“Quite,” was the gentle answer. “May God
forgive my own sins ns freely.”
! Yet even then Hilda was not sure that Lucile’s
life was drawing to a close; hut in the night a
sudden relapse took place. The next morning
saw the dark, sunken face with the pallor and
clamminess of coining death already upon it.
For three hours Hilda sat watching, the morning
growing sunnier, the death-struck face grayer,
longing for some sign of consciousness, that she
might point the erring spirit, already plumed
for flight, where pardon might be found. At
last the heavy lids opened, and once more the
black eyes settled on her face.
“Will you kiss me?” asked the dying voice.
Hilda bent and pressed her lips to the death-
“Oh, Lucile !”sbe whispered, “askGod, while
life still lingers, to forgive you. I have been
asking Him, but you should ask for yourself.”
“If I thought he would forgive me as freely as
you—” the failing voice began; but the sentence
was never finished. Lucile Crosby lay dead,
with the tears of the woman she had wronged
falling on her hands.
When she had been laid upon her last couch,
and the dust had been piled upon a breast no
longer unquiet, vengeful or bitter, Hilda wrote
to Laurence Crosby and told him all. In an-
| other week, she held his answer in her hand.
“I need not tell you, Hilda,” he wrote, “that
I still love you. Surely, your heart must divine
it. My love for Lucile was but a boy's fitful
passion for a beautiful face; my love for you,
I manhood’s strong, calm, undying reverence and
affection for the best and purest of women. Yet
I I am not the same man you loved—the one who
gained your afl'ection years ago. Save in my
love for you .and my belief in God—two instincts
unalterably linked together and rooted in my
soul —I am altogether changed. The long, terri
ble years of our separation, in which I was alter
nately goaded by the thought of your suffering
and my iuabilitv to assist you, because my wife
j (God give her peace!) stili lived, have made me
another man. Lucile is dead, Hilda, and of the
dead one cannot speak ill. I let the curtain
drop over that time; but like it, there is a shadow
over my life that must ever hung unlifted. I
have grown morbid and cynical; I am never
| merry; I have lost the cheerfulness that in for
mer times made me a pleasant companion; I
have neither wealth nor fame, having grown too
low-spirited to care for either; lastly, the severe
sickness, which was the reason Lucile’s remit
tance failed, has left me very weak in body, and
shortened my life, the doctor frankly tells me,
by at least ten years, and you know 1 am not a
young man now. I have set before you, strictly,
all the disadvantages of the heart and life I lay
once more at your feet. If you think our re
union will disturb the ‘peaceful tenor' into which
your life has glided, then do not hesitate to say
so; but if. like mine, your love yearns to meet
‘face to face’and ■ heart to heart’ again, then
oh ! my darling, bid me come to you !”
Need we tell Hilda’s answer ?
“At eveniug-time it was light.”
[For The Suuuj- South.]
And now after the principle of industry is deep-
rooted, comes the important query what kind of
work to perform. Many people are willing to
work after a fashion, only they consume much
time and murder a hostot more important duties,
casting about for what they call congenial em
ployment. It is not admirable (so considered) ;
to see young ladies with flushed cheeks and j
bared arms performing what is termed servile j
work. Hut my darling, we cun dignify and enoble
anything. No labor is drudgery if prompted by :
love. If God in his wisdom—in his great fatherly, j
merciful heart places any set of duties at your
hand, don’t stop to complain, don’t cowardly ,
leave your task for some other, but cheerfully
bend your straight shoulders to the burden,
looking upward for strength, and you will be a
hero, gaining for yourself in the final reckoning
a richer reward than in laborious years’ toil of
your own choosing. The habit of industry is a
well-spring of joy. and the great foundation on
which to build. What shall I do ? is speedily an
swered, “ Whatsoever the hands find to do.” The
demand nearest at hand is the paruiount duty.
There is no lack of work to be done; the world
is suffering for willing laborers. If it should be
your allotted duty to pick up chips, put your
soul into it for Christ’s sake, who was lowly and j
loved the lowly; do it cheerfully with all your
might, and you will so ennoble chip-gathering
that it will rank above city-taking. The spirit is
the life of the thing. The best that an idler can
enjoy is the stale fruit of another’s gathering.
He is denied the sweet sense of honest rest from
honest labor, and the satisfied assurance of a pur
pose accomplished no one can bequeath him.
There is still a living thing inside of life. Ah !
“It is not all of life to live.”
Have a purpose ever before you. Arrange your
own plans, and prosecute them industriously—
only remember that “Man proposes and God dis
poses.” When accidents turn you aside, do not be
discouraged—remember that the duty nearest at
hand is for the time imperative. When Jesus |
journeyed to heal the ruler’s daughter, he de
layed to minister to the sick in his way. Ever
be ready to lighten another’s burden “Hear ye
one another’s burdens and thus fulfill the law of
Christ.” These wayside gleanings mayhap will
prove the richest sheaves in your harvest.
How beautifully all that is true and beautiful
in every phase of life centers in usefulness. Can
you specify one hour which you may deem use
fully employed? One hour—and where are the
others? Why not set all the golden hours in
pictures of silver? When every one—yea, every
moment—must stand or fall for itself, how im- ;
portant that every one should be marked by i
some good gained or given. The sum ot the ad- i
monition is this, my dear child: first compre
hend the dignity and importance of labor, and ,
then invest your every action in the right spirit 1
of usefulness. The whole machinery ot lite with
its toils and ambition, its successes and emo
tions, groans under the grand effort to make of ,
fallen man a spiritual being fit for the companion- j
ship of angels—a son of God, joint heir with |
Jesus in his kingdom.
Your work in life no one can mark out for you.
You must be the architect of your own future.
I, with all my solicitude, cannot be always with
you to advise you — all I can do is to inculcate
sound principles. Hanish idleness from your
calculations; let industry be your watchword,
and then your own nice sense of time and op
portunity will dictate to you all that is needful.
Just along here there is an egregious blunder
to avoid. In coasting wide from Scylla, do not
be swallowed up in Cliarybdis. Many well-mean
ing people, in their condemnation of what they
termed the consuming horde, can only tolerate
those who are slavish in their toils. The great '
tendency of this class is to measure the work
and the life-giving purpose only by the gain. I
honor the laboring man whose motive power is i
independence and benefit to his kind: but all
great hearts dishonor the miser who sacrifices
mind and soul in order to tax the body to the
utmost fpr mere sordid gain.
Am I making myself clear to you? I know
you think it would appear hardly proper in polite
circles for a young lady with the inevitable has- ,
ket in hand to meet a visitor in the parlor. I
can only remark en passant tl at if much time is
spent in the parlor, the obsolete work basket had
better be reinstated. The prescribed rules of good j
manners would banish thimble and needle to the ,
(dark attics of sewing women, yet if all, ora part, j
or even one of our fashionable do-nothings could
so far forget herself as to employ her pretty
hands while her dainty admirers are to be enter
tained. she might in her measure lift an imposed
heart-ache from her overburdened attic sister;
she might also teach a wholesome lesson, and
she herself, forsooth, might prove just as lovely.
I am not so sure that the quilting bees of our
grandmothers were not as pleasant entertain
ments as our modern drawing-room levees, and I
question not their greater usefulness. I am not
striving to make you eccentric, nor an extremist.
When it is impracticable for you to employ your
hands profitably, why then, while they rest, use
some other faculty. Lead or be led in conver
sation to something high-toned and instructive.
I implore you not to allow yourself to be dwarfed
and degraded into willful companionship with
\ idle, frivolous do-nothings and know-nothings.
Your self respect forbids it: your allegiance to a
higher life forbids it; your eternal well-being
| positively forbids it.
Do not order your life by a false standard of
period or place. Yon are living for eternity, and
must stand or fall by the immutable laws of a
well-organized universe. The mind—the soul —
is the true man, yet what were all the grand, gi-
: gantic conceptions of mind if we rob the world
of the hand-work which develops and utilizes all
great inventions. Great homage is due the cre-
i ative genius, and yet how can we fail to honor
; the executive force concentrated in manual labor?
Just so in a spiritual sense, faith in the heart is
righteousness, yet we can only prove our faith
by works. If all the man were head, where were
the hands, and vice versa. Each honors the other,
and no member is complete in itself.
Just now your special attention is directed to
! books—text-books. You are buying up a store
' for future use and usefulness. Can you compre
hend that there is a high spiritual life in ge
ometry, philosophy and music? Away beyond
the lines of “Legendre ” and “Euclid” are the
multiplied circles of the spheres revolving around
a centre, in turn all circling about a greater light,
until far away in infinite space the whole grand
j system of the universe revolves around the high
! and lofty place where dwells the Almighty,
! whose only other habitation is in the lowly heart.
And the humble philosopher who traces the wis-
i dom of God in his simplest arrangement is only
i preparing himself for a grand comprehension of
the mystery of the Godhead—the three in one.
And music —that heavenly benefaction to fallen
mankind. Away off-far, far beyond the realms
of time and temporal things—there comes on the
voice of the musical wind to the listening ear an
echo from the glad song when the morning stars
sang together at creation’s dawn, and through
the grand old anthems of a deep-toned organ
the hearing ear can catch a refrain from the an
gelic choir over Bethlehem, chanting the glorious
news of “ peace on earth and good will toward
men.” And so on with the arts and sciences.
There is an inner life, living and moving in all
these means of elevation —wheels within wheels.
Alas ! for the patient plodder who, in close com
munion with the revelations of science and art,
only gathers to himself the husks of true knowl-
; edge. Is the laboratory the end of science ? Are
the loud encores of the multitude the finale of
art. Such an one, be he never so wise or accom-
, plished, is scarcely better than the miser who
1 locks his soul in with his gold, where it will
I canker and rust away.
There is a high life beginning in the play-room
, of a little girl feeding her pets, perhaps, which
! sends in the ministering spirits of another world.
Maj- you live industriously in this high, holy
state, through all time and eternity. Live act
ively in this life, and yet live beyond this life.
My dear child, can you comprehend the paradox?
[For The Suuuy South.] ”•
A WOMAN OF THE WORLD.
BY MARY PATTON HUDSON.
OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE I. O. G, T.
The Lodges are Responding.
We give below the names of the lodges which
have responded in behalf of their official organ.
1 All of them will respond. None are too poor
to take two copies, and some will take many
more than two. We shall publish all that re
spond, and.keep them standing in type. Social
Lodge, located at Jewells’, sends up *10 for four
copies. Let ns hear from all at once.
Lodge 174, at Jewells’ Mills, four copies, $10.
Lodge 257, at Bartow, two copies, $6.
Lodge 387, at Jonesboro, two copies, $5.
C. W. Temples.
The General State Superintendent, Bro. H. K.
Shackleford, requests us to call upon the Good
| Templars everywhere in Georgia, to look after
the children in the vicinity of their lodges, and,
if there can be a temple organized there, to
drop him a line, giving particniars, etc. Strike
at the root of the evil, brethren, and train up the
rising generation in paths of sobriety.
A Narrow Escape.
On Friday night of last week, an old man and
; his young son were driving along the road close
by the Georgia Railroad. It was quite dark and
the old man was quite—drunk; and, as was a
natural consequence, an accident was the result,
’ John Barleycorn had hold of the reins, and drove
the team, with its two bales of cotton and two
human beings, over the brink of the deep cut,
down by the rails, stunning the old man and his
i son by the fearful fall. A few moments later,
the train came thundering along, the wheels
taking a piece of the hoy's scalp and knocking the
horse out of time. It was about the narrowest,
I blood-curdling escape we’ve heard of in many a
• How long will our laws throw the protecting
; shadows of their wings over the liquor traffic ? It
; is our national curse, and every such accident
resulting in death makes our government acces-
i sory to the crime of murder.”'
; Wine is a mocker.
Strong drink is raging.
Whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.
Reap this column of the Sunny South in your
lodge under “ Good of the Order,” and let oth
ers see the paper.
There are not less than one thousand widows
in. Georgia, made so by drunkenness. The
liquor traffic is licensed by law.
A Conundrum —Can a man be a Christian and
drink whisky as a beverage ? Our columns are
open for a solution of the problem.
’ There are three hundred criminals in the jails
of Georgia to-day, to be tried for crimes com
mitted when under the influence of liquor, and
the liquor traffic is licensed by law.
If an epidemic were to break out in Georgia,
j destroying one-tenth of the number of lives
that liquor does, the Legislature would be called
in extra session to check it—yet, the liquor traffic
is licensed by law.
Every case of hanging that has taken place in
the State of Georgia under Governor Smith’s
administration, with but nine exceptions, was
proven in open coi/rt to be the result of indulg
ing in strong drink, and—the liquor traffic is
licensed by law.
G» W» Secretary ■BoBt.wx, - we regret to learn,
has had severe sickness in his family during the
past week, which kept him at home nearly the
| entire week. We tender our sympathy, and best
wishes for good health and long life for him and
None but people of the world, those born to
the purple of its society, can fully understand
the meaning of the term “ woman of the world.” i
It does not express, to enlightened minds, any
condition of age, extreme degree of fashion,
masculinity of opinion, or aught save that com
plete “nicety of parts,” as Gladstone most fitly
expresses the meaning of this—that borders on
the “faultily faultless” theory - the intangible
something that is the very essence of its wordly
perfection. Y’ou can explain it, just as you j
could the perfume of a flower, the magic of a
sound; but we know it exists precisely as we '
recognize its proximity, throughout the length
and breadth of its etherial power. There are
women, bom and bred in the sunshine of " Le
haute colee,” who, though essentially well-bred
members thereof, yet have not that spirituelle
polish of style, requisite to this particular char
acter of the “ woman of the world.” Not neces
sarily blaze ; our ideal woman is often found to
have an elegant cynicism of opinion in her com
position, that is never shown in her manner of
treatment to any creature. Wholly human in
her perceptions of justice and right, there is a
divinity of kindly care, in her acceptance of
every right under the sun, that was born with
our diversities of natures, degrees, and needs.
Never assumptions in her prerogatives, yet are
they tacitly accorded her, in the attention she
deserves by her unwearied politeness to every
one within her reach. Our women of the world
are never surprised in any coarseness of manner,
or word, and although there is a certain monot
ony in her constant watchfulness, yet it never
wearies us, but is rather a panacea for our much
pains-taking with those of different mould. A
woman of the world is a lady, a thorough woman
and a lady; and every man of fine instinct knows
just what she’s worth to him. If he is taciturn,
she understands it without explanation (other
women would sulk, that he is not wholly over
come with her attractions), and is agreeably
silent or loquacious, as the case may seem to
demand. If he is inclined to a different mood,
her rippling laugh will echo every tone of her
broad, honest sympathy' with him, and he re
linquishes her society (woifien of the world are
never conspicuously partial to any Don Juan or
Herman Owlglass), with an evident regret.
After all we may say, no one will understand
the perfect unison of the component elements of
the woman of the world save those who knew it
all before, and the plebeians of society will pass
it by as some dissertation on some passage of the
Greek. And well it was designed so; for if all
women were like our sculptured subject, then
we’d have no women of the world; and so, in the
splendid economy of our great mother, Nature, j
we have spared to us this beautiful ideal woman,
that is, withal, a natural growth of profoundly
good association, education — a charity that ,
hopeth, believeth, endureth all things, and the [
earnestness of a nature made “ little lower than
A wild-eyed man, carrying his hat in his hand,
entered a Chicago depot the other day, and called
out to a man who was. wheeling a baggage truck
along: “Where is the train?” “ What train?” !
“ Any train—any train ! My wife isn’t ten rods
behind, and she’s got an ax over Her shoulder,
and sulphur in her eyes.”
In the Botanic garden at Ghent is a fine speci
men of the Brazilian water lily, the Victoria
regia. One of the leaves was not submerged by
the weight of a gardener, and another was loaded
with seven hundred and sixty pounds of bricks
equal to the weight of five ordinary men.
Always make the best of everything. Instead
of magntfying the evils of our condition, it is
far wiser to consider that thousands are worse
off than ourselves.
Let every lodge in the State read the temper
ance .columns of The Sunny South in open
lodge, under head of “TheGood of the Order.”
Temperance literature is the life of the order.
Get up clubs of five, ten or more, and get the
best literary paper in the South.
“And now abide Faith, Hope, Charity, and
the greatest of these is Charity”—1 Cor. xiii: 13.
Charity is love—love for our fellow-men. If
he is going down the steep of dissipation, go to
him and kindly lead him in the paths of sobri
ety, and walk with him there. Take him to a
Good Templars’ lodge, and pledge yourself with
him not to do so any more.
The I. O. G. T. are on the increase in Georgia,
several new lodges having been organized since
the last session of the Grand Lodge. The win
ter’s campaign in this city promises to be a lively
one, and the strength and influence of the lodge
is seen sharp and clear when an old toper, wno
wants to be alderman, joins one of the numer
ous lodges in Atlanta, and then slides about
giving the grip to every temperance man he
meets. It’s funny, but it’s the way they do.
A certain man not a thousand miles from At
lanta, who said he would not give up the pleas
ures of wine-drinking for *10,00b, returned
home the other morning, after an all-night’s ab
sence, with a mashed nose, a black eye, and a
general used-up, dirty appearance.
“Why, what’s the matter with you now?” ex
claimed his wife on beholding him.
“Oh, nossing, my dear,” was the reply. “I
missed (hie) the Good Templars and (hie) got
into the wrong lodge. All right (hie), an’ i’ll
try it again (hie) next time.”
She went with him the next time. Comment
[For The Suuuy South.]
A TERRIBLE STORY.
BY H. K. SHACKLEFORD.
“Fifteen miles!” exclaimed the old man.
“It was twenty-three if it was a rod. I was
thar, young man.”
“Did yon know him, Uncle Zeke?” chorused
half a dozen at once.
“Know him? I reckon I did; an’ I seed him
kivered up at last, an’ swore a big oath when I
heerd them sods rattlin’ on his coffin, that I’d
never drink a nuther drop of the stuff', an’ it's
nigh onto fifteen years, and not a drop have I -
“Tell us about it, Uncle Zeke,” said Ben,
whom the old man had interrupted. “I’ve only
heard it from others who didn’t know any more
about it than I did.”
“Wal, I’ll tell you the whole story, boys,’’and
the old man threw away the huge quid in his
mouth, preparatory to a long talk. “Yer know
Jim Leonard was a doctor, an’ one of the best
that ever made a pill, I reckon. He went to all
them big colleges in Europe an’ larnt all about
how ter take a human to pieces an’ put him up !
agin; an’ when he corned back and put up his !
suingle in our deestriet, down in Edgefield, in
old South Carolina, everybody what got a leetle |
sick sent right off arter him. Lord! how he j
could make a sick man take up his bed and |
walk. Death didn’t have no show when Jim :
Leonard was around with his saddle-bags. Wal,
Jim was high-strung, an’ loved a glass of good
old rye, or peach, as well as the next man; an’
many a glass he an’ me got away with down in
old Edgefield an' Augusta. Bime-by Jim got ter
goin’ it strong. He’d git stone blind drunk, an’
not know nothing. When he'd git on one of
his big sprees, he’d git on his big old gray an’
put out for Edgefield, twenty-three miles away,
and thar he’d have it out, sober up, an’ come
back home all right. Wal, yer have all heerd
about that ere big ride of his’n, an’ I’ll tell yer
how it happened. Yer see he was on one of his
big tares down to Edgefield, an’ thar the mon
keys got up a show for him, an’
“ Got up a show ?” interrupted one of the boys.
“Y’es, yer lunkhead !” retorted the old man,
angrily, “ that’s what I said. Don’t believe me,
i e h ?”
“Oh, yes; go on, Uncle Zeke,” said Ben,
soothingly. “Don’t mind Ned. Let us have
the story. ”
“ Wal, the monkeys got up a show for him, an’
he told me all about it when he sobered up.
Says he, ‘Zeke, it beat all creation. I was a
lyin’ thar on the bed, when all to once a heap of
big monkeys, little monkeys, an’ all sorts of
monkeys come runnin’ into the room, an’ begun
to play so funny, I just laid thar and laughed
till I cried. They’d climb up the wall, run
about the ceiling, jupin’ over each other, bitin’
an’ pullin’ tails, an’ talkin' just like little boys at
play. ’ ”
Here Ned Stokes gave a prolonged whistle of
j incredulity, at which the old man bridled up,
his eyes flashing indignation, but Ben quieted
him, and suggested to Ned the propriety of leav
ing the crowd if he could not keep his peace.
The old man was induced to go on with the
“ ‘It was the best show I ever did see, Zeke,’
said he; ‘I laid thar and bet high on one little
monkey who could outrun and jump all crea
tion. All of a sudden,’ said he, ‘a knockin’ on
the door made ’em all scatter like leaves in a
whirlwind. ‘Come in,’ says I, .‘an' the door
opened, an’ about twenty big white geese,
. headed by a monster gander, marched in just
i like soldiers. They was the biggest geese I ever
saw in my life, nigh onto four feet high. They
marched across the room and halted. ‘Right
dress,’ said the big gander, an’ the whole gang
turned and faced the bed. Every one on ’em
had gafts four inches long on their legs, an' I be-
i gun to think that after the monkeys’ play the
geese would treat me to a goose fight. They
looked at me, an’ I looked at them, an’ the old
gunder said, ‘Thftx's yer man!’ an' the whole
j flock pitched in and grabbed me with their hills,
and stabbed me with them gafts till the blood
spurted clear across the room. This was a
change in the programme what I didn’t count
on, an’ I fetched a yell that like to have scared
the whole town to death, an’ bounced out of the
room an' down the stairs in about two jumps,
the tarnal geese a boldin' on to me, an’ peggin’
away with them sharp gafts with all their might.
I jumped on my old gray, and put out; an’ the
old gander sung out, * Meet him at Bentley’s
Cross-Roads,’ and then they let me alone. Old
gray went like the wind. I was hatless and coat
less, but I was crazy, an' didn't care a cent.
Up hill and down hill, we went, an’ when we
got to Bent ley’s Cross Roads, thar was them geese,
drawn up by the side of the road like a com
pany of soldiers, an’ they pitched into me agin'
with them gafts. I fetched another wild yell, an’
made old gray fly. ‘Meet him at Scroggin's,'
said the old gander, and sure enough they did,
just like they met me at Bentley’s Cross Roads,
an' at Healy’s Grocery, an’ Wildcat Bridge, on
Turner’s Ferry sign, an’ clean home, whar Sam
beat ’em off’.’ That’s how he made the big ride,
boys, and its true, every word, for he told me
all about it,” and the old man took a fresh chew
, of tobacco, and was about to leave, when Ben
“ Did the Doctor ever drink any more, Uncle
i Zeke ?”
“He didn't drink no more for nigh onto two
ysgtrs, an’ then he went on another big tare.”
j “ Tell us about it.”
“Wal, he drank too much agin’ and in that
; same room he saw the same monkey show.
He«i“ laughin' himself almost to death, when
he heerd a knockin' on the door, and the mon
keys, big an’ little, scattered.”
I “Geese, by George!” yelled Jim, springing
up in the bed.
“ It want no geese this time. It was old Nick
himself, who pushed open the door, and walked
j into the room. Jim kuowed who it was the mo- ■
rnent lie sot eyes on him, an’ he laid back onto
the bed and groaned a big groan that was heerd ,
down onto the streets. The Devil had a big
bushy head of hair, all made out of little snakes, 1
an’ he had a big tail, which he carried hangin’
over his arm, an’ horns on his head, and his feet
was cloven like an ox. He had a big book un
der his arm, an’ when he come in he laid it on
the bed an' open’d it. Jim was a lookin’ an’ a
tremblin’ all over.
“Is your name Jeems Leonard?” the Devil
asked. Jim was scared. He told a lie to fool
the Devil, an’ he said:
“No. My name is Zeke McDaniel.”
“ Your name /” cried Ben, greatly excited. ;
“Y'es.” said the old man quietly, “he thought
he’d fool him and get off', but the old Devil
looked in the book and said:”
“Second name on the list!”
“Whew !” said Ned; “guess you had ’em, too,
in them days, Uncle Zeke.”
The old man gave him a contemptuous glance, i
and went on with his story.
“Just then a beautiful angel of mercy rose up
by the side of the Devil and beckoned him away
from the bedside. The Devil went behind the
door with her, an’ thar Jim heerd that angel
pleadin’ for him with old Nick. But the Devil
said Jim was his’n, an’ he’d behanged if he
wouldn’t have him right then. But that ar
angel wouldn’t let him, an’ they both agreed if
Jim ever got drunk agin’, the Devil could have
him any time he pleased. Jim heerd every
word, and saw the Devil and angel leave the
room an’ shut the door. Jim made up his mind
never to drink any more. He come back home,
and stayed sober nigh onto four years. He went
into the army as a surgeon, an’ when he met
some friends in Richmond, they made him drink
again. He went on a big spree, got the monkeys
and geese arter him, bit out his tongue and spit
it on the ground, an’ died in the street, a wild,
ravin’ drunkard. I saw him buried, an’ I have
never tetched a drop since that day, an’ you
young men had better do as I do, or you'll have i
a flock of geese and the Devil arter you, too.”
A Hill of Sulphur. —One of the most remark
able deposits of native sulphur, as yet discov
ered, is a great hill composed of a pure article, j
found two years ago at a distance of thirty miles ;
south of the Union Pacific railway, and nine
hundred miles west of Omaha. This marvelous
deposit is found to consist almost wholly of sul-
bhur, containing only fifteen per cent, of impu
rities. The best deposits heretofore available
are those found in Sicily. The principal supplies j
for the manufacture of sulphuric acid comes from
there; the deposits contain thirty-five per cent,
of impurities and sixty-five per cent, of sulphur.
Our Western hill, therefore, is much more valu
able, and promises to become ere long of great
importance to the country.
Pea or Ground Nuts.—The whole crop of the
Southern States for 1800 amounted to 150,000 [
bushels Last season’s product in North Caro- j
lina reached 2,000,000 bushels, valued at $3,000- I
000. Large quantities are received at Marseilles
from Algiers, and the oil used in adulterations ;
of olive oil. The roasted cake ground into a 1
paste with sugar and stirred into boiled mush
makes an agreeable and nourishing substitute
for chocolate. \
The saying of a wise pagan philosopher, Mar-
cits Aurelius, Emperor of Rome: “Life is short;
the only good fruit of our earthly existence is
holiness of intention, and deeds that tend to the :
common weal. My soul, be thou covered with i
shame! Thy life is well-nigh gone, and thou hast ,
not yet learned how to live. ’
t BY MRS. A. P. HILL.
The conception of brightening the homes of
the poor, particularly the invnlid poor, by the
gift of flowers, originated five years ago with
some benevolent ladies of Boston. The idea was
' systematically and persistently wrought out It
was found so practical and acceptable to the ben-
i eficiaries that other cities caught up and prac
ticed the beautiful idea, until now, in many
places, it is on the list of regular missions of
' charity. Eternity alone can tell the many sad,
i desponding hearts that have been cheered, the
many tear-swollen eyes that have been bright
ened, by these sweet messengers of sympathy
I and kindness. Few of the poor of cities, living
in pent-up rooms, know anything of the fra
grance and beauty of flowers.
Dickens, to my mind, never drew a more ten-
i derly touching picture than his description of a
poor, afflicted boy living in the confined atmos-
I pliere of a small garret-room. But let him tell
S the story.
j CONVERSATION BETWEEN TIM LENKIMOUTER AND
“There is a double wall-flower at No. 0 in
* the court, is there ?” said Nicholas.
I “Yes, there is,” replied Tim, “and planted in
! a cracked jug without a spout. There were hy-
i acinths there this last spring blossoming in —
but you’ll laugh when I tell you that, of course.”
“At their blossoming in old blacking bot
“Not I, indeed,” returned Nicholas.
Tim looked wistfully at him a moment as if he
were encouraged by the tone of his reply to be
. more communicative upon the subject, and stick-
| ing behind his ear a pen that he had been mak-
! ing, and shutting up his knife with a sharp
j “They belong to a sickly, bed-ridden, hump
backed ltoy, and seem to be the only pleasures,
i Mr. Nickleby, of his sad existence. How many
! years is it,” said Tim, pondering, “since I first
noticed him, quite a little child, dragging him
self about on a pair of tiny crutches ? Well,
well, not many; but though they would appear
nothing if I thought of other things, they seem
a long, long time when I think of him. It is a
sad thing,” said Tim, breakfng off, “to see a
little deformed child sitting apart from other
children, who are active and merry, watching
; the games he is denied the power to share in.
; He made my heart ache very often.”
“It is a good heart,” said Nicholas, “that dis
entangles itself from the close avocations of
; every day to heed such things. You were say
•• That these flowers belonged to this poor
boy,” said Tim, “that’s all. When it is tine
1 weather, and he can crawl out of bed, he draws
a chair close to the window and sits there look
ing at them and arranging them all day long.
Formerly, when I called to him, and asked him
how he was, he would smile and say, "Better;’
i but now he shakes his head, and only bends
more closely over his old plants. It must be
dull to watch the dark house-tops and the flying
i clouds for so many months, but he is very pa
"Is there nobody in the house to cheer or help
) him?” ashed Nicholas.
••His father lives there, I believe,” replied
Tim, “and other people, too; but no one seems
to care much for the poor sickly cripple. I have
asked very often if I can do nothing for him; his
answer is always the same—“Nothing.” His
voice has grown weak of late, but I can see he
makes the same reply. He can’t leave his bed
! now, so they have moved it close beside the win-
| dow, and there he lies all day, now looking at
the sky, and now at his flowers, which he still
i makes shift to trim and water with his own thin
“The night will not be long coming,” said
Tim, “when he will sleep and never wake again
If that poor sufferer had been asked his idea
of heaven, doubtless his reply would have been,
“Companions, the ability to run and jump with
the best of them, with plenty of beautiful, fra
“Aucl who shall say that flowers
Dress not heaven's own bowers.
Who shall ever <lare
To say they sprang not there?
“ Oil pray believe that angels
From those blue dominions
Brought them in their white laps down,
’Twixt their golden pinions.”
Soft Gingerbread.—One cup of sour cream, two
cups and a half of sifted flour, one cup of mo
lasses, two eggs well beaten, half a teaspoonful
of ginger, teaspoonful of soda. The sour cream
must be rich, or enough butter added to make it
To Crystalize drosses.—One pound of the best
white alum, pulverized; half a gallon of soft
water; boil until all the alum is dissolved; dip
the grass in the solution and allow it to remain
six or seven hours, remove and dry in the sun.
This receipt, furnished me by a friend, is reliable.
Sugar Kisses.—Beat the white of four eggs to a
stiff froth; stir into this a half pound of sifted
white sugar; flavor to taste. When stiff, lay it
in heaps on white paper; let each heap be the
size and shape of half an egg; put them an inch
apart; place the paper on tin sheets and put in a
hot oven; when they turn a little yellow, let them
cool five minutes. Take two kisses; press the
bottoms gently together until they adhere; con
tinue until all are prepared.
JVice Dish of Cheese.—Half pound of grated
cheese, or cut in small pieces: half as much of
bread-crumbs; two tea-spoonsful of butter; one
coffee-cup of sweet milk. Mix together the
cheese, butter and bread-crumbs; season with
salt, pepper and mustard; pour over the milk
boiling hot; set over boiling water until the
cheese dissolves; add to it the yolks of three
eggs; stir well, and add the whites of the eggs,
whipped to a solid froth; butter a very shallow
pan, or pie-plate; pour in the mixture and bake
twenty minutes. Serve immediately.
Cream Tie.—Make a batter with two eggs beaten
separately; one cup of sugar beaten with the
yolks; one cup of flour; a table-spoonful of sweet
milk, with a tea-spoonful of yeast powder; bake
in pie-plates as jelly cake. Make a thick cus
tard, using one pint of sweet milk poured hot
upon two eggs, whites and yolks stirred together.
Let it boil until thick, stirring constantly. When
it first boils up, add two table-spoonsful of corn
starch; wet up with cold milk; add two tea-
spoonsful of butter; when thick, remove from
the fire, pour out; when cold, season with van
illa, or any extract liked; when cold and stiff',
lay between the cake.
Many persons grow old from over-work; and
because every duty is performed quietly and un
complainingly, tile family fail to perceive the
cause of the gradual but sure decline.
Never boil dry codfish, it gets harder by boil
ing. Soak in cold water until soft; just bring
to a boil; pour off the water; add milk and but
ter. Yellow-cast codfish is better than white.
Better to do one thing thoroughly by yourself
than to do a thousand things imperfectly with
the aid of others. _
Open the small end of mackerel kits; keep the J
fish well covered with brine. (j