Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 194, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 August 1913 — HE WAS NOT THANKFUL [ARTICLE]

HE WAS NOT THANKFUL

My neighbor Cooley suffered a good deal last winter from rheumatism la hi/ breast, and his wife was badly frightened about it for fear ft should end tn consumption. Cooley oould not be induoed to try any remedy for the trouble, and Mrs. Cooley was nearly worried io death about It. At last she determined to try strategy. She made a dry mustard plaster and one night while he was asleep she sewfed it upon the inside of his underskirt, so that it would just cover the rheumatic place. Cooley dressed himself In the morning, wholly unsuspicious of ths presence of the plaster, and went downstairs. At the breakfast table, while he was talking to hie wife, he suddenly stopped, looked crow-eyed, and a spasm of pain passed over his face. Then he took up the thread of the conversation again and went on. He was In the midst of an explanation of the poUtieal situation, when all at once he ceased again, grew red In the face and exclaimed: "I wonder what, la the No,' it can’t be anything wrong." ' Mrs. Cooley asked what was the matter, and Cooley said: “O, It’s that infernal old rheumatism again; come back awful. But 1 never felt it exactly the same way before. Kinder stings me." Mrs. Cooley said she was sorry. Then Mr. Ceoley began again, and was just showing her how the ravages of the grasshoppers In the west, and the potato-bug In the east, would affect the election by making the people discontented, and so likely to strike at the party In power, when he suddenly dropped the subject, and jumping up, said! "Thunder and lightning! what's that?? Ouch! O, Moses! I feel’s if I hod a shoveful of hot coals Inside my undershirt." "Must be that rheumatism, getting worse," said Mrs. Cooley sympathetically. “O, gracious, ne! It's something worse than rheumatism. Feels Hke burning Into my skin. Ouch! Ow-wew-wow! It's awful! I can't stand It another minute. I believe it's cholera. or something, and I’m going to die!'’ “Do try to be calm, Mr. Cooley.” “Calm! How can a man be calm with a volcano boiling over under his shirt. Go 'way from here. Get out of the way, quick, while I go upstairs and undress. Murder-r-r-r-, but it hurts! Let me get out, quick!" Then he rushed up to the bedroom and stripped off his clothes. His chest was the color of a boiled lobster; but he oeuldn't for the life of him tell what was the matter. Then his eye rested upon something white on his shirt. He picked up the garment and examined it. Ten minutes later he came slowly downstairs with a dry mustard plaster in his band, while thunder clothed his brow. Going up to Mrs. Cooley, he shook the plaster under her nose, and said in a suppressed voice: "Did you put that thing In my clothes?” "I did it for the best, John," she said, "I thought—" “Ob, never mind what you thought. You've taken the bark clean off of my boeom, so I'm as raw as a sirloin steak, and I'll probably never be well again as long as I live. That lets you out. You play no more tricks like that on me. Now, mind me.” Then he slammed the door and went out. Mrs. Cooley doesn’t know to this day exactly what effect the grasshoppers are going to have on the election.—N. W. Weekly.