Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | ^ti Jittopcnirtnl Jfamilj ftttosjjaptr: Jfor % ^romfftxcFrt of % political, Social, ^jricaltaral anl> Commercial interests of % jjoalj). TERMS--$2.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 26. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1880. HO. 40. ^elected Itodrii. ^ (3 ? SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. The woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the Winters day; The street was wet with a recent snow. And the woman's feet were aged and slow, She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for amid the throng Of human beings who passed her bv, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the stroet with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of school let out, Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way, Nor ottered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horse's feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop? The gayest laddie of all the group; He paused Inside her, and whispered low 'I'll help you across if you wish to go.'' Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong. Ka/ib- anrairt tr\ Ki'q frianHd Ha WAnt. jl uou uav;a again w ??t? <* His young heart happy and well content, "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, For all she's aged and poor and slow ; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, yon understand, If ever she's poor ana old and gray, When her own^dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head. In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was, "God, be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody's son and pride and joy." jltMji lellfn.. TRUE GRIT. | BY REBECCA DAVIS. One or two young men came out of the Academy of Music when the opera was over, and lingered in the lobby to watch the passing of the crowd. Young Fred Saulter came up to them while putting his pearl lorgpette in its case. "Nice house, eh J" he said, languidly. "Well dressed. See Fanny Swan. Wretched taste for young girls to wear diamonds! What do you think of the new tenor? Miserable, I said." The older men answered him civilly and walked on, leaving him with some lads of his own age. "What would Miss Swan say if she heard that cub criticising her ?" said Dr. Pomeroy. "The most insufferable creature in the world to me is a conceited boy, assuming the tone of a man of position when he has not yet proved his right to be alive." "I thought young Saulter had money," said one of the party. "He drives a fine horse, wears clothes made by a better tailor than I can afford, and lunches at the best restaurant." "Money!" said the doctor, angrily. "Why, his father is head book keeper for Smiles & Rnn with n fftmilv nf siv Ha strained ev ery nerve to educate this boy, who now looks upon every practicable way of earning a living as plebeian. I'll warrant you the fellow never had twenty cents in his pocket of his own earning. His restaurant and livery stable bills come to his poor old father at the end of every month." Meanwhile, young Saulter stood complaceutly twirling his opera-hat and watching the pretty girls as they passed. He caught a glimpse of his dapper little figure in a great mirror?the waxed moustache, lavender glove, wired roses in his button-hole?and looked pityingly after the doctor and his friends. "How those old fellows must envy us!" he said, "wine with life in its sparkle, and dregs, eh? Oh, by the way, I saw a curious thing today! Dick Knight?you remember Knight in our class, who took the scientific course to fit him for a civil engineer? Well, it appears that times being so hard he could not get any proper work to do, so we has taken to improper. Instead of laying by as I have done, waiting quietly for an openiug for an educated man to step into, he actually is?I am ashamed to tell it!" "What! what is he?" asked his listeners. "Driving an engine on the Central Road !" "Fact I I saw him, all grimy with smoke in his little caboose to-day. 'Good heavens!' I said; 'Knight, are you mad ?' " "Not so mad as to starve," he said, laughinv I asked him why his father did not support him and keep him from such degradation ? Then he was mad. "Do you think I, with my big, strong body, will be a burden on an old man ?" he said, and began to talk nonsense about laziness degrading man, and that no man was ever degraded by honest work, with more of the same sort of bosh, all very ridiculous and very disgraceful. You'll see him to night if you take the IIP. M. train." "Tut, tut!" the lads said; and "poor Knight! he was a good fellow !" precisely as if he were dead. Iudeed, from the light and brilliancy of the scene about them?the music, the beautiful low voiced women, themselves daintily attired, that gay aud happy part of the world?there was a gulf like death to the grimy engine-driver in the dark depot?a gulf which none but a madman, they thought, would willingly cross. They sauntered out of the opera-house, and in a few minutes before eleven reached the depot in time for the train that ran out to the suburban town where they lived. "There he is!" whispered Saulter. "He i takes our train out; but the engine is not yet put to it. inn pi n r\ii ffin/* o n rl I lie ciJgiue nas uu a oiutug, spitting little jets of steam, and Dick Knight, a tall, manly young fellow, was coming at the moment down from the superintendent's room. He caught sight of his old classmates, laughed, hesitated, and raised his hand to his hat. "Going to speak to him, hey said little Billy M Gee anxiously. The young men grew red and embarrassed. Some of them nodded to Knight awkwardly, ami seemed inclined to go and meet him. "I say no!" said Saulter, peremptorily. "If he chooses to leave the companionship of gentlemen, I shall not follow him. I talk to mechanics and that sort of people who never had a chance to be anything better, but Knight is a social suicide, sir !" "That's true," said M'Gee. "How well Saulter puts things !" he added, aside. " 'Social suicide!' Well, I shall not bring him to life." Knight saw that the young men wished to avoid him, and turned aside with a bow and heightened color, while they hurried into the train. It was yet five minutes until the time of starting. The train of passenger cars was on the main track (the engine still being detached), and the people were hurrying in, most of them coming direct from the theatres and other places of amusement. Inside of the cars and in the depot there was a good deal of jesting and gaiety between acquaintances meeting on their way home, the train being a local one and running only through suburban villages. Just then, a short distance up the track there was a hiss and a cry, and a voice shrieked out in horror, "A runaway train on the main track ! A runaway train on the main track ! Passengers in the depot! Out of the cars !? out of the cars!" A runaway freight train was on the track. The fireman had started it for the purpose of taking it into the freight depot. By some accident, before it had left the main passen ger track, the man had stumbled as he was at his work, and fallen nearly on the ground. Half stunned, he had jumped up, but could not catch the moving engiue, which was gaining speed every second, and had shrieked : out his warning. It so happened that the switch tender, through fright or some unexplained cause, did . not move his switch in season to run the train off the main track, and now the huge machine, j with its train behiud, was rushing towards the j train in the depot with a speed that promised fatal disaster. The few officials who were near had time i to gasp with horror. At the moment when j the cry of danger was shrieked out on the j night air, Dick Knight was attaching his enj gine to his traiu. From the cars and platJ form rose a yell of frantic terror, in which j Saulter's voice was the highest. Death seemI ed riuliiug upon the people, who had not time to get out of the cars before the driving train would be on them. * The officials in the depot watched Knight with blanched faces. "He'll be crushed to atoms!" muttered one stout old man standing by Dr. Pomeroy. But Dick put steam upon his engine. Apparently he did not think of leaving his post. There he stood with his hand on the lever, calm and determined. His huge machine sprang forward. It met the coming locomotive with a crash that threw both monsters upward, as if they had risen to wrestle and throw eacmother. Then Dick's engine was thrown one side, but the force of the runaway train was overcome, and the machinery of the engine so injured that all movement was stopped. Dick was hurled senseless several feet from the place of the collision. The stout old man and Dr. Pomeroy, with all the other men in the depot, ran to Knight, picked him up and carried him into the wait| ing room, where he was left with the physicians. "Well, well," said the old gentleman, impatiently, as Dr. Pomeroy came out, "How is it?" Will he live?" "I think so. God forbid that I should have to take him home dead to his old father!" "You know him, then ? Who is he? Do you know what I owe him?" and his voice broke. "My little girl is aboard that train." Dr. Pomeroy told Knight's story briefly, informing the old gentleman that he was thoroughly educated, but that he looked upon any work as better than dependent idleness. "He's the true grit, sir!" was the animated reply. "There's no work so humble that a man cannot show the best qualities of man' * ?? hnitADAfln ami rrhf Tf IB nnt uuuu iLi it| ao r*\z uavcov^w w uiguv. av ??w the daring courage I approve in him so much as the presence of mind, the keen eye, to see what to do and how to do it. Request Mr. Knight, if you please, to call on me at ten to morrow," he said to the station master. "Who is that ?" asked Fred Saulter, breathlessly, of the official. "The president of the road. Dick Knight, if he lives, has an open road to fortune now, and he deserves it." Fred Saulter crept into the car to go home. His lavender gloves were soiled,and the wilted rose in his button-hole was falling to pieces with a sickly, decayed, smell. Life itself was sickly and decayed, he thought, with a yawn, and he threw the wilted rose out of the window. Yes ; and to all conceited, effeminate natures like his, it is likely to prove what Saultcr'8 imagination pictured it that night. iv a ur it uxTnni r iil A JIUl/'l ti/l/UIJi "Uncle, may I ride Milo?" I said, one bright June morniug, as he sat at the breakfast table. "Ride Milo !" said he. "Yes," saiu I. "It's such a fine day." "But he'll throw you !" said my uncle. "Throw me!" and I laughed merrily and incredulously. "Say yes, dear uncle," I continued, coaxing ly ; "there's no fear, and I'm dying for a canter." "You'll dieou a canter, then," he retorted, with his grim wit, "for he'll break your neck. The horse has only beeu ridden three times? twice by myself, and once by Joe." "But you've often said I was a better rider than Joe." Joe was the stable-boy. "That's a good uncle, now do." And I threw my arms about his neck and kissed him. I knew by experience that when I did this I generally carried the day. My uncle tried to look stern, but I saw he was relenting. He made a last effort to deny me. "Why not take Dobbin ?" said he. "Dobbin !" I cried ; "old pale-faced Dobbin, on such a morning as this ! One might as well ride a rocking-horse at once." "Well, well," said he, "if I must, I must. You'll tease the life out of me if I don't let you have your own way. I wish you'd get a husband, you minx! You're growing beyond my control." "Humph 1?a husband! Well since you say so, I'll begin to look out for one to day" "He'll soon repent of his bargain," said ray uncle; but his smile belied his words. "You're as short as pie-crust if you can't have your own way. There," seeing I was about to speak, "go and get ready, while I tell Joe to saddle Milo. You'll set the house afire if I don't send you off." Milo was soon at the door?a gay, mettlesome colt, that laid his ears back as I mounted, and gave me a vicious look that I did not quite like. "Take care," said ray uncle. "It's not too late to give it up." I was piqued. "I never give up anything," I said "Not even the finding of a husband, eh ?" "Kn " cnid T "I'll rido down to flip nnnr house and ask old Tony, the octogenarian j pauper, to have me; and you'll be forced to hire Polly Wilkes to cook your dinners." And as I said this, my eyes twinkled mischievously, for uncle was an old bachelor, who detested all straDge women, and had an especial aversion to Polly Wilkes, a sour old maid ot 47, because years ago she had plotted to intrap him into matrimony. Before he could reply I gave Milo his head. John Gilpin, we are told, went fast, but I | went faster. It was not long before the colt : had it all his own way. At first I tried to I check his speed, but he got the bit in his ! mouth, and all I could do was to hold on end 1 trust to tirjng him out. Trees, fences and j houses went by like wild pigeons on the wing. As long as the road was clear we did I well enough, but, suddenly coming to an old : oak that started out specter-like from the | edge of a wood, Milo shied, twisted half round, and planted his fore feet stubbornly in the ground. I did not know I was falling J till I felt myself in a mud-hole which lay at ; one side of the road. Here was a fine end to my boasted horse| manship! But as the mud was soft I was ! not hurt, and the ludicrous spectacle I pre: sented soon got the upper hand of my vexa' tion. "A fine chance I have of finding a hus' band in this condition," I said to myself, re calling my jest with my uncle. "If I could ; find some mud yard, now, and pass myself ! off for a mud nymph, I might have a j chance," and I began to pick myself up. "Shall I help you, Miss?" suddenly said a rich, manly voice. I looked up and saw a young man, the suppressed merriment of whose bright eyes brought the blood to ray cheek, and made i me for an instant ashamed and angry. But, on glauciug again at my dress, I could not i help laughing in spite of myself. I stood in the mud at at least six inches above the tops I of mv shoes. My riding-skirt was plastered all over, so that it was almost impossible : to tell of what it was made. My hands and arms were mud to the elbows, for I had ! instinctively extended them as I fell, in order to break the fall. j The young man, as he spoke, turned to the neighboring fence, and, taking the top rail, he placed it across the puddle ; then, putting : his arm round my waist, he lifted roe out, though not without leaving my shoes behind. While he was fishing these out, which he bej gan immediately to do, I stole behind the j enormous oak to hide my blushing face and scrape the mud from my riding-skirt. "Pray let me see you home," he said. "If you will mount again, I'll lead the colt, and there will be no chance of his repeating j his trick." I could not answer for shame, but when I in the saddle murmured something about I "not troubling him." j It's no trouble; not the least," he replied, standing hat in hand like a knightly cavalier, and still retaining his hold on the bridle; "and I really can't let you go alone, for the colt is as vicious as he can be to day. Look at his ears, and his red eyes! I saw you coming down the road, and expected you to be thrown every minute, till I saw how well you rode. Nor would it have happened if he had not stopped, like a trick horse in a circus." I cannot tell how soothing was this graceful way of excusing my mishap. I stole a glance under my eyelids at the speaker, and saw that he was very handsome and gentlemanly, and apparently about 26, or several years older than myself. I had hoped that uncle would be out in the fields overlooking the men; but as we entered the gate, I saw him sitting, provokingly, at the open window ; and by the time I had sprung to the ground he came out, his eyes brimful of mischief. I did not dare to stop, but, turning to my escort, said. "My uncle, sir; won't you walk in?" ana then rushed up stairs. In about half an hour, just as I had dressed, there was a knock at my door?my uncle's knock ; I could not but open. He was laughing a low, silent laugh, his portly body shaking all over with suppressed merriment. "Ah ! ready at last," he said. "I began to despair of you, you were so long, and came to hasten you. He's waiting in the parlor still," he said, in a malicious whisper. "You have my consent, for I like him very well; only who'd have thought of finding a husband in a mud-puddle?" I slipped past my tormentor, preferring to face even my escort than to run the gauntlet of my uncle's wit, and was soon stammering my thanks to Mr. Templeton?for as such ray uncle, who followed me down, introduced u:._ U1IU? To make short of what else would be a long story, what was said in jest turned out to be iu earnest, for in less than six months I became Mrs. Templeton. How it all came about I hardly know, but I certainly did find a husband on that day. Harry, for that is the name by which I call Mr. Templeton, says that I entered the parlor so transformed, my light-blue muslin floating about me so# like a cloud-wreath, my cheeks so rosy, ray eyes so bright, ray curls playing such hideand-seek about my face, that, not expecting such an apparition, he lost his heart at once. He adds?for he knows how to compliment as well as ever?that ray gay, intelligent talk, so different from the demure miss he had expected, completed the business. Harry was the son of an old neighbor, who had been abroad for three years, and, before that, had been at college, so that I had never seen him ; but uncle remembered him at once, and insisted on his staying until I came down, though Harry, from delicacy, would have left after he iuquired about my health. My uncle was one of those who will not be put off, and so Harry remained?"the luckiest thing," he says, "he ever did." Milo is now my favorite steed, for Harry broke him for me, and we are all as happy as the day is long, uncle included ; for uncle , insisted on our living with him, and I told him at last I would consent, "if only to keep Polly Wilkes from cooking his dinner." To which he answered, looking at Harry, "You see what a spitfire she is, and you may bless your stars if you don't rue the day she went out to find a husband." The Voice of the Lion.?One of the most striking things connected with the lion is his voice, which is extremely grand and peculiarly striking. It consists at times of a low, deep moaning, repeated five or six times, ending in faiutly ^audible sighs; at other times he startles the forest with loud, deep-toned, solemn roars, repeated five or six times in quick succession, each increasing in loudness to the third or fourth, when his voice dies away in five or six low, muffled sounds, very much resembling distant thunder. At times, and not unfrequently, a troop may be heard roaring in concert, one assuming the lead, and two, three, or four more regularly taking up their parts, like persons singing a catch. Like our Scottish stags, they roar lo'udest in cold, frosty nights; but on no occasion are their voices to be heard in such perfection, or so intensely powerful, as when two or three strange troops of lions approach a fountain to drink at the same time. When this occurs, every member of the same troop sounds like a bold roar of defiance at the opposite parties; and when one roars all roar together, and each seems to vie with his comrades in the intensity and power of his voice. The power and grandeur of these nocturnal forest concerts is inconceivably striking and pleasing to the hunter's ear. The effect, I may remark, is greatly enhanced when the hearer happens to be situated in the depths of the forest, at the dead hour of midnight, unaccompanied by any attendant, and ensconced within twenty yards of the fountain which the surrounding troops of lions are approaching. Such has been my situation many scores of times; and though I I am allowed to have a tolerably good taste for music, I consider the catches with which I was then regaled were the sweetest and most natural I ever heard.?Five Years t'n South Africa, by Cumming. A Bereaved Husband's Lot.?Your correspondent happened to be walking out in our beautiful city cemetery the other day, and saw what few people know to exist here?that is, few people out of Griffin. A gentleman has a lot there, in which are buried five wives and five children. A marble slab marks the resting place of each wife, and a smaller one is placed over each child. The monuments are all just alike, of the same pattern, and look like a row of capital and small "I's"? Ii Ii Ii Ii Ii. On the last headstone is the suggestive name of the child, "Little Hope," though I understand the gentleman has married the sixth time. I do not mention this out of disrespect to the gentleman ; he was an old resident of Griffin, but has recently moved away. Only the reraarkableness of the sight leads me to allude to it. Somebody said, the other day, it was because the girls around here all know him that he moved away. His cemetery lot is certainly a curiosity, and many a visitor has wondered at it.? Cor. Atlanta Constitution. "Marier! Marier!" called a washerwoman of the "Holler," "You, chil', be sure and bruug all dem clo's offen de line. De 'publicans have a meetin' to-nite, and we don't want none of dat Mogollier bizness 'round us ; you hear me, honey ?" IgisttUattMUSi Hiding. ONE IN A THOUSAND. "She's one in a thousand," Said old farmer Gray, As he waded knee-deep In the sweet-scented hay. "You won't find her like, marm, From here to the town? That woman out there In the calico gown." "If you could have seen her That morning in May, When I stopped at her father's And took her away? A lively young bride, marm, So blooming and fair, And 'clipper' as that little Lamb frisking there!" "When first we were married, And all for my sake," (And here the old farmer Leaned hard on his rake), "She gave up her music, And gave up her booksNo nonsense about her, You know by her looks J" "And if you should lose her?" I ventured to say, The old farmer Bighed, And looked down at his hay. "'Twould nigh breajr *ny heart!" Ue replied with a tpar; "As now help's rincominonly High about here!" THE APPROACHING CENTENNIAL. MEETING OF THE EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE. The King's Mountain Centennial Associaciation met at King's Mountain on September 21,1880. Col. A. Coward, chairman, called the meeting to order. There were present of the association, Col. A. Coward, chairman: Capt. W. T. R. Bell, secretary; Col. Charles Petty, Col. I. D. Witherspoon, Capt. R. H. Glenn, Dr. J. M. Miller, Watty Gofortb, F. Happerfield, I. W. Garrett, Dr. J. W. Tracy, Dr. B. F. Dixon, Frank McGinnas, J. A. Deal, A. N. Falls, E. Patterson, Rev. Ellison Capers, Col. J. S. R. Thomson, Dr. T. J. Walker, W. A. Manning, Capt. B. F. Logan. The usual order of business was adopted. The chairman reported a correspondence with various persons and made some suggestions to the association to be taken up in regular order. Reports were also made by Col. Witherspoon, Mr. Capers, Dr. Miller, Mr. Thomson and Mr. Deal. A report on correspondence also from Capt. Bell, the secretary, and I. W. Garrett, chairman on correspondence. From the committee on ways and means, Col. Witherspoon reported in hand from the Yorkville subscription 881; Col. Capers reported in hand from Greenville, 8125; Col. Thomson reported in hand from Spartanburg, $64; Mr. Deal, in hand, 813. These gentlemen reported assume likely to be collected, Greenville, 8125; Spartanburg, 8100. Dr. Miller reported a subscription list of 840; would collect at an early day. Capt. Bell reported a contribution of 810 from Hon. Robt. B. Vance, of North Carolina. Mr. Happerfield said that owing to the delay, in getting inscriptions for the monument, that work had been slightly delayed ; that he was informed by the contractor that the monument would be finished by the 25th instant. Mr. Deal from the committee on the grounds, reported 75 acres of land cleared, ---> ? ?j u..:n ?i ??:i:? BpttUIters sutuu UUIJI, ttifu iuo Jjavuiuu uiju^i way; the arrangements for water would be made next week. Capt. Bell reported a telegram saying that Col. Houston was in New York ; but his transportation affairs were going on in a satisfactory way, and a large crowd might be expected at the centennial. The following resolution was offered by Col. Capers and adopted : Resolved, That the chairman of committee on troop3 be authorized to communicate with Gen. H. I. Hunt, of the United States Army, and request him to be present at the ap proaching celebration of the 100th Anniversary of the Battle of King's Mountain and direct the movement of troops assembled to I illustrate the plan of the battle. rru 1 j _ 1,4.x 1 ; l ne cnairmau reau a ieiter euuiusiug aunement from Capt. Ivy, treasurer of the association, regretting his inability to be present at this meeting on account of the illness of his daughter. The kind proposition of Capt. Ivy, to loan the association $500 to $1,000 without interest till the 1st of November, was accepted with the thanks of the association. Also, his still more liberal proposition to double his own subscription if necessary. The committee on privileges, rendered their report of the sale of privileges, showing a realization to the association from said sale of $641.75. A resolution was offered by Rev. Ellison Capers, and adopted, to the effect that H. W. Sparrow be paid the sum of fifty dollars for his services in attending to the flag on King's Mountain, and that the association be authorized to pay this amount, unless Maj. Houston for the Air-Line Railroad should consent to do so. The following gentlemen were appointed a special committee to look after invited guests at the celebration and see that they were properly entertained, viz. : Ex-Gov. Perry and Rev. Ellison Capers, Greenville, S. C.; Col. Wra. Johnston, Col. Frank Coxe and Col. John L. Brown, Charlotte, N. C.; Capt. W. T. R. Bell and Dr. R. F. Dickson, King's Mountain, N. C.; Col. Evius and Col. Roland Thomson, Spartanburg, S. C., with Capt. W. T. R. Bell as chairman of said committee. A resolution was offered by Col. J. R S. TM J _ 1 j 3 i 1 !_ xl JLncrus^n aua aaopieu, aumonziug uie luiumittee on preparation of the grounds to select and apportion on the centennial grounds, encampments for the military and civilians, at such suitable localities as in their judgment would best conform to the interest and convenience of the association, and, if it be deemed necessary, to employ some gentleman of sound judgment to stay on the ground for that purpose. Col. Petty, of Spartanburg, was appointed a committee of one to get up printed notices of things to be prohibited on the grounds under the control of the association, in which will be embraced the following: That no intoxicated person will be allowed to remain on the grounds ; no gambling of any description ; no intoxicating lienors sold except lager beer; no obscene or profane language or disorderly conduct will be tolerated. The following resorption was adopted : That we extend our thanks to Capt. W. T. R. Bell for the use of one of the rooms of the High School building, for the purpose of holding our meeting, and to the Town Council of King's Mountain for the hospitable manner in which they have entertained the j association. The association adjourned to meet at King's Mountain on Friday, October 1st, at 3 o'clock p. m. Answering Letters.?A great many people in this country are shamefully negligent about answering letters. Nothing is more ; annoying. In European countries it is rej garded as the height of ill breeding to allow j a letter which needs a reply to go unanswered, | and so it ought to be considered here. This is a point on which parents should lay great stress to their children. They should be taught to consider it as rude not to reply to a letter which needs attention, as to hand a fork with the prong end. The busiest people are generally those who are the most exact in this respect. The late Duke of Wellington, who, it will be admitted, had a good deal on his hands at different times of his life, replied to every letter, no matter from how humble a source. Once a clergyman who lived at a distant part of the kingdom, wrote to his grace, on whom neither he nor his parish had a shadow of claim, to beg for a subscription to rebuild a church. By re! turn of mail came back a letter from the | Duke to the effect that he really could not see why in the world he should have been applied to for such an object; but the parson sold the letter as an autograph for ?5, and put the Duke down for that amount among the subscriptions. POVERTY. Poverty is a great curse, despite of all the fine sentiment we hear about it from people in warm homes, who are well fed, and have good clothes on their backs. It embitters manhood; and saturates woman's heart with gall. It begets envy and fretfulness with one's lot; it makes men roll fiery eyes and utter hard speeches ou the good of others, only because it is not their own. It furrows the face of beauty with crow's feet or unsoftened lines of care. It makes its victims hardhearted, hard faced and quarrelsome in speech and conduct. It robs the heart of all refining influences bv taking away all means of culture. It puts intellect and taste on the the treadmill in quest for bread. It makes the soul go on all-fours to furnish food for the body. It chains a man's noblity to to bis stomach, which goads him to desperation by its unappeased cravings. And through all this man sinks at best to the level of the rationnl brute. We believe that it was a bitter trial to Jesus who had to endure it but temporarily, not because his soul did not shudder at it, but because it was one among the many wretched conditions surrounding His mortal existence; and He bore it merely to show that if it could not be enjoyed, it could be borne with patience, and it behooved Him, the Captain of our salvation, to be perfect through sufferings. No sadder exclamation ever fell from His lips, drawn by his necessities, as if from an almost intolerable sense of dejection and debasement?"The birds of the air have nests [perches], and the foxes have holes, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head." It was a bitter necessity that drew such a confession, and it needed all His divine meeknes and patience to bear it. There is a heartless affectation in the flippant way many people talk about this thing. It is neither honest, intelligent nor heartful. Poverity is of itself a curse. It is true that divine grace can extract some good out of even curses, but the curses are not the blessings but the grace. Poverty is often more the mother of temptation than wealth. It is often a teacher of lies and of the cunning and the abandonment of theft. It sends men often to the bottle in the vain hope of hnding in its fiery contents that unconsciousness which is a wretched substitute for the griping want. Adversity wiil toughen the fibers of endurance and bring a kind of grim patience. It will make our wills more determined and imperious, but it takes great grace to get out of it anything amiable, tender, loving and happy. The soul is not tortured into goodness. The frozen ungenial earth, soon to be the sepulcher of earth's life and beauties, is not melted into drops or its frozen hands so relaxed as to let go summer's blessings by the raging March winds, or the descent of stinging sleet, or the hoary breath of midnight frosts. No, no. It is the smiling face of the returning sun that does this. It is the kindly kisses of the south wind and the sunny teardrops of April clouds which make the earth repent of its coldness, and send its heartless ice away, leaping down the rivulets, to hide in the ocean, or to. obey the sun's I nnmmnnds tn the slumherinfr forms of beauty I and fragrance. Loose (hem and let them SoThen, brethren, give up romancing about the blessings of poverty. This is as vain as to put life in a corpse by putting a wreath of flowers on its frozen head. Set yourselves to work with a will to relieve it. This is the way to let Christ live in you, by letting his love shine through you. Every church ought to begin Dorcas work. Every family ought to begin economy for the needy during the coming months of the awful winter. Enconray to the rich, for Christ's sake, is as great a virtue as poverty unrelieved is a curse to the poor. What ^ grand opportunity distress affords the growth of love in your souls, and what a school for pity in the hearts of your children!?Presbyterian. WHY LIFE IS A DISAPPOINTMENT. Life is a disappointment, chiefly because those who are starting in it overestimate their own strength, and underrate that of their competitors. Self-sufficiency and ignorance are the pioneers of defeated expectations. The looker on is not disappointed ; it is the actor who is. Overweening self-confidence refuses to see difficulties ; and thus the preparation which might overcome them is neglected. The defeat is crushing, because it was deemed impossible. Presumption and arrogance have burned the bridges, and have left no opportunity to gather the shattered frvr/>oo tw retreat. Therp HPems to be no heln I for these blunders; each generation must learn for itself. There is a point where teaching ends and experience begins. It is this which has set bounds to human knowledge. No man can take .up the work of another. Where it has been left there it must remain. The father cannot give or bequeath the child his experience, as he can his property. Men may vaunt themselves as they will, but there is limit to their power; and that limit seems in some cases to have been reached in one man. Shakspeare and Bacon have had no successors. No man has been able to take up their work, where they left it. So far as men's efforts are concerned their works are completed. As they left them so they remain. No man has yet appeared, who can equal what they have done, much less improve upon it. As far as we know, they reached the limit of man's power, in the direction in which they taught. The child must mistake the road, just as the parent mistook it, and learn what is the right road, only when too old and weary to v-alk in it. And perhaps it is well that it is so. The wisdom of age and the form of youth cannot be joined in beauty. Could the young know their true strength, and foresee the difficulties rtipv to encounter, thev would not fall by the way, but would faint in the beginning. Favorable circumstances bear men on to fortune, to a greater extent than the successful are willing to admit. In niy own profession, those who have achieved success in the early part of their career, have fallen heir to the practice of a father or a preceptor. The inheritor of a practice is a whole generation ahead of him who is the founder of one. Sands of Gold.?It is certain that time and circumstances have much to do with the relative success of two men, or of the same man at different periods. But it is equally certain that the plain duty of every person, great or small, in storm or calm, is to do the very best you can. More than this is impossible ; less than this is a sin. If he is playing the part of a manly man, his reputation will take care of itself; if he is not, no lamentations over the world's coldness will help him. Nobody can do good work who is perpetually stopping to see how the spectators regard it. Praise cannot put a coward into the hero's place, neither can detraction reduce to the ranks a kingly soul. Whether or not you are succeeding iD your undertaking, you will always be hindered by reflecting upon any neglect in which you may seem to lie. Such reflections jeopardize success and quicken failure. No man should do more work of muscle or of brain in the day than he cpn perfectly recover from the fatigue of in a good night's rest. Up to that point exercise is good; beyond is waste of life, exhaustion and decay. When hunger calls for food, and fatigue demands rest, we are in the natural order, and keep the balance of life. When we take stimulants to spur our jaded nerves or excite an appetite, we are wasting life. There is wrong aud mischief in all waste of life. A man should live so as to keep himself at his best, and with a true economy. To eat more food than is needful is a worse policy than toss! iug money into the sea. It is a waste of labor and a waste of life. There is no more royal road to good habits than to learning. Step by step, and with painful effort we conquer here, we subdue there; we mould ourselves bit by bit, and hour by hour, till time comes in to help us with our work, and habit reacts on itself by crystalizing and consolidating, so that custom becomes a necessity and action automatic. Then we may say we have formed good habits, and we may be so far satisfied with ourselves. It is easy to work with a bright prospect of great reward immediately before one's eyes. But the world is not so constituted as tp admit of this, as a general thing. Large diamonds do uot lie scattered round promiscuously on the face of the earth, where auy one may stretch forth his hand and pick them up. They have to be delved for?not only in the dark, but, in the majority of cases, in uncertainty. A PUGILIST PREACHER. Rev. William Thompson, who died in England a few days ago, spent nearly a quarter of a century in the prize ring, under the name of "Bendigo," having fought 24 times before he was 50. When he was converted he had three belts, including one for the championship. He had served 28 terms in jail for drunkenness and disorderly conduct. "Bendigo's" own account of his conversion is very curious. While in prison he attended the regular religious service every Sunday, and first had his attention attracted by the minister's account "of the set-to between David and Goliath." He became so absorbed in hearing how "David, the little 'un, floored the giant and killed him/' that he forgot where he was, and shouted out, "Bravo ! I'm glad the little 'un won." When he got to his cell he began to think seriously about what he had heard, and could not avoid the conclusion that "somebody must have helped David to lick the giant." At this point of the narrative, "Bendigo" continues: "Well, it was as singular as though it was done on purpose. The very next Sunday the parson preached another sermon, which seemed hitting me harder than the week before. It was about the three men, Shadrach, Meshach and Bendigo, who were cast into the fiery furnace, and who were saved by the Lord from being burnt. Oh ! yes, I've heard about that since; it was not exactly Bendigo who was the third man, but the namesounded like it to me, and I took it as such, though I didn't say anything to anybody. "If one Bendigo can be saved why not another ?'' I said to myself, and I thought about it a good deal. Sunday after Sunday I looked out for something about me in the sermon, and there it always was. After the one about the fiery furnace, came one about the 12 fishermen. Now, I'm a fisherman, myself. Bless you ! I should rather think I was one of the best in England. Well, after, that came a sermon about the 700 left handed men in the Book of Judges; and I am a lefthanded man. Of course I am. It was that what beat the knowing ones I have had to stand up against Well, it was this always going on that made me make up ray mind to turn as soon as I got out." "Bendigo," or William Thompson, as he was thenceforth called, made good his purpose to lead a better life. He began to fit himself for another work by learning his A B C's, for his early education bad been so neglected that he could not even read. He announced and carried out his willingness to spend the rest of his J .1 i.if? J: uays uii me pmuuiui, perouauiug mcu c<j cur brace religion. When he began his ministrations, about six years ago, he attracted great attention, but the novelty soon wore off, and he was permitted to continue his labors in a quiet and efficient way. His meetings at the start were largely attended, especially by persons of his own class, who listened with rapt attention to his story of his conversion and his evidently sincere exhortation. The meetings were held at Cabman's mission hall, the Seven Dials, and at other places in notorious neighborhoods in London. ? ^ Wives Who do All the Good They Can Outside of Their Own Families.? When the peddler rang Mr. Bird's door-bell, the other day, Mr. Bird opened the door. Mr. Bird had the baby upon his arm, and had four other children at his heels. "Is the lady of the house in ?" asked the peddler. "Oertjunlv she isn't." ret>lied Bird. "She is perennially and eternally out." "Where can I see her?" "Why, go down to the woman suffrage club-room ; and if she isn't there, go to the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals ; and if she isn't there visit the hall of the association for alleviating the miseries of the Senegambians; and if she has finished up there, look foi her at the church aid society, or at the Ninth Ward soup-house, or the home of the one-legged, or at the refuge for infirm dogs, or at the hospital for the asthmatic, or at the St Pollycarp orphan asylum, or at some of these places. If you get on her track, you'll see more paupers and stroag-minded women, and underclothing for the heathen than you ever saw in the whole course of your life." "I wanted to sell her a cold-handled flatiron, just out. Do you think she will buy one ?" "She will if you can prove that the naked cannibals in Senegambia are yearning for cold-handled flat-irons. She would buy diamond breastpins for those niggers, if they wanted them, I believe." "I intended also to offer her a new kind of immovable hairpin which " "All right. You just go down to the home of the one-legged and persuade those cripples to cry for immovable hair-pins, and she'll order 'era by the ton." "Has she any children ?" "Well, I'm the one that appears to be hav irig 'era?just now, anyhow." "Because I have a gum top for a feedingbottle that is the nicest thing you ever saw. "Now," said Mr. Bird, "I'll tell you what you do. You get those paupers to swear they can't eat the soup they get at the souphouse with spoons; they must have it from bottles with a rubber muzzle, and Mrs. Bird will keep you so busy supplying the demand that you won't have any chance to sleep. You just try it. Buy up the paupers! Bribe 'em." "How'll I know her if I see her?" "Why, she'sa very large woman with a bent nose and she talks all the time. You'll hear her talk as soon as you get within a mile of her. She'll ask you to subscribe to the Senegambian fund and to the asthmatic asylum, before you can get your breath. Probably she'll read you four or five letters Irora reformed cannibals, But don't you mind 'em. My opinion ia she wrote them herself." And with baby singing a vociferous solo and the other children clinging to his legs, Mr. Bird retreated and shut the door. The peddler had determined to propose to a girl that night. He changed bis mind, and iresolved to remain a bachelor. Spring or Fall.?^We have two or three inquiries now before us, as to whether Spring or Fall is the best time to set out trees. We can't, tell how often we have treated on this subject, but it is natural that the question should continue to be asked, as young men grow up, marry, and either go to farming or in other ways possess land, and desire information as to wnat fruit trees to plant, and when to plant them. In a very few words we would say that there is not much choice in the season. If the soil is naturally moist, Spring is probably to be preferred for setting out; if dry, Fall. If the trees be large, early Fall should be chosen, and as soon as the trees are done erro wincr. and the leaves begin to drop. In both cases, the trees should be taken out of the ground carefully, and with as many of the small roots as possible, before the roots become dry. To prevent their becoming so, they should be well covered, kept out of the sun in transporting, and "heeieain" or buried, and liberally watered, as soon as they arrive, until ready for planting. The planting cannot be done too cawfully. The hole should be large enough to receive all the roots carefully spread out, and the ground put about them should be fine and rich. If the roots are too big, they should be somewhat pruned, and the branches of the tiree also. Sometimes the branches, where the roots are few and have been injured in taking up, should be severely shortened to save the life of the tree.? Germcmtown Telegraph. Very. Great Sagacity.?"Talking about a dog's sagacity," said the s'jort necked man, as he pulled his pipe from his lips, emitting a copious volume of blue-grey smoke at the same time; "talking about a dog's sagacity reminds me nf my Tige. Tigo was a bull-terrier ; and a finer set of teeth or a tighter grip you never saw on a pup, sir; and Iv'e money to back it. It was on the night of a big fire. I wa3 hoseman on twenty. When the bells struck I started, and Tige after me. He followed me to the fire, too. Saw him just before we got our stream on, watching me from a dark corner. The notion took me that I wouldn't send him home; thought I could use him better where he wan. Took; off my heavy coat, tossed it up in Tiger's corner, a "d told bim to watch it. Well, sir, 't was ?'t long before the fire drove us clean out of the locality, block after block tumbling with a crash, the flames leaping across the gaps with tremendous roar. Had forgotten all about my coat. When I went for it the place was completely burned in smoking ruins." "And Tige was buried in them, was he ?" asked the nervous little man, taking advantage of the other's pause. "Buried, toe !" said the shortnecked man contemptuously; "well, I guess not. Bill Sikes says as soon as I turned my back tbat nigbt, that dog sort o' lit for home. Reckon he felt't wasn't safe to stop around there after he saw me take my coat off."? Boston Transcript. Learning to Sew.?To be handy with the needle, is one of the sterling accon plisihments of every educated woman. To be able to take tbe 'stitch in time,' is worth all the time and trouble that are required to learn the art. Like walking, reading and the many other things which we come to do without special thought, the learning to sew is a slow process, and should be begun while the child is quite young. The girl should not only have the use of the thread, needles and patchwork, but be instructed how to take the stitches, turn the corners and do the various things connected with needle work. We are not excluding the boys in our remark, because they need to learn to thread a needle and do general sewing. Men are sometimes so situated that they must depend upon themaelv<}8 for their necessary sewing. Even if it is an age of sewing machines, it is best that all children should learn to use the simple, common, old-fashioned kino, which can never lie wholly superceded. The amusement and occupation that sewing furnishes little folks, afford sufficient reason why mothers should see that their girls, and boys, too, learn to s*w?but the very practicable use of the needle in after life, is the principal thing after all. Kind Words.?Here are four good reasons why we should use kind words when we speak to others: 1. Because they always cheer bim to whom they are addressed. They soothe him if he is wretched; they comfort him if he is sad ; they, taon Vlim nnt a(* tKa nlmirrti nf OUV^J II AULA VUH VI. VUV WiVMgu V* UW^VMWV-^^ J or h elp him out if he happens to be in. 2. There are words enough of the opposite kind flying in all directions; sour words, cross words, fretful words, irritating words. Now, let kind words have a chance to get abroad, since many and so different are on the wing. 3. Kind words bless him who uses them. A sweet sound on the tongue tends to make the heart mellow. Kind words react on the kind feelings which prompt them and make them more kind. They are fresh fuel to the fire of benevolent emotion in the soul. 4. Kind words beget kind feelings. People love to see the face and hear the voice or a kind man. Kind words aro therefore of great value. As good old George Herbert says, "Good words are worth much and cost little." How Boys' Marbles are Made.?Almost all the "marbles" with which boys everywhere amuse themselves- in season and out of season, on sidewalks and in shady spots, are made at Oburstein, Germany. There are largo agate quarries and mills in that neighborhood, and the refuse is' turned to good account in providing the sraaihStbne balls for experts to "knuckle" with. The stone is broken into cubes by a light hammer. These small blocks of stone are thrown by the shovelful into the hopper of a small mill, formed by a bedstone, having its surface grooved with concentrate furrows; above this is the "runner," which is of some hard wood, having a level face on its lower surface. The upper block is made to revolve rapidly, water being delivered upon the grooves of the bedstone where the marbles are being rounded. -> It takes about fifteen minutes to finish about ?" /* * 1 1 A 3 - 11 J _ j. t_ _ nair a Dusnei 01 gooa raarcues, reaay ior me boys' knuckles. One mill will turn out 169,000 marbles per week. The hardest "crackers," as the boys call them, are made by a slower process, somewhat analogous, however, to the other. ? ? Origin of a Famous Campaign Cry. The Log Cabin and Hard Cider campaign derived its name from a contemptuous paragraph in a campaign newspaper. The Washington correspondent of the Baltimore Republican, a prominent Van Buren paper, in writing to his paper spoke sneeringly of Gen. Harrison, saying: "Give him a barrel of hard cider and settle a pension on him of a thousand a year, and, our word for it, he will sit the remainder of his days contented in a log cabin." The Whigs took up the epithets ai d made out of them the campaign cries of the contest. Cure for Whooping Cough.?One tablespoonful of clean pure tar, one pint of new milk.: stir well; let stand two hours; pour off the ."milk ; let the child drink it every hour. It will effect a cure in three days.