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“Hoe Your Own How.’’
I think there are some maxims *
Under the sun,
Scarce worth preservation ;
But here, boys, is one
So sound and so simple,
’Tis worth while to know)
And ali in the single line,
Hoe your own row 1
If you want to have riches,
And want to have friends,
\ Don't trample the means down,
j> And look for the ends 5
But always remember
Wherever jou go,
The wisdom of practicing,
Hoc your owu row 1
ihjttt jnstsit and piny, \
For increase 61 your Store,
But work ; who will help himself,
Heaven helps more.
The weeds whilp ydu’re deeping
Will come up and grO<k,
But if you would have the
Full ear, you must hoe!
Nor will it do only
To hoe out the weeds.
You must make your ground mello#.
And put in the seeds ;
And when the young blade
Pushes through, you must know
T.iere is nothing will strengthen
Its growth like the hoof
There's no use of saying
Wiiat will be, will be ;
Once try it, my lack-brain,
And see what you’ll seel
Why, just small potatoes,
And few in row ;
You’d better take hold then,
And honestly hoe !
A good many wof' jrs
I've known in my time—
Some builders of houses,
Some builders of rhyme 1
And they that were prospered.
Were prospered, I know,
By the intent and meaning of
Iloe your owu row ?
I’ve known, too, a good many
Idlers, who said,
I’ve right to my living,
The world owes me bread! .
A right ! lazy lubber !
A thousand times No !
Tis his, and his only
Who hoes his own row.
—Alice Cary.
The Newspaper. —ln a recent ser
mon by one of their Presbyterian min
isters in Cincinnati on the secular and
religious press it was said :
We can get along without coffee for
breakfast better than we can without
our paper. Not only as a vehicle of
news is the paper powerful ; not only
because by the paper does Flora Mc-
Flimscy do her day’s shopping and the
merchant his day’s buying, but especial,
ly becauso it does the practical thinking
of a large part of the people. They
are too busy or too indolent to do it for
themselves, so they get a man to sit up
nights, state the facts, and draw the
conclusions and 1 advocate a theory for
them, do the whole up in a convenient
package and slip it under the front
door. In halt an hour, while they sip
their coffee, they have not only learned
what is going on in the world, but ex
actly what they ought to think and how
they ought to feel about the mixed up
business in this great rushing world of
ours.
It is idle to say a newspaper is a very
ephemeral thing, or a very unreliable
thing, and that peoplo do not believe
what is in newspapers. It is ephemeral
only as the leaves of summer are ephem
eral, easily trampled, but forever re
newing and exerting their influence on
the face of the world from generation
to generation. The paper you had to
day, is easily thrown under the counter,
but the power it speaks of is one yon
would not care to grapple. And as to
not believing the papers, while there is
n great deal of that kind of talk, I be
lieve that half of the business commu
nity, ass . ctiug to patronize the pi css,
believe in it with a surrender of faith
more absolute by far than they give to
the bible. ~
There are twelve bund red-guests
at the White Sulphur, aod the arrivals,
■ - -i
CUTHBERT Ijp APPEAL.
Flirting With Cousin John.
BY CARRIE D, BEEBE.
My father loved the sea—lt was his
home. And when he married he pur.
chased and furnished to my mother’s
taste, the old house by the rocks that his
vessel often passed, and there I was
born.
The building was of brick, its walls
cold and bare, for the winds.that swept
from the sea in winter, destroyed both
shrubs and flowers. A few dwarfed
cedars dotted the lawn, their branches
bending back from the sea.
My mother died while on a voyage
taken in the hope of restoring her wan
ing health, and She sleeps beneath the
waters of the southern sea. And when
my childish heart refused to bo comfort
ed, because I sorely missed the gentle
song that always before had lulled me
to slumber in pale evening light, my
father whispered that my mother would
still sing to me through the waves. I
listened to their low murmuring melody,
my grief was soothed, and I slept.
My father took me home, and there I
remained in charge of my mother’s
maid Janet, until I reached my thir
teenth year, when I was sent to an ex
cellent school.
At eighteen I graduated, and return
qfjhhome, spending my time by the sea,
or in the pleasant rooms that, through
my father’s indulgence, I was allowed
to call my own. They had been my
mother’s, and though beautiful when she
occupied them, yet each time my father
returned he brought something new to
beautify them. Books, paintings, stat
uary, dainty shells, rare flowers, birds
with shining plumes, and others with
sweeter songs, a brilliant-toned piano,
and a low voiced harp, while the carpet,
skillfully woven to represent the waves
of the sea, sank beneath the slightest
foot-full, until I almost dreamed 1 was
treading on real waves, in some mer
maid’s ocean bower.
An aunt of my father fofind me thus,
and insisted upon my spetading the
winter with her at her city home,
and as my father gave his consent, I
bade adieu to my home, and accompa
nied her on her return.
She was a childish widow, reported
to be wealthy, and possessed a hand
sotno house in £t fashionablo street.—
Her income, however, was not large,
and it was by careful economy, and ju
dicious expenditure that Bhc maintained
her place among the leaders of fashion.
She gave a party soon after my ar
rival. My dress was a white feathered
lace, that looked like gauze with snow
flakes scattered all over it. The sleeves
were caught up with coral and
I wore coral in my hair. I thoroughly
enjoyed the evening. Everything was
new to me, yet strange to say, t felt
perfectly at home, and being the latest
iv«oi4Jtu~ .I M (x.ilA/1 JL 1 .......J
my neartcjcontent.
Aunt Helen was more than pleased,
and pronounced my advent a success.
‘I am proud ot you, Christie,’ she
said, ‘you seemed to attact universal ad
miration, and 1 never saw Frank Wil
ton so perfectly devoted to any one be*
fore, and that is saying a great deal, for
he is a notorious flirt. So guard your
heart, my dear, until you are sure of
his.’
‘Never fear for me, aunt. I do not
intend to fail in love with ilr. ’Wilton.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, my dear,
he is of good family, wealthy, and very
witty, in fact, and an excellent match
for any one.’
I did not agree with Aunt Ilellen,
but concluded to pursue the subject no
further. He did possess a ready wit,
which at first pieased me, but before
the evening was over I perceived that
he possessed neither depth of mind ndr
force of character. He proved to be a
most agreeable escort, however, wheth
er at a ball, theatre, or spending a so
cial evening at home ; being the life ot
the party, and untiling >o devotion to
me.
One evening, toward the close of the
season, I was unusually tired, and beg
ged Aunt Helen to excuse me from go
ing out with her. After aunty had
gone, I went into the library, and curled
myself up iu an arm chair before the
grate. Naturally, my thoughts were
turned to the party, and I wondered
who was there, and if Frank would
miss me.
The mantel clock struck eleven, I be
gan to feel sleepy, and was about to
retire, when someone entered the room,
and Frank Wilton stood beside me.
‘I was disappointed because you were
not at the ball,’ said he, ‘and I come to
ask permission to spend the evening
with you here ’
He took a seat and sat abstractedly
gazing into the fire. Then after a few
attempts at conversation, he abruptly
asked me to become his wife.
My conscience smote me. I did not
love him, and could only refuse his offer
in as delicate a manner as possible
‘Do not blame me,’ I said at the close.
‘Why, Christie, are you sitting up for
me ?’
It was my Aunt Helen’s voice. Quite
bewildered, I started up. ‘Where is
Frank ?’ I asked.
‘He was at the ball, when I left; you
have been asleep and dreaming, child !’
So I had. But I was wide awake
now. Aunt Helen sat down. ‘Christie,’,
she said, gravely, ‘I never asked your
confidence before; I would really'Jike
to know if you love Frank Wilton r
‘No, Ido not. Why do you ask ?’
‘There was a dashing belle from the
West at the ball, Miss Kane, and Frank
was all devotion I assure you. It caus
ed universal remark, and many wonder
ed how he would act if you were there ’
‘The wretch !’
‘Why, my dear, you just said you did
not care for him.’
‘Neither do, I but one doesn’t like to
be snuffed out so cooly, after all, aunty.’
‘Very true. Hut what can we do ?’
‘l’m sure I don’t know,’
‘Something must be done, that is cer.
tain. If you only had some ‘gay gaK
lant’ t,o play off against Miss Kane, it
would bo just the thing. Cousin John
might do, but he is rather old for you,
and besides he is so grave and dignified,
I doubt if lie ever flirted in his life.’
‘Who is Cousin John ?’
‘Didn’t I tell you ? I received a letter
from him this afternoon saying that he
was coming down to the c’ty on busi
ness, and would be here to morrow,’
‘Aunt Helen, do tell me who lie is ?
Is he a cousin of mine too V
‘O no, he was my husband’s’ favorite
cousin. When bis father was living we
used often to visit at his house. He
was a farmer in comfortable circum
stances, and bad a most amiable wife,
and several children,’
‘Cousin John ?’
‘My dear, I was speaking of his fath.
er. John is a partner in a dry-goods
firm in Nelson, a country town near the
old homestead. His brothers and sis
ters are all married.’
‘ls he rich, aunty?’
‘I think nob’
What is his last name—Smith ?’
‘lt is St. George. I think under the
circumstances, we had better persuade
him to remain, and escort us to the ball
at Mrs. Graham’s ou Friday evening,
lie is an acquaintance of Mr. Graham’s
I know. If he consents, ail will he well,
for he’ll be polite to you, at least. But
it is late, and we must retire, roy dear.’
How ridiculous ! thought I. He is
an old bachelor, poor, hie name is John,
he is grave and dignified—and I am to
flirt with him! and I marched off to
bed.
The next day was stormy, and I bus
ied myself with practicing on the piano
and arranging music for binding. I
had been down in the dining-room
searching the closets for goodies, and I
ran through the hall singing :
•‘l’m jilted, forsaken, outwitted ;
Yet tbiuk not I’ll whimper or brawl—
The lass is aloue to be pitied
WTio ne'er has been courted at all.”
Just thed Aunt Helen opened the
parlor door, and I called out :
‘Adnt Helen, it is nearly time for Un
cle John’s arrival, isn’t it? I’m going
up stairs to dress, for, as I am going to
flirt with him, I shall want to appear my
best. And I sincerely hope that he
won’t be troubled with the rheumatism,
it would be so dreadfully inconvenient,
it I should happen to want to dance
with him ’
I cast a side long glance at Aunt Hel
en, as I was rattling on and ascending
the stairs at the same time. Her hor
rified look stopped me. I comprehen
ded the situation —Cousin John was in
the parlor !
I went to my room, hardly knowing
whether to laugh or cry. ‘Poor old
geDtleman !’ thought I, how vexed he
will be with me for my rudeness! I
mu£t apologize, ‘Do please hurry Ja
net and brfish my hair,’ said I, deter
mined to get through the unpleasant
affair as soon as possible.
I donned my plain black silk with a
trailing skirt, and fastened a lace collar
with a diamond brooch, I descended to
the parlor.
I opened the door and looked around
for Aunt Helen ; she was not there, hut
a gentleman advanced to meet me.—
He was very tall, and would have been
slender, but for an extraordinary breadth
of shoulders, which, with a broad fore
head, gave him a commanding air.
‘This is Cousin Hellen’s niece, Miss
. * ri - - I —, .-kvtuurqg uio
nand.
Os course I was taken by surprise,
hut I managed to give him my hand,
and murmur, ‘Mr. St. George. Then my
curiosity getting the better of my em
barrassment, I looked into his face and
saw that though his mouth was firm, his
eyes were fairly dancing with laughter.
It might not have been lady like, hut
I hurst into a loud laugh, in which he
joined.
‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘but I thought
you were an old gentleman ; I cannot
tell how it was that I imbibed the idea,
unless it was because you are auntie’s
cousin.’
‘Why, Christie I’ said Aunt Helen,
who entered the room at that moment,
‘I am not surpised that you should think
Cousin John rather ancient, when you
never saw him before' but that you
should consider me old, completely as
tonishes me.
‘Q aunty, I did not mean that, but—’
Here I broke down like a bashful
school-boy, who, overawed by the gaze
of his teacher, cannot recall a word of
the lesson he has conned so carefully.—
Mr St. George’s eyes were looking
me through and through, and I grew
mote confused every moment.
‘Never mind, Christie dear,’ said Aunt
Helen, ‘let us go down and discuss the
question over our dinner.’
During the eveniog, Mr. St. George
asked me to play for him. I had spent
much time in practicing, and was con
sidered a good performer, but to night,
I stumbled over some of the most beau
tiful passages iu a manner that was fear
fill to hear.
‘Sing something, Christie,’ said Aunt
Helen, ‘Perhaps Mr. St. George will
assist you. I know you used to sing,
Cousin John.’
‘Yes,’ he. replied, ‘years ago, when
we w.-re all at home together, but I
doubt if Miss Nain has ever beard the
songs we used to sing.’
lie mentioned the name of several;
with some of them I was familiar, and
we sang them together, to Aunt Helen’s
delight. After this, Mr. St. George
read aloud at her request, as we were
all seated around the centre-table
How cosy and homelike it seemed, and
for the fit st time I wondered how I
could have remained so long contented
alone, almost, in the old house by the
sea.
At the close of the evening, Mr. St
George engaged to accompany us to
the opera on the following night. Bus
iness would occupy 7 his time throughout
the day, he said, but he would return
jjs early as possible. On tiie next eve
ning, it it pleased us, lie would escort
us to the party, at Mrs. Graham’s; he
had come down to the city almost on
purpose to attend it, as Mr. Graham
and himself were warm friends.
- went to my room, and took a survey
of myself in tho mirror. ‘You are look
ing well, to-Dight, Miss Nain,’ said I,
‘if you did play so dreadfullyj and lose
the use of your tongue every time you
were*expected to say something bril
liant.’
‘Christie!’ said Aunt Helen, putting
her head inside the door.
‘Como in, Aunty.’
‘I was thinking,’ said she, as she clos
ed the door, ‘that we couldn’t have plan
ned anything better, if we had tried for
a lifetime. If cousin John is half as
attentive at Mrs. Graham’s, as he was
to-night, I shall have no reason to com
plain. Ho is very much pleased with
you, 1 know.
‘I don’t see why he should be pleased
with me, for I’m sure I never was so
stupid before in all my life.’
‘I don’t think so dear, but good night.’
Next morning when I awoke, the sun
was shining brightly. I looked at iny
watch, it was half past eight, Break-
CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 6, 1870.
fast time, and Aunt Helen so punctual.
I rang for Janet to help me, and asked
why I had not been called; she said
that aunty came into the room, but I
was sleeping so soundly she did not
waken me, as she thought I was fever*
isb.
1 dressed hastily, and weut down.—
Aunt Helen was just showing Mr. St.
George out the front door. He waited,
hat in hand, as 1 slowly descended.
‘Good morning, Miss Nain !’ he said.
‘I was afraid you were sick, Christie,’
said Aunt Helen, ‘your cheeks were al
most scarlet,’
‘Probably, because I slept so soundly,
auntie.’
‘No, I noticed they were uncommonly
flushed all last evening.’
I glanced toward Mr. St. George;
his eyes were dancing again What
did Aunt Helen mean ? If I had been
her aunt, instead of her neiee, 1 should
certainly have boxed her ears
With a graceful how, Mr. St. George
left us I went into the parlor and
peeped through the curtains as be
walked through the street. How tall
he was, and yet so graceful 1
It was late in the afternoon when he
returned. I waited a few moments be
fore I went down. I opened the door
softly; Aunt Helen and he were sitting
in the back parlor, and as I entered, a
remark of hers caused me to pause.—
She was giving Cousin John a detailed
account of my flirtation with Frank
Wilton and its result. Fortunately,
neither of them noticed my entrance,
and, closing the door noiselessly, I went
to my room in a state of mind difficult
to describe. Carefully locking the door,
I threw myself upon the bed preparato
ry to having an‘awful cry.’ I was just
about finishing, when the bell rang for
dinner. There I was, with disordered
hair, swollen eyelids and a red nose.
First, I thought I would send word
that I had a headache. But Aunt Hel
en knew my head never did ache, and
would insist that I was sick and must
send for the doctor; so choosing the
lesser evil, 1 hastily bathed my face, ar
ranged my hair and went down.
Aunt Helen was so much occupied
that she did not observe my flushed
face, but Mr. St. George did. He qui
etly led the conversation on interesting
topics, and his voice and manner, when
he addressed me, were very gentle.—
This would have been grateful to me, if
I had not thought he supposed 1 was
grieving for Frank. ‘He pities ine,’ I
said, and feeling exceedingly mortified,
I was more reserved than usual. Be
fore I was aware of it, however, my
vexation had vanished, and I went up
stairs to dress for the opera.
Janet was there before me, and had
already brought out a brighthued silk,
and my white astrachan sack. I was
pleased with her selection, and thanked
her, as she helped me dress. Dear,
foiiKi'oi. j»iri, o ii« had been a mother to
me almost, always pelting m# when 1
was in trouble, which, to be sure, didn’t
often happen. Auntie soon made her
appearance, and stepping into the car
riage, we were whirled away, and in
due time pleasantly seated listening to
Miss Kellogg’s delighlful rendering of
Violetta, in ‘La Traviata.'
I was too much engaged with the
music to look about me, until Aunt
Helen spoke.
‘Christie I eve*ybody is out. Frank
Wilton is here, with Miss Kane, in the
box opposite.’
True enough, there they were. Miss
Kane was Very large, very showy, and
gayly attired. Frank looked like a
Lilliputian besido her And as I looked
up to where Mr. St. George’s eyes were
smiling on me, I noted the difference be
tween the two.
The next day waß pleasant, and be
fore dinner I rode out with Mr. St.
George. ‘O Aunt Helen 1’ I cried, as
the carriage stopped at the door.—
‘What a handsome turnout. How can
Cousin John afford so much styfc, when
he is poor.’
‘He is not really poor, my dear, and
I’ve no doubt he might have been rich,
if he was at all miserly.’
We had a delieffittul drive through
the park. Mr. George displayed
his skillful horsemanship, and I was not
a little proud of him as we dashed along,
meeting scores of acquaintances.
After dinner I turned my attention to
my dress, for the evening, which Janet
had been arranging through tbs day.--
It was a rich, lustrous silk, from a Ly*
ons loom, of that peculiar shade of pur
ple which inclines to crimson in the eve
ning, and with it I was to wear a white
lace fichu, of delicate design and frost
like fineness. My jewels were rare
amethysts in a setting of Etruscan gold,
a necklace, bracelets and bandeau.—
Janet arranged my hair, calling upon
Aunt Helen to witness the effect. It
was ‘just the thing,’ they decided at last,
and auntie said it was ‘fortunate that
crimps were fashionable, they were so
becoming to me, especially with the ban
deau.’
If ‘gratified pride and vanity are the
acme of woman’s happiness,’ then that
night must have been the most delight
ful one of my life. Mr. St. George,
who was very attentive, created quite a
sensation, though courted more by the
gentleman than the ladies. Miss Kane,
the personification of good nature, was
there, and Frank, who watched me
closely. Evidently I was a puzzle to
him. He usually danced attendance to
the latest belle, and when he dropped
one for another, he expected the first to
become entirely extinguished. In this,
I had proved an exception, and he was
at a loss to account lor it.
‘Such a complete triumph, I never
saw before,’ said Aunt Helen, as we
rode home. ‘Why, John you were the
lion of the evening, aud the way in
which you queened it over that horrid
Miss Kane. Christie, was beautiful to
see.’
I was well pleased, hut somehow,
when Mr. St. George bade me good,
night, I cared more for his iook and the
pressure of his hand than all the rest.
I felt a little sad the next morning,
but well knew the reason why. Mr.
St. George was to loave the next day,
and I was not in the least like the lady
who woke one morning to the fact that
she had been in love with her Dext door
neighbor for years and never dreamed
of it before.
The afternoon was cloudy, and the
twilight came early. We were all sit.
ting quietly in the parlor, when Aunt
Helen asked :
‘John, didn’t you play the piauo
once ?’
‘I learned the accornpafiiimeot to a
song or two when I was a boy, and my
sisters were taking lessons, but I never
fancied seeing a geDtleman play the pi
ano unless he has a remarkable talent
for it, and I have not touched the keys
in years.’
‘Cannot you remember anything ?’ I
asked
‘Therejs a simple song, a song of the
sea, that perhaps I can remember ; and
he took his seat at the piano
He touched a few chords—they soun
ded strangely familiar—sounded like a
voieejsp§d«g to me, in the only words
of my mother that I remember, ‘Close
your eyes, darling and I’ll sing for you.’
I dosed my eyes—the angel of memory
gently opened the gates of the past I
forgot the present, and entered. The
daysoLiriy hildhood came back to me
—-A' was sitting in her favorite
chaixiilpJer\ke cedar trees, I was in her
arm9,.and she was singing the same
dear old song. I remembered a portion
of the ttir only, and had never heard it
except from her own lips until now, for
it was the same.
‘What a beautiful little thing that is,
John, sad and low, like the waves-. But
I believe it has nut Christie to sleep.’
I was glad it was in the twilight, for
iny eyes were filled with tears. ‘lt has
soothed me to sleep many times, Aunt
Helen,’ I said, at last; ‘mother used to
sing it in the old house by the sea, and
1 have never heard it since she died, un
til now.’
There might have been the least pos
sible quiver in my voice, for Mr. St.
George rose quickly, and came and
stood beside my chair. Laying his
hand lightly upon my hair, he stooped
and kissed my forehead, then turned
slowly, and left the room.
I could feel no indignation because of
the caress; he was no stranger, no im
pulsive boy, but a man of thirty-five,
upright aud honorable, as Aunt Helen
well knew.
I think my eyes were a trifle humid,
next t#orning, when he said good by;
and I believe he observed it, for he took
my hafld the second time, leaving a kiss
on the finger tips.
‘I will return as early as possible,’ lie
said, as he left us.
On that very afternoon, father came
to take me home. ‘I shall remain lon
ger than usual he said, and of course I
could not think ot staying th'ere without
you, little puss.’
I wati. overjoyed at sjeing him, al
though I did not like the idea of going
home 6d soon; but, concealing my ie
luctance, I packed up, hoping it would
be for the best, and two days after,
found myself in the old house by the
sea. I was glad to be homo again, to
see my pets, to hear the sea, but its
song fafled to soothe me aS before.
One day while in my room, father
called toe. ‘Come down, Christie! I
have s4g | thing for you.’ lie handed
rpe addressed to himself.—
your Aqffit Helen, and the
other from Mr. St. George, enclosing
another for yourself.
I received them with a trembling
hand, and took them to my room to
read. Aunt Helen’s extolled Mr. St.
George to the skies, and finished by
saying, that if papa and 1 were willing,
they would be at our house on Thurs
day next, in the five P. M. train. I
cannot-tell what the other letters said,
hut they were manly, earnest and affec
tionate.
That evening father and I had a long
conference, and on the following mor
ning he dispatched two letters, assuring
the recipient of each u hearty welcome.
Thursday evening came, and father
went to the depot in the carriage. I
had been in a state of unrest through
out the day, and as twilight approached,
the skies were so beautiful I threw a
light sVhwl around me and went down
to the Sea side.
Thelvestern clouds were golden, but
the sky overhead was of a deep rose,
that softly faded into gray in the east.—
The delicate rosy hue was reflected in
the ocean, reflected everywhere, until
it seemed as though air sea and sky
were inspirited with the delicate tint,
and possessed a subtle, soothing power.
The south wind was sweet scented and
mild, and I drank in the glorious beau
ty of tfap.scene as a sweet and' refresh
ing draught.
I was aroused by a footfall upon the
path, a foot step that I knew, soon as it
reached my ear. I turned, and met the
eyes of him I had so lately learned to
love tfuiJbest ou earth, gazing earnestly
and lovingly 7 upon me— for a moment
only —then I was clasped to a warm
heart, while bis voice, full of tenderness,
said :
‘Christie ! I cannot live without you.’
Thootht He Could do Better.—
Some forty years ago there lived in this
town an old man whom we shall call
Bi bad a propensity 7 for hook
ing smanTind portable articles that came
in his he was poor and past
labor, IwftHivell known about town, no
further-notice was taken of his pecula
tions than to keep a sharp lookout when
he was around. A dealer had a quan
tity of dry fish landed on the wharf at
an hour too late to get them into his
store, and as he was about covering
them with an old sail-cloth, he espied
old B . apparently reconnoitering. Se
lecting a couple of fish, he said, ‘Here,
Briggs, I must leave these fish out here
to-night, and I will give you these two
if you will not steal any.’ ‘That is a
fair offer, Mr. A., but —well —I don’t
know,’ with a glance at the offered fish
and then at tho pile, think 1 can do
letter /’
3©=. Dickens wrote : “There is noth
ing beautiful and good that dies and is
forgotten. An infant, a prattling child,
dying in the cradie, will live again in
the better thoughts of those who loved
it, play its part, though its body be
burned to ashes or drowned in the deep
est sea. “‘There is notan augel added
to the hosts of heaven but does its bles
sed work on earth in those that love it
here. Death ! oh, if the good deeds of
human creatures could be traced to
their source, how beautiful would even
death appear; for liow much charity,
mercy, purified affection, would be seen
to have their growth in dußty graves 1’
C3TT he New York Tribune says:
“The home education of children is a
duty all but universally shrieked in this
country. Children are no longer
brought up—they are trumped up; it
is done by machinery. We have plenty
of little men and iitile-women in Amer
ica, but no boys and girls*”
‘‘Bill Arp.”
Letter from the Great Georgia Humorist —
He loaches Some Men and a few Meas
ures.
From the Atlanta Daily Sun.
Mr. Editor: I’m sorry I can’t fill my
promise to call on you. I’m goin home,
I am. I’m tired of this everlasting fuss.
There’s sum develment up, and I’m ju
bUß about it. I’ve heard lots of war
talk in the Legislature to-day. There’s
signs of fight. 1 don’t think 9 dollars
a day would provoke such hostile lan
guage. One feller said they was just
rarin and chargin for their constituents,
and that it was tyl 9 dollar gas, bufcAt
didn’t smell like gas to me. The day I
got here there was ehootin, and a man
killed. Then agin I see the members
and the outsiders dividin up in little
squads about at night and whisperin
and jugglin and pirouting around.—
They are plottin agin somebody I know.
I heard one feller say ‘prolongation,’
and another said ‘hell,’ and another
‘dam,’ and I heard jaw teeth grit. I
was a private in Corputs ’battery, and 1
know what a prolong is. It’s a big
hemp rope, with hooks on the ends,
what hitches the cannon to the powder
box. There’s goin’ to be shootin cer
tain, and somebody’s goin to be hurt,
and I want Captain Corput to under
stand that I’ve resigned. I heard an*
other crowd talkin about State aids. I
suppose they are to be on the Govern
ors staff. Brown had many a one in
’63 and ’4. Hal said he had 700, and
Hal ought to know'. A Stait Aid i8 a
good thing. He can see the battle from
afar oft’. The further the better for me.
I heard a member say he was afeered
all the State Aids would he killed, but
that lie should fight mily hard on the
road from Macon to Knoxville. Anoth
er said he should do his fightin between
Rome and Columbus. If a man can
pick his ground it’s a good thing.
Mr. Editur, there’s a heap of fuss
generally. A man tawked 2 dajß in
the House about the penitentiary and
the conviks, and whippin an slashin and
delicate parts, etc. I thought he
thought a good deal of hisseif. I was
sorry to see the members asleep while
lie was speakin, for i think it very dis
respekful. 1 man said that the speakist
didn’t care a dam for the conviks, but
was jess playin his last card agin the
Govnor, and that he was then going to
sink down between Silla & Karybdis,
unknelled, unhonored and unsung. I
notised his tawk all about kulord con
viks; he didn’t seem to be sorry for a
white man.
A man in the gallery was powerful
mad with sum editur—maybe it was
you, I don’t know.—hut he axed a man
whether he should whip the editur or
not. The man said he didn’t know and
couldn’t say, for he hadn’t read the
piece, but that as a genral thing in the
abstract it was right to whip ’em.
I you I would carry a wee pin of
some s.oart, even es it was only an um
herell.
I got tired of all this, and wanked
over to Whitehall for peace. A friend
(I suppose lie was a friend) found me
and said he wanted to see mo pertiklar
ly. He took me away back and hauled
out sum little thumb papers full of fig
ures, and said he wanted me to insure
my life. That skeered me worse than
anything, for it looked like I was in
danger, and he had just found it out. —
I axed him if he thought there would
be a fight. He explained things to me,
and I felt relieved, and declined to in
sure for the present. You see I felt
mity well, and couldn’t see the necessity.
At the next corner I met another friend
who seemed glad to see me exceedingly.
He held my hand in his several mo
ments. He axed me if my life was in
sured. He said he was agent for the
very best company in the world. 1
axed him how long a man would live
under his company. He then explained
to me that a man might die at any time;
that they didn’t undertake to keep a
man irom dyin. 80 I declined, hut ex
pressed my gratitude for his interests in
my welfare, and promised to buy a poli
cy as soon as I got right sick. Jnst ax
I left him I heard him call some feller a
dam phool.
When I got to the hotel there was a
feller waitin’ for me on the same bisness.
He talked to me about an hour about
the uncertainty of life and the certainty
of death. I thought, perhaps, he was a
missionary. He seemed much concerned
about my wife and children, and once
or twice wiped his eyes with a white
pocket handkerchief. I knovved he was
a friend, and told him I would reflect
seriously about the matter.
I believe that company is a purely
philanthropic institution, and would lend
a poor fellow a few dollars if he was
sufferin.’ I think I will try to borrow
a little from their agents to morrow.—
This morning the first one come to see
me agin, and I concluded I was looking
mily bad, and axed him to excuse me as
I was not feelin’ well. I went to Dr.
Alexander and got a dose of salts. He
axed me if I was sick. I told him I
supposed I was, and the reason why.—
He then told rue all about it, and said
there was about 100 of them fellows in
town, and they all bad augurs, long au
gurs, and they bored about half an iDch
at the first interview and an inch at the
second in the same hole, and so on, un
til they got to the hollow, and the pa
tient gave in and took a policy. I don’t
know about that, but I will say they
aie the friendliest, mo6t sympathizen
and kind-hearted men I have ever
struck ; only I don’t like so much talk
about coffins and grave-yards. I dident
take the salts.
But, Mr. Editur, I tell you there is
trouble a brewin.’ I saw old Rock and
General Gordon and Colonel Styles a
talkin’ together, and old Tige wasent
fur off; old Rock's gray beard was a
vvagin ominously, and old Gordon’s
scars was a jumpin’ about all over his
face; styles looked like he wanted to
eat somebody. I heard him say some
thing about ‘Orgean Stables,’ I suppose
that is where he keeps his war horsee.
Scott came up aud said something about
the rear guard. He’s the devil on rear
guard, and the army knows it. Jiin
Waddell dropped in and remarked he
had ‘just as leave die as live if old Rock
said so.’ At this moment a feller come
along a siugin’
‘•I feel, I feel, I feel like a Griffin Star,”
‘■AM if there’s fitin’ tube, why then, why then
I’m tbar.” .
Shoo, fly, don’t bother me.
The whole party looked like Gattys
burg, and old Tige was just a waitin’
for old Rock to tree. God bless ’em
all 1 I know they*il stand between me
and all danger.
I tell you, Mr. Editur, there’s trouble
a brewin’. Says I, ‘Mr. Mackworter,
you are the Speaker, you know it all
Irom the steeple to the sellar; you have
capacity and sagacity, and vivacity, and
the like of that, ala ‘barbecue,’ that is,
from the snout to the tail—tell mo, do
you think there will he a fight ?’
‘Yes, snr,’ sais he, ‘yes, sur ; they
will fight shore. They are obliged to
fight. Old Bonaparte can’t get out of
it, and Pismark has got a chin just like
Joe Johnson. France wants a blood
lettin’ like we had—’ ‘ls that fur off? 1
saisi; ‘I tbot it was to begin in Atlanty
to nite.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says he, and weut on.
I got sum comfort from my old friend,
Rev. Thornton. He said that if they
did get up a fight* the old soldiers
wouldn’t be into it 1 much, except the
generals, for that the original, consis
tent Union men, like Josh Hill and Dun
ning, and Tom Saffold and old man
Stewart, and Ackerman wou'd make
short work of it. He said they were
mity alow men to got mad, and it had
taken ’em about ten years to git to the
bilin’pint, but that such -fitin’ as they
would do now the world nor the flesh
nor the devel never saw. He said I
would whip a thousand and put ten
thousand to flight. I hope so. I like
a man who takes ten years to git mod.
Yours truly, Bill Arp.
P. S. I heard Reveral fellers talkin’
about 9 dollars, and about the offices,
and a man told me that was what was
the matter with Hannah. Mr. Editur,
who is Hannah, and what is the matter
with her ? I hope die ain’t dangerous
B. A.
N. B. lam now satisfied there won’t
be a fight here. Do you think there’s
any truth in the report that Josh Hill,
Saffold & Cos. are goin’ to Prusshia ? A
man said that when it took a man ten
years to get mad, he was bound to fight
something or take spontaneous combus
tion. I reckon they’ll go. B. A.
Stick to One Thing.
“Unstable as the water thou shalt
not succeed,” is the language of one of
old. Whoever expects to succeed in
any undertaking must enter into it with
u hearty and earnert will lo do his very
best. When a trade or profession is
chosen, obstacles, 6e they large or
small, must not he allowed to stand in
the way of mastering that trade or pro
fession. However much <ve depreciate
the old custom of indenturing apprenti
ces, the system in its practical results
operated almost always for the lasting
good of the apprentice. Generally it
insured lo him a good trade and’a
wholesome discipline that fitted him for
success for business. At the present
time very many young men undertake
to acquire a trade, and after a short
trial abandon it because there are un
pleasant duties to be performed and ob
stacles to bo overcome. They consider
themseives accountable to no one, and
go and come at the biding of caprice, or
au unsettled, uneasy mind. The result
of this is, to send out into the world
young men who have not half learned
their trades, of unstable character, who
drift from post to pillar, and who sue
ceed in nothing but strewing along the
highways of life melancholy wrecks of
rhen. We would earnestly entreat ev
ery young man, after he has chosen his
vocation, to stick to it; don’t leave it
because haid blows are to be struck or
disagreeable work is to be performed.
The men who have worked their way
up to wealth and usefulness do not be
long to the shiftless and unstable class,
but may be reckoned among those who
took off their coats, rolled up their
eleevee, conquered all their prejudices
against labor, and manfully bore the
heat and burden of the day. Whether
upon the old worn-out farm, where our
fathers toiled, striving to bring hack
the soil to productiveness, in the ma
ehine-shop or factory, or the thousand
other busy places that invite honest toil
and skill, let the motto ever be persever
ance and industry.. The baby training
of the nursery was good in its place,
but it won’t answer all the demands of
an active life. This is not a baby world.
We must expect to be jostled and
knocked about in the stern conflict, and
get run over if we are not on the look
out and prepared to moot the duties of
life with a purpose not to shirk them,
but fulfil them. A young man with a
good trade or honorable profession, as
he goes forth into the world with his
mind made up to stick to his trade or
profession, is not obliged to ask for any
favors. He will jiew his way to success,
while the shiftless will grow tired, de
spair and fail.
£3T True hope is based on energy
of character. A strong mind always
hopes, and has always cause to hope,
because it knows the mutability of hu
man affairs ; and how slight a circum*
stance may change the whjfle course of
events ! Such a spirit, too, rests upon it
self; it is not confined to partial views,
or to one particular object. And if at
last* all should be lost, it has served it
self—its own integrity and worth.—
Hope awakens courage, while despond*
ency is the last of all evils; it is the
abandonment of good—the giving up
of tho battle of life with dead nothing
ness. He who can implant courage in
the human soul is its best physician.
IST Alligators are becoming recon
structed, like everything else in the
South, for a planter near Midway, in
South Carolina, about seventeen miles
from Augusta, baa cultivated his entire
farm this year, so far as ploughing is
concerned, with an alligator. The ani
mal is an unusually large one, weighs
three hundred and fifty pounds, and is
perfectly docile and domesticated. He
is said to work splendidly in plough har
ness, and is far superior to mules or b >r.
ses. Those who wish to believe this sto
ry can do so.
Destroy the Catebpii.labs. —An ex
change says : Burn sulphur in the fields
early in the night, is said to be a good
remedy for the caterpillar and the fly
that lays the egg. Wet the sulphur,
dip in the solution old rags, wrap them
around sticks and when dry, stick up in
the fields at convenient distances and
set on fire. Will some of our farmers
give this a trial ?
Men’s lives should be like the
day, more beautiful in the evening; or,
like the Summer, rich with promise;
and like the Autumn, aglow with the
j golden sheaves, where good works and
deeds have ripened on the field,
YOL. IV— NO. 38.
Hot Summers*
From the published records kept- in
Nuremburg, in Bavaria, we translate,
says the Detroit Free Press, the
following interesting facts relating to
extremely hot seasons in times past:
In the ydhr 1132 the earth cracked
by reason of the heat, the wells and
streams in Alsaco were all dried up*
and the bed of the river Rhyne was
dry.
In the year 1152 the heat was bo
great that sand exposed to the sun’a
rays was hot enough to cook an egg.
In 1160 great numbers of soldiers
in the campaign against Bela, died from
the effect of the heat.
In 1276-7 the crops of hay and oats
failed completely.
In the years 1303-4 a man would
hare crossed, dry shod, ovei the river#
Seine, Loire, Rhine and Danube.
In the years 1293-5 a multitude of
animals perished by means of the heat*
which was so great that the barveet
dried up.
In 1440 the heat tvaa extriordioar^
In the years 1538, 1539, 1540, 1541*
all the rivers were nearly dried up.
In 1556 there was a great drouth)
which extended over nearly the whole
of Europe.
In 1615-16 there was, in Italy, thd
Netherlands and France, an overpower*
ing heat.
In 1648 there were 58 consecutive
days of extreme heat.
The year 1678 was very hot; and as
wore the first tnree years of the eigh
teenth century.
In 1718 it did not rain a single lim#
from April until October. The growing
grain was burnt) the rivers dried up)
the theatres (but wherefore is not sta
ted) were closed by command of the
police. The thermometer showed 36
degrees Reaumer, equivalent to 113 de
grees Fahrenheit. In irrigated garden#
the fruit trees bloomed twice.
In 1723.24 there was very great heat.
The summer of 1746 was very hoi
and dry, the growing grain being abso
lutely calcined. It did not rain for
many months.
_ The years 1753, 1754, 1760, 1767,17-
78 and 1773 wero also years in which
the summers were extremely hot.
In the famous comet year—lßll—the
summer was very warm, and the wine
produced that season was considered
very precious.
In the years 1818 the theatres had to
be closed on account of the heat, thd
highest temperature being 35 Reaumer)
or 111 Fahrenheit.
During the three days of the Revolu-*
tion of July, 1830, the thermometer stood
at 36 degrees Centigrade—about thd
same as 98 Fahrenheit.
In 1832, during the uprising of th#
sth and 6th of J uly, the temperature
was about the same.
The Seine was nearly dried up in 18-
85*
In June, 1860, when the cholera ap*
peared for the second time, the tempera
ture was only about 75 Fahrenheit.
The highest degree of heat that man
can withstand for any lengthened peri
od varies from 140 to 122 of Fahrenheit
scale. But with a much lower temper
ature numerous deaths occur.
Stimulant vs- Nourishment.
In a late number of the London Lan,
cet was an able article by Dr. Wilkes
©n the subject of nourishment for the
sick from which we extract the follow*
ing.
Now, what do I constantly-witness in
private practice ? The patient I visit is
a young lad or young lady, and the
doctor and myself perfectly agree aB to
the nature of the case, the course it
will ruu and the treatment required;
further, to insure the fulfillment of his
orders, the services of two nurses have
been procured ; one of them is in con
stant attendance with a devoted mother
and sister. Now, what is the condition
of the patient who haß been ill a fort*
night with enteric fever ? He is ex*-
Iremeiy wasted, Lis skin list and dry,
restless, wakeful, or delirious, tongut
parched, and his pulse 150. lam in
formed that the patient has bad plenty
of nourishment, and am shown the table
before me covered with cups and beef
tea. jelly, brandy bottles, physic bottles*
and wine decanters. lam further as
sured that the patient has had three or
four cups of beef tea, daily, some jelly*
eight or ten ounces of brandy, five ot
six glasses of champagne, and his medi*
cine containing five grains of amonia
every four hours. To prove the regu*
larity of the administration of these dif
ferent things, the nurses display theif
written papers and vouchers. It is now
evident that the patient is dying of star
vation and stimulation. No mortal man
conld be in any other condition who
had been attempting to live on a little
beef tea and jelly for a fortnight sup
plemented by brandy, champagne and
ammonia. In fact, I scarcely know a
beeter formula to produce wasting, hot
skin, parched longue, irritable heart,
restlessness and delirium. I am not
overdrawing the picture, and as for
modifications of it, I 'see them every
day. I have no objection to wine or
brandy in their proper places, and when
judiciously administered; but I do
strongly object to the assumption that
they can be for any lengthened period
taken as a substitute for food. I con
fess, too, to be almost overcome with
regret when I see my hospital patients
doing well, and see the young people ill
a rich man’s house literally dying of
starvation and stimulation.—[Dr. Wilkes
in London Lancet.
Jessie Williams had been doing
something which her mother told her
she musn’t do. She had been eating
currants, of course, she got her mouth
all stained. That’s the way she got
found out. Mrs. Williams said: “Yon
know you were forbidden to eat cur
rants !” “But mother, Satan tempted
me 1” “Why didn’t you say, ‘Get thee
behind me, Satan ?’ ” “I did say, ‘Get
thee behind me, Satan,’ and he w« nt
and got behind mo and pushed me right
into the currant bushes !”
BQL. An Irishman, describing the tra
ding powers of the genuine Yankee,
said :—Be dad, if he was cast away on
a desolate island, he’d get up the mor.
nin’ and go round selling maps to the
inhabitants.
Dad, have you been to tho mu
seum V said a ten year old boy. ‘ No,
my son.’ * Well go, and mention my
name to the doorkeeper, and he’ll lake
you round and show you everything-’