Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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/ / The kinc 1 _^cHONl A NOVEL OF AMERICAN LIF ^ BY MAURICE / / Copyright, 1892 and 189 / CHAPTER XXIL / CONTINUED. TJae days "went by, days of suspense *n<x anguish to the women of New Orisons. Those were women of fine Oourage, however, and they did not /ifold their hands and cry. Madame Souyestre, in whose mansion Fairfax u i.^Aar. nn?;?rr /was receiving ouuu i uuuvi wu*v*?iq) went ont every day to bow for the army. At the Livingston home was /where moat of this work was done; at least so far as Madame Sonvestre'e oirole was conoerned, and there, from / early morning until the dinner hour, j a throng of ladies cat and stitched and wrought with lively, is not happy, W chatter, keeping up a brave show of f nerve and confidence, while their husbands, fathers, brothers and lovere dug and shoveled with pick and spade in the muddy sand, building a line ol breastworks from the river near Chalmette across to the swamp. Madame Souvestre was considered the most favored one of her circle. To have a brave, young soldier, wounded almost to death, as her 8peoial charge, to oare for in her own WnnRA. -with her own hands, seemed to all those noble-hearted and patriotic women the very highest possible honor. "I am just as jealons of yon as 2 can be," said Mrs. Livingston, one day, after the sewing task was over and the other ladies had gone away, "and I think it selfish of yon, dear, not to alloy me even to see your brave young patient." x "But the doctor forbade it, you know, and said that he mnst see no one?no one must even speak to him?he mnst have absolute quiet. Tes, that was just what he Baid, absolute quiet." "Yon will be falling in% love with him, Hortense," Mrs. Livingston remarked, after a little further conversation had disclosed Madame Souvestre's enthusiastic admiration of the young man's personal appearance, "and that will be romantso?it will be like a novel. What did you say is hie name?" "Fairfax. It has a noble sound, hasn't it? But, no," with a little sigh, "there is no more romance for me." Madame Souvestre's husband had been killed in a duel only a month after her marriage, two years gone by. He was a noted swordsman; but -when he met Colonel Loring under th 3 dueling oaks, it was Death that he fenced with, and he was run through at the third pass. "Forgive me, dear," cooed Mrs. Livingston, taking the petite form in her arms, "I am always saying something foolish. You are too good and sweet to be the victim of my teasing ? tongue.' She kissed her and then held her at arms'-length to look lovingly at her. "VftT, nva an Vinantifiil rl?nr if I were a man I know I should steal you. I couldn't help it!" Madame Souvestre laughed, halfblushing at hefr friend's enthusiasm. She broke away and said: "I must go back to him; he needs a great deal of care, that hero of mine." MrB. Livingston stood smiling by the door when her friend was gone. "She loves him already, the little warm-hearted witch!" she mused, "and if he's even half a man he will love her. Heigh-ho! I wish this war was over!" She clasped her hands, and the ^ light faded out of her face. It was so every evening after the ladies were all cona and tha house had become silent. She nearly always went to her dinner with a tear-stained face and with feverish eyes. Fairfax did not improve as rapidly as Madame Souvestre had hoped for; but he bore up bravely enough and showed little sign of dangerous restlessness until the night of the 7th oi January, when Crapaud Crapoussin k went back to the army. "They need me," the dwarf said, 'and I want to go. You can do without me for a few hours." He smiled in his hideously affectionf ate way and fondled the sick man's Hoodiess hand. Madame Souvestre tried to persuade him not to leave hex*, but he could not be influenced. He had received word k that the battle would be on before daylight of the following day, and bis Creole blood was hot with fight. "I will be back to bring you the news of the victory before sunset tomorrow," he said, with queer dramatic intonation. Then he kissed the hand of Fairfax and was off. Madame Souvestre cried a little anc cast herself upon a priedieu, witl hands held fortli beseechingly. Fairfax watched her as if through some sweet mist of tenderness. The plump little figure, the perfectly poised head, the softly ronnded arm! and beautiful, tiny hands were bu bewitching auxiliaries to the pure childlike, almost saintly faae upturnec in prayer. When she arose and came to hii bedside, he felt a deep oomfort in hei nearness to him. "How good, how very good yot are!" he marmured. Then he closed his eyes and thought of Pauline. Madame Souvestre stroked his pah forehead gently, slowly, her hand: trembling with the exquisite thril that was in her nerves. He sank intc a soft Blumber and dreamed that il was Pauline who thus soothed awaj his pain, ? Siowly the hours of the night drew by. Madame Souvestre never lef the bedside of the sleeping man sav< to walk the iloor in the soft lamplighl or to stand a moment before tbe glass and smile approvingly at her owi faoe. It was a while before dawn whei Bhe clasped hev hands and bent ove: Fairfax to.hear what he was saying ii liis dream. ? ~ ^ / j OF:- EYISLANC -E DURING THE WAR OF 1812. JWTf I THOMPSON. 31j Robert Bonner'? Sous. J "Sweet and beautiful," he mu mured low, "you aro bo good, sopui OU 11 UU) our 1 She pressed one hand npon h ' heart. ' "Oh, love? Yon have taken aw : all my pain!" he rambled on. 1 She Btarted back, faltered, bln3he : turned pale, then stood looking doi upon his Btrong yet somewhat wast 1 face with a gaze of tenderest, sweetc 1 import. The next moment she stoop 1 and would have kissed him?nay, b 1 lips did touoh his, just as an awf 1 roar of cannon shook the air. He opened his eyes and smiled one coming slowlj out of a delicio experience. Then the guns roared again. "What's that?" he cried, trying 1 sit up. | She gently pushed him back on t pillow, and said: "They are killing those Engli down there. Be calm. We shall he 1 good news this very day. So?e now, don't try to get up, please; will hurt you." And then the din of battle was lil a thunderstorm with wind and ha ' and, looking out of the windo 1 Madame SouveBtre saw the gray 1 daylight. CHAPTER XXHI. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE. It was dark, foggy, dreary at Oh motte. about the first hoar oil t i eighth day of January, 1815, and t little army of the Americans lay i silenoe behind the oozy breastwor i just completed. Most of the tir soldiers were asleep, their olothes i wet and muddy and their hands bl: tered by the friction of piok-heh shovel-stave and spade-hilt. F i whole days and nights on half-ratioi and almost without &leep, they ha delved in the ditches and on the e bankments. Now they lay on th< arms. A few sentinels walked to a fro with slow, weary tread. Gene: Jackson and his staff were asleep iz plantation-house not far in the rear the line. Mr. Vernon was, by his own i i quest, officer of the night,, and i alone made the rounds, again a again, of the different commands the little army, from the river to t swamp. He preferred this aotivity ativ attempt to sleep. The territ height upon his heart and mind w only less orushing when he oould fii some exacting duty, the performan ol which would force him to cro^ the moment's demands to the front his thoughts. A few hours more, and the batl would come and be over with. He would it end? In the intense selfia ness of love?the deepest love of hi] band and father?he was thinkii only of the result to his dear oneB the oase of victory ur defeat. But b : hind the awful sense of danger [ them from their captivity to an arc whose brutality was at the tic known the world over, there lay vast, formless, yet certain and dista cloud of calamity creeping oloser ai , closer to their lives from out of h ' past. It was while he was standing ne the river, at tne west end ot tne orea; i works, where a battery of two go had been planted, that a hand touchi his shoulder, and he turned to fa old Burns. It was as if the tall, wasted for i had arisen oat of the ground. M ' Yernon did not at first recogni: i him, but when he spoke, the voi i was unmistakable. "There is no use trying to resi . the force yonder," said the preaohe "They are five to your one. They w overwhelm you in the morning, have been there; I know what I say "If they are a thousand to one growled Mr. Yernon, "we will wh ! them." "You cannot; they will pour rig over these works." "They will never cross that ditch "I tell you," said Burns with v hemence, "there must be ten tbo sand of them, all in columns, rea< to move at daylight." Mr. Yernon thrust his face close ' i that of the preacher and said: i "How do you know?" "Did I not say that I wa9 then . It is not an hour since I stood with i their lines and saw what I ha spoken of," was the prompt answe i "Then come with me to Genei Jackson; he mast see you and spei . with you. Come on!" He olutched Burns's arm and ]i him toward the house where the ge eral was sleeping. I "When they had gone a little wa l Burns stopped suddenly, as if sor thought had demanded instant co t sideration, or as If he had on the in i ment formed the stubborn resolutii r not to go further. } "Thomas MacCollough," he e t claimed, with deep emphasis, "I 01 , you my life, and now I would sa 1 yours in turn. You " "Hold!" said Mr. Vernon, int< j rupting mm Tim peremptory ur; ness. "Not another word on tL score. You owe me nothing." i "Well, then, you will not blai me if I kill him?" t "What do you mean?" "I speak of Kirk MaoColloug 3 your son!" i No mere presentation of the wor 1 can suggest the dramatic import > this terse colloquy. t Mr. Vernon turned a quarter abo r and seized Burns's other arm. Behind them a little fire flicker r in the fog; they oonld dimly see ea fc other's faces, grim and grizzled, 5 they leaned closer and tried to sto t into each other's eyes. j Lately Mr. Vernon had begun i dread even the thought of this ma who now seemed tue one erreate i danger to hia happinerw; for it w r through him that the past seemed i the point of being unlocked and ] _ ppeaed. Yaesear knew nvncU; b Vasseur was easy to manage. 0u< other knew at'; bat that one could always be bought to silence with money. Burns alone was unmanage)able; because he alone was sincere and incorruptible. When for years a man has been absolute master of himself and over all who have come -within the circle ol his life, it is hard for him to realize suddenly that his influence is aboul to fail. To Mr. Vernon this threat ened failure meant much more thai mere loss of power in the direction o: any ordinary ambition. He had lived so long and so happily on the crust o: a volcano, that, until Burns had come ir* he had forgotten what a fire lay undei e, it. The worst of it was that a mar like Mr. Vernon could but feel help er less and hopeless when dealing witl one like Burns. ay As they stood thus for a moment a\ arms'-lengtb, with their faoes thrust id, almost together, the two men felt foi vn the first time clearly how muoh thej ed were in each other's way. Burns was ist aware now that Mr. Vernon woulc ed stand between him and his one re .er maining desire. He had oonferrec ul with Vasseur, and from him hac shrewdly drawn enough to confirm as himself thoroughly in this thought, us Mr. Vernon's grip on Burns's arm? drew them inward with such forc? that the old man's chest was almosl to folded together and his breathing be came difficult. he "You, a minister of the gospel, a priest of the trod of Heaven, oome tc sh tell me that yon are going to assassin :ar ate?" Mr. Vernon stopped shori 10; and drew in a deep, shivering breatl it as if the words had almost ohokec him. "Shall I turn you over to Jack ke eon to be dealt with?" il, "Shall I tarn you over to him?' w, calmly responded Burns. of There was something desperately reckless, bevond anything that Mr, Vernon had ever dreamed of, in th< suggested significance of the words He involuntarily loosed his hold ant let fall his hands as if just releasee *1* from a galvanio shock. he "True, true," he murmared, in i ,e strangely changed voice; "I am no *n one to lead others to jnstice." "You are better, far better thai e(* moBt men, even with your sins al . counted," said Burns. "I owe every l9" thing to you and yours " re> "Everything?" or "Yes, everything. But the evi; 18' part is not " ve "Yes. yes, the evil and all is froir m- ?? B*!j "I was hungry and you fed me. ] , wbb dying and you nurBed me bach rftl to life." 1 * "And now I ask you for more thou lifel" exolaimed Mr. Yernon in t hoarse whisper. *'I know, I know," faltered Burns. "No, you do not. You know . enough, but not all." "Yes, Thomas MaoCollough " Mr. Vernon flew at his throat and *? shut off his words. lle "Speak that name again, and *' He did not oomplete the sentence; he ld waB ashamed of himself instantly. ?? "Forgive me; I am not myself," he rc* went on, letting go his hold. His voice of softened. "And you?you are all wrong, Mr. Burns, you are permit:'e ting your passion to drag you along with it; let me beg of you to stop and give your conscience its freedom once LS* more." "I am sure," said Barns, with dry 1Q emphasis, ,;inat you have shown less ft- ? ? 1 <1 1 'T T ^ )i ~ seii-controi inan nave a. a uaveu i / tried to choko you." Qy "Forgive me, I repeat it, forgive 06 me!" Mr. Vernon supplicated. ? "There is nothing to forgive; I n' mentioned it only to remind you that . it is not so easy to hold oneaelf in." 118 "But you are a good man, Mr. Barns, and I am not. Tour life hae ar been pure and clean and self-sacriflcing. Tou have served God and Q? kept His commandments. It is terrible for you to close up your long and ce noble career where mine began, in crime and violence. Think a moment, and " r* "No, no; when I think, it maddens ze me! I dare not think 1 . Don't ask me ce to. All my years of humble service in my calling have led up to this. It is fate. I have but one thing to live :\\ for, and tliat I will accompiiBH oeiore ".J I die." ,, "Have you thrown off yonr obliga' ? tion to God and your priestly sanctity, ! as one throws off a top-coat?" "All these have been torn from me . by the wayside thornB. I wore them till they fell in shreds at my feet. ? They were not the true " "There, ta! You do violence to e" yourself and to your sacred profes?" si<\n." j (to be continued.) to Seeds That Need Fire. A Californian pine tree whose seed cones can only be opened by fire or 0? great heat has been attracting oonin siderable attention at Kew Gardens, London. It seems, however, that this sr. tree, pinus muricata, is not alone in >al its salamander-lifce requirements, for a former Australian living in London writes as follows: ed "The wattle tree of Australia also n* possesses the same peculiarity, and its Beads will onlv terminate when y? subjeoted to great heat. Soaking the ne seeds of this tree in boiling water 01 u- roasting them in a frying pan for sonrE honrs hue been tried and found suoon cessfal, but all other methods have failed. After the seed hae fallen from lX* tbe tree it will often lie dormant in the ground for years, but immediately ve a 'bush* fire comes along and reduces all the present trees to ashes (as it ir- often the oase in Australia), the seed m" germinates and a perfect forest ol iat young trees will spring up within twelve months. Even on grouni where there has not been a wattle tree growing within living memorj these trees have been noticed to grow up after a buBh fire. The wattle tree, being very susceptible to fire, is easily ds killed, and if the same means thai caused its destruction did not inducc it to grow again it would very soon be nt eradicated." The teak is said to be another tree ed whose seeds can only be sprouted bj ch intense heat.?London Mail. 08 ire Old Paper* Valuable Now. But a little -while ago, and one conic to do nothing with old newspapers bul ,n, burn' them. The advance in the price ssfc of print paper, however, has changec as thi3 condition of things, and every bil on and scrap of white paper have theii re- value. Everything of this kind no^ >ut is grist for the Daoer milL V r ^ ( > \ I WALL STREET'S L A I ML SELL AT At, gA\ M ^ ^ i. * JZZrf Jfc^/fK | Millions change hands daily in Wal The trading is carried on by means o t gers. The confusion on the floor is of { make himself heard by shouting in t i broker wishes to buy or sell stock wi . or perhaps across the room, convers used megaphones the confusion woul * this they have devised a sign langna deaf and dumb. With this vocabu'.a r stock no matter how great the turruo ! I fife on the > J I | Iqdiaq Reservation. | j Compared with the lives led by the full-blooded Indian children of the northwestern reservations, the miserable urchins who play In a city's gut 1 ters dwell in a paradise of joys. The gutter snipe is almost certain to 1 have some marbles or a top in his r clothes; he can earn a few pennies for himself upon occasion; he is. quickwitted and brimming with nervous en. ergy; of mirth-provoking expedients he t is as full as an egg is of meat, and at repartee he has no equal. Indian children, on the other hand, r are born grave and solemn and stolid. The art of self-repression practiced for centuries by their ancestors has be[ come a second nature to them?is inherited?with the result of transform' ing what should be their golden age i Into mere existence, joyless and apathetic. > In babyhood their training compels ' them to endure without whimpering L discomforts and hardships which nrmilri Hoetrnc nhilrtrpn nf thp white ? race. Strapped tightly to the back of n squaw, or left to themselves so tied 1 in a blanket that use of their limbs . is denied them, they are mere silent bundles, voiceless, without will or power. There is no dandling, no coddling, no one to teach them to smile, no effort to develop the softer side of their natures. The squaw is too busy hewing wood, or carrying water, or preparing food for her buck and brood, or in making beaded wares to sell to the trader, for that. i And when they are old enough to be trusted upon their legs alone and unfettered they are left to themselves, with less care than a litter of pigs receives from its sow mother?until such time as the squaw perceives that she ' ' I i ^ , LITTLE a i " t may lighten hex* own labors by coinr pelling the papooses to share in them. i There is no running "to meet papa," * - * i no clinging 10 ms legs us ue wuno, uv I riding "cockhorse" on his feet Until f they have shown character in some i unexpected way or performed some t unexpected deed the buck father will 1 bestow upon them less attention than r lie gives bis pony, or his herd of ponies. r If he is rich. ' Gene, the eight-year-old con of Stand^ ing Elk, on the Cheyenne reservation, j crawled out of his blankets one dark t > night and, guided by the beating of tom-toms and the ki-yi-ing that usually ( -accompanies such an affair, made his r way alone to the Rosebud, where White Bull's bucks were having a ' "ghost dance." He did not uave 10 mingle with the dancers, so he hid in the I bunch grass nearby and watched the t bucks as they stamped and chanted 1 around the lire. i i Gene bad unsuspected powers of ^ mimicry. The dancing made | strong impression on him. Nest morning. r when Standing Elk darted out of his .Wickiup to chastise the noisy y.oungl ..T . > f > SIGN LANGUAGE. % ~ tP ^30 SHARES | ^ - W . _ IU >. di/r 5C s/Mfifs - ln J" nc of .1 street without the scratch of a pen. f signs made with the hands and fin- 0, ten so great thut a broker cannot even he ear of the man next him. When a th liis customer several feet from him atlon is impossible. If the brokers *f[ d be merely increased. To obviate e ge something like that used by the 0 ry of finance a man can buy or sell c 1L " st w ster, he was astonished at what he sow m and heard. There was Gene stamping gr about with the grace and vigor of a ba practiced danccr, to no other accom- sp paniment than his own ki-yi-ing. He sp twisted and contorted and stamped su like an old-timer, and he had the step m down so pat that his genius for that on sort of thing was borne in on Standing pr Elk in a flash. th Calling to his squaw. Standing Elk th bade her find bells and headdress and de fallals of the conventional sort for the hi boy, and, when the youngster was thus 1 togged out, his father bade him dancu w before the ^hiefs of the tribe. Gene a( acquitted himself so well that he won fa the approval of the chiefs, and is now ? the most envied boy on the reservation. Little Indian maidens would walk miles just to have him say "How" to them. . 000090000OOOOCCCOOOOOOOOCO gj gLIFE ON THE AFGHAN FRONTIER ? | O Where the British Watch For Russia o \\ 9 to Descend From the Hills O g of Afghanistan. g 00000000000000000000000008 * WHENEVER the air is filled d] with uneasy rumors of trouble between Russia and England attention naturally turns to Afghanistan and its cj ruler, the Ameer, the death of whom is popularly believed to be the one jr thing which will break the armed truce and precipitate a clash between the two great nations now so hungrily ^ looking toward Afghanistan, writes a John T. McCutcheon, in the Chicago m Record. T There has existed for a long time jr down in India a belief that the ai Ameer's death would leave AfghanisIan at the mercy of Russia and England, and that tuere will be an inevimoll frnm Until aulus nf thp hor- . 01 der to seize the territory. in About fourteen miles to the eastward of the entrance to the Khyber n< ENE 8TANDING ELK AND TWO OF HIS AD] Pass is tlie wonderful city of Peshawur, which is as typically a central fii Asian city lb Kabul or Bokhara. In ?-?~????? ?-;?t ?? til ! ' til SOLDl?Kb' BARRACKS ROOM, PESHAWUR. u: 4Tn/lna mnrlro/1 thft rli- ^ tut: uiu uaja iuc iuuuo uiuiuw ? viding lines between the Indian races m and the Afghan or central Asiau 01 tribes, and at that time Peshawur was w well within tlie territory and intlucnces of Afghanistan. Even now the S1! dty itself retains all its old characteristics and is still an almost unknown town. ar The British cantonments are two ar % - .:tv. . .miyt \*-f? r Vi f,: * " .* ? * : > ' , : v ' ; ; -i ' lies from Peehawur, and all the bite people have clustered about the ( sops at that point, the result being beautiful, well-kept town. No white ople live in Poshawur, excepting one t ( A BRITISH CANTEEN AT PESHAWTJB. t C mily of missionaries, while as for [ sltors, there a hardly a dozen white i en who enter the walls of Peshawur a month's time. ( A big wall about fifty feet high sur- i uuds the city, at one end of which is c gigantic fortress, where a garrison c British soldiers is stationed. Can- , ms are constantly trained down on j e town, for there is always danger of 8 l outbreak among the 200,000 Afridis ? id Afghans who combine to make up ( i seething, squalid population. White rilians are cautioned against enterg the city without an escort, and i one is permitted to enter Its gates nightfall. The British soldiers and Seers seldom go into the town. The Peshawur cantonments are easant and pretty. Broad, shady reet9, the Inevitable mall, a cricket ouud and race course were essential atures of the town. Officers' bungaws, big, rambling, thick-walled mud uses one etory high, painted blue ' id white, line the mall, each one anding alone in a big compound filled ith trees. On the other side of the all is the great expanse of parade ound, at the edge of which are the irracks for Tommy. Everywhere are lendid shade trees, which have rung up in the arid plains as a reilt of irrigation and wells, and which ake the cantonments look like an isls in a desert There ard many * etty English girls In Peshawur in / e winter, for the fresh coolness of at northern latitude gives a keen >light to golf and tennis and fox inting. ' ^ The town was very gay and lively hile I was there and the mall in the ternoon was bright with ruddyced young women and smartly OBNINO COURT BABBACKS, PESHAWTJB. ressed officers* galloping their country reds and Waters down the long shady :retch of that fashionable drive. . In ie evening there were dances at the ubs, guest nigbts at tne messes, anu i lany other amusements. The surpris- ! ig part of It all was that one should ad so much gayety in such an out-ofle-way place and that within two liles of all that modern life should be great city almost unknown and alost us mysterious as the capital of ibet. But some one has said thar ldia is a land of strange contrasts, id he must hare known. High Lights. There.are women stupid enough to lote poetry at the man who is carv- ( g the turkey. t The average man thinks other people ;ed church more than he does. ' j MIRERS. _ C To make a man think well of yoe J: fit make him think ?vell of himself. . A woman is always surprised to find ' int everybody doesn't know what * ie learned only yesterday. v Spirituality is hard to locate; some ?ople look Beraphie when the mince e comes on. h Since there's nothing new under the a 111 it is strange that new shoes have ij ' be broken in.?Chicago Record. h t; The Spider's Thread. ' e The body of every spider contains ur lirtle masses, pierced with a mul- P tude of holes (imperceptible to the (i iked eye), each hole permitting the issage of a single thread; all the reads, to the amount of 1000 to each ass, join together when they come ? it and make the single thread with lilcli the spider spins his web, so that hat we call a spider's thread con5ts of more than 4000 threads united, j, All the flowers of the Arctic region e either white or yellow, and theiv e 762 varieties ?, ^ h _ - / ./ ... . =m MONUMENT FOR FOSTER. r'* !ompoMT of the "Old Folk* mt Homo" tff . Bo Honored la Flttibnrf. ' -2 Stephen Collins Foster has a mono* x cent in Pittsburg, where he was born/ ;$ nd where he spent many years bf h&-*\ ife. Lawreneeviile, Penn., the actual ilace of his birth, is now part of Pitts- H >urg, and when attention was (Called to- /jfl hat fact several years ago, it was de- ifl ermined to see what could be donfc JH oward raising a monument to thai neraory of the man who wrote "Wajj -ifl| )own on the Suwanee River," "Mas$|^H a's iu the Cold, Cold Ground," "Old .HB Slacfe Joe" and many other songs. TbeJjM contributions for the monument came' rom rnaiiT sources, although most of hem naturally were given by citizens ?f Pittsburg. The statue was unvelle<f$M u Highland Part under very iute)re?t. <^Q ng circumstances. >: The monument is the work ;?j Jiuseppe- Marchettl, of this eity, and tfl he large number of competitors in- N iluded sculptors from all parts of the ountry. The design of the monument vas suggested by T. J. Keenan, Jr., of A n?/l fKo ziAmwirtoo whloh- M . UlOUUl^t tuiu UJV whimi?v^?v _ iccepted Signor Marchetti'g work com listed of A. W. Mellon, Robert. PiK fl rairn, E. M. Bigelow, W. N. Frew, fl 1 STEPHEN 0, POSTER. iV. Beatty and Senator C. L. Magee. , I The statoe is the first one set tip ta.. ^ lighland Park, and the committee hi?; (xercised care to protect Itself against j msatisfactory work. The base of the -6* nemorial is of granite and is fourtce^'^H eet high. The figures are In bronse. Che poet is seated, and holds In hia land a book and pencil. Seated at his ^ 'eet is an old negro, who Is playing oil ; *$ l banjo. The song composer Is evi<vaB lently seeking inspiration from tbe"\^M legro's music. ( - - The composer was born on July 4/ -jB [826, and died, in New York -thirty^-sH ilght years later. He tanght himself : nusic and studied with great assldol-'&M :y. His compositions include 16Q ^j songs of Which the "first written wa? SB 'Open Thy Lattice, Love," publiahew^vH n 1842, and the last was "Beantifl&lfff Dreamer," composed in 1884, the laai(99| rear of his life. "Gentle Annie," "Wil-^-flH lie We Have Missed Yon," "Old Dogn^n Tray," "Come Where My Love LfeSBjH Dreaming," "Nellie Was a Lady," "MyrapHj 31d Kentucky Home," "Maggie by M? '-;fl ?ide" and "Ellen Bayne," the musi^^JH >f which is now used for "JbhnJ^H Brown's Body Lies a Mohldering rUe Grave." were some of tliq bes^^^H inown among his compositions. Am H i rule lie wrote both the words an<H^B nusic of his songs.?New York Sun. t^HS A Millionaire Baby. John Nicholas Brown, who is about /flH line months old, has become one- of H he wealthiest babies in-the world. ^|9| A partial inventory of his estate nst fllpd?at Newnort. R. I., by his toE MRS. JOHN NICHOLAS BBOWxT^^flH| (Mother of the riohest baby on e&rtb.) nothcr and guardian, Mrs. Natali^^BJ Bayard Brown, shows what great ex^^B jeofat'ons be has in the money line. l^Hj The child is heir to all the property^^H if his father, John Nicholas Brown, ind his uncle, Harold Brown, memtiers^MP >f a noted New England family, lied last May, the two leavingjBH^BHH lOOOOO ?t n lnw estimate. In addition, from time to tlme.^J^H^H arge sums are likely to te left to io is connected with tbe Vander^HH^H hrough the marriage of hia. moti^^^^H ister, who was Miss Edith Stuyve^H|^^9 )resser, to George W. VanderUlt^j^^^^H "Mair Like the Place." One day, while Mlliais was paiS|HH| is famous picture "Chill Octo^^^^^H moug the reeds- and rushes oaH^H^E anks of 1 lie Tay, a man came uifbe^^M ind him and stood looking first at^M| he picture, then at the surroundlng^HH indscape. Finally be asked in broa<j|^?l cotcb dialect, "Man, did ye Dover hotoernphy?" "No. never," repllecfl^Bfl lillais, painting slowly. A pause^^H It's a hantle quicker," said the manflnK Yes, I suppose so." Another pause^^^B ben the Scotchman added, thought* JH ully, "An* it's mair like the place t. James's -Gazette. i No Literary Famine Likely. Of a Northern author who recen^^HH iheritod a fortune, an exchange He is too rich to write now." Well, there are still a few of 'cm re poor enough to keep tugging at iiflHfl -Atlanta Constitution, mmm I- 'flH|