Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 2.
DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 17,1879.
NO. 26
^ . A STERLING OLD POEM\
Who shall judges man from his manner,
Who shall know him by his dress?
Paupers may be fit for princes,
Princes fit for nothing else. *
Crumpled shirts and dirty jacket
May becloth the golden ore
Of the deepest thoughts and feelings—
Satin vest can do no more. f
■There are streams of ciystal nectar
Ever flowing out of stone;
There are purple beds find golden,
Hidden, crushed and overgiown;
God, who counts by souls, not dresses,
Love and prospers you and me.
While he values thrones the highest
But as pebbles In the sea.
Man, upraised above his fellows,
Oft forgets his fellows then;
Masters—rulers—lords remember
That you’re meanest kinds of men/
Men of labor, men of feeling,
Men of thoughts, and men of fame,
Claiming equal rights to sunshine
In a man’s ennobling name.
There are foam-embroidered oceans,
There are little wood-clad-yiUs;
Hfl’here are feeble inch-high saplings,
There are cedars on the hills.
God, who'counts by souls, not stations,
Loves and prospers you and me;
For to Him all vague distinctions
^ Are as pebbles in the sea.
Toiling hands alone are builders
Of the nationsuvealthand fame;
Tilted fitKiness is pensioned,
Fed and fattened on the same-;
By the sweat of others’ foreheads,
Living only to rejoice,
While the poor man’s outraged freedom
Vainly lifts its feeble voice.
ANSON GREY.
Anson Grey was a still, stern man
at thirty, shut up within himself
unci by himself, in his groat stone
mansion on the hill, and people
knew no more about hint than they
did about the dead. Iiis early years
had been passed abroad, where, or
how, nobody knew and most had
ceased to care, for that matter; the
last two had been passed in Burlin-
;amo. A brilliant light at night,
seining from the great east windows,
and occasional gallops through the
town, by day, wore the only tokens
of his presence. However a change
was coming and that without warn
ing. Anson Grey fell sick, sudden
ly and dangerously so. The village
doctor was summoned, who in turn
telegraphed for another from the
neighboring city in hot haste, and
together they said in whispers, that
their patient would probably die.
There was no woman in the great
house to act as nurse, and the head
servant, obeying doubtless his mas
ter’s orders, refused to allow one
there as yet.
How it came about was a mystery,
but one morning, when the master
had laid a week half senseless, an
unusual cloud of dust was observed
whirling up the hill, and emerging
therefrom was a carriage, splashed
^and weather-stained, headed by two
straining, panting horses, who came
up to the entrance as if driven by the
evil one. A lady, tall and fair as
sunlight, pushed open the carriage
door impatiently and sprang out.
With a hasty glance around she hur
ried up the steps, entered the draw
ing-room and stood before the two
astonished gentlemen who wero seat
ed there. ’
“Is Anson G-rey alive?”
“Yes, but grows worse.”
Before they divined her intention,
she had passed them, and was in the
next room bending over the sick
man.
“The Devil will be to play if she
excites him uqw,” the elder one said;
“If some good nurse hail come, it
might have been of some use; but
this dainty thing—bah 1”
She came out in a moment her
face white but determined.
“Will you be kind enough to send
for u minister and remain until he
comes?” she asked, us she began to
remove her things.
There was something in her man
ner that forbade questioning, and
they obeyed her like so mauy dumb
men, us they said afterward.
The minister did come; William
-Skinner, tho head servant was called
and after the three hold a private
conference, which seemed to be satis
factory they come out and, to the
amazement of all, the lady stood be
side Anson Grey and the marriage
vows were taken.
The wise doctors were mistaken in
their estimate of their unknown.
She was something besides a fair
young lady, as her actions soon prov
ed. A new order of things was in
stituted in the sick man’s room.aud
his wife installed herself as nurse, a
change -which told for tho better.
In a month he was riding through
tho village, with his wife at his sido,
all eyes, of course, agog to catch a
glimpse of her handsome face.
All agreee she was just an angel,,
when they came to church next Sun
day, and sat down in the pews like
other people, they were more than
ever confirmed in their opinion.
What thoy never knew was this:
Three years iiefore, Anson Grey,
haughty and indolent, was killing
time at one of the fashionable water
ing places where Edith Willpughby
also lingered, though sorely against
her will.
A sweet and won derously fair face,
much admired and sought after, An
son Grey had half a mind to enter
the lists with the others, but some
thing kept him back, and he only
exchanged a few words now and
then.
There happened to come a heavy
two day’s flood, and the first night
of it Edith sent a servant asking Mr.
Grey to come to a private parlor for
a moment. He obeyed tho summons
with alacrity, wondering much what
could be coining now.
Edith was waiting for him cloaked
and hooded, e\idently in haste to be
off somewhere.
“I. hope you will pardon me,” she
said, as she closed the door, behind
him, “but really I do not know
whom to -ask and mamma will not
allow mo to go by myself. A poor
woman down on tho beach is sick,
perhaps dying, and I must go to see
her. Her little boy just'came after
me. I was there yesterday and they
are in great distress. Could I
trouble you to go with me?”
“I will do your errand. It is too
stormy for you, to venture out.”
“Oil, it is no errand. I am sorry
to trouble anybody.”
Mr. Grey saw what was wanted,
aud saying ho would be back direct
ly, vanished for his rubber suit.
The rain drove into their faces,
and the wind howled through the
dark night like the minister of a
thousand storms—not for a poor
fisher woman, perhaps, but for one os
good as fair Edith Willomrhby, he
should have not hesitated a moment.
When they came upon the bcacli the
waves fairly leaped into their faces,
aud Edith shivered and clung half
tcrrifiicd to her companion in spite
of herself.
“I believe you bad better return
now and leuve it to me,” he said.
“No, we are almost there. I
should never forgive myself if I did,”
she answered, catching her breath
as she spoke. “It is only you I am
worried about.” “I am glad to be
able to help yon,” he said. And 1
think lie spoke the truth.
Inside tho oottuge poor Graoe
Poorly lay on her hard bed trying to
breathe on a little longer, if so the
good God might send some good
friends before she died to take care
of her orphan boy.
When tho doors opened her eyes
brightenod, aud she raised up a lit
tle.
“Tho Lord bless ye for coming.
I know He will,” she said as Edith
throw off her wet covering and came
toward her.
“This is only one of the boarders
who came with me,” she Baid in re
ply to tho woman’s questioning look.
“I should have come to-day hud I
known that you were worse.”
She sat down beside the bed, and
Anson Grey watched her as she spoke
in a low, tender voice to the grateful
woman. Among the words ho could
distinguish was a promise to see to
Jamie; and when the old woman who
seemed to be nurse came up to ad
minister something, and in a hall
whisper asked Edith to pray with
them, he began to think he was in
another world. And it was another
to him truly. Surely she would
never do that. But she did. Kneel
ing upon the bare floor clasping her
white hands, she sent up such a
prayer for help aud strength os An
son Grey had never dreamed of hear
ing before.
After that night Anson Grey know
where his heart was, but for his life
dared not approach Edith. She
seemed, an immeasurable distance
from such as ho, but ho cherished
the memory of her prayers as the
one glimpse into heaven for which
he should thank God all Ills life.
Edith’s mother was a gag woman,
and such he meant her daughter to
be, though for her ljfe she could not
keep her from ferreting out and
helping also, an innumerable num
ber of forlorn, poverty stricken peo
ple who had no earthly claim upon
her, as they weut* their fashionable
rounds. It was mortifying even ex
asperating, but she was powerless to
prevent it. They wore to bo off
again soon, Anson Grey heard; but
lie would have missed seeing her had
he not accidently met her as she was
hurrying up the beuch toward their
boarding house ou the very day they
left. He could not let her go with
out telling her what was in his
heart.
“May I speak to you a moment?”
he said, abruptly stopping her.
“Certainly.”
As tho words loft her lips she saw
what his speaking was going to be.
“Oh, not that Mr. Grey?”
Somehow ho took courage from
the quick paliiig of her lips.
; ’ “Yes, 1;hufc I lovo.^yoii and whiib
you for my. wife.”
“I am to bo married-Christmas.”
He turned and- was leaving hor,
when something made hor speak.
“Mr. Grey.”
He faced her again, and : . she saw
how white and stSrh he looked.
“Had I been free you would not
have asked in vain.”
For days and weeks afterward,
Anson Grey hugged the memory of
her look, as she said those blessed
words, to his heart, curing more for
that than for the love and caresses of
any other.
In a way mysterious to all, save
William Skinner, Edith heard of
Anson Grey’s illness, and, as we have
seen, went to him and had the cour
age to becomo his wife.
Tho people of Burlingame learned
to love the gentle mistress of the old
stone mansion on the hill, and never
a suffering called for help in vaiu, as
long as “my lady” as thoy called her
was mistress there.
Bill Slike Acting Devil.
When we wore boys, Bill Slike and
I, we wore great cronies. With me
there was nobody like, Bill, and with
Bill there was nobody like Hazel.
Wo weie both what would bo termed
hard oases. If any misohief was done
in the neighborhood, Bill and I wore
sure to come in for our shoro of the
blame.
About Christinas times we always
had a deal of fun, such as building
rail pons and putting calves and pigs
in the upper story, hanging plows,
“big kettles,” or anything wo could
lay hands on, high up in trees, to
perplex the owners.
I recollect one Christmas eve, Bill
and I sot out to have a rich time of
it. Bill was to fix up and aot as
devil, and we wore to go around and
frighten the youngsters out of their
wits. Accordingly, we arranged a
grum-looking red cap with horns on
it, and pluced it upon his head, and
then mado u false face for him out of
red flannel, wrapped him in a white
sheet, and started. There were sev
eral boys with us, and by them I was
unaniniQUsty elected to go before and
give the old folks at caoli house a
hint .of what was going sn, so that
we would not- get ourselves into a
sorapo. '
Tho first house in our route was
Unolo Jack Bond’s. I wont in, made
some errand, and as soon as possible
slipped the joke to the old man and
woman. It was all right with them,
and so I went on and reported to my
companions. In*a short tfiiio Bill,
alias devil, poked iiis^ingiilar looking
head in at the door, and, great
scrumption! such a scatterment as
took place. Girls, • boys, cats and
everything else, excepting the two
old ones, tumbled up-scairs like an
qarthquake. In we all bustled, and
such a laugh ns wo had; and how tho
’girls slapped our faces for frightening
them so badly. This was a glorious
beginning, and so we wero almost
orazy to get to the next house.
After partaking of some dough
nuts, dud some other little oakes that
had been out opt with a thimble, and
which the girls called kisses, we
started for Major Allen’s. I wont on
as usual, pnd knocked at tho door.
“Como in,” said a sweet voice. I
obeyed the cbmmnnd, and found
June, the Major’s only daughter, all
alone. ,|
“Where’s tho old folks,” asked I.
“Gone over;to grandfather’s,” she
replied, sweet as sugar..
1 “Very sorry,” said I, “for 1 had
important business with tho old
man.
She assured ine they would be back
in a short time; and filling a plate
with hominy from a large kettle,
whore it was boiling on the fire, she
invited mo, with ono of the prettiest
smiles you ever saw, to sit down and
wait till it cooled, and then oat some
with her. ,
I looked at'tlie big, plump grains
all bursting open in the plate, aud
inhaled 4he : ,delicious odpr that arose
from them, then I looked ut the
sweet face and sunny smilo of jmy,
would-be-on tortai nor, and you’d bet
tor believe I wished Bill and the rest
of the boys in Guinea. -1 -felt surei
that all the fun we could see would
be nothing to compare with eating
hominy with Jane Allen, yet I dared
not act tho traitor. So I pretended
I had no time to spnro, and bidding
her good evening, I hurried back to
my companions.
“Boys,” said I, “Jane’s all alone
by herself. It would bo wrong to
scaro hor so bad — lot’s go to
Brown’s.”
“No, by gum,” said Bill, “I would
not miss thut chance for a hundred
dollars. She slighted mo the other
day at singing school, and now I’ll
endeavor to pay her back for it.”
I still remonstrated, but in vaiir.
Bill was resolute, so I had to give
in.
‘ As we neared the house, Bill said:
“Now, boys, whatever you do,
don’t say a word, nor laugh, nor
nothing, and after I’ve scared hor,
wo’ll slip off, and she’ll never know
who, nor what it was.”
Wo all agreed, and after wo had
becqp stationed around the chimney
to hear hdr scream, Bill walked in.
“Good evening, Mr. Devil,” said
the same sweet voice that a few min
utes before had bid im, to oomo in;
“good evening, I suppose yon are
used to warm fluids;” and forthwith
we heard a “splnrge” as if a gourd
had found its way into tho pot of
boiling hominy, and then came a
splash and a cry, not such a ono us
wo expected to hear, but one of Bill’s
genuine squalls on the highest key.
Wo all ran in and saw the hot water
dripping down from Bill’s cranium,
while he was stumping around like
tearing the horned cap and and false
face from his head. June, the mis
chievous little elf, was standing up
by the cupboard,luughing os though
she would go into spasms. Fortun
ately, Bill had received, no lasting
injury, but I assuro you it put an end
to our fun for that night. The joke
had been turned upon us when
we least expected it, and so wo went
homo feeling rather done for. The
story soon got out, und for a long
time Bill wout by the name of Mr.
Devil.
A Sensible Trick-Dog.
A hump-shouldered old man, fol
lowed by a dog which seemed to liavo
fasted for a year past, enterod a
Woodward avenue butoher-shop tho
other day, and the man made some
inquiries about sniokod hams. The
butoher saw the dog, of courso, aud
whoover saw a butoher who didn’t
wnu’b to know all about a dog?
“Is fcliis a good coon dog?” asked
tho butcher ns ho patted tho shy
canine on the head.
“Oh, no—-lie’s a trick-dog,'” an
swered the owner.
“Is eh? What tricks call ho do?”
“Oh, a dozen or two. Ho has ono
very peculiar trick, though. Would
you like to see him do it?”
“I would that. What is itP”
The man directed the butoher to
put a pound of nice boof steak on a
sheet of clean brown paper, and plaoe
the whole on tho door step. Iio
then said to his dog which had been
wtttohing matters pretty koonly:
“Now, Cato, I am ubont to call
upon you to perform a trick. You
have never gone back on mo yet, and
I have perfeot confidence in you
now. Cato, do you soo that moat.”
Cato saw it. Ho walkod over to
it, scizod it in his mouth, and as ho
woni up tho street it was hard to tell
tho dog from dust. '
“Hum! yes!” muttered tho butch
er: “do yon call that tv trick?”
“I do,” confidently replied the
man. ,• •
“Well, it’s a blasted m&in ono!”
“JuBt so—just so,” said tho man.
“You couldn’t expect snob a looking
dog as that to bo around playing
tricks on a guitar or a jowsharp,
could ypu? I’ll see you later about
the hams.”—Detroit Freo Press.
* i
A gogt browsing oil a green sward
approached a pig pen, and .said to
its occupant, “Why do you giefy in
thftb.'horrible .place, when there is
such a lovely spot as this handy?”
‘<Tho pea is “rniglitior. than the
sward,* r grunted tho pig.
Toacher, to the boy who bus to ho
corrected frequently: ' “Can you
toll mo where tho Blue Itidgo is?”
Boy (rubbing his shoulder)—No; but
I can toll you where tho bluck-and-
blue ridge is.” Ho is treased more
ridgerously than ever now.
In tho sweet, balmy, delicn-us
happiness of “love’s young dream,”
a youth will not only insist on cruck-
iug walnuts for his girl, but on peel
ing them os well. Two years after
marriage ho will not oven lot hor
have the nut-cracker until ho is
through.
One of Mnrphoy’s men called at a
drugstore yesterday, and after vainly
searching his pookets, said, “I be-
leive I have lost that prescription.”
“I understand your case, sir,”
said tho clerk. “Stop back ofjhat
door to tho right, you’ll find your
medicine on the shelf.” •
“But”—began tho customer.
“No danger, sir. You’ll recog
nize the smell. Just loavo a quarter
on tho shelf.” **"
A down-town policeman found a
loafer on tho wharf asleep, with his
mouth wido open. Being at a loss
what charge to mako, the Scurgant
suggested that ho charge him with
keeping a rum-hole open without a
license.
Tho littlo boy who tried to rest a
big melon on the park railing on last
evening sadly remarked when it
dropped to tho sidewalk, “That’s a
purty sick lookin’ melon, but tuiu’t
nothing near as bad broken up os
I’ll bo when I get home without it.”
A wife full cf truth innocence and
love, is tho prettiest flowor that a
man can wear next to his heart.
Mr. Spurgeon will not come to
this country ufter all. Yet if lie did
come, we suppose lie would come
“after all” ho could got,
A Jury Scene.
Counsel—IIow largo should you
say this pan, of which you speak,
was?
Witness—A four-quart pan, I
should say.
“Wino or beer measure ?”
“Wine; .no, boor—I guess it’s beer;
I won’t bo certain.”
“But you. think it’s beer. What
is the shape of a four-quart pan?”
“Round.”
“Like a ball?”
“No; like a—liko a burrol.”
“Round liko a ban-ol. Yos. Well,
is a fonr-quart pan tall or short?”
“It don’t mako any difference.”
“If a pan was four inohes across
tho bottom and twolvo inches tall?”
“It wouldn’t bo a pan at all. It
would bo a pail.”
“Then a pan can bo a pail?”
“Why, no.”
“But you just said so. Was thoro
a holo in this pan?”
“Yos, a littlo holo.”
“In tho bottom or top?”
“Of courso thoro wasn’t any hole"
m tho top.”
“Then how oould anything bo
poured into the pan?”
“Oh, I forgot. Tho top is all
holo.”
“And the bottom?”
“Is all pan.” ,
“That will do. You see, gentle
men of tho jury, tho witness has no
idea of a four-quart pan at all,” and
tho jury having been awakened by
tho Sheriff, nod off again in ooquioB-
oenco.— World.
On the loft of the main aisle in the
main hull was a Well developed wire
bust of u female, around which is
lacod a very rod and very neat fitting
corset. On tho back is a littlo pock
et appljanco, tho object and uso of
which is ono of tho mysteries of tho
sox. Several ladies wero poking
their fingors into tho corset, and wero
turning the bust around with a
critical air when a youth in No. 10.
cowliido boots and a now suit of
Btoro clothes, wedged his wuy intp«,
the party, and, with mouth open',
listened to the criticisms. Unable
to rostrain his curiosity further, ho
turned to a stately damo with a stony
glaro und usked;'
What might them ’ore he, mum?
It peers to mo to bo some gal’s body,
with a new-fangled thingo
a card cuso attachment;
new-fangled thingombob with
card cuso attachment; but “’I’m
durned if my sister would go to a
sowing boo in one of them.”
Tho stony-cyod woman turned upon
him with a glaro that sent liis heart
into ono boot and his blood into the
other, and as ho e\it behind a show
case, muttored, that “oity wimmon
wero a queer sot to tuoklu, anyhow.”
An old man who ha/l been budly
hurt in a railway collision, being ad
vised to sue the company for dam
ages, said, “Well, no, not for dam
ages— I’vo had enough of thorn; but
I’ll just suo ’om for repairs.”
—.-j ,
At a legal investigation of a liquor
seizure, the judge askod an unwill
ing witness. “What was in the bar
rel you had?” Tho reply was: “Well
your honor, it was markod ‘Whisky’
on ono. end of tho barrel, and ‘Put
Duffy’ on tho other ond, so that I
can’t say whether it was whisky or
Pat Duffy in tho barrel, being as I
uni on my oath.”
“Father,” said a wistful lass,
about sixteen years of ago, “I know
something about grammar, but I
cannot dcolino matrimony, nor see
tho reason why mysolf and Gilbert
cannot bo conjugated.”
French history in tho past hun
dred yours exhibits throe women whq
have porhaps experienced moro
splendor aud more bitter grief and
mortification than any other threo
women in the world—Mario Antoin
ette, Josephine aud Eugenie.
Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Morgan,
Baron Blanc, the wife aud danghtor
of tiio late General Bolknap, und a
daughter of tho late General Robert
E. Lee, arrived in Now York an
Wednesday in tho Gunard steamer
Scythia from Europe,