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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.