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VOL. XIX.
Brer Eg's Valentine.
BY WILLIAM PERKY BROWN,
Author of “James’s Weddln’,” “The Cap
tain’s Daughter," Etc.
Foil The Constitution.
Bre’r Eph was plodding along to his evening
appointment ovor on Possum Trot, when he
met young Master Harb Lind, the sixteen year
old son of his former owner, Major Lind, of
H awkspur Bend.
“lliyo Eph!” said this devotee of frolic and
mischief, “did you know tomorrow was Bre’r
Valentine’s day?”
“Don’ know nuttin’ erbout
nebber seed ’em. Is he brack cr is he w’ite;
dass w’at I’se like ter know ?”
“Why, what difference can that make?”
“’Kase if he’s brack, I don’ wan’ ter know
‘im ; ’nd if h’s w’ite, tain’ none er Eph’s biz
ness w’at day he git hyer on.”
“Well, he’s mos’ly any color you want
see? When he calls on you. seeing you a
preacher, he'll mebbe loolc dark, sorter like
the old fellow below perhaps, You’d better
keep a look out for him. He’s more ’n apt
to come along; and if yo’ve done anything
wrong, you know he’ll catch up .with you,
sure.''
Then Master Hart trotted off, highly de
lighted over the quandary in which he had
plunged Bre’r Eph, who resumed his walk
more slowly, with sundry wrinkles gathering
on his brow.
“Dar’s de triflin’es w’ite boy; no mo’ man
nahs dan a groun’ bog! ’nd yit he’s shorely
mons’ous peart, do he is dat biggity he cain’
stan' up stret ’dout grinnin’. Who dat ar Wal
-I’ntine he a glabbin’ so big erbout, I wonner?
Luk like de debbil do he? Come ter see me
termorrer, eh ? Well, p’haps he won’ fin’ dish
yer nigger at home —yah, yah! Dass sho’ly
mek 'im mad, won’ hit ?” Bre’r Eph appeared
much gratified at the notion of exciting this
unknown visitor’s ire by his absence. “’Nd yit,
w’at yelse dat ar fool boy say? lie ketchup
wif mo if I does ennyt’ng wrong, oil. Huh!
Dat chile fergit hisse'i'. Hain I a preacher? Is
dat ar Wall ’ntine he taik so big erbout a ’lessor ?
No sah. Es he wuz such ez dat, he’d stay ter
home 'nd min' hissef’s own biz’ness, stead ob
trapesin aroun’ do kentry a trailin yup udder
folks’s. I’s orblege ter 'sidder dat same Wal
-I’ntine a wo'f in sheep’s close—dass erbout w’at
he is.”
“Lemmesee—whurwuzl? Oh! ‘De tex’
I’se chosen ter night, my bre’ren, reads erbout
disway: [’Nd de seed ob de ri’shus. bain’
gwine ter be seed a beggin’ ’is bread.] No,
bro’ren, cben in all deze yer bard times, yo’
won' tin’ de ri’shus man er ’oman a habbin’ ter
git his hoecakc dess by beggin' hit.’ Dar’s
erbout de way I’se come at dose Possum Trot
niggers. ' Mebbe dey’H shell out a li’l mo’ we’n
de hat go eroun’, dess ter keep der preacher
f’om tollin’ of ’em a lie. I dess natally hates
Aer beg. I does; seem like I drudder steal.”
«■ But without revealing too many of Bre’r
Eph’s self confessions at once, let us withdraw
our ears until after “meetin’. ” Even preach
ers of the Bre’r Eph type —usually the most
self-complacent of their kind—have their mo
ments of secret fallibility.
Bre’r Eph held “mootin’ ” far into the
night. A two hours’ sermon—an hour or
more of fervid prayer, song and exhortation—
- long hem diction. I’. . ..•• d home v.n- I
der the starlight, with deep shadows shooting
from under the trees, and a sad sigh in the
night air around him. Those friends going
his wav soon dropped off hero and there, until
ho found himself wending sundry by paths and
short-cuts across fields and patches of wood
land alone. His long sermon had wearied
him; he was also hungry, and at last grew
lonesome.
“Dish yer’s de onhandyes’, doggones’ way!”
Bre’r Eph was not always choice of language
to express his meanings when alone. “I nly
one dime an’ two nickles in de hat, ’nd one ob
dem wif a hole in ’em. I dess ’lows ez Mike
Isam nut dat dar in; he's al’ays a sabin sech
ez dat fur de preacher. lyeck’n I’se hab ter
gib up dish yer Possum Tro t’pintment if 1 kin :
git shot ob it. Hit don’ pay —hit natal’y dess
don’pay, shore. Do col’cs meetin’, too; no
sinnahs on de mon’uahs’ bench, ’nd nary bit
ob shoutin’. Doss a groan or two ’nd dat,
eeem 'ike, hard ter fetch.”
On a gentle rise back from a bend of the
river some huge oaks sprawled themselves
round a large plantation house. There were
numerous outbuildings scattered behind, with
a royal disregard of symmetry or economy of
space. As Bre’r Eph toiled wearily on a
rooster crowed loud and clear.
“Bcttah hush yore lyin’ treat,” he muttered,
peevishly. “Dish yer ain’mornin’,fool. Bus'
yo’ know yo’ git yore neck wrung yit.”
This rebuke started a new train of thought.
He leaned against a fence and looked toward
the great house, while a smile parted his thick
lips.
"Dat ar chicken'longs ter de majer. Majer
got a hull hoodie ob sech—chicken, geese,
turkey—sho! He’d nebber miss one mo’off’n
de roos. Den ergin. bain de major my yown
ole masse? Didn’ I wuk out mo’chickens for
him 'n ebber I yeat? Dass wuz way before
de wah. I’uz prop’ty den, same ez’ dat ar
chicken. Well, den. es prop’ty yeat prop’ty,
how kin hit be|samejez stealin’? I vain’eat i
my yown sheer yet —bain’ had de chai.ce. To
be sho’, I vain prop’ty now edzackly, but (
whar's de defernce. Majer, he didn’ see no |
defernce den. He cain nebber see nuthin :
now. cep’n w’at 'longs ter 'im;
’nd es a pore nigger git ter starbin ■
now. he doan’ hyur. He's ■ pow’ful
Streonyus on niggers, is dat same ole marse ob
mine. We yain’ no mo’n de yetli miner is
feet, do lie did like ter yown ns mons’ous well.
He's dess dat biggity’nd scornin’ —hoowoo!”
Bre’r Eph shook his head sadly in view of
the social depreciation consequent upon his
present lack of commercial value.
“'Nd dais all dese yer niggers I preaches
fer; dey’d dessez sun der preacher'nd starb
ter de'f ez not, ’nd sum er ’em a li’l rudder,
too. No, sah! Es a man don’t hope hisse’f, yud
der folks bain’ gwinc ter feed ’im. Didn’l
say ter night dat do seed ob de ri’shus hain’
goiter beg 'is own bread. Hit don’say nuttin’
erbout chicken; but, den ergin, if bread git
skase. w’at a pore nigger gwine ter 'dout
chicken, er possum, er suttin yelse tor fill up
his inside? Dat settles hit. Now, chicken,
es yo' crows ergin, I’se git yo’ before nio'uin,
shore. ’’
It sounded very much like a challenge to
t Bre’r Eph when, at this instant, the rooster
crowed once more.
“Dar! W’at I tells yo’? I’se stop yore big
gity moiif. es I’se hatter snatch yore head off
ter do it.”
Bre’r Eph now sought out a comfortable
place to lie down for a while.
“Mos’ too 'arly ter git yo’ yit,” he chuckled.
‘‘Wait twell de moon git up; den yo’ look
sharp.”
Not far from the foot of the declivity where
on the great house stood, the scattered oaks
widen'd out around a sheltered spot inclosed
by a paling fence. The dead sedge and crali
grass felt soft underfoot, and Bre’r Eph laid
himself down thereon w itli a sigh and leaned
Ins bead against the palings.
“lamnne see,” he thought. “Chicken lions
uster be ober dat ar rise yanner. I unner ee
Miss Suza keeps hit locked up; dey didn’ usf
ter Dish yer fence—don'si cm like 1 ’inem
mors hit. Reck’n dey'n nit hit up fer ter keep
de hogs outn de collei ds 'nd de yudder gyard'n
truck, l aws, laws! De times’nd times f uster
play eround dese y< r hollers when I wan'
nuthin'hit a li’l shir'tail boy! 'Nd hyur 1 is a
gittin plnm gray—my ole head a bloomin' fer
de grape.”
As Bre’r Eph grew tenderly retrospective,
his present purpose in being there halt faded.
The night air. though frosty, was mild for the
time of year. This, and his weariness, dis
posed him to pleasing reveries—as one,half dy
ing semi-conscious.
“Dey alls wuz good ter dish yer nigger den ;
heap better'n now. ’Nd yet unly de yudder
day marse's sister, Miss Suze, sho say tor mo,
sazslie: ‘Hain’yo’git lonsuin’up yanner alls
by yo’se’f, Eph?’ Den 1 tells ’er: ‘I yain’
nebber git lonsum’, Miss Suze, longezl got
’ligi’h.’ Den sho larf— de peartes'! Oh, she's
a plum sight—is dat same Miss Suze, fer all
she nebber marry! But she larf, she do, ’nd
she’low dat: "Ligi'n berry good—mons’ous
good; but yo’ze bettah git yo’er wife all de
same, Eph.’ ‘Why yo, ain' nebber got no
husban’ Miss Suze!’ I say.‘ Htisban’ defernt,’
she’spoils back. ‘Husban’mos’ly in de way;
but yo’ze a preacher Eph. 'nd preachers dess
natally need er wife. When yo’gitter Eph,
I’zo sen’ yo’ suttin fo’ yo' infa’r.’ Dem wuz
’er berry dienticlo wu’ds, shore. Es dey alls
wuz like Miss Suze dey’d do; dat dey wud.”
Hero a seif-recriminative vein of thought
for a moment occupied his mind.
“ 'Nd hyur I is atter one oli de ole major’s
chickens. I wonner wat Miss Suze say to
dat. Y'eck’n she wudn sen’ nothin ter dat ar
infarden. ’And yit I’se scan’lous fon’ ob
chicken. Rudder hab chicken dan wife, seem
like. Den ergin, come ter de troof. I’se mons
trous sot on Miss Suze. Eben ole marse—with
all lie scornin’—he all'ays parse de time of
day. Dars young Marse Harb—he’s de snateh
iness boy! Gwine ter sen’ dat ar Wallentine
to my’ house, is be? ’Nd es I up ’nd do ary
t'ing outen de way, dat same Wallentine cotch
up wif it. Wonner wat he do wen be cotch?”
The wind—now slowly rising—sighed still
more dismally. A hoot owl laughed scornfully
down by the river. Eph shivered and wished
the inbon.would rise.
“’Tail!’so pow’ful conif’ble awaitin’hyar
after all. Peers like I’se gittin’ skeered. Sliet
yo’ mouf down dar! What dat ar wind a
gro’nin’ so fur?”
The melancholy sounds repeated themselves,
and Bre’r Epli was thinking of going home
without hisjchicken, when tlio rooster again
crowed once twice thrice —in quick
succession. The sound reinspirited the
old man, and he raised himself slowly,
noting at the same time a silvery rim widening
out over the tree tops in tiie brightening east.
“Moon agittin’ up at las’,” lie muttered.
“Y'eck'n hits time I’se a gittin’ atter dat ar
liein’ chicken, er yelse eat bacon for brefkus.”
He half rose, blit to his surprise, saw some
thing moving about on the grass in front of
him. He stared, shading his eyes as though
the sunlight was there to blind him.
“Dass cu’ro’s; dass pow’ful cu’ro’s. I won
ner es hit kin be ’possum. ’Possum dess er
bout es sweet ez chicken, spesh’ly long in
sweet ’tater time.”
He crawled toward the object, which, how
ever, kept its distance, and, when he pressed it
closely, rose with an audible liap of wings and
settleil down a little farther off. Then it
crowed —unmistakably crowed. Bre’r Eph
felt somehow alarmed.
“Dar de same crow I’se hyurn befo’ —de
berry same. W’at dat ar chicken doin’out
hyur dish yer time of night. He yam’ crowin’
fur day—he cain see fur ter pick 'nd scratch.
I’se a fearin’ dat ar chicken am’ dess all
eright.”
The moon slipping out from behind the
tree tops, finally showed Bre’r Eph his in
tended victim quite clearly.
“Dass Miss Suze’s w’ite Georgy game
rooster, shore. Gret king! Es sho know’d I
wuz after him she’d natally skin me alive fur
a fae’.” Y i
The fowl again cre wed and defiantly Happed
his wings. Bre’r Epli, dcsplth his vague, un
canny fears, was not the man to decline such
a challenge. Thoughts of Miss Suze, dis
tinctions of meum and tuum.now vanished be
fore the fleshly lust that had brought him
there. He rose to his feet and boldly gave
chase. Round and round the jinclosure they
went, the chicken just ahead, crowing lustily
at each successful avoidanceof Bre’r Epli, who
soon began to sweat and breathe thickly. At
last, as he made a fierce lunge, it flew lightly
over the fence, against which he fell heavily
and leaned there panting, while his hair
stiffened at a new terror.
This was no garden; it was the family bury
ing ground, refenied and altered, so that he
had not before recognized it in tho dark.
There, on a large white grave stone, stood the
roaster, his throat quivering in a final defiant
crow. The sound—despite his fears—so en
raged him, that he picked up a stone at bis
feet, and knocked the wild fowl from his
ghastly perch. It fluttered against the pal
ings, and Bre’r Epli, reaching through,
grasped it, wrung its neck and triumphantly
held it up.
“Ilar. now! Ise le’rn yo’ ter raar eroun’ me,
es yo’ does Tong ter Miss Suze. Y’oze better
tok up wif Brer Eph now. I yeck'n, nd—inter
his pot yo’ goes, ez shore, ez shore—” he
paused for a fitting similitude—“ez dat ar
Wall’ntine come erlong teriuowcr. He moiit
ez well come ter night fer all de good he do.”
Bre’r Epli chuckled,but was here confronted
by a terrible vision that seemed like a fateful
reply to his sarcasm. The white tombstone
seemed to be suddenly and mysteriously illu
minated, and to his affrighted gaze these words
appeared thereon:
: il EK E iJ ES ’ TIiEBO i > Y !
: OF •
BRE’R El’ll JONES, •
: UK I
CHICKEN STEALER.
• Died ob too much of somebody yclses ■
chicken, i
ON WAI.L’NTIN'E’S DAY.
Bre’r Eph started, gasped, rubbed his eyes
and felt his hair again rise as, somehow, in the
grave beneath, he seemed to see Ills own sinful
body lying, woefully swollen—presumably
witii chicken. There was a weirdness—a
ghastliness in this presentment that confronted
his conscience with a remorseful effect. In bis
ears came a sound like the niuriner of a far off
multitude —wherefrom he could not tell—yet
these words were intelligible, amid a jumble
of inhuman cursings and denunciations:
“Pore Bre’r Epli!—done gone down ter
hell- -'nd all fer a chicken —unly a chicken —a
chicken—a chicken.”
Bre’r Eph’s blood ran curdling in his veins.
Again a voice was heard in louder and more
menacing tones:
“Oh, Epli! Yo’ Eph-ra-h-a-m!”
Bre’r Eph turned and fled as though a legion
of devils were after him. How he finally got
homo he could not afterward remember. But
when—after slamming and pinning the door
lie felt the four walls of liiscabin around him,
lie raised his hands thankfully. There was
that accused fowl, hanging limp and helpless
from one of them. Ho had carried it un
thoughtfully.
“Lawd hub mercy!” he cried; then ho fran
tically lieat it against the floor, the fireplace,
the logs, until it became a shapeless mass of
blood and feathers.
“W’at I gwine ter do wif ’im?" lie thought
despairingly. “I cain'nebber eat ’em now, ’nd
bimeby Miss Suze, she fin' 'irn out—”
He stopped short, unable to contemplate
such a dire possibility. In one comer was an
old tool chest with a heavy lock. Inside that,
with nervous haste, Bre’r Epli threw the body
of his terrible victim—iiM.ked it—hid the key
under the hearthstone, then dropped upon his
bed, utterly worn out, hwrt-sick and remorse
ful, 'Then—came unconsciousness.
What was that ? Another rooster coming.
Bre’r Eph shuddered, and strove to bury his
head deeper in liis pillow, but, loi he had no
pillow. He opened one eye. There was the
sky and the palo dawn kimiling in tbe east.
There were trees about, gra s b> ncathjhlin, a
brusque frost in the air and Id-, bones were
aching. His head wae against a paling fence,
aud ho was cold—so cold!
Another crow. Bie r Epli opened both eyes
and raised himself to a sitting posture. Whj
—he was not a*, home. He looked Around.
ATLANTA. GA., TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 7,1888.
The gray light of early morn was robbing the
night of its uncanny influences. A subtle thrill
permeated the air, the fields, tho forest —like
the slow revival of a suspended pu se. The
witchery and the terror were departing from
the face of the earth, though the moon still
hung a waning silver disc in tlie western sky.
With a great effort, Bre’r Epli slowly rose to
his feel and held on by the palings.
“Is dish yer me er some one else? Wha’s de
rees'n I yain ter home?”
He rubbed his forehead slowly, then stared
intently at a plain, white tombstone inside the
fence. Thon ho sighed with a sense of relief.
“Y'eck'n dat ain’my grabe stone atter all.”
Tliisset him thinking ruefully of that chicken
race and its result—so realistic, yet terrible.
“Ilow'd I’se git back hyar; dass w’at I wan’
ter know? Dass de berry same chicken a
coinin’ now 1 cotch las’ night. Hit mus’ be—
hit sholy mus’; ’nd yit, hain’ Miss Suze
Georgy game a libin’ up dar in my ole cliist?”
Again he pondered, then straightened him
self with an air of decision.
“Dass eriiulf er dish yer foolishness. I'so
gwine ter fin’ oat —I is. Es dey fool dis nigger
wif sech biiin blamin’ ez dat onct, dey don’ do
bit ergin.”
' Ho started homo at as rapid a pace as his
stiffened limbs would allow of, though not
without nervous glances toward tho great
house to see if his retreat was observed. Tho
sun was nearly visible when he opened his own
doqr and stood within, looking about him.
His bed lay as ho had left it the day Jiofore;
there was no sign of blood or feathers on the
floor. He looked under the hearthstone—no
key lay beneath ; he raised himself, puzzled,
yet with a thrill of hope within him. Then,
to the chest, and—behold!—the key was in
the lock, as usual. He flung the lid up—not a
sign of chicken within.
“Grashus! Has I’se bin a dreamin’, atter
all? De witches mus’ er bin or ridin’ me,
shore.”
Slowly the truth dawned upon him that he
must have slept during his self-appointed
vigil, while waiting the proper time to raid his
old master's hen roost. He laughed and
actually danced with, delight. Suddenly he
paused, frowning.
“Hol' on dar, Eph! Y'o’se a preacher yit—
yo’ cain’ dunce. Seem like yo'so gittin’ ter bo
a plum fool.”
Then a weariness again came over him, and
sundry qualms of conscience, and a fear lest
this blest reality should also prove illusory.
“I feel sorter bad, I doos,” he said. “Dar’s
a mis’ry in my ole bones ’nd I yeck’n I’se bet
tah git ornudder nap ’o sleep.
He pinned too the door, and mentally ask
ing the good Lord not to “brung dat ar fetched
chicken back ergin,” lay down and fell into a
deep sleep.
The sun was high when Bre’r Eph once
more awoke. His head ached, his-throat was
parched, he got up and opened the door to get
a drink from the water piggin on the shelf out
side. Then ho drew back with cold chills
moving up and down his spine. On tho door
step was a covered basket, with a placard
staring at him from the lid, having these words
thereon in large letters:
Bbe’k Valentine to BbeTi Ern:
‘Here I is.’ ”
“Oh. my good Lord, hab mercy! Hyur dat
ar Wall’iitine shore null?’” ho exclaimed,
wringing his hands.
Then he pished and pshawed at himself “for
a fool nigger,” and finally raised the lid with
trembling fingers. A large fat fowl—trussed
and skewered for the oven—was inside. Noth
ing morn—/•>«—» card on which v as written :
“From Miss Suzk.”
Bre’r Eph took the basket up gingerly and
set it inside. Then he drank water as though
his whole interior was a dry reservoir waiting
to be filled. Finally, he sat down before tho
basket and regarded its contents musingly.
“I’se a pore useless nigger, I is. 1 yain’
fittin to be no preacher, I yain’. But I’le’rn
one less’n I won’ fergit off’n my min’ ez long
ez Bre’r Eph’s head stay hot.”
Bre’r Eph had chicken for dinner that day—
not of his own stealing, however, —for which
he was devoutly thankful.
His friends, after this, began to notice that
“Bre’r Eph wan’ quite so full ob hisse’f ez
he use ter be.”
He consequently grew to be a better preach
er, as lie became a truer man. He never tired
of indoctrinating his hearers at Possum Trot
and elsewhere with the virtues of honesty;
and when the hat returned to him with only a
scattering coin or two therein, ho “’lowed ez
dat wuzino’n I yearns, anyhow.”
As for chickens, he hardly over heard an
early morning ctow without a sigh, and the
name of Bre’r Valentine was always more or
less of a terror to him ; especially when hoard
from the lips of “Young Marse Harb, whoso
ingenuity, uniting with the kindnessof “Miss
Suze.” had, under tho auspices of “Bre’r
WaU’ntine," so rebuked and comforted him
when the effect of his sin anil his escape had
reached such a bewildering climax.
A DEAD MAN’S BEARD.
Growing for Thirteen Years In a Grave at
Carson.
Carson (Nev.) special to San Francisco Examiner.
Old-timers will doubtless remember the
death of Hal Clayton some thirteen years ago.
He was a gambler by profession, of the better
class of sports, and wiien ho died of a fever
was buried in a vault in a cemetery and ids
body placed in a costly metallic casket under a
glass case.
His wife, who was frantic with grief, placed
her diamonds on ids shirt front. These stones
were valued at £3OO. Fearful lest the gems
would be taken from the vault, sho placed a
watch at the tomb, and it was maintained for
many weeks. Clayton was a southerner, and
the body was disposed of, after the southern
fashion, above ground.
A few days ago George Dobbs, who has care
of the cemetery, was possessed with a curi
osity to visit Hal Clayton's tomb, and, securing
the keys of the vault, took a look at the re
mains. He was astonished to find that Clay
j ton’s beard and mustache had grown under the
glass case to such an extent that they reached
■ below Ids knees. The massive beard was a
rich brown color, extending in wavy masses
l over the body, and having a perfectly fresh,
I healthy appearance, as it might have iiad on a
i living man. The beard had been growing in
: this way thirteen years, and, for aught any
body knows, will hold its strange post-mortem
i vitality.
Clayton bad a romantic life. He was en-
I gaged to the handsomest young girl in the
I south, and left her to seek Ids fortune in the
, west. She became tired of his absence, and,
; setting out to find him, drifted homeless and
friendless from one mining camp to another,
life a loaf in a storm. Alter years of this life
sho met her former lover, but was so changed
' bv her wandering life that he refused to marry
i her.
After Ids repudiation of his old sweetheart
I ho became sick, and when lying at death’s
i door she camo to his bedside and nursed him
back to health. Filled with gratitude at her
1 devotion, he renewed the affection of bis youth
: ami married her. She proved a devoted wife,
| ami when he died she built at large expense
i tho vault where his remains now fie, and in
, which his rich brown beard has been growing
| all these years. Whether tho diamonds are
■ on his shirt front is not known, a, tho beard
' hides the body from the knees up.
Ever since the earthquake in the state of
i San I.nls I’otorl, on the 2‘ tli of November, there
, has Ixien a remarkable sinking of earth near J-uga
nullla, not far from ths munlApallty of Alqu/nes,
I in that Bate. The sinking la quultlon is about
seventy-live yards long, Lily wide ami thirty deep.
A floe dust arlring from the cavity led to tbe belief
that It was a volcano fr jtn which some amßke was
, isxumg Borne civil ♦nglneers, appointed by the
governor to luvesiigute the phenomenon, report,
however, tl.»t there is lio subterranean boat.
The Coininaiider of the Post
BY WAI.I.ACE P. HEED,
For tho Constitution.
It was very dull at Cottonboro during tho
ummcr of 'sixty-four.
Tho village was situated on a small river in
Florida leading to the gulf, and it was sup
posed to boa place of some strategic impor
tance.
For four years a small force of federals
had been endeavoring at odd times to capture
Cottonboro and a small force of contederatos
had succeeded hi keeping them back.
A hot July sun was blazing down on Cotton
boro, and tho streets were deserted. Hero
and there in some shady nook might have
been seen a few soldiers playing cards and
tolling stories, but there was no other sign of
life.
Colonel Melton was pacing the sidewalk in
front of his headquarters, lie was the com
mander of the post, but lie had very little to
do. There was no lighting in prospect, and it
was not necessary to keep the mon under very
strict discipline.
The commander of the post surveyed the
situation.
He felt tho deadening influence of tho sultry
summer heat, and gasped for breath.
“I must take a nap,”he said, “there is noth
ing to bo done hero.”
Just then he saw a cloud of dust in tho dis
tance, a mile or so away.
“I will wait,” ho remarked, “there may bo
trouble in that quarter.”
The commander was right. In a very few
minutes a number of cavalrymen rode in with
a captured spy.
“Shall wo hang him or try him?” asked the
leader of tho party.
Colonel Melton was about to give an offhand
reply, when bis eyes fell upon tho fuco of tho
prisoner. Ho saw a handsome youth covered
with dust, and bearing the marks of travel and
exposure.
“Leave him to nie,” said the colonel quickly,
“I will question him privately.”
When tho prisoner was alone with tlio com
mander of the post the latter said:
“Clara, I penetrated your disguise at a
glance. How is that you are hero?”
Tiie prisoner gave a captious nod, such as
only a woman could give.”
“John Melton,” sho replied, “I am sorry to
look upon your hated face again.”
“But you are in trouble,” answered the com
mander gravely, “and I must see you out ot
it.”
“I scorn your help!” cried the disguised
spy. “You deserted mo after I had been a
faithful wife for years, and you left me to face
the world and earn my own living. My talents
found employment down this way as a spy, and
I went into the business with a full knowledge
of tlio consequences. You may tell your mon
take me out and shoot me.”
“I cannot do that,” replied the commander,
•vior can I allovy you to be tried. If you are
bold for trial you will bo searched by a crowd
of rude soldiers. My wife must not be sub
jected to such indignities.”
“Your wife!” sneered the spy. “What did
you care for her when you ran away from
her?”
The colonel wnvered, and then ho looked
straight into the woman’s eyes.
“I had my reasons,” he said, “and I have
never regretted my action. I wish you were
dead, but I do not propose to have a hand in
heaping disgrace upon you.”
The woman’s eyes fell, but in a moment sho
recovered herself.
“Then, John Melton,” she said, “I am safe.”
“You are,” answered the commander of tho
post; “not a hair of your head will bo harmed.”
He spoke with an air of authority, and the
woman looked at him with a newly kindled
interest in her eyes.
“John,” she said softly.
“None of that,” responded the colonel.
“When 1 leftyou, il was for good and all. I
must get you out of this scrape, but you must
never cross my path again.”
“But what aro you going to do?” asked the
spy.
“Leave it to me,” said the colonel.
Then ho called in a couple of soldiers and
told them to bind tho spy’s hands.
“Leave his feet unbound,” said the colonel,
“I am going to make the fellow take a walk
with me.”
“How is that, colonel?” inquired Captain
Dallas.
“A secret of state,” whispered tho colonel,
“it is tho only way to get it. I will walk with
him to the place whore he lias buried his pa
pers.”
“Good!” cried the captain. “Well, as his
hands are tied, it is safe.”
In the course of a few moments the com
mander of the post started off' to tho woods
with his prisoner.
“The cuniile will fcome back'ey himself,”
said a soldier to a comrade, with a significant
wink.
All the soldiers smiled as they watched the
couple.
“The cunnle wants to do a little shooting
himself," tiiey said. “Well, it is all right.”
Colonel Mellon escorted hlßprisouer through
the woods for a mile or so. At last bo paused.
“Clara,” he said, “do you know where you
are now ?”
“Y’es,”she answered, “I could now make
my way back to the lines if left free,”
The colonel cut the spy’s bonds.
“Goodbye, Clara,” he said.
“But you?” asked tiie spy. “What will be
come of you ?”
“Be off at once!” shouted tho colonel, “I
must return, and you must not lose a
moment.”
The frightened woman sped away through
the forest.
The commander of the post quietly followed
tier trail for an hour or two. When ho was
satisfied that she had reached a place of safety
lie retraced bis steps.
He was almost in sight of Cottonboro when
he drew a pistol and placed it against his head.
The discovery of Colonel Melton’s dead body
excited the garrison of Cottonboro to a high
piii li of wrath, but there was nothing to bo
done.
"That <1 —d spy!” said one of tlio officers.
"He got loose in some way and murdered tiie
best soldier in Florida.”
This was the general verdict. It was
thought that the spy had taken advantage of
the colonel, and bail assassinated him.
Nor did tiie spy over find out the true ex
planation. Bhe knew the magnanimity of her
husband, but she nevar knew the secret of his
death.
Perhaps the commander ot the post did n»t
oaro to live in tho some world wltu his wife.
Perhaps lie preferred death rather than to re
turn to Cottonboro without ills prisoner.
No one ever knew. But a gray-haired
woman in one of tiie northwestern states
spends hours at a time in her little cottage
witii folded arms thinking of a mysterious
chapter in her past.
“If I only knew,” sho whispers every day to
herself, “If I‘only knew.”
But she never will know, and the world will
never know.
A SOLDIER'S FIRST FIGHT.
An Incident in tlio Early Days of the Late
Civil War.
From the Sau Francisco Alta California.
A great many terrible things have been writ
ten about the war, but it is doubtful if a man
has really told the publie about bis first real
sensations under tiro—perhaps the idea would
be more correctly expressed by saying bis real
sensation in his first buttle. It is all very well
to talk of glory and heroism, and the lofty
courage which heroism inspires. One can fully
appreciate tiie dignity of such emotions after
the fight is over, but they are not so apparent
in the initial shock of the first battle.
It was in tho afternoon of a beautiful July
day that a troop of partisan cavalry, some sixty
men in all, was camped in one of tho sags of
the Osage hills, on tho great thoroughfare
which then led down through the southwest.
It had once been tlio highway from St. Louis
to tlio lied river. Tiie camp was in the confu
sion which distinguished early service and in
experience. Saddles were scattered in all direc
tions. Horses were tethered to every available
bush. Men were lying imilerthe grateful shade
of trees, or were engaged in inexperienced
cookery. They wore dressed in all conceivable
fashions. There was the merchant in his grace
ful fitting frock of broadcloth and plug hat;
the farmer in blue jeans; tho lawyer in pro
fessional apparel. The men were gathered from
nearly every nationality under tiie sun. Tho
American with his calm demeanor, and fixed
determination in face mid bearing ; the jolly
son of Erin, restless, joyous and full of song
and nioriment; Hie steady phlegmatic Gor
man; the sullen,dark-browed immigrant from
Poland. Grouped about were tho plainsmen,
grown hardy by the toilsome days and nights
in caravans that yearly cross the great deserts
with goods and freight lor tho distant military
posts; and voyagers in the lake country anil
from tho rivers whore strength and vigor wore
acquired in tempestous labor. It was indeed a
mixed and curious assemblage.
The troop had boon on tho march all day
through heat and dust, enroute for tho main
army, encamped a few miles distant, and now,
cast in every conceivable attitude and position,
they were taking u well-earned rest. But sud
denly there was a sharp detonation of a distant
rifle, and the next minute tiie picket came gal
loping in upon tbe guard. In a moment every
thing was in wild confusion. Men ran in nil
directions in pursuit of saddles and mislaid
arms. Nothing was in mid everything was
wrong. On this scramble of eager and excited
men broke tho clear notes of the bugle, sound
ing “boots and saddles.”
In some way, no one could toll how. tho line
was formed, and at a slow trot along the dusty
highway tho troup moved oli to meet the enemy.
It had not far to go. Across the road and cov
ering the crest of a low ridge a scouting pla
toon was drawu uti to receive them. There
was im science or tactics employed on either
side. Botli troops were equally ignorant of tlio
ai t of war. They only knew that their business
was to kill. The order came to charge. And
they did. It was each man for himself and
the devil take the hindmost. A wild and scat
tering lire blazed along the line; a sheet of
flame answered it from the oilier shle. The
dust rose in a dense cloud from tiie clattering
hoofs of the horses, as ignorant as their riders
of the art of war. A wild shout pealed through
the forest aisles, and in the midst of dust and
cries and yells, the excited and furious mon
mixed in battle. Rifles, shotguns, pistols,
knives and swords were used in reckless and
indiscrimate confusion. Men were knocked
from their saddles and trampled beneath the
feet of the frightened and rearing horses.
During the melee two brothers named Kel
eher met in a tierce ami desperate struggle. In
tho excitement ot the strife each had failed to
recognize his opponent; and not until tho
death wound was dealt to the younger man
was the elder conscious of the terrible deed he
had done. The light had drilled away from
them, and lie dismounloil and bore the body to
a little distance, whore a spring gurgled from
the earth. He batlicd his face and head, and
tried to stanch the flow of blood that welled
from his breast.
"It is no use, Billy," said the dying man,
"It’s a fatal wound. Garry mo home.”
Strange to say the encounter hud taken place
but a few miles from the farm where their
youth and boyhood were passed ; where their
parents lived, and where in a few hours the ol
der brother was to lay the dying form of the
youngest born at his mother’s feet.
"Don’t tell them at homo you did it. it was
in battle, and you did not know me.”
Tho promise was given, and that night the
fratricide laid tho dead boy in his mother’s
arms. Save one. friend no one ever knew how
Jimmie Kelelier died, nor who fired the fatal
bullet that ended his young life before it had
fairly begun.
But how about tho feeling one has in his first
battle? That is not so easily told. But to say
one is not frightened, judging by experience,
would be far from the truth. There is no fright,
so terrible as a man feels when he is for the
first time under lire. He may conceal the fact
from every one but himself, but his own heart
lie cannot deceive. His nerves may bo steady,
liis moral courage great enough to bear him
safely through the ordeal, but if when the bul
lets begin to sing and the guns to flash there is
not a feeling of ‘‘goneness" in his mental ami
moral economy, lie is not made of tho stuff
that ordinary persons are. He may not run,
but he would give the world not to be afraid to
run. It is tiie greater fear of shame in nine
cases out of ten tliatonables him to face brave
ly tho situation.
It is told of Frederick the Great that ho
never went into battle without trembling from
fear. His moral courage alone sustained him.
The same sensations have b<en expcrieuceiUyy
thousands of other people, who perhaps have
not the moral courage to confess it.
In this sumo little band of amateur soldiers
(for they were nothing more then) was ufellow
named Hitching*. He was tho bully of the
camp; always fighting,always quarrelling; in
variably insubordinate. But in battle ho was
utterly upset. It a chance offered ho never
failed to run. if chaffed about it in
camp, lie was ready to fight tho whole regi
ment. But list fighting, or even pistol shoot
ing, was very different from the flash of ex
ploding musketry, it wasthen that thenervo
were shocked and collapsed like a rag.
That men can bear tlioiiuelves bravely undiir
such conditions is simply moral courage. They
resolve to stand the racket though their nerves
and heart incline them to skip.
Tho famous Jack Wharton, who died in
New flrlcans a few years ago, exhibited on tho
battlefield the most reckless bravery. A friend
once said to him, iih they stood together in a
battle field where Wharton’s daring intrepidi
ty had won universal praise:
"All, Jack, il 1 only had your courage!”
"You d - fool!” was the laughing reply, “I
was scared out of my wits.”
Out West.
From the Washington Critic.
Guest, wildly, to hotel clerk—Say, there’s a
map under the bod in that room you gave me.
clstk, klii'JJy-That s all right: he's dead. We
just ielt Inifi thorii till Ids friend* c ould coms for
him tomorrow. Front: Two whisky* for 39.
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
A NEGRO FAMILY’S 5H8,000,000.
Said to Have Inherited That Amount From
an Ancestor Who Speculated in Mexico.
From the Galveston News.
When the New York papers a few days ago
referred to N. W. Cooney as being the wealthiest
colored man in Texas, they had evidently not heard
of the Lincoln family, now redding in Dallas, six
children in all, who have come into possession of
••1K,000.000, giving them the snug little fortune of
•5,000.000 apiece.
One of the heirs to this immense property is at
present in Galvestoh, and a News reporter looked
him up yesterday, as much out of curiosity to see a
negro possessed of such cn irmous wealth as lu
search of an item.
The following item from a paper publisl.e ! in
I‘ariM, Tex., in connection with the information
that one of the heirs was in tho city, is that which
directed the reporter in the search:
‘ The Lincoln heirs (colored), living in Dallas, who
a year or so ago became the wealthiest colored j>eo
pie in America, have recently come in possession ot
all their property. Ti e amount due them was ou
deposit in the bank of England, and aggregated the
enormous sum of •48,000,000. Forty-eight million
dollars! This has just been divided among tho
heirs—Abraham, Ed, Burr, Mat, Fannie and Lulu—
each having received $8,000,0.0. Eight million dol
lars!”
The party in Galveston bears the illustrious cogno
men of Abraham Lincoln. lie was traced to a col
ored Imarding house on Twenty foi r h street, lie
tween Postoflice and < hurch, tut not Le n; foruid In
courteous’y responded to the News man to call at
tire ollice. which he did last night, coming in as
meekly as though ho wanted to borrow a dollar, in
stead of owning $8,000,000. Abraham Is a young
man. apparently not over thirty five years of age. of
a saddle-colored complexion, and evidently a man
of more than tho average intelligence of his race.
He has credentials, printed letter-heads. etc. t
wherein he is styled Governor Abraham Lincoln,
showing him to bo the manager of the estate.
When asked by what means such enormous
wealth had bee acquired by his family, he replied
that it was an inhcrltnnce from his grandmother,
Fanny Ellis, who resided nt Dallas, where she died
a year or two ago. Fanny Ellis was a Mexican
woman, and some forty yeor< ’ her husband ac
quired immenee wealth in »p tution in Mexican
mining claims, which was deposited in the bank of
England. Preceding the late civil war
they bought and sold slaves, and among
one of their pun liases from a slave-trader
was the fattier of the six children who recently
come into possession of the $48,000,000. The ftither
married tiie daughter of his mistress, by whom he
was set free, and the six children being the direct
issue of that ni irrlage, establish the chain of direct
Inheritance. Some litigation was necessary in es
tablishing their claim, and it was only a few days
ago that they acquired actual possession of their
fabulous inheiltance.
Abaham Lincoln is here, as he says, with the
view of probably locating at Galvesron.
When asked if he luui matured any plans for in
vesting this vast estate, he replied that they had
decided to invest it all on January 1, in
United States bonds. The interest on the bonds, tie
said, will give us more than enough to live on. with
a good margin for speculation without touching
the principal. It is also a safe investment and car*
ries with it an immunity from taxation.
Always Ready.
From the Omaha Herald,
“Did you ever have a lady hand you a lead
quarter?” was asked of a cur conductor.
“I have.”
‘ Nicely dressed, high-toned ladies?”
“Just so. There were several on this line who
used to hand me lead quarters.”
“And you didn’t feel like saying anything to
them?”
“There was no need to. I always had four lead
nickels ready to return for change.”
—♦ ?■
Winston County’s Good ICnougli.
Yer can’t godown t’ the tan'ry, or tho smith shop by
tho road,
Or meet a stranger nowhar, or a nedghbor haulin’ a
load
O’ crossties to the railroad, ’thout bearin’ of a boom.
An’ how the people's coinin' till you’d think they'*
pushed for room -
No’the’ne’H, an' fo'eigne’s, an’ cap’talists, an’ sich;
An* how ti ii man an' that uu’s dune got so sudden
rich;
Os this place an’ t’other'n ’at’s jlst took sich a rise,
Owin' to its sit’ation, hits p ish an’ enterprise.
I’ve listened to ’em all, an’ what they hed tor say,
Au' thnnk it over right sharp, in a sorter clumsy
way.
But hit ain't changed my mind from what hit use
ter be—
Back here in Winston air good enough fur me.
They talk o’ tbe'r nnvergation, railroads an' tiilly*
hoes,
An’ ‘.he r street kyar lines, an’ dummy lines, ou*
goodness knows
What all, o' the’r means o’ gittin about —cr trana»
po'tation,
I guess they cull it till you'd think ter scale crea
tion
Warn't no mo’ ’an nothin’. But I toll yer, for my
part—
D’ ye hear ine? I haintseed nothin’ yit'at beats the
steers an’ cart.
Hit m i} n't be quite feO stylish, nor jht the latest
thing;
But what a yoke o’ s’.cers won’t fetch ar' mighty
hard to bring;
An’ thur’s never no collisions, an’ when the bridge
air gone
Yer don’t ixs goin’ so fust ’at lher brakes can’t be
put on.
Home ’low hit’s too slow; but hit’s sartin’s can be,
An' the way o' trav’lin’ in Winston air good enough
for me.
They may talk o’ tbe’r hotels, so pretentious an' so
gran’,
U’ tbe'r cur’ous fashioned houses, named arter Miss
Queen Ann,
With all the’r funny flxln’s- all colors, white or
lliek -
So many crooks un’angles, till you can’t tell front
from back ;
They umy make ’em frame or brick, or pile ’em up
o’ stone,
An' live in ’em happy as they please; but I tell
you, for my own,
I’ll take the hewed log house In the pine trees
’raougst tbe lulls,
Whar the silent solitude, or the gurglin' o’ the rills,
Au' all sich things as that, is so sw» et an’ satifyin’
In a home 'th a puncheon floor, till yer Jtst can't
think o' tryin’
Somethin’, while hit's grand an’ now, hit's not so
wild an’ free.
An tbe houses at's back in Winston air go xi enough
for me.
They may talk o’ sich grout changes as is coinin’ to
tbe state,
Os till idts hid resources bein’ developed here o’
lute:
How they’ru workln’ underground, as if the top
warn’t go id enough,
In the light an’ air leavin' coal an' iron un’ rich
11 ick stuff
Gut o’ sight. An’ they talk o’ watered stock—not
cattle at the spring—
O’ goin’ to par, an' bonds an' shares, and what
they'll bring.
An’ liow so little gets so big, 's what I don't under
stand,
.list < n a piece o’ paper, by a sorter sleight o' hand,
How land ’s not wo’th the askin', then hit’s hun
dredsa foot; and what’s
Today a pine woods on the mounting, tomorrow ’•
corner lots;
But I’ll leave all sich to others as is l amed so stir to
see -
The good ole ways o’ Winston air good enough (U
me.
Ark Hard [No.
Mountain Home, Winston county, Ala.