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Into Mischief.
Dancing feet and busy fiqp(fs.
Never still tlm whole (iny through ;
For the little bruin from d-earnlind
Brings them work enor,Ji, to ,i O .
»(SV3fe;,A
gml breaking vases—
everywhere.
and tastes the jelly,
alow, slums Hie door, .
es from their brackets,
lings on the floor ;
its and trousers,
•is curly hair—
tie lingers,
a into miscniei everywhere.
ink upon the carjl&t,
jf Dualling pictures from the wall,
f Breaking mirrors, singing, shouting,
In the attic and the hall.
Tracking mud across the entries,
Turning over desk and chair,
Cutting up the morning paper—
Into mischief everywhere.
But no look of hate nor malice
Darkens o'er those laughing eves ;
Not a thought of harm nor sinning
In bis little boaom lies :
For his soul is pure ami guileless,
Whate’er barm his lingers da ;
Though the bide fiei are straying
Into mischief all day through.
A Lover’s QuarreL
FART I.
‘And I say it isn't ’
‘Funny !'—u pause altet the word, as
if the sjieuker tried t" g. t rid of a lump
ill liis lliroat—‘you’re playing lire fool;
you've no more notion how I Ive \on,
than you have of the height you’re,
standing at uhove the sea. 1 tell you
I’d rather see you lying down there,
washed up hy the tide, than kuovv that
you want to go hack to the Ireaeh of
your own will, and I kj looked at hy that
Jiith-aiid piaster and fellow W u cuj>*
tain.’
And yet, while the fierce words pass
the young fishermen's lips, he tak< s a
firm grasp of Ids c< nipuni m's arm, lest
some sudden uioveun ul should draw her
lieatel the giddy edge.
The sun had begun tti set'wheu those
two, John Fry and Fanny ileywooi],
beg in to ipi irrel, and now he has j ist
sunk into the purple bed of clouds iis
*;n up lloin Ihe sea In receive hint
There has lieell a scene of Uiiigliificein
and last-ek diging color; crimson, and
purple, and gold —n >w i>y turns, now
all at nin e —have held their places on
jki<r tender gr-ntul. of chrysolite green,
fast fisting into grey; though its final
hue lingers among the rock pools hi low
the cliffs, and miiigltd with lory *J u ,s
that r< fleet themSi-IVfS bom scall.-ied
cloudliness. The lagged perp ndieular
cliff rises some four Iniudred feel above
(tie sea, ami alHiut a Hold Way down i;.»
steep side runs the path «>r ledge u
wlmii the lovers stand. They care
iiothiog fin- the sunset, nor b.r the ex
quisite scene l» low them. On the
light the tiny village nestling ia die
gorge of hgh lulls—on one sid*
wooded to the lu.se, uu the other a pre
cipice of rock rich in brow n and pur
ple shadows—every and theix* in
its depths revealing a g!inq*so «>f die
white foaming r.ver, that eoines su ng,
gling nud tumbling over luge gnu
stones to the sea; whim further still on
the right stretches u range of loflv ehtfs,
the hues of whic > mock tlie power o;
wonts to lender, as sm ci-sslidly as they
elude the painter’s resources to depict
crimw it put pie, violet of richest tones
every where relieved by lulls of bright
golden blossoms, and fresh green of
ludyiern that fringes the jaded edges.
f Joint and Fanny have disputed before
this evening, hut only lor a few senten
ces; and then a kiss from him, or a tear
ill her sweet eyes, has brought the mat
ter to a standstill. But this qua-id
wears a more serious aspect. Jilin
looks absolutely threatening, lie is a
strong, well built young fellow, with a
true South of England lace—a face that
is saturated with sunshine, that pn a one
in mind, all at once, of ripe August corn
fields; and taken in conjunction with,
bis rich curly hair and beard, o' Octo
ber nuts and squirrels.'* But the deep
black eyes that mulch so well with tins
golden-brown, have none of their usual
expression; they are fu 1 of angry
gleams, and through his parted lips yon
can see his teeth set hard.
Fanny looks up, and meets this stern,
compel ing ghuice; meets it. too—as
you may tell by the quiver of her rosy
mouth——just when a loving name or a
Caress might have prevailed over the
jrerverse spirit that was rising.
it is a puzzle that she has been able
(living so near the sea) to keep her skin
***_ white and deli cute looking. Her
lia'r nearly matches her lover's, but her
eyes are not no deep in color; there is
a tinge of blue hi.z» in hers, Unit shines
out with almost a golden glitter, us John
takes hold of lx r arm. She thinks he
means to make her prisoner,
‘Bet me go, wil you ? |’m not your
wife yet John; and I don’t know that
I ever w ill be.’
Ha draws his hand away.
‘Come, come, Fanny; you’re talking
nonsense now. 1 was a minute ago,
maybe. Why should you and me quar
rel about u tiling that can’t happen if
you would only let yourself bo guided
.?'
The girl’s eyes filled with sudden, an
gry tears. t'"
A’m-rtot quarrelling; I only sav you
don’t put any trust in me. Why’ (she
tosses her head scornfully,) ‘even and 1
choose to go home by the beach, and
Mr. Russell and Captain Ftandi.-Ji are
there, and they say a civil word to me—
what am 1 the worse for it I’d like to
know ? j support) you’d like me to wear
a mask next, with "just two boles, to see
CUTHBERT f|§§ APPEAL.
• Hit of. Every thing that in pretty is
looked at. y.ui know it is. an I why not
tril ls as Well as anything else ? I say
lignin yours isn’t what I tall having
tmst in rm* —that it isn’t.’
The golden light is quenched in the
tears, that fairly run over. Fanny’s
even now are almost as dark as her Inv
it’s, and tenderness seems to be swim
ming in them. If John could truly have
held out against them for two minutes,
lie might have made his own terms with
the [netI y, wayward, spoiled girl; hut
a sensible lover would lie a pheuoiu- noli
worthy of exhibition, ami John was not
a phciioui. iio.i.
The next minute he hud Fanny in his
arms, .*<*aii.ig lit rto Ins heart, *kis ing
off her tears, and calling himself a
Tough j alous fool’ (or having brought'
them there.
•No, John, Volt Ye not a fool, hut you
arej •alotiK,y<*u know you are ; and it you
go tm like this when we’re tnairictl,
yoiffl break my heart. JtJtn,* conies out
of those p 'tiling coral lips.
‘i’ll never i»e j -alous unless you give
me cause, Fanny,’ he says, his honest
face growing grave again. ‘But, you see
men and women have diff-ront natures
You ean fly in a jeission and get out of
it, all in iio time, and he us sweet and
smiling as if nothing had happened ;
hut that is not thv way with us—any
how, it’s not with such a sulky chap as
me. Once i’in put t.p [ got out of (rounds,
and as to seeing you laughing and tak
ing with that young 100 l of a Captain
why, if £ was to catch you at it, I don't
know what l mightn't be tempted to—’
‘you're threatening now, John,’ Fan
ny (suits, and draws hersell away a
little.
There is an uneasy look on her lov
er’s face, lie loves Funny with all his
heart and strength. He has known her
from the time they went crab-hunting
t ig> t * rs in ng the rocks with the rest
of the village children ; and yet, though
Ins heal!, is si> last bound I<> h t that lo
co Jd in Ver tear it away, lie has no sure
trust in the wiiifel, bewitching girl.—
U’lrui be tniiiks of the future—Fanny
as his w.-fe and the mistress of his home
—an limb fined, shifting f« ur is apt to
come hi'tuecu ohu and his certainty of
happiness., a fear near akin to that he
has leli among the treacherous quick
sands further eastward he has been
seeking anchorage.
lie answers, almost solemnly :—‘Am
I threatening darling ? Then I don't
mean it. 1 mean warning not threat
ening. You see, I haven’t got so many
words to fit my meaning to, as such a
clever litlle loss as you, Fanny. All 1
mean is, 1 want lo put it clear to you
that when you’re, luayne meaning n >
harm, only a little hazing in play, von
are playing witn le.-’mgs a man can’t
keep at.'lei ; it's as if Ihe devil was lei
loose in me, 1 kuovv. You don’t think
iu.-u unit tier one am-llicr of set purpose,
do Von, Fanny, when they're them
selves t
Fanny turns white, and retreats still
fill liter ti(till the ohtl s edge; then slti
gives m (.the iOivi-d l. ugli. r*
‘1 iiiusl say, Join, you’ve get strange
not.ous ot pleasant tdk ; first you scold
me till l eiy, and then you S|>eak aboiu
UiUider. JSi-iw I must go home, and ll
you euli’l trust mo to go by the beach,
I’d take die long i\ ay over die cliffs
Are \<■ ii satisfied now, S.r?
fsat.sfi_-tl ! Joint is radiant at Midi tne
expected sweet snlunissloa, tor the road
on ahead over the cliffs is just two miles
r< Uud or Fanny ami when tliey began
In qilalld sbe ti n] said lu>tlling Should
induce In r lo go home unless siie went
i*y Hie beau.i, ivhore, as John knew.
Captain Flaiidlsli and ins lllentl are |ii
eoig up mid down m bout oi the little
••■•»y. , You little duck !’ be says, and
John oilers up a good deal atonement
di Word ann act, winch Fancy receives
with many smiles and blushes, and at
last lie lets her go.
‘Why not go by (lie lane?’ he asks.
Fanny nods. ‘I was just thinking
so,' she says, and she looks buck ovei
her ,-houlder, uud smiles like an angel.
John thinks.
But i he smile fades our of her face more
quickly than the rose color from those
long, rihomlike c'oud lines. By the
time she roaches the end of the rock
path, her loiebead is dinted with a
lawn
The path ends its shelf-like course
along the elifl, and slopes down to the
left in a steep descent to the load lead
ing to the beach ; on the right it inuunu
as steeply to the iqqicr pari of tlie vil
lage. A hum witn high hedges, fiin.
ged with plumy ft out, of lady fern, ami
near tlie ground, rare, mor<* minute
kills nestle l.ko green tas.-els in the
chinks ol loose piled masses oi stone hid
den hy long satin strips of hurt’s tongue.
Fanny stands frowning stdl where the
three ways meet. Fhe is thinking about
John.
‘I don’t believe he thinks half enough
about me —he wouldn’t dare he so mas*
terfnl i*‘ lie did !’ And then (lor a good
intention repented of seldom gels a
second hearing,) Fanny tells heiself sh«
is an idiot. * A nitre slave 1 shall be
when i’ni married, it I’m never to look
at any one or to speak to any one but
him What’s the use oi good looks It
they’re all to he hidden out of sight ?
and she hardens herself in this one idea,
of her ow n beautV and the amount ol
admiration due to it.
File stands still, looking wistfully
down the steep lane to the beach. A
sound of voices conies up l<> her, a
a heaity laugh, and then some words
winch bring a blush to her cheeks—a
blush of pleasure; tier lips pari, aud
her head is thrown liack saucily as two
gentlemen come in sight sauntering up
the |-nth.
‘By Jove ! this is In* ky.’
Captain Finiidisli takes hi* cigar out
of liis im-utli, and says, ‘Good evening.
He is a tall, fair youth, with pale hair
and eyes; tiore is a washed out look
about him. Air. Russell had a more
manly aspect ; he is short and thick set,
something o| tlie hull tei rier breed.
Fanny is in such a flutter of vanity
and delight, that site hardly knows
what is said to her, or what she an
swers. Fiie has quite forgotten her in
ten i**n of going straight home, and
stands listening and laughing while the
Captain talks. “
PART it.
John stands listening too —just where
Fanny leit him listening, mid yet not
hearing ihe querulous sciearn of the sea
gulls ut. the foot n| the cliff, "dripping
tneir blai-k-lipped wings in ihe cream*
ing curl of tl,e waves, and then rising
with sudden flight with fanning, out
spread feathers, or sinking again slow
!v 's the air insists their pinions.
But John is not frowning, lie smiles
at h mst4f. He thinks that he has
wronged Fanny by his half formed
fears. ‘Dear little creature I how good
and docile she is, after all! A girl's
worth nothing if she hasn’t a spirit of
her own. Air ! at Bidford there’ll be
none of those follows coining down to
plague honest men !’
John Fry came hack yesterday from
Bcdloid ; lie has an uncle there, a fish
erman, who has offered him a half share
of his boat and hi- business lor a very
moderate compensation.
•John!— John Fry, Isay! Hollo™
where are you ?’
A coast guard, in blue flannel and a
shiny bat comes running along the
rocky edge, as easily as if it were six
feet w ide.
He steps short when he sees John,
sets his legs wide apart, and both hyUiito
go down into the bottoms of his pock
ets.
‘Weil, Davie ?’
‘Look alive!’ says Davie, witli a red
face, and jerking his thumb over his
sinmlder. ‘Ver wanted below ; the Bid
find boat is off the rocks, and there is
one awaiting y u.’
John pulls off his wideawake, doubles
it up, and then flattens it out with his
strong brown hand ; finally, this pro
ceeding having failed to solve his per
plexity, moves ou to where Davie’s
thumb is pointing.
‘There'll lie a bit of gale to-night
ii'iire the boat reaches Minehead,’say-
Davie; ami then lie stands still and
lights his pipe, while John Fry hurries
down to tins beach.
Unless he had scrambled down the
face us the crag—a bold feat for even
so fearless a climber —he must follow
(lie path Fanny had taken, bill lie is not
thinking about Fanny as tie hurries along.
His undo at Bideford was an old man;
he had already had one seizure, and this
might be another. John had lew fr<ends
or relations, but those he had he loved
with the inlens ty of a deep, strong ua
'ure, and hi - heart was lu I of anxious
tear for his trade; he had left him so
we t and hearty, and so full of warm
sympathy with his nephew’s happiness.
So that w hen John, in his head race,
comes suddenly upon the group—or
rather ih • pair, for Mr. Russ- ll had
moved off to a discreet distance—the
young fi-herunn is so bewildered, that
for an instant he stands in silent wonder.
For an in-dant only. It is quite dark
in the n dTo.v lane between those high
fern crowned hedges. Before one can
note the changes that have come into
the two faces, so near to each other—
Ibr Captain SlundUh’s whiskers touch
Fanny s cheek as he whispers—John’s
hand is on the Captain’s shoulder, and
tlie Captain stumbles back wauls into
the hedge.
‘Keep your distance, will yon ?’ John
says ‘that young woman is not free to
listen to yotir foolery !’
He has grasped Fanny’s arm while he
speaks, and now bo It fries her along
with him back by the way lie came.
Vehement action lias calmed down
tin.- tempest of her anger. As bestrides
along, he is forcing himself to decide
what lie shall say to Fanny.
lie has a dim re nembrauee of the
point w here lie left D ivio, and he stops
short of that. The light has faded so
completely (hat he can only just see
Fanny’s fare plainly.
She is voiy white, and trembling.—
Shu remembers what John sain just now
about murder, and as self i- usually par*
amount in her lln nights, her terror is
that lie m ans to fl ng her over or. the
sltarppointed rocks hel**w—te ror so
great, so paralyzing, that she cannot
even shriek lor help. Even if she could,
her Voice would be jsiwerless against
the wailing, screaming sea gi i's, and the
roar of tlie waves as the wind lashes
them into foaming heights. ,
But John has no mind to harm her.
Spite ot ail, tie loves her still, but lie
has learned at last to put trust in his
own misgivings, instead ot Fanny Hey
wood,
‘Fanny,’ he says, in a choked voice,
‘I brought y.'ii hero to tell you what
must be said between us two.’
He stops and tries to clear bis voice,
but it remains hoarse in spite of him.—
Fanny takes a little comfit-1 and looks
up, t ut his stem, set face brings back
ali her fear; she clasps her hands
over her eyes, and cries out with terror
Tile strong, aw ful calm that had come
to John after his first outburst, gives
way ut the cry, and liis auger breaks
through like a ground swell, betokening
how deep it lies hidden away.
‘Be quiet !’ he says, savagely, and
then the t-hai p p in at his heart nerves
him, as pain will nerve to self-mastery.
‘Fanny, when I asked you if you
could love me well enough to be my
wile I thought of yon as a man thinks
of a true Woman. I thought I wasn’t
worthy of your love, even though I gave
you my heart and soul in exchange.—
1 gave ’em you. Fanny; you have b *en
first and foremost in every thought I've_
hud s nee then I’m not making a mer
it of so doing—l don’t know as I can
take them back God knows h iiv I
love you still, but I'll not take a wife
who’s not content with the love I've got
to give her, who'll not keep herself for
me alone. I’il not put myself in the
danger of niarr in g.wheiv I can’t trust ’
Fin* had kept her eyius hidden, and
ho had not seen the sli *rne and the Sor
row that had ti led them, but liis last
words had stung her into sadder: fire,
‘Nobody ask- you to,’ (‘her voice has
the tnuntii.g ring in it lie is least able to
bear.) ‘l’m not likely to ask ain mail to
marry me, Mr. Fry least of all one
whom I’ve rn ole a great mistase by ev
er having anything to dp with. lal
ways felt I’d throw myself away, anti
now I’m sure of it. I’m tit for some
thing better tban u fisherman’s wife, 1
can tell you —a roug brtite that has u*>
manners Tor his betters. Let me go.’
She pushes hirn, and at the same mo
ment Davie lounges up.
‘Did you hear a sign »1 ?’ he says.—
I’m thinking it came from beyond Bed
plea’s M'*<lth. Come oil and tell the
Lieutenant. Why, man, where bo ye
going off in the dark alone, ’ull help
noaiie; wait and gia me a help wi’ tlie
lifeboat.’
John only shook off the . grasp his
friend had laid on Ins coat, aud bcrr.ed
off into the darkness.
‘Well, I’m bio wed I’ says Davie,
‘there’ll lie suinmut more than common
amiss wi, a steady etinp like that 'uu
aford he'd run u mucker al ng the cliff
edge in the dark,’ And Davie hurries
CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 24. 1870.
back t‘* tell the Lieutenant of the signal
h • fancies he has heard.
part in.
That night no one lint the children
went to lied in the little fishing village.
At almut eight o’clock D ivie had
spread the alarm of a ship off the Iled
den’s Mouth, and the danger was too
well known not to rouse u stirring sym
pathy in nil who heard the tidings.—
Lieutenant Roberts and his men had
soon (nit off in the lifeho.it, ami more
than one of the fishing taints had follow
ed ; though the sea was how so wild
that some of the older men shook their
heads and muttered that “It were a
clean temptin' of Providence.’ Even in
the upper village stray rumors ot the
excitement below kept folk waking ’
Fanny Heywood lived along vvi.h her
father. lie had been a village school
master, hut was superannuated now,
and a most childish ; Ins chief ideas be-*
mg-tlie correctness and spotless comjp
tion of his clothing, and the beauty and
irresistible charms of. I.is daughter Fan
ny. He saw no use whatever in sitting
up burning candles just because a ship
had been so stupid as to get on the
rocks, and he told his daughter she
would do wisely if she went to bed too.
Fanny gave him a careless answer;
but when tie had fairly gone up stairs
she placed herself at the window and
looked out, in hopes o| hearing news
from some passer bv.
The giri’s heart was very heavy to
night. oho had not said one word to
her father. She. had joked, and laughed
and tried to bear herselt bravely ; but
the pent-up sorrow grew in its struggle
to find vent—in the deep lone stilluess it
made her heart heavy as lead.
The night was very dark. Funnv
|iut tier head out ot ttie lattice us she
heard a far off sound, and the wind
swirling round liiw house in a wild gust
blew tier hair into her eyes. The sound
came nearer, heavy and lumbering, out
like a mere footstep.
‘Who’s tire re V site calls, as it comes
nearer; there is a strong sudden In-rmr
in In i, though she could not have found
a name for it.
‘lts me —Davie. I be in a barrow
from the rocks down yonder.’
* He’s fallen and smashed Ids ankle,’
says a deep voice, w hich Fanny recog
nizes as that of tin- second in command
•of the coastguard station; ‘I had to
come hack, so I’ve brought him along.’
T.s the ship sale ?*says Fanny.
‘Well, yes,’ (the man speaks sulkily;)
‘she ci led out before slie was hurt.—
l’liere s one of ihe bouts stove ill that
came ill after the life-boat.’
Fanny’s heart gave a sudden bound.
Ts any one hurt besides Davie?’ she
says, in a faint, seared voice
‘Well, yes; and I must go on. Miss,
• ow. I'm come in to fetch the doctor out
to Joe Porter and another poo fellow— ’
‘ls John Fry down helping with you ?’
slle s iVs.
Davie sirikes in ; the grasping tone of
Fanny’s words roused him.
(jFs-x not easy, in my iiVind,’ lie 'Says.s —
‘John Fry left uni all in a hurry to go to
ihe rocks, and there is no one seen or
heard on him since. John’s not tlie lat
lo stan’ hv wi’ his hands in his pockets
while bilk- is wanting help’
Before his words w ere spoken Fanny
is out ot the o*>tiage uuor Fim can st e
ihe two figures in the vague, indistinct
light—a light seems frail a lit ill itself
wiih doubt and lear. With all her
haste, licit si range mechanical quality
we call ‘habit,’ makes Funny take down
a shawl, which Icings in the passage
and wrap it around her shoulders, as
she runs «nto tlie load. She puts out
her baud till it touches the coastguard’s
aim.
‘Air Evans, tell any one you see to
solid help to the foot of tlie cliffs : and
tell Lieut, mint Roo.erts I’m gone llieic
to look lor Jt-'hn Fiv.’
‘Gone alone—God help her!’ But as
he speaks there is nothing but tlie vague,
indistinct glimmer round Evans and
his charge. Fanny has sped on far out
of sight, down the steep fcin.banked lane
lighter than it bad be*-n in the upper
viII *ge, for the sea is before her.
She guesses that the fishermen are not
gone to bed, and she knocks loudly al
the first door the comes to.
An old man opens it, very old and
feeble, with a lace lioueyeomed with
wrinkles He has a lantern in his hand,
and lie holds it up to examine liis visitor.
‘Let me have it, Father Pugsley,’
girl, taking the lantern with a
grasp he is powerless to resist. ‘lt
Uiere’s a man or b-»y in the house with
you, send lliein alter me lo the foot of
Ragged J acts.’
The wonderful power of instinct lias
t**ld tier Inal if any harm has come lo
John, her conduct had caused it. File
sees him hurry mg along the cliff-path,
w iicii she left lit in with those taunting
woids on her . lips. c*he knows eveiy
iucti ol the path, and John’s loving, pro
tecting care lias fuughl her too w-cil its
danger. Al the tool ol this massive pile
ol giay rocks, which the viilageis called
: is Jack,’ the path seems lo end
euuuciiiy—so abrupt, is the angle it
makes lound the jigged mass. Funny
siiudUe-rs w lieu sac Lniuks ol the jutting
o.it crags below, utid how union calc
and cannon it would require, m the dark
u.-ss, to loliow the ahiUpl turns of the
slippery, tiueVeil path. This is scarcely
a Uiuiigni. tohe hurries on no last that
visions ol wlial m.iy have hefalleu lief
lover seem to lure her on to leueii them
as tliey move m bodily sh ipe belore her.
Atauo licr tune Fanny would have
men IrigUleueU us lue lonely darkness;
now she needs nothing but lue fi-uging
lo hud tier lover before any one else can
. i euoii him.
Fhe is near the point, when a sudden
gust ot wind blows out tier light not
lor long, bhe has seen, as she carried
ii, lluu old Pugsiey has fi-fl matches hi
side the iaulcrn. B.it that moment oi
Utter dai kness-, all alone on that giddy
height, w ith tne nioa.img, gulping Bound
ol ihe bushing waves nulow, bliuKus
Fanny tl«*lll head to loot.
VV hat if she cannot find him? What
it he lias lulled lo the bottom oi the cliff,
aud lue liuug.y waves, ebumg hack,
have carried nun along with them tor—
ever ?
Her fingers grow unnerved aud tremb
ling—site caiiuoi tc-liglK, her lantern. —
iaVctt ll she liuds him ue vvi.i not be alive
He may be an iiudislingiiis.iable mass
ot br kt ii bones and wuuuds —too
dieudhit lo think of.
Flame at last, aud with it the girl’s
courage rekindles. Fhe U'emuks still
but she draws her shawl tpore closely
aioiind her and goes forward not so fast
hip more steadily.
There a heart, after all, in her vain
little body—a heart t uit almost, for the
first time in her life, is speaking to her
a ore of anniiier than of herself—and the
lo.iguig to help and comfort John for
his own sake is overmastering any self
ish dread.
She stops and holds her lantern high
alaiva her head. Just before her, black
in the vague light, Ragged Jack stands
ot;t as if to stop her way. A sudden
chill at her heart and she lowers her lan
tren to the path’s edge. Fanny could
never remember why she did this—it
was a strong impelling instinct. She
looks, and then shrinks back, sok and
white, against the iocky-wail beside her.
II John stiil lives, he is lying below
where she stands. The path is broken
away, and there are signs that large
rock been freshly loosened
IrwLits edge and hulled down to the
As the reafity. forces itself upon Fan
ny, that she must descend that tearful
precipice alone in the darkness, face to
face with the moaning, wailing which
echoes, heavily and hopelessly, every
thought of terror —Fanny’s courage
flies in one long shuddering sigh, and
she shrinks on Iter knees sobbing.
The attitude, or a power beyond her,
brings prayer to her lips : ‘Oh. my fath
er save him—help me !’ The words
seemed to nerve her perhaps they re
mind her that she is not so helpless—
I*he lies down on her face, and drags
herself to the edge. ‘John, —John Fry !
—John, darling! do you hear me ?’
The wind is lulling fast, and her
voice sounds clear through the night
air.
No answer comes; the silence seems
more awfuliy true in their foreboding.
I)espe: ately, she raises herself, and
sends her voice out in one loud piercing
civ.
Then she strains her er.r to listen.
Far off—seemingly as far as the bay
on the other side of Ragged Jack —an
answer comes, hut in a sound of many
voices ; and then neater, almost close,
so it Seems by contra a feeble whistle
All In-r fears are gone; she only
chides at her own delay. Still holding
the lantern in one hand, she feels her
wav cautious'y, loot by foot, down the
cl.ff, till she finds at last a standing
place. She knows where she is now ;
tiie crag juts out here into a huge jag*
ged rock, with a hush or two on it, aud
linm goes sheer down to the Sea.
Again close beside her, the whistle
sounds louder than before.
She calls, but no answer comes; and
then she holds the lantern so that its
light falls below her.
Close to her—so dose that her next
downward footstep, would have been set
on liis face—John Fry is lying with shut
eyes. He has been caught, seemingly,
between the bushes grow ing on the edge,
for only bis head and chest are visible.
Fantiv km els down; she touches Ins
fnre Jmiidly with Ber hand,} and the!)
draw?it back, shuddering.
‘John?—Jolm, darling 1 Open your
eyes ! epeuk to me !’
IB* lies there as still as the gray lock,
almost as cold. Fhe forgets the <langcr
of falling; she twines her arms round
him; she murmurs to him, and presses
warm ki-ses on his face.
‘Oh, Jolm, my dailing !my darling !
la-ok at me j ist once ; let me hear you
say once you forgive my wickedness !
She might as well ci v to the r* ck it
sell ; and yet as she presses her li,.s on
liis. it seems as if some warmth lingered
in them.
Suddenly she raised her head, and
cries out loud for help. A strange
sound lias reached her. She listens
breathlessly. Yes, tliey are coming.—
Over head she hears voices, and from
tlie sea, the strong regular pull of oars.
Jolm Fry was taken home alive, but
there came weeks of anxious watching
before he was able to w-alk, once more
beside Fanny Hey wood, to the scene of
bis fearful fall—and then he waiked
with crutches,
Fanny smiles bright in her lover's
face Flie is trying to cheer the sadness
that, spite of this efforts, clouds the
strong man’s eyes at times, for it is very
hard for John Fry to realize that he is
cripp ed for life; but under tlie girl s
smiles, is a t rider, subdued look new to
her face It may be that bitter teats
she bus shed, during her long, patient
nursing, huve le t their trace—tears not
only of sorrow for her lover’s sufferings,
but of contrition for the part she had ae«
ted toward him.
‘Fanny! (John had stood in silence
for some minutes beside the broken
pathway ) T don’t think you and 1 will
quirrel again—will we, darling ?’
He looks at her smiling, with hisdeep,
loving eyes, and. she tries to answer
biigluly; but ihe recollection of that
foolish quarrel and its ending masters
her, and tears come instead of words
Tlnsli !’ he whispeis softly; ‘you’ll
8; oil your sweet eyes, my darting, and
they're mv ey*-s now —at least they will
ursday.’
Fanny hides hei eyes on his shoulder.
‘Don’t ask me to pi utilise, darling,’ site
whispers, “While you’ve been so ill
I’ve learned more about myself than I
ever thought to know I wonder how
you find anything to love in a girl who
can put no trust in lieiself !’
There's no need to tell John’s answer.
Tue Wrong Boot —Thi-s is ihe latest
sto.y iroin Paris : M. Blanc, a million
aire, who came w-itliiu an ace of being
e ected Deputy, was returning from
Burgundy hy a night train. A lady,
young ami pretty, occupied the same
compartment. Now, M. Blanc, who,
in spile of iiis naturally small feet, tries
to make them smaller slid, was stifler
ing'teiribly from tight boots. All at
• mee he noticed that tlie lady was
asleep, and he could just as well take off
Ins I Riots, which he did. Suddenly the
station lights begin to appear in sight.
One hoot is quickly put hut the oili
er, alas l does not go on so easily. He
pulls and pushes ; fi..aHy the foot goes
in, Gut is lenildy pinched.
Uuce at the station, M Blanc hides
himself in a cab, and thinks his troub
les at an end. When lie reaches the
house, imagine his surprise at finding
his right loot in a lady’s boot. The la
dy had been in a similar situation with
himself. Madame Blano refuses to be-
lieve a word of his story; she cries,
goes into hysterics, u and finally returns
to her father, refusing to hold any com
inunicalioQ with her unfortunate hus
band. But think of the reception ac
corded to the lady of the train when
her husband saw her t»redicarni.nt I
A Ciiinese Dinner-
Professor Pumpelly, who traveled
five thousand miles through the interior
of China, on official business, gives the
following account of a Chinese dinner :
“The next day we received invitations
to dine with the magistrate of the citv.
As we traversed the court of the Ya
imin, at the ap(io nted time, our ears
were greeted with a sound of suppress
ed chattering, and we could sea lhat'nl
tile chinks of the surrounding windows
were occupied by the ladies of the
household. Our host led us into a
room where the table was spread. In
accordance with Chinese etiquette, lie
•■Spent some time in persuading each ol
the guests to take the head of the ta
ble, a distinction which each one was
bound by the laws of politeness to de
cline The host, then standing in that
place himself, insi.-to-l upon each and
all Mf.mgVd.nvn before him, which, ol
course, whs persistently declined, as it
would have tieen a breach of politeness
for u guest ti take his seat first. The
dinner began with a cup of hot rice
wine. The table was loaded with dish
es, which were placed one upon manli-
er in tiers, forming a pyramid of Chi
nese delicacies. There were soaps made
of bird’s nests, of the haliotis, and of
shark’s fins ; there was beche denier;
there were slews and pates ; there were
roots of the water lily; but it would
take too long to enumerate all the dish
es spread before us, of each of which
one was expected to taste. Great as is
the variety of articles of food in the
Chinese cuisine, some tilings which in
other countries are considered most es
sential are missed by the traveler, and
ol these none more than butter, bread,
and milk. There is a kind of bread
which is cooked by s'cuni, and there
are flour cakes fried in oil; they are
poor substitutes. A little milk is sold,
and women’s milk is peddled round the
cities mostly for the use of invalids.—
Foreigners are shy of patronizing the
Chinese milkmen. There is an old sto
ry on the coast, that, at a dinner given
hy a foreigner, the host took a servant
to task for serving no milk for the coffee.
*• ‘Boy, go catcfiec milk,’ said the gen
tleman. The servant, disappearing,
soon returned with the answer, ‘No
have got.’
“ ‘ What for no have got ?’
“ ‘That sow have got too muchee
piecce chilo; that woman have die,’ re
plied the boy. By this the servant in
formed the gentleman and his guest
that they had been saved from drinking
the milk of either a sow or a woman on*
ly by the death of the latter, and by
tlie birth of a litter to the former.”
What a Man Know's —What a man
can write out clearly, correctly and
briefly, without book or reference of
any kind, that ho undoubtedly knows,
whatever else he may be ignorant of.—
For know ledge that falls short of that
knowledge that is vague, hazy, indis
tinct, u inserts in—l, fur one profess no
respect itt all.
1 believe there never was a time or
country where the influences of careful
training were in that respect more need
ed. Men live in haste, write in haste
I was going to say, think in baste, only
that the word thinking is hardly appli
cable t<> that large number who, for the
most part, purchase their daily allow
atioe ot thought ready made. You find
ten times more people now than ever
before who can string words together
with facility, and with a general idea of
their meaning, and are ready with a
theory <*f some kind about most mat
ters. All that is very well as fur as it
goes, but it is one tiling to tie able to
do this and quite another to know how
to use words as they should lie used, or
rcaliy to have thought out the subject
which you discuss. —Lord Stanley .
or The Turboro’ North Carolinian
is responsible for the following:
There is a man living in the moun
tains ot N**ith Carolina, not more than
forty miles from Greenville, S (J., who
has reached Die extraordinary age of
143 years. At the time of Braddock’s
defeat lie was twenty years old, and had
a wife and three children. A gentle
man at Greenville informs us that this
man, who has come down to us from a
former generation, has always been in
moderate circumstances, lived upon a
plain, coarse, vegetable diet; that he
iiact never drank any liquid but pure
spring water, and bids fair to live many
veins longer. He enjoys perfect health,
possesses all of manhood’s attributes,
and wants to marry. He has survived
seven wives, and having lost the last
one about sixty years ago, he now nat
urally begins to feel quite lonely.
Effect of Novel Reading.—Girls
learn from such books to think coarsely
and boldly about lovers and marrying;
their early modesty is effaced by the
craving for admiration; their warm af
fections are silenced by the desire for
selfish triumph ; they lose the fresh and
honest feelings of youth while they are
yet scarcely developed ; they pass with
sad rapidity lr<»m tneir early visions of
Tunored and Ormndo to notions of good
connections, establishments, excellent
matches, etc.; and yet they think, and
their mammas think, that they are only
advancing in ‘ prudence’ and knowledge
of the world—that bad, contaminating
knowledge of the World, which I some
times imagine must have been tlie very
apple that Eve plucked from the forbid
den tree. Alas! when once tasted, the
garden of life ia an innocent and liappy
Paradit e no m<>re.
Threat and Counter threat. —Elder
sister (to tier bioilier of about six sum
mer!-) : ‘Oil! you wicked, b.<d boy !
Put down that pipe directly, sir, or I’ll
box your ears for you.’ Junior brother
has been smoking) : ‘Box rny ears
it' you dure. I'll go and terf pa
you let cousin Jack kiss you* t*ice be
hind the door yesterday.’ N. B.—A
truce wuh agreed [] Wdl-j^he
iThe entire alphabet is found in]
these four iines. They form a pleasant
stanza for a child to learn :
God gives the grazing ox his meat,
He quickly bears the sheep’s cry ;
But mail, who last* his finest wheat,
Should joy to lift his praises high.
&ST A person was asked why he did
not taku a newspaper. 4 Because,’ said
lie, * iny father, when he died, left me n
good many newspapers," and I haven’t
read them-through yet.’ He alter wards
became a nuuner. ~
How Smith Asked the Old Man.
Smith had just asked Mr. Thomp
son’s daughter if she would give him a
lift out of barherlopdoni, and she had
said, ‘vesJ It therefore became -absm
lately necessary to get the old gentle,
man’s permission, so, as Smith said, the
arrangements might be made to bop
the conjugal twig.
Smith said he’d rather pop the inter
rogatory to all of old Thompson’s
daughters and his sisters, and his lady
cousins, and his aunt Hannah, in the
country, and the whole of his female
rehrions than ask old Thompson. But
it had to be done, and so he sat down
and studied out a speech which he was
to disgorge to old Thompson the very
first time he got a shy at him. So
Smith dropped in on him one unday
evening, when all the family had mean
dered iironmLto -tneeting, and found
him doing a ilmn in beer measured
‘llow are yon, Smith ?’ said old
Thompson, as the former walked in,
white as a piece of chalk, and trembling
as if he had swallowed a condensed
earthquake. Smith was afraid to an
swer because he wasn’t sure about that
speech. He kn--w he had to keep his
grip on it while he had it there or it
would slip from him quicker than an
oiled eel through au auger hole. So he
blurred out:
‘Mr. Thompson—Sir : Perhaps it
may not have been unknown to you
that, during an extended period of some
five years, I have been busily engaged
iu the prosecution of a commercial en
terprise,’
‘ls that so, and keepin’ it a secret all
this time, while I thought you were
tendin’ store ? Well, by George, you’re
one of them now ain’t you ?’
Smith had begun to think it all over
again to get the run of it.
‘Mr. Thompson : Sir, perhaps it may
not be unknown to y..u that, for tlie ex
tended period of five years, I have been
busily engaged in the prosecution of a
commercial enteiprise, wiih a determi
nation to secure a sufficient mainte
nance.’
‘Fit down, Smith, and help yourself
to beer. Don l stand there holding
your hat like a blind beggar, with par
alysis. I have never seen you behave
so queer in all my born days.’
Smith had been knocked out again,
and so he had to wander back again
and make a fresh start.
‘Mr. Thompson, Sir: It may not be
unknown to you that, during an extend
ed period of five years, I have been en
gaged in the prosecution of a commer
cial enterprise, with tlie determination
to procure a sufficient maintenance—’
‘A which ance V askeJ old Thomp
son. But Smith held on to the Fist
word as if it were his only chance, and
went on :
‘ln the hope that some day I miaht
enter wed’oek, and bestow my earthly
possessions upon one whom 1 call my
own. I have been a lonely mart, sir,
and hnve felt pteit it is.not good for «
man to be alone : therefore I would—’
‘Neither is it, Smith : I’m glad you
dropped in. How’s the old man ?’
‘Mr. Thompson, sir,’ said Smith, in
despairing conclusion, raising his voice
to a yell, ‘lt may not be unknown t >
you that during an extended period of
a lone y man 1 have been engaged to
enter wedlock and bestow all my enter
prise on one whom I could determine
to be good for certain possession—no, I
mean—that is—that—Mr. Thompson,
sir : it may not be unknown—’
‘And then again, it may. Look here,
Smith, you’d belter lay down and take
something warm; yon ain’t well.’
Smith, sweating like a four-year old
colt, went in again.
*M . -Thompson, sir r It may not be
finely to you to prosecute me whom
y>u a friend for a commercial mainte
nance, but— Jut—eh—dang it—Mr.
Thornp-on, sir : It— ’
‘Oh, Smith, you talk like a fool. I
never saw a more first-class idiot in tlie
course of my whole life. YVbat's the
matter with you anyhow ?’
‘Mr. Thompson, sir:’ said Smith, in
an agony of bewilderment, ‘lt may
not be known that you prosecuted a
lonely man who is not good for a com
mercial period of wedlock for some live
years, but— ’
‘See here Mr. Smith, you are drunk,
and if you can’t behave yourself you’d
better leave; if you don’t I’ll chuck you
out or I’m a Dutchman.’
‘Mr. Thompson, sir/ said Smith,
frantic with despair, ‘it may not be un
known to you that my earthly posses
sions are engaged to enter wedlock five
years with a sufficiently lone>y man,
who is not good for a commercial main
tenance— ’
The deuce he isn’t. No you jist git
up and git, or I’ll knock what little
brains out of you, you've got left.
With that, old Thompson took Smith
and shot him into the street as if he’d
run him against a locomotive g"ing out
at the rate of lorty miles an h< ur. Be
fore old Thompson had time to shut the
front door, Fmitb collected his legs and
one thing and another that were lying
around on the pavement arranged him*
self in a vertical position and yelled out;
‘Mr. Thompson, sir : It may not be
unknown to you that’—which made tlie
old man so wretched mad that he went
out and set a bull terrier on bmith be
fore he had a chance to lift a brogan,
and there was a scientific dog fight,
with odds in favor of a dog. For he had
an awlul hold for such a small animal.
*. Smith afterward married the girl
and lived happily about two months.—
At the end of that time he told a confi
dential would willingly
take more undergo a m.ll
ion more dog bites to get rid of her.
I row Esau kissing Kate,
And the fact is we ah three saw ;
j I saw E*au, he saw me,
And she saw I saw Esau.
• ♦ i
Woman’s Lovtf.— *A *Fronot» woman
wUl*l<»t« her fyisband if he ts either wit
ty or chivalrous; a Gtelgjan wpijiau, if
he and faithful ; a Disch wo
unirifßnie does not disturb her ease and
comfort too much ; a Parish woman, if
he wreaks vengeauco on those who iu~
cur his displeasure; an Italian woman,
if he ia dreamy and poetical; a Dkinish
woman, if lie thinks Ler native country
is the brightest and happiest on earth ;
a Russian woman, if he despises all
We.-tr-rners as miserable barbarians; an
English woman, if be succeeds in in
gratiating himself with the %purt and
the aristocracy; an American woman,
VOL. IV—NO. 15.
Story of a Diver ln one of the En
glish magazines is an article writfen b\
a diver, in which he narrates some thrill
ing experiences. He thus describes hit
sensations while under water :
“ It’s a strange feeling you have down
there. You go walking over a vessel,
clambering up her sides, peering here
and there, and the feeling that you are
alone makes you nervous and uneasy.
“ Sometimes a vessel sinks down so
fairly that she stands up on the bottom
as trim and neat as if she rode upon the
surface. 1 hen you can go down into
the cabin, up the shrouds, walk all over
her, just as easy as a sailor could if she
were stiil dashing away before tha
breeze. Only it seems quiet, so tomb
like ; there are no waves down there—
only a swaying back and forth of the
waters, and a-see sawing of the ship.
You hear nffthing from above. The
great fl-h es ~ w i 1 fmming about,
rubbing their noses against your glass,
and staring wi h a woudeif.il look into
your eyes. The very stillness sometimes
gives life a chill. You hear just a moan
ing, wailing sound, like the last notes ol
an organ, and you cannot help thinking
of dead men floating over and around
you.”
Cuildrex’s Etiquette. —Always say,
‘yes sir,* ‘no sir,’ ‘yes, papa,’ ‘no, pap J
‘thank you,’ ‘no. thank you,‘good nigiu,’
‘good morning.’ Use no slang terms.
Clean faces, clean clothed, clean shoes,
and clean finger nails, indicate good
breeding. Never leave your clothes
about the room. Have a place for eve
rything and everything in its place.
Rap befoie enteiing a room, and nnv
er leave it with your back to the curapa
ny.
Always offer your seat to a lady or
old gentleman.
Never put your feet on cushions,
chairs or tables.
Never overlook any one when reading
or writing nor read or talk aloud while
others are reading.
Never talk nor whisper at meetings
or public places, and especially in a pri
vate room whole any one is singing or
ylaying the piano.
Be careful to injure no one’s feelings
by unkind remarks. Never tell tales,
make faces, call names, ridicule the Jame,
mimic the unfortunate, nor be cruJ to
insects, birds, or animals.
Reasons for Dressins Plainly on
the Loud’s Day. —l. It woulu lessen
the burdens of many who now fin 1 it
hard to maintain their place in society.
2. It would lessen the force of the
temptations which often lead men lo
barter honor anl honesty lor display.
3. If there was less strife in dress at
church, people in moderate circumstan
c.*s would be more inclined to attend.
4. Universal moderation in dress at
church would improve the worsh p by
the removal of many wandering thoughts.
5. It would enable all classes of pen
pie to attend church better iD unfavora
ble weatfter.
6. It would lessen, on the part of the
rich, the temptation to vanity.
7 It wou and lessen, on the part of the
poor, the temptation to be envious and
malic ous.
8. It would save va’liable time ou
the Sabbath.
9 It would reli.-ve our means from a
serious pressure, and thus enable us to
no more for good enterprises.
Only.—Only a stray sunbeam ! Yet
perchance it lias cheered some wretch and
abode, gladdened some sicken heart, < r
its gold n lignt has found its way
through the leafy branches of some w i.d
wood, kis.-ed the moss covered bank
where the tiny violets grow, and shades
of beauty to adorn its lovely form. (Ju
ly a gentle breeze! But how many
aching brow's bath it fanned, how many
hearts bten cheered by its gentle touch?
Only a frown 1 But it left a sad dreary
ache ill that child’s heart, and the
ering lip and tearful eyes told how keen
ly lie felt it. Only a smile! But ah !
it cheered the broken heart, engendered
a ray of hope and cast a halo of light
around the unhappy patient ; made the
bed Midden one forget his present agony
for a moment in the warmth of the sun
shine. Only a w'ord of encouragemeul
—a single word 1 It gives to the droop
ing spirit new life, and the stejs press
on to victory.
BOf* During a fine starlight evening
lately, a three-year old philosopher, after
a silent and apparently profound scruti
ny of the heavens, asked his mother, üb*
rnptly, where the stars came from--
Mamma replied : “ I don’t kno.v, Willie
I don’t know where the stars came
from.’ * \Voil. you bet I do. The moon
laid ’em.’ This was a seder Lr mam
ma.
A lady leaving home was thus
addressed by her little boy: ‘ Mamma,
will you remember and buy me a p -nny
whistle, and let it be a religious one, so
that I can use it on Sunday.’
‘ I do not wish to say anything
against the individual in qu stion,’ said
a very polite gentleman, 4 hut would
merely remade in the language of the
poet, that toTton, ‘ truth is stranger than,
fiction.’ *
A young lady in California broke,
her neck w hile resisting the attempt ot
a young man to kiss her. Young ladies
should be very careful not to resist such
attempts. It is extremely dangerous.
Cincinnati paper advertises for
‘ girls for cooking.’ A contemporary
replies: ‘You would like them raw,
when you get accustomed to them.’
Why cannot a deaf man be lev
gaily condemned for murder?. Beoau-e
the law says no man can be condemned
without a hearing.
JE3T‘ Leave you, my frierd,’ said a
tipsy 4eduw clinging to a lamp j ost on a
dark nfjflh; ‘leave you in a con litiou 4
nog toft care of^«nirse'.f! (hie) never.’
B&“ ‘ Gently the dews are o’er rca
stealing,’ as the man said when he ha l
five due bills presented to him at one
time.
tt®, ‘ My dear wife,’ as the mart said
when he looked at the last milliner’s,
hill.
Josh Billings says that cal fish,
are better than to keep \ou
dry.
43?* The Fifteenth Amend n*-M it ia
mm
