Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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B If |w- - r OOD-NIOHT, sweet year, that brought to me Dear friends to love, rare wealth to hold. That gave me flow ers for memory More precious far than fleeting gold. Good-night, sweet year, wherein I read Full many a page with rare delight: Thy latest hour will soon have fled O, pleasant year, sweet year, good-night! Good-night, sad year, that reft away Some hopes 1 cherished: gave the pain Of disillusion: dimmed the day With wrecks of labor wrought In vain. Good-night, sad year, that sometimes knew My pillow wet with bitter tears. Good-night, sad year, that drifteth too Far hence on Time's black sea of years. Good-night, blithe year, that to the home Came smiling with so gay a face. Bade roses bloom in hall and room. Sent small feet pattering through the place That woke such bells of melody As touch the eternal chords that ring ^S'here evermore the ransomed be And saints for aye behold the King. Good-night, brave year, that gave me strength, And helped my will to overcome In struggles, where the foe, at length Battled and beaten, left me dumb, Yet thrilling with victorious song! Good-night, brave year! I fain would keep Thy secret still to right the wrong. But thou art weary. Rest and sleep. Good-night, O year most sorrowful, Seen from the earth side, ache and loss And clouded dawns, and dear ones gone, Have deeply stamped thee with the cross. Good-night, O sorrowful, sweet year, Sweet with the promise of the day, Where heaven’s own morning shall appear And all the shadows flee away. •—Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster, In Congrega- lienallst. "NIwIars Story. ^ HAT’S that, Lucy?” ' The man lying on ! the low cot in the light of the lamp on a table at one side of , a little cabin turned bis bead to one side j and listened. The young girl i bent over him and | for a moment looked | into the wan face | and deeply sunken, but brilliant black . "It’s the wind, Paul. It's the old year going out, you know.” " Hut it's not midnight yet, girl? the boys haven’t eorne baek from the ledge—” “Not yet. There, don't let such things worry you. 1 hey 11 come by and b>. Me turned away and closed bis eyes while the girl crossed the floor and for half a min ute listened at the door. | "The boys!” she said, under her breath. ; “It’s been that way for a week. 'I hey 11 ; never come, and 1 can t tell him. 1 dale j not tell him that he is the sole survivor of j the Katydid mine disaster, for he would want to know how it happened. 1 m a : strong young woman, but not quite strong * enough to break such news to him, no, not ; vet.” Half a minute later Lucy Moore came I baek to the cot and discovered that the miner had dropped into a deep sleep. Ihe Katy did mine had been wiped out in the twin kling of an eye by the work of unknown scoundrels, and Paul Draper had managed to crawl from the debris to be picked up a day later and tarried to the mountain home of the girl who loved him. Lucy understood it all. She knew of the feud; she had heard of the threats made by the ruffians across the divide, and the mo ment she looked upon Paul’s unconscious form she guessed the truth. The villains had simply dynamited the Katydid mine, and the wonder was that even one man was left to tell the tale. New Year’s day was to have witnessed their wedding, hut for some time it had looked more like a burial as Paul hovered between life and death, his figure wasted away and his sufferings terrible. Hut sbe had watched over him with unceasing fidelity. She had been his constant compan ion since his narrow escape, and whenever his mind wandered he wanted to know when “the boys” would come. The boys would never come, for they slept on the mountain side, and Lucy had not strength to tell him the truth. For some time that night the girl con tinuc-d to sit at the cot, her gaze riveted upon the white face of her betrothed. The tick ing of a clock on a rough shelf nailed to the wall sounded like the strokes of a trip-ham mer, but Lucy did not look up. Slit w atched the sleeper and her thoughts were with him. Suddenly she heard a noise that startled her from her chair. She went to the door and put her ear against it while again she sent a swift glance toward Paul. She had for several days expected a visit from the surgeon across the mountain and he might be there. She listened till she heard steps outside and then, with a thrill of joy, she laid her hand on the atout barricades of the frontier door. “The doctor at last!” said Lucy under her breath, as, without more ado, she took down the plank and opened the portal. Hut the next moment she fell back with a cry that seemed to drive all the blood from her cheeks, and she stood in the middle of the room staring at the tableau before her. In the room stood a stalwart Indian and Lucy instinctively glanced toward the couch. For a moment it seemed as if the moun tain girl would sink to the floor, but sudden ly she threw herself between the savage and Paul and st^cd like a statue there. “They are coming,” said the Indian, point ing at the door. “The wolves of the divide are out yonder.” “Aren’t they satisfied with their work?” cried Lucy. “Haven’t they done enough? They blew up the Katydid—” The interruption was a sudden spring by the Indian and the door, left slightly ajar, was hurled to w T ith almost crashing force. At the same time something seemed to fall against it from the outside, hut the palms of the Indian were against the planks and with his whole strength he was holding the enemy at bay, Lucy watched the red man as he pitted his iKnvers against the horde at the door, and for a little while she feared that the por tal would be broken down by the foe. “Lucy! Lucy!” Her name can.c from the couch and as the girl turned she saw Paul sitting holt up right, his gaze riveted upon her. “Why don’t the boys come?” he asked. With a sharp cry Lucy threw herself upon the floor beside the miner. “They don’t care for me. What’s the mat ter with the Katydid mine, Lucy?” “It’a all right,” was the forced answer from the mountain girl. “The boys will come. They can’t get away just now—” Crash! came some thing against thedoor, and the Indian seemed lifted from the floor as he reeled away, but for a second only. Again he braced him self and his eyes seemed to emit sparks of tire. “We want Paul — Paul, the mine boss!” came from outside. “We have come for him and—” Lucy turned back and caught up the bar ricade, but the Indian swept the proffered plank aside. II is feathers touched the door: the heron plumage in hislonghair brushed the planks, but his muscles did not quiver. “Theboys! the boys! I say, Lucy,” came from the sufferer’s couch. “I’m going back to the Katydid myself and find them.” “No, no! You can’t go,” and Lucy again threw herself beside Paul and pushed him gently back. “They are out there.” “The boys, Lucy?” asked the victim of the plot. “Yes, yes!” A strange light came into Paul’s eyes and his long fingers fas tened themselves about Lucy’s white wrist. “What’s to-mor row?” he asked, catch ing her eye. “It’s New Year's day.” “I — I thought so. And the boys are com ing to the wedding?” The girl looked away afraid to let him see her troubled face; but his band tightened its grip at her wrist. The stoical Indian at the door did not stir. He had braced himself like an iron post and seemed oblivious to everything but the act he was performing. Lucy wondered how long he could hold the door against the men outside. Khe did not hear them now, but she did not doubt that they still stood on the stoop ready to take advantage of any thing in tfleir favor. Suddenly a heavy blow struck the door and Lucy heard her name spoken. She left Paul and went forward. “We’ve come to the wedding, girl,” said a voice and there was a hail suppressed laugh on the outside. Lucy did not s|>eak, but her heart came into her throat unbidden and with a thrill of terror. “We know he’s here. Something spared him—spared him for you, girl,” continued the sitokesman of the hand. “We only want to sec him and ask him a few questions.” “Uutyour mission means more than that,” spoke Lucy, clasping her hands as she spoke. “\ r ou are the men from across the divide—you arc from Death Valley camp.” “She’s located us squarely,” she heard a rough voice say. “You can’t fool the girl in there. Tell her something else.” Lucy’s face seemed to flush at these words and she looked at the Indian. “White girl no believe the wolves?” said he, his dark eye fulling upon her for a mo ment. . The mountain maid shook her head. "White wolves no tell the truth," the Indian replied. "They want scalp. They can’t come in while the Elk is at the door.” Silence prevailed for a moment and then the blow was repeated. “Two minutes, miss,” said a gruff voice. "We are coming in!” The Elk heard as well as did the girl and in another instant he let one foot slip a little behind its mate. That movement, slight ns it was, meant preparation for the worst; but the Indian did not speak. “I^t the boys in, please do, Lucy,” came from the couch in the corner. “I want to know what’s kept them away. The old Katydid—” Once more with a cry Lucy sprang to the couch and bent over the attenuated figure thereon. “It’s not the boys of the Katydid, Paul. Pardon me. 1 told an untruth before. They're the men from across the divide. They want you, you!” With frightened face the fair sj>eukcr threw a look toward the door and saw the figure braced there, u living barricade o! flesh and blood. As she looked the assault came. One of the men outside threw himself against the door, the portal shook from top to bottom and the moccasined foot of the Indian seemed to slip half an inch—that was all. Lucy caught halfway the cry that welled from her heart and watched the human bar ricade. The lips of the Indian were com pressed and his eyes watched the door be fore him. He seemed in his element, but not a sound escaped him. winter mountains his sleep vanished and his eyes unclosed. Paul turned his head and caught the radi ! ant face of the gentle watcher and in an other moment his gaze fell upon a darker face near by. “Who’s that, Lucy?” he asked. '’I) didn't let that redskin in last night, did you ?” “He came in without asking, Paul. For tune sent him," she whispered, bending over the wounded man. “Hut for our red brother you would not have seen the dawning of the New Year.” “And consequently have lost my little sweetheart, eh?” “Yes, Paul,” and Lucy took the thin hand of her lover and placed it in the strong one that had saved both of them from the fiends of the divide, making bright for them the New Year which was to witness the fruition of their fondest hopes. T. J. HARBAUGH. CHRISTMAS GIVING. 188,8, look; and liehold! the hay is all gone, and the shoes are brimming over with toys and sweetmeats! Then the children clap their hands with glee, and wish they could only have waked in time to see the pony munch- | ing his oats. That would have licen such fun!—Ella F. Mosby, in St. Nicholas. A BOGUS SANTA CLAUS. , A Change In Bllnky Bangs’ Christ mas Programme. Blinky Hangs chuckled and confided to ' himself that lie was a genius as he started forth that stormy Christmas eve. Under his long ulster he wore the familiar uni form of Santa Claus, perfect in every de- ; tail. At the big house overlooking the river ! only the children and one "trusty” servant were at home, for the others of the house- I hold had commenced the festivities of the ! merry season. Hlinkv was to be admitted ! HOPE POR HIRL '&• by the servant, and, ns good Kriss Kringle, It Has upon It the stamp of the Dl- j entertain the little one* while securing all . . „ ; the valuable plunder to be had. When they saw this perfect counterfeit of the jolly reindeer driver, they at first vine and the Spiritual The fact that Christmas giving is an ex change of things often not needed, and that it tends to mutual loss rather than mutual gain—which is the law of barter—elevates it far above trade. The perennial benevolence which finds its expression in Christmas giv ing has the stamp of the divine and tl» stood in wide-eyed wonder till the sturdy little Hen advanced with extended hand and quaintly welcomed the hoped-for guest. This did not disturb the crusted hardness that had so long imprisoned Hlinky’s lietter na ture, but when the fairy-like Ruth, with same result, only this time the moccasined foot did not slip. It kept its place. The Elk seemed made of iron; bis veins stood out on bis half naked figure like whip cords and, giant-like, he kept his self-as signed post. “Take down the barricades, girl,” said the leader of the band. In spite of herself the mountain girl smiled. They did not know that the Elk was the barricade. Twice more the door was assaulted with the same impetuosity; but the defender of the pair did not move. At last the Elk looked down into the face beside him and caught Lucy's eye. “The wolves have gone, girl,” said he. “They could not break the Indian’s arm.” Gone? No. In another second a fist struck the portal and a voice exclaimed. “A happy New Year to you, miss. We guess you've won him fairly. You've nursed him through and you kin have the last sur vivor of the Katydid disaster. Good night, girl,” and then Lucy heard footsteps <s the )>and retreated, but the Indian still kept his strong hands at the well guarded planks. It was a long night for the mountain girl, but she had a companion in her vigil, foi she would not let the redskin depart. Slowly over the wild landscape broke the first morning of the New Year, and 1’uul slum bered, dreamless of the shadows thkt en gulfed him during the night just passed. At last as the suu kissed the tips of the spiritual upon it, and it argm-s that there b her crown of waving yellow hair and glis- 1 something more in man than the mere mate | tening blue eyes, rushed forward and from rialist sees there. | the vantage point of a chair threw her arms alxtut the neck ! of the bogus Santa Claus, Hlinky felt that there was a breaking up in his chest. When 1 she kissed him and told him how they ad loved him,Him. v iw-d bia steve with its snowy coating of woo! to relieve the d;rnne»« of L;a vision. As they clur.g to Blinky and cboru*ed their g.-*-tT.ng>, L* wts confused a- ntrer be fore ,u Lm pro.'e-* .-aa. career au a r. - • i: His nr*: w to go oat and ♦. ~ n.- toy store and dei -tr a wagon load ci the prove -ds at t . e big house. But, for reason he could r. : understand, this wa- utterly repugnant t>> his new feelings. He took the "trusty "serv ant into the hallway, said something that put that unworthy in a tremble, slipped him a bill and sternly told him to be back in half an hour. When the children should have been asleep in bed,the older members of the family returned to find them in the midst of a romp that filled the great house with merriment. Blinky was making good time around the room on all fours with the children on his back.not playing horse, os Hen proudly an nounced, hut el’phant. About them was a pro fusion of gifts that the servants had brought and Hlinky, in his as sumed role, had dis tributed in a way to win the hearts of the youngsters. The mas ter of the house was surprised, hut not so much so as Hlinky, whose instinctive im pulse was to jump through a window. But the littleoneswere clamorously singing his praises. To them he was Santa Claus, and lie looked the part. He was accepted as some good-hearted eccentne and again made wel come. He took on an immense amount of self-resi>ect that night, and now for several years has l>ecn in charge of the stables at the big bouse, looking after the premises and the children with a faith fulness that makes him invaluable.—Detroit Free Press. St. Nicholas. St. Nicholas, as the patron saint of the children, now termed Santa Claus, was can onized, died, according to tradition, at Myra, Italy, and was there buried in the cathedra) crypt. Six hundred years later his hod\ was taken to Hari, and there in the eleventh eenturv the great priorv of San i"« oh*, i. holly glooming from the j 'T 1 W 'fc* i “You know what will happen U 1 catch j you under the mistletoe,” simpered Chump- ley. “Yes, and I’m so hopelessly absent-mind ed.” she simpered in response.—Detroit , Free Press. A Suggestion. If you find it so ditii* ult to keep year New Year’s resolutions, perhaps it wonld be a good idea to make a few l>ad ones this tine, for a change. For instance, you might re solve to be cro>-s to your wife (if you have one) every day during the year, and thea give her gentle words and loving kieses tu- htead. You can thus 1* eonsisteat with vour (iast record, and may pc^jhly be a but ter man when another year rolls around. A Last Request. Her father had said it could never be. T. ey both sat in the parlor—alus ia u-iri 1 * f r ,~ ri. - ! ,ng searching and a desperate ef- : 5 and her voice. Then, in despa nog • decried: “Oh, Charley! If we must et u* wait till after ChriefbiM.”—• tipbia North American. SERIOUS CONTEMPLATION. I The Conventional “Old Year”—To t%iuk I looked like that twelve months ago! What She Will Do. Maude—Oh, Clara, I’ve just bought tb« j loveliest pink shawl for a Christmas pres ent. Clara—Yes; whom are you going to give it i to? 'I don’t know. It’s so pretty I think I will keep it myself.”—N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. The True Spirit. Gift giving at Christmas time is, or ought to be, tioiliing more than a manifes tation of the Christmas spirit, wdiich is us- j selfish, seeking only to make others happy. Every one who has been moved by this spirit has realized the truth of the saying: “It is more blessed to give than to re ceive.” HE HAD BRACED HIMSELF LIKE AN IRON POST. The Next Want. A strained silence of half a minute elapsed j From the youngest up, all of us can sec when again the door was charged. The man ! something in C hristmas, almve and beyond outside threw himself against it with the | its outward manifestations. It commenio rates the beginning of a life, which countless millions of the human race have looked upon as divine—a life of unselfishness, of self- sacrifice, of tenderness, of goodness and of purity. We faintly imitate that life when we heal a sorrow, make one heart happier or lighten the burden borne by some tired and weary wanderer. It may be true that after we have feasted and frolicked we go back to the old lives again. Hut we can take the spirit of Christ mas with us, even if the bells are not ring wall. That spirit will have its influence for good. The more it is cultivated by young and old the nearer is the world drawing to the golden year, and as the Christmas bells from hill to bill, answer each other in the mist, we can say: "Ring In the valiant man and free, The eager heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.“ —Golden Days. A Christmas Legend in Belgium. The children of Hclgium have a charming Christmas legend about Santa Claus’ pony. They always [dace their wooden sabots on the window-ledge, stuffed full ot oats, bay, and fodder for the "dear Christmas pony.” In the early uioiiimg they run on tiptoe to i on May 9 each year the festival of St. Nicholas is held with great rejoicing pilgrims from all parts of the world. Mamma’s Fault. by “Mamma, I’m afraid that money you gave me to spend for ('linslmas won't go round.” “Not go round?” “No, mamma, not after 1 get what 1 want myself.” “Why, you extravagant little scamp!” “It’s all your fault, mamma; you shouldn’t have encouraged such ’spensive tastes in me.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer. “There!” she said, with a sigh of relief. | “I’ve got a locomotive, a wagon, a mechanic al acrobat ami a hose reel. That ought te satisfy the dear little angel!” “It ought to, but it won’t,” said her hus band. “The little villain will wautuluim- mer to smash them with.”—Ciucinuati En quirer. Sacred Trees. The oaks upon which the mistletoe grew were sacred to the Druids in days of old, and they used to worship under them in the most solemn and devout way. When hung up in u room or hall, the beautiful pearly Irerries were thought to possess the [tower of keeping'Uwuy evil spirits and influences. Sensible Jimmie. “Jimmie,” asked his mother, “why are you so persistent about going to your Uncle John’s for Christmas?” “ ’Cause he bain’t got none of them smoke consumers on bis chimbleys. Santa Claus kin git inter hia house.”—Detroit Free Press. Don’t Make a Mistake. Just liecause your wife tells you to buy her something useful, don’t think she will be satisfied if you send her home a barrel of flour.—N. Y. Truth. Why Not for a Whole Ye»#f “Christmas comes hut oncet a yeas,” said Uncle Eben, “but dnr ain’ no 'jeetions ter anybody's makin’ de cliecrfulnesM an’ jin- erosity ob it hold ovuh fob 12 months, ef be wants ter.”—Washington Star. Shared the Common Lot. “Were you ever held up?” “I should say so.” “When?” “Every Christmas.”—Chicago Beflegd. The b GONE, THE WPR CALfl FALlb THE NIGHT. AND CLEAP AND CHILL THE blAPE) bHINE O’LP THE fPQSTY HILL. >I?EAM!> OT OUP DISTANT CHILDHOODS HONE. Or fAITHEUL HEA0T3 AfAP THAT ROAM. 1 Or flf.ETlNG!) IN THE DAY5 TO COME. - / V, S ■y.y The CnRbTNA^ &ells ape peaung lov. FAP Off; BUT.A5 THE NIGHT-VINDi BLOW, they bear itie sound in m and f lov. PlNG. 3VELT-VOICED bELLS, AFAP AND NEAP; (ri MfrAftCVCi T0 nEAyTS VE HOLD NOjT DEAP iV Jm 'rfJWrf • | ; or good raith a .. atem 5veet Nujic riib the placetulaip, y-u * w- ' • And dpeanE) that all alike nay ^hape fjM., v * - TPT vo* HAVECHAGEPEACHAWI0U. < ) THOUGHTANDCAPC- gyK ) 4 Jp CHPIbTNA5 CDNLi WITH GLN1A-G10V. AND 5lA2!) alike to high and low Fond nen’pie5 OFirit “long-ago"-