The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, March 03, 1894, Image 1

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Newspaper Page TextVOL. XX. No. 943. ATLANTA, GA., MARCH 3, 1894. PRICE: $2.00 A YEAR For The Sunny South.] Some Day. We have the best of reasons for feel ing assured that the writing of the following excellent lines was suggest ed by reading Frank L. Stanton's beau tiful and touching poem, “Weary the Waiting.” AVe therefore present the two pieces together: SOME DAY. It lies in the land .« Of the Morrow, In the misty Valley Of Dreams, Anri the way is the Highway of Sorrow— A million of leagues, It seems. Some say ’tis a mountain Uplifting Its summit beyond Our reach. Some say ’tis a song Never rifting The silence with pinions Of speech. Some say ’tis a May Neverbringing Any more than a promise Of Jnne; Ora pendulous dawn Never swinging Through the passing years Into noon. Vet it is beyond All the dreary, Dull glow of Li re’s Colorless shies: Tis the place of Rest For the Weary, I’>y the portals Ol Paradise. For it lies in the "Land < >{ the Morrow, In the misty Valley Of Dreams, And the way is the Highway of Sorrow, A million of leagues, It seems. Mattie A. IIallum. WEARY THE WAITING. There's an end to all toiling some day—sweet day! Ilut how weary the waiting—weary! There’s a harbor somewhere in a peaceful bay, Where the sails will be furled and the ship will lay At anchor—somewhere in the far-away— But it’s weary the waiting—weary! There’s an end to the sorrow of souls oppressed; But it’s weary the waiting—weary! somewhere in the future, when God thinks best, Me will lay ns tenderly down to rest, And roses will bloom from the thorns in the breast— But it’s weary the waiting—weary! There's an end to the world with its stormy frown; < Bnt liow weary the waiting—weary! 1 here's a light somewhere that no dark can drown, And where life's sad burdens are all laid down— A crown—thank God!—for each cross a crown; But it’s weary the waiting—weary! Frank L. Stanton. SHE CLIMBED MOUNT TACOMA. A Girl Reaches the Summit of America’s Most Difficult Peak. A young woman, Miss Fay Fuller, of I’acoma, a daughter of an editor of that city, has recently accomplished Jjhe perilous feat of climbing Mount Tacoma, America’s most difficult peak, ‘t is a grim old hill, towering 14 444 lee t high, with glaciers extending far up its base. _ ^ took four days to manage the first feet of the ascent over dangerous ^irams and through dense forests, al though the party, consisting of three Reutlemen and a guide, besides Miss i uller, who was on horseback. After hat they proceeded on foot, as the was too rough and wild for horses. At 12,000 feet the wind blew a hurri cane. Crevasses big enough to drop a ^use into were crossed. , 11, e summit, when reached, was °hml to be about two miles across. standing on the top,” says the San r ra ncisco chronicle, “the adventurous \ umbers could see below them two h*f. crat ers, looking like immense tn ' with a central common rim. The S crater w as three-fourths of a mile across. Roth were filled with snow and i b ith the rim around the bare rocks k erf!” 1 11 P la ces sixty feet. The steam IC the rocks bare. Coming down from the summit, where they could hardly stand, because of the fierce wind, they took shelter in the crater and examined the steam jets. These looked like a row of boiling tea-kettles along the ridge. The party sat on the rocks and were soon damp with the moisture and parboiled by the heat, and it was obligatory, as ever, to move on again.” The party passed the night on the summit before beginnng the descent, which was more perilous than the up ward climb. Of this night spent in shelter of the big crater, Miss Fuller says: “Two blankets over us seemed little protection. Through the small open ing in the cave we could watch the stars and meteors and hear the awful avalanches roaring down the mountain sides. I was the only one who could sleep. When we woke our shoes were frozen stiff, and had to be thawed out in the steam. The blankets were icy.” Miss Fuller is the first woman to at tempt this feat, and few men have cared to risk it; of these few still fewer have accomplished it. A War Reminiscence. Absolute indifference to danger un der the most perilous circumstances has been the characteristic of the Texas soldier from the days of Sam Houston. An illustration of this fact came under my observation in 1864, when Gen. Warren with several thousand troops occupied the town and peninsula of Indianola, on the coast of Texas. The Confederate cavalry regiment to which I belonged di]J picket duty around Indianola, while the main force of the Confederates was encamped about five miles from the town. Every night a detachment of cavalry ap proached within a short distance of the Federal fortifications, watching every outlet, and retiring at daybreak. One night two Confederate pickets were on guard on the main road to town. They were “Buck” Graves and “Sam” Gazely. While thus sitting on their horses they got into a dispute. Gazely maintained tint the Federal troops had evacuated the town. Graves admitted that the “Yanks” were laying low, so as to encourage the Confeder ates to make a night attack, which was being arranged. Moreover, that very night, Graves, who had lived in Indianola before the war, and he knew every inch of the ground, had crawled up in|the darkness and located a large Federal picket just outside of the trenches to the left of the very road they were guarding. Gazely, how ever, remained incredulous. The result of the discussion was that they bet a pair of saddle bags against $200 in depreciated Confederacy cur rency on the question at issue, and proceeded to settle the bet by riding down into the town. The night was not so dark but that they could see the forts, houses, and particularly the cupola of the court house silhouetted against the eastern horizon. After riding some distance Graves, who was equal to any Indian in distin guishing sounds and localities in the dark, reined in his horse and said they were in the immediate vicinity of the Federal picket. To this Gazely made some remark that implied his compan ion was “skeart.” Graves did not re ply, but throwing his leg over the pom mel of his saddle, girl fashion, struck a match, and proceeded to light acorn shuck cigarette. He had not taken more than one puff when there was a blinding flash from half a dozen Fed eral muskets at point blank range. As is usually the case in firing at a light in the dark the Federal pickets over shot the mark. The two Confederates turned their horses ard rode slowly back. A second volley, fired at ran dom rang out. Almost immediately a rocket went up as a signal to the gun boats; the long roll was beaten, and the double line of trenches were man ned The Federals believed that the pxDected night attack was being made, as I learned afterwards from a Federal deserter. A WITCH OF TO-DAY By MARY E. BRYAN. (Copyright. Commenced in Christmas Number ) In the meantime, Gazely and Graves rode back to their station on the road. Neither said anything until Gazely re marked sententiously: “ ‘Buck,’ them saddle-bags are your'n, I reckon.” A few days later Gen. Warren’s troops did evacuate Indianola, on their transports and gunboats, to reinforce Gen. Banks, who had been defeated by Gen. Dick Taylor, at Mansfield, on Red river. Alex. E. Sweet, Company A, 33d Texas Cavalry, C. S. A. The Separation of Soul from Body. In an article in The Outlook Dr* Lyman Abbott asks, What is death? Just what Socrate3 said so long ago— the separation of the soul from the body; that, and nothing more. And if it be that and nothing more, why should we be afraid of it? Why should we be unwilling to have the soul sepa rated from the body? We never found our bodies such a help to us that we should be sorry to get rid of them when the time comes. If, indeed, a man has been living a sensual life—if his life has been in the things which the eye and the ear give and the hands can handle—if this is his life and all his life, then he may well regard death as like a robber that lurks in ambuscade ready to leap upon him and rob him of all his possessions. But if he has been living for the immortal and the eter nal—if he has been living for faith and hope and love, for righteousness and purity and temperance—why should he dread the time when the soul is to be separated from the body? Separation of the soul from the body, what does it mean? Why, it means, first of all, separation from death. It is a physiological fact that we have been dying ever since we have been born. The body is always going into decay, and we are always trying to patch it up and keep it going. The whole process of life is a repair of a decaying and dying body, until at last we can repair it no longer, and it drops to pieces Death is emancipa tion from death; life is dying, dying is living. Man is like one floating upon a river against whose resistless tide he rows in vain. His body is the stream on which his soul is embarked, and the stream is hurrying him down, down to ward the great sea. Why should he he afraid that by and by the process of flux will cease, and he will reach the Holy City and stand on the firm land of God? Separation of the soul from the body : what does it mean? 11 means sep aration from all the limitations of the body. How our language misreports us; how our ears mishear; how hus band and wife who have been living together almost half a century, still find that they do not know each other, because they have to communicate through this impalpable wall of lan guage, which always gives an imper fect and often a false impression of the soul! Separation of the soul from the body is the separation from this en tanglement, and the artist will see clearly what now he sees dimly and expresses poorly; and the musician] will hear clearly what now he hears only imperfectly, and ut ters poorly; for the body is not the secret and source of our life, it is the limitation on our life. What is the separation of the soul from the body? Separation from one of the great classes of sins that perplex and torment us. When any of us get hold of some poor man who is the slave of his own appe tite, and put a little faith and a little hope into him, and start him on the up ward turning, and presently the man falls back into drink, our rescue-work is not all thrown away. The sin of ap petite is the sin of the body; if a man has nothing better than body, then this rescue-work is thrown away; but if into that poor, struggling man we can put the germ of immortal life, the seed that has been dropped into the soul may yet bring forth fruit, when the body which chokes the seed has dropped into decay. CHAPTER XVII. SEARCHING for links. “Did you dream that you saw his spirit?” She started up with a shriek. Her eyes were wild; they flashed in her pale face. “It was no dream,” she cried—“it was no dream! I saw him lying in his coffin—a poor pine coffin. They showed him to me—they will show him to me again. They will materialize him for me and let me touch his hand, and beg his forgiveness on my knees. They will show me his poor dead wife and child. They will bring the remains of child and father to me for Christian burial—soon! soon I shall have that poor satisfaction. Then I will give up this wretched life and gladly lie beside them in the grave.” As she uttered the last word she fell on the floor in a dead faint. York lifted the slight figure, and sighed to feel what a little weight it was upon his arm. A sturdy Irish girl came quickly from an inner room and said: “Bring her in here and lay her in here on the bed, if you plaze, sir, and lave her to me. She’s often this same way—poor lady! It’s meself that’s afther knowin’ best what to do wid her.” She closed the door upon York. He stood for a few moments in the room outside, waiting to have some word about the poor woman whom he so sincerely pitied. In a little while Katy came out with the message from her mistress that she was better, that she would write to him by to-morrow’s mail, and that she hoped to see him soon. Before he repaired to his bachelor apartment?, where he had appointed to meet the detective at nine o’clock,York was obliged to go to his Fourteenth street perch to get some papers—mere notes that he had jotted down in a book he had thrown into his trunk while dressing. He thought he might need the notes to help his memory in the talk he intended to have with Bick- instoff to-night. He got the note-book, and then sat down to indulge himself in a cigar and a reflective review of the day’s doings. What a day it had been! Almost a match in strange and startling expe rience with the eventful yesterday. The French have a proverb which says : ‘ It is the uneifcected that happens—it is the impossible that takes place.” He was beginning to feel the truth of the proverb. He begun the day by reading news which assured him that he had achiev ed a fortune without lifting a hand or spending a nickel. Next, he had read his own obituary, and saw in its publi cation a very possible barrier to his being able to prove his own identity in case he was arrested at the instance of Earle on a charge of abduction and murder. Then he had recovered his lost pocket book, and had had its loss accounted for in a manner that was very piquant to him. As he recalled this part of the day’s experience he took out the pocket-book and the let ter—written by the fair Gertrude, as he felt assured—and looked at them care fully. What was that slender gleam floating down from the links of the little steel chain? Was it—yes, it was a hair—one of those long, wavy threads of gold, in which the chain of the porte- monnaie had become tangled when it dropped from the pocket of his coat. He carefully drew the strong silky hair out from the links of the chain and held it up between his eyes and the gas light. How lovely it was—how vital in its gleam and its waviness l York wondered if she had known about that hair when she sent back the pocket-book—if she had thought that perhaps her repulsed lover might see it and be moved to treasure it for the sake of what was past. “Then she must have some lingering sentiment for him still,” York said to himself, as he carefully coiled the hair upon a bit of thin paper and started to draw out his watch to place the foldetj^ paper in the back of it for more secure keeping. And then he found that the watch was not in his vest pocket. In its place he pulled out a pawn ticket, and he re membered that his faithful timekeeper was still at mon oncle’8, where he de posited it through the stress of utter necessity at the same time that the queer Doctor Polaski put the ring of the blonde madame up the “spout.” As he recalled this circumstance the occurrence of the Dight before came up also, and he quickly lifted his eyes and gazed out of the window at the gloomy house opposite. A faint light glim mered at that upper window through which he had seen the little drama en acted in the interior of the room occu pied by the invalid brother of madame; but now the curtains were drawn. He could see nothing, only now and then a slow shadow moving across the cur tain—the shadow doubtless of the dumb old serving-man. - It should not be expected even by him, for whom Fate seemed to be try ing to out-do herself in the way of queer treats, that he should enjoy the sight of a puzzling pantomime every evening while he smoked his cigar. Perhaps the invalid was too ill to be restless this evening; perhaps his blonde sister, who seemed so able to quiet him and control him, was enter taining her mysterious veiled visitor, who— Hold! that visitor—that visitor —that pale, slight woman— “By heaven! she is my aunt!” cried York, aloud, his cigar dropping un heeded to the floor as his arm came down again*-1 his side in a gesture of sudden conviction, for it had just flashed upon h ; m how to account for the feeling he had had when his aunt first entered the room that he had seen her somewhere before. He had seen her before—he had a glimpse of her face—through his opera glass across the street as she stood at the window of the room below the invalid’s cham ber. It was she who had visited the fair-haired, foreign-looking madame.

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, March 03, 1894, Image 1