Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 June 1885 — Page 6

JIM’S KIDS. BT EUGENE FIELD. Jim was a fisherman—up on the hill Over the beach lived he an’ hts wife In a little house—you kin see It still— An’ their two fair boys; upon my life You never seen two likelier kids. In spite o' their antics an’ tricks an’ noise, Than them two boys! Jim would so out in his boat on the sea— Just as the rest on us fisherman did— And when he came tack at night thar’d be Up to his knees in the surf each kid, A beck'nin' an’ cheerin’ to fisherman Jim— He'd hear ’em, you bet, above the roar Of the waves on the shore. But one night Jim came sailin’ home. And the l.ttle kids weren’t on the sands— Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come, And a tremblin’ took holt o’ his knees and hands. And he learnt the worst up on the hill In the little house, an’ he bowed his head—- “ The fever,” they said. 'Twas an awful time for fisherman Jim, With them darlln’s dyin’ afore his eyes— They kept a callin, an’ beck'nin’ him, Uor they kind o' wandered in mind —their cries Were about the waves an’ fisherman Jim An’ the little boat a-sailin’ for shore— Till they spoke no more. Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on. And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, But -he never smiled, and bis heart seethed gone. And he never was heard to speak the name Ot the little kids who were buried there Up on the hill in sight o’ the sea, Under a wiiler tree. One night they came and told me to haste To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick, And they said I hadn’t no time to waste, For his tide was ebbin’ powerful quick. An’ he seemed to be wane rin’ and crazy like. An' a seein’ sights he oughtn’t to see— An' had called for me. And fisherman Jim sez he to me, “It's my last, last cruise—you understand— I’m a-sailin’ a dark and dreadful sea, But oil on the further shore, on the sand, Are the kids, who’s a-beck'nin' and callin' my name Jess as they did—ah, mate, you know— In the long ago.” No, sir; he wasn’t afraid to die. For all that night he seemed to see His little boys of the years gene by. And to hear sweet voices lorgot by me; An' just as the mornin' sun come up—‘They're holding me by the hands!” he (ried— An' so he died.

“BLACK ERIC.”

BY SARA B. ROSE.

“I differ from you there, Myrtle. ” “I do not see how you can, Muriel. 1 never could marry into a family who thought I was not their equal.” “But I am the equal of the Scarboros, Myrtle. Not one of the family, excepting Hugh, has a soul to appreciate the beauties of art; not one of them could tell the difference between a chromo and a genuine gem in oil. I would be an ornament to their family, my dear.” “They do not think so.” “They have never seen me, my sister; and besides, if I were not their equal, do you not think that my feelings are to be considered ? From my own point of view I think that my happiness is as important as Mrs. Scarboro’s.”

“That may be all very well—from your point of view—but we differ a liltle, Muriel.” “We differ a great deal, Myrtle. Now, I never could do the degrading work which you delight in—taking those horrible pictures of the dead in the morgue, for instance; and your last freak is even worse yet—allowing the Sheriff to bring criminals into our very presence to get their photos for the rogues’ gallery. Yes, we differ, and you are the worst of the two.” “My work brings us bread and butter, Muriel, while your ‘gems in oil’ ” “Well, what about them?” asked my sister, impatiently, as I paused, ashamed of myself. “They certainly save us wall-paper—-that is an item, sis. Do let’s stop quarreling, now. You touch up these photographs, while I prepare lunch,” I exclaimed, starting up and hurrying into the little room where our cooking was done.

Muriel never seemed to realize that we were but poor artists. She carried the air of a grand duchess with her wherever she went, and spoke condescendingly to people who were worth their Hundreds of thousands. I was quite provoked at her, for while I caught eagerly at any work I could get, even tintypes, she would touch nothing but ideal faces, and landscapes in oil. The landscapes were ideal also, for we were too poor to travel. Beautiful and dreamy as her pictures were. I could not help begrudging the time she spent over them, for she never sold one of them by any chance. Hard work I had of it, too. Besides being the bread-winner, I did the housework, running down stairs and up again a half dozen times a day, after necessaries, while she toiled on incessantly over these unending pictures. Still, I should remember that it was my duty, for had not papa, after dividing his store of unsold pictures between ns, said:

“Myrtle, although you are the younger, I leave Muriel in your care. You are practical, you will succeed. Muriel will be as her father has been before her, a dreamer of dreams.” Thinking it over, I felt sorry that I liad ever felt impatient toward my sister, even when she found fault with my “degrading work,” as she called it. And now she wanted to marry a man whose parents thought her beneath them. I had too much pride for that anyhow; but I resolved, as I spread our

little table, not to meddle with things which did not concern me, and then, when all was ready, I mustered my sweetest smile and returned to Muriel. The photographs were untouched, and Mr. Hugh Scarboro was lolling in the big upholstered chair I had just purchased for my patrons to pose in. Our photographic rooms afforded an entrancing view of roofs and chimneys

innumerable, and Muriel’s dreamy blue eyes looked out as fondly at them as if they were the grandest of gardens, filled with the most beautiful flowers, “Myrtle, it is settled,” said Hugh, solemnly, as we all sat down to luncheon. “Without saying a word to me,” I said, in spite of my resolve. “You did not say anything to me when you made arrangements to take in the swindlers,” returned Muriel. “I know it,” I replied humbly, ashamed of myself once more. “How did you settle it?” “We are to be married at the end of one year.” My silence Beemed to astonish Muriel, and Hugh said wonderingly: “And now that it is settled, explain your meaning, Muriel, when you said that Myrtle had made arrangements to ‘take in the swindlers.’” “I will,” she replied, with more animation than usual. “You know she has been taking pictures at the morgue? Well, she was not satisfied with that; she has actually sent in loner terms than Barton, who has been taking the rogues’ pictures at the police court, and she has undermined him. At any rate, they have been here with a half dozen burglars and one or two murderers and assault and batterers, and we may expect them at any time with more. ” “A wise man is the Sheriff,” said Hugh, laughing. “Myrtle don’t mean to get left.”

“It pays well,” I replied, pleased with Hugh’s approval. “But it is not very easy work. Harter, the burglar, sprang out of the chair, irons and all, in order to spoil his picture yesterday, and Leffingwell, the wife-beater, posed as carefully as any belle could do, but at the critical moment, he made the fearfulest grimace possible to man. Not one of them likes to have his picture taken—they will spoil it if they can.” “There is some one coming up the stairs,” said Hugh, rising with Muriel, and following me into the studio. The door opeued, and two blue-coat-ed policemen entered, escorting as handsome a man as ever I beheld. Even Muriel lost her unconcerned air as her artistic eye took in the tall,, wellknit figure, the dark, brilliant eyes, the richly bronzed complexion, and the half-amused smile around the perfect mouth.

“Miss Maxton, we’ve brought ‘Black Eric,’ the forger and counterfeiter, to have his picture taken. We’ve huntod a spell for him, but we’ve got him at last.” “You are mistaken in my name, gentlemen. lam Ira Irving, and my home is in San Francisco, as I shall soon be able to prove. You may take my photo if it is any gratification to these officers.” The guardians of the public peace smiled significantly, and Muriel said, in an aside to Hugh: “What a pity. Isn’t he perfectly lovely?” “He isn’t guilty!” I exclaimed, turning sharply upon Muriel. I was startled at my own act as soon as the words had escaped me. One of the men said, quietly: “Every criminal declares liis innocence, Miss Maxton. This man is one of the most daring and dangerous characters with whom we have to deal. ” I attended strictly to business after that, working as rapidly as the state of my nerves would allow. The prisoner sat as cheerfully as if the picture was taken for a ladies’ album, exposing his features to the full light in a manner very unusual to criminals. “I have done all that I can toward the picture to-day,” I said when I had finished. The officers arose to remove their man. He turned to me and said, earnestly : ,

“Miss Maxton, I hope soon to free myself from this charge, and in your eyes, and that of all the world, appear as I am in reality, an honest man. When I can do so, you will see me again.” I bowed without speaking, and the three departed. “There, Myrtle, you will have to look out or you will lose your place. If the Sheriff finds you are falling in love with his prisoners, he will go back to Barton,” exclaimed Muriel, laughing. I bit my lip, and I knew I changed color, and Hugh wisely changed the subject. “I say, Muriel, which do you consider your very best picture ? I’m going to get it framed and put it on exhibition for you.” They began looking over her assortment of pictures, and “Black Eric” was forgotten, by them at least. A young lady came in who wished her cabinets taken, and then Hugh claimed my attention.

“Now, Myrtle, choose the one you like best from among your father’s pictures,” he said, “and I will take that also. I have an idea that I can do something with them.” “Castles in the air,” I replied, as I selected an ancient “Fortress on the Rhine.” “How many poor papabuilded to see them topple and fail. All people want nowadays is work, and that upon some pressing demand of the day. I would sell the whole of these paintings for ten dollars if papa had not painted them. ” “What a dreadful girl you are, ” sighed Muriel. “She would crush the last bit of romance from life.” Hugh looked at me compassionately. “Myrtle, you know that I would lift this burden from your shoulders gladly, and to-day, if you would allow it. My parents would soon learn to love Muriel, and our home would be yours until you found one of your own.” “Thank you,” I replied ungratefully. “Muriel can go where she is not vfaifted, if she likes, but I do not intend to

add myself to the list of husband-hunt-ers with which society is liden.” “We wiH w mt a year,” said Muriel. “I do not wish to leave Myrtle now, filled as she is with this desperate feeling of independence. I may paint something in that time which will be successful. ”

I turned away from the two, disgusted with Muriel’s faith in herself, and Hugh ran down the long flights of stairs whistling, with the two oil paintings tucked under his arm. When Mr. Irving’s photo was finished it was as handsome a picture as I ever saw.

“I d use that face for an oil painting if he was not a forger,” said Muriel. “I might call him a bandit, though; a little sharper eye, a heavier mustache and eyebrows, and he would be perfect. ‘Black Eric the Bandit.’ I’ll do it, Myrtle. ” “You will not,” I cried, catching the picture and sealing it in an envelope for posting. “He shall never be insulted like that when he is innocent. You will never see his face again.” “Can’t I even see the .one you have put away for your own private inspection then ?” she asked, provokingly innocent. “How selfish you are.” I felt that my face was betraying me, but I held on to my temper. So then she knew that I had finished two pictures. I had not given her credit for so much penetration.

After all this I dared not ask after the fortunes of Mr. Irving. Muriel had no such scruples. “Then that was really Black Eric?” she asked, when the Sheriff came in again. “Oh, yes, we have sent him back to Omaha for trial. He’s a deep one, though. He pretended to the last that he could clear himself. Muriel looked slyly at me but said nothing, but I believe she read my thoughts as if they were an open book. Time passed on and Hugh called upon us regularly. Muriel’s lover was a true one, for he never wavered when his parents disowned him for his engagement to a poverty-stricken artist, and he went at business with a vim which pleased even unbelieving me. He showed that there was something in him, and I liked him better than I had ever done when I thought him the petted child of fortune, the heir to half a million.

For all that I tried to get Muriel to break the engagement. Hugh was sacrificing a good deal for her. She only laughed and declared that Mrs. Scarboro’s objections were unfounded. because she was only a wealthy “parvenu.” “Am I not an artiste ?” she asked, with a grand air. Hugh became so angry at me that I giady cried “quits” at last. They treated me to some scathing ridicule about “Black Eric,” in return for my well-meant advice, and I agreed to meddle no more if they would maintain a strict silence concerning him. Everything went on as usual with us for a time until one evening Hugh came in with a long drawn face. “News,” he cried, throwing himself into my big chair. “Good or bad?” asked Muriel, beaming upon him like a sunbeam. “Bad, of course,” I hazarded. “What is it ? Has somebody got the rogues gallery away from me ?” “Good,” smiled Muriel, hopefully. “I knew I should succeed at last. ”

Hugh fastened his big gray eyes upon each of us in turn. “What do you suppose it is, girls?” “Black Eric has returned like a fairy prince, with a chariot lined with gold, after the beautiful maiden who believed in him,” cried Muriel, breaking her promise for once. Nothing ever excited her fears; but Hugh, seeing that I was filled with apprehension, replied soberly and at once:

“It is good luck, Myrtle. Muriel’s picture is sold, and your father’s, also, and I have a buyer for as many more as you will part with. ” It was true, although I could hardly realize it. An Eastern picture dealer was in town, had noticed the pictures, had liked them and paid an almost fabulous price for them, we thought. He was coming on the morrow to see our entire stock.

What a time we had unpacking and dusting those old pictures that evening. Hugh remained with us till midnight, and when he left us our task was done, and we awaited with beating hearts the coming of the stranger. “Muriel, are we in fairy land? everything is here except the prince,” I said the next evening, as we stood with what was to us unparalleled wealth in our hands, one-third of our pictures gone, a promise of a larger order, and Muriel with every picture she could paint engaged. “The prince is here,” she replied, gazing fondly v.p at Hugh. “I shall have to paint ‘Black Eric’ now.” “Don’t,” I cried, a sadness coming to me in the midst of all my joy. “You forget your promise, darling,” said Hugh, softly, to Muriel, as I went back to my work-room to hide the tears in my eyes. We took a cottage after that, instead of living in my photographic rooms. Here Muriel- painted and I spent my few leisure hours. I gave up the tintypes and the rogues’ gallery, for they were unnecessary now, for papa’s picture’s turned out to be indeed a fortune. Muriel, too, became the fashion, and money and society she had until she tired of them. Mrs. Scarborc* turned with the tide, and made friends with Hugh and Muriel and myself, and went about town raving over “Miss Maxton, the artiste, to whom my son is engaged.” She also kindly Offered to “bring me out,” btft this I could not allow, in fact

it waa all sickening to me. I had come to be contented with my lot—nearly. Muriel and her lover were married in grand style, I was first bridesmaid, and took an active part in all the festivities, never once thinking or caring what society or the votaries of fashion thought of me. One day I heard some one coming up the sta rs, and turned to confront “Black Eric.” He was dark and handsome as ever, and there were no officers with him now. He took off his hat with the utmost politeness, and, as he grasped my hand, said:

“I told you I should come some day, Miss Maxton, und here I am. I thought I would reclaim my picture from the rogue ’ gallery.” It seemed that he had proven himself innocent after all. The real “Black Eric” had been caught and lynched in a far Western town. He had brought references enough to satisfy even the most skeptical as to his character and position in society. He accompanied me home and insisted upon laying these all before Hugh, who thought all this unnecessary if he only wished to reclaim his picture. We found out his real business after a little, though, and now in my elegant drawing-room in San Francisco hangs a picture painted by my famous sister named “Black Eric the Bandit,” and my husband declares it beai’3 a striking likeness to himself.

Foucault’s Experiment.

This famous experiment was made by M. Foucault, a French scientist, to visibly demonstrate the rotation of the earth on its axis, as follows: One end of a fine steel wire was firmly fastened to the under surface of a high ceiling; on the lower end of the wire a heavy copper ball was hung, which carried below it a steel pointer. This pendulum swung over a place so hollowed out that the pointer would move just over its surface; about the edge of the hollow was laid a ridge of fine sand, which the pointer would pass through at every vibration. In order that the pendulum might not he moved by any other impulse than the simple attraction of the earth, it was drawn aside from its vertical position and tied by a thread; and when it was perfectly still the thread was burned off, and the ball began to oscillate. As the po nter passed through the ridges of sand it was seen that at each vibration it crossed a little to the right, looking from the center of the place where it crossed before. Now, the theory of the experiment is this: When the pendulum begins to swing, drawn by tho earth’s attraction only, it must necessarily move in a plane containing three points—the point of suspension, the point from which it started, and the center of the earth. It can not of itself leave this plane of vibration, and there is no force without to cause it to turn aside; it must,, therefore, go on therein, to the end of the vibration. The next vibration begins in tbe same plane and ends in it, and so with each subsequent vibration. The point to which the pendulum is suspended has, of course, the motion of the earth at the place where the experiment is performed; but as the wire is fastened so that no rotary or twisting motion can be imparted to it, the forward motion of the point of suspension only carries the plane of vibration forward without twisting it to the right or left. The ball, therefore, does not move toward the right; its apparent motion makes visible the actual motion of the earth beneath it toward the left; that is, toward the east. Theoretically, as the pendulum is moved by the attraction of the earth only, a persistent force, its vibration would be perpetual. But, practically, the friction of the atmosphere retards and after a time overcomes its motion. This experiment has been performed in the Pantheon at Paris, in the Bunker Hill monument near Boston, and in the Exposition Building at' Chicago, and at several other important places in this country and Europe. —lnter Ocean.

The German Ahead.

It is a remarkable circumstance that in every part of the commercial world Germans are supplanting the English as merchants and business men. The reason for this superiority is obvious on its face. The German is highly educated ; this makes him intelligent, and then he is patient and thrifty. The number of Germans who cannot read and write is smaller than in any other country, while the university graduates are more numerous, and hence they are supplanting the British trader because of their greater intelligence and economical habits. Americans are out of this fight for commercial supremacy. We have, neither colonies nor trade with other nations. If we had we would probably hold our own with the Germans except in the matter of education and economy. Our people are reckless spenders, even more so than the English, but this now makes no difference as we have no commercial ambition.— Demorest’s Monthly.

Watering Stock.

Jay Gould’s little boy went to visit some country relatives. Early in the morning he arose, and, missing his uncle, asked one of his cousins: “Where’s Uncle Jehez gone?” “He’s gone to water stock,” replied Jabez’s little boy. “What, so early?” exclaimed little Jay Gould. “Why, my pa never waters stock until he goes down town in the city, ’bout 10 or 11 ."—Pittsburgh Chronicle. Death is the liberator of him whom freedom can not release, the physician of him whom medicine can not cure, and the oomforter him whom time can not console.— Colton.

HUMOR.

Sabcasm between friends is a chasm not easily bridged over. Avoid it, or it will at last become as wide as the earth, and as deep as the grave. —Chicago Sun. “The face is the play-ground of the sonl,” but, like a little child, there are many souls that would prefer to play in the dirt.— Newman Independent. When a printer asks his best girl to give him a proof of her love she locks her form np in his m-brace and he puts his imprint on it. —Carl Pretzel's Weekly. Jesse McHenry came home at a late hour, and in his usual condition. “You are just out of the saloon. Now, don’t you deny it,” said his wife. “It ain’t my fault, ” responded the wretched inebriate ; “I’d have been there yet if the proprietor hadn’t closed up.” —Texas Siftings. A GOOD REASON. Why does she hold her head so high And look so supercilious, And pass the other maidens by As if they made her bilious? Well may she proudly walk the street, The while her pride increases; Her crazy quilt is just complete Made of ten thousand pieces. —Boston Courier.

“A Boston girl is going to marry Prof. Edmunds, one of the men who devised zone standard time. ” The marriage may be a happy one if some fiendish paragrapher doesn’t rush in with the remark that the Professor is anxious to call her his zone.— Exchange. The young ladies of a Pennsylvania town have formed a “Popping the Question Society.” After a seasonable term of membership a young lady will become competent to prompt the faltering swain who sets out to propose for her hand.— Exchange. "They talk about a woman’s sphere As though it had a limit; Thera’s not a place in earth #r heaven. There’s not a task to mankind given. The e's not a blessing or a woe, There's not a whispered yes or no, There’s not a life, or death, or birch, That has a feather’s weight of worth. Without a woman in it."

A young Bostonian, who recently went up among the hills of Vermont to get? married to a farmer’s daughter, was taken to task by the old man as follows: “Now, Jeems, this ’ere match was kinder brought about by you and Susie, and I’ve had no chance to say anything to you. How much are you worth?” “Well,” replied Jeems, after some hesitation, “putting it on the basis of Western Union at 57 I am worth $30,000.” “Stop! young man—stop right thar!” exclaimed the old man. “I want a sounder basis than that! Jist figger on turnips at 75 cents a bushel and see what your value amounts to!” —Wall Street News. On the other hand, the beast of prey hints that there are too many lunch fiends about the establishment, and that something should be done to eradicate them; and then he says, “give me another big slice of that beef; the last was a little too fat, and a few more potatoes and gravy, plenty of gravy, if you please; and another plate of bread, and plenty of vermicelli. It is healthy, a little of it is, and some salad. You ought to have more vegetables and fish, or oysters, like they do at the other saloon, and a fresh napkin. I can’t eat much now, as I ate a late breakfast, and I am going home to dinner. Just want a mere bite to stay my stomach,” and finally when he takes his temporary leave he does it with the air of a prince abdicating the throne.— Arkansaw Traveler.

AMALGAMATION. Amalga was a chieftain bold, The bravest or his clan. In legend quaint his praise is told. For m the glorious days of old He was a mighty man. There came a maid, ah! fair was she, But doletul was her state: “Alas! though he care not for me," She sung in mournful melody, “I would Amalga mate.” Then said the warrior: “Single bliss Has been much overrated," And pressing on her lips a kiss. This dainty mediaeval miss Straightway Amal.a mated. O, lady mine, he ne’er did rue Him of his captivation; Be mine his joy -I love but you— And each to each we’ll e’er be true. In sweet amalgamation. —Puck.

A Bulgarian Funeral.

A funeral procession, described by Mr. More in his recent work, entitled “Under the Balkans,” was remarkable in the first place for a yoke of white oxen drawing a wagon with wicker sides, on which the coffin—that of a woman—was placed feet foremost: “On the front of the wagon rode the priest, carrying in his hand a sacristy made of clay; and behind sat one of the relatives. It was followed by a small crowd of about twenty or thirty mourners, mostly women, wearing gowns of coarse homespun cloth, colored aprons, and handkerchiefs on their heads, being the usual costume of the country. Arriving at the ruins of the battered and decayed Church of St. George, the procession stopped and the mourners crossed themselves, while the priest scattered incense on all sides. The corpse, which was wrapped in a colored blanket, the face only being exposed, was carried into the church, placed before the altar, and laid feet eastward in the blanket, the head being supported by a pillow. The body was clad in a gold-braided bridal costume, a handkerchief on the head, shoes and stockings on the feet, and a gold chain around the neck. On the breast was placed a lighted triple-branched wax taper, and bunches of flowers were also laid on the breast and placed in the hand. A small oil lamp was burning near the head. A loaf of bread on a plate, a pan of boiled wheat, and a dish of honey were set near the corpse. The mourners and congregation, to tho number of about fifty, mostly women, each held a lighted taper, as did also the two officiating priests and the clerks."