f liotcc jtftsccifonn. 
‘V _ 
THE SONG OF TIME. 
- I 
BY A. A. HOPKINS. 
Cheerily, merrily, on I ko. 
Whether the weather ho dark or bright, 
Nothing to me is the rain or snow. 
Nothing care l for the dark or light. 
Only to see the days fast fly by, 
Only to hasten the nights, rare I; 
Hurrying forward 1 laugh and sing, 
Knowing none other thun 1 is King! 
Cheerliy, merrily, on I speed. 
Robbing the Future from day to day! 
Little of beauty or love 1 heed, 
Cling to your t reasures while yet you may! 
Over the fortunes of men 1 reign; 
Lover and loved Of mo complain. 
Blisses the fleetest I make take wing. 
Kisses the sweetest, for 1 am King! 
Smiles the most winning away I bear 
Oil to the isles of the setting sun, 
Leaving the sinning gray hair and care, 
To wear in their stead till their life is done. 
Joys you are grasping I steal, and then 
Boys you are clasping conceal In men; 
Pleasures unnumbered I take, and bring 
Measures of sorrow, for I am King! 
Wrinkles I bring to the brldo's fair face. 
Memory’s ashes for things long dead; 
Flickering flashes l leave In plaeo 
Of the ch ar light or love that was once outslied. 
Carrying everything bright away, 
Marrying beauty to swift decay, 
Stealing from youth all its May-day spring, 
Feeding no ruth X but shout " X'rn King 
| 
All other sceptres than mine are naught, 
All of them perish and fade to dust; 
Grand is the ruin my hand hath wrought, 
Nothing you cherish escapes my lust. 
May by May, blossoms most rare 1 take; 
Day by day. thrones the most fair I shake; 
Flowers that are purest with blight I sting; 
Towers that arc surest to earth I iling! 
Ever destruction Is my delight, 
1 but build up that l may pull down; 
Never is snored Within my sight 
Glory, or treasure, or grand renown. 
History part of my life hath sung; 
Mystery hidetli when I was young; 
Where the air brealliest of proudest things, 
There the air over my triumph sings! 
- 4 -*-*- 
SUGGESTIONS. 
Suggestions are tho mothers of ideas, and 
consequently the world’s teachers. No great 
thimr was ever born out of naught. No 
wonderful discovery was ever the result of 
investigation without, suggestive aids. Fruit¬ 
ful research is always directed by some trivial 
hint, some casual incident, or accident. The 
labor best, rewarded is that which springs 
from the most trifling reminders. 
Say you that men invent, discover, con¬ 
struct? Say rather that, suggestions do till 
these things. A suggestion discovered a 
continent; another developed the law of 
gravitation; another invented the steam en¬ 
gine; still another produced the telegraph. 
One man is more ingenious and able than 
his fellows only as within his mind sugges¬ 
tions are more prolific, than in theirs. In 
some minds a suggestion is not suggestive at 
all; merely a plain, dry fact. And facts, 
abstractly considered, are no better than I lie 
veriest nonentities. Unless they are useful 
as hints, and serve to stimulate thought, they 
are worthless. If they stimulate thought 
they shape the life, and become man’s gov¬ 
erning influences. If they do not, they are 
just plain, dry facts, hard as rocks, it may be, 
and as barren,—nothing more. 
Suggestions surround us upon ever}’ side. 
Hints of beauty, utility, or truth are every¬ 
where abundant. They do not always work 
the mission they might, work. Man's com¬ 
prehension does not always take them in 
readily; or if it does, they are as seed fallen 
upon stony ground, and fail to bring forth 
much fruit. Only once in a century, per¬ 
haps, is a splendid achievement born of some 
little suggestive thought, which comes mod¬ 
estly, disguised so that but one mind recog¬ 
nizes it to be what it truly is. 
We are dull learners, at. the best. The 
suggestion of the falling apple was repeated, 
in that and manifold other forms of falling 
matter, for thousands of years, before the 
wonderful truth it. taught came to be under¬ 
stood. If tea-kettles were known to the 
antediluvians, we must confess that steam 
hinted of its remarkable power a very long 
while indeed before man would take the hint. 
Suggestions come to us in every conceivable 
garb, patiently repeating themselves for our 
edification. We become familiar with their 
seeming, at times, yet are blind to all their 
suggestiveness. What they teach we either 
cannot or will not learn. Throughout our 
entire lives we see them, never once compre¬ 
hending what they would convey. 
Why should we be thus deaf and blind to 
our best educators? Why, seeing a vital 
truth taught in the fading leaf, should we 
not accept it and realize it? Why, hearing 
the singing brook sing on, whatever befalls 
it, should we go dumbly forward with no 
song on our lips and no melody in our hearts? 
Why, feeling within us a longing for innnor- 
{ tality,—believing that longing will sometime 
A he realized,—do we make of this mortal life 
k a mean ami paltry thing, with every unholy 
> passion striving to crush out what is holy 
\ and elevating ? 
< ^ CK < we are dull learners. Discoveries 
! force themselves upon us; inventions must 
V tf' -0 "' weary of endless suggestive repetitions; 
£ great, truths become dear to human under¬ 
fed___ 
r r tiif, r in. t n:c tj*:jd lovif,r: 
A PICTURE WHICH TELLS ITS OWN STORY, RENDERING DESCRIPTION SUPERFLUOUS. 
standing only when their amntc-owriers in 
the Rliape of suggestions dotf all disguise, and 
don the truths themselves and compel us to 
acknowledge them. We are very stupid and 
veiy obstinate. To the God of all science 
and art and truth we daily pray, “ Show ns 
thy wisdom 1”—and when that which we 
seek is disclosed we turn away in our dull¬ 
ness and are not profited. 
- 4-44 - 
THE MOCKING BIRD’S SONG. 
Those who have never enjoyed the privi¬ 
lege of listening to the song of the mocking 
bird, pure and uncontaminated with imita¬ 
tions of the grosser sounds of cities and large 
towns, can form but a very inadequate con¬ 
ception of the wonderful beauty and variety, 
or of the rapid transitions, with which it will 
present In a few seconds the songs of an 
almost innumerable number of other birds. 
Our city-bred performer is wont, to injure 
the beauty and the harmony of its concerts 
by a grotesque intermixture of strange and 
inharmonious sounds. The crowing of a 
cock, the oreeking of wheels, the scream 
and rattle of the distant, locomotive, and 
other rude sounds from the streets, will often 
be heard blending with its sweetest notes. 
Yet nothing can well be imagined more mar¬ 
velous in its beauties than the song—if we 
may use so poor and inexpressive a term — 
of this bird, when reared among its own 
native Alleghanics. It hears but a very 
faint resemblance to the medley, wonderful 
as that may be in its variety, of die demoral¬ 
ized mocking birds of our cities. 
--- 4-44 -- 
Many lose the opportunity of saying a 
kind thing by waiting to weigh the matter 
too long. Our best impulses are too delicate 
to endure much handling. If you fail to 
give them expression the moment they rise, 
they effervesce, evaporate, and are gone. If 
they do not turn sour, they become flat, los¬ 
ing all life and sparkle by keeping. Speak 
promptly when you feel kindly. 
- 44-4 --- 
The most common error of men and 
women, is that of looking for happiness 
somewhere outside of useful work. It has 
never yet been found and never will be 
while the world stands. Of all the miserable 
human beings it has been our fortune to 
know, they were, the most wretched who 
had retired from useful employments, in 
order to enjoy themselves. 
- 44 - 4 —- 
Inviolable fidelity, good-humor and com¬ 
placency of temper outlive all the charms of 
a fine face, and make the decay of it in¬ 
visible. 
Stories for flixralisl*. 
% 
THE VINCENTS: 
OR, TIIE MYSTERY AT THE BLUE SPRINGS. 
BY MRS. K. F. KLLET. 
[Concluded from jhiko id, last No.] 
XIV.—THE UNEXPECTED WITNESS. 
They found Chauncey Lyon waiting out¬ 
side. He took Ada’s hand in silence and 
drew it under his arm ; gave tho other to his 
mother, and they went, together to the hotel. 
Not, a word was said till they were in a pri¬ 
vate parlor; then both ladies threw hack 
their vails, presenting to the astonished 
young man not tearful and gloomy faces, but 
countenances lighted up with assured hope. 
“Oh, CiiAijNCEY!” cried the impetuous 
Ada, “ rejoice with us ! Laura will speak!’ ? 
“ To account for the, time spent that day ?” 
“Yes—to vindicnl • herself! I was sure she 
could; and she has promised ns to do it!” 
“ This is good news indeed!” cried the 
young man. “ l will go and tell Osborne !” 
No efforts were made to detain him as lie 
rushed from the room. Maiti.and lodged 
at another inn, with the counsellor, Mr. Wes¬ 
ton. They were in their private room—the 
table spread with papers before them — and 
had just rang the bell lbr lights. 
“You have not, asked my opinion,” re¬ 
marked Mr. Weston, looking up and lean¬ 
ing back iu his chair, “since the evidence 
we have heard to-day.” 
“ Osborne winced. “ 1 have not ven¬ 
tured,” lie said, after a minute’s hesitation. 
“ Our client is guilty,” said the lawyer. 
“ Guilty!” echoed the young man. 
“There can be no doubt of it.” 
“There is — there must, be! I will not be¬ 
lieve it!” cried Maitland. 
“ It is well you say ‘ will not,’ for you can¬ 
not look at the evidence and say so. I never 
saw a clearer ease. Who could have been 
her accomplice?” 
“ Who?” repeated the young lawyer me¬ 
chanically, for he was completely stunned. 
“ Yes. Of course she could not, have 
stabbed the man with her own white hand! 
She only lured him to ins doom.” 
Osborne turned away with an expression 
of indignant incredulity. 
“it is all very well, M.uti.and, but you 
will see it, presently! 1 sometimes wonder 
at the infatuation of young fellows, but 1 
cannot here. She is a lovely creature!” 
Osborne’s brow crimsoned. 
“ I have heard of your fancy for her, my 
boy, and you need not blush for it.” 
“ I do not! ” cried the young man. “ I 
never could be ashamed of having loved the 
noblest creature 1 leaven ever created ! Even 
her faults, so coarsely commented on to-day, 
were those of a grand nature! Her gener¬ 
osity, her sincerity, licr scorn of duplicity, 
her often impetuous and abrupt expression 
of feeling, her rash ness when moved to anger, 
her readiness to atone for wrong, her magna¬ 
nimity and mercy! Who ever could charge 
her with meanness or malignity? She had 
no charity for such vices 1” 
“ If you could only add prudence to your 
catalogue!" responded the older advocate, 
smiling at his friend’s vehemence. “ I don’t 
doubt she had abundant raison for killing 
that husband of hers. If wo only had a 
South Carolinian jury they might bring in a 
verdict like that given in a similar casein 
Edgefield — ‘served him right.”’ 
“ And you can jest on such an occasion!” 
“ Very easily, for I am not on duty; and— 
not in love.” 
Osborne leaned his bead on his hands, and 
groaned bitterly. 
“ Do not despair; wo will try to save her.” 
“ Can she be saved ?’’ cried the young man, 
looking up eagerly. 
“ Wo might be sure of it, if she would give 
us some sort of a story as to where she was 
that afternoon.” 
“ ‘ Give, us some sort of a story!’ Laura, 
Mrs. Vincent, would speak only the truth 
to save her own life.” 
“ And the truth might cost licr life!” 
“It, cannot be,” said Osborne, “ I am sure 
of her innocence.” 
“ Do you suppose she would not have spo¬ 
ken, if she could account, for that interval of 
time consistently with your theory?” 
“ I know not what to think. But I can¬ 
not doubt, her freedom from guilt.” 
“ I fear the judge and jury will differ from 
you. Look at the ease as it, is — an almost 
desperate one; and lot us consult how to 
save tin* woman from the conviction she de¬ 
serves,” said Mr. Weston, rather sternly. 
The servant brought in lights, and an¬ 
nounced “a gentleman to speak with Mr. 
Maiti.and.” Young Lyon came in quickly 
after him, and grasping Maitland’s hand 
witn an outburst of congratulation, said his 
client had promised to disclose her secret. 
The intelligence produced much excite¬ 
ment. giving a new turn to affairs. Osborne 
declared lie would go to her at, once. 
“ She will not see you,” said Lyon; “she 
sent her friend away just now.” 
“ She nnint set; him!” exclaimed the older 
counsel. “The woman has been playing 
with us! Goto her, Maitland, and bring 
| me your report. YVe may have to ask an- 
) other adjournment.” 
Notwithstanding the promise on which 
1 her friends so hopefully relied, Laura 
seemed to waver in her determination. 
Never since her arrest lmd she shown such 
signs of disquiet. She was compelled to ad¬ 
mit Mr. Maiti.and; and it was but a few 
moments before she found that in him she 
had just the friend she wanted. His firm¬ 
ness and energy were so allied with tender¬ 
ness and earnest sympathy! He had the 
noble qualities her father possessed, without 
his stern pride and obstinate will. She 
wished she had relied more full}’ upon him 
from tlit* beginning. 
She owned to him that, she could make a 
fii closure that would manifest her inno 
Fence. But, death — any death hut one of 
public shame—would be preferable to her. 
Could she not avoid it, yet, escape? 
“ L' Hi*’ jury even fail to convict you,” re¬ 
plied Osborne, in a low, agitated voice, “for 
want of sufficient evidence, the imputation 
would cling to you!’’ 
“ And blast the future of my child?” 
“Even so;—ami wring the heart of your 
noble lather.” 
“Oh, my father!" she sobbed. “Why 
was 1 bora to ho a curse to you ! ” 
“ Forgive me!” implored the young man, 
“ I named him only to plead with you!” 
“Either way," moaned the accused, “1 
must break his heart! I must show him the 
unwort hiness of his daughter!” 
“That cannot bo!” said Osborne. “No 
one dare couple umvorthincss with you!” 
j In spite ot herself, the prisoner smiled to 
see Ids generous enthusiasm. Such belief in 
her, in spite of evidence, touched her deeply. 
She held out her band. 
The young man seized the fair hand, 
clasped it in both Ids own, and pressed it 
passionately to his lips. 
“ Pardon me, Laura 1 ” he said with deep 
emotion; “pardon me that 1 cannot, rest rain 
the feelings I should not. dare to reveal in 
your presence!’’ 
“ My friend, your sympathy comforts me.” 
“Sympathy! Oil, Laura, you know my 
heart lias always been yours! You know I 
have noobject in file so dear ns to serve you!” 
The lady drew away her hand gently. 
But, her looks were eloquent ; and OSBORNE 
read in them the deep gratitude which is 
often the parent of love in a woman’s heart. 
A crimson blush had chased away her pale¬ 
ness for an instant. As it faded the young 
man became conscious that, it was neither 
the time nor place to express the sentiments 
he had cherished so many years, 
They conversed long, in low and earnest 
tones. Laura proved her confidence in her 
trusted friend by disclosing to him the whole 
of her melancholy story. She entreated him, 
if it were iu any way possible, to save her 
from having it made public. 
lie promised to do his utmost. Even Mr. 
Weston should not share bis confidence. 
Ho would stand between Laura and her 
friends, too, stating to them that she had 
placed her cause altogether in his hands. 
I It! would send a, messenger that night for 
the gentleman whose name she had given 
him,with a warrant to compel his attend¬ 
ance should it be necessary. The defence 
should proceed ns if nothing new had come 
to light; and at the last, moment he could 
move an adjournment, if no other means of 
deliverance appeared available. 
Laura felt that she had given her confi¬ 
dence worthily, and she was unspeakably 
comforted. It was something new to have 
the support of a powerful and loving nature, 
able to protect her against adverse circum¬ 
stances. She rested, too, though uncon¬ 
sciously, on the strong love that had with¬ 
stood her coldness and the severance of years. 
“ Do you remember,” she said before they 
parted, “ the day when you were by the river 
and Ada and I were playing at a canoe and 
got overset, and how you rescued us both 
when we were struggling in the water?” 
“ 1 saved you ? I remember,” said Osborne. 
“ 1 never knew how Miss Wingate got 
ashore,—supposed the maid pulled her out." 
“ Ah, I gave you more trouble, to save me, 
for 1 was further Ini We were children 
then, but I have never forgotten it.” 
They talked pleasantly of old times for an 
hour longer, when the guard informed the 
visitor it was time to lock the outer doom. 
Mrs. Vincent refused to admit any one 
the next morning till the hour came for her 
to go into court. She was attended by her 
counsel and followed by her friends, as be¬ 
fore. Ada’s wistful, appealing looks were 
met, by so impassive a countenance that the 
poor girl’s heart died within her. She would 
have importuned her friend, but Mrs. Lyon 
restrained her; arid when Cuauncky whis¬ 
pered that Osborne knew all, and hoped for 
the best, the light came again into her blue 
eyes, and she thanked her lover so expres¬ 
sively that he longed to embrace her. 
The court room was crowded; and every¬ 
body was astonished when Air. Maitland 
announced that no evidence was to be sub¬ 
mitted for the defence. 
Mr. Weston then rose to speak, and stated 
