Newspaper Page Text
VOL XX. No. 938.
ATLANTA, GA„ JANUARY 27, 1894.
PRICE: $2.00 A YEAR
For the Sunny South.]
Ere This New Year Has Ended.
Ere this New Year has ended
That promises so fair,
How strangely will be blended
v.right pleasures with despair 1
How many hopes we cherish
Will wither ere they bloom,
And leave us when they perish
To disappointment’s gloom!
How many ties be broken
That only God can mend!
How many farewells spoken!
How many friendships end!
How many troths be piighted
’Neath passion’s cloudless skies!
How many hearts united
In love’s enduring ties!
How many children tender
On life’s hard road will start,
With eager hands to render
Each one his ordered part!
How many lives will ’waaen
To greet a brighter morn,
And have worn sandals taken
From feet all bruised and torn!
For fate with fingers clever
Makes up a k- crazy patch,”
W hose various colors never
Are fashioned so they’ll match.
Meinphis, Tenn.
J. G.
A CRITICAL MOMENT.
It Was the Happy Culmination of a
Country Love Affair.
1
Miss Teenie Meadowgrass may have
been a very unsophisticated little
country maiden, but she knew what
was proper in such cases, and she had
given Mr. Jake Philpott to understand
very (lisnnctly that he could not take
her from her ancestral home until he
had “asked papa” for her in due form.
Jake bad tried to “torment” Teenie
into wedding him without subjecting
him to the agonizing ordeal of “asking
pa” for her, but Teenie was coolly
obdurate.
“No, sir; Jake Philpott, you got to
go an’ ask pa for me, or you don’t git
me,” she said. “I guess I know my
duty to my pa an’ my ma. If I ain’t
wuth askin’ for I ain’t wuth havin’.”
Jake and Teenie had been to singing
school and were now at the Meadow-
grass gate. A light burned in the
“sett in’room” of the old farm house,
indicating that pa was still up. Teenie
had suggested to Jake that he would
never have a better opportunity to
“ask pa” for his little, girl (Teenie
weighed but 179).
“1 don’t see why in creation you
should be so skeered of pa!” Teenie
said. “He ain’t goin’ to eas you up,
nohow.”
“I know that, Teen, hut hanged if I
wouldn’t rather break in the worst
yoke of steers I ever handled, or flap a
red rag in the face of our old bull in
the middle of a forty-acre lot, without
a tree in it nor to face your pa on such
an erran’.”
“Shucks! I wouldn’t be such a cow
ardly calf.’
“You reckon your pa will say ‘yes,’
Teenie?”
”I,or’ how do I know? I s’pose you
think he ought to jump at the chance
of getting shet of me.”
“Now, Teen, you know better than
that. Lord, I wouldn’t blame ’im if he
tilled me full of buckshot fer wantin’ to
earry you off. He feels friendly toward
u ‘e,don’t he?”
."i ain’t never heerd ’im express no
Wls h to kill you, nor thraaten to eat
lou up alive if you didn’t stop cornin’
to ou r house.”
>(J h, ye little torment. Say, Teen,
wny ca y n ’t you ask ’im.”
a *'! W ’ sm arty, I think I see myself
j. 8 ,, n 111 y own pa to give me away to a
f e r that ain’t got grit enough to a*k
or me? Don’t you want to go an’ ask
^ 1 can have you?”
, e h, we’re both of lawful age, an
the use of any askin’ about
T»mi know my duty to my pa, Jake
11! Pott. Ed Bagg has been hpngin
_ sL u “ d ou r house a lot of late and he’d
•^k lor me quicker’n a wink if I say
Wouldn’t get you.”
Uow do you know he wouldn’t?”
“’Cause I’d kill him first!”
“Pooh! Here you are K skeered to
death ’cause you’ve merely got to
speak to my pa, and yet makin’ your
brags how you’d kill a man.”
“What shall I say to your pa?”
“Say, you big booby? There ain’t
but one thing to say. Ask ’im out-and-
out for me.”
“Will you go with me?”
“I’ve a notion not to. I’ve a mind to
jest stand outside an’ peek through the
keyhole an’ snicker. Then I’d be
there handy to open the door when
pa pitched ye out clean over the
fence.”
“Teenie!”
“Like enough he will. He’s awful
when he gits started. But come on,
it’d be politer if I went, too.”
Hand in hand, with Jake’s hand
trembling perceptibly, they walked up
to the door and entered the lair of the
lion Jake so dreaded. It was a relief
to Jake to hear pa say : “Hello, Jake!
You and Teenie been to siugin’
school?”
“Yes, sir; an’—an’—”
“Hey?”
“That is—er—we—I—Teenie, she—”
“I never, neither, now, Jake Phil
pott,” said the giggling Teenie.
“What you drivin’ at, Jake?”
“Well, mebbe you noticed how
stiddy me an’Teen has kep’ comp’ny
of late, an’—an’ Teenie, she wanted me
to ask—”
“Aw, Jake Philpott, I never no sich
thing!”
“Well, you said I had to ask your pa
’fore I’d git you, an’—well, Mr. Mead-
owgrass, I think the world an’ all of
Teen, an’ she does o’ me, don’t you
Teen?”
‘I’d be smart to say so if I did.”
‘Pshaw I Stop your quarrelling.
You’ll do enough o’ that after you’re
spliced,” said pa, jovially. “I ain’t
anything agin’ you, Jake, an’ I guess
Teen’s old enough an’ big enough to
know her own mind, an’ if she kin
stand you l kin. You kin have ’er.
Good night; I’m goin’ to put off to
bed.”
The critical moment was passed, and
there are not words enough in the
new Century dictionary to describe
the happiness of Jake and Teenie dur
ing the next five hours.—Detroit Free
Press.
THE DEVIL’S CHAIN.
Given Count Piper in Settlement of a
Gambling Debt.
I will repeat one of the many legends
told me by a charming Swedish lady
about the family of Count Piper, the
well known minister of her country to the
court of St. James, says the National Re
view. Once upon a time the head of this
house was bored to death in his splendid
castle, and he yawned his thousandth
yawn and said: “I would that I had even
the devil to play cards with me,” and at
the word satan himself appeared in the
guise of a gentleman in which Shelley
also knew him. Oddly enough the devil
lost his money, and having none in his
pockets, for reasons best known to him
self, he offered the count, in full acquit-
ance of all claims, an apparently golden
chain, remarking, incidentally, that when
ever that chain was lost or injured, the
castle of the pipers would infallibly be
burned.
This unusual announcement aroused
the winner’s suspicions, and, happening
to look under the card table, he beheld
the cloven hoof. Instantly he sprang to
the wall to reach down his sword, for
swords in those days, the date of which
I cannot exactly give, were always ready
to the hand. But the devil was gone,
and the chain alone remained. On ex
amination it proved to be long and thin,
with innumerable little links, such a chain
as old gentlemen used to wear around
their necks for watch chains not so long
ago. An assay discovered the metal to
be something other than gold, but could
by no means determine what it actually
was.
An accidental injury to one of the links,
however, caused by the hammer of the
goldsmith, cost the count a wing of his
castle, and a second injury and a tempo
rary loss of the chain having resulted in
a second and third fire, it at once became
apparent that the devil would keep his
word. Each successive head of the Piper
family has worn that chain around his
neck from the day of his accession to the
day of his death, and on the decease of
the late count, not long ago, it was care
fully and reverently removed from his
body to be passed to his heir.
I hope this is all true. I believe it is,
seeing the source whence I got it, and as
it is but a credit to any family to get the
better of the devil, I have no hesitation
in repeating the story.
HOW THE VETERAN DIED.
BY ALEX E. SWEET.
The old Texas veteran was dying.
For days he lay unconscious on his cot
in his log cabin. The doctor had given
up all hope of his recovery. In a few
more hours all would be over. There
was nothing for the faithful watchers
to do but to wait for the end.
How time that seems to take nothing
as it passes finally robs us of every
thing! There was nothing in the
shrunken features and wasted form of
the dying man to remind one of the
hardy frontiersman who had once been
Sam Houston’s most daring scout,
whose unerring rifle was a terror to the
bloodthirsty Comanche, aud who had
blazed his way with his dripping bowie
knife through the ranks of Santa
Anna's Mexicans.
A VISION OF THE PAST.
Suddenly there came a change over
the face of the dying man. There was
an eager look on his face as he whis
pered : “Hurry up, boys, we must come
up with them before night!”, and his
sons, themselves gray-haired men,
whispered together. They knew his
thoughts had gone back half a century,
and he was once more with Jack Hayes
following the irail of Indians that had
captured a white family.
For a few moments the old veteran
was so still and motionless that the
watchers thought his spirit had fled.
Then he clutched the blankets. There
was a frown on his wrinkled brow and
a glare in his eye* that would have
appalled a demon, as through his
clenched teeth, like the growl of a
tiger, came the words : “No quarter!
Remember the Alamo!” He was again
charging the Mexicans on San Jacinto’s
bloody field.
But look! What a marvelous trans
figuration ! An expression of inelfable
tenderness, like a gleam of sunshine
on some ancient ruin, came over his
wrinkled features as he softly whis
pered, “Little May.”
His sons glanced at each other. For
more than fifty years that name had
never passed his lips. She was his
only daughter, who bad brought dis
grace and sorrow to his heart. “Come,
little one,” he whispered, with a smile
on his lips, “let us go out on the prairie
and pick some flowers”—and he was
still forever and ever. Amen 1”—New
York Herald.
The Woman of the Future.
Susan B. Anthony is of opinion that we
are on the verge of an era of unmarried
women. Our civilization, she says, is
changing. Daughters cannot be sup
ported at home, and there is nothing
there to busy them. The women used to
spin and weave, make carpet and soap,
but now all that is done for them in the
factories. Young men do not make
enough money to support their wives, and
there is such a craze for dissipation
among them that the women would
rather go into a store for almost nothing
than to marry.—Reading Times.
An old lady who had several unmar
ried daughters fed them largely on a
fish diet, because, as she ingeniously
observed, “fish is rich in phosphorus,
and phosphorus is useful in making
matches.”
A WITCH OF TO-DAY.
By MARY E. BRYAN.
V-
(Copyright. Commenced in Christmas Number >
CHAPTER IX.
MRS. EARLE’S STRANGE STORY.
The fellow was badly stunned. He
gathered himself up after awhile and
stood rubbing his bruised forehead and
muttering unintelligible threats. York
unconcernedly fastened bis glove and
walked out of the shop, nodding con
fidentially to the chuckling cobbler.
Outside he saw the boy Earle had
sent for the whisky. He had invested
his dime in peanuts and popcorn, and
he was leaning against the wall de
vouring them, the object of admiring
envy on the part of the youngsters
who were looking on. A thought
struck York. He went up to the
urchin.
“Bub,” he said, “can you tell me
where the man lives that sent you af
ter the whisky?”
“What, old Billy the Swiller? Yes,
I know where he lives. I carried
pair of shoes to his place. He’s got
rale nice lodgin’s. Somebody pays the
rent for him, they say. ’Taint far
from here.”
“Go ahead and show me the place.
Here’s a quarter for you.”
The boy crammed the rest of the
pobcorn into bis mouth, held out his
dingy paw for the coin, and started off,
Van Zandt following.
They walked about a quarter of a
mile, treading a number of streets. At
length York’s guide stopped before a
three-story brick house with a good
entrance and an air of neatness and
respectability about it not shared by
its neighbor houses.
“An old couple has the first floor of
this house,” said the young arab as the
two stood on the porch waiting for an
answer to their ring. “They talk some
kind of queer gibberish ’Tain’t Dutch,
and I don’t b’lieve it’s French. I knows
somethin’ of both them langidges. Old
Billy’s folks live in the two top stories.
They used to have a mighty pretty
daughter. She didn’t favor old Billy.
She looked like a fine wax Christmas
doll. She’s dead—done drownded her
self, folks say. She used to do such
beuchiful work in heads and silk!”
The door opening put an end to his
conversational efforts. An old lady,
whose round, pallid, yet not unhealthy
looking, face was surrounded by a
snowy cap border, stood holding the
door ajar. She started and changed
countenance when she saw York; her
mild eyes grew stern, her lips trem
bled as they shaped his name. She
drew aside coldly and let him pass.
He understood that she felt a resent
ment against him for his supposed
treatment of Agnes Earle. Bowing to
her without speaking, he passed on
and mounted the stairs to the second
floor. There was a hall here on which
two doors gave. He knocked upon one
of these.
There was no answer at first. Then
the door was timidly opened, and York
entering saw the head of a little girl
who was half dodging behind the door.
There was a great bruise on one of
her cheeks. York immediately knew
that it had been made by the drunken
brute, Earle, and that the child was
afraid it was he who was about to
enter.
“Call I see Mrs. Earle?” he asked.
“Oh, it is Mr. Van Zandt,” cried the
child joyfully. “Come in the other
room. Mrs. Earle is in bed like she
was the last time you were here.”
“When was the last time?” he asked.
“It’s been—oh, long ago! Two
Christmases has come since then. Miss
Agnes and the baby was here then—
they ain’t here now,” she added, sor
rowfully shaking her little head.
York followed his guide through the
neatly furnished little parlor, noticing
its Wasteful appointments and its cot
tage piano. The child saw him glance
at the instrument.
“It's the piano you give Miss Agnes,”
she said. “He wants to sell everything
in here, but he can’t, you know. It’s
good you fixed it so he can’t, and paid
the rent ahead for two years.” She
had her hand on the knob of the inner
door to open it.
“This was your’s and Miss Agnes’
room, you know,” she said. Miss
Agnes’s mother has it now. She’s done
put away lots of the pretty things you
give Miss Agnes—the baby’s crib, too.
She couldn’t stand to see them around.
She’s going to cry when she sees you.”
“Who are you, my little maid?’’ asked
York, putting his hand on her curly
head, as she stood at the door, delaying
to open it.
“Don’t you remember me? Oh, I
didn’t think you could forget little
Lina that you took out of the orphan
’sylum and was so good to. You
brought me here to wait on Miss Ag
nes and you—and when the baby came
I used to hold her in my lap. Them
was good times! No such now.” She
sighed. “I could go back to the ’sylum,
but I won’t leave Mrs. Earle.”
She had opened the door, and York
saw at the further end of the pretty
room a woman in the bed, propped up
with pillows, her face turned to the
door, seeming to be listening eagerly.
When the great black eyes in the ema
ciated face fell upon him she uttered a
cry and leaned over stretching out her
hand to him. Then, seeming suddenly
to recollect something, she fell back on
the pillows, covered her face with her
hands, and lay there sobbing bitterly.
He stood by her bedside, much moved,
looking down at the shruken figure,
and noting the beautiful shape of the
hands, the fine contour of the head,
and the grace of the soft, wavy brown
hair streaked with silver.
*
“How came this woman to be the
wife of Billy the Swiller?” he thought.
“There’s a story here.”
Presently the lady—for that she was
a lady he could not doubt—took her
hands from her tear-washed face and
looked at him steadily.
Where is my child?” she asked.
“Where is Agnes, who loved you so?”
“I do not know. I wish to heaven I
did!” he answered, earnestly.
“Did you kill her—did you drive her