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m jf'-* v-5 \ A m j , f Aa L \ ; A i I WM ■: X; / i L j 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,!