m
Iff f 11
V(LOliJIE T.
OXFORD, N. 0., WEDNESDAY, ARR.IL 14, 1875.
NUMBER 15
I'min t]u! ()r>Dipa;iioii.
TIEE MUSICAL l£OI5I2E23S,
BY ^mSv T. H. GRIFFITH.
Yeara ago, wben 1 -was but
live or six years olJ, we lived tn
a fiirni. Our house iva.s on a
weli"trave!od turnpike, a.iid tramps
veiy often stor.ped at the door to
beg for food or money. I vividly
rcniember the childish terror wiiii
which 1 used to liy into the house
at the approach of tliose visitors,
and hiding myself in the folds of
my mother’s dress, peer out at
them with wdde-open eyes.
Our travelers w'ere of every
kind and character, from the real
ly needy beggar to the clever
vag-abond cheat, or the lazy
drunkard. Most of them called
in daytime, though occasionally
one or more woidd come late, and
beg a night’s lodging. '
Mv^ father was a minister,
w'hose duties now and then took
him from home ; but being a man
of very domestic habits, it was
only wlien some special call sum
moned him away farther than us
ual that he ever left us to be gone
over night.
It became necessary, liow-ever,
one autumn afternoon for him to
take my brother and sister, both
much older than mj'self, back to
their school (about twelve miles
distant), from which tliey had
come homo some time before to
spend a vacation.
“You will not get back to
night, I suppose ?” said mother,
inteirogatively, as she finished
the packing and w'ijjed her heat
ed face.
“I th.infc not,” returned father,
locking tiu3 last trunk, and lilting
it into the wagon with brother
Johnnie’s help. “It is three
o’l'.loc.k HOW', and I shall fool too
tired to iinderitike a uiglit jour
ney unless it is necessar}'. ou’ii
not be afraid, will you f
“O no,” said motlier, alw-a}-s
forgetful of herself; “Susie and I
will get along niceh-.” And,
hissing my brother and sister,
and w’ariiing the latter to bo very
careful of her health, she wnitch-
od them drive away.
Tears stood in her soft, brown
eyes, but with the dinner-dishes
lying still unwashed, and the floor
unsivept, she rvas not a ivoman to
sit down and idly give iray to her
feelings. Soon her hands were
busy with her u'ork, and I rvas as
usual at liberty to make myself
quite as busy w-ith my play.
It was a lovel}' afternoon. The
sun was shining gloriously from a
cloudless shy, and after a good
look up and down the road to
make sure there w'ere no tj-amps
in sight, I took a little tin pail of
water in my hand, and stole oa,u-
tioush^ outside the gate into tlie
dusty liighivay, to amuse myself
b.y manufacturing mud pies.
In this occupation I presently
became absorbed. So intent, in
deed, wuas I on my pie-making
that I did not hear footsteps nor
tlie sound of strange voices until
I felt myself roughly grasped by
the shoulder. Glancing up from
beneath my simbounet, I saw' tw'o
burly men, with very ill-looking
faces, and armed with ■walking-
sticks. For a moment I acted as
if petrified. Then, wdth a shriek
■vvhich aroused the echos far and
near, I tore myself away, and
tumbling wildly through the
fence, dashed into the house.
No time ■was given me to tel!
my frightened mother what had
liappened, before the stragglers
presented tliemsekves at the door.
In bi'oken language they begged
for something to cat. It was now
nearly sundorr-'u. The time to
milk vras approaching, but my
mother, hiding her uneaslne.3s, set
before tliom food.
After eating, they expressed a
wish to stay all night; saying
they had traveled far th.at da)',
and ■were exceedingly tired. At
that I was more terrified than ov
er, and cried out, cliild-like,—
“Don’t, mamma, please, don’t i
Papa isn’t coming home, 3'0ii
krrow'.”
I immediately felt that I had
said something I ought not to
have said, for I saw a look of
minglGd alarm and reproof of nry
mother’s face. It was too late to
mend it, how'evor, and she said
nothing, but decidedly refused to
lodg! tlie travelers.
I watched tlierrr as they went
away talking together in low,
earnest tones. They disappear
ed round the turn of the road.
“lYill tliey come back when
w'o’vo gone to sleep and kill us,
ma ?” I asked, creeping tow'ards
her as she stood in the door.
“Kill us! Wli)q darling, lio^R'
in the world came such an idea
into your little head I” said my
mother, smiling.
“Why, I don't knorv,” I an-
s'lvered, “only they look so dread
ful—and talk so queer.”
“So all people w'ho ‘look dread
ful’ and ‘talk queer’ tliink of com
ing to kill us, do they ?” said
motlier, touching my cheek play
fully. “No one wants to liurt lit
tle girls like you, 1 arn sure. Now'
get your jiail, and ive’ll go and
see if the cows have any milk for
us.”
I -was reassured b)' liev manner,
and ran to do her bidding.
That evening was rather lone
ly, as eras natural after the de
parture of three of our family.
If I grew/ nervous again, and
thought of the two tramps, it tvas
not strange.
Eight o’clock came, and I went
to bed, but I did not fail asleep.
Nine o’clock struck, and mother
put pwvay her serving, blew the
lamp out, and retired herself.
But before she did so, I noticed,
with a creeping fear at my heart,
that she went to the window and
gazed out at the peaceful moon
light, running her eyes uneasily
up and down the road. When,
lioivever, she had taken her place
by my side in bed, my weary
eyes soon closed, and I forgot all
my troubles.
I woke again about midnight.
Mother had slipped quietly out of
bed, and rvas stealing softly to
the windo^w. I sj)rang up and
called in a frightened whisper,—
“5Ia, 0 ma I"
“’Sh I” and a quick gesture,
bidding me be still, was all the
response my motlier made.
1 sat quaking with fear, for I
heard now what had doubtless
aroused her,—the crunching of
gravel under approaching feet
outside. Presently mother came
back to the beside.
“Susie,” said she, and I could
see how white her face ■'vas, “you
must not stir nor speak. Lie v'ery
still, and, don’t fear. God will
take care of }'ou and mamma.”
I promised to obey, but clung
to her and liegau to W'oej). The
footsteps came nearer, and I could
hear them stealthily ascending
the stone stops. Then there ivere
low' ■words and sounds, as if some
persons hrul seiited tliomsolves
rqion the pprch ivliich shaded our
front door.
“0—0 ma, wlio is it I” I sob
bed.
“Two men,” w'as hor answer,
placing her liand over my lips to
smother the sonud of lay voice.
“Be still, darling I”
For a minute we heard noth
ing, and my mother, coaxing me
to lie down, hastily slipped on a
W'rapper and a pair of slippers.
Of course she supposed the two
men to be the persons who had
begged their supper in the early
evening at our door, and whom
my incautious words had inform
ed of my father’s absence. In a
small closet in the room ivhere
we slept was a little iron box,
containing a large black pocket-
book with quite a sum of money
in it, beside some very valuable
notes.
Intending to prepare for the
worst, mother now took out this
pocket-book and secreted it in her
bosom. A minute more we wait
ed, trembling (and it seemed an
hour to me), hearing ■' no sound
but the beating of our hearts
Il.ark! Something broke the
terrible suspense ! but it was not
the picking of a lock, or the forc
ing of a windo^sv. A strain of
music from two sweet and mellow
male voices e^w'ellod up in tlie
moonlight night before our door!
The. song was “Home, Sweet
Home.”
I need not say how in a mo
ment the thrill of that tender mel
ody calmed our frightened hearts.
IVe knew now tliat our burglars
■were no desperadoes. They had
come to rob us of nothing but
sleep. How tlrankful we were i
Motlier hastened to the win
dow, but this time not unattend
ed, for I had elambered out of tlie
high bed, and was standing by
her side, robed in my little white
night-dress.
“Why, ma,” I cried, as soon as
I had taken a good look at our
serenaders, “it’s Harry and John
Richmond,” naming two noted
musicians of the place, who were
also great friends of o^ar fainil)'.
“So it is,” said motlier. “I was
so frightened I did not recognize
themand by the time their
song was ended, she had placed
refreshments upon the table, and,
opening the door, bade them come
in.
“I felt all my fears depart as
soon as you began your music,”
she said, in concluding her story
to them, “for I knew that nobody
intent on crime could be singing
‘Sweet Homo.’ ”
Of course we slept well the rest
of tliat night, and afterwards you
may be sure I told the story of
our grand adventure to ev'erybo-
dy I niet; till in fact, it became
quite a joke in the neighborhood;
and it was long before Harry and
John Richmond lost the title of
the “Musical Robbers.”
The Ta’iEG Eis?! of EdwcaSioia.
The true end of education is
not what the man, shall most do,
but what lie shall iliost be, and
this, too, in order that he may
most and best do the part assign
ed to him. It is cliaracter more
than calling. Character first and
calling no-xt. Not to get tools, so
much as to become himself the
superior instniinoiit or agent for
all the work of life. In an age
like ours, and especially in a laud
like ours where material values
are the high jn-izes of life to the
multitude, it is no marvel if old
barriers should be broken down
in our educational sy.stoms. It is
seen that the practical talent is
that which succeeds—tliat more
scholarsliip, however prized by
the possessor, does not win the
chief prizes of our day. It is
even said that liigher learning is
often positively in the ■n-ay of
one’s success in life—may so
smootli and polish a man as to
make him a poor wrestler for pro
motion in every day affairs. It
has been charged that the high ed
ucation “rifles tlie cannon until
the strength of the metal is gone.”
But if the metal was of poor stuff,
or lacking iu cai-eful preparations
for the strain ujKin it, then rifled
or unrifled, it would burst at the
fii-st charge. I know that, as is
said of Sir John Hunter, men
may be ignorant of the dead lan
guages and yet may be able to
teacii those who sneer at their
ignorance tliat wliich they never
knew in any language, dead or
living. But is that an argument!
against the eJassics in education ?
No 1 But to day that learn
ing is sought with most avidity
ivliich graduates a man as a rail
road president or bank president
upon'the fattest living. And not
the rings of the planets are stud
ied half so much as the municipal
or state rings of the contractor.
Where are the college graduates
to-day—in the foremost ranks of
learning, pushing forward literary
entcip' .ses, controlling oiir public
schools, and guarding all our ed
ucational interests I Alas! “One
to his farm, another to lus mer
chandise.” I have lately soon it
alleged that for the last twenty
yeai's no graduate of our Ameri
can colleges has risen to fame as
an orator, a poet, a statesman, or
an historian, or in cither of the
learned professions. And oven if
this be so, why is it except that
tlie public mind has so set itself to
the new methods as to turn aside
the course of popular education
from the ideal to the practical,
and to merge it in buisines.s af
fairs. I see it stated that the
greatest warfare is the struggle
between the great nations for su
premacy in tile various industries.
And out of this legitmate strife
come the great ivorld’s fairs at
Sydenham, Paris, Vienna, and
the Centennial of Philadelphia.
And out of such a want come the
Cornell and Michigan Universi
ties. Plainly enough, the indus
tries of the country claim to be
developed. There is a training
that is adapted to this. Let it go
forward. Let wealth and talent
be applied in tliis direction also.
Let the masses enjoy tlio freest,
fullest benefit of such a jiractical
education for pui-suing- their cho
sen specialities.—But give us the
old college, which sb.ould not be
superseded, but ivliicli may be ’
enriched aiid enlarged in its ap»
pliancos and its ajiparatUs, so iiS
to become an university only
more universal" that hitherto.—■
J)r. Jacobus.
IVo talk exultingly, and ivith a
certain fire, of “a magnificent
charge !” of “a splendid charge !”
yet very fonv -svill think of the hid
eous particulars that these tw'O
airy words stand for. Tlie “splen ■
(lid charge,” is a headlong rush of
men on strong horses, urged to
their fullest speed, riding down
and overwhelming an opposing
mass of men on foot. Tlio reacl-
ers mind goes no further ; being
content ■with the information that
the enemji’s line ■was “broken’
and “gave -way.” It does not fill
in the picture. When the “splen
did charge” lias done its ivork,
and passed b)', there will be foanj
a sight very much like the scene
of a frightful railway accident.
There will bo the full complement
of broken backs ; of arms twisted
wliolly off; of men impaled upon
their own bayonets; of legs
smashed uj) like bits of fire-wood ;
ot heads sliced ojien like apples ;
of other heads cranohed into jelly
by iron lioofs of horse.s ; of faces
trampled out of all likeness to any
thing Imman. This is what
skulks behind ‘ ‘a splendid charge!”
This is what follows, as matter of
coui-se, W'hen “our fello>\'3 rode at
themiu style,” and “ cut them tip
famously.”—C/tarfes Dickens, in
“All the Year Round.”
PKi'€? Oir’s and luspure Hoys.
Girls in tro.'\tiiig dissipated young men a3
G'.[ualp, you do a wrong that they can scarcely
realized.
Such men should ho made t6 feel that until
they redeem themselves, uutil they walk with
CiUTCctness lind honor in the path of rights
good people would stand aloof from thorn.
Girls who respect themselves will uot be seen
with «uch men and will decline to receive
them on the familiar footing of friendship. It
is mistaken kindness to poultice when cauRtie
is needed, and 1 am inclined to think that a lit
tle sharp decision on tlie part of the young
girls to-day would go far to correct the gener
al looseness of morality among young men;
-- Womayi^s Journal.
T© Put Away PataUs.
One day Iwa-s watching a groat Newfound-*
land dog. lie had boon told by liis master to
fetch him a basket of tools that the gardener
hud left in the shed. The groat dog went to
obey his young master. Ho took hold of the
basket with hi.s month, hut he could not lift
it. What did he do? Give it up? No, neverj
Oneliyone ho took the tilings out of tho
bavslcet and cjirried them to his master.
One by one! That is what wc must try to
do with our faults. Try and get rid of them,
one by one. Jesus knows how hard it is for
yon to do tliis, and so ho has given you a
word that will help you to do it, and that
word is "To-day.’’
I will show you how. Take one fault—wo
will call it bad temper—and in the moming
when you get out of the bod, ask God for
ClTist’ssake to help you “to-day” to overcome
that bad temper. Perhaps by and by, some
thing will begin to make yon feel angry;
thenromombor your prayers, and try and drive
away the angry feeling, and say, "Not to
day
if yon learned any bad, wicked words, like
some poor children in the streets, who do not
know any iiettev, then ask God for Christ’s
sake to help you to (lay; then when yoa are
tempted to do so, rinnomber, "Now to-day
1 will not say any wicked words to-day.”
And do the same with all y >ur faalte. Tak(j
them one by one, and try for one whole day
not to give way to tlieiu. It will come easict'
then—CrK?V?t>Tr/ Star,