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THE GRENADA GAZEI'P
a LA DU A mSK, Editor* anil Hlauagen. GRENADA, visa UPON THE THRESHOLD. ! Once more Upon the threshold of another That lute when* past stand, with half-rcluctant feet to meet In sftrauRur noutrast than they do elsewhere. l*ook h&fllw a momeut. Docs the prospect pkftWQ, Or th« weary heart but sigh regret? Can rocHleatlon smile, or ill at ease With what >n pust, wish only to forget? bay. eanst thou smile when nnory't iinger iag fiaite Once bmto recalls the dying ye; to sight! Wouldst thou live o'er again thoso changing day®, Or IrW them fade forever into night! A soIobmi quefttion, and the faltering heart .Sear*e dare aay "Yes/' yet will not quite say For joy and Badness both have played their part In making op the tale of "long ago." note memory sees the golden sunlight gleam Aeroas Hie path of life and shine awhile; And new the picture changes like a dream, And sorrow tlhna the eyes and kills the smile. So—1t has pane—where all has gone before: The mooning wind has sung the dead year's <*»B» Time's w»vo» roll on against the crumbling 4i«r<V And Aiks the worn-out hark beneath the snrge. Here odwh Hie checkered page of prose and Of ahafnir words and lines writ awry. There •tew must stand for better or for worse: So 8hwt Hie book and bid the year good-bye l —Chambers' Journal. A MYSTERY. Which Hob Never Been Satisfac torily Explained. We sax m the oflice of a small week ly, newspaper, my friend George Gresh am sail L George is editor and proprietw of tile local sheet, and I am a lawyer with more profession than practice. My oflice is just across the passage from my friend's, aud is a gloomy, dismal room, whereas liis is sunshiny aud looks out on the street; so a good deal of unoccupied time is passed in the shabby old arm-chair bc tivoen tlie editorial desk and the win dow. Sometimes I liolp with the work, if K presses; sometimes—as noiv —I smoke and dream and ivaleh him receive nod answer telegrams aud jot down items for his paper. The smoko from my pipe floats above my friend's ruddy bead. He is writing obituaries. 1 know it by the set of his coat and tho expression on liis bn*. Pensive regrets slip down liis coal-sleeve and run glibly off the oud of his pen; ecomiums collect in regiments in the front rank of liis brain, and arc marshaled' to the lips bv the absent tugging of the left band at the soft blond mustache; sym pathy aoil lamentation is gazed down by the grave bluo eyes on to tho paper which Kes before him like a tombstone hwaitfcig the inscription. He is a kind hearted man, is Gresham, aud what he writes » not all empty platitude. He's sorry far the people, even when he does not know them—perhaps from a reaiimtioa of the strangeness, the ut ter incomprehensibility of the change eiillnd death; (ho censing to be, and the mystery of the beyond. My friend's pen caught in the fiber of the nape! - , and made a malignant splutter an 1 biotin the middle of the ••In ilemonnni." He whispered two words softly to liis red mustache, and reached over for the blotter. • George," I question, "do the dead ever rise?" "I suppose so," lie answers, sopping away at the ink industriously. "Some thing certainly becomes of vital force — spirit —soul —whatever you chooao to call it. Whon the body returns to original elements and is re distributed; changes lho relation of its parts —something becomes of tho sout h's resurrected—tho process of de velopment goes on. All the factions agree on that, I think, no matter how much they skirmish along the line " "Hold on! I don't meat that. 1 want to know whether you consider it possible for the spirits of tho dead to return here—to manifest them selves to US?" "Gho-la?—popularly so-called?" "Yes, that's it. D ■ you believe that men have ever seen ghosts?" Gresham threw back his head and Hu is not an imaginative laughed. man. "I believe that men have believod that, they liavo seen ghosts." lie said; ••but whether they really have or not is an open question. Men have laid claim lo illumination, divination, spiritual intercourse and tho like, since imagination became suf ficionUy developed to formulate and inculcate theories. Tltoy may bo true, they may not be true, say? What a man holds to bo a truth is a trnlh to him until he outgrows it. Relatively, any tiling may be truo." ••Relatively, thou, a man may be lieve that ho lias seen a gliostP" I "Relatively to what?" over Who shall query. "To tho strength of his Imagination and the weakness of his digestive ap paratus I should say." George answers lightly. "The thing looks abnormal to me—out of order and contrary to If intercourse with tho beyond law. ksd liecii always open it would soom that we have failed to utilizo our op portunities for increase of knowledge. Wo believe n great ninny things, but what do wo know? What have the spirits and ghosts tnught us? Noth lug. The a priori ovidonce, to my mind, is against tlie ghost and spirit theories, from the fact that they have tnogbt ns nothing: The sum of humsn knowledge of tho beyond has never been Increased one jot or tittle by the auvcm oi uc|)uruuu iu ntty ».'*t ever was soon—or supposoil t< soon." I bo "The bonds of materialism prevent perhaps," I sug too gross to mid teach The fault perfect intercom • Our senses are gest. perceive that which they were tvo lit to receive it. may be ours." Gresham regards me fixedly, with hi# pen poise I over the inkstand. • Knowing that," lie rotorls vigor ously, "it argues great hopefulness in the ghost- to tackle us. If a thingeau not tie received it's idle that it should bo ottered. Infinite Wisdom, it. seems to me, would suggest better adjust ni'iits. Mind. I'm not disputing spir itual manifestations or authentic ghosts; 1 simply say that no ghosts or spirit has ever honored me with his or tier acquaintance, and I can't admit that 1 have found life unsatisfying and ! incomplete in consequence." Then lie belit over his work again. There is silence in tho room. Up and down the stairway and through the corridors of the big building foot steps pass and repass. The sounds of the streets reach us from time to tinio a spoken word, a call, the music of soft Southern laugh. My cigar burns unevenly, in a way I do not like. My mind strays backward to the days of my boyhood, and memory, from her storceiosot, drags out, shakes free of the dust of years, and presents to me a thing that happened long ago. At fourteen 1 was an idle, carolcss school-boy, tough of conscience aud digestion, strong in muscle and brawn, and free from abnormal development of nerve tissue. A healthy, vigorous animal, in short, unimaginative, un emotional, in any morbid way; a creature who ate, drank, slept and played with hearty abandon, and shrieked undue knowledge, and liad littlo hankering for mental develop ment. A difficult subject for spirit ual manifestations! Very possibly. Yet in those days I was onec fully con vinced that I had soon a ghost. I think so still. At least I have never been able to account for that which I d id see. It happened this way. At (lie school where some six years of ngr boyhood were spent, lived a gentleman named Winnington. Hi was a pro fessor of English, and Ills wife, fora collide of years was matron, and looked after our manners and morals (having boys of her own), as well as our bodies and clothing. She was a gen tle, sweet-mannered woman, a lady in the highest sense, and the rough lads under her charge repaid her care with loyal devotion, li. was a gt'eilt bluw to us all when ill-health anil increas ing family cares made it necessary for her to give u p her position in the school. They moved to a village half a mile from us, and Mr. Winnington walkod to his class daily. We likod him and respected him, which is as much ns a man can expect from the lads ho in structs, anil far more than many a man can command. But our feeling for liis wife amounted to a sentiment The autumn after their removal to the village was unusually sickly; much fever and of a liad sort Poor people had a hard lime of it anil the Win ningtons were very poor—far poorer than any one imagined, for they kopt their necessities and struggles to them selves as becomes gcnllo folks. In the very beginning of the epidemic three of the six children sickened, and later Mrs. Winnington was stricken down, a very had ease. Ono evening just about dusk, Imct Mr. Winnington on his way to the school to tell us that his youngest child, a little girl, had died that day ^t no in, and that the doctor hail advised that I he little body should lie taken to tho church for the time that must in tervene before burial—the house was so small and the mother desperately ill. She diii not know of her child's death, her husband said, and liis voico quivered and broke. I was not an observant lad, but the look on his haggard face appealed to me, n ade mo vaguely shy and sorry and uncomfortable. I wanted tosiy something to hint, hut tho words would not come. It, was a relief when he told me that lie had come to sec if some of tho boys would not lie willing to sit tip in the church that night and watch beside tho littlo body. Hi could hire some one but lie shrank from having Ills baby eared for so, and liis wife and tho other chil dren could not he left without him. This was something prac tical, something that came quite within my range as an expression of sym pathy; so 1 promised with groat readi ness that I would attend to it all, and bade him set liis mind nt rest. The idea tlint there might bo diffi culty In getting companions fur my vigil never presente I itself, and I was proportionately surprised whou three or four boys, to whom I applied, de clined in the most unequivocal terms to have any thing to do with tho matter. Their excuses wero various and comprehensive, but, to mo, emi nently unsatisfactory. 1 thought thorn cowards, and told them so, and, after high words, decided to risk no more refusals, but just to watch by myself. The church stood bark from a rough, red clay road, cut here and there with rut* and washed out places. Around it was tho churchyard, ivlioro Ttic rude forefather* of the hamlet slept. A narrow brick wn.k led from the gate to the doorway, terminating in a flat stone step; there was no porch. About throe hundred yards away, down the clay road, stood tho small frnmo house in which tho Wlnningtons lived. I pushed opon tho church door and entered. The interior of tho building s 1 I somo I it nntrimmod lamp placed on the read ing-desk. The cornors and the space under the gallery looked dark ami eerie. In the body of the church two windows had been opened, for tho night was close, desortod, .save for the stiii while occu pant of the little coffin insido the chnncol rail. The pitifulness of it did not strike mo then; boys are callus an imals, and at tho same time acutely intolerant of pain. 1 avoided looking at tho little one, and turned my head as I passed tho bier for the lamp which I up into the pulpit with me. sight of death was unfamiliar, was appaling to me. Tho eotlin was cov ered with a sheet, or white drapery of some sort, and the lid rested against the altar-rail. There was a perfume as of flowers which distilod itself around. Soino loving hand had placed roses on the little silent breast. The pulpit was one of those old fashioned, big box affairs, wherein the minister is isolated, and lifted high above his congregation. It was roomy and commodious, and in it I decided to spend the night, trimmed and elenned the lamp with my knife and pockct-handkcrehicf, and brought up piles of cushions from the pews to elevnte the seat so that I might rest my elbows on the reading desk. I have provided myself with a book, and I made my preparations with great placidity, whistling under my breath and in no wiso incon venienced by my unfamiliar surround ings. Before opening my book I glanced around me. Below lay the length of the spectral building, shadowy, sug gestive, given over to gloom and silence. The circle of light scarcely penetrated beyond tho chancel, but within it lay the coffin with its drapery of white, and it# faint perfume of roses. Not a breath stirred, and tho night was dark; through the open windows I could sec pale stars growing into brightness. To a poet they would have seemed the lamps of angel watchers shedding radiance oil the pathway of a soul; to a school-boy they were— nothing but stars. After ono glance to see that all was well I opened my book amt lost con sciousness of my surroundings in the interest of the story. An hour passed, perhaps more, when I was startled by a sharp, scratching sound down in the body of the church, followed by a light thud, as though something heavy, but elastic, bad boon thrown through the open window, thought flashed through me that some of the boys, knowing of my solitude, wore trying to frighten me, and my temper rose. Leaning over the edge, of the pulpit, I peered down intently, but at first could discover nothing. Then I made out two phosphoroscont spots close to the wall, under one of the beaches, and while 1 wondered what it could be, the scratching, scrambling noise was repeated, and there was another soft thud. Then hideous stories of cats, and rats, and evil beasts of all sorts, and of their attacking the dead, rushed back on mind and turned mo sick with dis Tho place was wished to lake Tho I 1 The my gust. By the time I got down tho pulpit slops there were two more thuds, and I know that four night urowlers lurked tinder tho benches, with Heav en only know how many outside. The horror of it did not come to mo until long afterward, at the titno my inter est in my book was so ab sorbing, that after that one shudder of disgust my most pronounced emotion annoyance nt the interruption. Whou I had driven out tho eats 1 fast ened both windows aud locked the door before returning to my book. One hour—two—passed quietly; the interest of the story deepened, ami led by tlie author's magic I followed ea gerly through realms of romance nnd wild adventure. Suddenly, without the slightest provocation, my eyes wandered from'the page and fastened oil the door away at tlie etui of the building. It did not surprise me that I could sec it distinctly, although the light from the lamp was dim and unable to penetrate that distance; tlio breathless air seemed waiting—aud then stirred with some vague presence. I waited also, not frightened or nerv ous, only curious and deeply in terested. Tlie door I lmd locked and tho empty filled with a familial wai appeared to open, was _ It was Mrs. Winnington, and space figure. my first emotion was surprise anil pleasure that sho should bo hotter, my second, a shy, uncomfortable sort of sympathy. I shrank back into tho shadow, and watchod her as she glid ed tip the aisle, noticing how pallid and wan her faco looked as sho ad vanced into tho brighter eirelo of the lamp-light. She wore a woolen Bhawl her white night-dress, nnd her white foot wore thrust in slippers—or I thought so at the lime because they made no noise. Her black hair hung in a heavy coll down her back and her eyes had a far-off, unseeing look. 1 wondered why they had lot her cotno there alone, at that hour of tho night, and whether I should not run and toll somo otic, or, at least, lot her know of my proximity. Then a strange re luctance canto over mo ami 1 kept quite still, determined to do neither. Softly she advanced, entered the chancel, and knelt hcsldo the littlo coffin; her hands, frail nnd shadowy, lifted the white drapery and she bent her head. There was no outburst of grief such as I expected, no sobbing. demonstration of woe. The silenoc seemed lo me uniiaturul, for at that age I knew naught of the dumbneee of anguish; but Influenced by somo emo tion beyond my own comprehension, 1 over no mother would prefer to be unwatched, j 1 When nt last I glanced around , again, I was fain to rub my eyes and j pinch myself, to wonder whether or no I had been dreaming. Every thing | closed; l could tell that by all ab ....wVty'a'ttJ;" " mourner had vanished. No thought of ghosts or apparitions | entered my prosaic mind, and after ! puzzling over tho occurreuco for a moment, I dismissed it and returned to my book. I had dozed perhaps an instant, and so been unconscious when Mra Winnington went away, for that it had been Mrs. Winnington in the flesh 1 was convinced. The thought that harm might come to her from the alone troubled me, and but was senec i exposure for reluctance to leave my charge I should have run over to their house to satisfy myself of her safety. Tho rest of the night was unevent ful, and when morning dawned one of the neighbors canto in to relievo my watch. Before going home I sped the road to inquire about Mrs. Winnington. her chamber oponod on tho gallery and tho curtain was drawn aside. I i>oopcd in, not wishing to disturb any one. By tho light of the night lamp I could see tho form of Mrs. Winnington motionless on iter bod, with her face to tho wall, and her black hair trailing over tho pillow. The covering was pushed aside, and I could sec the soft folds of a woolen shawl around her shoulders. Winnington canto out to me, and I in- ; quired anxiously how his wife had passed the night Slio hail been dos perately ill, ho said, so ill that lie and the doctor had watched her overy breath the night through. Once, at the turn of the night they had thought her dying, her pulse apparently had ccaso'd to beat, and she had grown cold and almost rigid. They had j wrapped warm garments around her and worked over her ail hour before restored. Sho across Tho window of Mr. animation had been was sleeping now, and the doctor had given him hope. "Had thoy never left her?" 1 ques tioned. "Not for a single moment?" "Certainly not," bo answered, and looked surprised. In my amazement I came near blurt ing out my story; but the exhaustion . ol liis face and voice held me back, and giving him a bewildered stare I shut my lips together and went away. Afterward, some reason, fear of ridi cule perhaps, prevented me from alluding to the subject) and gradually the occurreuco was snowed under by subsequent events. j Since I have reached manhood, how ever, recollection of it has once or twice returned, nnd I have indulged j in much unprofitable speculations. As I said before, I have never been able to explain tho matter to my satisfac tion.— M. 0. McClelland, in N. E In. dependent. FRONIE AND EPHRUM. A Devoted Couple Whose Dark Eye* t'on rt rated the Deepest Darkness. Dark? That has only four letter* in ; it. A house bul lied down, but people tho street didn't know of it. i across You could see further with your eyes shut than with thorn open. The dark ness was four coats of pure black, fast colors. It quenched all sounds. All nt once, and faintly, from eithor side of the street, one hundred feet wide, came: "Frouie, am dat vou'solf?" "Kplirum, am dat you'self?" And tlie answers, simultaneously: "Fronie, tint's me." "Ephrum, tint's me." Then they met in tlie middle of the street. "Fronie, how you know dal was me?" "1 knowed it by yo' fane, Ephrum." "An' I knowed you by yo' face, too, Fronie." "Yas. Ephrum, Isnivd adalik spot givinc along oberdah, an'you couldn't fool me. I know dat face o' yotirn." • Dal.'s jis my fix. I saivd yo' coun tenance. It's cur'its bow if is atmos phere do bring out de complex!uni." "Wil l's yc gwlne, Ephrum?" "D iivn to yo' house." "Take my nhm. l'se gwlno back wid yo', for fear yo' see annuddor dalik spot gwino crlong an' lake up wid somo odder gal; It's gwino to git ilahk dis ebenin; I presume."— A. W. Ilellaw, in Hid-Hits. 1 1 The Pope's Annual Income. The Pope has an annual income ol $625,000. it is said, from tho interest on the English bonds left in tlie treas ury by bis predecessor. He is also said to be a great speculator, subscribing for tho Italian loans, holding them for a rise, and selling them to Invost tho profits in more E iglislt bonds. The Peter's pence is now said to amount to about. $415,000 a year. This money and tho income of tho English bonds goes to pay $5,0!M) a year to each Car dinal living in Rune, nml to pay the prelates of tlie Papal Court, secre taries, nuncios, guards and other Papal servants. Besides this the Popo re ceives from tho Apostolic Chancery sums for titles of nobility, Papal decorations, benedictions in tlie article of death, privileges of tho altar, private chapels, dispensations, nnd other things, the total amount being, it is said, $520,000 a year. Tho Pope's annual liieotnc, therefore, is about $1, 800,00ft—N. r. 8nn. —Wator is so scaruo around Rock) Hill. Conn., tlmt the babios bathed in bard cider. are j 1 , j | _ _ ■ Cotton and Sugar Factor AND COMMISSION MERCHANTS, 192 O-iatrlei Street, MAMf Oflfiflllfi L | Qp p#t ite Cotton Exchange, l,c " vl ■ ! S. GUMBEL & CO. NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC. _HAVING LEASED THE WELL-KNOWN i I ; j ..._On the smith west corner of the square, we are now prepared to— ta inch a manner that will give satisfaction to all. Our charges willl very moderate, and we respectfully solicit your patronage Jennings & Gordon. Grenada, Miss., Septembe^Sl, 1887. MANAGERS. New Goods New Firm! •Si Have just received, and are still receivin' of the largest and most complete stocks of one Dry Goods, Groceries General Merchandise! . I Ever brough t to Grenada. Everybody is invited to call and txa our mammoth stock, and the FARMERS'ALLIANC Are especially invited to make our place headquarters for their trade. UnTSTT _ttiJ=Li TOUR j j Mings, Uisis, rad Stores *»<> Merchandise "WITH I Lake 8c McLeo (SUCCESSORS TO R. P. LAKE) teal Fin tews Am ; i 3v£JSS. We make a Specialty of Gin-Houses, Cotton and other Coun\ Property. Lowest Rates Guaranteed. Prompt Attention giv FOR SALE 1 IN CARLOAD LOTS Coal -:0R BY THE TON: Wilder Cotton Co.Ajti, University -O F Mississippi. The 36th Annual Session of this Institution will open on rajtsMi.au stissmtuum, Pile faculty cousists of eleven Pro fessors, and one instructor, is full. The buildings are in perfect order; tlie situation ie elevated and perfectly healthy. Necessary expenses need not exceed $150 or $200 for entire eourse of nine months. Law students $200 and $215. Tlie law school is in operation,and Us curriculum is equal to any in the United States, Nor full particulars, and for Histori cal and Current Catalogue, address EntVAKD Maykb, Chulrman of Fac ulty, University, Miss., or Secretary Boardof Trustees, Oxford, Miss. 81 FOR RENT. My dwelling-house, (now oeoup by Dr. B. B. Bmlth) situated on Mi Street, ia for rent for the year 1888. Posaesslon given Oct. 1st. For terms apply to J. Lane Leigh, Miss Hobik Huffinoton. Grenada, Sept. 27th, 1887, A much better feed for cows than ■aatl, are cotton teed hulls. For sale at tha e|i mill at 20 eta per 100 lb* led ain i TRASK SELECTED SHO ■m nt Pi IH $1 VOUR QROOER FOR TH»: •; «' msutielNfi Ilka TAKE NO OTHflj 00.1IBffl WILDER WESTERN CHIUTOI PURE LY VECET Al ' Tbs only Jtsrasdy Fosltl**|r**j to OURt OHIkk* A FIVSS or • ' fsmionua TowxM* nT f -- 'I e . Tha Grenada Oil Nl'jfJr the highest cash prio;»J ( t sound cotton seed dell'* ■till.