Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 April 1894 — THE LIMEKILN CLUB. [ARTICLE]

THE LIMEKILN CLUB.

Bad DmUi a Brother Who Was "Looking for Light." As the heading of “miscellaneous” was reached in the regular order of business, Brother Gardner arose and said: “My frens, I hev a letter yere from a pusson in Kentucky who axes what I thinks of the cull’d man who owns thirteen dawgs an keeps ’em in luxury and lets his wife go widout shoes de y’ar roun*. At de fust send off a pusson might call it a brutal exhibition of de sentiment which prevailed in de dark aiges, but de mo’ yo’ tinks of it the less yo’ feel like pitchin into dat nigger. Dar am many things too be token into considerashun. Mebbe dat man raises dawgs to sell, an as de dawg market is purty flat jist at present he am holdin on fur a raise. Dat would be only bizness. Mebbe dar am thieves an robbers around dar. an he finds it necessary to keep thirteen dawgs to protect his family. “Dis letter doan’ say dat de wife has made any complaints. Even if she had we all know dat wimen are mighty onsartin. I’ze met up wid some of ’em who’d chop out cotton in white kid shoes, an’ agin I’ze found cases whar dey insisted on gwine barefot in Jinuary. Things like this yere must be left to a family. If a family prefers thirteen dawgs to sealskin sacks, diamond earrin’s an’ silk dresses, dat’s deir bizness. I has wisited at de cabin of a cull’d man whar dey had three dowgs under ebery bed in de house, and fo’ cats howlin’ at de back doah, an’ I has wisited at a cabin whar not a cat or dowg could be found. Happiness ’peered to reign in one place as much as de odder. Dis Kentucky woman may injoy gwine barfut. It may be dat she got six pa’rs of French heel shoes in de house, but doan’ keer fur style. Until all de facts in de case am befo’ me I should not like to gib a decided answer. “It am also my painful dooty at dis time to announce de death of Brother Rainbow Johnson on de Stait of Tennessee. Brudder Johnson war ’lected a member of dis elub ober five y’ars ago, an’ hasorften met wid us, an' ailus took a vivid interest in our proceedin’s. Many of yo’ will remember him as de inventor of ‘de Johnson kerosene method,’ as he called it, an’ it was dat werry method which finally brung about his death. His method, as he explained it to me arter I had lent him fifty %ents an’ won his confidence, was to rise from his bed at midnight, take his trusty kerosene can under his arm, an’ under kiver of darkness, an’ steppin’ very high an’ softly, purceed to de nightest grocery. In many small towns, as yo’ perhaps know, de grocer leaves his bar’l of kerosene outdoahs. When Brudder Johnson reached the bar’l, he was purvided wid a gimlet an’ a funnel. If de bar’l had been tapped, it was all right; if it hadn’t been, he used de gimlet, and .in de co’se of a few minits transferred two gallons of ile from de bar’l to de can. Den he plugged up de hole an’ walked softly home an’ made all de dark corners of his ole cabin as light as day. De nayburs used to wonder at his extravagance, an’ de grocers used to do some terrible kickin’ agin short measure to de merchants of Cincinnati. “A few nights ago Brudder Johnson riz up from his bed at de usual hour. His kerosene can was emoty and must be filled. He left his wife and children sound asleep an’ kissed ’em goodby. As he skated softly frew the darkness he invented two other methods—one to get his vinegar and de odder to git his ’lasses in de same way as he did his kerosene. He knowed’ zactly whar he was gwine to, an’ in due time he got dar wid boas feet to once. A fresh bar’l of kerosene sot by the back doah of Misser Stebbins’ grocery, an’ as de bells struck de solemn hour o’ midnight Brudder Johnson might hev bin seen fussin wid dat bar’l. In fact he was seen. Misser Stebbins had got on to his method in some way, and hid hisself in a nearby shed. Misser Stebbins had a shotgun wid him and was wide awake. Bout the time Brudder Johnson began to bore wid his gimlet Misser Stebbins began to shoot wid his shotgun, an’ it am needless fur me to add dat de places which once knowed our fellow member now knowed him no mo’. He was shot with a handful o’ birdshot, and when Misser Stebbins got to him his soul had winged its flight fco odder lands. “My fren’S, in de midst of life we am in death. The torpedo chicken an de shotgun warn us dat we know not w hat a night may bring forth. We will set aside a page in memory of de deceased, but we won’t pass any perticklar resolushuns on de subject. De widow ob our late brudder has written to ask us fur de sum of $25 with which to buy a gravestun. While we sympathize with her in her great bereavement we can’t forward the money. It’s agin our constitushun. De secretary will advise her to erect a headbo’d and paint on it, ‘He steeps well!’ and let matters stop right dar. Perhaps Misser Stebbins hisself would be willin’ to furnish de bo’d, being as he will save at least two bar’ls of kerosene a year from now on. We will now put out de fiah in de stove and go home.”—M. Quad, in New York Recorder.