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About The Cartersville courant-American. (Cartersville, Ga.) 1888-1889 | View Entire Issue (April 11, 1889)
i VVHKUK AVISUOM LIKS. J iTbeu your road seems excessively rocky and rough, And disaster comes booming along; Tfben the humdrum of life is decidedly tough, And every big venture goes wrong; ■tfben fair weather friends are no longer your friends. And you lose, as you make it, each bet; IVhen to heap up ycur trouble Old Nick his aid b lends, ' it is wisdom, my boy. to forget. ■vyhen the frowns you meet daily disperse all your smiles. And your nerve is inclined to cry quits: ■Vfiien y°u fftll “ soft victim to coquetry's wiles. And are nearly bereft of your wits; ■yv'hen your down on your luck and the devil’s to pay. And your eyes with despair's tears are wet. Just get a good grip on your collar and say: ••It is wisdom, my boy. to forget ” When a long cherished project is knocked in the bead. And you're left sadly "holding the bag;" Wken Glee takes its flight and Gloom in its stead Makes a subject of you for the wag; tybeu there isu't a sign of a rift iu the cloud. Nor a sip of sweet solace to get; When you feel all alone in a big bustling crowd. It is wisdom, my boy, to forget. When you see, as you look o'er your shoulder, a train Of calamities trailing along, And there isn't the least bit of cheer in the strain That you dismally pipe to your song; When existence is hollow and tasteless and glum. And your soul is consumed with regret; When you’re tempted to lapse from the man to the “bum,” It is wisdom, my boy, to forget. —Kirke I.a Shelia FARMER JOHN. Old John Sanbourn—“Farmer John” his neighbors called him—was a very energetic and successful farmer in the great wooded belt of central Wisconsin. The heavy timber of nearly two hun dred acres had melted before his brawny arm, and months at a time the ring of his heavy ax had accompanied the sun from its rising to its going down. Great farm buildings had risen slowly by the rude sheds which were first called home, and droves of sheep and cattle ?ed where the one cow and unbroken 6teers first found pasture. Fanner John had fairly met all the dis couragements usual in pioneer life, and, aided only by his equally energetic wife, had honestly acquired a competence. That he was an honorable neighbor and a fair dealer none could deny, but some how, as the years passed and the farm was improved, there had grown up to ward him on the part of his neighbors a feeling of distrust anti aversion. Asa rule, they called him honest but “close.” Some of them thought him selfish. “The almighty dollar’s all lie’s after,” was the often repeated remark of uncharitable neighbors, who, less thrifty and industrious than he, found it hard to feed their large families, much less accumulate stock buildings and machin ery, as Farmer John had done. The fact was, when John Sanbourn came into the new country, times were extremely hard, and it required strict economy to make the few dollars he had brought with him from the east provide for his wants until he raised his first crop. A poor harvest and a still poorer market in the second year caused Farmer John to pinch almost to the verge of nakedness and starvation. A habit of closeness was thus formed which time did not diminish, and which grew in the eyes of his neighbors into a fault of the most exaggerated dimensions. One little grave had been made during these troubled years, and another trouble which we shall presently mention had contributed to leave the old man as we find him overworked, morose and selfish. On this particular morning he seemed rather more surly and gloomy than usual. It was just as the spring’s w r ork was beginning, and the never ending round of toil was swelling into even greater proportions than usual. On every hand, look where he would, there was something to be done, and to his business eye there was no more chance for a resting spell than there had been thirty years before. “Something must be wrong, yes. some thing must be wrong,” ho repeated to himself, as he walked on up the wide lane leading to the old barn. Something was wrong. Like a good many men who are anxious to do well, and have little to do with, Farmer John had saved and worked till he thought of nothing but saving and work ing. Ambitious as he was, ho dreaded to see any of the boys start out in life unless he started well, and above all he could not bear the thought of one of them marrying into a family not well supplied with money or land. So when the oldest boy. Will, had his twenty-second year, and began to call occasionally on the Widow Baldwin’s bright little Helen, it surprised no one to hear that his father had told him to stop going there, or to leave the farm. Will w;is deeply attached to the old place and had worked faithfully every day since he was big enough to pile brush. So one morning, when the old man found the breakfast a little late and W ill's mother trying to hide the tears when she called him. he was not pre pared to hear that lio had gone—gone no one knew where. Although in his heart the father felt as badly as any one, he was still inexorable and declared that no boy of iiis should marry a beggar—no, not if he never saw him again. So Will went away, and the autumn and winter came and went, and the spring’s work was upon them, with all the extra labor Will’s absence en tailed. Thus things stood when we find the old man talking to himself along the path to the great red barn. The boys had gone over to the hill pasture to re pair the wall before turning in the stock, which, impatient to go, was still fed at the barn. Farmer John had come up in the mid dle of the forenoon to look after things and carry back a jug of fresh water, and while there he stopped at the barn to feed out a little before going to the He had thrown some stalks over to the sheep and cows, 6hoved a bright bit of hay to the new bossy, and now, after giving old Kit all the oats shei needed, found himself with a large fork ful left. * Just what to do with it did not seem to come to him at once. So, mechani cally leaning his fork against the pile, he sat down upon it. Yes, sat down to think, anu the way he did it, and that he did it at all, showed he began thinking before he sat‘down. That Farmer John should stop work, and above all in the middle of a bright forenoon, was something quite out iff his usual way of proceeding. Farmer John seldom did think much, and what think ing he did was generally done upon his feet: but whether this particular morn ing found him in a more troubled state than common, or the great pile of soft hay proved too much of a temptation for his tired legs here we find him. “Well, well,” he exclaimed, as he re moved the worn straw hat and rested the sunburned arms on his knees, “there’s no use talking! I've had ’bout all l can stand of this. It’s nigh onto thirty years since we rolled up the old log stable that used to stand here, and, sakes alive! we thought then I couldn’t stand much more.’’ Here he paused, and while the cool breeze through the groat door fanned the wrinkled face, his mind seemed away back—back “nigh onto thirty years.” “Poor Mary I" and as he continued a tender light came into the hard gray eyes. “I can see her now as she stood that night after they were all gone. How good she was! how hopefully she talked! ‘You'll soon have the roof on, John,’ she said, ‘and then you can take it easier. Shan’t we be glad when ’tis all over with?’ Yes, yes, we thought then that sometime ’twouid be all over with; but that time seems never to come, never to come!” The sunlight on the floor moved farther along. Little Bright had lain down for his midday nap, and still the gi*y head was bowed, and no fresh water found its way back over the hill to the boys. Thus an hour passed. Then old Kit, who had stopped chewing, 'and with drowsy eyes was living over colthood days, was suddenly brought back to the present by the old man hurriedly getting to his feet. “Beats all! beats all what I’ve been tlynking about all these years!" he burst out. “We’ve had enough an’ ter spare for the last fifteen of ’em, and here I am working ’em all to death ’n myself, too —for —well, for nobody knows what. I’ll stop it, yes, I declare I will 1 Mary’s too old to work this way, an’ I oughter seen it before. I’ll turn over anew leaf, see ’f I don’t —half a dozen of them. Wilson can have that forty ef he wants it, an' if I only dared to, I’d go clear down ter Widder Baldwin’s and tell ’em I’m ashamed of myself, blamed if I wouldn't!” Here he stopped a moment for breath; then went on: “P’raps tuin’t jist the thing ter go pokin’ down there ’thout bein’ asked, after all's been said; but then yes, I will.” They can't more'n tell me to leave.” Here the old man hurried out of the door, and casting a side glance at the sun, at once set out for the kitchen door. “No mistake,” he repeated, as he walked along. “I was a little too hard on the boy. Will worked hard and was good to me. always was. I took a poor girl when I started, an’ I’ve never seen a rich one I’d trade her for,” and on he went up the cool back 6teps into the kitchen. “Mary!” “Yes, John!” came from the cellar way, whence Mrs. Sanbourn was bring ing a large pan of potatoes, a half dozen turnips and a cabbage. “What did you want, John?” she asked, placing the future dinner on the table and resting her hands on the sides of the pan. “Oh, nothin’. Only wanted to know where ye was, kinder;” and then, seeing the worn look on the once handsome face, added: “Ain’t ye pretty tired, Mary?” “Well, no. not more than usual, but somehow, John, I’m always tired now adays.” “Well, Mary, ye look tired, that’s sar tin: but I” Here the old man found it hard to proceed, for visions of the Mary in the past and the Mary now, of the little Will and the Will of today, came too vividly before his troubled gaze. Mrs. Sanbourn, noticing this, hastened to ask if anything was wrong. “Oh, no, dono’s there is. Thought I'd stop in an' rest a bit. Somehow 1 don’t seem ter stand as much this spring's common. But as I’s goin’ ter say, I’m— I’m goin’ ter turn over anew leaf, Mary, an' —an’ Will, Will didn't do so very bad, after all. You know I —I" Here the old man choked up again, and seeing the great tears starting to Mary’s faded eyes, caught up the big dip per, and saying something about a cool drink at the spring, hurried out. When he got to the spring, he didn’t drink at all, but leaving the dipper on the stones, passed out of the big gate into the road. Here lie stopped, looked up and down the way, went on a little, then stopped again. “Wonder ’f I'd better? Can’t hear from Will 'f I don’t, that’s sartin.” Then after a moment’s pause, “Yes, I'll go go now! If it’s put off, ’twon't be done, that’s all. I can tell ’em jist how ’tis. Mother’s dyin’ ter see Will, an'—well, yes. an’ I am, too, for that matter. I’ll tell ’em ’twas I made the rumpus. They’ll know where Will is,’ an’ I’ll know, too, ’fore this road sees my boots agin, see ’f I don’t!” With this he gave the old hat a vigor ous jam to gain courage, and started off with long strides toward the clump of maples that hid the widow's cottage. “Good momin’, Wilson!” he callc-d to a passing neighbor. “I’d like ter speak to ye jist a moment." With a puzzled look the driver stopped and gazed earnestly at the old man. Well, Wilson. hew ’bout that forty acres—want it yet?” “Want it? I supposed you knew I wanted it badly enough. But what’s the use? I can’t pay all down, and you can, so of course you’ll get it.” “Well, i do’ know ’bout that. Wilson. It would square out your 6ixty, and make ye ai even hundred. Ye oughter have It, an’ can for all me. I’ve got two hundred now—an’ it’s goin’ ter kill me an’ all the rest of ’em ter run that. An’ ’bout the money—ef ye aint got null why I have, an’ jist’s soon let ye have two or three hundred for a year or so’s not I’m somethin' of a hurry, Wilson, but mind, 1 mean what 1 say. Good morn in’.” “Good morning,” repeated the aston- , ished Wilson, as with open mouth he looked after the retreating figure of the farmer. “What under the sun’s got into him— can it really be the old man?” bethought to himself. Yes, there was no mistaking those home made suspenders —both fast ened to one overworked button. Though Neighbor Wilson was com pletely thunderstruck, and rode with his head twisted round, looking after the ob ject of his astonishment till he was nearly thrown from his wagon by a bad stump, he was still the happiest man in all the Badger state. Then he turned and drove furiously back home to aston ish his family with the glad news. All this time the cause of his past mis ery and present happiness was making good time toward the dreaded interview. He had not intended to stop again, but a cheery “Good morning, Mr. Sanbourn,” from the yard of a jhh>r renter near the maples, broke the current of his thoughts just as he was preparing himself to meet the worst. “That you. Martha? Well, good mornin’. I'm in a hurry, but glad ye spoke after all. Ilow’d ye like goin' up an’ helpin’ Mrs. Sanbourn for a couple weeks or such a matter, p’ra’pa longer? That is if yer mother can spare ye. I’ll do what’s right by ye—two dollars a week—if that’ll do. It’s 'most too much for Mary, to feed an’ run us all. Go right up an' help her get dinner, ef yer can, ’n’ I’ll pay ye from this mornin’.” The girl was as much astonished as Neighbor Wilson had been. She had helped them once before in “thresh ing time” and got only a dollar for a week’s hard work. Compared with this, the present offer was dazzling. So before her employer was many rods away she was off, with a light heart, to help at the great white house. Naturally a bashful man. Farmer John as he opened the gate almost wish ed himself at work again in the pasture. But his mind was made up, and brush ing the hayseed from his overalls, he re adjusted the old hat, rolled down his sleeves and started in. The neat appearance of the walk and other evidences of thrift which abounded were not lost on the visitor. He knocked on the door and Mrs. Baldwin met him with a puzzled Look on her face, but gave him a kindly “good morning,” and when he entered Helen herself offered him the great armchair. The pale face and troubled eyes of the girl were kind enough, but something in them sent a pang of pity into the old man’s softening heart. He had always said it was only the money Will might get that made her partial to him, but during the day he had thought there might be something else, and now he knew there was. “Pretty fair weather for the time o’ year," he .at length said, after an awk ward silence in which the measured tick of the old clock seemed to gain in vol ume kt every swing. He would not have said even this had he known what the weather was, for a strong spring shower had been gathering, and was about to break on the cottage. A moment later it did break, and what to do or say next the old man did not know. When he came in they were about to spread the table for dinner, and after some delay country manners demanded that they should proceed. Farmer John watched them closely, hoping a third plate would not make its appearance on the snowy cloth. But it was placed there, and when dinner was ready Mrs. Baldwin with a pleasant smile asked him to sit up and eat with them. In vain the old man declared he was not hungry—that he had just eaten a very late breakfast —and that he hadn’t a very good appetite anyway. The rain kept pouring down, anil in spite of him self Farmer John found himself seated at the table with Helen and her mother. As soon as they were seated Mrs. Bald win glanced quietly at her neighbor, and then proceeded to ask a plain, old fash ioned blessing. Farmer John had asked blessing—but that was before the new barn was built —for somehow during the hurry and worry of the time, blessings were often left out. and finally dropped altogether. To lie ffure they were re newed the spring little Ben’s sleeping place was changed from the warm room off the kitchen to the* narrow bed in the old orchard, but only for a year or so. and now it was never done. Perhaps the old man’s conscience was disturbed by this omission—we cannot say as to that —but somewhere in his crusty heart there was a lingering re spect for those who did not omit it that gave tliem a warm corner where warm corners were exceedingly scarce. Nor can we say whether it was this or the de sire to say something in the right place that caused him at the close of the bless ing to astonish his hostess with a very hearty amen. Of course Mrs. Baldwin and her daugh ter were puzzled as to the object of the old man’s visit. Mrs. Baldwin thought possibly it was 6ome matter of business, but his evident embarrassment about in troducing it was inexplicable. Helen, who never thought of John Sanbourn except in connection with Will Sanbourn, feared his visit boded no good for the absent boy. But they had not long to wait. “I do’ know but 1 might jis’ ’s soon tell ye what I come for lirst as last. ’Taint no pleasant job, I know, but 1 felt ’s though I didn’t do jist light toward ye in the matter ’bout Will, an’ 1 want to tell ye that I’m ashamed uv myself. I I was too 1 isty altogether.” This was not exactly what he had meant to say, but it was all he could say, and it to do. Mrs. Baldwin, greatly astonished, man aged to say tliat there was nothing for him to bo ashamed of. They always be lieved he did what fie thought would be for the best, and ha I no reason to think he had done otherwise in this matter. Helen was too much overcome to speak, but when the old farmer extended his hand and asked her to overlook the past and he would do better by Will, the dark eyes filled and the girlish form shook with emotion. Farmer John had winked hack a good many tears in his day, hut this proved a little more of that kind of work than even he could manage, and one after an other the great tears rolled down his face. Mrs. Baldwin was about to make some further remark, when a step on the front stoop attracted their attention, and in a moment more Will Sanbourn stood be fore the astonished trio. Helen sprang toward him first, but Farmer John was a close second, and grasping him warmly by the hand extended a most hearty wel come. An hour later the sun broke through the clouds, and shortly after two men could lie seen dodging the puddles along the road leading by one of the best farms in Central Wisconsin. One of the men was adittle bowed, with one hand rest ing on his back just where two wide, knit suspenders met. The other a little taller, upright and strongly built, was trying to keep up with him. Which was happier of the two it would be hard to tell. It is just four years today since then, and Will, with a strong hired man. is in the same back field, mending the old pasture wall. The other boys are away at school, and as we are passing so near the old farm house, let us peep into the open door of the long front room. The two elderly ladies by the window we have seen before. And the restful peace on the face of one of them tells that the time when “’twill be all over with" has really come. A young woman with dark, earnest eyes is (lilting back and forth to the kitchen helping (Tie girl with the dinner, while every step is taken lightly, as off and on furtive glances are cast towaid the well worn lounge in the corner. For don’t you see a chubby 2-year-old, with a pair of gold bowed spectacles in his dimpled fist, has fallen asleep on grand pa’s arm, and grandpa is sleeping too? We did not intend to say anything about the baby’s name and will not. But you can always tell when the thin locks are pulled a little too hard, by the way the old man says— "Johnny!”—Millard Greeley in Youth's Companion. Poisoning from Tooth Plates. The coloring matter of rubber false tooth plates is chiefly some oxide of metal, that of lead being of a bright red. while the oxides of bismuth, antimony, aluminum and manganese will give the rubber the brown color running to ma roon and the pink is obtained from ani line colors. But it is not in the metallic oxides used in the preparation of rubber that danger lies (as the percentage of rubber sore mouths is so small—one in 50,- 000). but in Ihe vulcanization itself, which instead of converting the pre pared rubber as received from the de pots into vulcanite can be by careless ness converted into a porous plate, con taining hundreds of thousands of minute holes. each able to ab sorb and retain the fermentation from food products, and by its presence constantly against the tissues of the mouth cause blood jxiison. This porosity is caused by overheating the rubber, thereby convertiug the sulphur in the mass into sulphurous acid, destroying the fiber of the rubber by decomposition and setting free the metallic oxides. Whereas, if rubber is cured or vulcan ized pro[>erly, at a temperature never exceeding 280 to 800 degs. Fahrenheit, it will retain its elastic fibers intact; the sulphur will be in its natural state, per meating the rubber and holding the coloring matter so hermetically sealed in its substance that no moisture will dissolve; even strong sulphuric acid will not touch it. It is the duty of those making rubber plates to attend to these details in the process of manufacture, but where cheap dentistry is sought after, hurry is the re sult and the consequence very danger ous. —Annals of Hygiene. ' Mountain Air. The health giving influence of moun tain air has long been recognized, but the most emphatic indorsement of the ‘•Highland Cure l’lan” is now furnished by the report of Professor C. M. Wood ford. who passed several months among the cannibals of the Solomon Islands. The main island of the group, he informs us. is inhabited by connoisseurs in man meat, who select their victims from the hill trines of the neighboring isles, hav ing found their flavor as superior to that of the coast dwellers as® venison is to veal. Th • benedicts of the archipelago probably hoard their mothers-in-law at some convenient highland resort before salting them down for winter use.—New York Telegram. The of Word*. Words and their uses again. Some queer phrases come to the Listener's ea r in the course of a twelvemonth! Here is one word, told of by a friend, which is quite new. To this friend a woman, shaking the other day of her surround ings and home, her neighbors, more es jieciaily, said; "We have very litfle society —very few callers; we find we don't congeal very well w ith the people almut here!” Possibly the trouble was that the peo ple really did congeal liecause they didn't like Partington isms. But what she meant was probably cougene!—Boston Transcript. A Valuable Book. A Frenchman named Cayro, who has l>een sentenced to ten years’ penal servi tude for burglary in the suburbs of Paris, is the author of a work called “The Manual of the Perfect Burglar.” ,No doubt we shall soon have a translation of this important work issued in a cheap and popular form for circulation in this country in the interests of technical edu cation. —Londoo’G lobe. FARM, FIELD AND GARDES, Subjects of General Interest to Farmers and Gardeners. Hints anil btiKKttstions Worth Reading and Puulnrlug—Timely Topics and Valuable Conclusions. Consider what is sought for in pruning fruit trees. The operation is simplified by a knowledge of its principles. First, then, prune to preserve the health anil prolong the life of the tree; second, to secure plenty of good fruit; and third, to promote the convenienceof theorchardist in regard to the position of the branches. Following is some advice relating to the above text, recently given by Dr. T. H. Hoskins, one of Rural New Yorker’s val ued correspondents; When a tree's branches are ill placed and crowded, there is a tendency with some of them to dwindle and die. In this way a tree becomes, to some extent, self pruning. Some orchardists regard this as sufficient, and only seek to aid nature bv neatly removing branches that are l>e ginning to perish. It is easy to lie seen that these failing branches will produce but little fruit, and that of inferior qual ity; so not only the first principle, but also the second, requires their removal. These ill placed branches are also much in {he way of gathering the fruit. They aVe mostly either iu the interior of the tree, or near the ground, in Ixith cases being shaded by exterior and superior branches of more vigorous growth. If these principles are kept in mind from the first, and tin* owner lias enough imaginative power to form in his mind’s eye a picture of tin* tree as it will become in its successive stages of growth, he will he ahleffo select for removal such growth as will clearly tiecome injurious as the tree enlarges In thus anticipating the work of nature, he will be led to remove ill placed branches when quite small, thus obviating the necessity for large wounds, which heal slowly, and mean time give a chance for fungi to enter, and produce decay of the trunk. As he pro ceeds with this work, he will see that trees often have their main branches im properly placed, either forming a forked trunk (sure to split down under a load of fruit), or being too near together and too numerous. The formation of forks with a sharp angle should not be allowed, either in trunk or branches. The main limbs should be few. and so placed that even when they become large they will not be opposite to each other, or too near,to gether. Some trees have an erect habit of growth; others a low. spreading habit and still others a straggling, irregular manner of growth. It is possible to some extent, to modify these peculiari ties by pruning but it is not well to re move large branches for this ’ purpose alone. Pruning for fruit is much treated of in the books, but in the ordinary way ol managing apple orchards in thiscountry, if the above named principles be ad hered to, we have done about all that can be done to promote fruitfulness. With peaches and pears it is somewhat different The peach especially requires severe cutting back, owing to its pecu liarities of growth, while with the pear, pruning for fruit is more efficacious than with the apple. Pruning for a high trunk is insisted on for apple orchards by many; and in sections of the country where the climate is mild and equable, this convenience may be secured without other loss than what results from de layed fruiting. But where the winters are very cold, and especially in spots where the sun’s rays reflected from the snoW cause the destruction of the bark on the tv/uth’.vi t siii- if the trees, low head- will olte.i .i,- preferred. As varie ties best adapted to such localities are usually moderate growers, or short lived, the disadvantage of low branching is not so manifest as elsewhere. Facts About Ijist Tear’s Crops. At the beginning of anew year of ag ricultural production, a few facts in re gard to the principal crops of the past season may be of interest. From these it appears that the year 1888 was one of medium returns. The corn crop gave great promise until the time of earing, when it was somewhat injured in some sections by excessive rains, and on the northern border by frost. As published by the agricultural department, the re sult of the crop is between twenty-six and twenty-seven bushels |>er acre, with an aggregate but little short of .2,000,- 000,000 bushels. Much of it is deficient in quantity. There has been a nearly aver age yield of winter wheat and a small yield of the spring variety, aggregating about 400,000.000 bushels of an average quality. An increased area in oats re sulted in a crop of unusual size. Other grains were in moderate supply. The potato crop exceeded that of the previous year nearly 50 |*er cent. The cotton crop was later in development than that of ! 887. and not quite as large. The pas turage arid hay have been good in nearly all parts of ike country As regards pas turage on the public domain, as staled by the late commissioner, while it has been comparatively good the past season, it has suffered severe injury through over crowding oy t.e immense herds cf recent years I:i tins way the grazing capacity of these public pastures has lie-.-n re duced. with temporary loss to meat pro duction and possibly a permanent im pairment of the resources of the range. Measuring Cattle. The following has been given as a rule of some value in determining the weight when weighing is inconvenient, but in all the rules given the weight will vary widely with animals of the same girth: “Cattle girthing five feet ordina rily weigh from 050 to 750 pounds, ac cording to form and fatness; for each additional inch in girth add twenty-five pounds up to six feet, and for each inch after six feet add fifty pounds.” Thi3 is the simplest rule known and is probably as good as*any, but the only test that is at ail reliable is that of the scales, THINGS DOCTORS DO NOT KNOW. Their Ignorance Illustrated in ihe Robin. m ii Poisioiniag Ciisen. There vva a commotion anion# the doctors at u recent meeting ol the Massa chusetts Medico-Legal Society, when it was louud that reporters for secular newspapers were taking notes. Papers bearing specially on the notorious Rob inson arsenical poisoning cases had been announced. Dr. Holt declared that there was gen eral ignorance of the symptoms of arsen ical poisoning, and claimed that because of this ignorance the Robinson poisoning cases had gone on without arousing huh- • pieions on the part of medical men. There were, he said, at least eight cases of criminal poisoning; seven occurred within five years, ami in one family, and the other was t hat of a relative. The cases were aII treated b.v physicians of large practice, prominent in the pro fession, and yet.no suspicion of arsenical poisoning was aroused until an organi zation in which the victims were insured tried to determine by investigation why so many persons died suddenly in this family. In support of his statement as to the ignorance of medical men of the symp toms of arsenical poisoning, the doctor remarked that certificates of death were given in five of the Robinson cases as fol lows: pneumonia, typhoid fever, tneniu gitis, bowel disease and Bright's disease. The startling disclosure of the stupid ignorance shown in the treatment of those cases is quite in keeping with the usual indiscretion manifested by the pro fession in the treatment of persons who are sufferers from the slow and subtle poison which is generated in the system from a diseased state of the kidneys. L'hp afflicted are t reated for consump tion, apoplexy, for brain and various nervous disorders, when in most in stances, it is shown, w lcn too lute, that the patient whs wrongfully and ignor antly treated for a supposed disease which was, in reality, but a symptom of kidney disease, and should have been timely treated as such by the use of War ner’s Sate (’are, which is the only remedy known that can be successfully relied on in the treatment of such disease. Such exhibitions of stupidity bv those who profess great intelligence in such matters is calculated to destroy confi dence. ni.d it can be wtll said that a rem edy like Warner's Fate Cure, which placed the direct means of preserving health in the suffeier's hands, is far more morito -1 ions than high-pi iced medical advice which is so generally w orthless and too often based upon ai.ci ruin ous opiliiou as to the true cause of illness. Human life is just a little too precious to tin* average individual to be sacrificed to the bigotry or ignorance of others. In Mviim iAix, Martha Elizabeth Glenn Saxon, wife of Col. R. C. Saxon, born Aug. 18th, 182.'t, died at Grassdale her home, March 28rd, 188 ft. No, never more for thee the tear, * From it’s deep swelling fountsshallstart! Nor life’s conflicting hope and fear. Nor envy’s soul-convulsing dart, Nor aualit that clouds onr mortal ear Shall e’er disturb thy peaceful heart. They laid thee by that dear old mother, " Who has long since passe ( away. Tho’ high above thy green clad grafts Her precious memory lives today. The ntghts descend, the days awake, The stars gleam' out, the sunbeams fall, And Heaven’s rain refreshes all, Hut thou shall never moie awake ’Till quickened by the angel’s call From deaths long sleep and ley thrall. Thou rude and fell destroyer, death, Though thou contest in ghostly guise. Tho’ thy chill touch congealed her breath, Thou coudst not stay her spirit flight Beyond the gaze of weeping eyes; Beyond the skies, so fair and bright. To Us sweet home in Paradise. The flowers spread their tender blooms Thro’ vernal groves and fragrant fields, Yet, lik£ a censor’s soft perfume Thy spirit sweeter incense yields, And sheds its light across the gloon Which shrouds thy low. hut hallowed tomb. We know, indeed, that thou art not. Yet, while fond memory holds its reign, Shalt thou endure, and forgetl Though broken link, in being's chain. For love, when fate, hath set Its seal On marble lips and dreamlessbrow. Nor stem thy hand, can chill or steal. Nor soul distraction disavow. Sure, there awaits a life beyond The empty, fleeting dream of this; Or w hy should fade our cherished ones. Like phantoms through a darkling mist. Or pitful glpam of setting sun? Death is but a passing to that bourne The souls predestined endless home. W. P. Phillips. Chattanooere. TWin.. Anri! 1. 1881). Tliii • a Small Girl in Hartford Times. A cow is hi: animal with four legs on the under side. The tail is longer than the legs, but it is not used to stand oil. The cow kills flies with her tail A cow has big year“ that wiggles on hinges; so does her tail. The cow is bigger than the calf, but not so big as an elephant She is made so small that she can go iu the barn when nobody is looking. Some cows are black and some hook. A dog was hooked once. She tossed the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat. Black cows give white milk; so do other cows. Milkmen sell milk to - buy their little girls dresses, which they put water in and chalk. Cows chew cuds and each finds its own chew. That is all there is about cows. The snow storm of Saturday extended as fur south as central North Carolina. It was the worst of the season in several parts of Virginia. Travel was impeded, and telegraph wires prostrated.
