Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 January 1913 — Page 4

TURN OF TOE PISE

Pardoned Convict Breaks His Good Resolutions, but Is Saved by Dying Woman.

By FRANK FILSON.

heal! warder cheerfully, clapping an enormous hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “The chief wants to say goodbye to you.” The convict stepped out of his cell and followed the head warder obediently, Three years of disdplinechad taught him to ask no questions, to demand no reasons. He hardly dared to hope that the pardon board had granted his petition. ~ “”1601100? Eyes front’/’ said the head warder mechanically, and the convict mechanically obeyed. But the governor stretched out his hand and took the convict’s in a hearty clasp. “The board of pardons has granted you your freedom, Graves,’’ he said. "I strongly recommended it at the last monthly meeting. I know that you will run straight in future. If you shouldn’t, remember that the dishonor and shame will be mine, and it will be just so much harder for the rest of us. Here's a letter from your mother in Mapleton,” he added, handing the missive to the prisoner. Graves read it and the governor watched him curiously. The young fellow had impressed Him favorably ever since he had entered the penitentiary three years before to serve a first sentence for forgery. He had been a model prisoner; but he seemed curiously hard. Even now he seemed unaffected either by the letter or by his release. He folded the missive and put it in the handkerchief pocket of his serge tunic. “Yes, sir, I’ll run straight in future,” he answered.

“Good,” answered the goverhor. “And my advice to you is, go home to your mother. You have ab&ut thirtyseven dollars coming to you. Go home, face the world in your home town, be a man and begin your life anew. You will find people kinder than you Imagine. Good morning." He grasped the prisoner's hand and dismissed him. Graves went out. Subdued and deferential though he seemed, he remained totally unmoved. The governor shook his head as he watched him pass through the doorway. As a matter of fact, Philip Graves was deeply moved, but for all that he had not the least intention of returning home. During his period of imprisonment he had been thoroughly initiated into the possibilities of crime by his fellow convicts. He would have liked to re-establish himself in the favor of his fellow citizens, but the idea seemed laughable. His old mother was doubtless able to exist without him; his sisters held good positions and could take care of her. He took the train to the capital and spent his money in two , days’ of riotous living. The second evening found him penniless. It was cold and dismally wet, and the long tramp through the dismal suburbs had not raised his spirits. He sat down on the sidewalk and buried his head tn his hands. That was the first time he had ever seriously considered the future. “Forging’s a mutt’s game,” one of the other prisoners had told him soon after he was brought to the jail. “Take my tip, lad, cracking a crib's the only thing worth while. Why, all you’ve got to do is to walk ip after the lights are out, take your pick, and walk out again. But say, don’t carry a gun, for that don’t pay. Just trust to your legs if you have to get away quick.” A middle-aged man in a well-made suit, and bearing all the' marks of prosperity, hurried by, not casting a glance at the ex-convict at his feet. Graves rose and followed him. At the end of the street was a long country lane, with finely-built, scattered houses lining it. each in ita garden. The man turned into one and let himself jnto the home with a key. Graves watched him. Then he felt in his pockets. At the bottom of one, hitherto overlooked by him, was a dime. Graves knew where he could get all the whisky he wanted for a dime —if he chose the time when the, bartender was not looking his way. He went there. ’’Take your fill, boy,” said the bartender good-naturedly, looking round just at the least appropriate time. “I guess you need it on a night like this. Graves tossed off the fiery liquid, set down the glass, and went out. He walked the streets until his head swam from the liquor. It was very dark and the rain fell steadily. Graves was wet to the skin. He walked an immeasurable time, until at last, looking up, he saw the house into which the prosperous man bad entered. A flame of anger burned in his heart', hotter than the fire in his brains. Good resolutions! What were they for such as he? They were for the rich, for those who ©ould afford to keep the laws! He was no fool to be bound by such a code. He crept up the garden, felt a lower window, and fouud that he could raise It. A minute later be was groping inside a dining room. Cautiously he < struck and lit a match. Then he gasped in astonishment. For on the buffet, carelessly laid out, was a galaxy of silver plate. That central piece—that fiat tray, which be could put under bls coat and walk away with, must be worth a couple of hundred dollars alone! He would take it on his way out He opened the door and crept upstairs. There were two rooms at the head

Of the first flight. The door of one was closed; the iecond door was open, and inside, by the light of the lowered gas jet, Graves could see a i table strewn with rings. He crept in and stood staring at them. There were nearly a dozen of them—diamond, pearl, sapphire, cat’s eye, flashing emeralds and rubies. It was the dressing table wealthy woman who. . 1 . There was somebody in the bed}! An old, white-haired woman who la/ there, hardly breathing, flat, with whjte_hands picking at the bed covers! Graves snatched up a handful of the baubles an<j turned. Suddenly two powerful arms caught him as in a vise and he looked up into the face of the middle-aged man. “Come outside, you—you dog!” whispered the other. “Caught in the act, you dirty sneak-thief! I-et me look at your face! So you would rob woman, would you? I’m gotag to strip the hide off you before I call the police.” “I didn’t know—” Graves babbled. A feeble voice from the sick bed made both start. “John!” whispered the sick woman. “John! It’s you, dear John! I knew you would come home!” The captor and the captive stood motionless, thrilled by the pity in the voice. “John, won’t you come here and kiss your old mother?” pleaded the voice. “I knew that I should live to see you again.” The middle-aged man whispered into the ear of the thief. “Her son was killed in an automobile accident last week. Now’s your chance. I’ll let you go if —” “You’re coming to me, aren’t you, John?” “Yes,” muttered the thief, and with unsteady footsteps he staggered toward the bed, found it, and sank down upon a chair. He felt the hand of the old woman close upon his. “Are you John? Are you my boy? I cannot see. Tell me that you are John," the old woman whispered. “Yes, I am John,” the convict whiskered back. She said no more for a while but seemed to doze. Gently, by almost imperceptible degrees, the man in the room lowered the gas light till It was only a little twinkling flame in the darkness. And the thief sat motionless, his hand held tightly in the light clasp of the dying woman. After a long time she roused herself. “Johnny,” she whispered, “turn me so that I can put my lips to your ear.” And the convict turned the shrunken old body reverently.—andwith a new and strange fearlessness. Then the old woman spoke again, and so low and weak were her tones that he could only grasp them by bending his ear till her lips touched it. “Johnny,” she said, “J want you to be a good boy after I am gone. I want you to be good for your old mother’s sake, Johnny. There’s nobody will ever love you as I have done —nobody in the whole world. You’ve been wild, Johnny, dear, and people have said hard things about you and called you hard names, but I knew that you were my boy Johnny, my good boy, and that you were good at heart. Promise me you’ll always run straight, Johnny!” Graves promised. “Then I can go In peace, Johnny, dear. Kiss me.” The dying woman half raised herself and Graves took her in his arms and pressed his lips reverently to her forehead. And not daring to stir, he remained thus half through the night. Then longer—till the gray light began to steal through the shutters, vying with the low glow of the gas. The outlines of the room became apparent, the objects visible. Graves had almost fallen asleep when the man touched him on the shoulder and pointed." -^ —“ The vital fires had burned themselves out; gently and imperceptibly the life had faded out of the old frame. The dead woman's placid smile seemed like a benediction. Graves rose up. “I’m ready now,” he said to the man. "Go!” answered the man, pointing to the door; and the ex-convict shuffled along the carpet, his face working, his checks stained with tears. He halted at the door, hesitated, and shuffled back again. He went up to the man. “I don’t want-to go,” he muttered. "I want you to call the police. Say,” he went on, in impassioned accents, "I’ve got an old mother like that in Mapleton, and she's alive and Wants me to come home. Do you think if I went that I could ever become a man again? I’ve been in prison three years.” The man's hand fell on his shoulder, just as the head warder’s had fallen. He seemed sorry for him; it was odd, to come to think of it, how kind men were to one another. "My d ?ar fellow, I believe that Providence sent you here—Providence, which is only another name for God,” said the man. “Go back and face the world anew in your home town.” Why that was just what the governor had said! He held his hand out and the other took it and grasped it warmly. Suddenly Graves remembered. He pulled out from his pocket a handful of shimmering rings He placed them upon the dressing table an<J walked lightly out of the room. He did not shuffle now, for his heart was filled with lightness aqd for the in years he was at peace. "I’m going home!” he murmured. (Copyright. 1912, by W. 0.. Chapman.)

Walkover.

Mother —Now, do be careful how you act about that young man or people will think you are running after him, Daughter—l don't have to do that, mother; 1 can win In a walk.

CLIVEDEN Seat of WALDORF ASTOR

I WENT to Clifden, that stupendous natural rock, wood and prospect, of the duke of Buckingham’s building—of extraordinary expanse. The grotts in the chalky rock areFpretty—lt is a romantic object, and * the place altogether answers the most poetical description that can be made of solitude, precipice, prospect or whatever can contribute to a thing so very like their imaginations. The stand is something like Frascati as to its front, and on the platform is a circular view to the utmost verge,of the horizon, which, with the serpenting of the Thames, is admirable. The staircase is for its materials singular, and the cloisters, descents, gardens and avenue through the wood august and stately, but the land all about barren and producing nothing but feme. Indeed, as I told his majesty that evening (asking me how I liked Clifden) without flattery, that it did not please me so well as Windsor for the prospect and park, there being but only one opening, and that narrow, which led one to any variety.” John Evelyn made this entry in his diary more than two centuries ago, but the impression made on the modern” visitor is no less rich and striking. Nothing of the duke’s house remains except the great under-building of the magnificent terrace, 400 feet long and 25 feet wide, but even this has been much altered, especially in the disposition of the stairways. The gardens have been changed and the prospect of the neighboring country is no longer bare, but cultivated and smiling. Checkered History. Although Evelyn was right in claiming for the royal castle a great and unconfined outlook, the view from the terrace at .Windsor overlooking Eton college and the meadows scarcely surpasses the splendid picture which meets the eye from the terrace at Cliveden, with the Thames winding like a silver thread through the gaps in a foreground of trees. The house has had an unusually checkered history. There does not seem to have been any building on the site until it bought by George Villiers; second duke of Buckingham, some time after the restoration. The architect was Captain Wynn©, or Winde, a native of Holland and a . pupil of Sir Balthazar Gerbler. He was a man of considerable ability, and is, perhaps, best remembered now for his design of Newcastle house, Lincoln's Inn Fields, which remains, though somewhat altered. Very little is known of Wynne. He must have been a friend of Samuel Pepys, for he received a twenty-shilling mourning ring at his funeral in 1703, but there is no mention of him in the diary. We have no space here to attempt a sketch of so vivid and contradictory a character as George Villiers. Like Charles 11., he dabbled in the arts and sciences, and as Bryan Fairfax wrote of him, spent much on building “in that sore of architecture which Cicero calls insanae substructiones." Unfortunately, Fairfax, the author of the only contemporary biography of ( the duke, gives no details of his architectural employments. The work at Cliveden was begun about 1666, and among the state papers there is a significant warrant dated June 21, 1677. The duke was then a prisoner in the tower and had permission to go to Cliveden, "attended by Sir John Robinson, to take order about carrying on sojp.e buildings of his there, and to remain tilt the 23d and then return to the tower." In 1735 more building was done at Cliveden. Giacoda Leoni, the Italian, who was architect df Clandon designed the small octagonal temple which stands southwest of the main building. Stately Structure. The year 1795 proved disastrous for Cliveden, for on May 20 it was almost wholly consumed by fire, with the exception, we may well suppose, of the ‘‘insane substructiones.” In 1824 the estate was bought by Sir George Warrender, who rebuilt the house. In 18.49 it again changed hands, and became the property of the duke of Sutherland. Within six months it was again burnt down, but straightway rebuilt in the form In which we see it

THE, GARDEN FRONT

now, to the designs of Sir Charles Barry. His executed design Is reminiscent of those stately structures, and his accomplished skill is shown by the fine effect of the garden front, where perfection of scale gives extraordinary value to dimensions by no means large. Standing over the great terrace of 400 feet in length, his palazzo is only 150 feet in extent, reduced in the main mass to 100 feet by 65 feet in depth. Parallel with the terrace front is a superb stone balustrafling with a filling of thin bricks between the piers and stone seats at regular intervals. The ends are widened out and treated as fountains. This is the original work which for a long time decorated the gardens of the Borghese Villa at Rome. The carving of the stonework is admirably done, and represents the rich Italian work of the seventeenth century at its best. It is at once rich and refined, showing a brilliant fancy at yet unspoilt by rococo extravagances. The masks spouting freshness into the curved basins, the moldings of the top of the parapet, and the reliefs on the pedestals are alike worthy of the superb gardens for which they were conceived. Recent pictures of that great garden still show the balustrades, but they are copies. It should be added that the statues which stand on the piers at Cliveden are not the original figures. Cliveden was given by Mr. W. W. Astor to his son, Mr. Waldorf Astor, on the marriage of the latter in 1906.

HERE’S CHAMPION FISH STORY

Nova Scotia Comes to the Front With Tale That Bears the Marks of Real Genius. Not all the fish prevaricators live in the United States, according to the Mariner’s Advocate. An editor recently received the following letter: “I have read an interesting account of singing fish in your paper. It recalled to me the memory of a rather remarkable fish we have In Nova Scotia. It is known as the ‘Frost Fish,’ because it may be frozen like a lump of ice, but, if placed in water in that condition, it soon thaws out and -sWims around as vigorously as ever. The natives make use of this property to make ice cream. The fish is caught, frozen, and placed in the cream. In thawing out, it freezes the cream, and its movements at the same time beat the mixture, making it smooth.” Taking them by and large, from Moosehead lake to Puget Sound and from the upper Mississippi to the gifif, we have some very capable and industrious fish liars in this country. But we hand the reel and rod over to Nova Scotia. We have talent in this country; but Nova Scotia is the abode of genius. <

The chain of wireless stations around Australasia will in a very few months be an accomplished fact, it is said, and Australia, New Zealand, and the islands will be in constant touch day and night. The station at Awanul Bay, North Auckland, is practically in operation already, although not yet officially taken over by the government. The installation, a thirty kilowatt one, compares very favorably with that at Pennant Hills; Sydney, and with the high power station at Fremantle, will enable Auckland to "speak” to Sydney or Fiji at any time. A similar installation is now in course of erection at The Bluff in the south of New Zealand, and there are three supplementary stations in the dominion.

Pauline and her papa and mamma were boarding. The landlady had a little, daughter who waa taking cooking lessons at school, and each time she baked anything she would bring it home in a little pail and give it to Pauline. Sometimes the biscuits or cakes were somewhat hard, and one, day Pauline said: "Mamma, why is it that everything Ruth makes is frozen?”

Australia Gets Wireless.

Puzzled Childish Mind.

WORTHY OF ALL HONOR

UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS HAS GLORIOUS RECORD. ■ ■' ■ - Lets' Appreciated Than Is Deserved, the "Naval Army” Has Fought the Battles of Uncle Sam in All Quarters, of the Globe. Considering the part he has played in the world’s history of warfare, there is no fighting unit less understood, less appreciated, or even less known than the marine. Having taken his share in the making and obliterating of maps since the days of the Phoenician galleys and the biremea of the Grecian maritime states, at least five centuries before the Christian era, down to the present day, the chroniclers of the glories of arms of all civilized peoples have mentioned him in many a stirring passage. And yet, today, a very large part of the population of maritime nations, and certainly of the United States, do not know, what a marine really is. They have fought at Tripoli, in Mexico and in the Fiji islands. They were on the job in Paraguay, at Harper’s 'Ferry, at Kisembo, on the west coast of Africa, and in Panama. They fought the Japanese at Chimonoseki, the savages in Formosa and the forts in Korea. They suppressed seal poaching in the Behring ftea, and protected the lives and property of American citizens in Honolulu, Chili and China. These and many more things have the United States marines accomplished. w The navy has in the marine corps a little army of its own, which, without causing international complications, without even attracting undue attention, It may pick up and move to some disturbed center in a foreign land for the protection of American lives and property. These “soldiers of the sea’’ .move speedily and unostentatiously, frequently nipping a revolution in the bud before the world at large knows that there has really been any cause for concern. They are the first men on the ground in the event of trouble with a foreign power and the first men in battle in case of hostilities. Great mobility and facilities for quick action are required of the marines. They are kept in readiness to move at a moment’s notice. In many of the actions in which they have engaged they have had to contend against great odds in the way of superior numbers. Aldridge says “before a single vessel of the navy went to sea a corps was organized,” and from that a de-, tachment of it won, on the island of New Providence, one of the Bahamas, early in 1777, the first fight in the the regular navy. In this noteworthy engagement the attacking party, consisting of 300 marines, and landsmen, under Major Nicholas, cap tured the forts and other defenses of the enemy after a struggle of a few hours, and secured' a quantity ot stores and British cannon.—Kansas City Journal.

Ideal Home Life.

There are two of life’s best sen vants that are much unused In our modern life. The first is the kindly simplicities of frequent familiar social intercourse, and the other, the confident trust that embraces everyone concerned in our home Tife; but until we improve in both t£ese things the Christmas spirit will mourn over its imperfect work. We think we cannot ask our friends to call and see us unless we tire ourselves to death preparing a dinner or a tea for them, and our act and thought is an unintended reflection upon the quality of the friendship we profess. The personal attraction ought to outweigh the pleasures of the table, but the fashion makes the visits both infrequent hnd formal. The children need more than anything else a home atmosphere where love shall so dominate that reserves shall be impossible, for when love shares its posses' sions it takes wise care that there shall be no evil to alloy its priceless worth. —Mother’s Magazine.

Telephone Comedy.

"Hello!” The voice at the far end of the line was sweetly feminine. “H-h-h-hello,” he answered, somewhat dismayed. The voice had taken him off his guard. He had expected to hear one gruffly masculine. He was not allowed time to explain "Hello; how are you? I have been waiting so patiently for you to call. Where have you been all this time. I—” He hated to end it. By this time he had collected his scattered wits. “Excuse me, but may I ask to whom I am talking?” “Why—Why, what number were you calling?” "I was ringing for police substation No. 1,” he said. “Why, the ver/ idea! Then you are not the one I was expecting,” she said. Click, went the receiver. He gave the number to central again.

Rare Privilege.

"Mrs. Gygler was so badly fright ened by an automobile almost running her down that she hasn't been able to speak for a week.” “That’s too bad.” “Still, there’s a brighter side tc nearly all our misfortunes. Gyglej has been smoking bls pipe in the Hr ing room ever since the incident do curred.”

WAR REMINISCENCES

ONE OLD SOLDIER REMAINS Colonel John Linepin Clem, Who Enlisted at Age of Top Years, Still In Service. (By DR. ANDERS DOE.) More than 1,5(JO,OOO men took part-, on the side of the north in the great American - Civil war from 1861 to 1865. 1 They are all now out of active service, having fallen before the age limit. One only is left, and that one is Col. John Lincoln Clem, first quartermaster of the central division of the United States army, with headquarters at Chicago. The American Civil war has been called a “boy-war,” on account of the extraordinary number of youths, rangingin ages from fourteen to twenty years, that had joined the army. Of all these “Johnny” Clem was the youngest. He was ten years old when he left his home in Newark, 0., and presented himself for service as a drummer boy. He was so little that he was chased away, and was given a box on the ear when he came back home. But Johnny would not stay away. He always came back, and in the bloody battle of Shiloh we find him as drummer boy at the front of the regiment the Twenty-second Michigan. Then took place the battle of Chickamauga, one of the Jjloodiest battles of history. It was here that the Norweigian regiment, the Fifteenth Wisconsin, of which all Norwegians in America are proud, was almost completely annihilated, and its leader, Col. Hans Hegg (born in Lier, Norway), found a hero’s death. On the day following he was to have been promoted to the post of brigadier general. Here Johnny Clem was at the front, as usual, and got the name, “the Drummer Boy of Chickamauga,” a name by which he is known up to the present day. A shell struck the drum from his hands, shattering it, and Johnny sat down and cried. But he could not long sit quiet, while the battle was going on i-Jl around him, so he took a gun from, a dead soldier and commenced firing. On came the Confederates storming, and when they saw Johnny Clem with the gun they burst out laughing, but Johnny took aim and killed the leader. They took Johnny Clem and gave him a spanking, put him on horseback and rode off with him. Like a prairie fire the news spread that Johnny was captured, and the whole regiment started in pursuit, soon coming back carrying Johnny with them in triumph. The battle’ was won, and when the troops were inspected, the general called Johnny and asked him what had become of his drum. Johnny told him it had been struck by a shell. "Johnny.” said the general, “any one who cannot take care of his drum cannot be a drummer ahy longer.” Johnny cried. “But,” added the general, “Jrom now on you will be sergeant with the regiment.” Johnny went through the whole war and the day peace was concluded he looked upon as a dreary day. He was a “veteran” with medals and honorary diplomas when he was fourteen years old. I visited Colonel Clem at his office and presented myself as the correspondent of the Aftenposten*, (Christiania, Norway). The colonel Is courteous and genial. He Is broadshouldered and well proportioned, wltj| a sprinkling of gray and a charming smile. —-——'• ■ —. —: “Yes, I am the last of the veterans,” said he. ■'“l am now slxty-one years old, and in three years I shall also fall before the age limit.

“Yes, I remember well Col. Ilans Hegg. He was the leader of the Nor= wegians and their ideal. He was held in high esteem and so was the Fifteenth Wisconsin. While only a boy at that time I remember it as if it was yesterday. They went into the battle as to a play, and very few came back. The Fifteenth Wisconsin marched in front, exposed to the murderous fire, and thus bore the brunt of the battle.” • I then asked if he would give me a message for the land of Colonel Hegg, whereupon he sat down and wrote the following greeting to Norway: “It recalls to my memory the days of my youth when I think of the brave Norwegian, Hans Hegg of the Fifteenth Wisconsin regiment; and his honorable death at Chickam'auga He would no doubt have been promoted the day following if he had not found a hero’s death. My greeting to our friends, the Norwegian nation, who has given so many brave Amer lean citizens, our very best. “Most respectfully, “JOHN L. CLEM. "Colonel Second Corps.”

Was Afraid of it.

Pat had been foraging against orders, and an angry native had complained to.the colonel about him stealing; some potatoes. “Be of good heart, Pat,” said a comrade: “th’ curnel will do ye Justice.” “But that’s what Oi’m afraid of.”

At Least an Hour.

“What is meant by ‘The woman of the hour?’ ” I “The woman who is getting ready to go to the theater.”