Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME Vfl.
Professional Cards,
ROBERT A. MASSEf,
ATTORNEY AT LAW
DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
(Office in front room, Dorsett's Building.)
Will practice anywhere except in the Countj
_ kourt of Doug I atm cou n ty.
WITjAMES,
attorney at law
Will practice in. ftU the Wnrt gtaU „ n<]
Federal. Office on Oottrt House Square,
_____ DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
WM. T. ROBERTS, ~~
ATTORNEY AT LAW
DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
“ U <h<! Doni’. All l«g.l
in Court 6 P™»“P* “«»«»■>. Offi"c.
c?oTcfiMP,
attorney at law,
Civil Engineer and Surveyor,
DOUGLASVILLE, - - GEORGIA.
B, fi. GRIGGS,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
Feder*L^ rACtieo courts ’ State antl
JOHNmTeOGE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
Will practice in all the courts, and promptly
Attend to all business entrusted to his care.
J. S. JANIES,
attorney at law,
DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
Will practice in the courts of Douglass
CMnpb*! l , Carroll, Paulding, Cobb. Fulton and
adjoining counties. Prompt attention given
to aU business.
DR. T. R. WHITLEY,
Physician and Surgeon
DOUGLASVILE, GA.
Office U{»tairs in Dorsett’s Briok Building.
. ~ ITS. verdery,
Physician and Surgeon
Office at HUDSON A EDGE’S Drug Store,
where he can be found at all hours, except
when professionally engaged. Special atten
tion given to Chronic eases, and especially
*ll cases that have been treated and are still
uncured. _____ jani;ijßs-ly
T RESPECTFULLY offer my services as Phy
-1 alcian and Surgeon to the people of Doug
lassville and vicinity. All calls will be attended
promptly. Can lie found nt the Drug Store of
HUDSON A EDGE, during the day, and at
night at my residence, at the house recently
occupied by J. A. Pittman.
J. B. EDGE.
DENTISTRY.
T. Id. COOK,
DENTAL SURGEON,
Hm located in Douglassville. Twenty years’
experience. Dentistry in all its branches done
in the most approved style. Office over Post
office.
T. S. BUTLER,
HOUSE PAINTER.
DOUGLASVILLE, GA.
Will mate old Furniture look as well as new.
Give him a trial in this hne. Will also du
house carpentering work.
■ggl," l . ■ Mg’?!"'." 1
Dwarf Love Making.
Count Magri, the dwarf, who is soon
to many General Tom Thumb's widow,
was dining in a restaurant, when a
newspaper man imformed him that his
/forces has spoken of him most com
plimentarily in a printed interview
had, in fact, said that she was madly
in love with him, and other words of
similarly burning import. The count
hung his head, blushed deeply, asked
for her exact language, and took out a
iMd-pendl and wrote it down in midget
letters on the bill of fare, in order, ax
he said, Io show it to her, and see if she*
really did feel so. Three days after
ward be wm found again. “I read that
to her,’* he observed, sadly, “and she
Mid she new said anything of the
kind."
Down at tmx Hkeu— Dan Bice, the
mroos down, is running a teu-eent dress
in the French quarter of New Orleans.
He talks sadly of the good old days
when his Floating Palace was the aeasa
two on the Father of Waters, and thou
sands upon thousands of peopleswarmed
from tar and near to see him. He gave
an entertainment a few nights ago when
not 80u pwnions were present, and about
one-third of those were profeeshmai and
lIWMo Star.
IN WINTER.
BY LOUTBK CHANDLEfe MOULTON.
• Oh, to gtt back to the days of Jut."
Just to be young and alive again,
Hearken again to the mad, sweet tune
Birds were singing with might and main;
South they flew at the summer’s wan
Leaving their nests for storms to harry,
Since time was coming for wind and rain
Under the wintry skies to marry.
Wearily wander by dale and dime
Footsteps fettered with clanking chain—
q Free they were in the days of .Tune,
Free they never can be again;
Fetters of age and fetters of pain,
Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry—
Youth is over, and hope were vaih
Under tbe wintry skies to marry.
Now we chant but a desolate rune—
’ “Oh, to be young and alive again. I”
But never December turns to June,
,1 And length of living is length of pain;
e Winds in the nestless trees
Snows of winter about us tarry,
And never the birds come back again
Under the wintry skies to marry.
ENVOI.
Youths and maidens, blithsome ahd vain,
Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry,
. Mate in season, Tor Who is fain
Under the wintry skies to marry ?
—Century for April.
’ A. ROMANTIC STORY.
1 Startling stories are told and thrilling
effects produced in the many novels of
the day, but it is seldom we find any
thing more startling or thrilling in fiction
than this “ower true tale" of a belle of
» the early part of the present century.
There are those still living who can
attest to the facts; but were it not that
the principal actors have passed from
the stage, I should hesitate yet to make
public such a peculiar family history.
As it is I will “tell the tale as it *twas
told to me,” only begging pardon for
concealing the real names.
“In what was than a charming sea
side town, there lived, fifty years ago, a
i most lovely girl, named Amy Provence
—bright and radiant and witty, but,
alas ! as the sequel shows, moat unwise,
to say the very least.
Os suitors she had many, and when
she first appears in the light of a hero
ine, she had already promised her hand,
with her heart in it, to a prosperous and
highly respected young merchant
There was not so much of fashion and
folly then as now; young ladies did not
lie awake over trosseaus and establish
ments, or mar their beauty and redden
; their eyes, dimming their luster by late
hours and high living. But Miss Prov
[ enoe approached her bridal day in all
her youthful freshness. Her lover Ernst
’ Rhodes, was ardently attached to her,
I and the course of true love ran, appar
ently very smoothly. But the old fash
ion fate has of turning momentous re
sults on very small hinges, was in style
then as now, and fate was busy with
them.
Miss Amy was invited to visit Miss
Woolsey, a wealthy old aunt in Rhode
Island, before her marriage. So, bun
dling up some of the mysterious wed
ding paraphernalia, for a last beatify
ing touch, for her fairy fingers were
, very tasteful and swift, she left her
lover, with regret, I know, and left him
for a week’s sojourn with her aristocratic
relative. Thia week was understood to
be the last of her maidenhood, and the
young girl felt even that to be a small
eternity. But what youngjfancee, on the
eve of marriage with the dear one of her
choice, cannot find a wealth of enjoyment
in loving thoughts even for a whole week?
Mim Woolsey was a lady of position
and consequence, and the rare beauty
and grace of her niece gave her a pres
tige in the eyes of the many visitors to
the house. Her entertainments were
unique and ‘*just the thing,” and it was
with a certain degree of pnde that an
invitation to Miss Woolsey’s was accept
ed by the surrounding gentry. It is the
same the world over, and has been for
far more years than this veritable history
covers, that a certain element in charac
ter is gratified by the notice of thoee
who are considered a round higher on
the social ladder. Amy was delighted
with the evidence of luxury about her;
and her vanity was flattered by the nu
merous attentions she received from the
various visitors to her aunt’s house.
Ernst at home was impatient for her re
turn, chafing and wondering how Amy
could go away from him, even for »
week, if she loved as he loved 1 Fate
was weaving her first thread 1
Among the many who came to Miss
Woolsey's attracted by the exquisite
beauty of Mias Amy, was one, a certain
Mark Haise, of whom people knew lit
tle, save that he seemed to live in some
style; at least, he kept a carriage, a ;
luxury that few indulged in in those i
days, and said very little about himself ’
and his antecedents. Each evening be ;
came, and each evening saw him at ;
j Amy ’s aide, £Lahedaol felted <4 iov*,
FAWNING t O >ONE- ch arity to all.
DOUGLASVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, MAY 12. 1885.
but shrewder eyes than hers saw whither
he iVas tending, and fate was weaving
her second thread.
In the meantime Amy had been very
diligent; the work was finished, the last
touches given to the dainty finery, and
in the near future the sweet hope of her
life would be fulfilled; so thought she.
Ernst was at home, waiting as only
lovers can wait, and each one of you
knows how patiently that is. Amy would
go to-morrow.
Even at this distant time, in the light
of all the sufferings that followed, my
pen almost refuses to chronicle the rec
ord of the last eventful evening of the
poor girl’s visit. We do have some
thing to do with our destiny, inasmuch
as the reins are put into our own hands,
and we may turn whithersover we will 1
So Mark Haise came and Amy received
him.
As usual he sat by her side, and, as
usual, she let him linger there. AJas 1
for the dear boy at home she knew she
loved, and whom in spite of all that fol
lowed, you know she loved 1 Ernst was
not by to give her his warning look,
and save her from the tempter. The
soft voice spoke:
“My dear Miss Amy”—and very ten
der was his look—“you are going away,
and do you know how I shall miss you ?”
“You can’t ‘miss’ me much longer,”
she blushingly replied, laughing at the
innocent pun.
“Ah I that is what makes my heart
ache so,” said he, “for when you are
gone, and I think of all your happiness,
I shall regret more than I can tell you
that you ever came among us to so dis
turb the ripples of my quiet life;” and
a deep sigh enforced his words.
“Please don’t talk so, Mr. Haise,”
said Amy, “for even in this short week
I have learned to prise your friendship
highly, and I should be sorry indeed
not to retain it.”
“Amy,” said he, casting off all reserve,
and abruptly seizing her hand—“ Amy,
I can stand it no longer; I must know
my fate from your own lips! When you
talk to me of quiet friendship, there
rashes upon me like a wave the thought
of all that I lose in losing you 1 Will
you be my wife ?”
His impetuosity startled her, and she
drew back.
“Do not talk so to me 1” she cried.
“Do. you not know that in a few days I
shall be Ernst’s wife ?”
Mark Haise knew not and cared not
who “Ernst” was; he only knew that
she had promised her troth to another,
and he meant to win her from him.
Don’t tell me that she was wrong and
imprudent to listen to him—don’t I
know it ? I am only telling you a true
story, and it is my duty to record that
this particular Amy Provence was no ex
ception to the corps of silly girls.
“Yes I know it, I know it,” he plead
ed “but, Amy, darling, how can I let
you go I I will do anything for this dear
hand. I will give you & princely home
and every surrounding that wealth can
purchase, if you will only come to me
and be my beloved wife 1”
“No, no,” said Amy, “do not tempt me.
Ernst is not rich, I know, but I love him
and he loves me dearly, and I will be
his wife.”
Do you think that Mark Haise gave up
the chase ? Not he! His voice was very
winning, and as he talked on and on, be
lieve me or not as you see fit, the girl
began to listen to his persuasive tones.
Ernst was away, and Mark, with his
fine presents and finer promises, was
near—even at her very feet.
So it came that Amy Provence was
not even “off with the old love before
on with the new,” for when Mark Haise
added to all the other temptations the
promise of a carriage for her very own,
the poor, ambitious victim yielded, and
gave to her tempter her broken faith.
What he cared for it will soon appear.
The forsaken Ernst bore as well as
his fortitude and outraged love would
let him, the cold letter announcing to
him his Amy’s treachery, and never
sought for an explanation. He was too
manly to resent the insult, and treated
tbe whole affair as beneath contempt,
rightly judging that the false-hearted
girl who could trifle with his tenderest
feelings was not worth mourning for.
It would be well for all if I could leave
it here, but truth compels me to pro
ceed. I need not tell you of the poor
mother, whose whole heart wm in Amy’s
marriage with Ernst, of all who were
so indignant at her decision; or of the for*
saken lover who had loved so blindly
only to be made to suffer so deeply—
mystery is not with these.
Miss Woolsey was well pleased at the
turn in the tide of affairs, and offered the
j deluded girl all the necessary assistance,
j She was married in a few weeks from
her aunt’s house in a style seldom seen
lat that time. I should like to linger
here if my heart waa in it, and tell you
■ dmH the fins things that wm aaid aod <
done, in spite of the unpleasant state of
things, but I will forbear.
Ambition and love are always at war,
and one most be victor, so when Amy
swallowed down the love she gave the
reins to her ambition, and looked for
ward to her lordly home with what
pleasures she might. But she knew
nothing more of the man who had “led
her his own way” than he had told her
himself, so that when she came to he
sad awakening it was as if a thunderbolt
had fallen at her feet. What were his
’ promises ? Mere empty air 1 The home
he took her to was a miser’s home, and
henceforth, and for her whole life of
fifty years, she saw such sufferings as
woman seldom sees.
Do you ask me if he gave her nothing
of all he promised ? Yes, the carriage,
which was the thing that turned the
scale in his favor; he gave her that, and
thus fulfilled his literal promise.
He gave her the carriage, but it stood
in the barn for fifty years, with never a
horse, and never a ride had she with it I
For fifty years there was present before
her eyes this constant reminder of a lov
ing heart trampled upon—for fifty years
Mark Haise made her feel his iron hand 1
Children came to her, but no comfort
with them; one grew up a miserable
drunkard, and another went out from
her for many years, returning finally, to
settle down at home, taciturn and mo
rose. Her husband died, and this son
seemed all she had to live for, and, as
his father's will was made up entirely in
his favor, the wretched woman, who
had absolutely no society or friends,
leaned on him for her daily bread. But
in a little while he died, and all the poor
mother could now do was to be thank
ful she was not a pauper. Meanwhile
how read his will ? All, everything, be
queathed to a wife and son in South
America of whose existence nobody
dreamed!
By the terms of the will, the son was
to come North immediately on being ap
prised of his father’s death, take the
family name and look after the property:
but not a word of the old mother, no
care for her declining years, no love ex
pressed, nothing for her—all as if she
were not I Is it strange after all these
reverses, and the corroding remorse of
fifty years, that the poor woman found
her burden greater then she could bear ?
When she felt her miserable life
drawing to its close, she sent for Ernst,
and for the first time in all these years
they two stood face to face I He with
bis white locks, but still commanding
figure, and fine, stern face, was an
avenging angel I she with her bent and
trembling form, her wrinkled, careworn
face, with its hungry look for human
sympathy, was scarcely the brilliant,
beautiful girl who had gone from her
home in her youth and innocence to
bring upon both their lives such a terri
ble consummation !
They gazed at each other without a
word, till, at length, she spoke, and the
words which rang upon his ears came
from the depths of a broken heart.
“Ernst-the name, the once-loved,
still loved name, lingered upon her lips
like a strain of forgotten music—“ Ernst,
can you forgive me ?”
Gently the old lover took her trem
bling hand in his, but with everything of
love crushed out for all the years; calm
ly the words fell on her ears:
“Amy, I cannot! You rained my
whole life I But for your trampling out
my young heart I should have been a
different man ! But for your treachery
we might have been happy 1 As it is*
you destroyed my faith in woman; I
could never trust another 1”
She cowered in her misery, and put
ting her poor shrunken hands over her
worn face, she cried:
“Before God, Ernst, I pray for your
mercy 1 He knows how I have suffered,
and if ever a poor criminal expiated his
guilt with his heart’s blood, I havel
Let me feel that your just resentment
will not follow me to the eternal world 1”
“Amy, let us understand one another.
We are both old now. Since you and
I met in the old, old time—” his voice
quivered, and he raised his dewy eyes
to heaven—“it is half a century. But
all this fifty yean is but as a moment
to what is to coma. I have lived a lone
ly life, without wife or children. I
should rather a thousand times have
seen the green sod over your grave, and
felt that you were lost to me because
God took you, than to have it as it is.
But your own hand gave the blow, and
it was your own hand which crashed all
my life. But if it will be any comfort to
you to feel that I do not hold resent
ment still, then be comforted, Amy.
I am willing to leave all with God.”
He bowed his head over her hand and
was gone.
When they came to her, hours later,
she lay peacefully asleep, her white,
hands clasped over her breast, and the
expression on her dead face calmer and ,
serener than it [had worn in life since
the last time Ernst had looked upon it.
* ******
Fate had woven the last thread.
“TOM POORHOUSE.”
THE OLD CLOCK TAKES THE
FARMER TO TASK FOR HIS CRU
ELTY,
Which Drove r Poor Boy to Death and
Made Himself a Ravin* Maniac.
[From the Detroit Free Press.]
The old clock down stairs began to
strike midnight as he started up. The
wind was making the old farmhouse
rock and tremble, and the powder-like
snow was driving in through every
crevice. The wife slept undisturbed,
but the old farmer was nervous and
wakeful.
“Fanner Johns, are you awake?”
It was a voice which he had never
heard before. It sounded close at
his bedside, and yet, as he looked
about the room, fairiy lighted by the
cold winter moon shining in through
the window, he saw nothing but familiar
objects.
“I am your accuser !” continued the
voice ; “I am a witness against you 1”
“What have I done?” gasped Farmer
Johns.
“Last fall you took a lad from the
poorhouse—had one bound to you
according to law.”
“Sartin, sartin, and it was a poor
speculation fur me. The boy hain’t
aimed his salt.”
“You broke him down in the harvest
field, and when you knew that he was
ill you refused him medicines! The
boy hasn’t seen a well day for three
months.”
“Yes, but boys are great shirks.
How’d I know whether he was sick or
playing off on me ?”
“You are lying to your conscience,
Farmer Johns I How has that boy
fared for provisions and clothes ?”
“Hain’t he got some of my old
clothes on this very minnit ?” protested
the farmer. “They is full o’ holes and
patches, in course, but am I going to
take a boy outer the poorhouse and
dress him in broad-cloth ? S’posen he
does shiver a little—shiverin’ don’t hurt
anybody! He gits ’nuff to eat, I reckon
—leastwise all he aims. I ain’t goin’ to
feed nobody on sweet-cake !”
“Think of his sleeping in that cold
and dismal garret such a night at this I”
whispered the accuser.
“Ail his own fault!” replied the
farmer, “I gin him a chamber by him
self, but he kept coughing and groanin’
till I couldn't sleep. Put it all on to git
sympathy, but he made a mistake. Me’n
the old woman worked for what we’ve
got, and others must do the same.”
“A straw bed—a ragged quilt, and the
night cold enough to chill an ox!” ac
cused the voice.
“Oh! pshaw I You can’t make me be
lieve the boys of to-day are so much
more tender’n the boys of my time. It
hain’t healthy fur boys to sleep too
warm. He’ll warm up at the wood pile
as soon as daylight comes.”
“Farmer Johns, no true Christian can
talk as you do. You have neither mercy
nor charity!”
“Pooh! Got lots of it! And if I
wasn’t a Christian man how’d I git to be
a deacon in the church ? That boy is a
heap better off ’n most of ’em. ”
“His body is black and blue from the
pounding you have inflicted.”
“Well, he shouldn’t oversleep then.”
“You have a heart of stone, Farmer
Johns. If that boys dies you will be
accused at the judgment seat of his
murder!”
“Nonsense! Nobody feels any more
pity for poor folks than I do, and if
‘Tom Poorhouse’ dies it will be of eat
ing too much.”
“This is the oldest patient we have in
the asylum,” said the guide, as we halt
ed at the lower end of the ward.
It was a grated door. I looked through
and saw an old man cowering in a cor
ner. After a moment he rose up and
approached the door and whispered :
“And at daylight I called and called
him, but he didn’t git up. I went up
with the horse-whip to teach him bet
ter’n to oversleep on me that way, but
Tom Poorhouse was dead on his straw
bed, and the snow had blowed in till it
almost kivered him up.”
XXVEB KNOWN TO CATCH ANYTHING.
“Are you going to send that man
down among those rotten tenements ?”
asked a visitor at the New York Police
Headquarters.
“Os course. Why not?” asked the
officer in charge.
“Because there is small-pox there.”
“Oh, he won’t catch it”
“Why, has he had it?"
“No; he’s a detective.”
“Beg pardon, I didn’t know that”
NUMBER 14.
BRACE OF FUNNY THINGS
FOUND IN TH'fe COLUMNS OF OUB
HUMOROUS EXCHANGES.
A Bit of Broken Cirhrn-The Writero*
Cramp—The Grocer —Owt in the Dead
wood Country—The AJrtmal Painter
Etc., Etc.
IN THE DEADWOOD COUNTRY.
Marriage in Arizona:
“Do you take this woman whose hand
you’re a squeezin’ to be your lawful
wife, in flush times an’ skimp?”
“I reckon that’s about the size of it,
Squire.”
“Do you take this man you’ve j’ined
fists with to be your pard through thick
an’ thin?”
“ Well, you’re about right for once,,
old man.”
“All right, then. Kiss in court, an’ J
reckon you’re married about as tight as
the law kin j’ine you. I guess four bits
’ll do, Bill, if I don’t have to kiss the
bride. If I do, it’s six bits extra.”—
Chicago Ledger.
ON EOLLKB SKATES.
This girl had h
on her roller - skates, Chicago
was her home. When she struck out her
number • * eights
the peo- • o o • plegaye
her room. • i * Like freight
ingxsars on • ! * wheels, im-
mense her • eo> • pedala
seemed, and • • more, as she,
regardless of expense, sailed
up and down the floor.
The girl dashed on:
she could not
stop; her feet
momentum gained.
"Down brakes I” they
cried; “Oh, maiden, flop!”
She greater speed attained.
How gracefully she skated
there I—Just like a big giraffe—
and puffed and shrieked in mad
despair, and made the people laugh.
Then came a burst of thunder sound,
as on the floor she sat upon her buatle
big and round, and made
it—oh!— so flat, she sat
in misery complete, and
blushed. She couldn't stir; but
never tried to hide
her
OO OO feet,
because those
feet hid her.
~oo" 00~
—H. 0. Dodge, in Dim*.
THE WANING OF THE HONEYMOON.
Mrs. Cherry—“ You see, my dear, I
m prompt about calling, I always
make it a point to call on the bride early,
before the honeymoon is over, you
know.”
Bride (wearily)—“l tear you are too
late.”
Mrs. Cherry—“ Too late ! Why, you
have hardly got settled in vour new
home yet.”
Bride—“l know; but in?
is over. ”
Mrs. Cherry—“ Over?”
Bride—“ Yes; the market bills have
begun to come in.”
GREAT CONSIDERATION OF A GROCER.
“Who was it' that rang the bell,
Jane ?” asked the lady of the house.
“The grocer, mum.”
“With a bill, I presume.”
“Yesum.”
“You told him to come next wr-;*.'
“Yesum.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, mum, he had been here a
dozen times already and he wouldn’t
come again, and to tell you so.”
“How considerate. I didn’t think it
of a groceryman.”— Cincinnati Traveler.
BBOKEN CHINA
Flenchee manee comes,
Flinkee havee fun,
Fightee Chinee some®,
Bling along big gun.
Flinkee Chinamanee
Lunee light away, '
Flinkee fight with sanes,
Mebbe with tea-tray.
Chinamanee watchee,
Gitee mightee mad,
Flenchee armee catchee,
Hurtee plitty bad!
Flenchee fightee finee,
Gun go alapee bang 1
Allee names Chinee
Lickee him Dong Dang.
—Chicago Tribune.
NOT BELOW THE AVERAGE.
Boy—Say, mister, hev you seed any
thing of our old cow down the road ?
Tramp—How do I know your cow?
Why don’t you bell her ?
Boy—That’s just what pap said’he’d
make me do if I don’t find her.
man Independent.
JEST THE THING FOR HIM.
He was one of Austin’s favorite art
amateurs, and wm seeking a point where
he could settle down to work and prac
tice. He struck the quiet little village
of Kyle, and said to a farmer living in
the suburbs:
“Can you tell me sir, vrhere I can se
cure board in the village?”
“What’s your business?” asked the
farmer.
“I am an animal painter,” replied the
artist.
“You don’t say P replied the farmer,
in a tone of wonder and admiration;
“then, by gosh ! I’ll board ye, and you
can paint my old roan horse black to
match my other one. ” The artist is now
driving a mule team.— Texas Siftingr.