Newspaper Page Text
GALLAHER S INDEPENDENT,
PUBLISH*® EVERY SATURDAY AT
QUITMAN, GA.,
by
J. C, QALLAHER.
TF.IUIS OF SUBSCRIPTION l
TWO DOLLARS per Annum in AdvwuM.
A MEMOMOHIAI-.
(There have been low more beautiful
poems than this written. It was on read
ing it that George D. Prentiee said: “One
might almost wish to die, if he knew that
so beautiful a tribute as this would be
written to his memory.”]
On the bottom of a river,
Where the nuu unloosed bin quiver
And the starlight gleamed forever,
Sailed a vessel light and free.
Morning dew-drops hung like maima
On the bright folds of her banner,
And the zephyrs roue to fan her,
Softly to the radiant sea.
At her prow a pilot beaming
In thtylmdi of youth stood dreaming,
And he waa in glorious seeming
Like an angel from above.
Through his hair the breezes sported,
And as on the wave he floated
Oft that pilot, angel-throated,
Warbled lays of hope and love.
through those locks so blightely flowing,
lluds of laurel bloom are blowing.
And his hands mum were throwiug,
Music from a lyre of gold.
Swiftly down the stream he glided,
Soft the purple wave divided,
And a raiulx>w arch abided
On his canvas’ snowy fold.
Anxious hearts with fond devotion
Watched him sailing to the ocean,
Prayed that never wild commotion
’Mid the elements might rise.
And he seemed like some Apollo
Charming summer winds to follow,
While the water flag’s earolla
Trembled to his musk sighs.
But those purple waves enchanted,
Lolled beside a city haunted
lij an awful spell that dauuted
Every’ comer to the shore.
Eight shades rank the air encumbered,
Ami the pale marble statue numbered
Whore the lotus eaters slumbered,
And awoke to life no more.
Then there rushed with iiglituing quickness
O'er bis face a mortal sickness,
And the dew in fearful thickness
Gathered o’er his temples fair.
Aud there swept a dying murmur
Through the lovely Southern summer,
As the beantcou* pilot comer
Perished by that city there.
Htill rolls or that radiant river
And the sun unbinds his quiver,
And the sunlight streams forever
On Its bosom as before.
Put the vessel’s rainbow banner
Greets no more the gay savanna,
And that pilot’s lute drops manna
On the purple waves no more.
MAY LESTER S PRIDE.
■ May, don't be so obstinate; go down
mol her poor Cecil at once.'
, I shall do no such thing, Ethel ; Mr.
Arkwright chose to quarrel witn me, and
now I don't chouse to make friends. ’
‘Then I shall go and tell ldm you are
busy now, but will see him this evening,’
And Ethel Norris turned away to leave the
room. But May sprang forward to chock
her, her eyes sparkling with anger.
‘Stop, Ethel 1 I will ueve.r forgive yon
if you go. I will not see Mr. Arkwright,
either now, or this evening, or to-morrow. ’
Ethel threw her arms round May’s neck,
ere she answered, pleadingly :
'May, my darling, you ure throwing
nwsy your happiness. Remember that Cos
cil leaves the day after to-morrow ; and
yon cannot let him leave you in anger—
you will not, you must not, May.’
‘I can and I will, then, Ethel. Let him
go if lie likes ; if be cares as much as you
say he does, he can put off his journey
for a day or two.’
Ethel sighed heavily ; this yong sister of
hers, her darling May, was the very light
of her life. Ten years her senior, Ethel
had acted a mother's part to the baby left
an orphan at three days old. Ethel’s moth
er, Mrs. Norris, had married Mr. Lester
when her only daughter had reached the
age of nine years, and after one brief
twelvemonth in her new home had passed
away in giving birth hr a baby-girl. With
her dying breath she had commended her
infant to Ethel's care, aud the girl, child
as she was, had from that day forth devo
ted herself to her little sister. May was
now seventeen, a fair-haired, rosy-clieeked
.nhiiden, wayward and spoilt, but loving
and gentle, save when her pride was net
tled, as it was just now, This pride of
h re had given many a hitter pang to her
me k sister Ethel, who, gentle and for
bear ng, failed to understand the sensitive
and changeable temper of pretty May.
She well k.. w, however, that for the pres
ent it was no use 1 1 plead Cecil Arkwright’s
'cause, so she said, gently :
‘Well May, am I to send him away,?’
‘Of course, ’ was the impatient answer ;
‘tell him I won’t see him —so he needn't
wait about worrying me. He is always
finding fault, and it will be a good lesson
to him.’
Ethel quitted the room slowly, hoping
against hope that her wilful sister would
change her mind and recall her ere it was
too late. No voice however reached her
anxious ears, and she went down stairs and
entered the drawing-room. Cecil Ark
wright advanced to meet her, the eager
■question in his eyes which his lips were
too proud to form. Ethel shook her head
sadly.
‘I am so sorry—eo grieved,’ she began.
But Cecil stopped her hurriedly--
■*l quite understand, Ethel; she won’t
tvstne down, although she knows I am go
ing away so soon.’ And a dark frown
came over hit handsome face, and an an
gry light into Iris eyes.
‘Don’t be angry with her, Cecil—don't
imVpemVnt
VOL. 111.
bo angry with her ; she is wilful, I kuow,
but she is such a child.’
•It’s all very well for you to any, ‘Dou’t
be angry,’ ’ he rejoined, hotly ; ‘but I
should like to know who wouldn’t be an
gry at beiug treated as I am. I speak a
word to May a word any lrrnu might
speak to bis betrothed—and she tires up
as if I had insulted her. What does she
want, Ethel ?’ Does she want me to beg
her pardon, us if I hud been a unugty
child ?’
‘I don’t think she knows what sue wants,
Ceeil ;.she is angry with you for blaming
her. Could not you just—just— ’
‘Just what, Ethel ?’ Blamo myself for
speuking to her as I had a right to speak?’
'But you might soften it a little, Cecil ;
you know how proud she is, nnd how un
accustomed to reproof of any kind. Yon
must have spoken harshly, or she would
not be so angry. ’
•Harshly !’ ho echoed. ‘Oil, Ethel, if
you hud only heard me! I merely hinted
at wlnit I wished, aud she fired up at once,
aud then alio turned white, aud said, in a
hard, cold voice, that, if I was not satis
fied wit li her, we had better part.’ And
Cecil’s voice broke down almost into a
sob, aud he covered his,face with his
bauds.
A spasm of pain contracted Ethel’s face.
It passed away, however, as swiftly as it
came, and her gentle voice was not. ruffled
as she said, softly—
• Don't grieve, dear Cecil ; it is only a
[Missing trouble. May is very proml, bin
she is always ready, after a while, to own
she is wrong. ’
‘Proud,’ he repeated, through his set
teeth ; she is as proud as Lucifer! How
shall we ever get ou together,' he weuton,
passionately, ‘if I can never utter a word
of blame without her quarreling at mo ?’
! Oh, Ethel, if she were only more like yon!’
Again a spasm of pain passed over the
ea'm features; but his face was hidden,
i aud he did not see it.
Cecil, come again this evening ; I will
; speak to May once more, and perhaps 1
j shall he able to persuade her to see you.’
‘Heaven bless you, Ethel,’ he suid, im
pulsively, as lie rose to go,—‘my gentle
little sister ! Why, half my pleasure al
most in winning May is that it will give
you to me for a real sister 1'
The door closed behind him. It was
well for Cecil Arkwright’s peace of mind
that he did not see Ethel's face as he dis
appeared, or boar the gaHping cry—
‘lt is too bard—oh, it is too hard for
i me! But my ~oor little May—she at least
j must be happy ; and then--mother, moth
er, let me come to thee!’
**■***
Evening came, and with it Cecil Arh
! wriglrt. May was in the drawing-room,
: playing softly in the Waning twilight ;
i Ethel hail left the room half an hour bc
! fore, and had been watching eagerly for
Cecil’s appearance in the avenue, in order
that sho might open tire door to him, and
that uo warning of his coming might give
her wayward sister the opportunity of es
caping him. Ethel judged by her own
loving heart. Sliejfelt—and, how deeply 1
—that, however angry sho might bo, she
could never resist the pleading of those
dark eyes and the musical accents of that
rich low voice. How could she know that
the very fact of being, as it were, caught
would still more irritate May’s fiery pride?
Pretty May, sitting in the rosy firelight
might have softened the heart of the stern
est man. In her soft white dress, with
trimmings of lightest blue,' blue ribbons
nestling in the clouds of golden hair,
which formed a glittering frame to the Aair
bright face, she looked the
tion of pure English maidenhood ; and Ce
cil’s heart, forgetful of its wounded feel
ings, went out to her in one great rush of
love Before May dreamt of his coming his
arms were round her, and his lips upon
her cheek.
‘May, my darling, I am come ; say that
you will he friends again.’
But May sprang up as lie touched her,
aud shook herself free from the clinging
arms.
‘You here! How did yon come here ?
Am I never to be left alone ?’
‘May,’ said Cecil, faltoringly; grieved
surprise and paiu in liis voice, ‘do you
blame me for coming to you—do you for
get that I am going away?’
‘I forget nothing, Mr. Arkwright—
neither that yoli are going away, nor how
you went away the last time I saw you.’
‘ls my love for you no excuse, may ?’
he pleaded. T would have you so entirely
my own.’
‘And must my being your own exclude
from my friendship every other friend I
have ?’
‘No, dear; I don’t wish—l will try never
to show any unworthy jealousy. But— ’
‘But what, Cecil Arkwright?’ demanded
May, her eyes alight with proud anger.
‘Surely jealousy of an old friend like Edgar
is most unworthy—at least, I will submit
to no such jealousy. What would my life
be in the future if you suspect and blame
me now ?’
‘ln the future ? All, my darling, trust
your future in my hands, aud yon shall
never regret it. ’
And Cecil drew near once more, his
dark face lighted with a passionate love
that few could have seen unmoved. But
May’s eyes were blinded by her pride,
and she would not see; her face remained
hard aud cold as marble, and her slight
figure was erect aud motionless. Her
words came low but steady, and she did
not raise her eyes.
‘lf! fua to estimate the future by the I
QUITMAN, (I V., FRIDAY, JULY 2, 1875.
past, my trust would be misplaced. ’
It was too much; the rejected love wur
too deeply wounded to plead ngaiu, and
Cecil’s face equalled May's iu cold indif
ference ns he drew back.
•You are the best judge, of course; I am
sorry that I have intruded. A", least there
is no need to prolong the annoyance.'
He hesitated a few moments, gazing fix
edly at the little figure, rigid as though
carved in stone. He took a step forward
and stood beside her, speaking low aud
gently once more.
‘Good-bye, may. Heaven ia my witness
how I love aud have loved yon, but I can
not urge yon to bo friends again. Per
haps when I uni far away you will think
more gently of me ; iu any case when you
want mo, send for mo. I will wait for
your call, May, I shall not coino without
it.’
‘I shall never call you, never!’
Good-bye then.'
Ho bent nnd left u light kiss or her ra
diant hair, aud before she could speak
again he was gone. At the hall door ho
met Ethel, and took both her hands in
his.
‘lt is of uo use, dear Ethel; she is as tin
yielding ns n rock, nud it would bo un
manly for mo to persist auy longer. Do
your best for me—you will, won’t you, my
faithful friend?’
‘I will, Cecil; I will do my best.’
The words were breathed softly and
firmly, as though they were u vow.
‘Good-bye, Ethel, my dear eister. Take
care of her for me; I eail iu the Queen on
Friday next for Australia, nnd shall not bo
back for two years.’
Aud he went out into the darkness and
vanished, and Ethel Norris meekly took
up her burden never to lay it down again
till she slept by her mother’s sido iu the
quiet churchyard.
****
The Queen sailed duly on Friday, fol
lowed by the loving prayers of many, aud
by none more earnest than those which
rose nightly from Ethel's gentle heart.
May, sore at heart ns she was, and inward
ly, aching aud pining for a word of for
giveness aud love, still , even to her sis
tor, she wore her mask of cold proud care
lessness. How should Ethel guess the
passion of anguish woioh had prostrated
May when she read Cecil’s name among
the outward hound passengers, since the
girl, taking up the paper, apparently for
the first time, in the drawing-room, said,
lightly. ‘So our proud lover has Bailed af
ter all, Ethel.’
Cecil had (tinned all this disturbance
very simply. Passionately in love with
his pretty fiincee, lie hud thought good to
find fault with her friendship for an old
playfellow; nnd. though May loved Cecil
as Cecil loved her, eho had resented his
fault-finding aud was angry at what she
deemed his jealousy. Her pride io.o
against reproof, nud her anger was in
creased at his want of trust. Anil, now,
when, if he had come to her again, she
would have submitted and asked forgive
ness, nnotber barrier between them had
been erected, for she was to tuko the first
step towards reconciliation.
‘Never will Ido sol’ she vowed to her
self over and over ugain. ‘lf he cares for
me, he will come again.’
And so the days slipped by, till a week
had passed. Ethel at first had pleaded
for Cecil, but she lmd been abruptly si
lenced, and she saw with grief that she
rather widened the breach than closed it.
So she waited silently, hoping that time
would aid her.
On Friday morning May came down
stairs with’a shadow as usual dimming the
brightness of her face. However, she
tried to disguise her feelings. The Times
lay on the table, Thursday’s Times, far in
their country nook the paper was always a
j day old before they received it. Ethel
was not yet down, so that May had as yet
no need to assume an air of indifference,
and sho took up the journal eagerly, to
see if by any chance it brought any news
of the Queen, What was it sent the blood
surging up to her brain, causing her to
stagger with the dizzy rush? What then
made her turn as pale as death, with a
groat horror whitening her lips and dila
ting her soft blue eyes? A single cry of
agony hurst from her—a cry so sharp, so
full of pain, that those who heard it never
forgot it—and, as lithaf rushed into the
room, May fell rigid and almost lifeless
on the floor. For hours after that Ethel's
whole time ami energies were devoted to
bringing back animation to her stricken
sister, aud for a time she did not seek to
know what sudden grief had overwhelmed
her. Evening was falling before she began
to wonder what had happened ; and, ns
May, worn out and too ill even to remem
ber the cause of her swoon, dropped into
an uneasy sleep, Ethel went to the dining
room to discover what it was that had the
power to disturb her sister to such an ex
tent. There lay the crumpled paper od
the floor as they had extricated it from
May’s rigid fingers, and, as Ethel almost
mechanically picked it tip and smoothed
it, her eyes too fell on the paragraph that
hail so terrible an effect on May. She
turned pale and staggered to a chair.
‘Oh, Cecil, —my darling Cecil!’
But Ethel’s stronger nature was not
prostrated by the blow ns May had been;
and Steadying herself with an effort, she
took up the fatal paper and read the
words again. It was a telegram.
‘The Queen, outward-bound vessel to
Australia, foundered to-day in the Bay of
Bisoay—all hands lost.’
Aud Cecil -noble, handsome Cecil—with
his young strong nature nud his loving,
tender heart—lmd he too battled in vain
with tho pitiless billows, and gone down at
last in tho whirlpool of tho unking ship?
Ethel sprang up, not during to realise the'
terrible picture which rose before her
eyes. There was May, her poor May, to
be helped and comforted; and unselfish as
over, Ethel roao to her work. She ro-eu
tered May’s room us her heavy eyes un
closed ngaiu, nud met tlio wild, question
ing look with a brave smile.
•What is it, Ethel? What has happen
ed? Tell me—l can’t remember. ’
All tho music had gone from the clear
voice, aud it sounded harsh nnd strained.
Ethel bent over her, drawing the golden
head down ou her breast, as she hud done
iu many a past grief.
‘Hush, my darling, try to sleep; don’t
think to-night.’
But may pushed away the sheltering
arum, aud sat up, her eyes peering iuto
the gathering darkness.
What is it? What is it? Cecil—some
thing about Cecil. What did they say?
Oh, I kuow I My Cecil—my darling—is
drowned Jand I drove him to it! I did it
—I murdered him!’
* * * # * a *
It was weeks before May was able to
rise from her bed and totter down btuirs
again. Pale nnd haggard nnd fragile she
looked, all her bright beauty gone, and
her sparkling eyes dimmed and swolen.
liemor.se had played sad lmvoo with her
both iu body nud mind. She felt that it
was her pride which had driven her lover
to his death. She knew that a word from
her would have delayed his journey, nnd
felt as though she were his murderess be
causo she had not spoken it.
The evenings were Btili chilly, and Ethel
mid May snt together by the fireside, May
resting her weary head against her sister’s
knee.
'Ethel, I shall never bo proud again,'
; May was saying. ‘But what docs it mut
ter? Cecil will never know how sorry I
am. ’
Ethel’s tliiu white fingers smoothed out
the silky ripples of her darling’s hair, but
she did not answer. Poor May moaned
her grief to Ethel over and over again, and
always preferred silent sympathy to spoken
consolation. Tho opening door made
them both start. It was only a, servant,
with a letter in her hand.
‘A telegram, please, miss—aud two
shillings to pay.’
Tho receipt of a telegram was a rare
event iu the sister’s quiet life, nud Ethel
opened the missive with a secret Ireuih"
j ling, lest some new sorrow was awaiting
| Ilium. But the unexpected messenger
brought a great joy, and comparatively
little grief, for Ethel dropped the telegram
and suddenly throw her arms around May’s
neck.
May, May, ho isn’t dead—it's till n mis
take! See, he is only ill, not dead!’
With a low cry of rupture May caught
up the missive—it was from an unknown
friend:
‘Doctor Chanter, Pfeiltou, Wales, to
Miss Norris, Easton, Devonshire.—Mr.
Arkwright is lying very ill iu the village.
I can find only your address among his
papers. Some friend should come to him.'
Ill—very ill—what was that oomparod
with tho blessed news that he was alive?
‘Wo must go, Ethel—we must both go,
and go at once, to him. Why, what’s the
matter?
But nothing was the matter with Ethel
except a joy which almost suffocated her;
and a violent fit of weeping relieved her
overwrought heart.
Away, as fast ns horses aud trains could
carry them, through fair Devonshire, aud
across the arm of the sea ut the sound of
the waves of which May shuddered, and
onward till they reached Pfeiltou, and in
quired their way to Doctor Chanter’s
house. They found it easily, .nestling
among trees just budding into their fresh
spring beauty; and, with a trembling baud,
Ethel rang the bell. In another minute
they stood before Doctor Chanter. He
glanced uneasily at the girlish forms, for
Etlid did not look her seven-and-twenty
years.
‘I am Miss Norris.' How is Mr. Ark
wright, Doctor Chanter, and where is ho?'
‘I have brought him hove. But—par
don me -has he no older relatives than
yourself who can come to him and nurse
him? He needs great care.’
•He has no near relatives, Doctor Chan
ter; he was my father’s ward, and always
j lived with us till he went to college. Will
| you allow me a few minutes’ private con
versation with you? Hush, May dear—
litis better so.’
And cheeking May’s impulsive forward
| movement, she left the room with the Doc
tor.’
‘Yon need not he afraid to trust me,’j
she said, ns soon as she was alone with
him; and she shortly related May’s posi
tion towards Cecil, and their late terrible
grief on his account. ThcDoetor listened
gravely and and sympatliisingly.
‘Then I need not hesitate to tell you
the truth.’ he observed, gently.
‘No, no,’ she breathed, ‘tell me all.’
‘Ho is very ill,' answered Doctor Chan
ter, gravely, ‘so that I entertain tho great
est fear for him. He had greatly over-ex
erteil himself and was worn out when he
arrived hero. Ho was telegraphed for on
business in connection with the firm in
which he is a partner, and so had to re
sign his passage on the Queen. Most un
fortunately, scarlet fever was prevalent
when he reached Pfeillou, and he has taken
it severely. I need not tell von of the in
fectious nature of the disease; you will
judge best if it is well for either you or I
your sister to aye him.'
Ethel renittibed silent for a few mo
ments, running over all tho circumstances
in her mind and forming her plans.
‘ls there a place here where my sister
and I can stay ?’ she asked, at length.
‘You are most welcome to remain here,’
was tho prompt answer, ‘if you will par
don tho inconvenience of a bachelor’s es
tablishment.’
Tho arrangement was soon made; Ethel
was to bo installed as nurse, and May was
to wait, with what patience she might,
till Cooil was in a fair way towards recov
ery. At first she entreated passionately to
be allowed to nurse him ‘Who had so
good a right as she?’—but Ethel showed
her the uselessness of risking dahger to no
purpose, and pointed out how much Bile
would l>o needed when Cecil was well
enough to be moved.
It was long aud weary nursing; how
Ethel's heart ached to hear the delirious
complaints, in the strange, harsh voice of
fever—the cries for May, the pleading to
ho friends again, tho lougiug to sou her —
‘only to soe her!’ Once May peeped in at
the door, but shrank away from the vacant
eyes and harsh voice, and never ngaiu
pleaded to be admitted to the room. At
last, however, the struggle was over in
which youth fought with death, and worn
and weary and weak as a child, Cecil Ark
wright lay in a fair way towards recovery.
His joy at seeing Ethel was very touching,
and tho eloquent look of gladness told
more than the faltering words. But Ethel
saw his eves wandering around the room,
seeking another face, and a look of pain
followed, as his gazo returned from its
useless quest.
‘Mhe is here, dear Cecil,’ she told him
then, ‘but we kept her from you while you
were so ill.'
Aud Cecil, with a peaceful smile ou his
face, sank into a health-giving sleep.
Wlmt a glad day that was when Cecil
was prono’unced well enough to be moved
to the drnvviug-room, and tho danger of
infection was over, and May might see
him! The kind old Doctor settled him
there comfortably, and left tho room, bid
ding May, go in alone. She turned the
handle of the door softly aud went iu, so
gently that tho invalid did not hear her.
Hho hesitated a few moments, and then
advanced.
‘Cecil!’ sho said in a whisper, hut lie
heard it, uud turned, his face loving and
eagoi.
‘1 am como to you ceeil,’ sho answered
to his look, and hurrying to his side; ‘for
give me!’ But her confession was stopped
by his caressing lips as he welcomed back
his lost love.
An hour after the lover's meeting May
began to wonder what lmd become of
Ethel, aud rose to seek her. Sho went up
to her room uud found her lying on the
bed.
‘Ethel, darling, nro you tired out?'
*1 am very tired, my pet. Have you
seen Cecil?'
‘Yes,’ answered May. Mushing, and
hiding her glad face on Ethel’s neck. ‘Oh,
Ethel, I am too happy!’
‘That is right, my darling. Now run
away to him, May, and let me go to sloop. ’
May went, down again slowly, aud met
Doctor Chanter on the Stairs.
•Where is Miss Norris?’ ho asked,
anxiously.
‘ln her room tired and sleepy. She
won’t coino down to-night.' And May
went on, fid! of great joy, while Doctor
Chanter hastened upstairs and knocked
at Ethel's door.
When he entered tho drawiug roomlialf
an-liour afterwards, his face was troubled.
‘May,’ he suid, presently—for Muy had
become to him almost a daughter, and he
had grown accustomed to address her by
her Christian name,' —‘May, my child,
your sister is not well this evening.’
‘Not well, Dr. Chanter? what is the
matter with her?’
‘Don’t bo frightened, dear child; your
sister is suffering from over exhaustion
through her recent nursing, hut I trust
it will not prove serious.’
May’s happy face grew pale, and she
spoke impatiently.
‘Shall we never, never be free from
trouble again?’
‘Hush, May! Remember who is given
back to you;"and this illness of your sis
ter’s is only what was to be expected—she
has been overwrought. Cun you tell me
if she has bad any trouble lately—any
thing weighing on her mind?’
‘Oh, no, I am sure she has not,' was the
ready answer. ‘Of course she was anxious
about Mr. Arkwright.’ And the dimpling
smile broke out again as sho glanced at
Cecil’s face.
But Ethel did not recover, though Doc
tor Chanter did not lose hope till the end.
Cecil was* well and strong again, able to
walk and ride, and go about as usual; but
Ethel was slowly fading away. Well she
knew herself that her work was over; and
now she had only one wisii unfulfilled, and
that was to see May Cecil’s wife.
It was a soft balmy evening When she
told her wish to May.
“Ethel dear, what do you mean?” May
asked, a crimson blilsll mantling checks
and brow.
“I wish it; May, my darling, don’t re
fuse me. Oh, May, don’t you see I uni
going to leave you?”
‘Ethell’ It was a cry of such love and
pain that Ethel shrank at the sound-.
•Oh, hush, May—you will lircuk iny
heart. You will be happy with Cecil.’
‘Not without you,’ May sobbed.
‘Yes, darling, without me. But you
will grant my last request won’t you?
Let mo sec yon his wife before I die.’
Anil so it was settled. A special license
was procured, and the marriage was cele
brated in Doctor Chanter’s drawing-room,
and Ethel was carried down and placed on
a sofa. Very fair looked May Lester on
he bridal morning. Her dress was simple,
as befitted the sad eireninstances of her
wedding; a plain sweeping robe of white
muslin, with white flowers in hef hair, was
all she wore, save a costly diamond neck
lace which had belonged to their mother,
and which Ethel had sent for a wedding
gift, to her sister. But the simplicity
suited her, and u fairer bride is seldom
seen.
Tho ceremony was over, abd the newly
made husband and wife knelt beside
Ethel’s couch.
‘Cecil,’ she said, ‘I give my charge over
to ygfi. Be gentle and tender with her;
rente rtbo.r how young she is and how pet
teUphe has always bee i. And, May, my
darling sister, my precious child, be pa
tient and loving to your husband; don’t
let your pride ever come between you
again.’
May’s face was buried in her sister’s lap
as she struggled to repress her sobs. I
‘Take her away, Cecil-a walk will do
her good, and I am tired and must be 1
qnh t.'
Cecil lifted his wife and almost carried
her out of tho room, and Ethel sank geiit
ly back on her pillows, aud, with a smile
ou her face, fell asleep).
Asleep? Yob, hut she never woke ngaiu;
quietly iu her sleep Ethel Norris passed
away.
# * a a a * *
As Cecil and May turned frtitri the quiet
grave under the drooping willow tree in
tho churchyard beside their old home,
their hearts wore all too full for speech.
Presently, as they reached homo again,
Cecil drew his wife to his breast.
‘My poor darling, let mo comfort you, I
know how hard it is.’
‘But, oh, Oetail, it is my fault. If I had
not been so proud, sho would still be with
us.’
‘Hush, darling, wo were both to blame
—I ns well as you. But, May, if only for
her sake, wo must never allow ourselves to
he sepiarated thus again. ’
‘Never again, my husband—never again 1’
TAKE THE PAPERS.
11V N. I'. WILT. 18.
Whv don’t von tuko the papers?
They Vo the life of mu delight,
Except about election time,
And then I read for spite.
Bubscribol you cannot lose a cent,
Why should you be afraid?
For cash thus paid is money tent
Of interest four fold paid.
Go thou and take the papers,
And pay to-day, nor pray delay
And mv word for it ia inferred,
You’ll live until you’re giay.
An old neighbor of initio
While dying with the cough,
Desired to hear the latest news,
While ho was going off.
I took the papers and I read:
Of some new pills in fureu,
lie bought a box—and is lio dead?
No—hearty as a horse.
I know two men, as much aliko,
As e’er you saw two stumps,
And no phrenologist eonld nnd
A difference in their bumps.
One takes the paper and his life
Is happier than a King’s,
Ills children can all read and write *
And talk of men and things.
Tlioothcr took no paper, aud
While strolling through the woods,
A tree felt dmvn, hnd (lroke his crown,
And killed him—very good.
flail ho been rending the news,
At home tike neighbor dim,
I*ll bet a cent the accident
Had not have happened him.
Why don't you take tho papers?
Nor from the printers sneak
Beeauae you borrowed from his boy
A paper every week.
For he who takes the papers,
And pays tiis bill when due;
flan live in peneo with Goil and man,
And with the printer, too.
A Farmer’s Advice.
At! old farmer says: “When I married
I told my wife she was never to board a
hired laborer. Thirty-five years have
elapsed ami I have stuck to uiy agreement,
I get first-class men by selecting those
who have families, nnd f give them com
fortable homes to live in. They can board
themselves much cheaper than I can do
it. It would seem absurd for my wife to
make a slave of herself to feed laborers
aud do the work of providing them three
meals a day, sick or well, ami do the innu
merable task of drudgery connected with
it, in order that my man’s wife should
escape and have a good time of it. Yet
there are thousands of farmers, well to do
in the world, who are wearing out aud
killing their wives with this very thing.”
Mr. C. A. Dana, who was Assistant Sec
retary of War under Mr. .Stanton, declares
in the New York Sun that he stood very
near to the President at the time when
General Sherman alleges that he openly
insulted Mr. Stanton by refusing to take
his proffered hand, and that nothing of
the kind occurred. On the contrary lm
says: “There was no offer on the part of
Mr. Stanton to shake hands with General
Sherman, nor any approach to a friendly
salutation. Looking sternly but quietly
at the General, the Secretary of War
barely inclined his head, without any
mark of personal recognition, as if a mere
stranger hnd come upon the stand.” And
as Mr. Dana was cognizant of the Secre
tary's motives, ho adds the following ex
planation of them:
As the war approached its end, Mr.
Stanton’s chief idea, and the source of his
constant solicitude, was the peril with
which the immense military force that had
been called into existence might threaten
the republican institutions of the country.
Here was il great army, disciplined liy
years of war into habits of military obe
dience; here were successful Generals
covered with the applause and confidence
of the people; was there not serious dan
ger that some of them, intoxicated by
their success, puffed up by the conception
of their' own superior value and Impor
tance, might attempt, directly or indirect
ly, to make themselves the rulers of the
country.
Beven-up a la Bioux. -Our Indian
guests at Washington lounge about their
rooms in a half nude state, smoking,
sleeping and playing cards. They pin}- a
game, the interpreter says, somewhat re
sembling seven-up, putting two, three,
four or five packs of chl'dS together, nc
eordirig to the number of players in the
game, and squatting down on the floor in
a circle, deal out a few to each one and
place all the rest (Jli the floor in the cen
ter. They Keep p'aying and drawing from
the pile, laughing ami grunting over the
game with mncli ertrlicStness. They dress
iu costumes the oddest and scantiest, too,
more classic than modest.
“Then you won't lend mo that dime
novel, eb?” inquired one boy of anothet in
the postoffice on Saturday. “No, I wont.”
“All right, then; next time otir chimney
burns you shan’t come into ttie yard and
holler.”
Put two persons in the same bed room,
one of whom has the toothache and the
other who is in love, and it will he found
that the person having tho toothache will
get to sleep first.
At a teacher’s institute in Ohio recently
a lady teacher was given the word “lmz
aardous” to spell and define, and did it
in this stylo ; “H-a-z, has —a-r-d aid —e
double s, ess—hazardess, a female buz
zard."
A Selfish Philosopher.
Colored people are not all impulsive and
hot-hedded, if the philosOpheß) described
by a correspondent who met him iu the
West, has many imitators amrtfig his race:
Old Diogenes, tho cynic, couldn’t surpass
him in Coolness Of selfisbnessi He hail
been in the battle of Fort 1 louclson;
“Wore you in tho fight?”
“I had a little taste of it, sail.”
“.Stood your gtbilttd, did you?”
“No, sub; I run.”
“Run ut the first fire, did you? 1 ’
“Yes. )Uh; an' wonld hah run soona had
j known it was comlh’.”
“Why, that Wasn't very creditable to
yonr courage.”
.“Dat isn’t in my line, sah| cookin's my
profession.' 1
“Well, but KaVe Jroh no regard for your
reputation V”
“Heputatiou's uuffin to mo by da sido
ob life.”
“Do you consider your life worth more
than other people’s!”
“It’s wuth more to mo, sail.”
“Then you must Value it very highly?”
“Yes, sah, I does) more dan all did
world; more dan a million dollars, sah, for
what would that be wuth to a man will
tho bref out ob him? &elf-prescrbatiou
is do fust law wid me, sah.”
“But why should yott act upon a differ
ent rule from Other men?”
'•Cause, sah, different lhen sets differ
ent value upon derslves; my life is not id
do market.”
“But if you lost it yott would baVe the
satisfaction uf knowing that you died for
your country.”
“What satisfaction would dat he to mo
when de power of foehn’ was gone?”
“Then patriotism uud houor are noth
ing to yon?"
“Nuffiu* whatever, sah; I regard dem
ns among do varieties.”
“If our soldiers were liko you, traitors
might Lmvo broken up tho government
without resistance."
“Yes, eah; dar would had beon no help
for it. I Wouldn’t put my life in de scales
against any guberment dat eber existed;
for uo gubernmeut could replace de loss
to mo. ’Hpeetj dough, dat de guberment
safe if da all like me."
“Do you think any of your company
would IntVo missed yon if you had been
killed?”
“Maybe not, Salt. A dead white man
ain’t much to dose sogers, let alone a dead
tiigga; but I’d a missed myself, and dat
was do pint wid me.”
It, is safe to sny that the corpse of that
African will novel* darken the field of
carnage.
NO. 9.
The Farmers and the Wool Clip.
New York Bulletin.
From ouy exchanges we learn that tint
opening prices of new wool in the Wes
tern States have been 38 to 44c, according
to grade and condition, but Chiefly at. “8
to 40c for Michigan and similar grades,
while as high as 49j0 to 500 for combing
grades of Kentucky has been paid. But
•sales so far lmvti been of a limited char
acter, and not sufficient to establish a real
market for the clip. Tlieio seems to bo
the same disposition among the farmers
to hold tho crop, as if with a view to force
buyers to como to their totals, ns was
shown on their two other chief -crops
—hogs and gruin. On tho other hand,
the manufacturers are acting oh tlid Same
lino of passive offense, aud refuse to go
into tho wool districts in competition
with tho regular dealers, as they havo
done iu years past, to their dtt’h nfld tho
dealer’s disatvantuge and to the benefit of
the farmers. This season they seem dis
posed to let tho dealers manage this busi
ness themselves. On the part of tho lat
ter, there is the same disposition sliowu
as by the farmer’s to hold off until they
compel these to come to their terms,
which are on the basis of last year’s fig
ures or less. It is probable, therefore,
that wo shall see tho recent experience of
tho graiu market repeated on wool during
the spring, and tlmt no more than suffi
cient to supply tho current wantsof manu
facturers will bo bought for some time, if
at all, at the rates uambd above, unless,
indeed, tho woolen goods trade should
experience u quick and substantial revivals
■.
Don't Want Any Foolin’.
A negro revivalist named Andrew Cooit
is said to boas effective with his own race,
in Mississippi, as Moody and Sankey are
with white people, tie is a powerful fel
low, physically and vocally, and the scenes
that attend his fervid exhortations ure de
scribed as being tile acme of religious ex
citomont. A correspondent of the Cin
cinnati Commercial attended one of his
meetings. Aftor a harrowing sermon,
that wrought the impressible hearers to
intense feelihg, he made the following
udmonitiou and appeal: ‘‘Now, bredren
aud sisters, we want mounahs heah to
night. No fooli'i’. Ef you can’t monlin
for your sins, don't conie foolin’ rouu’ dis
ultali, I knows ye. Yon’s tryin’ mighty
liaiid to be converted’ thout bein’ hurt.
The Lord splses mockery. Botuetimes
you sinnails comes foh’rd an’ holds head
too high a-comin’. Vou come foah you’s
ready. You starts tob sbon. You’s foolin’
wid de lord. You oome strultifi’ Up to de
altah; you flops down on your knees, an’
yon peeps fru your titigahs, dis way, an’
you batiks tip your cabs to see who’s mu
kin’ de lies’ pray’r. Ybu’s no mouDaln .
Ef you comes heah to fool, you liettuh
stay away. Bettah go to hell from dd
pew esleepin’, or from your cabin a swear
in’, dan from de mOunnh’s bench a fool
in’.”
Death From the Bite of a Cat
Mr. Eben Smith, of Bridgeton, Me.,
was bitten by a cat nearly six lrionths ago;
and died, it is said, from its effects On the
13th lilt; The circumstances, ns related
by the local paper, arc these; “Mr. Hiuitll
undertook to kill a cat for a neighbor,
and was aboiit to swing the animal by the
hind legs, so Its to bring her head down
on a block when she seized his baud and
hit it severely. 11c tore, her off, dispatch
ed her, dull resume his labors. Soon,
however, erysipelatous inflnmation result
ed, which, despite medical skill, exten
ded gradually up bis arm to the shoulder,
accompanied by severe pain. This was
followed by and general eruption over his
hotly, involving the muscus membrane of
the head and .stomach; abscesses formed
iu his leg, Which, duritig his sickness dis
charged some eighty gallons purulent mat
ter, the hones of his hand and leg became
diseased; internal abscesses formed; his
constitution broke down, and he contin
ued to grow more and inure feeble until
Thursday night, the 13th instant, precis* -
ly twenty-two weeks from the day he was
taken down, when his sufferings were re
lived by death. Though that long period
ho never lull his room.”
In his speech accepting the nomination
for Governor of Ohio, Governor Allen
said: “lie heard old, grey-headed Demo
crats say to-day that they would not Id
satisfied with less than fifty thousand ma
jority this fall. The ticket would be sent
before the people with the aroma of victo
ry about it. The ball had beeu set rolling
now, and victories were in store for the
Democratic party for lifty years, and they
would nil live happy and die happy, and
go to heaven in a body.”