Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 54, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 March 1911 — Page 2

Jerry's Faithfulness

The letter was addressed to “Mias Station Hartley” and not for five years had Mrs. William Saybrook been that, ffce was at the old Hartley homestead on a visit to her brother and bis wife when the letter cams and the postman smiled broad ley as he placed the missive in her hand. , Tees’m that's all; but I guess that belongs to you all right, Mrs. Sayibrook, even if you haven’t been seeing much of that name lately, eh?” he bantered Jovially. “It can’t be—bat It Is — Jerry!” she brssthpd. “And ha doesn't know—l’m married!” With a dismayed cry she tore open the envelope. The letter, in an entirely different handwriting frorp that OB the envelope, began: “Jerry Hap•ood who asks me to write you’this jlstter, feels too ill to do more than superscribe it, but he requests me to ■ay ” • • > Mrs. Saybrook continued to read, her eyes widening and her cheeks paling. At the end she crumpled the letter In her hand and hurried down stairs to the living room where her sister-in-law sat sewing. "Kate, what shall I do?” she burst out “Jerry Hapgood is sick—l mean pm's better and he's coming back—•or ms!” “And who may Jerry Hapgood be?" pmiled Kate, tranquilly. “Surely, not a kidnaper?” "Worse than tbs*. He's a lover—my lover. Kate, what shall I do?” Even the placid Kate was stirred now. "Tour lover! Why, Marlon, what are you talking about?" “About Jerry Hapgood,” cried the younger woman, feverishly, sinking lato a low chair. "It’s awful, Kate, perfectly awful, and you must help me out You see it was ages ogo. I wasn’t but 18; and he—well, there was—an understanding. I'm afraid. Then he went away—’way off, west or south, or somewhere, and we —wrote. Well, that went on for a year or two, then all of a sudden his letters stopped right off short And how was I to know? I thought he’d died or forgotten me, or found somebody else, of course, and naturally 1 didn’t want to be found wearing the weeping Willow, so I —well, William came along about then, anyway, and I—l1 —I couldn’t help myself.” “Of course not” “But, Kate, listen; this is the awful part Jerry didn’t die, or forget, or anything. It’s a dreadful story, all ishipwrecks and wars and imprisonments and sickness. The doctor—my totter was from a doctor —just told me a little of that, but he said that Jerry was gaining fast and would soon come and tell me himself—himself. Kate! He’s coming here and he expects to find me Marion Hartley,’ waiting for him. Kate, what shall 1 do?” “Do? Why. go right along the even tenor of your way, of course. When he comes—if he does come—he’ll find out very quickly that you aren’t Miss Hartley and that you aren’t waiting for him.” “But think of him—how he’ll feel!” “Nonsense, Marion! After all these ye&np I fancy he’ll survive.” Marion uplifted her chin with an air of wounded dignity. You don’t know Jerry Hapgood, Kate. If you did you wouldn't say that in that tone of voice. Besides—why, Kate, they were simply awful—those letters,” she wailed suddenly; "both his and mine. They were forever raving of truth and love and loyalty and high Ideals. And he —he was the kipd that —that never gets over things. And he thinks now that I—l ihave been true, too—as true as he's been! Mrs. William Saybrook did not mention Jerry Hapgood's name again for ■omt days, but that did not mean that •he had forgotten him. She trembled at every knock and held her breath every time the door bell rang. In •pita of her angry remonstrance with herself she found, too, that she could not don a gown nor arrange her hair that she did not have a thought for the possible effect on eyes that had seen her last a 3 an IS-year-old girl. She was shocked and shamed by all this. She told herself that she was actually becoming disloyal to William —William, at about this time, began 4o wonder mildly at the length and Warmth and frequency of hla wife's totters. Bat as the days passed and no Jerry appeared Mrs. Saybrook began to breathe with less apprehension. Then, one day, it happened. She met the man face to face in the woods near •the town. She knew him at once. She noticed that he changed color as their eyes met One band sought his hat, the other extended Itself hesitatingly. "You are—it is—Mias Hartley—Marton," he stammered. He was plainly embarrassed and ihts embarrassment was contagious. ’Before Mrs. William Saybrook knew Just what she was doing she found herself blushing and stammering, too. "li-Marlon, y-yea,” she nodded. She realised then, suddenly, that be had ■aid "Miss Hartley," and that her •“yes” would be taken' as an assent to jthat With a frightened little gesture | •be tried to set matters right She noted with relief that some children {were gathering nuts near them— he wonil not, then, attempt to kiss her. But she bad not begun to speak *hea m man blurted out Jerkily:

By ELEANOR H. PORTER

"I came right over across lots from the station, you know. I—wanted to see you first. Things have changed a lot around 4 here. I didn't see a soul I knew at the station.” TIT’I Mrs. Saybrook wet her lips. Her j knees were shaking,' and her fingers had grown cold. Under her breath .ihe.. was iterating: “It must be settled J —it must be settled! Why can’t I j make him see?” ! "It’s more than I deserve that you j should even speak to me, after all ! those years of silence,” the man bur- J ried on. “But when 1 explain He i hesitated, and she plunged at once into the pause. “sut you don’t need to explain. Don’t you see? It is 1, just as much — i that is, more. Er —I didn't write, either.” He shook his head and smiled sadly, | as if brushing this aside. “And when I think of all those years," he resumed, “and see you now —and know that year after year you’ve besp right here, and —and haven’t forgotten, I —T-" “But I haven’t been right here, I did forget," broke in Mrs. William Saybrook, frenziedly. “It’s all a mistake! You don’t understand. I’m not Miss Hartley, at all!” Jerry Hapgood stopped short. His face grew white, then red. "You mean that you're—married?” he burst out. “Yes, yes; don’t look like that, please! It was so long, and I was so young, and you didn’t write,” she rushed on childishly, not realizing what she was saying. “And I don’t think ; you ought to blame me. I saw William —that is, he. saw me first, of course—not that I mean that I’m sorry he did see me; but—Jerry, why don’t you say something? Can’t you understand ?” “But you—l called you Miss Hartley at the first, and you—you ” He stopped helplessly. “Yes, yes, I know I did,” she moaned, keeping her eyes resolutely turned from his face. “I was taken by surprise, and didn’t think. But since then, all the time I’ve been trying to tell you." “But, Marion—” “No, no, not a word, please, if you ever cared for me, go now! I tell you she knows who you are—who you were. Please, go!” And Jerry Hapgood went. For a week Mrs. William Saybrook wore the air of gentle gloom that belongs to those who, through no fault of her own, have sorely wounded a much-loved friend. Then, one day, In a letter from her husband in New York, she found these words: “I heard such a good story the other day that I’m going to pass it on to you. j 1 ran across a fellow that I met down | in Panama, and saw quite a little Of that year before 1 came north and found you. It was he who told the j story. He said 'twas such a good joke that he'd just got to tell some oneonly he hadn’t quite made up his mind yet whether the joke was on him or the girl. “It seems that years ago he’d had the most romantic sort of a love affair with an eighteen-y ear-old miss somewhere up here in New England. They had vowed undying love and loyalty after the fashion of impetuous youth, and had then parted, he to seek his fortune wide, wide world, she to watch aiql wait.

“Well, it seems that he traversed the wide, wide world before he got through with it, and, youth-like, his vision of the eighteen-y Car-old maid grew dim, aided by a particularly exciting series of adventures, including wars and shipwrecks, not to mention imprisonment and serious illness. It j was the last that was his undoing; for It was while he lay tossing with fever tha't his new love —a beautiful girl whom he had been ardently courting for a year or so —found out about the old. She got enough from his ravlugs and from a letter she found (while hunting for some friend’s qame to write to of his Illness) to make her suspicious; and when he got better she put him through a merciless catechism. It was all up with him then. The girl refused utterly to have anj other thing to do with him. and peremptorily ordered him to go back and marry his boyhood sweetheart, who— , in the letter—had promised faithfully to wait for him—forever. t Jf need be. “Well, he went. He got the doctor to write first, and sort of break the ice; then he followed the letter. He owned up to me that he was ashamed of himself and meant to make the best of things. Girl Number Two had opened his eyes to what a rascal he’d been to Number One. and he came back with a determined resolution that he'd make good. Indeed, he worked himself up into really a very virtuous state of martyrdom by the time he arrived here duly prepared to reward the long, dreary watch of the faithful maid of eighteen. * “Then , came the joke—the girl hadn’t waited. She’d married. They had one romantic meeting ’neath the green spreading trees, then parted to meet no more. T-e fun of it is. they were interrupted, or something, and lie didn’t” sTveß have a chance to find out the name of the chap who had cut him out, or to explain to the girl that be wasn't quite so broken-hearted, after all. He left the town on the next train and there the matter ended except that he’s gone back to bliss and Number Two.

THE VIĹAGE SMITHY

SHRINKING ON A TIRE

APART from the poem of “the spreading chestnut tree,” there is quite a wealth of poetry associated with the village smithy. Would you hear the latest news of the country-side?—go to the smithy. Would you meet the retired farmer or the village nomads, go to the smithy. This is the meeting-place of all classes, the reading and debating room by day, which one finds adjourned to the fireside of the village inn by night. The village blacksmith is a busy man and, as if to upbraid the idler and the phlegmatic, he makes his anvil ring from early morning and, except the subject be very Interesting, waits till occasion calls him to the bellows handle ere he gives his views on momentous questions, local and national, which are discussed near the fofge. His workshop is the center of attraction, the center of business, the gathering-place of all and sundry, and when its doors are closed the village wears a depressed, unnatural appear-' ance, which strikes one immediately if one is familiar with local idiosyncrasies, _

Foregathering at the doors, the habitues prod holes in the ground with their sticks and discuss the forthcoming sales, notices of which ares inseparable from the smithy door. The smith Is away and they proceed to the village inn, which does not seem to have quite recovered its energy from last night. It is lethargic, it has not yet cast off all the fumes of strong pipes and twist tobacco, its floors are still damp and clammy from the cleansing pall, its spittoons have not yet been adjusted in their wonted corners; but the smith is away and so the inn is the alternative. It is a poor substitutte, for there is no visitor here to quiz, the ring of the anvil is missing, the parson has-shut himself up in his study, the landlord of the morning is not the landlord of last night, and so conversation drifts to turnips, and the company, who know each other’s views on both turnips and pigs inside out, go home to dinner early, passing the smith’s closed doors with the feeling of fegret a man has who has been used to his club and after years finds himself unable to pay Its fees. However, the sights and incidents of his excursion provide the smith with a fund of Information and his patrons with a plethora of questions on the following morning when they'draw up to the Corners and lean-ing-posts which they have come to took upon as their own personal property.

A variety of Incidents takes place before these open doors, surrounded by newly-painted cart-wheels, aged and dilapidated harrows, injured and rusty plows and a heap of “scrap” awaiting a buyer. Almost every one who is “a native” of the locality pulls up to pass the time of day and ask if "them there chains Is made” or “that there horse rake done.” Then belated motorists, broken-down cyclists and the more old-fashioned drivers of gigs whose horses have cast shoes, all call In turn for the smith to set them fair and square to continue their journey. The blacksmith Is essentially something of a mechanic, and knows, as he puts It, "the innards of them motors” better than he understands the “Innards” of his own cow or the horses he shoes. He prefers the two latter, however, having little sympathy with the motor, which has already robbed him of many horses at the big houses in the locality. The smithy frequenters stand leaning on their sticks as he crawls under the motor or bends over tfae cycle, filled with indignant curiosity at these latter-day innovations. The company feel a sort of proprietary interest in the smithy, and so look upon the motor as an invention specially directed against blacksmiths generally and their own village blacksmith in particular. There are occasionally red-letter days at the forge when a young horse is being shod for the first Great is the criticism during the operation, much resented by the horse.

At one time there was associated with the smithy a great deal of lore and legend; it was at the anvil that lovers decided whether their affections ware returned, and here, too, by stratge rites and ceremonies, mysteries of murders and thefts were

solved. Most old-world superstition is now obsolete, though the jsmith and his older patrons still have a lingering belief in the ghost at the hall and the enortnities of the greatgrandmother of a certain villager, who used to milk cows at midnight, gallop horses by the light of the moon and generally practice the- arts of witchcraft. t 5 F

So day by day the same little coterie gather at the same place in the village, the only difference between onehalf of the year and the other being that in winter the big double doors are closed and the company draw close to what Is ever an unsatisfactory fire for personal warmth, and in summer the thick stifling smoke from burnt hoofs floats through those said doors down the village, together with that which is drawn from small clay pipes into the toothless mouths which hold them. Weird and ghostly look the figures of the company, who, cheered up by tea, have “cumm’d ageean,” to await the closing of the shop and the adjournment to the village inn. The bellows creak and groan, the little fire (which ever seems willing to burst into flames and ruddy redness at any moment of the day) snorts out in response, and one-then sees the figures of those one expected to find,' stick in hand and pipe in mouth. Each of them is a character, each a study, each in his way, to us who know It, a sort of flx- N ture at the smith’s, a part and parcel of the ringing anvil, the making of

A German Smith.

shoes and the placing of them on the feet of such horses as demand their being altered the least. They watch all this with approving eyes and seem almost essential to It. It will thus be seen that our smithy Is quite an important Institution and one in which Dickens would have revelled.

Very different Is the German smith depicted in the second Illustration. The photographer says; “He toils very early hut not so late nor so strenuously—your Teuton Is always more leisurely—but unlike Longfellow’s hero he has a couple of hours’ siesta In the heat of the day, during which period I was fortunate enough to catch him smoking his long pipe filled with coarse, dry tobacco which looked like broken cigars. J. FAIRFAX BLAKEBOROUGH.

Slight Jolt.

“Hello, old fellah! I hear you have' been 111?’’ “Yaws. Had bwain fevah, doncher know." “v

“Brain fever! Well, that’s one time It got left.”

Going Some.

The Golfer —How many strokes la tljat, caddy? The Caddy—Don’t know, sir; I can only count up to twenty-five, sir!— Yonkers Statesman.

AGE OF THE EARTH COMPUTED

Calculation Based on Quality of Salts In Sea Water Makes It Hundred Million Years. An estimate based on a comparison of the quantity of salts in sea water with the quantity continuously supplied by the inflow, shows that.nearly a hundred million years passed before the oceans attained their present condition. According to this estimate, dating from the time when the waters of the great deep condensed to form oceans, the minimum age of the earth Is one hundred million years.

Sir Archibald Geikle calculates the age of the earth by the time occupied In the forming, of the stratified or sedimentary layers of the terrestrial crust: Judging the formations of the' remote past by relatively recent formations, he declares that a period of between thirty centuries and two hundred centuries must have passed during the formation of every depth of a meter; the time having varied according to the composition of the strata. Admitting that estimate, if the total thickness of all the strata is 30,000 meters, as It Is supposed to he, between ninety million and six hundred million years were consumed in the course of the earth’s, stratification.

But science gives another way to estimate the age of the earth. On the earth’s surface there is a very sensible compensation between the heat that the sun sends us and the heat that the terrestrial crust loses by radiation from its surface toward cold and infinite space. While the crust ia losing by radiation, the center of the earth is slowly but Incessantly cooling, and, as it Pools, gradually contracting. The contraction causes the center to recede or slip away from the surface of the crust, and the crust, nolonger supported by the center, sinks here and there, forming folds similar to the wrinkles on a withered apple. These folds or wrinkles are the mountain chains. The total superficies of the mountain chains constitutes about 1% per cent, of the total surface of the globe. This fact leads to the Inference that the radius of the earth has shrunk a little less than one-hun-dredth of its primitive length.

Tne contraction of the earth’s center corresponds to a cooling of about three hundred degrees. According to this calculation, at least one hundred millions of years, and at most two thousand millions of years, must have passed, since the water condensed on the surface of the solid crust.

In the Wrong Pew.

When Attorney George Eichelberger attends the annual meeting of the Union club Saturday night he’ll feel much more at home in the club building than he did a week ago, when he called there, being under the misapr prehension that the annual gathering was set for that evening.

“Wheye’s -the meeting?” he asked, as he handed his coat and hat to a bellboy. The boy named a room and Mr. Eichelberger lightly ran up the stairs to the place appointed. There ha found quite a choice little meeting, but not nearly as large as he had anticipated. But he was soon to be deceived, for one of his friends, saufltering over in his direction, said: “I didn’t know you were a Yale man.”

“Why,” replied the attorney, "I’m sure I never said I was. Why, what’s up?” “Oh,” said the friend, as he wandered away, “nothing much. Only, this is a meeting of the Yale club.” Whereupon Eichelberger went downstairs and spent the remainder of the evening signing his name to supply checks.—Cleveland Leader.

Maine’s Only Barn With a Clock.

claims the only barn with a clock In Maine. The farm Is known for miles around as the “Clock Emmons place,” and has been called by that tome since the big clock was installed In the top of the barn twenty years ago. It is a landmark for miles around. The timfeplece answers for the town clock and Is so accurate that the farmers set their watches by it. It can be seen, for quite a long distance and causes strangers when they sight It for the first time to stare in amazement, for the last place In the world one would expect to see a full grown clock Is on the top of a barn. The farm buildings are owned by Grosse Emmons and Byron Emmons of Lawrence, Mass. They use It for a country residence, stopping here a few nonths In the summer. It was formerly owned by their father, the late Thomas William Emmons of Lawrence. The buildings are more than a century old and were formerly owned by Peter Jackson.

The Mistake of the Boy.

Chelsea claims to have a woman who is entitled to a place in the Hall of Fame. She lives on Gardner street, and Saturday night ordered a bottle of medicine from a drug store. The proprietor sent an errand boy with the parcel, for which the woman paid him 39 cents.

Upon his return to the store the boy discovered that one of the coins which the woman had given him was a $2.50 gold piece. He went back through the pouring rain, rang the bell and tendered the coin, explaining that she had given it to him In place of a penny. “Why. I had no gold piece,” she piled. “Someone must have given it to me for a penny. Isn”t that lovely! I owe you a cent, then. Here.” And giving the boy a cen,t she slammed the door In his face. —Boston Herald

IN REVOLVING DOORS

MIGNONETTE GOT CAUGHT AND CAUSED TROUBLE. French Poodle, After Delaying Hurrying Crowd, Goes Round While Her Frightened Mistress Wails in Distress. She was trim and tailor-made from her fur turban to her Cuban heels* Mignonette waa ffuily and white and helpless. Mignonette was a French poodle. Mistress and poodle were in the lobby of the Times building at about eight o’clock the other night, theater time. The lobby was crowded. A purchase was made In the drug store in front, and then ■ Mignonette and her mistress started for the revolving doors which give into Broadway. A crowd of theatergoers, just up out of the subway, were heading for the same doors. Some passed through and then came the turn of Mignonette and her mistress. The poodle balked. “Come on, Cherie,” pleaded the woman. "Come on with mother.” Cherie took a look at the revolving doors, another at her mistress, and then sat down. A woman and a dog—even a little woman and a dog that is not large—can block a swinging door. Mignonette and her mistress blocked the Broadway door. Behind them grew a throng of eager folk on their way to a night’s amusement. Some of them didn’t have theater tickets and were in a hurry. Mignonette either didn’t know or didn’t care. She sat quietly, only whimpering as her mistress pleaded with her. Her mistress’ ears grew pink as muttered maledictions at the dog and a woman who would hold up a hurrying crowd reached them. Thß remarks drew indignant looks, but no haste, until the young woman’s embarrassment got the better of her. r Then there was a sudden tug at Mignonette’s leash. A whimper of surprise and dismay from the animal, and Mignonette was whisked Into one of the revolving compartments in tow of a very embarrassed young woman. Behind flocked a throng of disgruntled men and women who made tho swinging doors race around as they sped through them at a pace to which irritation lent speed. Then from the sidewalk sounded a scream. More cries followed it, and in the midst of them came a series of Staccato barks. “Oh, my Mignonette! She’ll be killed,” rang out the young woman’s voice. —" ■■..

“Well, she isn’t dead yet,” wheezed a fat man as he fairly sprang from, the revolving doors. “She was in there under my feet. Blast her!” And so Mignonette had been. That animal’s leash had caught, on the brass railing which protects the glass in each section of the door, and Mignonette, half out after her mistress, had been yanked back and carried around, another turn of the door. Finally a husky young man slipped through the door. Fresenly his loud exclamation joined the cries of the dog. “Confound the beast. He’s nipping my ankles!” shouted the enraged young man, and when the door swung round opposite the entrance Mignonette, yelping piteously, sped out. “Brute!” exclaimed the young woman, but the crowd only laughed; and they were laughing still when Mignonette’s mistress picked up the yelping dog and carried it off in a taxicab. — New York Times.

Aviation Leads Progress.

By all odds the most spectacular development of the last year has been the increasing mastery of man over the powers of the air, and it is a peculiar fact that, notwithstanding the undeniable Improvements of the heav-ier-than-air flying machines, the principal progress has been In the control of the machine by the aviator rather than in the design of the machine itself. Increasing familiarity with the art of flying has led to the establishment of remarkable records in distance, height and speed, and the desire to excel in this branch of the sport (for such it must be called at present), as well as the chase after the money, which has been lavished freely for record breaking performances, has Induced a daring which has not only been reckless, but suicidal and fatal in many instances. For some reason or other, perhaps best known to themselves, the question of stability seems to have been left to the skill of the aviators in managing the hand and foot operated devices on their machines. —Popular Mechanics.

Contemporary Opinion of Beethoven.

When the First Trios and the First Symphony appeared, the conservative critics declared that they were “the confused explosions of a talented young man’s overweening conceit.”

The Second Symphony was called a monster, a dragon wounded to death and unable to die, threshing around * with its tail in impotent rage!” Later, Von Weber declared of the sublime Seventh Symphony, that “the extravagances of this genius have reached their ne plus ultra, and Beethoven is quite ripe for the madhouse." —Dole, “Famous Composers.”

Modern Dangers of Exploration.

“Did your friend the south pole explorer suffer many hardships?” ”1 should say bo. He had to write fifty newspaper and magazine articles, give 1,000 lectures, attend 200 pink tea! parties and signed his autograph so often he nearly got writer’s cramp.Judge.