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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.