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[For The Sunny South.l
TIIE WOODLAND STREAM.
BY WILLIAM HAMILTON.
Deep in^the heart of yonder glen.
j T[*he silver current sliiues.
Mid tangled rout** and mosses gray,
By rows of stately pines.
Its banks are crowned with wild flowers’ sweet;
swift flows the torrent bright,
7 hrough tangled roots, o'er moss-clad rocks.
Kissed by the warm sunlight.
On the tall elm-tree by its side
The robin si r at ease.
The feath< rs of his crimson breast
Fanned by the soft south breeze.
All day he sings, how merrily sings.
On the elm-tree bough apart.
And his pleasant song rings far and wide
Through the woodland's peaceful heart.
This is a sweet, secluded spot,
Beside these waters clear,
Through drowsy lengths of summer hours
And winter’s empire drear.
IFor The Sunny South.]
Cosmopolitan Stories;
—OR,—
UNDER SIX FLAGS.
FOURTH EVENING.—Continued.
“Well, Erik, will you furnish us with the first
story this evening ?” asked the Englishman when
all the members had arrived.
“I will,” answered the Swede promptly;
“Francois’ ingenious smuggling story at our
last meeting suggested another one to me that
happened several years ago in my country, and
here it is.”
X.
ABOUT SMUGGLING.
There is u town in the northern part of Sweden
called H , which, lor that cold and bleak
country, has acquired a position of wealth and
consideration, chiefly by means of its successful
smuggling operations. Every year the Swedish
government sends eight or ten custom-house
officers to that benighted place to check the
smugglers, and every year they fail to do it. The
government continues its efforts with praise
worthy perseverance; the town keeps on accu
mulating wealth with a perseverance equally
praiseworthy, and thus matters have been pro
ceeding for years and years, with but slight in
terruption.
One evening the chief of the custom house
and one of the plethoric merchants of the place
were sitting over their toddy in the principal
tavern of the town, enjoying themselves amic
ably, when their conversation happened to turn
upon a subject which was fraught with conside
rable interest to both of them.
“It is rather provoking,” the merchant said
in continuation of their friendly discourse, “ that
the government has to waste so much money and
you so much trouble and anxiety of spirit with
the indifferent result you have gained so far, is
it not?”
“Itis,” rejoined the custom house officer,
“the cause of it is clear, however. The mer
chants are in league with the peasants in the
country around the town, and it is of course to
the interest of the latter to withold from us all
information of your transactions. That is what
paralyesz our efforts; but only give me reliable
information, and I will catch you as surely as
the sun will rise to-morrow.”
“ Well, I’ll give you the information required.
Do you know my yacht Eleonora ?”
“Very well.”
H — “That yacht is coming up to Stonecliff, which
as you know is nearly two miles out of town, on
^ next Thursday week, about four or five o’clock
in the afternoon, then and there to unload his
cargo of smuggling goods. Is that information
clear enough ?”
“Clear enough, if true.”
“How true it is,” continued the merchant, “I
will prove to you by ottering to bet you a dinner
of not less than a hundred dollars to our mutual
friends that you will not be able to prevent my
little craft from unloading her cargo.”
“ Acting upon your information ?”
“Yes, acting upon my information.”
“ l’U take that bet.”
“ Done 1”
Before I proceed farther, it is necessary that I
should state the modus operandi of the smug
glers.
There is an island near the southern shore of
the Baltic, called Bornholm, which nominally
belongs to Denmark, but which, owing to its
solitary situation, is pretty free and independ
ent. Enterprising mercantile gentlemen were
in the habit of having their goods brought there
from different European countries, and carried
thence to more northern latitudes, whence they
could he easier disposed ot. Bh o t >s, yachts and
such small vessels were sent every week down
to Bornholm from the towns lying along the
shores of the Baltic, and returned laden with
merchandise which very seldom came under
the cognizance of the custom house officials.
Our merchant, who was enjoying himself with
the chief of the custom house was one of the
many who had grown rich by skillfully evading
the clutches of the government, and here was
probably the reason why he did not hesitate to
risk a small portion of his gain for the purpose
of puzzling the men by whose blunders he had
gathered his wealth. Gratitude has nearly van
ished from this world.
At the stated time the officer, accompanied by
his men, went down to Stonecliff. and having
moored their boat in a safe place, they hid them
selves behind some brush wood, from whence
thev had an open view over the sea, without
being seen themselves.
And there they watched eagerly for Eleonora.
It was now four o’clock, but no yacht had been
seen as yet. Time glided on, very slowly in the
estimation of the watchers, towards half past
four, but still no yacht. Minutes were growing
into hours, when one of the men exclaimed:
“ There she is !”
And, sure enough, Eleonora hove in sight.
“Quick now, man the boat and let us go for
her?” the commander’s voice rang out.
The boat was manned and they went for poor
Eleonora.
As soon as the custom house boat was afloat,
the crew of the vacht seemed to espy it. They j
went oft' on the*other tack and showed signs of j
wishing, as the French say, to retrace their
steps, and return to where they came from.
But the wind had lulled; the backward track
was not easy to make, and the custom house boat j
gained perceptibly on the smuggler.
At last, it got along side the yacht, and in a
few’ moments more the whole custom house
force was aboard of it.
The chief, who now considered the game
won, walked’up to the commander of Eleonora,
and said: ,
“In the name of His Royal Majesty of Sweden
and Norway, I take charge of this vessel, and
demand your papers.”
“What papers?” asked the captaim
“The manifest, consignments, etc.”
“But, my dear sir, we have no cargo on
board at all. We are coming up from Bornholm
with ballast, trying to find freight in some sea
port along the shores.’
A sardonic smile appeared on the custom
house officer’s countenance.
I have some strange information about this
ballast, ” he said.
•And what is that? iff may ask.
“ Is not the name of this yacht Eleonora ?”
“No, sir, it is not.”
“ But I know that it is.”
“ It is strange that you should know that better
than I who have comanded this craft for several
years.”
The sardonic smile seemed now, somehow, to
Bit from the officer’s face to that of the skip
per’s.
“ And you don’t carry smuggling goods ?”
“ No indeed, I never thought of such a thing.
If you do not believe me, look for yourself.”
“ What is there in those barrels and boxes
there ?”
“Open them and take your own inventory.”
The officer had several bales, barrels and
boxes opened, and found, to his astonishment,
that they contained nothing but gravel, old
scraps of lead and iron, stones, and so forth.
He looked in utter stupefaction at his men, and
they returned his glances with a similar expres
sion. Finally he exclaimed:
“There is some deep villainy here that I do
not understand. Quick, to the boat—let us go
ashore !” and they all scrambled for the boat—
but the boat was gone !
The custom house chief turned to the com
mander of the vessel in feverish excitement and
asked:
“ Where is my boat, sir?”
“ Don’t know, sir.”
“How can you account for its disappear
ance?”
“Can't account for it at all—unless the rope
by which it was tied to our vessel has been
gnawed through by some sharp edge, and the
boat thus set adrift.”
“ Well, set us ashore, instantly !”
But now there came a singular change over
the skipper's face. Instead of the easy passiv
ity which bis features had hitherto shown, they
stiffened gradually into a stern rigidity, and ad
dressing the custom house officer in clear, sharp
accents, he said:
“You have boarded my vessel and tried to
carry everything before you with a rather high
hand. Who are you ? You say you are in the
custom house service. How do I know if you
speak the truth ? I’ll tell you plainly, sir, that
I am not going to be bullied by you any longer,
and if you try to create any further disturbance,
I will pretty soon show you who is master here.”
At this juncture, some muscular, determined
looking fellows commenced making their ap
pearance from everywhere. The captain gave a
short command, and the vessel changed its
course and steered over toward the Russian
side.
“Where are you going now?” asked the
officer, with shame, rage and mortification curi
ously chasing each other over his countenance.
“Over to Finland to look for freight.”
What was to be done? Resistance was clearly
impossible, and yet it was very hard to be caged
in this manner.
But the worst had not yet come. As the cus
tom-house crew gathered in moody silence on
one side of the yacht, looking out over the ocean,
they saw a sight that almost froze their blood.
From behind the headland there hove in sight
a craft, the exact counterfeit of the one on which
they were imprisoned, which went directly
toward Stonecliff, anchored and commenced un
loading the smuggled goods, of which the mer
chant had spoken to the custom-house officer
over their social toddy at the principal tavern in
the town of H.
The whole mystery was, of course, that the
merchant bad rigged up two yachts exactly alike,
one to carry off the custom-house men and the
other to land the contraband.
Thus, while the officer and his minions were
being carried off to Russia, the merchant had
his goods unloaded in Sweden.
The custom-house officials came back in a few
days to their station, with what feelings it is
easy to imagine.
The dinner was given in due course, hut none
of the party except two, had any idea why.
When the chief of the customs asked for his
bill, be was answered that it was paid.
The next day the custom-house officer received
a present of a magnificent gold watch, and each
of his subordinates a gift of more or less value.
Nobody ever found out where those presents
came from.
“In this story of yours, there was certainly
not much of the tender romanticism of which
Michael spoke as being peculiar to your coun
try,” remarked the German. “I must confess
that I liked your narrative of Gustavus Adolphus
much better.”
“Yes,” said the Frenchman; “we have had
too much of smuggling and too little of love so
far. It would be refreshing to hear something
more delicate now.”
“Perhaps Michael can furnish us that,” re
marked the Swede.
“ I can tell you a story with some love in it,”
said the Russian, “ although I very much doubt
if it can be properly called a love-story. I am
not of a tender disposition myself, and have
consequently no great skill in treating such
matters, but I hope to gain your indulgence by
selecting a tale that has one merit at least, that
of being true.”
“ Go on, Michael,” said John.
And Michael commenced.
Criticisms on the Centennial —A Young
Lady's Experience.
Centennial Notes. stood upon a bucket-shelf, and the little window-
* ' shutters were thrown open. In a projection of
the roof just above the middle door, is the face
of a small clock, and the whole beautifully
carved out of a light-gray wood.
We always thought our fancy straw hats came
from France and Italy, but here in the Swiss
While the representatives of the different I are quantities of fancy braids of every
countries of the world are forming their opin- ueopolitan braid done up in huge
ions of ns. and exnressinu them. too. we Ameri- Ruches, ready to be sewed into hats, and beside
BY ELMA WINSTEP.
ions of us, and expressing them, too, we Ameri
cans in turn have had good opportunity of com
paring, not only the exhibits of the various na
tions, but their exhibitors also. The road to
knowledge is as thorny at the Centennial as it
has always been in the good old times. Feeling
them hang large bunches of the white horse
hair, of which it is made, about a foot and a half
in length, all ready for braiding. And who
knew that they made such exquisitely fine ma
chine embroidery, more delicate and elaborate.
anxious to know if a certain class of beautiful ^an any hand-made embroidery, from the finest
inlaid work in the Chinese Department was of cambric handkerchief* to heavy silks and vel-
wood or marble, I put the question to|a Chinese I ™ t8 ’ * dre . 8s 0 * Render silk marked $1 oOO,
standing near. A grunt and shake of the head ! ha8 embroidered flounces of diflerent widths,
was the only reply I asked some visitors who, < where the embroidery constitutes the entire
with myself, were examining them as closely as
we dared to, but not learning anything from
them, I next tried a policemon who seemed to
belong to that particular spot.
“I really do not know, ma’am.”
“Well, who can tell me, then; these Chinese
don’t understand English, so I can get nothing
from them.”
flounce, part being solid embroidery, and part
open-work, but not a thread of the foundation
silk can be seen; it is only a mass of beautiful
silk embroider}’. How the open-work part is
done completely puzzled at least one American
woman.
Well, we’ve learned that this little mountain
ous republic excels us in something besides
watch-making.
But I forget. We are at least nearly equaling
They themselves
[For The Sunny South.]
BE HAPPY.
BY MRS. MABTIN.
Be happy ! Why not? See the birds and the bees.
That sport a 1 ) the day 'mong the flowers and Uees;
Aud look at the butterflies guy—
They’re enjoyin'; their life of a day.
And to you little girls, they would say:
“ Be happy, like ns, while you may.”
The Creator means all his creatures to be
Contented and haypy. He made them, and He,
As a father benignant, doth love
To see as they rest or they rove,
That they be happy here, ere He remove
Them to "happier regions above.
Be happy, little girl! Thus best you'll fulfill
The design of your Maker's beneficent will.
Chime in, then, with Nature and grace,
And every tear-mark erase.
And make sunshine in every place.
8nnsbine for yourself, and then sunshine for others—
The home-folk, vour parents, and sisters and brothers;
And then unto all. everywhere,
By faith and by love and by prader,
Difljise it till, Heaven-like, no room
Shall have earth for a shadow of gloom.
[For The Sunnv South.]
PROLIFIC WOMEN.
Among the selections in The Sunny South of
October 28th, is a paragraph which states that
“a Mexican woman living near Los Angeles,
California, has been married twenty years and
has twenty children, her age being under thirty-
five.” There is no guessing ivhat she may yet
accomplish should she live a few years longer.
The writer knew a lady in East Tennessee many
years ago who was the mother of twenty-live
children, and he thought she had nobly per
formed her duty in obedience to the Scriptural
injunction to “multiply and replenish the
earth;” but it appears that she was not a
“ champion ” in that line. A paragraph in an
old newspaper conveys the intelligence that
Dianora Frescobaldi, an Italian lady of the six
teenth century, was the mother of fifty-two
children; and "that the inscription on her famous
portrait by Bronzina, in the San Donato collec
tion, states that she never had less than three
children at a birth, a d there is tradition in the
Frescobaldi family that she once had six ! In
credible as this tradition may seem, we have in
this country a well-authenticated case in which
a woman gave birth to six children at the same
time. The census of New York, taken in June
1875, shows that in Lockport there is a quartette
of girls, then eight years old, the daughters of
one woman at one birth. The Albany Country
Gentleman says, “Although the census makes
no note of the fact, there were actually six chil
dren born at once in this family, two of which
have since died, leaving the tour above noted.
But so far as we know, we cannot match Dian
ora Frescobaldi and some other loreign women
in the numbers they have added to the human
family. Brand, in his history of Newcastle,
mentions as a well-authenticated fact, that a
“Oh,” he replied, laughing, “just let them
think you want to buy anything and they can I T .
understand English quick enough.” , them m this important art
But thev moved about quietly and conrte . acknowledge that it is useless longer to attempt
oosly .moig H. *«, JU **
icate work which cannot be made by machinery,
they are still far in advance of us.
Of course, a little humbuggery and sharp
trading must be expected here, or things would
not seem at all natural, would they? As I passed
a case of fine Tortoise shell jewelry in the Uni
ted States Section, I exclaimed:
“ Why, this is as fine as the Italian tortoise
shell. It wasn’t made in this country, 1 sup-
| pose?”
1 “Indeed it was carved in New England, and
it ought to be as good as the Italian, for they
purchase from us. ”
“That can’t be possible,” I replied, examining
with interest an exquisitely carved necklace,
with three medallion heads connected by deli
cately carved links. In a moment more an ac
count book was held before me.
“Perhaps you think that isn’t so, but here is
the book,” and I saw—but I must not tell what
I saw. Only this I know, that ladies pay the
Italians six dollars for cuff-buttons they can
buy in the United States Section for four dollars,
not being aware of the fact that the United
States takes the premium on tortoise shell jew
elry. But I hope no one who bought any of it,
supposing it came from'Naples, will see this
paragraph, for, “Where ignorance is bliss,” etc.
We stop a moment in the main aisle to rest,
and here comes an exhibit of a novel kind. A
six-foot, broad-shouldered countryman strides
past us in his stocking-feet, carrying in his
hands a huge pair of boots, and his face says
plainly, “ I don’t care if the whole world sees
me; I shan’t torture my feet in those boots any
longer, but I mean to see this Centennial, boots
or no boots, so laugh if you choose,” and we do
laugh, and say, “There’s American independ
ence for you. ”
weaver in Scotland had, by one wife, sixty-two
children, all of whom lived to be baptized, and
in Aberconway church may still be seen a mon- j work, as were also those on the second story,
urnent to the "memory of Nicholas Hooper, who On the left, a little pile of wood lay against the
filled their department, never impolite to any
one. But woe to any visitor in the Italian De
partment if he doesn’t mind his or her p’s and
q’s, and fingers, too. Their exhibitors rush up
to ladies and gentlemen and order them off as
roughly as you would drive boys out of an or
chard if they only see them pointing at any
thing. Seeing some persons vacating a low
ledge that projected in front of a large cabinet,
F. and I quickly seated ourselves, thankful for
even that seat on the floor. In an instant an
Italian pounced down on us.
“Get off there!”
“We saw other folks sitting here, and didn’t
suppose there was any harm in it.”
“ Don’t matter, get off there!”
So we got off, and walked on indignantly, for
in every other department such ledges were
constantly used as sitting places by the weary
and humble-minded visitors, who gratefully de
posited their aching limbs on spots too small
and low for even a two year-old baby. In the
Art Annex, too, many will remember the fierce
custodians of the mosaic work from Florence,
who kept us in fear and trembling while trying
to examine their beautiful tables with their cen
tral group of flowers, and some with borders of
shells and flowers, with gracefully-poised birds
in each corner, interspersed with real opals,
amethysts and topazes, some fully an inch in
length, price S3,000. Seeing us leaning over in
rather close admiration of these tables, an un
seen Italian made a dash at us.
“Don’t touch those tables !”
“We’re not touching them; we want to know
if they are made of marble or ebony ?”
A blank look.
“Is it marble?” pointing to the black table.
“Yes, marble from Belgium.”
Near by is a table which took twenty-one
years of one man’s labor to make. It is of black
marble, with a centre piece in mosaic showing a
complete globe, with the countries clearly de
fined on it, a guitar lying on a table with a sheet
of music beside it, on which the name and notes
of the first page of “ La Norma ” can be plainly
discerned, and on the floor lies a large skull,
and some small articles. Price $10,000. It is
the least attractive in color and appearance of
any of the mosaic tables.
With a few exceptions, the Florentine mosaics
are made of large pieces, while the Roman mo
saics are of such minute as to be almost
imperceptible to the eye, and? one can scarcely
believe they are not paintings, so perfect is the
coloring and so smoothly are the tiDy pieces
fitted together. Elaborate pictures of scenes in
Rome and Naples are thus made of pieces no
larger than the head of a small pin. The three
antique mosaics sent by the Pope, two Ma
donnas and a large bouquet, are of pieces
nearly half an inch square, very dull in color,
and scarcely shaded at all. I was passing them
without a second glance when, hearing they
were the valuable mosaics of the Pope, of course
I had to stop and examine them. The mosaic
of a huge lion, taken by Davis from the ruins of
Carthage, is supposed to be about two thousand
five hundred years old. The design is bold,
but the color is now a dull fawn, and the pieces
are fully an inch square, so that in this art at
least, there seems to have been a great advance.
This lion is in the Tunisian Department,
where, for the first time in my life I found a
man who had more money than he wanted.
Seeing some ladies standing at a counter where
“ very cheap ” cards were visible, I picked up a
string of amber beads and asked the price.
“ He won’t sell any more of these things,” a
lady remarked. “ He says their trunk is full of
money and they don’t want any more.”
Turning to the exhibitor, I again asked the
price.
“I won’t sell them; we’ve got more money
now than we want.”
“What did you charge for them before you
got so very rich ?”
With au amused look he named the price, and
gathering up all the articles on the counter, he
put them on some shelves behind him.
“He must be vexed, for surely nobody ever
had more money than he wanted,” some one ex
claimed as we all left the department; and the
beads were really about one-eighth the price of
those in the Austrian cases.
In delightful contrast to many of the exhibit
ors, were those in charge of the Swiss depart
ment. Finding so much of interest in their
school exhibit,out came the inevitable note-book,
and too utterly weary to stand and write, I ven
tured (as there was no exhibitor or visitors in
sight) to sit on one of the counters on which
were a few books, etc. Before long, however, I
espied an exhibitor walking around, but as he
said nothing, I said nothing. After waiting fif
teen minutes, and finding 1 did not vacate his
counter, he hunted up a chair somewhere, and
placed it directly in front of me, without utter
ing a word. Thanking him heartily for it, I
took the seat, saying to myself:
“All honor to the Swiss, who have sent gen
tlemen to our Centennial, instead of boors.”
And the music-box man ! How pleasantly he
opened his boxes and set one to playing, where
every time certain notes were to be struck, a
little comical man hit one with a hammer, giv
ing a bow and a grin at each blow, while on the
other side of the box little birds and butterflies
flew at a bell, and gave a little peek at each
stroke.
“Only S120 for this box,” he said; “and
everybody ought to have one, for they are more
useful in a house than a piano.”
And their pretty carved chalets from the Ber
nese Oberland ! We must not pass them by. The
most elaborate one was of two stories, with
rooms on either side of a middle entrance. On
the right side, an outer stairs ran up to the sec
ond story, its banisters carved like delicate lace'
CHILDREN’S CORNER.
(CommunicatiODs for this column must be addressed
to Miss Annie M. Barnes, Atlanta, care of Sunny South.)
SUPPOSE.
How dreary would the meadows be
In the pleasant summer light,
Suppose there wasn’t a bird to sing,
And suppose the grass was white.
And what would all the beauty be,
And what the song that cheers,
Suppose we hadn’t any eyes.
Aud suppose we hadn’t ears ?
For though the grass were gay and green,
And song-birds filled the glen,
And the air were purple with butterflies,
What good would they do us then ?
Ah, think of it, my little friends,
And when some pleasure flies,
Why. let it go, and still be glad
That you have your ears and eyes.
—Alice Cabt.
Voices of Insects.
BY “COUSIN ANNIE.”
Hark! there is a bee humming down yonder
among those clover blossoms; and just there, at
your elbow, you can hear that fly buzz, buzz, as
he glides up and down the window pane; and
don’t you remember last night that queer, chirp
ing voice you heard beneath the hearth ? Now
go to the door a moment. Listen ! What can be
that sharp, piercing sound that comes to you
from the direction of the grove? It is so loud
and shrill it quite drowns the hum of the bee
and the buzz of the fly. It is a locust, you say.
Yes. What a sound he makes! and yet, just
think of it, he has neither throat, lungs, nor
tongue!
Yes, a bee hums, a fly buzzes, a cricket chirps,
a locust screams, and even a gnat sings, each
has the power of uttering a peculiar sound of
its own, yet they have no voice. How can this
be? I will tell you. These sounds are pro
duced by certain movements of different parts
of their body. The hum of the bee and the
buzz of the fly, we are told, are caused by the
“rapid motion of their wings while flying.”
There, Mr. fly has ceased his promenading back
and forth, and is hanging motionless upon the
pane. You can hear no longer the dull buzzing
sound. And the hum of the bee is hushed, too,
within the garden. The busy little fellow has
stopped his flight from flower to flower, and
now, poising himself gracefully over the fra
grant calyxes, is noiselessly sipping their sweets.
And the shrill chirp of the cricket you heard
last night, that was caused by Sir Cricket’s rub
bing bis wing-cases back and forth against each
other. Tnat grasshopper you frightened up
from the sage bush in the garden yesterday—
you remember you told me he uttered such a
harsh, shrieking sound that it quite frightened
you at first? Now, as Mr. Grasshopper has no
voice, how can he send forth such a loud, shrill
! shriek? It is produced by the friction of his
legs against his wings—that is, when he leaps
1 into the air his long, slender legs, rubbing with
! violence against his wings, produce the sound
you heard.
But the noise made by the locust quite drowns
them all. Somewhere I have seen it stated that
if the voice of a man was as loud for his size as
that of a locust he could talk to his friends at
the distance of a thousand miles and be heard
plainly. But none of us would like to have
such voices, do you think? M hat a noisy world
we would live in then, to be sure !
Moon Worshippers.
We have all read the story of the overly-wise
owl who wrote a book declaring that the sun’s
splendors were dim in comparison to those of
the moon. “The world is wrong—all wrong,”
wrote this wise owl. Their eyes are in an eclipse;
they cannot see clearly.
“Dear me! what a wonderful—a very won
derful book !” cried the other night-birds, “ and
what a learned bird our friend the owl must be !
Of coarse he is right. Just look at those great
eyes of his ! They were made thus large that he
might see more clearly through the mists and
darkness and behold the wonderful light be
yond.
And now the Eagle heard of this wonderful
book. He procured a copy of it and read it
His eyes were not as large as those of the owl,
but they were brighter and sharper. The owl’s
lalse theories, her misty hallucinations van
ished in a moment before the eagle's sounder
logic. Perched upon his lofty throne among
the gigantic mountain-peaks, and looking down
upon the impatient assemblage waiting for his
decision, he thus discoursed to them:
“My friends, our relative, the owl, declares
that the moon far outshines in glorious splen
dors that intense and mighty luminary, the sun.
The owl is wrong, entirely wrong, my friends;
and yet so deeply veiled is he in darkness that
all we might say cannot convince him that his
theories are false. His eyes are made for the
night alone. They have not the power of re
ceiving the glorious light of the sun, and like
most people who deny the existence of that
which they cannot see, he will not believe in
the dazzling glories of the sun, simply because
they never penetrated through the mists which
envelope him. But we of the day—we who be
hold the dazzling glories of this mighty lumin
ary, know that it far outshines the pale queen of
night. Let us rather pity, then, than censure
these unfortunate cousins of ours—these poor ,
night-birds who live in darkness.
The world is full of moon-worshippers. Like
the owl, the veil of darkness obscures their vis
ion. Like the owl, also, they are wise in their
own conceit. They will not believe because
they have not se^n. They have nqger seen,
only through this misty vail, the transcendent
glories of God’s brightest luminary. These are
they of whom the Bible tells us: “For men love
darkness rather than light.”
For the ‘’Corner ”
Letter From “ Cousin Ella.”
Dear “ Cousin Annie."—I am a little girl, ten
years old. I live at Drake's Branch, Charlotte
county, Virginia. I read the “Corner” regu
larly, and am ever so much pleased with it. I
am so glad you let us little folks have a showing
in it. I thought I would write and tell you how
my brothers and I amuse ourselves on long win
ter evenings. We play all kinds of games. One
of them, which is a great favorite with us, is,
“The ship has arrived; what is it laden with?”
As it is a very old play, I suppose nearly all the
“ Corner cousins ” are familiar with it. Mamma
taught it to us. Says she likes very much for
us to play it, as it makes us think, which is so
improving to us.
Cousin Annie, I do wish I could write some
thing funny like your little story, “The Awful-
est Thing in the Sage Bush.” My little brother
was asleep when that copy of The Sunny South
came; but sister made him get up and listen
while she read your story, because she thought
it just suited him. Mamma wished him to go
to a certain place one day; he said he was afrajji,
for there were “five hundred dogs there.”
Now, I don’t expect there were three. This is
such an ugly habit which little folks teach them
selves. I wisn I had room to tell you about my
home, but I expect my letter is long enough for
this time. I am going to write to you again
soon, and then I hope I will have lots of inter-
eeting things to tell you. So good-bye.
Your little cousin,
Ella. ”
(For the “Corner.")
Tip and Tot.
BY LOTTIE MAY.
Tip and Tot, although nothing but black-and-
tan dogs, are really tax-paying citizens of At
lanta, as their “tags” will indicate. Therefore,
I think it high time, as the privilege of voting
is denied them, they should at least enjoy the
honor of an introduction to the little readers of
The Sunny South.
Tip is the larger of the two, and belongs to
my mother. His manner towards Tot, the
smaller one, is quite patronizing. However, he
and Tot are the best of friends, and woe unto
the unlucky canine which attempts to bully Tot
while Tip is present. Bat I know the little
folks are impatient to hear what wonderful
things I have to tell them of Masters Tip and
Tot.
Now, as Tip is the larger, and, in his own
opinion at least, the more important of the two,
I am in duty bound to give him the first
showing up - Well, one afternoon I took both
Tip and Tot out for a walk. On my return, in
stead of appearing as merry and frolicksome as
usual, Tip had quite a dejected and woe-begone
appearance. He refused to eat, drink, or even
play with his little companion. This lasted for
several days, when finally I discovered the cause
of his strange behavior. He had lost his collar,
oae that he had worn for two years !
About a week passed in this manner, when
one morning I heard a terrible commotion in
our hall-way. Quickly repairing to the scene of
action, I found our Tip engaged in a lively skir
mish with a dog much smaller than himself.
was himself a forty-first child, and the father of
twenty-seven children by one wife.
Theodore Porter once said: “A really happy
marriage of love and judgement between a noble
man and woman, is one of the things so very hand
some that if the sun were, as the Greek poets fa
bled, a god, he might stop the world in order to
feast his eyes with such a spectacle.”
house w’ith a tall basket near it, while a dog
stood on the piazza-railing. In the yard near
by stood a basket full of potatoes, I suppose,
with a broom resting on it. On the second story
a cat stood with tail erect on the railing of, the
piazza on the right, and on the left two bolsters
were thrown over the railing, while above them
was stretched a rope with tiny carved bunches
of dried herbs hung upon it. ~
A teacher, catechising his scholars, put the __
following question: “What was made to give i j^ ow _ j thought very strange of this, as Tip is
light to the world?” “Matches,” cried one ot j nsua [iy a good-natured fellow. But everything
the youngsters. j was explained when I found out that the strange
It is believed that no other living thing goes \ dog actually had on Tip’s missing collar ! The
so slowly as a lazy boy on an errand. j fight was kept up for some time, waxing livelier
, TrrTTP „ irl (ovfullv assured her mother the 1 each moment. At last Tip came off conqueror.
i^^J' Vj fl-nd out where they made I actually thought he would go crazy with de-
other day she had found out where they
horses—she had seen a man in a shop just fin
ishing one of them, for he was nailing on his
last foot.
A Chicago man gives this bit of personal ex
perience: “Probably one of the most trying times
in a man’s life, is when he introduces his second
wife, seventeen years old, to his eldest daughter,
Two cheeses j wbo is past twenty.”
light when, a few moments later, he jumped up
in his mistress’ lap with the long-lost collar
dangling from his mouth. Tip is no longer sad
and dejected. Ever since that day he has been
as happy as it is possible for a dog to be.
And now, dear little cousins of the “Corner,”
good-bye for this time. I hope soon to have the
pleasure of telling you something of little Tot
and his numerous accomplishments.