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# ,*cHlforlH “season, vi*i be unreir ian com $. reflect io*' ’l 1 GHOST STORY. * * *• only true ghost 'ton I is t lie story oft 'lioker-- gho- 1 . , is a positive fact well attest .All the neighbors know what r‘iied. All the neighbors 1 that was to be seen. All '-.♦glibois saw how it began ; • s it is the 'ton of < ’linker's -t it eon hi not have begun ‘ 'lioker died. hokc*r"he had been called '.%<•'(! many years- before he Ily was ohkffn! should sup but heypait ki. very queer Ikrtiey would Ik; in no luiV.' 1 1,1 1 w do you think I !>),,. i 15 roi| failed tJ r -. f'.-'/h lunl ulll Ymhl ilVfti Oj{ h 1 . v ßn tir t ill oi 'Viingei "n ( .'l - b PH'.v lie had adopted C lie w as luild or because 3! how lie earned Warn* rfite y®*Hfcread w u* . b; ('lk.i- if iis i range- Ui_ .( ral* Ln and bought a/ouid iie.ind a L farm there. J name Biy Choker. [ ' r*Hl was all that "Strtyone knew except thiit he had the U’hefP* *° be s l (, r miles Pyever went to church, and Lu-hpttcd to a neighbor. Bt* luicw anything again-t BToliey knew nothing, they Keeled ii great ileal; and when Rif-t he was round dead one Horning, tin* bottled iij > curiosity Hopped out a- champagne doe* when it is uncorked. K very body went to •■♦• e him where he lay. Even body attended the inquest nnd everybody went in the fum - ml. 11l was decided that he died ot .ujilexy. I There were no relationb tosee _ o him, but there would probably be plenty lelt to pay lor his fun era I; so there was no difficulty about that. , The clergy man- aid a doubtful I mi ot good word for him. and as be wa dead no one contradicted it. i And IVggy Kinder, who said she wasn't afraid of anything, was put into the house to take euro of it. She knew old Chokei very well, having done hi- washing for him for live years. That night, the weather being i hilly spring weather, die made up a good lire in the kitchen and lept on an old lounge there. Once in the night she woke up and thought she heard the clump, clump, clump of a wooden leg overhead, but though die fell a chill run up her backbone at the thought, she made up her mind it was all nonsense and went to sleep again. At • she was up and had put more coal on the lire, and was tilling the kettle, when positively —no fancy about it this time she did hear that clump, clump again across tin* room upstairs, half a dozen times, then down the stairs. The sound ol ('linker's wooden leg, and nothing else; and as she turned about, shaking and trem Iding, she saw (’linker himself at the door in his big (lowered dres* ing gown, with the black patch over hi* eye and the hrnwit vvijt on. “l.unl have mercy on us!" cried IVggy. Then as Choker nodded cheer fully, and said: “Breakfast ready yet?" she grew bewildered. taJidlsi-'** l* l '** ll having a horrid JJow. sir” she said, getting away ■>fan*ii J figure though, as she nnstaiK “and its as natural as life. Hbnt'umed you was dead, sir. 1 jdr. but it was -o (feet uis. u <igh a bhoker. whosenmiat 11111 all die. tfi t"on’ ‘ ,l ‘* ,and buried too,” aid >‘i know that,” said Peggy. “Only all of us wont stay bu said Choker, putting his his nose. l at that Peggy, nevet wait W for her bonnet, bolted taLwi'iyiise. and came turn r daughter's half an shaking with fright, ndic had *-eeu (’linker's lie daughter wa nearly as h frightened as the mother. and the news spread, but nobody believed it. At least every one said it was ridiculous, and that Peggy must have been drinking. She did drink more than was grind lor her, now and then; and at last the undertaker himself, ae coinpaiiied by the Coroner the two men of the village who were supposed to be the least nervous on the subject of ghosts, and be ides, who had a thorough know ledge <il the matter of Choker’s death and hurial—went to the house together, accompanied by a train of admirers, who kept a respectful distance as they knock ed iit I he door. tn.'There was no answer to the lust knock, but having knocked again, clump, dump, clump came wooded leg across the passage, • v d there, in the door, -lond old ~( rh oker. Every one knew him. I He wore his old dressing gown, he had the hlaek patch over his eye, his wig set a little on one side as usual. •‘Walk in, walk in, gentlemen,” lie said. -‘I believe, Mr. Underta ker, I owe you a small hill. You are prompt in calling for it ; hut never mind, never mind. Let me se the amount, and I'll settle it ; if not today, some other day.” The two men drew hack. *•1 have no hill sir," said the undertaker; hut hearing a report that -that” “That Peggy had seen my ghost, 1 suppose,” said Choker. “Very well, sir, draw your own conclu sions; but you deserve to be paid. You buried me very respectably, very respectably, indeed; and your jury gave a correct verdict, Mr. Coroner. It was apoplexy. Ah, well, don't go; don't he in a hurry.” Hut his visitors had retreated. “Ii is Choker," said the under taker to the Coroner; “yet I bu ried him and he was a dead man then." “It’s Choker, tint he was dead w hen I held an inque l over him,” said the Coroner. They hurried away and the crowd hurried away too. That day the grave was exam ined. It wa empty; even Choker'* coffin was gone. Aftei that every one believed the story but the clergyman and a scientific gentleman. The former declared that it was wicked to believe in ghosts; the latter, that there were no such things a' ghosts. “Choker is not at the house at all," he said, “and his body is in tin* grave; but vour imagina tions have been so worked upon that you fancied you saw him in the house, and you believed that you did not see him in his grave. When a man is dead and buried that's an end of him.” “Hut go to the house and see for yourself,” said someone. “ Alive or dead. Choker is there.” “Sir," said the scientific gentle man, “neither alive nor dead, can lie lx* there. A body cannot burst its coffin lid, arise through the turf, and walk about the town as before. Il l should see Mr. Choker 1 should not believe I saw him. My common sense tells me that 1 cannot see him, and I never allow my senses to contradict my common sense. The liousts is empty. There is no one there.— It is all imagination.” However that may have been, every one else in Gruhtown saw him, sooner or later. The lamp burned bright in his window at night. The garden prospered under his ghostly tillage. He drew his money at the bank as usual. Asa ghost, liis silent, reserved conduct seemed very suitable to his condition. Asa ghost, it seemed very pro per that he should have no friends and no kindred. People avoided his house of nights, and bovs ran callipering away when they saw him plod ding along lonely lanes by moon light, and old folks shook their heads and said it was curiou ; but there was Choker, a fact to every one hut the scientific gentleman, who. when he passed him, mut tered to himself, “Optical illu ion," and whether he was a ghost, or a man endowed with the pow er of defying deiith and the un dertaker, no one felt prepared to answer. He wa known sometimes as “Choker'* ghost" and sometimes a “Choker that come too," but no one doubted for a moment that somehow he was Choker, and the very Choker they had seen dead, subjected to an inquest and bu lied; and all this went on for ten good year and people had grown I tic well: |C nn/eilfaM ■Uiell. THE FIELD AND FIRESIDE. used to it, when one cold winter morning a small note was brought tothedoctor. bearing these words: Come to me. I'm ill. Cuokkr. -Don’t go. dear." said the doc tor's wife. “i must." said the duel or, ami went accordingly. He found the door of Choker's house open, and the popular ghost himself wrapped in a blanket by the fireside. ••Come in," he said, gasping for breath- ”1 wasn't sure you'd come. I've been feeling the in convenience of being supernatu ral since I've been too ill to make myself a cup of tea. J ust see what is thematter with me, will you? I think it's serious, whatev er it is." The Doctor did his best. His private opinion was that Choker, whoever he might be. had not long to live. Whether he had ever been dead before or not, he was certainly going to die now. **lt is as I thought," said Cho ker, looking into his face. “I knew the malady was incurable years ago. Hut the end is at hand now, eh?" “In the ease of any other man, I should say‘yes,” said the doc tor, “but I examined you once when you were certainly a dead man, and I can’t judge for you.— I don't ask your confidence, Mr. Choker, but that affair is a puzzle tome, though, of course, I've nev ef taken you for a ghost.” “I think I’ll confide in you doc tor,” said Choker, “only you must promise to keep my secret while I iive. The night before you held the inquest on old Choker I came into Grablown. l ? d been an ao tor once, then a soldier; lost a leg, and come home to starve or beg. “The door of this house stood open, and in it stood a man. I went up to him. “ ‘Sir,’ said I, ’they say fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind. You’ve got a wooden leg, and, perhaps, know it i n’t just the thing to slump over the country all night with.' “It was old Choker l spoke to, and what he said was “ ‘I don't understand about your poetry, or Scripture, or whatever it is, but 1 do know jjbout wooden leg*. Come In.' “I went in, aTid lie'*'gave me a supper and a bed in the garret. We both Saw that we looked con siderably alike, and laughed over it. That night 1 slept in the gar ret, and when 1 awoke in the morning 1 found my host was dead and the house full of neighbors. “I fell that, as the death was sudden, it might be best for me to keep out of sight. I was as sorry for it as a stranger could be, but mv being there might be suspi cious. 1 kept hidden up in a gar ret, in a great lumber closet and heard poor Choker's affairs talked over and learned his habits. “Some of his cloths were up iu the garret, and an old wig and one of the patches he had worn over his eye was there too ; and there was an old dressing-glass in the corner. I tried on the wig and the patch and saw how like old Choker they made me look, only I was not so brown. Then I took some walnuts that lay on the tloor and rubbed the juice into my skin. It increased the resem blance, so did whitening my eye bfrwys with a bit of clialk. And I sat altd looked at myself, and the plan I afterwards carried out came into my head. 1 would play old Choker, as I knewlcould. **l'd studied his voice and move ments well. and. a*- I told you, had once been an actor, so 1 should" step into a decent home ami com fortable means without hurting anyone. The night after he was buried I came out of the garret and went to the graveyard, and not to enter into details you'll find Choker’s coffin in the old vault beyond his grave. Then 1 went back and tried the effect of my disguise on poor old Peggy Kin der. It satisfied me. I havn’t led a merry life, though 1 knew it would not be a long one. ••Hut I've been very eomlorta ble, and shan't die a dog's death out of doors, as I once expected. I’ve never been afraid that Oho kerreally would haunt me. though I'm a tr'iiie supersiiiious, for i think he couldn't find much fault with me, as he had no relations, never made a will and couldn't take either his bank-book or his house and farm into the other world with him. ••And now you have the story, and you've promised to keep my secret until the last. You can see now, perhaps, that Choker and I were really only a good deal alike I'm four inches taller than he was, for one thing, and my nose is higher. Hut there’s a good ileal in make up.” These were almost the last words Choker's ghost ever spoke, for his end was very near, and ii was not until Death had taught him more Thun tliU melancholy world doth know, that the doctor lei Grabtown know the sequal of its ghost storv. | .V. V. World. SAVED HY A FLASH OK UOHTMNO. My name is Hunt. Yes, sir; Anthony Hunt. lam a settler and drover on this Western pra rie. Wilds? Yes, sir; its little else than wilds now, but you should have seen it when I and my wife first moved up here.— There was not a house within sight for miles. Even now we have not many neighbors; but those we have are downright good ones. To appreciate your neigh bors as you ought, sir, you m\st live in these lonely places, so far removed from the haunts of man. What 1 am about to tell of hap pened ten years ago. I was go ing to the distant town, or sett le nient to sell some fifty head of cattle—fine creatures, sir, as ever you saw. The journey was a more rare event with me then than it is now; and my wife had always plenty of commissions to charge me with in the shape of dry goods and groceries and such like things. Our youngest child wasasweet little gentle thing, who had been named after her aunt, Dorothy.— We called the child Dolly. This time my commission included one for her—a doll. She had never had a real doll; that is, a bought doll; only the rag bun dles her mother made for her.— For some days before my depar tore the child could talk of noth ing else—or w r e either, for the matter of that—-for she was a great pet, the darling of us all. It was to be a big, big doll, with golden hair and blue eyes. I shall never forget the child’s words the morning 1 was starting, as she ran after me to the gate, or the pretty picture she made.— There are some children sweeter and prettier than others, sir, as you can’t but have noticed, and Dolly was one. **A very great big doll, please, daddy,” she called out after me ; ••and please bring it very soon.” I turned to nod a yes to her as she stood in her clean whitey brown pinafore against the gate, her nut-brown hair falling in curls about her neck, and the light breeze stirring them. ••A brave doll,” 1 answered, “for my little one—almost as big as Dolly." Nobody would believe, i dare say, how full my thoughts were of that promised doll, as 1 rode along, ot what a nice one 1 meant to buy. It was not often 1 spent money in what my good thrifty wife would have called waste; but Dolly was Dolly, and I meant to do it now. The cattle sold, I went about my purchases, and soon had no end of parcels to be packed in the saddle-bags. Tea, sugar, rice, candles—but I need not weary, you sir, with telling of them, to gether with the calico for shirts and nightgowns, and the delaine for the children’s new frocks.— Last of all, I went about the doll —and found a beauty. It was not as big as Dolly, or half as big; but it had fiaxen curls and sky blue eyes; and by dint of pulling a wire you could open or shut the eves at will. “Do it up carefully,” I said to the storekeeper. “My little daughter would cry sadly if any harm came to it.” The day wa* pretty well ended before all my work was done ; and just for a moment or two 1 hesi fated whether l should not stay in the town and start home in the morning. It would have been the more prudent course. But 1 thought of poor Dolly’s anxiety to get her treasure, and of my own happiness in w atching the rapture in her delighted eyes.— So with my parcels packed in the best way they couid be, I mount ed my horse and started. It was as good and steady a horse as you ever rode, sir; but night began to set in before I was well a mile away from the town ; it seemed as if it were going to be an ugly night, too. Again the thought struck me—should I turn back and wait till morning? I had the price of the cattle, you -ee. sir; in my breast pocket; and robberies, aye, and murders also, were not quite unknown things on the prairie. But 1 had my brace of -ure pistols w ith me and decided to press onward*. The night came on a- dark as pitch, and part of the way my road would be pitch dark besides. Bijt on that score 1 had no fear; 1 knew the road well, every inch of if, though 1 could not ride so fa*t a- 1 should have done in the light. 1w as about six miles from home. 1 suppose, and 1 knew the time must be close upon mid night, when the storm which had been brewing broke. The thun der roared, the rain fell in tor rents; the best 1 could do was to press onwards in it. All at once, as 1 rode on. a cry startled me ; a faint wailing sound like theory of a child. Reining up, I sat still and listened. Had I been mistaken? No, there it was again. Hut in what direction 1 could not tell. I couldn’t see a thing. It was. as I have said, as dark as pitch, (retting off mv horse. 1 fell about, but could find nothing. And while 1 was seek ing the erv came again—the faint moan of a child in, pain. Then l began to wonder. lam not su perstitious, but 1 asked myself how it was possible that a child could be out on the prairie at such an hour and in such a night. No; | a real child it could not be. Upon that, came another thought—one less welcome: Was it a trap to hinder me on my way and ensnare me ? There might be midnight robbers who would easily hear of my almost certain ride home that night, and of the money I should have about me I don’t think, sir, J am more timid than other people; not as much so, perhaps,s some; but 1 confess the idea made me uneasy. My best plan was to ride on as fast as l could, and get out of the mystery into safe quarters.— I Just here was about the darkest 1 bit of road in all the route.— Mounting my horse, 1 was about to urge him on, when the cry came again. It did sound like a child’s; the plaintive w ail of a child nearly exhausted. “God guide me I said!” 1 said, undecided what to do. And as 1 sat another moment listening, I once more heard the cry, fainter and more faint. 1 threw myself off my horse with an exclamation. “He it ghost or be it robber, Anthony Hunt is not one to a bandon a child to die without trying to save it.” Hut how was 1 to save it?—how find it? The more 1 searched about, the less could my hands light on anything, save the slop p.v earth. The voice had quite ceased now , so 1 had no guide from that. While I stood trying to peer into the darkness, all my ears alert, a flood of sheet light nings suddenly illumined the plain. At a little distance,, just beyond a kind of ridge or gentle hill, 1 caught a glimpse of some | thing white. It was dark again in a moment, but 1 made my way with unerring instinct. Sure enough, there lay a poor little child. Whether boy or girl I could not tell. It seemed to be three parts insensible now, as I | took it up, dripping with wet from the sloppy earth. “My poor little, thing!” 1 said |as I hushed it to me. “We'll go and find mammy. You are all ! safe now." And, in answer, the child just put out its feeble hand, moaned once and nestled close to me. IV itli the child hushed to my ! breast I rode on. And sir I thanked God that lie had let me \ save it, and 1 thought how grate j fulsome poor mother would be! But I was full of wonder for all that, wondering what extraordi nary fate had taken any young child to that solitary spot. Getting in sight of home, lsaw all the windows alight. Debo rah had done it for me, 1 thought, to guide me home in safety through the darkness. But pres ently I knew that something must be the matter for the very few neighbors we had w ere collected there. My heart stood still with fear. 1 thought of some calamity to one or other of the children. I had saved a like one from per ishing, but what might not have happened to my own ? Hardly daring to lift the latch, while my poor tired horse stood i-till and mute outside, 1 went slowly in, the child in my arms covered over with the flap of my long coat. My wife was weeping bitterly. “What’s amiss?" 1 asked in a faint voice. And it seemed that a whole chorus of voices answered me. ••Dolly's lost.” Dolly lost! Just for a moment my heart turned sick. Then some instinct, like a ray of light and hope, seized uponine. Pull ing the coat oft' the face of the child I held. I lifted the little sleeping thing to the light, and >aw Dolly! t V es -ir. The child 1 had saved was no other than mv own—mv little Dolly. And 1 knew that God’s good angels had guided me to save her. and that the first flash of the summer lightning had shone just at the right moment to show me where she lay. It was her white -nn bonnet that had caught my eve. My darling it was, and none other, that 1 hail picked up on the drenched road. Dolly, anxious for her doll, had wandered out unseen to meet me in the afternoon. For some hours she was not that my Iwo older girls nad gone over to om%nearest neighbors, and mv wife, missing the child just afterwards, took it for gran ted she was with them. The lit tie one had come on and on, un til night and the storm overtook her., when die fell down frighten ed and utterly exhausted. 1 thanked Heaven aloud before them all, sir; as 1 said that none but God and hi* holy angels had guided me to her. It’s not much of a story to listen to, sir; i am aw are of that. Hut I often think of it in the long nights, lying awake; and ask myself how 1 could bear to live ori now, had 1 run away from the poor little cry :in the road, hardly louder than a squirrel's chirp, and left my child to die. Yes, sir, you are right; that’s Dolly out yonder w ith her mother, picking fruit; the little trim light figure in pink—with just the same sort ot white sun-bonnet on her head that she wore that night ten years ago. She i~ a girl that was worth saving, sir, though 1 say it; and God knows that as long as mv life lasts I shall be tlianklul that 1 came on home i that night instead of staying in the town.—-iF. J'. World. Bom. Dust may be applied di reetly in the hill to corn or pota toes, or composted with loam be fore it is used, as you please. If mixed with about twice its bulk ot loam, perhaps it would be the best way to apply it. About one i tablespoonlull of pure bone is e nough to the hill. THE FIELD Ail FIRESIDE. HOOK AND JOB Printing EstnMint! HOWLER SPRING STREET, MARIETTA, GEO., BEIXtt FULLY PREPARED WITH AE\U IMPROVED PRESSES, •Vlo. with the latest styles cf f Djie, Sorbets, ORNAMENTS, &C. Is prepared to execute EVERY DESCRIPTION Ok Book & Job Printing:, IX A NEAT MANNER : Such as Bills of Fare, Programmes. Drug Tickets, Picnic and Hall Tickets, Auction Bills, Hand Rills, ('irenlars. Deeds, Invoices, i GIVE | Bill Heads, IUS A. | Headings, TRIAL | Patent Tags. Bills Lading, Druggist’s Labels Promissory Notes, Cards, Bank Checks, Catalogues, Envelopes Mortgages, Contracts, a.ND EVERY VARIETY OF BLANKS. Posters. Street Bills, Programmes, Dodgers for Shows, ire. DONE IN A SUPERIOR STYLE, IX'D At the very Lowest Rates! Orders by Mail promptly at tended to, and estimates for warded, on application to J G. CAMPBELL i CO.