Newspaper Page Text
a
VOL. 2.
DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19,1879.
NO. 22
UNAWARES.
By NATHAN D. URNEU.
•"What would Jack say should he see me
Iu such a dress, at such employment?”
Thinks winsome Molly, with cheeks aglow
At thought of the last night’s rare en
joyment,
When Jack his love in the waltz declared,
( And she answer gave that was fraught
with feeling.
"Ah, what, indeed?” And the apples pared
She sets to work at potato-peeling.
'"These men who adore us at balls and hops
Should they see us at housework thus
contending
With kitchen-rubbish-” But here she stops,
A scream and blushes her every ending ;
For there stands Jack, with glance askew,
Leaning softly in at the cottage casement.
"Why, bless me, Molly/ can that be you?”
He cries, with a laugh, at her blank
' amazement.
o
"Oh, Jack! how could you? It isn’t fair/
Begone/” cries Moll. “You’re that pro
voking!”
“Not I/” laughs he. “And I must declare
It’s grftnd I am that I came here poking.
Leave your hair alone; it’s pretty enough
With that Oread twist, you delicious
.creature!
And that trim Swiss apron of dark-blue stuff
Becomes your beauty of form and feature
"What! Tears? Oh, Molly forgive me.love!
Did you fear it was only in gala feather
That I wished to fancy the home-reared
dove
Who should mate with me in all sorts of
weather?
So! smiles again? Let me stoop to clear
Those paring-rings from the creamy
matting.
Well, yes, I will eat an apple, dear,
If you’ll work away while I stand here
chatting.
"Must you call your mother? But first I
pray,
Let nie kiss that hand which the broom
caresses.
What? those ripe lips too? I’m ip luck to
day.
And to think—last night’s were my first
addresses/
Proud am I that she whom I love can shine
In kitchen-toil as in ball-room folly.
I can suffer such comfort and make no sign;
' So,, don’t be alarmed. Just one more,
Molly!”
EXPLAINED.
*
At first, us Hurley Grey entered
the library, it seemed to be linten-
finted. But a second glance showed
him a slight figure coouched into a
corner of the huge sofa. All that
was visible of her face was wet with
tears, which were trickling through
the tiny hands which covered her
eyes.
What could have happened to dis
turb little Edna’s equanimity? Har
ley went to her and laid his hand up
on her disheveled curls with a kindly
—“What is the trouble, Edna?”
She looked up at the sound of his
voice, and her lips quivered like those
of a grieved child.
“Oh, Harley,” she said, with a
sob, “read that!”
Then Harley saw that an open let
ter lay on the rug which spread its
velvety softness before the sofa.
As he acquainted himself with its
contents a flash of indignation came
into his eyes.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“Have yon and Chester quarrelled?”
“No,” said Edna, piteously.
Then he shall answer for this!
Trothplights are not so easily bro
ken!”
But with sudden dignity Edna
rose and straightened her slight fig
ure.
“No, Harley,” she said; “the tru
est kindness would be to never men
tion his name to me again.”
. Harley looked at bar in surprise.
Could this dignified girl be his gentle
Edna? He had not given her credit
for so much spirit.
“You are right,” ftp said at last.
‘‘But do not din; those bright eyes
with tears for the recreant. He is not
worth one precious drop.”
Edna’s answer w*s # burst of fresh
sobs. It was agony to Harley to
hear them, and os he tried to soothe
her he inwardly vow,ed vengeance on
the false lover who had won the
heart he himself had vainly coveted,
pnly to cast ft aside.
Edna Mordcpnt was the orphan
jyard of Harley’s father, who had
taken her to his own home after the
death of her parents. So Harley
had witnessed the unfolding of all
the sweet graces of character which
made the girl so attractive as she
grew into womanhood. He had
learned to love her with all the
strength of his nature. But her
feeling toward him was only the gen
tle attachment of a sister for an
adopted brother—which was the title
she gave him. While he was in the
last vear of his college course the
news had come to him in a letter
written by Edna’s own hand, that
with his father’s full sanction she
had promised to marry one who was
the noblest and best of men. Every
word of the artless outpouring of her
love for, and faith in, Chester Lane
was like a stab to Harley. But his
was a nature calculated to bear suf
fering bravely; like an Indian warrior
he would hide his wound, and no one
would be the wiser. So when he ye
turned home again he met Edna
with a calm face—listened to her
girlish confidences about her lover—
and was to all appearance the same
old Harley to whom the girl had al
ways told her childish soi rows, and
in whom she had found an unfailing
friend and sympathizer when the
rest of the .worldly, fashionable
household were too much engrossed
with their fetes and parties to spend
time in comforting the wee thing
who had been added to their num
ber. He stood still in silent distress
listening to Edna’s sobs. An intense
longing to take her in his arms and
comfort her—to tell her how dearly
he himself loved her, and to entreat
her to become bis own precious wife,
and thus prove to her faithless lover
that his perfidy had not broken her
heart—almost overmastered him.
But he conquered himself, and when
lie at last spoke no one could have
told the struggle ho had passed
through.
“Do not cry,” Edna he said gent
ly. “It is far better to learn Of
Chester's fickleness now than later.
You must try and forget.”
“Oh, Harley, I cannot! I love
him! I wish I could die!”
No, Edna, do not say that.
Think of those who prizes you as a
miser prizes his gold! Do not wish
to break their hearts!”
Edna’s answer was a smile so sad
that it was more touching than her
tears. But she made a brave effort
to be calm. The thought that in
giving way to her sorrow she was
occasioning pain to another, was the
most effecting of tonics to her loving
unselfish nature.
Harley did not tell Edna of his in
tention to seek out Chester Lane and
loam the cause of his conduct. But
that was the real motive which
actuated him in securing a passage
upon the next out-ward bound steam
er. It was not long before ho reach
ed Florence, where Edna’s lover had
gone to study painting with some of
the modern masters. Harley soon
found himself at the door of dies
ter’s studio. But it was to find it
closed. The young artist was
Death’s door with brain fever.
The kindly-Italian who answered
Harley’s questions about him pointed
to his forehead and shook his head
significantly.
“The young Americano was very
strange long before he gave up,” he
said, in his imperfect English.
The truth flashed into Harley’i
mind. Overwork and illness had
probably unsettled Chester Lane’s
mind, and that was the cause of his
incoherent, abrupt letter to Edna.
He lost no time in finding him out
and stationing himself at his bed
side. Weary days passed before the
fever turned, leaving the invalid
weak as an infant, but with his mind
unclouded. As his eyes rested upon
Harley, a strangely wistful expression
stole into them—a mingling of sor
row and repressed longing. Then,
as memory resumed her full sway, ho
turned his head po the wall, as
though to shut out all sights and
sounds of the outside wqrjd. Harley
at
said nothing, thinking it best to
await Chester’s own time for expla
nation. At last he turned and asked
feebly:
“Did she send you?”
“No,” and Harley’s voice was un
naturally cold in his endeavor to
keep from it all traces of an emotion
which might prove fatal to the sick
man by agitating him and bringing
on an access of fever.
‘Then yon doThOt anow that all is
over between us?”
“Yes. That is why I am here.
When you are stronger we will talk
about it.”
“That time will never como,” and
the pallid suming cheerfulness he
was far from feeling. “It may not
bo os bad as you think.”
But the young artist was right.
His life faded out slowly but surely.
But his last moment were very peace
ful. Harley had written to Edna
and told her the pitiful story, and
she sent a long and comforting letter
to her lover, assuring him of her un
faltering devotion and of her willing
ness to share his lot be it for suffer
ing or for happiness. So he died re
joicing in the knowledge of her love.
After all was over Harry returned
home. Edna received him as one
who had brought hor a message from
the dead; and as he looked upon her
sorrowful young faco, theheart which
had once beat with subh passionate
longings, even at the sound of her
voice, was filled only with a desire to
comfort hor. Had Edna been drnp
ed in widow’s weeds she could not
have been more sacred to him in her
first great sorrow.
Three years passed on. Then
came a time at which men’s cheeks
blanched, and whole communities
were thriUed with terror—when
north andTsbutli'w'^^^flu one by
the common tie of sympathy for fel
low-beings in distress.
Harley was one of the first to offer
his services, and to be enrolled a
member of the Howard Association.
He remained at his post unharmed
till near the close of the terrible sea:
son. Then he was stricken down
with the dread fevor-scourge, and in
place of his letters came telegrams so
anxiously awaited by all who had
friends at the south. Days of an
guished uncertainty passed; but at
last came news of convalescence, and
of his intended return home; and at
last he came—the pale shadow of the
bronzed and sturdy Harley who had
left home in the prime of his noble
manhood to offer, if need be, bis life
upon the shrine of sympathetic devo
tion to suffering humanity.
Edna was out for a drive in the
Park when he came, so that upon
her return she found him in the lib
rary, seated, panting and exhausted,
in a large easy chair. One startled,
incredulous glance, and she knew
him. With a little cry she sprang
forward, and for the first time in her
life put her arms around his neck
and kissed him. Then with a sud
den shame she . drew back, her face
aflame with *’
ed:
“Oh, Harley, I never thought to
see you again!”
Harley’s pale face grew luminous.
“And did you care so very much?’
he said, in a deep, tremulous tone,
which he vainly tried to render
steady.
“Care!” and Edna grew pale, even
at the memory of her pain. “Oh
Harley, 1 never knew until that
dreadful moment, when the telegram
came about your sickness, what you
were to me. But now you are home
again ycu must never, never leave
us!”
“Take care Edna,” said Harley,
putting ont his arms toward her with
a beseeching gesture, “you know not
what hopes you are evoking from the
grave in which they have lain buried
for years. It will be like destroying
me with kindness, if you raise them
and dash there down again to the
earth!”
At first Edna’s eyes met his with a
look qs unconscious of his real mean
iug as that of a child. But as soul
met soul in the interchange of
glances, she' learned the truth. For
one moment she hesitated; then she
went to him.
“I will not disappoint yon, noble,
generous Harley! Do with my life
as you wild”
Thus it was that Harley won and
wore the preoious jewel his heart had
desired in olden days, but whioh,
with a noble self abnegation, he had
left-in its sotting.of preoious memo
ries, until it learned to catch its light
from the steady glow of his unselfish
devotion.
and she falter
Home Politeness.
A boy who is polite to his father
and mothor it likely to be polite to
every one olso. A boy laking polite
ness to his parents. may have the
semblance of courtesy in society,
but is never truly polite in spirit,
and is in danger, as he becomes fam
iliar, of betraying his real want of
courtesy. We are all in danger of
living too much for tho outside
world, for the impression whioh we
make in society, coveting the good
opinions of th&se who are in a sense
part of ourselves, and who will
be continued to sustain and be inter
ested in us, notwithstanding tlieso
defects of deportment and character.
We say to every boy and to ovory
girl, cultivate the habit of propriety
and courtesy at home—in the sitting-
room and kitchen as well ns in the
parlor, and you will be sure in other
places to deport yourself in a becom
ing attractive manner, When one
has a pleasant smile and a graceful
demeanor, it is usatisfactionto kiiow
that those are not put'on, but that
they belong to the character and are
manifest at all times and under ail
circumstances. ~ —
Tho
History of tho
Attachment.
Clement
Oolonel McClure was sitting, roar
ed back-in his easy ohair, last Friday,
reading his morning mail, .when a
timid knock sounded at his door.
‘Come in.” (Enter a big woman
and small boy of tho Teutonic per
suasion.)
‘Was you do editor of dose ba-
pur?”
“Yos ma’am.”
“You make do answers to gorros-
pondents?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Veil, vot I’m go’ne and do mit
dotpoy?”
Aleck looked as though he’d like
to say “take him out,” but he didn’t.
“You see dot poy, he couldt dell
de troot, undt he shteal, undt stay
oudt nights, undt he schwear, undt
he blay cardt like any dings, undt
he trinkin’ so mair peer like a man.
Now what I’m go’ne and do mit
him? If I sondt him to chail”—
“By no means, madam. Let him
alone. He’ll make a first-class poli
tician. Teach him to cover his
tracks better. That’s the stuff lead
ers arc made of.”
Then the great editor readied
down his hand, took up that urchin
in his friendly grasp, and said:
“Good-by little man keep on as you
began. When you get to be head of
Gas Trusty or at the head of any
mimidpal department—remember, I
prohesied it, and throw your patron
age to independent papers.”
After the old lady’s foot had cross
ed the threshold, and before the door
closed on her, she suddenly faced
McG. again with:
“But if ho die where will he go to
den?”
* ‘ Ah—h—well—really, madam,
that is not in my line, either as
politician or editor. Most any Sun
day-school scholar could tell you,
though.”
She was plump and beautiful, and
he was wildly fond of her. She hat
ed him, but woman-like she. tried to
catch him. And yet what was ho?
—A flea.
Which is tho most contemptuous
bird? The owl; ho hoots at every'
thing.
The Clement attachment was in
vented about five years ago by a Ten
nessean named Clement. He lived
in Memphis, aud had a small shop
there in which ho proposed to man
ufacture his attachments. He died
shortly after making his invention,
and ii now* belongs to his heirs, hav
ing boen perfected by tho workman
who had assisted him hr.making it.
Mr. F; K. WMtfieffnif Corinth, Miss.,
bus oharge of its interests for the
•heirs. There are how sik mills op
erating this attachment. The first
ever built was put up in Corinth in
1876. Iii 1876 one was put up at
Anderaonvillo, Sift., and in tile past
two years four lf^fo boon added—all
along the Piedmfmt lino. The best
known of those is at Westminister,
S. C., where lives Mr, J. V. Stirling,
a most intelligent meohamo: who has
oharge of tho affairs of the attach
ment, and to whom all correspond
ence is addressed.
THE NEW PROCESS OF GINNING AND
CARDING.
Now I shall give the exact process
of tho Oloment attachment. In tho
first 'pluoe, up stairs, in a loft above
the general machinery, tho seed oot-
ton was stored; near the pile of seed
cotton was a cleaning maonino, whioh
was used simply to cteanso the ootton
of all dust, or dirt before it wont to
the gin. By the side of the upron
stood a boy, whose duty it was to
regulate tho feeding of the gin. The
apron was marked off into square
yards, and about ono pound of seed
cotton was spread to the square
yard. This amount varius slightly
with the weather. Tho seod ootton
having boon spread upon the apron
it swoops slowly into the gin.
The Gleuiont gin differs from tho
ordinary gin in many-respects. In
the first pluce it is much slower.
There is no rush or clatter, or hurry
about it. Its motion is gentle Una
even, and its speed about one-third
of the ordinary gin. It is of much
finer make than other gins. It has
sixty-four saws to the space usually
given to forty saws, and the tooth
are much smaller and finer. Its op
oration on the cotton seed is essen
tially different. In the regular gin
the saws pjunge like flashes through
tho fibre, cutting or tearing or pull
ing it. In this giu tho fibro is pull
ed from tlft seed. The motion is so
much slower, and the hold of the
saw-teoth so much' firmer that the
fibro is pulled out and not chopped
or torn. Tho sood has time to turn
completely around under the pull of
the saw so that the fibre may bo
f ulled out, as if it woro hand-picked,
n tho ono case the lint is rotted from
the shod—in the other it is coaxed.
After the seed is stripped of its fibre
it drops out of tho way, and the
fibres of lint are curried on to the
brush. Iii the regular gins this
brush revolves with fierce rapidity,
its centrifugal force throwing the lint
from its teeth. In tho Clement' gin
it revolves slowly and the lint holds
its place. As the brush revolves
slowly, holding the lint securely, it
moots a revolving curd’cylinder arm
ed with steel teeth. The brush is
covered with hair bristles, and the
cylinder with steel teeth. The teeth
of tho cylinder push in gently botween
the bristles of the brush and pull the
fibre loose. The brush is inclined to
hold it, and the slight resistance
made to giving it. up stretches the
fibre to full length ana leaves it hang
ing on the teeth of the cylinder. As
the cylinder rolls upward with these
pendent fibres it meets a pair of curds
suspended just above it. The teeth
of these cards sweep through the
teeth of the cylinder and card back
as the cylinder pulls them past. As
the cylinder turns on it meets a
doffer—another cylinder moving a
trifle foster—which pulls the fibre
from the carding cylinder without
breaking the fibre or twisting or dis
locating it. As tho doffer turns with
it, it carries it against a series of
combs that, moving up and down
between the teeth of the doffer,
gently strips the fibre off. Nothing
can be more beautiful, smooth and
oven than this fibre as it is combed
from the doffer. It comes off in a
roll of 36 inches in width, carded,
combed and straightened in marvel
lous contrast to the ragged, torn,
shreds of lint thrown from tho harsh
teeth and whizzing brush of the reg
ulation gin. A boy stands ready to
raiso'the roll as it is combed from
tho doffer. It is thou a thin fleecy
roll of 36 inches in width and of
diphanous thickness.
He doubles the end of it together
and forces it into a card head about
an inch and a half wide. As the
combs feed tho roll to the card head,
the card head takes it, and as it
omergos from the other end a perfect
“slivor,” which is deposited into a
tin oun. A slivor is a roll of cotton
fibro about the breadth of two fingers 1
and half, the thickness of one, and.
it is thou ready for spinning into-
yarn. From this point it is fed into*
spiuning machinery, just such as we
seo in any cotton factory an lit is;
in a few minutes tho most perfect
yarn. ‘w
THE THEORY OF THE CLEMENT AT-
. TAOHMENT.
Tho reader who litis gone thus far
with us'will sco the theory upon
which the Oloment: attachment
works.
1. It avoids chopping or tearing
or breaking tho fibro by using fine
teeth saws sot close together, and by
ginning so slowly that the seed are
stripped as if by hand rather than
jostled and rooked and jorked as in'
the ordinary gin.
Si. Instond of thrdwmg tho tom
lint into mangled masses, as the or
dinary gin doos, it handles it care
fully and never roleasos its hold on
it. It is. first taken on a delicate
brush, whore it is smoothed; then
pulled to a cylinder, whore it is
carded: then to a doffer, whore it is
comhoa, and then into the curd heads
whore it is spun.
After studying it oarofully I am,
struck witli two pouits—its simplic
ity and its power. It is miraculous
no ono hiiHover upplied tho principle
before. And yet this wonder pales
when we think of what its effect will
be. It is my hQnest opinion that
tho handful of machinery before mo
-ffdr tho uttnohmont is nothing
more than the card cylinder by
which an improved gin is connected
with system of spinalos—will do as
much‘ for the south as the inven
tion of steam has dono for tho
World.
A DIFFICULTY IN THE WAY.
- The only difficulty we can sec in
the way is not with tho machine
itself. That is perfect in ifcs simplic
ity. Tho gin is Bimply the im
provement on the regular gin—tho
spindles now in use. The Clement
attachment is Simply two carding
cylinders—tlmt is all. II; is tho
marriage of the cotton gin to tho
spindle, and our inventor nas joined
those two togother by putting the
hand of ono in the hand of the other,
und then with the singlo warning to
the gin to “go slow I” ho retires di
rectly. There is no complication, or
trouble—just the wedding of two
perfectly orthodox elements in a per
fectly orthodox way.
The only trouble that. I can see is
that whioh will bo encouutercd in
tho storing of the cotton seed. For ‘
tho smallest mill will consume 600
pounds of seed cotton per day, which
is 150,000 per annum. For two
months it could work on seod brought
from the field. It will uoed the
storing of 125,000 lbs. seod cotton.
This cannot be stored too closely and
is dangerous for firo exposure. If it
is stored while moist, it will mould
or ferment. Those now using tho
mills have no trouble with the seed
cotton. They have lost none by fire
or spoiling, Gut this must be care
fully looked into. I should think
large burns fashioned after tho Vir
ginia tobacco houbob will bo built to
moot this want. The question of
capital is u small ono, for tho 125,-
000. pounds can |io bought at 3 conts
a pound—83,750. This capital is
not for a year, but commoncos to re
turn at once, and comes back ovory
month. Besides, where a commnni-.
ty of farmers is interested, ouch ono
can contribute four or five bales of
cotton to tho genoral fund. The
great trouble will be in storing tho
seed cotton, and ns said before, there
is loss dunger in this than in storing
tobacco, and it will bo ovorcome, l
predict, vory rapidly.
. A FEW WORDS IN CLOSING.
Tho ubovo is given as the result of
observation and persistent question
ing.
I have no sort of doubt that tho
Clement attachment is destined to be
tho great lover that will lift the south. ‘
I have no sort of doubt that out of
ono hundred planted at random
through tho country ninety-five
would pay enormous dividends. I
have no sort of doubt that where flvo
arc in operation now, thoro will be
live hundred in the next ton years,
But I may beiniatuken. Lot, there-,
fore, those who think of investing
either write to one of tho points at
at which these attachments aro
being operated for information,
bettor still, go und examine the ma
chine personally.—[II, W. G. in
* Atlanta Constitution,