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VOL. XX. No. 939. ATLANTA, GA., FEBRUARY 3, 1894. PRICE: $2.00 A YEAR.
For the Sonny South.]
The Tramp’s Last Wish.
“Good mornin’, Jim!” “Good mornin’, Bill!”
An old .man leaned upon his cane;
His gray locks floated on the wind—
His body shook with many a pain.
“I’ve come ag’in to you. ole pard,
From wanderin’ up an’ down the road,
I n hopes that you, my only friend,
Might he’p me with my heavy load.
“I’m gittin’ up towards the years
The good-book ’lows a man to live;
An’ I wuz thinkin’ uv the day
When I my soul to God must give,
Not that I’m afeard to die,
(I for the heavenly mansions fine)
But, Jim, I wondered whut would ’cum
Uv this ole crippled frame o’ mine?
“For many a night, beneath the sky,
These weary eyes have closed in sleep,
An’ long before the mornin’ broke
These eyes have opened but to weep;
Fur in my dreams thar cum agin
Them happy days when I wuz young:
An’, Jim. I thought I heered the songs—
The sweet ole songs my mother sung.
“But sumhow, Jim, hit ’pears to me
That when a body cums to die,
He’d ruther that sum good ole friend
Would fix a place fur him to lie:
An ole pine box, I think, would do—
A shaller grave beneath the trees—
Why, Jim. J would be monstrous proud
Ef I could git sich things as these!
“Now, here’s my picter fur my boy—
He may not keer to have it, Jim;
But, he is so much like nis ma,
I cannot he’p but think o’ him.
So write my name upon the back,
That he may know me as before;
An’ tell him that his daddy said:
To meet him whar they tramp no more.”
“I’ll do it, Bill! You need not fear—
Ef hit should take my house an’ lan’;
Jest fur the sake o’ good ole days:
So here’s my heart an’ here’s my han’.”
The old tramp started on his way,
And as he went he hummed a hymn.
Then some one said: “God bless you. Bill,”
And Bill replied: “God bless you. Jim.”
—Robert T. Bentley.
New Decatur, Ala. *
The Letters of Junius.
An event of the first magnitude, says
The St. James Gazette, London, is about
to take place. Lord Beaconsfield said
that there were only two really burn
ing questions: Who wrote the Letters
of Junius? and who was the Man in
the Iron Mask? The former of the
two has at length been satisfactorily
cleared up; and the proofs, based on
recently discovered documents, will be
published in a volume to be issued
shortly by a great old firm, whose
name will be a guarantee of the gen
uineness of the discovery. The public
will, of course, guess that this has
been made through the mass of man
uscripts of Sir Philip Francis, which
came into the market some months
. In fact, it is said, the new mat-
iscovered leaves no doubt what-
that Francis was the author ot
amous letters. A grandson of Sir
ip is said to be still alive, and to
been a judge in Australia, lhe
5 clique J of literary Australians
•t that he is in some way con
ed with the book, and are very
[ant at the prospect of Aust J a ^ a
more coming as P r0I “ in . e “ tl J J^L
English readers as she did a few
s since. The first of the letters of
us appeared more than a eiUury
on January 21,It 69. I hey
ished at intervals from
when they were collected by
Idfall and revised by their author,
se name not even the p'
knew. They were attr ^ fl u *£IS
Philip Francis, Warren Hastings
b bitter enemy; to L ° rd di ®
naine (Sackville), "ho was dis
sed the army for cowar<B< ;* *
don, and as minister was respon
i for the repressive m<»sur^
nst the American c ^J on ?* t y iTT1
i Temple; to the great Burke £*
and at least six or seve ader s
re are probaby few of our acau -
are not acquainted with
i summing-up to prove ‘
ip Francis was Junius :
al evidence is, we think,
would support a verdict in a civil, nay,
in a criminal, proceeding. The hand
writing of Junius is the very peculiar
handwriting of Francis, slightly dis
guised. As to the position, pursuits
and connections of Junius, there are
five marks, all of which ought to be
found in Junius. They are all five
found in Francis. We do not believe
that more than two of them can be
found in any other person whatever.”
In dedicating his collected letters to
the English people, their writer said :
“I am the sole depository of my own
secret, and it shall perish with me.”
John Wilkes, writing to Junius in
1771, called it “the most important
secret of our times.” And so it has re
mained for a century and a quarter.
But it is soon to be a secret no longer.
Henry Irving’s Christmas Story.
One Christmas eve at midnight, a
small company of men was assembled
in a quiet place of resort just off the
Strand, London. One of the company
was Henry Irving. Several persons
present had told stories appropriate to
the season, some of them being tales
of hardship endured by the tellers, ac
tors by profession, at Christmas times
in former years. By and by Irving,
who had so far been silent, though lis
tening with deep attention to what
had been said, took his turn. And this
is what he told:
“The recollection uppermost in my
mind just now, while you boys have
been talking about tramping and win
ter roads and all that, is of a certain
Christmas dinner at which I was pres
ent. I wonder whether any of you re
member a poor fellow, long since dead
—Joe Robins—who played small parts
in London and outside it, and who
made the one big mistake of his life
when he entered the profession. Joe
had been in the men’s underwear busi
ness, and was doing well, when an ama
teur performance for a charitable ob
ject was organized, and he was cast for
the part of the clown in a burlesque of
“Guy Fawkes.’ Joe belonged to one of
the Bohemian clubs, and on the night
of the show his friends among the
actors and journalists attended in a
body to give him a ‘send-off.’ He
played that part capitally, and the
mischief might have ended there, but
some one compared him to Grimaldi.
His fate was sealed. He sold his stock,
went on the stage, and a few months
later I came upon him playing general
utility on a small salary in a small
theatre in Manchester. One relic of
his happy days still remained to him.
He had retained shirts, collars and un
derwear sufficient to last him for a
generation.
“But if Joe lacked ability as an actor,
he had a heart of gold. He would lend
or give his last shilling to a friend,
and piece by piece his stock of under
wear had diminished, until only a few
shirts and underclothes remained to
hl “The Christmas of that year—the
year in which we played together—
was perhaps the bitterest I ever knew,
joe had a part in the pantomime.
When the men with whom he dressed
took off their street clothes, he saw
with a pang at his kind heart how
poorly some of them were clad. One
poor fellow, without an overcoat,
shivered and shook with every breath
of the wind that whistled through the
cracked door, and as he dressed there
was disclosed a suit of the lightest
summer gauze underwear, which he
was wearing in the depth of that
dreadful winter. Poor as Joe was, he
was determined to keep up his annual
custom of giving his comrades a
Christmas dinner. Perhaps, all that
remained of his stock of underclothing
went to the pawnbroker, but that is
neither here nor there. Joe raised the
money somehow, and on the Christ
mas day was ready to meet his guests.
“Among the crowd that filed into the
room, was his friend with the gauze
underclothing. Joe beckoned him in
to an adjoining bedroom, and, pointing
to a chair, silently walked out. On
that chair hung a suit of underwear.
\
It was of a comfortable scarlet color;
it was of silk and wool; it was thick
and warm, and it clung around the
actor as if it had been built for him.
As the shirt fell over his head there
was suffused through his frame a
gentle, delicious glow that thrilled
every fibre of his body. His heart
swelled almost to bursting. He
seemed to be walking on air. He saw
all things through a mist of tears. The
faces around him, the voices in his
ears, the familiar objects in his sight,
the very snow falling gently outside
the windows, seemed as the shadows of
a dream, with but one reality—the suit
of underwear,”
“His feelings seem to have entered
your heart.” said one of the listeners.
“They might well do so,” replied Mr.
Irving, “for I was that poor actor.”
A Petrified Cat.
A petrified cat is on exhibition in the
Forty-seventh regiment armory, on
Marcy avenue. It was found late yes
terday afternoon near the rifle range
in the cellar, and indentified as the cat
which William Godfrey, the former arm
orer, lost ten years ago. The cat had
turned into solid stone. It stands erect,
with head thrown forward and tail
turned up in a semi-circle. The rifle
range is on the right side, directly un
der the drill room, and extends the
length of the armory, nearly 600 feet.
It was built ten years ago, soon after
the structure had been taken possession
of by the regiment, which up to that
time had its headquarters at Bedford
avenue and Xorth Second street.
William Godfrey was the armorer,
and when he moved from the old armory
he took along a pet black cat, which had
been looked upon as a mascot for years.
Soon after Mr. Godfrey’s family were
settled in their new quarters, the cat
was missed. A search was kept up for
weeks and the armorer offered a reward
for the recovery of the missing animal.
The open spaces around the rifle range
were searched over and over, but no
trace of the cat was found. Mr. Godfrey
and his family finally mourned the fe
line as dead and in time the cat was
forgotten.
Recently it became necessary to make
improvements and alterations in the
rifle range, and for that purpose some
of the side boarding had to be torn
away. A dozen men were at work yes
terday afternoon digging away earth,
and the shovel of one of the laborers
struck a hard substance. A light was
procured and the petrified cat wasfound.
It was wedged between the side of the
rifle range and a wall of earth impreg
nated with lime. So tightly was the
cat wedged in that the dirt on its side
had to be dug away.
Militiamen who had known the pet
cat of the armorer at once identified it
as the long lost one. The substance
was washed and then put on exhibition
in one of the company rooms. On both
cheeks of the cat are two thin pieces of
what would seem to be wire, but are
really the petrified hair of the cat’s whis
kers. There are dents in the animal’s
face which would seem to indicate that
on the day it was last seen it was prob
ably pursuing a rat which ran into the
narrow space between the rifle range
wall and the wall of earth, and could*
not get out again. The cat will be
placed in a glass case and kept at the
armory.—Brooklyn Citizen.
IN BAD STANDING.
Jones—“I’m in an awful fix. I never
saw such times. I just can’t see any
way to get through.”
Smith—“Why don’t you try for some
office?”
Jones—“My party standing is bad.
I acted as an election manager when
I was a very young man. The contest
was very close, and I insisted upon a
fair count. Our side won honestly,
but my party has l^ked upon me with
~i
A WITCH OF TO-DAY.
By MARY E. BRYAN.
(Copyright. Commenced
CHAPTER XII.
THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE ACROSS THE
STREET.
“Did you know the woman who iden
tified her?”
“Xo; I never heard of her before. I
am sure Agnes had not known her be
fore she left here.”
“The paper said your husband also
identified the body.”
“I know that was published.”
“Was it not true?”
“I suppose it was. He went to the
morgue and saw the body, and he
brought back a little silk shawl—it
was the same she had around her neck
when she went away. He said the
body was hers ”
“Is not that sufficient?”
“I seems as though it ought to be.
He says I am a fool to feel any doubt
about its being her body; but I can’t
help it. He lets drop some strange
hints sometimes when he is in liquor.
When he found me crying once he
cursed me, as usual, and swore I did
nothing but snuffle about a wench that
was a cursed sight more alive than I
was. When I asked him about it after
he was sober he denied having said so
—declared he only said she was better
off, being dead.”
“Do you know whether he had any
unusuel sum of money immediately
after the body was found?”
“Yes, I do remember. I saw him
with a roll of bill. He said he had won
them at cards. He played whenever
he had money, but he almost always
lost.”
“And now tell me about the woman
your daughter went away with—what
was she like?”
“She was a Sister of Charity.”
“How do you know she was a Sister
of Charity?”
“Only by her dress. She wore the
garb—the black gown and bonnet, and
the beads and crucifix.”
“What was her appearance?”
“I do not remember well. Usually I
am quick to observe, but I was agitated
and worried on Agnes’s account during
the few minutes she stood here waiting
for my daughter to wrap up the baby
and herself. I am almost sure she had
dark hair and large dark eyes, and that
she was pale. One thing more I reco-
lect: there was a strange-looking
blemish on one of her cheeks; it looked
as though a spot as large as a thumb
nail was covered by a patch of court
plaster, and this was powdered over.
I saw it plainly because she stood near
me and the light fell directly on her
face. Oh, there was one thing more :
she wore a ring. That seemed strange
to me that a sister should wear a ring,
and not a plain ring either. She had
on dark woolen mlits like those the
sisters all wear, but they were too
large for her small hands. One of
them dropped off, and I saw the ring
as she was putting the glove on again.”
“It was not a plain ring, you say?”
“Xo, it was set with red stones—
rubies—in the shape of a heart. If the
n Christmas Number)
design had been a cross I would not
have thought it strange to see it on her
finger, though I didn’t know that Sis
ters of Charity wore rings.”
“I don’t think they do. Did it oc
cur to you that possibly the woman
might not be a Sister of Charity, or
that she might not have been sent by
Mr. Van Zandt?”
“Xo such doubts came into my mind.
I had no time to think; we were all so
excited and hurried. Besides, she
brought a note frem York to Agnes. I
have the note. Lina picked it up from
the floor where Agnes had dropped it.
It is here under the head of my bed,
between the leaves of my little Bible.
I keep it there because I don’t want it
to fall into my husband’s hands. He
doesn’t know I have it—thinks it was
lost. He would take it to the police.’’
She had taken the book from under
her pillow. She drew from between
the leaves a bit of paper on wlyich a
line was written in pencil:
“Come to me; I am very ill. Come
at once and bring our child. Yours
only, York.”
“It is his handwriting,” Mrs. Earle
said. “He wrote a peculiar hand”
“Yes,” York said.
He was scrutinizing the note with
double interest, because the writing
was so like his own. He had read often
that handwritings, as well as faces,
were inherited. Here was a proof. He
wrote like his father and grandfather,
so did his cousin—his double. But,
peculiar as was the handwriting, it
might be imitated. Was this note
genuine?
“With your permission, I will take
this with me, Mrs. Earle,” he said.
“Take it, of couese. But what avail
is it, or anything, if my child is in her
grave, and her tender little babe was
food for fishes a year and more ago?
What does anything matter? Xo in
vestigation can help me, unless—. Tell
me, do you think it possible my child
may be alive?”
“Everything is possible when there
is the least uncertainty. In the case
of a body that is taken from the water,
half decayed, there is room for doubt.”
“Oh, I always felt so!” she cried,
bringing her withered hands together,
while a light came into her face. “I
tried not to hope, but I could not help
it. There seemed ground for hope.
The baby was never found. That
strange woman did not know her well
enough to swear to the body. Then
Earle’s talk when he was drunk and
off his guard. Oh! I see there is reason
to hope that my child is alive. But
where is she? Why does she not let
me hear from her?”
“She may have gone away with her
lover—or her husband—whichever he
was. He may have sent for her on the
pretense that he was ill, and taken her
away secretly.”
“Why should she keep it secret from
me? She knew how anxious and mis
erable I would be. Xo; she would not
have done that. She was too loving
and kind at heart. She would have let
me know.”
“She may have been prevented from
writing or coming to you, or her letters
may have been kept from you. I am
only suggesting possibilities, Mrs.
Earle. Everything may be as it ap
pears. Your daughter may be sleep
ing peacefully in her grave. I do not
wish to raise any false hopes. But I
