Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 8, Number 36, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 2 March 1878 — Page 6

THli MAIL

A PAPER I

ou

HIE PEOPLE.

ia~ 'COME UNTO MS,"

BY KLKAXOB KIKIC.

A sweeter •ong than e'er was tttng 3®* I poet, priest or Htges— AH Bg which thro'all lunven banning,

And own ibru'a'i the a#*, A precious HI rain of *wcet acrord, A note of ctwr fr«.m Clirist. our Lord. Lint as it vibrates lull nnl fre*. O, grieving hear ,' Come unto Me O, w!«e provision, sweet command, %*•, iiutliiffifnl thtf vrenk an 4 vrary A (r «nl to And on eiiher lionil, y,a

A *1ght 'or prospect dreary. A friend who knows our bluer need,*r,' each endeavor taking heed Who calN t® every «ool oimprest. "Come unto Me, I'll give ou rciit.1* "Corpeunto Mc." The way's not long 111* hands are Rtriti:h lointet ttiee Now Atlll thy sobbing, list the conn

Which everywher hhtttl greet th-o. Hero, at Ml* fe«t, your burden l*»y Wj 'neath It bf-nd anwlin-r day. Since one HO loving can* to ihee, "Oh the vy laien.corae.o Me!" A Kweeter Roig »ltan e'er was sung

Hy poet, priest or wa^ca— A son* whi thro' ail heaven has rung. And down thro' all the «g*-s Howcau we turn fro.iihucii a si rain, Or loriger wail to ea«e onr pain ?. 0, draw us closer, I,on), limt we A.ay And our sweetest r»45i in 1 he^

SUSIE GARLAND.

Till) STORY OF A POOR OIRU

BY WIRT SIKBS.

CHAPTER T.

WHERE THE BROOK WENTAs you go up the Hudson river by railroad, leaving this noisy city bebiud you, but carrying noise with you all along the othcrvvse quiet river, you

f'allude*.come

ireffeutl 7 into the presence of"tbe Tall, silent, and yloomy, satuLu-? therewith their feet in deep water and their summit bare against the sky, tboy seem as separated from the busy world through which you go trundling noisily, as the Pyramids of Egypt. They are as void of present day life, it seems to you, as the Hphivix, and upon their summit youiancy a barren land of rock and desert.

On a sunny September afternoon, a dozan years ago, a man stood on the top of th® Palisades, with Ills broad back turned to the east. From the villa sprinkled eastern shore, OOR looking at tno Palisades might have observed him speck against the blue sky. With his broad buck to the river, be looked inward across the level land toward the west, his eyes ablnzo with the enthusi a mi of one of Nature's ardt nt lovers. It is no laud of rock and desert, this—a broad expanse of undulating plain, with dusty red roads winding through a lux uriuneo of shrubbery, whose tints were deepening into the pomp of gold and scarlet, and wh i-h covert the landscape with a carpet of splendor, mveepIr.g awav to the feet of th- hn'/v, (ar otr hills. Mere and t'tore quaint, olden farm houses stood, hilf or dull l»rown stotif, liilf of duller wood, it win dows creeping out on the liiih, sloping roofs, and reddening vines cr.t wMnjf »i.l crowding tbe ctitmnev p* He stood surrounded by a grand wiii e, made more still by the occasional mttle of a wandering cow bell and the nteady murmur of a brook. With hi* head uncovered, he breathed the deep, conscious breath of one who drank with ulorious appetite this pure air, laden with 'be dreamy odors of ripouing urnpes and dewy wood musses, and dying leaves and dowers

A larue, black Newfoundland do« crouched nt the man's feet, looking up in his master'** face with lolling rjd tongue, as if wondering what the man saw in the distance to make his eyes kindle so. 'This might be Arcadia,' he said at last. The dog gave a short bark. 'Yes, Turk, it might be Arcadia, but If it were we should not be here. That river down there is not more shut away from the sight of this plain than we should be if it were Arcadia." The dog barked a^aln and waggid his tall as thus to say, 'My Areidla |e where you are master.' 'How tranquil that picture is! Yonder great city never troubles us, with its turmoil, its noise, roar, mile, and wickedness— crime, rags, suffering, and sorrow. Here in Arcadia—an hour's ride hy rail, Turk —we never fasli ourselves about the city. Do we, dog 1 Not a bit. Life glides on here with a current as joyous and gentle in that of this brook—now in the sunshine, tiow in the shadow, but always happy enough, always singing its way over" the smooth stones which never fret its quie' lfe. Not an exciting life, to le sure. Few ups and downs in Arcadia—little wickedness—little fever. Thero Is loving, no doubt, and marrying there is plain inn and reaping now and then merrymaking but a smooth tranquility always*, Turk. Old families, loo—dating bu to the haughty Dutch Rattlers who strode over here when the country was much as Irft it—and havo been correcting HU edition ever since. It Is not vry f»r b'«ck to date, after all—to tin se fi!«ry, fat Dutch—but it is as

good

blood as we have in the

country, no doubt As.they are born these Arcadians—so they live. Their live* run always in pleasant, narrow channels of respectability, where they own no more help running than tbe waters of that brook can climb their banks ».ud go astray and fall into dissipation. A quiet, safe, eventless life, ending in eternity's broad ocean, where it is swallowed up. and we see no more of it. Just like that brook. Come, dog!' Hfle went strolling along, switching off a thistle here aud there with his stick, and singing a he went—singing with a jolly, mellow voice, tbe method of an artist, the oarelews ea«» of one who slugs for love of it and not far a listener.

Passing through a cluster of red foil aged trees, he came suddenly upon a sight which made him stop short, while a curious expression—half awe, half drollery—came into his face as he said: 'Ah, yes! and sometimes the brook

goes over a precipice!' The little brook had found Its way to the edge of the toworing cliff, and leaped over to the rocks far down below. 'It is not a rule in Arcadia,' he said, as he turned away—'it is not a rule in the quiet life of most brooks or quiet farmer folk, but still—sometimes they do go oret!'

CHAPTER IT. "TOOT*EY,"

He turned into the dusty, red road, and began to walk with aquieker step toward the broad, burning sunset. He went on in the red glow of its splendor, kicking the particles of dry, red clay along the road into clouds which shone in the sunlight like gold dust.

Iu half an hour no swung open tbe gate of a farm yard, and walked toward the barn. A farmer in his shirtsleeves was movi:ig about in th" :i(li:\ae» ofthebaro, no* in the 1^ tt ^unaliiue as it »ire*ttt*d hetity is across the

seedy fl or, now back into gloomy, hay crowded depths, emerging ui der a cau opy of hay which bo held on a fork over his head, and which be tipped over presently Into thf» stall o(a r»e which whinmed aud looked back at him. 'lialloo! farmer!'

A cheery vo^*» ntterod this, as br ad backed shadow stood in the barn dct.rway. 'Hullo!* The farmer emerged stall. 'Old UV you, is it, Mr, Walker? Bow are ye?'

The farmer, grinning broadly, offered a palm, which was promptly met with a heait.v thwack. •Still going round the wheel, eh, farmer? Stilicllmbing tbe fctaira? Still grindin t?' 'Waal, that's what you say, Mr. Walker,' said tbe farmer, coming out into the open uir. 'You allers did talk that way. As ter wheel', I don't know about goin' 'round 'em—tbe only wheels on my place is waggin wheels. And ns fer stairs, thar aim nary stairs in this barn— 'thout jou call ladders Hairs.' 'And how's the \vife?—and tbe little Tootsej ?—and tbe nr bab\ 'New baby!' said the farmer, with stare. 'Well, I asked that question on general principlet». It's over a .tear since I was here you know. There is no new baby, tfcen?' 'No,' «aki the farmer 'not in my bouse. We have enough to do to keep Tootey out of mischief. She's the giddiest. little creetei! Her motlnr was jest the same, though, when she was a leetle gal and she's stiddy 'nongh now. But come IR and see 'cm. They'll be

glad to see yo. iv watke beautiful little girl came running out, with bright black eyes, and long curls ol glossy hair, and cheeks of rose, and lips of ruby. 'Here's Tootsey, Mr. Walker!' 'Why, bow we have grown!' said Mr. Walker, taking the little girl in bis arms. 'We are almost a lady, aren't we, little Tootsey?'

They walked toward the house. A

Tootsey made no other answer than to laugh merrily, with her arms around the man's neck. 'You haven't forgotten me? he asked.

Tootsey shook her curls in a vehement negative 'And have you got that kiss about you that you promised to give me ifl'd come back?"

Tootsey made her mouth into a rosebud and offered it for immediate pay ment.

Alis. Garland let down her apron and smoothed it with both hands, while her eyes bade the new comer welcome. His was a cheery young face, and nnee he tirsi brought it into that quiwt farm bouse, the year before, they bad remeua bered it as one remembers a pleasant song.

Iu his fair weather strolls in tbe coun try, this man rarely visited a fireside tbe second time. He feared to know human nature too well. He liked, in his mingling with the farmer folk in tbe autumn month', to view them as figures in an idyl. 'One n.'ust not look too close at any thing in this world,' he would say. 'A beautiful painting, which you venture to smell of, may astonish you with revelations of varnish.'

Hit in this instance be had made an exception to bis mle. He had carried »ack to the great city, the year helore, m:ny Idyllic figures but there was one which interested him more closely than liti any such mere puppets of poetic fancy. in the little Tootsey of the glossy curls and the deep velvet black eyes, something bad reached a chord in his Uk lit, careless heart never before struck. It wastlK chord ofa common humanity. This little uirl could never be to him a mere lay figure iu a picture or a poem. She it W4s who had made .him come a aln to firmer Garland's borne.

Thev githered on the porch after supper. The Nun was down, but the air was clear and sultry. The amber light of million stars fell through tbe trees across tbe porch, wherd the great dog Turk slumbered on his paws, aud tbe farmer sat will his arm about bis wife's waist, and tbe little girl rested on the knee of tbe wandering artist. 'I said to my dog Turk,' he spoke low, in the hush of tbe half light, 'that Arcadia must be here. I think so more than ever, farmer, as I sit on your porch. Your lot is cast in a beautiful part of God's footstool you are consented, even to tbe using of old fangled tools and the farm habits of your fathers you married the girl of your choice—you are blessed with a beautiful child —and it is easy to believe that discontent never creeps in here.' •Never,' said the farmer.

Tootsey moved uneasily on her seat, and looked so earnestly in tbe wanderer's'eyes, that he said: 'Say it aloud, Tootsey. Your eyes are eloquent, but I am not learned enough in their language.' •You live I11 New York?' Tootsey said. 'Yes, I live there. It is my necessity. I nm not made In the bapp'y mould of rural content, little one. 1 wish I were. I wish I could live always in the country, and never get the hot fever for city excitements in my blood. But I cannot help longing for tbe city, after a little while er joying tbe beauty of the truly rural. You are to be envied over me. The city is a great, hot, wicked, dangerms phice. It swallows up its victims every day by thousands, little one. They go there suffer. They go there to die. They go bere to do worse than die —whirling iu the giddy maelstrom of heli whL:h men aud women call pleasure. Here only is real pleasure, little one—the pleasure which endures forever.' 'Yet—I—ahould—like to see the great city,' murmured Tootsey. 'She's crazy alter it, Mr, Walker,' said the mother. 'I'll have to take her to town one of these days.' 'Ah me!' algbed the wanderer, lifting Tootsey to the floor 'I have made a mistake. Arcadia is not here. I might have known it, too, so near Sodom!'

He arose aud looked out on tbe night. Then be turned slowly to the group aud said: 'My little fancy is quite destroyed and served It right. 'I bad no business to come a second year to you. If I bad never come again, I should have carried )n my heart forever tbe picture I saw here last year—a picture of perfect rural content and perfect happiness—this Utile girl bere a little girl forever. Now— ah! how little is the wind that blows a seed!'

Then he told them about the brook and they listened, half comprehending, but hushed bv the music of his voice, tbe poetry, which bad to them beauty, If not significance. 'Sometimes tbey do go over the precipice,' lie went on. 'No one expects to over. Little Tootsey, listen to me. onder city is the relentless enemv of such a* you. Innocence It bates. Virtue It studies to destroy. If you go there panoplied with wealth, It seeks to destroy you through luxury* If you go there naked by poverty, It has a thousand weapon* with which to slay you. You may not fear, you may not believe. How few girls there are who can ba uifbt, save by cruel experience, the f-..: i'* whleh Me injlhsir paife wbera the cro* 1 rf'

M'fa.'M-r I

88®#§S 1

rERRU HALITE SATURDAY aVEMlJMG MAI1

He looked silently out on the night tigaiu, gagiug long at the far off stars, the near by world, here *0 beautiful. When he turned within there were tears in his eyes. 'Little girl,' he aald, 'will you promiae me something?' •Yes,* said the obtld, eagerly, her large black eyes looking up at him.

He tiirncd suddenly away. 'Pfhuw!' be said, in an undertone 'of course she will promise me, a«d forget her promise in a week. She is too little, too little and, after all, we never do learn but by experience.' Till a child has burnt its ftoger* in the flirae, no warning will leaoh It tbe truth that fire gives pa a* well as wartntb, scorches as well as dazzles the eye with its oheery glow.'

All in that bouse were op next morning with the lark, 'Good by, farmer.' 'Goodny, Mr. Walker. Come ag'in. Well ai'aya be glad to see ye. sir.' •My name ii not Walker, Farmer Garland. I gave yon that name as I give It to all whom 1 meet in these half vagabond ish strolls of mine. What does it matter to thetn? One name is as good as another—to forget and when I walk, I am Walker. My name Is George Ueysinger, and I am a sort of an artist. 1 give you that name to remember.' 'I'll remember it.' •Thank you, farmer. Come, dog

He trudged gayly down the red toad, between tbe burning hedgerows, sing ingasbewent.

Tootsey stood on the porcb, watching him out of sight. 'He went in tho direction of tbe city,' she thought.

CHAPTER IU. WAIT AND SEE."

The ten years which stretch from thir ty to lorty iti a man's life do not Beera very long. George Heysinger did not feel older at thirty-tbree than ho bad felt at twenty-three. In this ten years there had been little event, ho thought. He had had his art. He bad made his usual tours, in the summer and autumn, to seme rural portion ol the world. had visited Europe thrice he bad wandered into Minnesota by way of Like Superior, aud dofwn the Mississippi home again. His winters he bad spent as usual—at his easel mostly in 'society' to some light extent studying human nature, by times, in spots lying far out of 'society.'

He bad never been to that spoiled Arcadia again. I3ut the ten years which stretch between seven and seventeen are as long as life. 1 he girl of seventeen does not rtcogniz^ herself in the cbild of seyen. Tbe journey from childhood to womanhood is longer than all the rest of the way to the grave.

Susie Garland had forgotten that she was ever called 'Tootsey.' And what a world of event bad been crowded into these ten years for her! There bad been boarding school life. Farmer Garland would make a lady of bis girl and when (Susie being then fourtoen) acreat boarding school had been erected beh nd tbe Palisades, and the now railroad made tbe boarding school a brief ride away morning and evening, Susie was sent there to be made a lady of. She was not, .in sooth, nai-le into a lady so wonderfully tine but that in 'society' she would have seMmed a very rustic rosebud but to her father and mother she seemed a model of fashionable graces. She eould dance she could make a very low bow indeed, bending her knee in a proper manner she could play some tunes on a piano and she could utter

JNoo

savong dav

pum,' and other similar uncouth sound* which are, in boarding schools, supposed to be French. And Mrs. Garland was conte.it to admire her wonderful, sweet Susie, and to wash the dishes, and attend to the baking, tbe whuming, and all the other duties of a mother. And Farmer Garland milked the covs, and oughwti the fields, and pitchforked tbe hay as of yore.

Susie learned so many ornamental things that there wa- no time to learn anything useful at least, if tl'ere was time, it did not seem to be exactly fittiug that Susie should trouble herself about useful things. Her hands were as soft and white as—well, no, tbey were not as soft and white as those of Jose phine Earl, whose father was a splendid gentleman, living in a splendid house in University Place (a well-known cen tre of New York fashion, Susie inferred at once), and having a four-storv gro eery store in Broad street and Josephine was a great aristocrat, very, thiu and tall, and with hands which Susy worshipped in her heart of hearts.

And in the ten years, besides tbe boarding school, there bad been a lover but he was only tho son of a neighboring farmer, and Susie was ashamed »f him. Fancy John Oaks dancing at the commencement reception! Susie let him go to the war without a pang, and he was killed and for one whole day there were tears in her eyes.

And in the ten 3Tears (to dwell no longer over lesser matters) the pretty farm had been sold for debt and Farmer Garlaud had died of a fever and the mother, with such trifles as she had saved from the wreck, accepted a home in the house of her sister in New York. The s'ster was sickly Mrs. Garland was a competent housekeeper her sister's husband—a liquor seller, with a dicent income from his sample room—'hated a sick wife in a boarding house,' be said, and made Mrs. Garland welcome to her own and her daughter's board and lodging in return for her labors as housekeeper.

This wonderful, beautiful city! Susie was never tired of looking at it and her mother—idolizing tbe ofaild—left her free in the daytime to walk in the crowded avenae near which they bad their home, and in the evening she often went with her into gayer streets and once they took a Broadway stage and rode all the way down that marvel crowded street and back again. It cost forty cents to take that trip, however, and the luxury was not to be repeated. But all she could see of the city by walking out on pleasant days—'not farther off than six streets' Mrs. Garland said, aud Susie was not disobedient—and occasionally in the evenings going farther with her mother, and on Sundays, sbe saw, and learned to envy the fine ladies in their carriages, and tbe beautiful girl* looking aut at plate glass windows on Fifth avenue: and one day she saw Josephine Earl rolling by, with a liveried groom on tbe high seat in front of her. Susie ran forward a step or two and bowed, and then her face grew very red, and she stopped suddenly. Miss Earl's face was carved out of marble as she looked at this presuming girl from the country.

One other thing happened in the ten years—in this last one of them. Tbe wife of Jo White, tbe saloon keeper, very quietly lay down and tyed one day and at tbe end ef tbe year he asked Mrs. Garland to marry Dim. She did so— not that sbe liked blm, not that sbe even respected hi in, but afce could not refuse him and remain bis housekeeper so, thinking only of Sosie, and that thus abe sbouid provide her with a borne, sbe married hiui. &uaie waa now beaotifal an ar-

list's beau-ideal of a healthy, ruddy, curly, red lipped country girl. Jo White had treated Mrs. Garland with a certain degree of decency while she was housekeeper, and he had a alck aiek on whom to vent his humors. Now that he waa married, be took a busband's privilegea. One of these waa the privilege of abusing her when be was drunk. This was every night, after twelve, when he closed his liquor saloon in obtKiience to tbe new law, and oursed it for a petty tyranny, and bia wife for being a mother. 'What's that cream faced daughter of youra good for?' he bellowed 'Why don't abe go out and get work? Sbe thinks her beauty will take care of ber, I auppose. Why don't she make it lerve ber,then? 'Beauties are too plenty in New York, for any woman to think ahe can live idle. A sian need only go and stand on a corner five minutes to pick up a 8oore as good looking as sbe is,' 'Di n't sneak that way, Jo,' said the mother. 'I can't bear it. Sht'^ my only daughter. It's not ber fault that she's pretty.' 'Shut up! I'll speak as I like, I'm not going to have ber hanging on me for nothing. By sbe shall work, or I'll turn ber out in tbe street some night,' 'Then I will go after her.' 'Will you?' He struck ber in the face.

Susie heard this, lying trembling in ber bed. She had often heard lum bellowing, but it usually ended in a drunken snoie. When sbe beard tbe blow, and tbe little ^roan her mother uttered as the hard band struck her tncutb, Susie sprang up in ber bed in the darkness, to rush into her mothers room. But sho was afraid of White She lay down at last sobbing.

Next morning he was sober and ashamed of himself. At breakfast he loaded Susie's plate, but sle would not eat. She was very pale, too.

After breakfast, while hor mother was about the housework, Susie went into the saloon and got the morning paper which While provided for bis customers to

re

id. She bad often noticed the advertisements of situations wanted, help wanted, etc. This morning sbe wrote upon a card the addresses of some of tbe np advertisers, and putting on ber bonnet and shawl, went out to search for work.

She was gone all day. Her mother «?as sorely frightened. But at nightsbe returned. 'O Susie!—my child! where have you been?' 'I have been after work, mother. I shall be able to earn enough to pay for my board, I hope. Tell bim I am going to work. Perhaps he will be kinder to yofl.' 'Poor child! What work can you do?' And then it flashed across her that at tbe boarding school Susie bad learned, as per items in the quarterly hill, 'Music, French and Drawing.' 'Oh!' said she, 'I kuow. You are going to teach.' 'Teach, mother? Teach what?' 'The music—or tbe French, perhaps.'

Susie sighed and smiled, and shook ber head. 'Oh! no, I cannot teach!' Sbe might b'ive said. 'I cannot fly,' and come no nearer or farther from tbe truth. She could indeed no more teach the tbings sue hud learned so superficially and uselessly, than sbe could fly. •What then, Susit?' •I am going 10 work in a candy shop, mother.' •Child! what do you know about making capdy?' 'It's not that, mother. It is very easy work, and requires 110 special art. It is only cutting and packing fig paste. Tbey showed me how it was done—1 can do it. I shaP be awkward at first, but after a while I shall be able to work fast. Tnen I shall earn something nice. They will

pay

me by the pound.'

•How much a pound?' 'A cent.' 'A cent a pound? Does it take long to pack a pound?' 'At first, of course—till I get used to it. Some of the girls there earn three dollars a week.' •Ob! Tbree dollars a week. That would pay your board, Susie. Yet I don't like the idea of your going away to stay all day—1 don't know where.' 'Ofl! you can come and see me once in a while. It is quite a pleasant place, mother.'

When White was told about this, be laughed aneeringly. 'He! he' Goin' to learn bow, eh? All right—go it! She'll learn some other tricks afore she's oeen there long.'

The mother turned pale. •What do you mean, Jo?' •O bother! Wait and see.'

CHAPTER IY. THE SHOP.

Susie had not intended deceiving ker mother wben she said: 'It is quite a pleasant place.' On that first day of her vi»,iti to it, it seemed pleasant enough. It bad been a tunny autumn day, and

Busines

ahe bad seen nothing of tbe shop save what a ba*ty glance showed her, as abe stood hy the overseer's desk. It was nearly dusk when alie had found It, and at the lower part of tbe shop abe saw only a group of girls working.

But this morning—the flr«t morning of her new career—it was raiuing dismally. Tbe shop was two miles away from' ber home, but she was strong and fond of walking. Sbe was up at six o'clock. White was atiII asleep, aud no one was stirring. Her mother heard her, and got up silently, so as not to disturb him. 'Susie!' 'Yes. mother.' •What are you up so early for, (Tear 'I am going to work—dou't you know?' •Oh! yes,' rubbing her eyes. 'I forgot. Do you have to go so early ..

iy1

'It is a long way to walk, mother.'

'Don't you walk, dear. It i? ruining.

Here are six cents—you can ride in a car." Susie took tbe money and put it in ber pocket. •You uiufctnot go out without a cup of coffee, Sus'.e. Such a raw morning! You'd better not go to-day. T« -morrow will do ai well, won't it?' 'No, mother. lie said I must be there at ^even. I can walk there iu an hour. There is no time for coffee. I'll just take some crackers in my bag. and eat them ou the way. Good bv. dear mother.' ,,

Tbey kissed and she was gone. 'Dear, dear murmured Mrs. White, looking out after her, 'I ought to have trade her eat something. I'll have breakfa.t roady for her to-morrow.' •What in thunder is all that noise about?' roared White from the bed. 'Wife!' J.

ti.%

She ran into the bedroom. •What are you dcin' he asked, glaring at ber with red eyes. 'I was helping Susie off, Jo. She has gone to her work this morniug.'

He cursed her, and bade his wife come to bed,then turned his back on her and snored.

Susie would not spend the six cents her mother had given her. It was too much money. Sbe could walk.

Wben sbe got to the shop she was dripping, and ber feet were quite wet. It was ball-past seven o'clock. •Pretty time 0' day, miss,' said the overseer of the shop, scowling at her. 'Is this tho way you begin? There, get to work—I'll let you off this time.'

Susie grew pale with fright, Sbe had never been spoken to in such a tone before in all her happy life—happy at least, till sbe came to this great city.

Wet as she was, she obeyed the motion of his hand and piid close attention wbile one of tha girls showed her how to pack the paste. 'Couldn't I dry myseif a little before I begin?' she said to the girl. 'Hush!' Whispered the girl 'they don't let you talk here. No, you can't dry yourself. There's never any fire. We're all of us wet this morning.' •Who's that gabbling?' roared the oversear from the other end of the room. 'Shut up! I'll clear out any girl that talks.'

It was very slow work. When the noon hour came,

Susie

had packed away

fifteen pounds. •I have earned fifteen cents,' she thought, as she drew forth tbe crackers she had brought for ber dinner. 'That will be thirty cents to-day. Thirty cents!'

When going to the boarding school, she remembered she had paid tbirty cents a day for her railroad fare.

The work was slower iu the afternoon. She only earned ten cents more. Twenty-five cents for the day's work and every bone ic her body seemed to ache with tbe nine hours she had been standing on her feet.

It was still raining when she went out into the street—raining, and almost dark. She was giddy and weak. How could she walk home—that long two miles

Tbe Seventh avenue car catne tinkling along. Sbe let it pass, and toiled on through the Hug, long streets. The darkness came down, and tbe lamplighter was going about among the lamps before sbe got home. Her mother was stauding in the doorway, with a shawl over her head, sick with anxiety. 'My poor darling—have you come at last? I was getting frightened. Yon must get home before dark, dear. It is dancrerons for you to be out in tbe streets at night.' 'Ou I no one will barm me. mother. And now I'm home, I feel quite well, too. And I have earned twenty five cents to-day.' •Twenty-five cents.'' •But some of tbe girls earn twice aa much as that.' 'Well, drink your tea, Susie/

But she kept turning it over In ber thoughts 'Twenty-five cents. A dollar and a half a week. Jo White drinks

An entire season of impassable roads. The disfiStroiis'effects every where seen. ?v

Paralyzed and bank*, bankers, insurance companies and leading merchants failing by the hundreds.

&%or nearly four months we have had an uninterrupted reign of mud throughout the entire West. The Immense cropi of last summer are still unmarketed. Last fall the merchants of the West, encouraged to expect a heavy trade because of the prosperity of farming communities, laid in unusually heavy stocks and still have their unpaid-for goods upon tbe shelves, bought at prices early double those which now prevail. It is under just such circumstances aa these that our splendid orgsnizstion tells the most powerfully in our favor. With two members of our firm at all times in the New York market, weareenabled to make daily purchases, and thus avoid buying heavy stocks at the openlngof the season, when goods are at their highest figures. During the past 30 days we have purchased some of tbe greatest bargains we have ever given to the people of Terre Haute and vicinity. But tbe flme for our semi-annual clearance sale has arrived, and, in consequence, even these goods, bought at such ruinonely low prices, must go still lower.

Grand Special Sale at Mud Blockade Prices. Sale Commences Saturday Morning, January 19th, 1878.

Tell your neighbors and friends about it and remember that earliest buyers will have the best assortment from which Jff to select. Avoid tbe crowd by making your purchases in tbe morning whenever convenient to do so. j*jaj

Grand Smash Up in Prints. Handsomest Styles of the Season.

S 000 vards best Merrimack Prints. 5", 5,000 yards beat Wamsutta Prints, 4c. 3 cases best Cocbeco Prints, 5c. 150 pieces Pacific Prints, 5c. 200 pieces Gloucester Prints, Sets. 5,000 yards best American Prints, 6c. »AUL BEST PRIVft-9 of whatever make and of tbe latest and most desirable styles, fl CENTS A YARD.

These prices are simply unprecedented and unapproachable. These same goods were always sold at 103 a yard before The other dry goods establishments of Terre Haute are getting 8c a yard for them. w.. tbe war.

We hare Slaughtered Prices in every Department Nothing Held Back. pi

5,000 good quality unbleached muslin, 4 cents a yard. Children's fine muslin bose, 8c and 10. Double fold waterproof doth, 50 cents. Handsome felt skirt, 50 cents. Red all wool flannela, 15 cents. t4. Good Canton flannels 7c and 8c. Entire stock of best prints, 5 cents. & TTB VATTri Tbls great special sale will cammence on tbe morning of Kaiardaj, Jan. 10th, and continue •lAILJa iiUllv£i nntil our immense winter stock is all disposed ot We bsve been enabled to give bnt a few prices, but tbe cot we have made extends to every department. Don't delay buying until your more active neighbors bave bought us out of some of these extraordinary bargains and tben And fault with us for tbe results of your own tardiness.

Job lot of dress goods, 7o and 9a. 40 pieces elegant suitings, 12J4 cents, sold early in tbe season at 25 cents. Handsomest goods you ever aaw at 20c, 25c and 90o. Tycoon Repps, 12% and 15 emits.

FOSTER BROTHERS, Great New York City Store, 418 Main St., Terre Haute, Ind,

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and smokes that, five times over, every day be lives. And he drives my girl out to this! I bate bim!'

Susie worked fliilbtully, day after day, growing nimbler of fingers all the time. Ou Saturday night sbe was furnished with a check for one dollar and ninety cents—the amount of money she bad earned duilng tbe week, ebe having begun on Tuesday morning. Doing a« the other girlt- did, sbe presented her order at a desk in the store connected with the shop. A young dandy, with a feeble mustache and an 63'e glass, presided at the desk. 'You area new girl?' be said, wben she came up, his little eyes blazing through their glasses, as be stared at her beautiful face. •Yes sir.' Wr*•Well, you'll wait till the last, you know.' 'Yes sir.' She drew back and waited.

When they were all gone.be beckoned to Susie, and look ber order. 'Dollar ninety,' be said aloud. 'We have to keep back a dollar on tbe first week, you know,' staring bard at ber. 'No, I didn't know,' tdicsaid, coloring. 'Never mind, my dear,' be spoke in a wheedling tone: 'I won't be hard on you for, by Jove! you're devilish pretty. D'ye know it

She blushed deeply, but said nothing. Hte handed ber the money, and she hurried out.

Tbe dandy clobed bis desk and locked it hurriedly, and put on his bat. 'I'll be back in half an hour, Dennis,' he said to tbe porter as be passed at tbe door. Wait, will you 'He's aftber another, tbe dbirty little baste!'quoth Dennis.

Susie presently felt some one touch her arm. She turned quickly and saw tbe young man's eye glasses. •Beg pardon, my dear,' said he. 'Hope I dou't introod. I want to speak t'ye. That's against our rules what I done tonight, ye know. I done that for yer p'tv face.' •Please let me go, sir,' for be held ber by her shawl. 'Half a minute. There, I'll walk on with you. Now say—I like your looks. I cau be a friend to ou, ye know. You'll starve on two dol's a week. If you like to have a friend now, I can put a three dollar bill 011 to your order every week out of me own pocket—an' I'll do it, by Jove! if youMl tell me where you live.' •I—I live with my mother,' began Susie, gasping. 'Oh the old woman be in the way, eh? "Well,then, by Jove! I'll tell you where I live—an' you cau come an' see me.'

Susie stood still, white as a sheet. The young man paused in some wonder. •If you ever address me again,' she said, 'I wjll expose you to your employers. Let me go!'

The history of Susie Garland—her trials and temptations—the story of many a poor girl in the great city, will be continued iu Tbe Mali for five or six weeks. ______________

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DR. KINO'S NEW DISCOVERY for Consumption, Coughs and Colds, Asthma, Bronchitis, etc.. is given awav in trial bottles free of cost to the afflicted. If you have a severe cough, cold, difficulty of breathing, hoarseness or affection of tbe throat or lungs, by all means gite this wonderful remedy a trial. As youvalue your existence you can not afford to let this opportunity pass. We could not afford and would not give this remedy away unless we knew it wou'd accomplish what we claim tor it. Thousanda of fiopeless cases have already been completely cured by It. There is no medicine in the world that will cure one halfthe cases that DR. KINO'S NEW DISCOVERY will cure. For sale by GULICK A BERRY, Terre Haute, Ind.

4 GENTLE HINT.

Ifn our style of climate, with its sudden changes of temperatute—rain, wind and sunshine often intermingled in a single day—it is no wonder that our children, friends and relatives are so frequently taken from us by neglected colds, half the deaths resulting directlv from this cause. A bottle of Boschee's German Syrup kept about your home for immediate use will prevent serious sickness, a large doctor's bill, and perhaps death, by the use of three or four doses. For curing consumption, Hemorrhages, Pneumonia, Severe Coughs, Croup, or any disease of the Throat or Lungs, its success is simply wonderful, as your druggist will tell you. German Syrup is now sold In every town and village on this continent. Sample botles for trial, 10a. regular size, 75c.

For sale by Gulick «fe Berry and by Groves A Lofrry.

PJUND—THATTHtfioutside

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Nioe fur muffs, 75 cents. Beautiful sets st #1.50 and fl 75. Good Undershirts 25 cents. Good prints, 4 cents. 910 cloaks down to |8. |20 cloaks down |12. |40 cloaks down |14 50.

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