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KvIM Brel® afiSg|/ ■ ihJ BO® ® Si> Iwli Bl IRH <wi w w Mr® .iaSfeMl y ibR mLSffiJl ® B IB ft w wlWjbl ®RWJm 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.