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YOL. I.
DRUG STORE.
J. W. BRINSON & CO.,
DRUGGISTS,
Wrightsville, Georgia.
Hare on hand a complete stock of Drug*
and all other articles usually kept in a
First- Class
Drug Store s
Which they ate selling at prices to suit th<
times, and are prepared to fill all orders ant
prescriptions on the shortest possible notice.
Db. J. W. BRINSON continues to prao
tioe his profession in it* various brancss.
Office at the Drug Store.
W. B. MELL & CO.,
Wholesale and retail dealers in
SUES, BRIDLES, HARNESS,
Rubber and .Leather
BELTING AND PACKING,
Frouob and Amerioan Calf Skins, 8ole, Har¬
ness, Bridle and Patent Leather,
WHIPS and SADDLERY WARE,
TRUNKS, VALISES,
Market Suture, Savannah, G*.
Orders by mail promptly attended to.
A. M. MATHIS,
Tennille, Ga.,
Horse-Shoeing a Specialty,
AU work intrusted to my care will reoeiv.
prompt satisfaction attention. Charges reasonable an4
guaranteed in every instanoe.
SMITH’S HOTEL,
W. J. M. SMITH, Agent.
Wrightsville, Georgia.
Having lately undergone thorough repairs,
this Hotel is prepared to accommodate tbi
publio highest with market the prices finest paid the market for country affords. produce. Th«
Miss Anna E. McWhorter,
Wrightsville, Ga.,
Keeps on hand a nice selection of
Hilliry M Fancy Goods
SUCH AS
LADIES’ HATS, RIBBONS,
FLOWERS and TRIMMINGS.
In endless variety; algo a nioe assortment ot
latest patterns, etc., all for sale as cheap ei
the cheapest I am also prepared to cut, fli
and make dresses at short notice. Call on m»
before purchasing elsewhere.
Z. SMITH,
6ix miles from Tennille, on Wrightsville Road
Is now prepared to make and repair
Wagons, Carts, Plows, Etc.
1 keep constantly on hand a large stock ol
Flows and Chairs, which 1 am selling at
reasonable rates.
J. T. & B. J. DENT,
Eight miles west of Wrightsville, Ga.
Keep constantly on hind a fine assortment
of Pure
Liquors, Brandies, Wines, Ales, Lager.
Etc., etc.; also Tobacco, Cigars, Candies,
Pickles, Oysters, Sardines, and a
full line ot iamily
GROCERIES I
All ot which we will sell at inside figure*.
Give us a trial. Respectfully,
J. T. & B. J. DENT.
A. J. BRADDY & SON
Wrightsville, Ga.
BLACKSMITH SHOP.
A specialty of Plantation Work. Wagons,
Buggies, etc., made and repaired.
Plows and Plow-Stooks of all kinds, and
every kind of Wood and Iron Work done by
A. J. BRADDY & SON.
_Wrightsville, Ga.
John A. Shivers & Son,
Tennillr, Ga.,
Ire now prepared to build, repair and
overhaul
Carriages, Buggies,Wagons, Re.
K2T" We also make • specialty ot On*
Rene Wagons.
WRIGHTSVILLE, GA., SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1880.
JOBS C. 7AH STCKEL & CO,
Wholesale and Betail Dealers in
CROCKERY,
GLASSWARE,
House Furnishing Goods
Tin-Plate,
Stoves,
Hardware,
&c., <fec.
HANOT AOTUBERS OF
TINWARE.
No. 116 Third Street,
MACON, GA..
HOW TO SAVE MONEY
FROM
J. M. WOOD,
Wrightsville, Ga.
Jjgy-He deals in DRY GOODS and GRO¬
CERIES, and will sail as low as the lowest,
laliooes, Homespuns, alt kinds. Drillings. Jeans, Boots
mil Shoes ot
Bacon, Flour, Coffee, Rioe, etc., always on
mud. Also a nioe selection of
Millinery Goods,
(ooli as Ladies’ Hats, Ribbons and Flowers ot
til descriptions, and various othier things :.o<>
mmerous to mention. Call and see tor your
islt.
CARHART & CURD,
DBALBBS XX
Hardware, Iron & Steel,
WOODENWARE,
Carriage Material,
Cotton Gins,
Circular Saws,
SCALES,
J! ')
PAINTS, OILS, Ac.
Macon, Grit.
K. J. DAYANT. J. 8. WOOD, JR
DAY ANT & WOOD,
1X4 Stroot,
Savannah, Georgia.
Special attention given to sale ot
C0TT0I.RICE& RATAL STORES,
AGBHT8 FOR
DRAKE'S COTTON TIES.
Cash advances made on consignments.
SID. A. PUGHSLEY, Jr.
AGENT AND SALESMAN,
-WITH
I. L. FALK & CO •9
CLOTHIERS,
425 and 427 Broome St., New York,
Cor. Congreis and Whittaker Streetff,
SAVANNAH, GA.
The Lucky Horseshoe.
A funner traveling with his load
Picked up a horseshoe in the road
And nailed it fast to his barn door,
1 hat luck might down upon him pour,
That svery blessing known in hie
Might crown liis homestead and his wile,
And never any kind ot harm
IJescend upon his growing farm.
But dire ill-fortune soon began
To visit the astounded man.
His hens declined to lay their eggs;
His bacon tumbled from the pegs,
And rats devoured the fallen lags;
His corn, that never failed before,
Slildewe 1 and rotted on the floor;
His grass refused to end in hay;
His cattle died, or went astray;
in short, all moved the crooked way.
Hext spring a great drouth baked the sod,
And roasted every pea in pod;
The beans declared they could not grow
So long ns nature acted so;
Redundant Insects reured their brood
To starve lor lack ot juicy iood;
The staves from barrel sides went off
As it they had the hooping-cough,
And nothing of the useful kind
To hold together felt incliued;
In short, it was no use to try
While all the land was in a fry.
One morn, demoralized with grief,
Tho farmer clamored for relief;
And prayed right hard to understand
What witchcraft now possessed his land;
Why house and farm in misery grew
Since ho nailed up that “ lucky” shoe.
Whole thus dismayod o’er matters wrong
An old man ebanoed to trudge along,
To whom ho told, with wormwood tears,
How his affairs were in arrears,
And what a desperate state ot things
A picked-up horseshoe sometimes brings.
The stranger asked to see the shoe,
The farmer brought it into view;
But when the old man raisod his hoad,
He laughed outright, and quickly suid:
" No wonder skies upon you frown —
You’ve nailed the horseshoe upddo down!
Just, turn it round, and soon you’ll see
flow you and fortune will agree.”
The larmer turned the horseshoe round,
Vnd showers bogan to swell tho ground;
The sunshine laughed among his grain,
And heaps on hoapnpilod up tto wain;
The loft liis hay could barely hold,
Ilis cattle did as they were told;
liis li-uit tiees needed sturdy props
To hold the gathering apple crops;
IBs turnip and potato fields
Astonished all men by their yields;
Folks never saw such ears ot corn
s in his smiling hills were born;
His barn was full ot bursting bins—
His wife presented him with twins;
His neighbors marveled more and more
To see the increase in his store.
And now the merry farmer sings
There aTO two ways ol doing things;
And when for good luck you would pray,
Nail up your horseshoe the rirrht way.”
— J . T. Fields, in Harper’s Magi zine.
PHEBE’S FIDDLE.
“ I think I’ll take that one,” said Mrs.
Marius Marchell, pointing with the end
of her finger in one particular direction.
It was quite a little life picture—the
row of eager-eyed girls standing in the
stuffy little re seption room of the orphan
asylum at Bloomington, each clad in
her dingy gray stuff gown, with a green
gingham bib-apron, and her hair cut
close to the head—a style of coiffure
which gave an undue predominence to
the ears, and would have made the di¬
vine Venues de Milo herself look like a
female pickpocket. Just behino them
stood the matron, a fat old woman with
crumpled hair, white cap, and three dis¬
tinct layers of chin, and a hungry dog
peeping : n at the half-open door, com¬
pleted the tableau.
Deborah Dove, a stumpy girl of thir¬
teen, with empurpled fingers and blunt
nose, sighed deeply; Sarah Jackson’s
freckled countenance fell. The others
looked solidly about them, indifferent as
to Mrs. Marchell’s preference or ne¬
glect; and a little jgray-eye lassie at the
end of the line, who had been balancing
herself uneasily on one foot, like a crane,
started forward with a half-stifled cry
of delight.
“ Phebe Locket!” cried the matron.
“Phebe Locket, if that’s her name,”
said Mrs. Marchell, decidedly.
“ Why, she’s the smallest one of the
lot," said the matron.
“ She’ll grow,” said Mrs. Marchell.
“ And the ugliest,” added the matron.
And at her unconsidered words, poor
little Phebe winced and held down her
li ’ad es if some rude hand had struck
her.
“ Handsome is that handsome does,”
returned Mrs. Marcher, didactically,
‘ Mrs. Jenks, let the lady directress
know that I have decided.”
As Phebe Locket rode away in the
open farm wagon, sitting beside Mrs.
Marchell’s ample figure, the farmer’s
wife looked down and caught the clear
eyes looking timidly up into hers like
wells of gray water.
“ Come,” said Mrs. Marchell, brusque¬
ly, “what are you. thinking about?”
“ Please, ma'am,” said Phebe, “ I was
wondering why on earth you chose me,
when Caroline Purple who was so much
Prettier, and Deborah Dove was a great
deal taller and stronger.”
“Humph!” said Mrs. Marchell, “I
chose you becaus e I liked your looks.
You’re little but you’re wiry; you arn’t
as pretty as some of those simpering
girls, but have an honest look. That’s
why I chose you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Phebe,
simply.
And she rejoiced fervently in her inno¬
cent little heart, in that she had escaped
from the iron rule and distastelul drud¬
gery of the Bloomington orphan asylum
at last.
Mr. Marahell, a stout, good-humored
farmer, with a shining bald head, and a
pair of English iron gray whiskers,
welcomed the little girl with a kindly
pat on the head, and an admonition to
be sure and do her duty, and it would
always be done by her.”
And Charley Marchell, the only son.
and heir of the red brick farmhouse,
with its acres of golden wheat and
emerald stretches ol pasture land, nick¬
named her “Miss Midget” on the spot.
“ Because you are such a stunted little
affair,” said he.
Phebe Locket had not been “ bound
girl” at the Marchell house for more
than a few months when, one day, Mrs.
Marchell came into the great airy
“ keeping-room” with a perturbed ex¬
pression on her countenance.
“I thought I heard a fiddle some¬
where,” said she.
“Just what you did hear,” said
Charley. “It’s Phebe, in the garret.”
“Phebe?” ejaculated Mrs. Marchell.
“And where on earth did she get a fid¬
dle?”
“ Borrowed it from old Mr. Findley,”
said Charley, laughing. “You never
saw a creature so bewitched after a fid¬
dle as she is.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Marchell,
sharply. “ What business has a bound
girl with a fiddle, or with any sort of
music, for that matter?”
“It’s no harm, wife—no harm,” said
the farmer, indulgently.
“But it is harm,” said Mrs. Mar
chell, “ and I mean to put a stop to it.”
And Phebe Locket, seated Turk
fashion on the floor of the old garret,
with a tattered shawl wrapped around
her shoulders, and the red level light of
the winter sunset weaving itself around
her short auburn curls, was interrupted
in her mutical reveries by the abrupi
entrance of Mrs. Marchell.
“Give me that fiddle,” said Mrs.
M»rchell.
“Ma’am?” said Phebe, dropping her
bow in amazement.
“ It’s a silly waste of time,” said Mrs.
Marchell, “ besides being sinful.”
“ But,”pleaded Phebe, “I’vedone all
my work.”
“No matter whether you have or
not,” said Mrs. Marchell; “there’s al¬
ways your patchwork to do, and ‘ Blair’s
sermons, to read, besides the weekly
paper. Give me that fiddle, I say!”
(Poor Phebe gave it up, trying hard
to choke down the tears and sobs.
’Old Mose Findley, the village violin¬
ist, who officiated at dances, weddings
and merry-makings in general, and fill¬
ing up the interstices of his time with
the making and mending of shoes
looked- fairly astounded when Mrs,
Marchell bounced into his seven-by
nine shop and flung the musical Instru¬
ment on the work-bench.
“Eh?” said old Moses, adjusting his
spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
“There’s your old fiddle,”said Mrs.
Marchell; “ and I wish after this you’d
be kind enough to keep it at home and
not go putting nonsense into my bound
g’rl’s head!”
“But it isn’t nonsense,” said old
Moses. “She’s got a capital idea of
music, Phebe has, and—’’
. “Nonsense! ’ said Mrs. Marchell.
“And a very decent voice, if only it
was cultivated.”
“Pshaw!” said Mrs. Marchell, and
she flounced out of th e shop in a rage.
But if Mrs- Marchell was the child’s
temporal mistress, music was her
spiritual one. Phebe Locket went
quietly about her work in the years that
but she could not iorgetthe
divine strains which the well rosined
bow had drawn from the antique violin,
n the red glow of the winter sunset,
that January afternoon in the garret
Mrs. Marchell had done up her front
hair in papers, assumed her gray flannel
dressing gown, when chancing to look
out ot the north kitchen window, she
saw, or thought she saw, the glimmer
of a light in the top window of the
ham.
“I can’t have been mistaken,” said
Mrs. Marchell; “it isn’t the time of the
year for fireflies, and will-o’-the-wisps
don’t go dancing and twinkling round
our barn. It’s tramps—that what it
is.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Marchell,
sleepily from the exact center of a downy
feather pillow.
“There was two men asked for a
diinkof milk at the buttery door just
about dusk,” added the lady, “and I
didn’t much like their looks at the
time.”
“ It’s all right, I dare say,” yawned
Mr. Marchell.
“ Well,” cried the farmeress, energet¬
ically, “ if you don’t go to look into it,
I will.”
And flinging her husband’s shaggy
overcoat around her, and taking the
lantern in one hand, she started for the
barn.
Sue was right; there was a dim tal¬
low candle burning in the barn cham¬
ber, and by its flickering light Phebe
Locket was busy in practicing on the
violin, from some sheets of torn and
well-thumbed music.
She started up with a cry at the ap¬
parition of Mrs Marchell in the door¬
way-an avenging specter, with a
shaggy overcoat and a dark lantern.
“Ungrateful girl!" tragically cried
out Mrs. Marchell; “how dared you
disobey me?”
“I meant no harm,” faltered Phebe
“I hired the violin from the village
music store, with the dollar that Mr.
Marchell gave me for finding his gold
spectacles, and Mrs. Muzard gave me
the music; and I come out here of u
night so that the noise should not dis
turb you.”
“ Phebe, what a goose you are? Why
didn’t you stick to your needle, and your
rolling pin, and your scrubbing brush,
as other girls do? IIow do you expect
to find bread in the strings of a fiddle ?’
Pisebe hung down her head, and said
nothing in icply.
“We may aa well break Ibe charm at
once,” said Mrs. Marchell. “ I’ll take
you to the concert at Bloomington to¬
morrow night. Tlipy teh me there’s to
be a girl violinist there as plays like
playing; and if that don’t eurej you of
your silly ambition, I don’t know what
will."
Phebe Locket crimsoned to the very
roots of the hair.
“I can’t go!”said she. “That is, not
with you. I promised Mrs. Muzard to
go to her home; but perhaps she will
take me. The Muzarda a.c all going to
the concert.”
* It don’t matter how you go,” said
Mrs. Marcliel', “nor with whom so
long ns you see real excellence, and learn
the folly of your silly aspirations.”
“But,"faltered Phebe, “why shouldn't
t be a good player, sometime, too?”
“ Why shouldn’t the sky fall, and we
all catch larks?” contemptuously retort¬
ed Mrs. Marchell. “As for you the be3t
tiling you can do is to go into the house
and go to bed as last as possible.”
And crestfallen Phebe obeyed.
Mrs. Marchell dressed herself in her
best biack silk to go to the Bloomington
concert the next evening.
“Fori suppose it will be something
very line,” said she. “ Where’s my eye¬
glasses, Ctiariey? I must take them
along if I expect to ,see anything, for 1
do declare I’m getting blinder every
day.”
"I expect, mother,"Charley answered,
with a little laugh, “you’ll see a lot of
things to surprise you.”
The coucert had proved an unusually
great attraction in the neighborhood,
and the hall was crowded when the
Marchell party arrived, so that Mrs.
Marchell was forced to be content with a
camp-stool at the very back of the room.
“Dear, dear! how provoking this is!”
said the old lady. “And Charles didn’t
find my glasses after all. I shan’t st e
anything."
“ But you can hear,” said Charley.
“ Hush-sh-sh!” said his m>ther.
" Isn’t that the violinist—a pretty light -
complexioned girl, in white, with roses
n her hair? Now, I do hope Phebe
Locket is here to see thfs.”
The violinist was greeted with shouts
of applause, which died away into si¬
lence as tbedelieiou3 music rote upon
the air, floating upward like the halos
we see in ancient pictures.
It was a short capriccio. and when it
ended Mrs. MarcheJi was in tears.
“ I never thought before that I cared
so much for music,” said she to Charley.
“But such music as that! Do you
know, Charley, it seemed to me exactly
as if my little baby that died twenty
years ago was whispering In my ear.
Oh, if Phebe could only hear this!”
feature of the uight. And at the close
of the concert she was again and again
called before the curtain to receive the
rapturous plaudits of the Bloomington
public. Mar
“Where’s PhebeP” said Mrs.
chell, standing on one of the benches to
look around her. “ Has any one seen
Phebe hereP”
“ I have,” said Charley, dryly. “Shall
I take you to her?—here in the little
room adjoining the stage.”
“But what is she doing there?” said
Mrs. Marchell, perplexedly.
“ Counting her bouquets, t suppose,”
Charley said, with the same odd little
laugh.
And without further ceremony Mrs.
Marchell was ushered into the presence
of the female violinist herself, ail in
white,with deep red roses glowing in her
hair, and cheeks aflame with happy tri¬
umph.
“Phebe,” ejaculated Mrs. Marchell,
fairly out of breath with astonishment,
“ this is never you!”
m. 32.
Phebe fl w into Mrs. Marchell’s arms.
“ Ye3, dear, dear friend,” she cried,
“it is I.”
“ Why didn’t you tell me?” said the
farmer’s wife, reproachfully.
“Because I was afraid my first ap¬
pearance would be a failure,” confessed
Phebe.
“ I suppose you will never come back
to the farmhouse again,” said Mrs.
Marchell.
“Yes, I shall,” said Phebe; “I shal
be your own Phebe still, if you’ll let
me practice in the garret once in a
while.”
“You shall practice all over the
house!” cried Mrs. Marchell.
“ Didn’t I tell you, mother,” said tri¬
umphant Charley, “ that you’d see
something to surprise you? But you’ll
be still more surprised when’’-
“Charley, don’t!” cried out Phebe,
rosier than ever.
“ You needn’t,” said Mrs. Marchell,
looking from one to the other, “lean
guess.”
“ She’s such a darling, mother,” said
the young man.
And Phebe threw both her arms
around the elder woman’s neck, and
whispered s oftly, “ Mother.”
Garibaldi.
The mere narrative of Garibaldi’s life
reads like a mediaeval legend or a tale of
heroic times, lie \3 at once the Ulysses
and the Achilles of the Italian national
epic. Long before his name had been
heard in Europe his exploits, both by
sea and land, had made it a word of
power in the new world. Having been
involved in revolutionary intrigues he
quitted Europe in 1836 for South Amei
ica, only to return after twelve years’
exile, thestory of which, with its stirring
adventures both of battle and peaceful
enterprise, is as romantic as any subse¬
quent portion of liis wonderful career.
In 1848 Garibaldi returned to Europe,
allured, like so many other Italian pa¬
triots, by Pio Nono’s accession. But
though lie soon found that his hopes ift
that direction were to be disappointed*
Garibaldi did not return in vain. His
siiace in the defense of Rome against the
troops of the French republic under
General Oudinot and liis victory over
the Neapolitans in the campaign ot Vei
letri served to show hi3 countrymeu
that they would not want a leader ready
to go all lengths when the time came.
The time did not come for another ten
years, and the intervening period was
one of sorrow and humiliation for Gari¬
baldi.
After the disastrous Roman campaign,
ending with the occupation of Rome by
the French troops aud the overthrow of
Mazzini’s triumvirate, Garibaldi was
hunted from place to place; two of his
devoted friends were taken by the
Austrian troops and shot without any
form of trial; his heroic wife, Anita,
the companion of all his adventures and
perils, succumbed to the exposure and
privation of his flight, and the general
himself only escaped from his more im¬
placable fees to be arrested by Sardinian
troops and carried to Genoa, where La
Marmora, who held the command, al
owed him to retire to Tunis.
When Victor Emmanuel made his
peace with Austria, and the hopes of
Italy seemed extinguished for the mo¬
ment, Garibaldi once more crossed the
Atlantic and settled in New York as a
tallow chandler. He returned to Eu¬
rope in 1855, and in 1859 the war be¬
tween France and Austria brought him
again into the field. Here we approach
the better known, or, at least, the better
remembered, parts of Garibaldi’s event¬
ful career. All the world recollects the
exploits of the Chasseurs des Alpes,
whom Garibaldi organized for moun¬
tain warfare, and led with consummate
dating along the sab-alpine ranges and
to the very summit of the Stelvio pass
before the sudden peace of Villafranca
put an end for the moment to the rising
hopes of Italian patriots and statesmen.
Still more familiar is the story of the
campaign of the following year, which
was begun in Sicily by Garibaldi and a
few devoted followers, ani ended
in a few months at Naples, lvhen
the victorious patriot, who took "no re¬
ward for himself and asked for none,
handed over the crown of the Two
Sicilies to Victor Emmanuel and retired
to liis farm iu Caprera.
This was the crowning point of Gari¬
baldi’s eventful career. Here end not
indeed, his efforts, but his irect achieve
ments, in the cause of his country’s free¬
dom. The crowning of the edifice was
reserved for other hands than his. and
the 'ask was to be accomplished by
other means than he knew how to
employ . —London Letter ■
At the Winter palace at St. Peters¬
burg there is a room full of diamonds,
pearls and other precious stones. An
empress ol Russia is allowed to borrow
from this room, after giving a receipt for
what she takes, and generally the grand
duchesses are allowed to borrow from
it also. Ttie editor of London Truth re¬
members once going into this room with
a French diplomatic lady. She beat a
hasty retreat after one glance'round, for
she felt that if she stayed her principles
would succumb to her admiration, and
that she would try to steal some of the
contents.