Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 April 1886 — Page 6

A REVERIE BY MOONLIGHT. BY SQUIRE HOBBS. The world is wrapped in calm repose, And night puts on her sable gown, The moon above the hills is rose, And twinkling stars are shining down. The air is laden with perfume, And on the breeze sweet odors blow Of flowers that on the hillsides bloom, And in the woody delis below. The oricket chirps within his cell. The bull-frog lends his doleful croak, The fire-fly lights his way to teli, The night-owl screams from out the oak. The sheep-bell tinkles in the fold, The cows within the barnyard lie, The watch-dog barks a warning bold As some belated, swain goes by. The gentle zephyrs kiss my brow And drive away all thoughts of care; My life is free from trouble now, And rest and peace instead reign there. A holy silence round me clings As the night does about me close; Great joy and happiness it brings, And fills mv soul with sweet repose. The hush of calm and silent rest Envelops now the sleeping earth; The sons of toil are sweetly blest With happy dreams of joy and mirth. Oh, •rf'hat a blessing is the night That steals upon us unawares; It heals the wound of Hunger’s bite, And lulls to rest our weary cares. In Dreamland’s soothing, kind embrace We sleep the peaceful hours away, Andjfisions bright and lovely trace Tin night becomes a golden day. And when life’s curfew sadly tolls. And we no more see day’s bright beams, Ah 1 let us hope our ransomed souls Will sleep the sleep of happy dreams. Crawfordsville, Ind., Eeb. 9. 1885.

BLIGHTED HOPES.

Mark saw the paragraph before I did. I wondered, to-day, looking back, if I could have controlled myself sufficiently to prepare him for the shock if I had read the newspaper first. I was passing Mark’s cup of coffee to Jane, the servant, when I caught sight of his face. It was white and rigid, and his eyes were dilated in a stare horrible to see. “Mark!” I cried, in terror. “What is it, dear? Are you ill?” I was beside him as I spoke, and saw that his eyes were fixed on a certain place in the paper he had been reading. Then I, too, read the fatal paragraph, only a few line s, but full of horror for Mark. “Do not blame her!” he said, in a -Whisper, shuddering as he spoke. “Oh, Bessie, Bessie, my heart is broken!” I put my arms around him, and drew his head down upon my breast, where it had so often lain in childhood, when my orphaned brother came to sister Bessie to be comforted in boyish woes. He was my only brother, though I was sixteen years the eldest. Little graves in the cemetery marked the sorrows of my childhood, and one after another my brothers and sisters had drooped and died, until only Mark was left. And he was but four years old when our parents both died. We were not poor, owning our own handsome home, and a comfortable income; so Mark had every advantage of education, studied the law, and had gradually won his way to a position in his profession. And I had married, lost my husband, and returned after an absence of only three short months, to resume my place as my brother’s housekeeper. It was just after Mark had finished his studies, and been admitted to the bar, that he met Alice Arnold. She had come to Claymont to visit her aunt, a near neighbor and. an old friend of ours, and we called to welcome her among us. She was about eighteen years old then, and her beauty won its way to my heart as surely as it did to Mark's. She was the most timid, gentle creature I ever saw, her color flitting if you spoke to her, her shy blue eyes drooping, and her voice low and almost plaintive in its timidity. Miss Arnold, a strong, energetic old maid, seemed actually to terrify her by her short, brusque manner, but she clung to me from the first hour of our friendship.

Children generally like me, and she was little more than a child. Yet when she became more intimate, and came often to pass whole days with me, I found that below the frightened, timid manner there was a clear brain, an intellect that had been carefully cultivated, and a sweet womanly nature. She was an enthusiastic musician and a fine pianist, but could not sing. Nothing delighted her more than to play for Mark and myself, to sing duets, or, if I was tired or busy, to hear Mark sing, in his rich baritone voice, the music he loved. I asked myself, after she had ended her summer visit, if she was a coquette, a cruel, heartless flirt, who would win a man’s heart only to cast it aside. And, in my bitterness then, I thought she was. In later years I acquitted her of the crime. I believe she had no suspicion that Mark loved her. He was always grave and reserved, and, although he was but tw’enty-three at that time, had the air and bearing of a much older man. And I being really so much her senior, I think Alice looked upon us both as rather elderly people, and was far more free and confidential than she would have been if she looked upon Mark as a young man and a lover.

But Mark, who had never cared before for any of our girl friends, gave to Alice Arnold all the store of love his heart could ever offer. I knew it, for Mark had made me his confidential friend all his life, and seeing her shy pleasure in his presence, the interest she took in his pursuits, her gentle acceptance of his grave attentions, I thought his love was returned, and was happy in the expectation of a nearer, closer tie between the sweet, loving girl and myself. \ But, just before she left Claymont, Mark, telling her his love, was answered by the tidings that she was engaged to be married. She was dreadfully distressed, coming to me to sob out her regret that Mark loved her, but loyally asserting her own love for her betrothed. After she had left us, Miss Arnold took me into confidence. She told me that her niece was an heiress, and her mother was a fool. I am quoting Miss Arnold! She said that Hemy Parker, the man who had won Alice’s childish love, was a showy, handsome fellow of whom the family knew nothing, but who was distrusted by all of them excepting the mother, who should have been the girl’s protector, but was completely fascinated by the lover’s attention# to herself. Mark said but little to me, but I knew that he suffered keenly. He made some inquiries in the city about Henry Parker, and was convinced that he was an adventurer. I think my brother could have borne his own

burden better if Alice had chosen a max worthy of her love, but he feared for het future happiness, thinking her betrothed had dazzled her imagination, rather than won her heart. When we received cards for the wedding I thought of refusing to attend, but Mark decided to go, and we sent our wedding gift, and went up to town to be at the ceremony in the church, and the wedding breakfast afterward. I could not wonder when I saw Henry Parker that he had won Alice’s love. He was superbly handsome, and had the winning manner calculated to change her timidity into a trusting love. And he took the love and the trust to betray both, to change the love to a shuddering horror, the confiding trust to a shrinking fear. Little by little the poor girl roused to the fact that her husband despised the very gentleness he had so often praised, and that the charm of a full purse was the one that had attracted him to his wife. Probably a father or a guardian would have Erotected Alice’s fortune after marriage, ut it was in her own control, her mother being her only guardian. And Henry Parker spent it freely; at first in a profuse style of living, in luxuries his wife could share, but later in gambling and low vice, traveling the downward path with fearful rapidity. Six years after his marriage he deserted his wife, who returned to her mother, and a year later the newspapers gave her the account of his death in a continental gamblingroom, where he was shot in a scuffle. It was after a year of widowhood that Alice Parker came once more to Claymont, her sweet face pale and sad, and her blue eyes often dreamily mournful. She was but little changed, though older and graver than in her girlhood. The long bright summer passed happily, and in September Alice was to return to her mother to prepare for a quiet wedding. My brother was to be the happy man at last. It was the evening before she was to leave us that Miss Arnold invited Mark and myself to tea, We were all in the sittingroom early in the evening, when a gentleman asked for Mrs. Parker, and Alice turned very white as she introduced Mr. George Parker. “My husband’s brother,” she said, aside tome. “He was always very kind to me.” For a few moments after his introduction Mr. Parker sat in embarrassed silence Then he said, very suddenly, “I do not know whether my news will s be .good news or bad news to you, Allie. I come to tell you, as soon as possible after hearing it myself, that Harry is not dead.”

Alice did not faint or scream. White as death, she said, steadily, “Why did he conceal it from me?” “He did not intentionally. He was left for dead, and afterward taken to a hospital, but as he got better in other ways, the doctors found his brain was weakened. He was sent to an insane asylum, and it was only two weeks ago that he recovered his sanity enough to send for me. I went to him at once, and brought him to my house. He is strong and well, and asks for you to go to him.” “Yes; I shall go to mother’s to-morrow,” Alice said. “Will you bring him tome?” There seemed no question of her duty in her pure heart, but the hopeless misery of her fair face was heart-breaking to witness. Mr. Parker left in time for an early return train to London, and Miss Arnold took me to her own room to look at some lace. “Let them be alone,” she said to me. “It is for the last time. I know Alice. Under that shrinking, gentle manner there is a strong martyr spirit, and she will do her duty at any cost. Oh, the poor child! the poor child! And we broke into, bitter weeping together, for as deeply as she grieved for Alice did I grieve for my brother. I did not see Alice again. Mark met me in the hall, and saying to Miss Arnold, “Go in to her—comfort her if you can,” he drew my hand through his arm and led me out of the house. That was just one week ago. To-day we read in the local paper this paragraph: “Mrs. Henry Parker, residing at 232 street, S. W., was found dead in her room from the effects of an overdose of chloral. The dose was probably taken accidentally, as Mrs. Parker had been suffering from insomnia, and using chloral to produce sleep.” Mark is locked in his room, and even I dare not intrude upon him, or ask the question that haunts me. Was the overdose taken by accident, or in a moment of utter despair?

Overheard.

Two sons of Erin stood at the corner of Market and Montgomery streets. “Pat. ” “What is it, Moike?" “Oi’m awful thirsty.” “So am Oi.” “Haveye got 10 cints, Pat?" “That’s jist phat Oi’vegot, Moike.” “Let’s go an’ get a dhrink.” “Bedad, Moike, 10 cints won’t get a dhrink fur both av us.” “Indade it will, Pat. Give me the 10 cints. Oi’ll go into the saloon an* inqnoire fur whisky. Oi’ll pour out a big glass, dhrink half av it. and say to the mon behind the bar, ’That’s terrible whisky.’ He’ll say sumthin’ about it’s bfin’ good whisky, an’ thin Oi’ll say Oi’ll lave it to yez to decide. Ye will thin cum up to the bar and dhrink phwat’s left.” “Will ye be square, Moike?” “Faith an’ Oi wdl.” Pat gave Mike the 10 cents, and the programme was successfully carried out. “Moike, phat made ye lave me sich a big dhrink?” inquired Pat after the two had regained the sidewalk. “Bedad, Eat, thebarkaper overheard our raymarks, an’ gave us tne turpentoine bottle to dhrink out av.”—California Maverick. According to a Moscow-'paper, only 21 per cent, of the children attending school in Russia are girls. The proportion varies with the religion, being greatest among Protestants, 45.4 per cent.; next among Jews, 34.1 per cent.; next among Boman Catholics, 14.4 per cent., and lowest among Greek Catholics, 12.3 per cent. In Siam the cats have their tails banged and are dyed bright yellow; the forests abound with pink and white albino monkeys; the python and boa attain io gigantic proportions, and the people are singularly temperate.

LIFE UNDER WATER.

An Old Engineer Relates Some of His Experiences. “Life under water monotonous, eh? Well, I guess not. At least I don’t : find it so. I’ve been there fourteen years, off and on, and have always managed to find enough to occupy my time and attention.” The speaker was an engineer on one of the great ocean steamers, and as he made that remark to a New York reporter, while standing on the pier before his vessel, he readjusted his loose blouse with an awkward jerk and gave his head a confident twitch. “A fellow’ needn’t let time lag on him anywhere if he only has his eyes open,” he added. “Now, to some it would seem almost unbearable to watch the continuous throb of the machinery of a large steamer and hear nothing but the everlasting ‘click, click,’ of the piston rods and levers, but to me they sound like music. I’ve become partly dulled and insensible to them, but even now I often sit still and watch and listen to their never-varying beats with that sort of satisfaction which a musician feels when he runs his fingers mechanically yet skillfully over the keys of his instrument. His satisfaction arises from the fact that he has his instrument enti ely under his control, and mine comes from a similar cause. With a touch of my finger I could propel thousands of tons at almost any speed through the water, or send a hundred lives into eternity. Indeed, I feel that I am the sole responsible party on board for the lives of the passengers, as it remains with me to keep my machinery in such perfect condition as to withstand any ordinary sea or rough storm. “And again, I take pride in keeping everything around me shining like burnished gold. If a spot of grease or dirt gets on the rods or handles of any part of the machinery it cannot escape my notice long. I go over every part of the engine twice a day, and rub the brass and steel rods with as much pleasure as though I owned the steamer myself. I sometimes amuse myself in keeping a record of the number of miles we run an hour and comparing it with the records of previous trips. I have on a book in the engine-room a curious table of dates and figures, which shows to me the exact time for every mile made by different steamers I have engineered across the ocean for the last fourteen years. If anything more than usual occurs I jot it down opposite the date, and so make a sort of dairy of it. It speaks volumes to me, and recalls many interesting memories. For instance, I was looking through it the other day, and I found opposite Nov. 10, 1875, a reference to a visit from Chinamen. The incident was recalled to my mind in a moment, and I laughed heartily* over it myself. This is what it meant: One day while lying in port we were visited by several Chinamen who were anxious to inspect the ship. They were an ignorant set, and had never seen any machinery worked by steam. The captain was a good-natured fellow, and allowed them to come below, although they experienced some doubts as to the advisability of so doing. They were very timid, and it took some time for me to convince them that the machinery was harmless. Finally I got two of them to come close to the heavy driving-rod, which you know on a large vessel is an enormous piece of iron. Suddenly, without warning, it gave a start forward, and, accompanied by a loud puff of steam, leaped fully ten feet above our heads. Angry at my assistant for letting on steam without my knowledge, I turned to speak to him when my attention was attracted toward the stairway. The last two Chinamen of the party were making frantic endeavors to jump up half a dozen steps at a time. The rest had disappeared, and before I could get on deck the whole crowd had got into their boat and started for the shore. No amount of persuation could ever get them to return to that ship, which they claimed was alive. It was a m‘ean trick, but it has afforded me many a good laugh since.”

The Agreeable Guest.

The Swedenborgian theory that each person has his “sphere,” which is perceived as an effect of whose cause one is ignorant, is a theory quite borne out by experimental experience. Our likes and dislikes are very largely founded on matters as intangible as were the reasons of Dr. Fell. Nowhere is this truth so strongly felt as when receiving a guest in tete-a-tete in one’s own apartment. The friend who is what the Italians call sim patica, a quality for which there is no English equivalent, is the rarest of blessings. One does not expect this of the average five hundred friends who may yet be very entertaining, and be each warmly regarded by the hostess. But there is a type of woman who is the most disagreeable of guests, and from whom one turns away instinctively without being able to give any very tangible reason why. Out of sight she may not be altogether out of mind, nor by any means outside the circle of one’s friendly wishes for her best prosperity and enjoyment. But in personal presence she is an irritating and jarring force. It is the woman who is so crude and obtuse by nature that she does not even know she is crude; the woman to whom the fine art of conversation is as unknown as is the sculptor’s power to the stone-mason; the woman who goes rough-shod over all your preferences and tendencies, and is so crude that she never dreams wherein her rudeness lies. Her conversation consists largely in a series of direct questions, and of the most inappropriate conclusions drawn from the answers she forces from you. Her

presence is like a material weight in the atmosphere, and on her departure you are ready to ring the joy bells of relief. In delightful contrast is the agreeable guest, the woman whose cultivation is so fine that it invests her as with an atmosphere; whose conversation is that of subtle art, so suggestive, so stimulating, that it opens a vista of all high and delightful’ possibilities. Calling upon her you are entertained not with conventional remarks of wind, or weather, or social mo. ements, but with some fine thought suggested at the moment. Perhaps you have had an experience of this kind you ■will never lose out of your life. You had called on a lady whose parlor was in the hands of the decorators, and whose paintings and bric-a-brac were, for the time, removed, with one exception. On the mantel rested a fine French photograph of Millet’s picture of the earth—a stretch of level land, the sun sinking below the horizon, and in the far distance a shepherd with his flock. The picture is new to you, and in reply to a word of comment the hostess expresses her recognition of the subtle spiritual meaning portrayed in this work, and you go out from your call refreshed, uplifted. It was only a word, a glimpse, yet it opened to you new vistas. Such friends are a gift of the gods, and such experiences are among the endearing influences of life. Western Traveler.

Punctiliousness.

If one were required to sum up in a single word the most infallible and invariable evidence of good-breeding, he could not do better than to say “punctiliousness;” and even should he be confronted with the sneer that to be punctilious is as characteristic of the martinet as of the gentleman, he need not therefore be shaken from his position. Exactitude is a thing which is learned only by inheritance, or at least by training from the cradle, and it is in a just appreciation of the comparative value of trifles that breeding, no less than genius, is manifest. It is the boor who insists that little things are beneath notice, and who disregards conventionalities with a scorn he miscalls manliness and breadth, but which is in reality uncouthness and ignorance. It is astonishing how many people in what prides itself upon being the best society are lacking in punctiliousness. Of course everybody replies to invitations, acknowledges courtesies, sends a note in recognition of holiday gifts and flowers, because people who are ill-bred enough to neglect [these observances are soon left without invitations, attentions, and gifts to acknowledge. Nobody nowadays who pretends to the most ordinary politeness thinks of failing to dispatch a letter to the host or hostess whose hospitality he has been enjoying, and nobody but a boor fails to offer excuses for being late to dinner, failing to appear at an appointment, and the like. It is not to these perfectly well understood and obvious observances which we allude; the wellbred person does all this, but so does many a one whose title to that adjective is at least extremely doubtful. The punctiliousness which stamps a map as a thoroughbred—if the expressive, though somewhatslangy term may be forgiven—is an instinctive scrupulousness ; a constant sense that noblesse oblige makes it impossible for him not to be exact and faithful in his discharge of the-claims of others upon him, however slight; an estimate of the value of his obligations which makes a trival appointment a matter to be scrupulously fulfilled except for sufficient reason; a fidelity to his word which renders him incapable of breaking even promises which, to the underbred world, seem too slight to be even remembered. A martinet, as the term is commonly used, is a man who is unreasonably punctilious ; a gentleman differs only in being strict. Nor does the punctiliousness of the gentleman stop with social observances, conventional duties, and a fulfillment of the rules of etiquette. A man may be a gentleman, and, for reasons, disregard these things, although a wellbred man rarely finds himself in circumstances where this is necessary; but in the more vital matters of kindliness, respect, and a due regard for the rights of others, the law of punctiliousness admits of no suspension. There is no such thing as being too minutely careful of the feelings of others in our daily intercourse with our fellows; it is hardly possible to conceive of cases where in common situations one can be too punctilious in forbearance, generosity to the opinions or even the prejudices of others. It is not inconsistent with the highest and heartiest manliness, it is the flower of culture and of kindliness; and at once the stamp and vital principle of practical good-breed-ing is this chief of all the social virtues, punctiliousness.— Boston Courier.

A spider, as shown by an estimate by means of actually weighing it and then confining in a cage, ate four times its weight for breakfast, nearly nine times its weight for dinner, thirteen times its weight for supper, finishing up with an ounce, and at bp. m., when he was released, ran off in search of food. At this rate a man weighing 160 pounds would require the whole of a fat steer for breakfast, the dose repeated with the addition of a half-dozen well-fatted sheep for dinner, and two bullocks, eight sheep and four hogs for supper, and then, as a lunch before going to his club banquet, he would indulge in about four barrels of fresh fish.

The largest tree in Georgia almost rivals the giants of California forests. It is twenty feet in circumference at the ground, and its girth a short distance above is four feet greater. The great tree is 155 feet in height.

HUMOR.

A lame excuse —the apology of a one-legged man. “It is more blessed to give than to receive” remarked the pugilist. “The game is up," as the boy hunter said when, after discharging both barrels, the duck flew of.— Maverick. In some respects the gentler sex surpasses us. No man, for instance, can deliver a lecture with a mouth full of pins. Newark, New Jersey, has an antitobacco society composed of young ladies. That is a good thing. We hope all the young ladies in that town will give up smoking.— Boston Post. The average life of a locomotive is thirty years. It must pain a locomotive to know that it will never be old enough to be a ballet dancer, even if it had the necessary limbs.— Puck. The ablest minds claim that there is no such thing as absolute originality possible. Nothing, they argue, has ever been produced by man that did not resemble something in the earth or visible in the heavens. The new spring hat is the nearest approach to an exception yet discovered.— Chicago Ledger. “A Georgia negro recently butted a steer to death, on being told that he could have the steer if he killed it in that way,” says a news item. This story may be true, but we will give him our commission in the Salvation Army to see him undertake to butt a spring chicken to death.— San Francisco Maverick. “There is a good deal of religion in nature,” solemnly remarked a young Aberdeen clergyman calling upon a lady of his congregation recently. “There is,” was the quiet reply. “We should never forget that there is a sermon in every blade of grass.” “Quite true. We should also remember that grass is cut very short sometimes. ” A citizen stepped into an up-town drug store and called for a couple of pills, which he swalloped. “How much?” he asked. “Fifty cents, sir.” “Fifty cents! Why, the druggist on the block below never charged me more than five.” “Then I’ll make ’em four. I’ll drive that man out of the business if I have to sell goods at cost.”—Harper’s Bazar. TWO MEN. There goes a man whose clothes are plain, Homely his face and fare. Yet everybody honors him, Because they know he’s' —Danville Breese. There goes a man. In all the land No nobler could be found ; Whoever needs a helping hand Is sure to find him o —Boston Courier.

Distinguished Englishman (to host who has given a dinner to him) —“Who is'that line appearing man over near the door?” Host —“ Prof. De Legge.” Distinguished Englishman—“ I haven’t met him, have 1?” Host —“ Um—ah—let me see. I think not. I beg your pardon, my dear sir, for not presenting him before. The Professor is from Boston.” Distinguished Englishman —“O, I don’t mind that. You know I am over here to study humanity- in all its conditions.” — New York TidBits. A codfish is the only Annymal that ain’t got no neck. There ain’t but one kind of a fish in tl;e World that lives on the land and Flys round in the air, and that is a fish-hawk. A Codfish has a large mouth and my Sunday school Teechers got a large mouth too. Two kids got fiteing in the vestry one day and one of em pulled quite a lot of Hare out of the other kids Hed and the Superingtending pounded one of his Eeers with a book and so they quit. A fish would look funny if they had legs and could run. — Boston Boy in Boston Record. Minister—“ Well, my little one, and so you went to church yesterday, did you?” Little One—“Yeth, thir.” Minister—“ And do you remember, my dear, what it was you heard when you went to church yesterday?” Little One—“Yeth, thir. You thaid one of my little prayers, but you didn’t thay the other one.” Minister—“Ah, indeed! And how was that?” Little One —“Why, you thaid ‘ Our Father who art,’ but you didn’t thay ‘ Now I lay me.’” Minister —“O, well, my dear, but people don’t go to church to sleep, you know. ” Little One—“Yeth they do, too. My mother went to sleep in church latht Thunday.”— Somerville Journal. Country editor (to farmer) —“ Well, how do you like my paper?” Farmer —“ First rate. The one I got last week was a big improvement over the other ones you sent me.” Editor (warmly)—“ lam pleased, my dear sir. to hear you so express yourself. Would you care if I were to print your statement?” Farmer—" Not at all.” Editor —“All right. I’ll publish your statement. It might be the means of increasing my circulation in your neighborhood. Was there any special article that commended itself to you ?” Farmer—“No, I b’lieve not.” Editor —“ Then why did you think so much of the last issue ?” Farmer —“ ’Cause the copy I got wan’t printed on but one side.”— Arkansaw Traveler.

Where a European takes his dog out for a walk, according to the North China Mail, a Chinaman carries a cage, imprisoned in which is a bird, and when he sits down to rest he hangs the cage upon a tree in order that he may enjoy the flood of melody which is poured forth from the bird’s throat. The average American eats eight times as much sugaE as the average Russian, who prefers lemon juice to milk and sugar in his tea.