Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 May 1884 — Page 6

THE WEAVER OF BRUGES. The strange old streets of Bruges town Lay white with dust and summer sun, The tinkling goat bells slowly passed At milking-time, ere day was done. An ancient weaver, at his loom. With trembling hands hia shuttle plied, While roses grew beneath his touch. And lovely hues were multiplied. The slant sun, through the open door. Fell bright, and reddened warp and woof, When with cry of pain a little bird, A nestling stork, from off the roof. Sore wounded, fluttered in and sat Upon tre old man’s outstreachcd hand; “Dear Lord,” he murmured, under breath, “Hast thou sent me this little friend?" And to his lonely heart he pressed The little one, and vowed no harm Should reach it there; so. day by daj, Caressed and sheltered by his arm. The young stork grew apace, and from The loom’s high beams looked clown with eyes Of aHcnt love upon his ancient friend, As two lone ones might sympathize. At last the loom was hushed: no more The deftly handled shuttle flew; No more the westering sunlight fell Where blushing silken roses grew. And thrpngh the streets of Bruges town By strange hands cared for, to his last Anri lonely rest, 'neath darkening skies. The ancient weaver slowly passed; Then strange sights met the gaze of all; A great white stork, with wing-beats slow, Too sad to leave the friend he loved. With drooping head, flew circling low. And ere the trampling feet had left The new-made mound, dropt slowly down, And clasped the grave in his white wings, His pure breast on the earth so browu. Nor food nor drink conld lure him thence, Sunrise nor fading sunsets red. When little obil ren came to see. The great white stork —was dead. —Wide Awake.

THE SHADOW RENT.

BY SARA B. ROSE.

It was in the days of log cabins and mighty forests, of red men and of wolves; when the women spun and wove their own linens and tlannels; when the block schoolhouses did duty for churches as well as schools; and when the paring bee and husking frolic were the social events of the season, that Prudence Harrington sent around her younger brother, George, to iniorm the young people of Smoky Settlement that she was to have a paring bee the next Thursday evening. • The young fellow mounted a large white ox, which had been trained for a saddle-ox, and took a large concli shell tinder his arm, which was an heirloom in the family, handed down from some seafaring ancestor, and departed, riding first to one log-cabin and then to another, and inviting all that were single, from 15 to 25 years of age; for in those days “trundle-bed trash” and “old maids” and “baches” were classes of people with but very few rights. George’s method of .invitation was rather original, and consisted in bring ing his ox to an abrupt stop in front of the cabin door, and blowing a loud blast on his trumpet, which brought all the people, young and old, to the door," and then the invitation would be given without the young courier alighting from his novel steed. Hope and Mercy Anderson were spinning, each upon her little flax-wheel, in the large living room of their father’s log cabin, when the sonorous sound of George’s trumpet was heard, and Mercy jumped quickly up, regardless of the snarl into which her thread was being tangled, and ran quickly out of the ■door where George was sitting upon his patient ox. Hope followed more slowly, aud Mr. Anderson also peered out of the open door: “Prudence wants you to come to a paring bee at our house next Thursday evening. ” “Oh, my 1 ” exclaimed the lighthearted Mercy, almost dancing a jig. “It’s the first one this fall; of course we will come.” “Daughter, daughter,” remonstrated old Jeremiah Anderson, smiling, “do not be so giddy.” “We will accept the invitation with pleasure,” said Hope, in a more formal manner. “Who is going to be there, George?” asked Mercy. “All the young folks in the settlement,” answered George. “Then Mr. Devine is also invited?” went on Mercy. “Mercy!” exclaimed Hope, in a shocked voice, “how could you ask such a question ?” “Because I w-onld not give a continental to go if there were not going to be some people there with some life in them.” “Simon Goodenough will be there undoubtedly,” said her father, gravely, ■with a quiet suggestion in his tones. “Yes, every one of ’em is asked, Miss Mercy,” said George, with a droll glance sideways toward the lovely young belle of Smoky Settlement; and then he gave his quaint steed a cut with his whip and went galloping off •upon liis journey. “Mercy,” said the elder sister, with rebuke in her soft eyes, “I hope, if we go to Prudence’s paring bee, that you will conduct yourself in such a manner as to provoke no jealousies, least of all in the heart of Simon Goodenough. ” “What is Simon Goodenough to me? All I ask of him is to let me entirely alone, then I could have some peace of my life.” “Simon Goodenough is a most exemplary young man, and a minister’s ■son, and would be your own true lover forever; while William Devine is a stranger, a great lover of gaudy dress, and has even been known to dance among those who care not for that which is pure and good,” said Hope, flushing and her eyes kindling. “Then why don’t vou take the pious Simon yourself? And what if Will Devine is a stranger? We were strangers when we came to Smoky Settlement. What if lie does love gaudy clothes? So do I; and, oh! wouldn’t I like to dance if I only could get a chance.” “Ah! my daughter,” said the old man, sighing, “I fear you do not sufficiently reverence things that are truly religious.” “Father,” said Mercy, playfully, “what if I should prove to you that in my liking for Will Devine I reverenced things more religious than I would if I adored Simon Goodenough. ” “Ah, my daughter, I fear you could not succeed in that” “But l can, father; for if I worshiped

Mr. Devine, my worship would be Devine worship, while if it was Sime Goodenough, it would be only Goodenough worship.” And with this wicked speech she ran laughing back to her wheel. Hope looked at her father with frightened eyes at this daring speech, and the kind-hearted and religious old man came forward and patted her head, saying; “You are a good girl, Hope, a good girl, and you must add your prayers to mine, that your sister, my youngest darling, may be brought into the fold before it be too late.” The night of Prudence’s apple bee was % fine one, and all the b’oys and girls assembled to pare the bright red and golden apples and to quarter and string them ready for the large rack by the side of the fireplace. First and foremost among the merry maidens was Mercy An erson, who entered into the work as well as the amusement of the evening with the most lively zest. The girls commenced paring at five o’clock in the afternoon, and at seven the young men began to come in by twos and threes, clad in their stout homespun clothing, and each with his gun upon his shoulder and his knife in his belt. Conspicuous among these was Will Devine, who wore clothing of a better cut and material than the others; and his dark eyes and gentlemanly bearing were very different from those of the tow-headed and untutored sons of Smoky Settlement. Soon after the young men were comfortably seated there arose a strife among them, for the one who could peel an apple without breaking the peeling was given the liberty of throwing it around the neck of the girl he liked best, and claiming a kiss as a reward. The rivalry ran high among the young swains. Many an apple was carefully peeled, only to break just as the owner was sure of victory; but at lasi two young men were almost simultaneously successful, and they were Simon Goodenough and Will Devine. “I declare, they both have one, and at the same time, too,” cried out Prudence. “Which shall claim his forfeit first?” “We will give Mr. Goodenough the first chance,” modestly replied Mr. Devine. Simon darted a triumphant glance at the speaker, and advanced to the corner where Mercy sat industriously stringing apples. “Don’t hinder me,” she cried, iiiprly“Wal, I swan to man I will,” answered Simon. “Before you’ll put that thing around my neck, I’ll break it all to pieces,” said Mercy, defiantly. Simon continued to advance, and Mercy sprang to her feet, dropping all her strings of, apples, while the log cabin rang with merriment. “Don’t you dare to,” she cried, angrily, “I will, though,” answered Sime. But Mercy sprang forward unexpectedly, and seizing the apple parjng broke it into half a dozen pieces and stamped them under her feet. Sime stood, with the remnants in his hands, looking stupidly silly, until the layigh subsided and some one said: “ Well, Sime, you’ve lost your chance, and now, Will Devine, try your luck.” “I am almost disheartened by the bad luck of Mr. Goodenough,” said he. But Mercy gave him such a roguish glance that he appeared to take courage, and advanced to a group of young ladies who sat near Mercy, and was seemingly undecided which to choose, when suddenly, with a dexterous move, he threw it around the not unwdling Beck of pretty Mercy. Sime looked on, green with jealousy, while Mercy put up her lips and received a rousing salute, amid general laughter and clapping of hands. This was too much for poor Sime, and he took his hat and left the house, while Hope rose energetically from her seat and sat down by Mercy as if to keep her in order the rest of the evening. But love laughs at locksmiths, they say, and willful little Mercy departed that night under the escort of Will Devine, and Hope was obliged to accompany her, as no other gallant offered himself who possessed the necessary religious qualifications. The aged father had sat up for his daughters, and a bright fire burned in the fire-place, wdiich he had kept up for their comfort, and, after bidding Mr. Devine good-night, the three sat discussing the events of the evening, and Mercy was as usual receiving an indulgent scolding, when there was a hurried knock at the door and Will Devine’s voice called: “Let me in, in God’s name!” Never was human being turned from that door who called in that name, and Mr. Anderson opened the door to see Will Devine, dripping with blood, and with a huge knife in his hand. “ What is the matter, my young friend?” he asked in alarm. “ Some person sprang at me as I was going through the wood, and I struck at him with my knife, and I think wounded him, but I’m afraid I’m hurt in return.” “ludians,” whispered the girls as their father assisted the young man to a couch, aud their faces grew whiter when it was found that Devine had received a bad cut in the side, but which had not penetrated deep enough to be fatal. The old man dressed the wound, and the young man remained in the cabin, and after a little time be so won the heart of the old man that he consented to a marriage between him and his daughter, Mercy. The young girl was as happy as the day, and Hope, too, forgot her prejudice and looked upon Will in the light of a brother. When the young man was able to go out the three young people walked to the spot where Will had been attacked; but no signs could be seen of any struggle, and even on the morning after but a few drops of blood could be found. Mercy declared it to be the happiest day of her life, and Devine was almost as joyful as she; but little they dreamed of the fearful cloud that was soon to envelop them into its folds. When they entered the house they found the minister, Mr. Goodenough, the father of Simon, sitting there, with a terrible look of anger in liis face. “Young man,” said the preacher,

looking Devine in the face in the sternest manner, “have yon murdered my son ?” The young man turned white at the fearful question, and stammered out: “ I have no knowledge of yonr son, sir.” “ And yet,” said Goodenough, se- ; verely, “my son left Harrington’s | house on that night of the apple bee, and has never been heard of since. And you dragged yourself wounded and bleeding to this house, and say you j know not who was your foe. Nay, ! nay, young man, you know with whom ; you fought. Was it my son? And, . oh, where have you lain him ?” “ Sir,” answered Devine, “as I said before, I have no knowledge of your i son. I certainly met some being out- ! side this door, who stabbed me cruelly. : I drew my knife and freed myself; this is all I know. If it was your sou, he attacked me; and I have no knowledge of his whereabouts.” This was all Devine could say about it; and so there was no proof, only suspicion. There was no action taken in the matter, only the country round about was searched for a new-made grave; and the report went out that the two men had met, had quarreled, and that Devine had killed Goodenough and buried him no one knew where. Deeper and deeper fell the murky cloud of suspicion, and Will Devine was marked as a social outcast, yet still he lingered m Smoky Settlement, and still the girl he loved clung to him, believing none of the foul story. Mr. Anderson took no part in the matter, only he would consent to no marriage until the mystery of Simon Goodenough should be cleared up; but no light upon it dawned, Three years after Prudence Harrington’s apple bee, Mercy had changed into a quiet, reserved girl, and Will Devine was as mudh a recluse as it was possible to be in a populated district like that of Smoky Settlement, when suddenly another sensation swept over the little liamlet. Old Jeremiah Anderson was said to be in a trance. For two weeks he had lain in an unconscious state, looking exactly like a dead man, but yet there was the slightest pulsation. Nourishment was given him, in the form of soup introduced into his stomach by means of a tube. Hope and Mercy were at their wit’s end and the doctors could do nothing for them, and the report spread far and near, and many an ox team was yoked and brought loads from a distance to see the strange sight of a living body fr<m which the soul had departed. The daughters kept their tearful watch until the beginning of the seventh week and one night Will Devine sat watching, with Mercy by his side, for the girl would not give up her lover, when the pale haud of the unconscious man was raised, the mild blue eyes opened, the wan lips moved and said: “Send for the minister.” Mercy cried aloud in lief joy for her sister to awaken, and Devine caught his hat and departed for the liev. Mr. Goodenough. The minister visibly shrank from the man he suspected, but asked quietly: “What would you with me, young man ?” “Mr. Anderson has revived and wishes to see you.” The minister was soon by the side of the sick man, and grasping the feeble hand, he said, nervously: “Brother Anderson, thanks he to God, you have passed through a most mysterious sickness.” “I have had no sickness, brother; but my soul has been in heaven.” “His mind wanders, ” gasped the minister. “No,” said the imjplid, rousing still more; “I never had the clearness of mind that I have enjoyed for the last seven weeks. I have had glimpses of my friends long dead, and almost enjoyed the bliss of heaven; this mortal body lying here was all that divided me from that blissful place. ” His awe-struck listeners looked at one another; and Mercy said, haft afraid of her own voice; “O-o-o-h, father! but was it anything like the earth ?” “Ab! more beautiful, more blissful, more peaceful; and still I did not see the inner courts, but I heard the most beautiful music, and one song they sung was; “When we ve been here ten thousand years. Bright shining as the sun. We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise Than when we lirst begun. That* was all the thing I ever heard upon the earth.” “And wliat else did you see or hear, father?” asked Mercy, when he paused. “I saw that which assures me that you are an innocent man, my son,” said lie, turning to Devine. The frightened hearers looked at each other with awe-struck countenances, and he went on: “Brother Gojdenough, if you will write to Austerne, Ohio, you will hear from your son.” The minister made no reply, and the sick man closed his eyes and fell into a natural sleep. “What a strange thing,” said Hope, breathlessly. “You will write immediately, Mr. Goodenough?” “And of what use? It is but the fancy of a sick man. And who ever heard of Austerne! And if it should be that there was such a place, my poor boy is not there. Ah, no, he lies not there,” and the austere man glanced suspiciously at Devine. “Then I will write, for I believe it,” said Hope, firmly, and the closed lips of the invalid murmured, “Write, my daughter. ” Now it was quite an undertaking in those days to send a letter to Ohio. %t Hope Anderson’s faith was firm, and the letter was written and addressed to the Postmaster of Austerne, asking for a man named Simon Goodenough, and saying informat on of him was wanted at his old home. Before the dawn broke it was finished. Will Devine sat by without saying anything, but his heart beat tumultuously, and Mercy whispered i» his ear: “Cheer up, d -ar. at; this dark cloud will be rent at last. ” Mr. Anderson improved rapidly, and the letter was sent. He grew reserved upo i the sub ect of liis bness, and disliked to be questioned about it. But there came no answer to Hope’s

letter. Spring, summer, I*ll passed away, when one day a stranger came into Smoky Settlement. He went to the house of Mr. Anderson, where Mr. Goodenough was sitting with his neighbor. The newcomer stretched out his hand to the minister, saying, “Father. ” “Simon, my son, is it you? And were you not murdered then ?” “No, father. It is true I attacked Devine, in my frenzy, and that he fought for his life; but I felt sure that I had wounded him unto death, and I escaped as I thought,far into the Western wilderness, and I should never have returned had it not been for Hope’s dear letter. ” “Then the Postmaster received it?” she asked, faintly. “Dear girl, I was the Postmaster,” said he. “And I have to thank you for the knowledge that I was not a Cain among men, and among the friends that you wrote wished to see me was the name of William Devine.” “Thank God,” said the aged father. And it was echoed by every heart in that humble cabin in the wilderness. And when the new year came it would have been difficult to decide which was the happiest of the two fair brides, Hope Goodenough or Mercy Devine, for Hope was going back with Simon to the far-off wilderness of the West.

Boston as a Poetry Mill.

To write poetry is merely considered, in Boston, as an elegant accomplishment suitable to the litterateur, and less a special gift than the natural and expected result of scholarship and culture. The charming assumption with which a society or meeting of any description designates its members to write a poem on such and such an occasion i 3 infinitely amusing. “Why did you not come to the literary coterie?” questioned a friend the other day. “Mrs. Dias and Mrs. Anagnos wrote poems for the evening, and we had a philosophical pajjer and tableaux.” This was an illustration of the Boston nonchalance regarding “writiug poems.” It is discussed in a matter-of-fact way, as an affair quite of industry rather than of inspiration. If the birthday or wedding anniversary of a prominent person is to be celebrated, a fair gotten up, an exhibition opened, or the “Old South” receive another contribution toward saving it from the destructive march of trade, the instigators of the affair all write poems—as a natural feature of the entertainment. Though the so-called “poems” are numerous, the poets are few, yet these rhymers and versifiers all enroll themselves under that banner, and enjoy the felicity of their belief. The genuine poets of Boston are almost as few as of any other city. Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Emerson, Louise Chandler Moulton, who has a gift of the almost perfect lyric verse; John Boyle O’Keillv, Dr. Holmes, and Mrs. Howe, in her “Battle Hymn of the Kepublio” and her “Sealed Orders,” make up all that I now recall who seem to have any claim to poetic immortality. Yet the people who grind out their poems to, on, aud for every occasion, are as numerous as the prose'writers. Y'olume after volume is published here of mere prosaic prose that rhymes, and is labeled—l came near saying libeled —poetry. What becomes of it is a mystery I cannot fathom. Where do all the dull books go to, any way? one wonders. The number of volumes of “poems” that contain, perhaps, one that really merits the name and retains the whole, is a signal advance over those that have nothing in them but mechanical rhyme. It is singular that in a city which may, perhaps, not unaptly be designated as the literary capital of the country, there is so marked a lack of fine literary discrimination. Form more than spirit, quantity more than quality, appears to take precedence. To “publish a volume of poems” is as much the part of the natural expectation as to read the current literature and attend the symphony concerts. Whether the poems are worth publishing is a consideration that does not seem to present itself. —Boston Cor. Cleveland Leader.

How to Make Ball Trimming.

Balls, for finishing tidies, lambrequins, and many other pieces of fancy work are much prettier than tassels; yet are so hard to make, when wound through a ring of carboard, that one is often tempted to substitute the latter. Very pretty balls can, however, be crocheted, and make a good substitute, especially if one lacks time or worsted. Begin with a ring of three stitches, and make a deep cup-shaped piece the size desired for the ball; then narrow by skipping stitches; and when nearly closed, fill with a little “wad” of cotton woo’l. To keep the ball from looking pointed, it is necessary to narrow more rapidly than the widening on the other end. Do not try to crochet a little stem to the ball without breaking the thread, as it will give it a one-sided look. Break off the thread, fasten with a needle, and join on the stem in the same manner. In making balls by winding, pretty effects are often given by covering the ring first with one color and finishing with another, or making all of a solid color save a few threads at last. The first gives a ring around the ball, the other a dot on either end; this, with care, can be imitated very nicely in crocheted balls. —Country Gentleman.

He Regarded His Family’s Reputation.

A Little Rock lawyer of prominence l went home at an unseemly hour. “Why are you so late?” asked his wife. “I am not late; I am early.” “ \Vhy didn’t you come home last night?” “Drunk.” “Couldn’t you walk?” “Not without staggering.” “Why didn’t you stagger home, then ?” Wpll, I’ll tell you. My house has the name of being an orderly place, and I don’t want people to be seen staggering into the yard. Every man must p otect his family, you know.—Arkansas Traveler. Be not angry that you cannot make other* as you wish tln ta to he, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be.

THE BAD BOY.

“I don’t hear much about your pa lately,” said the groceryman to the bad boy, as he showed up one. morning before breakfast to bay a mackerel. “He is alive, aint he? Is he in politics yet ?” and the groceryman took a smali rusty mackerel by the tail and slapped it against the inside of the barrel to get the brine off, and wrapped it in some thick paper, heavier than the fsli, before he weighed it. “Hold on there, please,” said the boy, who was watching the proceedings. “Weigh the mackerel separate, please, and then weigh the paper, and charge the fish to pa and charge the paper to yourself. That is all right, lea, pa is alive, but he is not in politics. He was throwed out of politics head first on two occasions the night before election. You see, pa is an enthusiast. Some years he is in one party, and some years in another; just which party gives him the best show to make speeches. He has got speaking on the brain, and, if he can get up before a crowd and say ‘feller-citizens,’ and not get hit with a piece of brick house, that ,is a picnic for pa. This spring he went with the temperancd and saloon people. You know the temperance people and saloon people sort of united on a candidate, and pa was red hot. He wanted to speak. The fellows showed pa thai he had got to be careful and not get mixed, and they turned him loose to speak. The night before election pa went in a hall where there was to be a meeting, and he got up and said what the people wanted was the highest possible license, enough to drive out half the saloons. He was just going on to demonstrate what a blessing it would be if there was only one saloon, when some one took him by the neck and threw him through a window. It seems that it was a meeting of people who were opposed to any license, and who believed everybody should be allowed to sell liquor for nothing. A policeman picked pa up and took tiie window sash off from over his neck, and picked the broken glass out of his vest and pants, and walked him around, and told him of his mistake, and pa admitted that what the people wanted was free trade in whisky. He said now that he thought pf it there was no justice in making people pay for the privilege of engaging in commercial pursuits, and if the policeman would take him back to the hall, he thought he could set himself right before the assembly. Well, the policeman is the meanest man in this town. He took pa to another hall, around a block, where there was a meeting of the high-license people, and he went in, thinking it was the one he was in first. He was kind of surprised that they did not attack him, but they were busy signing a petition for high license. Pa waited a minute to think up something to say, and then he got up on a chair and said, ‘ Mr. Chairman, this is a matter we are all interested in, and the humblest citizen may speak. After studying this matter thoroughly, looking at it in all its bearings, and summing up an experience of forty years, 1 have come to the conclusion that the city should not grant any licenses at all.’ That tickled the crowd, ’cause they thought pa was in favor of stopping the sale of liquor altogether, and they cheered him. Pa got his second wind, and continued: ‘As long as liquor is recognized as an article of commerce, like sugar, and meat, and soap, every man should be allowed to sell it without any license at all. Let everybody be free to sell liquor, and we shall ’ Pa didn’t get any farther. Somebody throwed a wooden water bucket at his head, his chair was knocked out from under him, and several men took him by the collar and pants and he went through another window. The policeman met pa as he came out the window, and asked him if he didn’t find it congenial in there)) and pa said it was too darned con-, genial. He said it seemed as thougii there was no suiting some people, and! he asked the policeman to take hint home. They passed a hall where therA was another meeting, and the police] man asked pa if he didn’t think he’d! better go in and try again, but pa wenj on the other side of the street. He said if he wanted to go through; any more windows he could jump through them himself, as he kneV better which end first he liked to go through windows, and he thought onei man better than six when it comes to making an exit from a public hall. I noticed pa came home early that night,» and he sat thinking a good deal, and I asked him if anything had happened," and he roused up and said,' “Hennery, a little advice from ad jold man will not hurt you. Whatever you do, when you arrive at man’s estate, don’t ever go into politics and, become a public speaker. If you are a public speaker, you will never know 1 how to take your audience, or how your, audience will take you. They may take you by the hand and welcome you, and they may take you by the neck and fire you out of a window. You can tell how to go into a hall, but you can never tell how you will come out. Keep out of politics, and don’t be a speaker. If you have anything to say, be an editor, and write it, and then if people kick on what you say, you can go and hide, or if they come to you you can fire them out. I have often thought you would make a good editor of a political paper, though you would have to learn to lie, I am afraid.’ Oh, pa has had enough of politics, and I guess he will not vote this year. Well, I must go with this mackerel, or we won’t have any breakfast," and the boy went out carrying the fish by the tail and rattling it against the pickets of a fence to make it tender.— Peck's Sun.

A Grease Tree.

They have in China what is known as the grease tree. Large forests grow there, and the oleaginous product has become an article of traffic. The grease forms an excellent tallow, burning with a clear, brilliant white light, and at the same time emitting not a trace of any unpleasant odor, or of the ordinary disagreeable acoompaniment of combustion. smoke.

INDIANA STATE NEWS.

Ton Bctobd, who murdered Judge Elliott, of Kentucky, and who la now stopping at the National Hotel in Jeffersonville, Is rapidly failing in health, and his death is not considered far off. The glass works at Jeffersonville have 200 men employed, and yet the demand for plate glass manufactured at these works continues to increase. They are now three months behind their orders. The Evansville and Terre i Haute Railroad depot at- Farmersburg was burned, entailing a loss of over $6,090. Thomas Crary Si Son had a general store in one end of the building, including hardware, groceries, and dry goods. The stock, which was almost entirely destroyed, was valued at $3,000; insured for $1,400. The building was valued at $3,000. This is a second time in a year Mr. Crary has been a heavy loser by Are. Some time ago Newell Beeson, a Wabash County farmer, disappeared, owing numerous debts. Recently he returned to his home, accompanied by a good-looking young lady, whom he introduced as Mrs. Beeson. He had, he said, found her at Indianapolis, proposed to her, they had married, and now he would undertake to pay off all his debts. It is understood that the now wife wrought the reformation. Just before 7 o’clock in the morning the dome of tho boiler at the Spoke and Bending Factory of J. H. Bruner & Son blew off, going throught the roof. Scraps of Iron and debris of various kinds were carried high into the air. The engineer had been over the boiler but a moment previous, and his escape was a narrow one. There was a pressure of ninety pounds of steam at the time of the explosion. A thief broke into the Catholic Church New Castle the other night by making an opening in one of the stained windows. He was thus enabled to reach and loosen the window fastening, and, climbing in, helped himself to a bottlo of wine, and departed through the church door. None of the valuables are missing from the altar. The broken window is difficult to replace, bearing as it did the name of the donor, Mrs. George Campbell. At 2 o’clock of a recent morning, burglars entered the store of Hiram Waltman, at Georgetown, Brown County, and blew open the safe, robbing it of its contents, and firing the building, which, with the stock of goods, was entirely consumed. The Postoffice, held in the store, and its contents, together with postage stamps, etc., wero burned. The entire loss is estimated at $5,000, on which there is SI,OOO insurance. The news store of Aaron Gody, in an adjoining building, was also burned; loss, $300; no insuranoe. The burglars got about eighty dollars out of the safe. Tilghman Cochran, of Youngstown, Vigo County, has filed complaints against parties in School District No. 2, Pierson township, for visiting the school and insulting the teacher, Mrs. Louie D. Cochran, who is his wife. Zury Wellman, Weldo Wellman, and Mr. Bowles had boys in the school who were dismissed for improper conduct. The parents became offended at the teacher’s action, and visited the school and insulted the teacher by conduct humiliating to her in the presence of the school. The statutes of this State provide for the punishment of this offense, which is termed “insulting a teacher in the presence of the school,” and fixes the fine at not less than $25 for each offense. Thomas Gaff, the well-known distiller of Aurora, died at Cincinnati one day last week of apoplexy. His distilling interests were probably larger than those of any one man in his part of the country. He was one of the proprietors of the Crescent Brewery in Aurora, of the Thistledew Distillery in Covington, the Gaff, Fleischman & Co. distillery, and the Gaff distillery in Aurora. His interests in Cincinnati were so large that ho was looked upon as a Cincinnati man. He lived in a beautiful residence in Aurora on the brow of the hill, and surrounded by a magnificent park. At this luxurious home he would spend his evenings. Late in the fore, noon he would leave for Cincinnati, and be could always be seen on the noon train. He would spend his time on ’Change and looking after his business interests, and then take the 6 o’clock train for home. He was born near Edinburgh, Scotland, July 8, 1808, and came to the United States when but 3 years old, his parents settling at Springfield N. J. When a boy he learned paper-making, which was his father’s trade, and at the age of 16 he learned the distilling business with his uncle, Charles Wilson, of Brooklyn, N. Y. Later; with his brother, James W. Gaff, he engaged in the business in Philadelphia, where for a time they were very successful. The “City of Brotherly Love” 1 did not seem conducive, however, to permanent prosperity in the distilling business, and, reverses overtaking the brothers, they disposed of their interests and removed to Indiana, then the far West, in 1848. They settled in the city of Aurora, and laid the foundation of what is now the great and prosperous firm of T. & J. W. Gaff & Co., distillers. Thomas Gaff was also one of the original stockholders and Directors in the Ohio and Mississippi Railroad. He became distinguished in nearly every line of business, and at the time of his death was merchant, manufacturer and hanker. He was also a joint partner in the extensive flour and hominy mills at Colum- : bus, Ind.; Vice President of the Aurora GasI light and Coke Company, and President of First National Bank. Though his early education was limited, he was a student, read a great deal, and was always posted on eurrent topics. He was noted for the personal attention he gave to every detail of his complicated business affairs, and as a financier was regarded as one of tho very best in the oountry. For the last two or throe years Mr. Gaff had sought to be partially relieved from the cares of business, and confided the management of his affairs to his partner and brother-in-law, Mr. Henry W. Smith. He leaves a widow and two children. Mrs. Gaff has boon an Invalid for years.

Mr. Eb Morgan, of Jeffersonville, has in his possession probably the finest mocking' bird in that city. In addition to its remarkably fine vocal powers, the feathery warbler. has a strange history. It was brought from the Island of St. Helena, m 1880, by a Turkish sailor, and, after weathering two shipwrecks and being captured by savages along with its ownor, finally arrived at New Orleans, where it was purchased by Mr. Morgan’s brother-in-law, a resident of Louisville. ; The paper pulp mill at South Bend now has a capacity of 10,600 pounds a day. 1