Pike County Democrat, Volume 24, Number 23, Petersburg, Pike County, 20 October 1893 — Page 7

$lir gifef Cfltmtg f r mac rat ' M- McC. STOOPS, Editor aad PropriatoxPETERSBL'KG. - - INDIANA. THAT PICKET FENCE. .How Samuel Clark’s Mother Fina.’ly Got It Built.

It was a warm May morning, and the sun beat down with ardent suggestions of summer on the gray head of Samuel Clark as he bent, laboriously, painting his new pieket fence. The pickets slowly assumed a dark red colot under the trembling motion of his withered hands. As a fence, it was beautiful, straight and even, cutting the greensward beyond into narrow parallelograms. The dark red was a rest to the eye in all that wilderness of green. Samuel Clark paused from time to time and looked at it, sighed, and shook his head. It was plain that he worked under protest. “’Tain’t no use,” he mumbled. “Might jest as well have built this fence years ago.” He rubbed the paint in with vicious vigor, partly to relieve his feelings, and partly for the economy of the paint. “If a man can’t run his own farm, he might as well be dead— or a woman—a heap sight better be a woman. There ain’t no way but their way. I ought to have guv up long ago.” j. His knowledge of women was not wide, but deep—deep and varied. One small woman, in her short eighty years, had held for him all the mysteries of her sex. She had died ere time had exhausted her infinite variety, and he, plodding away in the hot sun, felt her coercive presence very near. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. His face wore a harassed, badgered look. Then, just to be sure that she still slept peacefully, that she was not listening to his complaining on the sly, he turned and sent a furtive glance down the straight row of apple trees to where the orchard ended in a tangle. Beyond, a gentle knoll brought the village graveyard into sight. There stood her headstone, tall and white, just as she had planned it years before. Samuel had looked at it approvingly after she was laid to rest, and declared it “a mighty pretty stone—so sort of peaceful.” Yet now, not three weeks later, as he eyed it furtively, there was notapproval in his glance. The sunlight was shining warm upon it, and flickering shadow leaves were caressing the grave. Oddly enough, it looked to his dimmed eyes like herself, with her old shawl pinned around her head, all bleached to a dazzling whiteness. “She needn’t be a-peekin’,” he mumbled; “I'm a-buildin’of it!” He turned again to the fence, working more slowly, for he was weary; more steadily, for he was watched. When had he not been watched? From the day his young stepmother vowed-to do her duty to “Little Samuel,” the sense of being taken care of had weighed upon him. > He was a queer combination of authority and servility, obstinacy and docility. ‘‘Samuel is all right,” his stepmother was wont to say, “if you come up on his deef side.” For Samuel had a “deef side,” and it was on that side that his servility and docility developed themselves. Authority and (obstinacy had been born in him. He had not been born deaf, but it came to him when he was quite young, with its meek attendant handmaids. It had made him shy with strangers, halting in his speech, slow in his thought. And Mary Clark, bora to protect and rule, put her motherly arms around him, and protected and ruled him ever after: while Samuel, born ‘to rule and to be served, chafed against her authority, but his dumb lips could not voice his protesting thoughts. It took him so long to frame and utter them that they were drowned ere half finished in a torrent of exclamations, among which was always the one he never had a chance to answer: “Well, Sam-u-4?l, what are you driving at, anyway?” He wished he were totally deaf and dumb and done with it. One sweet and daring plan— to run away—had brightened the monotony of his existence, but the great world of silence had always beaten him back. They were both old when Samuel’s father died and left two-thirds of his .small property to Samuel and the other third to her. She was not averse to this arrangement. She was willing that Samuel should have everything, if only she might manage it for him. She was anxious to labor, to slave for him. All she asked for herself was to be followed, to be obeyed implicitly—for the follower's own good. And lo! the day after his father’s funeral, Samuel, the grave, the silent, began to assert himself—and that with long-latent stubborness. He had long ago learned from his father that man is divinely constituted to be obeyed and served.

riven ms mother, mat wonaeriul, capable woman, had obeyed her husband. Samuel commenced the new regime by taking his father’s place at the head of the table before she told him to. He also put two spoonfuls of sugar in his tea, instead of one, as was his custom, and absolutely refused to eat bread with his sauce. Moreover, he met her look of astonishment with a defiant grunt, and his little gray eyes gleamed in a,way that showed he had made up his mind. He would be boss in his own house. He took sauce twice. beei Mary Clark felt the foundations sinking beneath her feet. She, too, had m counting on a season of freedom. She scraped some butter from the piece of bread she was eating, and remarked, as if thinking aloud (she had to think very loud in order to make Samuel hear): “The old gather together, the young scatter. Father’s gone an’ ther’s ho telltn’ when all he’s slaved an’ dug for all these years will be gone too—scattered to the four winds of the earth!” She sighed, and, with eyes fixed prophetically, gazed on the wasteful

ness of the future. Samuel, the spendthrift, stirred his tea. The death of his father had turned certain speculations of his into absolute knowledge. He had lived in a quiet corner of the world, where nature for the most part took her course unmodified by seemingly alien forces. Severe storms and pestilence were unknown there. Death was usually as t*he dropping of the sear and yellow leat The blade, the ear, the full corn in the ear, and the harvest. It was thus that the monarchs of the forest fell and the young saplings stood. It was thus that his father had died. It was thus that she would go at last, and he would be free. Evidently she had not thought of this. He had best remind her. “Life’s unsartin. All got to die some time. Best be ready,” he said, in a cheerful tone. This was the beginning of a long struggle. Each occupied ground that was impregnable, and a retreat to their fortresses ended most of their skirmishes for the time. Then Samuel Clark reminded his mother, scarcely ten years his senior, that she was old, and mu3t soon die, and then he would wear his best clothes, rent his farm and board in town or travel. Her only defense was: “Yes, Sam-u-el, but 1 hope to be able to lay you away first. You know. Sam-u-el, you’re deef, and you’d be cheated out of your eye teeth. I hope to be spared as long as you need me, Sam-u-el. ” And Samuel, who knew what this kindness and care meant, was not softened. He knew that it was true— his deafness and the ability of the world to cheat him. Dearer than himself was his little property, which he so longed to enjoy inhis own way. He felt powerless, yet impotently wielded his one weapon. “All got to die. The old die first.” In his thought the flower of youth was yet to bloom for him. ./ As to the picket fence, it seemed to Samuel that she had always wanted it. Given a passion for flowers, a firm faith in the -economic value of chickens, and np picket fence, the result is easily imagined. Mary Clark’s husband had considered flowers a sinful waste of land and labor. What were door-yards for. if not for the chickens? And

Samuel felt that in order to be the man of the house he must clothe himself as with armor in the opinions of his father, lie could not remember the summer when flowers had not bloomed around the door; and, that they might do se, his youth had passed in a wearying chase after chickens. When he had’become old enough to go to the fields, generations of brindled dogs had worn out their lives in the same occupation. Like his father, Samuel abhorred a blossom that was not harbinger of an edible fruit Apple blossoms were beautiful to him because of the apples to follow. They were more beautiful after the petals had fallen, revealing thie round green ball at their base which dispelled the fear of a barren pistil. But he had grown accustomed to the flowers in the dooryard. He would ha ve missed them had they failed to appear. He would have missed those vigilant skirmishers, the chickens, had they been limited to a space of their own. He would have missed the persistent reminders of his mother that “If that there fence was only built—1” and his own unfailing antagonism. Perhaps he would not have liked to miss any of these things. “I tell you what it is, Sam-u-el Clark, all I want is to get you away long enough, and I’ll build that fence myself.” she said at last, desperately. “No tellin’ what may happen before next spring,” the old man crowed, his bleared eyes lighting. “Perhaps you won't be here by that time. Best be ready. All got to die. The old first” “Well, Sam-u-el. if I dtp first, 1 don’t expect no picket fence. T.hete won’t be any money to build it w ith, or any farm to build it on, inside a year. You know you’re deef, Sam-u-el. They'll cheat you out of everything you’ve got” “I’ll risk it! D-it! I’ll risk it,” yelled Samuel, with unusual vim. But tins time he had gone too far. “I will have that fence, so there now, Samuel Clark!” and that very afternoon she drove to town and ordered thennaterials. Thetnext morning they came and a man to make of them a fence. Samuel eye! the work Bullenly. His mother was silent but triumphant As Mary Clark stood in the shade of her apple tree giving her orders as to the distance apart and depth of post holes, a figure emerged from the house, and, when she caught sight of it, was jogging rapidly, down the road. It was a thin figure, not very tall. Its clothes hung loosely about it f Its hat was jammed down to its ears, and its gray hair flaunted out beneath the rim. Across i.ts shoulders was a stout stick, at the aft end of which dangled a bundle. She had gone too far also. Samuel was running away. “Humph!” sniffed Mary Clark; “I bet that picket fence he’ll be back to dinner.” But he was not At three o’clock she ordered the work stopped, hitched her horse to the buggy, and started after him. She found him ten miles down the road, seated on a rail at the corner of a fence.

VSam-u-el! No answer. He was staring: straight before him with dull eyes. Perhaps he did not hear her. His face showed white through the streaks of dust So lonely and hopeless he looked, it touched her to the heart , Little Samuel! Had she not vowed to take care of him? She climbed out of the buggy and went to him. She touched his hand. “Why, Sam-u-el, you’re cold! Get right jp the buggy and come home!” “1 won’t!” said Samuel, without looking at her. “Well,, you will—if I have to carry you!” She took hold of him. He seized the fence behind him and faced her witti blazing eyes. “You let go o’ me!” he yelled. Then he began to cry, and make terrible choking noises, as thb dumb do. ' ‘Sam-u-el. Sam u-el! what’s the matter with you? Have you plumb gone mad?” She shook; him helplessly. “He’s stopped workin’ on the fence.

I won’t bntld it if yon don’t want it— there, now!” Samuel’s sobs became leas frequent; then they ceased. “Now, Sam-u-el, I want yon to get right ip an’ come home. You’ll have a fever first thing you know ont in this hot sun—an’ cold as yon be, when you ought to be bailin’.” “Don’t care if I am. Might jest as well, if I can’t be boss on my own farm!’’ lie said it slowly, distinctly, pushing the words out Once he would be heard, if he never spoke again. And Mary Clark, finding herself overreached, gave in with very good grace. She. who always drove, insisted upon bis dris ing home. Perhaps it shortened her life, for the next spring she died. A few straggling flowers from last year's scattered seeds made a sickly showing against the brick walk The chickens scratched at them viciously, and then sunned themselves on the doorstep unmolested. Samuel missed her more than he would have dreamed

puasi uic. “1 wisht I had a-built her that fence. ’Twouldn't hare cost much,” he said, pretending to himself that he had opposed her in the cause of economy. Yet this mild regret could not lessen the sense of joy and elation that took possession of him. The feeling that he was at last really his own master grew stronger. But he was still eery shy of outsiders. _ lie wanted to rent his farm and be free to go where he would, but he eras afraid'to do business with anyone: afraid he would commit himself before witnesses to conditions which he never heard—as she had so many times told him he would do. One morning Mr. Dever, a lawyer from Newark, who had always attended to their few legal affairs, stopped in front of the house and beckoned to Samuel. “Good morning, Samuel,” he shouted. “I just happened to think when I saw you of a little paper down at my office. Sorry I was away three weeks ago. They say she went, easy. Eh? Yes. Glad to see you looking so well, Samuel. Well, that little paper, guess I’ll have to read it to you. It’s a will Mrs. Clark had me draw up. It isn’t of any importance, but she wanted it done. Come down some time this week, and we’ll look it over.” This was news to Samuel. A vague misgiving possessed him. A will? Why had she made a will? He felt as if a hand had reached out from eternity to rob him of his few years of freedom. That very afternoon he called on Lawyer Dever, and listened to the reading of the will: “ ‘I do give and bequeath all my property, both personal and real, to wit, the northwest third (including dwelling house and barns) of the northeast quarter of section thirty, range twenty, “ownship five, in> Litchfield county, 0., known as “Clark Farm;” also two thousand dollars stock in Newark national bank—to my beloved son, Samuel Clark; providing, he does build and maintain during his life a picket fence four feet high and painted red, to inclose the dooryard and clothes lot lying west of the apple orchard; the same to be completed one month after’ my death. “ ‘Providing this is not built at the time specified, and maintained in a neat and respectable manner, I do leave all my property, both personal and real, all moneys, bonds and stocks, to St. Mary’s orphan asylum of Newark— except ten dollars, which I leave to my beloved son Samuel, with which to purchase a little remembrance of me.’ “There, that’s the wilL Sorry I’ve given you so little time to build the fence. Guess there ain’t no hurry, if we don’t say anything about it. What was the matter with the old lady,-any-way? Why didn’t she bnild the fence herself?” But Samuel was staring helplessly at the wall. At last, “Will that hold?” he asked, tremulously. “Why, you don’t mind building the old lady a fence, do you? Of course it will hold, unless you break it, and 1 doubt if you could work that. You’re not her own son, you see. 1 And if you could it would cost—well, the amount of the property. The St. Mary’s would fight you. of course. Confound you, Samuel, why don’t you want to build the fence?” Samuel arose. Words—rebellious, protesting words—strove thick and fast for utterance on his stiff tongue. Their import was that he could never be boss in his own house, lord of his own person, keeper of his own soul. As he shambled out, his newly-acquired youth fell from him and left him older than he had ever been, more withered, with a trembling which was new to him. Always, always, in one way and another, she had had her own way. It always would be so. The living might be thwarted, but the dead— The will was certainly a great shock to his mind. When he reached home he went quietly to his room. Soon after he might have been seen stealthily leaving the house and pattering down the road, his stick and bundle over his shoulder.

Again he was running away. It was late when he reached the fence corner, and long he waited, but no one came to coax him. At last, when the moon rose, he realized that no one would ever come; that the house might stand there for years and no one would know he had gone. He reached home in the gray of the morning and crept in, cowed, beaten. It was afternoon when the painting was finished. Samuel Clark turned, brush and paint and pail in hand, and looked through the rows of apple trees to her grave. It was in shadow now. “If there’s anything you want, jest toot for it, and I’ll get it with pleasure. You needn’t be a-standin’ there so meek like. You’ve had your own way." A fragrant breeze drifted through Hie apple leaves, and their disturbed shadow upon her seemed like the swaying of those marble garments. But she did not turn around, as fearedt he could not see her face. “I never said nothin’," he muttered, and with head bowed, as to a yoke, he tottered into the house.—L. B. Bridgman, in Harper’s Weekly.

USEFUL AND SUGGESTIVE. —Fried Cucumbers.—Peel nice large encumbers and cut them in thin slices; dip in beaten egg, then in cracker crumbs and fry a nice brown on both sides in hot lard.—Prairie Farmer. —Do not blacken and begrime your hands by polishing the stove barehanded. Instead utilize the paper bags in which your groceries come by covering your hands with them. Then uso the blacking brush without fear of soiling either skin or nails. —A Pot Hag.—I make a cloth to wash pots and frying-pans in this manner; I take a half-worn piece of Osnaburg eight inches square, after it is doubled, and sew on it, securely, a dozen discarded pants' buttons. It is almost as good as a wire dish cloth.—Rural New Yorker. —Baked Corn.—Cover the bottom of a pudding dish with corn, then a|ld a layer of crackers rolled and adasalt, pepper (a little cayenne also) and butter. ' Alternate layers of corn and cracker dust until dish is half full; pour over it a pint of cream or milk. Bake slowly and brown.—Womankind. —Stuffed Crabs.—Boil two or three dozen crabs, remove the white meat. Take equal amount of soaked bread crumbs, then two eggs, ofae tablespoon of butter, lktrsley, salt, pepper and a little flour. Mix altogether with the iish and fill well cleansed,, shells; then sprinkle with grated bread crumbs or toast crumbs to keep in the moisture and bake.—Detroit Free Press. ^ —To make a Rich Rice Pudding.— Take a quart of milk, six ounces of rice finely powdered, six eggs, half the whites and a pound of butter, put in the rice when the milk boils, let it boil some time and then put in the sugar and butter,. stir it well and whefl cold put in the eggs and bake it in a dish; it must be well-baked. Put at ihe bottom of the dish some orange marmalade and marrow.—Good Housekeeping. —Ilam Toast.—Take cold toiled ham. grate it with a coarse grater, or mince it very fine, mix it with cream and beaten yolk of egg, enough for a little gravy, and let it simmer until thoroughly hot, or while preparing the toast. Make slices of nice toast, butter slightly, dip quickly into hot salted water, or milk, and lay them on a hot flat dish. Spread the- ham mince over the toast, and serve hot, in a covered dish, as it cools quickly.—Housekeeper.

—lepper mangoes.—vui oui me steins of large green peppers with a sharp knife, and pour hot brine over them. After standing two days, rinse in clear water and fill with the following mixture: Four tablespoonfuls of grated horseradish root, three of white mustard seed, one teaspoonful of ginger and one of brown sugar. Replace the ( stems, tie them in with strong thread, pack closely in a stone jar and cover with hot vinegar. At the expiration of two days drain off the vinegar and reheat it. Press down with a plate and weight Mangoes of muskmelon are made in the same manner by cutting a slit from the side of the melon and removing the seeds with a spoon handle. Pepper corns, celery seed, chopped onion and cabbage, nutmeg, mace and salad oil may be added to the filling li one chooses.—II. Y. Observer. WISE WORDS ABOUT WRINKLES. It Is Much Easier to Avoid Having Them Than It Is to Cure Them. “Don’t try to cure wrinkles—avoid them,” was the practical bit of advice that dropped from the lips of a woman. The speaker passed on with her friend, but left behind one who meditated long and thoughtfully upon what she had just heard. It is true wrinkles are in themselves*incurable save by the gent’e process of nature known as “fattening up,” which so often comes at the age when wrinkles commence. As long a: matter is supreme wrinkles will be subjugated. But there is a good deal in avoiding the telltale lines. Care of the eyes and facial repose are the two things which count. 'Chewing-gum is responsible for many wrinkles in American faces, as is emotion. People who make faces for a living, such as clowns and comedians: people wha squint and people who laugh and chatter perpetually, all have prematurely worn and haggard faces Therefore the great preventive is rest. As for the eyes, just notice how much earlier in life the weak-eyed woman wrinkles than does her , keen-vii ioned sister. Trying to face the intensity of ihe sunlight or to sew oi read by artificial light strains the eyes until the facial muscles as well as the optic nerves are taxed to the utmost. In winter the refracted sunlight from the snow or ice under foot, and in summer the blinding glare from the sunshine on the sea and the beach, are influences as prolific as the unrelenting hand of time. Society women are the only class of weak-eyed people who take proper care of their faces. They save their eyes. If they are too vain to wear glasses they don’t try to read under trying circumstances. In pnblie places the fashionables make little use of opera-glasses and no use of librettos, programmes, catalogues and prayerbooks. You will never catch the society beauty burning holes in her eyea to study a stage artist But the staple article is a fan, and women who know its real value aside from t-hfe decorative eat sleep, read and live with it in hand. It i6 this sort of protection for the eyes that retards the accumulation of wrinkles and preserves the sight The early adoption ahd continuous use of broad-rimmed hats for weak-eyed girls is a timely preventive of untimely crow’s toes and wrinkles.—Chicago Post

New Black Gowns. For black dresses are plain satins cl •ich yet soft (quality, the bengaline* with cords in clusters giving bayadere stripes, serpentine brocades partly of satin, partly of armure weaving, the pin-dotted satins, and the rich peau drt soie, a most refined fabric woven like satin, but without its great luste'. Most of the buyer* who have just returned from Europe sajr “black is the fashionable color,” but it must bo enlivened with magenta, with Jacqueminot, or canard blue, as already noted. —Harper's Bazar.

PKOFKSHOXAl* CAKIIS, ~~ unssrir Physician and Surgeon PKTKKSBUKG, HSIX UrOfBce In Bank buildtn^. first floor. Wlfl >** lottiul at office day or ni^bt. GEO. B. ASHBY, ATTORNEY AT LAW PETERSBURG, IND. Prompt Attention Giren to all Bttrfnon MS~0fflce over Barrett & Son's store.

Francis B. Poset. Dewitt Q. Chappell. I'OSEY A CHAPPELL. Attorneys at Law, PSTXBSBUKU, IXD WIH practice In all the courts. Special attention given to all business. A Notary Public constantly In the office. JSTOffice*On first floor Bank Building. E. A. Ely. 8. G. Day*xpo*t ELY & DAVENPORT, LAWYERS, Petersburg, Im By-Office over J. R. Adams St Bop’s drag *t» re. 1 rompt atteutiou given to all bual ; It.'S. r.. 1*. Richard sos. A. H. Tati or RICHARDSON Jb TAYLOR, Attorneys at Law, Petersburg, I nil Prompt attention given to all business. A Public constantly in the office. Office ;• Carpenter Building, Eighth and Main. DENTISTRY. W. II. ST0NEC1PHER,

Surgeon Dentist, PETERSBURG, IND. ufllce*in rooms6 and 7 in Carpenter Build* ins'. Operations first-class. All work warranto Anesthetics used for painless exuuction of teeth. NELSON STONE, D. V. S., PETERSBURG, IND. Owing to long practice and the possession of a fine library and case of instruments, Mr. Stone is well prepared to treat all Diseases of Hprses and Cattle STJCCKSSIT'XJLLY. Be also keeps on hand a stock of Condition Powders and Liniment, which he sells at reasonable prices. Office Over J. B. Young & Co.’s Store. Machinist AND Blacksmith. I am prepared to do the beat of work, wltk •etl8taction guaranteed in all kind* of Black* taiithing. Also loving and Reaping Machines Repaired in the beet or workmanship 1 employ none bat flrst-olass workmen. Do not go from home to get your work, but cell 01 me at my shop ou Main Street, Petenbur) Indiana. CHAS. VEECK. TRUSTEES* NOTICES OF OFFICE DAY. NOTICE is hereby given that I will attend to the duties of the office of trustee of Clay township at home on EVERY MONDAY. All persons who have business with the office will take notice that I will attend to business ou uo other day. M. M. GOWEgu Trustee. NOTICE is hereby given to all parties interested that I will attend at my office in Stendal, EVERY STAURDAY. To transact business connected with the office of trustee of Lockhart township* All persons having business with s.iid office will please take notice. J. 8. BARRETT. Trustee. NOTICE is hereby given to all parties concerned .that I will b** :it invresidence. EVERY TUESDAY. To attend to business c onnected with the office of Trustee of Monroe township. GEORGE GRIM. Trustee. N OT1CE is hereby given that 1 will be at my residence EVERY THURSDAY To attend to business connected with the office of Trustee of Logan township. apy-Positively uo business transacted except on office days. SILAS KIRK. Trustee. NOTICE I9 hereby given to ail parties concerned that I a ill attend at my residence EVERY MONDAY To transact business connected with the office of Trustee of Madison township. j®"Posi.tively no business transacted except office days JAMES RUMBLE,^Trustee. TkTOTIC is here >y ^iven to all persons interested that 1 will attend in my office in Velpen, IfVERY FRIDAY, To transact business connected with the office of Trustee of Marion township. All persons having business- with said office will please take notice. W. F. BROCK, Trustee. N OTICK Is hereby give, to all parsons eonuerneC that 1 will attend at soy oflioe EVEBY DAY To tracrast business connected with tbs OSes ol Trustee ot Jefferson township. B. W. HARMS, Trusts^

C^m/ ^3 OHIO 4 MISSiSSIPlTMIlMY. EAST & WEST. 4 Solid, Dally Trains to rTwInilt l, 4 Solid Doily Tralna to St, Loalr, 9 Solid Dolly Tralna to LooIotIUc. Connecting Id Union Depots, with trot J* of oil. Ilnesfor the iaat, West, North and South. Through Vestibule Bay loaches, P it leans Parlor Cara aud Bleepers on all Tnilna. DOUBLE DAILY LINE Pillmii Tintlbtle BuEM S|et|mi (Nl St. Lo uis and Sto lons on U ill Lino —to- '"r. • Washington, Baltimore, Philadel* phamd Nei York, without change,

liR'rm From VAWratTW K*J Accommodation H 5TF.lt No. t. l>ay Express •% '16P.lt No. 6. Nlgtt Express N 1157A.M. No. 6 Fast Express 1 05. A. It WMT WillP FOBa yWiHIlie- MI Ho. 7 Aceo'nmodatlqif'-__J 12- 2 F. M. ■ ----- .ss if — It: 57 P. M l'.iSSA M. ]« A at No. 1 Day Kxpress No. 3 Nigh:. Kipm No. 5 Fact Express No. 3 N i*h ^Kxpressv cpress - Home Seekers MovinG WesT Should lake this line iui It has less.change# af cares and better accommodatla os than other routes. Our Vestibule cars are a luxury, wlileh map be enjoyed by all. without extra charge*. an* every attention Is give s our passengers to make their Journey pleasant and comfortable. Our agents will take pleasure. In answering Inquiries In regard to rotes fbr botlt passengers and freight. time, routes and connections; call at your bomn If desired and attend to snipping freight by the most direct routes and cheecklngbfggage.wlthcutchargs for any assistance they? may be able to render. f i H. E.—Passengers sh*uld purchase ticket} before entering, the car, i, as the ticket rate t ten cents leas thnn thwtratn rate. Con.mu i ileal Ions addressed to t se under signed wll. receve proujpt attentloti, THOMAS ^ONAHtTE. Ticket Agent O. A M. it’y Washington rad C. Q. Jones, District Passengei Agt. Vincenne* Ind. J.F.BAF;NARDg W B.SHATTUC Pres, and M’gr. Cle’t. Pa*a A* C1NC1NNATTI emit . F. R. SHANDY. rimiunn FAMILY GROUP AMO RESIDENCES A SPEC/ALTr. All kinds of out-door wyrk, por« traits, copying and enlargiugf rong nldj pictures &c. Birthday and surprise party groups a specialty. Satisfaction guaranteed or no pay. Give me a call, or address F. A. SHANDY, Petersburg Indiana M, J. BRADY, Photographer, Peiersbu 'g, Indiana, Will make yea Photos in sty number it most reasonable rates. —^-ltemero’ ev that as wcrk Is war* ranted. If roj war t PORTRAITS enlarge* call and nave the work done‘rig it. A11 work guaranteed to stand the test ol. ages and still be »» bright as when taken from the gallery. Studio equipments of standard modem makes. Our motto—“The Best Is A a Good As Any At d Always the Cheapest. ” M. J. BRADY. Gallery is Elserf a Building, upstairs, os Main, betwe* a Sixth and Seventh > Monuments Best material, most reasonable prices.salIsfactlon guaranteed at Petersburg h»r ble IVsrfcs J. A B. YOUNG Proprletoi* THIS PAPEB IS ©N Mi IN CHICAGO AMD HEW YORK AT 'THE OFFICES < >F L I. KELLOGG 1EWSPIPER CO.

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