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VOL. 1. IK m isj [) us \ I' 1 V \ mm I 1 Vi *\ \c tiv •N !<?■ v Cl I mZZk S3 m ! A, P m o jjJ’ a»>7 „ w ‘‘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. -