Newspaper Page Text
■\X MM SjiCjft 4O&
VOL. XXVII.— NO. 26.
A PLANTATION COMEDY
BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
Copyright, 1894, by the Author.
IV.
Not long afterwards a young man, dressed
in a suit of home-made jeans, walked brisk
ly along the street till he came to Mr.
Woodruff’s door. Mr. Woodruff was bus
ily engaged in poring over a memorandum
book, but the young man hailed him so
heartily that he was compelled to look up.
The young man paused.
“My name ain’t Burrell Winstell if the
weather ain’t right down hot. But you’re
lookin’ as cool as a cucumber, squire.’’
“A clear conscience'll do the work, Bur
rell. Take a clear conscience into the shade
with you, and sit stiil and let the flies buzz,
and I’ll warrant you’ll keep cool.”
“Well, 1 reckon so, squire,” replied Bur
fell Winstell; “but take a clear conscience
an’ walk a mile on sech a matter a day
like this, an’ the conscience’ll curl up like
a cracklin’. It’ll have all the fat fried out
of it.”
“How is Gener’l Herndon, and how is
Miss Ethel?” inquired Mr. Woodruff, with
friendly solicitude.
“Oh, so-so. Cousin Bushrod has done
learned how to shet his eyes an’ be happy
anyhow an’ anywheres, an’ when Cousin
Bushrod’s happy Cousin Ethel feels good.”
Burrell Winstell was what may be termed
/ AWy ?
fcW® 1
''o f ~ >• By ' A ■
'I li
iff / /Zo’l \////^ //v 'J 11 •
/ / izWW M It
•‘NOW, I WONDER WHEREIN THE CHERRYKEE NATION THAT LETTER
COULD A’ GONE.”
an old young man. He was a little too fat
to be graceful and somewhat too short to
be dignified. But he had a friendly face,
a face that could be serious enough at a
pinch, but, until the pinch came, full ot
genuine humor. His rosy complexion and
his white teeth might have been envied by
any young lady.
He started now to the postoffice, feeling
In his coat pockets as he went. Then he
stood stiil. Once more he felt in his
pockets, slowly and carefully. Then in
his pantaloons pockets. Then he looked in
his hat, and shook his coat tails. Tacit he
felt the legs of his pantaloons.
“Well, I’ll be everlastingly—all—over—now
I wonder where in the Cherrykee nation
that letter could ’a’ gone!” he exclaimed,
walking around in a little circle and still
searching himself. ‘TH bet a boss it s
that dinged old mule! I believe in my soul
that if I’d ’a’ put that letter in the bottom
of my shoe she’d ’a’ jolted it out.” He took
off his coat and searched it inside and out
“Now. if that don’t beat old scratch, but
1 might ’a’ knowed it. Two rabbits crossed
me an’ a rain crow came mighty i»igh
Ilyin’ in my face. it’s a mercy 1 didn’t
lose the old mule. Now Ive got to go
joltin’ back.” „ ,
“Looks like you've lost something, said
Mr. Woodruff, placidly. “Well, well! Ten
der comes old Cato; mayiie he picked it
” Far down” the’street an
was. coming along. Insteau ot walking on
the sidewalk, he trudged along m the mid
dle of the road. He came up. smrnng.
-1 ’clar’ to gracious. Marse Euriell, es you
ain’t de outdornist white man what 1 e
la- my eves on. Yasser! Ton sholy is. iou
la ' " Gfr’-.t gallop an’ lef’ dat ar letter—
brfi l. r - Wntten.
“You ief it dar on one er uem ar gyarden
cheers” the negro went on, not heeding
the interruption, “an’ marster foun it oar
an’ toie me fer ter run an’ overtake you,
hut bless gracious! when 1 got outin de big
te you wuz done gone, done gone. 3ou
m ist a’ come a-callyhootin*, Marse Burrell.
I hope ter de Lord you ain’t done gone an.
I. u U3 t dat ole mule, kase she’s de main
sta.p on de plantation when we come ter
'ayin - D y de crap.”
“Wh», e ’ s the letter?” Burrell asked im
p.tientb
‘Here Si. e is— right here,” replied Cato,
takng off h>s hat and fishing the lettei out.
Burnll would have taken it from him, but
the od negro shook his head solemnly.
“No, sth! I done had all de trouble er trot
tin’ Ion? an’ bringin’ ’er, tin’ now I’m
gwine ter have de trouble er puttin’ ’er.
whar she b’longs at. Marster say, ‘Cato,
es you don’t ketch up wid ; o’ Marse Bur
rell take de letter an’ slip it in de hole in de
a wall dar whar the pos’office is.’ He say
' I dat p’intedly- Whar bouts is de hole at,
1 Marse Burrell?” . , „
I “Kight there, under the winnow.
I “We"'” exclaimed Cato, dropping the let-
I ter in the little chute. “I thank my stars it
I taint none er my letter. Look like ter me
I hit’s des like th’ov.in’ it away fer ter drap
I H in dar. When I’s art ter sen’ a letter
I some’rs, I boun’ I krdrapit In
Iwhen you siaSh me, Marse Burrell. I’m
Lwine out yander by de hossrack an set in
■ Th7o a id nVgro Straightened himself up
Ind looked at Burrell W.nstell with a pecu
■‘•Vlm't’s’ the matter, now?” inquired Bur
-111 in a tone which ” KneW
lly too well what the -tter was.
WrJe Burrell, an’ you ain’t.” Cato laughed
feW'o? g l‘ain’t,” said Burrell in a petulant
■'know right Pine plank whar you
persisted the old negro.
. // JRjiere?” asked Burrell.
/ £%'■’ exclaimed Cato. “You can t fool
.Z arse Burrell. You er gwine ’round
X ter see Miss Susy Beasley.
/ « Go off from here!” said Bur-
' -on niste! l sheepishly.
iassor, you is!” Whereupon Cato
went off across the public square, singing:
“Oh, de mo’ I see Miss Susan,
De mo’ it give me pain
Fer ter take her han’ an’ part wid her —
Oh Miss Susan Jane!”
So there you are! You are introduced to
three or four people that are supposed to be
more or less interesting, and you imagine
that away off here in the country you are
to have a nice quiet time. But no sooner
are you comfortably settled in this view
than an old negro man goes along the
street humming a foolish ditty, and out
jumps love from behind the bushes, the
dew of the morning sparkling in his hair,
dimpled and impish as ever, and prepared
to cut up his inimitable capers. He scorns
to wait until you know these people. He re
fuses to be bound by the prompter’s book.
All sounds that are heard and all words
that are spoken are his cues.
Uncle Cato went across the square sing
ing, hunting a place where he might rest
and sun himself, as he said, but he was not
gone long. He came back toward the post
office with his hat off, rubbing the bald
place on his head, and with a perplexed ex
pression on his simple face. As he drew
near the postoffice the worthy postmaster
I was standing at his window talking to him
self. He had found a letter in the drop
1 box that had no stamp, and he was properly
impatient, if not indignant, as all well-regu
: la ted officials should be under such circum
i stances.
“Goodness knows!” he exclaimed, address
ing that “other party,” who hides in e
; shady place in the self-consciousness of all
. of us, "goodness knows, I wish folks would
; find out that a letter can't go through the
mails without a stamp on it. Here’s one
to Eustace Maxwell. Boston, Mass. No
, stamp on it, and it might as well he directed
to the North pole, i’ll stick it in the box
here, and if somebody don’t claim it and
put a stamp on it, I’ii send it to the dead
letter office before the week’s out. You
' can't beat sense in some folks’s heads.”
1 "Suh!” exclaimed Uncle Cato, who was
1 standing directly under the window.
The worthy postmaster gave a little jump,
1 the sound was so unexpected. Tfi«a he
■ laughed.
“Nothing,” he said to the old negro; “I
was just making a speech to myself.”
"Yasser!” said Uncle Cato, with unction.
The postmaster placed the derelict letter
in a conspicuous place on the board and
i went into the back part of his store. Uncle
Cato stood at the window as if reflecting.
His hat was still off. lie held something
between his thumb and forefinger, and he
divided his glances between that object and
the hole in which letters were dropped.
Then he chuckled:
“1 sot down out yander,” he said in an
argumentative way, “an’ ’gun fer ter
scratch my head, and bless gracious! I
feund dis yer stamp stickin' on de ba’ place.
I boun’ es de letter man hail a seed it
stickin’ dar he’d rammed mo in de mail
bag an’ ’a’ sent me off some’rs. I dunner
how de stamp slicked eff’n dat ar letter an’
turnt a somerset an’ got stacked on my
head. Yit dar she wuz, sho!”
He paused a moment, looking sidewise at
the stamp as he held it on the end of his
fir ger.
“I wish comc-body’d run here an’ tell me
how S’se gwine ter git dis yer stamp on
dat ar letter what I drapped in d ir. Well,
suh, I’ll jest drap ’er in de hole whar I
dropped do letter at an' J boun’ uey’ll git to
gedder. Uem ar folk what totes de mail
ought, ter know marster’s han' write, an’ es
dey do, de letter don’t need no stamp, not
is dish state er Georgy. Dey'H des take
an’ sen’ it b ng. anyhow.”
Uncle Cato b' took himself across the
square to the courthouse yard, where he
stretched himself at full length on the soft
Bermuda grass, and was soon sound asleep.
The little town seemed to follow his ex
ample. The jay birds ceased to quarrel
in the china trees, and the two or three
ohl r citizens who made it a daily habit
to gather in the shade of these same trees,
sat listless and limp. Discussion had ceas
ed for the time being, and the silence would
have been unbroken but for the occasional
taud of a horse’s hoof against the walls of
a stable behind the tavern, and even this
produced a muffled sound that was not dis
turbing.
i * ■'/i L * n ‘‘ e Persons in the village were oc
?’^ r ' .Gtis, the young man from Bos
-•b' Y l: . v>r; iing a letter to the gentleman
'*7°,. a ’-‘ a(; ted as trustee of his father’s
' lv looked from the window
ot his home he could have seen .'dr. Beas
umi ln .-} 1S ° ib ‘- e unJ er the Odd Fellows’
ha 11 a letter to the Eustace Max-
w ’ ell tomp ? 1,y ’ of Boston. On another side
of the public square Mr. Woodruff, sat pour
ing over his memorandum book, prepar
ing to ma ke out the accounts of General
Bushrod Herndon.
A littie later in the afternoon there was
more movement in the village The ser
vants at the tavern began to stir in a list
less v.ay A neg: o from some of the store
went to the puirnc w 11 and sent the bucket
down with a rattle and clatter that sound
ed like a horse running away with a wagon
Then he drew the bucket up slowly and
deliberately, the windlass groaning and
shrieking in its sockets at every turn. A
red-speckled calf, that had somehow achiev
ed its liberty, went careering down the
street, its tail lifted sigh. A liver-colored
pointer started to give it chase, but thought
better of it. A mule—it was Burrell Win-
ATLANTA, GA., MONDAY, JUNE 25, 1894.
stell’s mule—that had been standing asleep j
at the public rack suddenly roused itself
and gave forth its resounding mixture of
bray and whicker.
Mr. Beasley came forth from his office,
letter in hand, in time to see his stepdaugh
ter walking along with Burrell Winstell.
Mr. Beasley frowned slightly, but his face
cleared at once when Susy-left young Win
stell and came toward his office.
“Papa!” she cried, when she saw him,
“I am going to Ethel’s to stay all night.
She sent me a note by Burrell. The key of
the pantry is in the clock. Oh! and pa,pa!
If I shouldn’t come back tomorrow, Charity
knows what to do. I’ve told her.”
Mr. Beasley regarded the young girl with
fatherly tenderness, smiling at her queer
little ways, which were as pretty as they
were fussy.
“Ah! they want you, do they my dear?”
he asked.
“Why, papa! Ethel always wants me.”
“And that charming clown, Winstsell?”
"Now, papa! 1 know you don’t like Bur
rell, but he’s just as good and as kind as
he can be. But you do'h’t want me to go;
I know’ you don’t.” Susy tried to look very
sad, but only managed to succeed in con
trolling her laughter.
“Don’t mind my jokes, my dear. I want
you to go. Study the old place. Some day
it shall be your home and mine.”
“Why, I don’t want to live out there in
the w’oods, papa.” ,
“Go, my dear; give my regards to the
charming Ethel. By-by!”
Meanwhile Mr. Otis, of Boston, had fin
ished his letter and carried it to the post
office. Eifting his eyes to the letter board
he saw staring at him a letter addressed to
his father—“ Eustace Maxwell, Boston,
Mass.
He rubbed his eyes. What could it mean,
this message to the dead? It was beyond
his comprehension. He tapped on the win
dow and the postmaster appeared.
“Give me the letter for Eustace Maxwell,”
the young man said; “it lacks a stamp,
and there may be something to add to it.”
He took the letter, returned to the tavern,
and there, sitting on the long veranda, he
opened and read a freshly written message
to a man who had been in his grave three
years. This was the message for the dead:
“My Dear Eustace —I ought to have writ
ten to you long ago, but there has been
so much confusion and despair here (to
which 1 have not been a stranger), and I
have been so busy trying to soothe our peo
ple and convince them that everything is
for the best (tnough it now seems to be for
the worst) that I have not taken time to
put pen to paper. And why should I write
you a business letter? There was, and is,
no reason for it in the world. You have
known all along that Herndon Wood is
yours the moment you find it necessary to
collect the money you were generous enough
to loan me. Yet 1 ought to have written
you a letter to say as much. I do not know
how the war has left you. If your financial
condition is anything like that whi< h exists ,
umziiu- io HTTperutiveh? *
necessary that you should be promptly put
in possession of whatever sum may be real- ;
ized from Herndon Wood. Under such cir
cumstances, my dear friend, I should deem
it a small sacrifice indeed to turn it over to
you. It frets and galls me to think that
any delay of mine may have embarrassed
you.
“My daughter Ethel, whom you made so
much of when she was a child, sends her
love with mine. She is a brave and helpful
little girl, and is all 1 have left to live for.
Always yours. BUSHROD HERNDON.”
This letter cleared up all doubts the young
Bostonian might have had. This Herndon
was indeed the southern friend he had
heard his father speak of so often. He re
membered, too, the visit the southerner
had made to Boston, and he remembered
the little girl that often went about
with the tall and stately gentleman, cling
ing to his hand or to his arm. How shy
she was, and how beautiful, with her black |
hair and her lustrous eyes! In a moment the i
young man was transported back to his !
obi home in Boston and to his own boyhood, i
Once more he could hear his father's hearty I
voice, the soft laughter of his mother, and
the vibrant, yet gentle, tones of their south
ern friend and guest. Once more he could
see the old stairway, shining in the half
light, and the little southern girl, leaning
her face against the plush of the heavy
rocking chair, regarding him, as he thought
with open-eyed wonder as he boastfully
told her about the wharves and the ship- I
ping and the tangled maze of streets. What i
a, pity his father was not alive to read j
this letter from the friend whom he was
fond of describing as the flower of ail the
men he bad ever met.
The young Bostmiftin’s dream of home
was rudely broken into by the voice of Mr.
Beasley.
“Ah, we meet again, Mr. —Mr.—”
“Olis,’’ said the other.
“Yes. We meet again. A few more meet- i
- y s- '''s' "I !’ :h, 4
-FC =J®C,
/(./ ' ''XXi Vu’’ (7
if
I f ' ‘i
1 i
* - >
“WELL,” EXCLAIMED CATO. DROPPTN G THE LETTER TN THE LITTLE CHUTE,
“1 THANK MY STARS IT TAIN T NONE EP. MY LETTER.”
ings and we shall be well acquainted. I
want to show your Boston friends,” Mr.
Beasley went on, flourishing a letter, “that
at least a few of the southern people can
be as prompt in business matters as they
are.”
"That is the rule in Boston,” remarked
the young man. “What will you give?
What will you take? Snip-snap, and there
you are!”
‘Business is business,” said Mr. Peasley.
“I’ll have that Herndon mortgage satis
fied before your Boston friends know it.”
"Well,” replied the young man. “that is
justice. I suppose this General Herndon
is prosperous?”
Mr. Beasley laughed heartily. “Prosper
ous! If pride is prosperity, he’s up to his
eyes in it. Why, when the mortgage is
foreclosed he’ll be rich in free niggers, white
dependents, and that pride of nis.” Mr.
Beasley pulled off his hat, wiped Lis fore
head with his handkerchief, and walked
back and forth a moment. “I tell you, sir,
when a man has been made the victim
of these people’s contempt, the .‘.our that
is coming for me is worth waiting a, life
time for. Yes, sir, a whole lifetime. He
brought his heavy fist down in the palm of
his hand so that it sounded like
the popping of a wagon whip.
“You seem to have some feeling in the
matter,” suggested the young man.
“Feeling!” exclaimed Mr. Beasley, “heel
ing! Mv dear sir, it is ten thousand feel
ings’” Tie seized his beard, gave it a twist,
stuck it between his teeth, and held it
there a moment.
Here was real ferocity, made ridiculous
by a turn ol the hand. The young Boston
ian had never seen, even on the stage, such
an intricate and inexplicable jombination of
the serious with the comic.
“Well,” said the young man, "you law
yers have a great deal of trouble, first and
last.”
“Good day,” said Mr. Beasley, curtly,
and went off up the street. Mr. Otis, as
he chose to call himself, went back to the
tavern.
Bright and early the next morning the
young Bostonian made his way toward
Herndon oWod. He had dreamed through
the night of old times—it is curious how
very young men can have such very old
times behind them—and all through his
dreams there came and went the slight
figure of a child—a slip of a young girl,
with black hair and lustrous brown eyes
that looked at him appealingly; such eyes
as give a touch of pathos and romance to
the old pictures of women that have teen
treasured by mankind through the ages.
In his dreams, as in his waking hours, the
thought came to him that he ought to go
to the rescue of this young girl, who had
grown to be a woman. Like all young men
who have been reared to a healthy ambi
tion, he wanted to be a hero, but like most
moderns he didn't know how to go about
it. Nevertheless, here was a condition that
had very much the appearance of an op
portunity. And yet there were some com
plications in the way.
In the first place, he was sailing under
false colors. He could not appear at Hern
don Wood under one name and on the old
registry book of the tavern under at other.
The community was too small. As a mat
ter of fact, although he. did not know it,
word had already gone to Herndon Wood
and over the whole village that a Mr.
Appleton Otis, of Boston, was at the tav
?rn. As the tavern register knew him, so
the whole community knew him.
In the second place, an explanation that
.j;;. „v. as,using only a part, of his name would
ue an awkward one to make to his father’s
eld triend. Awkward, because there was no
reasonable excuse for it. It was j.ist the
whim of a foolish young man, setting forth
to a strange country of which he r-ad heard
reports that were both striking aid re
volting. The general, being an old man,
would think it foolish, and his daughter,
being a young woman, would think it silly.
No; on second thoughts, and very sober
ones indeed, he would make no explanation
at all. He would permit events to develop
themselves, and if there were no develop
ments, why then nobody would be any the
wiser.
As he went mooning along through tlie
dim Y^oods —it was the primitive forest, that
man had found there —a strange figure
suddenly came out of the green wilderness
and struck into the path along which the
young man was going. It moved rapidly,
and yet cautiously. Occasionally it would
raise a hand above its head; its ragged
coat fluttered in the morning air. For a
moment Mr. Otis was tnrillod with me
sense of a pending adventure, but he
laughed when, getting a little nearer to the
apparition, lie saw it was Blind snack. rne
blind negro had stopped and placed ntm
self in a listening attitude, and he was
smiling when the young min came up.
“You are not lost, I hope,” sa’d oris
pleasantly.
“Lord' No suh!” said Shack, "fur i
wan’t bornded in deze woods, I wan’t born
ded many miles sum itm. I des come out
here ter tell yo’ fortune. Look like I kin
tell fortunes some days in de year when de
■>vin’ don't, set in sum de east. I’ll tell
yone suh. fer one dime er fer one chaw ter
backer. Es i don’t tell um true, you kin
hit me wid dat long stick tn yo’ nan' ’
“Why, you can see!” exclaimed the young
man.
“Oh, no, suh. Shack oeen blin’ aeze many
long year. I done got so I kin see wid
my ear mos’ good ez dem what got eyes.
I hear de een’ er dat stick hit a Jim ’hove
yo’ head. T’other een’ hit de groun’ so
j quick dat I know’d you ain't had time ter
i bring it down freni de Inn.”
“You are right,” said the young Bos
tonian. “What else?”
“You got on a stiff hat. Tell by de way
it soun’ when you put it on yo’ nead oes
den. You got on a long-tail coat, hear it
rub ’ginst de stick. You got on gloves;
hear you rub yo’ han’ on yo’ face.”
“Now tell my fortune.”
The negro at once grew serious. He seem
ed to be communing with himself. lie turn
ed slowly around, making a circle with the
end of his walking cane as he turned. Then
he pulled from his pocket a blacx stone
■ that had been polished by constant use.
- This he rubbed on his coat sleeve a little,
j and then held it out for Otis to Touch.
I Then he held it to his ear.
{ “Trouble som’rs,” said Blind Shack, shak
: ing his head. “Uther you er leavin’ trouble,
er uther you er gwine whar trouble at.
De ring on yo’ han’ clicked agin dis rock,
an’ dat’s good luck. But dey’s trouble
some’rs.”
He turned around slowly and then paused.
“Aha!” he cried. "Dis path leads right
spang ter de Herndons. Yes, suh! bar’s
whar de trouble is. You come in time—des
in time. Eve’ybody waitin’ icr you, out
dey don’t know it. Marter’ll be waitin' ter
you at de big gate, but he dunner what
he waitin’ fer. Mont’ atter mont’, day in
an’ day out he been walkin’ up an’ do-wn
out da’r by de big gate an’ waitin’. He
‘ dunner what he waitin’ fer, but ole Blin’
: Shack know.”
| “is that my fortune?” asked the young
j man, laughing.
; " T’o' lies' come, suh, I’m gwine ter
j hunt you up, an I’m gwine ter take off my
hat an’ say: ‘Young Marster, wuz dat yo’
I fortune?’ an’ den you gwine ter say: ‘Go
i long, nigger! J feel too good.’ ”
“Maybe you’ll not be able to find me,”
said Otis.
“I’m a fiferndon nigger,” answered
Shack. “You ain’t gwine nowhere while dat
Herndon- trouble lasts.”
The young man gave the negro a piece of
7 I
..If x ■
I \
r v
i I
■! i|r
GENERAL ITERNDOJJ.
currency—the kind that was called shin
plasters in those days.
“Thanky, sub,” said Shack. “Dis ain t no
dime; it’s a quarter.”
“How do you know?”
“A dime, suh, retches sum .de pam* er
. my h; n’ ter dis j'int. De quarter, suh, over
| laps de j’int some.”
The young Bostonian went on his wny.
laughing- at the shrewdness of the blind j
negro. Within a quarter of a rrffie the path
led into a. broad road, at the end of which
was a wide double gate, fixed between two
heavy pillars. At one time the pillars were j
connected by a graceful arch, as the rem- i
nants of masonry showed, but the arch !
! had been demolished by ruder hands than ;
those of time. The pillars themselves were !
scarred, but the concrete of crushed stone i
and lime had presented a firmer front than j
the masonry of :.ie arch.
The gateway led into a broad avenue .
bordered by oaks, walnuts and elms and '
througli the perspective thus presented
could be seen the tops of the white pillars
of the colonnade, standing out against a
background of dull ted brick. This was
Herndon Wood, so called from the im
mense forest park oy which it was sur
rounded. A flight of pigeons rose from the
roof, and the young Bostonian watched
them curiously as they circle?! and soared. ,
Within the avenue not far from the gate
a gentleman was walking. He was tall and
straight, and. though there was nothing
stiff or formal in his movements, they
werp all significant of a military life and
training. His iron-gray hair fell nearly to
his shoulders and his frock coat, though
the day was warm, was bottoned tightly
around the waisl. He was indulging in
an aimless promenade, and as he turned
he saw the young- Bostonian coming for
ward through the gateway. At once he
hmried to meet the possible guest, lifting
his hat with pittuiesque politeness as the
other drew near.
“General Hcindon, I presume? My name
is Otis.”
“Mr. Otis, you are very v, ilcome here.
Your name is a familiar one to me. It re
calls some extremely pleasant associations.”
“1 hope I am not trespassing,” said the
young man. “In the little village yonder 1
heard so much of Herndon Wood that I
ventured to come and see it for myself.”
“Come, then!” exclaimed the general.
“Let i s have a nearer view. It is not what
it once was, but what there is of it is here,
as the old song goes.”
“There are some very fine trees near Bos
ton.” the young man remarked, “but few
of them average so large as these.”
“Are you from Boston?” the general
asked. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Utis saw a kindling gleam of recognition
in General Herndon’s eye for which he
could not account. But it died away.
“Well, sir,” the young man replied, “you
know there are prejudices—”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the general.
“Leave your prejudices to the newspaper
editors and politicians. What has a young
man like you, or an old man like me, to do
with them? Boston! Why. my dear sir, I
have memories of Boston as dear to me as
those of my own home. They belong to
my youth.” Y'oung Otis tried to draw the
general away from Boston by remarking
once more the magnificence of the trees.
But the trees were full of Boston.
“That poplar yonder,” said General Hern
don. “is only one-quarter of an inch larger
than a chestnut I found near Boston. There
was a beech close by. On this my college
chum ancL-d carved our names, and under
neath his he placed the initials es his sweet
heart’s name.” •
General Herndon ceased to talk, and
walked along by the side of the younger
man, his head bent apd a smile playing
about his mouth. Otis, watching him,
thought he had never seen a stronger pro
file than the general’s face presented at
that moment. It reminded him somehow
of a bust of Caesar that sat on the man
telpiece in his father’s library, only the
strength was more human, more modern.
Perhaps this was because the features of i
the marble Caesar were inflexible. There I
was such fluency of expression in General I
Herndon’s face that it. served as a momen
tary record of all his fleeting thoughts. The
kindling eyes, trie moving- smile, caught
and registered them all.
As they came to the rose* garden that
filled the wide spaces on either side of the
walk that led to the veranda, an old negro
arose from a stooping posture, spade in
hand. Without obsequiousness, but with a
dignity that true politeness confers, he rais
ed his hat.
"Cato,” said the general, “call John and
if
.'I
■ t
PRICE FIVE CENTS
i tell him to take the little wagon and fetch
; Mr. Otis’s luggage from the tavern. Tell
; him to say that Mr. Otis will remain here
| for a few days.”
“I speck I better go myse’f, marster, kaze
i es I start ter tell dat nigger John what you
I say, he’ll git mix up an’ I’ll git mix up,
; an’ dey won’t be no baggage brung.”
“Very well, Cato.”
Otis tried to pretest—in fact, he did pro
test —but all his protestations were met by
the gentle firmness with which General
I Herndon insisted on detaining him.
i “Humor an old man,” he said. “Some
young man will make himself famous by
l organizing ‘The Society for Humoring Old
■ People.’ Come! we will talk about Bos
; ton; we will discuss men and measures.
You shall be my newspaper and I shall be
• yours, and when you turn my dull and yel-
■ low pages I give you leave to cry out,
i ‘What profit was there in such a publication
as this? It was behind the times it pre
tended to chronicle.’ ”
In such a strain as this General Herndon
pressed his invitation. There was a quaint
charm about him—more in. his manner than
1 in his conversation-—that the young Bos
tonian found it hard to resist. This charm
—indefinite, elusive, indescribable—was a
part of the inheritance of Ethel Herndon,
and when the daughter added her shy and
yet cordial invitation to that of her father,
Utis surrendered at once. He became the
guest of Herndon Wood, but he would have
been happier if he had not suppressed a
part of his name.
(To be continued.)
A WEALTHY COLXTRY.
Census Bulletins Siiow Clearly On»
Corintry’s Prosperity.
Two census bulletins were issued last
week, giving the tiaustics of agricu.tmea.i l
the wealth of the United States. The to
tal valuation of the real and personal prop
erty at the close of the census period of
1890 amounted to $65,037,091,197. Os this
amount $35,544,544,333 represents the value of
real estate and improvements, and. $25,492,-
546,864 that of personal property, including
railroads, mines and quarries. At the same
time the total assessed value of real estate
and personal property taxed was $25,473,173,-
418. Os this amount $18,956,w>6,67;> represented
real estate and improvements, and $6,516,-
616,743 personal property.
This valuation is classified as follows:
Real estate, with improvements thereon,
$311,5-14,544,233; ave stock on farms and ranges,
farm implements and machinery, $2,703,015,-
040; mines and quarries, including product
on hand, $1,201,291,579; gold and silver coin
and bullion, $1,158,771,948; machinery of mills
and product on hand, raw and manufactur
ed, $3,058,593,141; railroads and equipments,
iui-iuuing s2d,,a:B,siJ street ratlroaus, $0,b»5,-
407,323; telegraphs, telephones, shipping and
canals, $701,755,712; miscellaneous, $7,893,708,-
821.
1 he bulletin on agriculture shows that the
total number of farms enumerated in 1890
' was 4,561,611, as compared with 4,008,907 in
| IMO, an increase of 50.>,i34.
i The total area of land in these farms was
| 623.218,619 acres, of which 357,616,755 acres
I were improveu. In 1880 there were 536,081,835
acres farms, . '-.,iil, i.i acres of wli.i
were improved. Therefore, there was an
increase • » M. 136.781 .-.< r-s of in. total land
in farms, and 72,345,713 acres improved.
The percentage of the total land surface
J in farms in 18'JO was 32.<j, as compared with
The value of these farm lands, including
j fences and buildings, was, in 1890, $13,279,-
I 252,619, and in 1880, $10,197,096,776
. rhe value of farm implements and ma
. chinei-y in 1890 was $191,347,-167, and in 1880,
. $4v‘u,a20,055.
i The value of live stock on hand June L
■ Jx ii. was .- ,2i-''.7li, ~n':|. in June 1895, i. v.:i.
$1,500,384,707, showing an increase of 42.21
per cent since 1880.
The value of farm products in 1889 was
$2,i60,107,4ii1. The total number of horses
on farms and ranges in 1890 was 15,258,783;
swine, 57,425,287; neat cattle, 57,618,792, and
sheep 35,935,364. The total area devoted to
i cotton production in 1889 was 20,175,270 acres.
The area, devoted to the cultivation of ce
reals in 1889 was 140,217,545 acres, and the
i total production 3,518,846,904 bushels.
A Song of Love.
I was as poor as the poorest, dear, and the
world—it passed me by:
But not that day when you came my way,
with the love-light in your eye.
Ah! not that daj- when the fragrant May
bent over the world her sky!
I was as lone as .ae loneliest, love, with
never a dream of bliss;
But not tiiat day when you passed my way
and leaned to my thankful kiss!
Nay! not that day, while my lips can say:
“There was never a joy like this!”
Dear, it is something to know this love — let
the skies be black or blue:
It is something to know that you love me
so—the lender, the sweet, the true!
And my heart will beat for that love, my
sweet, till I dream in the dust with you!
—FH L. STANTON.
ISurinl Customs <ȣ New Zcitlanders.!
The New Zealanders have a singular bur
ial custom, and one that is essentially the
same as that of the Parsees of the Orient.
Unlike the latter, they bury their dead iQ
the earth, but leave them there only long
enough for the flesh to decay. When noth
ing is left but the bones, these are carefully
cleaned and laid away in natural caves or
artificial tombs. The crime of grave robbing
or disturbing the bones of the dead after
they have been cleaned and put away is al
ways punished by death in New Zealand
and throughout Polynesia.
BLUFFS AT WISDOM.
Beats the world—the impecunious trampat
—Texas Siftings.
As a rule sarcasm is a boisterous demand
for liver medicine. —Galveston News.
Women’s clubs seem to be growing. The
broomstick used to be large enough.—Phil
adelphia Record.
It is reported that the Yale students are
al < ut to petition for optional prayers and
compulsory baseball.—Life.
First Dear Girl—“ How did you like my
singing?”
‘ Second Dear Girl—“ Singing Is not the
name for it.”—Hallo.
Wool—“We haven’t heard the last of
Coxey’s army, yet.” Van Pelt —"No-o; they
will all want pensions, I expect.”—Puck.
No man will ever amount to much who
labors under the impression that somebody
else is always in his way.—Dallas News.
Upstreete—"Do you take any stock in the
saying that money talks?” Frontpew— “l’ve
known it to—er—have something to do with
calls to preach.”—Buffalo Courier.
Mr. Croesus—“ You want to marry my
niece do you? Why, she is the only relative
1 have.”' Charley Hudup—“l have thought
that all out. sir.”—Raymond’s Monthly.
“De great trouble ’bout conversation.”
remarked Uncle Eben, “am dat hit’s on
possible ter show ez much ’rig’nality in
talkin’ ’bout de weddah ez yoh kin ta»xiu*
’bout yoh neighbors.”—Washington Star.
Talktim —“Protfessot* Garner says that
monkeys do not actually converse, but con
fine themselves to single remarks on mat
ters of importance." Thinkum—“Dear me!
How man has degenerated.”—New xor«
Weekly.
