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M BSjljltw ffl OW Im • • $/■ ffiSwnLlr liWSto StoK •> A«or 4R& Si%B ©'■h fi -• -s ■ • ■ 'w yW w<BJpi^ ! s^Sifcjai < jCsbai 1 Bikini lEH ' 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,'*