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JOHN n. SEALS, - Rdltor »ntl Proprietor W. B. SEALS, - Proprietor »nd Cor. Editor. MRS. MARY K. BRYAN (*) Associate Editor. ATLANTA, GEORGIA, SEPT. 28, 1878. The Red Cross. See the Red Mark on your pa per. " It means that your subscription is out, and that we hope you will find it convenient to renew right away. Send along §2.50 without delay, and avoid missing a number of the paper. Woman and Her Work.—In nothing has the present century been so productive of change as in the condition of its women. Through all the ridicule and discouragement of the &hort-sighted and those who wilfully mis interpreted and distorted her high motives and aims, through all the hubbub about equal rights and equal pantaloons proceeding from a few lunatic females, and eagerly seized upon by those of the other sex who were j ealous of fem inine power; through all these confused and disheartening circumstances has woman been steadily working out her manifest destiny, solv ing the great problem of why she was created advancing rapidly to a high position as an inde pendent being, capable of thinking and acting for herself. Oace. her position was that of a slave to man, afterwards an ornamental appendage to his household; now, she is an individual — as com plete a unit as man himself, owing him nothing but love and capable of taking her place at his side, as a helper in the earnest work of life. We, onrselves, are not aware of the progress made by our women of the present century, until some such thing as the Census Reports, or a book of social statistics startle us bj show ing, in plain words and figures, what women are doing. Such reports demonst - ate that a least one half the women in the enlightened countries support themselves, and often their families, by their own labor, and that at least one-third are engaged in independent industry. In Great Britain and New England there is a broad field open to working women, and they are actively employed in numerous branches of industry, which, in our southern country, are chiefly engaged in by men. Agriculture, the bee business, shop-keeping, clerking, book-keep ing, type-setting, watch-making, manufacturing ofvarious kinds, book-binding and the medi cal profession, are a few of the employments by which Nothern and English women gain an in. dependent livelihood, and for which they have shown themselves abundantly qualified. With us, it is different. Our women, who arenecces. sitated to labor for theiy own maintenance, have but three ways in which to do it: they must either teach, sew or write. As this last occupa tion is very uncertain and only pays well where extraordinary ability is evinced, we may men tion only the two first vocations—that of teacher and seamstress, as being the only regular em ployments open for the industrial females of the South. Our Southern women seem to have scarcely a conception that there may be professions and trades that will better dev elope their phyisical capacities and call into livelier exercise their powers of energy and activity—so strong is the force of habit and so difficult is it to change the course of thought, after it has worn out a chan nel for itself. When a woman, either from choice or necessity, determines on engaging in independent labor, instead of finding out for what occupation she is best adapted, she branches out into one of the two or three beaten and crowded tracks, and either bangs out her sign as dress-maker, or advertises for a school- Both of these branches of female industry are completely overstocked, and this is the reason why we sd frequently hear the complaint of ‘no work to be had.’ It is because they know noth ing of any kind of work, except stitching and hearing grammar and geography rocitations. Why will not our working-women, especially those whose employment is needle-work, aDd whose earnings are necessarily precarious, turn their attention to something else? There is gardening and horticulture for instance. In England, there are thousands of women en gaged in various agricultural pursuits. A Brit ish periodical recently asserted that the Amer icans pride themselves on employing no women in agriculture, aud are exceedingly scandalized at the sight of the peasantry in continental countries tilling their ground in family concert. This is mainly untrue. There are plenty of blooming girls and matrons who, under the shield of long sun-bonnets and thick gloves, assist in the fields during the busy sea son of hay gathering, and do a great deal of the planting and grain sewing. And in the South since the war, the women of the farmer’s house hold lend a helping hand in the press of hoe ing, cotton-picking, etc. But it is towards the cultivation of fruits and vegetables and flowers for the market and of herbs for medicinal use that we wish to turn the attention of our country-women, because we be lieve that such busines will yield them more profit, in proportion to the labor, than any oth er in which they can engage. Besides, it is healthful, it necessitates air and exercise and a free use of the limbs that are so cramped over the sewing machine and the desk of the teacher or copyist barely, the cultivation of fruits and herbs and vegetables is clearly within the province of woman—in fact, it seems naturally to belong to her—and what a field for the exer cise of female industry is opened here. We are in need of a great many more fruit nurseries and market gardens than we have at present We want them all over the country, for good fruit and vegetables cannot be too abundant As a nation, we eat too much meat, especially: daring the summer season. We devour too )much of that flesh—‘by Jew despised'—the ver itable bog meat. It is the greasy ‘middlings,’ the oily bacon gravy, the fresh po rk and gross ham, that feed the bilious fevers which make such work for the doctors and such holes in our purses. Better let such greasy food alcne—for the warm summer mouths, at least—aud subsist on light vegetable, fruit and milk diet. Land, in such a country as this, is very read ily obtained. A good bit of ground can be pro cured for a mere song, and tended at trifling ex pense. Besides, nearly all the homes of these distressed sewing women (whether rented or not) have a considerable garden plat attached to them. Lot them get seed and turn these into market gardens. It is astonishing how many vegetables will grow on a small piece of ground, especially if enriched, and this can be done without expense, from the trash and refuse ly ing every where around. Then if they can get & few bees and turn their attention to raising honey, it will be all the better, and cost scarce ly anything, for God provides food for the busy little things, so expert in manufacturing for us the greatest delicacy we have. Cooking, washing aud ironing are occupations to which some of our indigent females might, with profit, direct their attention. To be sure, negroes generally fill these places at the South, but very frequently there is demand for such service, to which there are none to respond— probrbly from a feeling of false shame—as though work was not work, let it be of what kind it may, or as if any honest labor was de grading. From onr window this morning, we can overlook the residences of two excellent families from which the hired cooks, lately ab sconded, or were removed, and, as no substi tutes could be procured for love or money, ail the house work and baby nursing devolved up on the lady of the house. Those were good places for some of these women out of employ ment, who pass their time in the streets going from OD6 house to another begging forsewing— the very worst and most unhealthy kind of work. Many of the employments now monopolized by men, might, with propriety, be shared by women. Experiments have fully proved that their slender fingers are the very things for type setting, and any work requiring delicate manip ulation. It may be asked, what are the men to do, when their occupations are thus encroached upon, as they certainly will be in time ? We answer, that there is an increasing demand for men’s work in other branches of industry. We want more good model farmers on a small scale, more mechanics, more architects, more rough workers. The inevitable course of progress will take some of these nice young gentlemen from be hind counters and among ribbons and laces and make workmen of them, to fill a constantly in creasing demand, while women will take their places. It is inevitable, aud it will be done. Some squeamish individual will protest against it—there are always such endeavoring to croak down every innovation; but they should remem ber that a woman, if properly trained and edu cated, and possessed of true womanly feeling, can support imr dignity and retain her delicacy, no matter what her occupation, so that it is an honest one. . . . * Heart - Poetry.—Poetry is of two dif ferent kinds--the poetry of imagination and and that of feeling—the one emanating from the intellect, the other from the heart—the one brilliant with rethorical beauty, with the treas ures of fancy,of learning and profound thought; the other rich with sympathy and warm with passion and feeling. The first is rare, and esti mated highly as most rare things are; the other common as the love of music. The first class finds its admirers in those ele gant scholars who have made criticism a study; who have thoroughly imbued their minds with the Jcold, stately Iterature of the classics; men in whom the affections are made subservient to the intellect; philosophers who have schooled the heart, and repressed its natural instincts. But the other species of poetry -the poetry of sentiment—finds worshippers in the great mass of mankird. Appealing as it does to the heart, it needs no critical taste—no high degree of mental polish to be appreciated. Every heart that has known love, sorrow, j ealousy or despair, and has not outlived their memory, must thrill when the chords of feeling arc touched by the hand of genius. Accordingly, we find thous ands turning away from the intellectual poetry of Milton, Wordsworth and Pope, to Byron, Shelly, Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Norton and others. •Who have been cradled into poetry by wrong, And learned in suffering what they taught in song.’ What wonder that it should be so ! Only an artistic ear can appreciate the splendid sympho nies of Beethoven; but a simple, pathetic ballad can draw tears from the eyes of a nation. To read the ‘Paradise Lost' and ‘II Penseroso’ of Milton, is like wandering through the ice palace of the Russian empress, where all is stately, magnificent and cold. To peruse the heart- warm lines of Felicia Hemans is like entering the familiar home of soma dear friend, where every thing around—books, music, flawers, re mind you of the absent occupant; where the air seems still warm with his breath, and tokens of his recent presence linger like fragrance where the flower has bloomed. This poetry of sentiment belongs almost ex clusively to women. The heart is iheir sphere. They write from the dictates of feeling, rather than from the impulse of genius or the prompt ings of ambition. Their poetry is of a personal nature. It is not a mirror of the world, but the reflection of their own hearts. It is no marvel, then, that these ‘simple melo dies’should haunt the soul like memories of a mother’s eradle-hymn, for the spell of feeling is in them; the writer has experienced all to which her genius gives utterance. Sorrow has given her the key to the human heart—the ‘open Se same of sympathy. Suffering grows sublime as she betrays it; love is exalted and the harp of poesy thrills as her hand sweeps its strings with a power that awakes an answering 6obo in every souL Thus has it ever been, and so long as the great heart of humanity throbs with passionate emotion;so long as love'is the priest of its altar, and grief and jealousy and despair wait on love, ■will the poetry of sentiment—iDoman’s poetry —be read and responded to by thousands. . Tile Smiling Mask.—We have all read of the poor melancholic, who, on applying to a Physician for a cure for the ‘mind diseased,’ was advised to visit the theatre and hear the witticisms and witness the drolleries of a cele brated comic actor, who had set the risibilities of the whole city to twitching. ‘Alas!’ said the poor sufferer, ‘I am my self that actor, and while thousands are convulsed with laughter over my wit and humor, I am devoured with melan choly-’ His was rot an isolated case in this strang 6 world, where men wear masks and make it the business of their lives to oonceal their real selves from each other. Of all the sad things under heaven the saddest is a smile wrung from lips that are trembling with suppressed anguish. It is the hectic semblance of health upon the thin cheek of disease; it is the rose upon the tomb, which hides decay and corruption. Aud how often do we see it—this mockery of mirth, this joyless smile, which the tell tale eye looks down upon with sorrowful reproof. We see it in festal gatherings, glancing like lurid lightning, on the roses of beauty’s lips; we see it on the proud, care worn faces of those who could not brook to receive pity and are de termined that the heart ‘shall know its own bit terness and a straDger meddle not with its grief.’ We see it in books which are part of those who wrote them—as well as in men. What are the satires of Pope, but the forced sardonic smile of a man who was writhing beneath the unjust ridicule of inferior minds; what Byron’s bitter, wicked mirth but'-the reckless laugh of a disappointed spirit—and Cowper, the ‘sweet poet’—we all know how he wrote ‘John Gilpin,’ that delectable bit of fun, over which we have laughed so many times. We know how, alter dayes of fasting and nights of sleepless agony, of distracting memories and haunting thoughts of suicide, he sat down, in a mood of defiance, and wrote that ballad whose exquisite humor we find so irresistible. And thus, smiles are often the livery of woe. TheTountain of tears lies very deep and naught but the hand of strong feeling can bid it flow, but the smile is a pleasant, sunshiny mask, in which sorrow, as well as hypocrisy and villainy, can disguise their features. * Definition of a Flirt.—Your true flirt has a coarse-grained soul; well modulated and and well tutored, but there is no fineness in it. All its native fineness is made coarse by ooarse efforts of the will. True feeling is a rus tic vulgarity the flirt does not tolerate; she counts its healthie'st and most honest manifestations all sentiment. Y'et, she will play you off a pretty string of sentiment, which she has gathered from tne poets; she adjusts it prettily as a Ghotnhn weaver adjusts the color in his tapestry. She shades it off delightfully; there are no bold con trasts, but a most artistic mellowing of nuances. She smiles like a wizard, and jingles it with a laugh,such as tolled the poor, home-bound Ulys ses to the Circean bower. She has a cast of the head, apt and artful as the most dexterous cast of the best trout-killing rod. Her words spark le and flow hurriedly, and with the prettiest doubleness of meaning. Naturalness she copies and she scorns. She accuses herself of a single expression or regard which nature prompts. She prides herself on her schooling. She mea sures her wit by the triumphs of her art; she chuckles over her own falsity to herself. And if by chance her soul—such germ as is left of it —betrays her into untoward confidence,she con demns herself, as if sbr* badcpmmUted^ crime. "SEelmalways gajqV'ffauseshe has no depth of feeling to be stirred. The brook that runs shal low over a hard pebbly bottom always rustles. She is light-hearted because her heart floats in sparkles. She counts on marriage, not as a great absorbent of a heart’s love and fire, but as a hap py, feasible and orderly conventionality, to be played with and kept at a distance, and finally to be accepted as a cover for the faint and taw dry sparkles of an old and cherished heartless ness. She will not pine under any regrets, because she has no appreciation of any loss; she will not chafe at indifference, because it is her art; she will not be worried with jealousies, because she is ignorant of love. With no conception of the soul ia its strength and fullness, she sees no lack of its demands. A thrill she does not know; a passion she cannot imagine; joy is a name, grief is another; and life, with its crowding scenes of love an4 sorrow,is a play upon the stage. ’■ Kate. Look Aronild You —The recent demands upon the charity of men and women, made by the terrible yellow fever affliction, have called out noble traits of self-denial and generosity and made optimists of many who were cynical about our ‘poor humanity.’ Fortunately the oc casions that demand such universal charity are rare, but charity is a quality that is needed eve ry day. It is no flower of the Century Plant; it is the every day blossom, perfuming the path of daily life. The unfortunate, like the poor, are always with you. You need not wander far to find some one less blessed with the smiles of fortune than yourself. Some mourn the loss of health, some the loss of friends, some the loss of character and some the loss of wealth. Some are humbled by a severe stroke of adversity and some oppressed by a bitter disappointment. They all demand your sympathy, and to all it should be given. You may not be able to offer the charity of deeds, but you can offer the only less precious charity of,words. If it be in your power, administer to t'th sick, clothe the naked, teed the hungry and console those who are dis tressed in mind. But if these things be beyond your ability, at least show that you feel for their distresses, and this service, though slight, shall not go unrewarded. Pity the unfortunate! What though their mis fortunes are the results of their misdeeds: they still deserve your commiseration. There are many, too, whom the world calls criminals,who are only unfortunates. There is one now, fair, gentle, though frail, standing at the very crisis of her destiny. Fly to her, ye whose eyes are wont to till with tears of pity, and whisper in her ears promises of forgiveness and encourage ment. Perhaps she may be lured back by your kind wooiags, into the path of virtue, and re gain her respect for herself, aud the esteem of the world. Bat no; you pass her with a sneer and a scowl. There is no softness in your lips, no pity in your eye. With no hope behind her or before her, she moves oa with reckless despe ration in her wretched oareer, until it closes in darkness and death. * Two Kinds of Wit —The wit which makes a man eloquent is very different from that which makes him a buffoon. The one is ohaste, polished and brilliant; the other, coarse, vulgar and disgusting. The one is the product of a quick perception and a fine imagination; the other proceeds from a mind dwelling ever upon low and revolting images. The one is appreci ated only by those who have a keen relish for the ludicrous, and a ready sense of propriety; the other is so broad and open that the dullest may perceive its force. The one retains its fresh ness, brilliancy and vivacity as long as the lan guage in which it is set will last; the other often passes away with the occasion with which it originated. Highland flary—This sweet young girl, who has been made iiqmortal by the poet’s song, around whose fair brow he has thrown the bright aureole of love, consecrating her for all time as the very Madonna of Love’s first devo tion in the hearts of men, was but the humble dairy maid of Colonel Montgomery. But what queen will live as long in history; what beauty will dwell as warmly in the memory of men, or in the envy of woman, as she who inspires those lines of sad devotion that will be sung in tears as long as human hearts can feel, and.,human tongues can utter the tender sorrows of buried love: ‘O pale, pale now those rosy lips, 1 oft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me so kindly! And mouid’ring now in silent dust, The heart that lo'ed me dearly 1 But still within my bosom's core, Shall live my Highland Mary !’ • Eutcrsoii's California Miustrels.— Atlanta is delighted. The minstrels are com ing. The best troupe that ever came South is now en route for this city, and will be greeted with a rousing house. Billy Emerson stands at the head of the profession and is a genuine tramp. The St. Louis Republican says: Emerson's Minstrels have played a season of minstrelsy here to overflowing houses. Emer son is the big one in the miDstrel business; he combines more elements cml features than any- other actor in it. The Big Four—Smith, Wal dron, Morton and Martin—are truly worthy of the great fame they have made, and stand un- equaled to-day as grotesque and specialty ar tists. The vocal and instrumental corps are al s o very fine, and delighted all hearers. Oar old friend, Ernest Stanley, the advance agent has prepared the way for the company, He is the cleverest of all agents, and we are always delighted to meet him. He is assisted by his genial friend Hess. Miss. Jennie Quitman, eldest daughter of Col. and Mrs. Henry Quitman, was married on last Thursday evening to Mr. Gifio of this City. The marriage took place at Col. Q litman’s resi dence on Forest Avenue and was witnessed by a company of intimate friends. In the diawiug-room, among soft light and rare firwers, the beautiful Episcopal marriage ceremony was performed by Bishop Beckwith. The bride’s sweet face looked lovelier than ever under the delicate shading of lace. She wore rich, white silk nearly covered with rare and costly lace interspersed with the orange blos soms which she seems peculiarly to have a right to wear since she comes from the land of the or ange, aud her family name (she is grand-daugh ter of the distinguished Gen. Qiitman) is iden tified with the history of the fair South West. Miss Jennie, modest and retiring as she is, has won many friends ia this City which she has more recently made her home. These are glad to know that there are no* fears for her future happiness, since it is entrusted to the keeping of one worthy of her—a gentleman of refine ment, intelligence and rare excellence of char acter. There were some elegant bridal presents of silver, jewels, ect., mostly sent by friends and relatives from a distance, but of these no osten tatious display was made, nor did any stiff for mality prevail at the supper, though all the ap pointments were elegant and the cakes, fruits gold. tjjiIe_ adorn^£nts were jjjjundant and, y? exquisite taste. * Plaquemine, La., Sept. 8, 1878. To the Editor of the Sunny South: I have a few moments to devote to you and the South, to reply to your kind inquiries of a late date. Oar town, of 1,700 inhabitants, up to a week ago, was nothing more than panic stricken. We had, to that date, 2-3 cases, but as they were of a malignant type and ending fatally, combined with the horrors of Grenada aud New Orleans, the peo ple here were perfectly demoralized, and now hardly a house is exempt from this terrible de stroyer. “CAN IT BE TELLOW FEVER?” To your query, it ill becomesme to offer an opinion contrary to my colleaguesof the Crescent City. We have some medical gentlemen who as serted, at the outset of the epidemic, the impos sibility of children, to tne “manor horn,” to take the disease. Pro or con, I have nothing more to say, but that by referring to the mortuary list of the Picayune, that this is a fallacy. We find a large majority of deaths among children—ages ranging from four months to three years and up wards. I have had a number of cases, and being in New Orleans oa the 2Ctk of July, visited the Touro Infirmary and some private case3, will not posi tively assert, nor can I be convinced that it is specifie Yellow Fever. As far back as the 20th of June 1 have seen cases of malignant bilious re mittent fever, iu my practice, that, without a hesi tancy, would have been pronounced yellow fever had they occurred at the present time. Medical men will assert that no expidemic assumes simi lar types. I grant this. But when we see our friends stricken down at every moment, our best efforts useless, it is really discouraging, for it is true, “we know not what it is, nor know we what to do!” That it is a hybrid yellow fever, and of a most pernicious type, I am positively assured ; that it is no Specific Yellow Fever, but will surely be de veloped into this disease I am in great fear. “Does Plaquemine require assistance” ? The enclcosed ‘clip’ from our local paper speaks for itself. The residents here, however, are not uncharitable, but more or less selfish. We have resident citizens here worth thousands of dollars, several have subscribed from five to fifty dollars, and the sum total subscribed, to my knowledge, is one hundred and forty-seven dol lars. We appealed to the Howard Association for aid, and they are answering the appeal. In conclusion, let me ask of you to urge on your readers to forward their mites, but not too rapid ly. Our fever afflicted people will require means laterly ; the fever will rage at its height after the 20th of this month. In refering to the telegraphic columns of the papers we see the death of Anderson and Menken, the one in Memphis, the other in Grenada. To these let us add A. A. Cotton, of Plaquemine, La. A whole-souled, jovial gentleman, who nursed the sick and suffering until within a few hours of bis death. In epidemics we know who are brave, and among so many devoted to the great work now progressing, it is not altogether correct to dis criminate. But if I was authorized to write an epitaph for those three heroes who offered their lives on the altar of Humanity, I would inscribe on a simple tablet, “Here Rest Men.” We have but one down in my family, a brother- in-law. My wife and myself are in the best of health. With my regards, I am, Your friend, M. J. Lehman, M.D. Charity in Atlanta. Mrs. Bryan’s Poem-Dr. Browne’s Hectare, —ttuartette Clubs. Thursday evening last, a number of Atlanta s best citizens assembled in the Opera House,t e occasion being an entertainment given ini b - half of the yellow fever sufferers. Those pres ent enjoyed a rare treat, which will lmger in their minds like the memory of a supreme joy, that can come but once in a lifetime. Mrs. Bryan’s poem,entitled ‘Azrael and Evan gel,’ was,in conception and delivery a model of pathetic, soul-stirring eloquence. Whose pen but hers could portray with such truthful aDd awful power the terror of that sable-winged An gel of Death, whose fearfal missives of destruc tion have made our fairest Southern cities places of mourning and desolation ? Mrs. Bryan has been an eye-witness to the fearful spectacle of the scourge, but aside from this fact does not a realism—a quality of personal feeling enter into all her writings, which are yet permeated by a noble ideality, sweet as the perfume by which she was surrounded in her childhood s sunny home, and often sad as the sea, beating its great heart against a barren shore, but always pure as the stars that over-hung her pathway . The versatility of talent, so apparent in this writer, is really wonderful. While she may ba classed among that gifted few who, forestalling criticism, at once take captive the minds of her hearers or readers, still her composition is char acterized by chasteness, freshness of originality and an earnestness of feeling that can only eman ate from a truly good heart. W« trust the day is not far distant when we will have the pleasure of hearing her thrilling voice echo through the Opera House again,with a note of jay instead of sadness, after a fiat shall have come from the North, issued by King Frost, whose glittering sword shall have slain the dread Destroyer. The entertainment was interspersed with some very choice music by the quartette clubs. They both sang so admirably it would be difficult to decide which bore away the palm. The learned Rabbi, Dr. Browne, entertained the audience with an interesting lecture which he prefaced by saying, ‘It contained no sugar plums.’ His liberality was unbounded, as he made a proposition for only those to remain ‘who were willing to be tortured,’ giving all an opportunity of leaving if they desired. His discourse evinced much thought, togeth er with a regularity of arrangement quite re markable for a speaker not confined to his notes. Atlanta may well be proud of her talent whe ther Jew or Gentile, knowing that each can re tain their opinions without fear of proscription or persecution. Addle M. Beooes. Wanted—-A Boy. A Charming Sketch. Miss Maria Mitchell, professor of astronomy in Vassar College, spent the summer vacation in Colorado with several of her graduates. There they took observation of the great solar eclipse, and accomplished muoh other interesting astro nomical work. He had been hanging about the depot all day —a forlorn-looking youngster in blouse suit, gingham apron and broad-brimmed straw hat. Every now and then he would approach a trav eller and enquire anxiously: ‘Want a boy, sir?’ But no one seemed to want a boy. They would glance down quizically at him and tell him he’d better run home. Poor little fellow, he held out pretty well un til along about night, when he began to get very tired, and a look of discouragement crept into hi? great blue eyes. Diar me, I thought to my self, I wish somebody did want a boy, for it seem ed just as if some motber ought to take him in her arms and rock him to sleep. By-and-by, an old farmer, in a shabby coat and slouched hat, came in and sat down to wait for the train. ‘Dc»ii t you want a boy, sir ?' said the* baby voice, so plaintively; ‘I’ve looked most every where to-day, but no body don’t want one. I’d do awful good.’ ‘What!’ exclaimed the farmer in surprise; ‘you little shaver, you. Where’s your home?’ ‘I hain’t got none. I runned away from the place where I did live.’ ‘Run away! What for?’ ‘Cause,’ and the tears commenced to roll down his cheeks, *1 was used awful. She beat me for something I never did do—beat me till the bleed corned, and runned and runned. Oh dear!’ ‘l'our ma?’ ‘No, I hain’t got no mamma. She died long ago; but she telled me—I can remember it jest as plain—I mustn’t never take what wa’n’t mine, or tell what wa’n’t so; and when aunt telled me I’d got that money, I jest telled her no, I hadn’t touched it. But 1 couldn’t make her believe it, no way; so she beat me and shut me up where it was all dark, I was awful scairt,’ ‘Did she find out you didn’t take it?’ ‘Yes. When uncle corned home, she telled him how wicked I’d been, an’ he telled her it wa’n’t no such thing—that he took the money hisself. He come right up where I was, an’ when he seed the bleed running he felt awful. He j est let me out of that place, he did ;but I couldn’t get over it nohow, an’ when they all got asleep I climbed out of the window and runned away in the cars ever so far. I won’t never go back— I’d be dead first!’ ‘Waal, waal!’ exclaimed the old farmer, ‘that was mean. She was an old vixen, that aunt of yours. I’d like to have the fixing of her! What do you think of doing?’ ‘I am trying to get a place to work.’ ‘How old be you?’ ‘Goin’ on seven.’ ‘You, a little shaver going on seven years old, a thinking of stepping out into the world, that’s chuck full of sin and vice, when you ought to have a ma to put you to bed an’ heir you say your prayers every night! You a goin’ to shirk for yourself, an’ git all black and smut, when you ought to be as pure as an angel! Not by John Robinson, if I can help it! You jest come along home with me. I want a boy and so does ma. We hain’t got none. We’ll take good care of you. Ma won’t lick ye, I’ll warrant. She is that tender-hearted she wouldn’t hurt a flea; an’ I don’t look very ugly, do I ?’ ‘You look awful good to me,’ sobbed the little fellow, from very joy. •Waal then, chirk up! Here, I guess I’ve got a sandwich in my pocket, if you are hungry. It’ll kinder stay your appetite until we get home. Ma is going to have a strawberry shortcake for supper. I declare, won’t she be tickled to see me bring a right smart boy in. She often says: ‘Pa, we’d j est be happy if we had a boy.’ Come, now, chirk up, while I tell you about our chick ens and calves. You can feed’em every day. O, I tell you, we’ll have good times.’ Half an hour later, when the eastern-bound train steamed into the depot, you might have seen an old man and a youngster, with a dilap idated carpet-bag between them, making their way on board. But I believe it would have puz zled you had you been asked to tell which look ed the mo 3 t delighted of the two—the boy who had found a home or the man who wanted a boy. —Exchange. Women on the stage.—Women first appeared on the stage in England in 1661. The event is recorded in ‘Pedy’s diary,’ Febuary 12. ‘By water to Salisbury court playhouse, where, not liking to sit, we went out again, and by coach to the theatre, and saw the ‘Scornful Lady, 'now done by a woman, which makes the play much better than ever it did to me.’ The woman who played on that occasion was Mrs. Marshall. Mbs. A. T. Stewart was the purchaser of Miss Hosmer’s statue of Zenohia, which sold for 750.