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VOL. XIX.
JI CHRISTMAS TALE
Os the Dark Days of the War.
BY MONTGOMERY M. FOLSOM.
For The Constitution.
Come, children, draw your chairs up close to
the fire and I will tell you a tale of a Christ
mas that came long ago. It was just at the
close of the darkest days of the great civil war.
We were but three, Annie and Jane, that
was tnyself, and our dear, good mother. There
was another, but he was far away among the
Snow-clad mountains, following the straggling'
temnants of Stonetrail Jackson’s legions.
That was our father, whom
we children scarce remembered, he had been
away so long. But mother remembered him,
and she often told us how he looked, what i
color was his hair, and how soft and sky blue
was his eyes,and what a beautiful brown beard
he wore. She had never forgotten iiow he
inarched away so gaily, three long years bo;
fore, promising to come back when tho yan
kecs should be driven far beyond the Potomac
river, when peace should reign and the south- 1
ern confederacy should stand queen regnant
among the American nations. She had kissed
him adieu with a tear in her eye, but
with a throb of pride in her
girlish heart as she thought of how he would
feme day come with laurels and
covered with glorious victory. She was young
then, much younger than at this time, for
every one of those three sad years had placed a
decade of age on her fair, sad brow.
At first we got letters regularly,
we could not understand when. bur motbei;
read them to us, only by the workings of. her
expressive countenance, as the letter toK of
gallant charges or dark reverses. Then, on
v every birthday of our father, there was abftx
sent “to camp,” and such rare sport
.as we had, dimpling bisettitsfe. with our
, • chubbyfingers So that papa maysee tile imprint
of the Jiand of the darlings, which mamma '
explained in the long loving letters that it took
Her" so Jong' to write. Christmas it was the
same thing, until the last Christmas, when the
supply of biscuits were not so bounteous, and
the socks were of cotton instead of wool.
We knew not how it came about. Wo were
too young to realize it. We could only tell
that’'the heaps of corn in the crib were not
near so high the second year as the first, and
■we had plenty of room to play at hide-and-seek
in the nooks and corners of the big building.
But there came a day, and that had not
been very long hgo, when a man drove up to
the gate, in a big hurry, one. morning, and in
a short while all our pretty things were tied
up in bundles, of jamtuQd in boxes and bas
kets, and they would not even let us takbftur
playthings, and then mamma got into the wag
on, crying all the time, and we said good bye
to the'trees and the rose boshes and all the
"things about the place, and the man lifted us
into the wagon and popped his whip and drove
away. .
' This was in the summer time. I know that,
(because the corn was just being stripped of the
fodder, and we laughed as wo saw the men
throwing the big bundles on to a stack where
a man was trampling them down, and all of
them were whooping and halloing and having
a good time.
Mamma told us that the big man who drove I
the wagon was our uncle, and that lie was go- I
ing to carry us to a new home, many miles I
away.
f Oh, that was a gay old trip. The sun shone :
hot at noon, but there were long shady places, ■
and sometimes a cloud would cross the sun, 1
and we would watch till we saw the sunshine [
coming, and then we would clap our hands !
and say, “I saw it first.”
Sometimes a rain would come, and then wo •
would stop at some house till it was over. We
had never seen so many strange children in all j
our lives. One day two men passed us, and
tve heard one say:
“Refugees, you reckon?”
“Umph, humph,” answered the other, and
we asked mamma what “refugees” were, and j
sho told us a long story which I have 1
forgotten. I only remember that she i
paid we wore not quite refugees, but soon would
have been had not our good uncle come after
us.
' One night when we had camped by the road
side, mamma and Uncle; William, as we were
taught to call him, were talking earnestly and
he said;
“Well, sister, I shall not have much time to
gee you settled. My furlough is out in three
days, and it will take us hard driving to get
home tomorrw night.”
“I am sorry, William, for you oughtto spend
all the little time you have, at home.”
“The war won't last much longer,” ho re
plied, “and if I get through safe 1 don't think
I will have to go offm xt year. It is strange I
that you don't hear anything from Joe.”
Mamma covered her eyes with herhamls, and
we could see that she was deeply affected.
“Uncle Will, who is Joo?” asked Annie,
who was more forward than I.
"That is your papa, child,” said he, smiling
sadly.
“What is a furlough?” I asked timidly.
“It is the time that we are at home from |
the war, Janie; did your papa never have a >
furlough ?”
• “No, sir,” I answered.
“No, he has been gone all this long time and '
hasjue ver even hadjr furlough,” added mamma, ■
looking up through her tears.
We started before day next morning, and i
•when the sun rose, we saw that we were in a
mew laud. The oaks, and hickories, and dog- ,
.woods, and all such trees, were nearly gone, 1
and we could see for a long, long ways. The I
trees were tall and all the limbs were on top, i
and mamma said this was the pine wood-.
Well, we drove hard that day. We ate a
little cold dinner at a branch where the water I
looked almost as red as coffee, and there was |
the prettiest white sand we had ever seen, i
.While the horses were eating, we got out and I
heaped up the sand, and scooped holes, and
had a gay time.
When we arrived at onr uncle’s home that
night, it was growing dark, and we were
frightened at the big dogs that came running ;
out, barking and jumping around, and we ;
though they were going to eat us up.
It is needless to recount our experience ;
there. Our aunt was a big, fat j
•woman with a smiling face that was |
always smiling, and she had a sort of ,
cunning tremor in her voice that wax so moth
erly and good that we all loved her. She
Called our mamma “Lizabeth,” and we could !
not understand that, for we had always heard
her called “Mis’ Lizzie” by the negroes and j
Mrs. Jordan by the neighbors.
Weil, wo were very hungry, and that com- ■
bread and beef were awful good, and we
* ate just as much as we wanted, ai.d
aunt said, “Poor little things, they
, aire so hungry, and we haint ,
got nothin’but this’ere fur’em to cat.” She ■
wiped her as she spoke, and wc won
dered how such a smiling face could look sorry. ;
On the next day our uncle carried us, and |
all our things to a home about half a mile I
from his home, and aunt went along, and they j
both helped mamma to fix up. Thro were;
on! v two moms, and one of them we had tn
live in, and the other was our kitchen and
dining room.
And the funniest chimneys you ever saw.
Tlicv wer made of ‘ticks and clay, ai d lo ,ked ,
like they “had ribs,’’ Annie said.
• ♦ • • •
“It is hard times, pjecioiw one«,” «id .
mamma, “and our Christmas will not be a jolly :
She had got to Poking poor and thin, of late, ,
aud we could see that afro was no; strong like |
she was when wo come to live in uncle’s
house. We had gos accustomed to the long
grass and big trees, and all the queer things
now, and were as content as could be.
We had had some nice drie<y?eef, and most
every day we had peas for dinner, and coin
bread, and every once in a while
our aunt sent us some- ' potatoes,
big, old. red, rough fellows that she tilled
“nigger killers,” and, as there wereAo negroes
there, we wondered if the potatoefliad killed
them all. Annie asked aunt the question one
day, and aunt laughed till she cried, and then,
took Annie up and just hugged her.
ißut supplies had got short of late, and
mamma would save the broken bread and
slew it up with a bit of meat for breakfast!
Aunt called* this “eoosh,” which made us
laugh.
The wintry days had come, 4 and tlio
grass looked dead, and the great
pine tops hid the sun, and there
werb only a few little bright spots
where we would go and play and Keep warm.
! The lipe.f had given out some time ago, for we
werofft the kitchen when mamma toqk-down
the last big marrow bone, and we heard hot
sigh deeply as she looked back at tiro vacant
space.
We had not heard from Uncle William in a
long time, and aunt began; to joolc troubled
when she would come to our house, and
though she did not look weak and thin like
mamma, she' did not laugh as much as she did
at first. It did look pretty bad, for
one morning wo had to eat bread
and buttermilk, which aunt seat us, and
we did not have any meat to put in the dish.
At dinner we had a little piece, and lots of
turnips, but at supper momma said that wo
would just eat what was left over from diaper.
When mamma spoke about Christmas wq
remembered about Santa Claus, and Annie
said, "Mamma, do Santa-Claus come to Uncle
L Will’s house?”
“1 don't know*baby,” said mamma; “Ihope
he will."
I knew something was going to happen, for
. I had seen mamma making two pretty rag dolls
cut of some scraps, and she hid them
when I came . up, and I guessed they
‘•were for Christmas, for I was older
than Annie.
It was Christmas eve, and the evening was
closing cold and dismal. The wind made won
derful noises among the pines, and when the
sun went down it was red and just shone a lit
tle below- tlio dark cloud banks that had cov
ered the skies all day.
Just before dmfc onc-efreur cousins brought
us a hogshead, and told us that aunt said she
I had two, and that she would send us one, and
that when she got them ready she would send
us some chitlings.
“ This will be • our turkey, as
the darkeys say,” said mamma,
as she put.it away. “Come, now, let’s bring in
a heap of wood and keep a warm fire, and we
will roast some potatoes for our suppgr, and to
morrow wc will have a line dinner.”
We had plauty of wood. There,was no lack
of that. It was all around and about the house,
and fortnnate it was, for we had to strike tire
witii a flint apd an'old file, if it went out, so
’ Wo civ,-ays kept it burning.
• That niglit we sat by the fire and ate roasted
potatoes, and mamma told us stories of how
she had enjoyed Christmas in her
old home. She told how our papa and Uncle
Will used to play all sorts of tricks. That was
before Uncle Will camo to this place to live,
because he was fond of hunting and fishing
and liked to raise cattle and hogs.
When we started to bed Annie said:
I “Mama, must we hangup our ’tockin’s?”
I “IT:., if you wish,” said mama, the tears
I filling her eyes. “Must I hang up mine?” I
I asked, for I doubted whether Santa Claus
| knew the way to our house or no.
“Yes, hang them up,” and mama dropped
I. her head and began crying. She cried a great
i deal these days.
"Don’ cwy, mama,” said Annie, putting her
: arms around her . neck, “Santa Taus put
i sump’ll’ in oo tockin’, too.”
I Then mama hung up our stockings, and we
j begged her to hang up hers, but she said it had
i a hole in it, and then Annie got a string and
j told her to tie it up, and finally, after long per
i sua-ion, she agreed.
i When we said our prayersjmama said: “Ask
! the good Lord to send us papa for our Christ
| mas,” and little Annie lisped out:
“Dood Lo’d, p’ease put our papa in mama’s
’tockin’.
We slept very soundly.
The wind sighed and moaned among the
trees, and there were no sounds of revelry such
as were wont to enliven this lonely country
during such festive times.
It was almost daylight when I was awaken
ed by some one calling outside, and at the same
time Annie jumped up and cried:
“Oh, mama! It’s a runaway nigger.”
“Hush,” said I, “it may be a yankee;” and
just then a voice at the door said:
| “Let mo in, it’s Joe, Lizzie.”
| “Oh, my husband!—Janie! Annie!—papa’s
come, papa's come!” and she was out
bed and at the door, and by the grayish light I
could see her hugging a great big, old man.
Annie began crying, and I whimpered for
sympathy, but not for long, for this same old
; rough, long-whiskered man had hold of us
I and was ju. t kissing us all over.
Well, we soon had a roaring fire, and while
J the dawn broke in the east, we sat and dubi-
I ously gazed on that ragged man, while he
i talked and talked and told. Ho talked
I about being captured, and said a
whole lot about parole, and
1 how he had met Uncle Will, and how he had
| a parole, and a lots of things that I could not
I understand.
I At last Annie ventured up to him, and as she
sat there on his knee she blinked at him, and
. said :
“Papa, is oo dot a furlough?”
I “Yes, my dear one, I’ve got a long furlough,
i Sherman is in Savannah, by this time, and the
I war is over.”
I Well, I have enjoyed many a Christmasdin
| nor since then, but that hog’s head and those
! chitlings, and the turnips and cornbread that
wc had on that Christmas day, was the best I
ever partook of.
Odd Ways of Russians.
, From the Omaha Bee.
When Russian friends meet they kiss twke,
; once on either chock. The men greet each other in
i this way, the same as women. Frequently I have
: S'tn g eat burly Russian'’, with flowing beards,
j smoking strong cigars, meet and kiss each other so
] affectionately that their lips gave out sounds like the
sjnetion valves in air pumps. Sometimes they for
j get to take their pipes or cigars from their mouths,
1 and the collisions arc amusing to the spocia’or.
A Russian never thinks of announcing himself at
tiiedoor. He enters without knocking, and if he
find- the or c ; pant of the room is not expecting him
Dini dr/'s not les’.re his presence he -imply itsdown
and wall-, as if be expected to be lifted up by the
shoulders and heaved out.
1 have never. e n a lightning rod in Russia. This
; i-not lx? the cls no lightning here,but because
the people do not believe in rods to conduct to the
' ground tho deadly bolts. They believe it would be
j trifling with the inevitable and defying the invlKi
t Me. I believe Ajax cuue from another part of tnc
; globe than this.
Ntt.sby on the Grasping Capitalists.
From aIP ut I’uper.
I hate a capitalist, no matter how he hecnm
I sc.fuv beer, te ac‘.: .r and cards, ond bUyards, and ;
- hez ground enough out of the world to have a shop ’
i - j b r..::* ar - rnonop^l->ll and the cue- i
j LXIV4 Vi labor, and .. j
ATLANTA, GA., TUESDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1887
’ SUPAY BE>
£ *
I
. BY BETSY HAMILTON.
■ Written for The Constitution.
(
l m«ut. Oul'giir.g is a'fixin’ up now to have a
: {.reo mid a ladder ami old Santa Clause at the
i Cross Roads school house. After it comes off
I’ll toll you all about it. But it don’t seem to
I me we’uns can ever have as much fan as wo
had last. Christmas at Miss Roberson’s party,
i time they got such a goed joke on Tom Davis.
Dore supper they played “Tucker;’ and
’ . “twistiucation,” and all sieh as that to the
; tune of the fiddle, so aS to give the church
) members a chance to dance. . Tiien after sup
per they started up some' kissin’ games.
>' “Less all play ‘Cqlifonioy blindfold’,” says
• Cloudy Strong, and she whispered to me: “I
want to get a joke on old Tom Davis; he’s
been atryin’ lo cote me, and he’thinks his
, se'f so smart.”
“Less all play Californey blindfold!,”
I says she to the crowd. “Make all
' the boys go out and come in one at a time,
; and bo blindfolded, and guess which one of
the gals kisses him.”
“Good,” says Tom Davies, “I know whose a
gwinc to kiss me.”
Mandy she gave mo a pinch. The boys
wpnt out. They let Bill Gooden in first, give
him a cheer in the middle of the floor, blind
folded him, and the gals tuck holt of hands
' and marched all around him and sung: “I
' measure my love to show you, for you have
gained the day.” Somebody smacked him
1 right dab in the mouth and run. They 011-
kivered his eyes, and ho made three guesses—
but didn’t guess the right one.
1 Then they let in another boy, blindfolded
him, sung and marched around,’when in walk
ed old black Mamiiij- Hester the cook, kissed
liiin quick and run.
Bill Gooden looked cheap but of course ho
1 wouldnt tell,—misery loves company. They
kepa coinin’ in, and every time old Hester
1 black and greasy as pots and skillets could
make her would kiss'em and run out in t'uo
kitchen. Last they let in Tom Davis. He
thinks so much more of Jiisself than anybody
• “else thinks of him, they was all glad
of a chance to take him down, in pertickler
Mandy. “Blindfold me; I bet I ken guess,”
says he.
’They tied the hankerchief tight, marched
around and sung, and old Hester crept in, and
just as she kissed him. “That’s mighty
sweet,” says he, and grabbed her. “It’s Miss
Mandy (raising the handkerchief); it's Miss
Man—dog-gone your black skin.” and ho made
a break for old Hester, but she cleared the door
and didn't wait to hear what else he had to
say.
The crowd laughed and ho was plagued so
’ ho jumpt on bis ridiu’ critter and went a (lyin’
home. When he found out it was Mundy dune
it, he never had no more use for her and com
menced a fakin' on about me.
One Sunday evening in June alter that, we
| ’uns at our house was all a fixin’to go to the
singin’ school. A stranger up that at the
school house was a teachin’ flic do-ray-mces
and far-so-lars, and we was in a most crazy to
learn how to sing. I didn't keer so much for
larnin’ to sing, but I knowed in reason Cap
Dewberry or Iky Roberson or some of the boys
would ax me for my company home.
Nobody over tliar hadn't saw my new pink
caliker frock trimmed in white domestic, bias
folds, and I knowed it would take thcr eye, so
I diked out in it. I starched my face white
and coinbed my head slick, and put on my hat
with a red rose pinned on wliar it turns up at
the side.
My Sunday shoes pap give a dollar and a
quarter for was bran new, and screeched loud,
you could hear ’em all over the house.
I taken up my little piece of broke lookin
glass off’n the shelf, looked at my
self and was a wonderin if
Cap Dewberry wouldn’t think I was
mighty pretty when 1 beam somebody step up
in the entry. I was shore it was Cap Dew
berry. I thought I knowed his walk. Ho
knocked on the side of the house with his
ridin’ switch.
Then I beam pap ax him to have a cheer. I
hurried up and taken off my Sunday hat, put
a little more starch on my face, looked in the
glass, pinched my cheeks, bit my lips and
looked in the glass agin, then walkea out in
the entry, and lo! and behold, there stood
Tom Davis.
After me and hint howdyed ho gig
gled and his face turned red. I jist wish
you could er saw him. Hun and his Sunday
clothes didn’t pear to be acquainted, they sot
out sorter stiff from him like him and them
wasn’t used to one another. You see his mam
my cut his breeches by a pair of bis daddy’s
old ones, and they was too big in the legs and
too short, and showed his homo knit socks that
bung in wrinkles over his brogan shoes. Ills
coat was so short in the waist the buttons
struck him half way up his back. His speck
led calikershirt was so stiff it rattled Hko a
newspaper ever time he moved, and his paper
collar rid high on his neck and tried to cut Ids
years in two. Ho was monstrous proud of his red
check cravat and kept a tyin’ and a on-tyin’ of
it. He chawed up his riflin’ switch
his feet fust one side then tother as restless as
a horse in fly time. I seed by the way ho ac
ted that there was somc’n on his mind ho
wanted to say and couldn't exactly git his mouth
to go off. 1 sot still mid said nothin’. Ho
chawed and chawed on his ridin’ switch, and
broke it into a thousand little pieces. Thon I
thought I’d say sump'n; and while I was a
fixin up sump’n to say he moved his cheer over
Closter to mine.
Jist then I hearn Flurridy Tennysey in the
shed room say: “Thar now, he’s done moved
his cheer right fenient tlio ladder, and I cant
git up in the loft to git my Sunday coat.”
Tom run both hands down in
his breeches pockets, stretched his
legs out straight, and said:
"Miss Betsy, ar—ar—rar will you accept of
the pleasure of my company to the singin’ this
evenin' ?"
Now I was most crazy to go, and was so dis
appointed 1 wanted to cry, but I didn’t want to
go a stalkin'up that longer Tom Davis and
have ever body laughin’ at me, so 1 says, says
I, “I don’t believe I keer about gwitie this ev
enin'.”
Calledony and buddy was a peepin’ around
the end of the piazer. Tom was a
settin’ with his back to them ami didn’t see
cm’. He didn't see nor hear nothin’but mo.
He took for granted in a minute,
: bekase I said I wasn’t agwino, that I wanted
I to stay home with him. I seen it and was
■ mad ns blazes, but 'twos too lato then. I i
' couldn't help myself tiien. Hepeartened up I
■ and’poured to take heart. “Well,” says ho, I
I “Um mighty glad you don't want to go. 1 I
! don't want to go nuther if you don’t. I !
druther stay here longer you as to go any-
I whars,” says he, a giinnin’like a baked pos- I
I sum. He hitched his cheer up a little cluster |
to me till 1 was afeared he'd upset the ladder I
"Gue;a what I fetched you,” says he. I ,
knowed Caledony and buddy was a |
I Ib.ienin’; 1 wasafeared to look towards ’em; I
my face turned red and never made him no I
answer. “Guess,” says ho—“can't youguess?” 1
“I don’t know.” says I—"what is it?”
“1 got sump’n to tell you,” says he. “Is :
“I’m sheered to tell you,” says he; feared i
! you won't believe it.”
•What is. it?” says I.
"I’m a great mind not to tell von, says he, 1
. >::■>• i v.en’t gue,s. It’s mighty sweet, but j
i “Is Itcamly I’” says I. (For 1 never seed I
him that he wasn’t a chawin’ on a piece of pep
permint candy.) “O,no, 'tain’t no candy,”
says he; “it’s better’ll candy;
but ’tain’t nigh as sweet as
you air;” “What is it?” says I. “Hits pow
erful good but taint nigh as goodjas you air.”
"Well,'' says I “wliat upon earth is it?”
’* powerful but not nigh os I love
you,’ says he a bhtslun clean down to his
paper collar, and ho drawed a little red June
1 apple out'n his coat picket and handed it t
• me. “I bin a savin Uns anplo three days fur
yon,” says he “I fetched it to try your fortune
, with.”
• •’ my fort .me,” says T, how?” Why
fling the pce’in over your head and see
what letter it makes, —the letter will be
the entitles of your sweet hearts name;
I Thenxoimt the seedand see if ho loves you.”
. 1 was dyin’ to laugh.
Caledoiiy and Buddy was gigglin' they fool
solved to death, and I wanted to choke ’em.
Tom drawed out his barlow knife, peeled
the apple and handed the peelin’ to me. I
I flung it round my head three times and landed
it over in the floor. It made nC,
i “That don’t count,” says Tom, “that dqjr’t
count} it had ortor made a T.; try it over
agin,”
, I triedit oyer and it made another C. “It’s
a C„” says I, “a plain C.”
I “Do C-stan’ for Cap Dewberry?” says Tom,
, lookin’ doleful. •
•T don’t know,” says I.
“Well,” says he, “the peelin don’t count
no how, its the seed that tells fortune,—less
< name ’em. I name ’em, you and you name
’emmO.”
: I laughed and never said nothing bnt I
i named it Cap to myself. He cut it open and
laid the seed out on my fan one at a time and
i counted ’em,
“Eight they both love! “says he, and ho
, look 'd like he’d take a fit.” These yer little
red June apples is most’allors got Jeight seed, I
knowed in reason thfs’n would have eight and
thats why I fetch it. Now less count and see
how long it will be.”
“How long what will be!” savs I.
“How long Igo to wait for yon,” says he.
(Ho neared to thinlc there was no gittin out’n.
it.) “Don’t you know how to count that?”
“No,” says I, “How?” “Why you counts
that on your knuckles, if you got eight seed,
you count eight. (Counts on his knuckles
weeks, months, years—it comes out months.)
"Months,” says lie,.“l’m glad it ain’t years.”
“1 reciiiil you ken git ready time I sell my
fust bale of cotton?”
Jist then pap stuck his head out and lowed,
“Es you’ns is a gwino to that tliar singin its
high time you was off.”
“We ain’t a gwine,” says I. Tom was cer
tain then I wanted lo stay homo longer than
him.
It was a hot evenin’. I thought may bo it
was a fixin’to rath, fer 1 never seed the like
of flies. I noticed Tom’s head looked oncom
mon slick. He’s got one onruly lock that
stands up stiff all to itself on top of his head.
That evenin’ it was plastered down tight. He
kep’ slappin’ at the flies.
‘• Miss Betsy,” says Tom, a twistin’ bis knife
in h’.i hand. “My ma thinks a heap er you.”
“Does she?” says I.
“Yes she do, she think rr.o<’ much er you ns
er me.” “Miss Betsy, I’m ewme to
name a name and see if you don’t think
it’s pretty. How do you like the name of Bet
sy Davis ?” [Slapping at the flics.)
“The flies is mighty bad,” says I, for I seed
they was a pesterin’ of him powerful.
“I bin a lovin’ of yon (slap) ever sence
(slap) the candy pullin’ (slap) at Miss Rober
son’s," says he. "What’s got into the flics?”
says I. “1 never seed’em so bad ; ’pears like
they are tryin’ to cat you bardacionsly up.”
“I dnnno what they want, or me” (slay), says
ho. “I hain’t so sweet (slap); looks like they
had orter bite you instead er me (slap). H’it
shorcly ain’t mo they arc after (slap);
it must bo those hero fool (slap)
’lasses I greased my head with
I know in reason it’s nothin’, but tine’s
lasses that’s a drawin’ those hero tarnatal flies
(slapping with both hands). They arc gittin’
wuss and wusser. I believe I'll have to go
homo and wash my head for over I can git
shot of ’em,” and with that ho riz to go.
“Don’t go,” says I, “set longer.”
“No, I’m blccgo to you. I must go. I’ll como
back again next Sunday if I live and luck’s
well.” ife holt out his hand and fit flies with
tother. “Goodbye, Tom,” says I, "be sure
and como back.” When ho was out of
sight I thought Caledony and buddy would
kill theyselvcs a laughin’ at me.
He did come back next Sunday—but Cap
Dewberry was ahead of him.
The Most Beautiful American Woman.
From the Cincinnati Commercial Gazette.
Washington, December 19—When the snow
began Mrs. Cleveland was shopping on the avenue.
She was walking from store to store with one of her
guests, whom she always takes along to make a
c<n rest with herown prettiness, she is a fast walk
er, and made her friend trot to keep up with her.
She was plainly dressed in a Ught-littlng stilt, with
small, modest hat and no wraps. In the gown and
jacket her beautiful figure showed off to perfection,
and even with her slender waist and girlish contour
one seeing her upon the afreet can hardly believe
her own statement that she weighs 170 pounds. But
she is a large woman, and taller than her husband,
and when with him looks taller from her erect car
riage and well-proportioned figure, awl his enor
mous girth and general wealth of adipose tissu ■.
Once Mrs. Cleveland paused to enter into business
negotiations with an urchin selling peacock hither
ornaments. She handled toe different bunches, and
asked the prices.
Her friend became nervou > 1 e 'aus.? of the gather
| ing crowd and staring eye-, an I said, "Come on,
Frankie; don’t you see what a crowd you are col
lecting?"
‘'That's all light,” was the cool reply. “I can’t
help it.”
tibe selected a bunch, paid a dime for It, taking
the money from a gold ornamented alligator skin
pocketliooz as long as a jadiceuiun’s club, and the
two ladles sloped into a saddlery and horse milline
ry store, and began examining horse blankets, stir
rups, and bits, while the crowd slowly melted away-
When they were all gone, Mrs. Cleveland and her
friend again ventured out upon the street and walk
cd until another crowd gathered, and then they
took final refuge in a jewelry store.
From there, u < the snow began coming down las
er, they took abe die to the while hen- ", and Mrs.
Cleveland passed up her fare to a colored man to
deposit In the box. Neither, the colored man nor
anybody else in the herdlc Lad any Idea who the I
young lady was, but the whole j arty became very I
wide awake as to her Identity when she and her
companion alighted at the white house and scam
pered up the broad walk through the fast falling
snow. Mrs. Cleveland nt once made things lively '
in the white house. There was ringing of bells and |
: hurrying of servants and grrxims, and within half
I an hour the big old white bouse s • Igh, which hns I
been stored away nnused for t coral years, was
brought out, with horses and bells and robes, and i
i Mrs. Cleveland and parly jumped in and started out |
on a gay trip to Oak View an 1 Grasslands, just as
| the sky cleared and the new moon shone forth.
To be young and healthy, and pretty and wealthy,
I an 1 the first lady in the land In the foremost nation ;
in the world, and a', the sumo time to take n sleigh
I ride with roft rol»cs, gliding runners, music J bells, I
! and the silver crescent of a new rnO'rn showing trap- !
! pily over her right shoulder, is not given to many i
! women In this life. Yet, the D.rd blest her, the I
: people, whether they take kindly to her husband or
; not, aro glad to oce so much liappiucsa condensed >
i luVj one young and Innocent Hie.
Now Party.
I Philadelphia has a pie eater who swallows
I fifty pie- at a sitting, lie mud be a leader of the
I Gmuv.u rqs.. I
What Came of an alvcvhOF
By K. J. HARDIN.
Written for The Constitution!• ;
“Till Hymen brought his lore delighted hour
There dwelt no joy tn Eden's rosy bon or.
The world was sad, the garden was awild
And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled.” ■
—Campbell.
Tn the early part of the summer, 188—, I
was advised by my physician to quit the city
in which I resided and find lodgings in the
country, where pure fresh air. morning and
evening walks in tho shady groves, moonlight
drives over smooth roads, picnics on the banks
of limpid streams or an evening meal|’neatli,
umbrageous boughs by starlight might invig
orate my overtired brain and give new life to
my fagging constitution. Ido nit intend to
say that tho chi doctor recommended nil'
of the above programme, but as ho expressed
it in liis laconic way, "country uir'and country
diet is the life of invalids amt yon must begin
a period of rustication in shflrt order.” 1
I had spent tlio twenty live years of my life
in a gay and fashionable city. Nothing ap
peared tamer to me than descriptions of tho
country, for through descriptions alone Iliad
received wlmt impressions I Bad of nature’s
loveliest handiwork. To my profession—that
of a journalist—l had been assiduous since the
brief rent from the close of a college course a
few years previous and added to tho duties a
society young man is compelled to give to bls
young friends was the direct cause which ne
cessitated my consulting the old family physi
cian on that beautiful morning in Muy. I say
I had a rather taino opinion of the country.
This was trim and fain would I have re
mained nt homo choosing rather to "en
duro tho ills that be,” had not the
intercession of my mother gotten the better of
my preferences ami set mo to arranging at
on e for an early departure. It is not often
you can find a young man reared amongst tho
gaieties of city life and always participating in
the same, give them all up wifhout a murmur.
Neither did I, for with nil my boasted resigipi
tion to fate, when tho time arrived for mo to
turn niy hack upon home, for an indefinite
period, with all its sweet and dear associations
Licit
“How sweet ’tls to sit neath a fond father's smile,
Aud the nines ot n inot'.ier lo s .oth and beguile.
Let others delight 'mid now pleasures to roam,
•But giwo me, oh, give me the pleasures of home.
Tho decree had gone forth, and after a short
delay my name was registered at Cottonville,
a pretentious- little crossroads village, with
two churches, a parsonage, blacksmith shop,
three stores, and tho boardinghouse, tho pride
of all tlmUottonvilliaiis, on ncebimt of the eoat
of white paint and green blinds, whirdi could
bo seen for several miles Mound, and which
lent a charm, to the otherwise unpreposossing
surroundings. Those who knew, or thought
they did, said Cottonville was tho place. The
air was good, tho water, according to analjsis,
was just the thing, and board -a very un
healthy artidle of digestion at many summer
rosoi'ts—could bo obtained at . nominal figures.
All * fo".’id ti-.vq after a few days’ trial.
Bntdnil— I thought I would be consumed with
ennui. A few other boarders lounged
around the place and among them wasp young
attorney from Georgia, Robert L. Moore, who
bad recently gr idimted nt the univeksity of
his state with considerable honor, hi him I
found congeniality of spirit, and wo grew
rapidly to regard each other as friends. He
was a young man of rare intellectual faculties
and plea: ing address, with a broad forehead,
arched brow and) laughing eyes that often
sparkled with merriment as ho would relate
experiences of colli go life. Between us there
was a lasting attachment formed that was in
after years destined to wax stronger and
warmer. Time wore on and after awhile coun
try sports, which fascinated at first, began to
lose their charms for mo. I longed again
to return home ami contrast the graceful fig
ures and beautiful faces of our city belles with
their rosy cheeked country cousins. My health
was rapidly coining back to body and mind
the tingling blood mounting in rose bud hue to
cheek and browand bounding with electric
force throughout tho body, which but for the
mental inaction begotten of the place would
have given mo unspeakable joy. The picnics
bad lost their enchantment, I be evening walks
their pleasure and tho moonlight toto-a-tetes
their novelty. To return home, was impossible,
for that terrible scourge, yellow fever, had
como like a sleuth-liound hi tlicnight, and set
tied over the city. The inhabitants of my old
home had been “scattered like roses in bloom.”
and there was no other alternative but to be
resigned lo tho society of my rural friends.
"I cannot stand it any longer,” said Moore
to mo one morning, aswe lingered on thovine
clad portico reading and discussing the situa
tion. “Tills dullness is killing me. Every
tiling is as quiet and still as though a storm
bad just blown over. Suppose,” said he, rising
from his scat and suddenly facing me, "we
have some genuine fun and a few Jove scraffes
to boot, if need lie, for the next few weeks.”
I was quite willing for anything to drive dull
care away, and being of a romantic turn of
mind, was ready to lend a hand to any game
which the young colonel could devise. But
how was it to bo inaugurated ?
"Certainly,” I replied. “You do not mean
to pay your respects and love-making to tho
ugly young girls, cross eyed old girls, ignorant
young maidens and knowing old maidens in
thi.i unprepossessing place?”
His answer was » request to wait a few days
and tiien 1 would sec for myself.. Tim week
wore heavily <m. On morning Bob entered my
room pointing triumphantly to an advertise
; merit in the Daily Broadax. It read as fol
lows:
Dersonnl.
rnwo voi'N’GciATi.i-; :en, pjch, handsome
I. and ace nnpllshed, de-.ire young lady corre
spondents. Niue need apply exiept those of uc
knowlod red beimty, not over twenty years of age,
and In all eus-:i photos must be ex-hnnged. Address
“Brothers,” lock Lox 17, Cottonville.
“What do you think of that?” he said, after
I bad perused tho advertisement.
“Conscience was at n low ebb when you
wrote it, for 1 am neither rich, handsome or
intelligent.”
“Oh, well, it is not necessary to confine ones
self strictly to facte—and I’ll admit 1 did not—
when you address young If to the modern young
lady. You know they have dispense<l with
the idea of Jove and go in for finance. Wo
have something more to say tban| ‘Barkis is
willin' to these gaudy butterilys; wo must
have tempting bakto display for them.” After
a short pause, he added, “if that don't bring
I them down with their sweetest smiles ana
I wordi, I'll give up my faith in printer's ink.” I
A few days after tlx: advert! emciit made its
first appearance in tho Broadax, tho servant
I brought up from the little three by four post
! Office a Inigo pack of letters, and with a broad
| grin doposiled most of them on my table.
To have the little, ruse properly understood
Moore aud 1 agreed Unit wo should equally di
vide the letters before they were opened, and
their reply to as many as plensod our fancy.
I had never heard of my new friend before
j tlie meeting nt Cottonville. Ho was there for
I a summer vacation witii an old aunt, who kept
j tho before mentioned boarding lajuse. Strange
I it i.eems to mo now dial 1 should never have
j made no inquiry dirm Uy as to his family
; and home, but it seemed to boa
I matter about which neither of us felt specially
I interested. Beside from my having found out |
1 that lie was an attorney at law, and a few |
; other minor points, nothin;.'of lib past life or
i its corinectieiis whs known to me.
It was iiis custom to meet mo in my own 1
room after the mail wus in and there we !
would often sit reading and chatting over tho [
I events of tho day for several hours before tea. [
I Upon tho particularevening of tlio arrival of |
; flu! bundle of letters, installment number one it
might appropriately bo termed, Moore win
| later than u-. ial making his appearauyo. Aux. |
PRICE FIVE GENTS.
ions as I was to explore tho contents of soma
of the delicate looking billet doux, I would
take no advantage and restlessly awaited hia
coming. But 1 hud not long to wait.
“I intercepted’ the post boy,” he said, taking
a seat in the big Mm chair by the window,
'and was so fortunate us to receive a letter
from homo. Tho pressure was irresistible, and
I lingered by the way to read its contents. I
also saw the fruits ot our recent labors, or a*
least a part of them, and am now ready to lay
open their suo.wy pages and read onr fates.”
Accordingly the letters were divided as her
agreement and from their contents wo were to
form our conclusions and select our correspou
donts. It was indeed iuterestiug to road some
’of them; others were slushy, nut especially
was I struck with the contents of one. 1 had
no idea who the writer was, but through an
unexplainable desire to solve the mystery and
know tho one whose hand would trace such A
soantly worded note, I slipped it <wuy in my
Inside coat pocket, saying nothing at all about
it to Moore. There was the slightest chance
of meeting the fair young Hebe, but I deter
mined to know her mid seo her if life lasted.
All others beside it was tame reading to me.
She wrote:
I iuu tempted to answer your “nersouah” tliongti
I half suspect you are twoold bachelors with dari’.etl
socks and threadbare pants trying to entrap aonie
inmioent girl Into your dirty dingy parlor. Bnt ,
1 'll not go, that's sure though 1 don’t mind corres
liomling with you for fim, rind if you’ll be real
clever and promise not to look too rusty 111 let you
eomo to see mo some time mid introduce you to my
big Inother—a elever specimen of whut a brother
should bo who bus a real pert Ltile sister. Tho
‘‘brother " Into whoso bauds this fulls may address
for the present. Rosa Rowland,
Care Belleview Institute.
* C-- - ■
I wrote at, once. Moore found a correspon
dent, too, and felt in a liottor humor than for
several days oyer the prospects for fun. la
time a reply camo and with it a picture in ex
change for one I sent. The fuco was all that
fastidiousness could demand or an artist desire
for a model. I was more entrapped than ever,
and determined more strongly tian before to
keep my own secret.
It was now well into tho fall and .my new
made friend had taken his departure several
days, not, however, before ho had made me
promise him a visit Christmas. I Could hardly
wait the time intervening between the repliek
and answers to Rosa’s letters, and once I made
a visit to C—- in the hope tliat I could get •
glimpse at least ot the nymph which was
preying so mercilessly upon iuu vitals of my '
emotional nature. It was no use, Madam
Jaffey, they said, never allowed the young la
dies to see comply, and rarely allowed uiem
to walk tho public boulevards. I mentioned
the name once to my landlord—a knowing indi
vidual who had lived in tho town many years
and knew every settlor for miles around—in
the vain hope tliat some information could ba
gained in an indirect way about my unknown
correspondent.
“Miss Rowland? Why, of course I know
her; whb doesn't? Why,she’s the choice ot
the town, ami holds a position at that Institute
that not ono iff a thousand could 'approach.
They say she's going.-to tunrry tlio old French
professor this fail. He’s awful gmte on her,
with her every prayer meeting night, and Sun
days pinned to her apron strings. She’s too
good for him, but it’s a go, my wife says, and
then women generally knows 'bout these
tilings bettor'n we men.”
1 could stand no more. Vain, delusive
world; sad realities of life; nebulous day
dreams of hopeful anticipation dashed to
pieces when tho morning sun of happiness had
just begun to expand the tendrils of lovo and
entwine them in a garland of blissful sweet,
ncss around my erst-wliilo callous heart. To
linger was to suffer, and returning to Cotton
villo by the next train 1 determined to write
no mure letters to the coy, coquotish Rosa, ami
to go home at once.
it lacked only a few weeks of Christmas,
and 1 reserved my recent experience to tell my
friend when I should sec him. Busying my.
self with affairs incident to a return from a
lengthy visit, tho 23dof Docember was at hand
ere halt my work was gone over, and tho
lightning express over the M. & M. It. 11. was
bearing mo in tlio direction of Georgia and the
town in which Robert Moore resided.
Moore was glad to see me, ot course, but ow
ing to the lateness of tho hour 1 was conduc
ted to my apartments and consigned to tho
tender cares of Morpheus when tired nature
could reassert Itself in balmy sleep. The next
morning I was to bo Introduc' d to tho family.
Early 1 arranged my toilet thinking all the
while of tho strange coincidence that I had
never asked any questions before about who
comiMised the family.
My attention was first attracted by tho
strains of entrancing music and then a voice,
the melody of which floating on the morning
air like symphonies from one of natures
grandest concerts [caught my ear.
While listening entranced ,to tho
heavenly music, I was interrupted by the
appearance of Moore, who conducted mo at
.once into the conservatory and presented to his
mother. Then just as the last note died away
I heard him say, “My sister Rosa, Mr.
Hurpey,” and turning 1 caught sight of a fuco
which had haunted ino for weeks. It was nona
other than the face of her whom I bad known
as Rosa Rowland, impressed indelibly on my
memory by a photograph. I was sure I de
tected a recognition oil her part also, but
women are more adroit that men and conceal
their sudden impulses in a remarkably clevoS
way.
My surmise was correct. As soon as an op
portunity presented itself she said: “I see
you come to us according to the terms laid
down in my letter, not at all rusty aud a deal
younger than I supposed.”
Tills broke tho ice. Moore was called up
that our mutual confession should ho made in
his presence. A more astonished being I nev
er saw and ills fuco would have been liardet
to unravel than Egyptian hieroglyphics. But
I was determined to let her know that I know
it all and that 1 was master of the situation.
“The professor,” I said; “the French pro.
fessor. What a captivating man ho must be,
and what a lucky star hangs over him that he
should bo so fortunato.”
“Yes, he will bo married soon to my aunt.
Miss Rosa Rowland, ono of the teachers al
Belleview.”
“Then you are not Miss—”
“I am Rosa Rowland Moore, and the little
: game I played on you through my aunt may
have been wrong, but it was a temptation
that but few school girls conld resist if they
Lad the same opportunity offered to myself.”
“My sister Rosa” did not convoy tho infor
mation that the young lady before me was
more than a half sister of Moore’s, anil when I
so readily traced her taco by her picture,
though astonished, I thought I could see it all.
But now the truth had dawned upon me and 1
could see what an idiot I had been. I was
more bewitched than ever. The hours length
ened into days, tho dayn into one, two, three
weeks, and when I left there was another prom
ise made and this time it was that
when I camo again there should bo another
specimen displayed, but it was for the benefit
of thej“big brother,” and ho was to see what
a clover specimen of a husband should be,
who has a real peart Httlo wife.
It is needless to say that I will Ito exhibited,
and under the careful manipulations of sweat
: little Rosa, I think I’ll take the cake.
It Didn’t Work.
: From the Nebraska State Journal.
“Well, does your husband still drltiK ?’’
''Yes, mother, and it is worrying tlio Ute out of
xnc.’*
•'DJ’I you try tho plan of breaking bhu of tht
habit that I suggested to you?”
*‘1»11 you put whiskey In his coffee?”
' What did Uc any ?”
“lie s .1 I was the only woman he had sees
bn.* hi.-, mother diet who kutw Uort Vo iuid(
iuIM tu H should bv Wftdu,'*