The Calhoun Times.
TIIK < VIiHOI n timks.
QfflCE OVEFi J. H. AfiTHUFF'S, RAILROAD STFFEET.
Terms of Subscription.
One Year : : • ; ; ™
gix Months : : • • • l - Zo
Kates of Advertising.
.Mo. I a'MosT'» Mob. 1 year.
frr SSAK> sy.O<r $15.00 $25.00
;<< 8.00 12.00 25.00 40.00
column 10.00 18.00 35.00 45.00
} 18.00 30.00 50.00 75.00
j .< 30.00 50.00 75.00 140.00
All subscriptions are payable strictly in
stance; and at the expiration of the time
for which payment is made, unless pre
viously renewed, the name of the subscriber
will be stricken from our books.
For each square of ten lines or less, for the
irst insertion, sl, and for each subsequent
nsertion, fifty cents. Ten lines of solid
jirerier, or its equivalent in space, make a
‘t -ms cash, before or on demand after
the first insertion.
Advertisements under the head of “ Special
Notices,” twenty cents per line for first in
ertion. and ten cents each sebsequent inser-
Al) communications on matters of public
ate eg t will meet with prompt attention, and
concise letters on general subjects are re
spectfully solicited from all parts of the
" Western & Atlantic.
night passenger train—outward.
heave Atlanta 7.00 p. m.
Arrive at Calhoun 12.15 a. m.
Arrive at Chattanooga 3 30 A. m.
PAT PASSENGER TRAIN—OUTWARD.
Leave Atlanta..... 8.15 A. m
Arrive at Calhoun 12.51 p m.
Arrive at Chattanooga 4.20 p. m.
ACCOMOD TION TRAIN —OUTWARD.
Leave Atlanta 530 F. m.
Arrive at Dalton 8.30 p. m.
NIGHT PASSKNGKR TRAIN—INWARD.
Leave Chattanooga 7.50 p. m.
Arrive at Calhoun 11.44 p. m.
Arrive at Atlanta 4.14 a. m.
DAY PASSKNGKR TRAIN—INWARD.
Leave Chattanooga 7.00 A. m.
Arrive at Calhoun 10.29 A. u.
Arrive at Atlanta 8.27 p. m.
ACCOMODATION TRAIN —IN WARD.
Leave Dalton 2.00 p. m
Arrive at Atlanta 9.00 A. m.
DAY PASSKNGKR TRAIN.
Leave Augusta. 7,15 a. m.
Leave Atlanta. 7.00 a. m.
Anive at Augusta. 5.45 p. m.
Arrive at Atlanta. 7.10 p. m.
NIGHT PASSENGER AMD MAIL TRAIN.
Leave Augusta. 9.50 p. m.
Leave Atlanta 5.45 P. m.
Arrive at Augusta. 4.00 a. m.
Arrive at At anto. 8.00 a. m.
Macon & Western.
£ DAY PASSENGER TRAIN.
Bare Atlanta. 7.55 a. m.
..vrive at Muc.u. 1.4 u p. m
heave Macon. 7.55 a.-m.
Arrive at Atlanta, . 2.20 r.; m
NIGHT EXPRESS PASSENGER TRAIN.
Leave Atlanta 7.15 p.m.
Arrive at, Macon 3.28 a.m.
Leave Macon 8.50 p. m.
Arrive at Atlanta 4.4(5 a m.
Leave Rome 10.00 A. m.
Anive at Kingston 11.30 a. m.
Leave Kingston 1.00 p. m.
arrive at Home 2.30 p. m.
Connecting at Rome with accomodation trains
ep Selma, Rome and Dalton Railroad, and at
Kingston with up and down trains Western and
Leave Rome 9.30 p. m.
Arrive at Kingston 10.45 p. m.
Leave Kingston 11.10 r. m.
Arrive at Rome 12.25 p. m.
Connecting at Rome with through night, trains
ep Selma, Rome and Dalton R .ilroad, and at
Kingston with night trains on Western and
Atlantic Railroad to Chattanooga and from and
Selma, Rome & Dalton.
Leave Selma 9.30 A . m.
Arrive at Rome 8.55 r. m.
Arrive at Dalton 11.50 p. m,
Leave Rome 4.45 P . M
Arrive at Rome 12.30 p. m.
Leave Dalton 10.00 a. m.
The accommodation train runs from Rome to
'Acksonville daily, Sundays excepted.
The through passenger train only will be run
Vttoi-ney At Law,
CAL 110 UK, GEORGIA.
Office ia Southeast corner of the
gl°g 11 1 ts
JOS. M ’ CO NNBLL.
fain and McConnell,
Attorneys at Law,
CALHOUN , GEORGIA.
Office in the Court nouse.
Au g 11 1 ts
CALIIOUN ; GEORGIA.
Office in the Court House.
Au «U 1 ts
w. J. CANTRELL,
Attorney At Law.
K. .T. KIKER,
A IV Law,
wkhir*«4* t on u r °' M * » f
Georgia, and thaTT Su P reme Court of
at Atlanta, Ga L ' mlcd Stut °s District Court
- ■■ augl9’7oly
. Shoemakers Wanted ~
e *Oy application t 0 ’ B ° od w «£ es >
augl9*7otf IjLLIS & COLBURN,
WITHOUT THE CHILDREN.
O the weary, solemn silence
Os a house without the children !
0 the strange, oppressive stillness,
Where the children come no more 1
Oh ! the longing of the sleepless
For the soft arms of the children,
Ah ! the longing for the faces
Peeping through the opening door,
Faces gone for evermore!
Strange it is to wake at midnight
And not hear the children breathing,
Nothing but the old clock ticking,
Ticking, ticking, by the door.
Strange to see the little dresses
Hanging up there all the morning;
And the gaiters—ah ! their patter,
We will hear it never more
On our hearth-forsaken floor!
What is home without the children ?
’Tis the earth without its verdure,
And the sky without the sunshine
Life is withered to the core! 1
So we’ll dreary desert,
And we’ll follow the Good Shepherd
To the greener pastures vernal,
Where the lambs have “gone before.”
With the Shepherd evermore!
SUN AND SHADOW.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
As I look from the isle, o’er its billows of
To the billows of foam-created blue,
\ on bark, that afar in the distance is seen,
Half dreaming my eyes will pursue;
Now dark in the shadow,she scatters the spray
As the chaffin the stroke of the flail,
Now white as the sea-gull she flies on her way,
The sun gleaming bright on her sail.
5 et her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,
Os breakers that whiten and roar;
How little he cares if in shadow or sun
They see him who gaze from the shore!
He looks to the beacon that looms from the
To the rock that is under his lee,
As he drifts on the blast, like a wind wafted
O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.
Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves
Where life and its ventures are laid,
The dreamers who gaze while we battle the
May see 11s battle or shade;
Yet true to our course, though our shadow
We'll trim our broad sail as before,
And stand by the rudder that governs the
baa k, * a
Nor Fisk how we look from the shore!
A Short Story with a Moral.
An English writer says : “That night
I was out late ; I returned by the Lee
cabin about eleven o’clock. As I ap
proached, I saw a strange looking object
cowering under the low eaves. A cold
rain was falling; it was autumn. I drew
near, and there was Millie wet to the
skin. Iler father had driven her out
some hours before; she had lain down
to listen for the heavy snoring of his
drunken slumbers, so that she might
creep back to bed. Before she heard it,
nature seemed exhausted, and she fell
into a troubled sleep, with rain drops
pattering upon her. I tried to take her
home with me; but no, true as a martyr
to his faith, she struggled from me and
returned to the now dark and silent cab
in. Things went on for weeks and
months, but at length Lee grew less vio
lent, even in his drunken fits, to his self
denying child; and one day, when he
awoke from a slumber after a debauch,
and found her preparing breakfast for
him, and singing a childish song, he
turned to her, and with a tone almost
tender, said : “Millie, what makes you
stay with me ?” “Because you are my
father, and I love you.” “You love
me,” repeated the wretched man, “you
love me !” He looked at his bloated
limbs, his soiled and ragged clothes.—
“Love me,” he still murmured : “Millie,
what makes you love me ? lam a poor
drunkard ; everybody else despises me;
why don’t you ?” “Dear father,” said
the girl with swimming eyes, “my moth
er taught me to love you, and every night
she comes from heaven and stands by
my little bed, and says, ‘Millie, don’t
leave your father ; lie will getaway from
that rum fiend some of these days, and
then how happy you will be.’” The
quiet, persistent love of this child was
the redemption of this man.
Definitions of the Bible.—A
day’s journey was thirty-three and one
A Sabbath day’s journey was about
an English mile.
Ezekiel’s reed was eleven feet nearly.
A cubit is twenty-two inches nearly.
A hand’s breadth is equal to three
and fiive-eights inches
A shekel of gold was $8 09.
A talent of silver was $538 32;
A finger’s breadth is equal to one inch.
A talent of gold was $l3B 09.
A piece of silver, or a penny, was 13
A farthing was three cents.
A garah, was a cent,
A mite was a cent.
An epha, or bath, contains sven ga’-
lons and five pints.
A bin was one gallon and two pints.
A firken was seven pints.
An omer was six pints.
A cab was three pints.
There are ten thousand lawsuits pending
before the courts in Chicago, in which
$30,000,000 are involved.
Kentucky has gone overwhelmingly den -
ocratic. Every county in the state has giv
en democratic majorities.
C AUHOUX, GA., FRIDAY, AUG USTj26, 1870.
The Agreeable Surprise.
BY HANNAH E. LENT.
A gloomy March morning had dawn
ed on our village, and our neighbors in
the small brown house, near to the* cor
ner of our street, were more blue and
dismal than the day. Mr. James Sym
onds had scolded his wife, because his
breakfast was five minutes late, and be
cause one button had come off his work
ing coat. Breakfast was always behind
hand ; he was always late to his work,
unless he hurried fast enough to break
bis neck; his buttons were always start
ing off for want of a stitch, something
that wouldn’t take half a minute!—
When Mr. Symonds had said this he
shut the door hard, and went miserably
down the street.
Our neighbor’s bad temper seldom
lasted t&n rods beyond his home; his
repentance often came before he was
well started on his walk; and even
while he was uttering reproaches he was
dimly feeling that he should be miser
able all that day—he alwajrs was wretch
ed when there had been a fuss at home.
He always had visions of Mary ta&en
suddenly ill, and of the house filled with
neighbors trying to help her; or of
Johnnie terribly hurt, or of the baby
sic& with croup. All such days he
trembled and turned pale, whenever a
strange head appeared at the top of the
open stairway ; and he would catch him
self listening to any strange voice in the
shop below, dreading lest a messenger
had come to summon him, on account of
some dreadful calamity.
The shop was too far off for him to
go home to his dinner; he always
took that meal with him in a tin pail;
and when he had gone to his work in a
pleasant mood, he and half a dozen fel
low workmen sat down together, talking
over the rtews, comparing notes of family
expenses; or, when the boys were away,
telling stories of their children’s pro
gress in walking, talking, etc.
When, as it often happened, things
went wrong in the morning, Mr. Sym
onds found that he must do errands at
noon ; then, after hurrying down a few
mouthfuls, he went and walked all the
rest of the hour. He could not bear,
laughing and talking freely with his
companions, while his wife was unhappy.
Many a time he would gladly have
gone all the way to Iris house just to see
that Mary and the children were all
right, only he was ashamed to show her
how troubled and anxious he was; and
he could no more have put into words
hr' sorrow ibr* ill tdljfper ($0 he thoA-dit 1
than he could have changed to a real
angel, then and there.
Mary, for her part, would have died,
sooner than have helped him on with
any such confession. She always shut
her lips fast together, and went about
her wor/* with the air of a martyr, while
her husband was in the house.
The forenoon was always passed in
recounting to herself the wrongs and in
justices ol which she was the victim;
the number of things which she had to
do, cooking, washing, ironing, sweeping,
mending, with two troublesome children
always to 100/* after—one just running
about, the other in its cradle; how
could any woman see to buttons, and get
meals to a minute, when her hands were
tied half the time!
So at home Mrs. Symonds dwelt on
her troubles, and worked her husband’s
unkindness into the dish-washing, the
cleaning up generally, even into the
washing and dressing of the little ones.
The .sense of injustice met he** in all the
familiar objects in her little /ritchen;
and when she carried Johnnie up stairs,
and had set him in a high chair, out of
harm’s way, while she made the beds,
her enemy had gone up before her, and
meeting, tortured her there. She won
dered how it would be if she were to die,
whether James would then be sorry;
whether he. w r ould learn how much she
had to do, and if he would not feel that
he had been all to blame ?
But by and by. when the housework
was done up, her hair combed and her
dress changed, as the afternoon grew on,
she thought less of herself and her
troubles, and more of Johnnie’s little
speeches, what pain it gave her to think
how little she had noticed them at the
time; of the way baby was beginning
to hold things; and she longed to tell
James these small marvels. She knew
herself too well to presume that she
would do anything of the sort.
Had not her husband been cruel and
unjust; was it not his place to make
advances ? He should at least say that
he had been wrong, just that, and she
would overlook all. But she would like
to have one bilk with him, and show
him how things really were; she did
think he ought to see that; now he only
thought of late breakfasts and missing
buttons, never of her thousand duties
Perhaps, after all, it would be better
if she or one of the children should die;
then these miserable troubles would
come end; she shuddered as she
said this about the children, and didn’t
mean it at all. Mary, too, had really
her fears about something dreadful hap
pening to James or the little ones, but
she kept it farther away, and pretended
that she was courageous.
Late.that afternoon. James, going
near the front shop-windows, saw a man
in a chaise below, leaning forward and
talking eagerly to one of the, firm. He
could not be mistaken; he saw his mas
ter poiut straight up to the window
where his own bench stood, and he dis
tinctly heard the question.—
“ What does the doctor say ?”
The answer did not reach him. but
James turned deadly pale and sick; he
staggered skudderingly bac/r to his little
corner, his whole body resolved into the
act of listening. He knew that the
s'range man was coming to find him,
and he only waited to hear the dreaded
step upon the stairs, and to see one of
the boys point out himself as a person
of great consequence, at that moment.
A few minutes went by; he had not
heard the chaise driven off, but nobody
came for him. Half an hour had passed,
when one of the boys rushed excitedly
in, to say that the old building was
really to be altered now; he had heard
Mr. Cilley talk it all over with one of
the owners, and it was all settled, lie
guessed; he shouldn’t' wonder if work
men were there next Monday.
Then James Symonds’s blood ran
freely once more; the man in the chaise,
the pointing up at his window', the ques
tion about the doctor were explained.
Doctor Bent was one of llitFWhers, and
had hitherto gone against any change.
Was ever man so relieved and happy
before ? Grateful tears would come into
his eyes, as he bent lower over his work,
and he made a swift, but earnest, hum
ble resolution that very moment.
On that same afternoon, Mary, in
trying to find some new playings for
Johnnie, had overturned on the table, a
box containing her own little treasures,
things which had not seen the light for
many a year. Among these were some
reward-cards, with texts and mottoes,
which she read over as she too/fc them
up, recalling the old time when she had
carried them home in triumph, and
learned all that was on them, before
night. Now, while she was sewiug
again, and Johnnie was playing with
bright shells and her own old cup-and
ball, the words kept running in his
mother’s mind, —
“In honor preferring one another.”
“ Let nothing be done through strife or
vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let
each esteem others better than .himself.”
“ Look not every man on his own things,
but every man also on the things of
‘A\ hat does looking on the things of
others mean?” thought Mary, to her
Putting the verses together, she could
not help seeing that to esteem others
first, and to look not on man’s own
things, were both exhortations to unsel
fishness ; and following out her attempt
to get it clear, she thought,—
“It must mean that we should try to
thin/* how other people feel about things,
instead of always thinking how we feel.
Jt is not just what we do to others that
is good or evil, hut it is seeing how
things look to them, that is right. Now
if 7.. A; P; i.s J h
doesn’t at all—and so / • f.fault.”.
But then, like a flash, ‘'came the
“Do I see things as he does?” and
when she tried to put herself in her
husband’s place, by remembering little
conversations they had held, and little
things she had heard about his work
and his companions, with what she
knew of herself, she did not seem to see
better how affairs must look to him,
than she had ever done before.
His time was not his own; lie must
be punctual at his work, or lose his
place; their house, and bread, and
clothes, their very living, depended on
his promptness. Os course he wished
to go neatly dressed to his work; . she
would not have him disgrace her or him
self; then his buttons must be looked to
in season, for when he put a garment on
there was no time for repairs. Then he
had wood to split and water to bring,
after the day’s work was over; so that
his time was almost all spent out of the
house. She could manage many things
to suit herself; he must please other
people, and people who didn’t care for
him as she did; and then she felt that
her husband might have a hundred cares
and perplexities which she did not know.
So for half an hour, Mary had really
been looking net at her own interest,
but away from it, at the interests of an
other. That half hour put anew aspect
on the whole range of her affairs.
Two days later, Mr. Symonds was
splitting wood while his wife wis get
ting breakfast; everything seemed de
termined to stop by the way; James
came in hungry and cold to find his
nervously trying to make the ket
tle boil, To finish setting the table, and
quiet the fretting baby all at once; and
just at that moment Johuuie had man
aged to knock down a dish to break it
in twenty pieces against the stove hearth.
Mary looked up in mute despair, as her
husband came in, expecting a storm,
and feeling that there was enough to
raise; but a cherry voice cried out, —
‘ Pick up the pieces, my boy!” and
she saw James catch up the baby, tos
sing her and quieting her in a minute.
The fire burned, the kettle boiled, and
breakfast was quickly on the table.—
Mary had not spoken a word, for won
der; but her husband, looking up quick
ly as she handed him his cup of coffee,
saw tears shining in her eves, and he
knew that they were tears of joy.
M hat a reward for a minute’s self
These two never talked matters over,
or t< dd each other what had changed
their minds; ten to one if they had, the
peace had been broken before it was
fail in concluded. But they practised
the less-ai which they had received.
Though each person is to consider the
interests of others, he is not called upon
to make the others see his interest in
leturn. The moral of this is not that
persons should be kind at home lest
some calamity overtake their families,
and they themselves suffer remorse. It
might he . Let eaen person be just, and
seeing a fault, cerrect it. he will
not ix a slave to fears of evil tidings.
Oi. k t no man or woman hesitate to say.
I am wrong, when there is occasion
to make such a confession. And it
might be stretched to mean, let none
ever sit down and brood alone over sup
posed injuries ; but first seek to see the
whole matter from the other side.
The Strange Death Sentence.
One cold winter night the bell in the
rear of the parsonage of St. Germain
was rung at the rather late hour. Al
though he had already retired, the vene
rable old pastor at once sent his servant
to open the door and bring up whoever
was waiting below.
A richly dressed person entered the
room and requested to speak with the
pastor alone. A false beard shaded his
stern and imposing features; his lan
guage betrayed*a man of the world.
He apologized for his late visit, which
he should not have made had he not
known the venerable pastor’s reputation
for piety and honor.
“A grave and terrible act must be
performed,” continued the mysterious
stranger, “ but it is necessary, and no
consideration can prevent it. Time is
pressing; a person who is dying has
craved your presence on the verge of
death, and lam here to bring you. You
can judge from the precautions I must
take, which are perhaps irreverential,
yet necessary, how much you are de
sired. You must ask me no question
for the purpose of penetrating the mys
tery ; you are only to administer the
last consolations to a soul that is just
leaving this world, and must be conduct
ed again to your dwelling with the same
pecautions. If you will accept these
conditions I will pledge my life for your
safety. If you refuse, I can find no
other to prepare the victim for death,
and she must die without spiritual con
“ Let us go,” said the pious pastor,
lilting his gaze to heaven, as if he xvould
seek for guidance there.
He let his eyes be blindfolded, and
entered the carriage, which was driven
away at a rapid rate. It was impossible
for the courageous pastor to distinguish
the way they took. At length the car
riage stopped at a great entrance gate,
the unknown assisted him to alight, and
led him, still with blindfolded eyes, up
a broad staircase. A great door opened,
as if of itself. They passed through
several apartments, but nothing was stir
ring at their arrival. Carpets stifled the
sound of their footsteps; the silence
grew more and more uncomfortable.—
At length they entered another room,
and the unknown took the bandgge from
Ihe apartment in which they were
is bulge, aii tv gloomily s mbl- i.--»
5 pen a small table burned two candles,
and near by stood a bed. which was half
hidden by rich damask curtains.
r i he unknown took the pastor by the
hand, led him to the bed, pushed aside
the curtains a little, and said in a solemn
“ Servant of the Lord, there is a
young woman who has disgraced the
blood of her ancestors, and whosPfate is
irrevocably decided. She knows on
what conditions 1 have brought you to
her to strengthen her soul. She knows,
too, that all entreaties are useless. You
both /now your duties. I will leave
you now, sir pastor, and return for you
agtin in half an hour.”
Who could depict the perplexity and
agitation in which the pious pastor and
the young woman found themselves ?
A young creature of twenty years, rich
in beauty, lay in the bed, bathed in
tears, with distorted countenance, wild,
beseeching eyes struggling with despair,
and longing, in the anguish of her heart,
for the consolations of religion. But all
investigation on the part of the pastor
was in vain, for the unfortunate declared
that she was bound by a solemn and
terrible oath not to disclose her name.
Besides, she did not /mow where she
“ I am,” said she, with ever-increas
ing weakness, “ the victim of a secret, a
family tribunal, whose sentences are
irrevocable. Reverend father, do not
condemn me, for my conscience is clean.
Perhaps I have transgressed a family
law by entering into marriage without
the approbation of the family council,
but not one of religion. I have loved,
but my misfortune was that the one of
my choice was not high-born. But you,
reverend father, recognize no distinction
of rank; before God we are all equal.
This is all I can tell you. I forgive
them, as I pray that God may forgive
me, through your precious mediation.
Pray for me.”
The -servant of religion heard her
confession. A divine irradiation trans
fused the soul struggling in the agonies
of death; a ray of hope illumined her
countenance; tears streamed from her
eyes, and she clasped the hand of the
pastor with b.oth of hers to thank him.
“ Submission, my child.” said the man
of God, “ and let me hope that I can
yet save you. But can I, a feeble old
man, succeed ?”
He seized the hands of the young
woman, when suddenly he observed that
the sleeves of his priestly garment were:
smeared with blood.
“What does this mean, my child?”
he asked in trembling tones.* “ Ought
crime to proceed to cruelty?”
“ My hither, thi& comes from a vain
that is open. Probfbly the bandage is
not pr< parly fastened.”
At these words af sudden light seemed
to break in upon the mind.of the pastor.
He removed the bandage,, took his
handkerchief and soaked it with the
hi • H:d that flowed from the vein. He
then re-tied the bandage, concealed the
handkerchief under his dress, and
“ Farewell, mv daughter, trust in
I lie half hour was up. The footsteps
of the terrible unknown were heard.
“ I am ready ! ” said the pastor.
He let his eyes he blindfolded again,
and loft the fearful place, prnvinsr to
God with the whole power of his faith.
On the last step of the staircase the
priest, without his guide observing it.
could peep a li.tie from beneath his
bandage, and discern the entrance gate.
By an intentional misstep he succeeded
in tailing upon his hands and knees into
a corner of the entrance, and, without
attracting the attention of his attendant,
in throwing the blood-soaked handker
chief into the corner. His guideraised
him carefully up, and both departed in
the same mysterious way they had come.
Arrived home, the pious man did not.
give himself a moment of rest., but
waked his servant and said to him.—
“ Sir, a great crime will be committed,
unless you interfere in season. You
know how many houses there are in
Paris with gate-ways. Let till these
houses be searched before break of day.
In the corner of such a gate-wax* you
will find a handk.r chief soaked* with
blood. This blood i that of a young
woman who lies in tLat house. A whole
family have set themselves up for judges
of their honor, and condemned their
victim to open her veins and lose her
life drop by drop. Courage, sir, wc
have still a few hours to-night. May
God assist you; I can do no more than
The next morning the minister cf
police entered the pastor’s room.
“My friend,” said he, “I lay down
my arms before you; you arc my mas
“Is she saved ?” cried the old man,
with tears of thankfulness in his eyes.
“ Saved,” replied 1 lie minister, and
all her family are powerless to injure.”
In the next four-and-twenty hours
after this unexpected deliverance, the
strange avengers of their family honor
were arrested by a special order of the
king, and removed from Paris. Medi
cal attention was bestowed upon the
young woman, under which she soon
When she was restored, she learned
that her husband had committed suicide
from despair. She retired from Paris
to a little town, where she ended her
■ -4 ♦ i— -
I hate a fd.
A fli is got no manners.
He ain’t no gintleman.
He’s a intruder, don’t send in no kard.
nor ax a interduckshun, nor don't knock
at the front door ;< and nuver think of
takin off his hat.
Fust thing you kno he is in bed with
you, and up yore nose—tho what he
wants thar, is a misery—and he invites
hisself to breakfast and sets doun in
yore butter thout breshin his pants. He
helps himself to sugar, and meat and me
lassis and bred, and pesurves, and vine
gy—ennything, and don’t wait for no
invitashun. lie’s got a good appytite,
and jist as sune eat one thing as another.
Tain’t no use to chailinge him for
takin liberties; he keeps up a hostil
korrispondence with yon, whether or not.
and shoots hisself at you like a bulitt,
and he nuver misses, nuver.
He’ll kiss yore wife 20 times a day,
and zizz and zoo, and ridikle you if you
say a word, and he’d rather you’d slap
at him than not, coz he’s a dodger uv the
dodgirinist kine. Every time you slap,
you don’t slap him, but slaps yoself and
he zizzes and pints the hine leg uv skorn
at you, till he aggravates you to distrack
He glories in a lightin on the ixackt
spot where you druv him from, which
pruves the intenshun to teez you. Don’t
tell me he ain’t got no mind; he knows
what he is after. He’s got sense, and
too much uv it, tho he nuver went to
skool a day in his life ixcept in a suga
He’s a mean, millignant, owdashus,
His mother nuver paddled him with
a slipper in her life. Elis morrals wuz
niglecktid, and he lacks a good deal uv
humility mitely. lie ain’t bashful a bit,
and I douts es he blushes ofting.
In sack he wuz nuver fotch up a tall.
He wuz born full-grown ; he don’t git
old—uther things gits old. but he nuver
gits old —and he is imperdent and mis
chevus to the day uv hiz deth.
He droopz in cold wether, and you kin
mash him on a winder pain, but u’ve
jest put yore finger in it. He cums agin
next yeer, and a heap mo with him.—
Tain’t no use.
One fli to a family might do fur amuse
ment, but the good uv so menny flize I
be dog es I kin see; kin you?
I haz thort much about flize, and I
haz notist how ofting they stops in thar
deviltry to comb thar heads and skratch
thar nose with thar so legs, and gouge
thar arm-pits under thar wings, and the
tops uv thar wings with thar hind legs.
And my kandid opinyun ar, that flize
is lowzy; they eeches all the time, jz
mizerble, and that makes them bad tem
pered. and want to make uther peepil
Es that ain’t the flossfy uv flize. I give
Altho a fli don't send in his /raid, he
always leeves one, and I don’t like it. —
Taint pritty es ’tis roun. He kan’t
make a cross-mark, only a dot, and lie iz
always a dottin whar thar aint no i’s.—
Thars no end to Liz periods, but he nuv
er comes to a full stop. Sieh hanritin
lie’s a artist, but hiz freshco and liiz
wall paperin I don’t rdmier. Thar’s
too much sameness in his patterns. Hiz
specs iz the only specs that don’t help
the eyes. You can’t see throo uni. and
you don’t won’t too.
1 hate a fli. Burn a tli.
A wood-chopper is always a polite man.
IMieu he wants wood ho goes and axw for if.
A Mvs in Philadelphia in one of the late
games in that city had his nose spreud all
over his face with a base ball.
If you wish to keep routs If drv, eat free-
Iv of rad herrinj s ami suit he f ami don't
Suppose a fel’er what has nothiu’, marries
a gal what has nothin', is her things Uis'n.or
his'n her’n or is his'n and her'n his'n.f
AWornsn in Califoriii has just died from
sixty-five knife wounds inflicted by a jealous
The biggest thing Chicago has on 1 and
now is its debt. Forty-seven millions is tlwr
sum total of it.
Boat and horse racing seem to occupy
the chief attention of Englishmen at pres
The following sentence of only thirty
four letters contains all the letters in the
alphabet: “ John quickly extemporized
five tow bags.”
An Illinois postmaster gives notice as
follows: *• After this date, every body
must lic£ their own p< stage stamps, for my
tongue’s give out.”
The heart of a woman is a book whose
leaves are uncut at the most interesting
After a wedding it was formerly a
custom to drink honey, dissolved in wa
ter, for twenty days—a moon’s age.
Hence the origin of the honeymoon.
An old bachelor says that giving the
ballot to women would not amount to
anything practically, because they would
keep denying that they were old enough
to vote until they got too eld to take any
interest in politics.
A Missouri newspaper claims that
the hogs of that State are so fat that in
order to find out whereftheir heads are
it is necessary to make them squeal, and
then judge by the sound.
A young widow was asked why she
was going to get married so soon after
the death of her first husband.
“ Oh, la ! ” said she “ 1 do it to pre
vent fretting myself to death on account
of poor dear Tom.”
The only prisoner in the jail at Nan
tucket informs the authorities that if
they don’t fix up the jail so the sheep
can’t get in to bother him, he will be
blowed if he will stay in there. The
prisoner is in the right, and his request
should be heeded.
A gentleman traveling on a steamer,
one day at dinner was making way with
a large pudding close by, when he was
i told by a waiter that it was a desert,
‘.kit matters not witu me,” said he; “I
could eat it if it were a wilderness.”
A school girl, writing to her mother,
says: “ I get along nicely with all my
teachers except Miss ; but I don’t
blame her. because she accidentally shot
the young man she was engaged to, and
it naturally makes her kind of cross, es
pecially on cloudy days.”
A week filled up with selfishness, nnd a
Sabbath filled up with religious exercises,
will make a good Pharisee, but a poor Chris
tian. There are many persons who think
Sunday is a sponge to wipe out the sins of
th 3 week. Now God’s altar stands from Sun
day to Sunday, and the seventh day is no
more for religion than any other. It is for
rest. The whole seven are for religion end
one of them for rest.
A lady says the first time she was
kissed she felt like a tub of roses swim
ming in honey, cologne, nutmegs and
cranberries. She felt as if something
was running through her nerves on feet
of diamonds, escorted by several little
cupids in chariots drawn by angels,
shaded by honeysuckles, and the whole
spread with melted rainbows.
Tiie result of General Howard’s trial
for misaplication of the funds of the
Freedman's bureau reminds a coteinpo
rary of the case of the fox, who, “ tried
by his peers,” on the charge of a farmer
that he had robbed his hen roost, was
acquitted on the grounds that “if he
was really guilty, he would not have ven
tured into c urt as he did, with the hen’s
feathers sticking all over his mouth. ”
A FOOL, a barber, and a ball-headed
man were traveling together. Losing
their way, they were forced to sleep iu
the open air, and to avert danger it was
agreed to watch by turns. The lot first
fill on the barber, who for amusement,
shaved the fool’s head while he was sleep
ing. He then awoke him. and the fool,
raising his hand to scratch his head ex
claimed, “ Here’s a pretty mistake ; you
have awa/rened the bald-headed man in
stead of me.
A Judge was on one occasion admin
isU ring a rebu/rc to a lawyer who came
into court drunk, when the following
Bid your honor speak to me?”
I did, sir. I said, sir, that, in my
opinion you disgrace yourself and fam
ily, the court and the profession, by your
course of conduct.”
May i-i-it please your Honor. I
have been an attorney in-i: -n thisc-eourt
i for fifteen years, and permit me to say,
your Honor, that this is the first correct
1 opinion that I ever knew you to give?
A Mii.W.aukie bachelor was seen
rushing halt dressed and bareheaded
through thr streets, the other morning,
toward the la/rc. Suicide being: us cct
ed, he was chased by the police and the
populace till he came to a cabin near the
lake, into which he rushed. The police
and populace came up in great excite
ment. and the mystery was explained.
The bachelor had sown a thousand-lol
lar greenback in the lining of a rest
which he had sent to the wash, and he
had now rushed to the washerwoman’s
to rescue the money, lie was in time.