Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 November 1885 — Page 6

IHE TRAPPER 8 GRAVE. BY NATHAN D. ÜBNEB. 'Afterlife’s fever, he sleeps welL"— Shakspeare. Deep in s mighty canyon's gloom. Beneath a giant pine, I stood beside a trapper’s tomb. And read the carven line That told the name and age of him Who rested there so well. And how amid the forest dim. True to his trust, he fell. Ay, yonder stood the hut where ho Dwelt with his,lndian bride. And, 'tis recorded, proud and free, The treacherous foe defied. Till, ts the great gold-seeking bands Invaded his retreat. He perished by assassin hands, Majestic in defeat, Around this snot, where died his hope. There bounded then the game; The red deer and the antelope. The mighty grizzly came: And where some mining-camps now hold Their scenes of strife and blood, The buffaloes in myriads rolled Their brown and billowy flood. These glades, which his last slumber seal, This cloud-caressing tree, Once echoed to his ride’s peal, Or marked the hunter free Steal through the forest mazes deep Where the panther’s footprints go, Or on his wiry mustang sweep In chase of fleeter foe. Perchance his simple heart despised And held in sad disdain The glittering dro s whose quest so prizes Disturbed his wild domain; Perchance to some still lonelier spot He. restless, yet had flown. Had not the dastard, ambushed shot His massive strength o’erthrown. No matter; here he takes repose From war-path and from chase; No prouder monument e’er rose O er hero s resting-plac ■. The solemn Colorado glades Around in gr indeur sweep; No rare disturbs, nor dream invades His grand, eternal sleep.

KEZIAH THEW.

Benjamin Thew was returning homeward with a long, heavy rifle on his shoulder when ho heard of Basil Bonyford’s attentions to his daughter Keziah. He met Ezra Lewis in the road, which was little more than a mountain path over the rugged eastern spurs of the Alleghanys. Ezra stopped in the road to admire the large, fat buck thrown across the saddle of the horse Thew was leading. “You’re a famous shot, Uncle Ben,” lie said, “a famous shot.” Benjamin Thew was very proud of his skill as a hunter, and of his daughter Keziah. He turned his dust-colored, wrinkled face toward the setting sun, and a grim, self-satisfied smile gathered about the corners of his thin lips. Then Ezra Lewis added. “I reckon there ain’t your ekal in this part of Virginny, onless it be young Baz Boynlord.” “Yes,” Thew replied, “I hear he can shoot a leetle at a blazed tree, but I never knew a Whig yit that had narve for rail shootin’.” “Why, Uncle Ben, I thought you an’ Baz were great friends. I've been hearing he is to be half of a wedding at your house, and vour Kizzie t’other half.”

At this the point of Thew’s high, thin nose, which was curved like the beak of an eagle, appeared to creep down toward his short, straggling mustache, and he replied: “Him, Baz Boynford, why,his father in his time was the rankest old Whig on the mountain. What an idea! Who started that lie ?” “I d’no, Uncle Ben. I heard it.” “It’s all moonshine, Ez. No halffaced Whig can do any marrying with Kiz whilst I live, nor after; red deer don’t mate with gray squirrel. ” An hour later, after Benjamin Thew had carefully rubbed his rifle, probed a piece of buckskin into its nozzle and laid it on the pegs near the broad chimney in his kitchen, he turned to Keziah and said: “What’s this I hear about Baz Boynford?” Keziah looked up from the browniug corn brpad in the Dutch oven, the lid ■of which she had just removed, and replied: “I don't know, pap, I didn,t -carry your ears.” “1 denied it, Kizzie, right flat.” Keziah bent lower over the oven and said : “Yes, pap, what did you hear?” “I heerd that Baz Boynford had his eyes set on you.” “Who told you that, pap?" ' “I met Ez Lewis when I was coming down the mountain and he told me. ” Hearing no response from his daughter, Thew asked: “What do you say to that, Kizzie?” “Oh, to that? I’m sure I think if Ez Lewis used his hands more and his tongue less he-would be much better oflf.” “Yes, that may be so; he is raither a shiftless crjtter, but you are not answering about Baz Boynford’s eyes on you.” “Oh, that? Well, I’m sure that they are not very bad eyes, pap. I’ve «ee> a good many worse.” Thew stood beside his daughter, laid ■one of his long bony hands on her .shoulder, and Said: “Now, look here, Kizzie, sen ce ydu have no mother nor sister nor brother, I’m responsible for J OU. Keziah replied laughingly: “Of course you are, papa, and I am responsible for you since you have no one else to care for you, and you don’t know how it worries me sometimes. ” “Yes, of course, Kizzie, and my duty is to keep you from going wrong.” Keziah’s face became very red at this and she exclaimed hotly: “Me going wrong, pap; did Ezra Lewis dare say that, and did you hear it without .shooting him?” ■ “He said there was talk of you and Baz Boynford marrying. ” “Oh, that? Is that all?” “What worse wrong can you do than that, Lizzie?” “Whv, that’s nothing, pap.” “Nothing! That nothing! Why, Kiz-z-i-e, how you talk—Nothing! Nothing! and him—a Whig!” “Ob, indeed, is that so dreadful bad ?”

“Bad! Why, what m the world can be worse?”

“What, to be a Whig?” exclaimed Keziah, with a little “and what are you, pap ?” “Me? me! Thank God ther ain’t nary drop of Whig blood in my veins.”

“Isn’t there, pap? I didn’t know.” Then after a little pause Keziah added: “I’m sure my marrying Baz wouldn’t add any Whig blood to your veins. Would it, pap?” Keziah turned the smoking corn bread out of the Dutch oven and laid it? on the table while she was speaking. Her father, who was already seated, looked across the table and said: “Kizzie, I’m responsible for you. There ain’t no one else, and I’m responsible. I must do my duty by you, daughter, and you must remember you are a Thew.”

“And he is a Boynford,” said Keziah, interrupting, “but people of different names marry, don’t they, pap?” “Yes, yes, Kizzie, that’s all right. I don’t object to the uame, but he is as much like his father as one fox is like another.”

“Well, pap, that isn’t saying anything very bad about Baz. I always have heard his father was a very good-tem-pered and honest man.” “I have nothing to say against that, Kizzie, nothing, no, nothing against that; but—he—was—a —Whig, and I am responsible for you. I must do my duty by you, Kizzie, mind that, child —I must do my duty—and I won’t have any foolishness with Baz Boynford.” Then he helped himself liberally to venison and corn bread. He had said his say and laid down the law of marriage in his household. Then he talked of his long and successful tramp over the mountains. But if fathers forget that love takes no account of politics or religion, young daughters with love in their hearts do not, and certainly her father’s words did not convince Keziah there was any great wickedness in thinking of Basil Boynford, and she bent her brown face over her plate, eating little and wondering much how she would get down the valley to a frolic to be held that night, to which all the young people of the neighborhood were invited.

While she was wondering she heard footsteps on the porch and a tap at the door, and who of all men should enter but Basil Boynford. He was tall, longlimbed, square-shouldered, and slightly angular, but with his bright gray eyes, long brown hair, and the light down of youth on the chin of his nutbrown, good-humored face, he was very pleasant to look on. When Keziah saw him much sweetness gathered about her mouth and much trouble in her eyes, which deepened greatly when she turned toward her father and saw the stern look on his face. Basil saw nothing of all this. He was eager to escort Keziah to the frolic in the valley, and he plunged into his mission at once. “We’ll have a splendid time,” so he said. “You ought to come along, Uncle Ben” (so every one called Benjamin Thew), “vou’ll think yourself young again.” Basil was full of love and hope and there was a rolliicking jollity in his voice. Then Benjamin Thew spoke: “Basil Boynford, Keziah Thew can’t go down to the valley or anvwhere else with you.” “Sho, Uncle Ben, you’re joking; of course we’ll go. Why, look here, Uncle Ben. Kizzie wouldn’t go with any one else, and I wouldn’t go with any one but Kizzie. Why, bless you, Uncle Beu, it wouldn’t be any frolic, not to me, without Kizzie.” While Basil was speaking Thew walked over to the wall and lifted his rifle from the pegs on which it rested. Then turning toward Basil, he said: “I won’t have any Whig running here after my daughter.” “Sho, now!” said Basil, laughing good naturedly. “If I can swallow your rank Locofocoism without getting sick, you oughtn’t to make faces over the little Whig in me.” With that Benjamin Thew raised his rifle, and with an ominous softness in his voice he said: “Basil Boynford, I’ll give you just a minute to git out inter the road.”

Keziah ran in before the muzzle of her father’s rifle to shelter Basil, but he brushed her gently aside and said: “Let him shoot, Kizzie, if he wants to.” Then looking into the eye sighting along the rifle-barrel, he added: “You needn’t shoot, Uncle Ben, unless you’re spoiling for it. That argement is good: it convinces me I ought to go.” Then he went out into the road. And the frolic in the valley was held without the presence of either Basil or Keziah.

If any imagine that Keziah put Basil out of her heart after this, they are mistaken. Opposition does not work that way, and Basil only laughed, greeted Thew with a pleasant “How-de, Uncle Ben,” whenever he met him, and whispered soft nonsense to Keziah on the sly whenever he could. So the months wore away until Christmas. The third day after Christmas Benjamin Thew started away from home early in the morning with his long, trusty rifle on his shoulder. At midnight, a thing which never occurred before, he was nq£ at home. Near daylight Basil Boynford entered Thew’s house, carrying Benjamin Thew on his back. In the middle z of the afternoon Thew slipped on the rocks. In falling he sprained an ankle severely, and at the same time disturbed a great loose rock which rolled over against the stones between which he fell, so that he was confined and in danger of being crushed if he attempted to move the rock in any but one direction, and as to that one he was powerless. Basil Boynford, who was hunting higher up on the mountain, heard his cries for help, and hurried to his side. When he saw

who it was, and how he was confined, Basil sat down near him, with his rifle across his lap. “Well, Uncle Ben,” he said, quietly, j “you’re in a pretty tight fix, ain't you? ' Accidents ain’t no respecters of per- ■ sons, are they, Uncle Ben? Even your . old hide-bound Locofocos are liable to i ’em, and you’d like to have help, wouldn’t you, Uncle Ben? Now, I’m willing to help you, if you are a Locofoco—for a price, Uncle Ben; for a price, mind you! I won’t make any faces about your Locofocoism, and you stand out of the way between me and Kizzie. That’s the price, Uncle Ben.” Thew refused.

“All right, Uncle Ben; I’ll wait. Yon had the best of the argement that night. You put me out inter the road, and I’ve got just a leetle the best end of the argement now. ” So Basil waited, sitting on a rock a few feet away, and occasionally walking up and down, stamping his feet to beat the chill out of his bones. The sun went down, the night air became colder, and Thew had not uttered one word after his first refusal of assent to Basil’s proposal. Shortly after midnight Basil stood near his head, and said, gently: “I’m sorry for you, Uncle Ben, for you’re a pretty good man, as Locofocos go, and I’m thinking the heavy frost will make it powerful onpleasant for you afore morning, and after that you can’t stand between me and Kizzie. When a fellow’s dead he loses his argement. Don’t he, Uncle Ben ?” Then Thew muttered, “I wish I had pledged her! I wish I had.” After a little pause he added, “I ain’t sure but you’re right about that, Baz, and I s’pose I might as well have it go on while I’m living’as after I’m dead.” “That’s about the size of it, Uncle Ben, and a very sensible way of looking at it.” “Very well, Baz, get me out and help me home.” “Certain, Uncle Ben, certain, and I’m powerful sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced, powerful sorry. But you see it’s took a long time to git the argement through you.” Basil rolled the stone away and lifted Thew, who, with the cold and his injury, was unable to stand on his feet. Then Basil took the injured and chilled man on his back. When they were in sight of Thew’s home Benjamin Thew said:

“Baz, you’re a pretty stout lad, for “I ain’t no chicken to carry.” Basil laughed and walked on briskly. “Oh,“ he said, “you’re Kizzie’s father; that makes the load lighter, Uncle Ben.” “Well, Baz,” Thew responded,“there are worse fellows than you, and I’m a man of my word in letter and spent, but I’m thinking if you w; nt Kizzia bad you had better not brag much about your convincing argement.” “Oh, Uncle Ben, I’m not of bragging stock.” “That’s sensible, Baz, and if I was you and wanted Kizzie right bad, I think I wouldn’t never let her hear it; not that I’m objecting, Baz, you may tell her as soon as you get to the door, but I’m giving you fair warning, to keep my promise in spent as well as word. ”

In two weeks Benjamin Thew was on his feet, and in time the guests assembled at Thew’s house to witness the marriage of Keziah and Basil. Among the guests was one Rhoda Boynford, a cousin of Basil’s. He accompanied her to Thew’s. On the way he confided to her the story of the cold night on the mountain side, about which he afterward said: “It only shows what a fool a man can be at times. ” Rhoda was an open-mouthed, rattle-brained creature. She ran into the room where Keziah was dressed, and looking pretty as brides do, only waiting for the arrival of Basil to have the ceremony begin. “Oh, how lovely you look. I don’t wonder at Basil, dear me; but it was the boldest and smartest thing, and did you never know how your father came to consent?”

Then the story came out. Rattlebrained Rhoda did not observe how the color was disappearing from Keziah’s cheek. When she concluded Keziah opened the door, and seeing Basil she beckoned to him. When he was in the room and the door closed, she asked: “Basil, is this story Rhoda tells true?” Basil hesitated a little, and then admitted.

Then Keziah said: “Come into the other room, Basil.” There was something in her low voice that filled Basil with alarm. In the other room and among the guests, Keziah raised her voice. “Friends,” she said, “there will be no marriage here to-day.” There was a little trembling in her voice, which was quite strong and audible to every one in the room. Basil expostulated. So did Benjamin Thew. Then his daughter whispered in his ear, “?ap, I have heard how he won your consent.” “Nonsense, Kizzie, I think I would have done the same for your mother.” “I don’t believe it, pap. It was cruel, very cruel, and I will never marry any man who can be cruel to my father. Never, pap, never!”

Then Keziah turned to the wonderin S guests: “Come, friends, where is the fiddle? Let us dance.” She took the arm of the oldest man in the party. Come, Uncle Ted, you’ll be my partner. If we don’t have a wedding, we’ll have a good time all the same.” The music struck up, and light feet carried wondering heads through the mazes of the Virginia reel. Five years later the war began. Benjamin Thew and Basil Boynford espoused different sides in the great contest. At the first Bull Run Benjamin Thew heard the command: “Forward! guide center! double quick! march!” He rushed forward and never returned.

He was buried on the field where h® fell beside his comrades in gray. The war storm rolled over the land. Several times it approached the home of Keziah Thew, and then receded. In 1863 it burst upon a valley a few miles away. When the battle was over the wrecks of humanity were gathered in a temporary hospital. Tender-hearted Keziah came down from the hills to help the suffering. “I am not on your side,” she said to the officer in charge, “but pity and affection have no sides.” The surgeon looked into her sweet, patient face, and gladly accepted her aid. She went about among the wounded blue coats like a ministering angel, with a face of pity and a touch of gentleness, helping . the living and whispering words of comfort to the dying. On the second night she was in camp she heard a voice behind her: “Kizzie, is that you, or am I dreaming?” It was Basil Boynford who spoke. The surgeons had amputated both his legs and his life hung on a slender thread. Keziah bent down and kissed him. From that moment he began to grow stronger. When camp broke up Keziah carried Basil over the hills to her home, where she nursed him until he was as well as he ever will be in this world, then she drove with him to his little farm and set his house in order.

Years have passed away. Sweet peace touches the land with happiness and covers it with garlands. Many have gone wooing to the home of Keziah Thew and to all she has said: “I never had heart enough for but one love,” and though in all these years she has gone every day, until the threads of gray in her head outnumber the brown, to see what she could do for mutilated Basil Boynford, he has never spoken of the love in his heart which time and Keziah’s tender care have strengthened.

Beer.

As for malt liquors: Excellent ale, pure and healthful, is imported from England and Scotland, and some very good beer from continental Europe. Of American ale, some is good and much—especially of the brands that have built up saloon reputation—is bad. American beer, particularly that made in and near New Y’ork, must be viewed with grave suspicion. The business of manufacturing it has grown in a short time to vast proportions, and tempting many to engage in it by the excessive profits it affords, has engendered the keenest' rivalry. Unfortunately, that rivalry has led, not to the perfection of the product, but to the cheapening of production by employment of rice, glucose, corn and other substitutes for good barley malt; the use of various drugs to take the place of hops or to give supposably desirably effects of flavor, color and headiness, or to compel the thirst of the drinker, and the evil abbreviation of the time necessary for honest brewing. The latter wickedness is perhaps the worst, as it is the one most generally practiced. Four months at least should elapse after beer is brewed before it is drunk, to give time for the proper fermentation and clearing from the baleful yeast germs and impure matter that in its earlier processes it necessarily contains. But in our local beer fermentation is artificially stopped and the stuff is vended when it is no more than fourteen days to two months old. At best, very new beer is blended with that slightly older. Brewers claim that 50 per cent, of properly fermented beer six months old and 50 per cent, of two months old and but half fermented gives 100 per cent, of beer four months old, which is on a par with the affirmation that one fresh egg and one rotten egg mixed gives two good eggs. The universal practice of adding half a pound of bicarbonate of soda to each barrel of beer is a very bad one for drinkers.

We get some fairly good beer from Detroit, Milwaukee, -Cincinnati, and other Western cities, and in Philadelphia there is one notably good beer made by an honest and eccentric old German, but good beer made in or near New York, even by brewers who in times past have most loudly claimed honesty for their product, can only be hoped for as a thing of the future, when it shall be necessary to keep intelligent people from discarding beer altogether. —James H. Connelly, in The Cook.

Twins That Look Alike and Think Alike.

Watkinsville boasts as many pretty girls as any town in Georgia to its population, and none are more popular than the twin sisters, Misses Hallie and Mollie Woodis. These young ladies resemble each other so nearly that even their intimate friends are often at a loss to tell “t’other from which,” and they have a good deal of fun at the expense of young men who mistake which sister they are speaking to. They are devotedly attached to each other, and have never had a cross word. In fact, not only their tastes and wishes but their thoughts flow in the same channel. It is a singular fact, but nevertheless true, that when one’s mind dwells upon a subject the other’s thoughts are exactly the same. This has be n tested time and again by friends calling one at a time aside and asking her thoughts, and they are found to be identical.— Savannah News. According to Prof. Tyndall’s investigations, the singularly blue color of the water of Lake Geneva is due to the presence of small mineral particles, probably derived from glacier dust, brought into the lake by drainage from glacier streams. All other knowledge is hurtful to one who has not the science of honesty and good nature.

HUMOR.

Did Mary have a little lamb, or did ewe.— Carl Pretzel's Weekly. It is highly improper to call an oleomargarine joke a chestnut. It is a butternut.— Washington Hatchet. A good happy tight don’t improve the appetite.— Marathon Independent. If an ordinary man was muscled like a flea he could throw a book agent >two miles.— Chicago Ledger. An exchange says that a woman who eats onions will keep a secret. She will also keep a man at a distance.—Chicago Ledger. A poet asks: “What is warmer than a woman’s love?” We infer that he never picked up a newly coined horseshoe, fresh from the forge.—Norristown Herald. Beauty is not confined to one particular rank in life, nor yet is homeliness, but we want somebody to tell us of a young lady with $ million in her own right who hasn’t a good figure.— Fall River Advance.

Whenever you see a young lady who wears a tearful, agonized look, do not for a moment think that she has lost a dear friend or suffered any great affliction. She probably wears tight shoes. —Brooklyn Times. A great many people seem to think that Adam had a hard time after the fall, but they fail to remember how the wind was tempered to the shorn lamb in the blissful felicity Adam enjoyed in never having a mother-in-law.— St. Paul Herald.

“Did not the sight of the boundless blue sea,bearing onjits bosom the whitewinged fleets of commerce, fill you with emotion?” “Yes,” replied the traveler, “for a while it did, but after a while it didn’t fill me with anything. It sorter emptied me.”— Texas Siftings. “Mr dear,” remonstrated a wife, peering out from under the bedclothes, “I do wish you would use the word.‘shoel.’ It sounds better.” “It may sound better at times,” replied her husband, who was noisily nursing his heel, “but when a man steps on a tack he wants the old version.— New York Sun. Miss B.—l wish that conceited fool wouldn’t annoy me so much with his attentions. I wish he’d mind his own business. Miss F.—He can’t mind his own business. Miss B.—Because he’s gotno business? Miss F.—Because he’s got no mind.— Philadelphia Call. “In London the people pray especially for editors.” Any one who has read the lengthy and heavy editorials in the Times and other London dailies, and the pointless and funereal jokes in the comic weeklies printed there, must admit that certain editors in that city badly need especial prayers. But the praying doesn’t seem to'effect a reform in this respect.— Norristoivn Herald. Smith—“ What is Brown doing now on the Item?” Jones (an editor) — “Everything, from writing poetry upto soliciting advertisements.” Smith—- “ You mean from soliciting up to writing poetry, don’t you?” Jones—“ Did you ever read any of Brown’s poetry ?” Smith—“ No.” Jones (conclusively)— “I thought not.”— Puck. “O,” said Mary Ann, the cook, in singing the glories of Ireland, “at home in me native town there are sthreets of most beaucheous corn-craik houses!” “What are corn-craik houses?” asks Gretchen, the nurse-maid. “O, the loikes of thim ignorint furriners!” groans Mary Ann. “Why, corn-craik loike the corn-craik pavements yez have here.” — Harper's Bazar. The author of a book called “Man’s Birthright” says “There is a great principle of nature which governs the relation of mankind to property; it is a fiat of the cosmos.” Now that that vital question is settled, it is hoped that he will let us know what sort of principle it is that governs those editors in this country who denounce everything American and praise everything English from a book to an iron-clad vessel. — Norristown Herald.

QUATRAINS. A Sister’s Love. A sister’s love! how sweet! ’Tis far above All other love, when it is fond and true; Ah, who can doubt it when it is the love That some one else’s sister feels for you? My Lady’s Failing. My lady’s voice is melody to me, There’s music in the rustle of her skirts, But what avails it all, alas I when she Is the most incorrigible of flirts. Supererogatory. Don’t kick a man when he is down, for know That justice may demand some reparation ; Besides, who deals a prostrate man a blow, Performs a work of supererogation. A Valuable Maxim. Where’er your lot is cast your duty do; The man is happy who is well behaved; The breezes never through the whiskers blew Of any man whose cheeks were closely Shaved. The Man Who Has Credit. He’s happy who makes payments as he goes, Whom never fear of creditor e’er haunts; But happier is the man who always owes And still gets all the credit that he wants. —Boston Courier.

A Rare Old Patriot.

Colonel George Mathews, afterward Governor of Georgia, was wounded at the battle of Eutaw Springs, in South Carolina, and was left on the field as the Continental forces were retiring to take another position. A British soldier, in passing him, seeing he was alive, lifted his musket to stab him with his bayonet. His commander caught the musket, and said: “Would you murder a wounded officer ?” Colonel Mathews, turning upon his back, asked: “To whom do I owe my life?” “To me,” said the British lieutenant. Colonel Mathews saw the uniform was British, and said in an angry tone: “Well, sir, I want you to know that I scorn a life saved by a d—d Briton.” —Savannah Neivs.