Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

7 [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.