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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
w
THEOin, OKD DAYS.
WIGHT*
The old. old dnyjs—they come not back!
The skies are just as fair;
In Summer-time the birds sing sweet,
And soft winds thrill the air;
The Winter snows drift pure and white
as in the olden time;
The Sabbath bells ring ut again
The same eld solemn chime.
Oh, oh, my heart! 'tis thou art changed !
No skies that gloom or smile
Can make thee once again so free
From pain, or care, or guile!
The great wor d crowds us ever on—
The seasons come and flee;
Rut the olden days are nevermore,
My heart. f«*r thee and me.
RESPECT DUE THE
AGED.
A Picture from Real Life.
BY RICK'D PKNIIFI,I>. Of Valdosta.
John Raymond was certainly a fortunate
man. He was what is generally called a
merchant prince. Having in early life by a
fortunate chance struck a golden vein in t he
mercantile trade, he had siuce grown more
and more prosperous as the years w r ent by,
until now his mere name was a synonym for
power on Wall street. Truly capricious
Dome Fortune bad bountifully favored this
man.
His family consisted of a v ife and two
daughters. They resided in a handsome
brown stone mansion on Fifth Avenue. All
its adjuncts and apointments were of course
fitted out in a style befitting the abode of a
millionaire.
As would be expected, Mrs. John Raymond
was a leader of the beau monde, and her
lovely daughters. Beatrice and Lucille,
were acknowledged belles. None but well
authenticated members of the '‘upper ten,”
were admitted to the recherche entertain
ments, given by these grand ladies.
But this had not alw ays been the case.
Although Beatrice and Lucille raved about
their inothei’s f n at, great grai dfath. r
having come ovei in the May Flou er, they
were silent in rete.ence to tueir father’s an
cestry. As the miners say, it w r ould not
“pan out.”
While these girls had been educated to the
tips of their fingers, their father had never
been educated at all; at least, not in the way
they understood the term. To prevent him,
then, from displaying his deplorable ignor-
arce, they were continually on the qui vice
to keep him out of sight whenever visitors
were gathered at the house.
J. hn Raymond had married a fine woman,
but he was by no means a fine man. All
this pomp and splendor incident to wealth
was new to him. He bad been a poor boy
once and worked upon his father’s farm away
down inSouiu Georgia. But this disgraceful
epoch in his life was neyer mentioned any
more. If he ever chanced to drop a hint in
reference to it, his wife and daughters “look
ed daggers ’ for hours afterwards.
But there was still one connecting link be
tween that old time and the present. This
was John Raymond’s old fashioned mother,
and it is of her that we intend to speak.
The good, old lady delighted in alluding to
those old times when they lived in the coun
try and raised corn, potatoes and pumpkins
in abundance. She considered those as her
best days and openly said so. Now as all
this was just what Mrs. John Raymond
wished to keep secret, the old lad y was con
sidered the bane of the household and treated
accordingly.
In a little, old den at the top of the grand
house on Fifth Avenue lived grandmother
Raymond. Her sou had always been kind,
and would have preferred her to occupy one
of the splendid rooms oil the second floor; but
she made her own choice, greatly to the joy
of her daughter in-law.
The apartment she had chosen was scantily
furnished, for a roosc «in -tintf Haase, thre-it
was all she desired. A rag carpet covered
the floor and an old-fashioned wardrobe
stood in one corner; reaching almost to the
ceiling; while opposite to this was a large,
high bed, with itB covering of variously col
ored quilt patches and its tall posts, from
which depended a pink, transparent cloth
for mosquito net. All this had been brought
from the little farm house in the South.
There was no need of the mosquito net, but
she slept under it constantly. It reminded
her of old times.
A large brass candlestick, supporting a yel
low tallow candle, stood upon the mantle
piece, and near the hearth was a box con
taining quantities of wood for fall. Gas and
coal were among the things wb'ch grand
mother Raymond held in holy horror.
The old lady was entirely in beeping with
her surroundings. She had old-fashioned
ideas about everything, which was of course
plainly visible in her dress, manners and
Conversation. She hated deceit and was
honest as a new silver coin, speaking what
she thought on every occasion. Added to
this, she was as sublimely ignorant of the
rules of grammar as of the existence of
Homer or Shakespeare. For these several
reasons the family strenously endeavored to
keep her out of sight, for whenever she came
in contact with visitors she was, as Mrs.
John Raymond had repeatedly observed,
“constantly disgracing the hcusebold.”
Late one afternoon grandmother Raymond
sat knitting as usual by her fireside. She
was a pleasant, benevolent looking old lady,
of some sixty or seventy years of age. Her
hair was white and her face wrinkled, but
traces of a lost beauty could still be seen.
She wore a dark cotton gown, cut somewhat
after the style of the Martha Washington
period. Her hair was parted in the middle
and brushed far down on either side, entirely
eorcealing her ears. While a white cotton
cloth was tied turban-like over her head to
conceal a bald spot. An apron of brown,
checked homespun completed her attire.
This was constantly worn, except on Sundays
when she attended the modest, little church
in a quiet back street near by. Then her
costume was changed to an alpacca gown, a
black silk apron and a bonnet which brought
to one’s mind a picture of an Eliaabethan
head-dress.
The open fire oast a warm, cheerfnl glow
over the rag carpet and scant furniture of
the rooin, lighting rosily the wrinkled fea
tures of John Raymond’s mother, as she sat
knitting in the gloaming. Suddenly her lips
became parted in a smile and her eyes shone
with a soft, subdued light. Some pleasant
epooh in her past life was no doubt passing
in review through her mind. At such times
she was very happy. In the mist of forgot
ten years, much that was fraught with sor-
row'or pain is but faintly remembered by
the aged, while past joys and kindnesses
given and received stand out like a panorama
before the mind’s eye, causing exquisite
pleasure. Ah! the thoughts of the aged, who
have walked uprightly through life, are very
sweet.
Here we may remark a truth; youth ever
looks forward; old age, backward. The
chief joy of the young is in anticipation; of
the old in retrospection.
All at once the old clock on the mantle-
pieee struck five loud, separate strokes.
Grandmother Raymond rose and placed her
knitting on the table.
•’1 must begin ter be a-takin’ of a walk,”
said she aloud. " fhere’s a mighty lretle ter
keep a body stirrin’ in a house like this'en.
John’s house seems ter be powerful cramped
up, for all it’s so big. ’Pears ter me I'd grow
stiff if I didn't walk about some of an eve
ning.”
It is a mistake to tbii k that people do not
talk to themselves. We have observed it fre
quently, ar d especial'y among old ladies.
Grandmother Raymond left her room thus I
communing with herself. She wandered over
the house for some time, then entered the ■
conservatory and sat down. This was her |
ffiv< rite resort. The perfume of the choice !
exotics growing all arounn brought to her
mind a faint picture of the beautiful flower
garden at her old home in the South, where
the honeysuckle and Indian creeper ran wild |
over the lattice work, and the purple morn
ing glories and amber-colored jessamine glis
tened with the pearly dew of the morning.
She had been in the conservatory only a
short time, w hen in w alked Mrs. John Ray
mond. her two daughters and a visitor. This
visitor was Mrs. Temple, a society qu. en and
an intimate friend of Mrs. Ra\ mond. She
came to the house often, end our dear, ole.
grandmother being aware of the fact, consid
ered it high time they had become acquaint
ed. So good an opportunity being afforded,
then, she determined to seize it and -peak to
the lady. Quickly stepping forward, she
stood before the surprised group and extend
ed her hand.
“Good evenin', Miss Temple," she said, po
litely, dropping an old-fashioned courtesy,
while the Raymonds stood by, gazing on in
stupefied amazement at what they considered
her unparalled impudence.
“How you come on?” continued the una
bashed old lady. “I’m mighty poorly my
self; suffered drefful bad last night with the
asma.” Then suddenly remembering herself,
she hastened to ask: “How’s your ole man,
Miss Temple?”
“Miss” Temple merely deigned a freez'Bg
bew by way of reply and turned to Mrs.
John Raymond with a look that said plainer
than any words, “Who is this creature?”
That lady was for once outdone. She and
her daughters, with looks expressive of the
deepest anger, swept from the room, instantly
followed by their visitor.
Grandmother Raymond stood looking after
the retreating forms in unfeigned astonish
ment.
“Who ever seen the likes o’ that?” said she
angrily. , ‘Am I a wild boar or ababoon to
s< are ’em off in sich a manner?”
Soon deciding that she was neither, the
old lady hobbled from the apartment, not,
however, before givihg vent to a disdainful
sniff. She took her way to the kitchen, and
there sat down and held a comfortable chat
as she often did with Wilson, the cook,
Wilson was a pleasant, orderly, married
woman, perhaps forty years old. She greatly
appreciated these visits from Grandmother
Raymond, and, as a matter of course, was
very cordial. That her employer’s mother
should deign to sit down and converse with
her, was an honor too great to be overlooked.
Repulsed on every side, as she had always
been, John Raymond’s mother had come to
believe that she was nowhere welcome in
that house except in the kitchen.
About an hour after the occurrence in the
conservatory, John Raymond’s step sounded
in the hall. His wife ana daughters who had
been anxiously awaiting his arrival ever
since the departure of Mrs. Temple, instant
ly sallied forth from the parlors and pounced
upon him.
“John Raymond, that woman,” —Mrs.
Raymond always called her mother-in-law
‘that woman’—has been making trouble
again 1”
“Well, well, Matilda, what’s the matter
now ?” said the man mildly, anxious to es
cape a quarrel.
“Why, she has been placing herself’on ex
hibition before visitors in that hideous cot
ton gown.”
“And with that white rag tied over her
head a la African,” put in Beatriee.
“And she dared to call Mrs. Temple Miss
Temple, and asked her how was her *ole
man,’” added Lucille, in tearful vexation,
“Is that all I” asked John Raymond.
“All!” cried his wife in mock amazement.
“Did vou say all? What more do you want,
John Raymond ?”
“I can’t imagine what made pa have ruch
a man,” remarked Beatrice, petulantly.
“You forget, my child, that your father is
no better," observed the mother.
Just then Susan, the housemaid, passed
the door.
“Susan!” called John Raymond, “where’s
mother?”
“In the kitchen,” replied the girl, signally
failing in her attempt to repress a smile, as
she understood at a glance the state of the
case.
“There it is again!” cried Mrs. Raymond,
angrily. “Always disgracing us! John Ray
mond, if you don’t make your mother behave
herself, I shall leave this house.”
The man answered not a word. Ha had
long since learned that it _was_jisgless.
that it wm
Uwitti ms wife. i±e hur-
long sine ^
t^TffpETkn dFgument'wilh his wife. He'
ried from the room and proceed toward the
kitchen
Grandmother Raymond was just issuing
from the kitchen door as he approached. A
joyful smile lighted up her wrinkled face at
the sight of him.
“Come into the library, mother,,’ he said.
“I wish to speak with you.”
She followed him in silence.
“I dislike to place any restrictions upon
your actions, mother,” said he, closing the
door after them, “but I desire you to stay
out of the kitchen. It ill befits a mother of
mine to associate with servants.”
The joyful smile faded from the old face,
and a pinched, starved look came in its
stead.
She spoke:
“An’ has things come to sich a pass, John,
that yon would take away the only pleasure
1 have! That ’ere kitchen is the only room
’cept’en min, in this house gwhere 1 feel wel
come ter stop a bit, 1 alius like ”
“I’m sure you have a perfect right to go
wherever you please, mother,” he inter
rupted.
“Well, an’ where’s the good in havin, the
right when you’re not welcome when you
go, an’ no more noticed than if ‘you were a
mouse or a bat! “Oh, John. John,” contin
ued the old lady, mournfully, “I use ter
think that when I got old, I mought have a
daughter-in-law that ’ud be kind ter me, an’
granddaughters that ’ud love me, but oh,
I’ve been so disappointed 1 I never thought
I’d have sich cold, unnateral ones as Tildy
an’ her two gals,”
“Oh, well, mother, all this can’t be helped.”
’Say no more, John. You has alius been kind
t< r me, an’ I’ll do like you say. I’ll stay up
in»that little old‘room er mine all the time;
but the Lord knows it'll be mighty lonesome.
Thur hain’t nothin’ fur to keep a body stir-
r’n’ hardly. It ain’t now like it used ter be
on the farm, you know, John. Tbur hain t
no chickens ter feed, an’ no cows ter milk,no
nothin’er that sort. I’ll jest have ter set
down as’ knit all day. An’ it’s a-gwine ter
be a lonesome time for me, John, a lonesome
time; but say no more.”
And without more ado she hobbled avJay,
and thus the interview ended.
For weeks after this, grandmother Ray
mond was a recluse. She never left her
room except at meal times, and never once
entered the kitchen. All day long she would
sit and knit, knit, knit; sometimes talking to
herself, at other times absorbed in thought.
All through the “long, lonesome November
nights she lay in her bed, half the time awake
and brooding over her troubles. Is it anv
wonder, then, that she became bitter toward
those around her and believed the times wo-
fully degenerated ? Is it any wonder that
she became a confirmed pessimistl
One night—it was perhaps a month after
the day when she addressed Mrs. Temple in
the conservatory—the old lady felt more
lonely than usual. It being too dark to khit
she sat with folded hands, looking into the
fire. She was one of those unfortunate
creatures who had been brought up to ar
duous labor, with no time to read or study.
And now. even if her poor old eyes bad been
strong, she lacked desire to read book or pa
per; so she sat there with no other company
than her gloomy thoughts.
Dinner had been over two hours and it
was. perhaps, eight o’clock when grandmoth
er Raymond opened her door and looked out
into the corridor. The hous maid had just
passed on her way down stairs.
“Susan!,’ called the old lady.
Susan stopped short, turned round and
ran'e heck.
“Do you know where John is?”
“He’s gone out,” replied the girl.
“Where’s Tildy?”
“She’s gone, too.”
"An’ Lucy an’ Batty?’’
“All gone.”
“Why, where ter. fer gracious’ sake?”
“To Booth’s Theatre to see Sara BernUardt
in ‘Camille’.”
‘•What’s that? What do you mean by Sa
rah Bernhard-in-cameele?”
“Oh. that is the play she is to act to-night.
It is Sara Bernhard*, the great French ac
tress. All New York is wild over her.” With
this the girl hurried on.
Grandmother Raymond stood in her door- ;
way for a long time deeply pondering.
“So the, ’re all gone iff ter a frolic and 1
I'm left up here ter mope, eh ?” she said at I
leng’b.
All at once she made a resolve. Reenter- j
ing her room she fumbled about the mantel- j
piece until she found heT pipe, then groped ,
in a near corner for her s’ick. Armed with
these, s't'e issued forth into the corridor, de- |
scended the stairs, found her way to the
kitchen and knocked at the door.
It was immediately op n-d by Wils n.wbo ;
politely invited the old lady to enter.
_ “Bein’ as they was all gone < ft, I thought
I’d come down and set with you for a
c! ange,” be. an the vis'tor.
"I’m shore nobody In either was more wel
come, ma’am, ” said Wilson humbly, as both I
took =eats before t’ e fire.
“Yes,” continued the old lady, “they’re all !
gone of ter a frolic an’ I don’t reckon nary I
one on ’• m will te home ’twixt nowand j
thr> e o’clock. Ah, Lord! it didn’t use ter be
that ’er way when I was young. If Here :
was ter be a frolic, we went soon an’ had j
our dancin’ over by ten o’clock: then, after j
we had eat our ginger cake an’ drunk our
sweet apple cider, we went home an’ took a I
good night’s rest.”
“Just so,” said Wilson, in open-eyed won- j
der.
“I tell you, Misj Wilson, it’s a heavy time
I has, a settin’ an a tbinkin’ uv the awful J
changes time have brung about sence my I
young days. I’ve seen a heap in mv day, an' I
sum at that lots uv other folks haint.’ feut
whqt do it signify? My opinion aint uroo
consequence with these here people. '‘Re
very childuti learn ter contradict their bet
ters long before they learn thur A B C’s. Ah,
Lord, it’s a good thing fer my old man that
he didn’t live ter see the likes o’ this dav.
When I was a gal, children ’tinded thur pa
rents—an’ I kin tell you sich ’em as staid
about my motner had ter lie low an, keep
thur sass ter themselves, or she’d box thur
jaws fer ’em quick—but the wav they does
now is a cryin’ sbame. The idee uv young
gals uv seven an’ eight years old a-talkin
about sweet bear's an' all sich as that wh«n
they ought ter be a darnin’ stockiu’s or a
knit tin’ uv ’em.”
“Tu be sho,” quoth WiLon with touch!**
sympathy.
“ As I was a-gwine on ter sav, Miss Wil
son.” continued the old lady, “the grown
gnIs aint a bit better. Them grand daughters
uv mine is i erfect sights. They don’t respect
me, nor John, nor Tildy, nor nobody, i’ll
warrant neither one uv ’em knows how ter
cook a decent meal ’er vittles cr ter make a
shirt.”
“Now you’re a-ta’kin’,” put in Wilson.'
“But they knows all about fenny work,
an’French, an’music, an’ all that; though
what good lt’1 ever do ’em I can’t say.—
They makes use uv it, though, goodness
knows; fer when two uv ’em gits ter the
piano they make noise enough to worry a
saint. Now when they plays hymrs on the
orgin, I likes it. but they do that migPy
seldom. An’ then uv a mornin’s they begins
with thur French, an’ the way they do ‘bajSg
mer tang” at one another—gracious king: —
it’s enough ter make the head uv a poor old
body like me ache forever. I jest has ter
stay away up ter the top uv the house ter git
rid uv it. We was never pestered with none
uv that in our day, eh, Miss Wilson?”
Of course not!” disdainfully.
“When I was young we gals parted our
hair in the middle an’ combed it straight
back, an’ the one as had the highest forred
had the most cause to be proud. But now—
Lord, Lord, to think that I would ’er lived
ter see the day when women was sich fools.
It jest makes me blush fer mv sex, when I
see ’em with thur front hair all frizzled out
like porcupine bristles, an’ combed down in
thur eyes like a Indian squaw’s. They call
’em ‘bangs,’ an’ the name suits; for, as I’ve
hearn folks say, it ‘bangs the Jews.’ I’ve
talked ter Lucy an’ Batty about it, but wat’s
the use uv talkin’. It’s the fashion, au’ they
had ruther be out ’er the world than out er
the fashion. They calls me a ole fogy, and
maybe I am; but I knows what’s decent an 1
Rose McDowell;
OR THE
Drunkard’s Daughter.
Br diaries K. McDaniel.
whathajp’t.
aouT Know what wo are a-comia’ tu. Fdon’t.
I wish there was more uv the people a3 use
ter be in the good ole times, an’ less of the
fools an’ idiots as is here, I do—oh. dear.
Reach me one ’er them het coals, Miss Wilson.
I want ter light my pipe again. It’s gone
clean out.”
Wilson obeyed in silence.
Grandmother Raymond shivered as she
placed the hot coal over the bowl of her pipe.
“Oh, dear me, it’s so cold here. I wish
John would take me back to South Georgy.
The fields are all green thur to-day. There’s
never no snow. But I never ’spects ter see
my old home no more. I ’ll have ter stay
here I reckon, but it won’t be long—oh, no,
it’s not for long.” *
The old lady ceased, and both were silent I
for some time. Then the conversation was :
renewed. Thus they sat until quite late.
At last the old lady rose, saying it was bed
time. It was observed by Wilson that she
walked very feebly as she went out. Her
form seemed more bent than usual, and a3 j
she groped her way up the stairs she groaned ‘
at every step.
Ah, grandmother Raymond was right
when she said it was “not for long.” They
would soon be rid of her for good and all.
Not many months would elapse ere the good
old soul would be upon that other shore
where it is never cold and the fields are al
ways green,
Reader, is this picture overdrawn, or too
highly colored? We think not. Certain it
is that there is many a grandmother in our
land whose presence is ignored, whose opin
ions are laughed at, whose very eccentrici
ties are turned into ridicule by the younger
members of the household in which they
live. And this is not mere speculation. We
know of young ladies who regard their
grandmothers, and even their mothers—be
cause forsooth they chance to be old-fash
ioned—with scarce more love, with scarce
more respect than did the Beatrice and Lu
cille of our short sketch.
Oh, we would say to the young to see well
to it that thpy do not offend these kind old
souls who soon will have finished the battle
of life; these : gal ones, who, pausing on the
brink of Ete-1 it.-, the very remembrance of
w-hom wlil roan be, “ &one glimmering
through the dream of things that were.”
Rose, unsay those words! Do not let this
false idea of right end wrong doom us both
to a life of misery! This is a hsrd, hard
world my darling; cold and pitiles-. Come
to my arms and rest safely there—safe out of
r^a'-h of ts cruelty!”
Not a w rd in reply came from the young
girl. Upon the Atlantic’s shore they stood
and there was a far away look in the depths
of Rose McDowell’s dark-blue eyes as she
gazed out over the endless expanse of water,
now lying almost tr.irqail beneath the blue
April sky. Not a word spoke she. She was
dreaming—dreaming of a dream in which
this world was an elvsium, a dream that was
once her’s—hers till she had known the bit
terness of an an akening.
Passionately Roy Sbelor loved the gentle
Rose—as passionately as ever man loved wo
man. Not a 1 eauty, had he listened to the
voice of the world, could Roy have found in
the pale faced girl, but those truthful blue
eyss and the sweet white face plainly indexed
a beauty far more desirable than that i t
whose shrine the world bends the knee in
homage—beauty of the soul. Passionately
he loved her, and as passionately was that
love returned. Through The lov' rs’ elvsium
they had passed—had dreamed that sweetest
dream; and all unexpectedly, jnst when that
dream was deare t, were they rudely aroused.
Wholly absorbed, they noted not the cloud
that came upon their horizon—a cloud which
expauded and darkened as time rolled on—
noted it not till the angry thunder broke on
their ears. A revelation to the young girl
was the letter from her lover’s father. True
she had long been painfully conscious of the
disgrrea which rested on herself and mother
owing to the course of her father, but the
real depth of that disgrace she had never di
viced til! the reading of thatmissive in which
the proud man said: “Rather than see mv
son marry a daughter of Hugh McDowell
v ould 1 see him borne to his grave; yes, a
thou and tin es rather.’ And on frrther:
“The dry u; on which yr.u become his wife
will find him a disowned son and a beggar.
Without a penny will I ]cast him from my
door, and never again shall he cross the
threshold of his father’s home!”
With the reading of this note Rose Mc
Dowell felt the happiness of a life surely slip
ping from her grasp. When the next day
Roy came, and asked her to walk down to
the beach with him she went, and there
handed him his father’s letter and simply
said: “I shall never be your wife, Roy.”
The young man had glanced over the cruel
sheet and flung it angrily from him when he
cried: “Unsay those words, Rose I Do not
let this false idea of right and wrong doom us
both to a life of misery!”
With a world of tender pleading in the
brown eyes he gazed into the pale face, and
when she spoke not he aca ! n exclaimf d: ‘Oh!
my darling, speak to me! Bay you did not
mean it; say you will be my wife! I know
you love me, and you cannot doubt my love
—my whole heart’s affection yielded you so
long ago!”
Then she turned her blue eyes upon him
and in tender though firm tones replied:
“Doubt your love, Roy! Ah. no, I could
never do that. 1 know you love me; my
soul in sweetest language has declared so, oh!
so many times since that happy day when
first we met. But it were far better, Roy,
had we never known that dav. We have
loved only to lose. We must part.”
For a moment there was silence. Passion
ately he gazed into those deep blue eyes, eag
erly searching in their depths for that which
might bring hope to his thirsting soul. Vain
endeavor! He only saw a great pity shining
there—the pity of a loving heart for a loved
heart lost. “Rose,”—and now there was a
ring of despair in the strong man’s voice—
“Rose, my darling, must I go? Oh, will you
MTinlii U-.Jir -fehafee -w-jyngW—rliW iirtHflB
Effect of Smoking-.
One of the English medical journals re
cords the observations of a physician who
has been investigating with great thorough
ness the effect of tobacco smoking on boys. He
took for this purpose thirty-eight boys from
nine to fifteen years and carefullv examined
them. In twenty seven he discovered injuri
ous traces of the haoit. In twenty-two there
were various disorder? of the circulation and
digestion, palpitation of the heart and a
more or less taste for strong drink. In twelve
of the cases there were frequent bleedings of
the nose, ten had disturbed sleep and twelve
had slight ulceration of the mucous mem
brane of the mouth, which disappeared cn
ceasing the use of tobacco for some days.
The doctor treated them all for weakness,
but with little effect, until the smoking was
discontinued, when health and strength were
soon restored.
Jay Gould is not content with a monopoly
of all the telegraph lines in the United States,
but wishes to monopolize the whole world as
well. His plan is to consolidate all the
American cable companies and lay a number
of new cables to Cuba, Brazil, the Sandwich
Islands, Japan, China, Australia, New Zea
land and other far i ff countries.
The Hon. Fernando'Wood, of New York,
has gone to the Hot Spring?, Arkansas, in
search of health.
Wri'e to Mrs. Lydia E. Plnkham, No.
233 “Western Avenue, Lynn, Mass., for 1 air-
plets relative to the curative properties of
her Vegetable compound in all female j
complaints.
more priceless is the love you would have me
leave than the love or wealth of my parents.
I cannot leave you!”
“Yes, Roy, but you must. I feel that I am
doing right in sending you from me, though
with you will go the light of my life. 1 can
not bring into your life this threatened ruin,
that would indeed be poor proof of my love.
Your father is proud; his father before him
was proud, and the pride of the Shelors is
yours, and however devotedly you may love
me now-, should you make me your wife you
might some day regret the act. Leave me,
Roy, go far away, and perhaps when a great
distance lies between us time may heal your
wounded heart and bring you happiness in
the love of some one more worthy I pray
God you may find happiness, which I know
can never come to me. Farewell, dear one!”
Away hs went—“over the sea and far
away”—with hope buried and a seared heart
—away, ont of the life of the pale-faced girl,
the gentle Rose that was left to droop and
lose her sweetness in a chill blast of winter
while yet there was spring—life and beauty
giving spring—for the other flowers.
Poor Rose I she was “the drunkard’s
daughter.”
The home of Hugh McDowell crowning the
summit of a grass-grown eminence, was at
one time justly conceded to be the most beau
tiful place in all G . county; but at the
time of which we write neglect and dilapida
tion had stolen away most of its marks of
beauty. Thistles had waged war with the
flowers of all varieties and, victorious, had
driven forth the beautiful blossoms and
appropriated their possessions, the serpentine
walks undefended so long by brier hook or
hoe, were grown up with weeds and briers;
the fense enclosing the grounds had gone to
decay and fallen down and the hungry cattle,
breaking through the surrounding hedge of
evergreens, played sad havee with what re
mained of the costly and once beautiful par
te rres. The elegant residence had taken on a
look of dilapidation with the rest, and as old
Squire Thompson, astride his sleek sorrel,
jogged along the highway running at the
foot of the eminence on h:s way to Martins
ville and viewed this scene of neglect and
ruin, these words escaped his lips:
“Going to rack! going to rack! and all be
cause he totes the bottle!”
And on a little further, noting the decayed
feHces around the far-s r ‘tehing, fertile fields,
the lean and straying cattle who?e piteous,
complaining bleats told sadly the tale of
empty troughs and empty stomachs, and the
dozen or so scraggy sheep that remained of
the once fine and famous flock of Merinos
and Cotswolds. the old squire again ex
claimed:
“Going to rack, going to rack, and all be
cause he totes the bottle!”
*****
The night closed in dark and gloomy. The
rain pattered upon roof and pane, and the
east wind, which had risen ■with the coming
of night, swayed back and forth the tall trees
standing about the mansion on the eminence
and moaned most dismally.
Two women—mother and daughter, sat in
a dimly lighted apartment of that home,
nervously hearkening to the demoniac voices
without. Pale faced and sad, they sat wait
ing—for what? Suddrn’y above the tem
pests roar the hall door was heard to open,
and footsteps came along the hallway. Then
B >b, the old servant, stood upon the thresh
old of the apartment.
“Where is your master, Bob?”
“We’s fetched him, Missus; but I thought
I had better kum and sorter prepare you
afore ”
“We know, Bob. Bring him in here.”
“But, Missus ”
Bring him in here, Bob.”
The old negro turned slowly away, and
passed back along the hallway. Presently
there was heard the shuffling sound cf more
than one pair of feet slowly approaching.
Then the door was again opened,and between
old Bob and an assi-tent Hugh McDowell
was b^rne in—dead! Not in the unconn-
sciousncss of intoxication, as the wife and
daughter had thought, but in that of the la-t
long sleep—the sleep of death. Death in a
barroom from the stroke of a knife in the
hend of a brother bacchanalian 1 Death in
intoxication and an inheritance of poverty
and woe left the wife and child who loved
him! And the Book of God tells us there is
no haveu of rest beyond this world for the
drunkaru’s soul.
*****
Debt, greedy, unrelenting debt, swooped
! down and devoured what was left of the
1 noble estate. Only half sati-fied were the
1 creditors when the widow and child were left
1 without a shelter over their heads—homeless,
I friendless, penniless! And only a cool stare
! did Mrs. Edgar Roche vouchsafe them—the
’ two pale-faced women—as they passed on
forever away from the spot that had grown
j dear to them as home. Who was Edgar
I Roche?
[ He was the largest creditor of Hugh Me-
i Dowell; the gentleman who had often, in the
j other days, sat at Hugh McDowell’s board as
1 a friend; the friend who had prevailed on
] Hugh McDowell to take his first glass—his
I first step to ruin—on that gloomy, disagree-
| able day- in Martinsville; and now—the own-
| er of the McDowell estate!
And yet men will drink!
* ***** *
Just outside a large city’s busy hum, the
full-orbed moon looked down on a sad scene:
A young girl weeping over a new-made
grave—the grave of her mother. Hour after
hour passed, and, with bowed head and grief-
shaken form, all unconscious of the flight of
time, she still sat there. The old sexton, a
kind-hearted man, walking through “the
citv of the dead” espied the bowed form.
Approaching, his hand was laid upon the un
covered head, while in gentle tones, he said:
“Poor child! it is late; you would better go
home.”
The white fece was raised for a moment,
and the one word came from the thin lips
‘ Home!” No more; but what a volume
was contained in that one word! “Home!
and she cast herself on her mother's grave,
her arms embracing passionately the cold
mound, and sob after sob from the anguished
heart shook the frail form.
“Poor thing! poor thing!” repeated the
old sexton, as he passed on; and a tear was
dashed from his eye.
Presently other footsteps sounded along
the graveled path. He came towards the
grave over which the young girl wept. She
noted not his approach. He stood beside
her.
“Rose, my darling!”
She quickly started, then a glad cry rap
from her lips:
“Roy!”
“Yes, my Rose, it is I—Roy—comeback;
and you shall not send me from you again,
dear one!”
“Oh, Roy!” and she sank into the out
stretched arms which so gladly received her
—into the sweet haven of rest—and at last
there was peace for “The Drunkard
Daughter.”
Lily Pond, Ga., Nov. 30th 1880.
WEAlHER TALK.
Experience of a 'll 1111 NVSio Pound
It Above.
[Burlington Hawkeye.]
Fairly on the road, a man came and sat
dow-n in front of me, and turned around and
faced me.
“Cold this morning,” he said.
I folded my paper and fanned myself with
it vigorously a moment or two before I re
plied. Then I unbuttoned my coat (“private
to editors”—it was originally a three-button
ed coat, hut the exigencies of the season, the
long absence from home, and the necessity
of dropping something into the contribution
basket every time I go to church, has reduced
it to the minimum of one), wined my frigid
brow with my handkerchief, and said in
panting tones:
“I don’t find it so.”
The man looked astonishpd, ^ But .pxeser.t-
7y'Ee''s5ii
BR. AARK
JOHMSON’S
“Maybe you’ve been a runnin’.”
“No,” I replied, “I have been asleep for the
past two hours in a sleigh.”
“And ye didn’t feel the cold?” the man in
quired.
“Man!” I said in tones of amazement.—
“Cold, on the 9th of June?”
“June!” he echoed, straightening up. “Are
you crazy? It is the 9th of January!”
“Well,” I said, “it felt like the 9th of June
to me.”
“It’s mighty fine sleighin,’ all the same,”
the man said.
I told him with a blush, that I had never
seen the mud worse on Ohio roads since I
could remember.
“Where on earth did you come from?” he
asked in utter astonishment.
“Dayton,” I said.
His eyes began to creep out and look at
each other over the top of his nose.
“When?” he asked.
“This morning,” I said calmly, “since eight
o’clock.”
“How?” he fairly shouted.
“ In a one-horse sleigh,” I said.
“Sakes alive!” he shrieked; it is impossible.
It’s only eleven o’clock now, and Dayton is
fifty miles away!”
“Couldn’t help it,” I insisted. “I left there
a little over two hours ago in a sleigh, had a
poor horse, drove slowly, and the mud was
up to the hubs of my wheels all the way. It
was warm as May, and I haven’t seen
enough snow to make a one-boy slide in five
thousand miles.”
The man’s hair stood on end, and he got up
to start foh the other end of the car.
“If you ain’t crazy, and I believe you are,”
he said, with grave earnestness, “you are an
awful liar.”
“God man,” I said, “I expect I am, but I
am not a fool. I may tell startling lies, but
I do not talk like an ass, and I would be
thought a liar or maniac rather than an im
becile. I do not come into a car where the
thermometer marks three degrees below
zero, and tell a living, breathing, intelligent,
sensitive man that it is cold, just as though I
was imparting some information to him. I
dc not watch him drive up to the train in a
sleigh, spinning over the dry, wisp snow, on
the smooth, perfect pikes of Ohio, and then
attempt to instruct, amuse or startle him by
telling him the sleighing is good. I would
rather astonish a man than to bore lim.If I
have nothing bettor to tell him than some
thing he knows already far better than I do,
my mouth is sealed, and I will never speak.
In order to astonish him, or startle him I
may have to lie to him, but that is better
than boring him. You might as well sit
down and tell me that twice two is four as
to tell me that it is cold You might as
well tell me that George Washington is
dead as to tell me that sleighing is good.
Go away, good man, go to sleeep. 1 tt 11 you
it is June; there is no snow; there is dust and
there are roses. It is two hundred miles from
Dayton to Loveland, and I walked from the
North Pole this morning. Go, get thee to a
nunneiv, and when you can model your
conversation on something besides the Unit
ed States Signal Service reports come and
wake me up, and hold me in the matchless
charm of your instructive talk. I know not
what course others may take, but as for me,
gaul blast the man who talks to me about
the weather.”
And straightway the man r.riz and got
him unto the after wood-box, for he was sore
astonished. And as I fell into a slumber tie
forgotten dreams of w hich c n'ained more
real, valuable information than that man
ever did, or ever wifi, k .ow, I heerl him
opening a conversation with the taciturn
brakeman by remarking:
“Cold, this morninT’
The licason Why.
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er act prompt and sure.”— Troy Budget.
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a'.eiy after eating the fermentation of food
i* prevented.
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II acts upon the Kidney*.
it Kegalates the Bowels.
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Caution to Druggists! Beware of counter,
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F. HARRIS.
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