Newspaper Page Text
4
THE SUNNY SOUTH* ATLANTA. GEORGIA' SEPTEMBER 23 1891.
FAITH.
For The Sunny South.
In oar daily contact with our fellow being?,
Ye feel ourselve* oft pricked with little siings
Of wrong and iDjurv If, when harassed,
And fainting with the ills through which we ve
parsed.
We rest onr burdens on oar faith In Heaven,—
Sweet promises umo us mortals given —
We, than, onconecious touch some magic
spring,
And loose some golden chain, and open Sing
Tha portal whence streams sweet contentment’s
light,
O’er life that else would seem o’ercast with
blight.
—Miss E. L Vollintine.
THE CAVERN QUEEN.
CONTINUED FROM SECOND PAGE.]
John Olcott’8 face betrayed that
memory and regret were busy in hi
breast.
At the close of one impassioned
strain he impulsively leaned near the
singer, as if he longed to draw her to
him and kiss the lips that had uttered
those thrilling notes. Then he drew
back quickly; his face hardened and
his lips were pressed together. He
seemed to be resisting the softer influ
ences that were creeping over him.
Bed-time came all too soon for Amy
Mrs. Wbarden said good-night, and
went to her room. W hile she was let
ting down her thick nut-brown hair,
Mrs. Olcott tapped at the door and
came in, bringing a glass of hot spiced
wine, saying:
“You complained a little of sore
throat, Constance. 1 have always
found the spiced wine a good rem
edy.”
Constance took the glass, saying:
“it is your old specilic for cold. I re
member you used to make me sip it
slowly while it was hot. Won’t you
sit down now while 1 drink it?”
She drew up an easy chair for Mrs.
Olcott, and seated herself in another,
her white dressing-gown flowing
loosely about her, and her hair lying
in bright, wavy tresses on her should
ers. For a minute the two women
were silent, Constance slowly sipping
her wine, her eyes bent on the toe of
the toilet slipper in which nestled her
little white, stockingless foot. Then
Mrs. Olcott spoke.
“Constance, you have come here for
a purpose.”
Mrs. Wharden raised her eyes; the
oolor deepened in her cheek, but she
asked, quietly:
“And that purpose?”
“Is to renew your old relationship
with my son?”
“It is true,” was the answer, after a
little pause. “I have come here hop
ing to find that the love that was once
mine belongs to me still, and if it
should be sleeping, that I may wake
it to life.”
She stopped; then, finding that
Mrs. Olcott did not speak, she went
on.
“I know that John loved me once as
I love him now. What parted us then
was partly my own oversensitive
pride, but chiefly it was your fault.
Yes; let me speak plainly this once—
it was your .jealousy—your wish to
keep John all to yourself. It was this
that made you hard and sarcastic to
me, and inclined you to see all that I
did—foolish and giddy I was, perhaps
—in a distorted light. You were un
just, too, to John. You were exacting
in your demands on his love and his
attention. I understand it now. You
•lung to him in your sorrow. You
wanted him to lean upon. You felt it
as a wrong that another should put
forth any claim to him.”
She paused, and Mrs. Olcott rearing
her bead haughtily, said, in her small,
silvery tones:
“Have you done arraigning me?”
“Not quite,” replied Constance. “I
have been speaking of the past. As for
the present, do you not see that you
are sacrificing your son, sacrificing
yourself by living in this reckless
way—shutting yourself from the
world, shutting him from all opportu
nities for larger growth and usefulness
in his profession?”
“I think my son is content with his
life,” was the cold answer; but the
lady’s face had grown pale and her
eyes clouded.
“Y'ou think he is content? Then a
film must have grown over your eyes
and your mind during these years of
seclusion, else you would see that he
has lost his youth—that he has lost hi9
zest in life. He is as grave as though
he were an old man. I can see plain*
ly that he is moody and unhappy.”
“Yon see more than any one else,”
retorted Mrs. Olcott, sharply.
“It could not be otherwise,” Con
stance went on, not seeming to have
heard her. “A man’s nature is nour
ished upon ambition, appreciation and
love. He is starved and stinted if he
does not get it. John is starved in
this narrow sphere His practice is
among the uncultured mountaineers.
His skill, even, is not appreciated.
And you, Cousin Hortense—you are
still young and full of the graces that
make a leading and useful spirit in so
ciety. Y'ou have no right to bury
yourself and grow selfish and self-ab-
absorbed. There is growth for you,
too—the progressive world outside—”
“The world! I want nothing more
to do with the world!’’ cried Mrs. Ol
cott, with scornful bitterness. “What
has the world done for me? It has
tried to crush me with slander—it has
busied itself with the story of that un
happy girl, though she is in her grave.
It would bring up everything afresh
if I should go into it now—”
‘ Xo, the world has forgotten, or it
will soon forget when it sees that you
do not seem to remember. And this
little eddy that circles around you is
but a small atom of the world. Turn
your back upon it and go elsewhere.
It is not good to be rooted too long to
one spot. Lease your lands here—
don’t sell them for they may be rich
in coal and iron, as mine have proved
to be; but lease them and make a new
home iu one of the great cities.”
“And where, pray, is the money to
come from to make this Hew home?
We have only our lands.”
“But I have money—more than
know what to do with. And I want a
home—a home for my heart as well as
my body. Won’t you come and make
oDe for me—you—and—John? I need
you more than you can need me.”
She put out her soft, shapely hand
and laid it on Mrs. Olcott’s knee. She
looked with earnest, tender persuasion
into the face of John’s mother. “Will
you?”she repeated.
Mrs. Olcott’s mouth softened, her
eyes grew misty. In her heart she
had always loved Constance Wharden
She had leaned upon her strong, ener
getic spirit, and when the breach oc
curred she had sorely missed her cheer
ful companionship.
“You mean that you wish me to
give my consent to your renewal of
the old engagement with John?” she
asked, at last.
“Y'es,” Mrs. Wharden said, speaking
steadily, in spite of her blush, and
looking frankly in the elder woman’s
eyes. “I am free; I still love John
Olcott, and I have come here to find
out if he still cares for me. Do you
think he does?”
“lam sure you do not doubt it.”
“I wish I did not doubt it. There
was something in his manner this
evening that makes me fear he has
changed. I feel that something is
causing him to draw away from me.
Tell me, cousin Hortense, is there a
possibility that he loves some one
else?”
There is no such possibility. He
has never paid the slightest attention
to any woman but you.”
“And this sweet little stranger with
in you gates?”
What, Amy? He has simply been
kind to her, and attentive while she
was so ill. He looks on her as what
she is—a child.”
“A very lovely child! I wish she
were mine. So you do give your con
sent to my trying to regain my old
place in John's heart, Cousin Hor
tense?”
Yes,” with a smile that transfig
ured her little face and made it seem
youthful—almost childlike.
Constance drew her to her and kissed
her.
“I thank you,” she said. “And
I will not keep you any longer
your beauty-sleep. Good-night
[to bk continued ]
MY FALLEN IDOL
For The Sunny South.
» we make idols and find them c'ay,
And then bewail their worsl ip.”
now
from
It Depends.
As I rode quietly along the bank of
Poor Fork, just where the Pine Moun
tains begin to let it over to wuere it
joins the Cumberland river I was stop
ped by a man sitting on the fence
with his arm in a sling and a Win
chester in his lap.
“How d’y,” he said; “did you come
by Brown’s?”
“Do you mean the cross roads back
here about five miles?” I asked, much
surprised that a mountaineer should
ask me a question first.
“Yes, that’s the place.”
“I stopped there to have a man nail
a shoe on my horse.”
“Hear um say anything about a
shootin’ match thar yistiddy?”
“I heard them say there had been
one.”
“I heered so, too, an’1 war anxious
to find out it it war so. Did you hear
who the shooters wuz?”
“I don’t remember the names, but
they said only one of the men had been
shot.”
“Not killed, I reckon?”
“No; he was shot in the body, they
thought, but he got away before they
found out how much he was hurt or
ju9t where.”
“This is a dogon funny country for
shoutin’ matches, ain’t it?” he asked
with a short laugh.
“It looks that way,” I replied cau
tiously. “Personally, however, I don’t
think I would enjoy them.”
“Well, that depends, mister, on who
gits shot.”
“Perhaps it does, but you don’t mean
to say you eDjoy that kind of thing,
do you?”
“I reckon I didn’t eDjoy that one
yistiddy.”
“Why?” I asked in surprise, “you
were not there, were you?”
“Y'es; I wuz peekin’ ’round a bit.”
“And why didn’t you enjoy it if you
stayed to see it?”
He laughed and held out his band
aged arm.
“I wuz the feller that got shot,” he
said, and I could at least understand
why he hadn’t enjoyed that one.—De
troit Free Press.
The kangaroo readily leaps from
sixty to seventy feet. The hig&est re
corded leap of a horse is thirty-seven
feet.
Y IDOL WAS THE
usual one,—a face.
Faiir, deadly fair, with
black rippling hair fall,
ing away from a broad,
full, high forehead,
sparkling hazal eyes,
and a mouth of woman
ly sweetness shaded
with a brown curling
moustache.
St. John Craven was
my ideal of all that is
grand and noble, with the form and face
of an ancient god.
It was in the Spring of the year that we
moved to A9hby. Ashby was a pleasant
little place, yet moving there from a great
city, it seemed strangely simple and quiet.
Our family was a small one, only father,
mother, and I.
Mother had been an invalid for some
time, so we had moved to that little town
by the saa for rest and quiet.
It was a great delight to me to climb the
tall rocks and gaze oat on the sea.
A splendid view it was, for on that coast
the beach was not uniformly smooth and
even, but in one part especially, rose to
immense cliffs, precipitous and jagged,
whose outlying rocks extended into the
sea like the jaws of some hideous sea
monster opening wide to seize unfortunate
boats diiven into their clutches. Again
this selfsame coast descended slowly and
unwillingly in short curves and boundaries
until at length about two or three miles
from the rocky part, lay a piece of land
scape a painier might take as a model of
severity. A great stretch of dazzling
sands, against which the little waves leap
ed and dashed in frolicsome glee.
One clear bright morning I ascended
the rocks at some distance from the cot
tage we were occupying, taking my
sketching material with me, for I am
something of an artist.
I found a convenient rock and sat down.
After gazing for some time on the beaut,!
ful changing waters ^ below me, I turned,
and at quite a distance I saw seated a man,
a stranger. Clearly he did not see me. He
was looking far out to sea, with a dreamy
look on his handsome face.
At the sight of him, my first impulse
was to withdraw, my second, prompted by
my artist natnre, caused me to remain and
commence sketching him.
The stranger was at a .considerable dis
tance from me, yet the day was so bright
and he was so situated that I could see
every detail of the face I have described.
Seated where he was, leaning his head
against a tall gray rock, that regular pro
file was as distinct as if cut in marble. A
marvelous face I and above all, just the
kind I needed to put in a picture I was
painting.
I had drawn a very good outline of the
face, and was wishing I might get a near
er view, that I could remember just the
shadings to put on eyes and hair, when
suddenly the stranger stood up and stroll
ed leisurely toward me.
I could not return to the honse without
attracting his attention, and as I was pret
ty well hidden, I drew farther back, car
rying my portfolio with me, and deter
mined to remain.
Seeing a good hiding place, I stepped
quickly into it, and h id no sooner shrunk
back in my niche of rock than he passed
by.
I gazed uninterruptedly upon those per
fect features—took in every detail—the
exquisite shading of the hair from black
to Drown and golden, the white sbapely
hands and faultless dress of this new
found Apollo.
He passed by, and I slipped out with a
sigh of relief at escaping notice. I thought
contentedly that I could remember excel
lently well what shades of brown suited
for his hair, and even the expression of his
eyes. Alas, yes I I did remember them,
and to my dying day will rise up that face
as I saw it then, in all its god-like beauty.
Returning home I p tinted steadily all
the rest of the day, and was progressing
finely when I was terribly interrupted in
the middle of the afternoon by the sound
of men’s voices in the piazza, and tbe
tramp of many feet.
I went to the door to see what it could
be, ana stood face to face with four or
five men including my father who were
bearing some one on a board between
them.
‘•Oh what is the matter?” cried I.
“We are bringing in a strange young
man dear, who was hurt by jumping into
the sea to save a little child,” replied my
father.
Pressing closer as they were carrying
him into the room opposite, I caught a
glimpse of the heantifnl soft hair and
white forehead of my hero of the morn
ing.
I leaned against the wall feeling quite
faint, for the face had all the appearance
my inexperienced eyes
Then he would speak in piteons tones
and beg his father not to insist, then re
turn to his wild ravings that it were worse
than deatn.
I sat with the tears rolling down my
cheeks, mourning his sorrow and pitying
him from the bottom of my heart, and we
all know what pity is akin to. Before his
illness had scarce begun I felt for him an
intense interest, then a great and heartfelt
pity, and finally a love so deep, strong,
and overmastering that it filled my spirit
to satiety with its exquisite intoxicating
flood
I stayed by his side, watched over him,
waited on him and worshipped him. He
grew better and would lie there and watch
me whenever L slipped into the room,
and when I came near him would gaze at
me with soft recognizing eyes, and try to
smile in so pitiful a manner in his weak
ness that I was fain to turn away and hide
the tell-tale tears.
As soon as he could talk without dan
ger, he told us that his name was St John
TTa iiunH 1T1 NftW York. WtlfiTft
. Apache Arrow p 0l , 0n
We are indebted to 1 bii J
cently in the Government
vice in Arizona, for a descrii
the manner in which 30me
braves in the Apache region ,
their deadly arrows, says the p!3
(California) 1’rogress. ^lfdouj
of death in
They laid him on a bed, and
soon after the phyician came in. I
waited in the studio with anxioos
impatience for the verdict to be
delivered on my model. “He has received
a very severe gash on the head, which
may cause brain fever” was the substance
of the doctor’s report when stripped of
technicalities.
Determining not to allow him to fall
into the hands of the rough nurses I
knew the neighborhood would afford,
Father, mother and I devoted ourselves
entirely to him, and alter many weary
days and nights, he commenced to im
prove.
In his delirium he always raved of his
father and some woman. “No, no, father
I never will! I cannot marry her, oh, how
I hate herl I will not, you cannot force
me to. No, Father, please don’t ask I
don’t love her, and it makes it doubly
hard to refuse when you speak so kindly
Oh God! to think that my Father should
ever beg me on his bended knee for that
which I must refuse! No, no, I
will, never, never, never!”
never
Craven. He lived in New York, where
his father was a banker, and had come
into the country to rest, which he added
he certainly needed.
While he was giving this rather meager
at count of himself, he little thought how
much he had told us in his illness. As he
grew better, his cherry smile and happy
face bslied ail he had said, and I set the
greater part down to the extravagant rav
ings of delirium, without much founda
tion.
He continued to improve and it was not
long before he was well enough to walk on
the beach, and rest on the sands.
But while taking these promenades I
noticed he never went toward the scene of
his accident, the rocky part of the beach,
but ever in the other direction. He always
wanted a companion, and very frequently
he would ask me to go with him, with such
softened, pleading expression in his eyes
that I could not refuse.
These strolls became more frequent and
lengthy. Every few days we would make
the little cave our resting place, and sit on
the sands and listen to the soft dash of the
waves on the beach or converse in low
tones.
Oh those happy days! Their memory
comes back to me now with the breath of
the salt sea waves, the perfume of flowers,
the song of birds, and above all, the pres
ence of him my lover, my idol; my earth
ly all I The days constantly grew sweeter;
they crept into my spirit with a subtle
charm, a honeyed sweetness, yet withal a
bitter-sweet so keen I knew not whether I
was happy or sad.
The long, lazy, idling days, when we
sat by tbe great rocks alternately talking
sketching, and reading aloud; for I found
that my love could excel me in even my
one art. I painted him in every posture
and even now his face looks cown upon
me in hollow mockery from walls and
books,—and even the last, a tall picture
in Greek costume. I had destined always
to remain on a fancy easel in my room
for I never imagined oar dream would
fade, that he was other than he seemed.
Love him ? Ay! through all ages! and
he seemed to love me. I see him now,
whispering fond words of endearment,
and protesting over and over again that he
loved me, yet still with a queer hunted
look on his face, and an anxious expression
in those beautiful eyes.
One day he received a telegram. He
told me he was compelled to return home
it was a case of the most urgent necessity
But he added:
“Lenore, darling, I shall return, remem
ber that, tne loved one shall not remain
alone”
Then he whispered something about my
being the lode-star of his existence, fond,
foolish words, but trustingly received. He
went! Every moment of my existence
seemed a century.
He was to return in a fortnight.
I counted every minute and second
which passed as another step bringing me
nearer to him.
I never had known how I loved him
until ne was gone for this first little sepa
ration.
At last the glad day came when he was
to arrive.
I dressed in a soft mull he had once ad
mired, and waited all expectant for his
coming.
The day passed, the next and the next,
and he never came. No word, no news of
him or his whereabouts. Perhaps he
might be dead, and I would never know.
A month passed- I lived a living death,
all remnant of hope had left me. I tor
tured ms self ail day long with imaginings
of what his fate might have been.
That face would rise before my eyes and
bum itself into my soul never to be
effaced.
As a last sad alternative, I thought of
searching the papers, and endeavor in that
manner to find some trace of him.
It was quite accidentally I picked up a
prominent New York paper one morning,
and as I did so, some words in gleaming
print struck my eye: “Wedding Chimes!”
I thought of my own that would have
been ringing abont that time, and glanced
carelessly down to see who the happy and
honored conple might be. “Miss Eloise
Raymond to Mr. St. John Craven.” I
read no more. Oh God! the pain and hor
ror of it!
If I lived a million centuries, with each
moment crowded full of pain, it would
not eqnal the angaish and neart-breaking
I felt then. He, my idol, my loved and
worshipped one!
My heart is burnt, it is a shrivelled
scroll. Ah me, these ashes of roses! The
exqnisite sweetness and joy of the blos
soms, but the ashes, the fire that con
sumes them, how withering and scorching
its heat!
I live on, bat I am dead. I live in my
torn down castle, my castle in the air. I
hug its fair proportions, its exquisite
dream, and my broken fallen walls are
covered o’er with pictures of my fallen
idol.
A despoiled mosque with its idol all
broken and marred, yet I linger here by
my idol, faithful to the end. My thoughts
still dwell on those by-gone days; their
fragrance comes back with a far away
sweetness, and counterbalances the bitter.
Oh we make idols and find them clay,
And then bewail, ah bewail their wor
ship!”
I. A. C.
Apaches have hail
their poisoned weapons
still they, because of
each summer go
The Connecticut Legislature has
decreed that the flag shall float over
every schoolhouse in the state.
mtleor no,
for .
t a tri baling
tion of their aW-r^Vf 1
and methodically as though
time war were at hand.
This work on the arrow in
of labor that the Indian brave
leave to the squaws. li e Mrh
dozen or more rattlesnake
puts them in a spherical earrh.J
sel. With these he puts half*,
species of large red a».t that
many parts of Arizona. “
The bite of this ant is more mj
ous than that of a bee. Vpont?
pours a bit of water and then *
with moist earth the lid of this
sel. He then digs a hole two feet*
into the ground, in which lie build
roaring fire, and puts in some 2
When the interior of the hole and
stones are red hot he make, a pi ac J
the bottom for the earthen vessel
puts it in.
About it and upon it he puts L
coals and hot stones, and upon thel
he builds a fierce fire and keeps it I
for twenty-four hours. Then he |
out his vessel, and, standing off wjl
long pole, he disengages the top
lets the fumes escape. The Indian]
sists that if the fumes should comej
his face they would kill him.
mass left at the bottom of the vesst
a dark brown paste.
To test the efficacy of his concocd
Mr. Hawks has seen an Indian will
hunting knife make a cut in his
just below the knee and let the
run down to his ankle. Then tail
a stick he dipped into the poison)
tauched the descending blood at
ankle.
It immediately began to sizzle, i
it were cooking the blood,and
poison followed the blood right up|
leg, sizzling its way, until the
scraped the blood off with a knife
The savage assured Mr. Hawksl
if he allowed the poison to reach)
mouth of the wound he
have been a dead man in twenty \
utes.
Very Funny.
“It’s funny,” said the street car
ductor, “how things run in this
ness. Now, if I carry a one
man in the morning, I’m pretty
to carry one armed men all day.'
“I’ve noticed that,” said the
ductor who was off duty and who
riding down town in the rear
“Same way with one legged
Beats all how many men there u|
this town who have lost parts of
selves.”
“That’s right,” said the first
ductor. “I noticed that when I
down the other afternoon. I p
corner of Bryant street a one
man got on. Two blocks farther
a man with one of his legs gone
ed aboard. Then it was a i
stream of them—a man with bottl
cut off and a man with botk|
cut off. Then came a man witi
arms and one leg off, who was
around by another man, andi
with both legs and one arm off.
there was a man who had an ey
and a man with both ears cut of.
“Funniest thing, though, was
who got on at Swan street who
to be all right. He made some
sign to me when I took his fare,
didn’t understand it. So I asked
what he meant. He made a
sign. ’Can’t you talk? said I, a
shook his head and opened his"
and I’ll be jiggered if his &
wasn’t cut off.”
“That was sorter queer,” sa
other conductor, “but it was
lucky too.”
“How do you make that out.
the other conductor. “I don’t a
the poor cuss was in luck.”
‘Ob, yes, he was,” replied the o
conductor. “He couldn’t possitw
such a blamed liar as you are. ®
And then a dead silence fe 11
the rear of the car, broken only w
chuckles of the fat passenger
wore an alpaca coat.—Buffalo ksP
The Viscountess Sherbrooke,^
Robert Lowe, the well known
glish statesman, was a
strong character, and she chjj 11 ®*
criticism in that she was in the
of saying whatever came 1Dt0
mind at the moment.
She had sense and courage, &
and a head, and she bore a l ar £ e
in her husband’s public life. ^
One repartee ascribed to b er
that she was at least ready
loyalty of speech. The Frencn
bassador one day said to her :
what patronizingly:
“You know England is s ald
land of shopkeepers. I bad n° "
finding there such great infl lCa *
plays.” #
“Ah,” she replied, “the p e °P le t
ferent countries do not
each other. Now, I have r J. t
been under the impression .
French were a great military n
see