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. VOL. 1. A SUMMER RECIPE. BY CALEB DUNN. I walk through the streets of the city Where the busiest throngs pass by, The pavements are burning with fever They’ve caught from the sultry sky, Anil I long for the shadowy woodlands And the valleys that near them lie. I long for the perfumed breezes That over the meadows blow, For the clear, cold spring in the valley Where the coldest Waters flow, For the fold asleep in the shadows, Add the listless kiue that low. Aud yet this morning the postman Delivered a letter to me From my cousin who lives in the country, Who wishes the city to see. "I’m weary,” he writes, “of this farming, Of laboring constantly. “Out here the heat is oppressive, And though we sit under the trees, I assure you the wind’s not sufficient To make a respectable breeze ; So I think I’ll run down to the city To pass a few days at iny ease.” Thus the cit would resort to the Country Add leave his disconlfdrts behind, While ttie rustic would hie to tjie city For rest for both body and nlipd, Each thinking that in the traipdliou Relief he shall certainly Anil. But whether one dwells in the city Or lives in the Country, the plan He should follow, 'when comes the hot Weather— 1 f he is a sensible man— Is to try to preserve a good temper, And keep just as cool as vou can. HElt HAIR-BRUSH. Many years ago Austin — yet U lmy in years, young, ardent, hand some, but quite untaught, left his cabin home in the far West, to be come a scholar in dt certain Western college, then in its infancy. The boy had longed for education, for the opportunity of becoming si man amongst men in the future; but. his longings would have been fruit less, and he must have been content ed with such poor instruction as Hie winter evening school-of his’ native place afforded, had not his father once saved the life of a man who had since gained great political power.' This man, travelling westward once more, had gratitude enough to re member his old friend and the ser vice lie rendered him, and visited him in his humble home. There he learnt the boy's longing for a better education and promised to insure his free admission to the college. He was as good as his Word. In a little while the necessary letters and pa pers were received, and Austin be came the hero of the household. Father, mother and sisters all busied themselves in preparations for his departure. His father, who could turn his hand to anything, mended all the boy's old shoes with the strongest and neatest patches and dressed a fine skin to make him ii winter cap. The sisters stitched away at six new white shirts, which they afterwards washed, starched and ironed. The mother, having spun, woven and dyed some wooling stuff, cut and made for him a complete suit of snuff-colored brown, with large metal buttons. His grand mother knitted him a number of blue yarn stockings, a red comforter, and mittens to match. Never was Sara toga trunk packed with such pride as the small one covered with hair, and actnally an ancient relic, which was lugged down from the loft for his benefit. They made him try his suit on, and walked around him to admire it. “There Won’t be nobody to equal him at that there college,” said his grandmother. “But you musn’t get proud and sot up, Austin, but always treat the poorest and the commonest polite;—your grand’ther always did, even when he was sheriff.” Austin did not say much, but he was quite content. He thought how -kind they were to him; how much they had spent ou his outfit; how much harder his father would find the farm work when he was gone. “I hope good will come out of this,” he said, “and that I’ll be able to make you all more comfortuble some day.” “A man with education maybe most anything in this great country,” said his father, “aud I think you’ve got natural parts, Austin.” Then they sat down to their last supper together. Coffee, bacon and Indian bread smoked on a board. The mother ran two aud fro between the fire and the table, as the exigen cies of the meal demanded. One big bed stood in a far-away corner of the big room. The only room furnished sufficient sleeping accommodation for “granny and the girls.” Until now Austin’s bodhad been in the loft. However, extensive accommoda tion was not needed, for the family ablutions were for the most, part per formed iu a corner of the general living-room, where comb and brush, a long roller-towel, and a tin basin always hung beside the one looking- glass of tlie establishment. Often afterwards Austin thought of that homely picture. Before dawn next morning he had left it behind him, his regrets half smothered in bright anticipations. It was late at night when the boy arrived at the little town in which the college was situated. He had known .beforehand that he was to board at the home of the professors, hut he had no idea what the profes sors home was like. When lie stood within, the wide halls and saw, through the open parlor doors, the carpets, the mirrors, the heavy ma hogany furniture, ho was quite amaz ed. To any one of experience tiie dwelling would have seemed simply old-fasiouod, commodious, and well cared for; but to Austin it was a palace. The family had, for the most part, retired, but his host kindly c.ime down stairs, wrapped in his dressing gown, and ordered him a little sap- per in the dniirig-rooni. For the first time the mystery of a fork with three prongs was revealed to young Austin; but he had resolved to use his eyes and be surprised at nothing —never, if possible to appear in the role of “country greenhorn.” However, in the seclusion of his oivn bed-room he stared about him iu astonishment. Was lie actually to sleep here? No wonder that peo ple who had been to cities talked so much about them. The white coun terpane, the pretty carpet, the pict ures on the walls, the marble tops of the furniture, and the pink and White toilet set werb each examined. “All this comes of education,” thought Austin. “Perhaps if I ho a professor, or something, I can give the folks a home like this. Jingo, wouldn’t Sukey be tickled, and mother be proud!” Ho undressed himself with a heart full of hope, and lying down upon the wonderful white bed, dreamt he was a king. In the morning he awakened early, and having washed himself, looked about for brush and comb. The family arrangements being very sim ple, as we have said, nobody had re membered the necessity of these ar ticles of the toilet, and Austin re solved to go in search of the profes sor and borrow a comb. Walking down stairs in lus shirt sleeves, lie saw the parlor door open and looked in. The professor was not there, but before a long looking-glass, which hung between tlie windows, stood the most bountiful girl ho had ever seen. She was. brushing her hair. A little, ivory-backed brush was in her hand, and a pretty comb lay on the marble slab heneath the glass. It was late autumn weather, and though fires had been made in the living rooms, none had yet been thought necessary in sleeping apart ments. The professor’s daughter, Elma, had found her room chilly, and had gone down into the parlor to finish dressing her hair. At the unexpected advent of the youth in his shirt-sleeves, she blush ed, hastily fastened up her tresses, and retreated to a window', ashamed, as most young ladies would have been, of being so caught. But Aus tin, who had determined to use his eyes and do as others did, and never, never to be considered “green,” fan cied he comprehended the situation at a glance. To him, the long mir ror and the ivory coiiib and brush represented the little looking-glass and the more humble implements in the kitchen at home. Ho therefore advanced modestly, but with decis ion, stood before the mirror, picked up the brush, and having proved his “good manners,” by bowing to the young ludy, arranged his somewhat flowing locks to the best, advantage and placed the brush upon the slab again. On the instant the beautiful young lady, with whom the boy was already half in love, had sailed from her posi tion in the Window and snatched up the brush which he lmd just laid down. A frown was upon her brow. Was she angry? What was it about? In an instant lie knew, for she had opened the window and thrown the brush out. That morning, hungry as he was, Austin did not appear lit the break fast table. Tlie professor’s daughter had told her story, and her father quite understood the boy’s absence. He sought, him out before the hour for proceeding to the college came, and said what he could in apology, and forced* Austin to eat and drink; but nothing he could say <# do sooth ed the hid in the least. After awhile he said, stiljenly : “Couldn’t I live somewhere else— not lit your house?” “But why do wish to do so?” ask ed the professor. “It wouldn’t be quite polite to say,” responded Austin. “No matter—say* it; ?! responded the profess()r. “Well, you put on to<y many frills, and I hate that girl so that I wish she was a hoy and I could flog her,” replied Austin. After this the professor told tho new pupil that it should be as he wished. He knew very well-that tho ladies would be very glad to be rid of so undesirable and ill-mannered an inmate, and board was found for Austin in a much plainer Homo. As he left tho professor’s residence the boy looked about him, and saw Miss Elma’s brush lying on a garden- bed amidst some fast-fading arteme- sias. Ho stooped and picked it up. “I’ll keep it to remember you by,” he said, bitterly, looking back toward the parlor windows. No one heard him. He wished no one to hear— but how he hated her! As for Elma she soon forgot the “impertinent boy from the back woods.” But the boy went to college, and, after much misery took a good posi tion amongst his fellows, What he lmd suffered he alone knew. For a while that first experience of his made him a sort of Ishmaol; but ho lmd patience, power and ambition, and fortune^fcvored him. Afrer he had graduated people began to “hear of him.” He was a promising young lawyer. Then a distinguished one. Ho realized his youthful dreams. The family he lmd left in that cabin in the backwoods shared his pros perity. They l { ved in a house far finer than that which had so aston ished the boy. Ilis sister’s were educuted by him. He never felt any false shame iu owning as his parents tho old people whose day for educa tion had. gone by. But still in u locked drawer of his desk he kept a little ivory hair-brush, and still the sight of it could bring back the hot flush of mortification that he expe- x*ienced in that hour when Miss Elma threw it from the window because he lmd used it. He knew not that it was simply because he had done what was not customary, and that this display of her offence was not quite lady-like; but at the time the act had had more meaning to him. Unaccustomed to undivided and exclusive hair brushes, DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11, 1879. he had believed that she thought him exceptionally disgusting, one whose touch would defile anything, and he could not forgot. He still hated her. Distinguished lawyers are often also distinguished society men. This was' tho case with Austin. No great er conversationalist was to bo mot with,.no more elegant dancer. Host esses rejoiced in him, and fair maid ens smiled upon him. Many won dered why ho had never chosen a wife. Austin often asked the ques tion of himself,. Whenever he did so his mind went back to tho first glimpse of that beautiful girl who lmd insulted him. Ncvor had he admired anyone so much since that day. But he was m t ungallant, and it was even possiblo for him to approach the borders of a flirtation. After all, this is but a small world. We generally meet and hear of people we hiivo known once, after many days have passed, and often in the most unexpected places. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. X,” said a lady to Austin one even ing. “She is a very beautiful widow, a daughter of the Into Pro fessor S—” She led him across the room. ‘*Elmu,” she said, touching a graceful lady upon tho shoulder. Tho lady turned. Austin looked once more oii»thejioroine of the hair brush. Peculiar emotions moved him, but lie went through the intro duction with his usual easo. Tho lady for her part, did not recognize the boy, whom she had seen but once, in this finished man of the world— she lmd even forgotten his name— but site was very charming. After this lie saw her of toil. When he did not meet her lie thought of, her. One morning, toward the closo.of the season, tho distinguished lawyer himsWf invited iiis friends to a lunch party. It was to be a splendid affair. Ilis one yet unmarried sister played tho part of hostess. The professor’s daughtor came with tho rest. Two splendid parlors were prepared for their accommodation. A third was the dressing-room—hero the ladies deposited their cloaks and bonnets. Here before a ■ large mirror, lay a little ivory brush, Austin had placed it there. It was the one he lmd found iu the garden-bed so long ago. “She may see it and never know it,” ho said. All that day he hovered noar Elma. When lunch being over, tho guesto promenaded in the fine garden, he walked beside her. It was as she stooped to examine a beautiful rose bush that a long, prickly branch caught in her elaborately dressed hair and disturbed its elegance. “I must go into the house and make myself tidy,” she said. Ho offered her his arm. When she had entered the dressing room lie cuuld not refrain from stand ing where he could catch a glimpse oi her. She had unpinned the tress, and lmd smoothed its natural waves with the long disused brush. Her hair was quite iu order again, but as she turned toward the door Austin crossed the threshold, picked up the brush she had just used, and with an assumed frown, sent it flying through the window. Elma started back, astonished, offended, half inclined to believe her host gone nmd.- Suddenly a recol lection thrilled her. Was it possible? —could it bo? She turned a gaze of mute inquiry upon the man who stood looking down upon her. “It ip the very same brush,” said he. “I have kept it over since I picked it up from the bed of arteme- sias in your father’s garden. I said vendetta whenever I looked at it. But since I have met you—well, since I have met you my thoughts have changed. I have thrown all that away with the brush. Elma, you made me very miserable that morn ing. Will you make me very happy to-day ?” “How can I make you happy?” asked she. “By saying ‘yes’ when I ask you to bo my wife,” he answered. It was she who picked the hair brush up this time . and carried it away, but not for hate. The ven detta lmd ended in a lover's kiss. AN OLD TRAGEDY Recalled by the Poensset Murder Seaford (Del.) cor. Every Evening. An old,man nearly sovonty years of agooccasionally shuffles nervously into this, one of the most beautiful places in Sussex county, from his home between here ami Concord, on the line of the Wilmington and Del aware railroad, A few days ago, while here, he was listening to an account ‘ of tho Pocasset tragedy, which was being read to a group of men in ’Squire Allen’s office. The story seemed to fusoimite him, although he did not wait, for tlie end of it, but went away apparently ovorcomo with emotion. This was no wonder, for as 1 afterward heard lie had been the principal actor in a tragedy as horrible as the crime of the New England Adventist; Giles Hitchens was tried, twenty-two years ago in the Georgetown court for the murder of his own child, and the circumstances of the case have almost faded away from the memory even of old people. I heard the story tho other day from an old man who as sisted iu Hitchens’s arrest. “In February, 1B5¥,” said lie, “Giles was a farmer, aud lived near Con cord, lit the same place, I think, whore ho now resides, lie was well known in his sectiou, but was always looked upon-us a queer sort of u fel low, with no very established char acter. His wife was an estimable woman, much liked by tho neigh hors. One day I was in the woods splitting rails, when a neighbor came to mo in great excitement tuid said I must go with him to Giles Hitch ens’s house, for he had murdered his baby, and his wife was almost frantic. Two or three of us got together, sup posing we might moot with resist ance, and when wo arrived, at the house we found Hitchens bending over the bed-side where lay his child, a hoy of about eighteen months, witli his head gushed from ear to oar und almost completely severed from the body. Tho bod was soaked with blood, which, was oozing from the wound, and there wits a lino of blood from the from the front door to tho bod. The mother was weeping hys terically, hut, by this time had become almost exhausted. Hitchens was calm, hut there was a fierce, burning light in his oyes. He seem ed to be" praying and made no resist ance when we wore securing him so as to take him to Georgetown, lie said beloved his boy, but the Lord had commanded hint to offer him up as a sacrifice, and ho voice said, ‘Stay thy hand.’ Tlie night before the horrible deed he attended a Metho dist protracted meotingand confessed conviction. When he cutno home lute in the night he appeared to be under great excitement. The ser mon had been about Abralmm uud tho sacrifice of Isaac. This appeared to have made a great impression upon him and he slept hilt little, getting up early and goiug to the woods to pruy. Ilis own story was that during tho night he lmd heard the voice of God which commanded him to kill his little son and offer his blood as u sacrifice. In the morning he wont to the woods uud was again commanded, us he said, to make the offering. lie did not dare to disobey and wont back to the houso where the babe was sleeping and its mother watching over him. Not wishing to alarm his wife, he waited until she went out and then took the child in his arms and curried it to the potato patch, having in the meantime prepared a keen knife. Then he wuited like Abralmm, hop ing that the Lord would speak <to him again and command him some other offering, hut he received no sign. Then iie became alarmed lest his wife might be watching, and crossing the road went into the woods where he laid the child upon some leaves and again prayed. During the prayer a little dog ran up to him and sniffed about, his feet. Suppos ing that, like Abraham’s ram, this dog had been sent by the Lord in place of the child, ho waited to hear a voice commanding him to kill the Jog, but no voice said ‘Stay thy hand,’ and he held the struggling infant, while he cut its throat and offered up its blood to the Lord. T'hen taking tho body in his arms, ho boro it to the house, tho blood dripping as ho walked, and luid it upon the bed. His wife rushing from tho house, frantically told the neighbors, anil wo arrested him, as 1 have said. We took him to George town that afternoon, and he was securely lodged in jail to await trial.” The trial occurred the following April, and tho prosecution was vig orous. George P. Fisher was attor ney-general, and Ohancollor Sauls'* bury, then a promisiugyounglawyor, defended Hitchens. After the state lmd closed its ease, Mr. Salisbury rose to make a defonse, but was ho overcome with emotion at tho sud- ness of the circumstances that he was unable to continue, and broke completely down. Tho court and jury were also affected, and the lat ter, without leaving the box, returned a verdict, of “not guilty,” upon tho plea of insanity. Hitchens was tak en to the county alms-house, whore lie remained fur some time, but was finally discharged aud returned to his home. Since then he lpis livod quietly, mid the people seem to have almost foigotten tlie terrible oircuinstances. His wife died soon after ho was re leased from tlie alms-house aud Hitchens did not remain single very Jong. He courted a Miss Lollis, of this place, and she married him, much to the surprise of everybody here, and much aguinst the wishes of her fumily. When he conies into town ho mingles freely with people. There are few truces of insanity in his manners, although ull his move ments are abrupt uud nervoiuv Hitchens’s life is by no means relig ious now, aud his clmrueter is none of the host. No One 1ms any conll- deuce in him. He lives in the house where he bore the body of his sou after tho tragedy in the Woods. I believe lie owns the farm upon which, lie lives, and 1ms always been wlmt is termed iu Snssox, a “good liver.” Instances of Extraordinary Mem ory. The Meraenan oxtmets tho follow ing from Dr. Battle’s lecture on psy chology: “Pliny relates that Cyrus the Great know every soldier that served under him, both by name and per son. Thomisticlos could call by name every citizen iu Athens. Stew art speaks of a yonng man ot Corsica who could repeat without hesitation thirty-six thousand (36,000) numes in the order in which he heard them, and then reverso the order through tho wholo list. Dr. WalliB, of the University of Oxford, England, could extract tho square und cube roots of numbers to forty decimal places iu tho dark. Euler, the blind Swiss mathematician, kept always in memory a table of the first six pow ers of every number from one to one hundred. Poto, of Memphis, was a great ex* horter in camp-meeting, and always concluded his exhortutmn by saying that whenever the Lord calletf for .him ho was ready to go. So darkey ‘Sam to prove Pete’s sincerity, cnlloil one night and knocked at Pete’s door. “Who dat?” shouted Pete. “The Lorn,” responded Sam. • “What de Lord want?” asked Poto. “Como for Pete,” answered Sam. “Oh!” returned Pete, “dat darkey moved from Memphis nigh on three year ago!’’