Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 November 1890 — Page 2

Master of the Mine.

By Robert Buchanan.

CHAPTER 111. ATTER TEH TEARS. I BEGIN LIFE IN EARNEST. Thb prologue over, the drama of my life begins. There is always a pro logue of some sort, in which the keynote of life is generally struck for good or eTil, p’easure or pain. Mine is the episode of Little Madeline. Much of the spirit of what has been told will survive in the events which I am now about to narrate. MadelineG rah am fa dea at once and for jarer out of my boyish existence. I neither saw nor heard from her directly ; but rome months after her arrival in her distant home, there arrived a wondeiful parcel, full of dried fruits, nu's, and other foreign edibles, addressed, in the hand I knew, to Master Hugh Trelawnev,at Munster's. My schoolmates laughed wildly on its arrival. 1 tore it open, expecting to find some message in writing, showing me that I was not forgotten. There was not a line. With a somewhat heavy heart I distributed more perishable fruits among my schoolmates, reserving a very little for myself—for I had no heart to eat. 1 stored up many of the nuts in my trunk, till they were quite mouldj... and, rotten. 1 When 1 was obliged to throw them away, I seemed to cast away at the came moment all my hope of seeing Dy dear little love again. No other message—no other gift—•ver came; though I wrote, in my round, boyish hand, a little letter of thanks and kind wishes. All grew silent Little Madeline might be lying In her grave, far over the lonely waters, for aught I knew to the contrary.

I remained at Munster's until I was fourteen. In all these years I never forgot Madeline, never ceased to mention her name every night when I prayed by my bedside, never relinquished the thought of some day sailing across the ocean, and looking on the dear bright face again. This intense and solitary passion her came, if I may 60 express it, the secret strength of my - life. It brightened the coarse and indigent experience of school life, tilled It with tender and mysterious meanings and associations; it made me inquiring and tender, instead of hard sad mean; it determined my tastes in favor of beauty, and made me reverence true womanhood wherever I saw it. In a word, it gave to my too commonplace experience just the coloring es romance it needed, and made the iry reality of life blossom with simple poetry, in a dim religious light from faraway. What wonder, then, if at fourteen t found myself reading imaginative books and writing verses—of which early compositions, be certain, Madeline was the chief and never-wearying feenae. I had taken tolerable advantage of Munster's tuition, and was sufficiently ""well grounded in the details of an ordinary English education. I had, moreover, a smattering of Latin, which in my after struggle for subsistence turned out very useful, I should have progressed still further under the care of my schoolmaster, but at this period my father died and I found myself cast upon the world. It is not my purpose—it Is unneceslary —to enlarge on my own private history, and I shall touch ifpon it merely in so far as it affects the strange incidents in which 1 afterward became tn actor. Things were at this point when I one morning received the startling intelligence that roy--father was dead and that 1 was left alone in all

the world. The first feeling which the news produced in me was one of very confused and dubious sorrow. Of late years I had seen very little of my father. Since I had come to Munster's I had been left there, never even goiDg home for my holidays as the other boys did. Munster’s was my home, and to all intents and purposes Mr. and Mrs. Munster were a father and mother to me. Still, for all that, the knowledge that I had a father in some remote quarter of the globe, who paid for my maintenance and came to Mur.ster’6 about once in six or eight months to spend an hour with me, had been a source of some satisfaction and caused me now, for a Bhort time at least, to deplore his loss. Then came other and more complicated thoughts. If I had no longer a father to pay for my maintenance, what was to become of me? for, as I knew, I had no other relation in the world. Puzzled by these thoughts, and seeing no solution to them, I could do nothing but wait in eagerness and dread for what was to follow. The next morning, when I was dressing, Mrs. Munster came into my bedroom and handed me a jacket with a crape band on the left arm; she also pointed to a cap which she had brought in with her, and said:.

‘•You must wear this one now, Hugh.” Then she turned, bent her kindly eyes upon me, and kissed my forehead and murmured, “My poor boy!” I ventured to inquire whether I was <0 see my poor father in his coffin or to follow him to the grave. The tears came into the woman’s eyes, and 6he took me by the hand. ... “You will never see him again,” she said, “never. He died in America I and was buried before we received the news. But you are a brave boy,” she added, “and must not grieve. It is sad for you. dear, but trouble is sure to come sootoer or later. If it comes when one is; young, so much the better, for one is better able to bear it.” “Mrs. Munster,” I said piteously “what is to become of me?” The good lady shook her head. 1 “I don’t know, my dear,” she replied, “your poor lather has not !eft

! you a sixpence . Pugh," she I added suddenly, * ‘have you any relations'?' 1 ••No," I replied, "not one." ••Are you sure?" she continued. "Think, my dear." I did think, but H woe of no nse. My train would not conjure up one being to whom I could possibly lay any claim. —^ •■No uncles,oraunts,or cousins?" persisted Mrs. Munster; when suddenly I exclaimed — ■ ‘Yes, Mrs, Munster; now I remember: I'vo got an aunt. At least I had an aunt; but she may .be dead, like father.” ••Let us hope cot." said Mrs. Munster, “Well, my dtar, tell me what she is like, and where she is to be found.” T don’t know what she is like,” I replied; “1 never saw her.” • Never saw her?" “No; she never came near us; but I’ve heard father speak about her. bhe was my mother’s sister, and her name, is M artha Pendragon, and she lives at Cornwall.” “Martha Pendragon,” repeated Mrs. Munster. “Is she married?” I reflected a-THoment, then I remembered having seen letters addressed to "Mrs. Pendragon,” and I saidas much. ••And where does she live?" “St. Gurlott’s, Cornwall.” Mrs. Munster wrote it down. “ -Mrs. Martha Pendragon, St Gurlott's, Cornwall.’ It looks promising, as I dare say. St. Gurlott’s is a very 6mall place. Make yourself as contented as you can for a few days my dear. I yrill write to the lady and ask hor what she means to do," I could do nothing else but wait, and I accordingly did so; though I found it utterly impossible to take Mrs. Munster’s adv;ce, and preserve a contented frame of mind.

My exceedingly hazy recollections of my aunts communications were by no means such as to inspire confidence. I began to ask myself, for the first time, why it was she had never been permitted to visit my mother in her home; why my mother, who was evidently .fond of her sister, had never made a journey into Cornwall to see her; and. above all, why my aunt had never come to visit my mother when she was dyiDg? Thus I speculated for four days; at the end of that time I saw Mrs. Munster receive a letter, open it, read it, and glance strangely at me. "It is from your aunt, my dear.’’she said: then looking at the letter again, she added: “She is your aunt. I suppose?" From Mrs. Pepdragnn? 1 asked. “Yes,” she replied, with a strange smile. “From your aunt Martha.” I wanted to hear more, but no more came. Mrs. Munster again turned her attention to the letter, and began studying it as intently as if she were carefully working out some abstruse mathematical problem. Presently her husband came into the room, and she handed him the letter. My curiosity received a fresh stimulus when I saw him start of sight of it, read it twice and then glance, as I thought, half pityingly at me. “I suppose it’s all right,” he said, turning to his wife;“the boy must go.” She nodded her head-thoughtfully. “It seems a pity, doesn’t it, after the education he has had?” she said to her husband; then, turning to me, 6he added. “Let me see, Hugh, how old are you now?” I replied that I was fourteen. “And are youjsure you have no other relations except this, this Aunt Martha as she calls herself ?’’ i I replied that during the last few days I had been racking my brain incessantly on that subject, but without avail. - ;• ■ - ——

■ ••Well,” she Said, ‘ I suppose your aunt Martha is better than nobody, my dear—she seems a good natured sort of person, and is quite willing to give you a home; but it seems a pity to take you from school before your education is complete, and if we could find another relation who would let you stay here it would be so much better for you, I will write again to your aunt, she may know of 6ome one, though you do not —jour father’s relations, for instance; but if she does not, why, the only thing you can do is to go to Cornwall.” 1 accordingly had to wait a few more days, at the end of which time another letter was received from my mysterious relative. This time it failed to bring with it disgust or amazement, and conveyed only disappointment. ••Your aunt tells me she is your only relative on your mother’s side,” said Mrs. Munster, "and your father’s family she knows nothing about. She has fixed Thursday as the day on which you ard to go to her; therefore, my dear child, I see no help for it; you must leave us!" Thus it was settled. On the Thursday morning, I. accompanied by my small stock of luggage, started on my travels, and saw the last of Munster’s,

CHAPTER IV. JOHN RUDD, POET AND CARRIER. Munster’s was situated in the suburbs of Southampton. It was arranged, therefore, that 1 should journey by a small steamer as far as Falmouth, and thence by road to St. Gurlott's-on-Sea. I was conducted to the boat by Mr. Munster. On arriving at Falmouth, after an uneventful passage, I was met on board by a rough looking person, who informed me that he had been deputed by “Missus Pendragon” to convey me and my belongings to St. Gurlott's. What manner of man he was I could scarcely tell, beyond realizing the fact that he was of tremendous height,that he wore a white beaver hat, and that his figure was wrapped in an enormous frieze coat which reached to his ankles. He gave a glance, at me. and then said in a peculiar pipy voice: r.. • ‘Come, lad, gie's the tip about your

boxes, and we'll move on: the mare’s got a journey afore ’un, and we’m best newt be late!" I moved aft, and pointed oat to him my little trunk. He looked at it in much the same way that a giant might look at a pebble, put it quietly under his arm, and moved off again, inviting me to follow. We crossed the gangway, and came on to the quay. Here we fbund a large van, and a tat,sleepylooking roan horse. The .wagon was roofed with black tarpaulin, and on the side was painted, In large white letters: ‘ ‘JOHN RUDD, CARRIER ST.GETRLOTT’S.’' On comipg up to t.he vehicle, my conductor paused and disposed of my trunk, then, turning to me “Come, young master, jump in ” he gave me a lift which summarily placed me inside and on the top of my box; then, be Tore I had time to recover myself, I feit that the wagon was jolting along. What the day wa3 like, and what 6ort of a prospect we were passing through I had not the remotest idea; the tarpaulin and the enormous figure of the driver completely shutting me in from the world. I waited for awhile, thinking, perhaps, my companion might turn communicative and make some suggestion as to my better disposal; but none came. He sat like a dog. and, beyond a few disjointed exclamations to the horse, uttered not a sound.

As he evidently had no intention whatever of taking the slightest further notice of me, I thought it best to approach him. I aoeordir gly shouted • -Hi!’’ several times and gave him a few vigorous pokes in the back; but neither of these attempts producing the slightest effect, I concluded he must be asleep. I accordingly swung off the van behind, and running beside the horse, hullo’d to him from the road. This trick told better. Mr. Rudd, who seemed, indeed, to have become oblivious of the world, gradually turned his face towards me, and gazed at me fora time with a-vacuous stare. Then he pulled up the horse with a jerk, ••The Lord preserve ’ee!" ho said, "what’s the lad doin’thar?" I explained that I had swung out of the wagon, because it was not pleasant inside, and added: “Have you got room up there for two, Mr. Rudd?" Instead of replying to my question, he gave a chuckle, and said: “You’m a smart ’un: Mr. Rudd, eh? jNttw, haw did you come to knaw that thar’, young master, eh?" I explained that I had concluded from his appearance that he must be the master of the van, upon which “John Rudd” was painted; but he only chuckled again and piped: ‘•You’m a little ’un to be such a scliolaid!”

As I saw he was about to become fossilised again, I hastened to repeat my former question. Mr. Rudd abstractedly at the seat and them at me., ‘•Mayn't I come up?” I said. "It’s so close inside the van. and I would rather ride beside you, Mr. Rudd.” Then, without giving him time for a refusal, I leapt up and nestled beside him. - Mr. Rudd made no protest—he simply said, "Move on, mare,” and the mare moved on forthwith. We had left Falmouth behind us, and were moving cumbrously along the high road. Looking to the right and to the left I could see nothing but undulating sweeps of land, bleak and barren, with the stony highway stretching before us, and winding about, serpent fashion, until it was lost to view. We were travelling westward, evidently, and, as far as prospect went, we might be going forward into the Desert. There was not a cart or horse or human being to bo seen anywhere; and the ODly sound was the rattle of the wagon, as it passed along over the rough road.

It was past mid day, and the sun was as hot as it had been any day that summer. As I felt it Scorching my face and head, I looked at my companion, and marvelled again. His huge ulster coat was buttoned up to his chin, and his great round face was shaded by his broad felt hat. He was by ho means a bad looking man, and he was still j’oung—only five-and-thirty, or thereabouts. His skin was tanned and weather beaten, and his eyes were fixed upon the mare with his habitual dreamy stare. Finding it was useless to expect him to talkrT sat for a time quietly bjr his side, watching with some amount of interest the rough and stony track we were following; then, when* we had covered a mile or so. the mare went along at a walk, and I leapt lightly into the road and kept pace beside her. My change of position once more aroused my companion from his trance; he turned his eye slowly upon me and said "I reckon you knaw a ileal?” I replied, modestly, that I knew a thing or two.

0 “•. wonder naw,’he said, “whether you can write?” I answered with some decision tnat I certainly could, at which I thought his face fell. • ‘Poetry, naw ?” he inquired. • • Warses like?” I replied that though I was able to' write a capital hand, I had enly once or twice aspired to ordinal composition; at which he chuckled delightedly, ■ then, fixing his eyes with a fascinated glare upon my face, he repeated in a high shrill voice the following lines:— •‘To Mi<«us Pendragon, who’s always so - i pleasmt. ; John Kudil. of St, Gurlott's brings this little present. 1 Mav ber life be as sweet as best sugar can be. , And theouly hoy water be mixed wi‘ her teal” s “What do you think o’ that?” he l asked anxiously. “Very good.” Lireplied. * “Where P did you read it? lawbook?”

"I didn’t road ’an, master, I wrote un,’ he replied. “Leastways, I phould ha’ wrote ’un if I could write. Naw, you’m a smart chap, pr'rape you could take them lines dawn?” “Of course I could,’ I replied. Whereupon I produced a pencil from my pocket, and, asking Mr. Rudd to repeat the verse again, I transcribed it on the back of an old letter. When I banded up the paper to Mr. Rudd, his face became positively gleefuL “You’re a smart ehap,” he repeated, ‘nawt much doubt o’ that.’ “Do you make much poetry?” I asked. He nodded his head slowly “Agoodish bit,” be replied; leastways, I should if I’d alius a smart ’un like you at hand to take ’tin down. But I’m naw hand at setting dawn at it, and it dawn’t alius keep in my head. ’l'is a gift,’ he continued. ‘lt all began when .1 were -a lad, a driving up and dawn Falmouth way wi’ father. Then I used to hear the old waggon go ‘turn to turn’ alawng the road, and the warses they came and kept time. Lord, to trunk 6’ the thousands of bootiful pomes I ha’ made; they’d make a wallum; and I’ve got ’em all here in my bead, thick as beeain a beehive, all a buzzing together, one atop a t’other,” “Do you live at St. Gurlott’s Mr. Rudd?" “Isß, young master; I drives this ere van three times a week tq Falmouth and back.” I “Then perhaps I’ll be able to take down some of your poems for you. I am going to live there, too, you know!” This idea pleased the drowsy giant immensely. Ha was about to expatiate upon it, wheirs ireavy raindrop falling on his hand brought him from the clouds. “Lawd love the lad," he exclaimed, “how we be a-loitering. Here, jump up, young master, we’m got a good twelve miles afore us yet, and a black night prawmising to come." I took the hand which he extended to me, and which looked like a giant’s paw, and sprang up to my seat beside him. “Hurry up, Martha ” he said, “get on, old gari,” and the mare’s slow walk broke into a trot, which caused the wagon to rattle and shake, and my ieeth to cla'.ler in my head. The prospect still continued bleak, but it was now not quite so desolate. To the right and left of us still stretched the bleak moorland, but now it was broken up by green hillocks and belts Of woodland. Here and there on the meadows were cattle grazing, while at intervals were white-washed cottages with little gardens running down to the roadside. From time to time we rounded some quiet bay, and caught a glimpse of the sea. ~ Presently, far ahead of us. I saw clustering houses, from the midst of which arose a church spire. “What is that?" I asked. He seemed to know by instinct what I meant, for he replied without taking his eyes off the horse, “That, young master, be Craigruddock. We’ll stavvp there for a bit of summat to eat and drink, and to gie the mare a re9t.”

When we entered the village of Craigruddock our appearance caused no little stir. John Rudd was evidently woll known—for as the lumbering waggon went rattling down the little street, shock-headed children came peeping out of the doorways, and here and there a peasant woman made her appearance, and nodded cheerfully to us as we went by. For each and all John Rudd had a good-humored grin, which I thought broadened a little as the waggon was pulled up with a jerk before the door of the inn. Here, after some little trouble, we got something to eat, a few boiled eggs, and some home-baked bread. When the horse had been rested, wo started again on our journey. The warm day was succeeded by a cold evening, and with the darkness came rain. I was glad to follow John Rudd’s example, to wrap myself well up in my overcoat, before I again took my seat behind the mare. We jolted on again, covering what seemed to me an interminable space. The darkness rapidly increased, the rain continued to fall; and worn out with fatigue 1 fell into a fitful doze. At length, however, John Rudd’s voice aroused me indeed.

“Wawk up, young master,” said he; “we’m gettin’ pratty nigh your place,” I roused myself and looked about me, but there was nothing 'to be seen. Darkness encompassed us on evqry hand; the wind was sighing softly, making a sound like the distant murmur of the sea. Presently the waggon stopped. The carrier jumped down, and waited for me to do the same; then he gave a peculiar whistle as he went round to the back of the wagon to haul out my trunk. The whistle had its effect. The darkness was suddenly penetrated by a light, which seemed quite close to us. and a man’s voice called out in a broad country dialect: “Be that you. John Rudd?* “Iss, mate,’’ returned Rudd. “You katch hold o’ the young gentleman. I ha’.gawt the bawx.” • Be this the lad?” asked the voice, as I fdlt a heavy hand laid upon my shoulder. "Iss.” “Waal, mv lad, you be welcome to St. Gurlott’s!" The hand kept hold of my shoulder and led pie along. The next thing I became conscious of was standing upon the threshold of an open loor. and 61“ the voice of my guide saying heartily: “Yar he he, Martha!” , Then another voice, that, of a woman. answered: •lLawd love the lad; let’s look at un!” and then there was silence.

i A SONG OF IUE IHANRI Uli TIME. I Wo think of Thanksgiving at seeding time-, la the swelling, unfolding, budding time. When the heart of Nature and hearts of men Rejoice in the Earth grown young again. We dream of the harvest, of field and vine, And graneries full, at Thanksgiving time. We think of Thanksgiving In growing time:--In the time of flower, and the vintage prime; When the palms of the year’s strong hands are filled With fruitage, with grain and with sweets distilled. When the dream of hope is a troth sublime, Then our hearts make room for the thankful time. We think of Thanksgiving in harvest time:— In the yielding, gathering, golden time; When the sky is fringed with a hazy mist, And the b'ushing maples by frost-lips kissed; When the barns are full with the harvest cheer, And the crowning, thankful day draws near. _ l We think of Thanksgiving at resting time;— The circle completed is hut a chime In the soug of life, in the lives of men! We harvest the toll of our years, and then We wait at the gate ot the King’s highway, ?or the dawn of our soul’s Thanksgiving Day. —The Ladies’ Home Journal.

OLD THANKSGIVING FUN.

Dr. Talmage Recalls a Thanksgiving . of His Boyhood. T. Do Witt Talmage, D, D., In Ladles' Home Journal. How my mind is crowded with Thanksgiving memories! On no other day does my memory become such a kaleidoscope, and as I sit here in my darkened room and write, almost every minute the scene changes. * I give to the kaleidoscope of memory a turn, and there they are, natural as life, around the country hearth on a cold winter night. I hear the hickory fire crackle, and see the shadows flit up and down the wall. GamSs that sometimes well-nigh upset the chairs—-“Blind-Man’s Buff,” “Who’s Got the Button." “The Popping Corn,” “The Molasses Pudding,” and the witch stories that made the neighbors’ boys afraid to go home after dark. Hickory nuts on one dish, roseate apples on the other. The boisterous plays of “More Bags on the Mill,” “Leap Frog,” ‘•Catcher,” around and around the room until some one got hurt and a kiss was offe:ed to make up the hurt, the kiss more resented than the hurt. High old time! Father and mother got up and went into the next room because they could not stand the racket. Then, instead of compunctions of conscience, a worse racket. The mothers and wives came in the afternoon, all wrapped up from the cold, and their feet ou a footstove. When they got warm and took out their needles and 6at down it was a merry group and full of news. Once in a whilo a needle would slip and make a bad scratch upon the character of some absetee, butfor the most part it was good, wholesome talk. And in the evening when the young people came and the old people were in one room and the young in another, in the latter there was some lively stepping, while the black boy played ‘‘Moneymusk” even grandfather in the next room, who had distributed many tracts on the sin of dancing, was seen to make his heel go. It seemed to me a great fuss and a great gathering to get one quite made. But the fact was, that good neighborhood was quilted, warm sympathies were quilted, and connubial bliss was quilted. And they stayed late. And such plays as you had in that back robin when you joined hands, and one of the loveliest stood in the ring! What a circumference to what a centre! But now the scene is fai i lg out. The o’.d fire place is down, and the house is down with it. One of those boys went to sea and was never heard of. Another became squire in a neighboring villiage. Another went to college and became a minister. Another died the following summer, until now they are ail gonel

WRAITHS. How fair are the phantoms that hover around The homes where our forefathers dwelt, How dear to ouc hearts, how hallowed the ground Where they labored and waited and knelt. How they comfort and cheer with theirshadon y smiles, As we them but dimly through tears— Hear echoing down o’er eternitj’s milee The voices of happier years. They come at the noontide of the bright sammer days, The shades of tho twilight their faces recall. And through all the long night—they are with ua always— 2 _ _ Our loved and our lost ones set free from life’s thrall. We reach out to greet them—these shades that beguile— But they vanish and leave our hearts sore. And we know to the world with its woe and its wile, They never can come—nevermore! Oh, may memory preserve us these negatives dear, 1 Still present these loved forma to our sight, Until, if it may be, we shall see them as clear As before their life’s day turned to night. t -A. IV Kerr.

Misunderstood.

She (as he places his arm around waist). Stop right where you are sir! He (taking a firmer hold). Willingly, my dear.

A Boomer.

He—That man has lots on his mind. She—Who is he? He—Jones, the real estate agent. The Prince of Wales, during his res cont visit to Austria, sent an intimas tion to Count Festetics that he would be accompanied on his visit to Schloss Keszthely by sevoral friends including Baron Hirsch. i The Count curtly replied that he declined to receive the Baron as a guest in his house, and so the Prince abandoned bis visit.

A TRAMP CLIENT'S FEE.

A Barrel of Whisky, Developed Into $1,000,000 Cash. “Undoubtedly the most- valuable barrel of whisky ever distilled.” said a well-known Steuben county lawyer to a New York Sun man, “was owned some years ago in Steuben county. If there was ever a barrel of whisky more valuable I would like to hear of it, for two gallons of this particular barrel brought to its owner over SSOO.QMLA gallon. There is a story connected with that whisky that is worth telling, and worth placing on the record, too. “Some years before the war a young man named Henry M. Sherwood was admitted to the bar of Steuben county. He was a bright young fellow and belonged in the town of Woodhull. Soon after he was admitted to the bar, and before he had had his first client, a tramp was arrested and put in jail at Corning. He had been guilty of soma serious breach of the peace and his general appearancewlts that of agenujjne tough. He tried to engage a lawyer to defend him when his case cam* up for a hearing but as he had no money no one cared to take his case in hand. At last he inquired whether there wasn’t gome young lawyer in the place who hadn't had much of an opportunity to distinguish himself as yet, and who would likely be willing to undertake the managementof the prisoner’s case for the chance of getting some glory out of it. He was told that young Hank Sherwood might consent under these conditions, and the stranger sent for the briefless lawyer. Sherwood went to the jail and saw the prisoner.

“ ‘lt looks is if I was in a pretty bad scrape,’ said the tramp to Hank, ‘but I believe that a lawyer can get me through all right. Now, I’m from Kentucky, and I haven’t got a cent. I’m going back to Kentucky if I get cut of this scrape, but I’ll have to beg or beat my way till I get there. My father is a big distiller, but I’ve been a trifle wild and he and I are not on the best of terms. He wouldn’t send me a cent even if I should send word of the fix lam in here. But I’ll tell you what Til do. If you will take charge of my case and work it for all it’s worth and get me clear I’ll sneak out of the old man’s stock when I get home a barrel of the best old Kentucky whisky there is in the Bourbon country and have it shipped to you. I can do it easy. What do you s lyP’ “Young Sherwood didn’t take a bit of stock in the man’s story, but he made up his mirtd tp see what he could do in the management of the case, just to begin getting his hand in, and he accepted the tramp as his client. I don’t remember the details of the ease, hut. Hank succeeded in clearing the tramp and the latter went away, feeling good. Time passed along and Sherwood had forgotten all about his tramp client and the promised fee when one day the station agent at Addison, where the young lawyer lived, met him and said:

’Say, Hank, there’s a. barrel in the freight-house for you. It’s been there a clay or two and came from Kentucky. More than that, its marking* declare that it contains Kentucky bourbon.’ ‘‘The tramp paid his lawyer’s fee, sure enough. Sherwood had the barrel taken home and placed in his cellar. He wasn’t much of a tdmperer with whisky, and the barrel lay in the cellar five years without "being disturbed. The late Constant Cook was then judge of Steuben, county. He was holding court at Corning one term, and, as was the custom in those days, a number oj lawyers and others gathered in the judge’s room at the hotel in the evening and passed an hour or two in a social game of euchre.. The judge enjoyed an occasional glass of whisky, and he was a thorough judge of whisky. too. On the occasion I speak ol II;;nk Sherwood was one of the judge’s party. The judge was very bitter in his denunciation of the whisky they sold in Corning, and: said ho would ba grateful for a glass of whisky that was fit to drink. That reminded Sherwood of his old Kentucky bourbon that had been lying so long in his cellar. H« told judge Cook that he had soms whisky at home that he believed was good, and that he would fetch soma down next day. He had his barrel tapped that night, and filling a twogallon jug from it brought it. to Corning and presented it to Judge Cook. The judge tasted the whisky, aud iu all his experience he had never met its equal. " ‘Young man,’ said he to Sherwood, ‘I won’t forget you for fetching me this stuff. If ever I see a chance to give you a lift I’ll do it.’ "Time passed. Sherwood skinned along after the manner of the average country lawyer. The war broke out. Judge Cook was one of the solid men of-western New York;' He. in company with the late John Arnot, J. S. T. Stranahan of Buffalo, Charles Cook ol Havana, :ind John H. Chedell of Auburn had built the New York & Erie railroad from Binghamton to Corning and was largely interested in othei great improvements in this part of the state and, Pennsylvania. Sopn aftei the war began ho obtained a big government contract and at once sent for Hank Sherwood.

“ T’m going to give you that lift now. Henry,’ said he. “He let Sherwood in on the contract, avi the country lawyer’s share of the proceeds was slso,ooo—cold, cash dollars. After this was done Judge Cook ; said to j’jherwood! %. * .‘“There’s some land „ fcfrv sale ip Tioga county, Pa. It is coal land and is bound to be very valuable. You can buy some of it cheap. Put a|l the money you’ve got in that land.’ “Sherwood did so. - Every dollar he made in the big contact he put into Tioga county land. He hadn’t a great while to wait before the prophecy o! Judge Cook came true. Henry if. Sherwood’s first fee resulted in being the biggest ever received by any law-, yer on earth, for he cleared over sl,. 000,000 from his investment' in the Tioga county lands and the barrel ol Kentucky whisky his tramp client had paid for nis services was the basis of it aIL A bootless attempt-;To get upstairs with, out being heard by your wife—PhiladelJ ,pUia News,