Cuthbert weekly appeal. (Cuthbert, Ga.) 18??-????, May 26, 1871, Image 1

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Cuthbert weekly appeal., May 26, 1871, Image 1

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Newspaper Page TextVOL. V. THE APPEAL. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY, BY SAWTELL & CHRISTIAN. Terms of Subscription: O.s* Yka».... $3 00 f Bix Months ~.. $2 00 invariably in advance. tsr No attention paid to orders for tbe pa per uu’ess accompanied by the Cash. Ttate« of Advertising : Ohe squer*, (ten lines <* less,) $1 00 so» t&e first arid 75 cents for each subsequent inser tion. A liberal deduction made to parties Who advertise by the year. Persons sending advertisements should mark the number of times they desire them inser ted, or they will be continued until iorbidand charged accordingly. Transient advertisements must be paid for at the time of insertion. Announcing names of candidates for office, f5.00. Cash, in all eases. Obituary notices over live lines, oharged at tsftular advertising ra f es. All communications intended to Promote the private ends or interests of Corporations, So cieties, or individuals, will be charged as ad vertisements. Jon Work, euch as Pamphlets, Circulars, Cards, Blanks, HandMMs, etc., will he execu ted in good style and at reasonable rates. All letters addressed to the Proprietor will he promptly attended to. *• Churoh Directory. METBOPIST CHURCH—RB. Lester, Pastor/' Preaching at 11, A. M. & 7 1-2, P. M. Sab bath school, 3, P. M BAPTIST CHURCH—P. M. Daniel, Pas tor. Preaching at 11, A. M. &7 1 2,T\ M. Sab liuth school.9 1-2, AM. PRESBYTERIAN CHURCU-J. S. Co* by, Pastor. Preachiuir at 11, A. M. & 7 1-2, P. M. Sab bath school. 9 1-2. A. M. [These lines of genuine poetry otay have appeared in these columns before-, but they will hear repetition:] There is No Death. BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. There is no death ! The stars go dowu To rise upon some fair.er shore ; And bright in Heaven’s jeweled crown They shine forevermore. There is no death! The'dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellow Iruit, Or rainbow tinted flowers. The granite rocks disorganize To feed the hungry moss they bear ; Tbe forest leaves drink daily life From out the viewless ait. There is uo death ! Tbs heavsns may fall, The flowers may lade and pass away ; They only wait through wintry hours, The coming of the May. There is no death I An augel form Walks o’er the earth with silent tread ; lie bears our best loved things away, And thou wc call them “ dead.” He leaves our hearts all desolate lie pluck’s our tairest sweetest (lowers, Transplanted into bliss, they uow Adorn immortal bowers. The bird-like voice, whose joyous tonee Made glad these scenes of siu aud strife, Sings now an everlasting song Amid tbe tree of life. And where he sees a smile too bright, , Or hearts too pure for taint aud vice, He bears it to that world of light To dwell iu Paradiet. Bora uuto that undying life, They leave us but to come again ; With jo} we welcome thorn —the tume, * Except iu fciu and pain. And ever near ns, though uurcen, The dear immortal spirits tread ; for all the boundless Universe Is life —there are uo dead. Death from Excessive Rope Jump ing. By a notice elsewhere, it. will be seen that another death has occurred in our city from excessive rope jumping, a little daughter of James A, Moody having died on Monday evening from iuttamation of the bowels, brought on by over indul gence in that exercise. While rope jumping may boa pleasurable -aiid healthful recreation, within reason able limits, the tendency to excess in the excitements of the exercise should lead to disuse of the practice entirely. In this case Ave learn that on Thursday, iu tfto strife with her companions to see Avhich could jump the greatest number of times without stopping, the deceased ac complished the feat something over three hundred times, after which, feeling greatly exhausted, she sat Or laid down upon the grass for a considerable time, probably taking cold by so doing. The next morn ing, though complaining to her com panionsof being sore,before entering school she made one hundred and seventy consecutive jumps more. About eleven o’clock she was com pelled to return home from school, severe mflamation of the boAvels rapidly developing itself, from which she died three days thereaf ter, as above announced. Weevils.— The folloiving is a simple remedy for keeping weevils out of wheat: when your wheat is housed, cut -some elder sticks, say four for a common-sized wheat house, and stick them endwise into the wheat. The weevils will not trouble* it. Ladies, if they A\ T ant to keep the Aveevils out of Their beau seed, Avhen they gather them, should put them in boiling Avater for a min ute, then dry them, aud they Avill keep for years. —When does the sun Avrestle?— Answer—When it thrOAvs a shad ow. CUTHBERT Wilbur’s Youngs Wife. HY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. How could he love her ? She had caused us such a bitter disappoint ment. And how could he ever have loved such a pale, strange looking little witch?—£or witch She surely must have been, I thought, to get my brother so bewildered as to fall in love with and marry her —he, our only boy; so noble, so handsome, and the idol of his sis ters ; two of us—one widowed, and the other, myself, who gloried in the title of “old maid.” Very few sisters, I believe, are perfectly sat isfied when their brother has found someone dearer to him than those who have loved him all his life.— But I think we should have been, if our ehoice haji been his. And why could it not have been so? Knowing Louise, our beautiful dar ling, so tall, fair, and queenly, how could his heart have wandered else wp had fixed upon her as our broth er’s wife. Constantly, in our let ters, wc kept her goodness and beauty ever before him. .She was worthy of him; as gifted as our Wilbur, she could appreciate work with him, wo thought. Louise was with us when his letter came, bid ding us to welcome his bride. I saw the surprise and disappointed look on her sweet face. Not that sho had learned to love him—oh, no ! But she felt a deep interest in the brother of her dearest friends, which might, if ‘nurtured, have grown into what we had hoped. Wilbur wrote: “I shall bring her to yon—my poor, stricken, little girl! in deep sorrow. She would be alone in the world now, save for me. We were married beside her dying father’s couch. Scarcely A wife before she was entirely an orphan, with, neith er sister nor brother. I have prom ised her so much love from you that she will not feel the loss of a moth er or sister, while I must fill the place of all the others—father, brother, husband.” ’ We felt certain then, after read ing the letter, how it was he came to marry Jier—not for love, but pity. Yes, we fully decided upoti that, which did not make us feel any better about it. In fact, we fell that oiir biotber had been ta ken in, sacrificed, and so on. W'e went about our preparation for their coming; furnished anew his room: made it pretty and cheer ful. But our hearts were not in our work as .they would have been if another, was to share it with him. The night of their coming we had n& company to receive them, thinking she would prefer it so.— Only Louise was with us. Hand somer than ever was Wilbur. He sprang from the carriage and came quickly up the steps to where we were standing on the porch, clasp ed first one and then the other of us to his heart, aud then back again to the carriage, lifted out the “wee thing” and bore her in his arms un til he placed her beside us, saying ; “There little bird, go nestle away in the hearts waiting for you until I come back.” He went to attend to removing the baggage. She tunned, as if about to run back after lym. Then, with a quivering lip, she raised her eyes to us—a shy, frightened look, first at me, then toward sister; then there came a softer light into her wild-looking eyes, and she crept into the arms extended to welcome her. Anna was a mother ; her heart was not so hard as mine. A little child, a girl of her own, had taught her to feel for every other mother’s child, I think. I clasped her hand and pressed my lips to lierS; aud tried for Wilbur’s sake, to seem loving and kind; but fear she felt the want of heart in my greeting, child though she was —scarcely sev enteen, he told us. ■ She was wise enough to know which of her hus band/s sisters would be her friend, when first she saw us. Wo carried her to the parlor and introduced Louise to her. I saw the child’s dark face brighten up .when. -Hie beautiful girl greeted her in such a tender, loving, manlier, Au instant after she cried, with quivering lips: “Please call me Edna, not Mrs. Mason; that seems so strange.— And my heart yearns •so to have someone call me Edna. I have not heai’d it since he—papa—— Here she stopped, and turned her face away. Sire was weeping I knew. Wilbur came back just then, and after greeting Louise, said : “Come, little bird; sisters will show you somewhere where you can trim your feathers a little.” He called her pet names only.— Anna went with them, but returned a few moments after, in time to hear my remark : “Positively a little fl ight!” And no reply. “Ho, no: not so bad as that.— But no beauty, surely.” “What could have made him marry her but pity?” said I. “We see her in a most unfavor able light. Her great sorrow will wear upon her good looks sadly.— Besides, she is tired by her journey.- She has glorious eyes. I can see what it is that won his love; she has the winning manner of a pet ted child. I hope you will love her,” said Louise.. We were still talking of her when they returned to the parlor. I took a malicious delight iri comparing the two, and thinking Wilbur could not fail to note the difference between his wife and the > one that might have been ; she all CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, FRIDAY, MAY 26, 1871. beauty and grace; the other—. Well, well, I’ve said enough about her looks. Later in the evening* when Lou ise tad drawn Edna apart from us; to look over a portfolio of Wilbur’s first dvawings—l have not told you he was an artist, of whose pictures the.world was loud in praise—he lowered his voice, and said, looking toward his wife: “She is not herself now. Natur ally she is bright, happy, and very charming. You must help me chase qway her sadness, and win back her smiles. You will scarcely think that she can be very pretty.” lam sure I could not. After a moment’s pause he said :. “Louise is more beautiful, if pos sible, than ever.” Ah, I tliought he could not lu;lp comparing them. It was not long before she was “more like herself,” as Wilbur said. Her grief -had been so wild and passionate, that naturally it must soon wear itself out. The color came back to her cheeks, an addb tion'al brightness to her eyes, and often I could hear her voice carol ing snatches of bird-like songs.— Yes, she was growing merry enough —his love Avas so perfect; tilling the place of father, brother, and husband, as he had said it should. Anna was growing very fond of her, and declared her very, very pretty. Although I had to admit she was no longer a I would not see her beauty, or try to love her. My devotion to Louise pro eluded anything of that kiud. She grew to be very popular with Wilbur’s friends; the young men declaring her charming, while the old ones were quite" foolish, 1 thought, .irr their praises of her.— Wilbur’s particular friend, a young physician of rapidly growing favor, who had long been an admirer of Louise, came often with her to oul* home. Before Wilbur’s mamge, Doctor Wilton had made but little prog ress in his wooing; but since, Lou ise had seemed more favorably in clined toward him. He was pas sionately fond of music, and had a very fine voice. Louise, although a brilliant performer, could not sing at all; but she would play the ac companyment, while Edna’s and the Doctor’s voices blended so beauti fully together. Tims hours were spent—every one, I thought, that he could possibly spare from his practico. Wilbur enjoyed their music so much, seeming never to tife of it. I was very wicked, I know. I really believed her artful and de signing. The childlike, artless manner I thought assumed. I saw how happy she was, those hours spent in the Doctor’s society; and it made me dislike her the more for finding pleasure anywhere but with her husband. I coaxed myself into believing she was trying to bewitch Louise’s lover, as she had Wilbur. Many times I’ve heard her say : “I wish Louise and the Doctor would come. I miss them so much. Isn’t he a splendid man, Wilbur?” I do not think a doubt of her ever entered his mind until I put it there. I began with a look, or a little word opportunely dropped. Once I remember the expression of pain that came over his features when I said : “Dr. Wilton admires Edna very much. How well their voices are suited ! I think, Wilbur, if he had known her before her marriage, you would have had a very formidable rival.” Another time I ventured a little too far. He was in Lis studio busy painting. I heard her sioging, and thinkiug it a good chance, I went in. After admiring his work a few moments, I said : “Has Edna not a wonderfully powerful voice for such a little body?” „ He stopped, listened a little while, and said: “That is a beautiful piece she is singing now.” “Yes,” I replied: “it is her fa vorite, or rather the Doctor’s which is about the same.” “You have never loved Edna, Julia. But be careful that you are not trying to plant thorns that may prick you more sevfef.ely than any one felse.” Aye, his words were prophetic.— How deeply -I repented my wicked ness, no one but He who knoweth every heart can ever imagine. Yet, at that time, I hated her the more for being the cause of the first re buke that ever came to me from my brother’s lips; notwithstanding which I Continued my course, more cautiously though. In-Louise’s ear I put a word—not often, but very effective—until I managed to build up a wall of ice between her and my brother’s wife. Wilbur’s heart was troubled.— Edna felt it, aud w'as hurt that he did not tell her why. She grew reserved, crushing back the loving impulses of her nature. The Doc tor’s visits ceased with Louise’s, and Wilbur feaVed Edna was sor rowing that he came not. Wilbur worked night as well as day then—worked to keep from thinking. He was looking misera bly 7 . At length Edna declared him really ill, aud begged him to cease his work. Her anxiety chased away the reserve she had tried to maintain, arid she insisted that he should consult a physician. He ■would not. She begged then that she might send for his frieud Doctor Wilton, and he should talk with him. When she said that, I looked at Wilbur— a look which spoke volumes. She want ed an excuse .to have him again near her, I thought, and my eyes to'd that, and more. There came an expression in Wilbur’s eyes then I could not read. I knew not if it was defiance toward me, or resig nation to her wish or will. And lie said: “ Yes ; send for Wilton, if it will relieve your mind.” The doctor came. They had a long talk. Edna was not present, nor either of us. When he came out of the studio, she met him iu the hall. In reply to her inquiries, I heard him say : lie must s top work, and rest. lie complains of a pricking sensation iu his right side and shoulder. I do not like that. It is unfavorable. Still, with rest and care, I think we can bring him round all right.” But he would work on. We were not rich, he said ; it was nec essary sos him to work. For many weeks, indeed, since the reserve in their manner to each oth er, Edna would spend, the hours that were passed in Wilbur’s studio, lock ed in her own room—doing what, I knew not, but believed her sulking. At length the terrible blow came. With horror I felt how much 1 had helped to'cause it; perhaps was the ▼cry instrument that dealt it. Had 1 not made him unnappy, would we have toiled so hard—striving to ban ish thought ? She found him lying, apparently lifeless, beside his work. For weeks he lingered, hovering as it were be tween us and eternity. She rested’ not, nor would leave him for an hour. If she slept, it was a moment, now and.then, with her head on his pillow, where bis slightest movement would arouse her. At last the doctor told us he would live, but never more to work. Ills right arm was paralyzed, • I had been growing some what loss bitter in my feelings toward her during his illness. She had seemed so devoted, so anxious. But when Doctor Wilton said, “ but never more to work,” a look of unmistak able pleasure was. in her eyes. Not a grateful expression, but one more of exultation, power. What could it mean ?. Had those long weary hours of anxious watching been on ly fine acting ? The old doubts and suspicions came back again, growing daily greater aud darker. She would meet the doctor often at the door, and stand for many min utes in earnest, whispered conversa tion. Once, out on the porch, hid den behind the clustering vines, I saw her place her hand on his arm, and looking up into his eyes —her own filled with tears—she said : “ How much longer ? Oh, these last two weeks have been more than years to me. And if, oh, if you have not been deceiving me, I may hope-” _ ' “ Everything,” he answered, in terrupting her. And. taking her hand in his, 116 continued ; “You will not have many more days to wait, and them I am sure we shall be very happy.” Aud • shaking the hand he held, he hurried off. Now I dare not thiuk back to the terrible thoughts which filled my mind. Wilbur was still vriry weak. I must not, eyen by a look, warn him of what I feared. He was very tender and loving to her. But the old doubt still lingered in his heart, aud an expression of the deepest sadness came Over his face. When one day she heard the well known step in the hall, aud darted out to meet .the dbetor, I heard Wilbur murmur, uuconscious of my presence. “Poor child ! She is so young. I hoped to make her happy; but I am so grave and quiet, and nearly twice her age. God give me strength to bear it.” . I told my thoughts to Anna. She would scarce listen. She would uot think her so false. “ She was a thoughtless child, and nothingmore,” she said. W ilbur seemed so very slow in getting better. Ah, I knew why he cared uot to live. Edna was in a state of feverish ex citement, which every hour grew worse. One day I felt the crisis was near. Her cheeks were burning; her eyes glowing with a wilder look than ever; while I knew her ear was strained to catch every sound of coming footsteps. At last she' heard the welcome sound, and sprang down the steps to meet him. I heard him exclaim, “Joy at last!” and she, “ Bless you! 0, God will bless you for your goodness to rac ! ” A little talk that I could not hear, and then he walked into the parlor, and she came bounding up stairs again into her husband’s room. If she saw me she did not care, she was wild with delight. Wilbur was sitting in an arm-chair. She threw herself on a stool at his feet, caught his hand, pressing it close to her bosom, and joyfully cried out; “At last, at last I can tell you. You will doubt us no-longer. Aud forgive me for having a secret from you. I dared not tell, I was so fearful of a failure. See 1 See! There is no longer need of your working. I shall work for yon— for us all. Aud oh, what a labor of ’love it will be ! See ! See I ” Aud she held before him a paper, pointing with her tiny -fingers to something on it. He looked at it, then at her, as if he had just awak ened from a strange, wild dream. Before he could speak, she drew from her pocket a roll of notes, and thrust them into his hand, sayiDg: “ This is yours, all yours. lam all yours, am I not ? And I will have more, much more. Oh, speak to me, Wilbur. Say one little word, please. Oh, the unutterably jOy that beam ed on his (van face, then aslie mur mured, clasping her to his heart: ‘‘Thank God ! You are all my oavo TANARUS" I stole away then —hid myself from their sight. In the next room to the parlor I was when she came dowu, a little while after, and said to the Doctor: “ Come to him, he knows all I’ve told him how much we owe you, our best friend. Come, come ! he wants you.” How terribly I bad wronged her! Could she ever forgive me ? I thought. Yes, she did fully, freely; Rut can I ever forgive myself? Soon we know all. How those hours locked in her own room, she had been working for us ; writing her pure beautiful thoughts. To the Doctor'she had told her secret,, begging his advice and assistance. I4e had placed her work before ihose be believed would appreciate and accept it; guarding her secret so closely, for fear of a failure, that it brought trouble between Louise and himself. But all was over then. Louise came, and with her arms around her, pleaded forgiveness. A Beautiful Extract. It was night. Jeruselem slept as quietly amid her hills as a child upon the breast of its mother. • The noiseless sentinel stood like a stat ue at hs post, and the philosopher’s lamp burned dimly in the recess of his chamber. But a moral dark-* ness involved the nations in its un enlightened shadows. Reason shed a faint glimmering over the minds of men, like the cold and insuffi cient shining of a distant star. The immortality of man’s spiritual na ture was unknown, his relations unto Heaven undiscovered, and his future destiny obscured in a cloud Os m’ystery. It was at this period that two forms .of ethereal mould hovered about the land of God’s chosen people. They came like sister angels, sent to earth on some embassy of love. The one of ma jestic stature and well-formed limb, which her snowy drapery scarcely concealed, in her erect bearing and steady eye exhibiting the highest degree of strength and confidence, lief right arm was extended in an impressive gesture upward, where night appeared to have spread her darkest pavillion ; while on her left reclined her delicate companion, in form aud countenance the contrast of the other. She w’as drooping like a flower moistened by refresh ing dews, and her bright and troub led eyes scanned them with radient but varying glance. Suddenly a light like the sun, flashed out from the Heavens, and Faith arid Hope hailed, with exciting songs, the as cending star of Bethlehem. Years rolled away, and the Stranger was seen at Jerusalem. He was a meek, unassuming man, whoso happiness seemed to consist in acts of benevo lence to the human race. There were deep traces of sorrow on His countenance, though no one knew why He grieved, for He lived in the practice of every virtue, and was loved by all the good and wise. By and by it was rumored that the Stranger worked miracles, and the blind saw, the dumb spake, the dead arose, the ocean moderated its chafing tide, the very thunder articulated. lie was the Son of God. Envy assailed him to death. Thickly 7 guarded, He slowly as oeuded the Hill of Calvary. A heavy cross bent Him to the earth. But Faith leaned on His arm, and Hope, dipping her pinions in Ilis blood, mounted to the skies. Things Which Don’t Always Follow as a Natural Conse quence.—ls you beckon to a balky mule it does not always follow. If you see a man standing in the doorway of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, it doesn’t always follow that he boards there. If you see a man running alon’g the street, “as though the Sheriff was after him,” it doesn’t always follow that he is doing a rushing business. If you see a man beating time at a concert and looking very know ingly, it does not always follow that he understands a particle of music. If you hear a couple “ dearing ” and “ darlinging ” each other be fore people, it doesn’t always follow that that tney do it when they are at home alone. If you meet a stranger who asks you to lend him five dollars, and you lend it to him, it does not al ways follow that he will be in a hurry to return it. If you meet a man troubled with dyspepsia and rolling his eyes in a very sanctimonious way, it does not always follow. that he is a “ saint.” When you read what the Herald’s correspondents are “ enabled to send ” to that paper from France, it doesn’t always follow that they were not*perched on a stool iu the top of the Herald building when they “ sent ” it. —An exchange says : Parkier Pillsbury, the abolitionist, is preach ing on free religion. And now what is free religion ? - Why it’s what they call on Boaring Fork a promiscu ous and indiscriminate scramble hell wards. —Woman is like ivy—the more you are ruined the closer she clings to you. A vile old bachelor adds : “ Ivy is lilce woman—the closer it clings to you the more you are ruin ed.” . ' . The Communists’ Platform, At the- present moment, when everyone is discussing the probable future of France, and while the do ings of the Communists of Paris and Marseilles are the one topic of the day, it may not be amiss to publish an authentic account of the actual programme of the Commu nal party. The following extracts are translated, as literally as possi ble, from a French document, pub lished about a year ago: OUR PROGRAMME. Fundamental principle —“ Equal ity Before all Things.'" 1. The active socialist party, af ter overthrowing the present gov ernment, that is to say, after hav ing Accomplished a political revolu tion, will proclaim that all descrip tions of property are to be no long er personal but national. 2. iPwill invite the immediate ■formation of industrial societies, in every parish or township, and will publish reports, drawn up by men familiar with the subject, showing what kinds of industry are iudis pensable iu each particular district or country, and what parts of the country are most favorable or the reverse, for any given occupation. 3. A certain period will begranted to every citizen to consider which working society he will join, It is the right as well as the duty of ev ery one to’choose that kind of la bor which, taking into consideration his physical and mental capacities, will prove most beneficial to him self and to all the commonwealth. 4. All persons who shall refuse to join one or other of the working societies, without assigning some valid reason for refusal, will lose all rights as citizens. They will not be admitted to any of the public establishments which contain the provisions destined to supply the wants of tho members ot the com monwealth. To such persons, houses, public dining-rooms, rail roads, post offices, and telegraphs, in fact everything will be closed.— They will be absolutely deprived of the meaus of existence, and must ei ther work or die. 5. Each group of workmen will elect, from its midst, a public val uer or superintendent. This indi vidual should be chosen by his fel low-workmen, on account of his en ergy, ability, and superior knowl edge of the details of his trade.. 6. The duties of this,superintend ent will consist chiefly in regulat ing the supply of work, in taking account of its value, and the quan tity performed by each member; al so iu negotiating between bis soeie ty and the local office, to which ev ery society in the district will have access, sending to it the products of their labor, and receiving from it everything necessary to supply the wants of their members. 7. A commitee, composed of members elected by every working society, will regulate, iu its own district, the supply of labor, and develop the natural or acquired ad vantages of the locality. It will receive all the goods produced by tho industry of’each society in its district, classify them, and distrib ute them according to the wants of the community, or, in the event of a surplus, send them to other dis tricts to form materialfor a Hew or ganization. , 8. The committee will publish at regular intervals reports on the work accomplished by each society, and on the sum total of the products and consumption of each member for a given period, iu order to show clearly the profits or loss that each member brings to tbe common wealth. 9. The above mentioned reports will also serve to enlighten the cit izens in the election of agents and public functionaries of every de scription, and also to regulate the course of all kinds of labor and show what changes are required in any department of industry. 10.. All the public institutions, as well as tbe dining-rooms, sleeping rooms, schools, hospitals, libraries, 'roads, railways, posts, and tele graphs shall be placed under the administration of local bureaus. 11. All the public works of the locality, such as the making of roads and railways, public buildings, etc., and the cleansing and keeping of them in order, shall be under the management of this principal bu reau. 12. All kinds of labor which re quire physical force only without any special technical knowledge, shall be performed in rotation by the members of each section. 13. The principal bureau will also be charged with the education of children, for which purpose special buildings will be constructed, in which physical and mental training alike shall be included. Up to a certain age, to be hereafter-decided, the ceildren shall not be taken iu hand by the Communal sections. 14. Barents who wish to under take personally the education of their children shall have tho right to do so; but this shall not exempt them from the obligation of work ing a certain number of hours each day. 15. Asa general rule when the members of the community have completed the fixed number of hours for work each day, they can occupy themselves in any way they like — in doing nothing, in out-door recre ation, in visiting the public theatres or concert, scientific lectures, .etc. 16. Any person desirous of de voting all his time to scientific re searches or discoveries shall present to the local bureau a statement of his project, which, if found feasible and likely to be useful to the com munity, shall confer upon the au thor the right to retire from his working section. He shall also be provided with the meaus necessary for the accomplishment of his un dertaking. 17. Having acquired the right of devoting himself to a special occu pation, the autor of the project shall present regularly to the bureau full reports of his undertaking, which shall be published. 18. In this way the bureau is placed in constant communication with all the skilled artisans, engi neers, inventors, and learned men in the country, and receives reports and suggestions calculated to in crease the well being of the comma nity. The bureau will elect from its members directors of public works and special functionaries for each department. • 19. Tho number of working hours each day shall be regulated by the natural conditions of the lo cality, the climate, the season of the year, and the greater or less expen diture of strength required iu any given kind of labor. Exceptions of course, will be made in the case of sick and weak persons, and alsfl in other eases which may as yet be unforeseen. 20. All the rights,-duties, and in stitutions einauatiDg from the pres ent condition of things, all the infa mies of jurisprudence, of police, and of religion, have no space in the new social order. All affairs and undertakings, without direct value for the commonwealth, have no foundation except reciprocal con sent and confidence in the person ivith Avhom the agreement is made. Legal or political guarantees, such as are made by tbo-usands in tbe present state of things, will not be recognized in the ucav regime. Con tracts betAveen groups or individu als will have no right to tho pro tection of tho bureau. 21. The relationship between the tAvo sexes shall be entirely free. So soon as a mutual understanding ex ists the man and Avoman can marry or remarry as often as they like.— The education of children, as men tioned before, is entrusted to the State. . • 22. These fundamental principles of the “ Commune ” can be carried out only Avhen a political revolution, seriously and secretly prepared, shall have become successful. The ncAV social order will become an ac complished fact first of all in those great cities from which emissaries have been already senttb propagate the Communistic idea, and to dis pel tho ignorance and inertia of the masses. A Chapter on Kisses. —When a lark attempts to steal a kiss from a Nantucket-girl, she says, “ Come, sheer off, or I’ll split your mainsail with a typhoon.” The Boston girls hold still until they are well kissed, when they flare up and say, “ I think you ought to be ashamed.”— When a chap steals a kiss from an Alabama girl she says, “ I reckon it’s my time now,” and gives him a box on the ear that ho don’t forget in a week. When a' clever fellow steals a kiss from a Louisiana girl, she smiles, blushes deeply and says nothing. When a man is smart enough to steal this divine luxury from them, they are perfectly satis fied. In Lynn, Massachusetts, when a female is saluted with a buss, she puts on her bonnet and shawl, aud answereth thus : “ I am astonished at thy assurance, Jebediah ; for this indignity I will sew thee up.” New York ladies receive a salute with Christian meekness; they fol low the Scriptnre rule, whensmitten on the one cheek, they turn the oth er also. And when a Berlin girl gets kissed Bhe very calmly replies, “ Hans, daissh goot.” New Treatment for Small- Pox.— Anew method of treating the smallpox is just now attracting the attention of the medical frater nity, and has more special interest to the public at largo from the fact that the utility of vaccination is be ing sharply questioned. The new remedy is the use of the drug hy drastas canadensis, which has been employed in the treatmen of vari ous diseases, both in local and inter nal administration, and which is said to exert extraordinary power over small-pox, in modifying the disease, abolishing its distressing symptoms, shortening its course, lessening its danger, and greatly mitigating its consequences. The plant named hydrastis canadenses is found in many parts of the United States, and its tincture is made and sold for medical purposes. The plant is popularly called orange root,and sometimes called yellow puccoon, but it must not be con founded with another plant com monly called puccoon. An Immigrant Farm.— The Ger mans in Charleston are about to establish an Immigrant Farm near the city, for the purpose of tempo rarily locating immigrants who land there under no engagement. Here they will be furnished with employ ment and accommodations until they can look about them, learn the lan guage and make arrangements for a more advantageous employment of their time. Connected with the Farm will be a school. That is an excellent idea. The Atlanta Agricultural In dustrial Association has decided to bold the fair on the 16th of October next, at Oglethorpe Park. NO. 22 The Last New Balllad. I will not ask to press that cheek Without a guarantee That uature spreads the pearl and red, Which thei'e I always see ; Those lustrous lips 1 will not^touch, Unless you promptly say That their bright hue is fast aud true. And will not wash aWay. _ . Those brilliant eyes may owe their cliarni To belladonna’s use-, Complexion’s tints, I've heard dark hints; Are changed by waluut juice ; And I-ask the dearesr girl, For whom alone I live, For one long tress to kiss and bless, It my n’t be hers to give. The penciled brow, the raven lash; Are opened to a doubt: And some mistrust but they're unjust; The shape I rave about; And iu this dubious state of things, And as the weather's warm, I will not seek to press that cheek, Or ask to clasp that form. ; . Why Some are Poor.- Cream is allowed to mold and spoil. Silver spoons are used to scrape kettles. The scrubbing brush is left in the water. Bones are burned that will mate soap. Nice handled knives arc thrown into hot Avater. Brooms are never litfng tip, afid are spoiled. Dish cloths are thrown where mice can destroy them. Tubs and barrels are left ill the sun to dry and fall apart. Clothes are left in the sun to Avhip to pieces in the wind.* Pie crust is left to sour instead of making a few tarts for supper. Vegetables are thrown away that Avould warm over for breakfast. Dried fruit is not taken care of Id the season and becomes wormy. Bits of meat are thrown out that would make hashed meat or hash. The cork is left out of the mo lasses jug, and the flies take pos session. Pork spoils for the want of salt, and beef because the brian Wants scalding. Coffee, tea, pepper and spice are left to stand open and loose their strength. The flour is sifted in a wasteful manner, and the bread pan left with dough sticking to it. Vinegar is drawn in a tin basin, and alloAved to stand till both basin and vinegar are spoiled. Cold puddings are considered good for nothing when they can be steam-* ed for the next day. Hopeful’s Letter to his Mother. A youngster attending school in Paducah has written his mother the following characteristic letter: “ Dear Mother : I got another hard licking yesterday, but I had on three pair of pants and it didn’t hurt much. I was licked because I put six pins in Mr. .’s chair. I knew they would not stick him, and I made a bet they would not. Mr. was so mean and hard that the pins could not go in. I won the bet, which was a dog, and I am training him to bite old “ Hard sides,” as we Call him, some night when he comes home after dark, lie is often ought arter dark, and,- if Zsek is as good after him as he is after cats, I won’t get licked any more. Zack and I killed three cats on Sunday, though I was at Sunday school aud church all day, and it wasn’t a good day for killing cats either. This makes the third lick ing I got this week. One was be cause! had a bottle of milk in my. room, and the other was because I wrote a composition on negroes that old Hardsides didn’t like. I said thit a negro was a dark subject to write on. It was like a dark Afri can going down a dark cellar on a dark night to look for a black cat that was not there. Old Hardsides Stopped me and then licked me for that. Send me some more of them pies, I made a good trade with some of them If you will send me five dollars I will stop all my bad habits except cursing and swearing, and chewing and drinking, and one or two others. You hat} better make the trade. Give my*love w> Julie, and tell her to send me that little fiddle I left in the old trunk. Your affectionate son, Billy. The Barkers Pole. —Hundreds of people there are who do not un derstand w r hy the barber uses the red striped pole. It originated from the fact that, some centuries ago, it was customary for barbers to bleed people, and the pole, with alternate winding stripes of white aud i-ed, represented the bandage of the phle botomized victim. In the course of time the apothecary excelled the barber as a blood-letter; but the old sign of the craft was retained by the latter after the function which gave it significance had ceased. Caterpillars are reported to i>e playing havoc in forests of Arkan sas. In many sections they are com pletely stripping the trees of their foliage.