Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 286, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 November 1912 — IT WAS PAPA’S IDEA [ARTICLE]

IT WAS PAPA’S IDEA

And It Went Awry as Papa’s Ideas Usually Do in Love Affairs.

By DONALD ALLEN.

./, Th<! papa was Mr. John Forbush, who possessed a character for general probity and a wffe and daughter, the latter being named Jennie. She was twenty years old the day her father began to scheme. Those who had known Mr. Forbush for a single year —and there were many who had know him for a dozen or more—would have laughed at the idea of his scheming. He had money lent out, and the interest on it, together with the dollars he made as a notary and other ways, kept the little family going in nice shape. There was no usury in lending the money, and if the borrower couldn’t return it on the date recorded he was granted more time. . Mr. Forbush paid his debts if he made any, had a pew in church, and never wrangled with his neighbors about religion or politics. He went around very quietly, smiling at all and there wasn't a baby in the town with less guile than he, judging by his face. In his home life he was a loving father and a fond husband. One might as well look for thunder without clouds as for such a man to scheme, and against his own family at that. As Miss Jennie Forbush was by far the handsomest girl in the town she had plenty of admirers. She wasn’t a girl to be won by money, but aB she would get little or nothing from her father it was only natural that she should do a bit of thinking now and then. Scarce one of the young men about her could have shown a hundred dollars laid by. It’s nice to be in love, and it’s nicer to be married, but the .landlords expect their rent, and grocers and butcherß must be paid. Mr. Forbush could not help but know that hiß daughter was sought for, but he was only mildly interested. Once in awhile he and his wife talked the matter over a bit and went as far as to hope that Miss Jennie would make a good match, but they said very little to her on the subject. They did not know when or how young Gilbert Dale catne into the field, and the daughter did not enlighten them. Gilbert Dale’s father was a respected citizen, of a town ten miles away. The son wasn’t respected so mnch. He was twenty-three years old, and staid old members of the community in which he lived held up their hands in horror when he came racing by in his auto, or they heard that he had participated in another, wine suppw. Nothing at all vicious about him, but just going the pace ’till something should happen to bring him up short. An old hen and a young man must turn around/a few times before they can settle down. Tn due time young Dale got, a part of what was coming to him. lie was racing his auto along a country road all alone, and acting as .his own chauffeur, when the machine suddenly swerved and he was thrown out to roll down the bank and into a river where the chances of a stunned man for being drowned were nine out of ten. Miss Jennie Forbush was no heroine. She had never even scratched the kerosene can from the hands of her mother as the latter was about to hurry up the fire. If she had ever even read of heroines she had not sighed to be one. Yet, when the critical moment came she went at It as if she had played the part many seasons. She was on her way to visit a girl friend living a couple of miles outside the town, and she was on the spot when the accident occurred. Down the bank she went after the young man, and at some peril to herself dragged him ashore before it was too late. Miss Forbush had saved Mr. Dale’s life. Why shouldn’t she fall in love with him? Mr. Dale was grateful and full of admiration. Why shouldn’t he say as in the play: “My life belongs to thee?” * At any rate they rtet again, and again, and it was a cause for wonder how the young man settled down and mended his ways. Even his mother said that the change was something beyond her to figure out. And now came the scheming. Mr. Jason Brush was a widower of the village. He bad been for fifteen years, when he had a dream one night tiiat he ought to get married again. The dream made a great impression, and he went to his minister with it. The good man heard the particulars and replied: “I can’t say that I am a believer in dreams. I have dreamed that the congregation raised my salary ahd paid it cash dfown as fast as due, but nothing of the kind followed.” ‘‘But the voice was so plain,” sighed the caller. ‘‘Did it tell you to marry the widow Spicer?” ‘‘No sir. Why parson she is older than I be!" ‘.‘Was any name mentioned?" “I can’t remember.” ‘‘Just told you that you ought to get a second wife?” _ all. Do you think It was my dead wife talking to me ! from heaven T' “Hardly!” was th§ dry reply. ‘‘Better dralt and *»e'if you don’t dream the same dream again and get a name or two to guide you.” \ Mr. Brush went away with that understanding, and fate was very kind to him. He was back next forenoon to say: “Well, I had the same dream over again last night, and the voice named the party I was to marry.”

“That’s remarkable,’* replied the divine. “So ’tls. I’m sure it was my wife’s voice.” “It must have startled you?” “Oh, I dunno. I was rather looking for it. It told me to marry John Forbush's daughter Jennie.” “Ah, 1 see. A young lady of about twenty?” “I can be a father to her at the same time.” The parson had nothing to for or against it, and Mr. Brush went away to make his beginning with Mr. Forhush. He had scarcely Bpoken ten words when a great scheme flashed through the brain of the man who had never schemed before. Mr. Forbush was wealthy. He could back a father-in-law In business. He had political Influence, and could help a father-in-law to a seat in the legislature. He was getting old and liable to drop oft any time, and the wife would get all he left. Great thing! Big thing! “While I am something over forty, I am no antediluvian,” observed Mr. Brush. “Far from it.” -Tam still fond of pinics and dancing.” “Of course." — “And ready to run down to Boston for a week any time.” “Jennie would be delighted.” “She could have a colt-skin coat when winter comes.” "I musn’t forget to tell her that.” “I shan’t be jealous of her. She can go to prayer-meeting alone any time she wants to.” “I shall tell her everything and report to you.” Miss Jennie received her father’s news with laughter, and refused to be serious about It. When Mr. Brush called in person he received the same treatment. He was not insulted nor made indignant, but his vows and protestations were received as humorous remarks. There wefe calls on the parson, but he would not mix In. There were confabs with Mr. Forbush, but he could give the victim no sure hope. There were frequent calls and pleadings, but they gained nothing. Things stood in this way when Mr. Forbush one day took Mr. Brush off to a grove half a mile from any house, and sat him down and looked all around for eavesdroppers, and then whispered: “The time has come.” “What! Has she consented?” “We must try heroic measures. She must be won in another way.” “But how?” “I’ve got a scheme that’s sure to work.” * “Good!" * Then Mr. Forbush put his lips close t 6 Mr. Brush’s ear and whispered soft whispers for a long minute, and the old man scrambled up to explain: “Sure’s you live! When can It come off?” “Jennie goes out there tomorrow afternoon.” “Then we’ll put the thing through. Forbush, you are a schemer and an old fox in the bushes! I’ll have you in the legislature within two years.” At about two o’clock next afternoon Miss Jennie Forbush might have been seen, and as a matter of fact was seen, walking along the same highway, and bound to the same house as before. At a certain rather lonely spot an auto containing her father, Mr. Brush and a driver came out of a blind road. The father and aged lover seized her and placed her In the vehicle. No screaming! No struggling! They started off at a gait of 30 miles an hour. No questions asked or answered: After du|ting along for ten miles they stopped at the house of a country preacher, and Mr. Brush took the girl’s arm and led her in, followed by the smiling father. ' “It’s a wedding,” said Mr. Brush to the preacher. “But isn’t it very soon after the funeral?” asked the good man. “Who’s funeral?” “Why I married her several weeks ago to a Gilbert Dale, and I think he has just driven up to the gate in his auto!”-! Papa doesn’t scheme any more, but Mr. Brush is still swearing with great vigor for an old man who lives to attend plcinics. (Copyright, 1912, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)