Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 February 1893 — Literal Obedience. [ARTICLE]

Literal Obedience.

Although the Scotchman’s sense of humor may not be of the keenest—an imputation which Sandy bitterly resents, by the way—he is quick to turn an adversary’s weapon against himself. A certain minister was noted for his avarice. One morning he had been driven by his man servant to the nearest station to catch the first train to Edinburgh. The obliging porter at once began to assist the man in disposing of the baggage, tut the minister, thinking he would expect a tip for doing what was only his duty, told him somewhat snappishly to mind his own business. Some months later the minister had occasion to go to Edinburgh again, and as usual was driven to the station in good time to catch the train. The morning was very cold, and there being no waiting-room at that time at the station, he went into the comfortably heated lamp room, where the porter was engaged in cleaning the lamps. Having seated himself, he planted his feet on the hearth, and became engrossed in a book. Presently his light rubber • shoes began to be affected by their near proximinity to the fire. The minister felt the heat penetrating through his boots, and taking his eyes from off the book, saw that the overshoes had nearly left him, and certainly would be of no further use. Looking up to the porter, he inquired if he had seen the rubbers undergoing the change, to which he replied that he had “Then why did you not tell me?” he demanded. “Every one minds his own business here,” was the dry re •ponse. A Scotch woman was return ing by train from a market town, where she had made a few purchases. Just as the last bell rang a fussy gentleman, elegantly dressed, and with a man-mind-thyself-looking face, rushed into the compartment, flung himself hastily into a corner, pulled out an evening paper and proceeded to devour its contents. Hardly had he become seated when the woman timidly addressed him: “I’m vera sorry, sir, but—” “I never listen to beggars,” fiercely interrupted the gentleman. “If you annoy me further I’ll report you!” Christy’s eyes flashed, then twinkled; she said no more, and the choleric gentleman retired with an angry frown behind his paper. All went merry as a dinner-bell until the train arrived at Cromlade, when Christy, stepping out, again addressed the churlish individual in the corner: “I carena, sir, whether ye report me or no’; but I want that pun’ of butter ye’ve been sittin’ on for the last sax mile!"