Rensselaer Journal, Volume 12, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 October 1902 — Our Man About Town [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Our Man About Town

Discourses on Many Subjects and Relates Sundry and Other Incidents.

At supper the other eve in the face of a large wholesome pie, a River street kid dolefully remarked, “Mamma, don’| you think God was awfhlly twisted up when he gave me such a big rapacity with such a little capacity to go with it?” * * <- The “Man with the Hoe” is out of date, but a glance down the street suggests that the “Man with a Broom” might at this season take his place so completely that no loss would be felt. The fact is the trees are beginning to cast their leaves and it is not too early to begin a little fall cleaning. Nothing has a more disreputable look than a village whose streets are choked up with maple leaves and other truckery that plead for the gentle attractions of the brush heap. Clean up the street and keep The leaves from standing deep Before the doors of all the stores That front the busy street. * * *-

As we have a number of persons in Rensselaer who are of inventive mind, and some perhaps who ere now have braved the red tape of the patent office, we take the liberty of suggesting to their attention a few needed inventions. * An angler’s scales that will do the lying for the fisherman. An automatic peach basket that will make all the small fruit come to the top. A piano that will sound the same to the girl playing it as it does to the neighbors. A mirror that will show ourselves as others see us. A tom-cat boot-jack that will return to hand after it is thrown. A late novel that is interesting. An adjustable ring that will fit the usual number of girls you become engaged to during the summer. The housewives are beginning to look savage and the gude-men wear a strange haunted face now-a-days; even the children hurry away to play and to school with fear and bunch of fear imprinted on their dear cherubic countenances —oh it is dreadful when fall housecleaning sets in. Fact is we prefer the spring rains or moderate gaited Kansas cyclones to this time of eating stale pie on the back wall of the chicken coop. Some time since we went home one evening to the arms of our dear helpmeet and found the said arms were occupied with the facetious embraces of unrenovated feather beds. The air was redolent with the Arabic odor of formaldehyde and carbolic acid; and the molasses was filled up witii the family cat. Baby’s go-cart was mixed up with the bread; and the butter had an assignation with the festive dog, With an approach of our most polished and summery atmosphere we advanced upon the scene determined to propitate the goddess of the household. “Why, sure,” she replied, there are a few little things you can do before supper. Dear just go down town and get some lime, stop at Long’s and bring home some wall paper—two bolts of that “same kind” tell him—and well yes the butter is kind of tired; bring some. Before you go move this cupboard, please, feed the chickens, oh yes, get baby’ a ‘piece,’ and say you might shake those two rugs out. What? Hungry? Well, there’s some cold meat over on the dust pan, and—” But wo fled for our life. Horrible! Still there seems to be the necessity of this semi-annual occurrence and alter it is all over and the pigs have been put in the chicken coop and the

piano in the kitchen for variety, things get quite a homelike appearance. Once we knew a man who swore very loudly every time his wife cleaned house—she only did so four times a year, therefore there was no excuse for his profanity. After he had sworn loudly and terribly one year about the way things were torn up all bis chickens died of consumption and the milk-man sold him bloody milk—it was awftal. All the folks said he was bewitched and nobody would go near the graveyard until the undertaker made him after that. Moral.—When it’s time to clean house hold your temper and fix the stove pipe, else the goblins will get you and butt holes into your anatomy where the holes oughtn’t to be.

This paragraph is devoted to the public Nudger who makes sore spirits and ribs, turns the highest comedy into tragedy, the strongest sermon into meaningless drivel, and shakes one’s belief in humanity and coat-pads. Did you ever sit next to him upon a beautiful Lord’s day morning, in a church you do not frequently attend? When he finds you and learns that you are not an inhabitant of that path to Zion he begins to put you wise to the whole route, and becomes an interesting (?) commentator upon the denizons thereof. Many a bit of scandal he rolls under his tongue while the organ peals out the “Te Deum Laudamus.” He begins his monologue by disclosing the identity of every person in the room and their several sins great and small. He does the pastor to a turn and shows you a statement of how the revered man spent every penny of his last year’s salary. He knows why the pastor’s wife looks melancholy and he can tell you what text the holy man will preach from. Through the entire service he keeps up a running fire of small talk which varies from “Presbyterian Damnation” to “Why Ladies Shouldn’t Wear Corsets.” He knows what Moses intended to do, and where he was when the candle flickered out. He gives incredible information regarding Joseph’s coat of Stars and Stripes and knows all about Jacob’s ladder to heaven. He is the most übiquitous minded cuss that ever lived and if you don’t ignore him he will keep his double gaited gab going until you part from him at the door. He is not indiginous to the Lord’s day service—he can be found at any old public meeting place from the town pump to the livery stable. He is not confined even to the masculine gender —in fact a good part of him is not “he”—there’s lots of the Nudger that is “she.” This part of the article congregates at the quiltings, sewings and socials, and what It does is too heavy for print.