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About Blackshear news. (Blackshear, GA.) 1878-18?? | View Entire Issue (Sept. 2, 1880)
My Ladj. A CONTRAST. My little lady all in white, Do yon want to know, do yon want to know, Why I sit at this tree-loot, out ot the light? Are you worry lor me that God made me so? My bright little lady. Are you grievod that yon can jump and run, In your pretty Irock and your dainty shoes, Just as you like, in or out ot the gun, With lightsome teet and heart lull ot fun, While I sit still, as 1 cannot choose But sit still, my lady ? My old black Irock burns hot on my back— My worn old Irock, bought long ago, When mother died—and work is slack, And I’d rather dress in tny old sack Ilian stint the little ones. Do you know Wh&t hunger is, lady? Ob, I beg your pardon. Those gentle eyes Arc tilling with tears, last filling with tears: You nave left your swans unled; surprise Is melting to nitv. You're not too wise, But you’ll be wis«r when at my years, And you’re kind, my lady. Yes, I’m older, grayer, sadder too; Oil, I’ve bad my shave, I’vo had my share Ot things unknown to tho like ot you God sees ns both. What ho bids me do 1 try to do. What he makes me bear J bear, my lady. It’s hard sometimes. The hunger and paiii, The children's crying—that’s worst ot all. fiut I do my best, and l don’t cornpluin. There, I’m glad to see you smile again. Give me my crutch. No tear I’ll tall— Still, thank you, my lady. Although I crouch at the toot ot the tree, And you o’er tho meadow run aud shout, There’s the sell-same sun tor you and tor me, The same birds singing so merrily. 'lis good to seo you danco about, My merry lady. 'Twould not make me happy to make you sad And I don’t like pity, and God is kind. If I your park and your castle had, But no little sisters to muke me glad, No lather to work lor—to my mind 'Twould be dull, my lady. So we'il each ot us go our appointed way, Safe to the end, sale to the end. For some must labor, and some must play. It you pass my door again some upy, I’ll bo glad to seo you my beautitul triend, My sweet little lady. —Miss Muloclc, in Harper’s Bazar. HALF AN HOUR. . “ Your curiosity is natural,” said the count, smiling. “ It is true that I am under thirty; yet, as you see. my hair is whiter than snow. The change took place in the space of half an hour. When will I tell implacable you that nothing stood but the be¬ of an enemy tween me and a horrible death during that half-hour, you will be prepared for a startling narrative. •'My cousin Angelo and myself No were fellow-students at Padua. two relatives could have differed more widely in character than he and I. “Angelo lived by himself in a close, secret way, and shunned society as a pestilence. I, on the contrary, never spent an hour by myself friends when I leisure could find any of my host of at to receive me. The consequence was that honors, Angelo while I graduated fell in love with with high the beautiful daughter of Leonardo di Porta. “ Unsteady as I was by nature, that noble woman found good enough in me to return my love. The knowledge of my undeserved happiness sobered me; I settled down to hard work to gain honor for her sake. “Those were happy days, signor. Youth, love and ambition made up for me a paradise that I woul^ not have exchanged for that of our ti raditional first parents. Like that, a serpent was not long in creeping in to poison its happiness. Pauline di Porta seized with “ was a disease that threatened her life. The loleran quacks who attended Her looked todie.^ wise, gave her drugs, and finally left her “ It was easy enough for them to say, * She will die, no human power can save her,* but how was it for me to bear? My own death-warrant would have seemed a mild trial to confront beside the certainty that the woman of my love was to pass away from me, with the golden filled. promise of her youth yet unful¬ “ In mv extremity I thought of An¬ gelo. professorship He had of been chemistry appointed in the to the col¬ lege, and hsid already earned a wide reputation for It profound seemed possible knowledge of the science. that in the resources of his learning there might be a chance for the dying girl. “ I went to him and asked his aid. At first he refused. What were human life and human suffering his kind to him, who lived apart from in a gloomy •^otism of his own ? I could not arouse ltis sympathies, but I did arouse his fears for himself. I don’t know by what violence I brought him to her bedside at last. “A curious change the passed over his face as he gazed upon sick girl. His dull eye lighted up, cheek. and a Was flush came into his sallow it her wasted beauty, or her weakness and suffering, that touched his cold nature? Whatever it was, it made a worker of miracles ot him in her behalf. He watched her as a mother might a child, dministered powerful remedies known only to himself, and in a week had cured her. 4* When she had recovered, I went to him and humbly I had begged used his pardon for the violence with him; he looked at me with a strange smile. • 4 4 I have saved her life,’he said; * but for me she would have died.’ si 4 I know it,’ I responded; ‘I am very grateful to you, Angelo.’ for A 4 4 I did not uo it you,’he said; * I did it for myself. Do you know the old tradition?’ fie added, with sudden change of manner. * lie who saves a lileowns it lorever afterward.’ “I looked at him with a superstitious thrill: passed but he I was pressed smiling, and it away. him to visit Pauline with me. I desired him to be the friend of my future wife, and I said SO. 44 4 Don’t tempt me,’ he said, gloomily. ‘ You can’t tell what may come of it.’ “ I laughed Q his solemnity, which I upposed to be assumed in jest, and took him with me to her house During the interval prior to the day set for our marriage, he spent a part of nearly every evening with us, and I, like a blind f* ol, was pleased at his friendly interest in us. “ He rarely sitting spoke silently when he was with .mostly in buried some ob seuro corner, should apparently have in thotieht. 1 never known that he had ever paid any attention to us, but for what he said to me one night as we were going home together, lie paused abruptly in the road, and, laying his hand on my arm, sr,id, in a harsh tone: »» 4 Salvatore do you really love that girl “I P’ startled, but I was answered, quickly: Before soul, Angelo.’ 44 4 my own 44 4 Strange,’ he muttered: ‘unstable minds like yours are not prone to strong attachments.’ 44 4 Unstable I may be,’ I returned, offended, ‘but I know her value as well as any man could know it.’ 44 4 Yes,’ he answered, walking on, ‘even a fool must love that woman. A wise man might sacrifice his chances for her.' “The subject was not renewed be¬ tween us; but I did not forget the occur¬ Pauline. rence, and shortly She had after never mentioned liked it to the first, appeared my cousin from and she to find something to alarm her in what he had said to me. “‘Salvatore,’ she said, nervously,‘your cousin is an evil man. He does not love yon, and would not hesitate to do you an iniury- Avoid him. Do not bring him here again. Trust my woman’s instinct. I have seen the serpent where you have only seen the eccentric friend. “ I laughed at her tears, but promised that if I could avoid Angelo without of¬ fending him I would do so. But it ap¬ peared that some subtle instinct had revealed our thoughts to him; for from that day he shunned my society and never entered the doors of the Di Porta mansion again. I had not forgotten the debt of gratitude I owed him, but Pauline’s fears had impressed me more deeply than I knew, and I was glad that he had chosen of his own free will to avoid us. “On the eve of our wedding, I met An¬ gelo by chance at the door of my lodg¬ ings. He was engaged in conversation with the lodge-keeper’s daughter, a coarse, low-browed Catalonian girl. He turned sharply as I approached, and the girl retreated in haste. ~ He looked if “ feared at I me had suspiciously, as he that overheard their conversation. 44 « The girl is going to Rome to-mor¬ row,’ he said; ‘ I wished to send a mes¬ sage by her.’ 44 4 Very good,’ cousin, I returned, I laughing. ‘By the way, will am be to present?’ be married to-morrow; you not “ ‘ Salvatore,’ said he, laying his hand upon my shoulder with a smile, ‘ don’t count on any event until it is accom¬ plished. My words seem mysterious to you. W^II, come explain.’ to ray lodgings with me and I will “ His odd manner gave me a sense of undefined alarm, but I permitted him to take my arm and lead me to his lodgings. old His rooms were on the top floor of an building. The arched windows were shaded by masses of rank vines, and glazed with squares of stained glass, through which the moon was shining with a weird, blood-red hue as we en¬ tered the room. A feeble taper was burning on the table, and near it sfr'xvd a bottle of wine and two glasses. Evi¬ dently Angelo had counted upon my visit and had prepared to be genial for once in his life. He invited me to sit at the tabie, and tookaseatopposite to me. where the red glare from the window filled lighted up his haggard with features. wine. I He the two glasses no¬ ticed, incuriously, that he held his hand over mine an instant before he passed it to me. u * To the future!’ he said, as we both drank. 'And what is that future to be for you, Salvatore? Not the idle dream of happiness you have cherished. It must be what I choose to make it. Your life, Salvatore, is in my hands.’ “ I stared at him speechlessly. Had the maKUgone mad? gbfis *4 4 In that of wine,’ he con¬ tinued, with a slow, deliberate accent, was a If subtle I poison, known only to my¬ self. so will it you must die, and leave no sign by which to convict me of the crime. I do not desire your death, but 1 do desire something lrom you which only the fear of death can ex¬ tract. If you refuse to comply you have but a hall an hour to live. No human power but mine can save you, for I alone possess the antidote.’ “ I looked wildly at his haggard face. What I saw there convinced me that he spoke What the truth. 44 4 have I done to deserve this?’ I cried. * What do you wish me to do?’ 44 4 Salvatore,’ said he, with a harsh, vibrating of voice, Pauline ‘ you forced me to the bedside di Porta. You tempted me to visit her afterward. I warned you, but you would not heed the warning. It has come to this—I love her. I love her well enough to sacrifice my salvation lor her. You must Then yield I her will to die me or die.’ I sit,’ I 44 4 where an¬ swered, resolutely. ‘ Do your worst.’ “ He glanced at me with a haggard smile *4 < See what love can do even with one so weak as you,’ he said, almost mourn¬ fully. ‘See what it has done with an iron nature like mine! I pity you but I will not yield. I saved lier life and it belongs to me!’ 44 4 You are a madman as well a^ a villain,’ I said. ‘Thank God she is safe from you whatever happens to me!’ i< < Read that paper,’ he returned, It without heeding conditions.’ my outburst. ‘ con¬ tains my “ I read it by the feeble light of the taper. It was a letter to Pauline, break¬ ing our engagement in insulting terms, and stating that I had left for Rome in company with my lodge-keeper’s daugh¬ ter. When I had finished he said: << < I have bribed the girl to leave Padua. Copy that letter, sign it and go where you please in safety, so that you neither see nor communicate with Pauline again. On these terms you are safe, not otherwise. “ I tore the paper into a hundred frag¬ ments. 44 4 v You have mistaken . your man, , I , said, ., sternly. than ‘Sooner disgrace than budge a toot, sooner my love with f“ twenty C . h nt r^Lt deaths I d '^ will n ^ die pioclaiming yo »Vr I S 6m door, , but w could nr.n not. The fatal poison ^ ac q* sank , back into my chair with a groan, 44 4 Reflect, Salvatore,’ he exclaimed, before you, “E there V°SL is time m Jlr to forget l % Withadail the human things S op^ cease ei 2^ to be. But little time is left you to decide It was ten o clock when you drank the wine. It is now live minutes past the hour. In twenty-live minutes you W *.\j Ce 8 t t0 ,F^f- the - He drew a out his wa.ch . , and A placed it on the table. It lay in a patch of the blood-red light from t^e window. I glanced hands marked at it vaguely, five and saw that its I while the minutes slender past ten. of watched it bars steel moved over five minutes more o my life, and then gazed up at my de¬ stroyer’s face. It bad faded to the color of ashes, and his eye3 met mine with a look of horror. Vile as he was he could not see me die unmoved. 44 4 Salvatore!’ he cried, ‘ten minutes past ten.’ “ I smiled at him in triumph. With the abyss of the hereafter yawning at feet my soul was calmer than his. There was a dead silence ip the room, broken only by the sougl ing of the wind through the vines at the window. The poison seemed to be benumbing beclouded my senses Through a raist that my eyes I saw Angdo’s and face growing watch ghastlier ever moment, the lying in the blood-red stain. I lizard him cry out again in a piercing accent, ‘ Salvatore, fifteen minutes past ten. r Then I sank into partial unconscious¬ ness.” “ Once again I heard Angelo’s minutes voice as in a dream: ‘ Salvatore, twenty past ten.’ • » Then there seemed to be a sudden confusion and a shrill outcry from women’s voices. In a hazv way I saw the Catalonian s« rvant enter the room, followed by Pauline. I heard her voice in wild entreaty. I saw her kneeling at Angelo’s feet, and I saw bis pale face bent over her in awful emotion. Then an arm was passed about my neck and a glass put to my lips. In a few moments more I recovered my senses aud looked about me. The first object that I saw was the watch marking twenty-eight minutes past ten. The next was my be¬ trothed wife kneeling beside me. 44 4 Thank God, you are safe!’ cried Pauline. ‘Your cousin Angelo has saved your life as he did mine. May heaven reward him.’ “I glanced at Angelo and our eyes met. • 4 4 Yes,’ I muttered, ‘may heaven re¬ ward him.* 44 < Pauline,’ said Angelo, in a low, hoarse voice, ‘ leave us together for a moment. He will recover,' I swear to you. Go, I have only a word to say to him.’ “ When they had left the room he ap¬ proached me, and looking at me for a moment in silence: 44 4 Salvatore,’ said he, with a writh¬ ing lip, * I have lost my game—lost it through my love. The Catalonian sus¬ pected more than I told her. Her con¬ science smote her—and she hastened to inform Pauline of her ausprcions. Pauline knows nothing of the truth. She believes that she has wronged me, that I you were taken life. suddenly thought ill, and that saved your I my selt invincible. I was, to all but her voice. I loved her too well to deny her even my own chances of winning her. Can you respect such a love? Can you balance it against your bate of me, and let what has passed be buried forever from her knowledge? Salvatore,’ the man’s voice trembled and his eye grew dim, ‘what I carry, in my own heart will revenge you amply; will you let her keep her respect for me?” “His misery melted every sterner feeling of my heart. 44 4 Angelo, I said, with emotion, ‘ she shall never know the truth.’ 44 4 Thank you,’ he muttered, wringing my hand. * You deserve the happiness which is in store for you.’ “ With these words he left the room. On the next day he disappeared from the city and was never heard of again. “This, signor, is the history of the half-hour. The poison left no trace upon me, except this white hair. My wife believes that some sudden strange illness caused it. To me it is the re¬ membrance of the most mournful and most terrible period of my life.” His Last Dollar. The other morning, says the Carsr n (Nev.) Appeal, a stranger might have been noticed standing in the rear of the mint watching an old woman pick up sticks. She must have been about eighty years ot age. Her cld calico dress Ef ‘ full S of holes S her face brown^s was as l^her wrink Every $Z ste s.^pedTo a picK up a st painful j c ^ g jj e was obliged She to do so the with a effort. raked over dry leaves ’worthless with palsied hands and all the little pieces went into her basket. A heap of garbage and ashes occupied her attention for some ten “<T totuy Thp T “d who bch“d was watr hrl himr ™I dropped dollar into up her basket and a ^en stoie awa y unnoticed. An attache Q f the mint, who was near, hailed him as he passed: “ I say, *?» did -f you ^ give a doilar the old lad e8 d id, ^though it was about the last I had. 1 can > t hear to see poverty and old age combined. I had a mother once almost ^ 0 } d ^ s he, and as weak and palsied, j f ee i f or an 0 ld woman like that, and 8 he can have a dollar from me, if it’s the j t p V e g Q t.” ‘‘Do y OU se e that lot ovcr there?” “Yes.” “With houses itr ..yes.” “The houses and lot ^long to her.” An expletive was all the stranger had to offer as he turned away and walked rapidly up Carson street. It was his last dollar. The Lord Chancellor teacher of England for forty has been a Sunday-school ashamed of his years, and is not occupa¬ tion.
