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HOW DUCKET FREE WOT HIM FATHER
OCT OF PCRWATORT.
/Von% CkarUt <TMatUy, tkt Irith Dragoon
•Maybe you heard tell of the way my
father, rest his soul wherever he is, came
to his end. Well, I needn’t mind par
ticulars, but in short, ho was murdered
in Ballinasloo one uight when he beatin’
the whole town with a blackthorn stick
he had, more betoken, a piece of scythe
was stuck at the end of it; a uate wea
pon, and one he was mighty partial to;
but these murdering thieves, the cattle
dealers, that never cared for diversion of
any kind, fell on him and broke his
skull.
Well, we had a very agreeable wake,
aud plenty of the best of everything,
and to spare, and I thought it was all
over ; but, somehow, though I paid Fa
ther Roach fifteen shillings, and made
him mighty drunk, he always gave me
a black look whenever I met him, and
when I took off my hat, he’d turn away
his head displeased like.
“Murder and ages,” says I, “ what’s
this for?” but as I’ve a light heart, I
bore up, and didn’t think more about it.
One day, however, when I was coming
home from Athlone market, by myself
on the road, when Father Roach over
took me. Devil a one av ine’ll take
any notice of you now,” says I, “ and
we’ll see what’ll come out of it.” So
the priest rid up, and looked me straight
in the face,
“ Mickey,” says he, “Mickey.”
“Father,” says I.
“ Is it that way you salute your cler
gy,” says he, “ with your hat on your
head?”
“Faix," says I, “It’s little ye mind
whether it’s an or aff, foi you never take
the trouble to say by your leave, or
damn your soul, or any other politeness,
when we meet.”
“ You’re an ungrateful creature,” says
he, “ and if you knew, you’d be
trembling in your skin before me this*
minute.”
“ Devil a tremble,” said I, “ after
walking six miles this way.
“ You’re an obstinate, hard-hearted
sinner,” says he, “ and it is no use in tel
ling you.”
“Telling me what?” said I, for I was
getting curious to know what he meant.
“ Mickey,” said he, changing his voice
and putting his head down close to me,
“ Mickey, I saw your father last night.”
“ The spirits be merciful to us,” said
I, “ did ye?”
“ I did,” said he.
“ Tear-and-ages,” said I, “ did he tell
you what he did with the new* corduroys
he bought in the fair?”
“ Oh! then you are a cold-hearted
creature,” says he, “ and I’ll not lose
time with you.” With that he was go
ing to ride away, when I took hold of
the bridle.
“ Father, darling,” says I, “ God par
don me, but them breeches is goin’ be
tween me and my night’s rest; but tell
me about my father.”
“ Oh, then, he’s in a melancholy state,”
“ Whereabouts is he?” says I.
“In purgatory,” says he; but he will
not be there long.”
“ Well,” says I, “ that’s a comfort,
anyhow.”
“ I am glad you think so,” says he,
“ but there’s more of the other opinion.”
“ What’s that?” says I.
“ That hell’s worse.”
“ Oh, meila-murder,” says I, “is that
it?”
“ Ay, that’s it.”
Well, I was so terrified and frighten
ed for some time, that I said nothing,
but trotted along beside the priest’s
horse.
“ Father,” says I, “ how long will it
be before they send him where you
know?”
“It will not be long now,” says he,
“ for they’re tired entirely with him ;
they’ve no peace night nor day,” says
he. Mickey, your father is a mighty
hard man.”
“True for you, Father Roach,” says
I to myself; “av he had only the ould
stick with the scythe in it, I wish them
joy of his company.”
“ Mickey,” says he, “ I see you are
grieved, and I don’t wonder; sure it is a
a great disgrace to a decent family.”
“ Troth it is,” says I; “ but my fa
ther always liked low company. Could
nothing be done for him now, lather
Roach?” says I, looking up in the face
of the priest.
“ I’m greatly afraid, Mickey, he was
a bad man, a very bad man.”
“ And ye think he’ll go there?” says
I.
“ Indeed, Mickey. I have my fears.”
“ Upon my conscience,” says I, “ I
believe you’re right, he was always a
restless crayture.”
“Butit doesn’t depend on binij” says
The Hartwell Sun.
By BENSON & McGILL.
VOL. UI-NO. 52.
the priest crossly.
“And then, who then?” says I.
“Upon yourself, Mickey Free,” says
he, “ God pardon you for it, too."
“Upon me?” says I.
“ Troth, no less,” says lie ,' " how
many masses was said of your father's
soul?—how many aves?—how many
paters?—answer me.”
“Devil a one of me knows!—maybe
twenty.”
“ Twenty, twenty —no, not one.”
“ And why not?” says I; “ what for,
wouldn’t you be helping a poor cray
ture out of trouble, when it wouldn’t
cost you more nor a handful of prayers.”
“ Mickey, I see,” says he, in a solemn
tone, “ you’re worse nor a haythen ; but
ye couldn’t be other, ye never came to
your duties.”
“ Well, Father,” says I, looking very
penitent, “ how many masses would get
him out?”
“ Now you talk like a sensible man,”
says he; “ now Mickey, I’ve hopes for
you —let me see —’—here he went to
countin’ up his fingers, and numberin’
to himself for five minutes —“ Mickey,”
says he, “ I’ve a batch coming out on
Tuesday week, and if you were to make
great exertions, perhaps your father
could come with them ; that is av they
made no objections.”
“ And what for would they?” says I;
“ he was always the hoith of company,
and av singing’s allowed in them parts
if
“ God forgive you, Mickey, but you’re
in a benighted state,” says he, sighing.
“ Well,” says I, “ how’ll we get him
out on Tuesday week? for that’s bring
ing things to a focus.”
“ Two masses in the morniu’, fastiu,”
says Father Roach, half loud, “is two,
and two in the afternoon is four, and
two at vespers is six,” says he; “ six
masses a day for nine days is close by
sixty masses—say sixty,” says he, “ and
they’ll cost you —mind, Mickey, and
don’t be telling it again—for it’s only to
yourself I’d make them so cheap—a
matter ot three pounds.”
“ Three pounds,” says I, “ be-gorra ye
might jist as well ax me to give ye
the rock of the Chasel.”
“ I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,” says he
gathering up the reins to ride off', “ I’m
sorry for ye; and the day will come
when the neglect of your poor father
will be a sore stroke agin yourself.”
“ Wait a bit, your Reverence,” says
I, “wait a bit; would forty shillings
get him out?”
“ Av course it wouldn’t,” says he.
“ Maybe,” says I coaxing, “ maybe,
av you say that his son was a poor boy
that lived by his industry, and the times
was bad.”
“ Not the least use,” says he.
“ Arrah, but it’s hard-hearted they
are,” thinks I, “ well, see now, I’ll give
you the money —but I can't afford it all
aton’st —but I’ll pay you five shillings a
week —will that do?”
“ I’ll do my endayvors," and I’ll
spake to them to treat him peaceably,
in the mean time,” said Father Roach.
“ Long life to your Reverence, and
do. Well, here now, here’s five hogs to
begin with; and, musha, but I never
thought I’d be spending my loose change
in that way.”
Father Roach put the six tiupinnics in
the pocket of his black leather breeches,
said something in Latin, bid me good
morning, and rode off’.
Well, to make my storyshort, I work
ed late and early, to pay the five shil
lings a week, and I did do it for three
weeks regular; then I brought four and
four pence —then it came down to one
and tenpencc half-penny—then nine
pence —and, at last, I had nothing at all
to bring.
“ Mickey Free,” says the priest, “ye
must stir yourself—your father is mighty
displeased at the way you’ve been doin’
of late; and av you kept yer word, he’d
been near out by this time.”
“ Troth,” says I, “ it’s a very expen
sive place.”
“ By course it is,” says he, “ Sure all
the quality of the land’s there. But
Mickey, my man, with a little exertion
your father’s business is done. Wbat
are you jingling in your pocket there?”
“ It’s ten shillings, your Reverence, I
have to buy seed potatoes.”
" Hand it here, my eon. len’t it bet
HARTWELL, GA., WEDNESDAY AUGUST 27. 1879.
- ter your father be cujoying himself in
Paradise, than yc were to have all the
potatoes in Ireland ?”
“ And how do you know," says I “ he
is so near out ?’’
“ How do I know—how do I know—
is it?—didn’t I see him?”
"See him! tear-aud-ages, was you
down there again ?”
“ I was,” says he, “ I was down there
for three-quarters of an hour yesterday
evening, getting out Luke Kennedy’s
mother—decent people the Keunedys—
never spared expense.”
“ Aud ye seen my father ?” says I.
“ I did,” says he ; “he had an ould
flannel waistcoat on, and a pipe sticking
out of the pocket av it.”
“ That’s him,” says I; “ had he a
hairy cap ?”
“ I didn’t mind the cap,” says ho “ but
av course he wouldu’t have it on his
head in that place.”
“ There’s for you,” says I, “ did he
speak to you?”
“He did,” says Father Roach, “he
spoke very hard about the way he was
treated down there, that they were al
ways jibbing and jerring him about
drink, and fighting, and the courses he
had up here, aud that it was a queer
thing, for the matter of ten shillings, he
was to be kept there so long.”
“ Well,” says I, taking out ten shil
lings aud counting it with one hand,
“ we must do our best, anyhow—and ye
think this will get him out surely.”
“ I know it will,” says he, “for when
Luke’s mother was leaving the place,
yer father saw the door open, he made
a rush at it, and be-gorra, before it was
shut he got his head and one shoulder
outside av it; so that ye see a trifle more
will do it.”
“ Faix, and yer Reverence,” says I,
“ you’ve lightened my heart this morn
ing,” and I put the money back again
into my pocket.
“ Why, what do you mean?” says he,
growing very red, for he was angry.
“Just this,” says I, “that I have
saved my money ; for av it was my fa
ther you seen, and that he got his head
and one shoulder outside the door, oh,
then, by the powers,” says I, “the devil
a jail or jailer from hell to Connaught
id hold him ; so, Father Roach, I wish
you the top of the morning,” and I went
away laughing; and from that day to
this I never heard more of purgatory.
Only Christians.
John Wesley once was troubled in
regard to the dispositions of the vari
ous sects, and the chances of each in
reference to future happiness or pun
ishment. A dream one night trans
ported him in its uncertain wanderings
to the gates of hell.
Are there any Roman Catholics
here ? asked thoughtful Wesley.
Yes, was the reply.
Any Presbyterians ?
Yes.
Any C'ongregationalists ?
Yes.
Any Methodists, by way of a clincher
asked the pious Wesley.
Yes, was answered to his great in
dignation.
In the mystic way of dreams a sud
den transition, and he stood at the
gates of heaven.
Are there any Roman Catholics here?
he asked.
No, was replied.
Any Presbyterians ?
No.
Any Congregationalists ?
No.
Any Methodists ?
No.
Well, then, he asked, lost in wonder,
who are they inside ?
Christians ! was the jubilant reply.
How a Mosquito Bites.
The bill of a mosquito is a complex
institution. It is admirably calculated
to torment. The bill has a blunt fork
at the head, and is apparently, grooved.
Working through the groove, and pro
jecting through the center of the angle
of the fork, is a lance of perfect form,
sharpened with a fine bevel. Beside
it the most perfect lance looks like a
handsaw. On either side of this lance
two saws are arranged, with the points
fine and sharp and the teeth well de
fined and keen. The backs of these
Devoted to Hart County.
saws play against the lanoe. When
the mosquito alights with its peculiar
hum, it thrusts its keen lance, and then
enlarges the aperture with the two saws,
which play beside the lanoe until tiic
forked bill witli its capillary arrange
ment for pumping blood can be insert
ed. The sawing process is what grates
upon the nerves of the viotim, and
causes him to strike wildly at the sawer,
The irritation of the mosquito bite is,
undoubtedly, owing to these saws.
Answer to Problem.
For the Hartwell Sun.
E. F. Kikkslky, Esq.:
I)kar Sik: I see in the Franklin
Register your proposition to give a
chromo to any one who will give the
two dates previous to 1880 in the pres
ent century in which February contain
ed five Sundays, and in what year in
the next century it will contain five
Sundays. The first time was 1824 ;
the next was 1852. It will happen
again in 1008, according to the best in
formation we can get. Now for the
reason : were there no leap year at nil
this would happen once every seven
years ; but as every fourth year is leap
year, it will happen every four times
seven years, i. e. every 28 years. Add
28 years to 1824, and we have 1852 ;
add 28 years to 1852, and we have
1880; add 28 years to 1880, and we
have the answer to your last question,
1908. The reason of this is obvious,
from the fact that for three years there
arc 865 day's, which divided by 7, the
days in a week, we have a remainder
of 1, which sets New Year's day one
farther on; but the fourth year has
366 days, and that divided by 7, will
set New Year's day two days farther
on; therefore, 4x7—28.
Address, F. M. Taylok,
Hartwell. Ga.
Our Girls.
Much has been said in regard to the
education and training of our boys, but
very little has been said on the subject
of Our Girls.
When a boy reaches the years of
of manhood, he is given the choice of
some trade or profession. Not so with
our girls; they are immmediately
launched into society wbeu they reacli
the age of womanhood, and she who
fails to secure an “eligible match”
drifts into a confirmed spinistcr, and
becomes utterly dependent on some rel
ative, or that most indulgent of rela
tives, “ a rich papa.”
And why not give our girls a trade
or a profession ? Why not teach them
that grand lesson of life—“ Work and
Independence?”
Life is a wheel of fortune. The
dainty daughters of fashion may one
day exchange places with the tired
daughters of toil. Wealth, fame and
fortune may fade like a summer night’s
dream.
“ Mothers, do not be proud of your
daughter’s snowy hands ; better far are
the hardened hands of toil —better are
the tired feet of the working girl than
those that tread on oaken stairs.
Give the girls a chance to help them
selves ; let them make their own gar
ments, instead of sending them to a
fashionable dressmaker. There is
plenty of work that can only be done
by woman’s hand.
Fie upon you, mothers! Are we go
ing to let our sex drift into utter de
pendence? Are we always to look to
the “ lords of creation ” for our support?
No—emphatically, no ! Teach the
girls to work, to rely upon themselves,
and we will find that in place of the
languid, idle daughters of wealth, fond
mothers, true wives, noble, whole-soul
ed women will spring from Our Girls.
You, dear, kind papa’s, remember
that fortune is capricious ; that among
the “ bulls and bears ” of Wall street
you may become a pauper. Then teach
your daughters to become workers, that
they may each say before the world,
“I am independent, and have become
so by my own exertions.”
Harriet Lane Wallace.
A Wonderful Texas Girl.
The Bastrop Advertiser tells of a girl
nine j’ears of age, who, after a protract
ed sickness, became a marvelous electri
cal battery. One cannot shake hands
with her without experiencing pain, or
$1.50 Per Annum.
WHOLE NO. 150.
hold a hand in a pail of water with her
without feeling a shock sharp enough to
ruu through filleeu or twenty people in
the room, and she possesses all the at
traction of a magnet. If she attempts
to pick up a knife the blade will jump
iuto her baud, and a paper of needles
will hang susjiended to one of her fin
gers. She cannot drop any light article
of steel she may pick up. Ou her en
tering a room; a perceptible influence
seizes all others, and while some are ef
fected to sleepiness others are ill and
fidgety till they leave. A sleeping babe
will wake up with a start at her ap
proach, but with a stroke of her band
she can at once coax it to slumber again.
Animals ulso are subject to her influ
ence, aud a pet dog of the household
will lie for hours at her feet as motion
less as in death. Articles which she
uses become magnetized. She is oue of
seven children, uone of whom show any
abnormal qualities. She lives at Bas
trop.
What Causes Thunder.
A correspondent of Nature writes :
“ I have lately seen it stated in a text
book upon electricity and magnetism
that the phenomenon of thunder is not
fully accounted for by any theory ns yet
brought forward. Whether this be so or
not I am not sufficiently acquainted with
the subject to say. I believe the com
monly accepted theory is that a vacuum
is created in the path of the electric
spark, and that the subsequent inrush of
air produces the detonation. If, howev
er, it be allowed that the electric spark
is not a material substance, but merely a
natural force or natural mode of motion,
the possibility of this theory is at once
disposed of.
“ It is a well-known fact that the pas
sage of electricity in a high rate of ten
sion through a mixture of oxygen ami
hydrogen not only causes an explosion,
but also causes a formation of water,
and it seems to me that, given the ex
istence of free oxygen and hydrogen in
the region of the electric disturbance,
the phenomenon of thunder is sufficient
ly accounted for. Whether the normal
amount of hydrogen in the air is suffici
ent to cause the stupendous noise of
thunder I am not competent to judge,
but if not, I would suggest that the pres
ence of an abnormal amount might be
accounted for by the process of the elec
trolysis; which would probably occur be
tween the two polls of the thunder-cloud
before the tension became so great as to
cause a rupture of the circuit and conse
quent discharge of the electric spark. 1
would also draw j’our attention to the
fact that every thunder-clap is immedi
ately followed by an increase in the
quantity of water deposited in the shape
of rain. Docs not this point to the for
mation of water by the explosion of
gasses? It is a frequent experiment of
Dr. Tyndall’s to show his audience red
clouds; I feel convinced that by fol
lowing this line of inquiry he could
give us a real thunderstorm.”
Boots and Shoes from a Negro’s Hide.
Rochester JJciaocrat.
The Penny Press says that Doctor
Schneider has taken the skin of a ne
gro, which he has dissected, to the tan
nery situated on Franklin street, just |
out of Columbus, where it is now being
made into leather. A reporter who ex-1
amined the piece of skin found it ex- 1
trernely tough, and liable to do good
service if put into gaiters. It seems i
strange use to make of humanity's re
mains, though. The tanner stroked
and twitched it and dilated upon its
good qualities. The process of tan
ning is to rub it with a mixture of alum,
sait and eggs, which draws out all the ,
oil from the skin and saves months of
time. Perhaps anew industry is open
ing up in the city, and perhaps some of
those who are perfectly worthless in life :
may be made to do duty after they ;
have quit. Imagine the sensation, 1
however, of a dainty lady caressingly
putting on a glove made from the akin
of a darkey she would not have touch
ed without a shudder while in life, or of
the thoughts that must come to a maid
when she takes otf her gaiters at night
with the knowledge that even so small
a part of a man is alone with her. Ugh !
A big head is no more evidence of
brains than a paper collar is of a shirt.
A LINUEKIMCI DEATH,
LUlni on Nou|> nml Urul for Eight
Tran Attar Drinking; loudauard
ID-
Sun AiUnnio i'xprett.
Our readers will remember tbc men
tion in last Friday morning’s issue of
the death of the nine-year old daughter
of Henry llaldcman and lady, at their
residence on Acquia street. The cause
of the death was a very unusual one,
and the incidents relative thereto were
very strange. When about fourteen
months old little Annie, for that was
the child's name, while in the kitchen
got hold of a can of condensed lye and
drank a portion of the contents. Of
course, the consequence was that the
child suffered intensely and came very’
near dying at the time. After recover
ing from the first effects of the lye, it
was discovered that the child's throat
was scalded and that it was unable to
swallow any food of a solid nature.
Despite the efforts of skilled physi
cians aud the constant attention of her
loving parents, little Annie's throat
never did heal up, But the child lived
and grew to bo plump and fat, though
bereft of that vivacity which charac
terizes children. The child's pain and
suffering seemed to detract the mind
from the frivolous and the gay', and
turn the thoughts more to solemn and
real things. As years rolled on, how
ever, such nourishments as Annie was
capable of taking proved not sufficient
!to meet nature's demands and sustain
her growing body, and presently it was
observed that her condition was rapid
ly' becoming more serious, and a physi
cian was summoned to take charge of
her case. But no good was ever ac
complished, the injury received was in
curable, and it was settled that ttie child
gradually approached the end of cxi3t*
cnee. Finally death came, though An
nie had attained the age of nine years,
during newly eight of which she had
lived exclusively on soups, gruel and
liquid-like food. At the time of her
death the child was in appearance as a
skclton, but retained her powers of
mind and conversed rationally to tho
end.
Tote Fair.
Tintalaiuut Uaicttc.
Within a few weeks past, wc have
l>een requested by three or four sub
scribers, to discontinue their papers;
when turning to the l>ook wo find them
a year or a year and a half behind!
That is not the way to stop n paper.
The proper plan is to write for a state
ment of your account, when you get it,
enclose! the amount to the editor ; who
will take comparative pleasure in eras
ing your name and think of you as u
gentleman—an honest man. But by
the other plan you receive the benefit
of his labor without giving anything in
return. By discontinuing while in ar
rears, you would become otfended if the
account is ever presented. It is im
possible for an editor to carry on busi
ness in that way. He has to live as
well as you and other people. Pay
somethin—wood, coal, corn, eggs, peas,
butter, chickens, oats ; and rather than
cheat him out of his hard earned dues,
pay him in sheep, oxen cows, calves,
steam engines—or if you can't possi
bly do any better, hunt up your old
clothes, wash them clean and patch
them nicely ; bring him anything that
he can make his money out of. If you
value honesty —if you hope for any
earthy good—a peaceful deatli—or for
any of the good things in the world of
glory—if you love the wife of your
bosom—if you have any respect for
your country or yourself—pay the
printer. If there be any honor in you,
think of this and act promptly.
Says the Brunswick Advertiser : “ A
few days since, Messrs. George and
Doc Myers, ot this county, were out
hunting coons a little before daylight,
when one of their dogs was bitten by
a huge snake. The poor creature suf
fered several deaths, apparently, before
medicine could be procured. He was
even considered in a dying condition
when the following dose was adminis
tered : 1 gill sweet oil and gills of
whisky. A handful of common bread
soda was also bound around the wound
ed part. Suffice it to say the dog com
menced to improve at once, and is now
all right again. Hunters might make a
note"of this.”
" Darn a fool!” said IV ilkins to his
wife. “ Certainly,” replied Mrs. Wil
kins, flourishing a darning-needle.
“Whereabouts are you worn out?”
' Some people are too smart to live long,
retorted he. “My dear,” she answer
ed, sweetly, “ let me congratulate you
upon your fair prospect for a long life.”