Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 12, Decatur, Adams County, 30 April 1858 — Page 1

THE DECATUR EAGLE.

VOL. 2.

THE EAGLE. er. in PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY PHILLIPS & SPENCER, Office, on Main Street, in the old School House, one Square North of J. & P Crabs' Store. Terms of Subscription : For one year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within the year, and $2 00 after the year has expired. iijTNo paper will be discontinued until all arrerages are paid, except at the option of the Publishers. Terms of Advertising: One square, (ten lines) three insertions, $1 00 Each subsequent insertion, 25 lETNo advertisement will be considered less 'than one square; over one square will be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING: We are prepared to do all kinds of job-work, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on the most reasonable terms. Our material for the completion of Job-Work, being new and of the latest styles, and we feel confident that satisfaction can be given. Quarrel of the Thunder and the Sea. FT MRS. L !1. SIGOI RNET. The kingly Thunder call’d At midnight'to the Sea, Which rising up in wrath, exclaim’d, “What is thy will with me?” “Yield up the noble forms That in thy caverns hide, — The beautiful, —the brave of earth,— Her glory and her pride," “She ventured on my breast Those jewels,’’ said the Sea, “If she hath not skill her own to keep. Say,—what is that to me?” Then loud the Thunder spoke, Beckoning the Tempest nigh.— “Thou wert a robber from thy birth. We’ll search thee, till we die.’’ Out laugh’d the mocking Sea, — ‘ On!—Do your worst with speed,— There’s none save the Strong Angel's Eye Sly secret cells shall read, — “But when at his command, These depths restore their dead. Where wiltlhou be—thou Windy Voice— V. hen clouds and skies have tied?” Lincs Suggested by My Weekly Wash. The human soul is like a shirt. Affliction puts in tubs of trill, Then seeks to pound out all the dirt By hardest knocks of tough denial. Sprinkled with patience, starched with Lope, It meekly bears the iron’s heat, While puts the good dame, queen of soap, That polish on which “can’t be beat." With spots and stains no longer dark. All buttons on and neatly' mended; Yet no more new—the laundry mark Sticks to it till the life is ended. American Generals. Washington was a surveyor, and in after life a farmer. ‘Expressive silence! Muse his praise.’ Knox was a book binder and stationerMorgan—he of the cowpens —was a drover. Tarleton got from him a sound lecture on the subject. Greene was a blacksmith, and withal a Quaker; albeit, through all his Southern campaigns, and particularly at Eutaw Springs, he put of the outer man. -Arnold was a grocery and provisions ! store keeper in Mew Haven, where his ■ nign is still to be seen—the same that [ decorated his store before the Revolu [ lion. Gates, who opened Burgoyne’s eye? to 1 the fact that he cou'.d not ‘march through 1 the United States with 5,000 men,’ was a ‘regular built soldier,’ but after the Revolution a farmer. Warren, the martyr of Bunker Hill, was , a physician; and hesitated not to exhibit to his countrymen a splendid example of the manner in which American physicians should practice when called upon by their countrymen. Marion, the ‘swamp fox' of the South, was a cow boy. Sumpter, the ‘fighting cock’ of South Carolina, was a shepherd’s boy. A farmer who had employed a green Emralder, ordered him to give the mule some corn in the ear. On his comming in, the farmer asked: ‘Well, Pat, did you give the corn?’ ‘To be sure I did.’ ‘How did you give it?’ ‘An sure as yez told me, in the ear.’ ‘But how much did you give?’ •Well, yez see, the craytur wouldn't hold still, and kept switching his ears abo it so, I couldn't git mor’n about a fiist I ful in both ears.’ It is proposed to prepare and report a plan for a uniform system of registry of marriages, births and deaths applicable to the United States.

JERRY SPENCER: And How he Found a Home, BY AUGUSTA HERBERT. At the tender age of five years Jerry Spencer was left an orphan to the tender ■ mercies of relatives who had not over- ! much loved his mother. ■ Sad was the heart of the poor little , child when he lay down at night, when he rose up at morn, and all through the | long, long days. His dear mother used to go always with him to his little bed, and tuck him 1 snugly in, when she had heard him say his simple prayer. She always k'ssed him, and whispered over him, ‘God bless my little sob;’ and the sleep of the child had been sweeter for these to him mystic though holy, words. But now he 'was sent away to his mt alone and in the dark—for it was winter. He was told that he was to big a boy to be a babe any longer. His one only sister, who for a few weeks was with him in bis uncle’s house, was not permitted to go and sit beside her i beloved brother, which she very joyfully would have done. She did, however, I often creep to the outside of his chamber door, and whisper to him through the keyhole that she was there, and would sit close by the door until he was asleep. This was a great comfort to Jerry, who was a nervous and timid child, always seeing things moving, and hearing steps, and rattling of chains, when he was alone in the dark. But by-and-by his sister was taken by other relations, and Jerry had no comforter left. When his mother was alive her face was always the one he saw bending over him when he came back from the beautiful land of dreams; but now no one came to kiss him awake, or to help him dress. I His aunt thought it all nonsense to be I indulgi-nt or attentive to children. She used to talk a great deal about the bad manner in which children were brought up, petted and humored until they were good for nothing. Her children, she said should be taught different fashions. She had two childen, and no one could discover that they were much less indulged than children usually are; but she thought they were, and Jerry—he certainly was being trained in the new method. Mrs. Masters was a sister of Jerry’s father. She was a hard, unsympathetic being, and had dispised her brother’s gentle, loving wife because she was gentle and loving, and because her husband bad loved her so devoutly. As she was to be plagued with the boy, she at once determined that she would chase all the mother out of him. But it was what she had not power to do. She rendered the poor child miserable, but did not change his nature. He was but a baba; yet so well had he understood the teachings of his mother that he knew where to find a friend that could avail him in all trouble and fear.— It did not need the reminders of his sister when, at long intervals, she was brought to see him, to cause him to remember his evening and his morning prayer; and to ‘Our Father,’ etc., he often added simple petitions in his own words. As he grew older he became an object of jealousy to his aunt, whose own boys grew rough and coarse with each passing year, while Jerry was so good and gentle that her husband became more fond of him than he was of his own children. But Jerry feared his uncle, for he was a very violent tempered man, and if things went wrong he would curse and swear frightfully. The little boy, therefore, was always very shy of the petting and favors of Mr Masters, and kept as much as possible out of his way. When Mrs. Masters found how much her husband thought of the orphant boy, she grew very angry, and taunted him with want of natural affection. She told him that Jerry was artful, and only seemed good. ‘He is the deepest young one that ever I saw yet,’ she said, -and he knows very well on which side his' bread is buttered. Just think of the evil in a child of his age in trying to step between a father and his sons.’ ‘But he don’t try—he always makes off when he sees me about. When 1 would like to have him with me, and should very likely buy him things, he won’t go if he can help it, but always says—‘Please, sir, I think Herman and . William would rather go.’ ‘The little hypocrite,’ said Mrs. Masters angrily. •Why do you call him so?’ inquired her husband. ‘Because I cannot help it. To see such duplicity in such a child makes me fairly sick. He is affraid of you, mortal-[ ly afraid, for he is a sheer coward; and while your own brave, honest-hearted; boys act out their worst side before vou, : he sneaks away to cut up his mean capers out of your sight.’ ‘Why—what does the boy do, Marcia? ‘Do? Why, he does enough—yes, quite enough. He’s always doing something.’

“Our Country’s Good shall ever be our Aim-Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, APRIL 30, 1858.

‘But what’’ Mrs. Masters was in a dilemma. She didn’t like to tell a deliberate lie; end for her life she couldn’t think of x single 1 naughty thing that the child had done.— : But keep a woman in a corner if vou can. i ‘Oh! I’m not going to try to set you against my own brother’s' child. You needn’t ask me what he does, for if you knew half you’d be so mad you’d nearly kill him; and I can manage him very well myself, only you just mind you don’t go to setting him up before your own children, or you may find that I’ve a wr.iT Ito say. I've no desire to see you go st the child to punish him. He would be ■ frightened to death. I ‘I shan’t touch him. I’d no more hit thatchild a blow than I’d strike mvgrandmother,’ said the great giant of a man; ahd he turned over and was soon enjoying a tremendous snore. Jerry was ten years old. He had run up tall, slender, delicate—‘More like a ; girl,’ said his aunt, contemptuously, ‘than like a healthy boy.’ His eyes were full, i large, and darkly blue; they were al-mond-shaped, and their edges deeply fringed with black—suoh beautiful eyes! and when he lifted them to your face, you could often see in their debths a merry sparkle, which told what a gladhearted and frolicsome creature their owner ought to be, though he was not. His cousin Herman frequently provoked his mother exceedingly by declaring that Jerry’s eyes were a thousand times pret- ! tier than anybody’s else in the whole i town. Herman was a good-hearted boy, and a friend to Jerry, though he considerea him rather a bad boy, because his mother said he was such. As Mrs. Masters knew Jerry’s infirmity—fear of the dark—she took particular pains to be always sending him of errands about the house in the evening.— She wished, she said, to cure him of his folly. She would never let him take a light, lest he should set the house on fire; and if any others went up stairs with a lamp, she was sure, after they had come down, to make Jerry go up to see that no stray epark was kindling anywhere. — The timid child sometimes ventured to beg that one of his cousins might go with him, but his request, was never regarded. Probably every one knows what it is |to go up stairs in the dark, having a sense of something being clone behind, and ready to make a grab at one’s heels.— Under such circumstances, how expedij tiously a pel son, in one mood, takes heel I after heel out of harm’s way; and in another mood, with what dogged moderation he moves, just to show the Thing I that he isn’t in the least afraid—no, in!deed! and he himself considers that he is i proof against silly fears, though he does [ enter the door into the light with surpassing quickness, and though there are drops, not occasioned by heat, upon his brow, while his eyes are unusually enlarged. Jerry would go trembling along—his hands outstreached, his eyes fearfully distended—and when he returned to the family keeping-room, he generally was in such a tremor, that hisaunt would ridicule him without mercy. About this time—his tenth year—his heart began to trouble him so much that he would frequently be obliged to sit down wherever he might be, and whatever he might be doing. It would flutter and beat so that it seemed to be some winged and terrified creature trying to escape from his breast, or it would rise up and swell till he was almost suffocated. Jerry was often very much frightened at these strange feelings, but when he tried to tell his aunt about them, she told him he was full of what the apossle Paul callled ‘vain imaginations.’ but that study i and work would cure him. His cousins, sturdy fellows, could not understand any 1 such feelings, and they only laughed at [ him, and told him to come along and play. One night as Jerry was coming down stairs in the dark, he felt something cold touch his neck—my! how it frightened) him. Giving a wild scream, he sprang recklessly down the remaing stairs, hit-j ting, as he did so, a beautiful alabastei I figure, that had ornamented a niche in the wall. It fell with him to the floor, j and was dashed to fragments. His aunt came running into the hall,’ and on seeing what was done, she caught Jerry by the arm, and shook him roughly, then dragged him into the dinning hall and whipped him with a cane. The poor, half-dead child begged for mercy. ‘Oh! aunt, do have pity. I did not mean to do any mischief. I was so scared. — Oh! don’t kill me, aunt —don’t don’t!’j •What do you mean by screaming in such a manner?’ she said. ‘Do you want to make out that I’m murdering you, when I am only punishing you as you deserve for your abominable carelessness? I’ll give you some more of the cane if you don’t shut up.’ ‘Oh! aunt, what does make you treat me so? said the child. ‘Don’t I always try to please you?’ •You play the hipocrite pretty success-

I fully before me, I will allow; but your ? conduct is not from the heart. I do not r think you any the better for it. I have s heard all the wicked lies which you have - told about me. You need not think that . people who are mean enough to listen to 1 your falsehoods about the friends who i keep you, and do for you as if you was i their own child, will keep your secret for ? you. They repeat all the lies that you 1 tell them.’ > I never told anybody any Uss, aunt,’ -j ”ietl Jerry, his face reddening with in- ’ : q-nant feeling; ‘who says I ever did?’ t ‘‘Oh, there are plenty who know what ; you are. It’s useless for you to deny it. ‘I never told lies. I have tried never t to complain; but perhaps I may have - said things that I ought not. 1 never in , my life said one half the truth about how I unhappy I am, but I am sorry that I ev•er spoke at all. Oh! how I wish that I i ■ could go to my mother.’ i ‘Humph!’ said his aunt, and walked off. i Jerry sat a long time crying on the , floor. Herman came to him and tried to ■ console him. ‘Bui you ought not to lie ■ about mother,’ he said, earnestly. ! j Poor Herman! Jerry did not tell his , cousin that he never had done so. He ■ looked at him with infinite pity, and his • sobs were all stilled. ‘How much happier ami,’ he thought, i ‘to bare the memory of such a mother as i was mine, dead though she has been so long, than is my cousin, with his costly home, with all his presents, and his pett ting, and a mother such as his. I would not change places with Herman for the j whole world! i ‘Herman,’ said Jerry, ‘do you love me? ‘Yes, I do Jeny; but 1 wish you was a better boy.’ ■Well, Hermy, never mind that now. Yoa will understand me better sometime; and you will find that your mother is very i strange about somethings. But, Hermy, > will you prpmise me something? ; ‘Yes, that I will, if you won’t cry any more.’ •Then don’t you tell one word of what ; lam going to say until to-morrow. It is not much to say, either. But, my dear >' Hermy, if you never see me any more, you will not forget me, nor the good i times we have had together, nor the i i prayer and hymn my mother taught to ■ me, and I to you; nor how I loved you, Hermy ‘and the speaker fell on Herman’s neck, and sobbed a few short, heavy sobs, and then kissed him and said —‘Good night. Ido not want any sup- ■ per. lam going to my room.’ Herman was crying in the dining room when his mother found him; but he would I not tell her what had befallen him. He > I told her all at another time. i\ When Jerry went to his room he grop- j ■ j ed about in the dark until he had collect- ■ ,led a small bundle of his most precious [ I tilings—his Bible, his mother’s picture, j . and the locket with her hair, a little; ; hymn-book his sister had given him, and ; a few clothes. i With these in his hand, and his cap, i coat, and mittens on, he started out in search of a home. I The evening was cold and still. There i was a young moon, and many stars, by I whose friendly light our young wanderer ! made his way through the town and out in the open country. On and on he went ; until his strength began rapidly to fail.— He grew faint from hunger, and numb from cold, and found that he must stop and find shelter, or sink by the way and perish. He wanted to see his dear, sister, but did not dare to go naer her, lest he might [ be caught and sent back to his cruel aunt. He comforted himself, however, by think- ! ing how glad his sister would write, and manage to have conveyed privately to her just as soon as he should be snugly set- i I tkd as farmer boy in some nice farm- ' I house, far, far away from the scene of j [ his trials. 1 The clock was on the stroke of ten in the happy and hospitable home of Far- j jmer Hopegood. His two blooming daughters bad just folded away their j work, and risen to retire for the night— I their mother had just looked at them, ' and smiled, as she said winking sleepily, j ‘I didn’t know as you meant to go to bed I to-night my dears,’ when there came a knock at the outside door. ‘What on earlh can any one want here this time of night? said the farmer.— ‘Some one must be sick.’ He went to the door. In a moment he returned, leading by the hand a half-frozen child, bearing a bundle. The women regarded the boy in blank amazement. ‘Out at ten o’clock at night, wandering in the cold! Who was the boy?—j whence came he? These and many other questions they | asked, but Jerry—for it was poor little Jerry—gave no distinct answer. He stood trembling, and hardly sensible, bej fore the fire. ‘He must not stand there,' said the I farmer’s wife: ‘he will be in great pain if

'he does. Girls, hurry, get him something warm to eat and drink, while 1 bathe bis poor little face and hands and feel in cold water.’ The kind-hearted woman then drew the I little stranger back to the further end of the room, and took of his cap and gloves. He allowed her to handle him just as she [chose, but she observed the anxious glance Ihe cast after his bundle, as she took it I from him. i ‘l'll put it on the shelf, dear. It will be perfectly safe. Don’t trouble about the bundle.’ She washed his face, hands and feet, and when she had rubbed some warmth into them she allowed the child to go back to the fire. The supper, now ready for him, was inviting; but the little fellow could not eat much. They tucked him up into a great, old-fashioned arm chair, ia a warm corner, and in two minutes he was fast asleep. ‘We will make him tell is, and where he is going in the morning,’ said jthe girls. Dear little fellow! Was ever I such a pretty boy! But how stupid he is | with sleep.’ When they had prepared him a bed they came to waken him; hut they found that he was already wide awake. ‘Mother, come here,’ said the eldest girl in a quick, frightened tone. All ran towards Jerry. A great change had came over his young face. It was gray with the shadows of death. He had one little hand pressed against his heart, with the other de held fast to the arm of the chair. ‘I started to hunt for a home, and I am to find one sooner than 1 thought I should My mother came and called me as I slept. She said our Father sent her for me to come home. You are very kind. I thank you. My sister lives in 8. Her name is Annie Spencer. Tell her I could not write —1 had not time; but tel] her I love her. and that mother and I will wait and watch for her. She must not be sorry that I have gone home.’ The farmer thought it best to move the boy to a bed. As he laid him down upon fbe pillow, Jerry’s head rolled back. ‘Dead !’ said the wife, solemnly; and ’she closed the beautiful blue eyes. ! Jerry would never ba frightened nor , hurt—he would never be sorry nor lonely I —he would never wander through the darkness—he would never sigh nor weep any more. A mother’s love on earth is heavenly sweet; —ah, Jerry can you tell us, child, how sweet it is in Heaven? Good.—A fast young member of the cod-fish aristocracy, who plumped himi self upon being aide-de-camp to one of the famous generals, happening one day to ■ find himself in company with a grave and [learned bishop, with singular bad taste and breeding put the following conundrum: ‘Why is a bishop like a donkey?’ ! The reply was as deficient in point as the question was in tact. The bishop, after allowing the assailant to recover from the , discomfiture which the failure of his bad Joke had occasioned, quietly said, ‘Now,! , sir, I will put a conundrum —can you tell what is the difference between an aide-de-camp and a donky?’ The aide-de-camp I said he could not tell. ‘Neither can I,’ said the bishop. A Physician, who had attended on a patient a great length of time, one day called upon him when in rather a bad humor. The invalid complained, and stated that he could neither sit, stand nor lie down. ‘AVell,’ replied the doctor, ‘there remains one expedient pet; suppose you hang your self!’ Deserving a Medal.—There is a gentleman residing at Edgartown, on Marthas Vineyard, who has made fifteen successful whaleing voyages, during bis life never drank a glass of liquor or used tobacco in any shape. The person referred to is about 65 years old, and shows but few indications of his age. This is a remarkable case, and well worth the telling. ‘Doyoubelieve in secondlove, Misther McQuade?’ ‘Do I btdave in second love? Humph, if a man buys a pound of sugar, isn’t it sweet? and when it’s gone, don’t he want; another pound? and isn’t that sweet too? Troth, Murphy, I belave in second love.’ Mr. Snubbs, on being introduced to Miss Jenkins, took occasion to say she favored a sister of his very much. ‘ln what particular,’ rejoined the lady. ‘Why,’ replied the wag, ‘you are a female. A bachelor advertised for a ‘helpmate’ one who would prove‘a companion for his heart, his hand and his lot.’ A fair one, replying, asked very earnestly, ‘How big ii your lot?’ There are but three Revolutionary pensioners surviving in the State of Ohio. 1

Stratagem. Three ragged, wretched topers stood shivering' upon a street corner. They i had not a penny between them, and neither had drank a drop—within half an ; hour. They debated the deeply interesting question—how to obtain the next ■ glass of poverty of the times, and many impracticable suggestions, one of them said—‘l have an idea! We’ll al! go into the next shop and drink.’ ‘Drink!’ replied his companions;'that’s ■easily said; but who’s to pay?’ j ‘Nobody. Do as I tell you. I’ll take I the responsibility. Following the speaker’s directions, his two companions entered an adjoining summery and called for whiskey skins. The place was kept by a Dutchman. After he had waited on his customers and while they are enjoying their orthodox beverage al the counter, in walked toper No. 1. ‘How are ye?’ to the Dutchman! ‘How de do?’ said the Dutchman. ‘Toper No. 1 glanced suspiciously at i topers No. 2 and 3, and beckoned the proI prietor aside. ‘Do you know theso men?’ he asked mysteriously. : The Dutchman stared. ‘1 know no more as dat dey call for de ' whisky skins.’ ‘Don’t take any money of them,’ whispered No. 1. ‘Sir? I not take money for de whisky skins,’said the astonished landlord. ‘No. The} - are informers?’ ‘Hey! Informers?’ •Yes; they buy liquor of you so as to inform against you.* ‘Ah! I understand,’ said the Dutchman Dey not catch me. Thank you sir. You take sometin’?’ ■I don’t object?’ and toper No. 1 took a swig with his companions. ‘What’s to pay?’ quoth No. 2, putting his hand into his empty pocket. ‘Nothing,’ said the Dutchman. Meno sell liquor. Me keeps it for my friends.’ And having smiled the supposed informers out of the door, he manifested hia gratitude by generously inviting the supposed anti informer to take a second glass Os course No. 1 did not at all decline the [ invitation.— Ex.

■ ■ 111 — 11 i' What sort of an A nimal a Snob is.—< ■ Thackery thus daguerreotypes this animal. We warn our readers against considering this picture as personal. Thackj cry is speaking of English society: i “A snob is a man or woman who al- ■ ways pretending before the world to bo something better—especially richer or more fashionable—than they are. It is J one who thinks his own position in life contemptible, and is always yearning and striving to force himself above, with ths education of characteristics which belong to it—one who looks down upon despises and overrides his inferiors, or even equals of his own standing, and is ever i ready to worship, fawn upon and flatter s. rich or titled man, not because he is a good man, a wise man, or a Christian man; but because he has the luck to ba rich or consequential? Juvenile Gumption.—A farmer in Virginia who had been digging a well, was called away from home, leaving none but two boys there. During his absence, a horse fell in the well, which was 12 feet deep, and of sufficient diameter to allow the horse standing room. The boys set their young brains to work to get him out. Their bill of ‘ways and means’ was almost exhausted when the youngest, only nine years old, suggested an amendment, which was immediately adopted. Large quantities of straw were convenient, which the boys pitched in to fill up the ; well, the prisoner tramping it down until j he could walk right out upon ‘straw bail? There, now!’ cried a little neice of ours while rummaging a drawer in a bureau, ■there now! gran’pa has gone to heaven without his spectacles. What will he J do?’ And shortly afterwads when another i aged relative was supposed to be sick unto death in the house, she came running to his bedside, with the glasses in her hand and an errand on her lips—‘Goina; to die?’ I | ‘They tell me so? ‘Going to heaven?’ | ‘I hope so? ‘Well, here are Gran’pa’s spectacles—j Won’t you take them to him? At a debating society in Sbenectady the other night, the subject was: ‘Which is the most beautiful production, a girl or a strawbeerry?’ After conducting the argument for two nights, the meeting adjourned without coming to a conclusion—the old folks going for the strawberries, and the young ones for the girls, A Printer’s Toast.—Woman— the . fairest work of creation. The edition being extensive, let no man be without a ' copy.

NO, 12.