Newspaper Page Text
/
VOL. XX -NO. 923.
ATLANTA, GA., OCTOBER 7, 1893.
PRICE: $2 00 A YEAR.
MTS 8IA-SBIL18.
JO MRS. KLI.A WHEELER WILCOX.
For Tine Sunny South.
Ah, sweet singer, do you reckon,
Every Me a restless ocean,
And its written thoughts the sea-sheels.
Drifted back by ceaseless motion?
Strange you think they tell no story
Of the wild and troublor s ocean,—
Of the life that cast them outward,
In a mad, regardless fashion.
Voa should know the carious stranger,
Gathering up these shells, at leisure,
Catches something of the secret,
Each one tells, in rhythmic measure.
He who bends his ear to listen,
To the tune the shell is playing,
Knows it is the prisoned echo,
Of what Life’s ‘‘wild waves are saying I”
—Marjolaine Marx.
A Uny’« Programme For Literary Men.
The London Hospital thinks the af
ternoon nap quite unnecessary and
prescribes this regimen for literary
workers:
They should never go for more than
eight hours a day. Early rising would
be good for most of them. A cup of
cotfee and a piece of toast at half-past
six might be followed by an hour’s
work from seven to eight. The whole
hour between eignt and nine should
be devoted to a thoroughly good
breakfast and a short walk. Work
from nine to twelve.
Half an hour should then be spent in
gentle sauntering in the fresh air, and
a light lunch should follow—say a
chop and bread, with a modicum of
light pudding, accompanied by a small
glass of lager beer. From one to two
a pipe and a saunter, and at two a cup
of black colfee. From two to four
work. At four a cup of afternoon tea
ami a rest until five.
From five to six or half-past work,
and at half-past six the real labors of
tbe day should be over and completed.
At seven a good, well-cooked, appe
tizing, slowly-eaten dinner, followed
by one cup of black coffee, but no tea.
At a quarter to eleven a small cup of
cocoa and one or two pieces of toast.
At eleven bed, and sleep until six or
half-past six. The brain worker
should not work more than five days
a week in this fashion. He should
have two days of leisure in the week.
1'be first of these should be devoted to
brisk and thoroughly fatiguing exer
cise in the open air, and the second to
lolling, lounging, a little light reading
and the like.
TWO KABBOW KSCAPKI.
Ko Mutake Foitlbl; About the Man
In the Buggy.
H e had finished our game of whist
on the train when one of the players,
a red-headed man, said:
“A our speaking of narrow escapes
reminds me of one I had years ago in
the Sierras. Buckeye House,” he con
tinued, “is a public tavern amid the
mountains of southern Plumas coun
ty, and is a lonely spot, being sur
rounded by dense forests of spruce
and pine.
i)n the night of June 4, 1S7—, I
stopped there and was told by the pro
prietor that a highway robbery had
been committed in the vicinity during
the preceding day. This made me
exceedingly uneasy, for I was carry
ing $12,500 in greenbacks in the moun
tains to invest in a quartz mine. The
money was wrapped up in my horse
blankets and stowed away under the
seat of the buggy, while I had about
$100 io gold and silver in my pockets,
which I carried to pay my expen
ses.
“Shortly after leaving Buckeye the
road ascends a deep declivity and then
crosses a narrow, rocky, brush-covered
plateau. Three miles further on I
passed Palmetto ranob, an abandoned
stopping place, where 1 again entered
the dense forest that grew close to the
highway. I examined my revolver
carefully, placed fresh caps on it and
laid it on the seat beside me ready for
instant use. Nothing occurred until
I reached Frenchman’s Hill, when as
I was climbing one of the steepest
parts, I was suddenly stopped—so
suddenly, in fact, that I had no chance
to defend myself. A man sprang into
the road and caught my horses by the
bridles, while a second robber appear
ed from behind a tree holding in his
hands a shotgun at full cock. The
man with the gun was a tall fellow
with a squint eye and a red mustache,
while the other man was short and
stout.
“ ‘Throw up your hands 1’ cried the
squint-eyed man in a harsh voice. 1
glanced at the muzzle of the gun and
then at the revolver on my seat. ‘Up
with you hands, or I’ll give it to you,’
and the look on the robber’s face in
dicated that he meant what he said;
so I reluctantly gave up all my ideas
of defence* and slowly and mechani
cally raised my hands above my head,
at the same time cursing my ill luck.
‘Get out and keep you hands up,’ cried
the tall man, ‘till Jim takes yer money
and yer popgun.’ I got out and walk-
to the head of the horses as comman
ded and stood there with my hands
raised while the short robber deftly
examined my pockets and took what
gold and silver I had, saying as he
ratt led the coins, ‘It pays to drive
bogs.’
‘•‘Hogs?’ I exclaimed, ‘What do
you mean by hogs?’
“Oh, that’s all right. He told us you
were cQming, and we laid in the brush
for you,’ was the response.
“I glanced up at that second and
saw a murderous look on the squint"
eyed man’s face, while his fingers was
on the trigger of the gun. As I was
standing close to the small robber the
weapon, of course, covered us both. I
gave an involuntary start, which
caused the short man to look up. His
face blanched white as he exclaimed:
‘Take care there, or you will shoot us
both,’ at the same time stepping back
so as to bring my horse between him
self and his companion’s gun.
“I involuntarily followed his exam
ple. when the short man said, in a low
tone: ‘I believe that rascal meant to
kill us both. Now,’ he continued in a
loud voice, at the same time taxing
my pistol from the seat,‘you pile right
in and be off.*
“ ‘Yes,’ cried the squint-eyed fellow,
‘slide right out and sell your hogs for
enough to make up for what we took.’
“I had supposed, of course, that
they would search my buggy, and now
that I was about to escape with my
preoious greenbacks, my heart beat
furiously and tbe blood rushed to my
face as though I had just undergone
great exertion. I hastily obeyed the
injunctions of the robbers to ‘drive
on and keep-a-going,’ and as soon as I
was out of gunshot I whipped up and
drove at full speed until I overtook a
little old man, shabbily dressed, driv
ing a lot of fat hogs with the aid of a
small dog.
“The old man looked at me with
some astonishment as I drove rapidly
up, and cried:
‘Bay, did some fellows stop you back
thar?*
“ ‘Yes,’ was my reply. ‘Did they rob
you?’
“The old man laughed and slapped
his leg, and then laughed again ere he
replied.
‘Kinder curious how it turned out,’
he replied, but hanged if I knew any
one was a-coming in a two-hoss bug
gy-’
“What do you mean?” I asked, for I
saw nothing funny in the whole mat
ter.
“Why, you see, them fellows step
ped out in the road, right in front of
my hogs, and cried for me to stop.
This scared the hogs, and they broke
out in the brush. 1 pretended not to
understand what they meant, and
sending Boze out on one side, I took
the other, at the same time a-cussing
them chaps right lively for scaring
my hogs. When I got ’em all back
again I turned around and said:
“Now, what do you want?”
“Money,’ cried the tall fellow; ‘all
you’ve go.
“Money?” and I roared so you could
have heard me half way back to Buck
eye. “You don’t reckon that a chap as
has got to go afoot and drive hogs for
a living has any money? If you want
that just stop the boss who is ooming
along in a two-hoss buggy and you
will get some.”
“ ‘Get right on, then, said the
tall chap, ‘and we’ll lay for the boss.*
“ And they got you?’ continued the
hog drover. ‘I hope you did not lose
much.’
“ ‘A hundred dollars,’ said I, ‘but I
got off lucky at that.’
“ ‘So did I,’ said the old drover, with
a grin, ‘for I sold a part of my hogs on
the the road and had the money with
me. It was a case of sheer bluff on my
part.’
“ ‘And of lack upon mine,’ I an
swered. ‘It was a narrow escape for
both of us.’ ”
* • • We oannot be guilty of a great
er act of uncharitableneBS than to in
terpret the afiUcations which befall
our (neighbors of punishments and
judgments. Itjaggravates the evil to
him who suffers, when he looks upon
himself as the mark of divine ven
geance, and abates the compassion of
those towards him who regard him in
so dreadful a light. This humor of
turning every misfortune into a judg
ment proceeds from wrong notions of
religion, which, in its own nature pro
duces good will towards men and puts
the mildest construction upon every
accident that befalls them. In this
case, therefore, it is not religion that
sours a man’s temper, but it is his
temper that sours his religion.—Addi
son.
THE CAVERN QUEEN.
OR
Colonel Charlton’s Heiress.
BY MARY E. BRYAN
[COPYRIGHTED.]
CHAPTER XXX.
AFTER FOUR YEARS.
Constance Wharden and her pro
tege—Amy, the rightful heiress of
Charlton—have once more set foot on
their native shores.
Four years have been spent abroad,
traveling in Europe, living in London
and Paris and awhile in beautiful
Florence, then one day Constance
suddenly says:
“Let’s go back to dear old Amerioa,
cherie. 1 had a dream last night that
has somehow waked up a longing for
‘my ain, my native land,’ as the song
says. Paris is charming, but we will
be able to be happy in New York. I
shall ffx up a cosy nest for us there.”
“A cosy nest,” she called it, but it
was a beautiful, artistic home in
which they were soon established in
New York. Constance is rich. The
yield of coal and iron frbm her Ken
tucky lands has been far greater than
the first prospecting had given prom
ise of. The young widow is well able
to buy a house in a fashionable quar
ter of Gotham and to fill it with ele
gant furniture and beautiful works of
art which she has brought from
abroad.
She is handsomer than ever—too
handsome and too young to live
alone, Madame Grundy would have
whispered.
But Constance has forestalled Mad
ame Grundy. She has provided herself
with a “sheep dog” to keep the wolf,
“They Say,” away from her door. She
has secured as a chaperon the clever
and accomplished Mrs. General Stan
ford, an elderly widow with plenty of
pedigree and social distinction, but
no money.
Mrs. Stanford is nearly seventy, but
she is carefully preserved and looks
by candlelight not a day over fifty.
She was once a society queen—the
wife of a courtly diplomat, who held a
government office abroad. The gen
eral’s handsome wife was well receiv
ed at court, and the odor of foreign
favor clung to her on her return to
America. Her salons given in her
little bijou of a home were frequented
by the best people, and she was an
oracle in matters of taste and fas h-
*on.
The rgeneral died, reverses came,
the pretty establishment was broken
up, the widow drifted to a first-class
boarding house, then to one less ex
pensive, and then she passed out of
sight of her fashionable friends.
It was said she had gone to live
abroad; in reality she had taken ref
uge in a charitable home for old ladies
of good family who were in reduced
circumstances. Here Mrs. Wharden
fonnd her. An old friend of the lady’s
gave Constance a clew to her where
abouts.
Mrs. General Stanford was overjoy
ed to ex change her stuffy room in the
home and the society of the pensive,
cross or oranky old ladies for a com-
| fortable suite of apartments in the
pretty home of the young and lovely
Mrs. Wharden, where she could once
more take part in the social life she
loved. Her duties were light—only to
dress with stately elegance and play
tbe part of duenna; to drive in the
park with Constance and her young
niece—as Amy was called—to go with
them to the opera and to balls and re
ceptions; also to inform Constance
“who was who”—to initiate her into
tbe mysteries of getting into society
without making any false step.
Constance found no trouble in get
ting into society.
While abroad she had met a number
of the people who belonged to the
charmed inner circle of New York.
These were delighted to have her open
her “booth in Mayfair” in a manner
that promised enjoyable (parties, teas,
luncheons and receptions. Her card-
case was soon piled high. - Carriages
stood at her door at all visiting hours,
and invitations came thick and fast as
the gay season advanced. Her figure
and her gowns were declared to be
perfect, while as for her niece—there
was a chorus of praises of Amy’s grace
and beauty, and the delicate yet spir
ited art of the pictures she painted.
Tonight Mrs. Wharden is giving her
first large reception. Vulgar gas is
tabooed, and the rooms are lighted
with many lamps and wax candles
under shades of crinkled rose-colored
silk. In the mellow sunset glow of
these the pictures look wonderfully
real, and the tall pa Ims and ferns and
Japan lilies that embower the corners,
and the groups of chrysanthemums
and roses massed here and ther e, give
a fairy-land aspect to the rooms.
Half an hour before the earliest
comer would be announced by the
magnificent white-gloved butler,
Constance comes down to take a look
at the parlors. She wears pale helio
trope with quantities of duchess lace;
a necklace of large pearls with a dia
mond clasp encircles her round, white
throat. She moves up and down the
beautiful rooms, the mirrows every
where reflecting her charming figure
as she gives a finishing touch here
and there to a flower decoration or a
fold of drapery.
Mrs. General Stanford comes in,
looking like a dowager queen in her
trailing black velvet and yellow old
lace, her snow-white hair rolled baok
en Pompadour from her still fine-look
ing face.
Constance smiles at her approvingly.
She is proud of the harmonious ap
pointments of her house on this first
night of festivity. But her eye turns
to the door with a little flash of anti
cipation as a light rustle is heard on
the stairs.
A young girl enters. She is simply
dressed in soft, white crepe—no orna
ment except a bunch of Cape jasmine
bads at her belt and a string of pearls
around her white throat. But jewels
[CONTINUED ON SECOND PAGN.J