Calhoun weekly times. (Calhoun, GA.) 1873-1875, August 26, 1870, Image 1

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The Calhoun Times. Volume I. 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 country. RAILROADS. " 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. Georgia Railroad. 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. Rome Railroad. DAY TRAIN. 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 Atlantic Railroad. NIGHT TRAIN. 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 to Atlanta. Selma, Rome & Dalton. PASSENGER TRAIN. Leave Selma 9.30 A . m. Arrive at Rome 8.55 r. m. Arrive at Dalton 11.50 p. m, ACCOMMODATIOM TRAIN. 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 °o bnnday. PROFESSIONAL CARDS. WTs. JOHNSON, Vttoi-ney At Law, CAL 110 UK, GEORGIA. Office ia Southeast corner of the toiirt House. 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 k. mTtarver; Attorneyat Law, CALIIOUN ; GEORGIA. Office in the Court House. Au «U 1 ts w. J. CANTRELL, Attorney At Law. Calhoun, Georgia. SSsSK* *«&» 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, Calhoun, Ga. POETRY. 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 green, 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 reef, To the rock that is under his lee, As he drifts on the blast, like a wind wafted leaf, 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 waves May see 11s battle or shade; Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark, 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 fifth miles. 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 cents 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. • MISCELLANY. 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 and cares. 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 others.” ‘A\ hat does looking on the things of others mean?” thought Mary, to her self. 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 thought,— * “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 control ! 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 solation.” “ 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 his eyes. 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 tone, — “ 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 was. “ 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 said.— “ Farewell, mv daughter, trust in God.” 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 pray. 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 ter.” “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 recovered. 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 days. ■ -4 ♦ i— - Flize. 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 shun. 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 dish. He’s a mean, millignant, owdashus, premedditated cuss. 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 mizerble too. Es that ain’t the flossfy uv flize. I give it up. 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 dissagreabil. 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. ISTrimlier VARIETY. 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 drink. 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 lover. 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 ent. 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 pages. 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 colloquy occurred: 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.