The Dublin post. (Dublin, Ga.) 1878-1894, July 16, 1879, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Text'wppv fjjsgjfc* * *; Ja^l w VOL. 2. DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 1870. THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE FALCON. A Persian Fitblc. One time when June’s delicious hour Put roses in each summer bower, When rivulets ran with tripping feet And all the fields and skies were sweet With honeyed fragrance; when the air No farther charms or gifts could bear, A Nightingale hung down her head And to the silent Falcon said : “How is it, when all birds rejoice, That you, who never raise your voice In heavenly concert—and can bring No note to help the choir who sing, Arcs held the first in love' and worth Of all the birds that skim the earth V No matter what our virtues are Or what bright robes we chauce to wear, You stand in honor with the King Above the sweetest ones that sing. While you are dumb, your lips are kissed, You sit upon the Royal wrist, And, from the regal board and plate, Eat everything most, delicate. But I, who sing a thousand airs— For me ’twould seem, there’s no one cares; The worm is all the food I gel, And, for my house, the thorn is set. ” Then said the Falcon. “You shall hear If you, for once, will be all ear. Though I perform a hundred feats, I shun self-praise; my tongue repeats No hint of these. I do what’s fit, And let the world take note of it. But you who act no worthy part Have got your lesson all by heart, And sing between the earth and sky ‘Serf ir/int n cler.er chop mu I.'" “HER PROPER STATION.’ Retiitfifiil Edith Merricn! Fail'ns a flower or a star; exquisite as si pict ure or s -jituo, or liny otliei perfect and lovely thing to which it is the* fashion to compare youth and grace and beauty—she looked, in her plain, dark oassimore dress, like.a princess in disguise. So, at least, thought Paul Solden, and made no scruple about saying so. too. His sister-in-law, the haughty, wealthy widow of his elder brother James, looked at him with amaze ment and contempt. “1 am surprised at you. Paul. A mere nobody. My companion—nur- sery-goveriiesi* for Elise—seamstress —what you will! I do beg that. you will not make such absurd remarks in thegirl’s hearing. You will fill her head with nonsensical ideas, and quite unlit, her for her proper station.” Pan] answered her conte uptuous tone with an angry sneer; “Perhaps our ideas of her ‘station* differ, you seo Her father, although poor, is a gentleman. A clergyman upon a small salary, hut in good re pute, is the equal, at least, of your father, who made a fortune out of pork. But you may rest assured that when l .make her discontented with her position here I shall he pre pared to offer her a better one. ” “Tiiat of your wife, perhaps ?” very con tom ptuonsly, “Precisely. Before many weeks —perhaps days—are over I hope to offer her my hand. A business op portunity has suddenly presented it self which seems likely to secure to me prosperity. That is what calls me away so suddenly to-night. If I succeed—aud, indeed, whether or no --I shall ask Edith to become my wife.” “And you aro quite sure of being accepted. You are right there; it is what this shameless ingrate has boen plotting for ever since she came into the house—to secure a husband supe rior to her in station, and foist her self upon his family. Oh, I tun not surprised! I’ve seen her lures and arts and wiles—the artful, designing adventuress. I’ve seen—” And there she stopped suddenly, confused if not ashamed, for the door of an adjoirr.ng room was flung open, and Edith Merrion stood be fore her, trembling and “passion- pale.” “You had forgotten that I was in hearing madam,” she said with in dignant scorn. “Yon kngw that you accuse me falsely. I am inno cent of all effort to attract your brother’s attention or win from him the offer with which he intends to honor me. Poor as I am, I am at least too proud to ‘foist, myself upon a family where no welcome awaits nip; and so, madam—” It was her turn to stop suddenly now, startled at the lady’s absence. No sooner had she turned to address Paul Selden than his sister-in-law, embarrassed and angry, had swept noiselessly from the room. Edith’s pale cheeks grew crimson. She gave one quick glauce at the door, as if she also contemplated a retreat; but Paul caught her little bauds in both his own and detained her. “1 neither deserve nor want your gratitude, Edith,” he said earnestly. “I want your heart and this fair hand. Oh, love, have I deceived myself when I hoped the treasure of your'affection might be mine?—that you would be my wife?” But the woman to whom he spoke was very proud. Mrs. Solden’s un just words had stung her bitterly. Hurt pride and wounded modesty were all in arms, and, for one pas sionate moment, stifled love. “It is as she said : he hits made quite sure of being accepted!” she thought, bitterly, and snatched her hands away. “It is impossible—impossible!” she cried. “Your sister is right. -Seek your wife from a. higher station, sir; for mo it is impossible !” But Paul persisted. A man does not give up the hope of his life and the desire of his heart very easily. “Leave my sister out of the ques tion. I marry to please myself—not her. Only let me hope that you love mo, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. Oh, Edith, you do cure for me! Will you let pride break both our hearts?” Ah, no she could not! Something in the well-loved, pleading tones struck at her very heart. She look ed into the tender, kind, reprbachfiil eyes, and then all at once, she was in his arms and wept forth all her grief upon his bosom. '.'Next minute the s< und of an ap proaching footstep startled her. It was Mrs. Selden coming hack. “I must go,” she whispered. “Good-by!” And then slio bad lifted her tear- wet, blushing face, received on it her lover’s first, fond kiss, heard his quick whisper: “For a week only, darling!” and torn herself from his clasping arms, and fled away to her own chamber. Thither came Mrs. Selden to her, some two hours later, when Paul had safely departed. “You anticipate what I .am about to sav, no doubt,” she began, coldly. “I desire that you prepare instantly to leave my house. Here is the money due you, and also another month’s wages in advance. A car riage will come for your trunks in n.n hour, and the sooner you leave the better.” “I think so too,” answered Edith, with hauteur scarcely inferior to her own. “I will take the money due to me, madam, but no more, and in an hour I will relieve yon of my presence." out. We lovo each ocher—I am to be his wife—surely there can be no impiopriety in my trying to meet him.” And she did try—almost us faith fully as she tried to obtain fresh employment, and as unsuccessfully. One afternoon jiassing non; Mrs. Solden’s house on her return from a disheartening inquiry after a posi tion, she met little Elise and her nurse, and from them learned that. Paul had paid a very brief visit and iliili goue away again, month ago.” “Gone to be married, Missis says,” volunteered Nurse. “I heard her say he’d gone into partnership with some rich old gentleman, and was to marry his daughter or niece.” It was a cruel blow. “I don’t believe it! I won’t be lieve it! It is a false report, spread for the purpose of wounding me!” she told her aching heart over and over again, when she was oncoAnoro alone; but, oh! the wound rankled? •deop, and a dreadful doubt had been roused in her mind that poisoned hope and peace. “Who knows what she has told him about me! And what must ho have thought when lie found that I had left without a sign or word to him? Oh, Paul, my love, 1 have lost yon! We shall never find each other now until it is ton late!” “I’m so glad you’ve come,” cried landlady, as she let her in. “I’ve a clmnCe for you, if you like to take it. My (laughter’s boy is so sick she can not leave him, and this very evening she was to have gone to her now place, to bo old Mrs. Sinclair’s housekeeper. It is not quite the po sition for you, I know—not quite your proper station—but I thought “Tidiu^I^'s/ GrayC'f'iu/r tw> to choose;. .my small stock of. money is all gono. and I am in your debt already. If you think I can fulfill the duties of the position, 1 shall be glad to take it—pride of station will not trouble me.” “Then go at once, niv dear. The cab that was to have taken my daughter is at the door—put. your things together and go. It may be that Mrs. Sinclair will think you too young, but she’ll take you for the present, at least, until Mrs. Davis can come to Ivor. You tell her I sent you, and you’ll see.” So Edith, fouling like one in a dream, drove to the address that, had been given her, and asking for Mrs. Sinclair, sent up word that her now housekeeper was below. Of course Mrs. Sinclair concluded that the tall and lovely but sorrow ful-looking girl was Mrs. Gray’s daughter—-Mrs. Davis; moreover; she being exceedingly deaf, Edith found it almost impossible to make her understand the contrary. “You’re young, indeed, to bo a widow, and the mother of a four- year-old child,” said she. “God help us! What trouble some people have to endure, to be sure ! Well, well, you’ll have a comfortable home disposes.” That proverb, be it ever bo musty, is always true ; and just as mistakenly as Paul had said, “Only for a week, darling,” nearly two months ago, did Edith tell herself “until to-morrow,” now. “For. “to-morrow” hhe racking headache had increased until she was almost blind with agony. During the first hours of the morning she crept around tho house in a brave and mute endeavor to understand and perform her duties, but when noon came she fainted suddenly, and had to be carried to her bod. Mrs. Sinclair was extremely kind. .“tho poor soul Inis had a deal of trouble for one so young,” su’d she. “She lias worn herself out with wor ry and fatigue, I supposo, in looking for a place. I’ve sent for the doctor and shall nurse her round again. As yourself and Mr. Sinclair aro going to lie absent from homo awhile, I shall bo able to numage quite nicely, J dare say.” This kind little speech was made to her linsband’s part nor, who usually nnuto their house his home, A man somo twenty years Mr. Sinclair’s junior, and the son of a dear old friend. Whether business worries or private anxieties engrossed his \thoughts I cannot tell, but lie paid small attention to tho old lady’s ac count of her protegee, aiid merely in •politeness askod her name. “Mrs, Davis. A young widow— So it came to pass Unit when PuuUjpkith; me,"if you suit, mo, my dettt, Soldon’s week of probation was end ed, and he came back successful and joyous, to claim his bride, lie found a bitter disappointment awaiting him—the bonny bird bad flown. No information concerning her could be obtained from Mrs. Selden. “1 know absolutely nothing of her movements,” suid she, coldly, “and if I did, I should decline to aid you in disgracing yourself and station.” Whereupon bitter words and a quarrel ensued, the end of which was that Paul took up his headquarters elsewhere. By doing so he raised a fresh barrier between himself and liis love, for he took from her all chance of bomniuuicating with him. “lie cannot come to me, for he does not know where I am,” she said to herself, “and if I should send my address to Mrs. Selden’s house she would surely suppress it. But I can walk in’ the neighborhood occasion ally, and meet him as he goes in or and I have no doubt that yon will,” “My name is Merrion began Editjh somewhat more loudly. The old lady put up her wrinkled hand, and smiled, and shook her head. “A merry one!” said she. “No, no, my dear; have no fear of that. I live very quietly indeed. No mer riment to jar upon your feelings here, but quiet and comfortable enough.” .So, then, Edith, weary and faint for luck of food, and sick at heart, resolved to let the mistake go for the present; there would be plenty of opportunities to rectify it afterwards. “As I have taken Mrs. Davis’s place, I will borrow her name as well,” she thought. “It will only be until the child gets well, most probably. And my heud aches so bitterly to-night, I am not ahle to talk to her. ‘Mrs. Davis’ be it then, until to-morrow, at all events.” But though man proposes, ’tis God dear me, very young!—with one child. A really beautiful creature, too; and scorns fitted for a bettor station. How unfortunate some peo ple are 1” Her companion looked into her gentle, kind old face. “Thin is one fortunate, rather, I should think,’’.ho said; “in having ’T-rs” - a Offilfv il -uetmul *>. ,M«. Sinclair was kindness itself to the poor girt, and tried hard to keep the place for'her; but when days length ened Into weeks, and Edith, though recovering, was weak and delicate still, the bona fule Mrs. Davis canu- to take the place of housekeeper. “And don’t,you let it discourage you one bit, my dear,” said Mrs. .Sinclair, kindly, and with a merry twinkle of her bright black eyes. “I've got a fitter station waiting for Edith Merrion. Well, well, to think that things should come about so! And wlmt a deaf old adder I was, to be sure 1 “You don’t ask after my prote gee,” sho said to Ivor husband’s part ner Unit evening. “I believe you have forgotten all about the poor child; have you no heart for any but your lost Edith? Better try to for got her siuee she has been lost so long. ” Paul Selden sighed bitterly. “That would ho impossible,” lie said. “I have begun to lose Imp:*, indeed, but I shall never cease to lovo her. I went to her father while iu Chicago lately, and from him I learnt that sho was in this city still, for they write to her at the post- office here, For the past two weeks they have not hoard from her, how ever, and have grown very uneasy. My poor, lost darling! Sick, per haps, and poor! I shall engage a detective to-morrow.” They wore sitting in Mrs. Sinclair’s boudoir, and Paul bud spoken loudly for tho deaf old lady’s benefit. Am lie ceased there came a little, eager, gasping cry from the adjoining room. Paul started. “What’s that ?” cried ho, and rose eagerly. The old My laid her hand upon his arrn. “Only my protegee, Sho is sit ting up to-dav and hears you. She can help you moro than a detective, Paul, for she knows your lost love well.” “She? Mrs. Davis? Oh, lot me see her, madam 1 Edith—my own Edith 1 Where is she?” He was rushing to the door, when it opened softly, and a flguro appear ed upon the threshold—a slight, young figure, with a pale, worn face, and eyoi as full of lovo as tears. She held out her slender, trembling arms; “I am bore; Paul, here 1” she cried, joyfully. Next minute she'was folded to his breast, “My late housekeeper,” chuckled old Mrs. Sinclair, when she rejoined them presently. “Mrs. Davis that was. Miss Merrion that, is, and Mrs. Selden, 1 suppose, soon to be. Didn’t I tell you l would find yon another place, my -dear? and haven't 1 kept my word? The best and happiest of all places will lie you:*, child, as t.ljc mistress of a loving husband's home. And it was so indeed. One month later Paul led his long lost love to the altar; and Edith, as a happy, honored wife, has found “her proper station” onco for all. New Burial of Sir John Moore. Served Him Right. A story is told of a Kentucky girl who had agreed to elope with a lover whom lief parents refused to admit to the house. She descended the ladder in the night and started with him on horseback. . “Now you see how much I love you,” she said ; “you will lie always a true and kind husband, won’t yon?” He answered gruffly, “Perhaps 1 may, and per haps not.” Slit) rode in silence a few mi.nulos, wluui she suddonly exclaimed: “Oh! whiif shall we do? 1 have left my money behind me iu mv room 1” “Thou*” said ho, “we must go back and fetch it.” . They were soon again at tho liottso, the ladder was again placed, tho lady remounted, while the ill- natured lover renmiiied below. But she delayed to come, and so he gently culled? “Arc ycm Turning?” when she looked out of the window and said, “Perhaps I may, and perhaps not,” and then shut down the window. A Counter-Jumper. Who can wonder that lie jumped lhe counter? 1 have heard of in stances like unto it, but of nothing quite -equal to it in the way of de lightful astonishment resulting from an equivocal passage in the course of ordinary business. Lysundor Oleander was clerk in a music store. Ho wus a very pretty young man; always dressed in the height of fashion; wore a small dia mond in his shirt-front; oiled liis hair; and pub cologne on liis hand kerchief. One day a charming young lady camo in to purchase some music. Lysundor recognized her as one whom he had met at the house of a friend, and to whom he had been introduced. The recogni tion was mutual. Lysundor was in raptures. Never before had lie dis played such grace and affability behind the counter. He outdid himself. At length tho young lady hud selected and paid for all the music she Could think of, and was depart ing, when, with her Juind upon the doer knob, she happened to think of one piece which she had forgotten— a new song and music—only brought to her attention on tho previous evening, when she had heard it sung. 8o back sho turned, and, witli a charming smile—and blush ing a little at her forgetfulness—she said : “0,—I forgot,—but, sir, if you will let mo have * One meet kis* before we pari /’ ” Perhaps Lysunder was dreaming. A,t all events, ho leaped over that counter, and gave the astonished damsel the kiss! And there wo will loave them. A negro preacher described hell as ice cold, where the wicked froze to all eternity. Askod why, he suid: “Cause I don’t dare toll dem people nuffin else. Why, if I say hell is warm, somo of deni old rhumatic uiggors bo wantin’ to start down clnr de very fas’ fros\” Not a. drum was heard, because tho drummer was not feeling well and asked to bo excused, nor a funeral note of any kind, as liis corpse to tho ramparts we hurried ; not a single, solitary Son of a gun of a soldier discharged his farewell shot o’er the grave where the remains of the late Mr. Moore were deposited. Tho farewell shot business was omit ted on account of the groat scarcity of ammunition. We buried him darkly at the dead hour of night, and did the best job wo could for him under the .ciixmiustuuees. Me could not. borrow, beg .or steal a pick or sliovcl in the entireueighborbaod., and we were obliged to torn tine sods with our bayonets, which, by the way, was the first thing that had been turned by said bayonets since we had been drafted. We did this all by the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, and the Lntern dimly burning, with just about, half enough of oil iu it, anti a strip of an old flannel undershirt for a wick. Few and short wore the prayers we said., tho chaplain being homo on a fur lough. and no one within forty miles to take his place. We spoke not h word of sorrow, our time being some what limited, as the enemy was not. far distant, and advancing with gi gantic strides. We thought, us we h .1 lowed his narrow bed and smooth ed down his lonely pillow with a Canteen, that t he foe and tliostrangor w°uld tread o’er his head and we far away on the billow; but not too far, however, as lint enemy outnumbered us about seven to one. Lightly t hey’ll talk of tho spirit that’s gone, and wonder where they can get pother Hu^k filled with the same, and o’er bis cold ashes upbraid him, knowing, of course, that lio is in no condition to defend himself; but lit tle lio’H reek if thoy lot him sleep on m a grave where a Briton has laid him, and not bother him to get up" and take out a burial permit or ask him to pay ground rent. Wo wish bore to correct tho impression that slowly and sadly we laid him down from the field of liis fame fresh and gory. We did no such thing. 'The corpse was washed and put in good shape, and we defy any man to show that thore was a drop ol* blood about him. Il; is true that we curved not u line and We raised not a stone, because there was no stone-mason huiidy who would do the job at rea sonable figures. About this time we heurd the distant.and random gun that tho foe was sullenly firing; so wo adjourned the funeral, left the deceased alone in his glory, and made ourselves scarce in that vicinity.—N. Y. (flipper. General Robert E. Leo told the following story of hinjsejf in connec tion with a visit which he made to a friend in Virginia in 1806: “As I was riding over a. most desolate mountain region, where not even a cabin could*be seen, I was surprised to find, on u sudden turn in the road, two little gjrla playing on a largo rock. They wore very poorly clad, and after looking a moment at mo began to run away. • ‘Children, f -said 1, ‘don’t run away J If yon could know who I am, you would know that I am the lust man in the world for any one to run away from now.’ ‘But we do know you,’ they replied* ‘You never saw me before, for I never passed along hero.’ ‘But we do know you, and we’ve got your picture up yonder in the house, and you aro General Lee, and wo ain’t dressed eloan enough to see you.’ With this they scampored off to a poor hut on tho mountain side.” A country girl wrote to her lover : —“Now, George, don’t you fale to be at the party to-night.” George wrote back that “iu the bright lexi con of youth—Webster’s diotio»m»y there is no such work as fated’ “Excuse haste and a bad pen,” as the pig said when he broke out.

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The Dublin post. (Dublin, Ga.) 1878-1894, July 16, 1879, Image 1