Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 August 1883 — ZEKE’S MAD RIDE. [ARTICLE]

ZEKE’S MAD RIDE.

ton • Hoy Tri«4 .a ikr Hue or a rrichten-d Hf—■ f From the Philadelphia Times.] Zeke Was thought to be the dunce of the family. He wasn’t dull exactly, but because of his quiet ways and his love of sleep be got to be known as the most backward of the bright Barnwell boys. Zeke was so lazy that he couldn’t count, though twelve years erf age. When, along aoout noon, liis father would say: “ Run, Zeke, and tell me what time it is.” Zeke would look at the clock and remark: “ Little hand’s a stackin’ straight up F One day Jerry, the black man, made fun of Zeke, saying: “GTang wid ye, ye do’an know yer foot from a hole in de ground; g’way from heah en lain to aount up yer A B C’s. ” What Jerry said made the lad feel ashamed. That night he covered his head with a quilt, and said to himself that he wished a bugaboo would catch him by the toes and take him to the bad place. As he was feeding the horses next morning he asked his friend Joe, the stableman, how he could learn to count. Joe laughed and winked at a big horse named Bob. “ Why, you pester you, why don’t you get up onto Bob’s back and count them air hairs in his mane ?” That made Zeke’s blood feel hot in his face. “All right,” he said, and bounding from the hay-mow he lighted upon Bob’s back. Bob was taken by surprise. He wasn’t in the habit of having boys on his back at breakfast, so he started on a wild run. If Zeke couldn’t count he could ride a horse as a swallow rides the air. Away went Bob out the lane and up the country road. Zeke grasped a handful of the mane and began to pick oat the black threads. “One, two, three, four, five—” but Sts be was about to say six a violent of tfc* hone’s head drew the mane l bis hand. Nothing daunted, however, the boy began again. Bob was running up the roaa at full speed. “Hal ha r hallooed a man by tha (roadside, “what are you doin’?” “ Countin’ hairs.” said Zeke. “ What a Utile fool!” exclaimed the man; “he might as well try to number the hatra of any head, but before he oould get through with his job every heir weald be gray. ” But the dashing horse and his bold rider were out of hearing and out of sight. They went steadily on for nearly an hour. Zeke had counted a thousand and Bob’s run had dropped into a swift trot.

“Holdon,” said a gentleman whom they met on the bridge; “where are you going to without saddle or bridle ?” “Counting the hairs of the horse’s mane,” replied Zeke, never looking up. “ Why don’t you count the hairs of his tail ?” roared the gentleman, with much merriment; but on sped Bob with Zeke bending closely over his neck. Soon afterward the frightened horse came to the Schuylkill River. Into the ■water he trotted, and soon he was swimming for the other shore.. This Zeke had not expected. The shook of the cold water caused him to forget his count, and he was obliged to cling to the mane to save his life. “ Anyhow,” Zeke said, “I find the mane of some use.” When Bob reached the other bank he kept on as madly as before, but seeing that his rider was more than a match for him, he at lust stopped short and began to turn the head toward Zeke. Meanwhile Zeke had given over his attempt to count the hairs of the mane. What he was thinking about was how he could procure a bridle. His hands still grasped the hairs, which felt so smooth and strong that the lad decided to try and make a bridle out of them. With his jackknife he succeeded in cutting off several strands, which he tied and twisted together in a clumsy fashion. A stick of crooked oak, whittled smoothly, served as a bit. Zeke looked with pride upon his odd pieces of harness, and he was delighted when Bob, responding to a pull of the rein, trotted off homeward. That night Zeke ate hi* supper in pain in bed, but Jhe strange adventure so worked upon his mind tn&t it resulted in good. He applied himself to his books, and now he is professor in one of the best colleges of the country.

Simple Tales for Little Children. 1. Here we have an album. It is fuß of pictures for little children with dirty fingers to look at. Here are two pictures of papa. This is one of him before jhe was married to mamma. He looks like a two-year-old oolt behind a band of music. Here is a picture of papa after he had married mamma. Now he looks like a government mule hauling a load •f pig iron. See if you can put your finger on the nose and the eyes and the month of each picture. Turn down a leaf when you come to a pretty picture you like. The baby is eating bread and molasses. Let him take the albqmand look at the pictures, too. _ T‘ ; t 2. Tliis is a lamp. It is full df fiice, yellow oil. Can you light the lamp? If there is too much oil pour some of it in the stove. Mamma will not miss the oil if you pour it in the stove, but she may miss you. A little oil on the carpet is not a bad thing for the oil, but it is a bad thing for the carpet and you. 3. Do not make a noise or you will wake the policeman. He is sitting on the doorstep asleep. It is very hard on him to have to sleep out of door% these cold nights. There is a bank being robbed around the comer and a woman is being killed in the next block. If the policeman waked up he might find it out and arrest somebody. Some people believe this is what policemen are for, but the policemen do not think so. 4. Who i* this (gesture with long hair and a wild eye ? He is a poet. He writes poems on spring and women’s eyes and strange, unreal things of that kind. He is always wishing he was dead, but he wouldn’t let anybody kill him if he could get away. A mighty good sausage-stuffer was spoiled when the man became a poet. He would look well standing under a descending pile-driver. 5. The girl is at the gate. A young man is coming down the lane. The girl s papa is sittingon the front porch. He is very old. He has raised a family of eleven obildran. What is the poet eW man thinking about, and why does he gaze so intently at his right boot? Maybe he is thinking about raising the young man who is coming down the lane.— Denver Tribune.