Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 17 October 1897 — Page 9

—Part Two==

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Ruppert’s Liquid Rouge for cheeks; beyond ACI detection 50 Mme. Ruppert’s Gray Hair Restorative is not a dye, hut returns gray hair to O ifi its natural color $2.50 Mme Ruppert’s Almond Oil Complexion Soap. A perfect soap; a combination of Almond Oil and wax. Not a boiled soap and contains no lye 25 •&A3 Mail orders promptly filled. A copy of book, “How to be Beautiful,” will be given FREE. HenryJ.Hinder Druggist, Washington and Penn. Sts., Indianapolis. Open All Night. A TYPICAL LIFE. Sometimes when the sermon is about missionaries and the duty of giving, I feel privileged to look about, unobtrusively, over this audience of Indiana people at the faces which interest me. They are In repose during a missionary sermon, and all their lines of character are evident—those remarks of nature about our lives, which we so dread and so protest against. I cannot tell very much about a life just to look at the face, but when I know the life I love to look at the two—the life and the face—together, to compare, and deduce, and read their different meanings, and how they have reacted one upon the other. The occupation reminds me of the algebra problems which cost me many a youthful tear, and the answer book, which may have saved me some, for I read the answer back into the problems, to be sure the book had not made a mistake, and with the two thus beautifully working together, sometimes a mathematical truth became evident to my harassed mind. Now I use this crude method In finding a little of the truth about faces and lives; the problem and the answer, inextricably related, bound together, wholly dependent one on the other. Over there is a woman's face, typicalhow unconscious she Is of it—of a great class of American people of the middle West. She is very well but quietly dressed and has the look of middle life rather than old age; strong, enduring, healthful. She lives now among surroundings of greater delicacy and beauty than former years gave her, and her house, correctly planned and furnished according to our standards, gives her, perhaps, more satisfaction than pleasure, but she believes as an American in these tributts to the gods of prosperity. Her daughter we fondly call a leader of society, and she has certain beliefs as an American, too—which is quite another story. But to me the life of this older woman suggests other things. Put away from sight she keeps some old daguerreotypes—real daguerreotypes, which show some figures so unreal, with their crinoline and drooping curls and queerlytrimmed waists, the men with strange hats and odd-looking collars, like Daniel Webster’s; these are her connection with an American life of a different kin| and temper from that in which these forty-five years have been passed.. Born in New York sixty-five years ago, she has spent forty years of her life on an Indiana farm—what in other countries might be called an estate. Here it is a plain farm of a thousand acres. And the life upon it was plain, too, without ceremony, without interest, outside of family ties, filled with work and plain intentions and now—success. Perhaps in no country’ were ever lived lives more devoted to practical ends and so devoid of any etiquette of living or social pleasure as the lives of the people who in the last half century have developed the Northern States of the Mississippi valley. A manner of life which, looked at from the exterior, and without sympathy with its aims, seems so commonplace. so colorless, so raw, lacking all that is picturesque, stimulating or beautiful. Even the visiting and plain hospitality, the village social life and neighborhood acquaintance characteristic of our Eastern States was absent here on these great, fertile, level plains, where men found it a duty to work, and grew into a life which became tiie soil, and planned for their children a better bringing up than theirs had been. This woman's face has in it those lines which hard physical labor, carried on for years, without cessation or mental rest, and which takes the mind with it, inevitably produce*; not like the refining lines of patiently borne sorrow or the sharp linos of greed or ill temper. These lines of work have in them something stern, burdened, something that speaks of a sacrifice. unconscious of wtiat it missed. Tho

THE SUNDAY JOURNAL.

skin, now whitened somewhat, is thickened, and has an undertint of brown, which bears evidence of certain years of exposure, perhaps neglect—quite different from this city woman’s across the aisle, whose delicately-cared-for skin shows pink and ivory beneath white hair. This woman who has worked has a square, strong form, grown a little heavy, and her shoulders are slightly bent—not the droop of age. Her hands—no amount of care now could make them delicate—have upon them ineradicable marks. And now the answer book. Long, hot summer days, when the level prairie is scorched with south winds, the horizon a yellow, hazy, ugly line, life listless, work a burden. Dull, commonplace winter days, devoid of diversion or amusement. A big square farmhouse, barely furnished with only useful things,’which have no associations, no meanings. Outside are great fields of corn and wheat. Inside goes on an endless round of cooking, washing, ironing, scrubbing, sweeping, churning, monotonous, repeated over and over. What a succession of springs, summers, autumns and winters, filled with clearing and plowing, planting, reaping and gathering! What waitings, what battles with nature! Not a wide, abundant life, but one which has its place in the building of a nation. Typical—as much as any life can be a type —hardly touching the world of beauty and thought but part of the world of action. Over her world in this fifty years has passed a splendid change, in whfch she has had a part. She has helped to make part of the world a more beautiful and habitable place, and this life which might seem so commonplace and so remote, with its few simple human events and its many years of commonest work, is yet part of an era of great events, whose meaning and value to America is not yet fully evident. Lafayette, Ind. D. K. KIEFER. JOY SQUARE SKETCHES. The Sew Lullaby and How It Came. The tenderest little breath of twilight air that ever trembled along velvety lawns and waved—not rustled—the light foliage of the maples quivered up the square from the south and shivered back again. It was nature’s sigh of relief that another sultry day had gone and that gentle-fin-gered, soft-voiced night was coming. It was the very blessedest time of day, when the children have their shoes taken off and romp barefooted in the damp grass, while the parents sit and rest and watch the little ones. The dusk was just settling dow f n, and the fireflies were beginning to bestir themselves and get ready for their stingless and silent pyrotechnical display. Up from the hindering grass they fluttered as fast as they could disengage themselves from the blades and from the leaves of the white clover, and blinked their yellowish, phosphorescent lights as they struggled with the barriers that interposed. And the children watched them, fascinated. First, the little red-headed baby ran after one and caught it in his hand. He held it for a moment and let it fly away. Ralph tried it and was successful. Marjorie followed suit—and fell down because she could not trust her bare baby feet in the cool, wet grass after they had worn shoes all day. The little girl tried again timidly, and, watching the insects arise from the grass, she followed them up with he<r inverted palm, straight toward the heavens, making a frantic grab for each as it passed out of reach, and wondering why they all escaped. In vain did the boys try to teach her how to catch the winking little creatures; and when, by accident, she did lay hold on one at last, she was as happy as if she had conquered the world—yes. and happier!—and ran, laughing, with it to her father, who cried “Bravo!" and kissed the little girl, because, being a girl, she was not afraid of creeping things. Then the fun grew more hilarious, in a mild and subdued way, all in keeping with the spirit of the gloaming—for the evening was m'stress of the situation and had laid her spell upon every one. Hubert put a firefly on the flaming topknot of the redheaded baby, and the others laughed gleefully. Tho rest of the children then put the flies in each other’s hair, and all enjoyed it to the full. Meanwhile the lights in the grass grew more numerous and more brilliant, until it seemed that the sky, with its multitudes of stars, had loosed its hold of the stellar gems, and, in a fit of benevolent indolence, had dropped them to the earth, that the little ones of this world might see them and handle them for a moment. Now the sky had called her children of light back again, and they were obeying as rapidly as they could bid the earth good-bye. It was darker now, and the red-headed baby could not be told from Ralph or Marjorie, except by the parents of all three. A piano was playing a reverie in the doctor’s parlor across the street, and mumbled and muifted porch conversations were in progress ut every house on the square. Two big girls and one big boy were discussing the season’s tennis, and the occasional rise in their tones would indicate that the setting sun had not taken all his heat with him. Oh, but it was pleasant out on the lawns! A drowsiness began to enter into everything, saturating people and things with the subtlety and the impartial persistency of a perfume. The little children were so intensely, so happily and so consciously alive that the drowsiness affected them last, and they fought it off as a man fights deatn. But when one after another of the toddlers had been called in the loneliness of the lawn entered into a conspiracy with the spirit of slumber, and the dual force had the desired effect. Marjorie was the last to succumb, as she had hud a long nap in the afternoon; but at length a heavy handful of the sand man’s goods sent her reeling and staggering to the arms of her father, who sat and watched the progress of her battle with sleepiness. “Doe in chair—bye baby,” came her usual pleading. Her father complied. He had sung to her everything he knew, and he was tired of all the old songs. Why not improvise something while the spirit of inspiration came on the cool, mysterious twilight breath? Tho inspiration w r as there; so the new lullaby song came, fresh from the tender heart of the time and the place. It ran like this: THE NEW LULLABY. Bye O baby, bye O babe; May some angel s kiss Cure thy hurts in the slumber world As ours eure in this. Bye O baby, bye O babe; Through the years to come May no sorrow, dreamed or real, Turn thy heart from home. When the fire file*— bye O babe—i’ lasli above tne lawn. Then we know sweet night has come— Wait we for the dawn. Then we know the Father’s hand Hovers o'er the earth, Keening sate His little ones Till the morrow's birth. O the tender little ones! Not the babes alone Arc our Father’s little ones; Others, older grown. Are as helpless as the habes. In our Father's sightlie who gave can also take In A single night. Sleep, my babe. O slumber sweet; Dream of love and life— Dream of life that lives to love, Love that conquers strife. Sleep, m.v ha be; your perfect trust In a lather’s care Wins me back to Him each night— Melts my heart in prayer. —S. W. GilMaiw

INDIANAPOLIS, SUNDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 17, 1897-SIXTEEN PAGES.

ft BIG MERCHANT’S IDEAS JOHN "WAX AM AKER TALKS OF ADVERTISING AND BUSINESS METHODS, And Also of tlie Commercial Outlook— The Tariff, the Deportment Store and Little Merchants. (Copyright, 1597, by Frank G. Carpenter.) PHILADELPHIA, Oct. 15.-1 came from Washington to Philadelphia to have an interview with Mr. John Wanamaker. I wanted his ideas of advertising, business methods and of the condition of the times for the readers of this paper. I had no appointment with Mr. Wanamaker, but I knew' him while he was postmaster general, and was sure that if I could get access to him he would talk. He is, however, a very busy man. He is, you know, the biggest merchant in the United States, if not in the world. Since he bought the establishment which was originally founded by A. T. Stewart in New York he has more than doubled his mercantile interests. His store here in Philadelphia handles tens of millions of dollars’ w'orth of goods a year, and its profits foot up, I have been told, more than a million dollars every twelve months. He has four thousand clerks here under one roof, and his interests reach out to every country of Europe and to every part of the United States. He is one of the great advertisers of the world. I have heard it said that the man who writes his daily letter about new goods for the newspapers receives a salary of $16,000 a year, and that he pays each of the Philadelphia papers from *two to four thousand dollars a month for advertising. Mr. Wanamaker supervises almost the whole of his interests himself, and it goes without saying- that he has plenty to do. HOW I GOT TO MR. WANAMAKER. Men who do business of such proportions are usually hard to reach. They are besieged by cranks and beggars, and did they not guard their leisure they would have no time for work. Still, I saw Mr. Wanamaker. The journey I took in getting to see him was an interesting one. One of the clerks told me where the office was, directing me to a little corner room on the second floor. Here I found a white-haired old man and a brown-haired young boy. The old man must have been seventy; the young boy did not look to be more than seven. The old man made me think of a Methodist deacon. He w-as one of Mr. Wanamaker’s confidential secretaries. He told me that he did not think I could see Mr. Wanamaker at all that afternoon, although he thought he was somewhere about the store. I urged my case and the old gentleman finally said that he would present the matter to Mr. Jones. A moment later Mr. Jones came in. Mr. Jones is the second confidential secretary of Mr. Wanamaker. Like the first secretary he is a man of mature years and of clerical aspect. His beard is as long as that of Aaron, and his face is as somber as that of Moses must have been when he first saw the golden calf. Mr. Jones decided that I might possibly be of interest to Mr. Wanamaker. He called the young boy and told him to take me to the ante-room of the office of the great merchant, and to give my card to the young lady in charge. The young boy went with me. It was almost a Sabbath day’s journey from Mr. Wanamaker’s public office to the little private den which forms his real work shop. We walked through rows of counters to the opposite corner of the building, took the elevator and finally away up under the roof, next to a long hall filled with bookkeepers, I was shown into a little room, and my card was left with Mr. Wanamaker’s private secretary. This private secretary was a young lady. She was a more attractive person than the confidential secretaries at the other end of the building. She was, in fact, quite pretty, but exceedingly reticent. She told me that Mr. Wanamaker had just stepped out, but that in all probability he would soon step in. She asked me to wait. I waited. I waited an hour. Other people came in and waited too, but most of them got tired and left. I continued to wait until at last I heard a quick step go up the hall, and the door of the room beyond opened. The step was that of Mr. Wanamaker. Mr. Wanamaker at last was in. The question with me now was, was he in for me. The young lady took my card and left the room. A moment later she returned, and said that Mr. Wanamaker would see me. I entered the room, and a moment after that was chatting with one of the biggest merchants of the United States. WANAMAKER AT SIXTY. Mr. Wanamaker’s private office is not more than 10x12 in size. He does his work at a little $25 desk, crowded up under the window so that the light falls over his right shoulder, as he sits there looking over the figures of each day’s business. He rose, and as we shook hands I could not see that he looked a day older than when he was postmaster general. Still, he is now in his sixtieth year, and he has been in active business life for more than a generation. He has few wrinkles and does not look hurried or worried. As I shook hands with him I remarked upon his freshness, and said to him that he did not seem to be overworked. He replied: “No; I am not overworked. Still, I have plenty to do. I have to spend a part of each week in New York. I get reports from my Now' York store every morning, ard the business of two establishments is, of course, greater than one.” “I suppose your business extends to the wjiole country, Mr. Wanamaker, docs it not?” “No,” was the reply, “it is largely local. The business of any great, store must be near home. My chief customers are within a radius of one hundred miles of New York and Philadelphia, Os course, we sell some goods by mail, but the real business is made up of the goods which we sell across the counters.” “I should think, Mr. Wanamaker, that this store would have been large enough for one man. Y'ou have made a great success here. Why did you add to your work by buying the establishment in New York?” “Why do we do anything?” said the merchant “It is hard to tell. I can only say I saw that there w*s an opening for such a store as I have in New York. I took- it, • not that I wanted to compete with the other merchants there, but that I might succeed in satisfying the demand which I thought existed. I was right. The store has done better than I expected.” NEWSPAPER ADVERTISING. “Mr. Wanamaker, you are one of the largest advertisers of the country. I have noticed that you keep your advertisements running during the hard times. Many of the merchants have let them drop. Does it pay to advertise when times are hard?” “I certainly think so,” rejtlied Mr. Wanamaker. “When the times are hard and people are not buying is the very time that advertising should be the heaviest. You want to get the people in to sec what you have to sell, and you must advertise to do that. When the time® are good they will come of their own accord. But I believe in advertising all the time. We never stop advertising.” “You use the newspapers almost altogether for advertising do you not?” “Yes; I have tried all kinds, but 1 think newspaper advertising is by i'ar the best.

I used to spend a great deaJ of money in posters and bills, but I have given, up that long ago.” * “Can you see any immediate results from such advertising,” 1 asked. “I should think so,” replied Mr. Wanamaker. “If you will come over here or to our New York store some morning when we have advertised a job lot of bicycle® or of some other things and look at the long line of people who are standing outside waiting for the doors to open, you will see how the advertisements in the newspapers are read.” “Then advertising Is one of the chief elements of business success, is it not?” “It is one of the elements, but not the chief,” replied the groat merchant. “The chief element is getting what the people want, in keeping your eyes on the parts of the world where new things are made and in giving them the best and the newest things along the lines of their real or fancied needs. My aim is to get the goods. ■ The advertisement is merely to tell the people that I have them. I like an advertisement which merely describes what we have in the store.” “How do you like doing business in New York?” “Very much, indeed. Have you been in my store there?” “No, I have not,” I replied. ABOUT A. T. STEWART. “You ought to visit my store the next time you are in New York,” said Mr. Wanamaker. “It is worth visiting to see the building, if for nothing else. A. T. Stewart was a genius. I have been surprised again and again as I have gone through that building, walking in that dead man’s shoes, to find what a knowledge he had of tho needs of a mercantile establishment. Mr. Stewart put up a building which is today, I believe, far better arranged than any of the modern structures which are being erected. He seemed to know just what was needed.” “Did you know Mr. Stewart,” I asked. "Yes, I met him often when I was a young man. I used to buy goods of him. and I have reason to think that he took a liking to me. One day, I remember, I was in his woolen department buying some stuffs for my store here when he came up to me and asked me if I would be in the store for fifteen minues longer. I replied that I would. He then went away. At the end of fifteen minutes he returned and handed me a slip of paper, saying: “ ‘Young man, I understand you have a mission school in Philadelphia; use that for it.’ “Before I could reply he had left. I looked down at the slip of paper. It was a check for $1,000.” “But A. T. Stewart was not noted for his charities, was he, Mr. Wanamaker?” “He did a great deal of good in secret,” was the reply. “He was always doing something for others. He gave $50,000 to the people who lost by the Chicago fire, and when he died, you know, he was building a million-dollar home for the working girls of New York. He had many charitable plans which w'ere never carried out. After the Franco-German war he sent to France a lot of flour for the starving people of Paris, and during the famine in Ireland he sent a lot of provisions to that country. He was, in fact, a very charitable man.” “How did Mr. Stewart look, Mr. Wanamaker?’ “He was rather slight, and of not over medium height, with fair hair and light blue eyes. He was a man of fine tastes and of much culture.” “Was he a great merchant?” “Yes; I think he was the greatest this country has ever had. Look over his life and you .vi’ 1 thir.k the same. He was the son of an Irish farmer. He first came to the United States as a teacher. When he was twenty-one years old he bought $3,000 worth of Belfast laces and linens and opened a store for the sale of these in New York. He slept at this time in the rear of his shop. He turned his capital over and increased his business until he had what W'as said to be the largest retail store in the world. The building alone cost Mr. Stewart nearly $3,000,000, and its current expenses at the time of his death were about $1,000,000 a year. In his two stores he was at this time doing a business of about $200,000,000 a year. He had, in addition to these, branch houses in different parts of the world, and he was the owner of a number of mills and factories. When he died it was said that he was worth about $40,000,000.” “How about your connection with the Postoftice Department? Have you ever regretted your cifieial career there?” “I can’t say that I have,” replied Mr. Wanamaker. “I don’t like to criticise the postoftice and postal matters, now that I am out of office. The machine is not rightly organized and managed as it should be. The real boss of the department is Congress at the other end of the city on the hill. Congress makes the laws which govern the department, and the postmaster general is dependent on Congress for everything he gets. There are scores of ways in which the business there might be bettered, if the postmaster general had only the power to act. He has not the power, however, and our postal system will never be what it should be under our present conditions of government.” “You were strongly in favor of postal savings banks, were you not?” “Yes,” was the reply, “I thought they would help the poor.” PROSPERITY' IS HERE. “How about the times, Mr. Wanamaker; is business improving?” “Yes, somewhat,” was the reply. “The tariff has opened the gate, and the beneficial effects which are coming from it have been added to by the misfortunes of other nations in having poor crops while we have good ones. As yet, however, there are still many people unemployed. Many of those who have secured work through the better times are saving their money to pay their debts, so we do not yet feel the good times as we shall later on.” “Then you think our prosperity will continue?” ”1 believe we will have a spell of good times. We cannot expect that the crops will always be poor in South America, India and Europe, and this element of our present prosperity may be lacking next year. Still the tariff will start the mills to going and our biggest demand after all is the demand at home.” “Has the tariff already raised the prices of goods?” “Certainly it has,” was the reply. “We received to-day, for instance, an invoice of, steamer rugs. They actually cost us $7.57 apiece. These same rugs we nave been selling hero in the store under the old tariff rate for $7.50. No one would ask us to sell rugs for that price which really cost us 7 cents more, so you see the price must go up. It is the same with other things. The tariff must necessarily make a general rise of .prices.” “Do the people realize that prices are increasing?” “Y'es, indeed they do,” replied the merchant. “There has been no time within recent years when the people have realized just how many cents there are in a dollar so well as they do now. They have learned through the hard times to figure closely, ana they are much more economical than they were before the hard times came.” "Is not that a good thing all around, Mr. Wanamaker?” “I don’t know about that," was the reply. “la order for us to-dia.ve good time®

the people must not only make money but they must also spend it freely. The two things are reciprocal. It is the market that keeps the factories and the stores going, and pays the wages.” BIG AND LITTLE FISH. "How about the department stores, Mr. Wanamaker, and the charge that they are running the smaller merchants out of business ?" "I don’t regard my store as a department store,” was the reply. "A department store, I take it, is an overgrown country store, where you can get a small and cheap assortment of a great many different kinds of articles. You may be able to get a suit of clothes, but you must not be particular as to the cut or the quality of your goods, for you are restricted to what the man has on hand. We have no such store here. This is an aggregation of large stores. We have a book store, for instance, which is as large and complete as any in the country. We aim to keep everything that is published. We have one of the largest shoe stores In the city. It is the same with clothing and other things. ‘‘Now', as to such stores running other people out of business,” Mr. Wanamaker went on, “I have often heard that charge. I don’t believe it is true to anything like the extent that is generally believed. There are more licenses to sell goods given out now' in Philadelphia than ever before, and there are, you know, other stores of the same natu-e as mine in the city. The trouble with the men w’ho have gone out of business is that they have been working upon wrong lines. They were afflicted with the dry rot, and they would have played out sooner or later. Besides, it Is a question of the greatest good to the greatest number. If I can see my way to benefiting thousands by selling goods cheaper and at the same time make a profit, is it my duty to refuse to do so becase some half dozen men will be affected by my competition? Take the Baldwin locomotive w T orks, for instance. At first their large and complete establishment must have hurt the other workers in iron, but by their cheap and excellent locomotives travel has been extended where it could not be extended before. New railways have been built and the great public has been enriched.” FRANK G. CARPENTER. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. It was miny years ago (the summer of ’42), when Indianapolis was a mere handful of souls, that two little boys sat upon a stile, fashioned out of the solid trunks of two immense oak trees, and gazed intently up the road at a cloud of dust which w r as gradually evolving itself into the figures of a horse and rider. * "Yes, sir, she’s a-comin’, Billie,” said the elder of the two boys in an undertone, as he punched tho curly-headed youngster w'ho sat beside him. Billie was six and Basso was eight; both had curly yellow' hair peeping from under their straw hats, and both wore jeans trousers pulled high up over their little white cotton shirts, while the general resemblance of their round, freckled faces proclaimed them brothers. Either of the little fellow's w'ould have laughed had any one toid them that “back East,” where their father’s people lived, boys of their ages wore (in the cities) shoes in summer. Billie and Basso went barefoot from April to October. It was sometimes pretty cold on frosty mornings w'hen they drove the cattle to pasture before daylight, but then they could warm their little feet in the moist, steaming cow tracks where the animals had lain all night, and this was a mere trifle—far preferable to wearing the stiff shoes in which they tramped around the rest of the year. Besides, as it w r as the custom, which guided boys quite as much in ’42 as it does now, they would have scorned to do anything more “sissy-like” than the other boys did. Once a year their father sent a hide to Yandes & Wilkins’s tan yard. There his initials were marked on it; it was tanned and hung on the wall till the proper time for returning it to its owner. After it was sent home an old shoemaker came to the house, measured the feet of all members of the family and made for each the yearly pair of shoes. But it was not yet time for annual pride of possession and stiffness of leather to sieze both soul and sole, so Billie and Basso kicked their toes in freedom against the clumsy, hard oak steps, sun and dust quite forgotten in the attraction of the approaching horse and rider. The latter, a woman in a long, flopping robe, the former a flea-bitten gray. Suddenly the figures were swallowed up by the earth. The boys held their breath. There w-as quite a sudden and uncanny reappearance, and then the tw r o little fellows emitted a long sigh of happiness. The performance so eagerly aw'aited had been witnessed before, and the mystery of that first time (when it had been an almost unrecoverable shock) long ago dispelled, but the fascination remained, and the enjoyment of that long breath drawn at the end of each succeeding performance was indescribably delicious. In ’42 there existed a stream called the Virginia river, taking its name from the avenue through which it ran for a short distance in its lower course. But in its upper windings, at Noble street, it merely crossed the avenue, and there the valley made a deep dip in the otherwise level surface of the Shelbyville road, furnishing, at a certain distance, an optical illusion, one of those delightful pretenses of mystery which all imaginative children love. The rider was “Mother Skanny,” who lived with her son and daughter in comparative seclusion on the banks of Pleasant run. She went to town only at stated intervals to attend to business or the meetings of the new sect of Millerites. It was whispered that she had supernatural power, and many a man sought her advice when his cattle strayed aw'ay or some similar streak of “bad luck” overtook him. That she could direct them to the neighborhood of the lost animals increased belief in her sorcery, her good sense, knowledge of human nature and the habit3 of dumb beasts counting for little, and since her accession to the ranks of the Millerites the glamor of mystery hanging over her was deepened. No one could gainsay that she might be a witch or a prophetess any more than, they knew’ whether she wore her ascension robe every minute. But certain it was that she donned either a white or a black one before setting out for town, and that it flopped with every movement ol’ the flea-bitten gray. The uncertainty as to which robe she would wear furnished each time one of the most pleasing and exciting features of the performance viewed by the watchers on the stile. “They say,” said Basso, after the passing of Mother Skanny and her r.ag, “that the world's cornin’ to an end, and she’s a-goin’ to heaven in that dress, but I’d rather have wings.” It was that very evening that one of the farm “hands” brought home a copy of the Midnight Cry (the organ of the Millerites, published in New' York), and the vivid account it contained of a prophetic vision very rashly indulged in by one of the faithful soon reached the ears of Billie and Basso. Billie was almost too young to be troubled, but Basso’s imagination needed little to inflame It, and many and many a night he dreamed of the "three white angels who carried trumpets and cried ‘Woe! Woe! Woe!’ ” There were many superstitions rife in ’42. and believers in them trieddolill Basso's miud- with -the

significance of dread omens, w’hilo the Millerites, seeing the interest he evinced in the subject, gave him harrowing details of the programme of the day of judgment, as laid out by themselves. He knew he ought not to be frightened, since his father and mother held no such uncomfortable belief. They would never think of wastin? time making ascension robes, and yet they had many warm friends among the Millerites. These two facts seemed almost irreconcilable to his child mind, and he wished secretly that his mother would make a robe, "just for fun.” Billie and he were so little that they could both hang on. to the same one, “in case”—he had heard his father use that expression—just "in case.” Late one afternoon he was gathering eggs in the barn loft, quite oblivious of the outside W'orld as he whistled gayly. Suddenly a red glare lit up the whole place. He turned, but the brilliance of the western skies blinded him. Up above sailed graceful white wings, and Basso knew that only the sheet of flame prevented his seeing tho white-robed angels who "belonged to the wings.” And had he been whistling so loudly that Gabriel had blow'n hiß trumpet in vain? Ho tried to call Billie. Queer how' dry his throat was. It was so quiet, too. Where was everybody? He sank back upon tho hay, feeling suddenly very tired, and closed his eyes. But there followed no rustling of ascension robes or songs triumphant, and presently, peeping through his eyelids, he discovered that the glare had died away, the sun was just sinking behind the cornfields, and his own dear little Kentucky mother was calling, “Basso! Basso!” The Millerites had set the time of their departure from worldly care at midnight, April 1, 1844, and at the appointed hour gathered at the Kinderhook (Note I) in the thick darkness* to fly to realms above. There were hemp stacks all around one of the large fields on the McCarty farm, across the river, and it was the day held by some "fools” sacred to promiscuous joking. So, while the soul-inflamed Millerites solemnly waited, a signal fire (doubtless from one of the unseen angel camps surrounding them) flamed up against the blackness, and then the whole heavenly host seemed to send forth radiance to light them on their way upward. ****** Among the pupils in Mr. Willard’s school for the deaf and dumb In Indianapolis (Note II), in 1847, was Henry Rowles, a boy from Michigan. Some years before he had been lost In the wilds of his own State for several days, and during that time had seen and escaped narrowly a lynx, a wolverine and a bear. He had never recovered from the fright of that terrible ex- ( perience, and w’ould go long distances to avoid a strip of woods. So it was with terror that he fond his father had decided to take charge of a farm lying just north of w’hat is now’ Clifford avenue, for there, across the road, lay a dense, dark forest (now Woodruff Place), in which all sorts of wild beasts were probably waiting to spring upon him. But his pitiful and strenuous, though silent, objections had no effect except to prevail upon his friend Basso to stay with them the first night spent in their new home. Basso w’as now twelve, Henry’s own age, and felt for him the deepest sympathy. True, the Millerites had long ago disbanded, but he had never forgotten that fright, and would even now sometimes wake up in the night in a cold perspiration from having dreamed it all over again. It w'as autumn. The days were growing very short, and before cupper was over candles had to be lighted in the kitchen. Mrs. Rowles had made some delicious ginger bread in the shape of animals, and, perhaps unfortunately, to Basso’s share had fallen a horse, while Henry’s cake was certainly a bear. These they were allowed to take into “the other house,” as in those days the sitting room across the open hall was called, ar.d by the huge fireplace at the base of the "cat and clay” chimney (Note III) the two boys sat, eating with miserly care, crumb by crumb, those wonderful animals, who could conjure up the flea-bitten gray, the Millerites and the wild beasts of Michigan. The silence was rudely broken by a horrible, hideous noise, like the wail of a thousand lost souls. Basso glanced sharply around, then ran to the door and peered into the darkness. With his quick wit the deaf mut9 felt something unusual had happened, and joined Basso as the latter stepped out into the chill night air. There came another thundering roar and groan. Surely Henry must hear that uncanny noise. But he heard nothing, and saw only the unmistakable terror in Basso’s face. Across the road lay that awful woods, wherein must be concealed a lair of demons. They alone could emit such blood-freezing sounds. But nearer still, fortunately, in the silence which ensued, Basso could hear Mr. Rowles at the corn crib. Mrs. Rowles had been settling things a little more carefully in the miik house than she had before been able to, that first busy day in the new place. Now she opened,the door and looked out. By the flickering light of the candle she held Henry could see his mother, and pulled Basso toward her. "What was that noise?” she asked, In startled tones. "I don’t know. I’m going over to the crib to ask Mr. Rowles.” Mrs. Rowles and Henry followed. Mr. Rowles thought he had heard something; ‘‘but this here corn makes such an everlastin’ racket I couldn’t tell what it was,” he said. "Well, you just listen now,” commanded Basso. As if to illustrate the remark, a series of short, sharp, but powerful, hoots rent the air. "That’s an aow'l,” said Mr. Rowles. "No, ’tisn’t,” said his wife; "you never heard an owl like that.” “That’s so,” said tho man, with a puzzled shake of the head. There was a wilder, more unearthly how’i and demoniacal roar. The deaf mute looked from one face to another, and his hand crept to his father's arm in pathetic eloquence of his fear. But presently, as the strange disturbances ceased, they all went to the log bouse and talked over the unusual occurrence until bedtime. Neither of the boys slept much that night. Os course, it mignt be a strangfe wild beast, Basso thought, and again it might boa warning of the time or judgment, and he preferred not to shut bis eyes till after midnight. Next morning, as the boy walked homeward, feeling freer and happier with every step he took, he met his older brother Major', riding the old white pony. "Did you hear a queer noise last night, Major?’ was Basso’s first inquiry. "Seemed 's if it came right out of that woods.” pointing back at them. "Os course.” This with the fine and cheerful air that became one of superior knowledge. "Don’t you know what that was?” The younger boy shook his head. “You knew they were building a railroad, didn’t you?” Basso nodded. “Well, that was Charlie Ferry blowing his locomotive at the end ol the Madison line—as far’s they’ve built now, just b< low the curve in McCarty’s farm (Note IV.) They'll be in the city next week, and when that track is laid to town they’re going to have a big celebration. They’re counting on people coming in from all over the State, and they 'say there’ll be the finest time we ever saw, and a crowd of forty thousand!” RILKY M. FLETCHER. Note I.—The "Kinderhook” was a triangular piece of ground between Virginia avenue, Alabama and Maryland streets. Note ll.—Mr. Willard’s school for the deaf and dumb was the first Institution of the kind in the West Note lII.—A “cat and clay” chimney was one built on the outside of the house, made of sticks and filled in with clay mixed with straw or moss and chaff. This same mixture. applied to the interstices of the log walls of houses, was called "chinkin’ ami daubin’.” Note IV.—Near where Dean’s pump factory now stands*

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THE VOICE OF THE PULPIT ■ ♦ ESTHER EULOGIZED AS POSSESSING RAKE WOMANLY OVALITIES. I • A Short Sermon by the Rev. 1,. T>. Temple, D. IL, Pnstor of the First flnptit Church, Bruttlehoro, Yt. • ♦ So Esther arose and stood before the king.—Esther viii, 4. Ours is a better age than Esther’s. It Is an age of education, philanthropy and moral progress. Esther was adapted to her age and position, but she had also some very exceptional qualities which make her an enduring type of the girl for the times. The girl for the times knows how to manage a man. The two sexes were made to help each other. Neither is complete in Itself. Much injustice and suffering has been occasioned by the stronger sex and endured by the weaker. The chief problem of woman during all history has been to manage man. Esther solved this problem beautifully. If we may believe that Ahasuerus was none other than the well-known Xerxes we shall appreciate her position. He was one of the most arbitrary and wdllful of mortals. Once when half-drunk he had ordered Vashti, Esther’s predecessor as queen, to come and entertain a company of boozy magnates, and because she refused he granted himself an easy divorce. It is told that during his Invasion of Greece, when a storm destroyed the pontoon bridge which he had built over the Hellespont, he angrily ordered fetters thrown upon the channel and three hundred lashes to be administered to the rebellious element. No one could manage him like Queen Esther. It chanced he had granted permission to one Haman to exterminate the Jew’s of Persia. In Esther’s veins was the heroic blood of tho Hebrew Miriam, Deborah and Jael. She said to herself, "God helping me. my people shall not die.” You will see If you read this beautiful and thrilling story of Esther how it was that, by grace, sweetness and tact, she had won favor of all, and especially of the King. One day Xerxes said: “Esther, what would you like?” She replied: “Come to a banquet to-morrow.” She fed him well and he asked again: “Esther, what would you like?” Still she answered: "Come to a banquet again to-morrow.” Things became interesting, tho King’s curiosity was stimulated and he said: “To the half of my kingdom, Esther, you can have what you want.” Then with a grand pathos spoke the Hebrew girl: “My life and my people’s, for we are doomed to perish.” The anger of the Persian monarch rose against tho enemies of Esther as against the sea when it destroyed his bridge, and he cried: “Who has put you in peril?” Esther had only to say, “This wicked Haman,” and the man’s doom was pronounced. "Let him be hanged.” It is just possible some of the men of to-day are somewhat conceited and selfwilled, and if the girl for the times is to have her way as the wife of one of them, she will learn of Esther how to rule the unruly sex; for prudence, earnestness and gracious ways win confidence and arouse generosity. The girl for the times knows how to manage herself. Note the career of this simple orphan Jewess. One day there comes an opportunity for advancement entirely in keeping with the moral standards of her age and country. The monarch wishes a wife in place of the offending Vashti. The beautiful girls of Persia are each given a chance to win the King’s attachment. There w'as much red tape about the introduction. A year had to be spent in preparation under the oversight of the King’s officer. Esther, modest, unselfish, sweettempered. wins the esteem and favor of the tyrannical superintendent. She had amazing adaptability. Other girls preferred requests for things not provided by the King* officer, but Esther made the best of what was given her and asked for nothing. We do not know what her arts were, but when the time came she won the King as she had won his officer, and he set the crown upon her head as his queen. She had no one to recommend, encourage or instruct her. But she knew how to take care of herself. The girl that knows this is the girl for the times. It is more than half of life. It is choosing right companions, making useful friends and establishing credit for amiable and trustworthy qualities. The girl for the times is equally able to adorn a cottage or a palace. Esther w’as reared In the house of her cousin, Mordecai, a man of modest rank. She was the light and life of it. She was no doubt skilled in all the work of woman. Heiress of the wisdom of David and Solomon, she knew that gentleness was the fulfilling of the law. She would have made a good wife for a tradesman. She would have kept his house with diligence and brought up her children In the fear of the Lord. Fitted for a humble station, she was fitted for any. When the King learns to know her he decides quickly: “This girl shall be queen.” Hitherto her name had been Hadassah—in English, Myrtle—but Xerxes named her anew for the planet Venus, In Persian, Esther, the star. It was a well chosen name, for she shone In tho palace as she had done in her quiet Jewish home. The girl for the times fits herself for any station and makes the most of any sphere. The girl for the times is patriotic. The noblest women of every age have been lovers of race and country. I think of Deborah, who, beautiful as the Queen of Scots, with the faith of Luther and the generalship of Washington, struck from Israel the fetters of twenty years’ oppression; of Boadicea, Queen of Britain, at the head of thousands of warriors, falling upon tho arrogant and cruel Romans and avenging the wrongs of her people in the destruction of the Italian camp at London; of Joan of Arc, the girl for the times in France’s hour of peril, who routed the enemies of the realm in three short months. In her hour of personal triumph, Esther, Queen of Xerxes, did not forget her old friends nor her father’s race. It was their peril which strengthened her purpose to acquire Influence over the King. Thrilling moment It was when at length he said: “Your petition shall be granted even to the half of my kingdom." Esther, hero is your opportunity. You have been poor. Ask for a realm In which you can reign supreme. But Esther takes no counsel of personal interests. Patriotism glows In her veins. She prefers “Jerusalem above her chief joy.” She has been led to the kingdom by a divine hand for just this opportunity. Then "Esther arose and stood before the King” and pleaded for her nation. Gloriously did she prove herself the girl for the times. To this day the Hebrew race annually keeps the teast of Purim In memory of her patriotic act, and of what, with God’s help. It accomplished. The girl for the time* is womanly. Womanhood, If genuine, Is always sympathetic, women of Jerusalem provided vinegar and myrth to deaden the agony of crucified men on Calvary. Grace Darling and Ida Lewi*, strong of limb and tender of heart, pulled their lifeboats through hissing storms to gave Imperiled lives, and the splendor of