Pike County Democrat, Volume 28, Number 29, Petersburg, Pike County, 26 November 1897 — Page 3

UST seven years ago to-day Sweet Alice said that she For better or for worse would elve Her winsome self to me.

Ah. well! It seems an ate ato That we stood proudly there. And people said they'd seldom see A better -favored pair. But bitter days and bftter tear* Have come to me since then; And 1, alas! can never be A careless boy again! Far out upon the hillside stands A slender stQne that tells The story of my life and where My alter ego dwells. But stay! There falls upon my ears Sweet sounds of baby glee. And here another Alice comes To lavish love on roe! 60 let me render thanks to-day. Although I am bereft: The Lord did give and take away. But see what He has left! —Cleveland Leader. Iaanksgiving.

WO WEEKS from to-morrow is Thanksgiving. Let us go to Or ley to spend it.” **Go to Orley! Why. Agatha, you must be crazy!” Agatha Clair pushed back her unfinished cup of coffee, a decided

frown on her smooth, watte loretneua. “Indeed. Eugene,”—there w as a note of irritation in her voice—“I fait to see .why a woman should be pronounced crazy because she expresses a desire to visit her home after an absence of a year and a half.” “Home!"— he echoed the word a little reproachfully, his eyes wandering around the neat dining-room. “This is home, Agatha. The first real one we have either of us had for years." The color deepened on the wife’s ■cheeks. Her husband’s words were true; her girlhood’s home, with an uncle in a distant city, had not been a happy one. This uncle had been too proud to lot his sister's child earn her bread, and as there had been more pride than love or money in the home Agatha had realized the bitterness of the bread of dependence. The cozy farmhouse, shared with the quiet man who had won her love, had seemed a haven of peace. Used all her life to the bustle of a city and to a home crowded with gay young life; Agatha began, after a time, to long for a change. Just now a let ter from her cousins, telling of concerts, lectures and parties, made the uneventful winter stretching before her look very dreary. She sat toying with her spoon until her husband had finished his breakfast. Then she looked up, a coaxing light in her soft, gray eyes. “Why can’t we go. Eugene?" "Can’t afford it," he replied, a little ungraciously, for her persistence annoyed him. “Besides, the railroad fare, there’d be a lot of new clothes wanted and—" “C!othe<s!" Agatha was angry now. “Ileally, I didn’t suppose you knew that a woman ever had to have clothes. I’ve seen nothing since 1 was your wife to show any such know ledge on your part. I’m tired of this scrimping and saving and stagnating.” There was a pause. Husband and wife confronted each other, both with flushed faces ami hurried breath. “And I’m—" he began, hotly. Then, moved by some memory, he stopped. A moment later he cried out; “Ah. Agatha. I never dreamed that wou felt that way! It cost so much for us to start, and the crops have been poor. I thought you understood—” and breaking off abruptly he strode out through the kitchen on his w ay to the barn.

as me arrwoe ui a EinnwOTa cwatury story. Agatha should have sat down and burst into tears. But there ■was little of the heroic about her. She was only an ordinary woman whose temper was aroused, although not to such an extent that she could entirely forget the usual chord of pain in her husband's voice. However, she went about her work, setting down her pretty china with an unnecessary amount of energy, and saying to herself: “I think it downright mean in Eugene. I wonder how I shall ever endure this long, lonesome winter! No place to go. and no one to see." The matter was not referred to again. But there was a cloud between husband and wifo—the first since their wedding day. The third day after the scene at the breakfast table. Mrs. Ferris, called and asked Agatha to accompany her to a meeting of the sewing society. The young wife eagerly accepted the invitation. It would enable her to forget, for a little time, at least. Agatha went rapidly about her toilet. Her guest was seated in the diningroom. and by leaving the door open conversation could be carried on dur2\g the heir brushing and dress ing"Where are you going to spend Thanksgiving?** Mrs. Ferris asked, while she studied the arrangement of

the violetntrewn sllkolene drape on the shell near her, secretly wondering if she could not imitate it. “Thanksgiving!** Agatha repeated, with a hard, little laugh. “There is to be nosuchday in my calendar. I can't think ot one thing that I am thankful for, unless it is that this dull life will soon kill me." “Why, Mrs. Clair! I supposed that you were thankful that you and Mr. Clair were still living in the borderland of bliss that lovers imagine will last.” There was a moment’s silence. Agatha was busy fastening the collar of her pretty green serge. Outside the window, opened to admit the crisp autumnal air, a white-fleed man leaned against the house, the golden straw with which he had been covering the pansy bed blowing unheeded about his feet. “1 am thankful that we have merged into the land of common sense. If we had done it a year and a half ago life might still mean something for me. Now 1 see I have made a mistake.” Ten minutes later Eugene Clair came forward to put his wife and Mrs. Ferris into the waiting carriage, lie replied courteously to the question of his neighbor, and as they were starting, said: “Good-by, Agatha.” But Agatha was too busy covering her j dress with the robe to do more than nod in reply. The sun, red and angry-looking, was j just disappearing behind the forestcrowned hills west of Agatha’s home when Mrs. Ferris left her at the gate. The wind wailed loudly around the house, and the young wife shivered as I she hurried up the path. “I hope Eugene will have a fire.” she said to herself, “lie always remembers such things.” For once he had not remeipbered. The house was empty and cold. On the ! table lay a letter addressed: “Agatha."

wife from the one whose discontent had driven him away. Thanksgiving came. The sky was gray and lowering, while the east wind brought, ever and anon, a gust of snow. The train would reach the village a mile away at 11. Before that time Agatha's arrangements were completed. In the oven a turkey was browning, vegetables stood in readiness for I the stove. The table was bright in its best array of linen, china and silver. There were quivering molds of amber jelly, a dish of oranges garnished with green leaves, and at Eugene's plate, a ; cluster of pink carnations. The whole house was bright and cozy. Agatha, in the gtay dress with scarlet trimmings that Eugene liked so well, was watehing at the window. Everything was done. Think as best she could there was not one task re- j maining undone with which she could busy herself. Nothing to do but watch that dreary road which wound around j the hill. if he did not come—Agatha's breath ; came in short, quick gasps. She had said she had nothing to be thankful for. ! Ah. could she go back to that day she j would ask no choicer boon of Heaven. | Hark! the train was whistling at the j station. It would not be long now. j She resolutely turned away from her ! watch, making a tour of the house aqd i keeping away from the window for ten j minutes. He was not yet in sight. But why give these details? Those I who have kept a like vigil will under- i stand, and to no others can words tell ! the story. When the clock chimed 12, i Agatha threw herself on the lounge and j the tears had their own way. “Not coming buck,” she cried. “0, I Eugene! How can I live without you!” j She did not hear the slow step on the i porch. At the opening of the door she j raised her head. “Eugene! Thank God, Eugene!” He did not understand, but he tool j

HUSBAND AND WIFE CONFRONTED EACH OTHER.

Chilled by a nameless terror she carried it to the window and, by the dim light, read: '•Dear Agatha: I- have a chance to go with Fowler to Chicago with a carload of horses. Must start at once and be gone a week. Harkness Is coming in the morning to see about Fannie. Tell him he can have her for $l«i. He will pay you. Take the money and go to Orley, you can get your new clothis after you get there. Stay as long as you like and enjoy yourself. I'll get albng nicely, and if Fowler makes me a good offer 1 will go directly to the lumber camps for the Winter. Ever yours. "EUGENE." "Sold Nannie!” Agatha {rasped. “Eugc ne gone for a week and 1 am to tell Harkness that he can have Nannie!” Nannie was a beautiful black colt. Agatha knew how proud her husband was of the intelligent animal's beauty and grace. She had often heard him declare that money could not buy her. And Ildrkncss was noted for his cruelty, the last person into whose hands Eugene would be willing to place Nannie. Then that mention of the lumber camps and the hints that he might not return. What did it all mean? Was it because of her words that morning that he was trying so hard to secure money? When the hired man. who lived in the tenant house, brought in the milk. Agatha learned that Eugene had made arrangement in case he did not come back. “He asked me if Margie and me would sleep here,” Tom concluded. “Said it would only be a few day's as you was goin’ away. Margie, she'll take the milk then.” Instead of sleeping that night. Agatha Clair thought. One result of her thinking was that when Harkness came in the morning she told him he could not have Nannie. “I hardly erpected Uene would part with her," the man said, good-humored-ly. “Would another ten be any inducement?” Agatha shook her brown head decidedly. “Nothing you can offer will induce us to let Nannie go.” Fowler was to return Thanksgiving morning. Would Eugene come with him, or would he go north? There was no way of communicating with him. There was nothing Agatha could do. Nay. there was one thing—she could pray. Sometimes she would fall upon her knees and assail Heaven with prayers that were demands. Again the peace that had filled her heart when a child at her mother's side came to her, and she trustingly asked that Eugene might come home to find a different

oift the whole story. “But your visit to Orlov—** he hesi- I tated a little over the words, “you bet- j ter go. Agatha, now we have the money. ] It is dull here for you.’* Her hand w as laid softly on his lips. “We haven’t the money. I did not let .Vannie fro. I knew you loved her and was only parting: with her to gratify my foolish w hims. As to its being dull, j you are here. dear. I am so glad to be j with you onee more. I know, for the first time in my life, what Thanksgiving really means!”—Hope Daring, in j Good Housekeeping. SOMETHING TO HE THANKFl'L FOR.

What’* the use to borrow trouble When we know it doesn’t pay? So let’s give thanks that we escaped On last Thanksgiving Day, We Tkaak Thee, Lora. For evil things which make us love the good; For all temptations which we have with* stood. For sine abhorred; For bitter pains that gave us sweet surcease; For life, for death, and Death’s treat daughter—Peace— We thank Thee. Lord! —Eve Brodlique. in Chicago Ttmee-Herald. On Desert Air. Winthrop—If Freddie is going to spend Thanksgiving with hia grand* mother, perhaps you’d better buy him that tin horn. Mrs. Winthrop—I spoke to him about it. my dear, but he said it would do no good to him, as grandmother is deaf.— N. Y. World.

SERMON OF THE FUTURE Rev. Dr. Talmage Deeoribea Its Probable Characteristics. It nut be Full of a Lhlac Christ, and Will Coataln No indocile Iccbolcalltlce—It Will be Short, Popular and Powerful. Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, ia the following sermon, presents a theme that will be found full of interest to Christian workers. The text is. Go tlfou. and preach the kingdom of God.— Luke lx., ax The Gospel is to be regnant over all hearts, all circles, all governments, and all lands. The. luegdom of God spoken of in the text is to be a universal kingdom, and just as wide as that will be thef realm sermouic. “Go thou and preach the kingdom of God.” We hear a great deal iu these days about the coming man, and the coming woman, and the coming time. Some one ought to tell us of the coming sermon. It is a simple fact that everybody knows that most of the sermons of to-day do not reach the world. The vast majority of- the people of our great cities never euter church. The sermon of to-dav carries along with it the deadwoodof all ages. Hundreds of years ago it was decided what a sermon ought to be, and it is the at-1 tempt of mauy theological seminaries ! and doctors of divinity to hew the ] modern pulpit utterances into the same | old-style proportions. Booksellers will j tell you they dispose of a hundred his- j tories, a hundred novels, a hundred j poems, to one book of sermons. What I is the matter? Some say the age is the J worst of all ages. It is better. Some J say religion is wearing out, wheu it is ; weariug in. Some say there are so j many despise the Christian religion. I | answer, there never was an age wheu | there were so many Christians, or so j many friends of Christianity as this i age has—our age; as to others a liuu- I dred to one. What is the matter, then? ’ It is simply because our sermon of today is not suited to the age. It is the ! canal boat lu an age of locomotive aud I electric telegraph. The sermon will have to be shaken out of the old grooves, or it will not be heard and it will not be read.

Before the world is eonvevieu. me sermon will have to be converted. You might as well go into a modern Sedau or Gettysburg with bows aud arrows instead of rides aud bombshells aud parks of artillery as to expect to conquer the world for God by the old styles of sermouology. Jonathan Edwards preached the sermous best adapted to the age in which he lived, but if those sermons were preached now they would divide an audience into two classes—those sound asleep and those wanting to go home. But there is a cotniug sermon—who will preach it 1 have no idea; iu what i what part of the earth it will be born ! 1 have no idea; in which denomination of Christiaus it will be delivered. I can not guess. That coming sermou may be boru in the country meeting house ou the banks of the St. Lawreuee, or the Oregon, or the Ohio, or the Tombigbee, or the Alabama. The person ! who shall deliver it may this moment lie in a cradle under the shadow of the { Sierra Nevadas, or in a New England farm house, or amid the rice fields of J southern savannas. Or this moment t there may be some young man iu some of our theological seminaries, in the junior, or middle, or senior class, shapiug that weapon of power. Or there may be coming some new baptism of the Holy Ghost on the churches, so that some of us who now stand in the watch towers of Ziou, waking to the realization of our present inefficiency, may preach it ourselves. That coming sermon mav not be do years off. And let us pray God that its arrival may be hastened, while 1 1 announce to you what I think will i be the chief characteristics of that sermou when it does arrive; aud 1 waut to make the remarks appropriate aud ‘ suggestive to all classes of Christian workers. First of all, I remark that that coming sermon-will be full of a living: Christ, iu contradistinction to didactic j technicalities. A sermon may be full j of Christ though hardly mentiouiug j His name, and a sermou may be empty I of Christ while every sentence is repetitious of His titles. The world wants j a living Christ, not a Christ standing at j the head of a formal system of theol- j ogy. but a Christ who meaus pardon 1 and sympathy, and condoleuce and brotherhcKxl and Heaven. A poor • man's Christ. An overworked man's j Christ. An invalid's Christ. A farm- : er’s Christ. A merchant's Christ. An • artisan's Christ An every man's Christ ! A symmetrical and finely-worded i system of theology is well enough for j theological classes, but it has no more j business in a pulpit than have the technical phrases of an anatomist or a j physician, in the sick room of a patient j The world wants help, immediate and : world-uplifting, and it will come! through a sermon in which Christ shall j walk right down into the immortal 1 soul aud take everlasting possession of j it filling it as full of light as is the noonday firmament That sermon of | the future will not deal with men in 1 the threadbare illustrations of Jesus ; Christ In that coming sermon there j will be instances of vicarious sacrifices j taken right ont of everyday life, j for there is not a day some-! body is not dying for others. A! the physician, saving his diphtheric ! patient by sacrificing his own life; as j the ship captain, going down with his 1 vessel, while he is getting his passengers into the lifeboat; as the fireman, consuming in the burning building, while he is taking a child ont of a fourth-story window; as last summer the strong swimmer at Long Branch, or Cape May. or Lake George, himself perished trying to rescue the drowning; as the newspaper boy. not long ago, supporting his mother for some years, his invalid mother, when offered by a gentleman 50 cents to get some especial paper, and he got it and I rushed up in his anzisty to deliver it, |

and was crashed under the wheels of the train, and lay on the grass with only strength enough to say: “Oh. what will become of my poor sick mother now?” Oh, in that coming sermon of the Christian church there will be living illustrations taken from everyday life of vicarious suffering—illustrations that will bring to mind the ghastlier of Him who, in the high places of the field and on the cross, fought our battles add wept our griefs and endured our struggles aud died our death. A German sculptor made an image of Christ, and he asked his little child, two years old, who it was, and she said: “That must be some very great man.” The sculptor was displeased with the criticism, so he got another block of marble and chiseled away on it two or three years, and then he brought in his little child, four or five years of age, and he said to her: “Who do you think that is?” She said: “That must be the one who took little children in His arms and blessed them?” Then the sculptor was satisfied. Oh, my friends, what the world wants is not a cold Christ, not an intellectual Christ, not. a severely magisterial Christ, but a loving Christ, spreading out His arms of synifiathy to press the whole world to His loving heart. Paul preached until midnight, and Eutychus got sound asleep, and fell out of a window and broke his neck. Some- would say: “Good for him.” I would rather be sympathetic like Paul, and resuscitate him. That accident is often quoted now in religious circles as a warning against somnolence in church. It is just as much a warning to ministers against prolixity. Eutychus was wrong in his somnolence, but Paul made a mistake nvhen he kept on until midnight. He ought to have stopped at 11 o'clock, and there would have been uo accident. If Paul might have gone ou to too great leugth, let all those of us who are now preachiug the Gospel remember that there is a limit to religious discourse or ought to be. and that in our time we have uo apostolic power or miracles. Napoleon, in an address of seven minutes thrilled his army and thrilled Europe. Christ's sertuou on the mouut —the model sermou—was less than IS minutes long at ordinary mode ol delivery. It is not electricity scattered all over the sky that strike**, but electricity gathered into a thunderbolt aud hurled, and it is not religious truth scattered over, spread out over a vast reach of time, but religious truth projected! iu compact form that hashes light upou the soul aud rives/ its indifference. /

Wheu the coming sermon arrives m this laud and in the Christijgp churchqr the sermon which is to arouse the world and startle the nations aud usher iu the kingdom—it will be a brief sermon. Hear it, all theological students, all ye just entering upon religious work, all ye men aud women who in Sabbath-schools and other departments are toiling for Christ and the salvation of immortals. Brevity! Brevity! But I remark also that the coming sermou of which 1 speak will be a popular sermon. There are those in these times w ho speak of a populas sermon as though there must be something wroug about it. As these critics are dull themselves, the world gets the impression that a sermou is good in proportion as it is stupid. Christ was the most popular preacher the world ever saw, aud considering the small number of the wold's population, lie had the largest audieuces ever gathered. H“ ' never preached any where without ma^- | ing a great sensation. People rushed out in the wilderness to hear Him, reckless of their physical necessities. So great was their anxiety to hear Christ that, taking no food with them, they would have fainted and starved had not Christ performed a miracle and fed them. Why did so mauv people take the truth at Christ's hands? Because ; they all understood it. He illustrated < llis subject by a hen and her chickens, by a bushel measure, by a handful of salt, by a bird's flight and by a lily's aroma. All the people knew what He meant, aud they flocked to Him. Aud wheu the coming sermou of the Christian church appears, it will uot be Prince Ionian, not Kochesterian, not! Andoveriau, not sMiddletoniau, but Olivetic — plain. practical, uuique earnest, comprehensive of all the woes, wants, sins, sorrows aud necessities of an auditory. 2 But when that sermon does come there will be a thousand gleaming scimiters to charge on it. There are so many theological seminaries professors telling young iueu how to preach, themselves not knowing how; and I am told if a young man iu some of our theological seminaries says anything quaint, or thrilling, or unique, faculty and students fly at him. aud set him right, and straighten him out, and smooth him down, and chop him off until he says everything just as everybody else says it. Oh. when the coming sermon of the Christian church ar- | rives, all the churches of Christ in our great cities will be thronged. The j world wants spiritual help. A11 who have buried their dead want comfort. All know themselves to be mortal and to be immortal, and they want to hear about the great future. 1 tell you, my friends, if the people of these great cities who hare had trouble only thought they could get practical and sympathetic help in the Christian church there would not be a street in Washington or New York or Boston which would be passable on the Sabbath day, if there were a church on it; for all the people would press to that asylum of mercy, that great house of comfort and consolation. A mother with a dead babe in her arms came to the god Veda, and asked to have her child restored to life. The god Veda said to her: “You go and get a handful of mustard seed from a house in which there has been no sorrow, and in which there has been no death, and I will restore your child to life.” So the mother went out, and she went from house to house, and from home to home, looking for a place where there had been no sorrow and where there had been no death, bat

site found none. She wont beck to the god Veda, end said: “My mission is e failure; you see I haven’t brought the mustdrd seed; I can’t find a place where there has been no soi» row and no death. “Oh,” says the god Veda, “understand, your sorrows are no worse than the sorrows of others; we all have our griefs and all have our heartbreaks: Laugh, and the world laughs v» fth you; i Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, ** But has trouble enough of its own. But, I remark again, the sermon of the future will be an awakening sermon. From altar-rail to the front doorstep, under that sermon an audience will get up and start for Heaven. There will be in it many a staccato passage. It will not be a lullaby; it will be a battle-charge. Men will drop their sins, for they will feel the hot breath of pursuing retribution on the back of their necks. It will be a sermon sympathetic with all the physical distresses as well as the spiritual distresses of the world. Christ not only preached, but He healed paralysis, and He healed epilepsy, and He healed the dumb and the blind and the ten lepers. That sermon of the future will be an every -day sermon, going right down into every man’s life, and it will teach him how to vote, how to bargain, how to plow, how to do any work he is called to, how to wield a trowel and pen and pencil and yardstick and plane. And it will teach women how to preside over their households and how to educate their children, and how to imitate Miriam and Esther and Vashi, and Euuioe, the mother of Timothy; and Mary, the mother of Christ; and those women who on northern and southern battlefields were mistaken by the wounded for angels of mercy fresh from the throne of God. ^cs, I^have to tell you the sermon of the future will be a reported sermon. If youmave auy idea that printing was invented simply to print secular books, and stenography and phonography were contrived merely to set forth secular ideas you are mistaken. The printing press is to be the great agency of gospel proclamation. It is high time that good men, instead of denouncing the press, employ it to scatter forth the gospel of Jesus Chrisb^JftttTvast majority of people in our cities do not come to ehureh, and uojjiing but the printed sermon ean roach them and call them to pardon amd life and peace and Heaven.

f bo I cau not uuderstaud the nervous* ness of some of my brethren of the ministry. When they see a newspaper man coming in they sa>: “Alas! there is a reporter.” Every added reporter is 1,000 or 50,000, or 200,000 immortal souls added to the auditory. The time will come when all the village, town, and city newspapers will reproduce the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and sermons preached on the Sabbath will reverberate all around^he world; and some by type and some by voice, all nations will be evangelized. The practical bearing of this is upon those who are eugaged in Christian work, not only upon theological students and young ministers, but upon all who preach the Gospel, and that is all of you, if you are doing your duty. Do you ex hort in prayer meeting? lt« short and be spirited. Do you teach iu Bible class? Though you have to study every night, be interesting. Dc. you accost people on the subject of religion iu their homes or in public places? Study adroitness and use common sense. The most graceful, the most beautiful thing- on earth is the religion of Jesus Christ, aud if you awkwardly present it, it is defamation. We must do our work rapidly and we must do it effectively. Soon our time for work will be gone. A dying Christiau took out his watch, and gave it to a friend and said: “Take that watch. 1 have no more use for it; time is ended for me and eternity begins.” Oh, my friends, when our watch has ticked away for us for the last momeut, aud our clock has struck for us the last hour, may it be found we did our work well, that we did it in the very best way; and whether we preached the Gospel iu pulpits, or taught Sabbath classes, or administered to the sick as physicians, or bargained as merchants, or pleaded the law as attorneys, or were busy as artisans, or as husbandmen, or as mechanics, or were like Martha called to give a ibe^il to a hungry Christ, or like ilannauttrmake a coat for a prophet, or like Deborah tc rouse the courage of some timed Barak in the Lord’s conflict, we did our work in such a way that it will stand th« test of the judgment. And in the long procession of the redeemed that march round the throne, may it be found there are many there brought tc God through our instumentality and in whose rescue we are exultant. But, O you unsaved! wait not for the coming sermon. It may come after youi obsequies. It may come after the stonecutter has chiseled our name on the slab 50 years before. Do not wait foi a great steamer of theCuuardor White Star line to take you off the wreck, but hail the first craft, with however low a mast, and however poor a rudder, and however weak a captain. Better a disabled schooner that comes up in time than a full-rigged brig that cornea up after you have sunken. Instead ot waiting for that sermon—it may be 30, 50 years off—take this plain invitation of a man who, to hare given yon spiritual eyesight, would be glad to be called the spittle by the hand of Christ put on the eyes of a blind man, and who would Consider the highest compliment of this service, if at the close 500 men should start from these doors, saying: “Whether he be a sinner or not, I know not. This one thing I know, whereas 1 was blind now I see.* Swifter than shadows over the plain, quicker than birds in their autumnal flight, hastier than eagles to their prey, hie you to a sympathetic Christ. The orchestras of Heaven have already strung their instrumunts to celebrate your rescue. 1 And many were the voices around the throast Rotates, tor the Lord brings back His own.