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t§ fJJ j - Cinciln loin mml j [fi '■' l I 1 ♦ VOL. V. ■ .With ;5Poo\>lo tell the story yet, V the pathos of regret, , How along the streets one day, Angels Unawares, from far away, for need, And passed, with gifts heed J no mortal gave them . They had cheer for those who weep, They ‘Balm had light for shadows deep; bore, for broken hearts they ■Rest, deep rest, a boundless store. But the people, so they say, Went the old, blind, human way,— -Feil the quack and hailed the clown ’When the angels came to town. THROUGH THE DARKNESS. --- By MABEL NELSON THURSTON. HE light from the little hand-lamp on .tli the table struck 1 W/J I sharply across a ft? i corner of the box ,! 'k1 on the floor; it was °kS ipfs|p|: „r- __i a large box, and they had spent the Mm 4 '/llh 1 ♦ * empty now. The missionary and his wife did not look at each other; the man’s hand nested tremulously on a little pile of children’s toys; the woman held a long heavy overcoat with a she fur collar; with studied carelessness thrust her fingers into all the pockets, keep¬ ing her tell-tale face turned from the light. “It was a fine box,” said'the mis¬ sionary. His voice was husky; he struggled with it and added more firm¬ ly: “A generous box.” “Yes,” answered the woman me chanically. heap Suddenly she dropped the coat in a on the floor and buried her face in her hands; she made no sound, but her thin shoulders shook pitifully. The man crossed the room, stumbling over the piles of clothing on the floor, and caught her in his arms. His voice was broken with pity. “Annie,” he' cried; “oh, you poor little girl!” The woman did not lift her face;the words came chokingly from between he' fingers; “I was so sure of the Ti.-hv ” she sobbed. “They’ve al - w.r erit us money before, and they knew how much more we needed it this year. I thought that now we could pay the bills for all last summer’s sickness, and you could have hot cof¬ fee when you came home these dread¬ ful nights, and the children more meat. I never doubted it. I had been thank¬ ing God all these days that the box was on its way. And now-” The man looked about bim at the motley heap of old and new, poor and fine, with a pitiful appeal for com¬ fort. “And now you have a good new dress at last, dear; and that overcoat is just what I need; and there is much to give away.” Then his eyes fell again upon the little pile of toys, and his face brightened; and he ended with cheerful confidence: “And we can have a Christmas for the children, Annie. They never sent toys in the box before.” The woman lifted her head eagerly. “1 forgot the children,” she said; “I was thinking of you and the dreadful winter. I am glad for the children— oh, lam! I can write—to-morrow—I am sure.” She spoke with a pathetic eagerness and touched the toys loving¬ ly, trying in her thought to override her disappointment with the children’s joy Her husband stood looking at her; as she bent over the toys, be noticed how heavy were the blue veins on her temples and how thin the hand that set the doll’s dress in order; and he felt a sudden tightening at his heart. “Annie,” he said, pleadingly, “take the children and go baok to your mother’s this winter. It is too hard for you here.” She looked up, startled and hurt and indignant all at once. “As if I would think of it!” she cried. “As if it is any harder for me than it is for you! I don’t have to go out in all weathers. Besides,” she added, with a laugh that disappointed her by struggling unoertainly with the sobs that choked her throat—“besides, I couldn’t; the money didn’t come, you know.” “Yes,” answered her husband, heav¬ ily; “that is true. We haven’t the money. But I wish you could go, Annie. ” She dropped the toys and looked across at him, speaking with slow in¬ tensity. “I believe you’re making me glad that the money didn’t come,” she said. They folded the clothing and put it back in the box; there was much to Bpare, they planned; and the check the minister had received—it was for only half his quarter’s salary, for the Board was in debt—would pay their debt and leave enough, with careful planning, to buy food for six weeks. Beyond that they would not let them¬ selves look. The winter settled down on them, hard and cold and pitiless. The chil¬ dren were warmly dressed, thanks tp the box; but they seeded better food, and their appeal®#^ white* patient ] faces con stantly the mother for WHEN THE ANGELS CAME. It has been and will be so: Angels come and angels go,— V. Opportunity and Light,— Twixt the morning and the night, With their messages divine To your little world and mine. Aud we wonder why wo heard Not a whisper ol thoir word, Caught uo glimpse ot finer grace In the passing form and face; That our ears were dull as stones To the thrill of spirit tones, And we looked not up, but down, When the angels came to town. —Zion’s Herald. what she could not give. Her hus¬ band’s cough began to trouble him, too. The woman met it all with a will sternly keyed to silence. She could not bear to touch the dress that had come for her in the box; it seemed to ber as if it was so much life stolen from her husband aud children; she could have done so much with the money that that cost! One day the minister came in and began fumbling in the box. “Wasn’t there a pair of warm gloves in here?” he asked. “Yes,” answered his wife, laying aside her sewing and hurrying to save something of the order his nervous hands were destroying. “Wait, dear, I’ll get them. I wanted you to put them on last week. They are beauti¬ ful ones.” Her sure woman’s touch had gone straight to them through the chaos; she stood smoothing the fur tops with satisfaction. But the minister was looking at her pitying tenderness. “They are not for me, dear,” he answered; “my older ones will do well.” “Who then?” cried the woman, quickly. “Jim Cassock.” A silence followed, and in the silence the name went echoing and echoing through the woman’s brain. “I can’t—bear it !” she cried; “he hates you so—he has injured you so; and they will just go for drink. Give him your old ones, if you must, but not these. It isn’t right!” “His need i3 greater than mine,” answered the minister, simply. “He hurt his hand last week. You would pity him if you could see it now, Annie. And if The woman reached up and pulled his face down to her and kissed it with a fierce tenderness. “Go,” she said. “I shouldn’t pity him—I’m afraid I hate him; but go!” She watched him as, his frail figure bending against the wind, he faced the immensity of the prairie. When he returned, several hours later, she had his supper hot for him, hut she asked no question of his errand. Yet though she put it aside for her bus hand’s sake, she could not forget it, and the next time she went to the town she watched for Jim. He was always loafing about somewhere down the long, rambling street; and he was that afternoon. But as he saw the minister a strange expression came in¬ to his face, almost as if he were strug¬ gling with his worst self and crying dumbly for help. It only lasted a mo¬ ment; then he turned and disappeared behind one of the houses. “He seems almost afraid of you,” said Annie, wonderingly. Then her face changed; the man was not wear¬ ing the gloves, he had sold them for drink and was ashamed to meet the minister; she had known that it would be so! She would not pain her hus¬ band by a word, but she looked down the street with dim eyes; it was so hard to have things go that way. And the minister drove silently on, with a cloud of discouragement blurring the strong patience of his eyes. Not even his wife knew of how many sleepless nights this man had been the burden. It was several weeks later that the minister came in late one night and went over to the medicine shelf. His face was pinched and blue, and his hands shook among the bottles. His wife ran across to him. “What is it, dear?” she cried. He leaned against tlie shelf, fight¬ ing the chill that was upon him. “Cassock’s little girl,” he said, “she is very sick. I am going to carry him some quinine; I told him I would.” The woman’s face sharpened with fear. “Yon can’t,” she cried; “you’re sick yourself; you can’t jg go out again.” He seemed to struggle with the words before they became clear to him; then he tried to smile down at her. “I must,” he answered. She put her thin hand in his and drew him to the fire, and pushed down into a chair before it. Sbe spoke soothingly, as if to a child. “I’ll send the medicine,” she said; “it will be all right. But yon must over this chill; you can’t go out ” Only half comprehending, the man over the fire, shaking from to foot. His wife hurried into other room; three children were the oldest a girl of ten. Her ‘To thitie own self be true, and ft will follow, as night tho day, thou cans’t not then be false to any man,” LINCOLNTON, GA-. THURSDAY, MAY 26, 1898 mother called her softly; “Oome here, Ruth.” The child obeyed her wonderingly. She was a sensitive little thing, and the voice smote strangely upon her. Her mother leaned down and caught the child to her as if she could never let her go. Then she held her away and looked steadily into the little serious face. “Ruth,” she said, “you have al¬ ways been Mamma’s help, and now she wants you to do something hard for her. Will you do it and not be afraid?” with “I’ll—try,” answered the child, a quick breath. Her mother, crushing back the fear in her own heart, spoke with quiet cheerfulness. “It won’t take long, dear,” she said. “Little Mamie Cassock is very sick, and Papa was going to take her some medicine; but Papa is sick him¬ self and cannot go. So you must carry the medicine to Deacon Gar¬ nett’s and tell him about Papa, and ask him to send it to the Cassocks’. Tell him that it must get there to¬ night or Mamie may not live. Can you remember? It must go to¬ night.” “Yes,” answered the child. Her heart was beating painfully; but sbe said no word, and stood perfectly still while she was being wrapped up. Then her mother set the lamp in the window aud went to the door with her, and held her for a moment so tightly that it hurt her. “Now go, dear,” she said—“go, and don’t be afraid. Remember that you are not alone, and that Mother will be praying for you every minute till yon get back.” As tbe door closed behind her mother the child ran back to tlie threshold with a cry of terror. She was a timid little thing, and she had never been alone before. Then she turned sharply. Her mother had told her to be brave—sbe must be brave. The tears rolled silently down her lit¬ tle white face and waves of fear beat up in her throat; but she did not fal¬ ter, she went steadily on into the darkness and emptiness saying over and over her one little prayer; “God, don’t let anything hurt me—help me to be brave; don’t let anything hurt me—help me to be brave.” And gradually God’s tender hand lmsned the fear of the timid little child-heart, and she went quietly on under the golden stars. In fifteen minutes she reached Dea con Garnett’s and stood knocking at the door; there was no answer. She knocked again; then as the truth dawned upon her she heat at it in a fierce terror; but nobody came, and the sounds seemed to thunder mightily about her in the still, sharp air. She was very cold now; but she sat down on the step a moment to think. There was but one thing to do; ber mother had said that the medicine must get to Cassock’s that night; she must go to the town herself. Choking back her sobs slie struggled to ber feet; even the few minutes on the doorstep had made her stiff. She stood a moment looking pitifully back at the home light; then she turned away and ran, ran—into the shadows of the great night. Nearly an hour later a man, hurry¬ ing from one of the saloons in the town, was stopped by a child’s voice. “Please, sir, can you tell me where Mr. Cassock lives?” The man had not »been drinking much; he stared down at her in amaze¬ ment, “If ’tain’t the parson’s kid!” he cried, “What are you doing here this time of night?” The child’s weary face looked whitely up at him from the old blue hood. “Papa’s sick,” she said; “and this medicine had to go to Mamie Cas¬ sock, else she’d die. I carried it to Deacon Garnett’s; but nobody was there, so I had to come myself. Do you know where he lives?” With a smothered exclamation the man stooped down and picked the child up. “I guess you’ve walked fin enough,”he exclaimed. “Iain’tgood fur much in the way of meetings; but I can’t let the parson’s kid go round town alone. I’ll take you to Cassock’s, aud I'll take you home!” The child put her arms about bis neck and leaned against him with a sight of content. He was a rough, bad man; but the child trusted him, and ho knew it. He held her gently so that she was not shaken by his long strides. In five minutes he was knocking com mandingly at the door of a shanty at the end of the street. Jim Cassoak opened the door him¬ self. His eyes were red and swollen, but he had not been drinking; the door swinging back showed a bare room, and a worn, sickly woman holding a child who was moaning feebly. “What’s wanted?” said Jim, fiercely, “1 can’t see anybody; my child’s dy¬ ing.” “No thanks to you if sbe doesn’t,” retorted the other man. “The par¬ son’s sick and sent the medicine; this child came walking all the way to town with it. ” His tone was full of a fine contempt, keener than any rebuke, toward the miserable creature before bim. Jim stared at the man uneompre henclingly; but the woman started up with a little cry. She put the child down on the bed and ran across to her d. “Don’t you understand, Jim?” she sobbed. “The medicine’s come—it’s qome, man!” Jim rubbed his hand across his fore¬ head and looked from Ruth’s tired lit¬ tle face to his own baby. Then, sud¬ denly he dashed into the other room, He came back in a moment with a pair of gloves which he thrust into the child’s hands. “Tell the parson that I couldn’t wear ’em, that I ain’t touched ’em!” he said, eagerly. “Tell him to put ’em on himself; will you tell him? To put ’em on himself!” “Yes,” answered Ruth, wondering¬ ly; ‘Til tell him.” Jim stood at the door a moment; he tried to say something more, but the words stuck in his throat; then his wife called him, and he slammed the door, shutting them out into the night. Ruth’s friend grunted, but made no remark. He picked the child up again, and she nestled contended in his arms; she was half asleep from weariness and only had a hazy knowledge of it when he got a horse from somewhere and be¬ gan riding across the prairie. The minister :had fallen into a troubled sleep; but his wife was walk¬ ing the floor, beating desperately back the fears that stormed her heart. Nothing could have happened to the child; there was not far to go and she knew the way perfectly. Mrs. Garnett must have kept her until some one could bring her home. She would not worry—she would not. But ns the mo¬ ments lengthened into one hour, and then into another, she could fight her fears no longer. She knelt down by the bed where her husband was toss¬ ing and tried to pray; but only the child’s name came to her lips. Suddenly she started and listened. There was the beating of hoofs across tn'e prairie, nearer—nearer; now they were stopping at the door, She rushed to it and threw it open. In the sudden blaze of light, horse and rider seemed to start up from the ground. She shrank hack with a lit¬ tle cry as she saw who the man was. The next minute a child’s face was lifted from his arm, and a child’s voice filled her ears. “Mamma, I was afraid; but I went, n!lf l he brought me home. Oh, mamma, it was so good of him!” The woman caught the child pas uonately in her arms, and looked up at the man, her eyes full of.the grati Jjyle she could not speak, f ’he man’s voice was gruff. “I ^wn’t gl&ng to see the parson’s kid wandering bound alone if I knowed it,” he said. Then he turned abruptly away and galloped into tbe darkness. The sharp blast of cold air woke the minister. Through the doorway he could see into the other room; his wife was taking off the child’s wraps, and both tlie child’s face and the woman’s were strangely moved. He called, weakly: “Did Jim Cassock get the medicine, Annie?” His wife ran to him, and she had something in her hands. “Yes, dear, he has it,” she answewed; “aud—I wronged him, David. He sent the gloves back to you and wanted you to jiromise to wear them.” The minister’s patient eyes bright¬ ened. “Did Jim do that?” he said, and there was a thrill of gladness in his tired voice. He took the gloves and absently began pulling them on. Suddenly his face changed. “Annie,” he cried, excitedly; “put your hand in here!” She obeyed him wonderingly, slip¬ ping her hand in the warm fleece lin¬ ing. Then a flash of great joy illum¬ ined her worn face, “David!” she cried. “Take them out,” he answered, breathlessly. into She slipped her fingers laid one tho glove-finger after another and pile of billson the bed; there were ten in all, and each was for ten dollars. The woman spoke first; the words were common, but it was none the less a thanksgiving. “And now you cau have the coffee,” she said, “and the children”—she broke off, but ber eyes were shining through tears. Over the old coverlet the minister’s hand clasped his wife’s; but there | were no tears in his eyes. “Jim Cassock sent it all back,”he said; and the words sounded like a psalm.—The Independent. The “Iieake Dole ot Bread.” The most curious charity in New York, aud one which savors of medi¬ aeval times, is, perhaps, the one known as the “Leake Dole of Bread.” For over one hundred years a weekly distribution of bread bas taken place at St. John’s Chapel, Varick street, one of the Trinity parish churches. John Leake, who was one of the founders of the Leake and Watts Home for Children, left $5000, the in¬ terest to be spent in purchasing bread for poor women. This buys about four thousand loaves of bread a week. —New York Tribune. Mexico Rich in Precious Stones. Mexico is richly eudowed with precious stones. The opals of Quere taro, San Juan del Bio, and Tequi* quapan are famous for their changing fires. They are found in crusts on the calcareous rocks, which are easy to j work, and also in the granite, which) has to be blasted, and this often ; breaks the gems. The opal beds arc are seldom more than ten or twelv* feet below the surface. LOVE’S PROMISE. Across the main, and far away. Where the river joins the sea, Where blows the broom at break of day, My true lovo watts for me; ills brow is sad, his eyes are sweet, And his heart both brave and true, O, when, my love, shall we e’er meet, My lonely self and youl “Ah, maid most dear,” his lips reply, In the north land far away, "Wo Breaks ne’er through shall meet life’s tilljeterntty cloudy day; Wo ne’er may take love’s lastjadleu, ' Ere Death begins his flight. But I, for aye, will still bo true, And so, my love, good night.” Ledger. —Johnsou MoChme Bellows,in tlie HUMOR OF THE DAY. “Were you born in a foreign coun¬ try, Mr, Jones?” “No, I was born in my native land!” “Yes; there is plenty of room at the top, ’tis true,” said the parental fish to its offspring; “but I’d advise you to stay down where you are.” Willie—“Miss Dollie, you are look¬ ing like a Jfull-blown rose.” Dollie Footlites — “Gowan! You're just blowing. ”—Cineiunafi Inquirer. “Fannie has such a sweet new bon¬ net.” “Yes. Fannie has charming talent for making things over.”— Browning, King & Co. ’s Monthly. Old Mr. Surplice—“I hope you ob¬ ject to dancing onreligious grounds?” Young Miss Featherstitchiug— “Ob, no; only on uuwaxed floors.’'—Rox bury Gazette. “Poverty,” said Uncle Eben, “am like riches in one respeck. Whethuh it’s any disg.ace or not depends a heap on how you happens to git dar.”— Washington Star. Miss Gushington—“I, too, Herr Slevewski, should like to become a great violinist. What is the first thing to do?” Herr Slevewski—“Learn to play.”—Harlem Life, Owing to the death of my wife, a seat on my tandem is vacant. Candi¬ dates for the seat may send in their names to Scorcher, in care of this paper.—Fliegende Blaetter. Teacher—“What do yon know about the early Christians?” Tommy— “Our girl is one of ’em. She gets up in the morning and goes to church be¬ fore breakfast.”—Indianapolis Jour¬ nal. “Will I i|ave to be identified when I come here next time?” inquired Mr. Jagway. “Not unless you swear off in the meantime. I should know that nose again among a million.”—Chi¬ cago Tribune. German Professor (in his lecture on water)—“And then, gentlemen, do not forget, if we had no water we could never learn to swim—aud how many people would be drowned!”— Vienna Fremdenblatt. Office Boy—“The editor wants the proof of his editorials.” Proof Reader — “What for?” Office Boy—“He wants to read ’em.” Proof Reader— “Humph! No accounting for tastes.” —New York Weekly. “I don’t think tho members of your oliuroh would be willing to sell all they have and give to the poor.” “Hardly. They might be persuaded to sell all they have and invest the proceeds in something else.”—Puck. “Ef de average young man,” said Uncle Eben, “ml be willin’ ter go froo as much hahdship ter git useful knowledge as he did learnin’ ter smoke his fust cigar, dar wouldn’t be nigh ez many regrets in dishere life.” —Washington Star. Mike—“How old are you, Pat?” p a t—“Thirty-sivin next month” Mike—“Yez must be older than that. When were yez born?” Pat—“In 1881.” Mike—“I have yez now. Sure, yez told me the same date tin years ago!”—Tit-Bits. “Oh, oh!” moaned Mrs. Weeks, who was suffering from a decayed molar, .. why aren’t people born without teeth, I’d like to know?” “Why, my dear,” exclaimed the husband, “do you happen to know any one that wasn’t?”—Chicago News. “I’m afeai'd, remarked Farmer Corntossel, “thet the period of useful¬ ness fur that politician is about to be drawee! to a close.” “What’s the mat¬ ter?” inquired his wife, “Is it a case of overwork?” “No,” was the an swer; “ ’tain’t nothin’ so ouusual as overwork. It’s a plain, old-fashioned case of overtalk.”—Washington Star. The garbage is Collected every Mon¬ day on the street in which the D.’s live. One morning little Helen D. proposed discarding for good a rag doll of which 'she had grown tired. “I think, mamma,” she said, “that I’ll put it out for the garbage man to carry off. He can take it to the gar¬ bage woman, and she cau fix it up for the little garbage children to play with.”—Harper’s Bazar. Great, Britain’s Expenses. The expenses of Great Britain are now about $500,000,000 yearly, or nearly $1000 per minute, but every tick of the clock represents an inflow of a little over $10 into the British Treasury, thus leaving an annual sur¬ plus of about $20,000,000. LalT to prevent overwork, j n Holland women aud persons of gather sex under the age of sixteen ar8 now forbidden to begin work ear jj er than 5 a. in., or to continue at Cg m., nor may their work r-J ours a day iu all. NO. 51,' OBEYED THE JUDGE’S ORDER.) Tlie Negro Brought But Taylor to Court, und There Was u Sensation. The recent death of the wealthy ne-f pro blacksmith, Austin Thompson, re-' calls one of the most peculiar incidents; of Kentucky jurisprudence, writes at Lexington correspondent. In 1873 Ben-! jamin F. Graves was county judge of Fayette County. He lived about five miles from town and nearby lived Aus- tin Thompson, a colored blacksmith,; whom Judge Graves held In high es¬ father, teem. He and had the belonged had to known tlie Judge’sj him,; Judge of course, ever since lie was a child,! Some one stole a hog from a neighbor of the Judge’s, and the meat was found* in Austin’s smokehouse. He made no* attempt to conceal it, and told the offi¬ cer who found it that he had bought the hog from a negro named Bill Tay lor. Notwithstanding his protestations of Innocence, tlie officer arrested Aus tin and took him to jail. He sent for, Judge Graves, and when the Judge came he said: “Mars Ben, you know I didn’t steal no hog. You been knowin’ me since I was a boy, and you know Austin never stole nothin’. I bought that hog, Mars Ben, from Bill Taylor.” The Judge told him that lie w>md let him nut of jail if he would go and bring Bill Taylor into court. He asked Aus¬ tin if he thought he could bring him, aud the negro replied: “1 dunno, Mars Ben, whether I can bring that nigger or not. He’s a pretty bad nigger.” The Judge told him that he must bring Taylor in or he would have to go to the penitentiary, and that he must bring him in dead or alive. Two days later, while Judge Graves was sitting in his office In the Court House, Austin came in, hat in hand, and bowing politely. “Mars Ben, l'se done fotched dat nig¬ ger. He’s out here In my waggin.” “Brimj him in, Austin,” said the Judge. “I don’t nr about dat. He's 5 •-e I can’t tote him by 3 “What do you mean?” said tlie Judge, “Well, Mars Ben, you done tole me to bring in dat nigger dead or alive. He said be wouldn’t come mnl I had to stioot him. But 1 fotched him, and if you’ll wait a minute I’ll get somebody to help me and we'll bring him in do room. - ’ The Judge, now thoroughly alarmed, rushed out to the street, and sure enough there was the body of Bill Tay lor lying in the wagon. He had a bul¬ let hole in his breast immediately over the heart, and death must have been instantaneous. The killing of Taylor under such tin usual circumstances caused a great deal of talk, and there were threats of indicting both Judge Graves and Thompson for murder. But the Judge’s nigged integrity and tlie previous good character of Thompson caused tlie mat ter to be abandoned, and there was no indictment. Nor was Thompson ever put on trial again for stealing neighbor’s hog. The list of gifts, personal or by be quest, to religious, educational and charitable objects—small donations not ken into the account—through out United States in 1807 aggrega S' mud numbers, thirty-three mil lion, six hundred and thirteen thousand dollars. Over thirteen million dollars came from women. The summary from which these figures are obtained shows that for churches and religious societies more than five millions were given, while the munificent sum of ten million, two hundred and three thou* sand dollars went to colleges. Glad and discriminate giving thus made the year a period to be remembered with thank¬ fulness. “Very wet anil slippy under foot tills morning'.” “Not partic £ arly. Out it’s worse tha s this twelve months in the year.” “Where do you live, if I may ask?” “In a lighthouse.” -Chicago Tribune. rr—- ------------------------- - GEORGIA RAILROAD, —A. N 13— Connections. For Information as to Routes, Sehed' —ules and Rates, Both— Passenger and Freight Write to either of the undersigned. You will rece've prompt reply and reliable information. JOE. W. WHITE, A. G. JACKSON, T. P. A. G. P. A, Augusta, Ga. ■m S. W. WILKES, H. K. NICHOLSON. C. F. & P. A. G. A. Atlanta. Athene. W. W. HARDWICK, S. E. MAGILfc,. S. A. C. F. A. 1 Macon. Maooa, M. R. HUDSON, F. W. COFFIN, S. F. A. S. F. & P. A, Milledgeville, Augusta.