Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 4, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 February 1886 — Page 6

SOME DAY. BY MABY F. SCHUYLER. Some day my cb«ek shall lose its bloom, The flowers for me their rich perfume, And ’mid the shades and gathering gloom My feet shall stray; Down, down the dim descent of years, Through wearing cares and burning tears, With heart half fainting from its fears, I’ll wend my way. Some day my eyes shall dimmer grow, My hair turn white as winter snow, My voioe grow timid, faint, and low, My mind decay; But still my lonely path 11l tread, And mourn, perhaps, my cherished dead, The hopes and joys forever fled So far away. But oh! some day when life slopes down To the night shadows dim and brown, I hope to see a starry crown Waiting for me. Then robed in calm content Pll lie, With folded hands and tearless eye, And yield my breath without a sigh, Glad to be free.

THE MOROCCO PURSE.

BY C. LEON MEREDITH.

Twice a year, from beyond the Mississippi, I visit the metropolis of the West for the purchase of goods. Knowing Chicago to be a great, wicked city, I have always been on my guard for Charpers, especially when carrying much money, but my watchfulness failed at one time to save me from a very unpleasant adventure, the experience, however, terminating most favorably. The event took place two years ago. Late one afternoon, while on my return from the wholesale house of Marshall Field & Co. to my hotel, I was detained for e minute at the comer of Clark and Madison streets by a clog of cars and vehicles. As I stood watching for an opportunity to cross over, I noticed a tall, gaunt man gazing upon me intently. A fearful scowl was upon his face, and the bony fingers were clenched firmly into the palms of his white hands. I was wondering what it could mean, when suddenly a change came. The strange-looking man came quietly to my side, the hard look left his features, and a soft smile took its place. A well-filled morocco purse was suddenly slipped into my hand and the man said hurriedly: “That’s yours, Thompson. I forgive you; keep it.” Before I had time to open my lips in protest, before I could tell him that my name was not Thompson, the fellow had darted away, mingled with the crowd, and was lost to view. I was perplexed. My first thought was that a followed pickpocket had forced the purse into my hand to shield himself, and that I would soon be arrested as a confederate. Glancing flbout me I discovered no one watching. All seemed to have individual affairs to attend to, and not a policeman was in sight. Still holding the fat, soft purse exposed in my hand, the hotel was reached. An hour spent in my room studying over the affair did no sort of good. The simple facts existed, that was all, and reflection in any direction brought no plausible, at least flatisfactory, solution to the problem. That the purse had been stolen there was no doubt. And why it had been given to me, or why the thief should wish to forgive Thompson and give the article to him, of course I could not determine. After half an hour’s deliberation, a resolution was formed to find the owner of the Socket-book. I would giveitinto the care of le hotel-keeper and advertise. As I reached the staircase at the end of the long hall, a new idea came to me, and I hastened back to my room. I decided to examine the contents of the purse before letting it go out of my possession, make a memorandum of what it contained, then I could tell if accurately described by any applicant, or if tampered with while out of my hands. The purse contained only a few dollars in money, but, mercy! what a multitude of other articles!

There were bits of sample silks, a glovehook, recipes for frosted cake, a little plain ring, a few small pearls, bits of ribbon, and several calling-cards. The purse certainly belonged to a woman. The cards were all alike, and bore in fine •script the name of Lena Suthern. The plan of finding the owner was changed again. I would write to Lena Suthern, general delivery, Chicago, and await the result. A letter was accordingly placed in the postoffice that evening. It was brief, a simple statement that I was in possession of a purse which contained cards bearing her name. The day following when I came in for dinner the hotel clerk told me that a lady had been waiting for some time to see me in the parlor. Entering the room but one person was to be seen. A lady sat upon a sofa near the window—a young lady of remarkable beauty. As the light of midday streamed through the half-curtained casement, it fell upon my ideal of a supremely lovely face. So sweet and so bright was it that I stood and gazed upon her rudely before speaking. She evidently noticed my staring and hesitancy, for she turned away for a moment and then arose. “Are you the gentleman who wrote this line to me?” she asked, extending the letter of the evening before. I bowed my answer. “I will describe the purse,” she said, quietly, and proceeded to do so very minutely. I handed her the fat little morocco purse, and opening it with nimble fingers she said, aweetly: “I shall be very glad to reward you, kind •air, and ” “Nothing of the kind,” I returned. “I have sufficient m’eans for all of my wants, •and it gives me great pleasure to place in your hands the article that came into my possession in a very strange manner.” She started a little, then composed herself, and without a question moved toward the door! “You will accept my thanks?” she said, •so softly and musically that I could hardly frame words for reply. During the very brief minutes that she ihad been before me I had feasted upon her •supreme loveliness, and I did not wish the ■spell broken so suddenly. “Will you tell me one thing before you igo?” I asked, holding up my hand as if to her. “Will you let ma know in what 1 .manner the little purse left your possession? It was forced into my hand by a very strange personage, a middle-aged, wan-looking fellow, who called me Thompson, and say-

ing he forgave me, dashed away. I thought Mm a pickpocket; were my suspicions correct?” “No! no!” she answered, a painful smile crossing her angelic face; “there was no crime in it, and the exercise of no reason. The Thompson is an imaginary man. and the one who would bestow the gift not in his right mind. Good-day.” She bowed as she passed out, and turned her bewitchingly beautiful eyes full upon my face. I watched the tall, graceful figure as it swept through the hall, and then turned reflectively to my room. “You are a gone case,” I said to myself, while pacing up and down my apartment, “Thirty years of age and never but once before saw a face that touched the heart.” That other face was seen in my boyhood, and stole a boy’s heart. More than a decade of years before this event I had met at St. Paul a bright, cheery girl of sixteen, and we both lost our young hearts. For two blissful months we walked, talked, fished, and gathered flowers together. I wove garlands of the sweetest prairie beauties and placed them as a crown upon the queenly head of the brown-haired and blue-eyed Allie Floyd, and she told me so tenderly of her new-born love that I believed my bliss was to last forever. But the dream was soon to be broken and a life shadow follow. Suddenly I was called down the river to attend to a matter of business. Promising Allie a quick return, I left the girl at the landing as the steamer swept out into the current and away. My absence from St. Paul was prolonged into weeks. As I was on the wing nearly all of the time I did not hear from my little friend, and when I did go up the river again the Floyd family had left for their New England home. The cause of the sudden departure was the illness of Allie. After a mouth’s loneliness I wrote a letter to the place which was remembered as the girl’s home. To this no reply came. Four more weeks passed, and I wrote the postmaster of Silverhold and received the prompt intelligence that, owing to the death of their daughter and the ill-health of the mother, Mr. and Mrs. Floyd had gone to Europe. This intelligence struck me like a thunderbolt; it crashed my spirits, and nearly broke my young heart. From that day until the one that I met Lena Suthern a female face had never been' 1 seen that attracted particular interest. This woman I had just met brought back the bright, sweet face of my Allie, and revived my young, pure I loved this Lena Suthern with all the earnestness of my yearning soul. During the whole afternoon and night that followed I thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing, but the sweet one who had come to me with the bright angelic face of my boyish idol. One thing I deeply regretted. I had neglected to ask the lady for her residence, street and number. I would have made some excuse for calling upon her had I obtained the information.; Writing could not be resisted. The letter was addressed as before, but no answer came.

I had simply asked for an interview, claiming that certain suspicions I entertained respecting the man who gave me the purse needed verification or refutation, and I begged that I might see her but for a brief interview. Thinking that, perhaps, for some reason the letter had not reached her, a Second one was sent, but elicited no answer, and so, heavy-hearted I started westward. Absence and business cares did not cure my yearnings, but, if possible, made my heart grow fonder. I stood it as long as I could, and then wrote Lena Suthern, making a full confession of my love, and, that she might understand how such devotion could come at first meeting, the story of my ideal, Allie Floyd, was given her without reserve. My pleadings for an interview were so earnest and pitiful that 1 believed an answer would come. A week passed, and my heart was thrilled. A letter came with a Chicago postmark, a letter as bulky as the one I had sent, and it was addressed in a lady’s hand of superior touch and finish. I could not trust myself to open it upon the street, or even at the store, and so hastened to my room and broke the seal with trembling hand, and doubtless a livid face. I never shall forget that moment. Had a dagger entered my breast I could not have been more painfully stricken. From the white and delicately perfumed envelope I drew forth the long epistle I had written to Lena Suthern—nothing more. My chagrin and mortification were beyond \#>rds for expression. The margins of the different sheets were examined for a single word, but it had not been written there. There were marks upon some of the pages that looked as if teardrops had fallen. Had I known that they were such I could have blessed her for returning it even thus. The summer passed away, and the season came again for visiting Chicago. Back into my old empty-hearted condition I had settled, feeling myself a victim of circumstances. There was a desperate struggle going on in my whole nature to live and forget the face and form that had rekindled the light of my soul. The bright, liquid eyes of my dead Allie seemed to shine out to me through those of Lena Suthern. It was re all? the first love awakened, for had I not known the first I should not have loved the last. Fully determined was I to master my heart. No further effort would be made to meet Miss Suthern, and yet my stay in Chicago was prolonged beyond the usual period of a visit. I invented delays, and was slow in making purchases. jSTot a female face passed me unobserved. Really I was hoping, praying to meet by accident the lady, even if I could but once more get a glance at the inspiring face. The meeting came, but at a moment least expected. Late one evening, upon turning a corner abrubtly, I found myself face to face with the woman I worshiped. Our coming together was so sudden that both were startled, for the lady recognized me as quickly as I did her. A brief hesitation, and she attempted to pass. My hand was lifted. “I must speak to you, just one word,” I faltered. “You must not. I cannot be detained,”

she said in a soft, musical voice. “What you would say I cannot listen to.” “Cannot you hear me fora single moment? You have refused to reply to written words of love, and certainly you can answer one little question, then I will detain you no longer. Is there no hope, not one ray?” “Do not speak to me thus. You must not! I am a married woman.” I started as if a sword point had pierced me. The thought that Lena Suthern belonged to any one else had never entered my selfish, worshiping head. As the lady had spoken she turned and now, for the first time. I saw a man partly hidden by the pillar of the corner building. It was the same tall, gaunt form with the white face and staring eyes that had rushed up to me six months before and forced the purse into my hand. “That man, Mrs. Suthern?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “My husband,” she answered kindly, and taking the monomaniac gently by the arm she led him away. It would be useless to attempt to describe my feelings as I stood watching the two figures as they passed on through the glimmer of the nearest gaslight. I felt .something of a relief at knowing the truth. Lena Suthern had remained silent and resisted my love pleadings as a true woman should, and my stupidity in not thinking such a thing as her being married possible, became more and more apparent as I reflected. She had acted wisely; I blindly driven on bv the hunger of my heart for my angel Allie. It was all over now, and I returned home a more retiring, stupid, and stolid “old bachelor,” as they called me, than I had ever been before. I was more contented and happy, tvcause the motive of silence was understood. She had not remained passive through any disregard for my feelings, but because it was her duty to do so. Whether her heart had been touched by my simple, earnest appeal, I knew not, but as matters had turned, it was to be hoped not. “Never again will I seek her, never again write,” was my resolve and my fixed purpose. The winter passed, and one day a Chicago daily came to me from an unknown source. In looking it over, a marked item was found, which read as follows: “Drowned.—A middle-aged man, supposed to be insane, leaped from the Clark street bridge last evening and lost his life by the act. The body has been identified as that of Edward Suthern. ” . The paper was thrown to the floor, and I paced up and down the room, making all sorts of resolves, none of which were kept. “I would go to Chicago at once,” a thing that was not done. “I would write immediately,” a thing I did not do. If it was the husband of Lena Suthern who had died—and who else but the lady could have sent the marked paper—perhaps she would write me. I could not say more to her than I had.

Picking up the paper again I noticed that it was an old one, bearing date of six months before. Then I felt certain it had come from the widow. Only a few weeks passed before my season of alternate hope and fear came to a close. A letter, came, bearing the same delicate address as the returned one of my own, and it read: “Lena Suthern will see you now. Call at No. Wabash avenue. AFbiend.” The next morning found me in Chicago, and after the very slow hours of the forenoon wore away, I was ushered into a handsome parlor at the number on Wabash avenue designated in the note. Lena was there, her beautiful face raidant with smiles, and she extended her hand to me as to an old friend. “I can not express my gratitude to you for the privilege you have granted, a privilege that is the greatest on earth to me,” I said, feelingly. “You have an ideal, as it is the right of any person to have,” she returned, thoughtfully. “My life has been wrapped up in one ideal.” “You told me in your letter of your early love, and that that love had been constant —indeed, a part of your very life—and it was because you had never - forgotten Allie Floyd, and because Allie Floyd has never forgotten you, that I wrote you to come to me.” “My Allie Floyd!” I echoed. “Changed in name only.” I gazed upon the love-lighted face, and sprang to my feet. With a heart overflowing with rapture, I caught the soft hand extended to me and pressed it to my lips again and again; then I sought the crimson cheek, but sne playfully warded me off, and led me to a seat. Seating herself beside me, Lena t<pld me the story of her life, which I give briefly: Soon after reaching her New England home, her sister—one who had not accompanied the family in their - We stern trip—died, and, her mother being in pc or health, they went to Europe, where they remained several years. Many letters had been written by the girl to her lover, but no replies came back to her. In later years she left her father’s house as he did not fancy the “border boy,” as he called him. Her given name being Lena Albertine, the second one by preference was dubbed to Allie, but later the first name was used. At the age of twenty-five, her parents being dead, Lena, empty-hearted, married a musical professor who was well-to-do and devoted to her. Two years after the union insanity had been brought on by a fall which fractured the skull, and from that time until the fatal leap from the bridge he had been her constant care. “My emotion at our first meeting cannot be described,” she continued. “Your searching, earnest glances told that my face had impressed you again.” “Then you knew me when we met at the hotel?” “Your letter gave the name.” “And why did you not let me know then that you were AlUe Floyd?” “I knew my own heart too well; and besides that, I knew your own impulsive nature. I dared not do it.” “Bless you!” “The long letter of affection you sent, {deading for recognition and telling of your ove for the lost Allie touched my heart to its depths, and I wept over it as it was read time and again, and the hardest task of my life was to return it without one hopeful, consoling word; but the cloud has passed, and I can confess my feelings now.” A year has passed since the sunlight came

back into my soul, and now my little Allie Floyd is coming to me forever. — Chicago Ledger.

The Chicken Business.

It does beat the Dutch how closely great men arte watched. By some means the world has possessed itself of the knowledge that I own an incubator, and the result is that I am now having excellent opportunities for compiling a catalogue of persons desirous of Becoming rich in the poultry business. Scarcely a day passes that I do not receive a letter from somebody wanting a slice of my golden experience in the line of speculative knowledge, that begins with an old hen and generally ends in the poorhouse, if persisted in; and to save hard w’qrk and postage I have concluded to pad tbis column with a little information that if judiciously applied will stave off old age and keep wrinkles in the next county. There is money in chicken-raising if you know how to go about it, but like everything else, a certain amount of “know how ’is necessary to induce eminent success to come ypur way. The man who can’t tell a chicken from a gosling had better remain behind the counter, or stay in a bank until he learns something. My advice to the novice in poultry raising would be, to follow it simply for pleasure until you acquire a knowledge that will tell you to go ahead. Anybody can hatch chickens with an incubator, but it takes a large amount of science and eternal vigilance to raise them. Patrick Henry never said anything more true than his memorable allusion to the price of a spring chicken and the cost of liberty be--ing one and inseparable. Patrick no doubt keot a few hens himself. But to the man who goes into the chicken business simply to find steady employment and lots of pleasure, I say, “Go it you’ll get there in both respects.” When the motive is not mercenary the pursuit is an unbounded sea of bliss, with islands of pure delight scattered through it in great luxuriance. I don’t think I ever did anything outside of religious duty that gave me greater joy; though it must be admitted that I made a close carrom toward bankruptcy while doing it; and joy, although a nice thing to have around when you want to write poetry, is not equal to salt pork for keeping a man up when he has hard work to do. If you want to be happ.y and get your pay as you go along, raise chickens—unless your neighbor’s division fence is bad—but if you want to salt down something that can be used as collateral after awhile, don’t do it. I began by trying to raise chickens for sordid gain that could be jingled in the pocket, and a more miserable man you couldn’t have found with a constable’s warrant. I then gave it a whirl simply for fun, and felt glorious right away. It makes all the difference in the world whether your incentive is moonshine or money. When I heard the first chick chirp in my incubator, and realized clear down to my boots that I was indeed! a mother, and had the documents right there to prove it, in spite of the cold, unfeeling fact that I was regarded by -the world as a bald-headed man of much sadness, I felt as though I was worth a million dollars; but when, six moi ths later, I had to pawn my overcoat in mid-winter to buy corn meal, I felt that I had been blessed with altogether too much profuseness in a maternal way to suit the size of my flour barrel. I long at times to sit down and meditate on things that have made the world gnaw its beard for ages, but no man with a loaded incubator can take much time to muse, unless he. puts cotton in his ears, or gets dreadful reckless about consequences. An incubator is one of the most remorseless things outside of boarding school, and for keeping a man from loafing with the clouds it can discount both a failure of crops and an iron-clad chattel mortgage. When you see a man with hollow eyes, haggard cheeks, unshaven face, and lifeless hair, shambling around in an aimless, homeless sort of way, looking as though he hadn’t slept, washed, or combed himself for a month, bet every cent you can raise that he owns an incubator, which has just begun to fire its possibilities at him with a desperation of energy that will kill him if he don’t blow the light out. That’s what it means to monkey with a hen-roost on scientific principles, and as I love all mankind, I want everybody to know it. When somebody tells you that the easiest way on earth to get rich with quickness is to buy an incubator and plunge into the chicken business, pull down the corner of your eye and immediately give him a front view of your back.— Lige Broun in Chicago Ledger.

Protection for the Birds.

The startling decrease in the numbers of many of our birds, brought about of late years by the unceasing persecution waged for the sake of fashion, has aroused the Ornithologists’ Union to a recognition of the necessity for instant and decided effort in behalf of our birds. The objects of the committee are as follows: 1. The gathering of all possible information bearing on the subjects of the destruction and protection of North American birds. 2. The diffusion of information among the people in respect to the extent of the slaughter of birds for millinery and other mercenary purposes ; the wanton killing of birds in sport by men and boys; the robbing of birds’ nests; the destruction of the eggs of rails, terns, gulls and other birds for food; and the marked recent decrease of many species resulting from this general destruction; the spreading of information, also, in respect to the utility of birds as a natural check upon the increase of insects injurious to vegetation, and with reference to their interest and value from an aesthetic point of view. This with the object of developing a public sentiment in favor of the rigid protection of our native birds, a sentiment that will naturally spring up strongly and widely as soon as attention is called to the subject. The headquarters of the committee are at the American Museum of Natural History, Central Paik, New York City, where the officers or any of the members may be addressed. It cost Mr. Pratt $1,083,333.33 to fotind the Enoch Pratt Free Library in Baltimore.

HUMOR.

A sudden check—a sight draft. A go-between—ham in a sandwich. A pipe organ—the Plumber’s Journal. Got the cold shoulder—the tramp who stole the fore-quarter of mutton. Athletes of social propensities mostly prefer the Indian Club—-St Paul Herald. Western mieners, as a rule, prefer buying their liquor by the quartz.— Goodalls Sun. An exchange advises us to “treat our young children cordiaMy.” We .do — we do. Godfrey’s cordially. The Boston ladies never term their pets “Spitz” dogs. They apeak of them as little “expectorate canines. ” “Say, Smithkins, do you think that dude is sober?” “Eta may be, but his trousers are very right.— California Maverick. “A Bachelor’s Blunder” is the title of a new story. We haven’t read it, but presume the poor fool got married. —Newman Independent. A Knight of the Grip married the girl who dusted his room and furniture, because, he said, he understood dusters were very useful to traveling men.— Merchant Traveler. A lady one day sent her little boy to a drug store near by after a porous plaster. When he came back he handed it to her, saying: “This is the poorest one I could get.”— Chicago Ledger. Customer—Hang this up. Bartender—But I hung one up for you yesterday. You can’t be always hanging ’em up, you know. C. —That’s so. Chalk this one down.— Boston Courier. The Eastern widow’s willing offer: Happy, hearty, wholesome herdsman on the Western plain, Cheery, chatty, charming cowboy, let me love again; Come and call me to your cabin, live no more alone; Would you win a woman worthy, I would be your own. —Brooklyn Times. . A writer defines courtship as “a voyage of discovery.” And when the party of the male part discovers that the party of the female part wears false teeth, a wig, and other artifices to give her a youthful appearance, the court-ship is wrecked. And when she discovers that the young man’s bank account is hardly microscopic, the voyage ends suddenly.— Norristown Herald. THEY CANNOT TELL A LIE. In youthful days George Washington, A canvasser was he, Tramped all around his home to sell An Indian history. And then as later in his life He could not tell a lie, He dwelt upon his book with truth. To make the people buy. His influence is felt to-day. This is the reason why All canvassers are truthful men— They cannot tell a lie! —Boston Courier. In leap year, in Japan, if a jipung woman is in want of a she places an empty flower pot on the foof >f tie front portico as a pre-nuptial emblem. If such a custom prevailed n this country a great many porticos would be decorated with empty flower sots; but a fashion permitting an emblem to be displayed as a sign that a voman wanted to get rid of a husband would have almost as many followers. —Norristown Herald.

(That an Enterprising Drummer Did. “I had a little experience the other light,” said a drummer, “that took all of my nerve and gall to bear up under. Iver since I’ve been on the road I’ve made it a principle to meet all engagements. More than once have I skipped ;hree or four towns in which I was sure of selling big bills of goods in order to seep my engagement to some girl or other. When 1 agree to be at a certain place at a given minute, you can bet your last dollar I’ll be there. Well, the other day I landed in St. Louis, in d suddenly discovered that in a moment of forgetfulness I bad promised to take two girls to the theater that night. The girls were not acquainted, either. I hate a liar and a sneak, and the girls’ brothers were customers of mine; and so, after thinking the whole thing over, [ made up my mind I’d live up to my contract. So 1 bought my seats at two theaters, engaged my carriage, and prepared for the campaign. 1 sent word to the first one that I’d call for her rather early, and to the other that I might be a little late. I whirled No. 1 off, seated her, excused myself, for a minute before the rising of the curtain, slipped out, and in two seconds the horses were on a run for No. 2. I got her in her seat five minutes after the curtain rose. Stayed the act out, excused myself, went back to the other, apologized, and everything was all right. I spent the evening flitting from one to the other, and got my money’s worth out of the hackman, as I made him hump. I made inquiries r.s to the hour the plays would be over, and found I had twenty-five minutes leeway. Then I made such good use of those twenty-five minutes that I got No. 1 home and was back after No. 2 just as the curtain went down. To do this cost me sl2, and the next day I had to skip out of town because the hackman was after me with a bill for one of his horses which had died from overdriving; but not till after I had sold big bills of goods to the girls’ brothers. Besides, I had the satisfaction of performing an unparalleled feat in the theater-going business. That’s the kind, of a hustler I am.”— Chicago HeratiL Mme. Nilsson has at last secured her quarter of a million francs from the Rouzeaud estate to reimburse her for money spent in her husband’s industrial enterprises.