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. * - *y P ? THE TRIBUNE 4 -A VOL. I.--NO. 52. BEAUFORT. 8. <\, NOVEMBER 17. 1875. $1.50 PER ANNUM. Awkward. And bo eho's engaged to bo marriod To one of our class! I'm afraid That if veiy much longer she tarried Her degree would be O. M.?Old Maid. " I know her ?" Oh, yes. or I thought so ; But I'm more than inclined to believe I was wrong. I'm the fellow ehe sought so, But couldn't deceive. " Your surprised ?" I imagined yon would be ;, It's a thing I say little about; 'Twas as open a case as well could be? "Did she love me?" There wasn't a doubt. Why, she just throw herself at my head, Bill! But I knew she'd no heart and less brainB; And though money will settle a bread bill, It won't wash off stains. ^ "You're astonished at this ?" My dear fellow, What the deuce did I care for her age ? 1 like women like apples?when mellow. But the fact was, 1 knew every page Of her history. "Flirted?' You'd think so. mere was Harry McKeown. sixty-three; It was she that drove bim to the drink so ; " Am I eare ?" Ab can he. She's a echoming coqnette, and 1 know it; She hasn't the least bit of a eoul Og an atom Of truth. " Doeen't eliow it ?'' No ; her feelingB are under control. Then it's nonsense to eay she has beauty, I pity the fellow she's caught. It muBt be a matter of duty With him, or he's bought. Who the deuce cai^ it be? There'B Fred Baker ; You remember him?? scored for the Nine; But there isn't much fear that he'd take her ; He wants blue blood, and not a gold mine. "Chicken Joues?" No, he's married. 'Twas funny, How he ran a tie raoe with Jim Prout For the " class cradle," wasn't it? Money He's got. and the gout. " Tub " Abbott was sweet on her. Sandy MoQillutn!?be must be the one ; By Jove, it's old " Bandy, the dandy !" It's not be ? I give up, then. I'm done. Is U ono of our class, are yon sure, That the vixen lias seized for her prey V Who's the fellow ? let's havo it! What! you are? The dickenB you say ! ?Scribiter. THE KIND TURKEY-MAN. A ThnnkMtvInc Htorr. It was the evening before Thanksgiving. The sun had gone down behind the hills of Greonville, leaving them cold and bare against the dull sky. The squirrels were safe and warm in their own little houses, cracking nuts for their Thanksgiving dinner. The trees waved their tall, bare branches in the bitter cold, but they knew that their roots were sheltered by. the kind earth. The cold winter shouted a merry "good-evening" to everything, as he rushed over the frozen ground. lie raoed over the bare hills ; the squirrels drew closer together, and exulted ovor their crowded storehouse ; the trees bowed a stately good-night, as he whisked away ; but he calmed down as he met a little tigure on the frozen road, and gave her time to draw her faded cloak tighter over her blue hands, before lin on jtu & ?40ucu uu n^UIll, A wagon was hoard. " llattlo, rattle !" Even the wagon is cold, the child thought, as she heard the loose spokes rattling in the wheels. She stepped aside for the wagon to pass ; the driver, a pleasant-looking man, stopped his horses, and asked her whether she was going. " To the city," answered the child. "To the city!" cried the man. " Why, yon will never get there, unless you are blown there, or I hike you." "Will you take me ?" she asked, not eagerly, but like one accustomed to refusals. His auswerwas to reach down his hand to help her up. "Now," said he, as ho put her under the heavy buffalo robe, " what's your name ?" "Mary?only Mary," she answered ha tilv. "Mary," said the man, softly, more to himself than to the child, " I wish it "Why, there's lots of Mary?," said the child. " Yes, I know it," he said. * I had a little Mary last Thanksgiving. I?I don't like to see any one named Mary in trouble." " I ain't crying," said the child, smiling, " because I'm in trouble, but 'cause I'm so cold. I ought to have trouble, Granny says." " Ought to have trouble, hoy!" said the man, stopping his horse, and drawing from under the buffalo robe a can of hot ooffee. "That hasn't been off the stove more than five minutes," he said, as he filled a little tin cup and handed it to her. "Take that, and drink to your Granny!" "It is very nice," she said, when she had drank it all. She did not say, I have tasted nothing before to-day. Why should she, when there had been so many days like this in her short life ? I The man replaced the can, pulled the a robe up even with her chin, and told the horse to " get up" and "go along;" then he whistled awhile ; then he said: " It is mighty cold. I hope it will keep so! ' "Oh, don't!" exclaimed the child; "\*oe it makes turkey oost so muoh, poor folks can't have any." "Don't yon care anything for me!" cried the man, pathetically ; "here's my wagon full of turkeys." "I didn't know you were a turkeyman," she said, gently. "Yes, I am a 'turkey-man,' and I think even poor people can afford to buy a turkey once a year, if they are high. The turkey-men have been waiting n year for this day." There was a twinkle in his eye she did not see; he looked down into the little pale face. " I am afraid yon don't care for the turkey-men I" he said, soberly. She hung down her head, started tc say something, but stopped. " Well, what is it?" ho said, laugh iug. "I do like you," she answered, earn estly; '' but the poor people?I have known them always." They rodo on for a while in silence. The hot coffee had worked wonders; the blue little hands had stopped shaking, and the child smiled as she saw the city lights in the distance. " Now you are a little more comfortable," said the turkey-man, "let us heai where you aro going, and what youi other name is." " My name is only Mary,' and I am going to find my cousin." " Nonsense 1" he said, a little sharply. " Of course you have got a name." " They call me ' Mary Kent-,' but 1 hate it, and I won't have it I" she cried, passionately. "Why did they call you that?" he asked, gently. " 'Cause my father ran away, and left me in Granny Cole's liouee, when 1 was little. He pinued a paper on in-* dress, that fuid ou it : ' Loft to pay the rent.'" The turkey-man whistled, and asked ii Granny Colo were good to her. " Pretty kind," said the child, wearily. " Anyway, she didn't 'spise me like Sally did.' " Who may Sally l>e?" asked the turkey-man. "She is Granny Cole's daughter." " Did Granny Cole send you alone to the city ?" said he, watching her suspiciously. "She told me the other day," said the child, mournfully, "if I ever oome home aud found her gone, to go to the city and find my cousin. Yesterday she sent me off with Sally, an' when I come hack Sally ran away from me, an' J couldn't find Granny." "Are you quite sure you can find your cousin?" She looked up in his face, aud laid hex thin hand on his sleeve. jl uovci b?w my wuHiii, sue earn, calmly. "If Grauuy lias run away from me, I haven't anybody I know." " Why, then, did you come to the city?" said tho turkey man, wondering where he could leave her " I know the city best," she said ; " Granny used to live thore, till a week ago. It is so dark in the country, when you have to stay alone ! There are the market-men?sec how bright they aro !" It was the night before Thanksgiving, in the city as well as in the country ; the markets shone as they always do the evening before the great feast. Never wore garlauds more green, never applee more red, or gobblers more plump. The turkey nan drove up and stopped. "Here is as far as I can go, little one," he said, as he lifted her out and Btood her safely in the bright light oi the market. She was a pretty child, but pale now, with blue lips and shaking hands. "Poor little thing!" ho muttered; " I wish they hadn't named her Mary and he entered the market. Tho market-men beamed 011 everybody. They rubbed their hands as customer after customer vanished with the cold form of some kiud of fowl neatly covered, all but its feet, in brown paper. It was growing late ; tho turkey-man had sold out ; he waited only" to get a hot supper before starting for home. He had been thinking entirely of dollars and cents ; but as ho walked out of the market he thought of his home, his wife waiting alone for him in the great white house, and his little Mary safe in God's home above?he had forgotten the homeless child left alone ontside the market. A heavy hand was laid on his arm. "Staud back a moment!" whispered a voice. He looked up, and saw a large policeman watching a child at a barrel of red apples. # It is his little fellow traveler ! " That's a sharp youngster !" half laughed the policeman, under his breath. " This sort of thing is going on here all the time. Nothing is safe for a moment." The little blue hand was already on an apple. It fnlterod a moment, then grasped it tightly, then dropped it. Sho hid hor face in her hands. The turkey-man stepped up to her and touched her shoulder gently. She had not seen him ; but, without looking up, the child knew who it was?it was the oniy iriena bug naa. " I couldn't doit! Oil, I couldn't!" she sobbed. " But I'm bo hungry and she fell against the barrel. ****** The stars were shining cold and clear. The turkey-man's wife was looking out, and wishing the thermometer could gc up, without the price of turkeys going down. "It is so cold for John riding from the city nlone !" she said to herself. She opened the door, hoping to hear th? wagon ; but the oold wind sent her bacl to the blazing lire. She thought of ? year ago, when she did not sit waiting alone. She imagined she heard the lit tie voice, though it had been hushec nearly a year?how plainly she saw th? sweet face though it had been coveret so long ! She wiped the tears from hei eyes as she heard the rattliucr wheels John must not see her sad. 8he op met tho door, holding the lamp high abov< her head. The turkey-man came in, with some thing wrapped in tho buffalo-robe ; In laid it on the big dining-table. " Don'i Ray no!" be cried ; "let na do aom< thing for Mary's sake, this Thanks k giving !" "Are you crazy?" she exclaimed, a I he uncovered the r>n.le for*v > " Wftit till I tell you all," said tli< > turkey-man. When he had told his story, he said ? earnestly : " How oonld I go to churcl to-morrow and thank God for His car< - of us, if I, with no little one to care for had left this child alone in the grea city?" i "You did right, John," said his wife "yon always do." With these words, the woman?good ) practical soul!?hastened to wash tin , little girl's face and hands. Then sh ' warmed and comforted her, whfle th< kind turkey-inru went to take care o - his horse. : "I remember this house," said tin : child, as she looked out of a largi blanket before the bright fire. " I sa\ i it one day with Granny Cole ; I stoppe< and looked through the fence, au< threw stoues at the turkeys. I didn* kuow ho was a kind man then. Graun; - hates rich men?I wonder where Grann; , is?I'm sorry I threw the stones'?bu they wasn't big." The little head fel i lower and lower; the pale lids closed the little hands grew quiet ; but the lit I tie voice repeated in sleep : " I didu' l know he was akiud man."?St. Nichola* South Western Courtship. He sat one side the room in a bij white oak rocking chair. She on tli other side, in a little white oak rookinj 1 chair. A long-eared deerhound, snap ping at flies, was by his side ; a baske of sewing by hers. Both rocked in cessantly, that is, the young people, no the dog and the basket. He sighs heav 1 ily and looks out the west window at crape myrtle tree ; she sighs heavily an* , looks out tho eastwvndow?at the turui] patch. At last he remarks : " This is mighty good weather to picl ' cotton. " 'Tis that, if we only had any t pick." The rocking continues. "What's your dog's namef" "Coony." Anotlier sigli broken stillness. "What is he good fur ?" " What is who good fur?" said he abstractedly. 1 " Your dog, Coony." s " Fur ketchin' 'possums." f Silence of half an hour. ' " He looks like a deer dog." "Who looks like a deer dog ?" ! "Coony." "He is; but he's kinder bellowset 1 an' gettin' old an' slow now. An' h i ain't no'count on a cold trail." In the quiet ten minutes that ensued ( she took two stitches in her quilt. I was a gorgeous affair, that quilt was \ made by the pattern called " Rose o Sharon." She is very particular abou ' tlie nomenclature of her quilts, and fro j quently walks fifteen miles to get a net pattern, with a " real putty name." "Your ma raisin' many chickens?" ! "Forty odd." r Then more rocking, and, somehow I after awhile, the big rocking chair ant the little rocking chair were jammet ! side by side. , \ " How many has your ma got ?" ! | "How many what?" " Chickens." " Nigh on to a hundred." | By this time the chairs were so clos together that rocking was impossible. ' " The minks has cat all ours." Then a long silence reigns. At last h observes: " Makin' quilts?" "Yes," she replies, brightening up " I've just finished a 'Roarin' Eagul o | Brazeal, a 'Sitting Sun,' and a 'Nasiou' | Pride.' Have you ever saw the ' Yel low Rose of the Parary ?" " No." More silence ; then he says : " Do you love cabbage ?" 1! " I do tliat." Presently his hand is accidental! ' placed on hers. She does not know it? I at least does not seem to be aware of it ; Then after a half hour spent in sighs | coughing and clearing of throats, hesud denly says : . j "I'se a great a-mind to bite you." " What you great a-mind to bite mi ! fur ?" ! " Kase you won't have me." " Kase you ain't axed mo." " Well, now, I ax you." " Then, now, I lias you." Then Coony dreams he hears a souu? t of kissing. The next day the young man goes t 1 Tigerville after a marriage license Wednesday, the following week. Ni cards. Illegitimacy in Scotland. Illegitimacy in Scotland has attainei . an extent that will surprise those wh< popularly contrast Continental profligac; in such cities as Vienna and Paris witl continent Puritanism in the land o , Knox. According to the last annual re port of tho Scotch registrar-gen oral th r number of illegitimate births duringth ' past year was 11,077, or 9\ per cent, c , the total number?a number suflicientl . large, though the percentage is th k i HuiiutuHb recorueu ior ten years. Amon , tLo poorer and more ignorant classes i: . tho rural districts the rato of illegit I macy rises to 11.4 per cent. The fac , may in some measure bo accounted fc [ by the payment by the parish of a smal r allowance weekly to the mothers r j theso children for their support. 3 A gentleman who was asked what h thought of a lady who had appeared i - that half-dress which is called full-dresi 3 replied : '' She was a very bandaom t woman?as far as I could see." J DEATH'S BRIDE. A Hud Incident ot the War 01 the Rebellion B ?Killed the Altar. The Atlanta (Go.) Constitution telle 0 the following touching story : Scene, Charleston?Time, April '23, 18G4. The ? Fedorals, from time to time, threw a 1 shell into the city, and nobody seemed 0 to mind it. But misfortune willed that > yesterday a shell should throw the t entire community into mourning. Miss Anun Pickens, the daughter of ; one of ottr former governors, never consented to leave the city. Despite the ? representation of Clen Beauregard hIio e remained, braving shells nud Greek fire, 0 tending the wounded and cheering all 0 with her presence. Among the wounded f officers under her care was Mr. Andrew de Rochelle, a decendunt of one of the ? noblest Huguenots of this city. This 0 young man was full of the liveliest grativ tude for his fair nurse ; gratitude gnve 1 birth to a more tender sentiment ; his 1 suit was listened to; Gov. Pickens gave t Ills nntlSPllf. nrifl flin mnvi-Ionto 7 for the twenty-third of April. Lieiit. de y Rochello was ou duty at Fort Sumter in t the morning, and it was determined that 1 the ceremony should hike place at the I residence of Gen. llonham, at eight o'clock. At the moment when the Epist copal clergyman was asking the bride if she was ready, a shell fell upon the roof of the building, penetrated to tho room : where the company was assembled, burst and wounded nine persons, among them ? Miss Anna Pickens. The scene that fole lowed counot be described ; order being j at last re-established, the wounded were removed, with the exception of the t bride, who lay motionless on the carpet. t. Her betrothed, leaning and bendiug over t her, was weeping bitterly and trying to r_ stauueli tho blood that flowed from her a terrible wound under her left breast. A j surgeon came and declared that Miss p Pickens could live but two horn's. We will not paint the general despair. When k the wounded girl recovered her consciousness she asked to know her fate, 0 when they hesitated to tell her. "Andrew," she said, " I beg you to tell me the truth ; if I must die, I can die : worthy of you." The yonug soldier's i tears were his answer, and Miss Anna, i summoning all her strength, attempted to smile. Nothing could be more heartrending than to see the agony of this brave girl struggling in the embrace of death and against mortal pain. Gov. Pickens was almost without conscionsI ness, and Mrs. Pickens looked upon her ; child with tho dry, haggard eye of one I whose reason totters. Lieut, de ltochello was the first to 1 j speak. " Anna," he cried, "I will die e soon too, but I would have you die my wife. There is yet time to unite us." t The youug girl did not reply. She t was too weak. A slight flush rose for on instant to her pale cheek; it could be f seen that joy aud pain were struggling t iu her spirit for tho mastery. Lying . upon a sofa, her bridal dress all stained v with blood, her hair disheveled, she had never been more beautiful. Helpless as I she was, Lieut, de ltochelle took her ' baud and requested the Rev. Dr. Dickt insou to proceed with the ceremony, j When it was time for the dying girl to I say yes, her lips parted several times, but she could not articulate. As last the word was spoken and a slight foam ! rested upon her lips. Tho dying agony ; was near. The minister sobbed as he proceeded with the ceremony. An hour e I afterward all was over, and tho bridal I chamber was the chamber of death. e j An Editor's Work. As a sample of tho daily life of an exceptionally hard working journalist, the f following account given by Henry Wata tersoir, editor of the Louisville Courier. Journal, may be interesting. It is taken from an unpublished letter, and it should be remembered that it is written i by a man who is partly blind : I wake up at ten o'clock in the morn| ing, and after a cup of coffee I write for y two hours in bei. I get up at noon _ anil have a plunge bath, and take breakfast with my fumily, who then have i" taken theii- lunch. I go to the office after\ ward, and remain there till seven, prepared to see everybody that calls. During the same time the work of the day e is planned out and everybody begins it. I then go home and have supper, and spend the evening until ten o'clock j there, usually listening to reading -by ! my wife, or having a little music. At ten o'elock I am back to tho office I again ; where I remain until two o'clock. I am only able to write two hours a day 0 myself, uud tho rest is done by dictau tion. I read but little myself; but 0 glance through the exchanges, in order to get an idea of things, having important articles read out loud to me. ] have no time for exercise and do not carc j for riding, all the exercise 1 get being u in walking to and from the *ffice. 1 Hard to Please. ' I^ast year a commercial man, generally '* known as " lminer," was traveling iii e Kansas, and stopped at a farmhouse, * when tho following conversation toofc * place : y " Well, how do you like Kansas ?" e " Don't like it.at all," said the farmer ; B "yon can't raiso anything ; and when P you do, the plaguod grasshoppers takf l" it all! I'm going to leave as soon as ] can get ont of it." Happening along last summer ho mel the man again, and Raid : "Hello, you here yet?" " Yos, but I am going to leave soon." "What are you going to leave for? e Yon Rurely have raised enough this n year." 3, "Yos, but that's the trouble. Got e mor'n I wae* ibis year, and ean't sell n cent's v.ortli." \ A CALIFORNIA SNOW STORM. A Picture Drawi by Bret H arte ,1a a Meet Interratloc Hnnncr. Bret Harto in his new novel in Seribner'n Monthly paints a graphic picturt of a California snow storm: Snow. Everywhere. As far as the eye ooulc reaclf?fifty miles, looking south wart from the highest white peak." Filling ravines and gulches, and dropping fron the walls of the canyous in white shroud | like drifts, fashioning the dividing ridge into the likeness of a moustrout grave, hiding the bases of giant pines, and completely covering young treei and larches,'rimming with i>orcelain the bowl-like edges of still, oold lakes, and undulating in motionless white billowe i to the edge of the distant horizon. Snow ; l.yiug everywhere over the California l Sierras on the 15th day of March, 1848, j and still falling. It has been snowing for ten days ; snowing in linely granulated powder, in I damp, spongy flukes, in thin, feathery i plumes; snowiug from a leaden sky steadily, snowiug fiercely, shaken ouf of purple-black clouds in white floccu lent masses, or droppiug iu long level liues like white lances from the tumbled I and broken heavens. But always silent' ; ly! The woods were so choked with it, I the branches were ho laden with it, ii : had so permeated, filled and possessed . earth aud sky ; it had so cushioned and i muffled the ringing rocks and echoing hills that all sound was deadened. Tht I strongest gust, the fiercest blast awoke no sigh or complaint from the snowI packed, rigid files of forest. There wa* 110 cracking of bough nor crackle of uu' derbrnsh; the overladen branches of ! pine and fir yielded and gave way with| out a sound. The silence was vast, measureless, complete! . Nor could it be said that any outward sign of life or motion changed the fixed I outlines of thus stricken laudscape. Above, there was 110 play of light and ' shadow, only the occasional.deepening of storm or night. Below, no bird winged its flight across the white ex | p;uist*, no beast haunted the confines ol i the black woods; whatever of brute Oft ! ture might have once inhabited tliest solitudes had long since flown to tlielon j lands. There was no track or imprint whatever foot might have left its marl upon this waste, each succeeding snowfall obliterated all trace or record, Every morning the solitude was virgir aud unbroken ; a million tiny feet hat stepped into tho track and filled it up Aud yet, in the center of this desola j tion, in the very stronghold of this grin fortress, there was the mark of liuraar toil. A Youug Lawyer. " Your cognomen, my son f" asket the Detroit court of a boy of eleven, whc came out wiping his uose with as mud vigor and rapidity as if ho were being paid ten cents a wipe. " He's dead !" sobbed the boy. "You don't understand me?I meat your name." i "Bill." " Bill what {" j " Bill Davison." " Well, bub, I have heard a very bat . report concerning you. I am told yot broke a window and called a woman bat names. How is it ?" " I'll tell yon, and I won't lie, nuiher I was goin' 'long Congress street and i woman axed me: 1 Boy, will you bring j iu some coal ?' And I said I would fo; twenty-live cents. And she said: ' Yor little lazy brat! yon ought to be in tin poorhouse.' And I said I was muci obliged, and she set her dog on me. ] i never called her no names, and I brok< 1 the window a tlirowin' at the dog." "Is Mrs. Skidmore here?" asked tin ; court. j She wasn't, and after a look arouut the boy continued: it T?.^1 \r ci ltna x viao uiui n\/ uuouicon iw uaii uujri names, nor set dogs on 'em." " Have yon been telling me the truth iboy?" j " Yes, I have. I'm willing to be strncl dead as a herring if I've lied ! Where' ' the woman i Why don't she come hen : and swear agin me ? Here's where tin dog bit mo on the leg, and I'll face he ; any time !" " William, you may go, but keep ou ! of trouble hereafter. It's pretty har< I for a free American citizen to run awa i from a skirmish, but you had bette J dodge around the corner than to gt ; into a wrangle with a woman. Go i i and iind your hat, quit wiping you I nose, go to bed early, and you'll som | day bo able to deliver an agricultun address before a couuty fair.*'?Pre , | Pre**. A Terrible Plot. ' A case in Lincoln, Ont., illustrate j! the liability of courts and juries to cru< .' mistake. A few months Bince Mathic ' i Konkle was found guilty of felonious ai Mill 111. linnn n fnmnln r\f wanra / age. llo wns convicted and sentence to be hanged, but the sentence wn r ] afterward commuted to imprisonmei] i j for life. It now appears that there wr , I a conspiracy to get rid of Konkle, i ;! which his stepmother was the principi mover, her motive being to obtain poi session of proj>erty. She took into lit ; , contideneo the grandmother of the lilt! i i girl, and a servant. These together a ) | ranged the plot against Konkle, th ! i child being brutally maltreated to fro [ nish evidenoe against an innocent mat I At the trial Mrs. Konkle " posted " a ' the witnesses for the government. 8h< with her fellow ranspirators, have bee ' arrested, and the convict will be brongl 1 from prison to testify against then i The little girl has turned Queen's ev dence, and her statements, which at . very clear, leave no doubt of a malif > nant plot to put a troublesome heir ot j of the way. Items of Interest. Darling I am growing fat. Adipose among my bonee. It is on aooonnt of that, ) I now protest in earnest tones. No more bring ap the ooal can I; Neither oan I ohop np wood. To dotheee duties please to try, My gentle wife, pray be so good. A smart tiling?A mustard plaster. Order of oourt?"Send one dozen jury, carefnlly packed." Ohio proposes sending a youth of one hundred and sixteen summers to the Centennial. Young women are advised to set good pramnlan hnnanoa VAnnrv man ore elwmwa ' following them. 1 The height of a man is equal to the measure of his extended arms from tip , to tip of finger. [ That writer does the most who gives . his reader the most knowledge and takes r from him the least time. ; "Pull on this rope," wrote Mr. Wine gardner, of Williamsport, Pa., "you L will find me in the canal." I At Jacksonville, Fla., recently, five ' sharks were seen swimming after a boat > in which n man had out his foot. J, The supreme court of Iowa has affirmed the constitutionality of the law providing that railroad companies shall be responsible for fires oaused by sparks | from their engines. They tell of a man in Maine who , kicked a can of nitro-glycerine out of his . way. The story is a shocking one, as f the story of tne vain search for the . scattered fragments of a human being always is. A man nearly seventy years old, blind I and infirm, has been sentenoed to death I for murder in Red River county, Ark. , His orimo was committed twenty-two L years ago, but he was not nnnl re; oently brought to trial. I The superintendent of the Passaic - zino mines, at Ogdensburg, N. J., a few f days ago found a large garnet in the - mine, for which he has been offered $50. > There have been several smaller ones r found, valued at from $10 to $15 each. j To know how to keep a tidy house and : well aired apartments; to know how to select the best kinds of food ; to know ' how to prepare them in the best manner 1 ?these' are first things, and every , 1 daughter should learn them before marriage. l Some time ago a little girl in West, field, N. J., while playing dropped her mother's silver thimble into a chicken i coop. Some days afterward two of tho chickens were killed, and in the gizzard I of one of them was found tho lost thim, ble, finely polished but not injured, i In these days of labor-saving devices, r lazy rustics will rejoice to know that a Vermonter has invented a churn which can be so adjusted to a wagon, that all a i | man has to do is to pick np his reins, drive a mile or so, and presto?the butter's made. The supreme court of Wisoonsin has recently decided that the whipping of a 1 child by a pnblie school teacher is an i assault and battery, and that an offend 1 ing teacher may be mulcted in damages as well as held answerable for violating . the d'gnity of the law. 1 Warren Shailer, an old captain of J PirAr flnn? fnll sound, the other day; bnt, catching the rope, was towed along on his back under the vessel's bow for over a mile, when he was hauled up in safety, still smoking his pipe. There is in the moral straits a current from right to wrong, but no reflux from wrong to right ; for which destination ^ we must hoist our sails and ply our oars incessantly, or night and the tempest will 8 overtake us, and we will shriek out in vain from the billows, and irreooverably I sink. A London detective hgp discovered a i new crime among clever children. It b consists in getting intoxicated, and oonb frequently getting the clothes torn and b the body wounded, and then aooounting r for the whole thing to credulous parents by laying abduction and maltreatment t at the door of supposititious tramps and 1 gypsies. y * A Discouraged Editor. Q A Colorado editor thus narrates : He ur was a sod-eyed, meek-faced man, and o wq suppose he merely whhed to give us il a news item ; but when he oommenocd >e telling us about building a barn on his ranch 190x280 feet, seven stories high, aud ornamented with bay windows, we thought it was time to check him, and s so we commenced : si "Well, wo must admit that that 19 a m pretty large barn for this country, but 5- back in the States our father bnilt a barn >f 325x600 feet, nine stories high, and d furnished with steam elevators , but "? .s " Back in the States," interrupted it our listener. " Why, that wasn't much is of a barn for the States. I remember, n now, that when I was quite young, my d father built a chioken-coop 660 by 882 s- feck I don't recollect how many stories r it was high, but I know there was a culo pola on it for the roosters." r- " About how high was the cupola !" le we asKPd. r- " I don't remember the exact height i. now, mister," waa the reply, "but I 11 know it was so high that the fourteen s, upper tiers of roosters died from the n effects of the light atmosphere the first it night." 1. Then he looked up towards the oeili ing and oommenoed humming " Silver e threads among the gold," and we went j- out and sat down on tho wood-pile and it wondered why somebody mwalways outi stripping us in the rsOe of life.