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VOL, VI.
OF DIFFERENT SPECIES
I3y nOKA HASTINGS.
| NNIE 1 ki WESTON o'u t sat of
a o o n g
/%» the many-paned,
vine-enrtained win
€ % < •. ' : : jj® p* dow world. to upon think She the of great tried it
stretching out far
✓ *■ yL Is beyond the hills
that bounded her
vision, and at length
ker eyes fall as
It if they were weary
*’ • - “I’m so glad, she
thought, “that I shall see only a little
it at a time; for the sky’ll always be
o'*";-me liked-big bell. If it wasn’t
. iorfmt I shouldn’t dare breathe—I’m
so lent?
The thought of a great, unknown
T>utsq e lnai ie her glance hastily
aboiq ip,, roonl( na if reassuring lier
of the possession of certain ob
R-'ts which she considered allies iu
/Ait contest with the world. There
'were a> stove, a few chairs, a book or
twiy, a table, some flowers—regal
Heliotrope and bright oleander—that
■Lad condescended to blossom from
the, depths of broken jars and cracked
pitchers; some dishes which Annie
had tended so faithfully that their
;very si eft ami fissure was a part of
her mental vision, and a gown or two,
rewards of much brain-and-fiuger ser¬
vice.
They were, all her own, and they
summed up her wealth, supplement¬
ed by a pleasant presence of the
brownish order' a capacity for work,
and a lowliness of heart that made no
.exactions. • She had been like a child
—satisfied with a'few sticks and stones
which it conjured into treasftres. The
power of comparison which makes so
much Of the light and shade of life
was still latent in Annie. She had
' accepted the facts of her experience as
final, without question or reproach.
Now that she found herself alone and
ponnUess, staying by sufferance a few
days in the old: home, she felt no re
• seatmeut against the indolence and
-selfishness that had, in truth, de
privei], conscious her j>£ her birthright, loneliness but and VY
of Only
dread, as she sat close to the objects
that had gained a familiarity and
friendliness through long companion¬
ship and service, and looked vaguely
out toward the unknown country
whore she must somehow find ahorne.
There was something in her face, as
the village people saw it at the win¬
dow 7 , that made thorn think of a lost
child, and their sense of its pathos
was’intensilied by their knowledge of
her past.
She had turned again from recount¬
ing her treasures to her wide-eyed
stare upon the world, when there
came a stop on the porch and a knock
ut the door. Before she could rise
her caller had opened the door and'
entered. She recognized him as
David Bruce, a distant neighbor of
hers, a man some fifteen years older
than herself. He was a silent man
with a great power of kindness, which
found expression in such stealthy
ways as made his favors seem more
like those of fairies than those of a
mortal friend. A gold piece appear¬
ing anonymously upon some window¬
sill of a house where its presence was
sorely needed, a load of coal arriving
at some opportune moment, baskets of
fruit or flowers apparently depositing
themselves of their own free will and
accord, and an unusual shyness and
embarrassment in David when he met
the recipients of his gifts, were the
only evidences of his generosity.
Annie, not having the slightest
kindred feeling, did not understand
hi3 self-conscious reticence, One
day. when she was a little girl, she
had wandered up the street as far as
David’s home, and after looking wist¬
fully a long time at his sweet peas
growing near the fence, had finally
put out her hand toward them, not
with tho purpose of taking any, but to
sea if she could measure the distance.
Just at that instant David had hap¬
pened by. Annie had attempted to
He had waited until she had
quite finished; then spoke a short,
disconnected homily, not calculated
to bo very effective, on the temptation
involved iu finding out what wrou^
things are within a bodyi's reach. Ly
She had gone away comfortless,
but on the next morning had found a
great handful of sweet peas at her
door; nor had a summer ever passed
without like offerings. Annie had ex
nressed her pleasure with an effusive¬
ness that had driven him quickly
from her presence. She seemed to
have a supply of gratitude in great
excess of the demand, and, like the
Ancient Mariner, to be seized ever
and anon by heartburnings till she
had told her story. Annie often won¬
dered at his silence, and the necessity
which caused him to make such haste
to the Postoffice. She wondered once
if he could have s. sweetheart to write
him letters, but put away the thought
as inappropriate.
Ho stood now in awkward « silence,
while he stroked tlia head of a gray
kitten lying in his arms. At last he
“To thine own self be true,and it will follow, as night the day, thou cans’t not then be false to any man.”
LINCOLNTON, GA.. THURSDAY, .i UNE Si, 1898
found voice enough to explain the ap¬
pearance of the kitten.
“It followed me part way,” he said,
“and I carried it the rest. It’s mine.
I found it, a lanky, wanderin’ thing,
strayed from somewheres, and I took
it home. It tags me every where. ”
“Yes,” said Annie. “I had one
once that used to follow me. It died
that year Bess the cow died. It was
pretty hard havin’ two deaths in the
family in the same year.” ,
She smiled with a fine attempt at
bravery, he thought, for he had a clear
notion of her loneliness and dread of
new associations. Then followed an¬
other silence.
“Lonesome here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He paused; then braced himself for
the effort.
“I was thinkin’,” he said, “as it’s
pretty quiet over to my house, now
aunt’s gone and Sally’s over to her
daughter’s in Lynn, an’ I’ve sort o’
got to hankerin’ for a bit of calico
round the house, that maybe you’d
like the place.”
“Keep house?” asked the girl.
“Yes. I don’t mean as housekeeper
exactly. I mean get married. ”
“Oh!” she cried, looking at him in
astonishment. “Who to?”
“Why, me!” lie exclaimed, asifsur
prised at her dullness, “There’s
enough for two, I guess, and it’s kind
of quiet for a lone man over there. I’ll
let you have your say about the flower
garden.”
There was no affection for the girl
prompting his words. He had caught
a glimpse of her face at ihe window
the clay before, and the same impulse
that had led him to befriend the kitten
had brought him to this larger idea of
protection.
“I never thought about getting
married,” she said hesitatingly.
“It’s easy done,” he saicl. “We’ll
just step up to tbe minister’s.”
“But what if we should be sorry af¬
terwards?” she said gravely.
“Oh, no danger,” he said. “I’ll
give you a long tether. I’ll do well by
you.” |
So, half in reanty, half in dream ,
.Annie put ca -h«jr
few days later and wentrwith David up
the street. When they came back they
stopped at the gate.
“We must go iu and get the dishes,”
she saicl.
“Oh, I’ve got dishes,” he said, “real
china—with sprigs on; aunt set great
store by ’em—old blue plates, too.” ■■Hi
“But I like these,” said Annie,
drawling out the.“like” pleadingly.
“Oh, we’ll get ’em then,” he said
smiling. “You gather ’em up while I
go after Ned and the long wagon.”
In a few hours Annie found herself
and all her possessions in her new
home, and, looking about her tried to
realize the Arabian-Nights transfor¬
mation that had happened—that it was
she, and no other, who was mistress
and proprietor of the pretty ingrain
carpets, the neat, caue-seated chairs,
the few treasures of curly maple and
mahogany, and the pictures of the
aunt and her sisters staring down upon
her from the walls.
When David came in with the milk
he saw her standing by the hearth,
while the kitten rubbed about her feet.
Her face was suffused with her now
happiness, and she gave him one swift,
grateful look, while she laughed softly
as if her new delight had made her
bankrupt in speech. A sense of her
sweet child-womanliness peized him
with irresistible force. He felt the
sluggish blood quicken at his heart;
and at that instant unconsciously he
had received his chrism, and had en¬
tered that old, old temple whose light
transmutes what have seemed common
things and dross to pearls and gold.
Meanwhile Annie had moved toward
him.
“I will take care of the milk,” he
said.
•‘But—” she remonstrated. She was
seized with misgivings lest she might
not find work enough to pay her way;
for the Mosaic doctrine of something
for something had become a part of
the grain and fiber of her thought.
He did not answer, but went on
about the task. He had no fine words
at his disposal, no poetic fancies, or
artist’s skill; but he was laying such
as he had upon the altar of the temple.
Annie moved away and picked up
the kitten, whose appetite for caresses
could not be appeased. She stroked
its head with nervous energy. It was
something to feel the little, dull, in¬
stinctive life within her hand, and feel
it reaching out in its blind way to
touch her own. She seated herself
and played with it with all the grace
and abaudpn of a child. The child’s
spirit was still dominant in her; that
was evident.
It was still more plain in the even¬
ing when, after David had given her
a half dozen packets of flower seeds,
she sat playing with them. She shuf¬
fled them as if they were cards, shook
them to hear the seeds rattle, looking
eagerly at the flower pictures, made
odd little exclamations of surprise and
pleasure, planned how the flowers
should be arranged, and finally open¬
ing one and taking out a seed of
mignonette, held it up between her
fingers'and cried, “To think there
should be a blossom in that little
brown seed!” She fell to prattling of
the uses she should make of the flow 7 -,
ers, and quieted down at last to fall a
dreaming over the prospective garden world
as if there were nothing in the
but flower stems and colors.
David watched her and understood
how this infancy of heart had stood
between her and the realization of
some of the hard lines of her past,
He was glad that it was so; but he
hoped that, as life was showing more
happily for her now, she might put
away that childish mood for one more
womanly.
At that instant the playfulness dis
appeared. She looked at him with a
serious, wistful jface, and said simply,
“You are so kind—I love you.”
David tried to speak, but his lips
closed upon the words. In his at
tempt to express his feeling he found
himself as hopelessly and helplessly
dumb as the kitten under Annie’s
hand. 'The outspoken sentiment, the
affectionate pathos in her face was
more than his self-conscious diffidence
could bear. He rose, and with some
excuse of neglected duty went outside,
There he sat a long time, close to the
altar of the great temple, meditating
other offerings of homely service. j
The little scene of the evening was
characteristic of much of their after
life. Annie’s impulsiveness, that had
all the ingenuous freedom .of child
hood, was always a surprise to David’s
quiet dignity, ‘and her protestations
of gratitude and affection were an em
barrassment to him. Her easy dem
monstration seemed to increase the I
weight of his own stolid silence; but,
try as he would, he could not over
■ .
„ come iu.
_ He had , , no medium of , expression
hut that of doing. He applied him¬
self carefully to the wood and -water
basis of ' their housekeeping, and took
on himself gradually many tasks sup¬
posed to be within the province of
womankind. Annie was inclined at
first to oppose his oncroaofc.ing on her
domain; but, in time, she came to
forget her unwillingness in the inter¬
est and amusement of watching his
methods.
One morning she stood by, laugh¬
ing at his awkwardness -while he was
trying to coerce a newlv-bought
washing machine to do its duty. He
stru gflgi My jtetpped theory up against of the 7
OT, ier "lum. Kuchina her back,
stood Annie, teasing him about his
new accomplishment with a raillery
and gayety that made him think of
the bobolinks outside.
He had perhaps never been more
keenly conscious of her dearness to
him as he listened to that merry
strain; but his face was very grave
and silent. She bent toward him sud¬
denly with a speech half bantering,
half kind; when, because the crit¬
ical faculty in her was awakening, or
from some accident of conditions, it
seemed that for the first time she saw
his face as it really was—stern and
unresponsive. She drew back with
quick misgiving. What! didn’t he
like her?
She slipped from the room, ran up
the stairs and sat down to think about
it. It was her first mood of retrospect
and questioning. Strange what a
rapid growth a fungus of doubt can
make!
Yes, she remembered now—he had
always looked like that, though some¬
how she had never minded. She had
taken it for granted that he was fond
oi her because she cared for him, and
it seemed so much easier for people to
care than not to care. She herself had
loved all the world that she had known
■—her father, the kitten, the dog, even
the pretty 7 sprigged china had ceme in
for an occasional pat and kind word.
Had she been too sure,too thought¬
less, too ; happy? She laid her head
upon the table and cried. Over and
over she muttered through her tears
that it was easier to care than not to
care—surely no one could have won¬
dered that she had been so blind. She
remembered |now that he had never
answered her when she had told him
all her heart. How cold and silent he
had been! Truly sho had made a mis¬
take! Strange that she had not found
it out before!
She rose and went to the window.
David was outside, bending and work¬
ing over something in his palm. It
was a bird with a broken wing. He
was tending it with all the gentleness
and patience that could find expres¬
sion in his strong hand. The sight
became a revelation to her. She knew
now why he had come to her that
morning after her father’s death, and
had brought her to his home. He had
somehow understood how lonely and
wretched she was; and just as he tried
to heal and mend and save every
broken thing that came in his way, he
had gone to her in her time of need.
That was kind; but—she was no bird
nor dog nor kitten to receive alms of
love, a pittance doled out to her in
mercy. She was a woman, born to a
queen’s right in her own home; no
pensioner upon another’s kindness.
She paced the floor restlessly a few
minutes; then glanced again toward
the window, and this time her eyes
were full of the instinct of a freedom
loving creature that has been snared
—the instinct to escape. She looked
down the road that led away from the
village. Her fear of the world seemed
to have gone. She longed to be far
away within it, out of sight and hear
iug, in some place where—her child
lips were tremulous at the thought—
she might sadden and grow old with¬
out his pity, wonder and care. It was
a proof of her childishness that she
had never thought how strange in it
self was her action, nor thought of the
unpleasantness of the village gossip,
nor recalled David’s face ns she had
seen it one morning after an eager,
night-long, but useless, search for a
stray lamb. She was mastered by one
Impulse—that of flight,
She packed a bundle of clothing,
found some food, wrote a note to
spavid telling him that she could not
hear to stay, because that she had just
come to know that lie did not care for
her, and was soon on the way to the
nearest city. blie went hurriedly,
half running at times, her heart beat
* n £ ^ as ^ as ^ ?* ie were afraid ot pui -
su ^- Occasionally some of the vi
lagers met her and looked at hei ^in
surprise; but she did not mop or
recognition, and after hesitating and
sometimes looking back, they went on.
I* 7 was growing dark. Ihe city '.as
a hopeless distance away. There were
f le ' v hghts gleaming along the roat ,
but she snrank from the thought of
kln S for shelter. The touch ot the
darkness loneliness and cold had
brought back to her that old sense_ 01
being a slight, helpless creature, lacing
immensity of the world. Sue was
alone, and night, like a great beast of
S™y, was coming on her there With
the heart-sickness, her strength gave
way. She sank to the ground; then
drew herself to a tree standing near,
wound an arm about it, and pressed
her cheek to its rough bark as if she
were appealing to it or defense. -
rustling in the leaves made her start
her feet; but her terror vanished,
for she recognized tho man approach
ing. David quietly.
“Annie,” said
Under the light of his grave, strong
face, her eyes fell, ashamed and peni¬
tent.
“It’s all a mistake, Annie,” he said.
“You don’t understand.”
“But I thought you didn’t care. You
never said so.”
“I—I—” be stammered; but his lips
shut upon the liearLrevealing words
like the tightening of a vise.
“Haven’t I kept the wood box idled
to the brim?” he said at last.
“But you never said—•”
“I’ve kept the water pail full, ” he
VM, his voice falling as if he found
his case a pitiful one.
“But you never spoke a word
about—”
“I’ve cleaned carpets,” he said
humbly.
“Yes, but the words! If you’d only
said, if you’d only say just a word to
me, David,” she cried pleadingly. “I
do so long to hear you speak.”
He stood staring at her helplessly.
“Do you care?” she entreated.
“Of course. I—I—” There was
a choking sound in his throat, The
flush on his face deepened till it be
came a signal of distress. “ Don’t T
you know,” he said hurriedly, “that
I’ve let you set out all the front of
the garden to marigolds, and I’ve
seen marigolds and smelled marigolds,
and worn marigolds all summer long
to please you; and heaven knows,”
there was an odd little reverential
tone in his voice, “that I—I—loathe
marigolds.” mischievous look
The old, merry,
came back to Annie’s face, as she re¬
membered the occasions when she had
laughingly decked out David’s coat
with the velvety yellow blossoms.
He was standing with downbent
head. There was no reflection of her
mirth in his stern, sorrowful face.
“I’ve washed dishes,” he said mis¬
erably.
She did not speak, though he seemed
waiting. buttons,”
“I’ve sewed on my own
he muttered.
It was his attitude that convinced
her, the pathos of his downcast face
and shuffling feet, She was assured
that he loved her, and also that if she
ever wished to hear him “speak,” she
must listen to the filling of the wood
box and the drawing of water from
the well. She caught his hands.
“Oh, David!” she- cried, “I love
you. I love you. j understand.
It’s just because we two are different.”
When they were seated in the car¬
riage, David put an arm about her
and drew her with a little awkward
hitch toward himself.
jj££“Ishall get mo a long rope,” he
said grimly, “and tether you to the
kitchen stove, Annie.”
Annie laughed in the old fashion;
but he detected another note in
that merry sound. The girlishness had
had gone from it. The child spirit
forever abandoned Annie, and was lin¬
gering, perhaps, about the tree to
which she had clung in that moment
of despair.—The Housewife.
Oldest Bank Note.
■ The oldest bank note probably in
existence is preserved in the Asiatic
Museum, St. Petersburg. It dates
from the year 1390 B. C., and bears
the name of the Imperial Bank, date
and number of issue, signature of a
mandarin, and contains a iist of the
punishments inflicted for forgery of
notes. This relic is probably written,
for pointing from wooden tablets is
said to have been introduced in China
in the year 160 A, D-
INSW BUBLLTSi
UNENVIABLE LOT OF THE men WHO
MUST FACE- THE MAGAZINE GUNS.
One of the Modern Stylo Missile* Will Pass I
Through Seven Soldiers Stood In Lino
—A Leaden Hail Will Lay Low an Ad¬
vancing Foe—Wounded Self-Treated.
It has been said that the r.ew army
rifle is "humane”-—that it punctures
clean holes, and is less likely to inflict
dangerous injury. According to the
best evidence, however, the fact is
very much the other way. The new
stylo bullet, very long and with a
diameter about the same as that of a
lead pencil, leaves the gun with a
velocity of half a mile a second, with
a pressure behind it of forty thousand
pounds per square inch. Four miles
from the muzzle of the weapon, it is
traveling at a rate of one hundred
yards a second, and will penetrate the
abdomen of a man who happens to be
in the way. Owing to its velocity, and
to its rotary motion of twenty-four
hundred revolutions a second, it de¬
velops an explosive energy when it
strikes anything at a moderate range,
splintering bones into small pieces and
effectually destroying any organ like
the liver or kidney.
O wing to these conditions, a man
who is hit in an arm bone or leg bone
by a bullet from a modern rifle must
in nearly every instance die or submit
to amputation. A hole through an im¬
portant blood vessel, being punched
cleanly out, results in profuse and
dangerous hemorrhage right away, so
that the victim is likely to die before
surgical aid can arrive. Much valua¬
ble information in this lino has been
obtained l>y firing experimentally at
corpses at various ranges, and observ¬
ing the character of the injuries in¬
flicted. It has been found in this man¬
ner incidentally, that one of these bul¬
lets will pass through seven men stood
in line. The French have done a good
deal of experimenting with silhouette
Soldiers, cutout of boards and fired at
from given distances. From the re¬
sulting hits they have tried to reckon
casualty percentages.
Under modern conditions troops
within firing distance of an enemy will
have to meet a veritable hail of bullets.
A modern rifle is able to deliver forty
shots a minute. Herr JPrinz, a Ger¬
man military surgeon, writing of the
resent civil war in Chile, says: “The
Balmacedists, who were no cowards,
declare! that their astonishment,
caused by the terrible storm of pro¬
jectiles, left them unable to use their
own weapons.” In a battle the rifles
described will be supplemented by im¬
proved Gatling guns, which fire one
thousand shots a minute, with a muz¬
zle velocity of a quarter of a mile a
second, and an effective range of one
and a half miles. Under such circum¬
stances, obviously, it will not be pos¬
sible for military commanders to risk
their troops in the open inasmuch as
to do so would be wholesale suicide.
To illustrate the destructiveness of
modern weapons on laud, let it be
supposed that a command is well post¬
ed and concealed with a six-gun bat¬
tery of these small breech-loading
cannon, a couple of Gatlings, and a
regiment of 700 infantry armed with
Krag-Jorgensen rifles. A hostile force
of twice the strength approaches to
within a distance of 3000 yards. The
range being carefully calculated, al¬
lowing for the expansion of the cones
of fire from the artillery, the six can¬
non will cover a line of 1440 yards. At
the word firing begins, and iu one
minute thirty-six shrapnel are hurled
at the advancing foe. They burst 2000
yards in front of the enemy, scatter¬
ing 10,800 messengers of death among
them. Iu the same minute the two
Gatlings deliver 2000 shots, and the
7000 rifles discharge 14,000 projec¬
tiles. In sixty seconds the space oc¬
cupied by 1500 Imen bas been swept
by a tremendous tstorm of 26,800 mis¬
siles, and two-thfrds of the oncoming
soldiers are laid Sow. One more min¬
ute, with anotherisuch discharge, and
few survivors are < left to tell the tale
of the disaster.
The wounded in a modern land
battle will have;small chance of res¬
cue. It will not be possible to remove
them from the f fighting line during the
conflict, because the hospital bearers
attempting tine task would be killed.
The best that, can be hoped is to at¬
tend to them within the next twenty
four hours. The stern facts having
been realized, instruction has been
given to every private in the United
States Army in the)art of taking care
of himself in case he is hurt. He
carries at his belt what is called a
“first-aid packet,” containing a roll
of bandages, an antiseptic compress,
and antiseptic ganfse, inclosed in a
sealed rubber casing. If he suffers
from a bullet wound, he stuffs a plug
of the gauze into the hole and applies
a bandage. This may save his life
and give the surgeon a chance when
there is an opportunity for treatment.
Better Than Cats.
A savant has discovered how to slay
mice and rats by means of a bacillus,
which he has named after himself, and
which is supposed to be far more fatal
than the cat.
The exports of the port of San
Francisco during 1897 amounted to
$46,000,000; the imports to $39,000,
000 .
J
The BaMet in Kasaia.
in St. Petersburg, they
the art seriously. There ballets’
a continuance is of the three rendezvous hours, and^r of^
theater then
smartest, the most artistic aid f
Very aristocratic sets. It has the-f
indorsement of royalty. The balletp
too, takes the place of pantomine
children, and frequently a hall of£
amusement is thronged with the littlef
people all arrayed in their
clothes.”
The special event of the winter sea
son has been the production of The
Mikado’s Daughter, a ballot by Via
dimir Langammer, the general many
ager of the Imperial Theatre Marie,
of the three royal playhouses of the
Russian capital. It has been drawing
crowded houses and distinguished au¬
diences, and there has not been
a terpsichorean success since Tsehai
kowsky’s The Beauty of the Sleeping
Woods.
The ballet is entrancingly dancedJ
all Russian ballets are, by the premiere
danseuse, Mile. Kehessinskaia, a
tive, educated in the imperial
of which she possesses all the
—immense ease and facile grace.
Russians call it the French school o'
dancing to distinguish it. from
Italian method. Mile. Kehessinskaia^ beautiful,
though not precisely
something more interesting in her
gant, attractive fragility and lends ■
much finish to M. Langammer’s clew
and exquisitely conceived idea.
is as light as thistle down before 1h
breeze, and soap bubbles do not su
tain themselves in space with more
airy ease than does this
young woman.
The Mikado’s Daughter is just wkat -
a ballet should be—coherent,
ole idealism, based on strictly
realism. The music, by Baron
gel, is original, well adapted to Ihl
subject and full of tuneful,
charm and entrancing melodies.
To write the exceilet libretto
author has evidently studied all
best authorities on Japan, and the
suit is a highly entertaining object
son on the habits, customs and
syuerasies of the Mikado s su
A premiere danseuse is not ind 11 -;
pensable to this ballet, which is
“a fantastic,” though it is much
a ballet of manners and character,
states that the promise of a school
stage representation dramatic at the preSenjf
hour. A leading
U'o-twomive of .a
pantomime in Paris,
the lisappearance of the school folf
ballet in Milan, is evidence of the
things are drifting more or less
sciousiy.
t\ Pointer lor Clerks.
1 once bad id two two clerics. clerks. Fames .
getting $12..... ! a week and Roberts Slj
Fames asked for a raise. 1 told
that bis services would not, as .' 1
justify it, and that the business
not afford it. He was not
even after 1 told him i would do bett
by him just as soon as I could.
A few days afterward Roberts H
occasion to criticise bis associate
a very apparent lack of interest
job in hand. Fames answered,
I guess I do it well enough for
week.”
It was in that spirit his work
dene. lie was getting only $12,
was determined to earn no more
paid more. Roberts, on the otimr-feyv-'
put in ids best efforts, and tried to me
himself more valuable with every
that passed. Roberts
I am to-day paying
per year, while I was compelled to
charge Fames at tlie end of lus *
year.—Hardware.
AN ECCENTRIC MAN. p a
Hicks—Isn’t your friend
ratlur eccentric V
Wicks—Eccentric ? Tlu-re
was so odd a creature in the v ..ri.
Why, actually when he makes a
he always bttvin ^ with the perorati/
ST exordiaiy*
Miss Spokes—What snail we have
nir club colors? Mr. Pedelman I gu«K
il'ick and blue will be all
.. .......... " 1
GEORGIA RAILROA!
--A. N I>
Connections.
For Information as to Routes, Sob
—ules and Rates, Both — ^ j
Passenger and Frel,
Write to either of the undersigned, j
You will rece ; ve prompt reply
reliable information.
JOE. W. WHITE, A. G. JACKS!
T. P. A. G. P. A,
Augusta, Ga j
S. W. WILKES, H. K. NIC&G*
C. F. & P. A. G. A.
Atlanta. Athei
W. W. HARDWICK, S. E. MA
S. A. C. F. J
Macon. Mad
M. R. HUDSON, F. W. COFl
S. F. A. S. F. & P. j
Milledgeville, Augusta,!
