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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,