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®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.”