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VOL . IX.
AWAKENINC.
Pulsation of new life is everywhere. Burdened it was in the dark season sped,
Awakened music trembles in the air. Methought keen ecstasy forever fled,
Chanting of streams, soft melody of That quick’ning must be somewhat kin
'And rain, to pain;
with a sweet faint gladness all astir, But now it wakes in quiv’ring monotone,
Subtle as scent of ambergris and myrrh, It thrills, that in my bosom slept a stone.
My heart, my heart is singing once My heart, my heart is singing once
again! again!.
This earliest hope, this dawning of delight The lilies their white chalices uplift,
Forth flutters timidly, as in despite And lute-like voices on the light wind
Of fears that silenced be its broken drift,
Tremulous strain: Breathing in cadence musical refrain;
ever is the dearest joy. ’Neath sunshine’s genial glamour scents
And babbling sweeter that its mood is far-flung sacred odors
coy, Partakes of censor-swung,
My heart, my heart is singing once My heart, my heart is singing once
again! again!
—Beatrice Clayton, in Philadelphia Ledger.
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JACK SINCLAIR'S CREDO.
By M. C. Seymour.
J ACIv SINCLAIR always looked
at the bright side of things,
past, present and future. He
was so cheerfully persistent
(even in the thickest of liis troubles)
that there was “a good time coining,”
that we, who were his friends and
comrades, used to declare that those
few words were the resume of Ills be¬
lief—his credo.
And yet Jack's path was about as
rough as it could he. He came of a
good old family; but it was one of
those families which, from pure fate
and no other known cause, meets with
misfortune at every turn and goes—
pnaucially—down in the world.
To retrieve the losses of his ances¬
tors, Jack’s father weffi in for busi¬
ness of which he understood nothing;
also Specula iron, or ~rv 1 i 1 ■; I 1 !l ! i ( 1 \V
even less.
As a necessary conseipience lie made
a fiasco; and the worry and disap¬
pointment killed him, though the doc¬
tor's certificate gave influenza as the
cause of death.
No one believed more, firmly than
Jack, that Alexander Sinclair would
have pulled through the malady well
enough if his hope and courage had
not failed him. The wish and wiliiug
ness to have done with life, is all on
the side of the undertaker and grave¬
digger. clerk in
So Jack Sinclair became a a
merchant's office, instead of a coun¬
try gentleman who sits at home at
ease and acquires local influence by
getting J. P. tacked on to liis name.
And in place of the old home, which
he sold, lie had to take board resi¬
dence with a family living in ft com¬
monplace London suburb—a “home
away from home” it was represented
by advertisement, but singularly un¬
like any methods of existence with
which Jack had been previously ac¬
in ted.
He did not seem so downhearted as
might have I .en feared, He felt that
what others had boi'ne and others had
done, lie also could bear and could do;
und at two and twenty tlie best of life
stretched before him. So liis credo
the “good time corning”—was his in¬
variable reply to any condolence which
was offered him.
Jack did not expect to arrive at a
competence by means of a clerkship.
The pay he received from the office
was not so bad but that it might have
been worse; still, it could only be a
means of frugal daily existence—just
to “falre marcher le pot-au-feu,” as
the French say in such a case.
But lie liad a talent, Some of us
thought, it amounted to genius, but tliat
need not here be insisted ou. Let us
say that he had a line tenor voice, and
he hoped—when his reverses of for¬
tune came—that lie would succeed in
making money by it. Why not, when,
as every one knows, the thing lias
often been douo and can be done
again ?
As a smallish boy a
church choir had been compared, by
impressionable ladies, to that of an
angel. Possibly wliat was “angelh:”
had deepened into the tones of man¬
hood, but Sinclair’s singing was noi
what one may hear any and every
day. his time
If he could have given up
to it and made it his profession, fame
would have been liis, I believe.
But so long as boots and bread and
butter are stern and inevitable neces¬
saries, there must be money to pay
‘To thine own self be true,and it will follow, as night thou can-s’t not then be false to any man.”
LINCOLNTON, GA . TfURSDAY, JULY 25, 1901.
for them; and Jack, having no rela¬
tives or friends able t;> back him up,
must take to the office work to gain a
living. However, if his days were
thus filled, he was his own master
after six p. m., and his evenings were
given to music.
Cue of the daughters of the family
with whom he boarded considered
herself a budding prima donna. Jack
winced under the metallic shrillness
of her tones, but lie was grateful to
her for the use of her piano, and also
when she could play his accompani¬
ments.
After a good many disappointments,
he got a hearing at a charity concert
and made liis mark. There was no
fee; but Jack was none the less radi¬
ant, and certain, of course, that away
in the distance there was a ‘‘good
*"& talketf oi Alt tic. — C,
and singers—the Murioa and Gardonis
who were before liis time, but whose
first difficulties and subsequent har¬
vests he had got the story of by heart,
to say nothing of the stories of more
modern vocalists. And in the thought
of a bright future, the toil and the pri¬
vation of his actual existence became
endurable I suppose, for he never
spoke of it.
But Jack Sinclair was not of the
stuff which makes the wealthy man;
he was so fond of giving. When he
began to sing in one or two drawing
rooms—a song for a couple of guineas
it was—he was certain to come across
some one in desperate need of a few
shillings, or to hear of a pitiable case
of want which would have kept him
awake all night if he had not douo
something to help.
It was ouiy afterwards—after there
was no dear Jack among us—-that we,
his comrades, knew how many a kind¬
ly deed he had managed to do at tlie
cost of a sacrifice, and yet so gladly.
After that charity conceit and a few
"at homes” given either by fashion¬
able or. would-be fashionable ladies,
Sinclair’s voice began to be talked
about. That is the first step of the lad¬
der which leads to fame. After being
talked of, success in any profession is
tolerably sure; for a time. Unfortun¬
ately, it cannot bo lasting. On the
principle that "every dog lias his day,”
so must—eventually—every singer,
writer, artist, or public character give
place to a new comer. glad
However, in tlie first flush of
ness at getting on. Jack did not look
far ahead, It was enough for him
that lie could pay his way without a
constant worry over the sixpences; help
others a little;‘and even begin to put
by money, If things continued to
work well, lie meant to throw up ills
clerkship and ha a singer only. That
was his ambition.
It need scarcely b;>
was generous in giving tickets to liis
friends for any concerts at which he
was to be heard. I, for one„ enjoyed
many a pleasant evening which cost
me nothing except the trouble of a lit
rle extra toilet, and the purchase of a
few additional pairs of gloves. And
when he had a clamorous ‘ encore”
I which happened almost invariably) I
believe I was as pleased as he was—
and decidedly prouder. For I could
not imagine it possible for any one to
sing better, whereas Jack always real¬
ized that he could go ou from good to
Letter, and to best.
\Vc used to leave together and walk
homewards, talking of future sue-
cesses. Such convention! Such pro¬
jects! And when w< reached the door
of Jack’s abode lie i mid propose see¬
ing me home, and rhea we got to
my diggings I Ihoug; I might just as
well turn back witl him and it was
with reluctance, andr great deal left
unsaid, that we felt (impelled at last
to separate.
The night—a nlflLwhich always
stands out in the foreround of all my
memory-pictures which he bad of id ^ek lie Sinclair—on
sung Eta bat Mat¬
er and received a vernalle ovation, an
eminent conductor offend him a pro¬
vincial engagement vvhia was far too
advantageous to be refined.
"I shall throw up the dHee now,” he
said to me as we made jur way along
tile familiar streets vvlicb led to our
suburb. "I would mtler have given
longer notice—not because 1 think my
services can be ill-spar d. but because
it would be more poll! However, it
I explain just how thii are, the gov¬
ernor won’t take it a $ that 1 re-
sign my clerkship,”
I am not given to able expres¬
sions blit I did say s metliing rude,
and suggested that “lit. governor” had
not been over generou- ■ Sinclair and
might be fairly left to 1 v>k out for him¬
self.
And then we fell to t’ 1 iking of money
matters, agreeing that hough it is “no
sin to be poor” it is acommouly in¬
convenient and so. In degrees, Jack
waxed confidential anti told me a se¬
cret which lie had IdMden from rue
some time, though lAp.-is liis closest
friend.
It was, of course, thoIcM story which
i.s always coming imlo \ new life—the
story of his love for girl whom he
felt absolutely sure, ; are all‘other
young fellows in likyVdrcumstances,
had not her equal cu gUfc- tti
"We have made up minds to be
very prudent,” ho J si i Idle laughingly.
"We are ready to test of
waiting, if long wiw fi w necessary.
But now, with so I a prospect
opening for me an/jf ^expectedly ■t
to-night I shall telljR we must
be married withy®®! lllP
she will he giso v'loi'enco
JiTtiiSUD— “, asiSj ■rag rumentx person and
who played his acG lu
worried him into siiS occasional
duet with her for tfl ihantment of
“pa and ma,” as s* iled her par
ents.
“My own impressioij I said, “is that
the charming Florenej has some idea
of Jack becoming did not Mrs. laugh, Sinclair.” tils I had intended
he should. He declan^l I was hard on
the girl, who wasDHi bad sort of
girl, even if she wila it refined and
cultured. h|
“You can’t expect tofSnd gentlewom¬
en in this locality,” amjong lie/said. “But liv¬
ing, of necessity, these people
of very middle-class Pastes anil habits,
has taught me that f there’s a deal in
them. Now, we mu At step out; for it's
later than usual, amjl they will fancy
is amiss.”
With quickened pa re we were mak
ing for King HSdwa i'd’s Road, when
Jack suddenly stopp* d and sniffed the
air suspiciously.
“Smells uncommonly like a fire, and
coming from our vs ay, too!” he said.
“Let us push on. perhaps we may have
the chance of being of some use to
some one or other.'
A five it was indeed; the smoke came
in clouds as we got nearer, and we
could hear the screams of women’s
voices mingling with the hoarse shout¬
ing of the crowd which always turns
up when there is anything to see.
“If it isn’t our pi me,” said Jack, as
we turned into the street, "it is next
door. And there are little children
there, ami tlie father is a sailor and
away at sea!”
As he said it he liad burst into the
thick of the affrir. asking hurried
questions of any ore who could answer
him. I followed, and, by dint of using
my fists and elbows, managed to keep
pretty close; for I knew that he would
never think of hmself if there was
any risk to run aid i wanted to bold
him back—especially now that he had
told me of his low, and what was to
come of it.
It was not tin house where Jack
had board and rt Alienee, though that
was so far in jnpardy that all the
family were relieving some of their
portable goods a neighbor's, and
were contributin not a little to tlie
general exciteme 1 t. It was the house
of the sailor’s wile that was in flames,
and from which ihe and her three lit¬
tle children hai just been rescued
when we came ip.
She was cryin bitterly, and implor
ing soma one to et her tho money sho
had in a small b x within a drawer in
a room on the top story—not much of
a sum, as she explained, but all that
she had to live on till her husband
came back front Australia.
••Will no one get it for me?” she
wailed. “There’s still time, but there
won’t be long! And what will become
of me and the children if I’ve not a
penny by me?”
I felt that Jack was going to do it
even before lie sprang forward, and 1
seiz d Ills arm and bade bim roughly
not to be “a fool,” but think oi Amy..
But he shook he off and dashed
through the crowd and into the burn¬
ing house, and somehow got to the
top story. They did cheer him l can
tell you when he showed himself at
the upper window and threw down the
box into the midst of us all, and the
woman—crying for thankfulness now
—said:
“God bless him and reward him!”
He would have been all right in an¬
other live minutes. Fate is a strange
thing, and stranger still that the
“blessing and reward” should be what
it was in Sinclair's ease. He was on
the staircase, when there came an
awful crash—part of the house had
fallen and he was frightfully injured
when he was taken out from the mass
of brick and wood-work. But he lived
an hour; long enough to bid me tell tbe
tidings gently to Amy Robertson, and
find for her among his belongings some
little thing to keep in his memory.
“You'll say 1 am optimist to the very
end,” lie said faintly, and with some¬
thing of his own smile. "But I do be¬
lieve the happiness we miss in this
world will be given up in the next,
and--”
“It's always the same credo, dear old
fellow!” I exclaimed, as lie paused,
gasping for breath. “The good timo
coming!”
But at that moment the change
which passed over his face, the inef¬
fable peace and content of it, told me
that for my friend, Jack Sinclair, the
gcod time had come.—Wavefley Maga¬
zine.
“There IS no SU'-fi « Perfect Figure,
woman,” said a Wahiur street ta'ir*'"
whose specialty is handsome gowns.
“Of course, I mean a perfect woman
physically. Every woman is lop-sided,
more or less. A perfect figure is un¬
known. and there is where we come to
the aid of nature.
“A woman may be perfectly propor¬
tioned ill every other particular, but
when it conies to the hips there is al¬
ways a discrepancy in the measure¬
ments. I have never known this to
fail. In every woman one hip is at
least an inch larger than the other. In
some cases it is the light side, and in
other eases the left. It i.s no uncom¬
mon tiling for one side to be two inches
larger than the other, and in some in¬
stances tlie difference is as much as
three inches. But you can take my
word for it that every woman is lop¬
sided at least an inch.”—Philadelphia
Record. ,
King’s Long-Sought Photograph.
After waiting about twenty years,
the King has come into possession of
a photograph for which he has sought
ever since his marriage to Queen Alex¬
andra, says the Sussex Daily News. It
is a photograph of the Queen herself
as she was just before the King first
met her. It is said that for some rea
son only one copy remained
stroyed. and this could not be trace'
until about twenty years ago, when
was accidentally seen by a high ;
sonage at court in the album of aAp..:
known society lady. The latter on
being approached was not disposed to
P** with the prize , even to tb te „. King.
who. when turning over the/ album
which contained it from time/to time,
portrait.” used jokingly Since to refer lie ascended to ijf as ”my the
throne it is understood that/tho owner
of the photograph has seiM/p t0 wimp
American Academy * n p a] i».
The United States Pj^-i o/jvernment lies
resolved to erect in S aa establish¬
ment which will serv<y as a lodging and
centre for distinguisi/ e q A ocrican stu¬
dents whose sueces»g S a t (heir native
universities has their traveling
scholarships. their cntjfiy st| D g them to con
tinue in Paris. The --
“academy” willjj|j e erec ted on a fine
site given on HghjBois de Boulogne,
and the build ■flu include rostaii
rant, con richbi versa ..jind reading rooms,
twenty ^ Knishcd Bnore apartments,
and forty p:^| modest irature.
twenty Is for artists, with
workshops^! JBI [oratorio?, etc. — Par.s
Le Soil*.
NO. 3.
THE CHANCES THAT ARE CONE.
I hear the people grumble; I hear them
powerful sadly say have taken men’s chances
The
all away;
They curse the man of millions, and blame
him for his greed,
They shake their lists—he calmly refuses
to take heed.
I hear men speak in whispers of blood that
is to flow. red
Of woe the rich are sowing to reap
crops of woe;
I hear men mourn the chances the rich
have won away, locked
The ways that once were open are
and barred to-day.
1 hear the people threaten; the billionaire,
they cry, chance for others, but to
Has left no save
slave and die,
And even as I listen and join them in
their dread, steps
Some man who started with us out
and goes ahead. Record-ITcrald.
—S. E. Kiser, in Chicago
HUMOR OH THE DAY.
Crawford—“What do you do in the
street cars so much?” Crabshaw—
“Stand up most of the tine.”—Judge.
•lack—“Don’t you think that woman,
as a rule, prefers a man who is her
master?” Ethel-“Not at all. She pre¬
fers one who thinks he is.”—Tit-Bits.
There was a man in our town
Whose thrift was so intense
Kis friends could never even have
A joke at —Philadelphia iiis expense. Record. \
Cook—“The Irish stew has burned.”
Restaurant. Proprietor—“Well, put
some spice in it. and add ‘A la Fran¬
chise’ to its name on me menu.”—
Tit-Bits.
"Please I want a pennorth of—er—er
-I want-er-er—“Have you for
gotten what you came for?” “Yes,
that’s what I wane "What? ’ ‘Cam
phor.”—Moonsliin
Fanny—“You bad boy I out be
lieve you ever pray.” Tommy— “Yes,
I do. r thank the Lord every night
and morning that I ain't a girl.”—
Chicago Tribune.
“What made you go into this busi¬
ness?” asked a man of the Irish ehir
onodis*: who we - .x. Ting his patron
“It’s a pleasant sight to sec a big
reserve conduct a lady and child over
a crowded street.” “And it’s so natur¬
al. too. Copper should always be a
good conductor.”—Philadelphia limes.
“She has a perfect Angelina trust in you,
“Monopolizes She says,” me,” said cried Hugh,
"1 guess that’s what you mean.”
—Ohio State Journal.
“Somebody says that the United
States lias fewer cats than any other
nation.” “Perhaps that’s so. But
they certainly do manage to circulate
around a good deal.”—Cleveland Plain
Dealer.
“What nice things you said about
that man in his obituary notice! Don’t
suppose you’d say such nice things
of me?” said the citizm. “Oh, yes, I
would, with pleasure.”—Yonkers
Statesman.
Mrs. Henry Peck—“No. my daugh¬
ter, don't be in a hurry to marry an/
man: I was married in a hurry, and
now I see the folly of it." Miss Henri¬
etta Peck—“Well, I want to sei the
felly of it, too.”— The Schoolmaster.
Mrs. Gocdsoul (answering ring)—
“What is it. little girl?” Mary—“Please
ma'am, we’ve lost our kitty. She left
yesterday, and we’re hurting for her.
want to know if you have seen ft
ca i by the name of Minerva go by your
house.”—Puck.
Tea/ .an;, can you tell me
anyl mg you lia^e to be thankful for
ii he past year?” Johnny (without
li 3 £itatifli»>—“Yessur.” Teacher-“Well. Johnny-“Why.
Johnny, what is it?”
you broke your arm you couldn't
lick us for two mouths.”— Harlem Life.
An Electric Light Buoy.
An interesting electric light buoy is
now moored in the North Sea before
Bu.isua, in Holstein, to give warning
of the dangerous sands at that place.
LvcJ a slight motion of the waves gen¬
erates sufficient electricity far Tiumin
ation, and deck-work half-minute in lightingj^H the i:iterio|
regulates the av.tojf*
extinguishing. Tests of this
light have proved so satisfactor
the extensive use of such huoyjg
dieted.
Prehistoric ltcl’c
A large number of bam
lions of apparently weeden coffins^B grcjM
ics of
been discovered believed at. Ofl JH
It. Is jM
coffins belonged wii^H
to sfivages ijSj
Tin
•■,•11 the