Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 January 1889 — Page 1

The Democratic Sentinel.

VOLUME XII

THE DEMOCRATIC SENT!DEL DEMOCRATIC NEWSPAPER. PUBLISHED EYERY FiJDaY, BY ./as. \v. McEwen RATES OF SUBSCRIPTION. . ' ™ a 60 Avertising , .. ~a r SBO °° ri —, c ' ar > t 0 o') -: coluiiu-. „ 30 0 0 * rt £ r « 10 0° n per coot. added to foregoing price if C rt?som.mts are set to occupy more than - year at equitable rates ffiness ca P rds not exceeding 1 inch space. ;. , - months; % 2 for three notices and ad-, ertisemonts at esSS&*= Advertisements for persons not residents of Jaspt r county must bo paid ope-qu^i. ter column In size ; and quarterly n adv; uce when larger.

r,~~r~ ~~ t. J, More v Altkeii ' b i,. Rollingswohtu. A* BAHKBM J, (Succestoisto A. McOoy&T. Thompson,) Kensselaeh, Ind. « fir.- ,vionkins business. Exchange °bought ami sol« Certiftcates hearing inj.unorl Collections made ou al avallablc &tH Office same place as old Thompson Ap ’ dORDECAI F. CHILCOTE. Attorney-at-L*v . - Indiana FBNSSELAEE, [in the Courts of Jasper and ad- ° counties. Makes collections a speolftlty Office on north side of Washington street, opposite Court House- vmi DAVID J. THOMPSON Attorney-at-Law. Notary Public. THOMPSON a brother, BENSSELAEB. . - Practice in allthe Courts. ARION E. SPITLEK, Collector and Abstractor. V e pay p irtaoular attention to paying tar.aelllnt and ieasiag lands. niua rwy. n. H. graham, ' * ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, Reesdelatb, Inman a. Money to loan on long time at low interest. Sept. lUf oo» JAMES W. DOUTHIT, ABXORNEY'-'AT—LAW AND NOTARY PUBLIC, /ST Office in rear room over Hemphill & Honan’s store, Rensselaer, Ind. Edwin P. Hammond. William B. Austin. HAMMOND & AUSTIN, ATTORNEY~AT*LAW, Rensselaer, Ind (HBce on second floor of Leopold’s Block, 1*of Was inaton and Vanßensselaer streets. William B. Avstin purchases, sells and leases real estate, pays taxes and deals in n ®^2 t , , l ble •instruments. mayg7 ' 8 “ W WATSON, ATTOitJSTEJ'Sr-A.T-XjA.W ysr- Office up Stairs, in Leopold’s Bazay, RENSSELAER IND ’ W- HARTSEELi, M D HOMOEOPATHIC PHYSICIAN & SURGEON. RENSSELAER, - - INDIANA. Diseases a Specialty. Jgl OFPICE, in Makeever’s New Block. Residence at Makeever House. July 11,1884. J. H. loughbidge. victor e. loughridge Ji H. LOUGHRIDGE & SON, , Physicians and Surgeons. Office in the new Leopold Block, seco' d floor, second door right-hand side of hall: Ten per cent, interest will be added to all Accounts running uusettled longer than three months. vlnl DR. I. B. WASHBURN Physician & Surgeon Rensselaer , Ind. flails promptly attended. Willgive special atten tion to the treatment of Chronic Diseases. jy-ARY E. JACKSON, M. D., PHYSICIAN A SURGEON. Special attention , given to diseases of women and children. Office on Front street, corner of Angelica. 12..24. ii i ' jjj ■"? £imri Dwiggins, F. J. Sears, Val. Skib, President. Yic —President. Cashier CITIZENS’STATEBANK RENSSELAER, IND., Bobs a general banking business.* Certificates bearing Interest issued; Exsftmnge bought and sold; Money loaned on farms guowest/ates and on moa Javorable term*. t WJ*n. B.fe,

RENSSELAER JASPEB COUNTY. INDIANA. FRIDAY JANUARY 11. 1889 ’

;VV O i_ i . We worked together si-* • ie We'p.. nne i our fuiure y>. Till Lo.-<* c le i her,. :ud. ‘i 1 cried. The woma- ba;i • t ie artist go, 18. rive alone an .ion ay. had Time &t*il wlp< h .nice was pleasure sweet. Yet cie!,”.e :he pc ft. with -e t mind, >-.art*;d oat efore my w ag feet. I clamber up th- h:;.-hf •• liow i'.tr cl. y : \u a ;rt ■.- see?— Men follow when* m v m-': s h.iv' gone: Yes, ju. n are glad to follo-.v me. »■ * And she gave all her hope for this - th e lit fin i: v, hftre bright to keep: But tor tier •rn.vlmap's ni • Utiv kiss, Her b.iby tosi.i • suit to ,-p. And I- tu/V great an-t she—is blest: Life'n:\n-: >* iv lt dlO < To her, ih • i;aie: w.i s of re t To me. th • ; - ;m- t -!• «le. s tv. i! done. * JTv WO'h 'Td- i •«. e*t : >. u , ..v-nild give For wild si:-. - has ;ri < i-e "v hide. H'-r ar tent so-il, how ■- tn •- ’ e Tans tranuneie.. and i*e With eliihlr-'n '-t ouool ■ •:* h-r knee: A l ; f • • . ! . i .. Al 1 th r - ~v JO w . i; tV ' ■ p-'.rt? •

MY BROTHER HENRY.

At first sight it may not, perhaps, seem quite the thing il-.nt I should lie hilarious lunar.s : 1 h v:- p : 1:,:-/ liad 111 courage to kill m; !m; !.-v Henry. For some time, however . ..ry had he annoying me. !Stri k’y - nr, I never had a brother Henry. 3i ,s j ,s- idle -n months since 1 began to no!;: o . ' - that there was such a person. I: ->• - about in this way: I have a friend named Kelt'e, who, like myseif, lives in ..on ion. His house is so conveniently situated that I can go there and hack in one day. About a year and a half ago I wa- at Keltic’s, and lie remarked that.he met a man the day before who knew my brother Henry. Not having a brother Henry, i fell that there must he a mistake somewhere, so I suggested that Keltic’s friend had gone wrong in the name. My only brother, 1 pointed out with the sauvitv of manner that makes me a general favorite, was called Alexander. “Yes,’ said Keltib, “but he spoke of Alexander also.” Even this did not convince me that I had a brother Henry, and I asked Keltic the name of his friend. Scudamour was the name and the gentleman had met my brothers Alexander and Henry some six years previously in Paris. When I heard this i probably frowned, for then I knew who my brother Henry was. Strange through it may seem. I was my own brother Henry. I distinctly remembered meeting this man Scudamour at Paris .during the time that I and Alexander were there for a week’s pleasure and quarreled every day. I explained this to Keltie, and there, for the time being, the matter rested. I had, however, by no means, heard the last of Henry. Several times afterward I "beard from various persons that Scudamour wanted to meet me because he knew my brother Henry. At last we did meet at a Bohemian supper party at Furnival’s inn, and almost as soon as he saw me Scudamour asked where Henry was now. This was precisely what I had feared. lam a man who always looks like a hoy. There are few persons of my age in London who retain their boyish appearance as long as I have done; indeed, that is the curse of my life. Though lam approaching the age of 30, I pass for 20; and I have observed old gentlemen frown at my precocity when I said a good thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine, There was, therefore, nothing surprising in Scudamour’s remark that when he had the pleasure of meeting Henry, he must have been about the age that I had now reached. All would have been well had I explained the real state of affairs to this annoying man; but, unfortunately for myself, I loathe entering upon explanations to sriYbody about anything. When I ring for my boots and my servant thinks I want a glass of water ,1 clrink the water and remain indoors. Much, then, did I dread a discussion with Scudamour, his surprise when he heard that I was Henry (my Christian name is Thomas), and his comments on my youthful appearance. Besides, I was at that moment carving a tough fowl, and, as I learned to carve from a hand-book, I can make no progress unless I keep muttering to myself, “Cut from Ato B, taking care to pass along the line C D., and sever the wing K from the body at the point F.” There was no likelihood of my meeting Scudamour again, so the easiest way to get rid of him seemed to he to humor lnm. I therefore told him that my brother Henry was in India, married and doing well. “Remember me to Henry when you write to him,” was Scudamour’s last remark to me that evening, i A few weeks later some one tapped me on the shoulder in Oxford street. It was Scudamour. “Heard from Henry?” he asked. I said I had heard by the last mail. “Anything particular in the letter?” 1 felt that it would not do to say that there was nothing particular in a letter which had come all the way from Ird , 'i, so I hinted that Henry had had trouble with his wife. By this I meant that her health was bad, but he took it up in another way, and I did not set him rfi-ht. “,Ali, ah!” he said, shaking his head sagaciously, “I’m sorry to hear that. Poor Henry!” “Poor old boy!” was all I could think of replying. “How about the t hiklren?” Scudamour asked. “Oh, the children,” I said, with what Ithought {iresence of mind, “are coming to Engand.” “To stay with Alexander?” he asked; for Alexander is a married man. My answer was that Alexander was expecting them by the middle of next month; and eventually Scudamour went , away muttering ‘ ‘Poor Henry I”

aax a unruTii o» oo »»c uict amo word of Henry getting leave of absence?” Scudamour asked. I replied shortly that Henry had gone to live in Bombay and would not be home for years, lie saw that 1 was brusque, so what does he do but draw me aside for a quiet explana tion. “I suppose,” he said, “that you are annoyed because I told Keltie that Henry’s wife had run away from him. The fact is, 1 did it for your good. You see I happened to make a remark to Keltie about your brother Henry, and he said that there was no such person. “Of course I laughed at that and pointed out not only that I had the pleasure of Henry's acquaintance but that you and I had a talk abo’.t ihe old fellow evejry time we met. ‘Well,’ Koltie said, ‘this is a most remarkable thiug for Tom,’(meaning you)‘said to me in this very room, sitting in that very chair, that Alexander was lus oniy brother ’ I saw that Keltie resented your concealing the existence of your brother Henry from him, so 1 thought the most friendly thing I could do was to tell him that your reticence was doubtless due to the fact that Henry’s private affairs were troubling you. Naturally in tlie circumstances you did not want to talk about Henry. 1 shook Scudamour by the band, telling him that he had acted judiciously, but il I could have stabbed him quietly at thutmoment I dare say I should have done it. I did not see Scudamour again for a long time, for 1 took caiVto keep out ot his way; but I heard flr.snfc-om aim and then of him. One day nu» saying that his nephew was gob g TT Bombay and if I would be so good as to give the youth an introduction to my.brother Henrv? ne also asked ru to dine w'h him and his nephew 1 declined the honor, but I sent the no \v a note of in troduction to Henrv. The ne t I heard of Scudamour was i r< m aeitie. ‘ ‘ way,” said Keltie, “Scudamour is in i,danburgh at present.” 1 trembled, for Ediu ourgh is where Alexander lives. “What has taken him there?” I a-ked, with assumed carelessness. Keltie believed it was business. “But,” he added, “ocudamour asked me to tell you that he meant to call on Alexander, as he was anxious to see Henry’s children.” A few days afterward I had a telegram from Alexander, who generally uses this means of communication when lie corresponds with me. ‘ Do you know a man Scudamour? reply,” was what Alexander said I thought of that, we had met a man by that name yhen we were in Paris; but, on the whole, /replied boldly; “Know no one of name bf Scudamour.” About two months ago I passed Scudamour in Regent street, and lie did not recognize me. This I cquld have borne if there had been no morgof Henry; but I knew that Scudamour was now '/telling everybody about Henry's wife. By and by I got a letter from an old friend of Alexander asking me if there was any truth in a report that Alexander was going to Bombay. Soon after Alexander wrote to me to say that he had been told by several persons that I was going to Bombay. In short, I saw that the time had come for killing Henry. So I told Keltie that Henry had died of fever, deeply regretted; and asked him to be sure to tell Scudamour, who had always been interested in the deceased’s welfare. The other day Keltie told me that he had communicated the sad intelligence to Soudamour. “How did he take it?” I asked. “Well,” Keltie said, reluctantly, “he told me that when he was up in Edinburgh he did not get on well with Alexander. But he expressed great curiosity as to Henry’s children.” “Ah,” I said, “the children were both drowned in the Forth; a sad affair—we can’t bear to talk of it ” lam not likely to see much of Scudamour again, nor is Alexander. Scudamour now goes about saying that Henry was the only one of us he really liked.

THE INVENTOR’S ROMANCE

My father was the master mechanic In the railroad shop at Summervil.e. Our home was unpretentious, though comfortable. My brothers and I were impressed with the idea that the height of man’s ambition was attained when he became master mechanic Having been graduated from school at 14, I was ambitious to enter the Summerville academy, where the higher branches were taught and young men were prepared for college. I was quite a favorite with the principal of the village school, and he recommended m? to Mr. Kimball, who was the principal of the academy, and who wanted a boy around the place to made himself generally useful, foi which the lad would tret tuition free. I was soon installed as general utility at the academy. Charley Rawson and I formed the primary Katin class, and we quickly became fast friends. While at the academy I had been a welcome ghest at Charley Rawson’s. His uncle ana aunt, with whom he lived,were indulgent, and Jennie and he and I might turn the house upside down for all they cared Constantly tnrown in Jennie’s company, the result was that I fell head over heels in love, and after I had gone to work 1 hung around the place evenings like s specter, in the hope of encountering her. We were good friends and with my first week’s wages I bought her a box of per fumery—three little bottles of different flavors nestling in blue silk lining. Some months atter I had left school Charley informed me that his uncle had decided to send him to Princeton, from which institution, by the way, he wae graduated in time. He then entered the iw office of Pearson & Co., in Philadelphia, became a successful lawyer, got married, and was recently selected county judge at Summerville.

i ue wees ’ouowing unaney s departure .Jennie was bundled off to a young ladies seminary near the Quaker city, to get pol ished in French, music and painting. Be fore her departure we bad a long interview on the river bank, where we had so often romped and played. Jennie prom ised that she would write me a long letter every fortnight. For a whole year she wrote regularly, and as the time rolled by letters seemed to grow in affectionate assurances. At the end of that time Jennie came home to spend vacation. I called on Lor, and was received with the same artless, uunffeeted greeting of a vear before. The aunt became alarmed and conclud*. ed it was about time to step in and prevent a mesalliance. Instead of Jennie the aristocratic old dame received me in the parlor one evening, and in a mild but firm toue intimated that my absence from the llawson mansion in the future would be highly appreciated. I took the hint, but I met Jennie before she returned to school. Between her sobs site told me that both her uncle and aunt had reminded her that she was a young lady now; that she should look among her own circle for young gentleman acquaintances, and, further, that unless she cut off all communication with me they would cut her off with a dollar. As a dutiful ward she hud promised to obey. We exchanged little mementoes at pnrting, and I returned to the lathe. My promotion was rapid and 1 soon perfected a locomotive invention that brought me large financial returns. , ILwirf? made a profitable investment of my suddenly acquired fortune 1 determined to visit Summerville. 1 put up at the best hostelry, which w;:.s not a very pretentious establishment. I called on my old friends at the machine shpp and one of them, who always knew about the movements of everybody in the village, I invited to come to my hotel as I wanted to see liim particularly. After hearing all the gossip about the folks we knew I ventured the.query whether he ever saw Miss Rawson. I was'delighted to hear that she was still unmarried; not surprised that she was the belle of tho town; not very sorry to hear that her uncle and aunt were dead. He assured meialso that Jennie lived in the old mansion, accompanied onlv by a couple of servants, and that she devoted much of her time to caring for the ludf dozen poor families of the place. Of course, all the beaus had consigned her to the shelf among the old maids'. I had determined to see her, and now I should discover whether memory of me had aught to do with her celibacy. I would not buy her love by telling lie* of my good fortune, and if she accepted me it must be as Tom Harrington, the poor mechanic. The next evening found me on the familiar doorstep. A strange servant ushered me into the parlor and took my card to Miss Rawson. I had not long to wait when there swept into the parlor my little Jennie, who, had indeed, developed into a peerless woman. I was embarrassed only for a second, for with both hands held out she greeted me in her old, simple style; “Why, Mr. Harrington, I am delighted to see you.” I could only seize her plump little hands in-mine and kiss them. After some commonplace chat Jennie demurely remarked that she had hardly expected the honor of a visit from me. I could only stammer out in a incoherent sort of way; “Miss Rawson, since the day we parted you have never been absent from my thoughts. But I realize the gulf that separates us, and tried hard to forget. It was no use, the passion grew with years, and the longing to see you so possessed me of late that I could not resist the impulse to ceme to Summerville. Only upon my arrival here (lid I learn that you were your own mistress; that you were still unwedded, and I hoped to learn that your heart was still your own.” “It is not my own, Mr. Harrington. I lost it years ago, and so have refused many tempting offers of marriage. It js locked up in a little box and I have lost the key.” “Perhaps,” I hesitatingly suggested. ‘‘l might be able to open the mysterious box.” “We shall see,” replied Jennie; and leaving the room for a moment she quickly returned with a package, which she carefully unfolded, arid presently revealed the silk-lined perfumery dox that I had so proudly presented to her on the strength of my first week’s earnings. “Jennie, are vou willing to risk the criticism of village gossips and accept your old lover of the machine shop 7” % “I am, Tom, and will gladly share mv wealth with you.” “I have tested you, Jennie, and your heart has the true ring. You have accepted me without a dollar. But I have not been idle all these years. I have a comfortable fortune equal to ytur own to share with you.” BOBGHTTM 866(118 relished Oj XQOSt All domestic animals, but its full value can enly be obtained by grinding or boiltng. The roots of fruit trees are mostly near the surface, and a top dressing ol manure therefore soonest reaches them. A cutting of grape-vine of the previous year’s growth, will readily grow if two or three eyes are on the portion under ground. The fact that dairying is rapidly increasing in the WesWiows that farmers are giving more attention to restoring lost fertility. Keeping cows requires more labor for the same amount of land than growing grain, with improved labor-saving machinery to harvest the latter.

AGRICULTURAL.

k 9 Eastern farmer recently ar. oonnsed his conversion to ensilage, and announced his intention of immediately building a “cyclone.” — Chicago Jour nal The chemist of the Agricultural Department at Washington says that the soil host adapted for the growth of sorghum for sugar appears to be a sandy loam. An authority says ‘here are $1,900,* 000,000 iuvested in the 0,000,000 miles of fenoes in the United States, and that they have to be renewed on an average in fifteen years. Thomas R. McConnell, of Scott county, lowa, soaks his wheat in vitriol water for twenty-four hours before sowing ns a cure for smut. He uses one pound of vitriol to twenty bushels of wheat. Very careful experiments made in New York last season, show that tho flat culture of potatoes produces the finest tuber and the largest yields. The best results followed the Dutch method of planting, which consists in keeping tJie surface level, planting a single eye in n place, covering it six inches deep (Fill allowing hut a einglo stalk to grow m a Dill, .which are a foot apart each vuy, A COURfitil’QNDi’.NT of the He view Juts practiced during several winters tne plan of keeping apples in dry saru, poured into tho tilled barrels after storing in the cellar, and finds it a ‘‘decided improvement” on any other ever tried, the fruit remaining till late spring “as crisp aud apparently as fresh as when first gathered. ” He does likewise with potatoes, and uses the samo sand year after year. The practice of some of the best farmers new is to keep pigs through the summer on green food, cut and curried tactile pons, with a little grain, aud what milk can he spared after butter making. Spring pigs are thus made to weigh 200 poi nds at 7 months old, and, sxcept fit tho last month, they get littla grain. The best time to self Buch pigs ts at the beginning of cold f weather, Obualiy in October. The Indiana Farmer says one of it* subscribers kept a record of the time employed in cultivating fourteen acres of corn last season in tho old-fashioned way, and finds he gave about two days to the aero. The yield was 800 buslieH over fifty-seven bushels to the acre He estimated the value of his crop at SB2O, and the labor expended on it at $l2O, and, deducting expenses, he olaim » profit of sl4 per acre. • Put dent Ohmer, of tlie Dayton Hortii ural Society, says he knew a man r. made a great success with an acre ot oof strawberries, gathering from i .ty to thirty bushels a day, and he .so elated with his suco£| that, ot. enlarging his fields, he sB “he would gather 100 bushels a day dl bust.” y>e “busted.” His single acre was whd attended to; hie Okie acres were necessarily more or l*g>JUMs>>uted. This scrap of history has 'many times repeated- —Chicago Jaurfafl. A farmer vouches for the fdttejving as a prevention of chicken eho|era: “Take v. tight barrel, saw in nto-Jn the middle, then wash it ou*good with hot that there is not a particle of bad flavor ci it. Then take two quarts of fresh lime and slack it, filling the tub or half barrel full of fresh water; when slacking, add one pound of alum to it and stir it good; let it stand until the sediment has settled and the *liquor is clear, and it is ready for use. When using it, take one pint of the clear liquor and add it to one pail of fresh water, and give your fowls to drink during summer months.’’ Ax exchange, speaking of the Central Ohio farmers, says: “They abandoned our old-fogy, antiqua'ed way of allowing every farmer to work oat and fool away iris own tax according to his own notion. There is a money tax, and the money is used by the lowest responsible bidder who agrees to keep the roads in repair/ At one time there were a good many toll roads, but the people aib gradually buying them out, so that nli roads shall be free. They go much further. They often tax the land a nfiio o? more back from a certain road up to »•-- high as $8 an acre, and make a gv,ou pike. This tax is in most cases very willingly paid. Several men assured .no that it raised the price of land from 20 to 50 per cent. They could kot be induced to go back h* dirt reeds, using ft foot or so of gravel on a well-gradoii •oundatior It is certainly a great ‘rent to liv-i where the roads are good ihc year rr T : ,d; and a farmer is there! % wrought rr - 'vjh nearer his neighbor u- i licov and the rest of -th* Soft (Joal women'WHO nvt near railroad tracks, or in the vicinity of factories which burn soft coal, may make clean clothes look as clean as if grass-bleached by pouring boiling water over them after they are washed, and letting them soak all night, scalding and rinsing them the next morning. The yellow tint is almost entirely removed by this process.

NUMBER 51