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VOL. V.
■ .With ;5Poo\>lo tell the story yet, V
the pathos of regret,
, How along the streets one day,
Angels Unawares, from far away, for need,
And passed, with gifts heed J
no mortal gave them
. They had cheer for those who weep,
They ‘Balm had light for shadows deep; bore,
for broken hearts they
■Rest, deep rest, a boundless store.
But the people, so they say,
Went the old, blind, human way,—
-Feil the quack and hailed the clown
’When the angels came to town.
THROUGH THE DARKNESS.
---
By MABEL NELSON THURSTON.
HE light from the
little hand-lamp on
.tli the table struck
1 W/J I sharply across a
ft? i corner of the box
,! 'k1 on the floor; it was
°kS ipfs|p|: „r- __i a large box, and
they had spent the
Mm 4 '/llh 1
♦ * empty now.
The missionary and his wife did not
look at each other; the man’s hand
nested tremulously on a little pile of
children’s toys; the woman held a
long heavy overcoat with a she fur collar;
with studied carelessness thrust
her fingers into all the pockets, keep¬
ing her tell-tale face turned from the
light.
“It was a fine box,” said'the mis¬
sionary. His voice was husky; he
struggled with it and added more firm¬
ly: “A generous box.”
“Yes,” answered the woman me
chanically.
heap Suddenly she dropped the coat in a
on the floor and buried her face
in her hands; she made no sound, but
her thin shoulders shook pitifully.
The man crossed the room, stumbling
over the piles of clothing on the floor,
and caught her in his arms. His voice
was broken with pity.
“Annie,” he' cried; “oh, you poor
little girl!”
The woman did not lift her face;the
words came chokingly from between
he' fingers; “I was so sure of the
Ti.-hv ” she sobbed. “They’ve al
- w.r erit us money before, and they
knew how much more we needed it
this year. I thought that now we could
pay the bills for all last summer’s
sickness, and you could have hot cof¬
fee when you came home these dread¬
ful nights, and the children more meat.
I never doubted it. I had been thank¬
ing God all these days that the box
was on its way. And now-”
The man looked about bim at the
motley heap of old and new, poor and
fine, with a pitiful appeal for com¬
fort.
“And now you have a good new
dress at last, dear; and that overcoat
is just what I need; and there is much
to give away.” Then his eyes fell
again upon the little pile of toys, and
his face brightened; and he ended
with cheerful confidence: “And we
can have a Christmas for the children,
Annie. They never sent toys in the
box before.”
The woman lifted her head eagerly.
“1 forgot the children,” she said; “I
was thinking of you and the dreadful
winter. I am glad for the children—
oh, lam! I can write—to-morrow—I
am sure.” She spoke with a pathetic
eagerness and touched the toys loving¬
ly, trying in her thought to override
her disappointment with the children’s
joy
Her husband stood looking at her;
as she bent over the toys, be noticed
how heavy were the blue veins on her
temples and how thin the hand that
set the doll’s dress in order; and he
felt a sudden tightening at his heart.
“Annie,” he said, pleadingly, “take
the children and go baok to your
mother’s this winter. It is too hard
for you here.”
She looked up, startled and hurt
and indignant all at once. “As if I
would think of it!” she cried. “As if
it is any harder for me than it is for
you! I don’t have to go out in all
weathers. Besides,” she added, with
a laugh that disappointed her by
struggling unoertainly with the sobs
that choked her throat—“besides, I
couldn’t; the money didn’t come, you
know.”
“Yes,” answered her husband, heav¬
ily; “that is true. We haven’t the
money. But I wish you could go,
Annie. ”
She dropped the toys and looked
across at him, speaking with slow in¬
tensity. “I believe you’re making me
glad that the money didn’t come,” she
said.
They folded the clothing and put it
back in the box; there was much to
Bpare, they planned; and the check
the minister had received—it was for
only half his quarter’s salary, for the
Board was in debt—would pay their
debt and leave enough, with careful
planning, to buy food for six weeks.
Beyond that they would not let them¬
selves look.
The winter settled down on them,
hard and cold and pitiless. The chil¬
dren were warmly dressed, thanks tp
the box; but they seeded better food,
and their appeal®#^ white* patient ] faces con
stantly the mother for
WHEN THE ANGELS CAME.
It has been and will be so:
Angels come and angels go,— V.
Opportunity and Light,—
Twixt the morning and the night,
With their messages divine
To your little world and mine.
Aud we wonder why wo heard
Not a whisper ol thoir word,
Caught uo glimpse ot finer grace
In the passing form and face;
That our ears were dull as stones
To the thrill of spirit tones,
And we looked not up, but down,
When the angels came to town.
—Zion’s Herald.
what she could not give. Her hus¬
band’s cough began to trouble him,
too. The woman met it all with a will
sternly keyed to silence. She could
not bear to touch the dress that had
come for her in the box; it seemed to
ber as if it was so much life stolen
from her husband aud children; she
could have done so much with the
money that that cost!
One day the minister came in and
began fumbling in the box.
“Wasn’t there a pair of warm gloves
in here?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered his wife, laying
aside her sewing and hurrying to save
something of the order his nervous
hands were destroying. “Wait, dear,
I’ll get them. I wanted you to put
them on last week. They are beauti¬
ful ones.” Her sure woman’s touch
had gone straight to them through the
chaos; she stood smoothing the fur
tops with satisfaction.
But the minister was looking at her
pitying tenderness.
“They are not for me, dear,” he
answered; “my older ones will do
well.”
“Who then?” cried the woman,
quickly.
“Jim Cassock.”
A silence followed, and in the
silence the name went echoing and
echoing through the woman’s brain.
“I can’t—bear it !” she cried; “he
hates you so—he has injured you so;
and they will just go for drink. Give
him your old ones, if you must, but
not these. It isn’t right!”
“His need i3 greater than mine,”
answered the minister, simply. “He
hurt his hand last week. You would
pity him if you could see it now,
Annie. And if
The woman reached up and pulled
his face down to her and kissed it with
a fierce tenderness. “Go,” she said.
“I shouldn’t pity him—I’m afraid I
hate him; but go!”
She watched him as, his frail figure
bending against the wind, he faced
the immensity of the prairie. When
he returned, several hours later, she
had his supper hot for him, hut she
asked no question of his errand. Yet
though she put it aside for her bus
hand’s sake, she could not forget it,
and the next time she went to the
town she watched for Jim. He was
always loafing about somewhere down
the long, rambling street; and he was
that afternoon. But as he saw the
minister a strange expression came in¬
to his face, almost as if he were strug¬
gling with his worst self and crying
dumbly for help. It only lasted a mo¬
ment; then he turned and disappeared
behind one of the houses.
“He seems almost afraid of you,”
said Annie, wonderingly. Then her
face changed; the man was not wear¬
ing the gloves, he had sold them for
drink and was ashamed to meet the
minister; she had known that it would
be so! She would not pain her hus¬
band by a word, but she looked down
the street with dim eyes; it was so
hard to have things go that way. And
the minister drove silently on, with a
cloud of discouragement blurring the
strong patience of his eyes. Not even
his wife knew of how many sleepless
nights this man had been the burden.
It was several weeks later that the
minister came in late one night and
went over to the medicine shelf. His
face was pinched and blue, and his
hands shook among the bottles. His
wife ran across to him.
“What is it, dear?” she cried.
He leaned against tlie shelf, fight¬
ing the chill that was upon him.
“Cassock’s little girl,” he said, “she
is very sick. I am going to carry
him some quinine; I told him I
would.”
The woman’s face sharpened with
fear. “Yon can’t,” she cried; “you’re
sick yourself; you can’t jg go out
again.”
He seemed to struggle with the
words before they became clear to
him; then he tried to smile down at
her. “I must,” he answered.
She put her thin hand in his and
drew him to the fire, and pushed
down into a chair before it. Sbe
spoke soothingly, as if to a child.
“I’ll send the medicine,” she said;
“it will be all right. But yon must
over this chill; you can’t go out
”
Only half comprehending, the man
over the fire, shaking from
to foot. His wife hurried into
other room; three children were
the oldest a girl of ten. Her
‘To thitie own self be true, and ft will follow, as night tho day, thou cans’t not then be false to any man,”
LINCOLNTON, GA-. THURSDAY, MAY 26, 1898
mother called her softly; “Oome
here, Ruth.”
The child obeyed her wonderingly.
She was a sensitive little thing, and
the voice smote strangely upon her.
Her mother leaned down and caught
the child to her as if she could never
let her go. Then she held her away
and looked steadily into the little
serious face.
“Ruth,” she said, “you have al¬
ways been Mamma’s help, and now
she wants you to do something hard
for her. Will you do it and not be
afraid?”
with “I’ll—try,” answered the child,
a quick breath.
Her mother, crushing back the fear
in her own heart, spoke with quiet
cheerfulness.
“It won’t take long, dear,” she
said. “Little Mamie Cassock is very
sick, and Papa was going to take her
some medicine; but Papa is sick him¬
self and cannot go. So you must
carry the medicine to Deacon Gar¬
nett’s and tell him about Papa, and
ask him to send it to the Cassocks’.
Tell him that it must get there to¬
night or Mamie may not live. Can
you remember? It must go to¬
night.”
“Yes,” answered the child. Her
heart was beating painfully; but sbe
said no word, and stood perfectly still
while she was being wrapped up.
Then her mother set the lamp in the
window aud went to the door with
her, and held her for a moment so
tightly that it hurt her.
“Now go, dear,” she said—“go, and
don’t be afraid. Remember that you
are not alone, and that Mother will
be praying for you every minute till
yon get back.”
As tbe door closed behind her
mother the child ran back to tlie
threshold with a cry of terror. She
was a timid little thing, and she had
never been alone before. Then she
turned sharply. Her mother had told
her to be brave—sbe must be brave.
The tears rolled silently down her lit¬
tle white face and waves of fear beat
up in her throat; but she did not fal¬
ter, she went steadily on into the
darkness and emptiness saying over
and over her one little prayer; “God,
don’t let anything hurt me—help me
to be brave; don’t let anything hurt
me—help me to be brave.” And
gradually God’s tender hand lmsned
the fear of the timid little child-heart,
and she went quietly on under the
golden stars.
In fifteen minutes she reached Dea
con Garnett’s and stood knocking at
the door; there was no answer. She
knocked again; then as the truth
dawned upon her she heat at it in a
fierce terror; but nobody came, and
the sounds seemed to thunder mightily
about her in the still, sharp air. She
was very cold now; but she sat down
on the step a moment to think. There
was but one thing to do; ber mother
had said that the medicine must get to
Cassock’s that night; she must go to
the town herself. Choking back her
sobs slie struggled to ber feet; even
the few minutes on the doorstep had
made her stiff. She stood a moment
looking pitifully back at the home
light; then she turned away and ran,
ran—into the shadows of the great
night.
Nearly an hour later a man, hurry¬
ing from one of the saloons in the
town, was stopped by a child’s voice.
“Please, sir, can you tell me where
Mr. Cassock lives?”
The man had not »been drinking
much; he stared down at her in amaze¬
ment, “If ’tain’t the parson’s kid!”
he cried, “What are you doing here
this time of night?”
The child’s weary face looked
whitely up at him from the old blue
hood. “Papa’s sick,” she said; “and
this medicine had to go to Mamie Cas¬
sock, else she’d die. I carried it to
Deacon Garnett’s; but nobody was
there, so I had to come myself. Do
you know where he lives?”
With a smothered exclamation the
man stooped down and picked the
child up. “I guess you’ve walked fin
enough,”he exclaimed. “Iain’tgood
fur much in the way of meetings; but I
can’t let the parson’s kid go round town
alone. I’ll take you to Cassock’s, aud
I'll take you home!”
The child put her arms about bis
neck and leaned against him with a
sight of content. He was a rough, bad
man; but the child trusted him, and ho
knew it. He held her gently so that
she was not shaken by his long strides.
In five minutes he was knocking com
mandingly at the door of a shanty at
the end of the street.
Jim Cassoak opened the door him¬
self. His eyes were red and swollen,
but he had not been drinking; the door
swinging back showed a bare room,
and a worn, sickly woman holding a
child who was moaning feebly.
“What’s wanted?” said Jim, fiercely,
“1 can’t see anybody; my child’s dy¬
ing.”
“No thanks to you if sbe doesn’t,”
retorted the other man. “The par¬
son’s sick and sent the medicine; this
child came walking all the way to town
with it. ” His tone was full of a fine
contempt, keener than any rebuke,
toward the miserable creature before
bim.
Jim stared at the man uneompre
henclingly; but the woman started up
with a little cry. She put the child
down on the bed and ran across to her
d.
“Don’t you understand, Jim?” she
sobbed. “The medicine’s come—it’s
qome, man!”
Jim rubbed his hand across his fore¬
head and looked from Ruth’s tired lit¬
tle face to his own baby. Then, sud¬
denly he dashed into the other room,
He came back in a moment with a pair
of gloves which he thrust into the
child’s hands. “Tell the parson that I
couldn’t wear ’em, that I ain’t touched
’em!” he said, eagerly. “Tell him to
put ’em on himself; will you tell him?
To put ’em on himself!”
“Yes,” answered Ruth, wondering¬
ly; ‘Til tell him.”
Jim stood at the door a moment; he
tried to say something more, but the
words stuck in his throat; then his
wife called him, and he slammed the
door, shutting them out into the
night.
Ruth’s friend grunted, but made no
remark. He picked the child up again,
and she nestled contended in his arms;
she was half asleep from weariness and
only had a hazy knowledge of it when
he got a horse from somewhere and be¬
gan riding across the prairie.
The minister :had fallen into a
troubled sleep; but his wife was walk¬
ing the floor, beating desperately back
the fears that stormed her heart.
Nothing could have happened to the
child; there was not far to go and she
knew the way perfectly. Mrs. Garnett
must have kept her until some one
could bring her home. She would not
worry—she would not. But ns the mo¬
ments lengthened into one hour, and
then into another, she could fight her
fears no longer. She knelt down by
the bed where her husband was toss¬
ing and tried to pray; but only the
child’s name came to her lips.
Suddenly she started and listened.
There was the beating of hoofs across
tn'e prairie, nearer—nearer; now they
were stopping at the door, She
rushed to it and threw it open. In
the sudden blaze of light, horse and
rider seemed to start up from the
ground. She shrank hack with a lit¬
tle cry as she saw who the man was.
The next minute a child’s face was
lifted from his arm, and a child’s
voice filled her ears.
“Mamma, I was afraid; but I went,
n!lf l he brought me home. Oh,
mamma, it was so good of him!”
The woman caught the child pas
uonately in her arms, and looked up
at the man, her eyes full of.the grati
Jjyle she could not speak,
f ’he man’s voice was gruff. “I
^wn’t gl&ng to see the parson’s kid
wandering bound alone if I knowed
it,” he said. Then he turned abruptly
away and galloped into tbe darkness.
The sharp blast of cold air woke the
minister. Through the doorway he
could see into the other room; his
wife was taking off the child’s wraps,
and both tlie child’s face and the
woman’s were strangely moved. He
called, weakly:
“Did Jim Cassock get the medicine,
Annie?”
His wife ran to him, and she had
something in her hands. “Yes, dear,
he has it,” she answewed; “aud—I
wronged him, David. He sent the
gloves back to you and wanted you to
jiromise to wear them.”
The minister’s patient eyes bright¬
ened. “Did Jim do that?” he said,
and there was a thrill of gladness in
his tired voice. He took the gloves
and absently began pulling them on.
Suddenly his face changed.
“Annie,” he cried, excitedly; “put
your hand in here!”
She obeyed him wonderingly, slip¬
ping her hand in the warm fleece lin¬
ing. Then a flash of great joy illum¬
ined her worn face, “David!” she
cried.
“Take them out,” he answered,
breathlessly. into
She slipped her fingers laid one tho
glove-finger after another and
pile of billson the bed; there were ten
in all, and each was for ten dollars.
The woman spoke first; the words
were common, but it was none the less
a thanksgiving. “And now you cau
have the coffee,” she said, “and the
children”—she broke off, but ber eyes
were shining through tears.
Over the old coverlet the minister’s
hand clasped his wife’s; but there
| were no tears in his eyes.
“Jim Cassock sent it all back,”he
said; and the words sounded like a
psalm.—The Independent.
The “Iieake Dole ot Bread.”
The most curious charity in New
York, aud one which savors of medi¬
aeval times, is, perhaps, the one
known as the “Leake Dole of Bread.”
For over one hundred years a weekly
distribution of bread bas taken place
at St. John’s Chapel, Varick street,
one of the Trinity parish churches.
John Leake, who was one of the
founders of the Leake and Watts
Home for Children, left $5000, the in¬
terest to be spent in purchasing bread
for poor women. This buys about
four thousand loaves of bread a week.
—New York Tribune.
Mexico Rich in Precious Stones.
Mexico is richly eudowed with
precious stones. The opals of Quere
taro, San Juan del Bio, and Tequi*
quapan are famous for their changing
fires. They are found in crusts on the
calcareous rocks, which are easy to j
work, and also in the granite, which)
has to be blasted, and this often ;
breaks the gems. The opal beds arc
are seldom more than ten or twelv*
feet below the surface.
LOVE’S PROMISE.
Across the main, and far away.
Where the river joins the sea,
Where blows the broom at break of day,
My true lovo watts for me;
ills brow is sad, his eyes are sweet,
And his heart both brave and true,
O, when, my love, shall we e’er meet,
My lonely self and youl
“Ah, maid most dear,” his lips reply,
In the north land far away,
"Wo Breaks ne’er through shall meet life’s tilljeterntty cloudy day;
Wo ne’er may take love’s lastjadleu,
' Ere Death begins his flight.
But I, for aye, will still bo true,
And so, my love, good night.” Ledger.
—Johnsou MoChme Bellows,in tlie
HUMOR OF THE DAY.
“Were you born in a foreign coun¬
try, Mr, Jones?” “No, I was born in
my native land!”
“Yes; there is plenty of room at the
top, ’tis true,” said the parental fish
to its offspring; “but I’d advise you
to stay down where you are.”
Willie—“Miss Dollie, you are look¬
ing like a Jfull-blown rose.” Dollie
Footlites — “Gowan! You're just
blowing. ”—Cineiunafi Inquirer.
“Fannie has such a sweet new bon¬
net.” “Yes. Fannie has charming
talent for making things over.”—
Browning, King & Co. ’s Monthly.
Old Mr. Surplice—“I hope you ob¬
ject to dancing onreligious grounds?”
Young Miss Featherstitchiug— “Ob,
no; only on uuwaxed floors.’'—Rox
bury Gazette.
“Poverty,” said Uncle Eben, “am
like riches in one respeck. Whethuh
it’s any disg.ace or not depends a heap
on how you happens to git dar.”—
Washington Star.
Miss Gushington—“I, too, Herr
Slevewski, should like to become a
great violinist. What is the first thing
to do?” Herr Slevewski—“Learn to
play.”—Harlem Life,
Owing to the death of my wife, a
seat on my tandem is vacant. Candi¬
dates for the seat may send in their
names to Scorcher, in care of this
paper.—Fliegende Blaetter.
Teacher—“What do yon know about
the early Christians?” Tommy—
“Our girl is one of ’em. She gets up
in the morning and goes to church be¬
fore breakfast.”—Indianapolis Jour¬
nal.
“Will I i|ave to be identified when
I come here next time?” inquired Mr.
Jagway. “Not unless you swear off in
the meantime. I should know that
nose again among a million.”—Chi¬
cago Tribune.
German Professor (in his lecture
on water)—“And then, gentlemen, do
not forget, if we had no water we
could never learn to swim—aud how
many people would be drowned!”—
Vienna Fremdenblatt.
Office Boy—“The editor wants the
proof of his editorials.” Proof Reader
— “What for?” Office Boy—“He
wants to read ’em.” Proof Reader—
“Humph! No accounting for tastes.”
—New York Weekly.
“I don’t think tho members of your
oliuroh would be willing to sell all
they have and give to the poor.”
“Hardly. They might be persuaded
to sell all they have and invest the
proceeds in something else.”—Puck.
“Ef de average young man,” said
Uncle Eben, “ml be willin’ ter go froo
as much hahdship ter git useful
knowledge as he did learnin’ ter
smoke his fust cigar, dar wouldn’t be
nigh ez many regrets in dishere life.”
—Washington Star.
Mike—“How old are you, Pat?”
p a t—“Thirty-sivin next month”
Mike—“Yez must be older than that.
When were yez born?” Pat—“In
1881.” Mike—“I have yez now.
Sure, yez told me the same date tin
years ago!”—Tit-Bits.
“Oh, oh!” moaned Mrs. Weeks, who
was suffering from a decayed molar,
.. why aren’t people born without
teeth, I’d like to know?” “Why, my
dear,” exclaimed the husband, “do
you happen to know any one that
wasn’t?”—Chicago News.
“I’m afeai'd, remarked Farmer
Corntossel, “thet the period of useful¬
ness fur that politician is about to be
drawee! to a close.” “What’s the mat¬
ter?” inquired his wife, “Is it a case
of overwork?” “No,” was the an
swer; “ ’tain’t nothin’ so ouusual as
overwork. It’s a plain, old-fashioned
case of overtalk.”—Washington Star.
The garbage is Collected every Mon¬
day on the street in which the D.’s
live. One morning little Helen D.
proposed discarding for good a rag
doll of which 'she had grown tired.
“I think, mamma,” she said, “that
I’ll put it out for the garbage man to
carry off. He can take it to the gar¬
bage woman, and she cau fix it up for
the little garbage children to play
with.”—Harper’s Bazar.
Great, Britain’s Expenses.
The expenses of Great Britain are
now about $500,000,000 yearly, or
nearly $1000 per minute, but every
tick of the clock represents an inflow
of a little over $10 into the British
Treasury, thus leaving an annual sur¬
plus of about $20,000,000.
LalT to prevent overwork,
j n Holland women aud persons of
gather sex under the age of sixteen
ar8 now forbidden to begin work
ear jj er than 5 a. in., or to continue at
Cg m., nor may their work
r-J ours a day iu all.
NO. 51,'
OBEYED THE JUDGE’S ORDER.)
Tlie Negro Brought But Taylor to
Court, und There Was u Sensation.
The recent death of the wealthy ne-f
pro blacksmith, Austin Thompson, re-'
calls one of the most peculiar incidents;
of Kentucky jurisprudence, writes at
Lexington correspondent. In 1873 Ben-!
jamin F. Graves was county judge of
Fayette County. He lived about five
miles from town and nearby lived Aus-
tin Thompson, a colored blacksmith,;
whom Judge Graves held In high es¬
father, teem. He and had the belonged had to known tlie Judge’sj him,;
Judge
of course, ever since lie was a child,!
Some one stole a hog from a neighbor
of the Judge’s, and the meat was found*
in Austin’s smokehouse. He made no*
attempt to conceal it, and told the offi¬
cer who found it that he had bought
the hog from a negro named Bill Tay
lor. Notwithstanding his protestations
of Innocence, tlie officer arrested Aus
tin and took him to jail. He sent for,
Judge Graves, and when the Judge
came he said:
“Mars Ben, you know I didn’t steal
no hog. You been knowin’ me since I
was a boy, and you know Austin never
stole nothin’. I bought that hog, Mars
Ben, from Bill Taylor.”
The Judge told him that lie w>md let
him nut of jail if he would go and bring
Bill Taylor into court. He asked Aus¬
tin if he thought he could bring him,
aud the negro replied:
“1 dunno, Mars Ben, whether I can
bring that nigger or not. He’s a pretty
bad nigger.”
The Judge told him that he must
bring Taylor in or he would have to go
to the penitentiary, and that he must
bring him in dead or alive.
Two days later, while Judge Graves
was sitting in his office In the Court
House, Austin came in, hat in hand,
and bowing politely.
“Mars Ben, l'se done fotched dat nig¬
ger. He’s out here In my waggin.”
“Brimj him in, Austin,” said the
Judge.
“I don’t nr about dat. He's
5 •-e I can’t tote him by
3
“What do you mean?” said tlie Judge,
“Well, Mars Ben, you done tole me to
bring in dat nigger dead or alive. He
said be wouldn’t come mnl I had to
stioot him. But 1 fotched him, and if
you’ll wait a minute I’ll get somebody
to help me and we'll bring him in do
room. - ’
The Judge, now thoroughly alarmed,
rushed out to the street, and sure
enough there was the body of Bill Tay
lor lying in the wagon. He had a bul¬
let hole in his breast immediately over
the heart, and death must have been
instantaneous.
The killing of Taylor under such tin
usual circumstances caused a great
deal of talk, and there were threats of
indicting both Judge Graves and
Thompson for murder. But the Judge’s
nigged integrity and tlie previous good
character of Thompson caused tlie mat
ter to be abandoned, and there was no
indictment. Nor was Thompson ever
put on trial again for stealing
neighbor’s hog.
The list of gifts, personal or by be
quest, to religious, educational and
charitable objects—small donations not
ken into the account—through
out United States in 1807 aggrega
S' mud numbers, thirty-three mil
lion, six hundred and thirteen thousand
dollars. Over thirteen million dollars
came from women. The summary
from which these figures are obtained
shows that for churches and religious
societies more than five millions were
given, while the munificent sum of ten
million, two hundred and three thou*
sand dollars went to colleges. Glad and
discriminate giving thus made the year
a period to be remembered with thank¬
fulness.
“Very wet anil slippy under foot tills
morning'.” “Not partic £ arly. Out
it’s worse tha s this twelve
months in the year.” “Where do you
live, if I may ask?” “In a lighthouse.”
-Chicago Tribune.
rr—- ------------------------- -
GEORGIA RAILROAD,
—A. N 13—
Connections.
For Information as to Routes, Sehed'
—ules and Rates, Both—
Passenger and Freight
Write to either of the undersigned.
You will rece've prompt reply and
reliable information.
JOE. W. WHITE, A. G. JACKSON,
T. P. A. G. P. A,
Augusta, Ga. ■m
S. W. WILKES, H. K. NICHOLSON.
C. F. & P. A. G. A.
Atlanta. Athene.
W. W. HARDWICK, S. E. MAGILfc,.
S. A. C. F. A. 1
Macon. Maooa,
M. R. HUDSON, F. W. COFFIN,
S. F. A. S. F. & P. A,
Milledgeville, Augusta.
