Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME XI.
BRUNSWICK; GEORGIA, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1885
NUMBER 12. ,
4 BYERS’ FOLLY.
"What did ye say yer name wa’?”
We stootl outside tbe wire fence,
Georgia and I, nod looked at the old
uian who leaned on his plow survey
ing us, while the two shaggy horses
attached to it languidly bung their
heads as if intending a furtive nap.
•'I’m Charline Boyd; this is Geor-
gie, ray little brother. We’ve come
all the way from Kansas City. We’re
your own grandchildren. Mothers
dead. Father sent ns here; he’s gone
to Arizona to work in a mine.”
He looked dazed.
“ClBrriRsy dead, an’ you her chil
dren ? Wal, if do beat all! An’ you
sicb a big gal. an’ I in her livin’ pic-
tur, an’ I not knowiu’ she wa’ gone.
Come in, dears; the gate’s beyant, but
fge kin crawl under the wires. There 1
Now lerarae look at yer. Laws, child !
don’t try to kiss me; ray face ain’t
none too clean.”
f He was a pleasant-faced, blue-eyed
old man, with iong, curling white
hair. His teeth were gone, but oth
erwise he seemed unliko old men, for
he was straight and tall, bis arras
brawny and strong. His clothing was
’neat, but neglected-looking, the but
tons hanging, with little tears widen
ing into large rents. I was only four
teen, but mother had taught me to
do a grown woman’s work; beside,
Georgia was live, and such a bnby
made me feel oldor.
“Where’s grandma?” I asked.
For answer be pointed his tbnrnb
at a mound away at the end of tbe
level field, where a rude wooden cross
I was planted.
“She’s tbar. She went a year ago.
I’ve lived alone sence, an’ it’s the
blessin’ of Providence you children is
I come. Oftentimes I’ve feared I might
grow deeprat outer sheer lonesome
ness an’ eorrer. Maybe you didn’t
i know it, but Clarrissy an’ mother
quarreled in yenrs gone, an’ never got
fren’ly, which was because yer inn
married yer pa, which seemed to me
a good man ’nnff; but wiintuen’s queer
an’ mother looked high for Clarrissy.”
“I so hungry!’’ cried poor little
Georgia, bis lip quivering and his
round eyes filling with tears.
“Bless bis little heart!’’ said grand
father, recovering himself and patting
his cheek'soltly. “Here you be, jest
off a long journey, an’ me a-keepin’
yer in the cold, an’ meanderin’ on as
^ if tbar wa’n’t no to-day, but all yes
terday. How did yer come?” be
asked, unharnessing the horses.
“By rail to D ; then a gentle
man gitvti ns a ri-'e here in his line
' carriage. We cams iu the train with
his daughter, Miss Bessie Little. He
owns a big ranch near here.
“A fine young lady,” broke in
grandfather. “She was litre a darter
to yer graniun, an’ though she live d
miles away, she whs over night an’
day, u-gallopin’ ’cross the plains on 11
black borse ns is a thoroughbred, an'
ns tine specimen of horseflesh ii« is
Sbeli ill these parts. She kin ride, too,
mi' ain’t a-feared o’ nothin'. Mother
set a sight by her.”
We were now lit the house, a neat
little one-story cottage, containing
four rooms. A comfortable barn ami
I yard for the cattle were near, and a
well close by the door. There was a
cosy kitchen, a sitting-rnmii, and two
bedrooms. The loi.vlj oi l man bad
® faithfully swept ami dn-tfl, and kept
everything where his wife li.nl placed
it, even her work basket, with a nee
dle sticking iu the half-fiuislied sleeve.
Genrgie and I look the spare ,
and I built a tile alol nir-d llie bed
ding. In a few ilnya I grew compe
tent to take charge of the house and
cook the simple meals. Two old
horses, two cows and a calf comprised
the stock. '
The last day of my first week on tbe
ranch Miss Bessie Little rode up to
the cabin on her coal-black horse.—
She was u sweet-faced girl, blae-eyed
and yellow-haired, and rode beauti
fully. She made herself at home,
petted George, and I, shy as I was,
found myself coufiding to her all my
tronbles and hopes. She sympathized
with me, and when aha rode off prom
ised to come often.
Miss Bessie rode np one day, and at
her heels was an overgrown shepherd
pnppy, with big paws aud jolly little
black eyes. "Here's a cayote extermi
nator, grandfather Byers,” she said,
ns she jumped from the saddle.
Through Miss Bessie's kindness I
found a ready market for my eggs
and chickens, and for tbo butter I
learned to make; and she showed me
how to “lay butter down" for winter
a6e. Though she never had to work,
she know every task in a farmer’s
wife’s experience. And perhaps it
was best, for there was a young mnn
living near her father’s ranch, who
himsolf owned a big ranch, and who
took ten every Sunday evening with
her father, and went to charch down
in the village every Sunday evening
with her.
About a mile from oar ranch were
three low bills or mounds. Bebiod
one, iu n sort of valley, hedged in by
tbe hills and facing the plains, wns a
well ninety feet deep, called, I regret
to say, "Byer’s folly.’’ Poor grand
father bad bad the well dng, hoping
to obtain water to irrigate bis land.—
He could uot see ahead to the time
when a compnny of capitalists would
intersect the regiou with irrigating
ditches, and each man’s land could be
benefited by paying a small water-
tax.
Grandfather’s money gave out be
fore the well was fin’shed, and the
wide, deep, black hole, carelessly
crossed by hoards, and a big pile of
earth, was all that was left of his la
bor HDd his fortuue.
Not only was bis own money sunk
in the hole, but also large sums bor
rowed from a Mr. Daviesou, of D
and to him our farm was mortgaged.
Grandfather grew gloomy and sad
ns spring came on. He brightened
np a little when I showed him my ac
count—Miss Bessie showed me how
to keep it—and I proved to him how
ranch money I had made with the
liens and th« butter, bat bo sighed a
moment after.
“Ef I hadn’t a done that, how com
fortable we'd a been. You’re sieh a
smart girl, a son raore’n a gal, Char
ley. But D.meson's a hard muu—
dnnno as to-morrer'll find us with a
roof to cover us, an’ ’tis a tine proper
ty too, now the irrergntiu’ditch cross
es it.”
lie seemed in take little interest in
the fnrni'vi-1'-.. He would harness the
horse, plo.v a few ' (arrows, and then
stand in a helpless attitude, looking
toward . D . He would wander
down to tile road to Hsk passers if
I they had a letter for him, and then
would sit outside ibe kitchen dour,
with bis face hidden in his hau ls.
One day, however, a man came up
on horseback. He tossed me a letter
—I've, hated yellow envelopes ever
since—for grandpa, who was down in
tbe field with Ida team. It was such
ja sunny, bright day it bad given him
[ new life for his walk.
I I could pot hear lo take it to him,
: so I pot Georgie’s HiiijbuuDet on him,
I pinned the letter to his frock, and, j
I wtli a big cookie iu his hand, sent
[bun down to “dalips.’’
They came back later, hand in
hand, the old horses following.—
Grandfather hurried pust me into his
cbnmber and shut the door. Hisface
was asb-colored, his eyes bloodshot.
I waited a long time; I feared he
might bo dead, so I rapped on the
door. He opened it. He was dressed
in his worn black broadcloth suit,
with his old-fashioned high collar. I
remembered then it was tbe first time
I bad ever seen him wear a white
shirt. He held an old beaver hat in
bis hand, and was absently smooth
ing the nap with bis sleeve.
“It’s come, dear. That I I’m goin’
ter D . I’ll try if ho won’t wait
till fall. I’ll work hard, and tnebby
the crops’ll come to sum mat. I’ll sell
the stock”—tboso old horses so dear
to him I “No, don’t kiss me, dear, it
’ad break me down. I’ve just found
out I’m a weak old man. I never
felt it afore.”
He staggered out to the barn. I fol
lowed him.
“I mayn’t be back for two days or
so. Will yon be ufeered ?”
“No," I said, but I was. I helped
him into the wagon. He seemed
dazed and half blinded by bis trouble.
I did tbe work faithfully when he was
gone, driving the cows nod milking
them, and taking care of the house
and tbe poultry.
Next day Mr. Little and Tom Gray
rode np in baste, their horses wbite
with foam.
“Bessie I” shouted Mr. Little, as be
came over the hill. “Is she here ?—
Have you seen her ?”
“Not for a week," I said; “has any
thing happened ?”
“She went to ride yesterday after
noon, and has not returned, nor haB
she been seen. We hoped she were
bere -" ^SC -
They looked wbite nnd soared. Mr.
Little seemed to have aged in a night.
They soon rode on.
That night wns more dreadful than
the first. I cried myself into hyster
ics and frightened poor little Georgie,
who sat np in bed nnd cried because
“his dirl wus lo*’.” He ulways culled
Miss Bessie “his dirl.”
The next morning a number of peo
ple came up. Thev wore bunting for
Bessie. The whole neighborhood was
searched.
I could uot lenve home, but Georgie
ami I walked over tbe rnnch, looking
in every bole and corner. Our dog,
Smarty, ran after ns, nnd n silly old
tnrkey-gohblur. my pet and the pride
of my poultry-yard, joined in the pro
cession. Smnrty chased him, and
Gobble flew over tbe wire fence nnd
rushed down the hill, across the road,
nnd I saw the two, mero specks, tear
ing up the hill near the well.
“He’ll kill Gobble 1” I shouted, seiz
ing Georgie’s band, and we rushed af
ter them, Georgie crying at the top of
his lungs nnd being winded at every
step. At last I took him on mv back,
and finished the rare with a hpnvy
burden.
At the foot of tbe bill was the well,
nnd there Gobble stood, scolding nnd
shaking his red neck, while Snmriy
epetni'd to liava forgotten his very ex
istence, lint was riinningS aronml tlm
well, nttering short, quick barks.WW*
The planks nround |and over the
well were gone, and tbe earth about
it whh plowed iis if there bad been a
struggle. I dropped Georgia's hand
and rushed down. I pushed Smarty
away, and looked down. It was
dark, bat I fancied I saw something
white aw iv «l«>wn. Just then a faint
i voice from the depths ol the earth
! shouted:
1 “Help! help 1”
"I’m Charley Boyd. Who’s there ?
Shout sgnin 1”
“Bessie Little. My horse fell—he’s
dead, away dawn. I’m clingiDg to n
plank in the side. I can’t bold on
much longer. Mv arms are breaking.”
What could I do?
“Bessie," I shouted, hold on a little
while—I nm going for help.”
“I’m faint. I shall die. Don't
leave me.”
"I’ll leavo Georgie here. Here,
Georgie, your dirl^is in that bole; stay
there aud talk to her. Don't yon
ory.”
Georgie’s lip trembled, but be
minded bravely. I left Bessie answer
ing Georgie’s scared “Hallo I”
If she could keep conscious until I
got back ! How I thanked grandpa
for his careful habits. I knew just
where tbo now clothes-line was, tbe
crowbar und the bHtchet.
How l got back I never knew. I
snw Georgie from the top of tbo bill.
He bad crawled to the ejge of the
well, and was singing a little baby
song I had taught him.
“Bessie 1" I shouted.
“All right. George kept me from
faiuting. I made him sing.”
"Dit dirl out! dit dirl oat I" Geor
gie screamed, clinging to my skirts.—
I pnshed him away; there wns no
time to pet or comfort him.
“Run to the road, Georgie, and hal
loo for help. Yes, take the dog. Tell
everybody your dirl is in Byers' well.’
I know bis white, tear-wet face
would bring the most unbelieving
stranger. I watched bis chubby form
in the bright plaid dress, and the
panting dog, disappear over the bill.
All the while I wns digging o deep
bole with the hatchet, and scooping
the earth out with my bands, and
shouting every few moments to Bes
sie. I buried tbe crowbar half-wny,
aud tbon I tried my weight; it did
not move. I bad seen men wind
lines aroimd a post to raise heavy ob
jects.
“Put this noose uround your
waist I” I shouted.
“I dare not," she answered fuintly.
"Yon can't help me. Oh, go for
help!”
“You must. Tbe end’s fust to a
crowbar. I can’t find anybody. They
are all bUDting for you ”
“I cunt I” she cried piteously.
“Then I'll leave you I” I shouted.—
“It's getting late; it's your last
chance !’’
There was a ghastly stillness for a
few moments. I wound the line
arouud the bar and around my WHist.
“Look mu 1" she screamed. A fear
ful strniu tigSdeueit the cord. I
thought it would mt uie in two. For
n moment I thought I was goingover.
Happily, the ridge of earth was a
protection. The rope loosened.
“Hanl easy!” she cried. “I can
catch iny feet iu the sides; the earth
is soft.”
Suddenly the rope grew loose—
there was no weight ? Whs she lost ?
Everything grew hlaok and I knew
nothing. When I came to, there
were two men bending over me, try
ing to lorce braudy into my mouth.
“Where’s B-'ssie ?’’* She answered
me liersrif! She ba I climbed up IUe
last few yards by tbe broken timbers.
Just then we beard a shouting, aud
Mr. Little and Mr. Gray rode np, and
the latter wasn't ashamed to kiss Bes-
sio just as her father did, and before
all the people.
Georgie climbed into Mr. Gray’s
lap, nnd Smarty lay down at my feet,
worn out. A party of tbe searchers
met the poor baby und dog, and
caught at the fearfal meaning in the
baby’s incoherent words.
They could not believe it was I who
had rescued her till they saw my
bands and the rope and the crowbar
still firm in the earth.
Grandpa was there, and kissed me
and cried over me us if I too had
been down tbe well.
Miss Bessie had lost her way in the
dark after n long ride across tbe
plains, and her horse bad stumbled
and ful li n through and broken his
spine. Mi-* Bessie's habit had caught
on a projecting beam, and she clung
there two nights and nearly two days.
Yet with all tbe horrors of her situa
tion, she was only fifteen feet down.
When Mr. Little learned that our
furm was mortgaged, he went to Mr.
Dadielson, paid the money,' nnd ’ gave
tbe farm back to grandfather. He
made me a present of a smu of mon
ey, and Mr. Gray made George a like
present.
In the two years since that time
our'raneh has come to be one of tbe
most prosperous in tbe country. We
have a fine herd of cattle, und an im
mense poultry yard, aDd grandfather
hires a mnu to help him, while' I have
a Swede girl to work in tbe bouso.
Mies Bessie is Mrs. Gray now, and
and still my best friend. She never
rides alone, and is less dariug than
she used to be.
I am happy to say no one ever re
proached grandfather for bis careless
ness in leaving the well so poorly
protected. He snffered enough for
it, and it is filled in now.
Thongh Mrs. Gray never says any
thing, yet I think she often moerns
for the noble black horse, who, with
suoes on, saddle and bridle, found a
burial on tbe plains—the plains where
be bad so often roamed with bis fear
less young mistress under tbe blue
Colorado skies, in the shndow of the
Rockies.
i—. ■...
“Thank*** or “Thank You.**
Dolton Ilcrahl.
A controversy has recently arisen
over the substitution of tbe word
“tbtiuks” for tbe expression “thank
you.” Some of our esteemed,con
temporaries in the West hold that,
while it may be perfectly proper to
limit one’s expression of gratitude to
the single word “thanks,” it is in
rnnch better taste to adhere to tbe
older aud more formal acknowledge
ment. This is very much a matter of
personal opiuion.
The lute Charles Sumner, who iu
most things carried the for cality of
politeness to an extreme, invariably
used the word “thanks,” instead of
the term “thank yon,” nnd if wo nrc
uot greatly mistaken, this practice
on his part has the' sanction of the
highest social authorities in England.
Tbe trouble with a great many of oar
Amei icuus is that in the affairs of every
day life they arc indicp s-d to nse
either form of acturo.ilujgeinent.
The Montznmn Record is responsi
ble for this item: Talking abont the
base ball craze to a gentleman in Ma
con not long since, h« said: “The
girls take mine interest in it than tbe
bnjs. Tbe talk about the game every
where, even in cbnrcb. A few Sun
days ago a la-iv attended church with
my daughter, and seeing a stranger,
a yontig man in the choir,;said to
her: "Who is the gentleman ou tbe
second base?”
%
The largest fee ever earned by a
Georgia lawyer was that of Senator
Ben*. II. Hill, m the great Metcalf
cotton ease. It was one hundred and
tuenty thousand dollars, and sixty
thousand was collected. Judge Chis
holm, of Savannah, was paid sixty
thousand at one time for services to
the Atlantic aud Golf Railroad, and
General Henry R. Jackson received
an equal sum.