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CALHOUN TIMES
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grotwfotutl & -Busincs# Cavils.
in J. KIKEIt &, SON,
1j * attorneys at law,
Will practice in all the Courts of the Cher
olcee Circuit; Supreme Court ol Georgia, and
the United States District Court at Atlanta,
Ga. Office : Sutheast corner of the Court
House, Calhoun, Ga.
ANY IN & 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 A ourts, at Atlanta.
| I>. TINSLEY,
•J .
Watcli-Maker & Jeweler,
CALHOUN, GA.
All styles of Clocks, Watches and Jewelry
ready repaired and warranted.
JHJ FE WALDO THORNTON, D. D. S..
DENTIST.
Office, over Geo. W. Wells & Co.’s Agricul
tural Warehouse.
j iTTartTt ur
DEALER IN
QENER AX MERCHANDISE,
RAILROAD STREET,
Calhoun, Ga.
T. CRAY,
CALHOUN, GA.
Is prepared to furnish the public with
Buggies and Wagons, bran new and war •Milt
ed. Repairing of all kinds done at short
notice. Call and examine before buying
elsewhere.
~ Dime. MAIN, M. D.,
PRACTICING PHYSICIAN,
Having permanently located in Calhoun,
offers his professional services to the pub
lic. Will attend all calls when not profes
sionally engaged. Office at the Calhoun
Hotel.
J. W. MARSHALL,
RAILROAD ST., OLD STAND OF
A. W 3ALLEW.
eeps corstantly on hand a superior stock oi
Family & Fancy Groceries,
Also a fine assortment of Saddles, Bridles,
itaple Hardware, &c, to which especial at
tention is called. Everything in my line
Jol<l at prices that absolutely defy competi
tion.
Looks, Stationery and Jewelry.
IRWIN & CO.
Ce JX k) (Sign of the Big Book & Watch.)
TTTE sup ly Blank Books, School Books
VV and bmks of all kinds; also, pens,
inks, paper , and everything in in the line
of
►Stationery, at Atlanta Prices.
A good lot of JEWELRY always on hand.
Watch, Clock and Gun repairing done
cheaply ami warranted.
Country produce taken in exchange
for goods. IRWIN & CO.
BARBER 811 OP !
By ESSEX CHOICE .
HAVING opened n Barber Shop between
the Calhoun Hotel and W. & A. Rail
road, 1 earnc-tly solicit the custom of the
public,pledging an honest endeavor to mer
it the good will of every one.
Single shave, 15cts. ; hair-cutting, 2octs.;
shampooing, 25 cts. Shaving per month
2 shaves per week, SI.OO, hair-cutting and
shampooing included. Other prices low in
accordance. july2B tf.
T. M. ELLIS’
IMRV HALE STABLE.
Hood Saddle and Buggy Horses
and New Vehicles.
Horses and mules for sale.
Stock fed and cared for.
Charg is will be reasonable
YVill pay the cash for corn in !hc ear and
fodder in the bundle. feb3-tf.
DO NOT SING THAT SONG AGAIN.
BY IILCII F. M’DERMOTT.
Do n n t sing that song again,
For it fills my heart with pain ;
I am bending to the blast,
And it tells me of the past,
Of the years of long ago,
When my days were young and fair,
And my heart as light as air—
When one feeling filled the breast,
And one image gave it rest.
In the long, long ago.
Do not sing that song again,
I have lived rry years in vain,
And my hair is thin and gray,
And I’m passing fast, away ;
On the dark and downward steams
I’m a wreck of idle dreams ;
And it puts me on the rack
At the weary looking back,
At the ebb and at (lie flow,
In the long, long ago.
Do not sing that song again,
There’s a tear in its refrain ;
It brings sadly back the time
When my manhood felt its pi ime ;
When the comrades, dear and true,
Closer, warmer fonder grew
In the hour of friendship’s proof,
When the false ones stood aloof,
And their friendship was but show.
In the long, long ago.
Do not sing that song again,
It distracts my weary brain.
Ah, too well, alas! I know
It is time for me to go,
And to leave to younger eyes
The mild mystery ot the skies,
Ami this mighty world 1 tread,
And the grander age ahead.
Theres’ a mist upon the river,
And there’s bleakness on the shore.
And in dreams I pass forever,
While sad music-wafts me o’er.
■W T9yzr^^JM!WßinttUß&CMK*
THE WHITE CRYSANTHEMUMS.
Marian Grey’s heart was full of bitter
ness. Two years ago she had gathered
these very white crysanthemums of the
first week in November to lay on her
mother’s coffin. There had been plen
ty of unusual funeral flowers—japoni
cas, and tube-roses,and white health,and
the rest; but Maiian had stolen out and
gathered the Chrysanthemums because
her mother loved them, and because
they grew in the old garden at home.
“ She will not care for the others,”
she had said to herself; “she always
loved our own flowers best, and she shall
take them with her.” Marian was four
teen then —old enough to mourn for her
mother passionately —old enough.too, to
understand and feel deeply what her
mother had said to her just at the last
“ You must care for papa and the
boys,Marian. You will be mistress now,
I think, young as you are. At least
you can be, if you are so careful of
papa’s comfort that he doesn’t feel the
need of getting any one to keen house;
and T trust (he boys to you. You must
be elder sister and mother’ too,and nev
er let them miss me more than you can
help.” And then Marian remembered
how her mother’s sad eyes had searched
her face, and how she had kissed her at
the end, and said, “ It’s a hard lesson
for you to learn when you are so young
but you must always think of yourself
last, and by and by you will see that it
brings its own exceeding great reward.”
Mrs. Grey had lived several hours af
ter that, and kissed Marian again, and
kissed the boys also, and blessed them,
and then gone to sleep, like a child, on
her husband’s shoulder, with a child’s
smile on her lips, and a beauty as of
long passed youth, at which the child
ren wondered, on her face. Rut Mari
an always felt that the true parting
with her mother was in those few iaos
ments when they were all alone, and
mama had charged her to be her fath
er’s comfort and the boys’ mother.
And she tried faithfully. She looked
back over the two years that had passed,
and she said, with tears streaming down
her cheeks, “ Yes, mother, I have been
faithful!” She had left school, and de
voted herself to making her mother’s
place good. She had kept the same
servant her mother had ; and the wo
man, touched by the unconscious pathos
of the young girl’s efforts to make good
the vacant place, and helped her silent
ly in a thousand ways. And Marian
thought she had succeeded. She could
not think that any comfort had been
lacking in her father s home ; and as for
the boys —Hal and Geordie —they al
most worshipped her. “Butof what
use had it all been ?” she thought, hit '
terly ; for now her father was going to
brirg home anotjier wife in her moth
er’s stead. He had told her very ten
derly, to be sure. lie said that he had
felt that she was too young for so much
care. She ought to be in school; and
in bringing home to her tor mother the
only woman he knew who seemed to he
worthy to fill her own mother s place,he
was securing to her as great a blessing
as to himself; and then he said, as lie
kissed her good-bye, —
“ Make the house look as p*etty ns
you can —won’t you, Marian ? Elizabeth
loves beauty. I don t think there are
many flowers left, except those, white
jsrj san them urns ; but I wish yon and put
some of those in her room.”
Marian thought she could have borne
it all, if it hadn’t been for that last re
quest. The white flowers that she had
gathered, just two years ago, foi her
mother’s funeral,to do duty now as bridal
flowers for the usurper ! It seemed to
her that this was one drop too much.
She did not consider that her father
could not have thought of this; that,
indeed, he probably never knew that
she had made the Yrreath of them for
her mother’s coflln at all. Her passion
ate girl’s heart swelled almost to burst
ing with the bitterness of the thought
that she was to use the tloweis she had
held sacred to her mother for this_ new
bride’s pleasure. „
“ Oh, she shall have them all, she
cried, passionately, ‘‘ and much good
CALIIOUN, GA., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1875.
may they do her 1 They are funeral
flowers. It is a bad omen.”
Then she went out and gathered them
every one. She made boquels of them
for the mantle ; she put. knots of them
in the looping of the window curtains,
and a glass fuli upon the bureau. Ev
cry whore in the new mother’s room
gleamed their whiteness—fit alike for
bridal or burial. In the parlor below
she would-have none of them. That
was garnished with the fire-tintea leaves
she nad gathered in the late September,
and w'th the pale, bleached ferns she
had brought home in October—ferns
that seem always like the ghosts of the
dead summer, holding none of its
warmth or brightness, but only a hint
of its vanished grace. Then she went
into the kitchen with the pretty littl ;
mistress of-the family air which became
her so well.
“ Bridget,” she said, “ Mrs. Grey
will be coming to-night. Let us give
her a good supper ; she will need it af
ter her journey ; and then,” she added
he' native honesty coming to the front,
“ I don’t want her to think that no one
knew how to keep house here until she
came.”
Bridget understood and smiled.
There was no danger but the coffee
would be clear that night, and the waf
fles light, and the broiled chicken done
to a turn.
Then Marian went into the parlor
and sat down in her mother’s chair.
Should she have to give that up, too ?
Her eyes filled with tears, as they bad
so many times that day. She closed
them, and her tnoughts went back to
ihe hour when her mother had hidden
her good bye. She thought the whole
scene over, as she had so often, and
seemed to hear the words afresh, in her
mother’s low, tender voice. And,some
how,a new sense of her mother’s meat ing
came to her. “ l T ou must always think of
yourself last,” her mother said. IFas
she doing that now ? Was she not
thinking of herself first—of her own
pain—of the wound to her self-love in
being set aside when she thought she
had done so well —of having someone
else nearer her father than she was —of
being no longer at the head ?
“ No,” she cried, hotly. “ It’s not
that, it’s having someone else in my
own mother’s place. He had no right
—no right.”
But a tender, unseen presence seemed
near her, all the while, breathing gen
tler thoughts. Something told her
that her mother up in heaven would
not bo jealous for herself; and some
thing asked her if she were sure she
could devote her future to her father,so
as to keep him from weeding that com
panionship which is the very life and
soul of living. She would not yet con
fess it, but she knew it, in the soul of
her soul, that she had been wrong; and
when she got up to call the boys, she
said to herself, “ Think of myself last,
yes I can try to do that for your sake,
dear mother : and for your sake I will
keep the boys as happy as I can. If
they are too young and unreasoning to
fee! it all, so much the better ; you
would not want their hearts to ache as
mine does.”
Site went, to tbc door and called the
the little fellows playing outside, and
they hurried in.
“ Come boys,” she said, “ you must
go and dicss. I want you to look nice
when your new mother sees you for the
fir t time.”
The boys looked at her curiously.
Not at all in this tone had she spoken
of the new comer before. Was she go
ing out to the enemy?
“ She ain’t my mother —is she ?” said
sturdy Geordie.
“ She’s not our mamma,” Marian
said, resolutely—trying to do what
her mother would have wished ; “ she’s
not the dear, sweet mamma whom G°d
gave you first, and then took home for
heaven, because, I do believe, she was
too good fur this world ; but she’s your
new mama, whom papa thinks it best
for you to have. We ought to know
that papa’s judgment is better than
ours ; and he’s been too good a father
to us all our lives for us to have any
right to suppose he is not doing now
what he truly thinks will be the best
for us.”
The words bad cost Marian great ef
fort, but she had uttered them quietly
and resolutely. The boys felt that she
was in earnest, and went away to dress
with anew sense of trust in their fath
er.
“ But mother, it is so !” Marian cried
out. when she was leit alone, “ How
can I ? O, how can I ” And she
thought—no doubt it was her own fan
cy — b u t she thought she heard a voice
s?y —a dear voice, whose tones she
would know out of all the world —“But
the end is peace.”
Night brought the new mother. The
boys had been growing reconciled to the
idea of her since Marian’s word an
hour before, and they tan out to meet
her with smiling faces. Marian tried
to go forward, too ; but it seemed to
her that her feet were fastened to the
floor and it was all she could do to stand
still, and keep the tears back.
“Here are the boys,” she heard her
father say, cheerfuly. No dbubt he
and his bride kissed them; but she
could not see, she was for a moment so
very, very dizzy.
“And here is Marian,” in the same
cheerful voice; “ my one daughter and
my faithful little house-keeper.
Marian looked up, struggling with
herself, and saw her new mother. Her
own mamma had been, perhaps not
beautiful but lovely—a woman whose
sweet charm every beholder must feel.
If this one should be younger and hand
somer, a flighty girl bride, Marian felt
that all the grace in the world could
not keep her from hating her. But she
looked and saw that she might Well have
trusted her father. The new wife was
a large, fair woman, not beautiful, but
; with a noble and serene face, where
| large and generous thoughts had their
! home. She was certainly not older
than Marian’s own mother had been ;
and in the sober richness of her dress
there was none of that girlish flightness
which Marian had dreaded. The girl’s
judgment was forced to approve, but
her heart was alien still. She went
forward a stop and put out her hand.
No doubt Mrs. Grey understood her
feeling, for she made no ardent demon
stration. She only bent a little—she
was a tail woman —and touched her lips
to her new daughter’s brow ; and then
she said something about the pleasant
ness of the house, and Marian took her
up stairs to her own room.
She looked around as she entered it,
and saw the white crysanthemums
gleaming everywhere. Marian, who
was furtively watching her, thought
she grew a little pale, but she only said,
quietly —
“ My father br r ught me home anew
mother, Marian, when I was just your
age. I understand it all.”
Marian’s heart warmed toward her a
little then ; but it grew hard and cold
again when she went down stairs, for
site found her father in the parlor look
ing unmistakably happy and radiant.
Had he no heart, no thought for the
dead, who had lived there with him so
long? In that moment she felt as if
she ha*ed the new comer. Her father
drew her towaad him.
“ Well, girlie, surely you like her ?”
he asked eagerly.
She withdrew herself from his arm.
“I am not a man. I don’t think I
was made for forgetting,” she answered,
coolly.
Her father’s face darkened. He
spoke with a tone different from any
she was accustomed to in his voice.
“ Marian, you knew your mother
well. Do you think she loved me so
selfishly that, since I could not have
her, she would prefer that I should live
out my life alone ? If that were so,
she must have changed, indeed ; for she
always thought of herself last.”
Marian could not reply for just then
the new mother came down the stairs,
and took what was to be henceforth her
household place. It was not in the
chair that had been the dead wife’s
Had she avoided that by delicate tact ?
or was it only that she was another
mould of woman from his first wife, and
her taste was different ? Marian never
knew.
Time went on. Marian went back to
school; and she really enjoyed her free
dom, her opportunity to return to the
books she loved. Only there was a
cold, hard spot in her heart, and she
would not own to herself that there
could be any gain in the coming of a
new mother into her own mother’s
place. All the winter passed, and the
spring, and the summer. Maiian was
perfectly respectful, perfectly obedient,
always kind; and yet her father, who
knew her so well, knew she was no more
like the same Marian than a stone stat
ue is like the living woman after whose
grace it is modeled. It was the cnc
bitter drop in the sweet cup of his new
domestic happiness.
"With October be was taken very ill.
A typhoid fever, which bad been very
prevalent that fall, seized him ; and for
a lung lime there was great doubt wheth
er he would recover. Then for the first
time, Marian lealized what their house
hold had gained when the new mother
came into it. She herself would have
done all she could ; but she lacked the
wisdom and experience which made
Mrs. Grey the most perfect of nurses.
“ Will he get better ? Is there any
hope ?” she asked the old doctor,whom
she had known all her life,one day when
he was going away.
“ If he does,” he answered, “ his wife
will have saved him. Such care I nev
er saw.”
Marian went into the old garden. It
was the first week in November,and the
white crysanthemums were ail in flower.
Would she be gathering them next to
put on her father’s coffin ? O, what
would the world be worth then ? Had
she made him happy the last year?”her
conscience asked. If he had been hap
py,surely he did not owe it to her. She
bad been thinking of herself all the
time; of her own pain, and loss, and
•heartache. If he got well, would he
ever forgive her ? If he died, could
she ever forgive herself?”
She stood there, leaning sadly over
the white flowers, which meant death to
her. She did not hear any approach
ing footfall, and she started in surprise
when her step-mother s hand touched
her.
“He is asleep, Marian. O, so calm
ly and sweetly ! I had to .come to tell
you ; for there is hope now.”
“ And you have saved him !” Marian
cried, her eyes shining through their
sudden tears with such a light as Mrs.
Grey had never seen in them before.
“ The doctor said it would be you, if he
lived. YY>u have save him for me, and
I have never loved you. ’
“ Was that because you thought I ex
pected to be your mother '. ’ asked Mrs
Grey, with a quiet tenderness in her
voice m 1 manner. “We can have but
one mother; and if you call me so, it
is a matter of form. I cannot be to you
in place of the dead. But l might be
your friend, dear, just as if I were not
your father’s wife ”
Marian drew closer,and clung to her,
silently. She could not speak just tben.
“Don’t you know I told you the first
that 1 knew it ajl ? When I saw those
whi'e crysanthemums it almost bn ku
my heart; for they brought an old pain
back so keenly. 1 had gathered them
once myself, and put them in the eham
her of my father’s new wife, as you had
duuo in mine ; and I hud saflored just
is you did. But long afterwards I
knew that a bles.-ing had’eonre to mo
with her; and I meant to he a blessing
to you if I could.”
Still Marian did rot speak ; but she
bent and gathered a little not of white
crysanthemums—the purest and whiles!
she could find. She touched the little
posy to her own lips when shelnd made
it, and then fastened it to her step-
bosom. The white crysanthe
mums had been flowers for the burial
and for the bridal ; and now they were
the blossoms of reconciliation — Louise
Chandler Moulton,, in IJYJe Awalce
Magazine.
til Onion There is Strength.
The Governor of Ohio, whom a great
many people irreverently call “ Old Bill
Allen,” in his younger days had not on
iy a voice closely allied to seven fold
thunder, but was a shrewd practical
lawyer. His rude demolition of senti--
incut once gained him a case General
Murphy, a member of the Chillicothe
bar, thirty years ago was one of the most
noted advocates that rode the circuits
of Ohio, Ho could weep profusely over
the most hardened criminals and shed
quarts of re 1 tears whenever the occa-”
sion required it. The result was that
he usually carried the jury with him
Oh one occasion General Murphy wus
engaged to defend a noted horse thief
in Boss county, while the State secured
the services of Gov. A’len. The usual
routine was gone through with, and the
prisoner’s guilt was pretty clearly demon
strated, but General Murphy relied up
on working up the sympathies of the
jury. His effort was unusually briliant,
and toward the close of his appeal tears
rolled down his checks in torrents,
while the jurors rubbed their eyes with
their cuffs. All this time Allen sat stiff
and upright, glaring with dry and fro
zen eyes upon Murphy. When the lat
ter wound up with a final hurst of elo
quence and tears, which left the whole
audience sniffling, Ohio’s tali Governor,
that was to be, straightened himself to
his fullest height, and pointing his long
bony finger at the jury, said :
“Gentleman, there is such a thing as
blotting out justice \vith tears and con
futinding judgment with much weeping.
General Murphy understands this beG
ter than any living man. But before
his tears work an absolution of the sin
hardened criminal at the bar, and client
the sta'e prison of its dues, I wish to
show the fountain from whence these
tears flow so copiously.” With one
swope of his long right arm withdrew
an immense red onion.denuded of its out
er covering, and holding it aloft before
the eyes of the astonished jurors, ho
continued : “The ancient Egyptians
worshipped the onion because it was
typical of the celestial srheres. Here
in Ohio we have good reason to curse
it, because in General Murphy’s pocket
it has so often cheated the gallows and
the prison of their dues.” The prisoner
was convicted, and General Murphy
never rubbed his handkerchief on a
peeled onion again when Old Bill Allen
had the other side of the case.
How He Wou lier.
A young couple were occupying a rus
tie seat in the Park one evening recentlv
and from the expression of the mascu
line representative’s face it was evident
he had, as it were, drifted over the
great psychological Niagara of affection,
and was even then being whirled about
in frothy whirlpool of sentiment. The
swimming swans had no charms for him
•he eagles were as nothing and he did
not even notice the big white bear.
‘Oh, be mine,” he said attempting to
draw her a little nearer his end of the
seat.
She made herself rigid, and heaved a
sigh.
“I’ll be a good man. and give up all
my bad habits,” he urged.
No repiy
“I’ll never drink another drop,” he
continued.
Still Unrelentingly sat the object of bis
adoration.
“And give up chewing—■”
No response.
“And smoking—”
Cold as ever.
“And join the church—”
She only shook her head.
‘ And give you a diamond engage
ment ring, he added in desperation
Then the maiden lifted her drooping
eyes to his, leaning her frizzles on his
shoulder, and trembling murmured in
to his ravished ear :
“Oh, Edward, you you are so good !
And there they sat, and sat,until the
soft arms of night—that dusky nurse of
the world—had folded them from the
sight, pondering, planning thinking—
she of the diamond ring, and lie of how
on earth he was !o get it.
Tiie Poor Boy. —Don’t be ashamed
my lad, if you have a patch on your el
bow. It is no mark of disgrace. It speaks
well for your industrious mother. For
our part, we would rather see a dozen
patches on yo>’r jacket than hear one
profane of vulgar word escape your lips.
No good boy will shun you, because you
cann t dress as well as your companion,
and ifa bad boy sometimes laughs at your
appearance, say nothing, my good lad,
but walk on. \Ye know many a rich
and good man who was once as poor as
you There is your next door neighbor
in particular —now one of the wealth
iest men —who told us a short time
since that when a child he was glad to
receive the cold potatoes from his neigh
bor’s table. Be good, my boy, and you
will be respected a great deal more
than if you were the son of a lich man
and were addicted to Lad habits.— Ex*
change.
How Her Father Holpoil the
Kiishi'al Lovers,
There’s no foolishness about some of
the fathers of Dubuque comity who have
marriageable daughters, and they know
how to precipitate business when the
fruit is ripe for plucking, and hangs
wasting its sweetness when it should be
plucked. Matters were brought to a
climax with a rush, at a certain farm
er's residence in Vernon Township, re
cently. Y young tiller of the soil had
for months been paying most assiduous
attention to one of his daughters, but
he was such a bashful, modest chap,
never having been much in the company
of girls,except this one,that he had never
been able to raise his couragb sufficient
ly high to pop the all-importaut ques
tion. lie had gone to the house in
which his admired lived, upon at least
twenty occasions, resolved to know his
fate, but when ushered into the the
presence ot the fair one, in whose keep
ing he had placed his heart, his cour
age would invariably “go back on him,”
and he would return to his lonely room
in greater suspense than before Upon
the evening in question he had deter
mined that come what would he would
tell Miss Mary he loved her. Uc would
once for ail decide the matter; but as
upon each former occasion he could get
the proposal no further than his throat.
There it stuck,’and he had just deter
mined to gulp it down and give up the
siege, when the door opened and in
stalked the girl’s father, who advanced
to where they were sitting and thus ad
dressed them :
“ I come in to put a stop to this ’ere
foolishness. It ain’t the courting ex
pense that I’m looting at, for coal oil’s
cheap,an’ wood can be had for the haul
in’; but I’m sick an’ tired of this billin’
and cooin’ like a pair of sick doves,
keepin’ me awake o’ nights, an’ it’s got
to be stopped right here. Mary Jane
look up here. Do you love John Hen
ry well enough to marry him ?”
“ Why, father.I —l—you must ”
“ stop that foolin’,” yelled the old
man. “ Answer yes or no, and quick
too. It’s got to be settled now or nev
er.”
“ Well, but, father, don’t you know
—if you’d only wait and ”
“ Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ Speak,” roar
ed the old gent.
“ Well, yes, then. There now,” and
Mary hid her face again.
“ That’s business ; that’s the way to
talk. Now John look here—look up
here or I’ll shake you all to pieces. Do
you waut that gal o’ mine for a wife?
Speak out like a man, now.”
“ Why, Mr. —, ain’t this rather a
I mean can’t you ”
“ Speak it out, or out of this house
you go, headforemost. I won’t wait a
minute longer. There’s the gal, an’ a
likelier gal ain’t in the State, an’ you
just heard her say she wanted you.
Now, John, I won’t stand a bit o’ fool
in’ ; once for all, ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”
“ Well, yes sir,l have been presumpt
uous enough to hope that I—”
“Oh, none of your soft talk; the
thing’s settled now. You two fools
would have been six months more at
that job that I’ve done in five minutes.
I never saw such foolin’ as there is
among the young people now-a days.
Aint like it was when 1 was young—an’
now, good night. You can talk the
thing over to-night, an’ you an’ me;
John, ’ll go to town an’ get the license
to morrow. Soon be time to go to plow
in’— no time fur love makin’ then.
Good-night, good-night; l hope I
wasn’t too rough, but I was determined
to fix the thing up one wa v < r ’tother;”
and the old man went back to bed
Now that the ice was broken the
young people' laid their plans for the fu
ture,and John felt a little bad when Mary
looked at him slyly and said:
“ This v ould have been all right
four months ago. John, if you hadn’t
been skeery; I know’d all the
time that you wanted to ask me ; but
it wasn’t my place to say anything, you
know.”
“No cards.”— Dubuque Times.
The Green Neckties.
Tiiere has just been brought to light
in Paris a most dangerous band of
thieves known as the “ green neckties.”
This association was not so verdant as
the color of their neck ornament, as
their deeds and spoils prove. The mem
bers had their club room and held meet
ings there once a week. The king of
the gang was called Maillot, after a
celebrated thief and murderer now un
dergoinga sentence of hard labor for life.
The principal places of operation
weie the Batignolles,Park Moncrau,afld
Les Ternes, districts, and the spoils
consisted of everything,from a handker
chief and chicken up. For the menial
work the band used young boyt?, trained
and brought up by the Begins and Art
ful Dodgers of the profession. They
had customers with whom they couli
place their night-earned goods.and every
thing worked smoothly until one of the
members was “ taken in by the police.”
This particular individual was in the
habit of lounging around Park Moncry u
flirting with the bonnes who were out
airing themselves and the children in
thier charge.
A detetive spotted him, and, suspect-*
ing that he knew something of the theft?
committed in that section, tried to get
into his confidence, but it was no go.
He had no suspicion that the detective
was a detective, but thought him a low
tiiiet or a spotter. As the Micawber
iike follow wore the same tie constant'y
it occurred to the detective that it meant
something. He had a brother detective
put on that same kind of tie and Lane
• round the Park. The thief saw the
green tie on ibe stranger and saluted
him as “ partner. ’
Ilis new friend asked if be had seen any
no durwg-the day-, and if there was
VOL. VI.—NO. 7.
anything up. The tree, oisy manner o/
ihe stranger struck the right ehord,
and the thief talked steal to him quite
freely. The theif being sure that the
t inger was “ one of them” lately ad.
uiitted into the club, propoed that they
take a drink. They vent into a win (9*
shop and sat down. In a short time iit ■
walked detective No. 1. “Look out
for that fellow just come in ;he is a
low theif or spotter, I can’t tell which
said the thief in whisper.
Detective No. 2 (the stranger), took
his hat off and brushed it. This was a
signal to detective No. 1, who came over
and invited the two to ride. “Where
to,” Slid the thief. “To the Perfec'uro
of Police 1” said the lu-t corner, and Mr.-
Thief was immediately handcuffed, pull
ed ii to a cab, and hurried off'. The
next night the detective with a grccii'
tic went to the club room with a force,
of police. It was the regular night of
meeting, and the police were hid out
side, while the detective went in. Two
new members were addmitted to tho
fraternity.
The detective, whose featutrs were
not closely scrutinized when he went iff
arise after the election of the two just
mentioned, and said he had a few names
to propose. “Who are they, and who*
are you T’ said the King. “Oh la uf
only an officer, and the men I have to
propose are in the pay of the city, and
are endorsed by the Perfect ure of Police.
The band made a rush for the door,, bat
it was no use attempting to escape, as
the police were masters of the situation.
The twenty two captured were tried
three weeks ago, and received sentences
ranging iroin live to seventeen years.
The King received a sentence worthy
of his high office—seventeen years afe
hard labor.
Two Stoys-A Contrast.
A lad dined with me one day ; he
was from twelve to fourteen years old.
lie had a pug nose, red hair and a
freckled face. 11 is poor coat was batch
ed at the elbows, and his pocket
hardkerehief was a cotton one, and
coarse at that. After he went away tlio
lady of the house said : “I like to en
tertain such company as that lad; he
had such beautiful manners.”
At another time a woman left her son
• with me fur a day and I took him with
me to dine. His face was very hand
some. lie had fine eyes, a fair skin,and
was very richly dressed, ilia mother
w is a rich woman, and her son had every
advantage that wealth bestowed, When
the day was over a friend remarked :
“Jlovv much relieved you must feel 1” I
asked why 'i lie has such disagreeable
manners, lie is only fit to he shut up in
u pen with wild animals.”
“Put that boy’s mother was to blame,”
you exclaim. Certainly, and so are man#
of yours, and for this very reason boys
must take the making of their ‘place
and fortunes’ in their own hands.
One gets tired talking to mothers
about their duties, especially when they
are more concerned about the spring
jackets of their boys than their manners.
Then possibly many of them say, as I
heard one the other day : “Oh, Johnnie
will couio out all right. It will be Miff'd
enough for fine manners ten years hence.”
An ill fruiting tree may be grafted to
bear good fruit, but one can always de
tect the joining of the stocks. ’Very
much so it is with manners acquired
late in life—they have stuck on ap.
pearance. But if acquired in youth,
taken in when the body, mind and heart
are especially active and open to influ
ences,they become “ bred in the bone,”
and the man never loses their controlling
power. They become a part and portion
of the man, and of such an one we say,
he is a perfect gentleman.”
Boys must learn to read and reflect
more for themselves. They should take
more pride in becoming the architects
of their own fortunes. The most suc
cessful men of the present day are thoso
who have made themselves such by their
own individual efforts.
A Soil Answer.
The husband was of quick temper,
and often inconsiderate. They had
not been married a y ar, when one day,
in a lit of hasty wrath, he said to his
wife :
“I want no correction from you. If
you are not satisfied with my conduct,
you may return to the home whence I
took you and find happiness wi'h your
kind.”
‘ II I leave you, ’ returned the unhap
py wife, 11 will you give me back that
which I brought to you ?”
‘■Jovery dollar. I covet not your
wealth, you shall have it all back.”
“ •” she answered, “ [ mean not
the wealth of gold. I thought n t of
dross. I mean my maiden heart- my
uist and only love—my buoyant hopes
and'the promised blessings of my woman
hood. Can you give these to me ?”
A moment of thought—of convulsion
and then taking her into his arms :
‘■No, no, wife, [ cannot do that, but
I will do more; I will keen them hence
forth unsullied and Uhpainetf. I e’Hci*.
ish your blessings as my own ; and
never again will I forget the pledge f
.rave at the alter when you gave your
peace and happiness to my keeping.”
How true it is that a soft answer
tuineth away wrath ! and how many,
oh . how many of the bitter strifes of
domestic life might be avoided by re
membering and acting in accordance
therewith !
——* ►— —-
A butcher who-was on his death
fied said to his Wife; “Tf I die, Fran
ooise. you must marry our shop-boy—
fie is a good youug man, and the busi
ness caun.it be carried on without a ma i
ou 1 J *k after it “ t have been think
iug about tuat already;” said his wifo.' *