Greenfield Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 5 December 1895 — Page 7

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FORSALE

INDIANAPOLIS

BY ALL

Oaklandoii, Ind.

FUNERAL DIRECTOR

AND

EMBALMER

ONE OF THE OLDEST KENTUCKY DISTILLERIES

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Sept 18, 1894.

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INDIANAPOLIS.

MOTHERS OF GREAT MEN.

Spohr's mother was an excellent judge of music, but no musician. Goethe pays several tributes in his writings to the character of his mother.

Bach's mother had a marvelous ear for musio. He said she was a better judge of music than his father.

Beecher once suid, "The memory of my Bainted mother is the brightest recolleotion of my early years."

Lulli was fortunate in having a musical mother, who gave him a large amount of training before he was turned over to a musio master.

Marlborough's mother wished him to be a soldier and ofton narrated to him deeds of military daring in order to inspire him to emulate them.

Tennyson's mother was always regarded by him as a model for all other mothers. He once said, "The training of a child is woman's wisdom."

Emperor Charles issued an ediot intended to repress the growing tendency toward disobedience to parents, and particularly disresoflct toward motl^ecs.

BY

28t

HA 10CK FOOTEL. [Copyright, 1895, by Mary HallockFoote.] "If it iiiid"—he wrested the words from lier—"and if he were in my place now would you disown him for my sake?" "I could not do that. I could not break a tie that is in my blood." "Is there

110

tie, then, between us?"

She leaned her head low between her hands. "We made it ourselves. I made it selfishly. I made you come to me do you remember?"

Did he remember! Only last night her head had rested on his breast. now there was no help or shelter of Iris she would ever seek again.

She sat with her hands tightly locked together in her lap, white, trembling, but immovable. "There is another way! If you were —as he is now—would I not love you? You are the same to me as he is you are dead to me!"

Her strength suddenly deserted her, and she broLe into wild sobs. He knelt beside her and forced her gently into his arms. "Cecil, you cannot put me out of your life like this with a word! You cannot mean to mock me with a love that denies our very humanity. It is nonsense to say I am dead to you when every nerve in my body starts at your touch. Did we make that tie? It is the oldest, the strongest tie between man and woman. There is no duty that can break it. I am your duty and you are mine, in the sight of God. There is no law that forbids me to love you.'' "There is an instinct that forbids me —I must follow.that.''

She struggled to her feet. He rose, too, and stood before her, white with the passion of his last appeal. "You have done your duty, in spite of the cost," she said. "But you cannot judge for me. A woman's duty is different.

A belief that he must, in the end, prevail, had unconsciously supported him aud fed his persistence, but it forsook him now as he looked in her face. He continued to look at her a moment something like a shiver passed over him then his words came heavily, like the first sluggish drops following a deep wound: "Are you so sure that this is your duty?" "Oh, if you only had not been so sure of yours!" she faltered, dealing this last blow helplessly, aud hearing herself speak as if her voice were the voice of some one else, pronouncing his doom and her own.

There was aloud knock on the outer door. The same ominous hand delivered it that had knocked in the watches of •Jhe night before. Cecil started at the sound and turned, in her terror, to Hilgard. It was the one moment when she might have yielded.

The knock was repeated. She made a gesture toward the door, and 9s Hilgard turned to open it she escaped from the room.

It was Gashwiler who stood on the threshold. "Go to the other door!" Hilgard said, fierce with the anguish that was mounting in his blood.

His words were like a curse. The two men looked each other in the eyes for an instant then Gashwiler retreated down the steps and around the.corner of the house to the kitchen.

Hilgard plunged through the melting drifts that hid the trail, dashing the wet snow from the low fir boughs. A storm of revolt was let loose within him. He saw no justice, no logic, in his fate. Its mockery was yet in 6tore for him.

CHAPTER XL

A telegram to the home office, conveying the news of the fight and its result, was immediately followed by Hilgard's formal resignation.

This step was not taken from any consciousness of mistaken or excessive zeal, but from the personal aspect of the situation. His letter of resignation was accompanied by a brief statement of the circumstances that had led to the fight, and which had made it, so far as the Led Horse was concerned, inevitable. The answer to his telegram prepared him for the prompt acceptance of his resignation. It was carefully worded, and evidently intended as an official comment on his action. It was as follows: "Officers of ^company deplore unhappy tragedy of twenty-second. They repudiate measures requiring sacrifice of life for property. Less violent policy would better represent company."

The administration in the east, while conceding discretionary power to the executive in the west, was keenly sensitive to any responsibility which might attach to itself through the exercise of that power. "They don't repudiate the mine," Hilgard said to himself, bitterly. Their scruples won't prevent their pocketing the dividends after they have washed their hands of the men who saved their property."

For himself he did not care it seemed but a grimace of that fate which had first dealt him its cruelest blow but it hurt him to think of West. The only elaborate part of his letter had referred to West's share in the discovery and the quenching of the plot. He had taken a chicf's pride in the loyalty and courage of his adjutant, and he commended him earnestly to his successor. Perhaps some recognition of his service, the kind of service that has no price, would come later. In the meantime he suppressed the telegram. He was ffchamed to read it to the man who had said, "I reckon I nonld bnlii the drift alouol"

"They think it's a kind of border ruffianism, Hi lgard said to himself they don't consider it legitimate mining."

It could not add to his hopelessness, hut it imbittered it somewhat, to find himself classed with the very men whose principles he had sacrificed his life's happiness to defeat.

That element of the camp of which the Shoshone policy was the exponent accepted Conrath as its martyr. Gashwiler would have been afar less interesting figure in death. He and Conrath were both jumpers, but Gashwiler was known to be a professional jumper, while Conrath could claim the distinction of an amateur. Gashwiler was not young and handsome, not supposed to come of a good eastern family. Gashwiler \s family was a subject of general indifference. He was not particularly free with his money. There were no ladies of fashion in the camp who would be likely to exchange reminiscences of his attentions to themselves or compare their respective degrees of intimacy with the hero of the hour. Even the sober, thoughtful citizens, who would have dismissed Gashwiler's removal with the unpcrplexed sentiment that he had got his deserts, found a certain pathos in the fate of his young chief, cut off by an act of wild justice, at the beginning of his career.

Few stopped to think what that career was likely to have been. The more picturesque portion of the population of the camp was ready to say, "Poor fellow!" in the general consciousness that the compassionate epithet might eventually apply nearer home. Of such frail clay were they themselves fashioned.

A delay, inexplicable to Conrath's friends, in the reply to their telegram to his father, roused a good deal of feeling among them. It was hastily assumed that Conrath's family had "gone back" on him. The facts of the j£e were that when the telegram reached New York his father was on shipboard between that city and Havana, where his wife had been ordered by her physician to spend the winter. The silence was certainly far fron^ naternp,]. The camp was sensitive on the point of its relations with the east, especially in the event of death. Whatever their indifference or faithlessness to their eastern ties during life, the men of Conrath's rank on the frontier confidently expected those tics to contract in the extreme moment and restore them to their early associations.

Without waiting for the silence of Conrath's father to be explained, the Shoshone partisans rose in wrathful championship of their insulted comrade, and said: "If they can't bury him decently, d—n him, we'll bury him ourselves!" The case of the living sister could wait on that of the dead brother.

It was on this honorable errand Gashwiler had come when he encountered Hilgard in the first strong agony of his bereavement.

Gashwiler did not see Miss Conrath, but he had along and exciting argument with Molly, who protested that her mistress should not bo disturbed 011 this or any other business. She indignantly re- I pudiated, in her mistress' name, the offered honors to the dead. "Wouldn't you leave her even the body? Sure, she'll never sit behind that hearse—trailin through the streets I along with the lot of you, and your music and your mil't'ry. She's not proud of his dyin, that she'd want the whole I camp to be throopin after 'im. The least you can do is to leave him to her •, now!" I

But Molly could not prevail alone I against the resolute sympathy of Conrath's constituency. All she could do was to soften the proposition by a little merciful deception, aud present it as a 1 decent, kindly offer to give the chief of the Shoshone appropriate burial at the hands of his fellow Masons and comrades of the militia regiment to which he had belonged. Cecil gave her helpless consent, with the condition that all the expenses should be referred to her father. She was too far prostrated in body as well as in spirit to know more of the last scene in the tragedy of her life than such dreary echoes as penetrated the darkened seclusion of her chamber.

Conrath's body was borne out of the house and conveyed to the camp, where it Jay in state in the unfinished hall of the new Masonic temple, to be gazed upon by the multitude. It was subsequently enshrined in a plumed hearse, drawn by eight horses, fed on hay at $100 a ton. It was preceded by the regiment of militia, keeping step through the miry snow of the street, with guns reversed, to the measures of the dead march.

The baud which had furnished the music was attached to one of the principal variety theaters, and in the intervals of its regular performance was often required to assist at funerals, when the camp publicly honored some

favorite actor in its social dramas on footprints."

his exit from the stage. The Masonio society marched behind the hearse in full regalia, followed by the fire companies and the populace. The latter had turned out promiscuously on foot, or mounted on "livery horses" of uncertain gait and temper, and might be relied on to appear at any point in the procession, according to its caprice, joining the ranks of the Masons, the militia or the firemen and keeping up a current flow of conversation on topics more or less relevant to the occasion. The cortege moved on slowly along the principal streets of the town and out through its straggling suburbs to the cemetery.

The ladies who joined in this public tribute were easily accommodated in three or four carriages. In the first of these sat Mrs. Denny. A prevalent theory of Conrath's death was that there had been blood between the two young superintendents from other than business causes, and Mrs. Denny, enjoyed a temporary supremacy among the ladies of Conrath's preference as the heroine of this rumor. Hilgard's fate relented toward him in this one instance and spared him the knowledge of this romantic fiction of the camp, which joined hi» nama with Mr^ Etetinv'a.

The cemetery was a grim, untended spot, an acre of the primitive fir forest, sloping westward toward the valley and exposed to the winds that blew across from the enow covered peaks. The fire and the ax had passed over it, and the nakedness of the land was left as the inheritance of that peaceful community which had pitched its low tents on the bleak slope. A few stumps and stark, blackened pine trunks, a few young, slight trees, the sole mourners of the forest, supplemented the scant memorials raised to the human dead. Unpainted boards marked alike the graves of those who awaited at the hands of distant friends, removed to a more permanent resting place, the graves of the poor and the unknown, and the graves of those the place of whose rest was of less importance to the general public than its finality. The camp graveyard, like the camp itself, was peripatetic. The city was at that time reserving the money it might have spent on its adornment in contemplation of its removal to another spot.

The heavy, soft snow had sunk and melted under the high glare of the svm and lay in patches, like linen spread to bleach, offering a grotesque, irreverent suggestion that the dwellers in those sunken mounds might have risen in the night and washed their earth stained cerements in readiness for the pending order to "move camp." The funeral procession, invading this desolate inclosure, took nothing from its haggard loneliness. It was impossible to associate the place with human love and reverence or even with humanity's last, indui'insr'ist.

Conrath"s

body

was lowered into the

alien soil. His final allotment of it was small and was grudged by none. Here no locator encroached upon his neighbor's claim, and the original boundary lines were kept inviolate. A brief stillness fell upon the multitude, diverse and disunited as the stones of a river bed except in the wave of sentiment which had brought them there, and then the words were spoken of a common humility and a common hope.

The militia company, drawn up by the side of the grave, fired a volley over it. The second volley scattered badly, and the crowd, recovering from its momentary reflectiveness, echoed the failure with jeers of derision. The mounted mourners had become exalted during the ceremonies to a pitch of solemn en-

"You'll take all that's left of my youth with you, my boy." tliusiasm which could only vent itself in the racing of their horses back to the camp, and the militia company reported at its captain's headquarters before nightfall and drank to Conrath's repose in a keg of whisky opened for tho purpose.

Hilgard had considered the spectacle of his victim's last honors from the sidewalk of the principal street. The moving crowd, keeping pace with the procession, shoved against him and occasionally pointed at him as an object of interest only second to that concealed, from public view in the flag draped coffin.

That night was Hilgard's last in the camp. At 2 o'clock of the chill, wan luorning, in company with Godfrey, he was on his way to the new railroad station, which had lately superseded the stag© office. The empty streets were covered with a light, pure renewal of the previous snows. "What a ghastly hour for a train to leave!" the doctor said, as they walked shiveringly the length of the platform, printing their progress on the untrodden snow. "We'ro recording ourselves at a great rate on these sands of time. Time here is eternity in the rest of the world. The shipwrecked brother will have to hurry up if he wants to profit by our

A truck passed them, with Hilgard's trunk piled among the others, eastward bound. "You'll take all that's left of my youth with you, my boy. "No, doctor you arc younger than I am now."

Godfrey stopped and looked earnestly at Hilgard. "You're morbid, George. You're taking a bigger load on your shoulders than belongs to you. Try to look at it simply and remember that poor Con didn't know how to live anyway. He carried too much wick for his candle he never oould have stood a draft. Fate has been kinder to him than to you." "Doctor, I cannot talk about it!" "Well, you'd better. It's better to handle a trouble pretty freely and secularize it, so to speak, before it masters your common sense. I suspect you're hiding a deeper hurt—I won't touch it, boy only just let me say: Don't think that everything ends here. If you spoke to her now, you spoke too soon." "She hasn't heard from her father yet," Hilgard said after a pause. "Is there no one to take care of her but that bedlam crew?" "She hps heard—she heard today, iitlnr'n anaaJiia far hem* ooi tha

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minister's wife has found her out. She's a friendly little soul, with a lot of children. Ajid then he added: "Remember, George, you can count on nature the long run. I don't mean to flatter you, but did you ever ask anything of a woman and want it very much, and not get it?"

Hilgard flushed angrily. "Do you call that flattering me? It is not a question ©f women, and it's not open to discussion.'' "I'm done, boy—I'm done. Only Just remember this: The worst thing that can happen to a man is to get some things, the best things, too easily.'' "You've been my friend in a place where I haven't many," Hilgard said, relenting. "You'vo had plenty of my kind. I tried to be your friend once in a way that would have made you furious if you had known, but I didn't succeed." "I don't know what you mean." "I don't suppose you do. It's a pity I didn't succatd. However—well, take care of yourself, boy. My feet are confoundedly damp.'' rlilgarcl loosed alter rne stone, scooping figure shuffling away through the chilly streets, and the dull ache in his breast included older failures and more hopeless ones than his own. The world seemed full of them.

As he turned he saw West, who had ridden Peggy down from the mine and stood near the post where she was hitched waiting for Hilgard's recognition.

Peggy's toilet had been carefully attended to. The smoke from her silky sides rose in the cold air. It might have been the sickly gleam of the station lamps that gave West a pale, dragged look.

Hilgard slipped his hand under Peggy's mane and patted her warm neck. "You'll see that they take good care of her, West." "I will, sir. Peggy and me'll leave the camp together." "I don't mean anything of that sort. We haven't either of us any money jtoyinvest in sentiment.'' "I know it, sir," said West, turning red. But a man can fool himself with his own money if he wants to. Peggy's all the Led Horse I want. I'll take he* for my two months' pay if they'll call it square." "You mustn't do it, West. She isn't worth half of it. I've used her hard, poor old girl! She was too light for my weight." He slid his hand down her fore leg, which she lifted obediently. "Her feet are all banged up. She needd a six weeks' run in the valley. •.

Peggy was smelling around Hilgard's/? pockets. "Prospecting for sugar, Peggy? The1 sugar's in my other clothes. West, I wish you were going along. "I wish so, too, sir. "If I should find -another job pretty & soon, with decent pay, would you comd"* with me? I don't want to interfere witl l\i| your chances here. "I ain't taking any chances liere,'^3 said West grimly. "They'll be having anew deal all round when the next boss comes out. I'm going to quit before I'm. kicked out." "You're just as well out of it. an ugly camp. Gashwiler is not with you." "I expect not. Maybe I ain' with him."

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"You'd better get out of it, Westr You're too good a man to be fooling with that kind of thing." "•^es," said West. "They've got ft notion in this camp that fight's all there* is of me, but you know better than that, sir." "I should think I did. -Well, look out for yourself!" 'a

They shook hands silently. As the train moved out of tlio'depc West stood with his arm across his saa die, his head hanging down. "There ain't a man on top o' ground I'd put up more on than him I wouldn'lt wonder if he'd know it some day," he muttered to himself, and, remounting* Peggy, he rode away, through the snoW crljnirnar. nnrlar the dark, starlit alar*. 1 (TO BE CONTINUED.]

The mother of Correggio was at fTrst'bp* posed to his art work and only yielded after he had elicited the oommeudatlon of others by a display of what he could do lift the way Qf painting