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‘‘GALUHER'S INDEPENDENT,"
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT
QUITMAN, OA,
• by
J. C. Q A L L A N t R.
• *
tbrhs CP SUBSCRIPTION I
'TWO DOLLARS per Annum in Arirnntr.
[Written for the Ixdxkiuiidt. ]
SOLI LOU I!Y OF AN OLD MAID.
A Pr*mrnt o t Machine Poetry.
I'm aitting, xsd end and lonely, this bleak sod
dreary night.
By the fireside ot my dwelling, Jo*l looking like
a fright;
The buay world now alum her*, and all around in
•till,
Eicept tho criea of fighting eata upon a neigh
boring hill.
The raindrop. falling on the roof remind me of
my lot—
An aching heart, a cheerleaa life, a creature toon
forgot 1
Tho moaning wind that aigha among the leafless
branchea now.
Recall* to me my treasure loat—my broken,
broken tow.
My he&rt and brain *eem stagnant now, with
poignant, crushing sorrow,
That makes my life a dreary nig hi, without light
for the morrow.
The panorama of the past t moving now before
me;
The buried hope* of early youth, hke spectres
shadow o’er me.
O ! Donald! could you see me now, 1 know you
would forgive me
For all the anguish and the pain that I have
given unto thee.
When fitt you sought my girlish love, my heart
was thine, truly thino.
But, fickle creature that I was, I promised Adam
Dooley
To be bis wife if you should prove inconstant or
unruly.
You angry got and went to sea, and I was left to
weep,
For Mr. Dooley calmly said, his troth he would
not keep.
Now girls, beware! and never have two lovers at
a time,
For, sure as fate, they’ll cast you off w th feelings
not sublime.
1 trust you’ll ponder well my case; remember
what I've said,
And never let your coquetry thus make you—an
old nmid!
Pbiscili.a r .iimbos*.
THE HEATED TERM.
BY MARY ItEI'D CROWELL.
Addie Wayland sat in the low rooking-;
chair looking at the velvet rosette on her
nlipper, with her lips such pretty, rosy
lips generally—pouted into a most unbe
coming expression, and wearing in her j
eyes a dark w rathful cloud.
The day was very warm—“fearfully'
liot," Addie hail said that morning at
breakfast, and she had bowed ah the shut
ters, so the soft, slow flickcrings of the
B lulight through the elms outside made a
a cool, delightful shade on the matting
within.
Ou the open piano In the parlor across
the wide hull she could see vases of fra
grant roses—one at either end: in the
room she occupied, their sitting room, also
front, where bouquets on the mantles, sev
eral uncut laioks, a bit of sewing and
Home straws and ribbons to tbiisli frames
for the tiny chromos Frank had brought
home a day or so ago.
Besides these mute, pleosent invitations
to enjoyment and profit, everything in the
room—and everything in the house —be-
token perfect convenience, comfort and
very near approached to luxury.
Addie was a young wife, with as hand
some a husband as ever a young girl mar
ried, and yet, despite all these things, that
should have made her the happiest, proud
est woman iu Christiaudom, there she sat,
sullen and frowniug, iu the easy bamboo
rocking-chair,bv her own favorite window,
faom which she could see the hay and the
landing, and the steamboat that took and
brought Frank every day to and from the
city ioug after it left, mid before it arrived
at the usual wharf. Frank hud been gone
nearly an hour, and still she sat there,
fretting, fretting, fretting ! and of what ?
Becaused she could not go to one or all
of the fashionable summer resorts !
To some women it may seem week, un
womanly, that AdTlie allowed herself to act
so; but, for all she was behaving so
naughyy, Addie was a dear, good little girl
usually. Only now
Well, May Yearance hail jnstlieen to Bay-
View —Addie had christened her home" Bay
View"—and May and Addie had been fast
friends always previous to their marriage,
going everywhere together and dressing
quite alike; and now when May Ycaranc •,
whose husband was worth at least a hun
dred thousand, was going to tour it from
the Thousand Isles to Cape May, our fool
ish Addie, whose husband’s salary was
only three thousand a year, thought it
“awful mean in Frank, anyhow,” because
he would not let her go, too.
Poor Frank ! he had gone down to
“Blauvelt & Blanvelt’s office the day'be
fore, through all the heat, haunted by the
remembrances—not of a smiling-eyed wife,
so happy and contented iu her cool, de
lightful home, possibly a little lonesome
on accouut of his absence; just enough to
make her watch for him at night with the
shiniest eyes and sweetest of kisses—hut
of sullen frowns, stubborn silence, or pas
sionate fault-finding. And again to laj,
only, if possible, Addie had been uglier
than yesterday. The new music and
books he had taken for a propitiatory offer
ing had been useless—there they lay now,
untouched, and Frank off in the melting
heat, and Addie sulking by herself.
Directly she saw the village post-boy,
who accommodated the inhabitants who
would pay him, coming up the shady
walk from the bay. He gave her a letter;
it was in May Yeamnce’s unmistakable
hand, and Addie tore it open with a vague
feeling of excitement. And no wonder
there leapt a Rparkle to her eye, and a
flush to her cheeks as she read:
“Addie, darliDg, I have only time to
dash off a line, to tell you that my good
old Philo—(that was Mr. Yearance at
sixty)—declares you shall not be disap
pointed. He says you shall join our party,
as chief guest. O ! won’t it be splendid ?
Of course, Frank won’t object—he can’t,
possibly; but if he should, why, if I were
you, I’d—” And there May’s characteristic
letter ended; but Addie could see the
shrug of the shoulders May would have
given, had she spoken instead of written
the words. And had she finished the sen
tence, Addie knew it would have read—
“l’d go, anyhow 1”
“And so I will, too ! The idea of being
Cooped up here all the summer alone!”
VOL. I.
The words came iu a torrent of decision
and auger us Addle replaced the letter in
the envelope, and sprung from the chair
tdl aglow with wild enthusiasm.
“Biddy,” she said, ns her maid of all
work passed the open door on an errand
i upstairs, “when Mr. Wnylnud comes to
i dinner, you toll him I went very suddenly
! will you ? And yon will stay and keep
i things straight till I come back only
; month at furthest. Bring lunch at twelve
i instead of one for me, for 1 want to catch
: the one boat. ”
The girl listened, promised, and won
dered "whatever ou ’uirth Miss Wuylaud
i meant.”
Then Addie flew upstairs, washed and
dressed, and rang far Biddy to pack the
garments she laid out on the bed.
Site was all excitement; she laughed
I and talked, and ang snatches of songs,
inn hither and twither in a gay, merry
! bustle; aud all the burden of her heart was,
l "she guessed she’d show Frank she didn’t
I intend to be governed by h’im.”
Biddv got a boy U> carry her trunk to
the landing. Addie took a hundred doi
: lars. snt down and scrawled n lead-pencil
note to her husband, and was off ou the
j boat on her charity tour.
On the New York streets the sun poured
i his rays in fierce, unmitigated heat, tlmt
j was increased by refraction from the dry,
I steaming sidewalks and massive buildings,
j Above, not a cloud marred that fiery
! brightness of the brassy-blue sky that
I seemed like molten-steel in its glossy, me
| broken expanse; not a breath of air stirred
except the still breeze evoked by patent
fanning machines, and parboiled humanity
sweltered in moist crowds up and down
Broadway, seeking u morcenu of comfort
under big umbrellas, and endeavoring to
excite delightful anticipations of gleaming
lightning, reverberating thunder, shower
ing drops, aud western winds. Humanity I
—New Y’ork humanity in general—was on- j
joying all this torrid misery, and Frank
Wayhtnd, in particular, as he sat down in
the close back room of Blauvelt A- Blnu
velt’s office, took off bis hat and wiped the !
perspiration from his forehead.
“There wasn’t the least, use of that trip’
to the bank, Wuylaud. We had enough j
deposited to meet Cunningham’s check,
and you’ve overheated yourself need
lessly.”
Mr. Blanvylt looked rather uneasily at j
the flushed face of his head book keeper.
“1 do feel pretty warm. I walked
slowly, too.”
Frank leaned his head back in tlie tall
rattan clmir.
“You’re not faint. —not sick, Waylnnd ?”
Frank laughed—rather forcedly, how
ever, for he was thinking of Addie, aud
how vexed she was.
“O, no, Mr. Blauvelt! But lam think
ing of catching the next boat up, if yon
sav so. There’s nothing to keep me, and
it is awfully hot and close in here.
He essayed to rise from his chair, but
reeled, turned deathly pale, aud fainted
where he sat.
Mr. Blauvelt ran for a fan, sent one
clerk for a physician, ordered u cash boy
for ice water, and called to bis son for the
brandy; and all the while Frank Wuylaud
lay white and unconscious in the chair,
looking like u beautiful waxen image.
“Avery warm day, Mrs. Way land.
Shalt 1 bail the stage ?”
Addie bad just inarched up from the
pier, and searched Broadway to accident*
ally meet an old gentleman friend of her
father’s.
Y’es; it was warm, ho., scorching; she
j had had no conception of it at home. Ah,
dear, cool breezy Bay View ! iu her white
i law n wrapper, with a pitcher of iced leui
j onade at one hand, aud a Christmas novel
[in the other. How terribly the sun glared
! into the stage; how wilted everybody
1 inked—when would she come to the cor
ner of Fulton and Broadway ?
But it was reached at hast, and Addie
found herself walking down toward the
! Brooklyn ferry, with the queerest pain on
the top of her head and the funniest feel
! ing inside her stomach. How she wished
she had ridden clear to the ferry. Blie
! might have, only that she wanted to stop
at her father’s office before she joined the
j Yearances and tell him wiiat she was still
; too angry to tell Frank.
| It seemed to Addie as though the light
; would kill her. It never had before; why
| did it now ? She grew giddy suddenly;
! everything whirled in a green maze—O !
what was the matter ?
A confused ringing in her ears, a con
sciousness of having her head very wet;
voices—strange voices speaking, and then
Addie opened her eyes and saw—
Frank reclining in a rattan chair; pale,
languid, but wearing a roguish laugh on
lips and in his eyes.
“Addie, are you better ?”
“O, Frank, are you sick ?”
Mr. Bluuvclt and Dr. Chalmers laughed.
“You will recover, both of you. Airs.
Wayland, do you know you have been
partially shnsuiick ? and Frank was very
much prostrated with the beat. How ex
ceedingly fortunate you happened near
here, and that I was on hand. We heard
the bustle in the street when you fell, and
I recognized you in a second. But what
ever brought you out on such a day—99
deg. in the shade—eh ?
But that night going up in the boat,
sitting on the deck, Addie told Frank all.
and promised two things: One, never to
be so naughty again, which she has faith
fully kept; the other, never to go to New
York on such a hot day, which she has
also kept, together with a vivid remem
brance of “June 30, 1872,” as one of the
days of the “heated term.”
A Lady as a Railroad Builder. —The
contract for cutting down and excavating
the bank at the corner of Charles and Bid
dle street for building sites was yesterday
awarded to Airs. B. H. Conway, of Fred-!
erie county, she having been the lowest of S
forty bidders. The same lady wasawarded
a contract for 8100,000 worth of work on
the Western Maryland railroad some time
since, ami has filled several contracts iu
Pennsylvania, all very satisfactory. She
is a widow, and upon the death of her
husband, who was a well-known contractor
she continued his business under her own
supervision.— Baltimore Sun.
————
One Airs. Law of Vermont, called her
husband a liar eight years ago and he has
not spoken to her since, though he has re
mained in the house. In this he has done
right. The practice of married women
calling their husbands liars ought to be
discouraged.
QUITMAN", GA., SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1574.
DEATH OR MAltltlAtiK.
The ancient clock iu Deacon Shermer’s
old-fashioned kitchen was slowly chiming
the hour of nine. It was no smart toy,
no trifle of bronze or alabaster, but a tall,
square, solid relic of the last century,
looking not unlike a coffin case set on end,
iu the corner—a clock that had lasted
through four generations, and, judging
from uppearances, was quite likely to last
through several more. Deaeon Shermer
cherished the old heirloom with a sort of
pride which ho himself would have scarcely
confessed to.
There was a great, ruddy fire of chest
nut logs in the red brick fireplace; and
the candles in the brightly polished brass
sticks were winking merrily from the high
wooden mantel, where they shared the
post of honor with a curious sea
shell, and u couple of vases, each
containing a fresh usage orange, from
the hedge that skirted the clover field be
hind the bai u. At the w indow, a curtain
of gaudj* cliidtz shut out the tens of thous
ands of stars that were shining brightly on
that autumnal night, and on the oozy rug
of parti-colored rags a fat tortoise shell
cat purred away the slowly lapsing min
utes. But the tortoise-shell eat was not
the only inhabitant of tho. farm-house
kitchen.
“Timothy I” said Mary Shermer, decid
edly, “if you don’t behave yourself, I’ll
What she would do, Mary did not say;
the sentence was terminate and by a laugh
that set the dimples around her month in
motion, just as a beam of Juno sunshine
plays across a cluster of red ripe cher
ries.
Mary Shermer was just seventeen —a
plump, rosy girl with jet block lmir,
brushed back from a low forehead, and
perfectly arched eyebrows, that gave a be
witching expression of surprise to a pair
of moiling hazel eyes. She was rather
dark; but the severest critic would not
have found fault with the peach-like bloom
upon her cheeks, aud the dewy red of her
full daintly curved lips. Evidently
Mr. Timothy Marshall was quite satisfied
with Mary’s peculiar style of beauty.
“Come, Mary !” said Tim, moving Iris
chair where he could best watch the flush
of the firelight upon her face, and [lick
ing up tire tiiread of tho conversation
where had he dropped it, w hen it became
necessary for Marv to bid him “behave
himself” —“you might promise. It’s nine
o’clock and your lather will soon be
home. ”
“Promise what, Tim ?” said Mary, de
murely, fitting a square of red in her patch
work, and intently observing tho effect.
“Nonsense, Mary I You know what
very well. Promise to marry mo before
Christinas! I tell you what, Mary, its all
very well for you to keep putting a fellow
off, but I can't stand it. What with your
father's forbidding me coming to the house,
and that romantic Tom Stanley's coming
! here every Holiday night
Mary gave her pretty head a toss. “As if
I Mr. Stanley's coming hero made any dif
i fereuce in my feelings, Tim !”
“No; but, Mary, it isn't pleasant, you
j know. I’m as good a man as Tom Stanley,
I if I don’t own railroad shares and keep an
1 an account at the Hamiltouville Bank; and
i I love you, Mary, from the very bottom of
my heart 1 Now this matter lies between
j you and me only; no other person in the
i world has a right to interfere between us.
I Come promise me I” He held both her
I hands in his, and looked earnestly into the
| iiqtiid hazel eyes.
“Do you love me, Mary ?”
“You know I love you, Tim.”
“Then we may just as was well Hush
| what’s that V”
“There was a portentous sound of
! drawing bolts, and rattling latches, in the
porch-room bevoud—-a scraping of heavy
boots ulong the floor. Mary rose to her
feet with sudden scarlet-suffusing brow
and cheeks.
“Oh, Tim, it’s father 1”
“Suppose it is 1”
“But he musn’t find you here, Tim !
Hide yourself somewhere, do!”
“What nonsense, Mary 1” said the young
man, resolutely standing his ground. “I
haven't come to steal Iqs spoons. Why
should I creep away like a detected bur
glar V”
‘•For my sake, Tim. Oh, Tim, if you
ever loved me, do as I say ! Not in that
closet; it is close to his bed-room; not
| through that window; it is nailed down
i tight. He’s coming j — he’s coming ! Here,
Tim, quick 1”
And in the drawing of a breath, she had
pushed Timothy Marshall into the square
pendulum ease of the tall old clock, and
turned the key on him. It was not a
pleasant place of refuge, inasmuch ns his
shoulders were squeezed on either side,
and his head flattened against springs and
wheels above, and the air wasunpleasantly
close; hut Tim made the best ot matters,
and sliook with suppressed laughter iu his
solitary prison cell.
“Well ! a- ally scrape to be in,” thought
Tim, “and no knowing when i’ll be out of
it. Mary's a shrewd little puss, however,
and I can’t do better than to leave matters
iu her hands.
“So you haven’t gone to bed yet,
Mary ?” said Deacon Shermer, slowly un
winding the two yards of woollen scarf
with which he generally encased his throat
of an evening.
“Notyet, father,” said Mary, picking
up the scattered bits of patch-work with a
glowing cheek. “Did you have a pleas
ant meeting.”
“Well, yes,” quoth the Deacon, reflect
ively, sitting down before the fire, greatly
to Mary’s consternation—she had hoped
lie would have gone to bed at once, accord
ing to his usual custom—“it wfis tol’bly
pleasant. Elder Huskier was there, and
Elder Hopkins, and—well, all the church
folks pretty much. Why, how red your
cheeks are, Mary ! Tired, ain’t you ? Well,
you needn’t sit up for me, my dear; it
inust be getting late.”
The deacon glanced mechanically round
iat the clock ! Mary felt the blood grow
j cold in her veins. “Twenty minutes past
nine—why, it must be later than that !
Why, land o’ Canaan! the old clock’s
stopped !” The old clock had stopped;
nor was it wonderful, under the circum
stances. “I wound it up this mornin’,
I’m sartin,” said the deacon, very much
disturbed. “It never sarved me such a
trick afore, all the years it’s stood there.
Your Aunt Jane used to say it was a sigff
of a death or a marriage in the family be
fore the year w-as out.”
There was a suppressed sound like a
chuckle behind the clock-case as Deacon
Shermer fumbled on the shelf for the.
clock key. “These springs must be out
;,of order somehow, said the deacon, decis-
ively.” “How scared you look, child !
There ain’t, no cause for being scared. I
don’t put no faith in vour Aunt Jane’s old
time superstition. Where, in the name of
all-possessed, is that key ? I could ha’
declared I left it in the ease.”
“Isn't it on the shelf, father ?” asked
Mary guiltily, conscious that it was snugly
reposing in the pocket of her chocked
gingham dress.
“No, nor ’taint, iu my pocket neither. ”
And down went the deacon, stiffly enough,
on his knees, to examine the iloor, lest
perchance tho missing key might have
fallen there.
“Well, I never knowed anything so
strange iu all my life,” said the deacon.
“It is strange,” faltered hypocritical
Mary.
“I’ll have a reg’lar search to-morrow,"
said Deacon Shermer. "It must bo some
where around. ”
"Yes, it must,” said Mary, tremulously.
“Only,” the deacon went on slowly, re
suming his place before the fire, “kind o’
don’t like to hav c the old clock stand still
a single night. When I wake up, you
know, it seems like it was sort o’ talking
to me in the stillness.” Thedeacon looked
thoughtfully at the fiery hack log. Mary
ftdgetted uneasily about the room, straight
ening table covers, setting back chairs,
and thinking—oh, if lie only would go to
bed.
As ho sat there his eyelids began to
droop, and his head to nod somnolently.
Mary’s eyes lighted up with a sparkle of
something like hope.
"Child,” lie said, suddenly straighten
ing himself up iu the stiff-backed chair,
you’d better go to bed. I’ll sit up awhile
longer till the logs burn out.”
“But, father, I’m not sleepy.”
“Go to bed, my child 1” reiterated the
deacon, w ith good humored authority that
brooked no opposition; and Mary crept
out of tlie- room, ready to cry with anxiety
and mortification.
“If Tim will only keep quiet a little
while longer,” she thought, sitting on the
stairs w here the newly-risen moon streamed
in chilly splendor. “Father Bleeps so
soundly—and he is sure to go to sleep in
his chair. I could just steal in and release
him as quietly as possible.” Hho sat
there, her plump fingers interlaced, and
her eyes fixed dreamily on the floor, while
all the time her ears were strained to tho
utmost capacity to catch every sound in
the kitchen beyond. Hark ! was that the
wail of the wind ? or was it something to
her literally “nearer and dearer.” Yes;
she could not be mistaken now; it was
actually a snore. ”
Mary rose softly to her feet with re
newed hope. Hurely now was the accepted
time. Noiselessly as the. floating shadow,
she crossed the hall, opened the kitchen
door, and stole across the creaking boards
of the floor. The candles were burned out
but the shifting lustre of the firelight re
vealed her father nodding before the tire,
with closed eyes, and hands hanging at
his sides.
With a heart that beat quick and fast,
like the strokes of a miniature hammer,
she drew the key from her dress pocket,
and proceeded, in spite of tho nervous
trembling of her fingers, to fit it into the
lock. So absorbed was she in her task
that she never noticed the sudden cessa
tion of the heavy breathing—never saw the
deacon start suddenly into wakefulness,
and look around him. Love is blind, and
it is equally true it is deaf. The Deacon
rose quietly up with a shrewd twinkle in
liis eyes, and Mary gave a little frightened
shriek as a liana fell softly on her arm,
possessing itself quietly of the key.
“Let me help you !” said Deacon Slier
mor.
“Father, J found the key,” faltered
Mary.
“Found the key, eli ?” returned the
deacon. “Well, that’s lucky; and now we
can find out what’s the matter with the
clock !”
Mary’s heart, throbbing so wildly a
moment or two ago, seemed to stand abso
lutely still as Deacon Shermer turned the
key aud opened the tall door of the clock
case.
“Hal lo !” ejaculated Deacon Shermer,
as Mr. Timothy Marshall tumbled laugh
ingly into the room. ‘So you i mis the
matter with the old clock, eh V”
“Yes, sir,” said Tim, composedly, “I
hope I haven’t seriously interfered with
the works ot the clock.”
“You've seriously interfered with me!”
said tho Deacon, waxing indignant.
“What do you mean, sir, by hiding in my
house like a thief.”
“Indeed ! indeed ! father.” cried Mary,
bursting into tears, “it wasn’t liis fault.
He didn’t want to hide, but I put him
there.”
“You did, eli ? And may I ask what
for!”
“Father.” faltered Mary, rather irrele
vantly, “Hove him, mid--lie loves me!”
“Is that any reason why lie should hide
in the clock-ease, miss ?”
“No—but—father!! can never marry
Mr. Stanley. He is so soft, and I——”
Mary’s tears finished the for
her. The deacon looked down (not un
kindly) on her bowed head and tho tender
arm that supported it. Apparently, “the
course of true love,” roughly though it
ran, was overwhelming all liis own worldly
wise arrangements in its tide.
“And so you two. young folks really
think you love each other ?” said tlie dea-
con, meditatively.
“I love her with all my heart and soul,
said Tim Marshall, earnestly. “I’m not
rich, I know, but I can work: for her !”
“And 1 can work for myself too, father,”
interposed Alary, with eyes that shone like
softened stars.
“And you said yourself, sir,” went on
Tim, “that the stopping of the clock meant
either‘a marriage or a death.’ Of course
we don’t want any deaths; so don’t you
think the most sensible thing we can do is
to help on a marriage as soon as possible V”
The deacon laughed in spite of himself.
“It’s late,” he said. “Come around to
morrow morning, and we’ll talk about it.
No, Alary, I’m not angry with you, child.
Is’pose young folks will be young folks,
and there’s no use tryin’ to stop them !”
And as the Deacon re-hung the pendu
lum, and set the iron tongue of the old
clock talking again, Tim Marshall paused
ou the front doorstep to whisper ”to Alary:
“What shall it he Alary ?—a death or a
marriage ?”
And she in return whispered: “a mar
riage, I hope.”
“Aly darling !” said Tim, it’s worth pas
sing a lifetime behind the clock-caso to
feel as I do now 1”— To-day.
The demand for postal cards has now
settled down to between 8,000,000 and
9,000,000 per month;
The Hotel Clerk.
I can shake hands with a governor, sit
| beside an alderman and smoke with a
; State Senator and never feel my littleness,
j but when I come to stand in the presence
!of a modern hotel clerk, 1 feel that awe
| and inferiority which tourists feel as they
j stand in Yosemite Valley and look up at
the mountain tops a thousand feet above.
There is something about that young
man standing behind tho office counter of
a first-class hotel which is calculated to
hold the common man at a distance, you
may gaze at him if you w ish to—in fact he
is there to he gazed at hut don’t attempt
to be familiar. I would os soon think of
dining with the crater of a volcano as of
going up, extending a hand to a hotel
clerk and asking him if his family wore
enjoying tolerable good health. I some
times dream of being thus familiar, and
when I wake up I feel as if 1 had been
frozen.
The dignity, asperity and condescension
of the modern hotel clerk ! Did you ever
notice how he resents the attempted tamil
j iarity of travelers? If a man calls him
j “old boy,” or yells: "Say, yon feller
I there !” no well bred clerk lets on that he
| hears. He goes right on reading the
I morning paper, and finally that familiar
traveler lms to put on a beseeching look
j and timidly ask:
“Please mister, will you kindly permit
| me to disturb you while I humbly inquire
| if the Toledo train leaves at 8 o’clock, or at
I 8:40 ?”
The clerk will raise his eyes from the
j paper, drop them, raise them to the clock,
I gently move them around the room, aud
j finally reply:
“I le kon so.”
With what dignity they receive and as
sign guests! If the traveler asks for a
j room on the first floor, on account of iris
Injun leg. the clerk lays back on his dignity
and assigns him to the top story as punish
ment, and if all the earth quakes which
ever quaked were to attempt to alter that
j clerk's determination, they would got
j beaten.
I used to believe that hotel clerks were
like hotel waiters, that a bribe would fetch
’em but I found out my error when trying
to pass a crumbled tun cent note iuto the
young man’s hand, he drew back with such
a look of scorn and contempt on liis face
that I didn't dare to register at all, but
slept iu a barn and breakfasted on cheese
and crackers. I heal'd afterwards that lie
was killed by a railroad collision, but I
don’t see how any such thing could have
disturbed Iris dignity.
There are times when the hotel clerk
will unbend, It is when a traveler says
that he has wandered all over the world,
stopped at all kinds of hotels and seen all
sorts of clerks, hut yet in all liis experience
he never saw such a clerk us that. There
are well authenticated accounts of at least
two clerks, who had been thus addressed,
| allowing something like a smile to cross
I their faces us they offered the persons ad
| dressing them a five-eeut cigar.
I can never forget the ease of young
! Templeton, 110 was clerk of the Grand
j Duke, and during his eleven years of ser
| vice in that position lie had never been
j known to smile or to answer a civil ques
tion when he could help it. Everybody
thought lie owned tho hotel, and every
| body took off their lmtsto him, approached
) him with awe and trembling. 11c died
! one day, though X don’t see how death
] dared fool around him, and I was on the
!.coroner’s jury which rendered a verdict
| that “the deceased came to his death from
| an overplus of lofty grandeur, hastened by
too large an amount of unbending top-,
loftiueas. M. Quail in Our Fireside
Friend.
An Incident of the Rebellion.
About twenty years ago, or in the year
1804, a planter living near Houston, in
Texas, was inspired for adventure by the
current stories of Wonderful gold-findings
at Pike’s Peak, and irapoituned from his
wife 1m consent to his departure. While
os'eusibly thrifty, the plantation was really
encumbered by debt, and some new finan
cial departure seemed necessary for its re
demption. l’erliaps this was the final rea
son inducing Mrs. Dußose’s assent. At
any rate, the planter started for the L ining
country, after taxing the family meansse
verely for his outfit, with the hope of find
ing enough of the precious ore to return
in a year or two as a rich man. Nearly
always a desperate game of chance, gold
digging is a particularly perilous hazard
for the adventurer of mature years who
stakes the very home of his flesh and blood
upon it. Dniiose was not successful in it.
His letters from the Peak told of continued
disappointment and hardship, though ever
expressive of a determination to tight the
battle yet longer. What time his patient
and devoted wife, and an infant son, born
a year before the am. t nr mini r’s depar
ture, knew many denials at home iu the
exigencies of the embarrassed estate, and
could only respond to the discouraging
messages of the husband and lather with
love and prayer.
Much was the story, told in much inter
rupted correspondence, back and forth,
until the memorable tumult and disrup
tions of war in 18H1 cut off all postal com
munication whatever between the warring
sections of the nation. Before that time
Airs. Dußose had been obliged to sell the
unlucky plantation and remove with her
little boy to the neighborhood of some of
her relatives in New Orleans; and when
hostilities began the mother and child
were guests of Mrs. Jennings, a sister of
tlie former, in the Crescent City. Borne
down by her sorrows and the public
anxieties of the time, the poor lady died
soon after the battle of Sumter, and the
young orphan fell to the charge of his
aunt.
And now tiiis boy becomes the hero of
the tale. Left chiefly to his own re
sources after his mother’s death, the little
fellow passed much of his time in the
streets, and thus, when the national' forces
occupied New Orleans became a familiar
of various barracks. One day Colonel
Vance, of the Forty-seventh Indiana,
i whose quarters lie had infested lor nearly
(a week, was induced by his handsome
face and neglected appearance to question
i him of his history. As his childish re
' plies suggested no definite idea of a good
home, but did reveal his orphanage, he
was taken straightway to ‘•lie I lousier of
ficer’s kind heart as a waft' worth saving.
In short, the Colonel’s imperfect under
standing of his circumstances, and his own
juvenile eagerness to go with the soldiers,
resulted in his summary adoption as a son
of the regiment. Almost immediately
thereafter the gallant Indinnians were
ordered Northward and took their pruhye
with them; and from thenceforth to the
end of the war tho little Southron fo'tln a
black pony beside Iris Colonel’s charger,
and Imd a thorough baptism of fire.
With that same ending of tho war came
back the misguided miner of Dike’s Peak,
i who, while cast off from all hope of South
ern return or home letters by war’s wall of
j flame, had wandered to California and
there made the long sought fortune. In
New Orleans they told him of Iris wife’s
death aud Iris son’s disappearance. Whitlu t
the lad had gone none could say; ho hau
left Iris auiri’.s house one day to look at the
j Yankee soldiers and never returned. As
| may be imagined, this intelligence filled
] the self-accusing mans cup of grief. But
j he would not believe the missing boy was
dead. Iu the New Orleans and other
newspapers lie advertised large rewards for
the return or news of Iris starving child,
and visited all Iris own and his
: late wife’s relatives and friends
j throughout tlie South ftr li rings or c mn-
I sol. Numerous imposters answered the
j advertisement;but when put to tlie test of
question iih to the family name , Ac., were
found wanting. Disgusted at these at
tempted impositions, as well as disheart
ened otherwise, Mr. Dußoso at last disap
peared again going back to California it
was supposed—and the search rested.
In the meantime the lost heir, upon the
j resumption of peace, went home with his
i Colonel to the hitter’s home in Portland,
j Jay Con tv, Ind., and subsequently, when
I Iris Wentefi; friends broke up housekeep
j ing betook himself to Atchison, in Kansas.
It was about four years ago, while pre
paring himself for future self-support by
studying at tlie Cirdeville College, in
Kansas, that some friend of Colonel Vances
remembered having seen his father’s ad
vertisement m some paper, and told the
student thereof. But the paper could
not be found; tlie details were very indis
tinctly recalled, and only lately has young
Du Bose, now a clerk in a hotel at Indian
apolis, become aware of all the ei oiim
stanees of the paternal search and failure.
According to the evei TfndaPle Indianap
olis Seitfiuul, which relates the whole ro
mance in admirable style, the son is now
as much at a loss to discover the where
abouts of his father as the latter formerly
was to reclaim him, having travelled all
over the Southwest in vain pursuit of some
recent clue to the ex planter’s present place
of allot’e. He has secured ample proofs of
his own identity, however; believes that |
his missing sire is somewhere in Culifor
i nia; and doubts not that due correspon
dence with California postmasters, and ad
vertisements in proper journals, will yet
restore him to the paternal arms and a fine
fortune.
Haw to Mike a Young Wife of an Old
Maid.
Tlie following true story might perhaps
furnish matter for a little comedy, if
comedies were still written in England.
It, is generallv the cast) that tlie more
beautiful and richer a young female is,
the more difficult, arc both her parents
and herself in the choice of a husband,
and the more offers they refuse. The oue
is too tali, the*other too short, this not
wealthy, that not respectable enough.
Meanwhile one spring passes after an
other, and year after year curries away leaf
after leaf of tho bloom of youth, and op
portunity' after opportunity. Miss Har
riet Stria (iO(i was thcwichcst heiress in her
native town, but she had already com
pleted her twenty-seventh year, and be
held almost all her young friends united
to men whom she bad, at one. time or an
other, discarded. Harriot began to be set
down for au old maid. Her parents be
came really uneasy, and she herself la
mented in private a position which is not a
natural one, and to which those to whom
nature and fortune have been niggard of
their gifts are obliged to submit; but Har
riet, as we have said, was handsome and
j very rich,
'Such was tho state of things when her
| uncle, a wealthy merchant in the north of
England, came on a visit to her parents. I
j He was a jovial, lively, straight-forward !
! man, accustomed to attack all difficulties j
boldly and coolly.
“You see,” said her father to him one
day, “Harriet continues single. The girl
is handsome; what she is to have for lrer
fortune, you know; even in this scandal
loving town not a creature can breathe an
imputation against her.”
“True,” replied the uncle; “but look
you, brother, the grand point iu every
affair in this world is to seize the right
moment ; this you have net done. It is a
misfortune, but let the girl go along with
me, and before the end of three months
II will return her to you as the wife of a
man as young and wealthy as herself.”
Away went the niece with her uncle.
On the way he thus addressed her:
“Mind what 1 am going to say. You
are no longer Miss Helwood, but Mrs.
| Lumley, my niece, a young, wealthy,
childless widow; you had the misfortune
j to lose your husband, Colonel Lumley,
j after a happy union of a quarter of a year,
| by a fall from his horse while hunting.”
j “But uncle ”
“Let me manage, if you please, Mrs.
Lumley. Your father has invested me
| with full powers. Here, look you, is the
| wedding-ring given you by your late lms
i baud. Jewels, aud whatever else you
I need, your aunt will supply you with; and
i accustom yourself to cast down your eyes.”
The keen-witted uncle introduced his
niece everywhere, aud everywhere the
| young widow excited a great sensation.
I The gentlemen thronged about her, and
! she soon had her choice out of twenty
; suitors, llt r uncle advised her to accept
the one deepest in love with her, and a
rare chauce decreed tlmt this should hv
precisely the most amiable and opulent.
The match was soon concluded, and one
day the uncle desired’ to say a few words
to iris future nephew in private.
“My dear sir,” he began', wo have told
you au untruth.”
“How so ? Are Mrs. Lumley’s affec
tions ”
“Nothing of the kind; my niece is sin
cerely attached to you."
“Then her fortune, I suppose, is not
equal to wlmt you told me.”
“On the contrary, it is larger.”
“Well, what is the matter, then ?”
A joke—a tv innocent joke, which
came into my head one (lay, when I was
in good humor;-we could not well recall
it afterwards. My niece is not a widow 1”
“What! Is Colonel Lumley living ?”
“No, no; she is a spinster.”
The lover protested that lie was a hap
pier fellow than he had over conceived
himself; and the old maid was forthwith
metamorphosed into a young wife.
Times.
Smiko.
Quite a laughable incident occurred
last week, which I think will bear le ling.
Mr. Suiika, an honest, hard-working
farmer, is the hero anil victim. Hnriks
is of an inquiring turn of mind, and when
lie hears of something flCw lie IN after it
in hot haste i am i liavilijj) hiiele tlie purchase
and learning all ho tan of the article ho
has bought, he fiishns homo to surprise
Iris family with his knowledge and learn
ing. Otl Tuesday, Smiko brought a load
c>t wood to town, and having made a good
bargain with one of our merchants for an
exchange of produce and wood for the
necessaries of life, he soon concluded his
trading and started with Iris bundle of
merchandise for Iris wagon. Oil the street
hornet Esquire Follet, nil old acquaintance
ami of course had to stop and ask how
neighbor Eret came out of that lawsuit
of his last week.- The Squire gave him
the required information, and then the
conversation turned upon the late cold
weather, and while talking upon this sub
ject, the 'Squire remarked that tlie other
morning was the coldest wo had had this
winter, uud at six o’clock, when lie looked
at his thermometer, it was eight degrees
below zero 1
“Below zero ?” says Smiko. “Where's
that ? 1 don’t recollect any such place
in these parts.”
The ’Squire thpn proceeded to explain
that a thermometer was used to measure
heat, and tlmt by the diminution of heat
in the atmosphere, the mercury in the
tube sunk towards tho bottom.
“So yen call tell just how cold it is,
can you, ’Squire, without feeling for,
yourself ? I'll lmvtj one of those fixin’s
right off, if it takes all tlio. stamps in my
old pocket-book!” ’- ,
Having been informed' where ho
i could purchase a Fahrenheit, he rushed
Linto Kurfurst’s, end having made a se
• lection had ft carefully wrapped up ami
stoWod away inside of Iris overcoat pocket.
Smiko was a happy mail. He had some
thing to surprise his family. Arriving
home safely with his charge, he waited un
til dinner was nearly disposed of, when
lie arose from the table, took tho parcel
out of his pocket, and without saving a
word to relieve the suspense of the little
Smikes, who were watching with open
mouths at. the unwrapping of the packago
Mrs. Hmike knew Hmike had gut some
thing valuable and wonderful by tho sol
| enmity of his countenance, as lie Carefully
took one or two patent medicine 'rifculars
from the covered object, at last Suiike
drew the instrument forth from its cover
ing, and holding it tip by the ring at the
top of the tin case, swung it to and fro
before the eyes of the iH’teldVreil group.
Then he passe4' ft -tp- ftmike, and
asked her if she could ‘giiess wlmt that ’ere
was ?” She looked at it lengthways,
then sideways, tumed. it upside down
and then over oil its back, and after si
very wise look concluded "it must l e a
new-fangled v iuih. ” At this the young
Smikes clapped tlieir little hands, ami
eight youthful arms were thrust forward
with* the cry, “Le’ me see it maf and after
. going the rounds of the table, the little
Smikes came to the prune -"iso conclusion
it was a watch or a clock.
Then Smikes showed Iris wisdom and
learning, and showed them “how the ma
chine worked,” af-d forthwith gave Mrs.
Smikes notice tlmt when fhe little rod on,
the inside crawled down to where it said'
freezing, she must trot allow ’he little
Smikes to gi? cm! riooVs’ yr they will freeze
their hand, and feet ; ar.il I V further re
marks, clearly elucidated the value of tlie
“machine,” and the importance of heed
ing its warning notice. Tho Squire had
told him the beat [dace to hang the “ma
chine” was at the most exposed position of
the house. Smikes, therefore, drove a
nail in the northwest corner of the house,
which portion of the house was a*scr lylrd-.
est of access from the interior. A! st ite,d.
intervals through the day, he examined the
“machine,” and noticed the changes in
the temperature of the air; and as the day
was a cold one the little Smikes were
obliged to remain in-doqrs most of the day,
In the evening, Hmike went over to call on
a neighbor and tell him about the value
NO. 45.
“of a weather machine,” and tlio one bet
laid just bought. Before leaving, ho in
structed Mrs. Snake to be sure and bring
in the “machine” before she went to bed,
and hang it up in the chimney corner. At
an early hour, Mrs. Smike was about to
obey her liege lord, when one of the young
Snakes cut. his finger with the butcher
knife, and of course started up a young
Boston jubilee, assisted in the chorus by
the yelping of a mongrel cur, which All's.
Smike kicked out of her road while has
tening to the ftssisfeneeof Jprtng Smike.
The poor woman in her trouble, frjrgofc
the “machine,” and was soundly snoring
j when Smike returned. Having held a
! heated argument with neighbor .tones
about the ultimate triumph of the Gran
gers, he quietly prepared for hod, whilst
thinking of how he could crush Jones’ ar
gument to pieces th** next time. He soon
hid himself beneath the warm coverlids,
and feeling cross grained because .Tones
had got the best of him in the argument,-
he did not feel like arousing Mrs, Stoifee—
which he certainly would have done, if ho
could have been able to tell her how ho
had used Jones up. Just as he was about
to close life eyes in slumber, the vision of
the “machine” dume across his mind. By
vigorous digging of his elbow into M#s.
Smike’s side lie finally aroused her and
asked if she had brought “that 'ere ‘ma
chine' into the house.” Between gaping
and stretching, she managed to remark
that she “hud clean forgot it.”
Smike jumped out of bed with the re
mark that “every thing would go to rum
if he didn't see to every little thing.alippt
the place Just like a woman; not it bit
of economy about any of ’em! Just like
as any way, it’s got so all-fired cold out
there', it’s froze and busted by this time !”
Wit hout stopping to clothe himself ho
rushed out of the door and tore around the
house, his only garment like the sails of a
yacht in a regular northeaster. The first
object he met was a tub the young Smike’s
had set against the house so thov could ob
tain a view of tlje “machine.” Not seeing
it, he firmly planted his lower extremities
against it with such force, that he was
launched head first over the tub and into
a snowdrift. Fulling himself out as best
he could, he made a few t emarks ou the
general utility of tubs, in 1 what kind of
tire was the hottest. By this time he
| needed no “machine” to tell him it was
cold, and he made quick time around the
house. Mrs. Smike, hearing the noise out
side the house, jumped out if bed and
opened the door just in time for Smike,
who, expecting the door to make seme
resistance, came with a rn-h, and not touch
ing the door measured his length on tlio
floor, while the “machine” went spinning
across the room, and lighting against the
stove broke into a dozen fragments. Mis.
Smike gently lifted Smil e to a sitting
position, and asked him, with all the ten
derness of a loving wife, “if he was hurt
or only chilled.” He rose to his feet, rub
bed his shins, gazed upon the wreck of the
“machine,” and then at Mrs Smike; and
then in a voice not to be misunderstood,
he remarked it was none of her business
wLether he was or not; mid then erawled
into bed saying, if she wanted to make a
fool of herself, by staying up all night, fuss
ingand fooling with that tuned “machine.”
she might, for all he cared— W'ohrkeit,
lirlhf mini lie (Ohio) h’sp utitiemt.