Rensselaer Journal, Volume 12, Number 14, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 September 1902 — Our Man About Town. [ARTICLE]

Our Man About Town.

Discusses Sundry and Other Matters.

Both Cain and Abel are attending the conference this week, not the Cain and Abel of biblical times, however, but Rev. Clarence Abel, a Methodist minister, and Rev. W. P. Kane, president of Wabash college. » * * Th’ drowsy, drony kind of stuff is gittin’ in the air; the sneezin,’ coughin,’ kind o’ dope, ’at hain’t got no reliever; an’ ma is mad and paw is cross; you kin’ bet your patent hair ’at its cornin’ time o’year fer the hayfever. Say don’t you feel all prickly like and tickfiu in yer toes? Well, I’ll tell you what is good fer boys—it’ll cure em evfir’ sliver. Don’t wait to buy no patent pumps or extry bathin’ close; jist foller me off cross lots ter the river. *„* As the Journal scribe journeyed down to work the other morn he came upon a rueful little object in front of Williams’ furniture store. “Hello, little one! Sick?” “No. Only thorry.” “What’s up?” “Ith my birthday. I’m four.” The scribe laughed but the small princess looked at him with lowering eyes. “Don’t like to be four, eh? Don’t fell well, eh?” “Yeth, I feel well, but I’m hungry.” “Had breakfast?”

“No. Our girl ith gone away, an’ thisther ith cross. Mamma ith making me a thweet little dress for my party tonight, an’ I’m not bothering her. There’ll be things to eat at the party an’ I’m going.” “Where’s brother?” “Brother ith makin’ me a jumping jack for my prethent, an’ he slapped me cauth I peeked.” “And so you’ve had nothing to eat?” “Oh, yeth, I haven’t not had nothing. I’ve had a piece of bread an’— an’ an ithicle therbet—an’ it was cold. I don’t want to be four.” * * One of the ministers attending conference this week tells the following good story on himself: He is rather absent minded and, like almost all forgetful preachers, is possessed of a family who frequently take elfish pleasure in having sport with their father by taking advantage of his weakness. One day recently, he was walking along the street in a condition of complete abstraction and did not see his son as he passed. This unnatural child, remarking the preoccupation ofhis father, quietly walked by his side, and in a slightly changed tone said: “Revered pastor, I want to thank you for your Sunday sermon, not only for myself, but also on behalf of my father, who enjoyed it deeply. It did him a world of good.” “I am very glad,” returned the minister with pleased surprise; “and how is your father?” “Ah, alas, he has reached the time of life when he needs your ministrations. He has grown old and forgetful; frequently he fails to recognize those whom he was wont to love. His mind appears to wander constantly towards the great beyond.” “Tell him,” said the pastor, “that I am happy when he comes to hear me preach, most happy. If I help him by my poor words tell him bis presence helps me to fee) and utter them. Tell

him that heavenly abstraction is not a bad thing as it takes us away from earth and places us in communication with heaven. What? Must you turn at this corner? then good-bye, and don’t forget my message to your dear father.” * * ft When young Mr. (we’ll keep the name in ambush) called the other evening on his “semi-steady” she was reading an intensely interesting yellow and blue novel in her room upstairs. She was also attired in curl papers and an article erswhile known as a kimona. So she sent her angel sister down to tell our friend that she would be down as soon as she could put some rouge on her cheeks and stick a hairpin through a wig. The angel sister carried the information down alright, and then hovered near for an opportunity to deliver herself of a few cute jokes and erstwhile bright little sayings of childhood. Presently the gentleman looked her way and she put on her angel smile and remarked. “Have you got many bureau draws?” “Why—l—don’t know.—Why?” “Jis understand, Sis she began to hunt through hers for a court plaster to put on a wart on her chin and she said if you had to rubber like she did she bet you wouldn't come around botherin’ folks this way. He! He! What’s the matter?” The gentleman wiggled in his chair. He made an inaudible effort to reply but thought better of the attempt. “Say”—shrilled the sweet girl,— “what a funny hat you must wear!” “Why?”—

“’Cause sis says you talk through it horribly. He! He! What’s the matter?” Grand pause! “Say—have you got any salt about your clothes? No? you ought to have. Sis says you’re so fresh you ought to be salted. He! He! What’s the matter?” The caller made a sort of choked sound and half rose to go, but, thinking better of it stared hard at the window. The angel sister drummed a few fancy tunes on the piano, then wheeled around on the stool. “Oh, Mister: please won’t you tell me what you won’t do?” “Won’t do?” repeated the visitor. “Yes,” said the prattling lamb. “I heard sis say yesterday w’en she was a-talkin’ bout you, ‘He won’t do’ jis like that, an’ I thought—He! He! What’s the matter?” The laugh was drowned by the trumtrumming of the angel child’s little paws on the piano. Then the visitor put himself out into the cold clammy night and told the cruel affair to the sympathizing but a good piece-away stars without waiting for the appearance of the young lady he went to see. But three minutes after he left the angel child was learning things about the rough places on a corrugated sterling silver hairbrush that she had never dreamed of in her young and joyous life before. And now when the maiden vainly tries to throw catching "smiles at a certain young man he retuses even to look at the wart that isn’t on her chin. . *•* Young man are you figuring out that good old Marion township land isn’t good enough for you, and that Jasper county is somewhat small, and that Washington street isn’t as fine as the city boulevard, and that the Iroquois isn’t as as good bathing as a shower bath and massage in a city palace? Well, if you are we will not seek to curtail your choice—its laudable to speak out and grow] up somewhere else, still here are a few aphorisms that men who knew both'

sides wrote after a half century of ’•‘try:” “A man is a fool who accepts a salaried position when he owns land.” “Any salaried position is a temporary one.” “A man on a farm never falls if he is any good.” Eugene Davenport said that. “The farmer is independent and is never out of a job.” It’s a great deal like this: A farmer is a man who’s Y’s; his hat’s not filled with B’s; he studies nature with his I’s and thinks of what he O’s. He hears the clatter of the J’s as they each other T’s but he won’t go to town be ZA’s till he can take his E’s. Bayard Taylor, the great traveler used to say he hoped the time would never come when he could not at least spend half a year at his country home, and as for us we trust the time will never come—when we will not really feel that the country with its riches and interests is not the best place the year round.