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title: 'The News-Herald. (Hillsboro, Highland Co., Ohio) 1886-1973, September 08, 1886, Image 6',
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CKBMESSAY. SUCPTMaBB S, ISM.
IHLLSBORO. i : , OHIO.
GREAT LOVE AND t.
I mocked at Lot el
T,ovn Boomed a little things
"A. small, blind sod." I said, with golden wing,
For thoso poor poets to adore and Bin;
Their lock in trade, which has its prloe to
I did not know.
I laughed at Lovel
"the merriest lest or all."
T said: "a jra), light, bounding ball.
Which withers wit at "both ita rite and fall,
And never illcs our grasp be) ond rooall;"
I did not know.
"Your Love,'1 1 Bald.
"Throiiirh the long summer days
I iln and lnugh and listen to Ilia lays;
Court Tool is he." sa d L "Crown him with
And Inurcl for the folly of his ways":
I did not know.
"Court Fool." t cried.
"Well barter all for ou;
Ton are a toy to mock at eter new,
A Jen when false, a better Jest when true!
.Laughter will alna s ring at thought of you."
I did not know.
1 looked on Lovel
Abinel I mocked no morn
VTlthln his hand a flaming sword he bore:
liiseics were great and sad, and prone be
fore Him In the dust I lar. lamenting soro
"Great Love," I cred, "Materloieermore!
I know, I know,"
"Mnster," I cred
And trembling touthed hit fret
Oils cros were great and sad and bitter
sweet!). Ilenenth his ga7e my heart, all laboring,
To lift in) glance I knew t was not meet
I knew, I knew.
His face was pnle.
And most majestic fair:
TliTe was no lightsome Jo v unco In h s air:
A throbbing wound bled In his bosom bare:
A thorned crown wus on h s shining hair
So did I know.
"Great Lot el" I orled,
"Great Woe am I," said he:
"Great pain and tears of blood shed bitterly.
Tears of heart's blood, salt as the great dark
And dost thou Jest and r ng fool bells at me?
Thou dlds't not know."
' Korglve," I prayod.
"No wlugs are mine," ho said;
Mr bleed ng feet pass on with weary tread
Hhitheroever I am sadly led:
The poet sinus, but when bis heart has bled
Dost thou not know?
"Laughed thou at I.ovo?
The dav will come Tor tears,
For pangs and aching longlnrs, heavy fears,
For memories laying waste all coming j ears
Dead hopes, each one a lUIng flame that
Then wilt thou knowl'
Then I who mocked
Cried: "Having seen thy face,
I rrny thee, tarry for a moment's space,
lpri thee, irrant to me one piteous graco"
(To staj his feot I hold tlicm in embrace),
"I know, Ikaonl'
"I mock no more.
Great I.oo. but hear ray cry:
Clve mo the pang, the woe, the bitter sigh.
Heir me, in pltj . hear mo, lest I die
Let me bear nil so Loi e pas me not by.
Since Loe I know!"
Frances Uutlgnon But nett, tn Century.
m m m
THE WIDOW BOWEN.
ho Preferred "Clumsy Old Susan'
to the Senator.
Soveral of the peoplo of easy fortune in
the village have moved liore from a dis
tance. A few of the old f am "lies retain
the patrimony and the consequence trans
mitted by their fathers, but some of the
descendants of the best people, so called,
of a former genoi at Ion are now poor. A
few of them, though living on the merest
pittance, try to maintain a show of gen
tility. They have preserved some of the
remnants of past grandeur, and they try
to live up to their old china, antique clocks
and colonial chairs and tables There are
oloeis who, by the cbauces aud changes of
life, have lost even this cliiui to consider.
tion, and laborasb93t they may for their
daily In ond.
On Itailioad streot stands a row of small
tonnments. that, like a number of breakfast
rolls Ip a pan, seem to bivo run together
end combined theirsbabby ugliness without
aim, for there is land enough and to spare
for detachod d ellings with j ards and gar
dens Most of theso houses are occupied bv
laborers' families, but at the north end of
the row live the Widow llowen and her
daughter Husan You will know the place
because it is free from old hats stuck into
broken window panes, and the scrap of
yaidlnfioutiskept noatly swept "The
Widow Bowen, she that wag Jane Hin
nian " It is thus the neighbors always
speak of her. In old times the Hinmans
were of the village elect, and held their
..Uuoi. uiiiu u auyuuuy. ubluo was a
liandsome girl and bad many good offers
but she chose in the end to many Bowen'
who was of no particular account, and
finally faded out of life leaving his wife
poor, with one little girl Hhe had bunod
four children on the hill, and had known
troublous times all through her married
life, and struggle and poverty and hard
work bad attended the widow's steps ever
since, lhe fortunes of the Hinmans had
run to seed They had died out or loft the
place, and a generation arose which knew
them not Only the Widow Bowen and her
daughter Susan remained in that poor
corner tenement, where thoy tolled from
morning till night at sewing machine
woik, finishing off coats and trousers at so
ujum i.ub uuzen tor a leaoy-niade clothing
Hugo parcels came for them by the train
and were left in the care of the baggage
master and carried to the widow's door by
Kanibo Brown. Year in and year out the
mother and daughtor labored at this work,
Mrs Bowen doing the lighter portions,
while Susan, who was vigorous, boro the
brunt of toil. They ofteu worked fourteen
fcirars a dav, beginning in summer at five
o'clock, the hum of tlioir machine was
heal d by the Irish laborers as, dinner pail
in hand, they trudged past the window at
six. bomutimes a feraalo neighbor, with a
gentle hoise she could drive herself, came
and took Mrs. Bowen for an hour's airing
In her buggy. But these were rare occa
s ons lhe widow could not spare the time
on week days, and Hunday driving is not
fashionable In the village But Sunday
being the only leisure time they had, Husan
and her mother, in line weather, often
locked the house and went to the woods
for the entire day. carrying their dinner
-with them. They seldom attended church
now. Some of the neighbors talked, as
they will in a small place, and the sym
pathies of a certain strict class of villagers
were alienated. But the young clergyman
always remained friendly; and he often
brought them the latest magazines and re
views which Susan read to Tier mother in
their Sunday outings. Being a modest
man, he thought the new literature would
do them as much good as his sermons: and
he liked to talk over with Susan what she
???" JB?wen. W.M T"7. P'ln- Paople
.said she did not "feature'' the Hinmans
omd as for the Bowens, they ware of too
Jittle importance for any one to remember
tneir cnaractensucs. Busan's unoer teath
projected, and she could not easily close
her Uds over them. Her hair ....
harsh and wiry, and her complexion dark
-and without bloom. But she was wonder--fullr
atrong in body, and bad aerer known
.day's illness in her life. She wore large
calfskin shoes, a thort gown of pome cheap
tuff, cotton glove ana a little round hat
which kept its place on her bead season
after season, regardless of the changes of
jfUshlon. Susan spoke out what she had in
fun-mind without fear or favor. At six
Uou she had said openly that she would
never marry, because no one would think
of marrying her whom i could accept.
His talked of bar plainness, her large
hands and feet, and even made a joke of
thwsv She never disguised her poverty or
made the least pretence of hiding the
tasnlly i misfortunes, but on ths contrary
aha, made no appeal for sympathy. Ha
was an unusually largt, strong, vigorous
jgtrl at an early age, and it behooved bar
saalntaln constant cheerfulness of de
nsMaiiorand to sustain her mother, who
sertaiuly was the weaker Teasel- Genuine
toekai-encogaicedaooaeror later even in
spiteful little communities. People would
bear a great deal of truth-telling from
Susan just because she was Susan. Her
word was as good as a bond; and she had
the kind of manly honor that never breaks
a contract or disregards a promise. Mill
Grant, the village milliner, with whom she
maintained the closest Intimacy, had a
great aamiration for her because she felt
that no one but henMlf ha,! imp annnrlArl
the height and depth and fatness ot Susan's
genuine excellence. She regretted! that
ousou was not a man, so that son might
dot Susan, with all her mannish virtues,
was very womanly. She was strong to
sustain and she was tender to comfort and
help. Her heart was capacious and bal-
bui-bu uor excellent neaa. me position 01
mother and daughtor bad been changed.
Susan was the wheel-horse, as she said, and
she felt a protecting fondness for her
mother's foibles that made up to that poor
woman for a great deal she had suffered.
They drew together Into a united life.
Susan knew she could never have a ro
mance and her mother's young career was
of the greatest interest to her. They lived
it all over again in their leisure hours, re
touching the faded colors, that Susan might
realize what it is to be young, ta win admir
ation and to have lovers, she who had
known no youth and could never enter
personalty mat magic realm. Mrs. Bowen
possessed certain remnants of her old van
ity, although so much had been beaten out
of her by anard fate She was a little weak
about dress, as so many by-gone beauties
are, and she liked to adorn herself with
the vague feeding that somebody might
still come to admire her, although in fact
nobody ever did come, at least not for a
longtime. Nearly all the small sums that
could be spent on clothes were laid out for
her benefit. Susan contenting herself with
a stylo of costume in which she always
looked the same winter and summer,
spring and fall. But she dressed her
mother's still unfaded hair and put on the
becoming ribbons and bits of lace much as
a fond mamma adorns her llttlo girl. Hhe
admired her mother mnm than nw nnn
and wished to keep her young and pretty a
The widow still possessed a few small
trinkets which had not yat been parted
with to pay tbo rent or to furnish neces
saries By far the most interesting of
theso. as a memento of her girlhood, was a
gold locket containing two strands of hair,
one auburn and the other brown, entwined
together, with a curious cipher beneath
them engraved on the gold The auburn
lock bad belonged to Jane Hlnman when
she was a girl of eighteen. The brown lock
had nover grown on Bowen's head. It
dated back to an earlier romance In Jane
Hinman's life, the episode which now most
deeply engrossed both Susan and her
mother, ths period they most frequently
talked over In confidential moments. In
Mrs Bowen's work-table drawer there was
a packet of yellow letters, connected with
the locket and braided strands of hair, and
a little story of broken vows and disap
pointed hopes. Jane Hlnman had been
engaged before she met Bowen. There
had been a misunderstanding, a quarrel
perhaps, and the ring was given back, and
that was all. But it was a great deal to
Susan, indeed, the central point of interest
in her mother's unfortunate life Holding
the letters loose in her lap, and with that
locket open before her, she would try to
realize the whole situation.
"And to think, Jane," (she called her
mother Jane In her playful or sentimental
moods) "to think that Ben Fielding is now
a United States Senator, a great man in
his own State, likely to be Governor soon,
and possiblv President Just trv tr lm.
agtne how it would be with you if you had
married him Who would ever suspect
that the rjossible Mrs Hnnnt.nr WnMlne. h.
been finishing off slop shop coats and
trousers all these years at starvation
prices! O. Jane, that was a sad Hnv fn,
Sou when you quarreled with the future
enator. But where would I have been
had you married Ben Fielding! I could
never have been born a Senator's daughter.
x presume j. suuuiu not nave come into ex
istence at all. And I am so large and
strong, such n positive character. There Is
so much of me it is impossible to think
calmly of the narrow escape 1 made of not
Mrs. Bowen had no great amount of
humor. She generally let Susie's nonsense
go by her like the wind, but it was a very
serious matter to her that she had just
missed being Mrs. Senator Fielding. It in
vested with an amount of romantic inter
est in her own eyes which enabled her to
despise the benighted people who knew not
the Hinmans. It holped her to keep her
young and good-looking, with a certain
elegance of manner that Susan admired
because she had never been able to attain
to manners She was irrevocably barred
out from that mysterious and fascinating
region. Mrs. Bowen would sigh in answer
to Susan's remark as she turned n. num m.
sewed on a button :
"He was verv hiirh tpmnnmrl nA ,,
uuanug, ousaii, ana always would get his
own way. He made mountains out of
molehills and took his religion very hard
(as if it had been some sort of contagious
Susan, although she socretly hated the
domineering poraon her mother drew, al
ways took his part. "He had character,
anyway," snipping her thread. "There
was somethlug to him If I had been
thoie, Jane, I suspect I should have been
on his side. But I guess the Senator has
cuangeo. a gooa aeai. I presume now he is
as worldy as a Hlnman They say Wash
ington is a pretty hard place '
"He never would eo wrnnc. nm v
ought not to suspect such a thing. His
principles were just like iron. If ha had
been a little more yielding, or I had been a
little les3 pleasure loving, things might
uave come out different Pass me that
SDOOl Of black twist. Hnnnll
One Saturday nignt Susan had gone to'
call upon Milly on Main street, and on her
return sne Durst into the room and found
her mother half asleep, d07ing in her chair
in the soft brown twilight of a midsummer
evening Mrs. Bowen rubbed her eyes,
with the dim consciousness that Susan was
excited. "What is the matter!" said she,
drowsily, sitting up straight in her chair.
"Matter! why, mother, he is here, visiting
Judge Magnus. He came last night."
Susan uttered the words as if she hadleen
a Delphic priestess giving forth the oracle.
"He, Husan: whom do you mean!"
"He, of course: Senator Ben Fielding."
"You don't say. Ben Fielding has come
back to the village. Well 1 dare presume
be has forgotten me. He must think I am
"You know that Is a piece ot affectation,
mother. It is 'probable he has made par
ticular inquiries after Jane Hinman."
"Jane Hinman is dead, -anyhow. He
knows nothing about tha Widow Bowen,
ana i aon't see mat Ms visit concerns us.
Susan, won't you light the lamp! '
While Susan was lighting the lamp aud
the darkness still lingered, she brought out
her last great piece of news: "Mother, he
is a widower; has been one two years."
"I dare presume, Susan, His wife I heard
was a sickly woman. They had three chil
dren." "One dead," put In Susan laconically, as
she turned up the wick, "and the other two
grown and doing for themselves."
"I don't see how it concerns us,Susan. I
am a faded old woman." But her eyes
looked singularly bright, and her voice
quavered with a new emotion. Susan would
not give in to her mother's artifices. She
knew that somehow it did concern them
that Senator Ben Fielding was in town.
They did not talk much together, and
though both pretended to rest well, there
was but little sleep for them that night.
The next morning they debated as to
whether they should go to church and
finally decided in the negative. It would
look too marked just to go to see him,
though they did not say so. Neither did
they speak of going to the woods or down
bv the river on their usual HtinHaw- nmM.
They sat at home all the morning, the sewl
Auif-w pub uy. osmd uressoa ner motner
with great care. She even put an extra
touch to her own appearance, she could
hardly have told why. She was glad of the
housework which kept her busy. But the
widow sat silent with her bands clasped
and that bright nnirtiiii.r in h.r ,..
Judge Magnus was to give the Senator a
Srana ainner on Monday.. How would be
nd time to think ot poor Jane Hinman
and ber broken fortunes! But be did find
time to think of her. It was just four
o'clock when a stranger clicked the little
gate. He was tall and rather imposing,
with a square forehead, square chin and
a powerful Jaw. He wore sqaaro-toed
boots, and even his watchhaln wax ' -nm.
.posed of little cubes of gold. The iron-gray
. " !" sjv uiiii an air 01 aurano
tlon be had not possessed la bis younger
years, but bis eyes were of a steely benevo
lence, without humor. Humor was the ons
thing Ben Fielding had always lacked.
Susan hastily kissed bei mother when she
saw what was Impending, then dashed out
the back way. Hhe slipped through a broken
picket in the dooryara fence and crossed
Mrs. Hodge's garden, and by winding ways
reached back street and made for a. ahadv
.spot by the river. She sat down on the
? round among the ferns and ler her hat'
all back, and with her hands clasped about
her knees lost sight ot every thing before
heroyesin her intense sympathy for ber
mother. He had come to make a friendly
call, ot course, but Susan did not believe it.
She knew that widowers, when their hearts
have healed by the first intention, always
have intentions. They are the least ingen
uous members of the human race She was
thinking ot Jane Hlnman and the Widow
Bowen and ths dark ways they had trav
eled as mother and daughter, when she had
borne the laboring oar; and a tide of pity
and 'ore seemed to sweep her away,
mingled with the excitement of this strange
romance which was touching her mother
again in the afternoon of hor days. Susan
never knew how long she sat thereon the
rlrer bank among the ferns. She found it
growing dark when she took her way home.
Her mother met her at the door with her
eyes full ot tears and quivering with sup
pressed emotion. She nut her arm around
her daughter aud like Ruth aud Naomi J
they clung together for a time.
"O, you can't think what he said. It's
all the same as if I hadn't grown old. He
wants me to be his wife. He came here ou
purpose, Susan, to ask me. He says he has
money enough and everything, and he
don't care if lam ever so poor and don't
kuow how to appear," she went on a little
Susan put her mother down In the rocker
oad smoothed her hair. "You must quiet
yourself, or you will bave one of your bad
headaches. But just tell me It you have
promised to be Mrs. Senator Fielding."
"How could I promise," she returned, re
proachfully, "without talking with you!
It all depends on you, Susan, aud the very
thought ot it makes me dizzy."
"I shan't stand in the way, mother; I
shall never trouble him."
"Susan Bowen, what do you mean!"
"He can't be expected to marry the
whole family. He hat come for his old
sweetheart. Jane Hlnman, and not for
Susan Bowen, clumsy old Susan."
"You want to make me sick," breaking
into sobs: "that is lust what vou want to
"No, I don't, mother; but I can't deceive
you. We have always been one you and
I, but It can be so no longer. Jane Hinman
was born for another fate. And now she is
coming into her kingdom. But Susan
Bowen was made to endure hardness, to
live alone and eat the bread of labor. He
would not like my influence over you. He
must rule alone ; I can see it in the square
set of his jaw."
"That's just it, Susan; he ain't changeda
bit. Such men never do change. I can
feel the iron Ben Fielding under all this
new velvet. He didn't have his way with
me when he was young and he wants to get
it now he Is old. He let it drop that his
God must be my God. and it was so like old
times it made me shiver."
"I guess his God is made in the likeness
of the Senator," said Susan bitterly, but
this was all she would say to influence her
mother, who kept insisting that he was
generous and kind and wondrous conde
scending to the poor Widow Bowen. She
felt it a grievance that Susan would not
join in these eulogiums, but maintained a
dogged silence. Her sturdy, strong soul
felt a sorrow tugging at her heart-strings,
such as she had not Known in all ber years
ot toil and privation. The splendid pros
pect opened by the visit of the great man,
though it dazzled the widow's eyes, brought
no real joy to that poor bouse. Before
going to bod Susan told her mother she
would depart early the next morning by
the train to take home the finished bundle
ot work and leave the coast clear. The
Senator was to receive his answerthat day.
Sho did not sleep until near morning, and
ber first uneasy nap when a nervous grasp
was laid on her shoulder.
1 1 can't, I can't " sobbed poor Mrs.
Bowen, brokenly. "I've made up my mind
I won't have Ben Fielding it he is to sepa
rate us. What do I care for his money and
his position, and his honors, compared
with my child! And lust as like as not he
would despise me if I didn't bow down to
him. I won't see him again. You must
stay and toll him the whole truth. Thore
nover was such a one to speak the truth as
Sou are. And I will go to town with the
undle of work "
Susan felt that her mother had risen to
the height of the moral sublime. She took
her in her arms and gave her a tremendous
hugging as she laughed and cried. Mrs.
Bowen did go to town and Susan saw the
Senator, and they had rather a bad half
hour. Fielding lost his temper, and ac
cused Susan of influencing her motner
against bim to her great injury. And
Susan lost her temper and maintained her
right to ber mother with pertinacity. And
when the Senator went away he congratu
lated himself on having escaped such a
dragon of a daughter-in-law. And Susan
for her part hated the overbearing man
worse than any one she had ever seen.
Many can rise once in a lifetime to a
height of the moral sublime, but few can
maintain themselves long at such a level.
men it seemoa mat sne uau usc iauen into
tv hen the two poor women took up life
again in that shabby tenement, things
were changed Perhaps Mrs Bowen, as is
the way with dependent, Impulsive minds,
secretly regrotioa at momenrs an sne bad
given up for Susan, while Susan for her
part saw these feelings at work in her
mother and was wretched. But one day
there came to Susan Bowen an official
document which announced her appoint
ment to a 1,200-dollar clerkship in the
treasury. Though she hated Fielding, he
had done her this great good turn because
that generous streak in his nature was
When Susan and her mother went away
happy and triumphant, Milly declared
that strange old fairy. Truth, had left the
village, bag aud baggage. A. L , in tf. Y.
Why a Larger Number of Tlie'm Is to tie
Found In Cities Than In the Country.
Anyone who carefully notices the
women seen upon Now York streets
and places of amusement will be struck
by tho largo number of robust girls
and women of great physical develop
ment. This Is to bo attributed, we
think, to more geneial knowledge oi
the laws of health, to tho Improvement
in the quality and preparation of food
and to sanitary conditions, and to in
creased participation in out-door sports.
But those conditions do not prevail
to the same extant in the country as
in the city, and a warning against un
due optimism has followed the en
couraging opinions of the Boston sur
geon. In a recent commencement ad
dress, General Stewart L. Woodford
lias again called attention to the un
favorable features of the life of farmers'
wives; their isolation, the imposition
of an amount of work which saps their
vitality; their poor food; their lack of
chango and recreation, and the ton
danoy, which naturally follows,! to
brooding over various subjects. The
result is a dlscouraglngly large percen
tage of insanity among the women of
rural neighborhoods. Attempts to
substitute farming villages for scattered
farm houses, ta introduce social recrea
tions, and like efforts have been made
or suggested again and again, but the
fact remains that the woman of tho
city Is usually more healthful and
has more vitality than the woman of
the country. There Is a problem here
still for onr physicians and students of
sociology. But it is pleasant to bo as
sured by competent experts that tho
charge that American women are com
posed merely of skin and bone and
nerves and brain, is no longer justified.
Frank Lealie's Illustrated Newspaper.
When Squlro Carver, of Water
villo, Me., hurriedly drove on the cov
ered bridge that spans the Bebasticook.
for shelter from a sudden shower he
found two young men and two young
women taking shelter, (here also. As
soon as they siw tho squire they con
ferred eagerly, and then one of the
young men asked him if he wouldn't
marry the other young man and ono
of the young women then and there,
They had,, the necessary papers In
proper form, and so, while the rain
pattered over their heads and the Se
bastipook, gurgled beneath their feot,
wwiabb McunntocK. ana Almlra Jonas
were wade oao.--Boiton Journal,
No, no, not for me I ain't drinking to-day.
It was not for that I called In on mv way.
But to bid ou good-bye. Going West? Well,
But I'll Journey as far as 8t Patrick's to
night lay, what alls you, old man, that so wildly
, you stare?
Can't make out what on earth la a-brlnglng
Well, I mean a new life and new comrades to
And so, Mr. Barman, I'll bid you good-bye.
Let me see, I've been hanging around here
And going down hill all tho time. It appears:
I was then a smart fellow and handsome
I don't look as spruce and as go ahuad now.
rucro ain't the samo fashion and cut la my
and I'm rather ashamed of my rublouud
rve been thinking things over a trifle, and I
Have come, Mr. Barman, to bid you good-bye.
I bear you no grudge, though at last r vo de
fhat our treaty of commerce is all on one
(feat 1 give you tho best share of all that I
And get only sloknegs and rags In return. ,
I have parted with happiness, manhood and
And lagged far behind In the struggle for
Misfortune Is o'er mo; destruction seems
Bo it's best, Mr. Barman, to bid you good-bye.
I know I've gone down on life's slippery
But I don't think Tvo lost every chance to
Pit mount up the ladder: If one rung I climb
Tls better than sinking the whole of the time:
But to keep right ahead I must carefully pass
Your glowing temptation of bottle and glass;
No poison my brain in a stupor must tie:
bo adieu, Mr. Barman, I bid ou good-bye.
QUESTION OF MARKET.
How Farmers Have Been Fooled by the
Fallacious Argument of Distillers.
Once upon a time I chanced to stand
In a meat market soon after six o'clock
Saturday night. Men from the ma
chine shops were thero getting supplies
for Sunday dinners. I notloed with
surprise ( how little some of them
bought One in particular took only
a bit of liver, remarking as ho handed
over the few cents asked for it: "This
is all that is left of my week's wages."
Just then in came Charley, the rotund
saloon-keeper whose saloon is on the
street leading from the machine shops
to the market He is a big, pompous
fellow, and walking up to the counter
with a "I-am-monaroh-of-all-I-surrey"
ir ordered the nicest roast in the shop,
pulled out a big roll of bank bills,
handed one to the clerk to pay for the
meat and went out I saw that Jim,
tho liver buyer, stood watching him
moodily, and that a peculiar look camo
over his face as his ejo rested on tho
bill Charley paid, then glanced from
the nice, juicy roast which was to hn
Charley's dinner to tho insignificant
bundle in his own hand.
As Charlov nasscdout. Jim tnrnnd to
nls shop-mates and said: "See here;
don't you know we're fools! That bill
Charloy paid for that roast ip tho verv
ono I paid him for liquor not half an
hour asro. It's gone to buy his family
a good Sunday dinner, while mine can
have nothing but liver. Next week I
m going to keep away from his infer
nal saloon and see if my folks can't have
roast beef for their Sunday dinner."
"Lot's all tiy it," they said, and went
out discussing the question of Sunday
dinners vs. whisky.
Curiosity led me to tho same market
at the same time the following Satur
day. In camo tho same people; but I
noticed that every ono of those shop
men bought a roast of beef, and great
was the chuckling among them when
Charley walked in with a long face,
saying: "1 never did seo such luck as
I've had this week; necr had sucu a
poor week for trade in my life; believe
I won'tindulge in a roast, butwllltako
somo of that liver."
All of which set mo to thinking. We
wero near neighbors to Peoiia with its
mammoth distilleries. My work took
mo much among tho farmers; every
whero among them my Temperance
appeals were met with: "We don't
drink, nor wish to; but if vou Tem
perance folks shut up the distilleries
there'll be no market for our corn.", I
knew they were wiong, but could seo
no way to prove it to them, till tho in
cident in tbo,meat market let in a Hood
of light upon tho question. I begun to
investigate. Tho first step was, to
write to the Internal Revenue Commis
sioner at Peoria, to see how much
whisky was mado out of a bushel of
coin. Waiting his answer I asked
Jack, Charleys son, who was a pupil of
mine and my good friend, how many
drinks thero were in a gallon of whisky.
"Well." ho said, "flat depends on
how big the drinks are; but near as I can
calculate they run about fifty to a gal
lon." The commissioner replied: "I
have tho honor to say that a fair aver
age prouuction of spirits from a bushel
of corn for the period of one year is
from 16 to 17 quarts.
Then I went to figuring. Allowing
each man to take but four drinks a
day at live cents each, a low average
you will allow, he would spend each
day twenty cents r for his whisky, In
the course of tho year that mounts up
to over seventy dollars, or just about
as much as a wholo beef would cost
bim, bought at the market along as he
needed iti during the, year,, My house
keeping experience convinced me that
a medium-sized family would consume
that amount of beef m a year if they
could get it
The next thing ta figure .on was the
amount of corn used in making the
whisky. Four drinks a day give 1,460
a year; taking Jack's average of fifty
drinks to a gallon this calls for twenty
nine and one-half gallons of whisky,
117 quarts. To make this amount will
require, according to tho commis
sioner's figures, not quite seven bushels
of corn. This, mind you, on the sup
position that there is po "crookeaV
ness" in the whisky, nor any adultera
tion in the drinks; we glvo the distiller
all the benefit of tha doubt.
The next step was to discover how
much corn would have been consumed
to make the beet This was harder to
ascertain, for farmers do not keep rec
ords as strictly as the internal revenue
does. 'By diligent inquiring and com
parison of results as .given by many
farmers, I arrived at jtbe conclusion
that fifty bushels of corn was a low es
timate for the amount eaten from the
time the calf commences, to eat corn
until its appearance as beet in tho mar
ket; that Is, more than seven times as
much corn goes to snake a beef than is
used to make the whisky -'which' sells
for the.same amount of money. Now
I was ready for my farmer friends, for
they knew and I knew that the chances
for a man's family' having plenty of
beef to fat are in Inverse ratio to the
quantity of whisky he drinks. So when
ever they oonfront me with the ques
tion: "Where should' we rid market
for our com If distilleries are closed P"
Yankeelike I reply with aaether ques
tion: "Which pays y6u bes to put onq
bushel o corn Into whisky Lto .make a
I man wowo than a brute, and! bring his
I Wlf U and clllllllnil In llm nnnr.hnnu
w . - .V- WW MW iMV-MVW
as-sx. U .
for you to support, or to put aevea
bussSels into beei to make good blood
and brawn and brain for that man and
his family so they can support them
There is another thing about this dis
tilling business by which farmers are
badly fooled. It is the competition into
which it brings tholr honesty corn-fed
bcof with distillery-fed cattle. The
distiller can fatten cattle literally upon
nothing, so far as cost to himself is
concerned. He gets' big monov back
for what ho pays yon tor corn, in the
whisky, while on its leavings, which
otherwise would be utterly valueless,
be fattens beef and pork, and of course
he can undersell you in the market
This competition so lowers the price of
boefyou aril to tho butcher that on
the amount you receive for it you loso
more than the profits of ail the corn
you caD sell to the distiller. And this
loss to you is no gain to tho consumer.
The butcher asks his customer just as
much for the dlstillcry-fed beef as he
does for yours; so whatever money is
made in tho transaction besides that
made by the distiller goes into this
middle-man's pockot, not into yours.
We rise no higher, now than the level
of your pocket-book. There is a sani
tary and moral phase to the distillery
beef question that we advise you to
study up in the loathsomo stalls when
distillery-fed cattlej are- kept Aside
from all that, have'I not made out a
case strong enough to convince you
mat ino marKei xor your corn will not
be destroyed by shutting up the dis
tillery? The distillers have fooled you long
enough by their cry: "No market for
corn without distilleries." They fool
you in regard to the proportion of corn
used in their nefarious business. Tho
number of bushels so used, given in the
aggregate, seems enormous, and, with
out comparing it with tho whole
amount raised in the State, youaresuro
to think the proportion much greater
than it really is. But comparing it
with tho entire crop, the amount used
by distilleries is but as a drop in tho
bucket By careful computation in Il
linois it proves to be one peck for each
man in the Stato. Are you willing to
let the distilleries run and take the risk
of ruin to your neighbors' or your
own boy, which their running entails,
rathor than to endanger your chance
to And a market for a peck of cornP If
so you would bettor use that peck in
makiug starch to stiffen your back
bone. In Iowa, before it adopted prohibi
tion, George Woodford's calculation
showed that the land used to raise com
for distilleries would not furnish room
to bury the victims of' tho distillery's
twin brother, the saloon. Do away
mm smoous ana aistiueries, ana you
will not need so much ground for
graveyards. Union Signal.
Strong Testimony Against Alcohol
Men who drink whisky are sure to
go to tho wail sooner or later on the
street. I always win when I have
whisky for my competitor. Henry
Clews, the banker.
The evi's of brandy and soda in India
need only to be remembered to provo
how pernicious is tho suicidal habit of
indulgence in drinking alcoholic liquors
in hot climates. Henry M. Stanly.
To make or sell ardent spirits for
common use is as wicked as to make
and sell poisons for the same purpose.
Tho blood of murdered souls will be
required at the makers' and dealers'
hands Judge Daggett.
I am utterly unable to understand
how it is possible for any man, 'with
any sense of decency, or any apprecia
tion of manhood, or any sentiment of
honor, or any ono having any hopes or
aspirations for respectable social, or
moral standing in the community, or
uuving any regaru lor tne contidence
and respect of his fellow men, can
reconcile himself to tho idea of becom
ing a common vender of intoxicating
liquors ouage uonn martin, jiunsas.
For tho pitiful sura a dime he the
owner of a groggcry furnished the
poison whioh made the deceased a fool
and this trembling culprit a demon!
How paltry a sum for two human lives!
This tnifllc is tolerated bylaw1, rind
therefore tho vendor has committed an
act not recognized by earthly tribunals;
but In sight of Him who is unerring in
Wisdom, he who , deliberately furnishes
the intoxicating draught which in
flames men into violence anjl anger
and bloodshed. Is partlceps crirainls in
tho deed. Judge Johnson, California,
in passing sentence of death upon a
During a term of seven years as
prosecuting lawyer in the Federal
service at New York City, I seldom,
during those seven years,, knew a case
of criminal violation of law by violence
and force of arms that was not either
conceived or committed or aggravated
by the nso of ilntoxioatin? llauor. I
have been present when the chairman of
tne board: that examines jails and poor
houses and asylums of New York went
through those places; and I know it is
the simple testimony of thoughtful,
truthful people that liquor, in some
form or other, is responsible for three
fourths of the pauperism of the State
of New York, -t&t etvart LtWoodford.
The Sabbath is ,empbatioally "tho
poor man's day." It Is tho best con
servator ot home, the guardian of the
public morals, and the only guaranty
in this busy day and world of some due
attention to the cultivation of that
spiritual nature in man, which gives
life and forco even to his, work among
material tilings. But the liquor traffic
and the Sabbath are in natural enmity.
It is no chanoe association which leads
to the cry: t'Down with the Sunday
laws ana the liquor laws" in so many
parts of tho country. The trafBo wants
the day. It wants the Saturday night
wages. It wants opportunity and the
temptation to drink on the day of rest.
It has the day in Europe; It covets It in
America. It will have it, unless the
political power of the traffic bo broken.
Judge Jiobert 0. Pitman, Massa
The worst effect of all, and that
which ought to make every man, who
has the least sense 'of bis privileges
tremble, is that these houses are become
in many places the nurseries of our
legislators. An artful man may, by
gaining! a little sway among the rabble
ot a town, multiply taverns and dram
shops. :andi thereby seoure the votes of
taverner and iretailer and of alj; and
the multiplication of taverns wlilpiake,
many, who may be induced by flip and
rum to Vote for any man whatever, 1
think it would be well, worth tho atten
tion of our Legislature to confine the
numbcy and retrieve the character of
licensed houses', lest that, Irap(ety and
prof aneness, that 'abandoned Intemper
ance and prodigality,' that' impudence
and .brawling: temuer. whleh theaa
'abominable nurseries daily, propagate.
suuuiu arnvq si last to aaegreuM
strength that even JheLeirlslature wis
not ne aow to emroi.-voAn 4Mmi
wwrfu4fcMi ,il.l-it-4i..A.l.tj,tiMlAfrl..Mi'lM.iwea'; -ltilM.j,
FOB OURYOtmO FOLKS.
WHAT THEY WLL BE.
A Recitation for Boys.
1 have made up my mind )
. That a sailor I shall be,
And In a splendid ship
I shall sail upon the sea.
I shall seo the wavos dash high,
And near the wild winds sport:
But bravely our good ship ,
Will carry us Into iiort.
A sailor I'll bel
I am going to be a doctor,
. When I got to bo a man, ' '
And I'll tnnke the phople well
Justas quickly as I ran. v
Two horses I shall have,
. An?.. ""y o hold the reins,
Aud I'll drive around the town,
, Add cure ell tho aches and palnsl
A doctor I'll bel
Mow, I (Ball be a farmer, I
With a great farm In the West: ,
Tor of all tho occupations,
Thut of fanning Is the best
I shall plow, and sow, and roan.
Under the clear bine sky,
Ann l think no one amotur you . i
Will bo happier tbnn I. --
A farmer I'll bel ' '
I mean to bo a teacher.
When I've crown to tie a man
And eory lesson X shall make
Just as east as 1 can.
All children, as ou know, ,
Need lots of time for plav:'
And so. rcmombor, very often
I shall ivo a holiday. .
A teacher I'll bel
1 am frolnir to keep a store.
Where you all can come and buy.
And be sure of honest dealing,
And prices not too high.
I'll have a delivery waron
.And splendid painted sign,
And not a storo in town
Shall go ahead of mlnet
A storekeeper I'll be!
1 am eolnsr to be an arohlteot.
And plan buildings, great and small;
And may bo my designs will be ,
The very best of ail! I
I mean to plan great churohes,
And perhaps school-houses, too.
And who knows but I may
Plan a houso for some of you?
Au architect I'll bol
I am going to bo a lawyer, .
. Ana melee speeches, line and long:
AS,iP'?,n,y to11 ,ne Jury
Which man Is In the wrong. '
I'll be an honest lawyer.
'And do what good I .can:
AEd..mY,b0 1 wl11 " a Judge ,
When rn a gray-haired man I
A lawyer I'll bol ,
Tou see we have started early,
To plan what we will do;
And always what we undertake.
We bravely carry through; l
We meun to set our brains to work.
To learn our business well;
And what success each one will havo,
Tho coming years will tolll"
K. L. Brmcn, in Golden Davt.
TOM'S DANGER SIGNAL.
By Whleh a Threatened and Terrible Dis
aster Was Avoided.
A queer llttlo house, perched on a
mountain ledge like an eagle's nest,
41intIjnlAl faff. --.. &
mui luu&uu us ii i wouia ccrtainiv
af .? ",! T
. ..... nw numt) 1UIU JlveU I
with his father. A lonely place to live,
a couple of miles from tho nearest
neighbor's; but Tom never thought
any thing about that until ho fell and
broke his log in one of his guanine
expeditions. Aftor.thnt ,it was a vory
hard trial to the boy to bo shut up
alono nil day. Every morning, a" few
hours after his father had gone away
for the day, a kind neighbor came over
and cared for his wants, putting every
tiling that ho might need just where
he could get it without getting up, but
after that Tom was alono fill after
Tom had vory little to help him while
away 'the hours that seemed so inter
minably long. Now and then his fath
er, who was the engineer of a train,
brought him some papers, which the
guou-iiauireu conuuetor Had gathered
up mr tno sick boy from the seats
wnore tue passengors had left them when
thoy had read them.' Then Tom was
learning telegraphy, and ho could clidk,
click away on his little instrument, and
piactlco ihiniself in sending supposi
tious messages over an imaginary
wire. In tho evening when his father
camo homo, thby'' talked together' on
tbe little instrument for the sake 'of
practice, and Tom felt i sure that ho
would bo ready to apply for the position
of telegraph operator at tho llttlo sta
tion just below, as soon as he should b6
we're polno- tn hnvn
rough weather to-day, my boy," said
in the door and watched .the 'threaten
ing clouds, while, tbe bacon was cheerily
sibling in tho frying-pan on tho stove.
"You won't be afraid hero all by
yourself, will you?"
"No, indecdj 'I won't be afiald,"
answered Tom, "but I 'do wish my leg
would hurry up and get well. You
don't know hqw ionoly lit ,ls here all
day by myself, father," . ,
"I Jlnow it must bo, Tom, but try,
not to' be impatient. You'll be around'
noon now, if you don't put yourself
back by using your leg too soon. "
Tom looked after his father with a
sigh, as after breakfast he strode away,
his heavy footsteps making the dry
twigs and leaves crapkle as ho walked
Another long, lonely day was before
him, and ho' Was already heartily tired
of his imprisonment. All day long the
clouds grew darker and tho wind
shrieked and moaned more dismally
as it swept through the tall pines, and
as tho windows shook and rattled now
and then as if a giant hand had siczed
them, Tom grew a little apprehensive
in spite of his promise not to be afraid.
From tho cottage window he could
look, down on,ajopg stretoh of the rail
road that, came around a curve and
swept along the side of the mountain,
crossed a bridge dver the rocky gorge,
and then vanishdd into the1 trees again
around another curve.
Just after dark his, father's train al
ways came in sight, and Tom loved to
watch the bright headlight as it sped
along. He had a little Bet of signals
which his father understood, and when
the train reached a certain place he al
ways waved bisilamp, hid it for.an in,
stantj and waved ii again', as a sjgnal
that all was well. Then tho'locomotive
would utter 'a shrill, 'piercing whistle,
andithat was his father's'anbwer. ' 1 '
Toward, tbe close ,of i the afternoon
the wjnd almost amounted to a, hurri
cane and the,. rain' poured, down so
hard thatTomxonld hardly seo out of
the window. At last 'the fury of the
Storm seemed to have speat itself,
and Tom breathed, sigh .of .relief
ns he hoard, the wind., .lessoning, for
he always "'feared', to have his
father orosd the bridge'-over the gorge
when the wind was blowing high, lest
tho train, should (be blown ovor. Ha
looked, dowfi at, the bridge as it outprcd J
uiuugiiis, nun Boinetmng tnat he
saw there made bis ruddv bovish far
pale with terror. Dragging himself
Hurossi uus room siowiy
ho go, his father's glass ,dwsi froM
knell and looked tkroaarh-lL, .No.k
khelf and jooked throsh-It v to.
had not been mistaken. His eves had
I told bim the truth. Just at the begfe
Z- ii ...
niog of tho bridge, and partly on It,
lay a tall tree that had boon blown
over by tho gale. "Unless the train
could bo cheoked in lime, t would be
derailed and hurled into laat terrible
No wonder the boy felt himself grow
ing faiht'Wlth terror at tho thdught of
his father's peril: as well as the dah
gr to.sll the, others that were on the
train. How, could thoy be warned in
time? Tho twilight shadows were al
ready growing deeper;" 'and 'it would
soon be dark. 'Tom looked at -his
bandaged, flog with a groan ot
4espa.tM U '-hetonly hadthe
use of it, ho qould soon
have made his way down tho mount
ain aid 8, and built a fire beside the
track that would have warned thomt
There was n faopothat ho could possi
bly drag himself that distance; oven if
he could have borne thd torture of
dragging his broken limb after hirri,
his strongth would not havo hold out,
and thorn too, the time fwould1 havo
been too short Torn groaned aloud,
Must he sit there and see the train go
crashing over tho edge of the gorgo
without saying a word to stay it?
In less than an hour now the train
would come thundering along, his
father would exchange signals with
him for the last time, and then. But
tho thought of the signals sent an idea
uirougn ioms brain tnat took his
breath away. Perhaps he could signal
With the' lamp, and make his father
understand the danger. He put tho '
lamp in the window and waited. It
was the only chance, and as the slow
minutes draggod themselves away,
and each ono shortened tho boy s .
agony of suspense, .perhaps you can
guoss.how his whole heart went up in
fervent prayer thai his father would
At last the train rumbled through tho
tunnel, and coming qut into open air
swept around tho curve, its headlight
gleaming llkd a baleful eye. The en
gineer was running fast now to mako
up for a delay, at the station they had
Just passed. He glanced .up into tho
darkness that shrondod the mountain
to see his boy's signals Presently it
flashed out, then instead of waving
backward and forward It was suddenly
obscured, then it gleamed out again.
Something, the father never knew
what, made him connect the sudden
flashes with the little bloctrio instru
ment He watched eagerly. JTes, ho
was rigni, mo Doy was trying to tell
him something. He slackened tho speed
of the train, and spelled the letters ono
, "D-a-n-g-e-r G-o-r-g-o!"
That was all, but ho, understood, and
under tho hand of its master tho train
came to a sudden standstill. Not a
moment too soon, for when the train
hands ran forword with lanterns thev
found tho fallen tree not six feot f rorii
It would have been a terrible acci
dent beyond a doubt, and as the pas
sengers learned the cause of tho do-
men wero clearlno-
i. i ..I .... . ..
escaped. A purso was mado up for
Tom, when they learned how the en
gineer had been wnrned by the boy in
that lonely Cottage on tho ledge.
When Tom saw tho train stop and '
knew-that his father bad understood,
he did something that boylike, he was
very much ashamed of afterward. He
fainted, "just like a silly girl," as ho
contemptuously expressed it. Tho
strain had been a tcrriblo one, and tho
joy was toot much for him, enfeebled
as ho was by his confinement
When Tom was well again he ap
plied for tho post of telegraph opera
tor, and to bis great delight ho was
pronounced competent for the position,
and now his father and himself live in
a pretty little cottage near the station,
which Tom purchased with the thank
offering of the passengers. Ho never
sends a message clicking' over tho
wires, without thinking of the night ,
when hoavoditho train. Christian at
t An Interesting Sight.
Who has not seen and watched tho
"daddy lopg-legs," or, as tho insect is
sometimes called, tho "grand-da Jdv
long-legs?" It is a spider of tho pedi
palpi tribe) The tribe is so cniled'be
cause tho palps or feelers end in olaws,
like the1 feot of some I other insects.
Once. Prof. Lockwood made friends
with a daddy long-legs. ,
f My visitor's domicile," he says,
, "was a nook in the library. The egg- t
shaped body was exactly a quarter of.
an inch in length, andt an eighth wido
at, Its thickest part Of Its eight legs,
each one in the shortest; pair measured
an inch and five-eighths, and in tho
longest pair the measurement exceeded
three inches, a considerable spread for
so little timber.
4 f There was quite a good understand
ing between us. It would allow ma
to touch the long, thread-like legs with
my pen,, aud even to lift one up above'
the others, and the queer thing would
keep the limb raised for several min
utes, precisely as'I would leave it"
Then it would stand on Prof. Lock
wood's book and scratch its legs. It
Would put a leg up into tbe hook at
the end of its feoler, nnd then would1''
draw the leg through, and whenever
the leg would leave tho, hook it would
give a little crack like a whip.
Ono of Dickens' characters was dap
tain Cuttle, who had an iron hook in
glace of a right hand. Now. fancy
aptnin Cuttle drawing a whip through
his iron claw, and you have an idea of
the wayjdaddy long-logs tickled hini-i.
'I am sure," writes Prof'. Lockwood,
"that the operation Was enjoyable to
the daddy long-logs, while to me the
sight was very interesting." Qolden
Day$i' ' .
A Remarkable Picnic.
A Berlin correspondent thus de
scribes a Curious picnic which He wit
nessed near that city: VTho director of
a private lunatic asjlum put hs twen-1
S-e patients in a wagon, and drpvo
em to a tavern, where some cake
was' taken1 with coffee, after which1
every body en Joyed ' a dance In
tbe hall lAaother ride was - then
taken ,past a park,, in whioh
were sorap deer and rabbits,, the sight
of which caused the patients to' break
out into wild exclamatjons of delight.
At seven o'clnnk a oraaa ntnt
chosen, and the patients located piculo
fashion, whereupon a'kdg ot beer was
lappea, witn wmen iney toasted their
director, eaoh bne endeavorinsr tn
make a speflcb. (finally a number. ot,
cojproa .paper caps were distributed,
which the cry folk put on thelrheada
With demonstrations ot great pleasure.
,j ipiwuj. v-w j i use, ..- - ( ")h
.banquet In Washington! the other day.
oiru n vnn ono oi uie joiiiesi auairg oi
the seifcou. What's in a nanacf
mo truuK, iney snuaaorea . at tne
thought of the terrible ncril thev had i.