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CALHOUN WEEKLY TIMES. BY D. B. FREEMAN. CALHOUN TIMES Rates of Subscription. One Year $2.00 Six Months 1.00 Yen copies one year 15.00 Rates of Advertising. JFor each square of ten lines or less for the first insertion, sl, and for each sub sequent insertion, fifty cents. No.Sq’rs 1 Mo. | 3 Mos. | 6 Moa. j 1 year. Two $4.00 $7.00 I $12.00 $20.00 Four “ 6.00 10.00 | 18.00 35.00 i column 9.00 15.00 25.00 40.00 X “ 15.00 25.00 40.00 65.00 1 “ 25.00 40-00 65.00 115.00 mr ten lines of solid brevier, or its equivalent in space, make a square. Rates of Legal Advertising. Sheriff’s Sales, each levy $4 00 Citation for letters 6f Administration and Guardianship 4 00 Application for dismission from Admin 4 istration, Guardianship and Exec* utorship * 5 00 Application for leave to sell land, one square 4 00 Each additional square 2 00 Land Sales, one square 4 00 Each additional square 3 00 Application for Homestead 2 00 Notice to Debtors and Creditors 4 00 lUUmtl Jktodute. Western & Atlantic Railroad. lUY PASSENGER TRAIN —OUTWARD. Leave Atlanta 8:40 A. M Airive Calhoun..* 12:40 P. M “ Chattanooga. .350 p. m DAY PASSENGER TRAIN —INWARD. Leave Chattanooga.; —6:15 p. m. Arrive Calhoun*..;; 8:31 a. m. “ Atlanta.* 12:35 p. m. night PASSENGER TR AIN —OUTWARD. Leave Atlanta 6:55 r. m. Arrive Calhoun 9:41 p. m ; “ Chattauooga a 12:30 a.m. NIGHT PASSENGER TRAIN—INWARD. Leave Chattanooga 4:00 p. M. Arrive Calhoun p. M* Atlanta 10:15 P. m. ACCOMMODATION TRAIN —OUTWARD* Leave Atlanta -3:50 P. M. Arrive Calhoun ;l o: r c P ' M ' “ Dalton 11:55 P. M. ACCOMMODATION TRAIN —INWARD. Leave Dalton 1 ;0 ° A - M - Arrive Calhoun A * M ' Atlanta 10:08 a. m. professional & business Catflg KIKER & SON, ATTORNEYS AT LAW, Will practice in all the Courts of the Cher ekee Circuit; Supreme Court ot Georgia, and the United States District Court at Atlanta, Ga. Office: Sutheast corner of the Court House, Calhoun, Ga. UWAIN & MILNER, attorneys at law, CALHOUN, GA. Will practice in all the Superior Courts of of Cherokee Georgia, the Supreme Court of the State and the United States District and Circuit Courts, at Atlanta. J D. TINSLEY, Watch-Maker & Jeweler, CALHOUN, GA. All styles of Clocks, Watches and Jewelry neatly repaired and warranted. WALDO THORNTON, D. D. S.. DENTIST. Office over Geo. W. Wells & Co.’s Agricul tural Warehouse. jyjTSS C. A. HUDGINS, Milliner & Mantua-Maker, Court House St.> CallioumGa. Patterns of the latest styles and fashion for ladies just received. Gutting and tnaking done tc order. ZT. GRAY, • CALHOUN, GA„ Is prepared to furnish the public with Buggies and Wagons, bran new and warrant ed. Repairing of all kinds done at short notice. Would call attention to the cele rated “Fish Brothers’ Wagon which he fur niches. Call and examine before buying elsewhere. J 11. ARTHUR DEALER IN GENERAL MERCHANDISE, RAILROAD STREET, Calhoun, Ga. CHEAP GOODS. RICHARDS & ESPY, (OLD STAIN’D OF Z. TANARUS, OKAY.) Dealers in Confectioneries, Crackers, Fancy Groceries, &c. Tobacco, cigars and snuff a specialty.— highest market price paid for country pro duce of all kinds. Give them a call and they will give you a bargain. mar3l-3m J. W . MAII,SHALL, RAILROAD ST., OLD STAND OF A. W. BALLEW. Keeps constantly on hand a superior stock of Family & Fancy Groceries, n a fine assortment of Saddles, Rridles, j, :i P le Hardware, &c, to which especial at- J ’G'ou i s called. Everything in my line 1 at prices that absolutely defy competi ijjK 4% gm A DAY GUARANTEED using our <4 AUGER & DRILL i n good 'tt maR territory. Endorsed by Governors of IOWA, ARKANSAS iBAKOT.* GUis£3oipo. SABBATH IX THE COUXTRY. BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY. A Sabbath Btillness fills the air. Silence enthroned is quiet queen, And always her sceptre o’er the scene, Dispeopled is the village green, No traffic stirs the silent square. The shuttle rests upon the loom, No grist comes to the dusty mill, The factory wheels are locked and still, The unharnessed ox wanders at will, Over the grass and clover bloom. Quenched are the furnace fires to-day, No hammers make the anvils ring, No brawny arms huge axes swing, The sky seems like a sheltering wing, Touching the hills not far away. The day is calm, the air is soft, Yet there are whisperings of trees ; And the soft hum of honey-bees ; The praise of humble things like these Should teach us all to look aloft. Fashion has taken early flight; It leaves the quiet nooks and shades, The wooded hills and sylvan glades For museums and masquerades, And pleasures that invade the night. There floats a golden butterfly, The other butterflies have fled ; For maple leaves are turning red, And twittering swallows overhead Perdict a cool and sombre sky. They heed the faded leaf that falls, Within the modest church to-day We miss the dresses rich and gay, For the bright birds have flown away To brown stone palaces and halls. WHO MELINDA MARRIED. “ So you’re back again with your old employers, and at a first-class salary.— I’m very glad, I assure 70U, and so will my husband bo when I tell him. Sorry you can’t stay to tea with us on account of the children. How old is your eld est, Tommy ?” u Let me see.” The individual ad dressed balanced his hat between his knees on both little fingers, and careful ly studied its interior, as though the in formation he sought lurked somewhere under the lining. A great, blonde bearded man, but he always was and always would be Tommy. Never being able to rid himself of a certain awk? ward bashfulness, nor ever having lost the big, innocent eyes, honest mouth and ruddy complexion that made him look like an overgrown schoolboy.— “Amanda’s eleven this June. Lucy was nine in February. Melinda seven, and Vinnie—that’s the baby my wife left, you know—will be three row.” “ All girls V* “ Yes, ma’am, all girls.” “ How long since you left the city ?” “ Let me see,” and Tommy again consulted his hat. Although in Mrs. Sandburn’s parlor, he couldn’t be per suaded to part with his head covering. It was a life-long habit. Before he mar ried, the girls used to say Tommy Wbit tlesy knew that if he let them take his hat* he’d never have the courage to get it again and go. Perhaps they weie right; I don’t know ; at any rate he had contracted another habit, and that was referring to it in the way described. “ I left the spring I was twenty-one, didn’t I ? Well, I’ve been away thir teen years. I married Amanda White just six months after I left.” “ She made a good wife, didn’t she ?” “ The tery best; but, then, it wasn’t as though I’d married Melinda.” “ No. I suppose not; and yet, Tom my, I tell you, as I’ve always told you, Melinda’s not altogether worthy of you. Not that she isn’t good-principled, warm heal ted, and all that, but her views of life are false. Then, too, although she’s my gistor, my only one, I must say she sets too high a value on herself.- Is not by any means as brilliant as she thinks she is. Doesn’t know gold from glitter. Why, my dear young friend, you might have been a pretty bad sort of a man, but if you’d come along with a flash and dash, made believe to be somebody great, and courted in Jane Eyre’s Rochester style, you would have won her years ago.” “ Then you think there’s no chance for me. Is anybody else in the way ?” “ Nobody, and never has been, ex cepting the girl herself. To my cer tain knowledge, she’s had but one offer beside yours. That was from old Mr. Hulks, the great shipper. I thought Melinda would tear his eyes out. So, you see she won’t marry merely for money.” “ Still, you think there’s no chance forme? I daren’t ask her, you know; she said the last time —when I came on after Amanda died, you remember— that if ever I did it again she’d never speak to me.” “ Saying that sho meant it, best not to venture. Let matters take their course. See her as often as possible, but keep a certain distance. Maybe things will work around somehow. — She’s got in with anew set lately— clever people —but they have a fancy they’ve discovered anew way to put the world to rights, and are just the ones to do it. It’s al) well enough, I sup- pose. Amuses them and don t hurt any body, but I’m out of patience, for all. Why couldn’t Melinda have married you years ago, in her first youth ? She is so capable, so domestic —or was be fore she got in with these new folks and as for children, I really believe mine think as much of her as they do of me. She’s sharp with them at times, it’s true,.but then it always- turns out for their best geod, and they see it See here, Tommy, I’ve an idea. She visits the Park the day the society meets —that’s to-morrow —to commune with nature, she says. I know her fa vorite spot; sho’s always alone ; you go there, take the children, and get somo CALHOUN, GA., WEDNESDAY, MAY 12. 1875. where near her.” “ Take the children ! I’d frighten her miles and miles away.” “ No, you wouldn’t. The more I re flect on this plan, the better I like it. Ask for a half-holiday, gather up your girls, and go.” The day was all that could be de sired. A May-blue sky, with a drift of clouds like departing snow across it; warm, penetrating sunbeams ; soft airs, alive with children’s voices and bird warblings. Spring’s blossom-host pitched their tents of white and pink on hill and val ley-side ; tender mists of green melted in golden distance. Earth and air were awake, jubilant, under the stir and whir of new life and growth. Yet could not my heroine find herself in harmony with the scene. She succeed ed in securing her favorite seat in the Park, a niche on the hillside, with an interlacing of boughs, and glimpses Gf rock and river. It contained only two settees. Occupying one, she spread her shawl on the other, thus keeping intru ders at bay* A quiet little spot, fes tooned with hanging vines and fringed with ferns; and yet to-day no restful influence pervaded it. Melinda met Tommy Whittlesy just as he was leaving the afternoon previ ous. Somehow those big, blue, re proachful eyes met hers whichever way she looked. More especially did they haunt the page she tried in vain to read, and moved in her pencil’s wake when she turned to writing for relief. Not that she cared for their owner — Oh, never a particle. Any time since her fifteenth birthday, she had but to say, “ I love you,” to make Tommy the happiest of men. Yet she never did say it—never intended saying it. True, life was unsatisfactory. One dream af ter another faded; still, there was a hope of her becoming something, being somebody; tied to Tommy, that was gone. As Mrs. Whittlesy, her days' would be bounded on the east by break fast, south by dinner, north by supper, and west by a basket of undarned stock ings. No, she never had said yes —empha- sizing her resolution in angles and tri angles on the soft soil sparkling with its myriad particles of mica. yjjyWaa there ever—no, there never was —such imprudence ? Tommy Whit tlesy and one, two, three, four feminine Whittlesys, walking in upon her seclu sion quite as a matter of course. Y"et, no, not altogether so. Tommy swayed awkwardly from side to side an instant, then, with a lift of the hat and a scrape meant for a bow, turned as red as the Giant of Battles, and dropped upon the other bench, also upon her shawl. “ This is Miss Denver, children,” aud Tommy almost stammered in his em barrassment. “ Come and speak to the lady ” To rise and leave would be an ac knowledgment of weakness ; so, out* wardly cool, yet inwardly burning, Me linda kept her seat, turning her atten tion to the children. A pink-dressed brood, each a trifle overgrown, like their father, staring at her with his eyes, and making not the slightest pre tonse of manners. “ Who fastened your clothes?” she asked, seeing that Amanda’s and Lu cy’s buttons began too soon and ended too late. “The woman we board with.” “ You’re big enough to fasten them for each other. Come here, both of you.” After having straightened their backs as Lucy afterward expressed it, she dis missed \manda with, “ Now look after your little sister, and turn your toes out. What’s that on your dress ?” to the third girl, who, singularly enough, re minded her of her own child-self. “ I don’t know.” “ It’s a shame to have that pretty suit spoiled. I wonder if ammonia won’t take it out ? What is your name ?” “ Melinda Denver Whittlesy.” Melinda senior actually flushed. — My name’s Melinda Denver; did you know it? Keep your fingers out of your mou f h !” and the sharpness of the tones betrayed unusual emotion of some sort. Very shortly the oldest girls strayed away Melinda said at once she must go, but taking Vinnie, who had got something in her shoe, delayed her.— There proved to be nothing in that tiny pink boot. A hole in her stocking, through which peeped a toe as pink, caused the difficulty. Miss Denver rub bed the little foot, and was so long get ting on the pink boot that the blonde, baby-head nodded against her breast, and at length found itself cradled there. Tommy, sensible to a degree unpar alleled in his history, asked to be ex cused for reading, and became so en grossed as to forget to turn his paper. Below the river ran, flower-fringed rocks leaned out to catch a sunbeam, green boughs intertwined, the voices of uuseen pleasure seekers, mingled with bird-songs, made music in the air ; -dip of shadow, dart of wiug, wind-whispers, how sweet it was ! While Melinda sat there with Tom my’s youngest in her arms, and the man himself opposite, there came upon her a feeling that just such a scene was en acted once before. It was like the turning back of a leaf and finding the same passage, word for word, upon it. She was almost tempted to speak to her companion, aud ask him about it, when all of a sudden there was a flutter of oink dresses, aud Amanda and Lucy appeared before them, breathless* “ Is Melinda here ?” She was not, that was quite certain. Tommy took himself off, listening to their hurried explanations as he went, and the only woai&fl in the world he ever loved was left alone with his baby. The trio returned without the miss ing one. Thought there was a chance of finding her there. Their united voices arousing Yinnie, Melinda gave her into Tommy’s arms. “ I’ll go and see what I can do,” she said, with the mien of a conqueror.— “ Children, you come right along with me You’re to tell just where you weut, and when you missed her. Tommy, you stay about here, there’s a probabil ity of her finding her way back.” Having issued her orders—short, sharp, decisive—Melinda hurried away, to he met by Tommy half an hour later, completely crestfallen. Her search had failed. Tommy looked ready to drop; the girls fobbed ILterly, declaring “ M’lio ” was drowned in the river; while Melinda scanned the horizon for a guard whom she bad not alteady con sulted. Suddenly a voice : “ Madam, there’s a little lost girl at the mansion, dressed like these ; is she yours ?” “ Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Miss Denver, promptly, and headed the par ty that went toward the place indicated as fast as feet could carry them. “ We all go the same way,” said Me linda, holding fast her namesake’s hand, “ and may as well start home at once.” “ One word, Melinda. When the gentleman asked was this your little girl, you said yes ; is she ?” “ Of course,” replied Miss Denver, her cheeks in a blaze. “ These chil dren need somebody to take care of them, and I’m the one to do it.” “ Melinda Denver—excuse me, Mrs. Whittlesy, I should say —I’m sur prised ; completely so!” and the light of the new society shook her head sad ly. “ You told me again and again you never meant to marry that man.” “ I haven’t married him. I've mar ried the children ; that’s all.” Still, Tommy looks as radiant as if it were himself. Goldeu Words. If you would succeed, you must show heart and fire and hope. If you are a candidate for public favor, keep your face to sunrise, all radiant with life, wit, good humor, and whole souied ani mation. People don’t want to go to the graveyard before their timo comes, nor do they love often to bo reminded that— “ This world is all a fleeting snow, To man’s illusion givea^’ They love to feel happy and to think that other people are happy; that there is such a thing as Leautifui Low ers, - Bweet-singing birds, mirthful chil dren, cheerful homes and hearts, warm gushing friendships, active, bounding sympathies—aye, that life is real and worth having. They love to see men walk quick, and talk quick, and look quick, and do all things quick, as though they were well pleased to do it, and well pleased to please others. It is no reason that one should always be sorry because the world every day re volves towards sunset; and reason that he should always look sorry because he feels so. We never knew the sun to go down without coming up again. There are just as many days in human expe rience as there are nights, and as many bright days as there are dark nights.— God has set the good over against the bad everywhere, and why should man everlastingly go sighing in this beauti ful world, as though he had not a friend in it. Let us all cheer up, and let us cheer up everybody. There’s a divine bow in the cloud, and it speaks of hope beyond the cloud, and it speaks of hope beyond the storm. Especially, let not “ the children of a king go mourning all their days.” If your work is hard, thankless and profitless, you have at least, the consolation that it means well, and that a hundred thousand years hence it will be all the same to you, as if the whole world had run mad after you with pmans of praise. Getting Ready to be Happy. This is exactly what most of us ate doing. We are not ready to be happy to-day, this year, but to-morrow, next month, another year, our cup of joy will be full. When the promised time comes and the acme of cur hopes, in a certain direction is reached, health may be wanting, friends dead, and life, how ever full of all we thought would make it rich, and worth the having, be empty and dreary. But he who “ takes the best now and here,” enjoys it, puts him self in possession of that which cannot be taken away. Certainly it is right to provide for the rainy day, in health to prepare for sickness, in youth to lay up for old age; but there is much more time than many of us think, while do ing this, to be happy in the present, and there are a thousand paths to happiness if we but have the will and desire to find them. We are too eager in the pursuit of some far-off result take time to be hap py to-day. llow often do we look back on years that have fled and see man}' elements, which at the time we took no notice of, and which, could we count them in now, would fill our cup of joy to overflowing. Shall we Jearn a lesson from this ? Asa policeman passed upon his beat in Detroit he observed two broken windows. He looked through one of them and saw a man on the floor with a broken aud bound uo head, while fur niture and fragments were heaped about him. Inquiring as to the origin of the ruin, he was answered by a woman with a baby in her lap : “ You see that man there? Well, he’s my husband. Ba. by’s sick. He said, ‘Giver her castor ile.' I said ‘Give her goose grease ’ — There ho lays.” The Overcrowded Cities. There is hardly a city in the United States which does not contain more peo ple than can get a fair, honest living by labor or trade, in the best times.— When times of business oppression come, like those through which we have passed, and are passing, there is a large class that must be helped, to keep them from cruel suffering. "Still the cities grow, while whole regions of the coun try —especially its older portions—are depopulated year by year. Yet the fact is patent to-day that the only pros perous class is the agricultural. We have now tho ahomaly of thrifty far mers and starving tradesmen. The ag ricultural classes of the west are pros perous. They had a good crop last year, and have received good prices for all their products ; and while the cities are in trouble, and manufactories are running on half time, or not running at all, the western farmer has money in his pocket, and a ready market for ev erything he has to sell. The country must be fed, and he feeds it. The city family may do without new clothes, and a thousand luxurious appliances, but it must have bread and meat. There is nothing that can prevent the steady prosperity of the American farmer but the combinations and “ corners ” of middle-men, that force unnatural condi tions upon the finances and markets of the country. This is not the first occasion we have had for allusion to this subject, and it is not likely to be the last. The forsa king of the farm for city life, is one of the great evils of the time, and, so far, it has received no appreciable check. — Every young man, apparently, who thinks he can get a living in the city, or at the minor centers of population, quits hi3 lonely home upon the farm and joins the multitude. Once in the city, he never returns, Notwithstand ing the confinement and the straitened conditions of his new life, he clings to it until he dies, adding his family to the permanent population of bis new home. Mr. Greeley, in his days of ac tive philanthropy, used to urge men to leave the city—to go west —to join the agricultural population, and thus make themselves sure of a competent liveli hood. He might as well have talked to the wind. A city population can neith er be coaxed or driven into agricultural pursuits. It is not that they are afraid of work. The average worker of the city toils more hours than the average farmer in any quarter of the country.— He is neither fed nor lodged as well as the farmer. He is les3 independent f h:.i- the farmer. He is a bond-slave to his employers and his conditions; yet the agricultural life has no charms for him. Whatever*reason for this may be, it is not based in the nature off the work, or in its material rewards. The farmer is demonstrably better off than the worker of tho city. He is moie inde pendent, has more command of his own time, fares better at table, lodges better, and gets a better return for his labor.— What is the reason, then, that the far mer’s boy runs to the city the first chance he can get, and remains, if he can possibly find there the means of life? It can only be found, wo believe, in the social leanness, or social starvation, of Amrrican agricultural life. The American farmer, in all his planning, and in all his building, has nevor made provision for life. He has only consid ered the means of getting a living.— Everything outside of this—everything relating to society and culture—has been steadily ignored. He gives his children the advantages of schools, not recognizing the fact that these very ad vantages call into life anew set of so cial want3. A bright, well educated family, in a lonely farm-house, is very different material from a family brought* up in ignorance. An American far mer’s children, who have had a few teiins at a neighboring academy, resem ble in no degree the children of the European peasant. They come home with new ideas and new wants, and if there is no provision made for these new wants, and they find no opportunities for their satisfaction, they will be ready, on reaching their majority, to fly the farm and seek the city. If the American farmer wishes to keep his children near him, he must learn the difference between living and getting a living, and wc mistake him and hi3 grade of culture altogether, if he does not stop over this statement and wonder what we mean by it. To get a living, to make money, to become “forehanded”—this is the whole of life to agricultural multitudes, discouraging in their numbers to contemplate. To them there is no difference between liv ing and getting a living. Their whole life consists in getting a living; and when their families come back to them from their schooling, aud find that, re ally, this is the only pursuit that has any recognition under the paternal roof, they must go away. The boys push to the centers of the cities, aud the girls follow them if they can. A young man or a young woman, raised to the point where they apprehend the difference be tween living and getting a living, can never be satisfied with the latter alone. Either the farmer’s child must be kept ignorant, or provisions must be made for their social wants. Brains and hearts need food and clothing as well as bodies ; and those who have learned to recognize brains and hearts as the best and most important part of their possessions, will go where they can find the ministry they need. What is the remedy ? How shall farmers manage to keep their chiE dren near them ? How can we discour age the influx of unnecessary—nay. burdensome—population into the cities ? \\ e answer : By making agricultural society attractive. Fill the farm-house with periodicals and books. Establish central reading-room, or neighborhood clubs. Encourage the social meetings of the young. Have concerts, lectures, amateur dramatic associations. Estab lish a bright, active, social life, that shall give some significance to labor.— Above all, build, as far as possible, in villages. It is better to go a mile to one’s daily labor than to place one’s self a mile away from a neighbor. The insolation of American farm-life is the great curse of that life, and it fills up on the women with a hardship that the men cannot appreciate, and drives the educated young away.—Dr. J. G. Hol land, in Scribner for April. Mr. Cofflii’!? Spelling Match. The other evening old Mr. and Mrs. Coffin, who live on Brush street, sat in their cosy back parlor, he reading the paper and she knitting, and the family cat stretched out under the stove, and sighed and felt sorry for cats not so well fixed. It was a happy, contented house hold, and there was love in his heart as Mr. Coffin put down his newspaper and remarked : “I see the tfkole country is becoming excited about spelling schools.” “Well, it’s good to know how to spell,” replied his wife. “I didn’t have the chance some girls had, but I pride myself that I can spell most any word that comes along.” “I’ll see about that,” he laughed; “coma, now, spell ‘buggy’.” “Humph ! that’s nutking—b-u g g-y, ouggy,” she replied, “Missed the first time— ha ! ha !” he roared, slapping his leg. “Not much—that was right.” “It was, eh ? Well, I’d like to see anybody get twog’s in buggy, I would.” “But it is spelled with two g’s, and any school boy will tell you so,” she per sisted. “Well, I know a durn sight better than that!” he exclaimed, striking the table with his fist. “I don’t care what you know 1” she squeaked ; “I know that there are two g’s in buggy !” “Do you mean to tell me that I’ve forgotten how to spell ?” he asked. “It looks that way.” “It does, eh? Well, I want you and all your relations to understand that I know more about spelling than the whole caboodle of you strung on a wire!” “And I want you to understand, Jon athan Coffin, that you are an ignorant old blockhead, when you don’t put two g’s in buggy—yes you are !” “Don’t talk that way to me I” he warned. “And don’t shake your fist at me !” sho replied* “Who’s a-shaking his fist V* “You were 1” “That’s a lie—an infernal lie V* “Don’t call me a liar, you old bazar ! I’ve put up with your meanness for for ty years pa9t, but don’t call me a liar, and don’t lay a hand on me 1” “Do you want a divorce ?” he shout ed springing up; “you can go now, this minute !” “Don’t spit in my face—don’t you dare do it or I’ll make a dead man of you !” she warned. “ I haven’t spit in your freckled old visage yet, but I may if you provoke me further 1” “Who’s got a freckled face, you old turkey-buzzard ?” That was a little to much. He made a motion as if he would strike, and she seized him by the neck tie. Then he grabbed her right ear and tried to lift her off her feet, but she twisted up on the neck tie until his tongue ran out. “Let go of me. you old fiend 1” she screamed. “Git down on your knees and beg my pardon, 'you old wild cat 1” he re plied. They surged and swayed and strug gled, and the peaceful cat was struck by the overturning table and bad her back broken, and the clock fell down, and the pictures danced around. The woman finally shut her husband’s supply of air off and flopped him, and as she bumped his bead up and down on the floor and scattered his gray hairs, shout ed : “You want to get up another spelling school with mo, don’t you V’ lie was seen limping around the yard yesterday, a stocking pinned around his throat, and she had court plaster on her nose, and one finger tied up. He wore the look of a martyr, while she had the bearing of a victor, and from this time out “buggy” will be spelled with two g’s in that house.— Detroit Free Press. Burn Kerosene the Right Way. A correspondent of the New York Sun calls attention of all consumers of* kerosene oil to the pernicious and un healthy practice of using lamps filled with that article with the wicks turned down. The gas which should bo con sumed by the flames is by this means left heavily in the air, while the cost of the oil thus saved at present prices would scarce be one dollar a year for the lamps of a household. His attend tion was called particularly to this cus tom by boarding in the country where kerosene was the only available light.— A large family of children living in the same house were taken ill one night, and on going to the room the mother found the room nearly suffocating, with a lamp turned down, whereupon the physician forbade the use of a lamp at night, unless turned at full head.— He says be could quote many cases, one of a young girl subject to fits of* faint ness, which, if not induced, 'nN ly increased by sleeping in a rsfcu with the lamp almost turned out. ' Besides the damage to health, it spoils the pa per and curtains, soils the mirrors and gives the whole house an untidy air and an unwholesome odor. YOL. V. —NO. 41* Voltaire ou Marriage. Voltaire said : ,l The mere married men you have, the fewer crimes there will be. Marriage renders a man mor£ virtuous and more wise. Ah unmar ried man is but half of a perfect be ing, and it requires the other half to make things right, and it caDfiot be ex pected that in this imperfect state ho can keep the straight path of rectitude any more than a boat without an oar, or a bird with ode wing, frin keep’ U straight course. Ip uine cases out of ten, where married men become drunk ards or commit crimes against the peace of the community, tlie foundation of these acts were laid while in a Single state, or where the wife is, as is some times the case, an unsuitable match.— Marriage changes the current of a man’s feelings, and gives him a center for his thoughts, his affections, and his acts.— Hero is a home for the entire man, and the counsel, the affection, the example and the interest of his t; better half" keep him from his erratic courses, and from falling into a thousand temptations to which he would otherwise he exposed . therefore, the friend to marriage ij tlie friend to society and to his country." l>on*t I> It. Don’t flirt with a fool. It’s bad enough to fool with a flirt. Don’t underbill your ago. Your de tection is only a question of time. Don t rush. At the end of tho race you will suffice to convict the world of your folly. Don t magnify your neighbor’s vices. It s worse than extolling your owu vir-* tucs. Don’t boast of your brain work. Somo inquisitive person might ask for a spec irnen brick. Don’t advocate tho doctrino of uni versal salvation. “Hell on the Wab ash " is a matter of history. Don’t turn up your nose at barren land. A farmer without “ rocks " nev er makes a stir in the world. Don t dream that the world can’t wag along without you. A grain of sand is not missed from the desert. Don’t attempt to do too much. At twenty-five men imagine the/ will re form the world. At forty they are con* tent to reform themselves. Tiie Xenia Torchlight relates this story : “An old gentleman living near here was called upon a short time since by a clock tinkerer, who examined our old friend’s clock and pronounced it out of order. The old gentleman said that it was good enough for him and the old woman, and ho would not have it fixed, but it was insisted upon, and he finally agreed to keep the tinkerer and his horse all night in recompense for tho necessary repairs to the old house clock. Tbe clock proved to need more than was at first expected, and in addi tion to the night’s lodging seventy five cents was demanded. Tho old gentle man objected to this,and began to count up v.hat he had already given his lod ger. ‘First, there was your supper— ’ ‘Hut stop,’ said the tinkerer, ‘you asked me to eat supper, and consequently you can’t charge me for that.’ ‘Well/ said the old gentleman, ‘you asked me to let you fix my clock, consequently you can’t charge me for that. So we are square on the supper and clock, and you owo me for your lodging and breakfast.’— The old gentleman was ahead." Woman’s Companionship. —What the true man wants with a wife is her companionship, sympathy and love.— The way of life has many dreary places in it, and man needs a companion to go with him. A man is sometimes over taken by misfortunes; he meets with failure or defeat; trials and temptations beset him, and he needs one to stand by and sympathize. lie has some bard battles to fight with poverty, enemies, and with sin; and he needs a woman that when he puts his arms around her, he feels that he has something to fight for ; she will help him to fight; that will put her lips to bis ear and wh : sper words of counsel, and her hand to his heart and impart inspiration. All through life, through storm and through sunshine, conflict and victory, through adverse and favoring winds, man needs woi3*an s love. The heart yearns for it*. A sister’s or a mother’s love will hardly supply the need. The reading of a good and well con-< ducted newspaper, even for the space of one quarter of a year, brings more sound instruction, and leaves a deeper impression, than would probably be ac quired at the best school in 12 months. Talk with the members of a family who read the papers, and compare their in telligence and information with those wuo do not. The difference is comparison. “ Wake up. Judge, wake up ; there is a burglar in the house,” said Mrs. 7 to her husband, the other ni-hi. The Judge rolled out of bed. grasped his revolver, and opened the door to his wife, he said, “Come, you lead the way. It’s a dog gone moan man that will hurt a woman.” A PRETTY girl attended a ball out \ esi, recently, decked oil in short ure93 *iod pants. The other ladies were shocked. -"’he quietly remarked that if they should pail tip th -I- ?■,>, about the neck, a- t tlielr sk : • 'G i: -**-+-* ‘•Falling Water” is the pretty name of Indian maiden up in Ohippewa county, but she chews tobacco and wears and old pair of army pants, with hoi a* buttons on them.