THE .OllANGEBUllG TIMES
Is published every
WEDNESDAY,
at
ORANGEBURG, C. II., SOUTH CAROLINA
11y
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DISSOL.UTION.
riViH partnership heretolbie existing be
tween James S. lleyward and Krank P.
Heard, nmler the linn name of lleyward oi
Pea ill, is this day dissolved by mutual con
sent. All accounts due the linn must be paid
l.i Flunk 1\ Beard, he having purchased the
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and having assumed all the liabilities of thu
firm.
JAMES S. HEY;WARD,
FRANK 1\ BEARD.
Drangeburg, S. V., July 13,1872.
w
DR. D. L. BOOZER,
Surgeon Dentist,
Is prepared fo execute his professional work
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DU. T. BERWICK LEGARE,
T) E N T Ah S LT Ii C; E (> N ,
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Jeb 14
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POETRY.
SU cut Chords.
Far down in the deeps of the spirit,
In the silence and calm profound,
Remote from the storms of the surface,
Tlie chords that have ceased to sound
The heart once throbbed to their music,
An it filled all a summer day,
Then trembled at eve into silence,
And passed in soft echoes away.
Yet sometimes the breath cf a flower,
Or a glance, or a careless word,
Steels down to the dcops of the spirit.
And the silent chord is Htirred.
Then faint as the ghost of an echo,
They repeat a vague refrain ;
But we listen in vain for their sweetness,
To fill us and thrill us again*
Some day, it may he, when we waken
Transfigured on yonder shore,
Every chord of the spirit will vihrato
In such melody evermore.
^SELECTED "STO?YT
THE BALL OF BLUJE
WORSTED.
BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.
A hank of blue yarn tumbled off the
line, under which black Deb ducked her
wooly head, to grope in a corner of a cer
tain recess in the attic for hits for the rag
man's bug, and fell dircetl^P? into her
great apron.
" Dumb things speak sometimes," mut
tered Deb. " Now I might a' forgot
lue.?' soon master's socks'll be worn out
.uidy for that, I'll -Kot up a.pair to-mor
row; no art or ti a."
Then sho pocketed the yarn, bundled
up the rags, and descended earthward.
A woman and child sat in the kitchen,
old Mi ram Hough's niece and her baby.
A year or more past since news came to
that woman of her husband's death in
Lib by Prison; and the horror which had
come with it was in her eves now. No
wonder, for in the depth of the red em
bers on which her eyes were fixed, she
saw that a wild picture of a skeleton
crossing the '"dead line," and dropping
across it at the flash of a sentinel's mus
ket. A picture that haunted Mirnm El
drcth sleeping or walking, night and
day.
" The Ways of Providence is strange,"
said Deb, shaking her wooly bead, and
poking the fire ; and the woman turned
with a start, thinking of the things that
had been mcctcd out to her in her very
girlhood, for she was not yet twenty.
" Awful strange," continued Deb.
" It's so cur'us this yarn should pitch it
self at me when I'd arter been thinkuV
on't and wasn't."
And a ghost of a smile crept over Mi
ram's face, and the smile sot the baby
crowing, and the baby's crowing awaken
ed brighter smiles on the mother's face ;
and Deb seeing them playing together at
last?"two babies, poor tilings," as she
said to herself, laughing aloud in glee,
"thank the Lord, she's got some life in
her yet, when she's roused up," she said
to herself, and set the table ringing all
the while; and then,her master not being
at home yet, went out to hunt in his
room for what she always called "scrab
bled paper," to wind her ball of yarn
upon. She found a piece which suited
her at last, stiff, 3 cllo wish, and crackling,
and lying in an otherwise empty disk
drawer, and took it back, crumpled into
proper shape, and began to wind her
worsted. She had wound ten yards or
so, when a furious knocking at the door
made her start and break it short off, and
there was no more thought of the knit
ting that night, for at the door she found
a group of men who boro a sort of litter
amongst them on which, crushed and
maimed, and dying, lay old Hiram
Hough.
A boiler in his factory had burst, and
he, with a dozen poor workmen,-had been
hurried into eternity. He had but a few
moments to live ; but in tbeiu he called
his niece, Minim, to him.
" Don't cry, my child, no said," " I
shall bo better off than if I had lived lon
ger. ? Three score and ten years are
enough for man. The Bible says so. Arc
you safe? I knew I could not trust to
John. You are comfortable. This house
and enough to keep you in it, is yours.
Don't part with Deb ; let her live and
die here. You'll liud the deed of gilt.?"
But there the old man's voice failed,
and he said no more, and in an hour
was dead.
Mi ram, now that her last friend was
gone, could only weep and sit holding
her babe upon her knee, and wishing
that they lay together in the silent peace
of death as the good old man, who had
been so kind to her, lay. But Deb, half
broken-hearted as she was, went about
the hou.se, putting it into that shadowed
order in which the home death lias visit
ed must be found ; and coming at last to
the kitheu, where the untested meal was
spread, and on the hearth of which Uta
fire had smouldered low, picked up her
ball of worsted from the floor, and sob
bing, " Twon't knit marstcr'ssocks, now,"
finished winding it, for any disordcrseem
ed?to her an insult to the dead.
After that there came for both women
only hushed watching beside the dead
until the day of the funeral.
That day brought John Hough, a grim,
hardfistcd, middle-aged man, who had
not had time to visit his father for fif
teen-years.
He behaved decorously enough, and
was crisp and shiny in new mourning ;
but, as soon as decency permitted, he be
gan to settle affairs with such gusto that
it was evident that nothing else had been
in his in hid from the first.
" It appears that there is no will," said
hexsjUjr.g with Iiis elbows. 0:1 the parlor
uibie the day after the funeral, ''sol
lr.iv? nothing to do but to take possession.
How soon'll you be able to move, Cousin
Minim."
Mi ram looked at old Deb.
" I suppose I shall not move at all,"
she, said. " Uncle Ilirain gave ine this
house, and enough," ho said, to "keep me
in it."
.John grunted.
"Oh, lie said, ch ?" he said. "Well,
you'll let us look at the deed of gilt, or
whatever it is, won't you? I'm a business
man, you know."
Mirain looked at old Deb again. "Deb
heard him," she said. "Ho told me so
on his death-bed, and?yes?he said
something of a doeil of gift. There must
be one. But that can't make much dif
ference, Cousin John. You will do what
he wished, I know.'"'
Cousin John started at the* speaker
blandly.
" If there is anything to prove it, I'm
sure I shall," he said. " But a .statement
from the party interested don't stand in
law. Of course you know where he kept
his papers."
And Miram indicating the library,
the luanaof business and the legal gentle
man who hud been summoned to the spul
proceeded to make scorch, but found
nothing. In fact before long it seemed
quite cert tin that old Hiram Hough
must have been wandering in his mini
when he spoke of a deed of ?ritt. At
least his son John said so.
"So you sec," said John to his poor cou- j
sin. " So you see, Cousin Miram, we've
done our best. There's no such docu
incut. You'll have to work for your
livin' like other poor women, I suppose.
And as you can't work hero you'd better
go down to New York. I'vo got some
rooms 1 can let you cheap in a tenement
house, and I'll recommend you to a ui
lorl know for shop work. You'll get on
right smart. I expect there's women
working for him that make as much as
throe dollars t\ week, I'm told."
And in despair Miram took her cou
sin's advice, and Deb went with her.
" At least you'd have a home, honey,"
she said, "He'd novcr turn ycout o'doors
mean critter as he is." But Miram had
no such faith in her cousin.
It was a hideous place enough?a rick
otty building with pine-wood stairs, and
no lire escape, two families on a floor;
and the back room at the top of the
licm?o, witli a dark bed-room attached,
thf apartments destined for Mirarn.
olrio had generously iiermitted her to
bring with her a chair or two, a table,
beatond bedding, and her boy's cradle,
nriftisho furnished the desolate place with
than, wondering, with her country ideas
i, at the " large wardrobe," until
lless^oT'Missiis, yo don't Know York.
J&.meaut to s'eep in. It'll do berry
good for me."
^b'did sleep in the dark closet, and
held mistress with her babe, in the room
outaido^slept in spite of the noise bc
ih". ;!<.. The wake in one Irish domicile,
thK?parly" in another; the explosion of
ro^ptS'Iainp in one room, aud the
*)Q^iqg performances in another;?
atse of their fatigue. But there
tnts when there was no sleep for
?'the noiso and for wondering
ipy were to live. Miram made
^oTe^fly and Deb knit stockings to
but the rent swallowed upmost of
-y^pand food was very dear.- ?
^flBlneliaby 1 eft oil'crowing and began
t??^^ii^I??t was taken ill, ar.d then the
in or could only sit and nurse it, while
I.)t ) worked for lioth.
ho war- a ma rvclou.-? knitter, and her
grflM*egg^sh?ped ball* dwindled away uu-'
ili i er. need ho at- a rapid rate. I in t
never quite to an.end. Always upon the
luifo roll'ol' )\ How pai)?'??.r remained a ball
alkni'T, tlio size of a largo egg.
Wound that there for marsa's slock
ing\'," shcj&Bcd to say. "des' dar de yarn
:<: whea-they came knocking at de
I shan't never knit dat off; jco'
c'jt sp^Mnder to remember him by
nS^Ln'd then; was a sort of romance
v.' fuiK'yy lliough old Deb did not
KKi- . ... * ...
Knit, knit, knit all day and half the
night, but after all there was nothing to
spare after bread was bought.
Cousin John collected his rents* him
self, and called in vain for many a day.
He was patient :>. first, thinking the babe
must-die soon. But it lived to wail and
moan and keep hLs money from its moth
er; and by and by John grew angry.
" Think what taxes 1 pay," he plead.
" Now you're quite a prosperous woman,
if you choose tobe. There's Solomon' hell
give you as many shirts as you can make
at seven cents a piece, if you'll take 'cm.
Von ought to pay such a low rent as
this." And he frowned on Miram, who
onlylooked down upon her baby and
longed for the only home for which the
poor-ire charged nothing?the quiot rest
ing-place, of the grave.
And matters grew worse nod worse
with her, so had that there was no small
tire upon the hearth and no loaf upon the
table. Deb's last pair of stockings had
produced money enough to buy the med
icine the child needed and no more, and
there was nothing left save a great hank
of yarn, which, since an old gentleman
had promised to buy the stockings, might
save them from starvation.
Jn that hope the old woman had made
ready 'o wind the ball again, when the
short sharp knock they knew so well
startled them both, and in walked .lohn
Hough, buttoned to the chin in his warm
overcoat.
" Well," he said, " ready for me now ?"
Miram shook her head.
"Ready?" cried Deb?" why dcrc'a
neither fire nor victuals here'?and dat
chile wurs'n ever. Whnr to get a iriouth
ful, I dunno. Kfyou was a man, you'd
put your hand into your pocket and let
its know."
"Don't beg from him," cried Miram.
"I aint boggm," cried Deb. "Ho'syour
cousin, and he's robbed ye. Why honey,
he know dat house, was your'n, and do
groan', an' all. He knows you don't lie.
lie jis cheats ye cause ye aint got some
bit ofwritin' about it. I To knows?and
he's meanest cuss ngoin'."
John Hough blushed scarlet.
"I've given you house rent free for two
months," he said, ''and these are my
thanks. See here now. I've a 1* nant
for these rooms?and the sooner you're
cut the better."
"You mean to turn its out?" asked
Deb.
"I mean to have rent for my rooms,"
said John, avoiding Miram's eye as he
spoke. "You see I'm not so rich as peo
ple think."
Del) arose and stood before him flaunt
ing her ball, with its protruding paper,
in his face.
"You see dat dcrc, Marsa John," Bhe
said,?"dat was wound to knit your 'pa's
socks. I've kep it so ever sence ; jis so
much -when dc worsted broke and I run
to open do door. Seems as ef bringia' it
away an' all I sots on it?an' seems as cf
he kuowed I kep it. Dat was wound de
very night your 'pa gave dat house an'
ground' an' null' to keep her an' me an'
de chile to Mrs. Minim?I hcerd him.
I saw dat?an'I b'lcivo he hears me!
Now I wouldn't do it, Marsa John,?ef
'twarnt true,.would I?"
"I don't know what you'd do, womaD,"
cried John Hough. "What I require is
evidence?give me that, and I ask no
more. But you haven't got it; and what
has all that rubbish about a ball of yarn
to do with it? I know my father wore
stocking*?I don't enre who knit 'em, or
when?don't llurish that in my facc,you
old fool."
And so speaking, he pushed the old
woman?whose attitude was actually
somewhat threatening?aside, and, in do
ing so, knocked the hall from her hand.
She caught it.but only held the worsted
and as it unwound in blue-gray coils, the
foundation of its greatness fell, unloosed,
at Mi nun's feet. She stooped and pick
ed it up. Something arrested her
glance.
"This is parchment," she cried. "It is
a document of some kind. Where did
you get it, Deb?"
"Out of Marsa's room do night he
jdicd;" taid Dulyaolsuiidy.
And Miram, holding it tight, cast her
eyes over the lines written upon its sur
face and signed with her dead uncle's
name.
"Deborah, it is the deed of gift," she
cried.
And fainted away.
And Miram spoke the truth. The lit
tle document which so ordered tilings
that she need want no longer had been
with them, through all their tribulation I
and starvation under Deb's ball of wors
ted !
"I've took care on't so long without
knowin' on't," said Deb, "and I'll keep
it safe now, and nobody don't get it from
me."
And it may be doubted whether Deb
slept in her anxiety until the paper was
in proper hands and Miram and her
little one restored to their old home with
ample provision for their comfort.
There they live now, and if you visit
them, old Deb will tell you the story;
adding, by way of climax :
"De^ways oh Providence is mysterious."
Ef dat worsted hadn't tumbled into
my lap, I shouldn't have wound it; and
cf I hadn't wound it, I wouldn't havo'got
dat deed of gif' I thought was only scrib
bled paper; and elf I hadn't kep it,
whar'd we bin now? Lor' only knows;
I don't.
And so, as it is plain to see, takes only
credit to herself for the whole proceed
ing.
TintEii Things.?Three things to lovo:
courage, gentleness and atfectiou. Three
things to admire: intellect, dignity, and
gracefulness. Three things to hate:?
cruelty, arrogance and ingratitude.?
Three things to delight in: beauty,
frankness, and freedom. Three things
to wish for: health, friends, and a con
tented spirit. Three things to like: cor
diality, good humor and cheerfulness.?
Three to avoid: idleness, loquacity, and
flippant-jesting. Three things to culti
vate: good books, good friends, and good
humor. Three things to contend for:
honor, country and friends. Three things
to govern: temper, tonguo and conduct.
Three things to think about: life, death,
and eternity.?[Selected.
To grow rich, earn money fairly, spend
less than you earn, and hold to the dif
ference. The first takes muscle, the sec
ond self-control, tho third brains.
Broken Friendship.
When, after valuing a friend for yearn,
after believing in his, or her, truth and
excellence?after holding sonic one dear,
and feeling that mutual appreciation has
bound ua together, how bitter it is to find
that we have been mistaken ! We kno\*
of no moment which is more bitter, save
tboso which fly as we bend over the pil
lows where those we love lie dying.
We say very little, perhaps, then or at
any time. We are not angry ; we hnvo
no wish for revenge ; we go quickly up
to our own room, and sit down to think.
If it were only a case of broken lovo
vows, we could solace ourselves with quo
tations. We could soy "Jo be wroth
with one we love, doth work like madness
on the brain." We could ask, "Could
no other arm bo found save thy one that
once embraced me, to inilict a cureless
wound ?" But it was "only a friend."?
There lies the velume, sacred becnuso
that hand gave it, and wrote your name
in it. There the boquet of faded violets,
treasured until Aunt Betsy has asked
twice "why don't you throw them away V"
There the photograph that, for very pre
ciousncss, was kept apart. Any one may
borrow the book now. -The flowers may
go into the daat-pan. Aunt Betsy umy
put the picture into anybody's photo
graph album.
People will tell you that most friend
ships end thus; that it is the best not to
bcfieve you have a friend until tiie sod
are over him and then to think that ho
might have been as bad as the rest, had
he lived a little longer. A love allair,
now, there is romance in that. But just
a friend?nothing more; why, you'd be
laughed at. So you never speak of it.?
You bury it in your heart, and write
"rest in peace" over it. But no roses
ever grow there; perhaps a lew thorns ;
and now and theu a heart-shiver will
tell you that "some ono is passing
over your grave."
President Porter, of Yale, gave the
following advice to the students of that
institution the other day: "Young men,
you are architects of your own fortunes.
Rely upon your own strength of body
and soul. Take for your star, self-reli
ance, faith, honesty and industry. In
scribe on your banner, 'Luck is a fool,
pluck is a hero.' Don't take two much
advice?keep at your helm and steer
your own ship and remember that the
great art of commanding is to take a fair
share of the work. Don't practice too
much humanity. Think well of your
self. Strike out. Assume your own po
sition. Put potatoes in a cart over a
rough road and small ones go to tho
bottom. Rise above the envious and
jealous. Fire above the maik you in
tend to hit. Energy, invincible deter
mination, with a right motive, are tho
levers that move tho world. Don't
drink. Don't chew. Don't smoke.?
Don't swear. Don't deceive- Don't
read novels. Don't marry until you can
support a wife. Be in earnest. Be self-r
reliant. Be generous. Be civil. Read
tho papers. Advertise your business.?
Make money and do good with it. Lovo
your God and fellow-man. Love truth and
virtue. Lovo your country and obey its
laws. If this advice is implicitely fol
owed by the young men,of the country,
the millennium is near at hand."
Children.?In our early youth, while
yet we live only among those wo love,
we love without restraint, and our hearts
overflow in every look, word and action.
But when wo enter tho world, and arc
repulsed by strangers, forgotten by
friends, we grow moro and more timid iu
our approaches even to those we love
host. How delightful to us are tho littlo
caresses of children! All sincerity, all
affection, they fly into our arms; ami
then, and then only, we feel our first con
fidence, our first pleasure.
London was first lighted with gas on
the 28th of January, 1807, by a German
named Winsor. Sir Walter Scott ob
serves in his diary in 18?6 : " There is
a madman in London who is trying to
light the city with smoke."