Democratic Press, Volume 1, Number 18, Decatur, Adams County, 14 February 1895 — Page 8

TO THOSE IN THE VALLEY. Not to the worid-crownvd heroes Who list to a people s praise. Not to the ones whom pleasure Has led through the joyous days. Not to the men whose treasure Gives power to gladden or blight. Nor to those whom the natioas cherish Would I sing a song to-night But to those whe toil in the valley Afar from the hills of peace. Whose lives are an endless struggle. Whose labors may never cease; To those who are stunted and driven By the day's recurring care, V> ho deem that the l r God forgets them Nor heeds their pleading prayer; To the weary, weary toilers Who work with a purpose dim. Not knowing that, through the darkness. The way leads up to Him; To these—who are still my brothers Though they walk afar from light— I would sing, were the singer worthy. A song of cheer to-night. Oh. for a song whose music Might gladden some heart of care. Bringing one moment's blessing. Cheering some soul's despair! Oh. for that song! Though stricken. My hand should no longer write. I would know I had served the Father And my heart would rejoice to-night —A. J. Waterhouse, in Union Signal A SPOILED DOMESTIC. Mr. Munson Wishes He Had Let Well Enough Alone. Families who are entirely dependent on one person are to be pitied, because the time inevitably comes when that prop fails, or is removed, and the structure that it supported tumbles into ruin. Such cases are observable everywhere, and the situation is at times pathetic, at times humorous. The present incident belongs to the latter class. Mary Blake was a domestic in a family where she had lived more years than she had fingers on both hands, and she was as much an integral part of that family as the head of it, Mr. Munson. The one hope of these good people was that Mary Blake would never either die or resign, tine horn of the dilemma would have been as serious to them as the other. She was a model domestic in every ! way, a cook that would have put to I shame the greatest chef in the country with her well-seasoned dishes, an excellent laundress, and when there was sickness, a capable nurse. Added to these rare qualities was that of a contented mind and a fairly good temper. A little stolid, perhaps, and, fond of her own way, which was such a good one i that it needed no interference. This was the aggregate of Mary ! Blake's virtues, and the Munsons de- ; pended upou her to such an extent \ that it really seemed as if any member of the family could have been spared with less friction to its running gear. That child who amended her nightly prayer by adding the sentiment "and thine be the kitchen, the parlor and i the glory.” petitioned better than she knew. If there are a hundred rooms in a house or only two, the kitchen is the most important factor in the wellbeing of the family. It is the heart of the domestic system, and its life-giv-ing arteries reach through parlor and guest chamber with revivifying influence. And the goddess of the shrine is the plain, hard-working woman who views heaven and earth through the back door. Mary Blake—she was usually called by her full name to distinguish her from Mary Munson, the daughter of the family—was as much attached to the people she had lived with so many years as is possible for those who are neither kith nor kin to their employers. It was her nature to be loyal, hard-werking, patient and steady. The only reason she was not working for a husband and family of her own was on account of a strong dislike she had to men. She tolerated Mr. Munson, but had no special liking for him. And she was that treasure in the family, a “girl" without followers. One morning Mary Blake came to grief. She went out the back way with a pitcher in her hand, walked a block or two, on an errand at a neighboring grocery store, and returning fell on a defective sidewalk, where she lay helpless, dazed and hurt. Some one found her, telephoned for an ambulance, and she was carried off to a hospital, where a serious fracture of the hip was reduced by a surgeon and she was laid on a white cot in the city ward, from which place she sent word of her misfortune to the Munson family. It was a severe blow to them, but under their grief lurked the hope that Mary Blake was not permanently injured. but would return to them, and they did everything to make her com- , sortable and help her to get well. The best that was promised them was that at the end of tnree months she would be welLenough to leave the hospital, and Mrs. Munson expressed a fear to her husband that such a long rest might render Mary Blake useless; she might not want to do battle with the pots and pans again. Aud Mr. Munson had said; “Don't you worry, m'dear I was in the hospital myself once, and it isn't as as much fun to lie and rest with a broken back as you think it is. I'd rather work by the day, myself.” At the end of six weeks Mary Blake walked in upon them. She looked white and walked with a slight limp, but after she had taken off her things and given one look around the kitchen the new girl who had supplied her place said she was ready to leave, and the cat retired under the stove. By slow degrees order grew out of chaos. The Munsons, who had been hanging on the edge of a domestic precipice, returned to the peaceful daily methods of existence they- had so long been accustomed to, and the good order of grateful sacrifice arose from the -altar where dust and ashes had gathered. Then a great scheme entered Mr. Munson's head. He felt that they had never appreciated the services of this excellent domestic, and one morning he sent for her to come to the breakfast table while the family were seated at the table.

“How are you feeling now?" he asked considerately. “I'm all right, sir,” answered Mary Blake. "Oh, no; not all right. You limp a little yet." "But it don't hurt a bit. I'm as right as I’ll ever be.” "That's it Mary," said Mr. Munson; "you will never again be well; you've received a shock that you ean never get over. You will always be lame and feel the effects of that fall." “If you mean,” began the woman in a choking voice, “that I'm not able to do much work, or earn my wages, just say so, and I’ll be leavin’ at oncet.” “It has cost you all the money you saved up for your hospital expenses and was a loss to us of—let me see, at least two dollars a day.” "Am I worth the Jikes o’ that?" asked the “girl,” with a look of surprise. “Oh, those are imaginary figures," said Mr. Munson, who saw he had made a mistake. “Now, Mary, I am a lawyer, and I advise you to sue the city for damages. I will conduct your case, and there will be no trouble in getting a snug sum of money that will enable you to live in your old age; it will be a long time to that, but the money will draw interest, and it's only fair that you should have your rights.” Then Mr. Munson explained that the city owned that particular piece of sidewalk; that it was defective, causing the fall; that he had secured two witnesses who saw her fall, and that his own family would go into court and swear that she lost her wages during that time, aud had a large bill of expense to pay.

It took her a long time to get the idea into her work-a-day head, but once there it took complete possession of her, and the discharged girl had to be recalled to assist in the housework, and the kitchen became a scene of wrangling and discontent. Mary Blake among her own class of people was despotic, and no wonder; she found no one who would carry out her plan of work as it should be done, and with a lawsuit with the city on her hands she was not expected to do more than keep a supervision of affairs. The Munsons were not wealthy, but they had always lived in comfort, which many wealthy people cannot do —and they felt severely this turning over of their quiet lives. But, as Mr. Munson said, it would be wicked to deprive the poor woman of her rights, and he would see that she had them. He also saw in perspective a generous slice for himself. There were witnesses' fees to be paid, his own services, and other minutiae of the law, and the handling afterwards at a fair rate of interest of the thousands which would result. He w< a the case. His wife and daughters were in the witness box. where the city attorney badgered them until they were frantic with rage. The presiding judge made eyes at sweet Mary Munson, causing her to blush distressingly. Mary Blake was cool and stolid, answering just as her lawyer had instructed her to, and she was accorded half of the sum bemanded. Mr. Munson had sued for three thousand dollars, and she was given fifteen hundred dollars in thirty days after the case went to trial. The money was paid to Mary Blake herself, as the city records show. Mr. Munson himself wished it settled in that way, and he then gave her his bill for services, never imagining for a moment that he would have any trouble in getting his pay. But Mary Blake had been awakened to the value of her own services. They had said under oath that she was worth two dollars a day to them, and she had received only four dollars per week during her long term of service. She had done a little reckoning on her own account, and the result was a counter bill that appalled Mr. Munson by its length, minuteness of detail and summing up. He was caught in a trap of his own constructing. A compromise was effected that was satisfactory to Mary Blake, and she at once left the family, not in a quarrelsome mood, but with a determined air that brooked no appeal. Girl after girl succeeded her, but they only made her loss more apparent by contrast. Mr. Munson mourned the hour when he took a legal view of the accident. On so many slight links hangs the chain of consequences. One day Mary Munson sought her i mother. “There's a lady in the parlor to see you." she said, with sparkling eyes. “Who is she?” asked Mrs. Munson Her daughter was laughing.but would | not tell. Mrs. Munson went into the parlor with a company smile on her face. “Graciou I Mary Blake! Is it possible?" The funny-looking object that she ; was almost made Mrs. Munson laugh too. She was dressed in cheap blue moire silk, wore a feather bedecked hat. and an imitation seal coat. Her pudgy hands were crowded into yellow kid gloves. “1 wouldn’t have known you,” said Mrs. Munson. “You look so fine.” “Yes'm. an’ it's time. Them's the ; first pair of kid gloves I ever had on, an’ me workin’ and savin' all me life.” “They built a monument in New Or leans to a woman who never wore a pair of kid gloves,” said Mrs. Munson, gently. “I’d rayther be here than atop of any monnvmunt,” said Mary, who had her own ideas of mortuary art “I'm enjoy in' life an’ goin' to the theayter every night, an’ I'm never soilin’ me hands i with work.” “Thereis one comfort,” said Mrs. Munson, when her caller had left, “at the rapid pace she is going. Mary's damage fund won't last forever and she may get back hei senses and her usefulness when it is gone." It is this hope that sustains the family under the trials of burned biscuits, soggy bread and general misrule, when Mr. Munson is heard to remark, mournfully, that he wishes be had left well enough alone.—Mrs. M. L. Rayne, in Detroit Free Press.

A FOUNTAIN PEN. Why the Owner of One Never Wanted Another. I am not the possessor of a fountain pen. I never had but one. which was given to me as a Christmas present years ago, when I Was a young man, and fountain pens were a novelty. Mine was made of tin. with a rubber bag to hold the ink. When you squeezed the penholder the ink ran out of the bag and Hooded the pen—or anything else that happened to be within convenient range. The diabolical contrivance looked like a tin whistle and acted like a euttle fish, but no one else had one. and so I was proud of it. Ilinl'M» ranitatum.' Short was my triumph. I can still remember, as painfully as though it was an affair of yesterday, how the tragedy occurred. It was at the Sturdevant Hamiltons’ ball—the event of the season. I had been looking forward to this ball with interest for a good while, because 1 intended to find an opportunity there to effect a reconciliation with Alice. Such opportunities were not frequent, and I knew that if I missed this one it might be a long time before I found another, and that odiously handsome Dick Hamilton was paying her a great deal more attention than I liked. Alice and I had been close friends ever since we were children, and I had come to feel that I had a sort of prop-ietorship in her. We had even been engaged for just twenty-four hours, at the end of which time we had quarreled, for reasons too complicated and too absurd to be introduced here. I speedily repented, however, and was only waiting for an opportunity to induce her to do likewise. With this weighty resolution on my mind, it is no wonder that I felt a little tremor as I started to go downstairs, and that I scanned myself with unusual attention in the great pier glass, to make sure that my attire was perfect. Nothing embarrasses one more under trying circumstances than the consciousness of being badly dressed. I was. I think I may say, well dressed. My trousers were impeccable, my gloves’, ditto, my coat fitted to perfection, my white waistcoat was as spotless—to employ a figure which is popular among my brother barristers—asspotless as the driven snow; myhair was at that precise point when it has lost the formality given to it by the hairdresser without assuming the wild and umbrageous appearance to be noticed among mnSeians and other doubtful characters. My complexion had never been better. Gn the whole, I was well satisfied with th ■ general effect. When I entered the ballroom. Alice was away at the further end, talking, I grieved to note, with that odious young Hamilton. I did not care to make my approach under such circumstances, and hided my chance with what patience I could muster. Finally my opportunity came, and I lost no time in reaching her -ide. She greeted me very kindly, as she always did, in something the same style that she might have received a very old friend of her father. This cheerful, unembarrassed greeting always provoked me beyond measure; but I did my best to stifle my ill temper, which was also somewhat assuaged by the pleasing discovery that through some misunderstanding she was not engaged for the next dance. I had never seen her more radiantly beautiful, and I could feel the eyes of many envious observers turned upon us as we took our places. The next dance and the next were taken, but the third she piomised to me. At the end of this dance, I remarked that she was somewhat flushed with the heat, and proposed that wc should take a turn in the conservatory.

Whether she (messed what was in my mind or not. I cannot say It seemed to me that the color grew a shade deeper in her lovely cheeks, but that may have been due to the heat, or was, perhaps, but the effect of my own imagination. At any rate, she assented in the most charming manner in the world, and we strolled out into the large and handsome conservatory which was now quite deserted. It was in this same conservatory that we had stood and talked the evening after we were engaged, ami I hoped that memories of this would affect her, as they did me. But alas! she was evidently in a far from sympathetic state of mind. “I suppose you must be very much engaged with your profession,” she remarked, sweetly; “we see so little of you nowadays,” This had all the effect of premeditated satire. It had not Wen a month since we had laughed merrily together at my briefless condition, and had agreed that we could be happy together without riches. “Not so deeply engaged but that I find time to call on all who care to have me," I answered, bitterly. "Indeed, you arc very unkind and unjust to speak so.” she replied, with unruffled tranquillity. "It was only last Thursday that I heard Uncle Jack say—” “Something very flattering, no doubt." I broke in. angrily. “A very fine division of affection, indeed. I enjoy your Uncle Jack’s, and yours goes to that—” “I think we had better go back, now, Mr. Lang. I had supposed that I might trust you, as an old friend, not to try to annoy and vex me.” "Mr. Lang! I see lam getting to be a very old friend, indeed. So old that 1 soon shall be quite forgotten. Y'ou are right. Wfc had better go back; your new friends will be expecting I you.” “Why will you be so perverse and so eruel. Robert?” “At least I am not cruel enough to forget you. But that, you could account a kindness. I suppose.” “Indeed. I would rather have you forget me than think so unkindly of me. I had hoped that we might always be good friends.” “I think,” I replied with unpardonable brutality, “that you had better

invest in a lap dog. They are much more manageable." “You are right,” she said, with icy sweetness: “and they are at least grateful to their friends.” “Forgive me. Alice!" I stammered; “1 did not mean to be such a brute.” "Let us forget everything but that we are very good friends,” she answered after a moment s pause. “And 1 want to put your friendship to a selfish use this very minute.” "You know very well that I would gladly die for you.” “Oh. my wants are not so exorbitant as that.” she answered, lightly. "1 merely want your advice, as my oldest and best friend, in a case where I can't trust my family to judge impartially I think you know Mr. Hamilton—Mr. Richard Hamilton. I mean." And 1 fancied that she blushed a trifle as she mentioned the name. I answered with a very bad grace that I had the great honor of a distant acquaintance with the young gentleman in quest ion. “I fancied so. Now. the long and short of the matter is. that my people are very anxious to have me—marry him; and Aunt Mary in particular has her heart set on it.” “He seems to me a very desirable parti, indeed,’’ I said, coldly. "1 suppose you hardly need my congratulations.” "He, too, is so silly as to want to marry me," she went on. without seeming to notice my rude speech, “and 1 have promised to give him an answer this evening. And what” —here she seemed strangely embarrassed, and became deeply absorbed in the figures on her fan—"what answer shall I give him?" “What answer?” I cried, as her meaning flashed over my dull comprehension, "why, tell him that you are engaged, of course!" Just what happened next is ratner hazy in my mind—almost obliterated by the direful catastrophe which so soon followed. I dimly remember kissing her upturned face as we stood in the shadow of a great South American cactus, that screened us from all observation, and drawing her toward a divan that we had occupied on the memorable evening when we had been engaged before. We knew all the strongholds of her aunt's house perfectly. ••How absurd to think that we ever quarreled," I observed, presently. “Oh, don't talk of that horrid time any more! I have nearly cried my eyes out over it Let's just remember that we have loved each other all the while.” For a moment there was silence. “Alice!" I said, severely, as a sudden thought came to me; “what were you Int ending to answer—” “That." replied Mistress Alice, serenely, "you will never know.” "There, that dance is finished," I said; “the rabble will be out here in a moment.” "There is no hurry,” she answered, with the delightful » iny fro loi wom-an-kind under circumstances that are trying to masculine nerves. “We ean see anyone who passes the turn of the staircase.” “Ah! now it is time,” she said, laughingly; “and I will see if I ean fix my-1 self up a little. You have put my hair in a shocking state of disorder. L'gh! What's that?" I sprang to my feet, aghast. On her delicate pink corsage was a large and gruesome stain of black, that was slowly but surely spreading over the entire front “I —I—l'm afraid it's ink!” I said, in quavering accents of despair. “Ink! Where in the world should ink come from?” Her voice had a hard, sharp quality, that I had heard onee in awhile before. Evidently her ladyship's mood was fast losing its amiability, and I felt some tremors of fear. I knew altogether too well where the ink came from. With an awful certainty I looked at my once immaculate white waistcoat; it was now a gruesome soppy mass of Smith's blue-black commercial writing fluid. The emergency was frightful. Was there an outside exit? And then the dresshorrible. I had known affection to outlast the crash of fortunes, and to; vanish like frost-work at a dish of gravy spilled over a new gown. Since that day I have utterly refused to believe all stories of hair growing gray from fright and anguish. It is absolutely impossible that anyone should be scared as I was. Alice looked up from her own ruined finery and caught the woe-begone expression on my face, and. overcome with the ludierousness of the situaI tion. she burst into a little ripple of laughter, in which I was obliged to I join. “Oh, hero she is!"’ said a familiar voice, and Mr. Sturdevant-Hamilton. , accompanied by the handsome Dick, turned in front th- long staircase. I | saw the young gentleman’s jaw drop suddenly, and the sight comforted me amazingly, and gave me courage to meet stormy weather. “Why, Alice!” cried the aunt, and her stern glances wandered from Alice’s luckless gown to my lamentable waiscoat in a manner that showed that two was rapidly being added to two with the customary result. "What in the world, Alice, have you been doing?” “I rather think, aunt,” she mischievously replied—"l rather think that we have been getting engaged.” Dick’s face still wore a gloomy and sardonic expression, but he managed tc pluck up enough spirit to make one of his abominable puns. "It strikes me." he said, sadly, "that that is a melancholy waist of ink.” it was probably about five years before got through teasing us about our unlucky adventure, I do not expect ever to hear the last of it, exactly, but we never hear it mentioned now except incidentally, and neither my wife nor I seem to care at all any more. But i can still remember the horrid sensaiicu of that dreadful moment. As I said before. It seems as though it had all happened yesterday. I never desired another fountain pen. 1 • —Home and Country.

Honduras Itemsf Th,-r.-.<-rrv ~-umi '*,*<7 tor . hrard l» this vieinitj. " ur ■ yuan! time has come. ; folks ' . > , .ere in Pecaturlnst A number of our lx .'s Tuesday on business. . h typhoid 1 V. S. Peas" is lying very low witn i ‘ 'T H. Fulk was In Decatur last Friday leok- •| Ing "tier !»;-:<>< ” " ,i,l,vr '' <’■ UwistK-ln-r left so» J»ekM>n 1 la-twe-f.-rw--.. Ib . it | We aw <l“l‘” ’*>"> fe „ of oßrt-|t-t vine swindlers hoe J lesI l-iit we hop* l that it maj'»*» S I | Irens, but w< I a |i the stranger II son for those who listen t u-llsthem. attended the J A crowd of our youn-- t , v ,. n | n g. I society at V era t * 11 1 ■ found i| One morningof !;■'> ""* 1 " ’ 1 some very Improper ' board at So. who h u|»-n 1 ' . ' ■ \ mund to be the work of » eert.m o»n^? Hos this neighborhood. » • , con . 1 young lady should be ace id-" * I duct. i«. s t 1 Wm. E. Fulk and wife of Decatur.sp.nl ‘ Sunday with relatlv. - here. Berne Items. .! Business good and weather Mrs. Wm. Baumgartner is viry - • . I present time. I KOO is your ehan.-e if weekly paper. Subscribe for the "'I- at >! thel’ostoffiee. Berne Item* will be carefully . I collected all year. , > • this place, spent Sunday with bls fra -nd, hew. ! peter Asbbauchermadea sliort call at > ph.ee on Monday. SUya »«• KW* i time, Pete. • I Had Michaud and wife were pleasantly >ur- ■ - .;ml.-r..f the;r . I friends, bad says ii i- wonderful . people ean enjoy then.-, » *»*>• . like this. I On Monday afternoon Joseph Longa, k, L. it I i, I anfffifker. on l»ehig . asked to hold a hor>e a few minutes willinglj I W la.r dome (0 the horse rear(-d I upaad fell on the boy hurtlnghim badly. ’ I is in a serious condition. II I’. W Smith’s mill at this place started up ■ I Wednesday after a weeks rest. !| Mrs. John Leichty. living west of town, died . sun-lav nlel.t of old age and lagrippe. The , deceased was eighty years, seven months and , eighteen days old. Funeral took place W e-i- --,' nesday forenoon. 1 The teachers of Adams county will hold a joint institute at this place on Saturday. Feb. ■ , 16th. I K. K. Allison of Decatur, was in town Tues- I ' day afternoon. | Jacob Wegmi.ler of Geneva, was in town ; 1 ■ Tuesday afternoon. ’ The Berne hoop works will commence work , Monday, after a four week's vacation, if the j i weather is favorable. SIX SPASM* A DAY. Dr. JfUaa JfacfuxU Ca., Elkhart, Ind, Gkntlimxm: I never lose an opportunity to recommend Dr. Miles’ Restorative Nervine to any ■ I * me articled with nervous c< m;: w:nu w ith the assurance that H u ; not ■ 1 ** d>apr*-int them. When our b y was eighteen mnntha old he was attacked with violent spasms sjometimee he would have five or six spasms in a singledsy. wt vuitc u.ht -u.s wi'homt uswern; finally our druggist meoded _ P-.y e N « r CU RED <■ "etried v 1 * h* could see that be was Bewm-rto r«qu THt first ooei. We used three bottles, and I am happy to sav th, ch; i was ENTIRELY CURED. We useduo i otner r, medy, aud hts cure is complete. He is ly healthy. Nou are at liberty to use my name In BOUNDING TMB PRAISE OF THIS WONDtMUI ICMtOY - 8. C. Hiacox. Agent Pacific Exprees Co Hastings, Nebraska. April 6ih, 1892, Dr. Miles’ Nervine, mcwt cxßTanr crux fob HEADACHE, NEURALGIA, NERVOUS PROSTRATION, DIZZINESS, SPASMS, SLEEPLESSNESS, DULLNESS, BLUES, aid OPIUM hartt SOLD ON A POSITIVE GUARANTEE. TRY DR. MILE?-’ PILLS, 50 DOSES 25 CIS For Notions, Small Hard- ' ware, Tinware and Holiday 1 Goods, call on the Bargain Store next door to Postofiice. The new clothing store of Ike Rosenthall is simply im- , mense with a iine of goods ■ unequalledin style and price. > See him for Suits. E. Buhler & Bro. ! Are paying the highest , market price for 2d-Growth White Uak Logs, also Oak i and Elm Butts. If you have timber of this kind to sell • see them. Office and factory' N orth Eighth street. Decatur [ Indiana. I , — . Follow the eiowd at meal time and jou will find yourself at the t I iiion Bakery. For rent—Roohis over Tim - Coffee’s. Inquire of Mr. Coffee. ’ niK 1 W . Sn i lth has P UI- chased - all the timber on land in Ad--1 wT C °? nty owned b y Joseph 1 ' T u .H man > consisting of ar bout 500 acres, and hereby 1 7 f ? Pe rson s to keep off s of said land and not to cut or • remove any timber from said ■ land - P. W. SMITH

H. F. kXtsTF.LLO. PHYSICIAN and SUEGEON r Office on w, '? t slfi? °f over r T. xt n * Hardware More, Kesiaence on west r Thini Street, between> U.-ksoa, UalUpromptly attended today and night. ’ j., F. BF.ATTT J. F. M.4XX MANN A BEATTY, attorneys at law Vnd Notaries I’ublie. I’etutton claims pr,>nv ' euted. odd Fellows building. ; r T) ATTOKNEY-AT-LAW. AND NOTARY ITIILIC. Pensions and Collections a specialty. Os. See iu the Joint C. Hale Building GENEVA. ... - INDIANA. 8080 GOFFKE, attorneys-at-law Booms over P.O. Decatur. Ind Ij — — 1. T. rBASCE. J. T. MERHTMAX. X. p. FKANt F. A MERRYMAN attorneys at law, decatfr. ind. Office Nos. 1. S and A over Adams Co. Hank. We refer, by permission, to Adams Co. Hank! BARBER : AND : HAIR : DRESSER G-x-d workmen always employed. Drop n for a good, smooth, easy shave. 0T MONROE STREET 1 ~ J. D. HALE DEALER IN Grain. Seed, Wool, Salt, Oil, Coal, Lime, Fertilizers. Elevators on the Chicago A Erie and Clover Leaf railroads. Gffiee and retail store south.•awt I'orntTof Second and Jefferson Streets. ’Your patronage solicited. 1 Money to Loan. I have money to Joan onthe Loan Assoeia- | tion plan. No fees to be paid by borrowers < an furnish money on a few days notice. Buy i horn*-and 'top paying rent. Low rate of interest. Dfficv over Donovan A Bremer ramp. Central Grocery. Decatur, Ind. PAUL HOOPER Lost. —A box and catalogues of Bicycle Supplies, wrapped in red paper. The supplies were lost on public highway between Decatur and rt’ren, Ohio. Finder please return to this office and receive re- | ward. The G. R. & I. (Effect Sept. 23, IM.) TRAINS NORTH. •No. 3. ♦No. 5. •No t ! Richmond 11:00 am 11.25 pm 3.3) pm Parry 11:10 “ 3:40 ” , Votaw Harley 3:51 " i Fountain Uily. 11:25 “ 3:57 “ Johnson 11:35 “ 4:10 " Lynn 11:40 - 15:02a m 4:15 ’’ -now Hill 1140 “ 4:21 ” I Woods.. . 11:40 “ *:24 ’ i Winchester 12:00 “ 15:30 am 4:34 ’’ St ■ • 18 1" p m i Ridgeville 12:19 “ 12.30 am 4:53 " ; Collet 13.38 “ 5:05 - Portland “ 12:5<am 5:17 “ Jay 12:53 “ 5:26 “ Briant 12:50 “ 5:32 “ Geneva 1:07 “ 1:14 am 5:41 ■ Ceylon 5:43 ” Berne 118 “ 5:51 " Monroe 1:3B “ 6:01 *' DE< ATL’R... 147 “ 1:44 a m 6:12 ! Monmouth Williams 2:01 “ 6:3»i ’ i Hoagland 2:00 ** 6:31 - Adams 6:43 ” Fort Wayne.... 2:35 “ 2:20 am 6:55 *’ ’Dally, except Sunday. *Dally to Grand | Rapids. TRAINS SOUTH. ♦No. 2. ♦No. 6. JNo. 4. I Fort Wayne.... 1:15 p m 11:45 p m 5:43 aiu I Adams 5:5k I Hoagland 1:39 12:15am 6:13 " | Williams ... 1:45 “ . 12:21 “ 6:18 y Monmouth * 6:24 U>F< ATVK . . 1:50 “ 12:37 “ 6:*' ■ Mourue 2:13 “ 12’50 “ 6:44 Berne 2:2> " 1:02 “ 6 * Ceylon 7:04 Geneva 2:35 ’’ 1.14 “ 7:«« " i Briant 2:44 “ 1:24 “ 7 15 Jay 1:31 “ 7:21 - . Portland 3:00 “ 1:41 “ 7:Ji» Collett 1:51 “ 7:41 " Ridgeville... . 3:24 “ 2:08 " 7;50 ” 'tone . .. 2:14 “ 7:50 " Winchester.... 3:44 “ 2:25 " 8:09 " : . 2.31 •• " ! Snow Hill 2:36 “ 8:25 Lynn 4:05 “ 2:42 “ 8: ” I Johnson 2:47 “ 8.3 s Fountain t'ity. 4:21 “ 2:57 “ 8:43 Ha lev . 8:55 ” j Votaw 8:59 “ I Parry 9:»> “ | Richmond 4:45 “ 3:20 “ V:l-> i ’Daily Grand Rapids. tDaily ex. Sunday • Jeff Bryson. Agent. i C. L. Lockwood, Gen. Pa*. Agent. The Erie Lines, (Schedule In effect June 17. 1804.1 Trains leave I>vcatur as follows; WEST. No. 5. vestibule limited, daily 2:1 •> p1 No. 4. Pacific express, daily IsUa.iaJ No. 1. express, daily 10:45 a. m. 1 A 31. local, daily ex. Sunday EAST No. 8, vestibule limited, daily 8:06 p k No. 2. express, daily T. 55 p. ni. No. 12. express, daily l;3l’ a. tn. No. 30, local, daily ex. Sunday 10:45 a. nit Train No. 12 carries through sleepinto Columbus. Circleville. Chillicothe. Waver- ‘ X’. Portsmouth. Ironton, and Kenova, via ; Columbus,. Hoc-king Valley & Toledo, and Norfolk & Western lines J. W. DeLong. Agent I LW. McEdwakds. T A.. Huntingt on The Clover Leaf. (Toledo, St. Louis A Kansas City Ry ) EAST. - f Local 2:J5 p.m • WEST. I . Express . . p. n: I Mail I Local . 10:3->a- m E. A. W HiXRZY. Agi bb