VOLUME I.
OXFORD, N. C., WEDNESDAY, NOVEMDER 24, 1875.
NUMBER 47.
From iho Coinpanioii.
IF I IIAI> OALV IT.
‘0 motlier, Mary Craig is dead !’
‘What, not the young girl
whose clothes you made sport
of?’
‘Yes. If I had only known it,’
sobbed the young girl, ‘I never
would have spoken as I did !’
‘You never should have spoken
as you did without knowing it,’
said Mrs. Ray, ‘and I tliink you
have cause for tears over j our
heartlessness towards that poor
girl. 1 have no doubt her school
days were made wretched.’
‘I did not mean to be heartless.’
‘You certainly did not mean to
be kind or noble, 'i’hink of hap-
])y girls taunting the unfortu
nate.’
‘I did not know she was so
poor, mother.’
‘You certainly did not mistake
the girl for one in comfortable
circumstances V
‘I thought maybe her mother
was only stingy, and made her
dress poorly to save money.’
‘Then the girl needed your
j)ity aU the more, if unnecessary
meanness instead of real poverty
forced her to appear so poorly
clad among well-dressed girls.’
‘O dear! why won’t you help
me to find some excuse for my
self, mother f’
‘Because there is none, my
child. A young girl who had
sucii a thirst for knowledge as to
go to school through great diffi
cult es, ought to have been help
ed and clieered on by others.’
‘If 1 had only known it I’ sob
bed Helen Ray.
‘Tiiere is always something we
do not know in the circumstances
as well as in the hearts of others,
and therefore we should not judge
them hastih" or harshly.’
‘Isn’t there anythiug we can
do now, mother, to atone for this T
asked tlie weeping girl.
‘You cannot wake the dead,
Helen.’
‘No, but the poor mother is
living.’
‘Yes, you can go there and
confess your meanness to her, and
gis e her some money and words
of comfort.’
‘Why, mother, I wouldn’t look
in her eyes for the world and tell
her my name. I know she hates
and despises me I’ sobbed Helen
Ray.
‘Then all I can do is to send
her a little money without the
tiame voii are ashamed of. We
can neVer atone for past unkind
nesses, but we can learn lessons
for the future. We can never re-
jiay any one for tears we have
caused them to shed.’
‘Will you go to Mrs. Craig’s
and see if she needs anything ?’
‘Y'es, I will do all I can for her,
but I must not tell her whose
mother I am !’
‘No.’
Mary Craig was the child of a
mother wlio had been very gent
ly reared, and who, till Mary was
ten years old, had been surround-
, ed ty the ordinary comforts of
life. But, her father being dead,
blie was left alone and poor at her
husband’s death.
She was one of those sorely-
wronged women, wlioin injudi
cious love suflPers to grow up in
this world of change without any
way to make their honest bread.
It had been regarded in lier cir
cle, and in her father’s family, as
not genteel to be efficient in ordi
nary work that every woman
ought to be acquainted with ; and
so she was left at the mercy of
evil winds, when the strong arm
that had upheld her was taken
away.
‘1 told 3mu so !’ said some one
who hud advised her to marry a
rich man she did not love, instead
of a poor one she did love.
‘That conies of having one’s
own wa)', instead of taking ad
vice from older and w'iser folks,’
said another.
They should liave said, ‘That
comes of being brought up like a
butterfly, witli no thought of a
human being’s responsibility for
her own and others’ good.’
But Mrs. Craig had a Christian
pi'inciple. So she put her hand
to the first thing she heard of,
and trusted in the Grod of the
widow.
A neighbor had taught her to
finish pantaloons,—a business to
beginners as nearly lilce doing
nothing avS an^'thing well can be.
But she bad straggled on, get
ting more and more expert, till,
with Maiy’s help out of school,
she had kept the sharp-toothed
wolf, poverty, at bay for some
time.
She hud resolved, even though
they should both be shabby, and
she herself sometimes hungty,
that Mary should have the best
education the Boston schools
could give, and rarely had she
been forced to keep her a half
day from school.
The veiy poor have great ad
vantages in mingling, as th.ey do
at school, with well-bred children
from the higher walks of life. But
their sky is not always rose-col
ored. iSoinetimes ill-bred, well-
dressed girls gather in groups,
whispering and looking over their
shoulders at the faded dresses and
well-worn shoes of their le.ss for
tunate schoolmates. Thus sensi
tive children sometimes suffer
greatly in tlieir feelings from the
thoughtless, who in the end re
ceive the greater wrong in their
own hearts.
There are two classes of poor
people, who in their attempt eitli-
er to hide poverty' or to sham
gentility, are very apt to draw on
them the ridicule of the heastless,
—the refined, wlio struggle in
vain to gratify their taste, and the
vulgar, who make up in coarseness
and gaudiness of attire what they
lack in style.
Maiy Craig belonged to the
first class. Never a coji)per went
from lier poor store for ribbon, or
lace, or mock jewelry ; but if, in
making a garment, she could get
the ^cut’ and tlie various little
graces which every new season
brings, but which have no name,
she ^Yas sure to get them.
If she appeared in a new twen-
t3"-five-cent alpaca, the first im
pression was that she was well-
dressed; but the eagle eyes of
some school-g’irls soon unraveled
the mj'stery which veiled the thin
fabric. If Betsy Jones or Han
nah Hodges appeared at school
joyous in a new ‘delaine,’ redo
lent with cabbage roses and red
morningglories, with blue ribbon
on their hair, and scarlet beads on
tUeb: UQQksj such girls fook theii*
revenge on vulgar poverty by
getting sport out of tliem. They
even brought offerings of cast-off
finery, to the great delight of
those happy and unconscious
girls, and got fresh sport in see
ing them worn with airs of pride,
and with smiles of gratitude.
But such girls as Mary Craig,
who never gazed at their fine
clotlies in either admiration or
env)', afforded them ‘fun’ another
way. The}^ laughed at their dig
nified mien, and their satisfaction
with all the}^ owned; and they
gave them significant names.
Mary Craig, who had never
been seen at school in a bright
dress, thev’’ stifled tlie ‘Countess
Alpaca,’ daughter of khe ‘Duchess
de la Pants.’
This sarcasm was cutting as a
knife, but she bore it very nieek-
ly, and bent herself with increas
ing energy' to the work before
her, cheered and encouraged by
the sympathy and gentle courtesy
of a large class of noble-hearted
sclioolmatos.
Helen Ray was a boisterous
little ho^’den, who often forgot in
her glee the lessons of love and
piU^ she dail}'’ received from her
mother. She was not a cruel
girl; indeed, she was kind-heart
ed, in a certain sense. If she
knew that any one near her was
cold or hungry, she could not
sleep till she had relieved them ;
and she was always ready to do
a favor to any one in the family
or the neighborhood. But if
there was ‘a chance for fun,’ eve-
lything else was lost sight of.
Mar\' Craig was a tall, frail
girl, with sad, gray e^'es, and
cheeks tinged with a feverish red.
She was full uf energy, and never
rested an hour from sunrise till
ten or eleven o’clock at night;
and no matter liow sick or weary
she might be, she never com
plained.
Just before the time of which
we are writing, Mary liad been
ill for some days. When sixs. re
turned to school, she had on • a
new alpaca dress, prettily made.
Of course, the conclusion of some
heartless girls was that she had
shammed sickness for the sake of
making a dress she could not oth
erwise have found time to make.
At recess Helen Ra3" joined
Mary, and said, witli a sly
glance at her companions, ‘What
a lovcH' dress this is ! You al
ways have such rich alpacas.
They are of the brand ‘Everlast
ing,’ I think.’
Maiy Craig looked into the
young girl’s ey^es as if to read lier
thoughts, and then burst into
tears, exclaiming, ‘0 don’t! I’m
so tired and so sick ; I can’t en
dure it to-day.’
Helen’s clieeks turned scarlet,
and some one said, ‘Aren’t vou
asliamed, Helen V She walked
awa^', resolving in lier heart that
as soon as she could see Mary
Craig alone, she would tell lier
that she meant no unkindiiess,
but was ‘onl^' in fun !’
But she did not see her alone
that day. The next ten da^^’s she
was absent, and then came the
news that she was dead !■
On the evening of that never-
to-be-forgotten day on which she
had so cruell}’’ wounded the poor
girl’s feelings, Helen Ray was so
j troublQd that she confessed her'
cruelt}' to her mother. The only
comfo.it she got from her -was a
plain rebuke, and a charge to
confess the wrong, and ask par
don tne first time she saw Mary
Craig.
They never met again. All
the atonement Helen could ever
make was to urge her mother to
visit Mrs. Craig and offer her
sympathy and aid, and to‘apolo-
gize, if possible, for her meanness
to the dead.
Her regrets were only deepen
ed, by learning that the sensitive
girl had spared her mother tfe
pain of knowing what she had
endured from her heartless schc-ol-
mates, but had onl}" told her of
the kindness she had received
from other scholai's. Helen would
have given all she had for the
praises iu which the widow spoke
of a few young girls wlio had
cast sunbeams on the dark path
way of her child. But it was too
late now to recall the past, utter-
1}^ unavailing to repeat, as she did
again and again, ‘If I had only
known how poor and how sick
she was, I would have done any
thing for her. I would not hare
grieved her for the world !’
We really ‘know’ veiy little of
what is buried in the homes and
the Imarts around us ; and if we
would spare suffering to others,
and save ourselves from sin and
regret, we must always bear tins
in mind; and the surest way to
do this is to obey the commands
of God by loving our neighbor as
ourselves.
A SJory for thfc triris.
k?it down on the porch cirildreu,
and let me tell you about aim!
Rachel, and the siory she once
cold mo. One day when I was
about twelve \'eais old, I planned
to go after sirawherries, but aunt
Raciicl said to me: “A girl of
3"0ur age should begin to b arn
how to do house work. 'Pale off
your hat, roll up your sleeves, and
help me do tlie baking.”
1 pouted and sighed, and si ed
tears, but was encouraged by the
promise that I might go after the
baking. Under goodauntRachel’s
direction I mixed a big loaf ( f
bread, placed it on a tin as bright
as a new dollar, and was rubbing
the flour off my bands when she
called out, “This will never, nev
er do, child—3mu haven’t scraped
3'our bread bowl clean.”
I shall never forget the picture
she made standing there, lier e^^es
regarding me sternh’-, one hand
resting on her lip, while in the
other she held the untidy bowl.
“It will never do child,” slie
went on, ‘it is not onl}'- untidy,
but it makes two much waste ; to
be a good housekeeper, you must
learn to be economical. You
liave heard the story of the young
man who wanted an economical
wife f
‘A^o,’ I answered, and I might
have added that I didn’t wish to
hear it either.
‘Well,’ she continued, ‘he was
a very likely young man and he
wanted a careful wife, so he
thouglit of a wa\' he could find
out. One morning he went to
call upon the different girls ot
his acquaintance and asked ihem
each for the scrapings their
bread boirls to feeu Us horses.
^ You see they all. wanted him, so.
ill y got all they could for hi: ,
Final!}’', he found a girl w
iiadift any, so he asked her to be
his wife, because he thought she
must be economical. ‘’Now,”
said aunt Rachel, triumphautl'-,
suppose a young man should ask
you for the scrapings of your
bread-bowl, what could you
say r
‘What could I say V I repeated
scornfully, “wlnq I’d tell liim if
he couldn’t afford to buy oats for
his liorses they might starve. I
w'ouldn’t rob the pig to feed
them.”
I suppose aunt Rachel thought
that lesson lost on me; but as
true as 3 011 live, I never knead
the bread to this day without
thinking of lier lesson in econo-
mv—Detroit Free Dress.
A iUoither^s Couuscl.
Mary Clarke, wife of the learn
ed Adam Clarke, was tlie mother
of six sons and six daughters, a-.d
the love she bore tliem would as
tonish manv’ in these di\ys. To
one of her sons she wrote the fal
lowing w'ords;
‘Do nothing carelessly, and
then, I venture to sa}', that, with
the ability you have, 3mu w'ill do
mo.?t things w.ell. Be exact in all
you do, nor let the least matie'’,
,0 unexanined. In 3’Oiirreading,
1,00, investigate 3'our subjeci, and
be not satisfied >vith skiinining
on t!:e surface of things, nor make
aa attempt to grasp the wdiole
without attendiug to every part
in order. Ra3’ing attention to
jiai ticulars, as xveil as to general
ities, v/ill, b}" degrees, give 3’ou a
habit of mental observation, wlfle
at the same time it will deepi.-n
your Icnowdedge. Do not forg.-1
•;o bare 3'our liead and 3^our heart
ia private before God, that ho
an'.}' grant 3'ou his grace and di
rect all 3'Our future path in life.’
North Carolina.—It is said
“that the first Anglo-Saxon an
chor which rested upon the At
lantic coast was in 1557, on the
sand}' beach of Notth Carolina;
that the first American manifesto
against the encroachments of
power xvas made in 1G78, in North
Carolina; that the first battle
which was fought in defence of
American liberty w'as on the 16tk
of Ma}’, 1771, in North Carolina ;
that the first declaration of inde
pendence in one of the Amer
ican colonies xvas made on tho
■20th of Ma}^, 1775, by the pat.i-
ots of Mecklenburg, in North Car
olina; that the first instructions:
given to delegates to declare for
independence in the Continental
Congress were given on the 12th
of April, 177G, to delegates from
North Carolina; tliat the first
blow which turned the tide cf dis-
a^ ter and stamped the seal of in
dependence, w’as mainly struck
by North Carolina ; and that up
on the soil of North Carolina, and
partly by her own sons, the blow
was struck which put the capture
of Yorktovvn into the hands of
Washington, and thus ended tiiia
struggle in a blaze of glory.”—
Murfreesboro Enquirer.
An editor in Michigan, talking
of corn professes to have a coup
le of ears fifteen inches long.
Soiiio loiks u'e reuiai'kubie lor tui*
length of their cars.