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prma ♦ 6 « fl gf is aft liniulcftife.
J C. HEARTSELL, Ed. and Pub.
VOL XII.
MY CHOICE.
BY JEiTIE FCKBUSH-nANAFOBD.
No baby in the house l
How sad the words sound 1
Not a chair out of place,
Or a toy lying round.
Not a spot on the carpet,
So scrupulously neat,
No clear. ringing laughter,
Or patter of feet.
Could I be happy,
And live in that house,
With things in such order,
As still as a mouse?
No! Give me my children,
With all of their noise—
My My darlings, my treasures,
two little boys l
Chicago, Ill
CAM SIDLE!.
A Romance of the Civil
War.
BY MAJ. JAMES F. FITTS.
CHAPTER VII—Continued.
Before mid-day, forty-seven men were
assembled outside the cabin. The story
of the new Captain had been carried about
with the news of the expected raid, so
that when Smedley came out with his
sword buckled on. accompanied by Bran¬
don, he was received with attention and
respect. There were no cheers, no noisy
welcomes; they saw in his face that he
was both courageous and earnest, and
they gave him the approval of silence.
Without preliminaries, he formed them
into a company, opened ranks, and in¬
spected arms. The wholo together made
a queer lot; but he was glad to find that
there was ammunition enough, not a fire¬
arm but was capable of some service, and
that the rifles outnumbered the shot¬
guns. off by fours Closing and the ranks, he then counted
instructed them in the
facings. Some difficulty was caused 1>y
the great space occupied by Ithuriel Mau-
ey; which the Captain observing, and
correctly “sizing-up” this recruit, he
transferred him to the left, whore he
made a file by himself.
The Captain had no time- to devote to
the “manual.’' He commanded “atten¬
tion" and spoke a few words.
“You know why you are here; you know
what is before you. I know something
of what kind of men you are; I believe
you will not flinch. I am no braver, no
better than you; I atn to command you
because you think I can direct j ou how to
Bght. I believe I can. I ani willing to
try. You, for your part, must obey mi'
orders. You will tight better ,’f■ i*
fttd with Fetter hope of success’. Now
we understand each other, and we will
march to our position.”
A murmur of approval ian along the
ranks. The leader was instantly recog¬
nized. The men who had thirsted for Ins
blood a few hours before "were now ready
to peril life at bis command.
“Those arc the sentiments!” a squeaky
voice at the left uttered. “Lotus march
upon the insolent invader, and assert our
constitutional rights, secure tho blood-
bought neck-deep heritage that onr fathers waded
in the gore of Hessian merce¬
naries to obtain for us, their future an¬
cestors, and-”
“Silence!” thundered Captain Smedley.
‘Right—face! Forward—march!”
CHAPTER VIII.
A NEW THERMOPYLAE.
The topography of the Little Blue Pass
and its vicinity wo have heard described
in a few expressive words by Captain
these Smedley. heights Daylight when still prevailed among and
the mountaineers
their leader marched down the road to
this point, climbed the detached rocks
that had during centime-; past been fall¬
ing from above, and then tediously scaled
the steep face of the thirty-foot rampart,
holding on by bushes and vines, and at
last gained the summit.
issued. Captain Smedley’s orders were quickly
leave “Rest yourselves,” he said, “but do not
this place without permission.
Hankins, go down to the bend of the
road and watch for the approach of the
enemy. You can see them a mile off ns
they come when up. Come back and report at
once The they appear.”
man obeyed. He was but juBt out
of sight when another man appeared com¬
ing up the road, followed by a woman
and several childr en. Each carried
some article of household furniture or
bedding, and a cow was driven
at the head of the procession.
“It’s Baird," said one of the men. “He’s
ooming in with his folks and things they
ean bring melancholy along.”
As the party passed below
the rocks, the Captain leaned over and
hailed them.
“I’m sorry I can’t send the men down
and get everything here and be away ready; for yon. don’t We
must stay I dare
let the men go.”
“All right, Captain. I’m taking them
back here half-a-mile, and then I’ll join
you.” “I’m too," said Ban.
coming, exclaimed
“No, no!” the mother.
"You’re only fourteen; you’re not old
enough for such dreadful work.”
“I can load and shoot the gun just as
good as father,” the boy sturdily re¬
plied. “It Ban,” tho
won’t do, said father.
“You’ve got to go long with your mother
and the children, and take care of ’em
till the fight’s over.”
The Captain and Graham Brandon
leaned over the natural rampart. As far
as they could hear the voices of the fam¬
ily, the hoy protested that it was not fair
to* send him away when there was a fight
coming on. revelation each
“Some comes to me day
of the unconquerable remarked. spirit “No of this peo-
ple," Smedley bolder,
more independent followers souls than animated dwell William
Tell and his among
these fastnesses. I have learned much
■ince I left the Mississippi and its low-
lying lands. The mountain regions are
the strongholds of the Union. The cause
could survive here if crushed everywhere
else.”
“True; and you have only begun prepared to learn
what these simple people ” are to
suffer for that cause.
• Wallace Baird presently returned and
SPRING PLACE, MURRAY COUNTY, GA. JUNE 2 1892
, .
climbed the height: His comrades created
! ; him, but ho drew aside by himself, moody
and silent, and carefully examined hie
i gun.
The men lay at ease, most of them look¬
ing intently down the road, silent and pre¬
pared. Only the thin voice of Ithuriel
Mancy broke the silence.
“We are perfectly safe here,” he re¬
marked.
“O, no,” returned one of the men, will¬
ing to exeite his fears. "Bullets search
big out that people anywhere. Besides, you are so
none of these rocks will entirely
cover you."
“Bear, dear—is that so? Perhaps the
enemy w< n't advance to-nieht."
“Yes, they will. A scout came in a while
ago with the report that there were fifteen
thousand of them.”
Haney was speechless. His great bulk
trembled and his fat cheeks hung livid.
Hankins was now seen coming in. He
tlimbed up and reported that the cavalry
were in sight.
“A good lot of ’em,” he added.
The sun was but now set; there would
still be almost au hour's strong twilight,
save where the shadows fell. Quietly the
Captain the ranged his men along the edge of
self rampart, much bidding each one shelter him¬
as as possible.
“Whatever happens,” ho said, “let no
man fire a shot till I give the word. Then
let each tire, and load and fire again as
fast ns ho can. But be cool—aim well,
and don’t throw away your bullets."
Silence again, and suspense, Soon,
faint in the distance, but sounding nearer
and nearer, the thnmp of hoofs on the
hard road was heard.
Brandon was strangely excited. Ha
turned to the Captain, who lay with his
eyes fixed upon the bend of the highway.
"Captain Smedley.” he said, “would
you »ws??“ object to a flag of truce, to warn them
The Captain looked surprised. His lips
slightly curled.
"Of what use would it be? They are
not coming up here for child’s play.
“It might be of use.”
“i thought you were eager to fight.”
“For God's sake, Captain, don’t misun¬
derstand me. If there must be bloodshed
here, you'll have no reason to complain
of me. But I suppose that in the hostile
column we bear coming up there are old
acquaintances, I thought J had not realized to say friends, of mine.
in its whole
length the and breadth what this war means;
but truth never came home to mo as
at this moment. Is it not worth the ef¬
fort, to save the blood of men I have once
taken by the hand?”
“Yon may try,” replied the Captain.
“Go down with your flag as soon ns they
come in sight. ’’
The tramping grow loud and near. By
fours the head of the column came round
the bend. Graham Brandon, with his
white handkerchief tied to a ramrod,
clambered over the idge and descended
almost to the road. Forty horsemen had
now “Halt!” appeared Brandon in view. shouted, his
•“’*’•»<~ n " leading filer, pulled waving there
r brief conference, then up;
was a and a man
in the Confederate uniform, with tho
wreathed collar and insignia of a field
officer, rode forward to within twenty feet
of the flag-hearer. Captain Smedley,
looking word down upon them, heard every
of the colloquy that followed.
“Brandon—is that you?"
“Yes, Webber, and I’m sorry to see you
here.”
low! "I reciprocate the sentiment, old fel¬
So it is true, as the report went
around Knoxville two days ago, that
you’ve come fled out a traitor to tho Confed¬
eracy, and to these mountains to
hide?”
“We’ve no time for epithets, Jack. I
am with my friends, who are the friends
of the Union. They aro near by and well
armed. Look up there!”
The Colonel followed Brandon’s out¬
stretched finger with his oyo anil saw the
ledge above lined with heads peering
over.
“Wo are in a position whore it will bo
folly to further attack us. If yon try ive to lead
your men on this road, shall
fire on you. Be warned and go back. I
came down hero to make an effort to save
you. Heed my advice and go back.”
The Colonel laughed.
“Brandon, you’re a fool! I’ve got men
enough behind me to swallow you all up
alive. I)o you suppose those boors up
there are going to stand a charge? Are
you in command?”
“No."
“Who is?”
Brandon hesitated au instant, but saw
no reason for withholding the truth.
“Where “Captain Smedley.”
is he from?"
“The “Mississippi.” devil!
who served with What—Charley Smedley,
the volunteers from that
State in Mexico?”
“Tlie same.”
Colonel Webber gave a loud whistle.
“This is more serious than I expected.
Does he know that I’ve got five hundred
men with me?”
“Yes; I told him of it.”
The Colonel’s tone became more angry.
“You’ll see the day you’ll repent of this
work, Brandon.”
“I think not,”
“I’d advise you not to show yourself in
Knoxville in a hurry.”
“I’m coming back there with the Union
army.”
Colonel Webber swore a very savage
oath.
“ We might as well stop this parley, ” he
said. “I’ve got the men to clear this road,
aud I’m going to do it. Look out for
yourselves! I can’t answer for my men
when you surrender, if there’s blood shed
first.”
“Your blood be upon your own heads,”
replied Brandon, aB he clambered back to
his comrades; and the other wheeled and
galloped to the head of the column.
Three minutes passed. There was a
stir and movement; full an hundred dis¬
mounted men filled the road, scattering
like skirmishers as they came, firing their
muskets and shouting. The balls whis¬
tled overhead, or glanced against the rocks.
Foremost was a slender young officer, wav¬
ing his sword and calling to his men to
come on.
They were among the rocks at the
foot of the ascent when Captain Smed-
leygave lar volley the hurst command to fire. An irregu¬
forth all along the
natural parapet. Full a dozen dropped
dead, as many more fell severely wound¬
ed; others went to the rear with slight
wounds. The twilight air was hideously
vocal with shouts, yells, and groans.
The whole attacking party, save the
young officer, fell back iu confusion.
“Come .on!” the leader shouted.
“ TELL THE TRUTH.”
“Charge again. Give them before steel?” they can load
them the
He was climbing the ascent, with
twenty of his men trying to follow, drag¬
ging their muskets after them, when a
bullet struck him fair in the breast and
tumbled him backward. A scattering
fire of ball and buckshot struck down
every man who tried to gain that ascent
The assailants were brave, but flesh and
blood could not stand against this hope¬
less slaughter. The survivors broke and
fled.
Wallace Baird jumped up in full view,
waved his hat, and cheered. A simgle
shot was heard from below; the mount,
aineer fell dead among his comrades.
could They fired down tho road ns fast as they
load their guns, expecting another
charge. “Cease
ed. “Save firing!” tho Captain command¬
your ammunition.”
Another horseman now rode forward
with a white flag.
“Colonel Webber wants a suspension
of hostilities for half an hour, to remove
his wounded,” he called out.
Captain Smedley stood up and an-
s we red:
“I want those poor fellows cared for,"
lie said; “but if there is any truce it must
be till an hour after sunrise.”
“Yes,” said the officer. “I am author¬
ized to consent to that.”
A largo party came up to romove th«
wounded. The mountaineers, incensed
by the fall of Baird, and several slight
wounds received, would not, as the Cap¬
tain requested them to do, go below and
render assistance. Some of them began
to gibe and taunt their enemies; but this
was It instantly stopped by Smedley.
fitod was quite dark when the disconf-
cavalry withdrew. As the relief-
and party retired, leaving the dead behind
carrying called off tho wounded, one of the
party “I abovo out:
say, there! The Major is hurt
too bad to move. He won’t last long.
Will you make him as comfortable as
you can?”
fulness “Yes,”replied Brandon. The thought-
of one of the men had provided
and some there pine knots; the east was cloudy,
would he no certain moonlight.
He lighted one of these, and with the
Captain made his way down to the spot
where the heroic hut unfortunate young
officer lay in the last pangs of death.
His breast was crimson with blood, his
luce was ghastly pale, his breath was
almost gone.
With an exclamation of anguish, Bran¬
don was on his knees besido him. I
he “Tommy, criod. Tommy—don’t you know me?”
The dying youth opened his eyes and
smiled. Feebly he pressed the other’s
hand—and thus he diod.
“Who is it?” the Captain asked.
“Alice’s brother,” was tho choked re¬
ply. Brandon went off a little way by
himself; he wanted try man to see or hear
him then!
Above this scene, by the light of another
Baling piuc torch, the mountaineers girth-
ered sadly about the body of their slain
comrade. Few words wore spoken; their
faces showed their heavy hearts.
“Who’ll be the man to take this news to
his wife and babes?” one asked. There
was no answer.
“Look there!” another cried, pointing
off to tho southwest. Bright tongues of
flame were ascending, disclosing volumes
of smoke. They well knew what it
meant; some of the stragglers and ma¬
rauders of tho column had fired poor
Wallace Baird’s house and shed.
'J hey watched the night away, talking
but little, wondering what (he morrow
would Dnug. smedley and lvrnndon,
covered by the same blanket, lay sleep¬
less half the night, revolving plans for
the fulure. The Captain had taken the
precaution to post pickets well down the
road; but the truce was kept, the night
passed, and the morning sun looked
blandly dead. down alike upon the living and
the
A strong reconnoitering party was sont
out. and returned in two hours with the
intelligence that the raiders had disap¬
peared.
“We shall hear of them elsewhere in
these mountains,” said the Captain.
The hostile dead—ah, now no longer
hostile—were buried, and tho corpse of
Baird was borne on the shoulders of two
of his comrades to his widow and or¬
phans. It Let that scene be veiled.
was just after tnese occurrences that
Ithuriel Mancy, who had not been seen
since tho firing began, was discovered
furtively battle. returning to the scene of the
His assumed appearance of lofty
satisfaction exasperated the mountaineers,
who were now in no mood for trifling.
“Ah, good morning, comrades and
gentlemen,” he began. “How we did
whip them, to be sure! The dastardly
invader could not stand before our col¬
lective and individual prowess. We rolled
him back in sanguinary and disgraceful
disorder, and-”
“You cowardly whelp!” shouted wrath¬
ful Burt Hankins. “Stop your noise, or
I’ll-”
unkind “Now, really, Mr. Hankins!—it is
in you to indulge in such person¬
alities. It pains me to hear such insin¬
uations. If I did exhibit some little
the perturbation, it was quite natural, under
circumstances. You must know that
my sense of hearing is abnormally de¬
veloped, that and I had no reason to suppose
all those guns were going off to¬
gether. It would have been kind, at
least to caution me-”
A shower of indignation and emphatic
kicks fell upon Ithuriel’s inviting person.
He took his departure in perfect good-
humor, repeating, as far as ho could be
heard, that he expected to see a great deal
more of the war.
Captain Smedley was right in his pre¬
diction that this raiding party would be
heard of elsewhere in that region. Other
strong detachments, both cavalry and in¬
fantry, the appeared;the mountains were over¬
run; scattered Unionists of the
Clinch could not cope with the numbers
sent against them. In that fall the
whole of East Tennessee came under
Confederate domination; the Union men
with their familes sought safety in the
recesses of the great Cumberland Range.
Here Charles Smedley recruited au in¬
fantry battalion of four companies
among the mountaineers, of wnich he
became Lieutenant Colonel and Graham
Brandon Major, Their first service
in this organization was at the battle of
Mill Spring, Kentucky, at the opening
of the following year, w'liere they behaved
gallantly. again. We may expect to meet them
P ro BB CONTINUED.!
A Song forH*r.
Sing for her, mockingbird,
Your warm breast heaving in the aunbright
blossoms;
Sing sweeter songs than we have ever
heard,
Until the wild heart of the world M
stirred,
And love wakes wondering in a thousand
bosoms!
Sing for her, lark of dawn,
When on your breast the lofty light is gleam¬
ing!
Sing sweet, and bear the message on
and on—
Higher and higher, til! the world is gone,
And at God’s gates the melody is dreaming 1
Sing for her, whip-poor-will,
Tour sweet voice ringing from the twilight
covers,
Where stars stream splendid over vale
and hill;
Sing sweet, until your melting notes
shall thrill
And throng the wide, awakened world with
lovers!
Sing, mockingbird! Sing, lark!
Sing, whip-poor-will-—your songs in concert
ringing;
Sing in the dewy dawn—sing in the dark;
But while ye make your sweetest music,
hark I
A sweeter song to her my soul is singing 1
■ - [Frank L.Stanton,in Atlanta Constitution.
Miss Vervain's Mistake.
BY AMY RANDOLPH.
Mavch iu the mountains! Freshets
roaring down the ravines; great
thickets of pines tossing their green
crests to and fro in tho rush of the
tempestuous wind; snow shining off
on the plateaus, and pink clusters of
trailing arbutus breaking into bloom
in southern nooks and shollcred places
wlioro last winter’s dead leaves had
not yet drifted away. And Lucy Ver¬
vain, standing in her russet walking-
dress on the porch of the little moun¬
tain inn, wondered if the famous Ber¬
nese Alps wore grander than these
same Catskill heights.
Lucy Vervain was small and slight
and brown-skinned, but slie had large,
- 1 . ietful oyos of so dark a hazel that
they seemed to melt into black around
the iris, and there wore quick roses
ready to deopen in her cheeks if any
ono spoke to her. She was pretty, in
her way, like a wild-flower, or a little
brown-winged bird, and she looked
around with a troubled air, as tlie
sound of an excited femiuiiio voice
floated out from ilie one unpretentious
little “best parlor” of tho inn.
“It's outrageous 1” said Miss Clara
Vervain.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” said Mr.
Mixit, who kept the house.
“Unendurable!” declared Miss Ver-
vain.
“It docs happen, sometimes,
ma’am, when the streams is high, at
the spring of the year,” the landlord
pleaded. “You see, there ain’t no
bridge that will stand the freshets,
if—”
“And we have got to stay here, in
this horrid hole of a place, until your
tumble-down bridge is mended?”
“I don’t see any other way for you,
ma’am,” said Mr. Mixit, meekly,
“It’s the most provoking thing I
ever knew in my life,” said Miss
Vervain.
She stalked about tho room like a
second L#dy Macbeth, as she spoke.
For Clara was as unlike her blushing,
shrinking littie sister as the fall poppy
is to the humble corn-flower. She
was handsome and stately, and wove
long trains to her dresses and bangles
on her wrists, and used perfume on
her handkerchiefs and “did” her hair
afier the latest fashion-plates.
“It ain’t my fault, ma’am,” said
the landlord, driven to the very con¬
fines of despair. “I can’t stop the
freshet, nor yet I can’t build a new
bridge.”
“Clara, dear, don’t allow yourself
to be so annoyed,” soothed Luev,
corning like a noiseless little gray
shadow into the room. “We shall
only be detained a day, after all, and
I am sure it is very pleasant here.”
“I am not accustomed to delays,”
said Mies Vervain, loftily.
“I know, dear, but—”
“And if I am compelled to remain
in such a place as this,” added Clara,
glancing superciliously around her, “I
must really insist upon privacy,”
“Eh?” said Mr. Mixit.
“That old person in the snufl-colored
ooat,” said Miss Vervain, with a royal
motion of liar head toward an old
gentleman in a wig and spectacles
who was reading the paper by a dis-
$1.00 a Year in Advance.
tant window, “I dare say he will do
▼erv well in your kitchen or barroom,
and I prefer this apartment to my¬
self.”
“Oh, Claral” pleaded Lucy, crim¬
soning to the very roots of her hair.
The landlord looked puzzled, but
tho old mau himself folded
his newspaper, returned his spectacles
to their ease, and rose slowly to his
feet.
“Certainly, miss,” said he; “cer¬
tainly. If I’m intruding, I’ll go to the
kitchen. There’s always room for me
there. Eh, Mixit?”
And he trudged with alacrity out of
the room, followed by mine host.
“I’m afraid you’ve hqrt his feelings,
Clara,” said Lucy, piteously.
“Who cares for his feelings?” said
Miss Vervain, sniffing at her scent
bottles. “Mine are much more to the
purpose. And I don’t choose to asso¬
ciate with everv farmer in the Cats¬
kills.”
“Clara, dear I”
“Weil?”
“We are only a bookkeeper’s daugh¬
ters ourselves.”
“As if that signified,” said Miss Ver¬
vain, scornfully. “We are going to our
aristocratic ralations, aren’t we ?”
“But perhaps they Won’t care to
keep us.”
“That is neither here nor there,”
said Miss Vervain, “but you never had
any proper pride, Lucy.”
Little Lucy Vervain was still pon-
doring, with a puzzled brow over the
distinction between proper pride and
pride that was not proper, when the
landlord’s wife, a buxom dame in
madder-red calico and a frilled white
apron, came to summon tho guests to
dinner.
“We’ve only a roast fowl, witli
tire ad sauce and a little cranberry
jelly,” said Mrs. Mixit; “but it ain’t
often as folks stop here over a meal,
and I hope, ladies, as you’ll kindly
pardon any shortcomings.”
But Miss Vervain stopped short on
1 the very threshold of the dining room,
“I should prefer a table to myself,”
said she, haughtily.
“Ma’am I” said Mrs. Mixit.
“Dear Clara,” pleaded Lucy, in an
agony of distress, as she saw the red
flush rise to tho forehead of tlie old
man in a snuff-colored suit, who sat
at the head of the well-spread board.
“I prefer dining with my sister,
only,” insisted Aliss Vervain, delight¬
ed with an opportunity of asserting
her exclusiveness. “Really, I cannot
imagine how people can obtrude them¬
selves in this sort of way.”
The old man rose quietly.
“Do I understand, young woman,’’
said he, “that you object to me!”
“Yes, sir, I do object to you—if you
compel me to put it in that \yay,” said
Miss Vervain.
“Indeeil!” The old man lifted his
grizzled brows. “I may not be one
of your fashionable fops— ”
“That is easily to be seen,” con¬
temptuously interpolated the young
lady.
“But I am clean and decent,” added
the stranger. “However, I dare say
Mrs. Mixit can accommodate ine with
a plate and knife and fork in another
room, if my presence is really ob¬
noxious to these young women.”
“Y'outig ladies, sir, if you please,’’
said Miss Vervain, with a toss of her
He smiled a shrewd, sagacious
smile.
“As to that,” said he, “opinions
may perhaps differ.” And he followed
Mrs. Mixit into the kitchen.
Clara Vervain took her seat com¬
placently at the table.
“These people will begin after
awhile to comprehend the difference
between a lady and a shop-girl,” said
she. “It is quite evident that they
are not favored witli many travelers.”
Half an hour afterward, as the old
man in the snuff-colored suit was step¬
ping into his plain, little carriage, a
soft hand touched his sleeve, and
turning, ho found himself looking
into Lucy Vervain’s troubled brown
eyes.
“Well, my dear,” said he, kindly,
“what is it?”
“I—I only wanted to beg your
^
pardon, sir,” faltered the little bru¬
nette. “I am sure my sister did not
mean to hurt your feelings, aud—”
“1 am sure, at all events, that you
did not,” said the old man, kindly.
“And I dare say that your sister
will be wiser one of the=« day*!”
NO. 13.
And thus spsakhig, he nodded goods
bumoredly, and drove away.
It was nearly dark, howover, before
tlie clnmbsy carryall which was to con.
vey the two New York ladies to their
destination arrived, and they entered
it.
“To Cliff I-Iall,” said Miss Vervain,
haughtily, as she leaned back in tho
seat, and settled her skirts languidly
around her.
‘‘Cliff Hall!” said Mr. Mixit
staring.
“You don’t mean as you’re going
to Cliff Hall?” echoed Mrs. Mixit.
“I think we have considerably as¬
tonished these good people,” said Miss
Vervain, with a smile, as they rattled
away from the door,
“I only hope our Uncle Cliff will
receive us kindly,” sighed poor Lucy.
Cliff Hall was a substantial old man¬
sion built of gray stone, with a suc-
cession of terraces falling down the
mountain’s side, and exquisite groups
of statuary half-hidden in the forest
trees; and the lights were already be¬
ginning to gleam hospitably along its
front as they drove up. Au old man¬
servant opened the outside door just
far enough to reveal the cheery glow
of a wood fire, and the deep tints-of a
crimson Axminster carpet within.
“Is my Uncle Cliff at home?” said
Miss Vervain, with au air and 4
grace.
“Mr. Clift’ is—ay, mem,” answered
the servant, with a strong Scotch ac¬
cent.
“Tell him his nieces from New York
are bore—the Misses Vervain,” said
CJara, as sho swept into the ante¬
chamber.
As slie entered, an old mau dressed
in snuff-brown rose from before the
blazing logs.
“My nieces from New York, eh?”
said Caleb Cliff. “They are wel¬
come.”
And to Miss Vervain’s surprise and
dismay, she found herself faoe to face
with the old man of t
side inn.
“You are astonished?” said he,
slightly arching his brows. “So am
1. It is not always best to judge by ap¬
pearances. Sit down. Sanders,” to
the servant, “let dinuer be served.”
Miss Clara Vervain left Cliff Hall
the next day, with all her bright an-
ticipations shattered to the dust. But
little brown-faced Lucy stayed to keep
house for her uncle.
“She’s too genteel for us, isn’t she?”
chuckled old Caieb Cliff as the cariage
drove away which was to carry Miss
Vervaiu to the New York station.
Clara went back to her teaching,
and if tho bitter tears of repentant
mortification can wash out the past
that day in the Catskills would have
been erased long ago.
“If I had only known who be was,”
said Miss Vervain.
Alas! this world is full of .“ifsl”—>
[The Ledger.
The Butch Stove.
I am a convert to the German sys¬
tem of house heating. The “Dutch
stove” has been regarded as an ex¬
pression so contemptous as to be de-
risive. It is an institution possessing
the largest merits. The usual stove
in Berlin is a tower of porcelain,
bound in brass, extending nearly to
the ceiling, and an article of furniture
pleasant to look upon. Stoves are ar¬
tistic and not fantastic, They get
the most out of fuel, and aro clean.
Within a few inches of the floor is a
thin brass door, not larger than a
sheet of foolscap paper. It has a
light latch, and, open, discloses a
solid iron door of the same size, and
on a button hangs the key to a aorew.
Apply the key aud open the door, and
within is a third door with air-holes.
Open that and there is a chamber foi
fuel. V
The Germans liavo kindling in
small lumps, that make a fire a sure
thing, and little black bricks of com¬
pressed slack, stuck together with a
tarry paste. Start the fire and close
tlie inner door, and when the bricks
are glowmg shut the second door,
screw it up tight, swinging the outer
door into its place, and you need no
more Are for twenty-four hours. The
porcelain tower becomes warm, but
not blistering hot, and diffuses
warmth that is wholesome and com*
fortable. It is magical that so much
heat can be evolved from so little
fuel, and that the process should ha
one of absolute cleanliness.