The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, February 02, 1898, Image 8

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[>r? .CPfWGHT . ?257. /J> 9r r?e AtfNOR^, ied beside her all the night, kia young heart fierce with anger against the one who had caused her sack anguish. When the light of morn Be watched beside her aU the night ing streaked the sky, ho took the oap from the spring and went into tho pas? ture and milked it full of sweet warm milk which he brought to Laurel and pressed her to drink. "It'll make yon '-strong," he said, "so's the gran'thers-they musV know." - After repeated urgings she drank the milk and, looking at him, repeated, "They nrasin' know.9 * Then- she arose and went slowly like an old woman to? ward the hut The old folk grumbled because they had not returned earlier. Laurel, al? ways silent at reproach, .did not reply, while the youth was careful to appease thesifc'' And the long, empty day bragged on. CHAPTER VJL Laurel went about like one in a trance. At night she sank into a heavy sleep that continued unbroken until morning and from which she was with difficulty aroused, but she was not refreshed. Her . lithe limbs seemed chained, her hands were heavy; she could hold nothing ; steadily. In the afternoon as she came in with a pitcher of water from the spring her hand shook so that a great splash went over the child's bare feet lie surprised shriek of the small voice startled her and the pitcher slipped from her hand and broke upon the floor at her. feet " Ah, what be th' matter wid yo*, laurel?" said the grandmother, per? ceiving the distraught look upon the : yo3tmg.face. "Gp out o' door till yo* git a bit color. Ill red up th* house. Go on, chile." Laurel turned slowly and went out She stood a few moments in half uncon? scious indecision, then because the trail that led downward had grown too pain? ful she began slowly to climb fae moun? tainside. Anguish was beating her heart with whips of steel, and she had not been able to cry out She must go where no one would hear and where, like a true child of nature, she could talk hex grief aloud instead of giving it silent battle in her heart She toiled on steadily up the hill. The brown mat of earth under her feet and the trees as she went higher grew poor and mean. The latter were hud? dled together by poverty of soil. They were so silent, and they watched her sa She turned to look back. The very clouds had gene ont of the sky, and hez beloved mountain, always so near; seem? ed far away. Everything was falling away from her, and the pitiless desert stretched beyond her sight She went on upward, and her thought began to take on distinct form. She re? membered tibie coming of those two and the fear that had haunted her all through that day. She remembered their going that next morning and the words of "th* tall un" about God "Why dian* he come 'stid o'* th* oth? er un?" she wailed unconsciously. "He wouidn* . 'a' done seen a way - he woulds'." For a leng time she stood as one be? wildered Her thought had lost itself, and she swayed back and forth like one beside herself. Then thought took up its old thread of sorrow and went on. She remembered her /surprise when the other ene came alone after a few days and the gladness that grew as she saw him often climbing the steep and knew that he climbed it because she was there Afterward came the long, empty days that before the coming of those two had not been worth the naming, and since he came no more had grown to be worse than nameless-the long days when, as she looked for him, she .saw only the dead desert stretched out, so old and withered and gray. She-remembered how she had gone to seek him, and the finding, and the blind? ing grief that had wrapped her round. Her heart could no longer hold its agony. She climbed swiftly, like a wild crea? ture, toward the rocky sum mit. Some? thing was pursuing her. She must es? cape. On and on she sped until at last she reached the dry and barren peak and sank breathless and strengthless upon the rough surface- But she had not es? caped from this evil thing. Dizzy ard panting though she was, it still lay up? on her heart. She opened her mouth and gave a prolonged cry. Again and again the piteous wail rang out antil she grew hoarse and could no longer cry. But the evil would not be driven away. . It clutched at her fiercely. All her thoughts grew cramped into one sad, mad thought that reached as high as the sky and that laid hold of the silence below. This "sixain was too "much for even her vigorous organism. A gurgle came in her throat, and a stream of warm blood !f rushed through her lips. She saw it j with unstartled eyes. She was going to die, then, as the deer died that vcarae panting into the mountain path with blood on its delicate lips. Everything faded from her sight The light went oat Was it like this to the pretty doer? . . . 0 . . . . After a time the light came back. A little later she could lift her head and look about her. She was not dead, then, Like the deer. It was not so well with her as that Nothing was left to her but to go back into her old, poor life, older and poorer than ever since she knew that it was so. Nothing but to go on bearing the common fretting of the meager days without faltering. A thou sand pitiful noes were wrung from her soul Such silly-demands as were mado upon her? Such foolish,-fitful, peevish words as her poor ears had often to hear! Her spirit shrank from the dreary out? look. The dusk came on. The outline of trees and rocks grew sharper at tho summit and became an indistinct mass below. But she was not afraid. She had often shivered at imagined hearing ol' the bears' slow tread and the steal - j thy spring of the panther. But they had no terror fer one in her mood. Death in any form would be easier tonight than the life which stretched so blankly be? yond. She must go back. They surely would be calling her. She arose and began the descent, but her knees were weak and her feet slipped. It was a difficult thing when one was strong and> well, but since she had almost died how strength less she was and how short her breath. She clutched at the branches as she j went, and she who had hardly known fatigue must now rest often. There was no danger of losing the way, for as she came into each clear I spot she looked for the snow mountain ! and guided her steps as the mariner looks at his star and makes sure of his watery path. "Laurel!" she heerd. "Laurel!" It was the youth. Ht was seeking her. She who had called gayly morn? ing and evening to the clouds and to the mountain could hardly find voice to lea him know where to find her. He came at last, and when he took her hands they were so cold that they chilled him. Leaning upon his shoul? der, ?ie reached the hut and sank upon her lied and laid the whole night through without even trying to lift her head. CHAPTER VIII. Wilmot recognized the youth who had served as pilot to Cray m er and himself on that memorable morning, though the face was prematurely anx? ious and the eyes were wide and in? tense. "What be th' matter?" he cried. "Laurel hov waited an waited, but he dean' come. An she got so wile wid tear that he be sick that I corned here wid her one night An she ief ' me out thar wid th' beasts. An I got t' sleep. An when I corned to she hadn' come. So I lei' th' beasts an went an f oem her lookia throe th' bushes at him an a girl settin wid her arm roun his neck. An she -guv a leetle groanin cry an fell down. An I be feared they'd fin her. So I drug her 'way. She didn' wake up all th' way hum, but her eyes wus open. An she goes 'round so still-like a ghos'. Come back wid me. She liked yo' bes', but he's been an witched her." Wilmot's already depressed heart grew heavier. He sat down upon a rus? tic seat and drew the youth beside him and put one big arm around him. Grief makes strange comrades. The boyish hear.; leaned against the big, true heart? ed man and was comforted. All wocld Wilmot promised. be well now. So he sat and patiently waited. But as the other did not move after long waiting he touched the hand upon his shoulder. "Belikes we'd better go," he said. Then Wilmot's helplessness flashed over him. *'My dear fellow," he an? swered, 4'my going will not help you. I'll telegraph for a doctor to visit your Laurel tomorrow. ' But the youth wept over the hand he held and begged with his heart in ev? ery word until Wilmot promised. Is was the work of a few moments to go to his room and tumble the bed; to write a blind note to McAlvord and lay it on the breakfast table, and after that to get a pony from the long stables and set out with his face toward the moun tain that bad stood so constantly in t horizon of his thought They cantered through the near c< ner of pasturo land across the upi arm of the desert and reached the mor tain path. As they were about to asea Wilmet sprang off his horse and call to the youth with an involuntary herc ness: "Why should I go? I am no dock I can do nothing for your Laurel. I may come here tomorrow. I am su that he will come soon. I cannot ga In an instant the youth was at h side. "Oh, but yo' won't be s' ha like 's t' go tack now! Belikes yo' k say somethin as'll comfort her. Sh? growed feared, like a wild bird. Si talked t* me 'bout God sence yo' wi thar, an she said he was big an whi like ole Mount Hood. He'd take keer me an th' gran'thors an th' chile, J would, 'cause yo* asked him to." "Well, goon, though I'm neither do tor nor missionary. But you must pi the ponies in the shed and let me ste outside until it is day. Then if al comes out" He did not know what ho would hai added. The other was satisfied and, fea ing more objection, hastened on. When the ponies were corralled, tl youth brought a blanket for his con pani on and, wrapping uimself in anotl er, laid down at a little distance. Wilmot did not try to analyze h emotions during the hours of that nigh Sympathy -for the bold young nea: whose affection had sought him, ragin indignation against the one who ha disturbed the peace of these simple fol and a pity deep as his manly heart he! sway in turn. s The eternal stars shone out overheac They wooed his thoughts from the tai gled maze below to the hand that coul hold them on their silent and might course. It was the hand of One whos pity was like that of a father. "Oh, Laurel, little flower!" he saic "Somehow, somewhere and at som time the wrongs of life will all t righted." CHA PTES IX. Morning came and touched evcrj thing with splendor. The weather beate hut grew soft with purple shadowing The leaves of the vine that clambere up the steep roof tumbled in the morn ing air. A great rhododendron tree which Wilmot had not noticed before had still a few blossoms upon it. The; must have named her for the tree-rhc dodendron, laurel. How much prettie .the shorter name was! The door of the picturesquo old hu opened and Laurel came slowly out Sorrow had cut her as frost cuts a flow er. She did not seo Wilmot, but wit] uplifted eyes she said in a tender, bro ken yoice, as one would do a habitua thing though the heart were not in th doing of it: "Good mornin, prettr clouds. Good mornin, ole Mount Hood sweet mornin tT yo'." And she kisse? fier hands. Then/coverihg her eyes, sb stood for a little with bowed head-no as one awaiting a blessing, but as on whose strength had become weakness. Out over the desert the snow peal rose in high relief against the sky, lib some glistening shrine belonging to an other and a fairer world. Wilmot begai to understand how, -in this joyless, iso lated life, her fine nature had given i spirit to these faina* objects and had en tered into kinship with them. She turned and saw him, but she die not start or tremble as he had feared She only looked at him calmly with ? slow lifting of the eyes and a protracted but not searching gaze. He did not ap preach or vex her with a greeting, bu* she came slowly toward him. "Whydidn* yo* come back 'stid o th' other un?** she asked He uncovered his head and looked a; her. What could ho answer? "Why didn' yo' come?" she repeated ru the same slow monotone His heart grew heavy with tenderness and with something which had beer growing there for many weeks. "I have come now, ' ' he answered. "3 am sorry that I did not come before. 1 staid away because I was not wise and did not know what it was best to do. But I am here now, and if you will lei me I will bring my sister, a dear, brave girl, to see you, and she and \ will take you away, and you shall be with us al? ways-if you will. " She clasped her hands tightly to? gether. "I have come to say that to you," he said "Forgive me for not having come before." 'It hurts t' stay here," she said. "Everything hurts." She turned away. He waited patiently. Presently she lift? ed her eyes again to his face. Some? thing in his la?k melted her. She threw herself down upon thc moss covered log at his feet and sobbed passionately. "Th'clouds 'n th'mountains, " she sobbed. "They kin never be th' same. I-I want t' go." Then Wilmot went toward the door of the hut, and meeting the "gran' thers" told the whole story in simplest language and begged from them their dearest treasure. "We can't git 'long nohow 'thout Laurel," protested the grandfather. But the heart of the grandmother un? derstood and was touched. "??he doon' b'long t' us," she said, " 'n we hain't got no right t' set up ag'in it ef Laurel wants t' go. ' Then followed a few necessary words of planning, after which. Wilmot went back and lifted the slender form in his arms "Laure1, littlo flower, I am coming after you in a few moro days. And you will go with me then?" She leaned against him as ono who had found shelter from a pitiless storm. "Yo' didn' come before, " she an? swered. "I thought yo' would come, but yo'didn'. 'N* he come. 'N then I got s' bad hurt here," and she laid her hand upon her heart, "thot I can't git j my breath. But yo' hev come. *N I'll j go with yo' anywhere. I'll stay with yo'. I'll wait fur yo' when yo' be'n gone jes' I be'u doin these thar days. 'Fore yo' come that fust time I be'n dead. It be'n empty livin-'fore yo' some. " j CHAPTER X. Craymer kept his half promise to Wilmot for one day only. Early the next morning he asked tho Chinaman for breakfast, and after eating hastily, as if afraid time might weaken his pur? pose, he mounted a pony and with tho paltry excuse of brushes and paints set off upon the well known trail. His thoughts were swayed by con? flicting emotions. Among them was anger toward Wilmot, which he nursed as a sort of excuse for action. He was not a boy that he should be so taken to task. He meant to marry his betrothed at the appointed time. He had only a few more weeks in this wild place, aud he had not made good use of the time to fill his portfolio. It became him, therefore, to be diligent He did not ask himself why thoughts of work always led him in one direc? tion. To be sure, he had implied a prom? ise to Wilmot that he would make no more pictures of her, but if Wilmot were to have all of those already sketched why should ho not make a new one for himself-one with that stately turn of the throat like an affrighted deer-not for exhibition, but for his own studio walls? He did not know how long he had ridden, but felt that he must be near the mountain. He looked up to find his gaze shut in by an impenetrable misty wall. Then he became conscious of the chill that was creeping over him, but he would soon be there, and perhaps they would have that blazing fire upon the great hearth lighted. He had given the pony rein as he had always done before, but now he noticed with a sudden failure of heart that this was not the pony he had always ridden on these errands. Those Indians were fools, every one of them. He had lost the trail and was wandering ' he knew not whither. Presently a fine, drizzling rain began. He remembered having heard McAlvord say that it had not rained at thai; season for more than 40 years. A rain at this time meant fevers and many ills, for it always lasted during many days. The hours fled. Night came on. Tho mist became a rain which fell steadily. He pressed onward in the hope of strik? ing the "bridle path, but cold, exhausted and hungry he sank at last upon the ground beside his horse. They lay until morning, gaining some little warmth from each other. Another day cf toil shut in by those wet, gray walls. Another night of exhaustion. They plodded through the third day, Swooned away. growing each more hopeless and dispir? ited. The fourth morning he tried to urge the pony to arise, but after several attempts it stretched out its neck and would no longer struggle. He had to leave it. When this wretched rain was over, it would arise, no doubt, and find its own way back. Hour after hour he toiled onward, shaken by chills, consumed at the same time by an inward fire and fever. But the warm hut, with its blazing fire of great logs, was in the elusive distance. The impatience and strain made his brain reel. He sank upon the ground in heavy exhaustion. A dark object lay before him. He arose and tried to ap? proach it cautiously, but, unable lon? ger to guide his footsteps, he stumbled against it and fell. It moved slightly and gave a husky whinny. He stretched out his hand. Could it be the pony he had left hours before? With one desperate effort of his swiftly ebbing strength he made conviction sure by finding the knot in the bridle rein which ho had handled nervously during the dreadful hours of that first dreadful day. Great heavens ! He had gone in a cir? cle. He was lost then, and the hut, with its blazing fire, might be miles away. The thought was almost death itself and made such darkness in his soul that he grew mad, and, giving a great cry, swooned away. The silent hours passed. They made themselves into night and into day and into night again. The unlooked for dawn was rising softly on slow wings when he aroused himself. "It was a dream, " he said. "Helen, my betrothed, I have come back to you. I am stained with the earthly life. I am not worth your taking, but your inno? cence will make me true. We will go away together, dear, and I will teach you to believe in nie. Let us go. Where is your hand? It is growing dark. Why did I bring you out into this dreadful night?" Tho words had hardly ceased, and it was not yet too late to save the ebbing life, when a tall man rode swiftly up. His lips grew white as he fired signal shots and looked through a glass out into the clear moining to see that a com? pany of horsemen in the near distance had heard and were turning in the right direction. <. He stuck his gun into the ground and fastened his handkerchief to it in order that tho riders might not lose their way. Then he mounted his horse and rode away. At the foot of a tall moun? tain upon whose side clung a vine en wreathed hut he paused and looked ur through the morning splendor which crowned the radiant summits and touched tile hidden places, up at the clouds and across at the serene, white mountain, and as lie looked his heart grew still and there echoed a voice in Iiis ears, and these wero the words it said: "I'll go with yo' anywhere. It be'n empty li vin 'fore yo' come. Goodby, pretty clouds! Goodby, ole Mount Hood, a sweet goodby t' yo'!" THE KXD. The Repartee. Even Dr. Johnson -was won over by Wilkes' delightful manners until they were found by Boswell "reclined upou their chairs, with their heads leaning almost close to each other and talking earnestly in a kind of confidential whis? per of the personal quarrel between George II and the king of Prussia. It presented to my mind the happy days which are foretold in Scripture, when the lion shall lie down with the kid." According to Boswell, "when Wilkes and I sat together each glass of wine produced a flash of wit, like gunpowder thrown into the fire-puff, puff!" But Wilkes hardly confirmed this, for he thought tho famous "Life" the work "of an entertaining madman, " in which "much was put down to Boswell which was undoubtedly said by Johnson what the latter did, and the former could not say." . We can well imagine that an encounter with Boswell would have many charms for Wilkes. No man ever lived who could adapt his wit better to his company. Comparo his chaff of the alderman, formerly a bricklayer, who was trying to carve a turbot with a knife-"Use a trowel, brother, use a trowel"-with his reply to Mme. de Pompadour when she asked him, "How far is it safe to go in England against the royal family?" "That is what I am trying to find out, madame." There are few more really witty replies recorded than that made to the prince regent, who asked him at dinner when he drank to the king's health, "How long have you been so loyal, Wilkes?" "Ever since I knew your royal highness. "-Cornhill Maga? zine. Sensitizing Paper. There are two ways of sensitizing pa? per. One is to apply the solution with a brush, and the other is to float the salt? ed paper on the surface of the liquid. Thin papers like Rives photographic paper take the solution quickly and do not require so many applications of the solution if it is applied with a brush, or so long a soaking if floated on the liquid as do the heavy, rough papers like Whatman's drawing paper dr cray? on paper. The paper is first salted, and it is better to have this done by the dealer in photographic goods, as it is much easier to apply the sensitive solution than it is to salt the paper. If photo? graphic paper is used, ask for fresh salt? ed paper, but if drawing paper is used take it to the dealer and have it salted. The expense is very trifling, a sheet cf salted paper costing only a cent or two more than the plain paper. The sensitizing solution is made of 240 grains of nitrate of silver and 5 ounces of distilled or filtered water. Dissolve the nitrate of silver crystals in the water, and then add strong liquid ammonia drop by drop, stirring the so? lution constantly until the brown pre? cipitate which is formed by the addi? tion of. the ammonia has disappeared and the liquid is clear. Not more than 75 drops of ammonia should be added to the solution, and if it does not clear when this amount has been added clear the solution by filtering. - Harper's Bound Table. A Sixteenth Century Letter. The following copy of a letter, writ? ten in 1595 by a young lady when re? siding with a lady of rank as attendant in her waiting room, an office carrying no menial service with it and much sought after by the daughters of gentle? folk, may be interesting : To my good Mother, Hrs. Parke, at Broom? field: DEAR MOTHER-My humble dutye remem? bered unto my father and you, &c I received on Wednesday last a letter from my Father and yon, whereby I understand it is your pleasure that I should certifie you what times I do take for my lute and the rest of my exer? cises. I doe for the most part playe of my lute after supper, for then commonlie my Lady heareth me, and in the morninges after I am raddie I playe an hower and my Wrfghtin ge and sifGringo after I have done my lute. For my drawing? IHake tm hower in vie after* novae and my French at night before supper. My Lady ha tho not been well these toe days, she telleth mo when she ia well that aho will see if Hilliard will come and teche me ; if she can by any means'she will. I hope I shall per? forms my dutye to my Lady with all care and regard to please her and to behave myselfe to every e one else os it shall become mo. Mr. Har? rison o was with me upone Fridaye, he heard me play and brought me a dusson of trebles. ? had some of him when I came to London. Thus desiringe pardone for my rude writinge, I leave you to the Almightie, desiringe Him to increaso in you all health and happiness. Your obedient daughter, REBECCA PARKS. Negroes With Bed Hair. "A man saes lots of funny things while traveliug around the country, but the most peculiar sight I ever say was in Omaha the.last time I was there," said Charles Killinger of Cincinnati. " While walking along the street there one day I saw two negroes with hair as red as any red hair you ever saw. It was as kinky as the negro wool usually is. It was a funny sight, and I stopped to look at them as they went down the street. A friend of mine who resides there told me those negroes had como from the south some years ago and as far as he knew were full blooded darkies. Six fingered people are not uncommon, but for freaks those darkies took the cake."-Denver Republican. Mistakes of the "Publisher'? Reader.** I was speaking of some of my experi? ences as a publisher's "reader," a few years ago, in a recent conversation with a friend, who told mo that Mr. John Morley had read "Mr. Isaacs" for Messrs. Macmillan and had advised against its publication on the ground that while it would be a most creditable book to have on their list, there would be no salo for it. In the light of subse? quent events this is rather amusing, but it only proves that oven so astute a crit io as Mr. Morley is not infallible-in other words, that he is human.-Critic. Another Place. Bill-Where've you been? Jill-Down to the doctor's. "I'll bet he told you to go south." "No, I didn't go to consult him; I went to collect a bill. " "Oh, well, in that case it was prob? ably not the south where -he told you to go!"-Yonkers Statesman. Hood's Should be in every family m m m medicine chest and every K^B ill ?> traveller's grip. They are III S invaluable when the stomach T ? ? ? is out of order; cure headache, biliousnes*, and .li liver troubles* Mild and efficient. ?5 cents. HARB Y # CO., WHOLESALE BROKERS, -AND Cotton Storage Warehouse PROPRIETORS. UP-TOWN OFFICE: COURT HOUSE SQUARE, 1,000 Tons High Grade Am moniated Fertilizer, 1,000 Tons Acid with Potasn. 500 Tons Dissolved Bone, - 500 Tons German Kainit, 400 Tons C. S. Meal, For Sale. We are prepared to meet any and all prices for STAND? ARD GOODS. Get our prices before purchasing. Respectfully, H ARB Y & CO. Dec. 16. Caveats, and Trade-Marks obtained and all Pa J cnt business Conducton for MODERATE Pees. OUP.OFFICEISOPPOSITE U. ??. PATCRTOFflCCj and we can secure patent ia less tune than those' remote from Washington, i Send model, drawing or photo., with descrip rion. We advise, if patentable cr not, free of ? charge. Our iee not due till patent is secured. 2 I A PAMPHLET, " How to Ootain Patents," withi cost of same ra the U. S. and foreign countries\ sent free. Address, C.A.SNOW&CO.! OPP. PATENT OFFICE, WAS HINGTON. D. C. Atlantic Coast Line. WILMINGTON, COLUMBIA AND AUGUS TA RAILROAD. . CONDENSED SCHEDULE. TRAINS GOING SOUTH. Dated Dec. 20, 189?. Leave Wilmington Lea<e Marion Arrive Florence Leave Florence Arrive Sumter Leave Sumter Arrive Columbia No.55. P.M. ?400 6 43 7 25 P.M. .8 00 9 10 P.M. 9 13 10 30 No.35. A.M. ?3 25 4 29 No.52. A.M. ?9 37 10 55 No. 52 rans through from Charleston via Central R. R., leaving Charleston 7 a. m., Lanes 8 28 a. m., Manning 9 05 a. m. TRAINS GOING NORTH. Leave Columbia Arrive Sumter Leave Sumter Arrive Florence Leave florence Leave Marion Arrive Wilmington: No.54. A. M. ?6 45 8 08 A. M. 8 12 9 25 A. M. 9 P8 10 36 1 20 No.53 P.M. ?5 00 6 20 No.32 P.M. ?6 30 7 4o .Daily. f Daily except donday. No. 53 runs through to Charleston, S. C., ria Ceotral R. R., arriving Manning ? f8 p. m., Lanes 7 36 p m., Charleston 9 15 p. m. Traina on Conway 3rancb laave Ch?d< bourn ll 43 a. m., arrive at Conway way 2 0 p.m., returning leave Conway at 2 45 p. m., -five Chadbourn 5 15 p. nr. leave Chad DOD rn s 45 p m., arrive at Hub at 6 25 p. m., returni/ g leave Hub 8 30 a. m. arrive at Chadbourn 9.15 a. m. Daily ex? cept Sunday. fDaily except .Snndav. J. li. KfiNLY, Gen'l Manager. T. M. EMERSON. Treffe Manager. H. M. EMERSON, Gen'l Pass. AgeDt. Atlantic Coast Line. MANCHESTER AND AUGUSTA R. R Condensed schedule-Ia effect Jan 17, 1897. TRAINS GOING SOUTH. Lv Darlington, Lv Elliott, Ar Su ??rec, Lv Sumter, Ar Creston, Lv Creaton, Ar PrfjruK?s, Ar Oraogenurf, Ar DeDmark, No ^35 a. m. 4 29 5 17 No. fi? a m. 7 55 8 40 9 25 5 45 9 15 5 40 6 12 TRAINS GOING NORTH. fNo. f56 No. ?32 Lv Denmark, Lv Orang*bur?. Dv Preg"ftHe, Ar Creston, Lv Cresron, Ar Sumter, Lv Sumter, Ar Elliott, Ar Darlington, a. m. 10 CO 3 50 6 40 7 25 8 15 p. m. p m. 4 25 5 03 5 30 6 25 p. m. .Daily, fDaily except Sandfly Traina 32 and 25 carry through Pullman Palace Bnffet Sleeping Cars ?etween New York and Macon via Augusta T. M. Emerson, H. M. Emerson, Traffic Maoacer, Gen. Pass. Agt. ?J. R Keeley, Gen'l M BB ager.