Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

My Kingdom and My Queen. My kingdom has no dazzling throne, No palace grand upon it, Yet *tis as bright as e’er was known, Or sung in loyal sonnet. I’ve traveled east, I’ve traveled west, But ’jfld scenes of wealth and splendor, this one spot I love the best, With all its joys so tender; No place so dear I’ve ever seen, For peace reigns here and Love is queen. Two subjects in my kingdom dwell; <5ne has an eye of azure, And smiles upon her fair face tell Of pure and perfect pleasure; And one has hair of raven hue And eyes of hazel beauty, And whate’er he may strive to do He always does his duty. And faithful they have ever been To her who is my household queen. And as life yields me newer joy And hope divine and human, I see one now no more – boy And one almost a woman. The bright days come, the bright days gc\ And each brings some new pleasure, And no spot on the earth I know Is richer with heart-treasure. Nor happier subjects ne’er were seen Than in my home where Love is queen. By no high-sounding royal name Or tide they address her, As cheerily, their eyes aflame With love, they kiss and bless her But with a voice of gentle tone Which joy gives to each other, They call her by one name alone, The hallowed name of mother. A name the sweetest known to man Since time and love their course began. — Youth's Companion. 11 1 PROMISE." ! BY BOSE TERRY COOKE. f “Viva,! Viva, ! I must go!” “You shall not! You shall not. You belong to me!” The beautiful little creature stamped her tiny foot on the turf, as she spoke; her eyes flamed with anger, a fiery flush shot up into her dark cheek. “I belonged to my country before I •ver saw you, Viva,” answered Tom Creighton, in a sad but steady tone. “You shall not go, tho! Ah! dear, dear, darling Tom, can you leave your little lassie to die of fear? Don’t you love me?” u She gathered the tall fellow’s hands close to her heart and clasped them there with strange passionate strength. Tom stooped and lifted her to his bosom as if she had been a tiny child. “I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honor more.” he said, slowly, bending his head to her car. A splendid head it was, crowned with close curls soon to fall before the ■hears, and its symmetry to be hidden by a forage-cap; and the face did not belie the head; its strong, regular fea tures, its cleft chin, and resolute lips all “gave the world assurance of a man,” while the expressive gray eyes revealed humor, tenderness, pathos, passion, and a possible flash of rage. “Don’t talk to me about honor!” sobbed Viva, hiding her face on his shoulder. ‘ l I shall die if you go away from me' I cau’t—I cau’t bear itl” 1” There was no heroism about Genevieve L’Estrange; her French descent had given her inexpressible charms of aspect and manner; she was as slight as a girl of ten years, and no higher than her over’s shoulder, but the contours of her exquisite figure showed the roundness and grace of womanhood, and her piquant, glowing face was alight with all the fire of an intense feminine nature. There was nothing childish in the red mobile lip*, the delicate irregular fea tures, the brilliant dark eyes that sparkled or melted according to her mood, the abundant silky black hair that fell to her feet when it escaped from tho heavy coils that seemed too weighty for the lovely little head they covered. She was spoiled from her babyhood, being the only child of wealthy parents; not a wish had tho wilful creature ever been denied; never had she wanted a luxury, or failed to indulge a caprice; indeed, it was but a caprice that this very summer had taken her to the "White Mountains before the great hotels were opened, to a small house near the village of Franconia. She wanted to sec the spring blossoms of the North, to gather the dawn-pink arbutus she had so often bought in Broadway, from its lurking-places under the pine needles of the forest; she had heard of “the shy Linnaia, ” the white winter green, and many another early flower that fades before fashion comes to ex plore its haunts, from a school-friend who lived in northern New Hampshire; and so, weary of the early terrors of the jfrom par looming blackly in the distance, tired the two years in Europe that fol- lo^d her school days, and the long winter of dissipation in the city, she had intimated to her obedient parents her desire to visit Franconia; and they took her to the Pine Hill House accord ingly. Here she met Tom Creighton; his father and mother lived on a farm near by and the handsome young lawyer from New York had come up to say good-by to them; for he had enlisted in a volun teer regiment and daily expected orders to the front. Viva had met him often in society, and the two opposite natures, in a meas ure counterparts, had been mutually attracted. Tom Creighton was a typi cal New Englander, strong, obstinate, enduring, with a rigid sense of duty as his dominant trait. He did not entire ly approve of the war, for he was naturally conservative; but he considered that he ought to go, and go he would. It was a thorough surprise to both the pair, this meeting among the mountains; and it was the last thing Ton Creighton intended, to fall in love with Miss JFMstrange, much less to let her know it, but he could not help himself; with characteristic impetuosity she lost her heart in these solitudes, where all the real character of the young man showed itself, no longer overlaid by the customs of society. She saw how true, how tender, how brave he was, how superior to the society men who had only bored her in New York. She had indeed distinguished him even there from a certain superiority of aspect, but now she knew and loved him and showed it with such naive simplicity that Tom, for ali his good resolutions, broke down and fell at her feet. Only a day had their engagement been made known, when the summons Tom expected, came. Viva was almost frantic, it was the first time in her life that her will had been useless; but now it beat against a rock. Tired with the vain struggle repeated till Tom’s heart ached to its depths, she at length recognized that his strength of character must dominate hers; and after a long wild flood of tears and a convulsion of sobs she said at last: I 4 If you will go—if you must— prom ise me to live, to corno back!” “ I promise to come back if Ido live, Viva. How can I say I wall live? That is the chance of war and the will of God.” “Promise, promise!” she shrieked. “You must promise me to live! I shall die here, right iu your arms, unless you do!” Her pallid face, her streaming eyes, the sobs that seemed to rend her slight shape, the piteous curve of her red lips, took him by storm. The lovely, uu reasoning, willful creature, torn by a passion of love and grief all for him, shook his strong soul to its center. What man ever resisted such overwhelming passion, or thought it foolish when he was its object? Tom Creighion’s soul blazed in his eyes as he held that tiny figure closer to his breast. “I promise!” he said. So be went and she stayed. The for tunes of war befell him; but in battle he seemed to dodge the bullets that rained about him, manfully as he fought, for he felt Viva’s imploring eyes upon him. “Creighton’s luck” was the jest of the decimated regiment; but no man charged him with cowardice. The thrill and splendor of this new life had swept off his conservatism; the war justi fied itself by its dash and valor. lie rejoiced in the clangor of its trumpets, the roar of its guns, the rush of its charges; and when the miasma of the marshes where he lay encamped defied his will and seared his flesh with fever, when he lay half-conscious for many a week in the hospital, tho will to live, the intent to keep liis word to Viva, saved him. The nurses wondered to hear but two words in tbe low mutter of his delirium: “I promise— I promise!” but those words were his talisman. When his heart and flesh failed he seemed to see Viva’s upturned, woeful face, and he said to himself, “I prom ise,” with fresh strength each time; for he had learned faith in himself. At last the war was over; but thoroughly wed ded to a soldier’s life, and become a proverb among nen for courago and quick resource, he was transferred to the ranks of the regular army, given a furlough of six months, and flow at once to Viva. “Viva,” he said to her, as he drew on his gloves after an hour at her bedside, and as soon as the nurse, hurriedly called in, had left the room on some needful errand. “Viva, you must tell Captain Creigh ton.” SCHLEY COUNTY NEWS. “I will not!” she answered angrily. . “But you must!” “I never will! After all these wretch ed years of waiting, do you think I will throw my life away, Dr. Sands?” “If you do not, I shall.” “You won’t! you can’t!” “But I shall. It is my duty. If you do not tell him before Saturday—this is Tuesday—I shall.” The doctor’s voice was stern, but the nurse came in; he said no more. Next day came Tom with startling news; he was ordered at once to Fort Stilling; the garrison there was needed in a struggle with the Indians; fresh troops must man the fort; there was not a day to spare. “Viva, will you go with me!” She sprang up from the sofa where she lay, pale and sweet after her brief illness; here was her way of escape from Dr. Sands. “Yes, indeed, I will. You shall not leave me again, Tom!” So the next morning early, like a pair of eloping lovers, they were married in the nearest church and took the morning train for the far West; on and on the rushing wheels bore them; day after day they endured the separation of the crowd, till at last they arrived at St. ; George one winter night in January, The snow was deep, but Tom must report as soon as possible, and Viva -would not let him go alone. “It is too cold, dearest,” he said. “Not with you, Tom.” 11 Forty below zero, Viva!” “If you can live in it I can. ‘I pro mise,’ Tom.” Ho could not refuse her after that word with all its memories. Rolled in fars, veils, scarfs, with hot bricks at her feet, they set out on their twenty-mile journey. Warned not to speak, for the air was not fit for delicate lungs to ad mit in all its chill, silently they sped along. The glittering fields of spark ling snow, on which the moon made a long -wake of glory, the black shadows, the creak of their swift runners, the snorting of the horses, whose nostrils were hung with icicles, all added a strange terror to the drive—a drive that seemed endless; but at last it was over. “Come in!” said Tom, holding out his arms, as the driver drew up before the officers’ quarters, where the light of a fire blazed through the deep-frosted windows; but Viva neither spoke nor moved. Mad with terror, Tom lifted her from the sleigh and rushed into the door, making his way by instinct to the fire, Viva stirred not an atom. Hasty hands unrobed her; kind hands laid her on the sofa. Her face was set and white, her lips parted, her eyes glazed. The post surgeon hurried in; he lifted one hand, it fell back; he put a finger on her pulse. “My God! she is dead!” he said, with a look of dreadful pity. Tom dropped beside her. Was it a year? Was it a life-timel Was he in Heaven when he woke out of that trance? She was there, warm, sweet,rosy. “You made me promise, Tom, I would not die.” Tom turned on his very face and wept like a very child; his heaven had come on earth. Post surgeons do not know every thing any more than other men. The fact was that Viva had developed in the last two years a tendency to cata lepsy—the result of an over-worn and over-excited nervous system; and when Dr. Sands told her she must tell Tom about it, she had just come out of a se rious attack wherein she had lain for hours as one dead; but she woul,d not tell him, having an idle fear that Tom might cease to love her. The long journey and the cold drive had brought on a severe seizure, and she certainly, in appearance, justified the post-surgeon’s opinion; but before morning she had come back to herself, and was heart-broken to find Tom de lirious with grief and as unconscious of her presence as she had been if his. “Viva,” he said, a few days after they were fairly settled in the new life, “my darling! my wife! think what might have happened if I had nevw known about this. Promise me, Viva, hereafter to trust me. Tell me every thing!” She looked up in his troubled, tendei ' face with a divine smile, and softly said over his talisman, “I promise. ” “What’s tho matter in the sitting room, Tommy?” “Oh, the usual con test between pa and rna over the speaker* ship of the house.” j BARK PEELERS. , A Day Among the Woodsmen of the Catskill. ' The Work of the Choppers, ■ Fixers and Spudders. The men were at work some distance up the side of the mountain, which was a spur of great Peakamoose, and I was guided by a man who was taking them some addition to their dinners. The road ceased altogether, soon after we left the shanty, aud it was not long be fore even the path disappeared, so that we had to force our way through the thick woods up the steep slope, guided only by the sounds of chopping and the crash of falling trees which came to our ears. Most of th e men were young fellows, with tall, strong, active frames and frank, honest face. One or two of them wore red flannel shirts which looked ver T picturesque among the green trees, anc * °f them made so merry over their hard work that the felling of huge trees aud lopping of stout branches seemed rather than labor. When bark-peelers go into the woods they divide themselves into parties of lour or five who work together, Each one of these parties contains choppers, fixers and spudders. The beginning of operations belongs to the first class. The chopper chooses the first good-sized hemlock that is seen, and it is attacked near the root with sharp and skilful axe until it turn bles headlong in just the desired direc tion. The fail of one of these trees, es pecially if it be a large one, is an im pressive sight. The chopper cuts a broad opening on one side fully half through the great trunk, yet the tree stands firm and pays no attention to the Wows, nor to the heavy chips that con tinually fly away from its dark, red heart-wood. Then the chopper goes around on the other side, and cuts a new gash, a little lower than the first one, since he intends the tree to fall to that 6ide. Here, too, he cuts deep in before there are any signs of conquest. As the axe begins to touch the center, how ever, the topmost limbs are seen to tremble, then to sway, and a cracking ff>und follows the repeated blows which 'warn the poor tree that its time has come. Then there is a tottering, a lit tie leaning toward the weaker side, which has the lower cut, and the wood man, keeping his eye upward and his feet ready to jump, hurls one Last pow erful stroke into the overstrained fibers. They fly apart with a loud noise, the great crown bows toward the earth, gains swifter motion as it descends, and comes crashing down upon the weak and resistless brushwood with a noise like the muffled roar of a whole battery and a force which shakes the earth. Now comes the work of the “fixers.” They leap upon the but of the fallen giant, and, striking at the lowest limbs, first cut off every branch until all are lopped away to where the trunk grows too narrow to be worth trimming. As fast as a little space of the trunk is cleared, one of the men cuts a notch through the bark and around the trunk — “rings” it, as he would say. Four feet further on ho cuts another rin^, and then glitg tho bark lcngtbwise from oae ring to the other) on three or four gide3 of the tree. This goea on every four feet a3 fast as the tree is trimmed, ’ until tho wholo length ha3 beeQ thu 3 t‘fixed ” Last of all comes the “spudder,” whose duty it is to pry off the great flakes of bark which have been notched and split for him. He takes his name from the tool ho uses, which is a sort of small, heavy, sharped-edged spade, with a short handle; perhaps to call it a round blado chisel would describe it more nearly. To pry off the bark iu this way seems very easy, but they told mo it was the hardest work of all, and that it required considerable skill to do it properly, When tho bark has been removed it must be made up into regular piles so a9 Be measured, for it is estimated an ^ sold by tho cord. This is hard w ork, for the green and juicy bark is very heavy and rough to handle. Some times a tree will bo found so large as to furnish a cord, or oven more, alone; but the average rate of yield is much less, so that experts calculate that four trees must be cut down to obtain a cord of Bark. It is only when tho new wood is form tug just underneath, and tho cells are soft and full of sap, that the bark can be stripped from the log in large pieces. Peeling, therefore, can be carried on only during May and June. The cords of bark piled then are left to dry all the summer and fall, and are hauled out i a winter by ox-teams with sleds, when the deep snow makes a smooth track over even so terribly rough a road as the one I have mentioned. The bark-peelers were a very jolly lot of fellows, singing and joking as they worked, and at dinner there was one incessant rattle of stories and fun. They work hard, eat heartily, go to bed as soon as it is dark, and rise at dawn. It is interesting work, but it leaves a ruined forest behind.— St. Nicholas. Odd Kinds of Leather. It has been demonstrated that all sorts of skins may be tanned. Beasts, birds, fishes and reptiles have been alike brought to the tan yard, and the prices of their skins are regularly quoted in the price current of the Shoe and Leather Reporter. Alligator skins have long been a favorite material for the manu facture of pocketbooks and satchels. The high price which the first product commanded soon induced manufacturers to produce imitations. These are merely embossed leather. The peculiar scaly nature of the alligator’s* hide is success fully imitated by means of steel dies, which leave a durable impression upon the leather, so perfect a resemblance to the genuine alligator skin that only ex perts can tell the difference. The same process is used to imitate other fancy skins, so that there is no novelty that is not imitated within three months of its first appearance. The alligator skins were first put on the market in 1876. Kangaroo skins have only been on the market about three years. The skin of the porpoise has lately been used for shoes, and is well considered because of its fine grain, making it waterproof. It resembles a goat skin. The skin of the seal has also been made into leather, and sells for about $40 a dozen skins. One of the latest novelties is rattle snake leather, w’hich is used chiefly for making pocketbooks. The skin of the monkey has also been tanned and used for making pocketbooks. Bear skins lave long been used with the hair on for caps and coats, and the hides have also been used for leather. Of course these novelties are not made in large quantities, and are mostly used for fancy trade. During the past few years the hides of horses have been successfully tanned and put upon the market as a standard article of leather. American kid is now taking a prom inent place in the leather market, and is even preferred to French kid by many manufacturers, who find it quite as soft, iliable and durable, and much cheaper. It is declared that American kid at twenty-five cents a foot is equal to French kid at forty cents. Pig skins are yet in demand for saddles. Origin of 0. K. Moses Folsom of Port.Townsend sends the following sketch of the origin of the use of the letters “O. K.” which, he states, was furnished him personally by James Parton: W bile at Nashville in search of mate rial for his history, Mr. Parton found among the records of the court of which General Jackson had been judge a great many legal documents endorsed “O.R.” which meant “Order recorded,” but often so scrawlingly written that one could easily read it as O. K. If “Major Downing” noticed a bundle of papers thus marked upon President Jackson’s table, documents, perhaps, from bis former court, in which he still had in • terest, it is very easy to see how a pun ster could imagine it to be “0. K.” or ( 4 oil korrect.” No doubt Seba Smith, who wrote un der the nom do plume of “Major Jack Downing,” had much to do with creat ing the impression that President Jack son was unlettered and illiterate, where as many existing personal letters, military reports, court opinions and state papers show to the contrary. He lived before the day of stenographers and typewriters, and yet carried on a voluminous correspondence. Hundreds of his personal letters to old soldiei friends arc still preserved as heirlooms in the south, and his handiwork is numerous in Washington. He was evi dently a rapid penman, and made greater use of capital letters than is the present custom, but misspelled words and stumbling sentences were few and far between. — Portland Oregonian.