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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.”