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[For The Sunny South.]
“MV QUEEN.”
FOR MINNIE LECLAIR.
BY ANNIE MARIE.
The daylight gleams within your eyes,
The midnight in your hair;
Your lips like coral-tinted shells,
Your brow like lilies rare.
I know not if you’re beautiful,
As others beauty hold:
To me your beauty lies within
Your true and tender soul.
I dream of you through happy days,
I shut my eyes, and then
A vision bright comes o’er my dream—
I see you now, as when,
Standing beneath the silent heavens,
The moon with ray divine
Shining athwart your midnight hair,
I kissed and called you mine.
Oh! since that time when, neath the stars
I kissed you mine alone,
The moonbeams shining in your hair,
To me you’ve fairer grown; r
You are more than beautiful, my Queen,
When, with love’s ray divine
Shining within their soul-lit depths,
Your eyes look into mine.
I love you with a love, my Queen, /
As strong and pure and leal
As ever knight or prince of old
Did for his mistress feel.
When, midst the mighty throng he stood,
The tourney’s victor crowned,
And at his lady’s feet the wreath,
So proudly won, laid down.
Oh! had I kingdoms for my own,
A sceptre and a crown,
I’d lay them at your feet, my Queen,
With willing homage down;
I’d gather from Golconda’s shore
Jewels, the rarest seen,
To place upon your snowy brow,
My peerless love, my Queen.
But none of these I have, my Queen —
Gems, kingdom, crown or throne—
So in iny heart alone, my Queen,
You shall a kingdom own;
And on a throne, as regally
As e’er Bat queen of old,
Shall sit, while on your brow I place
A crown of love’s pure gold.
BLOODY LINKS;
—OR,—
The Devil’s Chain.
BY EDWARD JENKINS.
A Member of the British Parliament, and the Au
thor of “ Ginx's Baby," etc.
Mate a chain : far the land it full nf bloody crimes, and the
city is full of violence.—Ezekiel.
the oolor began to gather in her cheeks as soon
as she knew he was looking at her intently, and
did not mean to go away.
“You are still needy," he said; “come, let
me give you an arm and help you along. I dare ■
not leave you like this.”
His voice was rather deep and full. His face, !
though not a handsome one, was open and manly.
His eyes were large and brown. They seemed
to speak frankness. She thought so, though
she hesitated. London streets were familiar to j
her. She had trodden them unharmed, but she
knew something of their perils.
“I think I can manage,” she said, trying to |
get up.
But her knees trembled, for the crowd was
still there, and the police were taking notes over
the body of the dead woman. It was clear the
shock bad unnerved the girl too much for so
rapid a recovery. He held out his arm, and she ,
took it.
“Now,” he said, “which way are you going?” ;
“To Russell Square,” she si!. “And there !
I nearly left my parcel!” (stooping to pick it
up). “I am taking this lace to a lady 7 at No. 52.”
“Ah ! then you work in a shop, eh?”
“Yes, Cutter & Chettam’s. But I think I can [
get on alone now. Please let go of my arm, sir.
Thank you very much; I don’t want to keep i
you.”
“0, nonsense ! I mean to see you now as far
as Russell Square. I am going to Bedford Row.
Suppose you were to faint in the street, and
some wicked people were to get hold of you,
an d you so pretty ! ”
The world was too young to her for this ob
vious stroke to set her on her guard, and at that
moment her attention was diverted by the noise
of the crowd coming close behind them. In the
midst were the silent men bearing the dark,
dread object. It recalled her terror, and she }
n ;arly swooned away.
“Look here,” said the young man, “I see j
' uhat you want. You must have some brandy, i
Here is a public.” And he dragged her into the j
side bar of a public house, and put her on the
seat against the wainscot.
“ Twobrandy-and-waters hot.’ ” he said, “and
be quick, please, The young lady is unwell.”
The bar-maid, with her withering, painted
cheeks, and garish dress, looked over the bright
handles of the beer pumps, and the tall bottles,
and the ranged pewters, at the pretty face of
the girl on the seat, with a meaning leer. Then
she winked to the young man. He understood
her directly, and his face crimsoned. The dev
ilish idea this woman—let us admit naturally in
the circumstances and with her experience—had
suggested to the young man, had really not be
fore crossed his mind. He was no greenhorn^—
no Christian —no moralist—no born gentleman—
he was, in fact, a lawyer’s clerk, who ought at
that time to have been hurrying to his employ-
j er's office in Bedford Row, with the bundle of
letters and papers that made his side pocket
bulge so much. At the same time he was not a
roue.
“ Mind your own business, Miss,” he said to
the bar-maid. “ A woman has just fallen out of
a window close by, and this young lady nearly
fainted.”
“Oh ! I see," said the other, handing over two
glasses of hot stuff. “ One and fourpence, please.
A woman out of the window,
IIE IS DEAD.
Oh! heart-thrilling words—
Carelessly, lightly, indifferently 6poken !
While elsewhere some fond heart is broken—
Oh! words fraught with dread !
Whom did you say ?
I tremblingly asked, while a throb
Rose in my heart, which turned to a sob—
Only a stranger over the way !
Cause of his death ?
Can you tell me the wherefore and why ?
Slowly and sadly I ask with a sigh—
Under my breath!
Unexpected !
Ah, me! these heart-breaking changes—
Our nearest, our dearest, the augel of death,
Oft chills with his pitiless breath ;
Unwatched unattended 1
Where are his friends ?
Heaven pity and aid them to bear
That cross in which, sooner or later all share
The cup which he sends !
Do they know?
Have you sent them the tidings to-day?
If not, break it gently, I pray—
That mesage of woe!
“Only a stranger I”
It brought to my heart a sense of relief.
Yet some home is bow’d down with grief—
Mine out of danger!
Ah, well!
“ Only a stranger,” you carelessly say;
You may fathom its pathos, alone, some day;
Who can tell ?
For nuawares,
Sometimes, some day we know not when,
Somewhere, somehow, we may not ken—
Azareel awaits us.
Only a stranger:
Be pitiful. Lay him to rest.
Folded away in the earth's dark breast
Safe from all danger !
No longer a stranger !
[For The Sunny South.]
Studies From Thackeray and Dickens.
LINK THE FIRST.
One February 7 afternoon, just as the yellow,
dingy thing in London called light was deepen
ing into absolute darkness, and the gas was be
ginning to flicker in the streets and shops, pas
sengers in St. Martin’s Lane, about half way
between St. Martin’s Place and the crossways,
Vt- ie statled by — Wliioir-nriv.n‘. frttut u
window in the third floor of a house on the east
sid i.
A shrill, harrowing shriek it tvas, that cut and
pierced the dismal air, and seemed to make it
quiver as with horror—the shriek, too, of a
woman. Those who, hearing it, at once lifted
their eyes to the window whence it came, dis
cerned for a moment, through the dusk, a strug
gling shadow within the casement, struggling
with some unseen hands, struggling only an in
stant, for the next moment it sprang through the
window, with a second shriek more keenand ter
rible than the first, turned once, struck with its
head almost noiselessly on a projecting sill of
stone, tnrned over again, and then dropped head
first with a dull thud on the stone pavement.
And there it lay, a bundle of clothes and clay.
Within three feet of the fallen heap, whatever
it was, a man, who had been reeling up the street,
with alternate lunges toward the curbstone and
the bouses, and had brought up just then against
a door post, looked down with bleary eyes upon
the object so suddenly presented to his gaze.
“W—w—wy !” he said, “d—d—damn you!
w—w—where do you come from, eh? w—w—
ho’s a meaning o’ shis? G—g—get out o’ the
way, will you?"
And reeling forward, he made an attempt to
strike the heap before him with his foot, but,
missing bis blow, be stumbled over it prone
upon his face.
Accustomed though it was to London sights,
a thrill of horror ran through the small group
that immediately formed on the footway. Hands
were stretched out swiftly, and drew the cursing \
vagabond, with his bleeding nose and forehead, :
from oft the awful heap of humanity that lay
there dark and motionless, and he was thrown ;
with maledictions on some stone steps not far
away.
Then two or three trembling men laid hold of j
a woman’s gown and petticoats, and drew them i
down decently over a woman's feet, which a |
glance showed to be covered with gay shoes and
stockings. And then they tnrned over what ;
they knew must be a body, for there were drops j
spattered about the flags that told their own !
tale. Ah ! the pavement was dinted and split,
but what terrific vengeance it had taken on the
tender object which had so broken it!
The crowd had now grown large. Among the
men and boys, the women and girls, who
thronged together and stood there, with shocked
faces and chilled hearts, shuddering at the spec
tacle I dare not describe, was a young woman in
her teens, neatly and rather coquettishly dressed,
carrying a milliner's box. A minute before, she
bad been tripping rapidly along the street with
a light step and jaunty air, her face brightened
with a sui ite as she hummed to herself a tamiliar
catch. Glued to the spot by a fatal fascination,
she had seen all we have been describing; and
now, when the silent men lifted the dead crea
ture, the sight was too much for the young girl
to bear. Her face grew pallid, and slle began to .
stagger. As she was about to fall, a young man
saw her, caught her round the waist with his
right arm—a right strong man—and said:
“Hold up, my dear! Don't look at it any
more. Here, I'll lead you out of the crowd.”
He succeeded in getting her to a door-step,
and, fanning her with his hat, she soon begun
to revive.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to smile at her
benefactor. “ I shall be better presently. Thank
you ever so much.”
The face she turned up to the young man wae
a very sweet one. It was plump and full; ths
round cheek was evidently not often so colorless
as it was then. The delicate, aquiline nose, the ;
cherry lips, and bright blue eyes, the fair, long
hair she left disporting about her shoulders, and
the dainty little hat upon her head, altogether
formed a striking picture; such a picture as in
our dull city often makes an honest man turn
round, and, with a kindly wish, say to himself,
“ How pretty she is !” It was a modest face, too.
The long lashes immediately drooped over the
eyes under the young man’s ardent gaze, and
BY TREBLA.
The comparison sought to be drawn between
Thackeray and Dickens in a late number of
The Sunny South, while in the main a correct
one, taking “Vanity Fair” as the masterpiece
of the first named author, still I am bound to
think that great injustice has been done one of
my favorite novelists. I know it is fashionable
to speak of the fame of Thackeray as though it
depended on “Vanity Fair;” but there is an
other of his works to which I have always given
the preference, rather to his celebrated bur
lesque on life. Ireferto “Pendennis.” Every in
telligent reader must acknowledge and yield to
“ Vanity Pair” praise for its matchless satire, its
stuking delineation of the baser elements of
human character; but every one who has fol
lowed the fortunes of its puppets till, in the
Mrs. Stingo,” she Shouted through a small aper-! language of the author himself, “the play is
ture behind her to some one in a back-room, j played out,” must fee! at last that there is some-
“ Another inquest for us, I shouldn’t wonder.” . thing lacking; that those men and women who
“Thank God !” cried a woman’s voice. j have been parading the stage before us are not
Other people, who bad witnessed the catastro- real ones—are not such as we meet in the world.
As in a beautiful landscape, which is shrouded
in clouds and gloom, the rays ol the sun are
needed to throw the warmth of light and life
over the scene, so in “Vanity Fair” that essence
of. for tliHyatnnBk specied and'
charity tbr ev^n their frailtira— is needed to give
its character a more life-like air. In “Penden-
nis,” wiioh is a^kno’Wledgei.'l, I believe, to/be in
a great measure the history ‘of the author him
self, Thackeray has dropped much of that fan
tastic and’ intense effort at caricature which mars
phe and found it too much for their feelings,
now began to pour into the outer bar, and called
off the attention of the bar-maid from the young
I couple. The young man drank his toddy like
•0^3 wlto took kindly to it. girl sippeu : i
slowly. It soon began to revivt- her. Her blood
grew warm, her eyes brightened, her cheeks
nushea. She looked more boldly in her com
panion’s face, and her tongue, unloosed, spoke
more readily and cordially to him. On his part,
he was not unaffected by the spirit. His glances
at her face became more frequent and direct, and his “Vanity Fair.” His characters act, move
once or twice, in speaking, he placed his hand ! and speak like ordinary mortals. They have
on her shoulder in a familiar way. Alas! she j not the temper, the conventional graces met
seemed not to notice it. Seeing she had not ! only in the pages of your average novel. Aside
half finished her glass, he ordered a second to j from a seemingly natural exuberance of animal
be prepared for himself. He was forgetting bis
papers and bis master. Her parcel was lying
unregarded by her side. At length, as they each
looked at the bottoms of their empty tumblers,
they spoke of going.
“ Thank you,” she said with brightening eyes.
“That has made me feel ever so much better.
Good-by.”
She put out her hand and smiled.
“ Good-by ? ” he said. “ Are you going to de
sert me so soon ? How ungrateful you are. Let
me walk part of the wav with you.”
Her face looked rather 3illy. When they got
outside, the street seemed to reel about hef.
The sounds struck upon her ear with confusing
loudness ; her eyes saw dimly and strangely in
the dull darkness. And her steps—her steps
were stumbling and uncertain! She grasped
his arm tightly.
“Hallo!” he cried. “You’ve taken too
much.”
“Yes. I never took so much before. I feel
ill. I can scarcely stand.”
It was then that the devil entered into the
heart of Joseph Cray, and whispered to him
that this young girl was now in his hands to do
with her as he would. And the mind of Joseph
Cray, after those two glasses of hot grog, was
feeble to repel the insidious hints of the Evil
One. The girl clung to his arm, and spoke
thickly in his ear—
“You—you’re so good. I like you so much.
It is so kind of you to help me.”
“Look here,” he said, laughing ; do you know
yon can’t stand? You’re not fit to walk about
the street now. I must take you somewhere,
where you can rest till you get better. Here, I’ll
call a cab, and take you to my place.”
“Ob ! you’re so good—so good,” the poor girl
cried, putting her arm around his neck, while
the maudlin tears ran down her face.
Joseph Cray held her up a moment, and hesi
tated. She was nearly insensible. The struggle
within him was short. That which twenty min
utes since he could have bravely withstood, he
had cast away the power to resist. He called a
cab, and lifted her in. She lay there now un
conscious.
“To Pentonville,” said Joseph Cray, as he
shut the door, and from that moment he was a
lost man. _ _
And, my fair reader, virtuous, and pure, and j been betrayed into the melting mood as he has
gentle, from that day your sister, Lucy Merton— been in the pathetic passages. The character of
spirits at the start, the author soon settles down
steadily to his work. Indeed, I am often re
mined, while reading the works of both Thack
eray and Dickens, of the gambols of a horse of
really fine qualities, but who, for some time
after he had been gotten in harness, cuts such
fantastic capers as to astonish the lookers-on,
besides sorely taxing the patience of his driver.
But, after all, there is no horse who does his
work so well, or who can stand the fatigues of a
long journey as well as your spirited and blooded
animal that at the start gave pnomiseof trouble.
So it is with our authors, f After following
them thvough a long and _• veiltful period, we
part with our imaginar w*Duds with feelings
akin to those felt when we lose a real friend,
which is, after all, I take it. the greatest test of
a novelist. In the quotation from “Vanity Fair,”
used as a test by the recent reviewer, we see the
spirit that pervades the book. In the one which
follows, and which all readers of Thackeray
will recognize as the conclusion of “Penden
nis,” we see by contrast the difference between
the spirit of the two, and we can see at a glance
the superiority of the tone of the hero quoted, j
“ If the best men do not draw the great prizes <
in life, we know that it has been so settled by j
the Ordainer of the lottery. We own and see j
daily bow the false and worthless live and pros- ;
per,' while the good are called away, and the |
dear and young perish untimely. We perceive !
in every man’s life the mourned happiness, the j
frequent falling, the bootless endeavor, the j
struggle of Right and Wrong, in which the !
strong often succumb and the swift fail. We i
see flowers of good blooming in foul places, as j
in the most splendid fortunes flowers of vice !
and meanness and slums of evil; and knowing i
bow weak the best of ns are, let us give a hand j
of charity to “Arthur Pendennis,” with all his j
faults and shortcomings, who does not claim to |
be a hero, only a man and a brother.”
There is the'ring of the genuine metal in these j
words, and taken as a whole, they furnish an j
epitome of life as striking as any found outside !
of uninspired writings. In it we find none of
that forced cynicism, that spirit of dissatisfac- •
tion with human life and human kind character
istic of •• Vanity Fair,” in which the author
seems to struggle against anything like natural
ness of feeling, and to be ashamed of having
never loses sight of the main chance. We laugh
; at the poor boy, but cannot help pitying him the
while, as he announces, in his grandiloquent
style, to the worldly old major his engagement
with “ Miss Castigan, daughter of J. Chesterfield
Castigan, of Castigantown.” And we give our
unqualified approval of the course adopted by
that old campaigner, his uncle, in breaking off
the foolish engagement.
I We might follow the hero to the last chapter,
: and in all his trials, all of his mistakes, all of
1 his victories, the same frank, noble nature, a
trifle conceited, perhaps, but still natural. As
showing the fashionable world in all of its hol
lowness, the character of Major Pendennis is
j certainly well drawn and well sustained. Too
| poor, by bis own confession, to know a poor
: man, all of bis precepts to his nephew smack of
the same spirit, and we behold him bargaining
with the weak and wicked Sir Francis Clover
ing for his seat in Parliament, holding over him
the fear of betraying the secret of the presence
of his wife’s first husband, as a means of achiev
ing the success of his pet scheme.
The character of Blanche Amory is that of the
fashionable, heartless woman, w 7 hose whole life
is a mass of inconsistencies, affections and fol
lies. Too weak to be thoroughly wicked, and
certainly too wicked to be at all good, we read
of her final estrangement from Harry Foker, for
whom she had jilted the hero, with pleasure.
Warrington is one of the best characters in
the book, and we are almost sorry that he could
not wed the beautiful “Laura Bell,” to the ex
clusion of even “Pendennis.”
Helen Pendennis is the very embodiment of
goodness and motherly love; and the devotion
between herself and Laura Bell, whose father
she had loved with all the fervor of her nature,
is as natural as it is pleasing. Her love for her
son is just such as ttiousands of women feel for
their children, and her desire to have her two
children, as she called them, united, we are
sorry she did not live to see accomplished.
The glimpses given into the life of newspa
pers and newspaper men in London is as fresh
and racy as if taken—as it probably was—from
the life. The gifted Shondon, who, as Buagoy
said, worked best when in the Fleet Prison, be
cause you are always certain to find him at home.
Doolon, Archer, and a score of others are true
types of the genuine Bohemian whose counter
parts are found elsewhere than on the Strand or
the “Back Kitchen.” It is common to say that
the (Jathos of Thackeray cannot compare with
that of Dickens; and yet, with due respect to
the genius that created little Nell, Tiny Tim,
Paul, and a host of other characters without
rivals in OHr language, I must say that there are
passages in the book under consideration that
for simple pathos cannot be excelled. The al
lusions made to the love borne by Helen for
Laura’s father, are models of pure and unaffected
pathos; while the death of Helen, preceded as
it is by the simple but touching story of War
rington’s life; the reconciliation between mother
and son; the death of the mother, as she had
prayed it might be, in the arms of her son, is
certainly one of the finest pen-pictures in the
English language. There are other passages
in the book equally as good as the one referred
tu, and other characters that might be dwelt on
with pleasure, but to speak of them all would
be to reproduce the entire work.
There is, however, one serious objection that
can be urged against even “Pendennis,” and
the same objection applies with more or less
force to all of the English works of fiction—
that is the laxity of morals betrayed in the de
velopment of the story. It is hard to conceive
how such pure women as Helen Pendennis and
Laura Bell can be associated with such a man as
Ned Strong, who, with all his cleverness and
fine points, is nothing more than what we would
call in America a “/lead beat.” The only/solu
tion to this apparent inconsistency is tile fact
that gambling aml/its associating vices is looked
on with much more allowance than wijth us.
Even the hero, Pendennis, takes his turp at the
bones, and the only remonstrance that is made
against it comes from Harry Foker—the imuiac-
culate Harry—and he bases his objection on no
higher ground than the fear that Pendennis may
be a loser. But aside from this, every one who
reads “ Pendennis ” will rise from the perusal
a better man or woman. There will be none of
that feeling which possesses us after we have
read one of the sensational stories now 30 fash
ionable—a feeling of dissatisfaction with the
world, and a desire to escape its responsibilities.
We will be better contented with our lot, better
prepared to take our place in the battle of life,
and certainly better prepared to escape the temp
tations and snares that beset us on every hand.
I am bound to say that the resemblance be
tween “Vanity Fair” and “Dornbey and Son,”
as traced out by the reviewer, is rather a forced
one. ’Tis true, that some of the characters in
the one may be compared to another of some
what similar nature in the ocher, and if my con
ception of the design of the two be correct, they
were intended to convey different and widely-
dissimilar lessons. But with this I have noth
ing to do, as my object was to rescue one of my
favorites from the ctiarge—indirect it is true—
of being a scoffer at human life and a cynic in
all things. I was surprised too, to see that
your reviewer took “Dornbey nd Son” as the
one of Dicken’s works a fib r a* g the largest
number of well-defined characters, or as being
the best exponent of his style. I have always
considered it as the least excellent of all the
FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.
[For The Sunny South.]
MY JLITTLE SISTER.
BY SISTER CLARA.
I have a little sister
8o merry and so gay—
The little lambs who sport about
Are not more fond of play.
How pleasant is her merry laugh—
Each prattling, childish way!
E’en her tears are pearl-drops bright,
That quickly pass away.
Her voice is like the cuckoo’s song.
Her face like lilies fair;
The violets dew gleams in her eyes,
The sunbeams in her hair.
I pray each day that God will guard
And keep her safe and well.
How much I love my sister dear
I’m sure I cannot tell!
Rose Lawn, Burke County, Ga.
CAPTAIN TRY AND CORPORAL CANT.
BY “COUSIN ANNIE.”
Here’s two fellows waiting to make your ac
quaintance, little folks. First of all, here’s Cor
poral Cant. What a long-faced, ugly old fellow
he is, and what a terrible whine lie has ! My!
he looks as sour as if he had swallowed a peck
of crab apples! Bobbie had a hard lesson to
learn. Along came old Corporal Cant and whis
pered to him:
“What a terrible lesson! Why, you can’t
learn it. Give it up; it's no use to try.”
Mama told Susie to sweep out the room.
“Oh, my, what a dreadful task!” whined old
Cant. “Such a little girl as you can't do it.”
Papa sent Johnie on an errand. Who should
he meet up with but old Corporal Cant, with
j ust the sourest look on his long face.
“ What a terrible long distance it is,” said he.
“It is too much lor such a little fellow as you.
And just look at that long, steep hill! No use
to try to climb that; you couldn’t hold out to
get to the top. Oh, you can't, I tell you 1”
There was a building to be erected—a build:
ing that required a great deal of skill and the
most delicate of workmanship. Now, who should
come along hut old Corporal Cant, with his sol
emn countenance and lazy drawl:
“Goodness me, build a house after that plan !
Whoever heart! of such a tiling? It can’t be
doDe, I tell you.”
Jack, the plowman, had for his day’s work
just the roughest, stoniest kind of a field to
plough. There stood old Cant waiting for him
at the very head of the first row.
“You can't ever begin to plough among all
these rocks,” whined he. "Way, it would
break your plow, ruin your horse, and almost
kill you. Don’t think of attempting such a
thing; you can't do it.”
But now here is Captain Try waiting for an
introduction. What a handsome, brave-looking
soldier he is, and how pleasant his face, and
such a bright, determined look in his eyes !
Why, it really does me good to look at him.
“Tut, tut, Bobbie, my man,” says he, “call
that a hard lesson ? Pshaw ! why, you’ll find it
awful easy once you put your mind to it. Try
now, and see.”
“Oh, fie ! Susie, my little girl, get your broom
and go ahead. Why, the room won’t be half so
hard to sweep when you try it.”
“ Up, up, -lohnyiie ! call that a steep hill?-*vLy ,~
j yen'll nevei kl ,'w how steep it is until you try
“Can’t build that house?” says he, in his
quick, decided way. “Pshaw! that is all non
sense. Why, it is just the easiest thing in the
world once you start at it. Don’t mind one fail
ure, but try again.”
“Why, Jack,” says he, giving our Jack a
hearty slap upon the back, “my man, I’m sur
prised at you ! Suppose the field is rocky, why,
isn’t your plow sharp, and your horse strong and
faithful? While as to yourself, just look at these
great muscles of yours. Try it first, my man,
try it.”
“I will try,” says Bobbie, and behold the les
son is learned 1
“It is a big room,’’saysSusie, “ but I’ll try it,”
and see, the task is completed.
“Well,” says Johnnie, “I’ll just try that old
hill first,” and lo! he has reached the summit.
“That house shall be built,” says the work
man. “ We will try a dozen times before we’ll
give it up,” and behold, in time, there stands
the building, complete in every part, the won
der of admiring eyes!
And Jack, the plowman, stuck his plow into
the flinty soil with a firm, unfaltering resolve.
“I’ll try,” he said, and lo! at harvest time,
there stood that very field clothed in rich, ripe
grain.
“ By far the finest of the whole harvest,” said
the reapers.
Ah ! children, see how much Try can accom
plish. Cant sticlcs in the mad, but Captain Try,
like a brave soldier, surmounts every obstacle.
There is no lesson too hard for Try to learn—no
room too large for Try to sweep—no task too
difficult for Try to accomplish—no hill too steep
for Try to climb—no field too stony for Try to
works of this inimitable author, though it is j plough—no victory too great for Try to win !
hard to single out one to be regarded with most
favor from such a crowd of favorites. Even
while I write a long array of faces familiar as
“household words ’’ rise before me—poor Srnike,
whom I first knew of all his shadowy kith and
kin, and whom I first knew by such snatches as
I could catch during a trip through the moun
tains of Northeast Georgia. His simple, sad
story can never be forgotten, nor his common
face supplanted by even Little Nell, Paul, or
Tiny Tim.
But I have already drawn out this paper to too
great a length, and must reserve what I intend
to say of Diekens for a future number.
herself fair, and pure, and sweet, and gentle
from that day on forever, was to know virtue and
honor no more.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Arthur Pendennis ” furnishes without doubt
the best delineation of the career of a young
man to be found in the whole range of fiction.
From the first chapter, in which he appears as a
very young man, to the end of the book, he
chains our sympathy or merits our condemna
tion. just as any other man who might be called
on to go through the same temptations, triumphs
or defeats. He has none of that stilted or forced
perfection common to your novel heroes; but
whether as a young man in love with an old
Ready for the Worst.—A Detroit widow owns
and occupies a cottage under the shadow of a
church-steeple which is supposed to be in danger
o( falling when a high wind blows. At midnight,
a few nights ago, when the wind blew fiercely, she _
got up and dressed, called the children up and woman, the lover suffering from the knowledge
dressed them, and then folded her arms with the that his idol has turned to very common clay,
remark : “Now, then, if that steeple falls and the fast young man at college—fast, but not
kills us people we’ll know that we were a respecta- vicious—he is at once the impersonation of
ble family anyhow. George, you brush up your human nature, and the realization of the high-
hair a little more, and Sarah, you take your feet I est dramatic art. We can but admire the boy-
off the stove-hearth and pin your collar more to ish ardor and candor with which he lays his
the left.—Detroit Free Press. heart and its whole wealth of emotions at the
».« feet of the beautiful but dull and and heartless
A down-east editor says: “The ladies’ spring Chatteris actress, content if he receives the cau-
hats are pretty, and wore on the upper edge of tious and calculating devotion of the woman
the left ear, which makes one look arch and who, though she is in love, does not lose her
piquant, like a chicken looking through a crack fondness for “pay,” and though her eyes are
in a fence.” rolling in the frenzy of “ Love’s young dream,”
A New Centennial Proposition--A Hun
dred Steps for Glory.
I have a great Centennial scheme which can be
carried out by 40,000,000 of people on the Fourth
of July this year, and will do more to unite and
make us one than anything else I can think of.
On that day at noon let every able-bodied per
son, whatever he or she may be doing, get up
and walk 100 steps toward the east, the land of
the sun. The tramp of this embattled host
would be the grandest spectacle ever seen, save
only the waving of the American flag. I have
calculated the force that would thus be exerted,
and find it to be 600,000,000,000 foot pounds,
taking the average weight as 150 pounds per maD.
It will do much to counteract the tendency to 1 u 7 e /* ve ’ , "
go West, where, owing to the rarity of the air onlj a llttle bo ?-’ elevel ? year * old - aad s0 - von
and the nature of the land, people rapidly be
come inflationists and theorists. I for one am
JOE’S PETS.
Dear “Cousin Annie,”—I want to tell you
and the little readers of your column all about
Caesar, my dog. He is a great, shaggy fellow,
with big, soft-looking, brown eyes, and I think
he has ever so much sense. He knows so many
funny little tricks, too. He will stand up on
his hind legs when I tell him to, and when I
put a stick between his fore-paws, and a paper
cap on his head, he will “ forward march ” just
like a soldier, He will shake hands with you,
and bring a stick or a ball when I throw it;*and
| he can swim in the water, and jump over a chair,
j and play “ dead doggie,” and ever so many
I smart things. I think he loves me better than
| any one else. He follows me everywhere I go.
! I have a kitten, too. My kitten’s name is Tab.
! Caesar is fond of Tab, and Tab is fond of Ctesar.
He will let her lie down on the rug by him, and
sometimes they will eat together. Now, don’t
you think, Cousin Annie, it is mighty nice for a
cat and dog to get on so well together ? I would
like to tell you something about my home, but I
am afraid I would make my letter so long you
wouldn’t want to publish it. I live in Florida,
the land of magnolia trees and orange groves,
where the flowers bloom and the birds sing long
before they do in places where many of your
little readers live. Well, I will stop now. I am
willing to walk my 100 steps on the great day.
As the direction taken must be due east in a
straight line, the liquor-shops throughout the
land should be closed from midnight of the 3d
to midnight of the 4th, and this would be a
great blessing in many, many ways. Set the
ball in motion; do not falter; stmd firm; move
forward, onward and upward iu the glorious
cause. J. H Ackebson.
must excuse all mistakes. I am so glad Mr.
Seals has given us such a nice corner in his pa
per, and I only wish it was more. Write us lots
of pretty stories, Cousin Annie, and accept heaps
of love from your little Florida cousin, Joe.
A witty boy asked one of his playmates why
a hardware dealer was like a boot-maler. The
litter, somewhat puzzled, gave it up. “Why,”
said the other, “because one sold the nils and
the other nailed the soles.”
A little boy of four years, standing in the
moonlight by his sister, aged six, said to her:
“Isn't God a good man, Nelly, to give us such
a beautiful moon?” “Oh, Freddy,” said the
sister in earnest remonstrance, “ don’t call God
a man; for if ever there was a gentleman, I’m
sure God is that one.”
“Mother, f ither won’t be in heaven with us,
will he?" “Why, my child?” “Because
can’t leave the store ”
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