Democratic Press, Volume 1, Number 20, Decatur, Adams County, 28 February 1895 — Page 10

THE ANAXAT BABY SHOW Peculiar Predicament of a Young Married Coupla. Several years ago, the following letter wus posted in the Boston centred post office: “Boston, Mass., April 10,19 — "Dxaa Henry: I am thinking of having a baby show at Anaxat some time early next month. You know lam an old hand at getting tip such things and think it may be made a success. I have seen a great number of babies whenever I have been out there, and in pleasant weather, such as we are apt to have in May, I think a -show’ will draw a crowd. Now may I ask you to take care of some things for me? In about ten days I shall send out perambulators. and beg vou to see them stored in Smith's warehouse, sending me the bill If you Will do this I shall be much indebted to you. “Hoping you and your wife are in good health, I remain yours truly, “S. Qoncey Lamb “Mb. Henry Woodis, Anaxat, Mass." This letter was unfortunately lost in the mails, for I never received it. Unfortunately, I may well say, for it involved me in the worst scrape I was ever in. About two weeks later, as 1 was seated at the breakfast table ami was half way through the meal, the maid brought in a telegram. Tearing it open, I read: “One hundred perambulators will come by 7:3oexpress- Store them as agreed, “S, QuiNcKY Lamb." One hundred perambulators! For me! Seven-thirty-express! Store them as agreed! To say that I was amazed would be putting it mildly. Luckily my wife came to my rescue. “The 7:30 is due here now,” she said, looking at the elock. “With a hundred baby carriages addressed to me,” I chimed in. “You must go right off to the station,” she said, “hire a couple of men and cart them here.” “Heavens!" I cried, “the neighbors will think I’m out of my mind.” “It's the only thing to be done,” Helen said. “Well, I'll go,” I answered desperately, and leaving my half-finished breakfast, I took my hat and darted off. It was a warm spring day. On the way to the station I thought out a plan of action. “The train must have gone,” I reasoned, “leaving the wretched things on the platform.” And then I imagined how it would look halfcovered with baby carriages, all addressed to me, and wondered if any of I my friends had seen them. “What on earth does Lamb want with a hundred perambulators here?” I asked myself. But I could find no answer to the question. “As agreed upon.” I had not heard from him for two months, and surelj then he had not mentioned sending me such a cargo. There was some mistake somewhere, I plainly saw, but soon gave up wondering where. I reached the station at last, and saw to my dismay the further end of the platform covered with the dreaded , objects. I had no sooner stepped on to the platform than the station-master hurried up and informed me that there were a hundred perambulators for me. I said yes, that I expected them, ami it | seemed to me that he looked at me with a new interest as he asked me j ’ what was to be done with them. Y'ou ! must know that I was only married ! last fall, and the knowledge of this ■ fact doubtless added to his astonish- , ment. He was probably wondering to | himself what on the face of the earth a i newly married man wanted with a hundred—but I am tired of mentioning them. The very thought of that morning makes my blood run cold whenever I see one of them on the street. I asked the station-master if there was any express wagon about, but to my horror he said the only expressman the town owned was laid up with a lame leg. In despair I looked about me and saw a couple of loungers near at hand. Hailing them as a heavensent deliverance, I went up to them and asked if they wanted to earn a fiver apiece. They were delighted, i rfhd I explained that they must wheel the carriages from the station to my house, half a mile off. I thought my law practice in town would have to wait a day, and we three started off, 1 leading, each pushing one of those things before him. As we passed along the principal street we attracted much attention, and my face grew more and more red as I passed various acquaintances. On we went until we reached the house, where we handed them over to HelenThen back again to the station. And so all that hot morning we trundled carriages through the town. We got to be a regular sight, and by twelve o’clock all the people in town, at least so it seemed to me, were in line to see us pass. The perspiration streamed from my face, my collar had wilted early in the day, and I felt tempted to discard my coat. Various conjectures were made by acquaintances as to what was up. I heard several people ask if Mr. Woodis intended to open a private hospital for babies, and I inwardly groaned at the hardness of my fate. My anger also rose against Lamb as time passed on, and I vowed if I ever got hold of him I'd pay him back for his scurvy trick. Gradually the carriages accumulated In our house, and at the end of the twenty-fifth trip Helen told me that all the bedrooms and halls were full and that they would have to line the walls of both parlor and dining-room. “Put them anywhere,” I said, and hurried back to the station. A dozen times I declared that I would stop and let the men finish the job, but the thought of those things with my name on them covering the platform filled me with fresh energy. All that morning we worked, and as we carried the last three up the steps I heard the clock strike one. I paid the men and went into the house. Baby carriages were everywhere. The parlor had a row of them on all four sides, they took up a part of the dining-room, and a fringe of them surrounded the hat rack in the hall. I deposited my hat in one of them and went upstairs. I opened my door and saw more carriages. They were everywhere, packed

closely, leaving only a narrow path through which to pass. Lunch was over and Helen informed me that we had accepted invitations to an afternoon tea for that date. “Can't I get out of it?” I groaned, but prepared to go, knowing that the chief topic of conversation would be my extraordinary purchase of a hundred perambulators. As we started Helen said that perhaps her friend Louisa Hass might drop in to tea. She lived in Boston, but had a standing invitation to take tea with us whenever she pleased. “She said see'd come some day soon, when I saw her last Tuesday in town,” my wife said. Off we went, end as I had predicted my wondrous purchase was the chief topic of interest.

On our return we found our friend had come, had been told that we were not at home and had concluded to wait for us. “I saw some baby carriages in the hall," she said, “but'thought nothing of them until I went upstairs to take off my bonnet There I found them galore. I was amazed and couldn’t account for so many in any way. What is the matter?” she asked. We showed her the telegram, told her all that we knew about it, and asked her what she could make out of it. We had given up wondering some time ago. At last I went to bed tired out with the day's excitement, but my dreams were filled with endless rows of baby carriages. I found out afterward that, chancing to meet a friend in Boston soon after he sent the telegram. Lamb casually , mentioned that he intended having a baby show at Anaxat in a week or so. i This friend, one Charles Cardline, as it chanced, had a brother in Anaxat and . he happened to be at his house on the | very afternoon of the tea party. Ashe said good-by to his brother at the sta- ■ tion, on his way into town, he re- I marked that he believed there was to be a baby show there soon. As his brother was about to question him the train came by, and, getting on, he left for Boston. On his way home his brother thought over his last remark, and after much pondering the idea came to him that that was the cause of my receiving one hundred perambulators that very morning. He was immensely pleased at having found the i answer to the problem which no one had been able to explain, and informed ! Ids assembled family at supper that he knew why Mr. Woodis had bought those baby carriages—that he was going to have a baby show within a few ■ days. It never struck him as peculiar that a young lawyer recently married, as I was at that time, should have a baby show in his private residence, or, j if it did strike him, the thought was | vastly outweighed by the evidence ; against it. The news spread like wildfire, and by the next night it was known all j over town that I was to have a baby ' show in a day or two. It naturally i followed then that every mother who had a baby was anxious that it should < be entered in the show for others to j admire and wonder at, and I came | down to breakfast on the following morning in fear and trepidation lest | some eager mother should come to see | me before the day was out. My fears were justified, for just as I j was finishing my breakfast the servant ! told me there was a lady on the porch , who wished to see me. With a pre- I monition as to the cause of her visit I hastened to meet her. She was sitting on the porch with her babj' in her arms, i She immediately arose and informed | me that she had heard that I was to have a baby show and desired to enter her little darling, when, to my dismay, who should I see approaching my gate but two more mothers w ith their precocious infants. At this sight I hastily Informed her that it was all a mistake, there was to be no show, and—but to my horrified gaze was presented another pair approaching. “I am very sorry to have caused you this annoyance,” I said, “but there has been a false report.” And leaving her I advanced to meet the approaching forces, intending to address them from the porch, hoping that the first mother would have sense enough to leave. Alas! it was not so. The sight of the others had emboldened her and she advanced into the house and selected the best carriage in the parlor for her own darling. With a groan I saw another trio approaching from the other direction, and hastened to the gate to forewarn them, allowing the others to gain the porch and thence to struggle into the house in search of resting places for their burdens. More and more approached. Seeing the parlor full of women, the newcomers thought they had better hasten also, and were spreading all over the house in order to find perambulators for their children before the supply gave out. My words had no effect; the sight of others spurred them on. Hannibal. Marc Antony. Rienzi—their tasks were nothing as compared with mine. Their audiences listened I spoke to deafened ears. My wife came out to me at last in , I despair. “The house is full.” she said. I I caught a glimpse of a group just then 1 marching up to the porch and seating themselves there, and still they came. I ■ shouted at them. ’Twas useless. The; sight of other babies filled the ap- : proaching forces with a desire that theirs also should share the privileges of their rivals. Suddenly Helen jerked my sleeve. “Look," she said. I turned and saw my friend Quincey approaching along the street, valise in hand and a happy smile on his face. Just then a lively infant on the porch sent up a piercing shriek, which was joined in by several others, and a general hubbub followed. But the reception he received at our house I am sure he will never forgot.—Arthur’s Home Magazine. —The great thing in observation is not to be influenced by our preconceived notions, or what we want to be true, or by our fears, hopes or any personal element, and to see the thing just as it is.—. John Burroughs.

FORGOTTEN. How Paul Weguelic’R Great Sorrow Was Drowned. Theirs was a love match if ever a : marriage was! The engagement had lasted more than five years, and had been entered into when matrimony ' looked as unattainable a prospect as a house in Lancaster Gate, a carriage and pair, and a retinue of servants. Not that they ever did reside in Lancaster Gate. It was a humble little: wedding enough when the eventful day did dawn, and they took up their abode in a tiny house in Highgate, where, as a matter of fact, they were as happy as the day is long. Tlie day was long—the phrase is not a commonplace—for the young husband went to his clerk’s stool in the city directly after breakfast, and it was not till seven o’clock in the evening that Ethel saw him again. Both | declared that the hours of their separation appeared interminable. But they had their hopes, it should be understood. Paul was not made to be j a clerk all his life—a young man named Paul could not be! There was something incongruous about a ‘T’aul” totting up columns in a ledger and saying “sir" to an employer —“Paul” suggests art or literature, a calling in Bohemia, and Paul Weguelin intended to be a playwright. He had a couple of dramas which Ethel vowed were beautiful declined by every manager in London already, | and undeterred by the nonsueeess of , these he was meditating a third. In the evening, after supper, when Ethel sat beside the fire working, he would : light Ins pipe and proceed to weave, for their encouragement, fancy pictures of the night when he should be called : before the curtain by frantic cries of "Author, Author,” and drive home with his little wife’s hand in his—a made man. Ethel would nod her head approvingly, and if such conversations did not do much to advance his ambitions, they were certainly amusing.

home months before their child was to be b- rn, however, a scenario was definitely laid down. They had gone to work in a professional manner, these two young people, and chosen the theater they would favor, and then Paul had mapped out a plot to suit the company. “That is what is always done, dearest,” he declared; “I’ve gathered as ■ much as that from the papers. Y’ou j see, with the other two plays I made the mistake of writing to please myself instead of studying the requirements of a particular management. Now we ll go in and win.” A clerk’s life is not conducive to the pi.rsuil of literature, and Paul Wegue-1 lin frequently felt disinclined to go frem one desk to another, but he persevered in his .elf-appointed task nobly. , 'Vhen Ethel bad gone to bed he would sit up writing until he was compelled to lay down the pen from sheer ex- : haustion. And after a fair start was made, too, his interest in the thing ! grew. His characters appeared to gain ! life —to be more real—and Ethel ; spurred him on by her appreciation and prophecies of success. She did not complain that her evenings were now as lonely as her days; | they were entirely one, she and her I husband. She felt that the play was | as much hers as his, apd she would read it and criticise, and suggest, every ; bit as enthralled in its development as j he was. It was finished at last, and they posted it together with a little note ; begging for its consideration; and every evening for the next few weeks listened with tense nerves each time the postman’s knock sounded in the street. No communication about it came, however, and then Paul was given a son, an i for awhile even the thought ' of his play was banished from his mind by reason of Ethel’s illness. She was very ill, indeed, poor girl, but it was not often absent from her recollection —the drama from which they hoped so much—and she talked of ' it in her delirium, and repeated lines from it 'until Paul thought his heart would break with pain and terror. In the terrible time that followed he ' had but one small consolation; she was conscious before she died. He will always be able to recall every incident of their "Good-by," down to the smallest details. He sat on the edge of the bed. | holding her hands, and praying dumb futile prayers while he endeavored to reassure her and choke down his sobs. The lamp on the mantel-piece had gone ’ out, and the flame of the candles on the toilet table was the only light in the room. Her eves were dreadfully | big, and the whiteness of her face shocked him. Her voice quivered pathetically, and vaguely he wished in moments that she would not speak; it I was her voice, the pathos of the poor i weak voice, that endangered his self- j control, and twisted his throat in I knots. “I shall never see the play, Paul,” ! she murmured. “I did want to see the | play so. Don't cry. Poor boy, you mustn t cry; Darling—darling!” Somebody said something to him—- ■ the doctor, or the nurse —he did not ! know. He sat staring at the dying I girl blindly through his tears, and a few minutes later he realized that she would never speak to him again. The mysterious borderland was passed. And she was buried. He sat amid the unfamiliarity of the familiar room, dazed and stupefied. There was the chair where she always sat at this hour; there her workbasket or her book should have been lying; there were the plants perishing for water —how vexed she would have been could she have seen them! Mechanically he took up the water caraffe and moistened the dry soil in the pots just as she had been wont to do; instantaneously it seemed to him that to neglect them would be • slight to the wishes of the dead. He remembered that he must send the announcement of her death to the papers. It was horrible to write such lines here where everything spoke her name—"the dearly beloved wife of Paul Weguelin"—he had done it, and every year he would send an in me-

monam notice—every year on the anniversary of her loss. The child was no comfort to him. The baby seemed to the husband's grief responsible for what had happened. He left it to the care of the nurse, and often, when he returned from the city, and the little chap was asleep, he did not go upstairs to look at him. Yes,j indeed, it had been a lovematch, and Paul’s heart seemed buried in Ethel’s grave. For months he lived the life of an automaton, performing his duties mechanically, thinking of nothing, earing for nothing, but the past which could never be rekindled or revived. Once, when he eame home, he found that tin- play hail been, sent back by the manager as useless to him. lie scarcely noticed it. He glanced at the rejection form indifferently, and tossed the manuscript into a drawer among the limbo of forgotten things. One day was so like another, the months so void of event, and it came upon him with u shock one night to realize that Ethel would soon have been dead a year. Was it possible?— twelve months ago! Yes. on the 22d, and it was now the 21st. lie went heavily to his desk, just where he had sat before, and wrote tlie in memoriam notice he had vowed to write. “The dearly beloved wife of Paul Weguelin!” The tears ran down his face. "Every year, sweetheart," he muttered, huskily, “every year till we meet each other again!” People commented on his faithfulness to a memory—so few men are faithful to the living. In the office he was sometimes invited to spend an evening at a friend’s house or at a theater. He invariably declined. He still wore deep mourning. Acquaintances began to call it affectation, but they wronged him. He had but one relaxation, and that had come to him rather than been sought. As the boy grew an affection that surprised himself awoke in Paul Weguelin’s breast, and the only hours in which he regained something of his former cheerfulness were when he was playing with his child. From one step to another. When the youngster was two years old Paul came, by chance, upon the play he had thrown aside in despair. lie took it up and reread it. 11 was good—good. A little of his old interest in it sprang j into being again. Supposing he were ( to submit it somewhere else? He forwarded it to a theater the following day. It came back a month later, but he was in earnest again now, and he sent it to another house. The latest management was a long time replying, but when an answer did i come, it was. to some extent, favorable. I Assuming that certain alterations were made in it, the drama might possibly I be put on. lie was not excited: he was dismayed at himself in perceiving bow dull and inert the prospect left him. He contrasted his absence of emotion with what he would have felt at the time when Ethel was with him—Ethel, who had died crying that she would not live to see the play produced. Nevertheless he went to see the manager, and had the suggested amendments definitely explained. They took several weeks to effect, and when they were completed, some changes in the managerial intentions left the fate ci the play doubtfid still.

lt remained doubtful while summer merged into autumn and autumn turned to winter snows. And then at last it was accepted absolutely. Paul Weguelin's name began to creep i»lo the newspapers. The drama went into rehearsal. The author's pulses beat a shade more quickly and his fellow clerks wrung his hand and asked for I “orders” with astonishment "writ large” on their countenances. “Great Scott, old fellow! You a | dramatist! You did keep it close. Well, j I [congratulate you. I'm sure. I suppose you’ll be chucking the city directly and be a heavy swell up west?” It was pleasant. He could not deny that he enjoyed it; his tobacco tasted better; he knew at last what it was to be excited again. The rehearsals, when he was able to attend them, even banished the memory of Ethel from . his mind. But this distressed him when he observed it, and ha made a pilgrimage to her grave which was for the first time perfunctory. When the curtain went up on the first night lie stood at the back of the dress circle with ashen cheeks and a heart that thumped as if it would suffocate him. His lines—his lines—were being spoken on the stage, and the audience laughed and clapped their hands at them. The act drop fell; it rose; the applause grew more vociferous. The piece was a success, an unmistakable triumph. He was called at the end and loudly cheered. He asked no more of fate; his cep was fuU. Some one insisted on carrying him off with a party to supper. There were | champagne and merriment. He made a speech; it was a witty speech; everybody banged the table. Perhaps he had drunk a little more than he was accustomed to, but —what did it matter? The champagne was good, and the play was good, too. By Jove, they were all good—all good fellows together. Just as he made the last remark his tongue changed, and with a brief word he sat down hastily. It occurred to him at this moment that the date was the 22d. The third in memoriam announcement should have appeared that morning and he had forgotten to send it.—F. C. Phillips, in St. Paul. —How He Was Reared.—Landlady—"l do think Mr. Star is the most careless man I ever saw. He leaves his things lying around his room in such I confusion.” Maid—‘Tve noticed it, mem. I g-uess he must have been raised a married man, mem.”—Detroit Free Press. — —At Tissington, an English town, the wells and springs are decorated on Ascension day, in memory of a rain that fell on that date nearly four hundred years ago, after a drought that 1 threatened a famine.

PRACTICALLY PIRATES. Such Wore Soma of Our Early American Anoeatora They Sailed the Seat In Guise of Honest Trader*. But Never Let Slip an Opportunity to Swindle Foreign Tradesmen. Sea stealing, though they did not call it by so harsh a name, was a leading industry with the thrifty dwellers in this town two hundred years ago, , writes Thomas A. Janvier in Harper s Magazine. That was a good time for sturdy adventure afloat: and our wellmettled New Yorkers were not the kind then, any more than they are now, to let money-making chances slip away by default. Even in referring to what is styled (but very erroneously) j the drowsy period of the Dutch domination, the most romantic of our his" torians have not ventured the suggestion that anybody over went to sleep when there was a bargain to be made; and in the period to which I now refer, when the English fairly settled in possession of Now York by twenty years of occupancy, exceeding wide awakeness was the rule. Nor was anybody troubled with squeamishness. Therefore it was that our townsfolk, paltering no more with fortune than they did with moral scruples, set themselves briskly to collecting the revenues of the sea. These revenues were raised by two different systems, which may be likened, for convenience’sake, to direct and to indirect taxation. In the first case, ourjrobust townspeople put out to sea in private armed vessels ostentatiously carrying letters of marque en titling them to war against the king’s enemies — which empowering doeu- ' ments they construed, as soon as they had made an oiling from Sandy Hook, as entitling than to lay hands upon all desirable property that they found afloat under any flag. The indirect method of taxation had in it less heroic quality than was involved in the direct levy; yet was it, being safer in a business way and almost as profitable, very extensively carried on. Euphemism was well thought of even then in New York: wherefore this more conservative class of sea-robbers posed squarely as honest merchants engaged in what they termed the Red sea trade. At the foot of the letter, as our French cousins say, their position was well taken Their so-called merchant ships dropped down the harbor into the bay and thence out to the seaward, carrying, for merchant men, oddly-mixed ladings, whereof the main quantities were arms and gunpowder and cannon-balls and lead, and strong spirits, and provisions and general sea stores. Making a course to the southeastward, they would slide around the cape to some convenient meeting-place in the Indian ocean, usually Madagascar, where they would fall in with other ships—whereof the lading was eastern stuffs, and spices, and precious stones, and a good deal of deep-toned yellow-red Arabian gold. No information was volunteered by their possessors, a rough-and-tumble dare-devil bushy-bearded set of men, as to where these pleasing commodities came from; nor did the New Yorkers manifest an indiscreet curiosity—being content that they could exchange their New York lading for the oriental lading on terms which made the transaction profitable (in Johnsonian phrase) beyond the dreams of avarice. When the exchange had been effected the parties to it separated amicably; the ; late venders of the oriental goods be- ' taking themselves, most gloriously i drunk on their prodigal purchases of I West India rum, to parts unknown, and the New Yorkers decorously returning with their rich freightage to their home port Neither of these methods of acquit;ng wealth on the high seas, the direct I or the indirect, seems to have received the unqualified indorsement of public opinion in New York in those days which came and went again two hun- ’ dred years ago; yet both of them were i more than tolerated, and the Red sea trade unquestionably was regarded as a business rather than as a crime. Because of which liberal views in regard to Miat might properly enough be done off soundings, or at out-of-the-way islands in the ocean sea, it is a fact that at the fag-end of the seventeenth century our enterprising townsfolk v -re sufficiently prominent in both 1 *es of marine industry—as pirates pure and simple, and as keen traders driving hard bargains with pirates in the purchase of their stolen goods—to fix upon themselves the illtempered attention of pretty much the whole of the civilized world.

SOME EXPENSIVE DRINKS. Five Hundred Dollar* a Bottle I* What One of the Kotbschilds One® Paid. A lady high up in the prohibitionary circles us New Jersey has a bottle of wine in her cellar over fifty years old, for which a Union League club man offered SSO for a chance to test it only, and then to buy it at the lady's own price. Although she does not desire to drink the wine herself, she says the wealthy clubman has not money enough to persuade her to part with it. Wines do occasionally fetch extraordinary prices, says the New York Advertiser. At a recent auction in London some Madeira, supposed to have been presented by Napoleon 111., was sold at £3 3s. a bottle. Imperial Tokay has been sold at £3 a bottle. A few years ago two bottles of old Burgundy were sold at £BO each. There are a dozen cases of holy wine at the Hotel de Ville, or town hall, Bremen, which have been valued, considering the original price and cellarage and interest for 250 years, at £400,000 a bottle, £54,476 a glass, and £6O a drop. The Rothschilds are in possession of some 1778 Madeira wine, which went down in a ship which was wrecked at the mouth of the Scheldt It was not recovered until 1814. Forty-four bottles were sold to Rothschild at £ll4 per bottle.

The G. R. & I. (Effect Jan. 1885.) TRAINS NORTH. •No 3. *No. 5. *No. 1. Richmond 11:00 am 11.25 pm 3:30 pm Parry 11:1? “ 3:40 •• Vo taw 3:48 “ Harley 3:51 - Fountain City. 11:25 “ 3:57 ** Johnson 11:35 “ 4:10 *• Lynn 11:40 “ 12:02 a m 4:15 *• Snow Hill 11:4« “ 4:21 “ Woods 11:40 •• 4:24 “ Winchester.... 12:00 “ 12:30 am 4:34 “ Stone 12:10 pm 4:44 “ Ridgeville 12:10 " 12:36 am 4:53 “ Collet 12; 5:05 ** Portland 12:42 '* 12:51am 5:17 “ Jay 12:52 •' 5:20 “ Briant 12:50 “ 5:32 “ Geneva 1:07 “ 1:14 am 5:41 “ Ceylon 5:43 “ Berne 1:18 “ 5:51 “ Monroe 1:38 “ 0:01 “ DECATUR 1:47 “ 1:44 am 0:12 “ Monmouth 6:l# ** Williams 2:01 “ 0:36 •• Hoagland 2:06 “ 6:31 “ Adams 6:43 “ Fort Wayne.... 2:35 “ 2:2oam 6:55 “ •Daily, except Sunday. + l>aily to Grand Rapids. TRAINS SOUTH. •No. 2. ♦No. 6. *N'o. 4. Fort Wayne. .. 1:15 pm 11:45 pm 5:45 am Adams 5:58 •• Hoagland 1:30 “ 12:15 am 6:13 “ Williams 1:45 “ 12:21 ” 6:18 “ Monmouth 6:24 ** DECATUR. .. 1:50 ” 12:37 “ 6:30 “ Monroe 2:13 “ 12’50 •• 6:44 “ Berne 2:25 ” 1:02 “ 6:56 “ Ceylon 7:04 “ Geneva 2:35 “ 1:14 “ 7:U6 “ Briant 2:44 “ 1:24 “ 7:15 “ Jay 1:31 “ 7:21 “ Portland 3:00 “ 1:41 “ 7:30 •• Collett 1:51 “ 7:41 •' Ridgeville... . 3:24 “ 2:03 “ 7;50 “ Stone 2:14 “ 7:50 “ Winchester.... 3:44 “ 2:25 “ 8:00 “ Woods 2:34 8:23 “ Snow Hill 2:38 “ 8:35 “ Lynn 4:05 “ 2:42 ’• 8:32 “ Jonsson 2:47 “ 8:38 “ Fountain City. 4:21 “ 2:57 “ 8:40 “ Haley 8:55 “ Votaw 8:50 “ Parry 9:08 ° Richmond ;4:45 “ 3:20 “ »;15 “ ♦Daily Grand Rapids. ,Daiiy ex. Sunday. Jeff Bhyson, Agent C. L. Lockwood, Gen. Pas. Agent.

The Erie Lines. (Schedule in effect June 17. 181*4.) Trains leave. Decatur as follows; WEST. No. 5. vestibule limited, daily 2:13 p. m. No. 4. Pacific express, daily 1:34 a. m* No. 1. express, daily 10:45 a. m* No. 31, local, daily ex. Sunday 10:45 a. m. EAST No. 8. vestibule limited, daily 8:06 p. m. No. 2. express, daily 1:55 p. m. No. 12. express, daily 1 ; :fli a. in. No. 30, local, daily ex. Sunday 10:45 a. m. Train No. 12 carries through sleeping cars to Columbus. Circleville, Ctauiicothe, Waverly, Portsmouth. Ironton, and Kenova, via Columbus,. Hocking Valley A Toledo, and Norfolk & Western lines J. W. DeLong. Agent. L W. McEdwakm. T A.. Huntingt on The Clover beat. (Toledo, St. Louis & Kansas City Ry.) EAST. Express 12:15 p. m. Mall s:3<a.m. Local 2:35 p. m WEST. Express B:4tf p. m Mail 12:15 a. m. Local 10:35 a. m E. A. Whixrey. Agent. Money to Loan. I have money to loan onthe Loan Association plan. No fees to be paid by borrowers Can furnish money on a few days notice. Buy a home and stop ‘paying rent. Low rate of interest, office over Donovan A Bremer camp. Central Grocery. Decatur, Ind. PAUL HOOPER H. F. COSTELLO. PHYSICIAN and SURGEON Office on west side of Second Street, over Teveres Hardware Store, Residence on west Third Street, between Monroe and Jackson. Calls promptly attended to day and night. A. P. BEATTY J. F. MANN MANN A BEATTY. ATTORNEYS AT LAW And Notaries Public. Pension claims prosecuted. Odd Fellows building. I The new clothing store of Ike Rosenthall is simply immense with a line of goods unequalledin style and price. See him for Suits. E. BUHLER & BRO. Are paying the highest market price for 2d-Growth White Oak Logs, also Ock and Elm Butts. If you have timber of this kind to sell, see them. Office and factory, North Eighth street, Decatur, j Indiana. P. W. Smith has purchased all the timber on land in Adams county owned by Joseph D. Nuttman, consisting of about 500 acres, and hereby warn all persons to keep off of said land and not to cut or remove any timber from said land. P. W. SMITH. New line Dress Goods in endless varieties. Prices lower than ever. Call and see them. J. Niblick & Son. New line Carpets, Lace Curtains and Draperies in all the latest designs. J. Niblick & Son. Dress Goods in all the latest styles. The largest open stock ever shown in the city. No trouble to show goods. JNiblick & Son. 4L Notice to consumers of natural gas furnished by Decatur Trenton Kock Mining Co. that in case of turning off gas into the mam lines on account of unavoidable accident, the signal to all will be the court house bell. J. g. Bowers, Secy.