The Darlington herald. (Darlington, S.C.) 1890-1895, November 23, 1892, Image 1
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HERALD.
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“IF FOB THE LIBERTY OF THE WORLD WE CAN DO ANYTHING.”
VOL. III.
Ereili*.
Dim fall* the light o’er ull the dream
ing w<mm1i>;
Alhivart the dlnhuit western sky are
Iflmnis
Ofn'Maii.l aiu’ier; [leaily rosoHsIged
e: ii'ls,
l. K.‘»ine s) (eissing fair, one almost
ti'SUIS.
1'i.e iiM'iiing gate of Paradise hath
lent
8 .me tinge <>f glory to the dying
day;
And earln-lmuud souls, with longing,
ling'ring gaze,
Would fain rise up and m >ve along
that way.
A still ores sweet and-solemn all around;
The s >ng of birds is hushed; there
falls no quiver
Of rustling leaf, or shak.-n trembling
reed,
Upon the fair faint brightness of tin-
river.
The crescent moon gleams coldly, dim
ly, forth;
And in the deep'nlng blueofheaven,
afar,
A tender watcher o’er the troubled
world,
Sbineth one solitary glitt’ringstar.
The shadows deepen on the distant
hills;
The highest peaks but touched with
ling’ring tight.
And down their purpling sides, soft
misty clouds
Wrap all the valleys in a dusky
night.
And faraway the msrmur of tha-seu,
And moonlit waves breaking In
foamy line.
8o Night—God’s angel, Night—with
silvery wings,
Fills alF the earth .with loveliness
divine.
—Chambers’ Journal
TUIRTEEN MILLIONS OF FIGHT
ERS.
What a Biff Army This Caiatrj
€•■14 Raise la Case ef Ne
cessity.
A census office buljptin of special
interest now is the one which con
tains a table of militia ages, because
of the existence pf a condition of af
fairs in several States which approach
es, if it does net constitute,civil war.
The militia age is from eighteen to
forty-four years, both inclusive. Be
tween these years a man is liable to
compulsory military service, i. e., to
be drafted or conscripted in theevent
of war. This is a big country and a
great many people live in it, but we
fancy it will surprise most readers to
learn that the mules within the
militia ages number 13,230,168.
Think of itl Thirteen million fight
ing menl No nation in ancient or
modern times times has ever possess
ed such potentiality for war. The
vast host with which Xerxes invaded
fME IPANDERING JEW.
Origli ffftbt Widely Kmwb Legend
•f the Thirteenth Century.
S legend of the Wandering Jew,
ofeVeyerfOtte has heard, but of
moat persons know so little,
is not found either in the apocryphal
evangelists or in the Latin fathers
of the Church, says the Glasgow
Mail. According to the best authori
ties, it origiuated at Constantinople.
There are two versions—the Orien
tal, in which the Jew is called
philus, and that of Europe, in which
he is called Ahasuerus. In the
Eastern versions he is represented as
a porter of Pontius Pilate; in the
Western as a cobbler, living on the
slope of Mount Calvary, by whose
door Christ passed 1 earing His cross
to the plact o crucifixion.
The Oriental legend attributes to
him a wife and five children, derails
omitted in that of the Occident The
offense committed was the same in
both cases, a brutal refusal to per
mit the Saviour to enter into the
residence of the portor or cobbler—a
favor asked by Himself of the 1 to
man soldiers who were guarding
tlim—accompanied with the sug
gestion that He had better walk on.
With the greatest gentleness in man
ner,, according to the legend, Christ
informed the inhuman Jew that as
a punishment of his unfcmdness it
would be his fate to walk on till the
day of judgment, a sentence he has
since‘been and is believed by many
to be still expiating.
In the thirteenth century« knowl
edge of the wanderer began to be
diffused by means of the bards ramj
popular ballads among the
people of Europe, but it wi
some 200 or 300 years later tt
extraordinary tale of his suffa
became universally known, and
person was made familiar to all by;
the accounts of those who bad keen
and convened with him. Noone ap
pears to have met him until Igte iii
the sixteenth century, but after that
day he eras often seeu by persons of
rank and education in England, Scot
land, France, Italy, Hungary,ftwedeu,
Persia, Denmark and other tom u tries.
In 1575 two ambassadors at the
Court of the Spanish monarch met
him at Madrid. In 1589 bte was
seen at Vienna and in 1601 at Lu-
beck. In 1616 many persons saw
and talked with him in Lavonia,
Gracovia and at Moscow. The Ger
man cities were partieularly favored
with his flying visits, for be is heard
of at Rostock, Weimar, Dantziz and
Kouigsberg, at each of which places
he was treated with all the hospital!-
iff
Greece in his attempt to add Europe ty the brief ^ st ^
to bis Asiatic dominion was but a
His positively last appearance was
at Brussels in 1774. He would
probably hare passed by, this city
with his usual baste had not the
burgesses, attracted by the great
venerability of his appearance asked
him to stop a moment. He at first
replied that he could not stop, but,
being urged, paused briefly. Beiug
invited into an inn to partake of a
pot of Flemish beer he consented to
drink the beer, but positively refused
to sit down. However, he delayed
long enough to toll of the eotire his
tory of his sin. and its 1,800 years of
expiation. From his personal ex
planation it appears that he crossed
seas, rivers, rivulets, deserts, moun
tains, hills, valleys and plains with
the same facility. He passed through
fire and water without harm. He had
passed among warring hosts in Eu
rope and Asia without deviation from
bis course, and witnessed many
deaths in America and Africa. He
Lad neither house uor land, nor any
sort of personal property, and his
only financial resources were five
cents, which, when spent, were con
stantly renewed in his pocket
was’
handful in comparison, and the great
standing armies of modern Europe
are as but corporal’s guards.
Of these 13,230,168 persons with-
iu the militian age 10,423,086 are
natives and 2,806,082 are foreign
born. The aggregate number of
whites within the militis age is 11,-
893,764, and the total colored 1,426,-
405. The latter figures include not
only the negroes, but Chinese and all
other colored races among us, the
Indian Territory not being counted.
The foreigu born number 2,806,082,
of whom 2,718,898 are white and 88,-
144 colored. The native whites with
in the militia ages number 9,086,066,
of whom 6,770,265 are s the sons of
native parents and 2,311,801 of
foreign. Two deductions may prop
erly be drawn from these figures.
First, that in a contest ou the color
line the colored people would be in a
hopeless minority, the odds being
more than 5 to 1 against them; and
secondly m a contest between native
and foreign born ciluens the latter
wonld be overwhelmed, the odds
against them being about 4 to 1.
Happily there are no signs of a con
test along either of these lines.
Why aad Why Nnt.
Why (all death the “kingof
terrors?” Why not consider it a
nat u al transition from life unto an
other life?
Why think of the deep,cold grave?
Why ,not look up iuto that higher
circle, where the soul is being wel
comed by loved ones gone before?
Why live as if this were the only
life? Why not prepare to follow
that silent, yet potent majority, who
are waiting “over there.” by allowing
the religion, consentrated in you; to
radiate upon all ooming within range
of your horosoope, letting it find a
reflex in your own home?
Why,O Why?
It is not the fal • teeth which
should ^tootymtable, bat the
A Tennessee girl, edacatod in a
fashionable female college at’Nash
ville, committed suicide the other
day, Itecause her father wouldn’t pay
his grocery bills. Her high sense of
honor refused to allow her to con
sume food that bad not been paid for
to sustain life, and as she hfld no
other means of living she decided to
die. If every girl whose father did
not pay his grocery bills and news
paper subscription should commit
■nioide, there would be more funerals
in the country than there has been
since the yellow fever epidemic.
The weakest living creature,' fcy
concentrating his powers on a single
object, can accomplish something.
The strongest, by dispersing his over
many, may fail to accomplish any 1
DARLINGTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1892
.
pompous m me Knowledge mat ne, ana
he only, was the author of that snblime
article, “Whither Are We Drifting?"
and their wivea were with them, and the
other men who had been invited were
there with their wives! It was evidently
a Conspiracy to humble and crush and
wreck the life at Theophilus Wardwell.
For a moment he seemed disposed to
slam the door in their facee, but he
arrested the motion of his arm. Then it
looked as though he wonld turn looee
the simoom of his wrath, bnt the words
died on his lips, and he ended by invit
ing them all to walk In, smiling sar
donically, and “every one knew that
some one had blundered.” He led the
procession iuto the parlor and then call
ed his wife, who joined him in a maze
of bewilderment. And when the guests
were all seated, equally stupefied with
wonder, Mr. Wardwell faced them and
said, with magnificent sarcasm:
“Ah! And so you have come in re
sponse to my invitation? 1 regret to say
that yon have come too late to partake
of my tnrkey or pie, but you have come
in time to teach' me a valuable lesson.
After this, when 1 want my friends to
call on me on New Year’s, 111 ask them
to come on Christmas; if I desire to see
them on the Fourth of July, I’ll ask
them to visit me on Faeter Sunday, and
when I want a gathering on Thanksgiv
ing day I’ll specify George Washing
ton's birthday as the date for the aesem-
blage.
“This is Thursday, ladies and gentle
men. Well, last Friday Mrs. Wardwell
and 1 had a somewhat wholesome repast
prepared for yon all, and we waited and
waited for your coming until our hearts
ached with disappointment, but we
should have been patient, I see; we were
altogether too hasty. If we had only
waited six days longer, you w-Mild have
been with ns. A trifle like sir days
wonld have caused us no iucor-^uieuce
whatever, but we were so thoughtless."
Mr. Wardwell paused for breath, and
the professor took advantage of the lull
to say:
“There is some gross misunderstand
ing here. You invited us to ret Thanks
giving dinner with you, and here we
are. But as for me, I did not come to
be insulted.”
“You are correct in saying that I in
vited you to come on Thanksgiving day.
Then why, may 1 ask, didn't you come
on Thanksgiving day?”
‘Why," responded the professor, in a
dazed way, “this is Thanksgiving day!"
“Certainly it is,” chorused the doctor,
and the editor, and the musician; “this
is Thursday, Nov. 26.”
“No one questions that,” cried Mr.
Wardwell, with bitter irony, “and to
morrow is Friday, the 27th, and I have
excellent reason to believe that the fol
lowing day will be Saturday, the 28th—
. ~ _ labooMnl b.surprisedif-Sun-
day turned out to be the 29fh. But how
do you make out that this is Thanks
giving day? Here is The Gazette, with
the governor’s proclamation in cold type,
and it reads ‘Nov. 20.' Does the govern
or’s proclamation count for anything,
or is it merely a vain ceremony—an
empty formality?”
Before any one could speak a hollow
groan was heard. It came in all its
intensity from the lips of the editor of
The Gazette. He was reclining upon a
lounge, breathing with difficulty. The
doctor rushed to his rescue with a case
of surgical instruments, but the editor
waved him away and moaned:
‘Oh, what a misfortune! A malison
upon that bilious, blear eyed foreman
of mine! To think that all this should
come of allowing him to read a proof!
Mr. Wardwell, and all of you,” he said,
rising to his feet, “we are the victims of
a scrawny printer whom I intrusted
with the governor’s proclamation and
the reading of the proof. He placed the
figures ‘20' where ‘26’ should have been.
Mr. Wardwell made all the prepara
tions on the 20th, and we, who probably
never read the proclamation, arranged
to visit him on the 26th. I can only say
that as the editor of The Gazette I will
discharge the printer without a recom
mendation, and that as a man who has
blood in his veins 111 either punch his
head or perish in the attempt”
When the editor’s explanation was
concluded there was an era of silence.
Then Mr. Wardwell tnmed to his wife
with a ghastly smile and said:
“Rachel, Is there anything to eat in
the honee?”
“Scarcely a thing.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, will you as
sist me in devouring such remnants of
groceries as Mrs. Wardwell can consoli
date into a dinner?”
"Mr. Wardwell,” said the doctor, with
emotion, “a bowl of water, with a crust
of bread, would be a feast in your home.
The flow of intellect, sir—the flow of
reason, as it were, Mr. Wardwell—the
intercourse of kindred minds—atone for
all deficiencies in the material—aw—er—
in short, Mr. Wardwell, anything will do
for a dinner, and we’ll be doubly thank
ful today that the slight cloud which
darkened the horizon as we came in
has given-place to the sunshine of—er—
to the sunshine, Mr. Wardwell.”
NO. 12.
wmen is now or worm wide Ceieonty;
and the professor discoursed so admira
bly of the foibles and idiosyncrasies of
the second Ramesis that he was voted
the most interesting speaker who ever
enlivened a Thanksgiving party; and
the editor of The Gazette recited his
famous article with unusual fervor, so
that some of the ladies wept again.
The dinner lasted two hours, and
when it was over there was heard a
ring at the doorbell, and who should
have done the ringing bnt the foreman
of The Gazette, whose doom had been
pronounced! He had come to call the
editor away on important business, and
it was quite affecting to see that able
man embrace hie subordinate and say:
“Your wages are raised two dollars a
week. By one of your blunders you
caused Mr. Wardwell’e dinner to be a
misfit, bnt there never was a nobler
dinner than I have had today.”
Hard Thinking.
irt
S-w
Wife—1 don’t think much of this
mince pie, do you?
Husband—Not now, bnt I expect to
all the rest of the night.
A MISFIT THANKSGIVING.
BY WALT MASON.
(Copyright, 1SK, by A mericau PrciS Associa
tion.)
CHAPTER I.
TJIS GOYERSOn’S PROCLAMATION '
“Jim,” said the editor of The Gazette
to the blond foremen, “here’s the gov
ernor’s Thanksgiving proclamation. Can
you run it in today?”
“I reckon,"
“All right; 1 don’t know of anything
that would be more interesting reading
to me. A nd why? Because 1 understand
Mr. Wardwell will invite some ■friends'
to dimiejc oiv-Tlianlcsgiying, and 1 tell
you, James, there’s no man now living
can arrange sueli‘a repast as the urbane,
genial and accomplished Theophilus
Wardwell; hi* dinners are songs with
out words; they b$gt the dreams of pro
fessional lotus eal^rs. $>d Bis Tiants-
giving dinner will be a revelation i:.
roast turkey and a symphony in pump
kin pie.”
"I s’pose you’ll be there?”
“If I’m not it’ll be because this poor,
lisping, stammering tongue lies silent in
the grave. He always invites the same
people, and 1 am one of them. ’ Whan
he reads the-govenmr’eprqalamation he
will sit down andVrite IjivitatiouB to
his chosen. frienA,_,an<ft the chosen
friends will look forward to the day With
leaping.” •’ >
“Do you want to read the'p-cof when
this is in type?”
"i’ll wait just ten minutes longer.”
“It’a horridly, shamefully awful,"
moaned Mrs. Wardwell. ‘Til never
smile again.”
"I wish you would never groan again.
Things are bad enough without your
lamentations. Let us fall to; let ns be
as grateful as we may under the circum
stances. The time is up.”
And so that sorrowful pair sat down
in gloomy grandeur and ate as best they
could, but it was a mirthless banquet
and soon over.
The absence of Mr. Ward well’s friends
was the most inexplicable thing to the
world. He was renowned as the most
graceful of hoetej Ips tinners were
poems; his wife wafebarngtog; hfodiame
was a marvel of comfort' and conven- that his descriptions of the manners and
ience. When the goveruor’aprdclamation customs of the Hindoos and Bedouins
appeared ia The Gazette, announcing i and Malays were singularly true to life
languishing supgs ot me musician, ana
the brilliant sentences of the editor.
The«e gentlemen who have been enu
merated had been expected with their
.wivM. and Several other gentlemen
IhiHrwRtehad-Weti «xt)e6fed,‘»utf
sequently it was no wonder that The
ophilus and Rachel Wardwell were
plunged in bitterness when they were
obliged to eat alone.
“It is the most humiliating day of my
life," said Mr. Wardwell. “I can only
think of one thing for which 1 should
be thankful, and that is that my busi
ness does not take me ont of the house.
I would be ashamed to. look a human
being in the face if 1 had to go on the
street. Crying won’t do any good,
Rachel—‘weep no more, my lady, weep
no more today.’ Give the servants In
structions to dispose of these viands in
any way they choose, and then let us try
to forget this appalling occasion.”
And Mr. Wardwell went bravely to
his library and endeavored to bury his
sorrow by studying “quaint and curious
volumes of forgotten lore.”
„ CHAPTER ID.
THE COMING OF THE GUESTS.
For several days following that mem
orable fiasco of a dinner Mr. Wardwell
led the life of a recluse. He was a regu
lar contributor to a great magazine, and
his articles all treated of travels in for
eign and unheard of countries. The fact
Thankagivlng In India.
The native servants of India are said
to be courteous in the extreme, and when
they learn of any particular festival
which their masters desire to observe
they always make it a point to offer
their congratulations, accompanied by
presents of flowers, fruits and sweets
tastefully arranged in fantastic baskets.
They know all about Christmas and
New Year, but it was the United States
consul at Calcutta who first enlightened
them regarding Thanksgiving. There
after the diplomat and his successors as
well have been appropriately honored
on the “Yankee holiday.”
OU, Wkat Dlffitrmm la th« Mornlug!
I
“DO YOU WANT TO READ THE PROOF?”
"I gness not, Jim; look It over your
self."
And it was by this delegation of one
Of his important functions to a subordi
nate, that the editor of The Gazette filled
one home with woe and created the
chaos which made this narrati re possible.
CHAPTER H.
A BANQUET HALL DESERTED.
The stateliest turkey .that ever in-
the pure air of freedom was ready
for the teeth of the hungry. The noblest
pumpkin that ever grew on a vine under a
benevolently smiling sun had been re
duced to pies, and was also ready for
the famished, and the board fairly
groaned with the other sundries which
constitute • thoroughly appropriate
Thanksgiving dinner, but the host, the
master of all the splendor, the designer
of the elaborate feast, was not happy.
There was sorrow to the heart of
Theophilus ‘Wardwell. Sorrow and
anxiety and wonder had absolute con
trol of him; and his wife was weeping
to the shadows, and the dining room
was filled with gloom. The dinner
hour had passed and the invited guests
had not arrived. The reihorseleee clock
on the wUl kept measuring off seconds
With inexorable regularity, and still
there came no ring at the doorbell.
“Baohal,” said Mr. Wardwell to his
l webbing wife, “111 wait just ten minutes
^ l-fonger, Md tlteu if our friends (to not
cOme well eat all we can and give the
balance afthis feeri to the poor or send
ItitotfceweMhen. Atis a sorrowful old
Thanksgiving day for ns v We expected
a (east of reason a flow Of soul, and
ito.of loneliness and woe.
idB."
that the 20th of November would be ob
served as Thanksgiving day, Mr. Ward-
Well. after due consultation with his
wife, wrote beautifully worded letters
to his friends asking them to take din
ner with *hua on the eventful day—to
use his own modest words, “Join me to
a Thanksgiving.lunch in my home.”
That abieihaq, the editor of The Ga
zette, was invited. Who has not heard
of .the editor of The Gazette? He it was
who wrote the stirring article entitled
‘‘Whither Are We Drifting?” which cre
ated consternation from ocean to ocean,
and placed the writer upon the pinnacle
of fame at the early age of forty. It
was customary with Mr. Johns, the ed
itor,, to repeat the famous editorial from
memory at dinner parties, and in his re
ply to Mr. Wardwell’s invitation he had
explicitly stated that he would deliver it,
word for word, as it was originally writ
ten, immediately after the dinner.
Mr. Stiver, the musician, had also
been invited. You all know about the
illustrious Mr. Stiver, who composed so
many delightful songs and sang them so
irresistibly to enchanted audiences. His
picture was printed in the local papers,
and it is altogether unreasonable to sap-
pose that yon have not seeu it. When
ever Mr. Stiver ate dinner at Mr. Ward-
Well’s he invariably rendered several of
his most charming selections, and he
had written Theophilus that nothing
short of an epidemic would keep him
away on Thanksgiving day.
Dr. Shadley had also received an in
vitation, and had answered that he
wonld do himself the honor to be at the
appointed place promptly, adding face
tiously that his appetite would be con
cealed about his person. The doctor
was the moot interesting and amusing
story teller in the civilized world. It
was qnite impossible to listen to one of
his anecdotes without being convulsed
with laughter, and since he had made
the Wardwell home echo with merri
ment time and time again his absence
on this occasion was beyond all human
understanding.
Professor Snell, pf the university, had
been invited as well and had remained
away, as hud the others. The professor
made Mr. Wardwell’* house almost his
home. It was in the little blue room
overlooking the garden that he made
tbpso admirable translations of Horace
which iiuve astonished the biters tews
of two hemispheres. His “radition was a
beautiful clement of n Wardwell din
ner; it furnished a hoImT * ac It ground for
the frothy mi rib of the d >*tor. and the
is all the more remarkable because he
had never been away from his native
village, and a month or two after the
date of this story he received a personal
letter from the editor of the magazine
complimenting him upon his realistic
description of the burning and eating of
a European traveler by a cannibal. He
Vrote this story daring the sad days fol
lowing the wrecked dinner.
WE ARE THE VICTIMS OF A SCRAWNY
PRINTER.”
Mrs. Ward well was inconsolable. Poor
woman, she couldn’t find relief by writ
ing articles about people she had never
heard of, and she began to grow pale
and was filled with a nervous horror of
meeting anybody, and she imagined that
she wrj the laughing stock of the town.
Nearly a week had elapsed, and her
sorrow was as heavy if not so hysteric
as ever, when one day there waa an en
thusiastic ring at the doorbell. There
wasn’t a sefvant in the house; she most
either open the door herself or have her
husband do it, or leave it unopened.
She decided to adopt the husband plan.
She wouldn’t ha\e opened it herself, for
she was morally certain that she would
be confronted by some heartless mocker
who wonld shriek with laughter over
her disastrous dinner, and so sbs called
her husband. That brave man with a
severe face went to the dc r and opened
tt, and fairly shook with rage and won
der. What manner of refined insult was
this?
Standing before him, smiling ae bland
ly as though they had never grievonsly
and wautyuly wounded him to the quick,
were the‘teen'and women he had In
vited to his Thanksgiving dinnerl There
was the- doctor, fairly babbling over
with mirth and good hnmor; and the
sweet singer, with a roll of music under
his arm; and the editor of The Gazette.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DINNER.
They do say that th< re never was snch
a Thanksgiving dinner in all the coun
try as the one enjoyed by the gnests of
Mr. Wardwell. There was no tnrkey,
nor was there a pum; kin pie, and con-
seqnently the bill of fare wouldn’t in
terest yon. Bnt the lonely dinner of
nearly n week before became a topic of
mirth and reminded the doctor of abont
a dozen of the fnnniest stories imagi-
“TOUR W sOES ARK RAISED TWO DOLLARS
A WEEK.”
nable, so that the ladies laughed until
they cried. And the musician fairly
surpassed himself in singing that touch-
it-.g ballad of his own composition,
“When Mnry to tfee Dentist.Qom,?
He—Do yon remember ever skating
on Thanksgiving day?
She—No, indeed. I haven't had a
skate on for a long time.
He—I wish I could say the same thing.
I had one on only last night.
Thaakialvlng Glvn Joy and Comfort.
Some beautiful thoughts regarding
Thanksgiving are embodied in the fol
lowing paragraph published by Harper’s
Bazar some time ago: “When the heart
is sorest, grief the bitterest, loss the
most extreme, the giv ing of thanks brings
a relief to the spirit like that of rain to
the thirsty earth. To give thanks to
heaven that we have had the loet to
love, that they are ours, since we love
them still and we cannot love what U
not; to give thanks that they ever ex
isted, that we knew them and had to do
with them, that we had pride and joy in
them—to do this is to put ourselves into
snch close conuection and conversation
with the all giving power as to receive a
new joy almost as precious as the old.
It is like the breaking of sacramental
bread still with the beloved; it is shar
ing with heaven still their possession.
It is lifting the whole being to the spir-
itnal plane where the beloved are. It is
without meaning it, without knowing
It, saying ‘Thy will be done.’ It is en
tering into the close intimacy of that
power dark with excessive brightness.
It makes heavenly joys real, and all but
renews and revivifies the earthly.”
Quinine by Proxy.
Not long since, said the drummer, I
was down in one of the ague districts of
Indiana, and in front of my customer’s
store I saw a native sitting on the horse
block. He seemed to be suffering and
I went to him.
“What’s the matter?” I inquired.
“Nothin much, mister,” he replied
with a wan smile. “I’m jest a settiu
here in the sun sbakin.”
"Got the chills?”
“That's what, mister."
“Why don't you take something for
them?”
‘I do, mister. That is, Sary does. She
takes all the qninine for the family.
Sary’s my wife.”
That was a new form of wound’s de
votion, and I was somewhat surp
at its discovery,
‘Thnnderation, man,” I exclaimed,
“that lyon’t help you any.”
“I guess you’re mistaken, mister,” he
said, with stolid confidence. "I’ve had
the chills fer twtenty-five years an they
ain't killed me yit.”—Detroit Free Press.
What Did Sha Mean?
He—Did you see me on the street yes
terday?
She—Yes. |
He—Have you quit speaking to your
friends? ■ 1
She—Oh, no.—Detroit Free Press. ,
A RURAL THANKSGIVING.
, V
“The past rises before me like a
dream,” as Bob Ingersoll said. We are
back in the good old times before the
war, in the middle section of the Wa
bash valley. The glorious, mellow, yel
low, late autumnal days have come. In
dian summer is past, it is true, hut its j
aroma still lingers on the brown mead
ows and in the gloriously varicolored
woods. At least one year in three we
have “late springs and late falls,” as the
farmers say, and this is one of the years.
The frost is on the pumpkin, but lightly
as yet, and the fodder is in the shock,
though the cattle still browse a little
and are fattening in the stalk fields, from
which the yellow corn has just been
gathered.
“This is the time of year when every
thing tastes good,” the boys say. “This
is the season when the game is at its
best,” say the hunters. “And this is the
season when onr bones hurt us the least,"
the old folks say. The milk is cool and
rich. All the vegetables are at their
best, perfectly ripe, but not yet withered
V
£9.
"TT
1 '-i
^ ‘
THE UNSUSPECTING GOBBLER,
by weeks of lying in the cellar. And
the small boy—how he does enjoy this
season! These are the days when he
“slips off at afternoon recess,” gives the
school house the “cold shake” and hur
ries to the south woods, there to gather
the big green walnuts in piles; pounds
the soft hulls off and picks out the nuts,
pausing occasionally to crush one with
a convenient stone for immediate con
sumption. His lips are stained; his
hands are dyed and dull brown; he
knows “it will never come off till it
wears off,” and that the chances are
even that he will get whaled, but still
he does it as he did it last year, and as
he will do it again. We all did iL
It is the day before Thanksgiving—a
glorious, golden, sunshiny and stimulat
ing day—and the old farmyard is full of
life. Red Pete, as we call last year's
gobbler, is strutting about in the glory
of freshly attained adult gobblerhood,
as proud and important aa if ho were
directing the proceedings. He is in a
sense, thongh he little imagines the
sense. “Onr riot dooms him to bleed to
day,” as Pope says, but not having our
reason he can look on in the happiness
of ignorance. The chopping block,
staked fast for the convenience of cut
ting kindling, is before his eyes, and just
beyond the ax is on the grindstone, but
he little imagines that it all has any ref
erence to him; that he is the central
figure in the coming proceedings. He is
lovely in life, and in death he will be
divided, the preacher and the poor get
ting their share.
The wife and mother takes stock of
dneks and chickens, bnt talks of the so
cial features. Will the boys get borne
from Asbury university? They will, for
the "spondulix," as college boys in
those days called the remittance, was
sent in time, and even now the younger
brother has gone to the country depot to
fetch them home in the old farm wagon.
Thanksgiving morning—the light break
fast is soon dispatched, for that is a
small affair on such a day. There is a
general brushing up, and all are off to
the country church. The preacher and
his wife return with the family, and
about 1 o’clock the great event of tha
day is on.
All are there—the two Doys from
college, the hired man and one or two
cousins, the oldest girl of the family and
the rosy cheeked farmer she married a
( ear or so before. The baby is laid on
the bed in the nearest room, and there is
always at least one little girl so fond of
children that she volunteers to watch
him. The happy group is seated, the
preacher has ins devotional say and ac
tual business begins. Red Pete shines
once more, in culinary beauty this time,
but it is positively his last appearance on
these shores. And then the long after
noon of social chat and innocent merri
ment, and the evening in which the
young people take possession of the
house! Such was Thanksgiving in the
good old times, such for the most part
it still is, and such may it long continue
to be. Vigo.
Before the Dinner.
The Earliest Lighthouses.
Fire towers at the entrances to ports
were established in the earliest historic
Bonfire* were built on top oti
fttnJfht,—WMbingtonSUr, I
Major Pikestaff (at the Thanksgiving
reunion)—Well, my little man, do yon
know what yon have to be thankful for?
The Little Man—Yes, indeed, sir. 1
am thankful that there is some Jamaica
ginger in the house.
How One Know..
A wedding came off at Tyrone at the
unusual hour of 6:45 in the morning. It
is unnecessary to add that this was the
wedding of a railroad man. Any other
kind of a man selecting the same time
wonld have been married at a quarter
of 7 o'clock—Fbpittjelplkl# Inquirer.