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THE SUNNY SOUTH. ATLANTA., GA., SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 20, 1887
[from T11E AT THOR S ADVANCE
FSI1EETS— SECURED EXPRESSLY FOR TI1E “SUNNY SOUTH.”]
TK E 'DU CHESS.
By the
Author of “Phyllis,” “Molly Bawn,” “Mrs. Geof
frey,” “Lady Branksmere,” Etc., Etc.
‘He is coming
"iie whispers, with fine
CHAPTER I.
“I xcept wind stands as never it stood
It is an ill wind turns none to good.
“But who is it, dad?" asks she leaning her
elbows on the breakfast table, and smiling at
him over the teapot. “Who is the «ntw of
that voluminous letter? As a rule they don t
take so much ink to ask for their just luies.
“Who should it be but your own first cons-
in, my dear, Denis Delaney , my only brother a
onlv L, ai d the head of all the family.,
“B ess me! What titles to honor! says
the eirl with a soft, low laugh. And wbat
mav'our distinguished relative have to say for
jgvirua;sms
In his turn he leans towards her from h» seat
at the foot of the table, and as the latter is
small their faces nearly meet,
here to slay some days, he v
im .?wtc “to stay some Oh, nonsense!
Given** the letter," sajs Miss Delaney, rising
with much characteristic force from her seat,
but h. r father waves her back , t
“Now can't you be patient, my dear, t au t
you now! You know if you Hurry me Duch
ess. I’ll never be able to explain. Wait till I
read it to you. Wli-re is it now?”-glancing
^mn at the letter he holds, with its big cnm-
^ crest and its bold handsome handwriting.
..II.ml hall! ‘To see you after all these years.
■Make acquaintance with you and my cousin.
Hah! ‘din on my way here. Norah. says
the Squire, laying down the letter and regard
ing hm daughter with a tragic air, “that means
that he'll he here in about two hours.
“Two hours! Oh, dad, no!" says the Duch
ess, lifting her lovely face and eaniii; at her
father w-iin undisguised dismay. AU the ad
mirable spirit that had dtsttngnmhed he a
moment since is gone, and abject fear has
^ e We!f, P my dear, that’s just how I feel"
say8 Mr. Delaney, with open sympathy. I
keep on saying it, but here I’m convinced he s
coming all the same,” with a rather depressed
glance round the large, poorly furnished, com
fortless room, “lie says he’s on Ins way, and
I have no doubt he’ll finish his journey. And
why shouldn’t he, too'" with quite a startling
change of front and a reproachful glance at his
daughter. “Who should be welcome here, 1 d
like to know, it it wasn’t our own h»th ami
kin? Till! I’m astonished at you now, Duch
ess, to be so inhospitable—and your own lirst
cousin, too, my dear.” , , _ ,
“Is he very rich, dad?” asks the Duchess, m
a rather forlorn tone, though she has shown
no surpr se at all at the sharp alteration of his
sentiments. Perhaps she is used to it.
“As Cm-mb!” with all the noble air of one
determined to face the worst whatever the
consequences. “My poor brother, The Dela
ney (a proud title, Norah, as good as any
juke’s)-well, never mind; but my poor broth
er (as fine a man, my dear, as ever stepped in
shoe leather, though I dare say it isn’t modest
of me to say so, considering, ahem! w’e ^were
much like), however, as I was saying
“I wonder you never told me all this be
fore.”
“Well, my dear, he died a great many years
a^o, more than you can remember, and ’tis
hard to talk to the young of those who are
past and gone; but before be died he married
an English girl with a pot of money and jewels
without number.” (‘.Toils’ Pm afraid the
dear old Squire call'd those precious gems.)
“Poor Terence, your uncle, had a very hand
some property of his own, and he had’nt been
married 10 madam three years when she fell m
for two larg« fortunes, left her by some kins
folk in her own country, over the water. And
all this has come already, or at least will come,
to Denis.”
“It wiil oe dreadful!" says the girl, looking
round the.room in her turn; her voice is low
and melancholy. “Is he young?" Bhe asks
presently.
. “About twenty-seven, Ihhould say, though
V- not much at a guess. I He was very young
-~ltyi Vkhen niv poor tcol*’"- died; quite a
i&tSeeo, for
Ihematters ttaV^LYhe Squire, thought
vjlv, bent, as it were, on wrestling with the
tli and foil ing it to the front at all hazards,
B was ..id of them when that unhappy event
gppened, as Terence died at midnight, so the
jbild must have been in bed.”
“What is his mother like? asks the Duch-
ess still melancholy.
“Very handsome she was then, and very
charming. Hong tong, you know, and all that;
and a good soul, too,” says the Squire, relaps
ing into a less fashionable manner. ‘hor she
nearly hr, ke her heart when Tererce died_
She look the boy away then. Carried him off
to England and had him educated there, and in
fact has kept him there ever since, except on
such occasions as he lias gone abroad.”
“Has he gone much?" asks Norah, timidly—
already she is desperately afraid of this half
English cousin.
“1 believe so. 1 hear he has seen a great
deal of the world in his lime. The last we
heard of him he was in l’ekin. You remember
that now, don’t you, Norah?”
“I don’t. 1 don’t believe I ever gave him a
thou"'it ’’ says Norah, cetulantly. “Hut I ex-
DectE.f have to give him several now,” with a
little pout. “Dad,” anxiously, “how long do
you think he will stay? _
“Let’s see." says the Squire. Once again
he adjusts his spectacles upon bis rather pro
nounced nose, and takes up the bombshell that
politeness calls a letter. “All! here it is:—’1
hope to stav a day or two.’ Now Duchess,
don’t you be taken by that,” says the Squire,
looking at her knowingly over the sluet he
holds. ‘ He’ll stay a week to a moral!”
“I shouldn’t be surprised at anything lied
do” disgustedly. “It’s as good to say a
month when you’re about it. But no!" with a
sudden pang of remembrance, “a day in our
mevgne wil , I dare say, more than suffice
him.”
“Nonsense, now, Norah; your cousin isn’t
that sort, I should hope," says the Squire.
“But, indeed, I agree with you, I’m afraid
he'll find it—cr—a bit rough.'i,
“He’ll hate it,” says Norah.
“I wouldn't care if I was sure of the dinner,”
gays the Squire nervously. ' But what the
ieuce will we do if that buicher of ours doesn’t
give us meat fit to eat? His mutton, I allow
you, is all very well, but his beef,” says the
Squire, with profound dejection, “his beef is
the very ’’
“Quite so; I entirely agree with you, says
Norah, with admirable promptitude. “But
never mind,” conscious pride in her tine.
“I have fowl in the yard as fat as fat can be;
and as to the beef, 1 think I’ll go to Mickey
myself and tell him it’s a matter of life and
death, and that he must give it us good for once
in bis life.” . . . . ,
“Do!” with enthusiastic belief m her plan.
“There’s nothing like a woman’s tongue for
bringing a man to reason, and as for yours I
know by experience that you could ”
“Ob! daddy, now! come! Am I such a
shrew?”
“Coax the birds off the bushes, my dear, I
was going to say Da! ha! I had you there,”
laughs the Squire. .
“Turncoat 1" says she, shrugging her pretty
shoulders at him. “ Well don’t get into mis
chief whilst I’m away, for I’m off to the village
this instant to secure a loin of mutton and
warn him about the beef.’
“Isav Norah. I say, Duchess, darling, don t
„„ off a t a tangent like that,” says the Squire,
mak n" an ineffectual grab at her gown as she
passesliim on her way to the door. “I've a
!- r e ,t deal to say to you yet. This young man
will he expecting things grander no doutr,
w<* can have them. We can t help that,
of course- but I’d—I’d like him to see us as
well as we can be, eh?” He colors a little as
he says this, and glances depreciatingly at lus
d».i<rhler “Flowers, new,” diffidently, “tiow-
, S.i a dinner table give it quite a little air
„ A d t here’s some of the old silver locked
isn’t there, in the oak chest? And if you
■ a while gown, sweetheart, just put it on
for dinner, won’t you, now? 1 wouldn t
him think we didn’t know about things,
though we can’t have them, eh?”
US 1 so!” says Norali, taking fire at once
,e brilliant scene he has just conjured
I'm quite clever at arranging flowers,
1 *ive the old silver a rub myself this af-
wiiile you take him out for a walk,
a long one. daddy. And—you think
mutton best, don’t you? A leg sits
h and there’s so much of it, and, of
with a sigh, “he’s dainty; and—and
iuk—but no,” despondently, l-l
I am much of a hand at soito. 1
excellent, my dear not Hem,
father (may Heaven forgive him).
“But I don’t think we’ll mind the soap. Just
a loin and a pudding. That was a glorious
pudding you gave us last Sunday 1”
“Custard? Very good. And I can make
him* jam roll for the next day—and for the
day after that Oh! but I hope he’ll go away
the day after that. That is, of course,” mind-
fnl of her hospitality, “if he wants to. He’s
(hopefully) sure to want to.”
“I trust,” says the Squire anxiously, “that
Bridget won’t be drunk.”
"Certainly that habit of hers is a great draw
back. At all events, if she does have one of
her attacks I hope it won’t be a noisy one.
Last time—you remember, dad?—she was so
abusive that Mary went into hysterics on the
kitchen stairs and said she couldn’t attend
table.”
“Yes, yes; Mary’s a very poor creature,”
says the Squire, with the utmost gentleness.
His manner is abstracted. It is plain bis fer
tile brain ia running on aome other matter far
remote from Mary. “Now, where the dickena
are they, I wonder?” he says at last.
“What, dear?" asks the Duchess, at once in
terested.
“The waistcoat I can lay my band on at once,
because I wore it the last time Lord Kilgarriff
called, not being able just then to find my Sun
day one, and I know the coat ia hanging up be
hind my door; but where on earth are the
trousers?"
“Is it your evening suit you are thinking of?
Do you mean to say you are going to dress for
dinner every day ?” She is so overcome by the
magnitude of this thought that she sinks into
the nearest chair.
“< if course,” says the Squire, with great dig
nity. “D’ye think I’d let him believe we
wern’t up to bo much? Tut, Norah, you
haven’t a spark of genius.”
“You’ll be miserable,” declares she, eyeing
him with deep commiseration, “they are so
dreadfully light.”
“l’ride feels no pain," courageously. “And
if I suffer it will he in a good cause And mind
you, Duchess, dinner not a minute before
seven.”
“Seven! Why, Bridget will be hopeless by
that t me, and Mary will think it is supper."
“It can’t be helped,” says the Squire, draw
ing himself up with quite a superb air. “It is
absolutely necessary that wo should hold up
our heads now, and let him see that we, too,
are conversant with the niceties of fashionable
life 1”
This last is too much for the Duchess.
Crushed by it, she walks with a depressed air
to the door and beats a hasty retreat.
CHAPTER II.
“A proper man as one shall see in a summer's day ’’
Her interview with the butcher must have
been stormy and prolonged, because she is late
for the important arrival of the head of all the
Delaneys. That young man, entirely ignorant
of the sensation his coming has provoked,
drives up to the door about half-past eleven to
be welcomed by the Squire solus.
The Squire! Who had been fussing and
fuming all the morning, and leading the hyster
ical Mary a horrible life; insisting on the
threadbare carpets being brushed over and
over again, marching in upon them with muddy
boots to enforce this command, and deaf to
Mary’s whimper that much more brushing will
leave nothing but the floor beneath. It is in
deed a reprieve to the long-suffering maid when
wheels are heard crunching upon the gravel
outside; and the Squire, forgetful now of all but
the approaching guest, rushes forth to greet
him.
The guest seems very willing to be greeted.
He springs off the outside car and comes quick
ly up to this unknown uncle, a pleasant smile
upon his face. As for the Squire, after the first
glance all is forgotten—the meagreness of his
household, the fear of discomfort for the
stranger; there is only left the desire to make
heartily at home this young man who is so like
the dead brother, and who is so tall, so aristo
cratic in bearing, so well set up, and so—which
always comes first to an Irish eye—handsome.
“My dear boy, I’m delighted to see you.
'Tis new life to me. Well, well, but
mother’s patient despair over the entertain- poor Meredith was shot—the last agent but
ment of such a guest, and <>[ Katherine’s cui- two, you remember—I have had ro peace.”
turenijuarg j^iijl e^ucatid lifting of tiie ljrows. i “I remember, as though it were but yester-
gigfi
She
’ fie saps, politely, stilling
Striking across the fields and gutting beyond
the trees, a larger view is given to the eyes.
The stretching plains, now ripening to their
death; the yellowing corn, the waring barley
falling wave on wave; the cloud-flecked sky;
and beyond all, the silent glittering ocean on
which the sun god’s hottest raya are falling;
all blend together to form a scene the beauty
of which enters into the very soul of the new
comer.
He is indeed somewhat lost in contemplation
of.it, when the wild barkings of a whole ken
nel, as it seems to him, breaks in upon his
tranquil reverie. Barkings they are of the
most agonized description, snggestive of a de
sire for suicide on the parts of the performers.
“By Jove! the dogs. I’ve forgotten them,
and they’ve found ont I’ve started,” says the
Squire, conscience-litriiken. Then a smile ir
radiates his jovial countenance. “Aren't they
clever?” says he, with a sort ot possessive ad
miration. “The deuce wouldn’t be np to
them! My dear boy, if you’ll go on I’ll go
back, and I’ll catch you up in no time. But
perhaps they’ll be reasonable. Sh!
Here the bowlings break forth again with re
newed vigor, and the Squire with a reuiorseful
face gives in.
“You see! I mnst go back for them—the
creatures!” he says distractedly. “And if
you’ll just walk straight on up that hill before
yon, you’ll find as fine a view as ever you saw
in your life: and I’ll be after you before you
can say Jack Robinson.”
Away he sails, coat tails flying behind him,
as light and active as any schoolboy, in spite
of his fifty years; and Denis, with an amused
smile, continues bis walk alone.
He is half way up the bill pointed out to him,
gaziDg idly from aide to Bide at the clumpa of
golden furze that deck the hill in isolated
patches here and there, when something on the
top of a high stone wall that stands on bis left
catches and keeps his eye.
It is a little slender brown hand!
CHARTER Ilf.
“Is she not passing fail?”
lie has scarcely time to wonder at that be
fore a face follows it! Such a facel And then
there is a swift pressure ot the hands on the
stone wall, and with a movement full of youth
and strength and grace a slight figure springs
into the sunlight and runs eagerly up and
down the top of the wall, as if in nervour
haste, and anxious to find some easy spot
from which to jump to Mother Earth beneath.
A slender childish figure, gowned in a simple
cotton frock that beyond all question has seen
the washtub many a time and oil; hut yet a
gown that is fresh and crisp, and cannot, in
spite of'he eccentricities of the village dress
maker, altogether hide the grace of the form it
covers. Just as little can the rough coun
try-made shoes conceal the beauty of the
small, high arched, patrician foot it holds.
To Delaney this latter knowledge comes far
ther on. Just now he is blind to all save her
face.
Were ever eyes so clear, so grey, so deep?
With what a delicate touch the purple shadows
(those alluring supplements to all true Irish
eyes) lie beneath them! How long the curling
lashes grow! The rippling chestnut hair, show
ing beneath the huge poke-bonnet, hardly hides
the wide, low, capable brow, or the pretty
cheeks flushed 1 ke the wild rose. But above
and beyond all, the exqmsite sweetness of her
mouth reigns queen; so rianle, tender, loving,
all in one; so arch too, and so soft, and red as
roses in fair June.
All this picture is caught as it were, in a
breath; the breathing time it has taken her to
decide on where she shall jump. Now she
bends forward at a rather impossible place, it
seems to Denis, who has had very little to do
with any except town-bred girls, and pauses as
if about to spring.
A sharp explanation breaks from him.
“Don’t attempt ill It is far higher than it
looks!”
She starts violently. His voice coming sud
denly from nowhere, as it seems to her, has
nearly the effect of making her lose her bal
ance. Turning her head quickly in his direc
tion she meets his eyes, and stares at him for a
full minute as if fascinated. Who is he? and
what has brought him here? For thet.me she
has expected cousin, but even as she looks at
him she remembers.
Slowly, very elowly, a rich crimson blush
rises and dyes her cheeks. Is this tall, hand
some, kindly young man the cousin she has so
lreaded? Impulsively she bends towards him,
iisnewine tome, well, well, but you re (.dreaded? Impulsively sbe bends towards
like vour prfcr father. My dear fellow, 'twas fa smile quivering:on her lovely lips, i
very good ot you to think of coming to see an V “You are 1 lanes,she says, iti a voice
old man like me.
His own handsome old head is well thrown
up, and he smiles an almost tender welcome on
hss nephew, who, though a good six feet, is yet
half ail inch below him in height.
“Come in, come in,” says he; “and as for
you, I.arry Finn,” addressing the driver of the
outsider, who is well known to him, as indeed
is every soul in the county, “go round to the
kilclien and wait for your dinner. My dear
Denis,” leading the way up the stone steps
and into the large, bare, comfortless apartment
called by courtesy the drawing-room at Bally-
hinch, “what years have rolled bv since last I
saw you. A little fellow you were then, but
not so unlike either. And how is madam?
How’s your mother?”
“Quite well, thank you. She sent the very
kindest remenbraiices to you and uiy cousin;
and desired me say she hopes now we have
agreed to slay in Ireland for some time that we
shall no longer continue strangers to each
other.”
“She was always charming,” says the Squire,
with a rather old-fashioned but very admirable
air. “And you?” laying his hands upon the
younger man's shoulders and surveying him
with affectionate scrutiny. “How old are now,
eh? 1 should know, I suppose, but, faith,
things slip me. Twenty-seven, eh!”
“Not so bad a guess, and a Haltering one in
to the bargain, as I happen to be twenty-eight.
At that age one begins to wish a year off rather
than a year on.”
“Tut! What’s twenty-debt? When I was
that age I called myself a boy—and the broth
of a boy, too,” says the Squire, with his jolly
laugh, than which there was nothiog more mu
sical in the next four parishes. “But you
must be thoroughly done, my dear boy, and
hungry, too, of course. If”—looking rather
helplessly round him— “if one only knew where
the Duchess—er—Noddlekins—that is—Norah,
your cousin, I mean,” floundering hopelessly
over the many loving sobriquets belonging to
his darling, “was, we might—”
“Nothing for me,” says Denis, quickly.
“Nothing at all, thank you. I slept in Cork
and breakfasted there, about an hour ago, as
it seems to me. It is really nothing of a jour
ney here from there. 1 feel as fresh as a daisy
and as fit as a fiddle. A walk to stretch my
legs I should like after the train work, that is
if you are thinking of going out.”
“Weil, I generally do take a look round me
about this hour to see that the men are keeping
up to their work,” says the Squire, hazily.
“Desperate lazy fellows most of ihem; and if
you would really like to join me—but positive
ly you must have some;hing firsl; a brandy
and soda, now—”
‘ No, thank you,” says Denis, laughing and
tucking his arm into his uncle’s and leading
him toward the open window through which
it is but a simple thing o drop on to the grass
below. At this moment it is borne in upon
him that it is a possible thing to feel very inti
mate with the Squire in the space of five min
utes or so.
Outside there is a blaze of yellow sunshine,
and the wild sweet singing of innumerable
birds. A meadow with long grass, still s .and-
ing—because of the heavy rains that had del
uged the earth in the early summer—although
it is now mid July, is making gentle obeisance
to the soft wind that rushes over it.
The short grass on which they are walking
widens presently into a garden rather lower
d >wn, protected on one side by a high beech
hedge. Not an everyday garden, trim and
ribbon-bordered, but a gay, delicious mass of
all flowers, old and new, jumbled up together
in a delicate confusion—one harmonious whole
—thus forming “a very wilderness of sweets.”
“What an exquisite hit,” says Denis, stand
ing still and honestly admiring, “You have a
gardener with a fine sense of taste.”
The Squire laughs aloud.
“Say that to the Duchess," cries he, “and
you’ll make her your friend for life. Gardener,
ttere is none; all you see there is her own
work. No hand but hers sows or reaps in that
little garden. I tell her the flowers must
know and love her, or they would not bloom
so; that she mnst breathe some cunning spell
upon them to make them flourish as they do.”
“What! Does she do it all herself?”
“Every scrap,” says the Squire, with loving
pride.
“A muscular voung woman with a ven
geance,” thinks Delaney, and pictures to him
self with a shudder the tall largely-boned girl
with (in all probability) fiery locks, with whom
he will have to claim cousinship presently.
With many fears, too, he calls to mind the er
rand on which he bag been sent by his mother,
to capture and bring back it».her fpr.afilongH
visit this young Amazon. He thinks of his
very
clear, very low, perhaps a little plaintive; at
all events whatever it is, it is a voice that suits
her.
“A creditable inspiration,” laughing and
looking up at her to where she stands on her
very superior ground. He has lifted his hat,
and it occurs to her even at this immature
stage that he is, if possible, better to look at
without, than with it.
“I knew it,” says she, shyly, if triumphant
ly. “I saw it at once. You—you are like dad
—only so very different.’
This lucid description she delivers with a
ebarmirg smile.
“You didn’t know me, though," she goes on,
nodding her head reproachfully at him. “1
am ”
“Her grace of Ballybinch!” interposed he.
“You wronged me! Am I so lacking in intel
ligence that I could not see that at a glance!”
“But how—/low?” eagerly. “Of course
there are many reasons why I should guess at
you successfully. The fact that you were ex
pected; that there isn’t a young man in the
country except the doctor’s apprentice and the
organist; and your likeness to dad. But how
did you know me?”
“Am I a mere mole, then, that I should be
blind to the natural dignity that distinguishes
you? Are duchesses so numerous that one
need ’’
“Oh, nonsense!” interrupts she, with a little
indignant side glance. ‘ If you won’t tell
“Well, I expect I Knew you because you first
knew me,” confesses he, smiling.
“All! Was that it! I’m sorry now I spoke,’’
says she mischievously, her lovely eyes full of
an innocent coquetry. "I could have led you
such a dance!” She seems to pine over this
lost opportunity.
“You couldn’t have led it up there,” says he.
“There isn’t room.”
“That reminds me!” growing earnest again,
“Dad must be wondering where I am. There,
stand out of my way until I jump.”
“I'ray don’t try to take that wall,” entreats
he, anxiously. “Let me help you. Come
’’ going nearer and resting one foot on a
projecting stone that lifts him closer to her.
"Trust yourself to me ami I will take you
down.”
“Am I china that I should break?” making
him a little moue. “Well, if you will," shrug
ging her shoulders. “Let me place my hands
upon your arms, so, and that will perhaps save
me from a sudden and terrible death. Now,
are you ready ?”
The charming eyes are smiling with a mock-
ing gaity into his without the smallest touch of
embarrassment, although the two frees are
very close together; and then there is the light
est pressure p rsaible on his arms, and the next
moment she is beside him on the soft turf.
“No bones broken after all,” she says, sau
cily glancing at him from under the big bonnet.
Then all at once, as though suddenly r. collect
ing something, she grows grave and extends to
him her hand.
“Welcome!” she says, sweetly; and again
very impressively, “do you know that I am
very, very glad you have come.”
‘Thank you,” pleasantly, though indeed he
is a little surprised at her earnestness. ‘ That
is the very kindest thing you could say to
me. I have been so afraid I should bore you,
or ”
“Oh, no!”
“I)o you mean,” says he, still puzzled by
her manner, which has something behind it,
“that you, yourself, are glad of my coming?”
“More than I can say,” promptly, aud with
quite a serious smile at him.
This exceeding frankness almost overpowers
him. Does she mean ii? Is she really so en
raptured as her words imply at having him
hen ? This charming, pretty, fasciuatiug child,
who
“For dad's sake,” says she, softly, knocking
all bis fine sentiment to pieces in an instant,
“lie has always been so longing to see again
some of h s own people, and y ou especially,
the only son of his only brother.” She is si
lent awhile, and then looking at him iutently.
“What brought you?” she asked, gently.
“A longing to see him, I suppose,” returns
he, smiling “I should have come before, but
as you doubtless know, ever since my father’s
death my mother and I have lived in England;
and of late years I have traveled a good deal.
Three months ago, however, hearing that af
fairs in Ireland were going with a steady
briskness to the bad, I threw up my intention
of going to the East again and came over here
instead.
“Troubles with your tenant-?”
ii Yes. Or ratbdr w.th my agents. Same
tMtgc sieoe the terrible tragedy—^hen
day. It was an awful mnrder. He resist edso
long—so bravely—and,” she turns white—
“they battered in hit oh! it was horriolo!
And for you,” glancing at him, “worse than
tor anyone.”
“I shan’t forget it to them, you may be
sure,” says be, between his teeth. “Well, the
man after him—Strong—either lost his nerve
or could not manage the people, and after a
month or two resigned the post. I didn’t
blame him, teally. It mnst be nasty waiting
to be mnrdered like that. The last man, Mon-
roe, gave in, too; ao aa I saw no prospect of
keeping an agent longer than six weeks at a
stretch, I thoueht I’d take the post myself—
with an assis an', of course—and come over
and try what 1 could do.”
“Kerry is such a shocking place,” says the
Duchess, with a sigh for that degenerate spot
“If it could get a good ducking in the sea
and have its inhabitants well washed off the
face of it, I dare say it would do it good,” re
plies he, lightly. “In the meantime, as I said
before, I’ll see what I can do with my particn.
lar bit of it The mother was rather against
giving up her town house and coming here in
the height of the season, but I persuaded her;
got the Castle put into liveable order, and now
that she has been here a month she seems to
have qnite taken to it. Of course the moment
I found a few days I could call my own, both
she and I thought of you and my uncle.”
“It was kind of you,” says she, softly. She
has been regarding him nervously for the past
five minntes, even whilst he has been speak
ing to her. Truly he is very far apart from all
the other young men of her acquaintance.
Even Kilgarriff, who is quite a traveled person
for his years, and should be well up in the little
delicate touches that distinguish the well-bred
society man from the well-bred country gentle
man, does not stem to her to come quite
up to Ihe mark o this new-found cousin.
Something in his voice, in the unconscious
charm of his manner, pleases while it disturbs
her. There is an air about him as of one ac
customed always to the suit places of the earth,
and how will he take Bally hinch and all its
short-comings? Serious reflection!
Her mind flies on to the dinner and hack
again to her just Consummated visit to the
butcher. There seems to her now something
sinister in the fact that he had so persistently,
so insidiously, put aside in the bland Irish way
that belongs to him, her request to see the loin
she had ordered before leaving. Good heav
ens! oan it be possible that loin is still alive,
that as yet its primal owner is free of knife or
thrust?
She grows cold with horror as this fear pre
sents itself, and she secs laid out before her
mind’s eye the tough joint I hat, should her
fears prove true, will adorn the dinner table
to-night.
Her cousin is still talking, and she is saying
“yes” and “no” in a distracted fashion, her
mind running always on the treacherous
butcher, and the shame that his treachery will
bring her, when something is said that re
quires a fuller answer. It is a mere nothing,
but it serves. It rouses her.
“You don’t find it slow here, then?”
“Slow? Stupid you mean? (111, no. There
is always a great deal to be done and not so
very much time in which to do it. There are
the usual things to battlo with everyday, and
often a startling surprise just to wake us up a
little. To-day,” with a lovely, gracious glance
at him, “the surprise has been a very liappy
one.”
He makes her no immediate, at least no
spoken answer, but his eyes say as much as
need be said—perhaps, indeed—more.
“Now rhat I see you,” she says, falteiingly
as she thinks of the mutton, “I know you are
not what I thought you would be, you are an
other person altogether, as it were.”
“Yet the moment your eyes fell on me you
knew me.”
“Yes; that was flattering I admit,” laugh
ing.
“Oh, was it?” says he, laughing, too.
“Thank youl Then the ideal yon had conjured
up was of a being very superior to me! Am I
to understand that!”
“I’m not going to explain or refute any
thing,” declares she, with a charming (ouch of
mutiny about the mouth. “I think your in
stant recognition by me should suffice you.”
‘ You gave a very sorry reason for that. It
showed how you held me, something better
than the organist, and a little dearer than the
doctor’s apprentice.”
“I don’t remember saying that you were
‘dearer’ than anything,” replies she, calmly.
There is a suspicion of coming battle in her
tone. It lends an additional color to her
cheek, an adileJ hljJIn: to, her eyes. Froviden-
tially for Delal* ^hb h-Vunp at. this moment
comes into v(ew, and with ft the Squire,
breathless, but beaming, a dozen dogs of every
age and description clustering at bis heels.
“So you’ve met her!” he cries, cheerily,
whilst yet a long way off. “That’s all right.
She,” evidently indicating the Duchess, though
his indications are vague, “is worth a dozen of
me. I hurried all 1 knew, but one of those fel
lows from the Kingston Farm—you know ’em,
Norah—caught me, and his tongue, once he
gets an opening, is as long as the lane that has
no turning.”
(to be continued, j
THE(oiTnTF(Y
Philosopher
( [Copyrighted by author. All rights reserved.]
NoTR.-—By special arrangement with the author of
these articles and the Atlanta Constitution, for which
paper they are written under a special contract, wo
publish (hem in the Sonny South under the copy
right. No other papers are allowed to publish them.
The Sightless Cadets.
[Philadelphia Press.]
Sixty boys in military uniform, whose sight
less eyes were blind to the sunlight which
trickled through the leaves of the trees above
their heads and who could not recognize the
faces of the friends and kinsmen who sur
rounded them, marched and drilled yesterday
in the grounds of the Pennsylvania Institution
for the Instmction of the Blind, with the pre
cision of veterans.
The drilling of the cadets is a feature of this
institution, and it is an oiiginal feature, to
which there is none similar in this country.
The patience, the study .and time spent upon
this branch of instruction presents a reward in
the improved bearing of the little soldiers, and
in the health which the exercise gives them.
When the cadets marched from the gymna
sium to the playground it was almost impossi
ble to believe the miniature militiamen were
bln d. Tbeir shoulders were squared, their
heads erect, and their step was firm and regu
lar. The muzzies of their muskets made au
unwavering lire of light, and the red stripes on
their blue trouser legs rose and fell with the
regularity of a machine. It was the final full
dress drill of the cadets, and all of their friends
aud relations and the friends of the institution
were gathered around the walls of the play
ground.
But the applause which saluted the cadets as
they filed post was the only knowledge they
had of the near preseuce of hundreds of spec
tators. The left hand of each boy rested, as
he marched, on the left shoulder of the one
preceding him. The first boy in each company
could see.
Commandant Major Henry W. King di
rected the battalion to “guard arms,” and at
the word every gun touched the ground at the
same moment. The cadets separated and
stood at two yards distance. Then at the spo
ken command they went through a calisthenic
drill, clapping their bands, raising their arms
and swinging them like so many automatons
worked by tne same p ece of mechaiism.
It was only when the boys btnt over to touch
the ground with their finger tips that there was
any irregularity. Then the difference in height
of the cadets made it impossible for the long-
limbed boys to recover themselves as quickly
as did their younger comrades. The guns were
picked up and the command was given, “Twos,
threes and fours, forward!’’ The ranks broke
and there was a scattered movement to the
right. The right hands and arms of the cadets
held their muskets firm and the left hands
moved anxiously in search of a companion’s
shoulder. By some instinct finer than sight
itself, the moment the wandering fingers of a
cadet touched the person of a comrade he
seemed to know instantly that it was the man
he sought.
In a few seconds the battalion was formed in
close ranks of two. As the ranks marched aud
countermarched, broke aud reformed, the other
inmates of the institution sat and sLood in
groups around the walls, guessing from the
words of command what the r companions were
doing Among them was a large, heavily built
man, who sat with one hand over his sightless
eyes and with the other clasped in both of those
of a little girl. She called him father, and, as
the drill wont on, told him as graphically as a
child could what her black, pretty eyes saw be
fore her, aud how and what the cadets were
doing.
At the conclusion of the drill Acting Princi
pal Frank Battles called from the ranks those
of the boys who had won the nine gold and
bronze medals which different friends of the
institution have awarded annually to the best
soldiers of the battalion. It was a pretty aud
pathetic picture the young soldiers made as
tiey stepped forward wilh their faces flushed
with pleasure and saluted while the inedats
were pinned to their breasts. And it was still
more pathetic to see them, when they had been
led back to the ranks, nervously tiuger the new
decorations to read, if possible, their beauty
through their finger-tips. j[ n /
The Georgia Agricultural society is still a
power in the land—agrowing power. The leg
islature is a big thing, but when these solid
farmers file a veto against any measures that
affects the farmers the lawmakers must sur
render. They took bold of the Brady bill at
Canton and choked its life out in thirty min
utes. They didn’t read it three times nor re
fer it to a committee nor debate it, but they
killed it and buried it without a coflin or a
shroud or a prayer, and there were only twelve
mourners at the funeral. I thought from the
tone of Mr. Livingston’s address that they
would tackle the tariff and settle that but they
didn’t. They are against protection unless
they can be protected some, too, but the trouble
is the government has got to be supported and
there is no other way to do it except through
the tariff, and if the tariff protects certain
trades and businesses we can’t help it.
If foreign nations wanted to sell us corn or
cotton or wheat or meat then we could piolect
our farmers by imposing a duty on those things,
but they dont. So now what do tie farmers
want done!’ Just let them say in their power
and majesty what they want done I am
afraid that we farmers are in the same fix these
anti cot vict lease folks are. Wo can’t set up
a substitute. We can grumble and growl and
complain bht where is the subs.itute. There is
only one thing that we can do, and that is we
can quit farming and try something that has
got protection. We can go to mining or manu
facturing. We can dig ore or make chairs or
brooms or ax handUs. The government Las
got to have three hundred millions annually,
and nobody wants a direct tax. Georg a would
have to levy and collect about twelve millions
if we had fe ieral taxation. So I reckon we had
better let the present system alone and quit
tussing. I had rather give one dollar for a hat
and pay no direct tax than give fifty cents for
it and pay twenty five cents tax, for jou see I
could refuse to buy the hat if f choose and pay
no tax. No man likes to pay taxes in money,
lie had rather give two prices for a hat, for
when he buys a hat he don’t think about the
tariff. It never enters his head, but when the
tax gatherer calls on him it takes away his ap
petite for supper. He feels like he is cheated
out of that much money, and that it all goes to
s-pport officeholders and keep up the jail and
the court house and to build bridges that he
never crosses. I’ve paid about * >0U taxes in
my county and nearly half of this has gone to
build bridges that I have never crossed. That
is all right I know, but I wouldn’t have paid
that much if I could have helped myself. A
man has got to be a mighty good Christian to
be a good citizen. But if we can’t get protec
tion roaybn wy can get even some other way.
My friend Bib' Ramey wanted to buy a mule
one day for a hundred dollars, but he didn’t
have the money. So he gots over to the bank
and sells his note for thirty days and gets the
money and pays five dollars for the use of it.
That was very high protective tariff for the
bank, but Ramey didn’t care. He sold the
mule for 125 dollars before sundown, and made
five times as much as the bank did and yet
Ramey had r.o protection. The best protection
in the world is for a man to protect himself,
and a smart, diligent man can do it. Shifty is
the word. lie must be shifty. The trouble is
that nine-tenths of the farmers spend all they
make, and many of them a little more They
will do this tariff or no tariff. More depends
on economy and industry than on the tariff.
The rich pay 00 per cent of the revenue any
how. What the poor pay does not bother them.
I never hear the average farmer grumbling
about the tariff. Most people complain of the
tariff not because they really feel oppressed by
it but because some energetic, thrifty manufac
turers are gettnig rich. I heard a Macon man
quarreling wilh an Atlanta man about the two
lairs, and he said Atlanta was selfish and mean
and wanted to gobble up everythir g. The
Atlanta man fougut back as hard as he could,
and finally said: “Well, why don’t you move
to Atlanta and gobble some, to?” It is human
nature to be envious of those who are doing
better than we are. We can’t help it, and so
we criticise their methods and quote Scripture
like the devil, f jrthe devil does quote Scripture
sometimes.
The little unpretending town of Canton sur
prised me, aud 1 fell in love with it. I thought
it was an old w-odeii town that was looking up
a little since the railroad got there, but I found
it nearly all of brick. A ne w brick court house
with all the modern attachments, brick stores,
brick churches, and a fine, large brick hotel
that is well kept. I had to wait for the second
table, and didn’t expect much, but I never sat
down to a betier cuickeu pie. The Kimball
house nor the Markham can’t make such, for
they can’t getthe chickens until they have been
smothered in coops and hot cars, and perished
out, and they lose their flavor and freshness.
And besides, a French cook can’t make such
chicken pies. It takes a good old fashioned
patriarchal motherly woman, who learned how
from her mother fifty years ago. Well, the
beef and mutton and potatoes were all seasoned
up right, and the peach pot-pie was just splen
did. The hotel at Canton is full of visitors
from the low country and there are a number
staying in private families. Indeed, Canton is
quite a summer resort, and her aluai spring is
getting famous. I rode out there with Judge
Browu. He had a jug and a cup and we did
not go by the distillery. When we passed the old
abandoned copper mine we stopped to look at
the yawni ig pits, where twohundrel thousand
dollars were sunk. It was the hard earned money
of solid men aud they lost it all, “Did they all
lose what they invested?” I asked of the judge.
“Well, yes,” said he. “That is, nearly alfof
them. In tact I believe every one Inst what he
put in, except brother Joe. He came out pret
ty well, pretty well. He made about; twenty-
five thousand dolars. lie sold out when the
boom was up.”
“Just so,” said I, ‘ exactly so,” as Virney
Gaskill would say “correct,” or as King Solo
mon said, “a wise man foreteeth the danger aud
avoideth it.”
The little railroad that is booming Canton
and Jasper and Ellijay, is also doing wonders
for that inteiesiing region. It has increased
the values of property along its liue for m>re
than the road has cost. It has brought comfort
aud convenience and a higher civilization to
thousands who were almost hidden from the
outer world. No wonder these people are in
dignant when the legislature u-fuses to let the
road go on to the capital. < )f course it can buy
its way into Atlanta without a charter, but the
day has passed for exclusive rights or privi
leges. Let the railroad come and go whertver
enterprising men want to push them. The
more roads the better it will be for the people.
If we had another line from Cartersrille to At
lanta we would be happy, for there is no com
petition there now.
I left Canton with regrets and a kind fare
well. May her people live loDg and prosper.
Everything is lovely in that region, aud her
crops of c >rn and cotton are as good as they
can be. Indeed, I believe they will make more
cotton than they can possibly pick, and more
com than their cribs will hold. But there is
Governor Bullock’s barn close by, and it will
hold a vast amount of the surplus. It looks
lonely aqd desolate now, and the farm around
it has grown up in bushes and briars. It is a
monument of something, but T don’t know
what.
A Northern Opinion.
Mixed Schools; in the South—A Let
ter From Jfctev. Dr, A. D. Mayo.
Boston. Mass., August 1.—Editors Consti
tution: It is with no special desire for public
expression that I call attention to the follow
ing item, from your journal, which has just
fallen under my observation:
“Rev. A. D. Mayo, a republican and an orig
inal abolitionist, who knows more about the
school systems of the south than anybody, is
opposed to mixed schools.”
Whatever may be my qualifications for im
partial judgment on this subject, justice to my
self seems to demand a full statement of my
opinions and the reasons thereof. Whether
wise or otherwise, they are the result of care
ful observation and are held with a single eye
to the interests of universal education.
I hold that an essential duty of the people of
every American state is to offer to every child
the opportunity of that educational training
which bears on good citizenship, the extent to
be measured by its ability. All questions of
organization, methods and supervision are sub
ordinate. Thus, while every state of the union
has now a public school system on the ground;
all agreeing in this essential, the schools of
each state, in various ways, r« fleet the
opinions and ability of the people. All these
peculiarities are the result of practical experi
ment, and fairly represent the settled convic
tion of the school public—that body of intelli
gent, progressive and influential people, on
whose watchful interest and fidelity the com
mon school so largely depends.
The sixteen states, once known as the fifteen
slave states, have established their new public
schools on the basis of the separation of the
two races in the work of instruction. After a
long and careful observation of these schooD,
in every state, I see that this arrangement was
absolutely necessary to the establishment and
is now an absolute condition of their support.
So I have always maintained that the southern
school public, in this matter, has been guided
by an honest desire to promote the cause of
universal education and has taken the only
path open for the permanent establishment of
the common school. During these years of
observation I have seen the growing »ffort of
the pubbe school authorities to do justice to all
children, with a fair measure of success. I
have everywhere borne testimony’ to this work
of educational upbuilding in the south, during
the past twenty years—a wc rk unparalleled in
its magnitude and signilicar ce in the history of
education in any age or land. The main hin
drance to this effort appears to me the finan
cial inability of the majority of these states to
place on the ground, in one generation, in their
present circumstances, the public school sys
tem needed to educate tlieir people. To-day,
a full third of those needing instruction in
these states arc in no school and not one half
enjoy schooling more than four mouths a year,
for a bi ief term of years, often under great
disabilities. I see no relief save in national
aid, which shall supplement and stimulate the
efforts of the people. The Blair bill appropri
ates 000.000 of the $77,000,000proposed, to
these states which educate the races in sepa
rate schools; with the sole condition of a per
capita distribution of the funds to all children.
The congress of the United States, in like
manner, for years, has voted haif the expense
of the public schools of Washington, 1). C.;
respecting the local preference for the separa
tion of the races in the school house.
While I claim for the Southern school public
of each State the right to decide this, as all
questions of public t-chool administration, with
the one condition of the maintenance of the
-icivil rights cf all men, I claim, also, for the
school public of the Northern States the same
right. These States are now, in succession,
abolishing a'l distinctions and coming to edu
cate their children together in the common
school. The S\ate of Ohio was the last to
adopt this policy. I suppose, in the majority
of these States, not only the public schools,
but the leading collegiate, academical and pro
fessional institutions are open to students of
every sort. This policy has been a success
and has wrought no hardship to any class.
The South has greatly profited thereby from
the large number of able colored teachers edu
cated in the North, who have returned home
to work for thair own people.
I claim the same respect for the Northern
school public in this successful experiment as
I cheerfully accord to the school public of the
South. The common school can only be main
tained in our country by the mutual endeavor
of the school public to appreciate local condi
tions. And, while the school men of every
State should provoke each other to good works,
they should remember that the American com-
moi school cm! only be navigated in a broad
sea, and only by mutual uuderstanding and
mutual helpfulness can we educate the chil
dren. * I believe, more firmly every day, that
the growing enlightenment and uplifting of the
masses, through the education of the heart, the
head and the hand that makes for good citizen
ship, is th#» only assurance of the tinil settle
ment of all vexed questions which arise from
the blending of so many elements in the popu
lation of the republic.
But, while I hold that the State should grant
support to schools of which it reserves the
right of supervision, under the general public
school system, I also understand that the suc
cess of universal education in our country is
largely involved in its elaborate system of pri
vate instruction. With a few exceptions this
includes the whole department of the higher
college and university, and a large portion of
the secondary schools; with a great variety of
, family, church, private, corporate, profes
sional, industrial and artistic establishments.
Beyond this the wonderful new Chautaugua
system is bringing the Protestant Sunday
school work into the methods of the common
school. With this is connected the whole ma
chinery of public libraries, reading circles aud
the lecture system.
This va3t realm of education is now outside
legislative control or support; a world of free
dom; where every man, family, church, group
of people and corporation, under the so!e con
dition of obedience '.o the law of the land, has
full liberty of orgaLizat on, instruction and ad
ministration. Our pub ic school owes the
general acquiescence and support of the people
largely to the opportunity thus offered to every
citizen to educate his children in his own way,
without appeal to the State. This department
of our educational life may be c died the safety
valve of the whole machine. Without it, pop
ular opmion, work*ng through legislative bodies
would perpetually trample on the mos: sacred
right of the parent and the family, with con
stant danger of violating the rights of con
science, in forcing education into intolerable
mechanism aud making the public school the
most hateful agency ot political partisanship,
religious fanaticism, social intolerance and
barbaric prejudice.
The American people have so far resolved,
that this most important department of Ameri
can education shall only be held amenable to
the regulating influence of public opinion, rep
resented in the personal, social, religious and
economical status of the public that supports
these schools I am uot aware that any se
rious attempt has been made, by the legisla
ture of any State, to interfere with this large
freedom of private instruction. To attempt
this, on any pretext, or to secure any supposed
advantage, would set a precedent that would
rapidly develop into a habit of legislative in
terference, involving alike the fate of public
and priva e education. It has been wisely
held that public opinion can be safely left to
deal with the eccentricities and evils of this
liberty of private instruction so closely bound
up with freedom of speech and the press, and
the sacred rights of religious belief and wor
ship. No where is the defense of this freedom
of private instruction so impirtaut as in the
Southern StaUs, which depend so largely on
private and religious schools of all kinds. We
know of no emergency that would now justify
any legislature in the attempt to tie up th< se
schools, even by regulations cheerfully a -
cepted as a necessity of the common scho« 1
system. Iu the shifting aspects of educational
tuougnt and the growing tendency to make the
public school cover the whole field ot human
life, such legislative action would be fiaught
with such possibilities of complex mischief
that I can conceive of no American legislature
entering deliberately on a road that dips down
ward to such an abyss. I believe we can sale-
ly leave our American system of education to
work out its blessed result in its present lines
of operation, the pubdc school representing
waat the majority of the State is willing to
pay for the private school, the realm of free
dom, regulated by the powerful aud subtle in
fluence of public opinion in a Christian laud.
A. D. Mayo.
. sirs
A Sirius Matter, r.
[Er M. N. B ]
All things are mucilaginous;
It Is aa bot as Hades plus
Si L°nls. O. It's Sirius,
U ogdajM
You’re roasted, toasted, frizzled, tried.
Your eery blood is torrfiHd ;
All Ch'Gtlan comfort Is denied,
Dog-days.
Your bad bone and your ci ffi are limp.
Your t’other Ha l’s balr out of crimp,
That “bleosed baby” but an "In p!”
Dog-days.
Domestic bliss, where ts It when
One fly he bas the buzz of ten
And comes back o’er and o’er again,
Dog days?
There Is no thing you touch but sticks;
No o«e to ‘kick against tbe pr'ck-!’’
The Fiend gets In bis biggest Hot s,
Dog-days.
Midst melting misery ard moaDs.
Each man would give more than heowDS
Could he sit down in his bones.
Dog d»ys.
The woods are dripping, dirty, dank,
The **ky 1“ but a bioondrg blank,
Old Probabilities a crank,
Dog-days.
Tho’ Business. Lnye, Ambition, Fame,
Wilt in the aJ-aevi uring fl ime,
Expenses go cn Just the same,
Dot-days.
Muddled Gent—“Say officer, (hie) do you
know where John Williams lives'’"
officer—“Why, yoa’re John Williams your
self;"
Muddled Gent—“Y'es I know (hie), but
where does John Williams live?”
“Here is another h ck out,” said tho bar
ber, as he examined the tlierly gentleman s
head.
There was joy on the farm when Ben, the
oldest boy, came back from college in his soph
omore year, aid the village was proud of him.
“Cheese it, cully,” be said when he met an old
friend, the son of a neighbor who joined farms
with his father; “chee: e it, cully; thove us
your flipper, clench daddies, pardy. How’s his
nibs, ard what’s the new racket?” And his
proud old father said: “It was jest worth
inore’n tw ce’t the money to hear Ben ralt c
off the Greek just like a livin’ language.”
How She Changed Her Name.
Her Dame was Buiggs—It didn’t suit
Her rich, tettnetlcal nature.
Amt so she i nought she’d have it changed
By act of Legislature.
She sought a limb—a legal man
With Jots of subtle learning.
And unto him she did coLfide
Her soul’s most painful yearning.
He heard her through—he asked her wealth,
She sighed and rose—he took her hand
And quickly said. “How stuplo!
I old forget the precedent
Of Hymen vs. Cupid!’”
“Just substitute my Dame for yours,”
The maiden bill-lied and faltered—
But in two weeks she took her name
To church and had P alrar’d.
“So yer going to lave school soon, Misther
Arthur,” said the Irish jrnilor to a student in W
one of tbe Eastern law schools. % #
“Y'es, 1’atrick, 1 leave to-morrow.” ^
“And phwatdo yez be inthetidiiig to do?”
“Pretence sk the bar.'^^r , —
“At the bar, is it?” WHfocd luck I’ll go wid
yez, for man’y the toime Oi’ve heard the b js
say ye wor the best dhrink mixer in the class
“Eternal vigilance in the price of liberty.”
as the husband remarked when he pulled off
his boots iu the front hall about 2 o’clock in
the morning in order not to waken his wife
when he went up-stairs.
Lucky for the Burglar.
Mr. Foots—“Where is that burglar, Maria?
Where is he? Where’s the villain gone?”
Mrs. Foots—“Gone to the station-house. (>
dear, I'm so distracted. A policeman came and
took him. O, John, why did you leave me all
alone when the alarm rung, and run into the
garret?"
“Why did I run into the garret? I keep my
arms in the garret, that’s why.”
“But you’ve been gone an hour.”
“Took over an hour to oil up my gun and
grind my hatchet. But it’s lucky fer the bur
glar that my atnrs were not in order.”
“Say, mister” (thus ail all night and bleary
rounder to a gay but younger convivialist on
the Campus Marais), “gimme ten certs to
git a bite of breakfas'. ’
“No, can’t do it. Y ou want to get a drink.
I know the symptoms. I’m in the same fix
myself, an’ I’ve only got a nickel.”
“Rats!” was the animated reply. “Come
with uie’u I'll show you where we can git two
for live.”
Stonewall Brigade Band.
Professor Webb, is in receipt of an invita
tion to the Band to visit Chicago in October,
on the occasion of the Military Inten a iona
Encimpmert, which then takes pi co. In
teresting sketches of the history of the Band
from the time it entered the Confederate ser
vice to the present have appeared in the Chi-
Vhago papcrSs'.’ 0 .''
Love’s Progress.
[Uiom tbs later-Oceao ]
Tbe maid be Idolizes
Is “a dove
He very bigbiy prizes
K’eu ber glove.
He sentiment devises.
Prosaic things despises,
So every one surmises
He’s in love.
If not congratulated
He’s eni aged;
Her virtues intimated,
He s assaulted.
Wttn bliss lutoxlcated
His vices are abated.
He is not dissipated—
He’s engaged.
’Mid glasses brightly cllnfcing.
Him we see,
And thoughtlessly he’s drinking.
Though it’s three.
Wniie«liver’s sweetly chinking
O’er cams he’s bllcd y blinking
Of poser ho is thinking—
“Ethel, dear,” he asked tenderly, “do you
believe in love in a cottage?” “Yes, indeed ”
she answered enthusiastically, “if the cotta’ e
is at Long Branca.” &
“One difficulty about a chip off’n the old
biock,’ said Deacon Searchly, “i«, that it's
ureneffn a blockhead.”
She scolds and frets,
She’s fuff of pets.
She’s rarely kind and tender:
The thorn or life
Is a fretful wlff—
I wonder what will mend her?
Bobby—‘Ta, what's tbe meaning of ‘phe
nomenal?” His pa—“Don'tbother me, Bobby.
It has something to do with base-ball pitch
ing.”
A small boy declined to eat soup at dinner
the other day, cn the ground that he “hadn't,
auy teeth that were little ei ough for soup.”
Physician, Hare Found Ont
That a contaminating and foreign element iti
th« blood, developed by indigestion, is the
cause of rheumatism. This settles upon the
sensitive snb-cutaneons covering of the mus
cles and ligaments of the joints, causing con
stant and shifting pain, and aggregating as a
calcareous, chalky deposit which produces
stillness and distortion of the joints. No fact
which experience has demonstrated in regard
to IIostetter*s Stomach Bitters has stronger
evidence to support than this, namely, that
tins medicine of comprehensive useschecks
the iormidable and atrocious disease, nor ia
it less positively established that it is prefer
able to the poison? of* used to arrest it,
since the med* j only salutury iu-
gredients. 1 signal remedy for
malarial fever*,. viQustipation, dyspepsia,
kidnev and bladder ailments, delwJJtv and
other disorders. See that you get the genuine.