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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
Misunderstood.
I’ve (rri»v<xl you dear: forgive the wrong,
now I hold my hnnoa to yon.
Smile once, and let my heart grow strong,
(-all back my sky’s lost bine.
Life has so many paths, and we
May soon be treading separate ways
As boats that take two streams to sea,
Paes from each other’s gaze.
It will be grief in after years
This rift between two hearts once fond;
A» d then nor wild regret nor tears—
Can bind the olden bond.
Shall we who’ve known so mnch of woe
Cast shadows on ea• h other’s won 1 ?
w seeds whose frnit we may not know
Tms side the gates of pearl?
So slight a thing-a careless word!
Such pity pride will not forget;
I can but say my heart is stirr* d
By sweet old memories - and yet—
fit is a task less hard to me
Than thus to suffer dumbly so]
I’ll say forgive me fu 1 and free
Because-I love you so.
June 3o D. Ashmore.
RAXDOMJKETCHES.
The Moon-Maid.
The last hoars of the Jane day were per
fect. Nothing was wanting. A sunset with
royal pageantry of parple and gold, a weBt
wind fall of coolness and mystic whispers
in the lanrel trees, a halo in the east, pre
saging the moonrise, while yet the sunset
after-glow filled the air with rich color as
wine poured in a crystal cap Harold drank
in the beaaty from his open window, and
hiB month lost its bitter carve. The wind
stirred the careless rings of bis hair and
showed the broad, pale brow underneath.
The temples were thin and bine-veined, the
eyes underneath, bine-gray and large, were
weary looking—too sad for the young cheek
underneath those long lashes. To be
young and gifted—surely this is a bright
lot. To be a physically deformed and sen
sitive to morbidness, affectionate, yet alone
and unloved—surely this is a sad fate. A
guardian who neglected him, a physician,
who cared only for his fees; an old house
keeper whom he knew to be a wheedling
humbng—these comprised Harold’s friend’s.
No, there was one ot-er, but he was far
away—Prof. Leigh, his former tutor—now
in India, whence he had sent his ex pupil
many of the unique articles that adorned
this pretty bnt littered room into which the
last sunrays were streaming. Harold had a
passion for natural history. Stuffed birds
and animals in groups or alone were here
and there among the flowering plants of
the room. It was a passionate grief to the
boy that be conld not see these creatures in
their native woods. He rebelled against the
inherited disease that prevented the free
play of bis limbs. His latest passion was
fora bntteifly collection. He had quite a
large glass ease full of these beautiful,
short-lived creatures carefully preserved.
Some of them he had himself oaptured in
his garden, bnt the finer specimens had
been sent by the professor from the Sun'
lands of the East. They came in the shape
of cocoons, carefully packed. When these
hatched and the moths were in the noon of
their brief life, they were sacrificed by a
transfixing pin and added to the grocp in
the glass case. The last cocoon sent by the
professor was unusually large. ‘‘It is the
pearl of all Maraposas,” he wrote. “It is
called the ,‘moon-maid.’ White as moon-
"ugui, witiT'snver'nbgs bpou its g$®at downy
wings and beautifnl body, it is the veritable
Pejohe.” The moon maid had not yet
broken her chrysalis. Harold looked at the
eilky oval shrond twenty times a day, as it
lay in its luxurious resting place—the hang
ing nest of a tropic bird—also the gift of
the kind-hearted ex tutor—a neBt that looked
like a little silk-lined shallop as it swung
from a twig of the orange jessamine in a
corner of the bower-like room.
For two hoars Harold had not looked in
to the oradle of the nnborn moon maid.
He had been Bitting here at the west window
watching the slow trooping of the clouds
that that oame to bathe their snowy robes
in the red western radiance, and listening
to a voice that sang across in the adjoining
house. It was not a full, rich voioe- just a
silver thread of melodj—low minor notes
with a strange pulsing sweetness like t.he
song of some almost monotone bird But
how heart-searching and magnetic it was—
how its gentle jearning melancholy chimed
in with the still,deep charm of the sunset
hour. Often Harold had heard that voice,
singing jast such a strain. Yet never had
he cared to know anything of the singer.
The song was as impersonal to him as the
cry of the katjdid, that an hour later would
ring from the garden trees. He knew that
an old woman and a girl lived in tne half
decayed cottage, held together by vines, as
it seemed. He had caught s glimpse of the
girl’s face once or twice through the trum
pet vines at the window. It was pale with a
nimbus of moonlight hair He liked color
and glow. Ht-r large,light eyes seemed watch
ing him at such times, and this woke in him
the nsual bitter consciousness that he was
gnzsd atas a hideous curiosity. “That lit
tle hump-backed monkey” he had once
heard himself called in the sweet cnel-clear
accents of youth. The sting of the words
stayed in his soul. He avoided his kind,
particularly those of his age. He repelled
their advances with curt scorn. Often they
meant kindly. He set it all down to curios
ity or at most to a pity he could not brook.
He said to himself he woald live oat his
life—he knew it wonld be short—indep n-
dent of foolish sympathy or love. But
somehow that little reedy voice with its
low minor thrill, stirred a wild longing.
His heart cried out for the one friend across
the sea—the only one who had ever called
him an endearing Dame or parted his
thick curls to lay a kiss on his brow since
his father and mother had died, in
two days of each other, in a fair S mth-
ern city ravaged by an epidemic fever. And
that sad event was far back in his early boy
hood, though he had distinct pictures in his
mind of those two beautiful bat fragile be-
iigs who had gifen him birth. Still the
afterglow burned rioh and soft and solemn,
and the song came across the old, half- i
sunken paling and the hedge of neglected I
cape jessamine. But presently it ceased,
and Harold, with a slow sigh, looked round. !
Instino’ively his eye sought the pendant
shallop nest. La! a white wonder perohed
on its rim. The moon-maid had been boru.
There she was, with her wings extended,
adorned with the silver dfsos, looking like a
spirit flower ihat had drifted off from the
moon, now showing its forehead above the
eastern wall. Harold uttered a low cry of
delight and drew near his treasure. No, he
possessed no such speoimen as this this
white, soft creature with the shapely, downy
body, the dark, intelligent eye, the long,
delicate anthers and the great, snowy, sil
ver spotted wings. This was, mderd, the
pearl of Maraposas. This was Psyche’s
self. He took it on his hand aod stood by
the window in the ruby afterglow. As it
breathed the flower-perfumed air, the beau
tiful moth moved its splendid wings and
waved them slowly, as though in luxurious en
joyment. At the same time, its delicate “feel
ers,” finer than any earthly fljwer stamens,
moved reflectively. Suddenly, without warn
ing, it rose from Harold’s hand and floated
out at the open window. He f dlowed it
without an instant’s hesi’ation It alighted
on a rose-bush; but before Harold could
lose bis hands softly about it, it had gone
gain—a wavering white vision in the c jI-
red air. The odor of the night-blooming
ssamine, so overpoweringly sweet, seemed
RAMBLINGTALKS.
The Old Woman Who Lived in the
Shoe—The Pulpit Gourd—Birds
with Four Legs—Sylvie’s
Sayings, etc., etc.
“Do yon want to see the sure-enough old
woman who lived in a shoe and had so
many children she didn’t know what to
do ?”
The vines at my window were parted by a
brown hand, and a pair of eagerly-sparkling
black eyes m6t mine as I looked np.
“Oh, that old rhyme had some meaning
in it, like most of Mother Goose’s nonsensi
cal-sounding jingles. The house was a kind
to Inre it away. The jessamine was in the
adjoining lot—the sunken garden, neglected
and overgrown, belonging to the old woman
and the girl who sang such sad hymns every
evening at sunset. Over the low hedge and
broken paling flew the moon-maid, per-
fnme-led, and Harold followed impetuous
ly, fearful of losing his prize. A girl eat
among the straggling, blossoming shrub
bery. Her back was to him; he could only
see her bent neck and the bare head with its
plaits of light hair. He would hardly have
noticed the head had not his errAnt butterfly
alighted upon it. He stepped forward; the
girl moved, half turned her head.
“Keep still,” he cried, abruptly.
Frightened, she started up, and the butter
fly flew off among the thick shrubbery.
“Stupid,” he cried harshly. “Why oould
you not sit still?”
He passed her without looking at her,
else he might have seen the effeot of his
cruel tone. He parted the shrubbery in the
direction the moon maid had flown; he
looked high and low among the flower laden
branches, but no white-winged beanty re
warded his search. He turned back angry
and unhappy. Wrapped in his own disap
pointment, he was pa-sin o • without notio-
lug the girl, when her ilium accents arrested
him.
“I am very sorry,” she murmured, “but
despair not. As the moon rises higher your
butterfly can be seen better; the light is now
so dim. I will look for it.”
Her voice trembled and her eyes were full
of tears almost ready to run over. It sud
denly flashed upon him that he had caused
those tears. His abrupt words had brought
that scared, pitful look into the little pale
face. He was an embittered, morbid crea
ture, but he had a heart tender and chival
rous as any knight’s of old. He said :
“Forgive me for speaking to you so just
now. It was very rude in me. 1 was think
ing only of the bntterfly. I am sorry from
my heart. Will yon give me your hand and
say yon pardon me?'’
She stretched out her hand and tried to
speak, but the tears came in a rush. She
bit her lip and tried to drive back the sob,
but it came, and sitting down she ocvered
her face with her hands. Harold sat down
by her and tried to soothe her.
She soon quieted herself. Sne took her
hands from her face. Looking np with wet
lashes, she said iu answer to him :
“No, I am not angry with you. 1 am sor
ry because of your butterfly—because I did
not sit still. And—yon spoke so kindly just
now—aDd I am not used to it—I mean 1—”
Her voioe broke. Harold sat on the wood,
en settee by her. He was fully moved and
interested now.
“Y.>u are not used to being spoken to
kindly?” he said. “Your mother then
is —”
“She is my grandmother. She does not
mean to be unkind. She is old and crip
pled and that makes her oross. She has
nervous fits, the doctor says, and yon know
sick old people are apt to be cross to their
nurses.”
“And yon are her nurse ?”
“Yes, all the nurse she has. She is very
nervous in the day, and m the late hours of
the night.”
“I hear you singing often far in the
night.”
“It is when phe is wakeful. She likes me
to sing her to sleep. She was long in fall
ing to sleep to-night. I had to sing a great
deal.”
“I heard yon. Tell me. Last night I
heard yonr song break off suddenly. I
thought I heard a blow; afterwards I heard
crying. Was it you?”
“Oh, she was very bad with her head last
night. She did not know she struck me so
hard—it was with her crutch.”
“Sne ought to be punished, and yon must
leave her—the cruel old ogress,” Harold
cried indignantly.
“I conld not leave her. I promised my
mother to take oare of her. My mother who
sees me from heaven.”
“Have you no relatives—no friends?”
“None in this country. We oame from
far away.”
Harold was looking at a dark purple
bruise on her little thin white arm. He
softly lifted the arm and kissed the braise
made by the croei crutch.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“It is Ruth.”
“Ruth, will yon let me be your friend? I
am alone in the world. I have but one to
care for me, and I shall never see him
again. Let us be friends. Let me come to
see yon and briDg you books and flowers
and a pretty pet? Have yon a pet?”
She shook her head.
“I had one—the dearest little squirrel.
This is his grave.” Sue pointed to a small
mound, covered over with fresh white roses.
“He died?”
“He was killed,” she answered, her lip
trembling.
“By that brutal orutch—I understand.
My poor little Ruth! Tell me how yon pass
yonr time. Do you read? Have you any
books?”
“Yes, some, but they are old books, and
they are so heavy and gloomy I fall asleep
over them. I have a great deal to keep me
busy. 1 have all our house work to do, and
my grandmother’s appetite is very delicate.
Then I sew.”
“You were sewing when I soared you so
brutally. Let me see your work—you need
not be ashamed of it. What is it—a pin
cushion?”
"Oh, dear, no; it is a pen wiper.”
“A pen wiper. It is very pre tily designed
—a bntterfly: and the embroidery is really
beautiful. Did you know these letters are
the initials of my own name? H. L.—how
odd!”
“Yes, I knew. Yonr housekeeper told
me. She was going to put it on your desk
to morrow—your birthday.”
“Tnen you were making it for me. And
it is you who made the beautiful feather
duster she brought me one day. On, Ruth.”
“Don’t laugh at me. I saw you walking
in your garden—sitting at the window every
day—looking so sad and alone like me—I
wanted to—<o do something for you.”
Harold’s first impulse was to press the
little hands to his heart in gratitude for her
sweet sympathy—then came the old morbid
suspicion.
“you pitied me. You thought me so hid
eous,” he said.
Hideous 1” she looked up in amazement.
“You?” she went on, looking into his beau
tiful eyes—“you are like the picture of
Riphael my father gave me.” Then her
lasnes fell and a deep blush spread ove* her
face.
And you,” he said, “are like the saints
that Raphael painted.”
And he spoke as he felt. He saw deeper
than the mere features of the pale, plain
little face. He saw this girl’s exquisite soul.
He thought those blue-gray eyes mirrored a
spirit sweeter than he had ever pictured in
his dreams.
The full moon had risen and flooded the
old garden with mystio light. The night
jessamine breathed out its soul of sweet
ness. They sat silent with olasped hands.
Suddenly she started:
“Ah! there it is. Yonr bntterfly. It has
lighted in my work basket. Let me throw
my handkerchief over it. Now, it is safe.
Are you not glad to have found it? ’
“I am glad; but I am gladder still to have
found you. sweet, lonely, patient spirit of
love and kindness Yon will let me love met my eye. The shoe was a bird house,
you; you will let me do what I can to make Jenny Wren and her mate had hid away
your life easier. Yon shall be my comfort their love secret within its purple lined re-
er. my inspirer—my sweet Psyohe, my true cess aDd deposited their tiny jewels of hope
leaf. It bung sidewise by its long handle,
and when the preacher wished to refresh him
self before beginning on his “thirdly,” he
reached for it in a solemn way, when out
flew poor Jenny and down dropped the nest
she had built inside the gourd and the little
warm egg she had just laid. Since the last
monthly preaching day she had found her
wav in at a crack or a broken pace and
made preparations to raise a family in the
shadow of the sanctuary.
*
* *
The mooking-bird, the oriole and the robin
are all friendly to men and fond of living
near their homes. If there is a leafy tree
around your hotre in this sunny laud, a
mocking bird will be sure to come and be
the soul of it. Unseen in its green covert,
be will sing you such rich solos as Mario
never poured from his luscious throat—
Matin lyrioa while the morning-glory is
WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS, THE ENGLISH NOVELIST.
of orphan asylum, built like a shoe, and she ' furliuj her white and purple tents, and ves-
•non tkn rmtKnt /tsanlrTr ” n«F humna 1X7 Vi An tKo nrnttnKnrii rrhta a
was the good but oranky '
“Oh. no; I’m not talking about old things.
They just twist Mother Goose to mean what
they want. I know she had seen what I’ve
jast found. You come along and I’ll show
yon.”
There was nothing for it bnt to shut up
the book and go with the small autocrat.
Down through the vineyard, where the graoe-
fal clusters were beginning to grow purple;
down near the little tinkling branch, where
a tree had been spared—a young dogwood,
which had looked like a white ghost in the
twilight and moonlight of early spring even
ings; now it was emerald green, and the
west wind was playing with its leaves. At
its foot, among the grass, was a heap of
rnbbish and litter that had been brought
there from house and yard-cleanings—
leaves and covers of books, broken toys,
shattered glass and orokery, stray back
gammon “men,” bits of faded ribbon,
bladeless knives, but chiefly a quantity of
old shoes of various sizes and sorts; boots,
bootees, overshoes, slippers, etc. Some of
them were badly battered and crank sided,
having a disreputable aspect, as though they
had been on a drunk. Some of them I
recognized as old comrades with whom I
had reluctantly parted company when their
shabbiness too greatly exceeded their oom-
fort.
You know that old shoe certainly—its roomy
friendb toe,
Dispa'»«res the natty pair that pinch you as you
go."
Others had kept their shape and looked al-
almost as thongh the owners had slipped
them off there in the oool grass to climb the
tree or wade in the little runlet that called
to you with silvery invitation further down
among the willows.
“Now come here and look at this.” My
guide stooped down and parted the grass.
This was a pretty kid boot, namber two and
a half, lined with soft satin, that still kept
its purple tint. It had been worn by a foot
as light and graceful as
“Ere from heath flower dashed the dew.”
Ah, if I conld see it move now with the
elastic step it did move, and something flew
out as quick as thought, a bird, the trim,
brown, little Jenny Wren. “Peep in.”
Four little downy heads and open bills
per hymns when the pretty-by-nighte are
unfolding their orimped, rose colored and
vnri6g-:ted beauties; and when the moon,
near its full, floods the earth with mystical
radian®, this poet-sonled lover wakes to
the spel and pours out a symphony that ao-
cords with the solitude, the dewy sweetness
and the silvery vail that broods over the
world.
The mocking-bird’s nest has often, in its
materials, hints of the domestic life of the
home ntar which he bnilds, bat the oriole
goes bejond it in this respect. The skill-
fally-waven, swinging nest of this golden
architect is often a perfect orazy quilt of
domestic shreds and patches. One I saw
taken fr<m a cottonwood-tree in Louisiana
was a pirfeot cariosity—a little sonvenir of
the household life and occupations. It con
tained hair of every member of the family
and of i bronz'-ourled, beautiful cousin
who was on a visit; also a little look tied
with narrow bine ribbon that the yonng lady
had lost t oax a sweetheart’s letter and had
greatly l^nroted over. But this was not the
zltn-in** the cast. ■ It had three
needles dangling from the outside. The
bright-colored embroidery silk with whioh
each was threaded was woven into the nest.
Sitting oui on the veranda steps in the
pleasant afternoons, often with their beaux,
the girls would work at their embroidery a
little and chat a great deal, frequently losing
their needles and putting off finding them
until next morning; bnt the smart orioles
in the neighboring cottonwood were awake
and fo a^ag for weaving materials while
the girls liugered in dream-land, and the
bright-hued silk thread attracted their eyes,
alive, yon may be sure, to beauty and oolor,
for these weavers of the lovely hammock
nests are astbetio.
The emyty bird’s-nest on a naked antnmn
bough—the last summer nest filled with win
ter siow—many sadly-sweet rhy mes have the
miunesin;ers woven abon^this object! It
suggests Che flight of summer hopes, the
desolatioi of a heart left alone by vanished
love and joy. It is as full of sentimental
reminders as the empty she'l left on the
shore; but as the shell may sometimes con
tain a lively tenant—not indigenous there—
the hidBous, long-legged water-spider,
ness at all. See her flirting the straws
about. Yesterday she laid an egg on the
cage floor. Mario, of course, doesn’t know
either. Patti’s mother neglected her edu
cation.” This proved, thongh, that an in
stinct can die out through hereditary disuse
as a faoulty does. You remember the blind
fish in the dark waters of oaves and of those
underground lakes of Florida whioh oome
suddenly to the surface?”
*
» *
There is a tiny bird—of the linnet species,
I suppose—yellow a gold of Ophir ro»e, ex-
oept for some black dashes on his wings
and head, which I never see except once a
year. It is when the catnip seed are ripe.
Then, late in the afternoon and early in the
morning, yon see them hovering like em
bodied sunbeams over the catnip bed, feast
ing and flattering, and sometimes falling a
prey to crouching, stealthily-watching Grim
alkin. When the catnip seeds are all gone,
they, too, go. Where? I have often won
dered, for I never see them again until next
year.
The quaintest nest-builder is the ham
ming bird. She makes the prettiest silken
lined liiliputian swinging basket that can be
imagined—fit receptaole for the little seed
pearls that hold the embryo creatures of
jewel-lustre and glad, glancing life that her
tiny breast shall brood into existence. I
sent one containing two eggs to a friend in
Montreal, and received a fanciful little po
em, bright and dainty enough to have been
written with a feather from the wing of one
of these “tresses of the Day Star,” as a Pe
ruvian poet oalled them. Put a humming
bird’s nest beside a chimney swallow’s—the
hardest, leagt comfortable cradle a baby
bird ever lived in, built in darkness aud
soot and smoke, and liable to come loose
from its gluey fastening, and drop down on
the hard hearth with its helpless inmates to
harrow tender hearts, like a little friecd of
mine, who had spent hours in trying to suc
cor these poor blackamours and fiud a way
to fasten their three-cornered, stick cradles
in the chimney again, that their mothers
may feed and tend them. Once a softly
opened door disclosed her sitting, rooking
with an apron full of the poor little ugly
chimney sweeps, and singing
“Coarse and hard thy Savior lay.
When His birthplace was a stable
And His softest bed was hay.”
Evidently she was drawing an analogy be
tween the little swallows in their hard stick
beds and the coarse-oradled child of Beth
lehem.
“Their mothers ought to know better,”
she said once, “building in old dark, nasty
chimneys where their children will always be
dirty, even if they are not smoked to death,
and building such poor nests and sticking
them on so badly - they ought to be
ashamed.”
“They haven’t any better sense, Sylvie,”
suggested her little brother, whom we call
the philosopher, “Don’t you see how flat
they are on the top of their heads ?”
He is studying phrenology.
Maby E. Bbyan.
Humorous matte*.
LIBERA TI, THE GREAT CORNETIST.
moon-maid.
Maby E Bbyan.
Augusta and Macon divided the honors of
the social season iu Athens and settled the
question of who was the belle of the com
mencement. The handsomest ladies in
Athens dariag the gay week were two bril
liant young married ladies, one from Macon
and the other from Augusta.
Gov. Cleveland has a brother living who is
a Presbyterian minister near Utica. He bas
five sisters. One of them lives on the old
bomes'ead at Holland Patent, is unmarried,
and is a strong advooate of woman’s rights.
Another is the wife of an architect in Toledo,
O., and a third is the wife of a miseionery
in India.
whioh careful brooding had developed into
those four open, hungry mouths and pairs of
unfledged wings.
fj W hy did they not build in the green tree?
It was not to their homely wren tastes.
Jenny is peculiar in this respeob She ohoos-
the mist unlikely and common place nooks
for her nesting. Sue is fond of human so
ciety, and likes to associate her family af
fairs with those of her unfeathered fellow
bipeds. Once in an old brown country
church among the oaks and magnolias of
Florida, I saw JenDy the unconscious cause
of an irreverent titter during sermon time.
A bucket of fresh water from the spring
stood on the table inside the high old-
fashioned pulpit On the wall dose by
hong a nicely scoured gourd—most delight
ful of all water-dippers, exoept a twisce
whith often makes the pink-lined oouch
his home—so the bird’s-nest is occasion
ally put to use after the nestlings are
fledged and flown. Last week a small
blaek Topsy was sent to the fields to pick
berries. When she came home with a full
bucket and her ivories tinted the color that
is fashionable for teeth in Japan, she had a
nest wrapped np in her head handkerchief,
an! she declared it had “de curuses kind er
birds” in it ever she saw. “Dey has four
legs stiddy two.” Examination showed three
newly born little field mioe, ensconced in
the soft lining of the nest, The naked pink
downy oreatures did bear a resemblance to
unfledged birds.
Cage-bred birds lose the sweet, wise in
stance of nest-bnilding. “What are yon
doing?'’ I asked when I found my friend
Sara bending with pre’tily-knitted brows
ver her family cage. “Making a neet for
atti. Sne does not understand the busi-
RUBENS’ PETER ON THE CROSS.
A Grand Picture of the Sublime Mar
tyrdom.
I was in Cologne some years ago, says
Rev. Robert C >Uyer, had been wandering
all day about the city and was quite tired
and very oross; for it seemed as if the
whole oity had made np its mind to pick
my pocket. I was going to my lodging
when my guide said, “There is still a picture
I want you to see ” “Anything to pay?”
I asked grimly. “Yes.” he answered, “so
much.” "Then,” I said, “I will not go. I
am sick of the whole business and tired out.
I will go home.” Bat the maa had his way
after all and I went to see the ptetura paint
ed by Rubens for his own parish church. It
was an altar piece and they were ready to
show it after I had paid my money. No man
in this world oould be more unfit than I was
to see that pio’ure. They turned it to the
light and 1 stood half a minute I suppose in
the silence with the setting sun shining on
it, and thea I was sobbing and striving io
choke back my tears, ft is a terrible pioturie,
as some of you will remember—the death of
this Simon Peter on the oross, with his head
downward. The master never made grand
er work than in that piotnre. The. pain of it
strikes you with a solid stroke, but the se
cret of its greatness is in the eyes; and these
are wonderful gray eyes—the eyes of the
prophet, in whioh the painter has hidden
snoh deeps of glory and victory that, as I
stood there amazed through the power and
beaaty of it, I seemed to hear the angels
singing. The man was looking from the
oross right into the heart of heaven. The
light was more than the shining of the sun;
it was the light whioh kindles suns—it was
the light of God. He knew nothing of the
pain, death had no dominion, he had fought
the good fight. The curtains of time were
falling, the eternal life was storming the
fainting and falling spirit, and Simon Peter
was absent from the body and present with
the Lord.
SIX TICKEI3.
The Big and Little Parties Entering the
Lists.
However opinions may vary upon the
quality of the presidential candidates this
year, there oan be no oomplaint as regards
the quantity. The following is a list of the
nominations thus far announced:
DEMOCBATIC.
President—Grover Cleveland, New York.
Vice-President—Tnomas A. Hendricks,
Indiana.
REPUBLICAN.
President—James G. Blaine, Maine.
Vice-President—John A. Logan, Illinois.
AMEBIC AN PROHIBITION.
President—S. C. Pomeroy, K rasas.
Vice President—J. A. Conant, Connec
ticut.
PROHIBITION HOME PBOTEOTION.
P-esideut - J ihn P. St. John, K rasas.
Vice-President—Wm. Draiel, Maryland.
GBEENBACK LABOB.
President — Benjamin F. Butler, Massa
chusetts.
Vioe-President—A. M. West, Mississippi.
ANTI-MONOPOLY.
President—Benjamin F. Butler, Massa
chusetts.
Vice-President—No nominee.
The August issue of The Eoleotg Maga
zine presents a goodly list of important aud
interesting articles. Amoog those to whioh
special attention may be oalled, the follow
ing may be designated, “La Style Cteit
1’Homme, by Lord Lytton, is a charmingly
written study of the personal elements
whioh enter into good literary work. Mr.
R Brooks discusses “Poetic Emotion aud
Affinities,” in a suggestive manner. “The
Poor Man’s Gospel,” from the Contemporary
Review, by Richard Heath, is a fresh and
pungent treatment of a subject, whioh in
some one or other of its many phases is now
attracting more attention than any other.
The article on the Princess Alice of Hesse
under the title of “An English Princess,”
sketches a noble sweet life, and is fall of
pathetio touohes. Mr. Justice Stephen pre
sents the argument against Agnostioism so
powerfully advocated in our recent numbers
by Herbert Speucer, Frederick Harrison and
others in a strong paper bearing the title
The Unknowable and the Unknown.”
Other articles of more than nsual interest
are “The Russian Peasants Before and Af
ter their Emancipation,” by C. L J inn-
stone, “Under the Shadow of the Sphinx,”
“Body and Mind,” by Andrew Wilson, F. R.
S., “Art and Life,” by H. D T., and “Tne
Mabdi and Mohammedan Predictions Con
cerning the Last Days,” by C. E Stern. The
latter paper from the Nineteenth Century is
specially significant in view of the import
ant events now occurring in Egypt and Cen
tral Afrioa.
Published by E. R. Pelton, 25 Bond street,
New York. Terms, $5 00 per year; single
numbers, 45 oents; trial subscription for 3
months, $1.00.
It doesn’t cost anything to remember the
poor, but if you want the poor to remember
you it will oost you something.
De reason dat we thinks dat oar madders
oould beat anybody cookin’ is beoause we
kaint oarry de boyjfe appertite inter oie age.
Every to-morrow has two handles, faith
and anxiety. If you grasp either one yon
are likely to wish you had taken the other
before the day is over.
A male kicked over a oan of dynamite in
the oil oountry the other day, and for 200
rods in every direction there wasn’t any
thing left but the mule.
The goose is oalled a fool bird, and when
you talk science to her she i but she never
lays more eggs than sne can oover, and
never bites off more grass than she oan
chaw.
An old lady was asked what she would do
with all the corn if it oould not be made
into whiskey. She replied: “I wonld make
it into starch to stiffen the backbone of the
temperanee people.”
De baby is more ap’ ter die den de man;
de little apple is more ap’ ter fall den de
well-grone one; de ole man is more ap’ ter
die den de young man, fur de ripe apple is
alters ready ter drap.
It is a good thing ter be ’dustrious, but
too much stirring’ roun’ ain’t good fur yer.
De partridge is more ap’ ter be seed by de
hawk when he’s Ilyin’ about deu when he’s
restin’ under de bush.
Husband (airily; they had just returned
from their wedding trip) —“If I’m not home
from the club by—ah—ten. love, you won’t
wait—” Wife (q lietlyj—“N j, dear,” (but
with appalling firmne s), “I’ll come for
you!” He was back at 9.45 sharp.
“Well, Pat,” was asked of a recently ar
rived immigrant, “and how do you like
America?” “It’s a fine country, sor.”
“Have you succeeded in getting work yet?”
“No, sor; but I have a friend in Washington
who is after getting me a pension.”
“What a fresh complexion Miss B. has,”
said a gentleman to a young lady at a party.
“Yes,” replied the lady, who was a rival of
Miss B’s; “it is qaite early in the evening
yet, you know, and it hasn’t had time to
dry.”
An Illinois man has married fiis divorced
wife’s mother, thereby becoming his own
father-in-law. Wnen his present wife dies
he intends to wed his first wife’s daughter
and perform the unparalleled feat of being
his own father and son at the same time.
“Sire, one word.” said a soldier one day
to Frederiok the Great, when presenting to
him a request for the brevet of lieutenant.
“If you say two,” answered the king, “I’ll
have you hanged.” “Sign,” replied the
soldier. The king stared, whistled and—
signed.
“How long have yon been married, Mrs.
Slowboy?” “Five years.” “Five years!
Why you ought to have a wooden wed
ding.” “Have,” replied Mrs. Slowboy,
glancing aoross at the meek figure of a man
trying to hide behind a newspaper; “I had
that when I married.”
“Can you give me a little money on that
aooount of yours this morning?” “Ni, I
don’t believe I oan this morning.” “Well,
will yon appoint a time when you oan? You
have traded with me a good deal and never
paid me a cent.” “I know it. I am a free
trader.”
An exohange prints the following: “A
lady reader writes to say that she has been
losing her hair recently, and wants to know
what she shall do to prevent it. Either keep
your bureau drawer looked or else discharge
the hired girl and get another of a complex
ion different from yours.”
A Kahsas farmer was sowing his ground,
when two smart fellows oame riding by, one** ’
of whom oalled out with an insolent air:
“Well, my good man, ’tis your business to
now, but we reap the frnits of your labor.”
The rustio replied: “Tis very like yon may,
for just now I am sowing hemp.”
At a B anohory in Sootland once, the
parish schoolmaster, out of euriosity, put
the question to the scholars, “What is noth
ing?” A pause ensued until an nrohin,
whose proolivities for turning a penny were
well known among the sohool-fellows, got
np and renlted: “It’s when a man asks yoa
to hold his horse and jist says thankye.”
A little girl accompanying her mother on
a visit to a lady, the latter showed the ohild
her parrot in a cage by the window, warn
ing her at the same tiiD not to go too near,
lest he should bite her. “Why should he
bite me?” she asked. “Because, my dear,
he doesn’t know you.” “Then please tell
him that I am Mary Aun.”
Fipps (who has been lunohing with a
friend upin frog's legs)—“Everything you
see is of some use in this world, even the
frog.” Friend (who i« disputatious)—“I
don’t agree with you. Of what use is the
mosquito to us?” Fipps—“Ah! my dear
fellow, you take a wrong view of things.
Just think how useful we are to the mos
quito.”
Where were you last Sunday, Ribbio?”
asked the teacher of one of the brightest
scholars in her Sunday-school olass. “My
mother kept me at home.” “Nov, Robbie,
do you kuow where little bays go to whea
they play trnant from Sunday-school?”
Yes, ma’am.” “Where?” “They go fish-
in’!” exclaimed the boy, letting the wuole
feline family out of the paper envelope.
Once a man tole me dat he didn’t want de
offioe what he had been nominated fur, an’
dat he had been nominated fur, an’ dat he
wan’ agwine ter ax no man ter vote fur
him, but when be fonn’ dat I had voted agin
him he came aroun’ an’ raised a row wid
me. Now, when a candidate tells me dat he
doan want de ofifi le, I may not say nuthin’,
but I has a strong ’spioion dat he’s a liar.
“I’ll bet they’re married,” whispered Tom
to Ciarley, in reference to a oonple on the
other side of the car. “They haven’t spoken
tec word-, either of them, since they oame
in, and not so much as a single smile has
lighted up his faoe or hers. Yes, sir, you
oan make np your mind they are married.”
“You can’t always judge by appearances,
Tom,” replied Ciarley. “They are not mar
ried. She is a thief, and he is an officer car
rying her off to jail.”
They have sociables in Iowa where the
lady is weighed before entering the dining
room and also direotly when she leaves it,
and her e-oort pays fifty cents a pound for
the increase in her weight. Tiis calls to
mind the old story of the Western railroad
eating house whioh adopted the same plan.
Oae summer day a shrewd drummer pre
pared himself for the meal by filling his
ooat pockets with stones. He was weighed,
and seated himself at a table near the open
window, where he managed to throw the
stones away without being observed. When
he was weighed and came to settle up it was
discovered that the house owed him $3.75.
Dr J. 0. Westnorelaod
treats only ohrouio diseases with which,
from experience and study he has beoome
more familiar, such as oatarrh, bronohitis,
consumption and asthma, with his special
mode of inhalation; piles by the painless
mode of speedy oure, and oanoer, bladder
and nrethral diseases by special application.
Address or consult him at 55^£ South Broad
street, Atlanta, 6«-
—Last week’s dry goods auotion sales io
New York oity sent blankets off forty to
fifty per cent, below oost of production.
Wamsuttas have been redaoed by the largest
dry goods house in New York to 9% oents
per yard, the lowest price ever known, it is
said, sinoe cotton sold at six oents per pound.
H6TINCT HUNT