- J ..i.;, .... ..: .... _., i~. -., i,-„^,;.:_....:-.. 1 _ ■-■■-■■■ of Falllcatlon. | 4 I / ■ : .••; -j T_ ~ V- I • i ' ’. II I, I f flTrp A Ti [A -Cl ,ta 'J c t 0 any , bet whose most ,„ . _ „ anadj uinin E County - jih&Wl ~.tay ef those who stop with ihipnt both pleasant and agreeable. ' ' P Wellsboro. May 31. 18CD. j |t PICTIRE FR’aMSG rpoiLET GLASSES, PorttniU, Pictures, Certificates 1 Engravings, Xeedlb 'Workl, Ac.. Ac., framed in ttie nc.u-'t manner,'in plaip #|nd ornamented (*iit. Ku=e Wood, Black Wplimt, Oak, Mahogany, Ac. Por lor, ha, mg any article for fruiting, can receive them nut dm /"«,ned in any styl|s wish and hung for th M . Specimens at BOOK STOIIE . E. B. BESEDICT, M. TVTOUI.D inform the publics Hiat hois permanently >V located in Eikland'iSdtjo, Tioga Co. Pa„ and is prepared by thirty to treat all dis hes of the eyes and their appendages on scientific principles, and' that "he can*-enre without fail, tbiit dreadful disease, called 'Stj. |jjW Dance, {Chorea •Wfi y; t i,) and will attend to ttny other business in the hue of Physic and Si^rgeryJ^ Blklaad Boro, August f), JS6 /kcINROY & JSAIJLEI, ■\\TorLl) inform the pjnblicj|hat|mviDg purchased Tf the Mill property,' knowja aM the “CULVER MlMi, 1 ' and having- lt with lolu'aml machinery,>ar© D(|w prepared to do CUSTOM At|lo | jK. the entire satisfaction of its With Iho aid of our experienced miliar, Mr. &. pjMltcbol, and the “nsjurin- efforts of iio; propjotorl, they intend to kwp up an iMabli&hmcnt ieconti to none in'thc county. Oane to see us), and guided his fii •onward with his right hand. ‘ Helen,” ho said, tenderly, “ how beautiful yoi are! 'Sever were you lovelier than now.; Thdy say marriage brings changes, but every! change only makes you fairer. Our li( tie Jlelep wil grow up like you ; she will be very lovely.” ‘ Yes, but I am afraid I love Lucy best,” and my mother drew me closer to hey. “ Perhaps it is because she is my first born ; and then, those dark, thoughtful eyes are her fajther’A ,owi.” , I ■ njly father laughed. “The child tis not a beauty, certainly; but if her cyies aye mine; younl admit they are the best part of her.—) Ueßen, I’ve been thinking of lata whdtmy way before your love calrae to b’igh£cn it; so dreary, so desolate, so unloved! I Wqen I saw* .you; I knew I could never live any mjore with : out [you.” | ; I She laughed her little,silvery, bird-li.ko laugh; 1 know it, llobert, andyouiwouldn’t waiiyjiow you hurried me! We ware man ried, you.know, in six weeks after yog saw me fired” j “I M S y ±- Yes, but if you had looked into my heart you would not have wondered,” ho replied. “It was all dark there. I wals an orphan, •ivhdm nobody cared for or undorstcod; and you you were to me in place of all things— hotr e, friends, parents, brothers and sisters. You made a halo, brighVas a rainbow, around! that dungeon life where my heart iras gro ping." ! ■ | “■And yet, Robert, you are such a great man! —a a author, a poet —all the world—that is, all' the world that is good for anything—knows; you£ and admires you. And I, |1 ami only the! great man's little Helen; I sometimes almost wotider you could have loved me at alp" sly -father turned towards her ;an expressive loolf, and said tremulously, “ Helen,iyoiQare moi;o; you are my life, my sunshine j my in spiration, my ever-patient guardian angel; wit! tout you I should be nothing.!’ Then for a few moments we rode cjn in si lenqe, but the tears still stood ha my father’s! eyei, and still his rapt gaze resled Upon the beautiful face of the true woraanrwho'bod giv en the boarded riches of her love into his keep-| ingj content, iflso she might brighten his dark nesi, •'■!': \ A|t that moment.whilo he still carelessly held the sudden report of a gup caused; oorjaarae to plunge and. rear, and become un-i iATOR. } baa opened a now I And murmur os we feet our loss, . | u Oh God ! was ever woo like ours | What tho’ she met the common lot,< | And went the way wk all must go, I i That cannot be a common spot, I { Where hearts have loved and suffered so, j And as they wander,! East and. West, | • O’er hill and valley, Stream and cost, ■j Tho mourners still may love the best, j Tho place where they have sorrowe4 most. J For sorrow has an artist’s skill; j | Her sombre sketches; lobg remain, j | And memory frames her pictures well, \ • And shows them o’er and o'er again: | But time a little pity takes, ; i Thank God! that time has such a pWcr, 1 And past affliction lighter makes Than tho bereavement of tint hour.i . I Then Faith and Hope the colors soiie. They Icavonhe dcatli-bed and the pall, For sorrow well has painted these ; ■ T Yet sunny hues they shed o’er all. Then in'the back-grpund dimly seen, Appears a little shadowy hand, And lifts the misty veil between Tho earth-lif© and the Spirit Land. Vclhthoro, Pa, VIRGINIA. MY OWKT STOB.Y. WpLDSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., WEDNESDAY MORNING. JANUARY 9, 1861. ianageab!e; His first quick leap wrenched is reins from my father’s hand, and while he prove in vain to recover them, the frightened pimal dashed along the narrow road at a fear pi pace. On our left was a rocky mountain, hst around whose base we were driving; on ur right a river, lying at some distance below he road, with no fence between. There was a idden turn in the road, a faint shriek from my bother, who until that instant bad been silent, |nd then down we went. My father escaped inhurt, but my mother was taken up dead, and I—Heaven knows there have been years since, rfaen I thought I had a thousand times better tare died than live to be what I was. I I was borne home in the arms of strangers, my father rode home in the vehicle which con tained my mother, holding her bead upon his Breast, and looking on her face with the fixed, steady gaze of tearless despair. I was 'suffer ing acutely ; but, child as I was, I strove to re strain my j moans, and bear meekly and in si idco lest 1 should add to his grief. It was , needless care; had all the world bricked, groaned, or gone mad around him, he ould not have known it. He felt nothing, iw nothing, but the dead face lying on his llhey bore, her into the house ; they isora, kid her on the bed whore she had slumbered fke an innocent child, but a few hours before ; [here for eight peaceful years she dreamed of [ought but happiness. j Not even then would ■ he be separated from ier. lie threw himself down beside her, and jfted her bead to the place it.had filled so many ■leased nights, be folded his arms around her, tad then, like one unsuspicious of the truth, |e murmured, “ Sleep on, be thy rest ssft, my Helen 1” f I was tenderly cared for by one who had l|een my nurse in infancy. They have told me since that ! bore my sufferings with a patience which it was very pitiful to see; and only when Dr. Strong said there was no liope—that I, Lucy imry, must be a cripple for life—did I even v eep. Then, indeed, I turned my face to the v all, and sobbed out the bitterness of a deathly a»ony; a grief more like a woman’s than a ciild’s. But nothing of all this was communi c ited to my father; he had enough else to bear. At last they buried my mother. My father 10k no part in the arrangements, but he op- ised nothing. After the funeral came the eased reign of tears. When it was over the car came forward and took’his arm. “ You must not stay here,’’} he said. “ Come with me.” And meekly as a child, the ■icken man obeyed him ‘•I think she was happy; I think I made elen happy,” he said, as they drew near the >use. “ She never suffered any pain or sor w from which my love could guard her ; and it, at last, my carelessuess killed her.” He then broke from the kind hand that ught to detain him, and rushing into the om from whence she had been borne outward, locked the room,- and no eye saw him again itil the morrow. He came forth then, and ofronted I)r. Strong, as he was leaving my om, with trouble on his face, and said reso tely, “Doctor, I have been neglecting my lor Lucy, Helen’s first-born; lam going to e her now, and you must tell me the worst.” There was that in his voice and eye Which old not be gainsayed, and Dr. Strong faltered rth, “ She is not suffering so much to-day, :; but she will be a cripple for life.” My ther then rushed hurriedly from the house, id came to me, and sat down by the bedside ith his sorrowful face. .“Lucy," he said, “my poor,, suffering little icy ” I burst into tears. “ What is it, tie Loo, are you suffering?" “ Mot in .my limb, papa ; but X feel so here.” ad I placed my hand upon; ray heart, which en, as now, had a habit of fluttering turaul ously with every poweiful emotion. “ Muth ! loved me, and she’s gone whereil can never le her again. All these daiys I have lunged j to have her kies me just lonee, and say she [tied her poor, crippled child, and jupt now In seemed so much like her.” \ onate ad-: mother’s i, I fairly! ly father nts in sH bout her was 1 ry horse! (“Then you know it all, darling?’’ said\)3y ther. “ They have not spared oven you, m'y lor lambJ But your father’s love shall com rt you. I will love you as a mamma would she were here." |For a few minutes be looked atme in silence, tlienhesnid abruptly, “You are tired, lying h(re; 1 know it. You want to see .the sun sline on the green fields, and feel the wind through the trees. 1 will carry you ; I know I cs n take yon up without hurting you, for I will b( very careful.” < With womanly, mother-like tenderness, he adjusted a support for my crushed foot and linb, apd taking me up in bis arms with ray head lying in,my mother’s old place upon his brsast, he carried me; out into the sunshine. That morning was, the commencement of a ire intimate relationship with my father.— iring the weeks of my convalescence he was th me constantly, and soon he seemed to for t that I was a child of only six years, and ked- to me more like a woman and a com pan- “ You must got better,” hb said one day, in th ) low, solemnly tender voice that had become ha bitnal to him. “ You must get better, so you will not need me so much when I die. Before th 9 last flowers of the summer have faded, or th 9 last leases of tho autumn have fallen, I s'fa all go to Helen.” I fully comprehended him. From that time I gi 9\v stronger rapidly, so that at last, with a cratch, I could make my way slowly about tho lover partbf tho house, and,this I know was al to willed I could ever look forward. One day I stole into my .father’s study ; tho ink was dried up in his inkstand, and rusted on his pen. “You doinot need mo so much now. Lucy,” said, tenderly, “ and it is well. My time is post come.” The; nurse was in the garden jth my baby sister, and bo called her to him. She looks iso much like Helen,” be said, lift er the cbiltl up, and) placing her on his knee. Lucy, you are the Oldest.” ; 1 knew what these: words meant as well as bugh ho bjad spoken, volumes, I was tho eld 1, .Mine then be the baptism of suffering. I Is to shield the little one, as far as in me lay, |m oare-and trouble.. In after years I obeyed ju faithfully. ; ' ( . “ But I have much to say—l may not only linger,” said my father. ; It was even as he had saiid ; not all the Sow ers of the summer bad faded, not all the leaves of the summer had fallen,, when bo went to her. , > “You will be very desolate When I am gone, my little' daughter,” he r said tenderly, but Heaven will care for you. Death is very sweet to me, little Lucy, for I shall be once more with Helen; alreadyher blue eye| were onj me.fromthe, distance.” lie lay in silence for afe,W moments, and then he drew me towards him, and kissed; me. My little sister was also lifted jto his arms, and he embraced her tenderly; then, laying his head down, as if weary, be whispered, “ Hold my hand in yours, Lucy, till I go to sleep.” For half an hour I sat there, still resolutely keeping back my tears lest I should waken or disturb him, until at lust the rays of the setting sun poured in at the window,.and; lit up the pale lips, the dark hair, and the niassivo fore head, looking more giant-like than ever* con trasted,with the wan thinness of bis facet “ Will you please to draw the curtain ?” I said to Dr.,.Strong, who was also watching be side him. “ There is no need of it, dear child,” he said solemnly, “It will not wake him—he is dead !” Then I wept.; I was alone on earth, save the little sister chattering now and laughing, all unconscious of my grief. Nor was this all; I was a cripple, deprived of love of society, of all that makes the coming life like a pleasant land of promise. But in that hour I drew near, child as I was, to the Infinite and out of my very sorrow I derived strength. } I was fifteen when Duncan Clavering became my teacher. He was the new vicar of our par ish. The gray-haired man who had! buried my father and mother, and 1 had been the dearest, and truest friend of my childhoocf, had gone to his lone rest, and in : his stead had come to us this Duncan Clavering. He was a man of thirty ; calm, self-reliant, earnest; a different type of manhood from any I had ever known. He seemed like one who could stand up alone and battle against all the world. He needed no circling arms of wife or children. Alone he labored in his Master’s cause. He had not my father’s ardent tempera ment and his creative imagination., and yet his | sermons were full of bufniug, fervid eloquence, ! and he was the finest critic I had ever known. I By this time 1 had grown to understand some thing of my own nature. I had been brought up in the same house where my father died, for such was his wish. Mrs. Newel, the lady who had charge of our home apd ourselves, loved my sister passionately; but she had no attachment for the unsightly little cripple, and she took no pains to assist or understand me. My love of knowledge -was intense from my earliest recollection ; and for several years my father’s study, containing his well-chosen 11- hrar}-, had been tacitly abandoned to me. I read many books—works of imagination, poems, and novels. The theme wag too often love; and poring over these enchanted pages, I grew rebellious over my own sad destiny. I read of fair ladies, and gallant knights, and anon of peaceful, happy homes ; and all this glorious world of poetry, and passion, and sentiment was shutout from_me —1 was a cripple 1 I read it in the very glances the children raised to my face as I passed along the street in, my little invalid’s chair. They looked up kindly, but in their eyes was only pity, never admiration or love. And yet, even in those early days, I ftfit that my own heart was capable of intense devotion. I could love, I knew it, with all the passion of which novelists had dreamed, or poets sung. — But no one would ever, no one could; ever, love Ihe dwaifed, crippled temple which] enshrined tliis passionate heating heart. ,1 looked in the g'ass, and saw there a dark, sallow complexion, wild-looking eyes, straight black hsiir,. and a thin, nervous-looking figure ; hut not one plea ting lineament. i A contrast was ever beside me—my little sis ter Helen; She was bright, Joyous, and beauti ful as our mother had eveir been, and the beauty loving element iu my nature was gladdened every time I looked on hep; I loved her, too. T cherished with more than] a mother’s tender ness, this gladsome creature, five ycaijs younger than myself. I believe' I almost worshipped her; I would have died .for her at any time; but not much, fi>r life had never been dear or pyecious to me, and I longed ,to lay the durden down. Heleu loved me too, in her own cheerful, light-hearted fashion, and depended on me to do’her tasks apd perform her duties. But at fifteen there dime to me the dawning of a great change. Duncan Clavering taught me that I, unloved, unsought as I must ever be, even I had something fur which to live.— Fur a week he had been ■my teacher, and now I handed him my first composition. “ How the thorns come on the rose," was its subject. It was a fantastic legend of a lovely flower dwell ing among those' who cared not foriit; it pot forth thnrns one by one as defenceshgainst feet that would crush it, against hands that would grasp it rudely. lute this legend I had woven the wild paint of my own heart. ,£t was a passionate cry which I thought no one jcnuld recognise or understand. Duncan Clavering read it in silence and slowly; than! ho, saiji, “ Lucy, you have suffered much." “ Ye§, sir,"-1 replied.* j-' “ In this composition, my child, there is mor bid feeling, a sort of defiant hopelessness.— But I have made another discovery,” he con tinued. “ There is something for you in life better and brighter than any of your dreams. Lucy, not in vain have you been baptized with the baptism of suffering; You are destined to bo an author—you will win fame—you will do good.” Tbe fame had been hijs first'thought, and in the flush that aiounted u, my pupil,”—grew in] time to be more to mo than all other'applause.i I no longer missed love, or sighed fur it.— Heart and sou) were full. At twenty I found: myself alreadyj a well-known and popular wti- 1 ter. It was at this time that Charles Stanley came to our neighborhood—he was an author ; his ostensible object was to. find, for a few months, a quiet home wberin to read, wherein to write ; his real one; as I afterwards found,: to become acquainted with the tucy Emry of his favorite periodicals. He soon called up-; on me. He was brought into my own es pecial room, the study which had been my father’s. “ I am happy to see yon,” I said, quietly ; “.but you will excuse me from rising, as I am lame." He looked at me with an expression of blend ed amazemnt and compassion. “ I wished, to see Miss. Lucy Entry,” .ho said, hesitatingly. “I am Lacy Entry,f was my calm reply, '<• Forgive me,” said he—“ I begten thousand | pardons—but I had been told that Miss Entry was very young, scarcely twenty,” I glanced at a mirror opposite—his mistake was not strange —I looked at least thirty.— Good as Duncan Havering's discipline had been for my mind, it had made me sallow er and thin ner than ever; I bad grown very old. There may have been a little bitterness in my smile ns I said, “ I am indeed, no older than that, sir; but I have suffered much. I have been lame for many years, and I know little about the beauty nr brightness of life.” - ■ I could see he was touched—that argued well ; for his disposition. 1 exerted myself to relieve f his embarrassment; soon the conversation j flowed into an easy channel, and he left me at | length with the impression that I had passed with him one of the most agreeable hours of my life. For the next few months, he passed a portion of every day in my society. Sometimes lie read to me, while I sat in my low chair at the open study window, inhaling the perfume and fragrance from without. Ho v was very gifted, and his tastes and pursuits were so much like my own that I gave myself up to'the delight of his society, without asking myself whither all this would tend ? Helen, too, was almost always- wkh us. She was now a blooming graceful creature of fifteen. She had never met any man that seemed to her Mr. Stanley 's equal. Unlike Djuncan Clavering, he was very handsome. His manners possessed that polish which is only .imparted by extensive intercourse with good society, and bis conversation united the fascinations of playfulness, puctrv, and sub tle analysis. , It was /rot long before I made thg discovery that Helen loved him,. My only little sister— the one being I had been accustomed to call my own —bad cast out my love from the chief place in her heart, and yielded it up in tremu-j lons joy to the Jiandsooie stranger. This knowledge came to me fraught with deepest an guish. It wait revealed to me one morning by a chance expression on her face as he read aloud a legend from Roger's poems. j Suddenly, though the summer sunshine was ■ never brighter, the day seemed to grow black and dark. I ijould not bear their presence ; I j sent them both from me “I am tired, of you,” I said, with a forlorn attempt at playfulness. “ That poem always excites me ; ard lam not strong. Go out both of you, and play, like good children; don’t let me see you back for an hour." Laughingly. they obeyed me, but Charles came back whoa he bad reached,the dour, say ing-- : “ You might] let me stay, Lucy ; I would be quietr” ; “ No, go along, both of you,” I said ; “ I will have my ;t \»J ' m, L Uneji lari , ni ..II .-of Jo] jed'nent) other T NO. 23 i in- a ejew study I had undertaken. I rose to go, at length, fur Charles Stanley had ,e fur me, and was waiting at the door.— ican looked at me gravely and kindly. Ybu know I predicted good things lor your Ljiicy my child,” he said, in his calm, low ‘s, “ arid they have come. Fame is dawn forjyou; already f see its dawuing in the ; and how this,voting Stanley loves you— will hive happiness.” 'ail if my fancy, or did a shadow cross his as he spoke—a look of intense physical i.? j' I made no reply. I went to the door, bade him, as .was my wont a respectful luigbt; hut I looked back afterwards, and hijm still standing where I bad left him, ihirig me moving slowly onward, with my chjjn iiy hand, leaning on Charles Stan i arm, and his face woru an expression I nriver icen on it before, haf night, on my way.home, Charles Stan islted my hand in marriage—Charles Stan poet apd dreamer! A moment T was si , ■ iV little of the morning’s pain came hack io-r-1, who, needing sympathy and tender ai) painfully, must yet put away the cup ■ )vei with my. own hand. But I-put the ng ti solutely down, and answered, Ko, rlcs, I must never be your wife. !l am not t yiur nature craves. You need apprecia- "s not rivalry in a woman. You rieid one Helen.j You shall have her; I will give ;o you.jaml you shall be a brother, to me.” Bpi it ja not Helen I.want; it is you,” ho :ed',| with a bewildered took, N'tj,i Coarles, it is not 1; it is Helen. Lie aadiyou will believe me. You.are very as ide;” .He started. “Y\ ell, then, entiiusi :, if you like that term better. Y’ou had a ■ p|retty theory about souls loving each ; ,LuVe was to ; -he very exalted — mind, mjifterj You road my writings—ihey Isdiyou —you thought yon discovered in , a kindred spirit. You resolved to iiiuks -. -•qiiaintance. You came with the ftilit tit n off loving and marrying me. \\ Iq-n avrthajt I was lame, you were disappointed auld see.that—hut your beautiful llnnry, bought, must ho true. Y’ou continued to me. 6ur tastes harmonized; i had seen i of .the | world, therefore I was original;— liked to hear me talk, you became pleased' my society, and now you think you want i iriiy me. But you-have not 6ne emotion of bnate Ifve for me in your heart, such loro [min treasures up for the elect woman 1 who boiihis You would do me . grievous gto wed tno. Look into your o.vn heart,' es iStaidoy,‘.tand answer me as you would .or to Heaven-—have I not spoken truly? ie?d, w!ith all the loflgings of your nature, iulijul Vvoinjm. You ueeii" beauty, I say ; ’ mukt have it in your wife, i Y’ou have ali o s waywardness: you need a sunny, cheer toman. ! I am old and sad, and withered s. my time. You need peace; my life, ; aspt is, most be always restless; 1 should jftiyou; "Answer me truly, Chat Its Stan 1m i I not right ?” , I'hdriksp’ he faltered, “ thanks, Lucy, jou jshhwn me my own heart.” mg easl you faci pal amJ wat crul ley’ had ley ley, leu wroni Char aoswf ,You a be.* you [lOL't’l Tul wl bcfor quiet :nuf s ilev, ii ;bave But his eyes did not turn id me ; they were fixed on' Ilt-Ten; who was bounding dow'n the path to meet us, for we were almost at home. |oh,! liolv beautiful she touted, her dre.-s uf Hon ing white muslin, bound around her slender waisti with an azure girdle, her garden,hat upon, her arm, herjeyes bright, and herlcheeks Hushed with exercise, her golden curls flouting on tha genth evening breeze. No wondir Chailta Stapleyi watched her—but she was’ mine Do f lunger, i I , ' "r - a slight pn‘n that hehnd aecej Efcik'my| words so t< a tily, tin the hud net even sqpght! to ascertain if I loved him. I thought,l could never have loved him with all tha fullness bf my nature. Ah ! perhaps if I had I could not have given him up so eusilv. One riiore [pang came to me—it was a selfish one. I sat down by my study windbw, ami looked fjerthjintu the garden ; they weieth. ro together, and I tould not help thinking what a handsome couple they were. He was helping to tie up a rbsebush, and (-heard him say that its h'o'bhms Were no brigher and blither -than . herself. Anjd tit's is the man who had.asked , me tojbejhis wife only yesterday—tire only lover 1 ever bad. 1 had given him up tollelei —they: were boih forgetting me. “Is this you,-Lucy, Entry I said, with a -twinge of coo tempi fur my and then I took ray pen, an it ret o-- lutely tkirning my back upon sorrow, menu id to write a new book. In six- vVceka Duncan Clattering married them. I Was howitwenly-five years old, and I looked ton yearij older than that,. Fi-d year lu.d passe 1 since my sister’s for.thu last twelve loiontlis- she imd been in her »oi home again— Charles Stanley’s widow;. It n poet-husband was dead, and-she,'always mu sitivej but traflsitory in her emotions, thou*. li she grieved fjor him, had speedily regained her oheerfulhessj They had been vary happy : she had ekahtly satisfied the needs of his na urq with her brightness and her beauty. . I never had another lover, and Duncan Cla verini had been fey only friend. I had by this ’ time won the fame he had prophesied, and far more than myself, ho gloried in it. Physically, I had net grown much stronger. There wero hours when I would have given worlds for hu man love—td have rested my throbbing 1 row for ot e ; cstapt on some true heart which wra ininejovsn. But knowing this was not for ur, 1 rosclu ely put the thought away. . • Oftale Duncan,Clavering-had often como-tsy• bee u t-rfar oftencr than before ,Helen’*, relufu. She tad matjured ihtn a very accomplished wor man. Ilowould sit for hours and listen to h. V aslshgbang to the harp or piano, and 1, beside him,-would listen n,Uu. lia-ilh d voice sittin even saw t ho wc io Wainijoy the melody ; and! then when he he tanr»:.sloaling; silently down iny cheek .mil say, C.ntne, Helen, pnt ttHny J4iut nia?in new, itia nutwood for Limy tvny longer*’* uttering jlho gnmmand in h culm, kindly tone* as if somehow she belonged to lifm. I{o wtta f. vtv now, and his dark hair whs thick y streikcd with 1 silver, and yet Helen.' who hmid’to atiniiy me, by calling my:master the man in the world. Insisted O’*'w tho,|- BoiiijOhoW If hnl grown Mn ds.mio. _ * i l =iwjiiU tills with a itnwijp I'"!'-” Rates, of Advertising. 3 uojrrns. 6 uo.vriu. 12 xottTnr. $3,00 *1,511 *,«,«« 0.00 6,50 (1,00 I 7,n0 8,50 10,00 8,00 0,50 * 12.50 15.00 20,00 30.00 2.7.00 35,00 50, IK menu not having thennmbcfof kmi upon them, will be i>ubli»hud until or. id charged accordingly 1 . [andbilla, Bill-Heads, Letter-Ibnds and alt Wring done in country establishments, ex )y and promptly. Joaiiccs’, QoustnUa’a 3LAIvK.S constantly on hand.