Marietta register

              PERCY P. SCHOCK,
ICditor and I'roprietor.
An Independent Family Journal, Devoted to News, Literature, Agriculture, and General Intelligence.
Establislied in 1854.
MARIETTA, PA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 4,1884.
TEK3IS™$2 PER ANNUU
i>iscol>;t roil piacr.wMKKT.
From Petcrson'-s Magazine for October.
Dorothea.
BY ZAIDEE IlETTS SMITH.
The young green wheat coming up ; ihe plumtrees breaking into a form of creamy white; a sweet warm wind blowing; the sky a faint exquisite blue.
Spring was coming.
It was March. But March in North Carolina, though still having a little chill in the air, i.s like early May in New Eng¬ land. All through tho great pines the birds were singing; the little clear brovvn streams were swoollen, and swift of cur¬ rent; the mill-pond was full to over¬ llowing.
On a little knoll, with her hands clasped
over hPA- knees, in rcyerie, sat Dorothea.
The red setting sun shown full in her
. face, lit by dark earnest eyes, and made
expressive by a sensitive curving mouth.
In spite of her somewhat badly-cut dre.ss, made of some cheap stuff, and the old worn cape on her shoulders, one could see that the girl was no common one. Her refined delicately-cut features, her pretty little hands—her whole bearing, in fact—impresses one to the contrary at onco. I
Two men were coming up the sandy! country-road together, from the mill; .:«ie 5'ouiifr, the other middle-asced. The setting sun shown redly on them, reveal-1 ing the youna; man's erect well-poised figure, as well as the somewhat shrunken threadbare form of Mr. Girard.
"Is that your daughter?" said the youn.yer—Ah'xjuuler Payne—as he saw the little musing figure.
"Yc3, that's Doiothea," stated the other, with an airy wave of his slim wo¬ manish-looking iiaud iu the young girl's direction. i
"Your only dau.',diter, I believe youj said V" pursued Payne, still intent on the \ ¦attractive fixture. j
"My only dauyliter, sir—thank heaven," responded Mr. Girard, piously. "Girls, you know, sir," lie continued, after a Utile, coiifidfiitially, "are really no ac¬ count.    ISTovv,   -what   call   she   do?    She i
can't plant cotton, or covn, ov wheat. 8ho can't attend to the mill, and see that! the corn and wheal are properly ground,' or the cotton ginned.   She can ouly cook j my frugal meals—my slice of bac»>ii,my corii-pono—and take care of that ohl shell ! —my ap<dogy for a home, sir." He glanced ' eoutemiiltioiisiy   tow^-'Js the  log-cabin. "Xow, il" I liad a e     , sir, he v.'ould  be .-lome help—some good to ihe.    I tell you,! sir, when my reverses came—when I.losij home, fortune,  friend.s,  everything', sir, I alter the surrender—I realized what it' was to l?e left with only a girl." I
Jlr. Girard si^:.;hed heavily, and passed ' one slim white hand helplessly across his 1 frownuig forehead.
Tliey had reached tlie gate of this dwell¬ ing by this time—a weather-stained log- cabin. The gate hung broken ou its hinges, gaping open. Several dogs rushed out to greet them, and Payne was remind¬ ed forcibly of a saying familiar in that country : "The poorer the man, the more do>r.s he has."
Tlie young girl had seen them by this time; had eyed them gravely, almost distrustfully, at first; and now, rising, came towards the house. fxu"Vou cau hardly be said .to have lost evciythinj,', sir," said I'ayne, as they passed through the gate, "with such a plantatuin asthellidgeway Place, and the mill, still in your possession."
Mr. Girard shook his head despondeully.
"The llidgeway Place is a good enough plantation ; better land for cotton was never known, sir," he said. "But iltakes loo much money to run it properly, sir; and it's the same way with the mill. Xow, a man like you, sir, with your capital and energy," surveying his companion's deter¬ mined face with no little admiration, "can make something worth while out of it all. I confess I can't—my hands are tied. The ready money—and, if I must say it, the inclination—is wanting with me. I am no longer the same man, sir, that I was before the war. My reverses have embittered me—killed what ambition I ever had—cru.shed me, sir."
Again Mr. Girard sighed heavily ; this time dramatically.
They were at the cabin-door. Dorothea had reached it also, coming by another path, and now stood on the steps to receive them; _-«„
There was a slight tromulousnessTibout her voice, which was wonderfully low and sweet, Payne,thought; but her greeting was not uncordial.
"Mr. Payne,isn-t it ?~falher's friend ?"
she said.
That night, after tlie young man had gone-he was staying at a neighboring plantation-Mr. Girard delivered himself of a huge piece of tobacco, which he had been rolling restlessly from one cheek to the other, and said rather Unsteadily :
"Well, Dorry, I've decided to let him
have it."
The young gill seemed to understand at once, for slie started perceptibly, and raised her eyes from the crackling pine- logs, which she had been watching, qidckly to her .father's face.
"Now there's no usesayingH)h,father!' or shedding any tears. I've only acted sensibly and want you to do the same. HroSdmeafairprice-eighttlm^^^^^^^ dollars for the plantation, with the mill,
as it stands—and I took it.
Dorothea looked at the fire again ; her sensitive mouth quivered; the color eame
and went in her cheek; her large eyes seemed to grow darker, more earnest.
"I shall take you North—to New York, I think," continued Mr. Girard, presently, filling his mouth with some more tobacco —he felt better, now that he had spoken.
"I haven't been to New York since I met aud married your poor mother there, and you have never seen the North; in fact, you have seen nothing but these 'piuey-woods' since you "were born. It's time you saw something of the world. You are extremely pretty. \ou are not ignorant. Your mother's most excellent teaching saved you frora being that. Who knows what may not come of it ? You may marry well, and retrieve my losses," cried Mr. Girard.enthusiastically, and at the same time expectorating freely into the fireplace.
"Iliardlyknow,"he went on, presently after a moment's silence, during which his daugliter still thoughtfully eyed the little crim.son and orange flames, "I hardly know just how I shall invest my money."
At that instant eight thousand dollars assumed gigantic proportions to Mr. Girard, and appeared more like eight hundred thousand dollars.
"I thought, this afternoon, on the impulse of the moment, when Payne said he would give that much, that I'd pur- cJiiise a mine, or buy up a lot of cattle— some fine breed—.^omelhiug of that sort, perhaps. But now I have half a mind, Dorothea, to spend it on you—to invest it in you, Dorry," his tone growing suddenly animated, his dull gray eyes ligiiUng. "Do you understand ';• In cul¬ tivating your voice—you have an exceed¬ ingly sweet musical voice. I shall have you educated for the concert stage. You shall become acautatrice—asecond Patti. Your fortune will then be made, even if ymi don't care to marry. In case you should fail—but I hardly think there is a question of failure—you can marry then. Yes, I shall iuvcsl what I have iu you, Dorothea."
Mr. Girard expectorated again freely, and ti])ped back,with evident satisfaction, in liis gplit-bottom chair.
'Are you not just a little visionary, lather V" ventured the young giil, at length ; and once more she raised troubled eyes to her father's face. "What reason have you for thinking I can become i\ great siii;rer, and repay you for what you invest in mc ? It frightens me—the rc- si>oiisibility. I tun not capable of the great things you predict. I shall only disappoint you. I have a good voice, I know, but it has never been trained. I can't even lead music rapidlj'. It will lake years of training, will it not, to make me amount to anything, before I can repay you ?" she ended, sadly.
"I know what I'm about,'' exclaimed her fatiier, somewhat angrily. "Vision¬ ary, indeed' Even these poor piney- woods people think you sing well—are forever talking about your voice. It im¬ presses even them. And the Somersets, where Payne is stopping, who've heard all the great prima-donnas in New York, tliey say you are-afine singer—thqy heard you one Sunday, at the church. And didn't Payne himself admit that, judging from your voice ia speaking, you ought to be able to sing ?"
"Mr. Payne V"
"Yes, only to-night he said that; and he's a judge, I hear—sings himself. I'll get him to try your voice the next time he comes."
"How-how long will it be before we go away V"
The girl's voice faltered. She looked with suddenly dim eyes at the fire once more.
"Oil, not long; a week or so. I'm anxious to get away. Payne will pay riglit down to-morrow, if I want him to ; but he won't hurry us off. He's a gener¬ ous sort of fellow. I shall leave, however, as soon as possible."
"What—what is he going to do with the mill?"
"Oh, he's going to gin cotton on a big scale-not only what he grows himself, but all the neighbors'; and he's going to plant acres in wheat next year, and then grind it and sell it. Oh, he expecls to make something out of the concern. I could have done the same, if I had bad his capital; but as it is, I shall be glad to see the last of this poor man's country."
"Glad?" cried the young girl, with a sort of sob, "And I cannot bear even the thouglit of leaving il. As you say, I have never been away from these piiiey-woods. 1 have no wish to go. This little tumble¬ down cabin means home—everything—to me. I was too small to remember any¬ thing about tho old place where I was born, you know, and it was here mother died. How can you part with it—let it go ? I couldn't! I should like to live and die here, as mother did. And the mill: liow I love that, too. The happy, happy days I have spent there. I don't want any better country than this. I shall hate the city. I cannot live without the pines."
Mr, Girard surveyed his daughter through half-shut, incredulous eyes.
"Well, you are a strange girl," he said, at length. "You like this miserable ca¬ bin, which was once one of your father's tenants' houses V You like this sandy piney-woods country ? Well, for my part, I hate it! It was all well enough, when I was a rich man, and lived in lug- zury"—Mr. Girard had a somewhat pecu¬ liar way of pronouncing the word lux- ury—'^with my thousands and thous- !ands of acres, my hundreds of slayes.
I was more fortunate than you, my dear ; I was raised in a fine old mansion, not in a log-cabin. As you well know, the very house where Payne is now visiting— where these new people, the Sommersets, live—belonged to your grandfather. Can4 you wonder that I'm glad to get rid of this ?" and Mr, Girard glanced up at the yellow simply weather-boarded walls, on which the firelight was playing, in undisguised scorn.
"I know it has been hard on you, fa¬ ther," Dorothea said, softly, rather bro¬ kenly; "but I can't help being very fond of it all. It is the only home I have ever known.   It is very, very dear to me."
"I can only regret your taste, my dear," responded her father.    "Generally, young
reached home. She was somewhat breath¬ less, she had walked so rapidly; and when her father met her in the doorway, and demanded, angrily: "Where she had been so late?" and "Why she had not come home sooner to cook his supper ?" she had merely pushed past him; she had not dared to trust herself to speak.
"Will you not let me help you, Miss Girard V" Payne asked, rising from hia seat by the fire, and coming forward. "Let me set the table, anyway," he urged, smilingly.    "I can do that."
The young girl started ; she ad not known he was there
Very well,'-' she said, gravely. She let him pull out the table, and handed him the much-darned cloth to put persons of your age and refinement long I over it
for better things—have ambitious desires to see aud know the world. I am very much afraid you are wanting in proper feeling."
He yawned slightly, got up, and lit his candle on the mantel, and, with it in his hand, moved towards the door.
"Well, good-night," he said: "I'm tired. I've had a hard day's work. Payne and I walked nearly half over the Ridge- way Place,"
"I wish he had never seen Mr. Payne," cried the young girl, as the door closed upon him.
She knelt dov/n ou the bare floor, and laid her head, v/ith a little sob, in the rough split-bottomed cliair.
Daring the follov/ing week, Alexander Payne came quite frequently tothe cabin. Once or twice, he even shared Mr.Girard's fried bacon and corn-pone with him. It was served in a somewhat primitive fash¬ ion ; the table was a small unpainted pine one, and the dishes were cracked stone- china ; but it all had an inexpressible charm for the young men.
Did not Dorothea's small hands fry the bacon, and Jieat up the corn-pone ?
He secretly watched her, busy about work; for the kitchen was tlie liviiig- iucr room as well. He decided she was wonderful pretty. But he could not ac¬ count  for  the  constant  shadow  in   Iier
eyes, the downward curve in her flexible lips.
Ho had already paid the eight tliousand dollars down : the Girards were going in
When the bacon was frying, and the coffee boiling, filling the little room with their savoriness, Dorothea walked a little apart to the window, and stood looking out at the moon-L'ght.
Mr. Girard was absent for a moment in the adjoining room. For the twentieth time that day he was counting over the many bank-bills Alexander Payne had given him. lie had not seen so mych ready money in years; not since the war.
Payne joined the young girl at the window, and with her looked out at the clear white night. The room was very still, save tor the ticking of the cheap clock on the high unpainted mantel,
"Miss Girard, I am very sorry you are going away. I wish I had had never bought the plantation," began Payne, suddenly on the impulse of the moment. "I had no idea it would give you any pain to part with it," he went on quickly. "Your father aeemed anxious to sell—I had never met yon—and after I saw you, I imagined, at first that you would be only to glad to get away from such a dull life —you seemed fitted for so much better things."
"I don't want anything better," the young girl said.
After a moment's silence, she spoke again ; and her voice trembled a little.
"I know how it will be," she cried ; "v;e shall go North, to some great city, as father says, and we shall live very delight¬ ful for a time—mother used to say how
a day or so.   He thou^^ht the giil oiurht i      ^' "" tmm-mother m to be happy over her escape from the htrd  ^^^^^'^ father-^s when he had money- dull life she was leading.    He looked upon I '^- dres,sed very fine," looking himself as a sort, of deliverer and he could not understand her.
^ a grand master in singing, and of course ^^ I this will all be very pleasant.   Only, you
' see, it cannot last.   Before we kuov? it
down with a little sort of smile at her cheap c.ilic), and I shall take lessons from
One evening, he ventured to say, ..„ they sat before the little fire, with the yellow walls glowing about them :
"Aren'Uyou very glad your time for going away is so near at hand, Miss Gir¬ ard ?"
The girl's lips quivered, her hands trembled, and she clasped them tightly together in her lap.
*I am not glad," she said, simply ; "I am very sorry,"
The next day, Dorothea went to the mill for the last time.
The little glas.sy mill-pond was very still; hardly a ripple stirred it; and the great pines and white-limbed sweet-gum trees were rcfiected in it with distinct¬ ness. The clear-blue cloudless sky was also mirrored in its depths. The air was very sweet, the birds singing, the crows cawing faintly.
Dorothea walked slowly along the little beaten grass-grown path by the pond. In the distance, she could hear the whirr of the mill. Down the white sandy road, under the pines, was coming an old man on a mule, with a sack of corn to be ground. The miller's children—tow- headed and red-cheeked little ones—were playing about the mill-door; jumping over the great pine-logs, which lay tiiere ready for sawing. It was a "piney-woods' scene ; her father would have undoubted¬ ly sneered at it; but it was very dear to the young gill. And she was leaving it for ever.
She glanced up at the great pines, where the mocking-birds were singing, and tears sprang to her eyes.
After a little, she made her way into the mill. She stood a few minutes, silently u'atching the miller grinding the corn.
The man touched his whitened hat to her; but site hardly saw iiim. Then she went out again, and climbed the steeps steps to the "gin-house."
It was still in there; the machinery was not moving ; she wandered aimlessly about, little fluffy bits of white cotton catching on to her dress from the walls and floor. How she had alwa}'s enjoyed seeing the cotton "ginned"! She had spent hours there, as a child. She was barely more than one as it was, her dark eyes opening, as a tiny helpless baby,only as the war closed. But she felt very old just now.
When she came out, an aged colored woman was sitting on the steps, waiting for her little bag of corn to be ground. Her eyes were half shut. • She was "dipping snuff" from a small tin can, rubbing her toothless old gums with a short stick moistened from her mouth, and covered with the precious snuff. In the intense pleasure it afforded her, she was quite oblivious to everything.
"Aunt Winnie," said Dorothea,gently, "please let me pass." ,
She envied even this old creature, who was not going away, but who was going to live and die in these "piney-woods."
It was late, the sun was down, and the wheat-fields shining a pale faint silver in the  rising moon, when the youug ^ir\
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the money will be gone. We siiall be homeless—and all for what ? For a little display. What will we not be willing to give for this old cabin then ? But it will be too late."
"You are not hopeful, I fear." Payne said, gently.
"I know father," Dorothea made an¬ swer, simply, but sadly.
"And you have no belief in what you can accomplish with your voice ? In a few years you may be famous."
"Of course that would be very "pleas¬ ant," she said ; "but even if I could suc¬ ceed, which 1 cannot help doubting, 1 am not so sure I should altogether like it. Of course I should be very proud, and should enjoy the pride father took in me, for I seem to have been a disappointment to him always, somehow; but it must be a hard life at the best—the life of a sin¬ ger, I mean. One must ever be trying to please the public; and when one gets old, and loses her voice, who cares for her then ?" She ended, with a little wistful smile.
She was certainly a strange girl, as her father had said, and slie inteaested Payne —had interested him from the very first.
"And so you would like to stay here forever?" he said, at length, a little slowly.
"Then, with sudden earnest : ''I Avish you might," he added.
A wild impulse seized him; a glow came in his cheeks; his eyes kindled.
"Don't go," he cried, impetuously.
"I—I don't understand you," the young girl began, surprised eten more at his tone and manner than at his words.
"I know jou don't—but let me make you," he made answer, quickly.
He took one of her small hands in his; his dark resolute face was very close to hers.
"Dorothea!"
Mr. Girard came in, closing the door behind him.
"You are very long about everything to-night," he said, fretfully, addressimr his daughter. "What ails you? One would think you wero preparing an elaborate bill-of-fare, instead of a poor simple meal such as one of my former tenants might sit down to."
Dorothea flew guiltily to the rescue of the burning bacon and bubbling coffee¬ pot.
That night, the young girl had a strange dream. She saw the old mill in flames. The little glassy mill-pond reflected the brilliant red glare, and great tongues of fire went up into the night. The white- limbed sweet-gum trees shriveled and shrunk away from the scorching wither¬ ing heat. The awakened birds flew, with frightened shrieks, into the thickness and darkness of the woods.
It was a terrible sight. And, in the midst of it all, in the doorway of the burning mill, with a sheet of flame behijid hira, stood Alexander Payne I
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Harper's  Magazine.
II.LIJSTUAJ JED.
Harper's Magazine, hej^ln.q its sixty-Pishth volume with the December .\uinb(!r. It i.s tin; most i>0)mlar illn.»trated periodica! in Ameri¬ ca and Kn^jland, alw.iys tally abrtiast of the times in its trcatinent of subjects of current social and industrial interest, and always ad¬ vancing its standard of literary, artistic, and nu'cnanieal e.vctdloiice. Anions itsatlraetions for 18.S^l are : A new serial novel ijy William I'.laek. illnstrated by Abbey ; a new novel, by K. P lloe, illustrated by Gibson and Di<"lmaii : deseri))tivt! illustrated papers by <ieori:e II. l!ouf<iiton, Frank D. iMilhd. C. II. l''arnhain. and others: Imiiortant historical and l)iot>i-a- phical papers ; short storie,s by \v. 1). Uowells. Charles Itead, &c.
I^AVil) PIJAIXAUl) CASE
ATTPRHEY & GOli!«,^ELGR-AT-LAW,
Okftck.—Corner   West of   KxcliniiKC   Paiii: jMATUl-.TTA, I'A.
IT\      D. llOATll,
Justice of tlje ^e,^ce and Coiivoyancor.
oi-iaCK.—In Central Call nnildin-?, MAIM FTT A, PA.
J.
J. MeNICUOCL,
FASHIONABLE   TASLOR f
Mark(^t Street, n few Poors lOast of spansicr A Rich's Store, (Secon<l Floor,)
MAUIKTTA   PA.
A ^TT IlilM 1 ;!*^:ill the Preshleuts of t",- U.S. The lar>^est, lianilsomcst best book eyu sold foi- less than twice our price. The faste'' -uelliny; book in .\merlca. Immense prollls "^ i\f;ents .All inti'Iliffcnl ]ieoi le want it. AiitJ one can become a snccessful aji'ent. Teiuiy free.    li.vr.r.KTr llooii (.'(>., Portland iMaine.
Ui*nfi J'js.r Sin- .4ir«"3«3rt. .'m«"0 «.-> «V!«0 ik?ip mo. luncU'Mcilini;: nsir (>r:>it<i N<>t« iilislfi>ry. Fauiotif..uiiil l>ji«'i<«iv«> UntitlesfirilirWorlU Write to J. C. .¦Hc<;ur<<,r Ot «;«k, I'lahul.-lpiiia, la.
HARPER'S PERIODICALS.
J'KU VK.Vll.
IlAnPER's Maoazink, One Year, $4 00 IlAUPKu's Weekly, " 4 ()()
irAiiPF;ii'sl3A/AU, " 4 00
II.mipkk's Youxg Ticopt>e,1 Year, 2 00 Young Peop'^ e and M.vgazivk,      o oo
llAUPKUS   FIl.V.NMvLl.V Sl^UAltE LinUARV,
Ono Year C5.' Naiuber.s) Jo oo
Postage free to all Subscribers in tbe Unitea
States aud Ctuutda.
Tho. Volumes of the Magazine commoncc with the Knmbcrs for June nnd becemher ol Ciicli year. When no time is specilied, it will bo understood that the subscriber wishes to begin with llie current Nninber.
The last Eislit Volumes of ITarperR .Var/azinr, in neat clotii liinilln!<, will be sent by nniii, post¬ paiil. on receijit of 83 00 pervounie. "Cloth fascs, lor hindinsr,f)0 cents each—by m.iil. post|):ii <l.
Index to lI.vurKUS M.\gazink, Alph.'ibelical. -Analytical, ami Classified, for Vohmios 1 to fid, inclusively, from June, IS.'JO, to Jane, IbbO. one vol., 8vo, Clotii, 51.00.
KeniiU.ances should be made bv Post-(>nicc Mo ney Older or Draft, to avoid chance of hx^s.
Newspapers are not to copy thisadrcrtlsemen- witho'tithe express order of 11 u:pi;i< cV Ukotiieks
Address   H.MtPEK & URtrrHKUS. ^¦c^v Vorlc.
Alcxaiuler Lindsay,
BOOT '^rJ ^HOF
EMPORIUM,
No. 102 Miuket Street, M:irietta.
jrAT^lTFACTUREK OF AND DeALKK J^f
lldDTS m SliOKS,
Gum Boot8,
Gum Shoes, Arctics.
The latest scascnabid styles always in stock.
an- f his Lar;r-
POCKET BOOK FilEE
to all who cut this out and mall to ns with 10 cts. silver, for a sample box of goods that will enable yon to earn plenty of money. .\n articli' as staple as tlonr : used by evcryl'Oily. This liberal OtTer is made simply to advertise onr croods. 14 i:it
v. H. SIZKU, T & 9 Warren Street, M. Y. City.
MTTNN A CO., of the SCIKNTIPIC AMEmCAN, con- tlnne to act as Solioltora for eatenta, Cavettts. Trade Marks, CopyrightB, for the United States. Canada. Knjilana, France, Germany, etc. Hand Bixik about Pfttenta sent free. Thirty-seven years'experience. Patents obtained throntfU MUNN & CO. aro noticed in tho Scientific Amekican, the larKCSt, hcst,and most widely circulated .scientific pat)er. |,1.20 a year. Weekly. Splendid enprravinKS and IntorcstinK in. foriuutlon. Succimen coiiy of tho 8cieutilic Amer¬ ican sent free. Address MUNN & CO., SciFNTiriQ American Oflice. 201 Broadway, New York. -
THUMA  &   BRO.,
DEALER IN
GROCERIES, FLOUR, FEED, HAMS,
SnOULDER.S, BACON, DRIED BEEF, AND BOLOGNA SAUSAGE,     ,
GOJ^Xu and  ICKJ
YORK STATF; (;il>Kli—best in the County.
lee delivereil at all parts ot town diirin<; the yninmer season.
Parties desiring large cinantitics would uo well to wr'.t<! for prices ,or in(iuire.
The best Luzernt! Buckwheat aud .daryland Mltite Co! n Meal.
GROCiCRV—Opposite the Ilollow-ware Works, utsur tlie V. U. 11. l^epot. je.l--)-
\
WJ A I X: f^'^ -Vi-L'nts wi-nted for 0,ljjr\. i.l> Vj thentie edit iun lite. Published al Anitiista. his home est, harulsoinost, ch<'a"pest. best. JJy tb«« le- nowned histonan ami biographer. Col. Con well, who.se life of liarlieldT published by as oiilsold the tweiitv others by Oo.OiHi. Outsell every boolc ever piiblislied in this worlds many aijents ar>! sellingtifly tlaily. -Vgents are making fortunes. All new begiinn-rs snccess- fal ; 'ii-and chance fer them. >ifl:iM made by a lady agent the lirst day. Terms most liberal. Particulars free. Better send-iri cents tor pos¬ tage, etc.. on free ouirit. now reaily, Incluiiing large prospectus book, and save valuable tlmu 4(i-13t Ali.kn A: Co.. Augusta, Alaiuc.  '
|7>UlI.AI>El.PmA & KEAplNGKAII.IiOAD
AKU-VXGL.MEXT OF PASSKXGKli  TUAIXS M.iy nth, 1884.
Leave Columbia as follows: (Sunday Exceptoil
Jfor Philadelphia ami Beading. 7..';0a. m.,an<l 1.10 aud ."5.10 p. m. for Potts ville, at 7.30 a.m. and l.lOand 3.10 1). m.. Vov Sitw Vork, via Allenlown at 7.;;0a. ill. and 1.10 p. m.
For New Vork, via "Boun.l Brwk UontC,'-ana Phlladeluhia, 7.30a. m. and 1.10 v. m.
Vox- Columbia leave as follows:
Leave Pliila<lelplual.:iO. ft..'jOa. in. anrt 4.00 p. m. Heading l.-^.'i and 12.00 m. and 0.10 i>. m. Pottsvilh'ii.Oii. 9,(M) a. m. jiiid 1.40 p. m.. leav« New Yoi-k, via Allentown, l.tKlp m., Allcntown (i.OOand .S.4U a. ui. and 4.30 p. m.
Trains leave Hanisbiiri; as follows:
For Xew York via "Bonnd Rrook Route."C.2."» 7..^oa 111. and 1.4,^.p. m. For Philadelphia B.i5 7.."^, '.•..W a. m. and 1.15 and 4.00 p. m.
Trains for Ilarrisburg leave as follows :
Leave Kew York via Allentown. 0.00 p. m. & l.Ou and .'..4.') p.m. via ••Bound Brook lloiitft, and i'hila.. 7.4,". a. m , I.3.U00 and .5.;;o p. m. 1-2 niid't. Leave Philatlelpliia 4.30. 0.50 a. m, and 4.00, 5..")0 unrt 7.4') p. m.
C. G. IlANCOCr%,
Gcn'l Passr & Ticket Agent
^. K. WOOTTKN,
Gen"! aian.ager.