CHARLOTTE MESSENGER.
VOL. I. NO. 37.
NEVER SATISFIED
In winter, when the nights are long.
And Boreas rales— a cruel king—
We long and linger for the spring,
And dream we hear the bluebird’s song. *
In spring, when days and nights are even,
Arid storm and sunshine strive together,
We weary of the changing weather,
And sigh for summer’s fervid heaven.
In summer, when the nights are brief.
And days are long, and glow with heat.
We chide Time’s slowly moving feet,
And long for autumn’s falling leaf.
hi autumn, when with even beam
The balance holds both night »nd day,
W e sig » tliat summer goes, And say
“ The winter comes ; we sleep And dream.’
Where is the season of content ?
Where is the hour of perfect peace ?
Alas, the search may never cease
Till all the days of life are spent!
— Frank J. Ottarson , in dipper.
NUMBER FIFTEEN.
Mv name is Rude rick McSti vers, and
I’m a native of the go id old town of
Tadmouth; I’m forty years old, if I’ui ,
a day, and, if l do say it, as good-look- '
inf? for my age as any man you ever |
set eyes on. Twenty years ago I was i j
fully as handsome as I um now, and at i
that time I was engaged to the charm
ing Mary Black, the belle of Tad-!
mouth. That was the beginning of t
all my woe—that engagement. I was |
1o »r then (I own the largest boot
manufactory in Tadmouth to-day i
and tlie Lord only knew when I should |
lie aide to marry Mary. Hut she said
she didn’t care; she could wait two or ;
three c nturies just as well as not, if j
I’d only lie true t > her meantime.
“Those were days when my heart
was vrlconic,” but the old gentleman’s
p dpitator was as hard and cold as a cast
tmn grindstone. The paternal Black
did not believe much in love, you see.
He had married for money, and. in l
h s opinion, that was the only tiring | .
worth marrying for; and so, instead of I f
throwing his chihlaway upon a miser- i ,
aide vuga’iond like myself, he very un- f
eeremomously showed me thedoor one l
evening, and the very next day l .
brought a loser of his own choisingfi
home to Mary. The love ’s name was t
Biirsby, and he rolled in gold, met a- <
phurirally speaking; owne I a tin*;house '
iri New York, and had horses, car
riages and servants “too numerous to!
mention.” Oh,’why should I linger',
over this period of my existence. I’m [
sure I don’t know whv, and hang me t,
if I do.
You guess the net. Mary was L
dazzled with her new lover's wealth. |,
Mie forgot poor Roderick MeStivers, I ,
and married Thomas Bunsby,
i I, .das, was not invited to the wed- ,
'ling! Anything more heartless than .
the above e;m scarcely be imagined. I .
suppose I might have "gone into '
mourning.” They told me I couldn’t j
he a nun on account of my sex.
“Oh, what shall I dor 1 asked, in ,
a voice that sounded horribly strange,
notwithstanding that it was'my own. J
1 defy you to tell me what I did do. |
In the light of my twenty years’ ex- i (
peri' nee, 1 am convinced that I did the j,
best thing I coukl under the eircum-! ,
stances. I married my hoarding mis- j j
tress. She was thirty-five and I was i |
wenty years of age; "she was— (
A quid uomatehed in maanen ue in fu*. <
Skilled in each art, and crowned with every f 1
grace.
And, though I n -ver l amed to love I ,
tier extravagantly. I must confess that',
she could make tie lest apple dump* j
1 nja that I ever ate. In thetoniseof |
time I IwcAOt* a father. A daughter ,
was born to us, and we called her .
•I idia. after my grandmother, who was
the most beautiful woman i* the court- ]
try, to judg ■ from the portrait now ho- J
lore mo. My daughter looks much as ,
her grandmother did at her age. Well,
us I said, a'laughter was bora to ns
and a son was born to Bunsby. anil ;
they e ailed him Tom. We heard of'j
the last mentioned even up here fat '
Tadmouth, lint for years and years I 1 ,
m ver raw either Alary or Iter son. not- i
withstanding they used to visit her 1
father quite often while the old gen
tleman lived. But at last Mr. Black |
was gulliered to his fathers, and at
about tiie same time my wife was 11
gather. (I to her mot hers, and l was left
alone with my little Julia. I was rich j 1
then—the we« tliiest man in Thdreoutli :
-and ! had built me a fine house, the
same that 1 have lived in ever since, j
with my little Julfct m housekeeper, i
Weil, liow tilings will eosne about! i
Last summer young Tom Bunsby come i
■ ut to Tadmouth and put op at the i
hotel—they bore quite a Jiumlief of t
summer Ix'mnteri there- and the first .
thing the ypur.g man vLd *>■ t> tell 1
CHARLOTTE, MECKLENBURG CO., N. C., MARCH 17, 1883.
in love with my daughter Julia. Os
course the poor fellow was not to
hlame. He couldn't help it, for she
was the most bewitching little woman
that you ever saw, notwithstanding
that old MeStivers is her father.
He saw her first at a picnic, danced
with her, kissed her in the ring, and
walked home with her at night. Ire
member the evening very well. I was
3 tting in my library, smoking a cigar
and thinking of the late Mrs. McStiv-i
ers- oh, those apple dumplings! my ■
month waters every time I think of
them —when, the windows being open.
I heard voices at the door. 1 knew
it was Julia, and I knew she had a!
young fellow with her, and, tear my j
wig. if l:e wasn’t begging for a kiss.
How sihi.7 sweet snnd lovers' tongues by
Likesoftest music to attending esus.
I remarked confidentially to McStiver.-.
In about five minutes Julia caune in
blushing like a ten-acre flower garden,
and looking as lovely as a fairy quern.
“Oh. papa! I've ha l such a splendid
timeT said she, throwing herself into
my arms and kissing the cuticle off
from my right cheek.
“ Yes, I should think so, particularly
during the last five minutes,” I re
, marked.
“Oh. father”' and she hid her face in
my whiskers.
“Who was it, my dear?” I inquired.
“ Mr. Thomas Bunsby.”
“ Tom Bunsby!” I yelled, springing
to my feet, while mv eveh rolled fear
fully.
My daughter fell at my feet the pic
ture of terrified terror or horrified
herror; I can't tell which.
••Girl!” saul I.in a voice of thunder
and lightning, “did you know Tom
Bunsby’s father?"
“Xo-o.”
“Or his mother?”
“Xoi”
“ Or his grandfather?"
“Nov”
“I’m sorry,” said I, making 8 terri
ble effort to calm myself, “I’m very
sorry that you didn’t know his grand
father, very sorry, indeed; because the
old gentleman kicked me out of his
front door once for daring to make
love to his daughter; and, by Jove,
girl, if young Tom Bunsby comes here
to see you 111 serve him in the same
manuer. Ob. revenge is sweet—"tis
sweet.”
Julia got up then.
•* t'an l go now. father?" she asked.
“Yea; but remember, no more of
Tom Bnnsby. GtKsi-night.”
Time passed on and Jnlia seemed
the same as usual. Whether she saw
Tom or not I did not know at the
time, though I hare s:arc learned that
they wire in the habit of meeting quite
frequently. Xe, I did not know that
they met. but I suspected tliat they
might. and to prevent any chance of
an elopement 1 never all >wed Julia to
go out in the evening unless 1 went
with her. and at 10 o'clock every night
the doors and win.lows were ali made
fast against burglars and lovers, and
we slept secure until morning. You
perceive by this that I am not one of
those who wait until the mare is stolen
before h wkimrt lie stable. Well, it was
one night about a month after that,
after locking up the house as usual. I
retired to my room, and, disrobing this
lovely form of mine, crept into bed. I
had just finished my first nap, and had
turned over for the second, when the
door-bell rang. And how it did ring.
Egad! I thought they'd poll it down.
Was it fire, burglars, or did somebody
mistake my house for the doctor's? I
didn't stop to think, but throwing on
no clothes in, the qb-rtn* possible :
rino-. I ni-lmd downstair* and threw
opeftthv door, holding my revolver
straight out before me as I did so.
“ A note for you. sir.” said a small
bar. handing me a folded paper. Aiy
first thought was that it was a tel
egraphic dispatch.
“ Anvthlngto pay?” I asked.
••No. sir,” and the Ix»y vanished in
the thick darkness. Cl sing the door,
I tore open the note ami,read.
Mr. McSrcvz*-—Tour daughter wdl elope
to.oi.kt with To u Bunsby. if she h** not
aln-ady. It yuo and bur not in b«r room,
run to tha hotel —room fifteen, first flight
Attica. J«* Kean.
AU the tig>r in the Mt-vi verses
was aroused. I dashed madly upstairs
amt, throwing open Julia'# tloor,
ru-hetl In. Alas! I was too late.
She WM gone—the bird hal flow n.
She li:td not Iteen in bed that night.
1 di l not euntiuae the search there,
but dew on the wings of the wind out
of the roan, not of th« house anti
along the street till I reached the Tad
mouth hotel. The clerk was doringin
the office and did not see me when I
entered. I dkl n A apeak, but crept
cautiously a retain and along theoor
ridor until I reamed X* IS.
“Death to Bunsby," I muttered
through my clinched testh.
Oh, how ferocious I must have
\ looked My blood curdles even now
] while I third of it. I knocked at the.
door.
“ I will call him out and shoot him
in his tracks,” said I. But no one an
swered the knock. I tried the door.
! Ua, it was unlocked. 1 entered the
room. The above four words are of
j terrible import, and I want you to
] consider fiem well. The gas was burn
| ing, but all was still, save the soft
] br.-athing of a sleeper, sitting in a
rocking-chair, and whose face was hid
i den from me by the back of the chair,
j I sprang forward, seized an arm and
with the celerity of lightning yanked
the sleeper into the middle of the floor.
The ex-sleeper screamed. I yelled
once, and then, with a musical groan,
fell to the floor, tearing my hair as I
went.
“ Roderick!” said the screamer.
“Oh, heavens! where am I? Ma-mary,
Is it you ? Where is—is Bungbv ?”
“Dead."
“ And you
“I’m a widow; and you?”
“ I'm—l'm a widower,” I answered,
with a groan.
“I always loved you, Roderick,”
said she.
“And you are just as handsome as
ever,” sai 11. "" ”•*'
“You acted very rudely to-night,”
said she *
“Very much so,” said I. “Where
is your son?” o»k
“I kuow not He loves your
daughter and she loves him—and 1
love you.”
Mary blushed.
“And Bunsby’s dead?”
“ Bunsby's dead!’’
“ Mary,” said I, “ may I be a second
Bunsby—that is—oh—ah ! will you be
mine?”
She threw herself into my arms.
Just then I heaid footsteps; 1 turned,
and saw Tom and Julia standing at
the door.
“Thedeuce!” cried Tom.
“Xo, no. it’s my father !”said Julia.
“Oil, father, won’t you forgive us?”
There was a queer twinkle in her
eyes when she said that
“ Forgive you for what ?”
“ For marrying Tom. I’ll promise
not to do it again.”
“ And will you forgive me for mar
rying his mother, as 1 mean to do to
morrow?”
, “ Oh, will yo#,pa?”
S “ I will if somebody’ll tell me who
wrote that note to me to-night,”
said L
“ 1 wrote it,” replied Tom, with a :
laugh. “Julia was hid in her closet.
when you went to her room, and when i
you rushed out of tlie house she fol
lowed you, met me, the minister was I
waiting, and we were quickly made
one flesh. But how came you in this
room ?”
“ The note said I should find you
here.”
“ Yes. I thought you would like to
see my mother, though she didn’t '
know you was coming. But how did t
you get in ?’’
“1 forgot to lock the door,” said;
Mary.
“ How lucky,” said I. “ We’ll have
another wedding to-morrow. And now ;
good-night.”
1 kissed Mary and the dear children
--bless them !—and then, taking my
hat, returned to my home, a much j
happier man than l had been in years, j
There was a wedding next day, a 1
quiet affair, and then a short, tuur. j
At present we are all at home— j
Tom, Jnlia, Mary and I—and if you j
I don't lielleve my story, just come down
to Tadmouth and inquire. Everybody
knows me here.
The World’s Greatest Desert.
Tlie desert of Sahara, according to
an address by Profess ir Guid'a Cora to
tlie Italian Geographical society, has a
total area of 3.700,000 square miles,
not more than one-fiftli of which is
covered by sand. The mean elevation
of the desert is from 1,300 to 1,050
j feet above s. a-level, but its mountain
chains attain a height of from 0,550
to 8.200 feet. In some parts rains oc
cur only once in twenty years, while j
in oilers there is a regular rainy sea-j
son. While the temperature rises to
122 degrees, it sometimes falls below
twenty degrees, and snow and ice
cover thesummitof the highest moun- 1
tain summits during several months of
the year. The animals and plants are
of much interest and importance. Tlie
human population numbers about j
3,000,000, and the desert contains
towns of from 5,000 to 10,000 inhabi
tants.
Parliament Is the pew-wow behind j
the throne
Risky XarkßiMshlp.
Dr. Frank Powell, of Lacrosse, Wis.,
who has an extensive practice as sur
geon and physician, has (likewise at
■ tained celebrity as an expert marks
man with either rifle or pistol For
some unexplained reason he has re
ceived the sobriquet of “White Bea
j ver,” and by that sobriquet he .is fa
miliarly known throughout the Xorth
.west. Recently u party of grangers from
Minnesota sought him out, and for!
their edification, and especially tliat of ■
one of their number who fancied he
| “could shoot some,” tho doctor gave a !
display of his prowess. After having
i rapidly, at a distance of about twenty
j yards, fired six shots from his rifle
j against the edge of a silver quarter in-
I serted in the target, imbedding it
deeply in the soft pine plank, bis
friend Richardson, says the Lacrosse
Sunday News, placed himself in front
of the target with a stump of a cigar
in his mouth; this the doctor
shot away, leaving barely an
inch between R.’s lips. White Beaver
then laid his rifle aside, and, produc
ing a caliber 22 pistol, placed upon the
head of bis assistant a pint bottle cork;
a report, and tlie cork was blown to
pieces. Tben a peanut slipll was
placed upon lt.’s nose; a shot, and that,
too, lay scattered upon the floor. Tak
ing a knife blade he fastened it lirmly
against the target. Upon each side of
tlie blade he placed a tiny bell; then
calling his office boy, he placed be
tween tlie youth's fingers his Masonic
ring, previously covered with a piece
of wliite paper. Between the lioy
and the target Richardson stood with
a cigar in his mouth. Stepping back
fully fifty feet, White Beaver raised
his rifle, and with an “AU ready,
steady,” to his assistants, fired; a re
port, and simultaneously two sharp
rings from the hells. The ball was
found to have passed through the
finger-ring, snuffed the ashes from
R.'s cigar, and splitting upon the
knife blade, had glanced and rung
both beUs.
Origin of the Barlier Pole.
In the records of the English parlia
ment for the last century we read that
Lord Thurlow, when lie opposed the
surgeons’ incorporation bill in the
house of peers, on July 17,1797, stated
that by a st atute still in force tlie bar
bers and surgeons were each to use a
pole. The barbers were to have theirs
bine and whited striped, with no other
appendage; but tlie surgeons’, which
were the same in oilier respects, were
likewise to have a gallipot and a red
j rag to denote the particular nature of
. their vocation.
i The origin of the barbers’ polesistobe
traced to the period when the barbers
I were also surgeons and practiced bleed
ing. To assist this operation it became
necessary for the patient to grasp a
staff; a stick or pole was always kept
by the barber-surgeon, together with
the fillet or bandage lie used for tying
the patient’s arm. When the pole was
not in use the tape was tied to it, tliat
they might lie both together when
wanted.
On a person coming to be bled the
i tape was disengaged from the pole and
bound round the arm, and the pole was
! put into the person’s hand. After the
operation was concluded the tape was
j again tied upon the pole, and the pole
, and tape were often hung at tlie door
i for a sign or notice to passers-by that
| they might there be bled. Doubtless
1 the competition for custom was great,
i for our ancestors believed thoroughly
! in bleeding, and they demanded tlie
I operation frequently. At length, in
stead of hanging out the identical pole
used in tlie operation, a pole was paint- i
cil with stripes around it, in imitation
of the real pole and bandage, and thus
came tlife sign.
That tlie use of the pole in bleeding :
was very ancient appears from an illu
mination in a missal in the time of
Edward I. I n other ancient volumes
there are engravings of the like prac
tice. “Such a staff,” says Brand, who
mentions tlieso graphic illusions, “Is
to this very day put into the hands of
patients undergoing phlebotomy by ,
every village practitioner.”
A Matrimonial Division.
A man and wife who had lived to
gether in tliis vicinity nearly thirty
years got to quarreling, and it was ar
i ranged to have a Liard placed in the
center of the lied as aaort of dividing
line. This lasted some time, until one
morning, when the oid man was lying
about half asleep, the old lady peered
! over the board and ejaculated: “ Bless
hit dear old heart!” The husband,
starting up, said: “Do you mean that?”
i The answer was in the affirmative, and
| tlie old fellow roared: “Takeaway the
board!”— Eureka (Net. I Leader. 1
V. C. SMITH. Pnblisler.
STORY OF THE LITTLE RED HEW
This is the story my grandmothertold.
One day, when the wind and the weather
were cold;
Yon have read it before, perhaps, dozens of
times;
Will you hear it again in the simplest of
rhymes ?
“ Who’ll sift the floor ?” cried the little red
hen;
“ We need some more bread.”
“ I w 7 o-n-t,” “ I w-o-n-t," all the rest of tha
ten •
Quite lazily said.
“ Wall, tben, I will 1“ To the pantry she
went . *
That very same hour.
And merrily sang, on her task still intent,
Till sheM sifted the flour.
“ Who’ll etir in the yeast ?” cried the little
red hen,
“ And who'll knead the bread ?”
“ I won't,” “ I won’t,” all the rest of the
ten
Quite angrily said.
“Well, then,.l will,” and she worked so
fast
That the loaf looked light,
When placed in its shining pan, at last,
To rise through the night.
“ Who'll kindle the fire ?” cried the little red
hen,
“Who’ll bake the bread ?”
“I won’t,” “I won’t,” all the rest of tha
ten
Quite suddenly said.
“Well, then, I Will,” and she wiped the
dust
Till the oven was clean.
And the loaf, when baked, had the nicest
crust
That ever was seen.
“ Now the work is done," cried the little red
hen,
“ Who’ll eat the bread ?”
“ I will,” “ 1 will,” all the rest of the ten
Very eagerly said.
“No, indeed, yon won't, as you’re said
before,
I’ll eat it myself.”
And she left the loaf, after leaking the
door,
On the closet shelf.
Then the nine who’d been lazy and snllen
and cross,
Went np to the attic and wept o’er their
loss,
—Tlie Independent.
HUMOROUS.
A pickpocket never lets his right
nanil know what his left hand doeth.
—Boston Poet.
Vanderbilt has bunions. A man
rich as lie is cun have anything.—
Loweli Citizen.
It is a very small potato, either in
tlie animal or vegetable world, that is
most likely to be mashed.
The real glove light occurs when a
woman tries to put a Xo. 6 gtove on a
Xo. 7 hand. —Boston Bulletin.
Some of our wealthy business men
want rest, but it is the rest of the
earth. —Baltimore Ecery Saturday.
A servant girl recently astonished a
druggist’s clerk by asking for porous
plasters with holes in them.—Phila
delphia Bulletin.
Money is called the great circulating
medium because men have to circulate
lively to get a medium amount of it.
—Philadelphia Chronicle.
A French lady, during the siege of
Paris, driven by famine to eat her pet
dog, as she was finishing exclaimed:
“Poor thing, how he would have en
joyed picking these bohes!”
Mrs. Smith, triumphantly—“ The
hand that rocks the cradle is the hand
that rules the world !” Mr. Smith,
cynically—“ Yes, indeed, my dear; and
that’s just why the wofld is so deuced
badly governed.”— Louisrille Courier-
Journal.
Victim (to dentist) —“ Good heav
ens ! man, that is the second sound
tooth you have pulled.” Dentist (to
victim) —“ I beg your pardon, sir; hut
as you had only three when I com
menced, I think I shall make no mis
take this time.”— The Judge.
Write, we kuo.v, is written right
When we seb it written write,
lint when we sea it written wright,
We kuuw it is nut written right.
Per write, to have it wtittsn right,
Must not be written right, nor rite.
Nor Jet most it be written wrigbt,
lint write, for so 'lie written right.
Some time ago a druggist in Burs
leni. England, had carelessly served a
customer with poiaon instead us mag
nesia. He- summoned the bellman as
soon as the mistake Was discovered
and sent him alsiut the streets warn
ing the unknown purclmsi r not to use
the deadly drug. This is a rather
novel way of neutral zing personal ter
ror, as it may be called, but it was suc
cessful.