Jasper County Democrat, Volume 23, Number 75, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 December 1920 — The WEEK'S DOINGS [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The WEEK'S DOINGS

JACKSON TWP.. NEWTON CO. Corn husking in Jackson township Is practically over for this season. Hunters report that rabbits are scarcer than has been true of any previous winter for some time. " Up to the present writing the weather has been a great rough feed saver. So far horses and cattle have about rustled their living and are looking uncommonly well at that. At some of the public sales in this part of Newton county timothy hay, we are told, sold as low a 8 twelve dollars a ton. Last winter hay would have brought double that price and more. A. D. Swain, carrier on route 2 out of Morocco for fifteen years, has been retired, having reached the age limit, 65 years. During his fifteen years as carrier Mr. Swain, it is estimated, traveled 100,000 miles. t The author of that soul-stirring effusion, “Some day, some Sweet day,” probably got his inspiration from a study of the history of that proposed Btone road between Jack Erown’s corner and the township line north.

Daniel Schanlaub has purchased a new engine for his saw mill and the same arrived upon the scene last Tuesday. Now stand aside while Daniel gives us a life-size illustration of a strong man converting the mighty oak into merchantable lumber at so much per. Come to think it over in the quietude of our lonely shack, that advice of old Mother Means in the Hoosier Schoolmaster: “Git a-plenty while you’re gittin’, ” wouldn’t be bad if people generally could be brought to understand and accept the true meaning of the word “a-plenty.” Since our last communication to The Democrat, death has claimed two of our citizens, Marcus Bolley and Parmer Zoborosky. The former was 73 years old and was quite well known,in this county, while the latter was a comparatively young man, probably about 40 years old. “We put up a good fight,” says a local Republican paper. Yes, “we” did. If fighting with the devilish ingenuity of a Sioux Indian, with the treacherous cunning of a Hun and

with the indecency of a hydrophobic skunk is a “good fight,” then “we" sure put up a nice clean scrap. Miss Mary Jane Phillips is recovering from a recent operation for the removal of her tonsils and a general run-down condition, due to tonsil trouble. This sickness is felt most keenly by Mary Jane, as she had planned to finish her high school studies this winter and which now may possibly be delayed another year. A person unacquainted with the temperance record of Honest Abe, the carrier, might easily get the mistaken idea that he is toting a flask of “White Mule” these days. The way that man turns corners on two wheels and tears down the line at a make-way-for-liberty rate of speed is surely wonderful, considering Abe’s advanced age and the foul condition of old “Lizzie’s” spark plug. As a collector of relics our friend Babcock of Qoodland is not the whole cheese quite. While in Morocco last week Dr. Recher showed us a number of interesting curios picked up by him during his travels and for the possession of which Babcock doubtless would gladly go hungry. In the doctor’s collection there is a calf yoke used in Vermont in 1670, the head of a mountain sheep and the rib of a whale, which is a whale of a rib, we’ll say to the world. There was also a nice little bunch of ancient cutlery —dirks, machetes, swords, etc., and Indian paraphernalia galore. Fully fifty years and more have passed since this government began the work of wiping out the festive moonshiner of the southland, but today the shiner aforesaid is still manufacturing “nose paint” at the old stand, with every promise of lasting another half century. It is true, the government has harrassed the moonshiner not a little during these years, and the latter has retaliated by killing off a few hundred revenue officers, first and last, but otherwise conditions remain about the same. Taking these facts as a basis from which to figure, any person of ordi nary intelligence should have no difficulty in ascertaining about how many years will have elapsed before the whole United States has reached that condition spoken of as “bone dry.” i Clarence Blankenbaker, who owns a little 200-acre farm and who, in spite of our prayers and protestations, persists in voting the Republican ticket, was in.Kentland the other day and while there it occurred to him to step over to the Temple of Justice and learn the amount of his taxes. When the treasurer informed him that he would have to cough to the extent of $570, Clarence turned from the peephole in the partition and addressed a few remarks to the world in general and which we are omitting here because the editor probably would regard them as not quite available for publication. Goodrich and his “best legislature” certainly have made life for the taxpayers a hideous nightmare with twin colts, but the Republicans would have it.

Spellbinder rest, thy warfare’s oe’r, dream of gaping crowds no more, dream not of the gilded banner, dream not of the Hereford feast; sleep the sleep that knows no waking—for a coupla years at least. No more you’ll maul the opposition or view with fear or point with pride, no more the marble halls will echo to the frenzied howl of free born men as you cavort and rant and rave and swear by all the gods that this here thing must cease —not for a coupla years at least. No more you will pat old Jira Jones upon his hump and promise him three-dollar wheat, the drop in oats, which grieved you so you cried, will stir your righteous

soul no more, nor will you care a tinker’s damn if farmers west and east survive or perish, sink or swim —not for a coupla years at least. There lies before us a copy of a farm paper, and in its column of “household hints” we observe that a good pie can be made from mashed potatoes. Possibly, but It doesn't sound human, and if we are nicked out of our portion of this brand of pie we’lJ endeavor to bear up and not create a scene. But, while on the subject of pie, permit us to re mark that after entwining ourself around pies In sundry climes and of various styles of architecture, we are of the opinion that there is no pie quite equal to the old sheep soryel pie of by-gone days. The Borrel pie wasn't handsome, but Jta plainness was more than overbalanced by its many other good points. It appealed to a heavily-mortgaged farmer like the testimony of a young man’s best girl at a February revival, or like the appeal of a spellbinder In a close district. We deeply deplore the fact that housewives have relegated the old sorrel pie to the shades of obscurity.

Too many people shorten their lives through useless worry. They worry over everything and they keep it up until the nervous system gives away under the added strain and they die untimely deaths. Why be a fool and worry when so many people are willing and anxious to take the Job off your hands? Mother Nature never worries, but she has a habit of getting there Just the same. She may move slowly and at times not at all, seemingly, but. we repeat It, she gets there! Then, son or daughter, don’t- indulge in useless worry—don’t try to do It all In a day. Just keep up an honest, steady gait and you will reach the goal of success, we'll venture to say, far ahead of those who dissipate their strength by fuming and fretting. Bear in mind the words of the poet: “For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, seem here no painful inch to gain, far back through creeks and inlets making, comes silent, flooding in, the main.”

Just now the Republican press is wildly exhorting the dear people to economize, to learn to eat less food and of a poorer quality, to get back to the simple life. Oh, what a change, my brethren, what a light-ning-like change, and so early in the game, too. All through the recent campaign the people were told that in the event of Republican success at the polls times would be mora prosperous even than they have been in the last eight years under Democratic rule, which would be going some even the most hide-bound Republican will have to admit. Many a poor dupe who was wheedled into voting the Republican ticket last November is no doubt already awakening to the fact that this “simple life” promises to be nothing more than another name for a return to Republican hard times, especially for the agricultural class. That for this class it means old-time Republican prices—cheap grain, cheap hogs and cattle, while, under pretense of protecting us from foreign competition, Republican tariff-fixers will smooth the way for our “infant industries” to resurrect the venerable “gold brick” swindle and resume the business of robbing the masses right and left and openly and above board, as in the “good old days.” Coimtry editors, as a rule, are forever and eternally harping on the well-known fact that advertising pays, while forgetting, seemingly, that a little of the same might be profitably applied to their own business. Nothing like blowing your own horn, in a business way, and we know of no industry that will stand as much of this horn exercise without giving way at the knees or sagging in the back as the newspaper business. During the fourteen years immediately subsequent to the flood, vyhen we published the old Truth Teller in Morocco, along about the beginning of the glad new year we would indite a communication to ourself and sign it “Vox Populi.” In this letter we would make Vox unburden his immortal soul and fesa right up that the old “rag” was the best ever, a towering monument to our untiring and unselfish efforts in the field of Journalistic endeavor, to our unparalleled business sagacity and to our matchless insight into current problems involving men and measures. Then we’d slip the typo a pair of vari colored pants of the previous year’s vintage and a fragrand broad-stripe sweater, in payment for services rendered, go out and borrow three dollars with which to salvage our bundle of ready-prints, and once more the sanctum-sanctor-um would become vocal with the scream and roar of the old “Washington,” mingled with the heart-felt and deep-throated profanity of the lastest hobo printer —the activities of a promising new year were on.