Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 145, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 June 1910 — Page 3

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Fatal Defect.

“I have a chance to marry an old tnan who has lots of money.” "Why don’t you?” “He hasn’t any bad habits and comes •of a long-lived family.”—Chicago Rec-ord-Herald.

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Literary Censorship in Russia.

In an article on the literary censorship in Russia a writer in the Frankfurter Zeitung says that some of the queer examples of this work on the part of the czar’s government are worthy of note. In a poem the line “Under strange skies we may be happy” was canceled, with the remark that “no sky can be more conducive to happiness than that which spreads over Russia.” A biography of Sumarokow mentions the novel “Korew” as his first “creation.” The sentence was blotted out because “God alone creates. Man may write, work, compose, etc., but he does not ‘create.’ ” When the names of the gods of Greek mythology are written capital letters must not be used “except in the case of Mars. Our gracious czar has had so many wars that he owes Mars this compliment." A poem was suppressed because it contained the line, “To solitude devoted, I despise the world.” The censor said: “Despising so generally Includes also the czar. Thank me, writer, for saving you from Siberia.”

Tended Concessions.

"In a true love affair concessions must be made on both sides.” "That Is what the duke says. He has offered to give up baccarat If dad wdll part with another million.”—Kaneas City Journal.

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THE QUICKENING

CHAPTER VIII.— (Continued.) The limestone pike was the same, and the creek was still rushing noisily over the stones in its bed, as Tom remarked, gratefully. But the heaviest of the buffets came when the barrier hills were passed and the surrey horses made no motion to turn in at the gate of the old oak-shingled house beyond the iron-works. "Hold on!" said Tom. "Doesn’t the driver know where we live?” “That's the sup’rintendent’s office and lab’ratory now, son. It was getting to be tolerably noisy down here for your' mammy, so nigh to the plant And we allowed to s’prise you. We’ve been bulldin’ us a new house up on the knoll just this side o’ Major Dabney’s.” It was the -eruelest of the changes—die one hardest to bear; and it drove the boy back into the dumb reticence which was a part of his birthright. Had they left him nothing by which to remember the old days—days which were already beginning to take on the glamour of unutterable happiness past? Tom saw well-kept lawns, park-like groves and pretentious country villas where he had once trailed Nance Jane through the “dark woods,” and bis father told him the names and circumstance of the owners as they drove up the pike. There was Rockwood, the yimmer home of the Stanleys, and The Dell, owned, and-inhabited at intervals, by Mr. Young-Dickson, of the South Tredegar potteries.- Farther along there was Fairmount, whose owner was a wealthy cotton-seed buyer; Rook Hill, which Tom remembered as the ancient roosting ground of the migratory winter crows; and Farnsworth Park, ruralizing the name of Its builder. On the most commanding of the hillsides was a pile of rough-cut Tennessee marble with turrets and many gables, rejoicing in the classic name of Warwick Lodge. This, Tom was told, was the country home of Mr. Farley himself, and the house alone had cost a ’fortune. At the turn in the pike where you lost sight finally of the iron-works, there was a new church, a miniature in native stone of good old Stephen Hawker’s church of Morwenstow. Tom gasped at the sight of it, and scowled when he saw the gilded cross on the tower. “Catholic!” he said. “And right here in our valley!’’ "No,” said the father; "it’s ’Piscopallan. Colonel Farley is one o’ the vestries, or whatever you call ’em, of St Michael’s yonder in town. I reckon he wanted to get his own kind o’ people round him out here, so he built this church, and they run It as a sort of a aide-show to the big church. Your mammy always looks the other way when we come by.” Tom looked the other way, too, watching anxiously for the first sight of the new home. They reached It in good time, by - a graveled driveway leading up from the white pike between rows of forest trees; and there was a second negro waiting to take the team, when they alighted at the veranda steps. The new house was a two-storied brick, ornate and palpably assertive, with no suggestion of the homely comfort of the old. Yet, when his mother had wept over him in the wide hall, and there was tinie to go about, taking it all In like a cat exploring a strange garret, it was not so bad. But there were compensations, and Tom discovered one of them on the first Wednesday evening after his arrival. The new home was within easy walking distance of Little Zoar, and he went w’ith his mother to the prayermeeting. The upper end of the pike was unchanged, and the little, weather-beaten church stood in its groving of piles, the same yesterday, to-day and for ever. Better still, the congregation, the small Wednesday-night gathering at least, held the familiar faces of the country folk. The minister was a young missionary, zealously earnest, and lacking as yet the quality of hardness and doctrinal precision which had been the boy’s daily bread and meat at the sectarian school. What wonder, then, that when when the call for testimony was made, the old pounding and heart-hammering set in, and duty, duty, duty, wrote Itself in flaming letters on the dingy walls? Tom set his teeth and swallow'd hard, and let a dozen of the others rise and speak and sit again. He could feel the beating of his mother’s heart, and he knew she was praying silently for him, praying that he would not deny his Master. For her sake, t,hen • * » but not yet; there was still time enough —after the next hymn—after the next testimony—when the minister should give another invitation. He was chained to the bench and could not rise; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth and his lips were like dry leaves. The silences grew longer; all, or nearly all. had spoken. He was stifling. ' "Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is In heaven.” It was the solemn voice of the young minister, and Tom staggered to his feet with the lamps whirling in giddy circles. "I feel to say that the Lord is precious to my soul to-night. Pray for me, that I may ever be found faithful.” He struggling through the words of the familiar form gaspingly and sat down. A burst of triumphant song arose: "O happy day, that fixed my choice On Thee, my Saviour and my God!” and the ecstatic aftermath came. Truly, It was better to be a doorkeeper In the house of God than to dwell In the

BY FRANCIS LYNDE

Copyrleht, 1906, by Francis Lynd*

tents of wickedness. What bliss was there to be compared with this heartmelting, soul-lifting blessing for duty done? It went with him a good part of the way home, and Martha Gordon respected his silence, knowing well what heights and depths were engulfing the young spirit. But afterward—alas and alas; that there should always be an "afterward”! When Tom had kissed his mother good-night and was alone in his upper room, the reaction set in. What had he done? Were the words the outpouring of a full heart? Did they really mean anything to him, or to those who heard them? He grasped despairingly at the fast-fading glories of the vision, dropping on his knees at the bedside. “O God, let me see Thee and touch Thee, and be sure, sure”’ he prayed, over and over again; and so finally sleep found him still on his knees with his face buried in the bedclothes. CHAPTER IX. For the first few vacation days Tom rose /with the sun and lived with the industries, marking all the later expansive strides and sorrowing keenly that he had not been present to see them taken in detail. One morning he ran plump into the Major, stalking grandly along the tile-paved walk and smoking a wartime cheroot of preposterous length. The despot of Paradise, despot now only by the courtesy of the triumphant genius of modernity, put on his eyeglasses and stared Thomas into respectful rigidity. “Why, bless my soul!—if it isn’t Captain Gordon’s boy! Well, well, you young limb! If you didn’t faveh youh good fatheh in eve’y line and lineament of youh face, I should neveh have known you—you’ve grown so. Shake hands, suh!” Tom did it awkwardly. It is a gift to be able to shake hands easily; a gift withheld from most girls and all boys up to the soulful age. But there was worse to follow. Ardea was somewhere on the peopled verandas, and the Major, more terrible In his hospitality than he had ever appeared in the oldtime rage-fits, dragged his hapless victim up and down and around and about in search of her. “Not say ‘Howdy’ to Ardea? Why, you young cub, where are youh mannehs, suh?” Thus the Major, when the victim would have broken away. It was a fiery trial for Tom—a waypicking among red-hot plowshares of embarrassment How the well-bred folk smiled, and the grand ladies drew their immaculate skirts aside to make passing-room for his dusty feet! How one of them wondered, quite audibly, where in the world Major Dabney had unearthed that young native! Tom was conscious of every fleck of dust on his clothes and shoes; of the skllless knot in his necktie; of the school-desk droop in his shoulders; of the utter superfluousness of his big hands. And when, at the long last, Ardea was discovered sitting beside a gorgeously attired Queen of Sheba, who also smiled and examined him minutely through a pair of eye-glasses fastened on the end of a gold-mounted stick, the place of torment, wherever and whatever it might be, held no deeper pit for him. What he had climbed the mountain to find was a, little girl in a school frock, who had sat on the yellowing grass with one arm around the neck of a great dog, looking fearlessly up at him and telling liim she was sorry he was going away. What he had found was a very staturesque little lady, clad in fluffy summer white, with the other Ardea’s slate-blue eyes and soft voice, to be sure, but with no other reminder of the lost avatar. From first to last, from the moment she made room for him, dusty clothes and all, on the settee between herself and the Queen of Sheba, Tom was conscious of but one clearly-defined fhought —an overmastering desire toget away—to be free at any cost. *>ut the way of escape would not disclose itself, so he sat in stammering misery, answering Ardea’s questious about the sectarian school In bluntest monosyllables, and hearing with his other ear a terrible Major tell the Queen of Sheba all about the railroad invasion, and how he —Tom Gordon —had run to find a punk match to fire a cannon la the Dabney cause. He escaped finally from the entanglements of Major Dabney’s hospitality. On the way down the cliff path the fire burned and the revival zeal was kindled anew. There had been times, in the last year, especially, when he had thought coldly of the disciple’s calling and was minded to break away and be a skilled craftsman, like his father. Now he was aghast to think that he had ever been so near the brink of apostasy. With the river of the Water of Life springing crystal clear at his feet, should he turn away and drink from the bitter pools in the wilderness of this world? With prophetic eye he saw himself as another Boanerges, lifting, with all the inspiring eloquence of the son of thunder, the Baptist’s soul-shaking cry. Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand! The thought thrilled him, and the fierce glow of enthusiasm became an Intoxicating ecstasy. The tinkling drip of falling water broke into the noonday silence of the forest like the low-voiced call of a sacred bell. For the first time since leaving the mountain top he took note of his surroundings. He was standing beside the great, cubical boulder under the cedars—the high altar in nature’s mountain tabernacle. Thomas Jefferson had the deep peace of the fully committed when he rose from his knees and went to drink at the spouting rock lip. It was decided now, this thing he had been holding

I half-he«rtedly in aoeyance There would tation, no more rebellion, no more Irreverent stumbllnga in the dark valley of doubtful questions. More especially, he would be vigilant to guard against those backslidings that came so swiftly on the heels of each spiritual quickening. His heart was fixed, so irrevocably, so that he Could almost wish that Satan would try him there and then. But the enemy of souls was nowhere to be seen in the leafy arches of the wood, and Tom bent again to take a second draft at the spouting rocjc lip. He was bending over the sunken barrel A shadow, not his own, blurred the .water mirror. He looked up quickly. “Nan!” he cried. She was standing on the opposite side of the barrel basin, looking down on him with good-natured mockery in the dark eyes. “I ’lowed maybe you wouldn't have such a back load of religion after you’d been off to the school a spell,” she said, pointedly. And then: “Does it always make you right dry an’ thirsty to say your prayers, Tommy-Jeffy.” Tom sat back on his heels and regarded her thoughtfully. His first impulse was out of the natural heart, rageful, wounded vanity spurring it on. It was like her heathenism impertinence to look on at such a time, and then to taunt him about it afterward. But slowly as he looked a curious change came over him. She was the same Nan Bryerson, bareheaded, barelegged, with the same tousled mat of dark hair, and the same childish indifference to a whole frock. And yet she was not the same. The subtle difference, whatever it was, made him get up and offer to shake hands with her— I and he thought it was the newly-made vows constraining him, and took credit therefor. You can revile me as much as you like now, Nan,” he said, with prideful humility. “You can’t make me mad any more, like you used to. I’m older now, and—and better, I hope. I shall never forget that you have a precious soul to save.” Her response to this was a scoffing laugh, shrill and challenging. Yet he could not help thinking that it made her look prettier than before. You can laugh as much as you want to; but I mean it,” he insisted. “And, besides, Nan—of all the things that I’ve been wanting to come back to, you’re the only one that isn’t changed.” And again he thought it was righteous guile that was making him kind to her. “D’ye reckon you shorely mean that, Tom Gordon?” she said; and the lips which lent themselves so easily 1 to scorn were tremulous. She was just his age, and womanhood was only a step across the threshold for her. Of course I do. Let me carry your bucket for you.” She had hung the little wooden piggin under the drip of the spring and it was full and running over. But when he had lifted it out for her, she rinsed and emptied it. “I just set it there to cool some,” she explained. “I’m goin’ up to Sunday Rock afte’ huckleberries. Come and go 'long with me, Tom.” He assented with a willingness as eager as it was unaccountable. If she had asked him to do a much less reasonable thing, he was not sure that he ■ could have refused. And as they went together, through the wood, spicy with the June fragrances, questions like those of the boyhood time thronged on him, and he welcomed them as a return of at least one of the vanished thrills—and was grateful to her. When they were fairly under tho overhanging cliff face of Sunday Rock, she darted away, laughing at him over her shoulder, and daring him to follow her along a dizzy shelf half-way up the crag; a narrow ledge, perilous for a mountain goat This, as he remembered later, was the turning-point in her mood. In imagination he saw her try it and fall; saw her lithe, shapely beauty lying broken and mangled at the cliff’s foot; and in three bounds he had her fast locked in his restraining arms. She strove with him at first, like a wrestling boy, laughing and taunting him with being afraid for himself. ThenTom Gordon, clean-hearted as yet, did not know precisely what happened' Suddenly she stopped struggling and lay panting in his arms, and quite as suddenly he released her. “Nan!” he said, in a swiftly submerging wave of tenderness, “I didn’t go to hurt you!" She sank down on a stone at nis feet and covered her face with her hands. But she was up again and turning from him with eyes downcast before he could comfort her. (To be continued.)

She Poured the Tea.

She poured the tea. Ah, she vyas fall As, urn in hand, she neared my chaii And stooped my waiting cup to fill, The while I sensed a wond’rous thrill— For such a fragrance filled the air. I 'Twas not the tea; her wayward hair Just brushed my cheek, and lingered there; —• How could I calmly wait until She poured the tea? To steal a kiss who would not dare? If one, who would not steal a pair? I stole them, as a fellow will. And sensed a warmer feeling still, Tho’ not of heart, for that’s not where She poured the tea! —Louise Schneider, in Puck.

Chanticierism in Gungawamp.

Hank Stubbs —Sime Hadley hea moved all his henhouses an’ chicken coops into his front yard an’ onto his front piazzy. Blge Miller—Yes. Sime thought ea how it would make a great hit with folks looking for summer board.—Boston Herald.

Cheap Wireless.

“Got a wireless message from my Son in California yesterday.” “Clear,from the Pacific coast? Wonderful! Must have cost a lot?” 1 “Only a cent. He used a postal.”— Philadelphia. Ledger.

A Difference.

• Patience—What reason had she sot marrying him? Patrice —Why, he had money . “That is not a reason; that is an ex cuse.”—Gateway Magazine.

MANLY ART OF SELF-DEFENSE.

Game In America Rained by Men Who Cared Only for Money. England was one cif the first of the Mvilized countries to take up boxing as a serious matter, and the Briton with the ready fist in time of need has been the center of news and story for hundreds of years back. There were prize fights there of the brutal type, but the Englishman appreciated the good points of sparring from the first and went out of his way to perfect and elevate It to the plane of recognized athletics, Ed A. Goewey' says in Leslie’s Weekly. It soon lost Its title of “boxing” and was given that of “the manly art of self-defense,” because it was realized that a good boxer could take care of himself on most occasions without resort to the cowardly knife or the revolver. The British seamen were taught to box, and they carried the art to the four quarters of the globe. The trouble is that in this country boxing has been too often made a brutal sport, because, like most everything else here it was promoted, until recently, solely as a commercial proposition. Some great boxing contests were held that were between men perfectly trained and evenly matched, and when the battles were over and the cleverer men had won, none was much the worse for the struggle he had gone through. The bad feature was that men who would “promote” anything that promised financial returns gained the upper hold of the boxing game and held it for years. They took advantage of the fact that Americans love an athletic contest and they overfed us. They cared not whether the men who boxed were evenly matched or were in good physical condition. All they wanted was “the dollar,” and they so abused their privileges that boxing was stamped not only as brutal, but ofttimes as crooked. Then the public in all parts of the country rose up and put the boxing game almost out of commission. It was solely the fault of the money-mad promoters, the men who ruined racing, wrestling and every other professional sport in this country except baseball— and they’ll kill that, too, unless the fans are vigilant. —• —• —

WIVES IN THOUSANDS.

Farmers in Northwestern Canada Waiting for Curjro of Women. The problem of domestic Isolation is about to be solved in a large part of the provinces of Northwestern Canada. The Women’s Guild of Montreal has made arrangement with two lines of steamers plying between that port and England for the passage of 4,000 domestic servants to be brought over this summer. The officers of the guild announce that applications have already been made for the services of every one of these domestic servants, and that the demand is so great that they could place twice the number al: ready engaged. Most of these 4,000 servants will be sent to the provinces of Saskatchewan and Alberta. And as most of them are women, It is probable that they will be quickly snapped up as wives by the desperately lonely farmers of the Northwest. Thus history will repeat itself and the scenes enacted in Virginia and the other colonies of this country will be re-enacted in Western Canada. To anyone who has experienced the depressing isolation of the tremendous distances of the silent places of this region there will appear no anomaly in the question of the Canadian farmers marrying their domestic servants. Under such depressing conditions the only question that presents Itself is the Biblical one—that a virtuous wife is more precious than jewels. No social problems of caste will vex the minds of these lonely pioneers of the Northwest. They understand perfectly that if they do not promptly avail themselves of the opportunity to secure a wife some other farmer will quickly deprive them of their services by making an offer of marriage. And they also understand the curious trait In womankind which leads virtually every member of the femifilne sex to prefer to work for a man all her life without pay In the coin of the realm provided the magic ring of matrimony encircles her third finger.—Kansas L'ity Journal.

Next Door to It.

An acquaintance of the late Josh dillings was one day talking with him ibout the remarkable increase of dilations and substitutes for original irticles, as “oleomargarine” for “buter,”" "celluloid” for “ivory,” and so orth, “and,” said he, “many of the mbstitutes go ahead of the real thing, guess in time there will be a substlute for everything, though I don’t mow about ’wisdom.’ ’’ “No;” replied the humorist, “up to he present tinpe at least there is no eally good substitute for wisdom. But Hence Is the best that has so far •een discovered.”

The Similarity.

“My husband is like a rooster in one ■aspect.” “Indeed?” “Yes; when he gets up early he rows over It.” —Judge.

Of Standing.

“Can you introduce me to any men if standing?" “Well, I know several floorwalkrs and a few members of the trafflc quad.”—-Buffalo Express. ' The less advice a man hands his eighbors the more popular he will ecomel Straw hats wlll soon be coming out n top. (The cyclone will never become popuin as a national at**

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The Kaffirs Thought It a Joke.

I once took some Kaffirs from their desolate homes in the more deanin to gorges beyond the mountain ranges to the more civilized south. Like most savages, they looked with stupid Indifference at the marvels about them, and once only were they excited by an incident which opened their eyes to what they considered a most extraordinary and unnatural state of things They were descending a road when one of them chanced to remark that he has hungry, and the English “sahib” bought him some food at a wayside shop. The Kaffir saw the money change hands. “How is this?” he inquired in surprise. “Do you have to pay for food tn this country?" “Certainly.” "What a country!” cried the man in amazement. Then, after pondering a while, he continued doubtfully. “Suppose a man had no money in this country. He might starve.” “It is quite possible.” The Kaffir shook with uncontrollable laughter. It was the best joke he had ever heard. He then explained the ridiculous system to his companions, and they roared in Chorus.— “ Where Three Empires Meet.”

Uncle Allen.

“Some rich men,” moralized Uncle Allen Sparks, "remind me of a boy fishing for German carp. The more of 'em he lands, the worse off he is."

HARD ON CHILDREN

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