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J. C. HEARTSELL, Ed. and Pub.
VOL XIII.
The Poets.
There’s never a robin that pipes of spring,
Nor a stream that runs or leaps,
Nor a bee that dream* on drowsy wing
O'er a perfum'd petal’s deeps,
But has its rhymes and ruuea;
Its rhymes and runes,
Its subtle tunes.
Whose rhythm in silence sleeps.
There’s never a star that spins in space,
Nor a leaf that falls to earth,
Nor a billow that wrinkles the ocean’s face,
Nor a rain-drop brought to birth,
But has its rhymes and runes ;
Its rhymef and runes,
Its mystic tunes,
Of sweet, unfathom’d worth.
There's many a soul that throbs in time
With the robin, the leaf, or star.
That may not voice the silent rhyme;
But some can hear afar:
And they, yes, they have rhymes and
runes,
And they can sing the mystic tunes,
For they the poets are.
— W. }. Henderson, in Harper's Weekly.
Revaliere’s Sacrifice,
EY GEY DE M A. EE ASS ANT.
This adventure happened to me in
1882. I had just taken my seat in a
corner of an empty compartment in
the car, and had closed the door, with
the hope of remaining alone, when it
was suddenly reopened, and I heard a
voice say:
“Be careful, sir, the step is very
high.”
Another voice replied: “Don’t be
afraid, Lawrence. I will take hold of
the bundles. ”
Then a head appeared, covered with
a round hat, and two hands, grasping
the leather straps suspended at each
side of the door, slowly hoisted a large
body, whose feet made a noise on the
car steps like that of a cane striking
the ground, When the man had
drawn his body into the car, I noticed
the painted ends of two wooden legs.
A head appeared behind this travel¬
ler, and I heard its owner ask:
“Are you comfortable, sir?”
“Yes, my boy.”
“Then here aro your bundles and
your crutches.”
And a servant, who had the air of
an old soldier, got into the car, bear¬
ing in his arms a lot of packages done
up in black and' yellow paper, care¬
fully tied, and placed them one after
the other in the network rack above
his master’s head. Then he said:
“There, sir, that is all. There are
five bundles: the sweetmeats, the doll,
the drum, the gun and the pates dc
foie gras.”
“That’s all right, my boy.”
“A pleasant journey, sir.”
“Thank you, Lawrence.”
'The servant stepped down from the
oar, closed the door and went away,
while I observed my neighbor. He
was, perhaps, thirty-five years old, al¬
though his hair was nearly white. He
was decorated, wore a mustache, and
had that pursy obesity of strong and
vigorous men whom an imfirmity
obliges to remain inactive. He wiped
his brow, puffed, and, looking me
squarely in the face, said:
“Does smoking incommode you,
monsieur?”
“Not at all,” I replied.
F knew that eye, voice and face ; but
where and when had I seen them? I
had certainly met this man, spoken to
him and shaken his hand. It was
long, long ago, lost in that haze where
the mind seems to obscurely seek and
pursue its souvenirs, like fleeting phan¬
toms, without being able to grasp
them.
My fellow-traveller now began to
examine me with the tenacity and fixity
of a man who recollects slightly but
not entirely. Annoyed by this steady
contact, our eyes turned away; then,
after a few seconds, attracted by the
obscure but persistent action of mem¬
ory, they again met and I remarked:
“Really, monsieur, instead of look¬
ing stealthily at each other for an
hour, would it not be better to try and
recall together where we have met?”
“You are quite right,” replied my
neighbor with good grace.
“My name is Henry Bonclair, mag¬
istrate,” I added.
He hesitated a few seconds; then,
with that vagueness of eye and voice
which generally accompanies great ten¬
sion of mind, he said:
“Ah, yes! I met you at the Poncels,
before the war, a dozen years ago. ”
“Exactly. Ah! Ah! you are Lieut¬
enant Revaliere?”
“Yes, I was even Captain Revaliere
until the day when I lost my feet—both
SPRING PLACE, MURRAY COUNTY, GA. SATURDAY, AUGUST 26. 1893.
ef them at a single stroke from a pas¬
ting shell. ’*
We looked at each other anew, now
that we were acquainted.
I remembered perfectly well having
seen this man when he was a fine-look¬
ing slender fellow, who led the cotil¬
lions with a nimble and graceful fren¬
zy. But behind this figure there still
floated something I could not grasp,—
some story that I had known and for¬
gotten,—otie of those stories to which
one lends a kind and short attention
and which leave only an imperceptible
impression on the mind, There was
no love in it. I recalled the particular
sensation from the depths of my mem¬
ory, but nothing more.
Little by little, however, the shad¬
ows cleared away, and the face of a
young girl rose before iny eyes. Then
her name, Mile, de Maudal, flashed
upon my wind. Now I remembered
everything. It was, in fact, a love
story, but an ordinary one. This
young girl loved this young man when
I met them, and people spoke of their
coming marriage.
I raised my eyes to the rack where
all those bundles were trembling with
the motion of the train, and the ser¬
vant’s voice returned to me as though
he had just finished speaking. He had
said:
“There, sir, that is all. There are
five bundles; the sweetmeats, the doll,
the drum, the gun and the pates de foie
gras.”
In a second a romance was composed
and unrolled in my mind. It resem¬
bled all the romances which one so
often reads, in which the young man
or the young woman marries his or
her choice after overcoming all the
obstacles. So this officer, mutilated
during the war, had again found, after
the campaign, the young girl who was
pledged to him, and keeping her en¬
gagement, she had married him.
I considered that, to be beautiful, but
simple, just as we judge to bo simple
all the heroic actions in books and at
the theatre. When we read or listen
at these schools of magnanimity, we
always feel that we sliouid have sacri¬
ficed ourselves with an enthusiastic
pleasure and a magnificent impulse.
But we are always in a bad humor on
the following day, when a wretched
friend comes to borrow money.
Suddenly, another supposition, less
poetic and more realistic, replaced tho
first one. PerhapB this officer had been
married before the war, before this
frightful accident had cut off his feet,
and his wife had been obliged, grieved
and resigned, to receive, care for, con¬
sole and sustain this husband who had
started off strong and handsome, but
who now returned, after having lest
his feet, a frightful wreck, condemned
to immobility, impotent anger and
fatal obesity.
Was he happy or tortured?. I was.
seized with an irresistible desire to
know his history, or at least the princi¬
pal points of it, which would permit
me to divine what he could not or
would not tell me. ’
I talked with him while thinking at
the same time. We had exchanged a
few commonplace remarks, and as I
raised my eye to the rack, I thought
to myself: “ So he has three children ;
the sweetmeats are tor his wife, the doll
for his little girl, the drum and gun
for his sous, and the pates dc foie gras
fo£ himself.”
Suddenly, I asked him: “ You are a
father?”
“ No, ”he replied.
I felt confused, as though I had com¬
mitted an impropriety, and continued:
“I beg your pardon. I thought
you were, in hearing your servant
speak of playthings. We often hear
without listening, and draw conclu¬
sions, in spite of ourselves.”
He smiled and murmured: ‘ 1 No, I
am not even married. I stopped at
the preliminaries.”
I pretended to remember all at once.
“ Ah, that’s true; you were engaged
when I knew you,—to Mile. deMandal,
I believe.”
“Yes, Monsieur, your memory is
excellent.”
I was excessively audacious, and
added: “ I also have a vague idea of
having heard that Mile, de Mandal
married Monsieur—Monsieur- ”
“Monsieur de Fleurel,” he inter¬
rupted in a calm tone.
“ Yes, that’s it. I remember, even,
to have heard about your wound.”
I looked at him intently, and he
blushed. His full, puffy face, already
“ TELL THE TRUTH.”
purple from the constant afflux
blood became still more highly
He replied with the animation ami
sudden ardor of a man who pleads s
case lost in advance in his mind and
heart, but who wishes to win it before
public opinion.
“People are wrong in pronouncing
Mme. de Fleurel’s name with mine.
When I returned from the war—
without my feet, alas!—I should nev¬
er have accepted her offer to become
my wife. Was such a thing possible?
When a woman marries, it is not to
make a parade of generosity, it is to
live every day, every hour, every min¬
ute and every second by the side of
a man; and if this man is deformed,
as I am, she condemns herself in mar¬
rying him, to suffering that will last
unto death. Oh, I comprehend and
admire all the sacrifices and all the de¬
votions, when they have a limit! But I
do not admit that a woman should re¬
nounce an existence which she hopes
will prove happy, and abandon all
her joys and dreams, for the sake of
satisfying the admiration of the gal¬
lery. Do you believe that a man can
induce a woman to tolerate what lie
himself cannot support? And, be¬
sides, do you think that my wooden
feet are attractive?”
M. Revaliere became silent. What
could I say to him? I felt that he
was right. Could I blame her, scorn
her or even admit that she was wrong ?
No. However, the denouement which
conformed to the rule, to the aver¬
age, to truth and probability, did not
satisfy my poetic appetite. These he¬
roic stumps called for a noble sacrifice
that was wanting, and I experienced a
profound deception.
“Has Mine, de Fleurel any chil¬
dren?” I asked him suddenly.
“Yes, a daughter and two sons.
These toys are for them. She and her
husband have been very kind to me.”
The train mounted the incline at
Saint Germain, passed through the tw o
tiinnek and entered the station. I
was about to offer my arm to help the
mutilated officer alight, when two
hands were stretched toward him
through the open door.
“Good morning, my dear Reval¬
iere.”
“Ah! good morning, Fleural.”
Behind the man was a woman smil¬
ing radiently and throwing her 1 ‘good
morning” with her gloved fingers. L
little girl by her side jumped with joy)
and two youngsters looked with eager
eyes at the drum and gun that their
father was taking down from the rack.
When the disabled man was upon
the platform, all the children kissed
him. Then the crowd started off, the
little girl holding in her hand the var
nishei support of the crutch, as sho
would have been able to hold, in walk¬
ing at his side, the thumb of her big
friend.—Translated for Romance.
Doggie Wouldn’t Budge.
It is hard to guess at the amount of
wisdom which is sometimes condensed
within the cranium of the small dog. A
tiny fox terrier was captured by the dog
catchers the other day and taken to
the pound. She was rescued by her
master, and two days later was again
taken out for a walk in the same di¬
rection she had gone the day she was
made a prisoner. Doggie trotted
along contentedly enough until she
reached the spot where the men had
seized her. Then she stopped short
and refused to budge another inch.
She looked up into the face of her es¬
cort and said as plainly as a dog can
say:
“What do you take me for? Don’t
you suppose I know what happened to
me over here? Do you think I want
it to happen again? Well, I guess
not. ”
And she deliberately turned around
aad trotted hack toward home.—New
York Times.
A Better Phrase.
“Do you know,” said the man who
was going to have a tooth pulled, “I
don’t think ‘ dental parlor ’ is a good
phrase.”
“No?”
“Drawing room would be much
better.”—Washington Star.
Explained All.
“I made a speech at the doctors’
dinner last night.”
“Thar accounts for it.”
“Accounts for what? ”
“Two men who were present said
they had discovered a new opiate. ”«~
Judge.
Bala.
It’ll rain! It’ll rain!
Says the’paac oak’s shrill refrain,
Ere the heavens show for sigh
E’en a single leaden line,
See! a silvery shudder now
Runs along the poplar bough,
And recurrent ripples pass
O'er the reaches of the grass.
Low the swallows circle over
Rosy fields of scented clover;
Willows whiten in'the lane—
It’ll rain! It’ll rain.
It'll rain! It’ll rain!
Watch the shifting weather-vane
Veering from its dreams of drouth
Toward the veiled and showery southl
Now the eye of day is hid
Underneath a lowering lid,
And fho heaven feels the lash
Of a goading lightning-flash.
Peals a bell with soft insistence
Clearly down the darkening distance
And the peacock cries again—
It’ll ruin! It’ll rain!
HUMOROUS.
W arfare—Rations.
Dame Nature is the original “grain
elevator.”
A saw generally means business
when its teeth are set.
He (pleadingly) —“Would you love
me if I were rich? ” She—“ I can’t
say as to that, but I’d probably marry
you."
When a girl has two strings to her
bow it simply means that if she may
not with one she will knot with the
other.
The condemned, murderer is usually
able to tell when his time has come by
the death watch the warden provides
for him.
Although never down on any list of
office-seekers it is by no means unusual
for a roof to find itself slated for a
good thing.
Turner—“ Hoiv did Weeks come to
write poetry?” Wells—“He had
dyspepsia, and for a long time thought
it was inspiration. ”
The summer gill may equally love
the mountain, the country or the
shore, but of all spots on this earth
she hates freckles most.
A pattern he of industry—
There’s no one who can doubt it;
But—while we prizo his Work so wise—
Ho buzzes lots about it.
Daughter—There are now three
strings of the piano broken. Father
(much relieved)—Ah! that’s the be¬
ginning of the end, anyhow.
Yeast—Were you ever struck by
lightning? Crimsonbenk—No, but
I’ve been struck by lightning rod
agents. That’s had enough.
Fond mother—“Nell, my dear, did
the Duke propose? ” Daughter—“Not
formally, mamma, but he asked me
if papa was as rich as he is reputed to
be.”
Hicks—“I guess I’m square with
Dix. I gave his hoy a mouth organ
last night. ” Mrs. Hicks—“But yofi’re
not square with me. Mrs. Dix sent
him over here to spend the day.”
A woman’s grief is a hard thing to
fathom. You can never tell whether
the cook has just left, or is going to
leave, or whether the woman wants her
to leave and is too much scared to dis¬
charge her.
Boston’s Portuguese Colony.
It is a rather curious fact that while
Spaniards are not often met with in
Boston, there are between 2000 and
3000 Portuguese in the city and yet the
climate is as unfavorable to the health
of the one people as to that of the oth¬
er. These emigrants of Portugal be¬
long mainly to the seafaring and work¬
ing class, and make their homes in
Fleet, Salutation and Batterymareh
streets at the. North End. In this
quarter two or three small Portuguese
hotels are to be found, and one of them,
known as the Azores House, gives the
clue to the place of nativity of most of
the Boston Portuguese. Their women
are thrifty housewives, and, unlike the
Italians, command sufficient English
to make themselves understood. The
girls are expert with tho needle and
are industrious and virtuous. Strange
to say, the Irish, who dislike Italians
intensely, live on terms of amity with
the Portuguese. Marriages between
them have taken place several times in
this part of Boston, but unions be¬
tween the Irish and Italians are not
recorded. It is the general verdict
that the Portuguese are more peaceable
than the Italians and more devoted «o
their religious ceremonies. [—New York
Post.
SI.OO a Year in Advance.
NO. 25.
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vr. M. CASS' J. H. KINd.
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