Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

BY SAWTELL & JONES. <Et)c &utl)bcrt appeal. Term3 of Subscription: Os* «Ht | six Mu*ms $1 25 IXVARIABI.Y is ADVANCE. Rxtos of Achrartisiag: One square, (ten lines or les*.) $1 oft for the first ami 15 c ntH so“ each i*uh*equeut insertion ’Contract ft lvertinintz ns fellow* ; Sptce. i Months 6 Month' 12 Months J Column $25 00 sls On $75 0 ) Column 40 0 7.) 0 t 1 M» .00 One Column.,. 50 n0 91 On I.VK O') far Obituaries. $1 UO per square. 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