x ^ (S ' ' VOL.'XLIX. CAMDEN, S. C., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1890. NO. 24. fc'f .J:-. . , rr.r-i ?? m, _ HIS OLD YELLOW ALMANAC. I left the farm when mother died, and changed my place of dwellin' To daughter Susie's stylish house, right in the city street. And there was them, before I came, that sort of scared me, tellin' How I would find the town folks ways so difficult to meet. They said I'd have no comfort in the rustlin', fixed-up throng, And I'd have to wear stiff collars every week-day right along. I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water, I like the racket and the noise, and never tire of shows; And there's no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter. And everything is right at hand, and money freely flows, ADd hired help is all about, just listenin' for mv mil. m"J -?? But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall. The house is full of calendars, from attic to the cellar. They're painted in all colors, and are fancy-like to see; But just in this particular I'm not a modern feller, And the yellow-covered almanac is good enough for rae; I'm used to it, I've seen it round from boy hood to old age. And I rather like the jokin' at the bottom of each page. I like the way the "S" stood out to show the week's boginnin' (In these new-fangle i calendars the days seemed sort of mixed), And the man upon the cover, though he wa'n't exactly winnin', "With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed; And the letters and credentials that were writ to Mr. Ayer 1'vo often, on a rainy day, found readin1 very fair. I tried to find one recently; there wa'n't one ? in the city. They toted out great calendars in every sort of style; I looked at 'em in cold disdain, and answered 'em in pity, Td rather have my almanac than all that costly pile," And, though I take to city life, I'm lonesome, after all, For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall. ?Ella Wheeler Wilcox, in Ihe Century. Eecta's Night Harangue. BY JOHN J. A'BECKET. There were a thousand thiDgs that troubled Mr. Burnham's mind. Not all at once, of course, because if troubles do . 1__ At J__tA * _ I never come singly, moy aon i lnvauc a mortal like a plague of locusts?hundreds ' at a time. But there were always a few ! little worrimeuts -which settled on pour Mr. Burnham like three or four bees in j the calyx of one flower, sucking the j sweetness out of it. But the flower which yields up its sweetness to the in- | vading bee has this advantage, that it ( can keep up a brave front and distill as exquisite a perfume even if the winged marauders filch every vestige of sweetness from it. And the worst of it was that, as a rule, Mr. Burnham created, or, at least, entertained most of his worriments. If he went into a restaurant for his iunch, he could not tell what it was lie wanted on the menu, and instead of falling back on roast-beef, which is a safe escape in this : complication, he would balance shad rce and Kennebec salmon and spring lamb, until he was vexed at himself and almost lost his appetite. But the poor man had one somewhat justifiable source of mental trouble. It was a sweet little girl, six years old. She a worry? Yes; she was. And this was only because she was the dearest little thing in the world. She was perfectly healthy, so she was exuberantly active. Mr. Burnham was afraid she would break her leg or get run over. She was as pretty as an orchid. Mr. Burnham used to sigh at the prospect ot her marrying some handsome, worthless fellow when 6he was seventeen. The absurdity of borrowing trouble a dozen years away, if . - it came at all, was no help to the good man. lie was always dealing in futures of that kind. Ihe chief thing that troubled him was Nina's education. Through a dreadful dispensation of fate Nina's mother died ; when the little fairy was only five; so the j task of educating the child devolved i upon Mr. Burnhnm entirely. And lie had very strict, conscientious views about, education. He felt that the formation of Nina's character depended on him, and he was so dreadfully afraid that he mightn't uiouel it aright. His business kept him away a good deal; and though he had obtained the best governess he could find for his little 1 girl, he felt that parental care was an nii-jLupui umt lavjiui. iiu mway a thinking what he could do to improve Hiss Nina's mind and disposition. The result of this constant straining after the best educational methods led him one day to conceive what he regarded as a happy idea, and an original one, too. Much of the happiness of the thought for Mr. Burnham lay in this fact, that he felt it was a bright spark thrown off by his own mind, and which hadn't occurred to anybody before, t He was hurrying along Broadway one | day when he saw a sign telling of talk| :ing dolls. Dplls had always seemed, to A Mr. Burnham to have their value in a A child's education, because t'aey fostered -the sense of responsibility in the little ifii 0JDe* But here was a doll that could do more than that. "I have to be away so much from Nina," he said to himself, as he stopped and read the sign. ' 'Now what an advantage it would be if she could have something that would say nice things to her when I am not by!" His ideas were somewhat vague on the HHgfflS^Lubject of talking dolls. He was really MMftg^Lrguing as if he could go into the shop glSnSi^Ld select some conversational Madame de Sta