0
CRAWFORDVILLE. GEORGIA.
EDITOR AND BOOK All JIMS
He Oblrrtl to the Feinnlro, but no! to ihr
Mule*.
The Richmond (Va.) Religious Herald
says: We can stand a book agent,
provided he is of tho masculine denomi¬
nation. We are not afraid of him. We
know that he is coming and can deal
with him without buying his book. He
may be pompous aud courtly or he may
be pimpled and cadaverous ; his lips
mny be bedewed with honeyed flatteries;
he may be oily and crafty in his ap¬
proaches ; he may modestly ask for
“ just a moment of our precious time;”
he may say that he only craves the qse
of our name, or he may charge in upon
us and seek to carry us by storm. This
does not matter with us. He is a man,
and so are we in a small way, and we
have our rights. We tell him what we
will and what we won’t, and that ends it.
Bnt when she comes—then is the win¬
ter of our discontent. We bow to the
storm, and have no remarks to submit.
All the hidden resources of our polite¬
ness are called into requisition. She is
a woman, and has the advantage of us.
She has seen better days, and has a tear
in her eye. She belongs to an old fam¬
ily, and swnm in luxury in her youth.
Little cares she for money—character fa
everything with her. She is working in
the interests of literature and to lift up
society. Her book fa for the home
circle, and is destined to ennoble the
character of mothers, and in that way
to add glory to republican institutions.
She came the other day. How glib
and rattling she was I She had us be¬
fore we knew it. She had us sitting as
erect as a sunbeam in July, and meekly
nodding assent to her sage observations.
We neither moved band nor foot, and as
for talking, we had no chance. She
talked fast, and she talked long, and she
talked all the time. After regaling us
with the grandeur of her ancestry, the
pleasures of her childhood, and the sur¬
passing excellences of her hook, she
touched ns up. She did it handsomely.
She expatiated on the potency of our
influence, the value of our personal sig¬
nature and the well-known warmth and
kindness of onr heart. Greatness, she
hinted, always had a tear on its cheek
for the struggling and unfortunate.
And there we were—dumb and foolish,
a victim to her spell. Time came and
went, bnt she we«t on, aud on, and on.
W fatigued and lonesome, jjSfily and
wai „ 1 • 1 • 'w. it would end.
and graduallv descended from her dr
enmlocntory flight, and lit in the region
of business. The atmosphere became
commercial, and it was a question of
dollars and cents. She hod a book for
sale and desired to sell ns a copy. It
ceased to be a question of ancestry, and
the poetry and praise all faded away.
The spell was broken, and all we had to
do was to say whether or not we would
buy tho book.
We did it as well as we could—we
spoke in a bright and respectful tone—
we even thanked her for her visit—we
paid a tribute to her brilliant conversa¬
tional gifts—we wished her high fortune
aud a golden future, and expressed re¬
gret that it had to l*e so. How her
whole aspect changed 1 8he patted tier
check with petulance, her faoe flushed,
she breathed wildly, and swept angrily
away.
Ami yet truly we felt sorry for her.
It hurt us to think of her hard lot, and
her desperate devices to stem the tide of
adverse fortune. We would have
bought her book, except that we could
not conscientiously pay an exorbitant
prioe for a useless article
Tarls as a MeapnrL
The old idea of making Paris a sea
p ventilate J in 1825, has again been
taken up by an engineer, M. Bouquet
do la Grye, who is a member of the In¬
stitute. Ho proposes to deepeu the
Seine between Rouen, where largo ves¬
sels can sail or be towed np from the
eea, and Poissv, a pleasant summer re¬
sort of many Parisians, within easy dis¬
tance of the metropolis. The distanoe
to be deepened is something over 93
miles. The projector, however, says
nothing of the daugers likely to result
from the numerous islands which stmt
the Seine between Poissy and Rouen,
and which would render river naviga¬
tion exceedingly dangerous for vessels
of large tonuage, such as those who
pick their way so candidly from Havre
to Rouen. The cost of deepening the
Seine, with its tortuous windings be¬
tween l’oiasy and the Norman town, is
estimated at $30,000,000. The engi¬
neers who, in 1825, conceived the gigan¬
tic plan, spent 310,000 m studying the
problem, but their labors were inter¬
rupted by the revolution of 1830, and
the project haa been ainee in a bey an oe.
Tux news from Suakim is distressingly
meagre, says an exchange. For in¬
stance, a dispatch states that the enemy
appeared in force in the direction of
H-iudoub, and the men at work on the
railroad ceased operations. Now, who
were the enemy ? Did the men strike
when they quit ? Aud did they join the
enemy, or stand to one side to see that
the latter did not oommenoe where they
left off f Railroad men quitting work it)
thm ooaotry has bnt ouo significance.
IN WINTER.
St LOUISE enAJiCLEB MOCLTOK.
Oh, to go back to the days of JuP'
Just to be young anil alive again,
Hearken again to the mad, sweet tone
Birds were ainging with might and main;
South they flew at the summer’s wan
Leaving their m sts for storms to harry,
Bince time was coming for wind and rain
Under the wintry skies to marry.
Wearily wander by dale and dune
Footsteps fettered with clanking chain—
Free they were in the days of June,
Free they never can he again;
Fetters of age and fetters of pain,
Joye that fly, and sorrows that tarry—
Youth is over, and hope were vain
Under the wintry skies to marry.
Now we chant hut a desolate rune—
“Oh, to be yourg and alive again P’—
But never December turns to June,
And length of living is length of pain;
Winds in tho nestless trtes complain,
Snows of winter about us tarry,
And never the birds come back again
Under the wintry skies to marry.
> ENVOI.
Youths and maidens, blithsome and vain,
Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry,
Mate in season, for who is fain
Under the wintry skies to marry?
—Century for April.
A ROMANTIC STORY.
Startling stories are told and thrilling
effects produced in the many novels of
the day, but it is seldem we find any¬
thing more startling or thrilling in fiction
than this “ower true tale" of a belle of
the early part of the present century.
There are those still living who can
attest to the facts; bnt were it not that
the principal actors have passed from
the stage, I should hesitate yet to make
public such a peculiar family history.
As it fa I will “tell the tale as it ’twas
told to me,” only begging pardon for
concealing the real names.
“In what was than a charming sea¬
side town, there lived, fifty years ago, a
most lovely girl, named Amy Provence
—bright and radiant and witty, but,
alas ! as the sequel shows, most unwise,
to say the very least.
Of suitors Bhe had many, and wbeD
she first appears in the light of a hero¬
ine, she had already promised her hand,
with her heart in it, to a prosperous and
highly respected young merchant.
There was not so muoh of fashion and
folly then as now; young ladies did not
lie awake over trosseaus and establish¬
ments, or mar their beauty and redden
their eyes, dimming their luster by late
hours and high living. But Miss Prov
enoe approached her bridal day in all
her youthful freshness. Her lover Ernst
Rhodes, was ardently attac M< >d to her,
and tne course w n cue •, *pp«*»
ently very smoothly. But the old fash¬
ion fate has of turning momentous re¬
sults on very small hinges, was in style
then as now, and fate was busy with
them.
Miss Amy was invited to visit Miss
Woolsey, a wealthy old aunt in Rhode
Island, before her marriage. So, bun¬
dling up some of the mysterious wed¬
ding paraphernalia, for a last beautify¬
ing touch, for her fairy fingers were
very tasteful and swift, she left her
lover, with regret, I know, and left him
for a week's sojourn with her aristooratio
relative. This week was understood to
be the last of her maidenhood, and the
young girl felt even that to be a small
eternity. But what young fiancee, on the
eve of marriage with tho dear one of her
choioe, cannot find a wealth of enjoyment
in loving thoughts oven for a whole week?
Miss Woolsey was a lady of position
and consequenoe, and tho rare beauty
and grace of her niece gave her a pres¬
tige id the eyes of the many visitors to
tho house. Her entertainments were
unique aud “just the thing,” and it was
with u oertuin degree of pride that a»
invitation to Miss Woolsey’s was accept¬
ed by the surrounding gentry. It fa the
same the world over, and has been for
far more years than this veritable history
covers, that a certain element in charac¬
ter is gratified by the notice of those
who are considered a round higher on
the social ladder. Amy was delighted
with the evidence of luxury about her;
and her vanity was flattered by the nu¬
merous attentions she received from the
various visitors to her aunt’s house.
Ernst at home was impatient for her re¬
turn, chafing and wondering how Amy
could go away from him, even for a
week, if she loved as he loved I Fate
was weaving btr first thread !
Among the many who came to Miss
Woolsey’s attracted by the exquisite
beauty of Miss Amy, was one, a certain
Mark liaise, of whom people knew lit¬
tle, save that he seemed to live iu some
style; at least, he kept a carriage, a
luxury that few indulged in in those
days, and said very little about himself
aud his antecedents. Each evening he
came, and each evening saw him at
Amy's side. Ate had mi talked at toi**
bnt shrewder eyes than hers saw whither
he was tending, and fate was weaving
her second thread.
In the meantime Amy bad been very
diligent; the work was finished, the last
touches given to the dainty finery, and
in the near future the sweet hope of her
life would be fulfilled; so thought she.
Krust was at home, waiting as only
lovers can wait, aud each one of yon
knows how pa tently that is. Amy would
gi* to-morrow.
Even at this distant time, in the light
of all the sufferings that followed, my
pen almost refuses to chronicle the tec-
ord of the last eventful evening of the
poor girl’s visit, We do have some
thing to do with our destiny, inasmuch
as the reins are put into our own hands,
and we may turn whithereover we will 1
So Mark Halse came and Amy
him.
As usual he sat by her side, and, as
usual, she let him linger there. Alas l
for the dear boy at home she knew she
loved, and whom in spite of all that fol
lowed, you know she loved ! Ernst was
not by to give her his warning look,
and save her from the tempter. The
soft voice spoke:
“My dear Miss Amy”—and very
der was his look—“you are going away,
and do you know how I shall miss you t”
“You can’t ‘miss’ me much longer,”
she blushingly replied, laugning at the
innocent pun. -L.
“Ah 1 that is what makes my hea
ache so,” said he, “for when you a£
gone, and I think of all your happinef
I shall regret more than I can tell y*
that yon ever came among ns to so di
turb the ripples of my quiet life;”
a deep sigh enforced his words.
“Please don’t talk so, Mr. Halse,
said Amy, “for even in this short weel
I have learned to prize your friendship
highly, and I should be sorry indeed
not to retain it.”
“Amy,” said he, casting off all reserve,
and abruptly seizing her hand—“Amy
I can stand it no longer; I must kno?
my fate from your own lips! When yot
talk to me of quiet friendship, there
.-ashes upon me like a wave the
of all that I lose in losing yon!
you be my wife ?”
His impetuosity startled her, and she
drew back.
“Do not talk so to me I” she cried,
“Do. you not know that in a few days I
shall be Ernst’s wife ?”
Mark Halse knew not and caTed not
who “Ernst” was; he only knew that
she had promised her troth to another,
and he meant to win her from him.
Don’t tell me that she was wrong and
imprudent to listen to him—don’t I
know it ? I am only telling you a true
Btory, and it is my duty to record that
this particular Amy Provence was no ex¬
ception to the corps of silly girls.
“Yes I know it, I know it,” he plead¬
ed “bnt, Amy, darling, how can I let
you go 1 I will do anything for this dear
hand. I will give you a princely home
and every surrounding that wealth can
purchase, if you will only come to me
and be my beloved wife 1”
“No, no,’’said Amy, “donot tempt me,
Ernst ia not rich, I know, but I love
and he loves me dearly, and I will be
his wife.”
Do you think th/ Mark Halse gave **
the oh -“*? Not
lieve me or not as you see . -
tiegan to listen to hui persuasive
Ernst was away, and Mark, with >fs
fine presents and finer promises,
near-even at her very feet.
.So it came that Amy Provence
not even “off with the old tove before
on With the new,’ for when Mark Halse
added to all the other temptations the
promise of a carriage for her very own,
the poor, ambitious victim yielded, and
gave to her tempter her broken faith.
What he cared for it will soon appear.
The forsakeu Ernst bore as well as
his fortitude and outraged love would
let him, the cold letter announcing to
him his Amy's treachery, and never
sought for an explanation. He was too
manly to resent the insult, and treated
the whole affair as beneath contempt
rightly judging that the false-hearted
girl who could trifle with his tenderest
feelings was not worth mourning for.
It would be well for all if I could leave
it here, but truth compels me to pro¬
ceed. I need not tell yon of the poor
mother, whose whole heart was in Amy’s
marriage with Ernst, of all who were
so indignant at her decision; or of the for
saken lover who had loved so blindly
only to be made to suffer so deeply—
my story is not with these.
Miss Woolsey was well pleased at
turn in the tide of affairs, and offered the
deluded girl all the necessary assistance.
She was married in a few weeks from
her aunt’s house in a stylo seldom seeq
at that time. I should like to linger
hero if my heart was in it, and tell you
of all the fine things that was said aaJ
done, in spite of the unpleasant state o
things, but I will forbear.
Ambition aud love are always at war!
and one must be victor, so when Am! “
swallowed her down ambition, the love and she looked gave fo th| t
reins to
ward to her lordly home with w
pleasures she might But she me
nothing more of the man who had “It
her his own way” than he had told he
himself, so that when she came to ln|
sad awakening it was as if a thunder
had fallen at her feet What were .
promises ? Mere empty air 1 The b°
he took her to was a miser’s home, ai !
hencefortli, aud for her whole life »
fifty years, she saw such sufferings
woman seldom sees.
Do yon ask me if he gave her nothi
of all he promised ? Yes, the carriat
which was the thing that turned t
scale lu his favor; he gave her that, e
thus fulfilled his literal promise.
He gave her the carriage, but it ah?
in the barn for fifty years, with neves
horse, anil never a ride had she with
For fifty years there was present be!
her eyes this CJusUnt reminder of a J
ing heart trampled upon—for fifty yt
Mark Halse made her feel his iron ha
Children came to her, bat no com
with them; one grew ap a miser
drunkard, and another went oat from
her for many years, returning finally, to
settle down at home, taciturn and mo
rose. Her husband died, and this son
jseemed ali she had to live for, and, as
father’s will was made np entirely in
‘us favor, the wretched woman, who
j ad absolutely no society or friends,
leaned on him for her daily bread. But
ri a little while he died, and all the poor
jotber could now do was to be thank
fill she was not a pauper. Meanwhile
i r read his will ? All, everything, be
c atfced to a wife and son in South
£ -ica of whose existence nobody
, ed!
he terms of the will, the son was
S' North immediately on being ap
S“2 ,>f his father’s death, take the
“1‘me and look after the property:
* , ; nut a word of the old mother, no
for her declining years, no love ex¬
led, nothing for her—ali as if she
not 1 Is it strange after ail these
es, and the corroding remorse of
*‘v years, that the poor woman found
,er burden greater then she could bear V
When she felt her miserable life
rawing to its close, she sent for Ernst,
udfor the tirat time in all these years
two stood face to face ! He with
“ white Iocks - bnt still commanding
gnre, and fine, stern face, was an
ivenging angel I she with her bent and
rambling form, her wrinkled, careworn
ace, with its hungry look for human
ympathy, was scarcely the brilliant,
-eautifnl girl who had gone from her
;ome in her youth and innocence to
>ring upon both their lives such a terri
ile consummation 1
They gazed at each other without a
rord, till, at length, she spoke, and the
•fords which rang upon his ears came
om the depths of a broken heart.
“Ernst I”—the name, the once-loved,
ill loved name, lingered upon her lips
ke a strain of forgotten music—“Ernst,
J^Gently an you ^brgivq me ?”
the old lover took her trem¬
bling crushed lumd %i Iris, but with everything of
icve out for all the years; calm
if the wordt fell on her ears:
“Amy, cannot 1 You rained my
v-hole life# Bnt for your trampling out
py younJheart I should have been a
"different ran I But for your treachery
»,v might Jiave been happy 1 As it is<
jou e-'.ild destroyed neveWrust my faith in woman; I
another I”
iBhe c cfti I in her misery, and pufc
Pg ora her face) p| ’ hrunken cried: hands over her
1, “Before "l 1 * 1 Ernst, I pray for your
yj^^ows .,
lercy how I have suffered,
nd if ever a poor criminal expiated his
nilt with his ,heart’s blood, I have!
feel that your just resentment
- |te.the.ei*naJ world 1”
j the old, old time—” his voice
% . &Qd b6 raised hig dewy eye8
„ it is hal , a century. But
A n fa but as a moment
* t 7$ wilout C0m e. I have lived a lone- I
wife or children.
X thoUflimd timea have
, ^ sod over yonr grave
,
^ ^ f a ^ lost to me becaUBe
^ od tban to hava it as it fa.
, ir ownlhand gave the blow, and
wag ,, nJ h and which crU8bed all
Bat i{ it wiu bo anv comfort to
. feel tbat I do not hold resent
F t tm then be comforted, Amy.
.
i I aa willing to leave all with God.”
He b> ed his head over her hand and
W&S giilOs *
‘ * *
> they came.to her, hoars later,
,
t j pcace f u lly asleep, her white
I hand* lasped over her breast, and the
$ exprieion on her dead face calmer and
•6' T-f than it’had worn in life since
vb . bt time Ernst had looked upon it.
*******
PV had woven the last thread.
When are Women Old J
* hen does a woman begin to grow
: • as lately asked in an assembly
of ■neh women, who are said to be
eve aore afraid of vieillir than the wo
• e f other countries, although from
Ufirervous concealment of their age
ono Should imagine even in this country
that not to remain eternally young was
a thing to be ashamed of. “With the
first gray hair,” suggested one of the
ladies, and “When she ceases to inspire
love” thought another. The decision
was finally put to a charming white
haired maiden of some 70 years, who at
oace replied, “What do I know about
it? You must ask an old woman to au
i a ver you such a question.” Which
I sjows that at least one among the ladies
had the right recipe for remaining
„,'>ung.
Dwarf Love Making.
j Count Magri, the dwarf, who is soon
> marry General Tom Thumb's widow,
-'as dining in a restaurant, when a
ewspaper man imformed him that his
' iancee has spoken of him most com
** imeutarily in a printed interview¬
ed, in fact, said that she was madly
a love with him, and other words of
similarly burning import. The count
hang his head, blushed deeply, asked
for her exact language, and took out a
.lead-pencil and wrote it down in midget
letters on the bill of fare; ia order, as
he said, to show it to her, and see if she
roaily did feel so. Three days after¬
ward he was found again. “I read that
to her,” he observed, sadly, “and she
■aid she never said anything of the
kind."
NEW ORLEANS SOCIETY.
COMPARISONS BETWEEN MEN THERE
AND MEN AT THE NORTH.
The Jolly Man a Rara Avia In the Crescent
City—Crltlciatn Not Welcomed.
“The manners and customs of the men
of New Orleans are peculiar. The prev¬
alent expression on their face is not a
cheerful one; it is sombre and thought¬
ful, if not melancholy, and a visitor who
wanders about town is struck by the
number of men who seem to be brood¬
ing over a wrong. Jollity attracts at¬
tention. In the Northern cities there is
an endless number of men who show by
their cheerful faces, free manners, aud
prosperous-looking clothes that they
take life easy and enjoy things by the
way. Every one is familiar with this
type of man. His wit may be cheap,
his talk slangy, and his perpetual cheer¬
fulness at times a bit raspin g, bnt his
laughter is none the less infections, and
his face insures him a welcome every¬
where. He talks too loud in the read¬
ing room of the club, plays practical
jokes on the waiters in the restaurants,
is apt to look too long upon the wine,,
and commits various other indiscretions
that annoy the frigidly polite; but it is
to be observed that he has hosts of
friends, that his purse is always open,
and that he is asked to ten dinners a
month where the frigidly polite must
content themselves with two or three.
When he sails up to a bar or into a cafe
he is greeted with smiles, and there is
a rustle of satisfaction all around. He
nsually has a waistcoat that bellies out
like the jib of a yacht in a gentle
breeze, his trousers are natty, his boots
well polished, aud his hands white and
soft. Every one calls him ‘Charley,’
‘Billy,’ ‘Smithy,’ or some other affec¬
tionate version of Charles William
Smith, if that happens to be his name,
and he goes through life and about town
in a manner that does good on every
hand.
“This type of man is not a rarity in
New York, Boston, or Philadelphia, but
he is almost unknown in New Orleans.
He is not to be found at any of the ex¬
cellent clubs the town can boast of, at
the bars or in the streets. The men
drink here with the soberness of mourn¬
ers. They walk along the streets with
their eyes half closed and their hands in
their pockets, and the ring of a quick
and vigorous step on the pavement
never oomes from a native’s heels.
“I wandered into one of the oldest
barrooms in New Orleans one night
about 9 o’clock, and the the place melancholy air
which hung over struck me
at once. It had low ceilings and was
musty. Mythical facts painted on the
tr> o'! »i. ante-bellnm days
smooth as a bit of polished marble, aave
where the knots in the wood rose abov
the level. The bar and all decoration*
of the big square room were painted
white, and the bartenders, I was told
by the man who took me there, had
been in their places for years and years.
The man with me knows everybody
here, is a member of three clubs, and
popular as popularity goes in this lym¬
phatic tOWD.
“‘I find I’m growing old too fast
heah,’ he remarked, slowly, the other
day. ‘I’m healthy enough, sound as a
dollah, as far as I know, weigh 185
pounds, and stand six feet high. 1 eat
and sleep well, but there’s something
wrong with me shuah. When I was
No’th at college I was as spry on my
toes as a French dancing master, but
now I’m as languid as a malaria dude.
I go home at night five or six times a
week and sit dreaming of what I shall do
some day in a business way, and go to
bed full of ideas and resolutions, On
the following morning lam so enervated,
weak, and lifeless that I go crawling
about like a man of sixty, It’s the
climate, I think.’
“Scattered about the barroom were
half a hundred men of the same social
status as the crowds that drink in the
cafe of the Brunswick or at the Hoffman
House. They were sitting at small
tables in little knots of twos and threes.
talking in subdued tones. Most of them
wore frock coats, which hung in wrinkles
on their shoulders, while their faces
were shaded by soft felt hats. They
were New Orleans gentlemen, though
not New Orleans swells or club men.
There was not a ruddy, healthy-looking
faoe among them, most of tho cheeks
being either pale or sallow. As the man
with me passed along he nodded right
and left, and was sainted in return by
solemn duckings of the head and such
greetings as ‘ Well, David,’ ‘ Good
evenin’, Dave,’ *Ah, Dave,’ and simply
‘David.’ Though these men had grown
up with him from childhood, and had
been companions with him for years,
they were as quiet, cold, and formal in
their greetings as though meeting a re¬
cent acquaintance. It wa3 not the self¬
repression and very proper air that Eng¬
lishmen affect, but an almost sullen man¬
ner, and barely relieved of discourtesy
by the softness of the voice.
ft f If you think this place is quiet now
you should have seen it a few, a very
few, years ago, ’ said the proprietor of
the saloon a little later on. ‘Policemen
were stationed at the doors then to
search every one who entered to take a
drink, so as to see that no concealed
weapons were carried. This searching
process took the irons away from all the
boys, and they felt kinder lonesomer and
quieter than ever. The place was like ft
tomb then.’
“This downcast air is as prevalent
among the members of what is called
the best society as it is elsewhere. The
men, when yon meet them, are courte¬
ous, quiet, and sad. They talk about
the gravest of things, and when a dozen
of them gets together it is only at rare
intervals that a laugh is heard.”
Bread Cast Upon the Water.
About a month ago an old flew
Yorker dropped his luggage before the
clerk’s desk in an Old Point Comfort
hotel and dashed off his autograph in a
free and easy hand, “John McKesson,
New York city.” Day after day passed
and the visitor seemed to be enjoying
Virginia with a great deal of zest.
When he finally made np his mind
to move homeward he tripped once more
to the clerk’s desk, this time to ask for
his bill. “McKesson ! McKesson 1”
ejaculated the clerk, “there’s no bill
here for any Mr. McKesson.” “No
bill ? why, what are you talking about.
Do you know how long I've been here,
Mr. Clerk ? “Yes, sir, I do know, but
I have orders from headquarters to take
none of your money—not a cent.” Now
comes on the scene a genial hotel pro¬
prietor to beam upon the astonished old
Knickerbocker and grasp him by the
hand after an enthusiastic fashion.
“You’re the same old John McKesson
I knew thirty years ago,” ejaculated the
hotel man. “Don’t remember me, eh ?
Well, let me recall a little incident
which happened when I was straggling
along in the world years and years back.
Yon belonged to one of the leading
wholesale drag firms in Maiden-lane,
and I was the driver of an express
wagon. One day I had to unload some
packages going from your store to some
Western town. My horses were scared
just as I was handling the goods and one
package was dumped to the ground and
broken. At headquarters I wa3 told
that I'd have to make good the loss, a
little matter of $20 or so, which meant a
great deal to me./ With a sore heart I
went down to your store the next day to
ask what was the lowest figure at which
I could settle, and you, without a mo¬
ment’s hesitation, told me that I need
not pay one cent, that yon could stand
the loss better than I could, and that
must be the end of it. But it ian’Mi¬
en d of it, all the same, for I am m
a round $100 a day down here
thongh if I wasn’t making a cer
dashed if I’d let you pay for an
under my roof, if yon Btaid h
whole year through.”
A Wonderful Stream of W
—-»* ,rro "s>re is.' -o man c ter A
The springs c3ver two or WL
and the water is from ten mostl to?
deep. The bottom is the
white sand, and the water is th
water in the world. It is so c
any objeot on the bottom can F
plainly as thongh one was only J
through a sheet of the finest plate glass.
You can never realize it until you see it.
Fifty feet down yon can see fish as
plainly as though in an aqnarinm, and
actually distinguish the separate scales
on the fish. The sun shining through
this water makes the most beautiful
colors, like diamonds. All the colors of
the rainbow can be seen, and where
there is grass on the bottom, as there is
in some places, it is of the purest green,
and the green blends with rainbow
colors until the beholder is perfectly
awe-struck, and cannot Bpeak for fear of
breaking the spell. It is hard to break
a way from the scene, and one wishes lie
could stay for weeks. There are huge
catfish swimming around, looking as
though they might be a yard away, they
are so plain, but they may be twenty
feet down. The springs form a river
which flows for eight miles before it
reaches the Oklawaha, and all of that
distance people stand on the decks of
the boat and gaze into that beautiful
water, and see the fish swimming around.
Here will be a school of catfish, black
and saucy, some weighing fifty pounds,
there a school of a hundred garfish with
their long bills, playing about, paying
no attention to the steamer, but acting
SB thongh they were on exhibition.
That eight miles is the most fascinating
ride in the world. Those who visit
Florida and fail to take the Oklawaha
trip make the greatest mistake in the
world.”
Desirous to Emigrate.
Major George L. Lane, colored, of
the North Carolina State Guard, says
there is a strong feeling among the col¬
ored people to emigrate to Liberia. He
gives as the cause for this feeling that
wages are so low that colored people
cannot make anything beyond a living.
Wages for farm hands are only seven
dollars a month and rations, which cost
about sixty cents a week. There are
now 700 families in the State who have
each paid into the treasury of the Emi¬
gration Society in this place ten dollars.
Fifteen dollars more is expected from
each of these families, and with addi¬
tional aid to be furnished by societies in
Washington and New York, they will be
able to reach Liberia with a full supply
of clothes and all their tools of various
kinds. The young negToes are more
anxious to leave than the older ones,
and the number who are joining the
society is increasing every day.
