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- K .<«$ 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