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| S\ fgf 1 } == & " | |p* nnesot a. £> taAe ** IT IS MEYER TOO LATE TO MEWP.» : “ VoL XXIII.—No. 11. STILLWATER, MINNESOTA, THURSDAY, SEPT. 23, 1909. Terms:)liXffi,» cent?. 06 J\ Waifs Life J^issiorv A Tender and Touching Story Re garding a Hunchback Waif and Her Achievement. In the doorway of a$ small, cneroom trame house a gloomy man sat one afternoon, staring vacantly at his sur roundings. Far away across the yellow stubble the heat rays were dancing with tan talizing brilliancy; now and then a prematurely seared leaf fell listlessly to the ground from a stunted cotton wood tree; in the scant shadow of the barn a crowd of beasts and fowls were panting with the heat and making fu tile efforts to free themselves from the stinging stock flies, while from the in side of the barn came the sound of horses’ hoofs as they impatiently pound ed the floor for a like purpose. Midway between the house and the barn a wolfish looking collie, with head down and red tongue lolling, tugged at his chain, or paced nervously to and fro in front of the kennel, apparently oblivious to tbe heat. From where the man sat he could look the full length of the porch in front of the house. On the farther end of the porch was an infant’s cradle, rocked to and fro by a little hunchback girl. As she rocked the cradle she hummed an oldfasbioned lullaby, and turning every now and then she waved her hand and wafted a merry smile out toward the gloomy-faced man in the doorway. In the cradle was the man’s elghteen-months-old baby, whom he had not seen Bince the day it was born, and then only a fleeting glimpse. The man’s features were typical of his surroundings—broad and bronzed *nd seamed; his eyes were a kindly blue but they rarely looked up; his mouth wa9 finely chiseled, but closed like he had snapped it shut and could not or would not open it again. lie did not know it, but he was just an ordinary, headstrong, selfopinionated man, sore- ly wounded in his vanity and he was sulking. As he sat there sullen and 1< nely his eyelids drooped and his vision blurred. The heat rays seemed to dance faster and faster; the cott< nwood leaf zig zagged and made fantastic gestures; the little hunchback suddenly becoming clothed in a misty white garment float ed out toward him, and with a fairy hand she pulled aside the curtain of the past, and one by one memory’s pic tures rolled by in silent review. * * * * * » Fifteen years ago John Harmon had landed at the boxcar depot stuck away out on the rim of a Western prairie. Fresh from a New England village, barely twentyoue years of age, he staked off his homestead and started in to redeem the barren waste. What he lacked in worldly goods was made up in enthusiasm and selfassurance. For five years he toiled on alone, but at least once every week he received a letter from the old home town, full of oncouragement and good cheer, signed by Martha, his sweetheart. At the end of five years he wrote to Martha to come and when she arrived she put her shoufder to the wheel, side by side with John’s, and where there was one head of grain before there were two now iustead. For three years they toiled on side by aide, yoked to their conjugal content ment, when one day John disturbed the usual serenity of their evening meal by suddenly remarking: “Martha, do you realize that we have been married over three years ?” “Yes, John, I do,” said Martha. “And,” said John, leaning toward her with his more than usual earnestness, *‘do you realize, Martha, that no child has come to bless oar anion ?” “Yes, John, I do,” said Martha, and •two little red spots glowed on her wan -cheeks, and two teardrops conrsed down and dropped on her bare, browned fore arms. Another year rolled by, and then another. At intervals their childless condition had been mentioned by John, but as the subject seemed to cause Martha much distress he rarely alluded to it. And gradually a gloomy silence ha t taken the place of their heretofore companionable hours. Then one day John had to make a business trip to a great city and when he returned he brought the little hunch back girl with him. A little misshapen piece of humanity—a waif cast up and deserted on life’s dreariest shores. John had found her in the Orphans’ Home of the great city, where he had gone thinking perhaps he might pick up a sturdy youngster to brighten their childless home. But when he looked into the starry depths of those great brown eyes and read the longing, lov ing eagerness of the little soul peeping through them he forgot all about sturdy youngsters and misshapen bodies. He grabbed the little hunchback up in his arms and turning almost fiercely on the grayhaired matron, said: “This one will do.” The stearnfeatured old woman, whose sympathies had become deadened from years of contact with human misery in every conceivable form, laid her hand on John’s arm and with a hesitating voice said: “For that I could almost wish you were my son.” When John reached home he picked the little one up and laid her carefully in Martha’s lap and before Martha ful ly realized what was happening two little arms were around her neck and a little white face was sobbing on her bosom. For a while their interest in the little stranger caused them to forget their own discontent, but after a 6hort time they commenced to drift apart again. One day, three years after they had taken the little waif into their house hold, the inevitable disruption came. Martha told John she wished he would never speak to her again and John told Martha her wish was granted. That afternoon he gathered up all of his personal effects and moved them out to the room in the barn occupied by the hired men. And as soon as pos sible thereafter he built the lit’Je ona room frame house where he took up his permanent abode, going to the housa only with the hired men for his meals. It is peculiar wnat perversity nature sometimes shows in human affairs. A few months after John and Martha had separated a child was born to them. When John re eived the glad tidings he hurried to the house, forgetting all ill will, but when ha was ushered into the room whei e the mother and baby lay, Martha deliberately reached out her hand and covered up the baby’s head with the bedspread and turned her own face toward the wall. In stantly John’s resentment flashed up again and he strode from the roSm slamming the door after him, and eight een months had passed since that day. Loyally the little hunchback had sup ported the cause of both; valiantly de fending the cause of the absent one no matter which one she was talking with. Every minute she could spare from her studies and other duties about the house she spent with one of them, pleading the cause of the other. When she could not make headway by plain talking she would scatter sunshine along their gloomy paths. But each day John and Martha drift- ed farther apart and John had about made up his mind to turn all the prop erty over to Martha except a few hun dred dollars and with this he would go somewhere and make another start. It was burning his life out to live like this. #•*•**#* “God,” muttered the man as he sprang to his feet with a light in his eyes from which all day dreams bad vanished. Hastily grabbing up a bro ken shovel that happened to be lying near the door he started on a run for the house, but the events in the tragedy that was to be enacted moved faster than his feet. The collie had pulled the staple fast ening him to his kennel and with head down and frothflecked lips he was go ing on a run toward the house. The little hunchback girl saw him as be turned the corner and she met him as oe jumped on the porch. The dog snapped and bit her, but sl.e grabbed his chain as he went by and with all her might she jerked in the opposite direction. The dog swung around and even in bis madness seemed to realize the cause ot his detention, for he at tacked the little girl and viciously mangled her body and legs, but she desperately hung on to the chain. Her purpose was accomplished, for the man came on the run and his first blow broke the collie’s back, and then the little girl fainted away. He gathered the little hunchback up in his arms and started for the door. The woman in the house had witnessed the tragedy from an upstairs window and she met the man as he entered the door with his unconcious burden, and she led the way to the little bed in her own room. A farm band was sent for a doctor, and together the man and woman dressed, soothed and caressed the poor little mutilated body as best they could. They sat one on either side of the bed, but they did not look at nor 6peak to eich other. As they sat silently waiting the little girl opened her eyes and when she saw her two good friends by her bedside, she smiled a weak, but cheerful, smile of welcome. Working her hand down over the covering she at last found a big, rough, brown hand, and she took it by the thumb; she already had hold of one of the woman’s fingers, and she pulled and smiled and pleided with her eyes. As the fingertips of the man and woman touched intuitively their palms came together, and they looked intotach other’s eyes—“John”—“Mar tha,” together, and they buried their faces in the white counterpane. When they raised their heads again another light looked through the tear drops in their eyes, and then together they turned and looked at the wan and pitiful face of the little hunchback. It was Btill wreathed with a cheery little smile, but the eager, loving little soul had flown forever. Her life’s mission had been done. Saved by a Joke. The French author Martainville, who began his career toward the close of the last century, was a Royalist, and did not hesitate to attack the French Revo lution and its authorities. Presently, of course, he was summoned to appear before the revolutionary tribunal, with the terrible Fouquier at its head. Tbe revolutionary tribunals at that time did not hesitate to send everybody to the guillotine who had ventured to attack them. Martainville expected to go with the rest of the victims. “What is your name V” asked the revolutionary Judge. “Martainville,” said the young author. “Martainville!” exclaimed the Judge, “you are deceiving us and trying to hide your rank. You are an aristo crat, and your name is De Martainville.” “Citizen President!” exclaimed the au thor, “I am here to be shortened, not to be lengthened! Leave me my name!” A true Frenchman loves a witicism above all things, and the tribunal was so much pleased by Martainville’s grim response that it spared his life.—Ex. A lady passing along the street one frosty morning, saw a little fellow scat tering salt upon the pavement to melt tbe ice. “Well, I’m sure,” said the lady, “that’s real benevolence.” “Oh, no, ma’am,” he replied. “It ain’t benevolence—it’s salt.”—Delineator. “If you’ve trod the path of Sin and reiched Misery’s lonely arch, Do not despair, for you will win if you ’Right about face!’ and ‘Forward, march! ” The Fool ar\d the Savant Fall Afoul of Each Other and Be come Quite Entangled on Hens and Eggs. “Alas!” cried the fool as he stepped from the gutter to the curb, “must l al ways be just what I am, no more or no less ?” “Aye, fool,” bawled the uniformed policeman, who stood near by and heard the fool’s last words, “you don’t know that two and two is four.” “Well, is it?” asked a voice at the policeman’s elbow. As the officer looked up his eyes met those of an elderly gentleman who wore a long, black gown and carried several books under his right arm. “Sure, two and two is four,” answered the officer, “but What reason have y.. u for asking such a simple question, Pro fessor Smart?” “Oh, no reason at all, only I had al ways been of the opinion that two and are four.” “Tee-he-he,” giggled the fool, “one person says two and two is four, and the other says two and two are four.” “Be on your way, fool, and don’t track any more dirt from the gutter onto the curb,” cautioned the officer. The fool, drawing his coat sleeve across his face, turned on his heel and started to walk away. Ere he had tak en many paces, Professor Smart was walking by his side. “So they call you the fool, eh ?” asked the Professor as they strolled along. “Yes, I am called fool because people say I don’t know much.” “What caused you to laugh, then, when I said two and two are four?” “Because.” said the fool, “I think two and two equal four.” “Ah, then you are able to think?” “Sometimes,” answeied the foo», as he turned his head to repress a smile. “Then,” said the Professor, “I will give you a little problem to solve—one that has baffled the wise men for ages.” “Well, sir, I will try.* What is the problem V” “Which was created first, the ben or the egg?” asked the Professor. “That surely seems to be very dif ficult to answer,” replied the fool, “yet, I venture to say that I can do so and do it correctly.” “Perhaps,” said the Professor, “but you must expound your reasons for be lieving which one of the two was cre ated first.” Si Haskell “That is precisely what I intend to do. But first, let me ask you one or two minor questions.” “Well, fire away.” “Then sir, do you believe in histoiy V” “Yes, authentic history,” replied the Professor. “Who was created first, man or wo man?” “Why-er, man, of course.” “Good,” eaid the fool, “but what au thority have you for saying pan was created first?” “Why, everybody knows that; be sides, it is written thus in the Bible.” “Then,” said the fool, “the hen wa6 created first.” “Ah! bah!” exclaimed the Professor. “Well, sir, when you have time just turn to the book of Genesis and see what Moses has to say about it.” “What does he say ?” asked the Pro fessor. “Well, to paraphrase,” said the fool, “God created all the creatures that live in the water and all the winged fowls on the fourth day, and when God saw they were good Ue told them to multi ply. So you see, there is nothing said about eggs or multiplying until after the fowls were created.” As the Professor turned to go the fool added that, “if the egg was creat ed first there would have been no hen to proclaim the fact to the public.” “And they call you a fool,” muttered the Professor as they separated. ACROBATTJS. dohar\r\ Hoff ' Malt Writes To Say That Yens Yenson is Afraid or Ashamed to Disclose His Identity. Mr. Editoor: I dink de feller vat has bin wriding Svepska to yon is afraid to let a feller know vat his name it iss, is it. 1 mean dat feller vat wrides to you und signs his name Yens Yenson. Now, I bin in dis country not very long aler I under* shtand party goot vat Anglibluenose wrides about, all righd. He is von goot wrider. lie vould be no use up in Fer gus Falls for de simple reason dat he could not get anyding vat he likes to eat so veil as here, I hear. He bin purty goot feller because he is not ashamed to let anybody know vat his p&me iss, is it, Yah, 1 dink so. I don’ti like to 666 Anybody chmp bn mein frend, Anglifewclose, because he bin mighty handy feller around here. He teaches school some times yet, vonce in a vile he distributes books und ba pers. Den again he blays in de band and orchestra and a few times he sings —but only a few times—because a few times are enough and he wrides for de family chournal. Den vonce in a vile he dakes inventories of dings, keeps books for some fellers vat can’t keep deir bank accounts straight midout his help. He carries around pay checks and den ajain he does many odder dings. So, I ask Yens Yenson vy for he vant to send Auglibluetoes to Fer gus Falls? I dink I vill see der Yar den myself about dis matter. I know der Varden vood not like to see Angli slowcus go so far avay from all his goot freundß—especially dat Yens Yenson fel er. Anodder ding: Yens, he say Mr. * Goldsmith, Mr. Rose and Mr. Hum phrey all be goot Svede mans fellers. My Chiminy, vat a chump! Hose men are all goot American citizens yet. Mr. Goldsmith came from Chermany all righd. Mr. Rose—God knows vere he came from—but Mr. Humphrey he bia here long time and came into dis country mit noddings on him or about him. Mr. Goldsmith, ven he came to dis country had some clothes on his batik yet und thirteen dollars und fife cents. Mit de fife cents he bought a new suit of clothes und mit de thirteen dollars he bought a gold mine—or vas it a gold brick? Yell, anyvay, I dink Yens Yenson have plenty much vat you call gall all righd, ven he glaims all of our local bright lights in blue clothes and brass buttons came from Sveden. Next ve know dat feller vill claim our Varden came from Greece or Turkey or some odder kitchen-mechan ic country. Never mind about der bird, Pat, Yens. He bin around here long time and he’s vise—wery vise. Dat’s vy so many fellers are jealous. Dey dink a bird has no rights—not even a jailbird. Yell, I did not intend to wride such a long letter—but dat feller Yens Yen son is afraid to let any von know vat’s his name and number. He’s afraid maybe some von vill come around yet und pinch him and give him some stripes maybe or someding like dat. Now, dake me. 1 am not afraid or ashamed to sign my name to vat I wride for de baper. You bet not. I vood like to see you, Mr. Yenson. I defy him to see me. As for Angli gluebose—veil, I dink maybe he knows who dis Yens Yenson iss, is it, but de information is keeping very Angliclose to himself, yet. Ven Yens Yenson dells me who he iss it, den I dell him who I are it, yes. Yours ausgeseit, Johann Hoff Malt. “A man who talks adversely of a wo man is only a parody of a man—not a real one.” Yes, and a very poor parody at that—Makeup.