Newspaper Page Text
Sifccia’
‘Z‘L. V.--NO. 31.
hS or cdl
S S —■—'—
:■• .>ec ■■« H i i
|| r FROST.
* j is etched with wondrofis tracery:
.e interlaced with curve and line with
■ \ Subtle measures of sweet harmony
|W ,ruled to shapes of beauty cry stillline.
a graceful vines and tendrils of such sort
fl b never grew save In some fairy world
■4 nd up from roots of misted silyor wrought
riiromrb tulip flowers and lilies half un
fl fur'ed.
■ firs and hemlocks blend Fwlth plumy
M* •ikod’caeti spring from feathery ferns and
■ VMdli
H ;ea blooms such as rock in Southern
fl foamy fronds with sedge and
fl -e'ls.
■ />re are flights of birds with Iris wings
■ hed in mid-air many a brilliant plume,
■ titillating shoals es swimming things
■ seem to float iu clear green ocean
I 'Oni.
I * are diamond-crusted diadems,
[ .os of pearl and scepters of pale gold,
up in crystal grottoes, lit with gems
. paved with emeralds of price untold.
fl ; marvelous architecture of no name,
” mules and shafts of loveliest form and hue,
ii pinnacles and turrets tipped wi h tlaine,
d fretted domes of purest sapphire blue.
. .hose the Genii of the Frost Last night
X iVrought 1 trough the still cell hours by
charm and rune;
/nd now, like dreams dispelled before the
light,
They float away in vapor on the noon.
—Charles L Hildreth, in Harper’s Jlatjazine.
THE GOOD SAMARITAN.
- Miss Betty Van Dyke had curled her-
S ip in the corner of the spacious
iv-sill in her mother’s kitchen to
.fitine sute the flounces of her
‘ ‘ islin. Miss Betty wa ; as pretty
111 1 as a rose; her eyes were of
. ■< own blue, her hair like threads
• ( her cheeks “like a Catherine
‘ e side that’s next the sun.”
vas nothing' more than a bundle
jbones wrapped in a piece of parch
• she was a native of Lorraine and
lately married an Englishman fa
uliarly known as “George,” whom
she had loved for many a year.
Miss Petty was romantic, and it so de
lighted her when George at last yielded
to the idolatry of poor Filine that she
coaxed her father into leasing a bit of
scrubby woodland, with a tumble-down
house upon it, to George, so that he
could have a garden and potato patch
and raise some chickens and take nice
care, of poor Filine. Miss Betty even
condescended to go to them during the
house-finishing and the honey mo n and
assist Fitine in her little domestic fur
nishing and adorning and advise George
in relation to his garden, his potato
patch, his chickens and wood-splitting.
But, truth to say, George had so
studied the character and attributes of
the noble Indian that he modeled his
lite upon it so far as resigning all do
mestic dut.es to poor Filine. Pie gave
oter to his spouse the entire supervision
of the garden, potato patch, chicken
raising and even the wood-splitting. He
was of a dreamy nature and would sit
for hours on a rude bench he had placed
near the water, and there he would
® r ''. ok , e and meditate until Fitine had
lulled up the house and fed the chickens
and hoed the potatoes and washed a
coup.o of dozen pieces for one of her
patrons, and split some wood and got
dinner upon the table, and then George
would come in and eat dinner with
lifme and tell her of all he had been
thinking about while sitting there upon
the bench under the trees.
lit ne was very happy. She knew
that George was superior to her in
mnd, but he had told her time and
aga n that it was right he should be her
superior, and he loved her all the bet
ter for it.
Lut Miss Betty had her misgivingfl,
and one day, w en she was curled up
ike a lovely kitten upon the window
sill, sue said to Fitine: “What does
«A O u ge L do ’ * 1! ne - towa rds the support
of the household? It seems to me that
Aon are always slaving and toiling.
What does George do?” °
wJA ei i 1 ' 1 I line sl, rugged her shoulders,
which had become somewhat crooked
and bulgy tlO m the heavy burdens thev
had borne all these years, and elevated
1 ey ebiows, which were rather scra*-
gy and gray, and said, with a world of
teU ng in her voice; “ What does he do,
XK egives to rae the haPPi
ennr ,s niv all: he P ives to me the
which is beautiful; he tells
'Y hat . ls ? P°mg on in the big, busy
tin ? ’ P, ltlcs - he consoles, ah, my lit
tle one. he loves me!”
Miss Betty blushed and was silent,
8,31 d thought, foolish child, that after
mi tins was everything. She left Fitine
l 0 tu cks and furbelows with
men Mrs. \ an Dyke delighted to adorn
ei daughter Betty, and went out under
uie grape-vine and walked to and fro
and thought that if somebody—and
Ambled and blushed ‘at the
(nought of his name—would read to her
i u'u' Woldd ta k to her again, would
ell her of the big, beautiful World once
’l he would love her—ah, what
onia she not be glad to give in return!
m l 6 would work for him—aye, she would
oik her slim fingers to the bone, only
kn OU xi e he wouldn’t let her; he was
km .. and S e »erous and thoughtful.
J”." c ne cessity should arise, how
tifi 8 -2 w °uld be to do even like poor
turn?’ on 'y he would love her in re
-I:u t. alas! the superiority of mankind
as here also pre-eminent. He was the
new minister, the Rev. Keg nai l Roake.
he consistory had thought it host to
g i a young man, so that he could board
round among the parishioners and thus
ave the rent of a parsonage. Captain
B an Miss Betty’s father, had
'■ouffht it best to economize in every
ay that they could and had even taken
• ?, man tn board at first. He
a his wife they’d scarcely mis y what
l>piJ ,a i rs ° n ate and th® church must be
nnri d ai .? n £ as much as was prudent
and possible.
Hut the Captain, after a few months,
She Halton Straus.
- f
suddenly changed his mind. The young
minister was very fertile in imagination
and quick in thought; and his sermons
were speedily prepared, and the lon*
summer davs had so many sweet, rich
hours to till! Miss Betty’s duties were
also light; her mother was still active
and robust and there were two sturdy
young women in the kitchen, besides
the occasional artistic work of Filine.
The Captain’s sight was keen and
strong; when he was out sailing in the
bay he could see a couple of figures
bending over some book in the summer
house or wandering among the rocks or
along the sands upon the shore. The
Captain would come home hot and
vexed, and take his wife to task for this
misdoing.
“1 don't want any beggarly parsons
hanging around my daughter,’’ said the
Captain.
The good lady would look very much
shocked and really tremble in her heart
at the Captan’s temerity, for she
thought it was almost tempting Provi
dence to cast a contemptuous word
upon the clergy, but she had that whole
some fear of the Captain that she never
ventured to remonstrate with him. >he
sighed in secret with her daughter when
the Captain managed to transfer the
preacher to the care of a wealthy and
comely widow in the neighborhood.
“ He can poach all he pleases on that
domain,” said the Captain. And short
ly afterwards he was delighted to see
the reverend gentleman riding out with
the fair widow and ga liering grasses
and ferns in the pretty woodland haunts
about Granville.
“We can’t keep a parson single,”
chuckled the Capta n at his dinner-ta
ble; “ the women won’t let h m alone,
do wh'at we may. But the widow Ben
son owns her own house, and that will
save rent for a parsonage.”
The morsel upon Miss Betty’s fork
remained untasted, and the Captain in
this way spoiled many a meal for his
daughter.
And so the summer waned, and Sep
tember was at hand—September with
her soft blue haze and rich warm sun
shine; and though the widow had a
brilliant garden of her own she was
fond of the wanton wild flowers that
grew so luxuriously in the woods of
Granville. She and the young minister
filled the house with great clusters of
golden-rods and asters and big purple
poke berries. One day the pony pl* .e
--ton stopped before the door of < a tain
Van D\ ke and the widow was led into
the silt ng-room, where she found Miss
Betty almost hidden by a mosquito net
ting which she was busily patching.
“Come, child,” said the widow,
“put away that rag and run and get a
pretty dress on. I’ve promised myself
this many a day we should take Ill's
drive together, and I declare to you it
shall be the rarest one you ever had in
your life. The day is made richly to
order for it: the balmiest air. the gold
enest sunshine—not a cloud in the sky!
Run away and make yourself look as
pretty as you can.”
“You are very kind,” said Miss Bet
ty, with a little trip of cold jealousy on
her tongue, “but I must mend this net
ting for poor Fifine. She is sick with a
fever, and the mosquitoes are dread ul
down there in the wood. Mamma says
I may have this netting if 1 can make
it do, it is so badly torn,” said poor
Betty, “ and so perplexing! Bnt 1
could not sleep, Mrs. Benson,” she
added, with an air of gentle dignity, in
which there was also a slight sniff of
reproach—“ I could not sleep in mv own
bed of luxury and know that poor Fifine
was languishing there a prey to fever and
mosquitoes.”
If the widow had thereupon offered
to drive to town with Miss Betty and
buy for fifine a brand-new canopy Miss
Betty would have put the old netting
aide; but she was at heart very glad
that the fine ladv offered no such sacri
fice to charity, for she could not bear to
find her altogether perfect
“Ten chances to one, my dear,” said
the widow, “you’ll have your labor for
your pa ns. These poor creatures are
very superstitious and queer, and don t
know what is best for them. Ive no
doub . in any case, she has pretended to
be sick to get rid of some clear-starch
ing for your good mother. Fifine
wou’d rather work at home, so that she
can be with that lubberly lout of a hus
band of hers. She is the finest and best
of laundresses, and sorry should I be
to have anything befall her; but you
must not believe ali these wily French
women say.”
The color mantled high in Miss Bet
ty’s cheeks as these slanders fell upon
her cars, and she steadily refused to put
her work aside.
“You are a little goose,” said the
widow at length. “ Must I tell you,
then, that we sliall have some charming
company with us? We are to stop at
mv hou-e for Mr. Roake—there, now,
Miss Betty, run away and dress.”
The color fled from Miss Betty's
cheeks and the needle trembled in her
fingers. As she raised her blue eyes to
the tine black ones of the widow a tear
or two trembled within them.
“You are welcome to your charming
company,” she said. “ I will go on
with my work for my poor Fifine.”
The widow laughed lightly and went
away, leaving poor Miss Betty to
struggle on with her troublesome task,
which was more and more irksome
now that she knew how some
other people were spend'ng their after
noon. As rent after rent yawned be
fore her, and her weary little finders
grew less and less nimble, more than
once the question arose within her
whether it was better to go on. Since
nobody eared for, why should she care
for anybody? But her generous heart
conquered all these bitter temptations,
and nearly at night-fall she ran up
stairs to slip on the pretty muslin robe,
all smoothed and crimped by the art
and industry of poor I ifine. The net-,
DALTON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1883.
ting was not a very heavy burden, but
she carried also a kettle of ice with her
and a pot of jelly. She took the road
through the woods, and though it was
growing darker ami her heart beat
rapidly and she could not brush the
mosquitoes away because her h inds
Were so full, yet she was upheld by the
thought of rescuing poor Fifine. Since
she could not save her from the stings
of slander and reproach she should at
least be free from those of mosquitoes.
At last through the trees she could see
the chicken-coops of Fifine, and soon
she was at the poor woman’s bedside.
The heart of Miss Betty was fired with
indignation when she remembered the
cruel words of the widow. Fifine lay
upon a rude bed in the corner. Always
thin and brown, she might now have
been taken for an exhumed Queen of
Egypt, and Miss Betty could not imag
ine how all these mosquitoes could find
it in their anatomy to prey upon poor
Fifine when the fat and unctuous sub
stance of George was temptingly at hand
upon the bench outside, where he was
enjoying his evonin* pipe. Miss Betty
stooped over the sick woman and said
softly: “I have brought you some ice,
dear Fifine.”
“ Ah, my angel! my angel of light!”
said Fifine. “ thou hast of hearts the
most merciful; but, alas. I cannot have
the ice. I am too cold already, my
little one. There is a cold hand at mv
heart. No, no; I cannot have the
ice.”
“Very well, Fifine,” said Miss Petty,
putting down the kettle which had been
such a nuisance to her, “you shall not
be troubled with the ice, but here is
some jelly.”
“ Ah, my blessed one!” cried Fifine,
“thou art like asa nt from Heaven; but
talk not to me of jelly. They have
given me of jellv many years ago, a'ter
some bitter medicine, and I have since
that time no hunger for jelly. Ah, my
rose of the wildwood! It makes me sick
to think cf it.”
“ Then do not think of it, Fifine,”
said Miss Betty, putting aside the jar
that had grown heavier and heavier at
every step of the journey. “But these
dreadful mosquitoes, they are devouring
you.”
“Ah, yes, my adored one, they are
demons without mercy; they have
drawn all the blood from my body, and
their dreadful song is madness to my
brain. But rest tranquil; death will soon
p. t an end to my misery.”
“But see here, m poor Fifine,” cried
Miss Betty, exultingly unrolling her
precious net; “now you can sleep in
peace We will spread this over you,
George and I, and not one of the mon
sters can reach you. See, my poor Fi
line, we will draw this over vou—so,”
and suiting the action to the word Miss
Betty pulled the net over the high post
of the bedstead, when suddenly a terri
fied look upon the sick woman’s face
stayed her hands, and she cried out io
Fifine in dismay: “Don't you want the
net over you. Filine ?”
“Ah, life of my life!” said Fifine, “it
is sad, it is terrible! I know not how
to deny thee, after all thou hast done
for me; but, oh, my little one, I can
not have it over me. I have tried, for
thy dear sake, to bear it. I told myself
that I would say no word against it—at
least till thou were gone, when George
could pull it away—b 11 can not even
for one little moment. Ah, my angel,
wait until I am dead, and then they can
draw over me the pal, and pit can
dles at my head and feet, and do ivith
me what they will; but while I am yet
alive I can not bp treated like a dead
bodv.”
Miss Betty said no further words of
entreaty or remonstrance, but let the
miserable, flimsy thing fall out of her
hands upon the floor; and having
smoothed Fifine’s pillow ar d held some
milk to her lips and promised te come
again n e*n >ru:ng, Miss Betty tcok
the wove nl oad home again
It wa n> / quite dark, and big
shadows 11 o ned to threaten every s ep
of her way. Her ncart was heavy with
in her, and her poor little feet seemed
scarcely able to carry even her light
weight along. What a wretched abor
tive attempt had been hers to a'leviate
the misery of poor lif ne? It was as
the beautiful widow had said, she had
had her labor fur her pains—the beauti
ful, mocking widow, who was no doubt
rid ng home through the gloaming with
the Rev. Reginald Roake.
At thatve y moment Miss Betty heard
the tramping of hoofs behind her, and
stepped asiue to let the light-l mbed
pony of the widow pass by. Ihe basket
sides of the phaeton were filled with
wild flowers, and the white l ands of the
minister held a bunch of shy, sweet for
get-me-nots as blue as Miss Bet y’seyes.
The wi low drew up her pony and
bade Miss Betty get in by her side, lest
the hobgoblins ot the wood should de
vour her; but the young girl stoutly re
fused. nor would she be coaxed from
her decision.
“I am not afraid of hobgoblins,”
she said, thinking in her heart there
could be none so greed v and rapacious
as the beautiful widow herself.
“Now what is to be done with this
obstinate child?” said the widow. The
minister had long since leaped from the
wagon and approached Miss Betty: b t
she turned her back on him, perhaps
to hide the tears of wretchedness which
were falling out ot her s.
“Pick her up and put her in here by
me,” said the widow. “I am myself a
little afraid o th« satyrs of tftc wood
Come, child; do not be a goose and get
jealous of your grandmother. 'J he
gentleman there has gathered a pretty
nosesrav of forget-tne-nots for vou that
were left over from spring. We have ,
been looking for you far and wide, and ,
he has done nothing lut me of j
his love for you till I am sick of the re- <
train ” . . '
Bettv turned a swift, molting g ancc i
behind! her. In a twinkling the nuuii- t
t ter had lifted ; er to the widow s side,
r and forgot to take his arm away. It
. was quite dark, and the only star that
* shone in the sky was that of Venus.
t They drove rapidly on, Miss Betty’s
heart thumping in unison with the hoofs
of t he pony. •
? “1 told you,” said the widow, “you’d
3 have your labor for your pains. We
j stooped at Fifine’s. The poor creature
was full of adoration for you. She
ca led upon every saint in the calendar
( to shower blessings upon your head.
t She said that you had brought her some
beautiful ice and delicious icily, an I a
i net that was most beautiful.”
j “But she refused them all,” said Miss
r Betty.
i “Ah, yes.” replied the widow; “but
j George did not refuse them. He had
f chopped up the ice in the milk and had
- spread all the jelly upon his bread and
I had wrapped himself up in the mosquito
r netting and laid upon the lounge as we
■ entered, snoring, as Fifine said, like an
1 angel. Filine was parched with fever
i and devoured with mosquitoes, but she
’ declared to me that she was quite com*
1 sortable and happy. I do not under
stand it.”
But Miss Betty did. She nestled
closer to the arm about her, and lifted
1 her flushed and rad ant face to the one
3 above her own.
“My sweet little Samaritan!” he
1 whispered; and although the widow
5 could not understand the happiness of
Fitine, it was deal* to the heart of Miss
■ Betty.—lZarper’s Weeklij.
t ■»-■■■_ -
Knowing llow to Swim.
' The recent disasters on the waters hai e
J conclusively proved the advantages of
’ the art of swimming. Those who were
conscious of their ability to swim were
’ cool in more than one sense of tire word;
for they not only were not panic-stricken,
‘ but they did not burn. Even those who
can but float in the water feel that they
, have resources which others do not share.
Among the passengers of the Seawan
hakawas Mr. Samuel Barlow, of New
York, who having provided himself with
a life preserver, gave it away to another
passenger and dropped into the water.
He turned himself upon his back and
floated, managing to keep his nose above
water until he was rescued. All the pas
sengers who could swim, or at least who
did swim, reached the shore in safety.
It would reinforce persons otherwise
liable to be fear-stricken, with assurance,
enabling them to take measures for sav
ing themselves. If, for example, the
water were not an absolute terror to one
half or three-fourtha of tho passengers,
when a collision occurs or a fire breaks
out, they would, with some degree of
carefulness and deliberation, set about
lowering the boats. They could exercise
their reason and take precautions, would
look to see if the plugs were all in, and
would lower the boats, perhaps, without
emptying everybody out or filling the
boats with water. On the Narragansett
one of the boats was lowered while the
plug in the bottom, allowing the rain
water to run away, was out, and the boat .
filled. The patent plug, which, by the I
pressing of the water on the bottom, is
forced home, ought to be used in all
boats; but it is not, and a little caution
and preservation of the mental balance
on the part of the passengers would avoid
these unnecessary dangers.
It is not merely, therefore that the art
of swimming will save the lives of voy
agers, but the familiarity with the water
and the consciousness that one can, even
when he must take to tlie water, support
himself in it for a time at least, and un
til help comes, would prevent the dread
ful panics to which more than to the dis
aster itself, the great loss of life is due.
Should every man, and every woman, and
every child that’s old enough to learn, be
aware that as soon as they touch the
water they could support themselves in
it, nearly all of the immediate danger
would disappear. A swimmer, too, can
use even a life-preserver to better advan
tage than one ignorant of the art.
Os course swimmers drown'sometimes,
but the proportion is very small, and it
happens quite as often that it is the boy
that cannot swim who is drowned while
in bathing. The number of swimmers
that are drowned is very much smaller
than the number of non-swimmers who
are drowned while bathing or sailing.
A Model Girt.
Do you wart to read this word-picture
?f a modest girl ? I wish more of her
class existed, for the sa.ke of society at
large. She is not what is called hand
some. though possessed of a quiet at
tractiveness all her own. Iler wardrobe
is chosen for quality according to her
financii’l circumstances; the colors are
sei ected with care, suitable to each other
and favorable to her complexion (you
may call this taste, so is is, “modest
taste ”) ; ths style must, of course, be as
new the popular fashion as she dare ap.
proach, but never quite up to the height;
when out calling or shopping she dresses
with neatness and care ; if walking, she 1
neither moves too fast nor slow, but
glides along with a natural and graceful 1
step which is very becoming, recogniz
ing her friends by a polite bow or wel
come grasp of the hand ; but there are
no demonstrative embraces or gushing
word*. She is strictly truthful. When
any question is being discussed, andflier
opinion is asked, she givesit hesitating
ly, net doubtfully, and, if not accepted,
never allows herself to utter a contra
diction, but calmly and quietly with- ,
draws from the discussion, although her i
opinion is not lost or defeated by so do- i
imr ; on the contrary, it almost always < |
carries weight and effect. Her acts and
words are unobtrusive, but her / E
is great in the home which *t is her hap I
piness to adorn, K
Crow-Cnt Religion.
The meeting-house of the Lickskillii
' district was crowded. The preacher, old
Noah, with his grizzly beard and head
’ half white, lilie a cotton field when the
1 bolls are just opening, sat in tho pulpit
surveying his congregation in that pecul
, iar way which has ever characterized the
1 colored preacher. A spontaneous hymn
arose, and when the melody had ceased
the preacher aroso and said, “Let us en
gage in prar.” Tho congregation kneeled,
even young Ike, the preacher’s son, who
1 had just come from down to tho spring,
1 where he had been trying to swap mules
with one of the deacons.
1 “Oh, Lord,” began the preacher, “we
’semble in dis house ob worship to thank
thee fur the many blessin's ob de past,
j an’ ax dat yer would sprinkle our lan’
wid a lectio moah rain. We must hub a
shower ’twixt dis an’ Saturday night,
’ ’case, Lord, we’se needin’ ob hit. Amen. ”
1 Just as the preacher arose there was a
i stir at the rear end of the house. A tall
colored man, followed by several parties
’ as intensely colored as himself, filed dowi|
■ the aisle. “Come up ter de stan’,
■ Brother Robinson,” said tho preacher,
for ho recognized the preacher of the
1 Blacksnort district.
1 “I doan want ter come up ter yer
» stan’,” said Mr. Robinson.
“ Whut’s de matter wid yer, sah!” ex
• claimed old Noah. “ What’s a ailin’ob
; yer?”
“ Tuthor day I sent yer a note, axin’
1 yer ter stop prayin'fnr rain,” remarked
Robinson, with emphasis. “Our cotton
is sufferin’ fur sunshine. We’se had
moah rain don we wants, an’ hcah yer
goes axin’ fur moah.”
“We hain’t had no rain, shah, an’ I
‘tens ter pray fur it until hit do come.”
“Is yer tryin’ ter drown us out?”
“No, but I wants ’nough rain,”
“I understand yor game, Bruddor
Noah. You sees dat rain is puttin’ us in
de grass. You know dat hit is to del
worl’ly intrust ob dis section fur ter keep
us dar. Yer wants de Lord ter drown ns
out, so dat your con’regation will git de
heels ob us id de market. De Lord at
dis season ob de yeah, has got so nnreh
business ter tend ter dat he ain’t a noticin’
how much rain is a failin’. You keep
a sendin’ up your prars, an’ he keeps a
1 lullin’ de string. I wants yer to stop
lit. Does yer hcah, Brudder Noah?”
“I heah, but is mighty loft about
hark’nin. We wants rain, we does. We
prays, and es de Lord grabs a hold ob de
wrong string it taint no fault of ours.”
“ WeH, I came heah prepared for a let
up or a fight. Sich foolishness* as you
send up is 'nough ter git de Lord so tan
gled dat he can’t git himself straight for
a yeah. You’ll put de sun in. de clips. ”
“ Do what wid de sun?”
“Put hit in de clips.
“Well, es dat doan beat any mistake
I ever heard a nigger make. No wonder
de Lord won’t pay no ’tention toyer.”
“What would you say?” A
“ Why, de reclipse.”
“ Dafs all right, but de fact T want
settled is dis: Is yer gwine ter stop?”
“No, I isn’t.”
“ Den we mixes wool."
r Mr. Robinson sprang toward the pul-
I pit. Noah sprang to jneet him. The
wildest confusion prevailed. The two
men grappled, and the doirzuf gaihored
around.
“Gimmy de plantation grip,” ex
claimed Noah, while Mr. P.r?Jnflo.n vo
ciferated “cut yer capers, cut yer capers!"
Finally Robinson fell, Noah mounted
him, choked him infs obedience and
raising himself up, excLiiiaed: “Jjet vs
pray again. Brudder Johnson, git down
aar.” Thepreacnershrtve become friends.
—LMIt MOcI: Gttzctlu. ]
BUM
i
The Grindstone of Life.
Turning grindstones to grind scythes
is one of those heroic but unobtrusive
occupations for which onejgets no credit.
It is n hopeless kind of tusk, and, how
ever faithfully the crank turned, is
one that blings little reputation. There
is a great deal of poetry about haying—
I mean for those not engaged in it. One
likes to hear the whetting of the scythe
on a fresh morning and the response of
the noisy bobolink, who sits upon the
fence and superintends the cutting of
the dew-laden grass. There is a sort of
music in the “swish” and a rhythm in
the swing of the scythes in concert. * * *
But if the scythes cut well and swing
merrily it is due to the boy who turned
the grindstone. For my part I used to
like the grindstone that “wabbled’’ a
good deal on its axis, for when I turned
it fast it put the grinder on a lively look
out for cutting his hands, and entirely
satisfied his desire that I should “turn
faster. ” I used to wish sometimes that
I could turn fast enough to make the
atone fly into a dozen pieces. * * ♦
This is one of the disagreeable tasks of
the boy farmer, and hard as it is I do not
know why it is supposed to belong es
pecially to childhood. But it is, and one
of the certain marks that second child
hood has come to a man on a farm is
that he is asked to turn the grindstone
as if he were a boy again. When the old
man is good for nothing else, when he
can neither mow nor pitch and scarcely
“rake after," he can turn a grindstone,
»nd in this way he renews his youth.—
Being a Boy.
A DANuritT man tells a good story of
his aunt, who is a model housekeeper
»nd a scrupulous stickler for a good
table. The clergyman called near the
dinner hour, wnd was pressed to stay to
Um meal. At the table there was a good
supply of well-prepared food, but the
la y felt compelled to make many apoh>
for imaiamurr deficiencies. Iu the 1
pace the clergyman
Father to “ blee» the frugal meal, m /
nails the lady very mad.
TERMS: SI.OOA YEAR.
WAIFS AM) WHIMS, *
l A lickeb-dealbb—th* schoolmaster.
I Tin soda-drinker often thinks of
' foam. 9
ThW‘ promises of some men always re
main shall owe. •
' New way to “know all about x thy-
! self”—get a Presidential nomination.
Isn’t it slightly paradoxical to call a
man with full beard a bare-faced liar?
i Fly time—when you hear vonr
father’s cane thumping along the talk
i CoMinssiONEß Lh Duo, in his crop re
ports, never mentions the hops at the
i seaside.
A westebn journal heads an article:
“A Lunatic Escapes and Marries a
Widow. ’ Escaped, eh? We should say
he got caught,
A AVhtfehall man has discovered a
way of instantly turning sweet milk into
fresh butter. He feeds it to a goat
Patent applied for.
A Wisconsin theorist says that hay
will satisfy hunger. There may be some
tliing in this, for a couple of straws will
frequent satisfy thirst.
It is claimed by some medical men
that smoking weakens the eyesight.
Maybe it does, but just see how it
strengthens the breath.
Boston has a public vinegar inspector
at a salary of SI,OOO per year. Ona,,
would think he would get awfully tirea*
looking for his “mother.”
A ijttlb girl in church, after the con
tribution plate had been passed, com
placently and audibly said, “I paid for
four, mamma, was that right?”
Said Jones: “Smith won’t have so
soft a tiling as he had.” “I don’t know,”
replied Robiuson, “he’ll have a soft
thing eo long as he doesn’t lose his
head.”
Biiidgkt—“And how shall I cut the
pole, mum?* Lady of the house—“ Cut
it into quarters.” Bridget—“ And how
many quarters wood I cut it into,
mum? ”
You may have noticed that the flies
never bother a speaker, no matter how
dull he is, but invariably attack the over
worked sitter who is trying to get a lit
tle sleep.
“Ah heavens; crteo ,<ana, sentiment
ally, to her visitor, “when one is adored
by a magnificent captain like you, noth
ing ever can make her love again—unless
it is a major.”
“My umbrella is getting decidedly
shabby,” said a young man about town
one evening last week. “I lielieve I will
have to strike another prayer-meeting
the first rainy night.”
Occasionally you find a Detroit man
who can fetand having his whisky stolen
and not .complain; but when the flies
pester them during a morning nap, they
all swear.— Boston Post.
Bullion is wealth in a crude form,
and after it is coined and kept at interest
a while, it becomes wealth in accrued
form again. This language of ours is
worse than-the gem puzzle, a heap.
Deuced queer how men differ alxiut
different things. When a man hooks a
lot of fish he will brag of it for three
days, and when he hooks a lot of apples
lie hasn't a word to say about it
“Oh I thought this was a drawing
room car!” apologetically observed a
lady to a man in the dooi of the smoker
as she discovered her mistake. “It is,
mum,” he said, drawing on hisn with all
Ids might.
A poet asks: “ When lam dead and
lowly laid, * * * * And clods fall
heavy from the spade, Who’ll think of
me?” (Don’t worry. Tailors and shoe
makers have very retentive memories,
and you’ll not be forgotten.
. -WT 1.11 .1 A—
A New Yobk man was challenged to
fight a duel the other day, and being at
liberty to choose his own weapons pro
posed a trip to Boston on a Sound steamer.
The challenger backed out. He said the
idea that death must attend a duel was a
relic of the dark ages. «.
' . A visitor enters a French newspaper
office and is greeted politely by the office
b O y—“If monsieur comes to fight a duel
he"will have to be kind enough to call
again; all our editors arealready engaged
for to-day.”— Baria Charivari.
An Owego man, after a little experi
ence, truthfully and indignantly asserts
that no woman, however nervous, has a
right to wake up her husband from a
sound sleep to tell him on inquiring
what’s the matter, “Nothing, only I
wanted to know if you were awake.
“Nasby" takes pride in the service of
his father and grandfather, in one way
or another. As for himself, he says:
“My own military record is clear. In
the late rebellion I served by substitute.
1 furnished three substitutes, allot whom
to-day are in #oo<l health —in Canada.
A Lamentable Lot.
The womaa who cannot grow old is
jealous of her own children, and keeps
aloof from them. She makes love while
her son is making love. She beams and
lowers her voice and steps out as grace
fully as she can, and she is not unwlll ‘
ingthat her figure should lie compared
with the figure of her sons ac
quaintances. Her morals are irre
proachable. She never did a wrong,
but that is not the fault of her dear, gar
rulous husband, who never knew how to
make love to her. She wishes that
some young fellow would make love to
her, but she seldom finds him. W hen
“he does, her simpering folly calls
blushes to the cheeks of her D ’
w hile tho voumr m hmauehs at her.
—We areapt to bo kinder to the
j-t) dumbi'—Ge«rffe