Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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. v t * ' * met' m • • rtmfo "> -•* S^, y ^ 1 . - . > , m m j» * TRI-WEEKLY EDITION. WINNSBORO. S. 0.. Af GUST 30. 1883. ESTABLISHED 1848 THE VERDICT -or— THE PEOPLE BUY THE BEST! Mr. J. O. Boao—Dear Sir: I bought the first Davis Machine sold by you over five years ago tor my wife, who has given It a long and fair trial. ■ I am well pleased with it. It never gives any rouble, and is as good as when first bought * J. w. Houck. Winnsboro, S. C., April 1883. Mr. Boao: Tou wish to know what I have to aay In regard to the Davis Machine bought of you three f ears ago. I feel 1 can’t say too much In its favor. made about 180,00 within five months, at times running it so fast that the needle would get per fect!/hot from friction. I feel confldenl I could not have done the same work with as much ease and so well with any other machine. No time lest in adjusting attachments. The lightest running machine I have ever treadled. Brother James and Williams’ families are as much pleased with their Davis Machines bought et you. I want no better a om.i. before, I don’t think too much can be said for the Davis Machine. Uespectfully, Ellen Stevenson, Fairfield County, Apili, 1883. THKWANDUKUK. Mr. Boao: My machine gives me perfect satis faction. 1 find uo fault with it. The attachments ai e so simple, i wish for no* better than the Davis Vertical Feed. Respectfully. Mrs. R. Millino. Fairfield county, Aprl', 1883. MR. Boao: I bought a Davis Vertical Feed swing Machine from you four years ago. I am slighted with it. It never has glveu me any rouble, and has never been the least out of order. It Is as good as when I first bought it. I can cheerfully recommend It. Respectfully, Mr.-*. M. J. Kirkland. Montlcelio, April 30, 1883. This Is to certify that I have been using a Davis Vertical Feed Hewing Machiue for over tw > years, purchased of Mr. J. O. Boag. I haven’t found 11 p assessed of any fault—all the attachments are so simple. It never refuses to work, and is certainly tha lightest running In the market. I consider It a first class machine. Very respectfully. Minnie M. Willingham. Oakland, Fairfield county, 8. C. Mr Boao: i am wen pieasen in every panicui with the Davis Machine nought of you. I think a firsi-c.ass machine In every respect. You knew you sold several machines of the same make to different members of our families, all of whom, . tar as I know, are well pleased with them. Kes tectfnlly, . •- -.v Mrs. M. J. Mobley. Fairfield coui^nJ^y, 1883. r ■ v- This Isto cervuy wd nave nal m constant uss the Davis Machine bought ot you about, three years ago. As we take In work, and have made the price of It several times over, we don’t want any better machine, it Is always ready to do any kind of work we nave to do. No puckerlngor skipping stitches. We can only say we are well pleased and wish no better machine, CATHERINE WYLIE AND SISTER. April 96,18-«. I have no fault to find with my mach ne, and don’t want any better. I have made the price of It several times by taking In sewing. It is always ready to do Its work. I think it a first-class ma chine. I feel I can t say too mach for the Davu Vertical Feed Machine. Mrs. Thomas Smith. Fairfield county, April, 1883. Mr. J. O. Boao—Dear Sir: It gives me much pleasure to testify to the merits of the Davis Ver tical Feed Sewing Machine. The machine I ^at of you about five years ago. has heed almost la con stant use ever since that time. I cannot see that It Is worn any, and has not cost me one cent for repairs since we have had it. Am well pleased and don't wish (or any better. Yours trn'y, KOBT. CRIWVORI), Granite Quarry, near Winnsboro 8. C. We h ive used the Davis Vertical Feed Sewing Machine for the last five years. We would not have any other make at any price. ThP machine baa given ua unbounded satisfaction. Very respectfully, Mrs. W. K. Turner and Dauohterb; Fairfield county, 8. C., Jan. 8f. 1883. Having bought a Davis Vertical Feed Sewing Machine from Mr. J. O. Boag some three years ago, and It havlug given me perfect satisfaction In •very resi>ect asa tamlly machine both for hea y and light sewing, and never needed the least re pair In any way, I can cheerfal'y recommend It to aay one as a first-class machine in every particu lar, and think It second to none. It la one ot the eimpieet machines made; my children use U with all ease. The attachments are moie easily ad justed and It does a greater range of work jy means of its Vertical Feed than any other ma chine I have ever seen or nsed. Mrs. Thomas uwinus. Winnsboro, Fairfield county, s. C. We have had one of the DavD Machines about four years and havs always found it ready to do all kinds of work we have had occaa on to da Can’t see that the machine la worn any, and works as well as when new. Mrs. W. J. Crawford, Jackson’s Creek, Fairfield county, 8. C. My wife la highly pleased with the Davis Ma chiue bought of yon. She would not take double what she gave for it. The machine has not been out of older since she had U, and she can do any kind of work on 1U Very Respectfully, J as. F. Free. Montlcelio, Fairfield county, S. C. The Davis Sewing Machine Is slmplr a treas ure Mrs. J. A. uoodwyn. Ridgeway, N. C., Jan. 10, 1883. J, O Boao, Esq., Agant—Dear Sir: My wife baa oeen using a Davis Sewing Machine constant ly for the past four years, and It has never needed any repairs and works just as well as when first bought. She says It will do s greater range of practical work and do It easier and better than any machine aha has ever need. We cheerfully recommend It as a No. l family machine, Your tru.y, Jab. Q. Davie. Winn*boro, S. C., Jan. t, lags. I have always found my Davis Ma- Bf u ‘ ‘' ' ‘ Upon a mountain’s height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my curious ear this lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing— Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. How came this shell upon the mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too care less hand— Whether there cast when oceans swept the land Ere the Eternal hand ordained the Day? Strange, was it not? far from its native sea, One song it sang— Sang of the mighty mysteries of the tide— Sang of the awful, vast, profound, and wide— Softly with echoes of the ocean raug. And, as the shell upon the mountain’s height Sings of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away— So do I ever, wanderiug where I may, Sing, O my home—O my home, of thee. Mr. Boao: , , . chine ready do all kinds of to work I have had oo- aaalontodo. I eaanot see that the machine Is worn s particle and It works as wed as whan new. Respectfully, Mas. K. C. Uoouino. Winnsboro, 8. C., April, IMS, Mr. Boao : My wife has been oonstautiy using the Davis Machuie imught of you shout five year* a«o- I have never regretted haying It, •• it Is always ready for any Kind of family sewing, either hM^rorlight ItMneveroutuf as or needing SIS BROWN’S FORTUNK. Very fairfield, & 0., Mareh, UN, reepeetfuiyr, I.AW To begin with, I am a long young person, with big bones and plenty of them—and I don’t care a button if my hair is red I I have good reason to know that I am not considered beauti ful; that my nose, for instance—but there’s really no need for such distress- ing details. My father, Peter Brown—the best farmer living in all Fairfax, be the dead one whom lie may—is the unfortunate possessor of 13 children, every single one of them girls—and the married ones, too, for that matter! Of course, girls are all very well as far as they go, but one gets too much of a good thing sometimes, and when poor pa takes a notion to upbraid fate because all his boys turned out girls,-1 must say I rebel against the decree that, condemus me to slavish frocks and frizzes. Most good folks sing out that they waut to can-y harps and be angels, hut I—if only I were Peter Brown, junior, and bad a farm like pa! I don’t blame ma, of course, hut I really do think the even dozen ought to have contented her—and, what’s more, I say so, when pa and I get beyond the subduing in fluence of her eye—for there's nothing trilling about ma’s eye! When pa and ma’s love was young, and their future a rose-colored rose— there! I’ve heard pa say it a dozen times, hut wheu a girl happens to be shackled with a memory like a hoy’s pocket upside down, and the middle nowhere, and get that memory from her ma, I suppose there’s to be allowances —anyhow, the first girls got the bene fit of it all in the way of mugs, and comls. and j^tues as fine as fiddles: men there came such a disastrous lull in pa’s enthusiasm that ma says, when he panted up from the fields one hot noon aud found our dear old twins waiting, instead of his dinner, it set him so frantic that .he threatened to huncli the whole family together like a string of lisli and do a dark and despe rate deed. But ma just kept on having her own way—which means girls— until by tiie time she wound up the home circle with me—at your service— siie had so worn her intellect down at the heels thinking up double-barrelled names for the other dozen, that she handed my christening over to pa, and pa everlastingly disgraced himself, in my estimation, by heartlessly calling me Sis—absolutely nothing but Sis! If I had been a boy this indiguity, at least—but there are some wrongs so great that the only thing one can con veniently do is to forgive them! But, though pa has been cheated of his bish ops and senators and things (pror dear, he never dreams that sons of his might have turned out farmers like himself, only not half so good) the girls have certainly made up his loss in husbands. Indeed, pa seems to have more sons-in- la.w than he quite knows what to do with—and as to grandsons! “If one could ouiy feed them like chickens!” sighs poor ma, plaintively. “If one could only kill them like chickens, you mean,” I retorted, vin dictively. After that little business talk pa and I had tiehind the barn I’ve settled in my mmd that the Browns have got to economize—and I mean to start witli the grandchildren by way of a noble beginning. “Now, look here, ma,” I say to the dear old soul who is already staring at me witli big, anxious eyes, like a lieu with her feathers rallied, “this thing lias gone on long enough, aud I just mean to hitch old Calico to the cart and dump every scrap of grandchild at his own lawful door—1 do! It’s down right mean in the girls to impose on us In this everlasting way—as if there wasu’t work enough of our own—” “There, there, sir” interrupts ma, pathetically, “they only mean to please pa—” “And a nice way they take to do it! Pa’s an old man now, aud .after pinch ing and slaving all his life for us army of girls, what right have they to keep him pinching and slaving to the last? Oh, you needn’t look at me like that, ma, dear; children, like good mnners, ought to he found at home—hi, you Tom, Dick, Harry, etc., etc.,” and when at last 1 have packed them in the cart, and we go laughing, scratching, and squalling down the road, I feel like the pied piper of Hamlien, only there’s no hill with wide, greedy jaws waiting at the end of the trip—more’s the pity! That sounds as if Sis Brown were not fond of children; hut I really am. when they come like silk frocks and other occasional luxuries—considered as every-day affairs, however, if I tun to be allowed a preference between the two—why, give me the locusts of Egypt and accept my grateful thanks. When I have impartially divided their howling household goods between the eight sisters who live so uncom fortably near, the sun is sinking behind the trees in a blaze of glorious yellow. There is a long road with many leafy turnings, that Calico knows as well as I, and while she dawdles along it with a languid elegance that suits us both. 1 ait, tailor-fashion, in the bottom of the cart, thinking, thinking, heedless^ of whip or rein. I read a story once of a devil-fish crawling over the roof of a pretty cot tage by some southern sea. I don’t suppose there was a word of truth in it; but, some way, ever since i>a made a clean breast of his troubles, I can’t get that shiny, black monster out of my thoughts night or day. 1 should say, indeed, that a mortgage like ours was a trifle the worst of the two, because there’s only one weapon to fight it, and where in the word is pa to get the first red cent of that terrible three thousand dollars? T f pa had only told me in time, perhaps I might have done something heroic with my poultry—a flock of gray geese did grand things for history once on a time—but no, he kept as dumb as Cheops, until I found it all out for my self, and uo thanks to anybody. * The way of it was: ma started me down to the meadow one evening last week to see what pa meant by keeping supper waiting, and when I found him leaning against the ham there as quiet and gray as the twilight shadows, why, I think the One who doeth all things well must have put it in my heart to wake him up aud tell me the matter. There is no woman in all this big glorious world so weak as Sampson with his head shaved, aud so he told me between sobs—I don’t ever want to see my father cry again—how the big family had gobbled up the small earn ings, how at last there was nothing to do but borrow money on the dear, shabby old place, and now a villainous hill of some sort was coming due. “Never miud, dad,” I said, “come along to supper; 1’Jl get you out of your fix.” I don’t think pa realized at the min ute—aud I’m sure I did uot—that 1 had never seen so much as a hundred dollars in all my life together, for he followed me home contentedly, put his head under the spout while I pumped, and then, with his hand on my shoul der, went into the house aud ate supper enough for two! The next day pa was out of his head witli a fever, aud now to see him prodding about the farm with a stick in his hand and a pain in his hack—poor, dear pa! Of course, the first thing that suggested itself at his bedside was blood, and plenty of it— and I did saddle Calico and race off to murder the mortgage man—hut I might have saved myself the trouble, for the vile creature wasn’t at home; then I turned the old mare’s head to ward the family sons-in-law, hut there wasn’t a husband among them who had the cash to spare—they don’t seem to spare anything quite so conveniently as children! I even decided to “Say, young woman!” I am not a coward, but the creature who has brought the cart and my thoughts to suen a sudden hail looks so like some great famished wolf, stand ing there at Calico’s head, that I shiver from head to foot, and he sees it. “You needn’t he afreard,” he gasps, in a rasping sort of whisper. “I haven’t the strength to harm you if my will was good for murder—look at tnis!” • His eyes turned toward his breast— his right ami lies stiffly across it clotted with something tliat must he blood, aud the fingers look like the flesh of a dead man. I think that he understands that I am sorry for him, for before my heart can jump back to its right place again, he drops the reins and touches his maugey cay. “I’ve been skulkin’ in these ’ere woods, miss, nigh onto a week, and what with starvin’.and the pain ’o this, I’m most about dead played out.” “If you will cut across the fields to that house over there,” I say, kindly, I am sure—for God kfiows I pity him from the bottom of my heart—“1 will see that you get a good supper.” “I couldn’t crawl there, much less walk, and my time for suppers is over for this world, 1 reckon.” I am so sorry for the poor, misery- ridden creature standing there in the summer twilight, with the fragrant woods all around him, and the birds chirping sleepily in the trees—so very sorry, aud I tell him so. He totters as I say it, and I am just makiug up mv mind that Calico and 1 ixave a disagreeable job before us, when he lays one miserable hand on the wheel, and, drawing his face near enough for me to see the ghastly seams that want has seared there, cries im ploringly:— “There’s them that’s hunting me to my death; for God’s sake, won’t you help me?” All my life I have wanted to he a man, and now the time has come to act like one. I am rubbing Calico down in her stall—pa and I being the only men—I mean pa being the only man about the place, we do this sort of thing ourselves—when the dear old fel low hobbles down the pathway and puts his head iu the door. “Sis,” he begins, with wide, excited eyes, “did you meet a big fellow down the road—a dark chap with lots of bumps and black, frizzled whiskers?” I had not, and I said so. “Well, he came by here hunting up some scamp who robbed a bank in Kichmond and got down to these parts with the money in his pocket and a bullet in his flesh. I started him down the main road. I wonder you didn’t see him.” “I drove around by the mill.” I answered, quietly enough, considering 1 feel like a tornado; “but he won’t catch his scamp to-night, dad.” “Think not? Why?” “Because I’ve got him snug in the barn!” “Goodness, gracious! then I’ll just i» Pa is making his way to warn justice as fast as his weak legs will let him, when I steady him against the stable- door and take away his cane. “Dad,” l cry savagely, “I adore you, but If you take another step to harm that man, why—you’ve only got a dozen daughters to go through the rest of your life.” “You!” gasps pa—and I wonder the wisp of straw he has been chewing does not strangle him black on the spot—“a child of mine help a thief—” “Eractiy! and she means to make jrou an accessory after the act. Now, see here, pa, I don’t set up to he a cherub, but when a fellow-creature, starved and bleeding, asks me to help him in the name of God why I mean to help him if I break every law in Vir- girnia to atoms—so there!” Pa looks stunned a bit—as I knew he would—wavers a bit, and then laying one big brown paw on my head, as I likewise expected, knowing pa’s way as I do, cries stoutly:— “Spoken like a man, Sis; and now let’s have a look at your villain.” When we stand at last before the poor fellow he looks so pitifully helpless stretched out there on the friendly straw, that pa’s loviug heart gets the best of his law-abiding uiuciplcs, and he bathes the jiurt arm sMi tenderly as if it hail never oeen rafted Hi- When pa first noticePthe jug of water I have brought from the spring and the carriage-robe rolled up for a pillow with the rougli side in, he looks at me wouderingly Tor a second, aud then ejaculates with most contented happi ness: “Thank God, Sis, yofa are only a woman after all!” I suppose pa means well, hut it does not sound encouraging considering I’ve been trying to do.my duty like a man. Even lathers are human! “It’s no use,” moanfHlie poor crea ture, when pa bus donftdus best with the wound. “I’m a gdjn’ fast boss, hut she said they shoijkl not—touch me ” ; “Don’t worry, my Ipl,” cries pa, cheerily. Bight or wring here you stay until ” “It won’t he—long—L feel it coinin’ fast—and hard—I would’ have died out there on the black roadside except for her. God bless her! If you—don’t mind”—and here he looks at me so like some gaunt, faithful dog. that I lean over him by pa to catch his dying words—“if you don’t mind—w r ill you take this hag from—around my neck? It chokes me—it choker—” “There, there,” says pa, tenderly, and now, my lad, before you go to— sleep, tell me, does this money belong to the hank?” “Yes, yes,” cries the dying man, witli an imploring glance at pa while he tries to touch my hand with his own poor, feeble fingei-s; “take it hack, boss, and tell tliem—tell them—that the— reward—belongs to—her ” Yes, that is the true and simple story of my fortune, no matter what the papers said. For a long time pa would not let me touch a penny, of that $5,000, hut when tin* people at the hank insisted that business was ousi- ness, I had earned tlq u^oney and there it was, why r CaoUe of J Not far from Wiener-Neustadt (one hour’a distance by railway from Vienna) Castle Frohsdorf shines out of the dense forest like a snow white Easters egg in a green nest. It is a plain square building, and if it were not for an enor mous coat-of-arms, with the traditional lilies, no one would suppose it to be the residence of a would-he-kiiig. Duriug the whole 6f the week endmg May 14th a deep silence pervaded the park and buildings, and the numerous messengers who arrived from all parts to inquire about the health of the Comte de Cham- bord were dismissed without being al lowed to cross the threshold. When the Comte de Chambord stayed at Gor itz it was not difficult to obtain admit tance into the castle. The first thing that t trikes the visitor upon entering the vestibule is a life-statue of the Maid of Orleans, hearing a great likeness to the Duchess de Berri, • ‘the man of the family.” Opposite to it the walls bears an old coat-of-arms, with the lilies and the date 1480. On the hack wall are two large pictures, oue representing the Virgin and Child, the other an old gray bearded man, with a baby in his arms. The old man is the Comte de Chambord’s patron saint and the baby the Comte de Chambord himself. The portrait of the baby Chambord naturally reminds one of the scene happened in 1830, in which this self-same baby played a prominent part and which Odilon Barrot describes in ins Memoirs. Of all the kings who have fled from the Tuileries, none did so with more dignity than Charles X., who brought away his court, his military cabinet, his master of ceremonies and court marsh als. But the people, and the National Guard especially, opposed the flight, and while searching the royal carriages gave vent to no very royal feelings. In Charenton the mob would have stopped the royal procession altogether but for the little Due de Bordeaux (afterwards the Comte de Chambord) and his sister, who sitting in the first carriage, bowed to the people and kissed their hands to them, as they had been taught in the days of happy royalty. The mob was touched, the women cried, and the roy al party passed through the crowd, which did not even murmur. The ves tibule of Castle Frohsdorf (formerly Krottendorf, that is toad village; then Frosclidorf—frog’s village) opens into a courtyard resembling the garden of a convent. Not a flower nor a shrub to relieve the monotony of the cold, gray stones, the closed windows, the tidy gravel walks. On the stairs and in the halls there are no ornaments except V .e-sized portraits of dead and gone Kings of France. Thirty young French noblemen alternately do services as the king’s chamberlains, and all they re ceive for tneir pains is a smile of the King! From Monseigneur’s windows in Frohsdorf we see a small castle on a hill which also belongs to the Comte de Chambord, and which he inhabits dur ing the hunting season. Here all the rooms are adorned with stag-heads, stuffed eagles and woodcocks: the fur niture is simple and nothing reminds the Comte de Chambord’s visitors of his hopes and aspirations. Two years ago a large parlor was added, whose bow- windows offer a splendid view of the Semmering and Leltha mountains. The Prince is said to have expressed a wish to die with this view before him. It is a scene of rare beauty—hundred- year old trees in the foreground and the mountains of Austria in the distance. —There are 308 G. A. 11. Posts in New York. Finding the Trail Here in the shadow of tins grim mountain is a camp of cavalry—200 men in faded and ragged blue uniforms eveiy face sunburned and bronzed, every sabre and carbine showing long use, eveiy horse lifting ijs head from the grass at short intervals for a swift glance up and down the valley. Here, at the foot of the mountain, the Apache trail, which has been fol lowed for three days, has grown cold. Aye, it has been lost. It is as if the white man had followed a path which suddenly ended at a precipice. From this point the red demons took wings, and the oldest trailer is at fault. . The men on picket looked up and down tiie narrow valley with anxious fitces. Down the valley, a mile away, a solitary wild horse paws and prances and utters shrill neighs of wonderment and alarm. Up the valley is a long stretch of green grass, the earth as level as a floor and no visible sign* of life. Tiie pines and shrubs and rocks on the mountain side might hide ten thou sand Indians, hut there is not the slightest movement to arouse suspicion. It is a still, hot day. Not a bird chirps, not a branch waves. Tiie eye 'f ». lynx could detect nothing beyond the erratic movements of the lone wild horse adown tiie valley and the circular flight of an eagle so high in air that the proud bird seemed no larger than a sparrow. For an hour every man and horse has looked for signs, hut nothing has -‘een discovered beyond what has been described. It is a lost trail. There something in it to arouse suspicion as well as annoyance. Ten miles away die trail was as plain as a country lighway, aud the Indians had no sus picion of pursuit. Fve miles hack there were signs of commotion. Here in the center of the valley, every foot print suddenly disappears. Look, now! A sergeant with grizzly locks and fighting jaw rides down the valley, followed by five troopers. They are to scout for the lost trail. Every man lias unslung his carbine, every saddle-girth has been tightened, and every man of the six looks over tiie camp as he rides out as if he had been told that he was bidding a last farwell to comrades. They ride at a slow gal lop. Each man casts swift glances along the mountain side to his right— along the mountain side to his left— at the green grass under his hores’s feet. What’s that! Afar up the slojie to the right something waves to aud fro for a moment. Higher up tiie signal is answered. Across the valley on the other slope it is answered again. Down the valley, a full two miles beyond where the wild horse now RtHntls like a a£ stjme, where the valley sweeps to the right like the sudden turn of a river, the signal is caught up and 200 Apaches, eager, excited aud mounted, drew back into tiie fringe at the base of the mountain and wait. Tiie little hand gallop straight down upon the lone horse. Now they are only half a mile away, and his breath comes quick and his nostrils quiver as he stands aud stares at the strange spectacle. A little nearer and his muscles twitch and quiver and his sharp-pointed ears work fast er. Only eighty rods now, and with a fierce snort of alarm and defiance he rears up, whirls about like a top, and is off down the valley line an ar row sent by a strong baud. The sight may thrill, but it does not increase the pace of those who follow. The men tae the wild horse fleeing before them, but the sight does not hold their eyes more than a second. To the right—to the left—above them—down the valley— they are looking for a hoof-print, for a trampled spot, for a broken twig—for a sign however insignificant to prove that men have passed that way. They find nothing. The signals up the mountain side were visible only for seconds. After the first wild burst of speed the lone horse looks back. He sees that he is not being pushed, and he recovers courage. He no longer runs in a straight line, but he sweeps away to the left- swerves away to the right, and changes his gait to a trot. When he hears the shouts of pursuit and the louder thump of hoof-beats he will straighten away add show the pursuers a gait which nothing but a whirl-wind can equal. Look! It is only a quarter of a mile now to the turn in the valley. The lone horse has suddenly sluppeu to auill the air. His ears are pointed straight ahead, his eyes grow larger and take on a frightened lack and he half wheels as if he would gallop back to those who have seemingly pursued. Five, eight, ten seconds, and with a snort of alarm he breaks into a terrific ran, takes the extaeme left of the valley, and goes tearing out of sight as if followed by lions, “ Halt!” The grim sergeant see signs in the actirns of the horse. Every trooper is looking ahead and to the right. The green valley runs into the friege, the fringe into a dense thicket, the thicket into rock and pine and mountain slope. No eye conld penetrate that fringe. The Indians may be ambushed there, or the horse may have scented wolf or griz- zly# “ Forward !”• No man knows what danger lurks in the fringe, but the order was to scout beyond the bend, To disobey is ignom iny and disgrace, to ride forward is— wait! There is no air stirring in the valley. Every limb and bough is as still as if made of iron. There is a silence which weighs like a heavy bur den, and the harsh note of hawk or buzzard would be a relief. Here is the bend, Tiie valley con tinues as before—no wider—no narrow er-level and unbrokeu. The wild horse was out of sight long ago, and the six troopers see nothing but the green grass as their eyee sweep the valley from side to side. “Turn the bend and ride down the valley for a mile or so aud keep your eyes opeu to discover any pass leading out.” “Halt!” It is more than a mile beyond the bend. No pass has been discovered. N ® signs of a trail have been picked up Tiie sergeant has raised himself up for a long and careful scrutiny, when an exclamation causes him to turn his face up the valley. Out from the fringe ride the demons who have been lurking there to drink blood. Five—ten- twenty—fifty—the line has no end. It stretches clear across the valley before a word lias been spoken. Then it faces to the right and 200 Indians in war paint face tiie grim old sergeant and Ills five troopers. “ Into line—right dress !” It is the sergeant who whispers the older. Six to 200. but he will face the danger. To retreat down the valley is to be overtaken one by one and shot from the saddle or reserved for torture. Down the valley there is nc hope; up the valley is the camp and rescue. The two lines face each other for a moment without a movement. “Now, men, one volley—sling car bines—draw sabres and charge!” A sheet of flame—a roar—a cloud of smoke, and the six horses sprang for ward. Then there is a grand yell, a rush by every horse and rider, and a whirlpool begins to circle. Sabres flash and clang—arrows whistle—revolvers pop—voices shout aud scream, and then the whirljtool ceases. It is not three minutes since the first carbine was fired, but the tragedy has euded. Every trooper is down and scalped, half a dozen redskins are dead or dying, a dozen horses are struggling or stagger ing, and iurning the bend at a mad gal lop is the sergeant’s riderless horse. He carries an arrow iu his shoulder, and there is blood on the saddle. In live minutes he will be in eamp, and the notes of the bugle will prove that the lost trail has been found. George Wattliliigton’M Will. Our Nine. With a history extending back nearly two huudred years, it is uot surprising that tiie reedrds of Fairfax county, Va., are interesting. The greatest treasure which tiie court-house contains, how ever, is the original will of George Washington. When Washington re tired from the office of President he went to Mount Vernon, lus country seat, where, on the 14th day of Decem ber, 1799, he died. Mount Vernon is in Fairfax country, and the will was therefore brought before the county court for probate. The record of it is as follows: At a Court held for the County of Fairfax, tiie 20th January, 1800. This Last Will and Testament of George Washington, deceased, late President of the United States of America, was presented in Court by George Steptoe Washington, Samuel Washington and Lawrence Lewis, three of the Executors therein named, who made oath thereto j«ju1 th* nutnet MVinif nv«vna Vy of Charles Little7 Chas. Simms and Ludwell Lee, to be in the true hand writing of the said Testator, as also the Scedule thereto annexed, and the said . Will, being sealed and signed by him,B is on Motion Ordered to be Recorded. ’ And the said Executors having security aud performed what the Laws require a Certificate is granted them for obtain ing a probate thereof in due form. Teste: L. Denealk. Up to a year or two ago the will was kept on 111 j with other papers, notwith standing the distinction which its his torical value attached to it. Frequent handling, however, threatened its de struction and the walnut case, which it at uresent occupies, was made to pro tect it. The will is plainly visible through the glass top. It is ragged and torn, and slightly discolored by age. Half of the first page, which commences “ In tiie name of tiie uord, Amen,” seems to be missing, and the other jiages are kept in place by two straps, The ink is well preserved, be ing as back aud distinct, apparently, as when first written. The will is written on letter paper ; unruled, in a plain, round hand, easily legible. It is quite lengthy, occupying twenty-three jtages of the large record book into which it has been copied. It goes into specifics devises and is dated at Mount Vernon, July 9,1799. The case containing the original is kept in a fire-proof safe. The schedule which forms a part of the will contains a list of the property owned by Washington. An interesting extract from this part of the ducumen( is as follows: The two lots near the Capitol, in square 634, cost me $903 ouiy; but in this price 1 was favoured, on condition that 1 should build two Brick houses, theee storey high each. V/itbout this reduction tiie selling price of those lots would have cost me about $1,350. These lots, with the buildings thereon, when completed, will stand me in $15,- 000 at least. Lots No, 5, 12, 13 and 14 on the Eastern branch are advantageously sit uated on the water, and although many lots, much less convenient, have sold a great deal higLjr. I will rate these at twelve cents the square foot only. Square 634 is bounded on the south by B street, on the west by New Jersey avenue, on the north by C street, and on the east by North Capitol street. The two lots which Washington refer red to were lot 16, fronting fifty-four feet on North Capitol street, and part of lots 6 and 7, having about the same frontage on New Jersey avenue. The first lot was purchased by Washington from Daniel Carroll, but there is no deed of the sale on record. In the of fice of the District commissioners, how ever, there is proof of tiie purchase. Washington’s heirs sold it to David English and W. 8. Nichols, and in course of time it was purcliased by Admiral Wilkes. It is now owned by the National Savings’ bank. It is the site of the Hillman house, a building originally built by Washington and oc cupied by him as a residence. It is now assessed at $9,000. The property on New Jersey avenue has been subdivid ed again and again, until its history is difficult to trace. As near as can be ascertained, however, it is now owned by Albert G. Hall George Jeuneman and M. Kammerer, trustees of E. H. Leutner, having a total assessed value of $4,000. The lot on the Eastern branch cannot be located. The voice tliat declared that Walker walrthe person who had placed the two foul-flags upon second base came from George Dark. And to verify his word, George Dark himself came running in a minute later. “Didn’t I tell you that the K-I-C-K- E- R, kicker would get the game all mixed up?* asked he, delightedly. “I knew that he would. He’s a nice man to play ball, he is. All of the ball-play ing that lie is lit for is ball in the*hat, and even then he couldn’t play, because he ain’t got any hat, aud nobody that knows him would lend him one.” “But I saw him with a summer hat on,” put in R. T. Emmet. George Dark’s lips curled contempt pi ously. “High hat, wasn’t it?” asked he. “Yes.” “White hat?” “Yes.” “Know what it was?” “What?” “Foot and a half of stove-pipe, white washed. And he hooked the stove-pipe off of the landlady, too. No wonder her kitchen stove don’t draw. But I wouldn’t give Walker away. Although I am an old sea-pup—I mean dog—I’m a gentleman, and I don’t care who know it.” “Call Walker in.” ordered Peter Pad We called. All of us. But no Walker resjioiuled. In fact, we couldn’t see Walker at all. He apjieared to have faded away. Where could he have gone to. While we were puzzling over the question, a freckled-faced, bare-footed, twelve years of avoirdupois boy, who had glimmered into our group somehow, spoke up. “Say, boss,” said he to Peter Pad, “do yer meau der feller dat wuz out iu der field?” “Yes, my sou,” paternally answered Peter. “I know where he is.” “Where?” “Gone.” “Gone?” “Yes, sir.” “Where?” “Wid a girl. He said dat he’d got tired uv playing base-ball wid suckers, an’ wuz goiu’ a blackberring. Muldoon, for some reason, appeared visibly jierturbed at this reply. He cast an anxious look at the fence. It was empty. No vision of female loveliness was seated upon its top rail. “Me lad,” said our umpire. “I de- soire to ask av yez a few intnerrogatory queries. Wur the faym'' »-r*WV” “Yes, sir,”.,came “Wid bon-foire-U “Yes, sir.” “Acre soize fate? “Yes, sir.” “Walked wid a gimp?” “Yes, sir.” “Had a red parasolette?” “I—I think so.” Muldoon dashed his hat with great emphasis upon the ground. “I’ve got enough,” he muttered. “I’m going back to the farm. I want to cut the sprouts off of the clams any way.” And so euded our ball match. We called it a draw. George says that for our sakes it was lucky that we did. He intimated that if we had not call ed it a draw it would have beeu doubt ful if we had beeu able to draw our salaries tliat week. As for Walker—well, he has uot beeu since heard from. Only A Painty BlOMOua. —Denver is overrun with gamblers. The most popular Soug of the day by long odds is, “Only a Pansy Blossom,” Its popularity is phenomenal, judged from the standpoints of both the music trade and public favor. More than 60,- 000 copies of tiie “Pansy Blossom” have already been sold, and it is a little over a year old—a long age, by the way, for songs of its class. You hear it every where that music exists, which is wher ever meu are collected. It is sung by high and low, in city and hamlet, with accompanients from the pretentious or chestra to the simple accordion that whiles away the hour of halt around the camp-fires of the West. The best proof of its popularity, however, is in the imi tations of it which have sprung up, and which all float easily on the waves of its success. Some of these have queer names. How does “Only a Tansy Blos som” strike you, for instauce? If he is successful, the song writer can hardly complain of his profits. He receives a liberal royalty—10 per cent., usually— and, besides, his reputation is made, and attention to bis future efforts thereby secured. Howard, the compos er of the Pansy Blossom, will make pro bably from $15,000 to $20,000 out of his song, aud if there are any others who wish to parallel his success they can easily find plenty of music publishers who will give them the chance to try it. A Uaear Tree. The queerest of trees must be the baobab, or monkey bread. It grows to the height of forty feet, “but its girth is entirely out of proportion to its height, some trees being thirty utit iu diameter. An old baobab in Africa is, then, more like a forest than a single tree. Their age is incalculable. Humboldt consid ers them as “the oldest living organic monuments of our planet.” Some trees are believed to be 5000 years old. You can cut a good-sized room into the trunk of a baobab, with comfortable accomodations for thirty men, and the tree lives on and flourishes. It produces a fruit about a foot long, which is edi ble. As an example of slow growth in England, a baobab at Kew, though more than eighty years old, has only at tained a height of four and a half-feet. A kindred species to the African baobab grows in Australia. They have been measured, being thirty feet high, with a girth of eighty-five feet. —It is estimated that the melon crop this year in Georgia will reach 7,500,000 melons and sell for $1,600,000. ! 7 ll mmm •