Hope Republican, Volume 1, Number 35, Hope, Bartholomew County, 22 December 1892 — Page 3

■STORY OF A TAILOR-MADE OVERCOAT J passed the curiously wrought receiver to Rowland, and as he knocked the ashes from his fragrant Havana he looked up with a quizical expression •on his face and said: “Como old man, you have never told me of your marriage with Bessie, •or bow you first mot her. I understand it is a romance.” W a were snugly ensconced in great leather mounted chairs before a gonial fire of canned coal in my own “don of dens.” Bessie and I called it “The ■Cloister.” Rowland and I were old college •chums and mutual admirers. Our friendship was something more than mere goodfellowship. It was almost chivalrous. When wo first loft college, wo exchanged a letter a day with school girl regularity. Later we drifted apart. Rowland 'went to Paris to follow out his artistic bent in the heart of the Latin quarter. For twelve years wo had been separated. Our correspondence had lagged, our friendship never. At intervals- I would receive a Paris paper containing a marked item in reference to some ■of Rowland’s triumphs. I would much .rather ho would have written me about them, for my French was miserably faulty and I would find it necessary to* bring all my old text books to my aid in unraveling the tiresome stuff. Yet I made up by boring him with every new story that my publishers were foolish enough to accept; so we kept up our interest in one another. Rowland returned to me but a day before; a perfect bohemian, a rising light, a little Frenchy, but the same old chum of my college days. He found mo the head of a little home, the husband of Bessi , the father of a black eyed little rogue named Rollie; for Bessie knew Rowland as I painted him and insisted that her first-born shoul d bear his name. It was with pleasure that I narrated the story of mv love and marriage. I waited until my chum had wheeled up the lounge and pillowed his head on the bolster. Then I watched the firelight play with his glossy black hair. An impatient gesture awoke me from my reverie and turned my ruminations to a date seven years back. One raw winter morning I look the Christopher street ferry, crossed over to Jersey City and boarded the regular passenger for Washington, my pass not being good on the limited. The train pulled out and 1 settled myself comfortably in my chair, depositing my Dunlap in the rack above and my coat over the back of the seat. The warmth of the car in marked contrast to the cold outside made me drowsy. Soon I began to think over material for my next special for the Tribune and wondering where the matter would come from. An idea struck me. Why would it not be a good plan to write up the wonderful variety of travelers aboard a passenger train? I unloosened my note book, sharpened my pencil and gazed about me. Then I got up and walked through the cars from Pullman to emigrant coach. ■ I was surprised at the diversity of f ibjccts; the train was cosmopolitan as t-ie country. I could scarcely mention any phase of civilization or barbarism (so long as I stopped short of the Cannibals) which was not represented. In the front coach emigrants of evory nationality huddled together in herds, like sheep in a strange pasture, uttering a Babel of unintelligible old-workl dialects, their queer forlorn costumes contrasting vividly with their American surroundings. In a few years I noted, these men will vote and make our laws, often more wdsely than the legitimate sons of the soil; or, that awkward red faced woman may bo the mother of a youth our country shall be proud to own and honor. Gentlemen from Vermont and New Hampshire with a tendency to lankness and a natural dexterity in the use of tobacco; negroes of varying shades of color; commercial tourists with their sample-boxes and odoriferous cigars, from all parts of the commercial world —New York, San Francisco, London, Berlin—yet, if tones and features are an index —from Jerusalem as well. I .saw professional gentlemen and farmers, the gray-haired octogenarian and the giggling school girl, the aristocratic Bostonian and the purseproud parvenue. I saw—in fact I saw enough to fill my “special.” I returned to my seat and began to arrange and make out my notes. At Philadelphia several got aboard and took the chairs directly behind mo. I was too much occupied to look up, but knew they were ladles from the rustle of dresses and the delicate odor of cashmere. Presently 1 heard some one whisper: “Mamma do you know that gentleman in the seat ip front?” Then came a pause and a decided «‘N<f” from the mother. A soft, rippling little laugh followed

that sent the bipod surging through my veins. “Why that’s Misty Julian Howard of Now Yoyk," she said with that peculiar liquefaction of the “r” which stamps a New Yorker. The mother evidently did not remember Misty Julian Howard, and said so. “Why mamma, how can you be so foygetful; do you not remember wo mot him at Saratoga lastsummey.” Again I felt the blood bound to my cheeks. The tones of my seeming acquaintance behind were deliciously musical. I fancied I could feel her breath on my shoulder, and furthermore I had been at Saratoga the summer before, for a short time and knew I had made no such happy acquaintance. I listened a moment longer. The mother was saying something, to which the daughter answered with another ripple of laughter. “How stupid you’re, you dea’y old mamma; I polked with Misty Howayd several times at the Gyand Union. I wish he would recognize us. This was too much for me. My name was certainly Howard. I lived in Now York, and had been at Saratoga, but had never danced a polka, or any dance at the “Grand Union.” I was in a quandary. If I did not recognize my fellow travelers they would put me down as a snob. If I owned up that I had forgotten their names—well, it would not be flattering to say the least. Above all, I hated to lose their acqultanceship. I was becoming strangely interested; but how to introduce myself? I thought over this for the space of five minutes. Ideas were elusive. The perspiration began to stand out on my forehead. I dropped my note book and disordered my hair in picking up the badly scattered leaves. Then I listened, hoping they would drop some' hint as to their names, but no, they talked of everyone else but themselves. In my perturbation, by some moans I swung my chair around so that I found myself facing the object of my thoughts. By the opposite mirror, I could see that my face was flushed. I was conscious of feeling like a guy. I stuttered a moment or two, something about my persona! history, of having met her before —I believed at Saratoga. When I was though I collapsed completely. The ladies looked at me for a moment in a state of perfect bewilderment, and one started to say, “Paydon me sir—” but instead broke out into the musical laughter I had been listening to, and said; “Oh, yes, Mistey Howayd, we met at Sayatoga. I don’t believe you evey met mamma. Mistey Howayd—mamma. Mamma’s name is the same asi mine—Stewayt.” 1 began to recover. Said I thought I had never met Mrs. Stewart. Wo did not chat long about Saratoga. I felt that I was treading on dangerous ground and did not wish to show myself an imposter to so charming a person as my present acquaintance. I noticed afterward that Miss Stewart never mentioned our waltz once. She seemed as glad to lead away as I. By the time the train drew up i-n Washington we had discovered many points of taste in common, that is, Miss Stewart and I. Mrs. Stewart excused herself behind the covers of “Norwood.” Miss Stewart was partial to blondes. I was a blonde. She had a brother a member of the same college fraternity as I. She had spent a summer at Memphremagog. So had I. She was devoted to Thackeray and adored Bret Harte. So did I. She stopped at the Arlington in Washington. So did I. When she arose to leave the conch I recognized more forcibly than ever that Miss Stewart was a handsome woman. In her tailor-made suit of close fitting serge and her Paris bonnet, her fine figure and gracefully poised head showed to best advantage. As she put out her hand at the cab door and said, “You must bo suye and call on us at the Aylington,” I was actually afraid I would shout back my thanks. That night my dreams were full of cherubs with black hair, great brown eyes, heavily shaded, rosy lips, and low, sweet laughter. When 1 awoke the next morning I was feverish, and did my toilet wrapt in a maze. At the breakfast the head waiter, with the polish of a Chesterfield, said; “Mrs. Stewart, sir, would like Mr. Howard to have a seat at her table.” I made my. way at his heels to their table and was given a cordial welcome. Mrs. Stewart looked charming in her loose breakfast gown and hoped I had enjoyed my rest. That forenoon we drove tq the old soldiers’ home and enjoyed the view through the vista. The afternoon we spent at Arlington, rambling about General Lee’s old home. The next day we shared together at Mt. Vernon and grew patriotic at Washington’s tomb. We attended the Chinese minister’s reception and commented on the jam. We occupied a private gal-

lery in the senate and discussed out favorite statesman. On all subjects I' found Mrs. Stewart a congenial spirit. A friendship grew up between us that procured mo an invitation to her home in New York. There I visited her, and on winter evenings when we were too'Wcwe to attend the opera or accept an invitation to some “affair,” I read to her from Ike Marvel and Charles Dudley Warner, from Longfellow and “Point Lace and Diamonds;” yes, and from Browning and Emerson. She took an interest in my literary ambition and allowed me to burn my Havanna in her sanctum. Under such conditions our friendship soon ripened into love. We were engaged in course of time, married and happy. Yes, and have been happy ever since “Have we not, sweetheart?” and I put out my hand to Bessie, who had just entered on tiptoe. “Yes, you deay old goose. You have been telling Rowland all about it, I am suye.” Rowland aroused himself from the lounge. “But Julian,” he said, “You have not told me the one thing I wish to know, the epitome of the romance namely: How came Bessie to know you on the Pullman, when you say you never met before?” I laughed and looked at Bessie. “ Oh, you men are so copious! Are you bound to know?” Rowland insisted. “You will think mo awfully rude, but Julian’s oveycoat was thrown over the back of the chair, turned inside out, and theye in plain sight was a little tag beaying the naipe of ‘Misfey Julian Howayd, New York City.’ I was plaughing mamma, who has a hoyor of chance acquaintances. Of courho, Saratoga was but the meyest guess, and I did not dyoam that Julian would heay. But you did, deay? Theye, now, I hope you are satisfied. Come now, both of you. I want you to go to my room and see my lovely new tea gown.”—Rounsevelle Wildman in Idaho Statesman. Thu Small Boy’s Season. He rises at the dawn of day, The weather is auspicious, And to the wharf he takes his way And there for flounders fishes. Perhaps the urchin has no hooks Naught better than a dull pin Half bent, but that will do for flukes, Or horny-headed sculpin. And now he is a happy boy And in the sport delighting; The scoptered king knows not the joy He fools when fish are biting. The hours fly by and he is blest So gay and happy hearted. But now the sun draws to the west, His smiles have ail departed. The night comes on, a shade of gloom Is on his face appearing; Poor boy he knows the hour of do om Is nearing, swiftly nearing. Already does the shingle burn; All day he’s been a rover Prom home, and now ho must return And get that thrashing over! —Boston Courier. Bengal Superstitions. A curious light is thrown ou the rural life of Bengal by the contents of a paper reprinted lately in the annual report of the Bombay Anthropologies! society. From this paper we are told the following, among other things: Shout'ng tho name of the king of birds (Garuda) drives away snakes. Shouting Ram Ram drives away ghost?. Cholera that attacks on Monday or Saturday ends fatally, but not cholera th:it attacks oa Thursday. The flowering of bamboo augurs famine, In fanning, if the fan strike the body, it should be thrice knocked against the ground. When giving alms, the giver and receiver should not be standing on different sides of tho threshold, It is bad to pick one’s teeth with one’s nails. If a snake is killed it should be burned, for it is a Brahman. At night the words “snake” and “tiger” should not be used. Call them creepers and insects. Do not wake up a sleeping physician. A morning droam always comes to pass. Devotion without headgear is wrong. Iron is a charm against ghosts. A black cat with a white face is very auspicious.—St. James Gazette. What a “Jag” Is. An inquirer asks us tho meaning of “jag,” applied to inebriety. It is a new slang. In the rural districts the cargo of a wagon tnat is hauling wood, when all that the wagon can carry, is called a “load.” When it is less than up to the full capacity is is called a “jag.” Therefore, when a man is less than dead drunk ho has not a load on, but merely a jag. We hope our questioner will never get -beyond a jag. Gladstone usod to drink a half a pint of port at dinner. He has recently increased the quantity to a pint, and says it does not affect him as much as the half pint did twenty years ago. That shows that he’s a sound old boy. What would have been a load for him at sixty is • only a jag at eighty.—San Frau cisco All?.,

HOW LITTLE KIT DIED. STORY OF AN INCIDENT IN A TOWN OF FAR-OFF IDAHO. Email find Trembling Rands That Hold a Mark for a Shooter—Tragic Result of a K>ruukcu Man's Roast. t was a cold autumn evening, but the red sun going down bcbind tbe spectral mountains on the desert of Idaho seemed to brighten up everything, Just as a blazing log paints the white ceiling of the sitting-room and colors the faces of those who watch the incandescent embers glow. The village was quiet as it always was at this lime of day. It wasn’t much of a village—a house here and a store there, and all blackened by storms and age. People were scarce, too. Those who were on the one broad street were the kind that grow among sage brush and grease wood—tall, heavily jawed men, with an awkward swing to their gait and their faded clothing and highheoled boots bespattered with mud. A lean, skulking dog prowled along the road, and three heavily saddled and branded ponies were tethered near the Ark saloon There were 350 people in the village but every body who lived there knew the population exceeded 600. On this cold afternoon five of the inhabitants sat in front of the Ark saloon. Four of them were men who wore soft hats and collarless shirts. Their coarse hands and rugged faces showed that they toiled out of doors —herding cattle on the plains no doubt. The fifth person was a little girlwith hair as black as the lava blocks and eyes so big and so round that they looked like wells of ink. She wasn’t oven seasonably dressed, for whenever the wind brushed her she shivered, hardy as she was. A coral necklace clung so tightly to her nock that it looked like a scar. Her thin blue dress, clumsily cut from a large garment, hung in scandalous proportions about her well-rounded body.

The men bad been drinking heavily. The lilllo girl had come to lead her father away. Cut the big, rough man was angry. A man from the Snake River country had questioned his ability as a marksman with a six-shooter. The dispute had been going on for an hour or more, with delirious tales of gun feats and terrific expressions of profanity, when the mite of a child stole timidly up to the big man. For a moment the child was not noticed. The wind picked up the ragged hem of her dress and whipped it about her legs, and the big sun, glowing with the richness of a solfcriuo disk, made the tears in the child's great eyes shine as one has seen rippling water glitter in a stream of sunshine. The glass in the shop windows was jed, too, and the snow on the three mountain peaks in the distance looked like a carpet of crimson geraniums stretched over cathedral spires. "Here’s Kit. boys,” the father finally exclaimed, as he looked admiringly at the tot who had in some way managed to nestle beside his leg. “I’ll leave it to Kit, fellows,'as to who is the handiest man with the gun. Who’s the best man as what you ever seen. Kit?” "Ma wants you to come home and eat supper,” came the stammering, almost plaintive reply. “So she does, Kit; but who’s the best shooter as you know of?” “Pap.” “Who shoots hens right and left and never spiles the meat?” “Pap." “Whose Kit be you?” “Pap’s; but mam wants you home for supper.” The four rough men looked at the child witii a stupid gaze. “Why, I’ll tell you, fellers, as speaking about shooting, mo and Kit will show you something, won’t we Kit?” and the big man drew two enormous revolvers from his bolsters and placed them upon a box. The child shrank instinctively at the sight of the weapons. “Won’t we. Kit?” repented the big man, noticing that the child was silent. The black head nodded a reluctant affirmative. “Course we will. Kit knows pap, and seeing as somebody does not know us wo will make us known.” Then the man drew a leathern bag from his pocket and took from it two Uve-dollar gold pieces. “Now, Kit,” he said, with as msch pride as his thick voice could portray, “you take these shiners and walk out Into the wagon track and hold ’em up siiddy like, and then we’ll show ’em how pap kills hens.” _

The child faltered, but parental discipline bad been stem in 5fcr home, and with nervous fingers she seized the coins and walked bare headed out , int ® *“• street. The father seized ins benj guns and staggered proudly to the ioaa* —Stand straight like Kit,” commanded the father. The little girl’s tattered shoes came to1 gether and her white face was turned directly toward the father. , “Hoist up the shiners, little nn , this way—see?’’ and the man, placing his pistols upon the ground, held up his thumbs and index fingers so that those of each hand came together. The little coins flashed above the tangled mass of hair. “Be you ready, Kit?’’ Thera was not a tremor in the little body. The drunken man. proud of his marksmanship, leveled the muzzles of his weapons at the child. n»i c. it,,, /.b /'Irvahn A T1 fl

The eyes of the shooter closed and opened in maudlin fashion. On a sudden two streams of fire poured from the black barrels of the pistols. The smoke from the weapons turned crimson as it rose in the red light. The child lay upon the ground with her legs stiffening in the lava dust. A white hand clutched one of the gold coins. ’I he metal once clasped by the other hand had been blown down street by a bullet. One bullet had torn its way somewhere beneath that crown of tangled hair. “Guess you hurt the child, Ike,” ona of the drunken men exclaimed, as he gave his trousers a hitch and reeled oul to the spot where the child lay. The father’s heavy revolvers fell upon the ground. His ashy face moved toward the head of his child. As he grasped the rigid shoulders a tiny stream of blood trickled over his gnarled fingers. Then he rose. Men and women with terror-stricken faces were clustered about him and dogs skulked around the crowd. The sun was now so low that the peaks of the distant mountains glowed with a delicate pink and the sky, beginning with a deep maroon at the horizon, ran in beautiful shadings to a soft, rich purple at the zenith. For a moment the father was silent. He seemed to be looking for a familiar face in the crowd. He was sober now. His face was almost hideous in its determination. "Thai’s the worst shot what was ever made,” he finally stammered as he wiped the sweat off his face. “Boys, I can heat that. Hands off, till I show you.” And before one of the villagers could reach him the frantic man picked up one of his weapons and, turning it full upon himself, fired. They didn’t take the bodies home that night. They were placed side by side in a feed store and guarded by three hardy villagers. There are two graves in the sage brush near Soda Springs. The boasting marksman and his guns rest in one. The yellow grass on the other grave covers little Kit, who was buried in her tattered dress and wornout shoes. The mother married the man from the Snake River country.— Chicago Herald. BROOCH ON HER FOREHEAD. How a Kabyle Woman Wears Her Curious Looking: Jewelry. The principal jewels of a Kabyle woman are double shoulder pins joined together by a chain—sometimes with an amulet in the middle, used for fastening the dross on the shoulders. Hei dress owes very little to the art of tha dressmaker. The bodice is formed anew each morning by being secured on tha shoulders of these pins, which are generally alike.

A KABYt.E WOMAN.

Brooches are of mauy different forms and sizes. The large, round brooch with hanging chains and ball pendants is only worn after a woman has borne a child, and even then with a difference. Thus the mother of a daughter wears hers in a bodice, but the proud mother of a son sots hers in the middle of her forehead, with the hall falling over her eyebrows. From this honored position it is sometime torn and Hung in race and defiance at the feet of the husband when some dom- site difference of opinion has induced him unduly to chastise the wearer, says the Jewillen' Wie'cly. Earrings are made of different patterns. Some are small, to hang from the lobe of the car; some are very large, to book over the ear and are supported by strings tied at the top of the head beneath the headdress. The long, dangling chains which always hang from these large earrings are decorated at intervals with lots of rough coral and with colored glass beads. The diadems worn, as may be seen by our picture of a Kabyle beauty, are very handsome and original. They are usually made of three plaques of metal joined together by hemispheres of bright metal, which have a very striking effect. The plaques are always enameled and enriched with round pieces of coral set in rows, such as are seen in a Jewish high priest’s breastplate. The diadem is placed around the turban-shaped headdress and is supported in its place by means of small hooks, wnich fasten ou the top of the turban. A row of varied pendants dangle over the eyebrows.