain, for the child,
easily recognizable, was brought into
camp a couple of hours later by one of
our hunters, who had found him on the
path. We had him cared for, but his
poor mother would never know.
During three days' journey out from
Liendwe death freed many of the cap¬
tives. It was well for them; still we
could not help shuddering as in the
darkness we heard the howl of the hye¬
nas along the track, and realized only
too fully the reason why. The attach
riient of tho children to their mothers
and the mothers’ determination not to
be parted from their children;” contin¬
ued the traveler, “combine to carry them
along with tho slave caravan—that is, so
long as their poor little legs can bear
them.”
“How can the slaves keep up under
their burdens?’’ was asked.
“They do not do it long,” Was the
answer. “They march all day, and
at night, when they stop, a few handfuls
of raw ‘sorgho’ are distributed among
theij, and this is all their food. As soon
as any begin to fail, their conductors
approach those who appear to be most
exhausted and deal them a terrible blow
on the hape of tho neck. A single cry,
and the victims fall to the ground in the
convulsions of death. Terror for a time
inspires the weakest with new strength,
but each time one breaks' down the ter-
Vol. IX. New Series. NO. 23.
riblo scene is repeated. A friend of
mine told mo that once when traveling
in Central Africa he was obliged to at¬
tach himself to an Arab slave gang, and
that tho drivers deliberately cut the
throats of those who could not inarch.
I have also been informed," said Mr.
Moir, “that in Central Africa these
slave-drivers have been kee-. n to cut off
an arm or any limb with one blow from
(heir swords .”—Cincinnati Enquirer.
How the President Spends His Day.
The President divides his timo so as
to have ample opportunity for rest, re¬
creation and work. Ho generally rises
about 7 o’clock in tho morning and
breakfasts with his family at 8.30
o’clock. He usually leaves the building
by the south door and indulges in a
stroll of half an hour about tho grounds
south of tho mansion. Ho then returns
to his office and by 9.30 o’clock is en
gaged in looking over papers and ar¬
ranging his work for the day. At 11
o’clock Senators and Representatives be¬
gin to arrive and they are received with
tlio utmost courtesy, patience and con
sideration.
At 1 o’clock the President, except on
cabinet days, descends to the east room,
where ho always finds hundreds of per¬
sons, men and women, who are stran¬
gers in the city, waiting to pay thei r
respects. After dispersing this crowd
with many pleasant remarks, he takes
his luncheon and then returns to his of¬
fice, where he begins the real work of
tho day, undisturbed by callers, except
by special appointments, as these three
hours are devoted to audionces granted
to cabinet ministers to submit the busi¬
ness of their departments and rcceivo
directions. At 5 o’clock be usually
takes a long walk in tho northwestern
section of the city, or a drivo with Mrs.
Harrison and the ladies of his family.
At 7.30 o’clock tho President joins
Mrs. Harrison and the ladies at dinner
in the family dining- room. Frequently
he invites some friend or official whom
he desires to meet in tho loss respected
and more leisurely surrounding# of
informal hospitality, Later in tho
evening tho President passes his time
with his family, or receives visitors who
are entitlod to call socially .—Pittsburg
Commercial Oazette.
The Dakota “Rustler.”
Tho Dakota “rustler” is tho direct
product of the blizzard. Ho moves with
a quick, resistless force. He does not
rest for sloep or food. Ho knows no
weariness of the flesh. Ho lias no doubts
or fears. Ho believes, and he is an in
spirer of faith. Ho will build a hotel of
300 rooms on a street-motor railway on
tho blank prairie and wait for a town to
grow up around it. Tho town always
comes, if he be a gonuino rustler.
You can’t tell by his looks, nor by the
cut of his clothes. His grammar is often
addled, and ho makes a bib of his nap¬
kin at table. But when ho turns himself
loose upon a project with money in it
the project projects. It looms. It
yawns. He keeps it ever in the way of
your eyes, and before you know it you
begin to see rainbows around it.
He cares nothing for money after it is
made. Ask, and it is given you. Tell
him a tale of woe, and out comes his
purse. He would moulder in a week
behind a desk or in a counting-room.
He is always on the lope. Today, he is
getting options on corner lots in Pierre;
tomorrow, he is building mills at Yank¬
ton. Then he is off to St. Paul bull¬
dozing “Jim" Hill for more railroads,
or off to New York placing the stock of
a new loan and trust company. He is
interested in everything. He lets no
enterprise escape him. They’ll all pay,
he says, or all “bust." There is no
middle lino out there.
Diagnosing Disease by the Hair.
A Pittsburg doctor says ho can diag¬
nose ailments by examining a single hair
of tho pationt. Two young men as a
joke, took him a hair from a bay horse.
Tho doctor wrote a prescription and
said his fee was $25 as the caso was pre¬
carious. They were staggered but paid
the foe, and after they got out laughed
all the way to tho apothecary’s, The
latter took the prescription and read in
amazement: “One bushel of oats, four
quarts of water, stir well, and give three
times a day—and turn the animal out to
grass.” Then the jokers stopped laugh¬
ing.— Chicago Herald.
His Complexion Confused Her.
Aggie—Oh, Mrs. Smith, who was
that Chinaman you were walking with
today?
Mrs. S.—Chinaman? Ohl It was
my husband; he’s just had tho jaundice.
The Two Poets.
*T would not weight,” one poet said,
“Tho wing of Fancy soaring high
Up the blue dome of boundless sky;
Or part tho downy plumage spread
Above her breast, oven by a strand
Of silken service, wrapping there.
To send across the summer 1 md,
Such messages through tho golden air
As humbler pinions deign to boar.
“My realm is Beauty’s large domnin;
My service, Art, for Art s pure sa!«\
Thai does not ask, and will not take,
The low rewards of use or gain—
That owns no duty in a song—
No Epic call that sliall avail
To urge the right, or chide tho wrong,
Or hearten hope when hope would fail—
I sing as sings the nightingale."
“If through my verso,” anothor sang,
“A throb is felt, whoso human beat
Reveals a purpose, strong nnd sweet*
To anodyne some deadly pang,
Or help some halting soul to reach
Firm foothold on tho path that leads
Stamvard, through what my verso may
teach,
Or heal the hurt that inward bio. ds,
Or spur some life to loftier deeds—
“I loave content the rarer height
Of Art to such eiliereal souls
As Beauty’s liner air infolds
In atmospheres too keen of light
For earth-born vision. While they soar,
Let mo keep warm within my broast
Tho heart throb—and I ask no more!”
Men praised tiio Poet; for tho rest,
God loved the lowlier singer best.
—Margaret J. Preston.
HUMOROUS.
Cut flowers—Wall flowers.
A husbandman is not always a hus¬
band:
A rule of three—For one to take his
departure.
The guillotine block is one of tbs
French polling places.
Tho dude is a great stickler for the
correct thing in caucs.
A swallow may not make a summer,
but a frog makes a spring.
Tho long and tho short of it—The
measurements both ways.
Thero is no reason in tho world why a
“baby show” shouldn’t bo a howling
success.
It is strange that in throwing up our
hands to a highwayman we throw down
our arms.
Thero aro different ways of showing
wrath; the tea-kettle sings sweetest
when it is hottest.
Tho young idea may sometimes be
best taught to shoot by putting it
through a course of sprouts.
Mrs. Quarterest—What is your atti¬
tude toward Wagner’s art, professor.
Professor Balder—Hands over my ears.
Some men are born great, somo achieve
greatness, and some have had fathers
who relieved them of all responsi¬
bility.
Oldmanson—Have you a telephone,
Biggs? Biggs—No, I am not on speak¬
ing terms with the company, Their
rates are too high.
Miggs: “I hear a policeman was
killed yesterday in tho discharge of his
duty.” Bliggs: “He probably didn’t
know it was loaded.”
Returned traveler; “Mr. Richman
could draw his check for a million when
I left. How much money has he by this
time?” Citizen: “He hasn’t any.”
“Eh? Wha— Did he fail?” “No;
he died. ”
A Human Almanac.
Brown county, 111., has a prodigy is
the shape of a ten-year-old boy with a
talent for days and dates. Roy Oden
weller, son of S. P. Odenweller of In¬
dustry township, is the infant wonder.
Give him any date in any month of this
year, last year or next year, and ho can
at once tell you the day of the week
upon which it falls or has fallen. For
example, ask him on what day of the
week will Octobor 17, 1889, fall, and
he will promptly answer “Thursday, If ‘
which is correct. And so of any date
last year or the year to come. How he
arrives at the solution he does not know.
Numerous gentlemen of undoubted ver¬
acity have ;peatodly tested his strange
power. The little follow is a bright
youngster, but does not oxhibit any un¬
usual precocity beyond this peculiar
gift. He says that beyond the three
years—the current, tho last and the
next—he cannot give correct answers.
Next year he will lose all power over
1888 (with which he is now conversant),
and his mind will grasp that df 1891, of
which he now knows nothing. He has
no rule or method, nor does he know
how he arrives at the true answer, but it
is certain that he is correct when
answering .—Chicago * Tribune.
