Newspaper Page Text
®lif ttriaMsuille Reffitiier 4
VOL. II.
JOB C, m STCEEL & CO, !
Wholesale and Retail Dealers in
CROCKERY,
GLASSWARE,
House Furnisliing Goods
Tin-Plate,
Stoves,
Hardware,
<fcc., &c. 1
MiitrTicrcMnw of
TINWARE.
No. I 16 Third Street,
_____MA CON . G A. _
CARHART & CURD,
tUCALCBS :m
Hardware, Iron &
WOODENWARE,
Carriage fySaterial, i
:
Cotton Gins,
Circular Saws,
SCALES,
I
31
PAINTS, OILS, &c.
Macon. Ci : t
K. J DA VANT. J S W OD, Jit
DAY ANT & WOOD. ;
j
. 114 Bay Street.
Savannah, Georgia |
>
Special attention given to tale ol
COTTON.RICE & NATAL STORES
AGENTS FOE
DRAKE'S COTTON TIES ’
Cash a,Cannes mad, on comment*. Jr”
SID. A. PUGHSLEY.
AGENT AND SALESMAN,
—WITS
I. L. FALK % CO.,
CLOTHIERS,
425 ana 427 Broome St., New York,
Cor. Congress and Whittaker Street*,
SAVANNAH, <JA.
-
A. J. BRADDY & SOM
WniGHTSVILLE, Ga
BLACKSMITH SHOP.
A specialty ol Plantation Work. Wat»ons,
Bugsies, etc., made ana repaired.
Plows and Plow-Stocks of all kiads, and
t-very kind of Wood and Iron Work done by
A. J. BRADDY & SON,
Wviahlsville, Ga.
SMITH’S HOTEL,
W. J. M. SMITH, Ageht.
Wrightsville, ReorgliL
sssnss’si
public with the finest the market affords. Tin
highe st market pric es paid for country crodneo
JOhn A. ShlVGrS & Sony
Tennelle, Ga.,
Are now prepared to build, repair and
overhaul
Carriages, Buggies,Wagons, &e.
We also make • specialty at One
Horse Wagons.
WRIGHTSVILLE. GA.. SATURDAY. JUNE 4. 1881.
The Patchwork Quilt.
In sheen, of silken splendor,
With glittering threads of gold,
I've seen tho waving marvels
That hung in walls of old;
When fail- hands wrought the lily,
And brave hands held the lance,
And stately lords and ladies
Stepped through tho courtly dance.
I’ve looked on rarer fabrics,
The wonders of tho loom,
That caught tho dowers of summer,
And captive hold their bloom:
but not their wreathing beauty,
Though fit for queens to wear,
Can with olio fiof$ehoid treasure;
TnHifVi alHnVown compare.
It has no golden value,
The simple patchwork spread;
Its squares in homely fashion,
Set it! with green and red;
But in those faded pieces
For me are shining bright,
Ah! many a summer morning,
And litany a winter night.
Tho dewy breath of Clover,
Tho- leaping light of flame,
Like spells my heart came over,
As ouo by one I name
These bits of old-time dresses- -
Chintz, cambric, calico—
That looked so fresh and dainty
On my darling long ago.
This violet was niv mother’s;
I seem to see her lace,
That ever like sunshine
Lit up tho shadiest place.
This buff belonged to Susan,
That scarlet spot was mine;
And Fanny wore this pearly white,
Where purple pansies shine.
I turn my patchwork over—
A bool; with pictured leaves
And I feol the lilac fragrance,
And the snow-fall on the eaves.
Of all my heart’s possessions,
I think I least could spare
The quilt we children pieced at home,
When mother dear was there.
The Fisher’s Daughter.
High tide,with beautiful white-erested
vaves breaking on the shingle, a blue
jky reflected on the bosom of the
waters, and tho honest, bronze-faced
fishermen busily mending their nets
and sfit0k1tigtli(HfpipeS4tfter their mid¬
day meal.
One of the oldest and most respected
of them all is Matthew Golding, whose
genial countenance and cheerful good
humor renders him a general favorite
among liis comrades, and lie was looked
up to and esteemed by one and all. He
had been a widower for many years—
bis wife slept in the churchyard on the
top of the hill, and within its sacred
walls Matthew Golding worshiped
very Sunday, his honest face lighting
up at the good old rector’s words, that
told him of the home of peace and rest
after his earthly toil was done.
A girl is standing near the break¬
water and looking out at sea, her eyes
shaded with her hand. A girl with a
pretty, graceful figure, and simply yet
tastefully clad; her hair, worn in two
thick plaits, reaches below her waist,
ftn<1 her wll ° le a PP earsmco if! worthy al1
“Shew Golding’s daughter
tlie pride of her father’s heart and * the
belle of the little fishing village.
Her father, as he sits mendinghis net,
lifts up liis eyes ever and anon to gaze
at his pretty daughter, and with the
glance a shade falls across his usually
oleasant face.
Seated near him, busied in the same
occupation as himself, is a young man,
dressed also in the garb of a fisherman,
and to him Matthew turns and speaks of
her who is leaning on the breakwater. .
“ She is as love-sick as she can be, I
tell you, Mark, and I don’t like it at all,
or I doi>’t believe as Mr. Carleton
means any good to her.”
“ Sheis certainly very much changed,”
replies the younger fisherman, with a
sigh. “I know she cared for me once,
but it don’t seem to make much differ
ence £ 0 } 1( , r now whether I am ashore or
not.”
“Ever since last spring he’s been a
dangling at her heels,” continues old
Matthew, “and I don’t see what’s to
come of it. She ha,s never been a willful
lass, or acted contrary to my wishes;
but it seems as if she had lost her head
as well as her heart, too. There, don’t
be down-hearted, lad, she’ll come to her
senses by-and-bye, and see her folly; rest
j well assured of that.”
!“•»-«“ ; Mark Fenton made no answer, but
*■« »
he went on with his work; and a drop
I of sa jt wa ter, to which he had long been
i a stranger, fell upon his hand.
From his earliest boyhood he had
j ! j Hetty learned Golding, to love and his for pretty nearly playfellow, two years
now she had been his promised wife.
But in the early spring of the year of
which we are writing, Dudley Carleton
—a youth with more money than brains
—had como to spend a few months in
the little fishing town, where the sweet,
graceful figure of Hetty Golding bad
enchanted him.
Nothing was pleasanter to young
Carleton than to flatter this simple
maiden and whisper love-words in her
ear as meaningless as they were subtle.
To ready a listener proved Hetty
Golding and she inflated with the no
tion of soon becoming “a lady” and
Dudlev Carleton’s wife, turned lier back
upon ‘her faithful lover, Mark Fenton,
and for the last few Weeks had hardly
given him a word. It was a groat iron
ble to her honest father, for of all men
of his acquaintance there was not one so
wortfiy of her as Mark, nor one to whom
he would so readily have given her in
marriage. In vain he had advised and
counseled her. Hetty, formerly so gen¬
tle, so ready to comply with her father’s
wishes, hung her head in sullen silence,
and sought, more persistently than ever,
the society of Dudley Carleton. Ou
this particular morning on which our
story opens he, with a party of friends,
had gone forth on a boating excursion,
and Hetty, as she knew kite time was
drawing near for their returning, had
taken up her station at the breakwater
where the pleasure boats were usually
drawn ashore. Carleton was not alone
in the village; some cousins of his own
age had accompanied him thither with
their sisters, and Hetty had observed
that on one, young and prettier tlian the
rest, Dudley had begun, within the last
few days, to bestow more than ordinary
attention, and her young heart was hot
within her as she stood, shading her
eyes and watching for the returning
boat.
“ You seem out of sorts to-day, lass. -
She recognized Mark’s voice, and it
brought the crimson blood in a torrent
to her cheeks.
She gave her shoulders an impatient
twist, while her pretty forehead wrinkled
into a frown. I
“ Oh, do go away ; you are the plague j
of my life,” she said, angrily.
With her eyes fixed on the ocean, she
did not see the look of pain that came
over the swarthy face of the fisherman,
Presently she felt her little white
hand fair and delicate enough for a
duchess—seized somewhat roughly in
liis own, and sho struggled in vain to
draw it away.
“ You shan’t tell me that twice,’
Hetty,” ho said, in tones of sorrow
rather than anger. “I will go away ;
but before I go I’ll have it out with
this young gentleman that’s changed
you so, and ask him whether lie means
to act honorably toward you or whether
he’s only fooling you, as I suspect
I s -’
“You dare to say one word to Mr.
Carleton!” exclaimed the girl, indig
nantly. “It is no business of yours,
H
“ Oh, no business of mine, eh?” in
terrupted Mark. “I should like to
, know what ... is my , business then, consid- .,
ering that ,, . r your father ,, gave you to , me
months ,, snd months ,, Rioro , t his cliftp,
, here, wo might have been ,
came jTi mar
ned . i now it -a. it hadn’t i i been that j .1 a you are
so changed. , , If it .. . hadn i ,, t , been that- . ,,
“Oh, don’t preach, Mark; I hate it, ’
cried Hetty, impatiently. “I am very
sorry if you care for me, because really
I—I don’t think I earo for yon quite as
I ought—and as I once thought I. did.”
„ How . long , have* yon tmni . ...... that ont
-only since lie came to the village, ;
with his soft blarney and honied,
tongue,” retorted the young fisherman. ;
“Well, we shall see,” he added, in !
quieter tone. “ If he marries you, well
and good ; I wouldn’t stand in the way I
of your happiness, even though it—it'
broke my heart to part withyou. You’re all j
pretty enough to grace a crown—and
the village says so-but that ain’t the
thing. If be so much as hurt one bafr i
of your head—I’d break every hone in I
his body.” j
And the strong hand of Mark Fenton
clenched as he spoke, and he looked at;
that moment powerful enough to fell an !
ox with one blow.
Hetty turned away, not altogether at
ease; but, affecting an air of the most
supreme indifference to all her lover
had said, she resumed her former posi¬
tion, tapping one dainty foot im¬
patiently on the shingle.
Mark left her without another word;
and at that moment the boat, bearing
the form of him she imagined she loved,
came in with a dash of spray as it
reached the breakwater.
Mark stood watching the party land,
while a rich flush of color mantled
Hetty’s cheek. Sho stood with her
bosom heaving, expecting a look or
even a word, but she received neither,
Dudley Carleton appeared utterly un-
conscious of her presence, and passed
her as if there had been no such crea
tnro as Matthew Golding’s daughter in
existence.
The color faded from her cheek,
lea ™S 1161 white to her bps, and no
sooner was the boating party out of
si S llt tlian sllp turned and walked slowly
toward her father’s cottage.
But the feeling of disappointment did
llot continue with her long. Dudley,
doubtless, had not seen her-no, she
" as sure that lie coulA n ° thav ® done
-“ d at 5U5xt ^ would
be tke samfi as ever - &he had a PP° mte(l
to meet ou tllc morvow ’ awa Y from
Ul ° busy fishing town, at a little nook
^ ie cl 1 ® 8 * ^h° spot of many a ormer
tiyst; and she was almost counting the
hours until the time should arrive.
She hardly remembered how she drag¬
ged through the day, almost sick with
anxiety, lest Dudley’s love had waned.
Mark Fenton, usually their guest at
supper, did not appear that evening,
and her father was gloomy and silent,
so that Hetty crept away to bed as soon
as she was able.
The morrow dawned, bright, fair and
sunny, as the previous day had been;
and at tlio appointed time and place
Hetty, looking- wonderfully pretty in
her fresh Sunday attire, with the dainti¬
est of straw hats, trimmed with sprays
of pink heather, stood awaiting the arri¬
val of Dudley Carleton.
For more than an hour she waited,
burrowing tiny holes in the earth with
the end of the fringed parasol that had
once been her mother’s, and walking up
and down until she seemed familiar
with every blado of grass and weary
of the sound of her own
Dudley Carleton came not.
Suddenly she bethought herself of
her lather’s tea, and not until then did
she seem to be aware that her lover
had broken his word. Sho had
little time to question herself,
however—she must hurry home, get her
finery laid away, and timetable spread in
readiness for his return from work,
She,.was hot and flushed from the
haste she had made, when the old fisJier.
m , m entered, and looked a little guilty
iu0; but sin- talked cheerfully to him
throughout the meal, and made a des
perate effort to appear as though noth
in; , out of {lie ordinary way had liap
))ene( ],
More than a week passed. Mark had
taken her at her word and kept out ol
her way, and so had Dudley Carleton,
for the matter of that, for she had seen
and heard nothing of him either,
In vain site waited for him on the
beach, trusting that ere each morning
„ as ou f fie -would be down there with
j,j s boat; but he never came, and she
began to fear that he had left the little
fo l!ing village, and that all her “castle
building ” was gradually crumbling to
pieces.
Sh ° suspected how narrowly in
„ days Mark Fe "!°? Wa ched tlie
girl he loved , ; he could almost read her
thoughts , , , by evei-y change , of her , face,
so closely , , had he studied it ol ,, late, , ,
One . . wending -. his . honie- i
evening, wav
*
ward , to , his solitary lodging . (lor ... , by the ,,
& & v :
deatli - A1 of „ . ins . mother, some years back, ,
Mark p enton hai1 been left alone in the
AV orld), his heart r.nd mind oppressed
witl| anximls thoughts of Hetty, a j
figure ea me out of tho gloaming and ad
Y aneed toward him.
aecom l glance Mas all that. Mas le- ]
to enable him to re e„gni» Dad*
loy Carleton, and when once the recog
n ition liad been made, Mark slackened
hi s p aee ami waited for the young man !
approach nb '
to '
.
They were alone on the cliffs, those
two men—patrician and plebeian—and as
the light of the moon fell upon the face
of the former, the latter saw that it was
slightly paler than usual. Dudley
Oarieton knew him to be Hetty Gold
jng’s lover; for the girl had on more
tlian one occasion pointed him ont as
the man her father wished her to marry
He stopped because Mark stopped,
although his glance somewhat quailed
beneath that of the stalwart fisherman.
“Mr. Carleton—is that you? We
thought you had left the village,” said
Mark, somewhat sternly: “ and so does
some one else, whom you have basely
deceived.”
“I—what do you mean?” exclaimed
Dudley, angrily, the hot blood rising to
his smooth cheek. “ How dare you ac¬
cost me thus ? I have no feelings in
common with you ; I don’t even recol¬
lect your name—that is to say if I ever
knew it.”
“Never mind what my name is,” re¬
torted Mark, fiercely. “I know who
you are. You are one of those men
who go .about the world and call them¬
selves gentlemen—who steal a simple
lassie’s heart with their lies, and, when
they have grown tired of it chuck it I
away, like children play with the shin- j
gle.” ■
“ I am not going to bandy words with
a fellow like you,” cried Dudley, livid
now with stifled passion. “ I suppose
lean converse with a pretty gni if I
like, without being brought to accoutn
by a low-bom fisherman.” 1
«< Low-bom yon call me, do yon?”
seated Mark Fenton, intones of with-1
ering scom . «If I am low-born, I am
honest, which is more than some folks
are ; and I would rather have to beg for
my bread than call myself a no truer ;
gentleman than you 1”
An angry oath, followed by a still
angrier blow, was all the answer vouch¬
safed to Mark Fenton’s unpalatable
speech, and the two men closed together
in a fierce and desperate struggle.
Tliey neared the edge of tho cliff but
in their mad anger they were utterly
forgetful of their perilous position ]
A moment more and they had both
reeled over together—over the great ’
ragged cliffs of old red sandstone—on
to the beach below, that made one
dizzy to look down upon.
In the morning their bodies were
found by some fishermen who had
missed Mark Fenton’s presence from
among them, and hail immediately be
gun to make anxious inquiries. Mark,
though senseless, was alive. His fall
had been broken by a piece of project¬
ing earth, and he was carried home with
a broken arm and a wounded head.
The gracful, youthful figure of Dudley
Carleton lay crashed and dead upon the
beach, and one of the fisherman—who
had known him best, through having
sometimes acompanied liim and liis j
friends on their boating excursions— j
went and communicated the sad tidings !
to his relations. I
Meanwhile Mark was borne away to ;
the cottage where ho lodged; and the
worthy housewife, who had become
terribly alarmed at his absence, pro- i
ceeded to dress his wounds with all a
mother’s tenderness.
Her only son had been downed a ?ow
months previous to Mark Fenton’s com¬
ing to make his home among them, and
she had learned to look upon the young
fellow in the light of that son she had
lost.
One hour later and the news had
reached Hetty, who entered the cottage,
with a wild despairing cry and threw
herself by her lover’s side.
“Mark—oh! dear Mark—livo for my
sake!” she ejaculated, in accents well-!
nigh choked with emotion, “I never
knew how dearly I loved you until now.
[ never know that all the world is as
nothing compared to you. I have been ;
a foolish, wicked girl, and I want you to |
forgive me!”
Mark Fenton opened his eyes, and
fixed them on the white, haggard face»
of Matthew Golding’s daughter.
“My poor lass,” he murmured, faintly
pressing the delicate fingers which lay ,
in liis open palm, “ I knew you’d regret
it before long. Don't take on, my dor
ling; I am not going to die yet; I feel
so much better now that T have seen
you, and heard your own sweet words,
I am sorry Mr. Carleton’s dead ; I shall
always feel that I had something to do >
wth it and yet He who is one day to be !
my Judge knows that I meant him !
no harm. Don’t lake on so, lassie- j
don’t take on so ” :
.. . , ’7*. t hS
t ’ tl,an «>ntinutHl Hettie,
stll) weeping. “I can never forget
whata wicked girl I have been.”
“ Yes you will, dea*>; wait till I come
<loWn on *><*aol. rejoined
^ark “and we shall be so happy to
gother. Kiss me, Hettie, and let me
800 y° n Bright and cheeiful every day;
that will do me more good than all the
ioetom in England.”
# * * * * *
And it was as Mark Fenton had said. ;
Ho did grow better every day, although !
his recovery to health and strength
was a more lengthy affair than either
he or Hetty had ever anticipated; for it
was not until the following spring that
ho was seen at his work again, and dur
ing that time the frequent visits of the
worthy rector had cheered and soothed
him, and he went about his business at
last like the Mark Fenton of old. A
change, however, had come over Hetty,
and perhaps for the better.
A magisterial inquest was held re
specting the discovery of Dudley Carle
ton’s body, and his death was asserted
to have been occasioned entirely by his
own passion.
Hetty could not do too much for
Mark to prove the affection that he once
had feared she had bestowed upon
another, and in the early summer, to
the infinite satisfaction of old Matthew,
NO. 3.
were quietly married in the little
church.
Their children may now bo seen play
upon the beach, for they love to
to the song of the waves, or climb
“ grandfather's” knee when tired of
gambols , , and .... listen to , his wonder
tales; but there is one spot on the
which Hetty can never pass with
a shudder, or recalling to mind
in the past to which her husband
never once alluded,
Newspaper Writing.
The majority of people imagine that
is the simplest thing in tho world to
a newspaper. A man may have
doubts about his talents for pub¬
speaking ; may freely admit that he
turn a tune or recognize one
turned by anybody else; may con
^ he i(J no t> not mudl 0J . a
and uothing of an artist. but
is no crea ture so poor-spirited as
ayow Ws inC apacity to edit a newspa
On the contrary, this is work of
every man has a manifest call.
matter what his actual business may
lawyer, physician, butch¬
baker or candlestick maker—lie has
secret fancy that if lie only had a
chance he could make a newspaper a
bit spicier and livelier than any¬
thing in the shape of a public journal
that has ever come in his way. This is
one of the most amusing and universal
weaknesses of modem times. The num
her of people who are infected by it are
known only to druggists and physicians.
The drawers and waste baskets of every
leading newspaper ollice in the country
overflow with evidences of the ambition
alu | harmless vanity of tlio vast public
w h 0 scribble by stealth, and patiently
( 0 ji over reams of composition which
nobody can be induced to print.
It must be admitted that there is
something enticing and enviable in edi
torial life as it appears to the outside
world. The delight of getting into
print for tho first time is one of the
keenest enjoyments. What, therefore,
both men and women reason to them¬
selves, must be the pleasures of that
happy man who daily feasts the public
wltk . hlH , ™«l . 0 m, and , w hose smallest
scribbling finds its way into type with¬
out criticism or delay ? But this reason
in S is altogether unsound. The editor
does not look at tllin f exactly iu the
same roseate light. The bright colors
seen by other eyes have become to his a
little clouded. Tlio freshness, the ex
qnisite charm of seeing his reflections
> n print lias long since vanished. He
" rites sometimes painfully and under
pressure, often harassed by a thousand
P ett J vexations, and not unfrequentlv
aching head and weary hand. His
work is, of all work, the most wearying
the most exhausting both to body and
mind. The call of copy is inexorable
and cannot be refused. He must write;
he must also endure the most contempt¬
ible and continued criticisms, hut bear
patiently “ to bo esteemed dull when lie
cannot bn witty, and to be applauded
for wit when he knows he lias been
dull.” Every blockhead who buys his
paper feols that lie has purchased a
right to dictate the manner in which it
shall be conducted, to criticise sharply
everything that appears in it, and to
“elevate its tone” with his own carping
lucubrations, fairly written out aud in
closed in a note for immediate publica
Patton® signed “A Subscriber,” “An Old
Wro on -An Eavne.t Well Wiahc*.”
il>°uweie n to t ask asKtms this modeat ouest friend me a to u
yfU ' a ‘ l ’ ..V- ‘ l
P® 11 oi boots, lie would indignantly rc
that that was not hw faade, that lie
m w-in ling a on 1 anc non i no,
a tmin u. .u * ie ui u enee u ic i
s 11 lrt, “ ie s 1< ' ai H co ) y (
aa l 0m K a " | ‘ ul< 10 a l )S
'
boldly grasps the pen and undertakes
to so illuminate and instruct the world,
Breeches and shoes require art, experi
ence, reflection, in their making; politi
ca l essays How spontaneous from tho
mos ^ addled pate, or can be pumped
° 11 *' by sheer hand labor, without
the vulgar appliances of study, thought
and knowledge. &ncb is lifo! Jialti
■niwe Gazette.
Tlio United States now has ten times
more acr8S of wheat than the United
Kingdom; it has twice the number of
horses of both England and France,
one-third more cattle, and four times
more hogs than both,
The camel is called the ship of the
desert, probably on account of the feel¬
ing akin to sea-sickness which it causes
in the interior organization of the green
rider.
__
The wise man sits down and plans a
business trip as soon as he overhears
“ new carpets” and “ new wall paper.”