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A HU E STORY FOR ROYS.
BY AI.FKKD K. SEWEJX.
Home Arts.
I want to tell the lx>ys about a friend
of mine whose faithful performance of
present duty led him into higher posi
tions than he had ever dreamed of till
ing, and gave him what we would all
like to reach, —honor and success.
In the earlier years of my experience
as a printer in Chicago, more than twen
ty years ago, our firm did a good deal
(if printing for the Chicago, Burlington
and Quincy 11. 11., and because ot this
I came to know a young man who is the
subject of my story, lie came from
.Massachusetts; he was jioor : .1 had
no influential friend to give him a letter
of recommendation, lie sought em
ployment on the C. 11- & Q. I'. 11.. and
nfter waiting a time, at last secured a
position as brakeman on a freight train
—salary about S3O a month, lie mt
faithful in this position, and being both
intelligent and industrious, he was soon
made the conductor of the train, with
wages nearly double, lie soon attrac
ted the attention of his superior officers,
who saw in him an honest, faithful and
conscientious conductor, one not seek- i
ing his own ease or pleasure, but con
stantly devoted to the interest of the
company that employed him, so that
not many months elapsed before he was j
made conductor of a passenger train—
a more comfortable position, and one
yielding a somewhat higher salary.
Here I tirst knew him, and I saw in him j
a modest, quiet, unassuming young
man, free from popular vices, and one
who apparently tried to be just as faith
ful and true, and devoted to his work j
as a conductor as though the position
had been that of general superinten
dent. lie did not apparently have a
high opinion of his own abilities ; there
was a total absence of that swagger
and strut so often seen in those who
come to similar subaltern positions. It
seemed as though he thought that to
properly conduct his train—to secure
the comfort of his passengers, and right
ly serve the interests of his company—
required the full exercise of all the pow
ers God had given him.
One of the sternest and most exact
ing, and yet one of the noblest, ablest
and most conscientious men who ever
filled a siiflilar position was then gen
eral superintendent of the road. This
man, Col. C. G. llammond, watched
every employee of the road with an
eagle’s eye. lie measured every man,
knew the ability of each, and seemed
intuitively to know which were the faith
ful workers and which the lazy shirks.
Our young conductor did not escape
the keen eye. When he least thought
of it his chief was measuring and sound
ing him, and finding out what kind of
metal he was made of; but none ever
knew' whether he was approved or not,
for the chief’s look was always stern
and cold as ice.
One Saturday morning train Xo. 4
moved slowly out of Chicago under the
care of my friend, who, only intent on
doing his work as well as he knew how.
seemed to have no higher ambition than
to be a good conductor —salary $1)00 a
year. About noon, when he stopped
at a station, he found a telegram from
the head olfice, ordering him to “ leave
the train in the care of ■, and
take the first train for Chicago.’’
This was an unusual thing. At onder
ing what could be the matter ; conscious
that he had tried to do exactly right,
and yet remembering how exacting was
the general superintendent, he feared
that unintentionally lie had fallen under
his displeasure. Reaching Chicago late
Saturday evening, he found Col. Ham
mond had gone home, and knowing how
strict he was in his observance of the
Sabbath, the conductor waited impa
tiently for the coming Monday momiiur.
when, with a fearful heart he presented
himself at the office of the superinten
dent.
“ Good morning, Mr. Ilammond; I
have answered your telegram and come
to see what it means.'
“ Good morning,” growled the chief.
“ I see you have, sir; I have concluded
to take your train from you.”
The conductor’s heart sank lower
than ever. What before was only fear
ful foreboding, was now painful truth,
lie had served the company to the best
of his ability. He had kept the affairs
of his train in complete order, his re
ports had been carefully and correctly
made; and yet, after all. lie had lost
his position; he knew not why. and he
felt that his case was sad indeed. lie
inwardly resolved that, having missed
his calling, he would quit railroading
and try some other service, where faith
ful work would be appreciated. He
dared not hope to reverse the decision
of the all-powerful official, yet in as
calm a voice as he could command, he
politely asked the reason for his sum
mary dismissal.
Col. Ilammond waited a while before
he answered. Then the muscles of his
face relaxed a little, and he said, “ I
want an assistant superintendent in my
office, and I have called you to take the
place.”
True worth is always modest, and
our thunderstruck conductor could only
stammer. “ But lam not competent,
sir, to fill the position."
•* You can do what I tell you : you
can obey orders, can't you? That’s all
you have to do, fir. You will begin
work this morning. That is your desk.
The new duties were not as difficult
as he expected. At first he had only
to obey orders, and carry out the details
of work laid out by the chief, and to
these duties he brought the same faith
fulness and thoroughness that had marie
him noticeable as a conductor. Ilis
VOL. II—NO. 20.
j elevation did not spoil him or make
him vain, lie was as plain and mod
| est. and hard-working as before—the
salary at *5 was y i.HQO.
After a few years sendee tiuu.-r Col.
Hammond, and an advance of salary to
ft’2.500, the plain young man was invi
ted to take the ollice of general superin
tendent of a younger road at a salary
of ft 1.000. 1 iistrusting his own ability,
but determined to do his best, he ac
cepted the call, and succeeded, until
the ('. 15. & Q. realizing how much they
had lost in parting with him, invited
him to resume his old position, and se
cured- his sendees by the tempting of
fer of SO,OOO a year.
In the meantime Col. Hammond had
become the general superintendent of
the Union Pacific Railroad, running
from Omaha to Ogden, where it con
nects with the Central Pacific R. R.
This Central Pacific road was owned by
four or five millionaires who had built
it, one of whom was its general super
intendent. However good a business
man be was, he knew but little about
railroading, and under his care the mad
was anything but prosperous, until the
other owners and directors resolved
upon a radical and sweeping change.
Hut where could they find a general
superintendent who had the ability and
would dare to rccorganize the road and
put its affairs upon a better basis. They
consulted Col. Hammond and other
railroad men, and the result was that,
most unexpectedly, our whilom modest
and hard-working conductor one day
received a telegram asking him if he
would undertake the duties of general
superintendent of the Central Pacific
R. R. at a salary of Slb,ood. He was
satisfied with and appreciated by the
C. P>. & Q., who proposed to increase
his pay to $7,000, and as lie preferred
to remain in Chicago, he declined the
princely offer made by the California
road. Thou another telegram asked at
what salary he would become the chief
of the Central Pacific. Almost hoping
to discourage his tempters, lie tele
graphed, “ $13,000 a year in gold.”
At once came the answer, “ Accepted.”
So. taken in his own trap, he had
nothing to do but to bid adieu to the
city that had served him so well, and
turn his face towards the land of gold.
My story would be too long if I should
try to tell you the unexpected difficul
ties he encountered from the old officers
of the road,who had determined that they
would not he superseded, and that the
new superintendent should never enter
upon his duties, —how they, before his
arrival, set the whole press and people
of California against him, —liow, sup
ported by the directors, of the road, he
quietly took control, disarmed prejudice,
conquered submission, and earned suc
cess.
This was nine years ago. He is still
general superintendent of the Central
Pacific R. R., one of the most important
railroads in the world. With its con
nections in California, this quiet man.
not yet 48 years old, now superintends
2,734 railroads and over fifty connect
ing steamers, besides dictating the
tariffs of the China, the Australian, and
the Panama lines of steamships. While
other young men. preferring present
ease and comfort to the interest of their
employers, wasting money and time in
billiard halls, theaters and drinking
saloons, Ar.niox N. Towxi; was at work ,
building up character as well as rela
tion, and now fills one of the most im
portant positions in California, and in
stead of $360 a year, as brakeman on a
freight train, lie now draws the com
fortable salary of twenty thousand dol
lars in gold.
*■ Lucky man,” says one. “ Luck”
had but little to do with it. Modest
worth did it. Work did it. Faithfulness
IX Tin: PERFORMANCE OF PRESENT DU
TIES, however iirxtßT.K, did it. The
untiring faithful ness in the humblier du
ties, not only attract the notice and
won the appreciation of his superiors,
but fitted him for the higher positions,
which, without his seeking, he was
called to fill.
I have long desired to toll this story
of a young man's faithfulness, and con
sequent success, for I consider it a les
son that hoys and young men of the
present day can study to advantage.
He Was Partly Provided for.
Ho had been gone from the parental
roof six months —left home in the first
bloom of summer, with a smile upon his
brow and a pickax in his hand. The
Black Ilills his destination, glory and
gold the goal. A summer spent amid
the auriferous rocks —industry, perseve
rance and a rare knowledge of chemis
try and minerology his useful tools, in
addition to the pickax. Results are
such that he is enabled to return sooner
than his most sanguine expectations had
allowed him to dream of doing.
Almost at home, he pauses outside the
town until nightfall and sends to his
waiting, expectant parent the following
suggestive message:
“ Bring me a large blanket and a pair
of old pants — I’ve jot a hat!”
Companions in sin are no comforters in
sorrow. They arc like shadows : They
keep with us in sunshine, but leave us in
the dark.
HARTWELL, <JA., WEDNESDAY JANUARY <), 1878.
His l.ittlc Willie.
Vtfroit Frte Prtft.
V"dv yeetorday morning a ninu with
his back all humjx'd up and a face ex
pressive of deep sorrow entered a gro
cery store on Michigan avenue, naked if
lie could have a private word with the
proprietor, and when taken around be
hind the cheese box, said:
“1 am old and poor. 1 have a little
boy named Willie. I am afraid he is
on his dying bed. The poor darling has
been talking about what lie’ll get in his
Santa Claus stocking, and oh! how 1
do long to get teu cents of someone and
buy him ail India rubber duck or a lit
tle wooden stable with a gray mule ill it.
Are you a father, sir?”
“ Yes,” sulkily replied the grocer.
“ Have you a dying little Willie, who
is clinging to life only because he ex
pects Santa Claus to bring him some
thing.”
“ No.”
“Then —then, oh! Heavens! won't
you feel for me ! Won’t you weep in
unison with me! 1 could not beg for
bread —1 could not beg for lodgings—l
could not ask lor even one cold potato if
my dear wife was struggling in the fangs
of death. Rut, in this case —when the
happiness of my darling Willie is at
stake, I must force myself to ask you
for ten cents to buy a little stable with
a mule in it.”
“ I don’t know you,” said the grocer,
who didn’t even shed one tear.
“ I know you don’t, but it is my dying
Willie who appeals to you! There he
lays, only an old coli’ee sack over his
emaciated form, his face as white ns
snow, his hands wasted, his voice most
gone, and every little while lie whispers:
“Oil! I do hope Santa Claus will bring
me a little stable with a mule in it!”
Oh ! sir, don’t this touch your heart?”
The grocer handed him ten cents, and
the man wept like a sprinkling-pot as he
backed out and started for a toy store.
About an hour afterwards the grocer
happened down town, and lie suddenly
came across the father of poor little
Wide. The old man was hanging to a
hitcliing-post and looking both silly and
jolly.
“ Well, did you get that present with
my money?” asked the grocer.
“ Wliaz pesheut?” blankly asked the
old man.
“ Why, I gave you ten cents to get a
little stable with a mule in it.”
“ Bho you diz—sho you diz,” mutter
ered the man, as he reached out to shake
hands. “ Well, v.hez 1 got jown town
I foun* that all ’or lizzie stable had fell
jown an’ killed all her lizzie mules an
alio I—”
“So you bought whisky !” exclaimed
the grocer.
“Yes, sho I did,but am mi ’or blame?
Could 1 help all ’er lizzie mules beiu’
killed ?”
“ What will little, Willie do?”
“Xozzing. Laslit fing ’fore I lef
home zhis morning he tole me to be sure
buy big zlirink whisky put in my Clirs
mus stomach, an’could I dispoint zliat
darling boy! Greaz heavens! could J
jisobey his dying request!”
The grooer lifted him and passed on.
Buying a Pew.
Jhi rliii'jton II a trie eye.
“ Wliaf r they doin’ in there?” asked
Mr. Moran, the carpenter, as he passed
the church with his box of tools on his
shoulder. He was about half full.
“.Selling the pews,” said the sexton.
“Just what 1 want,” said Mr. Moran,
the carpenter, and lie walked in.
lie bid ten dollars on a rear pew and
won it. He paid his money, and then
took off his coat and went to work. He
had tiie side of the pew ripped out be
fore the people noticed what he was at.
Then a hand as big as a straw-rake was
laid on his shoulder, and a voice wanted
to know what he was doing.
“Goiif to have a lawn party,” said
he, “an’ want to put this under the
huckleberry tree.”
“ But you can’t take it out of here,”
said Deacon Doolittle.
“Yes, I kin. It’ll go out o’that mid
dle door soon’s I rip the back out. We
kin swing it round endways and jerk it
out through the portcullis.”
Then the back was ripped out of his
coat, he was swung round endways, and
he was jerked out through the portcul
lis, and he didn’t have change enough
to purchase a bean sandwich after he
paid for the damage to that pew.
A clergyman was annoyed by people
talking and giggling, lie paused, looked
at the disturbers, and said : “ I am al
ways afraid to reprove those who misbe
have. for this reason. Some years since,
as I was preaching, a young man who sat
before ine was constantly laughing and
talking and making uncouth grimaces. 1
I paused, and administered a severe re
buke. After the close of the service, a
gentleman said to me : ‘ Sir, you have
made a great mistake; that young man
was an idiot.’ Since then I have always
been afraid to reprove those who misbe
have themselves in chapel, lest I should
repeat tiiat mistake, and reprove another
idiot.” During the rest of the service,
there was good order.
THE I>ll AO V EAU.
jiy j. j. ir.
TANARUS! a following beautiful poem, w rit
ten i r Tin: Si x, should have appeared
in the last issue of 1877, hut did not
roach ns in time. However, it will be
as highly appreciated now as then:
Soft 1 v hells
Toll the knells
Dt' the pulseless, dying year.
Echoing soft notes far ami near
Of its cares,
Of its fears.
Of its pleasures, of its pride,
Wallen down Time’s restless tide.
Now. nt last,
\\ ith the past
Are registered heyoiul recall
liad thoughts, hasty words and deeds, all.
With regrets
The heart, frets
That w* had not more prudent been—■
That we had not more wisely seen.
Sad, sad thought,
AV ith grief fraught,
<*f years misspent, of years now </one,
Whoso buried hours cannot return,
Nearer thee,
Eternity,
Impressed with duty more and more,
Nearing, self-condemned, thy shore.
Hying year,
Iftion we'll share
The fare that must he thine to-day
(For al! things mundane pass aw ay).
Thou art old—
tirowing cold;
Soon shall we draw our final breath
And be still with thee in death.
Now farewell !
Sad we feel
In bidding thee a last adieu.
No more thy face, thy form to view.
In the west
Sink to rest;
Peaceful, gentle he thy slumber,
While ages countless swell thy number.
Badly Frightened.
The tfibet upon one of a nervous tem
perament, who had read stories of men
dying from a bite of a tarantula, is told
by the Sacramento Union :
A party of Bacramentans returned
home last evening from a trip to the
mountains, bringing with them two
(leer-skin.-, one wild-cat skin, and a few
I other trophies, including two tarantulas
—dead ones. The tarantulas, for lack
[of a better receptacle, were enclosed in
a cigar-box when caught about ten days
ago, and this box, carefully tied up, was
deposited beneath the seat of the vehicle.
While they were jolting through the
canyon, the seat slipped, and two of the
men occupying it found themselves
dropped suddenly into the bottom of the
wagon. Oue of them struck the cigar
box, crushed it, and immediately felt
that something had hurt him. A glance
showed him that he was resting on the
tarantulas, and with a yell of “ I’m
stung! I’m stung!” he jumped from the
wagon, and dashing his hands behind
him he ran wildly along the road, then
turned and made for the wagon, shout
ing to his amazed and greatly alarmed
companions:
“Whisky! Quick! I’m dying!
Why don’t you hurry !”
The other three men—there wen 1 four
in the party —reached simultaneously
for the demijohn, broke off the cork in
their haste, to pull it out, and, in an
effort to break off the neck of the demi
john to save time, broke the entire con
cern, and nearly all the contents were
lost.
About a pint of the liquid was saved,
however, and the person who was bitten
swallowed it. Boon he began to feel
better, and eventually felt so remarka
bly well that it was evident the poison
bad been forced to succumb.
Then the work of strengthening up
the contents of the wagon was com
menced, and the tarantula box was
carefully lifted out and examined, when,
behold! the “bug's” were found perfect
ly lifeless, and so dry and stiff that it
was evident that they had been dead
more than 24 hours, while two tacks in
the broken cover of the box conveyed a
very good hint as to the nature of the
injury which the bold hunter had de
clared to be tarantula-bites.
“ They All Do It.”
True Citizen.
This is the one sentence which takes the
courage completely out of youth, searing
their consciences as with a red-hot iron,
and permitting despair to carry them off
bodily into the depths of crime, “ Oh,
they all do it, why should not you?”
That is the suggestion. “That man lies
and cheats, and will commit any crime
which the law does not make dangerous.
So it is with all of them. There is no use
in trying to be different from other people.”
Such is the way the temptation comes to
the young man thrown on the world with
little knowledge of its ways, and perhaps
shielded only by the loose training of an
over-fond mother. “ People are grossly
immoral,” it is said. “ Kvcu professing
Christians get drunk, church-members
swindle public institutions ; all you see of
morality is but a surface show. Beneath
there is concealed wickedness. You will
find you must follow the multitude ;” and
the youth with the pleasures of the word
| thus held up before his glowing imagina
tion, asjd full of bodily health, plunges for
ward lieto wliot he believes to bo "the
world.” If the devil had concentrated all
his cunning during the centuries which
have elapsed since the ejection from Para
dise, he could not produce a more power
ful argument with which to conquer the
soul of maiMian this, ‘‘They all do it.”
Hut young man, listen. That sentence
is a lie ; as base ami foul a lie as ever was
conceived in the mind of man or devil.
They don’t “ all do it.” There arc thou
sands upon thousands of good, pure men
and women in this world, had as it may
seem, who are leading upright lives. They
beliovi in Rod, and in the commands of
virtue', and are going along with happy re
sults to themselves and to their neighbors.
There are men who think they are put in
this world not to gratify their own base
appetites, but to ho true and noble nml
high-mimled men. There nro nten who
would disdain to he accessory to a woman's
fall. There are men who would disdain to
take an advantage in a trade, or do any
other selfish or mean action. There are
men who try to be just, always, and kind
ly both in words and feeling to all. There
are men who lead humble, unpretentious
lives, and who, without making it known
to the world, are duily doing a vast amount
of good among their fellow men. And.
is it strange to say these men lead very
happy lives, and as a rule, very successful
lives? While the unprincipled man may
enjoy temporary success, sooner or later
he will sutler for his lack of honesty.
There are a thousand ways ><> -wn v;**,..
revenges lieisell upon him. Rut in one
way or another he gets his deserts. There
are plenty of criminals around you. it is
true. Rut they are to he pitied not imi
tated. Never believe that what some do,
all do; make in your own person a stand-1
ing example of the falsity of “ They all !
do it.”
Miiat <o Teach the Boys.
Alfred L. Sewell, in his new monthly
for boys, “ Home Arts," published in Chi
cago, writes as follows :
A philosopher has said that true educa
tion for hoys is to “ teach them what they
ought to know when they become men.”
What is it they ought to know, then?
Ist. To he true—to bo genuine. No ed
ucation is worth anything that does not in
clude this. A man had better not know
how to read, —he had bolter never learn a
letter in tho alphabet and be true and gen
uine in intention and in action, rather than
being learned in all sciences and in all lan
guages, to he at the same time false in
heart and counterfeit in life. Above all
tilings teach the hoys that Truth is more
than riches, more than culture, more than
any earthly power or position.
2d. 'l’d he pure in thought, language and
life -pure in mind and in body. An im
pure man. young or old, poisoning the so
ciety where he moves, with smutty stories
and impure examples, is a moral ulcer, a
plague spot, a leper who ought to he treat
ed as were the lepers of old, who were
banished from society and compelled to
cry unclean, as a warning to save others
from the pestilence.
3d. To he unselfish. To care for the
feelings and comfort of others. To ho po
lite. To he just in all dealing* with others.
To be generous, noble and manly. This
will include a genuine reverence for the
aged and things sacred,
■ith. To ho self-reliant, and self-helpful,
even from early childhood. To he indus
trious always, and self-supporting at the
earliest proper age. Teach them that all
honest work is honorable, and that a:i
idle, useless life of dependence on others
is disgraceful.
When a boy lias learned these four
things; -when he has made these ideas a
part of his being—however young he may
he, howev( r pool, or however rich, he has
learned some of the most important things
he ought to know when lie becomes a man.
With these four properly mastered, it will
he easy to find all the rest.
Bible Terms.
Readers of the Bible m ill be interested 1
in the following explanation of expressions
frequently met with in the Holy Scriptures. 1
They are believed to be entirely correct : !
A day's journey was .‘l3 and 1-5 miles.
A Sabbath day's journey was about cup
English mile. Ezekiel's reed was 11 feet, I
nearly. A cubit is 22 inches, nearly. A
finger’s breadth is equal to one inch. A
sheckel of Silver was about 5!) cents. A
a shcckel of gold was SB.OO. A talent of
silver was $1,518.33. A talent of gold was
$23,309. A piece of silver, or a penny,
was 13 cents. A farthing was 3 cents. A
gerah was two cents. A mite was 1A
A homer contained 7b gallons and 5 pints.
An ephah, or bath, contained 7 gallons and
I pints. A hin was 3 gallon. 2 pints. A
firkin was 7 pints. An orner was 0 pints.
A cab was 3 pints. A log was ono-haff
pint.
A little 5-year-old came up to his
mother and said: “ Mother, I saw some
thing run across the kitchen floor this
morning, and it hadn’t any legs, either ;
what do you suppose it was?” The
mother said she supposed it was a worm,
or something of that sort. Finally she
gave it up, and the youngster calmly
said, “It was some water.”
whom: no. 72.
“ STARVED.”
Ilnbherton's new book, “Some Folk, ”
1 lias the following sketch :
Sam’s wife is very ill and she baa
| sent for Sam to come to her bedside ;
ithe Doctor ami nurses leave the hus
band and wife together.
” Sam. Doctor says I ain’t got much
time left.”
“ Marv," said Sam. “ I wish to God
I could die fur ver. The children .”
“It's them I want to talk nlxnit,
Sam,” replied his wife. “An* I wish
they could die with me rnther'n hev’ein
! live ez I've lied ter. Not that you ain’t
been a kind husband to me. for you
I hev. Whenever I wanted meal you got
it. somehow: nn’ when yev been ugly
drunk yev kept away from the house.
Rut I'm (lyin', Sam. and it’s cos you've
killed me."
“Good God. Mary !” cried the aston
ished Sam. jumping up, “ Yure. craay—
here Doctor.”
Doctor can't do no good. Sum, keep
still and listen, if ver love me like yer
once said yer did, fur I hevn’t got much
breath left." gasped the woman.
•• Alary,” said the aggrieved Sara, ” I
swan to goodness I dunno what yer
drivin’ at.”
” It’s jest this, Sam,” replied the
woman “\ v ur tuk me, tollin’ me ye'd
love me an' honor me an' protect me.
Yer mean to say, now, yev done it?
I’m a (lyin’, Sam, and I ain't got no fa
vors to ask of nobody: an’ I'm tollin'
the truth, not knowin’ what word’ll be
last."
•• Then tell a feller where the killin’
came In, Mary, for heaven's sake,” said
the unhappy Sum.
•• It’s come nil along, Sam,” said the
woman. “There is a women in the
States, so I've heerd, that marries fora
home an’ bread nn’ butter, but you
promised inore'n that, Sun. An I've
waited, an’ it ain’t come, an’ there’s
somethin’ in me that’s all, starved an’
eat to pieces, an* it's your fault, Sam.
1 I IIIv >UU I*4 l A DclM I Dl fvwi UMiua , Wia’
I've never grumbled."
“ I know yerhain't, Mary," whispered
the conscience-stricken Dike. An’ l
know what yer mean. Ef God’ll only
let yer be fur a few years, I'll see ef
the thing can't be helped. Don't cuss
me, Mary, I’ve never knowed how I’vo
been goin’. I wish there was somethin’
I could do afore fou go to pay yer all
I owe yer. I’d go back on everything
that make life worth haven’.”
“ Pay it to the children, Sam,” said
the sick woman, raising herself in her
miserable bed. “ I’ll forgive yer every
thing if you’ll do the right thing for
them. Do—do—everything,” said tho
woman, throwing up her arms and fall
ing backward. Her husband’s arms
caught her ; his lips brought to her wan
face a smile, which the grim visitor,
who an instant later stole her breath,
pitying, left in full possession of tho
rightful inheritance from which it had
long been excluded.
Poor Mary! Women with more re
fined, more cultivated husbands than
yours, have something in them “ that’s
all starved and cut to pieecs.”
Aunt ’Liza Wins The Good Fight.
Minsouri Ihunsv ickcr.
4k Doctor* is I got to go? 4 ’
“ Aunt ’Liza there is no hope for you.”
“Brcss do Great Master for disgoodness.
Iso rcaily.”
The doctor gave a few directions to tho
colored women that sat around ’Liza’s bed,
and started to leave, when he was recalled
by th old woman, who was drifting out
with tho tide.
*• Mars John, stay wid me till its obor.
I wants to talk oh <le old times. I knew
you when a boy, long ’fore you went and
been a doctor. 1 called you Marsc John
den; I rail you ile same now. Take yo*
old mammy's hand, honey, and hold it.
[se lived a long, long time. < *ie mars ter
and ole missus hah gone before, and (le
chillun from de old place is scattered ober
dc world. I'd like to see ’em ’fore I starts
on dc journey to-night. My old man’s
gone, and all de chillun I missed at dis
breast has gone too. l)ey’s waitin’ for
dere madder on de golden shore. I hress
de Lord, .Marse John, for takin’ me to
meet ’em dar. Ise fought de good light,
and Ise not afraid to meet de .Savior. No
mo’ wo'k for poor old mammy, no mo,
trials and tribulations. Hold my hand
tighter, Marsc John. Fadder—niudder—
marster —missus—chillun—lse gwine on
home.”
The soul, while pluming its wings for its
flight to the Great Beyond, rested on tho
face of the dusky sleeper, and the watchers
with bowed !• ads, w ept silently. .She was
dead.
“ Deni Supposes.”
Those who are so anxious about the fu
ture as to be unhappy in the present may
learn a lesson from a poor colored woman.
Her name was Nancy, and she earned a
moderato living by washing. She was.
however, ulways happy. One day one of
those anxious Christians who are constant
ly “ taking thought ” about the sorrow
said to her :
“Ah, Nancy, it is well enough to bo
happy now, but I should think your
thoughts of the future would sober you.
Suppose, for instance, that you should be
sick and unable to work ; or suppose your
present employers should move away
and no one else give you any thing to do ;
| or suppose—”
“Stop!” cried Nancy; “I never sup
pose. I)e Lord is my shepherd and ■-
, knows 1 shall not want. And hon
, she added to her gloomy friend, “ ib
-1 dem supposes as is makiu’ you so
able. You’d orter give dem all up a
. trus’ dc Lord,” J -\