Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 September 1885 — A Wayside Idyllic. [ARTICLE]

A Wayside Idyllic.

High in the zenith gleamed the golden orb of day with a brazen stare that palsied energy and kept the pores busy. It was hot From the posied north came no bracing zephyr rich with the fragrance of heath and meadow to fan the brow dripping with the symbol of Adam’s curse. The fly-besmitten cattle had waded into the frog pond, and stood knee deep in green water lashing their steaming sides with heavy tails in despairing languor, lazily chewing their cuds in abject hopelessness. It was a devilish warm day. The earth was as parched and dry as the throat of a tramp at sunrise, and the only cloud visible was a foggy mist of dust that overhung and crept slowly along behind a solitary horseman, who was gradually passing from view with about as much celerity as bad luck leaving a poor man’s family. The heat was oppressive. The man on horseback was in his shirt sleeves and only wone one suspender and a billygoat beard of saddish bleached appearance. There was nothing dudesque in the mien of the man, though there was one point of resemblance not glaringly apparent to the casual observer. He had been half-witted from birth, but having served a term in the legislature the misfortune had ceased to attract attention. His manner was simple and very sweaty, for the day was sultry. The steed he bestrode arched not its neck with the proud impatience of the charger who scents the battle from afar off, but the sway in its back made ample amends for lack of contour further forward. It was bulky of limb, thick in wind, unfortunate in vision, and far from hasty in disposition. It was a horse that any woman could drive in safety, if she had strength to apply the whip with sufficient vigor to keep the animal awake and in motion. In short, it was a horse of great reliability and most exasperating deliberation of movement. The man himself was very full-breasted in the back, and had but little of the fashion plate look about him. His face was seamed with wrinkles and also seemed wrinkled. Perhaps it was. He wore a straw hat and blue cotton pantaloons tucked tightly into boots of cowhide that needed halt-soling; but he was himself a shoemaker by trade and it mattered not. His eyes were smaller than peaches and larger than cherries. Of course we mean common-sized market cherries of the wormy order, ox-hearts being ruled out of this deal. They were of no particular color, and yet were far from white, though he was a A'hite man himself, or passed for one among people not overly particular about such matters. His hair was long and bushy, and would have floated in the breeze, but for one thing. There wasn’t any breeze. It is more than probable that he had ears of some description, but if he had them with him they were not discernible to a person of limited vision, on account of being concealed somewhere beneath his massive ringlets. Some folks would have said, under his hair, but ringlets seem to jingle nicer, and we go right smart on the jingle of everything except money. It was a day of exceeding great warmth, and our hero—for such he may as well be considered, unless somebody bolder and better-looking should turn up and claim the position —found plenty of employment for his hands in mopping his honest brow with a handkerchief of silken pattern and cotton texture. It was a large bandana that had been used for about everything that a handkerchief could be used for, except strangling a baby and straining milk, from carrying eggs to market and bringing home groceries, to tying a colt and holding up a sore leg. But who is the bold buccaneer, and whither goes he on a day of such fiery fervidness, at such reckless indifference of speed that the day after tomorrow is chasing him ? He is old Bill Jarvis, the mail-carrier, taking his own time to get to the settlement, in spite of the fact that Aunt Polly Barkins is burning with impatience to get hold of a letter from her old man, containing two dollars in greasy money and a recipe for drying squash that will give it the taste of pumpkin and keep ten years without turning pale.— Chicago Ledger.