Jasper County Democrat, Volume 21, Number 98, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 March 1919 — Jackson Township, Newton County [ARTICLE]

Jackson Township, Newton County

By SIDNEY SCHANLAUB

They are here —wild geese—vanguard arrived last Sunday. It seems to be all fettled that we are to have an early spring. While seed corn is reported generally as being good, don’t take any chances. Test it! The days are getting longer. John Mahara, the school hack driver, covers part of ’his route now in daylight. It looks as though the influenza epidemic had Anally worn itself out in this locality. No new eases have been reported lately. In their effort to "get” Wilson it is quite evident that Republican leaders do not intend to let the little matter of truth stand in the way. Mrs. Clarence Blankenbaker and son Kenneth, both of Whom have been under the doctor’s care within the last week, are much better at this writing. A lie may possess the vigor of youth and travel fast, but kindly keep it under your lid that old Pop Truth with his gout and lumbago,still holds the belt as the champion long distance sprinter. It would hardly be correct to say that March came in like a lion, and by the same token, believers ih weather signs may take comfort in the fact that neither did it come in like a lamb exactly. The first thing we know some ambitious newspaper will be boosting a. Fourth of July celebration. And that reminds us that the big war will give the Fourth of July orator something new to talk about. The robin arrived in our midst last week, but the bluebird, it would seem; has been delayed somewhere on the road; anyway he has failed to put in. an appearance as yet. However, to offset his absence, wild ducks have appeared, it is said. Logs, like leaves on the strand, bestow the landscape around Daniel Schanlaub's sawmill, but Daniel has been lacking in the little matter of a competent sawyer. He thinks he has at last found his man, however, and may begin* sawing this week. '

Mail are earning their money these days and tnen some. The dirt-roads are simply bad, with no prospects of their getting better before settled weather. -On most of the routes carriers have discarded the automobile for the horse and wagon. , \yhen we see the house pup heading for the quaken asp grove with a porcelain nest egg in his mouth we cannot help wondering if' there is ?uch a thing as dog profanity; and if there isn’t how does php believe his overcharged mind when he discovers the true inwardness of the fraud? Spring moving is about over.

Oscar Rafferty has moved from near Pilot Grove to a farm near Iroquois, 111,, Mrs. Mollie Clark to her recently »urebased farm near Thayer, Daniel Achanlaub to hie farm In north Jackson township, and Noah Miller to the dwelling loft vacant by Sohanlaub’s removal. It would seem that real estate values have not suffered to speak of by reaaon of the war. For Instance, Daniel Schanlaub sold the old homestead—<4B acres—a few days ago for $225 an acre, and by this time is addressing cold, sarcastic remarks to himself no doubt for selling even at that price. In the early days movers, westward bound, had a disagreeable habit of swearing by all the gods that they wouldn’t fiike a section of Jackson township’s prairie land as a precious gift. The land above mentioned formed a part of the landscape so ruthlessly spurned at the time. Nid Barker, Newton county’s mighty hunter, called on us the other day to exchange personal adventures and hairbreadth escapes back in the days when Beaver Lake and the adjacent country abounded in game and varmints. Nid has a fine bunch of dogs this winter and he has reaped quite i. harvest of "kale” hunting furred animals, not infrequently raking in as much as SIOO in one week. He tells us that in the last mo-nth or so he has received for good muskrat hides $2.70; for skunk $lO to sl2; and as uiuch as sls for prime mink hides. When one considers old-time prices, when rat hides sold at 10 cents each, skunk at 50 cents and mink at $1 to $3, this seems about the same as stealing acorns from a blind sow.

Backward, turn backward, 0 Time in your flight—back to the little log meetin- house, just for tonight. I vant to hear a plain, oldfashioned, desk-thumping sermon again, I want to hear Uncle Jeb Foxworthy’s hearty "Amen.” I’m honing to hear Aunt Nancy Heminway sing “Jesus My Lord’’—to hear Jebonadab Hacberry testify to the goodness of God. I’d admire to hear the old carcu’t rider promulgate the Word, to see those sinners trooping home to the Lord. I’d enjoy seeing Grandma Lecllder up front in her cane-bottom chair; I’m r’arin’ to hear Deacon Applegate work off that stereotyped prayer—Oh, I’d love to see another old-time Pentecostal down-pour, with the little imeetin’-house jammed from pulpit to door. There were other joys there that I’m longing again to confront —I 10-ng again to mix up in a hand-shaking stunt — I want to hold hands again with Cy Hackett’s Ruth, the belle of the deestrict, the joy of my youth-~ Oh, Father Time, nothing seems right. Take me back—back to the little log meetin’ house Jyst for tonight.

Had the "Mound Builders” —evidence of whose one-time presence in this county is still to be seen—left something in the way of history to explain their origin, their habits and customs, it would have saved a lot of useless speculation on the part of the /world in general and savants in particular. What mystery do these earth-heaps afford? What a field for conjecture. Who can view these monuments without being confronted with an array of unanswerable questions? When were these mounds built? By what race of people was the undertaking accamiplished? What were their purpose? What changes in t'heir form and size have taken place? These and many other questions in connection with the Mound Builders naturally suggest themselves to the mind, but, here the opinion of the savant is little better than that of the day laborer. No tradition, no chronicle, no record, not even the faintest and unsatisfactory legend have the Mound Builders left behind that would tend to aid in penetrating the dark mystery surrounding their origin and customs. To the aborigine, as to ns, these mounds are a profound enigma. While this country was yet the home of his -fathers the Indian stood before these venerable heaps and gazed and wondered, and turned away.

When the round-shouldered farmer sees by the papers how easy it is to get rich from the sale oi butter at present prices he laughs with a great noise and tumult —he just can’t help it. Why? Because he knows that the increase in the price of dairy foods has kept steady pace with the increase in the price of dairy products, leaving the actual net profit from a pound of butter —as la usually the case —so small that you could put it in your eye, so to speak. Neither is the poultry yard a veritable gold mine, as the average city dweller seems to think. As a wealth producer the American hen has been over-estimated. She has her good points, we’ll admit, but she is far froim being the “Ophir” or “Golconda” that the newspapers would have us believe. As a rule, the hen is erratic for six months in the year and just the same during the other six months. She may lay daily from March to June and then just as likely not she will seek the seclusion of a brush pile and spend the rest of the season in a vain attempt to hatch out a door knob. But whether idle or at work, whether egg .prices are high or low, the American hen keeps right on eating high-priced corn and oats. As a farmer said to us recently, “Counting everything in connection with the poultry business-, they’s blame little into it.” The precoclousness of the American youth is a never ending wonder. One day last week a 10-year-old lad .asked us to recite something that would be suitable for him to speak in school —something that would sort of take with the audience. • Being ever ready to assist youth in matters of this kind we shifted our quid and tore into “Old Ironsides’’ in a way and manner which, we were confident, would win /or us long and laud applause. But before we had reached the fend of the first verse the boy uttered a howl of derision, following it with

the one word, “Chestnut.” We tried “Kit Carson’s Ride” and he howled even louder anft said, “Old stuff.” Tennyson’s “Lady of Bhalott” caused him to assume a bored air, “Betsy and I Are Out” met with, a look of pity, and when we shifted to the “Wretflf of the Hesperus” he held up his hand and told us to “Cut It out”—that he was looking for something that had occurred subsequent to the flood. He then condescendingly informed us that such "rot” would likely cause a riot in the schools of the ■present day and age. Later he held forth at length on various juibjects, Including "Kinship Of Natibns,” "First abode of the Aryans,” the "Semitic Family” and the “Turanian Group,” a discussion in which we took part to the extent largely of such inane exclamations as "dew tell!’’ “I want to know!” etc. The other day, while on our way to Morocco, we came across a man tinkering an automobile of the vintage of a by-gone age, and which at the time stood sort of whopperjawed across the road and dhowed a decided list to starboard. The man said that he had been over to Beaverville, 'and his actions forged a chain of corroborative evidence to this effect which wae perfect in every link. For a minute or so he ignored our presence completely and them straightened up and inquired: “How Per to (hie) Rene’leer?” Upon being told, ne spit a slobbering corkscrew stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of Chicago and said, "Gee.” “Whas er matter with that dam ol’ (hie) pile of Junk, huh?” was his next Inquiry, pointing a wabbly finger at the rust-incrusted relic. We hinted that ijmssibly the propeller had fouled with the straw carrier, but he shook his bead negatively, and knowing our weakness in the matter of automobiles in> general and this brand in particular, we offered npthing further. “Got a nail?” asked the disciple of Bacchus, “Yes, but it’s at home in the tool house; would a hard lead pencil do?”

"Hell, no,” said Bacchus. At this juncture the iman placed his foot against a rod and surged ' forward mightily, with the result! the rod broke square off, and fro order to save himself from a fall, the man gathered us to his bosom and embraced us lovingly. Gaining a foothold once more, he scrutinized the break with owl-like sobriety and then remarked in a deep bass: “Raccon’s tail is ringed all around, Possum’s tall is bare— Piddle-de-di-do-dum.” "Alius my luck,” he volunteered after the echoes of his singing had subsided. “Darn the stinkin’, rotten, gold darn luck anyway. How fer to (hie) Rens’leer?” He was again informed and again he said “Gee.” ■ Presently he took another look at the broken part, and then., as though it was an after thought, and in a still deeper bass, he announced that: “A rabbit he hainß got no tail a-tall, Dtddle-de-di-do-dum.” When we drove away “Bacchus” was requesting a Crafty looking farmer to name the very lowest price that likely would be required

by said agriculturist for hauling hkni back to town.