Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 July 1888 — Page 6

WHAT JAKE ANN SAID. A right smart lass was the maid, Jane Ann, And she had lovers twain. For a baker boy and a lawyer lad Both sighed for the lovely Jane. Bnt Jane Ann lifted up her voice, And this is what Jane Ann said: “The baker boy is the hoy that works, And the baker boy I’ll wed." O, the baker boy makes cakes and pies, And this is what Jane .Ann said: “The baker boy is bound to rise Just like his" lovely bread." So Jane Ann married the baker boy, And she was clothed and fed ; And glad was she, for she never knew What it was to want for bread. And Jane Ann lifted up her voice. And this is what Jane Ann said : “It’s a lucky day for the lasses fair When a baker boy they wed.” Too fine for work was the lawyer lad, And his practice didn’t pay ; His boarding bill outgrew his purse, So the lad he ran away. Then Jane Ann lifted up her voice, And this is what Jane Ann .said: “If I had married the lawyer lad, I’d have died for the want of bread.” O, the baker boy makes cakes and pies, And this is what Jane Ann said : “The baker boy is bound to rise Just like his lovely bread." •-Yankee Blade.

A Narrow Escape.

Well, gentlemen, if you wish it, I’ll tell you the story. When I was a youth of 19, and lived with my parents in a Pennsylvania town, I had a taste for railroading and a boyish ambition to become a driver, although I had been educated for loftier pursuits.

During my college vacation I lounged about the station almost constantly, making friends with the trainmen, and especially with a driver named Silas Markley. I became much attached to this man, notwithstanding he was 40 years old and by no means a sociable fellow. He was my ideal of a brave, skillful, thoroughbred driver, and I looked up to him as something of a hero. He was not a married man, but lived alone with his old mother. I w'as a frequent visitor at their house, and I think they both took quite a fancy to me in tlieir quiet, undemonstrative way. When Markley’s fireman left him, I induced him to let me take his place during the remainder of my vacation. He hesitated for some time before he consented to humor my boyish whim, but he finally yielded, and I was in great glee. The fact was that in my idleness and the overworked state of brain, I craved the excitement as a confirmed drunkard does liquor, and, besides, I had such longing dreams of the fiery ride through the hills, mounted literally on the iron horse. So I became an expert fireman, and liked it exceedingly, for the excitement more than compensated for the rough work I was required to do.

But jhere came a time when I got my fill of excitement. Mrs. Markieyone day formed a plan which seemed to give her a good deal of happiness. It was her son’s birthday, and she wanted to go down to Philadelphia in the train without letting him know anything about it, and there purchase a present for him. She took me into her confidence and had me assist her. I arranged the preliminaries and got her into the train without being noticed by Markley, who, of course, was busy with his engine. The old lady was in high glee over the bit of innocent deception she was practicing on her son. She enjoined me again not to tell Silas, and then I left her and took my place. It was a midsummer day and the w'eather was delightful. The train was neither an express nor an accommodation, but one which stopped at the principal stations on the route. On this occasion, as there w r ere two specials on the line, it was run by telegraph—that is, the driver has simply to obey the instructions which he receives at each station, so that he is put as a machine in the hands of one controller, who directs all trains from a central point and has the whole line under his eye. If the driver does not obey to the least tittle his orders, it is destruction to the whole.

Well, we started without mishap and up to time, and easily reached the first station in the time allotted to us. As we stopped there a boy ran alongside with the telegram, which he handed to the driver. The next moment I heard a smothered exclamation from Markley. “Go back,” he said to the boy; “tell Williams to have the message repeated; there’s a mistake.” The boj dashed off; in ten minutes he came flying back. “Had it repeated;” he panted, “Williams is storming at you; says there’s no mistake, and you’d best get on.” He thrust the second message up as he spoke. Markley read it and stood hesitating for half a minute. There was dismay and utter perplexity in the expression of his face as he looked at the telegram and the long train behind him. His lips moved as if he v r as calculating chances; and his eyes suddenly quailed as if he saw death at the end of the calculation. I was watching him with considerable curiosity. I ventured to ask him what was the matter and what he was going to do. “I’m going to obey,” he replied curtly. The engine gave a long shriek of horror that made me start as it were Markley’s own voice. The next instant we rushed out of the station and dashed through low-lying farms at a speed which seemed dangerous to me. “Put in more coal,” said Markley. I shoveled it in, but took time. “We are going very fast, Markley.” He did not answer. His eyes were fixed oh the steam engine, his lips close shut. “More coal,” he said. I threw it in.

“More!” he said, without turning his eye. I took up the shovel—hesitated. “Markley, do you know that you are going at the rate of 60 miles an hour?” “Coal!” I was alarmed at the cold, stern rigidity of the man. His pallor was becoming frightful. I threw in the coal. At least we must stop at Dufreme. That was the next halt. The little town approached. As the first house came into view, the engine sent its shrieks of warning; it grew louder—louder. We dashed into the street, up to the station, where a group of passengers w aited, and passed it without the halt of an instant, catching a glimpse of the appalled faces and the w aiting crowd. Then we were in the fields again. The speed now became literally breathless, the furnace glared red hot. The heat, the velocity, the terrible nervous strain of the man beside me seemed to weight the air. I found myself drawing long stertorous lureaths like one drowning. I heaped in the coal at intervals as he bade me. I did it because I w’as oppressed by an odd sense of duty, which I never had in my ordinary brain w ork. Since then I have understood how it is that dull, ignorant men, without a spark of enthusiasm, show such heroism as soldiers, firemen, and captains of wrecked vessels. It is this overpowering sense of routine duty. It’s a finer thing than sheer bravery, in my idea. However, I began to think that Markley was mad—laboring under some frenzy from drink, though I had never seen him touch liquor. He did not move hand or foot, except in the mechanical control of his engine, his eyes going from the gauge to the timepiece, with a steadiness that was more terrible and threatening than any gleam of insanity would have been. Once he glared back at the long train sweeping after the engine with a headlong speed that rocked it from side to side.

One could imagine he saw hundreds of men and women in the carriages, talking, reading, smoking, unconscious that their lives w’ere all in the hold of one man, whom I now strongly suspected to be mad. I knew by his look that he remembered their lives w ere in his hand. He glanced at the clock. “Twenty miles,” he muttered. “Throw on more coal, Jack; the fire is going, out.” I did it. Yes, I did it. There was something in the face of that man I could not resist. Then I climbed forward and shook him by the shoulder. “Markley,” I shouted, “you are running this train into the jaws of death.” “I know it,” he replied, quietly. “Your mother is aboard this train.” “Heavens!” He staggered to his feet. But even then he did not remove his eyes Horn the gauge. “Make up the fire,” he commanded, and pushed in the throttle valve. “I will not. ” “Make up the fire, Jack,” very quietly. “I will not. You may murder yourself and mother, but you will not murder me. ” He looked at me. His kindly gray eyes glared like those of a wild beast. But he controlled himself a moment. “I could throw you off this engine and make short work of you,” he said. “But look here; do you see the station yonder?” I saw a faint streak against the sky about five miles ahead. “I was told to reach that station by 6 o’clock,” he continued. “The express train meeting us is due now. I ought to have laid by for it at Dufreme. I was told to come on. The track is a single one. Unless I can make the siding at the station in three minutes, we shall meet it in yonder hollow. ” “Somebody’s blunder?” I said. “Yes, I think so.”

I said nothing, I threw on coal; if I had had petroleum I should have thrown it on. But I never was calmer in my life. When death actually stares a man in the face it often frightens him into the most perfect composure. Markley pushed the valve still further. The engine began to give a strange panting sound. Far off to the south I could see the bituminous black smoke of a train. I looked at Markley inquiringly. He nodded. It was the express t I stooped to the fire. “No more,” he said. I looked across the clear summer sky at the gray smoke of the peaceful little village, and beyond that at a black line coming closer, closer across the sky. Then I turned to the watch. In one minute more —well, I confess I sat down and buried my face in my hands. I don’t think I tried to pray. I had a confused thought of mangled, dying men and women—mothers and their babies. There was a terrific shriek from the engine against which I leaned. Another in my face. A hot, hissing tempest swept past me. I looked up. We were on the siding, and the express had gone by. It grazed our end carriage in passing. In a sort of delirious joy I sprang up and shouted to Markley. He did not speak. He sat there immovable and cold as a stone. I went -te the train and brought his mother to him, and when he opened his eyes and took the old lady’s hand in his I turned away. Yes, gentlemen, I have been in many a railway accident, but I have always considered that the closest shave I ever had. “What Was the blunder?” I don’t know. Markley made light of it ever afterward and kept it a secret, but no man on the line stood so high in the confidence of that company after that as he. By his coolness and nerve he had saved a hundred lives.

Bill Nye on Journalism.

I am glad to know Cornell University is to establish a department of journalism. I have always claimed that journalism could be taught in universities and colleges just as successfully as any other athletic exercise. Of course you cannot teach a boy how to jerk a giant journal frota the crutches of decay and make it a robust anil ripsnorting shaper and trimmer of public opinion, in whose counting-room people will walk all over each other in their mad efforts to insert advertisements. You cannot teach this in a school any more than you can teach a boy how to discover the open jxdar sea, but you can teacli him the rudiments and save _ him a good deal of time experimenting with himself.

Boys spend small fortunes and the best years of their lives in learning the simplest truths in relation to journalism. We grope on blindly, learning this year, perhaps, how to distinguish an italic shooting-stick when we see it, or how to eradicate type lice from a standing galley, learning next year how to sustain life on an annual pass and a sample early-rose potato weighing four pounds and measuring eleven inches in circumference. This is a slow and tedious way to obtain journalistic training. If this can be avoided or abbreviated it will be a great boon. The life of the journalist is a hard one, and, although it is not so trying as the life of the newspaper man, it is full of trial and perplexities. If newspaper men and journalists did not stand by each other I do not know what joy they would have. Kindness for each other, gentleness and generosity, even in their rivalry, characterize the conduct of a large number of them. I shall never forget my first opportunity to do a kind act for a newspaper man, nor with what pleasure I availed myself of it, though he was my rival, especially in the publication of large and spirited equestrian handbills and posters. He also printed a rival paper and assailed me most bitterly from time to time. His name was Lorenzo Dow Pease, and we had carried on an acrimonious warfare for two years. He had said that I was a reformed Prohibitionist and that I had left a neglected wife in every State in the Union. I had stated that he would give better satisfaction if he would wear his brains breaded. Then he had said something else that was personal, and it had gone on so for sorye time. We devoted fifteen minutes each day to the management of our respective papers, and the balance of the day in doing each other up in a way to please our subscribers: One evening Lorenzo Dow Pease came into my office and said he wanted to see me personally. I said that would suit me exactly, and that if he had asked to see me in any other wav I did not know how I could have arranged it. He said he meant that he would like to see me by myself. I therefore discharged the force, turned out the dog, and we had the office to ourselves. I could see that he was in trouble, for every little while he would brush away a tear in an underhanded kind of way and swallow a large, imaginary mass 6f something. I asked Lorenzo why he felt so depressed and he said: “William, I have came here for a favor. ” He always said “I have came,” for he was a self-made man and hadn’t done a good job, either. “I have came here for a favor. I wrote a reply to your venomous attack of today and I expected to publish it tomorrow in my paper, but to tell yon the truth, we are out of paper. At least, we have a few bundles at the freight office, but they have taken to send it C. O. D., and I haven’t the means just at hand to take it out. Now, as a brother in the great and glorious order erf journalism, would it be too much for you to loan me a couple of bundles of paper to do me till I get my pay for some equestrian bills struck off Friday and just as good as the wheat?”'

“How long would a couple of bundles last you?” I asked as I looked out at the window' and wondered if he would reveal his circulation. “Five issues and a little over,” he said, filling his pipe from a small box on the desk. “But you could cut oft'your exchanges, and then it would last longer,” I remarked. “Yes, but only, for one additional issue. lam axious to appear to-mor-row, because my subscribers will be looking for a reply to what you said about me this morning. You stated that I was ‘a journalistic bacteria looking for something to infect,’ and while I did not come here to get you to retract I would like it as a favor if you would loan me enough white paper to set myself straight before my subscribers.” “Well, why don’t you go and tell them about it? It wouldn’t take long,” I said in a jocund way, slapping Lorenzo on the back. But he did not laugh. I then told him that we only had paper enough to last us till our next bill came, and so I could not possibly loan any, but that if he would write a caustic reply to my editorial I would print it for him. He caught me in his arms, and then for a moment his head was pillowed on my breast. Then he sat down and wrote the following card: Editor of The Boomerang: Will you allow me through your columns to state that in your issue of yesterday you did me a great injustice by referring to me as a journalistic bacteria looking for something to infect; also as a lop-oared germ of contagion, and warning people to vaccinate in order to prevent my spread? I denounce the whole article as a malicious falsehood, and state that if you will only give me a chance I will light you on sight. All I ask is that you will wait till I can overtake you, and I am able and willing to knock great chunks off the universe with you, Ido not ask any favors of an editor who misleads his

subscribers and intentionally misunderstands his correspondents; a man who advises an anxious inquirer who wants to know “how to get a cheap baby buggy” to leave the child at a cheap hotel; a man who assumes to wear brains, but who really thinks with a fungus growth: a man the bleak and barren exterior of whose head is only equaled by its bald and echoing exterior. Lorenzo Dow Pease. I looked it over, and as there did not seem to be anything personal in it I told him I would print it for him with pleasure. He then asked that I would, as a further favor, refrain from putting any advertising marks on it, and that I would make it follow pure reading matter, which I did. I leaded the card and printed it with a simple word of introduction, in which I said that I took pleasure in printing it, inasmuch as Mr. Pease could not get his paper out of the express office for a few days. It was a kindness to him and did not hurt my paper in the end. There are many reasons why the establishment of a department of journalism at Cornell will be a good move, and I believe that while it will not take the place of actual experience it will shorten the apprenticeship of a young newspaper man, and the fatigue of starting the amateur of journalism will be divided between tHe managing editor and the tutor. It will also give the aspiring sons of wealthy parents a chance to toy with journalism without interfering with those who are actually engaged in it.

A Visit to Walt Whitman.

A short time ago I went to see the “old gray-liaired poet” in his Camden home. A pull at the old-fashioned brass bell brought the pleasant-faced housekeeper, who ushered me, without ceremony, into the presence of the master of the quaint little brown frame house. I found him in his study, seated in a big arm-chair before the fire; enveloped in a loose, comfortable-looking dressing gown of dark blue; his slippered feet almost hidden from view in the huge gray fur rug. Altogether the room and its distinguished-looking occupant were well worth coming a long way to see, Papers, pamphlets, books and letters were strewn carelessly about the room; on the well-filled table stood a pitcher containing a solitary hot-house flower, while on a window sill was a glass which held a bunch of sweet blossoms sent by some thoughtful friend to cheer the poet’s lonely winter-bound house. A pot of yellow tulips hinting of the coming spring-tide stood’on a chair at his elbow; and overhead his pet canary softly chirped. On one end of the wooden mantel stood a bust of Carlyle; on the other, one of Emerson—or, as Miss Bilmer called him, “The Concord Sphinx”— who, by the way, was a great admirer of the Jersey poet. It was Emerson, I believe, who said of him: “Whitman is apparently' ’the greatest democrat the world has seen.” » As I gazed about the room I could not help wondering if the old grayliaired man ever felt lonely. “Has the winter seemed long?” I asked. Hereplied. “Yes, the days roll round monotonously.” “What,” said I, “with your books and friends and writing?” "Very gently, he answered, “Time grows weary with years and the weight of sin.” Struck with the words, I asked whose they were; he replied, “From an old song I used to hear, years ago, when I was a boy.” Here our conversation was interrupted by an expressman bringing in a big box. The poet gneeted him cordially, calling him, “my boy,” in his deep kindly tones, and in return the man addressed him most affectionately, as “Uncle Walt.” After the expressman had taken his departure the old man said, “They seem to belong to me, to be part of me some way.” Is it any wonder the soldiers and firemen, cardrivers and boatmen love him as they do? After that we talked over one or two of his latest poems. I told him how much I liked his “Western Sunset,” which appeared a short time since in the New York Herald; whereupon he wanted to know if I were familiar with sunsets of the far West, to which unfortunately I was forced to reply in the negative; but told him I admired the artistic way in which he laid on the colors! I then bade him good-by and left the house rather saddened, for the kindly old man .seemed weary and, I thought, just a trifle sad. He may not feel it, but to me he seemed bereft of near and dear ones; and, as Byron truly says: “Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.”— Detroit Free Press.

He Han the Scale of Prices, Maybe.

It is said that Schubert wrote one of his loveliest songs on a bill of fare at a hotel table. It is a common thing for a man to whistle for bis dinner, and if a bill of air doesn’t suggest a tuue, nothing else will. Even an ordinary musician could w r rite a score of notes to the landlord while the waiter is taking a half rest. Then the bar is always handy and But, you see, there’s no limit to this sort of thing, and it’s easier to compose a whole opera at a hotel table than it is to get a dry napkin and something to eat. Now, if Schubert had gone to the tavern and got his dinner the same day he ordered it, History would have something to write about. —Bob Burdette.

Everything Included.

Guest (to Florida landlord, who has presented bill)—Does this include the good-will and fixtures ? Florida landlord—Good-will and fixtures ? Guest—Yes; I don’t want the hotel unless the good-will and fixtures go with it. —New York Sun,

FLOATING FLAKES.

Our musical sharp say the biggest thing in music is grand opera, because it has the most aria.— Pittsburg Chronicle. “Maby, why don’t you use the new tea-pot I bought?” * Mary—“ Please, mum, cook says she is very sorry, mum, but the new teapot has fell in three halves”— Harper's Bazar. “I never could see that Ananias told such lies that he should be struck dead for them.” “And who are you?” “I’m areal estate agent.” “Ah! That explains it.”— Lincoln Journal. “Discrepancies in my accounts ?” repeated the bank cashier indignantly, “not a bit of it. The accounts are all right to a cent. The trouble is with the cash. ” — Somerville Journal. Wife —What does the sentence “It goes withou saying” mean, my dear? Husband—l know what it doesn’t mean. Wife—What dear? Husband—A woman’s tongue.— Washington Critic. “Did you make any money out W 7 est ?” “Not a dollar. ” “What was the matter ?” “The United States detectives got onto me, and I had to leave the plates, dies and everything in a hurry.”—Washington Critic.

The reason why so many old famiHea die out is because the younger ones have not bee sense enough to swarm. They want to stay together and live on each other until they all starve.— New Orleans Picayune. It is said that in some parts of Africa there are birds with bills a yard in length. If the theory of transmigration of souls is a correct one, these birds must be the spirits of departed plumbers.—Yankee Blade. If the moon was for sale on a bargain Chunter half the women of the world would want to buy it, and the one who did would spend the rest of her life wondering what on earth she’d do with it.— Philadelphia Call. It has been the custom to argue as an excuse for fche comparatively low percentage of marriages in the United States that the women are not sufficiently numerous to make a selection from.— Toronto ( Canada ) Mail. Hedges lias dined well and has offered his waiter a dollar. Waiter (in a voice that reaches the desk) —“No, sail; we ain’t ’lowed fer ter tek no fees, sah,” (In a voice which does not reach the desk) —“Drap him on the flo’,- boss”— Tid-Bits.

“Why does Fraulein Amelie always smile so at that dentist Mueller?” “You see it’s this way—he furnished her a set of false teeth on the installment plan, on condition that she should pass his office every day, and show him that she had not pawned them.— Fliegende Blaetter. Sir Greystopp Fribble— l assure you, on my sacred word of honor, my dear Miss Flirtington, I do not believe I could possibly endure to live a whole year out of London. Charming Miss Flirtington—Oh, my dear Sir Greystopp, I’m sure you never could so cruelly treat the heart of—the kingdom.” — Fun. First East Countryman—Shall yeaou voote for the dis’tablishment o’ th’ Chu’ch? Second ditto (firmly)—No; I ’on’t, Bo’! Work scass enow as’t is—but if we was to hev all them parsons tu’nned out, an’ goid’ ’bout ploughin’ an’ hedgin’, an’ mowin’ an’ liavestin’, we should be wuss oft’ than we are now.— London Punch.

The prisoner refuses to plead at all, my lud,” said the Judge’s clerk. “And how can I be expected to plade, begorra, whin divila bit do I know what ividence you’ve got against me in the background?” growled the prisoner, “Give a blioy fair play, ye spalpanes!” “A man that can spake like that can’t b« guilty!” shouted the jury.— Judy. THE MODERN HUSBAND. A jpair of rubber boots she wore, Her face was all aglow, As from the path beside her door She shoveled off the snow. She ceased not when I reached her side, But labored with a will, And, though her arms were slender, plied The implement with skill. “Your husband, ma’am, I wish to see About some business,’’. I said to her. She said to me, “You’ll find him in, I guess.” “Just go right in; you needn’t ring, At present, I surmise, He’s at his health-lift practicing “Up stairs for exercise.” —Boston Courier.

Education for Dramatists.

Mr. Bronson Howard, who, as one ot the most successful of playwrights, is certainly entitled to speak ex-cathedra on the subject, contributes to a New York journal an interesting letter on the need of educating young men in the principles of dramatic art. Believing that the writer of plays offers a great field for fame and gain, he urges that the laws of dramatic instruction shall be taught in our colleges. In urging this Mr. Howard says: The students of our great universities are drilled in rhetoric and prosody; they are lectured to on the poetic beauties of the Elizabethan dramatists. But, with one exception, none of our universities attempt to teach the elements of the drama as an art; and without its art, aside from its poetry, no dramatic literature exists. Every university graduate has heard the v r ord “unities,” but take one of thenj. to the Astor library; open a volume of old plays; and ask him to put his finger on a “unity.” He knows there must be one somewhere in the library, but not being a mind-reader like Mr. Bishop, he is not likely to find it even with his eyes open; yet this young man has a half-written play at home, or he may be an eager applicant for the post of dramatic critic.