Newspapers / Charlotte Messenger (Charlotte, N.C.) / Aug. 27, 1887, edition 1 / Page 1
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THE CHARLOTTE MESSENGER. VOL. IV; NO. 7. THE Charlotte Messenger IS I'UBJ.ISHED lCv<‘ry Saturday, AT CHARLOTTE, N. C. In the Interests of the Colored People of tlic Country. AMi’iunl woll-known writers will contrib >'*«'i,s «*luniiw from different parte of the ct iintry. und it will contain tliegatest Gen oral N*. wa of the (lay. ii l Me.s.h£xgeh is n first-class newspaper uhi %viJl not allow personal abuse in its ed it is not sectarian or purtisan, but ii lciH-mlent—dealing fairly by all. It l-e --.1 \« ilie right to criticise the shortcomings il .•;!! public officials—commending the u >f by, and recommending forelection such it as in its opinion arc best suited to serve Ili- interests of the jxople. It i- intended to supply the long felt need . I a i.-iv.spaper U» advocate the rights and (!(*•. n i flic inloivsts of the Negro-American, r-jic i iliv in the* Piedmont section of the Caidmus. fiUBfiCRIPTIONS: (Altcitys in Advance.) 1 year - - - $1 50 > months • . - - 100 (•mouths - - 75 •i mouths .... 50 •J months • - - Single Copy - - 0 | Address, W. C. SMITH Charlotte N C> 1 lie Salt Lake Tribune declares that the victims in thu Comstock mine have an- ! < -l one a week through the twenty iw ii years that the lode has been worked. That is to say, at least 1,400 lim r have been sacrific'd there by fire, 1 . ‘ieud air, falls, caving-in, ex °r accidents to machinery. A l" !( u^;tr >■ tenures® of feature and senten ii' -M- vi speech among the miners are tv ill- oi ibis experience. A poor girl in Olrc-igo searcliing for •:nij*!oyinctit was oifcrctl a place in a dry /ore at :j>;{ a week. The cheapest " nM * wlii' h she could obtain cost $3 a wo; k, a id the problem was naturally a i diliicuk one. Her plight attracted at ten! j in. It was found that many others working for pitifully sinall wages were '*.u:il»ic to find respectable board with -11 i heir mean I '.. r rhe outcome lias )(•<n t!i op, ri.ig up of a house for self pjK.Tiing women on Illinois street, f'hicagt), which it is hoped, will be fol '•"c.J by others. A few philanthropic ■ft* lies led the way, and now over fifty r.Giking *:iris are provided with a com ' it ib!e home like living place. A night’s lodgin'; .- sis Id cents, or $1.05 a week, id hr Mkfnst is live cents extra, tlie two "•ting t; 1.10 weekly. Later, when fa milies ;.re provided, other meals will be uniwl rl. There is a pleasant parlor, ' ! then* will be a library. This is not i» ai v, for the managers very sensibly ***** t > make the institution self-support n • I hit it L a novel attempt to reduce die cud of living to the lowest possible d ;ni' comjiatible with the requirements i na on and comfort. Other “Homes” T.akc coajparatively elaborate provisions, ‘•liicii increase tlic cost of board. But tlr < liicago “Home” is the most protnis ng attempt to provide a respectable »nd « o; a fort able boarding-place for $2 to fcd.dOa week, and it deserves success. An official statement just published by Wiliiarn F. fcwitzler, chief of the Bureau of Statistics at Washington, shows the t' ll number of immigrants arrived at tiie ports of the United States named be- j low, and from the principal foreigncoun- I :rilm, for the year ending .Tunc 80, 1887. I A comparison is made with the figures of j the previous year: Forla. 1997. IWW. Baltimore, Hd *..... 88,007 13,561 R»*ton & Charlestown, Hass. 36,203 25,(H0 New (Jrleans, La 2,081 1,648 New York, N. Y 376,005 206,370 Philadelphia, Pa 31,0*8 20,822 San Francisco, Cal 1,726 1,47* Total 483,116 328,825 (tountrit*. Great Britain and Ireland: England and Wales 74,020 50,161 j Ireland 68,130 4i*,196 i KtoHond 18,003 12,11*! Total 160,783 111,471 } Germany 106,550 83,776 France 5,034 3,308 Austria 20,300 11,888 Bohemia and Hungary 10,807 16,734 Russia, jpMii tnd and I’oland. 36,887 21,706 Sw«*den ijpid Norway 68,641 30/03 , benmar* 8,50* 0,172 j Netherlands 4,504 2,314 | Italy 47,524 21,603 j * Switzerland 6.213 4J0"» All other countries i*,3H \ 6.536 j Total 483,U« 328,806 § COMPENSATION. If Joy and Perfectness have crowned a day Alus! we say, this gracious day is done, The gods will never send us sUch an one Again, however xve may strive aucl pray. But if in woe that knoweth no allay Full slow the anguish-harrowed hours hav# run Our hearts grow lighter with the setting sun, For then wo feel that all hours pass away. Now some are bound to Life with golden bands And Life to those is passing sweet and dear They fain would linger in each lovely yeai And shun the pilgrimage to unknown binds. But souls that sorrow know notjmy fear When Death draws nigh with healing in hit ' bands. — Graham Tt. Tomson , in Scribner PHIL BARTON’S CLAIM. i’hil 23arton was a big, raw-boned man. Ha had a stoop to his shoulders and a sort of chronic scowl on his face. He was middle-aged and unmarried, witli no very good prospect of changing his latter condition. lie was not a hand some man and far from an even-tempered man. In fact, he sometimes played the well-known part of the exceedingly dis agreeable man from Bitter Creek— though to do him justice he had only occasionally indulged in those little ec centricities of character which were so marked ill the gentleman from the Creek | Only when somebody jumped his claim* | then Mr. Barton was reluctantly forced to admit that he hailed from Bitter Creek. Not from Bitter Creek as it is known to ordinary people—the Bitter Creek of the geographer—but far up at the very head-waters where the black alkali water of Great Bitter Spring gushed out of the volcanic soil—where Bitter Creek was born—that was the humble birth-place and subsequent point of residence of the speaker, Mr Phil Barion. And of course it was wholly un cessary for him to say anything about the fact that the residents of Bitter Creek grew worse the higher up the Creek you travel—this remarkable pecu liarity of the residents was too well known. But to return to Mr. Barton’s i claim—it was a lamentable fact it was id ways being “jumped.” “( la in jumping” is a light and divert ing form of recreation always more or ler-s indulged in by Dakotians in such portions of the territory where there is Government land open to settlement and being settled. It consists of moving on the claim of some oilier person who has not yet secured a title to his land from flic Government, and instituting a “con test” at the land office. If the law is allowed to tatce its course aud the aggres sive party can prove that the other has not complied with all the requirements of the department of the interior the right to live on the claim and finally ac quire a deed to it is given him; if he can not he hits the trouble -and the costs, which pile up to the consternation of all except the lawyers and officials—for noth ing end the original claimant remains in the possession of the Lind. But when the country is u«w, the land choice and the claim-hunters numerous, the law is not ;»1 ways allowed to take its course. In fact it frequently isn’t. And the sur prising swiftness with which the unfor tunate claim-jumper is sometimes re moved from the land and his few effects thrown after him is only equaled by the astonishing manner in which this aggres sive personage will sometimes secrete himself in his frail house and welcome the original claimant with an old shot gun loaded with rifle halls and ten-penny nails. As I said b fore, Phil Barton’s claim was frequently jumped. Probably the tasicst way to account for this is on the supposition that it was jumpable—if I may l e allowed the word. lie didn't comply with the law. llis improvements . were not sufficient, lie failed to live on it with that regularity and persistency which the law supposes. Not that scarcely any one did all the lav/ is sup posed to expect, but the gentleman under consideration didn’t even do all the community expected, and the result was invariably, as he expressed it, “more trouble ’bout that claim o’ mine.” “I thought I'd die a laughin’,” said Judge Posey, of Buffalo City, as he sat in his office. “You know 1 was out to-day locatin’ that Wisconsin man. Well, I seen Phil Barton out on his claim, in 126-05, a havin’ it with that Minnesota , man. Hays Phil : * Look a hear, ye goggle-eyed tenderfoot, ye’ve jumped -my claim!’ ‘Ye bet I have,’ says the Minnesota man, ‘an’ye’ll find me what they call a stayer.’ ‘Now ye want ’o , git I’ says Phil. ‘Git yerself!’ says Minnesota. ‘l’ll lick ye till ye can’t stagger alone! ’ says Phil. ‘Come on!’ how l* Minnesota. ‘One minute to leave i mi’ take yer truck!' says Phil. ‘Ye’ll find ntc right here in this here identical spot a hundred years from now!’ says CHARLOTTE, N. C., SATURDAY, AUG. 27, 1887 Minnesota. ‘I see I’ve got 'o lift ye up an’ li’ist yc off’n the place!’ says Phil. ‘Well, talk won’t do it!’ says Minnesota. Then they went at it. Phil banged him one in the eye and the Minnesota man brought him an under-cut. Then they clinched an’ rolled, an’ tore, an' pounded, an’ pulled, an’ got up an’ pounded, but pretty soon Phil got him down an’ set on him, an’ says he: “Now, whose claim is this?* ‘I guess it belongs to a man ’bout your size,’ says the Minnesota tnan, an’ so Phil lets him up ftn’ he picks dp his duds an’ vamooses, Phil keepin’ the lumber in his house for his trouble. It’s ’bout tlic quickest way to settle a contest I ever seen,” continued the Judge—“no witnesses or postponements or appeals or waitin’ or nothin’, jes’ pull yer coat an’ wade in. But thunder,” he added, “itu’d be rough on us lawyers il they all done that way.” The unfortunate Minnesotian was not the only man who rose and fell on Bar ton’s claim in much the same way. “It’s gittin, ’most so they move on cv’ry morn in’ an’ I move ’em off ev’ry night,” said Barton himself, as he stood on a street fcorncr of Buffalo City. “I tell yc that claim berlongs to me an’ I’m goin’t’ hold it. I’m a pcacc’blc law-abidiii’ American cit’zen, but when anybody tries t’ beat me out o’ my home there’s goin’ t' be trouble. There won’t be no lawin’—nothin’ but jes* straight fightin’ an’ lots ov it. Them as hops onter that claim with the idee o’ holdin’ it, will find that I’m a fighter right from Thumper's Corners, county o’ Git Tharl Them as move on kin look out tha winder an’ see old Phil Barton cornin’ like a slycone, an’ they want o’ git while they’re able t’ move about! I aint no spring chicken, an’ when it to nes t’ fightin’ they’ll find I was raised ’way back over Boaring U: »1 j:. ! Yc. l.ntr r..e. t-f.ntL.r.? -”* “But how about tnc winder Baxter,'* said Judge Posey, “I hccred she moved on yer claim an’ lias put up a shack.” “The widder blank!” said the aston ished man from Roaring ltidge. “Yes, they say she’s on yer place.’* “That one with the black eyes?*’ “Yes.” “The one what teached the school down at Dead Lake an’ licked the big boy an* shoved out the school off’cers?” “Same one.*’ “She’s got a dog, too.” “Yes—big ye Her an’ white cuss.” “I .seen him killin' eats down at Buff’lo one day. lie had ’em stacked up there like hay.” “Yes, I lieercd ’bout it. What d’ye think ye’ll do ’bout the Widder, Phil?*’ “W’y—w'y—ye sec, Jedgc, I reckon the widdcr’ll have t’ go. I don’t take none too much stock in these women no how,an* my ’spcrience has been that wid ders air the wuss kind. I aint been out t’ my place fer two or three weeks— I reckon I’ll mosey out in themornin* an’ see how the land lays.” Then this man, whose earliest recollec tions was of looking down into the dark waters of Bitter Creek and up at the pre cipitous sides of Roaring Ridge, walked away with a troubled vision of black-eyed widows and spotted, cat-killing dogs. The next day Burton went out to his place, but somehow he didn’t get any farther. Away down on the other corner he could see a small board shanty. lie rightly conjectured that it was the widow’s house. But he thought it would do just as well to go down after a day or two. He would think about it for awhile. The widow Baxter was a lady of rather uncertain age though by no means old. She had come out from Indiana a year be fore and in that space of time had worked up a reputation for being excep tionally able to take earc of herself. After a few days Mr. Barton, late of Bitter Creek, determined to go down and see if he could not induce the widow to move. He had serious doubts as to the success of his mission, but it had to he done; so he started out. Before leaving he carefully washed his face and hands in the kettle in which he usually boiled his potatoes—his possessions not including anything nearer to a washbowl—brushed his clothes with the horse-brush and put on a clean shirt, all of which was rather remarkable when we consider his before-named nativity. He walked down across the quarter-sec tion rather slowly, hut arrived near the objectionable shack at last. As he did so, to his horror he saw the white-and ycl low dog sitting in front of the door with his fore legs spread very far apart and a nervous, uneasy drooping of the lower lip. As he went past the widow s cow, which was picketed near the house, she hooked at him. lie ran a few yards to avoid her and when he looked at the dog he thought he detected a smile play ing around the mouth of that intelligent animal, while a calf near by uttered a low “bar-r-r!*' an 1 a pig squealed, a rooster tic v up on the edge of the pen and , crowed while the hen cackled. Evident ly the widow’s whole family was against him—they all »eemed to be applauding t the action of the cow—to which animal , must certainly be awarded first blood f figuratively speaking. lie pretended not to notice these t taunts of the live stock and, walking up t to the door, reached out to knock. But > he didn’t know that the dog hnd made \ a rule against it. BUt he had—and , enforced it personally. 3 The dog didn’t say anything but made ; i vicious and Unwelcome spring at his throat. Our friend withdrew his throat from the immediate scene of hostilities. But the dog followed. He tried backing : up and kicking at the brute—part of the 1 tinn with both feet—but he never hit * him and once the dog bit through the : toe of his boot. So he concluded to run. There wasn't a good prospect across the prairie with his own house the only one ; in sight,so he started around the widow’s. It was ten feet by twelve in size, and as i he ran very close to it it necessitated some very short turns. He went around three or fout times and the dog followed. He gained on the animal a little on the turns but lost along the sides. Occasion ally the white-and-yellow cur took a bite at his legs and once he leaped up on his ; back and knocked off his hat. . About this time Mr. Barton executed a * wild leap and scrainpled up on the low, tar-papcr-covered roof of the shack. The j dog didn’t seem to be able to follow L though he acted as if he was going to be very good on the watch. But that was t an improvement. And though he was L still subject to the taunts and jeers of the live stock and domestic fowls, he never , theless felt much relieved. But the feel ! was short-lived. The door -opened and [ the widow herself came out! She wasn’t r very large but her eyes were blacker than ever. And she had a shotgun in her hands. [ “What ye doin’ up’n the roof o’ my house?” she demanded with feaaful em . phasis. “Mis’ Baxter,” said the brave Mr. Bar ton, who had removed scores of objec tionable men from his claim and had come down to see that the widow also l went, “Mis’ Baxter, I come over t’ sec \ how ye were gittin’ ’long an’ if there was any ’sistance I could render ye. Haint ye got no chain fer that dog?” “Shut up ’bout that dog!. Ye didn’t come fer no such thing—ye come to try t to make me git off’n this place!” i “Yc hain’t goin’ though, be ye?” he in quired anxiously, and at the same time i diplomatically and guardedly. “No, sir, I hain’t! “I knowed ye wasn't—l knoweditall ! the time! Say, what ye goin’t’ do ’bout that dog?” “Shut up’l say! Now ye ever goin’ to mosey ’round here ’bout this claim . ’gin?” “No marm.’ f ««▼« t lo* „ e down air ve goin’ to make tracks up ’cross the quarter to yer owu ranch?” “Yes marm.” “Tige, come here! Now Mr. Barker, you slide down off’n that roof an’ don't ye git into the rain bar’l either, an’ then scoot fer home or this dog’ll chew ye up till ye’ll feel ’sif the Methodist Church had fell onter you!” “All right, widder—good by!* and as . Mr. I’hil Barton, professional bad man, late of—etc., etc., took long steps * through the tall prairie grass it seemed to him as if the cow, and the calf, and the dog,and even the pigs and chickens were all involved in one immense, malicious, triumphant grin. After he arrived home lie sat down to think it over— and count the wounds the dog had inflicted. “I reckon when she says she’s goin’t’ stay that she means it,” he soliloquized. “Wall, blamed if I don’t rather like her style! Bhc*s got the git up an’ git, now I tell yc!” f He remained very closely at home for several days. A dozen times a day he would look around at his lonely room, sigh and then say: “Blamed if I don’t , like her style!” And at last his horse brush and the potato kettle were again brought into service for other than their regular uses and once more lie started forth to vif.it the widow Baxter—this time on a much more decided mission. He approached her house from the rear i and very cautiously. He had visions of the dog. This guardian was nowhere j visible, however, and even the cow j seemeii to intuitively understand the ! nature of his visit and only sniffed the air inquiringly, after the manner of the cow. Still he knew he was treading on a sleeping volcano. But he had a plan. He crept up through the long grass to the back of the house, « stepped up on the water barrel and very quietly drew himself up on the roof. Then ho laid down and looked over the front edge and kicked on the roof uith his toes. Low, harsh, ominous harks came from the house. The volcano was beginning to nimble. Then the firm tread of the widow wa9 heard, the door opened, the dog shot out and the widow followed—with the shotgun! ‘ ‘Mis’ Baxter, ” said Barton with a grin, “how d’ye do!” She wheeled around quickly and saw him on the roof. “Hey? You here again?” she said in a loud voice, while the dog made insane efforts to gain the roof. “Oh, don’t be scart—l jes’ come down ’cause I had a little matter \f speak of.” “Scart! Do I act scart? Did I act scart. before?” “Oh, no, no, course not—l meant— cr—.” “Yc don't know what ye did mean! Now you come down an’ git or I’ll help Tige up where yc air!” “Don’t do that, Mis’ Baxter—no need of it. 1 come down on a very friendly matter.” “Go ’head, then —don’t lay there like a bump on a log!*’ “Remark’bly friendly matter, Mis’ Baxter.” “Well, out with it, ye old fool!” “W’y—yes —I will. Ye sec I want’o tell yc something.” “Tell it then!” “Well, ye sec, Mis’ Baxter, the fact is, blamed if I don’t kinder like yer style!” “There, that’s jes’ it—jes’ zactly what I suspected all the time! Yc can’t en courage these men a bit ’thout some thing o’ this kind—l orter filled ye plum full o’ shot the first time ye were here and then there wouldn’t been noneo* this kind o’ talk!” “Mis’ Baxter, don’t ack so mean t’a feller! I have a great likin’ fer yer style an’ want’o marry ye, if agree’ble!” “Lor’ sakes, I knowed it frum the first! An’ then some day ye’ll throw it up to me that I led ye on, Mr. Barker.” “No I won’t, never. ’Sides, my name aint Barker—it’s Barton —Mis’ Barton, hey? Mis’ Phil Barton? llow does that strike ye?” “I reckon ye low to marry me an’ ge* the deed to this land yerself an' I don’t have nothin’?” “W’y—w’y—l’d have to, ye know, if we was married.” ‘ ‘Then we won’t be married. ' I tell ye; you move off’n it six mouths till I prove up, an’ then I’m blamed if I won’t have ye, Mr. Barton—though I reckon we’d better live in my house, ’cause I notice ye liaint got no tar’-paper on yours.” “Call off the dog, Mis’—Mis’ —” “My name’s Julia—call me Jule.” “Call off the dog, Jule.” Mr Barton descended, and the widow said, addressing the dog: “There now, Tige, don’t bite him no more ’less yer told to. C'ome in an’ sit down, Phil, an’ rest awhile an’ try a piece o’ my wild strawberry pie.” One day the next spring Judge Posey had just returned from a drive into the country. He put his feet up on the desk and leaned back to rest, saying: “I was past the place Phil Barton used to have. The widder Baxter that was ’pears to have the place an’ him too. He was talkin’to me an’ says he: ‘Jedgc, I ’low to put taterson that strip down by tfie pump.' ‘What ye goin’ to put on it?’ asked the widder as she come out. ‘Taters,’ says I'hii. ‘Pertaters?’ says she. ‘Yes, taters,’says he. ‘I ’low ye won’t do no such thing—l want beans on that air strip,” says the widder. ‘Taters ’u’d bo better,’ says Phil. ‘Whose farm is this?’ says the widder. Then Phil turns to me again, an says he: ‘Jedge, I reckon it’ll be beaus on that air strip I”’—Da lota Bell. How Peas Are Canned. The canning of green peas, which is a busy industry in Delaware, is an inter esting process. The peas arc shelled by hand and then fed into the hopper of a separator, which divides them into three grades. Then they arc put into copper kettles, where they are steamed just enough to wrinkle the outer skin and intensify if possible the vivid green of the pea. They are then filled into cans, which are placed on an iron tray and • dipped in a trough or tub of boiling water, which runs into the cans, filling them to the brim. This water contains whatever of a preservative nature is put into the cans to preserve the vegetable, j The cans are then wiped, sealed and I packed in iron cages, each cage holding ' 248 cans. These cages are put into air ! tight steam kettles, where the cans are ' subjected to hot steam under intense 'pressure for about fifteen or twenty minutes. The peas arc then ready for market. An exprrienrext barber aajra that it fa (le:'i<lc<Jly <la»grrouH for men who are shared to read newspapers; that barber* urc opposed to the practice, bc * an*e the razor is belli very lif-litly, anil the ncws|>u|ier is apt to strike the handle And cause a cut. Terms. $1.50 per Annm Single Copy 5 cents. A Great Advertiser. Major George K. Williams, who has held numerous responsible positions on New York newspapers, says to a Jrntr nalUl interviewer: “Away back in the days when Bu olnna’.i was President, while I was n mere boy setting type, Robert Bonner startled the town one morning, by filling a whole page in the Ihrnld. Times and Tribune, with his then novel style of repeating small advertisements: 110 used to say that ‘Fanny Fern wrote for the New York Ledger,' over and over again, until the two lines of caps filled out a column, another would be devoted to Syivanus Cobb, another to Mrs. Soutlnvorth, and so to complete the page. It used to be difficult, i remember, for the composi tors to find enough Es and Ns to do the work. Well, on the morning I speak of, Mr. Henry J. Raymond had arranged for tlic publication of one of his famous controversial political letters in the Times, but on picking up his paper at his break fast table he discovered that it had been unavoidably left out, because of Mr. Bonner’s advertisements. Though the Times needed money in those days, for it was .‘till in its infancy, Mr. Raymond was a journalist who knew what he was about. Mr Raymond got as angry as it was possible with his sunny, amiable temperament, and wrote an editorial for tlie nest issue of tlic Times announcing that newspapers were primarily published for the benefit of its readers, who wanted news and comment. Unless they got that the circulation was in danger, and though six columns of advertisements brought in a good deal of money, he did not propose to sec the Times swamped with such advertisements as Mr. Bonner wrote. He said that thereafter the pro prietor of the ledger could only have three columns on any one day, and for a time he didn’t. “llow did Mr. Bonner like that?” “Oh he was shrewd enough to fill his three columns with a brief letter to Mr. Raymond, beginning: ‘No, you don’t, Mr Raymond,’ and stating that as he could not have six columns on one day he would take three on two days in the week. Getting tired of that, Mr. Bonner con tracted with tlie Herald and Times to fill an extra sheet of eight pages with his Fanny Ferns, Syivanus Cobbs, Edward Everetts, Mrs. Southwortlis, et al. That was the beginning of the quadruple sheets.” “That must have made a sensation?” “Indeed it did. Mr. Bonner was the boldest advertiser of his day. H I re member right, he spent $27,000 in an nouncing ‘Tlic Island Princess,’ which was the first story Mrs. SouthwortU ever wrote for the Ledger. I remember that quadruple sheet very well, lor, as I have told you, I was setting type at the time, but took to the pencil and note-book soon after. I got a narrow slip of paper —we began composition at eleven A. M. that day—on which was written Fanny Fern writes for the New York Ledger! This I wa9 to repeat to fill an entire page. Mr. Gale, our foreman, had laid in an ex tra supply of agate quads and E’s, and N’s, and R’s, so Mort. Rainey—the fast est typesetter of his day—and I secured a sufficient supply (he had Edward Everett, I think, for his take) and at it we went.” “Rut did you really set up 6ix columns of type in one day “Wc filled two pages, but it was only a line of caps, a line of agate quads, followed by a lead and a cross rule, so it was like setting up two columns of type. It was a big day’s work, nevertheless, and though we only got thirty-five cents per thousand ems in those days my bill came to nearly $lB, for I managed to pick up two or three thousand ems of nonpareil after my fat, but it was hard work after handling so many quads. “And so you think Sunday advertise ments an injury in the long run.” “Yes, I do; when a newspaper reader finds himself compelled to buy half a pound of paper for the sake of the reading matter, he is disgusted. One of these | days our publishers will find it more ; profitable to reduce the size of their papers by charging more for Sunday advertising. When they do the annual income will not be injured.. On the contrary, it will be improved." Bamboo Paper. Tt almost seems as though good ser vii eable paper ran be made from even kind of vegetable fibre. Grasses anc woods of all sorts, and cveu jioat, hsvi been brought into requisition, while om of the latest intioductions is crushcc bamboo, which has been used with vert satisfactory results. CeustU't Magazine. James A. McGahan, the famous wai I correspondent wiio died during tht Russo Turkish Wnr, was a native of New J.exington, ()., and is buried there. Tht Central Ohio Press Association propose* to erect a monument to his memory.
Charlotte Messenger (Charlotte, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
Aug. 27, 1887, edition 1
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