Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 September 1886 — Page 6

THE TALISMAN. BY KATHAN D. ÜBNEB. In a quaint old casket of codar-wood I have kept it this many a year, A necklace old of beads of gold, With spheres of the amber clear; A gift, it is said, from a Moslem’s slave To a brave old Christian knight. Who bore her away o’er the desert gray From the thick of a hopeless fight. Ere she swooned to death by adrfed-np well, Which they gained as the night set in. The beautiful slave this keepsake gave, As a charm against wrath and sin. And he rode away when her sad eyes closed, Leaving the sands to heap. With wave on wave, her nameless grave In the simoom’s scorching sweep. I hardly could tell how it came to me, Through heritage long and grim. Or whether the charm ever kept from harm Its owner, when hope grew dim; But often, I know, when rny days wax dark, And woe and distress seem near, The casket I ope with a strange, vague hope, That is partly akin to fear. I count the beads, like a rosary, First a gold, then an amber bead, And wish it were mine each mystic sign On the precious spheres to read; For all are carven with ciphers strange From a long-forgotten lore, Which, if brought to light, the old spell might Control stern fate, as of yore. Then, as sadly and slowly the talisman To its scented case I return, I cannot but deem its charm a scheme Whose meaning we all may learn ; Fordoes not the heart in its inmost cell The truest amulet keep, To guard us from ill, if we only will Search hard for its motives deep ? However, I hoard with a jealous care This relic of conquest dire When Crescent and Cross, for gain or loss, Were locked in a fight of fire ; And bauble o~ boon, it can still recall Th- ight of the Christian brave. And t. "bi-der faith that, by helpful death, Was restored to the Moslem's slave. CROSSING THE CREEK. BY WM. HAUGHTON. ■ Twas in the pleasant month of June, The happiest of the year, When vales are filled with joyous tune, And skies are solt and clear— On one sweet summer eventide Our dark-eyed Susan strayed By Elva’s stream at Henry’s side, The witching red-lipped maid. Full long in secret pined his soul, Of love he dared not speak— Till then his arm around her stole, In crossing o’er the creek. ’Twas but a slippery way at best, A plank with moss o’ergrown— And Henry’s arm was round her pressed, His heart was near her own. The breeze awhile its whisper hushed And kissed them silently. The laughing waves looked up and blushed That sweet embrace to see. How could the youth his secret keep, How fail of love to speak, When near him turned that tempting lip, In crossing o’er the creek. Ah! youngsters, when of peace ye dream, And side by side ye stray, Avoid the bridge o'er Elva’s stream— That sweet but treacherous way; If ye'd be free from Cupid’s dart, Nor be by love betrayed, Don't linger closely, heart to heart, Like Henry and the maid. Soft words that must the soul betray From lip and eye will break, And danger lurks upon the way, In crossing o’er the creek.

BESSIE.

The Tragedy of My Life. Out amidst the howling, winter winds; out from my door into the dread, dark, desolate night, I drove her. One hour before, her beautiful head was resting upon my knee; her trustful, soulful, dark, liquid eyes gazing, 'With the love of idolatry, into mine. My hand was toying with the soft, nutbrown hair that glorified her; I would have sworn, then, that nothing but •death should part us. A slight, involuntary action of hers roused the infernal temper that was born in me, and I drove her forth, out of my house—her home—from the warm, glowing fireside, into the terrors of that fearful night. At the threshold she paused—only for a moment. No sound escaped her lips, but those glorious eyes were more eloquent than words in supplication, wondei ously pathetic in appeal. “Go!” I said, as I stood with the door open, and my hand pointing to the ■outer darkness.

Slowly and sadly, with a quiet dignity, she went. My sister’s tears fell silently, and my younger brother muttered a curse against my heartlessness under his breath. But I was master, and none dared to dispute my will. I tr ed to appear unmoved, but as the tempest blasts whirled about the homestead, and howled down the chimneys, and rattled the solid shutters, the thought of Bessie out in the terrible storm, drenched with rain, chilled by the wild winds, crouching in some poorly protected nook, took possession of me, and 1 threw myself on the lounge and hid my face. But temper and pride would not permit me to give way. 1 could not muster enough of manhood to go to the •door from which: I had driven her and about into the night those words of forgiveness and recall that .my heart ye irned to utter. The family well understood my moods. 1 hey did not attempt to interfere. One by one, as the hours went on, they departed to their respective looms. At last I too sought my bed; but sleep 1 could not. The war of the elements raged with ever-increasing fury through all that wakeful night. • And poor, innocent, loving, true, patient, faithful Bessie I had exposed to these terrors. Where was she? I could hear the moaning and groaning of the trees about my home and in the forest near by, for ours was a farm in the far West, and ever and anon there would come the sharp cracking, the awe-inspiring crash of some monster that had yielded before the blast and stretched its tall form upon the ■earth. ’Twas the most horrible night of my life. At daylight I saddled my horse, and,

in agony and penitence, sought the few neighbors for live miles around. None of them had seen Bessie; all of them wondered that she should be away from the home where she was so tenderly loved, so carefully guarded. She would have been gladly welcomed by any of these good people, and every comfort their means permitted would have been lavished upon her, hud she presented herself at their doors. But they knew nothing of her. Filled with remorse and utterly disconsolate, I turned my tired horse homeward. My feelings were in accord with the desolation and wreck that marked the tornado’s path, and I abandoned the road to fight my way through the forest. I was within a mile of my house when a low moaning sound fell upon my ears; the horse halted before an obstruction of three great trees prostrated and with branches entangled. The cries of pain were nearer, and I cast my glance about. Great heaven! What did I see ?” Bessie! Crushed to the earth beneath a trunk of monster timber. Her eyes met mine. She could utter no sound save those of suffering and exhaustion. I turned my horse about, sought the road, and spurred wildly for the farm. I was powerless to aid her; I must seek help, though I knew it was too late to save her life. I burst into the room where my family and the men employed about the place were at their morning meal. “All of you turn out,” I cried; “I have found Bessie. She lies, pinned to the ground, under a great oak tree, down on the edge of Martin’s tract. Take axes, spades, anything, and cut or dig her free. “I shall never forget or drive from my memory the look of love and sorrow she gave me as her eyes encountered my own. I could not approach her. “Take a sharp knife with you, boys, and cut her throat the moment you reach her. Put her out of her misery, for her back must be broken and her ribs all shattered. She cannot survive. “Do not mangle her. I want to have her stuffed.” They did my bidding bravely, tearfully, and in silence. ♦ * * * * * Bessie was the prize pointer of our Territory. She had cost me $250, solid cash, to import; had taken the prize at every county fair for sx years past. I had just refused SSOO for her—aud she wasn’t insured. Hence these tears. — American Commercial Traveler.

Squire Hobbs Filosofy.

Dar will be er monstrous site ob babies named Franky now. De perfeshinal bisikk ist orter be wel versed in de sience ob ’stronomy. It am er mistery ob natur wy er kow alwaz wates ontil yo git dun er milkin’ her ’fore she kiks de bukket ober. Konshens am er koward, an’ dose faults it ain’ got strength ’nuff to prevent, it seldum has justis ’nuff to akijcuze. Es er man war komrpelled tu trade plases wid his hoss io ? er da or 2, it wood chuck er little m®’ kindness intu hiz natur. Doan’ jedg er man by hiz relashuns. He kan’t hep dat r dey am thrust upon him. Size him up' by de kine ob kumpany be keeps. De mizer am de kokooa* ob de human ra®e. He starbs hiusef. knowin’ dat doze boo wish him ded wil fatten on hiz horded ganes. Yo’ kin tawk ’bout lovin’wwk fo’ itsef, but jes’ take aw-a de dollahs an' sense it urns, an’ dar wil be er monstrus site of wurk go undun. De man dat kin go er fishan’ an’knm home widout tellin’ er string ®b lies longab dan his string ob fish, bab got er sinch on wun ob de bes’ aeets in de nex’ worl’. Wen er rich man dize de people hyar on yeath wundah how much welth he lef’ behin’ him, but de angels in heaben wundah bow much he hab stowed awa up dar. De wedder buro am. er falure. I kan’t see dat we hab enny bettah wedder since Unkle Sam tuk charg ob de elements dan we had wen Dame Natur had holdi ob de strings. Chicago Ledger.

A Cool House.

Battleton advertised a house for sale. A man wh© had read the advertisement and who had examined the house called on Battleton. “My idea,” said he, “is to purchase a healthful place.” “The very house you want,” said Battleton. “My greatest difficulty is in getting a place where I can sleep- comfortably at night.” “I think that my house will suit y u.” “I want a cool place.” “Then you are fortunate in selecting my house.” “Plentv of air?” “Plenty.” “You say it is cool?” “Coolest place in town.” The man bought the house and paid for it. Shortly afterward he sought Battl ton, and in an excited manner exclaimed: “You have told me a falsehood.” “How so?” “You said that the house which I bong t of you is cool.” “vVell?” “But I find it to be the hottest house I ever saw.” “This is June, my friend.” “Yes.” “Well, I say that the house is cool—cool in Jan ary. You forgot to mention the month. Good-day.”— Arkans saw Traveler.

HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.

The Secret of the Empress Eugenie’s Perpetual Youth. Seated in a little box of a room just large enough for a toilet stand, a mirror, and a chair, the artist in complexions begins her task by remarking: “Ah, madamo, you have not taken care of your face. See, you have little crows’ feet round your eyes. The skin is dry and harsh; you have no color in particular. ” , “Yes,” looking in the glass. “You have a poor subject to operate on.” “You shall see in one hour how pretty I shall make you. You will not know yourself,” said the young woman, tying a towel about the patient’s shoulders, then gently washing her face with soft water and an ambercolored soap in which there is no alkaline, and rubbing it with a fine towel. “Confess, madame! Have you not used the powders and stuffs sold in the shops to improve your complexion ?” “Certainly, face powders—such as all women use. ” “Oh, it is shameful, wicked, to sell these balms and powders. They are full of mercury, that is absorbed by the blood, and that eventually gets into the bones. Let me show you how a drop of ammonia will turn a teaspoonful of famous ‘ balm ’ black in a moment.” The artist poured the material in question into a saucer, added the ammonia, and it became jet black instantly. The patient’s face being dry, the artist proceeded with her manipulation. Wetting a sponge with a preparation called “Mama Dura,” a white, creamy substance, she applied it to the face, neck and ears of the subject, who asked meekly if this was the famous preparation invented by Eugenie or Mme. Jumel.

“This is Mme. Jumel’s recipe. It is intended as a face-wash for the night, to soften and whiten the skin and to remove wrinkles and discolorations. After washing your sac?, on retiring cover it with ‘Mama Dura,’ and then put on our beauty mask.” Here the artist produced a white cloth mask lined with white cotton flannel. “Oh, I cannot breathe!” said the patient, putting it on for a moment. “That is nervousness. You wtuld soon become'accustomed to it. Thousands of women use the toilet mask. Jumel had a beautiful complexion to the day of her death, and she was very old when she died. She used this ( ream to keep her youthful in appearance. Old men will tell you how dazzlingly fair she was to the very end of her life. It is perfectly harmless, and removes all crows' feet, so vexatious and enduring under any other treatment.”

The artist poured a few drops of the Dura in a saucer, adding a drop of ammonia. The substance “remained white. A greenish white paste was then laid about the- patient’s mouth, the artist saying as she used it: “This is to take away superfluous hair. You have a deli ate little beard coming, madame,.and hair on a woman’s face is so ugly.. This paste must dry, sol shall amuse you me in while by telling you something. Ask some questions if you like.” “Do many women of respectability come here for this- sort of thing ?” said the patient. “Well, madame r you would be astonished to see how many come for a regular treatment of the complexion and to learn their social standing. And why not ? Is there any harm in a woman’s desire to look as well as possible? Does sne not use every art of dress to consummate her elegance of form? Why not beautify her face, her hair, her hands, and feet?” “But ‘nature when unadorned,’ etc.” “O, I don’t believe in that sentiment at all. Art is often more attractive than nature, and more complete. Painters make sketches of nature, and combine the best of them in pictures—but the ‘ Kusma ’ is dry and 1 will wipe it off.” The little hairs round the mouth and chin were gone, leaving the skin as smooth as that of a new-born babe. Then a soft linen cloth removed the shiny traces of the “Dura.” - “Madame, youi are now as though you had wakened in the morning. Bathe your eyes and your mouth, but don't use soap. There, lam ready for you. See how much softer your face looks 1”

Here she produced a pure white liquid and slowly applied it to the face—giving it a pale;, delicate tint. “This is Eugenie’s secret of beauty; we purchase it, from her, and now send it all over the civilized portions of the globe.” Next, a little sponge wet with Extract of Bose was touched to the cheeks near the eyes, the lower part of the chin, and the- lobes of the ears, giving asubdued bat exquisite coloring. A pencil dipped in “ Indian Fard ” was passed over the eyebrows and the eyelashes. “Ah, now look at youself—you are ten years younger in appearance, madame. l ean tell you of actresses who owe their beauty to me. Langtry has just sent on an order for my white cream. She came here regularly when in New York for treatment for her complexion. Lillian Bussell, Minnie Palmer, and other noted women of the stage have and are doing the same.”— New York Morning Journal. The peasant Indians of Central America hold some curious superstitions, of which the following are examples: When a child is sick the mother takes a d ake, singes its tail feathers, and, muttering certain words, passes it over the patient. A woman feeds a parrot with a few pieces of tor-

tilla and gives the child the crumbs which fall from the beak, as they will make it talk. Colic is due to the evil eye; in order to get rid of the disturbing influence the woman breaks four duck’s eggs into a basin, and, having mixed them with rue, places the whole under the child’s bed; if the compound be curdled in the morning the spirit has departed.

Absence of Mind.

In his “Voyage autour de ma Cham- ■ bre,” De Maistre discusses the very i curious phenomenon of the independence of the mind and the body. He i tells us how, in a fit of absent mindi ness, he often drew on his stockings ; wrong side out, and had to be reminded by his invaluable servant Joannetti of his mistake. Many readers will call to ! mind experiences of their own of a similar nature. It seems quite common to put one’s watch-key to one’s ear to ascertain if it is going; and many people are in the habit of winding their watches, and three minutes after pausing to wonder whether they have done so or not. Who has not heard of the philosopher who boiled his wat h while he calmly held the egg in his hand to note the time! Or of the equally erudi e man of science who, having peeled the apple, threw the apple itself over a cliff, and then discovered that the rind alone remained! Another individual had the habit—not such a very uncommon one —of forgetting hi? own name at awkward moments. One day he presented himself at the postoffice for letters, when, much to his disgust, he could not think of his name. He turned sadly homeward, racking his brains in the vain endeavor to discover who he was. Suddenly a friend a -costed him: “How are you, Mr. Brown?” “Brown, Brown, I have it!” cried the absentminded one; and, leaving his astonished friend, he rushed back to the postoffice to get his letters. Sometimes absence of mind produces very ludicrous effects. Harry Lorrequer’s appearance on parade in the character of Othello is well known. A somewhat similar- occurrence in real life happened not long ago. A student, on leaving his room one afternoon to take a stroll in the fashionable street in a university town, suddenly remembered that his fire needed coals, and returned to replenish it. On issuing from his lodging the second time he was surprised to see people looking at him with an amused smile. Presently some ragamuffins at a street corner began to make audible remarks. On looking down, he discovered, to his horror, that he was serenely carrying the fire-tongs in place of his umbrella! One day an English savant wrote two letters, one to a business house in London, the other to a friend in Paris. In stam ing them at the postoffice, he placed the penny stamp on the letter for Paris aud the other on the business letter. Remarkins to the postoffiee elerk that he would correct the error, he changed the addresses! It was not till after he had posted the letters that he understood why the elerk had not been more impressed with his brilliant idea.— Chambers' Journal.

The Poppy Problem.

It would be worth knowing if one of those districts corresponds to that part of the Turkish Empire producing the Papaver somniferum, or opium poppy. The wholesale price of prime opium is nearly $lO a pound, and in the neighborhood of Janina and Beirut 160 pounds per acre is not considered an uncommon yield. The Turkish planter, as well as the Yankee importer, are handicapped by enormous taxes; but a Tennessee or Texas farmer could make a poppy-garden as profitable as a sil-ver-mine. The demand for the .drug is increasing at a rate suggesting the suspicion that the favorite stimulant of our Chinese coolies must have had a sudden access of Caucasian votaries. Thirty years ago our total imports amounted to hardly 90,000 pounds, in 1873 that quantum had already risen to-319,000 pounds, and for 186 j 1,000,000 pounds would possibly be an underestimate. Seeds could possibly be obtained from Meran, in Southern Austria, where experiments on a small scale have for years been tried in all sheltered valleys.

Opium in the United States.

Like all other articles of trade, opium has shown a wide variety of quotations. During the rebellion it rose from $t a pound to S2O, and when the inevitable shrinkage took place a number of operators were ruined. The market has gradually declined until the present low figure, and this decline has led to a drop in morphia. The American population, for instance, has hardly doubled since the opening of the late war, but the importation of opium has increased nearly seven-fold during this interval. Taking the year 1860, the annual report, made up within six months of that date, was 71,739 pounds. Last year, however, it was 471,276 pounds, or more than 2 5 tons, this being an increase over the previous year of sixty-nine tons. Truly one may ask whither we are drifting.— Kochester Chronicle.

The Cut Killed Him.

“Well, poor Jones died last night.” “Is it possible? I didn’t hear he was sick. What was the complaint?” “O, he died from the effects of a cut.” “Bow sad! was it a large cut?” “No, it was a small cut; but of a very fatal nature.” “Indeed; pray tell me about it.” “It was a small wood-cut of himself which was published in one of the daily papers. When he saw it he fell over at once and died in great agony.”— Lynn Union.

HUMOR.

The fall came early in Eden. Noose-paper—a death warrant. An apple pie is New England civilization with a crust on. No woman can lace herself as tight as a man can drink himself. It is quite a mistake to imagine that a “split in the camp” occurs, as a rule, with “crack regiments.” “This is something I have just dashed off,” said the farmer’s wife as she took the butter from the churn. The publisher of a weekly paper in a small town who thinks he discovers a “crying need” of a daily is apt to find a need of crying if he starts one.— Texas Siftings. At a recent meeting of the Montana bar association a paper was read by a leading attorney on “The Revolver as a Means of Making Difficult Collections.” —Estelline Bell. Undertaker—-And what kind of trimmings will you have on the casket ? Widow—None whatever: a plain casket. It was trimmin’s that killed him. U.— What? W.—Yes. Deliriumtrimmin’s. —Bos ton Courier. Habdacre was wearily watching a most villainously poor game of baseball. “What are they?” he asked. “They are picked nines,” replied the scorer. “Then,” said the suffering spectator, “they were picked before they werejripe.”— Burdette. A Texas teacher was calling the roll. Just as he called out “Robert Smith,” Robert himself lushed in out of breath, and answered: “Here, s r!” “Robert, next time you must not answer to your name unless you are here.” “Yes, sir, I’ll try not to.”— Texas Siftings.

“Charley,” said young Mrs. Tucker to her husband, “I don’t mind your drinking once in a while, as long as you eat plenty of cloves, but I do hope you will always drink nice, pure sweet whisky. I saw a sign in the street the other day which says, ‘Whisky Sours,’ and I know the stuff must be unhealthy after it sours.”— Traveler. Hight Toned Patient—“Well,Doctor, what kind of a glass eye are you going to give me ?” Doctor—“ Oh, one of the ordinary kind that will match your other optic.” High-toned Patient—- “ Well, if it is all the same to you, Doctor, I think I’d prefer a little better one than the ordinary kind. How would plate-glass go?”— Tid-Bits. “I see, ” he said, as he met an old soldier comrade, “that our generals are having a hot dispute as to which of them contributed the most to save the day at Gettysburg. You were there, I believe?” “Yes, but I have no right to talk.” “For why?” “Because I was simply a private soldier, and only had three bullets shot into me!”— Detroit Free Press. “Why can not we,” said a longheaded citizen, “have a subterranean hotel at Niagara, underneath the American Falls, with a piazza looking out upon the vast sheet of falling water ? All that is necessary is to sink a shaft on Goat Island, tunnel straight out under the channel, put in iron pillars if necessary, to support the ceiling, and construct any sort of an observation platform you p ease, facing the fall from the rear. What more delicious place can you imagine in which to pass a sultry afternoon ? A portion of the veranda might be shut off from the spray by means of plateglass doers, so no change of clothing would be necessary for those who dislike dampness.”— Buffalo Courier.

THE CANDIDATES. Before Election. Man at Tells dad Front gate; “htand pat." Nice man— I’m runnin’ Candidate. ’Way ’h ad Smiles sweet* All others; Bows low. I’m dead Takes seat, Sure ’Voted Won’t go, This pop— Eats bread, ‘Way yonder Eats pies, On top! Tells lies. My name? -Kisses baby, John Ray, Praises sis, Help me Calls grr uny ’Lection day. “Young miss.” Pretty baby 4 Pats Towser, Whoop hit Fondles cat, Good-by. After Election. Flew by All briars, Front gate ; Says men Nice man— All liars Candidate. Goes home Don’t smile, Sheds tear, Flies by— Fixes for Blue streak, Next year. Politics —Fontanelle Observer.

A Converted Colonel.

A West Virginian, noted as being dreadful slew pay, was in the city recently looking for an office, and he called on Commissioner Miller to see about it. A day or two after the Congressman from his district also went to see the Commissioner. •‘So Colonel Blank was here the other day?” he said, inquiringly. “Yes,” replied Mr. Miller, “he called to pay his respects.” “No?” said the Congressman, in surprise. “Yes, he did." “Came up and paid his respects, did he?” “Certainly,” replied Mr. M., himself surprised at the Congressman. “Didn’t say anything to you about waiting till the first of the month, or calling around next week, or sending a boy to his office for a check, or anything like that?” “.Not a word ” “Well, by thunder, the Colonel must have got religion.” Washington Critic. A resident of Minnesota, who has seen several severejiornadoes, says that their most peculiar feature is the singular sucking-ifiovement. Buildings are sucked up into the clouds entire, and come down soon in fragments.