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THE
CONYEKS, - GEORGIA
TIIE SHAKE FAKMEI1S.
INTERESTING ('HUtUTiKS OF THE
NEW SOUTH.
A Description ol II i* Home, How lie Work*
and lives*- Tl*#; Bunker.
[From the American Agriculturist.!
The changes wrought by the civil war
in the South have produced one charac¬
ter whom we found one of the most in¬
teresting ' studies of a recent trip
through the South. We allude to the
negro share farmer. At home in his
ramshackle cabin, among his lean pigs,
his bony cattle and his always numerous
family, or in the market-pl ice with his
spike team, often composed of a mule
and a cow, which lie has driven a long
day's journey to sell a dollar’s worth of
wood or a couple of bushels of potatoes,
he presents a grotesque and interesting
type. It would be difficult, probably,
to get down to poorer and less profitable
agriculture than the share farmer prac¬
tices. But he manages to scrape a liv¬
ing out of the ground, exactly how, he
would perhaps sometimes find it diffi¬
cult to explain himself.
You come upon his cabin among the
pine woods, with a patch of scraggy corn
behind it, and the ground around strewn
with faggots, among which pick a strag¬
gling crew of rusty fowls. A couple of
curs bark furiously at you, and a couple
of pigs, which look like dogs, they are so
bony and long-legged, trot grunting
away into the brush. The mossy roof is
sagging on its yielding beams; there are
great fissures in the mud-plastered chim¬
ney, and the winds find ingress through
the cracks lietween the slabs and logs of
the wails, from which the mud has fal¬
len. The commotion your approach lias
aroused brings a troupe of children
tumbling over one another out into the
road, to watch you with wide-open
mouths and eyes, and shrinking back
when you look at them. A sturdy ne
gress, with a cob pipe, gives you a curt¬
sey in the doorway; behind her you see
a figure like the witch of a fairy tale
cowering in the big fire-place; the fig¬
ure of some old grandmother or grand¬
father, carrying the weight of nearly a
century on a bent back.
As yon ride on, you perhaps come
upon the farmer, sturdy and uncouth,
hoeing in his potato patch, or wandering
among his corn or cotton.
The share farmer obtains his titlefrom
the tenure by which he holds his land.
He rents it at the simple price of half
its yield. It is commonly a portion of
some large plantation, often of the same
one on which ho once labored.
The system of share farminghas given
existence to another typo beside the
farmer himself. This is the banker, as
he calls himself; the usurious money¬
lender, as he really is. This worthy, like
the class ho thrives off of, is a negro.
He is, in a small way, a capitalist, and
his business is simply lending money on
the security of the share farmer’s crop.
Few of the thriftless blacks can resist
the temptation of anticipating tlieir
gains, and the banker is an obliging
friend, when he considers it safe to be
so. In business he is, by all accounts,
desperately hard and grinding—other¬
wise he is eminently respeotable, and
not infrequently a preacher of no little
local fame. Between the mo'iey he
owes tli is creditor and his store acconnt
for molasses, tobacco, etc., also secured
by his crop: the share farmer is often
6aved the trouble of handling any money
at all for It, when it has been gathered.
Such as it is, the existence of the ne¬
gro share farmer is not devoid of ele¬
ments of picturesqueness. His labor is
hard and his fare coarse, bnt he is a
tough, rnde man, and has no craving for
unknown luxuries. Among the logs of
early day he is at work, when night falls
be fiddles or croons his simple melodies
before the yawning fireplace of h's cabin.
He generally has pn old gun and wages
war ii |«m such game as the woods around
him shelter. 'What little leisure he en¬
joys he siiends in sleep. In the scale of
education he ranks vepr low. He can
not read or write. His ideas are fre¬
quently clouded by superstition, though
quite oftou he exhibits a peculiarly keen
native wit and cunning, which make
him a great bargainer, and stand
him in good stead in his deal¬
ings with men of better knowl¬
edge, bis dress is a mass of patches
an<l of rags. But he is as well dressed
as his neightiors, and he has no ambition
to outdo them. His children wear a
single garment, a shirt of coarse cotton
apparently never washed. The women
folks own a dress of calioo eaoli, aud a
showy cot ton handkerchief and shoes for
state occasions.
If the farmer has any money he ties it
up in old rags and hides it in holes in
his fireplace, or under the hearth. R ik¬
ing on' his money at night and counting
it by the firelight is his greatest, per¬
haps his only luxury.
A Virtuous Man.
Ezra Ripley, the well-known Puritan
minister at Concord, a sketch of whose
tife, by Ralph Wal-to Emerson, is pub¬
lished in the Atlantic, once attended
the funeral of a father of a family, and
addressed eaoh member separately.
“Sir, I oondole with you.” “Madame,
I condole with you. ” And turning to
iho eldest son, who was snpi>osed to be
intemperate, “Sir, I know j’onr great
grandlatlier. When I came to this town
your great-grandfather was a sulvstau
tial farmer in this very place, a member
of the church, aud an excellent citizen.
Your grandfather followed him aud was
a virtuous mar- Now your father is to
be carried to bis grave, full of labors
and virtues. There is none of that large
family left but you, and it r*sts with you
to bear up the goo*l name and useful¬
ness of yonr ancestors. If you fail,
Ichatiod, the glory is departed. Let us
pray.”
It is doing some service to humanity
to amuse innocently; and they know
very little of society who think we can
bear to be always employed either in
rintiee or meditations without any relax-
LIFE'S STORY.
Say, what is life ? ’Tis to lie born;
A helpless babe to greet the light
With a sharp wail, as if the morn
Foretold a cloudy noon and night;
To weep, to sleep, and weep again,
With sunny smiles between—aud then v
And then apace the infant grows
To be a laughing, sprightly boy,
Happy, despite Ins little woes,
Were he but conscious of his joy !
To be, in short, from two to ten,
A merry, moody child—and then ?
Ar.d then in coat and trousers clad,
To learn to say the decalogue,
And break it, an unthinking lad,
With mirth and mischief all agog;
A truant oft by field and fen,
And capture butterflies—and then ?
And then, increased in strength and size,
To be, anon, a youth full grown,
A hero in his mother’s eyes,
A young Apollo in his own;
To imitate the ways of men
In fashionable sin—and then?
And then, at last, to be a man,
To fall in love, to woo and wed!
With seething brain to scheme and plan
To gather gold or toil for bread;
To sue for fame, with tongue and pen,
And gain or lose the prize—aud then V
And then in gray and wrinkled eld,
To mourn the speed of life’s decline;
To praise the scenes our youth beheld,
And dwell in memory of lang syne,
To dream awhile with darkened ken,
To drop into his grave—and then ?
John G. Saxe.
JOHN’S CHRISTMAS BOX.
It was the afternoon before Christmas
day, and honest John Grahame was
packing up his butter tubs and the rem¬
nant of his Christmas marketing before
returning to his expectant family far off
in the quiet country. the great market-house
AH day long
had been full to overflowing with an
eager crowd of people, Christmas busy with the
buying of their cheer; and
John’s fat turkeys, ducks, and country,
home-made sausages had been so well
patronized that not one remained to bur¬
den his two strong horses, which had
drawn the whole heavy load into the
great city on the afternoon previous.
Many a kindly greeting of the season
had been given honest John by his smil¬
ing customers ; for St. Nicholas gives to
all who love him a happy face and light
heart in this his own festive season.
One thing yet remained to be done,
and John would have sooner lost his
strong right hand than have neglected
this pleasant duty. There must be a
nice present bought for the kind wife at
home, and stop — a happy thought
flashed athwart the good man’s mind.
He would buy Margery a new bonnet,
for times had been hard this winter, and,
although she had made no mention of it,
John well knew in his heart that it
would be the very thing to please her.
Then there was his little Dolly, who,
with her eyes as black as a sloe-berry
and bright as stars in a frosty night, had
stood on tip-toe to kiss him as he sat in
his wagon well rolled in a blanket to
keep out the cold, and who ran down the
walk to open the wide gate, kissing her
hand to him until he was hidden from
her sight by a turn in the road.
“Pussy shall have her doll she has
asked for so often and a good big box of
sugar-plums, too,” he softly promised
himself, a loving look coming into his
mild brown eyes; so, calling his boy to
finish his preparations for him, lie sal
lied forth on his errand of love. Ho
strolled along the busy streets, looking
into the store-windows with wondering
curiosity until a milliner’s display
caught his eye, and he paused in front
of the window.
His big, burly frame, with its rough
overooat, took up so much room and
looked so ntterly out of place that many
a curious, smiling look was cast upon
him. He stood so long a time trying to
oonquer his diffidence and enter the
store that a little street gamin sang out,
with a nasal twaDg, complexion “Say, old ’un,
which suits yer best ? Buy
the one with the peaked top, old cab¬
bage-head.”
John, thus rudely roused to a sense
ot his position, shook his big fist good
naturedly at the saucy urchin and en¬
tered the Btore. Good humor and love
h> Id high carnival in John’s heart this
blessed Christmas-tide, and left no room
for unkind feelings for anyone.
The smiling saleslady, wondering at
her odd customer, displayed several
bonnets to John’s astonished eyes,
fairly bewildering him with the variety
of shapes, colors, feathers, flowers, and
the n any other varieties that she ex¬
hibited to him. At Inst he sank into a
elmir, sin ing, “Well, ma’am, I guess
I’ll have to leave it to you; I can drive a
plow and manage Isonnek” a farm, but I can’t buy
a woman’s
The woman laughed heartily, and,
picking out one of quiet gray silk, with
a red rase and gray f. atlier, presented it
to his tired gaz ■, and our good farmer,
glad to be quit of this herculean task
(worse to him than a whole day’s hay¬
making!, clutched the bonnet iiox, and
without a murmur paid the fashionable
price the woman named, only too glad
to get off thus easily.
Next came the toy store. There he
fouud less difficulty, and soon picked out
an immense doll, almost as large as the
human Dollv, and to this was added the
box of goodies so dear to the heart of all
little ones.
Now then he was all ready, and in an¬
other half-hour was rattling over the
stones of the city toward the country.
The horses, as if knowing whither they
were bound, laid themselves to their
work right wittingly, every toward now and
tlieu p'ayfnlly turning one an¬
other and nodding, as if exchanging
their ideas on the many queer sights
they had seen in the wonderful, great
city. John turned up the collar of his
overcoat and tucked in his blanket
closely around him. for he faced the
wind and the sunset sky looked angry
and lowering. In fact, in less than half
ati hour snowflakes began to fall, at first
s'owly and softly, then faster and faster,
nntil the air grew thick and misty with
the quick and faffing flakes.
The stout horses bent their heads to
the gusts of wind that whirled the snow
in their faoes, and John urged them on
in cheery tones, Oaoe he stopped and
lighted his lantern, which he carried for
such emergencies, and the rays fell far
into the road ahead, just enough to
make darkness visible.
As the horses paused at the top of a
steep hill to regain thought breath he after heard their
long pull, John side the road. a
feeble cry on the of He
listened intently and heard it repeated.
He hurriedly snatched up the lantern
and proceeded in the direction from
whence the sound came, and there, by
the rays of the light he carried, and all
cuddled up under a blanket shawl, was
a baby about nine months old.
“My certes !” exclaimed John, “I’ve
found my Christmas box. Poor, wee
lambkin f Wbat hard-hearted wretch
left you here to die, poor little inno¬
cent ?”
The baby stopped crying in her and looked
at him with her finger mouth and
her great blue eyes fixed, half in won¬
der, half in fear, on his pitying face.
John held out his arms coaxingly, and a
smile came over the baby face and
“Coo, coo,” broke in lisping tones from
the rose-bud mouth. He tenderly lifted
the little creature, and opening his coat
folded her in close to his great, warm
heart.
No sound save that of the bitter wind
disturbed the stillness, no track of any
living being was to be found, and John,
with his burden in his arms, clambered
back into his wagon, and, chirruped closely nest¬
ling the little one, to his
stout horses, that knew the road too
well to need much watching.
Wondering, solemn thoughts came to
John as he sat there with the baby in
his arms, of that other little Baby, who
came to this world so many centuries
ago that very night; who was born
among the dumb beasts and cradled in
the manger of a stable, but who withal
was Lord and Saviour. And he thought
how the very stars had sung for joy, and
how a thrill of happiness vibrated from
end to end of God’s fair world at the ad¬
vent of the long-promised Kiug; and ag
these thoughts came mind, solemnly, his sweetly,
thronging to his voice rangout
clearly over the stormy night in the dear
old Christmas hymn,
“When shepherds watched their flocks by
night,”
and he vowed that this Christmas baby
should share his home aud heart with
bis own flesh and blood. Presently his
voice ceased, and, looking down, he
saw his baby fast asleep, her long
lashes lying on her soft cheek; and
buff quietly do-robe and gently and he drew out his warm
cast about in his mind
for a place in which to lay his sleeping
charge. The large, empty box, which
had borne his poultry to market, caught
his eye, and, placing in it his warm,
comfortable robe, he made a soft bed for
his Christmas present; so he nestled her
down among the skins and covered her
with his overcoat.
He did not mind the cold, although
his face grew scarlet and he had to
swing his arms and slap his hands to
keep the blood in circulation; but he
whistled merrily to his good horses, that
rattled on with increased speed and soon
drew up before the gate of his farm¬
house.
The door was opened and the figure
of a woman appeared, peering candle into the
darkness; the light of a she
shielded with her hand falling upon the
black eyes and eager face of Dolly, who
stood with her head pushed out under
her mother’s arm.
“Margery,” shouted John to his wife,
“come see my Christmas box. Give the
light to David and let him bold it here
in the wagon. Here, give me both your
hands,” said John, stooping down and
helping his wondering wife into the
wagon; and, there, quietly sleeping, her
rosy cheek pressed Christinas closely box. to the soft
skins, Her lay mother-heart John’s touched, and,
was
opening to this little homeless waif, she
bore her into her happy home, looking
already upon her as her own. delight
Who could depict Dolly’s at
this “real, live baby”? Not even the
great magnificence of the new purchase,
or the purchase of the box of candies,
could compare, in her estimation, with
this newly-found treasure.
The baby-gill's quaint, serious ways
were a never-failing source of delight,
and Dolly wondered how she ever could
have cared for her stupid baby, that
could not orow or laugh or poke its little
fingers into her eyes and pull her hair;
and once again Margery and John grew
young in watching and guarding their
Christmas box.
*******
Years rolled on, bringing their usual aud
changes of joy and sorrow, of good
evil fortune; had left their traces in
wrinkles and gray hairs on the middle
aged, and opened the gates of Heaven to
many of the old ; had changed romping
school-children into strong young meu
and sweet, winning maidens. But the
old farmhouse still did stood, looking very
little older than it seventeen years
ago this Christmas eve.
Surely Time has dealt gently here;
there sits John, as ever—his hair more
thickly mixed with gray, his brow more
wrinkled, but with a soft sadness in his
eyes that was new to them.
A young woman sits by the window
tying a close, warm hood on a chubby
baby, the very miniature of John, and
the young mother is a fac-simile of the
Margery of old, whom, alas 1 we do not
find. Naught but her empty place and
a loving memory ever green in John’s
faithful heart remains of the farmer’s
wife.
“Well, father,” said Dolly, giving her
baby the a hearty kiss aud setting him down
ou floor a until ... she , tied , on her , own
hood and folded closely her warm shawl
“I. moat be getting toward home. Ned
w.lt be wanting his supper and it’s a
goodish piece to walk against this bleak
wind I hate to leave you all alone,
but Clone will soon be in. So bo sure
to come to-morrow night after church
and we will have a merry Chris mas.”
So saying, Dolly picked up her fat baby
gayly, with a left Moving squeeze, and, nodding
the house.
8 °i mother, ( murmured
John t i to himself, as he turned with a
sigh into his solitary home, and, filling
his pipe, he settled himself in the warm
chimney corner The embers glowed
brightly on the hearth, casting a pleas
ant glow on the shining pewter ranged
on the dresser and half illuminating the
dusky ooruers of the large, old-fashioned
kitchen.
John, gazing into toe coals, saw many
a pleasant eight. First peered out a
smiling baby face; next with came bright, a little,
golden-haired flying down lassie, the path with fairy
figure, him out¬
stretched arms to meet returning
home, tired with his hard day’s work;
this faded into a slender school-girl, with
large, serious eyes, the very color of the
midsummer sky, hovering around him
with an eager love and anxious to fore¬
stall his slightest wish; next came a sick
cliamber, with the poor, weary, pain
worn occupant tenderly nursed and
soothed by this same sweet face and gen¬
tle hand; then a sad and weary time,
when all the world seemed empty and
his loneliness became all but heart¬
breaking; but even amid this blackness
was the one bright face, ever winsome
md kind, and ever striving, fill with the all the
might of a loving heart, to gap
left by death.
“God bless my Christmas box!” John
murmured, soltly—when there stole an
a—, around his neck, a voice spoke in
his ear, and a soft kiss fell upon his
cheek:
“Wliv, father, dear, how long have
you been asleep! the fire is ail out and
your pipe too. They kept me longer at
the church fixing the greens than I
thought for; you should see how pretty
it looks. Hark, father! listen to the
Christmas carol! they are practicing it
for to-morrow!”
The golden head was drawn closely
to the breast where it had lain so help¬
lessly seventeen years ago, and, in the
soft gloaming of the twilight, John hushed and
his Christmas baby listened with
breath to the mysterious, beautiful
voices borne to them from the neighbor¬
ing church.— Arthur's Magazine.
A CHAPTER ON THE MOSQUITO.
What He is nn<l How lie Comes Into tlie
World, Flourishes for a While and Dis¬
appears*
If the mosquito were a very rare in¬
sect, found only in some far-off country,
we should look upon it as one of the
most curious of living creatures, and
read its history with wonder—that an
animal could live two such very differ¬
ent lives, one in the water and the other
in the air. We speak of the mosquito
as if there were but one, while really
there are over thirty different kinds, all,
however, having similar habits, so that
a description of one answers for all. The
female mosquito lays her eggs on the
water. She forms a little boat, gluing
the eggs together side by side, until she
has from 250 to 350 thus fastened to¬
gether. The boat or raft is oval in shape,
highest at the ends, and floats away
merrily for a few days. The eggs then
hatch and the young mosquito enters
the water where the early part of its life
is to be passed. You can find the young
insects in this, their larval stage, in
pools of fresh water, or even in a tub of
rain water which has been standing un¬
covered for a few da\ They are called
wrigglers, on account of the droll way in
which they jerk about the water. They
feed upon very minute creatures, and
also upon decaying vegetable matter.
Near the tail the wriggler has a tube
through which it breathes. If you ap¬
proach the pool or tub very quietly, you
can see them in great numbers, heads
downward, with their breathing tube
above the surface. If you make the
least disturbance, they will scamper
down into deep water. After wriggling
about for two weeks, aud changing their
skins several times, the larva becomes a
pupa. insects in the
You know that most
pupa state do not move, but take a sleep
of greater or less length. Not so the
lively little mosquito. In its pupa state
it becomes a big-headed creature which
does not eat. It moves about quite
rapidly, but not with the same wrigg ing
motion; it now has a pair of air paddles at
its tail end, and takes in through
tubes near the head. In five or ten days
the mosquito ends its life in the water,
and becomes a winged insect. The pupa
comes to the surface, and the skin cracks
open on the back, allowing first its head
and chest to come forth, finally the legs,
wings, and rest. This is a most trying
moment in the life of the insect; if a
slight puff of wind should upset it before
the wings are dry, it will surely drown;
only a small proportion of leaving the whole the
number succeed in safely
pupa case; the greater share become
food for the fishes. If the wings once
get fairly dry, then the insect can sail
away, humming does its sing? tiny Perhaps song of when glad¬
ness. How it
you heard its note at night you did not
stop to consider. It is a point which
has puzzled many naturalists, and it is
not certainly probably known how the the rapid note motion is pro¬
duced, but
of the wings and the vibration of the
muscles of the chest are both concerned
in it. The most interesting part about
the insect — the “business part,” as
some one has called it—is its sting, or
sucker. This is not a simple, sharp
pointed tube, but consists of six parts,
which lie together in a sheath, and are
used as one. How sharp these must be
to go through our skin so easily ! After
the puncture is made, it then acts as a
Rucker to draw up the blood, The in¬
sect which visits us is the female. We
rarely see the male mosquito. Blood is
not necessary to the existence of the
mosquito, and probably but The a small
share of them ever taste it. coun¬
tries in which the mosquitos live in
greatest numbers—actual clouds—are
not- inhabited, and there are but few
animals .—Donahoes Maaazine.
.Sing a Song of Sixpence.
You all know this rhyme; bnt have
von over read what it is meant for :
The fiur-and-twenty blackbirds re»re
s : , t the twenty-four hbnrs. The bottom
til „ pio fc the world, while the top
rvtlnt is the sky that over-arehes it.
Til , owning of the pie is the day dawn,
„, len the birds begin to king? sing, and surely *
slw .. h a king, .sight is fit for a
The who is represented as sitting
in his p , irIor counting out hig money> £
tiie sua> while the gold pieces that slip
through his fingers as he counts them
arp the golden sunshine,
The queen, who sits in the dark
kitchen, is the moon, and the honey, with
which she regales herself, is the moon
fight. ‘
The industrious maid, who is in the
garden at work l-efore the king—the
fU n_has risen, is the day dawn, aid the
clothes she hangs out are the clouds
while the bird, who so tragically ends
the song by “nipping off her n«*e,” is
the hour of sunset. So we have’ the
whole day, if not in a nutshell, in a pie.
— Toronto Globe.
THE CHANGE OF TIME.
THE NEW T!»K .1TANI>AIM» WHICH
HAIS NOW 4.ONE INIO EFFECT.
Uow Hie Change was Alaile-Its Adoption to
be Almost ( aiversiil'I'liroiiuh ike Coun
trj-l>taerit>iioii of the New System.
At 12 o’clock Sunday, Nov. 18, there
Was such a shaking-up of the clocks and
watches of this country as never hap¬
pened before. ”
The now system of
standard times for the United States,
Canada and British America went into
effect at that hour. When the moment
that the sun crossed the seventy-fifth
meridian of longitude at noon was de¬
termined at the United States Observa¬
tory at Washington the time was tele¬
graphed throughout the country, so that
there could be a general resetting of
clocks and watches. The Western
Union time ball was dropped at the
standard noon hour, and the time balls
at the various scientific observatories at
different places recorded the hour.
The new system is readily explained.
Hereafter there will be only five sets of
“times” among all the principal towns
of this continent. The country has
been divided off into live parallel sec
tions, running north and south, each
section being fifteen degrees of longi¬
tude in width, representing just °
one
hour’s time by the passage of the sun.
The sections will be designated as the
Eastern, the Atlantic, the Valley, the
Mountain and the Pacific. The Eastern
will comprise all that part of the conti¬
nent lying between a line which passes
near the city of St. John, N. B., and the
Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic section
will comprise the seaboard States from
Maine to Florida, on the east, and the
tier of States from Ohio to Alabama on
the west, also the Lower Lakes. The
Valley section will comprise Mississippi
and Missouri Valleys, the Upper Lakes
and Texas. The Mountain region will
comprise the Rocky Mountains, and the
Pacific section wall take in what is popu¬
larly called the Pacific slope, as well as
British Columbia.
The divisions may be understood by a
little study of the following diagram :
Pacific.! Mountain Valley. Atlantic. Eastern
21
14 u.
5 50 3 1
19 10 -7 2
18 15 17 11 8
20
13
I 16 12 9
8 o’clock 9 o’clock, lo o’clock. I ll o’clock I2o’cl’k.
.
1—St. Johns. N. F.; 2—St. John, N. B.; 8—Hali
fax, N. S.; 4—Quebec; ashington 5—Toronto; 9—Charleston; 6—Boston; 7—
Now York; 8 —\\ ; lti—Buf¬
falo: 11 -Cineinnati; 12 —New Orleans; 13—St. Louis-
14—St. Paul; 15—Kansas Ci*y; 16—Galveston; 17—
Chicago; Is— Denver; 19—Salt Lake City; 20—San
Francisco; 21—Victoria.
When it is noon at 4, 5, G, 7, 8, 9 and
10, representing New York, Boston,
Washington, Charleston, Buffalo, Que¬
bec and Toronto, it will lie one hour af¬
ter noon, or 1 o’clock, at 1, 2 and 3. rep¬
resenting the two St. Johns aud Hali¬
fax. At the same time it will be one
hour before noon—11 o’clock—in the
valley region, denoted by the figures 12,
13,14, 15, 16 and 17, representing New
Orleans, St. Louis, St. Paul, Kansas
City, Galveston and Chicago. Within
all the space comprised by the mountain
region, indicated by 18 aud 19—Denver
and Salt Lake City, it will be two hours
before noon of the Atlantic region—or
10 o’clock, while in the Pacific region,
20 and 21, representing San Francisco
aud Victoria, it will be three hours be¬
fore noon by the Atlantic time, or 9
o clock.
The people of New York and Brook¬
lyn had to make but a slight change, as
these localities are near the middle of
the Atlantic region. They will set their
clocks and watches back three minutes.
The Bostonians were obliged to go back
sixteen minutes, while the Bnffalonians
advanced their timepieces fourteen min¬
utes, Washington loses eight minutes.
Chicago loses ten minutes, while Cincin¬
nati loses thirty-eight minutes.
New Orleans and Denver are the only
two towns of any note in which there
v will have to be no change, the central
meridians of the Valley and Mountain
regions, respectively, cities. passing St directly Louis
through those two minute At
a change of only one will have
to be made, and that will be on the
losing side. At 12 o clock, astronomical
time, it will be 12:01 by the new stand¬
ard time.
“The great advantage of this new
plan,” said a well-known railroad man,
“is that in traveling the mmute band of
your watch will always be correct. As
you pass from one division into another
you are not bothered with trying to
learn what is the difference in time be¬
tween the place from which you started
and your objective point. In going
from New York to Chicago you will not
have to look after Albany time and then
Bnffalo and Columbus and Chicago,
You have only at the last place to sub
tract one hour from the time your watch
shows, aud you are just right.”
---- —
So Kind.
The Island Pond (Vt.) Herald tells
the subjoined: divorce
“Among the parties to cases
heard at the recent term of our county
eourt was a couple who had been en¬
gaged in an irrepressible conflict for
months, and so bitter were they that
they would not speak one to the other.
But as soon as the decree of divorce was
made and they left to take the train, the
emancipated man took the valise of Lis
amorette to the cars and showed her the
politest attention, and although their
routes lay in different directions he ac
panied her 30 miles toward her home
when they went into am artist’s saloon
and had their pictures taken together,
and then left in opposite directions.”
Sea Cables. —A lineal descendant ol
Oliver Cromwell, the late Cromwell
Fleetwood Varley, devised the first suc¬
cessful Atlantic cable, it is said, and fore¬
told that it would be used at the rate of
fifteen words a minute, as the result of
his experiments with au ingeniously con¬
trived artificial line whereby he could
obtaiu resis ances and induction equal to
that on long cables.
He who sedulously speaks, attends, coolly pointed . 3
creates, calmly lie has answers,
and ceases when no more to say,
jS in possession of some of the best
eqnisites ji us tx.
GENERAL STEEDJIAVS title.
flow He Came <« be Called
Oiiekn.
As ye sat, one night, in 107
-
■V h it,-,a, *,„»'t«
- v > “y, l) °y» there wasn’t nn-eh
ir " T was m charge of the First tv"'• n t tc
of the -
Reserved Corps of the' 1 :vlslon
at the Esnggoud, Chickamauga. °r Redhouse bridVSVhS,^; My orders Bridge* ( ?„ ‘ 8r d
and plioit, ‘to hold tLe
General prevent the enemy from fl--, S
Thomas. The enemv
peared cannonading from and our battle front. thenortW^i The boitvI^
told to S
me that the enemy had
was against our From centre, and a great g ] !
on. the noise of fw i
judged, and rightly, rhat Thomas
sorely pressed. I felt that mv command
was needed and yet could not under
stand the absence of new orders
waited impatiently enough dayii T
tul from c ht
from near commanding noon, hoping for some word
my officer.
rather “Finally I decided to risk my neck
han see the Union army destroyed
through inactivity on my part. Calling
a council of officers and men, I explained
the situation, read my orders, told them
my should decision, and that on my shoulders
fall whatever of responsibility orde?
attached to the disobedience of
You know the inexorable military law is
‘to ask no questions, obey all orders
and accept consequences.’ I knew that
if my movement was a failure, my iude
martial ment mistaken, nothing less than court
and death awaited me. But the
battle was on, and every fibre in me said
I was wanted. We burned the bridge
and marched by the cannon’s, sound°to
Thomas’s aid. Through corn fields
thickets, and oak woods we made a fear¬
ful tramp, for no man in the command
knew the country, and our onlv guide
was the cannon’s boom.
“When I reported to Thomas he was
in despair at the loss of the key to his
position, which had just been captured
by General Hiudman’srebel corps. The
place was indicated to me by a flash of
guns and the rattle of canister on the
dry leaves of the tree under which
Thomas and I stood. It was a steep
ascent, with a densely-peopled crescent
ridge, that lay before us. There was a
forbidding thicket and an oak forest be¬
tween us and the belt of rocks that
marked the edge of the broad plateau
on which the enemy was jubilant with
victory. ‘There, there,’ said Thomas,
as the guns flashed again. ‘Now, you
sea their exact position. You must take
that ridge.’ My reply was: ‘I’ll do it.’
I11 thirty minutes after we reached the
field we were storming the rock of
Chickamauga. It was an awful contest
up that slope, every foot of which was
planted with death.
“We wont in with seven thousand five
hundred men, and only four thousand
reported for duty at the next muster.
We went up, up, till we reached the
summit, and planted ourselves there to
stay. It was a terrible hot place, and
we made the plateau a lake of blood be¬
fore we drove Hindman back. I rode
back and reported to Thomas. I was
bloody from head to foot. He clasped
my hand, and said with great emo¬
tion: ‘General Steedman, you have
saved my army. I got my stars not
long afterward, aud that’s about all
there was to it. Yes, it was a big risk
I ran, but I was right, and I know it.”
As he rode to battle that day, he met
General Granger, who said frequently.
“Sted, old boy, it’s going to be hot in
there. If anything should happen,
have you any requests to make of me?”
The vein of sentiment was running deep
in the questioner's heart, but the practi¬
cal soldier responded in words that have
since been memorable:
“Yes, General Granger; if I fall in the
fight please see my body spelled decently in
buried and my name correctly
the newspapers,” and deliberately
spelled it.
A Drunkard’s Wife.
The Supreme Court of Iowa has given
practical application ill a recent decision
to the old proverb, “As you make your
bed so you must lie down in it.” John
York made a contract with Susan Mosier
by which she was to become his wife
and he was to make pecuniary provision In
for her. They were duly married.
les» than two months the bride aban¬
doned her husband on account of his
drunkenness, Soon after John died,
al id the widow sought to eniorce the
terms of the antenuptial contract; but
the comt decided against her. It at¬
pears that John was a drunkard ^ before
the marriage, and the court held that
the wife was not justified in leaving
him; that, in short, she had not lived up
to her part of the agreement. The
widow urged in extenuation that he had
promised before marriage that he would
reform, but the court answered: “His
failure to keep this promise did not jus
tifv her in deserting him. All the world
knows that such promises, made by a
drunkard, are always broken. Iu a
words, as she knowingly marries a drunk¬
ard, she should be content to be a drunk¬
ard’s wife. ” The decision in this par¬
ticular case seems to be a hardsiup, oil
the lesson contained in it should be
taken to heart by women who have not
yet elected to become the wives ot drunk¬
ards.
Houses. —How many years, asks the
English journal Land , must elap&e
fore the entire surface of Great Britain
shall be covered witn houses? lorty
years ago we built 40,000 bouBes btuM per
annum in Great Britain; now we
more than 80,000. During the forty
years we
million houses, which are amount of the
to be worth double the
national debt.”
JSSVSBTSf —As a means of
P^keTlharleston. «t> “°”£
immigration that is
temata watches of fiitv acres.