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‘‘Pretty noon.” ‘‘Pretty soon.” How the soft phrase slips,
With limpid, laughing cadence, through the languid lqis.
Where the plumes of the palms by the south wind swayed,
Fling on the dewy terraces their filagree of shade.
When the almond* and the myrtle have taken in their not,
The doves that tread the measure of the tender minuet,
And the nestlings of the nightingale cuddle low and croon
To the laughter of the laurel, “Pretty soon,” “Pretty soon.”
“Pretty soon,” “Pretty soon,” cries Youth, I shall make
A home amid the happy hills for her dear sake.
There I will lead my darling as Dawn doth lead the Day,
While God is making morning I will sit with her and say,
“You river to its ocean (rath will never be more true,
The best of life is mine to-day because of love and you.”
And heart shall rhyme to heart as unto the summer moon.
The swinging sen doth sing “Pretty soon,” “Pretty soon.”
“Pretty That lily soon,” call “Pretty Heaven soon,” sighs Age, Eternity, I shall see
we in the stream
And pluck the rosy amaranths that make Its meadows sweet,
Still swaying to the paces of the silver sandaled feet,
When beneath the healing trees they refill the crystal urns,
O how the soul within me for their blessed welcome yearns,
Hut the baud of shining spirits, with lips and lutes in tune,
Bid me wait and bide their coming, “Pretty soon,” "Pretty soon.”
Robert M’lntyre, in Chicago Times-Herald.
All’s Well That
Ends Wei,i
BIG, white steamboat,
backs away from the
? 0 «°. wharf, swings about,
V ”o and goes slowly down
the river sounding her
Ir ks whistle at intervals,
for the fog is coming
' i n rapidly.
The few loafers on the piers eye
curiously the tali, elegaut woman who
has come ashore.
She, casting a hall* scornful glance
about, approaches old Jed Rawson,
and puts tins query:
“Can I hire any one to take me
across the river?”
“I reckon not,” declares old Jed,
taking out his pipe to stare at her
with astonishment,. “The steamer
goes into port jest below here ter wait
fer the fog ter lift. Thar’s no {giftin’
across the river ter-night, inarm!”
“Can you manage a boat, my good
man?”
All the loafers smiled at this. Old
Jed breaks into a mellow laugh which
sends a perfect net-work of wrinkles
over his brown face.
“Why, leddy,” he says, “there ain’t
nary a boy of ten or up’ard alongshore
as don’t know how to handle a boat.”
The lady laughs, too. She is very
charming; even old Jed realizes that.
She takes a gold piece from her dainty
purse and says:
“If yon will take rue and my tru -
across the river, this shall be yours. :
The trunk is a huge affair and Jed
looks at it with one eye closed and
shakes his head.
“If it warn’t fer the fog, marm,
eny one on us ’ad take yer acrost fer
nothing. But we couldn’t see the
boat’s length to-night.”
The lady utters a sharp exclamation,
anger and disappointment clouding
her features. A brown-faced lad steps
from the corner of the little red bag¬
gage horise where he has been stand¬
ing.
If you dare to go, madam, I will
take you,” he says.
She gives hiui a radiant smile at
which he flushes to the roots of his
fair, waving hair.
Jed and one or two of the other men
remonstrated with him to no purpose,
A small brown wherry is brought up
to the flight of weather beaten steps
leading down from one side of the
wharf.
The big trunk is lowered into it, and
the lady handed down by Andrew
Russell, who is thrilled by the touch of
her cool, satiny fingers. He pulls
into tlie fog bank while the loungers
on the wharf make their comments.
“Mighty fine looking craft that.”
“Carries too much sail.”
“What ean she want over the river?”
“P’haps she’s bound for Barring
ton’s.”
“P’haps. She looks like his kind.”
It is late in the evening when
Andrew Russell returns. Old Jed
meets him hurrying up the village
street.
ft
Murr / * ■*‘ '4$' News
SPRING - PLACE, GA., FRIDAY, JUNE 11, 1897.
“Well, Andrew, you got across all
right?”
“Yes, I had a compass.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I can’t tell you,” is the curt reply,
as the hoy passes on.
j All subsequent inquires elicit no
further information than that. Andrew
landed her at the road which leads up
by Barrington’s, and that, she expected
some sort of conveyance to come for
her there.
Barrington is reported to he inl¬
mensely wealthy. He never mingles
with the people there, and he lives in
i | a lordly fashion. He brings bis own
company from distant parts, and there
j are stories of gay and wild doings at
! the great, house which fill the unso
i phistieated natives with amazement,
j Ho comes and goes as he likes, and
I is altogether very' mysterious.
t Andrew Bussell has a sweetheart on
that side of the river—pretty Jen
Hardy, the fisherman’s daughter.
It is only natural that frequently
he should row across in his wherry.
But Jen Hardy does not see him
every time he goes during the next
fortnight. He tramps through a strip
of woodland across lots until he
reaches a sheltered vale this side of
; | Barrington’s.
Here he meets the mysterious lady
again and again. Andrew is twenty
—tall, strong and manly looking.
Cars Ferris, as she calls herself, uses
! all her blandishments to complete his
enthralment. She tells him a pretty
story. How that her uncle is de
termined to make a nun of her. That
Barrington, being her cousin and
friend, she has come to him for pro¬
tection, until she can get out of the
country.
She wants to go to Europe, for as
soon as her uncle discovers her hid¬
ing place he will follow her. She is
apparently very confiding with An¬
drew, who is too innocent to see the
flaws in her story. “Would he think
she was twenty-five?” she asked co
quettiskly.
Andrew returns a decided negative,
never once dreaming that she is ten
years older. Jen Hardy is too proud
to own that Andrew does not come to
see her any more. Andrew has no
i mother, and his father, who is not a
j very clear-sighted man, sees no change
in biq boy, who is moody or exalted
by fits,
j In two weeks’ time Andrew im
agines himself madly in love with
this woman. He does not stop to
reason over the absurdity of so bril¬
liant a creature finding any attraction
in an ignorant boy like himself.
One night he goes home intoxi¬
cated by the memory of a round white
arm about his neck, and the pressure
of soft, warm lips to his own. A
week later, one hour before midnight,
he crosses the river in his little brown
j wherry. which for
On the big rock serves a
pier, a man and a woman await him.
Barrington carries a valise iu each
Earn]. They enter tlie wherry, and
Andrew pulls swiftly and silently down
the river. In about an hour they come
to a small cove, where a commodious
sailboat is tied to a ring in the rocky,
shelving bank.
They go aboard this, the little
wherry is fastened astern, the sails are
unfurled, and on they go dancing light¬
ly out into the waters of the bay.
At nightfall of the next day they
come to a great city. Barrington and
the lady go ashore. Borne purchases
are to ho made here, and Barrington is
to see. a man who will buy the boat—
this is what they have told Andrew.
In the meantime he is to wait here
with the boat until their return, when
they will all go aboard the great ocean
steamship whose black funnels rise
from a neighboring wharf.
Andrew is not particularly pleased
(hat Barrington is to accompany them,
but nothing ean dampen the joy of his
belief that she loves him, and lie can
never forget that her lips have touched
his own. The poor boy is quite daft
for the time, and does not dream that
he is being duped.
The city clocks are striking 10,when
a ragged street gamin* crosses the
wharf and hails Andrew.
“Hi, there. Be your name Rus¬
sell?”
Andrew nods, and the boy hands
him a note.
“A big swell uptown sent this to
yer. ”
Andrew takes the note and tears it
open. He knows, of course, that the
“big swell” is Barrington. The note
reads as follows:
“When you read this we shall be
aboard an outward bound express.
Goodby, my dear boy; many thanks
for your gallantry. Mr. Barrington
makes you a present of the boat as a
reward for your services. C. F.”
For a moment Andrew stares at the
note in dumb amazement. His brain
reels. The letters dance blood red be¬
fore his eyes. He staggers down into
the little cabin, and throws himself
prostrate upon the floor. He breaks
into great sobs which shake him from
head to foot. To be fooled, pfayed
with, cast aside, when he had served
their turn!
Oh, the bitterness, the grief, and
rage in the boy’s hot heart floor! as he rolls
to and fro upon tlie cabin
All night long he battles with this
first great trouble. In the morning lie
rouses himself and goes up into the
city to find a purchaser for his boat,
for the sight of it is hateful to him, and
he must have money to get home with.
He sells it for §150, which is a pretty
sum for a poor lad. At noon he lias a
sunstroke, and is conveyed to the city
hospital.
When he comes out of his stupor he
finds himself under arrest for being the
accomplice of an adventuress. He
learns, to his horror, that Cars Ferris
is Madge Delaphine. That she en¬
gaged herself as companion to a little,
miserly old woman. That she and
Barrington, who is her lover, planned
the old woman’s murder, in order to
obtain possession of the money and
jewels which she hoarded about her.
That Madge Delaphine accomplished
the murder by means of a subtle poi ¬
son, packed the body into a trunk, and
conveyed it to Barrington’s house,
where it was buried in the cellar.
The very trank which Andrew fer¬
ried across the river! Andrew is
taken before a Magistrate, where he
t<;lls his story, omitting the love pas¬
sages. But tlie Magistrate is an as¬
tute old man, and reads between the
lines and pities the lad.
“The woman and her lover have
been arrested. I want you to identify
her.”
He opens the door to an inner room
and utters an exclamation of dismay.
There, prostrate upon the floor, with
her jewelled hairpin stuck through
her heart, lies Madge Delaphine quite
dead.
“Is this the woman?”
“Cars Ferris had dark hair,” re¬
turns Andrew, who is white to his
lips. dark
The Magistrate lifts a wig of
hair from a table nearby.
“A very simple disguise,” he says,
and motions Andrew back to the outer
room, where, after a few more ques
tions and some fatherly advice, he
dismisses him. The misery of An
drew’s journey home is boundless.
When he reaches the familiar spot
he is taken ill and for weeks is de
lirious with brain fever. Jen Hardy
is his patient and faithful nurse. To
Andrew it seems as if the memory of
his folly must torture him forever.
But, as the months go by the shame
and agony die awaylittle by little.
Jen, faithful soul, believes in him .
world and loves is fair, him. and He life is is young, pleasant and the af j
te |
‘
« Bo gradually i h he i returns to i;, his m old
allegiance, and it all ends as it should
with a wedding. Dublin Morld.
Heart the Gig lit Si<le. “ “
on
In a hospital at Florence, Italy, a
was submitted to the X rays,
when, to the astonishment of the oper¬
ators, it was discovered that his heart
was on the right side instead of the
left. This did not appear to trouble
the patient in any way. It may be re¬
membered that Picchianti, the noted
scientist, also had his heart on the
side, and that he died at sixty
four years of age without ever having
been seriously ill.
A HUMORIST’S JOKE.
How Bill Nye Got Satisfaction Out of a
Chicago Tailor.
“Nye’s method of ‘stringing peo¬
ple,’ ” says James Whitcomb Riley,
“was entertaining always, but never
cruel and never earned him the re¬
sentment of the people who were the
victims of it. One of the most artis¬
tic, cases of this sort I recall was the
bay he got revenge on a Chicago
tailor. The tailor did not know him
when he went to order his suit, but
he did know from his style that he
was from the country. He told Mr.
Nye just what kind of a suit he
wanted, selected the cloth and mens
tired him with the assurance that this
was a beautiful fast color and would
wear like iron. It should be put up
handsomely.
“When Nye paid him for the suit,
and asked that it be shipped to a
way station in Iowa, the tailor was
sure that he was right iu the mental
measurement he had taken of his ens
tomer. The suit arrived, neatly lined
with farmer s satin, and Nye put it on.
lay by day its bright blue grew
lighter and lighter, until when he ar¬
rived in Chicago six weeks later it
was a kind of a dingy dun color.
Nye remarked as the train pulled in
that, his first duty in that city would
be to go around and interview that
merchant, liar, and we went. We
shambled back to the rear end of the
shop, where he found the man who
sold him the garments. He shook
hands with him cordially, said he was
glad to renew tlie pleasant acquaint¬
ance, and asked if lie knew what had
caused the suit to change its beautiful
color, at the same time turning up the
ing lapel of the coat, showing the strik
contrast between the original and
the present color of the cloth.
“‘Why, man,’ cried the tailor,
bristling with defensive indignation,
‘what in the world have you been
doing with that suit?’
I < I Well,’ replied Nye, in tones of
the meekest apology, ‘you did not,
warn me, and I suppose it was my
fault and I ought to have known bet¬
ter. But since you insist, I’ll tell
you frankly what I did. I put it on
and wore it right out in the sun!’
The tailor saw the point and insisted
upon making another suit out of
elofk that was really good and would
not accept pay for it.”—San Fran
•is ;o Examiner.
WORDS OF WISDOM.
Even a horse hates to back.
A bad habit has a hundred months,
The biggest brutes walk on two legs.
Even the chimney sweep hates a
slovenly wife.
False economy tries to fry its dough¬
nuts ill water.
The man who tries to sec every¬
thing goes it blind.
If a man had a hundred eyes he
would still fall into error.
More folks blame the wrong man
than credit the right one.
A porous plaster is successful be¬ !
cause it sticks to one thing.
To fall into a habit of fault-finding is 1
one of the easiest things in the world. 1
A woman swallows flattery just as |
a of baby the trouble swallows that buttons—regardless follow. j
may
Death is not always a cure for ly- it j |
ing. In nine cases out of ten
breaks out again on the tombstone. j
It’s odd how willing the woman I
who “really prefers to stand” in a [
street car is to sacrifice her prefer
ences.
about The nations that preach the most will j j
peace on earth and good
towards man are building the largest i
battleships. !
j£ It is only the great hearted who !
can be true friends; the mean and j
cowardly can never know what true
friendship means.
The man who is never tried never j
knows himself. It is only in the fnr
naoe heat that the soul learns its own
strength and weakness.
T ^re are people who would do j
act8 '> the >' walt fo
f^eat opportunities life passes, and
tbe aob! °* ^ ov ® are not done at a .
Every duty, even the least duty,
involves the whole principal of obedi- ;
ence, and little duties make the will j
dutiful—that is, supple and prompt to
obey.
j 5a ^7wuii i]argc Deposits.
A recent issue oi the American
Bftnker a list of the banks of
the United State8 whic h have §5,000,
000 deI)ositg or over ,' They number |
8everd y- one , Their combined de
posits amount to §884,000,000. With
one exception \ the first twenty banks j
in the lls are New York 1)ankg . B os
ton doesn’t appear before No. 34. The j
largest Boston bank has §9,150,000 in
deposit . 9j the largest Philadelphia
bank $11,500,000, the largest St.
Louis bank §10,000,000, the largest .
San Francisco bank $10,600,000. The j
first bank in the list is the National j
City Bank of New York, with $42,- ! !
000,000 in deposits; the second, $37,500,-! the
National Park Bank, with
000; the third, the First National of ;
Chicago* Lyman Gage’s Bank, with j
$32,672,000. The next seventeen are
New York banks, with deposits rang
ing down to $11,500,000..
!
The secret of a secret is to know
how and when to tell it.—Ram’s Horn,
OUR BUDGET OF HUMOR.
I
LAUCHTER-PROVOKINC STORIES FOR
j LOVERS OF FUN.
I
A BJf of Gritlulgm—Amusing—Woman’*
Mysterious Guide—A Great Bore—Ills
Line—Time Filled Up—Similar Symp¬
toms—Couldn’t Believe It, Etc., Etc.
The rainbow’s wholly out of date,
Ah modern art it cannot serve;
j Its colors are put on too straight,
I And, see, it only has one curve.
—Chicago Record.
:
j Couldn't Believe It.
| | Nodd—“Yes, dress-suit I old man, married this in.” is the
same was
! Todd—“Great Scott! have you been
married as long as that?”
Amusing'.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I just heard the meanest man in
town telling how blamed menu the
i next meanest is.”—Truth.
| Woman's Mysterious Guide,
; Murray—“Women are guided by
i instinet rather than by reason.”
Hill—“I gness you are right. What¬
ever it is it is past the power of man.”
Hie Line.
Cast, A. Way—“Yes, madam, I’ve
j been a solicitor fer nigh twenty years. ”
| , Mrs. Farmkins—“A solicitor?”
Cast A. Way— “Yes’m. 1 solicits
bread an’ meat,
j j
Sure Indication.
“How do yon know that stranger is
j from Brooklyn?”
: “He registered at the hotel as from
! Greater New York.”—Philadelphia
North American,
Time Filled Up.
Barclay—“That fellow Yokes does¬
n’t know anything.”
Vesey—“Well, he hasn’t time reading to
learn. He spends all his time
the Sunday papers.”—Truth.
Similar .Symptom?.
Attorney—“Are you a married
man?”
Humble Witness—“No; I was hurt
in a sawmill last week—that’s what
makes me look so bad.”—Puck.
j
j A Great Bore.
J ndventures)—“There Little Boreham (relating I stood, his the Alpine ter¬
rible abyss yawning at my feet—”
The Brute Brown—“Was it yawning
When you got there, or did it start
1 after you arrived?”
I Deceitfully Advertised.
“Bobby cried dreadfully when we
got out iu the country.”
"What was the matter with him?”
“He said the wild flowers weren’t as
thick as they were in the pictures.”—
Chicago Record.
Heap the Benefit.
CVummer—“Poor Anderson is under
a cloud.”
Gilleland— “But every cloud has a
silver lining.”
Crummer—“True, but the lawyers
will get it iu this case.”
It Depend?.
She—“Oh, bother this wind and
dust!”
He—“They say a speck of dust is
worth a king’s ransom.”
She—“Not when it’s in your eye.”
He—“It all depends who’s eye it’s
in.”—-Fun.
Waiting for (Nature’s Aid.
“Why don’t you ever clean tlie
streets of this town ? asked a visitor
of a native of Nebraska.
“Oh, a cyclone will come along one
°/ these days and do it . for us, ” was
the contented reply. Pittsburg Chron
icle-Telegraph.
Encouraging,
Caller--“Boss in?”
Office Boy__“Nope.”
Caller—“When’s the best time to
see him?”
O. B.--“When he’s in goodliumor.”
Caller—“When’s that?”
O. B.—“Never.”
faller-“Good-day/’ ~ Good * da y- ( lo,k
Journal. T
„ A gy mpa tiictlc Judge,
<<j ma ] ie whisky,” said the moon
s } 1 , nerj « t0 make shoes for my little
children!”
The Judge seemed touched, for he
had children of his own. “I sympa
thize with you,” he said, “and I am
g oi «g to send you to the Ohio Peni
tentiary where you can follow the shoe
business for two years! -Atlanta Con
Btitution.
_
a Fortunate Time,
'
Mr. Dodson-“Quick Mary, and get
your 'all things on; we will go over
on the Hobsons.”
Mrs. Dodson—“O John! you know
well enough how I detest calling on
these people.”
Mr. Dodson—“Yes, I know! That
j g the reason I want you to go now. I
j ns t saw Mr. and Mrs. Hobson leave
their house and go down the street."
_p uck- #
Mooo a Week for Board.
Queen Victoria paid $5000 a week for
the west wing of the Hotel Regina at
Cimiez. The wing contains 150 rooms,
which were occupied by Her Majesty
and suite. It was engaged for four that
weeks, with the understanding
should she desire to prolong her stay
it would be at her disposal.
NO. 42.
THE MAYFLOWER.
In the Maytime, ere the roses !
Had beguu to blush between
Dainty leaves of fluted satin,
Elolse, Dewy sheaths of emerald green,
the little orphan,
Left the flax upon the wheel,
And she sought the silent forest,
On the velvet moss to kneel.
“I am weary—oh, so weary
Of the kitchen’s sanded floor,
And the string of withered peppers.
And the horseshoes o’er the doo ’,
And the wheel forever droning,
■Come and turn me, Eloisel’
And I long to live forever
In the woods, among the trees.’’
Then a slumber fell upon her,
And she lay, serene and meek,
With her hands across her bosom,
And a tear upon her olieek.
So the waiting flux grew yellow,
And the roses ceased to blow;
And the winter, coming softly,
Hid her bleaching bones with snow,
May, returning to the forest,
With its showers of crystal rain,
Found a white and starry blossom
Where the orphan girl had lain;
So iu all her maiden graces
Still she lives among the trees,
For the Mayflower in Its beauty
Is the soul of Elolse!
-Minna Irving,in Leslfe’s Popular Monthly.
PITH AND POINT.
It is better to be disappointed in love
than in marriage.—Puck.
Look out for the umbrella; the rain
will take care of itself.—Puck.
The man who never made a mistake
in his life never got married.—Yon¬
kers Statesman.
Every man may have his price, but
there is always a good deal of cutting
going on.—Pnck.
“Miss Smiley has a retreating fore¬
head.” “Yes? it’s quite Grecian.”—
Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.
The kicker is never popular and sel¬
dom happy; hut he is a jackscrew that
has given the world many an uplift.—
Puck.
“What is his reputation for ver¬
acity?” “Very good; he hasn’t seen a
single flying machine this year!”—
Chicago Record.
You are no doubt punished a great,
deal, but here is something worth
thinking about; you do most of it your¬
self.—Atchison Globe.
“For a while he was clear out of his
mind about that girl.”, “And now?”
“Oh, now the girl is clear out of his
mind.”—Indianapolis Journal.
Mabel—“Summer is the season of
love. ” Kate—-“Perhaps so; hut I have
known people to do some pretty healthy
hating during that season.”—Truth.
“You seem so cheerful when you
have to move, Mrs. Higgs.” “Yes;
such a lot of our ugly wedding presents
always get broken.”—Chicago Record.
“When I was first married I thought
my wife was the only woman on earth.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
“Well, there’s our cook.”—Chicago
Record.
Strawber—“Why do you think you
will have any trouble in keeping the
engagement secret?” hadn’t Singerly—“I
had to tell the girl, J?”—Scot¬
tish Nights.
“My husband is never a bit moved
by the pathetic scenes of a play. Is
yours?” “Oh, yes. They generally
move him clear out of the house.”—
Cincinnati Enquirer.
“Why do you buy your daughter a
new wheel every year?” “It keeps
her from wanting to paint velvet 1am
for the drawing room man¬
tels.”—Chicago Record.
“Those people next door are still in
their honeymoon. ” “Have you seen
him kissing her?” “No, but he lets
her read the morning paper first.”—
Chicago Record.
“1 wish Iwus a sollambulist,” said
the speculative tramp. “Why?”
“ ’Cause den I cud save trouble by
walkin’ in me sleep.”—Philadelphia
North American.
Fair young creature (after some re¬
citations)—“Do you think I would do
for a Juliet?” Manager (not to hurt
feelings)—"Cm—er—well, you’d look
very pretty in the tomb.”—New York
Weekly.
“Where’s that son of yours, Mrs.
Mulrany, that went to London?”
“Well, sir, they tell me as ’e’s carry¬
ing all before him. ” “Indeed! What
is his profession?” “’E’s a waiter,
sir.”—Tit-Bits.
——• a Famous Old Bugle.
A rare old curiosity is temporarily
in the possession of the Kentucky
Historical Society at Frankfort. It is
a bugle made of two slabs of cedar
about three-sixteenths of an inch in
thickness, and bent into a funnel
shape horn. The bell, or mouth, is
thirteen and one-half inches in circum¬
ference. It is hooped with cow-horn
rings and iron bands. The bugle is
the property of Mrs. Anna Mayhall,
granddaughter of the late Captain
Robert Collins, who was a soldier in
the War of 1812-1815. It was used in
the campaigning of Colonel Richard
M. Johnson and was at the death of
Teeumseh. Captain Collins was) a
bugler for the regiment and this instru¬
ment he used' during the war and it
ordered the famous charge of Colonel
Johnson, Captain Collins was a me¬
chanical genius, and with his own
hands made the instrument. Every
morning at sunrise he waked the
neighbors for miles around with his
reveille call from his bugle until his
death in 1864. -