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BY SAWTELL & JONES. ...fflje £utl)bcvt Appeal. Terms of Subscription: One Year $3 00 | Six Months $2 00 INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. of Advertising: lines or less,) SI on for the Hfc ir earh suliseijilent in-.-rl ion. . follows : ‘ Moi.lis 0 Months 12 Months WT.. ~*i:> oo sir. on — sT?r«o ■F0m1T..... 40 00 75 00 100 00 BBe Column... 50 00 90 Ou 150 00 pH' Obituaries, $1 00 per square. LEGAL ADVERTISING. Ordinaries.—Citations for letters of ad ministration, guardianship. Ac, $4 00 Application for letters of dismission Iroin administration 5 00 Application tor letters of dismission from guardianship,... 4 00 Application for leave to sell Laud, 4 00 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 4 00 Administrator’s Sales, 4 00 Bueriff’s—Each levy, 4 00 “ Mortgage fi fu sales 5 00 Sales ot Land by Administrators, Executors, ■or Guaidiaus, are required by law to be held on the first Tuesday in the mouth, between the hours often in the forenoon, and three in the after noon, at the Court House in the county in which the property is situated. Terras of sale must be stated. .JJotice of these sales must be given in a public gazette 40 days previous to the day of sale. Notice for the sale of personal property must toe given in like manner, 10 days previous to sale day. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must he published 40 days. Notice that application will lie made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell laud, must be published for one month. Citations for letters of Administration, Guard ianship, ifcc., must be published 30 days—for dis mission from Administration, three months ; for dismission from Guardianship, 40 days Rule* tor foreclosure of Mortgages must be published monthly for four months—for estab lishing lost pajjers, for the full space ot three months—for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where bond has been given by the deceased, the full space of three mouths. Publications will always be continued accord ing to these, the legal requirements, unless oth erwise ordered. “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-’