Jasper County Democrat, Volume 18, Number 98, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 March 1916 — THE PASSING OF THE LIVERY STABLE. [ARTICLE]

THE PASSING OF THE LIVERY STABLE.

The other day this newspaper told about the closing of another livery, stable. We can’t help feeling a tinge 1 of regret at the passing of this oldtime institution. And fast die, stables are going. There are only a few left in the county, > The envied proprietors, the hostlers, the stable boys, all genial souls— God bless them!—are well nigh gone; and in their place, even in the I small towns, has come a new tribe of garage owners, mechanics and speed-loving--—-youngsters- .sporting 1 liauffeuric titles. But the garage of the new generation, with' all its fleeting roadsters, its impressive prices, its imposing Union ines, and its all-important voiing mechanics sputtering a strange jargon of cylinders, carburetters, and eshaust.-i, will never occupy a place in the affections of people as did the livery stable with its aceomniomlat- • '■g ci ev. and its stalls full of noble brutes. (/beery perhaps are some of the garage outfits, but iii the atmos--1 h- re of gasoline and Goodrich and money and mechanism there is larkiug life, old-fashioned cordiality. Aye. sometimes when we see sirij»Ivng chauffeurs idling around a garage we feel sorry for them. These chaps by mere years miss tho livery stable experience They will never know. ■ . '' hat a big man In tin- community was the livery stable proprietor! (■ad. lie was a walking encyclopedia"! lie knew as-mticli about district polihes as did the editor; the slickest trav- ling no n from the city couldn’t ont-iongue him! ft was to him that jwe came when the lights and shadows beset Our way. We negotiated with the gentleman the first time w. {took HER out riding. How big. but how bashful we felt! Of course, we j didn’t marry her. Bill Smith got 1 her. Later, when - our affections j "’ere more feolid and not fleeting, when we met the right girl, we I iigain consulted with the lord of the j stable. And he knew—wr were , thankful he gave us a slow mare. He knew enough to furnish a hoss that didn’t care whether hands held tlie reins or not. Finally, more reliant, however, we'braved his threshold when we came to arrange for the hacks for the wedding--—and a year or so after for the babe’s first ride to the church. , If he Was the jocular friend when tlie path of life was pleasant, he was. none the less sympathetic when he put the sombre trappings, on the black team when we accompanied a cherished one over the hill to the cemetery. He and liis company gave service and without the present-day artificiality that accompanies highpowered machines and the pricking tick of the taximeter. Friend that he was, villain eve accounted him when he let out all his rigs at election time in the halycon days. But the other party had the,

bigger campaign fund and we can hardly blame the honest old rogrue for earning a few extra dollars, the hated treasure of the gold standard. * * . * Our memory, indeed, would be recreant if it did not go back a little further and give a word for the haymow, the refuge of the “gang” in stormy weather, the livery office with its cheery stove —the sanctum where we found shelter from the cold. There, unmindful of the chatter of the veterinarian, the lovers of horseflesh, the gossipers—they of the rural haunts, who put up their teams for the day—we spent many a wintry Saturday hour devouring the all-too-sbort tomes of Horatio Alger, jr., and the latest issue of “Diamond Dick Weekly.” Why the brilliancy of Shaw and Twain, the sadness of Hugo and Dickens, the beauty of Scott and Irving pall before the memory of those reading exploits. They offer no relish as exquisite as the literary hours in the stable office. An exploring spell of reminiscences beckons back all the detail—“ Pete,” the peg-legged handy man, not much of a mark in the world, but who loved horses, the proprietor’s diamond stud, the rickety chairs, the smoky lantern, the auction sale posters, the proud colt, the rat traps, the greased harness, and that dear old horsy stink, but Go, old livery stable with your roomy rigs and dashing steeds. Most of your proprietor clan long since have donned high hats and gone on the long, last drive; your rollicking company—and loafers—are scattered with the winds, some here, some there, some on the other shore; your bays and grays are mostly where the greensward never fades. Go, but with assurance no garage, with all its glitter, will ever be the haven of welcome and wealth such as you possessed.—Lake County Times.