Grass Valley telegraph., 1857-02-21
THE MANAGE!

clOak-hear her snatches OF song
Run after her, hoot at her-she is
nobodys wife, mother or child
she's only an old crazy wOman.-
No! thank God! the cry is not
needed. Pity turns her moist eyes
as she passes-and Religion with
it's meek hands folded, lifts up a
prayer. Little boys and girls stare
for a moment they are not cruel ;
their little hearts have been taught
humanity, and crazy old Bess
trudges along.
Here is her home, this tiny,
tumble-down hut, turning up shat
tered roof, like an old, wrinkIed
face, and like the poor brain of its
mistress, empty within. Aunt
Bess was very harmless-'nobody
would hurt a poor old thing like
her, nobody in this world, no nev-
er;" she used to say when any
body went to see her, 'for she
never hurt anybody In this, world !,
no neVel:'F s''@
One Christmas day the parson
sent old aunt Bess a goose-"fat,
fair and not forty" save as one
counts by weeks. Poor Bess was
delighted, and showed everybody
her goose. 1t was a nice Christ
mas present, they said, and would
give her a fine dinner.
GA dinner!' cried crazy Bess,
holding up her two withered hands
-''roast my goose that parson
FetchalI sent memo never in this
world, never. [ am not going to
roast my goose-Fm going to keep
it as long as [ live, to remember
the parson BY"
Whether her vague ideas gave
her the impression that she might
partake of her goose in some fu-
ture and better state, [ cannot tell,
bnt certain it is, she esteemed it
too good for this world.
"Dear knows" she said, "Ben
would be glad enough to have me
die, so he could get what little |
possess; but [ aint a going to die
in this world, no never. Ben shall
never have them tea pots in this
world, no never-I aint a going to
die to leave him all my property,
never in this world, never though
dear knows he'd be glad of it."
Poor Bess the shattered harp
is now strung by angel fingers
The mind that in it's feebIeness
dwelt only on trivial things, and
found among the husks of this
world, shines, l humbly hope,
among the bright angels.
Reader, get down on the very
knees of your soul, and thank God
that you are not raving, drivel-
ling maniac. Once, on a dimIy
lighted bridge, a traveller met a
man whose fantastic costume as
tonished, and somewhat alarmed
him. The wind blew high, the
waves rolled turbulently under the
solemn timbers of the old arches
black and sullen were the waters
black and sullen was the sky. The
man wore a red shirt E; a handker-
chief was tied with fantastic exact
ness about his head, and under it
stood out his wild elf-locks, black
as the night, the sky and the wat
ers. Startled by this apparition at
an unseemly hour, the travellers
stood APPALLED,, and each surveyed
the other, on the long, dismal
thoroughfare. At last, a peal of
sharp laughter filled the air /; he of
the red shirt sprang forward, lay
ing both hands heavily upon the
unprepared stranger, and cried out
in unearthly tones, "Man, man
did you ever thank God for your
reason ?"
ell never did - stammered
the traveller, striving to regain his
self-possession.
"Then, thank Him, now :"
shouted the maniac; and standing
back to make a leap, his last cry
rang on the night, as he yelled =
''for | have lost mine"- he
sprang over the bridge with the
heaving waters, whose moaning
surge smothered his dying strug-
giles.
Reader, did you ever thank God
for your reason? If not, "thank
Him now."
Mrs DWaddle says that one Of