The people. (Camden, S.C.) 1904-1911, September 01, 1904, Image 6
HOMEWARD BOUND.
J1" ? roUn f-"**
lid I w'phttntiy lean Wk?
^To-day I'w doc* my IM.
I think of ?m who waits out thm
To greet m with ? shoot,
'And Iwill kw him and wo 11 faro
?croM the open fields to where
The light* era peeping oat.
?5ffS!TUS,?irir5SJ^
IN* wwkfd to^ur with all my might,
And I can fwl, inth strong delight,
Tbe mile* weidi behind.
Ah, bat tb* years will pan away.
And I M doomed to sm
A chance that parents only may?
The child will be s man someday.
Who waits to-night for me.
??fi. X. Kiser.
THE TRIBULATIONS OF
DOOLITTLE WRIGHT
BY MARY GRACE H ALPINE
w
HAT S la a name?" That
la what Shakespeare aaya;
but it la my belief, if he
had had the one that wai
hung like au incubus
ntouiia my neck ever since I waa old
enough to have auy name at nil, he
would have sung quite another tune. I
ascribe to mine all the misfortunes
that have followed me from that time
to t|iis, and which have been neither
few nor light.
My paternal cognomen is Wright.
Kot remarkable for elegauce. It is
true,.but if it bad been prefixed by
John, James or Henry, it would have
been iu no way distinguishable from
those borne by the rest of my neigh
bors. But, unfortunately for me, 1
had a maternal uncle by the name of
Doolittle Tickellum.
He was rich und a bachelor, with no
nearer relatives than nephews and
nieces, and, when I came into this
"world of toll and trouble, my father,
having a fatherly eye to my future
needs, proposed that I should be named
for him.
To do my mother justice, at first she
strenuously opposed it. Thoroughly
Imbued with the Idea under which
most mothers labor that her baby was
considerably brighter apd prettier than
other women's babies; in fact, some
thing altogether extraordinary, she
iwas proportionately indignant at the
suggestion.
I was lying, kicking and screeching,
upon her knee, if my photograph tak
en at that interesting age can be re
lied upon, as ordinary a specimen of
the countless throng of infant human
ity as it is possible to imagine. But
catching me rapturously to her bosom,
?he nearly smothered me with kisses,
declaring "that I was an itty. precious
darling; the pittiest, thweetest baby
that ever was! Aud tbat papa ought
to be aahamed of himself to think of
giving it such a horrid name."
But when my father set strongly be
fore her the substantial benefits that
might accrue to me from this stroke
of policy, alluding to the artful ways
.with which Cousin Sophronla, another
of the nieces, tried to interest our rich
relative in her spoiled, disagreeable
Tommy, she yielded a reluctant con
Sent.
"But Just think, Henry, bow horrid
ly it sounds! Doollttle Tlckellum
?Wright! It's perfectly dreadful!"
"He can change it in a few years?
before he is old enough to have it do
film any barm, I dare say. Your un
cle is an old man, my dear, and can't
live forever,"
But he seemed likely to do so. From
the day that there was thrust upon me
that luckless name he appeared to take
a new lease of life, and to grow young
er, instead of older, every succeeding
year.
Uncle Doollttle was duly Informed
of the honor that wus done him, to
which he responded very graciously
by sending me a silver mug, together
with the assurance that "if I did honor
to the name It bore lie would do some
thing handsome for me."
He lived in an adjoining State. When
I was ten year* old my father took me
to see him. He was a lively, well pre
served old gentleman, whose full, florid
face was rendered still morj full and
florid by the snowy hair and beard that
surrounded It.
He patted in? on the head, hoped that
I would live to be an honor to my
name, ropeatlrjr the above assurance?
'if I did he would do something hand
tome for me."
I had already experienced some of
the disadvantages of the nnmp to
which ho had alluded, and. in spite of
the tutoring I lind received from ray
father, a feeling of sullen resentment
?welled by heart, which must have
found expression in my countenance,
for the old man shook his head as he
looked at me, saying, la quite another
tone:
"I hope you'll try to be a credit to
It."
"Father," said I, as we walked down I
the steps into the street, "I hate my
name; all the boys laugh and make fun
of It."
"Never you mind thnt, my boy; when ]
you get this fine house into your hands,
as perhaps you will some day, It will
be your turn to laugh."
Boy as I was, the idea was a very
condoling one. True, my Uncle. Doo
llttle had many relatives as well as
jrreat wealth, but who so likely to in
herit the bulk of it as his namesake?
Still, granting this, there were times
.when I felt, in the bitterness of my
?oul, that I was likely to earn dearly
all I should recclve.
I shall never forgot my first day at
school. Mr. Bumblehy. the head mas
ter, had fiery red hair and the fiery
temper that usually accompanies it.
He was in an unusually irritable mood
that morning.
"Hold up your head and speak so I
can hear you?" ho roared, as I faltered
out my name.
A titter ran through the long line of
boys as I obeyed.
Turning very red, Mr. Bumbleby
brought the rattan down over my
shoulders with a force and energy that
made me dance about very lively,
"I'll teach youT' he cried, as soon as
he could speak, "notio comc here with
?ny of your low Joke*."
It was some time before I could eon
Vines him that my name was no joke?
which, indeed. It ?rai very far from
being to me?and then, Instead of mau
If est In* anj regret, he bid me take my
seat, muttering "that n boy with such
a name as that wouldn't be likely to
get nny more of that sort of thing than
he deserved."
Mr. Bumbleby carried this theory
Into practice: aud the consequence was
that I got considerably more of "that
sort of thing" than auy other boy in
school.
Once he said, with sarcastic empha
sis that canuot be put upon paper:
"Doollttie Wright, I suppose you
have got your lesson just about the
same you always get it?"
Though I knew it perfectly before
coiuiug Into my class, every vestige of
It vanished from my mind.
Then, as I stood hesitating and stam
mering:
"Ha! I thought so! Take your seat.
I'll attend to you presently."
The attentions, thus grimly alluded
to. became very frequent, far more so
than were agreeable.
In thin way my schoolboy days
passed. Nor did"my troubles end here.
When T left school, my uncle was duly
uotllitHl of tlie fact, with the expecta
tion that he would now give some ear
nest of the hopes, so often held out.
but never realized.
But as be made no response to this,
save to repeat the often expressed
hope, that I would do credit to a name
I hated, and as it was necessary that
I should do something for my own
support. I began to cast about what'
that something should be.
Like most young men of my calibre
and expectations, I wanted some nice,
easy berth, with little to do and a
large salary. Having heard of a va
cancy of this kind in an insurance of
fice, with whose President my father's
family had been long and favorably
known. I applied (or it.
The President looked at me, then at
my credentials, and then at me.
"Sorry, very sorry, young man.
Known your father a good many years,
also his father before him. No doubt
whatever of your competency. But?
but, it couldn't be 'hought of."
"Why not?" I said, in astonishment.
"What possible objection have you to
me?"
"No objection at all to you! Ifs
your name I object to. Doollttle
Wright! It would cast discredit on
the company, as you can see for your
self. Take my advice and change It."
But I did not yield the matter thus.
Hearing of a well-established and lu
I cratlve business that wanted a work
ing partner, I offered my services, and
with very fair prospects of success, un
til forced to mention my first name*
"Doollttle Wright!" exclaimed the
senior partner, with whom I was con
versing. "That sounds badly! You
ifiight drop your first name, I suppose,
and take the other. You'll have to. If
you come into the firm."
"Then, glancing at my letter to him.
which was signed D. T. Wright, he
added:
"What does T. stand for?"
"I was In for it now, and there was
nothing to do but to go forward.
"Tick el I urn."
"Tlekellum. did you say? Why, that
Is wor.se If anything, than the other
more ridiculous, at all events. A man
who will give an lnoffendlng child
such names as those ought to he in
dlcted by the Grand Jury. All I can
say to y<>u Is, get rkl of them as speed
ily as possible. Gooil morning, sir!"
I never felt more strongly inclined
to do this In my life, and that is say
ing a great deal. But I knew my un
cle would take mortal offense at it.
who was now prostrated by one of the
attacks to which he was subject, and
which threatened to be his last. It
would be a pity, after enduring so
much, to fall when the goal was near.
So, after various other attempts, end*
lug just as disastrously, I accept a sec
ond rate clerkship in a small retail
store, with a correspondingly small
salary. This was something of a come
down to my ambitious hopes, but I
consoled myself with the thought that
my uncle's declining health made it
only a temporary arrangement.
At this juncture I completed the sum
of my tribulations by falling In love.
The object of this. Miss Clara Monta
gue, was certainly fair and lovely
enough to excuse the folly, if folly it
was. She had also some property In
her own right, by no means a small
consideration to me.
80 far as could be judged, the attrac
tion was mutual; the fair Clara, if not
so demonstrative, seemingly to be
equally as well pleased.
The reader will re?.dlly Infer that I
did not bring Into any marked promi
nence my luckless name. In fact, she
was In entire Ignorance of it, until
one of my rivals maliciously alluded
to It, and In a way to cover me with
ridicule. *
The uext time I visited her she re
ceived me with marked coolness.
When I pressed her, for a roason. she
opened Are on me by declaring "that
she never could marry any one with
such a ridiculous name!
"Hut you can easily change It," she
added. In a more gracious tone, "and
If you have the regard for me you have
professed, you will not hesitate to do
so."
I assured the fair speaker "that my
name waa aa distasteful to me as to
tor; that I was named for'a rich and
a?ed ancle, who would bo greatly dls?
Hero If lea Montague aroae.
"Very well. Mr. DooUttle Wright
?ery appropriate name. I should aay?
yon win do aa you like, of come. But
If yon would rather dl^leoee me than
your undo, you needn't take the trou
ble to call again; for I never will mar
ry a man with ouch a ridiculous name.**
Exit Mlaa Montague, leering mo to
my not rery pleating reflections.
While 1 was debating which of the
horns of this perplexing dilemma to
take, I received a telegram that my
uncle waa at the point of death.
Ho bad frequently been at the point
of deeth before; but, in accordance
with my Invariable practice when re
ceiving such notice. I went to eeo him.
1 found the old gentleman, very low;
in fact, scarcely able to more than
gasp forth his intention of "doing some
thing handsome for me."
"You will?flr*d it In?in my will,
when?I am gi ne." he whispered, as I
bcii! over hlir.
But, true to the program that ha had
apparently laid down for himself, to
delay that desirable event as long as
possible, he lingered nearly six weeks.
The same paper that contained the
newa of his demise recorded the mar
rlage of Ml&a Clara Montague.
As bitter a pill as this waa to swal
low, I was consoled by the thought
that I was now about to be rewarded
for all my trials and mortifications.
When my uncle's will was opened,
It was found that he had left sums,
varying from one to ten thousand dol
lars to all his numerous kith and kin,
leaving a double portion to the very
few "who hadn't bothered him," as he
expressed It.
To me, "his beloved namesake,** he
bequeathed the full-length portrait of
himself that hangs In the library,
knowing that his tender affection for
the original would make him prise It
beyond anything else he could bestow.
If there are any curious to see said
legacy, they will find It In the attic
of my present abode, with Its face to
the wall.
I have taken my father's name,
though no one seems to be aware of
the fact, all my acquaintances Insist
ing on calling me by the one I have
borne so long, and which I seem likely
to bear to the cud of th" chapter?Doo
llttle Wright.?New York Weekly.
PImIi' Quest of Sunlight.
Though It has never been proved that
plants have brains. It has been proved
often that there Is some power within
them whereby they combat evil condi
tion* and seek what Is best for their
good.
A resident of Castle Valley. Pa., has
a vine that showed Itself last month
to have. If not a brain, a substitute of
equal value. This vine, a young one,
grew in a clay pot. A stick stood In
the middle of the spot, and the vine
curled up it. It was about two feet In
height; in length. It would have meas
ured four feet.
Usually the vine was placed In a
south window every morning, where it
absorbed all day the benefit of the
sun's rays. It happened, however,
through an oversight, that one after
noon the shutter shaded half the win*
dow and the vine waa set In the abut
ter's shadow. A foot away was the
sunlight, warm, glittering, Ufe-glvlng,
but where the plant stood there was
nothing but gloom.
During the four days the vine stood
In the shadow with the sunlight near
It, It did something that proved It to
have a faculty akin to Intelligence. It
uncurled Itself from Its supporting
stick, and like a living thing It
crawled over the window ledge to the
sun.
This vine, to be sure, did not uncurl
itself nnd crawl with the rapid move
ments of a snake. Its movements
were, indeed, so slow as to be Imper
ceptible. Nevertheless, looking about.
It overcame every obstacle, and final
ly it lay basking in the sun.?Portland
Oregon la n.
Origin of Tandevllle.
The word "vaudeville," which now
moans a play In which songs ore In
troduced, is a corruption of Yaux de
VIre, the names of two valleys in Nor
mandy. A fuller in Vire, in the fif
teenth century, composed some humor
ous and satirical drinking songs which
were very popular throughout France,
under the name of their native place,
Vaux de Vlre." The terms seem to
have been corrupted into volx de ville.
A collection of songs was published at
Lyons in 1501 entitled "Chansons Volx
de Ville," and another nt Farls in 1571
called "Hecuell des Plus Belles Chan
sons on Forme des Volx de Ville."
Both these publications were probably
reprints of the original songs. At any
rate, ;he name "vaudeville" has Id
some woy grown out of them.?Boston
Globe.
Too M??h of Robert Lonli.
nave we had tfto much Stevenson? A
clever critic maintains that we have,
and implores those who have further
details about Stevenson In Scotland,
Stevenson at college, Stevenson in Lon
don. Stevenson in Belgium, 8tevenson
In France, Stevenson In America, Stev
enson In Samoav to withhold their
hands and graciously spare us. Al
ready, It Is contended, the shadow of
Stevenson lies too heavy upon pages of
our amateurs in literature. The young
litterateurs who are forming them
selves upon Stevenson have studied
closely the precise proportions of
nouns, verbs, adjective*, color word*
and figurative terms to put Into their
mixture, and the result is a style
which would have driven Stevenson
himself either to suicide or t9 Justifi
able homicide.
Bxclt?m?nt on Nonh?|M Island.
Great excitement on Mcnhegan?Dan
Stevens' horse ran away and stove the
cart Into kindling wood. He came Off
to the harbor Wednesday and bought
a new one. so he Is all fitted for hay
ing or r.ny other teaming. You can't
stick Dan. He has been all over the
world and traveled the rough road, you
may believe.?Boothbay Register,
"HUjInn" by Antomobll* Mow,
A.dally automobile service between
Dtirango, Col., and Farmlngton, N. M.,
Is soon to be established. The round
trip Is 110 miles and the distance is
covered in twelve hours. This shows
how progressive are the people of the
"Wild and Woolly West." ^
HOW THE BEE SPENDS ITS TIME
Swarming Day the Only Day
of ill# Ytar?Fealty of Worker
to Queen ? Drone Pays Terri
ble Penalty For Gay Times.
EES, te a way. are some
thing Hk? children?they
hat* tp (mI lonely. ? bee
wiB 41* of ahcer loneliness
If yoa tmke It away from
B
Its friends. It mw does say work for
Itself, but wq(fc* only for the sake of
ths hire. And bses lore their work,
they lore the bnsy stir In their home,
snd shore all. they lore their queen,
who Is the mother of them sll, snd
hsrdly ever stirs oat of the hive.
Fancy being the qneen snd the moth
er of the 00.000 bnsy. bussing bees
who lire In our hire st the bottom of
the gsrden!
No queen is more lovingly attended
bj her subjects than the queen of the
bees. They would do anything for
her, but they can do nothing without
her. Day and night she Is surround
ed by a ring of ladles In waiting, who
always stand with their faces toward
her, so that some of them must walk
backward whenever she moves. She
Is fed and she Is washed, and nothing
Is ever allowed to disturb the one work
that she Is busy upon day and night
?the.work of laylcg eggs.
If anything should happen to her
all the bees will nearly go off their
heads in their sorrow, and If she
should be lost and her bees can't find
her, all her unhappy children will soon
die of distress.
If any accident happens to the hive
the bees protect their queen and the
young bees with their lives, aftd if
there should be a famine they give her
the last drop of food.
Tire sentinels who guard the door of
the hive never allow a strange queen
to come in when their mother Is a*.
home.
The queen herself Is the busiest of
all in the hive. But she never enjoys
long days or sunshine spent nuiong
the flower*. It Is her duty and her
Joy to keep on laying eggs without
stopping In tlie darkness of the hive.
She lives three or four years so that
she may do this work properly, but
the common bees who have been born
in the spring only live to see a little
of one bright summer, six or eight
weeks, perhaps. Those who are born
late In the year live longer, for they
have not to work day and night, but
sleep through the winter.
You can see how eager the bees are
to get on with their work, as they fly
in streams in and out of the hive, all
through the summer days. If you
watched a bit- as It arrived at the hive
you would see,It hurrying, without
stopping to talk or play, to the little
cell where the honey It has gathered
must be stored; and then it would go
to empty out the stores from Its leg
baskets Into other separate cells. Each
load must be put away In Its proper
place; and then at once out It would
fly again to the sunshine and the flow
ers to bring hack another load.
WAY BLOCKED BY DRONES.
If you kept a very careful watch on
the busy working bees as they hur
ried about in the hive, you would soon
notice that their way was often
blocked by the larger bees than them
selves, who never seem to have any
thing to do but to hluder the others.
These larger bees are the grand gentle
men of the hive?drones they are
called?and drones they are, for they
never do a stroke of work for them
selves, but simply live a lazy life of
luxury.
In the hive that I am telling you
about there were quite 400 of these
grand gentlemen. They wers very big
and tine, nnd each one had 13.000 eyes
on each side of his head, which seemed
rather a shfine considering that the
poor workers only had K000. But then
the drones had no stings. All day long
they did nothing, but were fed by the
working bees on the food that they had
so carefully stored up.
They *lept in snug corners, sunned
themselves at the hive's door, and per
haps now and then Hew out to see how
the world was looking, but never to
do a stroke of work. They were nl
vfnys treated with respect nnd allowed
to passed its they pleused luto any hive
they cared to visit.
The most Important part of the nur
s? r.v. Indeed the most Important place
In the whole hive, was the spot where*
tive wonderful cells had been built,
larger than any of the other cells, look
ing something like acorns. In these
special cells were the grubs of royal
bees?Ifeautlful princesses of the fu
ture, who might some day reign as
queens themselves.
With hundreds of little bees coming
Into the world every day. It Is quite
easy to see that soon the hive would
be too small to shelter all the bees.
This Is what happened In the hive that
\ am telling you al>out?the hive grew
too small to hold all the bees, or rath
er the bees grew too many to live In
the hive?and so nearly all the wise
little bees went away to tlnd a new
home, so that the old home might be
left to the rising generation.
But, of course. It would never do to
go awr.y without a queen. 80 this is
what happened:
From one of the royal cells there
stepped out a beautiful princess.
Now. soventcen days before, this
princess had been nothing but an egg.
The egg had lain In Its little cell for
three days, and then a grub had
emerged. For tlve days this little
grub was fed by the nurse bees, not
on the ordinary food that ts given to
little bees, but 011 food that Is kt-pt
only for royalty. And then tf?e nurses
hnd covered in the cell *lth wax, and
left the little grub to itself, to spin a
cocoon.
This took one day. and then, two
days later, after It had had a good rest,
the grub was transformed Into n real
baby bee, and on the seventeenth day
stepped out from the cell a beautiful
princess.
QUKEN MOTHER IN RAGE.
The princess uttered a loud cry?a
long, piping note?nnd at once all the
hive was thrown into the greatest state
of excitement. The bees stopped work
ing and flocked to see the new prin
cess, flying itaut in the maddest way,
now rushing In a body out of the hire,
only to stream back again a moment
later?but maddest of all was the old
queen mother.
Directly she heard the piping note
of the young princess she threw her
self Into a violent temper, and doubt
less she would have fallen upon her
poor daughter and stung her to death
had not so many of the other beet
blocked her way. Old queen bees are
always furious when princesses step
out of their cells, for they hate to
think of any one else ruling In their
places.
The excitement of all the bees was
so great that soon the hive became
very hot. nnd at last the old queen bee,
feeling uncomfortable, and flndlug her
self unable to kill the princess, deter
mined to fly away and tlud a new
home.
And so she made her way to the door
of the hive, and then sprang into the
air, and at once a great cloud of bees
streamed after her, and the cloud float
ed away?away from the dear old home
that they had filled to overflowing
with treasure, to coine to rest beside
their queen, who alighted on the bough
of a tree near by. Wave after wave
of bees alighted beside her, until a
great clutter hung from the bough,
a golden, shimmering mass.
Now, the bee keeper had watched
the bees swarming, nnd bad made
ready of them a new clean hive. Di
rectly he saw that the swarm had set
tled. he took an empty box and placed
It on the ground Just below the clus
ter.
And then, knowing well that all the
bees were far too happy to think of
stinging any one. he gently shook the
bough from which the cluster hung,
and the great ball of bees dropped
down Into the empty box; and though
some of them settled ou his hands, his
arms and his face, not one thought of
stinging him, but from nil the beea
came a buzzing song of happiness. The
day of their swarming is the happiest
day in the life of the bees, the one day
when they make holiday.
The old hive must have seemed very
deserted to the few.bees who remained
with the new princess, after the old
queen and her swarci had departed,
for only a few thousand bees had
stayed behind with her, to care for all
the baby bees in the nursery cells.
OFF ON TIIEIR HONEYMOON.
They set to work at once to tidy up
the hive and to put things straight,
and the princess, who was to become
their queen, married a handsome drone
gentleman, and on a beautiful summer
morning went away for a honeymoon
flight in the blue sky. Then her hus
band had died, and she had returned
at once to the darkness of the hive to
settle down to her work as queen, and
to past the rest of her days laying
eggs.
Soon work went on as merrily as be
fore, some of the bees cleaning the
hive, some of them flying out to the
flowers, others busying themselves in
the great nursery, where thousands
and thousands of baby bees were al
most ready to leave their little cells.
And the bees knew that In a few days
the hive would be filled again with a
uew stock of little bees.
For quite 00.000 little bees would
come out from the cells of the nursery.
But the new queen knew that among
these 00,000 babies would be fouf prin
cesses. and killed In turn each of the
princesses. for It is a law of the little
bee people that only one member of the
royal family may live In the hive.
But all the other baby bees who
were born were brought up with the
most loving care by their nurses, and
when two weeks old each of the new
bees had growu wise enough to be
able to fly out to visit the flowers, and
forage for honey. And so It was not
long before the old hive was filled with
a new race of little people, who were
Just as clever In working for their
queen as those thousands of older bees
who had flown away.
It was Just before autumn began. In
the month of September, that the long
suffering bees bad their revenge on
tiie great, stupid, lazy drones, who had
lived such luxurious lives while they
had toiled so hard.
Early one morning, while the Crones
wore still sleeping, the working bees,
who had quite lost their pntienee with
the drones, nnd were now very angry
with them, set upon them and dragged
theiu to the floor of the hive, and be?
gan to tear off their wings. Three cr
four of the little angry working b*?es
set upon each great stupid drone, andl
the drones were too helpless, having
uo stings, to offer any resistance.
One by one they were carried, wing
less to the door of the hive and tlirown
down to the ground, where death sjd.i
came to them. And so the bees uas
saered all the Idle drones, and tlio
ground was strewn with the ornscs
of the giants.
Then work went forward ajjaln, and
the honey cf the nutvirn fljwcrs was
gathered.?Royal Magazine.
The More tlio r.?t??r.
When the Franciscan frinrg frst
brought their religion t> tlio Iluiclicl
Indians, cf Mexico, the "r.ew g:>ds"
were eagerly accerted by them, br.t
they would not give u> {heir rotlvo
deities. The fnneled tliat th? tnoro
gods t'.iey hnd to pray to the sr.rcr they
were to get their prayers aniwersd.
A London Hnabnnd'ii Plt<1|o.
A man recently sir.urjor.ed l.i a Lcn
dou Police Court by his wife fcr as
sault. Anally agreed tj sign the foN
lowing document:
I promise that I will never strike my
wife again: never tise bad language;
always be Just; give her all my wages;
and always make her comfortable.
Our Fpilt Kxport.
Exports of fruit from the United
States in the fiscal year 1004 will ex
ceed 120.000,000, Against less than $3.
000.000 In 1804 and less than $2,000,000
In 1884. The growth In the exporta
tion of fruits from the United States
has been very rapid during the last
few years.
COUNTRY LIFE.
Wky K?w?p?rer? tf ?mm?U Tcwm Aw !?
" Ural.**
British visitor to this country not
: long since was quoted as savins that
he estimated the character and quality j
of the people largely by the news
j papers. A fairly accurate estimate
oiay be made In this Tray, no doubt,
but could not come from inspection of
the papers which in all probability fell
Into the hands of this Englishman.
He would naturally see the prominent
metropolitan papers, and at furthest
only the leading ones of the smailet
cities. From the character of these he
could draw certain correct Inferences
as to the people for whom they were
printed. He would know, flr.it,. and
most distinctly, that these people were
full of enterprise and energy, and were
ready for any commercial undertaking,
however vast: he would learn that they
were generous In a large way, some
what boastful, rather careless. Indl- j
vldually. of tlielr public obligations
but on the whole having rather a high
standard by which to measure public
men. These and numerous other con
clusions he could draw from the pajxirs
that would In all likelihood fall Into
his hands, but unless hp made a study
of the country press he would uiiss
a view of these same poople quite nec
essary to a proper understanding and
estimate of them.
The metropolitan papers deal with
affairs of general interest?foreign ami
national events, politics, natters relat
ing to public men. news that concerns
mauy classes of readers, etc.: the
papers of small towns and villages
deal with matters of another sort: they
are in close touch with their readers
and treat of local and personal affairs.
J Politics and outside uews may hrive
place In their columns, too. but
merely in an incidental way. It is the
I local record that gives them interest
| and character and makes them valua
, ble and delightful.
In a community where everybody
knows everybody else there is a nat
ural and perfectly proper interest in
knowing that Uncle Jake Snyder is
having his barn painted, that Sam
Sweeney is having trouh!" with his
eyes, that Farmer Johnson has raised
| the biggest tomatoes ever seen in the
I region, that John Jones visited hip
| "best glri" on Suuday night, nnd so on.
| nnd so on. and so on. It is not love of
I trivial detail or petty gossip, but an
outgrowth of neighborly and kindly
feelings that calls for a recital of thest
j things. To an outsider the personal
comments may at times seem overly
familiar, but with the free give-and
take of a small community they are
not so considered by the persons con
cerned, but are regarded rather as fam
ily pleasantries. It is through these
papers. Indeed, that glimpses are to be
had of the best family life of the coun
try. the dinners, the picnics, the re
unions. the gayeties, as well as the
more serious phases. The relations of
the people to each other are discern
ible. One who reads between the lines
of these records of local happenings
and doings can see the simplicity, tbo
open-hearted hospitality, the kindliness
of the men and women who are men
tioned from time to time: their pur
suits, their ambitions, and, alas, also,
their sorrows are made clear.
Many a man long resident of a city
takes regularly the little paper pub
lished in his old home and reads it
eagerly, thus keeping In touch with his
former associates; but even the
stranger of sympathetic mind and a de.
gree of insight finds a charm in such
papers that more pretentious sheets
cannot possess. They bring him Into
close relations with the people who.
above all others, are representative
Americans and who make the country
what it is.?Indianapolis Journal
My Oriental Dreanutalcnr.
My Japanese dressmaker that came
to the house wore a long blue cotton
klmoua nnd wooden clogs that he
slipped off his feet at the door of my
room. He brought with him the clum
siest pair of shears and a little hand
sewing machine that was an undouht*
ed patrlurch among machines. lie rest
ed iu a chair, but squatted with his
feet under him, set the machine on an
other In front of him, and seemed hap
piest and least concerned with the
things of this life when he warf grind
ing the machine with one hand, guid
ing the work with the other, while his
prehensile toes kept the long breadths
of skirt from the tloor. Perhaps the
beatific condition came with the
littddhistic attitude. Who knows?
He wore a curious sort of a thimble
that was not much larger thafi a ring
on the inside of the middle fintrcr be
tween the first nnd second joints, and
pushed his needle straight out from
him, at an angle directly opposite to
ours when we sew.
He spoke very seldom, almost nevet
risking a question, but worked stead
ily at something, somehow, if not di
rected otherwise. He never seemed
surprised when told that his calcula
tlons were all wrong, and invariably
answered, "Can do," when told that 1
wished a thing altered.?Laura 11.
Starr, In Harper's Bazar.
The Hlffh-Falutln' Style.
The liigh-falutia' style may be fash
ionable, says London Truth, but it is
not always Informing. Miss Evu I'ow
ell, lecturl.ig before a lai'ies' class up
on vocallsm, declared: "If you really
want to sing. Just open your mouth
and let the radl..tlng ranging soul with
in you hurl itself forth," adding: "If
you sing of a dewdrop you must seo
mentally the gllstetilr.? beads of the
meadow: if of a skylark, imagine your
self a bird." At this point an inquir
ing damsel caused the lecture to col
Japse by innocently nskltg r.bout the
"Honeysuckle and the Bee." Was s'.ie
to imagine herself a flower or au iu
S:'Pt?
"Tli? WoH'i" Philosophy.
"Temptation is temptation, whethet '
the man yield or overcome. Fire it!
fanned by the wind until it leaps up i
fiercely. Sop is desire like fire. It is i
fanned, as by a wind, by sight of the
thing desired, or by a new and luring !
description or comprehension of the i
thing desired. There lies the tempta-1
tlon. It Is the wind that fans the de ?
sire until it leaps up to mastery. That'i j
temptation. It may not fan sufficient-1
ly to make the desire overmastering. \
but In so far as it fans at all. that far j
Is it temptation. And, as you say. It;
may tempt for good as well ts for
Ceutury. - ?
WIT and HUMOR
?/"THE DAY
Th? rigfi.
The eagle it a noble
aihI wings its thght ou high.
The pigeon is of lowlier mold.
But makes ? better pie.
?Browning's Magazine.
V A Stickler.
"Yes." ho said, sadly, nnd there wai
? tear in his eye. "Yes. my bnsluess
lias driven uie to the wall.**
And he weut on posting bills.
, Inform?llaa Free.
Racke?' A uian is never too old to
learn.*'
Benne?"No. be can always And
somebody to marrj bim." Cincluuatl
Commercial-Tribune.
Suburban Arithmetic.
Teacher - "Now. Johnny If your
mother engaged two cooks on Monday,
three on Tuesday and four on Wednes
day. how munj would she have?"
Johnny?"None."?New York Sun.
Sammy.
Teacher?"So I've caught you chew
ing guui. have 1?"
Sammy?"No, mum: I wasn't chew
In'. 1 was jest keep in' It there instead
of in my pocket. ? It's so sticky."?Chi
cago Daily News.
Modest.
*'I came to ask you for your daugh
ter."
"But she is the only one 1 have."*
'Well. 1 don't want but one. I hope
yon don't take me for a bigamist."
Springfield Journal.
H? Wl*hwl II* Win Twins.
"Oh, dear!" sighed six-year-old
Harry. "I wish I was twins."
"Why?" asked his mother.
"So I could ?end tin- other half to
school while this half went fishing,"
he replied.? Chicago News.
No Restriction on IIU l.llmrty.
fvetchum A. Cummin - "So your
father objects to my calling to see
you. does be?"
Anna Hoe Wynne?"Not at all What
he objects to is n?y being at home when
you call."?Chicago Tribune.
The Retort Courteous.
Oiflle?"Hi. old man! My. but you
ace a sight! How'd you get all the
skin rubbed off the end of your nose?"
Spinks (with hauteur)?"Not by pok
ing it into other people's business. I
can tell you that!"?Philadelphia Bui
letiu.
Hnfllrlent to tlie Day.
??I'm told you play golf on the Sab
bath." said the llev. Mr. Uoodman,
sternly.
"Yes." replied Miss Ivute. "but on
that day I only use the sticks 1 won
nt our church fair."?Philadelphia
Press.
The On* TliWi*.
"Garden truck in exchange for a sub
scription? No. sir," said the editor.
"There's only one thing we'll be will
ing to have you tuke out In trade."
"What's that?"
"Your poeketbook." - Philadelphia
rublie Ledger.
Oroun llmt F??r.
ChoIIy?"I did think of going in for
polities, but I was nfwaid 1 wouldn't
know just how to tweat uiy iufewiahs,
don't y* know?"
I'epprey?"Your inferiors? Oh. you
wouldn't he likely to meet any <>f
them."?Philadelphia News.
Not All of TIi??iii.
"Does he advertise all the comforts
of home?" inquired Mr. Tlredout.
"No." replied Mrs. Tiredout. "the ad
vertisement simply says, 'No mothers
in-law. cross cooks, or crying babies.' "
"We'll go." asserted Mr. Tiredout,
emphatically.?Philadelphia Bulletin.
N?it Sii|>emflll<iu<.
tto
SM0MIN4
"Can't you read?"
"Yes, but 1 don't believe iu sign*."?
The Moon.
Not Haiuriictorr.
Mrs. Backlotz?"80 your servant girl
flas loft you aguln?"
Mrs. Subbubs?"Yes."
Mrs. Baeklotz?"Wbut was tbe mat
ter?"
Mrs. 8ubbubs-"8he didn't like the
way I did her work." ? Philadelphia
Press.
Another Vlnh Htorjr.
"So you were out In St. Louis?" said
the postmaster. "Did you set* tbe big
pike?"
"To be sure." drawled the village
fabricator; then, after a pause, "but it
wasn't one inch bigger than the pike
( caught in Hurley's mill pond last
summer."?Chicago News.
Cold In Hit
Mr. Tyte-rblst?"Tliey tried to work
me for a campaign contribution this
morning, and 1 answered them with a
level-headed 'no!'"
Mrs: Tyte-Plilst?"And when I try to
work you for a contribution for house
uold expenses you answer me with a
flat-footed 'uo!'"?Chicago Tribune.
Hard l.lnr*.
"Goodman's In a bad way. He's got
lucli a sore throat he ean't talk and?"
"I saw blm on tbe street to-day and
tie seems to have a black eye. too."
"That's Just It. Not being able to
ase his volei? he ean't explain to peoplo
rhat he got tl) ? bloc k eye iu a perfect
y Innocent way.''?Philadelphia Press,