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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.”