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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j %\\ fnbeptnbtnt Jamilg Itcfospapcr; <for % promotion of tijc |)oIititaI, Social, ^gricuKoral anb Coimiurrial Interests of tjjc Soiiflj. |TERMS--$2.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. "VOL 31. YORKYILLE, S C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 1885. NO. 4. .JU Original I Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. WHO WAS MAUD MILLER ? BY VICTOR VERNON. PART II. AT THE MINES. CHAPTER V. A gray, lowering November day. It had stormed all night, and now the clouds and the wind, having seemingly spent themselves for the present, stood in abeyance, as if to recruit their strength for fresh efforts in the near future. Hoarse i rautterings were heard on the mountain-! tops, and the mountain streams, swollen j into cataracts by a recent deluge of rain, ! roared and foamed thunderously through j their rockv channels, or flung themselves j with fury from their steep heights into the j chasms below. Black and gloomy looked the Sierras, as they stretched their winding lengths along the horizon, losing their snow-crownea; peaks in the misty veil that wrapped them j in its folds. At the baseof one of theirspurs j was scattered a rude mining camp, lately j sprung into existence, among hundreds of others in the vicinity. For the thirst for gold had brought a sudden influx of humanity into this quarter, where rich deposits of the precious metal had lately been discovered. Distinguished from the surrounding cab- j ins by its superior size and finish, and standing, as if upon its merits, in dignified seclusion, beneath a solitary and wind- ; twisted tree, was a brown dwelling whose inmates, like itself, were of a sort different from the common herd. At the door of this little brown house ' stood, on this November morning, the figure of a girl, who appeared to be watching earnestly for some expected object. Heedless of the keen, cutting atmosphere, whose breath must have penetrated her none too warm attire, and chilled her frame, she stood bareheaded, her hands clasped together, hanging loosely before her, and her large blue eyes fixed, with an intent and sorrowful ~?" ? fmrfKoet irieiKlo nnint. nf n nnr uu liic iai tuv/ow TWiuiv ^VIIAV ? ?.?. row path that wound towards the camp. "Looking out for somebody, my lass?" asked a rough, hearty voice. The question was uttered by a miner, a cheerful-looking old fellow, known in the camp as Rusty Jim, who was passing by on some errand to the single store, that did a thriving trade. The girl instinctively drew up her slender figure, as if otfended by the familiar mode of address. "I am waiting for my father," she rejoined, after a moment's pause, with a quiet and serious dignity of manner rather unusual among the rough-and-ready society of Bear Camd. "Been out all night? hey?" "Yes." The word was spoken reluctant- j ly, after another pause. "O, well! cheer up, he'll be along after | a while, I guess," said Rusty Jim, encour- j agingly, and nodding to her, with a friendliness which her distant manner could not quell, he strode on, whistling a tunc. The girl went into the house and shut the door. "They all know! They all know!" she exclaimed vehemently, as she began to walk with rapid steps up and down the narrow room, where a cosy fire, shedding a warm radiance on its homely yet tasteful" appointments, offered a pleasant contrast to the cheerlessness without. Breakfast had been got ready some time before, and now stood waiting in a warm corner of the hearth. A little table was spread with a coarse but white cloth, on which two plates, two knives and forks, and an equal number of blue china cups and saucers, were neatly arranged in preparation for the delayed meal. The young mistress of the premises, stopping at last in her restless walk, sat down despondently by the fire, and with her chin resting in her hand, idly watched the flicker of the flames. Suddenly, at the sound of an approaching footstep, she started up again with a joyful! exclamation. The door opened, and instead of her father, a younger man entered. He was a handsome, well-formed fellow, dressed in a rough hunting suit, which bore evidences of much scrambling through miry places. At his heels came a big dog, which instantly dashed past him towards the girl, j upon whom it leaped with noisy demynstra-! tionsof joy. "Down, Lion!" cried his master. And j pushing him aside, he held out his arms, j exclaiming, "Well, Maud, haven't you any welcome | for me?" "Yes, yes," she replied, a beautiful blush suffusing her face; and in an instant she was pressed to his heart. "\oudid not seem enthusiastic, on my first appearance," he said raising her head ! that he might look into her eyes. "I was so surprised, Edgar! I was look- i ing for father, instead. I did not know you ! had returned." "Where's your father?" "Out," said Maud, her glance drooping., "He went off yesterday morning?and?he . hasn't come back yet." "And I daresay you were up all night, j waiting for him," "I felt too anxious to sleep," said the, girl, sadly. "Yes, of course. This is the way things go on," exclaimed Edgar, impatiently, j while a frown darkened his brow, and re-j leasing his hold of her, he thrust his hands j in his pockets and stood before her hearth, i warming himself. "You are wearing your I life out in worry and in work, losing your rest and your peace of mind, and growing ' thinner and paler every time I see you ; and I atn wearing out mine waiting for you." , iUllim ? iijj i|uivcn-u. ii in uii .?"iii hi-- | count that I grieve," she murmured. "And not on your own ? You don't feel j any regret personally, in this indefinite j postponement of our marriage? You are indifferent to the delay? You are resign- | ed to our separation ?" "Xo, I did not mean it in that way," she answered, gently. "I only meant that my own troubles would not be so hard for me to I bear if they affected me alone. But when I i know that your happiness is involved, the knowledge makes me suffer." "You look as though you had suffered," j said Edgar, scanning her face. He took her i hand again and drew her near him. "Oh! j Maud, all this makes me nearly wild. It is time to put an end to it; it is, indeed. I| can't stand it much louger. Why must we wait?" "Because there is no help for it, Edgar." j "There is. You are not bound to stay | here." "Xot bound !" She raised her soft eyes, ; with a surprised look, to his face. "Xo. You are not bound to stay with such a father?a man who has forfeited all claim to your obedience?a gambler?a ; drunkard?" "Oh ! stop, stop." She laid her hand, j in trembling entreaty, on his lips. "It all; sounds so dreadful! And he is my father." j "Is it not all true?" For answer, she hid her face and burst into i a passion of tears. "Come, come, Maud?my darling, this won't do," he said, tenderly, but with a certain impatience mingling with his tenderness, as he caressingly stroked her fair, disordered hair. "Crying cannot mend inat/ ters. You should know that, aftershedding , ' s> many useless, worse than useless tears, 'fears won't stop your father in his evil habitn, or bring our union any nearer. Tears won't supply you with the firmness and coirage that you need. You must make up your mind to a certain course of action, and the sooner you do it, the better for us both. Cone," he continued, changing his tone, as if anxious to divert her thoughts to a more commonplace subject, "can't yon give me a \ L i bite of something ? I am as hungry as a hound, as the saying is, and I see you have not had your breakfast yet." Maud checked her sobs, and proceeded with alacrity to minister to his wants. His appetite did justice to the homely fare, in partaking of which he seemed to recover his cheerfulness. He chatted in a lively manner of various hunting experiences, of which he had lately been the hero, and Maud, as she listened, smiled and answered with corresponding gayetv, though her heart was heavy still. She knew, by experience, that her best policy was to bend herself to his changeful moods, and when he insisted on her breakfasting with him, she yielded to his wish, though it was with difficulty that she could swallow a morsel of food, so en- j tirely was her appetite destroyed by the ! depression of her spirits. "Well," he exclaimed at last, when his i hunger was appeased, "I feel quite invigo-1 rated now, and ready for another tramp." "Are you going away already, again ?" she asked. "I suppose so; there's no use in my stayin? around here. Iam not anxious to meet your father, as you may believe. Now, Maud, I want you to be a good girl, ancl give me some encouragement." She smiled faintly. "You don't need that I should tell you how dearly I love you, Edgar." "I don't need that you should tell me; I need that you should prove your love." "I will prove it in any way you like, Edgar, except?" "Except in the one way that will satisfy me. Now, Maud, listen to reason. You will admit that your father has forfeited all claims to your obedience?" "Oh, Edgar, no! I shall never admit that," "Why? does he act like a father to you ?" "He is fond of me," faltered Maud. "Fond of you?" contemptuously echoed her lover. "How does he snow it ? By his fond, paternal care, and solicitude for your welfare?" "I know," said Maud, whose tears were ready to flow again, "that he does not lead a good life. He lets wicked men entice him, and keep him from his home duties; but when he is himself, he talks very kindly to me, and seems sorry. He is never rough or cruel; though it must seem as if I were neglected, yet that is not so hard as bad treatment would be." "You have a forgiving disposition, Maud ! Well, do you weigh these occasional words of kindness, (poor kindness, I'm afraid, only shown in words!) stray crumbs of comfort, thrown to appease your starving heart, in the balance against my devotion, my constancy, my earnest desire to make you happy? Don't you owe me something for waiting patiently all this time?" "Yes, 1 do owe you much; and oh, Edgar, dearest! if the time ever comes when I can repay you, you shall find how fully and truly I will do so!" ?he clung to him, pressing her cheek j against his arm. "if," he repeated with a moody look, j "Maud, do you know how long I have! waited already,?" "A year, I know, Edgar." "More than a year?and the end seems as far off" as ever. What pain you make me suffer! What a life you make me lead! Maud, if I go to the'bad, you will have yourself to blame." "Oh, no, no! you do not mean that; you cannot mean it. Don't torture me, Edgar." : "Will you promise to marry me in six months from now?" "Umu non T nrnmiiio?whptl?" "Of course 1 knew you would'nt," he broke in with a derisive laugh. "I only asked you the question to see what answer you would make. Well, it's no use going over the threadbare subject; it makes me 1 sick. I'm off, now; in a month or six weeks, maybe, you'll see roe again." "Not before?" asked the girl, wistfully. "Probably not. You don't give ine much encouragement to pay frequent visits." "You talk, Edgar, as if you thought I did not care." "Oh, I suppose you care?in your own j way," he replied, carelessly. "Our ways are , different, that's all. Come, kiss me good bye." j "Good bye, she faltered brokenly. He 1 pressed her to him, kissed her twice, then ! calling to his dog, sauntered away. Maud put together the broken fragments 1 of the breakfast, washed the soiled utensils, 1 then laid the table afresh, mended the tire 1 and made everything once more ready: against her father's return. Her prepara-1 tions completed, she did not again have to i wait. She had scarcely sat down to rest, when through the open window she saw his j approaching figure. Such a figure! It was not its being clad' in rough and dirty clothes, that made it repulsive to look at. All the miners in their ! every day garb, were just as shabby, just as far from neat. But it was the slouching gait, the unsteady step, the bleared eyes, the bloated face, that made up a picture ! horrible to the vision, It was the stamp of | the man's whole character on his looks, on 11 his bearing, on every gesture of his shaky body that made even his own child shrink as he drew near, with a natural repugnance 1 to touch him. Only for an instant, however. She conquered the involuntary feeling, and \ went forward quickly to open the door. "Father! I am so thankful you have come. | "Couldn't come sooner, child. Businessbusiness all the time," he answered thickly. "Was working all night." She knew how far to believe this: but she only said in a gentle tone? "You must be ve*y weary. Come, warm |: yourself and get some breskfast." She made him comfortable, put his break-1' fast before him, and waited on him as he ! ate. She was so thankful to have him safe | at home?suffering as she did, continual ap-1 prehension of his getting Into difficulty, or | meeting with an accidept?that her heart,' for the time, felt lighter,and in her relief j; she forgot Edgar's unkind words. All at once, in tiie midst of eating, here father stopped, laid down Us knifeand fork, and burst into a fit of harsh, unmusical ; laughter?the sort of laughter that made !: Maud ready to cry. "The best thing!" he cred, shaking with j' the mirth, real or feigned, that overpowered ; him. "The best thing! i tell you, we're going to make a big haul,soon." "In the mine?" timidly,asked his daughter. "In the mine?oh ! ye4 in the mine, of , course. Ha! ha!! Whete else could it be? ' Ho! ho !! Bring me a tirnbler, Maud." "Not whisky, now?father ?" Laughing again, he pou-ed himself out a j ( drink. This was followed by another, and j under their combined influence, he made j ( his daughter partially avare of a scheme, , which he and one of his companions had;] ft,, lumrfit niuI wliicli in Uttviairu hm .. ...?j ... , ( a sober mood, he certain!; would not have i betrayed. [TO 1JK COXTINVKI).] ; , ?3OPMa?WBinwn i STOHY OK a CtKEAT CoVfl'OSEH.?A good story is told of Verdi when he was putting the finishing touches to 11 Trovatore. lie : was visited in his study by a privileged friend, for whose opinion as critic he had i the highest respect, lie showed him his score and asked him to tiy the Anvil Chorus on the piano. "What do think of it?" said Verdi. "Trash," cried the connoisseur. Verdi rubbed his hanck and chuckled, t "And of this, and this!" he continued, < playing. "Rubbish!" rejlied the candid j! friend. The composer rose and embraced i his friend with a burst of joy. "What do ;! you mean by this?" was tsked in natural j i astonishment. "My dear friend," responded Verdi; "I have been composing a pop-1 I ular opera. In it I deteimined to please j: everybody except the great judges and 1 classicists like you. Had I pleased you I j i should have pleased no die else, but your < disdain assures me of ait-cess. In three i < months II Trovatore will be sung, roared? | and whistled and barrelorganed all over * Italy." It must be confessed that Verdi |1 understood his work. ' j glisccUan c our- railing | * SUNSET AT AltUNHTON. | r( "Madge," says Max, blowing the smoke g< of his after-dinner cigar out through his P1 nostrils, and regarding me benignly through it, like a placid and uncomely Hindoo god nl veiled in a cloud of incense, "what are your views on the subject of a drive to Ar- rc lington this afternoon? Would you like ir it?" Of course I want to go. I always want to go everywhere, as Max is well aware, and so, with a smile for thanks, I speed away y( and return in what a man should consider *jr a delightfully short space of time, fully cj equipped for the expedition. Withaspir- sc ited horse and natty little turnout we are | j,, soon trotting gaylv through the pleasant s, country roads in the direction of Arlington, j "vj which is five or six miles away from our ; a, home over toward the setting sun. Present- i a< ly we ascend a long, steep hill and drive j n"j about a hundred yards along the summit1 p. and Max turns the buggy slightly, so as to g( fully face the prospect, and calls on me to t\ look. I gaze and gaze, spellbound, and j e'( hold my peace, for a wonder of loveliness aj is before me and language flees, abashed 1 ?] by the beauty it is powerless to describe, j ni Washington with its countless beauties of I Cl architecture, its monuments, magnificent j j,. public buildings, lovely shaded boulevards, its towers, steeples, rooftrees and domina- SJ1 ting centraldome?Washington the heart of pj a nation, the richest jewel on the breast of te a mighty country?Washington in slum- f0 brous, aumtumnal graciousness?is spread tjbefore us, beautified strangely by distance, cr and backed by the tender purplish blue of ai the far horizon. Nearer?almost at the w foot of the great hill on which we stand? a, rolls the calm, gleaming waters of the Po- te tomac, "all quiet along" its banks now, for ril many a year quiet and restful and infinite- w ly beautiful. Thunder of cannon and rat- aj tie of musketry, sounds of battle and ti bivouac, hushed and still forever, and the st grand old river flowing peacefully, taking b< its share in the labor of the present, with fr hardly a suggestion left of its participation n) in the sorrow and wrong doing of the past. Away in the distance the river is fettered p) by the links of an iron bridge over which, ft as we gaze, a train passes slowly, overshad- f0 owed by a canopy of bluish gray smoke, q. To the left, bathed in afternoon'sunlight, sweet old Alexandria, steeped to the eaves cr in the joy of calm, shows picturesquely (p against the wooded background of the Virginia hills, and over the heights of George- |)( town the shadow of a great white cloud is p] passing dreamily. tj As we near the handsome stone gateway Sl1 of the National Cemetery silence falls h< again, which remains unbroken until we ju turn to enter the open gate, when a whole p, posse of little negroes dart out from the V( shelter of the arch and hover around the Sl carriage, yelling shrilly, "Please, sar, gim- "w me penny! please, sar, gimme penny!" spoiling all the sentiment of the approach b, and putting to flight reverential fancies. w Fortunately beggars "may not win through" NV the gate, so that when fairly inside the imagination can resume sway and revel in the p, hpsvntv and sacred silence of this beautilul, Vu mournful garden of the Lord. Max throws a] away his cigar and pulls his horse into a t! slow trot, and there is a look on his face Ui that makes me know he would like tore- a move his hat. In and out we wind through (j the magriificent trees and the swells and j stretches of velvety verdure, following the C( broad brown road past exquisite plots of | C( blooming plants, lovely rockeries, tall vases, a, filled with flowers, vines and ferns untouch- fe ed as yet by frost. Now we catch glimpses g, of shady dingles and clear streams rippling purely through the hearts of them, and Ir again level meadows suggesting old home- rj steads, lowing kine, milkmaids?anything, g| everything except a graveyard. s( Gradually the road ascends, and a thrill p passes electrically through my pulses as my eyes rest for the first time upon the home of the South's great chieftain. The house with <r] its massive pillared stone portico and an- ?( cient, honored walls is quite close upon the a( hill commanding the city and the river, 5] but we turn aside?we will go there later? 0I our object now is the cemetery itself?the cl God's acre which surrounds tiie home ofja, Lee. There it is, stretching away from us j fe almost as far as the eye can reach, line on ! p line, in close compact ranks; in companies, ! fc in regiments, in battalions?so many, 0I1 j j<.' God! so many! There seem miles on miles I yj of them, the tiny, plain, pitiful white stones, I ^ neat, precise and infinitely pathetic ; sole ! w mementoes of thousands of gallant hearts ! w that struggled and bled and broke for a poli- I ]? ticians' quarrel. j ,r "On fame's eternal camping ground j \y Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead." I In the house there is nothing to remind j ]{ the present visitor of the Lees. We wan- j jj der through the empty rooms, which are | a too bare, and open and light to afford sane- j js tuary to memory, rather disconsolately, : rj and Max scrawls our names in a big visitor's c.., book with a keen pointed steel pen dipped a'| in the revolting contents of a particularly j-( loathsome inkstand. I haven't the heart to imagine which room was sacred to the dead fl chief, or where the stately descendant of i cc the Custis' loved best to gather family and > e( friends around her. The home feeling has I ]1( Hed from the house forever, the soul, the in- j ft dividuality and life has gone, and in their ,,j place is emptiness, and knots of irreverent sight seers, and chairs with patent seats, and greasy wads of crumpled paper, the | sj debris of lunch baskets. Gladly we escape jj to the sunshine and free air of the portico,! f(] where we seat ourselves on the steps and cj watch the lazy flow of the river, the city in c,r the distance and the bees and butterflies jo toying with the blossoms in the borders jn around the tall Hag staff, where the stars ^ and stripes flap languidly in the soft, hazy (j, air. And the setting sun, with golden fingers, touches the salient points of the landscape, gilding the rigging around the summit of the monument and throwing a |j( halo of glory over the brazen image on the dome of the Capitol. n( And "memory wakes with all her busy ! ^ train," and sets pictures floating before the p. mind's eyes; pictures, not of the home life of n] the Lees at Arlington, nor of the stately C old times when the best and noblest of tbe tv nation were honored guests beneath this ancient roof; nor yet of evil days when the j g. old floors resounded to armed heels, and the i tp old walls eeohed deep voices, orders, commands, the groans of anguish and the.sighs | of death. Xo sound of cannon shot, or it roar and whistle of murderous shell, no ring tli of steel or stirring music of reveille, no d storied excitement, nor haunting memory sli causes the smile to dawn, and broaden on so our faces as we simultaneously move a lit- ai tie, to be sure we are on the very spot; tic- ot tion, not history, holds us, and we murmur I y< softly of Sybil, and Carrington on the steps ! tli of Arlington in the bright spring sunshine, *tli trying to fancy how the girl looked as she in inclined her ear to the war-worn storv we <i< lire determined not to recall and we laugh ! en lightly as we remember how her expression si changed from bewilderment to relief as she , n; put aside the perplexing problem of her j co friend in the guise of a foe, and fell gaily to j ]0 wondering how the ex-Confederate had i w looked in his uniform. And so fiction , Se supercedes fact, and the pictured scene of a i in clever romance obliterates for a time blood- j stained memoirs, and Sybil and Carrington j s modify the pain of beautiful Arlington by fu substituting one pleasant association for! cli many fraught with woe. j cli After awhile we wander down into the or beautiful garden, where 1 make love to a i tli surly old gardener for a spray of ivy leaves tli to carry away as a memento of my visit, af and gain it when I beseech in the language ot of " Vaterland," and have a good crimson m [lahlia added to it, to Max's intense amuse- ag ment, knowing, as he does, how I abhor co dahlias. But 1 smile my sweetest, and the tv old gardener escorts us to the gate, inviting al me in voluble German to return before the Si ost shall have robbed his garden of its wiuty. And the soft evening shadows fall as we a( rive slowly away over the smooth, brown fe )ad, and the hist rays of the setting sun lin- p, Bring tenderly on the unamed graves ap- ju ears to bring to each a golden benrson; a, id to our hearts comes warmly and grate- a( dly the sure knowledge that each pathetic j) umber on the small square blocks tallies n] ithfully with an unforgotten name on the V( >11 call of the Highest.?M. (i. McClelland, \ tn f the Detroit Free Prem. ; g, THE NEW PROCESS FLOUR. A number of heavy white millstones were to iled up on one of the docks along the river js esterday. They were consigned to some m iterior town forty or fifty miles from the ce ty, and were of a style, make, and finish m ) long in use. an om man, wiui a siouen | ni at pulled down so far over liis face that his \ bt nail, blinking eyes were almost hid from i bi iew, stood a little way back on the wharf Se id talked to a young man, whom he had tli iked for a match. "Millstones have pretty tii *arly gone out of date," said he, with a j h iilf mournful air, "and with them have ; in me the oceupatiprvl have followed for thir- i tli r years. See here," and the old man crowd-1 f0 1 his hat over on the back part of his head, w id lifted his face for the first time intojgf lain sight. It was pitted all over with j w Limberless ugly dimples, depressions, and m its, and looked as if he might some day \\ [ive had the small pox. m "Do you know how that was done?" he ca iid. The young man did not know. "By T< icking millstones," was the quickly volun- d( lered information. "No one who lias ever ei llowed the business of giving those stones in lat keen cut texture that enables them to nf ush and grind grain can escape those cuts pi id scars. Why, my face is literally filled g(. ith the little particles of steel and stone, b< id my eyes have seasons of paining me hi rribly. But the profession has run its ca ice. In ten years the dictionary makers H< ill put the stereotyped word "obsolete" "j "ter the noun "millstone." Modern inven- ar ons have relegated the time-honored mill- ar one to oblivion. "New processes have pi ?en discovered for extracting the wheat y( om flour, beside which the mill-stone has Ik j show." | sa The young man began to grow interested, j II le drew his companion into the doorway of if ISftlrv curif/iK olinnftr oo^iii*Q/l normlooinn I n lllliu i5>i'uui nim.il vj , av\/uivu pui ujji^jiuu ^ ir the two to sit down a moment before the b( re, and asked him to continue. tr "Nowadays," said the old man, "wheat is cn ushed beneath rollers and the flour proneed is much superior to the old make, ej hen, too, the bran that was once thought to w ? almost worthless is now sifted by a new hi rocess, and a quality of flour is separated it lat is worth forty or fifty cents more per al ick than the common variety. You have in eard that the best part of the potato lay la ist beneath the skin. Recent scientific ex- gi priments have shown that it is true of all I) pgetables, especially of the wheat. This o^ lggested the construction of a seive that g< ould separate the little particles of the ai ernel that cling to the shuck when it has gi pen broken up and ground to pieces. It hi as successful, and the flour secured in this e> ay, while small in quantity, it is of superb cn uality. This latter process was only made hi ossible by the new method of grinding tl heat that has been generally adopted by pi 1 the large mills in the country. But in ir le meantime my occupation has been grad- it illy undermined. Once in a while I have w call to go somewhere into the country and B ress a stone, but it is very seldom. "Most of the millstones in use in this1 nintry are of French burr, a silicious rock Ji mtaining many small, rough cavities, ai ml requiring less" preparation than a per- tl ctly plain stone. It is quarried in the tt pological district known as the "Paris J>< asin." A quarry has been worked for e< lany years in the valley of the Savannah n ver, about 1(10 miles above the city of e* avannah, and the quality of the stones h "cured is said to be almost equal to those pi roduced in France. The lower stone has ir pnerally a smooth grinding surface. The m . nf Imth ?fnnp? linvp to hp flit: in straight di rooves in direction inclined radii. The sc Iges of the grooves are thus given a cutting ei ,'tion somewhat resembling that of scissor n: lades, and a tendency to force the grain at jtward toward the circumferance is se- j i' ired, thus accelerating the feeding and I w voiding choking. To do this work per- ol ctly it requires an enormous amount ofjct ractice, and an apprentice must serve for i cc ur or five years on cheap stones before he | fii allowed to touch the most valuable ones. J tl [achines were once invented to do the i to itting, but they were not a success. Jt j <11 as a hard business to learn, and in its day ^ as very profitable. Modern innovations, ni owever, have no sympathy for workinglen, and in ten years it is doubtful if there tl ill be a millstone in use in this country." tl Booxk and His Wjfk.?While still liv- 111 ig in his father's house on the Yadkin tl iver, in North Carolina, it occurred to si aniel Boone that a "fire hunt" would be ei jolly affair. The fire-hunt is for deer, and w carried on by parties of two. One of the I pi ders gallops by night through the forest j tl irrying a lighted torch, which he waves lot Jove his head. The other follows softly, j sc: poping in the shade. fa The light, of course, attracts the deer, and I fe io astonished animal comes out and inno- j sj mtly stands and stares at it. The conceal-! bj 1 person gives a signal, and the rider T :>lds the wavering torch quite still. This 1 In ves the eyes of the deer, and the accom- ! be lice aims between them. p< At this particular fire-hunt Boone carried j tr ic rifle, and suddenly he saw through the di ladows a spendid pair of eyes fixed upon ( in ic torch, lie gave the signal and prepared i a fire, but, to his astonishment, the eyes j th langed their position, and he saw the ; la eature turn and fly through the woods, ollowinir it at full sneed. he saw it dash ito the garden of a neighbor, and, feeling : it lat something was wrong, he entered the i th ior. l.v There, indeed, he saw once more those l fit illiant eyes, but not in a deer's head. ' ft1 hey were the splendid black orbs of Ke-|'n jcca Ryan, who, trembling with terror,! 'a ootl clinging to her father?a newly-settled i fa ?ighbor of the Boone family. Kx plana-1 i" ons were given, and the young lady must we forgiven Roone, for she afterward Tl arried him. Their adventures did not! It' iase here. .lust before the wedding a par- i th r of Indians carried off his bride, and f<> oone pursued them alone and broughti so ick his treasure, leaving three dead In- w ians under the forest trees. w m Hanging Makes tiik Muscles Rigid, hr is strange how a little steady pressure on al le windpipe affects people. Of course it ki lokes them, but that is no reason why they ti< louldn't beableto move their limbs. They . as em to lose all control over their muscles j sc id give right in. 1 remember a case that' or curred in lirookville, Me., when I was a j in )ung man. A woman, the wife of a weal-; ar iy sea captain, threw a skein of yarn over | th .. tint\1* /?>,? lIlMf *1 11 rl I f?f ? her head through the bight that hung th >\vn, doubled up her knees so her feet! ar iuld not touch and remained in that po- j lii tion until she choked to death. One would he tturally think that when she became tin- i ur nseious her muscles would relax and al- \ foi w her feet to drop to the floor, but such | th as not the case. Hanging or choking m ems to make every muscle as rigid as : su on.?Huston (Hobc. fay A redwood tree, cut in California, Ai rnished all the timber for the l?aptist re lurch in .Santa Rosa, Cal., one of the largest th lurch edifices in the county. The interiof the building is finished in wood,; be ere being no plastered walls. Sixty j gi ousand shingles were made from the tree! or ter enough was taken for the church. An-! w< her rosewood tree, cut near Murphy's! it ills in the same county, about ten years j ce ;o, furnished shingles that, required the in nstant labor of two industrious men for co ,*o years before the tree was used up. The ki >ove statements are vouched for as true by of ipervisor T. J. Proctor, of Santa Rosa. co BURDETT'S ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN. a It is more blessed to give than to receive ? lvice. The only man I ever knew who ^ It that he was too young to advise other j }ople was ninety-eight years old, and had * st begun to learn that he didn't know lything. You always pay for the best' a lvice. Really good advice is never free. :a: id you ever ask your lawyer a question, M yson? And what did the lawyer say? If 11 3U want to be somebody in this world you iust begin by being yourself. Your great- *( andfather can't help you, because he is j ?ad, and this is a live world that wants ^ cing men. When I hear a man talking 11 o much about his ancestors, I say, "There 0 a man that needs them.'.' I have known ? en who were very proud of their an-, a stors whose ancestors would have been j ost dismallv ashamed of them. We care ! ore for the pedigree of the horse we : ly than for that of the man who sells; 1 in. After all hard work is the great; 'l cret of success. It accomplishes more ^ lan genius. There are white crows, but 11 iey are no more useful than black ones.1 ard work doesn't kill men. "Fun" kills y en. The "good times" the boys have lay 1 icm out. The hard workers have no time 11 r dissipation, so they live long. Man's ork goes on forever, but every man doesn't > on forever to do it. lie doesn't do it all tl hile he does stay here. A young man j jj ust do his best arid hardest work now. ? Then you can get $">0 a line for your poetry j], y boy, as Mr. Tennyson does, then you j CJ n Afford to write as poor poetry as Mr. a snnyson does. Wearing a Burnside hat ^ lesn't give a man a war record. Twenty- ^ ght inches of coat padded across sixteen v ches of shoulders doesn't make you a gym- sl ist. Men do not value a turkey for its U umage. Don't go into debt. If you can't j *, :t along without more than you have, don't j v irrow; steal. It would not worry you ilfso much and if you steal enough you j n go to Canada and become a leading ^ ?ht in society. "Does it pay," you ask, :o be honest?" No, my son, not if you e honest for pay it doesn't. Not if you ',r e honest merely because you think it will | ly to be so; not if you are honest because j iu are afraid to be a rogue; not if you are tj inest because you believe in that mean old t( ying "that honesty is the best policy." j a, onestyisn'ta policy, it's a principle and j. you can't be honest because your soul hates 0 lie and despises a mean action ; if you can't j, } honest for the sake of the dear white jj uth itself, don't trv to be honest: be a ras J ; that's what you are intended for. j ^ Get married, my son. Look me in the n ;e ; if you never do anything else in the S1 orld, get married. Don't be in too big a i S) jrry anout it, but don't be too deliberate, i j. . is your duty. Don't think the girls are ! ^ I butterflies of fashion. If you want to | rj arry a laundress, do your courting in the ! n undry but if you want a wife, marry the [ rl you love. Be honest with the world. ' rj on't sail under false colors. Don't repine j p ,*er your poverty; it-is good for you. We j ? it most of our presidents from tan-yards 11 id farms and tow paths. Don't envy any l p reat man, my boy. The great man, with ! g is weight of years and care, envies you t, ;ery time he passes you by. And if you 0 in't be a leader, double-leaded, a column , a ng, on the second page, you can be some- j' ling just as useful. You can be a little I {, \ying four-line solid nonpareil "ad" on the I ^ iside, that will help to make up, and fills s place in the paper. Be anything in the j orld, my boy, that is alive and useful, i e anything but a "dead ad." * -? ? ! n This Two Astors.?The original John ! 1< \cob Astor may have had, at some time or j t aother, a carriage, but we never heard j v lat he did. It would have been contrary i p ?the habit of his life to spend a dollar for j t ersonal comfort or ease, while a cent devot-! e 1 to the procurement of any kind of luxu-11 ; would have been a waste so grievous as to [ p uise tears of bitter regret to trickle down j a is brazen cheek. Now, mind you, the j d resent John Jacob Astor is a very nice I u lan. There is nothing special about him, I n :ie way or another, except his wealth. I j fi on't mean to imply that he leads in any ; s ;nse a shoddy life. On the contrary, his j I itire course is that of a plain, practical, | e icthodical man of business, devoted to the ; t cumulation of shekels, and much more j o iterested in a phase?of social prosperity | t hich would warrant his raising the rents ; o f his vast establishments five or ten per r nt. than any possible improvement in the ; e mdition of the race, or any great problem, j nancial or political. The contrast, never- h leless, between the John Jacob Astor of: h i-day and the John Jacob Astor who ped- I 'i led knicknacks about Beaver, Wall and | a William streets is so tremendous that no I lere word painting could presume to pre- j a tut its picture. The one lived in a hovel, | f< le other in a palace. The one fed on crusts, ic other on the best the market affords, ti he one was looked on with suspicion, as a a liserly old grub ; the other is regarded as jj le great landlord of the day, intent, to be tl ire, upon making and saving money, ev- h y where respected as one who keeps his j o ord and cares for the protection of his, tl roperty. The one utterly unfamiliar with a ie inside of a comfortable dwelling, the si her accustomed from his earliest days to ' o iciaJ courtesies in what are called our best b mi lies. The one probably never saw a h stive dance in all his life; the other is con-[ t< licuous for his attendance at the society d ills and festive developments of the season, ti he one walked through the streets with a si ?avy pack upon his back ; the other lum?rly lolls along Broadway, conscious of bis )sition and proud of his wealth, or else p undlesdown-town in a heavy family coach, i { awn by the most respectable spa 11 of horses n i the province. Oh, yes, it is a great change, p vast distinction, and very natural was the p lought suggested by the appearance of the p tter-day Astor. ' p Tiie Art of Seeing.?In everyday life i ' is much better to be an accurate observer ' in 11 a mere book learner. I have frequent- '7. seen the latter made to blush for her de- ' iencies by the most unlearned, says a corspondent in an English contemporary, for ^ a contest between eyes and no eyes, eyes J i ive generally got the best of it. Nature is given us such an inexhaustible store of terest that those who go through life with- .i it "seeing" lose much of the zest of it. lie savage, who necessarily depends upon ff s keen eye and bis quick ear, cultivates r lose faculties in an extraordinary degree; r does he not see indications and hear J unds which to an unpracticed observer f ould be utterly unintelligible? So also j k ith all jiersons who live near the heart of t| iture. The English shepherd, while per- . ips ignorant of the very formation of the phabet, stores up a fund of interesting t lowledge, derived entirely from observa >n. He can give you simple, interesting A tronomical facts which might astonish a ientist, as well as trustworthy information i natural history and even botany. One ay possess everything in the way of schol- J j ship, but if he or she have that alone, ose who are unlearned but observing will . ten make them leel very small. I would, erefore urge my readers to cultivate the jj tor seeing or Observing; mere is nouimg j| ;e seeing things for ourselves. Our ideas i come fresher, more natural and more in lison with latter day tastes when they are rmed from observation. Nature's book is ! e one wherein we lind the richest, the ost varied, and the most inexhaustible bjects for thought.?Scienfific American. -? ?' of Significance of Feminine Names.? si; itcx and Queries gives some information cl garding the derivation of women's names sa at wil 1 be of interest: eci Annabella is not Annabelia,or fair Anna, w it the feminine of Hannibal, meaning si* ft or grace. Arabella is not Ara bella,. or beautiful altar, but Orabilia, a praying in iman.- In its Anglicized form of Orabel se was much more common in the thirteenth at ntury than at present. Maurice has noth- li< g to do with Mauritus or a Moor, but N rnes from Amaric?hinnnelreich?the w ngdoni of heaven. Fllfti is the feminine , w Alain, Alan or Allan, and has no possible la nneetion with Helen, which comes from ' S( different language and is older by a thousand years at least. Amy is not Arnee, ut from Amie. Avoic, or Avis does not xactly mean advice, as some seem to think, t comes from Kdwis, and means happy 'isdom. Eliza has no connection with Elizbetli. It is the sister of Louise, and both re the daughters of Ileloise, which is Hele*it, hidden wisdom. There is, indeed, nother form of Louisa, or rather Louise, liich is the feminine of Louis, but this was jarcely heard of before the sixteenth cenlry. The older Ileloise form of the name Joisa, Aloisia, Aloysia, was adopted into lediieval English as Alesia?a name which ur old genealogists always confuse with dice. Emily and Amelia are not different >rms of one name. Emily is from Emylia, lie name of an Etruscan gens. Amelia ^mes from the Gothic amale, heavenly, tegina lias nothing to do with a Queen, t is Rein-alt, exalted purity. Alice, Adelis, Adelaide, Aliza, Alix, Adaline are all irms of one name, the root of which is adel, oble. Rut Anna was never used as identi\1 with Annesor Agnes (of which the last io old Scottish Annas is a variety) nor, as sturdily maintain, was Elizabeth ever syonymous with Isabel. Girls Who auk Uski-tl.?'The notion nit girls, are too delicate to be useful is mited to a comparatively small part of the lobe. Throughout Asia, Africa and in irge portions even of Europe and Amerii, there prevails an old belief that they re born to labor. In Turkestan and on the artar steppes the Kirghese Sultans and leir daughters and princesses, in whose eins Hows the blood of long lines of kings, All milk the sheep, cows and goats, and erform the menial ottices of the household, s the Sanscrit maidens did six thousand ears ago in the same localities. They lok, take care of the smaller children, make arments, cure the skins of the wild fowl, ith the feathers on, for caps, spin cotton, eave cloth and tan leather by means of iur milk. In this delectable region the lothers wear rich attire while the daugh?r goes in humbler weeds, like Cinderilla. f there is a piano the mother plays on it in le front room of the tent, while the daugh^r brews the koumiss, stews the mutton nd hroils the camel chops in the back itchen. This is the benighted condition f r?nf?5o rt/ihal rvAAnln tirKn n/lNot<o O I patiiaitiiai pcupur u nw *.\/ u uv.ui i obsolete theory of filial duty. Similar leas prevail throughout India, China and mong the native tribes of Siberia, who ave been driven northward by aggressive eighbors. The Tungusian girl gathers the now, melts it, makes the tea and soup, 2ws, and, being skilful in archery helps to eep the larder supplied with game. The rakut and Semovede maidens, and all who well along the Arctic ocean, help in sumler to lay up winter supplies, and in win2r to perform all necessary domestic duties, 'lie Abyssinian girl grinds corn in the simle mills in use in that country. The Kaffir irl weaves blankets and draws water. The iris in the other part of the dark continent ulverize the grain, weave mats, make arthern vessels, and are the hatters of their ribe. The theoriesof the tribesand nations f Asia and Africa are shared by the Indins of North and South America, who compel the young girls to learn the duties and lardships of life at an early age.?linxton banner ipt. -- ? Living IIigii on a Paper of Needles. Hter the battle of Chickamauga, one of "our ness" found a needle-case which had beonged to some poor fellow, probably among he killed. He did not place much value ipon the contents, although there was a laper of number eight needles, several but011s, and a skein or two of thread, cut at ach end and neatly braided, so that each hread could be smoothly drawn out. He >ut the whole thing in his breast pocket, nd thought no more about it. But one ay, while out foraging for himself and his tiess, he found himself near a house where noney could have procured a fine meal of piofl ohinL-on mm nnnp tinrl hiiffprmi 1 lr hp l,VU v. ides a small supply to carry back to camp. Jut Confederate soldiers' purses were genrally as empty as their stomachs, ami, in his instance, the lady of the house did not ffer to give away her nice dinner. While he poor fellow was inhaling the enticing dor and feeling desperately hungry, a girl ode up to the gate on horseback, and bawld out to another girl inside the house: "<), Cindy, I rid over to see if you couldn't ?nd me a needle. I broke the last one I ad to-day, and pap says thar ain't nary lother to be bought in the country herebouts." Cindy declared she was in the same fix nd couldn't finish her new homespun dress 3r the same reason. The soldier just then had an idea, lie reired to a little distance, pulled out his case, nd stuck two needles in the front of his icket, then went back and offered one of hem, with his best bow, to the girl on the orse. Right away the lady of the house ffered to trade for' the one remaining, and he result was a plentiful dinner for himself, nd, in consideration of a thread or two of ilk, a full haversack and canteen. After this ur mess was well supplied, and our forager egan to look sleek and fat. The secret of is success did not leak out until longaf?rward, when he astonished the boys by eclaring that he "had been living like a ghting cock on a paper of needles and two keins of silk."?The Bivouac. Tiik Moon's Velocity.?"We can faint; picture, perhaps," says a writer in the Wifun/, "how it would seem from a station ear the lunar orbit to see the moon (a movlg world) rush with a velocity greater than hat of the cannon-ball in its swiftest fiight; ut with equal speed its shadow actually ravels along the earth, and now, if we _-turn from our imaginary station to a real ne here below, we are better prepared to ?e why this Hying shadow is a unique spec it'll', ior, .siimu as 11 may ue wneu seen 111 dation to the whole globe, it is immense i the observer, whose entire horizon is lleil with it, and who sees the actual verity of one of the heavenly bodies, as it ere, brought down to him. "The reader who has never ascended to le Suporga at Turin will recall the magnif;iit view and be able to understand the ood fortune of an observer (Forbes) who ad the opportunity to witness thence this lienomenon, and under a cloudless sky. 'I erceived,' he says, 'in the south-west a lack shadow like that of a storm about to reak, which obscured the Alps. It was 10 lunar shadow coming toward us.' And e speaks of the 'stupefaction'?it is his ord?caused by the spectacle. 'I confess,' e continues, 'it was the most terrible gbt I ever saw. As always happens in le case of sudden, silent, unexpected lovements, the spectator confounds real nd relative motion. I felt almost gidy for a moment, as though the massive adding under me bowed on the side of the lining eclipse.' Another witness who had sen looking at some bright clouds just beire me says: 'The bright cloud 1 saw istinctly nut out like a candle. The rapid y of the .shadow and the intensity pro-j [iced a feeling that something material | as sweeping over the earth at a speed ; wfectly frightful. I involuntarily listened i r the rushing noise of a mighty wind.'" Tjik Throne or Exolaxd.?'The throne J " England, so splendid when covered with j lk, silver and gold, is in fact, uan old oak i lair" over six hundred years in use for the me purpose. Its existence has been trac1 back to the days of Edward I. The ood is very hard and solid. The back and ties were formerly painted in various col's, and the seat is made of a rough lookg sandstone twenty-six inches in length, veil teen inches in breadth and nineteen id a half in thickness, and in this stone 2S the grand peculiarity of the chair, umberless legions are told in connection ith it, the truth probably being that it as originally taken from Ireland to Seotnd and served at the coronation of the ottish kings. I Tiierk is Death ix the Cup.?In a rei cent letter to Itev. A. Coke Smith as to the i effect of drunkenness upon the criminal sta; tistics of this State, Hon. J. B. Kershaw, Judge of the Fifth Circuit, writes as follows : i "I do not consider myself as fully qualified j to give you any statistical information in ' relation to the effect of alcoholic drinks upon society, as manifested in the courts of jusj tice, as a cause of crime. I have heretofore I kept no record of the cases coming under my observation with a view of this question. I i can, therefore, only answer from a general impression derived from observation and experience, both as a member of the Bar and as a Judge, with some approximation, no doubt, to accurate proportion, but without the data to verify the statement. I am able tosav that I believe drunkenness to be the caused on an average, of not less than nine-tenths of the crimes of violence now prevailing among the whites of the State. In relation to the colored race, other causes occur more frequently to induce crimes of this sort than among the whites. Drunkenness, too, is not a very prevalent vice among the negroes, and hence I think that the proportion of crime attributable to that cause is considerably less than in the case of the other part of the population. "While, perhaps, nine-tenths of other crimes are committed by negroes, homicides and kindred crimes are more frequently committed by the other class. I have no doubt that when the other offences, such as i burglary, larceny, and the like, and com mi t; ted by the whites, they are largely, though ; indirectly, attributable to the degrading effects of drunkenness. To some extent also this may operate in the same way upon the other race, but to what extent, in either case, this is to be considered as a cause of crime of the character last mentioned I am unable to estimate." Rest Awiiile.?You are wearing out the vital forces faster than there is any need, ! and in this way subtracting years from the j sum total of your life. This rush and wor' ry, day after day; this restless anxiety for j something you have not got, is like pebble 1 stones in machinery ; they grate and grind the life out of you. You have useless burdens; throw them off! You have a great load of useless care; dump it! Pull in the I strings; compact your business; take time | for thought of better things. Go out in the 1 air, and let God's sun shine down upon your j busy head. Stop thinking of business and I pront; stop ]fruiuuiiii^ ito auvcisc piuviucuces. You will probably never see much better times in this doomed world, anjl your most opportune season is now ; your happiest day is to-day. Calmly do your duty, and let God take care of his own world. He is still alive, and is the King. Do not imagine that things will go to everlasting smash when you disappear from this mortal stage. Do not fancy that the curse of heaven, in the shape of the vain task of righting up a disjointed earth, is imposed upon you. Cease to fret and fume; cease to jump and worry early and late. The good time is coming, but you can never bring it; God can and will. Take breath, sir; sit down and rest, and take a long breath. Then go calmly to the tasks of life, and do your work well.?Dr. T. Taylor. Success of the Standard-Time System.?One year ago the system of standard time, with principal meridians, went into operation, and was welcomed by all cities which, in the placing of the meridians, had not been slighted or ignored. The success of this plan of counting time has been so pronounced that many railroads not now using the new plan will wheel into line, accepting as well a uniform system of switch, track and lantern signals, which will be adopted to-morrow. The uniform standard of time is reasonable. It demands no very serious surrender of one's idea of harmony with celestial contrivances. And it may be useful to remind those who may be most displeased by the false witness which they believe they now demand of their clocks, that there is no chronometer which accurately follows the sun on his pretended ; march through the stars of the zodiac. The first of June the clock may be all right, but the 27th of October it will be fifteen minutes slow, and the 10th of February it will be fifteen minutes fast. That camel has been swallowed unconsciously while even a gnat of two or three minutes' aberration, asked for the purposes of uniform train-time, has often been indignantly refused or strained at with protruding eyeballs.?Courant. Home Conversation*.?Endeavor to al! wavs talk vour best before vour children. j They hunger perpetually for new ideas. 1 They learn with pleasure from the lips of ! parents what they dream is drudgery to : learn from hocks, and even if they have to i be deprived of many educational advan: tages they enjoy in childhood the privilege of listening daily to the conversation of intelligent people. We sometimes see parents who are the life of every company which they enter, dull, silent and uninteresting at home and among the children. If they have not mental stores enough for each, let them first use what they have for their own j households. A silent home is a dull system for young people, a place from which they I will escape if they can. How much use! ful information on the other hand, is often given in present conversation; and what | unconscious but excellent mental training is I lively, social argument. Cultivate to the I utmost the graces of conversation. j A Curious Will.?A French lady recently died at the advanced age of ninety years. Her will contained the following provision : "I leave to my physician, whose enlightened care and wise prescriptions have made me live so long, all that is contained in the old oaken bucket in my boudoir. The key of the chest will be found under the mattress of my lied." The heirs were much disturbed, for they foresaw a material diminution in their share of the property. The fortunate aud expectant j physician at length arrived. The notary delivered to him the key of the chest. It was opened and found to contain solely all the drugs and poisons, still intact, which the worthy physician had given his patient for twenty years back.?Herald of Health. The Camel.?The camel has twice the carrying power of an ox. With an ordinary load of -100 pounds lie can travel twelve to fourteen days without water, going fourteen miles a day. They are fit to work at 5 years old, but their strength begins to decline at 2o, although they live usually until 40. They are often fattened at 80 for the butcher, the flesh tasting like beef. The Tartars have herds of these animals, often 1,000 belonging to one family. They were numerous in antiquity, for the patriarch Job, had J,000. The Timbuctoo breed is remarkable for speed and used only for couriers, going SOU miles in eight days with a meal of dates or grain at nightfall. ? ? ? fcaT Some weeks ago an account of the finding of a box of Spanish coins amounting to $47,000 was published in a Danville, Pa., paper. The other day two prepossessing young men from Philadelphia arrived in Danville, and made formal claims to the treasure, and produced what appeared to be good evidence that their grand parents, while traveling down the Susquehanna.river were attacked and murdered, and the coin carried to the island, where it is reported to have been found. When it was explained to them that the account of the discovery was a hoax they were laughed to scorn by the villagers, and they sneaked oft' sadder and wiser men, if they'were not impressed with the truth of the maxim that "honesty is the best policy." flJaV- A father-in-law at a wedding attempted to chaff the groom: "I hope now, sir, that you will not get into any more scrapes." "No," said the new son-in-law, "I shall not have a chance, 1 shall never get out of this one."? Providence Xnrs. BSaT Nature loves truth so well that it hardly ever admits of flourishing. Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but impairswhatitwould improve.