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VOL. 3.
DAISY.
BY CARL BHICKETT. .
Eyes of heaven’s own azure—liair
waving softly back from a broad,
white forehead—a mouth whose pa
thetic sweetness went straight to my
old heart—such was the faco before
\. me. :
A week before, in one of the daily
papers i had advertised for a com
panion, and this was the twentieth
applicant for the position. I was
always one to take sudden and for
cible fancies, and almost ore she
spoke, and disclosed a fresh charm
in Iter gentle, musical voice. 1 had
determined, what my answer shonld
be.
So, after a little, I said, kiudly:
“Well, my child,” (I was so old
and she so young that that seemed
the proper way to address W), “if.
vour references are as satisfactory as
your appearauco, we will close this
compact at once, and, if you like,
to-day shall see you installed as my
young compaiiion and friend.”
The delicate color rushed to her
. pale cheeks only to ebb as quickly
away again, as, clasping her small,
gloved hands together, she ex
claimed:
“Oh, dear, I never thought of
that! I can refer yon to no one; for,
t hough I have done no wrong, it is
* necossary for me to keep my where
abouts a secret. But, oh, if yon
will take iqe, 1 will be so useful and
helpful to you that you will never
; repent it!” - "
Here was a perplexing situation;
» already I felt that my old home
would seem lonelier than before
should this bright young vision van
ish forever from it; still, such a pro
ceeding was the reverse of business
like.
That the girl was as good as she
was beautiful, I could not doubt for
an instant! tiers was not a counte
nance one could bo deceived in, and
‘yet all my.life*long I had bated mys
teries. So ( I debated within myself.
The. young gi rl watched my face
anxiously for a moment; then, steal
ing to my side, she timidly took my
hand.
“Please let mo stay with you. In
deed, indeed, you will never be sor-
The childlike voice, with tiie sad
vibration thrilling through its soft
tones, was too much for ihb. And
thus Daisy Wardo came to be my
compamou, to brighten with her
young life tho dyeary stateliness of
the Irome in which for forty long
years I had passed ray solitary exis
tence. But I was solitary no longer;
at last 1 had an interest m my life,
and as time passed I became more
and more attached to my beautiful
companion, j j ' i i
From the first it was plain to me
that she was suffering from some
hidden sorrow, and though I res
pected her desire for secrecy and did
not urge her eenfidbiice, I could not
help wondering wlmt the cloud
could be that had spread such a deep
gloom over her naturally suiiny,
happy nature. v
By and by a letter came to me
from my nephew Walter, (the son of
n brother long since dead,) a bright,
inspiring letter, jnst like his own
cheery self, informing mo that in a
month’s time he would be uble to
make mo a short visit.
I had two nephews, who, in my
eyes, embodied every attribute that
is truest aud noblest; but while I
frequently Imd visits from Walter, I
seldom saw my sister’s son, as his
time was too completely taken up by
the. duties of his chosen profession to
leave him much opportunity for
pleasure.
Though I was well advanced in
years, and an old maid, I still was
able to romance a little, and now as
I watched Daisy as she flitted abont.
the house in her quiet, helpful way,
doing jnst the right thing at the
right moment, I conld not help a
smile curling the corners of my
DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 30, 1881.
mouth. When" I had last parted
from Walter, in his joking fashion,
ho had said: *
“Now, Aunt Margaret, when
come again I shall expect you’ll have
a nice little wife all picked out for
me.”
Do came, and I was not slow to
perceive how very charming he fonnd
my young companion. And I was
well pleased, for though .1 know so
little concerning her, I felt that she
could ^never have done any wrong,
and that some time—she had told me
as much—she would explain the
mystery which shrouded her past
•life.
Matters went on, until at length
Waiter obeyed his ardent impulses
aud disclosed to Daisy his sentiments
It was a complete and painful sur
prise to her. When, later, Walter
came to bid me** good-by, I saw at
bhee that his suit Imd been rejected
“Do not blame her, Aunt Marga
ret,” he said, as ho wrung my hand
at parting: “If she cannot love me
it is my misfortune—not her fault,”
He was gone, and losing no time,
with Iny heart full of indignation,
sought Daisy.
I had set my mind upon the
match, for l had begun to dread the
time which, sooner or later, must
inevitably come when she shonld tell
me she must leave me, and I imd
loped that if she became Walter’s
wife it would take no very strong
inducements to cause him to conscut
to make his lintUc with mo.
I found the child in tears, and
when I saw the pain in her truthful
face my anger melted away.
“He is a noble fellow, Daisy,” I
said. “ Why could you not euro foiv
him?”
The drooping face flushed a rosy
red as she confessed the reason.
“BecaH80, my dear friend, though
there is nothing but sorrow for me
in that lbvo, mv heart is already
given to another.”
•Suddenly shc : crept close to my
side.
Miss Wyntram,” she said, “I
have told you so much that now J
am going to confide to yon the wholo
of my sad story.”
As I listened I understood why my
darling’s face InnT never lost the
sad pathos which was its habitual
expression.
She had been brought up in afilu-
enco as the only and idolized child
of a wealthy father; but suddenly,
without a moment’s warning, death
had invaded their home and stricken
down her loving, watchful parent,
’leaving her alonc.
Then his lawyer—the father of the
lover, with whom she Imd plighted
her troth—had come to her, and with
a few words had cut, as it were, the
ground from beneath her feet. From
papers wlpeh ho jmd fouud in his
deceased client’s private desk, he had
discovered that she was no blood re
lation of him she had called “father,”
but a foundling taken from* an
asylum, of whose name and parentage
no one knew aught.
“I could not help bnt notice that
Mr. Kendal’s manner [at the name I
started] was not the same as it Imd
been when lie deemed me the daugh
ter and heiress of his wealthy client,
and the next words showed me my
perceptions had beou true ones.
“ ‘As things are, my dear young
lady,’ he said suosively, ‘do you not
think it would be the proper thing
for yon to return to my son his free
dom? Let me be frank with you.
My son is ambitious, and, if ho
marries well, has a brilliant future
before him. He bus an annt—an old
and exceedingly fastidious person—
who adores him; bnt if by uniting
himself to one without immo or
lineage he should lower himself in
her estimation, ho would, beyond
doubt, lose all chance of the large
fortune to which with a cousin he
is co-heir.’
“I was proud, and thongh hurt to
the quick, I hid as best I conld, my
pain, and wrote as desired. Then I
left the home that wo* no longer
NO. 30.
mine. I knew that my betrothed
would ldave uo stone unturned to
induce me to change ray determine
tion, and I feared lest in his dear
presence my pride should givo way,
In lookiug over the paper I saw your
advertisement; the rest you know.
“Would yon mind tolling mo your
lover’s first name, Daisy?” I askod
“It is Roland,” she answered.
I know that Daisy felt happior
after her confidence in me, and each
day as it went Jjy-only strengthened
the tics of affection between us; while
into my mind had entered a pleasant
assurance, for (thongh why, I will
not now say) I knew that I had |»o
need to dread a lonely future without
the winsome companion I had learned
to leun so upon.
Two weeks went by, and one
evening we sat in. the library,. Daisy
was reading ulond with the full glow
of the lamp-light falling ovor her
lovely face, while I, with my knit
ting, sat a little back In the shadow.
A light step came up the stairs,
through the hall, and pansod by the
open door.
All unconsciously, Daisy read on,
her young voice making swiet music
in the great room.
Suddenly a rich voice I well knew,
with a ring of passionate joy in its
tones, which brought the sympa
t-lietic tears to my old
claimed:
“Daisy! my own! Found at hint!”
With a glad, wondering cry she
sprang to her feet.
“Boland! is it—dan it he you?”
“Yes, my darling, it is yourRol-
oves, ex
lady, but for whom this blissful
moment might never Imvo porno, to
Taking the surprised girl in his
arms, he kissed her on her beau tun I
month; then he led her to me. ,
“Aunt Margaret,” lie said, “when
learned a year past from my father,
his last illness, the truth, which
he had withhold from me til! then,
I)|s4vliat Imd passed between him and
Daisy, 1 made a vow to find, her,
though I grow old in the search.
But my heart imd grown heavy within
my breast, and hope had all bnt left
me, when I receiyed your letter, tell
ing me of your suspicions that your
dear companion and she whom I
loved were one and the same. So l
came. 1 have always loved yon more
a .on than a nephew, and now it
is to yon that I owe the happiness of
my life J”
They were married, and the wisli
of my heart was gratified, for Daisy
never loft me.
Years have passed since then, and
soon we are expecting a visit from
Roland’s oousin Walter and his
(Hide.
Tims all things have worked to
gether for the best, and it would be
hard to find a happier old woman in
the world than I am to-day.
“The child Is father to the muu.”
Mr. J. Gould’s mouse trap \yas doubt
less a curious device—a sort of laby
rinth by which the little auimuls were
induced to oome in and could nevor
find their way out again. Ever since
that time Mr. Gould has simply oc-
cup cd himself in contrivances for
improving and giving greater utility
to that original mouse trap, increa:>
ing its capacity and the mult ifarioits-
iioss of its uses. At present it is co
cunning in its contrivance, so enor
mous in capacity, possesses such
enormous powers of deglutition and
digestion, that it has the attractive
force of the loadstone rook on which
8inbad the Sailor was wreokod, and,
like the great serpeutof the Icelandic
mythology, threatens to engirt the
world. Into its capacious month arb
drawn not only monoy and stock and
bonds, but telegraphs and railroad
nes. As Mr. Gould says, thinking
of his great improved monso trap for
the capture of other men’s earnings:
“I co into almost m-nri-Mmicr Hmi
go into almost everything that
promises a return, but, at the same
lime, l ain us careful as possible to
make my gains exceed my losses.”
That is to say, the principle of this
now perfeoted mouse trap is to en
tice everything and everybody into it,
and in no case to lot out as much as
come in.—Baltimore bun.
The Much ami Many Mortgaged
Mule.
We hour his hoof upon the hill,
We hear Ini bray down lu the v 1o. '
The lonely fields, the brakes and Hens
Give echo to hi4 'mournful talc, .
He is coming, he js coming; the
long expected uud
, . . , „ , . — mortgaged
ami, and the nephew of this dear old..mule, upon every highway .and by-
lilid V. 1)11 f*. fill* vvliMin fliifl 1111.'<• l*i11 tt til* I.. 1.„ .i * ...m, » -• *
Jay Gould’s Mouse Trap;
In tho conreo of a long interview
between Jay Gould aud. the reporter
of a Now York paper, in which he
discussed almost.ovorything of con
temporary human interest, (except
his own schemes,) the great manipu
lator condescended to some personal
reminiscences. Speaking of the rap-,
id growth of Now York he said that
it was very apparent to him, though
he was still a young man. Ilis first
visit to New York was dtiriugthe
Crystal Palace exhibition. “I was a
mere boy,” he said; “I was full of
ambition, and I bronght a little thing
with me from my country homo, that
I thought was going to make my for
tune and revolutionize the world. It
was a mouse trap. That mouse trap
was to me the greatest thing in New
York. It was not very big, but I
took co much pride in it—it was so
precious to me—that I had a vory
handsome mahogany box made in
wliieh to carry it,” Mr. Gould went
on to say that while riding in a street
car his mouse trap was stolen from
him, but ho pursued the thief, collar
ed him, and recovered his treasure.
path is beating with slow and mee : -
ured tread, his weary journey to the
pity of Macon. #
True, lie died hist fall, just before
die lien upon Ids lean frame fell due
and lie went to protest under a btir-
doii*of ills and cold drafts that broke
his wind and filled his hellowsed
side? with the Jiort,stubborn thumps
that betoken early decay.
His frailed flesh was borne by those
body snatchers—the vultures of the
air—into the ethereal regions that
hang abovo tho olassio waters of
>IIog ereok, which glides co peacefully
through tho primeval forests of sec
ond growth pines and by tho sleep-
ng field of old Jones.
IIo went to rest for tho first time
since tlio'e far off. dreamy days of
colthood, in, tho gludes that skirt the
dark waters of Big Sandy in Twiggs
and Wilkinson.
He gavo up tho ghost without a
neigh, by the flowery banks of Tobe-
sofkee, and in tho race of life and
for life he kicks his last kick and
pa-wed his last paw, where tho sainted
stream of Towaliga,unites its comely
waters with the ancientOomulgeo.
He loft tho hayless and cornless
region to unite his destiny with the
hungry spirits thatIjad feebly trottod
on, before, by tho turbid cur
rents of Big Indian, that rolls its
sluggish burden through tiie sandy
plains of old Houston.
Ho. Ujrn,fd liis -fliyhtlesK oyns for
tho last time toward tiie glorious sun
in the heavens and took up the sol-
onfn tramp to tho bright Elysian
fields,
_ Where the
by degrees his stiffened limbs, rises
from his well-worn couch, shakes
tho dust from his bristling coat, aud
‘d from shoor habit and by liarcli
coercion administered by bis cruel
master, ho “piw under tho rod”
and slowly takes up tholiuo of march
to the Mcooa of his annual pilgrim
age. 'Chore ho receives his usual
valuation, with an t urned name,
and under the weight of aeon mutated
mortgages tones his feet to the conn
try once more, there to spond u
weary, hungry snminor and to did
again in autumn.— Matin Telegraph.
The Holy Kiss.
Anotlior minister is in trouble
about tho holy kiss. Is it not about
time for religious people to see what
tho unrogonorato long Imvo soon,
i-hnt salutations with tho lips are, to
say tho least, disturbing to the repu
tation that chiirohes de3iro to main
tain ? If kissing is really a sancti
monious motliod of grooting, why do
not pastors who praotico it ovor be
stow their labial attentions upon
men ? Most people nro tools enough
to do whatever is pleiisaht to them,
without opening thoir eyes to tho
conscquoncos; but persona who olaim
to Imvo boon placed by llOavon in
clmrgo of tho morals of several score
of thoir follow men should bo abovo
this sort woakness. Some of them
may claim that mstoad of weakness 1
it is an apostolic injunction; but they
might as wo,11 save their breath to
cool-thoir coffee, foi\tho present gen
eration reads the Bible with its head
and heart as well traits eyoa, aud it
'fill never admit tlmt which is dan
gerous for the flock is safe for the
shophord. If a husband coincs into
liis house and epos his wifo being
kissed by a neighbor, that neighbor
Ts assisted to the, door by a few hearty
applications of boot too. .similar
treatment for the wolves who are
masquerading in the costume of
shopliords would speodily ouuso a
powerful light to pervade so-callod
ecclesiastical oiroles.—Y. Y. Herald.
A Vagabond*
Ho sat upon the Court House stops
yesterday, his hand clasping a stont
oak stiek, and liis rheumatic limbs
encased iu ragged garb Stretched out
before him. His skin was black,but
tho short, kinky hair which cpvored
his head and face was pure, unoloud-
ed white. There was a last century
look about the old man tlmt attrac
ted tho reporter’s attention. He ■
appeared to be a-rnsty link binding
the notive humanity which flowed
post Irin with the far-way days of
slavery. Tho reportor stood and
moralized over him until his copcon-
triited guzo attracted the old man’s
attention, and provoked an old-fash
ioned touch of the battered beaver,
which from its appearance seemed to „
have borno the storms of a half hun
dred wintors. The month full of
irregular tooth opened into a sem
blance of a smilo, and gavo birth
to a.
“Howdyo, boss.” Not unwilling
to suffer a olmllongo for an interview
to pass, the reporter drew near.
lowdyo, old man. Ilavo tlioy
gotten you into n /court house
ap
“No, salt; I’so dos try’n to git sum
meal, but looks like I ain’t gwiiio to’
ceod. Dey sos I ortor to work, ’on
Gon’l Bragg’scharged mo cause I war
aobbonty-six year ole.”
“Tlmt’11 make you
old, now, then? It does look
as though tho ei
Hinty ought to bogiti
to gi ve you a In
do any good.
If it ovor expects to
Vliero did you eomo
ham. old man,
and whore Imvo you
bebii?”
“I whs born
down at do f mill in
*' 1 i- iX r 'i
Hancock.”
“I know tho
phico. Go on.”
“En* I libbec
1 darbouts ’twoll do
'-..-'J
slibrhff sot dbwi
1 on olo nrnssa, en’
Iris ’brathor j ’n-
aw run, mo in for
'olovon hutidie
d on’ forty dollars.
Don I wont UJ
’n tor Putmiriv, on’
A Decidely Cool Monk.
A monk, on his way to Lnzarche
the other day, fell in with a stranger
rid-ng in the same direction, with
whom lie entered into a conversation
uud was charmed with the agreeable
sallies of liis companion. The lutfer
learning from the monk tlmt ho was
in charge of a sum of monoy belong
ing to this convent, and was proceed
ing thither, obsorved tlmt he himself
was travelling toward tlmt part of
the country, and that by taking a
short out through tho forest they
would materially abridge thoir jour
ney. When they wore in the thick
of the wood, the stranger dismounted
from his horse,seized the monk’s
bridle, and with many threats insis
ted on his delivering up the monoy
ho hud with him.
“I do not carry it about me,” re
don lev Pike, on’kep or movin’ round
lively’twoll do war, wen I got outer
do finny wid Gen’l Bragg, on’ de
Lord knows where wo didn’t go.
’Twas ovor do ribbor on’ back tor do
mnunl’iiH, ’twoll doy ’selmrgcd mo
’cause I opuId n’t wurk—”
“And then you settled down to
raising children and cotton again?”
ovor boon to Avkonsaw?”
Tho old fellow Qhiiokicd. “Dat’s
the only place 1 eliber seed om pick
born from Fosback. En cotton !
Good Lord. You soo I got led off
by do big. rush, on lay out dnr two
years. I didn’t g# back oil furdor
don Memphis fore de Ke Klux*got
my las’ doiler—”
plied the other; fallow me to got off
MIV llhl’Un and J.' ‘*'*11 ' AaII >'l(n L.r
io grass Is ovor green
Aud ilio ska:s Is ever blue,
Where no mortgages arc seen,
Aud no debts are over due,
on the sunny bunks of Alsalmtchie,
whoso hiughiug wators ploitsantly
hail and cliecrily bid ndien to tho
Imppy denizes of Crawford, who live
in its smiling valleys.
The winds of spring blow upon
the graves of the dead flowers and
cull them from nndor the sod to bud
aud bloom again, to cimnn otir eyes
with their rich and varied hues and
to gladden onr senses with their
sweet perfume.
Tho sen of Ham, with tho voice of
a iStcntor, speaks to the jBloepmg
form of tho dead mule, and shouts
in his ear “dat de time ob do sinin’
ob mortgages is cum and do smoll ob
gnanucr is all obor do land.” In re
sponse to this mighty summons he
wakes froip l\ : s long reposo, moves
my horse and I will call tiie lay
brother who follows iho with the bag
gage and hand you ovor the one thou
sand livres.” Tho stranger consented
and the monk, rejoining his atten
dant, took from him a ,purso
containing the sum specified, und
also a pirifbl, which ho hid in Ins
sleovo, then, throwing tho purse on
the ground, ho wafted until the rob
ber was in the act of stooping to
pick it up, and shot him through tho
head. Hastening to the nearest
village, he related wlmt he Imd done
to tho authorities, and obtained per
mission for a troop of grenadiers to
accompany him to tho spot, where
they fonnd tl»c robbor lying stono
dead, with tho'purse by his side.
Searching his person, tlioy discovered
iu a secret pockot a whistle, which
one of tho party put to his mouth
and blew with all his force. A fow
minutes aftor, ton well-armed indi
viduals arrived from different parts
of tho woods, and aoombat ensued
which resulted in the death of two of
tho gang and in the oaptnro of two
of tho remainder.
crowd in de cyar shod on stole de las’
cent in do crowd.”
“And whore arc your children ?”
“(Jhillon ? Five is ded, bo||
is ded, on’ do res’ is scult’d twoll do
judgment comes;” The old follow
fixed his eyes upon the far way past,
and continued slowly: “I didn’t
miiio mos’ of ’em goiii’ ’cause ’twas
only natural-like, but little Ben, poor
, . m . P jp|.
“Dat’s a foe’. Iso raised heap.of
ohillon en a heap or cotton,—boss von
-boss you
“Mover!”
■ '
mmf
“Ke KUix?”
“YeSi boss, dey sliiq.ed up on do
•
little Bon—if I could see littP Ben
jes unco, it wouldn’t bo so hard.
Poor littl’ Bon; poor littP Bon I”
“Wlmt became of him, uncle ?”
“LittP Bon ?” Do las’ I seed uv
him he wus ridin’ on behind uv one
uv do raidora.” (Wilson’s cavalry.)
“Well, wlmt of tlmt ?”
“Boss,” mid the old olmp’s oyes
were fixed upon tho reporter with a
pnzzled look m thoir faded dopths*
“boss, I’m frod littP Boil’s gono to
h—11.”
Hero the interview closed—Ma
con Telegraph.
A clergyman, in a lecture on “How
to got married,” said: “Evory man,
wants a wifo, and every woman wants
a husband,” Bu t tho groat difficulty,
Mr. Clergyman, is that the woman,
tho man wants won’t have him, and,
Uio man the woman wants wants
some other womau; or somehow tlmt
way.
iivJisi
J&tnk* -ir.Hjf. i&£Sk
