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N(BTH G! f:.. - GIA TIMES.
*!»>
C. N. KING, I i-mprtelor
8. B. CARTER, jf
Lift).
One# »thronged thoroughfare that wound
afar
By shining streams, and waving fields and
And festal cities and sweet solitudes,
All whither, onward to the utmost star:
Now a blind alley, lurking by the shore
Of stagnant ditches, walled with reeking
* crags, ' ■<: \
Where one old heavy-hearted vagrant lags,
Footsore, at nightfall limping to Death’s
* <loor.
—[W. D. Howells, In Harper’s Magazine.
MRS. CROLY’S BURGLAR.
-— . 4* v
.
Elijah Croly, my husband, was
owner and captain of a coasting ves¬
sel, doing a good trade; aud We occu¬
pied an old-fashioned and somewhat
dreary iionso at Stepney. Elijah liked
the place more than I did, and it was
on his account that wo stayed there so
long. I thought it could make very
little difference to him where we lived,
for he was at home only two or three
weeks out of every ten. I was often
alone two months at a time; aiid lone¬
ly enough it was sometimes.
“Get some one whom you Jibe to
stay with you, my dear,” the captain
said, when I told him one day how un*
pleasant I felt to be alone so much.
“Get any one you please, and before
long I hope I shall be able to stay at
home with you myself.”
I took his advice, and after some in¬
quiry I found a woman who I thought
would suit me. Her name was Emily
Sands, aud she was a pleasant-faced
woman of about forty. She told mo
that she bad been left a widow, with
no means, and had since earned her
living by needlework; and although I
had intended that the woman who
■ came every morning to do my house¬
work should still come, I found Emily
so willing that I soon discontinued the
services of the other. She was so
amiable and so vivacious, that I was
satisfied that I had douo the best that
I could in tho matter.
The captain remained at .home this
time barely two weeks. On the morn¬
ing that he left to take his vessel for
another trip, just after he had taken
up his hat to go, lie called me into the
chamber and shut tbe door.
“Hero is something, Fanny,” he
said, “that I want you to keep safely
for me till I comeback.” And be took
a paper package from his breast pocket
as lie spoke. ‘ *Thero arc ten fifty
dollar bills in it—$2500 in all. 1 will
lock it up here in this bureau drawer
and givo yofi the key.” And ho did
so. “No one would think of coming
here for money.”
“Do you think yon had better leave
it here, Elijah?” I asked. “Why not
put it in the bank?”
“I meant to; but I shall not have
time. The money was only paid me
last night. But no matter, the money
will be safe where it is, and there will
be no danger about it; or if you
think so, you may deposit it yourself.’*
The evenings were rather long, and
Emily and I sat together in the dining¬
room after the table was cleared, she
reading aloud aud I listening, as was
our custom. When the clock struck
10 she laid down her book and 1 took
my lamp, aud bidding her good night
Went up to my room.
My chamber occupied the whole
front of tho second story, aud Emily
had a back room upon the samo floor.
A bell-wire ran from my room to hers,
so that I could summon her at
pleasure.
I placed the lamp upon the bureau,
shaded it, and returned and locked the
door. Then I drew my easy chair to
the middle of the room, put on my
slippers aud sat down for a few min¬
utes before retiring. And immedi¬
ately I became vexed at myself to find
that I was looking at the drawer that
held the money, and that I was feeling
in my pocket to see that the key was
safe. I felt no alarm; I had almost
cured myself of my uneasiness; bat
it seemed as if that money and the
danger ol its custody would obtrude
upon me.
In the impatience of the moment I
turned my chair half round and looked
towards the opposite wall. The shade
that I placed over the lamp confined
its rays within a small circle, beyond
which the bed, tiie furniture, the car¬
pet and the wait paper were obscure.
In tiie corner, to the right of the
door, was an autique, high-backed
chair, a favorite piece of fnrnitnre.
As I turned my own chair from the
bureau my eyes rested on this object;
SPRING PLACE, GA.. THURSDAY. APRIL SO, 1891.
and f saw by the same glance that a
human figure was sitting in it.
There I was, locked up in a room
with a ruffian, waiting, trembling and
expecting to hear him speak, or to be¬
come the object of tome violence.
‘ For although, as I have said, I could
not distinguish whether it was man or
woman, I did not doubt that it was
tho former and one of the most des¬
perate of his kind. And presently, as
my eyes fell to the floor, I saw a great
pair of boots thrust out upon the car¬
pet within the radius of the light.
I do not know how long we sat
there in the semi-darkness of the room,
facing each other, but motionless and
silent; it might hare been three
minutes or thirty. The thought of
alarming Emily suddenly occurred to
me, aud I reached out for the bell
cord. I should have boen within easy
reach of the spot where I sat; but my
hand failed to find it.
A low chuckle came from the occu¬
pant of tho old chair.
“That was a clever thought of you,
missus,” came forth in a deep, rough
voice, and in a tone of easy insolence.
“Clever thought, marm; but bless
your simple soul, do you think I was
argoing to leave that ’ere cord there
for you to make a noise with? Not by
no means. It’s well to be careful
when you’re in this kind of business,
marm; and so when you left mo alone
here before dark—I then being under
the bed, you see—I crawled out and
took a survey of the place.”
My strength was returning. I be¬
came reassured as I saw that the man
intended no violence to myself.
“What do you waut?” I asked.
He chuckled again, and replied.*
“Now, that’s good; you’re a business
woman, marm. You come right to
the point without any nonsense. I’m
going to tell you what I want”
He rose from the chair as he spoke
aud crossed the room to the bureau,
passing so close to me that his boots
brushed the skirt of my dress. I
shuddered and drew my chair bark.
I could not help betraying my fear.
“Be quiet, marm,” he said, “i
don’t mean to hurt you, if I can help
it. Keep still and I won’t. Let’s
have a look at each other.”
“You don't know me,” he re¬
marked, iu an ordinary tone. “No,
of course not; it’s best for you that
you shouldn't. I thought at first there
was something familiar in your face;
but I fancy I wa3 mistaken. Well, to
business, marm!” And he assumed a
sharp tone and looked carefully at the
bureau. “I’ve got a pistol here,
missus” — and he slapped his
pocket; “but you’re too sen¬
sible a woman, I take it, to
make me use it on you. I want that
money. There’s twenty-five hundred
dollars of it iu this drawer. You have
tho key—give it to me!”
I handed it to him without a word.
“I’ll leave you no\y in a minute,
missus,” he said, rapidly inserting the
key, turning it, aud opening the
drawer, “with many thanks for your
good behavior. Is this it?”
He took out the package and held it
U * > ’
“That is the money,” I said.
He had thrust the package into his
pocket and was about to close the
drawer, when his eye was caught by
something within it. He started,
thrust his hand into the drawer, aud
taking out an object that I was well ac¬
quainted with, he bent over and scru¬
tinized it,holding it closer to the lamp.
How 1 did wish that I could see the
expression of his face at that moment!
Ho held in his hand an ivory minia¬
ture of my husband’s face, a faithful
picture made by an artist years before,
at my request.
“Whose face is this?” the robber
demanded, iu a voice that trembled
with eagerness.
“My husband's,” I replied.
“Your husband’s? Yes, yes—but
his name!”
“Elijah Croly.”
“Captain Croly?” he demanded in
the same tone.
“Yes.”
“The same who commanded the
bark Calvert, that used to run oqt of
Liverpool?”
I nodded my head. I knew tho ves¬
sel named was the last one th^t my
husband had sailed on the ocean be¬
fore he bought life own coaster; in
fact, it was the same in which I came
to England.
“And this is Capt. Croly’s money?
—this is his house?—you are his
wife?” he asked rapidly, giving ma
no time to answer his questions.
“Yes, yes—I see it all. Great God!
—to think what I was about to do!”
He dropped into the nearest chair,
apparently faint with emotion; but
while I sat in deep surprise at the un¬
expected turn that this affair had
taken, he said, “You have no reason
to fear now; I will not rob you; I
will not harm you. Only don’t makes
a noise. Please open the*door, and
you will find Jane—your woman, I
mean, waiting In the passage.”
I obeyed; I did not know what elsd
to do. I unlocked and opened the
door, and there, to my astonishment,
stood Emily Sands, arrayed in her
bonnet and shawl, with a bundle in
her hand—waiting, 1 havo no doubt,
for a signal from within. She started
upon seeing me; but the man immedi¬
ately called to her by the name of Jane,
telling her to come in.
She passed by me as she did so, aud
I whispered: “Oh, Emily, how could
you betray me?”
“I’ve a very few words to say to
you, ma’aip,” said tjie man; and
the boldness and insolence had goTii
out of his voice, leaving it gentle am
sorrowful. “Just a few words to asl
you to forgive us for what we meant
to do, and to toll you what has ijia&
pened to change ray mind so suddenly,
and why we can’t rob you, as we meant
to do.”
Ile took the package from his pocket
with the words, and tossed it into my
lap.
“That'money belongs to the man
that I love and honor more than any
other on earth. I’m a hard customer,
ma'am; we live by dark ways aud do
ings, Jane and I; and I wouldn’t tun
believed when she let me in here t<
day and hid me, that I could leave the
house without that money; but if I’d
known whom it belonged to, I’d sooner
have held out my right hand <0 be cut
off than come here art have; iratrHr *
what I came. I used to be a sailot
aud I was with Capt. Croly in the Cal¬
vert. He was the very kindest and
best master that ever handled a speak¬
ing-trumpet, and there wasn’t a man
aboard the bark but loved him. One
night off llalturas all hands were sent
aloft to reef in a heavy gale,
and when they came down again
I was missing. ‘Where is he?’
the captain asked, but none
of them knew. They hadn’t noticed
me since we all sprang into the shrouds
ogether. ‘Overboard, I’m afraid,’
said the mate; and the men seemed
fearful that I was lost. The captain
hailed me through his speaking-trum¬
pet, and there came back a faint, de¬
spairing ciy, only just heard above the
piping of tho storm. Croly never or¬
dered any one elso up; he cast off his
coat and threw down liis trumpet, and
went aloft before any one could got
ahead of him. He found me hanging
with one elbow over the foreyard and
just about ready to fall from weakness
and pain, for my other arm was twist¬
ed out of joint at the elbow by a turn
of the ropes. He caught me and hold
me there till help came up from below,
and then they carried me down. It
was Capt. Croly that saved me from a
grave in the sea; and I would have
robbed him tonight I Forgive us,
madam, if you can. Wo will leave
you in peace. Come, Janet”
The two passed out of my chamber,
and from the house, leaving me like
one iu a dream. Tho woman I never
saw again: and I have little hope that
she ever reformed. She was one of
the crafty, hypocritical kind, whose
hearts are entirely bad, and who
generally come to bad ends. Bat I am
very hopeful that the man entered
npon a new life after this occurrence.
He made no promises, not even an
intimation that he intended to do so;
bat I have faith to think that the heart
that could Treasure up a debt of grati¬
tude, and stay tbe execution of a
crime, as in this case, must have some¬
thing in.it strong enough to turn it to
virtuous ways.—[New York World.
Defective Vision.
Anxious Mother—As I passed the
parlor door last evening, I saw Mr.
Nicefeilo’s face, very, very close to
yours.
Lovely Daughter—Y-e-s, ma, lie’s
so near sighted.—[Good News.
A proposal.—She (piqued): I don’t
know exactly what to make of you,
Mr. Bland? He (eager to suggest):
Er—Whv not trv a husband?
"CALLE FLORIDA.”
Sidewalk Life in A Fashionable
Street in Buenos Ayres.
Nightly Gatherings of Insipid
Young Men.
The Callo Florida is the most fash
jonablo street in Buenos Ayres. Here
are the finest shops for the sale of
objects of luxury; the swoll jewellers,
milliners, dress-makers, tailors, hat
tors, shoemakers; the fashionable res¬
taurants, Mercer, Rotisserie,Francaise,
Sportsman; and, above all, the crack
Conliteria del Aguila. A confiteria, it
must be explained, is a shop
for the sale of bonbons, confection¬
ery, sweetmeats, and refreshments,
and at the samo time a sort of
cafo and bar-room, where all kinds
of drinks and liqueuro may bo obtain¬
ed ; it is the Argentine equivalent of
the French cafe. Shch shops abound
in Buenos Ayres; there is hardly a
block in tho cit L that l> a8 not its con
j fiteria. Tho one iu the Callo Florida
'bearing the name of del Aguila has a
[facade of white marble, surmounted
by an eagle and two allegorical figures,
jaud its windows form recesses along
’the sidewalk capable of accommodating
teach half a dozen dandies. The door
of tho confiteria can also accom
a to a considerable number, and
t^ 1080 w ho 110 room at tho Aguila,
Struggle along the street aud seek
be fhelter in that other door-steps, for it must
added the Callo Florida is an
©Id-fashioned narrow Btreot, and that
sidewalk will permit only two
to walk abreast; hence
necessity for the dandies of finding
where they can stand without
iinpedlng the circulation and incurring
wrath of the people. And so here
N*o congregate, tho rich young creoles
pass their -days gambling at. the
Club del Progreso, and the hard
worked connter-jumper, the dudo who
has dined at the Cafe de Paris, and the
dude who has dined at tho tenth-rate
Italian “hash mil!;” both are armed
with cigarettes and toothpicks, both
wear stupendous light-colored cravats
and enormous diamond pins, and
both aro well dressed and prodi¬
gal of immaculate shirt fronts.
They stand and they smoke; they ad¬
dress each other with the word cbe, of
universal use throughout the Argen¬
tine in the signification of “man”;
they converse in husky or guttural
tones, pronouncing tiie words with
monotonous precipitation; and when¬
ever a woman passes they look at lior
and say: “Hermosa rubia” (Beautiful
blonde); “Quo cabecita tan lindal”
(What a pretty little head I); “Que
boca tan adorable I” (What a lovely
mouth!); aud other insipid words.
That is all. They stand;
they smoko; they make their
silly observation*; and at ton
o’clock they disperse, and Florida, liko
the other streets of Buenos Ayres, re¬
mi empty until midnight, when
the people returning from the theatre
give it a momentary supplement of
animation. There Is a rush for the
last horse cars, a clattering of hoofs
of Russian trotters, a banging of the
doors of elegant coupes, and then onco
more all is silent and deserted; the
bright polished tramway rails glisten
and vanish in the long prospective of tiie
dark and narrow streets; and with the
moonlight silveriug the blue and white
glazed tiles of the church domes and
towers, and forming strong contrasts
of vheen and shadow amongst the
irregular masses of the houses* and
shops, Buenos Ayres becomes for the
moment clothed in mystery and charm,
and resumes that tinge of Orientalism
which suggests itself iu the distant
views of tho town from the river.
Such is sidewalk life in Buenos Ayres,
or, as it may be called in Spanish,
Bidewalk and candy-shop life—la vida
de confiteria y de vereda.—[Harper’s
Magazine.
How a Convict Poet Saved a Tree.*
But life in tjie bush was not al
made up of tragedy, or even of misery.
To the fioet there was consolation, and
almost happiness, in the glorious opep
air, amid the grand primeval trees,
and tho strange birds and beasts of tiie
antipodes. The land about him lay at
the world’s threshold. Strange mon¬
sters of prehistoric form still peopled
(lie forest, monsters of tho vegetable
ss well as of the animal kingdom.
VoL XL New Series. NO. 13.
One incident will illustrate his love
of nature, which, curiously enough*
found more frequent expression in
his prose tli|n iu his verse, and was
still more a part of his life than of his
writings. For, while he passionately
loved and keenly enjoyed all the de¬
lights of communiou with nature, tis
joy and love were personal pleasures.
They formod no part of tho sermon
which it was his mission to preach.
The text of that sermon was Human¬
ity. To that he subordinated evory
impulse of mere sentiment. This long
preface to a short story is excusable,
because the criticism has beou made,
aud with justice, that O'Reilly’s poetry
is strangely wanting in tho purely de¬
scriptive element. The only long
poem to which that criticism least ap¬
plies is his “King of the Vasse,” in
which arc many wonderfully strong
and beautiful pictures of nature.
It happened that tiie road gang witii
which he was working, in following
the course laid out by tho surveyors,
came upon a magnificent tree, a giant
among its fellows, tho growth of cen¬
turies, towering aloft to tho sky and
spreading enormous arms on every
side. Tlio wealth of an empire could
not buy this peerless work of nature.
The word of an unlettered ruler of a
convict gang was potent enough for,
its destruction; for it lay right in
middle of the surveyed road. The
order was given to cut it down.
O’Reilly argued and pleaded for its
preservation, but in vain. All that he
could obtain was a reluctantly granted
reprieve, aud appeal to a higher power.
He went—this absurd poet in a striped
suit—to the commander of the district,
and pleaded for the tree. The official
was so amused at his astounding au¬
dacity that lie told Ids wife>-.:/ho,
being a woman, had a soul above sur¬
veys aud the right of way. She in¬
sisted on visiting the tree, and the re¬
sult of her visit was a phenomenon.
The imperial road was turned from
its course, and a grand work of nature
stands in the West Australian forest
as a monument to the convict poet.—
[Life of John Boyle O’Reilly.
The House’s Symbol of Authority.
Tho mace remaius upon its pedestal
uutil the House goes into Committee
of the Whole. Then it is lowered aud
remains lowered till the committee
rises. Notwithstanding its prominence
and significance, a man might serve
six months iu the House of Repre¬
sentatives without noticing it. But
let a storm arise; let tiie pulses
of the members be quickened with
passion aud hot words be uttered; let
clinched fists be shaken and members
rush toward the main aisle in rage and
fury aud the mace will appear. It
will be born aloft majestically over the
arena iu front of the Speaker’s desk,
up the main aisle and down the side
aisles, calming the tempest,cooling tiie
disputants, calling tho House to its
sober self, and causing members to
resume their seats. They recognize
its significance cs a symbol, and sub¬
mit to tiie authority which it repre¬
sents. It was used for this purpose
five times during the Fifty-first Con¬
gress. It was carried around the
House twice in the Fiftieth Congress.
Runs on a Hero’s Name.
“It is very remarkable,” says a St.
Louis clergyman, “how many parents
are in the habit of naming their chil¬
dren after some popular hero. This is
well illustrated in the case of the late
Bishop Marvin of St. Louis. -A gentle¬
man in the interior of the state uotio
ing the frequency of the name among
Methodist children, inserted a request
in one of the church papers that the
names and address of all persons who
had been named after the bishop be
sent him. He received abont 1200
answers, and, considering tho numbers
who probably saw nothing of the
request and those who saw bat paid
no attention to it, I have no doubt,
from the omissions of which. I havo
knoWlcdgo, that between 2000 and
3000 boys in this country are named
Marvin.”—[Times-Democrat.
The Trichina's Vitality.
Experiments recently made in France
with a view to discovering the amount
of vitality in specimens of trichinae
show that, though they be subjected to
a temperature of twenty-five degrees
below zero for two hoars, they again
become as lively as ever on a return
cf a normal amount of light and heat.
—[St. Louis Republic.
, I Will Not Let Thee Go.
I wilt not let thee go.
End all our month-long love In this?
Con it be summed up so.
Quite in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds
As the soft south can blow
And toss tbe feathered seeds.
Then might I let thee goy
I will not let tbee go,
Had not tbe great sun seen, I might;
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false* to light,
Then might [ let thee. go.
The I will not let thee gh
stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
Have we not chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now,
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?
I will not let thee go.
Hava not the young flowers been content
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
1 cannot let thee go.
I will not let thee go.
I hold thoe by too many bands;
Thou sayest farewell, and lo I
1 have thee by th« hands,
And will not let thee go.
—[Robert Bridges.
HUMOROUS.
IIow to make an army fly—Break its
Wings.
A nervous affection—A man on tho
eve of proposal.
A place for everything—The old
fashioned garret.
The buyer who tries to boat you
down Is a price-fighter.
Our spare hours are well named;
they seem the shortest of the day.
The only chance for tho vory fat
man as an athlete is oil the all-rouud
class.
What a wife, who thinks her hus¬
band has told her all, hasn’t been told,
is simply appalling.
We all respect those who know more
than we do; but we don’t wish them
to ran our business.
Some women wear. their lives out
tryiug to look young, but they dot not
tiro themselves half so much as they
tire other peoplo.
The mun who is a long time making
up his mind, may arrive at a correct
judgment; but it is generally too late
to be of any use to him.
Quidnuuc—What makes your hair
so much grayer than your whiskers?
Bulfiuch—Why, my hair is a great
deal older thau my whiskers.
“Mr. P. Cunions is a bright, breezy
fellow, is lie not?” said Hobb, and
Dobb replied: “I should think he
might be, he is always trying to ‘raise
the wind.”
She—He is a person of perfect ease
aud self-possession, and is thoroughly
at home anywhere. He—Yes, he even
has the faculty of making you feel a
total stranger in your own house.
Miss Dogood—My dear little boy, if
you want to succeed in life, always
take pains with everything you do.
Boy—Oh, I do, mum. I took seven
this morning with this bean-shooter.
Dora—I showed my portrait to tbe
Mayor yesterday, and lie said that it
didn’t flatter me. Bosom Friend—
Ob, but it does, dear, and so did he I
(They are noton speaking terms now.)
Little Johnny—Say, father, what
makes a baby cry every time it wakes
up? Pa—Well, from what I know of
babies, It cries from vexation to find
that it has kept still for a reasonable
length of time.
Patient (wofully)—Oh, doctor! I’m
all twitted up with tbe rheumatism and
uenralgia. Ob, do you think, doctor,
yon can get all tbe pain out of me?
Doctor (kindly)—Well, I will try to
get all out of you I can.
“I am going to be your hub,” said
the young carriage-builder from Bos¬
ton, as they stood before the altar.
“Yes," said his blushing bride, who
intended always to have the last word,
“and I will supply the spokes.”
“And I,” wound up tbe clergyman, as
he joined their hands, “am the tie-r.”
“Five years ago,” began the stranger
to Weutman, “I sought that woman to
be my wife. I believed her congenial,
light-hearted and beautiful. Has our
married life been pleasant? No.”
“No? Why not?” asked Wentman.
“Why not? Because she declined to
me.”
