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[For The Sunny South.l CLOUD-WRIT TEH. BT 8. M. A. C. The earth lay wrapped in gleaming snow; Low winds athwart it made their moan; As in a west, clear after storm, The sun sank down. The wide white arch of spanless heaven With ailvereat radiance overflowed, Save where, to farthest eastward, lay A faint, gray cloud. Below the belting woodland sea, The light-car rolled to a new day,— A long, slant, filmy, golden track Marked its slow way. Borne aB on strong Love's unseen wings, The misty, sorrowing cloud-waif came Backward, yet backward, till it felt The western flame. Oh, wondrous power of wondrous light! How rosy-flushed — how magic-fair! With it, in that rare glory-flood. What might compare? Brighter and brighter yet it grew, Transfigured in that last late glow, And red reflections danced athwaat The white cold snow. # 0 Love, who flnd’st me beautiful, Here read I where the beauty lies: 1 am the cloud,—the love-light shines From thy true eyes. OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY. VICE-PRESIDENT WILSON. BY ESTEEI.E VEH8E. As has already been announced by the press of the country, the writer of this sketch sus tained a very tender relation to the now deceased Vice-President, and since the statement has been made, we violate no editorial confidence in mak ing this allusion. The writer does not give h«- real name, and her tribute, though brief, is full of intense feeling, and none can but admire the enre and delicacy with which she makes any per sonal allusion that might discover the relation ship between herself and the distinguished sub ject of whom she writes. The entire article is the language of a heart evidently full to over flowing, and we commend it for its brevity and pathos.—Editor Sunny South. “ Not as I will, but as Thou wilt. ” A great statesman has fallen and a nation justly mourns her dead. He was a notable man. By his indomitable in dustry, energy, perseverance and ability, he rose from obscurity to be felt as a power in the land for many years, receiving, finally, the second most honorable position in the gift of the Amer ican people. In the midst of his untiring use fulness, of good works and of richly-deserved honors, the Angel of Death came suddenly and unexpectedly, and bore him away from among us forever. For many years it was our pleasure to know him well, and to be the recipient of his friend ship. We cannot express the admiration which we feel for a mind so great and at the same time so healthful, so earnest, and so well proportion ed—so willingly contracting itself to the hum blest duties, so easily expanding itself to the highest, so contented and social in repose, so powerful in action. Almost every part of his blameless life, which is not hidden from us in modest privacy, is a splendid portion of our national history. Hatred itself could find no blemish on his memory. While cold and reserved to the stranger —yet courteous to all men—he was social, vivacious, free and easy with his friends. And these were the qualities for which he was distinguished and greatly beloved by those that knew’ him best. Henry Wilson ! ’ Tis a name too glorious to appeal to sectional hate—too pure, too conscien- which he was so long a faithful servant, of whose i devotion to the elevation of humanity he was a j fearless and constant exponent and advocate, to , whose people his presence was so familiar and so | | cordial, and which so deservedly honored him with successive and distinguished promotions in her service. He illustrated in the interest of a ; government of the people, by the people, that the politician may lift and not debase his oppor tunity; that he may touch and not abuse the popular will: that he may grow greater and bet- j ! ter as he grows older; that he may repay the con fidence of a people by directing their enthusi- j asm and using their organizations in behalf of a higher political and moral civilization, and that the politician may be also the statesman. The j example of his life is a tribute to New England, j He was born in poverty, he was a day laborer, his college was the borrowed book; the hour stolen from sleep, the aspirations of the shoe maker’s bench, the debate of the village lyceum; his townsmen, recognizing his ambition and intelligence, made him their representative in the Legislature. The opportunities of Massa chusetts were as free to him as the air, and seiz ing them, he rose to eminence. Already enfeebled in health by arduous duties and close application in writing up his history, [ (“ Rise and Fall of the Slave Power in America ”) when rest was required; and the dark days of ! the Credit Mobilier investigation coming on, in which he was thought to be implicated (but triumphantly acquitted); his lost confidence in Senators whom he thought above reproach so j preyed upon his mind that he lost the power to I sleep and life quivered in anguish. These trials ; and throes was the beginning that hastened the end. A few months after he was stricken down almost blind and helpless with paralysis, from which he rallied but never fully recovered; 1 yet yearning for the health that never came I to him again. The following particulars of his last mo ments, as related bv eye-witnesses, show how mysterious are the ways of Providence, and by what slender threads lives are held: On Sunday, November 21st, the patient was not quite so well as on several days previous, though his condition was not such 1 as to give any uneasiness to himself or his physicians. At 8 o’clock in the evening he i signified his readiness to be prepared for | sleep. His attendants then gently rubbed and manipulated his feet, limbs and back ' as usual, at intervals, until half-past nine o'clock. During the process, Mr. Wilson I was very cheerful, and said he felt uneom- j rnonly well. At thirty minutes past nine j he fell asleep, and between that hour and midnight waked only once, took a drink of j ice-water, and slept almost instantly. At ! midnight, begot up and walked around the | room: then, going to his table, took up a ■ little book of poems entitled “The Changed I Cross,” with the motto, “ Not as I will, but as Thou wilt,” and read three verses from it. This volume belonged to his wife, and contained a photograph of her and their son, both deceased. He treasured this be yond value, and made it a companion from which he seemed to derive much comfort. After reading the verses, he spoke with gratitude of the kindness of his friends during his sickness and of the widespread sympathy in his behalf. He then returned to bed in a happy mood. Between the time of his going to sleep again and three o’clock, he gave no sign of waking except once, when in a half-conscious, slumbering condition, he asked the attendant to pull up the bed-clothes a little. At 3 a. m. he awoke, dropped asleep again very soon, and slept until almost precisely seven o’clock, when he awoke, remarking that he felt brighter and better than at any time previously. He said that he was going to ride out that day, as his physician, Dr. Baxter, advised him to do if the weather was fair. Mr. Wood coming in at this moment, was privately consulted by Mr. I Boyden as the advisability of communicating to | the Vice-President the news of Senator O. S. ; Ferry’s death, and they decided it would be best I to mention the fact, because Mr. Wilson would I be certain to read it in the newspapers a few j minutes later. They accordingly introduced the j subject of Mr. Ferry’s illness, and mentioned the | morning’s news and its fatal termination. The j Vice-President was prepared for it, and expressed : no surprise, but said, “Poor Ferry, he has been j a great sufferer.” He then proceeded to speak | of Senator Ferry’s political services in terms of I high commendation, characterizing him as an [Written for The Sunny South.] HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. When, in last midsummer, death knocked at the door of this great heart’s tenement of clay, | the lads and lasses of all civilized lands were j made to grieve for a friend well and lovingly i known, though unseen save as he appeared in his charming books. The son of a Danish shoe- j maker, who died in his boyhood, he found a J home in the family of a wealthy lady in the i neighborhood. At fourteen, he began work in j a carpenter’s shop, but a penchant for the stage caused him to seek a position with a manager in | a neighboring city. This desire was not at once [ gratified, but finally, through the friendship of a court favorite, he became a student for the lyric stage. Another destiny was, however, to be worked out by him, and to his allotted life-work, he j seemed driven by fate. His voice failed, and i the stage was abandoned. Tben he obtained a j scholarship in the Boyal College at Copenhagen, ! and it was there that his career of authorship ! began. While he was yet a young man. secur- i ing a royal allowance, he began to travel, and to | tell, in his own rare style, of the scenes and in- ( cidents of his travels, and to embody in his | books, by means of his inimitable word-pictures, i all that he did, and saw and felt. The chief ! charm of his works is found, however, in the unuttered yet unmistakable sympathy of i the author with the young folks, for whom [For The 8nnny South.l SONNET. BY ESPY. THE DTIXG POET TO HIS SOUL. Burn on: though faint thy life, and fleeting, brief Thy earthly life, O Soul! Thou canst not fail Unto thyself, though all thy brightness pale Unto the world. For thou art a belief— A joy—a glory, and a recompense; A breathing from a mystery divine— A life forever life, O Soul of mine! Thou'rt all of all:—beginning—consequence! My one sole friend, companion, mistress, wife! For thee, from thee, my very life has flown— Like the smooth waters of a nameless river— Pure from the rufflings of all wordlv strife, Through quiet joys, in solitude, alone; Unseen, unfelt, unloved—save by the Giver. ticipation flushed his sunburnt chaek and lit his deep-set eye. His loose-fitting gray coat gave easy room for the movements of his broad chest and shoulders and careless swinging arms. His mouth, under its thick mustache, lost its stern lines in a tender curve as he bent his grand, shaggy head—half stag, half lion in its aspect— and looked at her. But his eyes ! In them dwelt the spell—the persuading, compelling power, j Esther trembled as they met hers, and her last night's firmness wavered momentarily. He saw it and took instant advantage. | "I see your answer in vour eyes,” he said. “You are mine—mine until death !” he repeated, j clasping her to him with a sudden vehemence ! that brought the color to her cheeks, and set her trembling with a species of terror. Quickly withdrawing from his embrace, she I said, with an effort at firmness: ! “Captain Kirne, this is premature. I told you ; that there were obstacles to our marriage; I said : we knew nothing of each other—and on my life I there is a stain. Though the fault is not mine, yet the stain is there. It's source is in a secret j that has burdened me for years—all the years of my girlhood. Yes, there is a secret in my life. I may disclose it to you; but it is hardly possible you will believe the explanation — it is so strange ! ” “I would believe you against the world!—but | you shall not tell it to me. I can never doubt CHAPTEK XIV. | you. A look at your sweet face is enough to Wonderful is the influence of the mind over ! drive away all ugly suspicions. The man that the body—of the corporeal frame over the incor- I breathes a doubt of your purity in my presence [Written for The Sunny South.] FIGHTING AGAINST FATE; OR, Alone in the World. BY MARY E. BRYAN. halo of three-score-and-ten upon w’ith a wealth of affection poured out as a trib ute to his great, loving heart from the child-hearts of the world. Frank Leslies’ Illustrated Newspaper, comment ing upon the death of Hans Andersen, says: poreal essence that thinks and wills. It was due He died with the j to this influence that Esther sat to-night hesita- j sweetest ket pon his brow, and ting, weighing a question that under other cir- j ^ es > J- have a cumstances she could have decided at once. Re cent illness and trouble had unnerved her mor- dies for it that instant. Talk no more about it, keep your secret; I too have mine, secret in mj T life—a miserable one. Good saints and pure angels like you would call it a guilty one, maybe; I don’t hold it so, and I UCUl 111 Con tliiU LiU U U1C 1!(IU UiiilCi T CU 11UA liiUl O v ' */ ’ 1 s ally as well as physically. Her old courage and j shan’t trouble you with it. What would be the tons in discharge of honest convictions, sincere __ - , , • f able, active, and useful man. He also talked motives and ardent philanthropies for the whole ; b t M Ferrv - S eftrlv Ufe anii aW human race, to offend even the least among us. “ Who mourns him ? The shadows that fall Bound his coffin are shadows from all Who knew of his life, aud its worth. They came with men’s sighs—women's tears— With a day that in darkness appears. With a grief that shall linger for years On earth ! ’’ As we write his portrait hangs before us, his features ennobled in their expression into more thiin the “ majesty of an antique Jupiter. ” The large liquid brown eyes, “with thoughts that breathe and words that burn; ” the massive brow encircled with its snowy, silken locks; the clear, rosy-hued cheeks; the proud, expansive nostril; the full lips and rounded ciiin, wherein, as in a book, are clearly written high enterprises accomplished, sufferings unshrinkingly borne, deep thought, dauntless resolutions—the suc cesses of a life. And as we gaze with undiminished interest upon his calm features, so faithfully pictured upon the canvass before us, and bearing the im press of distinguished genius and high resolve, the mind instinctively runs over his blameless but checkered career, and follows him with exult ant pride in all his struggles against poverty and the disadvantages of early life. And how un speakably grand is the record of a heroic life mastering all difficulties and finally reaching the topmost rounds of the ladder. Such was the life of Henry Wilson. In a famous speech, he once said: “Sir, I am the son of a manual laborer, who, with the frost of seventy winters on his brow, ‘lives by daily labor.’ I, too, have ‘lived by daily labor.’ I, too, have been a ‘hireling man ual laborer.’ Poverty cast its dark and chilling shadow over the home of my childhood, and want was sometimes there—an unbidden guest. At the age of ten years—to aid him who gave me being in keeping the gaunt spectre from the hearth of the mother who bore me—I left the home of my boyhood and went forth to earn my bread by ‘daily labor.’’ And now, after an honorable and victorious life, these resolutions of the citizens of Boston give to the world in a succinct form the true history of a great and good man: about Mr. Ferry’s early life and about his elec- I tion, and added, “ That makes eighty-three dead I with whom I have sat in the Senate. What a j record ! I don’t think any man now living can | say the same, unless, perhaps, it is Hamlin, of ! Maine. If I live to the end of my present term | I shall be the sixth in the history of the country who have served so long a time.” Mr. Royden I says that the Vice-President, after making the j remarks previously narrated about his good night’s rest, etc., looked up with a cheerful smile and laughingly said: “I’m a pretty bright-looking boy this morn ing, ain’t I ?” At twenty minutes past seven o’clock he said he would get up and take breakfast. He then | called for bitter-water (which had heretofore been prescribed), and having drank it, he laid with his left side on the pillow as if with sud den exhaustion, breathing heavily, but uttering no words, and in a few minutes died without a j struggle. His death coming but a few min- j utes after all those evidences of remarkable im- j provement as to rapid recovery, could not at first be realized by his attendants, and it was not until the arrival of the physician that the i melancholy fact found any credence. In a short I time there were thousands of mournful hearts. At the Senate Chamber, where the dead states man lay, all was quiet. Friends came in softly, and heard from the lips of those who waited upon the Vice-President the particulars of his j last moments, and how he passed away without a near friend by his bedside, and without any warning. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. “It was not strange that the little folks lcved him .‘or his delightful, sympathetic and natural stories; but if they could have seen the man, looked into those big eyes, heard the narrative of the girl with the matches, or the troubles of Ugly Duck roll from the most expressive of mouths, their admiration would be turned into pure worship. He was a large man—large in head, in eyes, in mouth, in heart. There was a quizzical look dancing continually over his face, that, with the unmistakable traces of kindness, would make one wish to be allowed to walk be- fortitude seemed to have deserted her when most needed. She shrank from anv action that use ? Let the past go. I stand here by you now, a man in the prime of life, with a stout arm to called for strength of nerve; she shrank from j work for you and keep you from soiling your encountering the world that had stung her so S hands, and a stout heart that fears only God deeply. If she could immure herself in some I a pd loves only you. Yes, I love you with the solitude, with nature and books for her compan ions, what sweet rest that would be! But this she could not do. She must labor for her bodily support. Food, clothing, shelter—these were a necessity; and to obtain these she must go again out into the highways of labor, where the hydra-headed serpent of slander might at any time start up in her path and snatch the bread from her lips. Was there no haven of security ? Yes, there was one—there was shelter within the strong arms that were so willing to enfold her— upon the broad breast that had begged as a boor, the privilege of sheltering her. That arm had already defended her from insult, had snatched her from death, had nursed her as gently as a mother could have done. Was it wrong for her, defenseless, injured and alone in the world, to accept this life-long protection ? But did she love him ? As she bowed her head upon the sill of the open window, through which floated the subtle, penetrating odor of the night jessamine blooming below, she tried to analyze her feelings for Captain Kirne. She was conscious of admiration for his strength and in ripe love of a strong man—no puling youngster that has never known life and tried the strength of his passion. Will you take me—or rather will you let me take you, my sweet?—now, this mo ment? Why should we wait? I have the license in my hand; in that room yonder stands the priest, good Father Dufresne. He has been wait ing an hour. All is ready but the bride, and she must put on bridal garments. I cannot have her married in this gray robe, like a nun.” “I have no bridal garments, and such would not suit my feelings.” “Would not suit my white lily! They will suit you well. Go in and try if they will not. You’ll find that you are wrong in saying you have no bridal dress.” He drew her to the door of her room. Half bewildered, she saw on the bed a mass of white drapery, sheer muslin and filmy lace, and beside it Airs. Floyd standing, smiling, with a pair of white tiny slippers in her hand. “We’ll dress you now, my dear—Fanny and I. Father Dufresne is waiting.” “Aladame!’ said Esther, looking at her with dependence—for his tall, athletic figure, his dash i bewildered, imploring eyes, and courage, his broad, backwood's freedom of j “Ah ! you are amazed at the sight ot the dress. ^~ .3 j a a „e TLa I 'onfoin wonrr»riH*» von Ho Lnnorht thought and action, and contempt of convention alism—the latter quality being in accord with her own irrepressible but more polished Bohe- mianism. In her own unnerved and weakened state, she naturally magnified the attributes ot strength and will. In her normal equipoise of mind and body, these would not seem so supe rior in her eyes; her own energy and resolution would then have re-asserted themselves, and the temptation of rest and shelter might not have had such power. Even now, her instincts rebelled against a mar riage with Captain Kirne. Her instinctive love of freedom and of truth revolted against it. She shrank from the thought of putting her life into the control of another unless that other was felt to be a necessity of her life. Then, at the bot tom of her heart there was a deep but hardly confessed reluctance to give up utterly her girl ish ideal of life. ., . . . , . , , . , . , : mo. Anguish and bitterness had side him^ hand-in-hand, or creep into his lap trampled upon but not wholly destroyed that and get the closer to his compassionate voice. ’ PERSONALS. The widow of John Alitchell visited Charles O’Connor on December 9th. Barry Sullivan commenced an engagement at New Orleans on December 8th. The wife of Speaker Alichael C. Kerr is cred ited with much of his success in life. The Lord Mayor of Dublin is said to contem plate a visit to America next summer. Hon. George H. Pendleton was detained in Augusta, Ga., by the illness of one his daugters. Air. J. Carroll Brent, of Washington, possesses a lock of hair of the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots. Queen Victoria personally conducts a Sunday school for the children connected with Windsor Castle. Capt. James AI. Stewart, the Postmaster of the House of Representatives, is a native of Alexan dria, Ya. Rev. W. C. Wilkes, of Dalton, has been called to take charge of the College at Gainesville, Ga., and has accepted. Lucca has decided to confine herself to mezzo- soprano parts in future. Her voice is wearing in the upper register. Blind Tom, the pianist, wants to marry a col ored woman in Baltimore, but she is also blind. At least she can’t see it. Pro. R. V. Forrester, of Quitman, Ga., has been elected President of the Crawford High School at Dalton, Ga., and will accept. Aliss Adelaide Alurdoch, a sister of James E. Alurdoch, is in San Francisco, where she pro poses to lecture on women’s duties. Aliss Neilson is in Paris, but goes to London shortly to act in the play founded on the life of dream of keeping her life free and apart—conse crating it to art—literary art, musical art—some form of worshipping the beautiful. Was there also another influence of the past— a lurking memory more passionate and person- i al—that started up from its hiding-place of dark- ! ness, silence and tears, and uttered a pleading protest against the step she half meditated? Was there the memory of a face, full of tenderness as well as power—a smile, sweet as well as strong— eyes, whose clear, blue depths spoke of crystal truth as well as of fearlessness ? If such a mem ory did rise up, it was instantly confronted by the remembrance that this strength and sweet ness and steadfastness could never bear upon her life—that they made the stay and sunshine of another, and that for her there could be only the strength of his scorn. It was late when she rose from her seat at the window—so late that the whippoorwill’s cries had ceased, and only the spectral hoot of the owl in the woods on the opposite bank of the river broke the midnight stillness. She laid her head on her pillow, still confused in mind, still doubt ful what a day might bring forth, but believing that she had fully resolved to tell Captain Kirne that she could never marry him. A warning dream came to her. She was wan dering along a dark and narrow path, flinty be neath her feet, and shut in Dy frowning rocks on either hand. All at once, a vista seemed to J The Captain wanted to surprise you. He bought the muslin four or five days ago, and got Fanny to take your measure unknowing, and she and I made it in the back room, with the door locked. He never said, but we both suspicioned it was meant for a wedding dress; and when Father Dufresne came in this morning, a-laughing and rubbing his hands together, I just knew what was up, and I told Fanny it was lucky we made the plum cake yesterday. Then, the Captain told me to bring the dress in here, and gave me a bundle to open. I am sure 1 didn’t know such a pretty pair of gloves and shoes could be had in our little village, for he got them at Campte, down the river liere a bit. He wanted you ail in white—and no wonder; color is a bad omen for a bride. A bride and a corpse ought to be dressed all in white, I think." A bride and a corpse! Esther looked more like the last than the first, as she stood white and marble-like, with that strained, bewildered look in her eyes, her brain whirling, her temples throbbing, and was dressed for her sudden, strange marriage, hearing no word of the good woman’s chatter or of little Fanny's admiring exclamations as she combed out the rich, long hair and braided it in broad plaits that she caught up in some graceful fashion with a spray of white roses. “She is ready,” said madame at last “Fanny, nail Captain Kirne. ” At the mention of that name, Esther started from her stupor. “One moment first,” she said. “Go out, please, and leave me alone a moment.” When the door was closed, she pressed her hands to her forehead, as if to recall her senses, and walked to the mirror and looked at the re flection of herself deliberately, as one looks at the face of the dead about to be hid away under a coffin lid forever—looked at herself as if to take leave of what she was and of what she had hoped to be—of the dreams and aspirations of her young genius. Fate had been too strong for genius, too strong for resolution, bounded by woman’s narrow lot. Social wrong, with its short-sighted malice and relentless pursuit, had driven this bright, free nature, born to roam the world of thought and art untrammeled, into the narrow covert of a marriage, whose sweetest hope was its promise of shelter from the world. As she looked at herself in the mirror, in her open to her, —light and shade and soft grass in- | white dress and rosebuds, with a sad, half cyn- — ical intentness, Bhe saw that Mrs. Floyd had fas tened the lace at her neck with a pearl brooch containing her mother’s hair—the gift of Dr. Haywood. The color flowed into her cheeks, and then ebbed instantly, leaving them colder and whiter than before, as she took out the pin and substituted a flower in its place. I could never wear that," she murmured, vited her to turn aside and rest. Eagerly she started forward, when she caught sight of Dusky’s reproachful face, Dusky’s warning ges ture. in some opening of the trees beyond. Not heeding or understanding the look and gesture that waved her back, she still pressed forward, when suddenly the sunny vista closed, and a black, deep pool yawned at her feet—too sud denly for her steps to be stayed, and she plunged i dropping John's gift into her dressing-box with headlong into the murky depths. She started ! fingers tnat trembled, as she heard at that mo- from her sleep at the same instant, all trembling with the horror and fright of her dream, and Anne Bolej n, w hich Tom laylor has written ex- j 0 p ene q her eyes U p G n a burst of sunshine and 1 the laughing face of little Zulmee Floyd, who Full of fervid piety, and a devout worshipper i who goes to Alacon. presslv for her. An immense concourse assembled last Sunday morning at the Alethodist Church in Athens, Ga., to hear the valedictory sermon of Dr. Skinner, of God, “whose ways he justified to man,” he has passed from among us to Him who stretched out his hand across the gloom to lead him to a peaceful rest; to the light which knows no dark ness, and to a life in the Great Eternal beyond. “ Not as I will, but as Thou wilt.” | stood at her bedside with the morning libation I of black coffee. She thirstily drained the tiny i cup, and then, telling the child not to call her | to breakfast, for she would need none, she lay Ole Bull is making a last concert tour around I back upon the pillow until she heard the firm the world. He has had great success in Norway ! tread of Captain Kirne as he passed through the and Sweden, and is now going to Egypt to play j entry and left the house. Then, she rose and (.Tire for Snmll-Pox and Scarlet Fever. Here is the recipe, as I have used it, and cured my children of the scarlet fever. Here it is as I have used it to cure the small-pox. AVhen learned physicians said the patient must die, it cured. Sulphate of zinc one grain, fox-glove (.digitalis) one grain, half a teaspoonful of sugar, mix with two tablespoonfnl of water. When mixed, add j of Napoleon L, overthrown, with” the Yendome dressed herself, and went out upon the back porch, and stood with her hands upon the rail ing, gazing out over the wide stretch of fertile, level lands, green and dew-glistening in the sunlight of a glorious summer morning. For ,, , _ n „ , miles lay the billowy fields with the brown roofs Air. 1 itzhugh, the Doorkeeper of the House of | 0 f houses peeping from groves of sycamore and anrnconTorivno o . K 1 ° . ° . * . . . . before the Khedive. Aliss Clara Louise Kellogg is engaged to be married to Air. Bradish Johnson Smith, a weal thy New Yorker, of Knickerbocker antecedents. The affair will take place in a few weeks. Representatives, is a citizen of Texas, and is well-known in that section. He was Sergeant- at Arms to the Confederate Congress. AI. Chamod, a young sculptor of recognized cottonwood. Far along the curve of the blue horizon ran the wall of mighty forest, and nearer, swept a majestic curve of the river—glittering through its fringe of trees. Higher up—high up merit, has been charged by the Alinistry of Fine j in the golden, dreamy air—a solitary groebeck j Arts with the care of the repairing of the statue ! winged its way—silver-white as an angel vision ment Captain Kirne’s knock and voice at the door. “Esther, my love, are you ready?” She opened the door and stood before him, so white and spiritual aud sorrowful, with that dazed, wistful look in her eyes, that he drew back and did not touch her as he had meant to do. “My sweet, I’ll worship you forever for this! You are too lovely, and too far above me, I know. It’s the crow mating with the dffve. But I’ll have your nest as soft as hands can make it, and I’ll keep the hawks away from your life. I’ll live to love you and consult your wishes.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips; then he drew it through his arm, and led her into the next room, where the round-faced priest stood waiting, and Mrs. Floyd and her house hold, having hastily donned their best apparel, sat in pleased expectancy of witnessing that rite so interesting to the world at large, and to the female world especially—a marriage. (TO BE CONTINUED.) four ounces of water, and take a tablespoonful j Column, by order of the Commune, every hour. Either disease will disappear in twelve hours. For a child, smaller doses, aceord- _ ing to age. If counties would compel their phy- The*^ announcement of the death of Henry j sicians to use this recipe, they would need no AYilson, Yice President of the United States, is pest-houses. If you value advice and experi- received in the capital citv of Alassachusetts with | ence, use this ‘ received in the capital . sincere and unanimous respect for his useful and honorable life and sterling character, and with profound sorrow at the loss of one whose influ ence was more and more generously difiusing the returning spirit of reunion over the nation [ at large. With peculiar esteem is he remembered Jin this Commonwealth, which was his home, of i for that terrible disease. Mr. John G. Thompson, the new Sergeant-at- Arms to the House of Representatives, is a prom inent citizen of Ohio; has been Chairman of the Democratic State Committee for a number of years, and is an active, energetic man. Rev. J. J. Ransom, of the Methodist Episcopal A little boy, whose mother had promised him I Church South, recently appointed a missionary a present, was saying his prayers preparatory to 1 by the Tennessee Conference to Brazil, sailed going to bed, but his mind running on a horse, j from Baltimore Monday in the bark Templar for he began as follows: “Our Father who art in j Rio Janeiro. The reverend gentleman was accom- heaven—ma, won’t you give me a horse?—thy | panied on board by a number of clergymen and kingdom come—with a string in it—” * : a delegation of ladies from the city churches. against the pure blue sky. | Esther gazed on the scene with the sense of ) sweet peace and beauty flooding her soul and “The Goose Hangs High.”—The expression Everything is lovely and the goose hangs high” is a corruption of the saying “Everything is drowning for the moment all recollection of i ] 0V ely and the goose honks high.” The honk is life’s sorrows and perplexities—and of Captain t h e no te sounded by the wild goose in its flight, Kirne. Only for a moment. She started as she j an( j j s a bout the only music in which that grace- heard his step upon the porch. She did not ■ f a j bird indulges. The meaningless word hangs look around as he approached her, stood by her should be immediately eliminated from this beau- j tifnl and popular description of the situation. 1 —Exchange. i A good man who has seen much of the world i and is not tired of it, says: “ The grand essen- Never had he j tials to happiness are something to do, some-j The glow of triumphant an- j thing to love, and something to hope for.” and took possession of her hand. “ Late sleeper!” he said. “Oris it that you have taken this long time to make up your mind to give yourself to me? Have you decided? Are you mine ?” She turned and looked at him appeared so well. INSTINCT PRINT