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1869. VOL. XIII. —NO. 30. The Democratic Messenger, PrBLi&HEo Evert Satcrdsy bt LITTLETON DENNIS, Proprietor AT SKOW HIU, WORCESTER CO.. MO. Bih#rription. S1 a Year in Advance. Liberal arr tngeuicnte made with ilubs. Corre|H)ndence solicited from all part* of the county. ADVERTISING RATES. One dollar for one Inch apace will be charged for the first insertion, and fiftv cents for each subsequent Insertion. A liberal discount will be niadeou quarterly i* months, or yearly advertisement*. Loral notices will be inserted at 20 cents pet lina. 1 Marriage and death notices inserted tree. Obituary notices inserted at half advertising rate*. All advertising bills are dne after the first Insertion, unless otherwise agreed npon. LITTLETON DENNIS, Snow Hill, Md PROFESSIONAL CARDS'. A DIAL P. BARNES, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office opposite Court Bouse, Bnow Hill. Md. Wiii visit Pocomoke dlty every Saturday. Btrict attention given to the collection ol claims. P LAYTON J. PURNELL, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office opposite Court House, Suow HIIII, Md. Strict attention given to the collection of claims. Will visit Berlin on the second Satur day of every month. D. MARTIN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office opposite Town Hall. Berllt . Md. Special attention given to the collection ol clai'me- EDWARDR BATES, (Late of Baltimore Bar.) ATTORNEY ASD COUNSELOR-AT-LAW, ! Snow Hill. Md. Office opposite Court House, adjoining the Post Office. rjECRGE M. UPSHUR, U ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office, Court House Square. Snow Hill, Md. Prompt attention given to the collection of claims. |AEORGE W. PURNELL, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office, opposite Court House. Snow Hill. Md. j Claims promptly collected. Will visit Pi>co- J moke City on the second Saturday of eaeli : month. George w. coyington, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office, Court House Square, Suow Hill, Md. Prompt attention given to the collection of eiaims. WAMUEL H. TOWNSEND, O ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office, opposite Court House. Snow Hill, Md. ; Prompt attention given to the collection of claims. \VM. SIDNEY WILSON, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Office on Washington Street three doors above Post Office. Snow Hill, Md. Immediate attention given to the collection of claims. Dr. e. e. dashiell, DENTIST. Office, opposite Franklin House, Snow Hill. Will visit Berlin on Thursday, Friday and Saturday of each week. All operations on the teeth performed in the most skillful man ner, HO TBL& NATIONAL HOTEL, (Latk Col. Dtmoci's.) Opposite Court Honse. Snow Hill Md. Large Airy Rooms. Excellent Table, Home Comforts Permanent aud transient guests kindly re ceived and hospitably entertained. Terms. 81.50 per day. Hacks at the R. It. Depot to meet all trains J. 8. PRICE. Proprietor. SALISBURY HOTEL, TJLMAN 4 BR0„ Proprietors. Division Strict, opposiito Court Houno, SALISBURY, MD. First-class Restaurant, Billiard Parlor. Bar, and Livery Stable attached. Free Hecks at Depot to meet all trains. Passengers conveyed to any part of ths Peninsula upon the most favorable terms. TERMS, 81.50 PER DAY. First-class accommodations and home com forts. CLARKE HOUSE, POCOMOKE CITY, MD. H. C. POWELL, Proprietor. Accommodations Unsurpassed FIRST-CLASS BAR ATTACHED. Twilley A Bros.’ Livery Stable connecte-* witti this House. ATLANTIC HOTELS (Late English's.) CHINCOTEAGUE ISLAND, VA. W J. MATTHEWS ft CO., proprietor*. The undersigned beg leave to inform theh friends and the general public that they have leased at:d refurnished the above elegant and e .mmodious bouse, and are now prepared to accommodate permanent and transient guests '■n flrst-cla>s style. Large, airy room*. Home comforts. Flue Sea and Bar Fishing, Gunning and Bathing, etc. The table is provided with Wild Pori. Terrapin, Fish, Oysters, Crabs, and all he luxuries of the season. Pleasure boats of all kinds, gnidea, fishing li es, decoys, ponies, etc., always ready for th u of gnests. Irs-elass Bar a'tached. Choice winea, beers and cigars. Pftse Were for Cblncoteagne connect with steam*\ r the Island at Franklin City, the termlnu r the Worcester Railroad, morning and evtnin. Connection may also be made dally at may rm ass*, a that they will receive eour teona and excellent fare. Yir patroiigt la respectfully solicited W J. MATTHEWS * CO. THE OLD FARM GA TE. BY THOVAS DUNK ENOI.IBH. | In gilded saloons, where the fairest of belles ! Flung around me their subtlest of glamour and spells, I broke thronph their magic, I mocked at their art, Unmoved in my fancy, untouched in my heart; j But yielded a captive, well pleased at my ate, When Dora I met at the old farm gate— When Dora I met, When Dora I met, : When Dora I met at the old farm gate. j I passed, rod in hand, on my way to the brook; And planned as I went little fishes to hook. She stood there in silt uce, half smiling, half shy, And moved from the pathway to let me go by. ! Ah! who would not bite when such charms were the bait V ; So Dora catnrht me at the old farm gate— So Dora caught me, So Dora caught me, ' So Dora caught me at the old farm gate. I We had met and had parted full often before, ! But we met on that morn to be parted no more j The light in her eye and the flush on her cheek ; Emboldened my tongue of my loving to speak. What cared I for tront V They might lie there aud wait, j Now Dora said “ ves” at the old farm gate Now Dora said “yes,” Now Dora said “yes,” 1 Now Dora said “yes ” at the old farm gate. Aunt Susan. An English Story. “You’re to go down to the railway | station, sir, at once; there has been an accident npon the line.” On my arrival, however, I found the train standing whole and sound by the platform, while a little knot of railway officials and some few passengers were ; collected round the motionless figure of ! a girl of some fifteen or sixteen years : of age, who lay on one of the benches in the dusty waiting-room. An elderly woman, apparently a respectable ser- I vaut, stood by her side sobbing help lessly, while the officials were discussing the accident and its causes and disputing as to where lay the blame. “ Twas altogether her own fault,” j said the guard; “what business had she to lie getting out of the train till it ! stopped?” “The door onght to have been locked, J Tom,” said the station-master. “So ’twas, sir, but she had a key of j her own. 1 never see such a young ! lady. Didn’t she offer Jim half a crown i awhile ago tolet her travel on the engine? ! ! She’ll get no compensation anyhow.” “Compensation ! it’s fined she ought | to lie.” ; “Hush,” said she first speaker, “here’s the doctor. ” i And the little crowd, dividing, made way for me to pass. My patient was a tall, overgrown girl, with a freckled face and a quantity of dark red hair hanging in thick plaits | ' over her shoulders, the mischievous cast of countenance, with its tnrned-up nose ! i and wide mouth, forming a painful con trast to the death-like pallor which now | over-spread it. A short examination showed me that the case was not serious; ! a dislocated shoulder aud broken collar bone makiug up the sum of the girl's injuries. I turned to the servant who had suspended her sobs aud was watch ing me eagerly. “Is there no one with her bnt you?” I asked. “No one, sir. I’m sure I did my be d i to take care of her, but Miss Violet is | one that will never be gainsaid by any one. Will she die, sir, do you think?” “I think not. As far as I can judge ! at present, her injuries are but trifling. She must be taken to my house at once; I can deal with her better there than anywhere else. As soon as I had reduced the disloca tion and seen my patient comfortably settled in bed, I went in search of the maid, who had now recovered sufficient I equanimity to be of some use. Telling her that she might go up and sit with i her young mistress, I asked to whom I | was to send news of the young lady’s ! accident. “ I think yon had 1 letter write to Miss Violet’s aunt, sir,” she said after a mo ment’s consideration. “My master is | ill at present, and a shock would be bad i for him.” “Very well,” I said, “will yon kind ly tell me the lady’s name and address ?” “Miss Ferrars, Templearden Rectory, Carlingham.” “ I suppose,” I said as I penciled the words in my note book, “that Miss Violet’s name is Ferrars, also.” “ Yes, sir. Her father is the Rector | of Carlingham; he is a great invalid, j and his sister, Miss Ferrars, manages everything. He has been worse than usual this time back, and Miss Ferrars has been so busy attending to him that ; she had no time to spare for Miss Vio | let, so she sent her on a visit to another i aunt she has, a sister of her mother’s, living near Loudon, little thinking what | would be the end of it. I’m sure I i never thought when I saw her putting i that railway key in her pocket, but that i she was takiug it back to her cousin, I Mr. Tom, for ’twas ho tiiat forgot it after him last time he was at the Rec tory. I hope you’ll say when you write, | sir, that the accident was altogether Miss j Violet’s own fault.” “I shall, at any rate, say that it was not yours,” I auswered. “I suppose that will be sufficient.” I wrote to Miss Ferrars by the even ing post, making my letter as short and simple as I could. Fortunately there was in so doing no need to suppress or soften the truth, as Miss Violet’s injuries were really only such as would be com pletely cured by time and care. I said to Miss Ferrars that if any of the I young lady’s friends wished to come to her, my sister and I would do our ut ; most to make them welcome; but should they not find it convenient to do so, they might rely upon our taking every care ’ of the patient. Next day Miss Violet was much better, , and able to give warm thanks, somewhat ; brusquely expressed, to Mary and me > for our hospitality. My first idea as to ! the expression of her face proved eor rect; I never before or since, saw so muob mischievous fun concentrated in a single countenance. And this bright “ 'Tis Liberty Alone that Gives the Flower of Fleeting Life its Lustre and Perfume —and We are Weeds Without it.” SNOW HILL. WORCESTER COUNTY, MARYLAND, SATURDAY, JULY 30, 1881. expression was the one thing which re deemed her from absolute plainness, since she had not a good feature in her face; her gray eyes even being small aud fringed with sandy lashes. She 1 made no secret of her vexation at the accident, while fully admitting that it had been caused by her own careless ness. “ It is such a shame,” she said; “I was looking forward to a pleasant time at Aunt Margaret’s. It is a jolly house ! to stay at, and I am very seldom allow ed to go there. Papa and Aunt Susan have 1 some prejudice against my cousins. My 1 cousins are the prettiest and nicest girls I ever saw\ As Shaw says, it would be 1 well for me to be like them.” I went on to tell Violet of the letter I had written to her aunt, aud the invita tion contained then in. “ She will not come,” said Violet, de cidedlv. “ My father could not possibly I spare her. He has lieen very ill lately, 1 and no one understands his ways but Aunt Susan. She will be fretting about me, though. I wish I could write just one line to tell her what good care Miss Ellison takes of me. I must be an awful nuisance both to you and to her.” “Do not imagine such a thing for a , moment. My sister likes nothing better | than the care of a sick person: in fact, it is her true vocation. I will write ; again to your aunt aud tell her, from j you, that you are content with your j quarters here, and that you mean to get I well as fast as possible. Will that do?” j “Thank you,” she answered; “are ; yon certain that I shall get well?” “ As certain as I can be of anything j in this world. You surely did not im- j agine that your accident was a serious one?” “ Well, I did hope that it was of somo j little consequence; it is too bad to have all the pain and none of the prestige of a railway accident.” “ There is nothing to be proud of in an accident caused by one’s own care lessness,” said my sister, severely. “Well,” Raid Violet, “I certainly j would rather suffer from my own care- 1 lessness than from auy one else's. I j never bear malice toward myself. ” Aunt Susan’s letter came in due time. | As Violet had predicted, Miss Ferrars ; declined our invitation, saying that it would be impossible for her to leave her brother who was recovering from ; a severe illness, but that she felt no hesitation in trusting her niece to us ; having heard of my very great sklli iu surgical cases. This latter sentence somewhat bewil- [ dered me. Could it. lie possible, 1 asked : myself, that Miss Ferrars had heard of i that successful operation performed by me in the county infirmary? It cer-* tainly had been mentioned in some of ; the medical journals, but then medical journals is hardly the sort of literature i one expects to find in a country parson- 1 age. Any way it was gratifying to be j thus appreciated. Strange to say, the j i obvious explanation—that Miss Ferrars : was mistaking me for my uncle, whose namesake and successor I was, aud who ; hail been a man of undoubted ability j i aud a certain local reputation—never once occurred to me. A letter had come, directed in the | same handwriting to Miss Violet, to 1 ! whom I sent it up. On going a little later to pay her my professional visit, I i j found her still reading and laughing j over it. “Yon seem to have an amusing let ■ ter,” I said. “Aunt Susan’s letters generally are amusing,” answered Violet, “but this is j from an unusual cause—a mistake on } her part. I cannot explain it to you, I bnt it is very funny.” Perceiving that the mistake was iu 1 some way connected with myself, I j ! asked no further questions, and to ! change the subject I took up the cover j of Miss Ferrar’s letter, which lay upon j the bed. ‘ * What a fine hand your aunt j writes !” I said. “She does everything well that she, undertakes, and she undertakes a great ; many things. She is papa’s right hand I —as good as another curate, she says, | She plays the organ and trains the j choir at church, and she teaches me.” “Yon consider yourself a decided success, then, Miss Violet?” “ You need not laugh,” she said, in a dignified tone. “ You think that, be cause I am ugly and awkward, I am ig norant also; but I am not. I took a high place at the Cambridge Local Ex j aminations last year, because I was well prepared. Aunt Susan has a real genius ! for teaching.” There was evidently nothing of per , sonal vanity in this boast, the object of wliich was solely to exalt her teacher. “ Are you like your aunt?” I asked. “Not a bit. I wish I were. lam a caricature of my mother, who died when I was six years old. Would you like to see Aunt Susan’s photograph ? Shaw, will you find my little tin box ? Is’t somewhere in my trunk, I think.” “ I know where it is, miss, seeing that ’twas I packed it. ’Tis well you’ve Bomelmdy that knows where your things | are. Miss Violet.” Mrs. Shaw brought the box—a small tin one, filled with a regular schoolboy collection of odds and ends, which had to be removed before the photograph could lie found. “ I wonder,” said I, as I stood await i ing the conclusion of this process, “if j i the educational system of the present day, with all its advantages, will pro- i 1 dtice many women ns really able and cultivated as some of those who belong to a former generation—women like I : your aunt, for instance. ’’ > Violet, who hail by this time found • the bundle of photographs, paused ] l with it in her band, and gave me a! quick, inquiring look. Then, selecting I one of the photographs, she handed it > to me. i : “ That is my aunt,” she said. The photograph was that of a very I sweet-looking elderly lady, with snow i white hair and many wrinkles, bnt in > whose bright eyes and softly curving lips much of the joyonsness of youth , still seemed to linger. She wore a mob t cap of lace and muslin, with a large > handkerchief of the same material over > her shoulders—a costume which made her look like the original that onr mod , era coquettes try to oopy. t “What a charming old lady!" I ex t claimed. “ Well,” said Miss Violet, with an , odd sound in her voice, “ Aunt Susan is r not generally considered so.” 1 , “I am surprised at that,” I said ;“ I 3 1 have seldom seen so sweet a face. I 3 j suppose that, although you call her t aunt, she is in reality" your great - jannt ?” “No,” answered Violet, “she is my [ father’s half-sister. But there is a dif ■ fereuce of twenty-live years between > them. You may keep that photograph 1 if yon like. I have another copy.” > \ My opinion that Miss Violet’s injuries ' j were not of a serious nature proved to * be correct. She mended rapidly, and > I was soon able to lie on the sofa in the drawing-room, devouring every book within reach, and showing considerable appreciation of Mary’s efforts at invalid ! cookery. ! Alary and I soon became very fond of j our guest, although we agreed that we ' would rather take charge of her in sick i ness than in health. She soon got over ■ her dread of shocking Miss Ellison, and j succeeded in doing so pretty effectually, j I could not help laughing at the d*e j scriptions of some of her pranks, and I ! tried to make MRry see that, with all I her unconventional ways, she never i showed any want of refinement. She [ was very clever, and a great credit to I her aunt’s teaching, being well and j solidly grounded. Violet kept very faithfully her promise of writing to Alary, nor did I allow my ! correspondence with Miss Ferrars to I drop; it was seldom difficult to fiud a pretext for a letter; one led to another, and we were soon writing, each to the other, as to an old friend. Each step toward intimacy served but to deepen the impression made upon me by Violet’s description of her aunt. It was curious what a hold had been taken : upon my imagination by this woman i j whom I had never seen, and who, if she , were five-and-twenty years older than Violet’s father, must have been almost, I if not quite, contemporary with my ; i graneinother. I had even constructed 1 i a little romance about her. No one who | saw her photograph could doubt that | j she had !>een singularly beautiful, and I j I decided that in early youth she had lost | her lover by death, and had remained i faithful to his memory ever since. “A S lucky fellow he must havo been,” j I thought I to myself, as the face of the j photograph in the guise it must have I worn some forty or fifty years before ! , rose up iu my mind. “ What a donkey ! I am, to be sure ! Here am I making a ! ! fool of myself about a woman who must | hoje been past her youth when I was ; ; born. I must try to fall in love with some one byway of an antidote.” But, ! somehow, none of the girls whom I was . in the habit, of meeting were fair enough 1 or wise enough to put the ideal Susan | Ferrars from my thoughts, i About a year after I had thus come into contact with the Ferrars family, ; business took me to within a few miles i of Carliugham, and I determined to ! profit by this opportunity of seeing ' i both my unknown correspondent and ■my former patient. As I walked up the ; hill from the railway station I was over i takeu by Alias Violet—something taller ; than she had lieen last year, and every ! bit as unconventional. Just as friendly and affectionate also, for she seemed | really glad to see me, and insisted on my going straight to the rectory, to lie ; introduced to her father and aunt. We I passed across a green lawn surrounded , by some fine old lime trees, through a ; glass door into a matted hall, and thence \ into a pretty drawing-room, cool, shady, and flower scented. “Here is Dr. Ellison, Annt Susan,” called out Violet as we entered. I looked across the room, expecting to j see my ideal old lady, but the person ' who came forward to meet me, uttering i some cordial words of welcome, was | quite young, almost a girl in fact, being ; certainly under five-and-twenty; tall, slender, and dark-haired, aud bearing a curious resemblance to my mental pic ture of Aunt Susan in her youth. She paused suddenly on coming near j me, half withdrawing her outstretched hand. “ I thought you said Dr. Ellison, Vio let,” “So I did,” said Violet. “Thisis Dr. Ellison.” “ I beg your pardon,” said the girl, : recovering herself, “I was under a wrong impression with regard to you. lam very glad to have the pleasure of makiug your acquaintance,” and she motioned i me to a seat opposite to the low wicker chair from which she herself had risen. “ Will you look for your father, Vio let ?” she said, after a few minutes, j “ He will be delighted to see Dr. Elli son.” “ And Alias Ferrars—am I not to have the pleasure of seeing her ?” I asked. “I am Alias Ferrars,” said the girl, laughing. “ I mean the elder Miss Ferrars—Vio let’s Aunt Susan.” “ But this is Aunt Susan,” said Violet. ; “ This Aunt Susan ! But your Aunt Susan is an old lady !” “Is she? 1 wasn’t aware of that.” “But you gave me her photograph,” I persisted. “J have it still—a charm ing old iady in a mob cap.” “I remember,” said Violet, suddenly, “ I did go in for a bit of mystification. You said in your letter to me, Aunt Su san, that you had often heard your j mother speak of Dr. Ellison, who was such a kind, courteous old gentleman, : and such a clever doctor. While I was reading the letter, in came Dr. Ellison, looking about as venerable as he does at present. In speaking of you, he said something which showed me that he on his part imagined you to be on the other side of ninety ; so, just for fun, I showed him that photograph of you, dressed for the acting charades at the Alanor. I did not intend to carry the thing far, but I forgot all about it, and Dr. Elli son appears to have recognized in you his ideal great-grandmother, and revered you accordingly.” “ That explains,” said Miss Ferrars, laughing, “ the deferential tone of Dr. Ellison’s letters. I thought it proceeded from the ohivalrous courtesy of a gentle man of the old school, whereas it seems merely to have been respect for gray hairs.” “ But,” said I, still bewildered, “ you told ms that your aunt was twenty-five years older than yonr father.” “ I beg your pardon ; I may perhaps l have told you that there was twenty-five s years’ difference lie tween them, ns "there is, my father being the elder. By the r way, I suppose you also, Aunt Susan, l continued all this time nuder a similar r delusion ?” - 1 “I did,” said Aunt Susan, laughing and blushing. “As I told you, I often r heard my mother speak of Dr. Ellison of . Calethorp, and it never occurred to me i that your friend could be other thau the i same. You know you never gave any more definite description of him thau i that he was a ‘regular brick.’ It seems > to have been a game at cross-purposes [ altogether.” s The consequences of this game at ; cross-purposes, with regard to my feel ! ings, may easily be guessed. But that ; these feelings, true and deep though they were, should have been returned 1 to Busan Ferrars, is a mystery at wliich I can only marvel in heartfelt gratitude to the Providence which thus blessed me so far beyond my deserts. Tree Culture iu California. A San Francisco paper says:—Eight years ago un emigrant from an Eastern State arrived in one of the hay counties ■ with his family and a capital of §75. He had some knowledge of horticulture, and was a good practical gardener. A i capitalist, who was the owner of some comparatively useless land, contracted with this emigrant for planting and tending forty acres of this land in Aus tralian gums or eucalyptus. The breakiug, fencing, planting and labor on the land cost the owner §3,600. At the end of the first year he had 32,- j 000 thrifty trees, and the second year he set out the shaded ground iu pasture, which retained its verdure nearly ' throughout the entire twelve months, j showing a denser growth from year to year. At the beginning of the third year he utilized this pasture for dairy j cows, and found it strong enough to support two cows to the acre. He esti mated its value for this use at §4 per mouth per acre for eight months out of twelve or §32 per year per acre. The 1 total yearly profit from this source was 91,280. At the end of the eighth year ho was offered in cash by the keepers of a wood 1 yard thirty cents each for his trees, or ; §250 per acre, the purchaser to pay all the cost of cutting and removing the timber. The total value was §9,600, hut j in the meantime the owner of the land had had five years’ use of the pasture, which, by his own close estimate was worth to him §6,000. This makes the grand total of gross earnings in eight years §15.600. From this must be de- , ducted 83,600 paid out for the nursery j plants, fencing and labor, and an ex pense of §SOO for water for irrigation during the first two years, leaving a net income of §11,500, or §287.50 per acre for the eight years, or §36 per acre for ! one year. The Late Dean Stanley; The late Arthur Penrhyn Stanley was a son of Dr. Stanley, the Bishop of Norwich, and was horn ir Aldarley, ( | Cheshire, in 1815. He was educated at Rugby under Dr. Arnold, during that period made familiar to all by the story of the adventures of Tom Brown. At Oxford, afterward, he distinguished himself by his scholarship, aud gradu ated in 1838 at the University College. He remained there for twelve years afterward as a tutor. During his uni versity course he took the Newdigate prize for an English poem, “The Gypsies,” gained the Irish scholarship, j took the Latin essay prize in 1839, and \ in the year following won both the English essay and the theological prizes. He was select preacher in 1845, and in 1851 was made Canon of Canter bury. He was successively regius pro fessor of ecclesiastical history at Oxford, Canon of Christ Church and chaplain to the Bishop of London, until 1864, when he was made Dean of Westminster. He was a leader of the broad church party, j His “Life of Di. Arnold,” published in 1844, was his first literary work to make him widely known. He also published “Sermons and Essays on the Apostoli cal Age,” “Memoirsof Bishop Stanley,” j “Historical Memorials of Canterbury,” “Sermons on the Unity of Evangelical and Apostolical Teaching,” as well as a large number of other sermons and lectures. He has also contributed many articles to the reviews and magazines, 1 aud to the Dictionary of Classical Biog- j raphy and the Dictionary of the Bible, as well as to the Transactions of the Archaeological Institute. He was elect i ed Lord Rector of the University of St. Andrew’s iu 1874. ■ The Small Boy’s Explanation. It was Sunday evening. Angelica i ! had invited her “best young man” to the evening meal. Everything had passed off harmoniously until Angelica’s 1 seven-year-old brother broke the bliss ful silence by exclaiming: “Oh, ma\' yer oughter seen Mr. Lighted the other night, when he called to take Angie to the drill, he looked so ! nice sittin’ ’long side of her with his j arm—” “Fred J” screamed the maiden, whose ! I face began to assume the color of a well done crab—quickly placing her hand I over the hoy’s mouth. “Yer oughter seen him,” continued j the persistent informant, after gaining his breath, and the embarrassed girl’s hand was removed; “he had his arm—” ; “Freddie !” shouted the mother, as in her frantic attempts to reach the hoy’s auricular appendage she upset the con- I tents of the tea pot in Mr. Lightcd’s lap, i making numerous Russian war maps j over his new lavender pantaloons. “I was just goiug to say,” the half frightened boy pleaded, between a cry and an injured whine, “he had his ! arm—” “You boy 1” thundered the father, “away to the wood shed.” And the boy made for the nearest j exit, exolaiming as he waltzed, “I was < only goin’ to say Mr. Lighted had his i army olothes on, and I’ll leave it to him if he didn’t!” And the boy was permitted to return, and the remainder of the meal was spent in explanations from the family in re gard to the number of times Freddie had to he “talked to” for using his fingers for a ladle, War’s Horrors. SOME I'FAKFCi. SCENES IN THE SOUTH j AMERICAN CONTEST. The UeraUl, a newspaper published in Chili, contains the following descrip tion of one of the most terrible scenes witnessed during the war with the Pe- , ruvians: The Peruvians fired from the houses j at Miraflore with the object of driving j them out. The Chilians applied the : torch. When the progress of the flames made it impossible for those within to remain, the Peruvians began their esc- i dns. When they were out they had to ! meet the enemy’s soldiers, who were watching for them in order to shoot j them down. The corpses of the Peru | vians were laid in piles before the doors and walls of the burning houses, and j actually added fuel to the conflagration in progress. If any one of the besieged was happy enough to escape from the place of the struggle he was soon hunted for and killed like a rat, and sometimes several prisoners were kept alive by the inter ■ vention of the officers and commanders, , and were put under the charge of a cer tain number of officers, more to be pro tected than with any object of being es corted. But as soon as any Chilian soldiers were wounded or slain by those who continued the struggle, the prison ers were formed in line and shot without mercy by those who were escorting | them. At other times, before setting fire to the house, they tried to blow up a part of it with torpedoes, in order to reach the immured Peruvians, and to kill every one who could be found, without listening to their piteons ap i peals for mercy. While the commanding officer, Dnvil, was exhorting several Peruvians who were sheltered in a building to surrender themselves, he was slightly wounded. ! j It is impossible to give an idea of the fury with which the Chilians were seized when they saw the way iD which the ; enemy answered their proposition of a ; surrender in order to save their lives. - The building was immediately set on fire, the soldiers carrying everything they could lay their hands on to assist i the flames. In a short time the build ing was surrounded, and there was no escape left for those who were left in side. The smokecommenced to suffocate ( the prisoners before the fire had begun j to do its work. In that situation the Peruvians tried to find away to free themselves from | such a horrid death, but every door, j every window and every part of the I building which could have afforded any j chance of escape was barricaded with | the corpses of those who had been butchered. Many of these unfortunate Peruvians became crazy, and many tried to free themselves from such a death by crossing the fire which surrounded the building, but in vaiu. Others jumped from the top of the burning buildings into the streets to meet death at the hands of the Chilians, who threw those who were alive into the fire. A Country of Poor Men. Emerson has said : “ Ours is the coun try of poor men. Here is practical j democracy; here is the human race poured out over the continent to do j itself justice; all mankind in its shirt ! sleeves ; not grimacing, like poor rich i men, in cities, pretending to be rich, i but unmistakably taking off its coat to j j hard work when labor is sure to pay. ; This through all the country.” We ! must not let our toil occupy us too t much. Justice, says Emerson, satisfies everybody, and justice alone. No mon opoly must be foisted in, no weak party or nationality sacrificed, no coward ; j compromise conceded to a strong part- i ner. Every one of these is the seed of vice, war, and national disorganization. It is our part to curry out to the last the ends of liberty and justice. We shall j stand then for vast interests. North and South, East and West will be pres- : ent to our minds, and cur vote will be j as if they voted, and we shall know that ! : our vote secures the foundations of the i state, good will, liberty and security of | traffic, and of production, and mutual , increase of good will in the great in- i terests. True it is, even in view of the ; staitling array of r aterial facts pre- ; seuted tor the consideration of the conn- j try on this, the 105th anniversary of its birth, that trade and government will j not alone be the favored aims of our 50,000,000 of people, but every useful, j every elegant art, every exercise of imagination, the height of reason, the : noblest affection, the purest religion, : | will find their home in our institutions, ' and write our laws for the benefit of 1 1 men. —Hubert P. Porter. Newspapers. Somebody— if we knew who, we would give due credit—writes thus tersely and i : trnthfully of newspapers and their j worth to the world : “The value of newspapers is not fully appreciated, ! but the rapidity with which people are i wakiug up to their necessity and nse : fulness is one of the significant signs of the times. Few families are now con \ tent with a single newspaper. The ; thirst for knowledge is not easily sati ated, and books, though useful—yea, absolutely necessary in their place— fail to meet the demands of youth or age. The local newspaper is eagerly sought for and its contents as eagerly ; devoured. “Newspapers are also valuable to material prosperity. They advertise the , village, county or locality. They spread before the reader a map on which may be traced character, design, progress. If a stranger calls at a hotel, he first in quires for the local newspaper, and yon feel discomfited if yon are unable to find | a late copy, and confounded if you are | compelled to say you do not take it. “The newspaper is jnst as necessary \ to fit a man for his true position in life as food or raiment. Show us a ragged, barefoot boy rather than an ignorant one. His head will cover his feet in : after life if he is well supplied with i j newspapers. Show ns the child that is I eager for newspapers. He will make I the man of mark in after life if you gratify that desire for knowledge. Other ! things being equal, it is a rule that never fails. Give the children news- j papers. ” i #I.OO PER ANNUM. J OOOP-N/OHT. By and by, the evening falls, Sons of labor rest. Weary cattle sees the stalls. Birds arc in the nest. By and by the tide will turn, Change come o’er the sky, Life's hard task the child will learn. By and by. By and by, the din will cease, Day’s Jong hours be past. By and by in holy peace We shall sleep at last. Calm will be the sea-wind’s roar. Calm we too shall lie. Toil and moil and weep no more, By b nd by! WIT AND WISDOM. A MAN is known by the company he keeps out of. An exchange has an article on “ How to drive a hen.” It is a shoo-her way. A crank is a new name for a lunatic. It shows that something has turned his head. A man cannot be tolerably honest any more than a woman can be tolerably virtuous. The Germans are all good gardeners. Americans imitate them only in cultiva ting beer gardens. A Massachusetts town rejoioes in the name of Woodtick. It should be a popular picnic resort, “ What is the proper gait for girls ?” asks a journalistic contemporary. We should say a garden gate. Evert man is fond of striking the nail on the head, but when it happens to be his finger nail, his enthusiasm becomes wild and incoherent. “ Gracious ! wife,” said a father, as he looked at his son William’s torn trousers, “ get that little Bill reseated.” And she replied, “So I will.” Brush, the electric light man, predicts that electricity will soon be stored for family use. Think of sending your oldest boy to the grocery store for a paper of saleratus and a two pound can of electricity. “ In wendiu’ yonr varus ways to your varus homes,” said the President of the Lime-Kiln Club, as the clock pointed to the hour of ten, “let each one carry wid him de feeiiu’ data meek answer turneth away wrath, an’ dat bluster am rewarded wid a black eye.” A Syracuse girl broke off her engage ment because her lover joined a base ball club. She felt that she would never be happy with a man who had six fingers and his nose bioken, and four teeth knocked out, and who was liable to dream that he was batting for a home run and knock her clear across the room. Webster (Mass.) Times. He belonged to a chnrch with a steeple, and prayed in a manner most grand ; he chose his companions from people who were ranked as the best in the land ; but with all of his luminous morals, vice over him hung black as jet, and darkness his crown of bright florals —he played on the fiendish cornet— Modern Argo. These moonlight nights arc glorious at the seaside. “Isn’t it heavenly,” said Miss Sillybilly to Mr. Polo. “ What ?” heasked. “ Why, the moon,” “ Oh, yes, just too utterly heavenly for anything.” “ Oh, Ido justdote on the moon, don’t you?’’ “ Yes, it’s awfully nice, isn’t it, and so splendidly con spicuous, too!” Poor little fly ! He was flitting about the table, and in a little while he settled on the glucose, but the waiter brushed him away so rudely that he fell into the oleomargarine. There he struggled bravely, and at length he got his legs loose and flew—alas! only to drop into the sulphuric acid that had been ponred over the beets. In the Treasury Department there lies $1,400,000 of unclaimed interest on government bonds. This shows how little some people care for money. No doubt a great deal of that unclaimed interest belongs right in the newspaper offices, but the bonds have probably been mixed np with spring poems and sold for waste paper. The boys are too awfnl careless about these things. A country clergyman, who on Sun days was more indebted to his manu script than to his memory, called at a cottage while its possessor, a pious parishioner, was engaged reading tile prophecies of Isaiah. “ Weel, John,’ familiarly inquired the clerical visitant. “ what’s this you are about?” “I am ; prophesying,” was the prompt reply. , “Prophesying!” exclaimed the astound ed divine. “ I doubt yon are only read ing a prophesy.” “ Weel,” urged the religions rustic, “ if reading a sermon be preachin’, is na reading a prophecy prophesying ?” Inside were half a dozen ladies and gentlemen, when the driver stopped the car and said: “There is somebody in this car trying to beat me outef a fare.’ The passengers looked at each other and all said they had put in their fare. “It don’t make any difference. There are only six fares in the box and seven peo ple in the car.” Then a gentleman got up, aud with a sigh put iu the missing fare, remarking: “I put in one before, bnt as I was once iu the Legislature everybody will say it can’t be anybody else but ne, so I’ll have to stand it.” A Tramp’s Luck.—ln February last a tramp printer walked into the office of the Sun at Socorro, New Mexico, Bor rowed twenty-five cents and w-orked"un tilhe had earned $5. With this capital he started out prospecting, located a claim, two-thirds of which he sold out a short time ago for $30,000. The above information will no doubt render uneasy the printing fraternity of the country, who will hie them away to New Mexico to do likewise. Broke rr Up.—A Chinese mother at ; Fresno, Oregon, bandaged her little ! girl’s feet after the fashion of her oonn ! try, and for several days the cries of I the sufferer were heard throughout the mining town. Then a mob of indignant miners oroke into the honse, cut off the bandages and soaked the feet in lini : ment, and threatened to hang the woman i if she renewed the process. 1880.